Enter Messenger.
Welcome, sir. Your news at once,Plainly and nakedly.Messenger. Comyn is dead:Slain in Dumfries by Bruce; whose party then,Led by the fiery Edward, mad as he,Attacked and seized the castle. On the dayI left the North, in Scone, the Lady Buchan,The Bruce's paramour, Fife's sister, crownedHer murderous lover king. Some lords and knightsHave gathered round him, and he lies at Perth.Edward I. Besotted fool! But it is well. HereinI see God's hand hardening the heart of BruceAgainst me, who am but God's minister,That I may cut him off. I give God thanks.Wallace—What! has he swooned?Mallorie. He's in a trance.Wallace!—Well, this is strange!—Wallace!Wallace [starting]. My lords!Edward I. We'll countenance this mockery no more.All England and all Scotland—all the worldPrejudge your fate. Wherefore we will not thenWaste time in tedious processes of lawTo find you, as we know you, dyed in guilt,And leave another to pursue uncheckedA course of similar iniquity.You for your treason are condemned to dieThe death that traitors merit. Lead him hence.Come after me, my lords, immediately,And take your charges for the North.[Edward I. goes out. Wallace is led away.Clifford. I thinkThe king but whiled the time with Wallace hereTill news should come from Scotland.Pembroke. With what hasteHe sentenced him!Percy. Yes; as a gamesome catDiverted with a mouse, scenting another,Gobbles the captive quick.[All go out.
Enter the Earl of Buchan.
Buchan. This is not jealousy. I only acheWith sorrow that my trust has been reposedIn falseness; and I feel—I fear I feelThe whole world's finger, quivering with scorn,Stream venom at me. If I cannot sleep,It is no wonder, for the laugh I hear,Like icy water rippling—cold and trueAs tested steel—so wise, so absolute—Is learned from those that know me by the fiendWho watches with me nightly. Jealousy?If it possessed me, mortal sickness, bonds,Nothing in heaven or hell, would hold me backFrom sating it with blood—with hers and his.But I will not be jealous, like poor souls,Whose vanity engrosses every thought,And calls itself nobility; not I.I will devise some vengeance, some just means,Some condign punishment, the world will praise,Thinking of me more highly than beforeThis miserable time.
Enter Fife.
Fife. Brooding again!Pluck up some sprightliness, for I have news.Pembroke has routed Bruce in Methven wood,And captured many leading rebels. Bruce,Who showed himself a gallant warrior,Proved in retreat wise as a veteran,Escaping to the North.Buchan. My wife?Fife. They sayThat she and other ladies northward tooIn Nigel Bruce's charge escaped with speed.Buchan. And is this sure?Fife. I well believe it. Come,Question the man who told me.Buchan. If it's trueWe'll join our powers and hunt the rebels downLike noxious vermin, as they are.Fife. Be cool.What means this bitter passion?Buchan. Am I hot?But you'll combine with me?Fife. Assuredly:It is a noble chase; the quarry, gameTo wind us over Scotland. Tally-ho!Buchan. Now you are thoughtless. Come, the messenger.[They go out.
1st Soldier. What clouted loons we are! Royal beadsmen! Eh? 2nd Soldier. The king's as ragged as the rest. 1st Soldier. That's true. to-day I hunted with him, and I thought, Seeing his doublet loop-holed, frayed, and fringed; His swaddled legs and home-made shoes of pelt; His barbarous beard and hair, and freckled face, That manhood's surely more than royalty; For through this weedy, nettle-grown decay, A majesty appeared that distanced us, Even as a ruined palace overbears A hamlet's desolation.
Enter Bruce, unperceived.
3rd Soldier. He's a kingBy nature, though descent were lost in churls.2nd Soldier. Ay, ay; but mark: I'll reason of our state.Here many days we've wasted in the wild,Chased by the English like the deer we chase,Exposed like them, without their native wont,Beneath this fickle, rigorous northern clime,Ill-fed, ill-clad, and excommunicate;While decent burghers—Scots as true as we—Live warm, and prosper with their families.I think we're fools.1st Soldier. Fools for ourselves, maybe,But wise I hope for Scotland: and the folkIn every town and village think us wise,And bless and pray for us.Bruce [aside]. A brave heart that.[Advancing.] Good evening, comrades. Can you guess the time?1st Soldier. An hour past sunset. Look, your Majesty;Barred by these trunks the cloudy embers burnWhere day is going out.Bruce. Faintly I see.Your fire's so bright it dims the distant glow.Sit down again, good friends.1st Soldier. A story, sir?2nd Soldier. O, pray you tell us one!Bruce. I think I will.I've told you many tales of chivalry,Of faerie, and of Greeks and Romans too;But now I'll tell you of a Scotchman—oneWho lived when Rome was most puissant here.The Roman governor, a valiant man,Agricola, in whom ambition pausedWhenever prudence thought the utmost done,Reconquered all the southern British tribes,And drove his enemy beyond the Forth.The noble Galgacus then swayed the realmThat stretches northward of that winding stream;And while the Roman, building forts and walls,As was his wont, secured the bird in hand,He mustered from his glens a skin-clad hostTo fight for freedom. Ardoch they call it,Where the armies met. Ere the battle joined,Firm on his chariot-floor with voice aflame,The Scottish chief harangued his thirty thousand."Brothers," he cried, "behold your enemies!Gauls, Germans, Britons—mercenaries, slaves!In conquest, one and strong; but in defeat,So many weaklings, heartless, hopeless, lost.One signal victory to us were moreThan all the battles that our foes have won:Their confidence is in their leader; ours,In our cause. Hearken!—had I a voice,Like heaven's thunder, I would shout acrossThis battle-field to be, to yon mixed throng,And tell them they are Britons, Germans, Gauls:Bid them remember how in haughty RomeTheir free-born countrymen are taught to serveThe wanton fancies of luxurious viceIn perfumed chambers or in bloody shows;Think of their wives and daughters, all abused;Think of themselves, leagued with their conquerorsArmed and opposed against consanguine folk,Placed in the van to bear the battle's brunt,That Rome may triumph, and her blood not shed:Then would they turn and rend with us the foe.What need has Rome of Britain? we, of Rome?We, the last lonely people of the North,A morsel merely, perilous and far,Incite the eagle appetite of Rome,Uncloyed until she gorges all the world.No other need has Rome. Poor, desolate,Shrouded with mists, with cold empanoplied,At war among ourselves, fighting with beasts,We yet are freemen; and we need not Rome:We are the only freemen in the world.Here, in the very bosom of our land—The last land in the world—we meet the powerThat rules all other lands but ours. Even hereLet Rome be stricken. Brothers, countrymen,Freedom has taken refuge in our hills.She has a home upon the streaming seas,But loves the land where men are hers. Let notThe word go forth on woeful-sounding windsThat Rome has driven freedom from the earth:Sprite you with lions' hearts; like baleful starsInflame your eyes that their disastrous glanceMay palsy foes afar; pour your whole strengthIn every blow, nor fear a drought: the powerOf each is great as all when all are one.Rush like a torrent; crash like rocks that fallWhen thunder rends the Grampians. Liberty!Cry 'Liberty!' and shatter Rome."The Scots were worthy of their gallant chief,And fought as if they loved death, courting herBy daring her to opportunities;Which she—a maid o'er-wooed—resented oft,And strained their cooler rivals to her breast;But discipline—that rock that bears the world,Compactly built—a city on a cliffBreaking disorder back like unknit waves—Founded the Roman power; and on its frontThe Scots beat, shivered by their own onset;And evening saw them ebb, calmed, vanquished, spent.Yet that lost battle was a gain: our hills,That battle, and the ruin of her fleet,Held Rome behind Grahame's dyke, and kept us Scots.All south of us the Romans, Saxons, Danes,And Normans, conquering in turn, o'erthrewFrom change to change; but we are what we wereBefore Aeneas came to Italy,Free Scots; and though this great PlantagenetSeems now triumphant, we will break his power.Shall we not, comrades?1st Soldier. Yes, your Majesty.2nd Soldier. But might it not have been a benefitIf Rome had conquered Scotland too, and madeBetween the Orkneys and the Channel IslesOne nation?Bruce. A subtle question, soldier;But profitless, requiring fate unwound.It might be well were all the world at peace,One commonwealth, or governed by one king;It might be paradise; but on the earthYou will not find a race so providentAs to be slaves to benefit their heirs.1st Soldier. At least we will not.Bruce. By St. Andrew, no!
