The desert island: a dramatic poem, in three acts. As it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.

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 unfinish∣ed 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,

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 —

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.

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 de∣lights 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,

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

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 foun∣tains 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

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.

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;

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,

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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 —

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,

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 toil∣ing 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,

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,

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,—

—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' ex∣treme— 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

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 Fer∣dinand.

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.

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—

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

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,

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 — fare∣well! —

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.

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 fea∣ture — 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

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.

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

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.

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—

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

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.

Farewell! — farewell! — Consult thy happiness! — for ever here By fate I'm doom'd to stay — alas! Con∣stantia! — 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

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 arch∣ing 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? — me∣thought 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

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.

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,

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

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.

Anon you'll know the whole; to waste a mo∣ment 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 Con∣stantia, And I to find her husband—haply so

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.

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,

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.

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

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—

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

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

High judging heav'n to witness to my wrongs, Told all these wilds, these rocks, these wood∣crown'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.

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,—

—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.

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

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 deep∣ning 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.

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

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 emo∣tions 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,

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.