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THE DESERT ISLAND, A DRAMATIC POEM, IN THREE ACTS.

As it is Acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.

Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
VIRG.

LONDON, Printed for PAUL VAILLANT, facing Southampton-street, in the Strand. MDCCLX.

[Price One Shilling and Six Pence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following Piece is founded on the Isola Disabitata of the celebrated ABBE METASTASIO: In reading the Perform­ance of that great Genius, the present Writer received so exquisite a Pleasure, that he contracted a Passion for the Subject, and could not refrain from exercising his Pen upon it. In the Prose­cution of his Plan, he knew enough of the mo­dern Theatre, to perceive that it was thin of what our Play-followers call Business; and he was aware that on the Stage it might prove (to use Milton's Words) very different from what among us passes for Best. The same Remark was made by a Friend of the Author's, who thought it hazardous to offer to a popular Assembly a Piece, in which there were none of those Strokes that generally succeed with the Multitude. "Can't you," said he, ‘throw in something here and there to season it more to the public Appetite?—Suppose you were to change the Title, and fix the Scene among the Anthropophagi, or among the Men, whose Heads do grow beneath their Shoulders—a few of those extraordinary Personages exhibited on the Stage, will prove very acceptable:—What think you of an Irish Servant in it?—That certainly will insure Success, the more especially if you add some aerial Beings, and conclude the Whole with a drunken Song by the Tars of Old Eng­land.’—The Author was sensible of the Force of these Observations; but the GREAT MILTON (mentioned above) stared him in the Face, with his Reflections on ‘the Error of introducing tri­vial and vulgar Persons, which, by all Judicious, hath been counted absurd, and brought in with­out Discretion, CORRUPTLY to gratify the Peo­ple.’ *—He therefore determined to preserve the [Page] Integrity of his original Design, and to try what would be the Effect of a simple Fable, with, but few Incidents, supported entirely by the Spirit of Poetry, Sentiment, and Passion. To combine these there Qualities is indeed an arduous Task; and the Author, therefore, does not flatter himself that he has entirely succeeded in so difficult an Attempt.

In Justice to METASTASIO, he thinks proper to inform the mere English Reader, that he hath not been a Translator on this Occasion, but has fol­lowed the Impulse of his own Imagination, ex­cepting in a few Passages. The ITALIAN POET gave the Fable; the present Writer made his own Use of it; or in other Words, the Ground-work, or Canevas, (as the French call it) is METASTASIO'S; for the Colouring Mr. Murphy is answerable.

He could not but be surprized to find that, on the first Night, the Scene in the third Act, between Sylvia and Henrico, was deemed equivocal. There is always a sufficient Number ready to ascribe to an Author various Meanings, which he never had, "and see at Cannon's what was never there."—To these Gentlemen he returns his Thanks; but the Species of Wit, which they are willing to allow him, he begs leave publickly to disclaim. The Cha­racter of a Girl, who has never seen a Man, and who has been taught to think of such a Being with Horror, is merely imaginary; but the possible, or Poetical Existence of such a Girl being once esta­blished, it is to be wished that the Critics would agree what Questions it is natural for her to ask on her first Interview with a Man, METASTASIO makes her say,

Che vuoi da me?
Un Uom Sei dunque!
Andiamo Insieme.
Ah! troppo ron trattenerli, &c.

[Page]And these little Touches, (so differently do we judge in England) were thought abroad to be deli­cate Strokes of the most elegant Simplicity.

He could wish it had been universally under­stood that it was not a TRAGEDY he offered to the Public, but a DRAMATIC POEM; that is to say, a Piece with some interesting Situations to engage the Affections, but which affords more Room for a Picturesque Imagination to display itself, than is generally allowed to the more important Concerns of real Tragedy, where the Distress should be al­ways encreasing, where the Passions should be al­ways rising to fuller and stronger Emotions, and where of Course the Poet ought not to find Lei­sure for Imagery and Description. Had this been felt and acknowledged, no Body would have looked for another Kind of Entertainment than was pro­mised, and the Smiles arising from SYLVIA'S Dread of a Man (on the first Discovery of him), and her gradual Attachment to him in Compliance with natural Instinct, would never have been judged inconsistent with the Colour of the Whole. But if the Author of the Desert Island has erred in this, he has the Consolation of having erred with the greatest Poet now in Europe.

As many of the malevolent Writers of the Age have heretofore honoured the Author with their Abuse, and as he was apprehensive that they still remained under the Oppression of their Dullness and Obscurity, it was deemed proper to call them forth into Daylight, by exhibiting one general Representative of them all on the Stage. For this he returns his Thanks to the Author of the Prologue; and if any needy Booksellers, or un­happy Authors, can find their Account in taking further Liberties with him, he hereby declares, he should be sorry not to have Merit enough to pro­voke some of them, and for their Encouragement, [Page] he adds in the Words of the noble Author of the Characteristics, that ‘He will never reply, un­less he should hear of them or their Works in any good Company a Twelve-month after.’

Lincoln's Inn, Jan. 26, 1760.
The AUTHOR.

PROLOGUE, Written and Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, In the Character of a DRUNKEN POET.

ALL, all shall out—all that I know and feel;
I will by Heav'n—to higher Powers appeal!—
Behold a Bard!—no Author of to-night—
No, no,—they can't say that, with all their spite:
Ay, you may frown (looking behind the scenes) I'm at you, great and small—
Your Poet, Players, Managers and all!—
These Fools within here, swear that I'm in liquor—
My passion warms me—makes my utt'rance thicker;—
I totter too—but that's the Gout and Pain,—
French Wines, and living high, have been my bane.—
From all temptations now, I wisely steer me;
Nor will I suffer one fine Woman near me.
And this I sacrifice, to give you pleasure—
For you I've coin'd my brains,—and here's the treasure!
Pulls out a Manuscript.
A treasure this, of profit and delight!
And all thrown by for this damn'd stuff to-night:—
This is a play would water ev'ry eye!—
If I but look upon't, it makes me cry:
This Play would tears from blood-stain'd Soldiers draw,—
And melt the bowels of hard-hearted Law!
Would fore end aft the storm-proof Sailor rake;—
Keep turtle-eating Aldermen awake!
Would the cold blood of ancient Maidens thrill,
And make ev'n pretty younger tongues lie still.
[Page]This Play not ev'n Managers would refuse,—
Had Heav'n but giv'n 'em any brains, to chuse!—
Puts up his Manuscript.
Your Bard to-night, bred in the ancient school,
Designs and measures all by critic rule;
'Mongst Friends—it goes no farther—He's a Fool.
So very classic, and so very dull—
His Desert Island is his own dear Skull:
No Soul to make the Play-house ring, and rattle,
No Trumpets, Thunder, Ranting, Storms, or Battle!
But all your fine poetic Prittle-prattle.
The Plot is this—A Lady's cast away—
"Long before the beginning of the Play;"
And they are taken by a Fisherman,
The Lady and the Child—'tis Bays's plan—
So on he blunders—He's an Irishman.—
'Tis all alike—his comic stuff I mean—
I hate all humour—it gives me the Spleen;
So damn 'em both, with all my heart, unsight, unseen.
But should you ruin him, still I'm undone—
I've try'd all ways to bring my Phoenix on—
Shewing his Play again.
Flatter I can with any of our Tribe—
Can cut and slash—indeed I cannot bribe;
What must I do then?—beg you to subscribe.
Be kind ye Boxes, Galleries, and Pit—
'Tis but a Crown a piece, for-all this Wit:
All Sterling Wit—to puff myself I hate—
You'll ne'er supply your wants at such a rate!
'Tis worth your money, I would scorn to wrong ye,—
You smile consent—I'll send my hat among ye.
Going, he returns.
So much beyond all praise your bounties swell!
Not my own Tongue, my Gra-ti-tude can tell—
"A little Flattery sometimes does well."
Staggers off.

