Josepha. Yet there's comfort. Restrain thy wandering Spirit—Ulric cannot Have left his native land—thou dost not know, Though it looks strangely, thy Sire and he In anger parted—Hope is left us still.

Werner. The best hope that I ever held in youth, 140 When every pulse was life, each thought a joy, (Yet not irrationally sanguine, since My birth bespoke high thoughts,) hath lured and left me. I will not be a dreamer in mine age— The hunter of a shadow—let boys hope: Of Hope I now know nothing but the name— And that's a sound which jars upon my heart. I've wearied thee—Good night—my patient Love!

Josepha. I must not leave thee thus—my husband—friend— My heart is rent in twain for thee—I scarce 150 Dare greet thee as I would, lest that my love Should seem officious and ill timed:—'tis early— Yet rest were as a healing balm to thee— Then once again—Good night!

Voice Without. What Ho—lights ho!

SCENE II.

Josepha. What noise is that? 'tis nearer—hush! they knock. [A knocking heard at the gate—WERNER starts.

Werner (aside). It may be that the bloodhounds of the villain, Who long has tracked me, have approached at last: I'll not be taken tamely.

Josepha. 'Twas the voice, The single voice of some lone traveller. I'll to the door.

Werner. No—stay thou here—again! [Knocking repeated. Opens the door. Well—Sir—your pleasure?

Enter CARL the Bavarian.

Carl. Thanks most worthy Sir! My pleasure, for to-night, depends on yours— I'm weary, wet, and wayworn—without shelter, Unless you please to grant it.

Josepha. You shall have it, 10 Such as this ruinous mansion may afford: Tis spacious, but too cold and crazy now For Hospitality's more cordial welcome: But as it is 'tis yours.

Werner (to his wife). Why say ye so? At once such hearty greeting to a stranger? At such a lonely hour, too—

Josepha (in reply to Werner). Nay—he's honest. There is trust-worthiness in his blunt looks.

Werner (to Josepha). "Trustworthiness in looks!" I'll trust no looks! I look into men's faces for their age, Not for their actions—had he Adam's brow, 20 Open and goodly as before the fall, I've lived too long to trust the frankest aspect. (To Carl) Whence come you Sir?

Carl. From Frankfort, on my way To my own country—I've a companion too— He tarries now behind:—an hour ago, On reaching that same river on your frontier, We found it swoln by storms—a stranger's carriage, Despite the current, drawn by sturdy mules, Essayed to pass, and nearly reached the middle Of that which was the ford in gentler weather, 30 When down came driver, carriage, mules, and all— You may suppose the worthy Lord within Fared ill enough:—worse still he might have suffered, But that my comrade and myself rushed in, And with main strength and some good luck beside, Dislodged and saved him: he'll be here anon. His equipage by this time is at Dresden— I left it floating that way.

Werner. Where is he?

Carl. Hitherward on his way, even like myself— We saw the light and made for the nearest shelter: 40 You'll not deny us for a single night? You've room enough, methinks—and this vast ruin Will not be worse for three more guests.

Werner. Two more: And thou?—well—be it so—(aside) (tonight will soon Be overpast: they shall not stay tomorrow)— Know you the name of him you saved?

Carl. Not I! I think I heard him called a Baron Something— But was too chill to stay and hear his titles: You know they are sometimes tedious in the reckoning, If counted over by the noble wearer. 50 Has't any wine? I'm wet, stung to the marrow— My comrade waited to escort the Baron: They will be here, anon—they, too, want cheering: I'll taste for them, if it please you, courteous host!

Josepha. Such as our vintage is shall give you welcome: I'll bring you some anon. [goes out.

Carl (looking round). A goodly mansion! And has been nobly tenanted, I doubt not. This worn magnificence some day has shone On light hearts and long revels—those torn banners Have waved o'er courtly guests—and yon huge lamp 60 High blazed through many a midnight—I could wish My lot had led me here in those gay times! Your days, my host, must pass but heavily. Are you the vassal of these antient chiefs, Whose heir wastes elsewhere their fast melting hoards, And placed to keep their cobwebs company?

Werner (who has been absorbed in thought till the latter part of his speech). A Vassal!—I a vassal!—who accosts me With such familiar question?—(checks himself and says aside)—Down startled pride! Have not long years of wretchedness yet quenched thee, And, suffering evil, wilt thou start at scorn? 70 (To Carl.) Sir! if I boast no birth—and, as you see, My state bespeaks none—still, no being breathes Who calls me slave or servant.—Like yourself I am a stranger here—a lonely guest— But, for a time, on sufferance. On my way, From—a far distant city—Sickness seized, And long detained me in the neighbouring hamlet. The Intendant of the owner of this castle, Then uninhabited, with kind intent, Permitted me to wait returning health 80 Within these walls—more sheltered than the cot Of humble peasants.

Carl. Worthy Sir, your mercy! I meant not to offend you—plain of speech, And blunt in apprehension, I do judge Men's station from their seeming—but themselves From acts alone. You bid me share your shelter, And I am bound to you; and had you been The lowliest vassal had not thanked you less, Than I do now, believing you his better, Perhaps my own superior—

Werner. What imports it? 90 What—who I am—or whence—you are welcome—sit— You shall have cheer anon. (walks disturbedly aside)

Carl (to himself). Here's a strange fellow! Wild, churlish, angry—why, I know not, seek not. Would that the wine were come! my doublet's wet, But my throat dry as Summer's drought in desarts. Ah—here it sparkles!

Enter JOSEPHA with wine in flask—and a cup. As she pours it out a Voice is heard without calling at a distance. WERNER starts—JOSEPHA listens tremulously.

Werner. That voice—that voice—Hark! No—no—tis silent—Sir—I say—that voice— Whose is it—speak—

Carl (drinking unconcernedly). Whose is it? faith, I know not— And, yet, 'tis my companion's: he's like you, And does not care to tell his name and station. 100 [The voice again and nearer.

Josepha. 'Tis his—I knew it—Ulric!—Ulric!—Ulric! [She drops the wine and rushes out.

Carl. The flask's unhurt—but every drop is spilt. Confound the voice! I say—would he were dumb! And faith! to me, he has been nearly so— A silent and unsocial travelling mate.

Werner (stands in agitation gazing towards the door). If it be he—I cannot move to meet him. Yes—it must be so—there is no such voice That so could sound and shake me: he is here, And I am—

Enter STRALENHEIM.

Werner (turns and sees him). A curse upon thee, stranger! Where dids't thou learn a tone so like my boy's? 110 Thou mock bird of my hopes—a curse upon thee! Out! Out! I say. Thou shalt not harbour here.

Stralenheim. What means the peasant? knows he unto whom He dares address this language?

Carl. Noble Sir! Pray heed him not—he's Phrenzy's next door neighbour, And full of these strange starts and causeless jarrings.

Werner. Oh, that long wished for voice!—I dreamed of it— And then it did elude me—then—and now.

Enter ULRIC and JOSEPHA. WERNER falls on his neck.

Oh God! forgive, for thou dids't not forget me. Although I murmured—tis—it is my Son! 120

Josepha. Aye, 'tis dear Ulric—yet, methinks, he's changed, too: His cheek is tanned, his frame more firmly knit! That scar, too, dearest Ulric—I do fear me— Thou hast been battling with these heretics, And that's a Swedish token on thy brow.

Ulric. My heart is glad with yours—we meet like those Who never would have parted:—of the past You shall know more anon—but, here's a guest That asks a gentle welcome. Noble Baron, My father's silence looks discourtesy: 130 Yet must I plead his pardon—'tis his love Of a long truant that has rapt him, thus, From hospitable greeting—you'll be seated— And, Father, we will sup like famished hunters.

JOSEPHA goes out here.

Stralenheim. I have much need of rest: no more refreshment! Were all my people housed within the hamlet, Or can they follow?

Ulric. Not to night I fear. They staid in hope the damaged Cabriole Might, with the dawn of day, have such repairs, As circumstance admits of.

Carl. Nay—that's hopeless. 140 They must not only mend but draw it too. The mules are drowned—a murrain on them both! One kicked me as I would have helped him on.

Stralenheim. It is most irksome to me—this delay. I was for Prague on business of great moment.

Werner. For Prague—Sir—Say you?—

Stralenheim. Yes, my host! for Prague. And these vile floods and villainous cross roads Steal my time from it's uses—but—my people? Where do they shelter?

