# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Azlea

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AZLEA.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Azlea, an improvisatrice. Mozarini, father to Azlea, and a musical composer. Hermon, a monk. Alvernon, an artist. Fisherman and citizens.
ACT I.
Scene I.—Shore of the Mediterranean.
Enter Azlea.
Azlea. 'Tis sunset on the ocean! Gloriously Has the god canopied his purple bed With crimson and with gold! and on the sea The ruby richness of his radiance shed— Tinging the wavelets with a deeper dye, More regal in its hue than blushing morn, And softer than the loveliness of noon; Yet beautiful, as when from darkness born Light threw o'er earth its heaven-borrowed boon, And earth and ocean burst from mystery! And grand as beautiful; the glowing sky, With its high piled up masses of bright clouds, And ocean mirror striving to outvie In gorgeousness the many-colored crowds Of grotesque forms sailing the upper blue; And the o'erhanging rocks, whose sullen gloom Rests like a frown upon the ocean's brow— Whose towering crests along the shores loom, Contrasting with their shade the sunset's glow: Earth, sky, and ocean, make one splendid view!
Her. Methinks the hollow sighing of the main Hath wondrous music in it. The wild tales ​Of mermaid and of sea-nymph, by this scene, And this mysterious music, are recalled; And I can fancy where their pearly barks Will burst the azure waves and greet my sight With their much storied loveliness. And now I hear a burst of song, as witching real As if 'twere mortal sung it, and I saw The songstress with mine eyes. Perchance there is A wind-harp on these shores; I'll seek it out, For I do love these harps of nature best; And they are tuned by spirits, whose light fingers Do at the same time sweep song from our hearts, Vibrating our whole being.
SONG.
Maidens of the coral grove! Hear what I implore of you: If ye know of endless love, Tell your earthly sister true; Mortals tell her love is vain— Answer from the sighing main!
Her. A fair enchantress! and by her frail form, And youthful, innocent face, a very child! Too lovely to be mortal, I should say, Save for the hound that tracks her sylph-like feet. Lovely! she seems as if she were the soul Of all the mighty beauty of this scene; Wondrously beautiful! not more sublime Looks the great ocean than that infant face! Such a strange loveliness the scene, the hour, And the wild, mournful music of the waves, Have breathed into each feature. And the light Of her young spirit shining purely through, Awed and o'ermastered, yet devoid of fear, She seems as when on the bewildered sight Of earth's first children burst this glorious sphere, ​An angel spirit, spell-bound with delight! I'll break the spell, for I would see the change Come over those rapt features.
Azlea. Methought thou wert my father; I knew not That others visited this lonely place. I thought that he had come to bid me sing With him some wild sea-melody; for we Do often at this hour sit here awhile, And I sing songs suiting his mood, which he Accompanies with his great, solemn airs, That thousands have applauded; but none feel The music that is in them like himself.
Her. Sweet child! thy father's solemn melodies Have been infused into thy youthful spirit! Ere yet I saw thee—hidden from my sight By the projecting rocks—I heard thy voice Blending to harmony the mournful sounds Of sighing winds and waves; and I did think Some spirit's airy fingers swept a lyre, Along these echoing shores. And I was right; 'Twas nature's lyre I heard—its thousand strings Vibrating in thy heart. Wilt sing for me?
Azlea. I seldom sing for any but my father; But did I know what music suits you best, I might attempt a single song for you.
Her. The one which you were singing.
Azlea. (Sings.)
Maidens of the bright blue sea, Dwells love in your crystal caves? Live ye not right merrily, 'Neath the wild careering waves? ​Mortals only hear their moan, Have they not a softer tone?
Maidens of the coral grove! Hear what I implore of you: If ye know of endless love, Tell your earthly sister true; Mortals tell her love is vain— Answer from the sighing main!
Her. So young, and misanthropic! say, my child, Who taught you how to doubt earth's love and trust?
Azlea. I scarce can tell, unless it were the one Who only loves me, and alone I love— My father! Yet he never bade me doubt, Or turn from love; but when I look on him, Shrinking away from the world's noisy praise, And breathing mournful music to himself, It seems as if he thought 'twere mockery— And having learned to understand each tone, His plaintive melodies are more eloquent To me, of thought and feeling, than are words. If this can be called teaching, 'twas this taught Even my earliest childhood to hoard up Its fullness of affection from the world, And turned my heart to nature's changeless love.
Her. Dost thou love nature wholly; her wild scenes Of grand and awful beauty dost thou love, Even as the starlight or the sunset hour?
Azlea. Yes, almost more, but with a stranger feeling.
I love the lightning's vivid flash— The deep-toned thunder's angry crash; I love the ocean's stormy roar, That beats its surge against the shore; ​The eagle's scream, the storm-bird's cry, The winds that whistle loud and high; The elements' most angry moan Is to my heart a music tone! And yet I love earth's gentler hours, Her sunny smile, and song, and flowers; I love the gushing waterfall, The tiny streamlet's gentler call— Sol's morning rise, and sunset glow. Shining upon the mountain's snow In many a radiant rosy wreath, Shaming the shadow-land beneath! I love the tall old monarch oak, The pensive willow by the brook; I love the brilliant flowers, but less Than the sweet violet's bashfulness. Oft when the summer sun goes down From his high zenith-sceptered throne, And with his skillful pencil shrouds The azure o'er with glorious clouds, To vail his eye's bright parting ray, And promise us another day, As bright and beautiful, to come, Yet in eternity, morrow's home; Oft at such hours my heart doth fill With feelings strange, unutterable! And such emotions crowd my soul As my weak strength can not control; And such a strong oppressiveness Sometimes upon my heart doth press, I long to take from out my breast The heart that feels such wild unrest: So much by different time and scene, My spirit tempest-tost hath been.
