SCENE—A Chamber in the Castle.HUGO, THORA, and ERIC.
Hugo:That letter that came from Palestine,By the hands of yon wandering Dane,Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine.Thora:Wilt thou travel so soon again?Hugo:I can scarce refuse the dying requestOf my comrade, Baldwin, now;His bones are dust. May his soul find restHe once made a foolish vow,That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful careOf the Abbess, his child should stay,For a season at least. To escort her thereI must start at the break of day.Thora:Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare?Hugo:Nay, Clare is dwelling in SpainWith her spouse.Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair,I am told; but giddy and vain.Eric:Some musty tales on my memory growConcerning Count Baldwin's vow;Thou knew'st his daughter?Hugo: Aye, years ago.I should scarcely know her now.It seems, when her father's vow was made,She was taken sorely ill;Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd;He could never his oath fulfil.Eric:If rightly I've heard, 'twas AgathaThat fled with some Danish knight—I forget the name.Hugo: Nay, she fled not far;She returned again that night.Thora:For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed.Hugo:That is no affair of mine.My task is over, my word fulfilled,Should I bring her safe to the Rhine.Come, Thora, sing.Thora: Nay, I cannot sing,Nor would I now if I could.Sing thou.Hugo: I will, though my voice should bringNo sound save a discord rude.(Sings.)Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted,The pine lies low in the dust;And the corn is withered and blighted,Where the fields are red with the rust;Falls the black frost, nipping and killing,Where its petals the violet rears,And the wind, though tempered, is chillingTo the lamb despoiled by the shears.The strong in their strength are shaken,The wise in their wisdom fall;And the bloom of beauty is taken—Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all,They vanish, their lot fulfilling,Their doom approaches and nears,But the wind, though tempered, is chillingTo the lamb despoiled by the shears.'Tis the will of a Great Creator,He is wise, His will must be done,And it cometh sooner or later;And one shall be taken, and oneShall be left here, toiling and tilling,In this vale of sorrows and tears,Where the wind, though tempered, is chillingTo the lamb despoiled by the shears.Tell me, mine own one, tell me,The shadows of life and the fearsShall neither daunt me nor quell me,While I can avert thy tears:Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwillingTo realise lonely years?Since the wind, though tempered, is chillingTo the lamb despoiled by the shears.Enter HENRY.Henry:My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight,He has come on foot from the chapel;Some stranger perished beside his gateWhen the dawn began to dapple.
SCENE—A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle.HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD.
Luke:When the dawn was breaking,Came a faint sound, wakingHubert and myself; we hurried to the door,Found the stranger lyingAt the threshold, dying.Somewhere have I seen a face like his before.Hugo:Harold he is hight.Only yester-nightFrom our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail;Well his face I know,Both as friend and foe;Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale.Luke:Few the words he said,Faint the signs he made,Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd.This is retribution,Seek for absolution;Answer me—then cast thy sorrows to the wind.Do their voices reach thee,Friends who failed to teach thee,In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong?Charges 'gainst thee cited,Cares all unrequited,Counsels spurned and slighted—do they press and throng?"But he shook his head."'Tis not so," he said;"They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore.If their counsels good,Rashly I withstood;Having suffered longer, I have suffered more.""Do their curses stun thee?Foes who failed to shun thee,Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career,As the barbed arrowCleaveth bone and marrow,From those chambers narrow—do they pierce thine ear?"And he made reply,Laughing bitterly,"Did I fear them living—shall I fear them dead?Blood that I have spiltLeaveth little guilt;On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head.""Is there one whom thouMay'st have wronged ere now,Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart?By some saint in heaven,Sanctified and shriven,Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?"Not a word he said,But he bowed his headTill his temples rested on the chilly sodsAnd we heard him groan—"Ah! mine own, mine own!If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's."Hubert raised him slowly,Sunrise, faint and holy,Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be.May the troubled spirit,Through Christ's saving merit,Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee.Hugo:God o'erruleth fate.I had cause for hate;In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong,Joined by priestly vows,He became the spouseOf my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong.And he wrought her woe,Making me his foe;Not alone unfaithful—brutal, too, was he.She had scarce been deadThree months, ere he fledWith Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me.Fortune straight forsook him,Vengeance overtook him;Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment.All his strength was shatter'd,Even his wits were scatter'd,Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went.We are unforgivingWhile our foes are living;Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavilyThat I feel remorse,Gazing on his corpse,For my rudeness when he left our gates to die.And his grave shall be'Neath the chestnut tree,Where he met my sister many years ago;Leave that tress of hairOn his bosom there—Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go.
