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

Table of contents

- [frontispiece]

- [titlepage]

- ADVERTISEMENT.

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

- Dramatis Personae.

- ACT I.

- ACT II.

- ACT III.

THE DESERT ISLAND.

FINIS.

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 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.

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, 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.

Notes

*
Vide, Preface to Samson Agonistes.
↵

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.

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.

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,

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 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,

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 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

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 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,

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' 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

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.

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 — 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.

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

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! 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 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

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 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

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 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.

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 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.

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 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,

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.

Information about this book

Title statement

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

Murphy, Arthur, 1727-1805.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4486

ID [isbn10]

1106014855

ID [isbn13]

9781106014856

ID [TCP]

K058986.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3309733325

ID [ECLL]

0055200700

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The desert island: a dramatic poem, in three acts. As it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane., Murphy, Arthur, 1727-1805., Metastasio, Pietro, 1698-1782.. [8],56p.,plate ; 8⁰. London :: printed for Paul Vaillant,. 1760.. [Adapted from Metastasio's 'L'isola disabitata' by Arthur Murphy.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT69038.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.