LACY By heaven, his words are reason!

OSWALD Yes, my Friends, His countenance is meek and venerable; And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!— I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish When my heart does not ache to think of it!— Poor Victim! not a virtue under heaven But what was made an engine to ensnare thee; But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe.

LACY Idonea!

WALLACE How! What? your Idonea? [To MARMADUKE.]

MARMADUKE Mine; But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford; He is the Man to whom the Maiden—pure As beautiful, and gentle and benign, And in her ample heart loving even me— Was to be yielded up.

LACY Now, by the head Of my own child, this Man must die; my hand, A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine In his grey hairs!—

MARMADUKE (to LACY) I love the Father in thee. You know me, Friends; I have a heart to feel, And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me Or duty sanctions.

LACY We will have ample justice. Who are we, Friends? Do we not live on ground Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind? Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed This monstrous crime to be laid open—here, Where Reason has an eye that she can use, And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp He shall be led, and there, the Country round All gathered to the spot, in open day Shall Nature be avenged.

OSWALD 'Tis nobly thought; His death will be a monument for ages.

MARMADUKE (to LACY) I thank you for that hint. He shall be brought Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest Of every country might be present. There, His crime shall be proclaimed; and for the rest It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide: Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see That all is well prepared.

WALLACE We will obey you. (Aside.) But softly! we must look a little nearer.

MARMADUKE Tell where you found us. At some future time I will explain the cause.

[Exeunt.]



ACT III

SCENE—The door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; IDONEA and the Host among them

HOST Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent As I have told you: He left us yesterday With two Companions; one of them, as seemed, His most familiar Friend. (Going.) There was a letter Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy Has been forgotten.

IDONEA (to Host) Farewell!

HOST Gentle pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand.

[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.]

[SCENE—A desolate Moor]

[OSWALD (alone)]

OSWALD Carry him to the Camp! Yes, to the Camp. Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, That half a word should blow it to the winds! This last device must end my work.—Methinks It were a pleasant pastime to construct A scale and table of belief—as thus— Two columns, one for passion, one for proof; Each rises as the other falls: and first, Passion a unit and against us—proof— Nay, we must travel in another path, Or we're stuck fast for ever;—passion, then, Shall be a unit for us; proof—no, passion! We'll not insult thy majesty by time, Person, and place—the where, the when, the how, And all particulars that dull brains require To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. A whipping to the Moralists who preach That misery is a sacred thing: for me, I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface; And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, He talks of a transition in his Soul, And dreams that he is happy. We dissect The senseless body, and why not the mind?— These are strange sights—the mind of man, upturned, Is in all natures a strange spectacle; In some a hideous one—hem! shall I stop? No.—Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, And something shall be done which Memory May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work.

[Enter MARMADUKE, from behind]

OSWALD (turning to meet him) But listen, for my peace—

MARMADUKE Why, I believe you.

OSWALD But hear the proofs—

MARMADUKE Ay, prove that when two peas Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then Be larger than the peas—prove this—'twere matter Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream It ever could be otherwise!

OSWALD Last night When I returned with water from the brook, I overheard the Villains—every word Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Man Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, Who on her journey must proceed alone, Under pretence of violence, be seized. She is," continued the detested Slave, "She is right willing—strange if she were not!— They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid That could withstand it. True," continued he, "When we arranged the affair, she wept a little (Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) And said, 'My Father he will have it so.'"

MARMADUKE I am your hearer.

OSWALD This I caught, and more That may not be retold to any ear. The obstinate bolt of a small iron door Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed For festive decoration; and they said, With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, That they should share the banquet with their Lord And his new Favorite.

MARMADUKE Misery!—

OSWALD I knew How you would be disturbed by this dire news, And therefore chose this solitary Moor, Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us.

MARMADUKE Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, I did believe all things were shadows—yea, Living or dead all things were bodiless, Or but the mutual mockeries of body, Till that same star summoned me back again. Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Fool! To let a creed, built in the heart of things, Dissolve before a twinkling atom!—Oswald, I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, And you should see how deeply I could reason Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; Of actions, and their laws and tendencies.

OSWALD You take it as it merits—

MARMADUKE One a King, General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground With carcases, in lineament and shape And substance, nothing differing from his own, But that they cannot stand up of themselves; Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour Floats kingcups in the brook—a Hero one We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift; But have they not a world of common ground To occupy—both fools, or wise alike, Each in his way?

OSWALD Troth, I begin to think so.

MARMADUKE Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy: I would not give a denier for the man Who, on such provocation as this earth Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin, And send it with a fillip to its grave.

OSWALD Nay, you leave me behind.

MARMADUKE That such a One, So pious in demeanour! in his look So saintly and so pure!—Hark'ee, my Friend, I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley Most tunable.

OSWALD In faith, a pleasant scheme; But take your sword along with you, for that Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use.— But first, how wash our hands of this old Man?

MARMADUKE Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten.

OSWALD You know we left him sitting—see him yonder.

MARMADUKE Ha! ha!—

OSWALD As 'twill be but a moment's work, I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance—HERBERT is discovered seated on a stone

HERBERT A sound of laughter, too!—'tis well—I feared, The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow Pressing upon his solitary heart. Hush!—'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. Alas! 'tis cold—I shiver in the sunshine— What can this mean? There is a psalm that speaks Of God's parental mercies—with Idonea I used to sing it.—Listen!—what foot is there?

[Enter MARMADUKE]

MARMADUKE (aside—looking at HERBERT) And I have loved this Man! and she hath loved him! And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford! And there it ends;—if this be not enough To make mankind merry for evermore, Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made For a wise purpose—verily to weep with! [Looking round.] A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece Of Nature, finished with most curious skill! (To HERBERT.) Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage? Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre?

HERBERT How glad I am to hear your voice! I know not Wherein I have offended you;—last night I found in you the kindest of Protectors; This morning, when I spoke of weariness, You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it About your own; but for these two hours past Once only have you spoken, when the lark Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, And I, no coward in my better days, Was almost terrified.

MARMADUKE That's excellent!— So, you bethought you of the many ways In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes Have roused all Nature up against him—pshaw!—

HERBERT For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight? No traveller, peasant, herdsman?

MARMADUKE Not a soul: Here is a tree, ragged, and bent, and bare, That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind; This have we, but no other company: Commend me to the place. If a man should die And leave his body here, it were all one As he were twenty fathoms underground.

HERBERT Where is our common Friend?

MARMADUKE A ghost, methinks— The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance— Might have fine room to ramble about here, A grand domain to squeak and gibber in.

HERBERT Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour Of visitation—

MARMADUKE A bold word from you!

HERBERT Restore him, Heaven!

