THE TWO LOVERS OF HEAVEN.

PERSONS.

Numerianus, Emperor of Rome. Polemius, Chief Senator. Chrysanthus, his son. Claudius, cousin of Chrysanthus. Aurelius, a Roman general. Carpophorus, a venerable priest. Escarpin, servant of Chrysanthus. Daria, Cynthia, Nisida, Chloris, } Priestesses of Diana. Two spirits. Angels. Soldiers, servants, people, music, etc.

Scene: Rome and its environs.

ACT THE FIRST.

Scene I.—A Room in the house of Polemius at Rome.

Chrysanthus is seen seated near a writing table on which are several books: he is reading a small volume with deep attention.

Chrysanthus. Ah! how shallow is my mind! How confined! and how restricted!³ Ah! how driftless are my words! And my thoughts themselves how driftless! Since I cannot comprehend, Cannot pierce the secrets hidden In this little book that I Found by chance with others mingled. I its meaning cannot reach, Howsoe'er my mind I rivet, Though to this, and this alone, Many a day has now been given. But I cannot therefore yield, Must not own myself outwitted:— No; a studious toil so great Should not end in aught so little. O'er this book my whole life long Shall I brood until the riddle Is made plain, or till some sage Simplifies what here is written. For which end I 'll read once more Its beginning. How my instinct Uses the same word with which Even the book itself beginneth!— "In the beginning was the Word" . .⁴ If in language plain and simple Word means speech, how then was it In the beginning? Since a whisper Presupposes power to breathe it, Proves an earlier existence, And to that anterior Power Here the book doth not bear witness. Then this follows: "And the Word Was with God"—nay more, 't is written, "And the Word was God: was with Him In the beginning, and by Him then All created things were made And without Him naught was finshed":— Oh! what mysteries, what wonders, In this tangled labyrinthine Maze lie hid! which I so many Years have studied, with such mingled Aid from lore divine and human Have in vain tried to unriddle!— "In the beginning was the Word".— Yes, but when was this beginning? Was it when Jove, Neptune, Pluto Shared the triple zones betwixt them, When the one took to himself Heaven supreme, one hell's abysses, And the sea the third, to Ceres Leaving earth, the ever-wingéd Time to Saturn, fire to Phœbus, And the air to Jove's great sister?⁵— No, it could not have been then, For the fact of their partition Shows that heaven and earth then were, Shows that sea and land existed:— The beginning then must be Something more remote and distant: He who has expressly said The beginning, must have hinted At the primal cause of all things, At the first and great beginning, All things growing out of Him, He himself the pre-existent:— Yes, but then a new beginning Must we seek for this beginner, And so on ad infinitum; Since if I, on soaring pinion Seek from facts to rise to causes, Rising still from where I had risen, I will find at length there is No beginning to the beginning, And the inference that time Somehow was, ere time existed, And that that which ne'er begun Ne'er can end, is plain and simple. But, my thought, remain not here, Rest not in those narrow limits, But rise up with me and dare Heights that make the brain grow dizzy:— And at once to enter there, Other things being pretermitted, Let us venture where the mind, As the darkness round it thickens, Almost faints as we resume What this mystic scribe has written. "And the Word", this writer says, "Was made flesh!" Ah! how can this be? Could the Word that in the beginning Was with God, was God, was gifted With such power as to make all things, Could it be made flesh? In pity, Heavens! or take from me at once All the sense that you have given me, Or at once on me bestow Some intelligence, some glimmer Of clear light through these dark shadows:— Deity, unknown and hidden, God or Word, whate'er thou beest, Of Thyself the great beginner, Of Thyself the end, if, Thou Being Thyself beyond time's sickle, Still in time the world didst fashion, If Thou 'rt life, O living spirit, If Thou 'rt light, my darkened senses With Thy life and light enkindle!— (The voices of two spirits are heard from within, one at each side.)

First Voice. Hear, Chrysanthus . . .

Second Voice. Listen . . .

Chrysanthus. Two Voices, if they are not instincts, Shadows without soul or body, Which my fancy forms within me, Are contending in my bosom Each with each at the same instant. (Two figures appear on high, one clothed in a dark robe dotted with stars; the other in a bright and beautiful mantle: Chrysanthus does not see them, but in the following scene ever speaks to himself.)

First Voice. What this crabbed text here meaneth By the Word, is plain and simple, It is Jove to whose great voice Gods and men obedient listen.

Chrysanthus. Jove, it must be Jove, by whom Breath, speech, life itself are given.

Second Voice. What the holy Gospel means By the Word, is that great Spirit Who was in Himself for ever, First, last, always self-existent.

Chrysanthus. Self-existent! first and last! Reason cannot grasp that dictum.

First Voice. In the beginning of the world Jove in heaven his high throne fixéd, Leaving less imperial thrones To the other gods to fill them.

Chrysanthus. Yes, if he could not alone Rule creation unassisted.

Second Voice. God was God, long, long before Earth or heaven's blue vault existed, He was in Himself, ere He Gave to time its life and mission.

First Voice. Worship only pay to Jove, God o'er all our gods uplifted.

Second Voice. Worship pay to God alone, He the infinite, the omniscient.

First Voice. He doth lord the world below.

Second Voice. He is Lord of Heaven's high kingdom.

First Voice. Shun the lightnings of his wrath.

Second Voice. Seek the waves of his forgiveness. [The Figures disappear.

Chrysanthus. Oh! what darkness, what confusion, In myself I find here pitted 'Gainst each other! Spirits twain Struggle desperately within me, Spirits twain of good and ill,— One with gentle impulse wins me To believe, but, oh! the other With opposing force resistless Drives me back to doubt: Oh! who Will dispel these doubts that fill me?

Polemius (within). Yes, Carpophorus must pay For the trouble that this gives me.—

Chrysanthus. Though these words by chance were spoken As an omen I 'll admit them: Since Carpophorus (who in Rome Was the most renowned, most gifted Master in all science), now Flying from the emperor's lictors, Through suspect of being a Christian, In lone deserts wild and dismal Lives a saintly savage life, He will give to all my wishes The solution of these doubts:— And till then, O restless thinking Torture me and tease no more! Let me live for that! [His voice gradually rises.

Escarpin (within). Within there My young master calls.

Claudius (within). All enter. (Enter Polemius, Claudius, Aurelius, and Escarpin).

Polemius. My Chrysanthus, what afflicts thee?

Chrysanthus. Canst thou have been here, my father?

Polemius. No, my son, 't was but this instant That I entered here, alarmed By the strange and sudden shrillness Of thy voice; and though I had On my hands important business, Grave and weighty, since to me Hath the Emperor transmitted This decree, which bids me search Through the mountains for the Christians Hidden there, and specially For Carpophorus, their admitted Chief and teacher, for which cause I my voice too thus uplifted— "Yes, Carpophorus must pay For the trouble that this gives me"— I left all at hearing thee.— Why so absent? so bewildered? What 's the reason?

Chrysanthus. Sir, 't is naught.

Polemius. Whom didst thou address?

Chrysanthus. Here sitting I was reading to myself, And perchance conceived some image I may have addressed in words Which have from my memory flitted.

Polemius. The grave sadness that o'erwhelms thee Will, unless it be resisted, Undermine thy understanding, If thou hast it still within thee.

Claudius. 'T is a loud soliloquy, 'T is a rather audible whisper That compels one's friends to hasten Full of fear to his assistance!

Chrysanthus. Well, excitement may . . .

Polemius. Oh! cease; That excuse will scarce acquit thee, Since when one 's alone, excitement Is a flame that 's seldom kindled. I am pleased, well pleased to see thee To the love of books addicted, But then application should not To extremes like this be driven, Nor should letters alienate thee From thy country, friends, and kinsmen.

Claudius. A young man by heaven so favoured, With such rare endowments gifted, Blessed with noble birth and valour, Dowered with genius, rank, and riches, Can he yield to such enthralment, Can he make his room a prison, Can he waste in idle reading The fair flower of his existence?

Polemius. Dost thou not remember also That thou art my son? Bethink thee That the great Numerianus, Our good emperor, has given me The grand government of Rome As chief senator of the city, And with that imperial burden The whole world too—all the kingdoms, All the provinces subjected To its varied, vast dominion. Know'st thou not, from Alexandria, From my native land, my birth-place, Where on many a proud escutcheon My ancestral fame is written, That he brought me here, the weight Of his great crown to bear with him, And that Rome upon my entry Gave to me a recognition That repaid the debt it owed me, Since the victories were admitted Which in glorious alternation By my sword and pen were given her? Through what vanity, what folly, Wilt thou not enjoy thy birth-right As my son and heir, indulging Solely in these idle whimseys?—

Chrysanthus. Sir, the state in which you see me, This secluded room, this stillness, Do not spring from want of feeling, Or indifference to your wishes. 'T is my natural disposition; For I have no taste to mingle In the vulgar vain pursuits Of the courtier crowds ambitious. And if living to myself here More of true enjoyment gives me, Why would you desire me seek for That which must my joys diminish? Let this time of sadness pass, Let these hours of lonely vigil, Then for fame and its applauses, Which no merit of my own, But my father's name may bring me.

Polemius. Would it not, my son, be fitter That you should enjoy those plaudits In the fresh and blooming spring-time Of your life, and to hereafter Leave the loneliness and vigil?

Escarpin. Let me tell a little story Which will make the whole thing simple:— A bad painter bought a house, Altogether a bad business, For the house itself was bad: He however was quite smitten With his purchase, and would show it To a friend of his, keen-witted, But bad also: when they entered, The first room was like a kitchen, Black and bad:—"This room, you see, sir, Now is bad, but just permit me First to have it whitewashed over, Then shall my own hand with pictures Paint the walls from floor to ceiling, Then you 'll see how bright 't will glisten".— To him thus his friend made answer, Smiling archly: "Yes, 't will glisten, But if you would paint it first, And then whitewash o'er the pictures, The effect would be much better".— Now 's the time for you, my lord, To lay on the shining pigment: On that brilliant ground hereafter Will the whitewash fall more fitly, For, in fine, the poorest painting Is improved by time's slow finger.

Chrysanthus. Sir, I say, that in obedience To your precepts, to your wishes, I will strive from this day forward So to act, that you will think me Changed into another being. [Exit.

Polemius. Claudius, my paternal instinct Makes me fear Chrysanthus' sadness, Makes we tremble that its issue May result in total madness. Since thou art his friend and kinsman Both combined, make out, I pray thee, What occasions this bewitchment, To the end that I may break it: And my promise now I give thee, That although I should discover Love's delirious dream delicious May be at the root,—most likely At his age the true suspicion,— It shall not disturb or grieve me. Nay, since I am doomed to witness His dejection, it will glad me To find out that so it springeth.

Escarpin. Once a high priest of Apollo Had two nephews soft and silly, More than silly, wretched creatures, More than wretched, doltish drivels; And perceiving from experience How love smartens up its victims, He but said to them this only, "Fall in love at least, ye ninnies".— Thus, though not in love, sir, now, I 'll be bound he 'll be so quickly, Merely to oblige you.

Polemius. This Is not quite as I would wish it, For when anything has happened, The desire to know it, differs From the wish it so should happen.

Claudius. I, my lord, my best assistance Offer thee to strive and fathom From what cause can have arisen Such dejection and such sadness; This henceforth shall be my business To divert him and distract him.

Polemius. Such precisely are my wishes: And since now I am forced to go In obedience to the mission Sent me by Numerianus, 'Mid the wastes to search for Christians, In my absence, Claudius, Most consoling thoughts 't will give me, To remember that thou watchest O'er Chrysanthus.

Claudius. From this instant Until thy return, I promise Not to leave his side.

Polemius. Aurelius . . .

Aurelius. My good lord.

Polemius. Art sure thou knowest In this mountain the well-hidden Cave wherein Carpophorus dwelleth?

Aurelius. Him I promise to deliver To thy hands.

Polemius. Then lead the soldiers Stealthily and with all quickness To the spot, for all must perish Who are there found hiding with him:— For the care with which, ye Heavens! I uphold the true religion Of the gods, their faith and worship, For the zeal that I exhibit In thus crushing Christ's new law, Which I hate with every instinct Of my soul, oh! grant my guerdon In the cure of my son's illness! [Exeunt Polemius and Aurelius.

Claudius (to Escarpin). Go and tell my lord Chrysanthus That I wish he would come with me Forth to-day for relaxation.

Escarpin. Relaxation! just say whither Are we to go forth to get it; Of that comfort I get little—

Claudius. Outside Rome, Diana's temple On the Salarian way uplifteth Its majestic front: the fairest Of our Roman maids dwell in it: 'T is the custom, as thou knowest, That the loveliest of Rome's children Whom patrician blood ennobles, From their tender years go thither To be priestesses of the goddess, Living there till 't is permitted They should marry: 't is the centre Of all charms, the magic circle Drawn around a land of beauty— Home of deities—Elysium!— And as great Diana is Goddess of the groves, her children Have to her an altar raised In the loveliest cool green thicket. Thither, when the evening falleth, And the season is propitious, Various squadrons of fair nymphs Hasten: and it is permitted Gallant youths, unmarried also, As an escort to go with them. There this evening will I lead him.

Escarpin. Well, I doubt that your prescription Is the best: for fair recluses, Whose sublime pursuits, restricted To celestial things, make even The most innocent thought seem wicked, Are by no means likely persons To divert a man afflicted With this melancholy madness: Better take him into the thickest Throng of Rome, there flesh and bone Goddesses he 'll find, and fitter.—

Claudius. Ah! you speak but as the vulgar: Is it not the bliss of blisses To adore some lovely being In the ideal, in the distance, Almost as a vision?—

Escarpin. Yes; 'T is delightful; I admit it, But there 's good and better: think Of the choice that once a simple Mother gave her son: she said: "Egg or rasher, which will I give thee?" And he said: "The rasher, mother, But with the egg upon it, prithee". "Both are best", so says the proverb.

Claudius. Well, if tastes did n't sometimes differ, What a notable mistake Providence would have committed! To adore thee, sweetest Cynthia, [aside Is the height of all my wishes: As it well may be, for am I Worthy, worship even to give her? [Exeunt.

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 do n'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 the 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 do n't know: Something 't was 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 do n't follow me, but retire. [Exit.

Chrysanthus. In what bosom, at one moment, Oh! ye heavens! e'er met together⁶ 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 Clytie⁷ 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.

Scene III. The extremity of the wood: wild rocks with the entrance to a cave. Carpophorus comes forth from the cave, but is for a while unseen by Chrysanthus, who enters.

Chrysanthus. What a labyrinthine thicket Is this place that I have entered! Nature here takes little trouble, Letting it be seen how perfect Is the beauty that arises Even from nature's careless efforts: Deep within this darksome grotto Which no sunbeam's light can enter, I shall penetrate: it seemeth As if until now it never Had been trod by human footsteps. There where yonder marge impendeth O'er a streamlet that swift-flying Carries with it the white freshness Of the snows that from the mountains Ever in its waves are melted, Stands almost a skeleton; The sole difference it presenteth To the tree-trunks near it is, That it moves as well as trembles, Slow and gaunt, a living corse. Oh! thou venerable elder Who, a reason-gifted tree, Mid mere natural trees here dwelleth.—

Carpophorus. Wo! oh! wo is me!—a Roman! (At seeing Chrysanthus, he attempts to fly.)

Chrysanthus. Though a Roman, do not dread me: With no evil end I seek thee.

Carpophorus. Then what wouldst thou have, thou gentle Roman youth? for thou hast silenced My first fears even by thy presence.

Chrysanthus. 'T is to ask, what now I ask thee, Of the rocks that in this desert Gape for ever open wide In eternal yawns incessant, Which is the rough marble tomb Of a living corse interred here? Which of these dark caves is that In whose gloom Carpophorus dwelleth? 'T is important I speak with him.

Carpophorus. Then, regarding not the perils, I will own it. I myself Am Carpophorus.

Chrysanthus. Oh! let me, Father, feel thy arms enfold me.

Carpophorus. To my heart: for as I press thee, How, I know not, the mere contact Brings me back again the freshness And the greenness of my youth, Like the vine's embracing tendrils Twining round an aged tree: Gallant youth, who art thou? tell me.

Chrysanthus. Father, I am called Chrysanthus, Of Polemius, the first member Of the Roman senate, son.

Carpophorus. And thy purpose?

Chrysanthus. It distresses Me to see thee standing thus: On this bank sit down and rest thee.

Carpophorus. Kindly thought of; for, alas! I a tottering wall resemble: At the mouth of this my cave Let us then sit down together. [They sit down. What now wouldst thou have, Sir Stranger?

Chrysanthus. Sir, as long as I remember, I have felt an inclination To the love of books and letters. In my casual studies lately I a difficulty met with That I could not solve, and knowing No one in all Rome more learnéd Than thyself (thy reputation Having with this truth impressed me) I have hither come to ask thee To explain to me this sentence: For I cannot understand it. 'T is, sir, in this book.

Carpophorus. Pray, let me See it then.

Chrysanthus. 'T is at the beginning; Nay, the sentence that perplexes Me so much is that.

Carpophorus. Why, these Are the Holy Gospels! Heavens!

Chrysanthus. What! you kiss the book?

Carpophorus. And press it To my forehead, thus suggesting The profound respect with which I even touch so great a treasure.

Chrysanthus. Why, what is the book, which I By mere accident selected?

Carpophorus. 'T is the basis, the foundation Of the Scripture Law.

Chrysanthus. I tremble With an unknown horror.

Carpophorus. Why?

Chrysanthus. Deeper now I would not enter Into the secrets of a book Which are magic spells, I 'm certain.

Carpophorus. No, not so, but vital truths.

Chrysanthus. How can that be, when its verses Open with this line that says (A beginning surely senseless) "In the beginning was the Word, And it was with God": and then it Adds: this Word itself was God; Then unto the Word reverting, Says explicitly that It "Was made flesh"?

Carpophorus. A truth most certain: For this first evangelist Here to us our God presenteth In a twofold way: the first As being God, as Man the second.

Chrysanthus. God and Man combined together?

Carpophorus. Yes, in one eternal Person Are both natures joined together.

Chrysanthus. Then, for this is what more presses On my mind, can that same Word When it was made flesh, be reckoned God?

Carpophorus. Yes, God and Man is Christ Crucified for our transgressions.

Chrysanthus. Pray explain this wondrous problem.

Carpophorus. He is God, because He never Was created: He is the Word, For, besides, He was engendered By the Father, from both whom In eternal due procession Comes the Holy Ghost, three Persons, But one God, thrice mystic emblem!— In the Catholic faith we hold In one Trinity one God dwelleth, And that in one God is also One sole Trinity, ever blesséd, Which confounds not the three Persons, Nor the single substance severs. One is the person of the Father, One the Son's, beloved for ever, One, the third, the Holy Ghost's. But though three, you must remember That in the Father, and in the Son, And in the Holy Ghost . . .

Chrysanthus. Unheard of Mysteries these!

Carpophorus. There 's but one God, Equal in the power exerted, Equal in the state and glory; For . . .

Chrysanthus. I listen, but I tremble.

Carpophorus. The eternal Father is Limitless, even so unmeasured And eternal is the Son, And unmeasured and eternal Is the Holy Ghost; but then Three eternities are not meant here, Three immensities, no, but One, Who is limitless and eternal. For though increate the three, They are but one Uncreated. First the Father was not made, Or created, or engendered; Then engendered was the Son By the Father, not created; And the Spirit was not made Or created, or engendered By the Father or the Son, But proceeds from both together. This is God's divinity Viewed as God alone, let 's enter On the human aspect.

Chrysanthus. Stay: For so strange, so unexpected Are the things you say, that I Need for their due thought some leisure. Let me my lost breath regain, For entranced, aroused, suspended, Spell-bound your strong reasons hold me. Is there then but one sole God In three Persons, one in essence, One in substance, one in power, One in will?

Carpophorus. My son, 't is certain.

(Enter Aurelius and Soldiers.)

Aurelius to the Soldiers. Yonder is the secret cavern Of Carpophorus, at its entrance See him seated with another Reading.

A Soldier. Why delay? Arrest them.

Aurelius. Recollect Polemius bade us, When we seized them, to envelope Each one's face, that so, the Christians, Their accomplices and fellows, Should not know or recognize them.

A Soldier. You 're our prisoners. [A veil is thrown over the head of each.]

Chrysanthus. What! base wretches . . .

Aurelius. Gag their mouths.

Chrysanthus. But then I am . . .

Aurelius. Come, no words: now tie together Both their hands behind their backs.

Chrysanthus. Why I am . . .

Carpophorus. Oh! sacred heaven! Now my wished-for day has come.

A Voice from Heaven. No, not yet, my faithful servant:— I desire the constancy Of Chrysanthus may be tested:— Heed not him, as for thyself, In this manner I preserve thee. [Carpophorus disappears.

(Enter Polemius.)

Polemius. What has happened?

Aurelius. Oh! a wonder.— We Carpophorus arrested, And with him this other Christian; Both we held here bound and fettered, When from out our hands he vanished.

Polemius. By some sorcery 't was effected, For those Christians use enchantments, And then miracles pretend them.

A Soldier. See, a crowd of them there flying To the mountains.

Polemius. Intercept them, And secure the rabble rout; This one I shall guard myself here:— [Exeunt Aurelius and soldiers. Miserable wretch! who art thou? Thus that I may know thee better, Judging from thy face thy crimes, I unveil thee. Gracious heaven! My own son!

Chrysanthus. Oh! heavens! my father!

Polemius. Thou with Christians here detected? Thou here in their caverns hidden? Thou a prisoner? Wherefore, wherefore, O immense and mighty Jove, Are thy angry bolts suspended?

Chrysanthus. 'T was to solve a certain doubt Which some books of thine presented, That I sought Carpophorus, That I wandered to these deserts, And . . .

Polemius. Cease, cease; for now I see What has led to this adventure: Thou unhappily art gifted With a genius ill-directed; For I count as vain and foolish All the lore that lettered leisure Has in human books e'er written; But this passion has possessed thee, And to learn their magic rites Here, a willing slave, has led thee.

Chrysanthus. No, not magic was the knowledge I came here to learn—far better— The high mysteries of a faith Which I reverence, while I dread them.

Polemius. Cease, oh! cease once more, nor let Such vile treason find expression On thy lips. What! thou to praise them!

Aurelius (within). Yonder wait the two together.

Polemius. Cover up thy face once more, That the soldiers, when they enter, May not know thee, may not know How my honour is affected By this act, until I try Means more powerful to preserve it.

Chrysanthus (aside). God, whom until now I knew not, Grant Thy favour, deign to help me: Grant through suffering and through sorrow I may come to know Thee better.

(Enter Aurelius and Soldiers.)

Aurelius. Though we searched the whole of the mountain, Not one more have we arrested.

Polemius. Take this prisoner here to Rome, And be sure that you remember All of you my strict commands, That no hand shall dare divest him Of his veil:— [Chrysanthus is led out. Why, why, O heavens! [aside. Do I pause, but from my breast here Tear my bleeding heart? How act In so dreadful a dilemma? If I say who he is, I tarnish With his guilt my name for ever, And my loyalty if I 'm silent, Since he being here transgresses By that fact alone the edict: Shall I punish him? The offender Is my son. Shall I free him? He Is my enemy and a rebel:— If between these two extremes Some mean lies, I cannot guess it. As a father I must love him, And as a judge I must condemn him. [Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

Scene I. A hall in the house of Polemius.

Enter Claudius and Escarpin.

Claudius. Has he not returned? Can no one Guess in the remotest manner⁸ Where he is?

Escarpin. Sir, since the day That you left me with my master In Diana's grove, and I Had with that divinest charmer To leave him, no eye has seen him. Love alone knows how it mads me.

Claudius. Of your loyalty I doubt not.

Escarpin. Loyalty 's a different matter, 'T is not wholly that.

Claudius. What then?

Escarpin. Dark suspicions, dismal fancies, That perhaps to live with her He lies hid within those gardens.

Claudius. If I could imagine that, I, Escarpin, would be gladdened Rather than depressed.

Escarpin. I 'm not:— I am filled, like a full barrel, With depressions.

Claudius. And for what?

Escarpin. Certain wild chimeras haunt me, Jealousy doth tear my heart, And despairing love distracts me.

Claudius. You in love and jealous?

Escarpin. I Jealous and in love. Why marvel? Am I such a monster?

Claudius. What! With Daria?

Escarpin. 'T is no matter What her name is, or Daria Or Maria, I would have her Both subjective and subjunctive, She verb passive, I verb active.

Claudius. You to love so rare a beauty?

