Complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell [electronic text]

DRAMATIC POEMS

FRANCIS DRAKE

A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA

TIME, 1578
At sea, off the coast of Patagonia, on board the Pelican, the Elizabeth, and the Plymouth.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

• FRANCIS DRAKE.
• THOMAS DOUGHTY, his friend.
• FRANCIS FLETCHER Chaplain.
• JOHN WINTER, Captain.
• LEONARD VICARY, Captain.
• WILLIAM CHESTER, Captain.
• GENTLEMEN-VENTURERS.
• SEAMEN

Deck of the Elizabeth. Fleet in the offing.
JOHN WINTER. THOMAS DOUGHTY.

DOUGHTY

(coming aboard).

Good-morrow, Winter. Still the winds are foul. I would they blew from merry England shores.

WINTER.

I would they had not blown you to my ship. None are more welcome elsewhere. Strict commands Forbid this visiting from ship to ship.

DOUGHTY.

These orders are most wise,—I doubt not that; Yet must I learn that any here afloat Is master of the gentlemen who venture Their ducats and their lives. Let him make laws To rule rough sailors; they are not for us.

WINTER.

Yet one must be the master. Ill it were If, drifting masterless, this little realm Of tossing ships obeyed not one sure helm. I shall but serve you if I bid you go.

DOUGHTY.

The Pelican is twice a league away. 'T is time the several captains of the fleet Should learn how little mind the seamen have,

Ay, and the gentlemen, to hold our course. Now, were we all of us of one firm mind, This cheating voyage should end, and that full soon. This in your ear. Did I dare speak of Burleigh—

[ Winter recoils.

WINTER.

Have you a mind to lose us both our heads? I would not ill report you, but your words Sail near to treason, both to Queen and Friend.

DOUGHTY.

I pray you but this once be patient with me. My actions shall not lack support in England. If I might dare say all, you best of any Would know the admiral has no better friend. The ships decay; the sailors mutiny; Before us lies a waste of unknown seas; Methinks authority doth beget in men A certain madness. Think you if we chance To ruin peaceful towns and scuttle ships, And rouse these Spanish hornets on their coasts, Think you the dearest counsellor of the Queen— I may not name him—will be better pleased With him that hurts or him that helps this voyage?

WINTER.

I think your enterprise more perilous Than half a hundred voyages, good friend— I pray you risk not losing of the name, For you are greatly changed from him I knew This some time past of gentle disposition; In danger tranquil; gay, and yet discreet; Learned in the law, a scholar and a soldier.

DOUGHTY.

An old-time nursery trick: comfits before, And after comes the dose; then sweets again.

WINTER.

Be not so hasty; hear me to the end, And be my careful friendship early pardoned. I have heard you say of late you lack advancement.

There is advancement no man need to lack Who makes his Duty like a mother's knees, Where all his prayers are said. This man you were. What other man is this I hardly know: One that of all his natural endowments Makes but base use to stir the meaner sort, To darken counsel with a mist of words, To scatter falsehood, and to sow distrust; And all as lightly as a housewife flings The morning grain amidst her cackling crew.

DOUGHTY.

You have done well to ask my pardon first.

WINTER.

Nay. I do hold the bond of friendship strong; And he who wills to keep his friends must know To stomach that they lack. I would indeed You had not spoken as you have to-day.

DOUGHTY.

What matters it? My words are safe with you.

WINTER.

Safe as my countenance will let them be; Safe till the admiral asks, and, like a boy, I stand a-twiddling of uneasy thumbs, On this foot, now, or that, red in the face. By Heaven! what fetched you on this hated voyage?

DOUGHTY.

A trick. A fetch indeed!

WINTER.

Nay, that's not so. Trick or no trick, this is not English earth, Nor Drake the man who on the Devon greens Sat half the night a-talking poesy. I have seen many men in angry moods, But this man's wrath is as the wrath of God, Instant and terrible. Pray you, be warned, And if your soul be capable of fear—

DOUGHTY.

Fear!

WINTER.

Ay, a healthful virtue in its place. Had I been but the half as rash as you, My very sword would tremble in its sheath.

DOUGHTY.

And yet I have no nearer friend than he.

WINTER.

You judge men by their love, as maidens do.

DOUGHTY.

And not an ill way, either, as earth goes. The admiral in his less distracted times Hath some rare flavor of the woman in him.

WINTER.

Oh, that's the half of him: no lady wronged, No pillaged church, no hurt of unarmed man, Will stain his record at the great account. Have then a care. The gentle, just, and brave Are ill to anger.

DOUGHTY.

What I say to you I not less readily shall say to him, Trusting the friendly equity of his love.

WINTER.

A certain devil lurks in every angel, Else had there never been a strife in heaven. Now on my soul I wonder at the man. Thrice has he warned you as a brother might, And once removed you from a high command. 'T is very strange to me how men may differ. No doubts have I; along these savage coasts Magellan sailed. Are we not English born?

DOUGHTY.

I neither have forgotten nor forget. Thanks for your patience. There is more to say That might be said.

WINTER.

I would it had been less. I think it well no other hears your words.

DOUGHTY.

Oh, fear not I shall rashly squander speech.

WINTER.

Spend not your thoughts at all. Be miserly. These wooden walls have echoes; to and fro Some wild word wanders, till, on each return,

We less and less our own mind's children know. All gold they say is of the devil's mint; But words are very devils of themselves. I do commend you to a fast of speech.

DOUGHTY.

It might be wise—but you'll not talk of this.

WINTER.

Nay, that I will not. It is you will speak. A restless tongue is ever no man's friend. Come, let us shift the talk. 'T is perilous.

[Winter, as he speaks, walks to the rail.

How huge and bloody red the moon to-night! This utter quiet of the brooding sea I like not over well; nor yon red moon. So, there 's a breeze again, and now 't is still. We shall have storms to-morrow.

DOUGHTY.

Reason good, Before our ships are scattered far and wide, That I should speak what others dare not speak,

WINTER.

Nor I dare hear. My mother used to say That silence was a very Christian virtue. When I talk folly, be the Moon my friend; There are no eavesdroppers among the stars.

DOUGHTY.

Her sex, they say, are leaky counsellors; And, too, she shares your secrets with a man, Red i' the visage now. Here 's three to keep Your pleasant indiscretions.

WINTER.

Happy Moon! That ere a day is dead shall England see. Ah, gentle dame, shine on our island homes; Kiss for my sake a face as fair as thine; Go, tell our love to every maiden flower That droops tear-laden in our Devon woods.

DOUGHTY.

I dreamed last night that never more again Should I see England.

WINTER.

That's as God may will. I dare not think on England. Why should you? What ails you now that you should look behind When honor cries come on?

DOUGHTY.

To be a child! Is that your largest wisdom?

WINTER.

Yes, well said! Child, woman, man—the nobler life hath need That man be all of these.

DOUGHTY

(is silent a moment).

I would that I Were always near you, Winter. Drake has power To tempt resistance as no other can. With you, dear friend, my soul abides in peace.

WINTER.

Seek you such peace as comes to those alone Who have for friend the duty of the hour.

DOUGHTY.

Enough of preaching.

WINTER.

Well, so be it then; But guard that restless tongue. When night is come, And all these mighty spaces overhead And all this vast of sea lie motionless, God seems so near to me, ill deeds so far, That all my soul in gentled wonder rests.

[They are silent a time.

DOUGHTY.

Mark how the southward splendor of the cross Shines peace upon us. When the nights are calm, I joy to climb the topmast's utmost peak, And, hanging breathless in the unpeopled void, Note how the still deep answers star for star.

WINTER.

See, the wind freshens. Get you to your ship. Come not again. This seeming quiet sea Is not more dangerous than a man we know.

DOUGHTY.

'T is not the danger checks me; yet be sure I shall not spare to think upon your words. You have my thanks. Good-night, and merry dreams. See that you keep my counsel.

WINTER.

Said I not, 'T was safe with me?

DOUGHTY

(goes over the rail to his boat).

Good-night, and better winds.

WINTER.

Good-night to you. The devil take the man.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. VICARY. WINTER.

WINTER.

It sorts not with my honor that I speak.

DRAKE.

Enough to know John Winter will not speak;A cruel verdict is the just man's silence. I have been patient, but the end has come. What breeds these discontents? I know the man. Were he twin brother of my mother's womb He should not live to mar my Prince's venture.

(To Vicary.)

Are you struck silent, like my good John Winter?What substance is there in this mutinous talk?

VICARY.

Too little substance, not enough to eat; A prating parson, and some empty bellies. A very mutinous thing 's an empty paunch.

DRAKE.

Now here 's a man has never a plain answer. Out with it in good English.

VICARY.

As you will, I pray you pardon me my way of speech;

I cannot help it. I was born a-grinning, Or so my mother said. If death 's a jest, I doubt not I shall never die in earnest.

DRAKE.

Now on my soul this passes all endurance; Grin, if it please you, but at least speak out.

VICARY.

I never had as little mind to speak.

DRAKE.

I have heard you jesting with a Spanish Don When sore beset and well-nigh spent with wounds. I think some counsel lies behind your mirth.

VICARY.

Were I the admiral I would preach a sermon.

DRAKE.

A sermon!

VICARY.

Ay! and that a yardarm long, And to conclude, a parson and a rope. Also good rum 's a very Christian diet, And vastly does console a shrunken belly.

DRAKE

(smiling).

Well, my gay jester, is there more to say?

VICARY.

I sometimes think we carry on our ships Too large a freight of time.

DRAKE.

Talk plain again. It takes three questions to beget an answer.

VICARY.

Now, as the world runs that 's unnatural many.

DRAKE.

I think you will not speak.

VICARY.

No, I'm run dry. I am as barren as a widowed hen.

DRAKE

(laughing).

Out with you. Go!

VICARY

(aside).

And none more glad to go.

[Exit Vicary.

DRAKE.

One that must needs be taken in his humor.

WINTER.

'T is a strange disposition that has mirth For what breeds tears in others.

DRAKE.

No, not strange. But I've no jesting in my heart to-day.

The straits lie yonder, dark and perilous; The Spaniards' villainies sit heavy here.

[Strikes his breast.

Their racks are red with honest English blood; The dead call, "Come." Ah, Winter, by my soul, When Panama is ours, when their galleons lie Distressful wrecks, and England's banner flies Unquestioned on the far Pacific sea, Then—

WINTER.

Is it so? Runs your commission thus?

DRAKE.

Once past the straits, and all shall know my errand. Here is the warrant of Her Majesty, And here the sword she bade me call her own.

WINTER.

Did Doughty know of this?

DRAKE.

Ay, from the first.

WINTER.

A double treason.

DRAKE.

Counsel me, John Winter. The sailors murmur, and the gentlemen Sow quarrels and dissension through the fleet. My dearest friend betrays my dearest trust. What means this gay boy's chatter about time?

WINTER.

A riddle easily read, if you but think What use the devil has for idle hours.

DRAKE.

I have long meant to make an end of that. Go tell these lazy gentles, Francis Drake Bids them to haul and pull as sailors do; Ay, let them reef and lay out on the yards. I'll bid 'gainst Satan for their idleness. Belike they may not care to go aloft; Then, on my word, I 've bilboes down alow.

WINTER.

Thou wouldst not set a gentle i' the stocks?

DRAKE.

Gentle or parson, let them try me not.

'T is said a gibbet stands on yonder shore: There brave Magellan hanged a mutinous Don. Let them look to it. See I be obeyed. None shall be favored. Fetch me now aboard This traitor Doughty, and no words with him.

WINTER.

Ay, ay, sir.

DRAKE.

Go. Let there be no delay.

[Winter in his boat beside the Plymouth.

DOUGHTY

(descending).

What means this summons?

WINTER.

Hush! I may not speak. Give way there, men.

(To Doughty.)

Have you your tablets with you?

[Takes them and writes:

"Take care. Be warned. The devil is broke loose."

DOUGHTY.

Why am I bidden?

WINTER.

Way—give way there, men!

DOUGHTY.

Will you not answer me?

WINTER.

Not I, indeed. Way there, enough! Ho, there, aboard!

[Doughty goes aboard the Pelican.

DOUGHTY.

Good-day.

Deck of Pelican.

DOUGHTY. FLETCHER.

FLETCHER.

I think there is some mischief in the air. 'T is said the admiral has sent for you.

DOUGHTY.

I 'm haled aboard with no more courtesy Than any meanest ruffian of the crew. Were I in England he should answer me.

FLETCHER.

This is not England.

DOUGHTY.

Oh, by heaven! no!

(Aside.)

Time must be won. I 've been a loitering fool.

(Aloud.)

I would that I could clear my mind to you.

FLETCHER.

Why not to me? What other is so fit? Is not confession like an act of nature?

DOUGHTY.

I am like a wine thick with confusing lees. To-day they settle, and to-morrow morn Another shakes me, and I 'm thick again.

[Fletcher watches him. Both are silent for a moment.

You are both man and priest.

FLETCHER.

Add friend to both.

DOUGHTY.

We said, most reverend sir, both man and priest. Had you been more of man, yet all of priest, Confession had been easier.

FLETCHER.

More of man!Grant you I lack the courage of the sea, Think you it takes none to be now your friend? I have the will, ay, and the resolution, To help you when I think you most need help. I guess the half your lips delay to tell.

DOUGHTY

(looking about him).

Enough. Time passes, and you should know all. My Lord of Burleigh much mislikes this voyage. Who helps to ruin it will no loser be. Had I but known this ere my florins went To help a foolish venture!

FLETCHER.

But the Queen—

DOUGHTY.

Hath ever had two minds, as is her way.

(Points north.)

Now there advancement lies.

(Points south.)

And that way death.

FLETCHER.

Art in the service of my Lord of Burleigh? Not more than thou am I this admiral's man.

DOUGHTY.

And I am no man's man; I am the Queen's. I shall best serve my God in serving her. Shall it be Prince or friend? I may not both.

FLETCHER.

Is he thy friend?

DOUGHTY.

Of late I doubt it much. Now hath he closer counsellors than I.

FLETCHER.

He loves thee not. This ill-advisèd voyage Goes to disaster in these unknown seas Where some foul devil led the sons of Rome. 'T is said that demons lit them down the coast. This nine and fifty years no Christian sail Has gone this deathful way. Tim admiral Knows not the sullen temper of the fleet.

(Looks at DOUGHTY steadily).

There should be one—a friend—to bid him turnAnd set our prows toward England. Think on that.

DOUGHTY.

But who shall bell the cat? What mouse among us?

FLETCHER.

If but we English mice were of one mind!

DOUGHTY.

Soon shall we be so. You have unawares Made firm my purpose. 'T is not in your kind To court such peril as our talk may bring. The more for this have you my thanks. Enough. The counsel given me—

FLETCHER

(alarmed).

I gave you none.

DOUGHTY.

Oh, rest you easy. It is safe with me. As you are priest, so I am gentleman; Now in the end it comes to much the same.

Enter CHESTER.

CHESTER

(to DOUGHTY).

The admiral would see you instantly.

[Exit.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE.

I would this man had been less dear to me; Another I had long since crushed. The rat Which gnaws the planks between our lives and death I had as lightly dealt with. For love's sake And all the honest past that has been ours Once shall I speak. Once more:

[A knock.

Ho there! Come in.

Enter CHESTER and DOUGHTY.

CHESTER.

The land lies low to westward, and the wind Blows fair and steady.

[DRAKE looks at the chart.]

DRAKE.

Ay, St. Julian's isle.

[Exit CHESTER.

(To DOUGHTY).

Pray you be seated.

DOUGHTY.

I am ordered hither. 'T were fit I stand.

DRAKE.

Yes, I am admiral; But there are moments in the lives of all When the stern conscience of a too great office Appals the kindlier heart that fain would be Where indecisions breed less consequence.I said, be seated.

[DOUGHTY obeys.

Are you not my friend? Forget these rolling seas, the time, the place, This mighty errand which my Prince has sped. Think me to-day but simple Francis Drake, And be yourself the brother of my heart.

DOUGHTY.

There spoke the old Frank Drake I seemed to lose.

DRAKE.

Let us try back. We are like ill-broken dogs. Our lives have lost the scent.

DOUGHTY.

Nay, think not so.

DRAKE.

Ah, once I had a friend, a scholar wise, A soldier, and a poet; dowered, I think, With all the gentle gifts that win men's hearts. Of late he seems another than himself; Of late he is most changed, and him I knew Is here no more. Ah, but I too am double, And one of me is still your nearest friend, And one, ah, one is admiral of the fleet. Let him that loves you whisper to your soul The thing he would not say. You understand. Ah, now you smile. A pretty turn of phrase Did ever capture you. 'T was always thus. We have seen death so often, eye to eye, That fear of death were idle argument; Yet in such words of yours as men report A deathful sentence lurks. Oh, cast away These mad temptations, won I know not whence. Last night I fell to thinking, ere I slept, Of those proud histories of older days You loved to tell amid the tents in Ireland. Trust me, no one of these that shall not fade Before the wonder of this English taleOf what El Draco and his captains did. And when, at twilight, by our Devon hearths Some old man tells the story, shall he pause, And say, But one there was, of England born, That sowed the way with perils not of God, Breeding dissension, casting on his name Dishonor—

DOUGHTY

(leaping up).

Now, by heaven! no man shall say —

DRAKE

(smiling and quiet., puts a hand on each shoulder of DOUGHTY).

Hush! you will waken up that other man. Read not my meaning wrong. I am sore beset. Before me lie dark days. The timid shrink; The gentlemen, who should have been my stay, Fall from me useless. Yet, come what come may, For England's glory and my lady's grace, I go my way. Well did he speak who said, "Heaven is as near by water as by land." And therefore, whether it be death or fame That waits in yonder seas, I go my way. Yet, if I lose you on this venturous road, Half the proud joy of victory were gone. I have been long; you, patient. Rest we here.

DOUGHTY.

Yes, I am more than one man; more's the pity. If I have sinned, forgive me, and good-night.

DRAKE.

Thou shalt stay with me on the Pelican.

DOUGHTY

(aside).

So, so. A child in ward!

(Aloud.)

Again, good-night.

[Exit.]

[Enter VICARY

VICARY.

The water shoals. A land lies west by south. There seems good anchorage in the island's lee.

DRAKE.

We shall find water here, good fruit and fish. Send in a boat for soundings. Signal all To anchor where seems best; and Vicary, Set thy gay humor to some thoughtful care Of him that left just now. I hold him dear.

VICARY.

I would to heaven he were safe in England.

DRAKE.

And I, and I. He is more like a child Than any man my life's experience knows. Yet he is dangerous to himself and us;

Too fond of speech; too cunning with the tongue; That tempts to mischief like a sharpened blade.

VICARY.

Ah, words! words! words! Ye children of the fiend, On all your generated repetitions Is visited your parents' wickedness. He keeps boon company with each man's humor, Is gay with me, is chivalrous with you, At Winter's side a grave philosopher. I shall set merry sentinels for his guards, And there my wisdom ends.

DRAKE.

My Thanks. No more.

[Exit VICARY.

Deck of Pelican. Ships at anchor near the north end of the island of St. Julian.

DOUGHTY. WINTER. SEAMEN.

WINTER.

These are my orders.

DOUGHTY.

I may not to shore; And for the reason? Drake shall give it me.

[Turns to the men.

I hear there is no water on these shores.

1ST SAILOR.

That in the casks is but mere mud of vileness; rot in the mouth, and stenches in the nose.

2D SAILOR.

And for the biscuits, they are moldy green, and inhabited like an owl's nest with all manner of live things.

3D SAILOR.

It will be worse in the lower seas. There the men are eleven cubits tall.

2D SAILOR.

Nay, feet, and that 's enough.

4TH SAILOR.

Where scurvy Dons have gone, good English may.

DOUGHTY.

We gentles are no better off than you.Here is an order, we shall pull and haul And lay aloft. What! Lack ye meat to-day? Here are grubs to spare. These caverned biscuits hold Small beeves in plenty. Here's more life, I think, Than we are like to find on yonder coast.

1ST SAILOR.

A Portugee did tell me once there was no day in the straits where we must sail, and all the sea be full of venomed snakes.

DOUGHTY.

Nay. That's a foolish fable. True it is that in the straits are mighty isles of ice, with sail and mast. They beat about, men say, like luggers on a wind, and never man to handle rope or sail.

FLETCHER.

The boats are come again, and no water, none! Alas, this miserable voyage!

Enter VICARY from boat.

VICARY.

Not so, good chaplain. Underneath a cliff I found a spring as sweet as England's best. Good store of shellfish, too, and these strange fruits.

(To DOUGHTY).

You're but an old wife at these firesidetales. Lord, lads! there's wonders yonder. It is twice as good as a fair in May. There's only a merry-go-round that's called a swirlpool. Round you go, a hundred years, ship and all, not a farthing to pay, and then home to bed, with addled pates, as good as drunk, and no man the poorer.

[The men laugh.

1ST SAILOR

(aside).

He do lie to beat a rusty weather-cock.

2D SAILOR.

But men do say there 's hell-traps set along the rocks, and all the waters boil like witch's pots.

VICARY

(laughs).

The tale is gone awry. When last I sailed this way, no fire would burn, and all the little fiends were harvesting of mighty icicles to keep the daddy devils from frosted toes.

1ST SAILOR.

He be a lively liar. He be a very flea among liars.

[All laugh.

VICARY.

The seas be rum, and all the whales mad drunk.

[Laughter.

I thought my laughter trap was baited well.

4TH SAILOR

(aside).

He don't starve his lies. A very pretty liar. His lies be fat as ever a Christmas hog.

VICARY.

Tom Doughty, I'll match lies with you, my lad,The longest day of June. A song, a song!

SAILORS.

A song, a song! The captain for a song!

VICARY.

Here 's for a song. The admiral bids say Your rum is doubled for a week to come. So, here we go. Be hearty with the burden.

SONG.

Queen Bess has three bad boys,Such naughty boys!They sailed away to Cadiz BayTo make a mighty noise.Heave her round!Heave her round!Such bad boys!Yo ho!

There's wicked Master Drake,As likes to play with guns;

He sailed away to Cadiz Bay To wake the sleepy Dons. Heave her round! etc.

These be three captains small, None taller than a splinter. One does admire to play with fire, That's little Jacky Winter. Heave her round! etc.

There 's one does love to fight, It might be Billy Chester. And they 're away to Cadiz Bay Before a stiff sou'-wester. Heave her round! etc.

Don Spaniard sings, Avast! What 's doing with them grapples? We 're just Queen Bess's naughty boys, We 're only stealing apples. Heave her round! etc.

They filled their little stomachs, They had a pretty frolic. The boys as ate the apples up Was n't them as had the colic. Heave her round! etc.

Small Frank he shot his gun, And Willy played with fire. To see those naughty boys again No Spaniard do desire. Heave her round; etc.

VICARY.

Well tuned, my lads. Now who of you 's for shore?

DOUGHTY

(aside to a mate).

There 'll be no songs down yonder.

WINTER

(leaning over him).

What, again? More mischief, ever more? Dark is the sea Where you will sail. What fiend possesses you? This in your ear. The priest is no man's friend. If I do know the malady of baseness, There 's one that needs a doctor.

DOUGHTY.

You are wrong. I have no better friend, none more assured.

WINTER.

Indeed, I think you are too rich in friends. Better you had a hundred eager foes Than this man's friendly company. One step more, One slight excess of speech, some word retold— And you are lost to life.

DOUGHTY.

He dare not do it!

WINTER.

Dare not! I think it oft doth chance a man Knows not his nearest friend as others do. As for your priest—I greatly fear a coward. The day will come when honest Francis Drake Will shake all secrets from him as a dog Shakes out a rat's mean life. Beware the day! Well do I know the admiral's silent mood; Then should men fear him, and none more than you, Because he dreads the counsel of his heart.

[Exeunt both.

Deck of the Pelican. Evening, a week later. The fleet at anchor near the south end of the island of St. Julian. Sailors at the capstan.

WINTER.

Now, then, to warp her in. Round with the capstan. Sailors and gentlemen, bear all a hand!

DOUGHTY.

Not I, by heaven! Not I! My father's son Stains not his sword-hand with this peasant toil.

GENTLEMEN.

Nor I! nor I! nay, never one of us.

WINTER.

Do as I bid you!

DOUGHTY.

Not a hand of mine Shall to this sailor work.

WINTER.

That shall we see.

[Walks to the cabin. Boatswain whistles. Men man the capstan, singing:

Yo ho! Heave ho!Oh, it 's ingots and doubloons,Oh, it 's diamonds big as moons,As we sail,As we sail.Yo ho! Heave ho!

Oh, it 's rusty, crusty Dons,And it 's rubies big as suns,As we sail, etc.

Oh, it 's pieces by the scores, And it 's jolly red moidores,As we sail, etc.

Oh, we 'll singe King Philip's beard,And no man here afeard,As we sail, etc.

Enter VICARY.

VICARY.

Well sung. Well hauled, my lads.

(To DOUGHTY).

A word with you.You will attend the admiral in his cabin.

(Aside to DOUGHTY.)

'Ware cat, good mouse! The claws are out to-night!

DOUGHTY.'

'T were better soon than later. After you.

[Exeunt.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. WINTER.

Enter VICARY, followed by DOUGHTY.

DRAKE.

Pray you be seated.

(To DOUGHTY.)

Nay, not you, not you.

(To WINTER.)

Arrest this gentleman.

WINTER.

Your sword, an 't please you.

[Receives it.

DRAKE.

I charge you here with treason to the Queen. You shall to trial with no long delay.

DOUGHTY.

What court is this with which you threaten me?

DRAKE.

Now, by St. George, your lawyer tricks and quibbles Shall help you little. I am Francis Drake, The Queen's plain sailor, and the master here.

DOUGHTY.

Master!

DRAKE.

Ay, master! Traitor to the Queen, This long account is closed. All, all is known, Since when, at Plymouth, on the eve we sailed, My Lord of Burleigh bought you; what the price The devil knows—and you.

DOUGHTY.

My Lord of Burleigh! I pray you speak of this with me alone. What I would say is for a secret ear.

DRAKE.

No, by my sword, not I!

DOUGHTY.

Then have your way. No law can touch me here. This is not England.

DRAKE.

Where sails a plank in English forests hewn, There England is. This deck is England now, And I a sea-king of thus much of England. Put me this man in irons! See to it! Let him have speech of none except yourselves.

[Exeunt WINTER and DOUGHTY.

(To VICARY.

I have too long delayed.

VICARY.

That may well be.

DRAKE.

I hear he hath great favor with the crews, A maker of more mischief than I guessed.

VICARY.

Men love him well.

DRAKE.

He hath too many friends. This is the very harlotry of friendship. Go now, and pray that when command is yours You have no friends. See that strict guard be kept.

[Exit VICARY.

(Alone.)

I would that God had spared me this one hour.

Pelican. DOUGHTY in irons on the deck, seated upon a coil of ropes, leaning against a mast.

WINTER

(to the guards).

Back there, my men!

DOUGHTY.

You are most welcome, Winter.

I am very glad of company. My soul Is sick to surfeit of its own dull thoughts. I like not lonely hours. What land is that?

WINTER.

St. Julian's cape.

DOUGHTY.

Is that a cross I see? It seems, I think, the handiwork of man.

WINTER.

No cross is that; there stout Magellan hanged Don Carthagene, vice-admiral of his fleet.

DOUGHTY.

Wherefore?

WINTER.

'T is said he did dislike the voyage, And had no mind to pass the narrow straits.

DOUGHTY.

The strait he chose was narrower; mayhap He had no choice—as I may not to-morrow.

[Is silent a few moments.

A little while ago, the scent of flowers Came from the land. Their nimble fragrance woke, As by a charm, some sleeping memories. I dreamed myself again a fair-haired boy, A-gathering cowslips in my mother's fields.

[Pauses.

There is no order that I shall not sing; I can no mighty treason set to song.

WINTER.

Sing, if it please you. I'll be glad it doth. What song shall 't be?

DOUGHTY.

Ah me, those Devon lanes!

[Sings.

SONG.

I would I were an English rose,In England for to be;The sweetest maid that Devon knowsShould pick, and carry me.

To pluck my leaves be tender quick,A fortune fair to prove,And count in love's arithmeticThy pretty sum of love.

[The men come nearer.

Oh, Devon's lanes be green o'ergrown,And blithe her maidens be,But there be some that walk alone,And look across the sea.

1ST SAILOR.

'T is a sad shame so gay a gentleman Should lie in irons.

2D SAILOR.

Ay, the pity of it.

WINTER

(to the men).

Off with you there!

(To DOUGHTY.)

The devil 's in your tongue! Why must you sing of England? Follow me. I think you would breed mutiny in heaven.

[Exit.

Cabin of Pelican.

DRAKE. Enter FLETCHER.

FLETCHER.

I come as bidden. What may be your will?

DRAKE.

Think you a man may serve two masters?

FLETCHER.

Nay, 'T is not so writ.

DRAKE.

Yet there are some I know Would have me serve a dozen, and my Queen. Shall I serve this man's doubt, and that man's fear? Who bade these cowards follow me to sea? And you, that are Christ's captain,—what of you?

Were I a man vowed wholly unto God, I should have courage both of God and man; And fear 's a malady of swift infection.

FLETCHER.

I think my captain has been ill informed.

DRAKE.

Ah, not so ill. Look at me, in the face; A man's eyes may rest honest, though his soul Be deeper damned than Judas. Thou art false! False to thy faith, thy duty, and thy Prince! Now, if thou hast no righteous fear of God— By heaven! here stands a man you well may fear.

FLETCHER.

Indeed I know not how I've angered you.

DRAKE.

You shall know soon. And—look not yet away— You have hatched treason with her larger help Of one that hath more courage. Spare him not If you have hope to see another day. What of your plans? I charge you, sir, be frank. What has he told that you should fear to tell?

FLETCHER.

We did but talk. Perchance I may have said I do not love the sea, that some aboard Would be well pleased to stand on English soil.

DRAKE.

If you have any wisdom of this world, A coward heart may save a foolish head. I asked you what this traitor Doughty said, You answer me with babble of yourself. Speak out, or, by my honor,—no light oath,— I shall so score you with the boatswain's lash That Joseph's coat shall be a mock to yours.

FLETCHER.

You would not—dare—

DRAKE.

I think you know me not. You have my orders. Is it yes, or no?

FLETCHER.

I pray you, sir, consider what you ask. No priest of God may, without deadly sin,

Tell what in penitence a troubled soul Has in confession whispered. Ask me not.

DRAKE.

If I do understand your words aright, Save for the idle talk of idle men, He hath said nought to you except of sin Such as the best may in an hour of shame Tell for the soul's relief. If this be so, Nor I, nor any man, may question you.

FLETCHER.

I do assure you that I spoke the truth.

DRAKE

(perplexed, walks to and fro. Turns suddenly, offering the hilt of his sword).

Swear it upon the cross-hilt of my sword. Swear!

(Fletcher hesitates.)

As my God is dear, thou art more false Than hell's worst devil. Ho! Without there! Ho!

FLETCHER.

Nay, I will swear.

DRAKE.

Too late. Without there! Ho! Send me the boatswain's mate. Without there! Ho! If I confess thee not, thou lying priest, May I die old—die quiet in my bed. Ho there! And quick!

FLETCHER.

I pray you—let me think. It may be that I did not understand. It might be that he talked to me, a man, As man to man. I think 't was even so.

DRAKE.

Out with it—quickly! Speak! Out! Out with it!

FLETCHER.

I think, he said, the purpose of this voyage Was hid, and all of us are cheated men. It seems, he said, that if the gentles here Were of one mind, and stirred the crews to act, We might see England and our homes again.

DRAKE.

What more?

FLETCHER.

Asked whom we'd get to bell the cat.— And that the Queen your errand did not guess.

DRAKE.

So! Said he that? Go on; your tale lacks wit.

FLETCHER.

Also, that storms and ever-vexing winds Did show God's will.

DRAKE.

I think you trifle, sir. Did he talk ever of my Lord of Burleigh?

FLETCHER.

I fear to speak.

DRAKE.

Fear rather to be silent. Here lies the warrant of her Majesty: 'T is she, not I, commands.

FLETCHER.

He seems to say They would best serve my Lord of Burleigh's wish Who marred this venture, ere the power of Spain Was roused to open war. I can no more.

DRAKE.

See that your memory fail not on the morrow! Go thank the devil in your prayers to-night For that your skin is whole. Begone! Begone!

[Exit FLETCHER.

Now know I what it costs a woman-prince To keep her realm. The great should have no friends.

Enter VICARY, WINTER, and CHESTER.

DRAKE.

Call all the captains and the officers. The court shall meet to-morrow morn, at eight. There shall be charges ready in due form; You, all of you, shall hear the witnesses. And, Winter,—we are far from England now,—See that this trial be in all things fair, As though each man of you, an ermined judge, Sat in Westminster. Let no words of mine Disturb the equities of patient judgment.

I would not that, when you and I are old, Uneasy memories of too hasty action Should haunt us with reproach. But have a care. My duty knows no friend; be yours as ignorant. Our fortunes and the honor of the Queen— I should have said her honor and our fortunes— Rest in your hands. See that my words be known.

WINTER.

To all?

DRAKE.

To all, sailors and gentlemen.

[Exeunt the captains.

WINTER, VICARY, and CHESTER without.

CHESTER.

I 'm like a child that fain would run away To 'scape a whipping.

WINTER.

There are none of us More sore at heart than Drake.

VICARY.

I know of one. I would a friend were dead ere break of day, And all to-morrow's story left untold. I think that I shall never laugh again.

[They reach the deck.

CHESTER

(pointing to the gibbet on the shore).

It may be yon long-memoried counsellor Made hard the admiral's heart.

VICARY.

That might be so. I wandered thither, yesterday, at eve, And found a skull. Didst ever notice, Winter, How this least mortal relic of a man Does seem to smile? Hast ever talked with skulls? They are courteous ever, and good listeners. And never one of them, or man or maid, That is not secret. There 's another virtue;

For what more honest and more chaste than death? Now then, this skull that grins an hundred years—Pray think how mighty must the jest have been; And then, how transient are our living smiles.

WINTER.

Ill-omened talk. A graver business waits.

VICARY.

Give me an hour. I am not well to-day. I will be with you very presently.

[Exit VICARY.

Evening of the day of the trial and condemnation of DOUGHTY. Time, sunset. Ashore on St. Julian's Island.

WINTER. VICARY. DRAKE.

DRAKE walking to and fro under the trees.

WINTER

(coming up and walking beside him).

What orders are there?

DRAKE.

See the prisoner, And bid him choose the hour and the day.

WINTER.

And for the manner of the execution? The court said nothing; sir, it lies with you. What is your pleasure?

DRAKE.

Say my will, John Winter. The gallows and the rope!

VICARY

(returning).

Must that be so? 'T is a dog's death, and not a gentleman's.

DRAKE.

I have at home a very honest dog.

VICARY.

Wilt pardon me if once again I plead?

DRAKE.

Plead not with me. No plea the heart can bring My own heart fails to urge.

WINTER.

I made no plea. The man I loved this morn for me is dead.

But there are those in England—far away— Mother and sister—

DRAKE.

Sir, you have my orders! Henceforth no friends for me! This traitor dies, As traitors all should die, a traitor's death. The man's life judges him, not you, nor I.

VICARY.

Indeed, the manner of a man's departure, Whether upon a war-horse or an ass, Doth little matter, as it seems to me, If those he leaves feel not the fashion of it. Now, many a year that rope will throttle me, Who am no traitor, and who like not well What treachery this man's nature moved him to.

DRAKE.

It seems to me that good men's lives are spent In paying debts another makes for them. I have my share. Take you your portion, too. Be just, I pray you, both to him and me. Now, here 's a man that was my closest friend. In Plymouth, ay, in London, ere we sailed, Against the pledge myself had given the Queen, He told the purpose of my voyage to Burleigh, Pledging himself to wreck this enterprise, Lest we should rouse these Spanish curs to bite. That I do hold the warrant of the Queen None but this traitor knew, and, knowing it, Has set himself to brewing discontent, Stirred mutiny amidst my crews, cast wide The seed of discord, till obedience, That is the feather on the shaft of duty, Failed, and my very captains questioned me. One man must die, or this great venture dies; This man must die, or we go backward home, Like mongrel dogs that fear a shaken stick.

WINTER.

Yet none of us have asked his life of you.

DRAKE.

I ask it of myself; shall ask it, sir, Knowing how vain and pitiful my plea. I have said nothing of the darker charge, The covert hints, the whispering here and there Of how my death might please my Lord of Burleigh, And settle all these mutinous debates. I think 't was but an idle use of speech; I think he meant not it should come to aught.

WINTER.

Nor I.

VICARY.

Nor I. He hath confessed to all Except this single charge. That he denied.

DRAKE.

And now no more! And hope not I shall change.Yet will I well consider all your words. Rest you assured if there be any way That both secures the safety of this voyage And leaves this man to future punishment, I shall not miss to find it.

WINTER.

That were well. I somewhat fear the temper of the men. And these grave statesmen, closeted at home, Have slight indulgence for the sterner needs That whip us into what seems rash or cruel.

DRAKE.

Ah, many a day 'twixt us and England lies, And the peacemaker's blessing rests on time. If death await me in the distant seas, I shall not fear to meet a higher Judge. If fortune smile upon our happy voyage, No man in England that will dare to say I served not well my country and my God; The Queen will guard my honor as her own. But, come what may, sirs, I shall act unmoved

By any dread of what the great may do, Though we should prick this sullen Spain to war.

VICARY.

Now, by St. George, could we but stir the Dons To open fight! The Queen has many minds, But when the blades are out, and Philip strikes, As strike he will, these wary counsellors Will lose her ear amid the clash of swords.

DRAKE.

Pray God that I do live to see the day When all the might of England takes the sea, And we, that are the falcons of the deep, Shall tear these cruel vultures, till our beaks Drip red with Spanish blood!

VICARY.

May I be there!

DRAKE

(gravely).

Trust me, we all shall live to see that hour. God gives us moments when the years to come Lie easily open like a much-read book. Oppressed with weight of care, in these last days I seem to see beyond this bitter time. We shall so carry us in yon Rome-locked seas That all the heart of England shall be glad, And the brown mothers of these priest-led Dons Shall scare unruly children with my name. And then, and then, I see a nobler hour. A day of mightier battle, when their fleets Shall fly in terror from our English guns, And through the long hereafter we shall sail Unquestioned lords of all the watery waste. Oh, 't was a noble dream!

VICARY.

But what were life Without the splendid prophecy of dreams?

DRAKE.

At least, a moment they have given release

From sadder thought of that which has to be. The night is falling. Get we now aboard. To-morrow you shall have my final judgment.

A cabin in the Pelican. Early morning. The day after the trial and condemnation of DOUGHTY.

DOUGHTY. Enter WINTER.

DOUGHTY.

Is there an hour set? When shall it be?

WINTER.

That rests with you. Alas, too well you know That, being charged with certain grave offences, Of which, to our great grief, you are not cleared, The court decreed your death. Now, I am come To offer you thus much of grace—

DOUGHTY.

As what?

WINTER.

Either to be at morning left ashore, Or to be held till, at convenient time, A ship may carry you to England, there To answer for your deeds the Lords in Council; Or will you take to be here done to death As runs our sentence?

DOUGHTY.

Would I had no choice. That 's a strange riddle! Here be caskets three. 'T is like the story in the Venice tale.And send me Leonard Vicary with good speed.

WINTER.

Is there aught else a man may do for you?

DOUGHTY.

Yes, come no more until I send for you.

WINTER.

Have I in anything offended you?

DOUGHTY.

No, you have too much loved me; that is all. The sting lies there.

WINTER.

I do not understand.

DOUGHTY.

And I too well. Wilt send me Vicary?

WINTER.

(aside).

As strange a monitor for a mortal hour As e 'er a sick life's fancy hit upon.

[Exit.

DOUGHTY

(alone).

This is a sad disguise of clemency. Death seemed a natural and safe conclusion. As one serenely bound upon a voyage, I had turned my back on all I did hold dear, And looked no more to land. I think, indeed, Almost the very touch and sound of life Seemed fading, as when sleep comes wholesomely. Now I am in the wakened world again. And all the blissful company of youth, Love, friendship, hope, the mere esteem of men, Beckon, and mock me like to sunlit fields Seen from the wave-crests where a swimmer strives, Struck hither, thither, by uneasy seas. Christ to my help! Ah, counsel always best.

How should I bide upon these heathen shores?Knowing how frail I be, how strong a thingIs the contagion of base men's customs.Alas! alas! I ever have been oneThat wore the color of the hour's friend.What! risk my soul, that hath an endless date,For days or years of life? That may not be.

What! home to England? I, a tainted man; That 's the gold casket where temptation lies. There is no unconsidered blade of grass, No little daisy, and no violet brief, That does not hurt me with its sweet appeal.

[Walks to and fro.

I mind me of an evening—O my God! No! That way anguish waits. I'll none of that. Twice, in my dreams last night, I saw her come; And twice she cried, "First Honor, and then love!" And came no more. O Jesu, hear my prayer, And let me never in that other world Meet the sad verdict of those troubled eyes I kissed to tears the day we sailed away.

Enter VICARY.

You are most welcome; sit beside me here. I found my sentence in a woman's eyes.

VICARY.

I understand.

DOUGHTY.

How ever apt you are; That took my fancy always. Now, it saves The turning of a dagger in a wound. I have chosen death.

VICARY.

And chosen well, I think. There was not one of us that said not so; Not one but wishes life were possible.

DOUGHTY.

Set that aside. It is not possible. And put no strain upon your natural self To be another than the man you are. Do you remember once a thing you said,— How for the wise the soul has chapels four? One, that I name not. One, a home of tears. One, the grave shrine of high philosophy. And one, where all the saints are jesters gay. Smile on me when I die. In that dim world I am assured men laugh, as well they may, To see this ant-heap stirred. Oh, I shall look To see you smile.

VICARY.

I pray you talk not thus.

DOUGHTY.

And wherefore not? A moment, only one, The thought of England troubled my decision; But that is over. Yet, a word of home. There is a maid in Devon—

(hesitates.)

Pardon me. When, by God's grace, you see her, as you must, Tell her I loved her well—and what beside I leave to you. I shall not hear the tale. Be gentle in the way of your report. Ah me! by every cross a woman kneels; I doubt not, Leonard, that some Syrian girl Sobbed where the thief hung dying. Now, good-by! Go! and remember—I shall hold you to it.

[Exit VICARY.

Oft when the tides of life were at their full, I have sat wondering what the ebb would be, And what that tideless moment men call death. I think it strange as nears the coming hour, I willingly would fetch it yet more near.

VICARY

(without, as he goes on deck).

He asks a smile where nature proffers tears. I have laughed tears before, and may again. Here dies a man who, like that heir of Lynne, Has madly squandered honor, friendship, love, And hath no refuge save the dismal rope. Shall that bring other fortunes than he spent? Ah me! I loved him well,—and I must smile— That will seem strange to men. I sometimes wish I could feel sure that Christ did ever smile.

Enter DRAKE.

DRAKE.

I come to hear thy choice.

DOUGHTY.

My choice is made.

Death, and no long delay. And be not grieved; You will—ah, well I know you—feel the hurt. Were you to say, "Take life, take hope again, Take back command," and bid me mend my ways, The mercy were but vanity of kindness. Never could I be other than I am; Yet think of me as but the minute's traitor. You have been merciful. 'T is I am stern. Not you, but I, decree that I shall die. A sudden weariness of life is mine; Let me depart in peace—

DRAKE.

Must it be so? Another court may clear you.

DOUGHTY.

Urge me not. Another court! There is but one high court May clear my soul of guilt. I go to God. There shall be witnesses you cannot call. Let this suffice. No man can move me now; And rest assured I never loved you more.

DRAKE.

I thank you. Now, what else?

DOUGHTY.

I choose to die. Go we ashore at noon, and eat at table, Like gentlemen who speed a parting friend Upon a pleasant and a certain voyage: And I would share with you the bread of God.

[Pauses.

There is but one thing more—

DRAKE.

Speak! Oh, my God! Except—except mere life, there is no thing I would not give you; yea, to my own life.

DOUGHTY.

You cannot think that I would ask my life?

DRAKE.

Pardon, sweet gentleman, and sweeter friend.

DOUGHTY.

There is a maid in Devon —oh, Frank Drake!

It must not be the gibbet and the rope! The axe and block, men say, cure all disgrace.

DRAKE.

So shall it be.

DOUGHTY.

I knew you not unkind. I pray you leave me now. God prosper you. You cannot know how kind a thing is death.

Island of St. Julian. Table spread at noon, under the trees. DRAKE seated with DOUGHTY and other officers. In the background, a block, with the headsman, sailors, and others.

VICARY and WINTER approach the table.

VICARY.

Didst hear, John Winter, what he said to him?

WINTER.

I had but come ashore. What said he, Leonard?

VICARY.

First, he would have the admiral take the bread; Then, when in turn the priest did come to him, He said, "I would another man than you Were here to give me of this bread of God. Yet, as for this dear body of my Lord, A pearl that 's carried in a robber's pouch Doth lose no lustre;" and with no more words Took of the sacrament; and so to table.

[They approach sadly and in silence.

DOUGHTY

(looking up).

Come, come, I 'll none of this!Here are bent brows; You go not thus to battle. Shall one death Disturb our appetites and spoil our mirth?

Am I not host? They 'll not be bid again Who come not merry.

(Aside to VICARY.)

See you fail me not. Some men ask prayers. I only ask a smile.

(Aloud.)

Come, gentlemen, I put this hardship on you. There might be many questions, much to say.

DRAKE.

I shall sit here forever, if you will, But talk I cannot.

DOUGHTY.

Nay, but that is strange. 'T is the glad privilege of the gentle-born To see in death an honest creditor, That any day may ask the debt of life. What! must I make the talk? That 's naughty manners. I never was a happier man than now. There 's few among you shall have choice of deaths. And you, Frank Drake,—if God should bid elect— What way to death wouldst choose?

DRAKE.

I do not know— Not in my bed, please God.

DOUGHTY.

Speak for him, Leonard. I think my friend has shed his wits to-day. Once he was readier—

VICARY.

Were I Francis Drake, When waves are wild and fly the bolts of war, And timbers crash, and decks are bloody red, Then would I pass, slain by my loving sea, As died the hurt Greek by a friendly sword.

DOUGHTY.

Full bravely answered. Winter, what of you?

WINTER.

As God may will. I have no other thought.

DOUGHTY

(to VICARY).

And what, dear jester, Leonard, what of you?

VICARY.

Oh, between kisses, of a morn of May,

Or in the merriest moment of a fight, When blades are out, and the brave Dons stand fast— Upon my soul, I can no more of this, You ask too much of man, I can no more!

[Leaves the table.

DOUGHTY.

Now, here 's a dull companion. Go not yet— Or go not far, and let not sorrow cheat me.

VICARY.

Oh, I shall smile. Rest you assured of that.

[Moves away.

DOUGHTY.

I thought he had been made of sterner stuff. There 's a too gentle jester.

(To DRAKE)

Think you, Frank, That we shall meet in heaven?

DRAKE.

Such is my trust.

[They talk in whispers.

DOUGHTY

(aloud).

The wind lies fair to south. Friends, gentles, all, It were not well to lose a prospering hour. God send you kindly gales and gallant ventures! Strike hard for me, John Winter! When the Dons Are thick about you and the fight goes ill, Cry, This is for remembrance! This, and this! And you, dear Leonard, when the feast is gay Drink double for your friend. Be sure my lips Shall share with yours the laughter and the cup.

[Rises, as do all.

Now, then: The Queen and England!

(Drinks.)

(To DRAKE.)

Take my love. Still let me live a friendly memory— Come with me.

DRAKE.

No, I cannot, cannot come!

[Moves away.

DOUGHTY

(To VICARY, as they walk to the block.)

What, not a smile? Not one? That 's better, Leonard, Albeit of a rather sickly sort. Come hither, Francis Drake.

(DRAKE approaches.)

Good-by, dear friend.

[Kisses him on both cheeks. Kneels, and the axe falls.

VICARY.

God rest this soul!

WINTER.

Amen!

DRAKE.

Christ comfort me!

PHILIP VERNON

THE INN

July 21, 1588

WHEN Bess was queen, and the Bishop of Rome and the King of Spain were troubling our England, the cowls were many in the land, and knew how to pull the lamb-skins well around them.

One of these wolves, of a summer morning, walked, halting a little, to and fro under the great oaks between the Vernon Arms and the road. His sheep's clothing was a burgher's gray hose and doublet; but he was not right, red English, having of late come out of Spain, yellow-cheeked and lean. He looked down the highway to the bridge, and then with his eyes followed the river curves to the sea, whence, he smiled to think, the great Armada would come, in time to help certain wicked schemes, and set the cowls again in high places. Then, less pleased, he cast looks at a gallant in blue with yellow points, who sat at a table a little way from the inn. This gentle had a good leg and was high-colored and young. At times

he drummed on the table, or uneasily cast down his cap, and once half drew his sword, then presently, as if impatient, drove it back into its sheath. But whether he yawned or sat quiet in thought, Hugh Langmayde, the priest in gray, lost naught of what he did; and at last, still watching the gallant, he fell to open talk with himself after this fashion:

"Soon shall you stretch those sturdy limbs, my boy, And for your rapier find a brave employ. I am too old, too feeble,—you alone Shall do this sacred errand of our Lord, Avenge his murdered saints, and from her throne Cast down this Jezebel, of men abhorred. I thought not, when I taught thy youth to know One creed, one king, and questionless to go Where Church or King decreed, that you and I, As if we were but one, like head and hand, Should free this England which doth fettered lie, And give to God another Christian land.

"What if my weapon fail me? Restless grown, He asks now this, now that, would have me own My purpose,—hath the waywardness of youth,— Is wilful, petulant, or grave. In truth, It shall mean little when he comes to learn What splendid bribe an eager hand may earn, And at my will he goes my way to win God's gold or this world's guerdon. Is it sin To shudder thinking death may be his lot? My task were easier if he loved me not. God's priest should die unloved; should have no fears, Live without memories, and know not tears."

Herewith the young gallant, Philip Vernon by name, calls out to a servant of the inn:

"Fetch me some ale, good fellow. Set it here— Two brimming tankards. See 't is cool and clear. How fresh the air! I like this breezy shade The better since by sunshine it is made. Our Spanish saying aptly hits my mark: Soar with the hawk, Sing with the lark; Eyes for the sunlight, Lips for the dark. St. James! I'm weary of my unused self, Left like a dull book on a dusty shelf. I hate this corner life! Now, by the Cid! I must be more discreet. I 'm sternly bid To hide my name because my name may lead— I know not why—to questions that exceed Our skill to answer fitly.—Master Hugh, Come taste with me our host's last autumn brew."

Hearing his call, the priest, smiling, sits down beside the young man he had been gravely watching; and taking of the ale,—but with a wry face, for in Spain he had learned dislike of such honest English drink,—he lays a hand on the lad's knee, and says to him:

"What troubles you, my Philip?"

PHILIP VERNON.

We have strayed Now here, now there, in England, while you played A game, good Father, somewhat like the chess Our prior loved. You smile on me,—my guess

Has hit the butt? Here moves a pawn, and there, Haply, a bishop. Then the queen —

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Beware! You chatter lightly, call me "Father"—try To lose the habit; that way dangers lie. One careless word, and rack and axe or ropeAwait us; and so dies the saintliest hope This misruled kingdom knows. To die were gain For me; and yet God's work, the Church, our Spain, The king, our master, own me till this strife With evil ends. Be patient!

PHILIP VERNON.

Oh, this life Of masquerade, and lies, and daily fear Of what I know not, wearies me!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Not here The time or place for truant tongues. Speak low, Or, better, change the talk.

PHILIP VERNON.

Soon I must know.

The priest, emptying his tankard and pushing it from him, looks askance at his companion, and therewith says, as if to quiet his mind with other thought:

"Poor stuff is this beside our convent wine.You need but squeeze the ripeness of the vineTo drain its reddest blood—torment the grainsGod meant for bread, and lo! you get for painsThis boorish drink."

And now is heard a quick rattle of horse-hoofs, and a score of gentles come down the road at speed. Some

are armed, and more are clad in gay doublets, with plumes unmeet for riding—sign of haste, perchance. Red, blue, and purple, with glint of steel, flash through the yellow dust, aglow with the sun of noon, as the riders go by the inn. But three draw rein beneath the oaks; whereon this Philip Vernon leaps up, oversetting a flagon of good ale, and crying:

"Look, look, ye saints! That roan,And that dark chestnut,—his who rode alone,—Are worth a prince's ransom! See—they stayTo breathe their horses. He with plume of gray Hath the best seat. Red Doublet 's all untrussed: He must have ridden hard; and, see—the dust! Why ride they thus?"

As he speaks the servants and landlord come hastily forth from the inn.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Hush! Out comes all the hive. You shall know shortly.

RED DOUBLET.

Ho! are none alive? The Armada 's off the Lizard. Look aright That all your headland beacons blaze to-night! These be Lord Howard's orders. Ho, there, quick! Ale, ale—three flagons!

GRAY PLUME.

Wine, wine! I am sick With dusty thirst.

RED DOUBLET.

And I could drink a tun.

As they sit in the saddle, the fair maid of the inn brings to each his flagon of ale.

ONE ARMED IN A CUIRASS.

Keep me some kisses.

RED DOUBLET.

I shall ask but one.

MAID.

Oh, my good lords, there shall not lack a prayer From one poor wench that God your lives will spare. Alas! alas! I 'm mightily afraid Scarce will be left a man to kiss a maid! This dreadful war!—

GRAY PLUME.

Now, by the gods! but he Will truly have his hands full.—This for thee! —The admiral rides hard, and we must sup Aboard the ships.—Thanks for the stirrup-cup.

A hand on the bridle, A cup of good sack; Pray keep those lips idle Until I come back.

RED DOUBLET.

Here 's a curse on Romish rats! Here 's good luck to English cats!

Then he who wore a cuirass, as they ride away, sings lustily :

" 'T is always pleasant weatherIn the company of wine;And the mile-stones run together,And the roughest road is fine,In the company of wine.For no man owes a shilling,And all the land is thine.And every lip is willing,In the company of wine."

LANDLORD.

God keep our England merry!

PHILIP VERNON.

Who be they Who ride so hotly at full noon of day?

LANDLORD.

Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral, A lover of the Pope, and yet withal A sturdy gentle, English to the core, And hates a Spaniard. What can one say more?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Where rides he now?

LANDLORD.

To Plymouth Port. The coast Is all astir. The great Armada's host Is come at last. God help our little fleet!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

God help the right and England!

LANDLORD.

Aye.

PHILIP VERNON.

Retreat Could scarce fly swifter than these gallants ride. I would, good Father, I were at their side.

Hereon Hugh Langmayde and Philip together leave the inn and highroad, and as they slowly climb a little hill, and begin to enter into a wood of oak, the priest makes this answer to the lad's vexation of spirit:

"Peace, boy! Thy ways are in a nobler path. They ride to death. Already God's stern wrath Is gathering for their ruin on the seas. Come with me, Philip. There among the trees Talk will be safer. Come,—the hour of fate Is near at hand. You shall no longer wait To hear the tale I ofttimes promised you

When, the day's lessons done, at fall of dew Above Grenada from the convent wall We watched the paling gold of evening crawl From peak to peak, while o'er the Vega's plain The dusking shadows marched. Thus, not in vain, When all the lower world is dim and gray, God sets the promise of another day On those his Church has taught to live above Man's mist of passions—aye, and earthly love."

THE CHASE

As they move through the wood the priest pauses at last where from a hillside the more open forest commands a broad view of green fields, the river with hills beyond, and to left the distant sea.

PHILIP VERNON.

How still it is, how full of peace, how far From the rude hurry and alarm of war! See what an airy build the mountains show When over them the broad-winged shadows go. A land to love!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Ay, and a land to serve With noble deeds that may indeed deserve This splendid recompense. A land to win Back from its damnèd covenant with sin. Sit here, my son. Once this great fallen tree Looked o'er the land, and could no equal see. Lord of the forest, underneath its shade The wanderer rested. Here both man and maid Found shelter. High among its eaves

The birds sang hymns which God alone had taught, Or nested peaceful in its spreading leaves, Where sun and rain His mystic wonders wrought.

PHILIP VERNON.

I see not clearly, Father—

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

No, my son, A nation wandered from the fold, undone, Sunk in delusion, waits full many a year— Waits for God's hour to read that riddle clear. Once, in this land, the Church spread broad and high The mighty leafage of her destiny— Why mince my meaning? Lo! a brutal king Struck, and the splendid trunk lies moldering.

PHILIP VERNON.

And still I see not wherefore—

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Ah! The rest Attends your hearing. Soon this land oppressed Shall know deliverance. O'er yon waiting sea Great Philip's viceroy comes. To you, to me, God grants on land as sure a victory. And now, my Philip, hear me to an end. In happier times I shall be glad to mend My broken story of your life. To-day Accept a briefer tale. I have grown gray Now many years, since through these woods I fled, A hunted priest, this land where God seemed dead. Pursuit was hot; my boat lay off the shore; A bullet caught me as I plunged; a score Flew over; Still this crippled leg, my lad, Keeps me a memory not wholly sad; For, as I bleeding strove, a boy's white face Rose in a black wave's hollow. By God's grace

I clutched your hand, my son. The boat's crew caught The pair of us, half-drowned; and so God wrought This great deliverance. I think the tide Trapped you at play on yonder sands. I tried To set you safe upon the coast. 'T was vain; I could not do the thing I would. In Spain The fevered life I scarce had hope to save Came back as if new-born, as if the grave That was so near had taken half away Your boyhood's recollections. Need I say Love to my heart came easily? I yearned To win the love my double help had earned.

PHILIP VERNON.

You have it in full measure. Now at last? I shall know all. Is this to end that past Of doubts, and dreams, and fears? Before my eyes, Lo! as you speak, faint memories arise.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Trust them not wholly.

PHILIP VERNON.

I 've a vision wild Of ravening seas; and them beyond, a child, I live again glad days. I seem indeed Like one who, waking from a dream, has need To piece it out with thinking. Who is he— A stately gentleman, I strive to see, And cannot clearly, though he smiles? Stay, stay! Was that my father? As you love me, say! Was it my father? Ah! so much is dim; But that has substance. Let me go to him— Yes, you and me together. I can hear How he will thank you.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Wherefore should I fear To know at last if I have truly read The soul I trained?

PHILIP VERNON.

Why hesitate? You dread To speak some truth!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

You do not ask to know Your name and station?

PHILIP VERNON.

Let that matter go. Where is my father?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Can I give the dead?

PHILIP VERNON.

Dead! And how long ago?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Two years, 't is said.

PHILIP VERNON.

Dead! Two years dead! Know you the hour, the day?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

I know them not.

PHILIP VERNON.

And I may have been gay, And laughed, or diced, the hour he passed away!

As he ceases, the priest, who has watched him moodily, touches his arm as if in appeal, whereupon the young man exclaims:

"Nay, do not speak. How very often here He must have wandered, and when death drew near Thought of this son in heaven! Some might fear To cheat the living and the dead. Despair

Seems but a thing of earth. How could you dare To cast its shadow on a world beyond!"

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

My more than child, ah, when this earthly bond Of love is severed, surely God has power To heal the sorrows of earth's little hour.

As if not hearing the priest, and with yet more of anger, the younger man continues:

"My God! Those years of youth when I in Spain, And he in England, took our ignorant pain To God, and never knew what statecraft stole Of nature's honest store! You took the whole— All, all of love two lives had! By my soul, I think that you must see forevermore A gray-haired man who walks beside the shore, And of the silent ocean asks his dead!"

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

You wrong me, Philip.

PHILIP VERNON.

No, I should have fled— Oh, long ago—had I known all, but now 'T is past the cure of word or deed. Ah, how— How could you hurt me thus?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

I did God's will— His, and the king's.

PHILIP VERNON.

The king's! Could he fulfilWhat home and father would have given?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

My son, Pray you consider. Could I aught have done Against the king's command? I did not dare.

What lack you else the gentle-born should bear? Head, hand, and eye have had such anxious care As only Spain can give. What English peer Has court or camp trained better? Do you fear To cross a sword with any? Who, I ask, Can match you mounted? Mine the graver task To see you lack not learning. Pause, reflect; Not without prayer I acted. You suspect Some treason?—Philip, where you stand to-day The soil is yours. That castle old and gray, The river's sweep, hill, forest, town, and lake, In God's good time are yours, my son, to take. See where yon eagle o'er the mountain soars! Scarce can he look beyond what land is yours. Set foot in stirrup, draw your father's sword: A thousand men will follow you, my lord! Low at your word will bow that tavern churl, And I shall bid you welcome, my Lord Earl!

PHILIP VERNON.

Earl! Lord! These manors mine? You could not jest?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Not I, my lord; you match with England's best. The proofs that give you these the Church will guard Till one proud day of triumph and reward.

PHILIP VERNON.

'T is a strange tale, and sad as it is strange. I would a braver love had bid you change Those home-reft years I have forever lost. You should have counted well the cruel cost, And saved my life this pain. Oh, bitter day!

Vexed with a convent life, made next to play! A page's part, or squire's, left to say I knew not who I was, or high or base, Until, worn out, I smote a snarling face! That mocked my birth as knowing some disgrace; For text of thought he got a rapier thrust. Alas! I gave you all my boyhood's trust, And thus you used it!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Philip, that same breath With which you question me, I gave; the death From which I saved you set a silent grave Between the lost life and the life I gave You have a father. Have I seemed to be Less than a father?

PHILIP VERNON.

None were that to me. I have been hurt enough: 't were well to spare These convent subtleties. In England fair I tread where men are free, breathe lighter air. Much have I learned no Spanish cloister taught, More have I heard that Spain had never thought.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Ill have you heard. Not all my tale is told. Let but the Church her lifting hand withhold, And you are lost! Be her true son, be bold, And these broad lands are yours to win when she Who rules this kingdom dies. For you, for me, The path lies straight. But yestermorn in prayer I asked of God a sign, and found it where At close of eve I sat and saw the sun Set in a sea of blood ere day was done— A cloud-born cross above. Oh, dark shall be

The Church's reckoning when yon loathing sea Its unrepentant dead spits on the shore, And the long torment of the galley's oar Shall chain the souls that live! What seek you more?

PHILIP VERNON.

What more indeed! I went your way, not mine, Knew but one prince, sought never to divine Your reasons, nor the policy of State That without explanation ruled my fate. Answer my manhood outright! Be more true To one who loves you! Give me all love's due. What keeps us here? I will not be denied. An English noble! Wherefore should I bide Upon your will my father's lands to claim While pope and king play out a doubtful game?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

You ask untimely. Shall the arrow know The stern commission of the bended bow? In God's good time—

PHILIP VERNON.

The hour that is, is good; No other answers. Ah, I think you should Have known me better. Speak! By good St. James, I 'm very weary of these priestly games! I take it that, as well as one can see Through this dim, wordy haze of mystery, I rest mere Philip Vernon until death Strikes with your hand, or mine, Elizabeth. Is that your meaning, Father? If 't is so, We part to-day. Oh, I must clearly know What the cowl's caution hid from me. Be frank,

As you were wont. Give me new cause to thank The man within the priest.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Go, if you will. If God and king, my danger, and these years Of love lack force to teach you duty still, Go! Leave me here to peril and to tears.

PHILIP VERNON.

Love is not bondage; and, for that harsh king, I owe him hate alone.—Oh, do not wring My heart with more of grief! Tell me the tale Of who and what I am. There cannot fail To be some light, some guidance, some poor path Out of this mystery!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

The Lord's just wrath Will punish this revolt.

