ACT II.
SCENE I.—The Catacombs, showing long low-roofed aisles, in different directions, supported by thick pillars of the rough unhewn rock, with rude tombs and heaps of human bones, and the walls in many places lined with human skulls.
Enter Cordenius Maro, speaking to a Christian Father, on whose arm he leans, and followed by Sylvius.
CORDENIUS.
Your heavenly lore, so powerful and sublime,—
Oh! what an altered creature they have made me!
FATHER.
CORDENIUS.
And downward gaze—if such a one might be—
Hath only known the boundless azure sky
By the strait circle of reflected beauty,
Seen in the watery gleam of some deep pit:
Till of a sudden roused, he stands erect,
And wondering looks aloft and all around
On the bright sunny firmament:—like one
(Granting again that such a one might be)
Who hath but seen the element of fire
On household hearth or woodman's smoky pile,
And looks at once, midst stounding thunderpeals,
On Jove's magnificence of lightning.—Pardon,
I pray you pardon me! I mean his lightning.
Who is the Jove of Jove, the great Jehova.
FATHER (smiling).
From lengthen'd habit, what the mind rejects.
CORDENIUS.
Have to my intellectual being given
New feelings and expansion, like to that
Which once I felt, on viewing by degrees
The wide developement of nature's amplitude.
FATHER.
CORDENIUS.
Imagination sees it all again.
'Twas on a lofty mountain of Armenia,
O'er which I led by night my martial cohort,
To shun the fierce heat of a summer's day.
Close round us hung, the vapours of the night
Had form'd a woofy curtain, dim and pale,
Through which the waning moon did faintly mark
Its slender crescent.
FATHER.
Fit emblem is of that retrenching light,
Dubious and dim, which to the earliest Patriarchs
Was at the first vouchsafed; a moral guide,
Soon clouded and obscured to their descendants,
Who peopled far and wide, in scatter'd tribes,
The fertile earth.—But this is interruption.
Proceed, my son.
CORDENIUS.
We halted, and the day's returning light
On this exalted station found us. Then
Our brighten'd curtain, wearing into shreds
And rifted masses, through its opening gave
Glimpse after glimpse of slow revealed beauty,
Which held th' arrested senses magic bound,
In the intensity of charm'd attention.
FATHER.
Would to the eye reveal most beauteous visions.
CORDENIUS.
And knolls with cedars crested; then, beyond.
And lower still, the herdsmen's cluster'd dwellings,
With pasture slopes, and flocks just visible;
Then, further still, soft wavy wastes of forest,
In all the varied tints of sylvan verdure,
Descending to the plain; then, wide and boundless,
The plain itself, with towns and cultured tracts,
And its fair river gleaming in the light,
With all its sweepy windings, seen and lost,
And seen again, till through the pale grey tint
Of distant space, it seem'd a loosen'd cestus
From virgin's tunic blown; and still beyond,
The earth's extended vastness from the sight
Wore like the boundless ocean.
My heart beat rapidly at the fair sight—
This ample earth, man's natural habitation.
But now, when to my mental eye reveal'd,
His moral destiny, so grand and noble,
Lies stretching on even to immensity,
It overwhelms me with a flood of thoughts,
Of happy thoughts.
FATHER.
CORDENIUS.
Which from thy gifted lips and sacred scripture
I have received. What feelings they have raised!
O what a range of thought given to the mind!
And to the soul what loftiness of hope!
That future dreamy state of faint existence
Which poets have described and sages taught,
In which the brave and virtuous pined and droop'd
In useless indolence, changed for a state
Of social love, and joy, and active bliss,—
A state of brotherhood,—a state of virtue,
So grand, so purified;—O it is excellent!
My soul is roused within me at the sound,
Like some poor slave, who from a dungeon issues
To range with free-born men his native land.
FATHER.
Become the high compeer of blessed spirits.
CORDENIUS.
Nature's mysterious tears, will have their way.
FATHER.
CORDENIUS.
At contemplation of exalted virtue?
Perhaps in token of the fallen state
In which we are, as thrilling sympathy
Strangely acknowledges some sight and sound,
Connected with a dear and distant home,
Albeit the mem'ry hath that link forgotten:—
A kind of latent sense of what we were,
Or might have been; a deep mysterious token.
FATHER.
Will sometimes weep at lofty, generous deeds.
Some broken traces of our noble nature
Were yet preserved; therefore our great Creator
Still loved his work, and thought it worth redemption.
And therefore his bless'd Son, our generous Master,
Did, as the elder brother of that race,
Whose form he took, lay down his life to save us.
But I have read thee, in our sacred book,
His gentle words of love.
