THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.
Reading edition
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BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD HURDIS,” &c.
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Guard. What work is here? Charmian, is this well done?
Charmian. It is well done, and fitting for a princess,
Descended of so many royal kings.
Shakspeare.
Augustus Cæsar. Dolabella.
Augustus. Dead! say’st thou? Cleopatra?
Dolabella. She sleeps fast—
Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts
For passion to persuade—nor art to breed
Any more combats. I have seen her laid—
As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms,
That mocked the flashing jewels in her crown
With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one
Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord
Now in the fullest possession of his prize,
Who riots on her sweets; seals with close kiss
The precious caskets of her eyes, that late
Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil—
Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek,
Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale,
As sudden gush of fancy in the heart
Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays
His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink
From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep
Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last
Her eager and luxurious form may know,
Of that dread ravisher.
Augustus. If it be true,
She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure—
My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else,
The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil,
In royal state to Rome. Give me to know
The manner of her death.
Dolabella. By her own hands,
That conscious still, commended to her breast
The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp;
That subtle adder, that from slime and heat
Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch
Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.
Augustus. Her death commends her more than all her life!
’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,
That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,
Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud
For mortal subjugation! She had lusts
Most profligate of harm—but with a will,
That, under laws of more restraint, had raised
Her passions into powers, which might have borne
Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought
Much evil to her nature; but her heart
Cherished within a yearning sense of love
That did not always fail; and where she set
The eye of her affections, her fast faith
Kept the close bond of obligation sure.
This still should serve, when censure grows most free,
To sanctify her fault. In common things
Majestic, as in matters of more state,
She had besides the feminine arts to make
Her very lusts seem grateful; and with charms
That mocked all mortal rivalry, she knew
To dress the profligate graces in her gift—
Generous to very wantonness, and free
Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim—
That Virtue’s self might doubt of her own shape,
So lovely grew her counterfeit. O’er all,
Her splendor, and her soul’s magnificence.
The pomp that crowned her state—luxurious shows
Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway
That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinned
With her voluptuous weakness, did become
Her well, and took from her the hideous hues
That else had made men loathe!
That else had made men loathe!I would have seen
This princess ere she died! How looks she now?
Dol. As one who lives but sleeps; no change to move
The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows,
Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still
Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid,
Had, ere I entered, lidded up the eyes,
That had no longer office; and she lay,
With each sweet feature harmonizing still
As truly with the nature as at first,
When Beauty’s wide-world wonder she went forth
Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep
More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth
Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair
Wave in stray ringlets as the downy breath
Lapsed through the parted lips, and dream the leaf
Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth
Was lifted by that zephyr of the soul
That still kept watch within—waiting on life
In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow—
The one most sweetly parted as for song—
The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls
That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,
Starring the raven curtains of her hair—
Declared such calm of happiness, as never
Her passionate life had known. No show of pain—
No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek,
Deformed the beautiful picture of repose,
Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life
Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs
Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,
Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,
With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold,
Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been,
Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave
Free access to her terrible enemy;
Or in the moment when the venomous chill
Went sudden to her heart; for from her neck
The silken robes had parted. The white breast
Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair
Streamed over it in thick disheveled folds,
That asked no further care. Oh! to behold,
With eye still piercing to the sweet recess,
Where rose each gentle slope, that seemed to swell
Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze,
And throbbing with emotion soft as strange,
Of love akin to fear. Thus dwelling still,
Like little billows on some happy sea,
They sudden seemed to freeze, as if the life
Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein
Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave,
A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life
Flings ever on the cold domain of death;
And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests—
Two yet unopened buds from the same flower—
Borne upward by the billows, rising yet,
Grew into petrified gems, with each an eye
Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart
For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock!
That Death should mask himself with loveliness,
And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour,
To warn its eager worshiper. I saw—
And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw,
What still I knew—that Death was in my sight,
And what was seeming beautiful, was but
The twilight—the brief interval—betwixt
The glorious day and darkness. I had kissed
The wooing bliss before me, but that then
Crawled forth the venomous reptile from the folds
Where still it harbored—crawled across that shrine
Of Beauty’s best perfections, which, meseemed,
To shrink and shudder ’neath its loathly march,
Instinct with all the horrors at my heart.
Augustus. Thus Guilt and Shame deform the Beautiful!