Ivy. What singers be these?Green. A shepherd and his lass.Ivy. I know a better song than that. It goes this way:[Sings.] Night and day let us be merry,And set not by the world a cherry;For dry bread chokes——That's not right. I forget it. I could make a better song than eithermyself; by my soul, I could! None of your sheepish love-songs, but a songto make the stars dance quicker, and the moon multiply itself a score oftimes. You have only made two moons.Celio. We did not aim at putting the moon beside herself.Ivy. I could make a song about the moon. Sir, I have read about themoon. Her name—hic!—her name is—hic!——Celio. Hecate.Ivy. Give a man time to speak his mind. Her name is Hecate, althoughyou say it. I know about the moon: Hecate is the moon—Hecate.Sylvia. O, come away!Celio. Make your song, my friend, and show it to me to-morrow.Ivy. I will, sir; I will.Celio. Good-night.[Celio and Sylvia go out.Ivy. The song is coming, Green; it's coming. 'By the light ofHecate's lamp'—lamp, lamp—what rhymes with lamp?—Come to some moredelusive, poetic spot.—'By the light of Hecate'slamp'—lamp?—Come.—What the devil rhymes with lamp!—Come.[Ivy and Green go out.
Enter hurriedly Cinthio, and Faustine dressed as a shepherd-boy.
Faustine. O Cinthio, hearken! We are lost. Alas!Cinthio. Fear not, my love: all danger we shall pass.[They go out..
Enter Martha.
Martha. Gone with the Prince! I knew 'twould come at last.Well, I shall be a lonely woman soon.To think how many a mother envies meMy lovely daughter for her loveliness,And that she has enchanted our good prince,And all the happiness in store for me,When I shall be a prince's mother-in-law.[Knocking.A visit at this time! Who's there?
Enter Onesta.
What now, my lady Faustine's maid? Onesta. The king has sent for you. Martha. The king! Onesta. King Alardo. By the deceit of providence he has come back; and Guido has found out Faustine's escape. He commanded me to go and bring you, because he has heard about Eulalie; for Guido threatened me with flaying and pickling, and buttering and roasting. You are to come at once and meet the king and Guido and another lord at the tree in the gushet where the three roads meet, to go with them to the wood, where Eulalie and the prince, and Faustine and Cinthio are. If I would not tell him all, he would have minced me into collops, else he might have pulled my tongue out before I would have told. The king is going to pack you and Eulalie off this very night. 'The mad, old heifer,' says he, 'to set her low-bred cow to my royal bull.' And Cinthio is to be made into a ram—no, it was a ewe, Guido said: I think it was a ewe, though it struck me he meant an ox; and Faustine is to mew in a nunnery all her life. Martha. The king come back, and Eulalie and I to be packed off to-night; Faustine, made a nun; you, to be roasted Onesta. Haste, haste. I'll tell you more as we go. Martha. More! Save us! You have said more than enough. [They go out.
Enter Felice, Bruno and Torello.
Felice. Do you remember what you must say?Torello. I think so.From Thessaly, that land of incantation,Tetragrammaton,Come Hecate and hear my supplication——Felice. Shemhamphorash.Torello. Shemhamphorash.Felice. You must speak this word very loud; its virtue is great; andthe greater mouth you give it, the stronger its power. Shout it againexultantly; for with this word properly spoken, a world might be created.Torello. Shemhamphorash.Felice. Pronounced in a most redundantore rotundo. No witch thatever culled simples with a brazen knife by moonlight could resist such asummons.Torello. Will she indeed come forth to this?Felice. Like a cat from the water.Torello. What shall I say then?Felice. The witch will question you and you must answer her.Torello. What questions? Will she use a book? I could never learncatechism.Felice. Answer anything. It matters little what, so it be spokenreverently. This is the stone; place one foot on it; take off your hat;hold your sword high above your head; place your other hand upon yourhaunch: now, begin 'From Thessaly.'Torello [prompted by Felice].From Thessaly, that land of incantation,Tetragrammaton.Come Hecate and hear my supplication,Shemhamphorash.On broomstick ride to grant what I shall ask,Tetragrammaton;Simple to thy skill will be the task,Shemhamphorash.
Enter Scipio dressed like a witch.
Scipio. Thou comest to know if she whom thou lovest will be thine.Swear by oak and ash and thorn to perform what rites I shall direct, andthou shalt know.Torello. I swear.Scipio. The oak is Jove's tree; thou hast sworn by Jove:Mars' lances, Cupid's arrows are of ash;To witness therefore hast thou summoned them:The thorn is Mercury's; he binds thine oath.Among the flags that, like a rushy curbThe streaming brook rein to an ambling pace,With hands fast bound and eyes from light swathed close,In upright patience shalt thou take thy stand.If she thou lov'st loves thee, fate drives her hereThy bondage to release, or rather changeTo wedded slavery in rose-linked chainsThat shackle willing lovers mutually.Torello. What if she come not?Scipio. Why, some other then,Or man, or maiden will enfranchise thee.If man, thy doom of single life is sealed;If maid, in her behold a wife revealed.Jove, Cupid, Mars, Mercury bless this rite;Fail in the least, they curse thee from to-night.[Goes out.Torello. Need I do this? Stay! Gone—without a gift, too! An inhumanwitch! [Aside.] Am I mocked, I wonder? That can hardly be. I must go on:it were cowardly to be afraid. Yet would I watch these two.—Well, sirs,you heard the witch.Felice. It is a strange ceremony. Having sworn, you cannot evade it.Torello. Tie my hands and bind my eyes.Felice. It is a most infallible test. I knew a knight who was scarcein the water before his mistress came and unbound him.Torello. Do you laugh?Bruno. Who? I? No; I am as solemn as a hangman.Torello. How deep is this stream?Felice. It cannot reach above your knees, being so shallowed by itswidth. Are you ready? Come along, then.
Having pinioned and blind-folded Torello they lead him into the stream.—Celio and Sylvia enter, and pass into a grove.
Bruno. [Aside.] Two mayers.Torello. Is there any one coming?Felice. You must not speak. We will withdraw among the hazels. Letfaith and courage console each other, and your spirit may have thatcomfort which your body lacks.
Re-enter Scipio.
Scipio. How do you like the leeches' element? Have you made the acquaintance of any insinuating eels? Felice. [Aside.] Hush! you must treat it solemnly. It is a dull nose that cannot scent hartshorn. He begins to sniff. Torello. Leeches, eels! I pray you, how stand I for getting out should any evil thing attack me? Felice. Your back faces the only safe way; the stream is deeper before you than on your right; to the left the muddy bed would smother you; you stand on a stone. Cry on us if you are assailed. Torello. I will. Go not far away. Felice. A speedy deliverance to you. [Felice, Bruno and Scipio withdraw to the back of the stage. Torello. Thanks.—Lord, lord, what love will make a man do! Here am I——Eulalie, when thou findest me thus thou wilt love me. Felice. Now, if we had a leash of hounds to loose on him, or a troop of charitable imps to pinch him for us.
Enter Cinthio and Faustine.