PHILIP VERNON.

I do not change As shifts the weather-vane! Hold you it strange I should learn English ways?—but yesterday I fell to talking with a gallant gay— Upon my soul, a rare, sweet gentle he, Hidalgo born, a flower of chivalry, Simple and courteous, melancholic now, And now as merry as a May-day queen, With chat of court and camp and State, a brow Just helmet-dinted, o'er an eye serene That made swift capture of my inward thought Before a word my tardy tongue had wrought. Sir Philip Sidney he! We talked full long Of Spain and England, of what cruel wrong My jailor Philip did, and soon we passed

To speak of Spain's Armada. "Now," at last, "Thank God for war!" he cried. "The die is cast! And you, a gentleman, young sir,"—to me,—"Sit in a tavern sad, while history Is in the mighty making." Then he quaffed A cup of wine. "Is it a woman?"—laughed Because, shame-flushed, I, angry, answered not. "Pardon," he added. "Cast the iron lot Of war, and take with us the splendid chance. God and the Queen, a sword, a horse, a lance! Your name, fair sir?" I could but hang my head. What could I answer? "I have none," I said. —You bade me hide it, you were well obeyed. He touched my shoulder kindly: "Many a man Has found a proud name where the red blood ran. Aimless and nameless? Get you aim and name Where two great nations play war's royal game. Come with me on the morrow."

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

And you cried, Vade Sathanas!

PHILIP VERNON.

Nay, I naught replied, Or scarce a word. By Heaven, I had been right To follow loyally that gallant knight Where England calls her sons!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

What, must I fail For this boy-folly?—You shall hear the tale—Ay, all of it a tender heart withheld To give more gently in the happier hour God's victory will bring. Ah, then dispelled Were half its anguish!

PHILIP VERNON.

Speak! I have the power To bear life's very worst.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Is this the lad I saved from death? Defiant, reckless, mad, You ask you know not what.

PHILIP VERNON.

But I will know, And on the minute, or by Heaven! I go To claim what rights are mine.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Take then the fate That bides for him who does not know to wait On God's maturing hour. Alas, poor fool! Art nameless? Yes! This, on my oath to rule A froward nature, by the rood I swear! Didst hear?—the rood! Thou art a bastard born! Art fitly answered? Didst thou think to dare To cross my purpose,—thou, a child of scorn!

PHILIP VERNON.

What fool's device is this? A little while I was my lord, am now a bastard vile. Another man this pleasant tale should rue All the brief life I'd leave him.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Still, 't is true.

PHILIP VERNON.

By Heaven, thou liest!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Have I ever lied?

PHILIP VERNON.

God knows, not I.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

I should have naught replied. A priest, and lie! It seems a challenge cheap.

Tears!—that is wiser. Oh, I did but keep My better tidings back. Alas, no friend Could hide this ill news long, or know to mend A wrong of birth; but when, in God's good time, Your arm has freed a land, and yonder chime Rings in our king, rings out this fated Queen, Then she who owns this broad domain has seen Her last of greatness.

PHILIP VERNON.

Who?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Your cousin,—she, Your father's heir, your steward now till we Win Philip's battle, and his potent hand Strikes from your shield the bastard's shameful band, Gives all I promised, honor, wealth, and place,— All that men covet in this earthly race. Go! I have done. Think on it for the week We linger here. Be prudent, slow to speak, Watchful and wise. God's hand is on the helm, And I, the Church, the King, this woeful realm, Will need your help.

PHILIP VERNON.

I would that I could doubt One who has never lied. I stand without The pale of honor and the hopes of men, A nameless creature, bred to turn again And rend the race that gave me, with this stain, Intrepid honor, proud desires,—in fine, The manly virtues of a noble line. Poor useless jewels! all in vain their worth. I had been happier made of meaner earth.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Nay, nay; but that's not so. Land, title, place, Are yours to gain when, by God's helping grace, That Spanish dagger at your side strikes quick. Oh, I can see—can see this heretic Roll bloody in the dust, and hear the land Ring joy from spire to spire!

PHILIP VERNON.

I understand At last too well. No more for me the prayer To be delivered from temptation's snare.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Sad words, my son!

PHILIP VERNON.

Yet heed them well: they say The malice of dishonor. If I prey Like maggots on the carcass whose decay Begot my baseness, who shall blame the banned? What would'st thou of me? Is it head or hand?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

How beautiful the evening is! Behold The dim, green meadows take the dewy gold, While in the hollows little pools of mist Are gathering slowly where the cattle list The milky summons of the twilight horn. Look! 'T is your heritage! Some men are born Ignobly great; some in one matchless hour Scale at a bound the heights of human power.

PHILIP VERNON.

A bastard lord! Not I! Awhile agoYou took from life its beauty and its glow.How could you mock my fancies with a tale

Such as my boyhood dreamed, and let it fail In such a slough of shame? Love, honor, hope— You took them all, and offer now a rope! 'T is kind! I was a man, and you have made A fiend of whom you well might be afraid If you had lied.—You could not.—Take me! Use My strength, my will, my hate, as you may choose.

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

There 's time to think.

PHILIP VERNON.

Not I! What next?

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Wilt swear?

PHILIP VERNON.

Ay, for an oath is only empty air. Once 't was a thing to spend a life for. I Am but a hireling now mere gold may buy, Or any Judas coin.

As Philip speaks he makes a move as if to go, but, of a sudden returning, looks the priest steadily in the face, and with a troubled countenance says to him:

"One word to close An hour the damned might pity. I suppose——There was a mother—

—Well?"

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Long, long ago Your mother died.

PHILIP VERNON.

'T is all I care to know. Loved, sinned, and died! May God's sweet pity rest

Upon the shameless woman from whose breast I drew the milk of sorrows!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Sleep and prayer Will bring you peace, yet leave you power to dare A deed with which the world shall ring. Good-night. In three days I return again. To right Your pathway lies toward the inn. Invite No comment. Guard yourself. Good-night.

As the priest moves away Philip Vernon replies tardily:

"Good-night. What night is good to me? Alas, what day?"

THE GARDEN

Walking slowly away, Philip Vernon takes his sadness deeper into the woods, and wandering far, comes at last to a great garden wall. There he stays awhile, until sweet odors, rising, seem to call him; and with no more thought of what may lie beyond, he leaps the wall, and stands amid the flowers, waist-deep in hollyhock and golden plume.

"I wonder somewhat was my life then gay When here I chased the butterflies, and trod These garden lanes, or rolled upon the sod, One rose of home."

Hither into the garden at this moment comes Lord Francis Grey, in red velvet, with a face aflame to match.

Seeing this gallant across a hedge of sweet-peas, he slips the collar of his humor and sets it on to bite in this wise:

"Ho! Who are you who breakThese castle bounds at will? Ho there! Take heed!Didst hear me?"

PHILIP VERNON.

Yes. Your words; I think, exceed The owner's power to back his tongue at need.

LORD GREY.

My cousin is the chancellor's ward; none dare Avenge an insult here.

PHILIP VERNON.

Then wiser 't were To keep the tongue in ward. You question one That hath lost touch of fear beneath the sun. The chancellor? What care I? Your cousin? Mine? Now, why not mine? Suppose, to cap the jest, We fight for cousinship: who wins is best. And is she fair, this woman? Doth her talk, Like thine, lack breeding? This smooth garden walk Is broad enough to serve us. Draw, on guard! And let my rapier teach your tongue such ward As hasty manners lack.

LORD GREY.

Have then your will! Or mad or foolish, you're a man to kill! Yet to cross blades with one unknown or base—

PHILIP VERNON.

Base! By my soul! Were you his very Grace, This same lord chancellor, his mighty face Should know my glove!

Lord Grey, having already drawn his sword, advances and lunges smartly at Philip, at the same time crying out:

"By Heaven, you are dead!"

PHILIP VERNON.

A thing, observe, less easily done than said. A step more near, a trifle yet more quick, And you had boasted shrewdly. Oh, the trick Is stale. In Spain we lunge this wise, and then A thrust in tierce—Well parried!—good, again! I take it firmly close to hilt; the wrist Well up; then deftly, with this cunning twist, Give point. Your sword-arm? By the Cid, 't is sad! That stops the sport.

LORD GREY.

'T is not so very bad But that a day will cure it.

At this he sees men break through the shrubbery and come running toward them, whereon he says to Philip:

"Get you gone!There, by the terrace, and across the lawn."

PHILIP VERNON.

And wherefore?

LORD GREY.

Hasten, leap the brook and fly!

As Philip stands with no mind to escape, the steward and many servants gather around them.

STEWARD.

What means this brawl? My lady asks, not I.

LORD GREY.

'T is but a trifle. Come with me. The blame I shall stand father to. This way. The dame?—

STEWARD.

Is in the eastern gallery.

LORD GREY.

Best it were You tarry here awhile. My cousin fair Has many humors: which shall be our share No man has skill to tell. Her No, or Yes, A hundred years' experience could not guess.

With these words Lord Grey leaves Philip Vernon at the entrance of the castle, where, with sudden interest in his face, he looks about him, and at last says:

"How most familiar 't is! There the great hall, The windowed gallery, and on the wall The gray stone dial. There the poplars tall. Now, as I live, the willows and the brook! And there my father sat the while I took His great horse o'er it—much I feared the leap. How memory wakens as if from a sleep! The stair! Sir Lancelot's armor! That brave lance Lord Arthur carried to the wars in France. One night I touched it—on the floor it crashed, And the fierce strife of Crécy round me clashed With din of spear and steel, and shock and blow, And clang of knights that set my heart aglow."

A SERVANT.

My lady bids me say for her, Sir Knight, She waits you in the gallery. Here, to right.

Philip Vernon enters the picture-gallery, and sees at the far end Elizabeth Vernon speaking with Lord Grey.

LORD GREY.

The errant knight waits yonder.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Let him wait; 'T is a man's business. Now, I pray you, state What means this quarrel?

LORD GREY.

Ask of yonder man.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Man! Why not gentle, cousin? Never ran Mean blood in one like him, who there, at ease, In courteous silence stands. Now, an you please, What more, my lord?

LORD GREY.

I found the man you see A-picking roses 'neath your balcony.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Why, this should hang him on the nearest tree! And my blunt cousin picked, for company, A quarrel. That is easier than a rose. He found a thorn, as rather plainly shows That crimsoned sleeve.

LORD GREY.

Now look you, Cousin Bess, Your jest is but ill-timed. Let me confess I made this quarrel when, my heart aflame, You left me stinging with your words. The blame Is yours, fair cousin. Shafts in anger sent May find mad errands ere their force be spent.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Now, by our Lady!

LORD GREY.

Nay, but hear me still; And let your servants know at least your will That yonder venturer go on his way, And no such words escape as haply may Breed risks for me.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

I shall consider first When I have questioned him, nor shall the worst Be worse, my lord, than what has chanced. You claim Such license here as men may justly blame. Best choose a fitter place, a feebler prey, To hawk at with your anger.

At this Lord Grey, turning to one side, mutters to himself as he glances down the hall at Philip:

"He shall payHis debt and yours, my lady. Those who courtTongue-tilts with wounded creatures, find the sportA doubtful venture. 'By the Cid,' he swore;Mocked me with Spanish sword-play. Ah! my scoreIs easily settled."

ELIZABETH VERNON.

You are silent, sir?

LORD GREY.

I school my hurt heart to soft words, for her Whose lightest word my very blood can stir; And if in aught I have exceeded, rest Assured I meant it not. Were if not best I set this errant knight without your gate?

ELIZABETH VERNON.

No. I would speak with him. Pray do not wait: My temper 's of the shortest. On your way Send me the gentleman; and, cousin, stay!—I 'll have no gossip.

Lord Grey, sullenly walking down the hall, pauses beside Philip Vernon:

"We shall meet again! My lady waits. And for those tricks of Spain I shall be readier. Good-day."

PHILIP VERNON.

T' is plain I was imprudent.

As he moves up the hall toward Elizabeth Vernon, she watches him, speaking to herself the while:

"Where saw I those eyes, Large, gray, and watchful? Some elate surprise Is in their gaze.
I pray you pardon us This most uncourteous hour. It is not thus We welcome unknown comers. I have heard You would be nameless: so is every bird That wings my garden. And 't is said you stole A rose or two. If that be all—the whole Of this last hour's sin—I hold you shriven; Ay, and that lesson to a fool forgiven."

PHILIP VERNON.

I thank you, madam.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Am I, sir, a book, That you would read me with that eager look?

PHILIP VERNON.

Oft have I read you. I am wont to share My idle hours with you.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Indeed, sir?

PHILIP VERNON.

Where the chase o'erhangs your garden, oft I sit And read you page by page, nor want I wit To comment on your sweetness.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

You are bold Past nurtured manners.

PHILIP VERNON.

Pardon me, I told But half my heart says.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Sir, an hour ago We were but strangers.

PHILIP VERNON.

Ere the sand shall flow Another hour, we shall be strange once more, And ever strange.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Is this some Quixote, mad, That loved and lost, and cannot live it o'er? —By all the saints, I think it very sad To see good wits astray.

PHILIP VERNON.

Are mine astray? It seems they wandered wisely. Let them say What saner wits would shun. The shyest maid That ever loved, and, loving, grew afraid, Would braver be to set her love in words. Mine hath uncertain wings, like new-born birds, And may not think on heaven. Forgive, forget!

Think me a lover wild of brain, once met In some freaked tale of eld—a prince of fay That came, and loved, and lost, and rode away.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

That 's a wild riddle.

PHILIP VERNON.

Time owns not the hour Shall give some buds the answer of a flower. You have been very gentle with a man Who dare not name himself, who never can Do more than thank your kindness. I am one Accursed and nameless till my days be done. How you have helped me you may never know, Nor what you saved us both. I came your foe; More than your friend I leave. Just Heaven knows How sad my life has been. Let this one rose I took for—well, no matter—let me guard This rose for memory. It will make less hard The strife of days to come.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

You speak like one By some strange cruelty of fate undone. Be plain.

PHILIP VERNON.

I may not further.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Then take hence A woman's prayer for peace. There 's no offence. In honest words, and none did ever speak Words that more sadly touched me. I am weak Where women should be. There 's no need to say 'T is but mere weakness. Must you, then, away?

PHILIP VERNON.

I dare not—must not—linger. Here to stay Were to tempt folly. Ah, you may divine All that my honor bids my heart resign. So fades another dream. Alack! alack! Dreams are but dreams—we may not dream them back. Take you an exile's thanks. This gracious hour Shall live remembered.

As he walks away, Elizabeth Vernon whispers to herself:

"Still those eyes have power To tease dull memory with some strange surmise. And trouble expectation."

Philip, walking down the gallery and seeing the portraits on the walls, stops abruptly; whereupon Elizabeth Vernon adds:

"What surprise So moves this stranger?"

PHILIP VERNON.

There 's the Lady Blanche, That held the castle; there the baron stanch, Who rode to battle laughing. Am I heir, Through him, of that mad merriment I share When swords are out and death is in the air? My father's face! So gracious too!—by Heaven! Now I can say, "Be all thy sin forgiven!" And thank the gentle hand that swept away The desperate counsels of a darker day.

For a moment he stands before the portrait, and then goes slowly down the gallery, and leaves the castle.

THE CHASE

Two days later, in the afternoon of the summer day, Philip Vernon walks here and there in the great forest, and at last, leaning against a tree, speaks thus to himself:

"How wearily the hours go by! This chase I haunt, as haunts a bird the lonely place That holds her pillaged nest."

Seeing him of a sudden, Elizabeth Vernon comes timidly through the thickets.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

I thought, Sir Knight, You had been far from this. I would quick flight Had set you miles away. I more than fear My cousin's treachery. What keeps you hereIs much in question, and in days of war The questioned man is lost. You should be far From this to-morrow.

PHILIP VERNON.

Not while dangers growSo thick about one frail old man.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

I know Of you, of him, no more than what I hear From one who hates you, yet enough to fear For you such peril as may cost too dear Some woman-heart at home.

PHILIP VERNON.

Ah, there are none Will weep for me. Of all that live not one. As alien ships that only meet to part,

Thy life and mine have crossed on stormy seas. Learn to forget. 'T is a most wholesome art.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

An art that women practise with less ease Than men.

PHILIP VERNON.

There 's time to learn it, for no more Shall we two meet.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

No more!

PHILIP VERNON.

Dear heart, no more. I said forget. How could I say forget? No, rather let some shadow of regret Still haunt thy better fortunes in glad hours When Spring is come again, and with her flowers Arise frail memories and thoughts long dumb, That are the wildings of the mind, and come With Nature's yearning season.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Hush! I heard Steps in the wood.

PHILIP VERNON.

No, not a leaf has stirred.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

I am grown fearful. If you would but go While the near hour is gracious—

PHILIP VERNON.

No; ah, no! Not for the bribe of love.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

If, sir, you loved,My prayer were quickly answered. You 'd be moved, And fly.

PHILIP VERNON.

You will not ask it. Those proud eyes Would turn with scorn from him whose honor dies. Men call me traitor: but, my lady fair, That died in me when all of my despair I cast before your feet. What mercy lies In the sweet equity of honest eyes I gladly trust.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Thank Heaven, I know not, sir, What sad temptation may have bid you err. I would not—will not—know. Do you forget I suffer while you linger here?

PHILIP VERNON.

And yet I cannot go. I would we had not met, Or God had given to me a kinder fate, A less uncertain birth, a nobler state.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Uncertain, said you?

PHILIP VERNON.

Yes, I said it—yes. For that time has no comfort, no redress, And you are worlds away. But here, alone, Once let me speak. The falcon love has flown Where the proud instinct of his haughty wings Takes love that soars. Beneath it earth's mean things Grow half unreal, and the morning rings With new-born light his world of wish and will. I love you—love you. Be it well or ill,

Still shall I love you. None may ever doubt Hope's dying words. Alas! my treason 's out. Oh, traitor heart!

Elizabeth Vernon looks at Philip, and of a sudden seating herself upon a fallen tree, covers her face with her hands, and is silent for a moment.

PHILIP VERNON.

You will not speak?

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Wait, wait! —My God, I love him!—Sir, as sad a fate As yours will make my life and land the prize Of some debt-burdened noble.—It were wise We part at once.

PHILIP VERNON.

At once!

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Be merciful! Go while my blinded sight with tears is dull. You have been cruel. Ah, I cannot see For tears of pity both for you and me.

PHILIP VERNON.

And have I wounded you, my gentle dove? That were most sad of all, to hurt with love. I have done wrong—

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Yes—no! Would you were spared This most unhappy fortune!

As she ceases, Lord Grey comes abruptly into the open space, and cries out:

"Neatly snared! 'T is well I chanced to come. And have you dared, A maid, a Vernon, thus to blot our fame, My mother's lineage? Go! Go, take your shame Where shame is common. Off with you! Fie! fie ! Have you no blushes? For this masking spy, Who lured you hither—"

PHILIP VERNON.

By my soul, you die!

They draw their swords as Hugh Langmayde, in haste coming through the wood, steps between them.

PHILIP VERNON.

Out of my path!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

No! no! In God's name, peace! The Church forbids you.

Lord Grey falls back, sheathes his sword, and says:

"Easy 't is to ceaseWhen finer nets are spread. A priest, indeed! And thus disguised. In truth, it seems decreed My double debt shall wait.—You, madam, need No further words from me. Begone with speed!"

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Oh, for one hour to be a man!

LORD GREY.

True, true! That had been better. There were less to rue.

PHILIP VERNON.

I shall be surely man enough for two; And you, whose tongue is quicker than your blade, Shall lack no lesson.

Lord Grey stands smiling, while Hugh Langmayde seizes Philip by the arm, and, drawing him away, says to him:

"Why have you delayed? I waited long. 'T is like we are betrayed. Lose not a minute; and if fall of night Find me not with you at the ford, take flight: I shall be dead. Now God protect the right!"

Philip cries to Elizabeth Vernon as he follows the priest:

"I may not wait. Heaven keep you!"

Then, turning to Lord Grey, says haughtily, and with a bow:

"We shall meet."

LORD GREY.

Yes, where the gallows makes revenge complete.

With these words he walks swiftly away, while the priest and Philip hurry through the wood in the opposite direction, leaving Elizabeth Vernon, who for a time stands still in the deepening shadows, and looks along the path where her lover has gone.

THE FORD

After dusk Philip Vernon, having waited long at the appointed ford, begins to walk to and fro uneasily, and says:

"How long he tarries! I have that to say Will sorely hurt him; and yet, chance what may, This treason ends. Who 's there?"

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

Come! We are gone! Lost men, I fear. The wood, the wood! Ere dawn We must be far from this. One feeble fool Upon the rack betrayed us. Oh, that school Makes ready scholars! Death is close at hand.

As they leave the shore, the sound of men-at-arms comes from above and below, and always nearing them.

"All ways are closed. O sad, unhappy land, That was so near deliverance! Here, my son, Take this, and go."

The priest, fainting and in haste, gives to Philip a packet.

"My earthly course is run."

PHILIP VERNON.

I will not leave you. Quick! The garden gate I saw wide open. Come!

The old man, helped, hurries through the chase. As they cross an open space near the garden, the moon comes out, and from a thicket the flash of steel is seen, and the red blaze of half a dozen musquetoons. The

priest stumbles, and groans; men run forth, and, falling on Philip and his companion, stab the priest, who falls within the arched and open gateway of the garden of the castle, crying:

"Too late, too late!Curse on the heretic! Fly, Philip!"

PHILIP VERNON.

No! Not I, by Heaven!

And, standing within the gateway, he cries fiercely as he fights:

"This for your coward blow, You this for vengeance, and you this, and go To hell that spawned you!"

As with cries and shouts the men fall back, there is a brief pause, while Lord Grey comes forward, sword in hand.

PHILIP VERNON.

Have a care, my lord! The place is somewhat narrow, and the sward Gives but ill footing. Neither can I spare To teach you tricks of fence to-day. Beware! Habet! You have it. Yes, this under-thrust Is deadly dangerous. Never put your trust In that weak parry—traitor! coward! take This for my love! this for that old man's sake!

As Lord Grey staggers and falls, he cries to those about him.

"In on him! seize him! Quick, the gate, the wall!"

Philip again attacks the men who are nearest, and as they give way, retreating, he shuts the gate. Then, kneeling, he lifts the priest's head, and exclaims:

"Ye saints, he 's dead! Now let what may befall; No worse can come to me."

As Philip bends over the priest, he hears him groan and mutter

"Strike sure! You swore— Kill, kill the heretic!"

PHILIP VERNON.

Alas!

HUGH LANGMAYDE.

There 's more,— Christ, for a minute's life to speak! I said Of her—your mother—something—

But even as the words are on his lips the priest's head drops, and he dies.

PHILIP VERNON.

He is dead! God pity me, I loved him. Wrong or right, I loved him well. Christ rest his soul to-night.

As he rises he hears voices and shots, and, instantly turning, flies through the shrubbery until, bewildered, he comes upon a doorway in the side wall of the castle, and, in the darkness stumbling in haste upon a narrow stairway, opens a door cautiously, and enters the chapel of the castle.

"Ye saints be praised! for I am well-nigh spent, And here 's a little respite, heaven-sent."

Breathing fast and hard, he sinks exhausted on the chancel step,

"The only friend I had this evening died; I would to God that I were by his side! But the mere brute in us will show his teeth: I fought as if all life were glad.—Beneath This cross a child I knelt."

Of a sudden he leaps up at sight of one coming through the darkness.

"Speak, or you die!"

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Mother of mercy! It is I! 't is I! I thought you slain.

PHILIP VERNON.

I have one friend the less. They 've killed my only father; none may guess My utter loneliness.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

I hear men's feet. Get you behind the altar.

PHILIP VERNON.

Kiss me, sweet; That will make death seem easy.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Go, make haste!

He obeys, and Elizabeth Vernon falls on her knees before the crucifix.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Oh, Mary Mother, pitiful and chaste! Save! save him!

Here comes in hot haste the steward, with men-at-arms and the Queen's officers.

STEWARD.

Peace! She prays!

The Lady Elizabeth rising, he says, as he comes forward:

"We seek in vain The dead man's traitor comrade."

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Well, 't is plain He hides not here. Search you the river-banks; The hills beyond the chase. He shall have thanks Who finds this Spanish ruffler. Go! make haste! These ducats for his capture. See you waste No time about the castle. Shall it hap This Spanish fox would seek so plain a trap?

Upon this the steward and men leave the chapel, and as the noise fades away Philip Vernon comes forward.

PHILIP VERNON.

Right bravely done!

ELIZABETH VERNON.

God guard you!

At this Philip Vernon gives her that packet the priest had given him, and, much troubled, says:

"Here is thisSits heavy on my conscience. Ere I miss Thy dear face, take it; for I have no mind To carry treason. Should you chance to find Aught that may ruin men, I pray of you Destroy it; burn it."

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Why not wait to view What costs a minute? You have that to spare. This altar-lamp suffices. Rest you there. Some one might enter on us unaware.

As she opens the packet and reads therein a great surprise possesses her.

"This holds no treason; none! Where got you these? The Vernon arms?—a locket?—mysteries That much concern me."

PHILIP VERNON.

Answer I have none. The good priest gave me these ere life was done. I thought them dangerous.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Letters out of Spain! The King's grave attestation. Still in vain I tax my cunning. Who are you that brought This tale of wonder?

PHILIP VERNON.

Madam, I was taught To call myself plain Philip Vernon. I Was that in Spain.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

You Philip Vernon! Try to tell me more. Is it indeed of you What I find written here? Is—is it true?

PHILIP VERNON.

How can I know? The Jesuit, flying, foundA tired boy-swimmer floating as if drowned, And kept him all these years in Spain.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Think. Strive Some memory of childhood to revive.

PHILIP VERNON.

Ah, but what matters it to me? They bring No happy fortune. What am I? A thing The sea refused to bury, which that priest Caught for mere pity ere it died—the least, Ay, least of men am I. A waif forlorn. Only in name a Vernon. I have borne That old man's silence long, till he of late Cursed me with knowledge of my bastard fate, To use my anguish in a desperate game— For what cared I, the unreckoned child of shame?

ELIZABETH VERNON.

A bastard! bastard! No, my lord; the pride Of twenty earls is in your veins. He lied Who told you that. Look! look! these papers! See! I am the heir no longer; you are he.

Philip staggers back against a marble effigy of a boy on a tomb just behind him, and cries out:

"Christ help me! How I loved him! Yet he swore— Swore by the rood! A priest! The rood! No more! It cannot be."

ELIZBETH VERNON.

It is. If less the gloom, You might have seen, my lord, your very tomb Behind you there. And fully on the scroll How, Philip Vernon drowned, "his precious soul Is with the saints." Oh, I could laugh, were death Less neighbored to my mirth. Also it saith,

"A youth of parts; well loved," that's very truth; "Witty and virtuous, also learned"—forsooth, I think I must have loved you in your youth, And ever since, my Philip. What to do I know not. Yes! let your sword counsel you. Seek my Lord Howard, the High Admiral; Tell him this story boldly. Ay, tell all— All this strange story. Let what may befall, You cannot lose my love. Go, go, my lord; Only to England could my soul afford This new-born hope. Go now; the Spanish fleet Is on the seas. Go, Philip. When you meet Your boyhood's jailers, strike for brave Queen Bess, And for this Bess, that is thy queen no less. Go! I shall love you as no mortal man Was ever loved of maid since love began.

PHILIP VERNON.

My God, I thank thee for this hour of grace.

As he speaks he kneels, and sets her hand to his lips, and then looking up, says:

"Hope, honor, home, a land to serve, a face Dear as the summer sun to prisoned men, Life, trust, and love, I have them all again. Love! By my soul, I would I knew a word Unsoiled by this world's commerce—never heard, Save by some ardent angel, that should say My more than earthly love."

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Oh, haste away! Let love teach haste. This for the stirrup-cup! And now, God speed you! All the country's up;

The highway 's watched; I think none guard the shore: That way is safest. Here, this farther door Leads to the strand. Go, set those wits to see What rose of honor you can pluck for me.

They go out of the chapel, and descend to the bank of the river.

PHILIP VERNON.

Good-night! Sweet night, that marries hope to love.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Good-night. God keep you, and all saints above!

She stands and watches him as his boat goes down the river.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Oh, I could cry, could laugh; and if I knew A saint of laughter, I would pray that you Do keep me merry for good cause. Alack, Being but a maid, I would I had you back.

THE GARDEN

VERNON CASTLE OF A MORNING IN AUGUST 1588

ELIZABETH VERNON walks amidst the flowers, an open letter in her hand.

"Oh, the sweet morning and the sweeter news That make me doubly glad! Ah, who would lose The hours of grief that won this leave to smile

Through one long careless day of joy, the whileI wait a larger joy! Our smiles and tearsHave many meanings. I could weep to-dayFor very joy; and yesterday my fearsFetched me strange laughter, though my life seemed grayWith age of longing. Oh, be glad with me,Ye English roses! See, the morning sunAsks for the lifted face of prayer. The sea,God's sea, laughs with us; we have won—have won!"

Thus speaking, Elizabeth Vernon walks to and fro among the flowers, and sometimes pauses to shadow her eyes with her hand, that she may look across the river all a-glitter with the sun. But at last she kneels on the sod, and, laughing, cries:

"I must kiss someone, something. You, red rose, Will never whisper it if I suppose You are my Philip. Kiss me, kiss me quick! So not to know it is not he. I 'm sick For kisses. Ah, but when he comes, and triesAnd say, Fie on you, sir!"

Philip Vernon, coming of a sudden through the hedge:

"Sweetheart, take this!You one red rose with blushes. He who bringsA galleon-freight of kisses, each with wingsOf gathered honor, cannot beggared be."

ELIZABETH VERNON.

My love! my lord!

PHILIP VERNON.

One kiss from thee outweighs A hundred given. Not all love's usury, Not all the interest of unnumbered days, Can keep us even.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

There 's for ransom, see! Oh, I'll be honest. Tell me of the fight. Indeed, I prayed for you both morn and night. Now, tell me of it. Did we hear aright? Hast seen the Queen?

PHILIP VERNON.

Aye, and she mocked me, too, Because these lands are cumbered, love, with you. I had her pardon also. My Lord Grey Takes more to kill him than most traitors may.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

The packet reached the chancellor?

PHILIP VERNON.

You did wellTo send it. I have no long tale to tell.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Sit near me, Philip. Now, the battle, pray!

PHILIP VERNON.

Oh, I'll be brief; I've other things to say. We caught them in the Channel. Day by day We hung about them, like bold dogs that tease Great lumbering bullocks; left them at our ease, Then bit again, until each bloody deck, Mast, sail, and timber, shorn to shattered wreck,

Their cannon silent, helpless, overpowered, Northward they drifted, and a storm that lowered Broke on their ruin, pitiless and swift. The gray fog closed about them like a pall; The great seas, leaping, smote them, and the lift Grew dark above them. One bleak funeral, They passed from sight of man. For us, we fled To 'scape the storm's worst peril. All is said That may not till the morrow be delayed.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Ah, never day like this has England seen! Come, drink a cup to England and the Queen:I 'll cast my love within the bowl.

PHILIP VERNON.

That pearl Shall jewel every cup of life.

ELIZABETH VERNON.

Sweet Earl, Thy people grow impatient. Hark! the chimes Ring in their new lord, and these gladder times.

RESPONSIBILITY

Thus, lying among roses in the garden of the Great Inn after certain cups of wine, I, Attar El Din, sang of things to come, when, I being dead a day, the Angels of Affirmation and Denial should struggle for my soul.

"I, Moonkir, the angel, am come To count of his good deeds the sum, For this mortal death-stricken and dumb."

"I, Nekkir, the clerk of ill-thought, Am here to dispute what hath wrought This breeder of song, come to naught.

"Let us call from the valleys of gloom, From the day's death of sleep and the tomb, The wretched he lured to their doom."

Then, such as my song had made weep Came parting the tent-folds of sleep, Or rose from their earth-couches deep.

