University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

—Carthage. A chamber in the house of Hasdrubal-Gisco, Sophonisba, and Ada. The sound of funeral music heard.
Ada.
Hark! hark! Those sounds! That mournful, mournful music!
Ah, Sophonisba, 'tis the dirge for him!

Soph.
Indeed it is.

Ada.
'Tis like the dirge of Carthage.
[A long pause.]
I wonder not Hasdrubal scorned to live;
For me, I never could survive despair.
I could not lift my hand against myself;
But I would loathe my life until it left me.

Soph.
My Ada, hast thou thought, then, what death is?

Ada.
I know not what it is; but yet it seems
So comforting to think the wretched die.

Soph.
But what, if in the grave there be no rest,
No darkness—nor in death the end of life,
It's cure and consolation? What if, freed
From this life's twilight, which we find so oft,
Dull as it is, too bright for our tired eyes,
The soul should burst at once into a light
From whose strong blaze there is no hiding-place?
Oppressed with such intensity of life,
Our loves and hates, our griefs, our hopes and fears,
Transplanted to eternity, and there
Enlarged into eternal agonies—
Our faculties and feelings framed anew
Upon the vast scale of infinity—
May we not piningly look back to earth,
As to the darkness of repose and bliss?
As certainly as youth from childhood grows,
For all our waiting death will come at last,
And, like all other futures, will be found,
I think, not that which we imagine it.

Ada.
Oh, surely, for the utterly unhappy,
There must come some bright change!

Soph.
But not, I think,
Unless we so subdue our natures here,
So harmonize our passionate desires,
That life may glide as nobly into death,
As rivers, from their fountains widening on
Steadily to the sea, there lose themselves
With perfect and majestic resignation.

Ada.
You fear not death, then, Sophonisba?

Soph.
No.

Ada.
But still you think self-killing is a crime?

Soph.
I can imagine how it well might happen,
Though life were wretched, 'twere a crime to die,
And though 'twere sweet, it were a crime to live.

Ada.
I think, to hear of others' miseries
Makes life most hard to bear!

Soph.
Dear child, may tears
Bitterer than those fall never for your own!

[Voices from without call “Ada! Ada!”]
Ada.
Oh, they are calling me! I cannot go—
I cannot talk and laugh with them to-day.

[Zeinab and Kora lift up the curtain from an archway, and show themselves.]
Zein.
Come, Ada! Come, we seek thee!

Ada.
Oh, not now!

[Zeinab and Kora rush in and playfully draw her out.]
Soph.
Still, still, defeat, calamity, and shame—
And I find time to mourn my own heart's sorrow!
How selfishly I called that life a ruin
Which I can make a holocaust for Carthage!
He could not be more lost to me than now—
And yet I am sure he must have loved me once!
He could not so deceive me, young and bright
And ardent as he was, my playfellow,
Companion, friend! He did, he did once love me,
As surely as he loves me now no more.
Oh, 'tis far best to leave this house for ever,
And every spot where we have been together—
E'en this dear chamber sacred to those books
In which we oft have studied from one page,
Receiving into ours the soul of Greece,
Plato and Aristotle our companions.
Oh, never, never such a happy pair
Will meet again there! Yet since he forgets,
Casts that sweet past away as worthless trash,
I must forget it, too—I must forget
To turn in thought to him, whene'er I hear
Of noble actions, of heroic sorrows,
The lofty works and thoughts of genius; never
Must store fond fancies in my heart again,
To tell him when he comes. Now must I learn
To separate from his image all that seemed
Immutably, essentially himself,
And see in his true self but the same stranger
His unloved rival is. Henceforth, I must,
Where'er I live, live utterly alone.

Enter Gisco.
Gis.
So, niece, alone as usual. Do you guess
What news I bring?

Soph.
None that can give me joy.

Gis.
That is as may be. Syphax is in Carthage—
Ay, more than that—is in this very house.

Soph.
I have expected it.

Gis.
And you must see him.
'Tis time now to give over pondering
O'er Masanissa's coldness. He's a traitor,
A mere Numidian traitor. For two years
With Scipio he has tampered secretly—
There's news for you! At Gades they two met,
And, doubtless, there devised black treachery;
The Roman with his false face, and smooth voice,
And that majestic presence that we hear of,
Bewitched him, as he has bewitched the Spaniards.
They can't withstand the magic, curse upon it!
Next, he departs for Africa—

Soph.
Hold, uncle!
How know you this? What proof have you of this?