Her. Sweet, young enthusiast! how high, and pure, And grand thy natural poetry of soul! But thou art yet a child, and thou wilt learn ​Another and a different kind of love, Whose power will be a wild idolatry— A worship stronger than the wildest strength The majesty of nature can inspire. It would be well couldst thou forever keep Thy pure and innocent guilelessness of thought; But the world hath it otherwise; and none May pass its confines without having felt Its cold and chilling bitterness. But go; Thy father will await thee, wondering At thy long tarrying away from him. And see! where late the sunset hues were bright, A sullen, heavy, inky-colored mass Is darkening the horizon. We shall see The tempest in its might, and hear the sound Of awful music, such as sea, and sky, And winds, and creaking earth commingled, Making one terrible chorus, can produce! Haste then; but ere thou goest, let me pray Heaven's blessings on thee and thy innocence. God bless thee, and farewell!
Azlea. I thank thee, holy father. Azlea Will keep thy blessing in remembrance.[Exit Azlea.
Her. (Soliloquizing.) Earth hath some Eden-spirits yet—though few. O how may man, in his dark sinfulness, Stand silenced and rebuked before a child! Who, knowing not of reason, hath yet learned To call life's mockeries by their real name; And being herself all love, yet how to keep Her spirit all unsullied from earth's lusts; While he, with his threat, godlike attributes, Still keeps within his bosom ceaseless streams Of every evil passion, till his heart Hath not one fountain in it of sweet waters! ​And being thus, still sneers upon his fellow, And taunts him with his own infirmities; Till life becomes a scene of wild turmoil, Of vain, tumultuous striving to become Masters of others' passions—while our own Are burning out our hearts.
O what a scene! The tempest hath begun its terrible play, And sky, and earth, and ocean are at strife, With winds, and surge, and thunders, discoursing With angry voices their hoarse-throated rage! How the forked lightnings rend the sable sky! Revealing for an instant the wild sight Of mountain billows and dark, shapeless rocks; Showing me where I stand—how near to death— A rude and pitiless death; yet I stir not, Nor feel a thrill of fear. I almost wish Some wave, more daring than the rest, would reach My perilous footing, bearing me from hence, To die among its fellows. I would sooner Die in a scene like this, of nature's strife, Than living wearily a joyless life, At last to perish in the savage war Of jarring human passions. I can hear The screaming of the sea-gull; well he loves A time like this; that his sharp voice may be Distinguished even above the howling blasts And heavy surgings of the heaving sea. I, like him, have loved such tempest hours— But with a different passion: I can feel The wild sublimity—can steep my soul In the stern grandeur of this lonely place, With darkness, waves, and thunder, to impress Its power upon my spirit; not like him, Striving to out-noise the tempest. Vain ambition! Yet many, O how many, strive for this, To be the loudest in the stormy crowd ​Of noisy human struggles; to be heard Above man's babbling thunders, and to say Their voice hath been most powerful.[Exit Hermon.
Scene II.—An apartment in Mazarini's house. Alvernon lying on a couch—Azlea bending over him.
Enter Mazarini and a Fisherman.
Fish. The vessel was wrecked off our coast; I found him lying on the rocks, sadly bruised. I think he will recover; so leaving him in your care, I must away.[Exit Fisherman.
Azlea. The stranger—oh, he lives! I feel his pulse Flutter as quick, and soft, and varyingly As a fine harp-string in the impatient wind.
Maz. Life struggles for the mastery with death; The cordials you have given him will restore The inanimate pulse, and bring the breath Back to his death white lips. And yet perchance Our kindness is a cruelty to him, If he should wake to find his hopes all wrecked— A wife or sister buried in the sea, Or his wealth wasted. Human hopes are frail, And one night may have blasted his for aye.
Azlea. We will be kind to him, as to a brother, And heal his wounds, and soothe his broken spirit, That he may not die grieving for his loss.
Maz. He will not, child; not many mourn so well.
Azlea. I'll bring him fruit and flowers to drive away The loneliness of solitude; and sing The softest airs I know; and tell him tales Of magic and of love. Would it be wrong To entertain him thus? It seems to me It would be over-bold; and yet last night ​I talked as fearlessly as I do now; But 'twas with one who seemed to shun the world, As we do, father; and so I but thought And spoke with him as if it had been you. He was a friar, and he blessed your child. But this young stranger must be of the world, And I shall learn to fear him.
Maz. My child—my Azlea! would no wayward fate Had thrown him in your path. Nay, look not thus— I have a pitying heart, and would rejoice To do a gentle service for a friend, Or even for an enemy; but now I fear what I can not explain; nor can Your guileless nature understand my thoughts. Oh, must this be? Azlea, let not Thy heart be stolen from thy father now, In his hoar, desolate age; but no! 'Tis blest, and fresh, and happy with thy love; But let it not be withered suddenly, By finding its last solace taken away— My child's sweet love divided!