MARMADUKE The desperate Wretch!—A Flower, Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now They have snapped her from the stem—Poh! let her lie Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail Feed on her leaves. You knew her well—ay, there, Old Man! you were a very Lynx, you knew The worm was in her—

HERBERT Mercy! Sir, what mean you?

MARMADUKE You have a Daughter!

HERBERT Oh that she were here!— She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, And if I have in aught offended you, Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us.

MARMADUKE (aside) I do believe he weeps—I could weep too— There is a vein of her voice that runs through his: Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth From the first moment that I loved the Maid; And for his sake I loved her more: these tears— I did not think that aught was left in me Of what I have been—yes, I thank thee, Heaven! One happy thought has passed across my mind. —It may not be—I am cut off from man; No more shall I be man—no more shall I Have human feelings!— (To HERBERT) —Now, for a little more About your Daughter!

HERBERT Troops of armed men, Met in the roads, would bless us; little children, Rushing along in the full tide of play, Stood silent as we passed them! I have heard The boisterous carman, in the miry road, Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice, And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts.

MARMADUKE And whither were you going?

HERBERT Learn, young Man,— To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy.

MARMADUKE Now, this is as it should be!

HERBERT I am weak!— My Daughter does not know how weak I am; And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, By the good God, our common Father, doomed!— But I had once a spirit and an arm—

MARMADUKE Now, for a word about your Barony: I fancy when you left the Holy Land, And came to—what's your title—eh? your claims Were undisputed!

HERBERT Like a mendicant, Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone;— I murmured—but, remembering Him who feeds The pelican and ostrich of the desert, From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, I sate me down, and cannot but believe— While in my lap I held my little Babe And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached More with delight than grief—I heard a voice Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; It said, "I will be with thee." A little boy, A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, And said, with tears, that he would be our guide: I had a better guide—that innocent Babe— Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, From cold, from hunger, penury, and death; To whom I owe the best of all the good I have, or wish for, upon earth—and more And higher far than lies within earth's bounds: Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, I bless her with sad spirit,—when of God, I bless her in the fulness of my joy!

MARMADUKE The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays! With nerves so steady, that the very flies Sit unmolested on his staff.—Innocent!— If he were innocent—then he would tremble And be disturbed, as I am. (Turning aside.) I have read In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt, Appeal was made to the great Judge: the Accused With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared For a like trial, but more merciful. Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste? Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. Here will I leave him—here—All-seeing God! Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, I will commit him to this final Ordeal!— He heard a voice—a shepherd-lad came to him And was his guide; if once, why not again, And in this desert? If never—then the whole Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here To cold and hunger!—Pain is of the heart, And what are a few throes of bodily suffering If they can waken one pang of remorse? [Goes up to HERBERT.] Old Man! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here Led by my hand to save thee from perdition: Thou wilt have time to breathe and think—

HERBERT Oh, Mercy!

MARMADUKE I know the need that all men have of mercy, And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment.

HERBERT My Child, my blessed Child!

MARMADUKE No more of that; Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent; Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. [He pauses and looks at HERBERT'S staff.] Ha! what is here? and carved by her own hand! [Reads upon the staff.] "I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. He that puts his trust in me shall not fail!" Yes, be it so;—repent and be forgiven— God and that staff are now thy only guides. [He leaves HERBERT on the Moor.]



SCENE—An eminence, a Beacon on the summit

LACY, WALLACE, LENNOX, etc. etc.

SEVERAL OF THE BAND (confusedly) But patience!

ONE OF THE BAND Curses on that Traitor, Oswald!— Our Captain made a prey to foul device!—

LENNOX (to WALLACE) His tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, Knowing what otherwise we know too well, That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now; For rather would I have a nest of vipers Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make Oswald my special enemy, if you Deny me your support.

LACY We have been fooled— But for the motive?

WALLACE Natures such as his Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy! I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. I know him well; there needs no other motive Than that most strange incontinence in crime Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him And breath and being; where he cannot govern, He will destroy.

LACY To have been trapped like moles!— Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives: There is no crime from which this man would shrink; He recks not human law; and I have noticed That often when the name of God is uttered, A sudden blankness overspreads his face.

LENNOX Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built Some uncouth superstition of its own.

WALLACE I have seen traces of it.

LENNOX Once he headed A band of Pirates in the Norway seas; And when the King of Denmark summoned him To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 'Twas a strange answer that he made; he said, "I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven."

LACY He is no madman.

WALLACE A most subtle doctor Were that man, who could draw the line that parts Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds, Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men No heart that loves them, none that they can love, Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy In dim relation to imagined Beings.

ONE OF THE BAND What if he mean to offer up our Captain An expiation and a sacrifice To those infernal fiends!

WALLACE Now, if the event Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds As there are daggers here.

LACY What need of swearing!

ONE OF THE BAND Let us away!

ANOTHER Away!

A THIRD Hark! how the horns Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale.

LACY Stay you behind; and when the sun is down, Light up this beacon.

ONE OF THE BAND You shall be obeyed.

[They go out together.]



SCENE—The Wood on the edge of the Moor.

MARMADUKE (alone)

MARMADUKE Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought, Yet calm.—I could believe, that there was here The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, Remembered terror, there is peace and rest.

[Enter OSWALD]

OSWALD Ha! my dear Captain.



MARMADUKE A later meeting, Oswald, Would have been better timed.

OSWALD Alone, I see; You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now I feel that you will justify.

MARMADUKE I had fears, From which I have freed myself—but 'tis my wish To be alone, and therefore we must part.

OSWALD Nay, then—I am mistaken. There's a weakness About you still; you talk of solitude— I am your friend.

MARMADUKE What need of this assurance At any time? and why given now?

OSWALD Because You are now in truth my Master; you have taught me What there is not another living man Had strength to teach;—and therefore gratitude Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise.

MARMADUKE Wherefore press this on me?

OSWALD Because I feel That you have shown, and by a signal instance, How they who would be just must seek the rule By diving for it into their own bosoms. To-day you have thrown off a tyranny That lives but in the torpid acquiescence Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny Of the world's masters, with the musty rules By which they uphold their craft from age to age: You have obeyed the only law that sense Submits to recognise; the immediate law, From the clear light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent Intellect. Henceforth new prospects open on your path; Your faculties should grow with the demand; I still will be your friend, will cleave to you Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, Oft as they dare to follow on your steps.

MARMADUKE I would be left alone.

OSWALD (exultingly) I know your motives! I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles I witness'd, and now hail your victory.

MARMADUKE Spare me awhile that greeting.

OSWALD It may be, That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards, Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, And you will walk in solitude among them. A mighty evil for a strong-built mind!— Join twenty tapers of unequal height And light them joined, and you will see the less How 'twill burn down the taller; and they all Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude!— The Eagle lives in Solitude!

