University of Virginia Library

Scene the Second

A Wood near Rome.
(Enter Nisida and Chloris, the latter with a lyre).
Nisida.
Have you brought the instrument?

Chloris.
Yes.

Nisida.
Then give it me, for here
In this tranquil forest sphere,
Where the boughs and blossoms blent,
Ruby blooms and emerald stems,
Round about their radiance fling,
Where the canopy of spring
Breathes of flowers and gleams with gems,
Here I wish that air to play,
Which to words that Cynthia wrote
I have set—a simple note.

Chloris.
And the song, señora, say,
What's the theme?

Nisida.
A touching strain,—
How a nightingale in a grove
Singing sweetly of his love,
Sang its pleasure and its pain.

Enter Cynthia (reading in a book).
Cynthia
(to herself).
Whilst each alley here discloses
Youthful nymphs, who as they pass
To Diana's shrine, the grass
Turn to beds of fragrant roses,—
Where the interlacéd bars
Of these woods their beauty dowers
Seem a verdant sky of flowers—
Seem an azure field of stars.
I shall here recline and read
(While they wander through the grove)
Ovid's Remedy of Love.

Nisida
(to Chloris).
Hear the words and air.

Chloris.
Proceed.

Nisida
(singing).
O nightingale, whose sweet exulting strain
Tells of thy triumphs to the listening grove,
Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain.
But no; but no; for if thou sing'st of love,
Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain.

Cynthia
(advancing).
What a charming air! To me
What an honour! From this day
I may well be vain, as they
May without presumption be,
Who, despite their numerous slips,
Find their words can please the ear,
Who their rugged verses hear
Turn to music on thy lips.

Nisida.
'T is thine own genius, not my skill,
That produces this effect;
For, without it, I suspect,
Would my voice sound harsh and shrill,
And my lute's strings should be broken
With a just and wholesome rigour,
For presuming to disfigure
What thy words so well have spoken.
Whither wert thou wending here?

Cynthia.
Through the quiet wood proceeding,
I the poet's book was reading,
When there fell upon my ear,
Soft and sweet, thy voice: its power,
Gentle lodestone of my feet,
Brought me to this green retreat—
Led me to this lonely bower:
But what wonder, when to listen
To thy sweetly warbled words
Ceased the music of the birds—
Of the founts that glide and glisten?
May I hope that, since I came
Thus so opportunely near,
I the gloss may also hear?

Nisida.
I will sing it, though with shame.
(Sings)
Sweet nightingale, that from some echoing grot
Singest the rapture of thy love aloud,
Singest with voice so joyous and so proud,
All unforgetting thou mayst be forgot,
Full of thyself and of thy happy lot!
Ah! when thou trillest that triumphant strain
To all the listening lyrists of the grove,
Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain!
But no; but no; for if thou sing'st of love,
Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain!

Enter Daria.
Daria.
Ah! my Nisida, forbear,
Ah! those words forbear to sing,
Which on zephyr's wanton wing
Thou shouldst waft not on the air.
All is wrong, how sweet it be,
That the vestal's thoughts reprove:
What is jealousy? what is love?
That they should be sung by thee?
Think this wood is consecrated
To Diana's service solely,
Not to Venus: it is holy.
Why then wouldst thou desecrate it
With thy songs? Does't not amaze
Thee thyself—this strangest thing—
In Diana's grove to sing
Hymns of love to Cupid's praise?
But I need not wonder, no,
That thou'rt so amused, since I
Here see Cynthia with thee.

Cynthia.
Why
Dost thou say so?

Daria.
I say so
For good cause: in books profane
Thou unceasingly delightest,
Verse thou readest, verse thou writest,
Of their very vanity vain.
And if thou wouldst have me prove
What I say to thy proceeding,
Tell me, what's this book thou'rt reading?

Cynthia.
'T is The Remedy of Love.
Whence thou mayst perceive how weak
Is thy inference, thy deduction
From my studious self-instruction;
Since the patient who doth seek
Remedies to cure his pain
Shows by this he would grow better;—
For the slave who breaks his fetter
Cannot surely love his chain.