Azlea. (Throwing herself into his arms.) My father! My dear father! hath thy child e'er known A thought save thoughts of thee—and dost thou now Wrong her, by dreaming that she can forget Her soul's one holy passion, save the love She gives to nature, and which has become An element of her being! No—oh, no!
Maz. Blest Spirit, do thy will! It can not be Evil could reach thee; follow what way Thy purity shall teach thee; and forget An old man's selfish jealousies. Sweet one, Thy patient needs thy care; I must go forth To catch some wild sea-melody, the breeze May whisper to my ear.[Exit Mazarini.
​Azlea. (Bending over Alvernon.) There's breath upon his lips, and on his cheek A faint and trembling color. His dark hair Is heavy yet, and cold with the sea-brine, And his high, rounded forehead, has a gash Cut by the cruel rocks. I'll chafe his brow; He soon must waken from this deathlike sleep.
Alvernon. (Unclosing his eyes.) I must have dreamed, or else I now do dream: I thought that in the tempest all were lost, And the cold waves closed round my shuddering form, But all was tumult, night, and thundering, And I know not what happened. Where am I? This is a pleasant place, and thou art young And very beautiful; how came I here?
Azlea. Thou hast been ill, and I must bid thee rest; I'll talk to thee when thou art somewhat stronger. Now close thine eyes, and I will bring thee wine, Which thou must first partake, then sleep again; I'll sing some low, soft melody to lull Your senses to repose, when I return.[Exit Azlea.
Alver. Who is this creature of such wondrous beauty? Her voice is plaintive music in itself; And she will sing to me—how innocent! 'Tis sweet to have such minister to sooth The body's stinging pains; but where am I, And who is she; alike mysterious?
Re-enter Azlea with wine and fruits.
Azlea. I have brought that which will revive your strength.
Alver. I could now sleep; I feel a languor stealing Over my senses like a pleasant balm. If now thou'lt sing for me I shall be grateful, And see thee in my dreams.
​Azlea. (Sings.) Rest thee now, weary one, soft is thy pillow; Rest thee, and dream of thy dear distant home; Dream of the hearts that far over the billow Still love you, and bless you wherever you roam.
Dream of thy mother, whose prayers ever arise At morning, at noon, and at evening for thee; Rest thee, and dream of her—richer the prize Of a mother's warm blessing than wealth of the sea.
Dream of the sister whose tender caresses Clung to thy form in her weeping farewell; Dream of your meeting, your joyful embraces, And the stories of love each shall hasten to tell.
Dream of thy home, of its dear youthful pleasures, Of the sports of the field, of the river and wood— Thy heart shall remember all these with its pleasures, And mem'ries rush over thy soul in a flood.
Rest thee then, weary one, soft is thy pillow; Rest thee and dream of the land of thy love; Absence, nor distance, nor rude rolling billow, To soul meeting soul shall a barrier prove.
Enter Hermon.
Her. Heaven's blessings on thee, Azlea, sweet child! Thou hast a suff'rer under thy kind care, Who I perceive is sleeping. I was sent By a poor fisherman of the coast, to him, That should he wish confession of his sins He might have holy comfort and advice.
Azlea. The stranger, holy father, is now lying In quiet, natural sleep, that will restore His former health to him; except some cuts ​Which will require good 'tendance; and for this My father and myself have pledged ourselves, In kindness to the suffering.
Her. Methought I heard sweet music, when I first Entered your vine-wreathed cottage; did I so?
Azlea. You may have heard a simple melody With which I sung the invalid to rest.
Her. You did then sing the stranger to his rest, And your fair hands have bathed his aching brow, And your sweet voice has whispered tenderness, And you have ministered to his every want With most unsparing kindness. Azlea, This stranger here is young; is of the world; 'Tis true he may be good and virtuous, But there are few who are; nay, blush not, child, With such a pained look; I did not mean What thou hast done is wrong, in being kind— But in the world of which this stranger is, Such innocence as thine meets sneering taunts— Being deemed by its misjudging sinfulness, Other than what it is. Art weeping, sweet? Nay, weep not, I was wrong; and now I think, While gazing on thee and thy mournful face, Not any but the vilest could withstand The power of thy guileless purity. I would not take thy unsuspecting truth, And give thee all earth's wisdom, and its wealth, For thou wouldst be the loser.
Azlea. Father, if in aught I have transgressed, Even the world's stern code of modest action, I should be bitterly grieved; and thou art right To wain me of my folly. Azlea Knows little of the world, and would not learn More than she knows already, if to learn ​Brings such a painful feeling, as but now, Poisoned the pure emotions she had felt Toward the suffering stranger whom she had Striven to render happy. Evermore I will be coy and careful, never giving To any but my parent the warm love That does pervade my being; keeping all Love's tender attributes and natural cares, In one deep, ceaseless channel of affection; Leaning alone for tenderness and counsel Upon one natural trust—the only one Nature has given me—a father's love.