Gis.
Read that, and that.—There, are you satisfied?
Well, then, of this be sure—he'll not lose time
In throwing off the mask, since this black news
From Italy, since this huge overthrow
Hannibal's puffed-up brother has brought on us.
Now is the time to strike a blow against him—
A double blow whilst scarcely yet assured
In the possession of his father's throne.
Syphax must take both bride and kingdom from him.

Soph.
His kingdom? If he can.

Gis.
That is your business.
Show a brave spirit, girl! Let him revenge you
On your false lover! Not that he needs urging;
Syphax hates Masanissa piously,
As one true-born Numidian hates another.
But we waste time. When will you see the king?

Soph.
Now.

Gis.
Then so be it. He's a noble chieftain,
A true Numidian lion! Oh, to see him
Spring on his desert charger, you would say,
There is the men to rout the Roman horse!
Your Masanissa's self excels him not,
With all his boasted horsemanship.

Soph.
Enough!
I have said that I will see him; bring him hither.

Gis.
You know your part! Engage him heart and soul
To Carthage. Make your own conditions with him.

[Exit.
Soph.
Oh, if it be my fate to give away
My whole life for a price, at least the price
Shall be no sordid one. Carthage shall thank me,
And Syphax shall behold a hero's course
Marked out before him by a bride who loved
His rival once, as woman loves but once.
Re-enter Gisco with Syphax.
Welcome, King Syphax, to my father's house!

Syph.
Let me fall down and kiss thy garment's hem,
For never did I see such beauty—no,
Not in a dream.

Soph.
I pray thee rise, O king!

Syph.
O peerless lady! dost thou know mine errand?
I come to seek thee for my wedded queen!
From thine own lips they bid me take my answer,
And therefore come I to thee. Wilt thou give it?

Soph.
I will. I here confirm my father's promise.

Syph.
Daughter of Carthage! thou hast made my heart
Drunk with proud joy! How shall I pay thee back
For such a sun-eclipsing gem as thou
Hast lavished on me, giving me thyself?
Wherewith shall I endow thee, O my queen?
Thou shalt have all that beauty can desire
To dazzle it with wonder at itself!
Never did earth see such a sumptuous bride
As daily in thy mirror thou shalt gaze on,
In palace-chambers golden as the sun!
Reigning from beauteous Cirtha rock-enthroned
And river-girdled, o'er my fruitful land,
Never was such a queen as thou shalt be,
So crowned with worship, and with world-wide envy!

Soph.
I ask no gift but armies.

Syph.
Thou shalt have them!

Soph.
Syphax, in wedding me thou must become
A Carthaginian. Never dream again
Of peace with Rome till Carthage wars no more!
I want no wedding-dances in thy Cirtha—
I only want to see thy tribe in arms.

Syph.
O Sophonisba! take the soul of Syphax.
Do what thou wilt with all its loves and hates!
Now will I spit upon the name of Rome,
And hunt the soul of Scipio to the death!
Take all the warrior horsemen of my land!
If thousands fall, thousands shall fill their place,
Born but for thee, for thee alone to die.—
How dark the room grows! Oh, the sun has set
Too soon, for thou art almost hidden from me.
Do I mistake, or is thy face o'ercast?
Dost thou regret my rival, Masanissa?
Although like death I hate him, yet will I
Bless him because he lost thee, Sophonisba!
Tell me, dost thou regret him?

Soph.
Be content.
I have renounced th'affianced of my youth
As utterly as I would cast thee off,
If e'er thy heart should turn again to Rome.
Leave Masanissa! Wilt thou promise, then,
To arm me thy Numidians whensoe'er
My father needs them—not to spare thy men,
Thy treasures, or thy realm itself to Carthage?

Syph.
I do—I do! And art thou really mine?

Soph.
Here is my hand, and here my sacred promise.

Syph.
O fair and gracious pledge!

Gis.
[approaching]
Most noble king!
This is the hour fixed for your conference
With our two Suffetes. Shall I now attend you?

