Note 1.
"And how its long and rocky chainWas parted suddenly in twain,Where through a chasm, wide and deep,Potomac's rapid waters sweep,While rocks that press the mountain's browNod O'er his waves far, far below."
"The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea.
"The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base.
"The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finishing which nature has given to this picture, is of a very different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as Placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous.
"For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm below."—Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.
Note 2.
"Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will."
That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, the names they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) sufficiently evidence. Some call it the "Muckawis," others the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the voice of a sigh," and "the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its native glens at twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song, will know how beautifully appropriate these names are.
Note 3.
"They, the foul slaves' of lust and gold,Say that our blood and hearts are cold."
It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous fortitude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense suffering, is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain, resulting, they allege, from a defective nervous organization. From the absence of a display of gallantry and tenderness between the sexes, they argue also, in them, the nonexistence of love, and its kindred passions. This we think unjust, as it robs them of the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, and whose sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History of America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: "The amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But the constitution of the Americans is not so different in its texture, from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour, instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and polished. This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider as the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of a warrior. The ideas which influence his conduct, and the passions which take possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course with more decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a multiplicity of objects, or distracted by the variety of its pursuits; and when every motive that acts with any force in forming the sentiments of a savage, prompts him to suffer with dignity, he will bear what might seem impossible for human patience to sustain. But whenever the fortitude of the Americans is not roused to exertion by their ideas of honour, their feelings of pain are the same with those of the rest of mankind."
Note 4.
"Bathed in the poisonous manchenille."
The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the Manchenille, causes certain and speedy death. "If they only pierce the skin, the blood fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest animal falls motionless to the ground."—Robertson's America.
S. L. Sawtelle.
Dear Sir:
To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in perplexity, and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression of my deep and lasting gratitude, to inscribe the "Misanthrope."
With sentiments of the highest respect,
Your obt. servt.,
George W. Sands.
Frederick City, September 1849.
Dramatis Personae.Werner—Misanthrope.Manuel—a cottager.Albert—his son.Rebecca—wife to Manuel.Rose—his daughter.Spirits.An aerial chorus.
A fountain near the summit of a mountain, from which, through adeep glen, a stream descends to the valley below. A city seen inthe distance. Time, midnight. Werner standing near the fountain.Werner (solus).Eternal rocks and hills!Mighty and vast; and you, ye giant oaks,Whose massy branches have for centuriesPlayed with the breeze and battled with the storm,He, who so oft has trod your rugged paths,And laid him down beneath your shades to rest,Returns to be your dweller once again.I sooner far would make your wilds my home,With nought but your rude eaves to shield me fromThe winter's cold or summer's heat, than beOne of the hundred thousand human fliesThat swarm within yon filthy city's walls.Here, I at least may live in solitude,Free from a forced communion with a race,Whose presence makes me feel that I am bound,By nature, to the thing I loathe the most,Earth's stateliest, proudest, meanest reptile, man!The beauty of a god adorns his form,The foulness of a fiend is in his heart;The viper's, or the scorpion's filthy nestNurses a far less deadly, poisonous broodThan are the hellish lusts, the avarice,—The pride—the hate—the double-faced deceits—That make his breast their dwelling.If he be not beneath hell's wish to damn,Too lost for even fiends to meddle with,How must they laugh to hear him, in his pride,Baptize his vices, virtues; making useOf holy names to designate his crimes;Giving his lust the sacred name of love;Calling his avarice a goodly