Enter Nigel Bruce.
My brother Nigel! Happy and amazedI see you here. Why left you Aberdeen?Nigel. For several ends. And firstly, I have news.Bruce. Come to our cave.Nigel. No; for a reason, no.Bruce. Mysteries, secrets!—Well; retire good friends.[Soldiers go out.Nigel. Perhaps my news is stale.Bruce. Little I knowSince in the flight from Methven, panic-struck,We parted company.Nigel. Learn then that Haye—Hugh de la Haye; John is with you, I know—Inchmartin, Fraser, Berclay, Somerville,Young Randolf, Wishart, trusty LambertonAre captives.Bruce. Half my world! But is it true?Nigel. So much is certainty. Rumour declaresYoung Randolf has deserted us; that thoseI named will ransom; but that some, unknown,Have died the death of traitors.Bruce. Noble souls!Randolf—poor boy! What more?Nigel. A priceIs on your head.Bruce. That matters not.Nigel. I know.Still, have great heed of whom and how you trust.That's all the evil tidings. Hear the good.The queen—Ah, this is she! I'll leave you now.[Goes out.
Enter Isabella.
Bruce. My dearest!Isabella. I couldn't wait, my husband.The Lady Douglas and the Lady BuchanAre in your cave. We rode from AberdeenThis evening, learning you were cantoned here.Douglas was sleeping when we came. His wifeBent o'er him, and she slipped into his dream;For when he waked he wondered not at allTo see his lady there, till memoryAroused him quite to find the vision true.Nigel was seeking you; but when I sawThe joy these two partook, incontinentI hurried out myself to find like cheer.My dear wayfaring hero, I have comeTo share your crust, and rags, and greenwood couch:I'm deep in love with skied pavilions:I'll be your shepherdess, Arcadian king.This evening's journey lay throughout a wood:The honeysuckle incensed all the air,And cushats cooed in every fragrant fir;Tall foxgloves nodded round the portly trees,Like ruffling pages in the trains of knights;Above the wood sometimes a green hill peered,As if dame Nature on her pillow turnedAnd showed a naked shoulder; all the way,Whispering along, rose-bushes blushed like girlsThat pass blood-stirring secrets fearfully,Attending on a princess in her walk;I think with rarely scented breath they saidA loving wife was speeding to her lord.Why are you silent?Bruce. I am thinking, dear,That I'm the richest monarch in the world.Possessing such a universe of love,The treasure most desired by kings and clowns.Isabella. What universe, dear lord?Bruce. Simplicity!You are my universe of love, you know.Isabella. Then keep your universe, and do not wasteIn empty space the time. I'll stay with you;Surely I can? Come, tell me all your plans.Bruce. I've none. What I desire I know; and thinkFirmly and honestly my wish is right.Plans are for gods and rich men: I am poor.Isabella. In spirit? So you may be blamelessly;But are you, sir?Bruce. I hardly know. Just nowI tried to cheer a whining fellow here,But stood myself in greater need of hope.Isabella. I know—I understand. You need to thinkOf other things, my dear. I've heard of men,Great men, exhausted even to lunacyBy just those labours that were beating smoothA thoroughfare for ever to success,Repair themselves with youth's prerogativeThat stops time and the world deposes, allIn favour of a dream; or spend a whileWith children or the simplest souls they knew.Come, you must be amused. But, tell me, sir,Am I to stay?Bruce. Yes, dearest pilgrim, yes.Isabella. Oh, I am happy! We will live like birds.Bruce. And in the winter?Isabella. Winter? What is it?This is the summer.Bruce. Winter is——Isabella. Hush!—hark!What birds so late fly screaming overhead?Bruce. Stout capercailzies, hurrying to their hills,Sated with fir-tops.Isabella. Ah! But, dearest lord,Are you quite well? I haven't asked you yet.Bruce. I am very well. And you?Isabella. See—look at me:You used to know by gazing in my eyes.Bruce. My wife, my lover, you are well indeed.Isabella. The fire is nearly out. Come to the cave,And there we will devise amusements, dear.[They go out.
Buchan. God help me and all jealous fools, I pray!The plagues of Hades leagued in one raw scourgeMight minister diversion to my soul,Assailing through my flesh. No thought at allOf starry space or void eternity;Nor love, nor hate, nor vengeance, nor remorse—My cousin's murder!—I've forgotten it!—No sound of horns crackling with riotous breathThe crisp, rathe air; no hounds; no beckoning tunesWith notes of fiery down; nor singing girlsWhose voices brood and bound; nor chanting larks,Nor hymning nightingales can touch my soul.Nothing but torture unendurableWrought in the flesh has power on jealousy.Slay him with agonies? A passing swoon!I'll kill my wife!Her blood is Lethe if oblivion beSave in more high-strung anguish of my own.
Enter Fife.
Fife. What is it? You have news.Buchan. They are together—The outlaw and your sister. They're at hand—Three miles away—no more. A trusty spyTold me just now.Fife. Is there a band?Buchan. Some score.Fife. Then we will take them.Buchan. Yes.Fife. About it straight.[Goes.Buchan. I'll follow—Ho!
Enter Spy.
I thought you still were near.I haven't thanked you yet. [Gives money.] How did she look?Was there about her not a thievish air,A truant aspect, frightened and yet free,Shame-faced, but bold, and like an angel lost.Spy. Who, my good lord?
Re-enter Fife.
Buchan. The queen—the outlaw's wife.Spy. O no, my lord! She laughed, as she rode pastWhere I lay hid, at something gaily saidBy my good lady, your good lordship's wife.They both looked happy, riding in the sun.Buchan. Aye; that will do.[Exit Spy.I'm coming, Fife.Fife. Stay yet.Why did you try to lead him off the scent?You meant my sister when you questioned him.Tell me, what makes your jealousy so strong?You never were in love with her I think.Buchan. Nor am not now. I think—I know—I feelWhat I have heard: true love is never jealous.I am like other men; I love myself.I cannot speak. I mean to act. Come on.[They go out.