MARMADUKE Even so, The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved To abide the issue of my act, alone.

OSWALD Now would you? and for ever?—My young Friend, As time advances either we become The prey or masters of our own past deeds. Fellowship we must have, willing or no; And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, Are still forthcoming; some which, though they bear Ill names, can render no ill services, In recompense for what themselves required. So meet extremes in this mysterious world, And opposites thus melt into each other.

MARMADUKE Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved With such a weight upon his wings as now; But they will soon be lightened.

OSWALD Ay, look up— Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: Great actions move our admiration, chiefly Because they carry in themselves an earnest That we can suffer greatly.

MARMADUKE Very true.

OSWALD Action is transitory—a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle—this way or that— 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

MARMADUKE Truth—and I feel it.

OSWALD What! if you had bid Eternal farewell to unmingled joy And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart; It is the toy of fools, and little fit For such a world as this. The wise abjure All thoughts whose idle composition lives In the entire forgetfulness of pain. —I see I have disturbed you.

MARMADUKE By no means.

OSWALD Compassion!—pity!—pride can do without them; And what if you should never know them more!— He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, Finds ease because another feels it too. If e'er I open out this heart of mine It shall be for a nobler end—to teach And not to purchase puling sympathy. —Nay, you are pale.

MARMADUKE It may be so.

OSWALD Remorse— It cannot live with thought; think on, think on, And it will die. What! in this universe, Where the least things control the greatest, where The faintest breath that breathes can move a world; What! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals.

MARMADUKE Now, whither are you wandering? That a man So used to suit his language to the time, Should thus so widely differ from himself— It is most strange.

OSWALD Murder!—what's in the word!— I have no cases by me ready made To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp!— A shallow project;—you of late have seen More deeply, taught us that the institutes Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation Banished from human intercourse, exist Only in our relations to the brutes That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask A license to destroy him: our good governors Hedge in the life of every pest and plague That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose, But to protect themselves from extirpation?— This flimsy barrier you have overleaped.

MARMADUKE My Office is fulfilled—the Man is now Delivered to the Judge of all things.

OSWALD Dead!

MARMADUKE I have borne my burthen to its destined end.

OSWALD This instant we'll return to our Companions— Oh how I long to see their faces again!

[Enter IDONEA with Pilgrims who continue their journey.]

IDONEA (after some time) What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever. And Oswald, too! (To MARMADUKE.) On will we to my Father With the glad tidings which this day hath brought; We'll go together, and, such proof received Of his own rights restored, his gratitude To God above will make him feel for ours.

OSWALD I interrupt you?

IDONEA Think not so.

MARMADUKE Idonea, That I should ever live to see this moment!

IDONEA Forgive me.—Oswald knows it all—he knows, Each word of that unhappy letter fell As a blood drop from my heart.

OSWALD 'Twas even so.

MARMADUKE I have much to say, but for whose ear?—not thine.

IDONEA Ill can I bear that look—Plead for me, Oswald! You are my Father's Friend. (To MARMADUKE.) Alas, you know not, And never can you know, how much he loved me. Twice had he been to me a father, twice Had given me breath, and was I not to be His daughter, once his daughter? could I withstand His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him In his old age— [Hides her face.]

MARMADUKE Patience—Heaven grant me patience!— She weeps, she weeps—my brain shall burn for hours Ere I can shed a tear.

IDONEA I was a woman; And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest To womankind with duty to my Father, I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought On earth could else have wrested from me;—if erring, Oh let me be forgiven!

MARMADUKE I do forgive thee.

IDONEA But take me to your arms—this breast, alas! It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it.

MARMADUKE (exultingly) She is innocent. [He embraces her.]

OSWALD (aside) Were I a Moralist, I should make wondrous revolution here; It were a quaint experiment to show The beauty of truth— [Addressing them.] I see I interrupt you; I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; Follow me to the Hostel.

[Exit OSWALD.]

IDONEA Marmaduke, This is a happy day. My Father soon Shall sun himself before his native doors; The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. No more shall he complain of wasted strength, Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; His good works will be balm and life to him.

MARMADUKE This is most strange!—I know not what it was, But there was something which most plainly said, That thou wert innocent.

IDONEA How innocent!— Oh heavens! you've been deceived.

MARMADUKE Thou art a Woman To bring perdition on the universe.

IDONEA Already I've been punished to the height Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately.] I see you love me still, The labours of my hand are still your joy; Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder I hung this belt. [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended HERBERT'S scrip.]

MARMADUKE Mercy of Heaven! [Sinks.]

IDONEA What ails you? [Distractedly.]

MARMADUKE The scrip that held his food, and I forgot To give it back again!

IDONEA What mean your words?

MARMADUKE I know not what I said—all may be well.

IDONEA That smile hath life in it!

MARMADUKE This road is perilous; I will attend you to a Hut that stands Near the wood's edge—rest there to-night, I pray you: For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, But will return to you by break of day.

[Exeunt.]



ACT IV

SCENE—A desolate prospect—a ridge of rocks—a Chapel on the summit of one—Moon behind the rocks—night stormy—irregular sound of a bell—HERBERT enters exhausted.

HERBERT That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, But now it mocks my steps; its fitful stroke Can scarcely be the work of human hands. Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such There be who pray nightly before the Altar. Oh that I had but strength to reach the place! My Child—my Child—dark—dark—I faint—this wind— These stifling blasts—God help me!

[Enter ELDRED.]

ELDRED Better this bare rock, Though it were tottering over a man's head, Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter From such rough dealing. [A moaning voice is heard.] Ha! what sound is that? Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) Send forth such noises—and that weary bell! Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night Is ringing it—'twould stop a Saint in prayer, And that—what is it? never was sound so like A human groan. Ha! what is here? Poor Man— Murdered! alas! speak—speak, I am your friend: No answer—hush—lost wretch, he lifts his hand And lays it to his heart— (Kneels to him.) I pray you speak! What has befallen you?

HERBERT (feebly) A stranger has done this, And in the arms of a stranger I must die.

ELDRED Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up: [Raises him.] This is a dismal place—well—that is well— I was too fearful—take me for your guide And your support—my hut is not far off. [Draws him gently off the stage.]



SCENE—A room in the Hostel—MARMADUKE and OSWALD

MARMADUKE But for Idonea!—I have cause to think That she is innocent.