Nisida.
This, though not put quite so strong,
Was involved in the conclusion
Of my lay: Love's disillusion
Was the burden of my song.

Daria.
Remedies and disillusions,
Seek ye both beneath one star?
Ah! if so, you are not far
From its pains and its confusions:
For the very fact of pleading
Disillusion, shows that thou
'Neath illusion's yoke doth bow,—
And the patient who is needing
Remedies doth prove that still
The sharp pang he doth endure,
For there's no one seeks a cure
Ere he feels that he is ill:—
Therefore to this wrong proceeding
Grieved am I to see ye clinging—
Seeking thou thy cure in singing—
Thou thy remedy in reading.

Cynthia.
Casual actions of this class
That are done without intention
Of a second end, to mention
Here were out of place: I pass
To another point: There's no one
Who with genius, or denied it,—
Dowered with mind, but has applied it
Some especial track to go on:
This variety suffices
For its exercise and action,
Just as some by free attraction
Seek the virtues and the vices;—
This blind instinct, or this duty,
We three share;—'t is thy delight
Nisida to sing,—to write
Mine,—and thine to adore thy beauty.
Which of these three occupations
Is the best—or those that need
Skill and labour to succeed,
Or thine own vain contemplations?—
Have I not, when morning's rays
Gladdened grove and vale and mountain,
Seen thee in the crystal fountain
At thyself enamoured gaze?
Wherefore, once again returning
To our argument of love,
Thou a greater pang must prove,
If from thy insatiate yearning
I infer a cause: the spell
Lighter falls on one who still,
To herself not feeling ill,
Would in other eyes seem well.

Daria.
Ah! so far, so far from me
Is the wish as vain as weak—
(Now my virtue doth not speak,
Now but speaks my vanity).
Ah! so far, I say, my breast
Turns away from things of love,
That the sovereign hand of Jove,
Were it to attempt its best,
Could no greater wonder work,
Than that I, Daria, should
So be changed in mind and mood
As to let within me lurk
Love's minutest, smallest seed:—
Only upon one condition
Could I love, and that fruition
Then would be my pride indeed.

Cynthia.
What may that condition be?

Daria.
When of all mankind, I knew
One who felt a love so true
As to give his life for me,
Then, until my own life fled,
Him, with gratitude and pride,
Were I sure that so he died,
I would love though he were dead.

Nisida.
Poor reward for love so great
Were that tardy recollection,
Since, it seems, for thy affection
He, till life is o'er, must wait.

Cynthia.
Soars thy vanity so high?
Thy presumption is above
All belief: be sure, for love
No man will be found to die.

Daria.
Why more words then? love must be
In my case denied by heaven:
Since my love cannot be given
Save to one who'll die for me.

Cynthia.
Thy ambition is a thing
So sublime, what can be said?—
Better I resumed and read,
Better, Nisida, thou shouldst sing,
This disdain so strange and strong,
This delusion little heeding.

Nisida.
Yes, do thou resume thy reading,
I too will resume my song.

Daria.
I, that I may not renew
Such reproaches, whilst you sing,
Whilst you read, in this clear spring
Thoughtfully myself shall view.

Nisida
sings.
O nightingale, whose sweet exulting strain
Tells of thy triumphs to the listening grove,
Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain!—
But no, but no, for if thou sing'st of love
Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain!

Enter Chrysanthus, Claudius, and Escarpin.
Claudius
, to Chrysanthus.
Does not the beauty of this wood,
This tranquil wood, delight thee?

Chrysanthus.
Yes:
Here nature's lord doth dower and bless
The world in most indulgent mood.
Who could believe this greenwood here
For the first time has blessed mine eyes?

Claudius.
It is the second Paradise,
Of deities the verdant sphere.