Bruno. More noctambulators.Felice. This is the prince's shepherd, and his sweetheart: if theyobserve Torello, they may help our plot.Cinthio. Bright-pinioned night now slacks her onward flightAnd hovers towards its mid stage, to alight,Furling her wings, one instant on the earth,Ere emptying heaven for Aurora's birth,That gladdens every morn. Here will we restTill night has sped a little further west.O that we might recline between her wings,And sail for aye her heavenly voyagings!Faustine. I would we might, but we must navigateA vessel and an ocean less elate.How far are we from thy Sebastian's boat?Cinthio. An hour will take us where it lies afloat.Faustine. Is this the forest's most secreted spot?Cinthio. Yes; none save shepherds visit it. Do notFear anything; and we will reach the shoreBy pathways that are their peculiar lore.
Enter Rupert and Eulalie.
The prince and his beloved![Cinthio and Faustine conceal themselves.Rupert. Sit, Eulalie; this tree-trunk bids us rest.Hush! hark! the nightingale, the lover's bird,The throbbing pulse of night, panting its joy.About this season he expects his mate,And spends all day and night in rapturous toilUpon a bridal-song to greet her with.I think those twinkling midnight birds up there,The stars, that seem to nestle in the leaves,Utter such dulcet strains could we but hear.—Now, tell me softly; did'st thou dream to-night?Eulalie. Thou should'st have first inquired if I did sleep.Whether I slept or not, I dreamt a dream,The most entrancing and most lovable.Rupert. Did'st thou indeed! What was it all about?Eulalie. I laid me on my bed, and couched the roseThat thou had'st given me in my bosom. ThenIts odour, packed with semblances of bliss,Far-off delights, remembrances of songs,And nameless sweets, all woven in a charmOf strange awakening scent alone bestows,Grew brightly visible; and in that haloSleep realised a shining rainbow crowdOf gay unearthly beings, who, to notesThat never lark or nightingale imagined,Tripped in the mazes of a wildering dance—A poem in mute show.—Hark! some one comes.[Rupert and Eulalie retire.
Re-enter Celio and Sylvia. They seat themselves on the tree vacated byRupert and Eulalie.
Torello. Sweet voices! Methought I heard Eulalie's. O, come my love!Shemhamphorash.Sylvia. Had any one save thee told me this taleDiscredit would have paid his waste of breath.So dark that grove is, and its air so fullOf night's fantasticism, thy whispers lowMay have been rounded to a meaning bigWith sense that had no birth in thy intendment.Did'st thou not tell me of a peopled star?If there be such a jewel in the heavens,Point out its light.Celio. That magnate brilliant,Gleaming, opalesque, red, white, and blue,Quivering and shuddering in its loveliness,That star's inhabited.Sylvia. It is, indeed,A bright, first-water sphere. And in it dwellOberon and Titania, and their elves.Did'st thou say that?Celio. I said it, and it's true.Sylvia. King Oberon, a many years ago,Divining that this grass-green, sea-green earth,This emerald that sets off the golden sun,Should be by mankind sadly under-priced;That this fair hanging garden, swung for elvesAnd men to revel in, this glorious stageIn heaven's theatre, so gallantlyHung out and decked for elves and men to grace,This temple, wherein all might minister,Should be o'er-rioted, abused, profaned;That this globe, frescoed round by Nature's art,Should lose its beauty in the sight of men—Men's eyes being jaundiced by a golden lustTo prize much more the hills' bright excrement,Than their elate and sun-gilt brows of strength;That men, like children wearied of a toy,Would spoil its loveliness, in pieces rendingTo put it to some use, or ravish outThe useless secret of creation: he,The fairy king, slow-winged and sad of heart,Searched out a new home from the host of heaven,And chose that star for him and his to dwell in.Celio. I said so.Sylvia. And, beside, that this strange scienceImpart to thee a darling fairy did—One of a company that roam the earthTo happy and inspire such clay-clad soulsAs recognise their heavenly geniture,And separate them from the loathly world:And that this spirit visits earth to-nightTo revelate some pleasure new to thee,Which thou, sweetheart, art going to share with me?Celio. Hark to that singing! 'tis the fairy's voice.Rupert. We overheard you here unwillingly,But with wills well inclined would now remain.Celio. That's as the fairy pleases. Here he comes.Cinthio [To Faustine]. All are engrossed: no fear of our discovery.We'll wait awhile, then slip unseen away.Felice [To Bruno]. Here be miracles about to be.
Enter 1st Fairy.
1st Fairy. Song.On the mountain's crown,When the sun goes down,You may see me robed in the bright crimson.In the still mid-nightWhen the moon shines bright,I shimmer down on a beam of light.
I guide the mariner's crazy craft,When the billows are raging high.I glide before the wandering boor,And lead him safe to his own house doorFor love of charity.
I hover near the poet's ear,And haunt him till he sings:The minstrel's hand my unseen wandGuides o'er the throbbing strings.
Whatever is joyful and makes the world glad,That is my lot to do.I never am weary, I never am sad,For my work my play is too.
Celio. He smiles; our number does not anger him.List; he will tell us now unheard-of news.Torello. Felice, Bruno! are you by?Felice. We are here. Whisper softly, or you may break the spell.Torello. Who are those that talk and sing?Felice. I hear no talking and singing. The charm is acting: thesevoices which we cannot hear herald the approach of your deliverer.Torello. I hope so; but perhaps it is my imagination. Have you reallyheard nothing? There were first several who spoke, and Eulalie's voiceamong them, and then an angel sang. O, that some one would come! It ishorribly cold standing here.Bruno. Patience, patience.Scipio. Patience, sir, is a great virtue.Torello. But love is a greater; for were I not in love, I would haveno patience.1st Fairy. The pleasance of our starry residence,In human, bald speech inenarrable,Transcends your dreams of Arcady and Eden.Yet every year we all descend to earth,Because our memories are steeped in joy,Which was our ancient mundane elementWhen men were heroes and the world was young,And life was laughter, love, and noble spleen:—Alas, for you, poor actors! in Heaven's sightYe play an after-piece abjectly low!—Also, because there are—how few they be!—Who love true riches and despise the false,We leave our unimagined paradiseUpon the first night that fair Pleiad, May,Begins her soft ascendance o'er the year,And bringing summer with us, visit earth.Even now I see our elfin nation come,Descending like a shower of frosty snowFor lightness, and for loveliness like IrisSpeeding in rainbow colours through night's gloom.Look how the lightning or the light doth pass:So have the fairies travelled from their star;They left a minute since, and here they are.
Enter Oberon, Titania, Puck, and the Fairies. The Fairies dance and sing.
Song.Weave the dance and sing the song;Subterranean depths prolongThe rainy patter of our feet;Heights of air are rendered sweetBy our singing. Let us sing,Breathing softly, fairily,Swelling sweetly, airily,Till earth and sky our echo ring.Rustling leaves chime with our song;Fairy bells its close prolong,Ding-dong, ding-dong.
Philomel, sing loud and high,Leader of our minstrelsy;No owl hoot, or raven cry;All glad sounds join harmony,And let no faintest discord sigh.Crickets chirrup merrily,And grasshoppers cheerily,Till our echo thrill the sky.Rustling leaves chime with our song:Fairy bells its close prolong,Ding-dong, ding-dong.