CORDENIUS.
Each fibre of my body thrills in answer
To the high call.—
FATHER.
CORDENIUS (after a pause).
FATHER.
What passes in thy mind.
CORDENIUS.
Of God Supreme to an infinity
Of awful greatness, yet connects us with him,
As children, loved and cherish'd;—
Adoring awe with tenderness united.
SYLVIUS (eagerly).
My rude unletter'd mind than all the rest.
I struck my hand against my soldier's mail,
And cried, "This faith is worthy of a man!"
CORDENIUS.
To one great universal Lord of all,
Lord even of Jove himself and all the gods;
But who durst feel for that high, distant Essence,
A warmer sentiment than deep submission?
But now, adoring love and grateful confidence
Cling to th' infinity of power and goodness,
As the repentant child turns to his sire
With yearning looks, that say, "Am I not thine?"
I am too bold: I should be humbled first
In penitence and sorrow, for the stains
Of many a hateful vice and secret passion.
FATHER.
O check it not! Love leads to penitence,
And is the noblest, surest path; whilst fear
Is dark and devious. To thy home return,
And let thy mind well weigh what thou hast heard.
If then thou feel'st within thee faith assured;
That faith, which may, ev'n through devouring flames,
Its passage hold to heaven, baptismal rites
Shall give thee entrance to a purer life,
Receive thee, as thy Saviour's valiant soldier,
For his high warfare arm'd.
CORDENIUS.
There lives that faith; baptize me ere we part.
FATHER.
Must be deferr'd; for, lo! our brethren come,
Bearing the ashes of our honour'd saints,
Which must, with hymns of honour, be received.
Enter Christians, seen advancing slowly along one of the aisles, and hearing a large veiled urn, which they set down near the front. They then lift off the veil and range themselves round it, while one sings and the rest join in the Chorus at the end of each short verse.
SONG.
Departed brothers, generous brave,
Who for the faith have died,
Nor its pure source denied,
Your bodies from devouring flames to save,
CHORUS.
Honour on earth, and bliss in heaven,
Be to your saintly valour given!
And we, who, left behind, pursue
A pilgrim's weary way
To realms of glorious day,
Shall rouse our fainting souls with thoughts of you.
Honour on earth, &c.
Your ashes, mingled with the dust,
Shall yet be forms more fair
Than e'er breathed vital air,
When earth again gives up her precious trust.
Honour on earth, &c.
The trump of angels shall proclaim,
With tones far sent and sweet,
Which countless hosts repeat,
The generous martyr's never-fading name.
Honour on earth, and bliss in heaven,
Be to your saintly valour given!
CORDENIUS (to Father).
Were clothed in flesh and blood, and here, before us,
Lie thus, ev'n to a few dry ashes changed,
Are now exalted spirits, holding life
With blessed powers, and agencies, and all
Who have on earth a virtuous part fulfill'd?
The dear redeem'd of Godlike love, again
To their primeval destiny restored?
It is a generous, powerful, noble faith.
SYLVIUS.
It well became a Roman and a soldier?
FATHER.
And less of martial ardour were becoming
In those whose humble Lord stretch'd forth his hand,
His saving hand, to ev'n the meanest slave
Who bends beneath an earthly master's rod.
This faith is meet for all of human kind.
CORDENIUS.
His heart is meek, though ardent;
It is, indeed, a faith for all mankind.
FATHER.
On every side beset with threatening terrors.
Look on these ghastly walls, these shapeless pillars,
These heaps of human bones,—this court of death;
Ev'n here, as in a temple, we adore
The Lord of life, and sing our song of hope,
That death has lost his sting, the grave his triumph.
CORDENIUS.
(Taking the hand of Sylvius, and then of several other Christians.)
The blessed faith and sense of what we are
Comes on my heart, like streams of beamy light
Pour'd from some opening cloud. O to conceive
What lies beyond the dim, dividing veil
Of regions bright, of blest and glorious being!
FATHER.
What heart hath ne'er conceived, nor tongue could utter.
CORDENIUS.
With all its sparks of light, as a grand cope
For the benighted world. But now my fancy
Will greet each twinkling star, as the bright lamp
Of some fair angel on his guardian watch.
And think ye not, that from their lofty stations
Our future glorious home, our Father's house.
May lie within the vast and boundless ken
Of such seraphic powers?
FATHER.
Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ardour.
CORDENIUS.
But as a step from which to take our flight;
What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be,
Serving its end?—Come, noble Sylvius!
We've been companions in the broil of battle,
Now be we fellow-soldiers in that warfare
Which best becomes the brave.
SYLVIUS.