Ulric. In the boatman's shed, Near to the ferry: you mistook the ford— 150 Tis higher to the right:—their entertainment Will be but rough—but 'tis a single night, And they had best be guardians of the baggage. The shed will hold the weather from their sleep, The woodfire warm them—and, for beds, a cloak Is swansdown to a seasoned traveller: It has been mine for many a moon, and may Tonight, for aught it recks me.

Stralenheim. And tomorrow I must be on my journey—and betimes. It is not more than three days travel, hence, 160 To Mansfeldt Castle.

Werner and Ulric. Mansfeldt Castle!—

Stralenheim. Aye! For thither tends my progress—so, betimes, Mine host I would be stirring—think of that! And let me find my couch of rest at present.

Werner. You shall Sir—but—to Mansfeldt!— [ULRIC stops his father and says aside to him, Silence—father— Whate'er it be that shakes you thus—tread down— (To Stralenheim) My father, Sir, was born not far from Prague, And knows it's environs—and, when he hears, The name endeared to him by native thoughts, He would ask of it, and it's habitants— 170 You will excuse his plain blunt mode of question.

Stralenheim. Indeed, perchance, then, he may aid my search. Pray, know you aught of one named Werner? who (But he no doubt has passed through many names), Lived long in Hamburgh—and has thence been traced Into Silesia—and not far from hence— But there we lost him; he who can disclose Aught of him, or his hiding-place, will find Advantage in revealing it.

Ulric. Why so—Sir?

Stralenheim. There are strong reasons to suspect this man 180 Of crimes against the State—league with Swedes— And other evil acts of moment:—he Who shall deliver him, bound hand and foot, Will benefit his country and himself: I will reward him doubly too.

Ulric. You know him?

Stralenheim. He never met my eyes—but Circumstance Has led me to near knowledge of the man. He is a villain—and an enemy To all men—most to me! If earth contain him, He shall be found and fettered: I have hopes, 190 By traces which tomorrow will unravel, A fresh clue to his lurking spot is nigh.

Carl. And, if I find it, I will break the thread. What, all the world against one luckless wight! And he a fugitive—I would I knew him!

Ulric. You'd help him to escape—is it not so?

Carl. I would, indeed!

Ulric. The greater greenhorn you! I would secure him—nay—I will do so.

Stralenheim. If it be so—my gratitude for aid, And rescue of my life from the wild waters, 200 Will double in it's strength and it's requital. Your father, too, perhaps can help our search?

Werner. I turn a spy—no—not for Mansfeldt Castle, And all the broad domain it frowns upon.

Stralenheim. Mansfeldt again!—you know it then? perchance, You also know the story of it's lords?

Werner. Whate'er I know, there is no bribe of thine Can swerve me to the crooked path thou pointest. The chamber's ready, which your rest demands.

Stralenheim (aside). 'Tis strange—this peasant's tone is wondrous high, 210 His air imperious—and his eye shines out As wont to look command with a quick glance— His garb befits him not—why, he may be The man I look for! now, I look again, There is the very lip—short curling lip— And the oerjutting eye-brow dark and large, And the peculiar wild variety Of feature, even unto the Viper's eye, Of that detested race, and it's descendant Who stands alone between me and a power, 220 Which Princes gaze at with unquiet eyes! This is no peasant—but, whate'er he be, Tomorrow shall secure him and unfold.

Ulric. It will not please you, Sir, then to remain With us beyond tomorrow?

Stralenheim. Nay—I do not say so—there is no haste. And now I think again—I'll tarry here— Perhaps until the floods abate—we'll see— In the mean time—to my chamber—so—Good Night! [Exit with WERNER.

Werner. This way, Sir.

Carl. And I to mine: pray, where are we to rest? 230 We'll sup within—

Ulric. What matter where—there's room.

Carl. I would fain see my way through this vast ruin; Come take the lamp, and we'll explore together.

Josepha (meeting them). And I will with my son.

Ulric. Nay—stay—dear mother! These chilly damps and the cold rush of winds Fling a rough paleness o'er thy delicate cheek— And thou seem'st lovely in thy sickliness Of most transparent beauty:—but it grieves me. Nay! tarry here by the blaze of the bright hearth:— I will return anon—and we have much 240 To listen and impart. Come, Carl, we'll find Some gorgeous canopy, and, thence, unroost It's present bedfellows the bats—and thou Shalt slumber underneath a velvet cloud That mantles o'er the couch of some dead Countess. [Exit CARL and ULRIC.

Josepha (sola). It was my joy to see him—nothing more I should have said—which sent my gush of blood Back on my full heart with a dancing tide: It was my weary hope's unthought fulfilment, My agony of mother-feelings curdled 250 At once in gathered rapture—which did change My cheek into the hue of fainting Nature. I should have answered thus—and yet I could not: For though 'twas true—it was not all the truth. I have much suffered in the thought of Werner's Late deep distemperature of mind and fortunes, Which since have almost driven him into phrenzy:— And though that I would soothe, not share, such passions, And show not how they shake me:—when alone, I feel them prey upon me by reflection, 260 And want the very solace I bestowed; And which, it seems, I cannot give and have. Ulric must be my comforter—his father's Hath long been the most melancholy soul That ever hovered o'er the verge of Madness: And, better, had he leapt into it's gulph: Though to the Mad thoughts are realities, Yet they can play with sorrow—and live on. But with the mind of consciousness and care The body wears to ruin, and the struggle, 270 However long, is deadly——He is lost, And all around him tasteless:—in his mirth His very laughter moves me oft to tears, And I have turned to hide them—for, in him, As Sunshine glittering o'er unburied bones—— Soft—he is here.——

Werner. Josepha—where is Ulric?

Josepha. Gone with the other stranger to gaze o'er These shattered corridors, and spread themselves A pillow with their mantles, in the least ruinous: I must replenish the diminished hearth 280 In the inner chamber—the repast is ready, And Ulric will be here again.—



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:

A DRAMA.



INTRODUCTION TO THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED.

The date of the original MS. of The Deformed Transformed is "Pisa, 1822." There is nothing to show in what month it was written, but it may be conjectured that it was begun and finished within the period which elapsed between the death of Allegra, April 20, and the death of Shelley, July 8, 1822. According to Medwin (Conversations, 1824, p. 227), an unfavourable criticism of Shelley's ("It is a bad imitation of Faust"), together with a discovery that "two entire lines" of Southey's—

"And water shall see thee, And fear thee, and flee thee"—

were imbedded in one of his "Songs," touched Byron so deeply that he "threw the poem into the fire," and concealed the existence of a second copy for more than two years. It is a fact that Byron's correspondence does not contain the remotest allusion to The Deformed Transformed; but, with regard to the plagiarism from Southey, in the play as written in 1822 there is neither Song nor Incantation which could have contained two lines from The Curse of Kehama.

As a dramatist, Byron's function, or metier, was twofold. In Manfred, in Cain, in Heaven and Earth, he is concerned with the analysis and evolution of metaphysical or ethical notions; in Marino Faliero, in Sardanapalus, and The Two Foscari, he set himself "to dramatize striking passages of history;" in The Deformed Transformed he sought to combine the solution of a metaphysical puzzle or problem, the relation of personality to individuality, with the scenic rendering of a striking historical episode, the Sack of Rome in 1527.

In the note or advertisement prefixed to the drama, Byron acknowledges that "the production" is founded partly on the story of a forgotten novel, The Three Brothers, and partly on "the Faust of the great Goethe."

Arnaud, or Julian, the hero of The Three Brothers (by Joshua Pickersgill, jun., 4 vols., 1803), "sells his soul to the Devil, and becomes an arch-fiend in order to avenge himself for the taunts of strangers on the deformity of his person" (see Gent. Mag., November, 1804, vol. 74, p. 1047; and post, pp. 473-479). The idea of an escape from natural bonds or disabilities by supernatural means and at the price of the soul or will, the un-Christlike surrender to the tempter, which is the grund-stoff of the Faust-legend, was brought home to Byron, in the first instance, not by Goethe, or Calderon, or Marlowe, but by Joshua Pickersgill. A fellow-feeling lent an intimate and peculiar interest to the theme. He had suffered all his life from a painful and inconvenient defect, which his proud and sensitive spirit had magnified into a deformity. He had been stung to the quick by his mother's taunts and his sweetheart's ridicule, by the jeers of the base and thoughtless, by slanderous and brutal paragraphs in newspapers. He could not forget that he was lame. If his enemies had but possessed the wit, they might have given him "the sobriquet of Le Diable Boiteux" (letter to Moore, April 2, 1823, Letters, 1901, vi. 179). It was no wonder that so poignant, so persistent a calamity should be "reproduced in his poetry" (Life, p. 13), or that his passionate impatience of such a "thorn in the flesh" should picture to itself a mysterious and unhallowed miracle of healing. It is true, as Moore says (Life, pp. 45, 306), that "the trifling deformity of his foot" was the embittering circumstance of his life, that it "haunted him like a curse;" but it by no means follows that he seriously regarded his physical peculiarity as a stamp of the Divine reprobation, that "he was possessed by an idee fixe that every blessing would be 'turned into a curse' to him" (letter of Lady Byron to H. C. Robinson, Diary, etc., 1869, in. 435, 436). No doubt he indulged himself in morbid fancies, played with the extravagances of a restless imagination, and wedded them to verse; but his intellect, "brooding like the day, a master o'er a slave," kept guard. He would never have pleaded on his own behalf that the tyranny of an idee fixe, a delusion that he was predestined to evil, was an excuse for his shortcomings or his sins.

