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THE DESERT ISLAND, A DRAMATIC POEM, IN THREE ACTS.
As it is Acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.
Te, dulcis conjux, te ſolo in littore ſecum
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
VIRG.
LONDON, Printed for PAUL VAILLANT, facing Southampton-ſtreet, in the Strand. MDCCLX.
[Price One Shilling and Six Pence.]
PROLOGUE, Written and Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, In the Character of a DRUNKEN POET.
ALL, all ſhall out—all that I know and feel;
I will by Heav'n—to higher Powers appeal!—
Behold a Bard!—no Author of to-night—
No, no,—they can't ſay that, with all their ſpite:
Ay, you may frown (looking behind the ſcenes) I'm at you, great and ſmall—
Your Poet, Players, Managers and all!—
Theſe Fools within here, ſwear that I'm in liquor—
My paſſion warms me—makes my utt'rance thicker;—
I totter too—but that's the Gout and Pain,—
French Wines, and living high, have been my bane.—
From all temptations now, I wiſely ſteer me;
Nor will I ſuffer one fine Woman near me.
And this I ſacrifice, to give you pleaſure—
For you I've coin'd my brains,—and here's the treaſure!
Pulls out a Manuſcript.
A treaſure this, of profit and delight!
And all thrown by for this damn'd ſtuff to-night:—
This is a play would water ev'ry eye!—
If I but look upon't, it makes me cry:
This Play would tears from blood-ſtain'd Soldiers draw,—
And melt the bowels of hard-hearted Law!
Would fore end aft the ſtorm-proof Sailor rake;—
Keep turtle-eating Aldermen awake!
Would the cold blood of ancient Maidens thrill,
And make ev'n pretty younger tongues lie ſtill.
[]This Play not ev'n Managers would refuſe,—
Had Heav'n but giv'n 'em any brains, to chuſe!—
Puts up his Manuſcript.
Your Bard to-night, bred in the ancient ſchool,
Deſigns and meaſures all by critic rule;
'Mongſt Friends—it goes no farther—He's a Fool.
So very claſſic, and ſo very dull—
His Deſert Iſland is his own dear Skull:
No Soul to make the Play-houſe ring, and rattle,
No Trumpets, Thunder, Ranting, Storms, or Battle!
But all your fine poetic Prittle-prattle.
The Plot is this—A Lady's caſt away—
"Long before the beginning of the Play;"
And they are taken by a Fiſherman,
The Lady and the Child—'tis Bays's plan—
So on he blunders—He's an Iriſhman.—
'Tis all alike—his comic ſtuff I mean—
I hate all humour—it gives me the Spleen;
So damn 'em both, with all my heart, unſight, unſeen.
But ſhould you ruin him, ſtill I'm undone—
I've try'd all ways to bring my Phoenix on—
Shewing his Play again.
Flatter I can with any of our Tribe—
Can cut and ſlaſh—indeed I cannot bribe;
What muſt I do then?—beg you to ſubſcribe.
Be kind ye Boxes, Galleries, and Pit—
'Tis but a Crown a piece, for-all this Wit:
All Sterling Wit—to puff myſelf I hate—
You'll ne'er ſupply your wants at ſuch a rate!
'Tis worth your money, I would ſcorn to wrong ye,—
You ſmile conſent—I'll ſend my hat among ye.
Going, he returns.
So much beyond all praiſe your bounties ſwell!
Not my own Tongue, my Gra-ti-tude can tell—
"A little Flattery ſometimes does well."
Staggers off.
Dramatis Perſonae.
[]MEN.
- FERDINAND, Huſband to Conſtantia, Mr. HOLLAND.
- HENRICO, Friend to Ferdinand, Mr. FLEETWOOD.
WOMEN.
- CONSTANTIA, Mrs. PRITCHARD.
- SYLVIA, her Daughter, Miſs PRITCHARD.
SCENE, A DESERT ISLAND.
THE DESERT ISLAND.
[1]ACT I.
The ſcene repreſents a vale in the Deſert Iſland, ſurrounded by rocks, caverns, grottos, flowering ſhrubs, exotic trees, and plants growing wild. On one ſide is a cavern in a rock, over the entrance of which appears, in large characters, an unfiniſh⯑ed inſcription. CONSTANTIA is diſcovered at work at the inſcription, in a romantic habit of ſkins, leaves, and flowers; in her hand ſhe holds a broken ſword, and ſtands in act to finiſh the imperfect inſcription.
After a ſhort pauſe, ſhe begins.
REST, reſt my arm — ye weary ſinews, reſt —
Awhile forget your office —On this rock
Here ſit thee down, and think thy-ſelf to ſtone.
Sits down.
—Would heav'n I could! —
[riſes.]
Ye ſhrubs, ye nameleſs plants,[2]That wildly-gadding 'midſt the rifted rocks
Wreathe your fantaſtic ſhoots;—ye darkſome trees
That weave yon verdant arch above my head,
Shad'wing this ſolemn ſcene; — ye moſs-grown caves,
Romantic grottos,—all ye objects drear, —
Tell me, in pity tell me, have ye ſeen,
Thro' the long ſeries of revolving time,
In which you have inclos'd this lonely manſion,
Say, have ye ſeen another wretch like me?—
No, never!—You, in tend'reſt ſympathy,
Have join'd my plaints— you, at the midnight hour,
When with uprooted hair I've ſtrew'd the earth,
And call'd my huſband gone;—have call'd in vain
Perfidious Ferdinand!—you, at that hour,
Have waken'd echo in each vocal cell,
Till ev'ry grove, and ev'ry mountain hoar,
Mourn'd to my griefs reſponſive—Well you know
The ſtory of my woes—Ev'n yonder marble
Relenting feels the touch; receives each trace
That forms the melancholy tale.—Tho' rude,
And inexpert my hand; — tho' all uncouth
The inſtrument, — yet there behold my work
Well nigh complete—let me about it ſtreight.
She advances toward the rock.
Ye deep engraven letters, there remain;
And if in future time reſiſtleſs fate
Should throw ſome Briton on this diſmal ſhore;
Then ſpeak aloud; — to his aſtoniſh'd ſenſe
Relate my ſad, my memorable caſe —
Alarm his ſoul, call out —
[3]STOP TRAVELLER. HERE CONSTANTIA, WITH HER LITTLE INFANT, SYLVIA, WAS DESERTED BY HER HUSBAND, THE PERFIDIOUS FERDINAND; WHO PRETENDING TO LAND HER FOR REFRESHMENT FROM THE DANGERS OF A STORMY SEA, BARBAROUSLY LEFT HER ON THIS UNHOSPITABLE ISLAND, WHERE SHE ENDED HER DEPLORABLE LIFE. FRIEND! WHOE'ER THOU ART, PITY MY WRONGS, BUT AGAINST MY HUSBAND, (FOR LOVE LIKE MINE CANNOT FORGET WHERE ONCE WITH DELIGHT IT FIXED) I CHARGE YOU NEVER MEDITATE R—
Revenge! —the word Revenge is wanting ſtill.
Ye holy pow'rs! if with one pitying look
You'll deign to view me, grant my earneſt pray'r!
Let me but finiſh this my ſad inſcription,
Then let this buſy, this afflicted heart
Be ſtill at once, and beat my breaſt no more,
She goes on with her work.
Enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
My deareſt mother — oh! quite out of breath.
CONSTANTIA.
[4]What is the matter, child?
SYLVIA.
Why, ma'am, my heart,
Beats wild with joy —oh! ſuch an incident!—
CONSTANTIA.
What incident, my ſweet?
SYLVIA.