Bruce. Who would build palaces when homes like theseOur kingdom yields us bosomed in her hills!What tapestry, where the gloss and colour fadeFrom some love-story, overtold and stale,Or where a famed old battle stagnates dim,Befits a room before these unhewn wallsWhose shifting pictures lower and shine and live,Ruddy and dark in leaping of the fire.No homely mice in cupboards cheep; the nightIs here not soothed by any mellow chirpOf crickets, happily, devoutly busy;But in the ivy and the hollow oakThe owl has heard and learnt through day-long dreamsThe wind's high note when pines in ranks are blown,Bent, rent, and scattered with their roots in air,And sounds his echo loud and dwindling long,Fearfully as he flutters past our door;The wild-cat screams far off in the pheasant's nest;The wehrwolf, ravening in the warren, growls.Night is no gossip here, watching the worldSick-tired, heart-sore, sleep weariness away;But free and noble, full of fantasy,Queen of the earth, earth-bound, ethereal.Isabella [aside]. His spirit rises. We must hold it up.—My lord, shall Lady Douglas sing?Bruce. She shall.Lady, I beg you sing us something sweet.No trumpet notes, no war——[1st Soldier appears at the entrance of the Cave.Douglas whispers with him.What does he want?Douglas. He comes as spokesman for his fellows.Bruce. Well?1st Soldier [advancing].I hope your Highness will be patient with me.My mates have bade me ask a favour, strangeAnd difficult to ask; but not so strangeIf it be thought of well, nor difficultIf I can keep my head.Bruce. Go on.1st Soldier. My lord,For this great while we have seen no woman's face,My mates and I: your Highness knows that well.When we beheld these ladies enter here,A longing seized us all to look on them;To see their faces and their gentle shapes;And even to have them turn their eyes on us;Perhaps to hear them speak. We are true men,And honest in our thought.Bruce. Bring them all in.[Exit 1st Soldier.Countess of Buchan.I know the mood that holds these men: brave lads!If they were wed to women worth their love,They would be nobler heroes than they are.Isabella. We'll speak to them.Countess of Buchan. I'll kiss that knave who spoke.Lady Douglas. Will you?Countess of Buchan. Yes; and I'll do it openly.
Enter Soldiers.
Bruce. Welcome all, heartily, most heartily.Countess of Buchan [to 1st Soldier].Have you a wife?1st Soldier. I have.Countess of Buchan. You love her?1st Soldier. Yes.Countess of Buchan. Is not the truest love the most capricious?1st Soldier. I cannot tell. True love is fanciful.Countess of Buchan. You long to kiss your wife?1st Soldier. And if I do,What matters to your ladyship?Countess of Buchan [whispering] This, sir:I also long to kiss one whom I love;Perhaps I never shall; but I think nowIn kissing you that I am kissing him.[Kisses him.1st Soldier. Thanks, noble lady. If you were my wifeI'd kiss you thus.[He embraces and kisses her.Bruce. Well said and bravely done!Countess of Buchan. And can you fightAs deftly as you kiss?Bruce. I warrant him!Your song, my Lady Douglas; sing it now;A love-song, something homely if you can.Douglas. Sing "If she love me," sweetheart.Lady Douglas. Shall I? Well.But you should sing it rather.Douglas. No; sing you.
SONG.Love, though tempests be unruly,Blooms as when the weather's fair:If she love me truly, truly,She will love me in despair.
Is there aught endures here longer?Can true love end ever wrongly?Death will make her love grow stronger,If she love me strongly, strongly.
Can scorn conquer love? Can shame?Though the meanest tower above me,She will share my evil fame,If she love me, if she love me.
Enter a Forester.
Forester. A thousand men are on you, fly![Going.Bruce. Stand, there!Hold him! What thousand men? who lead them? speak.—Put out the fire—stamp on it, some of you.[The fire is trampled out and the Forester seized.Forester. I know not; but I saw them in the woodStealthily marching.Bruce. Are they near?Forester. An hourBy time, for they are stumbling out a way.There's half a mile or so of wood between.If I had been their guide they had been here.Bruce. You know the paths so thoroughly?Forester. Blindfold.Bruce. Could you lead safely to Kildrummie CastleA band of twenty?Forester. When? to-night?Bruce. Just now.Forester. I think I could. But tell me, sir: they sayThat you're the king. Now are you?Bruce. I am he.Forester [awkwardly]. What must I do?Bruce. Wait patiently.—Good friends,We'll yet postpone farewell. A little wayTogether in the wood——Edward Bruce. But must we fly?Ten are a thousand in a coward's sight;And they may be our friends. Defence even hereWere not too rash against a hundred. What!Is not despair achievement's mother? Why!The high, black night, a shout, a sudden charge,And we dispel this sheep-heart's fearful dream.Bruce. Upon us march the Earls of Fife and Buchan,With many hundred men. They have hunted usFor days, and I have known. My spies are caughtI fear, or they had not arrived so closeWithout our knowledge. [To Forester.] We must thank you, friend,For timely information of our plight.The plan I formed still holds, and this is it.Kildrummie will give shelter to our wives;Nigel will take them there: Douglas, one way,And I, another, as we may decide,Splits up the scent,—and we shall all escape.Edward Bruce. Brother and king——Bruce. No more. In straits like theseCounsel's a Siren: if the leader list,Wreck follows. Errant paths, straightly pursued,Soon reach the goal; while wiser, well-thought waysWander about for fear of miry shoes.And shall I hear one rasher than myself,When wisdom would be folly!—Isabella,A little way together, then farewell.—[To Forester.Friend, go before us.—Follow close. No wordAbove a whisper.Isabella. Must I leave you then?Why are we made so that we trust our hopes![All go out.
Countess of Buchan [aside]. O me! Another! I can court no more. Thisone I'll take by storm.—Fellow, good friend,I think you are my thousandth jailor.Soon I'll have a fresh one doubtless every day.I've here had trial of my power on men,On common vulgar men like you—for youAre like your predecessors, I suppose—And find myself most potent. Listen, now!Yes, but you shall, you must; and look as well:For I have looks like golden lightning, swift,Gentle and perilous, that fascinateThe worshipful beholder. I have words,Sweet words, soft words, and words like two-edged swords,Like singing winds that rock the sense asleep,Like waves full-breasted, filling deepest souls;And I will kill you in a thousand waysWith words and looks unless you yield you now.The others all were conquered just too late;The women tell me nothing—English all;But you will tell me what I want to know,In brave submission to my witchery;Now, like a man: I hope you are a man.Crombe. What must I tell you?Countess of Buchan. You must tell me firstHow the king is—King Robert Bruce, I mean.Crombe. They say he's well.Countess of Buchan. Where is he then? But, sir,I see you better now; you have an eye,A brow, a mouth. Without more question, sayHow Scotland fares since I was prisoned here.Crombe. Because of this same eye, and brow, and mouthThey made me jailor.Countess of Buchan. O, I understand!And being nobler than those stolid pikes—Pike-handles, I should say—forerunning you,You'll not do wrong in duty's name. EscapeYou cannot help me to; but tell me, sir,Some news.Crombe. Ah! Pardon me. If, as you say,I have a brain to know that wrong is wrongThough soldierly obedience be its badge,Shall I not have the strength to overcomeRebellious righteousness? Think you——Countess of Buchan. James Crombe!Crombe. Your servant ever, lady.Countess of Buchan. Pardon, friend;I did not know you. I've no memoryExcept for horrors. I am half a beast—Starved, frozen, scorched, in rags. Sometimes at nightI'm mad. The rotten air, the subtle dark,The clammy cold, crawl through my blood like worms:They knot themselves in aches, they gnaw my flesh,And I believe me dead. Ghosts visit me:They come in undistinguishable throngs,Sighing and moaning like a windy wood.Demons invade my grave with flaming eyes,With lolling tongues; and ugly horrors steamAnd whirl about me. Mountains topple down,Grazing my head; and threatening worlds approach,But never whelm me. O my friend! O me!Tell me for mercy's sake of living men!How came you here?Crombe. To be beside you, lady.Countess of Buchan. What! You are weeping! Dear friend, speak to me.What food is this? White bread, and wine, and meat! [Clapping her hands.]Thanks, thanks! O thanks! I'll eat, while you recountAll, all, about my friends!Crombe. My time is brief.And first I'll tell you of an enemy.Edward the First is dead.Countess of Buchan. Say you! Aha!That was a mighty villain.Crombe. Nigel is dead:They killed him when they took Kildrummie tower.Countess of Buchan. Ah, what a wanton waste of noble blood!Remorseless tigers! Ah, the wolves, the rats!