University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—The camp of Nero at Grumentum in Lucania. Nero in his tent.
Enter Catius.
Cat.
Oh! Nero, fooled and foiled! His camp is empty!
The camp-fires and a handful of Numidians
Were all of Hannibal we watched last night.

Nero.
Is it so? Have thou patience. I will hold
Fast to his traces still, o'er rough and smooth,
By mountain and by valley, town and field,
E'er I will let him go to Hasdrubal.

Cat.
He shakes our legions off from him like flies;
And when we swarm around his path again,
Lo, he is gone!

Nero.
Be patient still, I say.
He shall not find his Hasdrubal.

Cat.
Well said,—
And yet I think it shame this net of armies
We've flung so closely round him, lets him through,
Oft as he lists to break its meshes.

Nero.
Catius,
Let us wait. It may be that the gods of Rome
Are mightier than ambition of one man.
But we have talked enough. 'Tis time to march.
Let us trace his steps, and where they lead us, follow.

Enter a Soldier.
Sold.
My lord, this instant has arrived from Rome,
Upon an errand to thee, Mutines
The African.

Nero.
Alone?

Sold.
He comes alone,
Having ridden all night. He begs admittance to you.

Nero.
Let him come in.
Mutines is admitted.
I greet thee, Mutines.

Mut.
Thanks, noble consul.

Nero.
Thou hast an errand to me?

Mut.
First, I am charged with letters from the senate. [Gives them.]


Nero.
What art thou charged with else?

Mut.
This only, Nero.
I come to offer thee a soldier's service.
Not all the bounteous honour Rome has done me
Can make mine idle days supportable.
I crave, I thirst for my old trade again.
I ask for no command—only to ride
My charger in thy ranks—to breathe once more
The brave air of a camp.

Nero.
Assuredly
I grant thee this. One whom my senate deemed
Worthy our citizenship, must be welcome
In the army of Rome's consul. For the present
I say no more but this.

Mut.
Thou hast said enough,
O noble Nero! for my soul's desire.
Suffer me now to care for my tired steed.

Nero.
Go, then; and having done so, lose no time
In seeking out the Master of the Horse,
For I am on the point to march from hence.

[Exit Mutines.
Cat.
Strange, truly! Yet not strange in that base mixture
Of Libyan and Phœnician. Why so hot
Against his friend and patron to bear arms?
'Twas one thing to desert his cause far off
In Sicily, but far another, sure,
In battle to confront him to whose favour
He once had owed his all, and from whose hand
He never had a wrong. But for the gloom
Unfeigned, expressed in voice and countenance,
I could suspect some treason.

Nero.
So not I.
He has sinned past pardoning, and knows he might
As well seek mercy in the tiger's den
As in the vengeful camp of Hannibal.
Had he meant treason he had feigned more smoothly.
The Libyan perfidies are veiled in smiles.

[Exeunt Nero and Catius.

Scene II.

—Evening. Hannibal's army halting. A grove and garden surrounding a ruined villa.
Enter Silanus.
Sil.
Poor ruined walls! I half could moralize
Over your graceful desolation—ask
What blessings Hannibal has brought as yet
To those who once did own you, gliding thus
Like a magician o'er the land by night—
And truly yon faint-humming multitude
Stands in the twilight like a spectral host—
This, and more questions I could ask of you,
Were I not more inclined, just now, to sleep.
Enter Adherbal.
Now thou art come to say we march again,
Because I just had found the couch of moss
That suited me, and just the glimpse I sought
Of moonlit sky, to shine upon my dreams,
Betwixt those broken columns. Now be this
My last forced march with Hannibal! Once safe
In Metapontum, there I mean to stay,
Bathe thrice a day, and never mount mule more.

Adh.
I'll mount thee on an elephant instead.
I know thee better than to think thou'lt miss
The meeting of the brothers, that's so near.
But thou may'st doze a moment till we learn
What news Maharbal and his squadrons bring.
Already they're returning. Hearken! Hear'st thou
Their jingling bridles and their muffled tramp
In yonder grassy hollow? Here they come!
Enter Maharbal and cavalry at a little distance.
Prompt and successful ever! Ha! Maharbal!

Mah.
[Dismounting and approaching.]
This bold new consul will scarce tread, methinks,
So closely on our heels a third time! Well,
I grudge not the small trouble of his schooling,
Just for the pleasure of this capture. Come!
Let's see the villain's face. Lead him before me.

Mutines is led in as a prisoner.
Adh.
Ha! we salute thee.

Mah.
Here's a sight, indeed,
For honest eyes! What, not content, base cur,
With selling fame and faith at Agrigentum,
That thou must needs carry thy shameless front
Into the field against us? I am glad,
Ay, glad at heart, we sent no spear-point through thee,
Traitor, for whom a dog's death is too good!

Mut.
I owe thee of my actions no account.
I have nought to do with thee, nor care what death,
Nor by whose hand I die.