Chrysanthus.
'T is more, this green and grassy glade
Whither our careless steps have strolled,
For here three objects we behold
Equally fair by distance made.
Of these that chain our willing feet,
There yonder where the path is leading,
One is a lady calmly reading,
One is a lady singing sweet,
And one whose rapt though idle air
Gives us to understand this truth—
A woman blessed with charms and youth,
Does quite enough in being fair.

Escarpin.
You are quite right in that, I've seen
Beauties enough of that sort too.

Claudius.
If of the three here given to view,
The choice were thine to choose between,
Which of them best would suit thy taste?
Which wouldst thou make thy choice of, say?

Chrysanthus.
I do not know: for in one way
They so with equal gifts are graced,
So musical and fair and wise,
That while one captivates the mind,
One works her witcheries with the wind,
And one, the fairest, charms our eyes.
The one who sings, it seems a duty,
Trusting her sweet voice, to think sweet,
The one who reads, to deem discreet,
The third, we judge but by her beauty:
And so I fear by act or word
To wrong the three by judging ill,
Of one her charms, of one her skill,
And the intelligence of the third.
For to choose one does wrong to two,
But if I so presumed to dare ...

Claudius.
Which would it be?

Chrysanthus.
The one that's fair.

Escarpin.
My blessings on your choice and you!
That's my opinion in the case,
'T is plain at least to my discerning
That in a woman wit and learning
Are nothing to a pretty face.

Nisida.
Chloris, quick, take up the lyre,
For a rustling noise I hear
In this shady thicket near:
Yes, I'm right, I must retire.
Swift as feet can fly I'll go.
For these men that here have strayed
Must have heard me while I played.

[Exeunt Nisida and Chloris.
Cynthia.
One of them I think I know.
Yes, 't is Claudius, as I thought,
Now he has a chance: I'll see
If he cares to follow me,
Guessing rightly what has brought
Me to-day unto the grove:—
Ah! if love to grief is leading
Of what use to me is reading
In the Remedies of Love?

[Exit.
Daria
(to herself).
In these bowers by trees o'ergrown,
Here contented I remain,
All companionship is vain,
Save my own sweet thoughts alone:—

Claudius.
Dear Chrysanthus, your election
Was to me both loss and gain,
Gave me pleasure, gave me pain:—
It seemed plain to my affection
(Being in love) your choice should fall
On the maid of pensive look,
Not on her who read the book:
But your praise made up for all.
And since each has equal force,
My complaint and gratulation,
Whilst with trembling expectation
I pursue my own love's course,
Try your fortune too, till we
Meet again.

[Exit.
Chrysanthus.
Confused I stay,
Without power to go away,
Spirit-bound, my feet not free.
From the instant that on me,
As a sudden beam might dart,
Flashed that form which Phidian art
Could not reach, I've known no rest.—
Babylon is in my breast—
Troy is burning in my heart.

Escarpin.
Strange that I should feel as you,
That one thought should fire us two,
I too, sir, have lost my senses
Since I saw that lady.

Chrysanthus.
Who,
Madman! fool! do you speak of? you!
Dare to feel those griefs of mine!—

Escarpin.
No, sir, yours I quite resign,
Would I could my own ones too!—

Chrysanthus.
Leave me, or my wrath you'll rue;
Hence! buffoon: by heaven I swear it,
I will kill you else.

Escarpin.
I go:—
For if you address her, oh!
Could my jealous bosom bear it?

[aside
[Exit.
Chrysanthus
(to Daria).
If my boldness so may dare it,
I desire to ask, señora,
If thou art this heaven's Aurora,
If the goddess of this fountain,
If the Juno of this mountain,
If of these bright flowers the Flora,
So that I may rightly know
In what style should speak to thee
My hushed voice ... but pardon me
Now I would not thou said'st so.
Looking at thee now, the glow
Of thy beauty so excelleth,
Every charm so plainly telleth
Thou Diana's self must be;
Yes, Diana's self is she,
Who within her grove here dwelleth.