—The queen, and Lady Douglas?Crombe. Prisoners both.Countess of Buchan. The man, my husband?Crombe. Beaten, decayed, forgot.When we were scattered in the wood of Drome,The king sought refuge in an Irish isle,Which in the spring he left, and dared his fate.So after perils, and trials, and mighty acts,And deeds of marvellous device—well poisedBy those achievements, rare and manifold,Heroically wrought by Edward Bruce,Douglas, Boyd, Fraser, Gilbert de la Haye,Randolf, and many another famous knight,Whose deeds already ring in lands afar—At Inverury he and your husband met:And there the earl suffered such dread defeat,That ignominy has become the graveWhere all his hopes lie buried.Countess of Buchan. Wretched soul!Crombe. Now in the length and breadth of this free land,One castle only is in England's power.Would I had time to tell you how 'twas done!Countess of Buchan. What castle?Crombe. Stirling. Edward found the siegeFor his hot blood too long, and made a pact,That if the governor, Sir Philip Mowbray,Were not relieved within a year and day,He should surrender. In the intervalSir Philip went to London to the king—Edward the Second, an unstable man—And couched his eyes of that securityThat curtained Scotland's state. He levied soonThe mightiest army ever England raised;And in the sight of Stirling, Bruce and heAre met to fight.Countess of Buchan. Now?Crombe. Now. And news is comeThat Bruce to-day o'erthrew a championBetween the armies; and that Randolf foughtAnd conquered Clifford, who had dreadful odds.Countess of Buchan. And are they fighting now?Crombe. No; but to-morrowThe battle is.Countess of Buchan. Then, gallant friend, away!Take horse and ride! You must not miss to-morrow.Spur through the night!—Nay, think no more of me!Or think me sitting lightsome on the croup,And smiling at the moon. I go with you:My soul is in your arm!—You must not stay.One stout heart more!—Ride, ride!—I thank you, friend:To know your dear and steadfast constancy,As now I do, is worth these lonely years.—Away to victory!—I can weep at last!—Here, take this withered rag! It is the scarfThe queen gave me that far-off night in Drome.My parched and desert eyes that sorrow shrunkAre wet with happiness! See! Am I red?My pale and stagnant blood wakes up again,I would that we were flying together, Crombe,As once we did, rebels, so free and glad!Now go! Now go!—Yes, kiss me through the bars:My kiss shall help to win the battle. Go![He kisses her, and goes out. The scene closes.
Bruce. This drowned and abject mood; this sodden brain;This broken back; this dull insanity,That mopes and broods and has no thought at all;This dross, that, in exchange for molten goldOf madness thrice refined, were hell for heaven;This flabby babe; this hare; this living death;This sooty-hued, cold-blooded melancholy!We know it for a subtle, potent lie—A vapour, a mere mood! But when it comes,Stealing upon us like unwelcome sleepIn high festivity, we've no more powerTo shake our souls alive, than if we'd drunkOf Lapland philtres,—muddy brew of hell!When we, like beakers brimmed with wine, are fullOf living in the hand of God, there strikesSome new divine idea through His brain,And in the careless instant we are spilledTo be replenished never: so we feel.We feel? How hard it is to fix the mind!Only less hard than to withdraw it. Sleep?No; not to-night. Heart, faithless heart, grow strong.Ay, now I have remembrance of a thoughtA dear breath whispered making wisdom sweet."Husband," she said, "when faith is strong in you,Then only have you any right to think,To judge, to act." And kissed me then, as ifHer healing truth had need of honey!O, Love with its simple glance can pierce the night,When drowsy sages at their tapers nod!I will not trust myself but when self-trustIs buoyant in me. And I surely knowto-morrow's battle finds one soul sufficient.—I wonder how my wife is! Have these years,These days, these hours—it is the hours that tell—Dealt kindly with her in her nunnery?Poor lady! She is gentle, delicate—A lute that can respond to nothing harsh.If she be shattered by this heavy strokeOf separation! I, with sinewy strings,Endure the constant quivering——
Enter Guard.
What now?Guard. The leaders wait without, your majesty.Bruce. Is it that time? Well, bid them enter.
Enter Edward Bruce, Douglas, Randolf, and Walter the Steward.
Friends,Good morning. Let me see your eyes.—Randolf,You have not slept.—Sir James, perhaps you have!Your eyes were never dull.—What, half awake!Why, Walter, love, if not anxiety,Should have kept watch in that young head of yours!Brother, I know you slept.Edward Bruce. Why should I not?I thanked God for the error that I madeIn giving respite to the garrison,Since it has brought us to this desperate passWhere we must conquer. Then I slept, and dreamt;And wakened, laughing at I know not what.Randolf. I had no sleep. This would not leave my mind,That we were one to five.Bruce. Why Randolf, shame!You are the last who should complain of that.What good knight was it, like a water-drop,Lost shape and being in an English sea,Which found him out a rock, but yesterday?Why man, you are my cousin, Thomas Randolf;And this is Douglas; this, my brother Edward;We are men who have done deeds, God helping us.God helping us, we'll do a deed to-day!Randolf. I do not fear; but, lonely, in the nightI could not see how we must win.Bruce. No! come.[They go to the door of the tent and look out.I see the battle as it will be fought.The sun climbs up behind us: if he shine,His beams will strike on English eyes. Look there!The earth throws off her mourning nightly weed;And the fresh dawn, her bowermaid, coyly comesTo veil her with the morning, like a brideWorthy the sun's embrace. This fight you dread,Regard it as a happy tournamentPlayed at the marriage of the fragrant world,If the full weight and awe of its intentPress on you too o'erwhelmingly.Randolf. Not I.I'd rather lose the fight for what it is,Than win it jestingly.Bruce. Well said! The night,That filled you with its gloom, out of your bloodExhales, and it is day. Imagine, now:Between high Stirling and the Bannock stream,Whose silvery streak hot blood will tarnish soon,Four battles stand. To westward, Edward's charge,Douglas and Walter to the north and east,Randolf, the doubter, in the central van;I keep the second ward. Pent in this spaceWe cannot be unflanked, the river's gorgeOn this wing, and on that, calthrops and pits.The English archers scattered—Edward's task—There but remains to stand, while yonder host,Which leaves its revel only now, shall twine,And knot, entangled in its proper coils,Crammed in a cage too small for such a bulk,Such sinuous length, such strength, to bustle in,Save to its own confusion and dismay.Speak I not reasonably, and quietly?Randolf. Too quietly for me! Why, in this trap,This coffin, they shall die for want of air!Edward Bruce. It is too cheap a victory!Douglas. When won,I hope we may not find it all too dear.[Bagpipes, drums, trumpets.Bruce. Ha! now the din begins! My blood is lit!Come, let us set our soldiers in a glow!After the abbot says the battle mass,I'll speak to them, and touch them with a flame.Douglas. They'll burn.Edward Bruce. They'll make a bonfire.Walter the Steward. To announceThat Scotland's liberty's of age.Bruce. Well roared,My lioncel![They go out.
