University of Virginia Library

Scene XVIII.

—Carthage. A chamber in the house of Gisco opening on a balcony.
Enter Gisco passing hastily through it. Enter Ada as seeking him.
Ada.
O father, whither go you? Ah, one instant!
Tell me if he will pass along this street?

Gis.
Ay, truly. If you choose to add your eyes
To all the thousands that will stare upon him,
Go, get you to your balcony, and thence
You'll see him make his entry very shortly.
A glorious spectacle!

Ada.
Glorious to me.—
The crowd began to gather ere the dawn—
I could not sleep, and watched them from the turret.
O father, I have something yet to say:—
Father, I hear each hour some new sad tale
Of our poor slaughtered citizens, whose wives
And children may expect them now in vain;
And some not slaughtered, but, more wretched still,
Destined to Roman slavery. When I think
On all these things, my heart seems like to burst.
I cannot help the dead, but I can help
A few, a very few. ....

Gis.
How help? Enough;
I cannot wait till you have dried your tears.
Weep for yourself, for me, for all your kin,
For I can promise you 'tis come to that.

Ada.
Father, I would that you would charge yourself
With all my jewels. I shall never more,
Believe me, wear them. Could they help to ransom
But one—but one of those unhappy ones,
Father, 'twould be a joy to me till death!

Gis.
What folly's this? Your poetry has crazed you!
I tell you I am almost mad myself
To think how soon I may be stripped of all;
And then forsooth to fling away your jewels,
As if you thought I had no use for money,
At such a time as this is.

Ada.
Oh, my father!
Have we fought, bled, lost everything for Carthage?

Gis.
Come, come, no more of this. I've no more time
For prating now, for I must to the senate.
And as for you—why, keep your jewels, child.

Ada.
Oh, I will find some way to serve my country!
Zilla!

[She claps her hands.]
Enter Zilla.
Zil.
Here am I, lady.

Ada.
My veil, Zilla!
And come with me into the balcony,
For I will sit there to see Hannibal.

[She passes into the balcony with Zilla.]
Zil.
Heavens! What a sea of faces! What a silence!

Ada.
Ah, what a world of sorrow there below us!

Zil.
Hear'st thou that murmur running through the crowd?
See, see, they turn their faces all one way!
He must be coming—surely he is coming!
Yes, there he is! Already I can see him—
There, at the furthest end of the long street,
Where the great crowd is parting to receive him—
There! there! 'Tis he that slowly rides along
Between two others. Oh, this must be he!
Now, lady!
[Hannibal and a small band of horsemen are seen to enter the street below. The people fling themselves before him with loud cries.]
See, he bends—he speaks to them!

Ada.
Hush, hush!

[Hannibal ceases to speak, and passes on amid a general silence.]
Zil.
Ah me, poor souls, they weep, yet still
Follow him with their weeping eyes! Look, look!
He turns toward us! What a dark, sad brow!

Ada.
'Tis the stern sadness of a god dethroned.

Zil.
How they do press around him! How they seem
To draw a comfort from the least glimpse of him!
They're streaming after him! What, are these all
That's left of his great army?

Ada.
We have him.

Zil.
Now, lady, now we have seen Hannibal!

Ada.
Oh, silence, Zilla, that I still may seem
To hear his low voice roll along the air,
Like music at a martial funeral!
What have I seen? What image have received
From the long passionate regard of eyes,
Blind with their own intensity of vision?
I know not—for that form has blotted out
The picture painted in my soul before,
But leaves me no new picture in its place—
For I was dazzled, and I could not see him.
My dream is vanished—I have lost th'ideal,
And yet I find not the reality.
It may be that the Hannibal I saw
Was nobler than the Hannibal I fancied;
And even now, as his voice, heard no more,
Speaks to me more distinctly through the silence,
So, through the void his parted presence leaves,
Memory begins to trace a clearer shape,
Than that which passed in very deed before me—
That martial strangeness as of foreign lands,
All the proud past still burning in his eyes,
Through the dark shadow of a solemn pity,
And the strong patience of a hero's grief,
Pathetic in its very awfulness.
But life is changed, for ever changed, for me!
Now shall I never lay me down, nor wake,
Without remembering Carthage holds her hero;
And I no longer am alone on earth!

[She withdraws into the house.]