When this wide earth with all its fields of blood
Where war hath raged, and all its towers of strength
Which have begirded been with iron hosts,
Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun
Is in his course extinguish'd.
CORDENIUS.
If I in humble penitence may be
From worldly vileness clear'd.
FATHER.
Is dealing with thy spirit: be received,
A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship
Of all the good and bless'd in earth and heaven!
Enter a Convert.
Whence comest thou, Fearon? Why wert thou prevented
From joining in our last respectful homage
To those, who have so nobly for the truth
Laid down their lives?
CONVERT.
Where Ethocles, the Grecian, is immured.
FATHER.
If they have seiz'd on him, the righteous cause
Could not have suffer'd. Art thou sure of it?
We had not heard of his return from Syria.
CONVERT.
On the Brundusian coast, and, as he enter'd
The gates of Rome, was seized and dragg'd to prison.
FATHER.
CONVERT.
So this was done at night-fall and conceal'd.
But see his writing given me by a guard,
Who has for pity's sake betray'd his trust:
It is address'd to thee. (Giving him a paper.)
FATHER (after reading it).
Of his successful labours in the East:
For with his excellent gifts of eloquence,
Learning and prudence, he has made more converts
Than all our zealous brotherhood besides.
What can we do? He will be sacrificed:
The church in him must bleed, if God so wills.
It is a dreadful blow.
CORDENIUS (to the Convert).
CONVERT.
CORDENIUS.
CONVERT.
CORDENIUS.
FATHER (to Cordenius).
The truth hath suffer'd much from this; beware:
Risk not thyself: thy life is also precious.
CORDENIUS.
This earthly portion of it, what is that,
But as it is employ'd in holy acts?
Am I Christ's soldier at a poorer rate
Than I have served an earthly master? No;
I feel within my glowing breast a power
Which says I am commission'd for this service.
Give me thy blessing—thy baptismal blessing,
And then God's spirit guide me! Serving God,
I will not count the cost but to discharge it.
FATHER.
His blessing be upon thee!—Lead him, Sylvius,
To the blest fount, where from his former sins
He shall by heavenly grace be purified.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Garden of Sulpicius.
Enter Sulpicius and Portia, with flowers in her hand.
PORTIA.
And pay my homage to sweet Flora? Never
Were flowers by mid-day cull'd so fair, so fragrant,
With blending streaky tints, so fresh and bright.
See; twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell,
And on the fibred leaves stray far apart,
Like little rounded gems of silver sheen,
Whilst curling tendrils grasp with vigorous hold
The stem that bears them! All looks young and fresh.
The very spider through his circled cage
Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended,
Scarce seems a lothly thing, but like the small
Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph.
Is it not so, my father?
SULPICIUS.
And are the emblems of dear changeful days.
By night those beauteous things
PORTIA.
Why do you check your words? You are not sad?
SULPICIUS.
For crossing thy gay stream of youthful thoughts
With those of sullen age. Away with them!
What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft and silken,
Are gathered into dank and wrinkled folds
When evening chills them, or upon the earth
With broken stems and buds torn and dispers'd,
Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft
When midnight winds pass o'er them; be it so!
All things but have their term.
In truth, my child, I am glad that I indulged thee
By coming forth at such an early hour
To pay thy worship to so sweet a goddess,
Upon her yearly feast.
PORTIA.
That she, from mortal eye conceal'd, vouchsafes
Her presence in such sweet and flowery spots:
And where due offerings on her shrine are laid,
Blesses all seeds and shoots, and things of promise.
SULPICIUS.
She needs must visit then!
PORTIA.
That stirr'd each slender leaf, now as we enter'd,
And made a sudden sound, by stillness follow'd,
Might be the rustling of her passing robe.
SULPICIUS.
Yet wild as pleasing.
PORTIA.
Full many a time I've listen'd when alone
In such fair spots as this, and thought I heard
Sweet mingled voices uttering varied tones
Of question and reply, pass on the wind,
And heard soft steps upon the ground; and then
The notion of bright Venus or Diana,
Or goddess-nymphs, would come so vividly
Into my mind, that I am almost certain
Their radiant forms were near me, tho' conceal'd
By subtle drapery of the ambient air.
And oh, how I have long'd to look upon them!
An ardent strange desire, tho' mix'd with fear.
Nay, do not smile, my father: such fair sights
Were seen—were often seen in ancient days;
The poets tell us so.
But look, the Indian roses I have foster'd
Are in full bloom; and I must gather them.
[Exit, eagerly.
SULPICIUS (alone).