Edward II. Will yon men fight?Umfraville. Ay, siccarly. My liege,If you will hear an old man's humble wordWho knows the Scotchmen well, feign a retreat:Then will these fiery children of the North—Children they are in every gift save strength,And most in guileless daring—rush on us,Leaving their vantage, and be overcomeUtterly, as in many a fight before.Edward II. I'm a young warrior, and I mean to winBy dint of strength, and not by strategy.To sneak a victory I came not north;But in a lordly way to overthrowThe base usurper of my lordship here.Leave paltry sleights and fawnings upon chanceTo starveling rebels, keen as hungry cursThat dodge the whip, and steal the bone at once.Think you we brought our friends across the seaTo juggle with them? We are here to fight,As in the lists, like gentlemen. My lords,I give you Scotland. Nothing for myselfSave sovereignty I claim: and that must beNot snared by ambush, for assassins fit,But seized by courage, frank and English.Pembroke. Sire,One reason only urges strategy:Adopting it, less English blood will flow.Edward II. That touches me.De Argentine. And it is kindly thought.But I have heard the Scotsmen plume themselvesOn victory over any English odds,In battles, pitched, embroiled, and hand to hand;That we have never vanquished them in fightExcept when treachery assisted arms.Conquest unchallengeable, dearly boughtWere worth its cost. A wily victoryWould leave our foes unhumbled, unappeased,And confident of ultimate success.Edward II. This is the wisest counsel.Umfraville. Hear me yet.What warrior is wilier than Bruce?The schiltron he has perfected: no knightsCan break the Scottish spearmen: chivalryMeans nought for them save mounted foes whose trustIs in their horses——Edward II. 'Tis a base device,This slaughter of our steeds! A dastard's trick!The delicate art of war, where excellenceLay in the power of noble blood alone,He makes a trade for ploughmen. Battle-fieldsAre shambles since this rebel taught his clownsTo fear not knighthood!Umfraville. True indeed, my liege!And some have thought that this new style of warWill drive the other out. But see you notThat every possible advantage——Edward II. No!For I will not!—Behold, the Scots ask mercy!Umfraville. They do—from Heaven. These men will win or die.Edward II. I hate such kneeling, whining warriors, I!What right have they to think God on their side?Our glorious father taught them otherwiseWith iteration one had deemed enough.I burn to teach them finally. My lords,Our swords shall pray for us. One hour's hot work,And Scotland is your own. Let us begin!Each to his post, and everlasting shameBlight him who cherishes a moment's thoughtOf other means of victory than these,Our English bows and lances, English hearts,And not less English courage of our friendsWhose foreign banners grace our army. Come;England shall stretch from Orkney to Land's EndAfter to-day. St. George for Merry England![They go out.
Bruce. I think we all know well what courage is:Not thews, not blood, not bulk, not bravery:Its highest title, patience. Fiery hasteHas lost most battles. Till the word be given,Let no man charge to-day: no seeming flightMust lead you to pursue: take root; grow strong;The earth is Scottish. For our country standLike bastioned, frowning rocks that beard the sea,And triumph everlastingly. Doubt notThe time to charge will come—once and straight home:We'll need no spur: so must you curb your blood;Command your anguished strength: a false start nowWill lose a race we cannot run again.If any of you feel unfit for fightFrom any cause whatever, let him go,Leaving us undiluted. Scorn nor curseShall blast him; but our generous thought shall praiseHis act and consecrate his name,As one who did his best in doing nought;For victory depends on each of us.I say, if gallant souls be timorous,Get them behind the hill, and be not sad:Great courage goes to make an open coward.[A great shout.Then are we all one heart. Our enemies,Our English enemies, who hope to drownThe very name of Scot in Scottish blood,And these outlandish battle-harlots, hiredFrom Holland, Zealand, Brabant, Normandy,Those Picards, Flemings, Gascons, Guiennese,The refuse of the realms from which they swarm,Are robbers lured by plunder, one and all,From king to scullion: they are in the wrong.We are the weapon to defend the rightGod grasps to-day. Can we be put to shame?Soldiers. No!Bruce. Forward, trusty friends! The hour is comeFor long-desired redemption of the vowsGroaned out when tender mothers, sisters, wives,Fathers we worshipped, brothers we adored,Were spared not. Let our battle-cry be—No;I'll give you none. Each soldier shout the nameOf that best friend in prison buried quick;Of yonder heaven-homed, most beloved soulAmong the multitude whose butchered limbsLie pledged in sepulchres. My countrymen,Welcome to victory, which must be ours,For death is freedom!Soldiers. Victory or death![Exeunt.
A Young Friar. "St. Andrew and St. George! Fight on! fight on!"A whole year's storms let loose on one small lakePrisoned among the mountains, riotingBetween the heathery slopes and rugged cliffs,Dragging the water from its deepest lair,Shaking it out like feathers on the blast;With shock on shock of thunder; shower on showerOf jagged and sultry lightning; banners, crests,Of rainbows torn and streaming, tossed and flungFrom panting surge to surge; where one strong sound,Enduring with continuous piercing shriekWhose pitch is ever heightened, still escapesWroth from the roaring war of elements;Where mass and motion, flash and colour spinWrapped and confounded in their blent array:And this all raving on a summer's morn,With unseen larks beside the golden sun,And merest blue above; with not a breezeTo fan the burdened rose-trees, or incenseWith mimic rage the foamless rivulet,That like a little child goes whisperingAlong the woodland ways its happy thought;Were no more wild, grotesque, fantastical,Uncouth, unnatural—and I would thinkImpossible, but for the vision here—Than is this clamorous and unsightly war,Where swords and lances, shields and arrows, flash,Whistle, and clang—splintered like icicles,Eclipsed like moons, broken like reeds, like flames—Lewd flames that lick themselves in burning lust—With scorpion tongues lapping the lives of men;Where axes cut to hearts worth all the oaks;Where steel burns blue, and golden armours blaze—One moment so, the next, a ruddier hue;Where broidered banners rustle in the charge,And deck the carnage out——A skeleton,Ribboned and garlanded may sweetly suitThe morris-dancers for a May-pole now!—Where hoofs of horses spatter brains of men,And beat dull thunder from the shaking sod;Where yelling pibrochs, braying trumpets, drums,And shouts, and shrieks, and groans, hoarse, shrill—a roarThat shatters hearing—echo to the sky;Where myriad ruthless vessels, freighted fullOf proud rich blood—with images of God,Their reasoning souls, deposed from their command—By winds of cruel hate usurped and urged,Are driven upon each other, split, and wrecked,And foundered deep as hell. The air is darkWith souls. I cannot look—I cannot see.