LXII

The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550 And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555 Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.

LXIII

While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560 Her bony visage—gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife—"God be praised, 565 I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!"

LXIV

So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570 And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said—"I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575 Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

LXV

"Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580 But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me—there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain: For I shall never see my father's door again. 585

LXVI

"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— 590 Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

LXVII

"A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 595 Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; 600 A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

LXVIII

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605 Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And he had done the deed in the dark wood— Near his own home!—but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 610 My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."

LXIX

Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615 He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried—"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620 I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!"

LXX

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625 Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 630

LXXI

She slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 635 His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

LXXII

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; 640 And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained 645 Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

LXXIII

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight 650 He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," 655 He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

LXXIV

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:—no one on his form or face 660 Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 665 And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

Three years ... 1842.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... rose and pursued ... 1842.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

... demoniac ... 1842.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! 1842.]

[Variant 5:

1845.

And, from its perilous shelter driven, ... 1842.]

[Variant 6: The following stanza was only in the editions of 1798 and 1800:

By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, (The Woman thus her artless story told) One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. 1798.

... or from the mountain fold Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more. 1800.]

[Variant 7:

1842.

My father was a good and pious man, An honest man by honest parents bred, 1798.]

[Variant 8: Stanzas XXIV. and XXV. were omitted from the editions of 1802 and 1805. They were restored in 1820.]

[Variant 9:

1842.

Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. 1798.

Can I forget our croft and plot of corn; Our garden, stored ... 1836.

The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; 1820.

The swans, that with white chests upheaved in pride, Rushing and racing came to meet me at the waterside. 1836.]

[Variant 10:

1842.

... yet ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1802.

When ... 1798.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1845.

... would ... 1842.]

[Variant 14:

1845.

... summer ... 1842.]

[Variant 15:

1845.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, And cottage after cottage owned its sway, No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray Through pastures not his own, the master took; My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; He loved his old hereditary nook, And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. 1798.

Then rose a stately hall our woods among, 1800.

... how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay; We toiled, and struggled—hoping for a day When Fortune should put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes—efforts vain as they: He from his old hereditary nook Must part,—the summons came,—our final leave we took. 1820.]

[Variant 16: The following stanza occurs only in the editions 1798 to 1805:

But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: His troubles grew upon him day by day, Till all his substance fell into decay. His little range of water was denied; [i] All but the bed where his old body lay, All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. 1798.

And all his substance fell into decay. They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried To move their hearts—but it was vain—for they Seized all he had; and, weeping ... 1802-5.]



[Variant 17:

1820.

Can I forget that miserable hour, 1798.

It was in truth a lamentable hour 1802.]

[Variant 18:

1798.

I saw our own dear home, that was ... 1802.

The edition of 1820 returns to the text of 1798.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... many and many a song 1798.]

[Variant 20:

1800.

... little birds ... 1798.]

[Variant 21:

1836.

His father said, that to a distant town He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 1798.

Two years were pass'd, since to a distant Town He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade. 1802.]

[Variant 22:

1802.

Four years each day with daily bread was blest, By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 1798.]

[Variant 23:

1836.

Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; 1798.]

[Variant 24:

1842.

When sad distress... 1798.]

[Variant 25:

1836.

... from him the grave did hide 1798.

... for him ... 1820.]

[Variant 26:

1798.

... which ... Only in 1820.]

[Variant 27:

1836.

... could ... 1798.]

[Variant 28:

1798.

But soon, day after day, ... 1802.

The edition of 1820 reverts to the reading of 1798.]

[Variant 29:

1836.

... to sweep ... 1798.]

[Variant 30:

1836.

There foul neglect for months and months we bore, Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. 1798.

There, long were we neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd; 1802.]

[Variant 31:

1802.

Green fields before us and our native shore, By fever, from polluted air incurred, Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, 1798.]

[Variant 32:

1802.

But from delay the summer calms were past. 1798.]

[Variant 33:

1802.

We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 1798.]

[Variant 34:

Oh! dreadful price of being to resign All that is dear in being! better far In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, Better our dying bodies to obtrude, Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, Protract a curst existence, with the brood That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.

Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800.]

[Variant 35:

1842.

It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 1798.]

[Variant 36:

1842.

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 1798.]

[Variant 37:

1827.

... has its hour of rest, That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 1798.

I too was calm, though heavily distress'd! 1802.]

[Variant 38:

1842.

Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, A heavenly silence did the waves invest; I looked and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 1798.

Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were! My heart was healed within me, I was bless'd. And looked, and looked ... 1802.

My heart was hushed within me, ... 1815.

As quiet all within me, ... 1827.]

[Variant 39:

1800.

Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 1798.]

[Variant 40: The following stanza appeared only in the editions 1798-1805:

Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape, While like a sea the storming army came, And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child! But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape! —For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1798.

At midnight once the storming Army came, Yet do I see the miserable sight, The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame That followed us and faced us in our flight: When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child! But I must leave these thoughts.—From night to night, From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild; And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1802-5.]

[Variant 41:

1802.

And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought At last my feet a resting-place had found: Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 1798.]

[Variant 42:

1842.

Here watch, of every human friend disowned, All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood— 1798.

