"Turn out, boys!"—"What's up with our super. to-night?The man's mad—Two hours to daybreak I'd swear—Stark mad—why, there isn't a glimmer of light.""Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare;Look sharp. A large vessel lies jamm'd on the reef,And many on board still, and some wash'd on shore.Ride straight with the news—they may send some reliefFrom the township; and we—we can do little more.You, Alec, you know the near cuts; you can cross'The Sugarloaf' ford with a scramble, I think;Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse;Should the wind rise, God help them! the ship will soon sink.Old Peter's away down the paddock, to driveThe nags to the stockyard as fast as he can—A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive."Half-dress'd, in the dark, to the stockyard we ran.There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with haste,Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon;"Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to waste;""Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to some tune.""Make sure of the crossing-place; strike the old track,They've fenced off the new one; look out for the holesOn the wombat hills." "Down with the slip rails; stand back.""And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls."In the low branches heavily laden with dew,In the long grasses spoiling with deadwood that day,Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard oak grew,Between the tall gum-trees we gallop'd away—We crash'd through a brush fence, we splash'd through a swamp—We steered for the north near "The Eaglehawk's Nest"—We bore to the left, just beyond "The Red Camp",And round the black tea-tree belt wheel'd to the west—We cross'd a low range sickly scented with muskFrom wattle-tree blossom—we skirted a marsh—Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk,And peal'd overhead the jay's laughter note harsh,And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soonThe dim dewy uplands were dreamy with light;And full on our left flash'd "The Reedy Lagoon",And sharply "The Sugarloaf" rear'd on our right.A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard,He turn'd in his saddle, his brick-colour'd cheekFlush'd feebly with sundawn, said, "Just what I fear'd;Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek."Black Bolingbroke snorted, and stood on the brinkOne instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirlPlunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink,Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl.We follow'd,—one cold shock, and deeper we sankThan they did, and twice tried the landing in vain;The third struggle won it; straight up the steep bankWe stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain.The stockrider, Alec, at starting had gotThe lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boastThat through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot,And the black horse was counted the best on the coast.The mare had been awkward enough in the dark,She was eager and headstrong, and barely half broke;She had had me too close to a big stringy-bark,And had made a near thing of a crooked sheoak;But now on the open, lit up by the morn,She flung the white foam-flakes from nostril to neck,And chased him—I hatless, with shirt sleeves all torn(For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck)—And faster and faster across the wide heathWe rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head,And she—stretching out with the bit in her teeth—She caught him, outpaced him, and passed him, and led.We neared the new fence, we were wide of the track;I look'd right and left—she had never been triedAt a stiff leap; 'twas little he cared on the black."You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried.I hung to her head, touched her flank with the spurs(In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap);She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears,She flung it behind her with hardly a rap—I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck,And guessed that the pace we had come the last mileHad blown him a bit (he could jump like a buck).We galloped more steadily then for a while.The heath was soon pass'd, in the dim distance layThe mountain. The sun was just clearing the tipsOf the ranges to eastward. The mare—could she stay?She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse;She led, and as oft as he came to her side,She took the bit free and untiring as yet;Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were wide,And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met—"You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last;"The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown.She must be a good one—ride on and ride fast,You know your way now." So I rode on alone.Still galloping forward we pass'd the two flocksAt M'Intyre's hut and M'Allister's hill—She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks—On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still—And over the wasteland and under the wood,By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat,She gallop'd, and here in the stirrups I stoodTo ease her, and there in the saddle I satTo steer her. We suddenly struck the red loamOf the track near the troughs—then she reeled on the rise—From her crest to her croup covered over with foam,And blood-red her nostrils, and bloodshot her eyes,A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed—A bend round a bank that had shut out the view—Large framed in the mild light the mountain had loomed,With a tall, purple peak bursting out from the blue.I pull'd her together, I press'd her, and sheShot down the decline to the Company's yard,And on by the paddocks, yet under my kneeI could feel her heart thumping the saddle-flaps hard.Yet a mile and another, and now we were nearThe goal, and the fields and the farms flitted past;And 'twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer,For a green grass-fed mare 'twas a far thing and fast;And labourers, roused by her galloping hoofs,Saw bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted steed;And shone the white walls and the slate-coloured roofsOf the township. I steadied her then—I had need—Where stood the old chapel (where stands the new church—Since chapels to churches have changed in that town).A short, sidelong stagger, a long, forward lurch,A slight, choking sob, and the mare had gone down.I slipp'd off the bridle, I slacken'd the girth,I ran on and left her and told them my news;I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth?How much for her hide? She had never worn shoes.