Dramatis Personae.

MEN.
  • FERDINAND, Husband to Constantia, Mr. HOLLAND.
  • HENRICO, Friend to Ferdinand, Mr. FLEETWOOD.
WOMEN.
  • CONSTANTIA, Mrs. PRITCHARD.
  • SYLVIA, her Daughter, Miss PRITCHARD.

SCENE, A DESERT ISLAND.

THE DESERT ISLAND.

ACT I.

The scene represents a vale in the Desert Island, surrounded by rocks, caverns, grottos, flowering shrubs, exotic trees, and plants growing wild. On one side is a cavern in a rock, over the entrance of which appears, in large characters, an unfinish­ed inscription. CONSTANTIA is discovered at work at the inscription, in a romantic habit of skins, leaves, and flowers; in her hand she holds a broken sword, and stands in act to finish the imperfect inscription.

After a short pause, she begins.
REST, rest my arm — ye weary sinews, rest —
Awhile forget your office —On this rock
Here sit thee down, and think thy-self to stone.
Sits down.
—Would heav'n I could! —
[rises.]
Ye shrubs, ye nameless plants,
[Page 2]That wildly-gadding 'midst the rifted rocks
Wreathe your fantastic shoots;—ye darksome trees
That weave yon verdant arch above my head,
Shad'wing this solemn scene; — ye moss-grown caves,
Romantic grottos,—all ye objects drear, —
Tell me, in pity tell me, have ye seen,
Thro' the long series of revolving time,
In which you have inclos'd this lonely mansion,
Say, have ye seen another wretch like me?—
No, never!—You, in tend'rest sympathy,
Have join'd my plaints— you, at the midnight hour,
When with uprooted hair I've strew'd the earth,
And call'd my husband gone;—have call'd in vain
Perfidious Ferdinand!—you, at that hour,
Have waken'd echo in each vocal cell,
Till ev'ry grove, and ev'ry mountain hoar,
Mourn'd to my griefs responsive—Well you know
The story of my woes—Ev'n yonder marble
Relenting feels the touch; receives each trace
That forms the melancholy tale.—Tho' rude,
And inexpert my hand; — tho' all uncouth
The instrument, — yet there behold my work
Well nigh complete—let me about it streight.
She advances toward the rock.
Ye deep engraven letters, there remain;
And if in future time resistless fate
Should throw some Briton on this dismal shore;
Then speak aloud; — to his astonish'd sense
Relate my sad, my memorable case —
Alarm his soul, call out —
[Page 3]STOP TRAVELLER. HERE CONSTANTIA, WITH HER LITTLE INFANT, SYLVIA, WAS DESERTED BY HER HUSBAND, THE PERFIDIOUS FERDINAND; WHO PRETENDING TO LAND HER FOR REFRESHMENT FROM THE DANGERS OF A STORMY SEA, BARBAROUSLY LEFT HER ON THIS UNHOSPITABLE ISLAND, WHERE SHE ENDED HER DEPLORABLE LIFE. FRIEND! WHOE'ER THOU ART, PITY MY WRONGS, BUT AGAINST MY HUSBAND, (FOR LOVE LIKE MINE CANNOT FORGET WHERE ONCE WITH DELIGHT IT FIXED) I CHARGE YOU NEVER MEDITATE R—
Revenge! —the word Revenge is wanting still.
Ye holy pow'rs! if with one pitying look
You'll deign to view me, grant my earnest pray'r!
Let me but finish this my sad inscription,
Then let this busy, this afflicted heart
Be still at once, and beat my breast no more,
She goes on with her work.
Enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
My dearest mother — oh! quite out of breath.
CONSTANTIA.
[Page 4]

What is the matter, child?

SYLVIA.
Why, ma'am, my heart,
Beats wild with joy —oh! such an incident!—
CONSTANTIA.

What incident, my sweet?

SYLVIA.
My little fawn,
My dear, my loveliest fawn, — for many days
Whose loss I've mourn'd; for whose dear sake I've left
No corner of the isle unsearch'd; —this moment
O'er the dew-spangled lawn, with printless feet,
Came bounding to me; playful frisk'd about
With inexpressive airs of glad surprize,
With eager signs of transport—Big round tears
Stood trembling in his eye, and seem'd to speak
His fond regret still mingling with his joy.
CONSTANTIA.