[Kneels.A Woman. The battle's lost before it's well begun.Our men fall down in ranks like barley-rigsBefore a dense wet blast.A Cripple. Despair itselfCan only die before the English bows.O that they could come at them! Who are theseThat skirt the marsh?Woman. My sight is weak. But see;Here's an old fellow, trembling, muttering. LookHow he is strung; and what an eye he has!Cripple. Old sight sees well away. I warrant, now,His is a perfect mirror of the fight.You see well, father?Old Man. Ay. That's Edward Bruce;And none too soon. The feathered deaths speed thickIn jubilant choirs, flight after singing flight:That tune must end; the nest be harried. Ride,Fiery Edward! Yet our staunch hearts quail not.Ah! now the daze begins! I know it well.The cloth-yard shafts like magic shuttles, weaveAthwart the warped air dazzling, dire dismay,And the beholder's blood slinks to his heartLike moles from daylight; all his sinews fadeTo unsubstantial tinder. Ha! spur! spur!There are ten thousand bowmen! Gallop! Charge!Now, by the soul of Wallace, Edward Bruce,The battle's balanced! On your sword it hangs!Look you; there's fighting! Just a minute's fight!Tug, strain! Throe upon throe! Travail of war!The birth—defeat and victory, those twins,That in an instant breathe and die, and leaveSo glorious and so dread a memory!—The bowstring's cut! What butchery to see!They shear them down, these English yeomen! God!It looks like child's play too! And so it feels,Now I remember me.—That's victory.St. Andrew and the right!Woman. The knights, the knights!Old Man. I see them. But our spearmen! Do you see?This hill we stand on trembles with the shock:They budge not, planted, founded in the soil.Another charge! Now watch! Now see! Ugh! Ha!Did one spear flicker? One limb waver? No!These fellows there are fighting for their land!The English army through its cumbrous bulkThrilled and astounded to the utmost rear,Twists like a snake, and folds into itself,Rank pushed through rank. Now are they hand to hand!How short a front! How close! They're sewn togetherWith steel cross-stitches, halbert over sword,Spear across lance, and death the purfled seam!I never saw so fierce, so locked a fight!That tireless brand that like a pliant flailThreshes the lives from sheaves of Englishmen—Know you who wields it? Douglas, who but he!A noble meets him now. Clifford it is!No bitterer foes seek out each other there.Parried! That told! and that! Clifford, good night!And Douglas shouts to Randolf; Edward BruceCheers on the Steward; while the King's voice ringsIn every Scotch ear: such a narrow straitConfines this firth of war!Young Friar. God gives me strengthAgain to gaze with eyes unseared. Jewels!These must be jewels peering in the grass,Cloven from helms, or on them: dead men's eyesScarce shine so bright. The banners dip and mountLike masts at sea. The battle-field is slime,A ruddy lather beaten up with blood!Men slip; and horses, stuck with shafts like butts,Sprawl, madly shrieking! No, I cannot look![Exit.Woman. Look here! look here, I say! Who's this behind?His horse sinks down—the brute is dead, I think.His clothes are torn; his face with dust and sweatEncrusted, baked, and cracked. He speaks; he shouts;And shouting runs this way. He's mad, I think.Cripple. He's made his hearers mad. Tents, blankets, poles,Pitch-forks, and staves, and knives, brandished and spreadBy women, children, grandsires! What is this?
Enter Crombe followed by a crowd bearing blankets for banners, and armed with staves, etc.
Crombe. I rode all night to strike a blow to-day:The noblest lady living bade me go:Her kiss is on my lips and in my soul.Come after me—yea, with your naked hands,And conquer weapons![They go out, shouting.
Bruce. Most noble souls who wait so patiently!Your splendid faith is in the air about you;Your steady eyes shine like a galaxy;Your presence comforts me: pressed in the fight,The thought of you, like balm upon a wound,Softened the thriftless aching of my heart.The English waver; on the hill behindOur followers fright them, marching in arrayBannered and armed, a legion out of heaven.The tide of battle turns, and victoryNeeds only you to launch it bravely forth.Now—I would bid you think, but that the thoughtEludes me, like a homely, old-known song,Wreathing in fitful gusts beyond the sense—Now will the lofty keystone of our lifeBe pitched in heaven for ever. We have dreamtOur prayers into fulfilment many a time:to-day we wrestle, and the victory's ours:And yet I feel so scantly what it meansThat I'm ashamed. Enough: I know you all.—Now for our homes, our children, and our wives,For freedom, for our land, for victory!And cry our old cry, Carrick!Soldiers. Carrick and victory![They go out.
SMITH: A TRAGIC FARCE(Crieff, 1886)
Smith.Hallowes.Graham.Brown.Jones.Robinson.Two Men-servants.Magdalen.Topsy.
Brown. Truth is an airy point between two cliffsOf adamant opinion: safest heWho foots it far from either beetling brink.Hallowes, now: he goes hanging on the vergeHis martyr-face and aspirations strungWith bent keys. If his starting eyes beholdSome tartan star, or other fire-flaught bornOf pallid brains ill-nourished on bleached blood,It is the truth—truth absolute! And down,Loosing his hold to clasp his fervid hands,He'll crash, and spill his life on stones untrod.Robinson. Fair—very fair, indeed!Jones. So would not you!The Bastille Column or St. Paul's at noon,Where crowds may see your glossy frock-coat fly,And wax pathetic o'er the exotic sprayThat slips the button-hole in middle air,And twinkling after, lights upon the messOf limbs and oozing blood that late was you.Robinson. Come, let each other be! no answer, Brown;Because I want to open up a point.That fellow, Smith—the point is suicide—He said the other day—why, it was here!—He would have coffee; we had brandy: well—You know he speaks to everybody; so,He cries to Topsy, there, who brought the drink—He spoils the barmaids with his high-flown talk:I tried it, and they laughed at me; but he!He talks philosophy, religion, books:And they can talk it too, with him. Well, then——Brown. Pure innocence: the man's a baby.Jones. Yes.Uncultured, too; he lacks the college stamp.Robinson. Well, then, my point——Brown. Oh, never mind your point!You've hit it, Jones; "uncultured" is the word.Give me a man who knows what language means:No forging sudden bolts that gild the fact,A bright enough reality before:Who never says a thing a thousand ways,Nibbling with slippery sleight-of-tongue, till chanceExpose the end to bite. Give me a manWhose mind is ready as a lawyer's desk,Each pigeon-hole accountable for this,Each drawer containing that, and nothing else.Jones. Whose thinking's done; whose automatic mindStrikes the same absolute response each time.Brown. A man who knows the best of everything;Consummate, bland; whom novelty annoys,Guessing what musty masquerade it isOf some dispute of Lamech and his wives.Jones. Smith's a mere savage, barbarous as a Lapp:A handsome creature, but elliptical.Brown. Something awanting to complete the sense!Robinson. Fair, very fair! But here's a point: you menSince you began to go about with Smith,Have caught a little of his style of talk;You can't deny his power.Brown. Power?—seething blood.Give Jones, or such a man, Smith's body—why,You'd have the hero of the age! Power? stuff!Jones. Admit the power—potential as a troop;But where's the captain?Brown. Ay; his brain's a messOf sodden sawdust; it ferments and fumes:But, let me say, wood-spirit's not champagne,In spite of fables to the contrary.Jones. Labels, you mean.Robinson. Fair—very fair, by Jove!Do you go north this year?Brown. I do, this week.Robinson. So soon! Health and a happy holiday!Jones. Your good health and a pleasant time in Garth!Robinson. Here's a point, Brown. Hallowes—he talks of Garth:I thought the place was only known to you.Brown. Hallowes discovered it a year ago:And there I met him.Jones. So: I understandHow such an out-at-elbows man as heIs known to you: there you had no one else.Brown. Exactly: with his simple ecstasiesHe made good sport when Maudlin took the dumps.Jones. When do you wed your cousin?Brown. In a month.Jones. Is the day fixed?Brown. I go to have it fixed.Robinson. Your cousin, Magdalen … By Jove, here's Smith!
Enter Smith.