Her. I have been very wrong to poison thus Thy innocent trustfulness; for there is not A more heart-troubling spirit haunting man, Dwelling in gloom, and shadowing the soul With a wing blacker than the wing of hate; There is not in all man's grievous torments A darker, gloomier, or more hideous form Of human ill than sullen, black suspicion! I would not teach thee distrust; 'tis the bane Of all life's sweetness; I would but have said Beware of seeming virtues; yet this much Shall be retracted, since it pains thee so To bear the imputation of a fault not meant, And really not existing but in seeming. If this man be not the veriest villain That darkens earth with impotence of virtue, He will but love thee for thy ignorance Of the world's sinful wisdom. I do so; Thou art to me far loftier than the best Earth's royalty can boast; and thy pure soul Hath radiance only borrowed from the skies.
Azlea. Wert thou not who thou art—a holy teacher— I should suspect from what thyself hath said That thou wert uttering in mere idleness ​The empty words of flattery. I am but The simple child of nature; have not known Aught of man's wisdom save that gleaned from books, Such as my father reads; but I have felt That I was happier in my wild retreat Than shining with the glitter of the world I've witnessed from afar; whose noisy voice Frightens me into silence, and whose breath Would scorch my brain with fever; for the heart Beareth not many such unwilling lessons As I have grieved to glean from thy vague hints— Too definite for my happiness. But I Perhaps should thank thee for advice, which now My heart is too much hurt and sorrowing To value as it ought. I will retire, And weep the bitter tears that flood my eyes, And then I may be happier again.[Exit Azlea.
Her. I should have known her better than to throw Reproach upon her actions. The young heart, Finding itself mistaken in its trust, Grows suddenly strong; and all its softness Is petrified to marble. I must be Regardful in the future, and not wound Her sensitive spirit with too stern a view Of the world's imperfections. This is strange— That with her native doubt of human truth, She still is so much pained by finding out More than she had suspected. But this youth! Why do I fear that she shall learn of him To feel delight in love and confidence? By his fine forehead, and his placid mouth, And by the lines upon his handsome face, I should pronounce him noble in his nature— Gentle and just; and such I think he is; Yet do I wish Azlea may never learn To estimate his virtues as they are. I would have her ever as she is— ​Childlike, yet lofty; gentle, yet resolute; Wanting in caution, and yet innocent. But Heaven, which will protect her, will deny Its blessing unto me, for being unjust To this unknown and shipwrecked slumberer. I will go forth, and lifting up my heart, Ask God to purge my being from the curse Of every evil passion; lest I be Tempted to violate my sacred vow Of holiest observance.[Exit Hermon.
ACT II.
Scene I.—Sea-shore.
Enter Alvernon and Azlea.
Alver. This is indeed a grand and beautiful scene, Worthy a master's pencil. Often I, In Spain, and Switzerland, and Germany, Have wrapt my spirit in delicious dreams, And fancy's touch, anticipating art, Hath placed them on the canvas; while my eye Feasted upon them, and my soul forgot Its mortal tenement. My spirit sees, With one wide, comprehensive glance, a scene, And copies with a quick and perfect skill, Each beautiful feature of the whole grand piece, Dreaming the while in ecstasy.
Azlea. Yours must be a soul-enchanting power, To bring the grand, and beautiful, and vast Within the pencil's compass; and to give Such earnest likeness to it as to cheat The eye into believing that it saw The glorious or the fair original! Do you not worship your own heavenly art? ​Alver. It ever hath been first in my heart's love; But I have learned of thee a deeper love, A higher, holier, and more sacred flame Than burns upon the altar of ambition. Azlea! thou art a wondrous being— And I know not whether I dare to love thee; But it is virtue to acknowledge this— That thou hast held an influence o'er my spirit, Which it will take a lifetime to forget. Thy care, thy gentleness, thy voice of song, And more than all, thy childlike innocence Of every impure sentiment or thought, Hath won the deep devotion of a heart That yet scarce dares to tell thee of its love; Nor would I venture to so bold a thought, As that I have inspired within thy breast A single feeling tenderer than thou Wouldst have bestowed on any hapless stranger A pitying Heaven threw under thy sweet care. To-morrow's sun will shine on my farewell To my dear, temporary home and thee; And I have naught to offer thee, in lieu Of what would be to some, more just reward Save warmest gratitude, and warmest love. And thou wilt not reject it?
Azlea. There can not be reward more canceling To every debt of kindness, than is this You offer—earnest gratitude; but love Is for a higher purpose. I can not Accept for guerdon, what the deathless spirit Hath for its immortal dower. You mistake; And are yet ignorant of real love.
Alver. Since you have spoken thus, I am compelled To vindicate my sentiments by words Stronger than I had purposed. If to say Never shall I forget thee—never more ​Hear in my spirit music like thy voice— Never see vision with so much of heaven In look or action; that the memory Of our short intercourse shall live and burn Forever on the altar of my heart; If to say I love thee truly, wholly, With an undying passion, can impress A deeper sense of truth upon thy mind, Azlea, I say it—and would be believed!
Azlea. Alvernon, I have never until now Listened to words of passion; never felt Aught of a love other than children feel For parents best and fondest—so that now Thy words sound through my spirit; but my heart Is hoarded up from passion. Did I feel That in my inmost soul which you describe, I would not let it live!