"A stone upon her heart and head,But no name written on that stone;Sweet neighbours whisper low instead,This sinner was a loving one."—Mrs. Browning.
'Tis a nameless stone that stands at your head—The gusts in the gloomy gorges whirlBrown leaves and red till they cover your bed—Now I trust that your sleep is a sound one, girl!I said in my wrath, when his shadow cross'dFrom your garden gate to your cottage door,"What does it matter for one soul lost?Millions of souls have been lost before."Yet I warn'd you—ah! but my words came true—"Perhaps some day you will find him out."He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe,Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt.You laughed and were deaf to my warning voice—Blush'd and were blind to his cloven hoof—You have had your chance, you have taken your choiceHow could I help you, standing aloof?He has prosper'd well with the world—he saysI am mad—if so, and if he be sane,I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praiseThat there lies between us one difference plain.
You in your beauty above me bentIn the pause of a wild west country ball—Spoke to me—touched me without intent—Made me your servant for once and all.Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip,And you swept my cheek with a shining curl,That stray'd from your shoulder's snowy tip—Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl!From a long way off to look at your charmsMade my blood run redder in every vein,And he—he has held you long in his arms,And has kiss'd you over and over again.Is it well that he keeps well out of my way?If we met, he and I—we alone—we two—Would I give him one moment's grace to pray?Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew.A life like a shuttlecock may be toss'dWith the hand of fate for a battledore;But it matters much for your sweet soul lost,As much as a million souls and more.And I know that if, here or there, alone,I found him, fairly and face to face,Having slain his body, I would slay my own,That my soul to Satan his soul might chase.He hardens his heart in the public way—Who am I? I am but a nameless churl;But God will put all things straight some day—Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl!
"The hills like giants at a hunting layChin upon hand, to see the game at bay."—Browning.
You'll take my tale with a little salt,But it needs none, nevertheless,I was foil'd completely, fairly at fault,Dishearten'd, too, I confess.At the splitters' tent I had seen the trackOf horse-hoofs fresh on the sward,And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack(Who could swear through a ten-inch board)Solemnly swore he had not been there,I was just as sure that they lied,For to Darby all that is foul was fair,And Jack for his life was tried.We had run him for seven miles and moreAs hard as our nags could split;At the start they were all too weary and sore,And his was quite fresh and fit.Young Marsden's pony had had enoughOn the plain, where the chase was hot;We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff,And Mark couldn't raise a trot;When the sea, like a splendid silver shield,To the south-west suddenly lay;On the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd,And I bid good-bye to M'Crea—And I was alone when the mare fell lame,With a pointed flint in her shoe,On the Stony Flats: I had lost the game,And what was a man to do?I turned away with no fixed intentAnd headed for Hawthorndell;I could neither eat in the splitters' tent,Nor drink at the splitters' well;I knew that they gloried in my mishap,And I cursed them between my teeth—A blood-red sunset through Brayton's GapFlung a lurid fire on the heath.Could I reach the Dell? I had little reck,And with scarce a choice of my ownI threw the reins on Miladi's neck—I had freed her foot from the stone.That season most of the swamps were dry,And after so hard a burst,In the sultry noon of so hot a sky,She was keen to appease her thirst—Or by instinct urged or impelled by fate—I care not to solve these things—Certain it is that she took me straightTo the Warrigal water springs.I can shut my eyes and recall the groundAs though it were yesterday—With a shelf of the low, grey rocks girt round,The springs in their basin lay;Woods to the east and wolds to the northIn the sundown sullenly bloom'd;Dead black on a curtain of crimson clothLarge peaks to the westward loomed.I led Miladi through weed and sedge,She leisurely drank her fill;There was something close to the water's edge,And my heart with one leap stood still,For a horse's shoe and a rider's bootHad left clean prints on the clay;Someone had watered his beast on foot.'Twas he—he had gone. Which way?Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair,As I turned and fronted the rocks;So, at last, I had pressed the wolf to his lair,I had run to his earth the fox.I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. PerhapsHe was waiting, watching for me.I examined all my revolver caps,I hitched my mare to a tree—I had sworn to have him, alive or dead,And to give him a chance was loth.He knew his life had been forfeited—He had even heard of my oath.In my stocking soles to the shelf I crept,I crawl'd safe into the cave—All silent—if he was there he sleptNot there. All dark as the grave.Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss!See the livid face through the flame!How strange it seems that a man should missWhen his life depends on his aim!There couldn't have been a better lightFor him, nor a worse for me.We were coop'd up, caged like beasts for a fight,And dumb as dumb beasts were we.Flash! flash! bang! bang! and we blazed away,And the grey roof reddened and rang;Flash! flash! and I felt his bullet flayThe tip of my ear. Flash! bang!Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke;I struck with my left hand then—Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke—I had shot him dead in his den!
A burning glass of burnished brass,The calm sea caught the noontide rays,And sunny slopes of golden grassAnd wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze.Beyond the shining silver-greys,Beyond the shades of denser bloom,The sky-line girt with glowing hazeThe farthest, faintest forest gloom,And the everlasting hills that loom.We heard the hound beneath the mound,We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh—We had not sought for that we found—He lay as dead men only lie,With wan cheek whitening in the sky,Through the wild heath flowers, white and red,The dumb brute that had seen him die,Close crouching, howl'd beside the head,Brute burial service o'er the dead.The brow was rife with seams of strife—A lawless death made doubly plainThe ravage of a reckless life;The havoc of a hurricaneOf passions through that breadth of brain,Like headlong horses that had runRiot, regardless of the rein—"Madman, he might have lived and doneBetter than most men," whispered one.The beams and blots that Heaven allotsTo every life with life begin.Fool! would you change the leopard's spots,Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin?What more could he have hoped to win,What better things have thought to gain,So shapen—so conceived in sin?No life is wholly void and vain,Just and unjust share sun and rain.Were new life sent, and life misspent,Wiped out (if such to God seemed good),Would he (being as he was) repent,Or could he, even if he would,Who heeded not things understood(Though dimly) even in savage landsBy some who worship stone or wood,Or bird or beast, or who stretch handsSunward on shining Eastern sands?And crime has cause. Nay, never pauseIdly to feel a pulseless wrist;Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws,Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist,And close those eyes through film and mistThat kept the old defiant glare;And answer, wise Psychologist,Whose science claims some little shareOf truth, what better things lay there?Aye! thought and mind were there,—some kindOf faculty that men mistakeFor talent when their wits are blind,—An aptitude to mar and breakWhat others diligently make.This was the worst and best of him—Wise with the cunning of the snake,Brave with the she wolf's courage grim,Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb.And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cureYou can't, but you can kill, and he—"WITNESS HIS MARK"—he signed last year,And now he signs John Smith, J.P.We'll hold our inquest NOW, we three;I'll be your coroner for once;I think old Oswald ought to beOur foreman—Jones is such a dunce,—There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce.No man may shirk the allotted work,The deed to do, the death to die;At least I think so,—neither Turk,Nor Jew, nor infidel am I,—And yet I wonder when I tryTo solve one question, may or must,And shall I solve it by-and-by,Beyond the dark, beneath the dust?I trust so, and I only trust.Aye, what they will, such trifles kill.Comrade, for one good deed of yours,Your history shall not help to fillThe mouths of many brainless boors.It may be death absolves or curesThe sin of life. 'Twere hazardousTo assert so. If the sin endures,Say only, "God, who has judged him thus,Be merciful to him and us."
A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup
"Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens;The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeterThan ever—he swears he can win all the way."A gentleman rider—well, I'm an outsider,But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock?You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder,He rides, too, like thunder—he sits like a rock."He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barelyBeen stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds,A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick,And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds."They say we have no test to warrant a protest;Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward;The light of their faces they show him—his case isPrejudged and his verdict already secured."But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,She strides in her work clean away from The Drag;You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag."And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it,May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up;The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb,A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction,I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey,Came down in a hurry to start us at once."Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello!Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag!Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan!So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag.We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid,Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound,The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid,Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,Before her two-thirds of the field got away,All through the wet pasture where floods of the last yearStill loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle;The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow,And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall;And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling,And I was left sailing in front of them all.I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed herUntil the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble—My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough.Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter—Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam,Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered—We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home.Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind herThe sward to the strokes of the favourite shook;His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so littleShe shortened her stride as we raced at the brook.She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter,A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her,The space that he cleared was a caution to see.And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,A length to the front went the rider in green;A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,I found my hands give to her strain on the bit;She rose when The Clown did—our silks as we boundedBrush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping—The last—we diverged round the base of the hill;His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer,I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still.She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her,And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew;A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The devil!"He mutter'd—lock'd level the hurdles we flew.A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering,All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard;"The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on,And figures are blended and features are blurr'd."The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!""The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" "The Clown!"The white railing races with all the white faces,The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway,Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most,"He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.Aye! so ends the tussle,—I knew the tan muzzleWas first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!"A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare byA short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.
An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric
Scene I"Discontent"LAURENCE RABY.
Laurence:I said to young Allan M'Ilveray,Beside the swift swirls of the North,When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray,We haul'd the strong salmon fish forth—Said only, "He gave us some troubleTo land him, and what does he weigh?Our friend has caught one that weighs double,The game for the candle won't payUs to-day,We may tie up our rods and away."I said to old Norman M'Gregor,Three leagues to the west of Glen Dhu—I had drawn, with a touch of the trigger,The best BEAD that ever I drew—Said merely, "For birds in the stubbleI once had an eye—I could swearHe's down—but he's not worth the troubleOf seeking. You once shot a bearIn his lair—'Tis only a buck that lies there."I said to Lord Charles only last year,The time that we topp'd the oak railBetween Wharton's plough and Whynne's pasture,And clear'd the big brook in Blakesvale—We only—at Warburton's doubleHe fell, then I finish'd the runAnd kill'd clean—said, "So bursts a bubbleThat shone half an hour in the sun—What is won?Your sire clear'd and captured a gun."I said to myself, in true sorrow,I said yestere'en, "A fair prizeIs won, and it may be to-morrow'Twill not seem so fair in thine eyes—Real life is a race through sore trouble,That gains not an inch on the goal,And bliss an intangible bubbleThat cheats an unsatisfied soul,And the wholeOf the rest an illegible scroll."
Scene VII"Two Exhortations"A Shooting-box in the West of Ireland. A Bedchamber.LAURENCE RABY and MELCHIOR. Night.
Melchior:Surely in the great beginning God made all things good, and stillThat soul-sickness men call sinning entered not without His will.Nay, our wisest have asserted that, as shade enhances light,Evil is but good perverted, wrong is but the foil of right.Banish sickness, then you banish joy for health to all that live;Slay all sin, all good must vanish, good being but comparative.Sophistry, you say—yet listen: look you skyward, there 'tis knownWorlds on worlds in myriads glisten—larger, lovelier than our own—This has been, and this still shall be, here as there, in sun or star;These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are.Man in man's imperfect nature is by imperfection taught:Add one cubit to your stature if you can by taking thought.Laurence:Thus you would not teach that peasant, though he calls you "father".Melchior: True,I should magnify this present, mystify that future, too—We adapt our conversation always to our hearer's light.Laurence:I am not of your persuasion.Melchior: Yet the difference is but slight.Laurence:I, EVEN I, say, "He who barters worldly weal for heavenly worthHe does well"—your saints and martyrs were examples here on earth.Melchior:Aye, in earlier Christian ages, while the heathen empire stood,When the war 'twixt saints and sages cried aloud for saintly blood,Christ was then their model truly. Now, if all were meek and pure,Save the ungodly and the unruly, would the Christian Church endure?Shall the toiler or the fighter dream by day and watch by night,Turn the left cheek to the smiter, smitten rudely on the right?Strong men must encounter bad men—so-called saints of latter daysHave been mostly pious madmen, lusting after righteous praise—Or the thralls of superstition, doubtless worthy some reward,Since they came by their condition hardly of their free accord.'Tis but madness, sad and solemn, that these fakir-Christians feel—Saint Stylites on his column gratified a morbid zeal.Laurence:By your showing, good is really on a par (of worth) with ill.Melchior:Nay, I said not so; I merely tell you both some ends fulfil—Priestly vows were my vocation, fast and vigil wait for me.You must work and face temptation. Never should the strong man flee,Though God wills the inclination with the soul at war to be. (Pauses.)In the strife 'twixt flesh and spirit, while you can the spirit aid.Should you fall not less your merit, be not for a fall afraid.Whatsoe'er most right, most fit is you shall do. When all is doneChaunt the noble Nunc Dimittis—Benedicimur, my son.[Exit MELCHIOR.]Laurence (alone):Why do I provoke these wrangles? Melchior talks (as well he may)With the tongues of men and angels.(Takes up a pamphlet.) What has this man got to say?(Reads.) Sic sacerdos fatur (ejus nomen quondam erat Burgo.)Mala mens est, caro pejus, anima infirma, ergoI nunc, ora, sine mora—orat etiam Sancta Virgo.(Thinks.)(Speaks.) So it seems they mean to make her wed the usurer, Nathan Lee.Poor Estelle! her friends forsake her; what has this to do with me?Glad I am, at least, that Helen still refuses to discardHer, through tales false gossips tellin spite or heedlessness.—'Tis hard!—Lee, the Levite!—some few years back Herbert horsewhipp'd him—the curShow'd his teeth and laid his ears back. Now his wealth has purchased her.Must his baseness mar her brightness? Shall the callous, cunning churlRevel in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl?(Thinks and smokes.)(Reads.) Cito certe venit vitae finis (sic sacerdos fatur),Nunc audite omnes, ite, vobis fabula narraturNunc orate et laudate, laudat etiam Alma Mater.(Muses.) Such has been, and such shall still be,here as there, in sun or star;These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are.If I thought that speech worth heeding I should—Nay, it seems to meMore like Satan's special pleading than like Gloria Domine.(Lies down on his couch.)(Reads.) Et tuquoque frater meus facta mala quod fecistiDenique confundit Deus omnes res quas tetegisti.Nunc si unquam, nunc aut nunquam, sanguine adjuro Christi.
Scene IX"In the Garden"Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.
He:Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low;Bertha, the baby, won't notice, Brian, the blockhead, won't know.She:Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose;Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows.He:This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knewSomewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you.She:Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave.You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave.He:Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these,I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please.Brian and Basil are "punting", leave them their dice and their wine,Bertha is butterfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine.See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace,Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face.She:Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end?Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend?He:Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest,Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est.She:Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist;Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste.He:Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?She:You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell.Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warn'd for all that.He (aside):Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat.She:Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole,You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul?He:Girl! THAT MAY happen, but THIS IS; after this welcome the worst;Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore curs'd.Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard—Make me your girdle, your necklace—She: Laurence, you kiss me too hard.He:Aye, 'tis the road to Avernus, n'est ce pas vrai donc, ma belle?There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle.Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch?You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you, you scorch.She:Yonder are Brian and Basil watching us fools from the porch.
Scene X"After the Quarrel"Laurence Raby's Chamber. LAURENCE enters, a little the worse for liquor.
Laurence:He never gave me a chance to speak,And he call'd her—worse than a dog—The girl stood up with a crimson cheek,And I fell'd him there like a log.I can feel the blow on my knuckles yet—He feels it more on his brow.In a thousand years we shall all forgetThe things that trouble us now.
Scene XI"Ten Paces Off"An open country. LAURENCE RABY and FORREST, BRIAN AYLMER and PRESCOT.
Forrest:I've won the two tosses from Prescot;Now hear me, and hearken and heed,And pull that vile flower from your waistcoat,And throw down that beast of a weed;I'm going to give you the signalI gave Harry Hunt at Boulogne,The morning he met Major Bignell,And shot him as dead as a stone;For he must look round on his right handTo watch the white flutter—that stopsHis aim, for it takes off his sight, andI COUGH WHILE THE HANDKERCHIEF DROPS.And you keep both eyes on his figure,Old fellow, and don't take them off.You've got the sawhandled hair trigger—You sight him and shoot when I cough.Laurence (aside):Though God will never forgive me,Though men make light of my name,Though my sin and my shame outlive me,I shall not outlast my shame.The coward, does he mean to miss me?His right hand shakes like a leaf;Shall I live for my friends to hiss me,Of fools and of knaves the chief?Shall I live for my foes to twit me?He has master'd his nerve again—He is firm, he will surely hit me—Will he reach the heart or the brain?One long look eastward and northward—One prayer—"Our Father which art"—And the cough chimes in with the fourth word,And I shoot skyward—the heart.
Last Scene"Exeunt"HELEN RABY.
Where the grave-deeps rot, where the grave-dews rust,They dug, crying, "Earth to earth"—Crying, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust"—And what are my poor prayers worth?Upon whom shall I call, or in whom shall I trust,Though death were indeed new birth.And they bid me be glad for my baby's sakeThat she suffered sinless and young—Would they have me be glad when my breasts still acheWhere that small, soft, sweet mouth clung?I am glad that the heart will so surely breakThat has been so bitterly wrung.He was false, they tell me, and what if he were?I can only shudder and pray,Pouring out my soul in a passionate prayerFor the soul that he cast away;Was there nothing that once was created fairIn the potter's perishing clay?Is it well for the sinner that souls endure?For the sinless soul is it well?Does the pure child lisp to the angels pure?And where does the strong man dwell,If the sad assurance of priests be sure,Or the tale that our preachers tell?The unclean has follow'd the undefiled,And the ill MAY regain the good,And the man MAY be even as the little child!We are children lost in the wood—Lord! lead us out of this tangled wild,Where the wise and the prudent have been beguil'd,And only the babes have stood.
Aye, snows are rife in December,And sheaves are in August yet,And you would have me remember,And I would rather forget;In the bloom of the May-day weather,In the blight of October chill,We were dreamers of old together,—As of old, are you dreaming still?For nothing on earth is sadderThan the dream that cheated the grasp,The flower that turned to the adder,The fruit that changed to the asp;When the day-spring in darkness closes,As the sunset fades from the hills,With the fragrance of perish'd roses,With the music of parch'd-up rills.When the sands on the sea-shore nourishRed clover and yellow corn;When figs on the thistle flourish,And grapes grow thick on the thorn;When the dead branch, blighted and blasted,Puts forth green leaves in the spring,Then the dream that life has outlastedDead comfort to life may bring.I have changed the soil and the season,But whether skies freeze or flame,The soil they flame on or freeze onIs changed in little save name;The loadstone points to the nor'ward,The river runs to the sea;And you would have me look forward,And backward I fain would flee.I remember the bright spring garlands,The gold that spangled the green,And the purple on fairy far lands,And the white and the red bloom, seenFrom the spot where we last lay dreamingTogether—yourself and I—The soft grass beneath us gleaming,Above us the great grave sky.And we spoke thus: "Though we have troddenRough paths in our boyish years;And some with our sweat are sodden,And some are salt with our tears;Though we stumble still, walking blindly,Our paths shall be made all straight;We are weak, but the heavens are kindly,The skies are compassionate."Is the clime of the old land younger,Where the young dreams longer are nursed?With the old insatiable hunger,With the old unquenchable thirst,Are you longing, as in the old yearsWe have longed so often in vain;Fellow-toilers still, fellow-soldiers,Though the seas have sundered us twain?But the young dreams surely have faded!Young dreams!—old dreams of young days—Shall the new dream vex us as they did?Or as things worth censure or praise?Real toil is ours, real trouble,Dim dreams of pleasure and pride;Let the dreams disperse like a bubble,So the toil like a dream subside.Vain toil! men better and braverRose early and rested late,Whose burdens than ours were graver,And sterner than ours their hate.What fair reward had Achilles?What rest could Alcides win?Vain toil!"Consider the lilies,They toil not neither do spin."Nor for mortal toiling nor spinningWill the matters of mortals mend;As it was so in the beginning,It shall be so in the end.The web that the weavers weave illShall not be woven arightTill the good is brought forth from evil,As day is brought forth from night.Vain dreams! for our fathers cherish'dHigh hopes in the days that were;And these men wonder'd and perish'd,Nor better than these we fare;And our due at last is their due,They fought against odds and fell;"En avant, les enfants perdus!"We fight against odds as well.The skies! Will the great skies care forOur footsteps, straighten our path,Or strengthen our weakness? Wherefore?We have rather incurr'd their wrath;When against the Captain of HazorThe stars in their courses fought,Did the skies shed merciful rays, orWith love was the sunshine fraught?Can they favour man? Can they wrong man?The unapproachable skies?Though these gave strength to the strong man,And wisdom gave to the wise;When strength is turn'd to derision,And wisdom brought to dismay,Shall we wake from a troubled vision,Or rest from a toilsome day?Nay! I cannot tell. PeradventureOur very toil is a dream,And the works that we praise or censure,It may be, they only seem.If so, I would fain awaken,Or sleep more soundly than so,Or by dreamless sleep overtaken,The dream I would fain forego.For the great things of earth are small things,The longest life is a span,And there is an end to all things,A season to every man,Whose glory is dust and ashes,Whose spirit is but a spark,That out from the darkness flashes,And flickers out in the dark.We remember the pangs that wrung usWhen some went down to the pit,Who faded as leaves among us,Who flitted as shadows flit;What visions under the stone lie?What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell?For we saw the earth pit only,And we heard only the knell.We know not whether they slumberWho waken on earth no more,As the stars of the heights in number,As sands on the deep sea-shore.Shall stiffness bind them, and starknessEnthral them, by field and flood,Till "the sun shall be turn'd to darkness,And the moon shall be turn'd to blood."We know not!—worse may enthral men—"The wages of sin are death";And so death passed upon all men,For sin was born with man's breath.Then the labourer spent with sinning,His hire with his life shall spend;For it was so in the beginning,And shall be so in the end.There is life in the blacken'd emberWhile a spark is smouldering yet;In a dream e'en now I rememberThat dream I had lief forget—I had lief forget, I had e'en liefThat dream with THIS doubt should die—"IF WE DID THESE THINGS IN THE GREEN LEAF,WHAT SHALL BE DONE IN THE DRY?"