Eulalie. This is the harmony that filled my dream.Rupert. Perfumes of lilies, roses, violets—Sweeter far than they: such a rich gustOf warmth and scent they flood the air withal.Celio. That is Titania with the golden hair,And wreath of moon-flowers pale, which shows, methinks,Like lightning round the sun.Sylvia. And see, her robe!It's a new colour. O, it aches my eyes!Rupert. And Oberon's a king, a very king.Eulalie. My dream—this is my dream!Rupert. And to thy dreamI'll tell thee how I played god Morpheus.But now with these good neighbours let us talk.Eulalie. No; let us feast our eyes and then our ears.Torello. More music and voices! This is no imagination: it is thecharm's doing. I will say it again profounder. Shemhamphorash.Rupert. Moonlight and madness! What a howl was that!Celio. What stands in the mid-stream?Sylvia. A man, bound, blinded.Eulalie. It is Torello, sure.Rupert. And I see twoWho know full well how he comes in this plight.What's Puck about?[Puck liberates Torello.Torello. O hell! art thou the devil? Felice, Bruno, take this impaway. Ha! what sights are here? Angels, and fairies, and Eulalie andRupert! Perdition! O perdition!Felice. Be calm. Who unbound you?Torello. This little grinning demon.Felice. Where?Torello. Here, on my shoulder. Do you not see him? And all thiscrowding crowd, and Rupert and Eulalie? Do you not? Do you not see them?Ah me! you cannot; for it is a vision. I will not suffer it. My doom issealed. Farewell, fair Eulalie, farewell. Avaunt thou hairy fiend! Thoushalt not have me. O, you pinch me! Oh! oh![Torello runs out tormented by Puck.
Puck re-enters shortly.
Rupert. This is the wildest prank; we'll hear its source another time.Celio. Should not our queen of May interview the Fairies?Rupert. Well bethought.Eulalie. Then I'll begin with thee. What elves are these,Thou seem'st to lead in ordered companies?2nd Fairy. That the fairy army is,Clad in rose-leaves, bravely worn;Pollen far outshines gold lace;Their helmets bright are husks of corn;Quivers of the adder's slough;Bows of legs of spiders slain;A cob-web string is strong enoughFor a spear-grass arrow's strain,With the sting of hornet tipped,In the dew of hemlock dipped.Eulalie. And what are you, ye varied, restless ones?3rd Fairy. We the fairies are who sleep,Blanketed and pillowed deepIn the golden, blooming foldsOf nightly-cradled marigolds.Some with evening's blushes meekTinge the peach's downy cheek.Feathers stolen from butterfliesMake our pencils: all the dyesOf all the flowers we fairies knowHow bright daffodils to gildIn the saffron sunrise glow;To launder lilies in the snow;When midnight all the air has filledWe dip in purple gloom the pansy;When Cupid over-rules our fancyFor our loves we make incision;The daisies with our blood we dight,Loosened from its veined prison;When we haste upon our missionIn a moonless, starless night,Fireflies, glow-worms lend us light.Eulalie. Come hither, little brownie, dark and green.I prithee, tell me what thy fellows bin.4th Fairy. Wood-elves they, in russet dressed,And they love the lindens best.Hark, they hum our antique rune!A human fiddler learned the tune,And played it at a merry-making:Still he plays; the clowns still danceIn a jolly, jigging trance;For them to rest there is no waking,Till that fiddler learn to playBackward our elfin melody.Eulalie. And what are ye so beauteously dressed?5th Fairy. River-spirits, golden-tressed,With blue eye, and light-blue vest.None can sing so sweet as we,Joyfully or mournfully;And our chant is ever ringing:Such a spell is in our singing,Every listener hears arightHis own thought from the water-sprite.Eulalie. And ye?6th Fairy. We are sea-nymphs, sea-green-haired,Liquid-voiced and liquid-eyed.We will float with bosoms baredOn old Neptune's happy tide;There our filmy smocks to bleachIn the sun, and soft west wind;Mortals, gazing from the beachThink them foam-crests, fairy-blind.Eulalie. And ye, the fairiest of all the fairies?7th Fairy. We are most ethereal sprites,Draped in merging rainbow lights.Perfume is our dainty food;Ever varying is our mood.Sometimes in a rose we shine;Now a girl's face make divineFor her sweetheart, lying hidIn her blush, or her eyelid:Unfelt we swing upon a hair:To be lovely's our sole care.Sylvia. Titania waves her wand. O, will she speak?Titania. All manner of delight attend your loves:That you are lovers tasks no intuition:And we rejoice to think Cythera's sonHis ancient craft plies with unbated skill,Though there be some who hold he fled long sinceFor ever from his earthly hunting-ground,While a usurper courses his preserves—A hideous dwarf, disguised, who blindness feignsAnd shoots forged bolts that are indeed of gold,But cast in Hades, of no heavenly ore,Lacking love's temper, and sweet-poisoned barb.Truth has its part herein, sad sooth to tell;For many a fight has Cupid with his foe,And much the issue of their war is fearedIn skyey quarters: well it is for youThat ye are lovers orthodox and true.Every good wish is in this that I say—May you be lovers till your dying day.Wilt thou say something to them, Oberon?Oberon. Bless you, fair lovers—benedicite.Kind damsels, let me kiss you.Titania. Nay—why, then,If thou wilt kiss the maids, I'll kiss the men.[They do accordingly.Oberon. Mortals, farewell for ever and a day.To-night we fairies wend the wide world round;And this our visitation each new MayTo summer sweetness mellows air and ground.The winds kiss from our lips a perfumed spoil,And store the pillaged wealth in woods and bowers;Each fairy footstep swift impregns the soil,And in our wake we leave a foam of flowers.In orchard blossoms from our odoured hairWe shake rich drops that flavour all the fruit;Nor lacks the grain our much-availing care!Each thing is blessed where comes a fairy foot:We bless all bridals true, all love that's chaste.—Now, fairies, to the sea with utmost haste![Oberon, Titania, and the Fairies go out.Puck. Every trick that erst I playedOn horse or ox, on man or maid,On jealous husband, grandam old;On timid wight, or braggart bold,On lazy slut, or busy lass—To whom I through the keyhole pass,Pinching slattern black and blue,A tester dropping in thrift's shoe—To-night I merrily repeat,And all sight and hearing cheat.Willy-wisp, spoorn, hag, or faun,Urchin, changeling, pixy, pan,All these shapes and names I bear,Pressing like a dread nightmareFull-fed losels, half-awake,Rustling like the fierce fire-drake,Shouting loud the whole night longWitching spell or laughing song.Voice. Come, come, come along!Puck. Hark! 'twas Oberon who criedFrom the sandy wet seaside.Voice. Come, come, come away!Puck. I'll be with you, princely fay,Ere again those words you say.[Goes out.Eulalie. Hush!Felice. This sport is o'er. We must go seek Torello.[Felice, Bruno, and Scipio go out.Cinthio. Come, Faustine; this bright mask is played and done.Fair pioneers, we'll follow you anon.[Cinthio and Faustine go out.
Enter Green and Ivy, tipsy.
Ivy. By the light of Hecate's lamp—lamp, lamp? What rhymes withlamp! Scamp? cramp?Green. Damp.Ivy. Damp? Good.By the light of Hecate's lamp,May all poetry be damned;And each stupid poet-scamp,May his invention take the cramp!There! that's genius!Sylvia. O Celio, come! I cannot bear these fools.[Celio and Sylvia go out.Ivy. Here be people!Green. And here be more!
Enter Alardo, Guido, Martha, Onesta, and Mayers, with Cinthio andFaustine, guarded.