sin,Care for his household; naming his deceitPraiseworthy caution; boasting of his hate,When he no more can cloak it, as a proofOf strength of mind and honesty of heart.For all of goodness that remains on earth,The name of virtue might be banished from it.Fathers, who waste in shameful riotingsThe bread for which their children cry at home;Mothers, who put aside th' unconscious babeThat they may wrong its father; children, whoGrow old in crime ere they have spent their youth;These are its habitants.I cannot brook the thought, that I belongTo their vile race. My sufferings have been great,And keen enough to prove my immortality;For dust could not have borne what I have suffered.My mind has pierced far, far beyond the lengthOf mortal vision, and discovered thingsOf which men scarcely dream, and paid in pain,The price of what it learned and bought with pangsBy which a thousand ages were compressedInto one hour of agony: a powerWhich is a terror to possess, and yetThis one thought only irks me.Methinks the peaceful earth will scarcely giveMy dust a resting-place within its bosom,But cast it forth as if too vile, to mingleWith clay that ne'er has been the slave of sin.What! other watchers here at this lone hour?[An evil spirit enters, singing.The world is half hidden,By midnight's dark shadow;The filly, witch-ridden,Skims over the meadow;The house-dog is barking,The night-owl is hooting,The glow-worm is sparkling,The meteor is shooting;And forms, which lieSo stiff and still,In their shrouds so chill,Through the live-long day,Now burst their clay,And flit through the sky,On their dusky pinions:Hell's dominionsKeep holiday.Sisters, sisters, wherever your watchesAre kept, fleet hither to me,Fleet hither, fleet hither, and leave earth's wretchesAlone to their misery.[A chorus of evil spirits answer as they enter from differentparts of the mountain.We come!Vice needs no assistance,She meets no resistance,Virtue's existenceIs only in name;Drinking and eating,Intriguing and cheating,Carousing, completingTheir ruin and shame;Old age unrepenting,Manhood unrelenting,Youth sighing and winning,Deceiving and sinning,Deserting, repining,All men are the same.Ho! ho!Earth quakes with the weight of the anguish she bears,Her plains and her valleys are deluged with tears,And her sighs, if united, were deeper by far,Than the thunderbolt's peal, when the clouds are at war.There is, not a bosom, that bears not withinIts chambers, the blot and the burden of sin;Not a mind, but in many an hour bath feltThe curse of its nature, the pangs of its guilt.These earth-worms! whose sire would have had us to bowTo his dust-moulded Godship! what—what are they now?In the scale of true goodness, they sink far belowThe poor, patient ox, that they yoke to the plough.Let them revel awhile, in the false glaring lightOf deception, that blindness but seems to make bright;Let them gather awhile of time's perishing flowers;The revenge of eternity! This shall be ours!Ho! ho![They settle near the fountain. The first Spirit addresses them.The night is advancing,Come, let us, dancingIn dewy circles deftly tread;And while we dance round,New schemes shall be found,To ruin the living, and trouble the dead.[They form a circle on the margin of the stream, and dance roundsinging.I.Life is but a fleeting day,Half of which man dreams away;Night! we follow in thy train—Sleep! supreme o'er thee we reign;Ours the dreams that come when thouSit'st upon the unconscious brow;Reason then deserts her throne,We then reign, and we alone.II.Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow,Far beyond the Atlantic's billow,Love's apple, and when we have found it,Draw the magic circle round it;(1)Fearless pluck it, then no charmThat it bears may do us harm;Place it near the sleeper's head,It will bring love's visions nigh,And when the pleasing, dreams are fled,The waking, pensive maid will sigh,Till her bosom has possessed,The form that made her dreams so blest.And when a maiden finds a lover,Her happy days are nearly over:Nature hath unchaste desires,Love awakes her slumbering fires,And the bosom that is true inLove is ever near its ruin;Passion's pleading melts the frostOf chilliest hearts, and all is lost:For, once vice blots a maiden's name,She soon forgets her maiden shame.III.Haunt the debauchee with dreams,Of the victim of his schemes;Paint her with dishevelled hair,Streaming eyes, and bosom bare,And with aspect pale and sad,As a spectre's from the dead,Weeping o'er her new-born, child,Her name reproached, her fame despoiled:Let her groanings reach his ear,Pierce his heart, and rouse his fearOf the retribution given,To such deeds as his, by Heaven.IV.Around the drunkard's tattered couch,Let pale-faced want and misery crouch,His children shivering o'er the hearth,Cheered by no sound of social mirth,Upbraiding, with their timid glances,The author of their sad mischances;And she to whom the holy vowOf the altar bound him, nowWith sunken eye, and beauty faded,Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded,Clinging to him fondly still,With a love that mocks each ill,Which would vainly strive to tearHer soul from one who once was dear.Now haste we, each our task to do,Ere the starry hours wane through![They fly off, singing as they disappear.Ere the Morning's rosy wing,Has brushed the damp night-shades away,Ere the birds their matins sing,Choiring to the new-born day,Though its bright birth-hour be near,Many a sigh, and many a tear,Shall attest the mystic might,Of those who walk the world by night.Werner (solus).The ruin of the living! if that beYour only task, you have a poor employ.Give man his three score years, and he will makeA wreck, the skill of hell might show forth asA sample of its handiwork, and then,Exult at the completeness of its ruin.The troubling of the dead!