Skip to main content

Full text of "The Poetical Works of S. T. Coleridge"

See other formats 


Google 



This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 



£ 



i 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
S. T. COLERIDGE. 



^ 



IN THREE VOLUMES. 



VOL. II. 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
S. T. COLERIDGE. 




LONDON 

W. PICKERING. 

BOSTON : 

BILLIARD, GRAY &, CO . 







• ■•" • . ^ * 












\: ^^cr^-f " 



^ W «» «* 



« 

N 



J. D. nsaMAK, PEIRTSft. 



•■■■ K 
'ii.' 

■/:■/' • ■ 



CONTENTS. 



VOLUME II. 



Thk Avcikitt MaRI5JEB. Fllft 

Part I I 

II 5 

III 7 

IV 10 

V 18 

VI 18 

VII 23 

Christabei., Part 1 28 

Conclusion to Part I • ... 39 

Part II 41 

Conclasion to Part II 53 

Misckllaheous Poems. 

Alice du Clos ; or the Forked Tongue. A Ballad 56 

The Knight's Tomb 64 

Hymn to the Earth 65 

Written during a temporary blindness, 1799 67 

Mahomet 68 

CatuUian Hendecasyllables 69 

Duty surviving Self-Love 69 

Phantom or Fact ? A Dialogue in Verse . . 70 

Phantom 71 

Work without Hope ......... 71 

Youth and Age t% 



VI CONTENTS. 

Miscellaneous Poems. Page 

A Day Dream 74 

Love and Friendship opposite 76 

Names 76 

Desire 77 

First Advent of Love 77 

Not at Home 77 

To a Lady offended by a sportive observation . 78 

Why Love is Blind 78 

Lines suggested by the last Words of Berengarius 79 

Sancti Dominici Pallium ..80 

The Devil's Thoughts 83 

The two round Spaces on the Tombstone . . 87 

Lines to a Comic Author 89 

Constancy to an Ideal Object 90 

The Suicide's Argument . 91 

The Blossoming of the solitary Date- Tree . . 92 

From the German 95 

Fancy in Nubibus d6 

The Two Founts 96 

The Wanderings of Cain 99 

Allegoric Vision 109 

New Thoughts on Old Subjects 117 

The Garden of Boccaccio 127 

On a Cataract 131 

Love's Apparition and fivanishment .... 132 

Morning Invitation to a Child 133 

Consolation of a Maniac 13.^ 

A Character 13' 

The Reproof and Reply 14^ 

Cholera cured beforehand 1 

Cologne 

On my joyful departure from the same City 



CONTENTS. VU 

DBLLAMEOUS PoEMS. p^ge 

Vritten in an Album 145 

'o the Author of the Ancient Mariner . . .145 

[etrical Feet. Lesson for a Boy 145 

'he Homeric Hexameter described and exem- 
plified 146 

'he Ovidian £legiac Metre described and ex- 
emplified 146 

b the Toung Artist, Kayser of Kayserworth . 147 

>b's Luck 147 

n a Volunteer Singer 148 

n an Insignificant 148 

rofuse Kindness 148 

harity in Thought 148 

humility the Mother of Charity 149 

n an Infant, which died before Baptism . . 149 
n Berkeley and Florence Coleridge .... 149 

IvmOi a§avr6vf" &c 150 

Gently I took," &c 151 

[y Baptismal Birthday 151 

pitaph 152 

ORSE, ▲ Tragedy 153 

ppendix 287 

>LTAy A Christmas Tale. 

art I. The Prelude, entitled " The Usurper's 

Fortune ** 241 

art n. The Sequel, entitled " The Usurper's 

Fate " 267 

Fall of Robespierre 343 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



IN SEVEN PARTS. 



'PjkCiiiE credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles qaam 
visibiles in rerum uniyersitate. Sed horiim omnium 
^iuniliam quis nobis enarrabit, et gradus et cognationes 
ct discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? 
^U8B loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper 
ttJnbivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, 
ixiterea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in 
'^buld, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : 
Ae mens assuefacta hodierns vit£ minutiis se contrahat 
x^imis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed 
Veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, 
Ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. 

T. BURNET. ARCHJEOL. PHIL. p. 68. 



PART I. 



It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

*<By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

*^ The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

TOL. II. 1 



An ancient 

Mariner 

meetethUir 

Sallanta bid- 
en to a we 
ding-feaet, 
and detaine 
one. 



2 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



Tbe wedding 
guest is spell- 
U>und by the 
eye of the old 
•ea-faring 
man, and 
constrained 
to bear bis 
tale. 



He holds him with his skinny hand, 
" There was a ship," quoth he. 
" Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon !" 
Eflsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The wedding-guest stood still, 
And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the lighthouse top. 



The Mariner 
tells how the 
■hip sailed 
■ootliward 
wIMiagood 
wind and (hir 
weather, till 
K iMched the 
line. 



The sun came up upon the left. 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — 

The wedding-guest here beat his breaat^ 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



Tlie wedding ^he bride hath naced into the hall, 
gjoest heareth '^ ' 

the bridal Red as a rose irae ; 

jBim}ej but 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



3 



the^ heads before her goes 
y minstrelsy. 

ling-guest he beat his breast, 
unot choose but hear ; 
spakQ on that ancient man, 
it-eyed Mariner. 

the storm-blast came, and he 
anous and strong : 
: with his o'ertaking wings, 
ed us south along. 

)ing masts and dipping prow, 
pursued with yell and blow 
Is the shadow of his foe, 
'ard bends his head, 
drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
hward aye we fled. 

there came both mist and snow, 
ew wondrous cold : 
diast-high, came floating by, 
as emerald. 

igh the drifts the snowy clifls 
a dismal sheen : 
SB of men nor beasts we ken — 
Tna all between. 



the mariner 
continuetli 
his tale. 



The ship 
drawn by a 
■torm towaril 
the Bcititli 
pole. 



The land of 
ice, and of 
fearl\il 

■ounds wlicre 
no living 
thing was to 
bv seen. 



Fas here, the ice was there, 

■ 

ras all around : 



THE ANCIEITT MARINER. 



Till a sreat 
sea-biro, 
called tbe 
albatross, 
came throagh 
the snow-fog, 
and was re- 
ceived with 
great Joy and 
fiospitaiity. 



And lo ! tbe 
albatross 
proveth a 
bird of good . 
omen, and 
iblloweth the 
ship as it re- 
turned north- 
ward throagh 
fog and float- 
ing Ice. 



Tbe'^ncient 
Mariner 
inhospitably 
kUleth the 
pious bird of 
good omen. 



It cracked and growled, and roared and howle< 
Like noises in a swound ! 

At length did cross an albatross, 
Through the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through! 

And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

Glimmered the white moon-shine. 

" God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so ?" — ^With my cross-bow 
I shot the albatross. 



TBB ANCISirT MARIinER. 



PART II. 

i¥ rose upon the right : 
ea came he, 
aist, and on the left 
into the sea. 

d south wind still blew behind, 
t bird did follow, 
for food or play 
mariner's hollo ! 



one a heUish thmg, 

i work 'era woe : 

«d, I had killed the bird 

he breeze to blow. 

said they, the bird to slay, 

he breeze to blow ! 

red, like God's own head, 

I sun uprist : 

rred, I had killed the bird 

t the fog and mist 

said they, such birds to slay, 

le fog and mist 

)ze blew, the white foam flew, 

foUowed free ; 

) first that ever burst 

ntsea. 



Hfaidiip- 
matesoyout 
againgt tbe 
ancient Ma- 
riner, for 
kUling tbe 
Urdor good 
lack. 



But when the 
fog cleared 
off, they Jus- 
tify the same, 
and thus 
make them- 
selves ac- 
complices in 
the crime. 

Thefhir 
breeze con- 
tinues; the 
ship enters 
tbia Pacific 
Ocean, and 
sails noTthr 

t^YL«IM3SA% 



6 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

The Bbipbath Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt dowD, 
lyl^caimed. Twas sad as sad could be ; 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea I 

All in a hot and copper sky^ 
The bloody sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mafrt did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



And tbf al- 
batroas be- 
gins to be 
avenged. 



A spirit liad 
followed 
them; one<rf 
ibe jnviribie 



Water, water, every where. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, every where,* 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ f 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with leg» 
Upon the slimy sea.. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oUs, 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 



inhabitants 
of this plane 
neither de- 
parted souls 
' nor angels ; 

concerning whom the learned Jew, Josepbus, and the Platonic Constantinopolita; 

Michael Psellus, may be consulted. 'J'hey are very numerous, and there is no d 

mate or element without one or more. 



And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had heen choked with soot 

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looKr 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the alhatross 
About my neck was hung. 



PART III. 

There passed a ^eary time. Eku^h throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary tune ! 
How glazed each weary eye, • 
When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

• • ■ 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist ; * 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist 



The ship- 
mates, in 
their sore 
distress, 
would iain 
throw the 
whole guilt 
on the an- 
cient Mari- 
ner : in sien 
whereof the 
hang the del 
fiea-bird * 
round his 
neck. 



The ancient 
Mariner ip- 
holdeth asif 
in the ele- 
ment afar o 



8 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him 
to be a ship ; 
and at a dear 
ranaom he 
fteeth bis 
■peechfrom 
the bonds of 
thhrat. 



A flash of 

Joy; 



AndboiTOT 
fi>llowf. For 
canitbea 
•hip that 
comes on* 
ward without 
wind or tide ? 



A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black Ups baked 
Agape they heard me call : 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide. 
She steadies with upright keel ! 

The western wave was all a-flame. 
The day was Well nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright sun ; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 



Itaeemeth 
bim but the 
skeleton of a 



* And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 



THS ANCIENT MARINER. 



iigh a duDgeon-grate he peered 
d and bumiDg face. 

ught I, and my heart beat loud) 
)he nears and nears ! 
her sails that glance m the sun, 
SB gossameres ? 

her ribs through which the sun 
IS through a grate ? 
t woman all her crew ? 
>eath ? and are there twb ? 
[lat woman's mate ? 

ere red, her looks were free, 
were yellow as gold : 
iras as white as leprosy, 
-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
s man's blood with cold. 

[ hulk alongside came, 
train were casting dice ; 
e is done ! I've, I've won !" 
, and whistles thrice. 

rim dips ; the stars rush out ; 
de comes the dark ; 
eard whisper, o'er the sea, 
le spectre-bark. 

d and looked sideways up! 
' heart, as at a cup. 



And it! rite 
are Men w 
banontlw 
face of the 
setting ran. 
The spectre- 
woman and 
her death* 
mate, and no 
other on 
board the 
skeleton- 
ship. 

Like vessel, 
like crew ! 



Death and 
Ufe-in-death 
have diced 
for the ship** 
crew, and 
she (the lat- 
ter) winneth 
the ancient 
Mariner. 



No twilight 
within the 
courts of the 
son. 



At the rising 
of the moon. 



10 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



One after 
another, 



Bis •hip- 
mates drop 
down dead. 



But Lire-in- 
Death be- 
gins her 
woric on the 
ancient Ma- 
riner. 



My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed i 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The homed moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged moon. 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned ^is face with a ghastly pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by. 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 



PART IV. 
The wedding " I TEAR thee, ancient Mariner I 

SS'a^Siri? I ^^ ^y «^^y ^^^^ • 

is taiicing to And thou art long, and lank, and brovirn, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand.' 



1 For the last two lines of this stanza, I am ind( 



THK ▲irclXlIT MARINXR. 



n 



1 fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
I Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! 
body dropt not down. 



BatUie 
cient Map 



Alone, alone, aU, all alone. 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Liyed on ; and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 
And the balls like pulses beat ; 

Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delightfal walk from 
Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, 
in the aatumn of 17^, that this poem was planned, and 
in part eompoeed. 



rineri 
eth ^im of 
bis bodUj 
life, and 
ceodfltb to n 
late his hotil- 
ble penanes. 



HedesplaeUi 
the creatures 
cf the calm. 



And envieth 
that tbey 
should li?e, 
and BO many 
lie dead. 



12 



THE ANCIENT* MARINER. 



But the ctine 
UTetb for him 
In the eye of 
the 



oeey< 
dMd 



For the sky and the sea, and the sea and^he i 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan's cm*se would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

In hkiloneii- The moving moon went up the sky, 

fixedness he And no where did abide : 

JH^^i^ Softly she was going up, 

joarneyinc And a Star or two beside — 

moon, and 

the stars that 

stUl sojourn, yet still move onward ; and every where the blue sky beh 

them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own 

homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expect 

yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 
Like Apnl hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Bv the lif ht Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
be beholdeth I watched the water-snakes : 



THE ▲NCIEIIT MARIIIER. 



13 



I in tracks of shining white, 
hey reared, the elfish light 
loory flakes. 

shadow of the ship 

leir rich attire : 

green, and velvet black, 

and swam ; and every track 

of. golden fire. 

ing things ! no tongue 

jT might declare : 

love gushed from my heart, 

9d them unaware : 

hI saint took pity on me, 

9d them unaware. 

e moment I could pray ; 
ly neck so free 
s fell off, and sank 
to theses. 



Ood*8 
turei of tiM 
great calB. 



Tbetr beaiitjr 
and ttielr 
happinMi. 

HeMeiMth 
theminhki 
heart. 



Tbeepellbe- 
ginato bfwk. 



PART V. 



t is a gentle thing, 

m pole to pole ! 

aeen the praise be given ! 

) gentle sleep from heaven, 

to my soul. 



14 



TH£ AirCIEirT MA&IHKK. 



By grace of 
tbeboly 
Mocber, the 
•ndeiit Ma- 
riner Is re- 
fretbed with 
nio. 



Hehearatta 

Boonilsaod 

■eethalrange 

■Iglita and 

eoBOMtlona 

hittaesky 

indtbeele- 

nent. 



The silly buckets od the deck, 

Tbat tiad so long reiuaiDcd, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a ble8sc<l ghost 

And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails. 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out. 
The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down Grom one black el 
The moon was at its edge. 



The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side : 



THE ANCIEIVT MARINER. 



15 



stters shot from some high crag, 
htning fell with never a jag, 
steep and wide. 

id wind never reached the ship, 
w the ship moved on ! 
\i the lightning and the moon 
ad men gave a groan. 

Toaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
ake, nor moved their eyes ; 
been strange, even' in a dream, 
e seen those dead men rise. 



The bodies of 
the ship's 
crew are 
innpired, and 
the ship 
moves on j 



ilmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 
ver a breeze up blew ; 
ariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
they were wont to do ; 
aised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
jre a ghastly crew. 

»dy of my brother's son 
3y me, knee to knee : 
>dy and I pulled at one rope, 
said nought to me. 

• thee, ancient Mariner!" 
n, thou wedding-guest ! 
not those souls that fled in pain, 
to their corses came again, 
roop of spirits blest: 



Bat not by 
the souls of 
the men, nor 
by demons of 
earth or 
middle air, 
but by a 
blessed troop 
of angelic 
spirits, sent 
down by the 
invocation of 
the guardian 
saint. 



16 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their moutba 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are. 
How tiiey seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments. 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song. 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 
I'A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, ) 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



17 



r and smoothly went the ship, 
I onivard from beneath. 

' the keel nine &thom deep, 
the land of mist and snow, 
pirit slid : and it was he 
nade the ship to go. 
ails at noon left off their tune, 
he ship stood still also. 

un, right up above the mast, 

ixed her to the ocean : 

1 a minute she 'gan stir, 

a short uneasy motion — 

ivards and forwards half her length 

a short uneasy motion. 

like a pawing horse let go, 
nade a sudden bound ; 
ig the blood into my head, 
[ fell down in a swound. 



The lonawme 
■pirIt (torn 
the wnith pole 
carries on tbe 
ship as ftr 
as tbe line, in 
obedience to 
the aocdic 
troop, bat stni 
requireth ven- 
geance. 



long in that same fit I lay, 
3 not to declare ; 
re my living life returned, 
rd, and in my soul discerned 
voices in the air. 

he ?" quoth one, " Is this the man ? 
m who died on cross, 

'OL. II. 2 



The Polar 
spirit's fellow 
demons, the 
invisible in- 
habitants of 
tlie element, 
take part in 
his wrong; 
and two of 
them relate, 
one to the 
other, that 
penance lonjg 
and heavy for 



B ancient 
urinerbatb 
en accorded 
tbe Polar 
Irit, who 
nrnetta 
uthward. 



18 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

"The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, " The man hath penance done. 

And penance more will do." 



PART VI. 



FIRST VOICE. 

But tell mp, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord. 
The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 



THE ANCIENT ILUIINXR. 



19 



If he may know whieh way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him. 



FIRST VOICE. # 

But why drives cm that ship so ftst, 
Without or wave or wind ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated: 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated. 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather : 

Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 

The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck. 
For a chaniel-dungeon fitter : 
All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
Had never passed away : 



Tbe Marine 
hath been 
cast into a 
tnnce ; for 
tbe angdie 
power cam- 
eth tbe ye« 
to drive not 
ward Alter 
tlianhamai] 
life could ei 
dure. 



Tlie aupemi 
turalmotioi 
ia retarded j 
tbe Marina 
awalEea, ani 
his penance 
begins anew 



20 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

I could not draw my eyes from theii^. 
Nor twn them up to pray. 

rbe cune \a And now this spell was snapt : once more 

lied!^ **P*" I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked faftbrth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, tL.. on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread. 
And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

SwifUy, swiftly flew the ship. 
Yet she sailed soflly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze- 
On me alone it blew< 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 21 

'h ! drc.iffi of joy ! Is this indeed 

he i.i, .i-house top I see ? riJot^MariU 

I this the hiU ? is this the kirk ? behoideth idi 

... . n nativa coun- 

) this mine own countree ? try. 



i^e drifted o'er the harfoour-har, 
nd I with sobs did pray — 
' let me be awake, my Grod ! 
'r let me sleep alway. 

he harbour-bay was clear as glass, 

smoothly it was strewn ! 

nd on the bay the moonlight lay, 
nd the shadow of the moon. 

he rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
hat stands above the rock : 
he moonlight steeped in silentness 
he steady weathercock. 

nd the bay was white with silent light, 

'ill rising from the same, 

ull many shapes, that shadows were. The angelic 

1 crimson colours came. Se dea?^* 

bodiea, 

. little distance from the prow And appear 

_ . , , in their own 

hose cnmsm shadows were : forma of light 

turned my eyes upon the deck — 

h, Christ ! what saw I there ! 



2S2 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
It vras a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the pilot's cheer; 
My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
It is the hermit good ! 
He Gongeth loud his godly hynms 
That he makes in the wood. * 

He'll shrieve my soul, hell wash away 
The Albatross's blood. 



THE ANCIEITT MARINER. 



33 



PART VII. 

This hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far couutree. 

He kneels at mom, and noon^ and eve— 
He hath a cushion plump : 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skifT-hoat neared : I heard them talk, 
"Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair. 
That signal made but now ?" 

" Strange, by my faith !" the hennit said — 

" And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, 

How thin they are and sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolTs young." 



The hermit 
the wood, 



Approachetl 
the ship wit 
wonder. 






24 THE ANCIEiVT MARINER. 



" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — I 

(The pilot made reply) \ 

I ana a-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " I 

Said the hermit cheerily. 1 



t 



The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

rhe ibip 8ud- Under the water it rumbled on, 
Btb. Still louder and more dread : 

It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 

The ship went down like lead. 

• 

The ancient Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 

HkTed in Uie Which sky and ocean smote, 

pilot's boat. Ljjjg Qne tjj^t jjj^^lj y^gg^ seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But swifl as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked 
And fell down iii a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



25 



oars : the pilot's boy, 
doth crazy go, 

oud and long, and all the while 
irent to and fro. 
" quoth he, " full plain I see, 
knows how to row.'* 

all in my own counti'ee, 
the firm land ! 

it stepped forth from the boat, 
ely he could stand. 

e me, shrieve me, holy man ! " 
it crossed his brow, 
k," quoth he, " I bid thee say-^ 
iner of man ait thou ? " 

this frame of mine was wrenched 

»ful agony, 

ced me to begin my tale ; 

it left me free. 



The ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreatetli 
the hermit to 
shrieve him ; 
and the pen- 
ance of life 
fblls on him. 



., at an uncertain hour, 
ly returns: 
y ghastly tale is told, 
within me bums. 

$ night, from land to land ; 
nge power of specck ; 
ent that his face I see, 
i man that must hear me : 
y tale 1 teach. 



And eyer 
and anon 
throughout 
hia taUue life 
an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land; 



26 THE ANCIE.NT MARmER. 

What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding-guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

O wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
"Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

^t^ S?*' Farewell, farewell ! but this I teU 

oninple, love To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 

all thingi He prayeth well, who loveth well 

^•^<i Both man and bird and beast. 



nadcand 
ovetti. 



He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear GJod who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all." 



THE ANCIENT MAIIINER. 37 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone : and now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one^hat hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man. 
He rose the morrow mom. 



2S 



CIIRISTABEL. 



PREFACE. • 

Thc lint part of the following poem was written in tki 
year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. TItt 
second part, after my return from Germany, in the yctf 
1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable, that if 
the poem had been fininhed at either of thc former ft' 
riods, or if even the first and second part had been pok* 
lished in tlie year 1800, the impression of its originality 
would have been much greater than I dare at preseal 
expect. But for this, I have only my own indolence to 
blame. The dates are mentioned for the ezclosiif 
purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or serrik 
imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a seiflf 
critics, who seem to hold, that every possible though 
and image is traditional ; who have no notion that thai 
are such things as fountains in the world, small aa wdD 
as great ; and who would therefore charitably derive 
every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation mail 
in some other man*s tank. 1 am confident, howeW» 
that as far as the present poem is concerned, the oel^ 
brated poets whose writings 1 might be suspected if 
having imitated, either in particular passages, or in thi 
tone and spirit of the whole, would be among the fidt 
to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on anj itiik* 

« To the edition of 1816* 



J 



z 



V 



CHRI9TABEL. 29 

hag coincidence, would permit 'me to address them in 
this doggerel version of two monkish Latin hexameters. 

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours ; 
But an if this will not do ; 
Let it be mine, good friend ! for I 
Am tbe poorer of the two. 

I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is 
not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so 
from its being founded on a new principle : namely, that 
of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. 
Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet 
in each line the accents will be found to be only four. 
Nevertheless this occasional variation in number of syl- 
lables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends 
of convenience, but in correspondence with some transi- 
tion, in the nature of the imagery or passion. 



PART I. 

'TIS the middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ; 

Tu— whit ! ^Tu— -whoo ! 

And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the baron rich, 

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

She maketh answer to the clock. 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 



30 CHRISTABEL. 

Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly^ but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks bo«^h small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well. 

What makes her in the wood so late, 

A flirlong from the casde gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke. 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low. 
And naught was green upon the oak. 
But moss and rarest misletoe : 
She kneels beneath the liuge oak tree, 
And in silence prayeth she. 

. •?• 
The lady sprang up suddenly, ^s^- 



CHRISTABEL. 31 

The lovely lady, Christabel ! 

It moaned as near, as near can be, 

But what it is, she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 

There is not w'md enough in the air 

To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 

That dances as often as dance it can, 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 
Dressed in a silken robe of white. 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
The neck that made that white robe wan, 
Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were. 
And wildly glittered here and there . 



32 CHRISTABEL. 

The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess 'twas fiigfatful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly! 

^ Mary mother, save me now ! 
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou ? 

The lady strange made answer meet, 
And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weariness : 
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! 
Said Christabel, How camest thou here ? 
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 

My sire is of a noble line. 

And my name is Greraldine : 

Five warriors seized me yestermom, 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with, force and fright, 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white : 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how k>ng it is 



CHRI8TABEL. 33 

(For I have lain totranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five, 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me midemeath this oak ; 

He swore they would return with haste ; 

Whither they went I cannot tell — 

I thought I heard, some minutes past, 

Sounds as of a castle bell. 

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she,) 

And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 

And comforted fair Greraldine : 

O well, bright dame ! may you command 

The service of Sir Leoline ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal 

To guide and guard you safe and free 

Home to your noble Other's hall. 

She rose : and forth with steps they passed 
That strove to he, and were not, fast 
Her gracious stars the lady blest. 
And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
AH our household are at rest. 
The hall as silent as the cell ; 
Sir Leoline is weak in health, 
And may not well awakened be, 

TOI.. II. 3 



I! 



34 CHRISTABEL. 

But we will move as if in stealth, 

And I beseech your courtesy, 

^his night, to share your couch with me. 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she opened straight. 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and without, 

Where an army in battle array had marched out. 

The lady sank, belike through pain. 

And Christabel with might and main 

Lifted her up, a weary weight. 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again. 

And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free fi-om fear. 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 

To the lady by her side ; 

Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 

Alas, afas ! said Greraldine, 

I cannot speak for weariness. 

So free from danger, free from fear. 

They crossed the court : right glad they wa«. 

Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 



cbIUbtabsl. 35 

"he maBtifr old did not awake, 
''et she an angry moan did make ! 
ind what can ail the mastifr bitch ? 
Teyer till now she uttered yell 
teneath the eye of Christabel, 
'erhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
'or what can ail the maBtiff bitch ? 

liey passed the hall that echoes stiD, 

'ass as lighdy as you will ! 

Ike brands were flat, the brands were dying, 

Lmid their own white ashes lying ; 

(ut when the lady passed, there came 

L tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 

.nd Christabel saw the lady's eye, 

ind nothing else saw she thereby, 

ave the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 

Hiich hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 

> softly tread, said Christabel, 

[y father seldom sleepeth well. 

weet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
jid, jealous of the listening air, 
liey steal their way from stair to stair, 
fow in glioamer, and now in gloom, 
ind now they pass the baron's room, 
3 still as death with stifled breath ! 
jid now have reached her chamber door ; 
jad now doth Geraldine press down 
"he rushes of the chamber floor. 



96 CHIUSTAB££,« 

The moon shines dim in the open air. 

And not a moonbeam enters here. 

But they widiout its light can see 

The chamber carred so curiously, 

Carved with figures strange and sweet, 

All made out of the carver's brain, 

For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp bums dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp wiU trim. 

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright. 

And left it swinging to and fro, 

While Geraldine, in vfrretched plight. 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

weary lady, Greraldine, 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And will your mother pity me. 
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I was bom. 
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, 
How on her death-bed she did say, 
That she should hear the castle-bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding day. 

mother dear ! that thou wert here ! 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 



CHRI9TABEL. 37 

But soon with altered voice, said she — 
^ Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
I have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, 
" Off, woman off! this hour is mine- 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
Off, woman off! 'tis given to me.'* 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride — 
Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow. 
And faintly said, " 'tis over now ! " 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
And from the floor whereon she sank. 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautiful to see. 
Like a lady of a fiu* countree. 



And thus the lofty lady spak( 

All they, who live in the upper ^y, 

Do love you, holy Christabel ! 

And you love them, and for their sake 

And for the good which me befell. 

Even I in my degree will try, 



> 



38 CHRISTABEL. 

Fair maideD, to requite you welL 
But now unrobe yourself; for 1 
Must pray^ ere yet in/bed I lie. 

Quoth Christabel, so let it be ! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain, of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So half-way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the lady Geraldine. 

B^Qeath the lamp the lady bowed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast : 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side— 
A sight to dream of, not to teU ! 
O shield her ! ahieM sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 



CHmiSTABSL. 99 

To lift some weight with sick assay, 
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
Then suddenly as one defied 
Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
And lay down by the maiden's nde ! — 
And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah well-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
These words did say : 

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell. 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-monow 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 

But vainly thou warrest, 
For this is alone in 

Thy power to declare. 
That in the dim forest 

Thou heard'st a low moaning. 
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 
And didst bring her home with thee in love and 

in charity. 
To shield her and shelter her fi*om the damp air. 



THE CONCLUSION TO PAKT I. 



It was a lovely sight to see 
The lady Christabel, when she 
Was praying at the old oak tree. 
Amid the jagged shadows 



40 CHRISTABEL. 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight, 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her sleader pahns together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her fiice resigned to bliss or bale— 
Her &ce, oh call it fair not pale, 
And both blue eyes more briebt than clear. 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
Dreaming that alone, which is — 
O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
' The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree ? 
And lo I the worker of these harms, 
That holds the maiden in her arms. 
Seems to slumber still and mild. 
As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 

O Greraldine ! since arms of thine 

Have been the lovely lady's prison. 

O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 

Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and riU, 

The night-birds all that hour were stilL 

But now they are jubilant anew, 

From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 

Tu—whoo ! tu — ^whoo ! from wood and fell I 



CHRI8TABEL. 41 

And see ! the lady Christabel 
Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
Her limbs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin Uds 
Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 
Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
And oft the while she seems to smile 
As infants at a sudden light ! 
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
Like a youthful hermitess. 
Beauteous in a wilderness. 
Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
And, if she move unquietly, 
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free. 
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
What if her guardian spirit 'twere ? 
What if she knew her mother near ? 
But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
That saints will aid if men will call : 
For the blue sky bends over all ! 



PART IL 

Each matin bell, the baron saith. 
Knells us back to a world of death. 
These words Sir Leoline first said. 
When he rose and foimd his lady dead : 



42 CHRISTABEL. 

These words Sir Leoline will say, 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began, 
That still at dawn the sacristan, 
Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
Five and forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke — a warning knell. 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracy the bard, so let it knell ! 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowly as he can ! 
There is no lack of such, I ween. 
As well fill up the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witches Lair, 
And Dungeon -ghy 11 so foully rent. 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons* ghosts are pent. 
Who all give back, one after t'other. 
The death-note to their living brother ; 
And oft too, by the knell oftended, 
Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended. 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borodale. 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
And Geraldine shakes oft" her dread, 



CHRI8TABSL. 43 

And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vestments white, 
And tricks hex hair in lovely plight, 
And nothing doubting of her spell 
Awakens the lady ChristabeL 
" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same who lay down by her side — 
O rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 
Nay, feirer yet ! and yet more feir ! 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her looks, her air 
Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
" Sure I have sinned ! " said Christabel, 
" Now heaven be praised if all he well ! " 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. 
Did she the loftv lady greet 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
That He, who on the cross did groan. 
Might waah awi^ her sins unknown. 



44 CHRISTABEL. 

She forthwith led fair Greraldine 
To meet her su^, Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall, 
And pacing on through page and groom, 
Enter the baron's presence room. 

The baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies. 
And gave such welcome to the same. 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But when he beard the lady's tale. 
And when she told her father^s name, 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
Murmuring o'er the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tqpgues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 



CHRI8TABEL. 45 

And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like clifl^ which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreaiy sea now flows between ; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been. 

• 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
And thg youthful lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

then the baron forgot his age. 

His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side. 

He would proclaim it far and wide 

With trump and solemn heraldry. 

That they who thus had wronged the dame. 

Were base as spotted infamy ! 

" And if they dare deny the same. 

My herald sball appoint a week. 

And let the recreant traitors seek 

My tourney-court — ^that there and then 

1 may dislodge their reptile souls 
From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 



46 CHRISTABEL. 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and 

In the beautiful lady the child of his firieod 1 

And now the tears were on his fiice, 
And fondly in his arms he took 
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace^ ,.,-7 
Prolonging it with joyous look. 
Which when she viewed, a vision fell. 
Upon the soul of Christabel, 
The vision of fear, the touch and pain! ,; 
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw agaio-iK^ 
(Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, ^^r 

Thou gentle nudd ! such sights to see ?) 
Again she saw that bosom old, ^ ,g., . 

Again she felt that boson\ cold, ..J:: 

And drew in her breath with a hissing soxind: 
Whereat the knight turned wildly rouodt; 
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed* 

The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
And in its stead that vision blest. 
Which comforted her after-rest. 
While in the lady's arms she lay, 
Had put a rapture in her breast, 
And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprint 
** What ails then my beloved child ? " 
The baron said — ^His daughter mild 



CHRI8TABEL. 47 

r,«AllwiUyctbeweU!» 
[ weeny eiie bad no power to tell 
Aiught ek» : so mighty was the speU. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Bad deein^ her siire a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
\b if she- feared, she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
4iid widirflach lowly tones she prayed, 
Star might be sent without delay 
Beaae to her father's mansion. 

« Nay ! 
^fcf^by my soul ! " said Leoline. 
* Bk> ! Bracy, the ba»*<^, the charge be thine ! 
QaiSionj with music sweet and loud, 
And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
^nd take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
And over the mountains haste along 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorren idoor, through Halegarth Wood, 
And reaches soon that castle good 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

** Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are fleets 



48 CHRISTABEL. 

Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 

More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 

And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 

Thy daughter is safe in Laugdale hall ! 

Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 

Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 

He bids thee come without delay 

With all thy numerous array ; 

And take thy lovely daughter home : 

And he will meet thee on the way 

With all his numerous array 

White with their panting palfreys' foam : 

And by mine honour ! I will say. 

That I repent me of the day 

When I spake words of fierce disdain 

To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine I — 

— For since that evil hour hath flown, 

Many a summer's syn hath shone ; 

Yet ne'er found I a friend again 

Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 

The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — 
" Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
This day my journey should not be. 
So strange a dream hath come to me ; 



CHRISTABEL. 49 

That I had vowed with music loud 

To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 

Warned by a vision in my rest! 

For in my sleep I saw that dove, 

That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, 

And calPst by thy own daughter's name— 

Sir Leoline ! I saw the same 

Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 

Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 

Which when I saw and when I heard, 

I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 

For nothing near it could I see, ^ [tree. 

Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old 



" And in my dream methonght I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant. 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peered, and could descry 
No cause for her distressful cry ; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methought, the dove to take. 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coiled around its wings and neck. 
Green as the herbs on which it couched, 
Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
And with the dove it heaves and stirs. 
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
The clock was echoing in the tower ; 

VOL. II. 4 



50 CHRISTABEL. 

But though my slumber was gone by, 
This dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vowed this self-same day, 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said : the baron, the while. 

Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 

Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 

His eyes made up of wonder and loye ; 

And said in courtly accents fine, * 

^ Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beiauteous dove, 

With arms more strong than harp or song. 

Thy sire and I will crush the snake !" 

He kissed her forehead as he spake^ 

And Geraldine, in maiden wise, 

Casting down her large bright eyes. 

With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 

She turned her fi^m Sir Leoline ; 

Softly gathering up her train, 

That o'er her right arm fell again ; 

And folded her arms across her chest, 

And couched her head upon her breast, 

And looked askance at Christabel 

Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head. 



CHKI8TABEL. 51 

f^ch shnuok up to a serpent's eye, 

And with somewiiat of maHce, and more of dread, 

At Cbristabel she looked askance !-^ 

One moment — and the sight was fled ! 

But Chrjstabel in dizzy trance 

Stumbling on the unsteady ground 

Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; 

And Geraldine again turned round, 

And like a thing, that sought relief^ 

Full of wonder and fiiU of grie^ 

She rolled her large bright eyes divine 

Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 
She nothing sees — ^no sight but one ! 
The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
I know not how, in fearful wise 
So deeply had she drunken in 
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 
That all her features were resigned 
To this sole image in her mind ; 
And passively did imitate 
That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance. 
Still picturing that look askance 
With forced unconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view 

As &r as such a look could be. 

In eyes so innocent and blue ! 

And when the trance was o'er, the maid 



52 CHRIST ABEL. 

Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
Then falling at the baron's feet, 
" By my mother's soul do I entreat 
That thou this woman send away !" 
She said : and more she could not say : 
For what sHe knew she could not tell, 
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild. 

Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 

Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 

So &ir, so innocent, so mild ; 

The same, for whom thy lady died I 

O by the pangs of her dear mother 

Think thou no evil of thy child f 

For her, and thee, and for no other. 

She prayed the moment ere she died : 

Prayed that the babe for whom she died. 

Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! 

That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 
Sir Leoline ! 

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child. 
Her child and thine ? 



Within the beu'on's heart and brain 

If thoughts, like these, had any share. 

They only swelled his rage and pain. 

And did but work confusion there. 

His heart was clefl with pain and rage, 

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild. 



CHRIBTABEL. 53 

lonoured thus in his old age ; 
lonoured by his only child,' 

aU his hospitality 
he wrong'd daughter of his friend 
nore than woman's jealousy 
ight thus to a disgraceful end-^ 
rolled his eye with stem regard 
n the gentle minstrel bard, 
I said in tones abrupt, austere — 
hy, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ? 
de thee hence ! " The bard obeyed ; — 
I turning frdm his own sweet maid, 
! aged knight. Sir Leoline, 

forth the lady Greraldine ! 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 

iTTLE child, a limber elf^ 

png, dancing to itself, 

Liry thing with red round cheeks, 

t always finds, and never seeks, 

:e8 such a vision to the sight 

ills a father's eyes with light ; 

I pleasures flow in so thick and fast 

n his heart, that he at last 

It needs express his love's excess 

h words of unmeant bitterness. 

laps 'tis pretty to force together 

ughts so all unlike each other ; 



54 CHRISTABEL* 

To mutter and mock a broken charm. 

To dally with wrong that does no harm. 

Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 

At each wild word to feel within 

A sweet recoil of love and pity. 

And what, if in a world of sin 

(O sorrow and shame should this be true !) 

Such giddiness of heart and brain 

Comes seldom save from rage and paiD» 

So talks as ifs most used to do. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Egtag ic9i X6Xr}dQ0g iraiQOq, 



In many ways doth the fall heart reveal 

The presence of the love it would conceal ; 

Bat in far more th* estranged heart lets know 

The absence of the love, which yet it fain would show. 



ALICE DU CLOS: 
OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD. 

*' One word with two meanings Ts the traitor's shield 
and shall : and a slit tongue be his blazon !" ' 

Caucasian Proverb, 

^^ The sun is not yet risen, 

But the dawn lies red on the dew ; 

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, 

Is seeking, lady, for you. 

Put on your dress of green. 

Your buskins and your quiver ; 
Lord Julian is a hasty man. 

Long waiting brook'd he never. 
I dare not doubt him, that he means 

To wed you on a day. 
Your lord and master for to be. 

And you his lady gay. 
O lady ! throw your book aside ! 

I would not that my lord should chide." 

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 

To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
As spotless fair, as airy light 

As that moon-shiny doe, 



58 MISCELLAITEOUS PO£MS. 

The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral c 
For ere the lark had lefl his nest, 

She in the garden bower below 
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white, 
Her face half drooping from the sight, 

A snow-drop on a tuft of snow ! 

close your eyes, and strive to see 

The studious maid, with book on knee, — 

Ah ! earliest-open'd flower ; 
While yet with keen unblunted light 
The morning star shone opposite 

The lattice of her bower — 
Alone of all the starry host. 

As if in prideful scorn 
Of flight and fear he stay'd behind, 

To brave th' advancing mom. 

1 Alice could read passing weU, 
And she was conning then 

Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves. 
And gods, and beasts, and men. 

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein, 
It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain ; 

Yet never fi:^m the book 
She rais'd her head, nor did she deign 

The knight a single look. 

^ Off, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou fix 
Thy wanton gaze on me ? 



MISCELLAITEOUS POKMS. 59 

And why, against my earnest suit, 
Does Julian send by thee ? 

^ Go, tell thy lord, that slow is sure : 

Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
I follow here a stronger lure. 

And chase a gentler prey." 

She said : and with a baleful smile 

The vassal knight reel'd off— 
Like a huge billow from a bark 

Toil'd in the deep sea-trough. 
That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, 

Is travers'd by a flash. 
And staggering onward, leaves the ear 

With dull and distant crash. 

And Alice sate with troubled mien 
A moment ; for the scoff was keen, 

And thro' her veins did shiver ! 
Then rose and donn'd her dress of green, 

Her buskins and her quiver. 

There stands the flowering may-thorn tree ! 
From thfo' the veiling mist you see 

The black and shadowy stem ; — 
Smit by the sun the mist in glee 
Dissolves to lightsome jewelry — 

Each blossom hath its gem ! 



60 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

With tear-drop glittering to a smiley 
The gay maid on the garden-stile 

Mimics the hunter's shout 
^ Hip ! Florian, hip ! To horse, to horse ! 

Gro, bring the palfrey out 

^ My Julian's out with all his clan, 

And, bonny boy, you wis. 
Lord Julian is a hasty man, 

V Who comes late, comes amiss," 

Now Florian was a stripling squire, 

A gallant boy of Spain, 
That toss'd his head in joy and pride, 
Behind his lady fair to ride. 

But blush'd to hold her train. 

The huntress is in her dress of green, — 
And forth they go ; she with her bow. 

Her buskins and her quiver ! — 
The squire — no younger e'er was seen — 
With restless arm and laughing een. 

He makes his javelin quiver. 

And had not Ellen stay'd the race. 
And stopp'd to see, a moment's space. 

The whole great globe of light 
Give the last parting kiss-like touch 
To the eastern ridge, it lack'd not much. 

They had o'erta'en the knight 



MISCELLANEOUS FOEBfS. 61 

It chanced that up the covert lane, 

Where Julian waiting stood, 
A neighbour knight prick'd on to join 

The huntsmen in the wood. 

And with him must Lord Julian go, 

Tho' with an anger'd mind : 
Bet^oth*d not wedded to his bride, 
In vain he sought, twixt shame and pride. 

Excuse to stay behind. 

He bit his lip| he wrung his glove. 
He look'd around, he look'd above. 

But pretext none could fiod or frame ! 
Alas ! alas ! and well-a-day ! 
It grieves me sore to think, to say. 
That names so seldom meet with Love, 

Yet Love wants' courage without a name ! 

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees 

O'er-branching, made an aisle. 
Where hermit old might pace and chaunt 

As in a minster's pile. 

From underneath its leafy screen, 

And from the twilight shade. 
You pass at once into a green, 

A green and lightsome glade. 

And there Lord Julian sate on steed ; 
Behind him, in a roimd. 



) 



62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Stood knight and squire, and n^enial train; 
Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; 
The horses paw'd the ground. 

When up the alley green, Sir Hugh 

Spurr'd in upon the sward, 
And mute, without a word, did he 

Fall in behind his lord. 

Lord Julian tum'd his steed half round^-^ 
" What ! doth not Alice deign 

To accept your loving convoy, knight ? 

Or doth she fear our woodland sleight, 
And joins us on the plain ?" 

With stifled tones the knight replied. 
And look'd askance on either side, — 

** Nay, let the hunt proceed ! — ~ 
The lady's message that 1 bear, 
I guess would scantly please your ear. 

And less deserves your heed. 

" You sent betimes. Not yet unbarr'd 

1 found the middle door ; — 
Two stirrers only met ray eyes, 

Fair Alice, and one more. 

^ I came unlook'd for : and, it seem'd. 

In an unwelcome hour ; 
And found the daughter of Du Clos 

Within the latticed bower. 



SnSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 63 

^ But hush ! the rest may wait If lost, 

No great loss, I divine ; 
And idle words will better suit 

A &ir maid's lips than mine." 

^ God's wrath ! speak out, man," Julian cried, 

O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart ;— 
And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude. 
The knight his subtle shift pursued. — 
** Scowl not at me ; command my skill. 
To lure your hawk back, if you will. 
But not a woman's heart 

" ' Gro ! (said she) tell him, — slow is sure ; 

Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
I follow here a stronger lure. 

And chase a gentler prey.' 

" The game, pardie, was full in sight. 
That then did, if I saw aright. 

The feir dame's eyes engage ; 
For turning, as I took ray ways, 
I saw them fix'd with steadfast gaze 

Full on her wanton page." 

The last word of the traitor knight 

It had but entered Julian's ear, — 
From two o'erarching oaks between. 
With glist'ning helm-like cap is seen. 

Borne on in giddy cheer. 



64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A youth, that ill his steed can ^ide ; 
Yet with reverted face doth ride. 

As answering to a voice, 
That seems at once to laugh and chide — 
" Not mine, dear mistress," still he cried, 

"'Tis this mad filly's choice." 

With sudden bound, beyond the boy, 
See ! sec ! that face of hope and joy. 

That regal front ! those cheeks aglow ! 
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen, 
A quiver'd Dian to have been, 

Thou lovely child of old Du Clos! 

Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood, 
Swifl as a dream, from forth the wood. 

Sprang on the plighted maid ! 
With fatal aim, and frantic force, » 

The shaft was hurl'd ! — a lifeless corse, 
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse, 

Lies bleeding on the glade. 



THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur CKellyi 
Where may the grave of that good man be?- 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hel< 
Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. * 65 

I!*he oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 
^nd rusded its leaves in the fall of the year, 
^nd ivhistled and roared in the winter alone, 
Km gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown.^^ 
'Xhe knight's bones are dust, 
.And his good sword rust ; — 

soul is with the saints, I trust. 



HYMN TO THE EARTH. 

HEXAMETE&S. 

Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the 

nurse and the mother. 
Hail ! O goddess, thri(^e hail ! blest be thou ! and, 

blessing, I hyirm thee ! 
Forth, ye sweet sounds ! from my harp, and ray 

voice shall float on your surges — 
Soar thou alofl, O my soul ! and bear up my song on 

thy pinions. 

Travelling the vale with mine eyes — green meadows 

and lake with green island, 
Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream 

flowing in brightness. 
Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded 

edope of the mountain. 
Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on 

thy bosom ! [thy tresaes, 

Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through 

VOL. II. 5 



66 MISCELLA1IS0U8 POUfB. 

Green-haired goddess ! refresh me ; and baik! •• ] X; 

they hurry or linger, , [sical murmm 

Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with nm- 
Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tendenst 

sadness 
Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy 

and the heavenly sadness 
Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and 

the hymn of thanksgiving. 
Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the 

nurse and the mother, [the rejoicer! 

Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the sun. 
Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom . 

the cornels forget not. 
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel roimd and 

again they behold thee ! [of creation ?) 

Fadeless and youug (and what if the latest birth 
Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon 

thee enamoured ! [goddess, 

Say, mysterious Earth ! O say, great mother and 
Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap 

was ungirdled, 
Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed 

thee and won thee ! 
Fair was thy blush, the faii*est and first of the 

blushes of morning ! [self-retention: 

Deep was the shudder, O Earth ! the throe of thy 
Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at 

thy centre ! [and forthwith 

Mightier &r was the joy of thy sudden resilience ; 



MISCBLLANBOnS POEMS. 67 

riad myriads of lives teemed forth from the 
mighty embracement. 

>u8and-fi)]d tribes of dwellers, impelled by thou* 
sand-fold instincts, 

led, as a dream, the wide waters ; the rivers sang 
on their channels ; 

ighed on their shores the hoarse seas ; the yearn- 
ing ocean swelled upward ; 

ung life lowed through the meadows, the woods, 
and the echoing mountains, 

mdered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blos- 
soming branches. 



WRITTEN DURING A TEMPORARY BLINDNE08, 
IN THE TEAR 1799. 

WHAT a life is the eye ! what a strange and inscru- 
table essence ! [warms him ; 
en, that is utteriy blind, nor glimpses the fire that 
01 that never beheld the sweUing breast of his 

mother ; [in its slumber ; 

m that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles 
«n for him it exists! It moves and stirs in its 
{nison ! [murmurs : 

res with a separate life : and— ^ Is it a spirit ?^ he 
•uie, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only 
a language !" 



68 MISCELLANEOUS P0EMI9 



MAHOMET. 

U^TER the song, O my soul ! the flight and return 

of Mohammed, 
Prophet and priest, who scattered abroad both e^ 

and blessing ; 
Huge wasteful empu-es founded and hallow'd slow 

persecution, 
Soul-withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites of 

the pagan 
And idolatrous christians. — ^For veiling the goi^ of 

Jesus, 
They, the best corrupting, had made it worse than 

the vilest 
Wherefore heaven decreed th' enthusiast warrior ^ 

of Mecca, 
Chooong good from iniquity rather than evil fimn 

goodness. 
Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding the fiuie of 

the idol ; — 
Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid — the 

people with mad shouts 
Thundering now, and now with saddest ululation 
Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the niino 

river 
Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy uproar \ 

wilder'd. 
Rushes dividuous all — all rushing impetuous on^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. €9 



CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES. 

Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian stcny I — 
High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels, 
Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland ; 
In the dim distance amid the skiey billows 
Rose a fiur island ; the god of flocks had plac'd it 
. From the &r shores of the bleak resounding island 
Ofl by the moonlight a little*boat came floating ; 
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, 
Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. 
There in a thicket of dedicated roses, 
Ofl did a priestess, as lovely as a vision, 
Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, 
iPray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat. 
And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
Over the dusk wave, until the mighty sailor 
Shivering with ecstaefy sank upon her bosom. 



DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE, 
THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING UFE. 

A SOLILOaUY. 

Unchanged within to see all changed without 
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt 
Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou firet ? 
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret. 



70 MISCKLLAHKOUB POBMl. 

Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
While, and on whom, thou may'st — shine on ! nor 
Whether the object by reflected light [heed 

Return thy radiance or absorb it quite : 
And though thou notest from thy safe recess 
Old friends bum dim, like lamps in noisome air, 
Love them for what they are ; nor love them less. 
Because to thee they are not what they were. 



Of 






PHANTOM OR FACT. 

A DIALOGUE IN VEBSE. 
AUTHOR. 

A LOVELT form there sate beside my bed. 
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven 
That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven. 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah ! the change — It had not stirr'd, and yet — 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook! 
That weary, wandering, disavowing look ! 
'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame, 
And still, methought, 1 knew, it was the same ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 71 

FRIEND. 



*l?his riddliDg tale, to what does it belong ? 
Is't history ? Yision ? or an idle song ? 
CDr rather say at once, within what space 
Of time this wild disastrous change took place ? 

AUTHOR. 

Call it a moment's work, (and such it seems) 
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams ; 
But say, that years matur'd the silent strife, 
And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 

PHANTOM. 

All look and likeness caught from earth, 

All accident of kin and birth, 

Had pass'd away. There was no trace 

Vf aught on that illumined face, 

Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone 

But of one spirit all her own ; — 

8he, she herself, and only she. 

Shone thro' her body visibly. 

WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1827. 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair- 
The bees are stirring — ^l)irds are on the wing — 
And Winter slumbering in the open air, 
W^ars CD his smiling face a dream of Spring! 



72 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And I, the while, the 9o1e unbusy thing, 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar t 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye nu 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away 
With lips unbrightened, wreatbless brow, I stroll 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my » 
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,^ 
And hope without an object cannot live« 



YOUTH AND AGE- 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying^ 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee— 



Both were mine ! Life went a maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young I 
When I was young ? — Ah, woful when / 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt nou> and Hken / 
This breathing house not built with hands. 
This body that does me grievous wrong. 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands. 
How lightly then it flashed along : — 
Like those trim skif&, unknown of yore. 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
.That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide 1 



MISCEI.LANEOUS P0SII8. 73 

Kought cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I liv'd in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? Ah woful ere. 
Which teUs me, Youth's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
Tis known, that thou and I were one ; 
ni think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on. 
To make beheve, that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve, 

When we are old : 



74 IffllCELLANEOUB POSMB. 

That only serves to make US grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismist, 
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 



A DAY DREAM, 

Mt eyes make pictures, when they are shut: 

I see a fountain, large and fair, 
A willow and a ruined hut, 

And thee, and me and Mary there. 
O Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green 
willow! 

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed. 

And that and summer well agree : 
And lo ! where Mary leans her head. 
Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-moirow. 

'Twas day ! But now few, large, and bright 

The stars are round the crescent moon ! 
And now it is a dark warm night, - 



MIfCXIXAlfEOUa FOKM8. 75 

The balmiest of the month of June ! 
^ glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting, 
^liines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet 
fountain. 

O ever — ever be thou blest ! 

For dearly, Asra, love 1 thee ! 
This brooding warmth across my breast. 
This depth of tranquil bILss — ah me ! 
P^ount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither. 
But in one quiet room we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the waU, 

By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
But not fix)m me shall this mild daikness steal thee : 
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel 
thee! 

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 

rris Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
But let me check this tender lay 
Which none may hear but she and thou ! 
Xiike the still hive at quiet midnight humming, 
Hurmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women ! 



76 



MISClXIJkNSOUf - FOKKI« 



LOVE AND FRIENDSmP OPPOSITE. 

Her attachment may differ from yours in degree^ 
Provided they are both of one kind ; 

But Friendship how tender so ever it be 
Gives no accord to Love, however refin'd. 

Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature 
revealing. 

Grows asham'd of itself; and demurs: 
If you cannot lift hers up to your state of feeliDgi 

You must lower down your state to hers. 



NAMES. 

I ASKED my fair, one happy day. 
What T should call her in my lay 5 

By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; 
Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, 
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 

Arethusa or Lucrece. 



" Ah !" replied my gentle fair, 

^ Beloved, what are names but air? 

Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
Call me Lalage or Doris, 

Only, only call me thine." 



maCXLLAHlOUB POBMS. 77 



DESIRE. 

^Hm trae Love buniB, Desire is Love's pure 
is the reflex of our earthly frame, [flame ; 

itt takes its meaning from the nobler part, 
id but translates the language of the heart 



FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE. 

PAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 

Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping ; 

d sweeter than the gentle south-west wind, 

ir willowy meads and shadow'd waters creeping, 

1 Ceres' golden fields ; — ^the sultry hind 

ets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. 



NOT AT HOME. 

That Jealousy may rule a mind 
Where Love could never be 

I know ; but ne'er expect to find 
Love without Jealousy. 

She has {i strange cast in her e'e, 
A swart sour-visaged maid — 
But yet Love's own twin-sister she 
bouse-mate and his shade. 



in>cu.i.*in;ou> posm. 

AA for her and Bhe'U be denied : — 
What then ? the; only mean 

Their raistreeB has laia down to sleep, . 
And can't juM then t>e seen. 



r A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION TBAT 
'OHBN HAVE NO SOULS. 



Nat, dearest Anna ! whf so grave ? 

I said, you had no soul, 'tis true 1 
For what you are, you caimot have ; 

Tis I, that have one since I first had you! 



WHY LOVE IS BLIND. 

I HAVE heard of reasons maoifbld 
Why Love miiet needs be blind, 

But this the best of aU I hold— 
His eyes are in his mind. 

What outward form and feature are 

He guesaeth but in pan ; 
But wliat within is good and fiur 

He aeeth with the heart 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 79 



LINES 
7GGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OP BERENGARIUS. 
OB. ANNO DOM. 1068. 

> more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope 
on shall I now before my God appear, 

him to be acquitted, as I hope ; 

him to be condemned, as 1 fear. — 

REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE. 

rnK amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed, 

) of good cheer, meek soul ! I would have said ; 

see a hope spring from that humble fear. 

II are not strong alike through storms to steer 

ight onward. What! though dread of threatened 

death 
nd dungeon torture made thy hand and breath 
constant to the truth within thy heart ? 
liat truth, from which, through fear, thou twice 

didst start, 
$ar haply told thee, was a learned strife, 
r not so vital as to claim thy life : 
ad myriads had reached heaven, who never knew 
liere lay the difference 'twixt the false and true ! 

B, who secure 'mid trophies not your own, 
idge him who won them when he stood alone, 



80 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And proudly talk of recreant Berengare — 

first the age, and then the man compare ! 
That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 
No host of fiiends with kindred zeal did bum ! 
No throbbing hearts awaited his return ! 
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant feD, 
He only disenchanted fi*om the spell, 

Like the weak worm that gems the starless ni^^t, 
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light : 
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray 
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey? 

The ascending day-star with a bolder eye 
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn ! 
Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry 
The spots and struggles of the timid dawn ; 
Lest so we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn 
The mists and painted vapours of our mom. 

SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM ; 
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND, 
found writtex on thc blank lsaf at thi bboirrino or 
butlsr's book of ths church. 

POET. 

1 NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, 
And heed them more than aught they do or say; 
The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed 
Still-bom or haply strangled in its birth ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 81 

$86 best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! 
)8e mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth ! 

— made up of impudence and trick, 
th cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, 
me's brazen serpent — ^boldly dares discuss 
e roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss ! 
id with grim triumph and a truculent glee 
Msolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, 
lat made an empire's plighted faith a lie, 
id fix'd a broad stare on the devil's eye — 
leas'd with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart 
> stand out-master'd in his own black art !] 
Jt 

FRIEND. 

Enough of ! we're agreed, 

ho now defends, would then have done the deed, 
t who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, 
bo but must meet the proffered hand half-way 
hen courteous 

POET, (aside) 

(Rome's smooth go-between !) 

FRFEND. 

ments the advice that soured a milky queen — 
)r "bloody " all enlighten'd men confess 
. antiquated error of the press :) 
bo rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, 

VOL. II. 6 



82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

With actual cautery staunched the church's wouni 
And though he deems, that with too broad a blur 
We damn the French and Irish massacre, 
Yet blames them both— and thinks the Pope migbter 
What think you now ? Boots it with spear and shiel 
Against such gentle foes to take the field ' 
Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wieMS 

POET. 

What think 1 now ? Even what 1 thought before ;- 

What boasts though may deplore. 

Still I repeat, words lead me not astray 
When the shown feeling points a different way. 

Smooth can say grace at slander's feast. 

And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest 

Leaves the full lie on 's gong to swell. 

Content with half-truths that do just as well ; 
But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks, 
And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks! 

So much for you, my friend ! who own a Churcb, 
And would not leave your mother in the lurch ! 
But when a Liberal asks me what I think — 
Scar'd by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink. 
And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam, 
In search of some safe parable I roam — 
An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome I 

Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, 
I see a tiger lapping kitten's food : 



MfSCELLANEOQS POEMS. 83 

ad who shall blame him that he purs applause, 
lien brother Brindle pleads the good old cause ; 
Dd frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his 

claws! 
et not the less, for modem lights unapt, 
trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws 
ore than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, 
ipearling a tame wild-cat's whisker'd jaws ! 



THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 

I. 
ftOM his brimstone bed at break of day 
A walking the devil is gone, * 
o visit his snug little &rm the earth. 
And see how his stock goes on. 

ii. 

ver the hill and over the dale. 

And he went over the plain, 
jid backward and forward he switched his long tail 

As a gentleman switches his cane, 

III. 
md how then was the devil drest ? 
)h ! he was in his Sunday's best : 
lis jacket was red and his breeches were blue, 
.nd there was a hole where the tail came through. 

IV. 

:e saw a lawyer kiUing a viper 

On a dung hill hard by his own stable ; 



84 MISCELLANEOUS POEMB. 

And the devil Enniled, for it put him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother AbeL 

V. 

He saw an apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the devil thought of his old friend 

Death in the Revelations. 

VI. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility ; 
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

VII. 

He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop, 
Quoth he ! " We are both of one college I 

For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once 
Hard by the tree of knowledge." ' 

, And all amid them stood the tree of life 
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
Of vegetable gold (query paper money :) and next to 
Our Death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by.— 



So clomb this first grand thief 

Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life 

Sat like a cormorant. par. lost, n 

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogoe 
CUB readings obtained from collating the MSS. o 
expect to find it noted, that for ** life " Cod. qoic 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 85 

VIII. 

►wn the river did glide, with wind and with tide, 

A pig with vast celerity ; 
-And the devil looked wise as he saw how the while, 
*t cut its own throat. " There 1" quoth he with a smile, 

** Groes England's commercial prosperity." 

IX. 

-^Vs he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 

A solitary cell ; 
•And the devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving his prisons in helL 

^'^ trade." Though indeed the trade, i. e. tiie bibliopolie, 
^^o called xar' i(dxn^, may be regarded as Life sensu 
^minentiori ; a suggestion, which I owe to a young. re- 
tailer in the hosiery line, who on hearing a description 
of the net profits, dinner parties, country houses, &c. of 
the trade, exclaimed, *< Ay ! that's what I call Life now !" 
This " Life, our Death,'' is thus happily contrasted with 
the fruits of authorship. — Sic nos non nobis mellifica- 
mus apes. 

Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine, and 
Slaughter, first appeared in the Morning Post, the 1st, 2d, 
3d, 9th, and 16th stanzas were dictated by Mr. Southey, 
See Apologetic Preface, vol. i. 

If any one should ask who General meant, tbe 

author begs leave to inform him, that he did once see a 

f red-faced person in a dream whom by the dress he took 

lor a General ; but he might have been mistaken, and 

' tnost certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In 

^ admple verity, the author never meant any one, or indeed 

any thing but to put a conolnding stansa to his doggerel. 



86 MISCELLANEOUS POEHS. 

X. 

He saw a turnkey in a trice 

Unfetter a troublesome blade ; 
*• Nimbly " quoth he, ** do the fingers more 

If a man be but used to his trade." 

XI. 

He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man - 

With but little expedition, 
Which put him in mind of the long debate 

On the slave-trade abolition. 

XII. 

He saw an old acquaintance 

As he pass'd by a Methodist meeting ; — 
She holds a consecrated key, 

And the devil nods her a greeting. 

XIII. 

She tiuned up her nose, and said, 
" Avaunt i my name's Religion," 

And she looked to Mr. 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 

XIV. 

He saw a certain minister 

(A minister to his mind) 
Go up into a certain house. 

With a majority behind. 

XV. 

The devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk. 
How ^ Noah and his creeping things 

Went up into the ark." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 87 

t^ XVI. 

■^^^ took from the poor, 
-And he gave to the rich, 
id he shook hands with a Scotchman, 
X'or he was not afraid of the 

• * • * • • 

XVII, 

^Jreneral burning face 

He saw with consternation, 
-^nd back to hefl his way did he take, 
^or the Devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was general conflagration. 



THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE 
TOMB-STONE. 

See the apology for the " Fire, Famine, and Slaughter,'* 
in first volume. This is the first time the author ever 
published these lines. He would have been glad, had 
they perished ; but they have now been printed repeat- 
edly in magazines, and he is told that the verses will 
not perish. Here, therefore, they are owned, with a 
hope that they will be taken — as assuredly they were 
composed — in mere sport. 

The devil believes that the Lord will come, 
Stealing a march without beat of drum. 
About the same time that he came last, 
On an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast : 

Till he bids the trump sound, neither body nor soul 
stirs, [bolsters. 

For the dead men's heads have slipt under their 



88 MISCELLANEOUS PO£M8. 

Oh ! ho ! brother bard, in our church-yard, 
Both beds and bolsters are soft and green ; 
Save one alone, and that^ of stone, 
And under it lies a counsellor keen. 
Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too kog^ 
And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, 8pearl3[e, 
and strong. 

This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip. 
With a waxy face, and a blubber lip. 
And a black tooth in front, to show m part 
What was the colour of his whole heart. 

This counsellor sweet. 

This Scotchman complete, 
(The devil scotch him for a snake) 
I trust he lies in his grave awake. 

On the sixth of January, 
When all around is white with snow. 
As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy. 
Brother bard, ho ! ho ! 
Believe it, or no, 
On that stone tomb to you 111 show 
Two round spaces void of snow. 
I swear by our knight, and his forefathers' souls^ 
That in size and sha|)e they are just like the hoki 
In the house of privity 
Of that ancient family. 
On those two places void of snow. 
There have sate in the night for an hour or 80, 
Before sunrise, and after cock>crow, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 89 

Ele kicking his heels, she cursing her corns, 
Wi to the tune of the wind in their horns. 

The devil, and his grannapfi. 

With a snow-blafit to ^ 'em ; 
libLpecting and hoping the trumpet to blow, 
T'or they are cock-sure of the fellow below. 



LINES 

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW. 

That though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking 

chorus 
rem the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak : 
o was it, neighbour, in the times before us, 
iThen Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, 
x>mped with the Graces ; and each tickled Muse 
rhat Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, 
iTas married to — at least, he kept — all nine) 
led, but still with reverted faces ran ; 
'et, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, 
liey had allur'd the audacious Greek to use, 
wore they mistook him for their own good man. 
his Momus— Aristophanes on earth 
!en called him — maugre all his wit and worth 
Tas croaked and gabbled at. How then, should you, 
r I friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? 
o ! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, 
[ bate the quacking tribe, and they hate me ! " 



90 MISCELLANEOUS POFM8. 



CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 

Since all that beat about in Nature's range^ 
Or veer or vanish ; why shouldst thou remain 
The only coDStaht in a world of change, 

yearning thought ! that livest but in the brain ? 
Call to the hours, that in the distance play, 
The faery people of the future day — 
Fond thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 
Till when, like strangers sheltering from a BtonUi 
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 
Yet still thou haunt'st me ; and though well I see, 
She is not thou, and only thou art she, 
Still, still as though some dear embodied good, | Vt 
Some living love before my eyes there stood 
With answering look a ready ear to lend, 

1 mourn to thee and say — " Ah ! loveliest friend! ^ 
That this the meed of all my toils might be, '^ 
To have a home, an English home, and thee ! " 
Vain repetition ! home and thou are one. 
The peacefuFst cot, the moon shall shine upon, 
Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark, 
Without thee were but a becalmed baric, 
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 
And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 



} 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 91 

%e woodman winding westward up the glen 

it wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 

Hie vieivless snow-mist weaves a glistening haze, 

Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 

\n image ^ with a glory round its head ; 

Hie enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, 

i^or knows he makes the shadow he pursues ! 



THE SUICIDES ARGUMENT. 

Ire the birth of my life, if I wished it or no. 
To question was asked me — it could not be so I 
r the life was the question, a thing.sent to try, 
jid to live on be Yes ; what can No be ? to die. 

NATURE'S ANSWER. 

s\ returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear? 

' This phenomenon, which the author has himself ez- 
lerienced, and of which the reader may find a descrip- 
ion in one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester 
Philosophical Transactions, is applied figuratively in 
he following passage of the Aids to JEleflection. 

** Pindar's fine remark respecting the diflferent efifects 
)f music, on different characters, holds equally true of 
Grenius ; as many as are not delighted by it are disturb- 
ed, perplexed, irritated. The beholder either recognises 
t as a projected form of his own being, that moves be- 
ire him with a glory round its head, or recoils from it 
I a spectre." — ^i(U to Reflection f p. SSO. 



} 



d2 B^ISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what yoa 

were! 
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, 
Gave health, and genius, and an ample acc^pe. 
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ? 
Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare ! 
Then die^ — if die you dare ! 



THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY 
DATE-TREE. A LAMENT. 

I SEEM to have an indistinct recollection of haTii| 
read either in one of the ponderous tomes of George of 
Venice, or in some other compilation from the unini^ 
ed Hebrew writers, an apologue or Rabbinical traditki 
to the following purpose : 

While our first parents stood before their oflfended 
Maker, and the last words of the sentence were yet 
sounding in Adam's ear, the guileful false serpent,! 
counterfeit and a usurper from the beginning, presnn^ 
tuously took on himself the character of advocate or 
mediator, and pretending to intercede for Adam, ex* 
claimed : " Nay, Lord, in thy. justice, not so! for tlM 
man was the least in fault. Rather let the wonti 
return at once to the dust, and let Adam remain in tUl 
thy Paradise." And the word of the Most High tf* 
swered satan: <^The tender mercies of the wicked ae 
cruel. Treacherous fiend ! if with guilt like thine, ft 
had been possible for thee to have the heart of a man, 
and to feel the yearning of a human soul for its co1mte^ 
part, the sentence, which thou now counseUesti shoBM 
have been inflicted on thyself." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEM«. 98 

The title of the following poem was Buggested by a 
"fiet mentioned by LinnnuB, of a date-tree in a noble- 
anan's garden which year after year had put forth a fiill 
■how of blossomB, but never produced fruit, till a branch 
firom another date- tree had been conveyed from a dis- 
tance of some hundred leagues. The first leaf of the 
Ms. from which the poem has been transcribed, and 
ivhich contained the two or three introductory stanzas, is 
Wanting : and the author has in vain taxed his memory 
to repair the loss. But a rude draught of the poem 
contains the substance of the stanzas, and the reader is 
requested to receive it as the substitute. It is not im- 
possible, that some congenial spirit, whose years do not 
exceed those of the author, at ihe time the poem was 
v^tten, may find a pleasure in restoring the Lament 
to its original integrity by a reduction of the thoughts 
to the requisite metre. 

I. 
Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain 
peaks are the thrones of frost, through the absence of 
objects to reflect the rays. " What no one with us 
shares, seems scarce our own." The presence of 
a one, 

Tbe best beloved who loveth me the best, 

is for the heart, what the supporting air from within 
is for the hollow globe with its suspended car. De- 
prive it of this, and all without, that would have 
buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the gods, becomes 
a burthen and crushes it into flatness. 






II. 
The flner the sense for the beautiful and the lovely. 



} 



94 I1I8CELLANE0US POEMS. 



and the fairer and lovelier the object presented to 
the sense ; the more exquisite the individual's capidr 
ty of joy, and the more ample his means and opf» 
tunities of enjoyment, the more heavily will he M 
the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantnl b^ 
comes the feast spread around him. What mtfM 
it, whether in fact the viands and the miiuBteav 
graces are shadowy or real, to him who has not haid [ 
to grasp nor arms to embrace them ? 

III. 

Imagination ; honourable aims ; 

Free commune with the choir that cannot die ; 

Science and song ; delight in little things, 

The buoyant child surviving in the man ; 

Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky. 

With all their voices — O dare I accuse 

My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen. 

Or call my destiny niggard ! O no ! no ! I 

It is her largeness, and her overflow, 

Wliich being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 

IV. 

For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, 

But tim'rously beginning to rejoice 

Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start 

In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. 

Beloved ! 'tis not thine ; thou art not there ! 

Then melts the bubble into idle air, 

And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 



y 

lid 
h 



^9S 









UISCELLANEOUS F0EM8. 95 

V. 

be mother ^^ith anticipated glee 

miles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair 

Ad flattening its round cheek upon her knee, 

Aoks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 

^0 mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight 

he hears her own voice yvith a new delight ; 

Lnd if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright, 

VI. 

*hen is she tenfold gladder than before ! 

»ut should disease or chance the darling take, 

Vhat then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 

Vere only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 

)ear maid ! no prattler at a mother^s knee 

kVas e'er so dearly prized as I piize thee : 

^hy was I made for Love and Love denied to me ? 



FROM THE GERMAN. * 

Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow, 
The golden fruits in darker foliage glow ? 
Soil blows the wind that breathes from that blue sky ; 
Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high ! 
fCnow'st thou it well that land, beloved friend ? 
Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend ! 



96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



FANCY IN NUBIBUS. 
OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. 

^ « O ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at case, 

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, 
To make the sliifting clouds be what you please, 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
And check aslant, see rivers flow of gold 

Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous 
land! 

Or listening to the tide, with closed sight. 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 

By those deep sounds possessed with inward liglit, 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odysscc 

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 



THE TWO FOUNTS. 

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY 
WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A 
SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN. 

TwAS my last waking thought, how it could be, 
That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst endure; 
When straight from dreamland came a dwarf^ and Ik 
Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. 



i: 



BlISCKLLAIfSOUS P0UI8. 97 

Metfaought he fronted me with peering look 
Fix*d on my heart ; and read aloud in game 
The loves and griefi therein, as from a book ; 
And uttered praise like one who wished to blame. 

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin 
Two founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ; 
That to let forth, and this to keep within ; 
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, 

Of pleasure only will to all dispense ; 
That fount alone unlock, by no distress 
Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence 
Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness. 

I I 

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow. 
That gracious thing made up of tears and light, 
Hid the wild rack and rain that slants below 
I Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright ; — 

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, 
I Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, 
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers. 
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down ; 



if' 



Even so, Eliza ! on that face of thine, 
On that benignant face, whose look alone 
* (The souPs translucence thro' her cr}'stal shrine!) 
i y Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, 

- VOL. II. 7 



98 MISCELLANEOUS P0EM8. 

A beauty hovers still, and ne*er takes wing, 
But with a silent charm- cofnpels the stem 
And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring. 
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the fount of pain 
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound. 
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain? 

Sleep, and the dwarf with that unsteady gleam 
On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, 
Had passed : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguite, 
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream ; 

TDl audibly ht length I cried, as though 
Thou had'st indeed been present to my eyes, 

sweet, sweet sufferer ! if the case be so, 

1 pray thee, be less good, less sweet, lei% wise ! 

In every look a barbed arrow send ; 
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live ! 
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend^ 
Hoard for tliyself die pain, thou wilt not give ! 



99 



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
PREFATORY NOTE. 

PROSE composition, one not in metre at least, seemt 
ima facie to require explanation or apology. It was 
ritten in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey, in Somer- 
tshire, at which place (sanctum et amabile nomen ! 
ch by so many associations and recollections) the 
ithor had taken up his residence in order to enjoy the 
»ciety and close neighbourhood of a dear and honoured 
lend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was to have been 
ritten in concert with another, whose name is too 
enerable within the precincts of genius to be unneces- 
uily brought into connexion with such a trifle, and 
rho was then residing at a small distance from Nether 
itowey. The title and subject were suggested by 
lyself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the 
ontents for each of the three books or cantos, of which 
he work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be 
nformed, was to have been finished in one night ! My 
)artner undertook the first canto : I the second : and 
whichever had done first, was to set about the third. 
Almost thirty years have passed by ; yet at this moment 
[ cannot without something more than a smile, moot the 
question which of the two things was the more imprac- 
icable, for a mind so eminently original to compose 
mother man's thoughts and foncies, or for a taste so 
lusterely pure and simple to imitate the Death of Abel? 
klethinks I see his grand and noble countenance as at 
he moment when having despatched my own portion 



! 



100 FREFATORT ITOTE. 



of the task at full fingrer-speed, I hastened to him witk 
my manuscript — that look of hamoroiu despondenej 
fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and then Hi 
silent mock-piteous admission of failure stmggliog witb 
the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whok 
scheme — which broke up in a laugh : and the Ancient 
Mariner was written instead. 

Tears afterward, however, the draft of the plan and 
proposed incidents, and the portion executed, obtained 
favour in the eyes of more than one person, whose 
judgment on a poetic work could not but have weighed 
with me, even though no parental partiality had been 
thrown into the same scale, as a make • weight : and I 
determined on commencing anew, and composing the 
whole in stanzas, and made some progress in realixiiig 
this intention, when adverse gales drove my baik off 
the ** Fortunate Isles" of the Muses : and then oUier 
and more momentous interests prompted a difiereot 
voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have 
in vain tried to recover the lines from the palimpRit 
tablet of my memory : and I can only offer the intr»> 
ductory stanza, which had been committed to writiBf 
for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the 
metre, as a specimen. 

Encincturcd with a twine of leaves. 
That leafy twine his only dress ! 
A lovely boy was plucking fruits, 
"^y moonlight, in a wilderness. 
The moon was bright, the air was free, 
And fruits and flowers together grew 
On many a shrub and many a tree : 
And all put on a gentle hue, 



THE WANDERIJfeS OF CAIIT. 101 

Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate where, they say, 

The night is more beloved than day. 

But who that beauteous boy beguil'd, 

That beauteous boy to linger here ? 

Alone, by night, a little child, 

In place so silent and so wild — 

Has he no friend, no loving mother near / 



CANTO IL 

* A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little further, 
«iid we shall come into the open moonlight." Their 
it>ad was through a forest of fir-trees ; at its entrance 
the trees stood at distances from each other, and the 
|Mith was broad, and the moonlight and the moon- 
light shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly 
to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded 
«nd became narrow; the sun a^ high noon some* 
times speckled, but never illumined it, and now it 
was dark as a cavern. 

«It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the 
path under our feet is smooth and sofl, and we shall 
soon come out into the open moonlight." 

" Lead on, my child !" said Cain : " guide me, 

Utde child !" And the innocent little child clasped 

a finger of the hand which had murdered the 

righteoiis Abel, and he guided his father. "The 

fir branches drip upon thee, my son." " Yea, pleas- 



! 



102 THE WANDEHINeS OF CAIN. 



^ 



andy, father, for I nm fast and eageriy to bring thee 
the pitcher and the cake, and uiy body is not yet 
cooL How happy the squirrels are that feed on 
these fir-trees ! they leiq) firom bough to boug^ ind 
the old squirrels play round their young ones in tbs 
nest I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my ftdier, 
that I might play with them, but they leaped smj 
from the branches, even to the slender twigs did tbey 
leap, and in a moment I beheld them on anodier 
tree. Why, O my father, would they not play wkh 
me? I would be good to them as thou art good to 
me : and I groaned to them even as thou groanei 
when thou givest me to eat, and when thou covovit 
me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy knee 
and thine eyes look at me ?" Then Cain stq>ped, 
and stifling his groans he sank to the earth, and the 
child Enos stood in the darkness beside him. 

And Cain lifled up his voice and cried bitterly, and 
said, <<The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on 
this side and on that ; he pursueth my soul like the 
wind, like the sand-blast he passeth through me ; he 
is around me even as the air ! O that I might he 
utterly no more ! I desire to die — yea, the things dwt 
never had life, neither move they upon the earth- 
behold! they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a 
man might live vnthout the breath of his nostrik 
80 I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and an 
empty space ! Yea, I would lie dovm, I would noi 
rise, neither would 1 stir my limbs till I became as 
the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young 
Uonresteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For^ 



THS WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 103 

ent that roareth far off hath a voice: and the 
ids in heaven look terribly on me ; the Mighty 
D "who is against me speaketh in the wind of the 
iar grove ; and in silence am 1 dried up." Then 
OS spake to his &ther, *' Arise, my father, arise, we 
( but a little way from the place where I found the 
£6 and the pitcher." And Cain said, *< How knowest 
>u ?** and the child answered — " Behold the bare 
cks are a few of thy strides distant fi*om the forest ; 
d while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I 
ard the echo." Then the child took hold of his 
ther, as if he would raise him: and Cain being 
int and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed 
mself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright 
d followed the child. 

The path was dark till within three strides' length 
' its termination, when it turned suddenly; the 
ick black trees formed a low arch, and the moon- 
pht appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal, 
nos ran before and stood in the open air ; and when 
un, his father, emerged from the darkness, the child 
BS affiighted. For the mighty lunbs of Cain were 
Eusted as by tire ; his hair was as the matted curls 
I the bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and 
Hen eye beneath : and the black abundant locks on 
ther side, a rank and tangled mass, were stained 
d scorched, as though the grasp of a burning iron 
nd had striven to rend them ; and his countenance 
Id in a strange and terrible language, of agonies that 
d been, and were, and were still to continue to be. 



I 



104 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

The scene around was desolate ; as far as the eye 
could reach it was desolate: the bare rocks faced 
each other, and left a long and wide interval of tlun 
white sand. You might wander on and look round 
and round, and peep into the crevices of the rods 
and discover nothing that acknowledged the influenee 
of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, 
no autumn : and the winter's snow, that would have 
been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching 
sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over 
this desert ; but the huge serpent often hissed there 
beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture 
screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coils of the 
serpent The pointed and shattered summits of the 
ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human 
concerns, and seemed to prophesy mutely of things that 
then were not ; steeples, and battlements, and ships 
vnth naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy 
might sling a pebble of the brook, there was one rodi 
by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. It 
had been precipitated there perhaps by the groan 
which the Eaith uttered when our first father ff^ 
Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the 
ground, but its base slanted from its point, and be- 
tween its point and the sands, a tall man might stand 
upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher 
and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere 
they had reached the rock they beheld a human shape : 
his back was towards them, and they were advancing 
unperceived, when they heard him smite his breast 



Td£ WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 105 

^md cry aloud, ^ Woe is me ! woe is me ! I must 

xtever die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst 

cmd hunger." 

Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning 

^xa the heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of 

Cfain ; but the child Enos took hold of the shaggy 

skiD, his father's robe, and raised his eyes to his 

father, and listening whispered, ^ Ere yet I could 

speak, I am sure, O my father, that I heard that 

Yoice. Have not I often said that I remembered a 

sweet voice ? O my father ! tiiis is it :" and Cain 

trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, 

but it was thin and querulous, like that of a feeble 

slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can -not 

refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. And, 

behold! Enos glided forward, and creeping sofUy 

round the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, 

and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, 

and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his 

limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel 

whom he had killed ! And Cain stood like one who 

struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terri- 

bleness of a dream. 

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, 
the Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, 
and cried out with a bitter outcry, " Thou eldest born 
of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, 
cease to tonnent me ! I was fee<ling my flot^ks in 
green pastures by the sitle of quiet rivers, and thou 
killedst me ; and now I am in misery." Then Cain 



106 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

closed his eyes, and hid them with his han 
:.. ^ again he opened his eyes, and looked arou 

J t^j and said to Enos, " What beholdest thou ? Di 

\'f^ hear a voice, my son ?" ** Yes, my father, 

a man in unclean garments, and he uttered 

voice, full of lamentation." Then Cain n 

■^ the Shape that was like Ahel, and said: 

Creator of our father, who had respect ui 
and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he 
thee ?" Then the Shape shrieked a second ti 
rent his garment, and his naked skin was 
white sands beneath their feet ; and he shri' 
a third time, and threw himself on his face i 
sand that was black with the shadow of t 
and Cain and Enos sate beside him ; the 
his right hand, and Cain by his left Th 
all three under the rock, and within the 
The Shape that was like Abel raised himself 
spake to the child : " I know where the col 
are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst tl 
take away my pitcher ?" But Cain said, " D3 
not find favour in the sight of the Lord th^ 
The Shape answered, " The Lord is Goc 
living only, the dead have another Grod." 1 
child Enos lifled up his eyes and prayed ; I 
rejoiced secretly in his heart. " Wretched si 
be all the days of their mortal life," exclai 
Shape, ** who sacrifice worthy and acceptal 
fices to the Grod of the dead ; but after de 
toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well be! 



THE WANDERINOS OF CAIN. 107 

God of the living, and crael wert thou, O my 

Ibfother, who didst snatch ine away from his power 

mnd his dominion." Having uttered these words, he 

vose suddenly, and fled over the sands: and Cain 

■aid in his heart, <* The curse of the Lord is on me ; 

Imt who is the God of the dead ?" And he ran after 

the Shape, and the Shape fled shrieking over the 

sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind 

the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was like 

Abel disturbed not the sanda He greatly outrun 

Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came 

again to the rock where they had been sitting, and 

where Enos still stood ; and the child caught hold of 

his garment as he passed by, and he fell upon the 

ground. And Cain stopped, and beholding him not, 

said, *^ he has passed into the dark woods," and he 

walked slowly back to the rock; and when he 

reached it the child told him that he had caught hold 

of his garment as he passed by, and that the man 

had flJlen upon the ground: and Cain once more 

sate beside him, and said, ^ Abel, my brother, I would 

lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is 

withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. Now, 

I pray thee, by thy flocks, and- by thy pastures, and 

by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, that thou tell 

me all that thou knowest. Who is the Grod of the 

dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what 

sacrifices are acceptable unto him ? for I have oflered, 

but have not been received; I have prayed, and 

have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted 



108 THE WANDERINGS OF CATIT. 

more than I already am ?" The Shape arose and 
answered, *' O that thou hadst had pity on me as I 
will have pity on thee. Follow me, Son of Adam! 
and bring thy child with thee !" 

And they three passed over the white Bands be- 
tween the rocks, silent as the shadows. 



109 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 

s& of sadness, a peculiar melancholy, Is 
:ake possession of me alike in spring and in 
But in spring it is the melancholy of hope : 
in it is the melancholy of resignation. As I 
meying bn foot through the Appennine, I 
ith a pilgrim in whom the spring and the 
and the melancholy of both seemed to have 
d. In his discourse there were the fresh- 
. the colors of April : 

Qual ramicel a ramo, 
Tal da pensier pensiero 
In lai germogliava. 

I gazed on his whole form and figure, I 
;ht me of the not unlovely decays, both of 

of the late season, in the stately elm, after 
ters have been plucked from its entwining 
ind the vines are as bands of dried withies 
its trunk and branches. Even so there was 
>ry on his smooth and ample forehead, which 
[ with the dedication of his steady eyes, that 
)ked — I know not, whether upward, or far 
, or rather to the line of meeting where the 



110 ALLEGORIC VISIOIT. 

dcy rests upon the distance. But how may I ex- 
press that dimness of abstraction which lay on the 
lustre of the pilgrim's eyes like the flitting tamiflii 
from the breath of a sigh on a silver mirror! and 
which accorded with their slow and reluctant move- 
ment, whenever he turned them to any object on the 
right hand or on the left ? It seemed, methought, at 
if there lay upon the brightness a shadowy presenee 
of dtBapi>ointments now unfelt, but never forgotten. 
It was at once the melancholy of hope and of re- 
signation. 

We had not long been fellow-travellers, ere a 
sudden tempest of wind and rain forced us to seek 
protection in the vaulted door-way of a lone dmp- 
elry; ancl we sate face to face each on the stone 
bench along-side the low, weather-stained wall, and 
as close as ]M)ssible to the massy door. 

After a pause of silence : even thus, said he, like 
two strangers, that have fled to the same shelter from 
the same stonn, not seldom do Dcsjiair and Hope 
meet for tlie first time in the porch of Death ! All ei* 
tremes meet, I answered ; but yours was a strange and 
visionary thought. The better then doth it beseeon 
both the place and me, he replied. From a ViaiQn- 
ary wilt thou hear a Vision ? Mark that vivid iM 
through this torrent of rain ! Fire and water. Even 
here thy adage holds true, end its truth is the matl 
of my Vision. 1 entreated him to proceed. Sloping 
his face toward the arch and yet averting his eft 
from it, he seemed to seek and prepare his wocdi: 



ALLEGORIC VISION. Ill 

listening to the wind that echoed within the 
ow edifice, and to the rain without, 

Hiich stole on his thoughts with its twofold sound, 
he clash hard by and the murmur all round, 

gradually sank away, alike fi*0En me and from his 
I purpose, and amid the gloom of the storm and 
he duskiness of that place, he sate like an emblem 
i rich man's sepulchre, or like a mourner on the 
ded grave of an only one — an aged mourner, 

is watching the waned moon and sorroweth not. 
rting at length from his brief trance of abstrac- 
I, with courtesy and an atoning smile he renewed 
discourse, and commenced his parable. 

luring one of those short furloughs from the ser- 
3 of the body, which the soul may sometimes ob- 

1 even in this its militant state, I found myself in 
ist plain, which I immediately knew to be the 
ley of Life. It possessed an astonishing diversity 
oils : here was a suimy spot, and there a dark one, 
aing just such a mixture of sunshine and shade, 
ve may have observed on the mountains' side in 
April day, when the thin broken clouds are 
tered over heaven. Almost in the very entrance 
he valley stood a large and gloomy pile, into 
ch I seemed constrained to enter. Every part of 

building was crowded with tawdry ornaments 

fantastic deformity. , On ever}' window was 

trayed, in glaring and inelegant colors, some her- 

e tale, or preternatural incident, so that not a ray 



112 ALLEGORIC TISIOX. 

of light could enter, untiDged by the medium dirougfa 
which it passed. The body of the building was full 
of people, some of them dancing, in and out, in un- 
intelligilile figures, with strange ceremonies and antic 
merriment, while others seemed convulsed with 
horror, or pining in mad melancholy. Intermingled 
with these, I observed a number of men, clothed Id 
ceremonial robes, who appeared now to marshal the 
various groups, and to direct their movements ; and 
DOW with menacing countenances, to drag some 
reluctant victim to a vast idol, framed of iron btn 
intercrossed, which formed at tlie same time m 
immense cage, and the shape of a human Colossus 
I stood for a while lost in wonder what thrae thiofi 
might mean ; when lo ! one of tlie directors came 
up to me, and with a stem and reproachful look bade 
me uncover my head, for that the place into which I 
had entered was the temple of the only true Religion^ 
in the holier recesses of which the great goddea 
personally resided. Himself too he bade me rever- 
ence, as the consecrated minister of her rites. Awe- 
struck by the name of Religion, I bowed beAire the 
priest, and humbly and earnestly intreated him to 
conduct me into her presence. He assented. Ofier- 
ings he took from me, with mystic sprinklinge of 
water and with salt he purified, and with strange 
flufilations he exorcised me ; and then led me 
through many a dark and winding alley, the dew- 
damps of which chilled my flesh, and the hoBow 
echoes under my feet, mingled, methougfat, 



ALI;SCK)RIC VISION. 113 

gBf afirighted me. At leogth we entered 
hall, without window, or spiracle, or lamp, 
jrlum and dormitory it seemed of perennial 
only that the walls were brought to the eye 
mber of self-luminous inscriptions in letters 
e sepulchral light, which held strange neu- 
rith the darkness, on the verge of which it 
rayless vigiL 1 could read them, methought ; 
ugh each of the words taken separately I 
to understand, yet when I took them in 
38, they were riddles and incomprehensible. 
9od meditating on these hard sayings, my 
lus addressed me — ^ Read and believe : these 
steries!" — At the extremity of the vast hall 
Idess was placed. Her features, blended 
iikness, rose out to my view, terrible, yet 
1 prostrated myself before her, and then 
with my guide, soul-withered, and wonder- 
1 dissatisfied. 

re-entered the body of the temple, I heard a 
izz as of discontent. A few whose eyes were 
and either piercing or steady, and whose 
foreheads, with the weighty bar, ridge-like, 
he eyebrows, bespoke observation followed 
itative thought ; and a much larger number, 
sre enraged by the severity and insolence of 
)Sts in exacting their offerings, had collected 
tumultuous group, and with a confiised out- 
' This is the Temple of Superstition ! " after 
contumely, and turmoil, and cruel mal-treat- 
L. If. 3 



114 ALLEGORIC VISIOIT. 

ment on all sides, rushed out of the pile : an^ 
methougbt, joined them. 

We speeded from tbe temple with Kas^ M 
and bad now nearly gone round half the nSk 
when we were addressed by a womau, tall beyo 
the stature of mortals, and with a something mi 
than human in her countenance and mien, wb 
yet could by mortals be only felt, not conveyed 
words or intelligibly distinguished. Deep refledi 
animated by ardent feelings, was displayed in the 
and hope without its uncertainty, and a somedi 
more tfian all these, which I understood not, 
which yet seemed to blend all these into a dii 
unity of expression. Her gannents were white 
matronly, and of the simplest texture. We inqui 
her name. " My name,** she replied, « is Rehgia 

The more numerous part of our company, 
frighted by the very sound, and sore fi-om ro 
impostures or sorceries, hurried onwarda and 
amined no farther. A few of us, struck by 
manifest opposition of her form and mannen 
those of the living Idol, whom we had so leee 
abjured, agreed to follow her, though with caut 
circumspection. She led us to an eminence io 
midst of the valley, firom the top of which we « 
command the whole plain, and observe the reh 
of the different^ parts to each other, and of ead 
the whole, and of all to each. She then gave a 
optic glass which assisted without contradictiDf 
natural vision, and enabled us to see far beyond 



1^3. 



ALLEGORIC VISIOIT. 115 

limits of the Valley of Life ; though our eye even 
-thus assisted peimitted us only to behold a light and 
« glory, but what we could not descry, save only that 
il was^ and that it was most glorioua 

And now with the rapid transition of a dream, I 
had overtaken and rejoined the more numerous 
party, who had abruptly left us, indignant at the 
Tery name of religion. They journeyed on, goading 
6ttch other with remembrances of past oppressions, 
and never looking back, till in die eagerness to 
recede from the temple of Superstition they had 
founded the whole circle of the valley. And lo! 
there ftced us the mouth of a vast cavern, at the 
base of a lofty and almost perpendicular rock, the 
interior side of which, unknown to them, and un- 
fluspected, formed the extreme and backward wall 
of the temple. An impatient crowd, we entered 
the vast and dusky cave, which was the only per* 
Iwation of the precipice. At the mouth of the cave 
aite two figures ; the first, by her dress and gestures^ 
I knew to be Sensuality ; the second form, from the 
toceness of his demeanour, and the brutal scomftil- 
liefls of his looks, declared himself to be the monster 
Blasphemy. He uttered big words, and yet ever 
and anon I observed that he turned pale a^ his own 
courage. We entered. Some remained in the open- 
ing of the cave, with the one or the -other of its 
l^uardians. The rest, and I among them, pressed on, 
till we reached an ample chamber, that seemed the 
centre of the rock. The climate of the place was 
unnaturally cold. 



116 ALI^EGORIC VISION. 

In the furtheiBt distBiice of the chamber nte an i 
dhn-eyed man, poring with a microscope of«r 
torao of a statue which had neither baaia, nor f 
■nor head 3 but on its breast was carved Natme ! 
this he continuaUy applied his glassy and seal 
enraptured with the various inequalities idiid 
rendered visible on the seemingly polished suri 
of the marble. — ^Yet evermore was this delight 
triumph followed by expressions of hatred, 
vehement railing against a Being, who yet, he as 
ed us, had no existence. This mystery suddi 
recalled to me what I had read in the holiest re 
of the Temple of Superstition. The old man af 
in divers tongues, and continued to utter other 
most strange mysteries. Among the rest he tal 
much and vehemently concerning an infinite m 
of causes and effects, which he explained to b 
string of blind men, the last of whom caught ] 
of the skirt of the one before him, he of the i 
and so on till they were all out of sight ; and 
they all walked infallibly straight, without ma] 
one false step, though all were alike blind, 
thought I borrowed courage from surprise, and m 
him — ^Who then is at the head to guide them? 
looked at me with inef^le contempt, not unm 
with an angry suspicion, and then replied, ^ No 
The string of blind men went on for ever vriti 
any beginning; for although one blind man o 
not move without stumbling, yet infinite blind 
supphed the want of sight." I burst into laogi 



NEW THOUGHTS, XTC. 117 

rhich instantly turned to terror — ^for as he started 
brward in rage, I caught a glimpse of him from 
icldiid ; and lo ! I beheld a monster bi-form and 
fanus-headed, ia the hinder face and shape of ivhich 
[ instantly recogoised the dread couDtenance of Su- 
peiBtition — and in the terror I awoke. 



THE IMPROVISATORE ; 
OR «« JOHN ANO£aSON, BfY JO, JOHN.»» 

Scent-' A spacious drawing-room, wUk music'roomr 

adjoining. 

Exdharine. What are the words ? 

EUza. Ask your friend, the Improvisatore ; here 
he comes. Kate has a fiivor to ask of yon, sir ; *it is 

that you will repeat the ballad that Mr. sang 

so sweedy. 

friend. It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do 
not recollect the words distinctly. The moral of 
them, however, 1 take to be this : — 

Love would remain the same if true. 
When we were neither young nor new ; 
Tea, and in all within the will that came, 
By the same proofs would show itself the same. 

EUz. What are the lines you repeated from 
Beaumont and Fletcher, which my mother admired 



118 NEW THOUGHTS 

80 much ? It begins with somethiDg about two m^^ 
so close that their tendrils intermingle. 

IH, You mean Charles' speech to Angdina,iD 
« The Elder Brother." 

We'll live together, like two neighbour vinesi 
Circling our souls and loves in one another I 
We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit ; 
One joy shall make us smile, and one grief moan; 
One age go with us, and one hour of death 
Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. 

Kaik. A precious boon, that would go fiir to 
reconcile one to old age — this love — if true ! But is 
there any such true love ? 

IH, I hope so. 

Kath. But do you believe it ? 

ISiz. (eagerly,) I am sure he does. 

IH, From a man turned of My, Katharine, I 
imagme, expects a less confident answer. 

KcUh. A more sincere one, perhaps. 

IH, Even though he should have obtained the 
nick-name of Tmprovisatore, by perpetrating cha- 
rades and extempore verses at Christmas times ? 

Miz, Nay, but be serious. 

IH, Serious ! Doubtless. A grave pecsonage of 
my years giving a love-lecture to two young ladies, 
cannot well be otherwise. The difficulty, I suqiect, 
would be for them to remain so. It will be asked 
whether I am not the <* elderly gentleman" who 
sate *^ despairing beside a clear stream," with a 
willow for his wig-block. 



ON OLD SUBJECTS. 119 

Eliz. Say another word, and we will call it down- 

gfat affectation. 

Kaifu No I we will be affronted, drop a courtesy, 
^nd ask pardon for our presumption in expecting 
^at Mr. would waste his sense on two insig- 
nificant girls. 

FrL Well, well, I will be serious. Hem ! Now 
then commences the discourse; Mr. Moore's song 
being the text. Love, as distinguished from Friend- 
ship, on the one hand, and from the passion that too 
often usurps its name, on the other — 

Ijucitis (Eliza^s brother^ who had just joined fht 
irio^ in a whisper to the Friend.) But is not Love the 
union of both ? 