SPAKE A VOICE:

"I sat beside the cistern on the sand, When this man's song did take me in its hand, And hurled me, helpless, as a sling the stone That knows not will nor pity of its own.

Within my heart was seed of murder sown, So once I struck—yea, twice, when he did groan."

SPAKE A VOICE:

"Ay, that was the song Which I heard as I lay 'Gainst my camel's broad flanks, Thinking how to repay The death-debt so bitter with wrong. I rose, as he sang, to rejoice With a blessing of thanks; For the song ruled my slack will and me, Like one who doth lustily throw The power of hand and of knee To string up to purpose a bow. Quick I stole through the dark, but delayed To hear how, with every-day phrase, Such as useth a child or a maid, From praise of decision to praise Of the quiet of evening he fell. Thus a torrent grows still on the plain To mirror how come through the grain The women with jars to the well. Swift I drew o'er the sands cool and gray, With my knife in my teeth held to slay. Hot and wet felt my hand as it crept— Lo! dead 'neath my hand the man lay; This other had struck where he slept."

Then Moonkir, who treasures good deeds, To mark how the total exceeds, Said, "He soweth or millet or weeds

Who casts forth a song in the night, As a pigeon is flung for its flight; He knoweth not where 't will alight. Lo, Allah a wind doth command, And the caravan dies in the sand, And the good ship is sped to the land."

SPAKE A VOICE:

"I lay among the idle on the grass, And saw before me come and go, alas! This evil rhymer. And he sang how God Is but the cruel user of the rod, And how the wine-cup better is than prayer: Whereon I cursed, and counselled with despair, And drank with him, and left my field untilled, Whilst all my house with woe and want was filled."

SPAKE A VOICE:

"And I that took no heed of things divine, But ever loved to loiter with the wine, Was straightway sobered. From the inn I went, And in the folded stillness of my tent Wrestled with Allah, till the morning fair Beheld this scorner like the rest at prayer."

Quoth I, this same Attar El Din,Whose doubtful proportion of sin These angels considered within:

"Ye weighers of darkness and light, Ere cometh the day and the night, Mark how, from the minaret's height,

The prayer-seed of Allah is strown: In the heart of the man it is sown. He tilleth, or letteth alone.

"Behold at even-time within my tent I wailed in song because a death-shaft, sent From Azrael's fateful bow, had laid in dust My eldest-born; I sang because I must. For hate, love, joy, or grief, like Allah's birds, I have but song, and man's dull use of words Fills not the thirsty cup of my desire To hurt my brothers with the scorch of fire That burns within. Yea, they must share my fate, Love with me, hate, with me be desolate. And so I drew my bowstring to the eye, And shot my shafts, I cared not where or why, If but the men indifferent, who lay Beneath the palm-trees at the fall of day, I could make see with me the dead boy's look That swayed me as the bent reeds of the brook Sway when the sudden torrent of the hills From bank to bank the crumbling channel fills.

"Then one who heard me, and through stress of grief Struggled with agony of loss in vain, Into the desert fled, and made full brief A clearance with the creditor called Pain, And by a sword-thrust gave his heart relief.

"But one whose eyes were dry as summer sand Wept as I sang, and said, 'I understand.'

"And one, who loved, did rightly comprehend, Because I sang how, ever to life's end,

The death-fear sweetens love: and went his way With deepened love to where the dark-eyed lay."

SPAKE A VOICE:

"My father's foe, a dying man, Thirst-stricken near the brookside lay; Its prattle mocked him as it ran, So near and yet so far away. While the quick waters cooled my feet, Hot from the long, day's desert heat, I drank deep draughts, and deep delight Of vengeance sated and complete, Because the great breast heaved and groaned, The red eyes yearned, the black lips moaned, Because my foe should die ere night. Then, as a rich man scatters alms, This careless singer 'neath the palms, With lapse, and laughter, and pauses long, Merrily scattered the gold of song, A babble of simple childish chants: How they dig little wells with the small brown hand; How they watch the caravan march of the ants, And build tall mosques with the shifting sand, And are mighty sheiks of a corner of land.

"Ah! the rush and the joy of the singing Swept peace o'er my hate, and was sweet As the freshness the waters were bringing Was cool to my desert-baked feet.

"Thereon I raised mine enemy, and gave The cold clear water of the wave;

And when he blessed me I did give again, And had strange fear my bounty were but vain; When, as I bent, he smote me through the breast.—And that is all! Great Allah knows the rest."

Said Nekkir, the clerk of man's wrong, "Great Solomon's self might be long In judging this mad son of song."

Then I, who am Attar El Din, Cried, "Surely no two shall agree! Thou mighty collector of sin, Be advised: come with me to the Inn; There are friends who shall witness for me— Big-bellied, respectable, stanch, One arm set a-crook on the haunch; They will pour the red wine of advice, And behold! ye shall know in a trice How hopeless for wisdom to weigh The song-words a poet may say."

Cried Moonkir, the clerk of good thought, "Ah, where shall decision be sought? Let us quit this crazed maker of song, A confuser of right and of wrong."

"But first," laughed I, Attar El Din,"I am dry : leave my soul at the Inn."

NEWPORT, 1891.

WIND AND SEA

SCENE I

A June Afternoon.—Meadows.—A Farm, with distant Woods; New Jersey Coast; Cape May.

AN idle group within the willow's shade We lay and chatted, holding lazy tilts, And many a lance of mocking laughter broke, Or calmly settled creeds and governments High on the pleasant uplands of content, Till soon the westering sun peeped underneath The fringes of our green tent-skirts, and fell, Where on the paling-fence the milk-cans gleamed, Red in the level gold, whilst suddenly, Swift from the sea, the gay salt breezes came, And, dipping like the swallows here and there, With quick cool kisses touched the startled grain, And fled ashamed, to seek new loves afar, Where in the dark damp marsh the lilies float, And lustrous-leaved the white magnolia lifts Its silvery censers, and the frogs, like friars, Intone their even-song along the marge.

HESTER

(rising).

How sweet the air! Wilt hear the song you made Of this same gentle north wind's winter pranks?

The lusty north wind all night longHis carols sang above my head,And shook the roof, and roused the fire,And with the cold, red morning fled.

Yet ere he left, upon my panesHe drew, with bold and easy hand,The pine and fir, and icy bergs,And frost ferns of his northern land;

And southward, like the Northmen oldWhose ships he drove across the seas,Has gone to fade where roses grow,And die among the orange-trees.

ALFRED.

That 's music for a poet's soul, his words Soft slipping from a woman's lips, the while Caressed by lingering sunshine wrapt she stands, A shining aureole round her fallen hair.

HENRY.

A bid for equal flattery. Let us go Across the sand dunes o'er the mazy creeks. Hear how old ocean calls us. Come away.

FRANK.

Dost thou remember that October day We three together stood and saw at eve The wanton wind yon sleeping waves arouse, Till at the touch of that coy courtesan Strange yearning seized them, and with shout and cry They followed fleetly, while she, laughing, fled Across the golden-rods above the beach?

HENRY.

Ay, then it was you, perched beneath an oak, To us, the long expectant heirs, set forth King Autumn's testament and royal will.

HESTER.

I pray you tell again his dying thoughts, And we shall lie upon the meadow grass And be as heirs should be, stern visaged, grave, Whilst you within yon bower of wild grapes stand: So shall your words steal o'er the listening ear, Breeze-broken, while the melancholy sea Moans his sad chorus on the distant shore.

FRANK.

Brown-visaged Autumn sat within the wood, And counted miserly his ripened wealth: I, Autumn, heritor of Summer's wealth,— I, Autumn, who am old and near to death,— Do thus make clear my will; I dowered earth With fruit and flowers. I fed her hungry tribes, The bee, the bird, the worm, the lazy flocks, And like a king who unto certain death Goes proudly clad, in royal state I go, Through the long sunset of October woods, Where like a trembling maid the smooth-limbed beech Lets fall her ruddy robes, or where afield Red vine leaves fleck the cedar's sombre cone, Or where the maple and the hickory tall Shed the long summer's store of garnered gold. Mine, too, the orchard's raining fruit, and mine Round-shouldered melons fattening in the sun;

Mine the brown pennons of the rustling maize, The squirrel's nutty wealth, the wrinkled gourd. For I am Autumn, lord of fruits and flowers,— God's almoner to all the tribes of man. Here, then, to earth and all her habitants, I, dying, leave what Summer's bounty gave: Great store of grain, ripe fruit, and tasselled corn; Yea, last of all, and best, I here bequeath, With loving thought, a special legacy To all good fellows everywhere on earth: To them I give the sun-kissed grapes of Spain, The Rhine's autumnal treasure, and the fruit Of knightly Burgundy and winding Rhone; Nor less the grape of Capri's lifted cliff, The purple globes that jewel Ischia's isle, And that sad vintage weeping holy tears On black Vesuvian slopes. To them I give The soothing sweetness of the Cuban leaf Wherewith to hold good counsel, when life palls, Wherewith to charm away some weary hour. And when from thoughtful lips the pale blue wreaths Curl upward, and, the wanderer's only hearth, His pipe-bowl, glows with hospitable fires, I charge them drink a single cup, and say: He was a good old fellow—peace to him. So died great Autumn, passing like a mist, Where in the woodland verge the maples rain Reluctant gold in hesitating fall.

ALFRED.

What ho! good minstrel. Let us seaward roam, 'T is but a half-hour's stroll past yonder hill.

FRANK.

I well recall the way. It lies within A wood of stunted cedars and of firs, Which heard in infancy the great sea moan, And so took on the wilted forms of fright.

HESTER.

Well, too, I know it: when the tide is up 'T is barred and traversed by an hundred creeks, So populous with lilies, you might dream King Oberon's navy rode at anchor there.

FRANK.

Let us away to it. Our sculptor here Knows not the sea as we do. He shall feast His eager eyes on it, and own to us That earth has glories other than the curves Of lithe Apollo and the queen of love.

SCENE II

Seashore.—Sand Dunes dotted with distorted Trees.

HENRY.

Why never can the painter tell to us This awful story of a lonely sea, This terrible soliloquy of nature? Why must he slip us in the bit of red, The group of fishers or the tossing ship? Who asks for life or human action here?

FRANK.

Nay, man is nature's complement. The sea, The sky, the flowers suggest him. Best I love The smiling landscape of a woman's face.

ALFRED.

But he who worships nature, ought to be The ready lover of her thousand gods.

HESTER.

Lo! what a thought is yon triumphant sea, A thought so perfect in its competence, That I would leave it to its loneliness.

ALFRED.

Think what it was when unto God there came This great sea-thought.

FRANK.

Here, friend, your chisel fails. 'T is powerless here. Thank heaven, I at least Can some way capture it with feeble brush.

ALFRED.

Alas, 't is no man's prize. It mocks us all. Leave me but only man, and you may paint, And you may chisel. I would sail alone The great Atlantic of the human heart.

HENRY.

Do you remember how, last summer, here We played with fancies, and in idle mood Struck to and fro the shuttlecocks of thought?

FRANK.

Ah, well I do. 'T was such an hour as comes Once in the life of joy. Just here we lay. As oft before, you led the playful race.

HENRY.

Watch now the waves; each has its little life, High-couraged triumph in yon crest of pride, Some proud decision in its onward sweep,—Destruction, failure,—'t is a history!

FRANK.

I like it best when of a winter day The cold dry norther rolls athwart the beach The gleaming foam-balls into serpents white, And all the sand is starred with rainbow lights.

HESTER.

It knoweth all the secrets of my moods: To-day is gay with me, to-morrow grave.

FRANK.

For me its voice is ever sorrowful As some God's grief beyond all earthly speech.

HESTER.

How wave on wave turns lapsing on the beach, Like the great leaves of some eternal book.

ALFRED.

Unread forever since creation's dawn. I pray you notice how the seaside trees Seem flying headlong, all their withering limbs Stretched landward, craving refuge from the sea.

FRANK.

As they might be remorseful murderers, That heard the hoarse deep, like an angry foe, Storm up the sand slopes—nearer, nearer still, Crying, Vengeance, vengeance! all the summer night.

1865.

THE SHRIVING OF GUINEVERE

STILL she stood in the shunning crowd. "Is there none," she said, aloud, "None who knelt to me, great and proud, Will say one word for me, sad and bowed? Alas! it seems to me, if I Were one of you, who, standing by, Hear gathered in a woman's cry The years of such an agony, It seemeth me that I would take Sweet pity's side for mine own sake, And, knowing guilt alone should quake, For chance of right one battle make." But, no man heeding her, she stayed Beneath the linden's trembling shade, And peered, half hopeful, half afraid, While passed in silence man and maid. She, staring on the stone-dry street Through the long summer-noonday heat, And, stirring never from her seat, Half saw men's shadows pass her feet. "Ah me!" she murmured, "well I see How bitter each day's life may be To them who have not where to flee And are as one with misery." But, whether knight to tourney rode,

Or bridal garments past her flowed, Or by some bier slow mourners trode, No sign of life the woman showed. When as the priestly evening threw The blessed waters of the dew, About her head her cloak she drew And hid her face from every view; Till, as the twilight grew to shade, And passed no more or man or maid, A sudden hand was on her laid. "And who art thou?" she moaned, afraid. Beside her one of visage sad, Which yet to see made sorrow glad, Stood, in a knight's white raiment clad, But neither sword nor poniard had. "One who has loved you well," he said. "Living I loved you well, and dead I love you still; when joys were spread Like flowers, and greatness crowned your head, None loved you more. Not Arthur gave— He will not check me from his grave— So pure a love; nor Launcelot brave With deeper love had yearned to save." "Then," said the woman, still at bay, "Why do I tremble when you lay A hand upon my shoulder? Stay, What is your name, sir knight, I pray? For wheresoever memory chase I know not one such troubled face, Nor one that hath such godly grace Of solemn sweetness any place: But, whatsoever man you be, What is it you would have of me?"

Whereon, he, smiling cheerily, Said: "I would have you follow me."

Not any answer did he wait. But turned towards the city gate; Not any word said she, but straight Went after, bent and desolate; And, as a dream might draw, he drew Her feet to action, till she knew That house and palace round her grew, And some wild revel's reeling crew, And dame and page and squire and knight, And torches flashing on the sight, And fiery jewels flaming bright, And love and music and delight; But slow across the spangled green The stern knight went and went the queen,— He solemn, silent, and serene, She bending low with humble mien. But where he turned the music died, Love-parted lips no more replied, And, shrinking back on either side, Serf and lord stared, wonder-eyed, Or marvelling shrunk swift away Before that visage solemn, gray, Till, where the leaping fountains sway, Thick showed the knights in white array. Where'er he passed, though stirred no breeze, The leaves shook, trembling on the trees. Where'er he looked, by slow degrees Fell silence and some strange unease, While whispers ran: "Who may:it be? What knight is this? And who is she?"

But only Gawain looked to see, And, praying, fell upon his knee. Then said a voice full solemnly: "Of all the knights that look on me, If only one of them there be That never hath sinned wittingly, Let him the woman first disown, Let him be first to cast a stone At her who, fallen from a throne, Is sad and weary and alone. Him, when the lists of God are set, Him, when the knights of God are met, If that he lacketh answer yet, The soul of him shall answer get."

Then, as a lily bowed with rain Leaps shedding it, she shed her pain, And towering looked where men, like grain Storm-humbled, bent upon the plain; Whilst over her the cold night air Throbbed with some awful pulse of prayer, As, bending low with reverent care, She kissed the good knight's raiment fair. When as she trembling rose again, And felt no more in heart and brain The weary weight of sin and pain, For him that healed she looked in vain; And from the starry heavens immense Unto her soul with penitence Came, as if felt by some new sense, The noise of wings departing thence.

1874.

THE SWAN-WOMAN

A LEGEND OF THE TYROL

I TOLD this story once to Kaiser Max. If he believed it, that can no man say. Within the Alte Kirche they have placed His statue, kneeling, sword in hand, at prayer; And though the cunning carver in his skill Hath on that face a hundred battles set, And dooms of men, and many a laden year Of swift decisions, not those lips in life Told more they would not than this face of bronze.

Hast been at Innspruck? When the evening glooms, Go see him girt about with lord and dame, Arthur of England, Alaric, and the Duke.

In those days every great man had his fool, And some men were their own, which saved some fools Their share of fools' pay, cuffs; but so it was. And now it chanced our ancient fool was dead And gone to heaven, to be an angel-fool. Thus, fool-craft prospering, they came by scores To that bleak castle in the Tyrol hills,

And, while my lady and the knight above Looked from the balcony, made sport below, And jeered the men-at-arms, or mocked the page. But most had wits like bludgeons, till my lord, A smileless man save when in shock of arlns He struck a blow that ever after quenched The human laughter of some gentler soul, Tired of their jesting, drove them roughly forth. So, out they went, until, one summer eve, Came gaily singing up the castle hill A man—scarce more than man, with cap and bells, Head up, chin out, just a fool's carriage all; And strutted gravely round the court, and smiled, And kissed white fingers to my lady's maid, Whereon, at last, the burly cook cried out, "A silent fool; God send us many such!" But he, "Your Greasy Grace will pardon me, for I Am but a lady's fool." Quoth Hans the Squire, "Ho then, 't will suit my lord, a lady's fool!" And so they giggling pushed him up the stairs, And through the great hall where my lord at meat Sat with my lady and a score of guests, Pilgrim and merchant, and, above the salt, A knight or two, and kinsfolk of my lord. "What jest is this?"

"We 've found a lady's fool! A silent fool, who can but grunt a joke Like our old boar;" but as he spake I saw My fool's right hand twitch at his belt to left, As one through habit seeking for his sword When stung by insult; flushing deep, he bowed, Said, "By your leave, my lady," turned and fetched

Big Hans so rude a buffet on the ear, The big squire tumbled half across the hall. "Saint Margaret!" cried my lord, "the jest is good. And this is what you call a lady's fool? Canst gossip, mock, tell tales, sing songs at need?" "Ay, noble sir, sing, jest, crack jokes or heads; But that 's a serious business, and spoils fools, The cracker and the cracked. Perchance my lord Would try my folly for a month or two, When, if it reach the level of my lord, If I crack jokes as well as he cracks heads, My lord shall set my wage." "So be it, fool. Give him the dead fool's tower; and look you, fool, Leave to your betters the rough sport of blows, Lest to your grief I take to fools' trade too." Low bent the fool to hide his troubled face, Then meekly said, "King Folly's fool were I To doubt my lord's success." But while the Count, Perplexed and grim, rose angrily, the dame, Pleased with the tilting at her heavy lord, Laughed a sweet girl-laugh outright, and for hint Plucked at her dull lord's sleeve, while level-eyed To meet whatever gaze might question his, Our fool said carelessly, "I jest for dames. A woman's fool am I, as who is not Some woman's fool?"—then lightly, wrist on hip, With something of too easy grace fell back Smiling and gay. And so we got our fool. But I, that had been bred to be a priest, And shut in convent walls had learned perforce To read men's eyes for comment on their lips, Saw some quick change in this man's as he turned,

Some lifting of the lids. Orbs garnet-hued In wide white margins set, and tender, too, Methought a strange face for a fool, indeed. Yet somehow from his coming all the house Grew gay. And never gentler jester was. For when he laughed 't was like a baby's laugh, Less at than with you; but he won them all,Cook, page, and men-at-arms; and surly Hans He charmed by teaching him the buffet's trick And bought him a new dagger, and had goldFor them that wanted; yet my lord he shunned, Or, meeting, puzzled him with jest on jest, Some savage truth in wordy masquerade. But above all he was my lady's fool; Sang for her,—ay, sang to her, I should say; Told tales of Arthur in the chapel yon,—Stories of ancient magic and quaint jests Of masque and tourney and the Kaiser's court, So that my lady, who was young and fair, And yearning for some heart-hold upon life, Like the loosed tendril of a wind-blown vine That seeks and knows not why, smiled once again, And blossomed like a bud surprised by June; Then took to hawking, to my lord's delight, With me, a page, for company, and the fool To call the hawks, or tie their jesses on. So, many a day I followed them, as home They rode, he talking strange things of the stars, Or calling bird and beast with cries they knew. Cursed goblin-tricks, not priest-taught, be you sure; Could read you, too, the thing that was to be By peering at your palm, until my lord Bade one day tell him what would come about

When he, the Count, should issue forth to take His turn at beating back the island lords. I judged the fool reluctant, but he took That square brown hand on his, and lightly traced With fingers lithe and white its mazy lines, Then paused, grew pale, and said, "What God doth hide Leave thou to time's wise answer;" but the Count Swore roundly that the fool was half a priest, Yet started up in haste, and asked no more.
And so the fool, because men named him so, Had leave to go and come; or at her feet To lie, and wing with laughter some sweet words, Or with fierce emphasis of ardent eyes To look the thought he dared not put in speech. So, love, now bold, now put to timid flight, Grew none the less for seeming-shy retreats, Like the slow, certain tides that are made up Of myriad wave-deaths.

Yet she knew it not. Then came the war. To north the Margrave rose; To south the great sea-lords broke out anew. So, late in May our broad, bull-headed lord Put on his armor, growling, since each year He could not have it like a crab's case grow, But guessed some exercise in cracking skulls Might slack his belt, if helped by scant camp-fare. And scant it was, for some few marches thence A robber horde fell on him from a wood, Slew half his train, and plucked him from his horse, And bore him with them as they fled away. But Hans they loosed, sore hurt, and bade him take

His way across the hills, and tell the dame What fate her lord should have if three days gone No ransom bond came back to bring release. But two days later fell the wounded squire, Dust-grayed and bleeding, at the lady's feet, And failing fast cried out, "My lord, my lord! Ransom—thy lord—a castle in the hills— Three days—and two are gone—the third he dies." Then rose upon his elbow, said some words None heard except the fool, and so fell back, And ended honestly an honest life. But as he spoke, in haste my lady turned, Some masterful set purpose in her face; Bade double guards, called in more men for aid, The castle put in siege-shape, knowing not What ill might follow next. Then stood in doubt, Till on the fool's stirred face her large eyes fell. "And this must end!" she cried. "Sir, follow me!" And led him out upon the eastern tower, Where many an eve they two had stayed to watch Tofana's shadow cross Ampezza's vale. Then of a sudden facing him, in wrath, "Sir, was it knightly, this that you have done? What crime or folly bade you refuge here?" "Madam, a poor fool's fancy." "Nay, 't was you, 'T was you who in the jousts at Ims, last year, O'erthrew my lord, and won the tourney's prize, Then round the lists with lifted visor rode, Cast in my lap the jewel as you passed, And known to none, unquestioned, rode away. Nay, sir, the truth, the truth." This once again He set his face for company with a lie,

But looking, saw her red lips droop in scorn, Nor dared to meet the judgment in her eyes, So, backward fell a pace, and murmured low: "I came because I loved you, and I stayed For like good reason; yea, my life had been This and no more if I could but have lived Beside you, near you. For content were I To leave my peers their strife for gold or land, And in the quiet convent of my love To let sweet hours grow to days as sweet, And these to months of ever-ripening joy." "Alas!" she moaned, "God help me in my need!" Because the tender blazonry of joy Lit face and neck with wandering isles of red. "Ah, love!" he cried, seeing all her sweet dismay, "The day is ours. Fly with me—love is ours." But then some angel memory came at call. "Not so," she said. "Pray sit you there awhile. We both are young—too young to stain with sin Of evil loves the weary years to come. That bitter day the margrave stormed St. Jean, There in the breach all that God gave to love, Father and brothers, died. None left, not one. And then a hell of rapine and of blood Swept all the town; and I—well, this is all: The man that is my husband now, he saved, Alas! he saved me. Yet I love him not." Then like to one who, stranded on strange shores, Awaking sees a color in the sky, And knows not yet if it be dawn or dusk, Agaze, he saw the rose-light leave her face, And, being noble, knew the nobler soul. "I go," he said,—"the thing I did was ill."

But on his motley sleeve a hand she laid. "Now that I know how, loving me, love guides To honor, not to baseness, I dare ask The man's clear counsel, for my soul is set To quit me of the debt of given life; Since then, perchance, I may myself forgive For that I love him not, and shall not love; And if I ask of thee, because I must, To do the thing is hateful to thy soul, It will be only then to bid thee go, Because I may not love thee, and I shall." Then he paused, pondering, urged here and there, Like some strong swimmer whom the waves at will Hurl landward and take back; till, in strange haste, As one who fears delay, he spake quick words: "Now if thy soul be certain of itself, If thou canst say, Thus will I, death or life! I hold a charm which, to strong purpose wed, Shall free thy heart from bondage to this debt. Once on a forest verge, I, but a lad, Set free a Jew some robber lord left bound, And for remembrance got this little ring: A face in gold, you see, and o'er its eyes Twin hands clasped tight. But if at midnight one Shall turn it, and shall dare with purpose sure To will that she shall be some living thing, Or bird or other creature of the woods, Three days the charm will hold, the fourth will break. The winged wood-pigeon knows to find its mate, And if thou wilt but give thine instinct wings Thou too shalt find thy mate; but I, if I Should crown my follies with a larger jest, And set my master free, the deed were thine,

Because thine own heart is not more thine own Than I who love thee." Then in dread he stood, Fearing the devil in himself; but she, "Not so! the debt is mine. If death befall, Death is an honest debtor, and God pays," Seized quick the ring, and of a sudden fled, While slow the fool went down the turret stair. "Alas!" he said, "can heaven be bought with hell As hell with heaven thereafter?" Then alone Swift from the castle-gate he fled, and came To where, long miles away, within the wood, Three knights stood waiting, and a steed that neighed To greet his master. But he would not arm, And saying merely "Yea, a fool I am," Leapt on his horse, and swiftly through the wood Rode, while they whispered, "Surely he is dazed."

At noon of night our gentle lady tied A silken-threaded letter round her neck, And on the turret stood and turned the ring, And looked, and saw—for now the moon was full—Strange sunsets glowing in the changeful gem, And mists of color floating from its depths; And crying, "Once he praised my swan-bowed neck!'" Put all her soul in one fierce wish, and felt Such change as death may bring or life, and then Half fear, half wonder, like a soul reborn, Rose on white wings, that trembled as they rose, And flared vast shadows o'er the old gray keep; Till in the joyous freedom of her flight Strong with delight of easy strength she soared, And caught the warm gold of the unrisen sun As souls unprisoned win new hopes and joys;

Saw with strange thrills the white wedge of her mates, And falling gently through the morning light Lit where the sedgy margins green and brown Stirred, as with tawny webs they beat the wave. Some bird-born pleasure luring, long she stayed! To bathe her bosom's silver in the lake, Till all the summer day went by, and night With sleep wave-rocked by cool wood-scented winds. But when another morning brake, and glad On eager wings she rose to greet the morn, Too late she knew no tender instincts led. Wing-weary, helpless, hopeless, sore beset, Her gold eyes fell upon a train of knights, And strong with joy that half was shame or fear, Weak-winged she fluttered down, and saw below The fool beside her lord, and knew, alas, What gentle longings drew her to the earth. There, sullen with the anger of the dull, Her grim lord rode, or with wild oaths complained Because with prison fare his arms were weak, His eyes grown dim: then of a sudden spied The wild white-winged thing over him, and snatched A cross-bow from his saddle, set a bolt, And loosed the string, and heard a human cry So terrible that none who rode with him Lived to forget it, or the thin red rain That flecked the fool's white cloak, while slowly down Light feathers flitted. Then the fool turned short, Caught the knight's saddle-axe, and cried aloud, "Hast thou, O beast set free, no kindly sense?"

And smote the great brute knight so fierce a blow That man and steed rolled helpless; but the fool Struck swiftly here and there, rode down a squire, Cast wide his axe, and spurring wild his horse, With eyes in air, grim-staring like a dog His master calls, fled where the wounded swan Fast faded in the yellow sunset's glow. Homeward in wonderment the knight they bore, Hurt, not to death, and ever as we went, Cursing himself, and us, and most the fool, And marvelling much why came not forth his dame. None dared to tell him that three days had gone Since any saw her face. So, all the house Ran to and fro like to an ant-heap stirred, While he, that loved her in his stolid way, And blindly craved some sweetness never won, Sought here and there in anger, like low souls That turn to wrath all passions, and at last Brake wildly out upon the turret-top, 'Midst man and squire and groom and wildered maids; For there they found the lady, cold and still, The sweetest dead thing that a man could see, And in her bosom white a cross-bow bolt.

1883.

A MEDAL

PANDOLPHUS MALATESTA, ISOTTA.

MALATESTA.

WHY does it pleasure me, Isotta, why? Canst guess,—I cannot,—wherefore such as I Should crave to see myself in bronze or gold? Matteo hath art's courage. He is bold! God-made or devil-fashioned, out I go For comment of the world, or friend or foe. What saith this face, Isotta?—what to you, As to a gazer chance hath brought to view? You smile,—dost dare? The soul beyond your eyes Will bid you risk all other things save lies.

ISOTTA.

A jewel set in brass,—yet why, God knows, If God knows anything of such as those, Like me, who fear you not as men know fear, Being, see you, so little and so dear. Then lying is the luxury of the great, The marge of perils sweet. You dare me—wait; Give me the wax. This side face doth relate More truth than most, my lord, may care to state. And yet, not all; nay, with strange cunning, hides

What little good or noble haply bides For rare occasion. Oh! you bade me try At truth as of men dead beyond reply. Be sure, my lord, I could not lie to you. Why did Delilah love her great brute Jew, Hated and loved him? Riddle that, my lord.

MALATESTA.

Rare old Genosthos Platon, whom I stored In yon stone tomb, might guess in vain for you Betwixt his dreams of Plato, but for me, Too brief is life to riddle love or hate. The face, the face,—what secrets shall it prate When I am dead, and babbling students claim In feebler days to know who set his name, Ensigns, and heraldry on yonder wall, With yours, my dame? Dost fear to tell me all?

ISOTTA.

Narrow the forehead; bushy eyebrows set O'er lizard lids, cross-burrowed; hair as jet; The nose rapacious, falcon-curved, morose; Cheeks wan, high-boned, o'er hollows; lips set close, Like each to each, large, pouting, to men's eyes Twin slaves of passion, apt for love or lies. They who shall read in gentler days that face Shall call you mad, and wonder at your race.

MALATESTA.

Dost think they tell my story? Lo, how sweet! The swallows flashing down the sunlit street; A thrush upon the window,—he at least Must hold me guileless as yon pale boy-priest. What more, fair mistress? How he seeks your eye!

ISOTTA.

'Neath this stern brow forgotten murders lie; The red lip-lines confess lust, scorn, and hate; Dark treacheries 'neath those sombre eye-caves wait. Ah, where, my lord, the scholar's studious pain, The zest for art, the Plato-puzzled brain, The high ambition for diviner thought, That joyed to see how well Alberti wrought?

MALATESTA.

The earthquake scars the mildly tended soil, And leaves behind no trace of man's slow toil; Lo, then, at last you find some alms of praise. Who sees a man full-faced must meet his gaze; This side face, mark you, lacks the quick eye's change. Unwatched, men see it. Ever is it strange To him who carries it. 'T is like, you say.

ISOTTA.

My good lord, so Matteo said to-day.

MALATESTA.

Now what a thing is custom! You can scan This face and call me good. See how a man May scourge through centuries with the whips of shame, And curse you with the thing that wins him fame.

ISOTTA.

Minutes are courtiers. The inflexible years To no man palter, know not loves nor fears.

MALATESTA.

Ah! none but you would dare in bitter speech

To front the Malatesta. Doth naught teach Your careless tongue to fear loose talk of me?

ISOTTA.

Yet so the meanest churl shall prate of you, When axe or spear sets free your soaring soul, And its wild flight hath won an earthly goal.

MALATESTA.

Small care have I what man or gossip say, When axe or spear-thrust come to close my day. And yet, and yet, Isotta, when my face Pales on some stricken field, and in my place Another wooes you,—what wilt say, my maid?

ISOTTA.

