 |
ROBIN
'Tis Blondel! Still vaunt-courier to the King, As when he burst the bonds of Austria! Listen!
[Song nearer.]
"Nay," sang a bird above, "Stay, for I see Death, in the mask of love, Waiting for thee."
MASKERS
[Resuming their masks and muttering to one another.]
Can the King live? Is this John's treachery? Look, He is crushed with fear!
ROBIN Listen! I'll go to meet him.
[Exit into the garden.]
MASKERS
It was the song of Blondel! The same song He made with Richard, long since!— Blondel's voice! Just as we heard it on that summer's night When Lion-Heart came home from the Crusade.
[The Song still drawing nearer.]
"Death! What is Death?" he cried. "I must ride on, On to my true love's side, Up to her throne!"
[Enter BLONDEL, from the garden. He stands, startled by the scene before him.]
MASKERS
Blondel! Where is the King? Where is the King?
BLONDEL
Did ye not know?—Richard, the King, is dead!
MASKERS
Dead!
JOHN
Dead! And ye let the living dog escape That dared snarl at our sovereignty. I know him, Risen from the dead or not. I know 'twas he, 'Twas Robin Hood! After him; hunt him down! Let him not live to greet another sun. After him!
MASKERS
[Drawing their swords and plunging into the darkness.]
After him; hunt the villain down!
[Curtain.]
ACT V
SCENE I. Morning. Sherwood Forest (as before). LITTLE JOHN and some of the OUTLAWS are gathered together talking. Occasionally they look anxiously toward the cave and at the approaches through the wood. Enter two FORESTERS, running and breathless.
FIRST FORESTER
The King's men! They are scouring thro' the wood, Two troops of them, five hundred men in each And more are following.
SECOND FORESTER
We must away from here And quickly.
LITTLE JOHN
Where did you sight them?
SECOND FORESTER
From the old elm, Our watch-tower. They were not five miles away!
FIRST FORESTER
Five, about five. We saw the sunlight flash Along, at least five hundred men at arms; And, to the north, along another line, Bigger, I think; but not so near.
SECOND FORESTER
Where's Robin? We must away at once!
FIRST FORESTER
No time to lose!
LITTLE JOHN
His wound is bitter—I know not if we dare Move him!
FIRST FORESTER
His wound?
LITTLE JOHN
Ay, some damned arrow pierced him When he escaped last night from the Dark Tower. He never spoke of it when first he reached us; And, suddenly, he swooned. He is asleep Now. He must not be wakened. They will take Some time yet ere they thread our forest-maze.
FIRST FORESTER
Not long, by God, not long. They are moving fast.
[MARIAN appears at the mouth of the cave. All turn to look at her, expectantly. She seems in distress.]
MARIAN
He is tossing to and fro. I think his wound Has taken fever! What can we do?
FRIAR TUCK
I've sent A messenger to Kirklee Priory, Where my old friend the Prioress hath store Of balms and simples, and hath often helped A wounded forester. Could we take him there, Her skill would quickly heal him.
LITTLE JOHN
The time is pressing!
FRIAR TUCK
The lad will not be long!
[ROBIN appears tottering and white at the mouth of the cave.]
MARIAN
[Running to him.]
O Robin, Robin, You must not rise! Your wound!
ROBIN
[He speaks feverishly.]
Where can I rest Better than on my greenwood throne of turf? Friar, I heard them say they had some prisoners. Bring them before me.
FRIAR TUCK
Master, you are fevered, And they can wait.
ROBIN
Yes, yes; but there are some That cannot wait, that die for want of food, And then—the Norman gold will come too late, Too late.
LITTLE JOHN O master, you must rest.
[Going up to him.]
MARIAN Oh, help me, Help me with him. Help me to lead him back.
ROBIN
No! No! You must not touch me! I will rest When I have seen the prisoners, not before.
LITTLE JOHN
He means it, mistress, better humour him Or he will break his wound afresh.
MARIAN
O Robin, Give me your word that you'll go back and rest, When you have seen them.
ROBIN
Yes, I will try, I will try! But oh, the sunlight! Where better, sweet, than this?
[She leads him to the throne of turf and he sits down upon it, with MARIAN at his side.]
The Friar is right. This life is wine, red wine, Under the greenwood boughs! Oh, still to keep it, One little glen of justice in the midst Of multitudinous wrong. Who knows? We yet May leaven the whole world.
[Enter the Outlaws, with several prisoners, among them, a KNIGHT, an ABBOT, and a FORESTER.]
Those are the prisoners? You had some victims of the forest laws That came to you for help. Bring them in, too, And set them over against these lords of the earth!
[Some ragged women and children appear. Several serfs with iron collars round their necks and their eyes put out, are led gently in.]
Is that our Lincoln green among the prisoners? There? One of my own band?
LITTLE JOHN
Ay, more's the pity! We took him out of pity, and he has wronged Our honour, sir; he has wronged a helpless woman Entrusted to his guidance thro' the forest.
ROBIN
Ever the same, the danger comes from those We fight for, those below, not those above! Which of you will betray me to the King?
THE FORESTER
Do you ask me, sir?
ROBIN
Judas answered first, With "Master, is it I?" Hang not thy head! What say'st thou to this charge?
THE FORESTER
Why, Friar Tuck Can answer for me. Do you think he cares Less for a woman's lips than I?
FRIAR TUCK
Cares less, Thou rotten radish? Nay, but a vast deal more! God's three best gifts to man,—woman and song And wine, what dost thou know of all their joy? Thou lean pick-purse of kisses?
ROBIN
Take him out, Friar, and let him pack his goods and go, Whither he will. I trust the knave to thee And thy good quarter-staff, for some five minutes Before he says "Farewell."
FRIAR
Bring him along, Give him a quarter-staff, I'll thrash him roundly.
[He goes out. Two of the FORESTERS follow with the prisoner. Others bring the ABBOT before ROBIN.]
ROBIN
Ah! Ha! I know him, the godly usurer Of York!
LITTLE JOHN
We saw a woman beg for alms, One of the sufferers by the rule which gave This portly Norman his fat priory And his abundant lands. We heard him say That he was helpless, had not one poor coin To give her, not a scrap of bread! He wears Purple beneath his cloak: his fine sleek palfrey Flaunted an Emperor's trappings!
ABBOT
Man, the Church Must keep her dignity!
ROBIN
[Pointing to the poor woman, etc.]
Ay, look at it! There is your dignity! And you must wear Silk next your skin to show it. But there was one You call your Master, and He had not where To lay His head, save one of these same trees!
ABBOT
Do you blaspheme! I pray you, let me go! There are grave matters waiting. I am poor!
ROBIN
Look in his purse and see.
ABBOT
[Hurriedly.]
I have five marks In all the world, no more. I'll give them to you!
ROBIN
Look in his purse and see.
[They pour a heap of gold out of his purse.]
ROBIN
Five marks, Indeed! Here's, at the least, a hundred marks in gold!
ABBOT
That is my fees, my fees; you must not take them!
ROBIN
The ancient miracle!—five loaves, two small fishes; And then—of what remained—they gathered up Twelve basketsful!
ABBOT
Oh, you blaspheming villains!
ROBIN
Abbot, I chance to know how this was wrought, This miracle; wrought with the blood, anguish and sweat Of toiling peasants, while the cobwebs clustered Around your lordly cellars of red wine. Give him his five and let him go.
ABBOT
[Going out.]
The King Shall hear of this! The King will hunt you down!
ROBIN
And now—the next!
SCARLET
Beseech you, sir, to rest, Your wound will—
ROBIN
No! The next, show me the next!
SCARLET
This Norman baron—
ROBIN
What, another friend! Another master of broad territories. How many homes were burned to make you lord Of half a shire? What hath he in his purse?
SCARLET
Gold and to spare!
BARON
To keep up mine estate I need much more.
ROBIN
[Pointing to the poor.]
Ay, you need these! these! these!
BARON
[Protesting.]
I am not rich.
ROBIN
Look in his purse and see.
BARON
You dogs, the King shall hear of it!
ROBIN
[Murmuring as if to himself.]
Five loaves! And yet, of what remained, they gathered up Twelve basketsful. The bread of human kindness Goes far! Oh, I begin to see new meanings In that old miracle! How much? How much?
SCARLET
Five hundred marks in gold!
ROBIN
[Half rising and speaking with a sudden passion.]
His churls are starving, Starving! Their little children cry for bread! One of those jewels on his baldric there Would feed them all in plenty all their lives! Five loaves—and yet—and yet—of what remained, The fragments, mark you, twelve great basketsful!
BARON
I am in a madman's power! The man is mad!
ROBIN
Take all he has, all you can get. To-night, When all is dark (we must have darkness, mind, For deeds like this) blind creatures will creep out With groping hands and gaping mouths, lean arms, And shrivelled bodies, branded, fettered, lame, Distorted, horrible; and they will weep Great tears like gouts of blood upon our feet, And we shall succour them and make them think (That's if you have not mangled their poor souls As well, or burned their children with their homes), We'll try to make them think that some few roods Of earth are not so bitter as hell might be. Are you not glad to think of this? Nay—go— Or else your face will haunt me when I die! Take him quickly away. The next! The next! O God!
[Flings up his arms and falls fainting.]
MARIAN
[Bending over him.]
O Robin! Robin! Help him quickly. The wound! The wound!
[They gather round ROBIN. The OUTLAWS come back with the captive FORESTER, his pack upon his back.]
FRIAR TUCK
[To the FORESTER.]
Now, get you gone and quickly! What, what hath happened?
[FRIAR TUCK and the OUTLAWS join the throng round ROBIN. The FORESTER shakes his fist at them and goes across the glade muttering. The MESSENGER from Kirklee Priory comes out of the forest at the same moment and speaks to him, not knowing of his dismissal.]
MESSENGER
All's well! Robin can come To Kirklee. Our old friend the Prioress Is there, and faithful! They've all balms and simples To heal a wound.
FORESTER
[Staring at him.]
To Kirklee?
MESSENGER
Yes, at sunset, We'll take him to the borders of the wood All will be safe. Where he can steal in easily, alone.