—if memory livesIn that far world, to which the spirit hastens,When she casts off the clay that clogs her wings,E'en there ye are forestalled, for man will needNo curse, to make his second life a hell,If be retains the memory of his first.Had the clear waters of this gurgling brook,The pow'r to wash time's blots from th' mind's page,And all earth's mountains were compact of gold,Her rivers nectar, and her oceans wine,Her hills all fruitful, and her valleys fresh,And full of loveliness as Eden was,Ere sin's sad blight fell on its living bow'rs,And all were mine, I'd give them but to layMy weary limbs along this streamlet's bed,And sleep in full forgetfulness awhile.But, I forget my task—now let me to it![He takes a vial from his bosom, and flings its contents into theair, chanting,SpiritWherever be thy home,In earth or air,My message hear,And fear it.By the power which I have earned,To which thy knee has knelt,By the spell which I have learned,A spell which thou, hast felt,I bid thee hither come![A white cloud appears in the distance, floating up the glen, anda voice is heard, singing as it approaches,I.I saw from port a vessel steer,The skies were clear, the winds were fair,More swiftly than the hunted deer,Upon her snowy wings of air,She flew along the silv'ry water,As fearlessly as if some sprite,Familiar with the deep, had taught her,A spell by which to rule the mightOf winds and waves, when met to tryTheir strength, up midway in the sky.II.Along her trackless watery way,With unabated speed she flew,Still gay and careless, till the dayWaned past: night came: the heavens grewBlack, dread and threat'ning. Then the stormCame forth in its devouring wrath;Before it fled Fear's pallid form;Destruction followed in its path;It passed: the morning came: in vain,I look for that lost bark again.III.Far down beneath the deep blue waves,Within some merman's coral hall,Her fated crew have found their graves;Above them, for their burial pall,The mermaids spread their flowing tresses;The waters chant their requiem;From many an eyelid, Pity pressesHer tender, dewy tears for them:The natives of the ocean weep,To view them sleeping death's pale sleep.IV.Thou, mortal, wast the bark I saw;The waters, were the sea of life;And thou, alas! too well dost know,What storms were imaged in the strifeOf winds and waves. The hopes of youth,Thou, in that bark's lost crew, may'st see,—All buried now within that smooth,Vast, boundless deep,—eternity:—And I, a spirit though I be,Can pity still, and weep for thee.[The cloud settles near the fountain, and, unclosing, discoversa beautiful form looking steadily at Werner.WERNER (addressing it).How beautiful!If intercourse between all living worlds,Had not been barr'd by Him who gave them life,I should believe thou wert the guardian spirit,Of that which men have named the Queen of Night.Like her, thou art majestic, pale and sad,And of a tender beauty: those bright curlsThat press thy brow, and cling about thy neck,Seem made of sunbeams, caught upon their wayTo earth, by some creative hand, and wovenInto a fairy web, of light and life,Conscious of its high source, and proud to beA part of aught so beautiful as thou.I have seen many full, bright mortal eyes,That were a labyrinth of witching charms,In which the heart of him who looked was lost;But none like thine; their light is not of earth;Their loveliness not like what man calls lovely.Beside the smoothness of thy brow and cheek,The lily's lip were rough; each of thy limbs,Is, in itself, a being and a beauty.If that the orb thou didst inhabit, ereThou wert a portion of eternity,Was worthy of such dwellers, oh! how fairAnd glorious, must have been its fields and bow'rs!How clear its streams! how pure and fresh its airs!How mellow were its fruits! how bright its flow'rs!How strong and brave the beings, fit to shareIt with thee! 'Tis most strange that He, whose handFashions such wondrous things, should take delightIn striking them to nothingness again!Perchance the author of all evil hadInvaded it, and made it quite unfitTo be a part of God's great universe.And yet thou lookest as if thou wert beyondThe power of temptation to assail.Hast thou too sinned?Spirit.I have lived as thou livest, died as thouWilt have to die, and am what thou shalt be.WernerI have not questioned thee of life or death,Nor of the state which shall succeed them both;I care not for the first, nor fear the second;The last I leave to Him who gave to manEternity for his inheritance.But I would know if the unceasing war,Which good and evil wage upon the earth,Has reached beyond, its confines.Spirit.Have I not answered thee?The Begetter of worlds, stars, suns, and systems!The Father