And is it that, my love, delights thee so? —

SYLVIA.
And can you wonder, ma'am? — yes, that de­lights me,
Transports me, charms me; — he's my darling care,
My dear companion, my sweet little friend,
That loves me, gambols round me, watches still
With anxious tenderness my ev'ry motion,
[Page 5]Pants on my bosom, leaps into my arms,
And wanders o'er me with a thousand kisses.
Before this time, he never once stray'd from me;
—I thought I lost him; —but he's found again!
And can you wonder I'm transported thus!
CONSTANTIA.
Oh! happy state of innocence! — how sweet
Thy joys, simplicity, e'er yet the mind
With artificial passions learns to glow;
Ere taste has ta'en our senses to her school,
Has given each well-bred appetite her laws,
Taught us to feel imaginary bliss,
Or elss expire in elegance of pain.
SYLVIA.
Nay, now, again, you're growing grave—'tis you
Give laws to appetite; — forbid each sense
To minister delight; your eyes are dimm'd
With constant tears; — the roses on your cheek
Fade like yon violets, when excessive dews
Have bent their drooping melancholy heads;
Soon they repair their graces; soon recal
Their aromatic lives, and smiling yield
To sighing Zephyr all their balmy sweets.
To grief you're still a prey; still wan despair
Sits with'ring at your heart, and ev'ry feature
Has your directions to be fix'd in woe.
Nay, pr'ythee now clear up—you make me sad—
— Will you, Mama, forget your cares? —
CONSTANTIA.
Forget! —
Oh! sweet oblivion, thy all-healing balm
[Page 6]To wretches you refuse! —can I forget
Perfidious Ferdinand? — His tyrant form
Is ever present — The deluding looks,
Endearing accents, and the soft regards
With which he led me to yon moss-clad cave,
There to repose awhile —oh! cruel man!
And you, ye conscious wilds, I call you false!
Accomplices in guilt! — The Zephyrs bland
That pant upon each leaf; — the melody
That warbles thro' your groves; the falling foun­tains
That at each deep'ning cadence lull the mind,
Were all suborn'd against me; all conspir'd
To wrap me in the silken folds of sleep.
Sudden I wake — where, where is Ferdinand?
I rave, I shriek, —no Ferdinand replies;—
Frantic I rove thro' all your winding glades,—
I seek the shore; — no Ferdinand appears —
I climb yon craggy steeps; I see the ship
Unfurling all her sails — I call aloud,
I stamp, cry out; — deaf as the roaring sea
He catches ev'ry gale that blows from heav'n,
And cleaves his liquid way. —
SYLVIA.
Why will you thus
Recal your past afflictions? —
CONSTANTIA.
Ah! what then,
Thou wretched Constance, what were then thy feelings
[Page 7]I rend my tresses, — beat my breast in vain,
In vain stretch out these ineffectual arms,
Pierce with my frantic cries the wounded air,
Dash my bare bosom on the flinty rock,
Then rise again, and strain my aching sight,
To see the ship still less'ning to my view,
And take the last, last glimpse, as far, far off
In the horizon's verge she dwindles still,
Grows a dim speck, and mixes with the clouds
Just vanishing, — just lost, —ah! seen no more.
SYLVIA.
I pr'ythee don't talk so—my heart dies in me—
Why won't you strive a little to forget
This melancholy theme? — the twilight grey
Of morn but faintly streaks the east; the stars
Still glimmer thro' the whit'ning air; the groves
Are mute; yon all-devouring deep lies hush'd;
The tuneful birds, and the whole brute creation
Still sink in soft oblivious slumber wrapp'd,
Forgetful of their cares;—all, —all but you
Know some repose; — you pass the dreary night
In tears and ceaseless grief; then rising wild
Anticipate the dawn, and here resume
Your doleful task, or else ascend the height
Of yonder promontory; there forlorn
You sit, and hear the brawling waves beneath
Lash the resounding shore; your brimful eye
Still fix'd on that sad quarter of the heav'ns
Where my hard father disappear'd.
CONSTANTIA.
[Page 8]
Yes, there
My melancholy loves to dwell; there loves
To sit, and pine over its hoard of grief;
To roll these eyes o'er all the sullen main,
In hopes some sail may this way shape its course,
With tidings of the human race—Oh! heav'ns!
Could I behold that dear, that wish'd for sight,
Could I but see some vestiges of man,
Some mark of social life, ev'n tho' the ship
Should shun this isle, and court propitious gales
Beneath some happier clime; yet still the view
Would chear my soul, and my heart bound with joy
At that faint prospect of my fellow creatures.
But not for me, such transport;—not for me—
Dear native land, I now no more must see thee,
Condemn'd in ever-during solitude to mourn,
From thy sweet joys, society, debarr'd!
SYLVIA.
But to your happiness what's wanting here?
Full many a time I've heard you praise the arts,
The polish'd manners, and gay scenes of bliss
Which Europe yields — yet ever and anon
I from your own discourse can gather too
That happiness is all unknown to Europe;
That envy there can dwell, and discontent;
The smile, that wakens at another's woe;
The heart, that sickens at another's praise;
The tongue, that carries the malignant tale;
[Page 9]The little spirit, that subverts a friend;
Fraud, perfidy, ingratitude, and murder.
Now sure with reason I prefer these scenes
Of innocence, tranquillity, and joy!
CONSTANTIA.
Alas! my child, 'tis easy to forego
Unknown delights — pleasures we've never felt. —
SYLVIA.
Are we not here what you yourself have told me
In Europe sovereigns are? — here we have fix'd
Our little sylvan reign. — The guileless race
Of animals, that roam the lawns and woods,
Are tractable and willing subjects; — pay
Passive obedience to us — and yon sea
Becomes our tributary; hither rolls
In each hoarse-murm'ring tide his various stores
Of daintiest shell-fish — the unbidden earth,
Of human toil all ignorant, pours forth
Whatever to the eye, or taste, can prove
Rare, exquisite, and good — at once the spring
Calls forth its green delights, and summer's blush
Glows on each purple branch. The seasons here
On the same tree, with glad surprize,
Behold each other's gifts arise;
Spontaneous fruits around us grow;
For ever here the Zephyrs blow:
Shrubs ever flow'ring,
Shades embow'ring;
Heav'nly spots,
Cooling grots,
[Page 10]Verdant mountains,
Falling fountains;
Pure limpid rills,
Adown the hills,
That wind their way
And o'er the meadows play,
Enamour'd of th' enchanted ground.
CONSTANTIA.
What is this waste of beauty, all these charms
Of cold, inanimate, unconscious nature,
Without the social sense? those joys, my Sylvia,
Thou can'st not miss; for thou hast never known 'em.
SYLVIA.
But still, those beauteous tracts of Europe,
Which you so much regret, are full of men;
And men, you know, are animals of prey:
I'm sure that you yourself have told me so
A thousand times. —
CONSTANTIA.
And if I have, my child,
I told a dismal truth. — Oh! they are false,
Inexorable, cruel, fell deceivers;
Their unrelenting hearts no harbour know
For honour, truth, humanity, or love.
SYLVIA.
Well then, in this lone isle, this dear retreat
From them at least we're free. —
CONSTANTIA.
[Page 11]
Poor innocent!
I can't but grieve for her —
Bursts into tears, aside.
SYLVIA.
Why fall afresh
Those drops of sorrow? — pray you, now give o'er. —
CONSTANTIA.
My heart will break—I do not grieve, my child—
I can't conceal my tears—they must have way—
SYLVIA.
Nay, if you love me, sure you will not thus
Make my heart ake within me! —
CONSTANTIA.
No, my sweet —
I will not weep — all will be well, my love —
Oh! misery! — I can't, — I can't contain —
The black ingratitude! —
Weeps.
SYLVIA.
Say, is there aught
That I can do, Mama, to give you comfort? —
If there is, tell me — shall I fetch my fawn?
Dry up your tears, and he is your's this moment,
—I'll run and bring him to you. —
CONSTANTIA.
Sylvia, no! —
SYLVIA.
Nay do, Mama—I beg you will—you shall.
Exit.
CONSTANTIA
[Page 12]
alone.
Alas! I fear my brain will turn — the sun
Full sixteen times hath made his annual course,
Since here I've dragg'd a miserable being,
The victim of despair; which long e'er now,
To phrenzy kindling, must have forc'd me dash
My brain in madness on yon flinty rocks,
And end my pangs at once; if the keen instinct
Of strong maternal love had not restrain'd
My wild disorder'd soul, and bade me live
To watch her tender infancy; to rear
Her blooming years; with fond delighted care
To tend each blossom of her growing mind,
And see light gradual dawning on her soul.
And yet to see her thus, — to see her here,
Cut off from ev'ry social bliss; condemn'd
Like some fair flow'r that in a desert grows,
To breathe its sweets into the passing wind,
And waste its bloom all unperceiv'd away!
It is enough to break a mother's heart.
Let me not think on't—let me shun that thought.
Sits down and sings.
I.
What tho' his guilt my heart hath torn,
Yet lovely is his mien,
His eyes mild-op'ning as the morn,
Round him each grace is seen.
But oh! ye nymphs, your loves ne'er let him win,
For oh! deceit and falshood dwell within.
II.
[Page 13]
From his red lip his accents stole,
Soft as kind vernal snows;
Melting they came, and in the soul
Desire and joy arose.
But oh! ye nymphs, ne'er listen to his art,
For oh! base falshood rankles in his heart.
III.
He left me in this lonely state!
He fled, and left me here,
Another Ariadne's fate,
To mourn the live-long year.
He fled — but oh! what pains the heart must prove,
When we reveal the crimes of him we love!
Re-enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
I cannot bring him now — in yonder stream
That thro' its pebbled channel glides along
Soft-murm'ring to the sea, he stands to cool
His beauteous form in the pure limpid rill.
But still he shall be your's —
CONSTANTIA.
To thee, my child,
To thee he causes joy — but joy to me
There's nothing now can bring — left by my husband!
By the false barb'rous man! —
SYLVIA.
[Page 14]
And yet this man
You still regret mdash; you must excuse me now —
I vow, I can't but think, 'midst all your grief,
All your reproaches, your complaints against him,
That still this man, this cruel fell deceiver,
Has found,—I know not why—within your breast
Some tender advocate, to plead his cause.
CONSTANTIA.
No, Sylvia, no; my love is turn'd to hate! —
SYLVIA.
Then dry your sorrows and this day begin
A happier train of years — and lo! the sun
Emerges from the sea — He lists his orb
Above the purpled main, and streams abroad
His golden fluid o'er the world — the birds
Exulting wake their notes — all things rejoice,
And hills, and groves, and rocks, and vallies smile.
Let me entreat you then forget your cares,
And share the general bliss.—
The sun is seen to rise at a distance, as it were out of the sea.
CONSTANTIA.
Once more all hail,
Thou radiant power, who in your bright career
Or rising or descending, hast beheld
My never-ceasing woe! — again thou climb'st
[Page 15]In orient glory, and recall'st the cares
And toils of man and beast—but oh! in all
Your flaming course, your beams will never light
Upon a wretch so lost, so curst as I am.
SYLVIA.

And yet, my mother—

CONSTANTIA.
Mine are pangs, my child,
Strokes of adversity no time can cure,
No lenient arts can soften or assuage.
But I'll not grieve thee, Sylvia — I'll retire
To some sequester'd haunt—There, all forlorne,
I'll sit, and wear myself away in thought.
Exit.
SYLVIA,
alone.
Alas! how obstinately bent on grief
Is her whole mind! — the votarist of care!
In vain I try to soften her afflictions,
And with each art beguile her from her woe.
I chide, intreat, caress, and all in vain.
And what to me seems strange, perverse, and wond'rous,
The more I strive, the more her sorrows swell;
Her tears the faster fall, fall down her cheek
In streams so copious, and such bitter anguish,
That I myself at length, I know not how,
Catch the soft weakness, and o'erpow'r'd with grief,
Flow all dissolving in unbidden tears.
Assist her heav'n. — Her heart will break at last —
[Page 16]I tremble at the thought — I'll follow straight
And still implore, beseech, try evr'y way
To reconcile her to herself and me.
But see, look yonder! what a sight is there!
What can it mean, that huge enormous mass
That moves upon the bosom of the deep!
— A floating mountain! — no — a mountain never
Could change its place — for such a monstrous bulk
How light it urges on its way — how quick,
How rapid in its course! — What can it be—
— I'll tow'rd the shore, and from the pointed rock
That juts into the waves, at leisure view
This wond'rous sight, and what it is explore.
END of the first ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE, Another view of the island, with an opening to the sea between several hills and rocks.

Enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
STILL I behold it—still it glides along
Thro' the tumultuous sea — and lo! before it
The waves divide! and now they close again,
Leaving a tract of angry foam behind.
It must be, sure, some monster of the deep;
For see! — upon its huge broad back it bears
Expanded wings, that, spreading to the wind,
Lie broad incumbent o'er the surge beneath —
— Ah! save me, save me! — what new forms appear!
What shapes of unknown being rise before me!
From yon huge monster"s side they issue forth,
And bolt upon the shore! — behold, they stop,
And now with eager disconcerted pace
Precipitate rush forward on the Isle, —
Now 'mongst the rocks they wind their silent way,
[Page 18]FERDINAND and HENRICO appear.
Protect me, heav'n! defend me! shield me!—ah!
Hide me, ye woods, within your deep recess;
Ne'er may these monsters penetrate your haunts;
Ne'er trace my footsteps thro' your darksome ways.
Behind the covert of this woodbine bow'r
Oh! let me rest conceal'd! —
She retires.
FERDINAND and HENRICO come forward.
HENRICO.
No trace appears,
No vestige here is seen of human kind.
'Tis drear, 'tis waste, and unfrequented all.
And hark! — what noise? — from yonder toil­ing deep
How dreadful sounds the pealing roar! — my friend,
My valued Ferdinand, 'twere best retire.
This cannot be the place. —
FERDINAND.
Oh! my Henrico,
This is the fatal shore — the well-known scene,
Yon bay, yon rocks, yon mountains, from whose brows
Th' imbow'ring forest over-hangs the deep,
Each well-remember'd object strikes my view,
Answers the image in my mind preserv'd,
[Page 19]Engraven there by love's recording-hand,
And never, but with life, to fade from thence.
HENRICO.
And yet thy love-enfeebled soul may form
Imaginary tokens of resemblance.
This soil unbeaten seems by mortal step.
FERDINAND.
No, my Henrico, no — this is the spot —
My heart in ev'ry pulse confirms it to me.
This is the place, the very place, where fate
Began to weave the tissue of my woes.
Oh! I was curst, abhorr'd of heav'n, or else
I ne'er had trusted the contentious waves,
But kept my store of happiness at home.
HENRICO
Repine not for an action that arose
From filial piety, — a father's mandate
Requir'd obedience from you. —
FERDINAND.
To his summons
I paid a glad attention — yet, good heav'n!
Why in that early aera of my bliss
Should then his orders come, to dash my joys? —
Oh! I was blest with all that rarest beauty,
With all that ev'ry Venus of the mind,
The tender heart, and the enliven'd wit
Could pour delightful on the raptur'd sense
Of the young bridegroom, whose admiring eyes
Still hung enamour'd on her ev'ry charm,
[Page 20]And thence drank long inspiring draughts of love,
Unsated still, — still kindling at the view.
HENRICO.
Thy fate indeed was hard —
FERDINAND.
Heav'n knows it was —
Each soft desire, each joy refin'd was mine —
The hours soft glided by, and as they pass'd
Scatter'd new blessings from their balmy wings;
They saw our ever new delight; they saw
A blooming offspring crown our mutual loves;
The mother's features, and her ev'ry grace
In this our daughter exquisitely trac'd.
But to be torn from that supreme of bliss, —
My wife, — Constantia, — and my beauteous babe,
Here to be left on this untravell'd isle,
To pine in bitterness of want! — their bed
The cold bare earth, while the inclement winds
From yonder main came howling round their heads,
Until at length the friendly hand of death
In pity threw his shrowd upon their woes.
HENRICO.
Too sure, I fear, they're lost. —
FERDINAND.
Perhaps, my friend,
Perhaps when gasping in the pangs of death,—
[Page 21]—When ev'ry beauty faded from her cheek,
—And her eye languish'd motionless and dim,
Perhaps ev'n then, in that sad dismal hour,
My name still hover'd on her quiv'ring lips,
And nought but death could tear me from her heart.
HENRICO.
Her tend'rest thoughts no doubt were fix'd on thee.
FERDINAND.
Her tend'rest thoughts! oh! no — her utmost rage—
Who knows, Henrico, but she deem'd me false;
Deem'd me a vile deserter from her arms?
She did, — she must — each strong appearance join'd
To mark me guilty —Oh! that thought strikes deep
It's scorpion stings into my very heart.
Could she but think me so refin'd in guilt,
So exquisite a villain, as to cause
A moment's anguish in that tender breast,
Where all the loves, where all the virtues dwelt,
—'Twere misery, — 'twere torture in th' ex­treme—
And yet she thought me such—by heav'n she did—
Accus'd me of the worst, the blackest treason,
Of treason to my love — stung with th' idea
She roam'd this isle, and to these desert wilds
[Page 22]Pour'd forth her lamentable tale; — who knows
But on some craggy cliff whole nights she sat
Raving in madness to the moon's pale gleam;
Until at length all kindling into phrenzy,
Clasping her infant closer to her breast,
With desperation wild from off the rock
Headlong she plung'd into the roaring waves,
While her last accents murmur'd faithless Fer­dinand.
HENRICO.
Distract not thus your soul with fancied woes.
She could not think thee faithless; thee, whose mind,
Whose ev'ry virtue were so well approv'd.
FERDINAND.
Still will I hope she did not. — Oh! she knew
I made that voyage in duty to a father.
A while we steer'd a happy course, until
Beneath the burning line, from whence the sun
In streight direction pours his ardent blaze
On ev'ry fever'd sense, a storm arose,
Sudden and wild; as if a war of nature
Were thund'ring o'er our heads — full twenty days
It drove us headlong on the dashing surge
Far from our destin'd way, until at length
In evil hour we landed on this isle.
[Page 23]SYLVIA returns, and peeps from behind a hedge.
SYLVIA.
Methought I heard a sound, as if they both
Held mutual converse — yonder lo! they stand —
They do not follow me — what can they be! —
FERDINAND.
There is the spot, just where yon aged tree
Imbrowns the plain beneath, on which the villains,
The unrelenting band of pirates, seiz'd me —
There I receiv'd my wound, and there I fought
Till my sword shiver'd in my hand — worn out,
Oppress'd by numbers, pow'rless, and disarm'd,
They bore me headlong to the beach; in vain
Piercing the air with horrid cries; in vain
Back towr'd the cave, where poor Constantia slept,
With her lov'd infant daughter in her arms,
Straining my ardent eyes — my eyes alone!
For oh! their cruelty had bound my arms,
And tears and looks were all I then could use.
SYLVIA.
The voice but indistinctly strikes my ear,
Would they would turn this way. —
FERDINAND.
Fetter'd, ty'd down,
They dragg'd me to the vessel—bore me hence—
[Page 24]In vain our ship pursued—In vain gave chase—
Form'd with detested skill the guilty bark
In which they plung'd me, gliding oe'r the main
Outstripp'd their tardy course — they steer'd away
Far to their regions of accursed bondage,
Far from Constantia, far from ev'ry joy
A doating husband, and delighted father
Feels in mix'd rapture with his wife and child.
Oh! I could pour my plaints — but I'll not wound
Thy ear, my friend, with further lamentation.
HENRICO.
Would Heav'n I could remove the cause —
FERDINAND.
Alas!
That cannot be — Thou can'st not bid return
The irrevocable flight of time; recall
The moments of our young delight; annul
And render void, what once the hand of fate
Hath from it's stores of woe, pour'd down upon me.
SYLVIA
(half concealed.)
Why will they stand with looks averted thus?
I long to see their countenance and mein.
FERDINAND.
But yet, thou best of friends, yet grant me this;
Assist my search; — oh! let me roam around
This fatal shore — the isle's circumference
[Page 25]Circles a scanty space — we cannot lose
Each other here — do thou pursue that path
That leads due east — this way I'll bend my course.
HENRICO.
By heav'n there is no task of hardihood
Of toil, or danger but I'll try for thee;
For thee, my friend; — to thee I owe my life,
And that more precious boon, my liberty:
Thou hast releas'd me from the galling chain,
From slav'ry's bitter pressure — 'twas thy skil,
That form'd the plan of freedom, seiz'd the vessel,
And made your friends the partners of your flight.
— For thee I'll roam around — but oh! I fear
Our search will prove in vain —
FERDINAND.
Too sure it will —
And yet it is the doom of love like mine
To dwell for ever on the sad idea
Of the dear object lost; to visit oft
A lonely pilgrim ev'ry well known scene,
Each haunted glade, where the lov'd object stray'd;
To call each circumstance of pass'd delight
Back to the soul; in fond excursions seek
The dear lamented shade — Then, oh! my friend,
