Visions of Solyma, and other poems

Contents

PAGE

Cozcilia , 40

Song of the Light 160

Scene I. — Rome. Palace of the Gothic King. KING

OLD Sibyl, I am glad to see thy face, Whose every feature of my Zala speaks, And tells the love that breathes to her I love ; She more a Eoman seems, and these her skies, Than of my blood, and born 'mid Gothic snows. How fares my child ?

SIBYL.

King, in person, well.

KING.

Why then this wildness in thine eye and tone — This look that I have seen in summer skies, Which, dubious, show a smile, and drop a tear While thunders gather in some viewless cloud ? The teacher of my child should shed round joy, And brighten like a morning of young Spring.

SIBYL.

A captive Eoman seam'd by age and care Has little heart for laughter, or for love. Can the scathed oak, at will, burst into bloom, And garland its old limbs with fresh young leaves ? Can ice gush into streams when suns are hid ? The Alps are rock, yet on the mountain's heart One flower moves tears, as its blue eye looks up, And pleads with Heaven to keep the tempest back.

KING.

Thy words show peril to my daughter near ; Speak out thine heart !

SIBYL.

With this once threaten'd tongue ?

KING.

Dwell not on that, old nurse, when anger flash'd, Sweeping each mein'ry on its tide of fire Of service to my child, from life's first bud Till womanhood in her glows like a rose.

SIBYL.

But why should I to thee a fault unfold That will upon a Roman bring down stripes ?

KING.

Because — refuse, and I thy lips will force, And from them wring the secret of thy soul.

SIBYL.

Thy hand a sceptre sways, but sways not me. Touch'd by the flame that burn'd in Eome's old days, Thy wither'd slave thine empire here defies.

KING.

Stay, Sibyl, stay S nor like the sorceress stare, Who on our Gothic hills Rome's conquest sang !

SIBYL.

My love for Zala forces me to tell

What Home's own kings from me could not compel.

'T is some time since I saw how Julius sigh'd,

And gazed on her sweet face, and watch'd her form —

KING.

But why not this before ?

SIBYL.

Thy rage, O King, Restrain, and hear me through ! A short hour since, By frenzy urged, when glow'd the noontide heat, Nor stirr'd a breeze to cool the burning cheek, Julius, at Zala's feet, avow'd his love, While she, astonish'd, spurn'd the slave away.

KING.

And now she asks my vengeance on his head. Ho ! Julius ! Julius ! slaves, bring Julius here !

SIBYL.

Nay ! with the eloquence of tears she pleads That I his crime should not disclose to thee ; But fearing his wild flame I disobey.

KING.

What ! will she ask the brazen'd villain's life ? Who 'neath our yoke dares such a suit must die.

Enter Servants with Julius.

Viper ! thy shining skin did tempt this hand To warm thee and be stung — base spider thou, Spinning sly toils to snare my Zala's heart !

JULIUS.

Hear me, O King !

KING.

Mean villain, say no more !

And didst thou, slave, address my daughter's ear, And importune her with the gaze of love ? Strip him, and let the rod beat out his life !

JULIUS.

Oh, spare my flesh the scourge ! I pray thee spare !

KING.

When first our Goths possess'd these towers of Eome Thy pensive face and eye my fancy won, And waked a wish to cultivate thy gifts. Before thy mind Home's learning was unroll'd ;

Thy skilful hand soon touch'd the lute's sweet strings ;

Thy magic voice stirr'd depths of melody,

And I, near mine own Zala, then thee placed

As a companion more e'en than a slave ;

Yet thou didst dare to whisper thy vile vows.

Lay hold, and scourge him till his breath be gone !

Enter Zala. zala.

Oh, father, spare ! I do beseech thee, spare !

KING.

These Eoman dogs our silly kindness spoils. The coming feast which marks that glorious hour When our brave Goths first scaled these walls of Eome Shall bind with heavier chains the bloated knaves.

ZALA.

Oh ! must poor Julius die ! is here no hope — No door where Pity may an entrance find, And soften down stern Justice into tears ? His murd'ress I will ever brand myself, And in the midnight toss, and tear my couch, Staring to see his pale, reproachful face, While through my ear will pierce eternal shrieks Till I shall never know the dew of sleep.

KING.

Thy tears prevail. Julius, I grant thy life. Yet shall thine ear cut off teach with thy blood, And thy foul loss, its lesson to our slaves.

JULIUS.

King, I pray thee let me rather die !

Beat, stab, or burn ; stain with my gushing blood

The lion's jaws ; sink me with hissing snakes

Lone in the sea ; in silent dungeons chain

Me to the corpse whose loathsome touch is death,

But clip me not, to live a thing of scorn !

KING.

Julius, enough ! thou wilt not change me more.

[To the attendants.

Just when the dial points the hour of four, And ere the shadow of its finger pass One hair- width from the mark, apply the knife !

Scene II. — The Pantheon. Sibyl alone. SIBYL

Immortal gods who cradled infant Eome,

Then made the world her throne, oh, are ye dead ?

Majestic Jove, why sleeps thy thunderbolt

When wretches hurl thine image to the dust ?

While Juno was dragg'd down to earth by boys,

Mock'd on our streets, where thy fierce lightnings then ?

Thy shrines are robb'd, thine oracles are dumb,

Thy children kneel and cry to emptiness.

Mail'd Mars, who, flashing, led Eome's eagles on,

His helmet saw torn from his godlike brow

And to vile uses turn'd, yet stood mute marble.