Smith. You here! Has Hallowes been?Brown. No; not to-night.Are you to meet him?Smith. Yes.Brown. He'll not appear:He acts the people's notion of a poet.He has a double memorandum-book—Engagements to be broken—to be kept;And most of those he makes are for the first:"Sorry I failed you," when he sees you; "but"—And you are left to gather that the MuseHugged him so close he couldn't get away.Smith. He'll not fail me.Jones. Don't be too sure of that.I've known him break with me a dozen times.Smith. Perhaps he's braver than your other friends.Jones. The satire's deep.Brown. A little underbred—Hallowes, I mean.Robinson. Still he's a graduate.Jones. Finished apprentice; but he shuns the stressOf competition with the journeymen,Whereby alone dexterity is gained.Brown. A fledgling knight who flies the eager frayWhere sword whets sword.Robinson. He herds with nobody,I've noticed that. But here's a point: I, you,Smith—everybody wants to know the man;He—won't be known: no one can equal himIn turning forth the dark slide when you thinkAcquaintance burns to intimacy. Smith,Only you see his lantern blazing bright;How's that?Brown. Speak for yourself, sir. This I know,He rather courted me. His fitful wisp,However, I assure you, Robinson,Leads to a quaking bog of egotism.Jones. Where I have floundered more than once. A month—Three weeks ago when he gave up his postIn—Holofernes' School—the Cambridge man's—That very day I met him here alone."I'm done with it," he cried. "These squalid yearsOf mental boot-blacking are ended now—The shameful pedagogy. Ah," he said,With lips that shook and molten eyes, his voiceHushing and sparkling as his passion toreA ragged way through wordy wildernesses,Or spread, where image failed, in shallows vague,The margin lost in rushy verbiage,"Shameful! a devil's compact! I, for foodHave made myself a grindstone, edging soulsMeant most for flying: I, in piteous mouths,That yearned for sweetest manna, crammed rough stonesAnd loathsome scorpions: children, youths, the lightOf God brought newly down by love,Straining to shine on all the flowers of earth,Of heaven, of poetry, have I swathed upIn noisome fog of the dead letter—I,Who dare aspire to be a child for ever.Intolerance in religion never dreamtSuch fell machinery of Acts and CodesAs now we use for nipping thought in bud,And turning children out like nine-pins, eachAs doleful and as wooden. Never moreShall I put hand to such inhuman work!"To come with this to me, who teach, and meanTo start a boarding-school next year!Brown. By Jove!The net result of solitude. This world,This oyster with its valves of toil and play,Would round his corners for its own good ease,And make a pearl of him if he'd plunge in.Smith. Then you would change the diamonds into pearls,The rubies and the opals?Robinson. Very fair!Brown. Better a pure pearl than a damaged diamond.Jones. And in this matter we may all be pearls.Smith. Be worldlings, truly. I would rather beA shred of glass that sparkles in the sun,And keeps a lowly rainbow of its own,Than one of those so trim and patent pearlsWith hearts of sand veneered, sewed up and downThe stiff brocade society affects.Robinson. Fair, very fair!Jones. Be quiet, parroquet!Are we such pearls?Smith. Pearls! This is what you are:The commonest type of biped crawling here.Take it thus crudely: you would not believeA subtle phrase in full, but think I meantLess than the words might bear, deeming me dull—Barbarian you call me …Brown. Who said that?Smith. The friends of gossips gossip, little Brown.Brown. The great Smith gossips too, then.Smith. What! You fool!You dare to bandy words with me! Begone!Get out of here the three of you!Jones. He's mad.Smith. You sots, you maggots, shavings, asteroids!A million of you wouldn't make a man!Out, or I'll strike you, monkeys, mannikins![All go out; then re-enter Smith, followed by Topsy with salver, etc.Smith. You're looking fresh: You've had a holiday?Topsy. I've had my week.Smith. Where were you?Topsy. At the coast.Smith. Now, tell me, what of all you saw, remains?Topsy. Oh, well—there's many a thing! There's——Ah! there's this! One morning early that I stood alone,And saw the green sea from a windy cliff,With small, white, curling waves, like shavings pinnedUpon a watered silk.Smith. Oh! how was that?Topsy. There was a great Scotch lady long ago—I read it in a penny paper there;That made me think of it; and she was poor,And wore, instead of ribbons, shavings once,And was the belle and made a match that night.Here's Mr. Hallowes, sir.Smith. The same for him.
Enter Hallowes. Topsy goes out, and returns as before, and goes out again.
Hallowes. Smith, I congratulate you. Come, your hand.Smith. Thank you; I'm very pleased indeed. On what?Hallowes. On the great gladness you're about to feel.I've lost my post—dismissed—incompetence.Smith. So soon! I said three months: it's just three weeks.Business is worse than teaching, then.Hallowes. Oh, worse!Give me a week to coin its condemnation!Business—the world's work—is the sale of lies:Not goods, but trade-marks; and still more and moreIn every branch becomes the sale of money:Why, goods are now the means of bartering gold!Smith. It fits these reeling times of tail-wagged dogs.Hallowes. But wish me joy.Smith. Joy, friend, till pain be ease!Hallowes. Now will I tell you what I mean to do.Garth's in the North, a hamlet like a cave,Nestling unknown in tawny Merlin's side,A mount, brindled with scars and waterways.The windows, Argus-eyed with knotted panesThat under heavy brows of roses blinkBlind guard, have never wept with hailstones stung;No antique, gnarled, and wrinkled, roundwood porch,Whiskered with hollyhocks in this old thorpeHas ever felt the razor of the East:No rail, no coach, no tourist passes there:But in the brooding evening from her seat,A worn tree-trunk, the toothless beldame leapsAs lithe as superstition, says a saw,And kills the toad that in the channel hops;Far up the mountain children's voices ring;The quoiters cry; and past the ivied innA chastened brook tells all its pebbled beads;Between the bourtrie-bushes and the thornsThe commonest bird that sings is wonderful,So empty are the spaces of the airFrom any breath of modern weariness.There will I live and walk the mountain-side,Looking across the strath upon a stream,A beakerful of water, spilt alongA winding strip of green and bosky spray,That showers in silver when light-fingered windsTurn up the leaves: a ridge, fire-reared and low,Of coppice-covered hills, scalloped againstA loftier mass of purple, nobly borne,Gives body to the sunset: night and day,Asleep or waking, earth in heaven's lap lies.Smith. And is this to be wholly holiday?Hallowes. I shall make poetry—a line a day,If nothing more. I'm twenty: I may countOn ten years yet. Three thousand lines, each lineA very mountain from whose sun-gilt crestThe stormy world a peaceful picture seems.I shall upheave and range a chain like this:Realms shall rejoice in it: my fame shall growFor ever like the sward.Smith. Let fame alone.Hallowes. You misconceive: fame is the breath of power:What valid work was ever for itselfWrought solely, be it war, art, statesmanship?Nothing can be its own reward and holdRank above patience, or whatever game,Angling or avarice, is selfisher.O watering palates! and, O skyey grapes!O purple path above the milky way!Give me to dream dreams all would love to dream;To tell the world's truth; hear the world tramp timeWith satin slippers and with hob-nailed shoesTo my true singing: fame is worth its cost,Blood-sweats, and tears, and haggard, homeless lives.How dare a man, appealing to the world,Content himself with ten! How dare a manAppeal to ten when all the world should hear!How dare a man conceive himself as elseThan his own fool without the world's hurrahTo echo him!Smith. But if the world won't shoutTill he be dead?Hallowes. Let him address the street:No subtle essences, ethereal tonesFor senses sick, bed-ridden in the downOf culture and its stifling curtains. GustsFrom bean-fields and the pine-woods, thought and deedOf the young world bursting its swaddling bandsBefore the upturned eyes and warning palmsOf fangless Use and Wont, his nurses hoar—These find an echo everywhere.Smith. The worldStill follows culture, though.Hallowes. Maybe. But itFollows itself, and shall, Narcissus-like,Perish of self-love.Smith. Echo, what of her?Hallowes. She shall be re-incarnate by the wordThat she shall hear.Smith. What word?Hallowes. It is not said.Smith. Who shall pronounce it?Hallowes. Who knows?—You, or I?Smith. Well said! We'll go together to the North.Hallowes. What! are you free?Smith. I am. You want to write:I want to think. When shall we start?Hallowes. To-morrow.Smith. So soon! But you are right: one must becomeFanatic—be a wedge—a thunder-bolt,To smite a passage through the close-grained world.[They go out.