Here will I live:—of every friend disown'd, Here will I roam about the ocean flood.— 1802.

And end my days upon the ocean flood."— 1815.]

[Variant 43:

1842.

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 1798.

Helpless as sailor cast on some bare rock; 1836.]

[Variant 44:

1842.

Nor dared ... 1798.]

[Variant 45:

1802.

How dismal ... 1798.]

[Variant 46:

1832.

... frame ... 1798.]

[Variant 47:

1836.

So passed another day, and so the third: Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 1798.]

[Variant 48:

1827.

Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 1798.

And I had many interruptions short 1802.]

[Variant 49:

1802.

... sunk ... 1798.]

[Variant 50:

1827.

And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. 1798.

And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital. 1802.]

[Variant 51:

1827.

Recovery came with food: but still, my brain Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 1798.]

[Variant 52:

1842.

... with careless cruelty, 1798.]

[Variant 53:

1815.

... would ... 1798.]

[Variant 54:

1836.

... torpid ... 1798.]

[Variant 55:

1827.

Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... 1798.

My memory and my strength returned; ... 1802.]

[Variant 56:

1802.

The wild brood ... 1798.]

[Variant 57: The following stanza occurs only in the editions of 1798 to 1805:

My heart is touched to think that men like these, The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief: How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! And their long holiday that feared not grief, For all belonged to all, and each was chief. No plough their sinews strained; on grating road No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf In every vale for their delight was stowed: For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. 1798.

My heart is touched to think that men like these, Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief: 1802.

In every field, with milk their dairy overflow'd. 1802.]

[Variant 58:

1836.

Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made Of potters wandering on from door to door: But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 1798.

They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made Of Potters ... 1802.]

[Variant 59:

1836.

In depth of forest glade, when ... 1798.

Among the forest glades when ... 1802.]

[Variant 60:

1802.

But ill it suited me, in journey dark 1798.]

[Variant 61:

1802.

Poor father! ... 1798.]

[Variant 62:

1842.

Ill was I ... 1798.]

[Variant 63:

1842.

With tears whose course no effort could confine, By high-way side forgetful would I sit 1798.

By the road-side forgetful would I sit 1802.

In the open air forgetful ... 1836.]

[Variant 64:

1836.

... my ... 1798.]



[Variant 65:

1836.

I lived upon the mercy of the fields, And oft of cruelty the sky accused; On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 1798.

I led a wandering life among the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields, 1802.]

[Variant 66:

1802.

The fields ... 1798.]

[Variant 67:

1836.

Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend 1798.

Three years thus wandering, ... 1802.]

[Variant 68:

1836.

And now across this moor my steps I bend— 1798.]



* * * * *

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote A: In the 'Prelude', he says it was "three summer days." See book xiii. l. 337.—Ed.]

[Footnote B: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840). See p. 37.—Ed.[Footnote D of 'Descriptive Sketches', the preceding poem in this text.]]

[Footnote C: From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young.—W. W. 1842.

Charles Farish was the author of 'The Minstrels of Winandermere'.—Ed.]

[Footnote D: Compare Milton's "grinding sword," 'Paradise Lost', vi. l. 329.—Ed.]



* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE

[Sub-Footnote i: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.—W. W. 1798.]



* * * * *



LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING [A] A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT

Composed 1795.—Published 1798

[Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks above the peninsula on which the Ferry House [B] stands. This property afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his 'Guide', as the pride of the Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these notes.—I. F.]

* * * * *

From 1815 to 1843 these 'Lines' were placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845, they were classed among "Poems written in Youth."—Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? [1] Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 5 That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree [2] 10 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, [3] I well remember.—He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 15 A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20 Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, [4] And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25 His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5] And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, [6] Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,—how lovely 'tis Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became 35 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When nature had subdued him to herself, [8] Would he forget those Beings to whose minds Warm from the labours of benevolence 40 The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, 45 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died,—this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55 Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60 True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

* * * * *



The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as one goes towards Sawrey. Mr. Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards nearer the village than the yew which is now on the roadside, and is sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew." In the poet's school-days the road passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in the common. The present tree is erroneously called "Wordsworth's Yew." Its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood has given rise to the local tradition.—Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1832.

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1800.

Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1802.

... In youth, by genius nurs'd, And big with lofty views, he to the world Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 1798.

... The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service: he was like a plant Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds, But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by, Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once, With indignation did he turn away 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1798.

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird Piping along the margin of the lake; 1815.

The text of 1820 returned to that of 1798. [i]]

[Variant 6:

1820.

And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er. 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1800.

... downward [ii] ... 1798.]

[Variant 8: This line was added by S. T. C. in the edition of 1800.]

[Variant 9:

1827.

... and man himself, ... 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1836.

With mournful joy, to think ... 1798.]



* * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Yet commanding, 1798-1805.]

[Footnote B: The Ferry on Windermere.—Ed.]



* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTES TO THE VARIANTS

[Sub-Footnote i: The final retention of the reading of 1798 was probably due to a remark of Charles Lamb's, in 1815, in which he objected to the loss of the "admirable line" in the first edition, "a line quite alive," he called it. Future generations may doubt whether the reading of 1798, or that of 1815, is the better.—Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote ii: An emendation by S. T. C.—Ed.]