Mah.
Proud, half-blood devil!
Here's one I see approaching, before whom
E'en thine own brazen infamy shall blush.

Sil.
[Rising.]
I must see this. Here's ready for my tablets
A scene that will not need embellishing.

Enter Hannibal.
Han.
Welcome back! Nero has been taught his distance!

Mah.
'Tis the old tale—they will not stand our charge.
Bold dogs they are—and yet, to drive them back,
To pick a pebble up will soon suffice.
But here's an old friend, whom thou hast not greeted.
Hast thou forgotten Mutines?

Han.
Him there?
Mean'st thou the man who hides his face from me,
Like a convicted thief before the lash?
No, you mistake—this is not Mutines,
This is the new-made Roman citizen,
Who wears his honours with such Roman boldness!

Mut.
I thought I could have borne it. Hannibal!
Release me from thine eyes! Death—death! not torture.

Han.
I do not pity thee. Wert thou my brother,
That so betray'dst thy country, I would still
Spurn thee as now.

Mut.
I had no country. Carthage
Denied me a son's rights. Carthage despised me.
Thou know'st we have no country.

Han.
Thou hadst that,
Wherever Rome had foes, or I a camp.
A great cause was thy country. Dost thou think
I ever deigned to reckon up the drops
Of Libyan blood in thee against the Punic?
Thyself hast sold thy birthright, proved thyself
The mongrel that thou art, who might'st have bid
For fame, beside the purest blood of Carthage.
I made thee great, it seems, to teach thee baseness—
I trained thee to those arms thou hast turned against me—
I trusted thee with Sicily and my hopes,
That of thine honour thou might'st make with Rome
A profitabler bargain.

Mut.
Hannibal!
I longed for thee, yet feared thee like hell-fire.
I swear to thee, that save for the one hope
To see thy face again, though but as now,
In shame and in despair, I had not lived
To meet this moment. Tell me, then, if thus
I agonize who loved thee, what more yet
Should they endure for ever, whose base envy
Maddened me into baseness, maddened me
To blast, as is man's wretched privilege,
In one brief moment, with a vain remorse,
All that is left of lifetime?

Han.
Mutines,
Thou know'st thy fate. I march to Metapontum.
There expiate thou thy crime. Go, we shall meet
No more in this world.

Mut.
[Turning away.]
Metapontum! Oh,
Had I not drained the cup of bitterness!

[Exit, guarded.
Han.
Soldiers, you saw a traitor in his shame.
Go, thank the gods you are not such as he.

Mah.
And that's the man—I think I see him now—
Who dashed before me into Thrasymene,
After the flying Romans, crying out,
“One day we'll hunt them into Tiber thus.”
He will be missing when that moment comes.

Sil.
No man more truly felt the thing he was.
Pity some actor was not by to copy
That gesture at the approach of Hannibal.
I half expected an applauding murmur.

Adh.
Didst thou so? Should I die in Roman chains,
Thou'dst calmly note the workings of my face
At twisting of the noose?

Sil.
Perhaps I might;
But I desire not such a fate for thee.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene III.

—Metapontum. The house of Ianthe. Ianthe reclining on a couch whilst a slave dresses her hair.
Slave.
Now, lady, to thy sweet face hold this mirror,
And say have I well done? Dost thou approve
The foldings of thy mitra? Seest thou not
That which will make the fairest weep for envy?
Have I well done?

Ian.
Thy fingers are enchanted,
And what I see I think is beautiful—
Yet put back this one tress. Oh, sure, Eunice,
I must be lovelier than Lysistrata?

Slave.
Though all the jewels of Taprobane
Should deck her brow, her beauty would grow haggard
Before one glance out of these long-lashed eyes,
Before one smile upon these sweet red lips.

Ian.
And yet, Eunice—

Slave.
Does my mistress sigh?

Ian.
Why do the gods not send me worshippers
Worthy this beauty?

Eun.
All the city owns thee
For fairest, and is prostrate at thy feet.

Ian.
O gods, I care not for this chattering town!
I would Rome might besiege us—anything
To break this stagnant calm.

Enter Stratonice.
Slave.
Most gracious lady!
Chide my sweet mistress! She has sighed just now
Over her very beauty.

Strat.
Does she so?
Then does she merit, ere her time, to see
In this same mirror, not these lustrous lengths
Of plaited hair, these cheeks so rose-leaf smooth,
These eyes as limpid as Blandusia's well,
But pale sad age like mine, whose foolish youth
For beauty would have gladly paid a world.
Come, thou spoiled child! what is thy silly grief?

Ian.
Oh, if thou knew'st the dream I had, last night!
One of those dreams that glorify the past,
And make the present dreary. 'Tis so hard,
With the half-sweet, half-sad enchantment on us,
To know the past will never come again,
Yet to desire nought else.

Strat.
What past regret'st thou?
What hast thou ever wished for, and not had?
I have spoiled thee, child.

