 | Gemma of The Isles |  |
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ACT I.
Scene I.
—The Mainland of Zetland. The seashore. Harold stretched on the ground; Northmen standing near; Mermaidens heard singing from the sea.Mer.
She is dead! she is dead! Our darling is dead!
We heard it! we heard it! we heard the loud cry,
Which back with the waves,
Rushed out of thy caves,
Oh, Zetland! as all thy stern heroes went by,
With the song for the dead, with the death-march's tread,
And laid her to sleep like a child in its bed.
She is dead! she is dead! We shall linger no more,
Tost by the sigh of the seas to and fro,
In the green gloom of shade,
By the tall granite laid
Over the ripple that murmurs below,
To see the sweet face smiling down, as of yore,
From her nest on the heights, o'er the sea and the shore.
We heard it! we heard it! we heard the loud cry,
Which back with the waves,
Rushed out of thy caves,
Oh, Zetland! as all thy stern heroes went by,
With the song for the dead, with the death-march's tread,
And laid her to sleep like a child in its bed.
She is dead! she is dead! We shall linger no more,
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In the green gloom of shade,
By the tall granite laid
Over the ripple that murmurs below,
To see the sweet face smiling down, as of yore,
From her nest on the heights, o'er the sea and the shore.
Like the bold eagle which darts from the sky,
To snatch the babe from its mother's cries,
Suddenly lighting down from on high,
Death has flown off with his golden prize!
Eagle, that plunderest north, south, east, west,
Why hast thou plundered thy brother's nest?
To snatch the babe from its mother's cries,
Suddenly lighting down from on high,
Death has flown off with his golden prize!
Eagle, that plunderest north, south, east, west,
Why hast thou plundered thy brother's nest?
Now, where shall we meet with her desolate ghost?
In the long winding silence of sea-caverns lost,
Where, past the first bend, black night arches o'er us,
Our sole guide the splash of the wildfowl before us?
Who shall dare float through these chambers unknown,
To meet the poor phantom wandering alone?
Or will the orphan spirit come soon,
And through those loopholes—like the moon—
Shine full upon the rugged stairs
Of the old Pict castle, unawares?
Or, fluttering aloft on some rock like a tower,
Cut off from the land by the current's mad run,
Just seen from below in some strange stormy hour,
Flash like a seagull's white wing in the sun?
Or round the abyss hover, pitying in vain,
Whilst the fowler ascends with his fast coming breath,
And marks the rope crack to the slow-tugging strain,
And life waits above him, and death waits beneath?
Why did she die,
Our beauty—ah why?
We saw him draw near to the poor shrouded sleeper,
And the last bitter look
He silently took,
Of the one face he loved—why could we not keep her?
Fair-haired Sea King!
Oh, down didst thou fling
The strength and the pomp of thy stature, to lie
With forehead close hid from the pitying sky—
Thine arms, that were forged on Thor's anvil, thrown by—
To lie like a war-weary giant asleep,
Not a pulse, not a breath, not an eyelash astir!
We sing and we weep—we sing and we weep—
But Harold is breaking his great heart for her.
In the long winding silence of sea-caverns lost,
Where, past the first bend, black night arches o'er us,
Our sole guide the splash of the wildfowl before us?
Who shall dare float through these chambers unknown,
To meet the poor phantom wandering alone?
Or will the orphan spirit come soon,
And through those loopholes—like the moon—
Shine full upon the rugged stairs
Of the old Pict castle, unawares?
Or, fluttering aloft on some rock like a tower,
Cut off from the land by the current's mad run,
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Flash like a seagull's white wing in the sun?
Or round the abyss hover, pitying in vain,
Whilst the fowler ascends with his fast coming breath,
And marks the rope crack to the slow-tugging strain,
And life waits above him, and death waits beneath?
Why did she die,
Our beauty—ah why?
We saw him draw near to the poor shrouded sleeper,
And the last bitter look
He silently took,
Of the one face he loved—why could we not keep her?
Fair-haired Sea King!
Oh, down didst thou fling
The strength and the pomp of thy stature, to lie
With forehead close hid from the pitying sky—
Thine arms, that were forged on Thor's anvil, thrown by—
To lie like a war-weary giant asleep,
Not a pulse, not a breath, not an eyelash astir!
We sing and we weep—we sing and we weep—
But Harold is breaking his great heart for her.
Rising up slow,
From the clear deep below,
Through glittering gradations of azure and green,
In a moonlight of tresses,
With voice that caresses,
Speak to him, sing to him, Astrid, our queen!