* * * * *



THE BORDERERS

A TRAGEDY

Composed 1795-6.—Published 1842

Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, [A] which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.

February 28, 1842. [B]

This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of 'The Borderers' was composed. [C]

* * * * *

[Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read Redpath's 'History of the Borders', but found there nothing to my purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of 'Remorse'; and it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr. Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no disappointment when the piece was judiciously returned as not calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as is well known, brought forward several years after, through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently 'motiveless' actions of bad men intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed.—I. F.]

'The Borderers' was first published in the 1842 edition of "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years." In 1845, it was placed in the class of "Poems written in Youth."—Ed.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MARMADUKE. OSWALD. WALLACE. - Of the Band of LACY. Borderers. LENNOX. HERBERT. /

WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE. Host. Forester. ELDRED, a Peasant. Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.

IDONEA. Female Beggar. ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.



SCENE—Borders of England and Scotland

TIME—The Reign of Henry III.



ACT I

SCENE—Road in a Wood

WALLACE and LACY



LACY The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. —-Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service.

WALLACE Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.

LACY True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain.

WALLACE I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him—then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine?

LACY Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone—the Band may else be foiled.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED]

WILFRED Be cautious, my dear Master!

MARMADUKE I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm.

WILFRED Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is—

MARMADUKE Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?

WILFRED You know that you have saved his life.

MARMADUKE I know it.

WILFRED And that he hates you!—Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty.

MARMADUKE Fy! no more of it.

WILFRED Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.—Nobody loves this Oswald— Yourself, you do not love him.

MARMADUKE I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest.

WILFRED Oh, Sir!

MARMADUKE Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.

WILFRED May He whose eye is over all protect you!

[Exit.]

[Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand)]

OSWALD This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.

MARMADUKE (looking at them) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favorite, Oswald?

OSWALD That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal— [Looking forward.] Not yet in sight!—We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.

MARMADUKE (a letter in his hand) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; 'Tis a strange letter this!—You saw her write it?

OSWALD And saw the tears with which she blotted it.

MARMADUKE And nothing less would satisfy him?

OSWALD No less; For that another in his Child's affection Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, Which you've collected for the noblest ends, Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent—he calls us "Outlaws"; And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed.

MARMADUKE Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.

OSWALD Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed.

MARMADUKE This day will suffice To end her wrongs.

OSWALD But if the blind Man's tale Should yet be true?

MARMADUKE Would it were possible! Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, And others who survived the wreck, beheld The Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus?

OSWALD Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before: in sooth The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised; and, on the back Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail To make the proud and vain his tributaries, And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much The Arch-Impostor—

MARMADUKE Treat him gently, Oswald: Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken.

OSWALD See, they come, Two Travellers!

MARMADUKE (points) The woman [1] is Idonea.

OSWALD And leading Herbert.

MARMADUKE We must let them pass— This thicket will conceal us.

[They step aside.]

[Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind.]

IDONEA Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled.

HERBERT Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine.

IDONEA That dismal Moor— In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!— I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us: and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods— A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,— That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength;—come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There—indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank.

[He sits down.]

HERBERT (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.

IDONEA Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, Those eyeballs dark—dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give.

HERBERT Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate—my grave, And thee, my Child!

IDONEA Believe me, honoured Sire! 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature—

HERBERT I comprehend thee—I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning.—The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone?

IDONEA Is he not strong? Is he not valiant?

HERBERT Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed— This Marmaduke—

IDONEA O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.

HERBERT Unhappy Woman!

IDONEA Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forget— Dear Father! how could I forget and live— You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.

HERBERT Thy Mother too!—scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face—a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.

IDONEA Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.

HERBERT Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time— For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to Rossland,—there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home—and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.—For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both.

IDONEA Oh, could you hear his voice! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.

[Enter a Peasant]

PEASANT Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you!

IDONEA My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome.

PEASANT Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel—shall I support you?

HERBERT I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you.

PEASANT God speed you both.

[Exit Peasant.]

HERBERT Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed— 'Tis but for a few days—a thought has struck me.

IDONEA That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.

[Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA.]

[Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD]

MARMADUKE This instant will we stop him—

OSWALD Be not hasty, For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, He tempted me to think the Story true; 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said That savoured of aversion to thy name Appeared the genuine colour of his soul— Anxiety lest mischief should befal her After his death.

MARMADUKE I have been much deceived.

OSWALD But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with inventions!—death— There must be truth in this.

MARMADUKE Truth in his story! He must have felt it then, known what it was, And in such wise to rack her gentle heart Had been a tenfold cruelty.

OSWALD Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity! I'd wager on his life for twenty years.

MARMADUKE We will not waste an hour in such a cause.

OSWALD Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.

MARMADUKE Her virtues are his instruments.—A Man Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child—what! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver?—no—no—no— 'Tis but a word and then—

OSWALD Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear—you have had enemies.

MARMADUKE Enemies!—of his own coinage.

OSWALD That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.— I am perplexed.

MARMADUKE What hast thou heard or seen?

OSWALD No—no—the thing stands clear of mystery; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear;—for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be—

MARMADUKE What cannot be?

OSWALD Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child—

MARMADUKE Nay, you abuse my friendship!

OSWALD Heaven forbid!— There was a circumstance, trifling indeed— It struck me at the time—yet I believe I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed.

MARMADUKE What is your meaning?

OSWALD Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest.

MARMADUKE Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door— It could not be.

OSWALD And yet I now remember, That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, And the blind Man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me.

MARMADUKE No—it cannot be— I dare not trust myself with such a thought— Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures—

OSWALD If you deem it A thing worth further notice, we must act With caution, sift the matter artfully.

[Exeunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD.]

SCENE—The door of the Hostel

HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host

HERBERT (seated) As I am dear to you, remember, Child! This last request.

IDONEA You know me, Sire; farewell!

HERBERT And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part,—I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest,—and now I will not play the sluggard.

IDONEA Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host. Good Host, such tendance as you would expect From your own Children, if yourself were sick, Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader, [Looking at the dog. We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!—Look, The little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy, Take care of him, and feed the truant well.

HOST Fear not, I will obey you;—but One so young, And One so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, Lady!— I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.

IDONEA You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back, Unless I differ from the thing I am When you are by my side.

HERBERT Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears.

IDONEA No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back—protect him, Saints—farewell!

[Exit IDONEA.]

HOST 'Tis never drought with us—St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile; She could not, Sir, have failed of company.

HERBERT Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.

HOST (calling) Holla!

HERBERT No, no, the business must be done.— What means this riotous noise?

HOST The villagers Are flocking in—a wedding festival— That's all—God save you, Sir.

[Enter OSWALD]

OSWALD Ha! as I live, The Baron Herbert.

HOST Mercy, the Baron Herbert!

OSWALD So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you?

HERBERT Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir?

OSWALD I do not see Idonea.

HERBERT Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither?

OSWALD A slight affair, That will be soon despatched.

HERBERT Did Marmaduke Receive that letter?

OSWALD Be at peace.—The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of him.

HERBERT This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!— That noise!—would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good King;—the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter—he's a dangerous Man.—That noise!— 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me,—the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, And he must lead me back.

OSWALD You are most lucky; I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion—here he comes; our journey [Enter MARMADUKE] Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.

HERBERT Alas! I creep so slowly.

OSWALD Never fear; We'll not complain of that.

HERBERT My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour?

OSWALD Most willingly!—Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.

[Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.]

[Enter Villagers]

OSWALD (to himself, coming out of the Hostel) I have prepared a most apt Instrument— The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled, By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires.

[Exit OSWALD.]

[Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them]

HOST (to them) Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish.

SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—

[MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering]

MARMADUKE I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: When first I saw him sitting there, alone, It struck upon my heart I know not how.

OSWALD To-day will clear up all.—You marked a Cottage, That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, Nor moves her hands to any needful work: She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one— She paces round and round an Infant's grave, And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep— Ah! [1] what is here?

[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep—a Child in her arms.]

BEGGAR O Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature.—My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die.

MARMADUKE We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money.]

BEGGAR The Saints reward you For this good deed!—Well, Sirs, this passed away; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, Trotting alone along the beaten road, Came to my child as by my side he slept And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head: But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have been a dream.

OSWALD When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover.

BEGGAR Oh, Sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master The weary-worn.—You gentlefolk have got Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be A stone than what I am.—But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me—wind and rain Beat hard upon my head—and yet I saw A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: At which I half accused the God in Heaven.— You must forgive me.

OSWALD Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint—no matter—this good day Has made amends.

BEGGAR Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust.

MARMADUKE This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes?

BEGGAR Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one—it cuts me to the heart— Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my face— But you, Sir, should be kinder.

MARMADUKE Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch!

BEGGAR Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. Why now—but yesterday I overtook A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better!—Charity! If you can melt a rock, he is your man; But I'll be even with him—here again Have I been waiting for him.

OSWALD Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you?

BEGGAR Mark you me; I'll point him out;—a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his Master credit.

MARMADUKE As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other!

BEGGAR 'Tis a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, And long beard white with age—yet evermore, As if he were the only Saint on earth, He turns his face to heaven.

OSWALD But why so violent Against this venerable Man?

BEGGAR I'll tell you: He has the very hardest heart on earth; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday.

MARMADUKE But to your story.

BEGGAR I was saying, Sir— Well!—he has often spurned me like a toad, But yesterday was worse than all;—at last I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity: But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I—I'll out with it; at which I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.

OSWALD I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door.

BEGGAR Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there.

OSWALD I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry.

BEGGAR Angry! well he might; And long as I can stir I'll dog him.—Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now.—That good old Lady Has left a power of riches; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half.

OSWALD What's this?—I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent.

BEGGAR And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress.

OSWALD How say you? in disguise?—

MARMADUKE But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter?

BEGGAR Daughter! truly— But how's the day?—I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves.—Sirs, have you seen him? [Offers to go.]

MARMADUKE I must have more of this;—you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert?

BEGGAR You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir!

MARMADUKE No trifling, Woman!—

OSWALD You are as safe as in a sanctuary; Speak.

MARMADUKE Speak!

BEGGAR He is a most hard-hearted Man.

MARMADUKE Your life is at my mercy.

BEGGAR Do not harm me, And I will tell you all!—You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor.