Ian.
Ah, thou hast never guessed!
I have been weary when I wished for nought,
But since I've found a wish, it has become
A vain regret, and I am weary still.
To wish is not to live, only to dream.
I want hope too.—And yet the pain had grown
Fainter, and might have healed, but for this vision
Some god has sent to plague me. I beheld him,
As in the days he loved me, and my heart
Sprang up and groaned to know if still he loves—
But I shall never know.

Strat.
By heaven, whom mean'st thou?
What secret's this?

Ian.
I was ashamed to tell thee.
Thou wilt wonder when thou hear'st it—I have ceased
To wonder at myself.

Strat.
Wonder indeed!
I thought thou couldst not love, but wert content
To laugh through life at thy despairing wooers.

Ian.
Well, I will tell thee. Thou rememberest
Our day of triumph at that happy time—
How happy and how long ago it seems!
That blessed time when Rome withdrew from us
Her hateful garrison to guard Tarentum,
And we threw wide our gates to Hannibal.
Dost thou remember how we watched him enter?
Oh, what a festival of joy that was!

Strat.
A mad time truly! Much we gained indeed!
Much we Greeks profit by this haughty stranger,
Who whilst he courts us, scorns us—studies our lore,
And speaks our language, only to beguile us—
Sits at our citizens' boards, calls us his brothers,
And crazes all our youth with idle hopes,—
To plague us with a never-ending noise
Of war and trouble—brings on our fair lands
The fire and sword of Rome—and to what end?
Rome was our mistress, true—but we had peace,
And led our lives in merriment and ease.
The Carthaginian is our master now,
And peace seems fled for ever. Every day
I tremble for the tidings of the next.
Think, should some Roman spear send post to Hades
That man's fierce soul—what help, what hope is ours,
What refuge from the dire revenge of Rome?
Would he had never come, whose entrance here
You look back to with such rapture! Well, no matter.
Proceed with thy love-tale.

Ian.
What wilt thou say
To hear my foolish thoughts that day I speak of?
My heart so beat at the first trumpet-sound!
It seemed to me as if my fate drew nigh
When those strange warriors first came riding in!
And I, all rapt, gazing on Hannibal,
Was thinking, “women are ambitious too—
Men conquer empires—we, the conquerors.
Oh, if the world's one hero were my slave!
Oh, might his worship fix me in the skies,
A visible star to dazzle all mankind!
The Queen of Heaven herself might envy me.”

Strat.
Oh, thou vain child! was this thy dream?

Ian.
So dreamt I,
When one of those that rode beside him, raised
His eyes and smiled upon me—flashed me back
As 'twere a silent answer to my thought—
Rode on and still looked back. And I—I passed
Unnoticed all those famous generals by,
That rode with Hannibal, all save this one—
So was my soul filled with that brilliant glance.

Strat.
Tell me his name—which was it?

Ian.
Mutines.

Strat.
What, Mutines, the half-blood Carthaginian,
He of the mixed race? was it Mutines,
The traitor Mutines? Is he thy hero?

Ian.
What was his blood to me? He was the son
Of Hannibal's own camp, his favoured soldier.
I knew him brave and famous, and I saw him
Proud as the proudest, noble as the noblest,
And worthy as the best blood there, to ride
At Hannibal's right hand.

Strat.
He thought not so.
Was it not he threw open to Lævinus
The gates of Agrigentum? Was it not he
Lost Sicily to Hannibal for ever?

Ian.
Alas! alas! Yet he adored him still,
I know, I feel that he adored him still!
But think what stinging outrage urged him on,—
Is there a man on earth that could have borne it?
Those envious fools, forsooth, that Carthage chose
To trust her fortunes to in Sicily,
Thought only how to thwart his deep-laid plans,
To court defeat by their presumptuous folly—
And then disgraced him! Took his high command
From him whom Hannibal himself had chosen!
What wonder he was maddened?

Strat.
Is it so?
Thou really lov'st him? Child, I must hear more.

Ian.
Thou know'st not whilst he stay'd in Metapontum,
Commander of the Punic garrison,
Scouring the country round with his Numidians,
A terror to the enemy, our pride
And safeguard—how I've watched him riding in
Gay and successful, with his eager face
Glancing up towards me, as amongst my maids
I sat upon my roof—and well I knew
He loved me. Every morn I woke a queen,
To reign o'er his great heart—until, at last,
A strange thing chanced—for once as I reclined,
Dreaming the noon away in my cool hall,
Horsehoofs that clattered on the marble floor
Startled me, and a swart Numidian sprang
Down from his charger, bent his face to the ground,
And laid this costly token at my feet,
This gorgeous girdle of a Roman knight,—
Saying, “Mutines to the fairest of the fair.”
Then rose, remounted, and was gone again.
And once I met him in the street of Tombs,
When thither with Eunice I had gone
To hang upon my husband's funeral urn
The customary garland. Such a strange
Wild face of anger! as he seized my hands
And cried, “Oh, dost thou better love the dead,
Ianthe, than one living, who would die
A thousand deaths for thee?”