OSWALD Leave that thought awhile, As one of those beliefs which in their hearts Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. This day's event has laid on me the duty Of opening out my story; you must hear it, And without further preface.—In my youth, Except for that abatement which is paid By envy as a tribute to desert, I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling Of every tongue—as you are now. You've heard That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy Against my honour, in the which our Captain Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell; We lay becalmed week after week, until The water of the vessel was exhausted; I felt a double fever in my veins, Yet rage suppressed itself;—to a deep stillness Did my pride tame my pride;—for many days, On a dead sea under a burning sky, I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted By man and nature;—if a breeze had blown, It might have found its way into my heart, And I had been—no matter—do you mark me?

MARMADUKE Quick—to the point—if any untold crime Doth haunt your memory.

OSWALD Patience, hear me further!— One day in silence did we drift at noon By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare; No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form Inanimate large as the body of man, Nor any living thing whose lot of life Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. To dig for water on the spot, the Captain Landed with a small troop, myself being one: There I reproached him with his treachery. Imperious at all times, his temper rose; He struck me; and that instant had I killed him, And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades Rushed in between us: then did I insist (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) That we should leave him there, alive!—we did so.

MARMADUKE And he was famished?

OSWALD Naked was the spot; Methinks I see it now—how in the sun Its stony surface glittered like a shield; And in that miserable place we left him, Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures Not one of which could help him while alive, Or mourn him dead.

MARMADUKE A man by men cast off, Left without burial! nay, not dead nor dying, But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, In all things like ourselves, but in the agony With which he called for mercy; and—even so— He was forsaken?

OSWALD There is a power in sounds: The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat That bore us through the water—

MARMADUKE You returned Upon that dismal hearing—did you not?

OSWALD Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea Did from some distant region echo us.

MARMADUKE We all are of one blood, our veins are filled At the same poisonous fountain!

OSWALD 'Twas an island Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, Which with their foam could cover it at will. I know not how he perished; but the calm, The same dead calm, continued many days.

MARMADUKE But his own crime had brought on him this doom, His wickedness prepared it; these expedients Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault.

OSWALD The man was famished, and was innocent!

MARMADUKE Impossible!

OSWALD The man had never wronged me.

MARMADUKE Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace. His guilt was marked—these things could never be Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, Where ours are baffled.

OSWALD I had been deceived.

MARMADUKE And from that hour the miserable man No more was heard of?

OSWALD I had been betrayed.

MARMADUKE And he found no deliverance!

OSWALD The Crew Gave me a hearty welcome; they had laid The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. So we pursued our voyage: when we landed, The tale was spread abroad; my power at once Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes— All vanished. I gave way—do you attend?

MARMADUKE The Crew deceived you?

OSWALD Nay, command yourself.

MARMADUKE It is a dismal night—how the wind howls!

OSWALD I hid my head within a Convent, there Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. That was no life for me—I was o'erthrown But not destroyed.

MARMADUKE The proofs—you ought to have seen The guilt—have touched it—felt it at your heart— As I have done.

OSWALD A fresh tide of Crusaders Drove by the place of my retreat: three nights Did constant meditation dry my blood; Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way; And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld A slavery compared to which the dungeon And clanking chains are perfect liberty. You understand me—I was comforted; I saw that every possible shape of action Might lead to good—I saw it and burst forth Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. [Marking MARMADUKE'S countenance.] Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity Subsided in a moment, like a wind That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. And yet I had within me evermore A salient spring of energy; I mounted From action up to action with a mind That never rested—without meat or drink Have I lived many days—my sleep was bound To purposes of reason—not a dream But had a continuity and substance That waking life had never power to give.

MARMADUKE O wretched Human-kind!—Until the mystery Of all this world is solved, well may we envy The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors?

OSWALD Give not to them a thought. From Palestine We marched to Syria: oft I left the Camp, When all that multitude of hearts was still, And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams; Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea: In these my lonely wanderings I perceived What mighty objects do impress their forms To elevate our intellectual being; And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms A thing so great to perish self-consumed. —So much for my remorse!

MARMADUKE Unhappy Man!

OSWALD When from these forms I turned to contemplate The World's opinions and her usages, I seemed a Being who had passed alone Into a region of futurity, Whose natural element was freedom—

MARMADUKE Stop— I may not, cannot, follow thee.

OSWALD You must. I had been nourished by the sickly food Of popular applause. I now perceived That we are praised, only as men in us Do recognise some image of themselves, An abject counterpart of what they are, Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. I felt that merit has no surer test Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve The world in substance, not deceive by show, We must become obnoxious to its hate, Or fear disguised in simulated scorn.

MARMADUKE I pity, can forgive, you; but those wretches— That monstrous perfidy!

OSWALD Keep down your wrath. False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin Their veil, but not for me—'twas in fit place Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, And in that dream had left my native land, One of Love's simple bondsmen—the soft chain Was off for ever; and the men, from whom This liberation came, you would destroy: Join me in thanks for their blind services.

MARMADUKE 'Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse And cannot.—You have betrayed me—I have done— I am content—I know that he is guiltless— That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man! And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst Her who from very infancy had been Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood!—Together [Turning to OSWALD.] We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both.

OSWALD Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant; Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge Man's intellectual empire. We subsist In slavery; all is slavery; we receive Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come; We need an inward sting to goad us on.

MARMADUKE Have you betrayed me? Speak to that.

OSWALD The mask, Which for a season I have stooped to wear, Must be cast off.—Know then that I was urged, (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, To seek for sympathy, because I saw In you a mirror of my youthful self; I would have made us equal once again, But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, With a few drops of blood cut short the business; Therein for ever you must yield to me. But what is done will save you from the blank Of living without knowledge that you live: Now you are suffering—for the future day, 'Tis his who will command it.—Think of my story— Herbert is innocent.

MARMADUKE (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) You do but echo My own wild words?

OSWALD Young Man, the seed must lie Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest; 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness I will avow before the face of day. Herbert is innocent.

MARMADUKE What fiend could prompt This action? Innocent!—oh, breaking heart!— Alive or dead, I'll find him.

[Exit.]

OSWALD Alive—perdition!

[Exit.]



SCENE—The inside of a poor Cottage

ELEANOR and IDONEA seated

IDONEA The storm beats hard—Mercy for poor or rich, Whose heads are shelterless in such a night!

A VOICE WITHOUT Holla! to bed, good Folks, within!

ELEANOR O save us!

IDONEA What can this mean?

ELEANOR Alas, for my poor husband!— We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow; The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights: Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers [The voices die away in the distance.] Returning from their Feast—my heart beats so— A noise at midnight does so frighten me.

IDONEA Hush! [Listening.]

ELEANOR They are gone. On such a night, my husband, Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, Where, hid from me, he counted many years, A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs— Not even in theirs—whose brutal violence So dealt with him.

IDONEA I have a noble Friend First among youths of knightly breeding, One Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. There again! [Listening.]

ELEANOR 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment Has made him fearful, and he'll never be The man he was.