My little fawn,
My dear, my lovelieſt fawn, — for many days
Whoſe loſs I've mourn'd; for whoſe dear ſake I've left
No corner of the iſle unſearch'd; —this moment
O'er the dew-ſpangled lawn, with printleſs feet,
Came bounding to me; playful friſk'd about
With inexpreſſive airs of glad ſurprize,
With eager ſigns of tranſport—Big round tears
Stood trembling in his eye, and ſeem'd to ſpeak
His fond regret ſtill mingling with his joy.
CONSTANTIA.
And is it that, my love, delights thee ſo? —
SYLVIA.
And can you wonder, ma'am? — yes, that de⯑lights me,
Tranſports me, charms me; — he's my darling care,
My dear companion, my ſweet little friend,
That loves me, gambols round me, watches ſtill
With anxious tenderneſs my ev'ry motion,
[5]Pants on my boſom, leaps into my arms,
And wanders o'er me with a thouſand kiſſes.
Before this time, he never once ſtray'd from me;
—I thought I loſt him; —but he's found again!
And can you wonder I'm tranſported thus!
CONSTANTIA.
Oh! happy ſtate of innocence! — how ſweet
Thy joys, ſimplicity, e'er yet the mind
With artificial paſſions learns to glow;
Ere taſte has ta'en our ſenſes to her ſchool,
Has given each well-bred appetite her laws,
Taught us to feel imaginary bliſs,
Or elſs expire in elegance of pain.
SYLVIA.
Nay, now, again, you're growing grave—'tis you
Give laws to appetite; — forbid each ſenſe
To miniſter delight; your eyes are dimm'd
With conſtant tears; — the roſes on your cheek
Fade like yon violets, when exceſſive dews
Have bent their drooping melancholy heads;
Soon they repair their graces; ſoon recal
Their aromatic lives, and ſmiling yield
To ſighing Zephyr all their balmy ſweets.
To grief you're ſtill a prey; ſtill wan deſpair
Sits with'ring at your heart, and ev'ry feature
Has your directions to be fix'd in woe.
Nay, pr'ythee now clear up—you make me ſad—
— Will you, Mama, forget your cares? —
CONSTANTIA.
Forget! —
Oh! ſweet oblivion, thy all-healing balm
[6]To wretches you refuſe! —can I forget
Perfidious Ferdinand? — His tyrant form
Is ever preſent — The deluding looks,
Endearing accents, and the ſoft regards
With which he led me to yon moſs-clad cave,
There to repoſe awhile —oh! cruel man!
And you, ye conſcious wilds, I call you falſe!
Accomplices in guilt! — The Zephyrs bland
That pant upon each leaf; — the melody
That warbles thro' your groves; the falling foun⯑tains
That at each deep'ning cadence lull the mind,
Were all ſuborn'd againſt me; all conſpir'd
To wrap me in the ſilken folds of ſleep.
Sudden I wake — where, where is Ferdinand?
I rave, I ſhriek, —no Ferdinand replies;—
Frantic I rove thro' all your winding glades,—
I ſeek the ſhore; — no Ferdinand appears —
I climb yon craggy ſteeps; I ſee the ſhip
Unfurling all her ſails — I call aloud,
I ſtamp, cry out; — deaf as the roaring ſea
He catches ev'ry gale that blows from heav'n,
And cleaves his liquid way. —
SYLVIA.
Why will you thus
Recal your paſt afflictions? —
CONSTANTIA.
Ah! what then,
Thou wretched Conſtance, what were then thy feelings
[7]I rend my treſſes, — beat my breaſt in vain,
In vain ſtretch out theſe ineffectual arms,
Pierce with my frantic cries the wounded air,
Daſh my bare boſom on the flinty rock,
Then riſe again, and ſtrain my aching ſight,
To ſee the ſhip ſtill leſſ'ning to my view,
And take the laſt, laſt glimpſe, as far, far off
In the horizon's verge ſhe dwindles ſtill,
Grows a dim ſpeck, and mixes with the clouds
Juſt vaniſhing, — juſt loſt, —ah! ſeen no more.
SYLVIA.
I pr'ythee don't talk ſo—my heart dies in me—
Why won't you ſtrive a little to forget
This melancholy theme? — the twilight grey
Of morn but faintly ſtreaks the eaſt; the ſtars
Still glimmer thro' the whit'ning air; the groves
Are mute; yon all-devouring deep lies huſh'd;
The tuneful birds, and the whole brute creation
Still ſink in ſoft oblivious ſlumber wrapp'd,
Forgetful of their cares;—all, —all but you
Know ſome repoſe; — you paſs the dreary night
In tears and ceaſeleſs grief; then riſing wild
Anticipate the dawn, and here reſume
Your doleful taſk, or elſe aſcend the height
Of yonder promontory; there forlorn
You ſit, and hear the brawling waves beneath
Laſh the reſounding ſhore; your brimful eye
Still fix'd on that ſad quarter of the heav'ns
Where my hard father diſappear'd.
CONSTANTIA.
[8]Yes, there
My melancholy loves to dwell; there loves
To ſit, and pine over its hoard of grief;
To roll theſe eyes o'er all the ſullen main,
In hopes ſome ſail may this way ſhape its courſe,
With tidings of the human race—Oh! heav'ns!
Could I behold that dear, that wiſh'd for ſight,
Could I but ſee ſome veſtiges of man,
Some mark of ſocial life, ev'n tho' the ſhip
Should ſhun this iſle, and court propitious gales
Beneath ſome happier clime; yet ſtill the view
Would chear my ſoul, and my heart bound with joy
At that faint proſpect of my fellow creatures.
But not for me, ſuch tranſport;—not for me—
Dear native land, I now no more muſt ſee thee,
Condemn'd in ever-during ſolitude to mourn,
From thy ſweet joys, ſociety, debarr'd!
SYLVIA.
But to your happineſs what's wanting here?
Full many a time I've heard you praiſe the arts,
The poliſh'd manners, and gay ſcenes of bliſs
Which Europe yields — yet ever and anon
I from your own diſcourſe can gather too
That happineſs is all unknown to Europe;
That envy there can dwell, and diſcontent;
The ſmile, that wakens at another's woe;
The heart, that ſickens at another's praiſe;
The tongue, that carries the malignant tale;
[9]The little ſpirit, that ſubverts a friend;
Fraud, perfidy, ingratitude, and murder.
Now ſure with reaſon I prefer theſe ſcenes
Of innocence, tranquillity, and joy!
CONSTANTIA.
Alas! my child, 'tis eaſy to forego
Unknown delights — pleaſures we've never felt. —
SYLVIA.
Are we not here what you yourſelf have told me
In Europe ſovereigns are? — here we have fix'd
Our little ſylvan reign. — The guileleſs race
Of animals, that roam the lawns and woods,
Are tractable and willing ſubjects; — pay
Paſſive obedience to us — and yon ſea
Becomes our tributary; hither rolls
In each hoarſe-murm'ring tide his various ſtores
Of daintieſt ſhell-fiſh — the unbidden earth,
Of human toil all ignorant, pours forth
Whatever to the eye, or taſte, can prove
Rare, exquiſite, and good — at once the ſpring
Calls forth its green delights, and ſummer's bluſh
Glows on each purple branch. The ſeaſons here
On the ſame tree, with glad ſurprize,
Behold each other's gifts ariſe;
Spontaneous fruits around us grow;
For ever here the Zephyrs blow:
Shrubs ever flow'ring,
Shades embow'ring;
Heav'nly ſpots,
Cooling grots,
[10]Verdant mountains,
Falling fountains;
Pure limpid rills,
Adown the hills,
That wind their way
And o'er the meadows play,
Enamour'd of th' enchanted ground.
CONSTANTIA.
What is this waſte of beauty, all theſe charms
Of cold, inanimate, unconſcious nature,
Without the ſocial ſenſe? thoſe joys, my Sylvia,
Thou can'ſt not miſs; for thou haſt never known 'em.
SYLVIA.