Strat.
What didst thou answer?

Ian.
I answered smilingly—Oh, pardon me,
My husband's mother, I beseech of thee,
That which I said, for I was terrified,
And scarce knew what I said—“I love no man,
Living or dead.” And then he let me go,
And I passed homeward trembling and amazed.
When next I saw him, all his face was dark
And melancholy as a starless night,
And a strange pity filled me. On the morrow
Came a sharp pang I never yet had dreamt of,
For 'twas reported he was bound in haste
For Sicily, at Hannibal's behest.
Then first I knew I loved him, and I sat
Beneath the laurel in the court, my throat
Choking, and a faint sickness at my heart,
When suddenly, a step! I looked, I saw
Himself approach me eagerly—kneel down
Before me, and in silence kiss my robe.
At last he spoke: “Lady, I go this eve—
I go to wage our war in Sicily.
Know now I love thee more than ever yet
Man has loved woman. Shall I find thee still
Cold to a soldier's love when I return?
Or wilt thou quite forget me?” I replied,
“When thou com'st back to me, O Mutines,
Ask me again that question.” While his eyes
Flashed eagerly, yet doubtful, and my soul
Kept whispering to itself, “I cannot love
This half-blood stranger, this half-Carthaginian,
And yet I cannot lose him”—lo! in rode
That same Numidian, and delivered him
A letter. Fiercely he glanced o'er it, turned,
Embraced me with a hasty agony,
Sprang on his horse without another look,
And galloped from me. I have never more
Seen him, nor ever shall; shall never know
If still he loves me—if he suffers pain
To be thus severed from me. Oh! he thinks,
Perhaps, I scorn him now!

Strat.
So should'st thou scorn him!
Forget him as he has forgotten thee!
This then's the dream for which thou pin'st away!
Thou, with thy pure Hellenic blood and nurture,
Forget'st my son, thy husband, in his grave,
And turn'st from all that's best of thine own race
To court the homage of a Libyan stranger!

Ian.
Ah! it was the strange southern soul allured me!
Compared with all our chattering graceful Greeks,
These sons of Afric seem to me like gods.
Until I saw him I had never lived!
A love so beautiful, so wonderful,
I never had before, nor ever dreamed.
Oh, that was life! I might have been content,
Had I ne'er known him, with the prettiness
And commonplace of Metapontine homage;
But now I know a different happiness.
When to thy Lysias I was given, oh, lady,
I was a child; and when I lost him, still
Was half a child. And then the tide of war,
Rolling in from far lands with Hannibal,
Brought me a splendid novelty of passion
Which lifted me one moment to the skies,
But left me blank and restless.

Strat.
Yet, the while,
Thou hast seemed gay and happy as the rest.

Ian.
But inwardly so restless. Oh! that dream!
I woke and hated my past merriment!
I saw him, heard him—breathed enchanted air,
And lived and loved again.

Strat.
Oh! verily,
Has Aphrodite smitten thee with folly!
Here's one of thy adorers.

Enter Philemon.
Ian.
We salute thee,
Philemon.

Phil.
Thee I scarcely dare salute,
Oh! lady, save with hymns of adoration;
For thou art clothed to-day with such a light
Celestial, as men know th'immortals by.

Ian.
Henceforth, Philemon, I discard my mirror,
For thou art kinder. Hast thou news to tell me?

Phil.
Oh! fairest lady, will thou buy mine of me?

Ian.
Ay, surely, if the price be not too heavy.

Phil.
I ask but one song to that gilded lyre,
Which pines to give an echo to thy voice.

Ian.
Make a new song for me, and I will sing it.
Now for thy news.

Phil.
That one of his swift marches
Brings Hannibal to our town. His messengers
Have been seen galloping to the citadel;
And at the gates, Numidian horse by scores
Continue to appear. Pray Heaven none here
Have written Rome love-letters, since his last
Departure!

Strat.
Hush! This town has ever been
Of faith unquestioned.

Phil.
May we so remain,
Lest we should one day share Herdonea's fate,
And stand to see our city burnt to ashes,
After a few preliminary beheadings,
Then be chased forth to grumble life away,
For penance, in some Bruttian town, as here,
These poor Herdonaens grumble.

Ian.
Hannibal here!
What rumours fly before him? Any tale
Of battle? Any stirring tidings yet
From Hasdrubal?

Phil.
Nero, we hear, has tracked
As closely as he dared, the lion's march;
And twice, they say, the lion turned upon him,
And sharply has chastised him.

Strat.
Who comes yonder?
Why, 'tis Silanus!

Phil.
Yea, his very self!
Our grave Sicilian friend arrived already!

Enter Silanus.
Ian.
Smiling, with all the old composure, down
On our inferior natures.—Hail, Silanus!
What, com'st thou from the army thus serene,
As one that saunters homeward from the baths?

Sil.
E'en from the baths I come.

Phil.
Thou hast lost no time.