Syph.
I know not how to go! Beauty, adieu!

Soph.
Adieu, King Syphax.

Gis.
You will meet again.

[Exeunt Gisco and Syphax.

Scene II.

—Another apartment in the same house.—Ada, Kora, and Zeinab, attended on by slaves, some dancing, some displaying caskets of jewels and other splendid ornaments.
Kora.
Is not this better, silly little Ada,
Own it, than her wise talk? What, pouting still?

Zein.
Hast thou been sworn to talk and laugh no more?

Ada.
I cannot talk, I cannot laugh to-day.

Zein.
Oh, what's the matter now? Come, art thou jealous
That Sophonisba weds this splendid king?
Is it these costly gifts that make thee envious?

Kora.
I would I had a bridegroom that would send me
An elephant so laden as the one
That bore these southern brilliants to her door!
The green flame of these emeralds stings mine eyes.

Zein.
These ivory chests, white as Astarte's brow,
Are marvels in themselves!

Kora.
These fans I covet—
These ostrich-plumes, fit for Astarte's head!
And this shawl-girdle, with its folding grace,
Would turn the swarthiest Ethiop to a goddess.
Ay, e'en black Zilla there, who laughs for wonder.
Say, did thy Sophonisba spare a moment
From Plato's pages, just to glance at these?

Zein.
What shall we do now? We have looked enough
At bride gifts that, alas! are not our own!
O Kora, would our bridegrooms, too, were kings!
Now these dull dances tire me—bid them cease.

Kora.
I would we had th'Egyptian sorcerer here,
To show us in his magic ink-drop all
The faces of the great ones of the earth.
I'd ask the portrait of Antiochus.

Zein.
And I, the King of Macedon.

Kora.
And you—
Whom would you ask for, Ada?

Ada.
Hannibal.

Kora.
Oh, what a child thou art! Why, we are all
As weary of that name as any other
Old story we have heard from infancy.

Zein.
This hero, this renowned conqueror,
Whom we've all heard of, but have never seen,
What has he done, worth doing, all this while?
If I am well informed, the gates of Rome
Are closed as fast as ever on his thousands.
I've heard my father say a hundred times,
The world's besotted to admire him so.

Kora.
Thanks to his negligence, one gallant army
Has just been slaughtered, ay, and his own brother
Amongst the number. No, you shall not, Ada,
Be like the foolish mob that still calls out
Upon Hamilcar's sons, as if they were
The only names they knew.

Ada.
O Zeinab! Kora!
For shame! Have you no heart, no soul, no spirit,
To worship what is noble? Is it thus,
As if you were of stone, you talk of him,
Who, having given up all—childhood, youth, manhood—
For Carthage, ever toiling for our sakes,
Now mourns o'er such a loss, with such a sorrow,
That things like us, born and bred up secure
In all the idle luxury of wealth,
Can never dream the thousandth part of it?
O Carthage, Carthage! to the end of time,
Thus will all merit be rewarded by thee!

Zein.
Why, Ada! why this passionate burst? Indeed,
We did not guess that you were so in earnest.
Is not your father, too, his enemy?

Kora.
We never meant to grieve you. See, your cheek
Is just the hue of these pomegranate blossoms!

Zein.
Come forth with us into the garden walks,
Where, through the shadowy greenness of the dark,
The night-air wanders drunk with fragrant silence.
Come, come! This archway opes so temptingly
On yonder marble steps; the flowering trees
Whisper us forth.

