The ENCHANTRESS makes her spell: she is answered by a Spirit. Spirit. Within the silent centre of the earth My mansion is; where I have lived insphered From the beginning, and around my sleep Have woven all the wondrous imagery Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world; Infinite depths of unknown elements Massed into one impenetrable mask; Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins Of gold and stone, and adamantine iron. And as a veil in which I walk through Heaven I have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds, And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns In the dark space of interstellar air. A good Spirit, who watches over the Pirate's fate, leads, in a mysterious manner, the lady of his love to the Enchanted Isle; and has also led thither a Youth, who loves the lady, but whose passion she returns only with a sisterly affection. The ensuing scene takes place between them on their arrival at the Isle, where they meet, but without distinct mutual recognition. That which I seek, some human sym- All pathy In this mysterious island. Indian. touched, All familiar things he common words he spoke, became to me Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, As terrible and lovely as a tempest; My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know He came, and went, and left me what Alas! Why must I think how oft we From such an islet, such a riverspring――! two Have sate together near the river springs, I dare not ask her if there stood upon Under the green pavilion which the willow Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain, Strewn by the nurslings that linger there, it A pleasure - dome surmounted by a crescent, With steps to the blue water. [Aloud.] It may be That Nature masks in life several copies Over that islet paved with flowers and Of the same lot, so that the sufferers May feel another's sorrow as their own, moss, While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes And find in friendship what they lost in love. Showered on us, and the dove mourned That cannot be: yet it is strange that of crimson snow, in the pine, Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own? The crane returned to her unfrozen haunt, And the false cuckoo bade the Spring good morn; And on a wintry bough the widowed bird, Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves, Renewed the vigils of a sleepless sorrow. I, left like her, and leaving one like her, Alike abandoned and abandoning (Oh! unlike her in this!) the gentlest youth, Whose love had made my sorrows dear For he seemed stormy, and would often Even as my sorrow made his love to A quenchless sun masked in portentous I loved him well, but not as he desired; More need that I should be most true To share remorse and scorn and soli- Brighter than morning light, and purer tude, than And all the ills that wait on those who The water of the springs of Himalah. do The tasks of ruin in the world of life. Indian. Indian. You waked not? Such a one Like a child's legend on the tideless Is he who was the winter of my peace. But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart From the far hills where rise the springs of India, How didst thou pass the intervening sea? I should not doubt to say it was a dream. Within my chamber. lay, sand, Which the first foam erases half, and half went, Visiting my flowers from pot to pot, and thought To set new cuttings in the empty urns, And when I came to that beside the lattice, I saw two little dark-green leaves Lifting the light mould at their birth, and then I half-remembered my forgotten dream. There the meteor And day by day, green as a gourd in June, Panting forth light among the leaves The plant grew fresh and thick, yet no one knew and flowers, As if it lived, and was outworn with What plant it was; its stem and tendrils speed; seemed Or that it loved, and passion made the Like emerald snakes, mottled and pulse diamonded Of its bright life throb like an anxious With azure mail and streaks of woven silver; heart, Till it diffused itself, and all the chamber And all the sheaths that folded the dark And walls seemed melted into emerald fire buds Rose like the crest of cobra-di-capel, That burned not; in the midst of which Until the golden eye of the bright flower, Through the dark lashes of those veinèd appeared I nursed the plant, and on the double Whose pulse, elapsed in unlike sym flute Played to it on the sunny winter days Soft melodies, as sweet as April rain On silent leaves, and sang those words in which Passion makes Echo taunt the sleeping strings; And I would send tales of forgotten love Late into the lone night, and sing wild songs Of maids deserted in the olden time, And weep like a soft cloud in April's bosom Upon the sleeping eyelids of the plant, So that perhaps it dreamed that Spring was come, And crept abroad into the moonlight air, And loosened all its limbs, as, noon by noon, The sun averted less his oblique beam. the tufts Of wild-flower roots, and stumps of trees o'ergrown With simple lichens, and old hoary stones, pathies, Kept time Among the snowy water-lily buds. To some light cloud bound from the golden dawn To fairy isles of evening, and it seemed In hue and form that it had been a mirror Of all the hues and forms around it and Upon it pictured by the sunny beams Which, from the bright vibrations of the pool, Were thrown upon the rafters and the roof Of boughs and leaves, and on the pillared stems Of the dark sylvan temple, and reflections The heaven beneath the water from the heaven Above the clouds; and every day I went Watching its growth and wondering; And as the day grew hot, methought I saw A glassy vapour dancing on the pool, And on it little quaint and filmy shapes, With dizzy motion, wheel and rise and fall, And there its fruit lay like a sleeping Like clouds of gnats with perfect linea CHARLES THE FIRST DRAMATIS PERSONE KING CHARLES I. LAUD, Archbishop of Canterbury. LORD COVENTRY. ST. JOHN. ARCHY, the Court Fool. HAMPDEN. PYм. CROMWELL. CROMWELL'S DAUGHTER. SIR HARRY VANE the younger. BASTWICK. PRYNNE. Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, Pur That sin and wrongs wound as an orphan's cry, The patience of the great Avenger's ear. Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden Of skiey visions in a solemn dream And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. If God be good, wherefore should this be evil? And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw Unseasonable poison from the flowers Which bloom so rarely in this barren world? suivants, Marshalsmen, Law Students, Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make Judges, Clerk. the present SCENE I. THE MASK OF THE INNS OF COURT. of the Mask! Dark as the future! When Avarice and Tyranny, vigilant A Pursuivant. Place, for the Marshal And open-eyed Conspiracy lie sleeping As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts First Citizen. What thinkest thou of this quaint mask which turns, Like morning from the shadow of the night, The night to day, and London to a place Of peace and joy? Second Citizen. Heaven. Eight years are gone, Waken to worship Him who giveth joys Second Citizen. How young art thou How green in this gray world! Canst thou discern And Hell to The signs of seasons, yet perceive no And they seem hours, since in this populous street I trod on grass made green by summer's rain, For the red plague kept state within that palace Where now reigns vanity. In nine years more The roots will be refreshed with civil blood; And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven hint Of change in that stage-scene in which thou art Not a spectator but an actor? or storms, Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done,— Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have My inn of lasting rest; but thou must |