Ian.
And Hannibal?

Sil.
Tarries without the walls
A moment longer, but will enter shortly.

Ian.
Well, then, thy news. Thou hast lived, since last we met,
Another chapter of that history
Thou mak'st thine idol next to Hannibal.
Tell us a page of it.

Sil.
Nay, I have heard
Important tidings since I passed these gates,
Which must eclipse my news of Hannibal.

Ian.
Now wilt thou condescendingly impart
Some trifle suited to our littleness;
For sometimes thy philosophy will deign
To know what passes in this foolish town.

Sil.
That is my duty, as the chronicler
And student of the times.

Ian.
Well, tell us then.

Sil.
'Tis a mysterious story that will charm thee—
Namely, that an Egyptian sorcerer
Has suddenly dropped down among you—none
Can tell from whence, from land, or sea, or sky—
Who shows his art in all the porticos,
Whose magic mirror is a drop of ink,
And matchless marvels are displayed therein.

Ian.
Haste, haste, Philemon! seek him out for me,
And fetch him hither! Is this all thy news?

Sil.
I have besides a tragic tale to tell thee,
Out of the very camp of Hannibal,
Which with delightful horror will excite
Thy feminine fancy—haply win thy tears.

Ian.
Oh! this is better still. Haste to unfold it.

Sil.
A mighty criminal is on his way
To gladden all the eyes of Metapontum
With a new spectacle.

Strat.
Pray thee explain.
Who is this criminal? What this spectacle?

Sil.
His public execution is the sight
I speak of; for his name—'tis one, in truth,
Well known to Metapontum.

Strat.
Tell us, then.

Sil.
What would you think if it should be your hero,
Your sometime governor—e'en Mutines?

[Ianthe screams.
Strat.
Hush! hush! Restrain thyself! Oh! by the gods!
He says he knows not what! It is not true.

Phil.
Thou hast well done, Silanus! Let's begone.

[Exit.
Strat.
Ay, go! [Claps her hands.]
Eunice! To thy mistress! Haste!

Ian.
Oh! stay, Silanus! Stay, I pray, one moment.
I must see Hannibal! I must! I will!
Oh! who knows but my prayers will move him? None
Has ever yet refused me, nor will he.
Go, find out where he is; then come for me,
And bring me to him. Haste, Silanus, haste!

Sil.
I dare not bid thee hope.

Ian.
But thou wilt do this!
Haste, or my heart will break.

Sil.
Well, thou shalt try
Thy fortune; but thou know'st not Hannibal.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—By the gate of the citadel of Metapontum.
Enter Hanno and Maharbal.
Hanno.
He found you at Grumentum first, then?

Mah.
Ay,
And got there his first lesson from us. Back
We sent him helter-skelter to his camp,
At the first glimpse of his presumptuous face;
Then, as I told you, leaving our fires burning,
Slipped off by night the old way. Once more only
His horse came close enough to be chastised.
'Twas then we caught our truant Mutines.

Hanno.
This Nero is in earnest. Not for long
Has consul dared so closely dog our steps.
He will not give us passage to the north,
Without a blow.

Mah.
Welcome to give and take!
Oh! to stake all upon one furious hour,
Dash at the throat of Nero, and have done!
So near our one last chance, and still to wait,
Sore plagues me. Something, too, keeps whispering me
We shall outstay our luck.

Hanno.
Come, patience, patience!
You're ever thus—fretted with black misgivings,
When you are not in the full tide of march,
Or the wild whirl of battle.

Mah.
Oh! I tell thee
I shall not breathe till we are on the road,
With Nero boldly marshalled on our front,
And trumpets sounding battle. Then, we'll hope,
Both brothers in the Capitol may sup
At that same board which these ten years agone
Waited so long for one of them in vain.

Hanno.
Again that tale? But would'st thou have him, then,
Rush northward e'er he knows his brother's road?

Mah.
Oh! never doubt he comes by Umbria—Ha!
The Greek philosopher, by all that's wondrous!
With—why, the lady weeps, for all her finery!

Enter Silanus with Ianthe.
Ian.
I do not see him—tell me, do you see him?

Hanno.
[To Maharbal.]
Hush! let us watch.

Sil.
I see him coming, now.
Enter Hannibal.
I bring thee here a suppliant, Hannibal.

[Ianthe throws herself at his feet.
Ian.
Oh, mercy, mercy, Hannibal, my lord!

Han.
Rise, lady! Tears and passion are not needed,
If thy request be fit for me to grant—
If not, they must not move me.

Ian.
Oh, my lord!
I only ask thy pardon for a man
Thou once didst love! Spare hapless Mutines!

Han.
No, by my father's soul, I will not, lady.

Ian.
Thou wilt! thou wilt! Thou canst not mean to kill him—
So noble, happy, and honoured once—so fallen,
So miserable, now!

Han.
Thou askest, lady,
My grace for one who does not wish to live.
Why should he live? No place is left on earth
For such an one as he.