Escarpin. Yes, her beauty, though uncommon, Would lack something, if it had not My devotion.

Claudius. How? explain:—

Escarpin. Well, I prove it in this manner:— Mr. Dullard fell in love (I do n't tell where all this happened, Or the time, for of the Dullards Every age and time give samples) With a very lovely lady: At her coach-door as he chattered One fine evening, he such nonsense Talked, that one who heard his clatter, Asked the lady in amazement If this simpleton's advances Did not make her doubt her beauty?— But she quite gallantly answered, Never until now have I Felt so proud of my attractions, For no beauty can be perfect That all sorts of men do n't flatter.

Claudius. What a feeble jest!

Escarpin. This feeble?—

Claudius. Yes, the very type of flatness:— Cease buffooning, for my uncle Here is coming.

Escarpin. Of his sadness Plainly is his face the mirror.

Enter Polemius and servants.

Claudius. Jupiter doth know the anguish, My good lord, with which I venture To approach thee since this happened.

Polemius. Claudius, as thine own, I 'm sure, Thou dost feel this great disaster.

Claudius. I my promise gave thee that To Chrysanthus . . .

Polemius. Cease; I ask thee Not to proffer these excuses, Since I do not care to have them.

Claudius. Then it seems that all thy efforts Have been useless to unravel The strange mystery of his fate?

Polemius. With these questions do not rack me; For, though I would rather not Give the answer, still the answer Rises with such ready aptness To my lips from out my heart, That I scarcely can withstand it.

Claudius. Why conceal it then from me, Knowing that thy blood meanders Through my veins, and that my life Owns thee as its lord and master?— Oh! my lord, confide in me, Let thy tongue speak once the language That thine eyes so oft have spoken.

Polemius. Let the servants leave the apartment.

Escarpin (aside). Ah! if beautiful Daria Would but favour my attachment, Though I have no house to give her, Lots of stories I can grant her:— [Exeunt Escarpin and servants.

Claudius. Now, my lord, we are alone.

Polemius. Listen then; for though to baffle Thy desire were my intention, By my miseries overmastered, I am forced to tell my secret; Not so much have I been granted License to avow my sufferings, But I am, as 't were commanded Thus to break my painful silence, Doing honestly, though sadly, Willingly the fact disclosing, Which by force had been extracted. Hear it, Claudius: my Chrysanthus, My Chrysanthus is not absent: In this very house he 's living!— Would the gods, ah! me, had rather Made a tomb and not a prison Of his present locked apartment! Which is in this house, within it Is he prisoned, chained, made captive. This surprises thee, no wonder: More surprised thou 'lt be hereafter, When thou com'st to know the reason Of a fact so strange and startling. On that fatal day, when I Sought the mount and thou the garden, Him I found where thou didst lose him, Near the wood where he had rambled: He was taken by my soldiers At the entrance of a cavern, With Carpophorus:—oh! here Patience, patience may heaven grant me!— It was lucky that they did not See his face, for thus it happened That the front of my dishonour Was not in his face made patent: Him they captured without knowing Who he was, it being commanded That the faces of the prisoners Should be covered, but ere captured This effectually was done By themselves, they flying backward With averted faces; he Thus was taken, but his partner, That strange prodigy of Rome— Man in mind, wild beast in manners, Doubly thus a prodigy— Saved himself by power of magic. Thus Chrysanthus was sole prisoner, While the Christian crowd, disheartened, Fled for safety to the mountains From their grottoes and their caverns. These the soldiers quickly followed, And behind in that abandoned Savage place remained but two— Two, oh! think, a son and father.— One a judge, too, in a cause Wicked, bad, beyond example, In a cause that outraged Cæsar, And the gods themselves disparaged. There with a delinquent son Stood I, therefore this should happen, That both clemency and rigour In my heart waged fearful battle— Clemency in fine had won, I would have removed the bandage From his eyes and let him fly, But that instant, ah! unhappy! Came the soldiers back, and then It were but more misery added, If they knew of my connivance: All that then my care could manage To protect him was the secret Of his name to keep well guarded. Thus to Rome I brought him prisoner, Where pretending great exactness, That his friends should not discover Where this Christian malefactor Was imprisoned, to this house, To my own house, I commanded That he should be brought; there hidden And unknown, a few days after I in his place substituted . . . Ah! what will not the untrammelled Strength of arbitrary power Dare attempt? what law not trample? Substituted, I repeat, For my son a slave, whose strangled, Headless corse thus paid the debt Which from me were else exacted. You will say, "Since fortune thus Has the debt so happily cancelled, Why imprison or conceal him?"— And, thus, full of doubts, I answer That though it is true I wished not, Woe is me! the common scaffold Should his punishment make public, I as little wished his hardened Heart should know my love and pity Since it did not fear my anger: Ah! believe me, Claudius, 'Twixt the chastisement a father And an executioner gives, A great difference must be granted: One hand honours what it striketh, One disgraces, blights, and blackens. Soon my rigour ceased, for truly, In a father's heart it lasteth Seldom long: but then what wonder, If the hand that in its anger Smites his son, in his own breast Leaves a wound that ever rankles— I one day his prison entered With the wish (I own it frankly) To forgive him, and when I Thought he would have even thanked me For receiving a reproof, Not severe, too lenient rather, He began to praise the Christians With such earnestness and ardour, In defence of their new law, That my clemency departed, And my angrier mood returned. I his doors and windows fastened. In the room where he is lying, Well secured by gyves and shackles, Sparingly his food is given him, Through my hands alone it passes, For I dare not to another Trust the care his state demandeth. You will think in this I reached to The extreme of my disasters— The full limits of misfortune, But not so, and if you hearken, You 'll perceive they 're but beginning, And not ended, as you fancied. All these strange events so much Have unnerved him and unmanned him, That, forgetful of himself, Of himself he is regardless. Nothing to the purpose speaks he. In his incoherent language Frenzy shows itself, delusion In his thoughts and in his fancies:— Many times I 've listened to him, Since so high-strung and abstracted Is his mind, he takes no note of Who goes in or who departeth. Once I heard him deprecating Some despotic beauty's hardness, Saying, "Since I die for thee, Thou thy favour sure wilt grant me". At another time he said, "Three in one, oh! how can that be?" Things which these same Christian people In their law hold quite established. Thus it is my life is troubled, Lost in doubts, emeshed, and tangled. If to freedom I restore him, I have little doubt that, darkened By the Christian treachery, he Will declare himself instanter Openly a Christian, which Would to me be such a scandal, That my blood henceforth were tainted, And my noble name were branded. If I leave him here in prison, So excessive is his sadness, So extreme his melancholy, That I fear 't will end in madness. In a word, I hold, my nephew, Hold it as a certain axiom, That these dark magician Christians Keep him bound by their enchantments; Who through hatred of my house, And my office to disparage, Now revenge themselves on me Through my only son Chrysanthus. Tell me, then, what shall I do; But before you give the answer Which your subtle wit may dictate, I would with your own eyes have thee See him first, you 'll then know better What my urgent need demandeth. Come, he 's not far off, his quarter Is adjoining this apartment; When you see him, I am certain You will think it a disaster Far less evil he should die, Than that in this cruel manner He should outrage his own blood, And my bright escutcheon blacken. [He opens a door, and Chrysanthus is seen seated in a chair, with his hands and feet in irons.]

Claudius. Thus to see my friend, o'erwhelms me With a grief I cannot master.

Polemius. Stay, do not approach him nearer; For I would not he remarked thee, I would save him the disgrace Of being seen by thee thus shackled.

Claudius. What his misery may dictate We can hear, nor yet attract him.

Chrysanthus. Was ever human fate so strange as mine? Were unmatched wishes ever mated so? Is it not enough to feel one form of woe, Without being forced 'neath opposite forms to pine? A triune God's mysterious power divine, From heaven I ask for life, that I may know, From heaven I ask for death, life's grisly foe, A fair one's favour in my heart to shrine: But how can death and life so well agree, That I can ask of heaven to end their strife, And grant them both in pitying love to me? Yet I will ask, though both with risks are rife, Neither shall hinder me, for heaven must be The arbiter of death as well as life.

Polemius. See now if I spoke the truth.

Claudius. I am utterly distracted. (The door closes.

Polemius. Lest perhaps he should perceive us, Let us move a little further. Now advise me how to act, Since you see the grief that racks me.