Alver. Azlea, I have thought thee, and thou art, The tender girl of nature, full of love; And yet you tell me that you would not list Your heart's impassioned pleadings, even when Another heart joined in its earnest prayer For the sweet blessing of your love. Is this The voice of your own spirit? Hath it not Been darkened by the shadow of mistrust? Else how didst thou learn to be stern to love?
Azlea. Thou art right in guessing it is not The natural promptings of my untaught heart To harden my soul's softness; and I fear I am not cautious to propriety; And knowing nothing of life's varied ways, I would avoid all evil.
Alver.Surely thou Hast had a gloomy teacher for thy youth; ​And wouldst thou live forever without love, Fearing thou shouldst do wrong in being trustful? Nay, Azlea, for once thou hast been wrong.
Azlea. 'Tis true I may be wrong in fostering doubt; But I will tell you how the feeling came. Ere yet I saw thee, there was in my heart A native shrinking from the world's approach, Which vague reports of glittering misery, And hollow-heartedness, and dark deceit, Reaching me in my solitude, increased; But I as yet had never talked with any, Who, knowing of the world, would tell a child Whether to love or shun it; until one, A father of the holy Church of Rome, Met me, and by his converse of the world, Taught me to fear its hollowness of heart. 'Tis strange how much I yield to his dark counsel— Dark it does seem to me, though I obey; But I have thought that I have been ungrateful From that my real nature hates suspicion, And so I listen.
Alver. And his were evil lessons, Azlea. If the world is void of truth and honor, It is because they all are taught to doubt Each other's love and faith; and doubting thus, Grow proud and self-dependent; and the cloak Of love and virtue is too often worn To hide the soul's corruption. Were there more Of love and gentleness, there would be less Of all the evil passions. Azlea, Reject such evil counsel; let thy soul, Pure as it is, and beautiful, shine forth, Unhidden by distrust; for purity Is mightier to banish evil thoughts, From hearts howe'er degraded, than stern coldness. Say not again thou wilt not list to love; ​Does not thy mother, Nature, breathe of love In every smiling feature? Is not her voice Ever most eloquent of tenderness? And wilt thou, her sweet child, reject her teaching, And find in scorn a refuge from her power?
Azlea. I am yet but a child, but if to know That Azlea, in her simple ignorance, Hath let a stranger occupy her thoughts More than was coy and maidenly; and hath Even had dreams of strange, delicious sweetness, In which she deemed she loved and was beloved— If to know this would give thee happy thoughts, Though blushing at her own temerity, Azlea would still acknowledge it.
Alver. God bless thee, lovely one, for those sweet words! When in the world, of which you have such dread, It will be the sweet solace of my toils, To think of thee, and dream of coming years, In which my Azlea and myself shall share The dearest joys of earth! and until then Thou wilt remember me with love—wilt thou?
Azlea. Azlea can not forget thee.
Alver.Now I go To try my fortunes in the capital; To catch the inspiration lingering round The works of the great masters; and to feast My soul with beauty and with power. But I'll carry in my memory a scene, And a presiding spirit, far more bright
ACT III.
Scene I.—Moonlight. A garden in the rear of Mazarini's house.
Enter Mazarini.
Maz. This is a glorious night! the stars are out In hosts innumerable; but the moon, In her resplendent brilliancy, so dims their light They scarce can be distinguished, but all blend Into one paly maze of fretted gold. Beautiful! How glorious is our earth, How full of loveliness and melody! The breeze comes laden with the rich perfume Of gardens, filled with the luscious fruits, And flowers steeped in night's extracting dew; While every swell of its low, musical breath, Sweeps a more earnest gush of melody From nature's thousand lyres. O that man Should live in such a world of loveliness, Yet bearing in his heart such hideous forms Of darkness and wild discord. Now the past Is in a torrent rushing o'er my soul: The past, with its bright pages and its dark— And darker some, and gloomier than Hades. Viola! Viola! how my soul worshiped thee! How wildly beautiful thou wert in feature— How wild, and sweet, and carol-like thy voice, Whose charm first waked the passions of a heart That burned in its unquenched, unquenchable fires, Till naught was left but ashes. Even now I see thee as thou wert—so innocent! But my vain love of flattery and applause Forced thee upon the stage. How the world stared! As if their greedy eyes would have devoured thee; And how they shouted forth their mad applause, And loaded thee with favor! My vain soul, ​Exulting in thy glorious power of song, And feeling, seeing, knowing nothing else But thy most wondrous loveliness, forgot The world was black and rotten to the core, Upon whose favor I taught thee to lean. But bitterly, most bitterly I learned To curse its dark beguilings. Oh! that hour In which I learned that thou wert false to me, Was full of wilder torments than the skill Of the arch-demon could ever have invented! Then how I cursed thee, Viola! how I raved, And stamped, and heaped upon thy name The vilest epithets my mind could frame! God knows what my mad phrensy would have done, Hadst thou not left a pleader in the cause Of innocence and virtue. Our sweet babe, When in my rage I would have smothered it, Looked up and smiled, with such a heavenly smile— So bright, and soft, and pure—my soul was bent From its dark purpose; and I kissed its mouth, So like thine own in beauty, and its eyes, So dreamy, deep, and soft, and wept such tears As manhood knows but once. Oh, fearfully Was my ambition punished! fearfully Was my great wrong avenged, when once again You crossed my threshhold but to faint and die, Murmuring the words of bitterest repentance! From that hour my spirit's chords were broken; And life holds nothing to enchain me here, But my bright child—my Azlea.