of Creation! the BridegroomOf the Spirit! hath He not written thatDeath has dominion only over sin?And thou would'st know if other worlds have feltThe curse that fell upon, and blighted thine.Poor simple child of clay! no doubt thou know'stThe story of the Eden of thy sire,And think'st that there, in its fresh, stainless breast,The baleful seeds of evil first were sown,Which since have spread so fearfully abroad,—When the sad doom, that came on him and his,Was but the spray, cast from the wave of fate,Which just then reached thy newly finished orb.Where it first started—whither tends its course—Where it shall stop—how many wrecks of worlds—Once fairer far than thine was at its birth—Shall strew its desolate way,—is not for thingsBrought forth from dust to know.What wouldst thou of me?Werner.The sole remaining good, if good it be,That yet is mine to share. I have tried allThat earthly hope holds out to satisfyThe longings of man's nature. I have loved,And made an idol of the thing I loved,And worshipped it with all my soul's intensity;And, for awhile, the frenzy of my dreamShut out all other thoughts. But it was short;Death plucked my lovely flower from my grasp,And then, the icy chill of desolationCame, like a snowy avalanche, uponMy heart, and froze the fountains of its feeling.I was ambitious. I have striven for,And worn, the gaudiest wreath of fame, and whenI would have placed it on my brow, it grewA mountain in its weight. I courted muchThe notice of the world, and when men praised,The very breath that bore their praise to me,Seemed clogged with pestilence.Wealth, too, I coveted,And heaped its shining dust in hoards around me,And yet it was but dust, as barren ofEnjoyment as the ground we tread upon.I clad myself in purple—heaped my boardWith all the fairest, sweetest fruits of earth,And filled my golden goblets with bright juice,Pressed from the goodliest grapes, and made my couchOf down, and yet, I was most wretched still.My garments were but cumbersome; my couchCould give no rest, and e'en my generous winesCould not remove the crushing weight that sat,Nightmare-like, on my heart, until it grewA palpable and keenly aching pang.There is, one path which yet remains untrod;To be my guide in it, I called thee hither,—'Tis that of knowledge.Spirit.The sameIn which the mother of thy race was lost,With e'en a wiser, mightier guide than I.She thirsted, too, for knowledge, and she gaveHer innocence—her home in Paradise—The happiness of him—who shared her lot—To know—what? That her own rebellious handHad raised the flood-gates of a sea of crime,Which would for ever pour its bitter wavesUpon the helpless unprotected race,Which her rash deed had ruined.Think of the sighs—the groans—the floods of tears—The woes—too deep for these—which have no end,Save but in heart-breaks! Think upon the toil—The sweat—the pain—the strife—the crime—the blood—The myriads of souls with which this oneSad lesson was obtained! whose price is yetNot fully paid, nor shall be so, untilThe last poor son of earth mingles with dust!Dost thou not fear to tread a path like this?Werner.I have no fear;It is so long since I have felt its thrillThat 'twere a pleasure now to feel it.Spirit.What wouldst thou know?Thou art familiar with all earthly lore.More: Thou hast gained, and wield'st a power, to whichThe rulers of the elements do bow;The hurricane, at thy command goes forth,Walking where'er thou bid'st it, and the stormCeases to howl when thou hast said,—"Be still!"Thine anger stirs the ocean, and thy wrathFinds out the deep foundations of the mountains,And shakes them with its strength; the subtle fire,That lights the tempest on its gloomy way,Starts from its cloud-rocked slumber, at thy call,To be thy messenger.Canst thou not be content when thou art fearedBy those who rule a world? What is there yetWhich thy insatiate mind desires to know?Would'st learn immortal mysteries? ReflectThou art but mortal.Werner.Spirit, why dost thouTaunt me with my mortality? "Weak things,Brought forth from earth,"—"Poor simple child of clay,"—These are thy words, when well thou knows't that I,Though bound to earth by bonds made of its mire,Am mightier than thou. Were it not so,Thou would'st not now be face to face with oneOf mortal birth. Thou, too, canst feel revenge,And knowest how to wreak it; but, take heed,—The power which brought thee hither, can, and mayDeal harshly with thee. If thou knowest aughtWorthy of an immortal mind to know,To which I have not pierced, reveal thy knowledge.Spirit.We may not tell the secrets of eternity;But I can show thee things thou hast not seen,And they may profit thee, although 'twill shakeEven thy proud heart to look upon them.Would'st see them?Werner.It is my wish.Spirit.Come then.Werner.Lead on;Although thy path be through hell's gloomy gate,I too will pass its portals at thy back.Thou canst not enter where I dare not pass.[The cloud closes around them, and moves away, and a voice singsas it disappears.To the region of shadow,The region of death,Where dust is a stranger,And life has no breath;Where darkness and silenceTheir dim shrouds have castRound the phantoms of worldsThat belong to the past;Spirits who sit onThe thrones of the air,Guide ye our chariot,Waft ye us there.[Exeunt.