Daria.
If, before you spoke to me,
You desired my name to know,
I in your case act not so,
Since I speak, whoe'er you be,
Forced, but most unwillingly
(As to listening heaven is plain)
To reply:—a bootless task
Were it in me, indeed, to ask,
Since, whoe'er you be, my strain
Must be one of proud disdain.
So I pray you, cavalier,
Leave me in this lonely wood,
Leave me in the solitude
I enjoyed ere you came here.

Chrysanthus.
Sweetly, but with tone severe,
Thus my error you reprove—
That of asking in this grove
What your name is: you're so fair,
That, whatever name you bear,
I must tell you of my love.

Daria.
Love! a word to me unknown,
Sounds so strangely in my ears,
That my heart nor feels nor hears
Aught of it when it has flown.

Chrysanthus.
Then there is no rashness shown
In repeating it once more,
Since to hear or to ignore
Suits alike your stoic coldness.

Daria.
Yes, the speech, but not the boldness
Of the speaker I pass o'er,
For this word, whate'er it be,
When it breaks upon my ear,
Quick 't is gone, although I hear.

Chrysanthus.
You forget it?

Daria.
Instantly.

Chrysanthus.
What! love's sweetest word! ah, me!
Canst forget the mightiest ray
Death can dart, or heaven display?

Daria.
Yes, for lightning, entering where
Naught resists, is lost in air.

Chrysanthus.
How? what way?

Daria.
Well, in this way:
If two doors in one straight line
Open lie, and lightning falls,
Then the bolt between the walls
Passes through, and leaves no sign.
So 't is with this word of thine;
Though love be, which I don't doubt,
Like heaven's bolt that darts about,
Still two opposite doors I've here,
And what enters by one ear
By the other ear goes out.

Chrysanthus.
If this lightning then darts through
Where no door lies open wide
To let it pass at the other side,
Must not fire and flame ensue?
This being so, 't is also true
That my fire of love that flies
Into my heart, in flames must rise,
Since without its feast of fire
The fatal flash cannot retire,
That has entered by the eyes.

Daria.
If to what I said but now
You had listened, I believe
You would have preferred to leave
Still unspoken love's vain vow.
This you would yourself allow.

Chrysanthus.
What then was it?

Daria.
I don't know:
Something 'twas that typified
My presumption and my pride.

Chrysanthus.
Let me know it even so.

Daria.
That in me no love could grow
Save for one who first would die
For my love.

Chrysanthus.
And death being past,
Would he win your love at last?—

Daria.
Yes, on that he might rely.

Chrysanthus.
Then I plight my troth that I
Will to that reward aspire,—
A poor offering at the fire
By those beauteous eyes supplied.

Daria.
But as you have not yet died,
Pray don't follow me, but retire.

[Exit.
Chrysanthus.
In what bosom, at one moment,
Oh! ye heavens! e'er met together
Such a host of anxious troubles?
Such a crowd of boding terrors?
Can I be the same calm student
Who awhile ago here wended?
To a miracle of beauty,
To a fair face now surrendered,
I scarce know what brought me hither,
I my purpose scarce remember.
What bewitchment, what enchantment,
What strange lethargy, what frenzy
Can have to my heart, those eyes
Such divine delirium sent me?
What divinity, desirous
That I should not know the endless
Mysteries of the book I carry,
In my path such snares presenteth,
Seeking from these serious studies
To distract me and divert me?
But what's this I say? One passion
Accidentally developed,
Should not be enough, no, no,
From myself myself to sever.
If the violence of one star
Draws me to a deity's service,
It compels not; for the planets
Draw, but force not, the affections.
Free is yet my will, my mind too,
Free is still my heart: then let me
Try to solve more noble problems
Than the doubts that love presenteth.
And since Claudius, the new Clytie
Of the sun, whose golden tresses
Lead him in pursuit, her footsteps
Follows through the wood, my servant
Having happily too departed,
And since yonder rocks where endeth
The dark wood in savage wildness
Must be the rude rustic shelter
Of the Christians who fled thither,
I'll approach them to endeavour
To find there Carpophorus:—
He alone, the wise, the learnéd,
Can my understanding rescue
From its night-mare dreams and guesses.

[Exit.