Much as the rest. The dead are oft betrayed.

MALATESTA

(aside).

Not by the dead. No other lips shall lay Love's bribe upon your cheek.

(Aloud).

Another day Fades in the West, behind yon crumbling tower! Give me my Plato. Pray, how stands the hour?

1883.

THE HUGUENOT

1686

DRY-LIPPED with terror, o'er the broken flints Stumbling I ran, my baby tightly held, And of a sudden, coming from the wood, Saw the low moon blood-dash the distant waves, Felt the wet grass-slope of the cliff, and heard The hungry clamor of the hidden sea, Nor dared to stir, but waited for the dawn, And prayed and wondered why the beast alone Some certain instinct guided in its flight; When, God be praised! I saw my Louis stand With slant hand o'er his brow, this wise, at gaze— Just a mere outline, none but I had seen, Set 'gainst the flitting white caps of the sea. Then I said softly, "Louis," and he turned, (I think that he would hear me were he dead). But as he quickly drew across the cliff I saw the sudden sadness of his face Grow through the lessening night, and ere I moved A strong arm caught me, while he cried in haste, "Why didst thou add new sorrow to my flight? Who hath betrayed it? Surely once again, When these dark days are over, I had come To fetch thee and my mother and the boy,

Where in free England we should find a home." "Home! Home!" I gasped. "Home! Mother!" for the words Choked me as with a man's grip on the throat. But he, hard breathing, held me fast and cried, "Speak quickly,—death is near!" (but yet his hand Put back my hair and soothed me). So I gasped, "As from our preaching in the wood we rode With Jacques the forester, as is his way, He fell to singing Clement Marot's psalm, For them God calleth to the axe or rack. I, liking not the omen, bade him cease; Then saw a-sudden, far above the hill A tongue of flame leap upward, heard a shot, And then another, till at last our Jacques, Bidding me wait, rode on. An hour ago, While yet the night was dark,—he came again, And thrust our little one within my arms, And sharply speaking, bade me urge my horse, And on the way told all."

"Told all,—told what?"
"The dear old house is burned, thy mother dead!"
"Dead, Marie?"

"Dead! one fierce pike-thrust, no more! She did not suffer, Louis!"

"But the babe?"

"Jacques found him near the dial, in the maze." "My God! there's blood upon his little hands!" "Ay! it is thought she had him in her arms,

(Thy mother's, Louis!) and it must have been She crawled, blood-spent, to hide the little man, And seeking somewhere help, fell down and died Beside the fountain."

"Oh, be quick! what more?" "This Jacques to me, as hitherward we spurred, For, as we came, a noise behind us grew, And, haply, I have only brought you death. 'T was but one man, we guessed; the rest, misled, Rode toward St. Malo, and Jacques leaving me—"

"Hush! listen!"
"Nay, I see the boat, my lord!"

"Be silent, Marie; kneel, here by the rock. Let come what may, no word." And so I knelt, And trembling saw the fiery glow of morn Shudder like some red judgment o'er the sea. This while my dear lord bent and kissed the babe, And then my cheek, my forehead, and my lips, Unsheathed his sword, and gazing inland stood, And slowly turned the ruffles from his wrist. But then my heart beat fiercely in my breast, For, on the sward between us and the verge, Leapt of a sudden from the pines a man, And paused a breath's time, for behind him dropped An awful cliff wall to a stepless shore, And steep the marge sloped to it, and before, Close at his breast, he saw my Louis' blade, Red like a viper's tongue, flash in the morn. Then said my sweet lord, speaking tender low, "Stir not, dear wife. It is the Duke, thank God!" So, looking up I saw that traitor face,

With eyes of eager seeking, right and left, Glance up the cliff, and then I heard a voice Unlike my Louis', hollow, hoarse, and changed. "Too late! They will not find thee. Quick, on guard! The crows shall get thee graveyard room. On guard!" Whereat the Duke turned short. No better blade: Thrice have I seen him, in our happier days, Disarm my Louis in the armory play. Whence, for a moment, as the rapiers met, Fear caught and held me, till I looked and saw My Louis' face grow passionless and calm, As one decreed by God to judge and slay. I crept apart, yet could not help but gaze, Because the thing was terrible to see. For my dear lord, his face unstirred and cold, Now touched him on the shoulder or the breast, Then in the chest an inch deep as he shrank,. Till, with each wound, the traitor, shrinking back, Felt the sloped margin crumble 'neath his feet, Then wildly thrust, whereon the rapiers coiled Like twin steel serpents, and the Duke's flew wide. "My God!" I cried, "Save! Save him!" but my lord In silence with his kerchief wiped his sword, And coldly cast the good lace o'er the cliff. Speechless, I saw the stiff knees giving way, The long grass breaking in the hands' hard clutch, Till on the brink—oh, that was terrible!— A face—a cry—just "Marie!" that was all! And then I heard my good lord sheathe his blade. Ah, truly, that was very long ago, And why, why would you have me tell the tale? Sometimes at evening, underneath our oaks, Here in our English home, I sit and think,

Stirred by the memory of a wild, white face. Here come the boys you praised. My Louis'? No! And this grave maid? These are my baby's babes! You did not think I am a grand-dame. Well—You're very good to say so.

1880

HOW LANCELOT CAME TO THE NUNNERY IN SEARCH OF THE QUEEN

THREE days on Gawain's tomb Sir Lancelot wept, Then drew about him baron, knight, and earl, And cried, "Alack, fair lords, too late we came, For now heaven hath its own, and woe is mine: But 'gainst the black knight Death may none avail. I will that ye no longer stay for me. In Arthur's realm I go to seek the Queen, Nor ever more in earthly lists shall ride." So, heeding none, seven days he westward rode, And at the sainted mid-hour of the night Was 'ware of voices, and above them all One that he knew, and trembled now to hear. Rose-hedged before him stood a nunnery's walls, With gates wide open unto foe or friend. Unquestioned to the cloister court he came, And in the moonlight, on the balcony, saw Beneath the arches nuns and ladies stand, And in their midst a cowled white face he loved, Whereat he cried aloud, "Lo, I am here! Lo, I am here!—I, Lancelot, am here! Would ye I came? I could not help but come." Spake then the Queen, low-voiced as one in pain:

"Oh, call him here, I pray you call him here." Then lit Sir Lancelot down, and climbed the stair, And doffed his helm, and stood before the Queen. But she that had great fear to see his face: "Oh, sinless sisters, ye that are so dear, Lo, this is he through whom great ills were wrought; For by our love, which we have loved too well,Is slain my lord and many noble knights.And therefore, wit ye well, Sir Lancelot, My soul's health waneth; yet through God's good grace I trust, when death is come, to sit with Christ, Because in heaven more sinful souls than I Are saints in heaven; and therefore, Lancelot, For all the love that ever bound our souls I do beseech thee hide again thy face. On God's behalf I bid thee straitly go, Because my life is as a summer spent; Yea, go, and keep thy realm from wrack and war, For, well as I have loved thee, Lancelot, My heart will no more serve to see thy face; Nay, not if thou shouldst know love in mine eyes. In good haste get thee to thy realm again, And heartily do I beseech thee pray That I may make amend of time mislived. And take to thee a wife, for age is long." "Ah no, sweet madam," said Sir Lancelot, "That know ye well I may not while I breathe; But as thou livest, I will live in prayer." "If thou wilt do so," said the Queen, "so be. Hold fast thy promise; yet full well I know The world will bid thee back."—" And yet," he cried, "When didst thou know me to a promise false?

Wherefore, my lady dame, sweet Guinevere, For all my earthly bliss hath been in thee, If thou wilt no more take of this world's joy, I too shall cease to know the bliss of life. I pray thee kiss me once, and nevermore." "Nay," said the Queen, "that shall I never do. No more of earthly lips shall I be kissed." Then like to one stung through with hurt of spears, Who stares, death-blinded, round the reeling lists, At gaze he stood, but saw no more the Queen; And as a man who gropes afoot in dreams, Deaf, dumb, and sightless, down the gallery stairs Stumbling he went, with hands outstretched for aid, And found his horse, and rode, till in a vale At evening, 'twixt two cliffs, came Bedevere, And with his woesome story stayed the knight. At this, Sir Lancelot's heart did almost break For sorrow, and aboard his arms he cast, And cried, "Alas! ah, who may trust this world!"

1886

THE HILL OF STONES:

A LEGEND OF FONTAINEBLEAU.

WE two, my guide and I, through dusty ways And formal avenues of well pruned trees, Went past the village and thy dark gray walls, Antique, deserted Fontainebleau; and still With talk of him the shade of whose despair Lies on thy courtyard yet, we loitering Strolled through the deeper wood, and found at last A barren space that crowned a hill's green slope, Where, lonely as a king, a single oak, Crippled in boisterous battle with the winds, And gay with leafy flattery of the spring, Seemed like an old man, cheated suddenly With some gay dream of childhood's tender hours. "Here let us rest," he said, and casting down His woodman's staff, set out upon the grass Twin flasks of Léoville and fair white loaves; There as at ease we lay, and ate and drank, My roving gaze in pleasant wanderings went Down the green hill, along the valley's range. The noonday sun hung half asleep in heaven, And in the drowsied wood no leaflet's stir Broke the still shadows slumbering on the ground.

Adown the hill, beside a brook that lay A silver thread, heat-wasted,—far below, Gaunt rocks in wild confusion tumbled lay, Thick strewn along the narrowing vale, and barred The distant thickets with their broken lines. High on the further hill, twin mount to ours, A single slab, time-worn, imperial, towered, And all around it cumbering the sod A time-worn host of barren rocks was cast Each upon each,—as after battle lie The dead upon the dead, to war no more,—Whilst over them the hot and curdled air Shook in uneasy whirls that broke the crests Of distant trees and hilltops far away. In musing wonder tranced I lay and gazed Down the cleft valley o'er the waste of stones,—The while my comrade, stretched upon the grass, Lay whistling cheerily his ballad gay Of good king Dagobert; or smiling told, With frequent urging, in his rough patois, Some broken bit of legendary lore, And at the last a story of these stones.

A thousand noisy years ago, 't is said, Along yon silent vale at eventide A bearded king, grown weary of the chase, Rode thoughtful home, but pausing here awhile, Said: "When life palls, and I no more can ride With lance in rest, or smite with gleaming blade, When sorrows sweeten the near cup of death, Then in this valley's quiet I will build A palace, where the wise and old shall come, And none shall talk of what has been, and all

Shall ponder, with clear vision looking on To that which is to be." Then pensive still He turned away, and westward rode again, Whilst after him an hundred barons came, And riding swiftly, starred at intervals The dark wood spaces with their robes of gold. Next morn at Fontainebleau the bearded king Held, 'neath the oaks, his court, when suddenly A young knight, breaking through the outer guard, Leapt featly from his jaded horse and cried, Like one whom some dream-wonder spurs to speech: "Good Sire, last night a lonely man I slept Upon the hill you love; and where at eve The bald brown summit lay a dreary waste, And where the sun of yesterday looked down On utter solitude, and sowed the ground With wild-eyed violets—O my liege, to-day There stands a castle fair with courts and towers And turrets tall and fretted pinnacles Upgrown by night, in one still summer night, As if fay-builded, and around it leap A thousand soaring fountains, and the air Reluctant from its bowered garden floats Sweet with strange odors. Underneath a porch Of leaf-carved masonry, I saw, my lord, As peering through the thicket's fence I gazed, The queen of women holding wondrous court Of maidens only just less fair than she." Then said the king: "The good knight's brain is crazed;

Or hath he dreamed? or do we live anew An age of magic?""Nay," the knight replied; "I dreamed it not;" and smiled his bearded lord, While merry laughter shook the mailed ring. "Give me, good Sire, to seek again the hill, And fill me with the beauty that doth glow In her deep eyes, and either I will bring This royal woman back again with me, Or if there be delusion in my words, The dream will break, and I ashamed shall come To this fair court no more." Then as the king In silence bent, he took his palfrey's rein, And downward gazing parted wide the crowd, And passed the yielding wood. Whereon the king: "The test is fair; 't is chivalrous and just That no man follow him;" and so with this He went alone, and was no more with men. Along the valley up the tufted sward By cold-eyed statues underneath an arch Of swaying fountains silently he went, And half dismayed the rosy hedges broke, And saw the lady and her maiden court. Then there was sweet confusion, and a maze Of white and shining arms in wonder raised, And low, quick, modest cries from girls who fled For shelter in the thickets, or took flight Behind their queenly mistress. She alone Towered, red and angry, one foot forward set. "O woman wonderful," he cried—and bent Before the tempest of her stormy eyes,— "Send me not forth alone for aye, to hold

Thy memory only like a dagger sharp To my sad heart; more sweet by far were death." "Go sir," she cried "what right hast thou in me? Mine only is my beauty." "Nay," he urged, "Save that God put them in the world with us, What right have we in yonder wide estate Of sun and sky and flower-haunted sod?" "No man on earth is peer of mine," she said,— And saying this her cold eyes fell on him. Her cold eyes fell on him; and deadly pale, Bereft of thought, as one who gropes along, He turned and went, while scornful laughter rang From briery thickets everywhere around, And chased his quick uncertain steps, that brake The garden paths, till on the lone hillside A sudden coldness lettered limb and trunk, And in his veins the liquid life grew still, While form and feature shrunk, and, half-way down On the drear mountain-side, a weight of stone The knight at evening lay, to love no more. Then quoth the waiting king as days went by: "He hath not as he promised brought us back The stately mistress of his fairy hall. Who is there here, of all my lords, will seek Yon magic palace, and with winsome wiles And all the pleasant archery of love, Fetch me this woman, captive of the heart?" "And I, and I, and I," an hundred said; And the sharp clangor of their shaken mail Rang through the forest ways, as up they leapt. So, one by one, as the cast die decreed, They laughing went, and were no more with men. But as the golden days of summer fled,

Thick-clustered stones upon the hillside marked Where slept the flower of all that kingly court, And heard no more the tread of dainty feet Hail footfalls round them, when the mellow tones Of music floating from the terraced lawns Struck echoes from their stony forms that lay To wait their brothers when the curse should fall. And so it chanced, that as the hillside grew Aghast with stony death, all living things Its deadly boundaries fled, and man and beast Turned from it ever with unquiet steps. Yet now and then, when from a distant steep The shepherd gazed, he saw some fated man Climb with quick strides the hill, and through the stones Depart from view; and looking then again, Or hours or days thereafter, scared he saw The same man, cold and palsied, issue forth And reel and die, and smite the summer grass With stony weight. And yet while men amazed Stared, wondering that God and this could be, The palace towers, ivy-curtained, stood Unmoved and stern, as if a century long Their breadth of shade, with each day's march, had crossed The garden moats, and seen the lily buds Unbosom tenderly to wild wind wooing Each wanton morning of a hundred Junes; Still ever through the silence of the night A thousand fountains trembled high in air; And not a breeze but rich as laden bee Sailed from the garden, heavy with the freight Of endless music, and the tender chime

Of cadenced voices, echoed high or low From porch and hall and windowed gallery.

Again came June to lordly Fontainebleau, And once again on field and woodland fell The lazy lull of noontide drowsiness, Where in cool caves of shadows slept the winds, Whilst warm and still the moveless forest lay. Therein betimes, at fitful intervals, The quiet mystery of this noonday trance, Distant and grave, a solemn anthem filled, And, soaring larkdike through the listening leaves That trembled with its sorrow, died away; But in its place a hymn rose, sweet and clear, Such as at evening, coming from the wells, With balanced water-jars upon their heads, The maidens sing. And thus from leafy shades A knight full-armed rode, singing as he went:—

In olden days did Christ decreeTwelve knightly hearts with him to be,And bade them wear no armor brightSave charity and conscience white.

And through all lands they went and came,Not covetous of earthly fame,And gave the alms of Christian cheerTo lowly serf and haughty peer.

For Christ they fought with word and prayer,For Christ they died,—oh, birthright fair!Sweet Mary Mother, grant to meThat I, like them, pure-hearted be.

Then, as the knight rode on through sun to shade, And sang how good deeds, mightier than kings,

Are as the holy accolade of God, And bid the poorest rise a knight of Christ, From branch and thicket came the birds, and sailed Around his silver casque, and carolling Awoke the sleeping breezes, till he rode With tossing plumes upon the open hill. There all day long in silence wrapt, the knight Knelt on the green turf gathering faith and strength; And all day long the same sweet retinue Of summer songsters circled round his head. When fell the night he rose, and, stern and calm, Unlaced his armor slowly, piece by piece, Laid down his helmet and his spurs of gold, Ungirt his sword, and cast its jewelled weight Beside his spear upon the burdened grass. Then all unarmed and weaponless, he strode Adown the hill, and sad and silent wound Its cumbering stones among, till by the brook Kneeling he crossed himself, and stayed no more, But through the night, white robed and tranquil, went, Passed in among the wood of founts that shook Their silvery leafage in the moonlight gray, Crossed with quick step the flower-beds, and passed Where gleaming statues sentinelled the path; Then, while the mirth rose wildest, and the sound Of merry music shook the stems he touched, He broke the rose-hedge, and untroubled stood Amidst the wonder of the magic court. Grave, glancing right and left, quoth he aloud: "The peace of God, which passeth other peace, Be on ye ever,"—and so trembling stood,

Dazed by the mystery of half-seen limbs And rosy secrets, chastened by the moon. Swift moving through her shrinking court, the queen, A head above them towering, flushed with wrath, Shook from white neck and arms the roses red That, ere he came, a hundred laughing girls Showered from quick hands, which on a sudden checked, Drooped with their flowery loads,—and "Sir," she cried: "Dost dream, as others have, to woo us home?" "Most near the holy love of God," he said, "Is such deep worship as a knightly heart Doth give in some one woman unto all; For whatsoever hath love's sweet disguise Should in the tender eye of woman win The gentle estimate of charity." "A priest," she cried,—and smote the ground and shook The lingering roses from her fallen hair; Upon the ground the good knight kneeling prayed: "God grant," he murmured, "all my heart be pure; Such love I give thee, woman, as thou hadst For yonder stones, my brothers, they who lie Awaiting God upon the mountain-side." "Enough," she cried; "go, fool, and share with them Their folly and their fate." And so on him Her cool-eyed anger fell, and still and chill In the white moonlight they too stood and gazed Each on the other, steady, eye to eye, And yet he went not, though through trunk and limb

The slow blood crept, and on his lip a prayer Died in the saying. "Thou shalt go," she cried; And, bending, garnered from the flowery fence A rosy handful. Then in haste cast back The snowy cloak that drifted from her neck, And crying once a shrill and gnarled phrase, Smote with the roses red his startled face. On brow and cheek the flying roses struck, And fell not down again, for suddenly Twin petals flashed to wings; and they who looked Saw bud and blossom turned to flitting birds, Which through the broken moonlight went and came, And sang sweet carols round the white-robed knight. This while the lady stood amazed and still And all her court of wonder-lettered maids Like silence kept for fear, till at the last The good knight, marvelling, put out his hand, And took the lady's finger-tips, and went With knightly courtesy and whispered prayer Along the garden paths. And as they passed, Behind their steps the wind-tossed grasses shrunk, The flowers drooped, the busy fountains ceased, And vase and statue, fading into mist, Went floating formless from the mountain-top. Still on they moved, she like a lily bent, And all her women slowly followed her. "Here pause," he said, and on the middle slope Her trembling maids fell moaning round their queen, A silver ring upon the dark green turf. "Behold, morn waketh," said the knight; "no more,

No more for you shall any morning wake; I charge you look along yon valley drear." Thereon she silent raised her head and gazed Adown the hillside thick with deathful stones, And felt in heart and vein the pulsing blood Stand still and curdle. So, the hand he held Stayed pointing down the valley, and he leapt Across the ring of cold and moveless forms, And walked in wonder down the mountain-side, And she and they stayed waiting on the hill, A tumbled heap of dreary rocks, that lay About the statue of their stony queen.

1858

THE CUP OF YOUTH

SCENE, A SEA BEACH NEAR RAVENNA. MOONLIGHT.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• GASPAR.
• GELOSA, his wife.
• UBERTO.
• EMILIA, his wife.
• GALILEO.
• ...

TIME, circa 1632

SCENE I. GASPAR and GELOSA. GELOSA playing with the sand.

GELOSA

(letting the sand fall slowly through her fingers).

See, Gaspar, how I hold the hours of love, Or bid the merry minutes flit away.

GASPAR.

Time should be captive in those pretty hands, With none to ransom him, had I my way. Yet must I break the spell and hustle in The rough world's business. Wherefore, little one, This long delay? You lacked not courage once.

GELOSA.

Still am I in the bondage of my youth; All my life long I feared that silent man Who came across the garden from the tower, Ate, slept, or to and fro athwart the grass Trod one same path with bended head and back, And shunned all company with this lower world.

She whose proud love and gold alike he spent, She who did love him as the worst are loved By those sad hearts who best know how to love, Got but few words and bitter; but for her:I had not cared to see his face again.

GASPAR.

Men say his silence guards such fateful power As makes yon stars the vassals of his will, Turns baser metals into golden coin, And wrings all secrets from the miser Time.

GELOSA.

And yet he knew not that one summer night A little maid—Gelosa was her name— Had stolen out beneath his starry slaves To learn the subtle alchemy of love That turns all fates to gold, nor lacks the power To prophesy the sweetness of to-morrow. Methinks he knew but little, knowing not What love will dare; or haply knew too much For all the gentler uses of the world When, like a landlord with too full an inn,He thrust out Love, that ever might have been The fairest guest his learning entertained.

GASPAR.

Nor I more welcome. I could laugh to think How patiently I took the beggar's "Nay" He cast in scorn. "What! wed a landless squire, Who spends in folly what he won in blood!—None but a scholar wins my niece's lands."

GELOSA.

My lands indeed; if certain tales be true, He married them these many years ago.

GASPAR.

Ay, and may keep them if he be but wise. Fair over Arno tower my castle walls, With vine-clad hillsides rolling to the plain. Nothing I owe you save your own sweet self. A scholar, I! Not troubled will you be By reason of my studies. I shall learn Love from your eyes; your lips shall be my law, And if their ripe decisions please me not, The fount of justice at its very source I shall know how to bribe. I brought you here Because you willed it,—ay, and save for that I care but little how this errand thrives.

GELOSA.

Kiss, kiss away the thoughts that trouble me; The lapsing days will bring some pleasant chance.

GASPAR.

Who trusts that multitude of counsellors Wins sad unrest.

GELOSA.

Oh, let my errand wait. How very silent is the sea to-night! The little waves climb.up the shore and lay Cool cheeks upon the ever-moving sands That follow swift their whispering retreat. I would I knew what things their busy tongues Confess to earth.

GASPAR.

Let me confess you, sweet! Tell me again you love me.

GELOSA.

Small my need.'T is in my eyes; 't is on my lips; my heart Beats to this music all the long day through. A bird am I that have one single note For song, for prayer, for thanks, for everything.

GASPAR.

You cannot know how passing sweet it is To change the camp, the field, the storms of war, For this and you; to watch the gray moon wane And see the slumbrous sea leap here and there To silver dreams.

GELOSA.

The hand of time seems stayed, And joy to own the ever constant hours, So full of still assurance is the night. Love hath the quiet certainty of heaven, Rich with the promise of unchanging years.

[Voices are heard near by.

GASPAR.

Hush, my Gelosa! Who be these that come?

Enter GALILEO and UBERTO, who sit down among the dunes close by.

GELOSA.

My uncle and his friend, the Florentine.

GASPAR.

Hark you, he speaks your name. He said, "Gelosa." He called you—was it Gelosetta, love? Why, I shall call you Gelosetta too.

GELOSA.

Distance and absence leave him this one friend, A scholar grave, and gentle as the gentlest.

GASPAR.

And that is Galileo! I recall One day in Florence walking with the Duke, A man most studious of his fellow-men, We saw this scholar wandering to and fro Intent of gaze where Giotto's campanile

Athwart the plaza casts its length of shade. The Duke had speech with him. A serious face, With eyes that seemed to search beyond the earth, Large, open, steady, like Luini's saints.

GELOSA.

More sweet than mine?

GASPAR.

I 'll tell you when 't is day.A mighty student of bright eyes am I;Now there I 'll match my science with the best.Those Florentines, who never want for wit To label love or hate, say he 's moon-mad, And hath for mistresses the starry host That wink at him by night.

GELOSA.

Not Solomon Had half so many. Yet for earthly love He lacks not time nor honest appetite; He never starved his heart to feed his head. Hush! now he speaks again. The time may serve To learn my uncle's mood.

GALILEO.

This niece of yours—

UBERTO.

Not ever greatly mine. The wayward child Grew to the wilful woman, ignorant, Untrained, and wild, a dreamer by the sea,— Nor hers the housewife's knowledge. I have lived Companionless of nobler intercourse,— As to a friend I speak,—my wife wrapped up In household cares and tendance of the poor, Death busy with my manhood's friends. I tread An ever lonelier road.

GALILEO.

So seem all ways To him who, yearning for too distant good, Sees not the sweetness of the common path. Life hath two hands for those who fitly live: With one it gives, with one it takes away; The willing palm still finds the touch of love, And he alone has lost the art to live Who cannot win new friends. Unwise are they Who scorn the large relationship of life. Yon restless sea, the sky, the bird, the flower, The laugh of folly, and the ways of men, The woman's smile, the hours of idleness, The court, the street, the busy market-place,— All that the skies can teach, the earth reveal,— Are wisdom's bread. Alas! the common world Hath lessons no philosophy can spare; The tree that ever spreads its leaves to heaven Casts equal anchors 'neath the soil below. With man it is as with the world he treads: No little stone of yonder pebbled beach Could cease to be, and this great rolling orb Feel not its loss. Enough of this to-night. Count me your gains a little. Years have gone Since last we met: what good things have they brought?

UBERTO.

To-morrow I will tell you all. To-night My mind is ill at ease; come, let us go, But, as my love is valued by your own, Speak not again of that unthankful child.

GALILEO.

And yet I loved her. Have it as you will.

[Exeunt GALILEO and UBERTO.

GELOSA.

O Gaspar, said I not that age was hard? Be but your youth as kind.

GASPAR.

Almost I thank The misery that doubly sweetens love. Strange seemed my life to him. To me, as strange This corner-pickled shrivel of a man, That all things dreaming never waked enough To win the sanity of open eyes. One day in Rimini, before a mirror, So near I stood, my breath the image blurred. Duke Francis, laughing, o'er my shoulder gazed; Said I was like some men he knew, and went, And would not read the riddle. Now 't is clear. The man that hath no mirror save himself Blurs the clear image conscience shows us all. Now for a schoolless, helmet-dinted head, The guess is not so bad.—What, tears again? Tears for this man who in your childhood scorned Its glad prerogatives of love and trust? A thoughtless falcon, bold and wild of wing, Like to my lover-self, had better kept God's pledge to childhood.

GELOSA.

Nay, no tears have I For him who cost me many. But for her, The simple, kindly dame who had no will That was not his,—I am more sad for her, Because she never learned the woman's art To traffic with her sadness. Yet had she A childless youth; the children of old age, Love, solace, cheerful days of quietness, Dead as the little ones she never knew.

Though sad at best the husbandry of years. Time in the happy face no furrow cuts That is not wholesome; but the loveless hours Of uncompanioned sorrow and neglect Make records sore with shame as are the scars A master's whip leaves on the beaten slave. Has life no answering scourge for them that sin?

GASPAR.

For less than this, ay, for a moment's wrong, I have seen men die young.

GELOSA.

Come, let us go. The night has lost its grace. These memories Serve but to stir dead hates. To bed,—to bed. Like his, my mind is very ill at ease; I would his hurt were equal to my own.

SCENE II. Garden of a villa near the sea and bordering on a road. Enter UBERTO, who walks to and fro. Night of the day after the last act.

UBERTO.

For gold, for lands, for any bribe of power The soldier wastes the substance of the poor, Sets ravage free and spills the innocent blood, Yet sleeps as soundly. Shall I hesitate, Checked by the memory of an outworn love, A thoughtless woman and a foolish girl? My friend—but he has won the laurel crown. Dim continents of thought before me lie; Their harvests wait the vigor of the scythe, While in my heart the tardy blood of age Unequal throbs. The mind, as tremulous As these thin hands, has lost its certain grasp;

Pass, ye weak phantasies that bar my way,— Children of habit,—I will do this thing!

Enter EMILIA.

EMILIA.

(aside).

Now help me, Mary Mother, in my need. Perhaps some memory of our joyous youth—

UBERTO.

What, not abed?

EMILIA.

I cannot sleep of late. As if life were not long enough, the days Live through the night, and mock with time's excess.

UBERTO.

Why vex my soul with that of which each hour Tells the sad tale?

EMILIA.

Let us forget, Uberto! Just half a century gone, when you and I, Just fifty years ago this very night, Walked 'neath the flowering locust, how I blessed The kindly shade that hid my blushing cheek. Not redder was the moon that night of May.

UBERTO.

Still shall it mock the cheek of other loves When you and I are dead. Oh, cruel time! You lost the plaything of a pretty face:— What was your loss to mine? What comfort lies In useless babble o'er a squandered past? Lo, when the eager spirit, worn with toil, Has gathered knowledge, won its lordliest growth, This robber comes to plunder memory

And lash with needless anguish to the grave. We scorn the miser who in death laments The gold he cannot carry; let us jest At him whose usury of knowledge stops.

EMILIA.

How know you that it doth? To me it seems As if no office of our mortal frame Has more the signet of immortal use Than just this common gift of memory. Forgive the thoughts that come I know not whence,— I think our Galileo said it once,— The ghosts that haunt the peaceful hours of night Are not more unaccountable of man Than the dead thoughts of life that, at a touch, A taste, an odor, rise, we know not whence, To scare us with the unforgotten past. Your knowledge is not like the miser's gold, For this world's usage only. Yet, perchance, 'T is like in this, that what it was on earth, Self-ful, or helpful of another's pain, May set what interest on that gathered hoard The soul falls heir to in a world to come.

UBERTO.

Alas, were I but sure that after deathI still should carry all life's nobler seed To ripen largely under other skies, I should not mourn at death.

EMILIA.

Why is it, friend, That I, for whom this life so little holds, Should in its cup of emptied sweetness find The pearl content, and with calm vision see

The stir of angel wings 'neath death's black cloak? And life, ah, life might still be sweet to me! O husband, had you been as some have been, We might have lived a length of tranquil days, With love slow moving through its autumn-time To merge in loving friendship, and at last To find the cloistered peace of patient age, Tranquil and passionless, and so have walked Like little children through life's wintry ways To meet what fate the kindly years decreed.

UBERTO.

Alas, the best is ever to be won! There is no rose but might have been more red, There is no fruit might not have been more sweet, There is no sight so clear but sadly serves To set the far horizon farther still.

[Voices are heard on the road back of them.

EMILIA

(aside).

Heart of my hearts! It is the little one! My Gelosetta! Will he know the voice?

GELOSA

(on the road as she goes by with GASPAR).

Can the rosebud ever knowHalf how red the rose will grow?Can the May-day ever guessHalf the summer's loveliness?

UBERTO.

What voice is that?

EMILIA.

Some wandering village girl.

UBERTO.

No, 't was Gelosa's.

EMILIA.

Would indeed it were! Ah, that were joy! Alas, 't is but the girl I helped last winter, one the plague cast out With other Florentines.

(Aside.)

Would I could see!

UBERTO.

Come back again to drain our meagre purse Ay, there's the man,—a woman and a man.

A man's voice sings.

'T is better to guess than to see,'T is better to dream than to be.The best of life's lovingIs lost in the proving,'T is better to dream than to be.The joy of love's sweetnessIs lost with completeness,'T is better to dream than to be.

EMILIA.

A pair of lovers! She has found her mate.

UBERTO.

Already doth your cynic lover sing The death and funeral of love and trust. Thrice happy these with wingless instincts born. Perhaps is best the woman's ordered life, Market and house, the husband and the child.

EMILIA.