OSWALD Speak out.

BEGGAR O Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.

OSWALD Nay, but speak out!

BEGGAR He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both; and so, I parted with the Child.

MARMADUKE Parted with whom? [3]

BEGGAR Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine.

MARMADUKE Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife?

BEGGAR Wife, Sir! his wife—not I; my husband, Sir, Was of Kirkoswald—many a snowy winter We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred! He has been two years in his grave.

MARMADUKE Enough.

OSWALD We've solved the riddle—Miscreant!

MARMADUKE Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return; be sure you shall have justice.

OSWALD A lucky woman!—go, you have done good service. [Aside.]

MARMADUKE (to himself) Eternal praises on the power that saved her!—

OSWALD (gives her money) Here's for your little boy—and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather.

BEGGAR O Sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me.—These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors; But I'll be back with my best speed: for you— God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters.

[Exit Beggar.]

MARMADUKE (to himself) The cruel Viper!—Poor devoted Maid, Now I do love thee.

OSWALD I am thunderstruck.

MARMADUKE Where is she—holla! [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.] You are Idonea's Mother?— Nay, be not terrified—it does me good To look upon you.

OSWALD (interrupting) In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it?

BEGGAR Nay, I dare not speak; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more.

OSWALD Lord Clifford?

BEGGAR What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.

OSWALD Lord Clifford—did you see him talk with Herbert?

BEGGAR Yes, to my sorrow—under the great oak At Herbert's door—and when he stood beside The blind Man—at the silent Girl he looked With such a look—it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it.

OSWALD Enough! you may depart.

MARMADUKE (to himself) Father!—to God himself we cannot give A holier name; and, under such a mask, To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, To that abhorred den of brutish vice!— Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me; these strange discoveries— Looked at from every point of fear or hope, Duty, or love—involve, I feel, my ruin.



ACT II

SCENE—A Chamber in the Hostel—OSWALD alone, rising from a Table on which he had been writing.

OSWALD They chose him for their Chief!—what covert part He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, I neither know nor care. The insult bred More of contempt than hatred; both are flown; That either e'er existed is my shame: 'Twas a dull spark—a most unnatural fire That died the moment the air breathed upon it. —These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter That haunt some barren island of the north, Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, They think it is to feed them. I have left him To solitary meditation;—now For a few swelling phrases, and a flash Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, And he is mine for ever—here he comes.

[Enter MARMADUKE.]

MARMADUKE These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks!

OSWALD Who is it?

MARMADUKE I have seen her.

OSWALD Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness.

MARMADUKE I met a peasant near the spot; he told me, These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls.

OSWALD I too have seen her; Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard: The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, Her lips for ever moving.

MARMADUKE At her door Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea.

OSWALD But the pretended Father—

MARMADUKE Earthly law Measures not crimes like his.

OSWALD We rank not, happily, With those who take the spirit of their rule From that soft class of devotees who feel Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea Were present, to the end that we might hear What she can urge in his defence; she loves him.

MARMADUKE Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that multiplies His guilt a thousand-fold.

OSWALD 'Tis most perplexing: What must be done?

MARMADUKE We will conduct her hither; These walls shall witness it—from first to last He shall reveal himself.

OSWALD Happy are we, Who live in these disputed tracts, that own No law but what each man makes for himself; Here justice has indeed a field of triumph.

MARMADUKE Let us begone and bring her hither;—here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me.

OSWALD You will be firm: but though we well may trust The issue to the justice of the cause, Caution must not be flung aside; remember, Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, Upon these savage confines, we have seen you Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, Your single virtue has transformed a Band Of fierce barbarians into Ministers Of peace and order. Aged men with tears Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire For shelter to their banners. But it is, As you must needs have deeply felt, it is In darkness and in tempest that we seek The majesty of Him who rules the world. Benevolence, that has not heart to use The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, Becomes at last weak and contemptible. Your generous qualities have won due praise, But vigorous Spirits look for something more Than Youth's spontaneous products; and to-day You will not disappoint them; and hereafter—

MARMADUKE You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all: You are a Man—and therefore, if compassion, Which to our kind is natural as life, Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, Even as I do; but I should loathe the light, If I could think one weak or partial feeling—

OSWALD You will forgive me—

MARMADUKE If I ever knew My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 'Tis at this moment.—Oswald, I have loved To be the friend and father of the oppressed, A comforter of sorrow;—there is something Which looks like a transition in my soul, And yet it is not.—Let us lead him hither.

OSWALD Stoop for a moment; 'tis an act of justice; And where's the triumph if the delegate Must fall in the execution of his office? The deed is done—if you will have it so— Here where we stand—that tribe of vulgar wretches (You saw them gathering for the festival) Rush in—the villains seize us—

MARMADUKE Seize!

OSWALD Yes, they— Men who are little given to sift and weigh— Would wreak on us the passion of the moment.

MARMADUKE The cloud will soon disperse—farewell—but stay, Thou wilt relate the story.

OSWALD Am I neither To bear a part in this Man's punishment, Nor be its witness?

MARMADUKE I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee.

OSWALD When I'm dishonoured!

MARMADUKE I would preserve thee. How may this be done?