Then let me taste that sad, that pensive comfort,
[Page 26]Range thro' these wilds; ascend each craggy steep,
Try in each grotto, in each gloomy cave
If haply there remain some vestige of Constantia,
Exit.
HENRICO.
On yonder beach we'll meet again — fare­well! —
SYLVIA.
Conceal thee Sylvia;—ah!—it comes this way!—
Then let me seek the covert of the woods,
Where nods the brownest horror; there lie safe
From the unusual sight of these strange beings.
Exit.
HENRICO,
solus.
How cruel is my friend's condition! —doom'd
For ever to regret, yet never find
The object of his soul — his early love
He lavish'd all on her — with her it goes
To the dank grave, and leaves him hapless here
To die a lingering death. — Yet still I'll try
Bv ev'ry office friendship can perform
To heal the wound that preys upon his life.
Exit.
[Page 27] The back scene closes, and presents a thick wood; then enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
What have my eyes beheld? — my flutt'ring heart
Beats quick in stange emotions — from yon grove
Of tufted trees, I saw this nameless being
Walk o'er, the russet heath — it's face appear'd
Confess'd to view — It cannot be a man —
No lines of cruelty deform'd his visage.—
Were it a man, his untam'd savage soul
Would strongly speak in each distorted fea­ture —
This was all pleasing, amiable and mild:
A gentle sorrow, bright'ning into smiles,
Such as bespoke a calm, yet feeling spirit,
Sat on its' peaceful brow, and oe'r it threw
A gentle gleam of sweetness and of pain.
— It cannot be a woman neither — no —
The dress accords not with that mode, which oft
My mother hath describ'd — Whate'er it be
Attraction dwells about it; winning smiles;
Assuasive airs of tenderness and joy.
I'll seek my mother — she perhaps may know
These forms, to me unusual — By this row
Of darksome pines, my steps all unperceiv'd
[Page 28]May gain the place where with assiduous hand
She works, and teaches the rude rocks to tell
Her mournful elegy — what mean my feet?
—Why stand they thus forgetful of their office?
—Why heaves th' involuntary sigh! — and why
Thus in quick pulses beats my heart? — my eyes
A misty dimness covers—In my ears
Strange murmurs sound — my very breath is lost—
What can it be?—I know thee fear!—'tis thou
That causest this! — and yet it can't be fear—
Fear cannot thrill with pleasure thro' the veins;
Knows not this dubious joy—these grateful tremblings—
I cannot guess what these emotions mean,
Nor what this busy thing my heart would want!
Let me seek shelter in my mother's arms.
Exit.
Scene changes to the first view of the island where CONSTANTIA'S inscription is seen.
Enter FERDINAND
FERDINAND
No—never more shall these fond eyes behold her.
Lost, lost, my poor Constantia lost! — In vain
I search these gloomy woods — In vain call out
Her honour'd name to ev'ry hill and dale.
[Page 29]My eyes are false, or on the craggy base
Of yonder rock some instrument appears,
The mark of human kind —
Takes it up.
A broken sword!
Oh! all ye heav'nly pow'rs! — the very same—
This once was mine — unfaithful to it's trust
It fail'd me at my utmost need — I see
The well known characters; the very words
That form'd it's motto —'tis, it is the same —
Oh! were Constantia found! — what do I see?
All o'er with hair the flinty rock bestrew'd! —
These were her decent tresses—these in anguish
She tore relentless from her beauteous head,
Up by the roots she tore, and scatter'd wild
To all the passing winds—she still may live!—
Constantia? — my belov'd, — my life, return!—
Constantia! — ha! —what mystic characters
Are hewn into the rock? — my name appears—
He reads.
STOP TRAVELLER. HERE CONSTANTIA, WITH HER LITTLE INFANT, SYLVIA, WAS DESERTED BY HER HUSBAND, THE PERFIDIOUS FERDINAND; WHO PRETENDING TO LAND HER FOR REFRESHMENT [Page 30] FROM THE DANGERS OF A STORMY SEA, BARBAROUSLY LEFT HER ON THIS UNHOSPITABLE ISLAND, WHERE SHE ENDED HER DEPLORABLE LIFE.
Support me, heav'n! — ah! no—withold your aid,
Ye unrelenting pow'rs, and let me thus,
Each vital spark subsiding, thus expire.
Leans against the rock.
Enter HENRICO.
HENRICO.
What hoa! — my Ferdinand! — this way the sound
Struck on my list'ning ear — what means my friend
Thus growing to the rock, transform'd to stone,
A breathing statue, 'midst these shapeless piles?—
FERDINAND.
Henrico there! — read there! —
HENRICO.
Letters engrav'd! —
He reads to himself as far as SHE ENDED HER DEPLORABLE LIFE.
Alas! my friend—
They gaze speechless at each other for some time, then Ferdinand falls.
The storm of grief o'erpow'rs his feeble spirits.
[Page 31]Now rouze thy strength, my Ferdinand, and bear
This load of sorrow like a man. —
FERDINAND.
I do—
Thou see'st I do—I do not weep, my friend —
These eyes are dry — their very source is dry —
— I am her cruel husband to the last. —
HENRICO.
Oh! thou wert ever kind and tender to her.
FERDINAND.
Tender and kind! — look there! —there stands the black,
The horrid roll of guilt denounc'd against me.
Lo! the dread characters!—let me peruse
The whole sad record; of this bitter woe
Still deeper drink, and gorge me with affliction.
He reads.
FRIEND! WHOE'ER THOU ART, PITY MY WRONGS, BUT AGAINST MY HUSBAND, (FOR LOVE LIKE MINE CANNOT FORGET WHERE ONCE WITH DELIGHT IT FIXED) I CHARGE YOU NEVER MEDITATE R—
Revenge, she meant to say—the word's begun—
But death untimely stopt her hand—oh! misery!
She thought me false, and yet could love still—
[Page 32]The wound now pierces deeper — had she loath'd me,
Abhorr'd me, curs'd me, 'twere not half the torture
This angel-goodness causes — and to lose her!
To lose a mind like her's, that thus could pour
Such unexampled tenderness and love,
Amidst the keenest anguish — on the earth
Measure thy length, thou wretch accurst! — there lie,
For ever lie, and to these woods and wilds
Howl out thy griefs in madness and despair.
HENRICO.
I feel, I feel thy sorrows—oh! my friend,—
Cruel event! — your tears, alas! are just —
Then let them flow, and let me mingle mine—
Your gushing sorrows may assuage your grief,
This storm of rage attemp'ring into peace.
FERDINAND.
Who talks of peace? —let phrenzy seize my brain —
Come, moon-struck madness, with thy glaring eye,
And clanking chain; come, shoot thy kindling fires
Into my inmost soul; — blast ev'ry thinking pow'r;
Raze each idea out; — tear up at once
The seat of memory—no—leave me that —
Still leave me memory, to picture forth
[Page 33]Constantia's lovely form, that I may sit
With unclad sides, upon some blasted heath
And gloat upon her image; — see her still,
See her whole days with fancy's gushing eye,
And gaze on that alone —
HENRICO.
Arise, my friend,
And quit this fatal shore —
FERDINAND.
And quit this shore!
But whither turn? — ah! whither shall I go? —
Where shelter me from misery? — this isle
Shall be my journey's bound. —
HENRICO.
What can'st thou mean?
FERDINAND.
Never again to draw the vital air
But where my love expir'd—to feed my soul
With these sad objects, this sepulchral tale,
Ev'n to the height of yet unheard-of anguish:
To print my pious kisses on the rocks;
To bathe the ground, which her dear footsteps press'd,
With the incessant tears of burning anguish;
To make these wilds all vocal with her name,
Till this cold lifeless tongue shall move no more.
HENRICO.
By heav'n, you must not think—
FERDINAND.
[Page 34]
Farewell! — farewell! —
Consult thy happiness! — for ever here
By fate I'm doom'd to stay — alas! Con­stantia! —
To perish with thy infant here! — no friend
To close thy ghastly orbs! — thy pale remains
On the bare earth expos'd, without the tribute
Of a fond husband's tears o'er thy dead corse;—
Without the last sad obsequies — yet here,
I still will raise an empty sepulchre.
There shall no cold unconscious marble form
In mockery of imitated woe
Bend oe'r the fancy'd urn: myself will be
The sad, the pensive, monumental figure,
Distilling real anguish o'er the tomb;
Till wasting by degrees I moulder down,
And sink to silent durst. —
HENRICO.
What man could do,
Already youv'e perform'd —
FERDINAND.
Prithee, no more —
I will about it streight — this place affords
Materials for the work — Thither I'll bring
Whate'er can deck the scene—Constantia, yes;
I will appease thy discontented shade,
Then follow thee to yonder realms of bliss.
Exit.
HENRICO
[Page 35]
solus.
His vehemence of grief bears down his reason.
He must not linger here—his stay were fatal—
Force will be necessary—to our boat.
I'll hasten back and call some trusty friends
To drag him from this melancholy shore.
END of the Second ACT.