IDONEA I will retire;—good night! [She goes within.]

[Enter ELDRED (hides a bundle)]

ELDRED Not yet in bed, Eleanor!—there are stains in that frock which must be washed out.

ELEANOR What has befallen you?

ELDRED I am belated, and you must know the cause— (speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy Man.

ELEANOR Oh! we are undone for ever.

ELDRED Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to think of it.

ELEANOR Where, where is he?

ELDRED I have done him no harm, but——it will be forgiven me; it would not have been so once.

ELEANOR You have not buried anything? You are no richer than when you left me?

ELDRED Be at peace; I am innocent.

ELEANOR Then God be thanked—

[A short pause; she falls upon his neck.]

ELDRED Tonight I met with an old Man lying stretched upon the ground—a sad spectacle: I raised him up with a hope that we might shelter and restore him.

ELEANOR (as if ready to run) Where is he? You were not able to bring him all the way with you; let us return, I can help you.

[ELDRED shakes his head.]

ELDRED He did not seem to wish for life: as I was struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes—he waved his hand, as if it were all useless; and I let him sink again to the ground.

ELEANOR Oh that I had been by your side!

ELDRED I tell you his hands and his body were cold—how could I disturb his last moments? he strove to turn from me as if he wished to settle into sleep.

ELEANOR But, for the stains of blood—

ELDRED He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut; but I think his malady was cold and hunger.

ELEANOR Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble.

ELDRED Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad to-night till this hour? I come home, and this is my comfort!

ELEANOR But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease?

ELDRED I thought he grasped my hand while he was muttering something about his Child—his Daughter— (starting as if he heard a noise). What is that?

ELEANOR Eldred, you are a father.

ELDRED God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son for my sake.

ELEANOR But you prayed by him? you waited the hour of his release?

ELDRED The night was wasting fast; I have no friend; I am spited by the world—his wound terrified me—if I had brought him along with me, and he had died in my arms!——I am sure I heard something breathing—and this chair!

ELEANOR Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to close your eyes—no hand to grasp your dying hand—I shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all.

ELDRED Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the dungeon?

ELEANOR And you left him alive?

ELDRED Alive!—the damps of death were upon him—he could not have survived an hour.

ELEANOR In the cold, cold night.

ELDRED (in a savage tone) Ay, and his head was bare; I suppose you would have had me lend my bonnet to cover it.—You will never rest till I am brought to a felon's end.

ELEANOR Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go to the Convent?

ELDRED Ay, and say at once that I murdered him!

ELEANOR Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the Waste; let us take heart; this Man may be rich; and could he be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us.

ELDRED 'Tis all in vain.

ELEANOR But let us make the attempt. This old Man may have a wife, and he may have children—let us return to the spot; we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him.

ELDRED He will never open them more; even when he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind.

IDONEA (rushing out) It is, it is, my Father—

ELDRED We are betrayed (looking at IDONEA).

ELEANOR His Daughter!—God have mercy! (turning to IDONEA)

IDONEA (sinking down) Oh! lift me up and carry me to the place. You are safe; the whole world shall not harm you.

ELEANOR This Lady is his Daughter.

ELDRED (moved) I'll lead you to the spot.

IDONEA (springing up) Alive!—you heard him breathe? quick, quick—

[Exeunt.]



ACT V

SCENE—A wood on the edge of the Waste

Enter OSWALD and a Forester.

FORESTER He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen, And down into the bottom cast his eye, That fastened there, as it would check the current.

OSWALD He listened too; did you not say he listened?

FORESTER As if there came such moaning from the flood As is heard often after stormy nights.

OSWALD But did he utter nothing?

FORESTER See him there!

[MARMADUKE appearing.]

MARMADUKE Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters; That is no substance which ye settle on!

FORESTER His senses play him false; and see, his arms Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!— Some terrible phantom I believe is now Passing before him, such as God will not Permit to visit any but a man Who has been guilty of some horrid crime.

[MARMADUKE disappears.]

OSWALD The game is up!—

FORESTER If it be needful, Sir, I will assist you to lay hands upon him.

OSWALD No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business— 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, Who has a trick of straying from his keepers; We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. [Exit Forester.] If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine; The goal is reached. My Master shall become A shadow of myself—made by myself.

SCENE—The edge of the Moor.

MARMADUKE and ELDRED enter from opposite sides.

MARMADUKE (raising his eyes and perceiving ELDRED) In any corner of this savage Waste, Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man?

ELDRED I heard—

MARMADUKE You heard him, where? when heard him?

ELDRED As you know The first hours of last night were rough with storm: I had been out in search of a stray heifer; Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, I hurried on, when straight a second moan, A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. So guided, distant a few steps, I found An aged Man, and such as you describe.

MARMADUKE You heard!—he called you to him? Of all men The best and kindest!—but where is he? guide me, That I may see him.

ELDRED On a ridge of rocks A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now: The bell is left, which no one dares remove; And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, It rings, as if a human hand were there To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; And it had led him towards the precipice, To climb up to the spot whence the sound came; But he had failed through weakness. From his hand His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink Of a small pool of water he was laid, As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained Without the strength to rise.

MARMADUKE Well, well, he lives, And all is safe: what said he?

ELDRED But few words: He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, Who, so he feared, would never see him more; And of a Stranger to him, One by whom He had been sore misused; but he forgave The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled— Perhaps you are his son?

MARMADUKE The All-seeing knows, I did not think he had a living Child.— But whither did you carry him?

ELDRED He was torn, His head was bruised, and there was blood about him—

MARMADUKE That was no work of mine.

ELDRED Nor was it mine.

MARMADUKE But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him A thousand miles.

ELDRED I am in poverty, And know how busy are the tongues of men; My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; And, though it smote me more than words can tell, I left him.

MARMADUKE I believe that there are phantoms, That in the shape of man do cross our path On evil instigation, to make sport Of our distress—and thou art one of them! But things substantial have so pressed on me—

ELDRED My wife and children came into my mind.

MARMADUKE Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us, And we shall howl together. [After a pause and in a feeble voice.] I am deserted At my worst need, my crimes have in a net (Pointing to ELDRED) Entangled this poor man.— Where was it? where? [Dragging him along.]

ELDRED 'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter—

MARMADUKE Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge: This old man had a Daughter.

ELDRED To the spot I hurried back with her.—Oh save me, Sir, From such a journey!—there was a black tree, A single tree; she thought it was her Father.— Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now— Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it— As we approached, a solitary crow Rose from the spot;—the Daughter clapped her hands, And then I heard a shriek so terrible [MARMADUKE shrinks back.] The startled bird quivered upon the wing.