Ian.
Yes, yes, oh, yes!
For he shall learn new loyalty from me!
I love him—he loves me—and I will hold him
Fast to his faith by charms that mock at magic!
Believe, thou never shalt repent thy mercy!
Believe, believe, there's power in love like mine!
Believe, believe, there's power in penitence!
Trust to the generous ties that bind for ever
The pardoned to the pardoner! Speak the word,
And send me happy home.

Han.
Ask me no more!
He who betrayed his first love, in that cause
Which he was born to, reared in, and adored—
Thinkest thou he would not, lady, betray thee?
Ask me no more. Resign thyself.

Ian.
I will not!
No, no! I will not! Come then, thou who art
Our hope, our pride, our master! who hast saved us,
By thine own godlike arm, from abhorred Rome!
Thou, happy on that loftiest peak of fame,
So dazzling to my woman's eyes from far,
Be not all brightness, and all glory! Deign
To be loved, Hannibal, as well as worshipped!
Oh, yes, I know that thou wilt grant my prayer!
I know thou wilt! Keep thy stern looks for men;
To me thou wilt be gentle!

Han.
Lady, pray
That death from that man's soul may cleanse the stains,
The blacker as his nobleness seemed brighter.
I blame thee not that the star dazzled thee,
Whose sad eclipse thou couldst not prophesy,
For he was prompt and fiery in his looks,
As in his deeds, and seemed, indeed, the hero
He might have been, but was not.

Ian.
Speak'st thou so,
Oh! and canst think, without a freezing horror,
Of trampling out by thy deliberate will,
So warm, and bold, and passionate a soul,
From this bright, beautiful life, that we enjoy—
This human life we cannot live but once—
This human life, at longest, all too short—
Of snatching—horrid robbery!—from thy fellow
That once delicious prime of glowing manhood,
Whose strength and fierceness, hope and love, and laughter,
And revels of the wine-cup, dance, and song,
The very gods might envy humankind?
Restore him this, and I but live to bless,
Love, and adore thee!

Han.
Live, but not for this.
The life thou paint'st I cannot give him back—
The baser life that's left to him, I will not.

Ian.
Relentless heart! Oh, cruel Carthaginian!
Dost thou live only to surround thyself
With tears, and groans, and terror? Didst thou come
Into this pleasant land, only to slay?
Art thou the same, then, in thine iron manhood
As ever in thy fierce and dreadful youth,
Which o'er a shrieking land—o'er hearth and field,
Strewn with their unarmed corpses, whose sole crime
Had been the name of Roman—long ago,
All the sad length of Adria's smoking shore,
From Trebia swept to Cannæ's horrid shambles?
Oh, on such heaps of slaughtered foes, what profit
To fling this one life of a man that loves thee?

Han.
Enough, enough! No longer waste this passion.
What is his life, or mine, or any man's,
Weighed with the destinies of Rome and Carthage?
I know thy grief is heavy—his the blame
Who cast himself away so madly. Yet,
If, when I war with men, I stop to count
The tears of women, I may sheathe my sword.
No house in Rome but maid and matron there
Weep tears as sore as thine: so let them weep!
The daughters of my people rend their hair
For many a dear-loved soldier, slain for Carthage—
Vowed to avenge these, what have I to do
With tears that flow for traitors? Mourn not him;
Mourn to have loved unworthily; and know,
I must be cruel, lady, to be true
To that austere commission which my soul
Holds from my gods, my country, and my father.

Ian.
Accurst commission! Why must my heart break?
Oh, what to me is Carthage, what is Rome,
Or peace, or war, or anything but him?
As thou hat'st Rome, so I love Mutines.
My passion matches thine, and shall be heard!
Silanus, plead for me to this hard heart!
What is this mission of thy fancy?—what
This dire abstraction? Say, who profits by it?
Oh, if mankind's made up of human hearts,
And every human heart be worthless to thee,
What art thou but the foe of all mankind?
How dost thou cheat thy nation to believe
The groans of each compose the good of all?
Still, still I ask—why must my heart be broken?
Think of it once again; strive but this once
To comprehend my anguish! Surely, surely,
No man on earth should scorn a woman's thanks
And blessings! Oh, Silanus, plead for me!
Why art thou silent? Hast thou, too, no pity?
My heart is breaking.

Han.
None that knows me, lady,
Would plead in such a cause. I pity thee—
Farewell.

Ian.
Let me go home, now! Let me die!

[Exeunt Ianthe and Silanus. Hannibal walks apart with Hanno. Enter Adherbal.
Adh.
What lovely fury's that?

Mah.
How should I know?
Some poor besotted creature, so bewitched
With love of Mutines, the treacherous hound!
She needs must come to beg his precious life,
And now goes hence despairing. Silly soul!
Pity she wastes her tears so.

Adh.
Heavenly powers!
For the first time I envy Mutines.
'Tis well I was not tempted; for one smile
I would have granted all.

Mah.
The more fool thou.
Oh, we all know thy softness!

