Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/Constantine the Great
DRAMATIC SKETCHES.
CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
A DRAMATIC SKETCH.
"Zozimus, a pagan that envied the honour of Constantine the Great, makes this tale to discredit him in his history. That Constantine had put his wife Faustina and his son Crispus to death; after which, being haunted by an ill conscience that gave him no quiet, he sought amongst the heathen priests for expiation, and they could give him no peace; but he was told that the religion of Christians was so audacious as to pardon all sins, be they never so horrible. Is not this to commend the Emperor and his religion under the form of a dispraise; for what rest could a troubled mind attain to from the rites and superstitions of idol gods?"
Scene. A Temple of Jupiter.
Constantine.
High Priest.
Valerius.
CONSTANTINE.
Avaunt, ye grisly phantoms, nor prophane
The sacred temple of the gods! Thou pale
And bleeding spectre, wilt thou never cease
To haunt my steps, to fix thy glassy eyes
Upon thy murderer, and with thy gaunt
And bony finger point to that dread shape
That steals behind thee? Whither shall I turn?
Where fly to scape these ghastly phantoms?—Blood—
A sea of blood floats round me. If I raise
My burning eye-balls to the shrine where stands
The statue of the Thunderer in grand
And awful majesty, it disappears,
And the vindictive shade from Jove's high throne
Glares on the suppliant;—to earth I turn
My conscious looks, and stretched upon the ground
Beneath my feet, two mangled corses lie.
My wife, my son! why are ye silent?—why
Do you not charge me with my crime? The deed
Accursed in the eyes of gods and men
So nameless, foul, unnatural; so black
That shuddering fiends disdain me.—Heaven and hell
Have shut their gates, and leave me for the prey
Of these pale tenants of the tomb! Away
Distracting vision! Oh! ye sacred band
Who, morn and eve, perform the holy rites
Before great Jove's high altar, give me hope,
Speak words of comfort to my troubled soul,
To my sad spirit, peace.
High Priest.
Constantine.
To endless punishment in other worlds,
And agony in this; to keen remorse,
The deadly pang that poisons every joy.
Amid the acclamations, 'mid the shouts
Of the thronged multitude from east to west,
The countless hosts of Rome's wide empire, groans
Burst on my startled ear! Faustina's groans,
The dying cry of Crispus! At the feast
When the brimmed goblet sparkles, and each hand
Pours a libation to the gods, the wine
Within my chalice turns to purple gore—
'Tis on my soul! it stains my garments! Earth
Refuses to absorb the guilty stream;
And the just gods with loathing turn away
From the unhallowed offering! Oh say
How may I expiate the crime? What prayer,
What costly gift, what pompous sacrifice,
May make atonement to offended Jove?
The milk-white bull that roams in freedom round
The base of lofty Athos, crowned with flowers,
Blooming as those which fond Europa twined
Around the monarch of the plain, and led
By troops of noble virgins, raising high
The choral strain, shall bleed before the shrine.
And the swart Indian, from his richest mine
Shall dig the ruby, pluck the orient pearl
From ocean's depths, and mould the golden ore
In votive offerings, such as gods may deem
Meet to adorn their temples.
High Priest.
Œdipus,
The blind distracted wanderer, whose crime
Predestined and involuntary, seems
Trivial compared to thine, from Pluto's realms
Shall rend Olympus with his thrilling groans,
His bitter accusation, should the gods
Receive oblations from thy guilty hand.
Orestes lashed by furies shall arise
To plead against thee: Justice armed his hand,
And blood demanded blood! Shalt thou escape
The indignation of the gods, unloose
The sacred bonds of nature, and with hymns
And sacrifice of bulls, and glittering gems
Appease the outraged deities?—Despair!
Constantine.
I will not be denied. Where are your rites
Your deep enchantments and mysterious spells,
The smoking incense that ascends to heaven,
The magic frenzy that compels to earth
Descending deities? My fierce remorse,
The unutterable anguish of my soul
Demands relief! Rid me of those pale forms,
That, mid the blaze of day, the gloom of night,
Are fixed forever on my burning eyes,
Sleeping or waking—I can bear no more!
Send Rome's proud Emperor forth to deserts wild;
Bid him resign his regal diadem—
Relinquishing the mistress of the world,
To roam a beggar through his own wide realm.
Stand not so mute; your silent cold regards,
Mocking my passionate grief, will make me mad!
Pour curses on me; bid me strain each nerve
To the endurance of strange torture, keen,
Keen as my agony of mind; but say
There is a hope, a chance, that suffering
May pave the way to mercy.
High Priest.
Constantine!
Be not deceived, the gods have fixed thy doom;
Nor prayer nor penance can avail. Depart,
We have no balm to give thee. Festal rites,
And joyous sacrifice, the song, the dance,
Performed in praise and honour, form alone
The duties of our office. Jupiter
Deigns not to give commission to his priests
To pardon criminals. Seek other shrines,
And bend the knee to foreign deities;
Thou canst not move the gods of Greece and Rome.
Constantine.
Despite thyself thou giv'st me hope,—speak! say
Where shall I bend my steps where seek the fount
Whence mercy springs?
Valerius.
Turn to the living God!
Forsake these idols made by human hands,
These dumb insensate marble images,
And seek redemption form that Holy One,
The wonderful, the marvellous! whose name's
Above all powers of magic, far above
The sorcerer's nightly rites[1], Thessalian drugs,
The secret charms of Memphis, or the deep
Mysterious murmurs of the wise Chaldee.
Miraculous omnipotence hath snatched
Dominion from the evil powers, and gives
Salvation to a fallen world—adore
The sacred name which devils have revered
With fear and trembling! O'er the darkened earth
Behold a day-star springs.
Constantine.
Say on, thy voice
Seems to my burthened heart oracular,
Even at thy words those bleeding ghastly shades
Have melted into air. Blessed be God![2]
A sinner's prayers are heard.