Eulalie. Mother, what do you here?Martha. You'll see anon.Onesta [to Faustine]. O, my lady, you must not blame me! I could nothelp it. My lord your father——Guido. Peace, well-named hypocrite! [Aside to Alardo.] This is yourson,With that low maid on whom he would devolveThe varied riches of his royal blood.Alardo. Refer to his decree your daughter's case,Thereby to see how far his judgment's warped.[To Conrad.] Reveal not yet your parentage, I pray.Rupert. Why, how now, Guido? Sir, what mean you thusWith all this mob to break upon us here?Guido. My gracious prince, these two but now confessed—What fear of torture from my daughter's maidHad riven ours already—that to-night,Faustine, having 'scaped by practices most vile,Meant with this silly shepherd to elope,He having stolen her heart from me, her sire;Though by what means they interchanged their loves,How spake, how saw each other, passes skill:And both with fixed intent to rob your landOf their two bodies and hidden wealth of issue,In that same ship, whose captain is Sebastian(Riders we have despatched to fetch him here),Purposed themselves to carry off—fine casketsOf so high value and unpriced contents,All to your grace, and all to Belmarie,And a fair moiety to me, belonging.This knowing, and that, until time should serveThey here did hide, thinking the wood more safeThan our exposed and pirate-haunted shores,I, with these lords, came hither. On the wayWe trained along with us these unbid Mayers,Who must excuse themselves if they offend;Though for their help in finding out this haunt,Subserving thus the law, they might be shrived.A strange and most sweet music led us on;And we supposed to find the minstrels here,And know from them of those love-guided truants.In perpetration of their triple crimeWe caught our night-errant lovers. Upon themImmediate justice I do here demandIn your name, mine, and in that of the land.Rupert. Which thou and it and they shall surely have.Stand from the shade, ye social rebels. What!My Cinthio! thou should'st have trusted me.—This is the final doom that I decree.Guido, take thou thy daughter in one hand,Her lover in the other. Mother mine,Here is my hand and here is Eulalie's.Lord Guido, thou next best blood to the throne,Surrender here into this shepherd's armsThy well-beloved and only daughter, Faustine.Good Martha, of the very lowliest stock,On me, King Rupert, thy sweet child bestow.I now revoke my first decree, and takeThat title, which is mine, to make this right;For kings are higher than all laws but love.Do as we bid, lord Guido; join their hands,As Martha now unites my love's and mine.Do it, I say; or else by Hymen's torchI'll marry thee to Martha, and so makeThree marriages, by which a king becomesA peasant's husband, and a subject's son;Obtains a mother—a poor fisher's widow—Who brings with her a lordly father-in-law,A gentle sister, and a simple brother:Thus I, a king, beget more new affectionThan love, which not incites this my election.Alardo. Rash boy, forbear.Rupert. My father!Alardo. Yes, Rupert.No ghost, in health, and likely long to live.Leave go her hand; and you, girl, let his go.Woman, be you more careful of your child.We wait to be obeyed.Rupert. I'll not obey:I owe no duty, know no king, but love.Eulalie. Farewell, dear Rupert. Rupert and farewellI say now finally: yet kiss me once.My dream dispels before your father's frown:Those fairies which we saw we did not see;I am still half asleep: when I awakeMy cheated eyes will weep their own deceit,Viewing my chamber's walls so falsely real.Go to your father, prince; I'll to my mother.Faustine. I have no father, and I have no kingSave thee, my Cinthio, and my dearest love.I see her heart is almost split in twain;But if they rive my body from thine arms,My heart entire will stay there: I shall die.Alardo. I had forgot: you two need not to part;Conrad will speak the barrier away.Cinthio. I do remember now two soothsayers.Rupert. I see them in my father and this lord.Conrad. You see aright. Shepherd, thou art my son.I here have watched thee with a lynx's eyes,And noted every motion of thy limbs,Thy heart's each flutter and thy tongue's each word,And every act; and in thy very sighs,Thine eye's upturning, there is limned past doubtA faithful copy of thy heaven-homed mother.But let me see the chain that's round thy neck.Thou art my son!Cinthio. My father!Guido. Go, Faustine,Go to him. Royal sir, my word is proved,That women are but governed by their bloods.Alardo. And dogs, and men, and angels I presume.—But what to do with my sad son I know not.Martha. I'm going to disown thee, Eulalie.Please it your gracious highness and fair prince,This gentle lady is no child of mine.Her parents both were noble: how they died,And she, an infant, of her heritageWas cozened by an uncle, I'll make plainBy names, dates, papers, birth-marks, jewellery.I reared her as my own in low content,And meant not to destroy her happinessBy telling her of her nobility,Till she might claim her land with power to take.Alardo. Prove what thou sayest, and they may wed to-morrow.Rupert. Thanks, gracious father. It is true, I know.What, Eulalie! hast thou no energy?Art thou struck dumb? Wilt thou not spring to me?How! Would'st thou have me woo thee o'er again?A high delight! Then high-born maid, be coy.Eulalie. O no, I need no wooing; but I fearThou'lt love me in a manner different.A lady I would be to marry thee;But with thy former love, pray love me still.Rupert. With that, and every kind of love, I will.Thou art—O what thou art I cannot say!I love thee, nor can tell how lovingly.Ivy. I'll make a ballad of this, a proper ballad—a ballad that woulddraw tears from a frog in the heart of a rock. By Hecate, I will!
Enter Officers with Sebastian.
Officer. This is the captain we were sent to take.Alardo. Canst thou say aught by way of an excuse?Sebastian. King, I behold such happy faces here,Glowing like stars in the grey morning air,That I have little fear to say, I cannot.It seems indeed that every star of heavenWith most auspicious aspect earthward turns.I bring such tidings as will raise your browsMuch more than this new amity I seeConstrains surprise in me. Your appetitesShall, when they have fed full of wonderment,Fall to a second feast of happiness,Admiring, welcoming and hearing toldThe ships, their crews, and unconceived escapes.Alardo. What ships, crews, 'scapes?Sebastian. Those galleys four, ornate,With all the gallant, living human freightThat sailed forth in the five, with wealth untoldOf bullion, spices, silks, and rarities,Gathered in many lands and many seas,Are in the harbour safe arrived but now.Alardo. I cannot speak. Kind Heaven, my knees I bow.Mayers. Long live the King! Long live Prince Rupert! Long live ourMay-Queen!Green. Let us to the shore.Ivy. Ay, that's the word! Come, lads and lasses! There shall we havesight of ships we thought never to see, and shake hands that we thoughtdeath had shaken, and hear voices that we thought were singing withmermaids. O, there will be kissing and embarrassment, and sobbing andlacrimony! I will end my ballad with it.Cinthio. Sebastian, all our voyaging is past.Sebastian. And paradise attained at home at last.Ivy. Good captain, lead us on.Sebastian. I pray you, wait.Ivy. Sir, we have waited a year and a month, and can tarry no longer.Come.Mayers. Away, away![Green, Ivy, Sebastian, and Mayers go out.Alardo. Behold, the blinking dawn with sleepy eyesPeers from her cloudy lattice in the skies,Early astir to see if it be timeFor Phoebus to awake and make day's prime.Be glorious in thy rising, day-god bright,For thou wilt usher us to that delightWe hardly dared to pray for: mark this dayWith thy most splendid, most benignant ray;For fate has blessed it, and time seems to makeA new departure—yea of life to takeA fresh lease: so, henceforth, our years shall date.—Follow us lovers linked in hands and heartsLike true love-knots that strength or skill ne'er starts.[Alardo, Conrad, and Guido go out.Martha. Eulalie!Eulalie. Dear mother!Rupert. And mine too.Cinthio. Now, let us wash our faces in the dew.Rupert. O, I forgot th' observance of the day.All hail my mistress and my Queen of May!Eulalie. I am afraid that all our joys but seem,And I shall yet awake out of a dream.Rupert. Have no such fear, my love.—Behold us, then,Two happy maidens and two happy men.Lo, wakened by the lark, his bellman true,Armed with a torch that merrily doth shine,Arrayed in saffron of the deepest hue,The sun, like Hymen, comes with smile benign!As long as his resplendent light shall burn,May our love-tides increase, but never turn.