From the clear deep below,
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In a moonlight of tresses,
With voice that caresses,
Speak to him, sing to him, Astrid, our queen!
Enter Astrid from the sea.
Ast.
Harold, my king, my brother! it is I.
Cast like a warrior's sword upon the floor,
No man dares speak to thee, none dares draw nigh
Thy three days' trance upon the thundering shore,
Harold, my king, my brother, none but I!
Speak to me, brother! Break thy heart no more!
Mer.
She is dead! she is dead!
On the rough granite floor they have pillowed her head
And left her to sleep, like a child in its bed,
And wave after wave,
From cave into cave,
Restlessly rushes to break on her grave!
Ast.
Oh, my Norse eagle! oh, my own sea-king!
For one lost beauty wilt thou furl thy wing?
Hark how Atlantic storms, with mad war-whoop,
Scourge league on league of billows, roar on roar,
Nor draw one breath till all come crashing up,
With shocks of hissing thunder, to the shore!
From crest to crest the petrel lightly mounts,
Seeking, across the uproar and the foam,
The bark which danced to the mad music once,
Like a young maiden in her halls at home!
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When the mast cracks, and heaven is white with fire,
Ere tortured ocean has cast out his devil,
And trembles to the tremblings of my lyre.
Ah, when he sobs down into rest, all over,
Shall not the fountain of thy canvass soar,
Like beauty smiling o'er a vanquished lover,
Above the azure heavings, as of yore?
Mer.
She is dead! she is dead!
On the rough granite floor they have pillowed her head,
And left her to sleep like a child in its bed,
And wave after wave,
From cave into cave,
Restlessly rushes to break on her grave!
Ast.
Shall dangerous mystery beckoning o'er the sea,
Have never, never more a charm for thee?
Hast thou forgot the unknown, dreadful pole,
The secret that in silence waits thee there—
Less silence than a whisper—earth's great soul
Hushed, as to gaze upon a god's despair?
Think of the awful ecstacy, to glide
Out of this world, its noise, and glow, and glory,
Like a lone sea-bird with white wing spread wide,
Through wastes of winter with an untold story—
Past the tall icebergs, slowly stalking near,
Like the world's ancient ghosts, to scare thee back;
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Formed of the snow whereon they leave their track;
Past lilac spire and pale blue pinnacle,
In long array against the sky set forth,
Like phantoms of the cities where men dwell,
Into the midmost horror of the North!
Then, silently, the charm dissolved, steal home,
As one that has beheld with living breath,
Beneath the starry gloom of winter's dome,
A mystery, like the mystery of death!
Mer.
She is dead! she is dead!
The diamonds sparkling around her sweet head,
Sparkle in vain from her dark prison-bed,
Where none comes to gaze,
Save the ghosts of old days,
That crowd round the silent new guest, in amaze.
Ast.
Or, 'neath the sky's sweet changes, each unrolled,
Like banners, o'er the war-march of thy youth,
Glide into bluer blue, more golden gold,
And reach the pageant of the painted south!
On warm and glittering waters seek again
The rapture fresh as youth, and ever new,
When eyes, worn with the sparkle of the main,
Wake to see mountains towering o'er the blue.
Yes, seek again the battle's purple storm,
Where life and death meet with a thunder-cry,
The bounding blood, with victory wild and warm,
The contest o'er, and heroes smiling by!
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For thee, the palace gates of beauty shine,
And danger's dazzling sword is ever bare
To guard the brides of earth from Odin's line.
Mer.
She hears not the din
As th' Atlantic rolls all his great tide slowly in,
To knock at the door of the sleeper within.
Ast.
All loveliness sleeps not within one tomb!
Sweet human smiles, sweet flushing human cheeks,
Hues that in cold sea-deeps may never bloom,
Are waiting still for him who bravely seeks.
Mer.
Though close to her ear
He murmurs his secret, she never will hear,
Nor, loud as he thunders, will tremble for fear.
Ast.
Through all the changes of her island hours,
I have lingered oft on white-cliffed England's strand,
And loved to watch unfold its blush-rose flowers
The sweet and stately girlhood of the land;
Or, floating slow 'neath Andalusian skies,
Marked, o'er the dove-like flutter of a fan,
With fiery-smiling spells, how Spanish eyes
Caress into their chains the soul of man;
Or, further yet along the moonlit sea,
Filled with fond envy of those human charms,
Beneath the marble of some balcony,
Dreamily halted in the summer calms—
Made glorious by a proudly balanced head,
Wreathed in the serpent of its own black hair,
Lips with all warm and generous beauty red,
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Oh, these are left thee still, earth's noblest daughters!