ACT III.

The same scene continues.
Enter SYLVIA.
THRO' the befriending gloom os arch­ing bow'rs,
Thro' walks, where never sun-beam pierc'd, at length
I've gain'd this deep-encircled vale—ah! me!
I feel strange tremors still—she is not here—
Mama! — where can she be? — her mournful task
Waits for her ling'ring hand — my dearest mother —
She answers not — what noise is that? — me­thought
I heard some steps advancing —'tis my fawn
That rustles thro' the forest glade — he stops
And looks, then runs, and stops again to take
A fearful gaze — he too perhaps has seen
These unknown beings—yonder lo! he stands
In mute expressive wonder— heav'n protect me!
—Thro' this close path, that gradual winding
[Page 37]Leads on to plains, to woods, and verdant lawns
Embosom'd in the rock, I'll journey up—
The day now glows intense, but by the rills,
That thro' embow'ring groves come purling down,
I oft can lay me, and enjoy each breeze
That plays amid those craggy scenes—a noise
From yonder interwoven branches — ha! —
Ye guardian angels, save me! —see, see there—
That thing again! —
Enter HENRICO.
HENRICO
What beauteous form in these forlorne abodes
Attracts my wond'ring eyes? —
SYLVIA.
Ye heav'nly pow'rs!
Retiring from him.
HENRICO.
It swims before my fight—whate'er thou art,
Virgin, or goddess—oh! a goddess sure! —
Thou goddess of these mansions! —for thy looks
Beam heav'nly radiance, with propitious ears
Accept my supplication —
SYLVIA.
Ha! — it speaks —
It speaks — what dost thou mean! —
HENRICO.
Oh! say what place,
What clime is this?—and what art thou that thus
Adorn'st this lonely mansion?—
SYLVIA.
[Page 38]
Will you first
Promise to come no nearer?
HENRICO.
With devotion
As true as ever pilgrim offer'd up
In holy fervor to his, saint, — I promise.
SYLVIA.
How gentle it's demeanor! — tell me now
What thing thou art?
HENRICO.
One born to misery; —
A man, whom fate —
SYLVIA.
A man! —art thou a man?
HENRICO.
I am. —
SYLVIA.
Oh! heav'ns! — a man! — protect me — save me —
Runs away,
HENRICO.
Nay, fly me not — a sudden impulse here
Bids me pursue — forgive, thou unknown fair,
That with soft violence I thus presume
To force thee measure back thy steps again.
He brings her back.
SYLVIA.
Force me not thus, inhuman, barb'rous man—
What have I said—Oh! worthy gen'rous man,
[Page 39]Thus on my knees I beg, — have mercy on me —
— I never did you harm — indeed I did not. —
HENRICO.
Arise,
[raises her]
thou lovely tenant of these woods,
And let me thus, — thus as befits the man
Whose mind runs o'er with rapture and surprize,
Whose heart throbs wild with mingled doubt and joy,
Thus let me worship this celestal form,
This heav'nly brightness, to my wond'ring eyes
That sheds such influence, as when an angel
Breaks thro' a flood of glory to the sight,
Of some expiring saint, and cheers his soul
With visions of disclosing heav'n.
SYLVIA.
He kneels! —
He kneels to me! — how mild his very look —
How soft each word! — are you indeed a man? —
HENRICO.
I am, sweet saint—and one whose heart is prone
To melt at each idea beauty prints
On his delighted sense; and sure such beauty,
Touch'd by the hand of harmony, adorn'd
With inexpresive graces, well may claim
My lowliest adoration and my love.
SYLVIA.
This language all is new; — but still it has
I know not what of charming in't, that gains
[Page 40]Upon die list'ning ear, — If this be falshood; —
Then falshood can assume a pleasing look.
HENRICO
Why those averted eyes?
SYLVIA.
What would you have?
HENRICO.
Oh! if thou art as gracious, as thou'rt fair,
Say have you seen Constantia? when and where,
And how did she expire? —
SYLVIA.
Constantia lives—
Why didst thou say expire? —my mother lives,
Lives in these blest abodes —
HENRICO.
Ah! gentle Sylvia, —
So I will call thee, — daughter of Constantia,
Oh! fly and find her out — mean time I'll seek
Th'afflicted Ferdinand. —
SYLVIA.
What dost thou say? —
Can he, can Ferdinand be here? — that false,
Perfidious, barb'rous man, — can he be here?
HENRICO.
He is, my fair; nor barbarous nor false.
Fortune that made him wretched, could no more.
[Page 41]Anon you'll know the whole; to waste a mo­ment
In conf'rence now, and longer to suspend
The meeting of this pair, who now in agony
Bemoan their lot, were barbarous indeed.
SYLVIA.
But may I trust him? won't he do her harm?
HENRICO.
He won't, my beauteous fair.—
SYLVIA.
Is he like you?—
HENRICO.
His goodness far transcends me—
SYLVIA.
Then I think
I'll venture to comply—let's go together.—
HENRICO.
Oh! I could tend thy steps for ever; hear
Soft accents warbling from thy vermeil lip,
Watch thy mild-glancing eye; behold how grace,
Whate'er you do, which ever way you bend,
Guides each harmonious movement; but this hour
Is friendship's due; then let us instant fly
Thro' diff'rent paths—thou to seek out Con­stantia,
And I to find her husband—haply so
[Page 42]Their meeting will be speedier—farewell!
I'll bring him to this very spot—adieu!
For a short interval adieu, my love!
SYLVIA.
Farewell!—another word—pray what's your name?
HENRICO.
Fair excellence, Henrico I am call'd.
SYLVIA.
Pray do not tarry long, Henrico—
HENRICO.
Why
That pleasing charge, my sweet?
SYLVIA.
I cannot tell;
But as you're leaving me, each step you move,
My spirits sink, a melancholy gloom
Darkens the scene around, and I methinks
Helpless in solitude am left again
To wander all alone a dreary way.
HENRICO.
Oh! I will come again, thou angel sweetness!
Yes, I will come, and at that lovely shrine
Pour out my adoration and my vows.
Yes, I will come, to part from thee no more;
A moment now farewell!—
Exit.
SYLVIA alone.
[Page 43]
Farewell!—be sure you keep your word—He's gone,
And yet is with me still—absent I hear
And see him in his absence—still his looks
Beam with mild dignity, and still his voice
Sounds in my ear delightful—what it means,
This new-born sense, this wonderful emotion,
Unfelt till now, and mix'd of pain and joy,
I cannot guess—how my heart flutters in me!
I'll not perplex myself with vain conjecture;
Whate'er the cause, th'effect, I feel, is pleasing.
Constantia is heard singing within the scenes.
Oh! heav'ns! what noise!—it is my mother's Voice
Again she pours her melancholy forth,
As sweetly plaintive as when sad Philomel,
Beneath some poplar shade, bemoans her young,
And sitting pensive on the lonely bough,
Her eye with sorrow dimm'd, she tunes her dirge,
Warbling the night away, while all around
The vocal woodland, and each hill and dale
Ring with her griefs harmonious—hark!—that way
It sounds—all gracious powr's direct me to her.
Exit.
A short song is heard within the scenes, then enter CONSTANTIA.
CONSTANTIA.
From walk to walk, from glade to glade, o'er all
The sea-girt isle, o'er ev'ry mountain's top,
[Page 44]I roam from place to place; but oh; no place
Affords relief to me—the sun now leads
The sultry hours, and from his burning ray
Each living thing retires; yet I endure
His fiercest rage. The fever in my mind
Heeds not external circumstance, and time
Witholds his medicinal aid—the trees,
And rocks themselves his pow'rful influence own;
—All but my grief—that, each succeeding day
Sees in my heart fresh bleeding as at first.
Delay not thus, ye cruel fates, but come
And wrap me in eternal rest.—Till then
Let me pursue my melancholy task.
Works at the inscription.
Enter FERDINAND.
FERDINAND.
Away with their ill-tim'd, officious care.
I'll none of it—'tis cruelty, not friendship—
'Tis misery protracted, 'tis with art,
Inhuman art, to lengthen out the life
Of him who groans in torment—no—they never shall
Compel me back to a base world again!——
I've liv'd enough—my course is ended here—
For here Constantia lies—ye heav'nly pow'rs!
What means upon yon consecrated ground
That visionary form, with lifted arm
And gleaming steel, that seems in act to carve
The ragged stone?—
CONSTANTIA.
[Page 45]
What is't I hear!—a voice!
A groan!—from whence—ha!
Seeing Ferdinand,
FERDINAND.
Tis, it is her ghost,
Her discontented sade that hovers still
About this place.
CONSTANTIA.
Avaunt, thou air-drawn shape
Of that perfidious—ah!
She faints away.
FERDINAND.
Leave me not thus—
Oh! ever gracious, ever gentle, say—
'Tis gone—in sullen silence gone!
Enter HENRICO.
HENRICO.
Quick let me find him, to' his raptur'd ear
Laying hold of Ferdinand.
Give the delightful tidings—ha!
FERDINAND.
And thus
I sink at once and follow my belov'd,
Falls into Henrico's arms.
HENRICO.
He faints—He faints—the chilling dews of death
[Page 46]Distil thro' ev'ry pore—my Ferdinand,
Awake, arise, and hear the joyful sounds
Of happiness restor'd—His eyes unfold
To seek fair day light, and now close again
As if they sicken'd at the view—
