University of Virginia Library

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!