Ada.
Go then, I'll follow you.
[Kora and Zeinab run out into the garden.]
They think me young and childish. Oh, this heart,
Is it alone, then, in its passionate worship
Of what's so good, and great, and beautiful?
Would even Sophonisba smile to know?
Must I have no companion save my dreams?
O Hannibal! how is it I have felt,
E'en from the first vague ardour of my childhood,
Thy name was my possession, mine alone!
I scorn them when they blame thee—when they praise,
My swelling heart cannot endure to hear,
But with a nameless fever of impatience,
Rushes away into its own recesses.
My life flows on, and, like a widening river,
Still gathers in fresh streams new thoughts of thee!
Thine image, growing as my spirit grows,
Is every day more noble in mine eyes,
And every day my soul, yet more astonished,
Kneels to the awful beauty of thy life.
Could I have been, if thou hadst never been?
Could I have wedded this idolatrous dream
To any other form of excellence?
Invisible spirit, that hast made my life,
I know not how, a secret consecration—
To mine own self a mystery—art thou not
More than a spirit? Hannibal, Hannibal!
And shall I never see thee, never know
What my life's star is like? And thou, O Heaven!
If thou couldst see me, should I seem to thee,
As to the rest, only a thoughtless child,
Born but to laugh, and sing, marry and die?
Others speak of thee as a conqueror,
A man of iron will, a man of camps
And battles, and would smile if fancy threw
A softer colour o'er thy stern career;
But I can mourn for thee! I, a young girl,
Can see more deeply into thy man's heart,
Than men do, and I know that thou canst love!
Yes, picturing thus thy grief for Hasdrubal,
I feel as if I too had lost a brother.—
Those merry voices! Can I really be
So unlike them? Yet oh, I would not change!

[She passes out into the garden.]
Dirge for Hasdrubal.
Youths and Maidens
[Singing.]
Soul of the slain!
Rise from that battle-field of thy despair!
Linger not there,
Soul of the slain!
On the dust of the bloody, trampled plain.
From the dust where the heart of Carthage lies
Bleeding beside thee, rise—oh, rise!

Youths.
Rise! But come not to the bitter cry
Still round Bozra wailing for the dead!
Come not here to see thy city lie,
Garments rent, and ashes on her head,
Prostrate at the shrines, where, mute as shame—
Veiling starry brows in clouds of woe—
Sit the gods that once, with eyes of flame,
Watched thy thousands sweeping o'er the snow,
Watched thee to the fatal river-shore,
Watched till fell the night, and thou wert seen no more!

Maidens.

Youths and Maidens.
Soul of the slain!
Rise from that battle-field of thy despair!
Linger not there,
Soul of the slain!
On the dust of the bloody, trampled plain.
From the dust where the heart of Carthage lies
Bleeding beside thee, rise—oh, rise!

Youths.
Oh, still noble in thy great disgrace,
Rise, but haste not, pale defeated ghost,
Fiercely yearning for that lost embrace,
To the tents of the ne'er-vanquished host!
Haste not, haste not there, unseen, to see—
Following closely, yet how far apart!—
In its secret hours of agony
Writhing, the great broken brother's heart—
Owning, what thou know'st too well, too well,
That Carthage fell with him who on Metaurus fell!

Maidens.
Greatest of genii, that on eagle-wings
Bear'st thy swift whispers to all living things,
And tell'st strange truth to kings!
Thou that to meet th'unbodied soul didst come,
As back it bounded off the spears of Rome—
Death, bear him to his home!
Oh, bear him o'er the waters of the West,
To the long hours of sun-enchanted rest,
With all th'heroic blest!

Youths and Maidens.
Mysterious mountain spires that, long ago,
The fire-god throned below
Bade with his voice of thunder to pierce through
The wide Atlantic blue—
There, where your queen, Nivaria, towering high
'Twixt purple waves and sky,
Casts from the snowy glitter of her crown
Her miles of shadow down—
To whom gay genii came in sparkling throngs,
Mingling their toil with songs,
To robe you, like spoilt darlings of the seas,
With gold-green glooms of trees;
But left your bleak, stern heads, for ever bare,
To brave the sun and air,
And with strange blooms of new-invented flowers
Perfumed your burning hours,
And loosed with clapping hands a gilded crowd
Of flutterers warbling loud—
O isles the genii bless'd ere home they flew
From their sweet toils for you!
Welcome this sad and glorious ghost,
Whose life and hope at once were lost!
Surround him, dreamy bliss of noon,
Console him, soft sea-gilding moon!
Stars, O ye flashing multitude,
Receive him to your brotherhood!
Soothe the soul-rending, fierce regret,
That writhes and agonizes yet,
To the grave, godlike melancholy
Of hermit-kings who, gazing down
From far, deluded mortals see
War round their abdicated crown!
Dear hero of our hearts' despair,
Away to the sweet West, and rest for ever there!