But ſtill, thoſe beauteous tracts of Europe,
Which you ſo much regret, are full of men;
And men, you know, are animals of prey:
I'm ſure that you yourſelf have told me ſo
A thouſand times. —
CONSTANTIA.
And if I have, my child,
I told a diſmal truth. — Oh! they are falſe,
Inexorable, cruel, fell deceivers;
Their unrelenting hearts no harbour know
For honour, truth, humanity, or love.
SYLVIA.
Well then, in this lone iſle, this dear retreat
From them at leaſt we're free. —
CONSTANTIA.
[11]Poor innocent!
I can't but grieve for her —
Burſts into tears, aſide.
SYLVIA.
Why fall afreſh
Thoſe drops of ſorrow? — pray you, now give o'er. —
CONSTANTIA.
My heart will break—I do not grieve, my child—
I can't conceal my tears—they muſt have way—
SYLVIA.
Nay, if you love me, ſure you will not thus
Make my heart ake within me! —
CONSTANTIA.
No, my ſweet —
I will not weep — all will be well, my love —
Oh! miſery! — I can't, — I can't contain —
The black ingratitude! —
Weeps.
SYLVIA.
Say, is there aught
That I can do, Mama, to give you comfort? —
If there is, tell me — ſhall I fetch my fawn?
Dry up your tears, and he is your's this moment,
—I'll run and bring him to you. —
CONSTANTIA.
Sylvia, no! —
SYLVIA.
Nay do, Mama—I beg you will—you ſhall.
Exit.
CONSTANTIA
[12]alone.
Alas! I fear my brain will turn — the ſun
Full ſixteen times hath made his annual courſe,
Since here I've dragg'd a miſerable being,
The victim of deſpair; which long e'er now,
To phrenzy kindling, muſt have forc'd me daſh
My brain in madneſs on yon flinty rocks,
And end my pangs at once; if the keen inſtinct
Of ſtrong maternal love had not reſtrain'd
My wild diſorder'd ſoul, and bade me live
To watch her tender infancy; to rear
Her blooming years; with fond delighted care
To tend each bloſſom of her growing mind,
And ſee light gradual dawning on her ſoul.
And yet to ſee her thus, — to ſee her here,
Cut off from ev'ry ſocial bliſs; condemn'd
Like ſome fair flow'r that in a deſert grows,
To breathe its ſweets into the paſſing wind,
And waſte its bloom all unperceiv'd away!
It is enough to break a mother's heart.
Let me not think on't—let me ſhun that thought.
Sits down and ſings.
I.
What tho' his guilt my heart hath torn,
Yet lovely is his mien,
His eyes mild-op'ning as the morn,
Round him each grace is ſeen.
But oh! ye nymphs, your loves ne'er let him win,
For oh! deceit and falſhood dwell within.
II.
[13]From his red lip his accents ſtole,
Soft as kind vernal ſnows;
Melting they came, and in the ſoul
Deſire and joy aroſe.
But oh! ye nymphs, ne'er liſten to his art,
For oh! baſe falſhood rankles in his heart.
III.
He left me in this lonely ſtate!
He fled, and left me here,
Another Ariadne's fate,
To mourn the live-long year.
He fled — but oh! what pains the heart muſt prove,
When we reveal the crimes of him we love!
Re-enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
I cannot bring him now — in yonder ſtream
That thro' its pebbled channel glides along
Soft-murm'ring to the ſea, he ſtands to cool
His beauteous form in the pure limpid rill.
But ſtill he ſhall be your's —
CONSTANTIA.
To thee, my child,
To thee he cauſes joy — but joy to me
There's nothing now can bring — left by my huſband!
By the falſe barb'rous man! —
SYLVIA.
[14]And yet this man
You ſtill regret mdash; you muſt excuſe me now —
I vow, I can't but think, 'midſt all your grief,
All your reproaches, your complaints againſt him,
That ſtill this man, this cruel fell deceiver,
Has found,—I know not why—within your breaſt
Some tender advocate, to plead his cauſe.
CONSTANTIA.
No, Sylvia, no; my love is turn'd to hate! —
SYLVIA.
Then dry your ſorrows and this day begin
A happier train of years — and lo! the ſun
Emerges from the ſea — He liſts his orb
Above the purpled main, and ſtreams abroad
His golden fluid o'er the world — the birds
Exulting wake their notes — all things rejoice,
And hills, and groves, and rocks, and vallies ſmile.
Let me entreat you then forget your cares,
And ſhare the general bliſs.—
The ſun is ſeen to riſe at a diſtance, as it were out of the ſea.
CONSTANTIA.
Once more all hail,
Thou radiant power, who in your bright career
Or riſing or deſcending, haſt beheld
My never-ceaſing woe! — again thou climb'ſt
[15]In orient glory, and recall'ſt the cares
And toils of man and beaſt—but oh! in all
Your flaming courſe, your beams will never light
Upon a wretch ſo loſt, ſo curſt as I am.
SYLVIA.
And yet, my mother—
CONSTANTIA.
Mine are pangs, my child,
Strokes of adverſity no time can cure,
No lenient arts can ſoften or aſſuage.
But I'll not grieve thee, Sylvia — I'll retire
To ſome ſequeſter'd haunt—There, all forlorne,
I'll ſit, and wear myſelf away in thought.
Exit.
SYLVIA,
alone.
Alas! how obſtinately bent on grief
Is her whole mind! — the votariſt of care!
In vain I try to ſoften her afflictions,
And with each art beguile her from her woe.
I chide, intreat, careſs, and all in vain.
And what to me ſeems ſtrange, perverſe, and wond'rous,
The more I ſtrive, the more her ſorrows ſwell;
Her tears the faſter fall, fall down her cheek
In ſtreams ſo copious, and ſuch bitter anguiſh,
That I myſelf at length, I know not how,
Catch the ſoft weakneſs, and o'erpow'r'd with grief,
Flow all diſſolving in unbidden tears.
Aſſiſt her heav'n. — Her heart will break at laſt —
[16]I tremble at the thought — I'll follow ſtraight
And ſtill implore, beſeech, try evr'y way
To reconcile her to herſelf and me.
But ſee, look yonder! what a ſight is there!
What can it mean, that huge enormous maſs
That moves upon the boſom of the deep!
— A floating mountain! — no — a mountain never
Could change its place — for ſuch a monſtrous bulk
How light it urges on its way — how quick,
How rapid in its courſe! — What can it be—
— I'll tow'rd the ſhore, and from the pointed rock
That juts into the waves, at leiſure view
This wond'rous ſight, and what it is explore.
END of the firſt ACT.
ACT II.
[17]SCENE, Another view of the iſland, with an opening to the ſea between ſeveral hills and rocks.
Enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
STILL I behold it—ſtill it glides along
Thro' the tumultuous ſea — and lo! before it
The waves divide! and now they cloſe again,
Leaving a tract of angry foam behind.
It muſt be, ſure, ſome monſter of the deep;
For ſee! — upon its huge broad back it bears
Expanded wings, that, ſpreading to the wind,
Lie broad incumbent o'er the ſurge beneath —
— Ah! ſave me, ſave me! — what new forms appear!
What ſhapes of unknown being riſe before me!
From yon huge monſter"s ſide they iſſue forth,
And bolt upon the ſhore! — behold, they ſtop,
And now with eager diſconcerted pace
Precipitate ruſh forward on the Iſle, —
Now 'mongſt the rocks they wind their ſilent way,
[18]FERDINAND and HENRICO appear.
Protect me, heav'n! defend me! ſhield me!—ah!
Hide me, ye woods, within your deep receſs;
Ne'er may theſe monſters penetrate your haunts;
Ne'er trace my footſteps thro' your darkſome ways.
Behind the covert of this woodbine bow'r
Oh! let me reſt conceal'd! —
She retires.
FERDINAND and HENRICO come forward.