Enter Azlea.
Azlea. Forgive thy child for her unlawful act; But coming out to seek thee, thy strange words Roused all my wonder and my sympathy, And I stood silently and listened.
​Maz. Thou hast indeed heard what I never meant Should reach thy youthful ears. But being so, I must forgive thee for thy natural wish To know thy mother's history. And now Sit by my side—and thou must talk to me; 'Twill soothe the feverish throbbing of my veins, And calm the thoughts the resurrected past Hath stirred within my breast.
Azlea. What I have heard Is what hath held thee here in solitude, Shunning the world, and hiding it from me: Is it not, father?
Maz. Yes, my Azlea; I would not have thee hear its voice of guile— I would not have thy spirit bear the taint Of its impurities; or have thy heart Crushed by its withering sorrows. I would keep Thy soul as fresh and pure—as free from care— As the free bird of heaven; never have thee Know aught of any sorrow; never have thee Know aught of any passion, save thy love For thy infirm old father. Azlea, I know this must seem selfish, cold, and strange; But now thou knowest how my heart was broken, Thou wilt not marvel at it.
Azlea. My father! I fain would tell thee what must give thee pain, But can not bear to hear thy sorrowing. Thy child hath been forgetful of her promise— Hath told a stranger that her foolish heart Cherished his image in it; that she deemed She loved him with the love he wished of her.
Maz. Alas, alas! that this should come so early! But my heart whispered that it must be so; And now I find its prophecy not idle.
​Azlea. O fear not Azlea can e'er be won From her obedience; or ever bring Her father's hoar head sorrowing to the tomb. O no, no, no! She would not e'en forsake For all earth's love, her father's dearer love, Or leave him ever for another's smiles.
Maz. Did I not think this youth most virtuous, Lofty, and good, I should indeed be curst; But a few years, and this consuming frame Shall have returned to earth, and thou wilt be A lonely orphan, helpless on the sea Of human toil and striving. It may be well, And thou and I must pray that it be so.
Azlea. do not talk of dying; ere that time May Azlea have slept her final sleep.[Curtain falls.
Scene II.—A recess in a forest.
Enter Hermon.
Her. I have wept, have prayed, have humbled my stern soul In most abject entreaty before Heaven; Have vowed, and fasted, and done penances Enough to save a soul already cursed; But all is weak and vain before the power Of this o'ermastering passion. And now I give the struggle over! If I may But win the love of Azlea, all earth, All hell, shall strive in vain to fright me From my fixed purpose. Heaven refuses Longer to oppose my wishes, and the fear Of earthly torments can not now restrain The passions of my nature. How my soul, No longer bound by vows of holiness, ​Longs to give utterance to its pent-up feelings! I could yell, could rave, and tear my rebel flesh With fiendish rage and eagerness—so burn The fires of hell within me. Oh, Azlea! Thy sweet young face arises in my heart With a rebuking coldness; thy pure look Of calm and earnest sorrow for my grief, And thy strange, startled fearfulness, when thou Didst learn its sinful cause, and thy dear words Of kind and holy counsel, teaching me What my best days knew not of holiness— How all these memories reproach my sin! But still they feed the ever-burning flame Thyself didst kindle by thy purity, And coldness can not conquer.
(A mysterious voice answers.)
Voice.Cease, babbler! Thine is a passion vain as most unholy.
Her. Who mocks me with rehearsal of my grief? Demon or mortal, whosoe'er thou art, Say not again what I now know too well, If thou canst aid me, do it; and if not, Thou art the babbler!
Voice.Dost thou not know me? Has not my still small voice whispered to thee Through thy long, weary watching? Was not night Full of my haunting terrors? Dwelt I not With thee in silence and in solitude, Checking thy wayward nature; and did not My warning keep thee sinless until now, When thou hast thrown me from thee? Now I go, But in my stead shall come another spirit, Who shall possess thy being.
2d Voice.Ha! ha! ha! Thy monitor is easily scared away; Thou needest one less timid.
​Her.Fiend, away! Comest thou to exult o'er vanquished conscience? I am sufficient torment to myself Without thy hellish aid; away! away!
2d Voice. Bid me not go away; I am a part Of thy inseparable self—dark restlessness. I too have haunted thee in midnight watches; I too have peopled solitude with forms Fearful and black as gloom; have worn out virtue With my perpetual importunities. Nay, Hermon, I am too much part of thee To leave thee to still musings and reflection.
Her. Oh, thou tormenting spirit! let thy voice Rest for one hour, that my vexed soul may find Repose from thy incessant torturing. Is't not enough that I am what I am, Traitor to Heaven, and curst upon the earth, Without the object for which all was lost, But thou must scourge me thus?
2d Voice.The object—ay, And when shall she reward thee? Answer me.
Her. Goad not my soul to madness with thy taunts, If mad I am not now; it seems to me That my brain is on fire, and my heart burns With a devouring flame. O that Azlea Could for one hour feel my tormenting pangs, Then Hermon would be pitied.
2d Voice.She would not Yield, as thou hast done; in her gentle soul I might wear out the life, but virtue never.
