The Two Lovers of Heaven: Chrysanthus and Daria Part 15

Well, my memory is not strong.

It requires consideration To admit that pleasant fact.

CHRYSANTHUS.

What of me do people say?--

ESCARPIN.

Shall I speak it?

CHRYSANTHUS.

Speak.

ESCARPIN.

Why, they Say, my lord, that you are cracked.

CHRYSANTHUS.

For what reason? Why this blame?

ESCARPIN.

Reason, sir, need not be had, For the wisest man is mad If he only gets the name.

CHRYSANTHUS.

Well, it was not wrongly given, If they only knew that I Have consented even to die So to reach the wished-for heaven Of a sovereign beauty's favour.

ESCARPIN.

For a lady's favour you Have agreed to die?

CHRYSANTHUS.

'T is true.

ESCARPIN.

Does not this a certain savour Of insanity give your sadness?

CHRYSANTHUS.

Were I certain as of breath I could claim it after death, There was method in my madness.

ESCARPIN.

A brave soldier of the line, On his death-bed lying ill, Spoke thus, "Item, 't is my will, Gallant friends and comrades mine, That you 'll bear me to my grave, And although I 've little wealth, Thirty reals to drink my health Shall you for your kindness have".

Thus the hope as vain must be After death one's love to wed, As to drink one's health when dead.

[Nisida advances from the garden.]

CHRYSANTHUS.

But what maid is this I see Hither through the garden wending?

ESCARPIN.

If you take a stroll with me Plenty of her sort you 'll see.

NISIDA.

One who would effect the ending Of thy sadness.

CHRYSANTHUS (aside).

Now comes near thee, O my heart, thy threatened trial!

Lady, pardon the denial, But I would nor see nor hear thee.

NISIDA.

Not so ungallantly surely Wilt thou act, as not to see One who comes to speak with thee?

CHRYSANTHUS.

To see one who thinks so poorly Of herself, and with such lightness Owns she comes to speak with me, Rather would appear to be Want of sense than of politeness.

NISIDA.

All discourse is not so slight That thou need'st decline it so.

CHRYSANTHUS.

No, I will not see thee, no.

Thus I shut thee from my sight.

NISIDA.

Vainly art thou cold and wise, Other senses thou shouldst fear, Since I enter by the ear, Though thou shut me from the eyes.

Sings.

"The bless'ed rapture of forgetting Never doth my heart deserve, What my memory would preserve Is the memory I 'm regretting".

CHRYSANTHUS.

That melting voice, that melody Spell-bound holds th' entranc'ed soul.

Ah! from such divine control Who his fettered soul could free?-- Human Siren, leave me, go!

Too well I feel its fatal power.

I faint before it like a flower By warm-winds wooed in noontide's glow.

The close-pressed lips the mouth can lock, And so repress the vain reply, The lid can veil th' unwilling eye From all that may offend and shock,-- Nature doth seem a n.i.g.g.ard here, Unequally her gifts disposing, For no instinctive means of closing She gives the unprotected ear.

(Enter Cynthia.)

CYNTHIA.

Since then the ear cannot be closed, And thou resistance need'st not try, Listen to the gloss that I On this sweet conceit composed: "The bless'ed rapture of forgetting Never doth my heart deserve; What my memory would preserve Is the memory I 'm regretting".

When Nature from the void obscure Her varied world to life awakes, All things find use and so endure:-- Thus she a poison never makes Without its corresponding cure: Each thing of Nature's careful setting, Each plant that grows in field or grove Hath got its opposite flower or weed; The cure is with the pain decreed; Thus too is found for feverish love 'The bless'ed rapture of forgetting.'

The starry wonders of the night, The arbiters of fate on high, Nothing can dim: To see their light Is easy, but to draw more nigh The orbs themselves, exceeds our might.

Thus 't is to know, and only know, The troubled heart, the trembling nerve, To sweet oblivion's blank may owe Their rest, but, ah! that cure of woe 'Never doth my heart deserve.'

Then what imports it that there be, For all the ills of heart or brain, A sweet oblivious remedy, If it, when 't is applied to me, Fails to cure me of my pain?

Forgetfulness in me doth serve No useful purpose: But why fret My heart at this? Do I deserve, Strange contradiction! to forget 'What my memory would preserve?'

And thus my pain in straits like these, Must needs despise the only sure Remedial means of partial ease-- That is--to perish of the cure Rather than die of the disease.

Then not in wailing or in fretting, My love, accept thy fate, but let This victory o'er myself, to thee Bring consolation, pride, and glee, Since what I wish not to forget 'Is the memory I 'm regretting.'

CHRYSANTHUS.

'T is not through the voice alone Music breathes its soft enchantment.[10]

All things that in concord blend Find in music their one language.

Thou with thy delicious sweetness [To Nisida]

Host my heart at once made captive;-- Thou with thy melodious verses [To Cynthia]

Hast my very soul enraptured.

Ah! how subtly thou dost reason!

Ah! how tenderly thou chantest!