Claudius. Though it savours of presumption To white hairs like yours, to hazard Words of council, yet at times Even a young man may impart them: Well-proportioned punishment Grave defects oft counteracteth. But when carried to extremes, It but irritates and hardens. Any instrument of music Of this truth is an example. Lightly touched, it breathes but sweetness, Discord, when 't is roughly handled. 'T is not well to send an arrow To such heights, that in discharging The strong tension breaks the bowstring, Or the bow itself is fractured. These two simple illustrations Are sufficiently adapted To my purpose, of advising Means of cure both mild and ample. You must take a middle course, All extremes must be abandoned. Gentle but judicious treatment Is the method for Chrysanthus. For severer methods end in Disappointment and disaster. Take him, then, from out his prison, Leave him free, unchecked, untrammelled, For the danger is an infant Without strength to hurt or harm him. Be it that those wretched Christians Have bewitched him, disenchant him, Since you have the power; for Nature With such careful forethought acteth, That an antidotal herb She for every poison planteth. And if, finally, your wish Is that he this fatal sadness Should forget, and wholly change it To a happier state and gladder, Get him married: for remember Nothing is so well adapted To restrain discursive fancies As the care and the attachment Centered in a wife and children; Taking care that in this matter Mere convenience should not weigh More than his own taste and fancy: Let him choose his wife himself. Pleased in that, to rove or ramble Then will be beyond his power, Even were he so attracted, For a happy married lover Thinks of naught except his rapture.

Polemius. I with nothing such good counsel Can repay, except the frankness Of accepting it, which is The reward yourself would ask for. And since I a mean must choose Between two extremes of action, From his cell, to-day, my son Shall go forth, but in a manner That will leave his seeming freedom Circumscribed and safely guarded. Let that hall which looketh over Great Apollo's beauteous garden Be made gay by flowing curtains, Be festooned by flowery garlands; Costly robes for him get ready; Then invite the loveliest damsels Rome can boast of, to come hither To the feasts and to the dances. Bring musicians, and in fine Let it be proclaimed that any Woman of illustrious blood Who from his delusive passions Can divert him, by her charms Curing him of all his sadness, Shall become his wife, how humble Her estate, her wealth how scanty. And if this be not sufficient, I will give a golden talent Yearly to the leech who cures him By some happy stroke of practice. [Exit.

Claudius. Oh! a father's pitying love, What will it not do, what marvel Not attempt for a son's welfare, For his life?

Enter Escarpin.

Escarpin. My lord por Baco! (That 's the god I like to swear by, Jolly god of all good rascals) May I ask you what 's the secret?

Claudius. You gain little when you ask me For a secret all may know. After his mysterious absence Your young lord 's returned home ill.

Escarpin. In what way?

Claudius. That none can fathom, Since he does not tell his ailment Save by signs and by his manner.

Escarpin. Then he 's wrong, sir, not to tell it Clearly: with extreme exactness Should our griefs, our pains be mentioned. A back tooth a man once maddened, And a barber came to draw it. As he sat with jaws expanded, "Which tooth is it, sir, that pains you?" Asked of him the honest barber, And the patient in affected Language grandly thus made answer, "The penultimate"; the dentist Not being used to such pedantic Talk as this, with ready forceps Soon the last of all extracted. The poor patient to be certain, With his tongue the spot examined, And exclaimed, his mouth all bleeding, "Why, that 's not the right tooth, master". "Is it not the ultimate molar?" Said the barber quite as grandly. "Yes" (he answered), "but I said The penultimate, and I 'd have you Know, your worship, that it means Simply that that 's next the farthest". Thus instructed, he returned To the attack once more, remarking "In effect then the bad tooth Is the one that 's next the last one?" "Yes", he said, "then here it is", Spoke the barber with great smartness, Plucking out the tooth that then Was the last but one; it happened From not speaking plain, he lost Two good teeth, and kept his bad one.

Claudius. Come and something newer learn In the stratagem his father Has arranged to cure the illness Of Chrysanthus, whom he fancies . . .

Escarpin. What?

Claudius. Is spell-bound by the Christians Through the power of their enchantments:— (Since to-day I cannot see thee, [aside. Cynthia fair, forgive my absence). [Exit.

Escarpin. While these matters thus proceed, I shall try, let what will happen, Thee to see, divine Daria:— At my love, oh! be not angered, Since the penalty of beauty Is to be beloved: then pardon. [Exit.

Scene II.—The Wood.

Enter Daria from the chase with bow and arrows.

Daria. O stag that swiftly flying Before my feathered shafts the winds outvieing, Impelled by wings, not feet, If in this green retreat Here panting thou wouldst die, And stain with blood the fountain murmuring by, Await another wound, another friend, That so with quicker speed thy life may end; For to a wretch that stroke a friend must be That eases death and sooner sets life free. [She stumbles and falls near the mouth of a cave.] But, bless me, heaven! I feel My brain grow hot, my curdling blood congeal: A form of fire and snow I seem at once to turn: this sudden blow, This stumbling, how I know not, by this stone, This horrid mouth in which my grave is shown, This cave of many shapes, Through which the melancholy mountain gapes, This mountain's self, a vast Abysmal shadow cast Suddenly on my heart, as if 't were meant To be my rustic pyre, my strange new monument, All fill my heart with wonder and with fear, What buried mysteries are hidden here That terrify me so, And make me tremble 'neath impending woe. [A solemn strain of music is heard from within.] Nay more, illusion now doth bear to me The sweetest sounds of dulcet harmony, Music and voice combine:— O solitude! what phantasms are thine! But let me listen to the voice that blent Sounds with the music of the instrument.

Music from within the cave.

Song. Oh! be the day for ever blest, And blest be pitying heaven's decree, That makes the darksome cave to be Daria's tomb, her place of rest!

Daria. Blest! can such evil auguries bless? And happy can that strange fate be That gives this darksome cave to me As monument of my sad life?

Music. Yes.

Daria. Oh! who before in actual woe The happier signs of bliss could read? Will not a fate so rigorous lead To misery, not to rapture?—

Music. No.

Daria. O fantasy! unwelcome guest! How can this cave bring good to me?

Music. Itself will tell, when it shall be Daria's tomb, her place of rest.

Daria. But then, who gave the stern decree, That this dark cave my bones should hide?

Music. Daria, it was he who died, Who gave his life for love of thee.

Daria. "Who gave his life for love of me!" Ah! me, and can it be in sooth That gentle noble Roman youth I answered with such cruelty In this same wood the other day, Saying that I his love would be If he would only die for me! Can he have cast himself away Down this dark cave, and there lies dead, Buried within the dread abyss, Waiting my love, his promised bliss?— My soul, not now mine own, has fled!

Cynthia (within). Forward! forward! through the gloom Every cave and cavern enter, Search the dark wood to its centre, Lest it prove Daria's tomb.

Daria. Ah! me, the sense confounding, Both here and there are opposite voices sounding. Here is my name in measured cadence greeted, And there in hollow echoes oft repeated. Would that the latter cries that reach my ear Came from my mates in this wild forest sphere, In the dread solitude that doth surround me Their presence would be welcome. [Enter Cynthia with bow and arrows.]

Cynthia. Till I found me, Beauteous Daria, by thy side once more, Each mountain nook my search had well gone o'er.

Daria (aside). Let me dissemble The terror and surprise that make me tremble, If I have power to feign Amid the wild confusion of my brain:— Following the chase to-day, Wishing Diana's part in full to play, So fair the horizon smiled, I left the wood and entered on the wild, Led by a wounded deer still on and on. And further in pursuit I would have gone, Nor had my swift career Even ended here, But for this mouth that opening in the rock, With horrid gape my vain attempt doth mock, And stops my further way.

Cynthia. Until I found thee I was all dismay, Lest thou some savage beast, some monstrous foe, Hadst met.

Daria (aside). Ah! would to Jove 't were so! And that my death in his wild hands had paid For future chastisement by fate delayed! But ah! the wish is vain, Foreboding horror fills my heart and brain, This mystic music borne upon the air Must surely augur ill.

(Enter Nisida.)

Nisida. Daria fair, And Cynthia wise, I come to seek ye two.

Cynthia. Has any thing occurred or strange or new?

Nisida. I scarce can tell it. As I came along, I heard a man, in a clear voice and strong, Proclaiming as he went Through all the mountain a most strange event: Rome hath decreed Priceless rewards to her whose charms may lead Through lawful love and in an open way By public wedlock in the light of day, The son of proud Polemius from the state Of gloom in which his mind is sunk of late.