Yea ! she whose Gorgon locks shook hosts with fear,

Felt, unavenged, the hammer of a slave.

Thou, crown'd Apollo, image of the sun

Whose glories beam'd in features most divine,

Majestic form, the god of light reveal'd,

Yet shatter'd down by those who hate thy shrines !

Diana's bow, her quiver, and her zone

Ground into dust, and wide o'er Tiber strewn !

Sweet Venus, dream of love, we saw thy head

First batter'd off, then turn'd to ribald jest !

Who smiled o'er earth the winged watch of Heav'n,

Your pedestals are void, your statues marr'd ;

Shrines, altars gone, and this domed Pantheon bare

Before a murder'd Jew they style their god !

Ye deities of Rome, come back ! come back !

Our gold shall pile, our blood shall smear your shrines,

And we will lift each image from the dust,

And temples crowd with your true worshippers !

Scene III. — A retired street in Rome. LUCIUS

Hail, my old friend ! How sober is thy face !

VAERO.

My mood suits my gray hairs ! but thou art fresh As this young morning air, bright as the sunshine.

LUCIUS.

Yea ! I have heard what brings me back my youth, And makes each burning pulse throb with new joy.

TITANIUS.

To Lucius, Varro, I have told our scheme ; When first he heard he turn'd his face to heaven, Then clasp'd my hand until the flesh is black ; This aching palm shows still his love for Eome.

VARRO.

His clutch more tight yet round the tyrant's throat,

To leave behind a mark as dark as death !

'T is men we want, to go where Battle bares

His blood-red arm, and on to glory leads.

Not such be ours who test the crowd by straws,

Blown on vile breath where Fortune gilded smiles ;

But those for Rome who fight and peril all

Where Power enthroned on wrong would drain their blood,

And kindle round their brows the martyr's flame.

Such was our Brutus when he Caesar struck

Whose grandeur spann'd the world, and touch'd the

heav'ns, — A tyrant rending with avenging steel Made first by Justice keen. Like Brutus yet May our Afranius stab !

LUCIUS.

A man of dreams, Who sighs where he should strike, and weakly weeps

Where he should spill but blood — not words but blows Will break Eome's chains, and yet he draws no sword.

VARRO.

But in him lurks a soul of fire that stirr'd By war to flame will scathe this Gothic herd.

TITANIUS.

Nay ! at the font the hero's spark was quench'd ; The sprinkling priest has turn'd him to a girl ; Before those drops, sat valor on his helm, Beam'd from his eye, tower'd in his manly form, Outflashing from the circles of his sword Till he 'mid battle's earthquake moved like Mars When thundering on the gods, and shaking heav'n.

LUCIUS.

Yes ! lean as love beneath the moon he steals To sit in tears upon some shatter'd shaft, Eesting his silent head upon his hand To watch the stars, and gaze on vacancy.

VARRO.

Ye both mistake — the hero's fire will blaze ; A crisis comes — these silken lords of Kome Who live in homes fond fathers built for them, Spend gold they never earn'd, and cringe to Goths ; Burning with lust where they should flame with hate ; Naught in themselves, who boast their robes and slaves, Dote on the steeds that whirl them to the goal,

Or vaunt the wretch who wins them crowns with blood/ Wantons, whom music lulls in curtain'd beds — Who have the shapes of men, and souls of boys, And shake to feel the breath e'en of the spring, These may by valor win what cowardice lost, And learn from stripes in dying manhood's gasp. But, angry, Julius comes ! I '11 help his rage.

Enter Julius.

Tell me, slave, thy master how this morn !

JULIUS.

Master, thou fool ! A Koman knows no master !

LUCIUS.

Save when the lash shall mark his back with blood, And his all-quivering flesh proclaim the slave.

JULIUS.

'T was for the King ye ask'd — then curse the King,

And having done begin and curse again,

Till curses, hot as hate, shall pierce him through.

VARRO.

Oh, bravo, Julius — tell us whence this wrath !

TITANIUS.

The royal tongue has scored for some slight fault, Or Zala, peevish, order'd him to stripes Which to a hero turn'd her writhing slave.

JULIUS.

Your jeers I do deserve, since I, a slave, Content to live for those who pamper'd me, Have show'd these Goths, more hungry than their wolves, Our delicate delights whose organs drink The glorious light of these Italian 'skies. But that has happen'd which strikes off my chain ; Henceforth I live to blast the tyrant's life.

ALL.

Farewell, brave Julius, till thy temper cools.

[Exeunt.

JULIUS.

I seem hideous — of my proportion shorn ;

Each stream will mirror my deformity ;

The rounded moon each month will tell my loss ;

The sun's full orb will speak it through each day.

I '11 feel unfit to dwell 'mid curious beasts ;

Ashamed to look my fellow in the eyes ;

Doom'd till my death to hear the scoffs of boys,

The suppress'd titter of each giddy girl ;

Clipp'd like some dumb beast to bear abroad

The mark and badge of him whose slave I am.

O ear, that thrill'd once with a mother's voice,

Thy savage sev'rance turns my love to hate,

My conscience kills, wakes hell that cries for blood.

Thou, through whose veins Koine's noblest currents flow'd,

Dragg'd from thy halls down to a Goth's vile breast,

Smile from thy skies, and hear thine injured son !

Since there I knelt where Jove his image lifts Majestic as a god, and burn'd to him The grain whose smoke roll'd o'er the Capitol, My breast, an ocean, has whirl'd round in fire. An angel bars the starry gates of light ! Apostate from my faith, I read my doom — Kevenge my heaven ! Eevenge at last my hell !