HENRICO.
No trace appears,
No veſtige here is ſeen of human kind.
'Tis drear, 'tis waſte, and unfrequented all.
And hark! — what noiſe? — from yonder toil⯑ing deep
How dreadful ſounds the pealing roar! — my friend,
My valued Ferdinand, 'twere beſt retire.
This cannot be the place. —
FERDINAND.
Oh! my Henrico,
This is the fatal ſhore — the well-known ſcene,
Yon bay, yon rocks, yon mountains, from whoſe brows
Th' imbow'ring foreſt over-hangs the deep,
Each well-remember'd object ſtrikes my view,
Anſwers the image in my mind preſerv'd,
[19]Engraven there by love's recording-hand,
And never, but with life, to fade from thence.
HENRICO.
And yet thy love-enfeebled ſoul may form
Imaginary tokens of reſemblance.
This ſoil unbeaten ſeems by mortal ſtep.
FERDINAND.
No, my Henrico, no — this is the ſpot —
My heart in ev'ry pulſe confirms it to me.
This is the place, the very place, where fate
Began to weave the tiſſue of my woes.
Oh! I was curſt, abhorr'd of heav'n, or elſe
I ne'er had truſted the contentious waves,
But kept my ſtore of happineſs at home.
HENRICO
Repine not for an action that aroſe
From filial piety, — a father's mandate
Requir'd obedience from you. —
FERDINAND.
To his ſummons
I paid a glad attention — yet, good heav'n!
Why in that early aera of my bliſs
Should then his orders come, to daſh my joys? —
Oh! I was bleſt with all that rareſt beauty,
With all that ev'ry Venus of the mind,
The tender heart, and the enliven'd wit
Could pour delightful on the raptur'd ſenſe
Of the young bridegroom, whoſe admiring eyes
Still hung enamour'd on her ev'ry charm,
[20]And thence drank long inſpiring draughts of love,
Unſated ſtill, — ſtill kindling at the view.
HENRICO.
Thy fate indeed was hard —
FERDINAND.
Heav'n knows it was —
Each ſoft deſire, each joy refin'd was mine —
The hours ſoft glided by, and as they paſs'd
Scatter'd new bleſſings from their balmy wings;
They ſaw our ever new delight; they ſaw
A blooming offspring crown our mutual loves;
The mother's features, and her ev'ry grace
In this our daughter exquiſitely trac'd.
But to be torn from that ſupreme of bliſs, —
My wife, — Conſtantia, — and my beauteous babe,
Here to be left on this untravell'd iſle,
To pine in bitterneſs of want! — their bed
The cold bare earth, while the inclement winds
From yonder main came howling round their heads,
Until at length the friendly hand of death
In pity threw his ſhrowd upon their woes.
HENRICO.
Too ſure, I fear, they're loſt. —
FERDINAND.
Perhaps, my friend,
Perhaps when gaſping in the pangs of death,—
[21]—When ev'ry beauty faded from her cheek,
—And her eye languiſh'd motionleſs and dim,
Perhaps ev'n then, in that ſad diſmal hour,
My name ſtill hover'd on her quiv'ring lips,
And nought but death could tear me from her heart.
HENRICO.
Her tend'reſt thoughts no doubt were fix'd on thee.
FERDINAND.
Her tend'reſt thoughts! oh! no — her utmoſt rage—
Who knows, Henrico, but ſhe deem'd me falſe;
Deem'd me a vile deſerter from her arms?
She did, — ſhe muſt — each ſtrong appearance join'd
To mark me guilty —Oh! that thought ſtrikes deep
It's ſcorpion ſtings into my very heart.
Could ſhe but think me ſo refin'd in guilt,
So exquiſite a villain, as to cauſe
A moment's anguiſh in that tender breaſt,
Where all the loves, where all the virtues dwelt,
—'Twere miſery, — 'twere torture in th' ex⯑treme—
And yet ſhe thought me ſuch—by heav'n ſhe did—
Accus'd me of the worſt, the blackeſt treaſon,
Of treaſon to my love — ſtung with th' idea
She roam'd this iſle, and to theſe deſert wilds
[22]Pour'd forth her lamentable tale; — who knows
But on ſome craggy cliff whole nights ſhe ſat
Raving in madneſs to the moon's pale gleam;
Until at length all kindling into phrenzy,
Claſping her infant cloſer to her breaſt,
With deſperation wild from off the rock
Headlong ſhe plung'd into the roaring waves,
While her laſt accents murmur'd faithleſs Fer⯑dinand.
HENRICO.
Diſtract not thus your ſoul with fancied woes.
She could not think thee faithleſs; thee, whoſe mind,
Whoſe ev'ry virtue were ſo well approv'd.
FERDINAND.
Still will I hope ſhe did not. — Oh! ſhe knew
I made that voyage in duty to a father.
A while we ſteer'd a happy courſe, until
Beneath the burning line, from whence the ſun
In ſtreight direction pours his ardent blaze
On ev'ry fever'd ſenſe, a ſtorm aroſe,
Sudden and wild; as if a war of nature
Were thund'ring o'er our heads — full twenty days
It drove us headlong on the daſhing ſurge
Far from our deſtin'd way, until at length
In evil hour we landed on this iſle.
[23]SYLVIA returns, and peeps from behind a hedge.
SYLVIA.
Methought I heard a ſound, as if they both
Held mutual converſe — yonder lo! they ſtand —
They do not follow me — what can they be! —
FERDINAND.
There is the ſpot, juſt where yon aged tree
Imbrowns the plain beneath, on which the villains,
The unrelenting band of pirates, ſeiz'd me —
There I receiv'd my wound, and there I fought
Till my ſword ſhiver'd in my hand — worn out,
Oppreſs'd by numbers, pow'rleſs, and diſarm'd,
They bore me headlong to the beach; in vain
Piercing the air with horrid cries; in vain
Back towr'd the cave, where poor Conſtantia ſlept,
With her lov'd infant daughter in her arms,
Straining my ardent eyes — my eyes alone!
For oh! their cruelty had bound my arms,
And tears and looks were all I then could uſe.
SYLVIA.
The voice but indiſtinctly ſtrikes my ear,
Would they would turn this way. —
FERDINAND.
Fetter'd, ty'd down,
They dragg'd me to the veſſel—bore me hence—
[24]In vain our ſhip purſued—In vain gave chaſe—
Form'd with deteſted ſkill the guilty bark
In which they plung'd me, gliding oe'r the main
Outſtripp'd their tardy courſe — they ſteer'd away
Far to their regions of accurſed bondage,
Far from Conſtantia, far from ev'ry joy
A doating huſband, and delighted father
Feels in mix'd rapture with his wife and child.
Oh! I could pour my plaints — but I'll not wound
Thy ear, my friend, with further lamentation.
HENRICO.
Would Heav'n I could remove the cauſe —
FERDINAND.
Alas!
That cannot be — Thou can'ſt not bid return
The irrevocable flight of time; recall
The moments of our young delight; annul
And render void, what once the hand of fate
Hath from it's ſtores of woe, pour'd down upon me.
SYLVIA
(half concealed.)
Why will they ſtand with looks averted thus?
I long to ſee their countenance and mein.
FERDINAND.
But yet, thou beſt of friends, yet grant me this;
Aſſiſt my ſearch; — oh! let me roam around
This fatal ſhore — the iſle's circumference
[25]Circles a ſcanty ſpace — we cannot loſe
Each other here — do thou purſue that path
That leads due eaſt — this way I'll bend my courſe.
HENRICO.
By heav'n there is no taſk of hardihood
Of toil, or danger but I'll try for thee;
For thee, my friend; — to thee I owe my life,
And that more precious boon, my liberty:
Thou haſt releas'd me from the galling chain,
From ſlav'ry's bitter preſſure — 'twas thy ſkil,
That form'd the plan of freedom, ſeiz'd the veſſel,
And made your friends the partners of your flight.