Graham. Now, rest you here; I've business in the house:And when I come I'll bring my daughter. Ha![To Hallowes.] She lives on poetry; you'll soon be friends;[To Smith.] While you and I and Brown will talk againOf London. What!—you called it—let me see—The running sore, the ringworm of the earth.Good, very good.[Goes out.Hallowes. You'll make excuse for me.Smith. Why are you so reluctant to remain?Hallowes. You do not see the meaning of the knight.We trespass in his wood: he meets us; storms,And plays his gamekeeper. Our witty talkChanges his character, and—we are here:But mark, on trial; else, not his arbour,But his drawing-room.Smith. He brings his daughter, though.Hallowes. True; but you see our humour was so broad.Smith. Therefore he does not take us to his house?Suppose it so, is he the less a man?Why, it's a powerful thing to do.Hallowes. Indeed!Snobbish, say I.Smith. Away, man! Use that word!A poet, too! Oh, I could rail at it! Snob!It's a modern word; and so is cad:None use them but deservers of them. Faugh;So bitterly I hate them, into senseMy spleen spins slovenly. We all are men.Doomsday of nicknames! I behold it dawn.An inky cloud, with thick corrosive stench,Blots out the heavens, and like a palimpsestShows name on name in smoking characters,A leprous scroll, too filthy to o'er-read:Beneath them, branded deep athwart the cloudIn letters huge from which the light scales off,The most inhuman, most ungodly word,Sinner. But lo! the rotten-fuming signsSmoulder and writhe, and run like mercury,Flooding the cloud, which belches into flameAnd shrivels up beyond the bounds of space!A rose-dipped pencil washes suddenlyA blush along the east, whereon appearsIn molten gold, Man, Woman; and I knowThat we are all one race, and these nicknames,Phantasmal charnel-lights of self-contempt.Hallowes. You know I have not always strength of wingTo soar like you right to God's point of view.Pardon the word. Now, you must let me go.Smith. You give no cause: poetic mood won't do.I see a mental sickness in your eye:What is it, Hallowes?Hallowes. Why, my money's done:And day by day from London packets come—Dramas and poems, essays and reviews,Returned with thanks, returned with thanks.Smith. Just so.Ten pounds I have: take half: when this is spentThen we return with thanks to London town.You have your ticket?Hallowes. Oh, yes!Smith. Cheer up, then!We have a fortnight yet. Sit down and talkOf comfortable things. We'll meditateUpon return-tickets for a while:How beautifully suited to our need,Spendthrifts like us! Devise some praise for them.Hallowes. O let me go! I have my note-book here.I'll climb to Merlin-top and write all nightUnder the moon or till you follow me.Smith. Away then, since you must! Good luck, good rhymes!
Hallowes goes out. Enter Magdalen without seeing Smith.
[Aside.] These plaited coils of hair, the golden lidOf the rich casket where her live thoughts lie:Her cheek is tinged with sunset? Has she eyes?Her body sways: the crimson-blazoned westLike organ-music surges through her blood.My seeming aimless visit to the North—The time—the circumstance!—I yield myself!This is the woman whom my soul will love.She moves this way, backward, to sit. I'll speak.Lady.[Magdalen wheels round.Her eyes are living sapphires!Magdalen. What!Smith. I love you.Magdalen. Sir!Smith. I love you, lady.Magdalen [about to go]. Sir!Smith. Lady, stay.My body and my soul assembled here,At war till now, are wedded by your glance:You make that man which chaos was before:And this is love. I dreaded love: I knewIt should with such a pang lay hold of me.I am not mad although I tremble thus:It is the inspiration of my love.Fly not, repulse me not, and do not fear:I would tear up my body with my hands,And hide you in my heart did evil threat:I am as tame to you as wild things areTo those that cherish them. Be confident,For I shall guard my dreams from harming youAs faithfully as time his vigil keeps.Magdalen. I do not fear.Smith. Speak louder, speak again.Like rose-leaves that enrich the greedy earthThe tremulous whispering bedews my heart.Speak, speak!Magdalen. Who are you, sir?Smith. A mellow voice,Falling like thistledown, melting like snow,Golden and searching as a sunny wine.It bore a question: Who am I? A man.Magdalen [aside]. I think so too.—What do you want with me?Smith. Our language is too worn, too much abused,Jaded and over-spurred, wind-broken, lame,—The hackneyed roadster every bagman mounts.I cannot tell you what I want with you,Unless you understand the depth of this:I want for you heroic happiness.Magdalen. How might I win this happiness?Smith. Be mine:I am the enemy of all the world:Dare it with me: be mine.Magdalen. I know you not.I am engaged to one I do not love;My father swears that I must marry him:It is a common misery, so staleThat I contemned it: and I know you not:But I have courage. Let me think a while.Smith. Think my thought; be impatient as I am;Obey your nature, not authority:Because the world, enchanted by the sun,The moon, the stars, with charms of time and space,Of seasons, tides, of darkness and of light,Weaves new enchantment everlastingly,Whirled in a double spell of day and year,A self-deluded sorcerer, winding round,Close to its smothered heart, coil after coilOf magic zones, invisible as air—Some, Cytherean belts; some, chains; and some,Noisome and terrible as hooded snakes.Magdalen. What do you mean? what spells? what sorcery?Smith. The hydra-headed creeds; the sciences,That deem the thing is known when it is named;And literature, thought's palace-prison fair;Philosophy, the grand inquisitorThat racks ideas and is fooled with lies;Society, the mud wherein we standUp to the eyes, whence if I drag you forth,Saving your soul and mine, there shall ascendA poisonous blast that may o'ertake our lives.Magdalen. I feel a meaning in your eloquence;I see my poor thoughts made celestialLike faded women Jove hung in the sky.Obey my nature, sir? How shall I knowThe voice of nature from the thousand cries,That clamour in my head like piteous birds,Filling the air about a lonely isleWith ringing terror when the hunter comes.Smith. Shut out the storm and heed the still, small voice.Magdalen. Have pity. Yet I think the woman's dreamIs given me—the strong delivererTo pluck her from the dragon's jaws unharmed.What can I say? Rest still your eyes on mine,And I shall dare to speak. I love you, sir;And I have loved you since I was a girl—You, only you. Good-bye. Oh, in my life—A miracle, I think, as this world goes—I met the living image of my dream,And was found worthy to be loved! Good-bye.I seem to see my daughter at my knees,Listening with violet eyes of heaven-wide awe,The virgin story I shall utter onceTo her, only to her.Smith. And so, you goTo hell.Magdalen. Ay, even so: my father's wordIs plighted to this man, and so is mine.Perhaps, that I may know this is no dream—Sir, will you kiss me?[He folds her in his arms and kisses her.Smith. You are faint, my love.Magdalen. Oh, have pity, sir!Smith. I will have pity.[Goes out carrying her. Then enter Brown. He goes out after them, andre-enters running as the curtain falls.