FERDINAND,
Forbear, And let me die!—
HENRICO.
Constantia lives—she lives
Once more to fold thee in her warm embrace.
FERDINAND.
I saw her fleeting ghost—sullen and pale
It vanish'd from my sight—
CONSTANTIA.
Haunt me not thus
Thou cruel tyrant form!—
Coming to herself.
HENRICO.
Whence is that voice?
Oh heav'ns—Constantia there!—she too entranc'd
Lies stretch'd upon the ground—
FERDINAND.
Where is Constantia?
Oh! let me fly to her embrace—'tis she—
[Page 47]It is my wife!—it is Constantia!—still,
—Oh! ecstasy of bliss?—she still survives—
CONSTANTIA.
'Tis mere illusion all;—the false creation Of some deceitful dream—
FERDINAND.
'Tis real all—
Again I fold her thus—the known embrace
Hath thrill'd it's wonted transport to my heart.
My life, my soul, thy Ferdinand is come,
CONSTANTIA.
And com'st thou then, inhuman as thou art,
Com'st thou again to wreak thy falshood on me?
FERDINAND.
By heaven I ne'er was false—dash not my joys
With thy unkind suspicion of my love,
While thus transported far above the lot
Of human bliss, I press my lips to thine,
Inhaling balmy sweets, and all my soul
Runs o'er with joy, with wonder, and delight.
CONSTANTIA.
Did'st thou not meanly leave me here a prey?
FERDINAND.
And can Constantia deem me then so base?
Can she believe me such a vile betrayer?
—Can'st thou?—
CONSTANTIA.
On this unhospitable shore
Left as I was—
FERDINAND
[Page 48]
Oh! misery!—thou we'rt
While I was dragg'd by an insidious band
Of pyrates, savage blood-hounds! into bondage
But witness heav'n!—witness ye midnight hours
That heard my ceaseless groans, how her dear image
Grew to my very heart!
CONSTANTIA.
And hast thou then
Been doom'd to slavery?
FERDINAND.
I have.
CONSTANTIA.
And groan'd
This long, long time beneath oppression's hand?
FERDINAND
E'er since these eyes have gaz'd delighted on thee,
The bitter draught of misery was mine.
CONSTANTIA.
And wert thou true indeed?
FERDINAND.
By heav'n I was.
CONSTANTIA.
And have I then accus'd thee?—have I pour'd
A thousand strong complaints against thee?—called
[Page 49]High judging heav'n to witness to my wrongs,
Told all these wilds, these rocks, these wood­crown'd hills
Of injur'd truth and violated love?
Falsely I talk'd, unjustly I complain'd
Of injur'd truth and violated love.
My Ferdinand was true—again 'tis giv'n
With his lov'd form to glad these eyes, to rush
With eager transport to his fond embrace,
To cling around his neck, and growing to him
Pour the warm tears of rapture and of love.
They embrace.
Enter SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
I heard my mother's voice—what do I see?
In a man's arms!—embracing and embrac'd!
FERDINAND.
Is that my Sylvia?—oh! it must be so—
My child, my child survives!—survives to take
A raptur'd father's blessing, and o'erpay
His suff'rings past by his excess of joy,
This interview of mingled tears and kisses.
Embraces her,
SYLVIA.
How gentle his deportment too!—I feel
A soft attraction bind my soul to his.
—Mama, are these the men, whom you describ'd
Inexorable, cruel, sell deceivers?—
CONSTANTIA.
[Page 50]
I was deceiv'd myself, my child; for truth,
Honour, and love, and constancy are theirs,
I now have proof of unexampled goodness.
SYLVIA.
Indeed I strongly thought you wrong'd 'em much,
When first Henrico met my wond'ring eyes.
FERDINAND.
Henrico is my friend, my best, Constantia,
And thou hereafter shalt know all his virtues.
SYLVIA.
And shall I know him too?—
HENRICO.
Thou shalt;—and I
Will live thy slave, if thou wilt deign to love me,
SYLVIA.
Love you!—I know not what you mean by love;
But if with pleasure to behold thee; if
To hang upon thy words; to mourn thy absence;
With joy to meet again, and feel my heart
Form new desires, and wish it knows not what
If that be love—I do already love you.—
I love you better than my fawn.
HENRICO.
How sweet
The voice of innocence—oh! thou shalt be,—
[Page 51]—My friend will smile consent,—yes, thou fair nymph,
Shalt be my bride—
SYLVIA.
Your bride!—what's that?
HENRICO.
My wife.—
SYLVIA.
No, sir, not that.—I crave your pardon there—
—I beg to be excus'd—I do not chuse
To be left helpless on a desert island.
CONSTANTIA.
Thy father did not leave me, Sylvia;—no;—
He could not prove deliberately false.
His heart was unsusceptible of fraud.—
—Anon you'll know it all.—
HENRICO.
Mean time, my fair,
Banish thy fears; and let me with this kiss
On the white softness of this lovely hand,
For ever dedicate my heart.
SYLVIA.
Oh! heav'ns!
What must I do, Mama?—
CONSTANTIA.
Requite his love
With fair return of thine,—
SYLVIA.
[Page 52]
Must I do so!
The task appears not undelightful—yes;
To thee I can resign myself—but tell me;
Wilt thou ne'er leave me? wilt thou ever here
Fix thy abode?
HENRICO.
No;—we'll convey thee hence,
To the soft insluence of a milder clime:
There, like a flow'r transplanted, thou shalt flourish,
And ne'er regret this warmer, southern sky,
But thrive and ripen, to the wond'ring world,
Unfolding all thy sweets to higher bloom
SYLVIA.
What place is that?—and whither will ye bear me?
FERDINAND.
To thy dear native soil—to England, love.—
SYLVIA.
To England!
HENRICO.
Yes! the land of beauteous dames;
'Mongst whom thy matchless excellence shall shine
With undiminish'd radiance, and exert
It's gentle pow'r, by innocence endear'd,
By virtue heighten'd, and by modest truth
[Page 53]Attemper'd to such sweetness, that each fair
With unrepining heart, and glad consent
Shall own thy rival claim; and ev'ry youth
Touch'd by the graces of thy native beauty,
Shall join to make thy form the public care.
SYLVIA.
I cannot quit this island;—cannot leave
These woods, these lawns, these hills and deep­ning vales,
These streams oft-visited, each well known haunt
Where hand in hand with innocence I've stray'd,
And tasted joys serene as in the air,
That pants upon yon trembling leaves.—
FERDINAND.
Such joys
For thee shall blossom in thy native land,
And new delights arise. There cultur'd fields
Wave with the golden harvest; commerce pours
Each delicacy forth; there stately domes
Attract the wond'ring eye; there cities swarm
With busy throngs intense, and smiles around
A scene of active, cheerful, social life.
Thither I'll lead thee, sweet—
SYLVIA.
And yet my heart
Misgives me much:—does not contention there,
And civil discord render life a scene
Of care, and toil, and struggle? — does not war
From foreign nations oft invade the land,
With all his train of misery and death?
FERDINAND.
[Page 54]
Thy lovely fears are groundless — ours the land
Where inward peace diffuses smiles around,
And scatters wide her blessings — there a king,—
(My friend comes later thence, and tells me all)
There reigns a happy venerable king
Dispensing justice and maintaining laws
That bind alike his people and himself.
From that scource liberty and ev'ry claim
A free-born people boast, flow equal on
And harmonize the state; while in the eve
And calm decline of life our monarch sees
A royal grandson still to higher lustre
Each day expanding; emulous to trace
His grandsire's steps, to copy out his actions;
And bid the ray of freedom onward stretch
To ages yet unborn.
SYLVIA.
And do the people
Know their own happiness?
FERDINAND
They do, my sweet:
Pleas'd they behold their native rights secur'd;
Their commerce guarded, and the useful arts,
That raise, that soften, and embellish life,
All to perfection rising. With a sense
[Page 55]Of their own blessing touch'd, with one consent
They pour their treasures, and exhaust their blood
In their king's righteous cause; and Albion thus
Raises her envied head; thus ev'ry threat
Of foreign force, each menace of invasion
From a vain, vanquish'd, disappointed foe,
Like broken billows on her craggy cliffs,
Shall murmur at her feet in vain.—
SYLVIA.
Methinks
I long to see this place—
FERDINAND.
My Sylvia, yes,
Thou shalt return—propitious gales invite—
Come then, Constantia—oh! what mix'd emo­tions
Heave in this bosom at the sight of thee?—
CONSTANTIA.
I too run o'er with ecstacy of joy,
And tears must speak my happiness—I long
To utter all my fond, fond thoughts;—to tell
The story of my woes, and hear of thine;
While at each word our hearts shall melt within us,
And thrill with gries, with tenderness, and love.
FERDINAND.
The tale shall serve us in our future hours
Of tender intercourse, to sweeten pain,
[Page 56]To calm adversity, and teach our souls
To bend in love, in gratitude, and praise
To the All-good on high, who thus befriends
The cause of innocence; who thus rewards
Our suffering constancy; whose hand, tho' slow,
Thus leads to rapture thro' a train of woe.
FINIS.

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