Her. Again, again you taunt me. Fiend, away! My brain is crazed with torment—I am mad![Rushes out.
ACT IV.
Scene I.—Rome. A gallery.
Enter Alvernon, pausing before a picture.
Alver. Bright being! how beautiful thou art! Not many days shall pass ere I behold The bright original. How in my heart Hurries the quick, impatient pulse of love! Dear Azlea! thou hast been my charm Against the sins and follies of the world; And mayst thou ever be my guardian spirit. Lovely, and loving, and beloved, thou art Worthy a mortal's worship!
Enter Citizens.
1st Cit.Ha! thou hast Completed a new picture. Beautiful! Methinks that face is one that I have seen; Those eyes—the same sweet mouth, dimpled and full; The brow so strangely pure, so like clear pearl, Rounded and smooth, with the fine azure veins Just clouding its translucency; the turn Of the fine head, whose clustering curls of gold And brown inwoven shadow a neck of snow; The lovely arm; ah! it is very strange, But she does seem like one that I have seen.
2d Cit. Bravo! good Claudio, hast fallen in love?
1st Cit. No, but you will, when you have looked on this. Triuli, hast thou never seen this creature Of wondrous loveliness in life?
2d Cit.What, her? Now, by the saints, you're right! this is Viola, The wonderful singer, who some years ago ​Set all Rome mad with love. I've seen her picture In the gallery of a gentleman Who told me her sad story.
1st Cit.What was it?
2d Cit. I have no mind to tell it; it brings tears, And tears shame men like us; it was a tale Of love, desertion, crime, and sorrowful death.
1st Cit. A common story. But is this a copy Of that same picture, gentle Alvernon?
Alver. 'Tis one I took from memory.
1st Cit.Hast thou Then seen the fair original?
Alver.Of this I have.
2d Cit. He never saw Viola, he's too young; She was the wife of Mazarini, who Now lives in solitude; you've heard his airs; They are the finest on the Roman stage— So wild, and grand, and full of melody. I hear he has a daughter; if she sings As did her mother, it will not be long Ere the world finds her out. I would go Full thirty leagues to see her smile, and hear The witchery of her voice.
1st Cit.'Tis you, now, Who talks the lover, and not Claudio.
2d Cit. Hast heard of the commotion in the church? One of the members of a stern, strict order, Hath lately been deemed mad; and whisperings, And vague reports of what hath been the cause, Have much disturbed the holy brethren.
1st Cit. Why? do they think a monk should not go mad?
​2d Cit. They do believe them not so liable To mortal ailments as most other men, Who yield them to their natures.
1st Cit.May they not Have passions as us sinners, only hidden, And kept down by hard penance? and may not The very suppression of a mighty nature Make monks mad, like all other men?
2d Cit.The world Hath whispered such may be the cause; and this Hath reached the church, who liketh not to bear The imputation of such weaknesses, And it is said the maniac will be tried.
1st Cit. Is he in Rome?
2d Cit.At present he is not, And I believe he has long lived alone, Shunning both church and world.
1st Cit.And this is why They think him void of reason? he may prove Too cunning for them yet—thinkest thou not so?
2d Cit. 'Tis true, there may be "method in his madness;" But I have business in the public mart.Exeunt Citizens.
Alvernon. (Soliloquizing.) This news affects me, yet I know not why; But ever when I think on Azlea, Like a disturbing vision, Hermon rises, And darkens the sweet picture with his shade. Oh, I must hasten. As an invisible chain, A strange desire, like a presentiment, Hurries me to thy side, my Azlea.
Scene II.—Sea-shore.
Enter Azlea.
Azlea. O can it be that Alvernon is false— That he hath ceased to think of the weak girl So easily won into love's confidence? Two summers, one of joy and one of woe, Have flitted o'er my brow, bringing to it A deeper shade of thought, and to my heart Full many an earnest lesson; yet he comes not! My father, thou wert right to mourn the fate That threw thy child in the enticing way To the young heart's sweet love—for sweet it is, Though crowned with wildest sorrow. I have been The sport of a strange fortune, and did not A doating father live to mourn his child, Death and the grave could not too speedily come. If one I loved were at this moment here, To close my eyes when they had looked their last, Long, lingering glance of love; to kiss The breath, the last shall pass these lips, away, As it was spent sighing love's farewell, Oh, I could shut my eyes upon the earth, And close its beauty out without a sigh! Love! love! love! 'tis strange the world doth fling So much of the heart's treasures to the winds, Treating them as the playthings of an hour.
Enter Hermon.
Her. Oh, Azlea! have I met thee again? This is a wilder anguish, wilder joy, Than I have known for months; to gaze again Upon thy loveliness, again to hear The music of thy voice—delicious torture! I have longed for this; have sat at night, With darkness all around me, without sleep, ​To wish I could behold thee once again. Day after day, I've trod these shores with hope That once you would return to your old haunts, And I might look on you from my retreat.
Azlea. Hermon, O why pursue me? Is not my life poisoned with thoughts of thee? Do you not, now you view me, The work of weariness and sorrow see?
Her. Thou thinkest of me, Azlea, but thy thoughts Are cold and shrinking—not of tenderness. Why mock me with the mention of such thoughts? Vainly and long I've striven, until I Can strive no longer; and my only hope Is in thy pitying gentleness. Then Think of me as of earth's other children; Sinful, 'tis true, but not without a hope That Heaven will pardon, wilt thou but only save.