FrL (aside to Ijucius.) He never loved who 
thinks so. 

Eliz. Brother, we don't want you. There ! Mrs. 
H. cannot arrange the flower-vase without you. 
Thank you, Mrs. Hartman. 

Ijuc. Ill have my* revenge ! I know what I 
will say! 

lUiz, Ofi*! oflf! Now, dear sir, — Love, you were 
saying — 

FrL Hush ! Preaching, you mean, Eliza. 

JEUiz. (impatiently.) Pshaw ! 

IH. Well then, I was saying that love, truly such, 
is itself not the most common thing in the world : 
and mutual love still less so. But that enduring 
personal attachment, so beautifully delineated by 
Erin's sweet melodist, and still more touchingly, 



120 NEW THOUGHTS 

perhaps, in the well-known ballad, << John Axk^eaaa, 
my Jo, John," in addition to a depth and eoaetaaey 
of character, of no every-day occurrence, 8uppoie% 
a peculiar sensibility and tenderness of nature ; % 
constitutional communicativeness and utteraney of 
heart and soul ; a delight in the detail of sympadiyi 
in the outward and visible signs of the sacrament 
within — to count, as it were, the pulses of the life of 
love. But above all, it supposes a soul which, em 
in the pride and summer-tide of life-— even in diB 
lustihood of health and strength, had felt ofieiMit 
and prized highest that which age cannot take awiy, 
and which, in all our lovings, is the Love ; 

Eliz, There is something here (pointing to hr 
heart) that seems to understand you, but wants the 
word that would make it understand itsel£ 

K<dh, I, too, seem to feel what you mean. loter- 
{Hret the feeling for us. 

IVL ^I mean that willing sense of the onsof- 

ficingness of the self for itself, which predisposes a 
generous nature to see, in the total being of another, 
the supplement and completion of its own; — that 
quiet perpetual seeking which the presence of the 
beloved object modulates, not suspends, where die 
heart momently finds, and, finding, again seeks OD ; 
lastly, when *< life's changeful orb has pass'd die 
full,'' a confirmed faith in the nobleness of humanity, 
thus brought home and pressed, as it were, to die 
very bosom of hourly experience ; it supposes, I say, 
a heartfelt reverence for worth, not the less deep be* 



Olf OLD SUBJECTS. 121 

divested of its solemnity by habit, by fiuniliari- 

, by mutual infirmities^ and even by a feeling of 

iT^hich will arise in delicate minds, when 

'ftkey are conscious of possessing the same or the 

corre s pondent exceUence in their own characters. 

Xn short, there must be a mind, which, while it feels 

the beautiful and the excellent in the beloved as its 

own, and by right of love appropriates it, can call 

Goodness its playfellow; and dares make sport of 

tune and infirmity, while in the person of a thousand- 

Mdly endeared partner, we feel for aged virtue the 

caressing. fondness that belongs to the innocence of 

childhood, and repeat the same attentions and tender 

courtesies which had been dictated by the same 

aflfection to the same object when attired in feminine 

loveliness or in manly beauty. 

Eliz, What a soothing — ^what an elevating 
thought ! 

Kaih, If it be not only a mere &ncy. 
Fru At all events, these qualities which I have 
enumerated, are rarely found united in a single indi- 
vidual. ' How much more rare must it be, that two 
such individuals should meet together in this wide 
World under circumstances that admit of their union 
as husband and wife. A person may be highly 
estimable on the whole, nay, amiable as a neighbour, 
firiend, housemate— in short, in all the concentric 
circles of attachment save only the last and inmost ; 
and yet from how many causes be estranged from 
the highest perfection in this! Pride, coldness, oc 



122 VEW THOUGHTS 

fasti<}ioiu3Des8 of nature, worldly cares, cui anido^ 
or ambitious dispositioD, a passion for display^ ^ 
sullen temper, — one or the other— too often prov^ 
*^the dead fly in the compost of spices," and-^ij^ 
one is enough to unfit it for the precious balm d^ 
unction. For some mighty good sort of people, toa^ 
there is not seldom a sort of solemn saturnine, or, if 
you will, ursine vanity,- that keeps itself alive lif 
sucking the paws of its own self-importance. Anl 
as this high sense, or rather sensation of their own 
value is, for the most part, grounded on negidfB 
qualities, so they have no better means of preserf- 
ing the some but by negatives — ^that is, by not dmug 
or saying any thing, that might be put down ftr 
fond, silly or nonsensical; — or (to use their own 
phrase) by never forgetting themselves, which soon 
of their acquaintance are uncharitable enough ID 
think the most worthless object they could be em- 
ployed in remembering. 

ELiz, (in answer to a whisper from Kaihoarmt.) To 
a hair ! He must have sate for it himselfl Save me 
from such folks ! But they are out of the question. 

Fii, True ! but the same effect is produced in 
thousands by the too general insensibility to a veiy 
important truth ; this, namely, that the miseiy of 
human life is made up of large masses, each sepa- 
rated from the other by certain intervals. One year, 
the death of a child ; years after, a failure in trade; 
after another longer or shorter interval, a dau^ittr 
may have married unhappily ; — in all but the siogn- 



rrs 



ON OLD SUBJECTS. 



.ssion tor s> 
?r — too ofttfi 
of spices,"" iL 
lie prtcio^a* I- 
J sort of I>r--i= 
emn. saLumzsi- 

If-ini porxaTi -: r. 
isadon of the: 
funded OWL ir. 
r DieAus of f 
that is, l>3- 3*c 
It be put d«-«r 

(to iis^ did 
iselves, "¥\-liicE : 
l»aritable en-.-u. 

tbey couki t* 

^iiselfl Sa"- 
of tiie q[iir^ 

lltj- to £ 




-^^ 



unfortunate, the mtegral parts tl 

sum total of the uuhappiness of a n 

counted, and distinctly rememt 

ess of life, on the contrary, is ; 

Kxiinute fractions — the little, soon-fbrgot 

^3ff a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a hean 

^Qoent in the disguise of playful raille 

^sountless other infinitesimals of pleasun 

and genial feeling. 

KaOu Well, sir ; you have said quit< 
make me despair of finding a ^ John Ai 
Jo, John," with whom to totter down th< 
Fru Not so ! Good men are not, I tn 
scarcer than good women, but that vt 
would find in you, you may hope to fine 
But well, however, may that boon be rs 
session of which would be more than i 
reward for the rarest virtue. 

Eliz. Surely, he, who has described 
must have possessed it ? 

JW. If he were worthy to have pos» 
had believingly anticipated and not foi 
bitter the disappointment! (Then, afi^i 
a few minutes,) 

Answer, tx improviso, 

Vks, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat, 
fie had, or fended that he had ; 
^ay, 'twas but in his own conceit — 
The fency made him glad ! 



134 NEW THOUGHTS 

Crown of his cup, and gamiah of his dish. 
The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish. 
The fair fulfilment of his poesy, 
When his young heart first yeam'd for syu^ 

But e'en the meteor ofi&pring of the brain 

Unnourished wane; 
Faith asks her daily ln*ead, 
And Fancy must be fed. 
Now so it chanced— ^fi'om wet or dry, 
It boots not how — I know not why — 
She missed her wonted food ; and quickly 
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly. 
Then came a restless state, Hwixt yea and na] 
His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow 
Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay. 
Above its anchor driving to and fix>. 

That boon, which but to have possest 
In a belief, gave life a zest-— 
Uncertain both what it had been. 
And if by error lost, or luck ; 
And what it was ; — an evergreen 
Which some insidious blight had struck. 
Or annual flower, which, past its blow, 
No vernal spell shall e'er revive ; 
Uncertain, and afitdd to know. 

Doubts toss'd him to and fro : 
Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive, 
Like babes bewildered in the snow, 



ON OLD SUBJECTS. 185 

St cling and huddle from the cold 

bollow tree or ruin'd fold. 

386 sparkling colours, once his boast, 

Fading, one by one away, 
ii and hueless as a ghost. 

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay; 
It distance, worse when near, 
ling her dreams to jealous Fear ! 
lere was it then, the sociable sprite 
It crown'd the poet's cup and deck'd his dish ! 
>r shadow cast from an unsteady wish, 
If a substance by no other right 

that it intercepted Reason's light ; 
Immed his eye, it darken'd on bis brow, 
peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow ! 

Thank heaven ! 'tis not so now. 

iliss of blissful hours ! 

B boon of heaven's decreeing, 

lile yet in Eden's bowers 

^elt the first husband and his sinless mate ! 

e one sweet plant, which, piteous heaven agreeing, 

ey bore with them through Eden's closing gate ! 

life's gay summer tide the sovran rose ! 
jd autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows 
nen passion's flowers all fall or &de ; 
this were ever his, in outward being, 

but his ovm true love's projected shade, 
w that at length by certain proof he knows, 
at whether real or a magic show, 



126 NEW THOUGHTS ON OLD SUBJICT* 

Whate'er it was, it is no longer so ; 
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low. 
Yet, lady ! deem him not unblest : 
The certainty that struck hope dead. 
Hath left contentment in her stead : 
And that is next to best ! 



MIBCKLLAirSOUS POEMS. 197 



IE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 

one of those most weary hours, 
seems emptied of all genial powers, 
nood, which he who ne'er has known 
his happy lot, I sate alone ; 

the numbing spell to win relief, 
he past for thought of glee or grief 
erefl alike of grief and glee, 
cowered o'er my own vacancy ! 
mtch'd the dull continuous ache, 

else slumbering, seemed alone to wake ; 

long wont to notice yet conceal, 

e by silence what words cannot heal, 

saw that quiet hand of thine 

ly desk this exquisite design, 

's Garden and its faery, 

the joyance, and the gallantry ! 

?f ith Boccaccjo^s spirit warm, 

the silent poesy of form ; 
3 adown a newly-bathed steep 
ig from a mist ; or like a stream 
soft that not dispels the sleep, 
3 in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, 
an idle eye with silent might 
re stole upon my inward sight, 
us warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, 
I an infant^ finger touch'd my breast ; 



i 



128 MISCELLANEOUS FOBMS. 

And one by one (I knew not whence) were bfoagb 

All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thoagkt 

In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 

Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 

Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from aboye^ 

Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 

Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 

Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn cavet 

Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and wafei; 

Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, 

That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 

Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 

Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest. 

Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, 

To high-church pacing on the great saint's day; 

And many a verse which to mjrself I sang. 

That woke the tear yet stole away the pang, 

Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. 

And last, a matron now, of sober mien. 

Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen. 

Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd j 

Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; * 

Though then unconscious of herself^ pardie, 

She lx»re no other name than Poesy ; ^ 

And, like a gifl from heaven, in lifeful glee, 

That had but newly lef\ a mother's knee. 

Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and 

As if witli elfin playfellows well known, 

And life revealed to innocence alone. 



mSGELLANBOUS POEMS. 1529 

iks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 
fiiir creation with a mastering eye, 
all awake I And now in fix'd gaze stand, 
wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 
e the green arches, on the fountain clear 
ragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 
with that serviceable nymph I stoop 
crystal from its restless pool to scoop, 
no longer ! I myself am there, 
a the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 
[, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings, 
gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : 
iuse and listen to the tinkling bells 
I the high tower, and think that there she dwells, 
old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, 
breathe an air like life that swells my chest. 

brightness of the world, O thou once free, 
always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
oreuce ! with the Tuscan fields and hills, 
&mous Amo, fed with all their rills ; 
I brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, 
^Iden corn, the olive, and the vine, 
cities, gallant mansions, castles old, 
forests, where, beside his leafy hold 
nillen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
iian palace with its storied halls ; 
tains, where Love lies listening to their falls ; 

[.. II. 9 



«tt 



.ctJ-i 






130 












YTte* 






too 



,oi»er 






.«^.tr;*<^^-*-^r 









«*^ "a v^!!V,9l^«** 






^'^^^^^^ 









ifv««* 



OO • ..^A 

see- -^.tootva •-„,afo\ai»»_,,B«e«*»" 



m* 



r 



VotiS 



ftr«^ 



Ccvf 



ao.^;^ 









at^^ 






cot^^"''. -,,, 






.eB«^S« .r.^^^"^;. 






sage V- 1>-^. ^i.d5 ^l?:V^- 



d^>^« 












HlBCELIkANEOITS POEMS. 131 

lere, half conceal'd, the eye of fency views 
us, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy 
muse! 

11 in thy garden let me watch their pranks, 
d see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
e vestal fires, of which her lover grieves, 
ith that sly satyr peeping through the leaves ! 

ON A CATARACT 
FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT OF A 
MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE. 

STROPHE. 

PERISHING youth ! 

ou leapest firom forth 

e cell of thy hidden nativity ; 

ver mortal saw 

s cradle of the strong one ; 

ver mortal heard 

Q gathering of his voices ; 

s deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock, 

U is hsp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain. 

I 

sre's a cloud at the portal, a spray- woven veil 
the shrine of his ceaseless renewing ; 
embosoms the roses of dawn, 
mtangles the shaflsof the noon, 

to libro d*Ovyidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, 
le i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne' freddi cu- 
accendere.*' 



132 MISCKLLANEOUS POKMB. 

And into the bed of its stiUnesB 
The mo<»i8hine sinks down as in slumber, 
That the son of the rock, that the nursling of beai 
May be bom in a holy twilight ! 

ANTISITROPHE. 

The wild goat in awe 

Looks up and beholds 

Above thee the cliff inaccessible ; — 

Thou at once full-bom 

Madd'nest in thy joyance, 

Whirlest, shatterest, splittest, 

Life invulnerable. 

LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT. 

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE. 

Like a lone Arab, old and blind 

Some caravan had left behind 

Who sits beside a ruin'd well, 

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
And now he hangs his aged head aslant. 
And listens for a human sound — in vain ! 
And now the aid, which heaven alone can grart, 
Upturns his eyeless face from heaven to gain ;— 
Even thus, io vacant mood, one sultry hour, 
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant. 
With brow low bent, within my garden bower, 
I sate upon the couch of camomile ; 
And — whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance^ 
Flitted across the idle brain, the while 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 133 

soch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, 

tky own heart ; or that, indeed a trance, 

*n'd my eye inward — thee, O genial Hope, 

'e's elder sister! thee did I behold, 

i8t as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, 

th roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim 

^e lifeless at my feet ! 

d then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, 

Vnd stood beside my seat ; 

3 bent, and kissed her sister's lips, 

Vs she was wont to do ; — 

IS ! 'twas but a chilling breath 

3ke just enough of life in death 

To make Hope die anew. 

xioas to assoeiate the name of a most dear and honored 
riend with my own, I solicited and obtained the per- 
aission of Professor J. H. Green to permit the in- 
ertion of the two following poems, by him composed. 

S. T. COLERIDGE. 

MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD. 

[E house is a prison, the school-room's a cell ; 

siye study and books for the upland and dell ; 

y aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care ; 

Ay forth ! sally fonh ! let us breathe the fresh air ! 

e sky dons its holiday mantle of blue ; 

e sun sips his morning refreshment of dew ; 

akes joyously laughing his tresses of light, 

d here and there turns his eye piercing and bright ; 



134 MISCELLAKEOUS POEMS. 

Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car, 
With smiles to the mom, — for he means to go fiur;— 
While the clouds, that had newly paid court at bis 

levee, 
Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy. 
IVee, and tree-tuiled hedge-row, and, sparkling be- 
tween 
Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green, 
With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please, 
Sprays, petals and leaflets, that nod in the breeze, 
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the iray 
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray. 
Itself its own home ; — far away ! far away ! 

The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower ; 
The humble-bee sings in each43ell of each flower; 
The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill, 
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill; 
The birds carol gladly ! — ^the lark mounts on high ; 
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye, 
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well, 
Ever wheeling, weave ever some magical spell. 
The hunt is abroad : — hark ! the horn sounds its note, 
And seems to invite us to regions remote. 
The horse in the meadow is stinted by the sound, 
And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound ; 
Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he 

bounds, [hounds. 

To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the 
Then stay not within, for on such a blest day 
We can never quit home, while with Nature we 

stray ; far away, far away ! 



MISCXLLAMEOUS POEMS. 135 



CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC. 

[E feverous dream is past! and I awake, 

)ne and joyless in my pnson-cell, 

ain to ply the never ending toil, 

id bid the task-worn memory weave again 

LB tangled threads, and ravelPd skein of thought ; 

srjointed fragments of my care-worn life ! 

le mirror of my soul, — ah ! when again 

» -welcome and reflect calm joy and hope ! — 

pain subsides, and smooths its turbid swell, 

te surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast, — 

id the sad forms of scenes and deeds long past 

end into spectral shapes and deathlike life, 

ad pass in silent, stern procession!— 

le storm is past ; — ^but in the pause and hush, 

jr calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine ; 

y spirit is rebuk'd ! — and like a mist, 

espondency, in gray cold mantle clad, 

i phantom form gigantic floats ! — 

That dream, 
hat dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell, 
hat calls to life the phantoms of the past, — 
akes e'en oblivion memory's register, — 
ill swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain ! 
^in I wildly quaffed the maddening bowl, 
gain i stak'd my all, — again the die 
"ov'd traitor to my hopes ;— and 'twas for her, 



136 BnSCELLAfnSOUS pokmb. 

Whose love more madden'd than the bowl, whose 

love, 
More dear than all, was treacherous as the die:— 
Again I saw her with her paramour, 
Again 1 aim'd the deadly blow, again 
I senseless fell, and knew not whom I struck. 
Myself, on her, or him : — I heard the ahnek, 
And mingled laugh, and cry of agony : 
I felt the whirl of rapid motion, — 
And hosts of fiendish shapes, uucertain seen 
In murky air, glared fiercely as I pass'd ; — 
They welcom'd me with bitter laughs of sconi. 
They pledged me in the brimming cup of hate. — 

fiut stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts, 
Or fi^nzy must unseat my reason's sway, — 
Again give license to my lawless will ! — 
And yet I know not, if that demon rout 
Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true ; — 
Or life itself be but a shadowy dream. 
The act and working of an evil will ! — 
Dread scope of fantasy and passion's power ! 
Oh God ! take back the boon, the precious gifi 
Of will mysterious. — Give me, give again. 
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefi ; 
Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply 
And shield against temptations, that assail 
My weak and yielding spirit ! — ^Madness come ! 
The balm to guilt, the safeguard fix^m remorse^ 
Make me forget, and save me from myself I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 137 



A CHARACTER. 

\ BIRD, who for his other sins 

lad liy'd amongst the Jacobins ; 

rho' like a kitten amid rats, 

>r callow tit in nest of bats, 

ie much abhorr'd all democrats ; 

ifet nathless stood in ill report 

>f wishing ill to chm'ch and court, 

rho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting, 

Ind learnt to pipe ^ God save the king ;** 

rho' each day did new feathers bring, 

ill swore he had a leathern wing ; 

^or polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail, 

^or down-clad thigh would aught avail ; 

Ind tho' — ^his tongue devoid of gall — 

Ie civilly assur'd them all : — 

' A bird am I of Phoebus' breed, 

\nd on the sunflower cling and feed ; 

Aj name, good sirs, is Thomas Tit !" 

rhe bats would hail him brother cit, 

[>r, at the furthest, cousin-german. 

\t length the matter to determine, 

fie publicly denounced the vermin ; 

fie spared the mouse, he prais'd the owl ; 

But bats were neither flesh nor fowl. 

Bloodsucker, vampire, harpy, goul, 

C!ame in full clatter from his throat, 

nil his old nest-mates chang'd their note 



138 MISCELLANEOUS POKMH. 

To hireling, traitor, and turncoat, — 
A base apostate who had sold 
His very teeth and claws for gold ; — 
And then his feathers ! — sharp the jest- 
No doubt he feather'd well his nest ! 
A Tit indeed ! aye, tit for tai — 
With place and title, brother Bat, 
We soon shall see how well he'll play 
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay !" 

Alas, poor bird ! and ill-bestarred — 
Or rather let us say, poor bard ! 
And henceforth quit the allegoric 

With metaphor and simile, 
For simple facts and style historic : — 
Alas, poor bard ! no gold had he. 
Behind another's team he stept. 
And plough'd and sow'd, while others reapt ; 
The work was his, but theirs the glory. 
Sic V08 non vohis, his whole story. 
Besides, whate'er he wrote or said 
Came from his heart as well as head ; 
And tho' he never left in lurch 
His king, his country, or his church, 
Twas but to humour his own cynical 
Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ; 
To his own conscience only hearty, 
'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party ; — 
The self-same things had said and writ, 
Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt ; 
Content his own applause to win. 
Would never dash thro' thick and thin, 



lUSCELLAlVSOnS POEMS. 189 

id he can make, so say the wise, 

» claun who makes no sacrifice ; — 

id bard still less : — what claim had he^ 

ho swore it vex'd his soul to see 

» grand a cause, so proud a realm 

ith Groose and Groody at the helm ; 

lio long ago bad fall'n asunder 

It for their rivals' haser blunder, 

he coward whine and Frenchified 

aver and slang of the other side ? — 

Thus, his own whim his only bribe, 

ur bard pursued his old A. B. C. 

Dntented if he could subscribe 

I fiiUest sense his name 'Patriae ; 

ns Punic Greek, « for he hath stood !") 

Qiate'er the men, the cause was good ; 

ad therefore witb a right good will, 

3or fool, he fights their battles still. 

ush ! squeak'd the bats ; — a mere bravado 

whitewash that base renegade ; 

*is plain unless you're blind or mad, 

is conscience for the bays he barters ; — 

nd true it is — as true as sad — 

hese circlets of green baize he had — 

lit then, alas ! they were his garters 1 

Ah ! silly bard, unfed, untended, 

is lamp but gliminer'd in its socket ; 

e liv'd unhonor'd and unfriended 

^th scarce a penny in his pocket ; — 

ay — tho' he hid it from the many — 

rith scarce a pocket for his penny ! 



140 MISCELIiANEOUS POEMS. 



THE REPROOF AND REPLY. 

*<FiE, Mi, Coleridge ! — and can this be you? 
Break two commandnjents ? and in church-time too! 
Have you not heard, or have you heard in vaiD, 
The birth and parentage-recording strain? 
Confessions shrill, that out-shrilPd mack'rei diowfr- 
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down. 
Letter to sweet-heart — ^the last dying speech— 
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach? 
You, that knew better! In broad open day 
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away? 
What could possess you ? Ah ! sweet youth, I fear 
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear !" 

Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought 

From fair to the poet's thought 

Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply : — 

A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye, — 

And then : 

" Fair dame ! a visionary wight, 

Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white, 

His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home, 

Long hath it been your poet's wont to roam. 

And many a mom, on his becharmed sense 

So rich a stream of music issued thence. 

He deem'd himself, as it flowed warbling on, 

Beside the vocal fount of Helicon ! 

But when, as if to settle the concern, 



MISCXLULREOUS POEMS. 141 

tiymph too he beheld, in many a turn, 
Uiding the sweet rill fit>m its fontal urn, — 
ly, can you blame ? — ^No ! none that saw and heard 
ould blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd ; 
muse beholding in each fervent trait, 

ook Mary for PoUy Hymnia ! 

r haply as there stood beside the maid 

De loftier form in sable stole array'd, 

' with regretful thought he hail'd in thee 

— y his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene ! 

ut most of you, sofl warblings, I complain ! 

?was ye that from the bee-hive of my brain 

ured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout, 

jid witch'd the air with dreams turn'd inside out. 

*hus all conspir'd — each power of eye and ear, 
Lnd this gay month, th' enchantress of the year, 
?o cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot !) 

knd 's self accomplice in the plot. 

!Jan you then wonder if I went astray ? 

^ot bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ; — 

Ul nature day-dreams in the month of May. 

lnd if I pluck'd each flower that sweetest blows, — 

Vho walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose. 

Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-fork'd hill. 

To pluck both flower and floweret at my will ; 

rhe garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread, 

^or common law, nor statute in my head ; 

For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling, 

iVith autocratic band at once repealing 

Pive Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing ! 



142 MISCELLAirXOUS POUfS. 



But yet from who defl|Nuni of grtoe ? 

There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that ftiee! 
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue, 
That look as if they had little else to do : 

For speaks, ^ Poor youth ! he's but a waif. 

The spoons all right? the hen and chickais iafe? 
WeU, weU, he shall not tbrfeit our regards — 
The eighth commandment was not made fbrbtrds!* 

CHOLERA CURED BEFORE HAND. 

Or a premonition promulgated gratis for the use of the 
Useful Classes, specially those resident in St Giles*!. 
Saffron Hill, Bethual Green, &c.; and likewise, inU' 
much as the good man is merciful even to the beasts, 
for the benefit of the Bulls and Bean of the Sfock 
Exchange. 

Pains ventral, subventral, 
In stomach or entrail. 
Think no longer mere pre&ces 
For grins, groans, and wry faces ; 
But off to the doctor, fast as ye can crawl ! ^ 
Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all 

• Now to 'scape inward aches, 
Eat no plums nor plum-cakes ; 
Cry avaunt ! new potatoe — 
And don't drink, like old Cato. 
Ah ! beware of Dispipsy, 
And don't ye get tipsy ! 



I 



MTSCBLLAIIEOUS P0BM8. 143 

For tho' gin and whi^ey 

May make you foel frisky, 

They're but crimps to Dispipsy ; 

And nose to tail, with this gipsy 

Comes, black as a porpus. 

The diabolus ipse, 

CalPd Cholery Morpus ; [to feed him, 
o with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion 
»' being a devil, no one never has seed'him! 

Ah ! then my dear honies, 
There's no cure for you 
For loves nor for monies : — 
You'll find it too true. 
Och ! the hallabaloo ! 
Och ! och ! how you'll wail. 
When the ofial-fed vagrant 
Shall turn you as blue 
As the gas-light unfragrant, 
at gushes in jets from beneath his own tail ; — 
Till swifl as the mail. 
He at last brings tlie cramps on. 
That will twist you like Samson. 

So without further blethring, 
Dear mudlarks ! my brethren ! 
Of all scents and degrees, 
(Yourselves and your shes) 
Forswear all cabal, lads. 
Wakes, unions, and rows. 
Hot dreams, and cold salads 



144 MISCELI.ANEOUS POBM8. 

I 

And donH pig in sties that would 8u£focate sows! 
Quit Gobbett's, O'Connel's, and Beelzebub^s buuie»9 
And whitewash at once bowels, rooms^ hands, md 
manners! 



COLOGNE. 

In Kohln, a town of monks and bones, 

And pavements fang'd with murderous stones, 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; 

I counted two and seventy stenches, 

All weU defined, and several stinks ! 

Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 

The river Rhine, it is well knovm, 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 

But tell me, nymphs ! what power divine 

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 



ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM 
THE SAME CITY. 

As I am rhymer, 
And now at least a merry one, 

Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer 

And the church of St Geryon 

Are the two things alone 

That deserve to be known 
In the body and soulnstinking town of Cologn 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

.RT seeks the polar ridge ; 

nnes seeks S. T. Coleridge, 

hor of works, whereof— tho' not in Dutch — 

i public little knows — the publisher too much. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ANCIENT 

MARINER. 

Your poem must eternal be, 

Dear sir ! it cannot fail ! 
For 'tis incomprehensible. 

And without head or tail. 

!klETRICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY. 

ch£e trips frdm long td short ; 
m long to long in solemn sort 
N Spondee stalks ; strong foot ! yet ill able 
r td come up with Dactyl trisyll&bld. 
lies march frdm short td long ; — 
h a leap ^nd k bound th£ swifl An^Lpeests throng ; 
) syllable long, with one short at each side, 
phibrachf s hastes with k stately stride ; — 
It &nd last b6ing long, middle short, Amphimacer 

[racer. 
£68 his thOnd^ring hoofs tike & proud high-br6d 

OL. II. 10 



^ 



1 

146 MISCELLAIfBOUS FOEMf. 

If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise. 

And delight in the things of earth, water, and ddee; 

Tender warmth at bis heart, witb these metres to 

show it, 
With sound sense in hia brains, may make 0aMt 

a poet, — 
May crown him with fiime, and must win him Ite 

love 
Of his father on earth and his Father above. 

My dear, dear child ! 
Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not fiw 

its whole ridge 
See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. 

Coleridge. 






1: 



THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER DESCRIBED , 
AND EXEMPLIFIED. 

Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limilkv 

billows, 
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky aai 

the ocean. 



THE OYIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE DESCRIBED 
AND EXEMPLIFIED. 

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silveiy oolumt; 
In the pentameter aye falling in melody bodL i 



wammLLAjnovB poxms. 147 

TO THE YOUNG ARTIST, KATSER OF 
KASERWERTH.- 

Katser! to whom, as to a second self^ 
Nature, or Nature's next-of-kin, the eli^ 
Bight Genius, hath dispens'd the happy skill 
To cheer or soothe the parting friends, alas ! 
ruming the blank scroll to a magic glass, 
Riat makes the absent present at our will ; 
^Qd to the shadowing of thy*pencil gives 
iich seeming substance, that it almost lives ; 

i^ell hast thou given the thoughtful poet's ftce ! 

et hast thou on the tablet of his mind 

. more delightful portrait leil behind — 

Iv'n thy own youthful beauty, and artless grace, 

liy natural gladness and eyes bright with glee ! 

Kayser! farewell! 
(e wise ! be happy ! and forget not me. 
1833. 

JOB'S LUCK. 

Slt Beelzebub took all occasions 
To try Job's constancy and patience ; 
He took his honours, took his health. 
He took his children, took his wealth, 
His camels, horses, asses, cows — 
iad the sly devil did not take his spouse. 

• 

Bat heaven that brings out good from evil. 
And loves to disappoint the devil. 



148 MIBCELLAIVEOUS P0BM8. 

Had predeterrained to restore 
Twofold all Job had before, 
His children, camels, horses, cows — 
Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse ! 



ON A VOLUNTEER SINGER. 

Swans sing before they die : 'twere no bad things 
Should certain persons die before they sing. 



ON AN INSIGNIFICANT. 

'TIS Cypher lies beneath this crust- 
Whom Death created into dust 



PROFUSE KINDNESS. 

Sijnioij o^x Xoaaiv 6ato nXiov ijitau navroq, — Hctiod. 

What a spring-tide of love to dear friends in a 

shoal! 
Half of it to one were worth double the whole ! 

CHARITY IN THOUGHT. 

To praise men as good, and to take them for sach, 
Is a grace, which no soul can mete out to a tittle }— 

Of which he who has not a little too much, 
Will by charity's gage surely have much too lit&. 



mibcellaheous poemb. 149 



dlLITY THE MOTHER OF CHARITY. 

sreatures are we all ! To be the best, 
t the fewest &ults to have : — 
lou then to thyself and leave the rest 
rod, thy conscience, and the grave. 



ON AN INFANT 
WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM. 

rather than be called, a child of God," 
ii whispered ! — with assenting nod, 
sad upon its mother's breast, 
le baby bowed, without demur — 
le kingdom of the blest 
Bseasor, not inheritor. 

RKELEY AND FLORENCE COLERIDGE, 

aO DIED ON THE 16TH OP JANUARY, 1834.' 

L as sweet ! twin buds, too rathe to bear 

winter's unkind air ; 

beyond all price, no sooner given 

I strught required by heaven ; 

1 jewels, vainly for a moment lent 

9ck my brow, or sent 

' By a fHend. 



150 ]U8CBLI.AlfB0UB POXMS. 

Untainted from the earth, as Christ's, to soar, 

And add two spirits more 
To that dread band seraphic, that doth lie 

Beneath the Ahnighty's eye ; — 
Glorious the thought — ^yet ah ! my babes, ah! sdll 

A father's heart ye fill ; 
Though cold ye lie in earth — ^though gentle deadi 

Hath suck'd your balmy breath, 
And the last kiss which your &ir cheeks I gave 

Is buried in yon grave. 
No tears — ^no tears — I wish them not again ; 

To die, for them was gain. 
Ere doubt, or fear, or woe, or act of sin 

Had marr'd God's light within. 



— E coelo descendit yvvBi ataiirSv, — Juvemid, 

• 

TyG)di (reavrdv ! — and is this the prime 

And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time !— 

Say, canst thou make thyself? — Learn first that 

trade; — 
Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made. 
What hast thou, Man, that thou dar^ call thine 

own? — 
What is there in thee, Man, that can be known ?— 
Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, 
A phantom dim of past and future wrought, 
Vain sister of the worm, — ^life, death, soul, clod- 
Ignore thyself and strive to know thy God ! 



■IBCXLLAHSOUS POEMS. 151 



Beareth all things. — ^2 Cor, xiii, 7. 

■LT I took that which ungently came, 

vnthout scorn forgave : — Do thou the same. 

ong done to thee think a cat's eye spark 

. wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark. 

3 own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, 

that — the spark self-kindled from within, 

:h blown upon, will blind thee with its glare, 

nother'd, stifle thee with noisome air. 

on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, 

90on the ventilated spirit finds 

itural daylighL If a foe have kenn'd, 

orse than foe, an alienated friend, 

of dry rot in thy ship's stout side, 
k it Grod's message, and in humble pride 

heart of oak replace it ; — thine the gains — 
him the rotten timber for his pains ! 



MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY. 

s child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, — 
kt that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather 
1 forfeit that blest name, by which I call 



1 



153 MIBCELUkNEOUS F01M8. 

The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father?- 
Father ! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee- 
Eternal Thou, and everlasting We. 
The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death: 
In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath 
Of the true life ! — Let then earth, sea, and sky 
Make war against me ! On my heart 1 show 
Their mighty master's seal. In vain they try 
To end my life, that can but end its woe. — 
Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies ?— 
Yes ! but not his — ^His Death itself there dies. 



EPITAPH. 

Stop, christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — 
O, hft one thought in prayer for S. T. C, 
That he who many a year vnth toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death! 
Mercy for praise — ^to be forgiven for fame 
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the 
same! 

9th November, 1833. 



REMORSE. 

A TRAGEOT. IN FIVE ACTS. 



i 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Marquis Valdez, father to the two brothers ^ andDnifi 

Terksa's guardian, 
Don Altar, the eldest son. 
Don Ordonio, the youngest son. ' 

MoNYiEDRO, a Dominican and inquisitor. 
ZuLiMEZy the faithful attendant on Alyar. 
Isidore, a Moreseo chi^ftain^ ostensibly a Christies 
Familiars of the Inquisition, 
Naomi. 

MoorSf Servants, fye. 
DoirA Teresa y an orphan heiress. 
Alhadra, wife of Isidore.* 

Tim^ — The reign of Philip W.yjustat the close cf (hi 
civil wars against the Moors, and during the heat (f 
the persecution which raged against themj «Aofdy 
qfier the edict which forbade the wearii^ of Mortses 
apparel under pain of death. 



REMORSE. 

ACT I. 

Scene I. — The seashore on the cocut of Granada, 

Don Mvar, wrapt in a boat-cloak, and Zulimez 
(a Moresco), boffi as just landed. 

Zul. No sound, no face of joy to welcome us ! 

Mj, My faithftil Zulimez, for one brief moment 
Let me forget my anguish and their crimes. 
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling, 
Tis surely this — after long years of exile. 
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us, 
To hail at once our coimtry, and our birth-place. 
Hail, Spain ! Granada, haD ! once more I press 
Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers ! 

Zul. Then claim your rights in it ! O, revered 
Don Alvar ; 
Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose. 
It is too hazardous ! reveal yourself^ 
And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt ! 

Mv. Remember, Zulimez ! I am his brother, 
Injured indeed ! deeply injured ! yet 
Ordonio's brother. • 

Zul. Nobly minded Alvar I 

This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye. 



156 REMORSE. 

Mv. The more behoves it, I should rouae witluB 
hun 
Remorse ! that I should save him from himseli 

Zvl, Remorse is aslhe heart in which it grows: 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy, 
It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost 
Weeps only tears of poison. 

Mv. And of a brother, 

Dare I hold this, unproved ? nor make one effivt 
To save him ? — Hear me, friend ! I have yet to 

thee. 
That this same life, which he conspired to take, 
Himself once rescued from the angry flood, 
And at the imminent hazard of his own. 
Add too my oath — 

Ztd, You have thrice told already 

The years of absence and of secrecy. 
To which a forced oath bound you : if in truth 
A suborned murderer have th^ power to dictate 
A binding oath — 

Mv, My long captivity 

Left me no choice : the very wish too languished 
With the fond hope that nursed it ; the sick babe 
Drooped at the bosom of its famished mother. 
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy ; 
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest, 
No motive could have tempted him to felsehood : 
In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience. 
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose 



RXlfORBE. 157 

Q murderous weapon, pointed at my breast, 
ll from his palsied hand — 
^uL Heavy presumption ! 

Alv. It weighed not with me — ^Hark ! I will tell 

thee all ; 
I we passed by, I bade thee mark the base 
r yonder cliff— 

Zul. That rocky seat you mean, 

laped by the billows ? — 

Aiv. There Teresa met me 

he morning of the day of my departure. 
'e were alone : the purple hue of dawn 
ill from the kindling east aslant upon us, 
ad blending with the blushes on her cheek, 
iffused the tear-drops there with rosy light, 
bere seemed a glory round us, and Teresa 
he angel of the vision ! 

Had'st thou seen 
!ow in each motion her most innocent soul 
earned forth and brightened, thou thyself would'st 
uilt is a thing impossible in her! [tell me, 

be must be innocent ! 
Zul, [WUh a sigh,] Proceed, my lord ! 
Jllv. A portrait which she had procured by stealth 
^or even then it seems her heart foreboded 
^ knew Ordonio's moody rivalry) 
portrait of herself with thrilling hand 
be tied around my neck, conjiu'ing me, 
i^ith earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred 



^ 



158 REMORBE. 



To my own knowledge : nor did she demt, L, 

Till she had won a solemn promise from me, \^ 

That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold It |^ 
Till my return. Yet this the assassin Jmew, 
Knew that which none but she could hare difldoBei ]j 

ZuL, A damning proof! - 

Mv. My own life wearifldim! 

And but for the imperadve voice within. 
With mine own hand I had throWn.off tiie bmdNii 
That voice, which quelled me, calmed me : and 1 

sought 
The Belgic states : th^re joined the better cause; 
And there too fought as one that courted death 1 
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dyings 
In death-like trance : a long imprisonment ftUomi 
The fulness of my anguish by degrees 
Waned to a meditative melancholy ; 
And still the more I mused, my soul became 
More doubtful, more perplexed ; and still Terasi, 
Night after night, she visited my sleep ; 
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful. 
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me I 
Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reaoon, 
1 cherish the fond faith that she is guUtlesB ! 
Hear then my fix'd resolve : I'll linger here 
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.—- 
The Moorish robes ? — 

ZuL, All, all are in the sea-care^ 

Some ftirlong hence. I bade our marinen 
Secrete the boat there. 



RXMORSA. 159 

Above all, the picture 
isBasBination — 

Be assured 
remains uninjured. 

Thus disguised 
rst seek to meet Ordonio's — ^wife ! 
ble, alone too. This was her wonted walk, 
8 the hour'; her words, her very looks 
quit her or convict 
Will they not know you ? 
With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly 
le disguise ; and as to my complexion, 
g imprisonment, the scanty food, 
ar, — and toil beneath a burning sun, 
one already half the business for us. 

my youth ; — since last we saw each other, 
od has swoln my chest, and taught my voice 
ser note — Besides, they think me dead ; 

hat the mind believes impossible, 
»dily sense is slow to recognise. 

Tis yours, sir to command, mine to obey. 
> the cave beneath the vaulted rock, 

1 having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain, 
k our mariners ; and in the dusk 

K)rt whatever we need to the small dell 
Alpuxarras — there where Zagri lived. 

I know it well : it is the obscurest haunt 
the mountains — [holh stand listening 

Voices at a distance ! 
I away ! [Exeuni. 



160 RKM0R8E. 

Scene II. — Enter Teresa and Valdei, 

Ttr, I hold OrdoDio dear ; be is your son 
And AU-ar's brother. 

VaL Love him for himflel^ 

Nor 'make the HviDg wretched for the dead. 

Ter, I mourn that you should plead in Tain, 
Lord Valdez ; 
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain 
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living. 

Vol, Heaven knows with what delight I 
your loves, 
And could my heart's blood give him hack to thee 
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts! 
Thy dying father comes upon my soul 
With that same look, with which he gave thee to mB} 
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe, 
While thy poor mother, with a mute entreaty, 
Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah ! not for thia^ 
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom, 
And with slow anguish wear away thy life, 
The victim of a useless constancy. 
I must not see thee wretched. 

2Vr. There are woes 

III bartered for the garishness of joy ! 
If it be wretched with an untired eye 
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean ; 
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock. 
My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze. 
To diape sweet visions, and live o*er again 



REMORSE. 161 

L past hours of delight ! If it be wretched 

» watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there, 

ft go through each minutest circumstance 

r the hlest meeting, and to frame adventures 

Q6t terrible and strange, and hear him tell them ; 

js once I knew a crazy Moorish maid 

lio dress'd her in her buried lover's clothes, 

od o'er the smooth spring in the mountain clefi 

nng with her lute, and played the selfsame tune 

e used to play, and listened to the shadow 

eraelf had made) — if this be wretchedness, 

Dd if indeed it be a wretched thing 

trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine 

hat I had died, died just ere his return ! 

hen see him listening to my constancy, 

r hover round, as he at midnight oft 

iti on my grave, and gazes at the moon ; 

^r haply in some more &ntastic mood, 

'o be in Paradise, and with choice flowers 

iuild up a bower where he .and I might dwell. 

Ad there to wait his coming ! O my sire ! 

\j Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness 

"hat eats away the life, what were it, think you, 

' in a most assured reality 

!e should return^ and see a brother's in&nt 

mOe at him from my arms ? 

h what a thought ! 

Vtd. A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty 

thought 
he very week he promised his return— 

VOL. II. 11 



163 REMORSE. 

TVr. Was it Dot then a busy joy? to see him, 
After those three years' trayels ! we had do iean— 
The frequent tidings, the ne'er fiiiling letter, 
Ahnost endeared his absence ! Yet the gbdnen^ 
The tumult of our joy ! What then if now 

Vol. O power of youth to feed on pleasant though 
Spite of conviction ! I am old and heartlesB! 
Yes, I am old — I have no pleasant fiincies — 
Hectic and unrefreshed with rest — 

Ter. My father! 

Vol, The sober truth is a]l too much for me! 
1 see no sail which brings not to my mind 
The home-bound bark in which my son was esfttui 
By the Algerine — to perish with his captors! 

Ter. Oh no ! he did not ! 

Vol, Captiued in sight of land! 

From yon hill point, nay, from our casde wateb- 

tower 
We might have seen 

Ter, His capture, not his deatk 

Vol, Alas ! how aptly thou fbrget'st a tale 
Thou ne'er didst wish to learn ! my brave Ordooio 
Saw both the pirate and his prize go down, 
In the same storm that bafHed his own valour 
And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes: 
Gallant Ordonio ! O beloved Teresa, 
Wouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar, 
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou 
His brother happy, make his aged father 
Sink to the grave in joy. i 






ftSHORSX. 163 

\ For mercy's sake 

me no more ! I have no power to love him. 
road forbidding eye and bis dftrk brow, 
me like dew damps of the unwholesome night: 
>vey a timorous and tender flower, 
IS beneath his touch. 

i. You wrong him, maiden! 

wrong him, by my soul ! Nor was it well 
baracter by such unkindly {duroses 
sdr and workings of that love for you 
ch he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well, 
is it grateful in you to forget 
iroUnds and perilous voyages, and how 
1 an heroic feariessness of danger 
oam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar. 
IS not well — You have moved me even to tears. 
T. O pardon me, Lord Valdez ! pardon me ! 
as a foolish and ungrateful speech, 
ost ungratefiir speech ! But I am hurried 
md myself^ if I but hear of one 
) aims to rival Alvar. Were we not 
i in one day, like twins of the same parent ? 
fed in one cradle ? Pardon me, my father ! 
I yearf absence is a heavy thing, 

Still the hope survives 

iL (looking forward,) Hush ! 'tis Monviedro. 
!r. The Inquisitor ! on what new scent of blood ? 

Ender Monviedro unlh Mhadra. 
tm. Peace and the truth be with you! Good my 
lord, 



164 REMORSE; 

My present need is with your mm. 

We have hit the time. Here comes he ! Tei) hit h 

Enter from the opposite Me Don Or^hm. 
My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman 
(Alhadra is her name) aedui audience of you* • 

Ord, Hail, reverend father! what may be die Ifr 
sinesB? 

Mon. My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse 
To his false creed, so recently abjured, 
The secret servants of the Inquisition 
Have seized her husband, and at my conmiaiKl 
To the supreme tribunal would have led hiiOi 
But that he made appeal to you, my lord. 
As surety for his soundness in the faith* 
Though lessened by experience what small tnilt 
The asseverations of these Moors deserve, 
Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name, 
Nor less the wish to prove with what high hoDOOr 
The Holy Chhrch regards her feithful soldien^ 
Thus far prevailed with me that 

Ord, Reverend father, 

I am much beholden to your high opinion^ 
Which so overprizes my light services. 

[ihentoMadnu 
1 would that I could serve you ; but in truth 
Your face is new to me. 

Mon, My mind foretold me^ 

That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdtfi 
"Twas little probable that Don Ordonio, 
That your illustrious son, who fought so hcavely 



REMORSE. 165 

tsae four years since to quell these rebel Moors, 

ioukl prove the {wtron of this infidel! 

fee warranter of a Moresco's faith ! 

ywl return. 

•^UL My lord, my husband's name 

Isidore. (Ordomo gUais.) — ^You may remember it ; 

iree years ago, three years this very week, 

[>u left him at Almeria. 

Man. Palpably false ! 

to very week, three years ago, my lord, 

Tou needs must recollect it by your wound) 

cm were at sea, and there engaged the pirates, 

lie murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar! — 

ThaXj is he ill, my lord ? how strange he looks! 

VaL You pressed upon him too abruptly, father, 
%e ftte of one, on whom, you know, he doted. 

OnL O heavens! I?— I doted?— 
l9B\ I doted on him. 

[Ordanio umxMv to the end of the stage, VcMez 
JoSUads, 

TV. I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart 
hard? 
b my heart hard ? that even now the thought 
S^MHild force itself upon me ? — ^Yet I feel it ! 

Mon. The drops did start and stand upon his fore- 
head! 
Will return. In very truti], I grieve 
•0 have been the occasion. Ho ! attend me, woman ! 

JBh. (to Teresa.) O gentle lady ! mfdke the father 
'iuil my lord recover. I am sure [stay 



A 



166 REMORSK« 

That he ^mll say he k my husband^i fiiend. 

Ter. Stay, father! stay! my lord will Boon 
cover. 

Ord. (as ihey return to VdUkz.) Strange, thati 
MoDviedro 
Should have the power so to distemper me ! 

Fed. Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son! 

Mem. My lord, I truly grieve 

Ord. Tut ! name it not. 

A sudden seizure, fiither ! think not of it. 
As to this woman's husband, I do know him. 
I know him well, and that he is a Christian. 

Mon. 1 hope, my lord, your merely human f 
Doth not prevail 

Ord. 'Tis certain that he was a catholic ; 
What changes may have happened in three year 
I cannot say ; but grant me this, good father: 
Myself ril sifl him : if I find him sound, 
You'll grant me your authority and name 
To liberate his house. 

Mon. Your zeal, my lord, 

And your late merits in this holy warfare 
Would authorize an ampler trust — you have it 

Ord. I will attend you home within an hour. 

Vol. Meantime return with us, and take ref 
ment 

^h. Not till my husband's free ! I may not < 
I will stay here. 

Ter. (aside.) Who is this Isidore ? 

Vol. Daughter 1 



REMOJ18S. • 167 

-• With your permissioD, my dear lord, 
iter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze. 