SCENE—A Room in the Castle.HUGO and ERIC. Early morning.
Hugo:The morn is fair, the weary milesWill shorten 'neath the summer's wiles;Pomona in the orchard smiles,And in the meadow, Flora!And I have roused a chosen bandFor escort through the troubled land;And shaken Elspeth by the hand,And said farewell to Thora.Comrade and kinsman—for thou artComrade and kin to me—we partEre nightfall, if at once we start,We gain the dead Count's castle.The roads are fair, the days are fine,Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine.Forsooth, no friend to me or mineIs that same Abbot Basil;I thought he wronged us by his greed.My father sign'd a foolish deedFor lack of gold in time of need,And thus our lands went by us;Yet wrong on our side may have been:As far as my will goes, I ween,'Tis past, the grudge that lay betweenUs twain. Men call him pious—And I have prosper'd much since then,And gain'd for one lost acre ten;And even the ancient house and glenRebought with purchase-money.He, too, is wealthy; he has gotBy churchly rights a fertile spot,A land of corn and wine, I wot,A land of milk and honey.Now, Eric, change thy plans and rideWith us; thou hast no ties, no bride.Eric:Nay, ties I have, and time and tide,Thou knowest, wait for no man;And I go north; God's blessing shunsThe dwellings of forgetful sons,That proverb he may read who runs,In Christian lore or Roman.My good old mother she hath heard,For twelve long months, from me no word;At thought of her my heart is stirr'd,And even mine eyes grow moister.Greet Ursula from me; her fameIs known to all. A nobler dame,Since days of Clovis, ne'er becameThe inmate of a cloister.Our paths diverge, yet we may goTogether for a league or so;I, too, will join thy band belowWhen thou thy bugle windest.[Eric goes out.]Hugo:From weaknesses we stand afar,On us unpleasantly they jar;And yet the stoutest-hearted areThe gentlest and the kindest.My mother loved me tenderly;Alas! her only son was I.I shudder'd, but my lids were dry,By death made orphan newly.A braver man than me, I swear,Who never comprehended fear,Scarce names his mother, and the tear,Unbidden, springs unruly.
SCENE—A Road on the Norman Frontiers.HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly.
Agatha:Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum?At times I fear you are deaf or dumb,Or both.Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth,There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth;You would think me duller, and still more vain,If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain;Since the matters with which my mind is ladenWould scarcely serve to amuse a maiden.Agatha:I am so foolish and you are so wise,'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise.Alas! my prospects are sad enough:I had rather listen to speeches roughThan muse and meditate silentlyOn the coming loss of my liberty.Sad hope to me can my future bring,Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing,Though it only were to try and assuageThe dreariness of my pilgrimage.Hugo:Prattle and sing to your heart's content,And none will offer impediment.Agatha (sings):We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I,Whose playtime with childhood is done;Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high,Barefooted I've oft seen her run.I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white,Bareheaded past nightfall remain;She has followed a landless and penniless knightThrough battles and sieges in Spain.But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn,Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist;My sister was born to face hardship with scorn—I was born to be fondled and kiss'd.Hugo (aside):She has a sweet voice.Orion: And a sweet face, too—Be candid for once, and give her her due.Agatha:Your face grows longer, and still more long,Sir Scholar! how did you like my song?Hugo:I thought it rather a silly one.Agatha:You are far from a pleasant companion.
SCENE—An Apartment in a Wayside Inn.HUGO and AGATHA. Evening.