Cynthia. And what can be the cause that he is so?

Nisida. Ah! that I do not know, But yonder, leaving the Salarian Way, A Roman soldier hitherward doth stray: He may enlighten us and tell us all.

Cynthia. Yes, let us know the truth, the stranger call.

Daria (aside). Ah! how distinct the pain That presses on my heart, and dulls my wildered brain!

(Enter Escarpin.)

Nisida. Thou, O thou, whose wandering footsteps These secluded groves have entered . . .⁹

Escarpin. Thou four hundred times repeated— Thou and all the thous, your servant.

Nisida. Tell us of the proclamation Publicly to-day presented To the gaze of Rome.

Escarpin. I 'll do so; For there 's nothing I love better Than a story (aside, if to tell it In divine Daria's presence Does not put me out, for no one, When the loved one listens, ever Speaks his best): Polemius, Rome's great senator, whose bended Shoulders, like an Atlas, bear All the burden of the empire, By Numerian's self entrusted, He, this chief of Rome's great senate, Has a son, by name Chrysanthus, Who, as rumour goes, at present Is afflicted by a sadness So extreme and so excessive, That 't is thought to be occasioned By the magic those detested Christians (who abhor his house, And his father, who hath pressed them Heavily as judge and ruler) Have against his life effected, All through hatred of our gods. And so great is the dejection That he feels, there 's nothing yet Found to rouse him or divert him. Thus it is Numerianus, Who is ever well-affected To his father, hath proclaimed All through Rome, that whosoever Is so happy by her beauty, Or so fortunately clever By her wit, or by her graces Is so powerful, as to temper His affliction, since love conquers All things by his magic presence, He will give her (if a noble) As his wife, and will present her With a portion far surpassing All Polemius' self possesses, Not to speak of what is promised Him whose skill may else effect it. Thus it is that Rome to-day Laurel wreaths and crowns presenteth To its most renowned physicians, To its sages and its elders, And to wit and grace and beauty Joyous feasts and courtly revels; So that there is not a lady In all Rome, but thinks it certain That the prize is hers already, Since by all 't will be contested, Some through vanity, and some Through a view more interested: Even the ugly ones, I warrant, Will be there well represented. So with this, adieu. (Aside, Oh! fairest Nymph Daria, since I ventured Here to see thee, having seen thee Now, alas! I must absent me!) [Exit.

Cynthia. What strange news!

Nisida. There 's not a beauty But for victory will endeavour When among Rome's fairest daughters Such a prize shall be contested.

Cynthia. Thus by showing us the value Thou upon the victory settest, We may understand that thou Meanest in the lists to enter.

Nisida. Yes, so far as heaven through music Its most magic cures effecteth, Since no witchcraft is so potent But sweet music may dispel it. It doth tame the raging wild beast, Lulls to sleep the poisonous serpent, And makes evil genii, who Are revolted spirits—rebels— Fly in fear, and in this art I have always been most perfect: Wrongly would I act to-day, In not striving for the splendid Prize which will be mine, when I See myself the loved and wedded Wife of the great senator's son, And the mistress of such treasures.

Cynthia. Although music is an art Which so many arts excelleth, Still in truth 't is but a sound Which the wanton air disperses. It the sweet child of the air In the air itself must perish. I, who in my studious reading Have such learnéd lore collected, Who in poetry, that art Which both teacheth and diverteth, May precedence claim o'er many Geniuses so prized at present, Can a surer victory hope for In the great fight that impendeth, Since the music of the soul Is what keeps the mind suspended. In one item, Nisida, We two differ: thy incentive Thy chief motive, is but interest: Mine is vanity, a determined Will no other woman shall Triumph o'er me in this effort, Since I wish that Rome should see That the glory, the perfection Of a woman is her mind, All her other charms excelling.

Daria. Interest and vanity Are the two things, as you tell me, That, O Cynthia! can oblige thee, That, O Nisida, can compel thee To attempt this undertaking By so many risks attended. But I think you both are wrong, Since in this case, having heard that The affliction this man suffers Christian sorcery hath effected Through abhorrence of our gods, By that atheist sect detested, Neither of these feelings should Be your motive to attempt it. I then, who, for this time only Will believe these waves that tell me— These bright fountains—that the beauty Which so oft they have reflected Is unequalled, mean to lay it As an offering in the temple Of the gods, to show what little Strength in Christian sorcery dwelleth.

Nisida. Then 't is openly admitted That we three the list will enter For the prize.

Cynthia. And from this moment That the rivalry commences.

Nisida. Voice of song, thy sweet enchantment On this great occasion lend me, That through thy soft influence Rank and riches I may merit. [Exit.

Cynthia. Genius, offspring of the soul, Prove this time thou 'rt so descended, That thy proud ambitious hopes May the laurel crown be tendered. [Exit.

Daria. Beauty, daughter of the gods, Now thy glorious birth remember: Make me victress in the fight, That the gods may live for ever. [Exit.

Scene III.—A hall in the house of Polemius, opening at the end upon a garden.

(Enter Polemius and Claudius.)

Polemius. Is then everything prepared?—

Claudius. Everything has been got ready As you ordered. This apartment Opening on the garden terrace Has been draped and covered over With the costliest silks and velvets, Leaving certain spaces bare For the painter's magic pencil, Where, so cunning is his art, That it nature's self resembles. Flowers more fair than in the garden, Pinks and roses are presented: But what wonder when the fountains Still run after to reflect them?— All things else have been provided, Music, dances, gala dresses; And for all that, Rome yet knows not What in truth is here projected; 'T is a fair Academy, In whose floral halls assemble Beauty, wit, and grace, a sight That we see but very seldom. All the ladies too of Rome Have prepared for the contention With due circumspection, since As his wife will be selected She who best doth please him; thus There are none but will present them In these gardens, some to see him, Others to show off themselves here.

Polemius. Oh, my Claudius, would to Jove That all this could dispossess me Of my dark foreboding fancies, Of the terrors that oppress me!—

(Enter Aurelius.)

Aurelius. Sir, a very learned physician Comes to proffer his best service To Chrysanthus, led by rumour Of his illness.

Polemius. Bid him enter. [Aurelius retires, and returns immediately with Carpophorus, disguised as a physician.]

Carpophorus (aside). Heaven, that I may do the work That this day I have attempted, Grant me strength a little while; For I know my death impendeth!— Mighty lord, thy victor hand, [aloud. Let me kiss and kneeling press it.

Polemius. Venerable elder, rise From the ground; thy very presence Gives me joy, a certain instinct Even at sight of thee doth tell me Thou alone canst save my son.

Carpophorus. Heaven but grant the cure be perfect!

Polemius. Whence, sir, art thou?

Carpophorus. Sir, from Athens.

Polemius. 'T is a city that excelleth All the world in knowledge.

Carpophorus. There All are teachers, all are learners. The sole wish to be of use Has on this occasion led me From my home. Inform me then How Chrysanthus is affected.

Polemius. With an overwhelming sadness; Or to speak it more correctly (Since when we consult a doctor Even suspicions should be mentioned), He, my son, has been bewitched;— Thus it is these Christian perverts Take revenge through him on me: In particular an elder Called Carpophorus, a wizard . . . May the day soon come for vengeance!

Carpophorus. May heaven grant it . . . (aside, For that day I the martyr's crown may merit). Where at present is Chrysanthus?

Polemius. He is just about to enter:— You can see him; all his ailment In the soul you 'll find is centered.

Carpophorus. In the soul then I will cure him, If my skill heaven only blesses. [Music is heard from within.

Claudius. That he 's leaving his apartment This harmonious strain suggesteth, Since to counteract his gloom He by music is attended. (Enter Chrysanthus richly dressed, preceded by musicians playing and singing, and followed by attendants.)

Chrysanthus. Cease; my pain, perchance my folly, Cannot be by song diverted; Music is a power exerted For the cure of melancholy, Which in truth it but augmenteth.

A Musician. This your father bade us do.

Chrysanthus. 'T is because he never knew Pain like that which me tormenteth. For if he that pang incessant Felt, he would not wish to cure it, He would love it and endure it.

Polemius. Think, my son, that I am present, And that I am not ambitious To assume your evil mood, But to find that it is good.