Mother of God! and I that have no child!

UBERTO.

St. Margaret! but you women-folk are tender.

Behind a hedge GASPAR and GELOSA, while UBERTO continues.

Forget my haste, Emilia; all my mind Dwells on the nearness of one fateful hour.

EMILIA.

Again the dream that through these weary years Has turned your life from God, and home, and me,— To win for you that doubtful cup of youth. Think yet, Uberto, on the thing you do; It cannot be that I, grown drear and old, The very death-tide oozing round my feet, Shall see you glad and young. It cannot be Earth holds for me that agonizing hour.

[UBERTO remains silent.

GASPAR

(to GELOSA apart).

No answer hath he. Now speak you to him. It seems the wise man hath no wiser dreams Than fools are heir to.

GELOSA.

Heard you all he said?

GASPAR.

Ay, all I cared to hear. Come, let us go. Seek you his wife alone. Forget this fool.

GELOSA.

Didst hear, my Gaspar? Can it be he owns A cup which, drained, shall fetch his youth again? Men say the thing has been in other days. To leave her old and withered were to add A crime, unthought of yet, to sin's dark list.

GASPAR.

Less base it were to stab her where she stands.

[Exit EMILIA silently.

GELOSA.

Hush! she has left him,—left him. Were I she, I would crawl out at midnight to his tower. Deep would I drain the damnèd cup of life, And wander back a maiden fair and young,

To curse his age with jealous misery. Or I would kill him as he lay asleep, And keep him old forever,—that would I.

GASPAR.

Now here's a wicked lady. Should I chance To fall in love with larger length of days, I shall be very careful of my diet. Comes now the Florentine. The play were good, Were you not in the plot. They say in Florence The Pope will have it that this man of stars Shall spread no gossip as to worlds that roll, Nor play at Joshua with the Emperor Sun. To be so wise that all the world's a fool Might breed uneasy life.

GELOSA.

Perhaps; and yet,— You know we little women will have thoughts,— I was but thinking that for one to own A soul for actions great beyond compare, A mind for thoughts that have the native flight Of eaglets rising from the parent nest, To soar so high they cast no earthward shade, Might bring a very childhood of content.

GASPAR.

There 's ever music in your Umbrian heart That lived where Dante died. Yet vain the thought; For me the world may skip, or stop, or turn Back-somersaults as likes the blessed Pope. Where got you, love, these riddles of the brain, These comments on a world you never knew?

GELOSA.

A certain soldier taught me. Ah, you smile!

To greatly love is to be greatly wise. God were less wise were He not also love. Ah, there's a riddle only love can read!

Enter GALILEO. To UBERTO, still seated.

GALILEO.

Far have I sought you through the ilex grove, Among Emilia's roses, in your tower.

UBERTO.

My tower—you saw—

GALILEO.

Saw nothing.

(Aside.)

He distrusts me.

UBERTO.

Forgive me. You shall see, shall hear, tonight.

GALILEO.

Those many years that I, a jocund lad, To you, my elder, turned for counsel, help, Came back to me to-day. You were more kind Than brothers are. Ah, happy, studious hours! What was the Pope to me, or I to him? A cardinal was as the farthest star, Outside the orbit of my hopes and fears. I came to you to share some idle days, To get again within your life of thought, To question and be questioned.

UBERTO.

Wherefore not?

GALILEO.

A messenger who followed me with haste Bids me to Rome to answer as I may. My sin you know.

UBERTO.

What answer can you make?

GALILEO.

Alas, it moves! This ever-patient globe Moves, with the Pope and me; would move without. Could I but summon God to answer them! If He has whispered in my listening ear This secret, guarded since the morn of time, How shall I say I know not it nor Him? A man may love or not, rejoice or not, May hate or not, but what he thinks is sped In word-winged arrows of eternal flight.

UBERTO.

And you, the archer, you who loosed the string, What harm if you should say this was not yours?—This troubling doctrine long ago was born; Sages in Egypt knew it. Or, at need, Say that the world is stiller than a snail. Say what you will, but live to draw anew That bow of thought which you alone can draw.

GALILEO.

Death is more wise than any wisest thought The living man can think; death is more great Than any life; and as for that stern hour I meet in Rome next week, I know not now How I shall judge my judge.

UBERTO.

The fate I fear, I fear for you, but would not for myself. Ay, at this hour would I change lives with you; For come what may, chains, prison, rack, or axe, You will have lived so largely that no fate Can pain your age with sense of unfulfilment. But I have all things willed, yet nothing done.

GALILEO.

I cannot think your solitary years Have won us nothing, as you seem to say. My hours are few and I go hence to-morrow Perhaps no more to hear a friendly voice, Or guess the starry secrets of the night.

UBERTO.

Be patient with me. Many a year ago, At twilight walking by the darkened sea, The sudden glory of a broadening thought Smote me with light as if through doors cast wide To one in darkness prisoned. Then I saw Dimly, as if at dusk, vast open space Of things long guessed, but waiting fuller light. What could I but despair? The hand and brain No longer did my errands. There was set A task for youth and vigor. Steadily I gave my age to win the gift of youth, That youth might help my quest. That charm I sought Which vexed the soul of old philosophy. I won it, friend! To-night I drain this cup. Like autumn leaves the withered years shall fall, And sudden spring be mine. With wisdom clad, With knowledge, not of youth, assured of time, I shall speed swiftly to my certain goal. The midnight calls my steps to yonder tower, Where youth, the bride, awaits my joy's delay. You have my secret. Oh, my God, if youth, This second youth, should mock me like the first, And bring no larger gain!

GALILEO.

In this wild search Great minds have perished. Where you think to win,—

In this the masters failed. Their wasted thoughts Are in huge volumes scattered. It may be. The strange is only what has never been, And every century gives the last the lie. But if 't is so, there's that within your cup Might stay the wiser hand. Ay, if 't is so!

UBERTO.

If? if 't is so? It is! Not vain the work That filled these longing years. For no base end These wasting vigils and these anxious days. The gains I win shall lessen human pain. One re-created life to man shall bring Uncounted centuries in the gathering sum.

GALILEO.

I too am of that sacred guild whose creed, Before Christ died or Luke the healer lived, Taught temperance, honor, chastity, and love. I neither doubt the harvest nor the power To reap its glorious fruit. And yet—and yet— If the strong river of your flowing life You shall turn back to be again the brook, Is 't natural to think 't will float great ships, Or with its lessened vigor turn the wheel? Enough of me. I go to meet my fate. Would I could stay!

UBERTO.

Ah! when in Pisa's dome You watched the lamp swing constant in its arc, You gave to man another punctual slave, And bade it time for us the throbbing pulse; Joyful I guessed the gain for art and life. Not that frail English boy Fabricius taught, Not sad Servetus, nor that daring soul,

Our brave Vesalius, e're had matched your power To read the riddles of this mortal frame. And then you left us. Would our strange machine Had kept your toil, and cheated yon fair stars!

GALILEO.

We do but what we must. Some instinct guides.To-night when all the morrow world seems dim And life itself a thing of numbered hours, With clearing vision still for you I doubt. Life hath its despot laws. You more than I Know all their tyrant rigor. Tempt it not, Lest failure, anguish, lurk within the cup. Think sanely of this venture; let it pass. Fill full, God helping, all the time He leaves. Set 'gainst the darkness of death's nearing hour In wholesome light all human action shines. This dream is childlike; you will wake to tears. Ask of your life if you have life deserved. What did you with the gift? You had of it All that another hath, or long or short. Not time, but action, is the clock of man. I should go happier hence if I could set Your fatal cup aside. Nay, sorrow not; Thank God for me. I have not vainly lived. Truth have I served, and God, in serving her: That heritage is deathless as Himself. Something the thinker of the poet hath; Our Dante was no mean philosopher: With prophet eyes I see a freer day, When thought shall mock at Kaiser and at Pope. How can they think to chain the viewless mind, Which is the very life within the life,

And in the irresponsible hours of sleep Brings thought unto fruition? Yea, ethereal! Of all God's mysteries most near to Him; Instinctively creative, like the woman, Pledged by conception's joy to labor's toil. Grieve not for me. All that is best shall live. There is no rack for thought; no axe, no block, Can silence that.

UBERTO.

But what, dear friend, if I Should bid you laugh at pope or cardinal? Take you this cup of mine. Take this and live. In youth's disguise lie safely, freedom, life.

GALILEO

(aside).

Not stranger in its orbit moves my world Than man, its habitant. Why, here is one Could squander years and cheat a woman's love, Yet turn to offer this. Not I, indeed!

(Aloud.)

Life has been very dear to me, Uberto, For that it has and that it has not been. How many in their tender multitude The cobweb ties of friendship, labor, love, I knew not till this cruel storm of fate Did thread them thick with jewels numberless. And yet life owns no bribe would bid me back To live it o'er anew. I can but thank you.

UBERTO.

Is it only they who have no life of worth Would live it o'er again?

GALILEO.

That is not all. Vainly and long would we have talked of it In other days. No life is what it seems.

If thought were man's whole company in life, Who would not live it o'er? But from our side Friends, comrades, fall and torture us with loss. Who is there born would will to live again Such anguish as the happiest have known? This is the heart's half only; more there is. But the night wastes.

[Rises.

UBERTO.

To-morrow you go hence? Write me from Rome. Before the day is spent I shall have won or lost. Good-night, good friend.

[Exeunt both.

GASPAR.

These learned folks are not more gay to hear Than Lenten priests. I gave their riddles up This half-hour since. And you?

GELOSA.

I heard it all.Love, friendship, reason, all alike are vain.

GASPAR.

Had I a moment in his secret den, That draught of his should give eternal life To weeds that rot around the moat below.

[GELOSA whispers.

The jest were good. Is there no peril in it?

GELOSA.

None, Gaspar. Wait for me beside the gate.Quick, ere the chance be lost! 'T is past eleven. Oh, he will like my jest. Come, this way, come!

SCENE III. Stairway of the tower, where EMILIA sits weeping at the door of the astrologer's laboratory, a small lamp beside her.

EMILIA.

Though he should kill me, I will wait for him. To die were easy, if to die would stay His hand from wrong. Alas! too sure it is, Alive or dead, I nothing am to him. Who is it comes? Say, is it you, Uberto?

GELOSA comes up the stairs.

GELOSA.

Oh, mother, it is I, your little one! Friends, husband, wealth, all that life hath to give, Are mine to-day. Come to my Tuscan home. The flowers you love watch for you on the hills. My children shall be yours. My good lord waits Our coming at the gate. Leave, leave this man.

EMILIA.

I cannot, child.

GELOSA.

Then will I talk with him. For this we came from Florence. Once again, I would be sure his will is as of old. Beside the tower my good lord waits for me.

EMILIA.

Vain is your errand, child.

GELOSA.

Yet must I try;

(Aside)

The equal years give me at last my turn.

(Aloud.)

Is the door barred?

EMILIA.

Nay, but I dare not enter.

GELOSA.

Not long the thing you fear shall vex your soul. Come with me. Spill the cursèd cup, or wreck With wholesome fire this chamber of your fear.

EMILIA.

Who has betrayed his secrets?

GELOSA.

He himself. Hid by the ilex hedge I heard it all. Wept with you, for you; heard your tender plea. Of other make am I. Give me your ring. You used to say I had your sister's voice, Twin to your own.

EMILIA.

What would you say to him? What do to him? You cannot mean him ill.

GELOSA.

Not I, indeed. Hark! there 's a voice without. Trust me a little. Quick! the ring, the ring! No other hope is left. Give me the ring!

EMILIA.

You will not harm him? I shall have it back? He gave it me the day we were betrothed.

GELOSA.

A goodly half of this world's misery Is born of woman's patience. Could you live From that to this?

EMILIA.

What can a woman else?

GELOSA.

What else? Naught now. The ring, and have no fear!

[Takes her hand and removes the emerald ring which is yielded reluctantly.

Alas, poor withered hand! how dear thou art, And sweet with use of bounty! Quick, the lamp: And wait for me upon the upper stair.

[Urges her hastily.

EMILIA.

Nay, tell me more. I am afraid, Gelosa.

GELOSA.

Of me who love you? There, a kiss; good-by. And stir not, if you love or him or me.

[GELOSA opens the door, and with the lamp in her hand enters the room. EMILIA ascends the upper staircase.

There may be too much sweetness in a woman. A little soured on the shadowed side My Tuscan peaches are. Now what a den! A winter wealth of kindling in old books. Bones, and a skull gay vipers, slimy things, A crocodile that hath an evil eye.

[Crosses herself.

And dust, ye Saints! but here 's a long day's work.

[Lifts a belt glass from a small Venice goblet containing a transparent fluid.

Around the rim twin serpents writhe in coils.

[Reads the inscription below them.

Ex morte vitam. Life is child of death. Is this in truth the draught shall make man young? Now should I drink, it were a merry jest To find myself a baby tumbling round, Athirst for mother's milk. Not I, indeed.

[Empties cup of the floor, and refills it with water. Blows out the light and veils herself.

The moon is quite enough. Will he be long? Now, kindly uncle, for this pretty play.

[She conceals herself in a corner. Enter UBERTO.

UBERTO.

At last, 't is near. The stairs my constant feet Have worn with many steps more toilsome grow. The hounds of time are on their panting prey; I wait no longer. No man owns to-morrow. To-morrow is the fool's to-day. Ah, soon I shall go gaily tripping down the hill, Glad as a springtide swallow on the wing, A man new born.—Nay, this is like to death. Why should I falter here? We both are old. Soon in the common way our steps would part. And to be young; to feel the sinews strong, Eye, ear, and motion quick, the brain all life,— The visions of my manhood round me whirl, White limbs, red lips, and love's delirious dream, The passion kiss of wine, the idle hours Unmissed from youth's abounding heritage. Off, off, ye brutal years that gnaw our age! Come, joy! come, life!—life at the full of flood!

[Pauses.

Birth is not ours. We are, and that is all. Death is not ours. We die, and that is all. This stranger birth that waits upon my will, Ay, this is mine alone. The herd of men Are born and die. One sole ignoble lot Awaits them all. This none can share with me. Auspicious planets shine upon the hour.

[Takes the hour-glass.

Swift waste the sands. So much of age is left. Uncounted memories of things long lost Leap to my view, as if to one who stands Beside the waif-thronged surges of the deep, And sees its dead roll passive to his feet, Its pearls, its weeds, its wrecks. So let it end.

[Fills up the glass with wine.

Nor fear, nor friend, nor love shall hinder me.

[Drinks.

Will it be swift? or will the change be like The wonder work of spring?

[Lights a small lamp, and examnines his face in a mirror.

A ghastly face! Is this the earthquake agony of change?

GELOSA, still veiled, advances.

GELOSA.

Chage that will never come. You that would cheatA life-worn love of company to death, Take the stern answer of a tortured soul. You drained my cup of life, and cast aside The poor mean vessel. I, Emilia, stole Your cup of life. Mine is the youth you craved, Mine the gay dream of girlhood's rosy joy, Mine once again the wooing lips you kissed When you and I were young. Ah, sweet is youth! Go, thieving dotard, to a loveless grave!

[UBERTO staggers forward, with the lamp in his hand.

UBERTO.

My wife, Emilia? No, not my Emilia.

GELOSA.

Nay, touch me not! And is your memory dead? Why, even I some dim remembrance keep. Take back this ring, this pledge of endless love.

[UBERTO receives it.

UBERTO.

Her ring—your ring—Emilia!—Lost, lost, lost! Life, honor, fame, and youth. Emilia, wife, Speak kindlier to me. Speak, oh, speak again! Your voice is like an echo from the past.— What devil taught you this?

[Advances.

GELOSA.

Off, off, old man! What has a girl to do with palsied age?I 'll be a daughter to your feebleness,And fetch your crutch, and set you in the sun, And get me lovers kin to me in years.

UBERTO.

Black Satan take your kindness! Yet have I The strength to kill you! You shall die for this!

[Seizes her.

GELOSA.

What?—feeble fool!

[Pushes him away; he falls and remains on the floor.

UBERTO.

This is not my Emilia. Help, help, without there! Help!

GELOSA.

Come in,—come in! Well have I paid a fool with folly's coin.

EMILIA enters and runs to lift her husband.

EMILIA.

Ill have you done, and cruel I have been. Oh, you have slain my love!

GELOSA.

Not I, in truth.

UBERTO.

Out, lying baggage! Now I know you well.

GELOSA.

Come you with me, dear mother of my love.Leave we this base old man. My husband waits.

EMILIA.

Get hence! I never loved you. He knew best. Pray God I see no more the wicked face That cheated him and me. Begone, I say!

[Exit GELOSA.

1888

MY LADY OF THE ROSES

AT Venice, while the twilight hour Yet lit a gray-walled garden space, I saw a woman fair of face Pass, as in thought, from flower to flower. The roses, haply, something said, For here and there she bent her head, Till, startled from their hidden nest In the covert of her breast, Blushes rose, like fluttered birds, At those naughty rosy words.One need not wise as Portia be To guess love held her heart in fee. Prudently a matron rose For her confidence she chose: Whispering, she took its breath, And, for what its fragrance saith, Smiling knelt, and kissed it twice; Caught it, held it, kissed it thrice. Ah! her kiss the rose had killed; Wrecked, in tender disarray On the ground its petals lay, All its autumn fate fulfilled. Swiftly from her paling face Fell the rosy flush apace.

Had her kiss recalled a bliss Life for evermore should miss? Had there been a fatal hour When false lips had hurt the flower Of love, and now its sad estate She saw in that dead rose's fate? Who may know? A little while She lingered with a doubtful smile; Took then a younger rose, whose slips The garden knew, and with her lips Its color matched. What gracious words It said might know the garden birds,— Something, perchance, that liked her well; But roses kiss, and never tell.

What confession, what dear boon, Heard that ruddy priest of June? Was it a mad gypsy-rose Fortunes eager to disclose, Gravely whispering predictions Rich with love's unending fictions, Saying nonsense good to hear, Like a pleasant-mannered seer? Gypsy palms are crossed with gold, But my lady, gaily bold, In the antique coin of kisses Paid for prophecy of blisses; And, to make assurance sure, This conspirator demure Murmured, in a pretty way, What her prophet ought to say. Low she laughed, and then was gone; My pleasant little play was done.

Alone I sit and muse. Below, Black gondolas glide to and fro, Like shadows that have stolen away From centuried arch and palace gray. Then, as if out of memory brought, The sequel of my garden masque Comes silently, by fancy wrought,— A gift I had not cared to ask.

Lo! where the terraced marble ends, Barred by the sweetbrier's scented bound, The lady of my dream descends, And day by day the garden ground Her footsteps know; with lingering gait, She wanders early, wanders late, Or, sadly patient, on the lawn Each day renews her gentle trust, When, from the busy highway drawn, Float high its curves of sunlit dust. The children of her garden greet With counsel innocent and sweet The coming of her constant feet. She whispers, and their low replies Bring gladness to her lips and eyes;She will no other company; For her the flowers have come to be All of life's dim reality. Purple pansies, gold embossed, That in love had once been crossed, Murmur, We have loved and lost; And the cool blue violets Sigh, We wait for life's regrets. Thistles gray, beyond the fence,

Mutter prickly common-sense; While the lilies, pale and bent, Say, We too sinned, are penitent; Only that can bring content. Red generations of the rose Unheeded passed to death's repose; The peach upon the crumbling wall, With springtide bloom and autumn fall, No proverb had to foster fear, No time-worn wisdom brought her near. The willows o'er two noisy brooks, In marriage come to sober mood, Were but green slips, that eve of May; Now, underneath their shade she looks, And smiling says, "Time must be rude, To keep him thus so many a day." They tell her he is dead! "Ah! nay," She answers; "he but rode away, And he will come again in May. And I can wait," she says, and stands With roses in her thin white hands. Childlike, with innocent replies, She meets the world. Wide open lies Her book of life; Time turns the leaves, Like each to each, because she grieves Nor less nor more, save when in fear, On one dark eve of all the year, Dismayed lest love's divine distress Be dulled by time's forgetfulness.

Venice, June 1891

HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING

ONCE in a garden space, Saädi saith, I came upon a tower, where within There lay a king imprisoned until death Should set him free; and thinking deep of sin, And those who took its madness to and fro Below the dead hope of these prison bars, I saw the thoughtless stream of pleasure flow Till evening, and the sad reproachful stars Loosed a great sorrow on me for this king To whom in other days I joyed to sing. Himself had trained himself to noble use Of that great instrument, a man; abuse Of power he knew not; never one So served victorious virtue. Then there came Defeat and ruin. Now no more the sun Shall see again his face who reckoned fame As but an accident of righteous deeds. Thus evening found me thinking how exceeds Man's strangest dream, what Allah wills for him, Till through the shadows of the twilight dim I heard the gray muezzin call to prayer. Upon the sands I knelt alone, and there Entreated Allah till the middle hour.

Among the palms that were around the tower Came, as if pitiful, the nightingale, And sang and sang as if 't were sin to fail; Whilst I who loved this great soul come to naught Stayed wondering if any solace brought The happy song that knows not pain of thought. But then I heard above me, clear and strong, The king's voice rising gather force of song, Till from the prison wall its tameless power Triumphant rang, as in some doubtful hour Of angry battle or when from retreat It called again the shame of flying feet. Now like a war drum rolling far away Its stormy rhythms died. No voice may say Its after-sweetness, for, as drops a bird That high in air hath on a sudden heard Its little ones below, and surely guessed The lonely sadness of the yearning nest, Fell earthward pitiful the singer's verse, Cradled the many griefs of man, the curse Of pain, of sin, and in its soothing rhyme Rocked into peace these petty woes of time, Till I, who would have given a caliph's gold For consolation, was myself consoled. Musing, I said, "Lo! I will be this king, Because a poet can be anything, And may inhabit for a wilful hour A maiden heart, or haunt a dewy flower, Or be the murdered, or the murderer's hate." I called to mind all knowledge, small or great, Men had of him who sang, when his estate Knew power and its danger. How he ruled A wayward race I knew; how sternly schooled

His gentleness to give large justice sway; How helped the kindly arts of peace, and gay, And masterful of all that makes life sweet, The jewel love set in this crown complete. These, and much other gathered up from thought, I took—and lo, how strange! A moment brought The whole to oneness, as when on a glass The sun-rays fall, and bent together pass, And glowing, flash a point of burning light; So, for a time I was the king that night.

A king was I,—a king of Allah's birth, In one brief hour I lived long years of earth. I broke the robber tribes who vexed with wrong My peaceful folk. Yea, as the simoon strong That hurls the sands of death, in will and deed A king I rode. Then saw my people bleed My state fall from me, and a brutal fate Wreck law and justice; with a tranquil face Beheld die out of life its joy and grace, And quick death busy with whate'er I loved— All these I saw, but with a heart unmoved, And marvelled at myself, as in a dream A man hath wonder when his visions seem Fitting and true to sense. And so erelong, Considering what fault had let the wrong O'ercome the right, I lost myself in song.

Am I the potter? Am I the clay? Allah, Thou knowest! Soft and gray Fall the curling shreds away. Lo, the noiseless feet of years

Swift the rhythmic treadle ply; Hath the potter doubts and fears? Is the clay kept soft with tears? Still the busy wheel doth fly. He is the potter, I am the clay; Swiftly drop the ribands gray, Flower and vine leaf silently grow, Strong and gracious the vase doth show, Firm and large,—the cup of a king. Hither and thither wandering The potter's fingers deftly smooth Tangled tracery, and groove Emblems, texts, the rose of love. Suddenly his fingers slip, Cracks the ever-thinning lip. Was it the potter? Was it the clay? Allah! Allah! who can say? And the king I was that night Smiled, to see the potter's plight.

I am the potter, I am the clay, Spinning fall the earth-threads gray, Deftly molded, strong and tall Grows the vase, and over all Bud and roses, vine and grape, Twine around its comely shape. Was it potter? Was it clay? Did the potter's hand betray Indecision? Who can say? At his feet the fragments roll; Lo, beside the wheel he stands Wondering, with idle hands.

Let him gather up his soul And make the clay a poor man's bowl!

Thus said the quiet king I was that night, And o'er me grew the life of morning light, While from the constant minaret above, As drops a feather from the angel love, Fell the first call to prayer, and overhead A strong voice from the prison tower said, "Allah il Allah! God is ever great. Time is his prophet for the souls who wait."

1890.

THE VIOLIN

TIME, 1750
THE TYROL

SCENE, A hilltop with a wayside cross.

JOHAN.

Sing sweet, sing sweet, my violin, sing; Sing all thy best,—sing sweet, sing sweet; Gay welcomes fling more swift to bring The cadence of her loitering feet. Ring strong along thy bounding wires A song shall throng with youth's desires. Let the yearning joy-notes linger 'Neath the coy, caressing finger, Till the swift bow, flitting over, Dainty as a doubtful lover, Slyly, shyly, kisses dreaming, Falters o'er the trembling strings, And the love-tones, slower streaming, Fade to fitful murmurings.

Another year! Ah, fate is hard! Another year! My hands are scarred With rugged toil. The tender skill With which they wrought my music's will Fails as the days go by; and yet

No term to misery is set. Thou gentle conjurer of sound, The one fast friend my life has found, Vain all thy art; though I can wing The love-larks from each leaping string, And heavenward send them carolling; Bend at my will the soul in prayer, Bid man or maid my sorrow share; Can stir the ferns upon the rock, And anguish all the air with pain; Or, velvet-voiced, delight to mock The fairy footfalls of the rain. It helps me not, though I have force To thrill the forest with remorse, Or torture sound till every air Dark murder hisses, and despair; And, 'mid the harmonies that flow, Strange discords riot 'neath the bow, Like 'wildered fiends astray in heaven,— Alas, alas, why was it given, This useless power? My wasted art Serves but to wring a peasant's heart.

ELSA.

My Johan, have you waited long? I heard your viol's happy song; I heard it call, "Come quick, come fast!" As o'er the stepping-stones I passed. I heard it calling, "Sweet, come fleet!" As up I came among the wheat. The birds o'erhead called, "Soon,—come soon! I think they know its pretty tune. What, sad again, and ever sad?

Play, Johan, play! 'T is eventide; The bells ring out the story glad How came her joy to Mary's side.

JOHAN.

I cannot. Better had I stayed In yonder convent's tranquil shade, At hopeless peace. They meant it well Who bade me be a priest. The cell, The fast, dead prayers, a palsied life, I fought or bent to, till the strife O'ermastered patience. None too late I fled beyond their cursèd gate And free was I as birds are free To fly, and yet at liberty, Like them, to quench no single note That trembles in the eager throat. What slavery sweet to feel within The song which not to sing is sin! If He at whose divine decree These hands interpret Him can be So careless of the gift He gave, What has He left me but the grave? I plough, I dig; far through the years I see myself the slave of tears,— I, that have dreamed of love and fame, A village boor, without a name. Last week the young duke opened wide, To please the poor, his garden's pride. There, wandering, I saw withal The nectarines rotting on the wall, The tumbling grapes caught up with thread, The dead-ripe figs hung overhead,

The fattening peaches swung in nets. What woman's starving baby gets One half the care that saves these pets? Sharp, sharp the lesson. Break, sad heart, Or learn to know the poor man's art,— The art to bear with patience meek The blow upon the other cheek. How shall I bear it? I could steal, Cheat, for this chance. You only feel, And you alone, how hard the toil That bends me o'er the silent soil, And you alone what wild desires Await a larger life; what fires Of wordless anguish burn unguessed, To think,—be sure,—that unexpressed,— A serf, a boor,— my soul has here A gift the waiting world holds dear. Old violin, comrade of the hours That labor spares, what music-flowers, What whispers wild, what visions bright, Thy friendship brings the tired night! And yet, like one who, sick with sin, Would murder love he cannot win, Twice on the bridge, at night, I stood, To cast thee in the wrecking flood. But when a last farewell I sung Too stern a pang my bosom wrung; I could not drown the dreams that crave Expression's life. Best were the grave.

ELSA.

Yet that were sin! Could I but give My life to help your art to live!

The Alp-horn calls; I cannot stay. One kiss. Ah, Johan, wait and pray.

[She sees a purse in the road.

A purse!

JOHAN.

I pray it be not thin.

ELSA.

Nay, touch it not. It lies within The shadow of the cross. 'T is sin. Who taketh but a flower or stone Where that holy shade is thrown Is cursed to death. His dearest prayer, Fluttering like a prisoned bird, Never wins the happy air, Beats against the painted saints, At the altar hopeless faints, Never, never to be heard.

JOHAN.

The ban is off,—the sun is on. St. George! 't is full; my luck has won. Good thirty ducats, gold beside! Ho for my love, my art, my bride!

ELSA.

What, take at will another's gold, For love, for greed? Stay, Johan,—hold! The duke has guests! You cannot soil Your soul with this.

JOHAN.

And did they toil To win this money? Out of earth

Some swarthy bondsman wrought its birth. His sweat, his pain, to be at last A wanton's wage, a gambler's cast! Mine is it now to better end.

ELSA.

You cannot keep it. Johan, friend, A curse is on it. Curses stay. For gain did one Lord Christ betray: When Satan gives another's gold, So much of the Christ is sold. Blessings come and heavenward go, Wing-clipped curses bide below. Thirty ducats, broad and bright,— Hide them, Johan, out of sight. Silver white, it fetcheth blight! Gold, gold, is wicked, bold! Hear now the story mother told: Since ever I was a little maid Ghost-gray silver makes me afraid.

Zillah's son, great Tubal Cain, Deep he diggèd in the earth, Where strong iron hath its birth, Till the hurt earth sobbed with pain. Little recked he, Tubal Cain. The sword and the ploughshare Out of iron he forged with care; Brass and copper red he found In their coffins underground. Then Lord Satan hired he To dig to all eternity. Tore he from the broken mould

Moon-white silver, sun-red gold. On the blessèd Sabbath morn, Tubal Cain, with laugh and scorn, Tortured from the silver white Thirty pieces, broad and bright. Quick were they and sore to keep; None who had them gathered sleep. Little Joseph's brethren said They would dye his garments red; Thirty coins of Tubal Cain Gat they for their brother's pain. At the holy city's gate Joseph and Mary long did wait; Neither corn nor gold had they The cruel Roman tax to pay. Little babe Jesu spake aloud,—Marvelled greatly all the crowd,— Spake the child in Mary's ear, "Dig in the sand, and have no fear." Deep they delved, and brought to light Thirty pieces, broad and bright. Foul-faced Judas sold his Lord For to have this devil-hoard; Black-faced Judas had for gain The thirty coins of Tubal Cain. On the floor the coins he spent, Brake his heart, and out he went. All the way adown the hill Rolled the ducats with him still; Underneath his gallows tree Danced the ducats for to see. Now they pay for murder done, Now by them the thief is won.

Mary Mother, and every saint Keep me from the silver taint! My heart from wrong, my body from pain, My soul from sin like Tubal Cain!

JOHAN.

The purse is mine! No old monk's tale Shall stay my hand. If this should fail— All men own death. How shall it be?

ELSA.

Give me the purse! The purse or me? Am I so little worth?

JOHAN.

Take care;I hear a horse.

Enter HORSEMAN.

HORSEMAN.

Ho, fellow, there! Hast seen a purse? Just here it lay.

ELSA.

My Johan found it.

HORSEMAN

(takes it).

Thanks. Good-day.

[Rides away as a gentleman comes behind them, hidden by the hedge.

JOHAN.

Now is life over.

ELSA.

Never less. Your soul is saved. Now, Johan, guess A secret. No? Well, at the fair Last week I sold, I pledged, my hair. To-morrow I shall fetch the gold To win your way. Ah, love is bold. My father? Think you I shall care? A little hurt; less ill to bear Than that worse hurt you bade me share.

JOHAN.

Forgive, forget! Ah, not again Your trust shall fail.

ELSA.

Just one more kiss; And ere your sinless face I miss, Take up the viol. Say not nay. The twilight song. Play, Johan, play The song that in the stillness brings My troubled soul from earthly things, When the blown horns the cattle call Back to the shelter of the stall.