Azlea.Hermon, I see thee ever, Like a dark spirit, filling every vision; Making my heart's blood shiver With thy dark smile, and lip of wild derision. Thine eyes, so stern and strange, Burn through night's darkness, and out-glare the day; Nor time, nor place, nor change, Dims the wild brightness of their haunting ray. Thou art become a fear— A dim and shadowy terror everywhere Filling the atmosphere, Whose power I can not banish, even in prayer!
Her. Forbear! say not again those maddening words! They stir within my bosom hotter fires Than burn in the dominions of eternal death! If thou hast seen me, Azlea, in thy dreams, Waking and sleeping, 'twas because my soul ​Was in thy keeping. It will follow thee; 'Tis linked with thine existence, and will go Whither thou goest. When thou art by the sea, Mark how the tides obey their heavenly queen; Beautiful mystery! Thus, by some influence Which you may never learn to understand, My spirit follows thine. If in visions My look is stern, or even dark and fierce, Think of the fires that make life agony, And marvel if thou canst, that they should shine Through my distorted features. I tell thee Thou canst not measure with thine utmost thought The depth of my wild passion.
Azlea.This is why I fear thee: My different spirit shrinks away with dread, And shuddereth to see The fierce, wild passions by seclusion fed, And nourished in the gloom Of the deep cloister, and the dim recess Of monastery and tomb, Till this mad phrensy is called love's excess!
Her. No more, no more! True, in my burning brain Are thoughts of phrensied wildness; but say not They are the offspring of dark phantasy, Nurtured in silence and dim solitude. When first I saw thee on this wild sea-shore— So frail and youthful, yet alone, amid A scene for older hearts and stronger minds To gaze and muse upon; and when I heard Nature's sweet poetry in every word, And saw, and knew, thy high and holy heart Beating in unison with the mighty pulse In the great heart of nature—then I knew There was a love angels themselves might share, Nor wrong their heavenly nature. Such was mine; But when, day after day, and night on night, ​That flame burnt like Cain's offering, in vain— Then like him, a strange madness seized my heart— And then I felt a brand upon my brow, Which I did deem the curse of angry Heaven For violated vows. And then I bowed My soul in bitterness of tears, and mourned. But when again I lifted up my brow, Azlea was in my sight; and from that hour I have not known another joy in life, But the dark, bitter joy of unblest love— By Heaven unsanctioned, and unreturned on earth! But even by Heaven rejected, I am still Only as other men; and like them I Might love an earthly love and yet be blest, Had I not found thee so unreachable— So strangely passionless and coldly pure.
Azlea. Thy dreadful glances, and thy wilder words, Freeze the warm life-tide in my very heart; Oh, leave me, Hermon, while my senses last!
Her. Ha, ha! thy senses fail thee, do they? This Will be delight, to bear thee in my arms, And chafe thy pearly brow, and woo the tint Back to thy pearly cheek, with many a kiss Upon thy lips of coral—ah, thou fliest!
Azlea. Away! away! Oh, Virgin Mary, save me! Protect me, Heaven—oh, save me—he is mad![Flies.
Her. Azlea—once more, wilt thou be mine?[Pursues and seizes her.
Azlea. God, I can not say it!
Her. Then thou shalt never say it to another; The sea shall fold thee in its cold embrace, And thou shalt nestle in its deep, dark bosom.[Bears her fainting to the edge of the rock, and casts her into the sea. ​Down, down, down; thy look is strangely calm! Thou goest to thy last rest, as a child Upon its mother's bosom sinks to sleep.
Enter Alvernon.
Alver. Ha! hideous demon, where is Azlea?
Her. By Heaven, this is Alvernon! now I know Why Hermon sued in vain. Look! gaze full long Upon her sea-deep cradle! She, sweet child, Is far beyond the reach of your weak arm.
Alver. Answer me, fiend! hast thou slain Azlea? Monster! now thou shalt die.
Her. Not by thy arm; I go to meet thy Azlea, while thou Must tarry here alone: dost envy me?[Plunges into the sea.
Alver. Was there a God in heaven when this was done?[Curtain falls.
Scene III.—A room in Mazarini's house. Azlea stretched on a bier. Alvernon kneeling beside it, his face hidden in the pall. Mazarini chanting a low, wild dirge on his harp.
DIRGE.
Once, my mournful harp, and never Shall thy strings to sadness shiver; Never more with anguish quiver Breaking with thy moan. Once more sound for me in sorrow, One low, dirge-like strain; to-morrow Hushed will be thy tone.
​Earth is swiftly, dimly fleeting, Time my funeral march is beating— Life and death a spectral meeting Holding o'er the bier; Wo is me! is there no waking? Utter has been my forsaking, On this joyless sphere.
One by one life's chords have broken, Giving to my heart the token, Clear and fearful, though unspoken, Of its wasted strength; Now the last frail tie hath parted— To the goal from whence it started, Life returns at length.
Oh, how wildly hath it striven, Till the spirit, crushed and riven, Waited, grieving, for the heaven Of the loved and lost; Dreamy visions o'er me stealing, Close the avenues of feeling— Life and grief are past!
[Dies.