Chrysanthus. No, sir, you mistake my wishes. I would not through you relieve me Of my care; my former state Seemed, though, more to mitigate What I suffer: why not leave me There to die?

Polemius. That yet I may, Pitying your sad condition, Work your cure:—A great physician Comes to visit you to-day.

Chrysanthus (aside). Who do I behold? ah, me!

Carpophorus. I will speak to him with your leave.

Chrysanthus (aside). No, my eyes do not deceive, 'T is Carpophorus that I see! I my pleasure must conceal.

Carpophorus. Sir, of what do you complain?

Chrysanthus. Since you come to cure my pain, I will tell you how I feel. A great sadness hath been thrown O'er my mind and o'er my feelings, A dark blank whose dim revealings Make their sombre tints mine own.

Carpophorus. Can you any cause assign me Whence this sadness is proceeding?

Chrysanthus. From my earliest years to reading Did my studious tastes incline me. Something thus acquired doth wake Doubts, and fears, and hopes, ah me! That the things I read may be.

Carpophorus. Then from me this lesson take. Every mystery how obscure, Is explained by faith alone; All is clear when that is known: 'T is through faith I 'll work your cure. Since in that your healing lies, Take it then from me.

Chrysanthus. From you I infer all good: that true Faith I hope which you advise.

Carpophorus (to Polemius). Give me leave, sir, to address Some few words to him alone, Less reserve will then be shown. (The two retire to one side. Have you recognized me?

Chrysanthus. Yes, Every sign shows you are he Who in my most perilous strait Fled and left me to my fate.

Carpophorus. God did that; and would you see That it was His own work, say, If I did not then absent me Through His means, could I present me As your teacher here to-day?

Chrysanthus. No.

Carpophorus. How just His providence! Since I was preserved, that I Here might seek you, and more nigh Give you full intelligence Leisurely of every doubt Which disturbs you when you read.

Chrysanthus. Mysteries they are indeed, Difficult to be made out.

Carpophorus. To the believer all is plain.

Chrysanthus. I would believe, what must I do?—

Carpophorus. Your intellectual pride subdue.

Chrysanthus. I will subdue it, since 't is vain.

Carpophorus. Then the first thing to be done Is to be baptized.

Chrysanthus. I bow, Father, and implore it now.

Carpophorus. Let us for the present shun Further notice; lest suspicion Should betray what we would smother; Every day we 'll see each other, When I 'll execute my mission: I, to cure sin's primal scath, Will at fitting time baptize you, Taking care to catechise you In the principles of the faith; Only now one admonition Must I give; be armed, be ready For the fight most fierce and steady Ever fought for man's perdition; Oh! take heed, amid the advances Of the fair who wish to win you, 'Mid the fires that burn within you, 'Mid lascivious looks and glances, 'Mid such various foes enlisted, That you are not conquered by them.

Chrysanthus. Women! oh! who dare defy them By such dread allies assisted?

Carpophorus. He whom God assists.

Chrysanthus. Be swayed By my tears, and ask him.

Carpophorus. You Must too ask him: for he who Aids himself, him God doth aid.

Polemius. What, sir, think you of his case?

Carpophorus. I have ordered him a bath, Strong restoring powers it hath, Which his illness must displace:—

Polemius. Sir, relying on you then, I will give you ample wealth, If you can restore his health.

Carpophorus. Still I cannot tell you when, But I shall return and see him Frequently; in fact 'till he Is from all his ailment free, From my hand I will not free him.

Polemius. For your kindness I am grateful.

Chrysanthus. He alone has power to cure me. Since he knows what will allure me, When all other modes are hateful. [Exit Carpophorus.

(Enter Escarpin.)

Escarpin. All this garden of delight Must be beauty's birth-place sure, Here the fresh rose doubly pure, Here the jasmin doubly white, Learn to-day a newer grace, Lovelier red, more dazzling snow.

Polemius. Why?

Escarpin. Because the world doth show Naught so fair as this sweet place. Falsely boasts th' Elysian bower Peerless beauty, here to-day More, far more, these groves display:— Not a fountain, tree, or flower . . .

Polemius. Well?

Escarpin. But by a nymph more fair Is surpassed.

Polemius. Come, Claudius, come, He will be but dull and dumb, Shy the proffered bliss to share, Through the fear and the respect Which, as son, he owes to me.

Claudius. He who gave the advice should see Also after the effect. Let us all from this withdraw.

Polemius. Great results I hope to gather:

Escarpin (aside). Well, you 're the first pander-father Ever in my life I saw.

Chrysanthus. What, Escarpin, you, as well, Going to leave me? Mum for once.

Escarpin. Silence suits me for the nonce.

Chrysanthus. Why?

Escarpin. A tale in point I 'll tell: Once a snuffler, by a pirate Moor was captured, who in some Way affected to be dumb, That his ransom at no high rate Might be purchased: when his owner This defect perceived, the shuffle Made him sell this Mr. Snuffle Very cheaply: to the donor Of his freedom, through his nose, Half in snuffle, half in squeak, Then he said, "Oh! Moor, I speak, I 'm not dumb as you suppose". "Fool, to let your folly lead you So astray", replied the Moor. "Had I heard you speak, be sure I for nothing would have freed you". Thus it is I moderate me In the use of tongue and cheek, Lest when you have heard me speak, Still more cheaply you may rate me.

Chrysanthus. You must know the estimation I have held you in so long.

Escarpin. Well, my memory is not strong. It requires consideration To admit that pleasant fact.

Chrysanthus. What of me do people say?—

Escarpin. Shall I speak it?

Chrysanthus. Speak.

Escarpin. Why, they Say, my lord, that you are cracked.

Chrysanthus. For what reason? Why this blame?

Escarpin. Reason, sir, need not be had, For the wisest man is mad If he only gets the name.

Chrysanthus. Well, it was not wrongly given, If they only knew that I Have consented even to die So to reach the wished-for heaven Of a sovereign beauty's favour.

Escarpin. For a lady's favour you Have agreed to die?

Chrysanthus. 'T is true.

Escarpin. Does not this a certain savour Of insanity give your sadness?

Chrysanthus. Were I certain as of breath I could claim it after death, There was method in my madness.

Escarpin. A brave soldier of the line, On his death-bed lying ill, Spoke thus, "Item, 't is my will, Gallant friends and comrades mine, That you 'll bear me to my grave, And although I 've little wealth, Thirty reals to drink my health Shall you for your kindness have". Thus the hope as vain must be After death one's love to wed, As to drink one's health when dead. [Nisida advances from the garden.]

Chrysanthus. But what maid is this I see Hither through the garden wending?

Escarpin. If you take a stroll with me Plenty of her sort you 'll see.

Nisida. One who would effect the ending Of thy sadness.

Chrysanthus (aside). Now comes near thee, O my heart, thy threatened trial! Lady, pardon the denial, But I would nor see nor hear thee.

Nisida. Not so ungallantly surely Wilt thou act, as not to see One who comes to speak with thee?

Chrysanthus. To see one who thinks so poorly Of herself, and with such lightness Owns she comes to speak with me, Rather would appear to be Want of sense than of politeness.

Nisida. All discourse is not so slight That thou need'st decline it so.

Chrysanthus. No, I will not see thee, no. Thus I shut thee from my sight.

Nisida. Vainly art thou cold and wise, Other senses thou shouldst fear, Since I enter by the ear, Though thou shut me from the eyes.

Sings. "The blesséd rapture of forgetting Never doth my heart deserve, What my memory would preserve Is the memory I 'm regretting".

Chrysanthus. That melting voice, that melody Spell-bound holds th' entrancéd soul. Ah! from such divine control Who his fettered soul could free?— Human Siren, leave me, go! Too well I feel its fatal power. I faint before it like a flower By warm-winds wooed in noontide's glow. The close-pressed lips the mouth can lock, And so repress the vain reply, The lid can veil th' unwilling eye From all that may offend and shock,— Nature doth seem a niggard here, Unequally her gifts disposing, For no instinctive means of closing She gives the unprotected ear.

(Enter Cynthia.)