Ah! couldst thou so remain, and still with me
Be as in years gone by!—It may not be;
Nor should I wish it: all things have their season:
She may not now remain an old man's treasure,
With all her woman's beauty grown to blossom.
Enter Orceres.
The Parthian prince at such an early hour?
ORCERES.
On what concerns a lover and a friend?
Where is thy daughter?
SULPICIUS.
For tho' she loves, 'tis with sweet, maiden fancy,
Which, not impatient, looks in cheering hope
To future years.
ORCERES.
A cradled love, by admiration foster'd:
A showy, toward nurse for babe so bashful.
Thus in the shell athwart whose snowy lining
Each changeful tint of the bright rainbow plays,
A little pearl is found in secret value
Surpassing all the rest.
SULPICIUS.
Of what I wish to hear? What of Cordenius?
ORCERES.
By the best war-horse archer e'er bestrode!
I'm still in ignorance; I have not seen him.
SULPICIUS.
ORCERES.
Has from his home been absent. Yesterday,
There and elsewhere I sought, but found him not.
This morning by the dawn again I sought him,
Thinking to find him surely and alone;
But his domestics, much amazed, have told me,
He is not yet return'd.
SULPICIUS.
ORCERES.
SULPICIUS.
And mark his motions; he observes us not.
Enter Cordenius from a Thicket in the back ground.
CORDENIUS (after looking round him with delight).
Enrich'd with every beauteous herb and flower,
And stately trees, that spread their boughs like tents
For shade and shelter, how I hail ye now!
Ye are His works, who made such fair abodes
For happy innocence, yet, in the wreck
Of foul perversion, has not cast us off.
(Stooping to look at the flowers.)
Ye little painted things, whose varied hues
Charm, ev'n to wonderment; that mighty hand
Which dyes the mountain's peak with rosy tints
Sent from the rising sun, and to the barbed
Destructive lightning gives its ruddy gleam,
Grand and terrific, thus adorns even you!
There is a father's full unstinted love
Display'd o'er all, and thus on all I gaze
With the keen thrill of new-waked ecstasy.
What voice is that so near me and so sweet?
Portia without, singing some notes of prelude, and then a Song.
SONG.
The lady in her early bower
Is blest as bee in morning flower;
The lady's eye is flashing bright,
Like water in the morning light;
The lady's song is sweet and loud,
Like skylark o'er the morning cloud;
The lady's smiles are smiles that pass
Like morning's breath o'er wavy grass.
She thinks of one, whose harness'd car
In triumph comes from distant war;
She thinks of one, whose martial state
Will darken Rome's imperial gate;
She thinks of one, with laurel crown'd,
Who shall with sweeter wreaths be bound.
Voice, eye, and smiles, in mingled play,
The lady's happy thoughts betray.
CORDENIUS.
It is that gentle creature, my sweet Portia.
I call her mine, because she is the image
Which hath possess'd my fancy. Such vain thoughts
Must now give place. I will not linger here.
This is the garden of Sulpicius;
How have I miss'd my path? She sings again.
[Sings without, as before.
She wanders fitfully from lay to lay,
But all of them some air that I have prais'd
In happy hours gone by.
SONG.
The kind heart speaks with words so kindly sweet,
That kindred hearts the catching tones repeat;
And love, therewith, his soft sigh gently blending,
Makes pleasing harmony. Thus softly sending
Its passing cheer across the stilly main,
Whilst in the sounding water dips the oar
And glad response bursts from the nearing shore,
Comes to our ears the home-bound seamen's strain,
Who from the lofty deck hail their own land again.
CORDENIUS.
Whate'er my heart could prize of treasured love!
Dear as thou art, I will not linger here.
Re-enter Sulpicius and Orceres, breaking out upon him, and Orceres catching hold of his robe as he is going off.
ORCERES.
Shunning a spot of danger!
SULPICIUS.
The fellest foe thou shalt contend with here,
Is her thou call'st so gentle. As for me,
I do not offer thee this hand more freely
Than I will grant all that may make thee happy,
If Portia has that power.
CORDENIUS.
That thou wilt give me Portia—thy dear Portia?
My fancy catches wildly at thy words.
SULPICIUS.
If thou wilt promise me to love her truly.
CORDENIUS (eagerly clasping the knees, and then kissing the hands, of Sulpicius).
Which has no words.—Friend, father, Portia's father!
The thought creates in me such sudden joy,
I am bewilder'd with it.
SULPICIUS.
Thou should'st in meeter form have known it sooner,
Had not the execution of those Christians—
(Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile,
With all their kind, I would most gladly punish,)
Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orceres—
Thou owest him thanks—pled for thee powerfully,
And had my leave. But dost thou listen to me?