Hugo:I will leave you now—we have talked enough,And for one so tenderly reared and nursedThis journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough.Agatha: Will you not finish your story first?Hugo:I repent me that I began it now,'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears;Your cheek is pale already, your browIs sad, and your eyes are moist with tears.Agatha:It may be thus, I am lightly vexed,But the tears will lightly come and go;I can cry one moment and laugh the next,Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know.I remember that flight through moss and fern,The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolledIn fierce pursuit, and the ending stern,And the hawk that left his prey on the wold.Hugo:I have sorrowed since that I left you there:Your friends were close behind on the heath,Though not so close as I thought they were.(Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death.Agatha:'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men,As a rule, of pity have little share;Had I died you had cared but little then.Hugo: But little then, yet now I should careMore than you think for. Now, good-night.Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone,Must I dry your cheeks?Agatha: Nay, I am not quiteSuch a child but what I can dry my own.[Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.]Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber):'Neath the stems with blossoms laden,'Neath the tendrils curling,I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden!I, thy slave, oh, darling!Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer,At the elk may fly too.Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear,Let the living die too.Where the wiles of serpent mingle,And the looks of dove lie,Where small hands in strong hands tingle,Loving eyes meet lovely:Where the harder natures soften,And the softer harden—Certes! such things have been oftenSince we left Eve's garden.Sweeter follies herald sadderSins—look not too closely;Tongue of asp and tooth of adderUnder leaf of rose lie.Warned, advised in vain, abandonWarning and advice too,Let the child lay wilful hand onDen of cockatrice too.I, thy servant, or thy master,One or both—no matter;If the former—firmer, faster,Surer still the latter—Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing,Bid thee sleep, and ponderOn my lullabies still ringingThrough thy dreamland yonder.
SCENE—A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine.HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE,and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.)The Towers of the Convent in the distance.
Agatha:I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing,'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling;And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower,It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower.And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued skyKeep telling me ever my spring has gone by;Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell,In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell.Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay,That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey?Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear?The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear.Hugo:May the lances of Dagobert harry their house,If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows;May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dareTouch with their scissors thy glittering hair.Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end,And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend;Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free,To squander my life in the greenwood with thee.Orion (aside):Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise,Touch her soft curl again—look again in her eyes;Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learnHow the slow pulse may quicken—the cold blood may burn.Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy!The old love is dead, let the old promise die!Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion,"A living dog always before a dead lion!"
Thurston:Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burstOur wine-skin—what, ho! must I perish with thirst!Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and askThy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask.Henry:Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturbOur lord for the present; go thou, or else curbThy thirst, or drink water, as I do.Thurston: Thou knaveOf a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have?Orion (aside):That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinksWith pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks;In hell he will scarce go athirst if once givenAn inkling of any good liquors in heaven.
Hugo:Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew,The priests there are many, the nuns are but few.I love not the Abbot—'tis needless to tellMy reason; but all of the Abbess speak well.Agatha:Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the RhineSpreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine;And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume,Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom.Hugo:And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep,And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reapThe earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze,That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees.Orion:And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires,To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars;It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine,The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine.The oxen are weary and spent with their load,They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad;Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled,Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field.Agatha (sings):Oh! days and years departed,Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted,I turn to you sad-hearted—I turn to you in tears!Your daily sun shone brightly,Your happy dreams came nightly,Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly,Through all your hopes and fears!You halted not, nor tarried,Your hopes have all miscarried,And even your fears are buried,Since fear with hope must die.You halted not, but hasted,And flew past, childhood wasted,And girlhood scarcely tasted,Now womanhood is nigh.Yet I forgive your wronging,Dead seasons round me thronging,With yearning and with longing,I call your bitters sweet.Vain longing, and vain yearning,There now is no returning;Oh! beating heart and burning,Forget to burn and beat!Oh! childish suns and showers,Oh! girlish thorns and flowers,Oh! fruitless days and hours,Oh! groundless hopes and fears:The birds still chirp and twitter,And still the sunbeams glitter:Oh! barren years and bitter,Oh! bitter, barren years!
SCENE—The Summit of a Burning Mountain.Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised).
Orion (sings):From fathomless depths of abysses,Where fires unquenchable burst,From the blackness of darkness, where hissesThe brood of the serpent accurs'd;From shrines where the hymns are the weepingAnd wailing and gnashing of teeth,Where the palm is the pang never sleeping,Where the worm never dying is the wreath;Where all fruits save wickedness wither,Whence naught save despair can be gleaned—Come hither! come hither! come hither!Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend.Come hither! the bands are all broken,And loosed in hell's innermost womb,When the spell unpronounceable spokenDivides the unspeakable gloom.Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases.Evil Spirits (singing):We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinionsThat darken the shades of the shade;Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominionsEncompass'd, with powers array'd,With majesty cloth'd as a garment,Begirt with a shadowy shine,Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meantAs footstools for thee and for thine.Orion (sings):How it swells through each pause of the thunder,And mounts through each lull of the gust,Through the crashing of crags torn asunder,And the hurtling of trees in the dust;With a chorus of loud lamentations,With its dreary and hopeless refrain!'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations,That suffer and shudder in vain.Evil Spirits (singing):'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations;Our song shall chime in with their strain;Lost spirits blend their wild exultationsWith the sighing of mortals in pain.Orion (sings):With just light enough to see sorrowsIn this world, and terrors beyond,'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow'sDread doubts, to despair and despond,Man lingers through toils unavailingFor blessings that baffle his grasp;To his cradle he comes with a wailing,He goes to his grave with a gasp.Evil Spirits (singing):His birth is a weeping and wailing,His death is a groan and a gasp;O'er the seed of the woman prevailing,Thus triumphs the seed of the asp.
SCENE—Chamber of a Wayside Inn.HUGO sitting alone. Evening.
Hugo:And now the parting is over,The parting should end the pain;And the restless heart may recover,And so may the troubled brain.I am sitting within the chamberWhose windows look on the porch,Where the roses cluster and clamber;We halted here on our marchWith her to the convent going,And now I go back alone:Ye roses, budding and blowing,Ye heed not though she is flown.I remember the girlish gesture,The sportive and childlike grace,With which she crumpled and pressed yourRose leaves to her rose-hued face.Shall I think on her ways hereafter—On those flashes of mirth and grief,On that April of tears and laughter,On our parting, bitterly brief?I remember the bell at sunrise,That sounded so solemnly,Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise;I rose ere the sun was high.Down the long, dark, dismal passage,To the door of her resting-placeI went, on a farewell message,I trod with a stealthy pace.There was no one there to see usWhen she opened her chamber door."Miserere, mei Deus",Rang faint from the convent choir.I remember the dark and narrowAnd scantily-furnished room;And the gleam, like a golden arrow—The gleam that lighted the gloom.One couch, one seat, and one table,One window, and only one—It stands in the eastern gable,It faces the rising sun;One ray shot through it, and one lightOn doorway and threshold played.She stood within in the sunlight,I stood without in the shade.I remember that bright form underThe sheen of that slanting ray.I spoke—"For life we must sunder,Let us sunder without delay.Let us sever without preamble,As brother and sister part,For the sake of one pleasant ramble,That will live in at least one heart."Still the choir in my ears rang faintly,In the distance dying away,Sweetly and sadly and saintly,Through arch and corridor grey!And thus we parted for ever,Between the shade and the shine;Not as brother and sister sever—I fondled her hands in mine.Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'dAnd dull'd, though audible yet;And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd—Her lashes and lids grew wet.Not as brother severs from sister,My lips clung fast to her lips;She shivered and shrank when I kissed her.On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse.I remember little of the partingWith the Abbot, down by the gate,My men were eager for starting;I think he pressed me to wait.From the lands where convent and glebe lie,From manors, and Church's right,Where I fought temptation so feebly,I, too, felt eager for flight.Alas! the parting is over—The parting, but not the pain—Oh! sweet was the purple clover,And sweet was the yellow grain;And sweet were the woody hollowsOn the summery Rhineward track;But a winter untimely swallowsAll sweets as I travel back.Yet I feel assured, in some fashion,Ere the hedges are crisp with rime,I shall conquer this senseless passion,'Twill yield to toil and to time.I will fetter these fancies roaming;Already the sun has dipped;I will trim the lamps in the gloaming,I will finish my manuscript.Through the nightwatch unflagging studyShall banish regrets perforce;As soon as the east is ruddyOur bugle shall sound "To Horse!"
SCENE—Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier.HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening.
Orion:Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow,And your cheek is pallid as though from toil,Watching or fasting, by which I knowThat you have been burning the midnight oil.Hugo:Aye, three nights running.Orion: 'Twill never doTo travel all day, and study all night;Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew,In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight?Hugo:With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"?Orion:Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall;I have steeds he would hardly care to follow.Hugo:Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all.Orion:Touching his merits we will not quarrel;But let me mount you for once; enoughOf work may await your favourite sorrel,And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough.But first let me mix you a beverage,To invigorate your enfeebled frame.[He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.]All human ills this draught can assuage.Hugo:It hisses and glows like liquid flame;Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed?Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore.Orion:There is nothing but what will do you good;And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore,Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood,Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore.Hugo:I will drink it, although, by mass and rood,I am just as wise as I was before.
SCENE—A Rough, Hilly Country.HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses.Mountains in the distance. Night.
Hugo:See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes makeA fiery track that gleams in our wake;Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots,Our horses fly.Orion: They are useful brutes,Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ningThe crest and rein of my courser "Lightning";He pulls to-night, being short of work,And takes his head with a sudden jerk;Still heel and steady hand on the bit,For that is "Tempest" on which you sit.Hugo:'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd;Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract?From hoof to hoof I should like to measureThe space he clear'd.Orion: He can clear at leisureA greater distance. Observe the chasmWe are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasmAs we flew over it?Hugo: Not at all.Orion:Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall.Hugo:Let us try a race to yon mountain high,That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky.Orion:I won't disparage your horsemanship,But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip,And is hasty and hard to steer at times.We must travel far ere the midnight chimes;We must travel back ere the east is grey.Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away![They ride on faster.]
SCENE—A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass.HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight.
Hugo:These steeds are sprung from no common race,Their vigour seems to annihilate space;What hast thou brought me here to see?Orion:No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee,No sabbat of witches coarse and rude,But a mystic and musical interlude;You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate,Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait.[They dismount.]Orion (chanting):Spirits of earth, and air, and sea,Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue,By the symbols three that shall nameless be,One of your masters calls on you.Spirits (chanting in the distance):From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold;From the air where the powers of darkness holdTheir court; from the white sea-foam,Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung,Whom poets of every age have sung,Ever we come! we come!Hugo:How close to our ears the thunder peals!How the earth beneath us shudders and reels!A Voice (chanting):Woe to the earth! Where men give death!And women give birth!To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth!Plenty and dearth!To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin,Barren of worth!Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin!Woe to the earth!Hugo:What is yon phantom large and dimThat over the mountain seems to swim?Orion:'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon!Hugo:Whence does she come? Where has she gone?And who is she?Orion: You would know too much;These are subjects on which I dare not touch;And if I were to try and enlighten you,I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you.You had better ask some learned divine,Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine,In his own conceit; and who, besides,Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides.What can you see in the valley yonder?Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder.Hugo:I see four shadowy altars rise,They seem to swell and dilate in size;Larger and clearer now they loom,Now fires are lighting them through the gloom.A Voice (chanting):The first a golden-hued fire shows,A blood-red flame on the second glows,The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose,From the fourth a column of black smoke goes.Orion:Can you see all this?Hugo: I see and hear;The lights and hues are vivid and clear.Spirits (sing at the first altar):Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters,Thy kingdom in this world is sure;Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs,Great things in thy name they endure;Thy fetters of gold crush the miser,The usurer bends at thy shrine,And the wealthier nations and the wiserBow with us at this altar of thine.Spirits (sing at the second altar):Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red,From pole to equator unfurl'd,Whose laws redly written have stood red,And shall stand while standeth this world;Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory,Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel,Thy subjects with us give thee glory,With us at thine altar they kneel.Spirits (sing at the third altar):Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindledBy sparks from the bottomless pit,Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled?Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit?Nay, the men of all climes and all racesAre stirr'd by the flames that now stir us;Then (as we do) they fall on their faces,Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!"Spirits (all in chorus):The vulture her carrion swallows,Returns to his vomit the dog.In the slough of uncleanliness wallowsThe he-goat, and revels the hog.Men are wise with their schools and their teachers,Men are just with their creeds and their priests;Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers,They backslide in footprints of beasts!Hugo:From the smoky altar there seems to comeA stifled murmur, a droning hum.Orion:With that we have nothing at all to do,Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you;Though some day or other, possiblyWe may see it closer, both you and I;Let us visit the nearest altar first,Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst,Like the flames from molten ore that spring;We may stand in the pale of the outer ring,But forbear to trespass within the inner,Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner.[They approach the first altar, and stand within theouter circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.]Spirits (sing):Beneath us it flashes,The glittering gold,Though it turneth to ashesAnd dross in the hold;Yet man will endeavour,By fraud or by strife,To grasp it and neverTo yield it with life.Orion:What can you see?Hugo: Some decrepit shapes,That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes;In the hollow earth they appear to storeAnd rake together great heaps of ore.Orion:These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough;Come on, of these we have seen enough.[They approach second altar and stand as before.]Spirits (singing):Above us it flashes,The glittering steel,Though the red blood splashesWhere its victims reel;Yet man will endeavourTo grapple the hilt,And to wield the blade everTill his life be spilt.Orion:What see you now?Hugo: A rocky glen,A horrid jumble of fighting men,And a face that somewhere I've seen before.Orion:Come on; there is naught worth seeing more,Except the altar of Ashtaroth.Hugo:To visit that altar I am loth.Orion:Why so?Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why,But I feel no curiosity.Orion:Come on. Stand close to the inner ring,And hear how sweetly these spirits sing.[They approach third altar.]Spirits (sing):Around us it flashes,The cestus of oneBorn of white foam, that dashesBeneath the white sun;Let the mortal take heart, heHas nothing to dare;She is fair, Queen Astarte,Her subjects are fair!Orion:What see you now, friend?Hugo: Wood and wold,And forms that look like the nymphs of old.There is nothing here worth looking at twice.I have seen enough.Orion: You are far too nice;Nevertheless, you must look again.Those forms will fade.Hugo: They are growing less plain.They vanish. I see a door that seemsTo open; a ray of sunlight gleamsFrom a window behind; a vision as fairAs the flush of dawn is standing there.[He gazes earnestly.]Orion (sings):Higher and hotter the white flames glow,And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow,And the life for a single chance may go,And the soul for a certainty.Oh! vain and shallow philosopher,Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir,The thoughts that have stray'd again to HERFrom whom thou hast sought to fly?Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold;Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still coldTo the curls that wander in ripples of gold,On the shoulders of ivory?Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth,Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth,Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south,When the deserts are parch'd and dry?Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath,The sting is certain, the venom is death,And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath,And the fang striketh suddenly.At the core the ashes are bitter and dead,But the rind is fair and the rind is red,It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said,Thou shalt NOT SURELY die.[Hugo tries to enter the inner ring;Orion holds him back; they struggle.]Hugo:Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod!Agatha! Speak! in the name of God![The vision disappears; the altars vanish.Hugo falls insensible.]
SCENE—The Wayside House.HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning.
Hugo:Vanish, fair and fatal vision!Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep,Chiding one whose indecisionWaking substance failed to keep;Picture into life half starting,As in life once seen before,Parting somewhat sadly, partingSlowly at the chamber door.Were my waking senses duller?Have I seen with mental eyeLight and shade, and warmth and colour,Plainer than reality?Sunlight that on tangled tressesEvery ripple gilds and tips;Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses,Warm on dewy, scarlet lips.Dark eyes veiling half their splendour'Neath their lashes' darker fringe,Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender,Passing smile and passing tinge;Dimpling fast and flushing faster,Ivory chin and coral cheek,Pearly strings, by alabasterNeck and arms made faint and weak;Drooping, downcast lids enduringGaze of man unwillingly;Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring,Partly arch and partly shy.Do I bless or curse that beauty?Am I longing, am I loth?Is it passion, is it dutyThat I strive with, one or both?Round about one fiery centreWayward thoughts like moths revolve.[He sees Orion.]Ha! Orion, thou didst enterUnperceived. I pray thee solveThese two questions: Firstly, tell me,Must I strive for wrong or right?Secondly, what things befell me—Facts, or phantasies—last night?Orion:First, your strife is all a sham, youKnow as well as I which wins;Second, waking sins will damn you,Never mind your sleeping sins;Both your questions thus I answer;Listen, ere you seek or shun:I at least am no romancer,What you long for may be won.Turn again and travel Rhineward,Tread once more the flowery path.Hugo:Aye, the flowery path that, sinwardPointing, ends in sin and wrath.Orion:Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd,Even the just man may allure.Hugo:To his shame; in this wise HaroldSinn'd, his punishment was sure.Orion:Nay, the Dane was worse than you are,Base and pitiless to boot;Doubtless all are bad, yet few areCruel, false, and dissolute.Hugo:Some sins foreign to our natureSeem; we take no credit whenWe escape them.Orion: Yet the creature,Sin-created, lives to sin.Hugo:Be it so; come good, come evil,Ride we to the Rhine again!Orion (aside):'Gainst the logic of the devilHuman logic strives in vain.
SCENE—A Camp Near the Black Forest.RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised asone of the Free-lances. Mid-day.
Osric:Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor,And by all the gods of the Viking's war,I swear we have quitted our homes in vain:We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain.Will our galley return to Norway's shoreWith heavier gold, or with costlier store?Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song?We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long.Say, captains all, is there ever a villageFor miles around that is worth the pillage?Will it pay the costs of my men or yoursTo harry the homesteads of German boors?Have we cause for pride in our feats of armsWhen we plunder the peasants or sack the farms?I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein,That were thy soldiers willing as mine,And I sole leader of this array,I would give Prince Otto battle this day.Dost thou call thy followers men of war?Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestorOn the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod,Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God".Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and runTo forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun,From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore,And back to the banks of the Rhine once more;Retreat from the face of an armed foe,Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go.Let the short alliance betwixt us cease,I and my Norsemen will go in peace!I wot it never will suit with us,Such existence, tame and inglorious;I could live no worse, living single-handed,And better with half my men disbanded.Rudolph:Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do?'Gainst Otto's army our men count few;With one chance of victory, fight, say I!But not when defeat is a certainty.If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances,Our chance will be equal to many chances;For Rudiger is both prompt and wary;And his men are gallant though mercenary;But the knave refuses to send a lanceTill half the money is paid in advance.Dagobert:May his avarice wither him like a curse!I guess he has heard of our late reverse;But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays,There is reason in what Jarl Osric says;Of provisions we need a fresh supply,And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry;My men are beginning to grumble sadly,'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly.Rudolph:We have plenty of foragers out, and stillWe have plenty of hungry mouths to fill;And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair,We must raise money; 'tis little I care,So long as we raise it, whence it comes.Osric:Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs?The shortest plan is ever the best;Has anyone here got aught to suggest?Orion:The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine,Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine,In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep,That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep;Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold?Ingot or coin? There is wealth untoldIn the ancient convent of Englemehr;That is not so very far from here.The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man,Will hold what he has and grasp what he can;The cream of the soil he loves to skim,Why not levy a contribution on him?Dagobert:The stranger speaks well; not far awayThat convent lies; and one summer's dayWill suffice for a horseman to reach the gate;The garrison soon would capitulate,Since the armed retainers are next to none,And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won.Rudolph:I kept those walls for two months or more,When they feared the riders of Melchior!That was little over three years ago.Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know;He haggled sorely about the priceOf our service.Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice.Rudolph:Well, what of that? Since then I've triedTo borrow from him; now I know he liedWhen he told me he could not spare the sumI asked. If we to his gates should come,He could spare it though it were doubled; and still,This war with the Church I like it ill.Osric:The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead,And the creed of the Christian reigns in its steadBut the creed of the Christian, too, may die,For your creeds or your churches what care I!If there be plunder at Englemehr,Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer.