Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 862
THE VISION OF TOM CHUFF
THE WATCHER
THE WHITE CAT OF DRUMGUNNIOL
ULTOR DE LACY: A LEGEND OF CAPPERCULLEN
WHAT WAS IT?
WICKED CAPTAIN WALSHAWE, OF WAULING
The
Poems
Warrington Place, Dublin, where Le Fanu moved after his marriage to Susanna Bennett in 1844
THE POETRY OF SHERIDAN LE FAN
U
BEATRICE: A VERSE DRAMA IN TWO ACTS
DUAN NA CLAEV — THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE
THE HERO DEVOTES HIMSELF
THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS
THE CROMLECH
THORGIL AND HIS GLAIVE
TIR NA N-OGE — THE LAND OF THE YOUNG
FIONULA
SHAMUS O’BRIEN AND OTHER POEMS
PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE
MOLLY, MY DEAR
ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL: ADDRESS OF A DRUNKARD TO A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY.
SONG: THE AUTUMN LEAF WAS FALLING
MEMORY
THE STREAM
A DOGGREL IN A DORMANT-WINDOW
BEATRICE: A VERSE DRAMA IN TWO ACTS
ACT I.
PROLOGUE.
IN Venice, in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, in the Ducal Palace, in the series of the Doges’ portraits, occurs a blank space with this inscription:— “Hic est locus Marini Falieri, decapitati pro criminibus.” His half-brother Andrea Faliero, suspected but not convicted of complicity in his treason, suffered the confiscation of all his lands and goods, and a sentence, under pain of death to remain within the liberties of Venice. His noble wife died soon after, in a convent; and he, with his infant daughter, repaired to the island of Torcello, where working in his boat as a fisherman, he maintained himself to his death. His daughter Beatrice having been, by a strange adventure, lost to him in her sixteenth year, he left none on earth of his name and lineage.
Palazzo on the Canale Grande.
CHORUS.
Sad night is o’er the city of the Isles,
And o’er a palace that amid her glooming
With a radiant halo smiles,
While music from its windows booming
Floats the voice of masque and measure
Through distant domes and marble piles,
And hymns the jubilee of youth and pleasure.
Between the ripple dimly plashing,
And the dark roof looming high,
Lost in the funereal sky,
Like many-coloured jewels flashing,
Small lamps in loops and rosaries of fire,
Verdant and blood-red, trembling, turning —
Yellow and blue — in the deep water burning,
From dark till dawning
Illumine all the wide concave,
And plash and stain the marble and the wave.
From balconies in air,
Th’ emblazoned silken awning
Flows like a lazy sail;
And gondoliers down there,
And masks upon the stair,
Hear music swelling o’er them like a gale.
Italian grace and gaiety,
And silver-bearded policy,
Princes and soldiers, sage and great,
The craft and splendour of the State,
Proud dames, and Adria’s fair daughters,
The sirens of Venetian waters,
Beautiful as summer dreams
Dreamed in haunted forest glade,
By silvery streams in leafy gleams,
Floating through the awful shade.
The noble palace peopled was right meetly,
And in its wide saloons the dance went featly,
And high above the hum
Swelled the thunder and the hoot
Of theorbo and viol, of the hautboy and the flute,
And the roaring of the drum.
SCENE.
A room in the same Palazzo, apart from the Masques and Dancers.
(Young Julio Contarini, leaning against a pillar, looks sadly through the window, his arms folded and his mask in his hand.)
FRANCESCO CORNARO. Old Andrea Aldini, dead at last!
Some pretty portraits and originals,
Ha, ha! have lost a master. Died this evening
About sunset.
JULIO. One old fool less in Venice.
FRANCESCO. Nay, he’ll be missed, — missed at the Faro table.
Ha, ha, ha! Missed at other places too.
Made all he could of life — no fool, think I —
Eat his peach to the stone — ah, ha!
JULIO. Play out
The game! still, where the flowers and music were,
Linger, in deepening solitude and shadow,
And see the last lamp out?
FRANCESCO Per Bacco! yes.
Bravo! Amen, say I!
JULIO. The revel o’er,
Good bye! glide out, and home, and come no more —
Gape under fathoms of oblivion —
Turn up no more, save for a year or two,
In young men’s jibing talk?
FRANCESCO. Each has his turn.
JULIO. The moon is low already. The sky, how
clear;
The stars blink strangely.
FRANCESCO. ‘Twill be sultry weather.
JULIO (looking to the sky). Up there’s a mighty
allegory.
FRANCESCO. Ay, sir, for lovers and astrologers.
But wherefore here, signor? The dancers miss you.
JULIO. I miss not them.
FRANCESCO. Come, come, you are no cynic.
Music and tread of dancers in the ear — Come! this is life!
JULIO. And life’s a bitter pill.
FRANCESCO. Pish! affectation! come! It is enchanting.
JULIO. Hear — see — wonder — how beautiful it is!
The sneering laughter — whispered lust — pastiles —
And drilled musicians — waxlights — rustling silks —
Better the scent of wild flowers on the air,
The tune of nightingales and ring of waves,
And simple love under the kind, cold moon.
I’m tired.
FRANCESCO. And so am I.
JULIO. Of me? I’m going.
FRANCESCO. What! going?
JULIO. Ay, Francesco, cap and mantle,
Going. —
FRANCESCO. To moonlight and to simple love?
JULIO. I like to be alone — I choose to think.
FRANCESCO. I could say where — ha! But I must not tease.
JULIO. Ay, amen! To the devil if you please —
To Pluto, signor, so I go alone.
Farewell, Franceso.
FRANCESCO. Fare ye well. He’s gone.
(Exit JULIO.
SCENE.
The open sea near Venice. JULIO is seen alone in his gondola rowing slowly,
CHORUS.
Here we hover, here we trace
Contarini’s wondrous grace,
As across the mirror wide,
Like a phantom of the tide,
Boat and hero silent glide,
Sweeping slowly, far from shore,
Darkest sea with flashing oar —
In that shadow, in that beam,
Now behold him like a dream.
Dark locks, many a curling fold,
Such as young Antinous wore,
Touched with lights of misty gold,
Softly throw their shadow o’er
A broad low brow with pride o’erfraught —
Brow like ivory sculptor-wrought
Into beauteous curves of thought;
Oval face of Moorish tint,
Features wellnigh feminine,
Chiselled with a touch so fine,
So exquisite in every line;
Pencilled eyebrow, dreamy lash,
Carmine lip, with dark moustache,
And haughty smile of pearly glint.
Soft as night, those eyes of his,
Gloomed with shadows of the abyss;
Eyes of darkness, large and deep,
Where fires unfathomed play and sleep —
Sometimes drowsed in haughty dreams,
Sometimes flaming cold and wild,
They’ve with fatal purpose smiled,
Or darkly glowed with passion’s gleams.
What their colour, what their light?
Canst thou fix the hues of night,
Or colour of the thunder cloud
Wherefrom the lightning leaps?
Or as the wave beneath the steeps
Where midnight blackness broods and sleeps,
Into hidden moonlight dashes,
Into Sudden splendour flashes —
And swallowed straight in blacker night
Blinds the gazer’s dazzled sight.
SCENE.
The Island of Torcello. Moonlight.
(The fisherman’s easement from the rocks and myrtles above, overlooking the water; the light of a lamp shines from it; a flight of stone steps leads down to the water from the door of the building.)
(Julio’s gondola; he ceases rowing and gazes.)
JULIO. How pretty this! the waters seek
So wooingly this bosky creek;
How lovingly the moonlight falls
On leafy cliff and cottage walls!
How all its peaks and edges glimmer,
And all its myrtles softly shimmer,
Rear’d of shadows and of light,
Sweet creation of the night!
From the rock’s projecting crest,
Venturous as a martlet’s nest,
The cot o’erhangs the water’s breast.
Nets are clinging on the wall,
Spars and tackle loosely lie,
And the patched boat high and dry,
Gaff and anchor rusted all;
O’er the waters softly swelling,
This thread of light, so pure and shy,
Seaward slanting from on high,
Glimmers from a fisher’s dwelling.
(The casement opens, and Beatrice, expecting her fathers return, sings a hymn.)
Hush! oh ye billows,
Hush! oh thou wind,
Watch o’er us, angels,
Mary, be kind!
Fishermen followed
The steps of the Lord;
Oft in their fishing boats
Preached He the Word.
Pray for us, Pietro,
Pray for us, John,
Pray for us, Giacomo,
Zebedee’s son.
If it be stormy,
Fear not the sea;
Jesus upon it
Is walking by thee.
Billows be gentle,
Soft blow the wind,
Watch o’er us, angels,
Mary, be kind!
(The voice ceases.)
JULIO. Sure never voice so wildly sweet
Did the ear of listener greet.
(Sings, answering her.)
Soft be the billows,
Gentle the wind,
Angels watch over thee,
Mary, be kind!
(BEATRICE comes to the casement, and looks out
timidly in the light of the lamp.)
JULIO. By heaven! she is a pretty creature;
What a charm in every feature!
BEATRICE. That is not my father’s boat,
Nor Leonardo’s voice.