OSWALD By showing that you look beyond the instant. A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, And nowhere upon earth is place so fit To look upon the deed. Before we enter The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft Has held infernal orgies—with the gloom, And very superstition of the place, Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits Of this mock Father's guilt.

[Enter Host conducting HERBERT.]

HOST The Baron Herbert Attends your pleasure.

OSWALD (to Host) We are ready— (to HERBERT) Sir! I hope you are refreshed.—I have just written A notice for your Daughter, that she may know What is become of you.—You'll sit down and sign it; 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's signature. [Gives the letter he had written.]

HERBERT Thanks for your care.

[Sits down and writes. Exit Host.]

OSWALD (aside to MARMADUKE) Perhaps it would be useful That you too should subscribe your name. [MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT—then writes—examines the letter eagerly.]

MARMADUKE I cannot leave this paper.

[He puts it up, agitated.]

OSWALD (aside) Dastard! Come.

[MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT and supports him—MARMADUKE tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place.]

MARMADUKE (as he quits HERBERT) There is a palsy in his limbs—he shakes.

[Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT—MARMADUKE following.]

SCENE changes to a Wood—a Group of Pilgrims, and IDONEA with them.

FIRST PILGRIM A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw.

SECOND PILGRIM The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves.

OLD PILGRIM This news! It made my heart leap up with joy.

IDONEA I scarcely can believe it.

OLD PILGRIM Myself, I heard The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter Which purported it was the royal pleasure The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady, Filled my dim eyes with tears.—When I returned From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast: He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy; but grieved He was that One so young should pass his youth In such sad service; and he parted with him. We joined our tales of wretchedness together, And begged our daily bread from door to door. I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady! For once you loved me.

IDONEA You shall back with me And see your Friend again. The good old Man Will be rejoiced to greet you.

OLD PILGRIM It seems but yesterday That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, In a deep wood remote from any town. A cave that opened to the road presented A friendly shelter, and we entered in.

IDONEA And I was with you?

OLD PILGRIM If indeed 'twas you— But you were then a tottering Little-one— We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: I struck my flint, and built up a small fire With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds Of many autumns in the cave had piled. Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods; Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth And we were comforted, and talked of comfort; But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads The thunder rolled in peals that would have made A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. O Lady, you have need to love your Father. His voice—methinks I hear it now, his voice When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, He said to me, that he had seen his Child, A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) Revealed by lustre brought with it from heaven; And it was you, dear Lady!

IDONEA God be praised, That I have been his comforter till now! And will be so through every change of fortune And every sacrifice his peace requires.— Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear These joyful tidings from no lips but mine.

[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.]



SCENE—The Area of a half-ruined Castle—on one side the entrance to a dungeon—OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and forwards.



MARMADUKE 'Tis a wild night.

OSWALD I'd give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire.

MARMADUKE The wind blows keen; My hands are numb.

OSWALD Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. [Blowing his fingers.] I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed.

MARMADUKE I think I see a second range of Towers; This castle has another Area—come, Let us examine it.

OSWALD 'Tis a bitter night; I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman, Who at full speed swept by us where the wood Roared in the tempest, was within an ace Of sending to his grave our precious Charge: That would have been a vile mischance.

MARMADUKE It would.

OSWALD Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.

MARMADUKE Most cruelly.

OSWALD As up the steep we clomb, I saw a distant fire in the north-east; I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon: With proper speed our quarters may be gained To-morrow evening.

[He looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE When, upon the plank, I had led him 'cross [4] the torrent, his voice blessed me: You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks With deafening noise,—the benediction fell Back on himself; but changed into a curse.

OSWALD As well indeed it might.

MARMADUKE And this you deem The fittest place?

OSWALD (aside) He is growing pitiful.

MARMADUKE (listening) What an odd moaning that is!—

OSWALD. Mighty odd The wind should pipe a little, while we stand Cooling our heels in this way!—I'll begin And count the stars.

MARMADUKE (still listening) That dog of his, you are sure, Could not come after us—he must have perished; The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. You said you did not like his looks—that he Would trouble us; if he were here again, I swear the sight of him would quail me more Than twenty armies.

OSWALD How?

MARMADUKE The old blind Man, When you had told him the mischance, was troubled Even to the shedding of some natural tears Into the torrent over which he hung, Listening in vain.

OSWALD He has a tender heart!

[OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE How now, what mean you?

OSWALD Truly, I was going To waken our stray Baron. Were there not A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, Three good round years, for playing the fool here In such a night as this.

MARMADUKE Stop, stop.

OSWALD Perhaps, You'd better like we should descend together, And lie down by his side—what say you to it? Three of us—we should keep each other warm: I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend Shall not disturb us; further I'll not engage; Come, come, for manhood's sake!

MARMADUKE These drowsy shiverings, This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, What do they mean? were this my single body Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: Why do I tremble now?—Is not the depth Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought? And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, Something I strike upon which turns my mind Back on herself, I think, again—my breast Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: I look at him and tremble like a child.

OSWALD Is it possible?

MARMADUKE One thing you noticed not: Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder; But there's a Providence for them who walk In helplessness, when innocence is with them. At this audacious blasphemy, I thought The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air.