FORESTER
The King's men are at hand!
MESSENGER
Oh, but if we can leave him there, all's safe; We'll dodge the King's men.
FORESTER
When is he to go?
MESSENGER
Almost at once; but he must not steal in Till sundown, when the nuns are all in chapel. How now? What's this? What's this?
[He goes across to the throng round ROBIN.]
FORESTER
[Looking after him.]
Alone, to Kirklee!
[Exit.]
SCENE II. A room in Kirklee Priory. A window on the right overlooks a cloister leading up to the chapel door. The forest is seen in the distance, the sun beginning to set behind it. The PRIORESS and a NOVICE are sitting in a window-seat engaged in broidery work.
NOVICE
He must be a good man—this Robin Hood! I long to see him. Father used to say England had known none like him since the days Of Hereward the Wake.
PRIORESS
He will be here By vespers. You shall let him in. Who's that? Can that be he? It is not sundown yet. See who is there.
[Exit NOVICE. She returns excitedly.]
NOVICE
A lady asks to see you! She is robed like any nun and yet she spoke Like a great lady—one that is used to rule More than obey; and on her breast I saw A ruby smouldering like a secret fire Beneath her cloak. She bade me say she came On Robin Hood's behest.
PRIORESS
What? Bring her in Quickly.
[Exit NOVICE and returns with QUEEN ELINOR in a nun's garb. At the sign from the PRIORESS the NOVICE retires.]
ELINOR
Madam, I come to beg a favour. I am a friend of Robin Hood. I have heard— One of his Foresters, this very noon Brought me the news—that he is sorely wounded; And purposes to seek your kindly help At Kirklee Priory.
PRIORESS
Oh, then indeed, You must be a great friend, for this was kept Most secret from all others.
ELINOR
A great friend! He was my page some fifteen years ago, And all his life I have watched over him As if he were my son! I have come to beg A favour—let me see him when he comes. My husband was a soldier, and I am skilled In wounds. In Palestine I saved his life When every leech despaired of it, a wound Caused by a poisoned arrow.
PRIORESS
You shall see him. I have some skill myself in balms and simples, But, in these deadlier matters I would fain Trust to your wider knowledge.
ELINOR
Let me see him alone; Alone, you understand. His mind is fevered. I have an influence over him. Do not say That I am here, or aught that will excite him. Better say nothing—lead him gently in, And leave him. In my hands he is like a child.
PRIORESS
It shall be done. I see you are subtly versed In the poor workings of our mortal minds.
ELINOR
I learnt much from a wise old Eastern leech When I was out in Palestine.
PRIORESS
I have heard They have great powers and magic remedies; They can restore youth to the withered frame.
ELINOR
There is only one thing that they cannot do.
PRIORESS
And what?
ELINOR
They cannot raise the dead.
PRIORESS
Ah, no; I am most glad to hear you say it, most glad To know we think alike. That is most true— Yes—yes—most true; for God alone, dear friend, Can raise the dead!
[A bell begins tolling slowly.]
The bell for even-song! You have not long to wait.
[Shadowy figures of nuns pass the windows and enter the chapel. The sunset deepens.]
Will you not pray With me?
[The PRIORESS and QUEEN ELINOR kneel down together before a little shrine. Enter the NOVICE.]
NOVICE
There is a forester at the door. Mother, I think 'tis he!
PRIORESS
[Rising.]
Admit him, then.
ELINOR
Leave me: I will keep praying till he comes.
PRIORESS
You are trembling! You are not afraid?
ELINOR
[With eyes closed as in strenuous devotion.]
No; no; Leave me, I am but praying!
[A chant swells up in the chapel. Exit PRIORESS. ELINOR continues muttering as in prayer. Enter ROBIN HOOD, steadying himself on his bow, weak and white. She rises and passes between him and the door to confront him.]
ELINOR
Ah, Robin, you have come to me at last For healing. Pretty Marian cannot help you With all her kisses.
ROBIN HOOD
[Staring at her wildly.]
You! I did not know That you were here. I did not ask your help. I must go—Marian!
[He tries to reach the door, but reels in a half faint on the way. ELINOR supports him as he pauses, panting for breath.]
ELINOR
Robin, your heart is hard, Both to yourself and me. You cannot go, Rejecting the small help which I can give As if I were a leper. Ah, come back. Are you so unforgiving? God forgives! Did you not see me praying for your sake? Think, if you think not of yourself, oh, think Of Marian—can you leave her clinging arms Yet, for the cold grave, Robin? I have risked Much, life itself, to bring you help this day! I have some skill in wounds.
[She holds him closer and brings her face near to his own, looking into his eyes.]
Ah, do you know How slowly, how insidiously this death Creeps, coil by tightening coil, around a man, When he is weak as you are? Do you know How the last subtle coil slips round your throat And the flat snake-like head lifts up and peers With cruel eyes of cold, keen inquisition, Rivetting your own, until the blunt mouth sucks Your breath out with one long, slow, poisonous kiss?
ROBIN HOOD
O God, that nightmare! Leave me! Let me go!
ELINOR
You stare at me as if you saw that snake. Ha! Ha! Your nerves are shaken; you are so weak! You cannot go! What! Fainting? Ah, rest here Upon this couch.
[She half supports, half thrusts him back to a couch, in an alcove out of sight and draws a curtain. There is a knock at the door.]
ELINOR
Who's there?
PRIORESS
Madam, I came To know if I could help in anything.
ELINOR
Nothing! His blood runs languidly. It needs The pricking of a vein to make the heart Beat, and the sluggish rivers flow. I have brought A lance for it. I'll let a little blood. Not over-much; enough, enough to set The pulses throbbing.
PRIORESS
Maid Marian came with him. She waits without and asks—
ELINOR
Let her not come Near him till all is done. Let her not know Anything, or the old fever will awake. I'll lance his arm now!
[The PRIORESS closes the door. ELINOR goes into the alcove. The chant from the chapel swells up again. QUEEN ELINOR comes out of the alcove, white and trembling. She speaks in a low whisper as she looks back.]
Now, trickle down, sweet blood. Grow white, fond lips That have kissed Marian—yet, she shall not boast You kissed her last; for I will have you wake To the fierce memory of this kiss in heaven Or burn with it in hell;
[She kneels down as if to kiss the face of ROBIN, within. The chant from the chapel swells up more loudly. The door slowly opens. MARIAN steals in. ELINOR rises and confronts her.]
ELINOR
[Laying a hand upon ROBIN'S bow beside her.]
Hush! Do not wake him!
MARIAN
[In a low voice.]
What have you done with him?
ELINOR
[As MARIAN advances towards the couch.]
He is asleep. Hush! Not a step further! Stay where you are! His life Hangs on a thread.
MARIAN Why do you stare upon me? What have you done? What's this that trickles down—
[Stoops to the floor and leaps back with a scream.]
It is blood. You have killed him!
ELINOR
[Seizes the bow and shoots. MARIAN falls.]
Follow him—down to hell. King John will find you there.
[Exit. The scene grows dark.]
MARIAN
[Lifts her head with a groan.]
I am dying, Robin! O God, I cannot wake him! Robin! Robin! Give me one word to take into the dark! He will not wake! He will not wake! O God, Help him!
[She falls back unconscious. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF, a green spray in his hand, opens the casement and stands for a moment in the window against the last glow of sunset, then enters and runs to the side of ROBIN.]
SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF
[Hurriedly.]
Awake, awake, Robin, awake! The forest waits to help you! All the leaves Are listening for your bugle. Ah, where is it? Let but one echo sound and the wild flowers Will break thro' these grey walls and the green sprays Drag down these deadly towers. Wake, Robin, wake, And let the forest drown the priest's grey song With happy murmurs. Robin, the gates are open For you and Marian! All I had to give I have given to thrust them open, the dear gates Of fairyland which I shall never pass Again. I can no more, I am but a shadow, Dying as mortals die! It is not I That calls, not I, but Marian. Hear her voice! Robin, awake! O, master mine, farewell!
[Exit lingeringly through the casement.]
ROBIN
[ROBIN is dimly seen in the mouth of the alcove. He stretches out his hands blindly in the dark.]
Marian! Why do you call to me in dreams? Why do you call me? I must go. What's this? Help me, kind God, for I must say one word, Only one word—good-bye—to Marian, To Marian—Ah, too weak, too weak!
[He sees the dark body of MARIAN and utters a cry, falling on his knees beside her.]
O God, Marian! Marian! My bugle! Ah, my bugle!
[He rises to his feet and, drowning the distant organ-music, he blows a resounding forest-call. It is answered by several in the forest. He falls on his knees by MARIAN and takes her in his arms.]
O Marian, Marian, who hath used thee so?
MARIAN
Robin, it is my death-wound. Ah, come close.
ROBIN
Marian, Marian, what have they done to thee?
[The OUTLAWS are heard thundering at the gates with cries.]
OUTLAWS
Robin! Robin! Robin! Break down the doors.
[The terrified nuns stream past the window, out of the chapel. The OUTLAWS rush into the room. The scene still darkens.]
SCARLET
Robin and Marian!
LITTLE JOHN
Christ, what devil's hand Hath played the butcher here? Quick, hunt them down, They passed out yonder. Let them not outlive Our murdered king and queen.
REYNOLD GREENLEAF
O Robin, Robin, Who shot this bitter shaft into her breast?
[Several stoop and kneel by the two lovers.]
ROBIN HOOD
Speak to me, Marian, speak to me, only speak! Just one small word, one little loving word Like those—do you remember?—you have breathed So many a time and often, against my cheek, Under the boughs of Sherwood, in the dark At night, with nothing but the boughs and stars Between us and the dear God up in heaven! O God, why does a man's heart take so long To break? It would break sooner if you spoke A word to me, a word, one small kind word.
MARIAN
Sweetheart!
ROBIN
Sweetheart! You have broken it, broken it! Oh, kind, Kind heart of Marian!
MARIAN
Robin, come soon!
[Dies.]
ROBIN
Soon, sweetheart! Oh, her sweet brave soul is gone! Marian, I follow quickly!