Han.
[approaching with Hanno.]
Therefore, Hanno—
Since what we want is soldiers, soldiers ever,
Against the enemy's o'erwhelming force—
So it may double, and not triple ours—
To Bruttium thou shalt march without delay,
Gather in all our garrisons there, ransack
Each corner for new levies, then return
And meet me on the border. I myself
Will lead the new force to Apulia. There,
I spend such interval as Hasdrubal
May leave me, in providing corn and stores
For that which is before me.

Hanno.
Whatsoe'er
Is left in Bruttium, fit to serve thy purpose,
Trust me I'll find and safely bring to thee.

Adh.
Maharbal looks most gloomy.

Han.
Much I would
That we were galloping to the charge together
Against an enemy three times our number,
For then I think that we should see him smile.

Mah.
Would that we were! would to the gods we were!

Han.
We will, then, soon as Hasdrubal shall deign
To send me word which road he marches by.

Mah.
And that will be—how canst thou doubt? Oh, save us!
Here's thy philosopher again. I must not
Intrude my soldierly discourse on him.

Re-enter Silanus.
Han.
Thou couldst not have an apter auditor,
For he is deep in military tactics,
And knows by heart our battles, though not given
To interrupt his ease by joining them.

Sil.
No, verily! I never prized so much
My philosophic privilege, as when
I watched the field of Cannæ; yet I think
That I can tell the story to the world,
As well as some that fought there. Now I pray
Give ear to a petition that I bring thee
From this despairing beauty. She implores
To see her lover once before he dies.

Han.
'Twere merciful to him I should refuse her—
Yet let her have her will. Here, take this ring;
The guard will let thee in. Thou know'st the way.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene V.

—Carthage. An apartment in the house of Sophonisba's father. Sophonisba alone.
Enter Gisco.
Gis.
Well, niece of mine, what cheer, this summer's morn?
How, the book dropped? Th'embroidery thrown aside?
As languidly reposing on your cushions
As any listless beauty of them all?
Come, I must have some talk with you.

Soph.
I am ready.

Gis.
'Tis on a theme which, by your face, I guess
Your thoughts are now engaged with—this sad news,
This luckless battle of your father's. Well,
There's no help for it; but, oh, wherefore lost he
That field of Silpia? Spain is lost, I tell you,
Unless by some bold stroke—By all the gods!
'Tis strange how, after all, we scarcely seem
To prosper long without Hamilcar's sons.
Here's Hasdrubal flown off to Italy,
And straight Spain falls into the clutch of Scipio!
And now our sole dependence is young Mago.
Ay, but for him and for his cavalry
Your father would not hold his own an hour.
A dangerous house it is, this house of Barca,
And will subvert our government at home,
As surely as it thrives in arms abroad.
Well, but there's something else now. You have read
Young Masanissa's letter? Is there in it
That which displeases you? Speak honestly.

Soph.
Have you a purpose in these questions, uncle?

Gis.
A purpose? Ay, and you shall shortly know it.
Well, well, I see, without more questioning,
The prince's letter has not satisfied you.
Nor, to say truth, has his demeanour lately
Been less displeasing to our generals.
I, too, have heard from Spain, and have in charge,
As your director in your father's place,
To let you know his wishes in this matter.

Soph.
Then pray you in brief words to tell me them.

Gis.
Why, 'tis a serious business, and concerns
The interests of the State. When you were pledged
To the Numidian prince, 'twas to secure
To Carthage, as we thought, the usefullest
Of all th'alliances that Afric offered—
A boy of promise, trained amongst ourselves,
Heir to a mighty chieftainship, and son
To our best friend, our sage and faithful Gala.
But, look you, he is somewhat changed since then!
He is no more in Spain the fervent friend
He seemed in Carthage, smiled upon by you.

Soph.
He was then what he seemed.

Gis.
If it so please you,
What he is now, I think, concerns us more!
Oh, we have not forgotten the old story,
The pretty history of your childish loves,
When you two mounted, on one elephant,
Day after day, would pace the city streets—
And how you whispered in your father's ear,
Once, e'er he sailed for Spain, that Massanissa
Had promised to take Rome. You think, forsooth,
He is still the humble bondslave of your charms,
As much as in those days when idle youth
Is all for love and such poetic folly.
Not so; he knows the world a little better,
Since he has led his father's troops, and seen
What war and Rome are, and has felt himself
Almost a king, too. Oh! I promise you
His thoughts are busier counting future chances,
Than ever they have been with your sweet face,
And your sweet words, which you think so prevailing.
Now, mind you, his old father's throne will soon
Be vacant, and this youth be in his place.
But he's not staunch, no, no, he is not staunch;
He is not worthy of you, Sophonisba;
He wavers in his faith as he grows older,
And, who knows, yet may turn to Rome?

Soph.
All this,
Though you may think it, is not news to me.
But to the point.