OSWALD Why are you not the man you were that moment?

[He draws MARMADUKE to the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE You say he was asleep,—look at this arm, And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. Oswald, Oswald! [Leans upon OSWALD.]

OSWALD This is some sudden seizure!

MARMADUKE A most strange faintness,—will you hunt me out A draught of water?

OSWALD Nay, to see you thus Moves me beyond my bearing.—I will try To gain the torrent's brink.

[Exit OSWALD.]

MARMADUKE (after a pause) It seems an age Since that Man left me.—No, I am not lost.

HERBERT (at the mouth of the dungeon) Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me How goes the night.

MARMADUKE 'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place.

HERBERT I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald.

MARMADUKE A minute past, he went to fetch a draught Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, A cheerless beverage.

HERBERT How good it was in you To stay behind!—Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed.

MARMADUKE No wonder; this is a place That well may put some fears into your heart.

HERBERT Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort, Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks To make a bed for me!—My Girl will weep When she is told of it.

MARMADUKE This Daughter of yours Is very dear to you.

HERBERT Oh! but you are young; Over your head twice twenty years must roll, With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a Father May love his Child.

MARMADUKE Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.]

HERBERT Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; Kindly have you protected me to-night, And no return have I to make but prayers; May you in age be blest with such a daughter!— When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, A wretched Outcast—but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly.

MARMADUKE Do not fear; Your words are precious to my ears; go on.

HERBERT You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. When my old Leader slipped into the flood And perished, what a piercing outcry you Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. You start—where are we?

MARMADUKE Oh, there is no danger; The cold blast struck me.

HERBERT 'Twas a foolish question.

MARMADUKE But when you were an Outcast?—Heaven is just; Your piety would not miss its due reward; The little Orphan then would be your succour, And do good service, though she knew it not.

HERBERT I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers, Where none but those who trampled on my rights Seemed to remember me. To the wide world I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity; She was my Raven in the wilderness, And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her?

MARMADUKE Yes.

HERBERT More than ever Parent loved a Child?

MARMADUKE Yes, yes.

HERBERT I will not murmur, merciful God! I will not murmur; blasted as I have been, Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith.

[Enter OSWALD.]

OSWALD Herbert!—confusion! (aside). Here it is, my Friend, [Presents the Horn.] A charming beverage for you to carouse, This bitter night.

HERBERT Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses I would have given, not many minutes gone, To have heard your voice.

OSWALD Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless; and yet that place, When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better turn And under covert rest till break of day, Or till the storm abate. (To MARMADUKE aside.) He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained? But soft!—how came he forth? The Night-mare Conscience Has driven him out of harbour?

MARMADUKE I believe You have guessed right.

HERBERT The trees renew their murmur: Come, let us house together.

[OSWALD conducts him to the dungeon.]

OSWALD (returns) Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my Nature, And smothered all that's man in me?—away!— [Looking towards the dungeon.] This man's the property of him who best Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege; It now becomes my duty to resume it.

MARMADUKE Touch not a finger—

OSWALD What then must be done?

MARMADUKE Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed.

OSWALD Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts Did not admit of stronger evidence; Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right; Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples.

MARMADUKE Weak! I am weak—there does my torment lie, Feeding itself.

OSWALD Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's.

MARMADUKE And never heard a sound so terrible.

OSWALD Perchance you think so now?

MARMADUKE I cannot do it: Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat, When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, I could have dropped asleep upon his breast.

OSWALD Justice—is there not thunder in the word? Shall it be law to stab the petty robber Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide— Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature Whom he to more than filial love and duty Hath falsely trained—shall he fulfil his purpose? But you are fallen.

MARMADUKE Fallen should I be indeed— Murder—perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow— Away! away!—

[Flings away his sword.]

OSWALD Nay, I have done with you: We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live, And she shall love him. With unquestioned title He shall be seated in his Barony, And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. I now perceive we do mistake our masters, And most despise the men who best can teach us: Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man Is brave. [Taking MARMADUKE'S sword and giving it to him.] To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim—haply to this desolate house.

MARMADUKE (advancing to the dungeon) It must be ended!—

OSWALD Softly; do not rouse him; He will deny it to the last. He lies Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. [MARMADUKE descends to the dungeon.] (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me; I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling Must needs step in, and save my life. The look With which he gave the boon—I see it now! The same that tempted me to loathe the gift.— For this old venerable Grey-beard—faith 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face Which doth play tricks with them that look on it: 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts—that countenance— His staff—his figure—Murder!—what, of whom? We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women Sigh at the deed? Hew down a withered tree, And none look grave but dotards. He may live To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches, Highways of dreaming passion, have too long, Young as he is, diverted wish and hope From the unpretending ground we mortals tread;— Then shatter the delusion, break it up And set him free. What follows? I have learned That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world Do never dream of. I have been what he— This Boy—when he comes forth with bloody hands— Might envy, and am now,—but he shall know What I am now— [Goes and listens at the dungeon.] Praying or parleying?—tut! Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead These fifteen years—

[Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.]

(Turning abruptly.) Ha! speak—what Thing art thou? (Recognises her.) Heavens! my good friend! [To her.]

BEGGAR Forgive me, gracious Sir!—

OSWALD (to her companions) Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. [They retire affrighted.]

BEGGAR Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes In this deserted Castle—I repent me.

[OSWALD goes to the dungeon—listens—returns to the Beggar.]

OSWALD Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant—keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit.

BEGGAR I do repent me, Sir; I fear the curse Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, Sir,—

OSWALD Begone!

BEGGAR (going) There is some wicked deed in hand: [Aside.] Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter.

[Exit Beggar.]

[MARMADUKE re-enters from the dungeon]

OSWALD It is all over then;—your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is.

MARMADUKE Why came you down? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, why did you give no answer? Feared you to waken him? he must have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place!

OSWALD Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom.

MARMADUKE Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot, When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it.

OSWALD But after that?

MARMADUKE The features of Idonea Lurked in his face—

OSWALD Psha! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me To share your triumph?

MARMADUKE Yes, her very look, Smiling in sleep—

OSWALD A pretty feat of Fancy!

MARMADUKE Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers.

OSWALD Is he alive?

MARMADUKE What mean you? who alive?

OSWALD Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become Clifford's harlot—is he living?

MARMADUKE The old Man in that dungeon is alive.

OSWALD Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it. You a protector of humanity! Avenger you of outraged innocence!

MARMADUKE 'Twas dark—dark as the grave; yet did I see, Saw him—his face turned toward me; and I tell thee Idonea's filial countenance was there To baffle me—it put me to my prayers. Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, Beheld a star twinkling above my head, And, by the living God, I could not do it. [Sinks exhausted.]

OSWALD (to himself) Now may I perish if this turn do more Than make me change my course. (To MARMADUKE.) Dear Marmaduke, My words were rashly spoken; I recal them: I feel my error; shedding human blood Is a most serious thing.

MARMADUKE Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt.

OSWALD We have indeed Been most presumptuous. There is guilt in this, Else could so strong a mind have ever known These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose crimes Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat, Or be chastised by mortal instruments.

MARMADUKE A thought that's worth a thousand worlds!

[Goes towards the dungeon.]

OSWALD I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain.

MARMADUKE Think not of that! 'tis over—we are safe.

OSWALD (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud) The truth is hideous, but how stifle it? [Turning to MARMADUKE.] Give me your sword—nay, here are stones and fragments, The least of which would beat out a man's brains; Or you might drive your head against that wall. No! this is not the place to hear the tale: It should be told you pinioned in your bed, Or on some vast and solitary plain Blown to you from a trumpet.

MARMADUKE Why talk thus? Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear— [The sound of a horn is heard.] That horn again—'Tis some one of our Troop; What do they here? Listen!

OSWALD What! dogged like thieves!

[Enter WALLACE and LACY, etc.]

LACY You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop For not misleading us.

OSWALD (looking at WALLACE) That subtle Greybeard— I'd rather see my father's ghost.

LACY (to MARMADUKE) My Captain, We come by order of the Band. Belike You have not heard that Henry has at last Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent abroad His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies As, in these long commotions, have been seized. His Power is this way tending. It befits us To stand upon our guard, and with our swords Defend the innocent.

MARMADUKE Lacy! we look But at the surfaces of things; we hear Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old Driven out in troops to want and nakedness; Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure That flatters us, because it asks not thought: The deeper malady is better hid; The world is poisoned at the heart.

LACY What mean you?

WALLACE (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon OSWALD) Ay, what is it you mean?

MARMADUKE Hark'ee, my Friends;— [Appearing gay.] Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father—

LACY Why, if his heart be tender, that offence I could forgive him.

MARMADUKE (going on) And should he make the Child An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light Of infant playfulness with piteous looks Of misery that was not—

LACY Troth, 'tis hard— But in a world like ours—

MARMADUKE (changing his tone) This self-same Man— Even while he printed kisses on the cheek Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue To lisp the name of Father—could he look To the unnatural harvest of that time When he should give her up, a Woman grown, To him who bid the highest in the market Of foul pollution—

LACY The whole visible world Contains not such a Monster!

MARMADUKE For this purpose Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them; Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, Work on her nature, and so turn compassion And gratitude to ministers of vice, And make the spotless spirit of filial love Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim Both soul and body—

WALLACE 'Tis too horrible; Oswald, what say you to it?

LACY Hew him down, And fling him to the ravens.

MARMADUKE But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable.

WALLACE (with an appearance of mistrust) But how, what say you, Oswald?

LACY (at the same moment) Stab him, were it Before the Altar.

MARMADUKE What, if he were sick, Tottering upon the very verge of life, And old, and blind—

LACY Blind, say you?

OSWALD (coming forward) Are we Men, Or own we baby Spirits? Genuine courage Is not an accidental quality, A thing dependent for its casual birth On opposition and impediment. Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down The giant's strength; and, at the voice of Justice, Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm— She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, And craft of age, seducing reason, first Made weakness a protection, and obscured The moral shapes of things. His tender cries And helpless innocence—do they protect The infant lamb? and shall the infirmities, Which have enabled this enormous Culprit To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary To cover him from punishment? Shame!—Justice, Admitting no resistance, bends alike The feeble and the strong. She needs not here Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. —We recognise in this old Man a victim Prepared already for the sacrifice.