Byron's very considerable obligations to The Three Brothers might have escaped notice, but the resemblance between his "Stranger," or "Caesar," and the Mephistopheles of "the great Goethe" was open and palpable.

If Medwin may be trusted (Conversations, 1824, p. 210), Byron had read "Faust in a sorry French translation," and it is probable that Shelley's inspired rendering of "May-day Night," which was published in The Liberal (No. i., October 14, 1822, pp. 123-137), had been read to him, and had attracted his attention. The Deformed Transformed is "a Faustish kind of drama;" and Goethe, who maintained that Byron's play as a whole was "no imitation," but "new and original, close, genuine, and spirited," could not fail to perceive that "his devil was suggested by my Mephistopheles" (Conversations, 1874, p. 174). The tempter who cannot resist the temptation of sneering at his own wiles, who mocks for mocking's sake, is not Byron's creation, but Goethe's. Lucifer talked at the clergy, if he did not "talk like a clergyman;" but the "bitter hunchback," even when he is solus, sneers as the river wanders, "at his own sweet will." He is not a doctor, but a spirit of unbelief!

The second part of The Deformed Transformed represents, in three scenes, the Siege and Sack of Rome in 1527. Byron had read Robertson's Charles the Fifth (ed. 1798, ii. 313-329) in his boyhood (Life, p. 47), but it is on record that he had studied, more or less closely, the narratives of contemporary authorities. A note to The Prophecy of Dante (Poetical Works, 1901, iv. 258) refers to the Sacco di Roma, descritto da Luigi Guicciardini, and the Ragguaglio Storico ... sacco di Roma dell' anno MDXXVII. of Jacopo Buonaparte; and it is evident that he was familiar with Cellini's story of the marvellous gests and exploits quorum maxima pars fuit, which were wrought at "the walls by the Campo Santo," or on the ramparts of the Castle of San Angelo.

The Sack of Rome was a great national calamity, and it was something more: it was a profanation and a sacrilege. The literature which it evoked was a cry of anguish, a prophetic burden of despair. "Chants populaires," writes M. Emile Gebhart (De l'Italie, "Le Sac de Rome en 1527," 1876, pp. 267, sq.), "Nouvelles de Giraldi Cintio, en forme de Decameron ... recits historiques ... de Cesar Grollier, Dialogues anonymes ... poesies de Pasquin, toute une litterature se developpa sur ce theme douloureux.... Le Lamento di Roma, [oe]uvre etrange, d'inspiration gibeline, rappelle les esperances politiques exprimees jadis par Dante ... 'Bien que Cesar m'ait depouillee de liberte, nous avons toujours ete d'accord dans une meme volonte. Je ne me lamenterais pas si lui regnait; mais je crois qu'il est ressuscite, ou qu'il ressuscitera veritablement, car souvent un Ange m'a annonce qu'un Cesar viendrait me delivrer.'... Enfin, voici une chanson francaise que repetaient en repassant les monts les soldats du Marquis de Saluces:—

"Parlons de la deffaiete De ces pouvres Rommains, Aussi de la complainete De notre pere saint.

"'O noble roy de France, Regarde en pitie L'Eglise en ballance ... Pour Dieu! ne tarde plus, C'est ta mere, ta substance; O fils, n'en faictz reffus.'"

"Le dernier monument," adds M. Gebhart, in a footnote, "de cette litterature, est le singulier drame de Byron, The Deformed Transformed, dont Jules Cesar est le heros, et le Sac de Rome le cadre."

It is unlikely that Byron, who read everything he could lay his hands upon, and spared no trouble to master his "period," had not, either at first or second hand, acquainted himself with specimens of this popular literature. (For La Presa e Lamento di Roma, Romae Lamentatio, etc., see Lamenti Storici dei Secoli xiv., xv. (Medin e Fratri), Scelta di Curiosita, etc., 235, 236, 237, Bologna, 1890, vol. iii. See, too, for "Chanson sur la Mort du Connetable de Bourbon," Recueil de Chants historiques francais, par A. J. V. Le Roux de Lincy, 1842, ii. 99.)

The Deformed Transformed was published by John Hunt, February 20, 1824. A third edition appeared February 23, 1824.

It was reviewed, unfavourably, in the London Magazine, March, 1824, vol. 9, pp. 315-321; the Scots Magazine, March, 1824, N.S. vol. xiv. pp. 353-356; and in the Monthly Review, March, 1824, Enlarged Series, 103, pp. 321, 324. One reviewer, however (London Magazine), had the candour to admit that "Lord Byron may write below himself, but he can never write below us!"

For the unfinished third part, vide post, pp. 532-534.



ADVERTISEMENT

This production is founded partly on the story of a novel called "The Three Brothers[201]," published many years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's "Wood Demon"[202] was also taken; and partly on the "Faust" of the great Goethe. The present publication[203] contains the two first Parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Stranger, afterwards Caesar

Arnold.

Bourbon.

Philibert.

Cellini.

Bertha.

Olimpia.

Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Peasants, etc.



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:[cv]

PART I.

SCENE I.—A Forest.

Enter ARNOLD and his mother BERTHA.

Bert. Out, Hunchback!

Arn. I was born so, Mother![204]

Bert. Out, Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons, The sole abortion!

Arn. Would that I had been so, And never seen the light!

Bert. I would so, too! But as thou hast—hence, hence—and do thy best! That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis More high, if not so broad as that of others.

Arn. It bears its burthen;—but, my heart! Will it Sustain that which you lay upon it, Mother? I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing 10 Save You, in nature, can love aught like me. You nursed me—do not kill me!

Bert. Yes—I nursed thee, Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not If there would be another unlike thee, That monstrous sport of Nature. But get hence, And gather wood![205]

Arn. I will: but when I bring it, Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are So beautiful and lusty, and as free As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me: Our milk has been the same.

Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 20 Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds The nipple, next day, sore, and udder dry. Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out! [Exit BERTHA.

Arn. (solus). Oh, mother!—She is gone, and I must do Her bidding;—wearily but willingly I would fulfil it, could I only hope 30 A kind word in return. What shall I do?

[ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this he wounds one of his hands.

My labour for the day is over now. Accursed be this blood that flows so fast; For double curses will be my meed now At home—What home? I have no home, no kin, No kind—not made like other creatures, or To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed, too, Like them? Oh, that each drop which falls to earth Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me! Or that the Devil, to whom they liken me, 40 Would aid his likeness! If I must partake[206] His form, why not his power? Is it because I have not his will too? For one kind word From her who bore me would still reconcile me Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash The wound.

[ARNOLD goes to a spring, and stoops to wash his hand: he starts back.

They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me, What she hath made me. I will not look on it Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch That I am! The very waters mock me with 50 My horrid shadow—like a demon placed Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle From drinking therein. [He pauses. And shall I live on, A burden to the earth, myself, and shame Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood, Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me Try if thou wilt not, in a fuller stream, Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself On earth, to which I will restore, at once, This hateful compound of her atoms, and 60 Resolve back to her elements, and take The shape of any reptile save myself, And make a world for myriads of new worms! This knife! now let me prove if it will sever This withered slip of Nature's nightshade—my Vile form—from the creation, as it hath The green bough from the forest.

[ARNOLD places the knife in the ground, with the point upwards.

Now 'tis set, And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like Myself, and the sweet sun which warmed me, but 70 In vain. The birds—how joyously they sing! So let them, for I would not be lamented: But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell; The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur Of the near fountain my sole elegy. Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall!

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, which seems in motion.