A ROMANTIC FARCE(Edinburgh, 1878)
Earl Edmund.Sir James Montgomery.Antinous.Clown.Captain Mercer.Ringan Deane, a boy.Lady Montgomery.May Montgomery.Mary-Jane.Bellona.Herminia.Annie Smith, a girl.
Enter a lady dressed as an Amazon, and a gentleman dressed as a Clown; both masked.
Clown. Fair warrior, how speed you in a fight,If all fordone after the second waltz?Amazon. My soul is tired of folly, not my limbs.Good clown, of your light wit enlighten meConcerning somewhat cloudy.Clown. Certainly.My light wit if it may dispel your night,Will flaunt as proudly as the sun. Behold![Unmasks.Amazon. You are too hot. I would not, sir, be scorched:Becloud your beams again. Your eyes burn bright—Oh!—like the round holes carved in turnip-lamps,Lit up by boys on witching hallow-e'ensTo fright their sisters and the serving-maids:I am afraid: clap to the shutters, pray.[Clown masks.Now, like the hollowed orbs of the baboonYour eyes gleam furtively—like rush-lights dimThat steal into the night through secret chinksOf steep-thatched huts in lonely highland glens.Clown. I might enlarge upon the periodsOn either side your nose, that put an endBy saucy looks to any parleyingSave that of sharp-edged words: but haste me nowTo know the darkness which I must illume.Amazon. What wight is he, as gentle Sidney dressed,Who casts his wit about like pearls—I meanLike pearl-less oysters, which the crowd accept,Unskilled or unconcerned, as worth mirth's price,While you and I perceive them what they are,Sad fish indeed, old, stale, unsavoury?Clown. I've marked him well, but know not who he is:He seems to be acquaint with comic writers.Know you the nymph that danced with him but now—She, with the rosy garland—only hueAbout her white robe save her golden hair—With frank blue eyes that always seem to ringWith peals of fairy laughter, summer's queen?
Enter a gentleman dressed as a Corsair, and a lady dressed as a Contadina; both masked.
Amazon. Hush!Clown. Ah! I noted these in the last waltz.Amazon. She's my full cousin; he, a highland one.I think they be in love.
Enter a gentleman dressed as an Elizabethan Courtier, and a lady dressed to symbolise Summer. After them runs in hurriedly a lady dressed as a Scotch Peasant-girl. They are masked. The Courtier shuts the door and puts his back against it.
Clown. Our cynosures!Amazon. Indeed! Pray, let me out.Courtier. Superb she-warrior, rest you here a space:Nay, frown not, most redoubted amazon:I have a thing to say: I'll say it now.That which the world calls folly is my trade,Unwitting that its trade is only folly.I neither crave the statesman's rancid fame,The sailor's vogue, the soldier's red renown,Nor care I to discover: AfricaAgrees not well with my adventurous sprite;The negress is not lovely—that's the die:Nor is the Arctic climate amorous.I wrote a book——Good lack, the solitude!But first the woe by which I was confined!O Luna, of thy tenderness I prayLet me no more be fructified by woe!The highway?—Fie on steam and liveried lightning!—Whate'er I fancy if I may I do.A happy notion fills me now; give ear,Gentle and lovely ladies, gentlemen,Sprightly and handsome. Will you hearken it?[They assent.It is my earnest hope to make you mad.—These gala robes wherein we now are dressedWhy should we cast for good and all to-night,To don the wintry worldling's dingy slough,Returning sadly to the chrysalis?Fashion, propriety, convention?—Tush!Let us like noble heretics protestAgainst all dogmas false and fashionable,And, if need be, with righteous resignationAttest our faith in glorious martyrdom,Tied to opinion's stake, and burned by tonguesOf scandalous fire, blazing from faggot hearts.Then, gentle friends, since such is our resolve,We can do nothing nobler than attackFashion's mainstay, the discipline of dress.I swear that you may well with less adoWorship the sun, keep harems, or, like FranceWhen liberty became beside herself,Extend the week from seven days to ten—Yea, set apart and consecrate each dayTo traversing with all your might and main,In order, Moses' ten "commandements,"Than steadfast be in non-observance braveOf the great ordinance of dressing allIn fashion's right religious uniform.So, shall we dare the world? Who says with me,To wear this fancy dress to-morrow tooIn the sun's kindly, and the world's ill, eye?Amazon. Suppose we do, what issue do you see?Courtier. Whatever fantasies our minds may donWe shall expound with these our fancy clothes.There is none here, I think, to whom I'm known,Nor do I know a single one of you;So I propose that each assume some nameTo complement the dress worn, to be usedWhile we are in this mood.Clown [to Amazon]. If that were fixedYou should be called war's bride, Bellona bold.Bellona. Bellona would be bold to call you clown.Corsair [to Contadina]. I'll call you—what? Some lingering name: Herminia!Herminia. Herminia!Corsair. What name for me, Herminia?What word, however harsh, would by your lipsBe sweetened to a note of Syren strength,That, whispered, should have force to summon meFrom Iceland to Ceylon. Tell me, Herminia.Herminia. I think Antinous should be your name.Courtier [to Summer]. And you, sweet summer—Flora?Summer. I'd be called,And for no other reason than I would,Not Flora, no, nor Maud, but Mary-Jane.Courtier [to Peasant-girl]. Sweet lowland lass—alas, without a lad!—Will you be of us and yourself re-christen.Peasant-girl. I harboured here to shun a horrid manWhom I saw, like a pirate, bearing downTo rob me of a dance. I'll sport with you.Courtier. What name, then, lassie?—Effie, Jeanie, Katie?Peasant-girl. No; call me May Montgomery, if you please.Courtier. What? May Montgomery! Why choose that name?None of the rest have been extravagantTo take a surname's luxury.May. Let me—Nay, for I will: I'll not be in the fashion:And it will be a pleasing penance, too.Courtier. A pleasing penance! Can you tell us how?May. I scarcely like. But, sir, I like your play,Because I would be called Montgomery.Courtier. Then, May Montgomery, tell us your romance.May. Alas, the speed I have to tell my taleIs slow as melancholy thoughts can be,That strike as often as a passing-bell:A bitter-sweet confession I must make.O ladies, do not fit your faces, pray,For some iniquity! Sadly, 'tis this.In Paris, where I lived a year ago,A youth fell sick in love for worthless me:I marvel now, though then I thought it due:Yet love creates, being a divinity,What it affects; and his most holy loveInspired poor me with beauty not my own,Though still I wonder that what grace I haveCould be enriched with such induement sweetAs he cast over it; for at that timeHe lacked his passion's courage, so he wroteA tender tale whose heroine was me,But metamorphosed to a deity.The book is throbbing like his fiery heart;This I have learned with memorising it:And now it is my only orison,My only literature, my only joy.I lull myself to sleep low-murmuring it,And in my dreams its sweetest scenes enact;I waken smiling in his tender arms,And sob to find mine clasped about myself.After his book he came to hear his doom:Trembling he stood: I, wanton, doomed us both—Him to his grave, for then I loved him not;Myself, to love him now most hopelessly.And May Montgomery in his book I am:Pray, call me so; it is a lovely name.Courtier. And is your lover dead?May. I fear it, sir.Courtier. Now, are we named anew, all except me.How will you call me? Come, give me a name.What in his story is your lover hight?May. Earl Edmund; and the whisper went that heBy right was lord of many lands and towersIn Scotland here: but that I do not know.Courtier. I pray you, bid me take that name.May. O no!Earl Edmund! That were blasphemy!—But yes!I will be glad to speak it out aloud.Edmund. Speak it, I pray, as often as you choose.—Well, I am tired of barring up this door.So, on the morrow, by the stroke of noonBe all together, dressed as now we are,Assembled at the distant, dusky endOf that most pleasant pathway of the glen,Where lovers, shaded by a green arcade,Wander toward eventide, slow, silently.May. The Alley of Sighs.Edmund. So is it called, I think.Bellona. What there to do, I pray you?Edmund. I know not:Plan nothing, and you'll see a wondrous plot.Meantime, unmask, and let us see ourselves.[They unmask.Now, call our names.
They go out, repeating their new names. Mary-Jane and May Montgomery re-enter immediately.
May. Sweet mother, do you know how well you look?They all think you at least as young as I.Mary-Jane. My darling, it is you who keep me young:The world is young while you are fresh and fair.I was eighteen when you were born, my dear:I'm more than twice your age, for you're sixteen.May. Which no one will believe.—To think that IAt fifteen should be loved with such a loveAs poor Earl Edmund's was!—Now, Mary-Jane,Do you intend to play in this new game?Mary-Jane. I think they merely mean a passing joke.May. O no! it is to be an earnest joke.Do let them call me May Montgomery!Besides, he whom I am to call Earl EdmundHas got his eyes and voice—indeed he has.Mary-Jane. Well, we will go to-morrow to the glen:I like the company of sprightly men:And you will have this earl to clarifyThe sorrow-shaded cheek and tear-dimmed eye.May. O Mary-Jane, I am a widow too!I'll never wed another; nor will you.[They go out.
Re-enter Earl Edmund.
Edmund. She looks at me perplexed and wistfully;But I am certain that she knows me not.How should she! When her memory might have caughtA faithful copy of me, love, unrisen,Shrank from the dawn: and so it is that nowWhen love has flooded all her life, the shapeConceived of me within her inmost heartMust be the picture of a false ideal:I dread to think how fine a thing she loves.I'm glad she cannot pierce my sanguine mood,And find the haggard child of pain and care,Who, pain being dead, and in pale care's despite,Has laughed himself to pleasant looks and strength.Of my identity the sudden newsWould to my suit hardly be suitable:Wherefore I'll fall upon some easy course,And gently glide unfelt into her heart.[Goes out.
Enter Ringan Deane and Annie Smith.
Ringan. What is the meaning of your face to-day?Will you not speak? Then sit down here awhile.[They sit. She gives him a daisy.But Annie, speak. This flower is very well:Now let me have some blossoms from your tongue.What are these roses struggling in your cheeks,And withering with your waxing, waning smile,Which something means and yet is that thing's veil?Is it love's sun that rises? Is it loveBeginning to embalm your heart's sweet flood,And dyeing deep the roses that now die,Now flourish in your cheeks?—If you'll not speak,Then here's a thing to do. Read this aloud.[Gives her a paper.And read it in your softest, dreamiest tones;Clothe with your voice my verses' skeletons.Annie [reading].Where have you been to-day, Annie Smith,Where have you been to-day?By the shore where the river becomes a frith?Or up on the hills, away,By purple heather and saffron broomLike clouds at the sunset hour,And all the well-kent flowers that bloomIn each breezy hillside bower?
Were you there, Annie Smith, that your face is so gayAnd your eyes so laughing and blue?Was it there that you spent the whole of the day?Or, tell me, darling, were youIn the leafy wood where the grass grows thickWith the fairies at their play?Did you flirt with Oberon, dance with Puck,That your face, Annie Smith, is so gay?
Where have you been to-day, Annie Smith,That you smile so gaily on me?By the shore where the river becomes a frith?Or were you upon the sea?Did you sail in a pearly shell, Annie Smith,With your hair flying free?Do your laughing blue eyes tell, Annie Smith,Such a happy tale of the sea?Or were you down in the caves, Annie Smith,With the mermaids under the sea?Did the mermen beneath the waves, Annie Smith,Try to catch and keep you from me?Or did you fly through the air all the day?Did you frolic with the wind?Did you dine with the man in the moon, I pray,That your face and your eyes are so laughing and gay?Come, Annie, Annie, be quick and sayWhere you have been the whole of the day,In your body or in your mind?
ii.Where have you been, Annie Smith, to-day,That your face and your eyes are so calm?Did you hear in the church the minister pray?Did you join in the holy psalm?Did he tell of the solemn joys of the blest,That your face is so calm and serene,That you seem to have ended each earthly quest?In the church, Annie Smith, have you been?
Or did you stand on the shore, Annie Smith,And gaze away to the west?Did you stand where the river becomes a frith,With your hands folded over your breast,And gaze at the golden skyey gateAs the sun passed through sublime?Did you get this shadowy light of fateOn your face at the sunset time?
Or are you an angel, Annie Smith,For a time from your blessedness riven,To guide me over the cold, wan, frithOf death to your happy heaven?
Ringan. O, you might precept Mercury's elocution,And teach the Muses and the Sirens singing.Annie. And do you love me, then?Ringan. You know I do.Annie. I love you—and I love you, Ringan Deane.
Enter Clown.
O, what a curious-looking gentleman!Clown. A pretty pair, indeed!—And who are you?Annie. He is a poet, and I am his sweetheart.Clown. A poet is he, sweetheart! Lack-a-day!Bid him go hang or drown without ado;And in Elysium while you live, he'll prayFor showers of blessing to descend on you,Whose high behest despatched him to that climeOf peaceful pleasure and warm purple dusk,Ere rained calamity and mouldering timeCould rot his spirit in its carnal husk.Or if you needs must keep him, be preparedFor daily infidelity, my dear,For you will find your part in him is sharedBy every beauty he may see or hear;Whether it be of seas, of flowers, of skies,A wind, a woman, or a music note,His hungry passion hugs it till it dies,Leaving him happy with a new-born thought.Annie. He being a poet, must it be so with him?Clown. It is the poet's health and his disease,His joy, his sorrow, his belief and whim,His bane and blessing, and his itch and ease,His night and day, his pestilence and breath,His summer, winter, heaven, hell, life, and death,This passion, shackled to its own desire,Unchained, unchainable within that range,Sateless, bateless, changing without change,Consuming beauty after beauty, higherTo toss its blood-stained, heaven-scaling fire.
Enter Edmund.
Good-morrow, noble earl. What, you look pale!By every gentle oath that is not staleYou are a votary of Cupid's throng,And have been keeping vigil all night longAt some high window, or in some lone grove;For it is still the doom of those in love—O cruelty, most condign and refined!—To watch with Dian and her nymphs unkind,And, like chameleons, take the stars' wan hue,The while their purple hearts love's fire burns through.Last night you seemed unharmed of Venus' son.What! has your cheeks' red radiance trickling goneOut by a broach of last night's archery,When Cupid volleyed shafts from many an eye?Edmund. Late hours, good clown, late hours: I swear that's all.Clown. No; you are in love: I am sure of it. Now, take a littleadvice from me. Do not addle your brain by imagining that you love aparticular lady. You are in love: that's all, and that's enough. O theseromancists! It is womankind you love: and these wonderful ladies, if itwere not for novels and poetry and tradition—and heredity perhaps—wouldnever dream of bestowing their affections on an individual. The world's amere expansion of Adam and Eve: I look upon it as one man and onewoman—as manhood and womanhood: and I believe, if you sounded thethought of the world, you would find that is how it regards itself.Edmund. I know a lady who will never regard the world in that light.Clown. O, unsophisticated youth!Edmund. A maid whose bosom is a nunnery chasteWhere spotless thoughts like votaresses dwell.Clown. There is not a maid, wife, or widow, whose fancy any man, ifhe set himself to it, could not conquer; nor any man whom any woman couldnot subdue if she chose.Edmund. One single fancy like an upright kingSways her most constant loyalty: my loveConceives not that there is in all the worldAnother man save me; and I, no maid.Clown. I would undertake to make your saintly lady love me, andforget you altogether.Edmund. O, rather would I have my lady hearThe hiss of serpents and the howl of hell,Than have the rose-bud beauty of her earSullied by such a tale as you would tell!For though a pure portcullis' instant fallWould cut your foul breath from her cloistered brain,On the pink portal like a sooty pall,I fear its filthiness might long remain.If you dared ope your lips and let them holdMost distant parley with a noisome theme,Her eyes would lighten out their glance of gold,And strike you dumb for ever. O, you dream!Clown. You talk, you talk. Honestly I admire your youthfulenthusiasm. But these clear-starched opinions, which young men collarthemselves with in the first moon of manhood, will soon soil, and bewashed and wrung to a rag. But truly, I am in love myself.Edmund. With whom?Clown. She wears the habit of an amazon,And flings her limbs as though they ne'er had movedIn Chinese steps within a frock's confine;Whistles, lays hand on hip, laughs at her ease,And seems to signify of two things, one—Come, kiss me if you choose, or, if you dare.
Enter Antinous, Herminia, May Montgomery, Mary-Jane, and Bellona.
Edmund. Good morning, and good morning, gentle friends.Bellona. And who are these?Clown. A sweetheart and her poet.May [to Annie]. Tell me your name, and I will tell you mine.[May and Annie talk apart.Ringan [to Mary-Jane]. O lady, summer's essence, centuriesOf sunlight from your eyes my being flood.The sweetest damask of a season's bloomOf roses dyes your cheeks, your tender breathIs sweeter than their scent, and in your hairThere shines more gold than ever July spentIn gilding leagues of wheat.Mary-Jane. Ha, ha! good boy.You'd better deem me dressed as winter, though.Ringan. O, were you in a snow-drift clad, and hungWith icicles about, a glance would tellThat you were summer masquerading. Lo!You are the summer, and you could not hide,No more than Venus with her girdle onCould pass for Hecate. And I love you, lady.Mary-Jane. Now, you are foolish, sir.[Crosses to Edmund.Ringan. I fear I am.[Lies down under a tree.Bellona. Have you ever been in love?Clown. I am not such a fool.Bellona. Not such a man, you mean. You are all fools till you be inlove—great, lubberly, ill-bred, selfish clowns. And when the selfishpassion seizes you, then—then—O then!Clown. Why, what then?Bellona. Then you become ten times great, lubberly, ill-bred, selfishclowns. Men are all and always fools.—Earl Edmund, we are here. What then?Edmund. Impatient amazon, thus then it is:This hour you must complete as best you can;When it is sped, here gather all again,And on the grass partake a sylvan feast:There shall not want for music; if for song,The blame be with yourselves. Be happy, all.—Sweet May Montgomery, will you walk with me?[Edmund and May go out.Bellona. I'll walk alone.[Ringan rushes forward.Well, boy, you look distraught.Ringan. O incarnation of what nymph soe'er,I knew not what it is to love till now;For never have I seen in any maidSo much to love as in this heaven appears.Some maidens are like night, and some like day,But hear me swear, since day and night beganThere has not overhung a thrilled, hushed worldA night so bossed with points of admiration,As o'er my soul is imminent in you,Studded with stars of love-enforcing power;Nor has there shone a day so bounteousOf every largesse to a thankful world,But that the joyous motion you instilThroughout my life transcends its benefice:Wherefore, vouchsafe to hear me cry, I love you;And frown not, for the night should never frownUpon the humble flower that yields its scent,Its sole ability of offering;The day should never lower upon the lakeExhaling tears, which is its grateful life.O, be not angry that the life of loveWhich you infuse in me, here at your feet,For further inspiration or for blight,Lies lowly, and the ground you tread on kisses.[Falls on the ground.Bellona. But what of that fair girl, your sweetheart there?Ringan. Talk not of her. I never loved her. No!I thought I did, for she was prettiest:But having seen you I have seen the sun,And never more will languish for a star.Bellona. You are a foolish boy.Ringan. What shall I do?[Goes out.Annie. O, he has left me! O, my heart will break!Herminia. His haste forgot his love. You should not weep.Annie. It was not haste. These ladies! O, my heart!Clown. I told you what to look for.Bellona. Out on you!—Come, we'll devise a way to bring him back.[Mary-Jane, Bellona, and Annie go out. Clown follows.Antinous [singing].The bee sucks honey from the flowerBecause the sweets are there:I love a maiden in her bower,Because the maiden's fair.
The morning flower turns round his headTo greet the rising sun;My love turns all to you, sweet maid,And so my song is done.[Antinous and Herminia go out.
Enter Lady Montgomery and Captain Mercer.
Mercer. I'm glad we've met. How long ago was that?Lady M. Since she was stolen it is fourteen years;Yet in that time no tears have wet my eyes:For when we knew the darling child was lost,My husband all his other hopes gave up—His office, and advancement, whose sure stridesPursued him constantly, dogged as time;His friends and schemes political; his fame,Which years and dignity bore shoulder-high:He gave them all to buy this little pearlWhose price exceeds the value of the world.O, in our heart her dainty shape is shrined,And keeps it pulsing; and she goes not outTill wintry death expel her summer reign,And freeze that ruddy home to be his house.Mercer. Why, fourteen years ago I lost a wife,The sweetest girl that ever blessed a man.Some happy months, and then I crossed the seas:I sailed from Naples, and she went to Rome.When I returned my friends in Rome were gone,Whither I found not. Then my wife had died,I thought, in child-bed, and looked up the news.I did not there discover what I feared,But found in place a most conflicting taleOf brigandage; and murders had been done.Some ransomed, some let go, some corpses found,Left unaccounted for a child and woman.I searched until my purse and I were lank,In hope to find these two; then, back to sea.Having made many voyages and much wealthI still pursued my calling, for in itI found from sorrow, refuge; though, alone,In midnight watches I have often weptTo hear the waves with melancholy tonguesLapping my ship, to see the crowded starsRejoicing like a family in heaven.And so I marvel that you, being a woman,From weeping should refrain since love so greatBeats in your heart for such a priceless loss.Lady M. The war of hope and fear made desolateThe wine-press of our tears immediately;And since the imminence of our great loss,Our constant, wearisome world-wanderingHas all unqualified our eyes for tears:I tell you we have gone through all the world.First every city, town, Italian croft,All hermitages, and all robbers' dens,From wintry Blanc to fiery Aetna's base,We searched, or sharpened others' eyes with goldTo ransack for our treasure: if two beings,Having between them for their inspirationOne soul alone, might lose it, and yet moveTo seek their riven life, with wanner looks,With ghostlier, more eagle-sighted eyes,Than those with which we glanced through Italy,They could not pierce the region that they haunt:Obscurity was all revealed to us.Thereafter every morn a measured spaceOf weary world our gaunt eyes oversee:Round with the day from east to west we go.Twelve years, now past, from Rome we westward hied;And here, grown old, foot-sore, heart-sore, and poorIn earthly gold, but rich in hope's bright coinWe wander west again.Mercer. Most noble souls!You shall not lack for gold while I have wealth.O, you administer a chastisementTo my unwinged proceedings in my searchFor wife and child, which should have distanced yoursWho travel only for a daughter.Lady M. No;She is our niece, but loved more than a daughter.Mercer. I never heard, nor read, of such a love.Lady M. O, but you never saw, nor shall behold,So lovable a creature! I would moreLose her and pine for her than be the dame,The happy dame, of seven lusty boysLike any I have seen—the loveliest.Mercer. What kin is she?—your husband's or your own?Lady M. Her father was my husband's elder brother;His wife died when our little one was born.I reared her, loved her, and her infancyLaid hold upon my husband. Six years passed;And then her father wished her back again.Upon that news a sickness of my husband'sBecame a malady that claimed my care,Dividing so my grief. A worthy priest,Once chaplain to her father, leaving us—We spent the summer in the Apennines—We trusted our one jewel to his care.But on the way a brigand regimentKilled him and others who would not submit.The captives being ransomed, she was missed,She and her nurse; and fourteen years revealBut little further light. Her father's dead;She is our ward; and we, her only friends.Mercer. What news is this! A woman and a childIn both our stories unaccounted for!You spoke of further light.Lady M. Hope not too much.We met one, Julio, twice among the hills,Where he confessed he led the robber-bandThat wrought our woe; but of the nurse and childProfessed whole innocence and ignorance.When he was captured and condemned to dieHe asked to see my husband. Penitent,He told him all he knew, a dreadful tale.While others plundered, he had marked a maidWho carried in her arms a lisping child:Seizing his fancy, her he laid hold upon;She struggled hard; he in his greedy haste—For though the leader, if he took her notAnd any other were possessed of her,He might not claim her—the loud-screaming babeTore from her, bent to kill; but on its breast,Its clothing being rent, there gleamed a crossOf gold, whereon in diamonds quaintly setChrist hung on ruby nails with ruby blood:It turned aside his purpose. Nigh them kneltAnother woman, wringing of her hands,And weeping o'er another infant dead.Afraid to desecrate the symbol blest,He pressed the child, from early earthly deathSaved by the cross, into this Rachel's arms,And swung the maid, discumbered harshly so,Upon his horse, and kept her for his own.The other woman with the cross-saved childEscaped, and took with her a store of gold.Mercer. This woman who escaped must be my wife:It is my wife! Resource was still her forte;By countless proofs her sleight of head she showed,Nor were her hands less cunning in their kind.I have not known in any clime of earth,Where trade constrained, or pleasure led me on,One of her sex likelier for such a deedAs this checkmating of the brigand band:And with it all a girl most feminine;The deepest scrutiny would never dreamWhat strength lay sleeping with an open eyeBeneath her melting gaze and rosy mouth,Like fire that underburns a flowery mead.Pardon me, pray, I have not talked of herTo any one alive for many years.Why she should travel in that company,Not leaving word, nor sending any news,I can but marvel.Lady M. Here my husband comes.
Enter Sir James Montgomery.
Sir James. News, news!Lady M. O heaven!Sir James. I'll tell you as we go.[They go out.
Enter Edmund and May.
May. Where is your bubbling mirth that overflowedIn fresh, fantastic volume yester-eve?If doleful thoughts should shadow any face,My past might countenance such mirroring,And see, I laugh; yea, by all merry thingsLight-hearted am I! 'Tis the sun, I think.Why are you sad? If you still raise your brows,And stare so, like a spaniel, and unslackThe pressure of your lips, I'll think, indeed,You mean to mimic my lost love, and stealWith stolen looks my heart.Edmund. Am I like him?May. When you look sad you are, and when you laugh,I think he would have laughed so if he could.Edmund. You think him dead.May. Sometimes, and sometimes not.Edmund. Say you were certain of his death, what then?May. In weeds that widows wear I'd hide myselfIn some far lonely land, and mourn for himAmong the hills and streams; and read his book;And, feeding seld and spare, woo fickle death,Who flirts with weaklings and bears off the strong,For one cold kiss to take my soul to him.Edmund. There is no man that's worthy of such love.May. I think not of his worth or want of worth;I love him. But if gentle manliness,Beauty, and honour, and unsounded passionDeserve a maid's devotion, my poor loveIs but a scanty tribute to his worth;And—woe, alas!—its date of payment past,And the robbed creditor far hence or dead,Its garnered hoard weighs heavy on my heart.Edmund. Fear not, fear not. There's something whispers meYour love will be rewarded, in so farAs to possess your sweetheart can amendThe lengthy woe you suffer for his sake.—Now, here's a thing to do to make you glad.Suppose that I'm the true and true-loved earl:I'll go into that grove, and suddenlyEmerging, light on you; and you will know me,Or I will know you, or we'll know each other,Or let our unthought act the instant mould.May. O, in his story there's a scene like that!I'm sitting reading in my sweetheart's bookA passage where he finds me reading it.Edmund. A curious notion!May. Shall we act that scene?Edmund. Yes, if you please. But have you got the book?May. Yes; here it is. Now hide; and I will changeTo suit the place the passage.Edmund. Very well.[Goes out.May [reading]. "Now it chanced that May Montgomery was resident inthis town at the very time of Edmund's arrival. One afternoon thelove-sick girl took her book to the glen, and sitting down in the shadowof a tree endeavoured to alleviate her passion by reading aloud the scenewherein her lover had represented her in just such a situation, and soengaged. She had read over the description of herself lying on her mossycouch, and her cheek was flushed with the anticipation of the interviewabout to ensue in the narrative between her lover and herself, when thebranches rustled behind her and a voice——"Edmund [within]. May Montgomery!May. O Heaven! Deceitful ears! "—and a voice whispered 'MayMontgomery.' She accused her fancy of cheating her, and proceeded with herreading——"Edmund [within]. May Montgomery!May. O me! this voice is agonising! Fancy, you will make me mad!"—when the voice again whispered her name. She exclaimed on fancy fortorturing her so, and laying the book upon the ground, was about tostretch herself, leaning on her elbows with her fingers in her ears,when a shadow came——"Good my eyes have you leagued with my ears, then?There is a shadow! Oh!