— For thee I'll roam around — but oh! I fear
Our ſearch will prove in vain —
FERDINAND.
Too ſure it will —
And yet it is the doom of love like mine
To dwell for ever on the ſad idea
Of the dear object loſt; to viſit oft
A lonely pilgrim ev'ry well known ſcene,
Each haunted glade, where the lov'd object ſtray'd;
To call each circumſtance of paſs'd delight
Back to the ſoul; in fond excurſions ſeek
The dear lamented ſhade — Then, oh! my friend,
Then let me taſte that ſad, that penſive comfort,
[26]Range thro' theſe wilds; aſcend each craggy ſteep,
Try in each grotto, in each gloomy cave
If haply there remain ſome veſtige of Conſtantia,
Exit.
HENRICO.
On yonder beach we'll meet again — fare⯑well! —
SYLVIA.
Conceal thee Sylvia;—ah!—it comes this way!—
Then let me ſeek the covert of the woods,
Where nods the browneſt horror; there lie ſafe
From the unuſual ſight of theſe ſtrange beings.
Exit.
HENRICO,
ſolus.
How cruel is my friend's condition! —doom'd
For ever to regret, yet never find
The object of his ſoul — his early love
He laviſh'd all on her — with her it goes
To the dank grave, and leaves him hapleſs here
To die a lingering death. — Yet ſtill I'll try
Bv ev'ry office friendſhip can perform
To heal the wound that preys upon his life.
Exit.
[27] The back ſcene cloſes, and preſents a thick wood; then enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
What have my eyes beheld? — my flutt'ring heart
Beats quick in ſtange emotions — from yon grove
Of tufted trees, I ſaw this nameleſs being
Walk o'er, the ruſſet heath — it's face appear'd
Confeſs'd to view — It cannot be a man —
No lines of cruelty deform'd his viſage.—
Were it a man, his untam'd ſavage ſoul
Would ſtrongly ſpeak in each diſtorted fea⯑ture —
This was all pleaſing, amiable and mild:
A gentle ſorrow, bright'ning into ſmiles,
Such as beſpoke a calm, yet feeling ſpirit,
Sat on its' peaceful brow, and oe'r it threw
A gentle gleam of ſweetneſs and of pain.
— It cannot be a woman neither — no —
The dreſs accords not with that mode, which oft
My mother hath deſcrib'd — Whate'er it be
Attraction dwells about it; winning ſmiles;
Aſſuaſive airs of tenderneſs and joy.
I'll ſeek my mother — ſhe perhaps may know
Theſe forms, to me unuſual — By this row
Of darkſome pines, my ſteps all unperceiv'd
[28]May gain the place where with aſſiduous hand
She works, and teaches the rude rocks to tell
Her mournful elegy — what mean my feet?
—Why ſtand they thus forgetful of their office?
—Why heaves th' involuntary ſigh! — and why
Thus in quick pulſes beats my heart? — my eyes
A miſty dimneſs covers—In my ears
Strange murmurs ſound — my very breath is loſt—
What can it be?—I know thee fear!—'tis thou
That cauſeſt this! — and yet it can't be fear—
Fear cannot thrill with pleaſure thro' the veins;
Knows not this dubious joy—theſe grateful tremblings—
I cannot gueſs what theſe emotions mean,
Nor what this buſy thing my heart would want!
Let me ſeek ſhelter in my mother's arms.
Exit.
Scene changes to the firſt view of the iſland where CONSTANTIA'S inſcription is ſeen.
Enter FERDINAND
FERDINAND
No—never more ſhall theſe fond eyes behold her.
Loſt, loſt, my poor Conſtantia loſt! — In vain
I ſearch theſe gloomy woods — In vain call out
Her honour'd name to ev'ry hill and dale.
[29]My eyes are falſe, or on the craggy baſe
Of yonder rock ſome inſtrument appears,
The mark of human kind —
Takes it up.
A broken ſword!
Oh! all ye heav'nly pow'rs! — the very ſame—
This once was mine — unfaithful to it's truſt
It fail'd me at my utmoſt need — I ſee
The well known characters; the very words
That form'd it's motto —'tis, it is the ſame —
Oh! were Conſtantia found! — what do I ſee?
All o'er with hair the flinty rock beſtrew'd! —
Theſe were her decent treſſes—theſe in anguiſh
She tore relentleſs from her beauteous head,
Up by the roots ſhe tore, and ſcatter'd wild
To all the paſſing winds—ſhe ſtill may live!—
Conſtantia? — my belov'd, — my life, return!—
Conſtantia! — ha! —what myſtic characters
Are hewn into the rock? — my name appears—
He reads.
STOP TRAVELLER. HERE CONSTANTIA, WITH HER LITTLE INFANT, SYLVIA, WAS DESERTED BY HER HUSBAND, THE PERFIDIOUS FERDINAND; WHO PRETENDING TO LAND HER FOR REFRESHMENT [30] FROM THE DANGERS OF A STORMY SEA, BARBAROUSLY LEFT HER ON THIS UNHOSPITABLE ISLAND, WHERE SHE ENDED HER DEPLORABLE LIFE.
Support me, heav'n! — ah! no—withold your aid,
Ye unrelenting pow'rs, and let me thus,
Each vital ſpark ſubſiding, thus expire.
Leans againſt the rock.
Enter HENRICO.
HENRICO.
What hoa! — my Ferdinand! — this way the ſound
Struck on my liſt'ning ear — what means my friend
Thus growing to the rock, transform'd to ſtone,
A breathing ſtatue, 'midſt theſe ſhapeleſs piles?—
FERDINAND.
Henrico there! — read there! —
HENRICO.
Letters engrav'd! —
He reads to himſelf as far as SHE ENDED HER DEPLORABLE LIFE.
Alas! my friend—
They gaze ſpeechleſs at each other for ſome time, then Ferdinand falls.
The ſtorm of grief o'erpow'rs his feeble ſpirits.
[31]Now rouze thy ſtrength, my Ferdinand, and bear
This load of ſorrow like a man. —
FERDINAND.
I do—
Thou ſee'ſt I do—I do not weep, my friend —
Theſe eyes are dry — their very ſource is dry —
— I am her cruel huſband to the laſt. —
HENRICO.
Oh! thou wert ever kind and tender to her.
FERDINAND.
Tender and kind! — look there! —there ſtands the black,
The horrid roll of guilt denounc'd againſt me.
Lo! the dread characters!—let me peruſe
The whole ſad record; of this bitter woe
Still deeper drink, and gorge me with affliction.
He reads.
FRIEND! WHOE'ER THOU ART, PITY MY WRONGS, BUT AGAINST MY HUSBAND, (FOR LOVE LIKE MINE CANNOT FORGET WHERE ONCE WITH DELIGHT IT FIXED) I CHARGE YOU NEVER MEDITATE R—
Revenge, ſhe meant to ſay—the word's begun—
But death untimely ſtopt her hand—oh! miſery!
She thought me falſe, and yet could love ſtill—
[32]The wound now pierces deeper — had ſhe loath'd me,
Abhorr'd me, curs'd me, 'twere not half the torture
This angel-goodneſs cauſes — and to loſe her!
To loſe a mind like her's, that thus could pour
Such unexampled tenderneſs and love,
Amidſt the keeneſt anguiſh — on the earth
Meaſure thy length, thou wretch accurſt! — there lie,
For ever lie, and to theſe woods and wilds
Howl out thy griefs in madneſs and deſpair.
HENRICO.
I feel, I feel thy ſorrows—oh! my friend,—
Cruel event! — your tears, alas! are juſt —
Then let them flow, and let me mingle mine—
Your guſhing ſorrows may aſſuage your grief,
This ſtorm of rage attemp'ring into peace.