[ExeutU FttUkz, Monvitdro^ and Ordomo, 
u Hah ! there he goes ! a bitter curse go with 
thing curse ! [him, 

late him, don't you, lady ? 
-. Oh fear not me ! my heart is sad for you. 
u These fell inquisitors ! these sons of blood ! 
came on, his face so maddened me, 
ever and anon I clutched my dagger 

[lalf unsheathed it 

r. Be more calm, I pray you. 

u And as he walked along the narrow path 
by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager; 
9 with hard toil I made myself remember 
his Familiars held my babes and husband, 
ive leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge, 
burl'd hifn down the rugged precipice, 
had been most sweet ! 

r. Hush! hush, fi>r shame ! 

:e is your woman's heart ? 
u O gentle lady ! 

bave no skill to guess my many wrongs, [tian, 
' and strange ! Besides, [ironicaUy] 1 am a Chris- 
Dhrisdans never pardon — ^'tis their fidth ! 
r. Shame fall on those who so have shown it 

to thee! 
u I know that man ; 'tis well he knows not me. 
years ago (and he was the prime agent,) 
years ago the holy brethren seized me. 



168 REMORSE. 

Tar. What might your crime be ? 

^^Uu I was a Mofeseo! 

They cast me, then a young and nursing mother, 
Into a dungeon of their prison-house ; 
Where was no bed, no fre, no ray of light, 
No touch, no sound of comfort ! The black air^ 
It was a toil to breathe it! when the door, 
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed 
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame 
Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down. 
Oh miserable ! by that lamp to see 
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread 
Brought daily : for the little wretch was nckly— 
My rage had dried away its natural food. 
In darkness I remained — the dull bell counting, 
Which haply told me, that the all-cheermg sod 
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed, 
My intot's moanings mingled with my slnmbeifs 
And waked me. — ^If you were a mother, lady, 
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises 
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain. 
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger. 

TVr. O heaven ! it is too horrible to hear. 

•^. What was it then to suffer ? ms most rig 
That such as you should hear it — Know you not, 
What nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal! 
Great evils ask great passions to redress them. 
And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence. 

Ter. You were at length released ? 

Ml. Yes, at length 



SBMO&SS. 169 

^flftw the blessed arch of the whole heaveil ! 
'IVas the first time my infant smiled. No more— 
^or if I dwell upon that moment, lady, 
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again 
An I then was — my knees hang loose and drag, 
And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, 
That you would start and shudder ! 

Tar. But your husband — 

Mu A month's imprisonment would kill him, 
2Vr. Alas, poor man ! [lady. 

JBh. He hath a lion's courage, 

fViriees in act, but feeble in endurance ; 
Xjnfit for boisterous times, with gende heart 
fie worships nature in the hill and valley, 
l^ot knowing what he loves, but loves it all — 
Enter Mvar disgmatd as a Moresco, and in 
Moorish garmenls. 
Tor. Know you that stately Moor ? 
Ml. I know liim not : 

Bat doubt not he is some Moresco chieflian. 
Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras. 

Tsr. The Alpuxarras ? Does he know his danger. 
So near this seat ? 

Mu He wears the Moorish robes too. 

As in defiance of the royal edict 
[jSkadra advances to Mvar^ who has walked to the 
back of ihe stage, near the rocks. Teresa drops 
herveU. 
Mh. Gallant Moresco ! An inquisitor, 
Af onviedro, of known hatred to our race— 



170 REMO&BE. 

^v. You have mistaken me. I am a ChristiiiL 

j2/%. He deems that we are plotting to eoflHR 
him: 
Speak to him, lady — none can hear you apeak, 
And not believe you innocent of guile. 

Ter, If aught enforce you to concealmeiit, m-^ 

Mh, He trembles strangely. 

\Mvcar ainka down, and hides Ma/aceinkknk. 

Ter. See, we have disturbed hiok 

[(qfpro€uAes nearer to Im 
I pray you think us friends — ^uncowl your &ce, 
For you seem &int, and the night breeze blows hari- 
I pray you think us friends ! |1q^ 

^v. (raising his head.) Calm, very calm ! 
Tis all too tranquil for reality ! 
And she- spoke to me with her innocent voice, 
That voice, that innocent voice ! She is no traitres! 

Ter. Let us retire. (haiughtQy to jWuidn,) 

Alh. He is indeed a Christian. 

Mv. (aside.) She deems me dead, yet wears no 
mourning garment! 
Why should my brother's — ^wife — ^wear mourning 

(To Teresa.) [garmenti? 

Your pardon, noble dame ! that I disturbed you: 
1 had just started from a frightful dream. 

Ter. Dreams tell but of the past, and yet 'tis m 
They prophesy— 

•^v. The Past lives o'er again 
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit 
The ever-frt)wning Present is its image« 



REMORSE. 171 

V. Traitress! (ihm aside.) 

What sudden spell o'ermasters me ? 
y seeks he me, shimning the Moorish woman ? 
Uv, I dream'd 1 had a fiiend, on whom I lean'd 
li blindest trust, and a betrothed maid, 
cm I was wont to call not mine, but. me : 
mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her. 
8 maid so idolized, that trusted friend 
honoured in my absence, soul and body ! 
J*, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt, 
1 murderers were suborned against my life. 
, by my looks, and most impassioned words, 
used the virtues that are dead in no man, 
m in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms, 
1 tfaank^ me for redeeming them from murder. 
Tu You are lost in thought : bear him no more, 

sweet lady ! 
[Vr. From mom to night I am myself a dreamer, 
1 slight things bring on me the idle mood ! 
»]1, sir, what happened then ? 
Uv. On a rude rock, 

ock, methought, &st by a grove of firs, 
lose thready leaves to the low-breathing gale 
de a soft sound most like the distant ocean, 
aid, as though the hour of death were passed, 
d I were sitting in the world of spirits — 
r all things seemed unreal ! there I sate — 
e dews fell clammy, and the night descended, 
ick, sultry, close ! and ere the midnight hour 
itorm came on, mingling all sounds of fear, 



172 RXM0R8X. 

That woods, and sky, and mountains^ seemed one 

havoc 
The second flash of lightmng showed a tree 
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumuhaous: 
My soul worked high, I bared my head to the bMid, 
And with loud voice and clamorous agony, 
Kneeling I prayed to the great Spirit that made mej 
Prayed, that remorse might fasten on their hearts, 
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable 
As the gored lion's bite ! 

7Vr. A fearful curse ! 

j22^ But dream'd you not that you returned and 
killed them ? 
Dream'd you of no revenge ? 

Mo, She would have died, 

Died in her guilt — perchance by her own hands! 
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds, 
I might have met the evil glance of fi!enzy. 
And leapt myself into an unblest grave \ 
I prayed for the punishment that cleanses hearts: 
For still I loved her! 

Mh, And you dream'd all this? 

Ter, My soul is full of visions all as wild ! 

Mh. There is no room in this heart for puling 
love tales. 

Ter, (lifts up h^ veil, and cukancea to Mvcu",) Stran- 
ger, farewell ! I guess not who you are, 
Nor why you so addressed your tale to me. 
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplexed me 
With obscure memory of something past, 



1 



KEMORSE. 173 

Which still escaped my efforts, or presented , 
Tricks of a fancy pampered with long wishing, 
li^ as it sometimes happens, our rude startling, 
Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream, 
Ilrove you to this, your not ungentle wildness — 
You have my sympathy, and so fiurewell ! 
But if some undiscovered wrongs oppress you. 
And you need strength to drag them into light, 

The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio, 

Have arm and will to ud a noble sufferer, 

Nor shall you want my fiivourable pleading. 

[JBlreuni Teresa and Mhadra* 
•^v. (alwfie.) 'Tis strange ! It cannot be ! my 
Lord Ordonio ! 

Her Lord Ordonio ! Nay, I will not do it ! 

I cursed him once — and one curse is enough ! 

How sad she looked, and pale ! but not like guiltr- 

And her calm tones — sweet as a song of mercy ! 

If the bad spirit retained his angel's voice. 

Hell scarce were hell. And why not innocent ? 

Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her ? 

But ere she married him, he had stained her honour ; 

Ah ! there I am hampered. What if this were a lie 

Framed by the assassin ? Who should tell it him^ 

If it were truth ? Ordonio would not tell him. 

Yet why one lie ? all else, I know, was truth. 

No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience ! 

And she referred to me — ^fondly, methought ! 

Could she walk here if she had been a traitress? 

Here, where we played together in our childhood ? 



174 REMORSE. 

Here, where we plighted vows ? where her cold 

cheek 
Received my last kiss, when with suppreand ftoGnp 
She had fainted in my arms ? It cannot be ! 
Tis not in nature ! I will die believing, 
That I shall meet her where no evil is, 
No treachery, no cup dashed from the lipa. 
I'll haunt this scene no more ! live she in peace! 
Her husband— aye her husband ! May this angel 
New mould his cankered heart ! Assist me, heavei, 
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother! [SA 



\ 



ACT n. 

Scene I. — A wild and rnoutUairwus County. (M»- 
nto and Isidore are discovered^ supposed at aUttn 
distance Jrom hidore^s house. 

Ord. Here we may stop: your house distinct in 
view, 
Yet we secured from listeners. 

Md. Now indeed 

My house ! and it looks cheerful as the clusters 
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock, 
That over-brows it ! Patron! Friend! Preserver! 
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the batde 
You gave it me : next rescued me from suicide: 



RXMORSX. 175 

m for my follies I was made to wander, 

1 mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them : 

' but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones 

been my bed and pillow. 

rd. Good Isidore ! 

f this to me ! It is enough, you know it 

id, A common trick of gratitude, my lord, 

dng to ease her own full heart 

rd, £nough ! 

3bt repaid ceases to be a debt 
. have it in your power to serve me greatly. 
id. And how, my lord ? 1 pray you to name 

the thing. 
>uld climb up an ice-glazed precipice 
pluck a weed you fancied ! 
i-d. Why— that— lady- 

id Tis now three years, my lord, since last I 

saw you : 
e you a son, my lord ? 

>rd, O miserable^ [(uicfe. 

ore ! you are a man, and know mankind. 
Id you what I wished — ^now for the truth — 
loved the man you kili'd. 
id. You jest, my lord ? 

^rd. And till his death is proved she will not 

wed me. 
dd. You sport with me, my lord ? 
hrd. Come, come ! this foolery 

Bs only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it! 
lid. I can bear this, and any thmg more grievous 



176 KSMORSK. 

From you, my lord — but how can I serve you hoi 

Ord, Why, you can utter with a solemn gestiir 
Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning, 
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics- 

Isid, 1 am dull, my lord ! I do not compreheDd 
you. 

Ord. In blunt terms, you can play the soreeiar. 
She hath no &ith in Holy Church, 'tis true ; 
Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense; 
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her. 
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive. 
Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye: 
And such do love the marvellous too well 
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fimcy 
Witli a strange music, that she knov^ not of^ 
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery. 
Then leave, as one suse token of his death, 
That portrait, which fit>m off the dead man's neck 
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest 

bid. Will that be a sure sign ? 

Ord. Beyond suspidoD. 

Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover, 
(By some base spell he had bewitched her seDses) 
She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth, 
As made this heart pour gall into my veins. 
And as she coyly bound it round his neck 
She made him promise silence ; and now holds 
The secret of the existence of this portrait 
Known only to her lover and herself. 
But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them, 



REMORSE. 177 

knd unsuspected saw and heard the whole. 

JriiL But now I should have cursed the man who 
told me 
iTou could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse — 
kit this I cannot do. 

Ord. Where lies your scruple ? 

bid. Why — ^why, my lord ! 
ITou know you told me that the lady loved you, 
Sad loved you with incautious tenderness ; 
rhat if the young man, her betrothed husband, 
Etetumed, yourself, and she, and the honour of both 
Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples 
rhan those which being native to th^ heart, 
Than those, my lord, which merely being a man — 

Ord. This fellow is a man — he killed for hire 
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples ! 

[7Aen turning to Isidore. 
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammer- 
ing- 
Pish, fool ! thou blund'rest through the book of guilt, 
spelling thy villany. 

bid. My lord — ^my lord, 

can bear much — ^yes, very much from you ! 
tut there's a point where sufferance is meanness : 

am no villain — ^never kilPd for hire — 
ly gratitude — 

Ord. O aye — ^your gratitude ! 

Twas a well sounding word — ^whut have you done 
vnthit? 

laid. Who profTers his past favors for my virtue — 

VOL. II. 12 



178 UBM0R8E. 

Ord. 

bid. Tries to o'erreach me— k a ve 
And should not epeak of gratitude, my 
I knew not 'twas your brother ! 

Ord, And whc 

bid. He himself told me. 

Ord, Ha ! you talk'c 

And those, the two Morescoes who wet 

bid. Both fell in a nig^t-brawl at Id 

Ord, (in a low voice.) 

bid. Yes, my lord, I could not tell 
I thrust away the thought — ^it drove m< 
But listen to me now — ^I pray you liste 

Ord, Villain ! no more. I'll hear i 

bid. My lord, it much imports you 
That you should hear it. 

Ord, (turning off from bidore.) An 
'TIS as it should be ! tut — the deed itse 
Was idle, and these ailer-paugs still id) 

bid. We met him in the very place y 
Hard by a grove of firs — 

Ord, Enough— < 

bid. He fought us valiantly, and w 
In fine, compelled a pariey. 

Ord, Alvarl brother! 

bid. He offered me his purse — 

Ord. Yes ? 

bid. Yes — I s 

He promised us I know not what — in 
Then with a look and voice that oven 



REMORSE. 179 

rie said, What mean you, friends ? My life is dear : 
1 have a brother and a promised wife, 
Who make my life dear to me— and if I fell, 
Diat brother will roam earth and hell fer yengeance. 
rhere was a likeness in his fece to yours ; 
[ asked his brother's name : he said — Ordonio, 
3oa <^ Lord Valdez ! I had well nigh feinted. 
^X length I said (if that indeed I said it, 
find that no spirit made my tongue its organ,) 
rbftt woman is dishbnoured by that brother. 
And he the man who sent us to destroy you. 
Ele drove a thrust at me in rage. 1 told him. 
He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd 
As he had been made of the rock that propt his back- 
Aye, just as you look now— only less ghastly I 
At length recovering from his trance, he threw 
Hii sword away, and bade us take his life. 
It was not worth his keeping. 

Ord. And you kiU'd him ? 

Oh, bloodhounds! may eternal wrath flame round 

you! 
He was his Maker's image undefac'd ? 
It seizes me — ^by hell 1 will go on ! 
What — would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks 

won't save thee ! 
Oh cold — cold— cold! shot through with icy cold ! 

Isid. (aside,) Were he alive he had returned ere 
now. 
The consequenccthe same— dead thro' his plotting ! 

Ord. O this unutterable dying away— here — 



180 AEMOASE. 

This Enckneas of the heart ! 

What if I went 
And liv'd in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds? 
Aye ! that's the road to heaven ! O fool ! fool! Ibol! 
What have I done but that which nature destined, 
*Or the blind elements stirred up within me ? 
If good were meant, why were we made these hm^ 
And if not meant — 

bid. You are disturbed, my lord ! 

OrcL (starts) A gust of the soul ! i'faith it overset me. 

'twas all folly — all ! idle as laughter ! 
Now, Isidore ! I swear that thou shalt aid me. 

bid, (in a hw voice,) 111 perish first ! 
Ord, What dost thou mutter of? 

bid. Some of your servants know me, I am ce^ 
tain. [we'll mask yoo. 

Ord, There's some sense in that scruple ; but 
Isid. They'll know my gait : but stay ! last night 
I watched 
A stranger near the ruin in the wood, [floweiSi 

Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild 

1 had followed him at distance, seen him scale 
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance 
Stole after him unnoticed. There I mailed, 
That mid the chequer-work of light and shade 
With curious choice he plucked no other flowen^ 
But those on which the moonlight fell : and once 
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard- 
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment 

Ord, Doubtless you question'd him ? 



REMORSE. 181 

bid. Twas my intention, 

laying first traced him homeward to his haunt. 
Sut lo ! the stem Dominican, whose spies 
" lurk every where, already (as it seemed) 
Sad given commission to his apt &miliar 
' TTo seek and sound the Moor ; who now returning, 
^as by this trusty agent stopped midway. 
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him 
In that lone place, again concealed myself; 
Tet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd, 
And in your name, as lord of this domain ; 
Proudly he answered, ** Say to the Lord Ordonio, 
He that can bring the dead to life again ! " 
Ord. A strange reply ! 
bid* Aye, all of him is strange. 

He called himself a Christian, yet he wears 
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death. 
Ord. Where does this wizard live ? 
bid. (pointing to (he distance.) You see that brooklet? 
* Trace its course backward : thro' a narrow opening 
h leads you to the place. 
Ord. How shall I know it ? 

bid. You cannot err. It is a small green dell 
Built all around with high off-sloping hills, ^ 
And fix>m its shape our peasants aptly call it 
^he Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst, 
And round its banks tall wood that branches over, 
<And makes a kind of faery forest grow 
I^own in the water. At the fiirther end 
'j\ puny cataract tails on the lafte ; 



182 REMORSE. 

And there, a curiouB sight ! you see its shadow 
For ever ourliDg, like a wreath of smokey 
Up through the foliage of those &ery trees. 
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it 
Ord. (in retuing stops suddenly of the edgt (f^ 
scene, and then ttundng round to bidon.) Ha! 
who lurks there ! Have we been overheard? 
There where the smooth high wall of slateHrock 

glitters 

bid, 'Neath those tall stones, which pn^pfnni^ 
each the other, 
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch ? 
Pardon my smiles ! Tis a poor idiot boy. 
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a boug^ about. 
His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears. 
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head. 
And, staring at his bough from mom to sun-set, 
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises. 
Ord, Tis yrell ! and now for this same wizard^ 

lair. 
Jbid. Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash 
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters 
O'er the old thatch. 

Ord. I shall not ML to find it 

[Exeunt Ordonio and bidsrt 



REMORSE. 183 

^CENE n. — T^ inside of a cottage^ around which 
flowers and plants of varioiLS kinds are seen. 

tyiscovers Mvar^ Zulimez^ and Mhadra^ as (mike point 

of leaving. 

JSh. (addressing Mvar.) Farewell then ! and 
though many thoughts perplex me, 
Aught evil or ignoble never can I 
Suspect of thee ! If what thou seem'st thou art, 
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need 
Of such a leader. 

Mo. Nobly-minded woman ! 

Long time against oppression have I fought. 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain : 
Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls 
The volume of concealment. In the future, 
As in the optician's glassy cylinder. 
The indistinguishable blots and colours 
Of the dim past collect and shape themselves 
Upstarting in their own completed image 
To scare or to reward. 

1 sought the guilty, 
And what 1 sought I found : but ere the spear 
Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form 
Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose 
To the Avenger I leave vengeance, and depart ! 

Whatever betide, if aught my arm may aid. 
Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee : 



184 REMORSE. 

For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noUe. 
Once more, fisu^well. 

[ExUJShadn, 

Yes, to the fielgic states 
We will return. These robes, this stained complexioD) 
Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit. 
Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice i 

Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance 
Of our past services. [is youn^ 

Zid. And all the wealth, power, influence wbich 
You let a murderer hold ? 

Mv. O faithful Zulimez f 

That my return involved Ordonio's death, 
I trust would give me an unmingled pang^ 
Yet bearable : — ^but when I see my father 
Strewing his scant gray hairs, e'en on the ground, 
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa— 
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants, 
His infants — ^poor Teresa ! — all would perish. 
All perish — all ; and I (nay bear with me) 
Could not survive the complicated ruin ! 

Zrd, Nay now ! I have distressed you — ^you well 
know, 
I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome ; 
You are a painter, one of many &ncies ! 
You can call up past deeds, and make them live 
On the blank canvass ! and each little herb, 
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled fi>re8t, 

You have learnt to name 

Hark! heard you not some footsteps? 



REMORSE. 185 

Iv, What if it were my brother coming onwards ? 
nt a most mysterious message to him. 

Enter Ordonio. 
Iv* It is he ! 
}rd. (to himself as he enters,) If I distinguished 

right her gait and stature, 
783 the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife, 
It passed me as I entered. A lit taper, 
he night air, doth not more naturally 
ract the night flies round it, than a conjurer 
iws round him the whole female neighbourhood. 

[Addressing JEvar, 
1 know my name, I guess, if not my person, 
n Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez. 
Uv. The Son of Valdez! 

\^Ordonio tvalk§ leisurely round Uve room, and 
looks aUentivdy at the plards, 

'ul. (to Mvar,) Why, what ails you now ? 

«r your hand trembles ! Alvar, speak ! what wish 
you ? 

Uv. To fell upon his neck and weep forgiveness ! 

M. (returning and aloud,) Plucked in the moon- 
light from a ruin'd abbey — 

yee only, which the pale rays visited ! 

lie unintelhgible power of weeds, [them, 

ten a few odd prayers have been muttered o'er 

3n they work miracles ! I warrant you, 

sre's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks 

oe serviceable imp. 



186 REMORSE. 

There's one of you 
Hath sent me a strange message. 
Mv. I am he. 

Ord. With you, then, 1 am to speak ; 

(Haughtily waning his hand to ZidtHflJ 

And mark you, alone. [Exit ZuMma* 

*^ He that can bring the dead to life again l" — \j 
Such was your mess^ige, sir ! You are no dullard, 
But one that strips the outward rind of things ! I W^ 

Mv. Tis fabled there are fruits with tempdng |\l 'S 
Tliat are all dust and rottenness within. [rindi^ 

Would'st thou I should strip such ? 

Ord, Thou quibbling fool. 

What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I jounuod 
To sport with thee ? [hither 

Mv, O no, my lord ! to sport 

Best suits the gaiety of innocence. [heait 

Ord. (aside.) O what a thing is man ! the wisest 
A fool ! a fool that laughs at his own folly, 
Yet still a fool ! [Looks round (he cottagt* 

You are poor ! 

w^v. What follows thence ? 

Ord, That you would fain be richer. 

The Inquisition, too— you comprehend me ? 
You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power, 
Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty ; 
And for the boon, I ask of you but this, 
That you should serve me— once — for a few houiflL 

Mv. Thou art the son of Valdez ! would to heaves 
That I could truly and for ever serve thee. 



m 

Or 



REMO&SS. 187 

Ord. The slave begins to soften. [aside. 

You are my friend, 
Xle that can bring the dead to life again ;** 
(«y, no defence to me ! The holy brethren 
K^Ueve these calumnies — ^1 know thee better. 
ITbovL art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee ! 
Kiffio. (€uide,) Alas ! this hollow mirth— declare 
your business. 

Ord. I love a lady, and she would love me 
But for an idle and fimtastic scruple. 
Have you no servants here, no listeners ? 

[Ordomo steps to the door. 

Mo. What, faithless too ? False to his angel wife ? 
To such a wife ? Well might'st thou look so wan, 

ID-starr'd Teresa ! Wretch ! my sofler soul 

Ib pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience ! 

Ord. In truth this lady lov'd another man, 
But he has perish'd. 

Mv. What you kill'd him ? hey ? 

Ord. m dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st 

Insolent slave ! how dar'dst thou — [it ! 

[hmu abr%xpO,y from J&wxr^ and then to himseff. 

Why! what's this? 
Twas idiocy ! Ill tie myself to an aspen. 
And wear a fooVa-cap — 

^v. Fare thee well — 
( pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish. 

[Mvar is retirinf^. 

Ord. Ho! [calUng to JMvar. 

Ms. Be brie^ what iiiish ye ? 



188 REMORSE. 

Ord, You are deep at bartering — ^you cha 
yourself 
At a rouDd sum. Come, come, I spake unrai 

Mv, I listen to you. 

Ord. In a sudden tempest, 

Did AlVar perish — ^he, I mean — ^the lov^ — 
The fellow 

Mv. Nay, speak out ! 'twill ease your hean 
To call him villain ! — Why stand'st thou agha 
Men think it natural to hate their rivals. 

Ord. Now till she knows him dead, she wi 
wed me. , 

Mv. Are you not wedded, then? Merc 
heaven ! 
Not wedded to Teresa ? 

Ord, Why, what ails thee 

What, art thou mad ? why look'st thou upwai 
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the air ? 

J^v. Proceed, I shall be silent. 

Ord. To Teresa ? 

Politic wizard ! ere you sent that message. 
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself pn 
In all my fortunes. Hah ! you prophesied 
A golden crop ! Well, you have not mistakei 
Be faithful to me, and Fll pay thee nobly. 

Mv. Well ! and this lady ! 

Ord. If we could make her certain of his 
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left Y 
She tied a little portrait round his neck, 
Entreating him to wear it. 



REMORSE. 189 

Iv. Yes ! he did so ! 

rd. Why no : he was afraid of accidents, 

obberies, and shipwrecks, and the like. 

icrecy he gave it me to keep, 

his return. 

\v. What ! he was your fi-iend then ! 

rd. I was his friend. — 

Now that he gave it me, 

I lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard — 
call the dead man up — ^he will not come — 

a in heaven then — there you have no influence ; 

there are tokens — ^and your imps may bring you 

lething he wore about him when he died. 

. when the smoke of the incense on the altar 

iss'd, your spirits will have left this pictiu'e. 

Sit say you now ? 

Iv. Ordonio, I will do it. 

rd. We'll hazard no delay. Be it to-night, 

le early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez. 

II prepare him. Music too, and incense, 

' I have arranged it — music, altar, incense) 
ihall be ready. Here is this same picture, 
here, what you wiU value more, a purse, 
le early for your magic ceremonies. 
Iv. I will not fail to meet you. 
rd. Till next we meet, j^u^well ! 

[Exit Ordonio. 
Iv. (cdone, indignantly flings (he purse away, and. 
gazes passUmatdy at the portrait.) 

And I did curse thee ! 



190 REMOBflB. 

At midnight ! on my knees! and 1 believed 
Thee peijur'd, thee a traitresB ! Thee dishonooi'd! 

blind and credulous fool ! O guilt of My! 
Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses, 
Thy infant loves — should not thy maiden Ycrm fa 
Have come upon my heart ? And this sweet invp 
Tied round my neck virith many a chaste endeannnti 
And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tiea- 

ble— 
Ah, coward dupe ! to yield it to the miscreant, 
Who spake pollution of thee ! barter for life 
This farewell pledge, which with impassioned fow 

1 had sworn that I would grasp— even in my deidi' 



i 



pang! 



It 



I am unworthy of thy love, Teresa, 
Of that unearthly smile upon those lips, 
Which ever smiled on me ! Yet do not scorn n*^ 
I lispM thy name, ere I had learnt my mother^ 

Dear portrait ! rescued from a traitor's keepings 
I will not now profane thee, holy image. 
To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find 
A picture, which will wake the hell within him, 
And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience. 



i 



REMORSE. 191 



ACT III. 

: I. — Ji hall of armory y wWi an altar at fhe back 
the stage. Soft muaic from an instrument of 
i8S or steeL 

s, Onbmo, and Mvar in a sorcerei^a robe are 

discovered, 

!. This was too melancholy, fitther. 

Nay, 
Ivar lov'd sad music from a child. 
he was lost ; and after weaiy search 
»und him in an open place in the wood, 
liich spot he had followed a blind boy, 
breath'd into a pipe of sycamore 
strangely moving notes : and these, he said, 
taught him in a dream. Him we first saw 
h'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank ; 
ower down poor Alvar, fast asleep. 
Bad upon the blind boy's dog. It pleas'd me 
ai^ how he had &sten'd round the pipe 
er toy his grandam had late given him. 
nks I see him now as he then look'd — 
so ! — ^He had outgrown his infant dress, 
till he wore it 

'. (aside.) My tears must not flow ! 

3t not clasp his knees, and cry, my father ! 

Enter Teresa^ and attendants. 
Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here, 



1 left you. Hal lie ^"^ „- 

•*«-^«*e^8ef«»*'«^^-'l swear »*• 

Dottbt, but ^^n 0/ w 

•**• Jle departed '. f /,ivar '. 

lcaft«P*' umU «»**'' "^ 

«,ft suit, and be Ywn'd. 

Heat out 80« ^ paradise u ^ 



KSMORSS. 198 

tftus round earth in a dizzy motion, 
lib noise too vast and constant to be beard ; — 
unheard ! For oh, ye numberless, 
rapid travellers ! what ear unstunn'd, 
.yV hat sense unmadden'd, might bear up against 
le rushing of your congregated wings ? [Music, 
•ven now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 
% as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, 
-that roar and whiten, like a burst of waters, 
"^^ Sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 
-*^o the parch'd caravan that roams by night ! 
'^Jld ye upbuild on the becalmed waves 
^yiuit whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven 
ids vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split 
le ice mount! and with fogments many and huge, 

• ^T^mpest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulfs 
^Uck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff! 

'- ^%en round and round the whirlpool's marge ye 

dance, 
•* T^ll fi-om the blue swoln corse the soul toils out, 
' "^iid joins your mighty army. 

[Here behind the scenes a voice sings the 
c three wordsy ^ Hear, sweet sptritJ* 

Soul of Alvar! . 
^.ear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ! 
'^ ^y sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
^^a half dead, yet still undying hope, 

* ^aas visible before our mortal sense ! 

"^o shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine, 
"' %ler knells and mosses that redeem the dead I 

VOL. II. 13 



194 RBM0E8B. 

Soire. — Behind the 9ceneSj aecampmM hg At mm 
« mgtrumefU M htfart* 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep long-lingeriDg knell. 

And at evening evermore, 

In a chapel on the shore, 

Shall tlie chaunter, sad and saintly. 

Yellow tapers burning faintly, 

Doleflil masses chaunt for thee. 

Miserere Domine ! 

Hark! the cadence dies away 

On the quiet moonlight sea : 
The boatmen rest their oars and say. 

Miserere Domine ! [A Urngfrnat 

OnL The innocent obey nor charm nor spsD! 
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit^ j 
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant ! 
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see ^ 
O 'twere a joy to me'. 

Mv, A joy to thee ! 

What if thou heard'st him now ? What if liii fi*! 
Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee 
With many a stab from many a murderer^ poniinl? 
What if (his steadfast eye still beaming pity 
And brother's love) he tum'd his head ande, 



&xifOfuix* 195 

% he should look at thee, and with one look 
f 1 thee beyond all power of penitence ? 
'^td. These are unholy fitncies ! 
^rd. Yes, my father, 

Is in heaven ! 
9lv. (stiU to Ordomo,) But what if he had a 

brother, 
\xo had lived even so, that at bis dying hour, 
e name of heaven would have convulsed his face, 
»re than the death-pang ! 
VaL Idly prating man ! 

:ou hast guessM ill : Don Alvar's only brother 
Lnds here before thee — a father's' blessing on him ! 
I is most virtuous. 

^v. (stiU to Ordonio,) What, if his very virtues 
yd pampered his swoln heart and made him proud ? 
id what if pride had duped him into guilt ? 
»t still he stalked a self-created god, 
>t very bold, but exquisitely cunning ; 
id one that at his mother's looking-glass 
ould force his features to a frowning sternness ? 
)ung lord ! I tell thee, that there are such beings — 
«, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd 
> see these most proud men, that loath mankind, 

every stir and buzz of coward conscience, 
ick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites ! 
fwty, away ! Now let me hear more music. 

[music again. 
TV. Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjec- 
tures! 



196 BBMOBSC* 

But whatso'er it mean, I dare no longer 

Be present at these lawless m ysteti o B, 

This dark provoking of the hidden Powers ! 

Already I affiront — if not high heaven — 

Yet Alvar^s memory ! — Hark ! I make appeal 

Against the unholy rite, and hasten henoe 

To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek 

That voice which whispers, when the still heart lii^ 
ens, 

Comfort and faithful hope ! Let us retire. 

Mv. (to Ttrtta,) O full of iaith and guilelea km, 

thy spirit 

Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pongs of goik 

Surprise the guilty ; thou art innocent ! 

[Exewd Ttrtta and AOadmL 

Mutic as btfore. 

The spell is mutter'd — Come, thou wandering shape, 

Who own'st no master in a human eye, 

Whatever be this man's doom, fiiir be it, or fiMil, 

If he be dead, O come 1 and bring with thee 

That which he grasp'd in death ! But if he lire. 

Some token of his obscure perilous life. 

[the ichoU music davits into a Chsnt' 



CHORUS. 

Wandering demons hear the spell ! 
Lest a blacker charm compel — 
[7^ incense on the altar takes fin tuddai^^i 
on illuminated picture of Avar's 



mxMORSE. 197 

is digeovtredf and hamngremaifud a few seconds 
is ihen hidden by ascending flames, 

rd. (sktrting,) Duped ! duped ! duped ! — ^the 
tpitor Isidore ! 

[•^ this instant the doors are forced open, Monvie- 
dro and tkefamUiars of the InqmsUionj servants, 
fyc^ enter and flU the stage. 

Ton, First seize the sorcerer! suffer him not to 

speak! 
holy judges of the Inquisition 

U hear his first words. — Look you pale, Lord Val- 
dez? 

n evidence have we here of most foul sorcery. 

ire IS a dungeon underneath this castle, 

1 as you hope for mild interpretation, 

render instantly the keys and charge of it. 

h^ (recovering himself as from stupor, to servants.) 
Why haste you not ? Off with him to the dun- 
geon ! [aU rush out in tumvU. 



:n£ II. — hUerior of a chapel, vnih painted trindows. 

Enter Teresa. 

len first I entered this pure spot, forebodings 
iss'd heavy on my heart: but as I knelt, 
;h calm unwonted bliss possessed my spirit, 
ranee so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by, 
trampling uproar fell upon mine ear 
alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm 



196 KXM0R8S* 

Beats on the roof (^ some ftir banquet room, 

While sweetest melodies are warbling 

Enter Faldez. 

VaL Ye pitying saints, forgive a fiither's UindneBB, 
And extricate us from this net of jierill 

Ter, Who wakes anew my fears, and flpeaks rf 
peril? 

Vai. O best Teresa, wisely wert tfaoa iHompttd! 
This was no feat of mortal agency i 
That picture — Oh, that picture tells me all ! 
With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanisbed, 
Self-kindled, self-consum'd : bright as thy life, 
Sudden and unexpected as thy fiite, 
Alvar ! My son ! my son ! — ^The Inquisitor-— 

Ttr. Torture me not ! But Alvar— Oh of Aim; 

VaL How often would he plead for these MoN» 
coes! 
The brood accurst ! remorseless, coward murderen 

Ter, So ? so ? — I comprehend you — he is 

Vol, He is no more ! 

Ter. O sorrow! that a father's voice should sa; 
A father's heart believe it! [tfaii 

Vol. A worse sorrow 

Are fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairing ! 

Ttr, These rays that slant in through those go^ 
geous windows, 
From yon bright orb — ^though coloured as they pas 
Are they not light? — Even so that voice. Lord Va 

dez! 
Which whimpers to my soul, though hacflty 



REMORSE. 199 

many a fimcy, many a wishful hope, 

eaks yet the truth : and Alvar lives for me ! 

^aL Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no 
other, 

> has lived for thee — a spirit for thy spirit ! 

f child, we must not give religious fidth 

• eveiy voice which makes the heart a listener 

» its own wish. 

7Vr. I breath'd to the Unerring, 

rmitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd, 

St impious sorcery, that holds no commune 

ve with the lying spirit^ claim belief? 

VcH, O not to-day, not now for the first time 

as Alvar lost to thee — 

Accursed assassins! 

sarm'd, overpowered, despairing of defence, 

: his bared breast he seem'd to grasp some relique 

ore dear than was his life 

Ter. O heavens! my portrait! 

nd he did grasp it in his death-pang! 

Off, &1se demon, 

hat beat'st thy black wings close above my head! 
[ Ordonio enters toUh the keys of the dungeon m 
his hand, 

ush ! who comes here ? The wizard Moor's em- 
ployer ! 

loors were his murderers, you say ? Baints shield us 

rom wicked thoughts 

[Vcddez moves towards the hack of the stage to nieet 
Ordonio, cmd during the concluding linMofTe- 



300 REMORSK. 

rtsa^s spuck appears as eagerly cotwermg M 
hwL 

IsAlyardead? wjiattben? 
The Duptial rites and funeral shall be one ! 
Here's no abiding-place for thee, Teresa. — 
Away ! they see me not — ^Thou seest me, AWar! 
To thee I bend my course. — But first one questkxif 
One question to Ordonio. — ^My limbs tremble- 
There I may sit unmark'd — a moment will restore me. 

[Retires out of iif^ 

Ord, (as he advances vnih Valdez,) These are the 
dungeon keys. Monviedro knew not, 
That I too had received the wizard's message, 
" He that can bring the dead to life agun." 
But now he is satisfied, I plann'd this scheme 
To work a full conviction on the culprit. 
And he entrusts him wholly to my keeping. 

Vol. 'Tis well, my son ! But have you yet dis- 
covered — 
( Whei*e is Teresa ?) what those speeches meant— 
Pride, and hypocrisy, and guilt, and cunning ? 
Then when the wizard fix*d his eye on you. 
And you, I know not why, lookM pale and trembled- 
Why — why, what ails you now ? — 

Ord. Me ? what ails me ? 

A pricking of the blood — It might have happened 
At any other time. — Why scan you me ? 

Vol, His speech about the corse, and stabs and 
Bore reference to the assassins [murderers, 

Ord. Dup'd» dup'd! dup'd* 



REMORSE. 201 

le traitor Isidore ! [a pauae^ then wUdly, 

I tell thee, my dear fiither ! 
X am most glad of this.. 

Vol. True — sorcery 

Merits its doom ; and this perchance may guide us 
To the discovery of the murderers. 
I hare their statures and their several faces 
So present to me, that but once to meet them 
^ould be to recognise; 

Ord. Yes! yes! we recognise them. 

I was benumb'd, and staggered up and down 
Through darkness without light — dark — dark — 

dark! 
My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled, 
As had a snake coil'd round them ! — ^Now 'tis sun- 
shine. 
And the blood dances fireely through its channels I 

[then to himself, 
thm is my virtuous, grateful Isidore ! 

[then mimicing Isidore^s manner and voice, 
^ A common trick of gratitude, my lord !" 
Old Gratitude ! a dagger would dissect 
His " own full heart" — 'twere good to see its colour. 
Vol. These magic sights ! O that I ne'er had 
yielded 
To your entreaties ! Neither had I yielded, 
But that in spite of your own seeming fidth 
I held it for some innocent stratagem. 
Which love had prompted, to remove the doubts 
Of wild Tere8a--by fancies que&ing fimcies! 



909 

OnL Love t love ! and then we hate ! and whit? 
and wherefore ? 
Hatred and love ! fancies opposed by fiuunes! 
What, if one reptile sting another reptile ? 
Where is the crime ? The goodly fiice of nature 
Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon iL 
Are we not all predestined transiency, ' 
And cold dishonour ! Grant it, that this hand 
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms 
Somewhat too eariy — ^Where's the crime of this? 
That this must needs bring on the idiocy 
Of moist-eyed penitence— 'tis like a dream! 

Vd. Wild talk, my son ! But thy excess of feel- 
Almost 1 fear it hath unhinged his Inrain. [ing — 

OnL (Teresa re-appears and advances siouib/,) 
Say, I had laid a body in the sun ! 
Well ! in a month there swarm forth from the cone 
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings 
In place of that one man. — Say, I had killM him ! 

[Teresa stops listening. 
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all 
Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy, 
As that one life, which being push'd aside. 
Made room for these unnumbered 

Val. O mere madness! 

[Theresa moves hastily fonvardsy and ptaees h 
self directly before Ordomo. 

Ord, Teresa ? or the phantom of Teresa? 

Ter, Alas ! the phantom only, if in truth 
The substance of her being, her life's life, 



RXMORSS. 303 

^I^^ve ta'en its flight through Alvar's death-wound — 

(a pause.) Where— 

k^ven coward murder grants the dead a grave) 
^ tell me, Valdez ! — Answer me, Ordonio ! 
^^ere lies the corse of my betrothed husband ? 
OrdL There, where Ordonio likewise would fain 
Ue! 
^ the sleep-compelling earth, in unpierc'd darkness ! 
^or while we live— 
An inwalrd day that never, never sets, 
Glares round the soul, and mocks the closing eye- 
lids! 
Over his rocky grave the fir-grove sighs 
A lulling ceaseless dirge ! Tis well with him. 

[Stridta off towards the altar, but returns as Val- 
dez is speaking, 
Ter. The rock ! the fir-grove ! [To Valdez. 

Did'st thou hear him say it ? 
liusb ! I will ask him ! 

Vol, Urge him not — not now ! 

Xhis we beheld. Nor he nor I know more, 
1*han what the magic imagery revealed. 

*Ihe assassin, who pressed foremost of the three 

Ord. A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful vil- 
\^om I will strangle ! [lain, 

Vai. While his two companions — 

Ord. Dead ! dead already ! what care we for the 
dead ? [chant his spirit! 

Val. (To Teresa.) Pity him! soothe him! disen- 
These supernatural shows, this strange disclosure, 
And this too fond afifection, which still broods 



t 



i 



204 RKM0R8B. 

O'er Alvar's fiite, and still bums to av^ige it— 
These, struggling with his hopeless love for you, 
Distemper him, and give reality 
To the creatures of his fancy. 

Ord, Is it so ? 

Yes ! yes ! even like a child, that too abruptly 
Roused by a glare of light from deepest sleep, 
Starts up bewildered and talks idly. 

Father! 
What if the Moors that made my brother's grave, 
Even now were digging ours ?■ What if the bolt, 
Though aim'd, I doubt not, at the son of Valdez, 
Yet miss'd its true aim when it fell on Alvar? 

VcU, Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors,— «] 
rather. 
He was their advocate ; but you had march'd 
With fire and desolation through their villages.-^ 
Yet he by chance was captured. ' 

Ord, Unknown, perhaps, 

Captured, yet as the son of Valdez, murdered. 
Leave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle lady ? 

Vcd, What seek you now ? 

Ter. A better, surer lighl 

To guide me 

Both Fed. and Ord Whither ? 

3Vr. To the only place 

Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart 
These walls seem threatening to &11 in upon me! 
Detain me not ! a dim power drives me hence. 
And that will be my guide. 

Fal. To find a lover! 



BXM0R8E. 905 

that a high bom miuden's modesty ? 

y and shame ! Tempt not my rage, Teresa ! 

'. Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage. 

im I hastening to the arms— O heaven ! 

Q but to the grave of my beloved ! 

[ExU Vaidez^foUowing after her. 

l This, then, is my reward ! and I must love 
her? 

'd ! shudder'd at ! yet love her still ? yes ! yes ! 

B deep feelings of revenge and hate 

still love her — woo her — ^win her too ! 

ue.) Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait 

i on the wizard — he, belike, self-poison'd 

cape the crueller flames ^My soul shouts tri- 
umph! 

nine is undennined ! blood ! blood ! blood 1 

thirst for tliy blood ! thy blood, Ordonio ! 

[a pause, 
lunt is up ! and in the midnight wood 
lights to dazzle, and with nets they seek 
id prey : and lo ! the tiger's eye 
9 in the red flame of his hunter's torch ! 

idore I will despatch a message, 
ure him to the cavern ! aye, that cavern ! 
innot fail to find it Thither 111 lure him, 
ice he shall never, never more return ! 

[Looks through the side window, 
I of the sun lies yet upon the sea, 
low 'tis gone ! All shall be done to-night 

[ExU, 



i 



206 RKM0&8X. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A ccmem, darky except when a gieon 
moonlight ia seen on one side at thejurther end ff 
supposed to he east on it from a crevice in a pari 
the cavern out qf sight 

Isidore alone^ an extinguished torch in his hand. 

hid, Fiuth Hwad a moving letter — ^very moviii 
^ His life in danger, no place safe but this! 
Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude." 
And yet — ^but no ! there can't be such a yillain. 
It cannot be ! 

Thanks to that little crevice, 
Which lets the moonlight in ! Fll go and sit by 
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard, 
Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their ideep 
Any thing but this crash of water drops ! 
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence 
With puny thwartings and mock opposition I 
So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear. 

[He goes out of sight, opposite to the pak 
moorUighty and returns, 
A heUish pit ! The very same I dreamt of! 
I was just in — and those damn'd fingers of ice 
Which clutch'd my hair up ! Ha ! — ^what's thai 
mov'd. 



REMORSE. 907 

[bidore Hands staring at another recess in ike 
cavern. In the mean time Ordonio enters unth 
a torch, and haUoes to Isidore, 
mL I swear that I saw something moving there ! 
i moonshine came and went like a flash of light- 
rear 1 saw it move. [ning— 
hrd, (goes into the recess, ihen returns,) A jutting 

clay stone 
pe on the long lank weed, that grows beneath ; 
I the weed nods and drips. 
tid, A jest to laugh at ! 

ras not that which scar'd me, good my lord. 
hrd. What scar'd you, then ? 
tid. You see that little rift? 

first permit me ! 

[lAghts his torch at Ordonio% and whUe 
lighting it, 

(A lighted torch in the hand 
:o unpleasant object here — one's breath 
ats round the flame, and makes as many colours 
the thin clouds that travel near the moon.) 
1 see that crevice there ? 
torch extinguished by these water drops, 
I marking that the moonlight came from thence 
3pt in to it, meaning to sit there ; 
scarcely had I measured twenty paces- 
body bending forward, yea overbalanced 
lost beyond recoil, on the dim brink 
& huge chasm I stept. The shadovvy moonshine 
ing the void so counterfeited substance, 



306 REMORBE* 

That my foot hung aslant adown the edge. 
Was it my own fear ? 

Fear too hath its instiDctB! 
(And yet such dens as these are wildly told o( 
And there are beings that live, yet not for the eye) 
And arm of frost above and from behind me 
Pluck'd up and snatched me backward. Mercifiil 

heaven ! 
You smile ! alas, even smiles look ghastly here! 
My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it 

Ord, It must have shot some pleasant f&6&D^ 
through you. 

hid. If every atom of a dead man's flesh 
Should creep, each one with a particular life, 
Yet all as cold as ever — 'twas just so ! 
Or had it drizzled needle points of frost 
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald — 

Ord. Why, Isidore, 

I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled, 
I grant you, even a brave man for a moment^ 
But such a panic — 

bid. When a boy, my lord ! 

I could have sate whole hours beside that chasm, 
Push'd in huge stones and heard them strike and 

rattle 
Against its horrid sides : then hung my head 
Low down, and listened till the heavy fragments 
Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well, 
Which never thisty pUgrun blest, which never 
A living thing came near — unless, perchance. 



REMORSE. 909 

ue blind- worm battens on the ropy mould 
Mse at its edge. 

OrtL Art thou more coward now ? 

[jrui. Call him that fears bis fellow man a coward! 
Mir not man — but this inhuman cavem^ 
^ere too bad a prison-house for goblins, 
dde, (you'll smile, my lord, but true it is,) 
last night's sleep was very sorely haunted 
-what had passed between us in the momiog. 
deep of horrors ! Now run down and stared at 
forms so hideous that they mock remembrance — 
w seeing nothing and imagining nothing, 
t only being afraid — stifled with fear ! 
tiile every goodly or familiar form 
d a strange power of breathing terror round me ! 
aw you in a thousand fearful shapes ; 
id I entreat your lordship to believe me, 

my last dream 

Ord. Well ? 

IsitL I was in the act 

* falling down that chasm, when Alhadra 

ak'd me : she heard my heart beat 

Ord, Strange enough ! 

id you been here before ? 

bid. Never, my lord ! 

It mine eyes do not see it now more clearly, 

lan in my dream I saw — ^that very chasm. . 

Ord, (after a pause.)' I know not why it should 

be ! yet it is — 
bid. What is, my lord ? 

VOL. II. 14 



\ 



\ 



310 &XMOR8X. 

Ord, Abhorrent fiom our Dature, \.%, 

To kill a man. — 

Md. Except in self defence. }f^ 

OnL Why that's my caae ; and yet the soialimlB I ^ 

from it — L 

Tis so with me at least But you, perhaps, |^ 

Have sterner feelings ? 

JgitL Something troubles yoa. 