The verge of Creation. Enter Werner and Spirit.Werner.We have outtravelled light and sound:The harmonies that pealed around us, asThrough yon array of dim and distant worldsWe winged our flight, have wholly died away,Or come to us so faintly echoed, thatOur ears must watch and wait to catch them.Those stars are now like watch-fires, which though seenBlazing afar, send not their light to makeThe path of the benighted wandererMore plain and cheerful.Before us stretches one vast field of gloom,So dense as to appear impenetrable:—Darkness, that has a body and a form,Both palpable to touch and sight, acrossOur path a barrier rears that seems to barOur farther progress. If there be, beyondThis wall of blackness, aught of mystery,What power shall guide us to it?Spirit.Thy mindWhich, from the influence of matter, freeAs it is now and shall be till againThough art returned unto thy native orb,Is its own master, and its will is nowIts only needed guide.Strange things are hidden by that ebon veil,To which a single wish of thine may bear us.Werner.Then let us on:Since we our search for knowledge have begun,Wherever there is aught that Power has made,Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned,There let us go, that we may look on it,And learn its history. What intense gloomsWe now are passing through! I feel them partBefore, and close behind us, as we fly,As plainly as the swimmer feels the wavesThat lave his gliding limbs. This sure must beThe home of Death—no voice, no sound, no sigh,Not ev'n so much of breath as would sufficeTo make a lily tremble!Spirt.Though say'st true,This is indeed the realm of Death,—at leastIt has no more of life than what though hastBrought here with thee,—I speak of mortal life:We now are near the Hades of past worlds,Whose spirits have a life which cannot die.You laugh! and show the haughty arroganceWhich in your mortal brethren you cotemn.Think you that he who gave to man his mind,The undying spark that quickens his clay frame,Would fashion from the same materialSuch mighty wonders as the spheres which goHymning around his everlasting throne!Giving to them a beauty which aloneCould be conceived by him, which has great handAlone could mould into reality,And yet deny them what he gave to thee,Intelligence! a thing that knows not death?Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves,Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides,Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub,With a fair foliage? hast though not beheldHer weaving, in the sunny springtide hours,A fairy web of emerald-bladed grassTo robe her valleys in? With every flow'rOf graceful form, and soft and downy leaf,And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns,To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came,With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits,Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow,And shake her yellow locks from every hill?Hast though not heard her holy songs of peaceAnd plenty warbled from each vocal grove,And murmured by her myriads of streams?Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds,Which moan the requiem of the dying year,Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap aboutHer breast a mantle, wherewith to protectAnd nurse the seed, the trusting husbandmanHath given to her keeping? Are thine actsAs full of wisdom, and as free from blame?If not, then why deny to her the lifeAnd spirit you possess?Werner.I did not laughIn disbelief of what thy words declare,But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind,That, as I will not weep, I can but smile.Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,—A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like thatWhich, when the storm has chosen midnight's hourOf stilly gloom, to hold its revel in,First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent,And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us.The light increases still, and in the distance,Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes,Since seemingly immovable, and othersLike mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, movedBy magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean,In calm, majestic silence float along!Spirit.Let us go nearer,Now what seest though?Werner.Worlds like to that I live on, save that theseSeem made of living shades instead of dust;Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks,And fountains, gushing from their very summits;Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens,And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,—With precipices from whose edges softAnd silvery cataracts are leaping down;Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides,And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleepIn the embrace of the surrounding hills;The cottage of the hardy hunter, perchedHigh on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest:The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold,And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vinesBending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;—Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams,And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand;Majestic rivers, with their verdant banksStudded with towns, and rural villages;Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave,And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart!And mighty cities, standing on their coasts,With vasty walls and gilded palaces,And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seemThe guardians of all they overlook.Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appearLike watchers of the dead whose names they bear!All these are there, but not a sign of life,No living thing that creeps along the ground,Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen.It seems as if on all things some strong spellHad in the twinkling of a star came downAnd rocked them to an everlasting sleep!Spirit! tell me if what I see is moreThan a delusion; if it be, whence cameThese shades?Spirit.And have I not already saidThat these things are, that they are quick with life,—Such life as disembodied spirits have,—That they are deathless? Thou need'st not inquireOf me whence they are come, for thou hast seenOne of their number on its journey hither.The period may not be far remoteWhen thine own planet, starting from its sphere,Shall fright the dwellers of the stars that skirtIts destined pathway to these silent realms!Thou'st seen the comet rushing through the sky,And, gazing on the glowing track which itHad branded on the azure breast of space,Thinking thy words were wisdom, thou hast said,"When its full term of years has been fulfilled,It shall return again." Not knowing thatThe light thou sawest was reflected fromThat sacred fire, which, in the end, shall purgeThe spirit essence which pervades creation,From the dull dust with which a wayward fateHas clogged its being! Question me no more—Remember what I said—I dare not tellThe secrets of Eternity. Look onAnd learn whate'er thou canst.Werner.There is one thing which I at last have learned,—To feel that with the increase of our knowledgeOur sorrows must increase. I oft have heard,But never before have felt the truth of this.To know that were it not for this clay mask,I even now might pierce the shadowy veilThat wraps in mystery the things I see,And comprehend their secret principle,Will make life doubly hard to bear, and temptMe much to shake it prematurely off,And snatch wings for my spirit ere its time.A total ignorance were better thanThe flash which from its slumber wakes the mind,And then, departing, leaves it to itself,In the wide maze of error, darkly groping.Wisdom is not the medicine to healA discontented mind. I now know moreThan when I left the earth, but feel that IHave bought my knowledge with increase of sorrow.Spirit.Did I not tell thee that its path were steep,And hard to climb, and thick beset with thorns,—And that its tempting, longed-for fruit, tho' boughtWith a great price, is full of bitterness?If though art satisfied, let us retraceOur way to earth again; wert thou to goYet farther on, thou might'st regret the moreOur coming hither.Werner.What! is there aught still more remote than theseFrom the great centre of the universe,—The fair domain of life and living things?Spirit.There is,—A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes,That angels shudder when they look on them!Thou surely dost not wish to visit it.Werner.Why not? There is within my mind a voidWhose vacant weight is harder to be borneThan the keen stingings of more active pangs;When it has traced the mystic chain of beingTo its last link, it may perchance shake offThe misery of restless discontent,—Its fulness then may sink it into rest.Spirit.I have no power to disobey thy word;If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee,Even though in looking on I share the pangsOf those who suffer.Werner.Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it costMe years of pain to gaze but for a moment.Spirit.'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust,Than to declare who has inheritedThe largest portion of her prying spirit.(Sings.)Where Pain keepeth vigilWith Sorrow and Care,And Horror sits watchingBy dull-eyed Despair,—Where the Spirit accurstMaketh moan in its wo,Thy wishes direct us,And thither we go.[Exeunt.
Scene I. Near the place of the damned. Enter Werner and Spirit.Werner.What piercing, stunning sounds assail my ear!Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers,A chaos of all cries! making the spaceThrough which they penetrate to flutter likeThe heart of a trapped hare,—are revelling round us.Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted,Silent and solemn, all is restless here,All wears the ashy hue of agony.Above us bends a black and starless vault,Which ever echoes back the fearful voicesThat rise from the abodes of wo beneath.Around us grim-browed desolation broods,While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds,Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils.Whither shall we direct our journey now?Spirit.Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds,If though hast courage to attempt the plunge,Our pathless way must be. A moment moreAnd we shall stand where angels seldom stand,And devils almost pity when they stand,—Behold!Werner.Eternal God!Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r,Whose breath is life, whose noblest attribute,—The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy!Were these of thine immortal will conceived?Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear?Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life?And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf?Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breastGrief had congealed the hidden fount of tears,But ye have drawn them from their frozen sourceAnd I do weep for you!Spirit.What moves thee thus?I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihoodOf universal hate, and pride, and scorn,That even were the woes, which thou dost hereBehold endured by others, heaped on thee,Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all;Accounting its development of strengthTo bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate,Sufficient recompense!Werner.Misdeem me not,If I have wept involuntary tearsO'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate,Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear.But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinctIn those who here sojourn, or do they lookYet forward to some blest millennial day,Which shall redeem them from this horrid place.Spirit.Best ask your theologians that question.Some say that there are places purgatorial,Where Error pays the price of her transgressionsIn sufferings that efface the effects of sin.And other some declare that when the soulAnd clay are parted, heaven seals the doomOf both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mindSit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth.Mark what approaches us, and mark it well.Werner.I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yetIt makes the warm blood curdle in my veins.Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form—A thing of more unholy loathsomeness!Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood,Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked,Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam!A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales,And through its heaving bosom you may markThe constant preying of a quenchless flameThat gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moanOf mingled wrath, and madness, and despair,Perpetually issues from its lips;—And with unequal but unceasing steps,It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom,A mocking phantom,—fair as it is foul!With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks,And big black eyes that dart the humid flameWhich sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips,And checks as spotless as the falling flakeEre it has touched the earth, and supple formWherein is knit each grace of womanhoodIn its perfection! and with wanton looksThat speak the burning language of desire,It seems to woo its loathsome follower,—Yet ever from his foul embraces flies.And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!"Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight,And sears my brain with its dark hideousness!Spirit.'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears.Werner.A frame which may be that of Hercules,It hath such giant members! and its portIs martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving.Its sandals are of brass, its massive browIs helmeted in steel, and in its handIt bears a sword with which, in idle strokes,It vainly beats the unresisting air,As if in battle with some phantom foe;And at each blow it deals, a strong fatalityTurns back its sword's keen point on its own breast,Which deep it gashes,—then in mournful tone,It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,—"I fought for fame and won unending wo."His agonies seem like himself, immortal.Spirit.Justice is blameless of his sufferings:For many years his busy, plotting brain,Made discord out of union, strife from peace,And set the nations warring till the earthWas crimson with the blood poured out for him!He bears what he inflicted,—let him passAnd mark what follows him.Werner.A goodly shape,More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre,Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars!A broken harp, suspended at his side,A faded garland, wreathed about his brow,Tell what he was, and still employ his care.With thin white hand, that trembles at its task,In vain he strives to bind the broken chords,And to their primal melody attune them;—In vain,—for to his efforts still repliesA boding strain of harsh, discordant sound.And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks,He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow,And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,—"For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth,Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,—'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus."Is not the justice which confines him hereAkin to cruelty? for his sad heartSeems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness.Spirit.Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man,Is but a moral seed, which, in due season,Must bring forth fruit according to its kind.The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,—Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,—The fruits are garnered in Eternity,To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food!If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have beenOf corrupt tendency, or evil nature,—What marvel if we feed on bitterness?—What shadow next appears?Werner.An aged man,Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneathThe weight of years, or worldly cares that pressStill heavier than the iron hand of time.His tottering form is fearful to behold!If the fierce scourge which men on earth call famine,Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould chooseJust such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt,And wo-begone of aspect. Groping roundHe gathers from the burning floor of hellSome shining pebbles, which his fond conceitTransmutes to gold, and these with constant careHe watches, counting and recounting them,Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by,Bears with it all his fancied hoards away,Leaving him to renew his bootless task,Which ever he renews with this complaint,—"Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing."And on his front his name is written, "Avarice."Spirit.There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades,One form which I would have thee look upon.Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well.Werner.Never before in all my wanderingsThrough earth, or other regions, where abideThings now no more of earth, have I beheldAught so profoundly mournful or so lone!So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow,That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloomPrevails along hell's blasting atmosphere!Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves,Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turnWoo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer.Love stretches out his dimpled band, whereinHe holds his emblematic rose, and Hope,Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulseOf life within the frozen veins of Death!Beckons him to the future,—and calm FaithKindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze;Yet, with such anguish as hell only holds,He turns him from all these, and will not takeLove's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blushing leavesShould lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit.Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,—And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lightsTo guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life,To him is but a cheat, a mockery,An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead.And yet he seems as one who in his lifeHad nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,—Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles,Or to the sway of empires had aspired,Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts!Why gazest thou on me and not on him?Spirit.To mark if in thine aspect I might notDetect a consciousness that I thy own soulClaimed brotherhood with his! Thou too hast scoffedAt human love, and hope, and faith, and truth,Nursing within thy bosom pride, and scorn,And rankling hate, I till these at length becameFiends which thou could'st not master! Thou art warned,Be wise and heed the warning. Let us nowReturn unto thy far off, native orb,O'er which the rosy smile of morn is breaking,Waking its teeming millions to renewTheir daily rounds of toil and strife and crime.[Exeunt.