SCARLET
God, Kirklee Shall burn for this!
LITTLE JOHN
Kirklee shall burn for this! O master, master, you shall be avenged!
ROBIN
No; let me stand upright! Your hand, good Scarlet! We have lived our lives and God be thanked we go Together thro' this darkness. We shall wake, Please God, together. It is growing darker! I cannot see your faces. Give me my bow Quickly into my hands, for my strength fails And I must shoot one last shaft on the trail Of yonder setting sun, never to reach it! But where this last, last bolt of all my strength, My hope, my love, shall fall, there bury us both, Together, and tread the green turf over us! The bow!
[SCARLET hands him his bow. He stands against the faint glow of the window, draws the bow to full length, shoots and falls back into the arms of LITTLE JOHN.]
LITTLE JOHN
[Laying him down.]
Weep, England, for thine outlawed lover, Dear Robin Hood, the poor man's friend, is dead.
[The scene becomes quite dark. Then out of the darkness, and as if at a distance, the voice of SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF is heard singing the fairy song of the first scene. The fairy glade in Sherwood begins to be visible in the gloom by the soft light of the ivory gates which are swinging open once more among the ferns. As the scene grows clearer the song of SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF grows more and more triumphant and is gradually caught up by the chorus of the fairy host within the woods.]
[Song of SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF.]
I
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The world begins again! And O, the red of the roses, And the rush of the healing rain!
II
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Princess wakes from sleep; For the soft green keys of the wood-land Have opened her donjon-keep!
III
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! Their grey walls hemmed us round; But, under my greenwood oceans, Their castles are trampled and drowned.
IV
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! My green sprays climbed on high, And the ivy laid hold on their turrets And haled them down from the sky!
V
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! They were strong! They are overthrown! For the little soft hands of the wild-flowers Have broken them, stone by stone.
VI
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! Though Robin lie dead, lie dead, And the green turf by Kirklee Lie light over Marian's head,
VII
Green ferns on the crimson sky-line, What bugle have you heard? Was it only the peal of the blue-bells, Was it only the call of a bird?
VIII
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The rose o'er the fortalice floats! My nightingales chant in their chapels, My lilies have bridged their moats!
IX
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! King Death, in the light of the sun, Shrinks like an elfin shadow! His reign is over and done!
X
The hawthorn whitens the wood-land; My lovers, awake, awake, Shake off the grass-green coverlet, Glide, bare-foot, thro' the brake!
XI
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! And, under the great green boughs, I have found out a place for my lovers, I have built them a beautiful house.
XII
Green ferns in the dawn-red dew-fall, This gift by my death I give,— They shall wander immortal thro' Sherwood! In my great green house they shall live!
XIII
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! When the first wind blows from the South, They shall meet by the Gates of Faerie! She shall set her mouth to his mouth!
XIV
He shall gather her, fold her and keep her; They shall pass thro' the Gates, they shall live! For the Forest, the Forest has conquered! This gift by my death I give!
XV
The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! The world awakes anew; And O, the scent of the hawthorn, And the drip of the healing dew!
[The song ceases. TITANIA and OBERON come out into the moon-lit glade.]
OBERON
Yet one night more the gates of fairyland Are opened by a mortal's kindly deed. But Robin Hood and Marian now are driven As we shall soon be driven, from the world Of cruel mortals.
TITANIA
Mortals call them dead; Oberon, what is death?
OBERON
Only a sleep. But these may dream their happy dreams in death Before they wake to that new lovely life Beyond the shadows; for poor Shadow-of-a-Leaf Has given them this by love's eternal law Of sacrifice, and they shall enter in To dream their lover's dream in fairyland.
TITANIA
And Shadow-of-a-Leaf?
OBERON
He cannot enter now. The gates are closed against him.
TITANIA
But is this For ever?
OBERON We fairies have not known or heard What waits for those who, like this wandering Fool, Throw all away for love. But I have heard There is a great King, out beyond the world, Not Richard, who is dead, nor yet King John; But a great King who one day will come home Clothed with the clouds of heaven from His Crusade.
TITANIA
The great King!
OBERON
Hush, the poor dark mortals come!
[The crowd of serfs, old men, poor women, and children, begin to enter as the fairy song swells up within the gates again. ROBIN and MARIAN are led along by a crowd of fairies at the end of the procession.]
TITANIA
And there, see, there come Robin and his bride. And the fairies lead them on, strewing their path With ferns and moon-flowers. See, they have entered in!
[The last fairy vanishes thro' the gates.]
OBERON
And we must follow, for the gates may close For ever now. Hundreds of years may pass Before another mortal gives his life To help the poor and needy.
[OBERON and TITANIA follow hand in hand thro' the gates. They begin to close. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF steals wistfully and hesitatingly across, as if to enter. They close in his face. He goes up to them and leans against them sobbing, a small green figure, looking like a greenwood spray against their soft ivory glow. The fairy music dies. He sinks to his knees and holds up his hands. Immediately a voice is heard singing and drawing nearer thro' the forest.]
[Song—drawing nearer.]
Knight on the narrow way, Where wouldst thou ride? "Onward," I heard him say, "Love, to thy side!"
"Nay," sang a bird above, "Stay, for I see Death in the mask of love Waiting for thee."
[Enter BLONDEL, leading a great white steed. He stops and looks at the kneeling figure.]
BLONDEL
Shadow-of-a-Leaf!
SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF
[Rising to his feet.]
Blondel!
BLONDEL
I go to seek My King!
SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF
[In passionate grief.]
The King is dead!
BLONDEL
[In yet more passionate joy and triumph.]
The great King lives!
[Then more tenderly.]
Will you not come and look for Him with me?
[They go slowly together through the forest and are lost to sight. BLONDEL'S voice is heard singing the third stanza of the song in the distance, further and further away.]
"Death? What is Death?" he cried. "I must ride on!"
[Curtain.]
TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN
I
A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA
Under that foggy sunset London glowed, Like one huge cob-webbed flagon of old wine. And, as I walked down Fleet Street, the soft sky Mowed thro' the roaring thoroughfares, transfused Their hard sharp outlines, blurred the throngs of black On either pavement, blurred the rolling stream Of red and yellow busses, till the town Turned to a golden suburb of the clouds. And, round that mighty bubble of St. Paul's, Over the up-turned faces of the street, An air-ship slowly sailed, with whirring fans, A voyager in the new-found realms of gold, A shadowy silken chrysalis whence should break What radiant wings in centuries to be.
So, wandering on, while all the shores of Time Softened into Eternity, it seemed A dead man touched me with his living hand, A flaming legend passed me in the streets Of London—laugh who will—that City of Clouds, Where what a dreamer yet, in spite of all, Is man, that splendid visionary child Who sent his fairy beacon through the dusk, On a blue bus before the moon was risen,— This Night, at eight, The Tempest!
Dreaming thus, (Small wonder that my footsteps went astray!) I found myself within a narrow street, Alone. There was no rumour, near or far, Of the long tides of traffic. In my doubt I turned and knocked upon an old inn-door, Hard by, an ancient inn of mullioned panes, And crazy beams and over-hanging eaves: And, as I knocked, the slowly changing west Seemed to change all the world with it and leave Only that old inn steadfast and unchanged, A rock in the rich-coloured tides of time.
And, suddenly, as a song that wholly escapes Remembrance, at one note, wholly returns, There, as I knocked, memory returned to me. I knew it all—the little twisted street, The rough wet cobbles gleaming, far away, Like opals, where it ended on the sky; And, overhead, the darkly smiling face Of that old wizard inn; I knew by rote The smooth sun-bubbles in the worn green paint Upon the doors and shutters.
There was one Myself had idly scratched away one dawn, One mad May-dawn, three hundred years ago, When out of the woods we came with hawthorn boughs And found the doors locked, as they seemed to-night. Three hundred years ago—nay, Time was dead! No need to scan the sign-board any more Where that white-breasted siren of the sea Curled her moon-silvered tail among such rocks As never in the merriest seaman's tale Broke the blue-bliss of fabulous lagoons Beyond the Spanish Main.
And, through the dream, Even as I stood and listened, came a sound Of clashing wine-cups: then a deep-voiced song Made the old timbers of the Mermaid Inn Shake as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea.
SONG
I
Marchaunt Adventurers, chanting at the windlass, Early in the morning, we slipped from Plymouth Sound, All for Adventure in the great New Regions, All for Eldorado and to sail the world around! Sing! the red of sun-rise ripples round the bows again. Marchaunt Adventurers, O sing, we're outward bound, All to stuff the sunset in our old black galleon, All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found.
Chorus: Marchaunt Adventurers! Marchaunt Adventurers!
Marchaunt Adventurers, O, whither are ye bound?— All for Eldorado and the great new Sky-line, All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found.
II
Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what'ull ye bring home again?— Wonders and works and the thunder of the sea! Whom will ye traffic with?—The King of the Sunset! What shall be your pilot then?—A wind from Galilee. Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?— Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see. Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters. After many days, it shall return with usury.
Chorus: Marchaunt Adventurers! Marchaunt Adventurers!
What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be?— Englande!—Englande!—Englande!—Englande!— Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea!
And there, framed in the lilac patch of sky That ended the steep street, dark on its light, And standing on those glistering cobblestones Just where they took the sunset's kiss, I saw A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud.
Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose, A rapier at his side; and, as he paused, His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept Against my feet.
A moment he looked back, Then swaggered down as if he owned a world Which had forgotten—did I wake or dream?— Even his gracious ghost!
Over his arm He swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloak Of Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mud As on the day when—did I dream or wake? And had not all this happened once before?— When he had laid that cloak before the feet Of Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak, 'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh! He brushed me passing, and with one vigorous thrust Opened the door and entered. At his heels I followed—into the Mermaid!—through three yards Of pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlour Swimming with faces in a mist of smoke That up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes, While—like some rare old picture, in a dream Recalled—quietly listening, laughing, watching, Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floated One bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes, Whom Raleigh hailed as "Will!"
But as I stared A sudden buffet from a brawny hand Made all my senses swim, and the room rang With laughter as upon the rush-strewn floor My feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff voice Growled over me—"Get up now, John-a-dreams, Or else mine host must find another drawer! Hast thou not heard us calling all this while?" And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rang With cries of "Sack! Bring me a cup of sack! Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!" I understood and flew. I was awake, A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these gods, A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn!
There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine, I heard them toss the Chrysomelan names From mouth to mouth—Lyly and Peele and Lodge, Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest, With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolled Like a great galleon on his ingle-bench. Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yet This young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws, The T, for Tyburn, branded on his thumb, And grim pock-pitted face, was growling tales To Dekker that would fright a buccaneer.— How in the fierce Low Countries he had killed His man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist; Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick; And, now returned to London, was resolved To blast away the vapours of the town With Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth. "I'll thwack their Tribulation-Wholesomes, lad, Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the-Flesh, At the Black-friars Theatre, or The Rose, Or else The Curtain. Failing these, I'll find Some good square inn-yard with wide galleries, And windows level with the stage. 'Twill serve My Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant. For Tragedy a private House is best, Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deed Of blood, or, over your stable's black half-door, Marked Battlements in white chalk, your breathless David Glowers at the whiter Bathsheba within, Some humorous coach-horse neighs a 'hallelujah'! And the pit splits its doublets. Over goes The whole damned apple-barrel, and the yard Is all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratch Of prentices, green madams, and cut-purses For half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind! We'll build the perfect stage in Shoreditch yet. And Will, there, hath half promised I shall write A piece for his own company! What d'ye think Of Venus and Adonis, his first heir, Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad! And he's at work on a Midsummer's Dream That turns the world to fairyland!"
All these And many more were there, and all were young! There, as I brimmed their cups, I heard the voice Of Raleigh ringing across the smoke-wreathed room,— "Ben, could you put a frigate on the stage, I've found a tragedy for you. Have you heard The true tale of Sir Humphrey Gilbert?"
"No!"
"Why, Ben, of all the tragical affairs Of the Ocean-sea, and of that other Ocean Where all men sail so blindly, and misjudge Their friends, their charts, their storms, their stars, their God, If there be truth in the blind crowder's song I bought in Bread Street for a penny, this Is the brief type and chronicle of them all. Listen!" Then Raleigh sent these rugged rhymes Of some blind crowder rolling in great waves Of passion across the gloom. At each refrain He sank his voice to a broad deep undertone, As if the distant roar of breaking surf Or the low thunder of eternal tides Filled up the pauses of the nearer storm, Storm against storm, a soul against the sea:—
A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA
Sir Humphrey Gilbert, hard of hand, Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea, Gazed from the rocks of his New Found Land And thought of the home where his heart would be.
He gazed across the wintry waste That weltered and hissed like molten lead,— "He saileth twice who saileth in haste! I'll wait the favour of Spring," he said.
Ever the more, ever the more, He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
The yellow clots of foam went by Like shavings that curl from a ship-wright's plane, Clinging and flying, afar and nigh, Shuddering, flying and clinging again.
A thousand bubbles in every one Shifted and shimmered with rainbow gleams; But—had they been planets and stars that spun He had let them drift by his feet like dreams:
Heavy of heart was our Admirall, For, out of his ships—and they were but three!— He had lost the fairest and most tall, And—he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.
Ever the more, ever the more, He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
Heavy of heart, heavy of heart, For she was a galleon mighty as May, And the storm that ripped her glory apart Had stripped his soul for the winter's way;
And he was aware of a whisper blown From foc'sle to poop, from windward to lee, That the fault was his, and his alone, And—he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.
"Had he done that! Had he done this!" And yet his mariners loved him well; But an idle word is hard to miss, And the foam hides more than the deep can tell.
And the deep had buried his best-loved books, With many a hard-worn chart and plan: And a king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thing is the heart of man!
And—"Who will you find to pay your debt? For a venture like this is a costly thing! Will they stake yet more, tho' your heart be set On the mightier voyage you planned for the Spring?"
He raised his head like a Viking crowned,— "I'll take my old flag to her Majestie, And she will lend me ten thousand pound To make her Queen of the Ocean-sea!"
Ever the more, ever the more, He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
Outside—they heard the great winds blow! Outside—the blustering surf they heard, And the bravest there would ha' blenched to know That they must be taken at their own word.
For the great grim waves were as molten lead —And he had two ships who sailed with three!— "And I sail not home till the Spring," he said, "They are all too frail for the Ocean-sea."
But the trumpeter thought of an ale-house bench, And the cabin-boy longed for a Devonshire lane, And the gunner remembered a green-gowned wench, And the fos'cle whisper went round again,—
"Sir Humphrey Gilbert is hard of hand, But his courage went down with the ship, may-be, And we wait for the Spring in a desert land, For—he is afraid of the Ocean-sea."
Ever the more, ever the more, He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
He knew, he knew how the whisper went! He knew he must master it, last or first! He knew not how much or how little it meant; But his heart was heavy and like to burst.
"Up with your sails, my sea-dogs all! The wind has veered! And my ships," quoth he, "They will serve for a British Admirall Who is Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea!"
His will was like a North-east wind That swept along our helmless crew; But he would not stay on the Golden Hynde, For that was the stronger ship of the two.
"My little ship's-company, lads, hath passed Perils and storms a-many with me! Would ye have me forsake them at the last? They'll need a Knight of the Ocean-sea!"
Ever the more, ever the more, We heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
Beyond Cape Race, the pale sun splashed The grim grey waves with silver light Where, ever in front, his frigate crashed Eastward, for England and the night.
And still as the dark began to fall, Ever in front of us, running free, We saw the sails of our Admirall Leading us home through the Ocean-sea.
Ever the more, ever the more, We heard the winds and the waves roar! But he sailed on, sailed on before.
On Monday, at noon of the third fierce day A-board our Golden Hynde he came, With a trail of blood, marking his way On the salt wet decks as he walked half-lame.
For a rusty nail thro' his foot had pierced. "Come, master-surgeon, mend it for me; Though I would it were changed for the nails that amerced The dying thief upon Calvary."
The surgeon bathed and bound his foot, And the master entreated him sore to stay; But roughly he pulled on his great sea-boot With—"The wind is rising and I must away!"
I know not why so little a thing, When into his pinnace we helped him down, Should make our eyelids prick and sting As the salt spray were into them blown,
But he called as he went—"Keep watch and steer By my lanthorn at night!" Then he waved his hand With a kinglier watch-word, "We are as near To heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!"
Ever the more, ever the more, We heard the gathering tempest roar! But he sailed on, sailed on before.
Three hundred leagues on our homeward road, We strove to signal him, swooping nigh, That he would ease his decks of their load Of nettings and fights and artillery.
And dark and dark that night 'gan fall, And high the muttering breakers swelled, Till that strange fire which seamen call "Castor and Pollux," we beheld,
An evil sign of peril and death, Burning pale on the high main-mast; But calm with the might of Gennesareth Our Admirall's voice went ringing past,
Clear thro' the thunders, far and clear, Mighty to counsel, clear to command, Joyfully ringing, "We are as near To heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!"
Ever the more, ever the more, We heard the rising hurricane roar! But he sailed on, sailed on before.
And over us fled the fleet of the stars, And, ever in front of us, far or nigh, The lanthorn on his cross-tree spars Dipped to the Pit or soared to the Sky!
'Twould sweep to the lights of Charles's Wain, As the hills of the deep 'ud mount and flee. Then swoop down vanishing cliffs again To the thundering gulfs of the Ocean-sea.
We saw it shine as it swooped from the height, With ruining breakers on every hand, Then—a cry came out of the black mid-night, As near to heaven by sea as by land!
And the light was out! Like a wind-blown spark; All in a moment! And we—and we— Prayed for his soul as we swept thro' the dark: For he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.
Over our fleets for evermore The winds 'ull triumph and the waves roar! But he sails on, sails on before!
Silence a moment held the Mermaid Inn, Then Michael Drayton, raising a cup of wine, Stood up and said,—"Since many have obtained Absolute glory that have done great deeds, But fortune is not in the power of man, So they that, truly attempting, nobly fail, Deserve great honour of the common-wealth. Such glory did the Greeks and Romans give To those that in great enterprises fell Seeking the true commodity of their country And profit to all mankind; for, though they failed, Being by war, death, or some other chance, Hindered, their images were set up in brass, Marble and silver, gold and ivory, In solemn temples and great palace-halls, No less to make men emulate their virtues Than to give honour to their just deserts. God, from the time that He first made the world, Hath kept the knowledge of His Ocean-sea And the huge AEquinoctiall Continents Reserved unto this day. Wherefore I think No high exploit of Greece and Rome but seems A little thing to these Discoveries Which our adventurous captains even now Are making, out there, Westward, in the night, Captains most worthy of commendation, Hugh Willoughby—God send him home again Safe to the Mermaid!—and Dick Chauncellor, That excellent pilot. Doubtless this man, too, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, was worthy to be made Knight of the Ocean-sea. I bid you all Stand up, and drink to his immortal fame!"
II
A COINER OF ANGELS
Some three nights later, thro' the thick brown fog, A link-boy, dropping flakes of crimson fire, Flared to the door and, through its glowing frame, Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm, Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and called For red-deer pies. There, as they supped, I caught Scraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will, His Venus and Adonis. "Gabriel thought 'Twas wrong to change the old writers and create A cold Adonis." —"Laws were made for Will, Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buck In Charlecote woods." —"Where never a buck chewed fern," Laughed Kit, "unless it chewed the fern seed, too, And walked invisible." "Bring me some wine," called Ben, And, with his knife thrumming upon the board, He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled.
I
Will Shakespeare's out like Robin Hood With his merry men all in green, To steal a deer in Charlecote wood Where never a deer was seen.
II
He's hunted all a night of June, He's followed a phantom horn, He's killed a buck by the light of the moon, Under a fairy thorn.
III
He's carried it home with his merry, merry band, There never was haunch so fine; For this buck was born in Elfin-land And fed upon sops-in-wine.
IV
This buck had browsed on elfin boughs Of rose-marie and bay, And he's carried it home to the little white house Of sweet Anne Hathaway.
V
"The dawn above your thatch is red! Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne! I have stolen a fairy buck," he said, "The first since the world began.
VI
"Roast it on a golden spit, And see that it do not burn; For we never shall feather the like of it Out of the fairy fern."
VII
She scarce had donned her long white gown And given him kisses four, When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-town Knocked at the little green door.
VIII
They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher; But squarely he fronts the squire, With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer? Was it under a fairy briar?"
IX
Sir Thomas he puffs,—"If God thought good My water-butt ran with wine, Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood, I wot it is mine, not thine!"
X
"If you would eat of elfin meat," Says Will, "you must blow up your horn! Take your bow, and feather the doe That's under the fairy thorn!
XI
"If you would feast on elfin food, You've only the way to learn! Take your bow and feather the doe That's under the fairy fern!"
XII
They're hunting high, they're hunting low, They're all away, away, With horse and hound to feather the doe That's under the fairy spray!
XIII
Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore! But all and all in vain; For there never was deer in his woods before, And there never would be again!
And, as I brought the wine—"This is my grace," Laughed Kit, "Diana grant the jolly buck That Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie."
He suddenly sank his voice,—"Hist, who comes here? Look—Richard Bame, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben, Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage, Your only teacher of exits, entrances, And all the shifting comedy. Be grave! Bame is the godliest hypocrite on earth! Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal. He has called me Wormall in an anagram. Help me to bait him; but be very grave. We'll talk of Venus." As he whispered thus, A long white face with small black-beaded eyes Peered at him through the doorway. All too well, Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame, Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed, Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate; And, twelve months later, I watched our Puritan Riding to Tyburn in the hangman's cart For thieving from an old bed-ridden dame With whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays.
Like a conspirator he sidled in, Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast, While, feigning not to see him, Ben began:—
"Will's Venus and Adonis, Kit, is rare, A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work, On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw In Italy, by one—Titian! None of the toys Of artistry your lank-haired losels turn, Your Phyllida—Love-lies-bleeding—Kiss-me-Quicks, Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats, Begotten like this, whenever and how you list, Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper; But a sound piece of craftsmanship to last Until the stars are out. 'Tis twice the length Of Vergil's books—he's listening! Nay, don't look!— Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that; But each a square celestial brick of gold Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know What thorough work is. If a storm should shake The Tower of London down, Will's house would stand. Look at his picture of the stallion, Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!"
"'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben! Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow, As the dawn breaking to its perfect flower And golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep, Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves Away!" A hollow groan, like a bass viol, Resounded thro' the room. Up started Kit In feigned alarm—"What, Master Richard Bame! Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine! Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of Venus That stained the rose!" "White wine for Master Bame," Ben echoed, "Juno's cream that" ... Both at once They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips And smote him on the back. "Sirs, you mistake!" coughed Bame, waving his hands And struggling to his feet, "Sirs, I have brought A message from a youth who walked with you In wantonness, aforetime, and is now Groaning in sulphurous fires!" "Kit, that means hell!" "Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell, Written by Robert Greene before he died. Mark what he styles it—A Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance!" "Ah, Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk, Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died, And then you printed it yourself in hell!" "Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin To make mirth for Beelzebub!" "O, Ben, That's you!" "'Swounds, sir, am I Beelzebub? Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt! "Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies! I spake out of the scriptures!" snuffled Bame With deprecating eye. "I come to save A brand that you have kindled at your fire, But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed, One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to all He was persuaded to turn atheist By Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him, But find him still so constant to your words That only you can save him from the fire." "Why, Master Bame," said Kit, "had I the keys To hell, the damned should all come out and dance A morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night." "Nay, sir, the damned are damned!" "Come, sit you down! Take some more wine! You'd have them all be damned Except Dick Cholmeley. What must I unsay To save him?" A quick eyelid dropt at Ben. "Now tell me, Master Bame!" "Sir, he derides The books of Moses!" "Bame, do you believe?— There's none to hear us but Beelzebub— Do you believe that we must taste of death Because God set a foolish naked wench Too near an apple-tree, how long ago? Five thousand years? But there were men on earth Long before that!" "Nay, nay, sir, if you read The books of Moses...." "Moses was a juggler!" "A juggler, sir, how, what!" "Nay, sir, be calm! Take some more wine—the white, if that's too red! I never cared for Moses! Help yourself To red-deer pie. Good! All the miracles You say that he performed—why, what are they? I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street, Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pie In patience, friend, the mouth of man performs One good work at a time. What says he, Ben? The red-deer stops his—what? Sticks in his gizzard? O—led them through the wilderness! No doubt He did—for forty years, and might have made The journey in six months. Believe me, sir, That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews! Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians, Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his books Are filthily written. I would undertake— If I were put to write a new religion— A method far more admirable. Eh, what? Gruel in the vestibule? Interpret, Ben! His mouth's too full! O, the New Testament! Why, there, consider, were not all the Apostles Fishermen and base fellows, without wit Or worth?"—again his eyelid dropt at Ben.— "The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and he Was a most timorous fellow in bidding us Prostrate ourselves to worldly magistrates Against our conscience! I shall fry for this? I fear no bugbears or hobgoblins, sir, And would have all men not to be afraid Of roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threats Of earthly ministers, tho' their mouths be stuffed With curses or with crusts of red-deer pie! One thing I will confess—if I must choose— Give me the Papists that can serve their God Not with your scraps, but solemn ceremonies, Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns. Your protestant is a hypocritical ass!"
"Profligate! You blaspheme!" Up started Bame, A little unsteady now upon his feet, And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head!
"Nay—if your pie be done, you shall partake A second course. Be seated, sir, I pray. We atheists will pay the reckoning! I had forgotten that a Puritan Will swallow Moses like a red-deer pie Yet choke at a wax-candle! Let me read Your pamphlet. What, 'tis half addressed to me! Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this—the Testament Of poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare off With less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!" And there, unseen by them, a quiet figure Entered the room and beckoning me for wine Seated himself to listen, Will himself, While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows. "'Trust them not; for there is an upstart crow Beautified with our feathers!' —O, he bids All green eyes open:—'And, being an absolute Johannes fac-totum is in his own conceit The only Shake-scene in a country!'" "Feathers!" Exploded Ben. "Why, come to that, he pouched Your eagle's feather of blank verse, and lit His Friar Bacon's little magic lamp At the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove, It was a faery buck, indeed, that Will Poached in that greenwood." "Ben, see that you walk Like Adam, naked! Nay, in nakedness Adam was first. Trust me, you'll not escape This calumny! Vergil is damned—he wears A hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the night From Homer! Plato is branded for a thief, Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too, Who stole his fire from heaven!" "Who printed it?" "Chettle! I know not why, unless he too Be one of those same dwarfs that find the world Too narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben, I tell thee 'tis the dwarfs that find no world Wide enough for their jostling, while the giants, The gods themselves, can in one tavern find Room wide enough to swallow the wide heaven With all its crowded solitary stars."
"Why, then, the Mermaid Inn should swallow this," The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in, As laying a hand on either shoulder of Kit He stood behind him in the gloom and smiled Across the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazed With boyhood's generous wrath. "Rob was a poet. And had I known ... no matter! I am sorry He thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this. Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit!" "Died drunk, more like," growled Ben. "And if he did," Will answered, "none was there to help him home, Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him, Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house, And let him break his heart on his own bed. Read his last words. You know he left his wife And played the moth at tavern tapers, burnt His wings and dropt into the mud. Read here, His dying words to his forsaken wife, Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it, 'I charge thee, Doll, by the love of our youth, by my soul's rest, See this man paid! Had he not succoured me I had died in the streets.' How young he was to call Thus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadow That once was Robin Greene. He left a child— See—in its face he prays her not to find The father's, but her own. 'He is yet green And may grow straight,' so flickers his last jest, Then out for ever. At the last he begged A penny-pott of malmsey. In the bill, All's printed now for crows and daws to peck, You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet. He had the poet's heart and God help all Who have that heart and somehow lose their way For lack of helm, souls that are blown abroad By the great winds of passion, without power To sway them, chartless captains. Multitudes ply Trimly enough from bank to bank of Thames Like shallow wherries, while tall galleons, Out of their very beauty driven to dare The uncompassed sea, founder in starless nights, And all that we can say is—'They died drunk!'"
"I have it from veracious witnesses," Bame snuffled, "that the death of Robert Greene Was caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirt Was very foul, and while it was at wash He lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!" "Gods," The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear, "I had a dirty cloak once on my arm; But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, take Yon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oil And bring it hither. Bring a candle, too, And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it, And then I'll seal his lips." "No—not to-night," Kit whispered, laughing, "I've a prettier plan For Master Bame." "As for that scrap of paper," The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed, "Why, which of us could send his heart and soul Thro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to find The pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trust The spoken word, no, not of my own lips, Before the Judgment Throne against myself Or on my own defence; and I'll not trust The printed word to mirror Robert Greene. See—here's another Testament, in blood, Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn. Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me. Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone; And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks."
Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe took A little scroll, and, while the winds without Rattled the shutters with their ghostly hands And wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:—
Greeting to all the Mermaid Inn From their old Vice and Slip of Sin, Greeting, Ben, to you, and you Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too. Greeting from your Might-have-been, Your broken sapling, Robert Greene.
Read my letter—'Tis my last, Then let Memory blot me out, I would not make my maudlin past A trough for every swinish snout.
First, I leave a debt unpaid, It's all chalked up, not much all told, For Bread and Sack. When I am cold, Doll can pawn my Spanish blade And pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host! But ... I have chalked up other scores In your own hearts, behind the doors, Not to be paid so quickly. Yet, O, if you would not have my ghost Creeping in at dead of night, Out of the cold wind, out of the wet, With weeping face and helpless fingers Trying to wipe the marks away, Read what I can write, still write, While this life within them lingers. Let me pay, lads, let me pay.
Item, for a peacock phrase, Flung out in a sudden blaze, Flung out at his friend Shake-scene, By this ragged Might-have-been, This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.
Will, I knew it all the while! And you know it—and you smile! My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather, While the quill that Ben, there, wields, Fluttered down thro' azure fields, From an eagle in the sun; And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing, A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain, Dropt out of an angel's wing. Only a Jackdaw's feather mine, And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine, And yours the pure Pierian streams.
But I had dreams, O, I had dreams! Dreams, you understand me, Will; And I fretted at the tether That bound me to the lowly plain, Gnawed my heart out, for I knew Once, tho' that was long ago, I might have risen with Ben and you Somewhere near that Holy Hill Whence the living rivers flow. Let it pass. I did not know One bitter phrase could ever fly So far through that immortal sky —Seeing all my songs had flown so low— One envious phrase that cannot die From century to century.
Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind, As if indeed the night were all one ghost, Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once more Its desolate passion through the reader's voice:—
Some truth there was in what I said. Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade; And something of the rest you learned From me,—but all you took you earned. You took the best I had to give, You took my clay and made it live; And that—why that's what God must do!— My music made for mortal ears You flung to all the listening spheres. You took my dreams and made them true. And, if I claimed them, the blank air Might claim the breath I shape to prayer. I do not claim it! Let the earth Claim the thrones she brings to birth. Let the first shapers of our tongue Claim whate'er is said or sung, Till the doom repeal that debt And cancel the first alphabet. Yet when, like a god, you scaled The shining crags where my foot failed; When I saw my fruit of the vine Foam in the Olympian cup, Or in that broader chalice shine Blood-red, a sacramental drink, With stars for bubbles, lifted up, Through the universal night, Up to the celestial brink, Up to that quintessential Light Where God acclaimed you for the wine Crushed from those poor grapes of mine; O, you'll understand, no doubt, How the poor vine-dresser fell, How a pin-prick can let out All the bannered hosts of hell, Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth— I had spilt my wine of youth, The Temple was not mine to build. My place in the world's march was filled.
Yet—through all the years to come— Men to whom my songs are dumb Will remember them and me For that one cry of jealousy, That curse where I had come to bless, That harsh voice of unhappiness. They'll note the curse, but not the pang, Not the torment whence it sprang, They'll note the blow at my friend's back, But not the soul stretched on the rack. They'll note the weak convulsive sting, Not the crushed body and broken wing.
Item, for my thirty years, Dashed with sun and splashed with tears, Wan with revel, red with wine, This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine. Other wiser, happier men, Take the full three-score-and-ten, Climb slow, and seek the sun. Dancing down is soon done. Golden boys, beware, beware,— The ambiguous oracles declare Loving gods for those that die Young, as old men may; but I, Quick as was my pilgrimage, Wither in mine April age.
Item, one groatsworth of wit, Bought at an exceeding price, Ay, a million of repentance. Let me pay the whole of it. Lying here these deadly nights, Lads, for me the Mermaid lights Gleam as for a castaway Swept along a midnight sea The harbour-lanthorns, each a spark, A pin-prick in the solid dark, That lets trickle through a ray Glorious out of Paradise, To stab him with new agony. Let me pay, lads, let me pay! Let the Mermaid pass the sentence: I am pleading guilty now, A dead leaf on the laurel-bough, And the storm whirls me away.
Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing wind That round and round the silent Mermaid Inn Wandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors, Like a most desolate ghost.
A sudden throng Of players bustled in, shaking the rain From their plumed hats. "Veracious witnesses," The snuffle of Bame arose anew, "declare It was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul. He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed, And his boots broken ..."
"What! Gonzago, you!" A short fat player called in a deep voice Across the room and, throwing aside his cloak To show the woman's robe he wore beneath, Minced up to Bame and bellowed—"'Tis such men As you that tempt us women to our fall!" And all the throng of players rocked and roared, Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hush Held them again.
"Look to the door," he said, "Is any listening?" The young player crept, A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped. "All's well! The coast is clear!" "Then shall we tell Our plan to Master Bame?" Round the hushed room Went Kit, a pen and paper in his hand, Whispering each to read, digest, and sign, While Ben re-filled the glass of Master Bame. "And now," said Kit aloud, "what think you, lads? Shall he be told?" Solemnly one or two 'Gan shake their heads with "Safety! safety! Kit!" "O, Bame can keep a secret! Come, we'll tell him! He can advise us how a righteous man Should act! We'll let him share an he approve. Now, Master Bame,—come closer—my good friend, Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a way Of—hush! Come closer!—coining money, Bame." "Coining!" "Ay, hush, now! Hearken! A certain sure And indiscoverable method, sir! He is acquainted with one Poole, a felon Lately released from Newgate, hath great skill In mixture of metals—hush!—and, by the help Of a right cunning maker of stamps, we mean To coin French crowns, rose-nobles, pistolettes, Angels and English shillings." For one breath Bame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes, Then murmured shyly as a country maid In her first wooing, "Is't not against the law?" "Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not Bame Coin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth? She is but mortal! And consider, too, The good works it should prosper in your hands, Without regard to red-deer pies and wine White as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame, Were not good for the general; but a few Discreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend, And mine,—what think you?" With a hesitant glance Of well-nigh child-like cunning, screwing his eyes, Bame laughed a little huskily and looked round At that grave ring of anxious faces, all Holding their breath and thrilling his blunt nerves With their stage-practice. "And no risk?" breathed Bame, "No risk at all?" "O, sir, no risk at all! We make the very coins. Besides, that part Touches not you. Yours is the honest face, That's all we want." "Why, sir, if you be sure There is no risk ..." "You'll help to spend it. Good! We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carry More angels in your pocket, master Bame, Than e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on seal To this now, master Bame, to prove your faith. Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write. Good!" And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowed The gull to the inn-door, saying as he went,— "You shall hear further when the plan's complete. But there's one great condition—not one word, One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene. He's dead; but he was one of us. The day You air his shirt, I air this paper, too." No gleam of understanding, even then, Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed, Has known such acting as the Mermaid Inn That night, and Bame but sniggered, "Why, of course, There's good in all men; and the best of us Will make mistakes." "But no mistakes in this," Said Kit, "or all together we shall swing At Tyburn—who knows what may leap to light?— You understand? No scandal!" "Not a breath!" So, in dead silence, Master Richard Bame Went out into the darkness and the night, To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon, The price of malmsey-butts and silken hose, And doublets slashed with satin. As the door Slammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burst With echo and re-echo round the room, But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearth The last poor Testament of Robert Greene. All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moaned Around the Mermaid as the sparks flew up. "God, what a night for ships upon the sea," Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes, "Well—we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring!" "The Little Red Ring," cried Kit, "the Little Red Ring!" Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle. "Give it a thumping chorus, lads," he called, And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn:—
I
Seven wise men on an old black settle, Seven wise men of the Mermaid Inn, Ringing blades of the one right metal, What is the best that a blade can win? Bread and cheese, and a few small kisses? Ha! ha! ha! Would you take them—you? —Ay, if Dame Venus would add to her blisses A roaring fire and a friend or two!
Chorus: Up now, answer me, tell me true!— —Ay, if the hussy would add to her blisses A roaring fire and a friend or two!
II
What will you say when the world is dying? What, when the last wild midnight falls Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying Round the ruins of old St. Paul's? What will be last of the lights to perish? What but the little red ring we knew, Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish A fire, a fire, and a friend or two!
Chorus: Up now, answer me, tell me true! What will be last of the stars to perish? —The fire that lighteth a friend or two!
III
Up now, answer me, on your mettle Wisest man of the Mermaid Inn, Soberest man on the old black settle, Out with the truth! It was never a sin.— Well, if God saved me alone of the seven, Telling me you must be damned, or you, "This," I would say, "This is hell, not heaven! Give me the fire and a friend or two!"
Chorus: Steel was never so ringing true: "God," we would say, "this is hell, not heaven! Give us the fire, and a friend or two!"
III
BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON
The garlands of a Whitsun ale were strewn About our rushes, the night that Raleigh brought Bacon to sup with us. There, on that night, I saw the singer of the Faerie Queen Quietly spreading out his latest cantos For Shakespeare's eye, like white sheets in the sun. Marlowe, our morning-star, and Michael Drayton Talked in that ingle-nook. And Ben was there, Humming a song upon that old black settle: "Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not ask for wine." But, meanwhile, he drank malmsey. Francis Bacon Straddled before the fire; and, all at once, He said to Shakespeare, in a voice that gripped The Mermaid Tavern like an arctic frost:
"There are no poets in this age of ours, Not to compare with Plautus. They are all Dead, the men that were famous in old days." "Why—so they are," said Will. The humming stopped. I saw poor Spenser, a shy gentle soul, With haunted eyes like starlit forest pools, Smuggling his cantos under his cloak again. "There's verse enough, no doubt," Bacon went on, "But English is no language for the Muse. Whom would you call our best? There's Gabriel Harvey, And Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then there's Dyer, And Doctor Golding; while, for tragedy, Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, hath a lofty vein. And, in a lighter prettier vein, why, Will, There is thyself! But—where's Euripides?"
"Dead," echoed Ben, in a deep ghost-like voice. And drip—drip—drip—outside we heard the rain Miserably dropping round the Mermaid Inn.
"Thy Summer's Night—eh, Will? Midsummer's Night?— That's a quaint fancy," Bacon droned anew, "But—Athens was an error, Will! Not Athens! Titania knew not Athens! Those wild elves Of thy Midsummer's Dream—eh? Midnight's Dream?— Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England; They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too, He is not Greek!" "Greek?" Will said, with a chuckle, "Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped Along that countryside? By Burton Heath? Ah, well, you would not know my fairylands. It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy In jumping time and space." But, as he took The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly The lawyer shook his head. "Will, couldst thou use Thy talents with discretion, and obey Classic examples, those mightst match old Plautus, In all except priority of the tongue. This English tongue is only for an age, But Latin for all time. So I propose To embalm in Latin my philosophies. Well seize your hour! But, ere you die, you'll sail A British galleon to the golden courts Of Cleopatra." "Sail it!" Marlowe roared, Mimicking in a fit of thunderous glee The drums and trumpets of his Tamburlaine: "And let her buccaneers bestride the sphinx, And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids, And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands Home to the Mermaid! Lift the good old song That Rob Greene loved. Gods, how the lad would shout it! Stand up and sing, John Davis!" "Up!" called Raleigh, "Lift the chanty of Black Bill's Honey-moon, Jack! We'll keep the chorus going!" "Silence, all!" Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench: "This gentle lawyer hath a longing, lads, To hear a right Homeric hymn. Now, Jack! But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack For the first canto! Muscadel, the next! Canary for the last!" I brought the cup. John Davis emptied it at one mighty draught, Leapt on a table, stamped with either foot, And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale:
CANTO THE FIRST
Let Martin Parker at hawthorn-tide Prattle in Devonshire lanes, Let all his pedlar poets beside Rattle their gallows-chains, A tale like mine they never shall tell Or a merrier ballad sing, Till the Man in the Moon pipe up the tune And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!
Chorus: Till Philip of Spain in England reign, And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!
All in the gorgeous dawn of day From grey old Plymouth Sound Our galleon crashed thro' the crimson spray To sail the world around: Cloud i' the Sun was her white-scrolled name,— There was never a lovelier lass For sailing in state after pieces of eight With her bombards all of brass.
Chorus: Culverins, robinets, iron may-be; But her bombards all of brass!
Now, they that go down to the sea in ships, Though piracy be their trade, For all that they pray not much with their lips They know where the storms are made: With the stars above and the sharks below, They need not parson or clerk; But our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except—sometimes—in the dark!
Chorus: Now let Kit Marlowe mark! Our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except—sometimes—in the dark!
All we adventured for, who shall say, Nor yet what our port might be?— A magical city of old Cathay, Or a castle of Muscovy, With our atheist bo'sun, Bill, Black Bill, Under the swinging Bear, Whistling at night for a seaman to light His little poop-lanthorns there.
Chorus: On the deep, in the night, for a seaman to light His little lost lanthorns there.
But, as over the Ocean-sea we swept, We chanced on a strange new land Where a valley of tall white lilies slept With a forest on either hand; A valley of white in a purple wood And, behind it, faint and far, Breathless and bright o'er the last rich height, Floated the sunset-star.
Chorus: Fair and bright o'er the rose-red height, Venus, the sunset-star.
'Twas a marvel to see, as we beached our boat, Black Bill, in that peach-bloom air, With the great white lilies that reached to his throat Like a stained-glass bo'sun there, And our little ship's chaplain, puffing and red, A-starn as we onward stole, With the disk of a lily behind his head Like a cherubin's aureole.
Chorus: He was round and red and behind his head He'd a cherubin's aureole.
"Hyrcania, land of honey and bees, We have found thee at last," he said, "Where the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees," (O, the lily behind his head!) "The honey-comb swells in the purple wood! 'Tis the swette which the heavens distil, Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf! Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?"
Chorus: "Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf! Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?"
Now a man may taste of the devil's hot spice, And yet if his mind run back To the honey of childhood's Paradise His heart is not wholly black; And Bill, Black Bill, from the days of his youth, Tho' his chest was broad as an oak, Had cherished one innocent little sweet tooth, And it itched as our chaplain spoke.
Chorus: He had kept one perilous little tooth, And it itched as our chaplain spoke.
All around was a mutter of bees, And Bill 'gan muttering too,— "If the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees, (What else can a Didymus do?) I'll steer to the purple woods myself And see if this thing be so, Which the chaplain found on his little book-shelf, For Pliny lived long ago."
Chorus: There's a platter of delf on his little book-shelf, And Pliny lived long ago.
Scarce had he spoken when, out of the wood, And buffeting all around, Rooting our sea-boots where we stood, There rumbled a marvellous sound, As a mountain of honey were crumbling asunder, Or a sunset-avalanche hurled Honey-comb boulders of golden thunder To smother the old black world.
Chorus: Honey-comb boulders of musical thunder To mellow this old black world.
And the chaplain he whispered—"This honey, one saith, On my camphired cabin-shelf, None may harvest on pain of death; For the bee would eat it himself! None walketh those woods but him whose voice In the dingles you then did hear!" "A VOICE?" growls Bill. "Ay, Bill, r-r-rejoice! 'Twas the great Hyrcanian Bear!"
Chorus: Give thanks! Re-joice! 'Twas the glor-r-r-ious Voice Of the great Hyrcanian Bear!
But, marking that Bill looked bitter indeed, For his sweet tooth hungered sore, "Consider," he saith, "that the Sweet hath need Of the Sour, as the Sea of the Shore! As the night to the day is our grief to our joy, And each for its brother prepares A banquet, Bill, that would otherwise cloy. Thus is it with honey and bears."
Chorus: Roses and honey and laughter would cloy! Give us thorns, too, and sorrow and bears!
"Consider," he saith, "how by fretting a string The lutanist maketh sweet moan, And a bird ere it fly must have air for its wing To buffet or fall like a stone: Tho' you blacken like Pluto you make but more white These blooms which not Enna could yield! Consider, Black Bill, ere the coming of night, The lilies," he saith, "of the field."
Chorus: "Consider, Black Bill, in this beautiful light, The lilies," he saith, "of the field."
"Consider the claws of a Bear," said Bill, "That can rip off the flesh from your bones, While his belly could cabin the skipper and still Accommodate Timothy Jones! Why, that's where a seaman who cares for his grog Perspires how this world isn't square! If there's cause for a cow, if there's use for a dog, By Pope John, there's no Sense in a Bear!"
Chorus: Cause for a cow, use for a dog, By'r Lakin, no Sense in a Bear!
But our little ship's chaplain—"Sense," quoth he, "Hath the Bear tho' his making have none; For, my little book saith, by the sting of this bee Would Ursus be wholly foredone, But, or ever the hive he adventureth nigh And its crisp gold-crusted dome, He lardeth his nose and he greaseth his eye With a piece of an honey-comb."
Chorus: His velvety nose and his sensitive eye With a piece of an honey-comb.
Black Bill at the word of that golden crust —For his ears had forgotten the roar, And his eyes grew soft with their innocent lust— 'Gan licking his lips once more: "Be it bound like a missal and printed as fair, With capitals blue and red, 'Tis a lie; for what honey could comfort a bear, Till the bear win the honey?" he said.
Chorus: "Ay, whence the first honey wherewith the first bear First larded his nose?" he said.
"Thou first metaphysical bo'sun, Bill," Our chaplain quizzingly cried, "Wilt thou riddle me redes of a dumpling still With thy 'how came the apple inside'?" "Nay," answered Bill, "but I quest for truth, And I find it not on your shelf! I will face your Hyrcanian bear, forsooth, And look at his nose myself."
Chorus: For truth, for truth, or a little sweet tooth— I will into the woods myself.
Breast-high thro' that foam-white ocean of bloom With its wonderful spokes of gold, Our sun-burnt crew in the rose-red gloom Like buccaneer galleons rolled: Breast-high, breast-high in the lilies we stood, And before we could say "good-night," Out of the valley and into the wood He plunged thro' the last rich light.
Chorus: Out of the lilies and into the wood, Where the Great Bear walks all night!
And our little ship's chaplain he piped thro' the trees As the moon rose, white and still, "Hylas, return to thy Heracles!" And we helped him with "Come back, Bill!" Thrice he piped it, thrice we halloo'd, And thrice we were dumb to hark; But never an answer came from the wood, So—we turned to our ship in the dark.
Chorus: Good-bye, Bill! you're a Didymus still; But—you're all alone in the dark.
"This honey now"—as the first canto ceased, The great young Bacon pompously began— "Which Pliny calleth, as it were, the swette Of heaven, or spettle of the stars, is found In Muscovy. Now ..." "Bring the muscadel," Ben Jonson roared—"'Tis a more purple drink, And suits with the next canto!" At one draught John Davis drained the cup, and with one hand Beating the measure, rapidly trolled again.
CANTO THE SECOND
Now, Rabelais, art thou quite foredone, Dan Chaucer, Drayton, Every One! Leave we aboard our Cloud i' the Sun This crew of pirates dreaming— Of Angels, minted in the blue Like golden moons, Rose-nobles, too, As under the silver-sliding dew Our emerald creek lay gleaming!
Chorus: Under the stars lay gleaming!
And mailed with scales of gold and green The high star-lilied banks between, Nosing our old black hulk unseen, Great alligators shimmered: Blood-red jaws i' the blue-black ooze, Where all the long warm day they snooze, Chewing old cuds of pirate-crews, Around us grimly glimmered.
Chorus: Their eyes like rubies glimmered.
Let us now sing of Bill, good sirs! Follow him, all green foresteres, Fearless of Hyrcanian bears As of these ghostly lilies! For O, not Drayton there could sing Of wild Pigwiggen and his King So merry a jest, so jolly a thing As this my tale of Bill is.
Chorus: Into the woods where Bill is!
Now starts he as a white owl hoots, And now he stumbles over roots, And now beneath his big sea-boots In yon deep glade he crunches Black cakes of honey-comb that were So elfin-sweet, perchance, last year; But neither Bo'sun, now, nor Bear At that dark banquet munches.
Chorus: Onward still he crunches!
Black cakes of honey-comb he sees Above him in the forks of trees, Filled by stars instead of bees, With brimming silver glisten: But ah, such food of gnome and fay Could neither Bear nor Bill delay Till where yon ferns and moonbeams play He starts and stands to listen!
Chorus: What melody doth he listen?
Is it the Night-Wind as it comes Through the wood and softly thrums Silvery tabors, purple drums, To speed some wild-wood revel? Nay, Didymus, what faint sweet din Of viol and flute and violin Makes all the forest round thee spin, The Night-Wind or the Devil?
Chorus: No doubt at all—the Devil!
He stares, with naked knife in hand, This buccaneer in fairyland! Dancing in a saraband The red ferns reel about him! Dancing in a morrice-ring The green ferns curtsey, kiss and cling! Their Marians flirt, their Robins fling Their feathery heels to flout him!
Chorus: The whole wood reels about him.
Dance, ye shadows! O'er the glade, Bill, the Bo'sun, undismayed, Pigeon-toes with glittering blade! Drake was never bolder! Devil or Spaniard, what cares he Whence your eerie music be? Till—lo, against yon old oak-tree He leans his brawny shoulder!
Chorus: He lists and leans his shoulder!
Ah, what melody doth he hear As to that gnarled old tree-trunk there He lays his wind-bit brass-ringed ear, And steals his arm about it? What Dryad could this Bo'sun win To that slow-rippling amorous grin?— 'Twas full of singing bees within! Not Didymus could doubt it!
Chorus: So loud they buzzed about it!
Straight, o'er a bough one leg he throws, And up that oaken main-mast goes With reckless red unlarded nose And gooseberry eyes of wonder! Till now, as in a galleon's hold, Below, he sees great cells of gold Whence all the hollow trunk up-rolled A low melodious thunder.
Chorus: A sweet and perilous thunder!
Ay, there, within that hollow tree, Will Shakespeare, mightst thou truly see The Imperial City of the Bee, In Chrysomelan splendour! And, in the midst, one eight-foot dome Swells o'er that Titan honey-comb Where the Bee-Empress hath her home, With such as do attend her,
Chorus: Weaponed with stings attend her!
But now her singing sentinels Have turned to sleep in waxen cells, And Bill leans down his face and smells The whole sweet summer's cargo— In one deep breath, the whole year's bloom, Lily and thyme and rose and broom, One Golden Fleece of flower-perfume In that old oaken Argo.
Chorus: That green and golden Argo!
And now he hangs with dangling feet Over that dark abyss of sweet, Striving to reach such wild gold meat As none could buy for money: His left hand grips a swinging branch When—crack! Our Bo'sun, stout and stanch, Falls like an Alpine avalanche, Feet first into the honey!
Chorus: Up to his ears in honey!
And now his red unlarded nose And bulging eyes are all that shows Above it, as he puffs and blows! And now—to 'scape the scathing Of that black host of furious bees His nose and eyes he fain would grease And bobs below those golden seas Like an old woman bathing.
Chorus: Old Mother Hubbard bathing!
And now he struggles, all in vain, To reach some little bough again; But, though he heaves with might and main, This honey holds his ribs, sirs, So tight, a barque might sooner try To steer a cargo through the sky Than Bill, thus honey-logged, to fly By flopping of his jib, sirs!
Chorus: His tops'l and his jib, sirs!
Like Oberon in the hive his beard With wax and honey all besmeared Would make the crescent moon afeard That now is sailing brightly Right o'er his leafy donjon-keep! But that she knows him sunken deep, And that his tower is straight and steep, She would not smile so lightly.
Chorus: Look down and smile so lightly.
She smiles in that small heavenly space, Ringed with the tree-trunk's leafy grace, While upward grins his ghastly face As if some wild-wood Satyr, Some gnomish Ptolemy should dare Up that dark optic tube to stare, As all unveiled she floated there, Poor maiden moon, straight at her!
Chorus: The buccaneering Satyr!
But there, till some one help him out, Black Bill must stay, without a doubt. "Help! Help!" he gives a muffled shout. None but the white owls hear it! Who? Whoo? they cry: Bill answers "ME! I am stuck fast in this great tree! Bring me a rope, good Timothy! There's honey, lads, we'll share it!"
Chorus: Ay, now he wants to share it.
Then, thinking help may come with morn, He sinks, half-famished and out-worn, And scarce his nose exalts its horn Above that sea of glory! But, even as he owns defeat, His belly saith, "A man must eat, And since there is none other meat, Come, lap this mess before 'ee!"
Chorus: This glorious mess before 'ee.
Then Dian sees a right strange sight As, bidding him a fond good-night, She flings a silvery kiss to light In that deep oak-tree hollow, And finds that gold and crimson nose A moving, munching, ravenous rose That up and down unceasing goes, Save when he stops to swallow!
Chorus: He finds it hard to swallow!
Ay, now his best becomes his worst, For honey cannot quench his thirst, Though he should eat until he burst; But, ah, the skies are kindly, And from their tender depths of blue They send their silver-sliding dew. So Bill thrusts out his tongue anew And waits to catch it—blindly!
Chorus: For ah, the stars are kindly!
And sometimes, with a shower of rain, They strive to ease their prisoner's pain: Then Bill thrusts out his tongue again With never a grace, the sinner! And day and night and day goes by, And never a comrade comes anigh, And still the honey swells as high For supper, breakfast, dinner!
Chorus: Yet Bill has grown no thinner!
The young moon grows to full and throws Her buxom kiss upon his nose, As nightly over the tree she goes, And peeps and smiles and passes, Then with her fickle silver flecks Our old black galleon's dreaming decks; And then her face, with nods and becks, In midmost ocean glasses.
Chorus: 'Twas ever the way with lasses!
Ah, Didymus, hast thou won indeed That Paradise which is thy meed? (Thy tale not all that run may read!) Thy sweet hath now no leaven! Now, like an onion in a cup Of mead, thou liest for Jove to sup, Could Polyphemus lift thee up With Titan hands to heaven!
Chorus: This great oak-cup to heaven!
The second canto ceased; and, as they raised Their wine-cups with the last triumphant note, Bacon, undaunted, raised his grating voice— "This honey which, in some sort, may be styled The Spettle of the Stars ..." "Bring the Canary!" Ben Jonson roared. "It is a moral wine And suits the third, last canto!" At one draught John Davis drained it and began anew.
CANTO THE THIRD
A month went by. We were hoisting sail! We had lost all hope of Bill; Though, laugh as you may at a seaman's tale, He was fast in his honey-comb still! And often he thinks of the chaplain's word In the days he shall see no more,— How the Sweet, indeed, of the Sour hath need; And the Sea, likewise, of the Shore.
Chorus: The chaplain's word of the Air and a Bird; Of the Sea, likewise, and the Shore!
"O, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly To a heaven, of aloes and gall! I have honeyed," he yammers, "my nose and mine eye, And the bees cannot sting me at all! And it's O, for the sting of a little brown bee, Or to blister my hands on a rope, Or to buffet a thundering broad-side sea On a deck like a mountain-slope!"
Chorus: With her mast snapt short, and a list to port And a deck like a mountain-slope.
But alas, and he thinks of the chaplain's voice When that roar from the woods out-break— R-r-re-joice! R-r-re-joice! "Now, wherefore rejoice In the music a bear could make? 'Tis a judgment, maybe, that I stick in this tree; Yet in this I out-argued him fair! Though I live, though I die, in this honey-comb pie, By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!"
Chorus: Notes in a nightingale, plums in a pie, By'r Lakin, no Sense in a Bear!
He knew not our anchor was heaved from the mud: He was growling it over again, When—a strange sound suddenly froze his blood, And curdled his big slow brain!— A marvellous sound, as of great steel claws Gripping the bark of his tree, Softly ascended! Like lightning ended His honey-comb reverie!
Chorus: The honey-comb quivered! The little leaves shivered! Something was climbing the tree!
Something that breathed like a fat sea-cook, Or a pirate of fourteen ton! But it clomb like a cat (tho' the whole tree shook) Stealthily tow'rds the sun, Till, as Black Bill gapes at the little blue ring Overhead, which he calls the sky, It is clean blotted out by a monstrous Thing Which—hath larded its nose and its eye.
Chorus: O, well for thee, Bill, that this monstrous Thing Hath blinkered its little red eye.
Still as a mouse lies Bill with his face Low down in the dark sweet gold, While this monster turns round in the leaf-fringed space! Then—taking a good firm hold, As the skipper descending the cabin-stair, Tail-first with a vast slow tread, Solemnly, softly, cometh this Bear Straight down o'er the Bo'sun's head.
Chorus: Solemnly—slowly—cometh this Bear, Tail-first o'er the Bo'sun's head.
Nearer—nearer—then all Bill's breath Out-bursts in one leap and yell! And this Bear thinks, "Now am I gripped from beneath By a roaring devil from hell!" And madly Bill clutches his brown bow-legs, And madly this Bear doth hale, With his little red eyes fear-mad for the skies And Bill's teeth fast in his tail!
Chorus: Small wonder a Bear should quail! To have larded his nose, to have greased his eyes, And be stung at the last in his tail.
Pull, Bo'sun! Pull, Bear! In the hot sweet gloom, Pull Bruin, pull Bill, for the skies! Pull—out of their gold with a bombard's boom Come Black Bill's honeyed thighs! Pull! Up! Up! Up! with a scuffle and scramble, To that little blue ring of bliss, This Bear doth go with our Bo'sun in tow Stinging his tail, I wis.
Chorus: And this Bear thinks—"Many great bees I know, But there never was Bee like this!"
All in the gorgeous death of day We had slipped from our emerald creek, And our Cloud i' the Sun was careening away With the old gay flag at the peak, When, suddenly, out of the purple wood, Breast-high thro' the lilies there danced A tall lean figure, black as a nigger, That shouted and waved and pranced!
Chorus: A gold-greased figure, but black as a nigger, Waving his shirt as he pranced!
"'Tis Hylas! 'Tis Hylas!" our chaplain flutes, And our skipper he looses a shout! "'Tis Bill! Black Bill, in his old sea-boots! Stand by to bring her about! Har-r-rd a-starboard!" And round we came, With a lurch and a dip and a roll, And a banging boom thro' the rose-red gloom For our old Black Bo'sun's soul!
Chorus: Alive! Not dead! Tho' behind his head He'd a seraphin's aureole!
And our chaplain he sniffs, as Bill finished his tale, (With the honey still scenting his hair!) O'er a plate of salt beef and a mug of old ale— "By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!" And we laughed, but our Bo'sun he solemnly growls —"Till the sails of yon heavens be furled, It taketh—now, mark!—all the beasts in the Ark, Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!"
Chorus: Till the great—blue—sails—be—furled, It taketh—now, mark!—all the beasts in the Ark, Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world! |
|