How shall I serve you ? By the life you gave me, 
By all that makes that life of value to me, 
My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you, 
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing, 
If it be innocent ! But this, my lord ! 
Is not a place where you could perpetrate, 
No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darknefli, 
When ten strides ofi* we know 'tis cheerful moon- 
light. 
Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heait 
It must be innocent 

Ord, Thyself be judge. 

One of our family knew this place well. 

hid. Who? when? my lord? 

Ord, What boots it, who or when ? 
Hang up thy torch — I'll tell his tale to thee. 

[They hang up their torches an some ridgtin 
the cavern. 
He was a man different from other men. 
And he despised them, yet revered himself. 

Jsid. (aside,) He ! He despised ! Thou'rt qpetk- 
ing of thyself! 



anfo&M. 911 

^ am on my gtnrd, however: no surprise. 

[Thm to Orthmo. 
'Vniai^ lie wtM mad ? 

*€ML All men seemed mad to him ! 

Mature had made him for some other planet, 
And pressed his soul into a human shape 
By accident or malice. In this world 
He found no fit companion. 

Jsid. Of himself he speaks, [emde, 

Alas! poor wretch! 
Mad men are mostly proud. 

Ord. He walked alone, 

And phantom thoughts unsought-fbr troubled him. 
Something within would still be shadowing out 
All possibilities ; and with these shadows 
His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happened, 
A fancy crossed him wilder than the rest : 
To this in moody murmur and low voice 
He yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep : 
The man who heard him. — 

Why did'st thou look round ? 
hid, I have a prattler three years old, my lord ! 
In truth he is my darling. As I went 
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep-^ 
Bat I am talking idly — ^pray proceed ! 
And what did this man ? 

Ord. With this human hand 

He gave a substance and reality 
To that wild fancy of a possible thing. — 
Well it was done ! 



212 REMO&SX. 

Why bsbbket thou of guih? 
The deed was done, and it passed fiurij o£ 
And he whose tale I tell thee— dost thou listoi? 

bid, I would my lord you were by my fiiMMk^ 
I'd listen to you with an eager eye, 
Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight, 
But I do listen — ^pray proceed my lord. 

Ord. Where wasi? 

Irid, He of whom you tell the tale — 

Ord. Surveying all things with a quiet scorn, 
Tamed himself down to living purposes, 
The occupations and the semblances 
Of ordinary men — and such he seemed I 
But that same over ready agent — ^he — 

Isid. Ah ! what of him, my lord ? 

Ord, He proved a traitor, 

Betrayed the mystery to a brother traitor. 
And they between them hatch'd a damned plot 
To hunt him down to infamy and death. 
What did the Valdez ? I am proud of the name 
Since he dared do it — 

[Ordonio grasps Ms sword, and turns offfim 
Isidore^ then after a pause returns. 

Our links bum dimly. 

Md. A dark tale darkly finished ! Nay, my lord! 
Tell what he did. 

Ord. That which his wisdom prompted — 
He made the traitor meet him in this cavern, 
And here he kili'd the traitor. 

Isid. No! the fool! 



k 



RKM0R8X. 313 

had not wit enough to be a traitor. 

V thick-eyed beetle ! not to have foreseen 

It he who gulled thee with a whimpered lie ^ 
mttrder his own brother, would not scruple 
murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous, 
1 he could steal upon thee in the dark ! 
hrd. Thou wouldst not then have come, if— 
id* Oh yes, my lord ! 

>uld have met him arm'd, aqd scar'd the coward. 
[Isidort throws off hia robe ; shows himself 
armedy and draws his stoord, 
hrd. Now this is excellent and warms the blood I 
heart was drawing back, drawing me back 
h weak and womanish scruples. Now my ven- 
geance 
kons me onwards with a warrior's mien, 
I claims that life, my pity robb'd her of— 

V will I kiU thee, thankless slave, and count it 
ong my comfortable thoughts hereafter. 

tid. And aU my little ones &therless — 

Die thou first 
[Theyjighty Ordomo disarms Iridorej and in dis* 
arming him throws his sword up that recess 
opposite to which they were standing. Isidore 
hurries into the recess toith his torch, Ordomo 
follows him ; a hvd cry of ^ Traitor! Mon* 
ster!^* is heard from the cavemj and in a 
moment Ordomo returns alone. 

"ML I have hurled him down the chasm! treason 
for treason. 



I 

214 RXMOK8C. 

He dreamt of it : h^icefinnnrard let him deep, 
A dreamlees sleep, from which no wife can valnhiBk 
His dream too is made out — now for bis fiiend. 

Scene II. ' — Hie inierior Cowi qf a Samceme 9 
Goihic CasUe^ wUh tht iron gate qf a dumgm 
vmUe. 

Tar. Heart-chilling superstition ! thou canst glaze 
Even pity's eye with her own frozen tear. 
In vain I urge the tortures that await him : 
Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood, 
My second mothw, shuts her heart against me ! 
Well, I have won fix)m her what most imports 
The present need, this secret of the dungeon 
Known only to herself. — A Moor! a sorcerer! 
No, I have faith, that nature ne'er permitted 
Baseness to wear a form so noble. True, 
I doubt not, that Ordonio had suborned him 
To act some part in some unholy fi-aud ; 
As Httle doubt, that for some unknown purpose 
He hath baffled his suborner, terrornstruck him, 
And that Ordonio meditates revenge ! 
But my resolve is fixed ! mjrself will rescue him, 
And leam if haply he knew aught of Alvar. 

Enter Valdez. 

Vol. Still sad ?•— and gazing at the masim door 
Of tiiat fell dungeon which thou ne'er had^rt sight ti, 

1 See Appendix. 



RBMOIISE. 315 

i.Te what, perchance, thy infant fancy shap'd it 

Then, the nurae still'd thy cries with unmeant threats. 

ow by my ^th, girl ! this same wizard haunts thee! 

^ stately man, and eloquept and tender — 

iHio then need wonder if a lady sighs 

iTen at the thought of what these stem Dominicans— 

Tar. The horror of their ghasdy punishments 
Kith so o'eftop the height of all compassion, 
^hat I should feel too little for mine enemy, 
f it were possable I could feel more, 
^ven though the dearest inmates of our household 
Vere doom'd to suffer them. That such things ar&*-«> 

Vol. Hush, thoughtless woman ! 

Ter, Nay, it wakes within me 

Itore than a woman's spirit. 

Vol, No more of this — 

What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us ! 
[ dare not listen to you. 

Ter. My honoured lord. 

These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er 
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them. 
As if to give a voice to the mute image. 

Vcd, ^We have moum'd for Alvar. 

Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt 
Have 1 no other son ? 

Ter, Speak not of him ! 

That low imposture ! That mysterious picture ! 
If this be noadness, must I wed a madman ? 
And if not madness, there is mystery, 
And guilt doth lurk behind it» 



216 REMO&BE. 

Vol. IsthisweU? 

Ter. Yes, it is truth : saw you his counteoanoe? 
How rage, remorse, and scom, and stupid fear 
Displaced each other with swift interchanges? 

that I had indeed the sorcerer's poweri< 

1 ¥rould call up before thine eyes the image 
Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-bom ! 
His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead, 
His tender smiles, love's day^awn on his lipst 
That spiritual and almost heavenly light 

In his commanding eyo— his mien heroic. 
Virtue's own native heraldry 1 to man 
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. 
Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread 
Wide round him ! and when oft with swelling tei 
Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail\l - 
The wrongs of Be1gium%i martyr'd patriots. 
Oh, what a grief was there — for joy to envy, 
Or gaze upon enamour'd ! 

O my father ! 
Recall that morning when we knelt together. 
And thou didst bless our loves ! O even now, 
£ven now, my sire ! to thy mind's eye present hii 
As at that moment he rose up before thee. 
Stately, with beaming look ! Place, place beside h 
Ordonio's dark perturbed countenance ! 
Then bid me (oh thou could'st not) bid me turn 
From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind ! 
To take in exchange that brooding man, who nevi 
Lifls up his eye ft'om the earth unless to scowU 



REMORSE. 317 

(d, Ungratefiil woman ! I have tried to stifle 
)ld man's passion ! was it not enough, 
t thou hast made my son a restless man, 
ish'd his health, and half unhing'd his reason ; 
that thou wilt insult him with suspicion 1 
toil to blast his honour ? I am old, 
>niforde8s old man ! 

fer. O grief! to hear 

sfiil entreaties from a voice we love ! 

Enter apeascmt and presents a letter to Valdez. 
aL (reading it.) " He dares not venture hither ! '* 

Why what can this mean ? 
Bt the Familiars of the Inquisition, 
t watch around my gates, should intercept him ; 
he conjures me, that without delay 
Bten to him — for my own sake entreats me 
guard from danger him I hold imprison'd- 
will reveal a secret, the joy of which [be ? 

1 even outweigh the sorrow." — Why what can this 
chance it is some Moorish stratagem, 
bave in me a hostage for his safety. 
', that they dare not ! Ho ! collect my servants ! 
ill go thither — let them arm themselves. 

• [ExU Valdez. 

V. (alone,) The moon is high in heaven, and all 

is hush'd. 
anxious listener ! I have seem'd to hear 
)w dead thunder mutter through the night, 
twere a ^iant an^ in his sleep. 



I. 



318 

O Alvar! Alvar! that thej coidi 
Those blessed days that imitttted 
When we two woot to waJk at c 
When we saw naught but beaut; 
The voice of that Ahnig^Qr One 
In every gale that breathed, and ^ 
O we have listen'd, even tiU'hi^ 
Hath half assumed the countena 
And the deep ngh seemed to be 
Of blias, that pressed too heavy 

And this majestic Moor, seems 1 
Who oft and long communing v 
Hath drunk in kindred lustre fix 
And guides me to him with reflt 
What if in yon dark dungeon » 
Be groping for him with enveno 
Hence womanish fears, traitors 
111 free him. 



REMORSE. 219 



ScEm III. T%i mounUdna 6y mooniighL 
Mhadra dUmt in a Moorish dress, 

AUu Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn 

seem 
\ they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; 
le flower-like woods, most lovely in decay, 
16 many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands, 
e in the silent moon-shine: and the owl, 
xange ! very strange !) the scritch-owl only wakes ! 
le voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty ! 
less, perhaps, she sing her screeching song 
» a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood, 
hy such a thing am I ? — ^Where are these men ? 
leed the sympathy of human faces, 
> beat away this deep contempt for all things, 
liich quenches my revenge. Oh ! would to Alia, 
le raven, or the sea-mew, were appointed 
) bring me food ! or rather that my soul 
)uld drink in life from the universal air ! 
were a lot divine in some small skiff 
long some ocean's boundless solitude, 
3 float for ever with a careless course, 
od think myself the only being alive ! 

y children ! — Isidore's children ! — son of Valdez, 
lis hath new strung mine arm. Thou coward 
tyrant! 



290 REM0R8X. 

To stupify a woman's heart with anguish, 
Till she forgot — even that she was a mother 1 

[She fxts hereyeonihe earOu Then drop tn m 
qfter another, Jram different parts ^ (hit iki^ 
a considerable number of Morescoes, aU tr 
Moorish garments and Moorish armovar, 3V 
Jorm a cirde at a distance round Mkadra^ m 
remmn sHerU tiU JSTaomi enters, 

JSTao, Woman ! May Alia and the prophet blfif 
thee! 
We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief? 
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments 

Mu (raising her eyes and looking round on £ 
circle.) Warriors of Mahomet! fiuthfiil i 
the battle! 
My countrymen ! Come ye prepared to woik 
An honourable deed ? And would ye woi^ it 
In the slave's garb ? Curse on those christian robe 
They are spell-blasted : and whoever wears them, 
His arm shrinks withered, his heart melts away, 
And his bones soften. 

JVao. Where is Isidore ? 

•/22^. This night I went fix)m forth my house, ai 
left 
His children all asleep : and he was living ! 
And I returned and found them still asleep, 
But he had perished 

M Morescoes, Perished ? 

Mh. He had perished 

Sleep on, poor babes ! not one of you doth know 



RSMO&SS. 



931 



le is fiuherless— a desolate orphan ; 

should we wake them ? Can an io&nt's arm 

ige his murder ? 

ioresco. (to another.) Did she say his murder ? 

0. Murder ? Not murdered ? 

Murdered by a christian I 
[They all at once draw their sabres, 

1, (to ^aomij toko advances Jrom the circle.) 

Brother of Zagri ! fling away thy sword ; 

is thy chieftain's ! 

[He steps forward to take U. 

Dost thou dare receive it ? 

; have sworn by Alia and the prophet, 

»r shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart 

heave no groan, till I have seen that sword 

with the life-blood of the son of Valdez ! 

[a pause. 
tnio was your chieftain's murderer ! 
10. He dies by Alia ! 

I (kneeling.) By Alia ! 

h. This night your chieflain armed himself^ 
hurried from me. But I followed him 
istance, till I saw him enter — ^there. 
00. The cavern? 

h. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. 
r a while I saw the son of Valdez 
1 by with flaring torch ; he likewise entered, 
re was another and a longer pause ; 
once, methought I heard the clash of swords! 
soon the son of Valdez re-appeared : 



mSMOASX. 



He flung his torch Uiwaidi the moon m wpott, 
And seemed ae he were mhthlltl ! I stood 
Impatient for the footsteps of my husbiaid ! 

Abo. Thou called^ hun ? 

AUl I erept into the 

Twas dark and very silent 

WhataaidMtboQ? 
No ! no ! I did not dare call, Isidore, 
Lest I should hear no answer! A brief while, 
Belike, 1 lost all thought and memory 
Of that for which I came ! After that pause, 

heaven ! I heard a groan, and followed it : 
And yet another groan, which guided me 
Into a strange recess — and there was light, 

A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground ; 
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink : 

1 spake ; and whilst I spake, a feeble groan 
Came from that chasm! it was his last! his deitb* 

groan! 

Aho. Comfort her, ADa. 

Ml I stood in unimaginable trance 
And agony that cannot be remembered. 
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan ! 
But I had heard his last: my husband's death-gron! 

Abo. Haste! let us onwaid. 

Ml 1 look'd &r down the pic— 

My sight was bounded hf a jutting fragment : 
And it was stain'd with blood. Then fiist I AriebJ. 
My eye-balls burnt, my brain grew hot as fiie^ 
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof 



^ 



BSMO&SE. 993 

jmed into blood — ^I saw them turn to blood ! . 
[id I was leaping wildly down the chasm, 
lien <m the ftither brink I saw his sword, 
Qd it said, vengeance I — curses on my tongue ! 
he moon hath moved in hei^ven, and I am here, 
nd he hath not had vengeance ! Isidore ! 
pirit of Isidore ! thy murderer lives ! 
.way! away! 
•/22^ Away! away! 

[She nahea off, aU following her. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. A Dungeon, 

Mvar (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds, 

Mv, And this place my forefathers made for man ! 
nus is the process of our love and wisdom 
To each poor brother who ofiends against us — 
Host innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty ? 
b this the only cure ! Merciful Grod ! 
Sach pore and natural outlet shrivelled up 
)y ignorance and parching poverty ; 



994 ftBMOftflX. 



His energieB roll back upon his heart 

And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poiaon, 

They break out on him, like a loathsome {daguewspot! 

Then we call in our pampered mountebanks^ 

And this is their best cure I uncomforted 

And fiiendless solitude, groaning and tears, 

And savage &ces at the clanking hour. 

Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungMD 

By the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he Ues 

Circled with evil, till his very soul 

Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed 

By sights of evermore deformity ! — 

With other ministrations thou, O nature ! 

Healest thy wandering and distempered child : 

Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 

Thy sunny hues, &ir forms, and breathing sweets; 

Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters! 

Till he relent, and can no more endure 

To be a jarring and a dissonant thing 

Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 

But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 

His angry spirit healed and harmonized 

By the benignant touch of love and beauty. 

I am chill and weary ! Yon rude bench of f 
In that dark angle, the sole resting-place ! 
But the self-approving mind is its ovm light 
And life's best warmth still radiates from tl: 
Where love sits brooding, and an honest pi 

[retires ai 



REMORSE. 225 

IhfUer Teresa with a taper. 
Her. It has chilled my very life — my own voice 

scares me; 
; when I hear it not I seem to lose 
3 substance of my being — my strongest grasp 
ids inwards but weak witness that I am. 
lek to cheat the echo. — How the half-sounds 
nd with this strangled light ! Is he not here — 

[looking round, 
or one human fece here — but to see 
3 human face here to sustain me. — Courage ! 
) but my own fear ! The life within me, 
inks and wavers like this cone of flame, 
ond which I scarce dare look onward ! Oh ! 
&int ? If this inhuman den should be 
)nce my death-bed and my burial vault ? 

[Faintly screams as Mvar emerges from the 
recess. 
Iv. (rushes towards her, and catches her as she is 
falling,) O gracious heaven ! it is, it is 
Teresa! 
J I reveal myself? The sudden shock 
tipture will blow out this spark of life, 
joy complete what terror has begun. 
$ impetuous beatings here, be still ! 
isa, best beloved ! pale, pale, and cold ! 
pulse doth flutter ! Teresa ! my Teresa! 
ST. (recovering.) 1 heard a voice ; but often in my 

dreams 
ir that voice ! and wake and try — and try — 

L. II. 15 



996 msMOESS. 

To hear it waking i but I never could — 
And tifl 80 now— even so ! Well ! he is dead- 
Murdered perhaps ! And I am fiunt, and feel 
As if it were no painful thing to die ! 

Mf. Believe it not, sweet maid ! Believe it not. 
Beloved woman ! Twas a low imposture 
Framed by a guilty wretch. 

Ter. Ha! Whoaittboa? 

•m 

Jilv. Suborned by his brother — 

TV*. Didst thou murder him? 

And dost thou now repent ? Poor trouMed man, 
I do forgive thee, and may heaven forgive thee f 

Mv. Ordonio— he— 

Ter, If thou didst murder him — 

His spirit ever at the throne of God 
Asks mercy for thee, — prays for mercy for thee, 
With tears iu heaven ! 

Alv, Alvar was not murdered. 

Be calm ! be calm, sweet maid ! 

7Vr. Nay, nay, but tell me ! [a /nmic 

O 'tis kMt again! 
This dull confused pain — [a jwif 

Mysterious man! 
Methinks I cannot fear thee : for thine eye 
Doth swim with love and pity — ^Well ! OrdoDb— 
Oh my foreboding heart ! And he suborned thee^ 
And thou didst spare his life ! BlessingB shower oo 

thee, 
As many as the drops twice counted o'er 
In the fond faithful heart of his Teresa ! 



\ 



EEMORSX. fW 

Mo, 1 can endure no more. The Moorish sorcerer 
but in the stain upon his face. 
*Ihat picture— 

Ttr, Ha! speak on ! 

Mv. Beloved Teresa ! 

It told but half the truth. O let this portrait 
"Tell all — that Alvar lives — that he is here ! 
Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar. 

\iakt8 her portrait Jram his necky and gives 
it her, 
Ter» (receiving the portraiL) The same — ^it is the 
same. Ah ! Who art thou ? 
Nay, I will call thee, Alvar! [she falls on his neck. 

JUv . O joy unutterable ! 

But hark ! a sound as of removing bars 
At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while 
Conceal thyself, my love ! It is Ordonio. 
For the honour of our race, for our dear father ; 
O for himself too (he is still my brother) 
Let me recall him to his nobler nature. 
That he may wake as from a dream of murder ! 
O let me reconcile him to himself^ 
Open the sacred source of penitent tears, 
And be once more his own beloved Alvar. 

Ter, O my all virtuous love ! I fear to leave thee 
With that obdurate man. 

JUv. Thou dost not leave me ! 

But a brief while retire into the darkness : 
O that my joy could spread its . sunshine round thee ! 



296 RBMO&SE. 

TV. The sound of thy voice shall be my maBic! 
Alvar ! my Alvar ! am I sure I hold thee ? 
Is it no dream ? thee in my arms, my AWar! 

[JBnf. 

[A noise at ihe dungeon door, U opens^ and 

Ordomo enters, with a gMet in his had. 

Ord, Hail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood 
I poured forth a libation to old Pluto, 
And as I brinmied the bowl, I thought on thee. 
Thou hast conspired against my life and honour, 
Hast tricked me foully ; yet I hate thee not. 
Why should I hate thee ? this same world of ours, 
Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain. 
And we the air bladders that course up and down, 
And joust and tilt in merry tournament ; 
And when one bubble runs foul of another. 
The weaker needs must break. 

Alv. I see thy heart ! 

There is a frightflil glitter in thine eye 
Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man. 
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish. 
Which fain woi^ld scoff away the pang of guilt, 
And quell each human feeling. 

Ord. Feeling! feeling! 

The death of a man — ^the breaking of a bubUe— 
'TIS true I cannot sob for such misfortunes ; 
But faintness, cold and hunger — curses on me 
If willingly I e'er inflicted them ! 
Come, take the beverage ; this chill place demands it 

[Ordomo proffers the goliki' 



REMORSE. 229 

Uv, Yon insect on the wall, 

ich moves this way and that, its hundred limbs, 

re it a toy of mere mechanic craft, 

rere an infinitely curious thing! 

it has life, Ordonio ! life, enjoyment ! 
I by the power of its miraculous will • 
i\ds all the complex movements of its frame 
irringly to pleasurable ends ! 
7 1 that insect on this goblet's brim 
ould remove it with an anxious pity ! 
hrd. What meanest thou ? 
Uv, There's poison in the wine. 

hrd. Thou hast guessed right ; there's poison in 

the wine. 
)re's poison in't — ^which of us two shall drink it ? 

one of us must die ! 

Uv. Whom dost thou think me ? 

h-d. The accompUce and sworn fiiend of Isidore, 
'/v. I know him not. 

I yet methinks, I have heard the name but lately, 
us he the husband of the Moorish woman ? 
ore? Isidore? [restored me. 

*r(/. Grood ! good ! that lie ! by heaven it has 
r I am thy master ! Villain ! thou shalt drink it, 
lie a bitterer death. 

Iv. What strange solution 

t thou found out to satisfy thy fears, 
. drug them to unnatural sleep ? 

iMvcar takes Hhe goblet, and throws U to iht 
ground. 



^ 



330 EEMO&SS. 

My mailer! 

OnL Thou moimtebeidc ! 

^v. Mountebank and yiDbui ! 

What then art thou ? For shame, put up thy sword! 
What boots a weapon in a withered arm? 
1 ta mine eye upon thee, and thou tremUest! 
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy ra^e, 
And turn it to a motionless distraotion ! 
Thou blind self-worshipper ! thy pride, thy cuDning, 
Thy &ith in universal viUany, 
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn 
For all thy human brethren— out upon them ! 
What have they done for thee ? have they given 

thee peace? 
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep ? or made 
The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at mid- 
night ? 
Art happy when alone ? Can'st walk by thyself 
With even step and quiet cheerfulness ? 
Yet, yet thou may'st be saved 

Ord. Saved? saved? 

Mv. One pang? 

Could I call up one pang of true remorse ! 

Ord, He told me of the babes that prattled to binit 
His &therless little ones! remorse] remorse! 
Where got'st thou that fool's word ? Curse on re- 
Can it give up the dead, or recompact [morse! 
A mangled body ? mangled— dashed to atoms I 
Not all the blessings of a host of angels 
Can blow away a desolate widow's curse ! 



&KMO&SX. 231 

.And tho^ thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement, 
It will not weigh against an orphan's tear ! 

^v. But Alvar 

OnL Ha ! it chokes thee in the throat, 

Even thee ; and yet I pray thee speak it out. 
Still Alvar ! — ^Alvar — ^howl it in mine ear ! 
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart, 
And shoot it hissing through my brain ! 

Mv, Alas! 

That day when thou didst leap from off the rock 
Into the waves, and grasped thy sinking brother, 
And bore him to the strand ; then, son of Valdez, 
How sweet and musical the name of Alvar ! 
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee, 
And thou wert dear to him : heaven only knows 
How very dear thou wert I Why did'st thou hate 
him! 

heaven ! how he would fall upon thy neck, 
And weep forgiveness ! 

OrcL Spirit of the dead ! 

Methinks I know thee ! ha ! my brain turns wild 
At its own dreams !— off— off, fantastic shadow ! 

j31v. I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare 
not! 

Ord, Cheat ! villain ! traitor ! whatsoever thou be— 

1 fear thee, man ! 

TVr. (rushing ovt and falling on JHvar*8 neck.) 
Ordonio ! 'tis thy brother. 
[^Ordonio runs upon Moor toith his sword, 

TertsaJUngs hersdf on Ordonio and 

arrests his arm. 



^ 



232 REMORSE. 

Stop, madman, stop t 

Mv, Does then this thin disguise impenetrably 

Hide Alvar from thee ? Toil and painful woundfl 

And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeoBS, 

Have marred perhaps all trait and lineament 

Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother, 

My anguish for thy guilt ! 

Ordonio— brother ! 

Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me. 

Ord» (drawing back and gazing at JB/var.) 

Touch me not ! 

Touch not pollution, Alvar ! I will die. 

[He attempts tofaU on his sward, JBxar 

and Teresa prevent him, [live, 

JJiv. We will find means to save your honour. 

Oh live, Ordonio ! for our father's sake ! 

Spare his gray hairs ! 

Ter, And you may yet be happy. 

Ord, O horror ! not a thousand years in heaven 

Could recompose this miserable heart, 

Or make it capable of one brief joy ! 

Live ! live ! Why yes ! 'twere well to live with you: 

For is it fit a villain should be proud ? 

My brother ! I will kneel to you, my brother ! 

[huding* 

Forgive me, Alvar! Curse me with forgiveness! 

[thee! 
JUv» Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round 

Now is tlie time for greatness ! Think >that heavenr- 

Ter. O mark his eye [ he hears not what you say. 



REMORSE. 233 

Ord, Yes, marie his eye ! there's fascination in it ! 
bou saidst thou didst not know him — That is he ! 
e comes upon me ! 

^v. Heal, O heal him, heaven ! 

Ord» Nearer and nearer ! and I cannot stir ! 
7il\ no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me ? 
e would have died to save me, and I killed him — 
husband and a father ! — 
Ter, Some secret poison 

brinks up his spirits ! 

Ord. Let the eternal justice 

repare my punishment in the obscure world — 
win not bear to live — to live — O agony ! 
Lnd be myself alone my own sore torment ! 

[Ihe doors of the dungeon are broken open, and 
in rush ALhadra, and the band of Morescoes. 
Ml. Seize first that man ! 

[Mvar presses onward to defend Ordopio, 
Ord, Off, ruffians! I have flung away my 
sword. 
Voman, my life is thine ! to thee I ^ve it ! 
)ff! he that touches me with his hand of flesh, 
'II rend his limbs asunder ! I have strength 
^ith this bare arm to scatter you like ashes. 
JMh» My husband — 

OrcL Yes, I murdered him most foully. 

jSIv. and Ter. O horrible ! 

Mu Why didst thou leave his children ? 

emon, thou should'st have sent thy dogs of hell 
o lap their blood. Then, then I might have 
hardened 



H; ENMil in miaery, nnd have hod comfbn. 
I would hare stood &r off, quiet tliou^ i 
And bade the nee of men raise up a mou 
For a deep horror of desolation, 
Too great to be one aoul'e particular lot! 
Brother of Zigri i let me lean upon thee. 
The dme is not yet come for woman's an 
I hare not seen his blood — Within an hoi 
Those little o&eo will crond around and t 
Where is our fether ? I shall curse thee tl 
Wert thou in heaven, my cuise would pli 
thence! 

3V. He doth repent ! See, see, I kn 
O let him live ! That sgod nwu, bis &the 

.m. Why had he such a son ? 

[Shovla from the distance of, Rescue 

Alvar! Alvar! and tht twice q/" Vi 

Rescue ? — end Isidore's spirit unavenged 

The deed be mine! \muUn'iy »U 

Now take my life ! 

Ord. (ifaggerwgfivm iht vmuad.) Ak 

Mv. (K^ak with Teraa tupporting i 
Arm of avenging heaven. 
Thou hast snatched from me my moot 

But go ! my word was pledged to thee. 

Ord. 

Brave not my father's rage ! I thank thee 

[thtn tttming hit a/et Umgui 

She hath avenged the blood of Isidore t 

I stood in silence like a slave before ber 



RXMO&SE. S235 

%at I might taste the wormwood and the gall, 
^md sadtate this self^MSCUsiDg heart 
li^ith bitterer agonies than death can give, 
'^rgive me, Alvar ! 

Oh !•— couldst thou forget me ! [Dies, 
[Mvar and Teresa hend over the 
body of Ordonio. 
Mu (to the Moors.) I thank thee, heaven ! thou 
hast ordained it wisely, 
Kliat still extremes bring their own cure. That 

point 
tn misery, which makes the oppressed man 
Etegardless of his own life, makes him too 
liOrd of the oppressor's — Knew I a hundred men 
Despairing, but not palsied by despair. 
This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world ; 
The deep foundations of iniquity [them ; 

Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath 
The strong-holds of the cruel men should fall. 
Their temples and their mountainous towers should 

&11, 
"nil desolation seemed a beautiful thing, 
And all that were and had the spirit of life, 
ftttig a new song to her who had gone forth, 
Ck>nquering and still to conquer ! 

[^^Ihadra hurries off with the Moors ; the stage 

fUs with armed peasants, and servants, Ztdi- 

mez arid Valdez at their head, Valdez rushes 

into Mvaa^s arms. 

Mv. Turn not thy &ce that way, my father ! hide^ 



236 REMOB.SE. 

Oh hide it from his eye ! O let thy joy 
Flow in unmiDgled stream through thy first bles^i^ 

[bothknedtoVaii&L 

Vol. My son ! my Alvar ! bless, O bless him, 
heaven ! 

Ter. Me too, my father ? 

Fed. Bless, O, bless my children! 

[hoik tin. 

Mv, Delights so full, if unalloyed with grie( 
Were ominous. In these strange dread events 
Just heaven instructs us with an awAil voice. 
That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice. 
Our inward monitress to guide or v^am. 
If listened to ; but if repelled with scorn. 
At length as dire Remorse, she reappears. 
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears ! 
Still bids, remember ! and still cries, Too late! 
And while she scares us, goads us to our fiite. 



APPENDIX. 

[£ following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken 
^om the tragedy, in the year 1797, and published in 
Lyrical Ballads. 

Enter Teresa and Selma. 

Ter, 'Tis said he spake of you familiarly, 
mine and Alvar's common foster-mother. 
Sel, Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be 
Lt joined your names with mine ! O my sweet lady, 
often as I think of those dear times, 
len you two little ones would stand, at eve, 
each side of my chair, and make me learn 
•^M you had learnt in the day ;• and how to talk 
^* gentle phrase ; then bid me sing to you — ;- 
^ia more like heaven to come, than what has been ! 
Ter. But that entrance, Selma ? 
Sel. Can no one hear ? It is a perilous tale ! 

Ter, No one. 

Sel. My husband's father told it me, 

"^^^r old Sesina — angels rest his soul ; 
"**e was a woodman, and could fell and saw 
.jj^th lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
,^^luch props the hanging wall of the old chapel ? 
~^*ieath that tree, while yet it was a tree, 
^^^ found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
^^ith thistle-beards, and such small Jocks of wool 



hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home^ 
''^^d reared him at the then Lord Yaldez' cost, 
"^^d so the babe grew up a pretty boy, 



238 APPENDIX. 

A pretty boy, bat most nnteachable — 

And never leam*d a prayer, nor told a bead, 

Bat knew the names of birds, and mocked their nol 

And whistled, as he were a bird himself. 

And all the autumn 'twas his only play 

To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them 

With earth and water on the stumps of trees. 

A friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 

A gray-haired man, he loved this little boy : 

The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught hiffli 

He soon could write with the pen ; and from thittii 

Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle. 

So he became a rare and learned youth : 

But ! poor wretch ! he read, and read, and reid, 

Till his brain turned ; and ere his twentieth year 

He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 

And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 

With holy men, nor in a holy place. 

But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 

The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him. 

And once, as by the north side of the chapel 

They stood together chained in deep discourse. 

The earth heaved under them with such a groan, 

That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen 

Right on their heads. My lord was sorely firightene 

A fever seized him, and he made confession 

Of all the heretical and lawless talk 

Which brought this judgment : so the youth was nil 

And cast into that hole. My husband's father 

Sobbed like a child-^-it almost broke his heart : 

And .once as he was working near this dungeon, 

He heard a voice distinctly ; 'twas the youlii's, 

Who sung a doleful song about green fields, 



APPENDIX. 239 

sweet it were on lake or wide savanna 
int for food, and be a naked man, 
grander np and down at liberty, 
ways doted on the youth, and now 
)ye grew desperate ; and defying death, 
ade that cunningr entrance I described, 
he young man escaped. 

'Tis a sweet tale ; 
as would lull a listening child to sleep, 
>8y face besoiled with unwiped tears, 
rhat became of him ? 

He went on shipboard 
those bold voyagers who made discovery 
Iden lands. Sesina's younger brother 
likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
Id Sesina, that the poor mad youth, 
after they arrived in that new world, 
te of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 
ill alone set sail by silent moonlight 
grreat river, great as any sea, 
le'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed, 
red and died among the savage men. 



i« to the words ** Tou are a painter," p. 184, Scene 
ct II. 

Q following lines I have preserved in this place, 
» much as explanatory of the picture of the assas- 
on, as to gratify my own feelings, the passage 
; no mere fancy portrait ; but a slight, yet not 
thful, profile of the late Sir George Beaumont. 



240 APPENDIX. 

Zul. (speaking of Alvar in the third person.) Socli 
was the noble Spaniard's own relation. 
He told me, too, how in his early youth, 
And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance 
To make long sojourn in sea- wedded Venice ; 
There won the love of that divine old man, 
Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian ! 
Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, 
By the sweet mystery of lines and colours 
Changed the blank canvass to a magic mirror. 
That made the absent present ; and to shadows 
Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and 

motion. 
He loved the old man, and revered his art : 
And though of noblest birth and ample fortune, 
The young enthusiast thought it no scorn 
But an inalienable ornament. 
To be his pupil, and with filial zeal 
By practice to appropriate the sage lessons. 
Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. 
The art, he honoured thus, requited him : TH] 

And in the following and calamitous years 
Beguiled the hours of his captivity. 

Jilh. And then he framed this picture ? and unaided 
By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman ! 

Mv, A potent spell, a mighty talisman ! 
The imperishable memory of the deed. 
Sustained by love, and grief, and indignation ! 
So vivid were the forms within his brain. 
His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them ! 



ZAPOLYA: 

A CHRISTMAS TALE. IN TWO PARTS. 



APUD ATHENAUM. 



4 



PART I. 



IE PRELUDE, ENTITLED THE " USURPER'S 

FORTUNE." 



VOL. II. 16 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The form of the following dramatic poem is in h\u 
imitation of the Winter's Tale of Shakspeare, ex 
that I have called the first part a Prelude instead 
first Act, as a somewhat nearer resemblance to the 
of the ancients, of which one specimen is left as ii 
iEschylean Triology of the Agamemnon, the Oie 
and the Eumenides. Though a matter of form me 
yet two plays, on different periods of the same 
might seem less bold, than an interval of twenty ; 
between a first and second act. This is, howevf 
mere obedience to custom. TJie effect does not, i 
ality, at all depend on the time of the interval ; bi 
a very different principle. There are cases in whi( 
interval of twenty hours between the acts would b 
worse effect (i. e. r^der the imagination less disi 
to take the position required) than twenty yeai 
other cases. For the rest, I shall be well content i 
readers will take it up, read and judge it as a Chris 
tale. 



CHARACTERS. 

Emerick, Usurping King of lUyria, 
Raab KiupRiLi, an Illyrian Chieftain. 
Casimir,' Son of Kiuprili. 
Chef Ragozzi, a Military Commander. 
Zapolya, Queen of Illyria. 



ZAPOLYA. 



&BNE L — Dront of the Palace with a magnifieent 
colonnade. On one side a mUitary gtuxrd-house. 
Seniries pacing backward and forward before the 
P^Hace, 

Chtf Ragozzi^ at the door of the' guard-house^ as look- 
ing forwards at some object in the distance, 

C, Bag, Mr eyes deceive me not, it must be he, 

Who but our chief, my more than father, who 

But Raab Kluprili moves with such a gait ? 

Lo ! e'en this eager and unwonted haste 

But agitates, not quells, its majesty. 

Mj patron, my commander ! yes, 'tis he ! 

Call out the gucu^s. The Lord Kiuprili comes. 

[Brums beat, fyc, the guard turns out. 

Enter Raab Kiuprili. 

R. Kiu. (making a signal to stop the drumSf fyc.) 

Silence! enough! This is no time, young 

friend I 

S*or ceremonious daes. The summoning drum, 

The air-shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter, 

.Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear. 

Soldiers, 'tis well ! retire ! your general greets you, 

Bis loyal fellow-waixiors. 

[Guards retire. 



\ 



244 ZAPOLTA. 

C. Rag. Pardon my surprise. 

Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended 1 
"What may these wonders prophecy ? 

K Kiu. Tell me first, 

How &res the king ? His majesty still lives ? 

C Rag. We know no otherwise ; but EhneEick^ 
friends 
(And none but they approach him) scoff at hqp& 

R Eiu. Ragozzi ! I have reared thee firom a cIuU, 
And as a child I have reared thee. Whence this air 
Of mystery ? That face was wont to open 
Clear as the morning to me, showing all things. 
Hide nothing from me. 

C Rag. O most loved, most honoured, 
The mystery, that struggles in my looks, 
Betrayed my whole tale to thee, if it told thee 
That I am ignorant ; but fear the worst 
And mystery is contagious. All things here 
Are full of motion : and yet all is sUent : 
And bad men's hopes infect the good with fears. 

R Kiu. I have trembling proof within, how tiw 
thou speakest. 

C. Rag. That the prince Emerick feasts the soklieiTi 
Gives splendid anns, pays the commanders' debts, 
And (it is whispered) by sworn promises 
Makes himself debtor — hearing this, thou hast beard 

All 

But what ray lord will learn too soon himself 

R Km. Ha ! well then, let it come ! Worse 
scarce can come. 



ZAPOLTA. 245 

This letter, written by the trembliDg hand 
Of royal Andreas, calls me from the camp 
To his immediate presence. It appoints me, 
The queen, and Emerick, guardians of the realm, 
And of the royal infant. Day by day. 
Robbed of Zapolya's soothing cares, the king 
Yearns only to behold one precious boon. 
And with his life breathe forth a father's blessing. 

C. Bag, Remember you, my lord ! that Hebrew 
Whose face so much distemper'd you ? [leech, 

R. Km. Barzoni ? 

I held him for a spy ; but the proof failing 
(More courteously, I own, than pleased myself) 
I sent him from the camp. 

C. Bxjtg. To him, in chief, 

Prince Emerick trusts his royal brother's health. 

IL Kiu. Hide nothing, I conjure you ! What of 
him ? [cunning, 

C Rag. With pomp of words beyond a soldier's 
And shrugs and wrinkled brow, he smiles and 

whispers ! 
Talks in dark words of women's fencies ; hints 
That 'twere a useless and a cruel zeal 
To rob a dying man of any hope. 
However vain, that soothes him : and, in fine, 
JDenies all chance of ofipring from the queen. 

R. Eau. The venomous snake ! My heel was on 
And (fool !) I did not crush it ! [its head, 

C. Rag. Nay, he fears, 

Zapolya will not long survive her husband. 



246 ZAPOLTA. 

It Kiu, Manifest treason ! Even this brief del^^ 

Half makes me an accomplice (If he live,) 

\h moivvng toward OitpdaBi, 
If he but live and know me, all may 

a Rag. Haiti [SfoptMM. 

On pain of death, my lord ! am I commanded 
To stop all ingress to the palace. 

IL Kiu. Thou ! 

C. Rag. No place, no name, no rank excepted^ 

R. Kiu. Thou ! 

C. Rag. This life of mine, O take it, Lord Kiupnii! 
I give it as a weapon to thy hands, 
Mine own no longer. Guardian of Dlyria, 
Useless to thee, 'tis worthless to myself. 
Thou art the framer of my nobler being ; 
Nor does there live one virtue in my soul. 
One honourable hope, but calls thee father. 
Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace 
Is guarded from within, that each access 
Is thronged by armed conspirators, watched by 

ruffians 
Pampered with gifts, and hot upon the spoil 
Which that false promiser still trails before them. 
I ask but this one boon — ^reserve my life 
Till I can lose it for the realm and thee ! 

R. Kiu. My heart is rent asunder. O my coumtiy, 
O &llen lll3rria, stand I here qsell-bound ? 
Did my king love me ? Did I earn his love ? 
Have we embraced as brothers would embrace ? 
Was I his arm, his thunderbolt ? And now 



ZAPOLTA. 247 

BluBt I, hag-riddeD, pant as in a dream ? 
Or like an eagle, whose strong wings press up 
Jkgainst a coiling serpent's folds, can I 
Strike but for mockery, and with restless beak 
Ck>re my own breast ? — ^Ragozzi, thou art faithful ? 
C Rag. Here before heaven I dedicate my faith 
To the royal line of Andreaa 

R. Kitu Hark, Ragozzi ! 

Guih is a timorous thing ere perpetration : 
Despair alone makes wicked men be bold. 
Come thou with me ! They have heard my voice in 

flight. 
Have faced round, terror-struck, and feared no longer 
The whistling javelins of their fell pursuers. 
Ha. ! what is this ? 

[Blcuikflag displayed from (he tower of the 
palace : a death bell toUs, fyc. 
Vengeance of heaven ! he is dead. 

C Rag, At length then 'tis announced. Alas ! 
I fear, 
that these black death-flags are but treason's signals. 
JR. Kiu. A prophecy too soon fulfilled! See 
yonder ! 
O rank and ravenous wolves ! the death-bell echoes 
Still in the doleful air — and see ! they come. 

C Rag. Precise and feithful in their villany 
£ven to the moment, that the master traitor 
Had pre-ordained them. ' 

R Kiu. Was it over haste, 

Or is it scorn, that in fliis race of treason 



248 ZAPOLTA. 

Their guilt thus drops its mask, and blazons forth 
Their in&mous plot even to an idiot's sense. 
C. Rag, Doubtless they deem heaven too usmp'd! 

[heaven's justioe 
Bought like themselves! 

Being equal all in crime^ 
Do you press on, ye spotted jMuricides 
For the one sole pre-eminence yet doubtful ! 
The prize of foremost impudence in guilt ? 
It Km, The bad man's cunning still prepares 
the way 
For its own outwitting. I applaud, Ragozzi ! 

Ragozzi I applaud, 
In thee, the virtuous hope that dares look onward 
And keeps the life-spark warm of future action 
Beneath the cloak of patient sufierance. 
Act and appear, as time and prudence prompt thee: 
I shall not misconceive the part thou playesL 
Mine is an easier part — ^to brave the usurper. 

[Enter a procession o/Emerick^s adhertnts^niiitkit 
chieftamSf and soldiers, wOh music, T%a/ air 
vance toward the front of the stage, JS^^niK 
makes the signed for them to stop, — The wnuk 
ceases. 
Leader of the Procession. The Lord Kiuprili !— 

Welcome from the camp. 
R, Kxu. Grave magistrates and chieftains of Dlyrit, 
In good time come ye hither, if ye come 
As loyal men with honourable purpose 
To mourn what can alone be mourned ; but chiefly 



ZAFOLTA. S49 

Co enforce the last commands of royal Andreas 
^nd shield the queen, Zapolya : haply making 
Che mother's joy light up the widow's tears. 

Leader. Our purpose demands speed. Grace 
our procession ; 
% warrior best will greet a warlike king. 

M, Kxu, This patent written by your lawful king, 
[.Lo ! his own seal and signature attesting) 
Appoints as guardians of his realm and ofipring, 
"The queen, and the prince' Emerick, and myself. 
[ Voices of Live king Emerick ! an Emerick ! an 
Emerick! [voices? 

^^hat means this clamour ? Are these madmen's 
Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued 
To infiimize the name of the king's brother 
W'ith a lie black as hell ? unmanly cruelty, 
ingratitude, and most unnatural treason ? 

[murmwa. 
Vhat mean these murmurs ? Dare then any here 
^roclaim prince Emerick a spotted traitor ? 
hie that has taken from you your sworn faith, 
ind given you in return a Judas' bribe, 
Hfiuny now, oppression in reversion. 
Old heaven's inevitable curse hereafter ? 

[Loud murmurs^ foUoioed by cries — Emerick! JVb 
haby Prince! JVo changelings! 
Tet bear with me awhile ! Have I for this 
lied for your safety, conquered for your honour ! 
^as it for this, Illyrians ? that I forded 
(Tour thaw-swohi torrents, when the shouldering ice 



^ 



^50 ZAPOLTA. 

Fought with the foe, and staiiied its jagged points 
With gore from wounds, I felt not ? Did the blast 
Beat on this body, frost-and-fimoiine-Dunibed, 
Till my hard flesh distinguished not itself 
From the insensate mail, its fellow warrior ? 
And have I brought home n^ith me Victory, 
And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace, 
Her countenance twice lighted up with giory. 
As if I had charmed a goddess down fi:om heavoi 
But these will flee abhorrent from the throne 
Of usurpation ! 

[Murmurs increase — and cries of onward! ORteon 
Have you then thrown off shame, 
And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject. 
Throw off all fear ? I tell ye, the fiur trophies 
Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe. 
Love's natural oflerings to a rightful king. 
Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor. 
This brollier-blight, this Emerick, as robes 
Of gold plucked from the images of gods 
Upon a sacrilegious robber's back. 

Enter Lord Casimir, 

Cos. Who is this factious insolent, that dares bO 
The elected king, our chosen Emerick ? 
My father ! 

R, JSau* Casimir ! He, he a traitor ! 
Too soon, indeed, Ragozzi ! have I learnt it 

{am 

Cos. My &ther and my lord ! 

R, Eiu. I know thee not ! 



ZAPOLTA. 351 

Luukr. Yet the remembraiiciiig did sound right 
filiaL 

R. JESti. A holy name and words of natural duty 

e blasted by a thankless traitor's utterance. 

Cos, O hear me, sire ! not lightly have I sworn 

nnage to Emerick. Dljrria's sceptre 

nnands a manly hand, a warrior's grasp. 

le queen Zapolya's self-expected ofipring 

; least is doubtful : and of all our nobles, 

le king inheriting his brother's heart, 

ith honoured us the most Your rank, my lord ! 

roady eminent, is — all it can be — 

mfirmed : and me the king's grace hath appointed 

lief of his councU and the lord high steward. 

S. Khi. (Bought by a bribe !) 1 know thee now 
still less. 

^. So much of Raab Kiuprili's blood flows here, 

at no power, save that holy name of father, 

uld shield the man who so dishonoured me. 

R. JSit4. The son of Raab Kiuprili a bought bond- 
slave, 

ilt's pander, treason's mouth-piece, a gay parrot, 

liool'd to shrill forth his feeder's usurped titles, 

d scream, long live king Emerick ! 

iM/dars, Aye, king Emerick ! 

ind back, my lord ! Lead us, or let us pass. 

^oUHer, Nay, let the general speak ! 

Soldiers, Hear him! hear him! 

3. J£iu. Hear me, 

aembled lords and warriors of Illyria, 



^ 



252 ZAPOLTA. 

Hear, and avenge me ! Twice ten years have I 
Stood in your presence, honoured by the king; 
Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you 
Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe, 
Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear? 
Who here dares charge me with an orphan's 
Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended ? 
And shall I now be branded by a traitor, 
A bought, bribed wretch, who, being called myflOD, 
Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant 
Henbane and aconite on a mother's grave? 
The underling accomplice of a robber, 
That from a widow and a widow's ofispring 
Would steal their heritage ? To God a rebel, 
And to the common &ther of his country 
A recreant ingrate ! 

CcLs, Sire ! your words grow dangerott 

High-flown romantic fancies ill-beseem 
Your age and wisdom. 'TIS a statesman's viitoe, 
To guard his country's safety by what means 
It best may be protected — come what will 
Of these monk's morals! 

R. Km, (aside,) Ha ! the elder BratuB 

Made his soul iron, though his sons repented ; 
They boasted not their baseness. [draws his svHti 

Infamous changeling ; 
Recant this instant, and swear loyalty. 
And strict obedience to thy sovereign's will ; 
Or, by the spirit of departed Andreas, 
Thou diesi 



ZAPOLTA. 259 

[Chiefs, ^c. rtuh to inierpoge ; during the himtitt, 
enUr Emerkk, dUarmed, 
Ikne. Call out the guard! Ragozzi! seize the 



iprili? Ha! 

[making signs to fhe guard to retirt. 
Pass on, fiieuds ! to the palace. 
[Music recommences* — The procession passes 
into the palace, 
kne. What? Raab Kiuprili ? What? a father's 

sword 
iinst his own son's breast ? 
I ISu, Twould best excuse hun 

re he thy son, prince Emerick. I abjure him. 
Ime, This is my thanks, then, that I have com- 
menced 
eign to which the fVee voice of the nobles 
h called me, and the people, by regards 
love and grace to Raab Kiuprili's house ? 
L Kiu, What right hadst thou, prince Emerick, 

to bestow them ^ 
'}iite. By what right dares Kiuprili question me ? 
{. JEtii. By a right common to all loyal subjects — 
me a duty ! As the realm's co-regent 
[Minted by our sovereign's last free act, 
it by himself. — (Grasping the Patent.) 
Sme. Aye ! — ^writ in a delirium ! 
I. Kiu, I likewise ask, by whose authority 
D access to the sovereign was refused me ? 
Sine. By whose authority dared the general leave 



^ 



254 ZAPOLTA. 

His camp and anny, like a fligitire? 

R. Kiiu A fugitiye, who, with vietoiy for bis 
cominde, 
Ran, open-eyed, upon the fiice of death ! 
A fugitive, with no other fear, than bodemeiita 
To be belated in a loyal purpofl&— ^ 
At the command, prince ! of my king and thine, 
Hither I came ; and now again require 
Audience of queen Zapolya ; and (the States 
Forthwith convened) that thou dost show at krge^ 
On what ground of defect thou'st dared annul 
This thy king's last and solenm act — bast dared 
Ascend the throne, of which the law had named, 
And conscience should have made thee a protedoCi 

Erne, A sovereign's ear ill brooks a subgect'B (JMI' 
tioning ! 
Yet for thy past well-doing — and because 
'Tis hard to erase at once the fond belief 
Long cherished, that Illyria had in thee 
No dreaming priest's slave, but a Roman lover 
Of her Iruc weal and freedom — and for this, too, 
That, hoping to call forth to the broad day-light 
And fostering breeze of glory all deservings, 
I still had placed thee foremost. 

R.Kiu. Prince ! I IflCea. 

Erne. Unwillingly I tell thee, that Ziqpolya, 
Maddened with grief, her erring hopes provad 
idle— 

Cos. Sire ! speak the whole truth ! Sayherfim^ 
detected ! 



« ZAPOLTA. 355 

nte. According to the sworn attetsts in council 

ler physician — 

. JSiu. (aside.) Ves ! the Jew, Barzoni ! 

me. Under the imminent risk of death she lies, 

rrecoverable loss of reason, 

Qown friend's face or voice renew the firenzy. 

18. (to Kiuprili,) Trust me, my lord ! a woman's 

trick has duped you — 
)o — but most of all, the sainted Andreas. 
a. for his own fair fame, his grace prays hourly 
her recovery, that (the States convened) 
may take counsel of her friends. 
me. Right, Casimir \ 

sive my pledge, lord general. It shall stand 
er own will to appear and voice her claims ; 
which in truth I hold the wiser course) 
i all the past passed by, as family quarrels, 
the queen dowager, with unblenched honours, - 
ime her state, our first Illyrian matron. 
. Kiu, Prmce f^merick ! you speak fairly, and 

your pledge too 
ich, as well would suit an honest meaning. 
%$• My lord ! you scarce know half his grace's 

goodness, 
wealthy heiress, high-born fair Sarolta, 
1 in the- convent of our noble ladies, 
relative, the venerable abbess, 
1, at his grace's urgence, wooed and won fi>r me. 
ne. Long may the race, and long may that name 

flourish, 



256 



ZAPOLTA. 



i 



4r 



Which your heroic deeds, brave chie^ have rendned VHs 
Dear and illustrious to all true Illyriaiis. 

R. Kiu, The longest line, that ever tracing honU 
Or found or feigned, placed by a beggar's soul, 
Hath but a mushroom's date in the compenscm: 
And with the soul, the conscience is coeval, 
Yea, the soul's essence. 

Erne, Conscience, good my lord, 

Is but the pulse of reason. Is it conscience, 
That a free nation should be handed down. 
Like the dull clods beneath our feet, by chance 
And the blind law of lineage ? That whether w&sA, 
Or man matured, a wise man or an idiot. 
Hero or natural coward, shall have guidance 
Of a fi^e people's destiny, should fall out 
In the mere lottery of a reckless nature. 
Where few the prizes and the Uanks are countkn? 
Or haply that a nation's fate should hang 
On the bald accident of a midwife's handling 
The unclosed sutures of an infant's skull ? 

Cos* What better claim can sovereign wish or need, 
Than the free voice of men who love their country? 
Those chiefly who have fought for't ? Who by ri^ 
Claim for their monarch one, who having obeyed, 
So hath best learnt to govern ; who having suffered^ 
Can feel for each brave sufferer and reward him? 
Whence sprang the name of Emperor ? . Was it not 
By nature's fiat ? In the storm of triumph, 
'Mid warriors' shouts, did her oracular voice 
Make itself heard : Let the commanding spirit 



ZAFOLTA. 257 

the station of command ! 
tt SSm. Prince Emerick, 

Hir cause will prosper best in your own pleading. 
Erifie. (asidt to Ccuimir,) Ragozzi was thy school- 
mate — a bold spirit ! 
ad him to us ! — ^Thy father thaws apace ! 

[then aloud, 
Jave us awhile, my lord ! — Your friend, Ragozzi, 
liom you have not yet seen since his return, 
ftnunands the guai*d to-day. 

[Casimir retires to the guard-house; and 
ctfter a time appears before it with Chef 
Ragozzi, 

We are alone, 
liat further pledge or proof desires Kiuprili ? 

len, with your assent 

R, IRu, Mistake not for assent 

16 unquiet silence of a stem resolve, [prince! 

irottling the impatient voice. I have heard thee, 
id I have watched thee, too ; but have small faith in 
plausible tale told with a flitting eye. 

[Emerick turns as about to call for the guard, 
the next moment I am in thy power, 
this, thou art in mine. Stir but a step, 
r make one sign — ^I swear by this good sword, 
iiou diest that instant. [homily. 

Erne. Ha, ha! — Well, sir! — Conclude your 
JR. £tu. A tale which, whether true or false, comes 

guarded 
gainst all means of proof, detects itself. 

VOL. II. 17 



258 ZAPOLTA. 

The queen mew'd up — this too firom anxious care 
Aud love brought forth of a sudden, a twin both 
With thy discovery of her plot to rob thee 
Of a riglitful throne ! — ^Maric how the seorpiDD, 

falsehood, 
Coils round in its own perplexity, and fixes 
Its sting in its own head ! 

Erne, Ay ! to the maik ! 

R. Kiu, Hadst thou believed thine own tafe, 
hadst thou fancied 
Thyself the rightful successor of Andreas, 
Wouldst thou have pilfered from our schoolboys^ 

themes 
These shallow sophisms of a popular choice? 
What people ? How convened ? or, if convened, 
Must not the magic power that charms together 
Millions of men in council, needs have power 
To win or wield them ? Better, O far better 
Shoiit forth thy titles to yon circling mountaioa) 
And with a thousandfold reverberation 
Make the rocks flatter thee, and the volleying air, 
Unbribed, shout back to thee, king Eiherick! 
By wholesome laws to embank the sovereign pofiw 
To deepen by restraint, and by prevention 
Of lawless will to amass and guide the flood 
In its majestic channel, is man's task 
And the true patriot's glory ! In all else 
Men safelier trust to heaven, than to themselves 
When least themselves in tlie mad whirl of crowdf 
Where folly is contagious, and too ofl 



ZAPOLTA. 399 

<n wise men leaye their better sense at home 
shide and wonder at them when returned, 
'me. Is't thus, thou scofT'st the people ? most of 
I soldiers, the defenders of the people ? [all, 

: Kiu, O most of all, most miserable nation, 
whom the imperial power, enormous bubble ! 
lown and kept alofl, or burst and shattered 
.he bribed breath of a lewd soldiery ! 
;fly of such, as from the frontiers far, 
lich is the noblest station of true warriors) 
smk licentious idleness beleaguer 
and court, a venomed thorn i'the side 
virtuous kings, the tyrant's slave and tyrant, 
ravening for fresh largess ! But with such 
git title claim'st thou, save thy birth? What 

merits 
ich many a liegeman may not plead as well, 
/e though I grant thee ? If a life outlaboured 
d, heart, and fortunate arm, in watch and war, 
the land's fame and weal ; if large acquests, 
le honest by the aggression of the foe, 
I whose best praise is, that they bring us safety ; 
ictory, doubly-wreathed, whose under-garland 
aurel-leaves looks greener and more sparkling 
o' the gray olive-branch ; if these, prince Erne* 

rick! 
B the true tide to the throne, not thou — 
: (let Dlyria, let the infidel enemy 
lUdge and arbiter between us !) J, 
sre the rightful sovereign ! 



^ 



260 ZAPOLTA. 

Erne. I have fiihh { 

That thou both think'st and hopest it FairZapolyat 
A provident lady — 
R. JKtu* Wretch beneath all answer! 

Erne, Offers at once the royal bed and throne! 
R. Eiu, To be a kingdom's bulwai^ a king's gloiy, 
Yet loyed by both, and trusted, and trustworthy, 
Is more than to be king ; but see ! thy rage 
Fights with thy fear. I will relieve thee ! Ho! 

[ioiKegwi 
Erne. Not for thy sword, but to entrap thee, 

ruffian ! [palace. 

Thus long I have listened — ^guard — ^ho! from tbe 

[T%e guard-post from (he guard-houst wWi 04 

Ragozzi at their head^ and then a number fim 

the Palace — Chef Ragozzi demands jKitfriZi'f 

sword and apprehends him. 

Cas» O agony ! (to Emerick,) sire, hear me ! 

[to Kiuprili, who turns from 1m> 

Hear me, father! 
Erne. Take in arrest that traitor and assassiD! 
Who pleads for his life, strikes at mine, his sofe* 
reign's. 
R, Kiu» As the co-regent of the realm, I stand 
Amenable to none save to the States 
Met in due course of law. But ye are bond-slarefl} 
Yet witness ye that before God and man 
I here impeach Lord Emerick of foul treason, 
And on strong grounds attaint him with suspicion 
Of murder — 



ZAPOLTA. 961 

Erne. Hence with the madman ! 

R. Kiu, Your queen's murder, 

le royal orphan's murder : and to the death 
fy him, as a tyrant and usurper. 

[hurried off by Ragozzi and the gtuard. 
Eme^ Ere twice the sun hath risen, by my sceptre 
lis insolence shall be avenged. 
Cos. O banish him. 

is infiimy will crush me. O for my sake, 
oish him, my liege lord ! 
Erne. What, to the army ? 

calm, young friend ! nought shall be done in 

anger. 
le child o'erpowers the man. In this emergence 
aust take counsel for us both. Retire. 

[Exit Casimir. 
Erne, ((done, looks at a Calendar.) The changeful 

planet, now in her decay, 
ps down at midnight, to be seen no more. 
ith her shall sink the enemies of Emerick, 
irsed by the last look of the waning moon : 
id my bright destiny, with sharpened horns, 
aU greet me fearless in the new-bora crescent 

[ExU, 

Scene changes to the back of the Palace — a wooded 
park and mountains. 

Enter Zapolya, wUh an infant in arms. 

Zap, Hush, dear one ! hush ! My trembling arm 
disturbs thee ! 



968 ZAFOLTA. 

Thou, the protector of the helpless ! thou, m 

The widow's husband and the orphan's fitther, m 

Direct my steps ! Ah whither ? O send down h 

Thy angel to a houseless babe and mother, w 

Driven forth into the cruel wilderness ! 1 2 
Hush, sweet one ! thou art no Hagar's of&pring: 

[thotttft 

The rightful heir of an anointed king ! 

What sounds are those ? It is the vesper-chant 
Of labouring men returning to their home! 
Their queen has no home I Hear me, heavenly 

And let this darkness [Father! 

Be as the shadow of thy outspread wings 
To hide and shield us ! Start'st thou in thy slumbeis ? 
Thou canst not dream of savage Emerick. Hush! 
Betray not thy poor mother! For if they seize thee 
I shall grow mad indeed, and they'll believe 
Thy wicked uncle's lie. Ha ! what ? a soldier? 

Enter Chef RagocczL 

C. Rag* Sure heaven befriends us. Well ! he 

hath escaped ! 
O rare tune of a tyrant's promises 
That can enchant the serpent treachery 
From forth its lurking hole in the heart. *^ Ragozzi! 
O brave Ragozzi ! Count ! Commander ! Whit 

not?" 
And all this too for nothing ! a poor nothing! 
Merely to play the underling in the murder 
Of my best friend Kiuprili ! His own son — 

monstrous ! 
Tyrant! I owe thee thanks, and in good hour 



ZAPOLTA. 963 

1 1 repay thee, for that ^ou thought'st me too 
irviceable villain. Could I now 
gain some sure intelligence of the queen : 
ven bless and guard her ! 

ap, (coming forwcard,) Art thou not Ragozzi? 
. Hag, The queen ! Now then the miracle is 
i heaven's wisdom is an over-match [full ! 

the devil's cunning. This way, madam, haste ! 
ap. Stay ! Oh, no ! forgive me if I wrong thee! 
) is thy sovereign's child : Oh, pity us, 
be not treacherous ! [kneding, 

, Rag. (raising her.) Madam! For mercy's 

sake! 
ap. But tyrants have a hundred eyes and arms ! 
. Rag. Take courage, madam! 'Twere too 

horrible, 
umot do't) to swear I'm not a monster ! — 
rce had I barr'd the door on Raab Kiuprili — 
^. Kiuprili! How? 

'. Rag. There is not time to tell it, — 
) tyrant called me to him, praised my zeal, 
d be assured I overtopt his cunning [fine, 
I seemed right zealous.) But time wastes: In 
3 me despatch my trustiest friends, as couriers 
h letters to the army. The thought at once 
jhed on me. I disguised my prisoner — 
^,ap. What Raab Kiuprili ? 
I Rag. Yes ! my noble general ! 
nt him off, with Emerick's own pacquet, 
tte, and post haste— Prepared to follow him 



964 ZAPOLTA. 

Zc^. Ah,how? Is it joy or fear? Mylimbssees 1;^ 

sinking ! — L 

C. Rag, (supporting htr.) Heaven still befiiendB |\g 

us. I have left my charger, 
A gentle beast and fleet, and my boy's mule, 1^ 

One that can shoot a precipice like a bird, U 

Just where the wood begins to climb the inomitaiii& | [ 
The course we'll thread will mock the tyrant's 

guesses. 
Or scare the followers. Ere "we reach the main road 
The Loi*d Kiuprili will have sent a troop 
To escort me. Oh, thrice happy when he finds 
The treasure which I convoy ! 

Zap. One brief moment, 

That praying for strength 1 may have strength, this 

babe. 
Heaven's eye is on it, and its innocence 
Is, as a prophet's prayer, strong and prevailing! 
Through thee, dear babe, the inspiring thought 

possessed me. 
When the loud clamor rose, and all the palace 
Emptied itself — (They sought my life, Ragozzi!) 
Like a swift shadow gliding, I made way 

To the deserted chamber of my lord. — 

[then to (ht tn/cML 
And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips, 
And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer ! 
Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty. 
As I removed the seal, the heavy arm 
Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stiff finger 



ZAPOLTA. 265 

^med pointing at my feet Provident heaven ! 
^, I vfras standing on the secret door, 
'^liich, through a long descent virhere all sound 
perishes, 

^ out beyond the palace. Well I knew it 

Ut Andreas framed it not ! He was no tyrant ! 
C Rag. Haste, madam ! Let me take this pre- 
cious burden ! 

[ht kneels as he takes ihe chUd, 
Tictp. Take him ! And if we be pursued, I 

charge thee, 
lee thou and leave me ! Flee and save thy king ! 

[Vien as going off, she looks back on the palace* 
hou tyrant's den, be called no more a palace I 
he orphan's angel at the throne of heaven 
tands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee 
. queen's, a mother's, and a widow's curse, 
iencefbrth a dragon's haunt. Fear and Suspicion 
land sentry at thy portals ! Faith and honour, 
riven from the throne, shall leave the attainted 

nation : 
nd, for the iniquity that houses in thee, 
also glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine, 
>*atef\il conjunction of malignant planets) 
hall shoot then* blastments on the land. The fathers 
.encefbrth shall have no joy in their young men, 
nd when they cry : Lo ! a male child is bom ! 
he mother shall make answer with a groan, 
or bloody usurpation, like a vulture, 
hall clog its beak within lUyria's heart. 



966 



zapolta. 



RemoneleaB slaves of a remoneless tyrant, 
They sbaU be mocked with sounds of liberty, 
And liberty shall be proclaimed alone 
To thee, O Fh^e! O Pestilence ! O Sword ! 
Till Vengeance hath her fill — And thou, snatched 

hence. 
Poor friendless fugitive ! with mother^ wailing, 
Ofispring of royal Andreas, shalt return 
With trump and timbrel-clang, and popular sboot 
In triumph to the palace of thy fathers ! 



ZAPOLyA. 

PAET II. 

SEQUEL ENTITLED THE « USURPER'S 

FATE." 



ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS. 

Old Bathort, a Mountaineer, 

Bethlen Bathory, The young Prince Andreas^nf- 

posed son of Old Bathort. 
Lord Rudolph, a Courtier, but friend to the Qum*'' 

party, 
Laska, Steward to Casimir» betrothed to Gltcinb. 
Pestalutz, an ^Assassin in Emerick' s employ. 
Lady Sarolta Wife of Lord Casimir. 
Glycine, Orphan Daughter of Chef Ragozzx. 



Between the flight of the Q^een, and the civil war 
immediately followed, and in which Emerick reaMUM^ 
the victor, a space of twenty years is supposed to Afl* 
elapsed. 



USURPATION ENDED ; OR, SHE 
COMES AGAIN. 

ACT I. 

^CENE I. — 'A Mountainous country. BaJOwnfa dweU- 

ing at the end of the stage. 

EhUer Lady SaroUa and Glycine. 

Crly. Well then ! our round of charity is finished, 
(est, madam ! You breathe quick. 

Sar. What, tired, Glycine ? 
STo delicate court-dame, but a mountaineer 
Sy choice no less than birth, I gladly use 
rhe good strength nature gave me. - 

CRy. That last cottage 

Im built as if an eagle or a raven 
Had chosen it for her nest. 

Sar. So many are 

The sufferings which no human aid can reach, 
It needs must be a duty doubly sweet 
To heal the few we can. Well ! let us rest 

dy. There? [Pointing to Bathory^s dweUing. 

Sar. Here ! For on this spot Lord Casimir 
Took his last leave. On yonder mountain-ridge 
I lost the misty image which so long 



270 ZAPOLTA. 

Lingered, or seemed at least to linger on it 

dy. And what if even now, on that same iidge^ 
A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengtheiuD( 
As it clomb downwards, shape itself at last 
To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost, 
Who but Sarolta's own dear lord returned 
From his high embassy ? 



I 



Sar. Thou hast hit my thoi#t! i ' 

All the long day, from yester-mom to evening, ' 



The restless hope fluttered about my heart 
Oh we are querulous creatures ! little less 
Than all things can suffice to make us happy ; 
And little more than nothing is enough 
To discontent us. — Were he come, then should I 
Repine be had not arrived just one day earlier 
To keep his birth-day here, in his ovm birth-place. 

Crly. But our best sports belike, and gay proees- 
sions 
Would to my lord have seemed but work-day sij^ 
Compared with those the royal court affords. 

Sar. I have small wish to see them. A spriDg 
morning 
With its wild gladsome minstrelsy of birds, 
And its bright jewelry of flowers and dew-drope 
(Each orbed drop an orb of glory in it) [ma* 

Would put them all in eclipse. This sweet retire' 
Lord Casimir's wish alone would have made sacred: 
But in good truth, his loving jealousy 
Did but command, what 1 had else entreated. 

dy. And yet had I been bom Lady Saroha, 



i 



ZAPOLTA. 271 

'<een wedded to the noblest of the realm, 

o beautiful besides, and yet so stately 

Sar. Hush ! innocent flatterer ! 
. Crly. Nay ! to my poor &ncy 

Jhe royal court would seem an earthly heaven, 
lade for such stars to shine in, and be gracious. 

«S^. So doth the ignorant distance still delude us! 
l?hy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above thee, 
n its mere self a cold, drear, colourless void, 
Seen from below and in the large, becomes 
rhe bright blue ether, and thj5 seat of gods ! 
Yell ! but this broil that scared you from the dance ? 
Vnd was not Laska there : he, your betrothed ? 

Gyl. Yes, madam ! he was there. So was the 
maypole. 
For we danced round it. 

Sar, Ah, Glycine ! why. 

Why did you then betroth yourself? 

CUy. Because 

lly own dear lady wished it ! 'twas you asked me ! 

Sar. Yes, at my lord's request, but never wished, 
Ify poor affectionate girl, to see thee wretched. 
Thou knowest not yet the duties of a wife. 

CHy. Oh, yes ! It is a wife's chief duty, madam. 
To stand in awe of her husband, and obey him. 
And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska 
But I shall tremble. 

Sar, Not with fear, I think. 

For you still mock him. Bring a seat from the 

cottage. [Exit Glycine into the coU 



272 ZAPOLTA. 

tagt, SaroUa eontinuea her speech looking efiff 
her. 
Something above thy rank there hangs about thee, 
And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion, 
Yea, e'en in thy simplicity. Glycine, 
A fine and feminine grace, that makes me feel 
More as a mother than a mistress to thee ! 
Thou art a soldier's orphan ! that — the courage, 
Which rising in thine eye, seems ofl to give 
A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove thee ! 
Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood. 
Or there's no &ith in instinct ! 

[angry voices and clamour trii&tn. 
Re-enter Glycine, 
dy. Oh, madam ! there's a party of your se^ 
And my lord's steward, Laska, at their head, [vant8» 
Have come to search for old Bathory's son, 
Bethlen, that brave young man ! 'twas he, my lady 
That took our parts, and beat off the intruders, 
And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him 
With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king. 
Pray don't believe them, madam ! This way ! this 

way! 
Lady Sarolta's here^ [calling unthod 

Sar, Be calm. Glycine. 

Enter Laska and Servants with Old Bathory. 
Las. (to Bathory.) We have no concern with 

you ! What needs your presence ? 
O. Bat. What ! Do you think I'll suffer my braie 1 1 
boy 



ZAPOLTA. 273 

3 be slandered by a set of coward-ruffiaDS, 
nd leave it to their malice, — ^yes, mere malice ! 
tell its own tale ? 

[Lcuka and servcmts how to Lady SaroUa. 
Sar. Laska ! What may this mean ? 

Leu. Madam ! and may it please your ladyship ! 
his old man's son, by name Bethlen Bathory, 
ands charged, on weighty evidence, that he, 
n yester-eve, being his lordship's birth-day, 
id traitorously defame Lord Casimir : 

he lord high steward of the realm, moreover 

Sar, Be brief! We know his titles ! 

Leu. And moreover 

aved like a traitor at our liege king Emerick. 

nd furthermore, said wimesses make oath, 

ed on the assault upon his lordship's servants ; 

ea, insolently tore, from this, your huntsman, 

is badge of livery of your noble house, 

nd trampled it in scorn. 

Sar. (to {he servants who offer to speak.) You have 

had your spokesman ! 
JYxere is the young man thus accused ? 
O. Bat. I know not : 

lit if no ill betide him on the mountains, 
;e will not long be absent ! 
;S^. Thou art his Either ? 

O. Bat. None ever with more reason prized a son ; 
et I hate falsehood more than 1 love him. 
nt more than one, now in my lady's presence, 
(Timessed the affiray, besides these men of malice ; 

VOL. II. 18 



274 ZAPOLTA. 



And if I swerve from truth- 



1 



Gly, Yes! good dd man! 

My lady ! pray believe him ! 

Sar. Hush, Glycine! 

Be silent I conmiand you. [then to JBaAotj* 

Speak ! we hear you ! 

O. Bat. My tale is brief. During our festive dance, 
Your servants, the accusers of my son, 
Offered gross insults, in unmanly sort. 
To our village maidens. He, (could he do less?) 
Rose in defence of outraged modesty, 
And so persuasive did his cudgel prove, 
(Your hectoring sparks, so over brave to women 
Are always cowards) that they soon lock flight, 
And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters^ 
Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words 
Which their own threats provoked. 

Sar, Old man ! you talk 

Too bluntly ! Did your son owe no respect 
To the Uvery of our house ? 

O. Bat, Even such respect 

As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf 
That hath begun to worry the poor lambs ! 

Las. Old insolent ruffian ! 

Gly. Pardon! pardon, madam! 

I saw the whole affi^y. The good old man 
Means no offence, sweet lady ! — ^You, yourself 
Laska! know well, that these men were the ruffians! 
Shame on you ! 

iSiiir. What! Glycine? go, retire! 

[Era Gfyeine. 



ZAPOLTA. 375 

Be it then thai these men fiiulted. Yet yourself 
Or better still belike the maid^is' parents, 
Might have complained to us. Was ever access 
Denied you ? or free audience ? or are we 
Weak and ui^t to punish our own servants ? 

O. BaL So then ! So then ! heaven grant an (Ad 
man patience ! 
And must the gardener leave his seedling plants, 
Leave his young roses to the rooting swine 
While he goes ask their master, if perchance 
His leisure serve to scoui^ them from their ravage ? 

Im8, Ho ! Take the rude clown i^rom yom* lady's 
presence ! 
1 will report her further will ! 

Sar. Wait then, 

Till thou hast leamt it ! Fervent good old man ! 
Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on 
A. face of sternness, alien to my meaning ! 

[then speaks to the servants, 
Sence ! leave my presence ! and you, Laska ! mark 

me! 
Those rioters are no longer of my household ! 
[f we but shake a dew-drop fr^m a rose, 
[n vain would we replace it, and as vainly 
Restore the tear of wounded modesty 
To a maiden's eye famiUarized to license.—' 
But these men, Laska — 

Las. (aside,) Yes, now 'tis coming. 

Sar. Brutal aggressors first, then bafiled dastards, 
rhat they have sought to piece out their revenge 



^ 



276 ZAFOLTA. 

With a tale of words lured fixxm the lips of anger 
Stamps them most dangerous ; and till I want 
Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need 
Their services. Discharge them ! You, Bathoiy! 
Are henceforth of my household ! I ahail fdoee yoa 
Near my own person. When your son retumS) 
Present him to us ! 

O. Bai. Ha ! what strangers here ! 
' What business have they in an old man's eye ? 
Your goodness, lady — and it came so sudden— 
I cannot — must not — ^let you be deceived. 
I have yet another tale, but [ihen to SaroUa oiufe. 

not for all ears \ 

Scar. 1 oft have passed your cottage, and sdll 
praised 
Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose UoflBOOV 
The gusts of April showered aslant its thatch. 
Come, you shall show it me ! And, while you Ind it 
Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness 
The oil of gladness glittering on the water 
Of an ebbing grief. 

[Bcdhory shows her into his eoUagt* 

Las. (dUme.) Vexation! baffled! schod'd! 

Ho ! Laska ! wake ! why ? what can all this mean? 
She sent away that cockatrice in anger ! 
Oh the false witch ! It is too plain, she loves him. 
And now, the old man near my lady's person, 

^ This line was borrowed unconsciooaly from the 
Excursion. 



ZAPOLTA. 277 

She'l] see this Bethien hourly ! 

[Laska Jlings himself into Ihe stat^ 
Glycine peeps in, 

Gly. Laska! Laska ^ 

Is my lady gone ? 

Ims. Gone. 

Gly. Have you yet seen him ? 

Is he returned ? [Laska starts up. 

Has the seat stung you, Laska ? 

Lios. No, serpent ! no ; 'tis you that sting me ; you ! 
What ? you would cling to him again ! 

Gly. Whom ! 

Itos, Bethien ! . Bethien ! 

Yes ; gaze as if your very eyes embraced him ! 
Ha ! you forget the scene of yesterday J 
Mute ere he came, but then — Out on your screams. 
And your pretended fears ! 

Crly. Your fears, at least, 

Were real, Laska ! or your trembling limbs 
And white cheeks played the hypocrites most vilely ! 

Las. I fear! whom? What? 

dy. I know, what I should fear, 

Were I in Laska's place. 

Las. What ? 

Gly. My own conscience, 

For having fed my jealousy and envy 
With a plot, made out of other men's revenges, 
Against a brave and innocent young man's life ! 
Yet, yet, pray tell me ! 

jUu, You will know too soon. 



278 ZAPOLTA. 

Ghf, Would I could find my lady ! tiiougfa abe 
chid mo- 
Yet this BOspenBe — Upotf^T* 

Lou. Stop ! atop ! one question only— 

I am quite calm — 

dy. Aye, as the old song says. 

Calm as a tiger, valiant as a dove. 
Nay now, I have marred the verse : vrell ! this one 
question — 
Lob. Are you not bound to me by your own promiBe? 
And is it not as plain — 

0/y. Halt ! that's two questioiia 

Leu. Pshaw ! Is it not as plain as impudence, 
That you're in love with this young s wagg a ri n g 

beggar, 
Bethlen BiUhory ? When he was accused. 
Why pressed you forward ? Why did you defend 
him ? [privilege. 

CHy, Question meet question : that's a woman^ 
Why, Laska, did you ui^ Lord Casimir 
To make my lady force that prcmiise from me ? 

Las. So then, you say. Lady Sarolta forced you ? 

Gly. Could I look up to her dear countenance. 
And say her nay ? As &r back as I wot of 
All her commands were gracious, sweet requests. 
How could it be then, but that her requests 
Must needs have sounded to me as commands ? 
And as for love, had I a score of loves^ 
I'd keep them all for my dear, kind, good mistresi. 

Las. Not one foe Bethlen ? 



ZAFOLTA. 279 

Ghf. Oh ! that's a different thing. 

?o be sure he's btave, and handsome, and so pious 
?o his good old father. But Ibr loving him — , 
fay, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska ! 
*oor youth ! I rather think I grieve for him ; 
>*or I sigh so deeply when I think of him ! 
knd if I see him, the tears come in my eyes, 
knd my heart beats ; and all because I dream'd 
fhat the war-wolf ^ had gored him as he hunted 
Ji4be haunted forest! 

Im. You dare own all this ? 

ifour lady will not warrant promise-breach. 
Ifine, pampered miss! you shall be ; and I'll make 

you 
Meve for him with a vengeance. Odd's, my fingers 
ringle already ! [makes threaietdng signs, 

CUy, (aside,) Ha ! Bethlen coming this way ! 

[Glycine (hefii cries OfvL 
)h, save me ! save me ! Pray don't kill me, Laska ! 

Enter Bethlen in a hunting dress. 
Bet. What, beat a woman ! 
Ijos. (to Glycine,) O you cockatrice ! 

Bet, Unmanly dastard, hold ! 
Las. Do you chance to know 

WTho-^ — am, sir ? — (S'deaih ! how black he looks !) 
Bet. I have started many strange beasts in my 
time, 

* For the beat account of the War-wolf or Lycanthro- 
lus, see Drayton's Moon-calf , Chalmers' English Poets, 
^Tol. IV. p. 13 e. 



280 ZAPOLTA. 

But none less like a man, than this before me, 
That liAs his hand against a timid female, 

Las. Bold youth! she's mine. 

Gly, No, not my master yet^ 

But only is to be ; and all, because 
Two years ago my lady adced me, and 
I promised her, not him ; and if she'll let me, 
1*11 iiate you, my lord's steward. 

Bet. Hush, Glycine! 

Gly, Yes, I do, Bethlen ; for he just now brouglit 
False witnesses to swear away your life : 
Your life, and old Bathory's too. 

BeL Bathory's! 

Where is my father ? answer, or ^ha ! gone ! 

[Laska during this time retires from ikt tlagt 

Gly, Ob, heed not him! I saw you pressing 
onward, 
And did but fain alarm. Dear gallant youth, 
It is your life they seek ! 

Bet. My life? ^ 

Gly. Alas, 

Lady Sarolta even — 

Bet. She does not know me ! 

Gly. Oh that she did ! she could not then have 
spoken 
With such stem countenance. But though she 

spurn me, 
I will kneel, Bethlen — 

Bet. Not for me, Glycine! 

What liave I done ? or whom have I offended ? 



ZAPOLTA. 281 

Gly. Rash words, 'tis said, and treasonous of the 
king. [BethUnmvUers to himadf. 

Gly. (aside.) So looks the statue, in our haU, o* 
the god ; 
*rhe shaft just flown that killed tbe serpent I 

Bet. King ! 

€Ry. Ah, often have I wished you were a king, 
^ou would protect the helpless every where, 
^s you did us. And I, too, should not then 
Cr^eve for you, Bethlen, as I do ; nor have 
The tears come in my eyes ; nor dream bad dreams 
That you were killed in the forest ; and then Laska 
Would have no right to rail at me, nor say 
(Yes, the base man, he says,) that I — I love you. 

Bet. Pretty Glycine ! wert thou not betrothed — 
But in good truth I know not what I speak. 
This luckless morning I have been so haunted 
With my own fancies, starting up hke omens. 
That 1 feel like one, who waking from a dream 
Both asks and answers wildly. — But Bathory ? 

Gly. Hist! 'tis my lady's step! She must not 
see you ! [Bethlen retires. 

Enter from the Cottage, Sarolta and Bathory. 

Sar. Go, seek your son ! I need not add, be 
speedy — 
You here, Glycine ? [Exit Bathory. 

Gly. Pardon, pardon, madam ! 

If you but saw the old man's son, you would not, 
You could not have him harmed. 

Sar, Be calm, Glycine ! 



383 ZAPOI.TA. 

Ghf. No^ I shall break my heart 

Sar. Ha! is it so? 

O strange and hidden poorer of sjrmpathy, 
That of like &tes, though all unknown to each, 
Dost make blind instincts^ orphan's heart to orphaiA 
Drawing by dim disquiet ! 

Gly. Old Bathoiy— 

Sar, Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy 

tears. 
Yes, in good truth, Glycine, this same Bethl^ 

Seems a most noble and deserving youth. 

dy. My lady does not mock me ? 

Sar. Where is Laska ? 

Has he not told thee ? 

dy. Nothing. In his fear- 

Anger, I mean — stole off— I am so fluttered — 
Left me abruptly — 

Sar. His shame excuses him ! 

He is somewhat hardly tasked ; and in discharfpng 
His own tools, cons a lesson for himself. 
Bathory and the youth henceforward live 
Safe in my lord's protection. 

Gly. The saints bless you! 

Shame on my graceless heart ! How dared I feof) 
Lady Sarolta could be cruel ? 

Sar. Come, 

Be yourself girl ! 

Gly. O, 'tis so full here ! 

And now it cannot harm him if I teU you. 
That the old man's son — 



ZAFOLTA. 283 

Sar. Is not that okL man's son ! 

dny, not unlike thine own, is his. ' 



>r all I know of thee is, that thou art 
soldier's orphan : left when rage intestine 
look and engulphed the pillars of Dlyria. 
lis other fi-agment, thrown back by that same 

earthquake, 
lis, so mysteriously inscribed by nature, 
trchance may piece out and interpret thine. 

immand thyself! Be secret ! His true &ther 

Mir'st thou ? 

G^. O tell— 

BeL (rushing out.) Yes, tell me, shape from heaven I 

ho is my father ? 

Sar. (gazing wUh surprise.) Thine ? thy fiither ? 

rise! 
Gly. Alas ! He hath alarmed you, my dear lady! 
Sctr, His countenance, not his act! 
CRy. Rise, Bethlen ! rise ! 

Bet, No ; kneel thou too ! and with thy orphan's 

tongue 
Bad for me ! I am rooted to the earth, 
id have no power to rise ! give me a father ! 
lere is a prayer in those uplifted eyes 
lat seeks high heaven ! But I will overtake it, 
id bring it back, and make it plead for me 
thine own heart ! speak ! speak ! restore to me 
name in the world ! ^ 

Sar. By that blest heaven I gazed at, 

mow not who thou art And if I knew, 




284 ZAPOLTA. 

Dared I— But rise! ^* 

Bet, Blest spirits of my parentti 

Ye hover o'er me now ! ye shine upon me ! 
And like a flower that coils forth fix>m a ruin, 
I feel and seek the light I cannot see ! [ridge, 

Sar. Thou see'st yon dim spot on the mountain'^ 
But what it is thou know'st noL Even such 
Is all I know of thee — haply, brave youth, 
Is all &te makes it safe for thee to know ! 

Bet. Safe? Safe? O let me then inherit danger, 
And it shall be my birthright ! 

Scar, (aside,) That look again I— 

The wood which first incloses, and then skirts 
The highest track that leads across the mouDtaiofr- 
Thou know'st it, Bethlen ? 

Bet, Lady, 'twas my wont 
To roam there in my childhood ofl alone ^ 

And mutter to myself the name of &ther. 
For still Bathory (why, till now I guessed not) 
Would never hear it from my lips, but sighing 
Gazed upward. Yet of late an idle terror 

Gly, Madam, that wood is haunted by the wtf- I 
Vampires, and monstrous [woIycb, 

Sar, Moon-calves, credulous giil ! 

Haply some o'ergi'own savage of the forest 
Hath his lair there, and fear hath framed the rest 
Ailer that last great battle, (O young man ! 
Thou wak'st anew my life's sole anguish) that 
Which fixed Lord Emerick on his throne, Bathory 
Led by a cry, far inward fi*om the track, 



ZAFOLTA. 285 

1 the hollow of an oak, as in a nest, 

*id find thee, Bethlen, then a helpless babe. 

"he robe that wrapp'd thee, was a widow's mantle. 

Bet. An infant's weakness doth relax my frame. 
I say — I fear to ask 

Sar. And I to tell thee. 

Bet Strike! O strike quickly! see, I do not 
shrink. 

am stone, cold stone. 

Sar, Hid in a brake hard by, 

Scarce by both palms supported from the earth, 
I wounded lady lay, whose life fast waning 
^med to survive itself in her fixt eyes, 
Chat strained towards the babe. At length one arm 
Gainfully from her own weight disengaging, 
)he pointed first to heaven, then from her bosom 
>rew forth a golden casket. Thus entreated 
Thy foster-father took thee in his arras, 
^d kneeling spake : If aught of this world's comfort 
Can reach thy heart, receive a poor man's troth. 
That at my life's risk 1 will save thy child ! [ing 
Her countenance worked, as one that seemed prepar- 
A loud voice, but it died upon her lips 
bi a faint whisper, Tly ! save him! hide — hide all !" 

Bet. And did he leave her ? What, had I a mother ? 
And left her bleeding, dying ? Bought I vile life 
With the desertion of a dying mother ? 
Oh agony ! 

dy. AJas ! thou art bewildered. 
And dost forget thou wert a helpless infant ! 



986 ZAPOI.TA. 

BeL What ebe can I lemember, but a modier 
Bfan^^ and left to pemh ? 

Sar. Hush, Glyciiie! 

It 18 the ground-swell of a teeming instinct : 
Let it but lift itself to air and sunshine, 
And it will find a mirror in the waters 
It now makes boil above it Check him not ! 

Bet. O^that I were difRised among the waters 
That pierce into the secret depths of earthy 
And find their way in daikness ! Would that I 
Could stn-ead myself upon the homeless winds! 
And I would seek her ! for elie is not dead ! 
She cannot die ! O pardon, gracious lady ! 
You were about to say, that he returned — 

Sar, Deep love, the godlike in us, still believeB 
Its object as immortal as itself! 

Bet, And found her still — 

Sar, Alas ! he did retoiD) 

He left no spot unsearched in all the forest, 
But she (I trust me by some friendly hand) 
Had been borne off 

Bet. O whither? 

dy. Dearest Betblen! 

I would that you could weep like me ! O do not 
Gaze so upon the air ! - - 

Sar. While he was absent, 

A friendly troop, 'tis certain, scoured the wood, 
Hotly pursued indeed by Emerick. 

Bet, Emerick. 

Oh hell ! 



ZAPOLTA. 287 

f, Bethlen ! 

I, Hist ! I'll curse him in a whisper ! 

gracious lady must hear blessings only. 

lath not yet the glory round her head, 

hose strong eagle wings, which make swift way 

lat appointed place, which I must seek ; 

96 she were my mother ! 

Noble youth! 
I me fear nothing ! long time have I owed 
ings of expiation for misdeeds 

past that weigh me down, though innocent ! 
foster-father hid the secret from thee, 
le perceived thy thoughts as they expanded, 
d, restless, and iU-sorting with thy state ! 

was his care ! thou'st made thyself suspected 

where suspicion reigns, and asks no proof 

ts own fears! great Nature hath endowed thee 

I her best gifts ! from me thou shalt receive 

onourable aidance ! but haste hence ! 

el wiU ripen thee, and enterprise 

Bms thy years ! be thou henceforth my soldier ! 

whatsoe'er betide thee, still believe 

: in each noble deed, achieved or suffered, 

I solvest best the riddle of thy birth ! 

may the light that streams from thine own 

honour 
le thee to that thou seekest ! 
ly. Must he leave us ? 

sL And for such goodness can I return nothing 
some hot tears that sting mine eyes ? Some sighs 



288 SAPOLTA. 

That if not breathed would swell my heart to $6ttmg} 
May heaven and thme own vurtues, high-born faMJtjr, 
Be as a shield of fire, &r, far aloof 
To scare all evil fix>m thee ! Yet, if fate 
Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger. 
From the uttermost region of the earth, methinlo^ 
Swift as a spirit invoked, I should be with thee ! 
And then, perchance, I might have power to im- 

bosom 
These thanks that struggle here. Eyes fair as tiune 
Have gazed on me with tears of love and anguish, 
Which these eyes saw not, or beheld uncoosciouB; 
And tones of anxious fondness, passionate prayen^ 
Have been talked to me ! But this tongue ne'er 

soothed 
A mother's ear, lisping a mother's name ! 
O, at how dear a price have I been loved 
And no love could return! One boon then, lady! 
Where'er thou bidd'st, I go thy faithful soldier. 
But first must trace the spot, where she lay bleeding 
Who gave me life. No more shall beast of ravkw 
Affront with baser spoil that sacred forest ! 
Or if avengers more than human haunt there, 
Take they what shape they list, savage or heavenly, 
They shall make answer to me, though my health 

blood 
Should be the si>el] to bind them. Blood calls ftr 

blood ! [Exit BdMm> 

Sar. Ah ! it was this I feared. To wvd off ifaii 
Did I withhold firom him that old Bathory 



ZAPOLTA. 289 

Btetuming hid beneath the self-same oak, 
l¥here the babe lay, the mantle, and some jewel 
Bound on his in&nt arm. 

Gly. Oh, let me fly 

And stop him ! Mangled limbs do there lie scat- 
tered 
Tm the lured eagle bears them to her nest. 
And voices have been heard ! And there the plant 

grows 
That being eaten gives the inhuman wizard 
Power to put on the feU hyaena's shape. 

Sar, What idle tongue hath bewitched thee. 
Glycine ? 
I hoped that thou had'st learnt a nobler faith. 

CUy, O chide me not, dear lady ; question Laska, 
Or the old man. 

Sar. Forgive me, I spake harshly. 

It is indeed a mighty sorcery 
That doth enthrall thy young heart, my poor girl ; 
And what hath Laska told thee ? 

dy. Three days past 

A courier from the king did cross that wood ; 
A wilflil man, that armed himself on purpose : 
And never hath been heard of from that time ! 

[sound of horns without. 

Sar, Hark ! dost thou hear it ! 

Gly, 'Tis the sound of horns ! 

Our huntsmen are not out ! 

Sar. Lord Casimir 

Would not come thus ! [hams again!, 

VOL. II. 19 



390 ZAFOI.TA. 

Gly. Still louder! 

Sar. Haste we benee! 

For I believe in part thy tale of terror ; 
But, trust me, 'tis the inucr man tnmsfomied: 
Beasts in the shape of men are worse than war- 
wolves. 

[Saroliaand Glycine exeunt 2Viai^xf«, ^lowier. 
Enter Emerick^ Lord Rudolpkj Lauka, Bmit 
men and MendanU. 

Rod, A gallant chase, sire. 

£i?te. Ay, but this new qmny 

That we last started seems worth all the rest 

[(A«n (0 Laiia. 
And you — excuse me — ^what's your name ? 

La8. Whatever 

Your majesty may please. 

Erne. Nay, that's too late, nuD- 

Say, what thy mother and thy god&ther 
Were pleased to call thee. 

Las. Laska, my liege soverogB. 

Emt. Well, my liege subject, Laska ! Andyouaie 
Lord Casimir's steward ? 

Las. And your majesty's creatuit 

Emt. Two gentle dames made off at our af^NnoadL 
Which was your lady ? 

Las. My liege lord, the tiUer. 

The other, please your grace, is her poor handmuii 
Long since l)etrothed to me. But the maidVi fii>- 

ward — 
Yet would your grace but speak — 



ZAFOLTA. S91 

Erne. Hum, master steward ! 

I am honoured with this sudden confidence. 
Lead on. [to Lciska, then to Rudolph, 

Lord Rudolph, you'll announce our coming. 
Greet fair Sarolta from me, and entreat her 
To he our gentle hostess. Mark, you add 
How much we grieve, that business of the state 
Hath forced us to delay her lord's return. 

L, Rud, (aside.) Lewd, ingrate tyrant ! Yes, I will 
announce thee. 

Erne, Now onward all. [Exeunt attendants. 

A &ir one by my faith ! 
If her face rival but her gait and stature, 
Bfy good friend Casimir had his reasons too. 
** Her tender health, her vow of strict retirement, 
Made early in the convent — His word pledged — ^ 
All fictions, all ! fictions of jealousy. 
Well ! If the mountain move not to the prophet, 
The prophet must to the mountain ! In this Laska 
There's somewhat of the knave mixed up with doh. 
Through the transparence of the fool, methought, 
I saw (as I could lay my finger on it) 
The crocodile's eye, that peered up from the bottom. 
This knave may do us service. Hot ambition 
Won me the husband. Now let vanity 
And the resentment for a forced seclusion 
Decoy the wife ! Let him be deemed the aggressor 
Whose cunning and distrust began the game ! 

[Exit. 



ZAPOLTA. 



ACT n. 

Scene I.— ^ savage wood. w9f ont nde a oner 
overhung vfUh ivy. Zktpolya and Raab SSmyn 
discovered: hoth^but especiaUy the lattetfinntdem 
savage garmerds. 

JR. £tix. Heard you then aught while I m 
slumbering? 

Zap. Nothing. 

Only your face became convulsed. We nuserabk 
Is heaven's last mercy fled ? Is sleep grown tra 
cherous ? 

JR. Kiu. O for a sleep, for sleep itself to rest id 
I dream'd I had met with food beneath a tree. 
And I was seeking you, when all at once 
My feet became entangled in a net, 
Btill more entangled as in rage 1 tore it 
At length I fi^ed myself, had sight of you, 
But as I hastened eagerly, again 
I found my frame encumbered : a huge serpent 
Twined round my chest, but tightest round my duo 

Zap. Alas ! 'twas lack of food : fi>r hunger choke 

R. Slu. And now I saw you by a shrivelled chi 
Strangely pursued. You did not fly, yet neither 
Touched you the ground, methought, but close 

above it 
Did seem to shoot yourself along the air. 



ZAPOLTA. 2dS 

And as you passed me, turned your face and shrieked. 

Zap. I did in truth send forth a feeble shriek, 
Bcarce knowing why. Perhaps the mock'd sense 

craved 
To hear the scream, which you but seemed to utter. 
for your whole face looked like a mask of torture ! 
ITet a chUd's image doth indeed pursue me 
Shriyelled with toil and penury ! 

R. Kiu, Nay ! what ails you ? 

Zap. A wondrous faintness there comes stealing 
o'er me. 
Is it Death's lengthening shadow, who comes onward, 
Life's setting sun behind him ? 

R. Kiu. Cheerly ! The dusk 

Will quickly shroud us. Ere the moon be up. 
Trust me I'll bring thee foodi 

Zap. Hunger's tooth has 

Gnawn itself blunt. O, I could queen it well 
Cer my own sorrows as my rightful subjects. 
But wherefore, O revered Kiuprili ! wherefore 
Did my importunate prayers, my hopes and fiuacies, 
Force thee from thy secure though sad retreat ? 
Would that my tongue had then cloven to my mouth ! 
But heaven is just ! With tears I conquered thee. 
And not a tear is left me to repent with ! 
Hadst thou not done already — hadst thou not 
Suffered — oh, more than e'er man feigned of friend- 
ship? 

JS. Ku. Yet be thou comforted! What! hadst 
thou faith 



Q9i ZAPOLTik. 

When 1 turned back incredulous? Twas thy light 
That kindled mine. And shall it now go out, 
And leave thy soul in daricnees ? Yet look up, 
And think thou seest thy sainted lord commisaoned 
And on his way to aid us? Whence those late 

dreams. 
Which after such long interval of hopeless 
And silent resignation all at once 
Ni^t after night commanded thy return 
Hither? and still presented in clear vision 
This wood as in a scene ! this very cavern ? 
Thou darest not doubt that heaven's especial hand 
Worked in those signs. The hour of thy deliverance 
Is on the stroke : — ^for misery cannot add 
Grief to thy grie&, or patience to thy sufferance! 
Zap, Cannot ! O, what if thou wert taken from 

me? 
Nay, thou said'st well: for that and death were one. 
Life's grief is at its height indeed ; the hard 
Necessity of this inhuman state 
Hath made our deeds inhuman as our vestmenta 
Housed in this wild wood, with wild usages, 
Danger our guest, and famine at our portal — 
Wolf-like to prowl in the shepherd's fold by night! 
At once for food and safety to affi-ighten 
The traveller from his road — 

[Glycine ia heard Hnging wHkoui, 
•R* ^u. Hark! heard yon not 

A distant chaunt? 



ZAPOLTA. 295 

Song — hy Glycine. 

A sunny shaft did I behold, 

From sky to earth it slanted : 
And poised therein a bird so bold — 

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 
He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 

Within that shafl of sunny mist ; 
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 

All else of amethyst ! 

And thus he sang: <^ Adieu! adieu! 
Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
The blossoms, they make no delay : 
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 
Far, far away ! 

Today! to day !^ 

Zap» Sure 'tis some blest spirit! 

For since thou slew'st the usui-per's emissaiy 
That plunged upon us, a more than mortal fear 
Is as a wall, that wards off the beleaguerer, 
And starves the poor besieged. [song again. 

JR. Kiu, It is a maiden's voice ! quick to the cave ! 

Zap. Hark ! her voice falters ! [Exit Zapolycu 

JR. Kiu. She must not enter 

The cavern, else I will remain unseen ! 

[KiuprUi retires to one side of the stage. Glycine 
enters singing. 



396 ZAPOLTA. 

dy. A savage place ! saints shield me ! Bethlen! 
Bethlen! 
Not here ? — ^There's no one here ! I'll sing again. 

If I do not hear my own voice, I shall iancy 
Voices in all chance sounds ! [stcais* 

'Twas some dry branch 
Dropt of itself ! Oh, he went forth so rashly, 
Took no food with him — only his arms and boar- 
spear! 
What if I leave these cakes, this cruse of wine, 
Here by this cave, and seek him vrith the rest ? 
R. Kiu. (uTiseen,) Leave them and flee ! 
CUy, (shrieks J ihen recovering,) Where are you? 
R. Km, (stiU unseen,) Leave them! 

Gly. Tis Glycine! 

Speak to me, Bethlen ! speak in your own voice ! 
All silent! — If this were the war-wolf's den ! 
Twas not his voice ! — 

[Glycine leaves the provisions ctnd exU, Xu^riK 
comes forwardy seizes them and carries them inio 
the cavern. Glycine returns, 
Gly. Shame! Nothing hurt me! 

If some fierce beast have gored him, he must needs 
Speak v\rith a strange voice. Wounds cause thirst 
and hoarseness ! 

Speak, Bethlen ! or but moan. St — St ^No— 

Bethlen ! 
If I turn back and he should be found dead here, 

\she creq>s nearer and nearer to the cavern. 



ZAFOLTA. 297 

1 should go mad ! — Again ! — ^TTwas my own heart ! 
Sush, coward heart ! better beat loud with fear, 
Than break with shame and auguish ! 

[As she approcKhes to enter the cavern^ KiuprUi 
stops her. Glycine shrieks. 

Saints protect me t 

R, Kiu. Swear then by all thy hopes, by all thy 
fears— 

Gly. Save me ! 

R. Kiu. Swear secrecy and silence ! 

Gly. • I swear ! 

R. Kiu. Tell what thou art, and what thou seekest ? 

Gly. Only 

A harmless orphan youth, to bring him food — 

R. Kiu, Wherefore in this wood ? 

Gly. Alas ! it was his purpose— 

JL Kiu. With what intention came he ? Would'st 
Hide nothing ! [thou save him, 

Gly. Save him ! O forgive his rashness ! 
He is good, and did not know that thou wert human ! 

R Kiu. Human? 

With what design ? 

Gly. To kill thee, or 

If that thou wert a spirit, to compel thee 
By prayers, and with the shedding of his blood, 
To make disclosure of his parentage. 
But most of all — 

2^p. (rushing out from the cavern.) Heaven's bless- 
ing on thee ! speak ! 

Gly. Whether his mother live, or perished here ! 



296 ZAPOLTA. 

Zap. Angel of mercy, I was perishing, 
And thou did'st bring me food : and now tboa 

bring'st 
The sweet, sweet food of hope and consolatioa 
To a mother's famished heart! His name, sweet 
maiden ! 

Oly. E'en till this morning we were wont to name 
Bethlen Bathory ! [him 

Zap, Even till this morning ? 

This morning ? when my weak &ith failed me whdly ! 
Pardon, O thou that porlion'st out our sufferance, 
And fill'st again the widow's empty cruse ! 
Say on ! 

Gly. The false ones charged the valiant youth 
With treasonous words of Emerick — 

Zap. Ha! my son! 

Gly. And of Lord Casimir — ' 

R. Kitt. (aside.) O agony ! my son ! 

Gly. But my dear lady — 

Zap. and R. Kxu. Who ? 

Gly. Lady Sarolta 

Frowned and discharged these bad men. 

JR. Kiu. (to himself.) Righteous heaven 
Sent me a daughter once, and I repined 
That it was not a son. A son was given me. 
My daughter died, and I scarce shed a tear : 
And lo ! that son became my curse and infamy. 

Zap. (embraces Glycine.) Sweet innocent ! and you 
came here to seek him, 
And bring him food. Alas ! thou fear'st ? 



ZAPOLTA. 299 

CHy, Not mudi ! 

tfy own dear lady, when I was a child 
Embraced me oft, but her heart never beat so. 
^or I too am an orphan, motherless ! 
R. Eiu. (to Zapdycu) O yet beware, lest hope's 
brief flash but deepen 
The afler gloom, and make the darkness stormy ! 
11 that last couflict, following our escape, 
rhe usurper's cruelty had clogged our flight 
i¥]th many a babe and many a childing mother. 
This maid herself is one of numberless 
i'lanks from the same vast wreck. 

[then to Glycine again. 
Well ! Casimir's wife— 
Gly. She is always gracious, and so praised the 
old man 
rhat his heart overflowed, and made discovery 
rhat in this wood — 
Zap. O speak ! 

CHy. A wounded lady — 

[Zapolya faints — they both support her. 
CHy. Is this his mother ? 
R. Kiu. She would fain believe it, 

Veak though the proofs be. Hope draws towards 

itself 
rhe flame with which it kindles. 

[hom heard toithoui. 
To the cavern ! 
)iiick! quick! 
Gly. Perchance some huntsmen of the king's. 
R. Kiu. iJmerick ? 



300 ZAFOLTA. 

CHy. He came this momiog — 

[7%ey retire to the cavern^ bearing Zapckga. Tto 
tnkr BethUfif armed with a boar-spear. 
BeL 1 had a glimpee 

Of some fierce shape ; and but that Fancy often 
Is Nature's intermeddler, and- cries halves 
With the outward sight, I should believe I saw it 
Bear off some human prey. O my preserver ! 
Bathory ! Father! Yes, thou deserv'st that name! 
Thou did'st not mock me ! These are blessed findiiigi 
The secret cypher of my destiny 

[Jjooking at his «%i» 
Stands here inscribed : it is the seal of fate ! 
Ha ! — Had ever monster fitting lair, 'tis yonder! 
Thou yawning den, I well remember thee ! 
Mine eyes deceived me not. Heaven leads me on 
Now for a blast, loud as a king's defiance. 
To rouse the monster couchant o'er his ravine! 

[Blows the hom^-^Uien apM 
Another blast ! and with another swell 
To you, ye charmed watchers of this wood ! 
If haply I have come, the rigbtfiil heir 
Of vengeance : if in me survive the spirits 
Of those, whose guiltless blood flowed sureaming 
here ! [Blows again Um 

Still silent? Is the monster gorged? heaven slue 

me! 
Thou, faithful spear! be both my torch and guid< 
(As Bethkn is about to enter, ESyprHi sp€ 
from the cavemtmseen,) 



ZAFOLTik. 301 

B. Kku Withdraw thy foot ! Retract thine idle 
And wait obedient ! [spear, 

BeL Ha! What art thou ? speak! 

R. Sxu, (gtOl unseen.) Avengers ! 

Bet. By a dying mother's pangs 

E'en such am I. Receive me ! 

B. Exu. (stiU unseen.) Wait ! Beware ! 

At thy first step, thou treadest upon the light. 
Thenceforth must darkling flow, and sink in dark- 
ness! 

BeL Ha ! see my boar-spear trembles like a reed ! — 
Oh, fool! mine eyes are duped by my own shud- 
dering. — 
Those piled thoughts, buUt up in solitude. 
Year following year that pressed upon my heart 
As on the altar of some unknown god, 
Then, as if touch'd by fire from heaven descending, 
Blazed up within me at a father's name — 
Do they desert me now ! — at my last trial ? 
Voice of command ! and thou, O hidden Light ! 
1 have obeyed ! Declare ye by what name 
I dare invoke you ! Tell what sacrifice 
Will make you gracious. [dience ! 

JS. Km. (stUl unseen.) Patience ! Truth ! Obe- 
Be thy whole soul transparent! so the Light, 
Thou seekest, may enshrine itself within thee ! 
Thy name ? 

Bet. Ask rather the poor roaming savage, 
Whose infancy no holy rite had blest ; 
To him, perchance rude spoil or ghasdy trophy, 



309 8AFOLTA. 

In chase or battle won, hare given a name. 

I have none — but like a dog have answered 

To the chance sound which he that fed me, called ma 

JR. £tu. (sUU tauten.) Thy birth-place ? 

BeL Deluding spirits ! Do ye mock me ? 
Question the Night ! Bid Darkness tell its Inrtb- 

place? 
Yet hear ! Within yon old oak's hoUow tnwk, 
Where the bats cling, have I surveyed my cradle! 
The mother-falcon hath her nest above it, 

And in it the wolf litters ! 1 invoke you. 

Tell me, ye secret ones ! if ye beheld me 

As I stood there, like one who having delved , 

For hidden gold hath found a talisman, 

tell ! what rights, what offices of duty 

This signet doth command ? What rebel spirits 
Owe homage to its loM ? 

R. KitL (stUl unseen.) More, guiltier, mightier, 
Than thou may'st summon ! Wait the destined he 

Bet. O yet again, and with more clamorous jnra 

1 importune ye ! Mock me no more virith shadov 
This sable mantle — tell, dread voice ! did this 
Enwrap one fatherless ! 

Zap, (unseen) One fatherless! 

Bet. A sweeter voice ! — ^A voice of love anr 
Was it the softened echo of mine own ? . 
Sad echo ! but the hope, it kill'd, was sickly, 
And ere it died it had been mourned as dead 
One other hope yet lives within my soul : 
Quick let me ask ! — while yet this stifling fe 



ZAPOLTA. 303 

This stop of the heart, leaves utterance ! — ^Are— are 

these 
Hie sole remains of her that gave me life ? 
Have I a mother? 

[Zapolya rushes out to embrace him. 
Ha! 
Zap. My son ! my son ! 

A wretched — Oh no, no ! a blest — a happy mother! 
[They emhraet, ISuprili and Glycine come for- 
wordy and the curtain drops. 



ACT. III. 

Scene I. — A stately room in Lord Casimir's casUe^ 

Enter Em^rick and Laska, 

Ene, I do perceive thou hast a tender conscience, 
Laska, in all things that concern thine own 
Interest or safety. 

Ims, In this sovereign presence 

I can fear nothing, but your dread displeasure. 

Eme. Perchance, thou think'st it strange, that I 
of all men 
Should covet thus the love of fair Sarolta, 
Dishonouring Casimir ? 

Las, Far be it from me ! 



904 EAPOLTA. 

Yoiir majesty's Idve and choice bring honour witb 
them. [my fiiend, 

Erne, Perchance, thou hast heard, that Casimir is 
Fought for me, yea, for my sake, set at nought 
A parent's blessing ; braved a father's curse ? 

Las. (aside.) Would I but knew now, what his 
majesty meant ! 
Oh yes, sire ! 'tis our common talk, how lord 
Kiuprili, my lord's father — 

Erne. *T]s your talk, 

Is it, good statesman Laska ? 

Ims. No, not mine, 

Not mine, an please your majesty ! There are 
Some insolent malecontents indeed that talk thus— 
Nay worse, mere treason. As Bathory's son, 
The fool that ran into the monster's javra. 

Erne. Well, 'tis a loyal monster if he rids us 
Of traitors ! But art sure the youth's devoured? 

Las. Not a limb left, an please your majesty ! 
And that unhappy girl — 

Erne. Thou foUowed'st her 

Into the wood ? [Laska botes ocNNt 

Henceforth then I'll believe 
That jealousy can make a hare a lion. 

Ims. Scarce had I got the first glimpse of herveO, 
When, with a horrid roar that made the leaves 
Of tlie wood shake — 

Erne. Made thee shake like a ktf! 

Las. The war-wolf leap'd ; at the first plunge be 
Forward I rush'd ! [seiz'd her; 




ZAPOLYA. dOS 

* 

£me. Most marvellous ! 

Las. Hurl'd my javelin ; 

l¥liich from his dragon-scales recoiling — 

E^ne. Enough ! 

And take, friend, this advice. When next thou 

tonguest it. 
Hold constant to thy exploit with this monster. 
And leave untouch'd your common talk aforesaid, 
What your lord did, or should have done. 

Las. MytaJk? 

The saints forbid ! I always said, for my part, 
^ Was not the king Lord Casimir's dearest friend ? 
Was not that friend a king? Whatever he did 
Twas all from pure love to his majesty." 

lime. And this then was thy talk ? While knave 
and coward, 
Both strong within thee, wrestle for the uppermost, 
In slips the fool and takes the place of both. 
Babbler! Lord Casimir did, as thou and all men. 
He loved himself, loved honours, wealth, dominion, 
All these were set upon a father's head : 
Good truth! a most unlucky accident! 
For he but wished to hit the prize ; not graze 
The head that bore it : so with steady eye 
Off flew the parricidal arrow. — Even 
As Casimir loved Emerick, Emerick 
Loves Casimir, intends him no dishonour. 
He winked not then, for love of me forsooth ! 
Por love of me now let him wink ! Or if 
The dame prove half as wise as she is fair, 
VOL. II. 20 



906 SAPOIiTA. 

He may sdll paas his hand, and find all smooth. 

[pcusing his hand across his hnw. 
Las. Your majesty's reasoning has conyinoed mo. 
Eme. Thee! 

Tis well ! and more than meant For by my fiuth 
I had half forgotten thee. — ^Thou hast the key? 

[Laskahsut. 
And in your lady's chamber there's fiiU qrace? 
Las. Between the wall and arras to conceal you. 
Eme. Here ! This purse is but an earnest of diy 
fortune, 
If thou prov'st &ithful. But if thou betrayest me, 
Hark you ! — ^the wolf, that shall drag thee to his dra 
Shall be no fiction. 

[Exit Emerick, Laska manet with a key tn one 
hand, and a purse in the other. 

Las. Well then ! Here I stBiid, 

Like Hercules, on either side a goddess. 
Call this (looking at the purse.) 

Preferment; this (holding up ihe key.) FideUty! 
And first my golden goddess: what bids she ? 
Only : — ^** This way, your majesty ! hush ! The 

household 
Are all safe lodged." — Then, put Fidelity 
Within her proper wards, just turn her round — 
So — the door opens — and for all the rest, 
'TIS the king's deed, not Laska's. Do but this 
And — " I'm the mere earnest of your fiituie fo^ 

tunes." 



ZAPOLTA. 907 

It wbat sayar tibe other ?— Whisper on ! I hear you! 

[putting ifukeytohia tar, 
n very true ! — ^but, good Fidelity ! 
I reftiBe king Emerick, will you promise, 
dd swear now, to unlock the dungeon door, 
ad save me from the hangman ? Aye ! you're silent ! 
liat, not a word in answer ? A clear nonsuit ! 
bw for one look to see that all are lodged 
t the due distance— then — ^yonder lies the road 
or Laska and his royal friend, king Emerick ! 

[Exit Laska, Then enter Bathory and Bethlen. 
Bet, He looked as if he were some god disguised 
I an old warrior's venerable shape 
guard and guide my mother. Is there not 
lapel or oratory in this mansion ? 
O, Bat, Even so. 

3eL From that place then am I to take 

lelm and breastplate, both inlaid with gold, 
I the good sword that once was Raab Kiuprili's. 
'. Bat, Those very arms this day Sarolta show'd 

me — ' 

I wistful look. I'm lost in wild conjectures ! 
. O tempt me not, e'en with a wandering guess, 
"eak the first command a mother's will 
led, a mother's voice made known to me ! 
not, my son," said she, " our names or thine, 
ladow of the eclipse is passing off 
11 orb of thy destiny ! Already 
nor Crescent glitters forth and sheds 
3 yet hngering haze a phantom light 



306 ZAPOLTA* 

Thou canst not hasten it! Leave then to heaven jli 
The work of heaven : and with a silent qpirit 1 1 

Sympathize with the powers that work in silence !* 
Thus spake she, and she looked, as she were then 
Fresh fix>m some heavenly vision ! 

[Re-enter Ladcoj not peretmng ttM> 
Laa, All asleep ! 

[Then observing BeUdenj stands in idht-a^prigH 
I must speak to it first — Put — put the question ! 
Ill confess all ! 

[Stammering wiOi fiar. 
O. Bat, Laska ! what ails thee, man? 

Leu. (pointing to BethterL) There! 
O. Bat. I see nothing ! where! 

Leu. He does not see it! 

Bethlen, torment me not! 

Bet. Soft ! Rouse him gently! 

He hath outwatched his hour, and half asleep, 
With eyes half open, mingles sight with dreams. '' 
O. Bat. Ho! Laska! don't you know us! 'tis 
And Bethlen ! ^ [Batfaory 

Leu. Good now I ha ! ha ! ^p. excellent trick. 
Afraid ? nay, no offence ? but I must laugh. 
But are you sure now, that 'tis you, yourselE 
Bet. Would'st be convinced ? 
Leu. No nearer, pray ! c<msider! 

If it should prove his ghost, the touch would fineeff 
To a tombstone. No nearer ! [mi 

Bet. The fool is drank! 

Leu. Well now ! I love a brave man to my belli 



ZAPOLTA. 909 

I myself braved the monster, and would fain 
Have saved the fidse one from the &te she tempted 

O. BaL You, Laska ? 

BeL (to Baihory.) Mark! heaven grant it may 
be so! 
Glycine? 

Lai» She ! I traced her by the voice. 
You'll scarce believe me, when I say I heard 
The dose of a song : the poor wretch had been 

singing: 
As if she wished to compliment the war-wolf 
At once with music and a meal ! 

BeL (to Baihory.) Mark that! 

Lms. At the next moment 1 beheld her running, 
Wringing her hands with, ^ Bethlen ! O poor Beth- 

len ! " 
I almost fear, the sudden noise I made, 
ftushing impetuous through the brake, alarmed her. 
She stopp'd, then mad with fear, tum'd round and ran 
Into the noonster's gripe. One piteous scream 
I heard. There was no second — I — 

Bet. Stop there ! 

We'll spare your modesty ! Who dares not honour 
Laska's brave tongue, and high heroic fancy ? 

Las. You too, sir knight, have come back safe 
and sound ! 
You played the hero at a cautious distance ! 
Or was it that you sent the poor girl forward 
To atay the monster's stomach ? Dainties quickly 
Pull cm the taste and cloy the appetite ! 



310 ZAFOIiTA* 

O. Bat. Laaka, beware ! Forget not what thoa 
art! [self! 

Should'st thou but dream thou'rt valiant, croes diy- 
And ache all over at the dangerous &ncy. 

Lot. What then ! you swell upon my lady's fiivouT) 
High lords and perilous of one day's growth ! 
But other judges now sit on the bench ! 
And haply, La^a hath found audience there^ 
Where to defend the treason of a son 
Might end in lifting up both son and &ther 
Still higher ; to a height from which indeed 
You both may drop, but, spite of fate and fortuney 
Will be secured from falling to the grouncL 
Tis possible too, young man ! that royal Emerick, 
At Laska's rightful suit, may make inquiry 
By whom seduced, the maid so strangely misong— 

Bet. Sofl ! my good Laska ! might it not suffice, 
If to yourself^ being lord Casimir's steward, 
I -should make record of Glycine's fate ? 

Las, Tis well ! it shall content me ! though your 
fear 
Has all the credit of these lowered tones. 
First we demand the manner of her death ? 

Bet Nay ! that's superfluous ! Have you not just 
told us, 
That you yourselfj led by impetuous valour. 
Witnessed the whole ? My tale's of later date. 
After the fate, from which your valour strove 
In vain to rescue the rash maid, I saw ber I 

Las. Glycine ? 



ZAPOLTA. 311 

B«L Nay ! dare I accuse wise Laska, 

Whose words find access to a monarch's ear, 
Of a base, braggart lie ? It must have been 
Her spirit that appeared to me. But haply 
I come too late ? It has itself delivered 
Its own commission to you ? 

O. Bat. 'Tis most likely ! 

And the ghost doubtless vanished when we entered 
And found brave Laska staring wide— «t nothing ! 

Lai. 'Tis well ! you've ready wits ! I shall report 
With all due honour to his majesty ; [them. 

Treasure them up, I pray ! A certain person. 
Whom the king flatters with his confidence, 
Tells you, his royal fi*iend asks startling questions ! 
Tis but a hint ! And now what says the ghost ! 
BeL Listen ! for thus it spake : ^ Say thou to 
Laska, 
Grlycine, knowing all thy thoughts engrossed 
tn thy new office of king's fool and knave. 
Foreseeing thou'lt forget with thine own hand 
To make due penance for the wrongs thou'st caused 

her, 
For thy soul's safety, doth consent to take it 
From Bethlen's cudgel " — ^thus. [beats him off. 

Off! scoundrel ! off! 
[Laska runs away, 
O. Bat. The sudden swelling of this shallow 
dastard 
Fells of a recent storm : the first disruption 
Of the black cloud that hangs and threatens o'er us. 



312 ZAPOI.TA. 

BeL E'en this reproT€8 my loitering. Say where 
The oratory ? pies 

O. Bat. Ascend yon flight of stairs ! 
Midway the corridor a silver lamp 
Hangs o'er the entrance of Sarolta's chamber, 
And facing it, the low arched oratory ! 
Me thouit find watching at the outward gate : 
For a petard might burst the bars unheard 
By the drenched porter, and Sarolta hourly 
Expects Lord Casimir, spite of Kmerick^ message! 

Bet. There I will meet yon ! and till then good 
Dear good old man, good night ! [ni^! 

O.Bat, O yet one moment! 

What I repelled, when it did seem my own, 
I cling to, now 'tis parting — call me fiither ! 
It cannot now mislead thee. O my son, 
Ere yet our tongues have learnt another name^ 
. Bethlen \ — say — father to me I 

Bet. Now, and forever 

My father ! other sire than thou, on jearth 
1 never had, a dearer could not have ! 
From the base earth you raised me to you arms, 
And I would leap fit>m off a throne, and kneeling, 
Ask heaven's blessing fit>m thy lips. My father! 

O. Bat. Go ! go ! [Exit BdUtn. 

May every star now shining over us, 
Be as an angel's eye, to watch and guard him ! 

[Exit Bathmy^ 
Scene changes to a splendid hed-ckamber^ hung tt^ 
tapestry. SaroUa and an oUendanL 



1 



ZAPOLYA. 313 

M, We all did love her, madam ! 

Sar, She deserved it ! 

Luckless Glycine ! rash, unhappy girl ! 
Twas the first time she e'er deceived me. 

M. She was in love, and had she not died thus^ 
With grief for Bethlen's loss, and fear of Laska, 
She would have pined herself to death at home. 

Sar, Has the youth's father come back firom his 
search? 

JiU. He never will, I fear me, O dear lady ! 
That Laska did so triumph o'er the old man — 
It was quite cruel — ** Youll be sure," said he, 
'^ To meet with part at least of yoUr son Bethlen, 
Or the war-wolf must have a quick digestion ! 
Go ! search the wood by all means ! Go ! I pray you!" 

Sar, Inhuman wretch ! 

j3U. And old Bathory answered 

With a sad smile, " It is a witch's prayer. 
And may heaven read it backwards." Though she 

was rash, 
'Twas a small fault for such a punishment ! 

Sar. Nay ! 'twas my .grief and not my anger 
spoke. 
Small fault indeed ! but leave me, my good girl ! 
I feel a weight that only prayer can lighten. 

[Exit attendani. 
O they were innocent and yet have perished 
In then- May of life ; and Vice grows old in triumph. 
Jb it Mercy's hand, that for the bad man holds 
Life'b closing gate ?^— 



1 



314 ZAPOIiTA. 1 

Still passing thence petitionary hours iV^^ 

To woo the obdurate spirit to repentance!;' ' < jVi '^ 
Or would this dullness tell me, that there is l^^ 

Guilt too enormous to be duly punished, I ^' 

Save by increase of guilt ? The powers of evil I 
Are jealous claimants. Guilt too hath its ordeal, P^ 
And hell its own probation ! — ^Merciful heaven, '^ 

Rather than this, pour down upon thy suppliant 
Disease, and agony, and comfortless want ! | ^ 

O send us forth to wander on unsheltered ! 
Make our food bitter with despised tears ! 
Let viperous scorn hiss at us as we pass ! 
Yea, let us sink down at our enemy's gate. 
And beg forgiveness and a morsel of bread. 
With all the heaviest worldly visitations ! 
Let the dire Other's curse that hovers o'er us 
Work out its dread fulfilment, and the spirit 
Of wronged Kiuprili be appeased. But only. 
Only, O merciful in vengeance ! let not 
That plague turn inward on my Casimir's soul ! 
Scare thence the fiend Ambition, and restore him 
To his own heart ! O save him ! Save my husband! 
[During ihe latter part of this speech Emerick 
comes forward from Ms hiding place. Sor 
rolta seeing Mm^ withoiU recognising- him. 
In such a shape a father's curse should come. 

Erne, (advancing,) Fear not! 

iS^. Who art thou? Robber! Traitor! 

£wie. Friend ! 

Who in good hour hath startled these dark fancies^ 



ZAFOLTA. 315 

Kapacious traitors, that would fiiin depose 

^o, , iove a. d beauty, from their natural thrones, 

Xliose lips, those angel eyes, that regal forehead. 

Sar. Strengthen me, heaven ! I must not seem 
afraid ! , [aside. 

The king to-night then deigns to play the masker. 
What seeks your miyesty ! 

Erne, Sarolta's love ; 

And Emerick's power lies prostrate at her feet 

Sar» Heaven guard the sovereign's power from 
such debasement ! 
Far rather, sire, let it descend io vengeance 
On the base villain, on the faithless slave 
Who dared unbar the doors of these retirements ! 
For whom ? Has Casimir deserved this insult ? 
O my misgiving heart ! If^— if— from heaven. 
Yet not from you. Lord Emerick ! 

Erne, Chiefly from me. 

Has he not like an ingrate robbed my court 
Of Beauty's star, and kept my heart in darkness ? 
First then on him I will administer justice — 
If not in mercy, yet in love and rapture. 

[seizes her. 

Sar, Help! Treason! Help! 

Erne. Call louder ! scream again ! 

Here's none can hear you ! 

Sar, Hear me, hear me, heaven ! 

Erne. Nay, why this rage .' Who best deserves 
you ? Casimir, 
limerick's bought implement, the jealous slave 



316 ZAPOIiTA. 

That mews you up with boH^ and bars ? or Elmerkk 
Who proffers you a throne ? Nay, mine you ahaB bft 
Hence with this fond resistance ! Yield ; then Ine 
This month a widow, and the next a queen ! 

Sar. Yet, yet for one brief moment [strug^iiig- 
Unhand me, I conjure you. 

[She throws km off, cmd rttahes towards a toiUt 
Emerick foUowSj and as she takes a dagger, 
he grasps U in her hand. 
Erne. Ha! ha! a dagger; 

A seemly ornament for a lady's casket ! 
rris held, devotion is akin to love. 
But yours is tragic ! Love in war ! It charms me, 
And makes your beauty worth a king's embraces! 
(During this speech BeOden enters armed.) 
Bet. Ruffian, forbear ! turn, turn and front my 

sword ! 
Eme. Fish ! who is this ? 
Sar. O sleepless eye of heaven! 

A blest, a blessed spirit ! Whence camest thou ? 
May I still call thee Bethlen ? 

Bet. Ever, lady, 

Your faithful soldier ! 

Eme. ' Insolent slave! Depart! 

Know'st thou not me ? 

Bet. I know thou art a villain 

And coward ! That thy devilish purpose marks thee! 
What else, this lady must instruct my sword ! 
Sar. Monster, retire ! O touch him not, thou 
blest one ! 



ZAPOLYA. 317 

is the hour, that fiends and damned spirits 
Do walk the earth, and take what form they list! 
Yon devil hath assumed a king's ! 

Bet Usurp'd it ! 

Erne, The king will play the devil with thee 
indeed ! 
But that 1 mean to hear thee howl on the rack, 
I would debase this sword, and lay thee prostrate. 
At this thy paramour's feet ; then drag her forth 
Stained with adulterous blood, and 

— mark you, traitress ! 
Strumpeted first, then turned adrift to beggary ! 
Thou prayed'st for't too. 

Sar. Th ou art so fiendish wicked, 

That in thy blasphemies I scarce hear thy threats 1 
Bet. Lady, be calm ! fear not this king of the 
buskin ! 
A king ? Oh laughter ! A king Bajazet! 
That from some vagrant actor's tiring room. 
Hath stolen at once his speech and crown ! 

Erne* Ah! treason! 

Thou hast been lessoned and tricked up for this ! 
As surely as the wax on thy death-warrant 
Shall take the impression of this royal signet. 
So plain thy face hath taken the mask of rebel ! 

[Bethkn seizes Emerick^s hand and eagerly 
observes the signet. 
Bet. It must be so ! Tis e'en the counterpart ! 
But with a foul usurping cypher on it ! 
The light hath flashed firom heaven, and I must 
follow it ! 



318 ZAPOLTA. 

cunt usurper ! O diou brodier-munlerer ! 
That mad'st a star-bright queen a fugitive widow ! 
Who fill'st the land with curses, being dijrself 
All curses in one tyrant ! see and tremble ! 

This is Kiuprili's sword that now hangs o'er diee! 
Kiuprili's blasting curse, that from its point 
Shoots lighmings at thee. Hark ! in Andreas^ name, 
Heir of his vengeance, hell-hound ! I defy thee. 

[Tltey Jight^ and jtai as Emeriek is disarmedy 
in rush Casimir, Old BaUunyj and aUm- 
dants, Casimir runs in between the am- 
hakmtSf and parts (hem ; in the stmg^ 
BeMerCs sword is thrown down, 
Cos. The king disarmed too by a stranger ! 
Speak ! 
What may this mean ? 

Erne. Deceived, dishonoured lord ! 

Ask thou yon fair adultress ! She will tell thee 
A tale, which would'st thou be both dupe and trutor, 
Thou wilt believe against thy friend and soveieigii ! 
Thou art present now, and a friend's duty ceases: 
To thine own justice leave I thine own wrongs. 
Of half thy vengeance, I perforce must rob thee, 
For tliat the sovereign claims. To thy alle^anee 

1 now commit this traitor and assassin. 

[then to (he attendaMt* 
Hence with him to the dungeon ! and to-morrow. 
Ere the sun rises, — Hark ! your heads or his ! 
Bet, Can hell work miracles to mock heaveo^ 
justice ? 



ZAFOLTA. 319 

Eme. Who speaks to him dies ! The traitor- that 
has menaced 
His king, must not pollute the breathing air, 
Even with a word ! 
CcL8. (to Bathory.) Hence with him to the dun- 
geon! 
[Exit Bethlen, hurried offhy Bathory and attendants. 
Erne. We hunt to-morrow in your upland forest : 
Thou (to Casimir,) wilt attend us: and wilt then 

explain 
This sudden and most fortunate arrival. 

[Exit Emerick ; Manent Casimir and SaroUa. 
Sar. My lord ! my husband ! look whose sword 
lies yonder ! 
It is Kiuprili's, Casimer ; 'tis thy father's ! 
And wielded by a stripling's arm, it baffled. 
Yea, fell like heaven's own lightnings on thatTarqujB. 

Cas, Hush! hush! 
I had detected ere I Icfl the city 
The tyrant's curst intent. Lewd, damned ingrate ! 
For hiui did I bring down a father's curse ! 
Swift, swift must be our means ! To-morrow's sun 
Sets on his fate or mine ! O blest Sarolta I 
No other prayer, late penitent, dare I offer. 
But that thy spotless virtues may prevail 
O'er Casimir's crimes, and dread Kiuprili's curse ! 

[Exeunt. 



330 ZAPOI.TA. 



ACT IV. 
Scene I^ — A glade %$i a wood. 

Enter Cadmir looking anxioudy around. 

Com. This needs must be the spot ! O, here be 
comes! 

Eniier Lord Rudolph, 

Well met, Lord Rudolph ! 

Your whisper was not lost upon my ear, 
And I dare trust — 

L. Rud Enough ! the time is precioos! 

You left Temeswar late on yester-eve, 
And sojourned there some hours ? 

Cos. I did so ! 

L. Rud Heard yoa 

Aught of a hunt preparing ? 

Cat. Yes; and met 

The assembled huntsmen ! 

L. Rud Was there no word given? 

Cat. The word for me was this : — ^The royal 
leopard 
Chases thy milk-white dedicated hind. 

L. Rud Your answer ? 

Cos. As the word proves ftJse ortnie 

Will Casimir cross the hunt, or join the huntBmeii! 

L. Rud The event redeemed their pledge ? 

Cos. It did, and thereto 



ZAPOLTA. 3S1 

Have 1 sent back both pledge and invitation. 
The spotless hind hath fled to them for shelter, 
And bears with her my seal of fellowship ! 

[They take hands. 

L. Rud, But Emerick ! how when you reported 
to him 
Sarolta's disappearance, and the flight 
Of Bethlen with his guards ? 

Ca8. , O, he received it 

As evidence of their mutual guilt. In fine, 
With cozening warmth condoled with, and dismissed 
me. 
Zr. Rud, 1 entered as the door was closing on you : 
His eye was fixed, yet seemed to follow you, — 
With such a look of hate, and scorn, and triumph. 
As if he had you in the toils already. 
And were then choosing where to stab you first 
But hush ! draw back ! 

Cm. This nook is at the fiirthest 

From any beaten track. 

L. Rud. There ! mark them ! 

[Points to where Laaka and Pestalutz cross the sfage. 

Cos. Laska ! 

L. RxuL One of the two I recognised^his morning ; 
His name is Pestalutz : a trusty rufiSan, 
Whose face is prologue still to some dark murder. 
Beware no stratagem, no trick of message. 
Dispart you from your servants. 

Cos. (aside.) I deserve it. 

The confute of that ruffian is my servant : 

VOL. II. 21 



The one I trusted most and most preferred. 
But we must part What makes the king so fate? 
It was his wont to be an early stiner. 

L. RutL And his main polic 

To enthrall the riuggard nature m ourselves 
Is, in good truth, the better half of the secret 
To enthraU the world : for the will governs aD. 
See the sky lowers ! the cross-winds wajrwardtjr 
Chase the fiintastic masses of the clouds 
With a wild mockery of the coming hunt! 

Cos, Mark yonder mass ! I make it wear tl 
shape 
Of a huge ram that butts with head depressed. 

L. Rud. (smiling.) Belike, some stray sheep of tl 
oozy flock, 
Which, if bards lie not, the seanshepherds tend, 
Glaucus or Proteus. But my fimcy shapes it 
A monster couchant on a rocky shel£ 

Cos. Mark too the edges of the lurid maa^* 
Restless, as if some idly-vexing sprite, 
On swiil wing coasting by, with tetchy hand 
Pluek'd at the ringlets of the vaporous fleece. 
These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand, 
And elemental war ! 

[A single trumpet heard ai smne diikm 

L. Rud. That single blast 

Announces that the tyrant's pawing courser 
Neighs at the gate. [TrumfH 

Hark ! now the king comes ftfti 
For ever 'midst this crash of horns and 



ZAFOLTA. 993 

He mounts his steed, which proudly rears an-«Dd 
While he looks round at ease, and scans the crowd. 
Vain of his stately form and horsemanship ! 
I must away ! my absence may be noticed. 

Caa, ' Oft as thou const, essay to lead the hunt 
Hard by the forest-skirts ; and ere high noon 
fbcpect our sworn confederates from Temeswar. 
I trust, ere yet this clouded sun slopes westward, 
That Emerick's death, or Casimir's, will appease 
The manes of 2^polya and Kiuprili ! 

The traitor, Laska ! 

And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced, 

Could see him as he was, and often warned me. 

Whence learned she this ? — O she was innocent ! 

And to be innocent is nature's wisdom ! 

The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air. 

Feared soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter. 

And the young steed recoils upon his hauncheSi 

The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard. 

O surer than suspicion's hundred eyes 

Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart. 

By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness, 

Reyeals the approach of evil. Casimir ! 

O fool ! O parricide ! through yon wood didst thou, 

With fire and sword, pursue a patriot fiither, 

A widow and an orphan. Dar'st thou then, 

(Curse-laden wretch) put forth these hands to raise 

The ark, all sacred, of thy country's cause ? 

Look down in pity on thy son, Kiuprili ! 



I 



3Sli ZAPOLTA. 

And let this deep abhorrence of his crimen 
Unstained with selfish fears, be his atonement! 

strengthen him to nobler compensation 
In the deliverance of his bleeding country ! 

[JSbnl CaiuRtr. 

Scene changes to the mouUi of a eavenif as «n M R 

Zcqndya and Glycine discovered. 

2iap. Our friend is gone to seek some safer cave: 
Do not then leave me long alone, Glycine ! 
Having enjoyed thy commune, loneliness^ 
That but oppressed me hitherto, now scares. 

Gly. I shall know Bethlen at the furthest distance, 
And the same moment I descry him, lady, 

1 will return to you. [ExU Ghfcmt, 

Enter Old BaOwryy speaking as he enters, 

O.Bat. VVho hears? Afiiend! 

A messenger from him who bears the signet ! 
Zap. He hath the watch-word! — ^Art thou not 

fiathory ? 
O. Bat. O noble lady ! greetings from your son! 

[Bcdhory buds. 
Zap. Rise ! rise ! Or shall I rather kneel beode 
thee. 
And call down blessings from the wealth of heaven 
Upon thy honoured head ? When thou last saw'st me 
I would full fain have knelt to thee, and could not, 
Thou dear old man ! How oft since then in dreamB 
Have I done worship to thee, as an angel 
Bearing my helpless babe upon thy wings! 



ZAPOLTA. 335 

O. B(xL O he was born to honour ! Grallant deeds 
And perilous hath he wrought since yester-eve. 
Now from Temeswar (for to him was trusted 
A life, save thine, the dearest) he hastes hither — 

Z(qf. Lady Sarolta meanest thou ? 

O. Bat. She is safe. 

The royal brute hath overleapt his prey, 
And when he turned, a sworded virtue faced him. 
My own brave boy — O pardon, noble lady ! 
Your son 

Zap. Hark! Is it he? 

O. Bat. I hear a voice 

Too hoarse for Bethlen's ! 'Twas his scheme and hope. 
Long ere the hunters could api»'oach the forest 
To have led you hence. — Retire. 

Zap. O life of terrors! 

O. Bat. In the cave's mouth we have such 'van^ 
tage ground 
That even this old arm — 

[Exeunt Zapdya and Baihory into the cane. 
Enter Laska and Pestalutz. 

Las. Not a step further ! 

Pes. Dastard ! was this your promise to the king ? 

Las. I have fulfilled his orders. Have walked 
with you 
As with a friend — have pointed out Lord Casimir — 
And now I leave you to take care of him. 
For the king's purposes are doubdess friendly. 

Pes. Be on your guard, man ! 

Las. Ha! whatnow? 



9B6 SAPOLTiu 

Pm. Behind you ! 

Twas one of satan^ unn ^>*' grinned and tfarm- 

enedyou, 
For your most impildent hope to cheat hia maater! 
La». Pshaw! What, you think Hia fear that niilns 

me leave you ? 
Pe«. 18*1 not enough to play the knave to otben» 
But diou must lie to thine own heart? 

hoB, Friend ! Laaka will be found at hia own post, 
Watching elsewhere for the king's interest. 
There's a rank plot that Laaka must hunt dovni, 
Twixt Bethlen and Glycine ! 

Pet. What! the girl 

Whom Laaka saw the vnu^wolf tear in pieoea ? 
La». Well ! Take my arms! Hark ! should your 
javelin fiul you, 
Theae points are tipt with venom. 

[wemg CHydm wiAo^ 
By heaven! Glycine! 
Now as you love the king, help me to aeize her ! 

[Thof rvn ovi after OhfcmL 
Erder Baihory fiom the eaoerfu 
0,BaL Rest, lady, rest! I feel in every sinew 
A young man's strength returning ! Which way 

went they ? 
The ahriek came thence. 

Enter Glycine. 
Ohf. Ha ! weapons here ? Then Betfalflo, thy 
Glycine 
Wm die with thee or save thee ! 
[She aeizM them otai rvshu ouL BaOwry foOamug' 



ZAPOLTA. 397 

Mnnc^ and peasants wUh hunting spears cross (he 
stage, singing chorally. 

CHORAL SONG. 

Up, up ! ye dames, ye lasses gay ! 
To the meadows trip away. 
^is you must tend the flocks this morn. 
And scare the small birds from the corn. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 

For the shepherds must go 

With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To die cricket and the mouse : 
Find grannam out a sunny seat, 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home may stay :* 
For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

[Exeunt Huntsmen, 
Re-enter BaOuny, BeOden, and Glycine, 

CHy. And now once more a woman 

Bet. Was it then 

That timid eye, was it those maiden hands 
That sped the shaA, which saved me and avenged me? 

O. BaL Twas as a vision blazoned on a cloud 
By lightning shaped into a passionate scheme 
Of life and death ! I saw the traitor, Laska, 
Stoop and snatch up the javelin of his comrade; 



338 ZAPOLTA. 

The point was at your back, when her shaft reached 

him. 
The coward turned, and at the selfnsame instant 
The braver villain fell beneath your swonL 

Enter Zapolya, 

Zap. Bethlen ! my child ! and safe too ! 

Bet, Mother! queen! 

Royal Zapolya ! name me Andreas ! 
Nor blame thy son, if being a king, he yet 
Hath made his own arm minister of his justice. 
So do the gods who launch the thunderbolt ! 

Zap, O Raab Kiuprili I friend! protector! guide! 
In vain we trenched the altar round with watered 
A flash from heaven hath touched the hidden in- 
cense — ♦ 

Bd, And that majestic form that stood beside thee 
Was Raab Kiuprili ! 

Zap, It was Raab Kiuprili ; 

As sure as thou art Andreas, and the king. 

O. Bat, Hail Andreas ! hail my king ! 

And, Stop, thou revered one, 

Lest we oflend the jealous destinies 
By shouts ere victory. Deem it then thy duty 
To pay this homage, when 'tis mine to claim it. 

Gly, Accept thine handmaid's service ! 

Zap. Raise her, son ! 

O raise her to thine arms ! she saved thy life, 
And through her love for thee, she saved thy mothei^! 
Hereafter thou shalt know, that this dear maid 



^ 



ZAPOLTA. 329 

Hath other and hereditary claims 
Upon thy heart, and with heaven-guarded instinct 
But carried on the work her sire began ! 
And. Dear maid ! more dear thou canst not be ! 
the rest 
Shall make my love religion. Haste we hence : 
For as I reached the skirts of this high forest, 
I heard the noise and uproar of the chase, 
Doubhng its echoes from the mountain foot 
Gly, Hark ! sure the hunt approaches. 

\hmn urithoutj and c^erwards distant thunder. 
Zap. O Kiuprili ! 

O. Bat, The demon-hunters of the middle air 
Are in full cry, and sc^i-e with arrowy fire 
The guilty ! hark ! now here, now there, a horn 
Swells singly with irregular blast ! the tempest 
Has scattered them ! 

[Jioms at a distance, 
Zctp. O heavens ! where stays Kiuprili ? 

O. Bat. The wood will be surrounded ! leave me 

here. 
And. My mother ! let me see thee once in safety, 
I too will hasten back, with hghtning's speed. 
To seek the hero ! 

O. Bat. Haste ! my life upon it 

111 guide him ^safe. 

And. (thunder.) Ha ! what a crash was there ! 
Heaven seems to claim a mightier criminal 
Than yon vile subaltern. 

Zap. Your behest, high powers, 



390 ZAPOIiTA. 

Lo, I obey ! to the appointed spintf 

That hath so long kept watch round this drear cavaiii 

In fenrent faith, Kiuprili, I entrust thee ! 

[Exeunt ZapohfOj AndrtOBy amd (Sgam. 
O. BaL Yon bleeding corse may woik as mif- 
chief still : 
Once seen, 'twill rouse alarm and crowd the hunt 
From all parts towards this spot. Stript of its amioar, 
111 drag it hither. 

[ExUBiAtni^ 
[Several hunien croit the tle^ 
Enter KiuprUL 
R, Kiu. (throwing off hie disguiMe.) Since hesfOi 
alone can save me, heaven alone 
Shall be my trust 

Haste! haste! Zapolya,fle6! 
Gone ! seized perhaps ? Oh no, let me not periflh 
Despairing of heaven's justice ! Faint, disarmed, 
Each sinew powerless ; senseless rock, sustain me! 
Thou art parcel of my native land. 

Aswoid! 
Ha ! and my sword ! Zapolya hath escaped. 
The murderers are baffled, and there lives 
An Andreas to avenge Kiupnli's fall ! — 
There was a time, when this dear sword did flnli 
As dreadful as the storm-fire from mine arm — 
I can scarce raise it now — ^yet come, fell tynnt! 
And bring with thee my shame and bitter anguiifc, 
To end his work and thine ! Kiuprili now 
Can take the death-blow as a soldier shoukL 



ZAFOLTA. 331 

JBe-oiier BaOmy^ with the dead body ofPutdviz. 

O. Bat. Poor tool and victiin of another's guilt! 
Hiou followest heavily: a reluctant weight ! 
Good truth, it is an undeserved honour 
That in Zapolya and Kiuprili's cave 
A ipn«teh like thee should find a hurial place. 
Tis he ! — In Andreas' and Zapolya's name 
Follow me, reverend form ! Thou need'st not speak, 
For thou canst be no other than Kiuprili ! 

JGnb And are they safe ? 

[noiat iDiihout, 

O. Bat, Conceal yourself, my lord ! 

I wiU mislead them ! 

Kiu. Is Zapolya safe ? 

O. Bat. I doubt it not ! but haste, haste, I conjure 
you! 

Efdar Casimir, 

Gas. Monster! 

Thou shalt not now escape me ! 

O. Bat. Stop, Lord Casimir ! 

It is no monster. 

Cos. Art thou too a traitor ? 

Is this the place where Emerick's murderers lurk ? 
Say where is he that, tricked in this disguise. 
First lured me on, then scared ray dastard followers? 
Thou must have seen him. Say where is the assassin ? 

O. Bat. There lies the assassin ! slain by that same 
sword 
That was descending on his curst employer. 
When eptering thou beheld'st Sarolta rescued ! 



332 ZAPOLTA. 

Ckis, StraDge proyidence 1 what then was he vi 
fled me! 
Thy looks speak fearful things ! Whither, old nu 
Would thy hand point me ? 

O. Bat. Casimir, to thy &tber 

Cos. The curse ! the curse ! Open and swaSi 
me, 
Unsteady earth ! fall, dizzy rocks ! and hide me ! 

O. Bat. Speak, speak, my lord ! 

Kiu. Bid him fulfil his woii 

Ca8, Thou art heaven^s immediate minister, dn 
spirit ! 
O for sweet mercy, take some other form, 
And save me from perdition and despair ! 

O.Bat. He lives!' 

Cos. Lives ! A father's curse can never d 

Kiu. O Casimir ! Casimir ! 

O. Bat. Look ! he doth foi^ve yoi 

Hark ! 'tis the tyrant's voice. 

[Emerick^s voice wiA 

Cos. ' I kneel, I knee 

Retract thy curse ! O, hy my mother's ashes. 
Have pily on thy self-abhorring child ! 
If not for me, yet for my innocent wife, 
Yet for my country's sake, give my arm strength 
Permitting me again to call thee &ther ! 

Kiu. Son, I forgive thee ! Take thy fttfac 
sword! 
When thou shalt lift it in thy country's cause, 
In that same instant doth thy father bless thee ! 




ZAPOLTA. 333 

Enter Emerick. 
Erne. Fools ! cowards ! foUow— or by hell 111 
make you 
Find reason to fear Emerick, more than all 
The mummer-fiends thiit ever masqueraded 
Ab gods or wood-nymphs ! — 

Ha ! 'tis done then ! 
Our necessary villain hath proved faithful, 
And there lies Casimir, and our last fears ! 

WeU !— Aye, well ! 

And is it not well ? For though grafted on us, 
And filled too with our sap, the deadly power 
Of the parent poison-tree lurked in its fibres : 
There was too much of Kaab Kiuprili in him : 
The old enemy looked at me in his face. 
E'en when his words did flatter me with duty. 
Enter Casimir and Baihory. 
O. Bat. (aside,) This way they come ! 
Cos. (aside.) Hold them in check awhile — 
The path is narrow ! Rudolph will assist thee. 
Eme. (aside.) And ere I ring the alarum of my 
sorrow, 
111 scan that face once more, and murmur — ^here 
Lies Casimir, the last of the Kiuprilis ! 
Hell ! 'tis Pestalutz ! 

Cos. (coming forward.) Yes, thou ingrate Emerick ! 
'Tis Pestalutz ! 'tis thy trusty murderer ! 
To quell thee more, see Raab Kiuprili's sword ! 
Eme. Curses on it, and thee ! Think'st thou that 
petty omen 



334 BAPOLTA. 

Dare whisper fear to Emerick*A destiny ? 
Ho! treason! treason! 

Cos, Then have at thee, tyrant! 

yntiyj^d. EmeriikfiBt. 
Erne. Betrayed and baffled 

By mine own tool ! Oh ! [dm. 

Caa. Hear, hear, my fiither! 

Thou shouldst have witnessed thine own deed. 

father, 
Wake from that envious swoon ! The tyrant's ftDen; 
Thy sword hath conquered ! As I lifted it 
Thy blessing did indeed descend upon me, 
Dislodging the dread curse. It flew forth from me 
And lighted on the tyrant ! 

£71^ Rudolph, Baihary, and attendants, 
RtuL and Bat. Friends ! friends to Casimir. 
Caa. Rejoice, lUyrians ! the usurper's Men. 
Rud. So perish tyrants ! so end usurpatioD ! 
Cas. Bear hence the body, and move slowly on ! 

One moment 

Devoted to a joy, that bears no witness, 
I follow you, and we will greet our countiymen 
With the two best and fiillest gifts of heaven— 
A tyrant fallen, a patriot chief restored ! 

[Caaimir enters the eaoenu 
Scene, Chamber in Canmir'B CaaUe* ConfedaraUs 

discovered. 
1st. Con. It cannot but succeed, ft-iends. From 
this palace 
E'en to the wood, our messengers are poited 



ZAPOLTA. 335 

IVith such short mterspace, that fast as sound 
Can travel to us, we shall learn the event ! 

Enter anofher Confederate* 
What tidings from Temeswar ? 

fML Cofu With one voice 

The assembled chieftains have deposed the tyrant ; 
He is proclaimed the public enemy, 
And the protection of the law withdrawn. 

IsL Con. Just doom for him who governs without 
law! 
Is it known on whom the sovereignty will fall ? 

find. Con, Nothing is yet decided : but report 
Pcnnts to Lord Casimir. The grateful memory 

Of his renowned father 

Enter SaroUa, 

HailtoSarolta! 
Sar, Confederate friends ! I bring to you a joy 
Worthy your noble cause ! Kiuprili lives. 
And from his obscure exile hath returned 
To bless our country. More and greater tidings 
Might I disclose ; but that a woman's voice 
Would mar the wondrous tale. Wait we for him. 
The partner of the glory — Raab Kiuprili ; 
For he alone is worthy to announce it. 

[Shmds of « Kiuprili, Kiuprili," and « The 
tyrant's fiillen," without. Enter IRuprUij 
Casimir^ Rudolph, Bathory, and attendants, 
R, Kiu. Spare yet your joy, my friends ! A 
higher waits you : * 

Behold, your queen ! 



396 ZAPOLTA. 

Enter Zapch/a and Andreas rayaUy attired imA 

G/yctne. 

Con. Coraes she from heaven to bkn m ? 

Other Con. It is! it is! 

Zap. Heaven's work of grace k iqll ! 

Kiuprili, thou art safe ! 

R. Kiu. Royal Zapolya ! 

To the heavenly powers pay we our duty first ; 
Who not alono preserved thee, but for thee 
And for our country, the one precious bianch 
Of Andreas' royal house. O countrymen. 
Behold your king! and thank our country's geoioi^ 
That the same means which has preserved our sove- 
reign, 
Has likewise reared him worthier of the throne 
By virtue than by birth. The undoubted proo& 
Pledged by his royal mother, and this old man, 
(Whose name henceforth be dear to all Ulyrians) 
We haste to lay before the assembled council 
JlU. Hail, Andreas! Hail, lUyria's rightful king! 
And, Supported thus, O friends ! 'twere cowardice 
Unworthy of a royal birth, to shrink 
From the appointed cluu*ge. Yet, while we wait 
The awful sanction of convened Illyria, 
In this brief while, O let me feel myself 
The child, the friend, the debtor! — ^heroic mother!— 
But what can breath add to that sacred name .' 
Kiuprili ! gifl of Providence, to teach us 
That loyalty is but the public form 
Of the sublimest friendship, let my youth j)^ 



ZAPOLTA. 937 

Climb round thee, as the vine around its elm : 

Thou my support and I thy feithful fruitage. 

My heart is full, and these poor words express not ; 

They are but an art to check* its overswelliDg. 

Bathory ! shrink not from my filial arms ! 

Now, and from henceforth thou shah not forbid me 

To call thee fiither ! And dare I forget 

The powerful intercession of thy virtue, 

Lady Sarolta ! Still acknowledge me 

Thy faithful soldier ! — But what invocation 

Shall my full soul address to thee, Glycine ? 

Thou sword that leap'dst forth from a bed of roses, — 

Thou falcon-hearted dove ? 

Zap. * Hear that firom me, son ! 

For ere she lived, her father saved thy life. 
Thine, and thy fugitive mother's ! 

Cos. Chef Ragozzi ! 

shame upon my head ! I would have given her 
To a base slave ! 

Zap. Heaven overruled thy purpose. 

And sent an angel to thy house to guard her ! 
Thou precious bark ! freighted with all our treasures. 
The sports of tempests, and yet ne'er the victim. 
How many may claim salvage in thee ! 

Take her, son 1 
A queen that brings with her a richer dowry 
Than orient kings can give ! 

Sar, A banquet waits !-^ 

On this auspicious day, for some few hours 

1 claim to be your hostess. Scenes so awful 

VOL. II. 22 



bam, I 



338 ZAFOLTA. 

With flaahiDg light, force wisdom on us all ! 
E'en women at the distafT hence may see, 
That bad men may rebel, but ne'er be firee 
May whisper, when the waves of faction foam. 
None love their country, but who love their home ; 
For freedom can with those alone abide. 
Who wear the golden chain, with honest pride. 
Of love and duty, at their own fire-side : 
While mad ambition ever doth caress 
Its own sure fiite, in its own restlessness ! 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE; 

AN HISTORICAL DRAMA. 



DEDICATION. 



O H. MARTIN, ESQ. 

OF JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

Dear Sir, 
CSPT, as a small testimony of my grateiiil attach- 
It, the following Dramatic Poem, in which I hay« 
eavoured to detail, in an interesting form, the fall of 
an, whose great bad actions have cast a disastrous 
re on his name. In the execution of the work, as 
icacy of plot could not have been attempted without 
TOSS violation of recent facts, it has been my ^ple 
to imitate the impassioned and highly figurative 
^age of the French Orators, and to develop the 
racters of the chief actors on a vast stage of horrors. 

Yours fraternally, 

S. T. COLERIDGK. 

ESC7S College, September 22, 1794. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



"^ 



robsspixrrx. 
Bar&xrx. 
Tallixn. 
LxoxifD&x« 

ROBXBPIXRRB JUKIOR. 
CoUTHOJf. 

St- Just. 

BiLLAUD VaRXNNxS. 

Bourdon L'Oise. 

COLLOT D'HXRBOIS. 

Dubois CRANci. 
Frxrov. 
Lbcointrk. 
MxRLiir or Douor. 

DXPUTIXS. 

MEsaxNGBiia. 

CiTIZEWS. 

Adelaidb. 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



ACTL 



Scene — The TuiUeries. 

Bar, The tempest gathers — ^be it mine to seek 
A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him. 
But where ? and how? I fear the tyrant's soul — 
Sudden in action, fertile in resource. 
And rising awful 'mid impending ruins; 
In splendour gloomy, as the midnight meteor. 
That fearless thwarts the elemental war. 
When last in secret conference we met, 
He scowl'd upon me with suspicious rage, 
Making his eye the inmate of my bosom. 
I know he scorns me — and I feel, I hate him — 
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble ! 

[Exit. 
EfUer TaUien and Legendre, 

Tal» It was Barrere, Legendre ! didst thou mark 
him? 
Abrupt he turned, yet linger'd as he went. 
And towards us cast a look of doubtful meaning. 

Legen. 1 mark'd him welL I met his eye's last 
glance ; 
It menaced not so proudly as of yore. 



344 THS FALL OF &OBK8PIERRK. 

Methougbt he would have spoke — but that he dared 

not — 
Such agitation darkened on his brow. 

Tal. Twas all-distrusting guDt that kept from 
bursting 
Th' imprison'd secret struggling in the &ce ; 
E'en as the sudden breeze upstarting onwards 
Hurries the thunder-cloud, that poised awhile 
Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen. 

Legen. Perfidious traitor ! — still afraid to bask 
In the full blaze of power, the rustling serpent 
Lurks in the thicket of the tyrant's greatness, 
Ever prepared to sting who shelters him. 
Each thought, each action in himself converges; 
And love and fxiendship on his coward heart 
Shine like the powerless sun on polar ice : 
To all attach'd, by turns deserting all, 
Cunning and dark — a necessary villain ! 

Td. Yet much depends upon him — well you 
know 
With plausible harangue 'tis his to paint 
Defeat like victory — and blind the mob 
With truth-mix'd falsehood. They, led on by him, 
And wild of head to work their own destruction. 
Support with uproar what he plans in darkness. 

Legen. O what a precious name is Liberty 
To scare or cheat the simple into slaves ! 
Yes— we must gain him over: by dark hints 
We'll show enough to rouse his watchful fears^ 
Till the cold coward blaze a patriot* 



^ 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 345 

O Danton ! murdered friend ! asdist my counsels- 
Hover around me on sad memory's wings, 
And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart 
Tallien ! if but to-morrow's fateful sun 
Beholds the tyrant living — we are dead! 

Ted. Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty mean- 
ings— 

Legen, Fear not— or rather fear th' alternative, 

And seek for courage e'en in cowardice 

But see — hither he comes — ^let us away ! 

His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon, 

And high of haughty spirit, young St-Just. 

Enter Robespierre^ Couthon, l^-Justj and 
Robespierre Junior, 

Robesp. What ! did La Fayette fall before my 
power ? 
And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues ? 
The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue ? 
And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold ? 
Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them ? 
What ! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point 
Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom ? 
And shall I di'ead the soft luxurious Tallien ? 
Th' Adonis Tallien ? banquet-hunting Tallien ? 
Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box ? him. 
Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow 
Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers! 

St-Just. I cannot fear him — ^yet we must not scorn 
him. 



d46 THX FALL OF ROBESPISREX. 

Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus, 
Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony ? 
The state is not yet purified: and though 
The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies 
The thick black sediment of all the factions — 
It needs no magic hand to stir it up ! 

Couth. O we did wrong to spare them — fatal error! 
Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died ? 
And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes? 
Pve feared him, since his iron heart endured 
To make of Lyons one vast human shambles. 
Compared with which the sun-scorched wildeniesB 
Of Zara were a smiling paradise. 

St-Just. Rightly thou judgest, Couthon ! He is 
one. 
Who fiies from silent solitary anguish, 
Seeking forgetful |)eace amid the jar 
Of elements. The bowl of maniac uproar 
Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself 
A calm is fatal to him — ^then he feels 
The dire upboilings of the storm within him. 

A tiger mad with inward wounds. 1 dread 

The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt. 

Rohesp. Is not the conmiune ours ? The stem 
tribunal ? 
Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet? 
And Henriot ? We'll denounce a hundred, nor 
Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward. 

Robesp, Jun, Nay — I am sick of blood ; my aching 
heart 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 347 

Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors 
That still have gloom'd tlie rise of the republic. 
I should have died before Toulon, when war 
Became the patriot ! 

Ilobesp. Most unworthy wish ! 

He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors, 
Would be himself a traitor, were he not 
A coward ! 'Tis congenial souls alone 
Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate. 
O thou art brave, my brother ! and thine eye 
Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle — 
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity 
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest ! 
There is unsoundness in the state. — To-morrow 
Shall see it cleansed by wholesome massacre! 

Rohesp, Jun. Beware ! already do the sections 
murmur — 
" O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre — 
The tyrant guardian of the country 'syreerfom / " 

Couth. 'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by 
halves! 
Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart 
Of cold Barrere ! 

Rohesp. I see the villain in him ! 

Rohesp, Jun. If he — if all forsake thee — what re- 
mains ? 

Bobesp. Myself! the steel-strong rectitude of soul 
And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues! 
The giant Victories, my counsels fbrm'd. 
Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes, 



348 THX FALL OF ROBISPIERXS. 

Bidding the darts of calumny fiill pointless. 

[Exeunt cateri, Manet CovJthm. 
Couih. (solus,) So we deceive ourselves ! What 
goodly virtues 
Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition! 
StiU, Bobespierre ! thou'lt guard thy country's fi«e- 

dom 
To despotize in all the patriot's pomp ; 
While conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding 

clamours, 
Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers — ^blood-stain'd 

tyrant! 
Yet what is conscience ? Superstition's dream. 
Making such deep impression on our sleep-^ 
That long th' awaken'd breast retains its horrors! 
But he returns — and with him comes Barrere. 

[Exit CouOm. 
Enter Robespierre and Barrere, 
Rohesp* There is no danger but in cowardice.— 
Barrere ! we make the danger when we fear it 
We have such force without, as will suspend 
The cold and trembling treachery of these members. 
Bar. 'Twill be a pause of terror. — 
Robesp. But to whom ? 

Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest, 
Grathering its strength anew. The dastard traitois! 
Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak! 
A pause ! — a moment's pause ! — ^vb all their life. 
Bar. Yet much they talk — and plausiUe their 
speech. 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 349 

Couthon's decree has given such powers, that — 

Rohesp, That what? 

Bar, The freedom of debate — 

Robeap. Transparent mask! 

They wish to clog the wheels of government, 
Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine 
To bribe them to their duty — English patriots! 
Are not the congregated clouds of war 
Black all around us ? In our very vitals 
Works not the kijig-bred poison of rebellion ? 
Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings 
Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears 
Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice? 
Terror ? or secret-sapping gold ? The first 
Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it ; 
And to the virtuous patriot render'd light 
By the necessities that gave it birth : 
The other fouls the fount of the republic, 
Making it flow polluted to all ages ; 
Inoculates the state with a slow venom. 
That, once imbibed, must be continued ever. 
Myself incorruptible, I ne'er could bribe them — 
Therefore they hate me. 

Bar. Are the sections friendly ? 

Bobesp. There are who wish my ruin — ^but 111 
make them 
Blush for the crime in blood ! 

Bar. Nay, but I tell thee» 

Thou art too fond of slaughter — and the right 
(If right it be) workest by most foul means! 



350 TBE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 

Rohesp. Self-centering Fear ! how well thou canst 
, ape Mercy ! 
Too foud of slaughter! — matchless hypocrite! 
Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Dauton died ? 
Thought Barrere so, when through the streaiQiiig 

streets 
Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'er-wearied 
Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood ? 
And when {O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square 
Sick fancy groanM o'er putrid hills of slain. 
Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day ? 
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all honon, 
And, like a bloodhound, crouch'd for murder! Now 
Aloof thou standest firom the tottering pillar, 
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother, 
Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of-^Mercy! 

Bar. O prodigality of eloquent anger! 
Why now I see thou'rt weak — thy case is decpenle! 
The cool ferocious Robespierre tum'd scolder! 

Rohesp. Who from a bad man's bosom wards die 
blow « 
Reserves the whetted dagger for his own. 
Denounced twice — and twice I saved his life ! [JBfd. 

Bar. The sections will support them — there's the 
point ! 

No ! he can never weather out the storm 

Yet he is sudden in revenge — ^No more ! 

I must away to Tallien. [ExU, 



THE FAXL OF ROBESPIERRE. 351 

Scene changes to the house of Adelaide, 
Adelaide enters, speaking to a servant. 

AdeL Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee ? 
)id Tallien answer, he would soon return ? 

Serv. He is in the Tuiileries— with him Legendre — 
n deep discourse they seem'd ; as I approach'd, 
le waved his hand as bidding me retire : 
'. did not interrupt him. [Returns the letter. 

Add. Thou didst rightly. 

[Exit servant. 
D this new freedom ! at how dear a price 
(VeVe bought the seeming good! The peaceful 

virtues, 
\nd every blandishment of private life, 
The father's cares, the mother's fond endearment, 
\11 sacrificed to Liberty's wild riot 
The winged hours, that scatter'd roses round me. 
Languid and sad drag their slow course along. 
And shake big gall-drops firoip their heavy wings. 
But I will steal away these anxious thoughts 
By the sofl languishment of warbled airs, 
If haply melodies may lull the sense 
Of sorrow for a while. [Soft music. 

Enter Tallien. 
Tal. Music, my love ? O breathe again that air! 
Soft nurse of pain, it soothes the weary soul 
Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of evening 
That plays around the sick man's throbbing temple& 



352 THE FAXL OF ROBESPIERRE. 

Song, 

Tell me, on what holy ground 
May domestic peace be found ? 
Halcyon daughter of the skies, 
Far on fearful wing she flies, 
From the pomp of sceptred state, 
From the rebel's noisy hate. 

In a cottaged vale she dwells. 
Listening to the sabbath bells I 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spodess Honour's meeker mien, 
{iove, the fire of pleasing fears, 
Sorrow smiling through her tears; 
And, conscious of the past employ. 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 

7W. I thank thee, Adelaide! 'twas sweet, though 
moumfuL 
3ut why thy brow o'ercast, thy cheek so wan ? 
Thou look'st as a lorn maid beside some stream 
That sighs away the soul in fond despairing. 
While Sorrow sad, like the dank willow' near her, 
Hangs o'er the troubled fountain of her eye. 

Add. Ah ! rather let me ask what mystery lowers 
On Tallien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong— 
Thy soul distemper'd can my heart be tranquil? 

Tal, Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was 
spilt? 
Asks he not yengeance on these patriot murderers? 



r\ 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 353 

It has been borne too tamely. Fears and curses 
Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams 
Threaten the assassin-band of Robespierre. 
He dies! — nor has the plot escaped his fears. 

Adel. Yet — ^yet — ^be cautious! much I fear the 
commune — 
The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his 
Fast Imk'd in close indissoluble union ; 
The pale convention — 

Tal, Hate him as they fear him, 

Impatient of the chain, resolved and ready. 

Adel. Th' enthusiast mob. Confusion's lawless 
sons — 

Tal, They are aweary of his stem morality, 
The &ir-mask'd ofispring of ferocious pride. 
The sections too support the delegates : 
All — all is ours ! e'en now the vital air 
Of Liberty, condensed awhile, is bursting 
(Force irresistible !) from its compressure — 
To shatter the arch-chemist in the explosion ! 
Enter Billavd Varennes and Bourdon VOise. 

[Adelaide retires, 

B. VOise, Tallien! was this a time for amorous 
conference ? 
Henriot, the tyrant's most devoted creature. 
Marshals the force of Paris: the fierce club. 
With Vivier at their head, in loud acclaim 
Have sworn to make the guillotine in blood 
Float on the scaflfold.— But who comes here ? 
VOL. II. 23 



354 THE FALL OF ROBESPISRaE. 

Enter Barrere cibrupUy. 
Bitr. Say, are ye friends to Freedom? lamhtt's! 
Let us, forgetful of all common feuds. 
Rally arouud her shrine ! E'en now the tyrant 
Concerts a plan of instant massacre ! 

BU, Var. Away to the convention! with that voice 
So oft the herald of glad victory, 
Rouse their fallen spirits, .thunder in their ears 
The names of tyrant, plunderer, assassin ! 
The violent workings of my soul within 
Anticipate the monster^s blood ? 

[Cryfiom the street of—^ JVb tyrant ! Down with 
the tyrant ! " 
Tal. Hear ye that outcry? — If the trembling 
members 
E?en for a moment hold his fate suspended, 
I swear, by the holy poniard that stabb'd Caesar, 
This dagger probes his heart ! 

[Exeuni omnts* 



ACT II. 



Scene. — The Convention, 



Rohesp, {mounts the tribune.) Once more befits it 
that the voice of Truth, 
Fearless in innocence, though leaguer'd round 
By Envy and her hateful brood of heU, 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 355 

Be heard amid this hall ; once more befits 

The patriot, whose prophetic eye so oft 

Has pierced through faction's veil, to flash on crimes 

Of deadliest import. Mouldering in the grave 

Sleeps Capet's caitiff corse ; my daring hand 

Levell'd to earth his blood-cemented throne, 

My voice declared his guilt, and stirr*d up France 

To call for vengeance. I too dug the grave 

Where sleep the Girondists, detested l>and ! 

Long with the show of freedom they abused 

Her ardent sons. Long time the well-tum'd phrase. 

The high-firaught sentence, and the lofty tone 

Of declamation, thunder'd in this hall, 

Till reason 'midst a labyrinth of words 

Perplex'd, in silence seem'd to yield assent 

I durst oppose. Soul of my honour'd friend ! 

Spirit of Marat, upon thee I call — 

Thou know'st me faithful, know'st with what warm 

zeal 
I urged the cause of justice, stripp'd the mask 
From Faction's deadly visage; and destroy'd 
Her traitor brood. Whose patriot arm hurl'd down 
Hebert and Rousin, and the villain friends 
Of Danton, foul apostate ! those, who long 
Mask'd Treason's form in Liberty's fair garb, 
Long deluged France with blood, and durst defy 
Onmipotence ! but I, it seems, am false ! 
I am a traitor too ! I — Robespierre ! 
I — at whose name the dastard despot brood 
Look pale with fear, and call on saints to help them ! 



356 THE FALL OF ROBESPIERUE. 

Who dares accuse me ? who shall dare belie 
My spotless name ? Speak, ye accomplice band, 
Of what am t accused ? of what strange crime 
Is Maximilian Robespierre accused. 
That through this hall the buzz of discontent 
Should murmur ? who shall speak ? 

BU, Var, O patriot tongue, 

Belying the foul heart! Who was it urged. 
Friendly to tyrants, that accurst decree 
Whose influence, brooding o'er this haUow'd hall. 
Has chill'd each tongue to silence. Who destroy'd 
The freedom of debate, and carried through 
The fatal law, that doom'd the delegates. 
Unheard before their equals, to the bar 
Where cruelty sat throned, and murder reign'd 
With her Dumas coequal ? Say — ^thou man 
Of mighty eloquence, whose law was that ? 

CotUh, That law was mine. I lU'ged it — I pro- 
posed — 
The voice of France assembled in her sons 
Assented, though the tame and timid voice 
Of traitors murmur'd. I advised that law — 
I justify it ; it was wise and good. [too! 

Bar. Oh, wondrous wise, and most convenient 
I have long raark'd thee, Robespierre — and now 
Proclaim thee traitor — ^tyrant! 

[Loud appUsttiti* 
Rohesp, It is well. 

I am a traitor ! . oh, that I had fallen 
When Regnault lifted high the murderous knife; 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 357 

Regoault, the instrumeDt belike of those 
Who now themselves would fain assassinate, 
And legalize their murders. I stand here 
An isolated patriot — ^hemm'd around 
By faction's noisy pack ; beset and bay'd 
By the foul hell-hounds who know no escape 
From Justice' outstretch'd ann, but by the force 
That pierces through her breast. 

[Murmurs f and shouts of—^ down urith the tyrant ! " 

Robesp. Nay, but I will be heard. There was a 
time, 
When Robespierre began, the loud applauses 
Of honest patriots drown'd the honest sound. 
But times are changed, and villany prevails. 

C. d^Herhois. No — villany shall fall. France 
could not brook 
A monarch's sway — sounds the dictator's name 
More soothing to her ear ? 

B. VOise. Rattle her chains 

More musically now than when the hand 
Of Brissot forged her fetters, or the crew 
Of Hebert thundered out their blasphemies, 
And Danton talk'd of virtue ? 

Robesp. Oh, that Brissot 

Were here again to thunder in this hall. 
That Hebert lived, and Danton's giant form 
Scowl'd once again defiance ! so my soul 
Might cope with worthy foes. 

People of France, 
Hear me ! Beneath the vengeance of the law, 



356 THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 

Traitors have perished countless ; more survive: 
The hydra-headed Action lifts anew 
Her daring fi*ont, and fruitful from her wouudS) 
Cautious from past defeats, contrives new wiles 
Against the sons of Freedom. 

Tal. Freedom lives! 

Oppression falls — ^for France has felt her chains^ 
Has burst them too. Who traitor-like stejit forth 
Amid the hall of Jacobins to save 
Camille Desmoulins, and the venal wretch 
D'Eglantine ? 

Robesp, I did — ^for I thought them honest ; 
And heaven forfend that vengeance ere should strike, 
Ere justice doomed the blow. 

Bar. Traitor,, thou didst 

Yes, the accomplice of their dark designs. 
Awhile didst thou defend them, when the storm 
Lower'd at safe distance. When the clouds firown'd 

darker, 
Fear'd for yourself and lefl them to their fate. 
Oh, 1 have mark'd thee long, and through the veil 
Seen thy foul projects. Yes, ambitious man, 
Self-wilPd dictator o'er the realm of France, 
The vengeance thou hast plann'd for patriots 
Falls on thy head. Look how thy brother's deeds 
Dishonour thine ! He the firm patriot, 
Thou the foul parricide of Liberty ! 

Robesp, Jun. Barrere — attempt not meanly to divide 
Me from my brother. I partake his guilt, 
For I partake his virtue. 




THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 359 

Rohesp. Brother, by my soal 

More dear I hold thee to my heart, that thus 
With me thou darest to tread the dangerous path 
Of virtue, than that Nature twined her cords 
Of kindred round us. 

Bar. Yes, allied in guilt. 

Even as in blood ye are. Oh, thou worst wretch, 
Thou worse than Sylla ! hast thou not proscribed. 
Yea, in most foul anticipation slaughtered. 
Each patriot representative of France ? [reign 

B. VOise, Was not the younger Caesar too to 
O'er all our valiant armies in the south. 
And still continue there his merchant wiles ? 

Bjobesp, Juru His merchant wiles ! Oh, grant me 
patience, heaven ! 
Was it by merchant wiles I gain'd you back 
Toulon, when proudly on her captive towers 
Waved high the English flag ? or fought I then 
With merchant wiles, when sword in hand I led 
Your troops to conquest ? Fought I merchant-like 
Or barter'd I for victory, when death 
Strode o'er the reeking streets with giant stride, 
And shook his ebon plumes, and sternly smiled 
Amid the bloody banquet ? when appall'd. 
The hireling sons of England spread the sail 
Of safety, fought I like a merchant then ? 
Oh, patience ! patience ! 

JB. V Oise. How this younger tyrant 

Mouths out defiance to us! even so 
He had led on the armies of the south, 



360 THX PALL OF ROBS8PISRKK. 

Till ODce again the plains of France were drench'd 
With her best blood. 

C iPHerbois, Till, once again dc^lay'd, 

Lyons' a§d tragedy had cali'd me forth 
The minister of wrath, whilst slaughter by 
Had bathed in human blood. 

Du. Craned. No wonder, friend. 

That we are traitors — ^that our heads must ftdl 
Beneath the axe of death ! When C«sar-like 
Reigns Robespierre, His wisely done to doom 
The fiill of Brutus. Tell me, bloody man, 
Hast thou not parcelPd out deluded France, 
As it had been some province won in fight. 
Between your curst triumvirate ? You, Couthon, 
Gk> with my brother to the southern plains ; 
St-Just, be yours the army of the north ; 
Meantime I rule at Paris. 

Rohesp. Matchless knave ! 

What — not one blush of conscience on thy cheek- 
Not one poor blush of truth ! Most likely tale! 
That I who niin'd Brissot's towering hopes, 
I who discovered Hebert's impious wiles, 
And sharp'd for Danton's recreant neck the axe, 
Should now be traitor ! had I been so minded. 
Think ye I had destroy'd the very men 
Whose plots resembled mine ? Bring forth your proo6 
Of this deep treason. Tell me in whose breast 
Found ye the fetal scroll ? or tell me rather 
Who forged the shameless falsehood ? 

C. d^Herhois, Ask 700 prooft? 



THE FALL OF ROBESFIERBE. 961 

Robespierre, what proofs were ask'd when Brissot 
died ? [ton died ? 

Legen, What proofs adduced you when the Dan- 
When at the imminent peril of my life 
I rose, and fearless of thy frowning brow, 
Proclaim'd him guiltless ? 

Rohesp. I remember well 

The fatal day. I do repent me much 
That I kilPd Ceesar and spared Antony. 
But 1 have been too lenient I have spared 
The stream of blood, and now my own must flow 
To fill the current. 

[Lotid applauses. 
Triumph not too soon ; 
Justice may yet be victor. 

Eiiter St'Justf and mounts the Tribune. 
St-JuLst I come fi*om the committee — charged to 
speak 
Of matters of high import. I omit 
Their orders. Representatives of France, 
Boldly in his own person speaks St-Just 
What his own heart shaU dictate. 

Tal. Hear ye this, 

Insulted delegates of France ? St-Just [speak 

From your committee comes — comes charged to 
Of matters of high import — ^yet omits 
Their orders! Representatives of France, 
That bold man I denounce, who disobeys 
The nation's orders. — I denounce St-Just. 

[Loud applauses. 



303 THB FALL OF ROBK8PIEKUC 

Si-JiLsL Hear me! [Violent miurmun. 

Rohesp. He shall be heard ! 

B. rOiae, Must we coutaminate this sacred hall 
With the foul breath of treason ? 

C.cPHerhois, Drag him away! 

Hence with him to the bar. 

Couth. Oh, just proceedings! 

Robespierre prevented liberty of speech — 
And Robespierre is a tjrrant ! Tallien reigns. 
He dreads to hear the voice of innocence— 
And St- Just must be silent ! 

Legen. Heed we well 

That justice guide our actions. No light import 
Attends this day. I move St-Just be heard. 

Freron, Inviolate be the sacred right of man, 
The freedom of debate ? 

[Violent apfdaun 

St'JiLst. I may be beard, then! much the time 
are changed, 
When St-Just thanks this hall for hearing him. 
Robespierre is call'd a tyranL Men of France, 
Judge not too soon. By popular discontent 
Was Aristides driven into exile, 
Was Phocion murder'd ? Ere ye dare pronounce 
Robespierre is guilty, it befits ye well, 
Consider who accuse him. Tallien, 
Bourdon of Oise — the very men denounc'd. 
For their dark intrigues disturb'd the plan 
Of government Legendre, the sworn friend 
Of Danton, felPn apostate. Dubois Craned, 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 363 

He who at Lyons spared the royalists — 
Collot d'Herbois— 

B, VOiae* What — shall the traitor rear 

His head amid our tribune — and blaspheme 
Each patriot ? shall the hireling slave of faction — 

St- Just, I am of no faction. I contend 
Against all factions. 

Tal, I espouse the cause 

Of truth. Robespierre on yester-morn pronounced 
Upon his own authority a report. 
To-day St-Just comes down. St-Just neglects 
What the committee orders, and harangues 
From his own will. O citizens of France^ 
I weep for you — I weep for my poor country — 
I tremble for the cause of Liberty, 
When individuals shall assume the sway, 
And with more insolence than kingly pride 
Rule the republic. 

BU, Var, Shudder, ye representatives of France 
Shudder with horror. Henriot commands 
The marshall'd force of Paris — Henriot, 
Foul parricide — the sworn ally of Hebert, 
Denounced by all — upheld by Robespierre. 
Who spared La Vallette ? who promoted him, 
Stain'd with the deep dye of nobility ? 
Who to an ex-peer gave the high command ? 
Who screen'd from justice the rapacious thief? 
Who cast in chains the friends of Liberty ? 
Robespierre, the self-styled patriot Robespierre — 
Robespierre, allied with villain Daubign^ — 



964 THE FAI«L OF ROBESPIERRE. 

Robespierre, the foul arch-tyrant Robespierre. 

B, rOise. He talks of virtue — of morality — 
CoDsistent patriot ! he, Dau bigot's friend ! 
Henriot's supporter virtuous ! Preach of virtue, 
Yet league with villains, for with Robespierre 
Villains alone ally. Thou art a tyrant ! 
I style thee tyrant, Robespierre ! 

[Ijoud applautet. 
Rohesp. Take back the name, ye citizens of 
France — 
[ Violent clamour. Cries of—*^ down wUh the tyrant I ^ 

ToU, Oppression fk11s« The traitor stands appali'd— 
Guilt's iron fangs engrasp his shrinking soul — 
He hears assembled France denounce his crimes! 
He sees the mask torn from his secret sins — 
He trembles on the precipice of fate. 
Fallen guilty tyrant ! murder'd by thy rage. 
How many an innocent victim's blood has stain'd 
Fair Freedom's altar ! Sylla-like, thy hand 
Marked down the virtues, that, thy foes removed, 
Perpetual dictator thou might'st reign, 
And tyrannize o'er France and call it Freedom ! 
Long time in timid guilt the traitor plann'd 
His fearful wiles — success embolden'd sin — 
And his stretch'd arm had grasp'd the diadem 
Ere now, but tliat the coward's heart recoil'd. 
Lest France awak'd, should rouse her from her dreani) 
And call aloud for vengeance. He, like Ceesar, 
With rapid step urged on his bold ccu^er. 
Even to the sununit of ambitious power, 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE, v 365 

And deemed the name of king alone was wanting. 
Was it for this we hurl'd proud Capet down ? 
Is it for this we wage eternal war 
Against the tyrant horde of murderers, 
The crowned cockatrices whose foul venom 
Infects all Europe ? was it then for this 
We swore to guard our liberty with life, 
That Robespierre should reign ? the spirit of freedom 
Is not yet sunk so low. The glowing flame 
That animates each honest Frenchman's heart 
Not yet extinguished. I invoke thy shade, 
Immortal Brutus ! I too wear a dagger ; 
And if the representatives of France, 
Through fear or favour, should delay the sword 
Of justice, Tallien emulates thy virtues ; 
Tallien, like Bi*utus, lifts the avenging arm ; 
Tallien shall save his countiy. 

[ Violent applauses. 

BU, Far. I demand 

The arrest of the traitors. Memorable 
Will be this day for France. 

Robesp. Yes ! memorable 
This day will be for France ^for villains triumph. 

Lehas. I will not share in this day's damning guilt 
Condemn me too. 

[ Great cry — " down with the tyrants ! " 
(The two Hohespierres, Covthon, St-Just, and Lebas, 

are led off.) 



366 THK FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



ACT III. 

Scene continues. 

C, d^Herbois, Caesar is fallen ! The banefu] tiee 
of Java, 
Whose death-distilling boughs dropt poisonous dew, 
Is rooted from its base. This worse than Cromwell, 
The austere, the self-denying Robespierre, 
Even in tliis hall, where once with terror mute 
We listened to the hypocrite's harangues, 
Has heard his doom. 

BU. Var, Yet must we not suppose 

The tyrant will fall tamely. His sworn hireling 
Henriot, the daring, desperate Henriot 
Commands the force of Paris. I denounce him. 

Frhon, I denounce Fleuriot too, the mayor of Paris. 
Enttr Dubois Cranci. 

Dub, Craned, Robespierre is rescued. Henriot at 
the head 
Of the arm'd force has rescued the fierce tyrant 

C. d^Herbois, Ring the tocsin — call all the citizeni 
To save their country — never yet has Paris 
Forsook the representatives of France. 

T\d. It is the hour of danger. I propose 
This sitting be made permanent. 

[Loiul (jq>plaMti. 




THE FALL OF ROBB8PIE&&K. 367 

C. fPHerhois, The national convention shall remain 
Firm at its post 

EnUr a Messenger, 
Mess. Robespierre has reached the commune. — 
They espouse 
The tyrant's cause. St-Just is up in arms ! 
St- Just — the young ambitious bold St- Just 
Harangues the mob. The sanguinary Couthon 
Thirsts for your blood. [Tocsin rings. 

Tal. These tyrants are in arms against the law : 
Outlaw the rebels. 

Elder Merlin ofDouay. 
Mer. Health to the representatives of France ! 
I passed this moment through the armed force— 
They askM my name — and when they heard a 

delegate, 
Swore I was not the friend of France. 
C. (PHerbois, The tyrants threaten us, as when 
they tum'd 
The cannon's mouth on Brissot. 

Enter another Messenger, 
2nd Mess. Vivier harangues tlie jacobins — the club 
Espouse the cause of Robespierre. 

EnUr another Messenger. 
3rd Mess. AlFs lost — the tyrant triumphs. Uenriot 
leads 

The soldiers to his aid. ^Already I hear 

The rattling cannon destined to surroimd 
This sacred hall. 
Tal. Why, we will die like men then ; 



i 



968 THX FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 

The representatives of France dare death, 
When duty steels their bosoms. 

[Loud i^iplausei 
Tal. (addressing the gaileries,) Citizens! 

France is insulted in her delegates — 
The majesty of the republic is insulted — 
Tyrants are up in arms. An armed force 
Threats the convention. The convention sweirs 
To die, or save the country ! 

[ ViolerU applauses fiom the gaUenn 
Cii. (from above,) We too swear 

To die, or save the country. Follow me. 

[M the men quit the gaSkm 
Enter another Messenger, 
4^ Mess, Henriot is taken ! — 

[Loud apfkuMi 
Henriot is taken. Three of your brave soldiers 
Swore they would seize the rebel slave of tyrants, 
Or perish in the attempt. As he patrolled 
The streets of Paris, Stirling up the mob, 
They seized him. [ApjiUnuf^ 

Bil, Var, Let the names of these brave men 
Live to the future day. 

Enter Bourdon VOise, sword in hand 
B, VOise, I have cleared the communa 

Through the throng I rush'd. 
Brandishing my good sword to drench its blade 
Deep in the tyrant's heart. The timid rebels 
Gave way. 1 met the soldiery — ^I spake 



THE FALL OF ROBESFIER&E. 369 

Of the dictator's crimes — of patriots chained 
In dark deep dungeons by his lawless rage — 
Of knaves secure beneath his fostering power. 
I spake of Liberty ; their honest hearts 
Caught the warm flame. The general shout burst 

forth, 
" Live the convention — down with Robespierre ! " 

[Applauses. 
[Shouts from without — ^ down wUh the iyrant i " 

Ted. I hear, I hear the soul-inspiring sounds, ^ 
France shall be saved ! her generous sods, attached 
To principles, not pei*sons, spurn the idol 
They worshiped once. Yes, Robespierre shall fall 
As Capet fell ! Oh ! never let us deem 
That France shall crouch beneath a tyrant's throne, 
That the almighty people who have broke 
On their oppressors' heads the oppressive chain, 
Will court again their fetters I easier were it 
To hurl the cloud-capt mountain from its base. 
Than force the bonds of slavery upon men 
Determined to be fi'ee ! [Applauses* 

ErUer Legendre, a pistol in ovu hand, keys in the other. 

Legen, (flinging down live keys.) So let the mutin- 
ous jacobins meet now 
In the open air. [Loud applauses. 

A factious turbulent party 
Lording it o'er the state since Danton died. 
And with him the Cordeliers — A hireling band 
Of loud-tongued orators controlled the club, 
And bade them bow the knee to Robespierre. 

VOL. IT. 24 



970 TVS WALL OP ROBXSPlEmmi. 

Vivier has 'scaped me. Cune his coward heart— 
This fiite-frau^t tube of justice in my hand, 
I rushed iato the hall. He marked mine eye 
That beamed its patriot anger, and flashed full 
With death-denouncing meaning. 'Mid the throng 
He mingled. I pursued — ^but staid my hand, 
Lest haply I might shed innocent blood. 

IWron. They took from me my ticket of adniisnoD ; 
Sxpelled me from their sittings. — Now, forsooth, 
Humbled and trembling re-insert my name ; 
But Fr^ron enters not the club again 
mU it be purged of guilt — till, purified 
Of tyrants and of traitors, honest men 
May breathe the air in safety. 

[iS%oti<9 from toiSiiwL 

Bar. What means this uproar ? if the tyrant hsud 
Should gain the people once again to rise — 
We are as dead ! 

Tal. And wherefore fear we death ? 

Did Brutus fear it ? or the Grecian friends 
Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword, 
And died triumphant ? Caesar should fear death : 
Brutus must scorn the bugbear. 

[t^umts from toUhoul — *^ live ihe eonvtntionn-dowi 
unth ihe tyrants ! " 

TaU Hark! again 

The sounds of honest fireedom ! 

Enter DtpMu from ike tecUont. 

at. Citizens ! representatives of France ! 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 371 

Hold on your steady course. The men of Paris 
Espouse your cause. The men of Paris swear 
They will defend the delegates of freedom. 

Tal. Hear ye this, colleagues ? hear ye this^ my 
brethren ? 
And does no thrill of joy pervade your breasts ? . 
My bosom bounds to rapture. I have seen 
The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke ; 
I have, as much as lies in mine own arm, 
Hurled down the usurper — Come death when it will, 
I have lived long enough. [JSiouta wUhouL 

Bar. Hark! how the noise increases ! through the 
gloom 
Of the still evening — harbinger of death, 
Rings the tocsin ! the dreadful generale 
Thunders through Paris — 

[CrywUhovt — ^doumwitkikeiifrani!^ 
Enter Lecoinhre. 

Lecoin. So may eternal justice blast the foes 
Of France ! so perish all the tyrant brood, 
As Robespierre has perish'd ! Citizens, 
Caesar is taken. [houd and repeated appUnuet. 

I marvel not, that with such fearless front, 
He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye 
Scowled round the hall defiance. He reUed 
On Henriot's aid — ^the commune's villain friendship, 
And Henriot's hougMen succours. Ye have heard 
How Henriot rescued him — how with open aram 
The commune welcomed in the rebel tyrant — 
How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier 



372 THE WJLLL OP ROBESPIERRE. 

Stirred up the Jacobins. All had been lost— 
The representatives of France had perish'd — 
Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm 
Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit 
Inspired the men of Paris. Henriot call'd 
*^ To arms ^ in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice 
Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins 
Legendre frown'd dismay. The Qrrants fled— 
They reach'd the hotel. We gather'd round — we call'd 
For vengeance ! Long time, obstinate in de^Miir, 
With knives they hack'd around them. Till f(»ebodiog 
The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry 
Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction, 
Each sought by suicide to escape the dread 
Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window 
Leapt the younger Robespierre, but hisfiractured limb 
Forbade to escape. The self-wiU'd dictator 
Plunged often the keen knife in his dark breast, 
Yet impotent to die. He lives all mangled 
By his own tremulous hand ! AU gash'd and gored, 
He lives to taste the bitterness of death. 
Even now they meet their doom. The bloody Couthon, 
The fierce St-Just, even now attend their tyrant 
To fall beneath the axe. I saw the torches 
Flash on their visages a dreadful light — 
I saw them whilst the black blood rolled adown 
Each stem &ce, even then with dauntless eye 
Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived, 
Fearless of fate ! [Loud and repeated appkaues. 
Bar, (mourUa the Tribune.) For ever haUow'd be 
this g\oT\o\ia da^. 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 373 

When Freedom, bui'sting her oppressive chain, 
Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant, 
HurPd from his blood-cemented throne by the arm 
Of the almighty people, meets the death 
He plann'd for thousands. Oh ! my sickening heart 
Has sunk within me, when the various woes 
Of ray brave country crowded o'er my brain 
In ghastly numbers — when assembled hordes, 
Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power, 
Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets, 
And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with 

blood 
The reeking fields of Flanders. — When within, 
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth 
Of treason ; and Oppression, giant form. 
Trampling on Freedom, left the alternative 
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day, i 
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced 
The doom of injured France, has Faction rear'd 
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd 
Of mercy — ^the uxurious dotard Roland, 
The woman-govem'd Roland durst aspire 
To govern France ; and Petion talk'd of virtue, 
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue 
Of some soft syren, wooed us to destruction. 
We triumph'd over these. On the same scafibld 
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood, 
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons, 
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet, 
And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand 



374 TBB PALL OF BOBEBPlBBmB. 

Huri'd down the altara of the living Gk)d, 
With all the infidel's intolerance. 
The last wont traitor triumph'd — ^triumph'd long, 
Secured by matchless yillany ; by turns 
Defending and deserting each accomplice; 
As interest prompted, in the goodly soil 
Of Freedom, the fool tree of treason struck 
Its deep-fixed roots, and dropt the dews of death 
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade. 
He wove the web of treachery. He caught 
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence. 
His cool ferocity, that persuaded murder, 
Even whilst it spake of mercy ! — ^Nev^, never 
Shall this regenerated country wear 
The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail, 
And with vroree fury urge this new (»i2Bade 
Than savages have known; though the leagued 

despots 
Depopulate all Europe, so to pour 
The accumulated mass upon our coasts, 
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise. 
And, like the rock amid surrounding waves, 
Repel the rushing ocean.^ — She shall wield 
The thunderbolt of vengeance — she diall blast 
The despot's pride, and liberate the world ! 



END OP VOL. II.