FERDINAND.
Who talks of peace? —let phrenzy ſeize my brain —
Come, moon-ſtruck madneſs, with thy glaring eye,
And clanking chain; come, ſhoot thy kindling fires
Into my inmoſt ſoul; — blaſt ev'ry thinking pow'r;
Raze each idea out; — tear up at once
The ſeat of memory—no—leave me that —
Still leave me memory, to picture forth
[33]Conſtantia's lovely form, that I may ſit
With unclad ſides, upon ſome blaſted heath
And gloat upon her image; — ſee her ſtill,
See her whole days with fancy's guſhing eye,
And gaze on that alone —
HENRICO.
Ariſe, my friend,
And quit this fatal ſhore —
FERDINAND.
And quit this ſhore!
But whither turn? — ah! whither ſhall I go? —
Where ſhelter me from miſery? — this iſle
Shall be my journey's bound. —
HENRICO.
What can'ſt thou mean?
FERDINAND.
Never again to draw the vital air
But where my love expir'd—to feed my ſoul
With theſe ſad objects, this ſepulchral tale,
Ev'n to the height of yet unheard-of anguiſh:
To print my pious kiſſes on the rocks;
To bathe the ground, which her dear footſteps preſs'd,
With the inceſſant tears of burning anguiſh;
To make theſe wilds all vocal with her name,
Till this cold lifeleſs tongue ſhall move no more.
HENRICO.
By heav'n, you muſt not think—
FERDINAND.
[34]Farewell! — farewell! —
Conſult thy happineſs! — for ever here
By fate I'm doom'd to ſtay — alas! Con⯑ſtantia! —
To periſh with thy infant here! — no friend
To cloſe thy ghaſtly orbs! — thy pale remains
On the bare earth expos'd, without the tribute
Of a fond huſband's tears o'er thy dead corſe;—
Without the laſt ſad obſequies — yet here,
I ſtill will raiſe an empty ſepulchre.
There ſhall no cold unconſcious marble form
In mockery of imitated woe
Bend oe'r the fancy'd urn: myſelf will be
The ſad, the penſive, monumental figure,
Diſtilling real anguiſh o'er the tomb;
Till waſting by degrees I moulder down,
And ſink to ſilent durſt. —
HENRICO.
What man could do,
Already youv'e perform'd —
FERDINAND.
Prithee, no more —
I will about it ſtreight — this place affords
Materials for the work — Thither I'll bring
Whate'er can deck the ſcene—Conſtantia, yes;
I will appeaſe thy diſcontented ſhade,
Then follow thee to yonder realms of bliſs.
Exit.
HENRICO
[35]ſolus.
His vehemence of grief bears down his reaſon.
He muſt not linger here—his ſtay were fatal—
Force will be neceſſary—to our boat.
I'll haſten back and call ſome truſty friends
To drag him from this melancholy ſhore.
END of the Second ACT.
ACT III.
[36]The ſame ſcene continues.
Enter SYLVIA.
THRO' the befriending gloom oſ arch⯑ing bow'rs,
Thro' walks, where never ſun-beam pierc'd, at length
I've gain'd this deep-encircled vale—ah! me!
I feel ſtrange tremors ſtill—ſhe is not here—
Mama! — where can ſhe be? — her mournful taſk
Waits for her ling'ring hand — my deareſt mother —
She anſwers not — what noiſe is that? — me⯑thought
I heard ſome ſteps advancing —'tis my fawn
That ruſtles thro' the foreſt glade — he ſtops
And looks, then runs, and ſtops again to take
A fearful gaze — he too perhaps has ſeen
Theſe unknown beings—yonder lo! he ſtands
In mute expreſſive wonder— heav'n protect me!
—Thro' this cloſe path, that gradual winding
[37]Leads on to plains, to woods, and verdant lawns
Emboſom'd in the rock, I'll journey up—
The day now glows intenſe, but by the rills,
That thro' embow'ring groves come purling down,
I oft can lay me, and enjoy each breeze
That plays amid thoſe craggy ſcenes—a noiſe
From yonder interwoven branches — ha! —
Ye guardian angels, ſave me! —ſee, ſee there—
That thing again! —
Enter HENRICO.
HENRICO
What beauteous form in theſe forlorne abodes
Attracts my wond'ring eyes? —
SYLVIA.
Ye heav'nly pow'rs!
Retiring from him.
HENRICO.
It ſwims before my fight—whate'er thou art,
Virgin, or goddeſs—oh! a goddeſs ſure! —
Thou goddeſs of theſe manſions! —for thy looks
Beam heav'nly radiance, with propitious ears
Accept my ſupplication —
SYLVIA.
Ha! — it ſpeaks —
It ſpeaks — what doſt thou mean! —
HENRICO.
Oh! ſay what place,
What clime is this?—and what art thou that thus
Adorn'ſt this lonely manſion?—
SYLVIA.
[38]Will you firſt
Promiſe to come no nearer?
HENRICO.
With devotion
As true as ever pilgrim offer'd up
In holy fervor to his, ſaint, — I promiſe.
SYLVIA.
How gentle it's demeanor! — tell me now
What thing thou art?
HENRICO.
One born to miſery; —
A man, whom fate —
SYLVIA.
A man! —art thou a man?
HENRICO.
I am. —
SYLVIA.
Oh! heav'ns! — a man! — protect me — ſave me —
Runs away,
HENRICO.
Nay, fly me not — a ſudden impulſe here
Bids me purſue — forgive, thou unknown fair,
That with ſoft violence I thus preſume
To force thee meaſure back thy ſteps again.
He brings her back.
SYLVIA.
Force me not thus, inhuman, barb'rous man—
What have I ſaid—Oh! worthy gen'rous man,
[39]Thus on my knees I beg, — have mercy on me —
— I never did you harm — indeed I did not. —
HENRICO.
Ariſe,
[raiſes her]
thou lovely tenant of theſe woods,And let me thus, — thus as befits the man
Whoſe mind runs o'er with rapture and ſurprize,
Whoſe heart throbs wild with mingled doubt and joy,
Thus let me worſhip this celeſtal form,
This heav'nly brightneſs, to my wond'ring eyes
That ſheds ſuch influence, as when an angel
Breaks thro' a flood of glory to the ſight,
Of ſome expiring ſaint, and cheers his ſoul
With viſions of diſcloſing heav'n.
SYLVIA.
He kneels! —
He kneels to me! — how mild his very look —
How ſoft each word! — are you indeed a man? —
HENRICO.
I am, ſweet ſaint—and one whoſe heart is prone
To melt at each idea beauty prints
On his delighted ſenſe; and ſure ſuch beauty,
Touch'd by the hand of harmony, adorn'd
With inexpreſive graces, well may claim
My lowlieſt adoration and my love.
SYLVIA.
This language all is new; — but ſtill it has
I know not what of charming in't, that gains
[40]Upon die liſt'ning ear, — If this be falſhood; —
Then falſhood can aſſume a pleaſing look.
HENRICO
Why thoſe averted eyes?
SYLVIA.
What would you have?
HENRICO.
Oh! if thou art as gracious, as thou'rt fair,
Say have you ſeen Conſtantia? when and where,
And how did ſhe expire? —
SYLVIA.
Conſtantia lives—
Why didſt thou ſay expire? —my mother lives,
Lives in theſe bleſt abodes —
HENRICO.
Ah! gentle Sylvia, —
So I will call thee, — daughter of Conſtantia,
Oh! fly and find her out — mean time I'll ſeek
Th'afflicted Ferdinand. —
SYLVIA.
What doſt thou ſay? —
Can he, can Ferdinand be here? — that falſe,
Perfidious, barb'rous man, — can he be here?
HENRICO.
He is, my fair; nor barbarous nor falſe.
Fortune that made him wretched, could no more.
[41]Anon you'll know the whole; to waſte a mo⯑ment
In conf'rence now, and longer to ſuſpend
The meeting of this pair, who now in agony
Bemoan their lot, were barbarous indeed.
SYLVIA.
But may I truſt him? won't he do her harm?
HENRICO.
He won't, my beauteous fair.—
SYLVIA.
Is he like you?—
HENRICO.
His goodneſs far tranſcends me—
SYLVIA.
Then I think
I'll venture to comply—let's go together.—
HENRICO.
Oh! I could tend thy ſteps for ever; hear
Soft accents warbling from thy vermeil lip,
Watch thy mild-glancing eye; behold how grace,
Whate'er you do, which ever way you bend,
Guides each harmonious movement; but this hour
Is friendſhip's due; then let us inſtant fly
Thro' diff'rent paths—thou to ſeek out Con⯑ſtantia,
And I to find her huſband—haply ſo
[42]Their meeting will be ſpeedier—farewell!
I'll bring him to this very ſpot—adieu!
For a ſhort interval adieu, my love!
SYLVIA.
Farewell!—another word—pray what's your name?
HENRICO.
Fair excellence, Henrico I am call'd.
SYLVIA.
Pray do not tarry long, Henrico—
HENRICO.
Why
That pleaſing charge, my ſweet?
SYLVIA.
I cannot tell;
But as you're leaving me, each ſtep you move,
My ſpirits ſink, a melancholy gloom
Darkens the ſcene around, and I methinks
Helpleſs in ſolitude am left again
To wander all alone a dreary way.
HENRICO.
Oh! I will come again, thou angel ſweetneſs!
Yes, I will come, and at that lovely ſhrine
Pour out my adoration and my vows.
Yes, I will come, to part from thee no more;
A moment now farewell!—
Exit.
SYLVIA alone.
[43]Farewell!—be ſure you keep your word—He's gone,
And yet is with me ſtill—abſent I hear
And ſee him in his abſence—ſtill his looks
Beam with mild dignity, and ſtill his voice
Sounds in my ear delightful—what it means,
This new-born ſenſe, this wonderful emotion,
Unfelt till now, and mix'd of pain and joy,
I cannot gueſs—how my heart flutters in me!
I'll not perplex myſelf with vain conjecture;
Whate'er the cauſe, th'effect, I feel, is pleaſing.
Conſtantia is heard ſinging within the ſcenes.
Oh! heav'ns! what noiſe!—it is my mother's Voice
Again ſhe pours her melancholy forth,
As ſweetly plaintive as when ſad Philomel,
Beneath ſome poplar ſhade, bemoans her young,
And ſitting penſive on the lonely bough,
Her eye with ſorrow dimm'd, ſhe tunes her dirge,
Warbling the night away, while all around
The vocal woodland, and each hill and dale
Ring with her griefs harmonious—hark!—that way
It ſounds—all gracious powr's direct me to her.
Exit.
A ſhort ſong is heard within the ſcenes, then enter CONSTANTIA.
CONSTANTIA.
From walk to walk, from glade to glade, o'er all
The ſea-girt iſle, o'er ev'ry mountain's top,
[44]I roam from place to place; but oh; no place
Affords relief to me—the ſun now leads
The ſultry hours, and from his burning ray
Each living thing retires; yet I endure
His fierceſt rage. The fever in my mind
Heeds not external circumſtance, and time
Witholds his medicinal aid—the trees,
And rocks themſelves his pow'rful influence own;
—All but my grief—that, each ſucceeding day
Sees in my heart freſh bleeding as at firſt.
Delay not thus, ye cruel fates, but come
And wrap me in eternal reſt.—Till then
Let me purſue my melancholy taſk.
Works at the inſcription.
Enter FERDINAND.
FERDINAND.
Away with their ill-tim'd, officious care.
I'll none of it—'tis cruelty, not friendſhip—
'Tis miſery protracted, 'tis with art,
Inhuman art, to lengthen out the life
Of him who groans in torment—no—they never ſhall
Compel me back to a baſe world again!——
I've liv'd enough—my courſe is ended here—
For here Conſtantia lies—ye heav'nly pow'rs!
What means upon yon conſecrated ground
That viſionary form, with lifted arm
And gleaming ſteel, that ſeems in act to carve
The ragged ſtone?—
CONSTANTIA.
[45]What is't I hear!—a voice!
A groan!—from whence—ha!
Seeing Ferdinand,
FERDINAND.
Tis, it is her ghoſt,
Her diſcontented ſade that hovers ſtill
About this place.
CONSTANTIA.
Avaunt, thou air-drawn ſhape
Of that perfidious—ah!
She faints away.
FERDINAND.
Leave me not thus—
Oh! ever gracious, ever gentle, ſay—
'Tis gone—in ſullen ſilence gone!
Enter HENRICO.
HENRICO.
Quick let me find him, to' his raptur'd ear
Laying hold of Ferdinand.
Give the delightful tidings—ha!
FERDINAND.
And thus
I ſink at once and follow my belov'd,
Falls into Henrico's arms.
HENRICO.
He faints—He faints—the chilling dews of death
[46]Diſtil thro' ev'ry pore—my Ferdinand,
Awake, ariſe, and hear the joyful ſounds
Of happineſs reſtor'd—His eyes unfold
To ſeek fair day light, and now cloſe again
As if they ſicken'd at the view—
FERDINAND,
Forbear, And let me die!—
HENRICO.
Conſtantia lives—ſhe lives
Once more to fold thee in her warm embrace.
FERDINAND.
I ſaw her fleeting ghoſt—ſullen and pale
It vaniſh'd from my ſight—
CONSTANTIA.
Haunt me not thus
Thou cruel tyrant form!—
Coming to herſelf.
HENRICO.
Whence is that voice?
Oh heav'ns—Conſtantia there!—ſhe too entranc'd
Lies ſtretch'd upon the ground—
FERDINAND.
Where is Conſtantia?
Oh! let me fly to her embrace—'tis ſhe—
[47]It is my wife!—it is Conſtantia!—ſtill,
—Oh! ecſtaſy of bliſs?—ſhe ſtill ſurvives—
CONSTANTIA.
'Tis mere illuſion all;—the falſe creation Of ſome deceitful dream—
FERDINAND.
'Tis real all—
Again I fold her thus—the known embrace
Hath thrill'd it's wonted tranſport to my heart.
My life, my ſoul, thy Ferdinand is come,
CONSTANTIA.
And com'ſt thou then, inhuman as thou art,
Com'ſt thou again to wreak thy falſhood on me?
FERDINAND.
By heaven I ne'er was falſe—daſh not my joys
With thy unkind ſuſpicion of my love,
While thus tranſported far above the lot
Of human bliſs, I preſs my lips to thine,
Inhaling balmy ſweets, and all my ſoul
Runs o'er with joy, with wonder, and delight.
CONSTANTIA.
Did'ſt thou not meanly leave me here a prey?
FERDINAND.
And can Conſtantia deem me then ſo baſe?
Can ſhe believe me ſuch a vile betrayer?
—Can'ſt thou?—
CONSTANTIA.
On this unhoſpitable ſhore
Left as I was—
FERDINAND
[48]Oh! miſery!—thou we'rt
While I was dragg'd by an inſidious band
Of pyrates, ſavage blood-hounds! into bondage
But witneſs heav'n!—witneſs ye midnight hours
That heard my ceaſeleſs groans, how her dear image
Grew to my very heart!
CONSTANTIA.
And haſt thou then
Been doom'd to ſlavery?
FERDINAND.
I have.
CONSTANTIA.
And groan'd
This long, long time beneath oppreſſion's hand?
FERDINAND
E'er ſince theſe eyes have gaz'd delighted on thee,
The bitter draught of miſery was mine.
CONSTANTIA.