Cynthia. Since then the ear cannot be closed, And thou resistance need'st not try, Listen to the gloss that I On this sweet conceit composed: "The blesséd rapture of forgetting Never doth my heart deserve; What my memory would preserve Is the memory I 'm regretting". When Nature from the void obscure Her varied world to life awakes, All things find use and so endure:— Thus she a poison never makes Without its corresponding cure: Each thing of Nature's careful setting, Each plant that grows in field or grove Hath got its opposite flower or weed; The cure is with the pain decreed; Thus too is found for feverish love The blesséd rapture of forgetting. The starry wonders of the night, The arbiters of fate on high, Nothing can dim: To see their light Is easy, but to draw more nigh The orbs themselves, exceeds our might. Thus 't is to know, and only know, The troubled heart, the trembling nerve, To sweet oblivion's blank may owe Their rest, but, ah! that cure of woe Never doth my heart deserve. Then what imports it that there be, For all the ills of heart or brain, A sweet oblivious remedy, If it, when 't is applied to me, Fails to cure me of my pain? Forgetfulness in me doth serve No useful purpose: But why fret My heart at this? Do I deserve, Strange contradiction! to forget What my memory would preserve? And thus my pain in straits like these, Must needs despise the only sure Remedial means of partial ease— That is—to perish of the cure Rather than die of the disease. Then not in wailing or in fretting, My love, accept thy fate, but let This victory o'er myself, to thee Bring consolation, pride, and glee, Since what I wish not to forget Is the memory I 'm regretting.

Chrysanthus. 'T is not through the voice alone Music breathes its soft enchantment.¹⁰ All things that in concord blend Find in music their one language. Thou with thy delicious sweetness [To Nisida] Host my heart at once made captive;— Thou with thy melodious verses [To Cynthia] Hast my very soul enraptured. Ah! how subtly thou dost reason! Ah! how tenderly thou chantest! Thou with thy artistic skill, Thou with thy clear understanding. But what say I? I speak falsely, For you both are sphinxes rather, Who with flattering words seduce me But to ruin me hereafter:— Leave me; go: I cannot listen To your wiles.

Nisida. My lord, oh! hearken To my song once more.

Cynthia. Wait! stay!

Nisida. Why thus treat with so much harshness Those who mourn thy deep dejection?

Escarpin. Oh! how soon they 'd have an answer If they asked of me these questions. I know how to treat such tattle: Leave them, sir, to me.

Chrysanthus. My senses 'Gainst their lures I must keep guarded: They are crocodiles, but feigning Human speech, so but to drag me To my ruin, my destruction.

Nisida. Since my voice will still attract thee, 'T is of little use to fly me.

Cynthia. Though thou dost thy best to guard thee, While I gloss the words she singeth To my genius thou must hearken.

Chrysanthus (aside.) God whom I adore! since I Help myself, Thy help, oh! grant me!

Nisida. "Ah! the joy" . . . . (she becomes confused. But what is this? Icy torpor coldly fastens On my hands; the lute drops from me, And my very breath departeth.

Cynthia. Since she cannot sing; then listen To this subtle play of fancy: "Love, if thou 'rt my god" . . . . (she becomes confused. But how, What can have my mind so darkened What my memory so confuses, What my voice can so embarrass?

Nisida. I am turned to frost and fire, I am changed to living marble.

Cynthia. Frozen over is my breast, And my heart is cleft and hardened.

Chrysanthus. Thus to lose your wits, ye two, What can have so strangely happened?

Escarpin. Being poets and musicians, Quite accounts, sir, for their absence.

Nisida. Heavens! beneath the noontide sun To be left in total darkness!

Cynthia. In an instant, O ye heavens! O'er your vault can thick clouds gather?

Nisida. 'Neath the contact of my feet Earth doth tremble, and I stagger.

Cynthia. Mountains upon mountains seem On my shoulders to be balanced.

Escarpin. So it always is with those Who make verses, or who chant them.

Chrysanthus. Of the one God whom I worship These are miracles, are marvels.

(Enter Daria.)

Daria. Here, Chrysanthus, I have come . . .

Nisida. Stay, Daria.

Cynthia. Stay, 't is rashness Here to come, for, full of wonders, Full of terrors is this garden.

Escarpin. Do not enter: awful omens Threat'ning death await thy advent.

Nisida. By my miseries admonished . . . .

Cynthia. By my strange misfortune startled . . .

Nisida. Flying from myself, I leave This green sphere, dismayed, distracted.

Cynthia. Without soul or life I fly, Overwhelmed by this enchantment.

Nisida. Oh! how dreadful!

Cynthia. Oh! how awful!

Nisida. Oh! the horror!

Cynthia. Oh! the anguish! [Exeunt Cynthia and Nisida.]

Escarpin. Mad with jealousy and rage Have the tuneful twain departed.

Daria (aside). Chastisements for due offences Do not fright me, do not startle, For if they through arrogance And ambition sought this garden, Me the worship of the gods Here has led, and so I 'm guarded 'Gainst all sorceries whatsoever, 'Gainst all forms of Christian magic:— Art thou then Chrysanthus?

Chrysanthus. Yes.

Daria. Not confused or troubled, rather With a certain fear I see thee, For which I have grounds most ample.

Chrysanthus. Why?

Daria. Because I thought thou wert One who in a darksome cavern Died to show thy love for me.

Chrysanthus. I have yet been not so happy As to have a chance, Daria, Of thus proving my attachment.

Daria. Be that so, I 've come to seek thee, Confident, completely sanguine, That I have the power to conquer, I alone, thy pains, thy anguish; Though against me thou shouldst use The Christian armoury—enchantments.

Chrysanthus. That thou hast alone the power To subdue the pains that wrack me, I admit it; but in what Thou hast said of Christian magic I, Daria, must deny it.

Daria. How? from what cause else could happen The effects I just have witnessed?

Chrysanthus. Miracles they are and marvels.

Daria. Why do they affect not me?

Chrysanthus. 'T is because I do not ask them Against thee; because from aiding Not myself, no aid is granted.

Daria. Then I come here to undo them.

Chrysanthus. Most severe will be the battle, Upon one side their due praises On the other side thy anger.

Daria. I would have thee understand That our gods are sorely damaged By thy sentiments.

Chrysanthus. And I That those gods are false—mere phantoms.

Daria. Then get ready for the conflict, For I will not lower my standard Save with victory or death.

Chrysanthus. Though thou makest me thy captive, Thou my firmness wilt not conquer.

Daria. Then to arms! I say, to arms, then!

Chrysanthus. Though the outposts of the soul, The weak heart, by thee be captured; Not so will the Understanding, The strong warden who doth guard it.

Daria. Thou 'lt believe me, if thou 'lt love me.

Chrysanthus. Thou not me, 'till love attracts thee.

Daria. That perhaps may be; for I Would not give thee this advantage.

Chrysanthus. Oh! that love indeed may lead thee To a state so sweet and happy!

Daria. Oh! what power will disabuse thee Of thy ignorance, Chrysanthus?

Chrysanthus. Oh! what pitying power, Daria, Will the Christian faith impart thee?

ACT THE THIRD.

Scene I.—The Garden of Polemius.

Enter Polemius, Aurelius, Claudius, and Escarpin.

Polemius. All my house is in confusion, Full of terrors, full of horrors;¹¹ Ah! how true it is a son Is the source of many sorrows!—

Claudius. But, my lord, reflect . . .

Escarpin. Consider . . . Think . . .

Polemius. Why think, when misery follows?— Cease: you add to my affliction, And in no way bring me solace. Since you see that in his madness He is now more firm and constant, Falling sick of new diseases, Ere he 's well of old disorders: Since one young and beauteous maiden, Whom love wished to him to proffer, Free from every spot and blemish, Pure and perfect in her fondness, Is the one whose fatal charms Give to him such grief and torment, That each moment he may perish, That he may expire each moment; How then can you hope that I Now shall list to words of comfort?—

Claudius. Why not give this beauteous maiden To your son to be his consort, Since you see his inclination?

Polemius. For this reason: when the project I proposed, the two made answer, That before they wed, some problem, Some dispute that lay between them Should be settled: this seemed proper: But when I would know its nature I could not the cause discover. From this closeness I infer That some secret of importance Lies between them, and that this Is the source of all my sorrows.

Aurelius. Sir, my loyalty, my duty Will not let me any longer Silence keep, too clearly seeing How the evil has passed onward. On that day we searched the mountain. . . .

Polemius (aside). Woe is me! could he have known then All this time it was Chrysanthus?

Aurelius. I approaching, where with shoulders Turned against me stood one figure, Saw the countenance of another, And methinks he was . . .