MARMADUKE Dead, dead!—

ELDRED (after a pause) A dismal matter, Sir, for me, And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish, I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best That she should be prepared; I'll go before.

MARMADUKE There will be need of preparation.

[ELDRED goes off.]

ELEANOR (enters) Master! Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you?

MARMADUKE (taking her arm) Woman, I've lent my body to the service Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was.

ELEANOR Oh, why have I to do with things like these?

[Exeunt.]



SCENE changes to the door of ELDRED'S cottage—IDONEA seated—enter ELDRED.

ELDRED Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me, And you remember such was my report: From what has just befallen me I have cause To fear the very worst.

IDONEA My Father is dead; Why dost thou come to me with words like these?

ELDRED A wicked Man should answer for his crimes.

IDONEA Thou seest me what I am.

ELDRED It was most heinous, And doth call out for vengeance.

IDONEA Do not add, I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already.

ELDRED Hereafter you will thank me for this service. Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were You should prepare to meet him.

IDONEA I have nothing To do with others; help me to my Father— [She turns and sees MARMADUKE leaning on ELEANOR—throws herself upon his neck, and after some time,] In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; And thus we meet again; one human stay Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.

MARMADUKE In such a wilderness—to see no thing, No, not the pitying moon!

IDONEA And perish so.

MARMADUKE Without a dog to moan for him.

IDONEA Think not of it, But enter there and see him how he sleeps, Tranquil as he had died in his own bed.

MARMADUKE Tranquil—why not?

IDONEA Oh, peace!

MARMADUKE He is at peace; His body is at rest: there was a plot, A hideous plot, against the soul of man: It took effect—and yet I baffled it, In some degree.

IDONEA Between us stood, I thought, A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence, Alone partake of it?—Beloved Marmaduke!

MARMADUKE Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The wounded deer retires to solitude, And dies in solitude: all things but man, All die in solitude. [Moving towards the cottage door.] Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it!—

IDONEA Alas! the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him.—I must follow.

ELDRED Lady! You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering, The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side Uplift his hand—that would be evidence.

ELEANOR Shame! Eldred, shame!

MARMADUKE (both returning) The dead have but one face. (To himself.) And such a Man—so meek and unoffending— Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man, By obvious signal to the world's protection, Solemnly dedicated—to decoy him!—

IDONEA Oh, had you seen him living!—

MARMADUKE I (so filled With horror is this world) am unto thee The thing most precious, that it now contains: Therefore through me alone must be revealed By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea! I have the proofs!—

IDONEA O miserable Father! Thou didst command me to bless all mankind; Nor to this moment, have I ever wished Evil to any living thing; but hear me, Hear me, ye Heavens!— (kneeling) —may vengeance haunt the fiend For this most cruel murder: let him live And move in terror of the elements; The thunder send him on his knees to prayer In the open streets, and let him think he sees, If e'er he entereth the house of God, The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head; And let him, when he would lie down at night, Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!

MARMADUKE My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee.

IDONEA (leaning on MARMADUKE) Left to the mercy of that savage Man! How could he call upon his Child!—O Friend! [Turns to MARMADUKE.] My faithful true and only Comforter.

MARMADUKE Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.) (To ELDRED.) Yes, Varlet, look, The devils at such sights do clap their hands. [ELDRED retires alarmed.]

IDONEA Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale; Hast thou pursued the monster?

MARMADUKE I have found him.— Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames!

IDONEA Here art thou, then can I be desolate?—

MARMADUKE There was a time, when this protecting hand Availed against the mighty; never more Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine.

IDONEA Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan, Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven; And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine For closer care;—here, is no malady. [Taking his arm.]

MARMADUKE There, is a malady— (Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here, A mortal malady.—I am accurst: All nature curses me, and in my heart Thy curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare. It must be told, and borne. I am the man, (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me, Thy Father perished.

IDONEA Perished—by what mischance?

MARMADUKE Beloved!—if I dared, so would I call thee— Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. [He gives her a letter.]

IDONEA (reads) "Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is now with me, as his signature will shew: abstain from conjecture till you see me. "HERBERT. "MARMADUKE." The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's: (Looks steadily at the paper.) And here is yours,—or do my eyes deceive me? You have then seen my Father?

MARMADUKE He has leaned Upon this arm.

IDONEA You led him towards the Convent?

MARMADUKE That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither We were his guides. I on that night resolved That he should wait thy coming till the day Of resurrection.

IDONEA Miserable Woman, Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, I put denial on thy suit, and hence, With the disastrous issue of last night, Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. Be calm, I pray thee!

MARMADUKE Oswald—

IDONEA Name him not.

[Enter Female Beggar.]

BEGGAR And he is dead!—that Moor—how shall I cross it? By night, by day, never shall I be able To travel half a mile alone.—Good Lady! Forgive me!—Saints forgive me. Had I thought It would have come to this!—

IDONEA What brings you hither? speak!

BEGGAR (pointing to MARMADUKE) This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him Such tales of your dead Father!—God is my judge, I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man, He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. Mercy! I said I know not what—oh pity me— I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter— Pity me, I am haunted;—thrice this day My conscience made me wish to be struck blind; And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.

IDONEA (to MARMADUKE) Was it my Father?—no, no, no, for he Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life —But hear me. For one question, I have a heart That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

MARMADUKE No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process: Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth And innocence, embodied in his looks, His words and tones and gestures, did but serve With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal Of the bleak Waste—left him—and so he died!—

[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR, etc., crowd round, and bear her off.]

Why may we speak these things, and do no more; Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, And words that tell these things be heard in vain? She is not dead. Why!—if I loved this Woman, I would take care she never woke again; But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me, And say, no blame was mine—and so, poor fool, Will waste her curses on another name.

[He walks about distractedly.]

[Enter OSWALD.]

OSWALD (to himself) Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up. [To MARMADUKE.] The starts and sallies of our last encounter Were natural enough; but that, I trust, Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains That fettered your nobility of mind— Delivered heart and head! Let us to Palestine; This is a paltry field for enterprise.

MARMADUKE Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue— 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!— Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. (ironically) Start not!—Here is another face hard by; Come, let us take a peep at both together, And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, Resound the praise of your morality— Of this too much. [Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottage—stops short at the door.] Men are there, millions, Oswald, Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised Above, or sunk below, all further sense Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. Coward I have been; know, there lies not now Within the compass of a mortal thought, A deed that I would shrink from;—but to endure, That is my destiny. May it be thine: Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth To feed remorse, to welcome every sting Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. When seas and continents shall lie between us— The wider space the better—we may find In such a course fit links of sympathy, An incommunicable rivalship Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. [Confused voices—several of the Band enter—rush upon OSWALD and seize him.]

ONE OF THEM I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell—

OSWALD Ha! is it so!—That vagrant Hag!—this comes Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.]

SEVERAL VOICES Despatch him!

OSWALD If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, A Fool and Coward blended to my wish! [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.]

WALLACE 'Tis done! (Stabs him.)

ANOTHER OF THE BAND The ruthless traitor!

MARMADUKE A rash deed!— With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud.



WILFRED (approaching MARMADUKE) O my poor Master!

MARMADUKE Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, Why art thou here? [Turning to WALLACE.] Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want cause To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms! Raise on that dreary Waste a monument That may record my story: nor let words— Few must they be, and delicate in their touch As light itself—be there withheld from Her Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan By One who would have died a thousand times, To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, By lowly nature reared, as if to make her In all things worthier of that noble birth, Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve Of restoration: with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray—sustain her—

SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly) Captain!

MARMADUKE No more of that; in silence hear my doom: A hermitage has furnished fit relief To some offenders; other penitents, Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. They had their choice: a wanderer must I go, The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide. No human ear shall ever hear me speak; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on— A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life—till anger is appeased In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.



* * * * *



In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle:

"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity, and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four times in the 'Robbers' of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W. there are no inequalities."

On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge:

"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy, of which I have heard so much and seen so little." Shortly afterwards, August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection that somebody, I think you, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning with me, and should like to read it with him. But this, I confess, is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison, or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off, with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices."—Ed.



* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

... female ... 1842.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

Ha! ... 1842.]

[Variant 3:

1849.

With whom you parted? 1842.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

... o'er ... 1842.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: He doubtless refers to the lines (Act iii. l. 405) "Action is transitory—a step, a blow," etc., which followed the Dedication of 'The White Doe of Rylstone' in the edition of 1836.—Ed.]

[Footnote B: Note prefixed to the edition of 1842.—Ed.]

[Footnote C: Note appended to the edition of 1842.—Ed.]



* * * * *



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

Composed 1797.—Published 1800.

[Written 1801 or 1802. This arose out of my observations of the affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning.—I. F.]

Placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The preceding Fenwick note to this poem is manifestly inaccurate as to date, since the poem is printed in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. In the edition of 1836 the date of composition is given as 1797, and this date is followed by Mr. Carter, the editor of 1857. Miss Wordsworth's Journal gives no date; and, as the Fenwick note is certainly incorrect—and the poem must have been written before the edition of 1800 came out—it seems best to trust to the date sanctioned by Wordsworth himself in 1836, and followed by his literary executor in 1857. I think it probable that the poem was written during the short visit which Wordsworth and his sister paid to their brother Richard in London in 1797, when he tried to get his tragedy, 'The Borderers', brought on the stage. The title of the poem from 1800 to 1805 was 'Poor Susan'.—Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush [1] that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 5 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views [A] in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 10 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only [2] dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! [3]



* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

There's a Thrush ... 1800.]



[Variant 2:

1802.

The only one ... 1800.]

[Variant 3: The following stanza, in the edition of 1800, was omitted in subsequent ones:

Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more The house of thy Father will open its door, And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. [i]]



* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Wordsworth originally wrote "sees." S.T.C. suggested "views."—Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON VARIANT 3

[Sub-Footnote i:

"Susan stood for the representative of poor 'Rus in urbe.' There was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten; 'bright volumes of vapour,' etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, and contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to term her 'a poor outcast' seems as much as to say that poor Susan was no better than she should be, which I trust was not what you meant to express."

Charles Lamb to Wordsworth. See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i., p. 287.—Ed.]



* * * * *



1798

A NIGHT PIECE

Composed 1798.—Published 1815.

[Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,—'He looks up, the clouds are split,' etc.—I. F.]

Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

* * * * *

—The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 5 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while [1] he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10 Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split Asunder,—and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 15 And sharp, and bright, [A] along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;—still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 20 Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 25 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.



* * * * *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827

... as ... 1815.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The indebtedness of the Poet to his Sister is nowhere more conspicuous than in this Poem. In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal the following occurs, under date 25th January 1798:

"Went to Poole's after tea. The sky spread over with one continuous cloud, whitened by the light of the moon, which, though her dim shape was seen, did not throw forth so strong a light as to chequer the earth with shadows. At once the clouds seemed to cleave asunder, and lift her in the centre of a black-blue vault. She sailed along, followed by multitudes of stars, small, and bright, and sharp; their brightness seemed concentrated."

Ed.]



* * * * *



WE ARE SEVEN

Composed 1798.—Published 1798.

[Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine, I met within the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to 'Guilt and Sorrow', I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N. Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of the father of my friend, Robert Jones.

In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge. In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem, to be sent to the 'New Monthly Magazine', set up by Philips, the bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of 'The Ancient Mariner', founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain parts I myself suggested: for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime, and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's 'Voyages', a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. 'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began the composition together, on that to me memorable evening: I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular—

And listen'd like a three years' child; The Mariner had his will.

These trifling contributions, all but one (which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded), slipt out of his mind, as well they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective manners proved so widely different, that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollections. We returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. 'The Ancient Mariner' grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to talk of a volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of Poems chiefly on natural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote 'The Idiot Boy', 'Her eyes are wild', etc., 'We are Seven', 'The Thorn', and some others. To return to 'We are Seven', the piece that called forth this note, I composed it while walking in the grove at Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, "A prefatory stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleasure if my task was finished." I mentioned in substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immediately threw off the stanza, thus;

A little child, dear brother Jem,

I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous; but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name, who was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother of the dramatist; and this reminds me of an anecdote which it may be worth while here to notice. The said Jem got a sight of the "Lyrical Ballads" as it was going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said, "Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will cancel, for, if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous." I answered, that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate piece he alluded to. He said, 'It is called 'We are Seven'.' 'Nay,' said I, 'that shall take its chance, however'; and he left me in despair. I have only to add, that in the spring [A] of 1841, I revisited Goodrich Castle, not having seen that part of the Wye since I met the little girl there in 1793. It would have given me greater pleasure to have found in the neighbouring hamlet traces of one who had interested me so much, but that was impossible, as unfortunately I did not even know her name. The ruin, from its position and features, is a most impressive object. I could not but deeply regret that its solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a projection of the same ridge, as if to show how far modern art can go in surpassing all that could be done by antiquity and nature with their united graces, remembrances, and associations. I could have almost wished for power, so much the contrast vexed me, to blow away Sir——Meyrick's impertinent structure and all the fopperies it contains.—I. F.]

* * * * *

The "structure" referred to is Goodrich Court, built in 1828 by Sir Samuel Rush Meyrick—a collector of ancient armour, and a great authority on the subject—mainly to receive his extensive private collection. The armour has been removed from Goodrich to the South Kensington Museum. 'We are Seven' was placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

—A simple Child, [1] That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? [B]

I met a little cottage Girl: 5 She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: 10 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, 15 And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. 20

"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 25 And two are gone to sea, Yet ye [2] are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; 30 Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, 35 Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 40

"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. [3]

"And often after sun-set, Sir, 45 When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane; [4] In bed she moaning lay, 50 Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, [5] Together round her grave we played, 55 My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." 60

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, [6] "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! 65 Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"



* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

A simple child, dear brother Jim, 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

I sit and sing to them. 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

... little Jane; 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

And all the summer dry, 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1836.

The little Maiden did reply, 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It was in June, after leaving Alfoxden finally.—Ed.]

[Footnote B: The whole of this stanza was written by Coleridge. In a MS. copy of the poem, transcribed by him, after 1806, Wordsworth gave it the title 'We are Seven, or Death', but afterwards restored the original title.—Ed.]



* * * * *



ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS

Composed 1798.—Published 1798.

'Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.'

EUSEBIUS. [A]

* * * * *

[This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The boy was a son of my friend, Basil Montagu, who had been two or three years under our care. The name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol Channel, about a mile from Alfoxden; and the name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a beautiful spot on the Wye, where Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who had taken refuge from politics, after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring up his family by the profits of agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a speculation as that he had fled from. Coleridge and he had both been public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his politics, Theology, from which the other elocutionist abstained, unless it was for the sake of a sneer. This quondam community of public employment induced Thelwall to visit Coleridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way. He really was a man of extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband, and a good father. Though brought up in the city, on a tailor's board, he was truly sensible of the beauty of natural objects. I remember once, when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together upon the turf, on the brink of a stream in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, 'This is a place to reconcile one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the wide world.' 'Nay,' said Thelwall, 'to make one forget them altogether.' The visit of this man to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge has related, the occasion of a spy being sent by Government to watch our proceedings; which were, I can say with truth, such as the world at large would have thought ludicrously harmless.—I. F.]

* * * * *

In the editions 1798 to 1843 the title of this poem is 'Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the practice [1] of lying may be taught'. It was placed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

I have a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 5 Our quiet home [2] all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10 Our [3] pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear Some fond regrets to entertain; [4] With so much happiness to spare, 15 I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade.[5] 20

Birds warbled round me—and each trace Of inward sadness had its charm; Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,[6] And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim 25 And graceful in his rustic dress! And, as we talked, I questioned him, [7] In very idleness.

"Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, 30 "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" [8]

In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be 35 Than here at Liswyn farm."

"Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why."— "I cannot tell, I do not know."— "Why, this is strange," said I; 40

"For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: [9] There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my boy hung down his head, 45 He blushed with shame, nor made reply; [10] And three times to the child I said, [11] "Why, Edward, tell me why?"

His head he raised—there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain— 50 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And eased his mind with this reply: [12] "At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 55 And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. [B] 60

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

the art ... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1802.

... house ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1802.

My ... 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1827.

To think, and think, and think again; 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, And so is Liswyn farm." 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1836.

...—every trace Of inward sadness had its charm; "Kilve," said I, ... 1827.

This verse was introduced in 1827.]

[Variant 7: 1836.

My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him, 1798.

This was stanza v. from 1798 to 1820.

And, as we talked, I questioned him, 1827.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

"My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm— "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, Or here at Liswyn farm?"

"And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" 1798.

These two stanzas were compressed into one in 1827.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

For, here are woods and green-hills warm; 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1800.

At this, my boy, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply; 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1845.

And five times did I say to him, 1798.

And five times to the child I said, 1800.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

And thus to me he made reply; 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Appendix IV.—Ed.]

[Footnote B: Mr. Ernest H. Coleridge writes to me of this poem:

"The Fenwick note is most puzzling.

1. If Coleridge went to visit Thelwall, with Wordsworth and Dorothy in July 1798, this is the only record; but I suppose that he did.

2. How could the poem have been suggested in front of Alfoxden? The visit to Liswyn took place after the Wordsworths had left Alfoxden never to return. If little Montagu ever did compare Kilve and Liswyn Farm, he must have done so after he left Alfoxden. The scene is laid at Liswyn, and if the poem was written at Alfoxden, before the party visited Liswyn, the supposed reply was invented to a supposed question which might be put to the child when he got to Liswyn. How unlike Wordsworth.

3. Thelwall came to Alfoxden at the commencement of Wordsworth's tenancy; and the visit to Wales took place when the tenancy was over, July 3-10."

Ed.]



* * * * *



"A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL"

Composed March 18, 1798.—Published 1800.

[Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were written in the spring of 1799. [A] I had the pleasure of again seeing, with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years after. [B]—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then—all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5 I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10 [1] And all the year the bower is green. [C] But see! where'er the hailstones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze—no breath of air— Yet here, and there, and every where 15 Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20 And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

You could not lay a hair between:

Inserted in the editions 1800-1815.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800.]

[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to 1805:

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in Germany.—Ed.]

[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was May 13, 1841.—Ed.]

[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont, written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December 1806.—Ed.]

[Footnote D:

"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William wrote a description of the storm"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).—Ed.]



* * * * *



THE THORN

Composed March 19, 1798.—Published 1798.

In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to this poem:

"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a mood when it was probable that I should write it well.—The character which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small independent income to some village or country town of which he was not a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and by accumulated imagery.

"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly; yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly. The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full effect.

"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers, or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every nation.

Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.

At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.

Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his Chariot?

(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th.)

See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem."

"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story."

W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798.

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[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to paint the same subject over again.' The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.—I. F.]

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'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.



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THE POEM

I "There is a Thorn—it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child 5 It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone 10 With lichens is it overgrown. [2]

II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: 15 Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; 20 And all have [4] joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

III "High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25 It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond 30 Of water—never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]

IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35 A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, 40 As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye.

V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45 Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. 55

VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap 60 So like [6] an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! 65 Oh woe is me! oh misery!'

VII "At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; 70 And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still And to herself she cries, 75 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80 Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, 85 And wherefore does she cry?— O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: 90 But would you [7] gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like [8] an infant's grave, The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door—'tis seldom shut— 95 And, if you see her in her hut— Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there."

X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100 Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" [9] "Full twenty years are past and gone [10] Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105 Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110

XI "And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church 115 Unthinking Stephen went— Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, 121 Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]

XII "They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, 125 And there was often seen. What could she seek?—or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; [13] She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130 From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father—would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]

XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! 135 Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140 About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145 And it should all be told to you; [17] For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; [18] Nay—if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150 And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; [20] But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. 155