And wert thou true indeed?
FERDINAND.
By heav'n I was.
CONSTANTIA.
And have I then accus'd thee?—have I pour'd
A thouſand ſtrong complaints againſt thee?—called
[49]High judging heav'n to witneſs to my wrongs,
Told all theſe wilds, theſe rocks, theſe wood⯑crown'd hills
Of injur'd truth and violated love?
Falſely I talk'd, unjuſtly I complain'd
Of injur'd truth and violated love.
My Ferdinand was true—again 'tis giv'n
With his lov'd form to glad theſe eyes, to ruſh
With eager tranſport to his fond embrace,
To cling around his neck, and growing to him
Pour the warm tears of rapture and of love.
They embrace.
Enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
I heard my mother's voice—what do I ſee?
In a man's arms!—embracing and embrac'd!
FERDINAND.
Is that my Sylvia?—oh! it muſt be ſo—
My child, my child ſurvives!—ſurvives to take
A raptur'd father's bleſſing, and o'erpay
His ſuff'rings paſt by his exceſs of joy,
This interview of mingled tears and kiſſes.
Embraces her,
SYLVIA.
How gentle his deportment too!—I feel
A ſoft attraction bind my ſoul to his.
—Mama, are theſe the men, whom you deſcrib'd
Inexorable, cruel, ſell deceivers?—
CONSTANTIA.
[50]I was deceiv'd myſelf, my child; for truth,
Honour, and love, and conſtancy are theirs,
I now have proof of unexampled goodneſs.
SYLVIA.
Indeed I ſtrongly thought you wrong'd 'em much,
When firſt Henrico met my wond'ring eyes.
FERDINAND.
Henrico is my friend, my beſt, Conſtantia,
And thou hereafter ſhalt know all his virtues.
SYLVIA.
And ſhall I know him too?—
HENRICO.
Thou ſhalt;—and I
Will live thy ſlave, if thou wilt deign to love me,
SYLVIA.
Love you!—I know not what you mean by love;
But if with pleaſure to behold thee; if
To hang upon thy words; to mourn thy abſence;
With joy to meet again, and feel my heart
Form new deſires, and wiſh it knows not what
If that be love—I do already love you.—
I love you better than my fawn.
HENRICO.
How ſweet
The voice of innocence—oh! thou ſhalt be,—
[51]—My friend will ſmile conſent,—yes, thou fair nymph,
Shalt be my bride—
SYLVIA.
Your bride!—what's that?
HENRICO.
My wife.—
SYLVIA.
No, ſir, not that.—I crave your pardon there—
—I beg to be excus'd—I do not chuſe
To be left helpleſs on a deſert iſland.
CONSTANTIA.
Thy father did not leave me, Sylvia;—no;—
He could not prove deliberately falſe.
His heart was unſuſceptible of fraud.—
—Anon you'll know it all.—
HENRICO.
Mean time, my fair,
Baniſh thy fears; and let me with this kiſs
On the white ſoftneſs of this lovely hand,
For ever dedicate my heart.
SYLVIA.
Oh! heav'ns!
What muſt I do, Mama?—
CONSTANTIA.
Requite his love
With fair return of thine,—
SYLVIA.
[52]Muſt I do ſo!
The taſk appears not undelightful—yes;
To thee I can reſign myſelf—but tell me;
Wilt thou ne'er leave me? wilt thou ever here
Fix thy abode?
HENRICO.
No;—we'll convey thee hence,
To the ſoft inſluence of a milder clime:
There, like a flow'r tranſplanted, thou ſhalt flouriſh,
And ne'er regret this warmer, ſouthern ſky,
But thrive and ripen, to the wond'ring world,
Unfolding all thy ſweets to higher bloom
SYLVIA.
What place is that?—and whither will ye bear me?
FERDINAND.
To thy dear native ſoil—to England, love.—
SYLVIA.
To England!
HENRICO.
Yes! the land of beauteous dames;
'Mongſt whom thy matchleſs excellence ſhall ſhine
With undiminiſh'd radiance, and exert
It's gentle pow'r, by innocence endear'd,
By virtue heighten'd, and by modeſt truth
[53]Attemper'd to ſuch ſweetneſs, that each fair
With unrepining heart, and glad conſent
Shall own thy rival claim; and ev'ry youth
Touch'd by the graces of thy native beauty,
Shall join to make thy form the public care.
SYLVIA.
I cannot quit this iſland;—cannot leave
Theſe woods, theſe lawns, theſe hills and deep⯑ning vales,
Theſe ſtreams oft-viſited, each well known haunt
Where hand in hand with innocence I've ſtray'd,
And taſted joys ſerene as in the air,
That pants upon yon trembling leaves.—
FERDINAND.
Such joys
For thee ſhall bloſſom in thy native land,
And new delights ariſe. There cultur'd fields
Wave with the golden harveſt; commerce pours
Each delicacy forth; there ſtately domes
Attract the wond'ring eye; there cities ſwarm
With buſy throngs intenſe, and ſmiles around
A ſcene of active, cheerful, ſocial life.
Thither I'll lead thee, ſweet—
SYLVIA.
And yet my heart
Miſgives me much:—does not contention there,
And civil diſcord render life a ſcene
Of care, and toil, and ſtruggle? — does not war
From foreign nations oft invade the land,
With all his train of miſery and death?
FERDINAND.
[54]Thy lovely fears are groundleſs — ours the land
Where inward peace diffuſes ſmiles around,
And ſcatters wide her bleſſings — there a king,—
(My friend comes later thence, and tells me all)
There reigns a happy venerable king
Diſpenſing juſtice and maintaining laws
That bind alike his people and himſelf.
From that ſcource liberty and ev'ry claim
A free-born people boaſt, flow equal on
And harmonize the ſtate; while in the eve
And calm decline of life our monarch ſees
A royal grandſon ſtill to higher luſtre
Each day expanding; emulous to trace
His grandſire's ſteps, to copy out his actions;
And bid the ray of freedom onward ſtretch
To ages yet unborn.
SYLVIA.
And do the people
Know their own happineſs?
FERDINAND
They do, my ſweet:
Pleas'd they behold their native rights ſecur'd;
Their commerce guarded, and the uſeful arts,
That raiſe, that ſoften, and embelliſh life,
All to perfection riſing. With a ſenſe
[55]Of their own bleſſing touch'd, with one conſent
They pour their treaſures, and exhauſt their blood
In their king's righteous cauſe; and Albion thus
Raiſes her envied head; thus ev'ry threat
Of foreign force, each menace of invaſion
From a vain, vanquiſh'd, diſappointed foe,
Like broken billows on her craggy cliffs,
Shall murmur at her feet in vain.—
SYLVIA.
Methinks
I long to ſee this place—
FERDINAND.
My Sylvia, yes,
Thou ſhalt return—propitious gales invite—
Come then, Conſtantia—oh! what mix'd emo⯑tions
Heave in this boſom at the ſight of thee?—
CONSTANTIA.
I too run o'er with ecſtacy of joy,
And tears muſt ſpeak my happineſs—I long
To utter all my fond, fond thoughts;—to tell
The ſtory of my woes, and hear of thine;
While at each word our hearts ſhall melt within us,
And thrill with grieſ, with tenderneſs, and love.
FERDINAND.
The tale ſhall ſerve us in our future hours
Of tender intercourſe, to ſweeten pain,
[56]To calm adverſity, and teach our ſouls
To bend in love, in gratitude, and praiſe
To the All-good on high, who thus befriends
The cauſe of innocence; who thus rewards
Our ſuffering conſtancy; whoſe hand, tho' ſlow,
Thus leads to rapture thro' a train of woe.
FINIS.
Notes
*
Vide, Preface to Samſon Agoniſtes.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4486 The desert island a dramatic poem in three acts As it is acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5D16-4