Up! spread thy sails, bring back some queen to me,
For whom I'll tune a jubilee of waters,
And crown her with the phosphor of the sea!
Mer.
She is dead! she is dead!
Ast.
Oh, brother whom I love! oh, hero-heart!
My mermaid-mother's darling long ago,
What time in crystal halls we dwelt apart,
Beneath the roar of ocean's ebb and flow!
Cradled in granite, first-born of creation—
Whose childhood danced above the fires confined
In smouldering wrath beneath the world's foundation,
Till called to burst in thunder on mankind!
Mer.
She is dead! she is dead!
On the rough granite floor they have pillowed her head,
And left her to sleep like a child in its bed.
Ast.
Alas! alas! and must I tell to thee
The secret I would fain for ever hide,
Because, oh woe! of all that I foresee,
When her true fate thou know'st that should have been thy bride.
Mer.
She is dead! she is dead!
Ast.
And now I see thy destiny roll up
Its sable thunder-cloud above thy head,
Silently, whilst I fill for thee a cup
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Mer.
What a cry! what a bound!
As he springs from the ground,
And the Northmen in wonder draw silently round.
Know ye what word
Of miracle, stirred
The prostrate despair that saw not nor heard?
Har.
Where is she? where?
Ast.
Fled toward th' Ægean sun,
Fled to her own Ægean isle once more,
The isle her childhood saw with carnage run,
Ere thou couldst snatch her to thy wintry shore!
Har.
But how—how fled she?
Ast.
She is carried south—
Tranced in the magic death which fooled our eyes—
By that dark-featured and sweet-speaking youth,
Who came from Venice with a tale of lies,
Whilst thou wert far away, tossed under thundering skies.
Har.
Why did she leave me?
Ast.
Faithfully guarded on her dizzy rock,
He knew how well from him the prize was hid,
So by a treacherous scheme planned to unlock
The treasure from its jealous casket-lid.
Can thy pent wrath bear more—bear to hear how
He charmed thy beauty from thy guarded hall,
By a false gift which sparkled on her brow,
That ghastly day thou met'st her funeral?
The unseen stranger's homage pleased thy child—
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Her guileless fancy easily beguiled,
That dreamt not of an enemy to thee.
So when she stood with diamond-crowned head,
The mirror saw the joy upon her face
Each moment blush to a more rapturous red,
Smile on her lips with more ecstatic grace.
It seemed, when that fantastic charm began,
As if an unseen lamp, hung high in air,
Flashed witchlights o'er her with a fiery fan,
And spirit wings waved lightly her wild hair.
But suddenly—as if an unseen hand
Had quenched that light—ceased that mysterious stir,
That noiseless flutter—the rich beauty wanned,
And a false death dropped its pale mask on her.
Thou cam'st to find her dead—'twas all thou saw'st—
Thou didst not guess a false Italian spell
In those witch-gems, chilled what they touched to frost,
Beneath whose veil life lay invisible.
Next, from her burial-vault—oh, how it glares
In those blue eyes, the Berserker's mad rage!—
He bore the sleeper where soft southern airs
Shall thaw the pale life from its icy cage,
And she shall wear once more the island-crown
Her knightly fathers won and handed down.
Har.
Oh, Astrid! Astrid! Astrid! this thou knew'st!
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Oh, Odin! god and father! pity me!
I was not there to tear him limb from limb!
Lightning from heaven! oh, blind these eyes of mine,
Or let them see my vengeance! Oh, right hand!
Be palsied, if thou dost not slay this man!
E'en now, perhaps, she calls me in dismay—
How shall I pardon thee?
Ast.
Yet pardon me!
I knew it not, till one of my sea-sprites,
That met the robber-galley on the sea,
Swam swiftly through unresting days and nights,
To tell the secret of her fate to me.
Oh, Harold! my belov'd! an unknown woe
Lies in the distance whither thou wilt go.
Har.
Tell me once more—she went not of her will?
Ast.
As little as the soul which, slain on earth,
Wakes wondering on the further shore of time—
So will she reach the island of her birth,
And take fresh root in that forgotten clime.
Ah, 't is not for thy good this tale I tell,
Yet arm thee, spread thy sails, and fare thee well!
Har.
Farewell, farewell, my sister!—Blow, ye winds!
Now does the warrior heart blaze forth again,
From what I thought was ashes!—Blow, ye winds!
Storm-high behind the wings of my sea-ravens,
And whirl me to recovery and revenge.
| Gemma of The Isles | |