The fountain moves without a wind: but shall The ripple of a spring change my resolve? No. Yet it moves again! The waters stir, Not as with air, but by some subterrane 80 And rocking Power of the internal world. What's here? A mist! No more?—

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands gazing upon it: it is dispelled, and a tall black man comes towards him.[207]

Arn. What would you? Speak! Spirit or man?

Stran. As man is both, why not Say both in one?

Arn. Your form is man's, and yet You may be devil.

Stran. So many men are that Which is so called or thought, that you may add me To which you please, without much wrong to either. But come: you wish to kill yourself;—pursue Your purpose.

Arn. You have interrupted me.

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 90 Be interrupted? If I be the devil You deem, a single moment would have made you Mine, and for ever, by your suicide; And yet my coming saves you.

Arn. I said not You were the Demon, but that your approach Was like one.

Stran. Unless you keep company With him (and you seem scarce used to such high Society) you can't tell how he approaches; And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, And then on me, and judge which of us twain 100 Looks likest what the boors believe to be Their cloven-footed terror.

Arn. Do you—dare you To taunt me with my born deformity?

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary With thy Sublime of Humps, the animals Would revel in the compliment. And yet Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty In action and endurance than thyself, And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 110 With thee. Thy form is natural: 'twas only Nature's mistaken largess to bestow The gifts which are of others upon man.

Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot,[cw] When he spurns high the dust, beholding his Near enemy; or let me have the long And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, The helmless dromedary!—and I'll bear[cx] Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience.

Stran. I will.

Arn. (with surprise). Thou canst?

Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else? 120

Arn. Thou mockest me.

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock What all are mocking? That's poor sport, methinks. To talk to thee in human language (for Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, Or wolf, or lion—leaving paltry game To petty burghers, who leave once a year Their walls, to fill their household cauldrons with Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,— Now I can mock the mightiest.[cy]

Arn. Then waste not 130 Thy time on me: I seek thee not.

Stran. Your thoughts Are not far from me. Do not send me back: I'm not so easily recalled to do Good service.

Arn. What wilt thou do for me?

Stran. Change Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you; Or form you to your wish in any shape.

Arn. Oh! then you are indeed the Demon, for Nought else would wittingly wear mine.

Stran. I'll show thee The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee Thy choice.

Arn. On what condition?

Stran. There's a question! 140 An hour ago you would have given your soul To look like other men, and now you pause To wear the form of heroes.

Arn. No; I will not. I must not compromise my soul.

Stran. What soul, Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcase?

Arn. 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: Must it be signed in blood?

Stran. Not in your own.

Arn. Whose blood then?

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 150 Great things within you. You shall have no bond But your own will, no contract save your deeds. Are you content?

Arn. I take thee at thy word.

Stran. Now then!— [The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to ARNOLD.

A little of your blood.[208]

Arn. For what?

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters, And make the charm effective.

Arn. (holding out his wounded arm). Take it all.

Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.

[The Stranger takes some of ARNOLD'S blood in his hand, and casts it into the fountain.

Shadows of Beauty! Shadows of Power! Rise to your duty— 160 This is the hour! Walk lovely and pliant[cz] From the depth of this fountain, As the cloud-shapen giant Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.[209] Come as ye were, That our eyes may behold The model in air Of the form I will mould, Bright as the Iris 170 When ether is spanned;— Such his desire is, [Pointing to ARNOLD. Such my command![da] Demons heroic— Demons who wore The form of the Stoic Or sophist of yore— Or the shape of each victor— From Macedon's boy, To each high Roman's picture, 180 Who breathed to destroy— Shadows of Beauty! Shadows of Power! Up to your duty— This is the hour!

[Various phantoms arise from the waters, and pass in succession before the Stranger and ARNOLD.

Arn. What do I see?

Stran. The black-eyed Roman,[210] with The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er Beheld a conqueror, or looked along The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 190

Arn. The phantom's bald; my quest is beauty. Could I Inherit but his fame with his defects!

Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs.[211] You see his aspect—choose it, or reject. I can but promise you his form; his fame Must be long sought and fought for.

Arn. I will fight, too, But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass: His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother, 200 Or Cleopatra at sixteen[212]—an age When love is not less in the eye than heart. But be it so! Shadow, pass on! [The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears.

Arn. And can it Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,[db] And left no footstep?

Stran. There you err. His substance Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame More than enough to track his memory; But for his shadow—'tis no more than yours, Except a little longer and less crooked I' the sun. Behold another! [A second phantom passes.

Arn. Who is he? 210

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of Athenians.[213] Look upon him well.

Arn. He is More lovely than the last. How beautiful!

Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias;—wouldst thou Invest thee with his form?

Arn. Would that I had Been born with it! But since I may choose further, I will look further. [The shade of Alcibiades disappears.

Stran. Lo! behold again!

Arn. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr, With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, The splay feet and low stature![214] I had better 220 Remain that which I am.

Stran. And yet he was The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, And personification of all virtue. But you reject him?

Arn. If his form could bring me That which redeemed it—no.

Stran. I have no power To promise that; but you may try, and find it Easier in such a form—or in your own.

Arn. No. I was not born for philosophy, Though I have that about me which has need on't. Let him fleet on.

Stran. Be air, thou Hemlock-drinker! 230 [The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises.

Arn. What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard And manly aspect look like Hercules,[215] Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus Than the sad purger of the infernal world, Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,[216] As if he knew the worthlessness of those For whom he had fought.

Stran. It was the man who lost The ancient world for love.

Arn. I cannot blame him, Since I have risked my soul because I find not That which he exchanged the earth for.

Stran. Since so far 240 You seem congenial, will you wear his features?

Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult. If but to see the heroes I should ne'er Have seen else, on this side of the dim shore, Whence they float back before us.

Stran. Hence, Triumvir, Thy Cleopatra's waiting. [The shade of Antony disappears: another rises.

Arn. Who is this? Who truly looketh like a demigod, Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature, If not more high than mortal, yet immortal In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 250 Which he wears as the Sun his rays—a something Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing Emanation of a thing more glorious still. Was he e'er human only?[217]

Stran. Let the earth speak, If there be atoms of him left, or even Of the more solid gold that formed his urn.

Arn. Who was this glory of mankind?

Stran. The shame Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war— Demetrius the Macedonian, and Taker of cities.

Arn. Yet one shadow more. 260

Stran. (addressing the shadow). Get thee to Lamia's lap! [The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes: another rises. I'll fit you still, Fear not, my Hunchback: if the shadows of That which existed please not your nice taste, I'll animate the ideal marble, till Your soul be reconciled to her new garment

Arn. Content! I will fix here.

Stran. I must commend Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks As beautiful and clear as the amber waves Of rich Pactolus, rolled o'er sands of gold, 270 Softened by intervening crystal, and Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, All vowed to Sperchius[218] as they were—behold them! And him—as he stood by Polixena, With sanctioned and with softened love, before The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, With some remorse within for Hector slain And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 280 He stood i' the temple! Look upon him as Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant Ere Paris' arrow flew.

Arn. I gaze upon him As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon Envelope mine.

Stran. You have done well. The greatest Deformity should only barter with The extremest beauty—if the proverb's true Of mortals, that Extremes meet.

Arn. Come! Be quick! I am impatient.

Stran. As a youthful beauty Before her glass. You both see what is not, 290 But dream it is what must be.

Arn. Must I wait?

Stran. No; that were a pity. But a word or two: His stature is twelve cubits; would you so far Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or (To talk canonically) wax a son Of Anak?

Arn. Why not?

Stran. Glorious ambition! I love thee most in dwarfs! A mortal of Philistine stature would have gladly pared His own Goliath down to a slight David: But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 300 Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, If such be thy desire; and, yet, by being A little less removed from present men In figure, thou canst sway them more; for all Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt A new-found Mammoth; and their cursed engines, Their culverins, and so forth, would find way Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease Than the Adulterer's arrow through his heel Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 310 In Styx.

Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best.

Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou seest, And strong as what it was, and——

Arn. I ask not For Valour, since Deformity is daring.[219] It is its essence to o'ertake mankind By heart and soul, and make itself the equal— Aye, the superior of the rest. There is A spur in its halt movements, to become All that the others cannot, in such things As still are free to both, to compensate 320 For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar,[220] win them.

Stran. Well spoken! And thou doubtless wilt remain Formed as thou art. I may dismiss the mould Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase This daring soul, which could achieve no less Without it.