JULIO (to himself ). I vote
We try a stave, for Cupid’s wings
Waft music as they fly. She sings!
BEATRICE (singing). If thou be’st honest,
Stretch to thy oar,
Give thee good night, friend,
Come here no more.
(She closes the casement and goes back, the lamp still
burning.)
JULIO. Angels and fairest saints of heaven!
Elysian dream!
Oh! could I deem
So beautiful a face,
So sweet and sad a grace
To mortal ever given!
If I be honest? — ay, amen!
I will be honest, so you come again.
I’ll watch and listen for a glance,
Or song — and pray to Venus or to Chance.
I’d count the watches of the long night o’er
To hear or see thee, wondrous maid, once more.
(Folds his cloak about him; and, resting his cheek upon his hand, watches the casement from which issues the ray of the lamp, but in vain — she comes not again.)
(He sings).
A siren once her sea-girt home
With wild notes haunting,
Her spell upon the wingèd foam
And breezes chanting,
By moonlight, as he floated near,
With a sweet madness thralled the ear
Of a lonely gondolier.
While he listens, while he dreams,
On billows rocking,
Sweeter every moment seems
That siren’s mocking.
Other song will ne’er be dear,
Or singer to the heart or ear
Of that lonely gondolier.
Shadowed by that listening isle,
By her enchanted,
Her charm and music still beguile
His senses haunted.
And if that Spirit, strangely dear,
Will sing no more, no more appear,
Dies that lonely gondolier.
(Listening within, her finger to her lip.)
BEATRICE. Who can be the gondolier,
Whom I see not, only hear?
What can he want, the saucy youth?
“Appear” and “sing,” not I, in truth.
(A pause)
His voice was wondrous sweet and clear.
(As he in his boat slowly recedes, JULIO sings again.)
JULIO. A siren once her sea-girt home
With wild notes haunting,
Her spell upon the winged foam
And breezes chanting,
By moonlight, as he floated near,
With a sweet madness thralled the ear
Of a lonely gondolier.
(The notes die away in the increasing distance.
She listens for some time.)
BEATRICE. And so the foolish dream is done;
I’m glad the saucy fellow’s gone.
(A pause.)
Glad, too, he lighted here by night,
He’ll never find it in daylight.
Yes, glad — right glad — he’ll come no more.
(Listens for a longer time.)
And so, the foolish dream is o’er,
’Tis very well — it was not meet,
(Another pause as she listens vainly. She sighs.
And the song was wondrous sweet!
(Opens the casement and looks out. A pause.)
Quite gone — I’m glad — it was too bold.
(A pause.)
And yet the song was passing sweet!
Thou tuneful gondolier! whom sight
Of mine shall ne’er behold;
For thy sweet song — goodnight!
(She closes the casement.)
SCENE.
The Island of Torcello. Sunset. The fisherman’s dwelling as before.
(BEATRICE in the casement, pensive, leaning on her hand.)
CHORUS.
There she sits with sea-gray eyes
Gazing o’er the sea,
In sunset dreams, beneath the skies
That dreamlike flash and flee.
And floats there in the fading light
A tender thought of yesternight?
Steals there the cold air along
A phantom echo of that song,
From the region ghostly high,
From the land of memory,
Where all things live that seem to die?
Slowly shifting into rest,
Like the vapours of the west,
In many a hue and fold,
Moves her saddened reverie,
Whose moods may thus be told.
THE REVERIE OF BEATRICE.
The sea-breeze wakens clear and cold
Over the azure wide;
Before his breath in threads of gold
The ruddy ripples glide,
And racing for the shingle
Their crystal chimes commingle,
As silver bells
In Paduan dells
From flying fleeces tingle.
O rising of the winds, O flow of the waves!
And the murmurous music of cliffs and caves,
And the billows that travel so far to die
In foam, on the loved shore where they lie.
I lean my cold cheek on my hand,
And as a child, with wide-set eyes,
Listens in a dim surprise
To some high story
Of grief and glory
It cannot surely understand;
Like that awed child,
To the Adriatic music wild
I listen, in a rapture lonely,
Not understanding, guessing only,
Its golden meaning not for me;
Letting my fancies come and go,
And fall and flow,
With the eternal singing sea.
(The gondola JULIO CONTARINI is seen approaching; it glides into the wooded creek. He is disguised as a minstrel, and, standing in the boat, lifts his cap.)
JULIO. Donna in that casement high,
Wilt thou brook my minstrelsy;
Shall I sing — or may I try?
BEATRICE. And what art thou?
JULIO. A gondolier,
Who can make music if thou’lt hear;