Thy face wears many colours, and big drops
Burst from thy brow, whilst thy contracted lips
Quiver, like one in pain.
ORCERES.
CORDENIUS.
SULPICIUS (holding him).
To know whate'er concerns thee,— pain or pleasure.
CORDENIUS.
Take, take, Sulpicius.—O such withering words!
The sinking, sick'ning heart and parched mouth!
I cannot utter them.
SULPICIUS.
Nay, strive not now to speak.
CORDENIUS.
Take back thy proffer'd gift; all earth could give;—
That which it cannot give I must retain.
SULPICIUS.
I could believe thee touch'd with sorcery,
The cursed art of those vile Nazarenes.
Where hast thou past the night? their haunts are near.
ORCERES.
May not be questioned thus.
SULPICIUS.
If he, with hand press'd on his breast, will say,
That he detests those hateful Nazarenes.
CORDENIUS.
My Portia's love, depended on the words,
I would not, and I durst not utter them.
SULPICIUS.
By their enchantments. Demoniac power
Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off;
Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse
With this detested sect. Art thou a madman?
CORDENIUS.
Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught,
Or poets e'er imagined.—Listen to me.
Call ye these Christians vile, because they suffer
All nature shrinks from, rather than deny
What seems to them the truth? Call ye them sorcerers,
Because their words impart such high conceptions
Of power creative and parental love,
In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart
Bound with ennobling thoughts? Call ye them curst
Who daily live in steady strong assurance
Of endless blessedness? O, listen to me!
Re-enter Portia, bursting from a Thicket close to them.
PORTIA.
SULPICIUS.
The song of syrens were less fatal. Charms
Of dire delusion, luring on to ruin,
Are mingled with the words that speak their faith;
They, who once hear them, flutter round destruction
With giddy fascination, like the moth,
Which, shorn of half its form, all scorch'd and shrivell'd,
Still to the torch returns. I will not listen;
No, Portia, nor shalt thou.
PORTIA.
For if you listen to him, you may save him,
And win him from his errors.
SULPICIUS.
Opposed to demon subtlety? Cordenius!
Cordenius Maro! I adjure thee, go!
Leave me; why would'st thou pull destruction on me?
On one who loved thee so, that tho' possess'd
Of but one precious pearl, most dearly prized,
Prized more than life, yet would have given it to thee.
I needs must weep: ev'n for thyself I weep.
CORDENIUS.
Albeit the pearl thou would'st bestow upon me
Is, in my estimation, dearer far
Than life, or power, or fame, or earthly thing.
When these fierce times are past, thou wilt, perhaps,
Think of me with regard, but not with pity,
How fell soe'er my earthly end hath been,
For I shall then be blest. And thou, dear Portia,
Wilt thou remember me? That thought, alas!
Dissolves my soul in weakness.—
O, to be spared, if it were possible,
This stroke of agony! Is it not possible,
That I might yet—Almighty God forgive me!
Weak thoughts will lurk in the devoted heart,
But not be cherish'd there. I may not offer
Aught short of all to thee.
Farewell, farewell! sweet Portia, fare thee well!
[Orceres catches hold of him to prevent his going.
My strength is in retreat.
[Exit.
PORTIA.
O save him, save him, father! Brave Orceres,
Wilt thou not save thy friend, the noble Maro?
ORCERES.
We'll keep his faith a secret in our breasts,
And he may yet, if not by circumstances
Provok'd to speak, conceal it from the world.
PORTIA.
SULPICIUS.
PORTIA.
Whom Cæsar and his subject-nations worship,
Will not abandon Rome's best, bravest soldier
To power demoniac. That can never be,
If they indeed regard us.
ORCERES.
Or rather he who in that star resides,
Would not permit his power to be so thwarted,
For all the demonry that e'er exerted
Its baleful influence on wretched men.
Beshrew me! for a thought gleams thro' my brain
It is this God, perhaps, with some new name,
Which these bewilder'd Nazarenes adore.
SULPICIUS.
ORCERES.
Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man
A power to change its nature. Ay, Sulpicius;
And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass,
Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance;
We shoot our arrow in the dark, and cry,
"It is to wound a foe." Come, gentle Portia;
Be not so sad; the man thou lovest is virtuous,
And brave, and loves thee well; why then despair?
PORTIA.
Therefore, I do despair.
ORCERES.
Such men are ever on the brink of danger,
But would'st thou have him other than he is?
PORTIA.
Yet shed I tears, even like a wayward child
Who weeps for that which cannot be attain'd,—
Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd.
I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched,
And that doth make me foolish and perverse.
[Exeunt.