Arn. Had no power presented me The possibility of change, I would Have done the best which spirit may to make 330 Its way with all Deformity's dull, deadly, Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders— A hateful and unsightly molehill to The eyes of happier men. I would have looked On Beauty in that sex which is the type Of all we know or dream of beautiful, Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh— Not of love, but despair; nor sought to win, Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 340 In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne It all, had not my mother spurned me from her. The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort Of shape;—my Dam beheld my shape was hopeless. Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere I knew the passionate part of life, I had Been a clod of the valley,—happier nothing Than what I am. But even thus—the lowest, Ugliest, and meanest of mankind—what courage 350 And perseverance could have done, perchance Had made me something—as it has made heroes Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me Master of my own life, and quick to quit it; And he who is so is the master of Whatever dreads to die.

Stran. Decide between What you have been, or will be.

Arn. I have done so. You have opened brighter prospects to my eyes, And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, I might be feared—admired—respected—loved 360 Of all save those next to me, of whom I Would be beloved. As thou showest me A choice of forms, I take the one I view. Haste! haste!

Stran. And what shall I wear?

Arn. Surely, he Who can command all forms will choose the highest, Something superior even to that which was Pelides now before us. Perhaps his Who slew him, that of Paris: or—still higher— The Poet's God, clothed in such limbs as are Themselves a poetry.

Stran. Less will content me; 370 For I, too, love a change.

Arn. Your aspect is Dusky, but not uncomely.[221]

Stran. If I chose, I might be whiter; but I have a penchant For black—it is so honest, and, besides, Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear; But I have worn it long enough of late, And now I'll take your figure.

Arn. Mine!

Stran. Yes. You Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes; You have yours—I mine.

Arn. Despatch! despatch!

Stran. Even so. 380

[The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it along the turf, and then addresses the phantom of Achilles.

Beautiful shadow Of Thetis's boy! Who sleeps in the meadow Whose grass grows o'er Troy: From the red earth, like Adam,[222] Thy likeness I shape, As the Being who made him, Whose actions I ape. Thou Clay, be all glowing, Till the Rose in his cheek 390 Be as fair as, when blowing, It wears its first streak! Ye Violets, I scatter, Now turn into eyes! And thou, sunshiny Water, Of blood take the guise! Let these Hyacinth boughs Be his long flowing hair, And wave o'er his brows, As thou wavest in air! 400 Let his heart be this marble I tear from the rock! But his voice as the warble Of birds on yon oak! Let his flesh be the purest Of mould, in which grew The Lily-root surest, And drank the best dew! Let his limbs be the lightest Which clay can compound, 410 And his aspect the brightest On earth to be found! Elements, near me, Be mingled and stirred, Know me, and hear me, And leap to my word! Sunbeams, awaken This earth's animation![dc] 'Tis done! He hath taken His stand in creation! 420

[ARNOLD falls senseless; his soul passes into the shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground; while the phantom has disappeared, part by part, as the figure was formed from the earth.

Arn. (in his new form). I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh, life! At last I feel thee! Glorious Spirit!

Stran. Stop! What shall become of your abandoned garment, Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, Which late you wore, or were?

Arn. Who cares? Let wolves And vultures take it, if they will.

Stran. And if They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say It must be peace-time, and no better fare Abroad i' the fields.

Arn. Let us but leave it there; No matter what becomes on't.

Stran. That's ungracious; 430 If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, It hath sustained your soul full many a day.

Arn. Aye, as the dunghill may conceal a gem Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be.

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be By fair exchange, not robbery. For they[223] Who make men without women's aid have long Had patents for the same, and do not love Your Interlopers. The Devil may take men,[dd] Not make them,—though he reap the benefit 440 Of the original workmanship:—and therefore Some one must be found to assume the shape You have quitted.

Arn. Who would do so?

Stran. That I know not, And therefore I must.

Arn. You!

Stran. I said it ere You inhabited your present dome of beauty.

Arn. True. I forget all things in the new joy Of this immortal change.

Stran. In a few moments I will be as you were, and you shall see Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow.

Arn. I would be spared this.

Stran. But it cannot be. 450 What! shrink already, being what you are, From seeing what you were?

Arn. Do as thou wilt.

Stran. (to the late form of ARNOLD, extended on the earth). Clay! not dead, but soul-less! Though no man would choose thee, An Immortal no less Deigns not to refuse thee. Clay thou art; and unto spirit All clay is of equal merit. Fire! without which nought can live; Fire! but in which nought can live, 460 Save the fabled salamander, Or immortal souls, which wander, Praying what doth not forgive, Howling for a drop of water, Burning in a quenchless lot: Fire! the only element Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, Save the Worm which dieth not, Can preserve a moment's form, But must with thyself be blent: 470 Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter: Fire! Creation's first-born Daughter, And Destruction's threatened Son, When Heaven with the world hath done: Fire! assist me to renew Life in what lies in my view Stiff and cold! His resurrection rests with me and you! One little, marshy spark of flame—[224] And he again shall seem the same; 480 But I his Spirit's place shall hold!

[An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood and rests on the brow of the body. The Stranger disappears: the body rises.

Arn. (in his new form). Oh! horrible!

Stran. (in ARNOLD'S late shape). What! tremblest thou?

Arn. Not so— I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape Thou lately worest?

Stran. To the world of shadows. But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou?

Arn. Must thou be my companion?

Stran. Wherefore not? Your betters keep worse company.

Arn. My betters!

Stran. Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new form: I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too! That's well; You improve apace;—two changes in an instant, 490 And you are old in the World's ways already. But bear with me: indeed you'll find me useful Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce Where shall we now be errant?

Arn. Where the World Is thickest, that I may behold it in Its workings.

Stran. That's to say, where there is War And Woman in activity. Let's see! Spain—Italy—the new Atlantic world[225]— Afric with all its Moors. In very truth, There is small choice: the whole race are just now 500 Tugging as usual at each other's hearts.

Arn. I have heard great things of Rome.

Stran. A goodly choice— And scarce a better to be found on earth, Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too; For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion Of the old Vandals, are at play along The sunny shores of the World's garden.

Arn. How Shall we proceed?

Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. What, ho! my chargers! Never yet were better, Since Phaeton was upset into the Po[226]. 510 Our pages too!

Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses.

Arn. A noble sight!

Stran. And of A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, Or your Kochlini race of Araby[de][227], With these!

Arn. The mighty steam, which volumes high From their proud nostrils, burns the very air; And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies wheel Around their manes, as common insects swarm Round common steeds towards sunset.

Stran. Mount, my lord: They and I are your servitors.

Arn. And these Our dark-eyed pages—what may be their names? 520

Stran. You shall baptize them.

Arn. What! in holy water?

Stran. Why not? The deeper sinner, better saint.

Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons.

Stran. True; the devil's always ugly: and your beauty Is never diabolical.

Arn. I'll call him Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright And blooming aspect, Huon;[228] for he looks Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, And never found till now. And for the other And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 530 But looks as serious though serene as night, He shall be Memnon[229], from the Ethiop king Whose statue turns a harper once a day. And you?

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice As many attributes; but as I wear A human shape, will take a human name.

Arn. More human than the shape (though it was mine once) I trust.

Stran. Then call me Caesar.

Arn. Why, that name Belongs to Empire, and has been but borne By the World's lords.

Stran. And therefore fittest for 540 The Devil in disguise—since so you deem me, Unless you call me Pope instead.

Arn. Well, then, Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name Shall be plain Arnold still.

Caes. We'll add a title[df]— "Count Arnold:" it hath no ungracious sound, And will look well upon a billet-doux.

Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field.

Caes. (sings). To horse! to horse! my coal-black steed Paws the ground and snuffs the air! There's not a foal of Arab's breed 550 More knows whom he must bear; On the hill he will not tire, Swifter as it waxes higher; In the marsh he will not slacken, On the plain be overtaken; In the wave he will not sink, Nor pause at the brook's side to drink; In the race he will not pant, In the combat he'll not faint; On the stones he will not stumble, 560 Time nor toil shall make him humble; In the stall he will not stiffen, But be winged as a Griffin, Only flying with his feet: And will not such a voyage be sweet? Merrily! merrily! never unsound, Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground! From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly! For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye. [They mount their horses, and disappear.

SCENE II.—A Camp before the walls of Rome.

ARNOLD and CAESAR.

Caes. You are well entered now.

Arn. Aye; but my path Has been o'er carcasses: mine eyes are full[dg] Of blood.

Caes. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why! Thou art a conqueror; the chosen knight And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, Late constable of France[230]; and now to be Lord of the city which hath been Earth's Lord Under its emperors, and—changing sex, Not sceptre, an Hermaphrodite of Empire— Lady of the old world[231].