Gis.
Oh! the caprice of woman!
I looked to have a storm of tears and anger;
But you've a cool head, girl, a right cool head,
Not the weak heart I gave you credit for.
But to the point, then, touching Massanissa.
Affairs stand thus: your father has sent word
The prince will very soon be with us here,
In quest of reinforcements. You will see him,
And be it then your business, if you love him,
To fix him to yourself and to our cause.
If it shall seem hereafter you have failed,
Then hold yourself prepared to wed instead
His rival Syphax, who already shows
Some signs of willingness to break with Rome,
And whom we judge the promise of your hand
Would make ours wholly. Do you listen, niece?

Soph.
Yes, I have heard you, and weighed all your words.
You need not fear but I will do my best
For Carthage. You may tell my father so.
As for my own heart's happiness, to speak
Or think of that, I know were but a jest
In me, a statesman's and a general's daughter.
When, think you, we may look to see the prince?

Cis.
He may arrive in Carthage any day.
So now I take my leave. Fair niece, good bye.

[Exit Gisco; enter Ada by another door.
Ada.
May I come in?

Soph.
Yes, I am all alone.

Ada.
I am so restless now, till I can find
Some one to feel as I do! All the others
Laugh only—you are serious.

Soph.
Nay, I think
You can laugh sometimes too.

Ada.
It is so hard
Always to want more news! All night I dream
That Hannibal and Hasdrubal have met,
And Rome has fallen.

Soph.
Haply 'twill come true.

Ada.
Oh! then, at last, we shall see Hannibal,
And he will see his Carthage. Do you not
Picture him so unlike all other men,
That, stood he here this moment unannounced,
The very children would shout Hannibal?

Soph.
'Twill be a glorious moment.

Ada.
Dearest cousin,
I weary you; you look so grave and sad.

Soph.
I did not mean to seem so.

Ada.
Do you know,
Whene'er you look as now, I cannot choose
But fancy such a grave pathetic grace
With a half sadness shadows o'er your beauty,
As haply, rescued from the halls of Dis,
Still hovered o'er Persephone's sweet brow
When mounting into sunlight?

Soph.
How your thoughts
Run wild with poetry, my little cousin!

Re-enter Gisco hastily.
Gis.
Come, guess what news I bring!

Soph.
How can I, uncle?

Gis.
You guess, though! But what need to turn so pale?
Ay, he's in port; you'll see him in an hour.
Remember what we talked about! Come, Ada,
Leave her alone to think her lesson over.

[Exeunt Gisco and Ada.

Scene VI.

—A colonnade round the court of the same house.
Enter Sophonisba and Massanissa.
Soph.
And are we, then, so altered? Shall we pace
For ever through the twilight without speaking?
I had so many things to say to you,
And now has your short visit reached its close,
And yet we scarce seem to have talked together.

Mas.
You scarcely can expect a cheerful face,
After so signal a defeat as ours.

Soph.
And yet your nature was more hopeful once.
You said you twice had caught a glimpse of Scipio
At Silpia. Did the sight of him fulfil
Your high-wrought expectation?

Mas.
How could that be?
'Twas but a moment, and I scarcely saw him.
What's Scipio to me?

Soph.
Do you, then, forget
All you have told me of the glowing pictures
The young Massiva painted of his captor,
And of your longing dream to meet with him?

Mas.
Ay, all our generals are fools to him;
We've not his match in Spain since Hasdrubal.

Soph.
You speak most gloomily. And do you, then,
Wholly despair of our affairs in Spain?

Mas.
To you, a woman living here at ease,
'Tis vain to speak of war's perplexities
And changes. You could never understand them.

Soph.
And have I, then, no interest in my country?
And have I, then, no interest in your fortunes?
Oh, Massanissa, you are changed, most changed!
The ambition growing in your soul so fast
Will swallow up your love. Too true I feel it,
Our days of childhood are for ever over.

Mas.
You speak as though I were forsaking you.
Why should you doubt me?

Soph.
Ah! I had so many,
So many things to say to you—and now
Your gloomy countenance and absent air
Chill all I could have uttered into silence.
Tell me, if we should never meet again,
Would it content you to have parted so?

Mas.
Why should you think we may not meet again?
Trust me, I bear in battle a charm'd life.

Soph.
We still may live, yet never meet again—
You may not die, and yet may die to me.

Mas.
What mean you by this melancholy tone?
You, too, are changed—you chide me for ambition,
Yet 'twas your love, your counsels, taught it me.
See, it grows late. I must be gone.

Soph.
So soon?
But we shall meet again ere you leave Carthage?

Mas.
I must sail early—no, I fear we cannot.
Our farewell must be now.

Soph.
Farewell.

Mas.
Take comfort;
For if Hamilcar's sons but do their part,
The war will soon be over. Fare thee well
Till then, and then no more, my Sophonisba!

[Exit.
Soph.
The history of my life is over now;
Whatever may become of me, 'tis over.
The arrow has struck home into my heart,
And when I pluck it from me I shall die.

[Exit.