University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Gate of the Monastery of Iona.
Glenelg, Agandel, Ronaldsey, and Attendants.
Ronaldsey.
The gale blows gently, and the rippling sea
Rejoices in the cheerful morning's smile,
And lifts in flickering dance its summer waves
To welcome back the radiant god of day.
Come now, Glenelg, with thy fair bride descend,
To where, soft-moving on the ocean's breast,
Like a rich trinket on the heaving bosom
Of some expecting maid, the vessel swings
Held by her slend'rest cable. Lady, come,
Blest by the priest and that accorded love
Which gives the assurance of a happy race.

Agandel.
The tide scarce serves. Let us awhile delay,
Till the returning flow hath sooth'd the rage
Of the dread Corry-vraken—What may chance,
Strikes fearful chill into my inmost spirit;
For I have heard that not the secret rocks,
Nor the tumultuous whirling of the waves,
Are half so fatal to the passing bark,
As fraudful creatures that inhabit there,
Who with the social human countenance
Smiling allure, or feigning drowning cries
Draw kind and pitiable hearts so far
Into the sweeping vortex of the gulf,
That they must perish, and become their prey.

Glenelg.
Be not afraid of such; more cause have we
To dread the malice of the proud Beneild,
In whose vindictive breast the bitter thought
Of this blest voyage, that has made thee mine,
May urge to plot some treacherous enterprize
Against our safe return. My love, thy hand;
Let us not linger, but in wisdom haste
To the safe refuge of my father's hall,
While yet the gentle breezes of the morn
Breathe thus propitiously to waft us home.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Hall in Beneild's Castle.
Lady Beneild and her Son.
Lady Ben.
To scorn Beneild and take the soft Glenelg!
It is an insult, boy, to all our clan,
And if thou hast the temper of thy race,
Thou wilt not patiently endure this wrong.
Had I the magic of the old witch Elpa,
There's not a mischief in the earth or air
That should remain uncall'd to do them harm.

Beneild.
And who is Elpa? Often have I heard
Our men, when gather'd round the hearth at night,
With cautious voice and wary look, relate
How she was wont, in former times, to vex
The whole extent and borders of the isle.

Lady Ben.
Now she is old, and seldom stirs abroad.
None ever knew her country or her kin.
When first the playful children saw her come,
They ran to mock her hump'd unshapen form,
But when she fix'd on them her fiery eyes,
Their mirth was marr'd, and, with their hands behind,
Fearing her touch, they silent look'd at her.

Beneild.
Is she indeed so hideous and so grim?

Lady Ben.
She is a haggard and decrepid thing,
Scarce taller than a two years' tottering child:
Her wither'd visage is so sharp and lean
That without eyes it would bespeak her fell;
And yet her quick and sparklike eyes appear
So kindled with malign intelligence,
That all the other features of her face
Are seen no more by those on whom she looks,
Such is their evil darting.—But her eyes
Are far less dreadful than her lean large hands,
So gnarl'd with bone, and shrivell'd without veins,
That they do seem like a dead giant's, dried
In some cadav'ry of that fab'lous land
Where once the Cyclops dwelt. Frequent at eve,
Ere yet the twilight has entirely faded,
With soundless tread she seeks the cotter's door,
And moaning sullenly, puts in her hand,
And holds it till the trembling dame within
Has pil'd it full, or emptied all the store
Kept for the supper of her weary spouse,
Expected from the field. Sometimes, when late
The traveller hastens o'er the lonely moor,
His horse stops suddenly, and startled turns
From something slowly bowling in the road:
'Tis Elpa crippling homeward with her alms.

Beneild.
Where is her home?

Lady Ben.
'Tis said in some hid cave,
Not far beyond the cottage on the shore.—
Once in that cottage liv'd a good old man,
Who with hard labor, care, and pious thoughts,
A son and daughter bred to industry,
Till they were blighted by her treacherous gifts.—
Three days and nights the winds had fiercely blown,
And high above the rocks where Elpa dwells,
The angry waves, in lavish sheets of foam,
Dash'd without intermission. On the fourth
The wind abated, and at set of sun
Nought but the noiseless swell and wreck of barks
Strew'd on the shore, reminded of the storm.
The good old man, his children kneeling near,
In his accustom'd way the Bible took,
And, on a stone before his cottage door,
Began his evening prayer, when he descried
The shrunken Elpa looking o'er the book,
And heard her shrilly say, “Give me to eat.”
He trembling rose, leaving his prayer unsaid,
And granted her request. The following morn,
A rich reward of antique gold was found
Piled on the stone; alas! an unblest gift!

Beneild.
Yet it denoted gratitude in her.

Lady Ben.
Gifts from all such do but entail misfortune.
Her gold brought idleness. The good old man
Fell into foul intemperance; his son
Wander'd away into the Saxon land,
And children that could claim no father's care,
With shame and sorrow broke the daughter's heart.

Beneild.
Would that the witch might some such gift bestow
On scornful Agandel.

Lady Ben.
Where now, Beneild?

Beneild.
To speak with Elpa, and to see her power
In aid of my revenge.

Lady Ben.
What have I said,
That thou wouldst tempt misfortune to thyself
By any traffic with a witch accurst.
Stay, headstrong boy, thy wild intent forego.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Cave of Elpa.
Elpa,
sola.
Again the gaudy sun looks o'er the waves,
And draws the night from my deformity.
Once on a cloudless morn methought I saw
Some interposing darkness grateful close
Upon his odious light, while all the face
Of universal nature seem'd to sadden;
The birds sat mute, but I had sense of joy.
Yet soon th'eclipse, like an unsettled eyelid,
Opening remov'd, and all again grew gay,
Stirring my grief anew. Ha! who is this,
With knotted brow, and dark, distemper'd eyes?
What spiteful mission brings the pale wretch here?

[Enter Beneild.]
Beneild.
This must be her abode. What precious hoards
And gorgeous remnants of rich merchandize,
From shipwreck sav'd, lie gather'd useless here,
As if in spite from the bright world withheld.
But in what murky corner of the cave
Sits she herself?

Elpa.
What wouldst thou here with me?

Beneild.
Ha! hideous toad!

Elpa.
What wouldst thou here?

Beneild.
'Tis she!
Unhappy creature, thou wilt pardon me,
For fearful apprehension of strange things
That from the tide crawl into dens like this,
Troubled my fancy, and my sight perplex'd
By the fantastic lustre of these gems,
Discern'd thee not.

Elpa.
But thou didst grin at me,
And started back, as if thine eyes beheld
Some devilish aggregate of spite and venom.
But, dog, I can endure—for from my birth,
Malicious Nature has made me abhorr'd:
My mother loath'd me and denied her breast;
And I had perish'd ere I knew to suffer,
But for the thankless care of a curs'd monk,
Who fed my crave, and rear'd me into strength:
That he might know what metaphysics work
In such a monstrous ill-assorted frame.
But I forsook him, and hid in the heaps
Of a rude lading which a bark brought hence,
Came, four-score years ago, into this isle,
And made this cave my home. In all that time
No living creature dared to enter here,
Save once, a hound, and I tore out his eyes.
But now 'tis known that I begin to fail,
And the quick-sighted eagles, floating near,
Oft mark me for their prey.

Beneild.
But I have come
Not to molest thee, but to ask thy aid—

Elpa.
Ha! dost thou mock me? helpless as I am,
What aid can I bestow?—Never before
Did mortal being ask my rugged service.
Dost thou lack gold? or hast some silly maid,
Whom thou would'st win by hanging at her ear
Th'impearled humor of a wounded shell?
There, gather, gather; and make haste away.

Beneild.
Nay, be not wroth with me; I want not these—
Not ornaments, to draw the eye to beauty;
But, harken, cunning to defeat its charms.
See'st thou yon bark, with twining streamers, flying
Before the fav'ring breeze delighted coming,
The crystal ocean into sparkles braying
Beneath her stately prow.

Elpa.
What then, what then?

Beneild.
Hast thou no art to stop her gay career?
No friendly power that dwells high in the air
Whom thou canst charm to mount his cloudy car,
And breathe tempestuous mischief on that bark?

Elpa.
Wast thou insulted, that thou art malicious?
I see thou wast: and that thou think'st I deal
With th'envious agents of the evil power—
But wilt thou recompense me if I serve thee?

Beneild.
Tell me but how, and if within the scope
And compass of my arm and clan to do't,
It shall be done.

Elpa.
See'st thou the pillar'd isle,
Whose grey cliffs, like the wreck of some great town,
Gulf'd by an earthquake, overtop the waves?
There in that isle a mystic creature dens;
That bears the semblance of the female form.
But, like myself, is monstrous, yet most fair.
That hateful thing oft in the sunny calm
Elbows aside the restless ocean's swell,
And visits this lone coast. But three days since,
With smiling eyes and rising breast, she came,
Oaring the waters with her nimble arms;
And seeing me, as on that shelly seat
I ruminated of my wretched lot,
She this way hied; and when I crawl'd from view,
She follow'd fast with feminine desire
To see what I might be, and jeer'd my shape—
Wilt thou destroy her if I do thee service?

Beneild.
Why think'st thou that I would—

Elpa.
Look to you bark:
Have they done harm to me that sail therein,
That thou dost ask me for a wind to sink her?
But thou art form'd to traffic in ill deeds,
And I will aid thee for thy spiteful wishes.
Come, thou wilt shoot the mermaid—Say thou wilt,
And with what bidding I may urge the sea,
Thou shalt have thy reward—Come—

Beneild.
Whither, where—

Elpa.
To where thy boat lies ready on the shore;
And when the mermaid by thy matchlock dies,
Then shalt thou see what I will do, will do.

[Exeunt.