Arn. How old? What! are there 10 New worlds?

Caes. To you. You'll find there are such shortly, By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold; From one half of the world named a whole new one, Because you know no better than the dull And dubious notice of your eyes and ears.

Arn. I'll trust them.

Caes. Do! They will deceive you sweetly, And that is better than the bitter truth.

Arn. Dog!

Caes. Man!

Arn. Devil!

Caes. Your obedient humble servant.

Arn. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 20

Caes. And where wouldst thou be?

Arn. Oh, at peace—in peace!

Caes. And where is that which is so? From the star To the winding worm, all life is motion; and In life commotion is the extremest point Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes A comet, and destroying as it sweeps The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way, Living upon the death of other things, But still, like them, must live and die, the subject Of something which has made it live and die. 30 You must obey what all obey, the rule Of fixed Necessity: against her edict Rebellion prospers not.

Arn. And when it prospers——

Caes. 'Tis no rebellion.

Arn. Will it prosper now?

Caes. The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault, And by the dawn there will be work.

Arn. Alas! And shall the city yield? I see the giant Abode of the true God, and his true saint, Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 40 Which his blood made a badge of glory and Of joy (as once of torture unto him),— God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge!

Caes. 'Tis there, and shall be.

Arn. What?

Caes. The Crucifix Above, and many altar shrines below. Also some culverins upon the walls, And harquebusses, and what not; besides The men who are to kindle them to death Of other men.

Arn. And those scarce mortal arches,[232] Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 50 The theatre where Emperors and their subjects (Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon The battles of the monarchs of the wild And wood—the lion and his tusky rebels Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust In the arena—as right well they might, When they had left no human foe unconquered— Made even the forest pay its tribute of Life to their amphitheatre, as well As Dacia men to die the eternal death 60 For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass on To a new gladiator!"—Must it fall?

Caes. The city, or the amphitheatre? The church, or one, or all? for you confound Both them and me.

Arn. To-morrow sounds the assault With the first cock-crow.

Caes. Which, if it end with The evening's first nightingale, will be Something new in the annals of great sieges; For men must have their prey after long toil.

Arn. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 70 More beautifully, than he did on Rome On the day Remus leapt her wall.

Caes. I saw him.

Arn. You!

Caes. Yes, Sir! You forget I am or was Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape, And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunch-back Now. Well! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, And loved his laurels better as a wig (So history says) than as a glory.[233] Thus The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 80 Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb, Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no wall, Whate'er it now be); and Rome's earliest cement Was brother's blood; and if its native blood Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear The deep hue of the Ocean and the Earth, Which the great robber sons of fratricide Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter, For ages.

Arn. But what have these done, their far 90 Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, The peace of Heaven, and in her sunshine of Piety?

Caes. And what had they done, whom the old Romans o'erswept?—Hark!

Arn. They are soldiers singing A reckless roundelay, upon the eve Of many deaths, it may be of their own.

Caes. And why should they not sing as well as swans? They are black ones, to be sure.

Arn. So, you are learned, I see, too?

Caes. In my grammar, certes. I Was educated for a monk of all times, 100 And once I was well versed in the forgotten Etruscan letters, and—were I so minded— Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than Your alphabet.

Arn. And wherefore do you not?

Caes. It answers better to resolve the alphabet Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, Philosopher, and what not, they have built More Babels, without new dispersion, than The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 110 Who failed and fled each other. Why? why, marry, Because no man could understand his neighbour. They are wiser now, and will not separate For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, Their Shibboleth—their Koran—Talmud—their Cabala—their best brick-work, wherewithal They build more——

Arn. (interrupting him). Oh, thou everlasting sneerer! Be silent! How the soldier's rough strain seems Softened by distance to a hymn-like cadence! Listen!

Caes. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 120

Arn. And demons howl.

Caes. And man, too. Let us listen: I love all music.

Song of the Soldiers within.

The black bands came over The Alps and their snow; With Bourbon, the rover, They passed the broad Po. We have beaten all foemen, We have captured a King[234], We have turned back on no men, And so let us sing! 130 Here's the Bourbon for ever! Though penniless all, We'll have one more endeavour At yonder old wall. With the Bourbon we'll gather At day-dawn before The gates, and together Or break or climb o'er The wall: on the ladder, As mounts each firm foot[dh], 140 Our shout shall grow gladder, And Death only be mute[235]. With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er The walls of old Rome, And who then shall count o'er[di] The spoils of each dome? Up! up with the Lily! And down with the Keys! In old Rome, the seven-hilly, We'll revel at ease. 150 Her streets shall be gory, Her Tiber all red, And her temples so hoary Shall clang with our tread. Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon[236]! The Bourbon for aye! Of our song bear the burden! And fire, fire away! With Spain for the vanguard, Our varied host comes; 160 And next to the Spaniard Beat Germany's drums; And Italy's lances Are couched at their mother; But our leader from France is, Who warred with his brother. Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon! Sans country or home, We'll follow the Bourbon, To plunder old Rome. 170

Caes. An indifferent song For those within the walls, methinks, to hear.

Arn. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes The general with his chiefs and men of trust[dj]. A goodly rebel.

Enter the Constable BOURBON "cum suis," etc., etc.

Phil. How now, noble Prince, You are not cheerful?

Bourb. Why should I be so?

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, Most men would be so.

Bourb. If I were secure!

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant, They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 180

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears. That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for Their chief, and all their kindled appetites To marshal them on—were those hoary walls Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans;— But now——

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals.

Bourb. True: but those walls have girded in great ages, And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth And present phantom of imperious Rome[dk] 190 Is peopled with those warriors; and methinks They flit along the eternal City's rampart, And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, And beckon me away!

Phil. So let them! Wilt thou Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows?

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have faced, Methinks, a Sylla's menace; but they clasp, And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes Fascinate mine. Look there!

Phil. I look upon 200 A lofty battlement.

Bourb. And there!

Phil. Not even A guard in sight; they wisely keep below, Sheltered by the grey parapet from some Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might Practise in the cool twilight.

Bourb. You are blind.

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen Be so.

Bourb. A thousand years have manned the walls With all their heroes,—the last Cato[237] stands And tears his bowels, rather than survive The liberty of that I would enslave. 210 And the first Cassar with his triumphs flits From battlement to battlement.

Phil. Then conquer The walls for which he conquered and be greater!

Bourb. True: so I will, or perish.

Phil. You can not. In such an enterprise to die is rather The dawn of an eternal day, than death. [Count ARNOLD and CAESAR advance.

Caes. And the mere men—do they, too, sweat beneath The noon of this same ever-scorching glory?

Bourb. Ah! Welcome the bitter Hunchback! and his master, The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 220 And generous as lovely. We shall find Work for you both ere morning.

Caes. You will find, So please your Highness, no less for yourself.

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a labourer More forward, Hunchback!

Caes. You may well say so, For you have seen that back—as general, Placed in the rear in action—but your foes Have never seen it.

Bourb. That's a fair retort, For I provoked it:—but the Bourbon's breast Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 230 In danger's face as yours, were you the devil.

Caes. And if I were, I might have saved myself The toil of coming here.

Phil. Why so?

Caes. One half Of your brave bands of their own bold accord Will go to him, the other half be sent, More swiftly, not less surely.

Bourb. Arnold, your Slight crooked friend's as snake-like in his words As his deeds.

Caes. Your Highness much mistakes me. The first snake was a flatterer—I am none; And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 240

Bourb. You are brave, and that's enough for me; and quick In speech as sharp in action—and that's more. I am not alone the soldier, but the soldiers' Comrade.

Caes. They are but bad company, your Highness; And worse even for their friends than foes, as being More permanent acquaintance.

Phil. How now, fellow! Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege Of a buffoon.

Caes. You mean I speak the truth. I'll lie—it is as easy: then you'll praise me For calling you a hero.

Bourb. Philibert! 250 Let him alone; he's brave, and ever has Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoulder, In field or storm, and patient in starvation; And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence, And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue Is, to my mind, far preferable to The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration Of a mere famished sullen grumbling slave,[dl] Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, And wine, and sleep, and a few Maravedis, 260 With which he deems him rich.

Caes. It would be well If the earth's princes asked no more.

Bourb. Be silent!

Caes. Aye, but not idle. Work yourself with words![dm] You have few to speak.

Phil. What means the audacious prater?

Caes. To prate, like other prophets.

Bourb. Philibert! Why will you vex him? Have we not enough To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack To-morrow.

Arn. I have heard as much, my Lord.

Bourb. And you will follow?

Arn. Since I must not lead.