JOHAN.

Come home, come home. Not through the sallow wheat, Come home, come home, Though to grass-tangled feet The dewy ways be sweet. Come home, come home. Meek eyes and skins of silk, Come home, come home. Fetch the clover-scented milk, Come home, come home.

With their pails the maidens wait, Ever singing at the gate, Come home, come home. Come ye home to Mary's wings, Joy to earth the angel rings, Come home, come home. Bring your load of care and sin, Lo, she waits to let you in, Come home, come home.
Stay, stay awhile. Though dear my art, More dear your love. The tears that start I know are joy. Lo, Seraph wings Flutter o'er the praying strings. Hark and hear your gladdened soul All the raptured viol thrill; Viewless hands my touch control, Other force than earthly will. Purer than the chant of saints Rings the anthem of your heart; Though upon your lip it faints, Though the tears your eyelids part, Angel voices, pure and strong, Catch the sweetness of the song. Hark! the silver crash of cymbals; Hear the joyous clash of timbrels, Pouring through the shadows dim; All the air is music-riven, And the organ's stately hymn Thunders to the vault of heaven. Murmurs, whispers, sad, mysterious, Language of another sphere,

Faint and solemn, tender, serious, Wander to my listening ear.

Enter GENTLEMAN.

GENTLEMAN.

A poet-lover! Did you find my purse?

JOHAN.

Ay; and had kept it, too,—or worse,—Except for her.

GENTLEMAN.

Would Eve had stayed As honest as your blushing maid! I always thought the story queer, Would like that poor snake's tale to hear. Sometimes I fancy Madam Eve Tempted the Tempter to deceive. I heard you tell a pretty tale About some yellow hair for sale. Wilt sell it now? Say, gold for gold! Let's see the goods.

[Pulls out the comb.

'T is worth, when sold, A hundred ducats.

JOHAN.

No, my lord, 'T is not for sale. No miser's hoard Could buy it.

GENTLEMAN.

Say two hundred, then; A kiss to boot. I know of men Would ask for six.

ELSA.

'T is yours,—'t was mine!

GENTLEMAN.

The gold is thine. Too proudly shine Those locks above a heart of gold For me to part them. When you 're old, And you have babes and he has fame, Teach in their prayers the wild duke's name. And you who thought a purse to keep, Within that battered violin sleep— Ah, but I heard—all wealth and power Man craves on earth. In some full hour, When heaven is nearest, make for me One golden fugue, to live and be Remembered when the morrow's light Is gone for us. Good-night, Good-night.

1887

FRANÇOIS VILLON

THE COUNT DE LILLE, AND
THE SEIGNEUR DE LUCE, A FREE-LANCE.

TIME, circa 1463

SCENE, The Garden of an Inn.

DE LUCE.

Our good Duke Charles, you tell me, fain would know Where bides this other rhymer. Be it so. I might have said, I know not: for to lie Is easy, natural, and hath brevity To win its hearing favor, whilst the truth Spins out forever like a woman's youth, And lacks the world for ally. But mere pride Would make me honest. Let the duke decide 'Twixt boor and noble. Ah! 't was gay, I think, When we were lads together. What! not drink? Then, by St. Bacchus, here 's to you, my lord! Men say that luck, a liberal jade, has poured Her favors on you: lordships half a score, Castles and lands, that vineyard on the Loire; Something too much for one who lightly leaves Such wine as this. Alas! who has, receives.

DE LILLE.

Come when you will and share it. I have served God and the King. What fortune I 've deserved The good saints know; through many a year I 've played The games of war and peace. My father's blade Has no stain on it. That, it seemeth me, Were pleasant to the conscience, when, set free From war and council and grown old and gray, Fades in monastic peace one's life away. These war-filled years gone by since last we met Have had their griefs. What of yourself? Forget My fates and me. I think the latter wars Have missed your helping. As for me, my scars Count half these years.

DE LUCE.

Well, as chance willed, I fought In Spain, or Italy, or France, and brought Some pretty plunder back; have killed my share, Dutch, Don, or Switzer, any—everywhere That bones were to be broken and the fare And game were good; have taken soldier pay On this side and on that. In wine or play Spent gaily; found life but a merry friend That lent, and then forgot the debt. To end, Came home. And now my tale. On Easter-day It lost its hero. Silence, once 't is broke, Can no man mend. 'T was thus this fellow spoke Of whom I talk. I never owned the thing Folks like to label conscience, which the king Packs wisely on his chancellor. My device, "Suivez le Roi," suits well with life. Not nice

Need one to be who Louis, or the rest, Loyally follows,—taking what is best Each good day offers;yet, sometimes, De Lille, Woman or wine, or one's too ready steel, Lures one a trifle past the line of sport, And then,—you see my point,—a friend at court Perchance is needed. Gossip, hereabout, Which spreads like oil on water, leaves no doubt That I should speak. That wastrel had a way, A trick of speech, as when he said, one day, "The pot of Silence cracked, 't were best to break." Strange how his words stay with me! Half awake Last night, I saw him, laughing too, and gay, A grinning ghost, De Lille. What priest could lay A rhyming, jesting fiend? I have killed men, Ay, and some pretty fellows too, but then None troubled sleep. This dead man, like an owl, Roosts, wide-eyed, on my breast,—a feeble fowl— Mere barnyard fowl at morn,—a carrion ghost. The devil has bad locks to keep his host Of poets, thieves, and tipplers.

DE LILLE.

Think you so? No man can tell, De Luce, when some chance blow Shall give him memories none may care to know. Once, when we charged nigh Burgos, sorely pressed, I drove my rapier through a youngster's breast In wild fierce mellay when none think,—and yet I see him,—see him reeling; never can forget His large eyes sudden change, that one long cry! 'T was but a moment, and the charge went by. Some unknown woman curses me in sleep, Mother or mistress; why does memory keep

These nettles, let the roses fall? Well! well! What more, De Luce? The tale you have to tell Is told a friend!

DE LUCE.

Three bitter years ago A woman, every year more fair, one Isabeau, A Demoiselle De Meilleraye, began To twist this coil which later cost a man A pleasant reckless life, and you my tale. Maids I have loved a many, widows frail Loved par amour, but this one gaily spun A pretty net about me. It was done Before I fully knew, and once begun, No fly more surely netted. Ever still The web is on me. At her merry will What pranks she played!—and I, a fettered slave, Was black or white, was all things, blithe or grave, As met her humor. Many a suitor came Because her lands were broad, and, too, the game Worth any candle. She but laughed. Some flared, Or sputtered, and went out. My lady shared Their woe but little. As for me, I fought A good half dozen lordlings, also caught A hurt or two. But then, ah! that was worse, A fellow came who wooed my dame in verse, And did it neatly,—made her triolets Rhyming her great blue eyes to violets; Wrote chansons, villanelles, and rondelettes, Sonnets and other stuff, and chansonnettes, And jesting, rhymed the color of my nose With something,—possibly an o'erblown rose. No need to say we fought, but luck went hard: I thrust in tierce; he parried, broke my guard,

And then, I slipped,—St. Denis; but I lay A good six weeks to ponder on the way The rascal did the thing. And he the while Had to himself my lady's gracious smile; Whereon we played the game again, and time Was that to which my rhymer ceased to rhyme. A pretty trick there is, De Lille, you see I learned in Padua; this way, on one knee To drop a sudden; then a thrust in quarte Settles the business. You shall learn the art. 'T is very simple. Ah! before he died He fumbled at his neck, and vainly tried To snatch at something, till at last I took A locket from him, for his own hand shook, As well might be. He had but only breath To mutter feebly "Isabeau", then death Had him, and I the locket—have it still, And some day she shall have it—in my will, For scourge of memory. This same Isabeau Wept as a woman does, whilst to and fro I wandered, waiting till the mood should go, Then came again and found my lady fair Reading my dead man's chansons. Little care Had she for others. I, a love-fool, spent The summer days like any boy, intent To fit my will to hers. I laugh again To think I vexed my battle-wildered brain In search of rhymes.—You smile, my lord? 'T is so,To find me gallant rhymes to Isabeau. Pardie, De Lille, she rhymed it thrice to—No! Swore none could love who lacked the joyous art To love in song.

Now, really, when the heart Gives out, and knows no more, one asks the head To help that idiot ass. Some one has said,— Ah! that man said it,—said, "'T is heads that win In love's chuck-penny game." And I had been The heart's fool quite too long.—At last, one day, Hunting by St. Rileaux, I lost my way, And wandering, lit upon a man who lay Drowsing, or drunk, or dreaming mid the fern. Quite motionless he stayed, as in I turn, And say, "Get up there, villein! Ho! in there,— Get up, and pilot me the way to Claire!" On this rose lazily a lean, long man; Yawned, stretched himself,—with eyes as brown as tan, And somewhat insolent, regarded me; a nose Fine as my lady's; red, too, I suppose, With sun, or just so much of sun as glows Shut up in wine: and thus far not a word. Till I, not over gay, or somewhat stirred By this brute's careless fashions, wrathful said, "Art dumb, thou dog?" But he untroubled laid His elbow 'gainst a tree-trunk, set his hand To prop his head, and then,—"I understand. You lost the way to Claire, whilst I have lost The gladdest thought that haply ever crossed A poet's brain. Think what it is, fair sir, To feel within your soul a gentle stir, To see a vision forming as from mist, And just then as your lips have almost kissed This thing of heaven, to have a man insist

You show the way to Claire. A man may die And still the world go on, but songs that fly From laughing lip to lip, and make folk glad, Have more than mortal life. 'T is passing sad. You 've killed a thing had outlived you and me, Bishops and kings, and danced, a voice of glee, On lovers' tongues." Loudly I laughed and long. "Mad! mad!" I cried; "the whole world's mad in song. Out-memory kings? What noble trade have you That rate a king so lo? Speak out, or rue The hour we met. Your name, your name, man, too, Unless you like sore bones." At this he stayed,No more disturbed than I, and undismayed Said, "François Villon de Montcorbier Men call me; but I really cannot say I have not other names to suit at need, As certain great folks have; and sir, indeed As to my trade, I am a spinner, and I spin, As please my moods, gay songs of love or sin, Sonnets or psalms—could make a verse on you. Hast ever heard my 'Ballade des Pendus'? I gave the verse a certain swing, you see,To read it really shakes one; many a thief That verse has set a-praying. To be brief—Ah, you'll not hear it?—then, sir, by my sword,—But that's in pawn,—or better, by my word,— I can't pawn that,—ye saints! if I but could! Now just to pay your patience,—leave the wood At yonder turning; then the road to Claire Lies to the left; but you must be aware The day is somewhat warm, and pray you try

To think how very, how unnatural dry I am inside of me; for outwardly, Thanks to the dews, I 'm damp; but could I put My outside inside,—Ah! your little 'but' Is really quite a philosophic thing For lords who lose their way, and men who sing. The simple fact is, I am deadly dry— And that mere text once out, the sole reply, The sermon, lies within your purse." I said, "Had you not put a notion in my head, I long ago had broken yours. Instead, Sell me its use awhile?' "If talk be dull," Cried he, "'twixt one who fasts and one who 's full, St. George! 't is duller than the dullest worst When one of them is just corpse-dry with thirst. Once, by great Noah! a certain bishop-beast Kept me for three long summer months at least On bread and water,—water! Were wine rain, I never, never could catch up again." Well, to be brief, De Lille, just there and then We drove an honest bargain. He, his pen Sold for so long as need was,—I, to get Three times a week some joyful rondelette, Sirventes satiric, competent to fit The case of any wooing, versing wit, Dizains, rondeaux, and haply pastourelles, With any other rhyming devil-spells A well-soaked brain might hatch, whilst I agreed To house, clothe, wine the man, and feed. That day we settled it at Claire. A tun Of Burgundy it took before 't was done. And then, to ease him at his task, you know, Smiling he queried of this Isabeau:

Her eyes, her lips, her hair; because, forsooth, "The trap of lies were baited best with truth." Quoth I, half vexed, "Brown—red, her hair." "I know," My poet says; "gold—darkened, like the glow The sunset casts, to crown a brow of snow." Then I, a love-sick fool!—" She has a way— Of"—"Yes, I understand; as lilies sway When south winds flatter, and the month is May, And love words has the maiden rose to say." Here pausing, suddenly he let his head Rest on his hands, and, half in whisper, said, "Alack! Full many a year the daisies grow Where rests at peace another Isabeau." "The devil take thy memories! Guard thy—tongue!" Said I. What chanced was droll, for quick tears, wrung From some low love-past, tumbled in his wine: Cried he, "The saints weep through us. Can these tears be mine? The dead are kings and rule us"—drank the liquor up, Laughed outright like a girl, and turned the cup, With "Never yet before, since life was young, Did I put water in my wine," then flung The glass behind him, shouted, "Quick, a bottle!— Another; grief is but a thief to throttle. Ho! let the ancient hangman Time appear And tuck it a neat tie beneath the ear.Many a trade has master Time. He sits in corners, and spinneth rhyme. He is a partner of master Death,

Puffs man's candle out with a breath, Leaves the wick to sputter and tell In a sort of odorous epitaph How foul the thought of a man may smell For the world that lives, and has its laugh. Ha! but Time has many trades! Something in me now persuades Master Time, grown debonair, Hath turned for me a potter rare, And made him a vase beyond compare: Here below, a rounded waist, Fit with roses to be laced; Rising, ripely curved above Into flowing lines of love. Thinking, too, how sweet 't would grow, Time called the proud vase Isabeau." "By every saint of rhyme," laughed I, "good fellow, If this a man can do when rather mellow"— "What shall he do ripe-drunk?" he cried; "erelong The vine shall live again a flower of song." How much he drank that six months who may know? He kept his word. There came a noble flow,—Rondels and sonnets, songs, gay fabliaux, Tencils, and virelais, and chants royaux, That turned at last the head of Isabeau. For, by and by, he spun a languid lay Set her a weeping for an April day. And then a reverdie, I scarcely knew Just what it meant; by times the damsel grew Pensive and tender, till at last she said,— You see the bait was very nicely spread,— "How chances it, fair sir, this gift of song

Lay thus unused? You did yourself a wrong: But now I love you,—love as one well may A heart that hides its treasures, yet can say At last their sweetness out. This simple lay!—How could you know my thoughts?" On this in haste I cast an arm around her little waist, And kissed her lips, and murmured tenderly Some pretty lines my poet made for me And this occasion's chance. So there, the dame Well wooed and married, ends this pleasant game.

DE LILLE.

I knew your poet once,—of knaves the chief, A gallows-mocking brawler, guzzler, thief,— This orphan of the devil won with song Our good Duke Charles, who thinks of no man wrong, And least of all a poet. Once or twice Duke Charles has saved his neck. One can't be nice With poet friends, nor leave them in the lurch Because they stab a man, or rob a church. Also, that hog-priest-doctor, Rabelais, you know, Kept him a while, then bade the vagrant go For half a nightingale and half a crow. So there he slips from sight. Then comes a tale That stirs our rhyming Duke. I must not fail To know the sequel.

DE LUCE.

Months went by. My manI had no need for; soon my dame began

To droop and wilt, and, too, I knew not why, To watch me sidewise with attentive eye, Or stay for silent hours cloaked with thought, Laughing or weeping readily at naught. What changes women? A wife is just a wife. The thing tormented me, for now her life Faced from me ever, and, her head bent low, She lived with some worn sonnet or rondeau Had served its purpose. Vexed at last, I took The wretched stuff, the whole of it, and shook The fragments to the winds. Now, by St. George! The thing stuck ever bitter in my gorge, That such a peasant-slave's mere words should be The one strong bond that held this love to me, That was my life, and is. Alas! in vain I played the lover over, till in pain Because she pined, poor feel, I sought again My butt of verse and wine, and gaily said, "Here, fellow, there 's for drink! Set me your head To verse me something honest, that shall speak A strong man's love, and to my lady's cheek Fetch back its rose again." But as for him, This hound, he studied me with red eyes, dim And dulled with wine, and lightly laughing cried, "Not I, my lord. Not ever, if I tried The longest day of June. Your falcon caught, Be sure no jesses by another wrought Will hold a captive;" and with rambling talk Put me aside, sang, hummed, took up the chalk The landlord wont to score his drinks withal, A moment paused, and scribbled on the wall, "If God love to a sexton gave, Surely he would dig it a grave;

If God fitted an ass with wings, What would he do with the pretty things?" I cursed him for a useless sot, but he, Leering and heedless, scrawled unsteadily Just "Wallow, wallow, wallow; this from me To all wise pigs that on this mad earth be;" Wrote "François Villon" underneath, and there, Smitten with drink, dropped on the nearest chair And slept as sleep the dead. I in despair Went on my way. But she, my gentle dame, Grew slowly feebler, like an oilless flame, Until this cursed thing happened. On a day I chanced upon her singing, joyous, gay; Glad leapt my hopes. I kissed her, saw her start, Grow sudden pale, a quick hand on her heart.— 'Fore God, I love her dearly, but I tore A paper from her bosom, yet forbore One darkened moment's time to read it, then Saw the wild love verse, knew what drunken pen Had dared.Fierce-eyed she stayed a little space, Then struck me red with words, as if my face A man had struck, said, "What can be more base Than bribe a peasant soul to win with thought Above your thinking what you vainly sought? I love you? No—I loved the man who knew To tell the gladness of his love through you; A thief, no doubt; and pray what was he who Thus stole my love? You lied! and he, a sot! A sot, you say, could rise above his pot,— You, never! Love me! Could one like you know In love's sweet climate truth and honor grow?"

But I, seeing my folly clear, said, "Isabeau, What matters it if I but used the flow Of this man's fantasies to word the praise I would have said a hundred eager ways And moved you never? Is it rare one pays A man to sing?" "Henceforth, my lord," said she, "We talk tongues strange to each, but ever he Talked that my heart knows best. Your wife am I, That 's past earth's mending; what is left but try To weary on to death? What else?" I turned, Cried, "But I loved you well! This boor has earned A traitor's fate." "And you," she moaned; nor more, Save, "Let all traitors die," and on the floor Fell in a heap. Thenceforward half distraught I sought my poet-thief, but never caught The cunning fiend, till as it chanced one night, My horse fallen lame, I, walking, saw the light Still in her window. There below it stood A man where fell the moonlight all aflood, And suddenly a hand of mastery swept The zittern, and—a whining love-song leapt. Ah! but too well knew I the song he sang; I smiled to think it was his last. It rang Mad chimes within my head. "Now then," I cried, "A dog-life for a love-life!" Quick aside My poet cast his zittern, drew his sword, Tried as he stood his footing on the sward, And laughed. He ever laughed, and laughing said, "Before we two cut throats, and one is dead,

And talk gets quite one-sided, let me speak, Perchance it may be this rat's final squeak; Even a cat grants that, my lord, you know. Speak certain words I must of this dame Isabeau. And if you will not, this have I to say, These legs of mine have ofttimes won the day, And may again if I have not my way. My thanks. You're very good, and now,—what if Full twenty dozen times a week a whiff Of some sweet rose is given just to smell, The rose unseen,—you catch my meaning?—Well, One haply gets rose-hungry, and erelong Desires the rose. You think I did you wrong Who bade you see her as one sees in song, Her neck, her face, the sun-gloss of her hair, Eyes such as poets dream, the love-curves fair; These have you seen; but as for me, they were, Unseen of sense, more lovely.Mark, my lord, How sweet to-night the lilies. Pray afford A moment yet to my life out of yours. Believe A thing so strange you may not, nor conceive: This woman, on the beauty of whose face I never looked, nor shall,—whose virgin grace I sold to you,—is mine while time endures. Yea, for your malady earth has no cures; A brute, a thief am I that caged this love. A sodden poet! Some one from above Looks on us both to-night; you nobly born, I in the sties of life. I do repent In that I wronged this lady innocent. But if you live or I, where'er she bide, One François Villon walketh at her side.

Kiss her! Your kiss? It will be I who kiss. Yea, every dream of love your life shall miss I shall be dreaming ever! Well, the cat, Patient or not, has waited. As for that, Be comforted. Hell never lacks reward For them that serve it. Thanks.—On guard. On guard." No word said I. Long had I listened, dazed. Now scorn broke out in hatred; crazed, Fiercely I lunged. He, laughing, scarce so rash, Parried and touched my arm. The rapier clash Went wild a minute; then a woman's cry Broke from the hedge behind him, and near by Some moonlit whiteness gleamed. He turned, and I, By heaven! 't was none too soon, I drove my sword Clean through the peasant dog from point to guard, And held her as I watched him. Better men A many have I killed, but this man!—Then He staggered, reeling, clutched at empty air And at his breast, and pitching here and there, Fell, shuddered, and was dead.By Mary's grace, The woman kneeling kissed the dead dog's face!
Take you the Duke my tale. The woman lives. The man is dead. None knows but she. What gives Such needless haste to go? 'T is not yet late. Think you the story of this peasant's fate Will vex Duke Charles? How looks the thing to you? No comment? None?

DE LILLE.

None I could well afford To speak. The Duke must judge, not I.

DE LUCE.

My lord, Your fashions like me not, and plainly, mine Are somewhat franker.

DE LILLE.

I must ride. The wine?

DE LUCE.

I pay for that. The man who drinks must pay. "The wine of friendship lasteth but a day," So said that pot-house Solomon. I suppose 'T is easily thinned with time. As this world goes, A sorry vintage.

1890

THE MISER

A MASQUE

TIME: The Fifteenth Century. Midnight.

Iron boxes. A table strewn with jewels, trinkets, and coin. An hour-glass. an old man walks to and fro. (A knock is heard.)

MISER.

Come in.

[Covers the jewels with a cloth.

Enter a Woman, who unmasks.

What wouldst thou, wench? Hast aught to sell?

WOMAN.

I 've that to sell for which men give their souls

MISER

Alack! their souls. Go seek yon market-place, And learn what usury a soul will fetch. The body of a man may sweat you gold, Plow, sow, and reap, yet at the end be apt As other carrion to fatten grapes. How came you in? They keep slack guard below.

WOMAN.

Good looks, like gold, pass anywhere on earth—

Sings.

A mall and a maidThe warder prayed.Here is gold, said he,But a look gave she;Sweet eyes went he,And the man was stayed.For this is the wayThe world to win,The world to win.Honey of kisses,Honey of sin—This is the wayThe world to win.

MISER.

Ay. The fool's world, not mine. The hour-glass wastes.

WOMAN.

Forget to turn it, and the hour is thine. That minds me what the priest said Easter-eve: The devil owns the minutes, God the years. What think you that he meant?

MISER.

Nay, ask of him. Age hath its secrets. Time shall sow for thee Betwixt thy grand-dame wrinkles answers meet. Thy errand, girl!

WOMAN.

Look in my face, and learn.

MISER.

By Venus! I have read that scroll too oft. Eyes that say, Yes! and lips that murmur, No! The red cheeks' mock-surrender. All the cheats That make to-morrow lie to yesterday.

WOMAN.

Like a philosopher lies yesterday, To-morrow like a poet: but to-day Is true until to-morrow makes it lie. What if the minute's coin that buys thee joy Ring false the morrow morn! How old you look! Kiss me, and live. A ducat for a kiss! A ducat each for these two eyes of mine!

MISER.

A ducat! By St. Mercury! not I,— A thing unchanging for a thing that dies. I've been the fool of women, wit, and wine: Have argued much with doctors; had my fill, Ay that was best, of battle's stormy fate: Have fooled and have been fooled, been loved and loved.

WOMAN.

Were any like to me?

MISER.

The lips I love Betray me not at each new gallant's suit. What are thy charms to these?

[Walks across the room, and returns with a casket of gold coins, while the Woman hastily looks under the table-cover and replaces it.

See, this and this!

[Shows her gold medals.

Hast thou the eyes of Egypt's haughty queen? These eager lips that kissed a world away? Lo, here Zenobia,—wisdom, beauty, grace. Match me this warrior maid—this huntress lithe Set in the changeless chastity of gold.

WOMAN.

Their lips are cold. A ducat for a kiss!

MISER.

Nay, get thee gone. Here 's something sweeter far Than wanton vouches of a woman's lips.

WOMAN.

I would not kiss thee for a world of ducats.

[Exit Woman, who whispers, as she goes, to a gentleman who enters, clad in a red cloak, hat, and cock's feather.

MISER.

Who let thee in?

GENTLEMAN.

A girl, fair sir,—a girl. Quite often 't is a girl that lets me in!

MISER.

Who art thou?

GENTLEMAN.

Many people. Part of all, For well-bred gentlemen "my Lord Duke Satan," thus Here somewhat late to thank you. Truly, sir, To sum the seed of sin you 've sown for me Would puzzle the arithmetic of—Well,

One speaks not lightly of his home. My thanks. Give me your hand, good friend.

MISER.

Art drunk! Begone!

GENTLEMAN.

Alas! How sad, not know me. Gratitude Is rare in either world. Yet men, I note, Know not themselves, and therefore know not me.

MISER.

The jest is good.

GENTLEMAN.

What, I—I, Satan, jest! How hard to satisfy! Unhelped by me, What hadst thou been? Lo, under this frail cloth

[Touches the table-cover.

There lie the pledges of a hundred souls: That zone of pearls! That ruby coronal!

MISER.

Thou liest, fool!

GENTLEMAN.

The ring,—the sapphire ring.

MISER.

The thing is strange.

GENTLEMAN.

Nay, gentle partner, nay. Behold, I come to thee in sore distress, A bankrupt devil. Why? It matters not. Perhaps I gambled for the morning star, Gambled with Lucifer; in want, perchance,

For reason good, of some less sin-worn world. Brothers are we. No need for us to pray Deliverance from temptation—to do good. Not equals quite. A trifle thou dost lack Thy master's joy in evil for itself. Only the crack-brained sin for love of sin, And crime is wretchedly alloyed with good. Ho! for one honest sinner!

MISER.

Out, foul fiend!

GENTLEMAN.

To waste your hours were but to squander mine. Ha! Shall I take my own?

[Pulls off the table-cover.

MISER.

Without there! Help! Help—help—a thief!

GENTLEMAN.

Nay. Let me choose my coins, Let me confess them. They have tales to tell. I am a devil-poet, and can see Beneath the skin of things.

[Takes coins in turn.]

On this is writ A maiden's honor gone. And here is one Helped the black barter of a traitor's soul. This 'gainst a priestly conscience turned the scale. And this is red with murder. See, gray hairs Stick to it yet. Alas for charity! Not one,—not one. The devil has no friend

[A knock is heard.

Save him that enters.

[Operas the door to the cowled figure, DEATH.

Pray thee, sir, come in. Lo, my best friend! the scavenger of time, Who picks from off this dust-heap called a worldThe scared and hurried ants that come and goWithout a whence or whither worth a thought. Be easy with this partner of my cares. This greedy dotard drunk with guzzling gold Spare me a little. Take thou hence the good, The fair, the young the chaste, the innocent.

[To the MISER.

Good-night, my friend. I leave you one who owns The only truth this stupid planet holds.

[Exit Gentleman.

MISER.

What feast of folly hath broke loose to-night? Who art thou?

DEATH.

Death!

MISER.

The devil and then Death! Thou hast the play the wrong end first, my friend.

[Laughs

DEATH.

Then laugh again. Full many a year has fled Since sound of laughter crackled in mine ears. There are who face me smiling. Men like thee, Who gather ducats as I reap the years, To add them to the gathered hoard of time; Yea, men like thee, who poison souls for gain, And love life for its baseness, mock not me. Only the noble and the wretched smile When these lean fingers summon to the grave. Thy day is near; even now the clogging blood

Chills stagnant at my touch, and soon for thee Shall come the yellow hags to stretch thy limbs, And put the coins upon thy staring eyes.

[MISER falls into a chair.

MISER.

What cruel jest is this? I pray thee go. My heart beats riotous, my legs grow weak.

DEATH.

Give me a hundred ducats.

MISER.

I! Not one.

DEATH.

A hundred ducats for a year of greed.

MISER.

Not one, I say.

DEATH.

Then, to that nether world.Two days I grant thee, till upon the stair Thy coffined weight shall creak, and other hands Shall count thy ducats.

MISER.

Take thou ten, and go.

DEATH.

Ten ducats for a journey round the world!

MISER.

Nay, nay, not one. Thou surely art not Death.

DEATH.

Already on thy sallow cheek I see The set grim smile which hardens on the face

When death unriddles life; thy jaw hangs slack; The sweat wherewith man labors unto death Drops from thy brow.

MISER.

Take what thou wilt, and go. Hast said a hundred ducats. Take but that. Take them and leave me. Not a ducat more.

[Death takes a bag.

DEATH.

For this I give thee many a lingering year. Without there, gentlemen! Come in, come in!

[Enter PRINCE masked, the Court Fool as Mephistopheles, women and courtiers in fancy dress.

The MISER a leaps up.

MISER.

What robber-band is this?

PRINCE.

A jest, my friend.

GENTLEMAN.

The Prince has lost his wager. Death has won.

DEATH.

To supper, gentlemen. Here 's that shall pay.

MISER.

My gold! Alas, my gold!

DEATH.

But yet you live.

[Exeunt maskers singing.

1884

THE WAGER

TIME, 1650. Twilight

The Duke's garden near Tours.

• CLAIRE DE CHASTEL BLANC, a lady of the Duchess.
• RENÉ LA TOUR.
• THE VICOMTE DE LANCIVAL.

LA TOUR walks moodily to and fro.

LA TOUR.

Five years ago in this same garden space I fled the mockery of a smiling face. Upon my soul, I was a love-sick lad; A baser man perchance had won; I had The self-accusing modesty of love, That by its proud humility doth prove How honest is its nature. Since that day Our feet have trod, alas! a diverse way— Mine as the devil guided, hers to find A man to match the lightness of her mind. So runs the world; and always, I suppose, The thorns outlast for many a year the rose. What is there memory may care to keep Of her life or of mine? I basely heap

Dull days on sorrier yesterdays: what more Is left to me? And yet—and yet before I loved this woman and she bade me go For but a love-struck boy, I used to know Far other dreams than such as madly keep The wild days reeling through the hours of sleep.

[Pauses.

So, here it was I sang my pretty way To steal in sleep a heart was cold by day. How long ago it seems! I used to sing Not very ill. Ah me! How ran the thing?

[He sings as he walks.

Sleep on! Sleep on! Thou canst not fly;Thou art the gentle thrall of sleep.Thy captured dreams in vain may tryThe daylight's cold reserve to keep.

Sleep on! Those watchful eyes that beThy maiden sentinels by dayNo more shall keep their guard for thee,Sweet foes that warned my love away.

And I will kiss thee with a song—

A modest way to kiss! I have it wrong; And all the rest, like love, has taken wings And gone the deuce knows whither. If some things Were like a song, as readily forgot, Man's fate on earth might prove a happier lot—

[A servant enters with a letter. LA TOUR takes it and stands in thought, smiling. He opens it in an absent way, not yet reading it.

Here is the woman's name I was to learn This morning. Well, I trust the lips that earn My needed ducats are not old. By heaven! That were an insult scarce to be forgiven, A jest to cost some drunken reveller dear.

[Glances at the letter.

"Claire!—Claire de Chastel Blanc." I did not hear That name among the many tossed about On ribald lips last night. Perhaps a doubt, Or the Duke's presence, or a friend who knew To check some reckless sot, held back the crew, Till at the gray of dawn I homeward went, And left them babbling, on a choice intent.

[He walks to and fro, in thought, and then slowly tears up the letter, retaining the fragments.

Now, I 'll not do it! This mad bet of mine, The bastard child of folly and of wine, Has somehow lost to-day its vinous zest, And, in the sober light of morn confessed, "Stirs certain memories. Now, there's my lord— Her lord—will fume and talk about his sword, And then is just as like as not, I think, To pouch the insult and forget in drink. What of the woman? Wherefore should I spare The lips that spared not me? Why should I care?

[Pauses.

I will not do it.

[As he speaks he casts away the torn paper and wanders aimlessly to and fro in the Duke's garden. Of a sudden he sees Claire seated and busy with the roses lying in her lap.

(Aside.)

By St. Opportune, Who doth for mischief match the naughty moon!

What devil set this trap for me who meant To swear the wager lost, and well content To pay and end it, duly penitent And out of pocket? What would she have lost? The fool who is her lover scarce will miss One kiss subtracted from his sum of bliss. Now, good St. Anthony, who ought to be The friend of men sore tempted, pray for me;— You were not tempted, for you knew not love.

[Coming up behind CLAIRE, he bends over and kisses her. She starts to her feet.

CLAIRE.

Now, by dear Marie and all saints above, You—René—kissed me!

LATOUR.

Yes, and, on my soul, I 'm glad and sorry: that sums up the whole, The sin and penance; larger joy and painThan ever I shall know in life again.

[She is silent.

For God's sake, speak to me; say something, Claire.

CLAIRE.

Your shame lacks courage, sir; how could you dare?

LA TOUR.

Fate, fortune, luck, have never known to spareHead, heart, or purse of mine. 'T is very rare My follies pay as well. How could I dare? The question 's childlike, madam. What! in tears! These were not counted in my list of fears.

CLAIRE.

An idle gossip warned me yestereve Of this, and you; yet how could I believe Of one who once—no matter. What I said Did cost one shameless cheek its share of red. He little liked my comment; nor would you Who tossed about amid a gambling crew

What estimate to put upon a kiss, And set its worth at haply that or this. He, laughing, swore the chivalry of wine Did make you set a double price on mine. You gaily urged, they say, that stolen fruit Is ever sweeter. May I ask, to suit The pretty poetry of tavern hours, If that be also true of stolen flowers? What need to talk? You have the prize you sought, A courteous wager!

LA TOUR.

Madame, he who brought This garnished story lied.

CLAIRE.

It matters naught; A man shall question you.

LA TOUR.

That were but just; In point of fact, I really think he must; And 'twixt a tongue-stab and a rapier-thrust I gladly choose the latter; but why both To punish one who never yet was loath To face a man? Before a mistress' tongue I cry for pity as I did when young. Down goes my flag; I counted not the cost, Else had this silly bet been gladly lost.

CLAIRE.

Jest if it please you. Better men have died For lighter cause than this.

LA TOUR.

So, I am tried, Condemned past hope. Ah, Claire, thou ever art The same cold woman. Could I call my heart To witness for me—

CLAIRE.

'T is a feebler jest.

LA TOUR.

Perhaps! perhaps! But let me be confessed.

Give one decree to die his little hour. The gay temptation of a minute's power Set in my way the honey of a flower;The bee-god Cupid robbed; and, I suppose, A dainty diet, to be held more sweet Than common clover honey.

CLAIRE.

You may treat This insult lightly—

LA TOUR.

Madam, I believe Men have kissed women since the days of Eve; 'T is very frequent. Such fair goods, you know, Are bartered, stolen, sold or high or low; The market varies. One may cost a life, A curse, a kingdom, win or lose a wife.

[LA TOUR pauses, while CLAIRE stands in silence.

Have you no answer, madam? I have tried Love, logic, penitence, have not denied The muse her pretty privilege to defend This naughty brigand here without a friend. Now, what 's a kiss that naught can it atone?

CLAIRE.

The trembling scales of loyal love alone May know to weigh this coin of nature's own. You cast the shadow of a nalneless fear, You left the memory of an angry tear. Go! I could wish that you were lying dead, Ay, here, to-night, ere this had need been said.

LA TOUR.

Am I so surely hated?

CLAIRE.

Call it hate, Contempt—a woman's sorrow.

[She moves away.

LA TOUR.

Pray you wait

What if I swear this wager, wildly made, Was lost? Wilt say—?

CLAIRE.

That you were more afraid Than fits a man.

LA TOUR.

Yes, that may well be said. 'T is you I fear.

CLAIRE.

Me! There was once an hour, Oh, very long ago, should still have power To hurt you now. What is there more to say?

LA TOUR.

Yes, there are ghosts no priest has power to lay; One is to-morrow, one is yesterday; Both have your words called up to-night for me. But ghosts like these at least do set one free From such poor scare-souls as an honest blade. That lays all spectres! Madam, undismayed I bow before my judge and glad accept The fate this wretched hour for me has kept. And for De Lancival, I promise he Shall in the quickest blade of Picardy Find naught to hinder what your lips decree. Say,—when you think upon this hour and me,— "He loved me once." Be that slight epitaph Deep graven where the miserable half Of life's most worthless memories serves to keep Some fading thought of such as, thankful, sleep, And wake no more on earth.

CLAIRE.

You loved me?

LA TOUR.

Ay.

CLAIRE.

How can it be? If once you loved me, why, Why did your folly choose of all who live, Of all fair women, me alone to give

This tavern feast a flavor? Pray you go. The modest gentleman I seemed to know In memory, kindly, tender, brave, and true, Died very long ago. He is not you. As willingly would I forget this night And think it also dead. You won the right To claim your wager.

LA TOUR.

Madam, it is I Shall tell the Viscount, and with me shall die, I promise you, this story. I shall pay With what this wrecked life owns of life. I pray, As God is good, your pardon. Fare you well.

CLAIRE.

Wait—wait a moment. No, you shall not tell.

LA TOUR.

And why not, madam?

CLAIRE.

Hush!

[DE LANCIVAL approaches, singing.

DE LANCIVAL.

He kissed her twice,Or was it thrice?Oh, what will kisses fetch?You may buy a scoreFor a louis d'or.Now, that's a pretty catch.

Out with it, Claire. What fortune had he? Did he really dare? No need to go, La Tour. We all have heard. Oh, there were bets on it. Right well it stirred The inn's good fellows. I, too, had my bet La Tour would lose.

CLAIRE.

Indeed!

LA TOUR.

At what was set My beggared chance of fortune?

DE LANCIVAL.

I forget.

CLAIRE.

I, too am curious.

DE LANCIVAL.

I am not clear How much it was; a very trifle, dear: Some dozen louis—hardly worth one's while.

CLAIRE.

Yet it might set the value of—

LA TOUR.

A smile—

DE LANCIVAL.

Who said a smile? 'T was nothing but a kiss.

CLAIRE.

They make fair company. Perchance to miss The gracious comment of a smile might take Some value from the lips' resort, and make Their rosy honors less.

DE LANCIVAL.

What did I bet?

[Searches his tablets.

I had it yesternight. Just here 't was set Upon my honor!

LA TOUR.

That 's a pious oath That no commandment breaks.

DE LANCIVAL.

St. Denis! Both Are set to read me riddles. I for one—

LA TOUR.

An easy riddle. Nowhere 'neath the sun On land or sea the thing is found. Pardie! Swear by a thing less mortal.

DE LANCIVAL.

I make free To think you mock me. But who was it won?

LA TOUR.

I won, my lord. The trick was neatly done.

DE LANCIVAL.

You won? Claire! Claire!

LA TOUR.

Indeed, it so befell, I won my ducats and some thoughts as well A man could do without.

CLAIRE.

It is not true. The beau sire jests—no courteous thing to do.

LA TOUR.

By Venus, I have but my word to give. Here as she sat I kissed her, as I live!

DE LANCIVAL.

Ye saints! The man has luck. Now, when I bring This news to-night, the tavern roof will ring. I never dared as much. To kiss her hand Was my slim ration. I may understand You really kissed her?

LA TOUR.

Yes.

DE LANCIVAL.

Well—as one may Kiss any woman for a wager's play; Had she kissed you I should have more to say.

CLAIRE.

Then take the truth: I kissed him as he lay A-sleeping in the garden. Now, sir, pray, What is it more your lordship has to say?

DE LANCIVAL.

You kissed La Tour?

CLAIRE.

I did.

DE LANCIVAL.

Now, by my sword—

LA TOUR.

That 's near kin to cursing. Well, my lord—

DE LANCIVAL.

Is this a jest?

CLAIRE.

That may somewhat depend On how a maudlin tragedy shall end.

LA TOUR.

I wait your orders, Viscount.

DE LANCIVAL.

Nonsense! Why Should you or I for such a trifle die? Yet, as a friend, La Tour, I take fair leave To doubt her story.

LA TOUR.

Then, my lord,—I grieve To put it coarsely,—does this lady lie? I wait your answer. Is it she or I? She doth depose to kissing one La Tour. He swears in turn and is devoutly sure He kissed the lady. Neither doth exclude Belief in either. You, my lord, are shrewd. Which is the sinner?

CLAIRE .

Stay, sir.

DE LANCIVAL.

You shall hear From me to-morrow.

LA TOUR.

And why not next year? Had I once loved this gentle lady's face His shrift were short, and small his chance of grace, That dared to think those haughty lips could kiss A man whom, dead, no man on earth would miss Save some poor tapster. Sir, you seem to show Small skill at riddles. Follow me.

CLAIRE.

No, no. Here must it end. A most unseemly brawl! I 'll have no more of it. It does not call For such grave consequences. Let it end.

DE LANCIVAL.

With all my heart; and now, to surely mend A needless quarrel, I, for one, agree A kiss, my mischief-brewing maid, shall be My own reward, his ransom.

CLAIRE.

Here must stop This tragedy, which seems inclined to drop To something comic. I have long endured A bond not of my making. Rest assured This day forever breaks it.

LA TOUR.

And beware, Be very careful that you do not share This tale with tap-room friends. Remember, too, I lost this wager and will pay my due.

DE LANCIVAL.

When once the wine is out comes folly in. So said the Duke, and bet that you would win And vow you did not. For my lady there, She 'll change her mind to-morrow. I can bear My tenth dismissal gaily.

[He goes away singing.

"I would I were a priest,"Quoth the devil;"I would shrive me twice a dayAnd then revel.""I would I were a girl,"Quoth the devil,"With a lie in every curl."

LA TOUR.

He shall rue This insolence.

CLAIRE.

No, René. What of you?

LA TOUR.

No more of me. I rid you of a fool Who went his way as unconcerned and cool As though love's perfect roses knew to grow On every hedge. Now have I also earned The tardy wages of a fool, and learned Too late the lesson of a vain regret For what life might have been.

CLAIRE.

And yet—and yet—

LA TOUR.

By heaven do not trifle with me now! Take care! Think ere you speak. Be very certain, Claire. Hope was so dead. I count it no light thing To give love's winter rose a day of spring. You tremble, hesitate—

[Voices from a distance call, "Claire, Claire!" LA TOUR seizes her hand as she turns to go.

Ah, let me shareYour heart's wise counsel, Claire. I pray you spare A man twice hurt. Give me a minute, one—

[Voices call her. She moves away in haste.

You cannot leave me thus.

CLAIRE.

Sir, I have done. You won your bet. But what, sir, gave the right To think you won a heart?

[The voices approach.

Enough. Good-night.

LA TOUR looks dfter her until she is lost behind a hedge in the twilight.

LA TOUR.

The man is gone to heal his petty smart With wine, sure balsam for a broken heart. A comedy? Perhaps! And, by the rood, The plot unlooked for and the acting shrewd: A stately woman, resolute and sweet, A bragging coward; and, to be complete, This tavern hero, with, one ought to state, King of the stage, Life's greatest actor, Fate! I served her purpose well, and so once more— I ever the sad loser as before— We part. The usual ending, exeunt all. And for the moral: It doth oft befall

One woman pays with usury the debts Of that half-dozen maids a man forgets.

[A glove cast over the hedge falls at LA TOUR'S feet; he picks it up.

I would it were my lord's. A woman's glove!

CLAIRE.

What rhymes to that?

LA TOUR.

By every saint above, How should I know?

CLAIRE.

Why not a woman's love?

1897.

BARABBAS

Tents in the hills north of Bethlehem. Evening, near to dusk. An aged Hebrew standing before a tent chants.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
AMPLIAS. YACOB. BARABBAS. DAVID.

YACOB.

When He opens the gates of the morning, Bow lowly to pray. When He closes the gates of the evening, Thank Him for thy day. Enter His courts with thanksgiving, Enter with praise; The gates of His Mercy are open All gracious His ways.

[He ceases and watches a lad, who comes quickly

Why are you here? I trust the flocks are safe.

DAVID.

The shepherd guards them and they cannot stray. I saw two strangers coming; one seemed blind. I thought them lost, but he who could not see Said to the other, "Come, some tents are near, We shall find friends." But then the other said,

"Or quite as likely Arab plunderers." Then I thought fit to say, "A welcome waits; My father's tents lie yonder. Follow me." The young man answered, "We must trust your words. This blind man found me wandering and starved; He gave me food and water, saying, 'Come!' I followed him in wonder and in doubt." The blind man, father, did not wait or speak, And I ran by in haste to tell of them.

YACOB.

It may be, son, he is not really blind; A beggar's fraud, perhaps. What matters it! Go quickly, son, and fetch the bread and salt.

[He greets the two men as they draw near. The blind man touches head, heart, and lips, as he bends, remaining silent. His companion touches his forehead and bows. The host returns the Oriental salutation of the blind man.

YACOB.

Take of my bread and salt; my tents are yours.

[They accept.

The peace of God which passeth other peace Be with you ever.

BARABBAS.

May your days be long, Long in the land that once was ours alone.

[Meanwhile AMPLIAS, the younger man, who has been urneasily watchful, murmurs to himself.

AMPLIAS.

(Aloud)

Ah! Hebrews both, and surely to be trusted, May the great God of Chance be good to you, And, fortune-favored, may you live as long As you are happy and all gods are kind—Your gods and mine. What better can I wish?

YACOB.

Enter and share with us our evening meal.

(To DAVID)

Fetch me cool water from the jar; their feet May well be heat-sore from the desert sands.

(To AMPLIAS)

Our people hereabout say David's spring More than another has refreshing power.

AMPLIAS

(At ease).

I passed the spring at sunset days ago, And paused to watch the tall, lithe maidens come With balanced water-jars upon their heads And hand on hip, a merry company. More black than midnight was their wind-blown hair; I lingered, jealous of the golden light That turned to bronze its darkness. I could spin Gay verses on them to make envious The fair-haired beauties of Athenian homes.

[The blind man sits silent.

YACOB

(Pleased and laughing).

Oft have I watched when in my younger days— Their mothers came as now the daughters come; I used to hear their gladsome chorus swell,

"Give us such levers as came to the well, Benaiah, Abishai, and Asahel."

AMPLIAS.

I caught gay fragments of some broken song, My servants said was of the man you name, This David, once a poet and a king.

YACOB.

Enter my tent. When you have cooled your feet, Eaten and rested, you may hear the tale Told as a brave man told it of himself.

BARABBAS.

An ancient story of the poet-king When we were not the cringing slaves of Rome.

[They lie at rest on the tent rugs while the lad bathes their feet and their hunger is satisfied.

AMPLIAS.

My thanks, good lad. What is it you are called?

DAVID.

David.

AMPLIAS.

Indeed, a namesake of the king!

[He lies at case, with hands clasped behind his head.

(To YACOB.)

You should know more of us—of me, at least.Hunger and thirst are foes to courtesy!

YACOB.

We ask no name but guest of those to whom We gladly give what God to us has given, Who are His guests.

AMPLIAS.

A gracious comment, yet I claim the pleasant liberty to learn Who is this gentle almoner of the gods.

YACOB.

My name is Yacob, and the lad, my son. We, as you see, are merely shepherd folk, Well pleased when some one from the busy world Brings news a six-months old, or haply takes A sheep or two for taxes, and we hear Which Cæsar rules.

AMPLIAS.

Your name will live with me. A welcome guest of oft-reminding hours. My name is Amplias, a Greek by birth, Rich when at home, but now a stranded man With what of life disastrous fortune left When robber Arabs fell on me and took My slaves, my beasts, and left me little else. This blind man's kindness led me safely here. What instinct guides me? When I questioned him, Grateful and curious, he made brief replies And said no needless word from morn to eve, When talk or jest had eased a weary way.

YACOB

(Laughing).

Talk if you will. We are not quite unlearned, And talk with one who knows the outer world Is always welcome to a lonely man.

AMPLIAS.

I have seen men and cities, wrangled too With mad philosophers or played with verse, And won with wit the rose-crown of the feast;

Have wandered far, and now that I am fed Am what I was not these three talk-starved days. I doubt if empty nightingales could sing! First for the song, and then, perhaps, the friend Who led me hither will confess the charm Shared with the swallow on his airy flight.

[Barabbas has meanwhile been a silent listener. The lad sitting near him feels how the touch of the blind man as he speaks.

BARABBAS.

You have lived half your life the weathercock Of every wind that blows—of every breeze.

AMPLIAS.

Now there, at last, our friend has something said, A weathercock's a rather useful thing— A tireless sentinel, and much in use To point sage morals for the young, when age Has set sad limits to men's haughtiness And left one luxury, the power to scold.

YACOB

(Pleasantly).

A restless symbol of the joy of change You Greeks so dearly love. Now then, blind friend, Your answer to our merry weathercock.

BARABBAS

( To YACOB).

He shall be answered when my hour has come. I am called Barabbas;—once you knew me well.

YACOB

(Smiles).

The storms of life, I fear, have wrecked for me Too many memories of younger days, And after all the name is not the man.

BARABBAS.

You were the Rabbi Yacob. Once we met— Not since that day have I seen face of man.

AMPLIAS.

That seems to hint a story. May I ask—

BARABBAS.

Ask—you may ask in vain; what matters it!

AMPLIAS.

I pray you, pardon me; but really now The talk goes back to something worth one's while, Grows eloquent of opportunity, And we may talk until the cool of night Leaves silver moons upon the dewy grass. That's worth remembrance for a fertile hour.

[Writes on his tablets.

YACOB.

Thanks for a pleasant thought. Sing now, my son, And keep some memory of those silver moons We used to call the Arab spider-tents. Forget us all, and be the poet-king.

[The boy rises proudly and chants.

DAVID.

This is a psalm of remembrance, A song to be sung Of three friends who loved me When I was still young. Dry-lipped from the desert I slumbered, accurst

With dreams of far waters That mocked at my thirst. I stood, a boy shepherd, Where guarding the brink The maiders asked coyly A song for a drink; Or naked and heated I lay where below The sun-gift from Lebanon Crumbled to snow, Till gaily, dream-happy, I raced through the shade Where far-braided silver Of rivulets strayed. What joy for the kiss of The virginal pool, Whose chaste water clasped me Delicious and cool, Where the white lilies rocked In the sun-cradled light. When waking, and thirsting, I moaned in the night, And cried, with lost manhood, "Who is there will bring Where Philistines guard it, A draft from the spring?" At morning I saw them— Men bleeding, and dumb, Till Asahel murmured, "My lord, we are come. We smote in the mid-watch The Philistine band; We smote till the sword hilt

Was locked to the hand. The vultures are stooping To find at the spring The dead who once guarded The water we bring— The water you asked for." They gave to my fear The skin bag men carry When battle is near. Ah, me, the mad longing! "Far be it, oh Lord!" On the sand of the desert The water I poured: "To the God of our fathers I give what you gave; I drink not, my brothers, The blood of the brave!"

AMPLIAS.

That voice in Rome, my lad, would bring you gold.

BARABBAS.

Does it bring nothing but a thought of gold?

AMPLIAS

(Gaily).

Nothing? Indeed! It opens golden mines. Of thought, conjecture, questions numberless. The water wasted on the desert sand Was such libation as at feasts we pour To Bacchus, master of the festal hour.

BARABBAS.

He gave from need, and you of base excess.

AMPLIAS

(Pleasantly).

No single motive ever rules a man. The custom may be old, and vanity Has many forms, as thus—

DAVID

(Aside to YACOB).

I hate the man.

AMPLIAS.

What says the lad?

YACOB.

Now answer him, my son, Say what you will. Speak out your honest thought.

DAVID.

I 'm very sorry that I sang for you; You would have drunk the water. You, our guest, Insult the memory of our hero-king.

AMPLIAS.

No man can say what such an hour may bring; Decisions vary with the weather's change.

BARABBAS.

Bird-witted ever, these light-minded Greeks!

AMPLIAS.

Another hour of thirst might—I suppose Those men drank deeply at the conquered spring?

DAVID

(Angrily).

They did not drink.

AMPLIAS.

And wherefore not, my lad?

DAVID.

I do not know; they went and came athirst.

YACOB.

The lad would say that had he been of them To kill and quench his thirst had lost their gift The nobleness of sacrificial honor.

DAVID.

I should have done as they did, now I know.

[For a time no one speaks. YACOB rises and throws wide the tent-flaps. AMPLIAS also rises, takes water from the water-jar, and leaning against the tent-pole speaks.

AMPLIAS.

When one goes wandering in that lesser world— Why not the greater—which men call the mind, He has adventures, like all travelers.—

BARABBAS

(Abruptly).

What find you now to mock a noble deed?

AMPLIAS.

While I flew carelessly the kites of thought, A naughty thief of manners stole away The gentlehood of courtesy. It was A noble deed, my lad, and fitting well The honor of a poet and a man.

YACOB.

Take you our thanks. I, too, was wandering, What is this gift, which lacking, man is dead?

BARABBAS.

One of our rabbis said, "The wine of God."

AMPLIAS.

That 's worth remembrance; just the thought-winged phrase A poet finds in some unequaled hour.

[Uses his tablets.

YACOB.

Of all the gifts of God most wonderful,Ocean or dewdrop, terrible or sweet.

AMPLIAS

(Gently, after a pause).

Again a thought, for but a moment lost. If your one God has power infinite, It follows surely that He may at will Give to Himself infinity of joy, And in some isolated wonderment Supremacy of happiness acquire, The artist gladness in created things.

YACOB.

He saw, and said the world He made was good.

AMPLIAS.

I could suggest exceptions.

YACOB.

There are none. For one who sees things with the eyes of Christ.

BARABBAS.

The eyes of Christ!—Ah, me, the eyes of Christ!

[AMPLIAS regarding him is silent a moment, and then says to Yacob:

AMPLIAS.

That which your God called good I do not know. A rose is beautiful, but is it good? What has your Christ to do with it? For me The world is but a very little place Through which one carries this thing called himself. One travels to escape monotony, Or memories, or such absurd demands On purse or heart as vex a man, and sow With sleepy poppies every garden space Where bloom the flowers of joy and idleness. I am to love my neighbor as myself— Or so my mother taught me. She, I saw, Is trapped by this philosophy of Christ. My neighbor! Well, but what becomes of me?

YACOB.

I trust, you listened.

AMPLIAS.

No, in came a girl, And then we fled. But now I find again In one strange phrase my sightless friend let fall This Christ, of whom in Cæsar's palaces Noble and knight in cautious whispers speak; Gentile and Jew bend down in prayer to him, Inheritors of some new hopefulness.

YACOB.

And you that love the old and mock the new, Would you know more of Him who died for man?

AMPLIAS.

I said the world was small. Once long ago

When feasting gaily by theÆgean sea, And we were glad with music, love, and wine, One sober fool cast mid our idle talk Words of this new revolt against the gods. A Roman gentleman, a man in years, Who sought the charm Falernian vineyards bring To make the minute young, said quietly, "I have some dim remembrance of the man. An arrogant, rebellious priesthood asked, As was the custom at their annual feast, That I set free one criminal. They chose A leader of revolt, and so to please Unruly Jews I sent this Christ to death. To-day men talk of this Judean serf; I had quite forgotten it; but now, of late, I sometimes wonder if—'twas but a chance, The other man had been the crucified.— Ho there, my girl, you of the golden hair! Fill, fill my goblet." There was Christ again! A sudden silence fell upon the feast, Till one beside me said, "That other man Had on his side the cheerful God of Luck."

BARABBAS

(Rising)

I was that other man.

YACOB.

What, you! Not you!

AMPLIAS.

So cross men's fates. I said the world was small!

YACOB

(To BARABBAS).

You were the hero of the priest-led mob!

We both are old. I, too, am one of those Who saw that day of wonder and of fear.

AMPLIAS.

I would hear more.

YACOB.

Ask of Barabbas then.

BARABBAS.

And if my heart I open wide to him, Will he but use for subtleties of talk The strangest hour the world has ever known?

AMPLIAS.

I shall but use it as my reason bids.

BARABBAS.

I do not know. You took the gift of life As takes a child some new and fragile toy, And had no word of thankfulness to God.

AMPLIAS.

You had my thanks. What other god save Chance Had I to thank for that large gift of life? There is no God. The gods of Greece are dead; The joy, the beauty and the grace of life Are gone with them. What now is left to me? Once as a boy I walked alert to see Some prick-eared fawn go gaily prancing by, Or sure I heard Diana's crescent bow Release wild music from the parting string, Whence silver arrows hurtled through the wood, Where tramped with laughter all her buskined maids.

And white-limbed Venus, mistress of delight! Ah, there's a goddess will outlive all gods! I found her smiling through a dozen girls.

BARABBAS.

Fantastic mockeries of love or power, The puppet fancies of men's poet-dreams.

AMPLIAS.

If the gods gave us poets, or they, gods, Poet and god immortal dreamers were, And from the faded pages of old books In days unborn the ghosts of gods will rise To preach a creed of beauty, love, and joy, And be the comrades of a poet's hour. One God! you say. No sooner is there one Than our poor pagan nature finds a need To personate anew His attributes, Or so I gather from my mother's talk.

YACOB.

The night is with us. I would have my say In sober morning hours before you leave.

AMPLIAS.

I find the midnight hour a wiser friend. I mock at no man's creed, and least of all At what beliefs my gentle mother holds. But since are gone my beautiful dear gods, I 've lost the chastity of virgin faith; Religion must be beautiful for me My mother's faith is sorrowful and sad And has no wings of joy. What else is left?

YACOB.

Ah, me, alas! When I was young as you, Question and answer, all the strife of tongues, Were more to me than honest search for truth. It may be so with you, I judge you not; But take with you to that strange world of sleep From which we bring so very little back, An old man's words of Him you seem to meet Or here or there wherever you may stray. In yonder little town upon the hill Long years ago a child of God was born. He taught, as none have taught, the creed of love; He had but little life. In those few years He wrought strange wonders, healed men's mortal ills, To win the crude belief of simple souls; Bade others follow him for what he was And what his wisdom taught to win to him The more reluctant mind of thoughtful men. He put aside the Hebrew's dream of power And, a mute king of truth, accepted death; But ask Barabbas now how this man died.

BARABBAS.

I keep no count how many years have gone Since I have told to any man this tale; Though I am old, I do not seem to age More than the sea that is forever young. When, as Pilatus told, he set me free To calm the priesthood, they were doubly pleased, For I had led a weak and vain revolt Which broke against the Roman's rock of power; And thus my freedom doomed the silent man

To what I looked for scourge and crucifix. Set free! I shudder that it seemed so sweet. Like to one drowning who sets foot on land, I drew long breaths of open air and glad Basked in the sun unseen for many a month, I was the hero of an hour, and shared The priesthood's hatred and their scorn of Him Whose silence was the ransom of my life. I followed them with thoughts at last set free From night-long dreams of anguish on the cross Till clanking fetters woke me to despair. The man I watched upon his way to death Bent stumbling 'neath his cross; and then and there Some pity for this strange, insulting death Held me to thought of what I might have been Had he but made one eloquent appeal. Why was he silent? He deserved to die. False to our fathers' creed, he had the power To lead a host to freedom, and for God To call to battle all those crouching slaves, Sweep clean the land from Moab to the sea And hurl the Roman from his seat of pride! A king of men! In some uplifting hour The prophet hand that gave the Maccabee Victorious visions and a sword of gold Had won this wasted life to strike and slay.

[BARABBAS, who had been standing, sinks down exhausted, and all are silent until AMPLIAS speaks.

AMPLIAS.

You cannot leave me with this half-told tale. How died this man of whom while yet he lived

Only Judea knew, but now, though dead, Lives like the risen sun with growing power?

YACOB.

I too would hear—I did not stay to see The fading sunset of a noble life.

BARABBAS.

It is not easily told

AMPLIAS.

Nor lightly heard.

[BARABBAS rises again feebly and leaning against the tent-pole is silent, and at last speaks.

BARABBAS.

The mocking rabble slowly moved away, While I in silence lingered, wondering What secret held this suicidal death. So rich a life with such calm courage spent, While I who for my nation boldly dared Had feared for months the scourging and the cross.That I might be where now this brave man hung Thrilled me at last with strange companionship In His long torture's awful loneliness. The guard lay idly round a waning fire, The stern centurion stood indifferent; Only the sob of women far away Came and was lost. A soldier stirred the fire. Some power of capture in the pleading eyes Drew me yet nearer till all will was lost; When that long wail of agonized appeal

Broke on the friendless silence of the night, My eyes were His to hold—His eyes were mine. The blood-stained cross shook with the throes of death; The black hair heavy with the sweat of death, Dropped o'er the fallen head, while suddenly The earth rocked under me. I heard afar The screams of women and the cries of men, Uprooted trees, the crash of wall and tower; And through it ever those beseeching eyes I saw and fell, and reeling rose again Blind, blind forever, as my soul had been, With one last memory of those seeking eyes.

AMPLIAS

(Gravely).

As strange a story as was ever told! Why you it plainly cost so much to tell Chose for the hearing one you pleased to call A mere light-minded trifler, you may know; At least you have the gratitude of thanks From one too apt to hide his graver thought Beneath a mask, but now would ask of you What sequel has the tale no man could hear Without distress for that man and for you.

BARABBAS.

No, it is not the end. For many a year Through perils numberless my steps have gone, The alms of death denied my beggared life. From land to land a gentle child-like hand, Or some low voice of warning guided me. This, this at least, whatever else you doubt, You cannot dare to question. Everywhere

This tender touch has led me unto men Who are the servants of this Christ who died. That hand, unfelt, still leads you near to Him. My tale is told, and I must wander on.

YACOB.

Why not abide with us?

BARABBAS.

No, I must go. When that still guiding hand is lost to me, Then I shall know that I have led to Christ A soul that brings me to my journey's end; Ah! then perhaps those eyes of agony Will smile on me. I have so often tried, And tried in vain.

AMPLIAS.

Take then to sleep my thanks For something more than merely food and life.

BARABBAS.

The peace of God be with you all to-night.

YACOB

(To BARABBAS).

David, my son, will share with you his tent.

(To AMPLIAS)

You will rest here with me, I trust, so longAs you find pleasure in our peaceful life.

[The lad returns in haste,

DAVID.

Barabbas asks for water—

[The boy hesitates.

YACOB.

Now, my son,Why are you waiting? Take with you what else Our guest may need for comfort and for rest.

DAVID.

The man who came this evening to our tents, As comes my dog to find me at the fold. And for two days led here the man who sees—

[Pauses.

AMPLIAS.

What else, my lad?

DAVID

(Hesitating)

He did not seem to know Which way to go; I led him like a child. He only said, "Thank God, the eyes are gone! The eyes are gone!" The man seemed very strange.

YACOB.

And was not troubled?

DAVID.

No, he bade me say The hand had left him, and the voice was still!

[YACOB stands in thought.

YACOB.

Perchance to-morrow he may be again The man he was this morning. Go, my son.

[DAVID leaves him.

MORNING AT DAWN.

AMPLIAS.

Yes, I slept soundly, but those eyes he saw Haunted my dreams. I go away to-day.

Now if your son will set me on the road, Jerusalem will find me needed gold, Friends of my people, and some days of rest. I go just now to say my latest thanks To this strange messenger with words as strange.

[He leaves, and returns in haste much disturbed.

AMPLIAS.

Your son is sleeping and I did not wake him. The man is dead.

YACOB.

Dead! Are you sure, my friend?

AMPLIAS.

Yes, he is dead. I have seen many die, But never one who like this stranger seemed To smile upon me through the face of death.

YACOB.

Then he is happy. He has found perhaps The man his life has sought.

AMPLIAS.

Perhaps, perhaps!

1.1

Notes

• 1.1

  This poem was first published, posthumously, in April 1914

  BAR HARBOR, August 1913