Here from myself with hurried footsteps flying, I dared to treat this wilderness profound, Beneath the mountain whose proud top defying The pure bright sunbeam is with huge rocks crowned, Hoping that here, as in its dark grave lying, Never my sin could on the earth be found, And I myself might find a port of peace Where all the tempests of the world might cease.

No polar star had hostile fate decreed me, As on my perilous path I dared to stray, So great its pride, no hand presumed to lead me, And guide my silent footstep on its way.

Not yet the aspect of the place has freed me From the dread terror, anguish and dismay, Which were awakened by this mountain's gloom, And all the hidden wonders of its womb.

See ye not here this rock some power secureth, That grasps with awful toil the hill-side brown, And with the very anguish it endureth Age after age seems slowly coming down?

Suspended there with effort, it obscureth A mighty cave beneath, which it doth crown;-- An open mouth the horrid cavern shapes, Wherewith the melancholy mountain gapes.*

[footnote] * "But I remember, Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow, And winds with short turns down the precipice; And in its depth there is a mighty rock Which has from unimaginable years, Sustained itself with terror and with toil Over the gulf, and with the agony With which it clings seems slowly coming down; Even as a wretched soul hour after hour Clings to the ma.s.s of life: yet, clinging, leans; And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss In which it fears to fall. Beneath this crag, Huge as despair, as if in weariness The melancholy mountain yawns."--THE CENCI.

Sh.e.l.ly says, "An idea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime pa.s.sage in 'El Purgatorio de San Patricio' of Calderon." The same idea is to be found in "Amor despues de la Muerte," "Los dos amantes del Cielo," and other dramas of Calderon.

[end of footnote]

This, then, by mournful cypress trees surrounded, Between the lips of rocks at either side, Reveals a monstrous neck of length unbounded, Whose tangled hair is scantily supplied By the wild herbs that there the wind hath grounded, A gloom whose depths no sun has ever tried, A s.p.a.ce, a void, the gladsome day's affright, The fatal refuge of the frozen night.

I wished to enter there, to make my dwelling Within the cave; but here my accents fail, My troubled voice, against my will rebelling.

Doth interrupt so terrible a tale.-- What novel horror, all the past excelling, Must I relate to you, with cheeks all pale, Without cold terror on my bosom seizing, And even my voice, my breath, my pulses freezing?

I scarcely had o'ercome my hesitation, And gone within the cavern's vault profound, When I heard wails of hopeless lamentation, Despairing shrieks that shook the walls around, Curses, and blasphemy, and desperation, Dark crimes avowed that would even h.e.l.l astound, Which heaven, I think, in order not to hear, Had hid within this prison dark and drear.

Let him come here who doubts what I am telling, Let him here bravely enter who denies, Soon shall he hear the sounds of dreadful yelling, Soon shall the horrors gleam before his eyes.

For me, my voice is hushed, my bosom swelling, Pants now with terror, now with strange surprise.

Nor is it right that human tongue should dare High heaven's mysterious secrets to lay bare.

PATRICK. This cave, O king, which here you see, concealeth The mysteries of life as well as death: Not, I should say, for him whose bosom feeleth No true repentance, or no real faith; But he who boldly enters, who revealeth His sins, confessing them with penitent breath, Shall see them all forgiven, his conscience clear, And have alive his Purgatory here.

KING. And dost thou think, O Patrick, that I owe My blood so little, as to yield to dread, And trembling fear like a weak woman show?

Say, who shall be the first this cave to tread?

What silent! Philip?

PHILIP. Sire, I dare not go.

KING. Then, Captain, thou?

CAPTAIN. Enough to strike me dead Is even the thought.

KING. Leogaire, thou'lt surely dare?

LEOGAIRE. The heavens, my lord, themselves exclaim forbear!

KING. O cowards, lost to every sense of shame, Unfit to gird the warrior's sword around Your shrinking loins! Men are ye but in name.

Well, I myself shall be the first to sound The depths of this enchantment, and proclaim Unto this Christian that my heart unawed Nor dreads his incantations nor his G.o.d!

[Egerius advances to the cave, and on entering sinks into it with much noise, flames rise from below, and many voices are heard.

POLONIA. How terrible!

LEOGAIRE. How awful!

PHILIP. What a wonder!

CAPTAIN. The earth is breathing out its central fire.

[Exit.

LEOGAIRE. The axes of the sky are burst asunder.

[Exit.

POLONIA. The heavens are loosening their collected ire.

{Exit.

LESBIA. The earth doth quake, and peals the sullen thunder.

[Exit.

PATRICK. O, mighty Lord, who will not now admire Thy wondrous works?

[Exit.

PHILIP. Oh! who that's not insane Will enter Patrick's Purgatory again?

[Exit.

ACT THE THIRD.

A STREET. IT IS NIGHT.

SCENE I.

JUAN PAUL, dressed ridiculously as a soldier, and LUIS ENIUS, very pensive.

PAUL. Yes, the day would come I knew, After long procrastination, When a word of explanation I should ask to have with you.

"Come with me," you said. Though dark, Off I trudged with heavy heart To point out to you the part Where at morn you could embark; Then again, with thundering voice, Thus you spoke, "Where I must fly Choose to come with me, or die."

And, since you allowed a choice, Of two ills I chose the worst, Which, sir, was to go with you.

As your shadow then I flew 'Cross the sea to England first, Then to Scotland, then to France then to Italy and Spain, Round the world and back again, As in some fantastic dance.

Not a country great or small Could escape you, 'till, good lack!

Here we are in Ireland back:-- Now, sir, I, plain Juan Paul, Being perplexed to know what draws You here now, with beard and hair Grown so long, your speech, your air, Changed so much, would ask the cause Why you these disguises wear?

You by day ne'er leave the inn, But when cold night doth begin You a thousand follies dare, Without bearing this in mind, That we now are in a land Wholly changed from strand to strand, Where, in fact, we nothing find As we left it. The old king Died despairing, and his heir, Lesbia, now the crown doth wear, For her sister, hapless thing!

Poor Polonia . . . .

LUIS. Oh, that name Do not mention! do not kill me By repeating what doth thrill me To the centre of my frame As with lightning. Yes, I know That at length Polonia died.

PAUL. Yes; our host was at her side (He himself has told me so) When they found her dead, and . . . .

LUIS. Cease!

Of her death, oh! speak no more, 'Tis sufficient to deplore, And to pray that she's at peace.

PAUL. Leaving heathen sin and crime, All the people far and near Are become good Christians here.