Bourb. 'Tis necessary for the further daring Of our too needy army, that their chief Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's First step.

Caes. Upon its topmost, let us hope: So shall he have his full deserts.

Bourb. The world's Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow.[dn] Through every change the seven-hilled city hath Retained her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest. Still the world's masters! Civilised, barbarian, Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus Have been the circus of an Empire. Well! 'Twas their turn—now 'tis ours; and let us hope That we will fight as well, and rule much better.

Caes. No doubt, the camp's the school of civic rights. What would you make of Rome?

Bourb. That which it was.

Caes. In Alaric's time?

Bourb. No, slave! in the first Caesar's, Whose name you bear like other curs——

Caes. And kings! 'Tis a great name for blood-hounds.

Bourb. There's a demon In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt never Be serious?

Caes. On the eve of battle, no;— That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general To be more pensive: we adventurers Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think? Our tutelar Deity, in a leader's shape, Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts! If the knaves take to thinking, you will have To crack those walls alone.

Bourb. You may sneer, since 'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't.

Caes. I thank you for the freedom; 'tis the only 300 Pay I have taken in your Highness' service.

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. Look on those towers; they hold my treasury: But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, We would request your presence.

Arn. Prince! my service Is yours, as in the field.

Bourb. In both we prize it, And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak.

Caes. And mine?

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. Good night!

Arn. (to CAESAR). Prepare our armour for the assault, And wait within my tent. [Exeunt BOURBON, ARNOLD, PHILIBERT, etc.

Caes. (solus). Within thy tent! 310 Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence? Or that this crooked coffer, which contained Thy principle of life, is aught to me Except a mask? And these are men, forsooth! Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards! This is the consequence of giving matter The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, And thinks chaotically, as it acts, Ever relapsing into its first elements. Well! I must play with these poor puppets: 'tis 320 The Spirit's pastime in his idler hours. When I grow weary of it, I have business Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest now To bring one down amongst them, and set fire Unto their anthill: how the pismires then Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth One universal orison! ha! ha! [Exit CAESAR.



PART II.

SCENE I.—Before the walls of Rome.—The Assault: the Army in motion, with ladders to scale the walls;[238] BOURBON with a white scarf over his armour, foremost.

Chorus of Spirits in the air.

I.

'Tis the morn, but dim and dark.[do] Whither flies the silent lark? Whither shrinks the clouded sun? Is the day indeed begun? Nature's eye is melancholy O'er the city high and holy: But without there is a din Should arouse the saints within, And revive the heroic ashes Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 10 Oh, ye seven hills! awaken, Ere your very base be shaken!

II.

Hearken to the steady stamp! Mars is in their every tramp! Not a step is out of tune, As the tides obey the moon! On they march, though to self-slaughter, Regular as rolling water, Whose high-waves o'ersweep the border Of huge moles, but keep their order, 20 Breaking only rank by rank. Hearken to the armour's clank! Look down o'er each frowning warrior, How he glares upon the barrier: Look on each step of each ladder, As the stripes that streak an adder.

III.

Look upon the bristling wall, Manned without an interval! Round and round, and tier on tier, Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 30 Lit match, bell-mouthed Musquetoon, Gaping to be murderous soon; All the warlike gear of old, Mixed with what we now behold, In this strife 'twixt old and new, Gather like a locusts' crew. Shade of Remus! 'tis a time Awful as thy brother's crime! Christians war against Christ's shrine:— Must its lot be like to thine? 40

IV.

Near—and near—and nearer still, As the Earthquake saps the hill, First with trembling, hollow motion, Like a scarce awakened ocean, Then with stronger shock and louder, Till the rocks are crushed to powder,— Onward sweeps the rolling host! Heroes of the immortal boast! Mighty Chiefs! eternal shadows! First flowers of the bloody meadows 50 Which encompass Rome, the mother Of a people without brother! Will you sleep when nations' quarrels Plough the root up of your laurels? Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning, Weep not—strike! for Rome is mourning![239]

V.

Onward sweep the varied nations! Famine long hath dealt their rations. To the wall, with hate and hunger, Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 60 On they sweep. Oh, glorious City! Must thou be a theme for pity? Fight, like your first sire, each Roman! Alaric was a gentle foeman, Matched with Bourbon's black banditti! Rouse thee, thou eternal City; Rouse thee! Rather give the torch With thine own hand to thy porch,[dp] Than behold such hosts pollute Your worst dwelling with their foot. 70

VI.

Ah! behold yon bleeding spectre! Ilion's children find no Hector; Priam's offspring loved their brother; Rome's great sire forgot his mother, When he slew his gallant twin, With inexpiable sin. See the giant shadow stride O'er the ramparts high and wide! When the first o'erleapt thy wall, Its foundation mourned thy fall. 80 Now, though towering like a Babel, Who to stop his steps are able? Stalking o'er thy highest dome, Remus claims his vengeance, Rome!

VII.

Now they reach thee in their anger: Fire and smoke and hellish clangour Are around thee, thou world's wonder! Death is in thy walls and under. Now the meeting steel first clashes, Downward then the ladder crashes, 90 With its iron load all gleaming, Lying at its foot blaspheming! Up again! for every warrior Slain, another climbs the barrier. Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches Europe's mingling gore enriches. Rome! although thy wall may perish, Such manure thy fields will cherish, Making gay the harvest-home; But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome!— 100 Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish, Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish!

VIII.

Yet once more, ye old Penates! Let not your quenched hearts be Ates! Yet again, ye shadowy Heroes, Yield not to these stranger Neros! Though the son who slew his mother Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother: 'Twas the Roman curbed the Roman;— Brennus was a baffled foeman. 110 Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, Rise! for yours are holier charters! Mighty Gods of temples falling, Yet in ruin still appalling! Mightier Founders of those altars, True and Christian,—strike the assaulters! Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent Show even Nature's self abhorrent. Let each breathing heart dilated Turn, as doth the lion baited! 120 Rome be crashed to one wide tomb, But be still the Roman's Rome![240]

[BOURBON, ARNOLD, CAESAR, and others, arrive at the foot of the wall. ARNOLD is about to plant his ladder.

Bourb. Hold, Arnold! I am first.

Arn. Not so, my Lord.

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow! I am proud Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. [BOURBON plants his ladder, and begins to mount. Now, boys! On! on! [A shot strikes him, and BOURBON falls.

Caes. And off!

Arn. Eternal powers! The host will be appalled,—but vengeance! vengeance!

Bourb. 'Tis nothing—lend me your hand.

[BOURBON takes ARNOLD by the hand, and rises; but as he puts his foot on the step, falls again.

Arnold! I am sped. Conceal my fall[241]—all will go well—conceal it! Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon; 130 Let not the soldiers see it.

Arn. You must be Removed; the aid of——

Bourb. No, my gallant boy! Death is upon me. But what is one life? The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, Till they are conquerors—then do as you may.

Caes. Would not your Highness choose to kiss the cross? We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword May serve instead:—it did the same for Bayard[242].

Bourb. Thou bitter slave! to name him at this time! 140 But I deserve it.

Arn. (to CAESAR). Villain, hold your peace!

Caes. What, when a Christian dies? Shall I not offer A Christian "Vade in pace[243]?"

Arn. Silence! Oh! Those eyes are glazing which o'erlooked the world, And saw no equal.

Bourb. Arnold, shouldst thou see France——But hark! hark! the assault grows warmer—Oh! For but an hour, a minute more of life, To die within the wall! Hence, Arnold, hence! You lose time—they will conquer Rome without thee.

Arn. And without thee.

Bourb. Not so; I'll lead them still 150 In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not That I have ceased to breathe. Away! and be Victorious.

Arn. But I must not leave thee thus.

Bourb. You must—farewell—Up! up! the world is winning. [BOURBON dies.

Caes. (to ARNOLD). Come, Count, to business.

Arn. True. I'll weep hereafter.

[ARNOLD covers BOURBON'S body with a mantle, mounts the ladder, crying

The Bourbon! Bourbon! On, boys! Rome is ours!

Caes. Good night, Lord Constable! thou wert a Man.

[CAESAR follows ARNOLD; they reach the battlement; ARNOLD and CAESAR are struck down.

Caes. A precious somerset! Is your countship injured?

Arn. No. [Remounts the ladder.

Caes. A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated! And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them down! 160 His hand is on the battlement—he grasps it As though it were an altar; now his foot Is on it, and——What have we here?—a Roman? The first bird of the covey! he has fallen [A man falls. On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow?

Wounded Man. A drop of water!

Caes. Blood's the only liquid Nearer than Tiber.

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. [Dies.

Caes. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. Oh, these immortal men! and their great motives! But I must after my young charge. He is 170 By this time i' the Forum. Charge! charge! [CAESAR mounts the ladder; the scene closes.

SCENE II.—The City.—Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in confusion.

Enter CAESAR.

Caes. I cannot find my hero; he is mixed With the heroic crowd that now pursue The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. What have we here? A Cardinal or two That do not seem in love with martyrdom. How the old red-shanks scamper! Could they doff Their hose as they have doffed their hats, 'twould be A blessing, as a mark[244] the less for plunder. But let them fly; the crimson kennels now Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 10 Is of the self-same purple hue.

Enter a Party fighting—ARNOLD at the head of the Besiegers.

He comes, Hand in hand with the mild twins—Gore and Glory.[dq] Holla! hold, Count!

Arn. Away! they must not rally.

Caes. I tell thee, be not rash; a golden bridge Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee A form of beauty, and an Exemption from some maladies of body, But not of mind, which is not mine to give. But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, I dipped thee not in Styx; and 'gainst a foe 20 I would not warrant thy chivalric heart More than Pelides' heel; why, then, be cautious, And know thyself a mortal still.

Arn. And who With aught of soul would combat if he were Invulnerable? That were pretty sport. Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar? [ARNOLD rushes into the combat.

Caes. A precious sample of humanity! Well, his blood's up; and, if a little's shed, 'Twill serve to curb his fever.

[ARNOLD engages with a Roman, who retires towards a portico.

Arn. Yield thee, slave! I promise quarter.

Rom. That's soon said.

Arn. And done—— 30 My word is known.

Rom. So shall be my deeds. [They re-engage. CAESAR comes forward.

Caes. Why, Arnold! hold thine own: thou hast in hand A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor; Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. Not so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew The Bourbon from the wall.[245]

Arn. Aye, did he so? Then he hath carved his monument.

Rom. I yet May live to carve your better's.

Caes. Well said, my man of marble! Benvenuto, Thou hast some practice in both ways; and he 40 Who slays Cellini will have worked as hard As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks.

[ARNOLD disarms and wounds CELLINI, hit slightly: the latter draws a pistol, and fires; then retires, and disappears through the portico.

Caes. How farest thou? Thou hast a taste, methinks, Of red Bellona's banquet.

Arn. (staggers). 'Tis a scratch. Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus.

Caes. Where is it?

Arn. In the shoulder, not the sword arm— And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had A helm of water!

Caes. That's a liquid now In requisition, but by no means easiest To come at.

Arn. And my thirst increases;—but 50 I'll find a way to quench it.

Caes. Or be quenched Thyself.

Arn. The chance is even; we will throw The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating; Prithee be quick. [CAESAR binds on the scarf. And what dost thou so idly? Why dost not strike?

Caes. Your old philosophers Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of The Olympic games. When I behold a prize Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo.[246]

Arn. Aye, 'gainst an oak.

Caes. A forest, when it suits me: I combat with a mass, or not at all. 60 Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine; Which is just now to gaze, since all these labourers Will reap my harvest gratis.

Arn. Thou art still A fiend!

Caes. And thou—a man.

Arn. Why, such I fain would show me.[dr]

Caes. True—as men are.

Arn. And what is that?

Caes. Thou feelest and thou see'st.

[Exit ARNOLD, joining in the combat which still continues between detached parties. The scene closes.

SCENE III.—St. Peter's—The interior of the Church—The Pope at the Altar—Priests, etc., crowding in confusion, and Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by Soldiery.

Enter CAESAR.

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades, seize upon those lamps! Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine! His rosary's of gold!

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge! revenge! Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now— Yonder stands Anti-Christ!

Caes. (interposing). How now, schismatic? What wouldst thou?

Luth. Sold. In the holy name of Christ, Destroy proud Anti-Christ.[247] I am a Christian.

Caes. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder Of your belief renounce it, could he see Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 10

Luth. Sold. I say he is the Devil.

Caes. Hush! keep that secret,[ds] Lest he should recognise you for his own.

Luth. Sold. Why would you save him? I repeat he is The Devil, or the Devil's vicar upon earth.

Caes. And that's the reason: would you make a quarrel With your best friends? You had far best be quiet; His hour is not yet come.

Luth. Sold. That shall be seen!

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward: a shot strikes him from one of the Pope's Guards, and he falls at the foot of the Altar.

Caes. (to the Lutheran). I told you so.

Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me?

Caes. Not I! You know that "Vengeance is the Lord's:" You see he loves no interlopers.

Luth. Sold. (dying). Oh! 20 Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, Crowned with eternal glory! Heaven, forgive My feebleness of arm that reached him not, And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis A glorious triumph still; proud Babylon's No more; the Harlot of the Seven Hills Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth And ashes! [The Lutheran dies.

Caes. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. Well done, old Babel!

[The Guards defend themselves desperately, while the Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to the Vatican and the Castle of St. Angelo.[248]

Caes. Ha! right nobly battled! Now, priest! now, soldier! the two great professions, 30 Together by the ears and hearts! I have not Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then; Now they must take their turn.

Soldiers. He hath escaped! Follow!

Another Sold. They have barred the narrow passage up, And it is clogged with dead even to the door.

Caes. I am glad he hath escaped: he may thank me for't In part. I would not have his bulls abolished— 'Twere worth one half our empire: his indulgences Demand some in return; no, no, he must not 40 Fall;—and besides, his now escape may furnish A future miracle, in future proof Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. Well, cut-throats! What do you pause for? If you make not haste, There will not be a link of pious gold left. And you, too, Catholics! Would ye return From such a pilgrimage without a relic? The very Lutherans have more true devotion: See how they strip the shrines!

Soldiers. By holy Peter! He speaks the truth; the heretics will bear 50 The best away.

Caes. And that were shame! Go to! Assist in their conversion. [The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Church, others enter.

Caes. They are gone, And others come: so flows the wave on wave Of what these creatures call Eternity, Deeming themselves the breakers of the Ocean, While they are but its bubbles, ignorant That foam is their foundation. So, another!

Enter OLIMPIA, flying from the pursuit—She springs upon the Altar.

Sold. She's mine!

Another Sold. (opposing the former). You lie, I tracked her first: and were she The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [They fight.

3d Sold. (advancing towards OLIMPIA). You may settle Your claims; I'll make mine good.

Olimp. Infernal slave! 60 You touch me not alive.

3d Sold. Alive or dead!

Olimp. (embracing a massive crucifix). Respect your God!

3d Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. Girl, you but grasp your dowry.

[As he advances, OLIMPIA, with a strong and sudden effort, casts down the crucifix; it strikes the Soldier, who falls.

3d Sold. Oh, great God!

Olimp. Ah! now you recognise him.

3d Sold. My brain's crushed! Comrades, help, ho! All's darkness! [He dies.

Other Soldiers (coming up). Slay her, although she had a thousand lives: She hath killed our comrade.

Olimp. Welcome such a death! You have no life to give, which the worst slave Would take. Great God! through thy redeeming Son, And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 70 I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee!

Enter ARNOLD.

Arn. What do I see? Accursed jackals! Forbear!

Caes. (aside and laughing). Ha! ha! here's equity! The dogs Have as much right as he. But to the issue!

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade.

Arn. With what weapon?

Sold. The cross, beneath which he is crushed; behold him Lie there, more like a worm than man; she cast it Upon his head.

Arn. Even so: there is a woman Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, Ye would have honoured her. But get ye hence, 80 And thank your meanness, other God you have none, For your existence. Had you touched a hair Of those dishevelled locks, I would have thinned Your ranks more than the enemy. Away! Ye jackals! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, But not even these till he permits.

A Sold. (murmuring). The lion Might conquer for himself then.

Arn. (cuts him down). Mutineer! Rebel in hell—you shall obey on earth! [The Soldiers assault ARNOLD.

Arn. Come on! I'm glad on't! I will show you, slaves, How you should be commanded, and who led you 90 First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, Until I waved my banners from its height, As you are bold within it. [ARNOLD mows down the foremost; the rest throw down their arms.

Soldiers. Mercy! mercy!

Arn. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements?

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it; yet forgive A moment's error in the heat of conquest— The conquest which you led to.

Arn. Get you hence! Hence to your quarters! you will find them fixed In the Colonna palace.

Olimp. (aside). In my father's 100 House!

Arn. (to the Soldiers). Leave your arms; ye have no further need Of such: the city's rendered. And mark well You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism.