*1 tpS $■■■■■■ tilfe ; ' - ^ ^^Mff&f(f(&^. .A/KArNr^AArsA^SAAAAiA^i ^mm>^ Wtsf\f\f\K \csr\&mf\f\h *M#$M\ aAaAa^AV ! LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. "| wvmW ^mm^m^^^^h^^r ''"aSS- Wffifm^^ ^^A^AA^A^aa^nAA^MA^ri^A^/ P«^AAAAAr\A/ KaAAAa^AAAAaA/ U,^M^r^ wimm&tmim S^m^ te^^Aft A/AA^a/Aa^A*. w^m^amaW ^aA^sAa^; .aAAaaAAAA' ^^W*iW»weSo ipa^^ A^^^iitoiaAitaA/iA SdVV^liW^ jiMWTMY\kn; ^^AA/^^flflfl^SOnnAA^'AAW MWa .aAAmAVW \A/-\AAAA/^r 1 ^%AA:2^^nnnrOOh A ^ < rWmYVWflA/\rv WYVWVwirfWvVYflW i«v#yms(w^Wfl AATiMAAAAAAT aaaaaaAmaaaaaa mkfaMAMki^ ■AA«fi«AOOA; awiwww THE DRAMA OF KINGS " Te verb appello sanctissimum Flumen, tibique Jufura prcedico : torrenti sanguine plenus ad ripas usque erumpes, tindmque divincz non solum] polluenhir sanguine, sed iota rumpentur, et viris mttlto major erii numerus sepultorum. Quid fles, O Asclepi ? "—The Asclepjan Dialogue. THE DRAMA OF KINGS By ROBERT BUCHANAN STRAHAN & CO., PUBLISHERS 56 LUDGATE HILL, LONDON 1871 Xh* LONDON : PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., CITY ROAD. CONTENTS. Dedication : To the Spirit of Auguste Comte . . . vii Proem . . . . . . . xv Prelude before the Curtain . . . i The Drama of Kings : Prologue . . . . . ..ii Buonaparte; or, France against the Teuton . . 19 Choric Interlude : the Titan . . . . 137 Napoleon Fallen . . . . . 157 Choric Interlude : the Two Voices . . .261 The Teuton against Paris . . . -277 Epilogue . . . . . . 423 Epilude before the Curtain . . . .4^1 Notes . . . . . .... 449 On Mystic Realism : a Note for the Adept . 463 Bc&tcatfon. TO THE SPIRIT OF AUGUSTE COMTE I INSCRIBE THIS DRAMA OF EVOLUTION. O thou of the great brow ! Fire hath thy City now : Her wild scream shakes the earth and troubles Man. O spirit who loved best This City of the West, See where she shatter'd lies — great centre of thy plan. Spirit of the great brow ! Look back, and whisper now : Dost thou despair ? Was thy vast scheme a cheat ? Doth it move sad strange mirth To think thou dreamedst Earth A God to its own soul, a Light to its own feet ? viii DEDICA TION. Out of the sphere of pain All gods have warn'd in vain, Brahm, Buddha, Balder, and the Man Divine — Still blend in bloody strife, Throat to throat, life for life, Struggles the Human still, struggles this God of thine. Say, is there hope up there, Or doth thy heart despair ? Out of the deep once more shall Man arise ? — Here on the dark earth see Stricken Humanity, — Is there no lamp indeed beyond his own sad eyes ? While thy poor clay sleeps sound All hush'd beneath the ground, Dost thou the quest thy soul denied pursue ? And on some heavenly height, With pale front to the light, Art dreaming still — what dream? — since thy first dream fell thro'. Lo, 'tis the old sad chance ! Comte, look this day on France — Behold her struck with swords and given to shame, She who on bended knee First to Humanity Knelt, and with blood of Man heap'd Man's new Altar-flame. DED1CA TIOX. ix She who first rose and dared ; She who hath never spared Blood of hers, drop by drop, from her great breast ; She who, to free mankind, Left herself bound and blind ; She whose brave voice let loose the Conscience of the West. Lo, as she passes by To the earth's scornful cry, What are those shapes who walk behind so wan ? — • Martyrs and prophets born Out of her night and morn : Have we forgot them yet ? — these, the great friends of Man. We name them as they go, Dark, solemn-faced, and slow — Voltaire, with sadden'd mouth but eyes still bright ; Turgot, Malesherbes, Rousseau, Lafayette, Mirabeau — These pass, and many more, heirs of large realms of Light. Greatest and last pass thou, Strong heart and mighty brow, Thine eyes surcharged with love of all things fair ; Facing with those grand eyes The light in the sweet skies, While thy shade earthward falls, dark'ning my soul to prayer. x DEDICA TION. And I discern again The perfect sphere of pain ; And there lies France, great heart of thy great plan — In her dark hours of gloom, In her worst sin and doom, Hath she not ev'n by fire tested the soul of Man ? Sure as the great sun rolls, The crown of mighty souls Is martyrdom, and lo ! she hath her crown. On thy pale brow there weigh'd Another such proud shade — O, but we know ye both, risen or stricken down. Sinful, mad, fever-fraught, At war with her own thought, Great-soul'd, sublime, the heir of constant pain, France hath the dreadful part To keep alive Man's heart, To shake the sleepy blood into the sluggard's brain ; Ever in act to spring, Ever in suffering, To point the lesson and to bear the load, Least happy and least free Of all the lands that be, Dying that all may live, first of the slaves of God. DEDICATION. xi Hers is the martyr's part, — To bear a hungry heart, A bursting brain, brave eyes, an empty hand ; Such is the lot in store For great souls evermore, For her, for thee, great soul, for all God's chosen band. Shall the cold lands stand by, Each with proud pitying eye, While by her own heart's fever she is torn ? — Shall the dull nations draw Light from her woes — and law ? Yea ! but her hour shall come ; she too shall rest, some mom. To try each crude desire By her own soul's fierce fire, To wait and watch with restless brain and heart, To quench the fierce thirst never, To feel supremely ever, To rush where cowards crawl — this is hef awful part. Ever to cross and rack, Along the same red track, Genius is led, and speaks its soul out plain ; Blessed are those that give — They die that man may live, Their crown is martyrdom, their privilege is pain. xii DEDICATION. Spirit of the great brow ! I need no whisper now — Last of the flock who die for man each day. Ah, but I should despair Did I not see up there A Shepherd heavenly-eyed on the heights far away. No cheat was thy vast scheme, Tho' in thy gentle dream Thou saw'st no Shepherd watching the wild throng- Thou walking the sad road Of all who seek for God, Blinded became at last, looking at Light so long. Yet God is multiform, Human of heart and warm, Content to take what shape the Soul loves best, Before our footsteps still He change th as we will — Only, — with blood alone we gain Him and are blest. O, latest son of her Freedom's pale harbinger, I see the Shepherd whom thou could'st not find ; But on thy great fair brow, As thou did'st pass but now, Bright burnt the patient Cross of those who bless mankind. DEDICATION. xiii And on her brow, who lies Bleeding beneath the skies, The mark was set that will not let her rest — Sinner in all men's sight, Mocker of very Light, Yet is she chosen thus, martyr'd, — and shall be blest. Go by, O mighty dead ! My soul is comforted — The Shepherd on the summit needs no prayers — Best worshipper is he Who suffers and is free — That Soul alone blasphemes which trembles and despairs. Robert Buchanan. May, 187 1. PROE M. Still blowing and growing, With sound like torrents flowing, The Storm of God in thunder Hath raged the whole night long- Now in the grey of -morning, With never a note of warning, O wonder ! just under Mine eaves there sounds a song ! There springing and singing, To the bare branches clinging, Just as the clouds are raising, A Bird sings fresh and loud — Sings tho' the rain is falling, Sings while the winds are calling. Sings praising, and gazing Up to the breaking cloud. O ditty of pity,_ Sung just without the City, Sung in the dark to heighten The waking hope of light, PROEM. Sung, lest the heart should harden, By a white bird in my garden, To lighten and brighten After a woeful night ! And higher, with fire Of passionate desire, While heaven's eye of azure Is opening far away, The white bird sings full cheerly Of all that man loves dearly, A measure for pleasure Of the bright birth of day. Deriding the tiding, The soul within me biding Smiles at the song to cheer it, But drinks the sound like wine. Hark ! louder yet of summer Sings out the sweet newcomer — The spirit, to hear it, Trembles to tears divine. Bright ranger ! white stranger ! Singing most loud in danger, Whom storm nor wrath can frighten, Who hast no note for care, Teach me to turn thy ditty Into brave words of pity, To brighten and lighten Man's passionate despair ! PROEM. xa When, flying and dying, The Storm of God is crying, Now when they least desire me "Who wake and look around, Lest from ill-dreams they harden, O white bird in my garden, Inspire me and fire me With thy prophetic sound ! Robert Buchanan. May, 1 87 1. PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. THE HEAVENLY THEATRE. The Lord. The Archangels. The Celestial Spectators. Chorus. Ring within ring, Seventy times seven, Ring within ring Is blossoming The Rose of Heaven : From the darkness under To the radiance o'er, Bursting asunder Threefold at the core ; Threefold is glowing The Eternal Light, Close round it snowing Are the Seraphs white, THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And next more dim The Cherubim ; And from rings to rings, Circles of wings Seventy times seven, Inward close The leaves of the Rose Of Heaven ! The Heart of the Rose, Like the flame on an altar, Burns dim and sweet, And the leaves of the Rose Are folded close, That they tremble and falter, To feel it beat : From ring to ring, Ever widening, Seventy times seven, The glory flows From the Heart of the Rose Of Heaven ! And dimmer growing From the burning Heart, PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. Still fainter flowing Thro' every part, The sweet life sighs To the outermost leaves Most frail and wan ; And there it lies, Trembles and dies, For the outermost leaves Are the soul of Man. Ring within ring Seventy times seven, Ring within ring Is blossoming The Rose of Heaven ! And for evermore The flame at the core Burns on, consuming The circlet blooming, Suffused and bright, Next to the Light : — Yea, as oil feedeth flame, The innermost part Of the seventy times seven THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Melts ; — and the same Becomes one with the Heart Of the Rose of Heaven. And evermore Burning on to the core The rings of the Rose Narrow inward, and turn More white and bright, Yea, the rings of the Rose Contract and burn Till they reach the Light ; And ever-renewed From root and seed, With the fire for food Whose flame they feed, First dim and wan As the soul of Man, They lessen, brightening From fold to fold Seventy times seven, Whitening and lightening Till they die in gold On the Heart of the Rose of Heaven. PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. Burn and close, leaves of the Rose ! Spread and shine, O Flower divine ! Ring within ring Seventy times seven, Ring within ring, Grow blossoming, O beautiful Rose of Heaven ! Clouds rise. Lucifer appears upon the Stage. Lucifer. Hail, ye Spectators! whose immortal eyes Within the Theatre Divine have seen So many moving plays and interludes To while away the tedious perfect time ! To-night, once more upon this stage of Earth [Behold it! fair as ever, green and bright, Carpeted still with flowers as beautiful As any gems that blossom in the hair Of you great Angels, and still canopied With the ethereal azure star-enwrought] 8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. To-night, upon this well-worn stage of Earth, I come Choragus to your highnesses, Announcing now a sort of tragedy, A Choric trilogy of tragedies In the Greek fashion ; and I have selected The fairest cherubs and the sweetest-voiced To play the part of Chorus. What we play Is called for briefness ApS/xa Kvpuwv, The actors mortal, Earth the scene, the Time The Present — if I dare use an abstract term Fashion'd by purblind world-philosophers, To ears that measure out eternity. A Spirit. Is it not then forbidden for the poet To dramatise contemporary woes ? Have ye forgot the sin of Phrynichos ? Lucifer. Is that Euripides or yEschylos ? Or some poor poet blest to nothingness Whose name has perish'd from the Attic scroll ? PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 9 Excuse me, then, the Author forms his theme In his own fashion, and I must confess He ever aims at planning novelty. The Author is a most distinguished person, Perhaps there is no mightier honour d here, But for the present chooses to remain Unknown, unseen. What we present to night Is but a fragment of a series Beginning with the first Man and the Snake. Orchestra, now begin the overture ! And all ye sleepy Seraphs who delight In lolling under rosy-coloured clouds And blowing silvern trumpets, all ye Angels Who only turn your slothful eyes on Art When like a naked Phryne she awakes Celestial appetite and dainty dream, All triflers in the blue ethereal courts, All idle gentlemen in singing robes, Close eyes, shut ears!— for we prepare a show Most tragic and most solemn ; we design To treat of mighty matters movingly, io THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Nor shall our actors in their skill disdain The higher pathos — ye shall look on scenes To make the very angels moan, and draw- Tears from the eyelids of the Son of God ! THE DRAMA OF KINGS- PROLOGUE. PROLOGUE. Enter Time, cloaked and hooded, leaning on a Staff. I AM that ancient shadow men call Time, Silent, infirm, frail-footed, snow'd upon By many winters, faring westward still, And ever looking backward to the east. How far these feeble feet must wander yet I know not. All is dark before my steps ; And oft it seems to my bewilder'd sense, That I alone of all things do not move, But like the pale moon plunging on thro 5 mist Make but a fancied motion for the eye, And stationary with enchanted eyes Seem still to pass all shapes that swift as clouds Slide by for ever. Behind me like the sea Seen amid tempest from a mountain top, 14 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Innumerable years break awfully To foam of living faces and to moan Of living voices ; and upon that waste, Looming afar off ghost-like in my track, One still moves luminous-footed, stretching hands To bless the angry waves whereon He walks. To night I come as Prologue, to prepare Your ears for subtle matter. Do ye hear That wind of human voices anguishing Afar off, like the wind Euroclydon Moaning around Mount Ida ? Hark again ! " Liberty ! Liberty !" the wild voice cries, " Liberty ! " now, — and ever " Liberty ! " But whom they call by that mysterious name I say not, nor can any angel say, Nor one thing under God. God knows and hears. That one word and none other hath been cried By men from the beginning. I have heard The sound so long, I smile ; but at the same PROLOGUE. 15 Kingdoms have fallen like o'er-ripen'd fruit, Realms wither'd, heaven rain'd blood and earth yawn'd graves, The seasons sicken'd changing their due course, The stars burnt blue for many awful nights The corpse-lights of a world that lay as dead. And now to-night we show on this same stage How, uttering each that one mysterious word, Two mighty Nations gather' d up their crests Against each other, struck and struck again, Met, mingled, roar'd, fell, rose, fought throat to throat, Until their hate became the wide world's scorn ; How dimly, darkly, for the great Idea, Each smote, and stagger'd on from blow to blow, While one by one came Leaders veil'd to each, Phantoms, each cloak' d and hooded and led by me, Each saying "In the name of Liberty !" 1 6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And drew them as the white moon draws the sea; How one by one these threw their cloaks aside And stood in a red sunset, bloody men Who juggled with the mystic word of God ; — Yet how from sorrow came mysterious good, Seeing Man's wrong'd Soul hoarded its deep strength In silence, making ready for that day When God Himself, who knows the secret only, May bless it with that single truth it seeks. \_A confused noise. It is begun. Germania overthrown, Mad, stricken, lies upon her back and glares At heaven from a bloody battle-field, And dimly sees in the dark void above her A dark Shape, a dim-footed Phantasy, And deemeth 'tis the mighty truth men seek. Hark, the drums' beat ! the cannons thunder deep ! Earth shakes ! . . Now all is silent, and I go PROLOGUE. 17 To walk at dark across the battle-field, And, stooping o'er each stricken bleeding man, Point with a skeleton finger to the stars, And whispering my other awful name, Draw back my hood a moment — thus ! [ L T n hoods — shows the mask of a Caput Mortuum . My name Is also Death ; and I am deathless. I Am Time and most eternal. I am he, God's Usher, and my duty it is to lead The actors one by one upon the scene, And afterwards to guide them quietly Through that dark postern when their parts are played. They come and go, alas ! but I abide, And I am weary of the garish stage. THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Part I. BUONAPARTE; OR, FRANCE AGAINST THE TEUTON. SPEAKERS. Kings, &c. Napoleon Buonaparte. Alexander I., Czar of Russia. Jerome Buonaparte, King of Westphalia. Louisa, Queen of Prussia. The King of Saxony. The Prince Primate, Von Dalberg. Kings, Princes, and Dukes of the Rhenish Confederation. Members of the Tugendbund : The Baron von Stein. The Professor Jahn. The Poet Arndt, Scene — Erfurt, in the Duchy of Saxe Coburg Gotha. Time — October, 1808, during the great Congress of Powers, SC£iV£.— THE TOWN OF ERFURT, IN THE DUCHY OF SAXE COBURG GOTHA. STEIN. An OFFICER. Officer. Hark how they shout, thronging the busy streets, While the imperial butcher passes by To course the hare on Jena's fatal plain ! Stein. Ill-omen'd place and hour ! ill-omen'd day ! Friend, I beheld them coming forth ! I looked On Caesar's sallow face — I saw it, I — And found no sunlight there to dazzle me : Only the insolent frost-bitten cheek 24 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Bloodless and hard like iron, only eyes Snake-like, the snake's eyes of the Corsican. On a white charger rolling like a wave, He rode sunk deep into his saddle thus, His shoulders rounded, while his bridle hand Hung at his side as heavily as lead Tho' the steed champ'd against the pitiless rein ; And all the while with low soft speech he smiled To Russia, who, on a black Barbary mare Riding with stirrups long and easy rein, Fixing his evil eyes in one fond stare Of fascination on his royal comrade, Show'd like a cheated wolf. Behind these twain, Who riding hung together amorously, Follow'd the lacqueys, — Prussia's prince and chief, Wiirtemberg, Saxony, Bavaria, Westphalia leering at the burghers' wives, Hesse, Baden, all the princedoms and the powers, BUONAPARTE. 25 So mingled up with equerries, knights-at- arms, Blackcoats and redcoats, horsemen, footmen, huntsmen, That all became a shameful garden-show Wherein no eye could pick the several parts ; Only those two proud Emperors rode supreme, In their proud sunshine dwarfing all the rest That follow'd them to less than nothingness ; And yet I swear, — I saw it with mine eyes, — Not one of those but drew his lacquey's air In gaily, not one face but was content So to be shone upon by those that led, Not one, not one, but like a very dog Follow'd behind his masters tame and proud, Fawning upon their footprints step by step, Officer. My heart aches, and my tongue fails. All thy words Are wormwood. Yet the people of the earth Are helpless, seeing those that lead are blind. 26 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Stein. O God, God, God ! that these things should be known In the same land, beneath the self-same sky, That saw the giant Karl arise his height The head of all the earth at Paderborn, When dwarfd beside him great Pope Leo stood, And the great Caliph of the heathen East Rain'd gold and gems at the imperial feet ! O God ! are the ghosts laid for evermore That walk'd about the Teuton vales at night And awed the souls of men, and kept them free? Is Karl forgotten ? Is great Fritz's spirit Spell-laid within the shade of Sans Souci ? Is Germany, is every German soul, Dumb, fetter' d, broken, miserable, dead ? Are this man's functions supernatural, Divine above all life, all love, all law, That he should walk upon the waves of earth BUOXA PARTE. 27 Casting his bloody shade as on a sea, And they should hush themselves around his feet Lightly as ripples on a summer pond r Earth, water, air — the clouds, the waves, the winds, — The stars in their pale courses, — day and night Forgetful of their natural equipoise, Shape their mysterious functions to his will ; Kings lick his feet like dogs ; he lifts his finger And epileptic in his chair the Pope Foams speechless at the mouth ; — body and soul Obey him as an impulse and a law ; — The eyes, the ears, the tongues, of all the world Are blown one way like all a forest's leaves To see, hear, and entreat him ; — by his smile The earth is brighten'd, — and 'tis straight fine weather ! Let him but frown, all darkens and the sun Uprises bloody as a vulture's crest ! 2S THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Like hawks obedient to the falconer The Kings of Europe wait, and at a sign Soar, while he sits and smiles, in fierce pursuit Of any wretched quarry he would slay ; But let him whistle, and with bloody beaks They turn, and preen their plumage, and are fed. Cry ? I will cry to God with all my soul ! Can God keep calm, and look upon these things ? CHORUS. O Spirits dreaming, With blue eyes beaming, With bright locks flowing And folded wings, Your lips are parted, While happy-hearted, To rapture glowing, Sweet things each sings — And the bright song quivers Like the wash of rivers, Like west winds blowing, Like bubbling springs ; — BUONAPARTE. In quiet places Shine your soft faces, While we are throwing Our curse at Kings, Sweet music never, But something ever To curse and cry for, Till death appear ; No dreamy singing, But scorn and stinging, Deep shame to sigh for, Doom drear to fear ; Hunger and sorrow Both night and morrow, While all we try for Grows harsh and sere : — O'er barren meadows We drift like shadows, We dream, we die for The Golden Year. O year ! O summer ! O promised comer — 3 o THE DRAMA OF KINGS, Promised to us Since time began — As in the beginning, Deep craft and sinning Swiftly pursue us And ban each plan ; A thousand rulers And soul-befoolers Have perish'd through us After a span ; But fresh fierce faces Still take their places, New Kings subdue us And trouble Man. Slay them ? — we slay them : — Our souls gainsay them — ■ Comes Ate bringing Her fatal boon ; But still fresh creatures, With the old false features, Rise up, all singing The moon-mad tune ; — BUONAPARTE. What comfort to us When these undo us ; To know their stinging Must cease so soon- When with fierce laughter New Kings come after, As quickly springing As grass in June : O Spirits dreaming, With blue eyes beaming, Your song, like ours, Is still the same — Ye hear in glory A familiar story, But it sings of flowers, Not shame and blame- And your lips are parted, Ye smile sweet-hearted, And ye join in your bowers With eyes aflame. To a note as weary, But dark and dreary, 32 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Our souls, our powers, Lie sick and tame. O, wherefore ever Kill Kings, and never Find earth outlast her Exceeding pain ? All man o'erthroweth Again regroweth, O'er each disaster "We gain, in vain. Slain Kings each morrow Bring seed of sorrow. Doth grass grow faster, Or golden grain ? After each reaping We see upcreeping Another Master ! Another chain ! Like waves of ocean Is our wild motion, In sad storm blended, With winds opprest, BUONAPARTE. 33 Ever perceiving New cause for grieving : — From storm defended, O blest were rest ! Tho' in its season We know each treason Must sink wave-rended In our great breast ; Tho' all that win us Are tomb'd within us, — Would all were ended ! Yea, rest were best. O Spirits dreaming With blue eyes gleaming, With nought to sigh for As we sigh here, Beyond disaster, With one fix'd Master, With nought to vie for, With fear, nor tear- The soul speeds thither, Our dreams go with her, D 34 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. We yearn to fly, for All life seems sere. By waters dreary, Moon-wan and weary, We dream, we die for The Golden Year ! STEIN. ARNDT JAHN. Stein. Good morrow, friends. Have ye been feast- ing sight On Caesar's triumph, that ye walk the earth With eyes so fevered and with mien so wild ? JAHN. Why, yes, we did our turn of gape and stare. 'Twas hot, hell-hot — and the heat turned my brain, So that methought (laugh with me, lest ye weep !) 'Twas very Ccesar whom I look'd upon, BUONAPARTE. 35 And I as soothsayer was stepping forth To croak my warning threat into his ear, When Arndt here clutched me fast and held me back, And I awoke again to the wild day ; So open-mouthed as he went by we stared All in the sunshine and the festal light, Like two black ravens on a bridal path Hopping in omen of a funeral. Stein. O blessed omen for the weary world ! Jahx. How many hours, and days, and months, and years, Shall this go on r Deeper and deeper yet We wallow. Is there any living hope \ Stein. Hope lasts with life. Life lasts ; so hope thou on. 36 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. JAHN. Life lasts r I know not. Oft it seems that all Is dead, dead — dead and rotten — Liberty No more a living shape supremely fair, But a mere ghost unpleasant to the thoughts Of foolish Kings at bedtime. Every wind Is tainted by this pestilence from France. No man may sitting at his private board Discuss in quietness his own affairs, Debt, his last illness, private history, But straight the Skeleton of Law appears, Pressing its bony finger on the lips. • In every corner twinkle weasels' ears, Long noses snuffing treason, sharp white teeth Hungry for blood ; the unclean things of scent Swarm numerous as locusts, eating up Our grain, our very substance ; ay, and mark ! If thou and I — poor devils that we are — NAP ARTE. 37 Would fly from Malebolge, from this Hell, And speed to some far land and colonise, Straightway upon the frontier rises up The Skeleton, waving us back again, In this new Caesar's name, to beggary. Meantime the once blest frame of Germany Sickens : disease and famine gnaw her breasts, Sorrow and shame destroy her. All appeal To law is fatal, since this tyrant France Is law, fate, death ; and each man's flesh and soul Are fruit his myrmidons may pluck at will. All men of noble birth must flock perforce To spend three months of every year at court, There to be taught to play this mad French tune Upon the one-string'd fiddle of despair. All the fresh streams of trade are choked and stuff'd With antique carrion and new garbage. Nought Goes out or in our poor Germania's mouth 33 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. But the great thief clutches his lion's share ; And even the poor peasants, — Hans who chops Wood in the cold, Fritz who grow T s rheu- matic Leech-hunting in the marshes, — even these, Are robb'd, poor slaves, of their mere mite of salt,— While every pipe they smoke beside the fire To warm their agued limbs in wretched age, And every pinch of snuff they feebly take To clear their purblind eyes of rheum and mist, Is interdicted till they first have given Due pinch and pipeful to the Emperor ! Stein. Still courage ! Evil days have been ere this, Social disease as deep, civic disease As dreadful. It shall end. Have we not sworn BUONAPARTE. 39 By Christ that it shall end ? Sow thy fierce words Abroad, my Jahn, — they shall be winged seed — Prepare, my Arndt, thy passionate sweet songs, Sing them at night by the Babylonian river, They shall create a new and Teuton soul. Arndt. And yet I scarce can speak for bitterness. O Stein, while I prepare an eager cry To move the stagnant hearts of simple men, Voices more strong and more intense than mine, Souls gifted and accredited from God, Cry to the monster, " Hail," sing in his ear Pindaric hymn and paean, fan his glory Like light winds full of scent from beds of flowers. Stein. Voices of parasites and summer bards — For such have ever sung to conquerors. 4o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Arndt. But yestermorn the old man Wieland stood Enlarging his weak vision for an hour Upon the demigod, who of Greece and Rome Talk'd like a petulant schoolboy; and this day I beheld Goethe with a doubtful face, Part dubious and part eager, proof of thoughts Half running on ahead, half lingering, Enter the quarters of the Emperor ; — But when he issued forth his features wore Their pitiless smile of perfect self-delight, His lips already quiver'd with a paean, His stately march was quicken'd eagerly, And all his face and all his gait alive With glory that the sun of Corsica Had shone upon him to his heart's content. Which of our singers is not garrulous In praise of Europe's curse and Prussia's shame ? Jahn. I trust no poets. They are moonshine men, And like the folk in Persia fall abash'd BUONAPARTE. 41 At sunlight. There is mightier matter here, — Short, sharp, and like himself, — a word of hope From Marshal Vorwarts, our old fire-eater, The old one with the bright heart of a boy, Who jingles his sharp spurs and curses France Morn, noon, and night in Pomerania — [Reads] "Thieves!" "cowards!" "windbags!" " men of straw ! " " geese ! " " swine !" (The strength of Bliicher lies in expletives And sword-thrusts) with such words hurl'd out like blows, He cries, concluding with a trooper's curse, A round " God-damn-his-soul-to-hell-fire " oath On the French Satan. As for your singing- men, Your lute-players, your festal Matthissons, They buzz in their own fashion, in the old Blue-bottle fashion. While the blue-flies hum, The curs yelp gladly. I have heard they eat 42 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Dog-pie in China as a delicacy : — to be cook to Caesar for a day ! To mince John Muller and dish Zschokke up, As dainties set before the Emperor ! Stein. The life of every man is as a wave, And having risen its appointed height It must descend ; and I believe this day Our eyes have look'd upon Napoleon Crested to his full glory, and in act Of over-fall. The power of tyranny Can go no higher; henceforth its fierce strength Shall be expended downwards, be assured. JAHN. 1 could have roar'd for joy like any bull To see him fondling Russia. To be tamed, Bears must be taken in their infancy ; But I beheld the old bloodthirsty look Deep in the eyes of this one, tho' they blink'd BUONAPARTE. 43 So tamely. Why, his paws are scarcely clean From Austerlitz ! Have patience ! this last pet Was caught too old, and it will hug him yet ! Stein. .Honour to Austria, that he holds aloof — JAHN. there is life and soul in Austria still : The poor old Bird hath struck and struck and struck, Till he is shredded to a scarecrow, worn To a thin shadow. In the undaunted one 1 honour what I hated, and yet fear ! Were I a poet (I am none, thank God) Why I would sing a paean in his praise. Stein. For something fairer far and more divine Poets shall sing and prophets cry full soon. 44 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. O friends, we shall become a people yet — Tho' the first bond was like a wisp of straw Torn by this Ape asunder, tho' no more Under the banner left by Karl the Great We fight against oppression, still, thank God, We are a people yet, and I believe Not wholly blind and helpless, tho' we reach Pur hands out darkly, waiting on for light. Austria is torn from her imperial seat, Prussia lies healing' of her last wide wound, The lesser Kingdoms walk in flowery chains ; Germania, the name, the word, the race, Still lives, and by Germania soon or late Shall Buonaparte die. At Austerlitz Fell Austria, here the Prussian eagle fell. On both those memorable battlefields, Rose like a Spirit from a murder'd man The white truth, hovering for a moment there An Iris on the Death-cloud. Out of the proud Imperial Austrian ruin shall emerge The Teuton : not a temple such as that Napoleon overthrew — not a mere name Descending thro' a line of shadowy Kings — BUONAPARTE. 45 Not a delusion and patrician lie, A pasteboard Crown and an unholy Sword — Not these, but more than these, a life, a soul, A living man, the Teuton, lord of all He from his fathers first inherited, — The heart of Europe water'd by the Rhine. For ours too long hath been a mighty house Divided in itself against itself, , Too eager to be dragged by peevish Kings Out of itself to wander in the world : And we indeed are stricken at this day Because we follow'd in an evil hour Blind rulers who affrighted for their crowns Led us against the house republican Built by our brethren in the fields of France. For, mark me, they who follow and fight for crowns Fight for a figment merely and a sign, And should the dwellers in a nation say Within our chambers there shall sit no Kings, They err who blindly for the sake of Kings Would carry thither sword and flaming fire. A people is a law unto itself, The law of God will shape that lesser law, 46 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And if there come a time when Kings are doom'd, Why let them like a feast-day pageant pass And be forgotten, or like some old tale Become a goodly theme for the fireside. O if the Teuton soul we all inherit Would rise supreme, and for the one white truth Strike blow on blow half as persistently As Austria hath, because she fear'd to lose The jewels in her crown, the world were free Of this accredited and crowned Shape, That walketh at his will, and when he will, Into the porches of the great Abodes Of nations : knocks like Death at every door, And enters every kingly bed-chamber As sleep doth, bringing there instead of sleep Sleepless Despair and haunting shapes of Fear! What, shall this Robber sit with folded arms Upon the hearth of our fair dwelling-place, And shall the foolish people of the house BUONAPARTE. 47 Do courtesies and kill the fatted calf ? Nay, rather let him reckon up his days, For he was doom'd (and so all Kings are doom'd) Whene'er he ceased to wield the righteous sword Upon the threshold of his threaten'd land. And wander'd out into the open world To plunder in the name of Liberty. CHORUS. 'Twas the height of the world's night, there was neither warmth nor light, And the heart of Earth was heavy as a stone ; Yet the nations sick with loss saw the surge of heaven toss Round the meteor of the Cross ; and with a moan All the people desolate gazed thereon and question'd fate, And the wind went by and bit them to the bone. 43 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Hope was fled and Faith was dead, and the black pall overhead Hung like Death's, for doom was heavy everywhere, — When there rose a sudden gleam, then a thunder, then a scream, Then a lightning, stream on stream upon the air! And a dreadful ray was shed around the Cross, and it grew red, And the pallid people leapt to see the glare. Fire on the heights of France ! Fire on the heights of France ! Fire flaming up to heaven, streak on streak ! How on France Kings look't askance ! how the nations join'd in dance ! To see the glory glance from peak to peak ! How the chain'd lands curst their chance, as they bent their eyes on France ! Earth answer d, and her tongues began to speak. BUONAPARTE. 49 Now hark! — who lit the spark in the miserable dark ? O Washington, men miss thee and forget. Where did the light arise, in answer to man's cries r In the West ; in those far skies it rose and set. Who brought it in his breast from the liberated West ? Speak his name, and kneel and bless him : Lafayette. O Sire, that madest Fire ! How with pas- sionate desire Leapt the nations while it gather'd and up-streamed ; Then they fed it, to earth's groans, with Man's flesh and blood and bones, And with Altars and with Thrones ; and still it screamed. Then they cast a King thereon — but a flash, and he was gone. Then they brought a Queen to feed it : — how it gleam'd I E 5° THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Then it came to pass, Earth's frame seem'd dissolving in the flame, Then it seem'd the Soul was shaken on its seat, And the pale Kings with thin cries look'd in one another's eyes, Saying, " Hither now it flies, and O how fleet! Sound loud the battle-cry, we must trample France or die, Strike the Altar, cast it down beneath our feet." Forth they fared. The red fire flared on the heights of France, and glared On the faces of the free who kept it fed ; Came the Kings with blinded eyes, but with baffled prayers and cries They beheld it grow and rise, still bloody- red; When lo ! the Fire's great heart, like a red rose cloven apart, Open'd swiftly, to deep thunder overhead. BUONAPARTE. 51 And lo, amid the glow, while the pale Kings watched in woe, Rose a single Shape, and stood upon the pyre. Its eyes were deeply bright, and its face, in their sad sight, Was pallid in a white-heat of desire, And the cheek was ashen hued ; and with folded arms it stood And smiled bareheaded, fawn'd on by the Fire. Forehead bare, the Shape stood there, in the centre of the glare, And cried, "Away ye Kings, or ye shall die.'"' And it drove them back with flame, o'er the paths by which they came, And they wrung their hands in shame as they did fly. As they fled it came behind fleeter-footed than the wind, And it scatter'd them, and smote them hip and thisrh. 52 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. All amazed, they stood and gazed, while their crying kingdoms blazed, With their fascinated eyes upon the Thing ; — When lo, as clouds dilate, it grew greater and more great, And beneath it waited Fate with triple sting ; All colossus-like and grand, it bestrode the sea and land, And behold, — the crowned likeness of a King! Then the light upon the height that had burned in all men's sight Was absorb'd into the creature where he smiled. O his face was wild and wan — but the burning current ran In the red veins of the Man who was its child :— To the sob of the world's heart did the meteor- light depart, Earth darken, and the Altar fall defiled. BUONAPARTE. Then aloud the Phantom vow'd, " Look upon me, O ye proud ! Kiss my footprints ! I am reaper, ye are wheat ! Ye shall tremble at my name, ye shall eat ray bread in shame, I will make ye gather tame beneath my seat." And the gold that had been bright on the hair of Kings at night, Ere dawn was shining dust about his feet. At this hour behold him tower, in the dark- ness of his power, Look upon him, search his features, O ye free ! Is there hope for living things in this fiery King of Kings, Doth the song that Freedom sings fit such as he r Is it night or is it day, while ye bleed beneath his sway ? It is night, deep night on earth and air and. sea. 54 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Still the height of the world's night. There is neither warmth nor light, And the heart of Earth is heavy as a stone ; And within the night's dark core where the sad Cross gleam'd before Sits the Shape that Kings adore, upon a Throne ; And the nations desolate crawl beneath and curse their fate, And the wind goes by and bites them to the bone. O Sire that mad'st the Fire, and the Shape that dread and dire Came from thence, the first and last born of the same, To Thee we praying throng, for Thou alone art strong, To right our daily wrong and bitter shame : From the aching breast of earth, lift the red Fire and its birth ! Consume them — let them vanish in one flame ! BUONAPARTE. SS Buonaparte. The Czar. Jerome Buonaparte. Louis Buonaparte. The Kings of Saxony, Bavaria, Wurtemberg. The Prince Primate von Dalberg. The Hereditary Princes and Dukes of the Rhenish Confederation. Buonaparte. Thank God Almighty for a peaceful day. Would we had never nobler game to chase Than that just slain on Jena. What say'st thou, Von Dalberg ? Is there any living thing Runs faster from the hunter than a hare r Prince Primate. A man, Sire, when the hunter is a God. Buonaparte. Sayst thou r Well, be of courage, tho' we saw Men's backs at Jena. Here indeed we stand In pomp of peace and perfect amity, 56 THE ■ DRAMA OF KINGS. The constellated rulers of the earth, Forming (God willing) for the years un- born A prosperous and golden horoscope. We miss our cousin Austria. Were he here Our pageantry were perfect, and we grieve To see him sitting sullen far away, Like some poor cudgel-player with crack'd crown Scowling upon the victor in the game ; But since he holds aloof persistently, And will not be entreated, we will try Without his help to mend the tatter'd realm, And tonic the sick stomach of the time. Long centuries of social night indeed Have lent to our beloved cousin's eyes A certain owl-like hatred of the light, And, taking little note how time slips by, He in the nineteenth century would pre- serve The worm-worn charters left by mighty Charles. BUONAPARTE. 57 The Holy Roman Empire did its work, Flourish' d, decay'd, grew rotten, till at last We threw the wither'd fragments (for in truth They were as stumbling-blocks to all earth's Kings) To the limbo of all logs — Oblivion. O there is much to say, and more to do, Ere we can heal earth's wounds, and right man's wrong, And open up the last long reign of peace. Meantime thank God for one most peaceful day. Enter Louisa #/ Prussia. Buonaparte. Why, how now, lady ? On thy knees — in tears — Rise — rise, — this is not well. Queen. Tho' I should rest My forehead in the dust beneath thy feet, 58 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Tho' thou shouldst trample this sad face to clay, I could not fall more low in misery ; Yet not for mere self-sorrow do I weep, No, not for sorrow, but for pity, Sire, Rending my heart with pain unutterable ; And not in self-abasement do I kneel, No, for I am thy peer, a crowned Queen, But pleading, praying, as a mother doth For her lost children, interceding now For my poor people, who like scattered sheep Cry homeless up and down the blood-stain'd land. Buonaparte. Rise, lady ! Well ? In sooth there is no rest For Princes, and by these hysteric tears Our peaceful day is broken. Calm thyself! Drops that become a lovely woman's face Suit ill the proud-fringed eyelids of a Queen. How can we serve thee ? BUONAPARTE. 59 Oueex [in a low voice). O Sire, first and last, By being honest with us in our woe, By publishing our perfect sum of doom, Xor suffering our tortured eyes and ears To watch and listen, hoping on in vain, While in the secret chambers of thy soul New treasons hatch themselves to policy Buonaparte. Dost thou accuse us of dishonesty ? Queen. It bodes no good to any in the world, When France and Russia from the self-same cup Together drink " swift death to Germany ! " Buonaparte. Hearest thou, brother : 60 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Czar. Ay, I hear, and smile. Our gentle sister speaks her heart in ire, Forgetful of our love and fellowship Proved under Heaven on many a bloody field. Queen. I forget nought. Would that 'twere possible To drink forgetfulness of thine and thee. What dost thou here at Erfurt by the side Of thy sworn foe smiling in amity ? What dost thou here on alien German soil Sunning thyself beneath the Emperor's eyes, When scarce a summer moon hath come and gone Since thou wert standing at our palace- gate Calling all Europe's curse upon his head ? Czar. Doubtless we called, for those were troublous times — Forget not also, that we called in vain, BUONAPARTE. 61 That Prussia slept when we would have her rise, And then too late, when all the world was changed, Awaken'd up on Jena ! Buonaparte. Add, moreover : Our brother Russia, sick of fretful broils, And most peace-loving, takes in honesty Our hand and on our loving friendship leans ; — Unto his eyes we bare the heart of France In council ; to none other France shall stoop. Queen. And ye — ye Princes, idly standing by, What is it that ye think, and say, and do r Jerome. They bless the hand that made and keeps them King's. 62 the drama of kings. Saxony. Duty and perfect love we owe to France, Whereby indeed we live, and thrive, and grow. Queen. Hear them, ye blessed Spirits of the Dead ! Dread Kings of Hapsburg, hear ! Thou kingly Soul Who walkest in the shades of Sans Souci, — Hear them ! By France these lacqueys live and grow ! On France's prop these sweet-pea-Princes bloom ! Buonaparte. Peace, lady — or, if thou must play the shrew, Go back to him who sent thee here, to him Whom 'tis thy wifely privilege to scold. Queen. He speaks of peace. Hear him again, ye dead ! The firebrand of the earth doth speak of peace. BUONAPARTE. 63 BUOXAPARTE. By Heaven, these women, whose big eyes can rain So easily, know how to thunder too. Lady, get hence, get hence, — call as thou wilt, The dead are deaf and will not answer thee. — Old Fritz is snug asleep among his dogs ; And even though he heard thee, he would groan And sleep again — so little did he love Life, men and women, the mad world, — and wives ; And for the rest 'twas only yesterday "We took away the same old heathen's sword, And now it hangs above our hearth in France, In memory of one who was a King, In token Prussia once begat a man, And of a land that was a people once, But now hath pined away into a voice. Come, brother. 64 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Queen. Stay. Buonaparte. How ? Queen. Stay. I appeal To Man against thee ! I cry out to God To shame thee ! — if on this unhappy day, Taking the hand of thy sworn enemy, Thou addest one wrong to the million wrongs Heap'd upon Prussia's head by thee and thine. Czar. peace ; — thou tearest thy patch'd cause the more, With so intemperate and fierce a tongue Crying against anointed majesty ! — Queen. 1 am anointed who cry out to thee — I whose fair royalty, though it bleeds so deep, BUONAPARTE. 65 Is worth a thousand empires such as rise Based on the bloody tumult of a day ! Jerome. A kingdom founded by a hunchback ape, The puppet of a harlot of the town ! Queen. Who prates of apes and harlots ? and for- sooth Of puppets ? What, the King of marionettes, Who holds our stolen fiefs upon the Elbe ! Emperor of Punchinello ! mighty Lord Of Pierrots, fiddlestrings, and dancing-girls ! Czar [to Buonaparte). Why dost thou smile upon the woman so, Folding thine arms and nodding to beat time Like one that listens to a merry play ? Buonaparte. Tho' I have brought the pick and pride of France As players hither in my retinue, F 66 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The best of them is dull and we'arisome To her whose speech we have just hearken'd to. Fair Queen, adieu ! We honour thee the more For rating us so roundly and so well, And love thy luckless Kingdom none the less : Indeed it shall not perish, — thou shalt learn That the Earth's masters can be generous. [Exeunt all but the Queen. Queen. Pitiless ! pitiless ! pitiless ! pitiless ! "Earth's masters?" — O thrice miserable Earth If these are masters of thy continents ! Bodies without a heart ! tyrants whose thrones Are based upon unutterable pain, One on the frozen ice of the East's despair, One on the bloody lava hard and black Scatter'd by the volcano of the West ! What hope for the poor world if these join hands, Murder with Avarice, Poison with the Sword, Cunning with Hatred, Pride with Cruelty, BUONAPARTE. 67 The heir of Despots with the Parvenu, Moloch, whose cold and leaden eyeballs gloat On old familiar woes deep as the grave, With the quick soul of subtler Lucifer Ever devising novel agonies ! O Spirit of God, who with mysterious breath Dost fashion e'en the will of men-like fiends And fiend-like men to obey thee and to work Thy strange dim ends, thy doom, thy deep revenge, Penetrate this day into very Hell, — Into the heart of Earth that is as Hell, — Work in the council-chamber, in the ears Of these arch-tyrants whisper doubts and fears, Disturb their privy-councils, let them mark The viper on each other's smiling lips, And while they seek to cheat humanity And portion Europe's bleeding body in twain, Let each outwit the other, — like two thieves Fall at each other's throats,— fiery with greed Strike in new hatred at each other's hearts, — And struggle, to the laughter of the world, Till one or both fall impotent and dead ! 68 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. [Enter Stein. Stein. All happy greetings to your Majesty ! Queen. Ah, faithful friend, such greetings ill befit A poor weak woman lost in misery. Look, I am weeping — ah, what bitter tears : A beggar's, Stein, a beggar's, even such As weary women, starving, ragged, sick, Shed when they ask (as I have asked) for alms. Stein. Of whom ? of France ? Alms ! of the Em- peror ? Queen. Emperor, Caesar, Satan, what ye will. To him, Napoleon, to this Corsican, I, I, Louisa, in whose veins there runs The royal blood of honest Kings and Queens, BUONAPARTE. 69 Have knelt, cried, pleaded, interceded, prayed, Conjured like any starving beggar-girl, Craving one crust of comfort all in vain. He stood here ; he, this man, this parvenu, Compound of Scapin and Olympian Jove, This monster of the earthquake, this foul thing Bred of the world's corruption ; here he stood, While at his back the trembling puppets waited Whom with one string he works upon their thrones ; And as I pleaded for the plunder'd land, He, with compassion such as one might cast Upon the dead corse of an enemy, Mingled with flashes of sheer mockery, Did ever and anon, with haughty smile Raising his eyebrows, motion to the Czar. O friend, we are trampled on in our despair, Mocked in our miserable overthrow, Robbed, plunder'd, butcher'd, spat upon, despised ! And now indeed would yonder heartless men, 70 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Yonder two fatal powers of frost and fire, Portion our fair dominions in two halves, Deeming us worse than the intestate dead. Stein. Madam, be calm : this is the one dark hour Ere daybreak. Look to the east ; for there is hope. Queen. What hope ? what hope ? Impoverish'd, wounded, sick, Penniless, swordless, we are lost past hope ; Our last hope died on Jena ; there, indeed, Dead Prussia lies, cold, gazing up at God ! Stein. On Jena Prussia died, — if the strange swoon Of Lazarus was dying. Christ went by, And Lazarus smiling in his grave-clothes rose, Wiser — ah, how much wiser ! — out of death. Queen. Christ died. The age of miracles is past. BUONAPARTE. 71 Stein. Called by new names, Hope, Faith, or Liberty, Called by a thousand names, by each man's mouth, Called by the name that man deems loveliest, A Spirit walketh still about the Earth Compassing resurrection. At this hour Strange stirs disturb the darkness of the grave, Deep aspirations of the cold dark lands Ready to burst their swathing clothes and live. The Figure comes, I see its shadow loom Gigantic in the east — it comes this way, — A ghostly liberator comes this way ; And when it sayeth " Rise," dead Germany Shall spring erect, one life, one heart, one soul! Queen. O Stein ! are these not words to an old song, A tune with little meaning which men sing To keep their hearts from breaking utterly ? 72 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Stein. Sure as the earthquake shook the frame of France And swallow' d up the pallid King and Court, Tempest is gathering here. The Tyrol trembles, Austria is sharpening her sword anew, Bavaria groans under the yoke of France : All ripens, 'tis the darkness of the cloud Full charged with thunder : at the one word "Rise!" The cloud shall burst, graves open, lightning flash, Prussia rise smiling, and the Despot fall. O lady ! learn to hear and utter forth The word men love, the strange word " Liberty ! " Stand up above thy people (all men's hearts Answer the flash of a fair woman's face), And in the chosen moment point them on With passionate invocation and appeal. Not once again let slow suspicion part Teuton from Teuton, but may all the powers BUONAPARTE. 73 Heat their slow thunders to a thunderbolt, Such as shall shake the fabric of the world. England is with us, by us fights the Swede, The Turk ne w- threaten' d ranges on our side : These one by one shall spring erect to strike Like sleepers waken'd by the shriek of " fire." On Jena Prussia's feeble body died, The peevish frame worn out with long disease Struck, fell, and ended. There shall rise instead A MAN, touch'd and miraculously strengthen' d, Calm with exceeding knowledge and strange truth Gain'd only in such utterness of doom, And with a light in his inspired eyes Before which Buonaparte's soul shall quail. Queen. Thy voice awakens echoes in my heart Like something strange and supernatural. Stein, I believe thee ; and thy lips have lent New light and inspiration. Yes, yes, yes, 74 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. No more divided councils, but one heart, One soul, one hope, one mighty Germany ! Stein. So runs the song indeed, your Majesty, An old tune and a true one, long forgot For new French chansonettes and lute- playing. Let every Teuton throat but utter it, And lo ! the very wind of the strong cry Will storm the wondering world. This man, this arm And head of France, has never yet beheld A foeman worthy of a great man's steel ; His enemies have been divided nations, Kings purblind, selfish, trembling for their crowns, Statesmen that chose their brief wild hour of power To strip the shrine and rob the treasury, Half-hearted leaders guiding with shut eyes Brute-mercenaries clamouring for gold. To these the light of the man's lurid Star BUONAPARTE. 75 Hath been a blinding portent and deep awe, A superstition paralysing will And numbing the strong arm in act to strike. Queen. Strong words, Stein, yet God knows, so true, so true ! Stein. The legions of the conqueror are weak Against the strength of the free Thought of Man, Which, fluid like the water or the air, More subtle than the glistening mercury, Inseparable by the sword, coheres In mystical divine affinity ; And, spite of all that tyranny can plan To separate the wondrous elements, Gathers its drops and particles anew, Imperishable by the laws of God. Why see how England, floating on the sea, Winding her arm around the Continent, Seizes the proud foot of the conqueror, 76 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And holds him, while with impotent fierce hate He striketh at her helmed head in vain. See how a few poor peasants with one will, Led by a few mad monks with shaven crowns, Have rent the vulnerable ranks of France And scattered them like wind-blown chaff, — in Spain. The Spirit of Man begins to know its strength ; That strength once known, it is invincible. CHORUS. Our eyes are troubled with strange tears, Our souls are startled to strange light, We stand snow-pale like one that fears Loud sounds of earthquake in the night ; A mystic voice is in our ears, — Afar the River of the years Pauses and flashes white — And o'er it in the East appears Dim gleams of rose-red light. BUONAPARTE. 77 Semi-Chorus II. The dark clouds where the set sun lies Are parted back like raven hair From off a maiden's gentle eyes ; Beyond, most lily-like and fair, White, shaded soft with azure dyes, Heaven opens ; and from out the skies Comes one with pensive care — Before whose path a white dove flies Thro' the rich amber air. Semi-Chorus I. She hasteneth not, but her cheeks glow, Her feet scarce stir, her glances stray Oft backward ; while her soft feet sow Brightness beneath them as of day, And whiteness as of softest snow ; And she, thro' locks bright breezes blow, Smiles as no mortal may — Her feet come hither, but how slow ! Her eyes look not this way. 78 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. A Voice. Sing ye a song, right loud and strong, To speed her on her way. Chorus. O thou whose shape at last breaks the dark- ness of the Vast, Come, O come, Dream no longer there afar ; like a swiftly shooting star, Hasten home ! Like waves that murmur white round the re- flex of a light In the sea, Like buds that feel all blind for the warm light and the wind, Murmur we, We see and know thee now by the white im- mortal brow ; By the eyes BUONAPARTE. 79 Dim from death's divine eclipse ; by the me- lancholy lips Sweetly wise. We have named thee by a name sweeter far than Love or Fame, Or all breath, Thy name is Liberty, and another name of thee Hath been Death. By the blood that we have shed, by the lost and by the dead, By our wrong, By our anguish, by our tears, by the leaden load of years, Come along:. Semi- Chorus I. She hears, she hears, with glistening tears, She turneth sad and sweet, With quick glad breath she hasteneth — O God, she cometh fleet. So THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus II. Sing we a song most wild and strong, To hasten her blest feet. Chorus. See the lightning and the rain, see the bloody fields of slain, See the sword That we draw with fierce desire to wreak the dreadful ire Of the Lord ; Hear that other name Revenge, that shall wither up and change Nature's worst ; Hear the judgment God hath written, by whose lightning shall be smitten Kings accurst ; See the wreck of crowns and thrones, watch the earthquake, hear the groans Of the great, BUONAPARTE. Si See the prince's golden porch dash'd to ashes, mark the Church Desolate ; Picture wrongs as yet undone, and the red fields to be won Ere we die ; Then O leader of the van, O thrice holy hope of man, Hear our cry ! Semi-Chorus I. O wherefore shrinks that Spirit frail, Like one that shrinks from something dire r Her lips are parted, her feet fail And falter, and with sudden fire She looketh hither while we hail Her advent, and quick sighs assail Her gentle breast and tire Her glad heart : there she lingers pale — Half terror, half desire. G THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus II. O dim and faint, with cheeks snow-white, She pauses hearkening to our hymn : Against the gentle heavenly light, With rose-shades on each rounded limb, She stands in sudden act of flight Bent forward, with her tear-stain' d sight Piercing the distance dim ; — Below stands One on the world's height, And lo ! she looks on him. Semi-Chorus I. Ah woe, ah woe, who stands below, Still, tall, a shape of clay, Before whose breath slow lingereth That fair shape far away ? Semi-Chorus II. Be our song deep and strong, A thunder-song this day. BUONAPARTE. S3 Chorus. O shape that towerest there in the black and dreadful air, Napoleon ! O Man, O crowned King, heark unto us while we sing, And beware. Underneath thy feet this day lie the nations cold as clay, Cold and dead ; But, behold, to bid them " Rise " waiteth one with blessed eyes Overhead, With light shadow in the sea, lo, she pausing looks on thee, Napoleon ! And ye pause there eye to eye, while the world rings with the cry Of the free. 84 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. She cometh from the Lord ; with no fire, with no sword See her rise ! She cometh fair and mild, but all things tame or wild Love her eyes. More than all men that are, she perceives thee from afar, Napoleon ! And the reason she doth weep is because she pities deep Thy sad star. For she loveth all that be, even Kings, yea, even thee And thy seed, She would have thee like the rest very beauti- ful and blest, Being freed. And by Man's own hand alone, not by hers which smiteth none, Napoleon ! BUONAPARTE. By the might of Man's own plan must the traitor against Man Be o'erthrown. For by her no blood doth flow, and she worketh no man woe, No man fear ; But when all the blood is done, she the gentle-hearted one Cometh here. Yet not till thou art slain will she walk upon the plain, Napoleon ! We must slay and smite thee down, thou must perish, she must crown What we gain. But since thy soul is flame, and o'er fiery fierce to tame Thy desire, Lie thee down and try to cease, while she cometh white as peace, Bright as fire. 86 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Lie thee down and die, and rest, with that fierce flame in thy breast, Napoleon ! And by her whose day is nigh, the grave where thou dost lie Shall be blest. For the dead lands as they rise shall but bless thy closed eyes, Lying there, And thy sleep shall broken be by no voices of the sea Or the air. But when wild winds blow this way, we shall think of thy wild day, Napoleon ! And when hurricane and rain shake the sea and sky and plain, We shall say : " Ev'n as these that rend and rave, was this Man upon whose grave Poets sing : BUONAPARTE. S7 A wild wind that in wrath clear'd the mists before the path Of the Spring." BUONAPARTE, reading a dispatch. A CARDINAL. Buonaparte. Why, how now r Hath Pope Pius lost his wits ? Or hath he drunk too deep of that proud wine Which ever and anon hath made your Popes Reel drunken off their seats ? Is the man mad, That he should howl in our imperial ear The flat old thunders that so long have turned The small-beer kingdoms sour with jeopardy r And thou — thou whose dry lineaments look white With secret brimstone, art thou also mad, With front so insolent and tread so proud To step into the presence of thy lord ? 88 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Cardinal. I have no lord but Christ, and under Him Christ's Vicar and thy Master. While thy soul Trusted and honour'd these, we render'd thee Like trust and honour : but, on this dark day, When thou dost raise thyself into the seat Of God's anointed Priest, I hold thee less Than the least man who underneath the skies Falls on his knee and sues to the Lord God. Buonaparte. So free ! So loud ! Runneth the new song thus, Lord Cardinal } Cardinal. E'en thus, and at thy choice Love or defiance come, by me, from Rome. BUONAPARTE. 89 BUONAPARTE. Have ye thought well of what ye do, who name Defiance to the great imperial power Which made and can unmake ye in a day ? Cardinal. We have weighed all. We know thy boasted strength. We who defy the Devil and all his works Are not to quail at any lesser hand, However evil and however strong. Buonaparte. Pause there. Now, not to question in the dark, Open thy mouth and give thy wrongs a name. Cardinal. Read them, Sire ! By his Holiness' own hand Writ on the scroll thou holdest. I am come If thou wouldst question any issue there. 90 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Buonaparte. I question every scratch, Lord Cardinal ! Theme, title, every word and character, First scrawl to last, down to the last round oath Whereby thy moon-struck master styles him- self Christ's Vicar and my peer. He lectures me As tho' I were a schoolboy and high dunce Of all earth's dunces ! Let him look to it, Or by St. Peter and his rusty Key, That turns so slowly in the lock of Heaven, This hand shall set the foolscap on his head And fix. a scarecrow on the heights of Rome For all the world to point at passing by ! Cardinal. Blaspheme not, lest God's Angels strike thee down. Buonaparte. God's Angels never came to the thin squeak Of trebly dotard and degenerate Rome. BUONAPARTE. 91 Return to him who sent thee ; tell him so. Tell him, moreover, as thou lovest him, Some further truths his tipsy soul forgets. Who set him on his semi-regal seat ? Who propt up his stale scarecrow of a creed Again within the hollow Vatican r Who by a lifted finger can and will Consign both Pope and Rome to sudden doom, Early oblivion, and the parting curse Of all the Rome-sick lands of Christendom ? Ask him these questions, and be answer'd straight, By bloodless cheek, wild eye, and quivering lips That flutter with the name they fear to speak. Cardinal. One Name alone hath power to shake him so ; And 'tis a Name which, spoken audibly, Shall yet shake thee too, even were thy throne 92 THE DRAMA OF KINGS, Rooted as deep as the slow fires of Hell, And towering high as the proud arch of Heaven. Napoleon, beware the wrath of God ! Farewell ! Buonaparte. Stay ! — Stay, old man ; thou shalt not stir, Till thou hast heard our message to the end. Now, mark me, for I swear by Peter's pence I am resolved. Your Pope, in this same scroll, Strings grievance upon grievance garru- lously, Thus ending, "What Rome was of old, Rome is, The mistress of the conscience of the world, Spiritual sovereign of all human Kings, And temporally subject unto none." Further, this Pope, this apostolic echo, Yielding no jot of any boon we crave, Forgetful of his predecessor s doom, Vows excommunication and God's wrath, BUONAPARTE. 93 Curse by bell, book, and candle, all the old Stale stuff of necromancy, if our foot Encroaches further on the Papal soil, If with our impious and heedless sword We still imperil Holy Church's power, Her fame, her name, her aim in Christendom. Is this so ? Have I phrased your thunder right ? Cardinal. All these things have we written down for truth. Buonaparte. Good. Listen now to me. Your Pope and I Need waste no specious lying terms to mince The matter of this creed whereby he swears : First, friend, 'tis a bald theologic lie, And next, a moral falsehood long detected, And last, a practical impediment To every step the blind old world would take 94 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. To Freedom. Well, what then ? I knew that well, I knew by heart the nature of King Log, When, that wild day in France, I thrust my hand And pluckt him from the Fire, and set him up There where he stands, my ninepin of a Pope To trundle over with a cannon-ball ! I did not think the world of human souls Was ready yet for the keen mountain air Of Freedom ; I believed they must be bent And driven ; and I saw in Graybeard Church The rusty fetters fitted for my purpose, St. Peter's, fasten'd as an ankle-chain About the stumbling Soul ages ago To keep its stray feet from the mountain tops. Wherefore I said, " King Log shall serve my turn, Shall sit and scatter unction as he lists, And I will sprinkle o'er the continents Cardinals, bishops, priests, all lesser logs, To fool the people with their feast-day shows, BUONAPARTE. 95 And hold the wild geese back from anarchy." So said, so done. Pope Pius ruled at Rome, By grace of God and Buonaparte ; France Took back her dolls and idols ; the old door Of knowledge creak'd and closed again on Man ; And, used as scarecrows on earth's harvest fields, Your vestments frighten'd off the last black birds Of Revolution. In the lull I throve, Giving men greater gifts than liberty, — Food, power, and glory, — till, behold, my rule Took form and consecration, shot its branches O'er the green western world, slew one by one Its enemies half hearted, and this day, Here in Germania, yonder over France, North, south, east, west, a mighty sword- sweep round, The Empire shines, great heart of Christen- dom ; 96 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Shines, still expanding by the law of growth, Larger and richer, taking and giving forth Light, like the sun at mid-day. Even now, At our full noon of glory, rises up King Log, my creature, casting as he stands The shadow six-foot long of his own grave, And crying, " I am greater — I by grace Of God supremer — I by sun and star, The light, the soul, the head of Christendom ! " Therefore I answer, " To thy puddle, Log ! The frogs will worship thee with their old croak ; But, meantime, lest thou perish quite, be- gone — Out of my sunshine ! " Cardinal. O proud man, beware ! Innumerable evil stars like thine Have shot across the welkin and been lost, Empire on empire hath been heap'd to dust. Century hath been crusht on century, — But Rome abides imperishably fair, Based on the crystal Rock of holy thought. BUONAPARTE. 97 The Figure throned on the blessed Seat Hath changed as the swift generations change ; But still the Seat stands, and the Rock en- dures, And ever cometh God's Hierophant To reign there, flashing thence mysterious light Into the consciences of all earth's Kings. Against thy sword the Figure sitting there Doth interpose the incorporeal Soul, A thing thou canst not slay by any steel, A shape which has abided from the first And shall abide when thou art back to dust. When thou wouldst trench on the divine domain, And be a second conscience to the world, God's Vicar, perishable form and sign Of the imperishable faith of man, Doth in the very Soul's name bid thee pause. Buonaparte. Thou comest a few centuries too late To interpose against the might of Kings pi 98 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. A shadow, such a shadow, the mere ghost Seen by a shivering coward in the dark. Old man, the world and I have wholly lost Our faith in spectres, and philosophers Aver this thing ye christen Soul, to awe The world by, is but lustre given out By bodies, like the phosphorescent light Shed forth by certain jellies in the sea. Be that pure fiction or a dim-seen truth We fear no terror incorporeal, Which, like your own in Rome, abides unseen, Silent and physically impotent. Cardinal. Is this thine answer to the Pope of Rome ? Buonaparte. No ! — Tell God's Vicar, as he styles himselfj That when in guise of priestly sanctity And in humility he seeks the ear Of Buonaparte, when he comes in love BUOXA PARTE. 99 Grateful for service and for very life, We will incline our will unto his wish, And as our equal meet and cherish him ; But coming with toy-thunderbolt in hand, With haughty looks and spiritual pride, He shall be cast again into the fire From which we snatch'd his body long ago. In brief, another word such as these words That we have read and thou hast echoed, And we will seize him in the heart of Rome, And hale him screaming up and down the earth A captive fastened to the fiery heels ~ Of conquest, and of all his Cardinals Will make a bonfire that shall gladden Man Where'er the false and juggling creed of Rome Hath cast its shadow on the human heart ! Cardinal. These mad words will I straightway bear to Rome, And be thou sure that there shall come full soon ioo THE DRAMA OF KINGS. A direr, darker, and less drunken hour, When thou, no longer mad with fancied height And stolen glory, shalt bewail the day When thou did'st raise thy impious eyes so high, And cast aside in recklessness of power Thy deepest strength — Rome's prayers and silent aid. Buonaparte. Go! Cardinal. I obey, leaving God's curse behind, To trouble thee in thy supremest hour. CHORUS. Semi-Chorus I. Echo the curse ! Semi-Chorus II. Ah nay, ah nay ! Curse not, but rather wait and pray. BUONAPARTE. Semi-Chorus I. Echo the curse ! Semi-Chorus II. O echo not That which shameth human thought — 'Tis so easy and so vain To curse, and all may curse again ! Semi-Chorus I, Echo the curse ! Semi-Chorus II. Away, away! Curse not, but turn to God and pray. What would ye curse ? The wintry snow The rain that falls, the winds that blow, All mighty things that come and go ; — Your curses cannot cast them low. Semi-Chorus I. What shall avail, if this be so ? i'o2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semj-Chorus II. It hath been written from the first He who deals curses shall be curst ; Strike, but blaspheme not ; overcast King, Pope, and Idol, first and last ; Strike more, curse less ; for ah, man's curse Wearies the soul-sick universe. Semi-Chorus I. Echo the curse ! Lo, where he stands, Casting o'er many weary lands Darkness like blood ; before his frown And the fierce brightness of his crown All withers ! — curse him ! Drag him down ! Voices. Shall not man's curses drag him down? Semi-Chorus II. Never — O hush and cease ! Wait, pray, and be at peace. BUONAPARTE. 103 A Voice. Peace Semi-Chorus II. Is God a tempest that ye call so loud \ Is God a whirlwind or a thunder-cloud r — Is God an avalance that a mere cry May loosen from the cold heights of the sky, To fall at your wild will and crush the proud ? Nay, He is none of these. But soon or late, Being the dark strength of inadequate And seeming-vanquish'd things, He works his will : Mad words avail not. He is deep and still, Subtle as Love and sure of foot as Fate. He is the gentle force destroying wrong As water weareth stone ; secret, yet strong ; 104 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Mighty, yet merciful ; He is the dew Round the King's feet, suck'd up into the blue, Grown to the thunderbolt whose flash ere long Strikes the King dead. But pray ye loud or low, He will not hasten help or lessen woe — He slayeth all things by the secret law Through which He made them and from which they draw Light, strength, and life ; all these being gone, they go. If it will cheer your hearts while ye wait here, Pray, but of cursing comes no sort of cheer. God works within all wrongs, and wastes in- deed The secret force on which they live and feed ; This being withdrawn, they die and disappear. Semi-Chorus I. Shall we then wait with folded hands Impotent, while the tyrant stands BUONAPARTE. 105 Lord of the earth and air and brine — Shall we then wait and make no sign ? A Voice. Echo Rome's curse ! Semi-Chorus I. Yea, — at his frown And at the brightness of his crown All withers ; curse him, drag him down — A Voice. Shall not our curses drag him down ? Semi-Chorus II. Nay, but arise, if so your hearts aspire, Arise and strike him down with sword and fire. God gave ye hands for that, God made ye strong, Body and soul, to rise and right your wrong ; But on the burning flame of your desire i.o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Fear falls like salt. What shall avail your sighs And imprecations if ye will not rise, Lords of your living wills and hands of might ? Man knows no wrong but man himself may right, Being a Titan who sits down and cries Like a sick weary child upon the ground, And knoweth not his strength, and gazeth round On water, earth, and heaven, with blind sick stare : Though of a glorious kingdom he is heir, And all things free await to see him crown'd. Echo Rome's curse ? O weary sons of man, Echo no more as any cavern can — For have ye not been echoing day by day Whatever idle sound hath blown your way, Gentle or awful, since the world began ? God gave ye living wills for other aim, Voices for other sounds than moans of blame, BUONAPARTE. ■ 107 Hands for more use than folding on the breast ; Daily the sun goes down into the west- How long shall it go down upon your shame r For if on any day ye would be free, If any day with one voice like the sea Ye do demand your freedom every one, — Utter the word, 'tis given, all is done, And ye share freedom with all things that be. But now ye yield to wild divided cries — Broken abroad and echoing any lies ; — A thousand feeble voices go and come, But to your own souls' utterance ye are dumb, — For that all wait, — earth, ocean, air, and skies : All lesser things that flit 'tween pole and pole, All liberated things that leap and roll Unfetter'd under yonder heaven, await The one free voice triumphant over Fate, The one free voice of Man, the Life, the Soul. ioS THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus I. Are we not bound ? Semi-Chorus II. Ye are not bound ; Ye cry, ye follow empty sound, This way and that way, round and round. Semi-Chorus I. Have we not sought and never found ? Are we not chain'd and undertrod Bv God and Man ? Semi-Chorus II. By Man, not God — By your own hands, by your own will, Are your bonds fashion'd, and no skill But yours can break them. Slaves ! still griev- ing, BUONAPARTE. 109 Impotent, trembling, self-deceiving, Over the woes of your own weaving ! I Tull'd by false creeds and moral lies, Changeful as are the April skies, At all times weak and never wise ! Standing beside Time's running River, Seeing your own shades there for ever, Knowing them not for what they be, And blaming them most bitterly ! O hush, blaspheme no more — your curse Wearies the soul-sick universe : Curses of every creed that Man Hath built to God since time began, From Israel's first curse of power Down to the curse of Rome this hour. Hush, let God be ; the voice ye raise Hinders His work in secret ways ; Strike ye at wrong with all your might, And if ye fail to set it right, Pray if ye list — no prayer is ill ; But curse not what ye cannot kill : — Leave it to God, whose law alone Wears it, as water weareth stone. THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Buonaparte. The cup is overflowing. Pour, pour yet, My Famulus — pour with free arm-sweep still, And when the wine is running o'er the brim, Sparkling with golden bubbles in the sun, I will stoop down and drink the full great draught Of glory, and as did those heroes old Drinking ambrosia in the happy isles, Dilate at once to perfect demigod. Meantime, I feast my eyes as the wine runs And the cup fills. Fill up, my Famulus ! Pour out the precious juice of all the earth, Pour with great arm-sweep, that the world may see. O Famulus — O Spirit — O good Soul, Come close to me and listen — curl thyself Up in my breast— let us drink ecstasy Together ; for the charm thou taughtest me Is working like slow poison in the veins BUONAPARTE. m Of the great nations : each, a wild-beast tamed, Looks mildly in mine eyes and from my hand Eats gently ; and this day I speak the charm To Russia, and, behold ! the crafty eyes Blink sleepily, while on the fatal lips Hovers the smile of appetite half-fed, Half-hungry : he being won, all else is won, And at our feet, our veritable slave, Lies Europe. Whisper now, Soul of my Soul, Since we have won this Europe with the sword, How we shall portion it to men anew. First, in the centre of the West, I set My signet like a star, and on a rock Base the imperial Throne : seated whereon, The royal crown of France upon my head, At hand the iron crown of Lombardy, And in my sceptre blended as a sign The hereditary gems of Italy, Spain, Holland, I shall see beneath my feet My puppets sit with strings that reach my hand : Murat upon the throne of Italy, ii2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Jerome upon new-born Westphalia, Louis the lord of Holland, and perchance A kinsman in the Prussian dotard's place ; And, lower yet, still puppets to my hand, Saxony, Wiirtemberg, Bavaria, The petty principalities and powers, All smiling up in our hot thunderous air; — And all the thrones, the kingdoms, and the powers That break to life beneath them, murmuring "Hail, King of Europe — Emperor of the West." Thus far. Still farther ? Driven to the East, First by fond cunning, afterwards by blows, The Russian's eyes bloodshot with greed will watch, While still our flood-tide inexhaustible Of Empire washes to the Danube, rolls Into the Baltic, and with one huge wave Covers the plains of Poland. Then at last The mighty Empires of the East and West BUONAPARTE. 113 Shall clash together in the final blow, And that which loses shall be driven on To lead the heathen on in Asia, And that which hurls the other to such doom Shall be the chosen Regent of the World. Shall this be so, O Spirit ? Pour, O pour — Yea, let me feast mine eyes upon the wine, Albeit I drink not. See ! — Napoleon, Waif from the island in the southern sea, Sun to whom all the Kings of the earth are stars, Sword before which all earthly swords are straws, Child of the Revolution, crown and head, Heart, soul, arm, King, of all Humanity. O Famulus — in God's name keep my soul From swooning to vain-glory. I believe God, not the other, sends thee, that thy mouth May fill me with a message for the race, And purge the peevish and distemper'd world Of her hereditary plague of Kings. For Man, I say, shall in due season grow I Ii4 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Back to the likeness that he wore at first, One mighty nation peopling the green earth, One equal people with one King and head, One Kingdom with one Temple, and therein No priest, no idol, no dark sacrifice, But spheric music and the dreamy light Of heaven's azure and the changeless stars. The curse of earth hath been the folly of peace Under vain rulers, so dividing earth, That twenty thousand kings of Lilliput Strutted and fretted heaven and teased the time, Kept nature's skin for ever on the sting Like vermin, and perplex'd humanity With petty pangs and peevish tyranny, While the soul sickened of obscure disease, And the innumerable limbs of state Moved paralysed, and half earth's system dead. Came Revolution like avenging fire ; And in the red flash miserable men Beheld themselves and wondered — saw their Kings BUONAPARTE. 115 Still strutting lilliputian in the glare, — And laugh' d till heaven rung, — gave one fierce look To heaven, and rose. Outraged Columbia Breath'd o'er the sea, and scorch'd the in- solent cheek Of Albion. Albion paled before the flame. The darken'd embers faded in the West, And all was still again ; when one mad morn Men wakening, saw the heights of France afire ! Earth shook to her foundation, and the light Illumed the hemispheres from west to east, And men that walk beneath and under us, Holding their heads to other stars, beheld The glory flaming from the underworld. The little Kings of Europe, lily-pale, Scream' d shrill to one another. Germany In her deep currents of philosophy Mirror'd the fiery horror. Russia groaned, Sheeted in snows that took the hue of blood Under the fierce reflection. Italy, Spain and the Tyrol, wild Helvetia, n6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Caught havoc ; and even on the white Eng- lish crags A few strong spirits, in a race that binds Its body in chains and calls them Liberty, And calls each fresh link Progress, stood erect With faces pale that hunger'd to the light. Then, like a hero in his anguish, burnt Poor gentle Louis, whom the stars destined To be a barber and who was a King, And as he flamed and went like very straw, Earth shriek'd and fever'd France grew raving mad. Pass o'er the wild space of delirium, When France upon her stony bed of pain Raved, screamed, blasphemed, was medicined with blood, Forgot all issues and the course of time ; And come to that supremer, stiller hour When, facing these fierce wasps of Kings who nocked To sting the weary sufferer to death, I rose and stood beside her, drove them back BUONAPARTE. 117 So ! with a sword-sweep. Those were merry days, My Spirit ! These were spring days, winds of war Sharp-blowing, but the swallow on the way Already bringing summer from the south ! Then one by one I held these little Kings Between my fingers and inspected them Like curious insects, while with buzz and squeak Their tiny stings were shooting in and out ; And how I laugh' d To think such wretched vermin had so long Tortured unhappy Man, and to despair Driven him afrd his through infinite ways of woe, When with one sweep of his great arm, one blow Of his sharp palm, he might annihilate Such creatures by the legion and in sooth Exterminate the breed. O Spirit of Man ! A foolish Titan ! foolish now as then, Guided about the earth like a blind man By any hand that leads, n8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And then and now unconscious of a frame Whose strength, into one mighty effort gathered, Might shake the firmament of heaven itself! Well, we have done this service. We have freed Earth from its pest of kings, so that they crawl Powerless and stingless ; we have medicined Desperate disease with awful remedies ; And lo, the mighty Spirit of mankind Has stagger' d from the sick-bed to his feet, And feebly totters, picking darken'd steps, And while I lead him on scarce sees the sun, But questions feebly " whither ? " Whither ? Indeed I am dumb, and all earth's voices are as dumb — God is not dumber on his throne. In vain I would peer forward, but the path is black. Ay, — whither ? O what peevish fools are mortals, Tormented by a raven on each shoulder, " Whither r" and " wherefore ?" Shall I stand and gape BUONAPARTE. 119 At heaven, straining eyes into the tomb, Like some purblind philosopher or bard Asking stale questions of the Infinite Dumb with God's secret r questioning the winds, The waves, the stars, all things that live and move, All signs, all augurs r Never yet hath one Accorded answer. "Whither?" Death replies With dusky smile. " Wherefore r " the echoes laugh Their " wherefore ? wherefore r " Of the time unborn, And of the inevitable law, no voice Bears witness. The pale Man upon the Cross Moan'd, — and beheld no further down the Void Than those who gather' d round to see him die. Ay, — but the Soul, being weather-wise, can guess 120 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The morrow by the sunset, can it not ? And there are signs about the path whereon I guide the foolish Titan, that imply Darkness and hidden dangers. All these last I smile at ; but, O Soul within my Soul, 'Tis he, the foolish Titan's self, I fear ; For, though I have a spell upon him now, And say it, and he follows, any morn (Awakening from his torpor as he woke One bloody morn in Paris and went wild), He may put out his frightful strength again, And with one mighty shock of agony Bring down the roof of Empire on my head. He loves me now, and'to my song of war Murmurs deep undertone, and as he goes Fondles the hand that leads ; but day by day Must I devise new songs and promises, More bloody incantation, lest he rouse And rend me. Oftentimes it seems he leads, I follow, — he the tyrant, I the slave, — And it, perchance, were better had I paused At Amiens, nor with terrible words and ways BUONAPARTE. 121 Led him thus far, still whispering in his ear That he at last shall look on " Liberty." Liberty ? Have I lull'd him with a Lie ? Or shall the Titan Spirit of Man be led To look again upon the face of her, Llis first last love, a spirit woman-shaped, Whom in the sweet beginning he beheld, Adored, loved, lost, pursued, whom still in tears He yearns for, in whose name alone all Kings Have led and guided him a space and throve, Denying whom all Kings have died in turn, AVhose memory is perfume, light and dream, Whose hope is incense, music, bliss, and tears, To him whose great heart with immortal beat Measures the dark march of humanity. I do believe this shape he saw and loved Was but a phantasm, unsubstantial, strange, A vision never to be held and had, 122 . THE DRAMA OF KINGS. A spectral woman ne'er to be enjoyed ; But such a thought whisper'd into his ear Were rank as blasphemy cried up at God. The name is yet a madness, a supreme Ecstasy and delirium ! All things That cry it move the tears into the eyes Of the sad Titan. Echoed from the heights Of France, it made him mad, and in his rage He tore at earth's foundations. Evermore He turns his suffering orbs upon the dark, Uplifts his gentle hands to the chill stars, Pauses upon the path, and in the ear Of him who leadeth cries with broken voice, " How long, how long, how long ? " And unto him, This Titan, I, supreme of all the earth, Am but a pigmy (let me whisper it!) ; And I have won upon him with strange lies, And he has suffer' d all indignities, Bonds, chains, a band to blindfold both his eyes, Patient and meek, since I have sworn at last To lead him to the trysting-place where waits BUONAPARTE. 123 His constant love and most immortal bride. Still in mine ears he murmureth her name, And follows. I have led him on through fire, Blood, darkness, tears, and still he hath been tame, Tho' ofttimes shrinking from things horrible, And on and on he follows even now, Blindfold, with slower and less willing feet — I fear with slower and less willing feet — And still I lead, thro' lurid light from heaven, Whither I know not. "Whither!" Oftentimes My great heart fails, lest on some morn we reach That portal o'er which flaming Arch is writ, " All hope abandon ye who enter here ! " And he, perceiving he hath been befool'd, Will cast me from him with his last fierce breath Down thro' the gate into the pit of doom. Meantime he follows smiling. O Famulus ! Could I but dream that she, the shape he seeks, 124 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Whom he names Liberty, and gods name Peace, Were human, could inhale this dense dark air, Could live and dwell on earth and rear the race, 'Twere well, — for by Almighty God I swear I would find out a means to join their hands And bless them, and abide their grateful doom. But she he seeks I know to be a dream, A vision of the rosy morning mist, A creature foreign to the earth and sea, Ne'er to be look'd upon by mortal soul Out of the mortal vision. Wherefore still I fear the Titan. I can never appease His hungry yearning wholly. He will bear No future chains, no closer blindfolding, And if a fatal whisper reach his ear, I and all mine are wholly wreck' d and lost. Yet is this Titan old so weak of wit, So senile-minded though so huge of frame, BUONAPARTE. 125 So deaf to warning voices when they cry, That, should no angel light from heaven and speak The mad truth in his ear, he will proceed Patiently as a lamb. He counteth not The weary years ; his eyes are shut indeed With a half smile, to see the mystic face Pictured upon his brain ; only at times He lifteth lids and gazeth wildly round, Clutching at the cold hand of him that guides, — But with a whisper he is calm'd again, Relapsing back into his gentle dream. he is patient, and he will await Century after century in peace, So that he hears sweet songs of her he seeks, So that his guides do speak to him of her, So that he thinks to clasp her in the end. The end ? Sweet sprite, the end is what I fear — If I might live for ever, Famulus ! — Why am I not immortal and a god ? 1 have caused tears enough, as bitter tears 126 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. As ever by the rod divine were struck Out of this rock of earth. for a spell Wherewith to cheat old Death, whose feet I hear Afar off, for I hate the bony touch Of hands that change the purple for the shroud ! Yet I could go in peace (since all must go) So that my seed were risen and in its eyes I saw assurance of imperial thoughts, Strength, and a will to grasp the thunderbolt I leave unhurl'd beside the Olympian throne. Ah God, to die, and into the dark gloom Drag that throne with me, to the hollow laugh Of the awakening Titan ! All my peers Are ciphers, all my brethren are mere Kings Of the old fashion, only strengthen'd now By my strong sunshine ; reft of that, they die, Like sunflowers in the darkness. Death, old Death, Touch me this day, or any dark day soon, And I and mine are like the miser's hoard, BUONAPARTE. 127 A glorious and a glittering pile of gold Changed to a fluttering heap of wither' d leaves. This must not be. No, I must have a child. I must be firm and from my bed divorce The barren woman. Furthermore, to link My Throne with all the lesser thrones of earth, I must wed the seed of Kings. Which seed, which child ? Which round ripe armful of new destiny ? Which regal mould for my imperial issue r Thine, fruitful house of Hapsburg ? Russia, thine ? The greater, not the lesser. I must wed Seed of the Czar, and so with nuptial rites Unite the empires of the East and West. Fill, fill, my Famulus, the golden cup I thirst for ; all the peril as I gaze Flath faded. I no more with fluttering lips Cry "Whither ?"• but with hands outstretch'd I watch Rubily glistening glory. It shall thrive ! 128 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. King of the West, sowing the seed of Kings ! First of the Empire of the Golden Age, The sleeping Titan, and the quiet Sea ; Light of the Lotus and all mortal eyes, Whose orbit nations like to heliotropes Shall follow with lesser circle and sweet sound ! CHORUS. Semi-Chorus I. Form of her the Titan full of patience Sees amid the darkness of the nations ; Voice of her whose sound in the beginning Came upon him desolate and sinning ; Face of her and grace of her whose gleaming Soothes his gentle spirit into dreaming ; Spirit whom the Titan sees above him ! Semi-Chorus II. Gentle eyes that shine and seem to love him ! Tender touch, the touch of her quick fingers, Touch that reach'd his soul and burns and lingers ; Breath of her, and scent of her, and bliss of her; BUONAPARTE. 129 Dream of her, and smile of her, and kiss of her! Come again, and speak, arid bend above him, Spirit that came once and seemed to love him. A Voice. How long, how long ? Semi-Chorus I. Courage, great heart and strong, Break not, but beat low chime To the dark flow of Time ; Follow the path foot-worn, Sad night and dewy morn, Under the weary sun Follow, O mighty one ; Under dim moon and star ! A Voice. Whither ? How far, how far \ Semi-Chorus I. Spirit of the fathomless abysses, Spirit that he looked upon and misses, K 130 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Free and fair and perfect, more than human, Bringing love and peace-gifts like a woman ; Come unto him, listen to his pleading. Semi-Chorus II. Mark his patience, hear his gentle inter- ceding ; O'er mountain upon mountain left behind thee, He hath cheerly climb'd in vain to find thee : Wild waters he hath cross'd, wild sea and river, All countries he hath traversed, faithful ever, Ever hoping, ever waiting, never seeing. Chorus. Spirit "seen in some long-darken'd being, Spirit that he saw at the world's portal, Saw, and knew, and loved, and felt immortal, Spirit that he wearies for and misses, Answer from the fathomless abysses ! BUONAPARTE. 131 A Voice. How long, how long ? Semi-Chorus I. Courage, O Titan strong ! Courage, from place to place Still follow the voice and the face ! A Voice. Whither ? Second Voice. O hither ! First Voice. Whither ? Semi-Chorus I. Voice of her he follows in dumb pleasure, Camest thou from the earth or from the azure ; Camest thou from the pastures on the moun- tains, From the ocean, from the rivers, from the fountains, 132 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. From the vapours blowing o'er him while he hearkens, From the ocean hoar that beats his feet and darkens, From the star that on the sea-fringe melts and glistens? Semi-Chorus II. O homeless voice, he maddens as he listens, O voice divine, his wild lips part asunder ; He speaketh, and his words are a low thunder. A Voice. Whither, O whither ? Second Voice. Hither ! First Voice. Whither ? Wherefore, while I wait in patience, Mock her voice, O voices of the nations ; Wherefore by night and day, Where'er my slow feet stray, Trouble all hours with wild reverberations. BUONAPARTE. 133 Mountain winds, ye name her name unto me Flowing rivers glance and thrill it thro' me ! Earth, water, air, and sky, Name her as I go by ! With her dim ghost the floating clouds pur- sue me ! All of these have seen her face and love her, Earth beneath and heaven that bends above her ; The rain-wreck and the storm Mimic the one fair form, The whirlwind knows her name and cries it over. Flowers are sown by her bright foot wherever They are flashing past by mere and river ; Birds in the forest stir, Singing mad praise of her; All green paths know her, tho' she flies for ever. Chorus. Joy of wind and wave and cloud and blossom, Pause at last and fall upon his bosom ! 134 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. First Voice. None behold her twice, but having conn'd her, While she flashes past with feet that wander, Remember the blest gleam, And grow by it and dream, And fondle the sweet memory and ponder. All have known her, and yet none possess her; None behold her, yet all things caress her ; The warmth of her white feet, Where it doth fall so sweet, Abides for ever there, and all things bless her. Faster than the prophesying swallow, Fast by wood and sea and hill and hollow, Sought by all things that be, But most of all by me, She nieth none know whither, and I follow. Semi-Chorus I. O wherefore, radiant one, Under the moon and sun, Glimmer away ? BUONAPARTE. Second Voice. Here on the heights I stay Come hither. First Voice. Whither \ Second Voice. O hither Chorus. Form of her the Titan full of patience Sees amid the darkness of the nations ; Voice of her whose song in the beginning Came upon him desolate and sinning ; Face of her and grace of her whose gleaming Soothes his gentle spirit into dreaming ; Touch of her, the touch of her quick fingers, Touch that reach'd his soul and burns and lingers ; Breath of her, and scent of her, and bliss of her, Dream of her, and gleam of her, and kiss of her ! 136 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Soul beyond his soul, yet ever near it, His heart's home, and haven of his spirit ; Joy of wind and wave and cloud and blossom. Pause at last, and fall upon his bosom ! END OF THE FIRST PART. CHORIC INTERLUDE THE TITAN. CHORIC INTERLUDE. Chorus. Strange hands are passed across our eyes, Before our souls strange visions rise And dim shapes come and flee. The mists of dream are backward roll'd — As from a mountain we behold What is, and yet shall be. A Voice. Speak ! while the depths of dreams unfold, What is it that ye see ? Semi-Chorus I. 'Tis vision. Lo, before us stands, Casting his shade on many lands, 140 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The mighty Titan, by the sea Of tempest-tost humanity ; And to the earth, and sea, and sky, He uttereth a thunder-cry Out of his breaking heart, And the fierce elements reply, And earth is cloven apart. Semi-Chorus II. Like sparks blown from a forge, the spheres Drift o'er us ; — all our eyes and ears Are full of fire and sound. With blood about him blown like rain, We see upon a darken'd plain Another Shape, but crown'd. Silent he waits, and white as death, Looks in the Titan's eyes. They stand — the black sky holds its breath — The deep sea stills its cries, The mad storm hushes driving past, The sick stars pause and gaze — the blast, The wind-rent rain, the vapours dark, Like dead things crouch, and wait, and hark ; CHORIC INTERLUDE. \\ And lo! those twain alone and dumb Loom desolate and strange. Semi-Chorus I. Is the time come ? Semi-Chorus II. The time is come. Chorus. Titan, to thy revenge ! Semi-Chorus I. O look and listen ! His great eyes glisten, Like an oak the storm rendeth He swayeth and bendeth, With lips torn asunder He shakes, but no thunder Comes thence. Semi-Chorus II. While still nigh him. With smiles that defy him, 142 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The crown'd one is standing,— His pale look commanding A tigress that crouching Beneath him and touching His feet with low cries, Waits, fiercely betraying Blood's thirst yet obeying His eyes. Chorus. Is he doom'd ? A Voice. He is doom'd. Chorus. Oh, by whom ? Voice. By the child yet unborn in the womb, By the dead laid to sleep in the tomb 7 He is doom'd, he is doom'd. Chorus. Speak his doom ! CHORIC INTERLUDE. 143 First Voice. Napoleon ! Napoleon ! Second Voice, "Who cries r First Voice. I, child of the earth and the skies, I, Titan, the mystical birth, Whose voice since the morning of earth Hath doom'd such as thou in the end, Speak thy doom ! Second Voice. Speak ! I smile and attend. First Voice. Because thou hast with lies and incantations, With broken vows and false asseverations, For thine own ends accurst, Betrayed me from the first, I speak and doom thee, in the name of nations. 144 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Because I have wander'd like a great stream flowing From its own channel and thro 5 strange gulfs going, So that for years and years I must retrace in tears The black and barren pathway of thy show- ing. Because one further step after thy leading Had hurl'd me down to doom past interced- ing, So that I never again, In passion or in pain, Might look upon the face I follow pleading. Because thou hast led me blind knee-deep thro' slaughter, Thro' fields of blood that wash'd our way like water, Because in that divine Name I adore, and mine, Thou hast bruised Earth, and to desolation brought her. CHORIC INTERLUDE. 145 Because thou hast been a liar and blas- phemer, Deeming me trebly dotard and a dreamer. Because thy hand at length Would strike me in my strength, Lie, deathless ! me, diviner and supremer ! Because all voices of the earth and azure, All things that breathe, all things curst for thy pleasure, All poor dead men who died To feed thy bitter pride, All living, all dead, cry — mete to him our measure. Because thou hast slain Kings, and as a token Stolen their crowns and worn them, having spoken My curse against the same ; Because all things proclaim That thou didst swear a troth, and that 'tis broken. L h6 the drama of kings. By her whom thou didst swear under God's heaven To find ; by her who being found was driven O'er earth, air, sky, and sea, Thro' desolate ways by thee, With voice appealing and with raiment riven ! Because thou hast turned upon and violated Her soul to whom thou first wert conse- crated, Because thro' thy soul's lie And life's delusion, I Must wait more ages who have wept and waited Since the beginning. By the soul of Patience Sick of thy face and its abominations, I speak on thine and thee The doom of destiny, Hear it, and die, hear in the name of na- tions. CHORIC INTERLUDE. 147 Semi-Chorus I. Is he doom'd ? Semi-Chorus II. He is doom'd. Tis the end. First Voice. Napoleon ! Second Voice. Speak ! I attend. First Voice. Utter the doom thou dost crave. Second Voice. 'Tis spoken. A shroud and a grave. First Voice. O voices of earth, air, and sky, Hear ye his doom, and reply. Voices. Death is sleep. Let him wake and not die. ■148 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. First Voice. Because by thee all comfort hath been taken, So that the Earth rocks still forlorn and shaken, Staring at the sad skies With sleepless aching eyes, Thou shalt not die, but wait and watch and waken. This is thy doom. Lone as a star thy being Shall see the waves break and the drift-cloud fleeing, Hear the wind cry and grow, Watch the great waters flow, And seeing all, shine hid from all men's seeing. Here on this Isle amid a sea of sorrow I cast thee down. Black night and weary morrow, Lie there alone, forgot, So doom'd and pitied not ; Let all things watch thy face and thy face borrow CHORIC INTERLUDE. 149 The look of these mad elements that ever Strike, scream, and mingle, sever and dis- sever ; Gather from air and sea The thirst of all things free, The up-looking want, the hunger ceasing never. All shall forget thee. Thou shalt hear the nations Flocking with music light and acclamations To kiss his royal feet Who sitteth in thy Seat, Surrounded by the slaves of lofty stations. A rock in the lone sea shall be thy pillow. In the wide waste of gray wave and green billow, The days shall rise and set In silence, and forget To sun thee, — a black shape beneath a willow ISO THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Watching the weary waters with heart bleeding ; Or dreaming cheek upon tlry hand ; or reading The book upon thy knee ; And ever as the sea Moans, raising eyes to the still heaven, and pleading ; Till like a wave worn out with silent breaking ; Or like a wind blown weary ; thou, forsaking Thy tenement of clay, Shalt wear and waste away, And grow a portion of the ever- waking Tumult of cloud and sea. Feature by feature Losing the likeness of the living creature, Returning back thy form To its elements of storm, Thou shalt dissolve in the great wreck of Nature. Is it done ? CHORIC INTERLUDE. 151 Semi-Chorus I. Semi-Chorus II. It is done*. Semi-Chorus I. Look again. Semi-Chorus II. I see on the rock in the main The Shape sitting dark by the sea, And his shade, and the shade of the tree Where he sitteth, are pencil'd jet-black On the bright purple sky at his back ; But lo ! while I gaze, from the sky Like phantoms they vanish and die : — All is dark. Semi-Chorus I. Look again. Semi-Chorus II. Hark, O hark ! 152 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus I. A shrill cry is piercing the dark — Like the multitudinous moan Of the waves as they clash, comes a groan From afar — First Voice. What is this, O ye free ? Semi-Chorus II. He has gone like a wave of the sea — Day dieth, the light falleth red, — O Titan, behold he is dead ! . . . Chorus. Strange hands are passed across our eyes, Before our souls strange visions rise, And dim shapes come and flee ; The mists of dream are backward rolled — As from a mountain we behold That island in the sea. CHORIC INTERLUDE. 153 Semi-Chorus I. Now bow thy face upon thy breast, O Titan, and bemoan thy quest ! O look not thither with thine eyes, But lift them to the constant skies ! A Voice. What do ye see that thus to me Ye turn and smile so bitterly ? Semi-Chorus I. 'Tis vision. On that island bare Sits one with face divinely fair, And pensive smiling lips ; And on her lap the proud head lies, Pale with the seal on its proud eyes Of Death's divine eclipse ; All round is darkness of the sea, And sorrow of the cloud. Semi-Chorus II. Yet she Is making with her heavenly face Sweetness like sunlight ; and the place 154 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Grows luminous ; and the world afar Looks thither as to some new star, All wondering ; and with lips of death Men name one name beneath their breath, Not cursing as of yore, for now All the inexorable brow Is mouldering marble. Semi-Chorus I. Hark, Q hark, A silver voice divides the dark ! A Voice. Hither, O hither! Another Voice. Whither ? First Voice. O sweet is sleep if sleep be deep, And sweetest far to eyes that weep ; He who upon my breast doth creep Shall close his weary eyes and sleep. CHORIC INTERLUDE. Yet he who seeks me shall not find, And he who chains me shall not bind ; For fleeter-footed than the wind I still elude all human kind. Yet when, soul-weary of the chase, Falleth some man of mortal race, I pause — I find him in his place, I pause — I bless his dying face. Whatsoever man he be, I take his head upon my knee, I give him words and kisses three, Kissing I whisper, "Thou art free." free is sleep if sleep be deep ! — 1 soothe them sleeping, and I heap Greenness above them, and they weep No longer, but are free, and sleep. O royal face and royal head ! O lips that thunder'd ! O eyes red With nights of watch ! O great soul dead, Thy blood is water, thy heart lead ! 156 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. They doom'd thee in my name, but see I doom thee not, but set thee free ; Balm for all hearts is shed by me, And for all spirits liberty, He finds me least who loves me best, His Soul in an eternal quest Wails still, while one by one are prest Tyrants, that hate me, to my breast. The sad days fly — the slow years creep, And he alone doth never sleep. Would he might slumber and not weep. O free is sleep, if sleep be deep. Second Voice. Irene ! THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Part II. NAPOLEON FALLEN. SPEAKERS, Napoleon III. An Officer of the Imperial Staff. A Roman Catholic Bishop. A Physician. Messengers. Chorus of Spirits. Scene — The Chateau of Wilhelmshohe, hi Cassel. Time — 1870, shortly after the surrender of Sedan. SCENE.— THE CHATEAU OF WILHELMS- HOHE, IN CASSEL. CHORUS. Strange are the bitter things God wreaks on cruel Kings ; Sad is the cup drunk up By Kings accurst. In secret ways and strong God doth avenge man's wrong. The least, God saith, is Death, And Life the worst. Sit under the sweet skies ; Think how Kings set and rise, Think, wouldst thou know the woe In each proud breast ? 1 62 THE DRAMA OF KINGS, Sit on the hearth and see Children look up to thee — Think, wouldst thou own a throne, Or lowly rest ? Ah, to grow old, grow old, Upon a throne of gold — Ah, on a throne, so lone, To wear a crown ; To watch the clouds, the air, Lest storm be breeding there — Pale, lest some blast may cast Thy glory down. He who with miser's ken Hides his red gold from men, And wakes and grieves, lest thieves Be creeping nigh ; He who hath murder done, And fears each rising sun, Lest it say plain, " O Cain, Rise up and die ! " X. IPOLEOX FALLEN. 163 These and all underlings Are blesseder than Kings, For ah ! by weight of fate King's hearts are riven ; With blood and gold they too Reckon their sad days thro' — They fear the plan of man, The wrath of heaven. In the great lonely bed, Hung round with gold and red, While the dim light each night Burns in the room, They lie alone and see The rustling tapestry, Lest Murther's eyes may rise Out of the gloom. Dost thou trust any man r Thou dost what no King can. Friend hast thou near and dear A King hath none. f64 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Hast thou true love to kiss r A King hath no such bliss, On no true breast may rest Under the sun. Ah, to sit cold, sit cold, Upon a throne of gold, Forcing the while a smile To hide thy care ; To taste no cup, to eat No food, however sweet, But with a drear dumb fear, Lest Death be there ! Ah, to rule men, and know How many wish thee low — That, 'neath the sun, scarce one Would keep thee high : To watch in agony The strife of all things free, To dread the mirth of Earth When thou shalt die ! NAPOLEON FALLEN. 165 Hast thou a hard straw bed ? Hast thou thy crust of bread ? And hast thou quaff' d thy draught Of water clear r And canst thou dance and sing r — O blesseder than a King ! O happy one whom none Doth hate or fear ! Wherefore, though from the stron; Thou sufferest deep wrong, Tho' Kings, with ire and fire, Have wrought thee woe : Pray for them ! for I swear Deeply they need thy prayer — Most in their hour of power, Least when cast low. And when thou castest down King, sceptre, throne, and crown, Pause that same day, and pray For the accurst. 166 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Ah, in strange ways and strong God doth avenge man's wrong— The least, God saith, is Death, And Life the worst. NAPOLEON. A PHYSICIAN. Physician. The sickness is no sickness of the flesh, No ailment such as common mortals feel, But spiritual : 'tis thy fiery thought Drying the wholesome humour of the veins, Consuming the brain's substance, and from thence, As flame spreads, thro' each muscle, vein, and nerve, Reaching the vital members. If your High- ness Could stoop from .the tense strain of great affairs To books and music, or such idle things As wing the weary hours for lesser men ! Turn not thine eyes to France ; receive no news : NAPOLEON FALLEN. 167 Shut out the blinding gleam of battle ; rest From all fierce ache of thought ; and for a time Let the wild world go by. Napoleon. Enough, old Iriend : Thine is most wholesome counsel. I will seek To make this feverish mass of nerve and thew, This thing of fretful heart-beats, Fulfil its functions more mechanically. Farewell. Physician. Farewell, Sire. Brighter waking thoughts, And sweeter dreams, attend thee ! [Exit. Napoleon. All things change Their summer livery for the autumn tinge 1 68 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Of wind-blown withering leaves. That man is faithful, — I have been fed from his cold palm for years, And I believe, so strongly use and wont Fetter such natures, he would die to serve me ; Yet do I see in his familiar eyes The fatal pain of pity. I have lain At Death's door divers times, and he hath slowly, With subtle cunning and most confident skill, Woo'd back my breath, but never even then, Tho' God's Hand held me down, did he regard me With so intense a gaze as now, when smitten By the mail'd hand of Man. I am not dead! Not dying ! only sick, — as all are sick Who feel the mortal prison-house too weak For the free play of Soul ! I eat and drink — NAPOLEON FALLEN. 169 I laugh — I weep, perchance — I feel — I think — I still preserve all functions of a man — Yet doth the free wind of the fickle world Blow on me with as chilly a respect As on a nameless grave. Is there so sad A sunset on my face, that all beholding Think only of the morrow ? — other minds, Other hearts, other hands ? Almighty God, If I dare pray Thee by that name of God, Strengthen me ! blow upon me with Thy breath ! Let one last memorable flash of fire Burst from the blackening brand ! — Yes, sick — sick — sick ; Sick of the world ; sick of the fitful fools That I have played with ; sick, forsooth, of breath, Of thought, of hope, of Time. I staked my Soul Against a Crown, and won. I wore the Crown, And 'twas of burning fire. I staked my Crown 170 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Against a Continent, and lost. I am here ; Fallen, unking' d, the shadow of a power, Yet not heart-broken — no, not heart-broken — But surely with more equable a pulse Than when I sat on yonder lonely Seat Fishing for wretched souls, and for my sport, Although the bait was dainty to the taste, Hooking the basest only. I am nearer To the world's heart than then ; 'tis bitter bread, Most bitter, yea, most bitter ; yet I eat More freely, and sleep safer. I could die now : And yet I dare not die. Maker of men ! Thou Wind before whose strange breath we are clouds Driving and changing ! — Thou who dost abide While all the laurels on the brows of Kings Wither as wreaths of snow ! — Thou Voice that dwellest NAPOLEON FALLEN. 171 In the high sleeping chambers of the great, When council and the feverish pomp are hush'd, And the dim lamp burns low, and at its side The sleeping potion in a cup of gold : — Hear me, O God, in this my travail hour ! From first to last, Thou knowest — yea, Thou knowest — I have been a man of peace : a silent man, Thought-loving, most ambitious to appease Self-chiding fears of mental littleness, A planner of delights for simple men — In all, a man of peace. I struck one blow, And saw my hands were bloody ; from that hour I knew myself too delicately wrought For crimson pageants \ yea, the sight of pain Sicken'd me like a woman. Day and night I felt that stain on my immortal soul, And gloved it from the world, and dili- gently Wrought the red sword of empire to a scythe 172 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. For the swart hands of husbandmen to reap Abundant harvest. — Nay, but hear me swear, I never dreamed such human harvests blest As spring from that red rain which pours this day On the fair fields I sowed. Never, O God, Was I a butcher or a thing of blood ; Always a man of peace : — in mine ambition Peace-seeking, peace-engendering ; — till that day I saw the half-unloosen'd hounds of War Yelp on the chain and gnash their bloody teeth, Ready to rend mine unoffending Child, In whose weak hand the mimic toy of empire Trembled to fall. Then feverishly I wrought A weapon in the dark to smite those hounds From mine imperial seat ; and as I wrought One of the fiends that came of old to Cain Found me, and since I thirsted gave to me A philtre, and in idiocy I drank : When suddenly I heard as in a dream Trumpets around me silver-tongued, and saw The many-colour' d banners gleam in the sun NAPOLEON FALLEX. 173 Above the crying legions, and I rode Royal before them, drunk with light and power, My boy beside me blooming like a rose To see the glorious show. Yet God, my God, Even then I swear the hideous lust of life Was far from me and mine ; nay, I rode forth, As to a gay review at break of day, A student dazzled with the golden glare, Half conscious of the cries of those he ruled, Half brooding o'er the book that he had left Open within his chamber. "Blood may flow," I thought, " a little blood — a few poor drops, — A few poor drops of blood : but they shall prove Pearls of great price to buy my people peace ; The hounds of War shall turn from our fair fields, And on my son a robe like this I wear Shall fall, and make him royal for all time ! " O fool, fool, fool ! What was I but a child, 174 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Pleased beyond understanding with a toy, Till in mine ears the scream of murther'd France Rang like a knell. I had slain my best beloved ! The curse of blood was on mine hands again ! My gentle boy, with wild affrighted gaze, Turn'd from his sire, and moaned ; the hounds of War Scream'd round me, glaring with their pitiless eyes Innumerable as the eyes of heaven ; I felt the sob of the world's woe ; I saw The fiery rain fill all the innocent air ; And, feeble as a maid who hides her face In terror at a sword-flash, conscience-struck, Sick, stupefied, appalled, and all alone, I totter'd, grasped the empty air, — and fell ! CHORUS. Vast Sea of Life that 'neath the arc Of yonder glistening sky, Rollest thy waters deep and dark, While windy years blow by : NAPOLEON FALLEN. 175 On thy pale shore this night we stand, And hear thy wash upon the sand. Calm is thy sheet and wanly bright, Low is thy voice and deep ; There is no child on earth this night Wrapt in a gentler sleep ; Crouch' d like a hound thou liest now, With eye upcast and dreadful brow. O Sea, thy breast is deep and blest After a dreadful day ; And yet thou listenest in thy rest For some sign far away ; Watching with fascinated eyes The uplifted Finger in the skies \ Who broods beside thee, with dark shade Upon the moonlit sands, Who looks on thee with eyes afraid, And supplicating hands ? — Creep closer, lap his feet, O Sea I 'Tis the sad Man of Destiny. 176 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. He says a word, he names a name, He cries to the Most High, Half kneeling, torn with sudden shame, He utters his lone cry. Thou watchest the blue heaven ; but he, Praying to heaven, watches thee. He pleads to God, yet dares not lift His eyes to find the Face ; But rather, where the waters drift, Stands in a shadowy place, And looking downward sees at last Fragments of wreck thy waves upcast. A hundred years thy still tides go And touch the self-same mark — Thus far, no farther, may they flow And fall in light and dark ; The mystic water-line is drawn By moonlit night and glimmering dawn. Sure as a heart-beat year by year, Though winds and thunders call, Be it storm or calm, the tides appear, Touch the long line and fall, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 177 Liquid and luminously dim ; And men build dwellings on their brim. O well may this man wring his hands, And utter a wild prayer. He built above thy lonely sands A Feast-house passing fair ; It rose above thy sands, O Sea, In a fair nook of greenery. For he had watched thee many days, And mark'd thy weedy line, And far above the same did raise His Temple undivine. Throng'd with fair shapes of sin and guilt It rose, most magically built. Not to the one eternal Light, Lamp of both quick and dead, Did he uprear it in thy sight, But with a smile he said : " To the unvarying laws of P'ate, This Temple fair I dedicate. N 178 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. " To that sure law by which the Sea Is driven to come and go Within one mystic boundary, And can no further flow ; So that who knoweth destiny May safely build, nor fear the Sea ! " O fool ! O miserable clod ! O creature made to die ! Who thought to mark the might of God And mete it with his eye ; Who measured God's mysterious ways By laws of common nights and days. O worm, that sought to pass God by, Nor feared that God's revenge : The law within the law, whereby All things work on to change ; Who guessed not how the still law's course Accumulates superfluous force ; — How for long intervals and vast Strange secrets hide from day, Till Nature's womb upheaves to cast The gather'd load away ; NAPOLEON FALLEN. How deep the very laws of life Deposit elements of strife. O many a year in sun and shower The quiet waters creep ! — But suddenly on some dark hour Strange trouble shakes the deep : Silent and monstrous thro' the gloom Rises the Tidal Wave for doom. Then woe for all who, like this Man, Have built so near the Sea, For what avails the human plan When the new force flows free \ Over their bounds the waters stream. And Empires crash and despots scream. O, is it earthquake far below Where the still forces sleep \ Doth the volcano shriek and glow, Unseen beneath the deep ? We know not ; suddenly as death Comes the great Wave with fatal breath. '79 i8o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. God works his ends for ever thus, And lets the great plan roll. He wrought all things miraculous, The Sea, the Earth, the Soul ; And nature from dark springs doth draw Her fatal miracles of law. O well may this Man wring his hands, And utter a wild prayer ; He built above the shifting sands A Feast-house passing fair. Long years it stood, a thing of shame : At last the mighty moment came. Crashing like glass into its grave , Fell down the fair abode ; The despot struggled in the wave, And swimming screamed to God. And lo, the waters with deep roar Cast the black weed upon the shore. Then with no warning, as they rose, Shrunk back to their old bounds : Tho' still with deep volcanic throes And sad mysterious sounds XAPOLEON FALLEX. They quake. The Man upon their brim Sees wreck of Empire washed to him. Vast Sea of life, that 'neath the arc Of yonder glistening sky, Spreadest thy waters strange and dark While windy years blow by, Creep closer, kiss his feet, O Sea, Poor baffled worm of Destiny ! Fain would he read with those dull eyes What never man hath known, The secret that within thee lies Seen by God's sight alone ; Thou watchest Heaven all hours ; but he, Praying to Heaven, watches thee. So will he watch with weary breath Musing beside the deep, Till on thy shore he sinks in death, And thy still tides upcreep, Raise him with cold forgiving kiss, And wash his dust to the Abyss. i8.2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. NAPOLEON. A BISHOP. Napoleon. Speak out thy tidings quickly, How fares it with the Empress and my son ? Bishop. Well, Sire. They bid thee look thy fate in the face, And be of cheer. Napoleon. Where didst thou part with them ? Bishop. In England, Sire, where they have found a home Among the frozen-blooded islanders, Who yesterday called blessings on thy brow, And now rejoice in thy calamity. Thus much thy mighty lady bade me say, If I should find thee private in thy woe : — NAPOLEON FALLEN. 183 With thy great name the streets are garru- lous : Mart, theatre, and church, palace and prison, Down to the very commons by the road Where Egypt's bastard children pitch their tents, Murmur " Napoleon ; " but, alas ! the sound Is as an echo that with no refrain, No loving echo in a living voice, Dies a cold death among the mountain snow. Napoleon. Old man, I never looked for friendship there, I never loved that England in my heart ; Tho' twas by such a sampler I believed To weave our France's fortunes thriftily With the gold tissues of prosperity. Bishop. Ah, Sire, if I dare speak — Napoleon. Speak on. 1 84 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Bishop. Too much Thine eyes to that cold isle of heretics Turn'd from thy throne for use and precedent ; Too little did they look, and that too late, On that strong rock whereon the Lord thy God Hath built His Holy Church. Napoleon. Something of this I have heard in happier seasons. Bishop. Hear it now In the dark day of thine adversity. Sire, by him who holds the blessed Keys, Christ's Vicar on the earth for blinded men, 1 do conjure thee, hearken — with my mouth, Tho' I am weak and low, the Holy Church Cries to her erring son ! Napoleon. Well, well, he hears. NAPOLEON FALLEN. 185 Bishop. Thou smilest, Sire. With such a smile, so grim, So bitter, didst thou mock our blessed cause In thy prosperity. Napoleon. False, Bishop, false ! I made a bloody circle with my sword Round the old Father's head, and so secured him Safe on his tottering Seat against the world, When all the world cried that his time was come. What then ? He totter'd on. I could not prop His Seat up with my sword, that Seat being built, Not on a rock, but sand. Bishop. The world is sick And old indeed, when lips like thine blas- pheme. 1 86 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Whisper such words out on the common air, And, as a child, Blow thy last hopes away. Napoleon. Hopes, hopes ! What hopes ? What knowest thou of hopes ? Bishop. Thy throne was rear'd (Nay hear me, Sire, in patience to the end) Not on the vulgar unsubstantial air Which men call Freedom, not on half consent Of unbelievers — tho', alas ! thou hast stoop'd To smile on unbelievers — not on lives That saw in thee one of the good and wise, Not wholly on the watchword of thy name ; But first on this — the swords thy gold could buy, And most and last, upon the help of those Who to remotest corners of our land Watch o'er the souls of men, sit at their hearths, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 1S7 Lend their solemnity to birth and death, Guide as they list the motions of the mind, And as they list with darkness or with light Appease the spiritual hunger. "Where Had France been, and thou, boasted Sun of France, For nineteen harvests, save for those who crept Thine agents into every cottage-door, Slowly diffusing thro' each vein of France The sleepy wine of empire ? Like to slaves These served thee, used thy glory for a charm, Hung up thine image in a peasant's room Beside our blessed Saints, and cunningly, As shepherds drive their sheep unto the fold, Gather'd thy crying people where thy hand Might choose them out for very butchery. Nay, more ; as fearful men may stamp out fire, They in the spirits of thy people killed The sparks of peril left from those dark days, When France being drunk with blood and mad with pain 1 88 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Sprang on the burning pyre, and with her raiment Burning and streaming crimson in the wind, Curst and denied her God. They made men see, Yea, in the very name of Liberty, A net of Satan's set to snare the soul From Christ and Christ's salvation : in their palms They welded the soft clay of popular thought To this wish'd semblance yet more cunningly ; Till not a peasant heir of his own fields, And not a citizen that own'd a house, And not a man or woman who had saved, But when some wild voice shriek'd out " Liberty ! " Trembled as if the robber's foot were set Already on his threshold, and in fear Clutch'd at his little store. These things did they, Christ's servants serving thee ; they were as veins Bearing the blood through France from thee its heart NAPOLEON FALLEN. 189 Throbbing full glorious in the capital. And thou, O Sire, in thine own secret mind Knowest what meed thou hast accorded them, Who, thy sworn liegemen in thy triumph- hour, Are still thy props in thy calamity. Napoleon. Well ; have you done ? Bishop. Not yet. Napoleon. What more \ Bishop. Look round This day on Europe, look upon the World, Which like a dark tree o'er the river of Time Hangeth with fruit of races, goodly some, 190 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Some rotten to the core. Out of the heart Of what had seem'd the sunset of the west, Rises the Teuton, silent, subtle, and sure, Gathering his venom slowly like a snake, Wrapping the sleepy lands in fold by fold ; Then springing up to stab his prey with fangs Numerous as spears of wheat in harvest time. O, he is wise, the Teuton, he is deep As Satan's self in perilous human lore, Such as the purblind deem philosophy ! But, be he cunning as the Tempter was, Christ yet shall bruise his head ; for in him- self He bears, as serpents use, A brood of lesser snakes, cunning things too But lesser, and of these many prepare Such peril as in his most glorious hour May strike him feebler than the wretched worms That crawl this day on the dead lambs of France. Meantime, he to his purpose moves most slow, And overcomes. Note how, upon her rock, The sea-beast Albion, swollen with idle years NAPOLEON FALLEN. 191 Of basking in the prosperous sunshine, rolls Her fearful eyes, and murmurs. See how wildly The merciless Russian paceth like a bear His lonely steppes of snow, and with deep moan Calling his hideous young, casts famished eyes On that worn Paralytic in the East, Whom thou of old didst save. Call thou to these For succour ; shall they stir ? Will the sea- beast Budge from her rock ? Will the bear leave his wilds r Then mark how feebly in the wintry cold Old Austria ruffles up her plumage, Sire, Covering the half-heal'd wound upon her neck; See how on Spain her home-bred vermin feed, As did the worms on Herod ; Italy- Is as a dove-cote by a battle-field, Abandoned to the kites of infamy ; 192 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Belgium, Denmark, and Helvetia, Like plovers watching while the wind- hover Strikes down one of their miserable kind, Wheeling upon the wind cry to each other ; And far away the Eagle of the West, Poised in the lull of her own hurricane, Sits watching thee with eyes as blank of love As those grey seas that break beneath her feet. Napoleon. This is cold comfort, yet I am patient. Well ? To the issue ! Dost thou keep behind the salve Whose touch shall heal my wounds ? or dost thou only, As any raven on occasion can, Croak out the stale truth, that the day is lost, And that the world's slaves knee the con- queror r Bishop. Look not on these, thy crowned peers, for aid, But inward. Read thy heart. NAPOLEON FALLEN. 193 Napoleon. It is a book I have studied somewhat deeply. Bishop. In thine heart, Tho' the cold lips might sneer, the dark brow frown, Wert thou not ever one believing God ? Napoleon. I have believed, and do believe, in God. Bishop. For that, give thanks to God. He shall up- lift thee. Napoleon. How r Bishop. By the secret hands of His great Church. Even now in darkness and in tilths remote o i 9 4 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. They labour in thy service ; one by one They gather up the fallen reins of power And keep them for thy grasp ; so be thou sure, When thou hast woven round about thy soul The robe of holiness, and from the hands Of Holy Church demandest thy lost throne, It shall be hers to give thee. Napoleon. In good truth, I scarce conceive thee. What, degenerate Rome, With scarce the power in this strong wind of war To hold her ragged gauds about her limbs ; Rome, reft of the deep thunder in her voice, The dark curse in her eye ; Rome, old, dumb, blind, — Shall Rome give Kingdoms ? — Why, she hath already Transferred her own to Heaven. napoleon fallen. 195 Bishop. Canst thou follow The coming and the going of the wind, Fathom the green abysses of the sea ? For such as these, is Rome : — the voice of God Sounding in darkness and a silent place ; The morning dew scarce seen upon the flowers, Yet drawn to heaven and grown the thunder- bolt That shakes the earth at noon. When man's wild soul Clutches no more at the white feet of Christ ; When death is not, nor spiritual disease ; When atheists can on the black mountain tops Walk solitary in the light of stars, And cry, " God is not ; " when no mothers kneel Moaning on graves of children ; when no flashes Trouble the melancholy dark of dream ; When prayer is hush'd, when the Wise Book is shut — 196 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Then Rome shall fall indeed : meantime she is based Invulnerable on the soul, of man, Its darkest needs and fears ; she doth dispense What soon or late is better prized than gold, — Comfort and intercession ; for all sin She hath the swiftest shrift, wherefore her clients Are those that have sinned deeply, and of such Is half the dreadful world ; all these she holds By that cold eyeball which hath read their souls, So that they look upon her secretly And tremble, — while in her dark book of Fate E'en now she dooms the Teuton. {Enter a Messenger. Napoleon. Well, what news ? Messenger. 'Tis brief and sad. The mighty Prussian chiefs, Gathering their fiery van in silence, close NAPOLEON FALLEN. 197 Toward the imperial City — in whose walls Treason and Rage and Fear contend together Like hunger-stricken wolves; and at their cry, Echoed from Paris to the Vosges, France, Calling her famish'd children round her knees, Looks at the trembling nations. All is still, Like to that silence which precedes the storm, And shakes the forest leaves without a breath ; But surely as the vaporous storm is woven, The German closes round the heart of France His hurricane of lives. Napoleon {to Bishop). The Teuton thrives Under the doom we spake of. {To Mes- senger.) Well, speak on ! Messenger. Meantime, like kine that see the gathering clouds And shelter 'neath the shade of rocks and trees, 198 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Thy timorous people fly before the sound Of the approaching footsteps, seeking woods For shelter, snaring conies for their food, And sleeping like the beasts ; some fare in caves, Fearing the wholesome air, hushing the cries Of infants lest the murderous foe should hear; Some scatter west and south, their frighted eyes Cast backward, with their wretched house- hold goods ; And where these dwelt, most blest beneath thy rule, The German legions thrive, let loose like swine Amid the fields of harvest, in their track Leaving the smoking ruin, and the church Most desecrated to a sleeping-sty ; — So that the plenteous lands that rolled in gold Round thy voluptuous City, lie full bare To shame, to rapine, to calamity. XAPOLEON FALLEN. 199 Napoleon. for one hour of empire, that with life 1 might consume this sorrow ! 'Tis a spell By which we are subdued ! Messenger. Strasbourg still stands, Stubborn as granite, but the citadel Is falling. Within, Famine and Horror nest, And rear their young on ruin. [Exit. [Enter a Messenger. Napoleon. How, peal on peal ! Like the agonizing clash of bells when flame Hath seized on some fair city. News, more news ? Dost thou too catch the common trick o' the time, And ring a melancholy peal ? 200 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Messenger. My liege, Strasbourg still stands. Napoleon. And then ? Messenger. Pent up in Metz, Encircled by a river of strong lives, Bazaine is faithful to the cause and thee, And from his prison doth proclaim himself, And all the host of Frenchmen at his back, Thy liegemen to the death. Napoleon. Why, that last peal Sounds somewhat blither. Well ? Messenger. From his lone isle, The old Italian Red-shirt in his age Hath crawl'd, tho' sickly and infirm, to France, XAPOLEON FALLEN. And slowly there his leonine features breed Hope in the timid people, who Napoleon. Enough ! [Exit Messenger. That tune is flat and tame. {Enter a Messenger. What man art thou, On whose swart face the frenzied lightning plays, Prophetic of the thunder on the tongue ? Speak ! Messenger. Better I had died at Weissenburg, Where on the bloody field I lay for dead, Than live to bring this woe. Ungenerous France, Forgetful of thy gracious years of reign, Pitiless as a sated harlot is When ruin overtaketh him whose hand Hath loaded her with gems, shameless and mad, 202 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. France, like Delilah, now betrays her lord. The streets are drunken — from thy palace- gate They pluck the imperial eagles, trampling them Into the bloody mire ; thy flags and pennons, Torn from their vantage in the wind, are wrapt In mockery round the beggar's ragged limbs ; And thine imperial images in stone, Dash'd from their lofty places, strew the ground In shameful ruin. All the ragged shout, While Trochu from the presidential seat Proclaims the empire dead, and calleth up A new Republic, in whose chairs of office Thine enemies, scribblers and demagogues, Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and link'd with these The miserable Rochefort, trembling grasp The reins of power, unconscious of the scorn That doth already doom them. To their feet Come humming back, vain-drunken, all the wasps NAPOLEON FALLEN. 203 Whom in thine hour of glory thou didst brush With careless arm-sweep from thy festal cup : Shoulder'd by mobs the pigmy Blanc de- claims, The hare-brain'd Hugo shrieks a maniac song In concert, and the scribblers, brandishing Their pens like valiant lilliputians Against the Teuton giant, frantically Scream chorus. Coming with mock-humble eyes To the Republic, this sham shape of straw, This stuff d thing of a harlot's carnival, The dilettante sons of Orleans, kneeling, Proffer forsooth their swords, which being disdain'd They sheathe chapfallen and with bows withdraw Back to their pictures and perfumery. Napoleon. Why, thine is news indeed. Nor do I weep For mine own wrong, but for the woes of France, 204 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. '■ Whose knell thou soundest. With a tongue of fire Our enemy shall like the ant-eater Devour these insect rulers suddenly. [Aside] Now, may the foul fiend blacken all the air Above these Frenchmen, with revolt and fear Darken alike the wits of friends and foes, With swift confusion and with anarchy Disturb their fretful councils, till at last, Many-tongued, wild-hair'd, mad, and hor- rible With fiery eyes and naked crimson limbs, Upriseth the old Spectre of the Red, And as of yore uplifts the shameful knife To stab unhappy France ; then, in her need, Fearful and terror-stricken, France shall call On him who gave her nineteen plenteous years — And he may rise again. [Exeunt NAPOLEON FALLEN. 205 CHORUS. Who in the name of France curses French souls this day ? How ! shall the tempter curse r Silence ; and turn away ; Turn we our faces hence white with a wild desire, Westward we lift our gaze till the straining- balls flash fire, Westward we look to France, sadly we watch and mark : — Far thro' the pitch-black air, like breaking foam in the dark, Cometh and goeth a light across the stricken land, And we hear a distant voice like the wash of waves on the sand. Voices. Set the cannon on the heights, and under Let the black moat gape, the black graves grow ! 2o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Now let thunder Answer back the thunder of the foe ! France has torn her cerements asunder, France doth live to strike the oppressor low. Choru§ . O hark ! O hark ! a voice arises wild and strong, Loud as a bell that rings alarm it lifts the song. See ! see ! the dark is lit, fire upon fire up- springs, Loudly from town to town the fiery tiding rings. Now the red smithies blaze and the blue steel is sped, They twist bright steel for guns, they cast the fatal lead ; Cannon is drawn to the gate, — and lo, the bravest stand Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim'd, fuse in hand, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 207 Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of Stars they raise, While those sing martial songs who are too frail for frays. France is uprisen again ! France the sworn slayer of Kings ! With bleeding breast and bitter heart at the Teuton's throat she springs. Voices. Now like thunder Be our voice together while we cry ; Kings shall never hold our spirits under, Kings shall cast their crowns aside and fly: Latin, Sclav, or Teuton, they shall wonder ; The soul of man hath doom'd them — let them die. We have slain Kings of old, they were our own to slay, But now we doom all Kings until the Judg- ment day, 2o8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Raise ye the Flag of Stars! Tremble, Kings, and behold ! Raise ye the Flag of Man, while the knell of anarchs is tolled. This is a festal day for all the seed of Eve ; France shall redeem the world, and heal all hearts that grieve ; France with her sword this day shall free all human things, With blood drain 5 d from her heart our France shall write the doom of Kings. Chorus. Silence and hearken yet ! O but it is a cry Heard under heaven of old, tho' the terrible day blew by. The red fire flames to heaven, and in the crimson glow Black shapes with prayers and cries are gliding to and fro. Voices. Fill each loophole with a man ! and finding Each a foe, aim slowly at the brain, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 209 While the blinding Lightnings flash, and the great guns re- frain. To the roofs ! and while beneath the foe are winding, Dash ye stones and missiles down like rain. Watch for the grey-beard King : to drink his blood were great. Watch for the Cub thereto — aim at his brain full straight. Watch most for that foul Knave who crawls behind the crown, Who smiles befooling all with crafty eyes cast down ; Sweeter than wine indeed his wretched blood would flow, Curst juggler with our souls, he who hath wrought this woe. France hath uprisen again ! Let the fierce shaft be sped Till all the foul satanic things that flatter Kings be dead. 2 id THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chorus. Echo the dreadful prayer, let the fierce shaft be sped, Till all the foul satanic things that flatter Kings be dead ! Voices. Send the light balloon aloft with singing, Let our hopes rise with it to the sky, Let our voices like one fount upspringing Tell the mighty realm that hope is nigh ! See, in answer, from the distance winging Back unto our feet the swift doves fly ! Chorus. We see the City now, dark square and street and mart, The muffled drum doth sound reveille in its heart, The chain'd balloon doth swing, while men stand murmuring by, Then with elastic bound upleaps into the sky. We see the brightening dawn, the dimly dappled land, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 211 The shapes with arms outstretch'd that on the housetops stand, The eyes that turn to meet with one quick flash of fear The birds that sad and slow wing nearer and more near. O courage! all is well — yea, let your hearts be higher, North, south, east, west, the souls of French- men are as fire, The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman leaves his loom, Tho' the black priest may frown who heeds his look of gloom ? Flash the wild tidings forth ! ring them from town to town, Till like a storm of scythes ye rise, and the foe like wheat go down. Voices. See ! how northward the wild heavens lighten, Red as blood the fierce aurora waves, Let it bathe us strong in blood and brighten Sweet with resurrection on our graves, 2i2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Lighten, lighten, Scroll of God ! — unfold above and brighten, Light the doom of monarchs and their slaves. This is a day indeed — be sure that God can see. Raise the fierce cry again, " Liberty ! Liberty ! " Courage ! No man dies twice, and he shall live in death, Who for the Flag of Stars strikes with his latest breath. Nay, not a foe shall live to tell if France be slain : If the wild cause be lost, only the grave shall gain. Teuton and Frank in fierce embrace shall strew the fatal sod, And they shall live indeed who died to save their souls for God. Chorus. O Spirits turn and look no more and hark not to their cry, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 213 A Hand is flashed before our eyes, a Shape goes sadly by. And as it goes, it looks on us with eyes that swim in tears, And bitter as the death-cry sounds the echo in our ears. O look no more and seek no more to read the days unborn, 'Tis storm this night on the world's sea, and 'twill be storm at morn. The Lord hath sent his breath abroad, and all the waves are stirr'd : Amid the tempest Liberty flies like a white sea-bird, And, while the heavens are torn apart and the fierce waters gleam, Doth up and down the furrow'd waves dart with a sea-bird's scream. O bow the head, and close the eyes, and pray a quiet prayer, But let the bitter curse of Man go by upon the air. 2i 4 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. [NAPOLEON. An OFFICER. Napoleon. Is there no hope for France ? Officer. None. Yet I know not ! A nation thus miraculously strengthen'd, And acting in the fiercest wrath of love, Hath risen ere this above calamity, And out of anguish conjured victory. If strength and numbers, if the mighty hands Of the Briareus, shall decide the day, Then surely as the sun sets France must fall ; If love or prayer can make a miracle And bring an angel down to strike for her, Then France may rise again. Napoleon. Have we not proved Her children cowards ? Yea, by God ! Like dogs That rend the air with wrath upon the chain, NAPOLEON FALLEN. 215 And being loosen'd slink before the thief, They fail'd me — those who led and those who follow' d ; Scarce knowing friend from foe, while inch by inch The Germans ate their ranks as a slow fire Devoureth wind-blown wheat. I cannot trust In France or Frenchmen. Officer. Sire Napoleon. Why dost thou hang Thy head, old friend, and look upon the ground ? Nay, if all Frenchmen had but hearts like thine, Then France were blest in sooth, and I, its master, Were safe against the swords of all the world. 216 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Officer. Sire, 'twas not that I meant — my life is yours To give or take, to blame or praise ; I blush' d Not for myself, but France. Napoleon. Then hadst thou cause For crimson cheeks indeed. Officer. » Sire, as I live, Thou wrongest her ! The breast whereon we grew Suckled no cowards. For one dizzy hour France totter'd, and look'd back; but now indeed She hath arisen to the very height Of her great peril. Napoleon. 'Tis too late. She is lost. She did betray her master, and shall die. NAPOLEON FALLEX. 217 Officer. Not France betrayed thee, Sire ; but rather those Whom thy most noble nature, royally based Above suspicion and perfidious fear, Welcom'd unto thy council ; not poor France, Whose bleeding wounds speak for her loud as tongues, Bit at the hand that raised her up so high ; Not France, but bastard Frenchmen, doubly damn'd Alike by her who bare them and by thee Who fed them. These betrayed thee to thy doom, And falling clutch'd at thine imperial crown, Dragging it with them to the bloody dust ; But these that held her arms like bands of lead Being torn from off her, France, unchain'd and free, Uplifts her pale front to the stars, and stands Serene in doom and danger, and sublime In resurrection. 218 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Napoleon. How the popular taint Corrupts the wholesome matter of thy mind ! This would be treason, friend, if we were strong — Now 'tis less perilous : the commonest wind Can blow its scorn upon the fallen. Officer. Sire, Behold me on my knees, tears in mine eyes, And sorrow in my heart. My life is thine, My life, my heart, my soul are pledged to thine ; And trebly now doth thy calamity Hold me thy slave and servant. If I pray, "lis that thou mayst arise, and thou shalt rise ; And if I praise our common mother, France, Who for the moment hath forgot her lord, 'Tis that my soul rejoices for thy sake, That when thou comest to thine own again Thy realm shall be a realm regenerate, Baptized a fair thing worthy of thy love In its own blood of direful victory. NAPOLEON FALLEN. 219 Napoleon. Sayest thou ? — Rise ! — Friend, thou art little skilled In reading that abstruse astrology Whereby our cunning politicians cast The fate of Kings. France robed in victory Is France for ever lost to our great house. France fallen, is France that with my secret hand I may uplift again. But tell thy tale Most freely : let thy soul beat its free wings Before me as it lists. Come ! as thou sayest, France is no coward ; — she hath at last arisen ; Nay, more — she is sublime. Proceed. Officer. My liege, God, ere he made me thy most loving servant, Made and baptized me, Frenchman ; and my heart, A soldier's heart, yearns out this day in pride 220 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. To her who bare me, and both great and low My brethren. Courage is a virtue, Sire, Even in a wretched cause. In Strasbourg still Old Uhrich with his weight of seventy years Starves unsubdued, while the dull enemy Look on in wonder at such strength in woe ; Bazaine still keeps the glittering hosts at bay, And holds them with a watchful hand and eye; The captain of the citadel at Laon, Soon as the foeman gather'd on his walls, Illumed the hidden mine, and Frank and Teuton, With that they strove for, strew'd the path in death ; From Paris to the Vosges, loud and wild The tocsin rings to arms, and on the fields The fat ripe ear empties itself unreapt, While every man whose hand can grasp a sword Flocks to the petty standard of his town ; The many looms of the great factory XAPOLEOX FALLEN. 221 Stand silent, but the fiery moulds of clay Are fashioning cannon, and the blinding wheels Are sharpening steel. In every market- place Peasant and prince are drilling side by side ; Roused from their wine-fed torpor, changed from swine To men, the very country burghers arm, Nay, what is more to them than blood, bleed gold Bounteously, freely. I have heard that priests, Doffing the holy cossack secretly, Shouting uplift the sword, and crying Christ To aid them strike for France. Only the basest, Only the scum, shrink now ; for even women, Catching the noble fever of the time, Buckle the war-belts round their lovers' waists, And clapping hands, with mingled cries and sobs, Urge young and old against the enemy. 222 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Napoleon. Of so much thunder may the lightning spring. I know how France can thunder, and I have felt How women's tongues can urge. But what of Paris ? What of the city of light ? How doth it bear The terror and the agony ? Officer. Most bravely, As doth become the glorious heart of France : Strong, fearless, throbbing with a martial might, Dispensing from its core the vital heat Which filleth all the members of the land ; Tho' even now the sharp steel pricks the skin, To stab it in its strength. Napoleon. Who holds the reins Within the gates \ NAPOLEON FALLEN. 223 Officer. Trochu. Napoleon. Still r Why, how long Have the poor fools been constant ? Favre also ? Gambetta r Rochefort ? All these gentlemen Still flourish r And Thiers ? Hath the arch- schemer A seat among the gods, a place of rank With the ephemera \ Officer. Not so, my liege. Napoleon. Well, being seated on Olympus' top, What thunderbolts are France's puny Joves Casting abroad ? Or do they sit and quake For awe of their own voices, which in France, As in the shifting glaciers of the Alps, May bring the avalanche upon their heads ? 224 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Officer. The men, to do them justice, use their power Calmly and soldierly, and for a time Forget the bitter humours of the senate In the great common cause. Paris is strong, And full of noble souls. Napoleon. Paris must fall. Officer. Not soon, my liege — for she is belted round And arm'd impregnable on every side. Hunger and thirst may slay her, not the sword ; And ere the foeman's foot is heard within, Paris will spring upon her funeral pyre And follow Hope to heaven. Last week I walk'd Reading men's faces in the silent streets, And, as I am a soldier, saw in none XAPOLEON FALLEN. 225 Fear or capitulation : very harlots Cried in their shame the name of Liberty, And, hustled from the gates, shriek' d out a curse Upon the coming Teuton : all was still And dreadful ; but the citizens in silence Drilled in the squares ; on the great boulevard groups Whisper' d together, with their faces pale At white heat ; in the silent theatre, Dim lit by lamps, were women, wives and mothers, Silently working for their wounded sons And husbands ; in the churches too they sat And wrought, while ever and anon a foot Rung on the pavement, and with sad red eyes They turn'd to see some armed citizen Kneel at his orisons or vespers. Nightly, Ere the moon rose, the City slept like death ; Yet as a lion sleeps, with half-shut eyes, Hearing each murmur on the weary wind, Crouching and ready for the spring. Each dawn I saw the country carts come rumbling in., Q 226 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And the scared country-folk, with large wild eyes And open mouths, who flock'd for shelter bringing Horrible tidings of the enemy Who had devoured their fields and happy homes. Then suddenly like a low earthquake came The rumour that the foe was at the gates ; And climbing a cathedral roof that night, I saw the pitch-black distance sown with fire Gleam phosphorescent like the midnight sea, And heard at intervals mysterious sound, Like far off thunder or the Atlantic waves Clashing on some great headland in a storm, Come smother'd from afar. But, lingering yet, I haunted the great City in disguise, While silently the fatal rings were wound Around about it by the Teuton hosts : Still, as I am a soldier, saw no face That look'd capitulation : rather saw The knitted eyebrow and the clenched teeth, The stealthy hand that fingered with the sword, XAPOLEON FALLEN. 227 The eye that glanced as swift as hunger's doth Towards the battlements. Then (for at last A voice was raised against my life) I sought Trochu, my schoolfellow and friend in arms, And, though his brow darkened a moment's space, He knew me faithful and reached out his hand To save me. By his secret help I found A place in a balloon, that in the dusk Ere daylight rose upon a moaning wind And drifted southward with the drifting clouds ; And as the white and frosty daylight grew, And opening crimson as a rose's leaves The clouds to eastward parted, I beheld The imperial City, gables, roofs, and spires, White and fantastic as a city of dream, Gleam orient, while the muffled drums within Sounded reveille; then a red flash and wreath Of vapour broke across the outer line, Where the black fortifications frowning rose Ring above ring around the imperial gates, And flash on flash succeeded with a sound Most faint and lagging wearily behind. 228 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Still all without the City seemed as husht As sleep or death. But as the reddening day- Scattered the mists, the tiny villages Loomed dim ; and there were distant glim- merings, And far-off muffled sounds : yet scarce a sign Showed the innumerable enemy, — Who snugly housed and canopied with stone Lay hidden in their strength ; only the watch- fire Gleam'd here and there, only from place to place Masses of shadow seem'd to move, and light Was glittered dimly back from hidden steel ; And, woefullest sight of all, miles to the west, Along the dark line of the foe's advance, On the straight rim where earth and heaven meet, The forests blazed and to the driving clouds Cast blood-red phantoms growing dim in day. NAPOLEON FALLEX. 229 Meantime, like one whirl'd in a dizzy dream, Onward we drove below the driving cloud, And from the region of the burning fire And smouldering hamlet rose still higher, and saw The white stars like to tapers burning out Above the region of the nether storm, And the illimitable ether growing Silent and dark in the deep wintry dawn. {Enter a Messenger. Messenger. Most weighty news, my liege, from Italy. Napoleon. Yes? Messenger. Rome is taken. The imperial walls Yawn where the cannon smote ; in the red streets Romans embracing shout for Liberty ; 230 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. From Florence to Messina bonfires blaze, And rockets rise and wild shouts shake the air; And with the thunder in his aged ears, Surrounded by his cold-eyed Cardinals, Clutching his spiritual crown more close, Trembling with dotage, sits the grey-haired Pope Anathematizing in the Vatican. [Exit. Officer. Woe to the head on whom his curse shall fall, For in the day of judgment it shall be Better with Sodom and Gomorrah. Wait ! This is the twilight ; red will rise the dawn. Napoleon. Peace, friend ; yet if it ease thy heart, speak on. I would to God, I did believe in God As thou dost. Twilight surely — 'tis indeed NAPOLEON FALLEN. 231 A twilight — and therein from their fair spheres Kings shoot like stars. How many nights of late The heavens have troubled been with fiery- signs, With characters like monstrous hieroglyphs, And the aurora, brighter than the day And red as blood, has burnt from west to east. Officer. I do believe the melancholy air Is full of pain and portent. Napoleon. Would to God I had more faith in God, for in this work I fail to trace His hand ; but rather feel The nether- shock of earthquake everywhere Shaking old thrones and new, those rear'd on rock As well as those on sand. All darkens yet, 232 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And in that darkness, while with cheeks of snow The affrighted people gaze at one another, The Teuton still, mouthing of Deity, Works steadfastly to some mysterious end. My heart was never Rome's so much as now, Now, when she shares my cup of agony. Agony ! Is this agony ? then indeed All life is agony. Officer. Your Imperial Highness Is suffering ! Take comfort, Sire. Napoleon. It is nought — Only a passing spasm at the heart — 5 Tis my disease, comrade ; 'tis my disease ! So leave me : it is late ; and I would rest. Officer. God in his gracious goodness give thee health. NAPOLEON FALLEN. 233 Napoleon. Pray that He may ; for am I deeply sick — Too sick for surgery — too sick for drugs — Too sick for man to heal. 'Tis a com- plaint Incident to our house ; and of the same Mine imperial uncle died. [Exit Officer. France in the dust, "With the dark Spectre of the Red above her! Rome fallen ! Aye me, well may the face of heaven Burn like a fiery scroll. Had I but eyes To read whose name is written next for doom ! The Teuton's ? O the Serpent, that has bided His time so long, and now has stabbed so deep ! Would I might bruise his head before I die ! {Exit. 234 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Night. NAPOLEON sleeping. CHORUS of SPIRITS. A Voice. What shapes are ye whose shades darken his rest this night ? Chorus. Cold from the grave we come, out of the dark to the light. A Voice. Voices ye have that moan, and eyes ye have that weep, Ah ! woe for him who feels such shadows round his sleep ! Chorus. Tho' thou wert buried and dead, Still would we seek thee and find thee, Ever there follows the tread Of feet from the tomb behind thee ; XAPOLEOX FALLEN. Sleep, shall thy soul have sleep ? Nay, but be broken and shaken. Gather around him and weep, Trouble him till he awaken. A Voice. Who, in imperial raiment, darkly frowning- stand, Laurel-leaves in their hair, sceptred yet sword in hand. Another Voice. Who in their shadow looms, woman-eyed, woe-begone, And bares his breast to show the piteous wounds thereon ? Chorus. Peace, they are Kings, they are crowned ; Kings, tho' their realms have departed, Realms of the grave they have found, And they walk in the same heavy-hearted. 236 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Sleep ? did their souls have sleep ? Nay, for like his was their being. Gather around him and weep, Awake him to hearing and seeing. Spirit of Caesar. Greater than thou I fell. Die ; for thy day is o'er. Thou reap the world with swords ? thou wear the robe I wore ? Up like the bird of Jove, I rose from height to height, Poised on the heavenly air, eyes to the blood- red light ; Swift came the flash of wrath, one long- avenging glare — Down like a stone I fell, down thro' the dizzy air ; Dark burnt the heaven above, red ran the light of day, In the great square of Rome, bloody I fell, and lay. XAPOLEON FALLEX. 237 Chorus. Kings of the realms of fear, Each the sad ghost of the other, One by one step near, Look in the eyes of a brother. Hush ! draw nearer and speak — And ere he waketh each morrow Blow on his bloodless cheek With the chilly wind of your sorrow. Spirit of Buonaparte. Greater than thou I fell. Die, Icarus, and give place. Thou take from my cold grave the glory and the grace ! Out of the fire I came, onward thro' fire I strode ; Under my path earth burnt, o'er it the pale stars glow'd ; Sun of the earth, I leapt up thro' the wonder- ing sky, Naming my name with God's, Kings knelt as I went by. 238 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Aye ; but my day declined ; — to one glad cry of the free My blood-red sunset died on the eternal Sea. A Voice. What spirit art thou, with cold still smile and face like snow? Spirit. Orsini ; -and avenged. Too soon I struck the blow. A Voice. And thou, with bleeding breast and eyes that roll in pain ? Spirit. I am that Maximilian, miserably slain. A Voice. And ye, O shadowy things, featureless, wild, and stark? Voices. We are the nameless ones whom he hath slain in the dark. NAPOLEON FALLEN. 239 A Voice. Ye whom this man hath doom'd, Spirits, are ye all there ? Chorus. Not yet ; they come, they come — they darken all the air. A Voice. O latest come, and what are ye ? Why do ye moan and call r Chorus. O hush ! O hush ! they come to speak the bitterest curse of all. Spirits. With Sin and Death our mothers' milk was sour, The womb wherein we grew from hour to hour Gather'd pollution dark from the polluted frame — Beside our cradles naked Infamy Caroused, and Lust sat smiling hideously — We grew like evil weeds apace, and knew not 1 me. 240 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. With incantations and with spells most rank, The fount of Knowledge where we might have drank, And learnt to love the taste, was hidden from our eyes ; And if we learn' d to spell out written speech, Thy slaves were by, and we had books to teach Falsehood and Filth and Sin, Blasphemies, Scoffs, and Lies. We drank of poison, ev'n as flowers drink dew ; We ate and drank of poison till we grew Noxious, polluted, black, like that whereon we fed ; We never felt the light and the free wind — Sunless we grew, and deaf, and dumb, and blind- How should we dream of God, souls that were slain and dead ? NAPOLEON FALLEN. 241 Love with her sister Reverence passed our way A.S angels pass unseen, but did not stay — We had no happy homes wherein to bid them dwell ; We turn'd from God's blue heaven with eyes of beast, We heard alike the atheist and the priest, And both these lied alike to smooth our hearts for Hell. Of some, both Soul and Body died ; of most, The Body fattened on, while the poqr ghost, v Prison'd from the sweet day, was withering in woe; Some robed in purple quaff 'd their fatal cup, Some out of rubied goblets drank it up — We did not know God was ; but now, O God, we know. R 242 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Lambs of thy flock, but oh ! not white and fair; Beasts of the field, tamed to thy hand, we were ; Not men and women — nay, not heirs to light and truth : Some fattening ate and fed ; some lay at ease ; Some fell and linger'd of a long disease ; But all look'd on the ground — beasts of the field forsooth. Ah woe, ah woe, for those thy sceptre swayed, Woe most for those whose bodies, fair arrayed, Insolent, sat at ease, smiled at thy feet of pride ; Woe for the harlots with their painted bliss ! Woe for the red wine-oozing lips they kiss ! Woe for the Bodies that lived, woe for the Souls that died ! NAPOLEON FALLEN. 243 Semi-Chorus I. Tho' thou wert buried and dead, Still would they seek thee and find thee, Ever there follows the tread Of feet from the grave behind thee. Spirit of Hortense. Woe ! woe ! woe ! Semi-Chorus II. Ye who saw sad light fall, Thro' the chink of the dungeon gleaming. And watch'd your shade on the wall Till it took a sad friend's seeming ; Ye who in speechless pain Fled from the doom and the danger, And dragging a patriot's chain Died in the land of the stranger ; Men who stagger' d and died, Even as beasts in the traces, Women he set aside For the trade of polluting embraces, 244 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Say, shall his soul have sleep, Or shall it be troubled and shaken ? Chorus. Gather around him and weep, Trouble him till he awaken. NAPOLEON {awakening). Who's there ? Who speaks ? — All silent. O how slowly Moveth the dark and melancholy night ! I cannot rest — I am too sick at heart — I have had ill dreams. The inevitable Eyes Are watching, and the weary void of sleep Hath voices strangely sad. [He rises, and paces the chamber. O those dark years Of Empire ! He who tames the tiger, and lies Pillow'd upon its neck in a lone cave, Is safer. Who could sleep on such a bed ? NAPOLEON FALLEX. 245 Mine eyes were ever dry of the pure dew God scatters on the lids of happy men ; Watching with fascinated gaze the orbs, Ring within ring of blank and bestial light, Where the wild fury slept : seeking all arts To soothe the savage instinct in its throes Of passionate unrest. One cold hand held Sweet morsels for the furious thing to lap, And with the other, held behind my back, I clutch'd the secret steel : oft, lest its teeth Should fasten on its master, cunningly Turning its wrath against the shapes that moved Outside its splendid lair ; until at last, Let forth to the mad light of War, it sprang Shrieking and sought to rend me. O thou beast ! Art thou so wild this day ? and dost thou thirst To fix on thine imperial ruler's throat ? Why, have I bidden thee " down," and thou hast crouch'd 246 THE DRAMA OF KINGS, Tamely as any hound ! Thou shalt crouch yet. And bleed with shamfuller stripes ! Let me be calm, Not bitter. 'Tis too late for bitterness. Yet I could gnaw my heart to think how France Hath fail'd me ! nay, not France, but rather those Whom to high offices and noble seats In France's name I raised. I bought their souls — What soul can power not buy ?■ — and, having lost The blessed measure of all human truth, Being soulless, these betrayed me ; yea, became A brood of lesser tigers hungering With their large eyes on mine. I did not build My throne on sand ; no, no, — on Lies and Liars, Weaker than sand a thousandfold ! NAPOLEON FALLEN. 247 In this I did not work for evil. Though my means Were dark and vile perchance, the end I sought Was France's weal, and underneath my care She grew as tame as any fatted calf. I never did believe in that stale cry Raised by the newsman and the demagogue, Tho' for mine ends I could cry " Liberty ! " As loud as any man. The draff of men Are as mere sheep and kine, with heads held down Grazing, or resting blankly ruminant. These must be tended, must be shepherded. But Frenchmen are as wild things scarcely tamed, Brute-like yet fierce, mad too with some few hours Of rushing freely with an angry roar. These must be awed and driven. By a scourge Dripping with sanguine drops of their own blood, I awed them : then I drove them : then in time 248 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. I tamed them. Fool ! deeming them wholly mine, I sought to snatch a little brief repose ; But with a groan they found me, and I woke ; And since they seem'd to suffer pain I said " Loosen the yoke a little," and 'twas done, And they could raise their heads and gaze at me ; And the wild hunger deepen'd in their eyes, While fascinated on my throne I sat Forcing a melancholy smile of peace. O had I held the scourge in my right hand, Tighten'd the yoke instead of loosening, It had not been so ill with me as now ! But Pity found me with her sister Fear, And lured me. He who sitteth on a throne Should have no counsellers who come in tears ; * But rather that still voice within his brain, Imperturbable as his own cold eyes And viewless as his coldly flowing blood ; Rather a heart as strong as the great heart Driving the hot life through a lion's thews ; Rather a will that moves to its desire NAPOLEON FALLEN. 249 As steadfast as the silent-footed cloud. What peevish humour did my mother mix With that immortal ichor of our race Which unpolluted fill'd mine uncle's veins ? He lash'd the world's Kings to his triumph- car And sat like marble while the fiery wheels Dript blood beneath him : tho' the live earth shriek'd Below him, he was calm, and like a god Cold to the eloquence of human tears, Cold to the quick, cold as the light of stars, Cold as the hand of Death on the damp brow, Cold as Death brooding on a battle-field In the white after-dawn, — from west to east Royal he moved as the red wintry sun. He never flatter'd Folly at his feet ; He never sought to syrup Infamy ; He, when the martyrs curst him, drew around him The purple of his glory and passed on Indifferently like Olympian Jove. There was no weak place in the steel he wore, 250 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Where woman's tongues might reach his mighty heart As they have reach' d at mine. O had I kept A heart of steel, a heart of adamant ; Had I been deaf to clamour and the peal Of peevish fools ; had I for one strong hour Conjured mine uncle's soul to mix with mine, Sedan had never slain me ! I am lost * By the damn'd implements mine own hands wrought — Things that were made as slavish tools of peace, Never as glittering weapons meet for war. He never stoop'd to use such peaceful tools ; But, for all uses, Made the sword serve him — yea, for sceptre and scythe ; Nay more, for Scripture and for counsellor. Yet he too fell. Early or late, all fall. No fruit can hang for ever on the tree. Daily the tyrant and the martyr meet XAPOLEOX FALLEX. 251 Naked at Death's door, with the fatal mark Both brows being branded. Doth the world then slay Only its anarchs ? Doth the lightning flash Smite Caesar and spare Brutus ? Nay, by heaven ! Rather the world keeps for its paracletes Torture more subtle and more piteous doom Than it dispenses to its torturers. Tiberius, with his foot on the world's neck, Smileth his cruel smile and groweth grey, Half dead already with the weight of years Drinketh the death he is too frail to feel, While in his noon of life the Man Divine Hath died in anguish at Jerusalem. [He opens a Life of Jesus and reads. A long pause. Here too the Teuton works, crafty and slow, Anatomizing, gauging, questioning, Till that fair Presence which redeem'd the world Dwindles into a phantom and a name. Shall he slay Kings, and spare the King of Kings ? 252 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. In her fierce madness, France denied her God, But the still Teuton doth destroy his God Coldly as he outwits an enemy. Yet doth he keep the Name upon his lips, And coldly dedicating the dull deed To the abstraction he hath christen' d God, To the creation of his cogent brain, Conjures against the blessed Nazarene, That pallid apparition masculine, That shining orb hem'd in with clouds of flesh; Till, darken'd with the woe of his own words, The fool can turn to Wilhelm's wooden face And Bismarck's crafty eyes, and see therein Human regeneration, or at least The Teuton's triumph mightier than Christ's. Lie there, Iconoclast ! Thou art thrice a fool, Who, having nought to set within its place But civic doctrine and a naked sword, Would tear from out its niche the piteous bust Of Him whose face was Sorrow's morning • star. [Takes up a second Book, and reads. NAPOLEON FALLEN. 253 Mark, now, how speciously Theology, Leaving the broken fragments of the Life Where the dull Teuton's hand hath scatter' cl them, Takes up the cause in her high fields of air. " Darkness had lain upon the earth like blood, And in the darkness human things had shriek'd And felt for God's soft hand, and agonised. But overhead the awful Spirit heard, Yet stirred not on His throne. Then lastly, One Dropt like a meteor stone from suns afar, And stirred and stretch'd out hands, and lived, and knew That Lie indeed had dropt from suns afar, That He had fallen from the Father's breast Where He had slumber' d for eternities. Hither in likeness of a Man He came — He, Jesus, wander'd forth from heaven and said, ' Lo, I, the deathless one, will live and die ! Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer — Our point of contact shall be suffering, 254 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. There will we meet, and ye will hear my voice ; And my low tones shall echo on thro' time, And one salvation proved in fatal tears Be the salvation of Humanity.' " Ah, old Theology, thou strikest home ! " Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer " — Sayst thou ? Did He then quaff His cup of tears Freely, who might have dash'd it down, and ruled ? The world was ready with an earthly crown, And yet He wore it not. Ah, He was wise ! Had He but sat upon a human throne, With all the kingdom's beggars at His feet, And all its coffers open at His side, He had died more shameful death, yea, He had fallen Even as the Csesars. Rule the world with Love ? Tame savage human nature with a kiss ? Turn royal cheeks for the brute mob to smite ? He knew men better, and He drew aside, Ordain'd to do and suffer, not to reign. XAPOLEON FALLEN. 255 My good physician bade me search in books For solace. Can I find it ? Verily, From every page of all man's hand hath writ A dark face frowns, a voice moans "Vanity !" There is one Book — one only — that for ever Passeth the understanding and appeaseth The miserable hunger of the heart — Behold it — written with the light of stars By God in the beginning. • [Looks forth. A starry night. I believe God is, but more. I know not, save but this — He passeth not as men and systems pass, For while all change the Law by which they change Survives and is for ever, being God. Our sin, our loss, our misery, our death, Are but the shadows of a dream : the hum Within our ears, the motes within our eyes ; Death is to us a semblance and an end, But is as nothing to that central Law Whereby we cannot die. 256 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Yonder blue dome, Gleaming with meanings mystically wrought, Hath been from the beginning, and shall be Until the end. How many awe-struck eyes Have look'd and spelt one word — the name of God, And call'd it as they listed, Law, Fate, Change, And marvell'd for its meaning till they died, And others came and stood upon their graves And read in their turn, and marvelling gave place. The Kings of Israel watch'dit with wild orbs, Madden'd, and cried the Name, and drew the sword. Above the tented plain of Troy it bent After the sun of day had set in blood. The superstitious Roman look'd by night And trembled. All these faded phantom- like, And lo ! where it remaineth, watch' d with eyes As sad as any of those this autumn night, — The Higher Law writ with the light of Stars By God in the beginning . . . NAPOLEON FALLEN. 257 Let me sleep ! Or I shall gaze and gaze till I grow wild And never sleep again. Too much of God Maketh the heart sick. Come then forth, thou charm, Thou silent spell wrung from the blood-red flower, With power to draw the curtains of the soul And shut the inevitable Eyes away. Dead mother, at thy knees I said a prayer- — Lead me not into temptation, and, O God, Deliver me from evil. Is it too late To murmur it this night ? This night, O God, Whate'er Thou art and whereso'er Thou art, This night at least, when I am sick and fallen, Deliver me from evil ! CHORUS. Under the Master's feet the generations Like ants innumerably come and go : He leans upon a Dial, and in patience Watches the hours crawl slow, s 258 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. In His bright hair the eternal stars are burn- ing, Around His face heaven's glories burn sublime : He heeds them not, but follows with eyes yearning The shadow men call Time. Some problem holds Him, and He follows dreaming The lessening and lengthening of the shade. — Under His feet, ants from the dark earth streaming, Gather the men He made. He heeds them not nor turns to them His features — They rise, they crawl, they strive, they run, they die ; How should He care to look upon such crea- tures, Who lets great worlds roll by ? XAPOLEON FALLEN. 259 He shall be nowise heard who calls unto Him, He shall be nowise seen who seeks His face; The problem holds Him — no mere man may- woo Him, He pauseth in His place. So hath it been since all things were created, No change on the immortal Face may fall, Having made all, God paused and fascinated Watch'd Time, the shade of all. Call to the Maker in thine hour of trial, Call with a voice of thunder like the sea He watches living shadows on a Dial, And hath no ears for thee. He watches on — He feels the still hours fleeing, He heeds thee not, but lets the days drift by ; And yet we say to thee, O weary being, Blaspheme not, lest thou die. 260 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Rather, if woe be deep and thy soul wander, Ant among ants that swarm upon a sod, Watching thy shadow on the grass-blade, ponder The mystery with God. So may some comfort reach thy soul way- faring, While the days run and the swift glories shine, And something God-like shall that soul grow, sharing The attitude divine. Silent, supreme, sad, wondering, quiescent, Seeking to fathom with the spirit-sight The problem of the Shadow of the Present Born of eternal Light. CHORIC INTERLUDE THE TWO VOICES. CHORIC INTERLUDE: THE TWO VOICES. Semi-Chorus I. Spirit of England, art thou sleeping ? Soul of the Ocean, art thou fled ? Behold thy Sister is wailing and weeping ; The waves are leaping, the storm is creeping Hither to burst on thy helmless head. England, awake ! for the sword gleams over thee — Awake, awake ! or the tomb shall cover thee — England, awake ! — if thou be not dead. The waves are crying, the clouds are flying, Fair France is dying — her blood flows red , Europe in thunder is rent asunder, But the mother of nations is lying dead. 264 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus II. Weep; and pray that our tears may wake her; Pray ; — tho' prayers have been vain of old ; Scream ; — tho' the thunder is weak to shake her — In the name of the Maker, awake her, awake her : The storm hath struck — let the bells be toll'd. England, awake ! they are weaving a shroud for thee ; Awake, awake, we are wailing aloud for thee: They will bury thee quick, for thy pulse is cold. O God! to be sleeping, with thy children weeping, And the red death leaping round farm and fold: Dark is the motion of heaven and ocean. Why is the mother of nations cold ? CHORIC INTERLUDE. 265 First Voice. Fly to me, England ! . . . Hie to me Now in mine hour of woe ; Haste o'er the sea, ere I die, to me ; Swiftly, my Sister ; stand nigh to me, Help me to strike one blow ! Over the land and the water, Swifter than winds can go, Up the red furrows of slaughter, Down on the lair of the foe : Now, when my children scream madly and cling to me ; Now, when I droop o'er the dying they bring to me ; Come to me, England ! O speak to me, spring to me ! Hurl the invader low ! Second Voice. Woe to thee ! I would go to thee Faster than wind can flee, Doth not my fond heart flow to thee r 266 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Would I might rise and show to thee All that my love would be ! But behold, they bind me and blind me ; Cowards, yet born of me : They fasten my hands behind me — I am chain'd to a rock in the sea. Alas ! what availeth my grief while I sigh for thee? Traitors have trapt me — I struggle, I cry for thee; Come to thee, Sister ? — yea, were it to die for thee! O that my hands were free ! First Voice. Pray for me, Sister ! say for me Prayers until help is nigh ; Send thy loud voice each way for me, Trouble the night and the day for me, Waken the world and the sky ; Say that my heart is broken, Say that my children die, With blood and tears for thy token, CHORIC INTERLUDE. 267 Plead till the nations reply ; Plead to the sea and the earth and the air for me — Move the hard heart of the world till it care for me — Come to me, England ! — at least, say a prayer for me, Startle the winds with a cry. Second Voice. Doom on me, Hell's own gloom on me, Blood and a lasting blame ! Already the dark days loom on me, Cold as the shade of the tomb on me ; I am call'd by the coward's name. Shall I heark to a murder'd nation ? Shall I sit unarm'd and tame ? Then woe to this generation, Tho' out of my womb they came. Betrayed by my children, I wail and I call for thee; Not tears, but my heart's blood, O Sister, should fall for thee : 268 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. My children are slaves, or would strike one and all for thee : Shame on them! shame! shame! shame ! First Voice. Pain for thee ! all things wane for thee In truth, if this be so ; Fatal will be the stain for thee : Wild tears mine eyes shall rain for thee Since thou art left so low ; For death can come once only, Tho' bitterly comes the blow ; But shame abideth, and lonely Feels a sick heart come and go. Homeless and citiless, yet I can weep for thee ; Fast comes the morrow with anguish most deep for thee ; Dying, I mourn for the sorrow they heap for thee. Thine is the bitterest woe. CHORIC INTERLUDE. 269 Second Voice. Mourn me not, Sister, scorn me not ! Pray yet for mine and me ! Tho' the old proud fame adorn me not, The sore grief hath outworn me not — Wait ; I will come to thee ; I Yv T ill rend my chains asunder, I will tear my red sword free, I will come with mine ancient thunder, I will strike the foe to his knee. Yea, tho' the knife of the butcher is nigh to thee ; Yea, while thou screamest and echoes reply to thee ; Comfort, O France! 'for, in God's name, I fly to thee, Sword in hand, over the sea. Semi-Chorus I. Spirit of England, false vows wrong her ! Peace ; she waiteth in vain for thee. 270 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus II. Ah, that thy voice is a spell no longer, Ah, that the days of thy truth should flee. Chorus. Sing a song, her heart to make stronger, Sing what the perfect State should be. Semi-Chorus I. Spirit of England, thou whose hoary Cliffs gleam bright to the gleaming sea — Semi-Chorus II. Shut thy coffers and think of glory, Nor pray beside them on bended knee. Chorus. Read in sorrow thine own bright story, Queen of the States that were brave and free. CHORIC INTERLUDE. Choric Epode. Where is the perfect State Early most blest and late, Perfect and bright ? Tis where no Palace stands Trembling on shifting sands Morning and night. 'Tis where the soil is free, Where, far as eye may see, Scatter'd o'er hill and lea, Homesteads abound ; Where clean and broad and sweet (Market, square, lane, and street, Belted by leagues of wheat), Cities are found. Where is the perfect State Early most blest and late Gentle and good ? 'Tis where no lives are seen Huddling in lanes unseen, Crying for food ; 272 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. "Tis where the home is pure, "lis where the bread is sure, Tis where the wants are fewer, And each want fed ; Where plenty and peace abide, Where health dwells heavenly-eyed, Where in nooks beautified Slumber the Dead. Where is the perfect State Unvexed by Wrath and Hate, Quiet and just ? Where to no form of creed Fetter'd are thought and deed, Reason and trust ? 'Tis where the great free mart Broadens, while from its heart Forth the great ships depart, Blown by the wind ; 'Tis where the wise men's eyes, Fixed on the earth and skies, Seeking for signs, devise Good for mankind. CHORIC INTERLUDE. 273 Where is the perfect State, Holy and consecrate, Blessedly wrought r 'Tis where all waft abroad Wisdom and faith in God, Beautiful thought. 'Tis where the poet's sense Deepens in reverence, While to his truths intense Multitudes turn. Where the bright sons of art, Walking in street or mart, Feel mankind's reverent heart Tremble and yearn. Say, is the perfect State, Strong and self-adequate, There where it stands, Perfect in praise of God, Casting no thoughts abroad Over the lands ? Nay ; for by each man's side Hangeth a weapon tried ; Nay, for wise leaders guide T 274 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Under the Lord. Nor, when a people cries, Smiling with half-shut eyes Waiteth this State, — but flies, Lifting the Sword. Where is the perfect State r Not where men sit and wait, Selfishly strong ; While some lost sister State Crieth most desolate, Ruin'd by wrong : Not where men calmly sleep, Tho' all the world should weep Not where they merely heap Gold in the sun : Not where in charity Men with mere dust are free, When o'er the weary sea Murder is done. Which is the perfect State ? Not the self-adequate CHORIC INTERLUDE. Coward and cold ; Xot the brute thing of health, Swollen with gather'd wealth, Sleepy and old. Nay, but the mighty land Ever with helping hand, Ever with flaming brand, Rising in power : This is the fair and great, This the evangel State, Letting no wrong' d land wait In the dark hour. This is the perfect State, Early in arms and late ; Blessed at home ; — Ready at Freedom's cry Forward to fare and die, Over the foam. Loving States great and small, Loving home best of all, Yet at the holy call Springing abroad : 76 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. This is the royal State, Perfect and adequate, Equal to any fate, Chosen of God ! THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Part III. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. SPEAKERS. The Kaiser. 3 axd Leaders of the German Host. The Royal Chancellor. a bonapartist officer. Protestant Priests. Choristers. A French Deputy. The Governor of Paris. A Deserter. Messengers. Chorus of Sisters of the Red Cross. SCENE — The German Camp before Paris. Time— Winter, 187 1. SCENE.— HEIGHTS BEFORE PARIS, AND EXTERIOR OF A PALACE. A Winter's Night. Chorus of Sisters of the Red Cross. CHORUS. City of loveliness and light and splendour, City of Sorrows, hearken to our cry ; O Mother tender, O mother marvellously fair, And fairest now in thy despair, Look up ! O be of comfort ! Do not die ! Let the black hour blow by. Cold is the night, and colder thou art lying. Gnawing a stone sits Famine at thy feet Shivering and sighing ; Blacker than Famine, on thy breast, Like a sick child that will not rest. 282 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Moans Pestilence; and hard by, with fingers fleet, Frost weaves his winding-sheet. Snow, snow : the wold is white as one. cold lily. Snow: it is frozen round thee as hard as lead ; The wind blows chilly ; Thou liest white in the dim night, And in thine eyes there is no light, And the Snow falleth, freezing on thy head And covering up thy dead. Ah, woe ! thy hands, no longer flower-bearing, Press stony on thy heart; and thy heart bleeds ; Thine eyes despairing Watch while the fierce Fire clings and crawls Through falling roofs and crumbling walls. Ah, woe! to see thee thus, the wild soul pleads, The wild tongue intercedes. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 2S3 O, we will cry to God, and pray and plead for thee ; We with a voice that troubles heaven and air Will intercede for thee; We will cry for thee in thy pain Louder than storm and wdnd and rain ; What shape among the nations may com- pare With thee, most lost, most fair ? Yea, thou hast sinned and fallen, O City splendid, Yea, thou hast passed through days of shamefullest woe — And lo ! they are ended — Famine for famine, flame for flame, Sorrow for sorrow, shame for shame, Verily thou hast found them all ; — and lo ! Night and the falling snow. Let Famine eat thy heart, let Fire and Sorrow Hold thee, but turn thy patient eyes and see The dim sweet morrow. 284 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Better be thus than what thou wast, Better be stricken and overcast, Martyr'd once more, as when to all things free Thy lips cried " Liberty ! " Let the Snow fall ! thou shalt be sweeter and whiter ; Let the Fire burn ! under the morning sky Thou shalt look brighter. Comfort thy sad soul through the night ; Turn to the east and pray for light ; Look up ! O be of comfort ! do not die ! Let the black hour blow by ! Chorus. The Royal Chancellor. Chorus. See where slow-footed, silent, and alone, Cometh the grim gray soul of all this woe. He climbs the knoll, and in the frosty moon- light Standing gigantic, looketh silently On the imperial City that afar Looms as a phantasm through the vitreous air. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 285 Chancellor. Paris ! they did not lie who call'd thee fair ; And never wert thou fairer than this night When God and Man conspire to write thy doom. Chorus. He speaks ; and brightly on his glittering helm, And on his frosty face and grizzled beard, Glimmers the silver radiance of the moon. Chancellor. What women are ye ? — who, clad like Hecate, Gather and turn your faces white one way, Hither, like lilies wind-blown on a mere ? Chorus. Poor sisters, bearing in our hands the Cross. Chancellor. What do ye abroad, at midnight, and alone r 286 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chorus. Searching the heaps of slain lest any live. Chancellor. From what land are ye ? Children of what mother ? Chorus. Daughters of France, for whom we weep this night. Chancellor. Weep not for France, She reapeth her own seed. Chorus. Yea — but we sicken, lest she wholly die. Chancellor. Die \ Let France die ; for she hath lived too long, The white-skin'd Leper of a wholesome world, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 287 Creeping from porch to porch of peaceful dwellings, Clad in fine linen and with scented locks, Leaving in her foul trail disease and doom, Heart-eating ennui, and accurst desire Bred of the marrow of corrupted bones. Die r If a dagger-stroke could slay this France, This unclean harlot, this infecting fraud, Envenoming all lips that she doth kiss, Cursing the lips that will not kiss at all, I would strike home this night unto her heart, And bury her to the deep and solemn sound Of thanksgiving from a world purified. But since I cannot slay her as I would, Since she is many-lived and subtle and quick, We will try Fire, and let it on her heel Fasten like a red wolf and drag her down ; And in her snake's-eyes we will flash the sword So that she screams remembering her sins ; And she shall see those Temples desolate Wherein she sat with sick face altar-wards 288 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Worshipping Thammuz and all gods ob- scene ; And while she moans, out of the earth shall steal Famine, and like a toad slip down her throat, And in the belly of her coil and spit ; Frost too shall fasten on her quivering limbs, And slowly, with blunt teeth, bite to the bone; And then, perchance in the eleventh hour, This France may gaze upon the world she curst, And pray to God to heal her long disease, Or send swift lightning down, and let her die! Chorus. Why art thou bitter ? Is thy wrong so great ? Chancellor. Mountainous, women ; and revenge is sweet. THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 289 Chorus. Name not revenge, but give thy wrong a name. Chancellor. I am a Teuton — see, my wrong is said. Chorus. Teuton or Frank, utter thy wrong from France. Chancellor. Then listen. Ye are women, and ye weep For France who bare ye; I am a man, and born Out of a fruitful and a perfect womb ; And not with feverish fancies, peevish care, Nor yet with easy tears, yet passing well, In mine own fashion, more with deeds than words, I cling to her that bare me — Germany, — Yea, she who yonder sits beside the Rhine, u 290 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And with large eyes that measure heaven and earth Looks hither. Shall I tell an old wife's tale Of how your France in her most drunken hour Sprang to our vineyards, to our tranquil fields, And struck, with all a furious harlot's hate For what is purer than her own foul self, At the great mother, — slew her shrieking children, — Drove her from lair to lair across the dark Hungry and naked, while the moaning babe Drank from her wounded breast not milk but blood ? Shall I remind ye of that fiery scourge France held with maniac-strength to lash the world, Till the world rose, and tore it from her grasp, And flung it far into the silent sea ? Or of that other meaner, gaudier whip, A baby's rattle, a mere infant's toy, Snatch'd from her trembling hand and flung despised Into a corner only yesterday ? THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 291 These things are stories for old men to tell, Women to wonder at, and bards to rhyme. How ! shall a harlot threaten all earth's kings ? What ! shall a painted reveller of the stews, Full-teeth'd with all the spitefulness of lust, Crawl with a dagger up and down the earth So that no mortal man can sleep at night ? Shall France, this Messalina of the nations, This thing of many lovers, luring all, Constant to none, adulterous with all, Constant to nothing but inconstancy, Shall this crown'd strumpet break the peace- ful air Now with red revel, now with the sharp sword, Just as the whim comes, as the wine inspires, As peevish passion and unnatural lust, Impotent to allay their own foul fire, Urge on and prompt the miserable will ? No, but an arm, a man's hand clad in mail, Hath struck one blow, and there the scarecrow lies, 292 THE DRAMA, OF KINGS. And I, and every man that walks the world, May sleep more freely now this thing is done. Chorus. If it be so, then leave her now to God — Nor trample on a thing so wholly fallen. Chancellor. Nay, God's avenging Furies first shall work. Chorus. To what avail, since she is impotent ? Chancellor. That she may taste the cup of ills she gave. Chorus. She hath drunk deep ; O let her drink no THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 293 Cha:\ t cellor. Tis but begun. She must be bound with cords, And gagged, and stript of all her gauds and gold. Chorus. Ah, woe ! what shall she do thus bound and stript ? Chancellor. Her sons shall till the ground and fill her mouth, Her daughters weave her homely homespun raiment, And when she hath knelt and sworn a mighty oath, And writ this oath upon a charter down, Why we may loose her bonds and set her free. Chorus. To wander out o'er the waste world in shame. 294 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chancellor. Peace, women ; for these things shall come to pass, Since it is written he who cares to sow Shall reap the harvest, be it grain or weed. Let France walk forth in sackcloth, let her wrists Wear gyves ; set, too, a fool's-cap on her head, With " Glory " for a label writ in blood ; Then let a trumpeter before her go, And let him sound, and between whiles aloud Read the long record of enormities, And ending each, strike sharply with the scourge On the bare shoulders of the penitent ; And let the little children of the earth Follow and point, while good wives raise their hands, And honest burghers nodding pipe in mouth, THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 295 Standing at doors with broad good-humour'd stare, Mutter aloud, " Thank God ! the world is free ! " CHORUS. Mother ! faintly on thy dark towers beaming Yonder moon is sailing eastward slow ; All around thee silent hills are dreaming, Coldly sheeted in the wintry snow ; From thy husht heart stealing to the ocean, Underneath the blue ice dimly gleaming, Crawls the river with a serpent motion, Wafting the chill whisper of thy woe. O for words to shine upon and cheer thee Where thou liest dark and desolate ! Mother ! shapes not human gather near thee, Crouch'd beneath the night-shade of thy fate; Spirits watch thee where thou liest stricken. Pray, and while thou prayest they shall hear thee — 296 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Comfort ! — they who strike thee may be stricken, Gathering like storm-clouds at thy gate. On thy crownless head are dust and ashes, On thy fair white throat are marks of flame — Low thou liest, drooping proud eyelashes, Clenching hands and heaving breasts in shame ; Naked to the frost-wind art thou lying ; Snow-white is thy face, and yet it flashes, Answering the last look of the dying, "While they seek thine eyes and name thy name. Tis a name that shook the trembling nations Trumpeted upon the heights of old ; 'Tis a name the earth with acclamations Murmured, dancing round thy Throne of Gold; THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 297 'Tis the name of earth's sublimest schemer ; 'Tis the name that freed the generations : Still the same, grown sadder and supremer, Blesseder, O Martyr, twenty-fold. By the flag with thine own heart's-blood gory, Lifted up and waved in the world's eyes ; By the strange and ne'er forgotten story Of the flight of Kings and death of Lies ; By the light that never since hath dwin- dled, Man again shall see thee in thy glory ; By the fire upon the mountains kindled — Beautiful, a Queen, thou shalt arise. Bitterer than gall have been the days for thee, Yet they shall be blessed days indeed, For the very blood thereof shall raise for thee Men and women of diviner seed. 298 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Weary of fulfilling what was written, Even the Avenging Angel prays for thee ! Smiter of the nations, thou art smitten — Freer of the nations, be thou freed ! Meantime, sleep ! — worn with thy weary yearning — Sleep a space beneath the stars this night ; With thy many watch-fires dimly burning, Scatter'd red upon the wold snow-white, Slumber in the dark, O mother City ! O'er thee, dim and strange to our discerning, Miraculously fair, a Shape of Pity Waiteth with a drawn Sword and a Light. Blessed is the Light in his hand swinging, Waving bright white pinions like a dove ; Blessed is the Sword that he is bringing, Such as holy spirits wield above ; Such another brand arose in beauty O'er the Gate of Paradise up-springing. Mother, hearken — it is the Sword of Duty ; Mother, hearken — it is the Light of Love ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 299 Awakening, in one strong hand, O mother, Take the shining weapon of the free, And the sweet Lamp grasping in the other, Lift it high that all the world may see. Bought with bloody tears and bitterest sor- row, They are thine for ever, martyr-mother ! Thou shalt wear them on some golden mor- row, Dawn shall come, the storm of God shall flee. And because thy queenly robe is riven, Thou shalt win a raiment star-enwrought — Under the new dawn and the blue heaven Thou shalt wear this raiment blood hath bought ; Further, since thy heart hath cast off weak- ness, For thy forehead shall a crown be given. Mother, hearken — it is the Robe of Meekness ; Mother, hearken — it is the Crown of Thought ! 300 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. O, but all the nations shall adore thee When thy days of bitterness are fled ; With the Robe of Meekness shining o'er thee, With the Lamp of Love to light thy tread, Clad in lily raiment, O my mother, Holding in one hand the light before thee, Lifting up the bright Sword in the other, Smiling, with the Crown upon thy head ! Dream of it this night, O queen of nations, — Dream of it, tho' crusht and undertrod, — Freer of the souls of generations, Raise that face of sorrow from the sod ; Casting off thy sins and thy disgraces, Issuing from utter tribulations, Struggling from the serpent's fierce embraces, Pass along the narrow path of God. The ROYAL CHANCELLOR. How long shall I to this sick world, this mass Of social sores, this framework of disease, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 301 This most infected many-member'd earth, Play the hard surgeon, dexterous in my craft, Impassive, smiling with a shrunken heart, And hated by the very thing I cure ? "Why now, this night a pen-stroke like a knife Falls, and at dawn the people corporate May feel one limb the less; should the pen fail, A sword-stroke settles all, and the rich life That oozed into the limb and wasted there, Withdrawn into the body of the state Deepens the blood to livelier crimson, strikes Fresh thrills of fire through the electric brain. Europe forsooth is piteously sick, Polluted every fibre with old sores And new diseases, and I shall not fail In my cold healing mission, though it yields Its life up, agonizing 'neath my hand. To stand this night alone with Destiny, Alone in all the world beneath the stars, 302 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And hold the string that makes the puppets dance, Is something; but to feel the steadfast will Deepen, the judgment clear itself, the gaze Grow keener, all the purpose that was dim Brighten distinct in the serene still light Of conquest — that is more ; more than all power, More than lip-homage, more than crowns and thrones, More than the world ; for it is life indeed. O how the dreams and hopes and plans cohere ! How the great phalanx broadens ! Like a wave It washes Europe, and before its sweep The lying idolSj based on quicksand, shift, Totter, and fall : strewn with the wreck and dead, It shrieks and gathers up a flashing crest In act to drown the lingering life of France. Wave of the Teuton, is it wonderful THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 303 The grand old King sees in thy victory The strength and wrath of God ? Here then I pause And let me whisper it to mine own heart; I tremble. I have played with fire ; behold, It hath devour'd God's enemy and mine ; And tamely at my bidding croucheth now With luminous eyes half closed. This fire is Truth, And by it I shall rise or fall. This fire Is very God's — I know it ; and thus far God to my keeping hath committed it. What next r and next ? There at my feet lies France, Bound, stricken, screaming, — yonder, good as dead, Pluckt of his fangs, the imperial adder crawls, Tame as a mouse. I have struck down these twain, The Liar, and the creature of the Liar ; I have slain these twain with an avenging flame, And while I stand victorious comes a voice 304 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Out of the black abysses of the earth Whereat I pause and tremble. 'Tis so easy To cast down Idols ! The tide so pitilessly Washes each name from the waste sands of time ! 'Twas yestermorn the Man of Mysteries fell — Whose turn comes next ? Not thine, not thine, at least, sovereign Lord and King ! thou great grey head, Simple and child-like in the aureole Thou deemest holy, — no, thou shalt not fall ; But rather, like Empedocles of old, 1 who have led thee on, thy loving slave., Would plunge into the crater, and with life Appease the awful hunger of the earth. From Italy to the blue Baltic rolls A voice, a wind, a murmur in the air, A tone full of the sense of winds and waters And the faint whispers from ethereal fields, A cry^of anguish and of mystery Echoed by the volcano in whose depths THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 305 The monarchs one by one have disap- peared. And men who hear it answer back one word, " Liberty! " — Cities echo through their streets ; The word is wafted on from vale to vale : Heart-drowsy Albion answers with a cheer, Feeble yet clear; the great wild West refrains; Italy thunders, and Helvetia Blows the wild horn high up among her hills ; France, wounded, dying, stretch'd beneath my feet, Gnaws at her bonds and shrieks in mad accord (For she indeed first gave the thing a name) ; And even the wily Russian, with his yoke Prest on innumerable groaning necks, Sleek like the serpent, smooths his frosty cheek To listen, and half-smiling hisses back The strange word " Liberty ! " between his teeth, And shivers with a bitterer sense of cold x 3o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Than ever seized him in the lonely realm O'er which he paceth hungry and alone. CHORUS. Light on the brow Of the hill of Time, What light art thou, Whither all men now Turn eyes and climb ? Still gleaming afar, While the wild days go, Still shining a Star In the region of snow : We crave thee, we cry for thee, We faint and we sigh for thee, — Thou shinest above, — Yea, we dare die for thee, Light that we love. Not yet, O Light, Alas not yet, May we reach the height Where dim and bright Thy lamp is set, — THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 307 Like waves we whiten In the waste below, We darken and brighten, We ebb and we flow : Dim stretch the heights above All days and nights above, — Past the storms stream, — Light of all lights above Art thou a dream t No dream, O far Sweet Light and strange ! Not as dreams are, But a throned Star That doth not change ! O'er the world thou hast gleamed Since the first dim day : Dreams have been dream'd And have passed away ; All dreams have burn'd to thee, All days have turn'd to thee, O Liberty ! And as all have yearned to thee We yearn and see ! 3o8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. On the mountain's brow Dimly discern' d, What Light art thou, Whither all turn now As they ever turn'd ? — The great earth flowers to thee, The earth's tongues name thee, All things, all hours, to thee Upturn, and claim thee ; — And the world's waves wail for thee, And our cheeks flash pale for thee, Yet art thou sure — And though all hopes fail for thee, Thou shalt endure ! The ROYAL CHANCELLOR. What is this thing that men call " Liberty r " Not force, not tumult, not the wind and rain And tempest, not the spirit of mere storm, Not earthquake, not the lightning, not swift Fire, Not one of these, but mightier far than these, — THE TEUTON AG A IX ST PARIS. 309 The everlasting principle of things, Out of whose silence issue all, the rock Whereon the mountain and the crater stand, The adamantine pillars of the earth, Deep-based beneath the ever-varying air And under the wild changes of the sea, The inevitable, the unchangeable, The secret law, the impulse, and the thought, Whereby men live and grow. Then I, this night As ever, dare with a man's eyes and soul Hold by this thing whereof the foolish rave, And cry, " In God's name, peace, ye winds and waves, Ye froths and bubbles on the sea, ye voices Haunting the fitful region of the air ! God is above ye all, and next to God The Son and Holy Spirit, and beneath These twain the great anointed Kings of Earth, And underneath the Kings the Wise and Good, And underneath the Wise the merely Strong, 310 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And least of all, clay in the hands of all, The base, the miserable, and the weak. What, then, is this that ye name " Liberty " r There is evermore a higher. Not like waves Beating about in a waste sea are men, But great, small, fair, foul, strong, weak, miserable ; — And Liberty is law creating law Wherein each corporal member of the world Filleth his function in the place ordain'd. Child at the knee, look in thy mother's face ! Boy-student, reverence the philosopher ! Clown, till the earth, and let the market thrive ! Citizen, doff to beauty and to grace, To antique fame and holy ancestry ! Nobles, blood purified from running long, Circle of sanctity, surround the King ! King, stand on the bare height and raise thine eyes, For there sits God above thee, reverencing The perfect mirror of the soul of things THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 311 Wherein He gazes calmly evermore, And knows Himself divine ! Thus stands for ever The eternal Order like a goodly tree, The root of which is deep within the soil. And lo ! the wind and rain are beating on it, And lightning rends its branches ; yet anon It hangs in gorgeous blossom still-renewed, And shoots its topmost twig up through the cloud To touch the changeless stars. Herr Demo- crat Comes with his blunt rough axe, and at its root Strikes shrieking; the earth's parrots echo him; Blow follows blow ; the air reverberates ; But the Tree stands. Come winds and waves and lightnings, Come axe-wielders, come ye iconoclasts, And spend your strength in vain. What ! ye would stretch 312 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. This goodly tree, this very Iggdrasil, Down to the dusty level of your lives, Would strew the soil with the fair blooms thereof, Would tear away the succulent leaves and make A festal chaplet for Silenus' hair, A drunken garland for the Feast of Fools. See, yonder blow the branches where the great Tremble like ripen'd fruit ; yonder the holy Gleam in the silvern foliage, sweet and fair ; There, just beneath the cloud, most dim in height, The flowers of monarchy open their buds And turn their starry faces upward still. Strike at the root, my little democrat, Down with them ! Down with the whole goodly tree ! Down even with that fair shoot beyond the cloud, Down with the unseen bloom of perfect height. THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 313 Down with the blossom on the topmost twig, Down with the light of God ! I compare further This Order to a Man, body and brain, He*art, lungs, eyes, feet to stand on, hands to strike. The King is to the realm what conscience is To manhood; the true statesman is the brain ; And under these subsist, greater and less, The members of the body politic. Behold now, this alone is majesty : The incarnate Conscience of the people, fixed Beyond the body, higher than the brain, Yet perfect fruit of both, — the higher sense That flashes back through all the popular frame The intuitions and the lights divine Whereby the world is guided under God. Nor are all Kings ancestral, though these same Are highest. Yonder in the stormy West The plain man Lincoln rose to majest}^, 314 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Incarnated the conscience and the will Of the strong generation, moved to his end, Struck, triumph'd in the name of conscience, fell, And like a sun that sets in bloody light, In dying darken'd half earth's continents. * . . . What, art thou there, old Phantom of the Red, Gambetta ? Urge thy legions, for in truth There is no face in France this day with light So troublous to the eyes of victory. O brave one, wert thou France's will and soul, Why we might tremble. Let there rise a land, As strong in conscience and as stern in soul As we have been to follow a living truth, And it might slay us even as we have slain Imperial France and the Republic. Now Supreme we stand, our symbol being the sword, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 315 Our King the hand that strikes ; in that one hand I strike, all strike, yea every Teuton strikes. Reason and conscience knitted in accord Are deathless, and must overcome the world. The higher law will shape them. I believe There is evermore a higher. CHORUS. Blue arc of heaven whose lattices Are throng'd with starry eyes ; Vast dome that over land and seas, Dost luminously rise, With mystic characters enwrought More strange than all poetic thought ! Hear, Heaven, if thou canst hear ! and see, O stars, if see ye can ! Mark, while your speechless mystery Flows to a voice in man : He stands erect this solemn hour In reverent insolence of power. 316 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Order divine, whose awful show Dazzles all guess or dream ; Sequence unseen, whose mystic flow Fulfils the immortal scheme ; Thou law whereby all stand or stir, — Here breathes your last interpreter ! Because one foolish King hath slain Another foolish King ; Because a half-born nation's brain With dizzy joy doth ring ; Because at the false shepherd's cry The silly sheep still throng to die ; Because purblind philosophy Out of her cobweb'd cave Croaks in a voice of senile glee While empty patriots rave ; Because humanity is still The gull of any daring will ; Because the tinsel order stands A little longer yet ; Because in each crown'd puppet's hands A laurel-sprig is set, THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 317 While the old lame device controls The draff of miserable souls ; Because man's blood again bathes bright The purple and the throne, And gray fools gladden at the sight, And maiden choirs intone ; Because once more the puppet Kings Dance, while Death's lean hand pulls the strings ; Because these things have been and are, And oft again may be, Doth this man swear by sun and star, And oh our God by Thee, Framing to cheat his own shrewd eyes His fair cosmogony of lies. O Lord our God whose praise we sing, Behold he deemeth Thee A little nobler than the King, And greater in degree, Set just above the monarch's mind, Greater in sphere but like in kind ! 318 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. O calm Intelligence divine, Transcending life and death, He deems these bursting bubbles Thine, Blown earthward by Thy breath, — He marks Thee sitting well content, Like some old King at tournament. The lists are set ; upon the sod The gleaming columns range ; The sign is given by Thee, O God, From Thy pavilion strange : The trumpets blow, the champions meet, One screams — Thou smilest on Thy seat. Behold, O God, the Order blest Of Thy great chivalry ! See tinsel crown and glittering crest, Cold heart and empty eye ! The living shout, the dying groan, All reddens underneath Thy throne ! Accept Thy chosen ! great and good, Vouchsafe them all they seek ! Deepen their purple in man's blood ! Trumpet them with man's shriek ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 319 Paint their escutcheons fresh, O Sire ; With heart's blood bright and crimson fire ! And further, from the fire they light Protect them with Thy hand, Beyond the bright hill of the fight Let them in safety stand ; For 'twere not well a random blow Should strike thy next-of-kin below. O God ! O Father ! Lord of All ! Spare us, for we blaspheme, See, — for upon our knees we fall, And hush our mocking scream — Let us pray low ; let us pray low ; Thy will be done ; thy Kingdom grow ! Blue arc of heaven whose lattices Are throng'd with starry eyes, Still dome that over earth and seas Doth luminously rise ; Fair Order mystically wrought, More strange than all poetic thought. 32o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. He fears ye all, this son of man, To his own soul he lies, Lo ! trembling at his own dark plan He contemplates the prize : He has won all, and lo ! he stands Clutching the glory in his hands ! To one, to all, on life's dark way, Sooner or late is brought The silent solemnizing ray Illuminating thought ; It shines, they stand on some lone spot, Its light is strange, they know it not. Sleeps like a mirror in the dark The conscience of the soul, Unknown, where never eye may mark, While days and seasons roll ; But late or soon the walls of clay Are loosening to admit the day. Light comes — a touch — a streak — a beam- Child of the unknown sky — The teuton against parts. 32 r And lo ! the mirror with a gleam Flashes its first reply : Light brighteneth ; and all things fair Flow to the glass and tremble there. O Lord our God, Thou art the Light, We shine by Thee alone ; Tho' thou hast made us mirrors bright, The gleam is not our own ; Until thy ray shines sweet and plain All shall be dark as this man's brain. Thro 5 human thought as thro' a cave Creep gently, Lord, this hour ; Tho' now 'tis darker than the grave There lies the shining power ; Come ! let the soul flash back to Thee The million lights of Deity ! CHORUS. A DESERTER. Deserter. O I am spent ! My heart fails, and my limbs Are palsied. Would to God that I were dead ! Y 322 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chorus. Stand ! What art thou, who like a guilty thing Creepest along the shadow, stooping low ? Deserter. A man. Now stand aside and let me pass. Chorus. Not yet. Whence fleest thou? Whither dost thou go ? Deserter. From Famine and Fire. From Horror. From Frost and Death. Chorus. O coward ! traitor to unhappy France ! Stand forward in the moon, that it may light The blush of shame upon thy guilty cheek ! Lo, we are women, yet .we shiver cold To look upon so infamous a thing. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 323 Deserter. Nay, look your fill — I care not — stand and see. Chorus. O horror! horror! who hath done this deed? Deserter. What say ye r am I fair to look upon ? Chorus. The dead are fairer. O unhappy one ! Deserter. Why do ye shudder ? Am I then so foul \ Chorus. There is no living flesh upon thy bones. Deserter. Famine hath fed upon my limbs too long. 3.24 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chorus. And thou art rent as by the teeth of hounds. Deserter. Fire tore me, and what blood I have I bleed. Chorus. Thine eyes stare like the blank eyes of a corpse. Deserter. They have look'd "so close on horror and so long I cannot shut them from it till I die. Chorus. Thou crawlest like a man whose sick limbs fail. Deserter. Ha, Frost is there, and numbs me like a snake. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 325 Chorus. God help thee, miserable one ; and yet, Better if thou hadst perish' d in thy place Than live inglorious tainted with thy shame. Deserter. Shame ? I am long past shame. I know her not. Chorus. Is there no sense of honour in thy soul r Deserter, Honour ? Why see, she hath me fast enough : These are her other names, Fire, Famine, and Frost,— Soon I shall hear her last and sweetest, — Death. Chorus. Hast thou no care for France, thy martyr'd land ? 326 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Deserter. What hath she given me ? Curses and blows, Chorus. O miserable one, remember God ! Deserter. God : Who hath look'd on God ? Where doth He dwell ? O fools, with what vain words and empty names Ye sicken me. Honour, France, God ! All these — Hear me — I curse. Why, look you, there's the sky, Here the white earth, there, with its bleeding heart, The butcher'd City ; here half dead stand I, A murder' d man, grown grey before my time, Forty years old — a husband, and a father — An outcast flying out of Hell. Who talks THE] TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 327 ; To me of " honour r " The first tears I wept When standing at my wretched mother's knee, Because her face was white, and she w T ore black, That day the bells rang out for victory. Then, look you, after that my mother sat Weeping and weary in an empty house, And they who look'd upon her shrunken cheeks Fed her with "honour." 'Twas too gentle fare, — She died. Nay, hearken ! Left to seek for bread, I like a wild thing haunted human doors Searching the ash for food. I ate and lived. I grew. Then, wretched as I was, I felt Strange stirs of manhood in my flesh and bones, Dim yearnings, fierce desires, and one pale face Could still them as the white moon charms the sea. Oh, but I was a low and unclean thing, 328 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And yet she loved me, and I stretch' d these hands To God, and blest Him for His charity. Mark that : — I blest Him, I. Even as I stood, Bright in new manhood, the drums beat, — a hand Fell on my shoulder, and, "in France's name," A voice cried, " Follow." To my heart they held Cold steel : — I followed ; following saw her face Fade to a bitter cry — hurl'd on with blows, Curs'd, jeer'd at, scorn' d, went forth as in a dream, And, driven into the bloody flash of war, Struck like a blinded beast I knew not whom Blows for I knew not what. The fierce years came Like ulcers on my heart, and heal'd, and went. Then I crept back, a broken sickly man, To seek her, and I found her — dead ! She had died. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 329 Poor worm, of hunger. She had ask'd for bread, And "France" had given her stones. She had pray'd to " God ; " He had given her a grave. The day she died, The bells rang for another victory. Chorus. O do not weep ! Yet we are weeping too. Deserter. Now mark, I was too poor a worm to grieve Too long and deeply. The years passed. My heart Heal'd, and as wounds heal, harden'd. Once again I join'd the wolves that up and down the earth Rush tearing at men's lives and women's hearts. That passed, and I was free. One morn I saw Another woman, and I hunger' d to her, 33o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And we were wedded. Hard days follow'd that; And children — she was fruitful — all your worms Are fruitful, mark — that is God's blessing too! Well,, but we throve, and farm'd a bit of land Out yonder by the City. I learn'd to love The mother of my little ones. Time sped ; And then I heard a cry across the fields, The old cry, " Honour," the old cry, " To Arms ! " And like a wolf caught in his lair I shrunk And shudder'd. It grew louder, that curst cry ! Day follow'd day, no bells rung victory, But there were funeral faces everywhere ; And then I heard the far feet of the foe Trampling the fields of France and coming nearer To that poor field I sow'd. I would have fled, But that they thrust a weapon in mine hands And bade me stand and strike " for France." I laugh'd ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 331 But the wolves had me, and we screaming drew Into the City. Shall I gorge your souls With horror ? Shall I croak into your ears What I have suffer'd there, what I have seen ? I was a worm, ever a worm, and starved While the plump coward cram'd. Look at me, women ! Fire, Famine, and Frost have got me ; yet I crawl, And shall crawl on ; for hark you, yester- night, Standing within the City, sick at heart, I gazed up eastward, thinking of my home And of the woman and children desolate, And lo ! out of the darkness where I knew Our hamlet lay there shot up flames and cast A bloody light along the arc of heaven ; And all my heart was sicken'd unaware With hunger such as any wild thing feels To crawl again in secret to the place Whence the fierce hunter drove it, and to see 332 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. If its young live ; and thither indeed I fare And yonder flame still fiareth, and I crawl, And I shall crawl unto it though I die ; And I shall only smile if they be dead, If I may merely see them once again, — For come what may, my cup of life is full, And I am broken from all use and will. Chorus. Pass on, unhappy one ; God help thee now ! Deserter. If ye have any pity, give me bread. Chorus. Lean on us ! O thou lost one, come this way. Deserter.. And whither do ye lead me, O ye women ? the teuton against paris. 333 Chorus Look yonder where the light gleams from a door, There shalt thou eat thy fill and warm thy limbs. Deserter. 'Tis well ; there is some pity in your hearts. Chorus, We pity thee and bless thee, praying God. Deserter. Nay, let " God " be — In truth I know Him not. CHORUS. Stars in heaven with gentle faces, Can ye see and keep your places ? Flowers that on the old earth blossom, Can ye hang on such a bosom ? Canst thou wander on for ever Through a world so sad, O River r 334 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. O ye fair things 'neath the sun, Can ye bear what Man hath done ? This is Earth. Heaven glimmers yonder. Pause a little space and ponder ! Day by day the fair world turneth Dewy eyes to heaven and yearneth, Day by day the mighty mother Sees her children smite each other : She moans, she pleads, they do not hear her — She prays — -the skies seem gathering near her — Yearning down diviner, bluer, Baring every star unto her, — Each strange light with swinging censer Sweeter seeming and intenser, — Yet she ceaseth not her cry, Seeing how her children die. On her bosom they are lying, Clinging to her, dead and dying — • Dead eyes frozen in imploring Yonder heaven they died adoring, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. Dying eyes that upward glimmer Ever growing darker, dimmer ; And her eyes, too, thither turning, Asking, praying, weeping, yearning, Search the blue abysses, whither He who made her, brought her hither, Gave her children, bade them grow, Vanish'd from her long ago. Ah, what children ! Father, see them ! Never word of hers may free them — Never word of love may win them, For there burneth fierce within them Fire of thine ; soul-sick and sinning, As they were in the beginning, Here they wander. Father, see ! Generations born of thee ! Blest was Earth when on her bosom First she saw the double blossom, Double sweetness, man and woman, One in twain divine and human, Leaping, laughing, crying, clinging, To the sound of her sweet singing — 336 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Flesh like lily and rose together, Eyes as blue as April weather, Golden hair with golden shadows, In the face the light of meadows, In the eyes the dim soul peeping Like the sky in water sleeping. " Guard them well ! " the Father said, Set them in her arms, — and fled. Countless worlds around Him yearning, Vanish'd He from her discerning ; — Then she drooped her fair face, seeing On her breast each gentle being ; And unto her heart she prest them, Raised her look to heaven and blest them ; And the fountains leapt around her, Leaves and flowers shot up and crown'd her, Flowers bloom'd and streams ran gleaming, Till with bliss she sank to dreaming ; — And the darkness for a cover Gently drew its veil above her, And the new-born smiled reposing, And a million eyes unclosing THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 337 Yearn'd through all the veil to see That new fruit of mystery. Father ! come from the abysses ; Come, Thou light the mother misses ; Come, while hungry generations Pass away, she sits in patience. Of the children Thou didst leave her, Millions have been born to grieve her. See ! they gather, living, dying, Coming, going, multiplying ; And the mother for the Father, Though like waves they rise and gather, Though they blossom thick as grasses, Misses every one that passes, Flashes on them peace and light Of a love grown infinite. Father, see them ! hath each creature Something in him of Thy nature ? Born of Thee and of no other, Born to Thee by a sweet mother, Man strikes man, and brother brother. z 338 THE DRAMA OF KINGS: Hearts of men from Thy heart fashioned Bleed and anguish bloody-passion'd, Beast-like roar the generations, Tiger-nations spring on nations ; Though the stars yearn downward nightly, Though the days come ever brightly, Though to gentle holy couches Death in angel's guise approaches, Though they name Thee, though they woo Thee, Though they dream and yearn unto Thee, 111 they guess the guise thou bearest, 111 they picture Thee, Thou Fairest ; — Come again, O Father wise, Awe them with those loving eyes ! Stars in heaven with tender faces, Can ye see and keep your places ? Flowers that on the earth will blossom, Can ye deck so sad a bosom ? Canst thou singing flow for ever Through a world so dark, O River ? Father, canst Thou calmly scan All that Man hath made of Man ? THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 339 The CHANCELLOR. A DEPUTY FROM THE CITY. Chancellor. Yield up again those stolen provinces ! Take council ! be the prince of peacemakers ! For, let me say it in thy private ear, As one who knows thee nobler than thy cause, There is no other hope for France than this We proffer. We have bought this thing with blood — Be wise and yield it — lest with bitterer blood We buy the dearest flesh and blood of Gaul, And welding it as clay unto our will Pour into it a new and Teuton soul. Deputy. That threat is empty, for the soul is God's ; These souls are French, they have thriven on French air ; 34o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Rather than swell your triumph with their lives They would return to Him from whom they Chancellor. Why, let them go ! — The way to Him is short, Nor very tedious — though it seems a way Ye French love little, loving so much more The windy breath with which ye flout your foe. — Why, friend, we are no word-mongers, we twain : Yet here, like market-women cheapening fish, We wrangle at each other to no end. I tell thee (shall I swear by anything ? I know thy nation loveth a round oath ! ) I tell thee we are fixed as adamant, Inexorable as the sea, and strong To exact our wish as is the thunderbolt That for a moment in the rain-cloud burns Before it strikes the affrighted herdsman down. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 341 Two powers have wrestled — one is over- thrown — How should the thrown man with his broken back Clutch to his heart the prize of victory r There is a victory in being vanquished Ye little understand. Did ever school- boy Howl so when whipt ? The world scream' d not as loud When like a swarm of locusts, like a cloud Of fiery pestilence, from the West to the East Ye overran the bleeding continents, And sowed in one Man's miserable name The crop all living men are reaping now. Deputy. If I conceive thee, 'tis no sin of ours That ye avenge on the fair head of France, No crime of yesterday or yesteryear, No deeds of live men walking in the sun, 342 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. But wrongs long buried with the scourge of God In that forsaken island where he sleeps. Chancellor. They would not lie, man ! — from that lonely grave They have arisen again and yet again, — Ate-like, not to be laid by any charm But blood of sacrifice sent up to God From France the altar in whose name he slew. Deputy. Yet Caesar's triumphs were avenged on Ceesar ; Remember Katzbach ! Leipsic ! Waterloo ! Chancellor. O we remember ! The Colossus fell, And from the throne of every living King THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 343 A shadow passed ; yet still with hungry eyes The hordes he had led glared hate across the Rhine, Till from the charnel-house of that great name Uprose in his due time the wordy " Man Of Silence ; " round his feet the brute hosts leapt ; And smiling a smooth smile he glanced the way They hunger' d. We were scattered, and we crouch'd Under the .Austrian eagle. Then, one day, A plain man, a deep fellow with a will, Rose saying, " Craft for craft ! The bird of prey Hovers too much above the German Rhine — 'Ware hawk ! till he is trapt there is no sleep For any of us poor creatures who love peace !" When lo ! the Vulture cried, " I am a Dove ! " And croak'd the hoarse cry of Democracy ; And as the soul of Italy arose, The Vulture struck the Austrian Eagle down, While all earth's kingdoms shook; then, stretching claws, 344 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. He hovered o'er the imperial walls of Rome To warn the victor back. Now, that same man I spake of, looking very humbly on, Thought, " Craft for craft ! The Frenchman . wins by craft — . Not boldly, as the old French Eagle won. What Marshall Vorwarts to Napoleon was, Let me become to this the Man of Lies ; With his own weapons let me vanquish him ; First in the secret chamber, then with steel Out in the light of the world." So said, so done. Close to the dotard Austrian for a time We crouch'd ; but we were gathering strength and ire ; And one by one with the new Teuton soul We fill'd the scattered people of the Rhine. Then came the time to cast the Austrian off. 'Twas done, we struck; your foul bird scream'd in vain ; And lo ! with that one blow we felt our strength Flow from the soul and grow invincible. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 345 There was a pause. We saw the enemy Hovering afar and ever gathering And darkening the mighty River's bank ; And year by year we waited for the storm We knew must break upon our heads at last. It came — no bigger than the prophet's hand — Then the tornado blowing from the West, — So that the world cried, " God help Germany !" And lo ! God sent a wind out of the East ; And all the storm and wrack and thunder- rheum Gathered in groaning tumult o'er the Rhine. One from the East, the other from the West,' Tornado met tornado. One huge crash — 'Twas o'er ! The West recoil'd in blood and fire, Leaving the poor sing'd Vulture on the ground, Struck by the lightning, screaming broken- wing'd, Flapping to rise in vain. On goes the storm, Driven less by sheer volition than the wind God sent to drive it West ; and still it sweeps — Still the earth groans and darkens under it, 346 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And still, as Canute cried unto the sea, Thou criest " Pause ! " How, like a summer cloud Recoil, and leave ye fresher for our rain ! True, we have slain the evil-omen'd Bird, And in so far have blest not punish'd France, Who followed his stale cry ; — but mark me, friend, The sworn foe of the Teuton is the Celt, Not the mere instrument your evil hands Could find whene'er they itch'd for butchery ; — For birds of prey abound, — and it is easy To fashion leaders for such hosts as yours. ■ But this time we will place ye in a pen High as the Vosges, deeper than the Rhine, So that though all the birds of earth should call, Though all the wild free beasts should roar their best, France, pent within the prison of her own fields, Shall like a tame thing only roar again. Deputy. Yet think of mercy. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 347 Chancellor. We are merciful. Take pity. Deputy. Chancellor. We are very pitiful. Our women wail and weep in every house, Our babes are fatherless, our maiden flowers Wither unpluckt on every village way. Who says we are not pitiful ? Deputy. The head That wrong'd ye is a serpent's head, and bruised Is writhing underneath your armed heel. The blood of both the Teuton and the Celt Be on that head, — but we are innocent. Uplift thy knife from the poor lambs of France ; 348 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Spare them for Christ's sake ; let me shep- herd them To some sad fold of peace ! Chancellor. How call ye them ? Lambs ? Lambs man-tooth'd, and most om- nivorous ! Lambs ? We shall draw the teeth of these same lambs, Lest in a little season they may find Another wolf to lead them. Deputy. My tongue fails, And my heart sickens. Courtesy is rank, When I must listen to such words as these, And pick my feeble speech for France's sake. Chancellor. Pick nothing ; speak thy thought as man to man. And criticise. I adore criticism. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 349 Deputy. It is all in vain. Ye are too fiercely bent On blood and most unhallowed revenge. Chancellor. How now ? Why, these are words for women. True, I am a bugbear to the ancient dames Of Europe, and the nations in their dread Picture me cloven-footed ; but do not thou, A wise man in thy generation, echo The stale flat talk of fools. Am I a vam- pire That I should love this blood ? I love mine ease — My wine, my mistress — all earth's tasty things In moderation — though I never suffer The cup to cloud my reason and my soul, Nor sell my manhood for a strumpet's kiss, As ye have done in France. Yet I believe There are worse hues than that of blood, and Life 35o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. More pitiful than Death ; and I, indeed, Am your physician, though ye know me not. Sick, body and soul, ye have polluted earth, Ye have sown abroad that beauteous leprosy Whereof your artists and your poets die, But now in one supremer nobler hour Your revellers, from the lupanar called, Instead of sickening of a long disease And rotting in the arms of harlotry, Have passed in bloody martyrdom to God. In truth the bitterest tears your eyes can weep Will not too freely purge your heated orbs Of their adulterous mist of lust and lies. These are worse things than dying \ things I deem More pitiful than Death ! Instead of these We give ye sudden Conscience flasht from grief, Fire for your Phrynes, and a naked Sword ! Deputy. Then I, in France's name, for France's sake, Reject the shallow puritanic lie, V AGAINST PARIS. 351 Uing God to witness hurl ye back The taunt and smile. The stale flat talk of Is thy sense, yet how thou echoest it ! — ride rough-shod through the beau- . world, nwell's English troopers singing hy; hat your hearts are full of God at all, But that it helps your feet to march in time, While to the God of David ye intone, Qg the grimmest ever even in God,— hmen, subtly, delicately wrought, Him so keenly in the sense and soul, Catch with so swift a sense of fragrancy The divine truths of being, that our lives Become too rich for your harsh utterance. I r of spirit and more exquisite, r of sense, more sensual if thou wilt, table in the beautiful world God made ; iving Beauty for her own fair sake, I her so marvellously fair, In her we find an impulse and an end i your stale and flat morality. 352 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Wherefore we seek to shape our very lives To beauty and to music, which ye deem The harlot's privilege and stock-in-trade ; We plant within our simplest daily needs Spiritual sweetness and divine desire ; We stir to every wind of ecstasy ; We love no truth that is not beautiful, Since Beauty is the highest truth of all, The sum and end of human destiny. Chancellor. The glory of a strong man is his strength ; But ye — why ye are triflers ; though I own I like your novels ; they are pleasant reading, Most toothsome to the after-dinner taste. Deputy. O hear me ! if a sneer could kill a race, Then had ye Teutons died of Europe's sneer ! As ye abide, so shall the Frank abide. To ye no delicate line of law divides Beauty from harlotry ; for ye are dull, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 353 And turn your hard-grain'd Gretchens to their use As tamely as ye sow and reap your corn ; And unto ye all rapturous sights and sounds, All married interchange of sense and soul, Are perilous, for ye dread the very Sun May come upon your kitchen Danaes And breed ye bastards in your own despite. Nay, ) r e fear Beauty as some witch whose eyes May hold ye like Tannhauser in the hills. While ye have trumpeted God's wrath abroad, While ye have driven His strength into men's hearts As did the kings of ancient Israel, We, we whom ye despised, have whispered low- God's secret; we have made the hand of Art More reverent, human voice and instrument delicate, all sense of sight and sound More cunning ; one by one we have laid bare The slender links that bind the soul of man To all fair things whence it has grown and blown ; A A 354 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And we have gain'd ye in your own de- spite : For if ye sing, ye sing more tenderly, And if ye dream, ye dream more beauti- fully, And if ye pray, perchance unconsciously Ye blend into your prayer some beauteous sense That till we Frenchmen cull'd it blew un- guess'd. All this we have done and more for Beauty's sake, And this forsooth ye christen " harlotry." Ye are as Israel, and ye know no God Unless He thunders; ye perceive no strength Save when ye look upon a hurricane ; Your dry blood turns all beauty back to use, By a coarse huswife's sampler fashioning All gentle woofs of loveliness and youth, Forgetting beauty blossoms out of use, Not use from beauty, but from perfect use The perfect flower of beauty crowning all. Ye walk within a garden, and with care THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 355 - your shrubs of hardy sentiment, And train your creeping virtues; but ye frown If the birds sing too loud, the blossoms scent Too richly ; ye speak, think, act, live, walk, fight As if the beauteous world w T herein ye dwell leagued against ye and confederate To seize ye as the woman in the Book The man of strength and rob ye of your hair; And in the very light of woman's eyes Ye Werthers see no grade between the stare Of lawful women sadly giving suck, And what forsooth ye christen " harlotry." Chancellor. A Jeremiad out of Babylon ! Let us return — yield the Rhine provinces. Deputy. What more r 356 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chancellor. The rest is easy. These come first. Deputy. And I have answer'd. It can never be. Chancellor. Never ? Why they are ours to have and hold. Deputy. To take is not to give. We give them not. We will appeal to Europe, to the world ; We will call out with one imploring voice, Waking the sleeping Conscience of the earth ! Chancellor. Call. Scream. Have ye not call'd and screamed ? As loud As underneath your sallow Corsican We called of old. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 357 Deputy. Ye did not call in vain. Chancellor. No ; for our cause was righteous ! — further- more, All backs like ours had felt that scourge of God. But now 'tis otherwise ; for ours indeed Hath been a peaceful hand, and not a gauge, A grim reminder and a daily threat, A mailed glove lying from day to day Unlifted on the council-board of Kings ; We play no tyrant, but iconoclast ; And further, let me whisper in thine ear, That were we thrice as bloody as ye deem, The nations are too wise to risk the touch Of that strong hand which like Belle- rophon's Hath slain the hugest Monster of the time. Deputy. They will not tamely see so foul a wrong. We will call England. 358 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chancellor. Do not waste your breath : England hath pined away into a voice. Deputy. Italy! Austria! Russia! Shall not God Conjure a soul in one or all of these ? Chancellor. Too late. The days of chivalry are o'er. On this side Time there is no hope for France Save swift submission to her certain doom, — Confinement in her mighty prison-house West of the Vosges, o'er whose jagged walls Let her glare thirsty at the flowing Rhine ; — Thither indeed she comes not any more In pomp of war or smile of amity. Call r Let her call till thunder echoes her ! But verily, friend, that thunder will be ours, Such as now beats at yonder City's gates Startling the timid eyelids of the dawn. THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 359 See ! Fire and Death fill all the dreadful air. Hearken ! Our guns are serenading now Her who was late the Mistress of the world. Speak ; save her ; save her miserable sons, Fighting in vain against the hurricane. No longer dally idly with your doom As ye were wont to do with women's hair ; Speak, and speak quickly, lest ye wholly die! CHORUS. A Distant Voice. God! God! God! Chorus. Hearken, O hearken ! The heavens darken, The storm is growing, The skies are snowing, Whiter and whiter Grows the ground, and brighter 360 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The wild fires glisten, As we moan and listen ; Wind-blown unto us A voice from the City Thrills faintly through us. Voice. Lord God, have pity ! Chorus. Gather in silence ! From mile on mile hence Drearly is driven Their cry to heaven ; Like the faint intoning Of the ocean moaning, Like the murmur creeping Most faint and weak From a dark cloud sleeping On a mountain peak. Tis the feeble crying Of the sick and dying, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 361 The famine-stricken ; They sink and sicken, They thirst, and creeping Together moan, In the damp dew sleeping . Piliow'd on stone — And Sorrow above them With her frozen cheek Stoops — but to move them Her breath is weak, — Till with blank eyes glazing, And their faint breath fled, They sit there gazing, Frozen and dead. A Voice. Prepare ! Chorus. Like the opening of eyes In a horrible dream, like the flash in the skies When the thunder-cloud -flies, 362 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Comes the gleam. It comes, and is gone ; The dark roars ; and anon, From fort to fort gleaming, It burns in the night, Till the long line is streaming One glimmer of light — Like the black swell that dashes Round a headland and flashes Foam-white ! A Voice within the City. Woe ! woe ! Chorus. 'Tis begun, and they cry in the street, As lambs rush together and bleat ! And the Horror above and around Springs to a serpentine sound. Lo ! where the fiery spheres curve Up through the air without swerve ; See how the bolts one by one Speed to the flash of the gun ! THE, TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 363 Now, strain your eyes thro' the dark ; Look on the City, and mark How they strike on the roofs, and in thunder Crash, and in flame rend asunder To the groan of stone turret and column, To the scream of the slain, to the solemn Deep toll of the bell in the spire ! Voices Within. Fire ! Fire ! Chorus. See ! where it springs in the air, With a scream and a rush and a glare, Out of the roofs, while beneath Blacker flames wrestle and seethe ; Brighter and brighter ! behold, Wrapping the street in its fold, Streaming and gleaming and burning, Sinking, upspringing, returning, Fierce, unappeasable, glowing Red-shadow' d on turret and vane — While black shades are coming and going, Seeking to slake it in vain ! 364 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Voice from Without. Steady ! make ready ! aim higher — Into the heart of the fire ! Chorus. See ! how the fiery guns gleam, Flashing like eyes in a dream ! Hark — how the air and the skies Groan, and the City replies — Voices Within. God! God! God! Chorus. Where the flame is growing, Leaping and blowing, Where the people are calling, See black rain falling, Black rain, lead-rain, Flashing to red rain, Showering and flashing, To the crumbling and crashing THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 365 Of column and steeple— Striking and gleaming, To the hollow screaming Of the stricken people, — To_the hollow thunder Of the cannon call, To the rending asunder Of roof and wall ! And see ! O Pity ! Answering, Over the City Fires upspring : First dim, then lighter, Then lighter, brighter, Fire upon fire : Till the air is glowing And a red flame flowing On every spire — And dome and column Gleam, — to the solemn Incessant tolling From street to street, And hark, far under, While we watch and wonder, 366 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. With a muffling rolling, The deep drums beat ! [Day-break. A Voice. Forward for France ! Gather together ! Advance ! Chorus. See ! like a black snake there crawls, Under the fire of the walls, A dark mass, and over the snow- Speeds for the camp of the foe : River-like, silent and still, It rolleth under the hill, And out on the plain white and bare Spreads silent and strange. A Sentinel. Who goes there ? A Voice. Forward, for France ! THE TEUTON AG A IX ST PARIS. 367 Chorus. Pray for France ! Voice. Gather together ! Advance ! Chorus. Pray for them ! A Voice. Fire ! Chorus. God in heaven ! As a forest by lightning is riven, As the rolls of the sea are plough'd white By the wind, they are stricken ; and bright Blaze the manifold eyes of the fire As they tremble and scream and expire ; Again and again and again, Like the lightning-rent clouds of the rain, Like the waves of the sea in the storm, They gather together and form ; And again and again and again They are scatter'd like hail, and the plain Is black with the mounds of the slain. 368 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. O pray for them ! Fire swift and fleet Ploughs them as wind plougheth wheat ! O pray for them all ! Pray for France ! A Voice. Gather together ! Advance ! Chorus. Onward, still nearing The eyes that flash on them ; Onward unfearing, Tho s the death-bolts crash on them, Torn asunder By lightning and thunder, Though the black shells thicken And rain red death on them, Rent and stricken, With Fire's fierce breath on them, Still forward winning, But ever thinning, Onward they go, Over dying and dead, Leaving the snow Not white but red. , THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 369 And now like a torrent, Furious, horrent, From his lair in the dark Springs the foe ; and hark ! Like waters meeting They gather and scream, While drums are beating And the death's-eyes gleam ! — Like trees of the forest When the storm-wind is sorest, Like waves of the ocean, They meet in wild motion, They reel, they advance, They gather — they stand; Their wild weapons glance, They are scattered like sand. A Voice. Courage ! — for France ! Another Voice. Fatherland ! fatherland ' B B 37o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chorus. The light is glowing Around blood-red, The winds are blowing, And the clouds are snowing On the heaps of dead. The white snows cover them, The swords flash over them, Death waits each way for them, — O bless them, pray for them ! They are mingled like water, They are grappled in slaughter, Face to face like wolves glaring, With eyes fiercely staring, Grappled and crying, Rank within rank, Dead, living, and dying, Teuton and Frank ; Like a cloud struck by lightning And rent into rain, Darkening and brightening They cover the plain. the teuton against paris. Voice. Charge ! Voices of Cavalry. Fatherland ! A Voice. Gather together and stand ! Voices. Charge ! Chorus. Shaking the ground, With a tramp and a roar, With a torrent's force, With a sound like the sound Of the sea on the shore, Come the Teuton horse. How they ride ! with their bare Swords uplifted in air, And each man bending low O'er his steed's saddle-bow, THE DRAMA OF KINGS. While his fiery eyes glow, On they ride ! On they go ! Now, screaming aloud, They have struck on the crowd, Like the wind on a cloud, Like a knife at the heart ; It scatters, it rives Into dark wreaths of lives That struggle apart. Voices. Fly! fly! fly! Chorus. Hark how they scatter and cry ! Hark how a melody thin Sounds the retreat from within- See how they linger and die ! Voices. Fly! fly! fly! Chorus. O woe, O woe, Like storms that blow THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 373 On a mount and shake it not, Like waves that dash, Crash after crash, On a rock and break it not ; Like wind against tide, only beating it whiter, Like wind striking fire and but making it brighter, France striketh with passionate breath, And closer and closer, and tighter and tighter, The fiery Snake clings to her, With glistening rings to her ; She moans, she grows feeble in death. O pray for her ! plead for her ! Cry ! intercede for her ! Voices Within. Bread ! give us bread ! Chorus. We hearken and sicken — 'Tis the famine-stricken. Ah, the deep moan in the air, Blown from the depths of despair. Hark, too, drums beat and feet tread. 374 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. A Voice. Go forth and bury the dead. Chorus. Silent still falleth the snow, Still the clouds drive, the winds blow — Again, like fierce eyes in a dream, The dreadful guns open and gleam To a hollow reverberation, And the shriek of a shatter'd nation : Column and turret are riven, Shrieking fire springeth to heaven. Woe for the city of splendour ! Man hath no pity to lend her ! He calleth Hell's legions to rend her ! — Her sins were against her God — May God forgive her them ; She lieth opprest, under-trod, — God striketh her hosts to the sod, And His lightnings shiver them. Voices Within. Hear us, O God ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 375 Chorus. O God, deliver them ! The CHANCELLOR. A BONAPARTIST OFFICER. Chancellor. Bid him rest silent, watching from his prison How the dice fall ; for 'tis a game (he knows) Where no man, let him reckon as he will, Can quite sum up the chances. Officer. Is there hope ? He asks; and further, dost thou bid him hope? Chancellor. I know not. Why, hope comes of God, not man. Officer. Should he return and grasp his scatter'd crown, Will ye oppose his path, or stand aside ? 376 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chancellor. Now, softly ; — there upon the earth he lies, A thing we never loved, an idol of gold We vowed to shatter ; but we sought forsooth To break him not destroy him ; and per- chance — I say perchance — it might be well for Gaul To take her ancient image for a space In lieu of this red Spectre stalking now Among the imperial shadows of the time. Let him lie still, making no sign, and wait For our uplifted finger. Time will show. Officer. How fares it with the broken hosts of France ? Chancellor. 111. Here come tidings. Stand aside and hear. {Enter a Messenger. Speak ! Messenger. These despatches from the west. Like chaff Before the strong fan of the winnower, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 377 The Breton host is flying. Wild Misrule And Superstition, in the gloomy camp Stalking phantasmic, awe the ignorant ranks And scatter them along the dark, like mists Wind-broken into thin and wavering rain. The priest-rid peasants in the act to advance Linger to pray, and trembling count their beads ; And tho' the frantic leaders scream their best, And conjure in the name of all the saints, The squadrons melt between two strange extremes — The brute-stare of inaction and the fire Of sudden panic scattering at one flash These — oxen. Chancellor [to Officer.) Dost thou hear ? Messenger. Even as a man Lured by the dancing ignis fatuus, The Greek Bourbaki step by step withdrew 378 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. To the east, and our two legions of the Loire, No longer held asunder, struck Le Mans At midnight. 'Twas a bloody blow and brief! We did divide the host, from bourne to bourne Drove them, devour' d their wavering lines with fire, While staring frantic at the flame-lit dark The Bretons saw in mingled lineaments All horrible the looks of friend and foe, Struck in the darkness at each other's hearts, Clung to each other, drove like breaking waves Hither and thither with no aim and will ; And now, torn thus into two broken hosts, They for whom hungry eyes watch day by day Out of the City yonder, drift to the south Swift as the storm-wreck when the storm is spent. \_Enter a Messenger. the teuton against paris. 379 Chancellor. Whence comest thou ? Messenger. From Belfort. Thrice the sun Arose and set above the bloody Luisne, While hour by hour, ever repulsed, the French Struck with despairing strength upon the line Of brave Von Werder, which like some great rock Stagger'd before the thunderbolt but stood ; And lo ! even as a torrent spends itself And scatters, the wild legions of the Greek Fell back and broke with their own furious force. And now, in bloody runlets, water-weak, Southward they flow, a murmur in the fields, A dark mass drifting to uncertain doom, And with their impotent despairing cry, Dies the last hope of all that strike for France. 380 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Chorus. Who passeth there Naked and bare, A bloody sword upraising ? Who with thin moan Glides past alone, At the black heaven gazing ? Limbs thin and stark, Eyes sunken and dark, The lightning round her leaping ? What shape floats past Upon the blast, Crouching in pain and creeping ? Behold ! her eyes to heaven are cast, And they are red with weeping. Say a prayer thrice With lips of ice : 'Tis she — yea, and no other ; Look not at me So piteously, O France — O martyr mother ! O whither now, With branded brow THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 381 And bleeding heart, art flying ? Whither away ? O stand ! O stay ! Tho' winds, waves, clouds are crying — Dawn cometh swift — 'twill soon be day — The Storm of God is dying. She will not speak, But, spent and weak, Droops her proud head and goeth ; See ! she crawls past, Upon the blast, Whither no mortal knoweth — O'er fields of fight, Where glimmer white Death's steed and its gaunt rider — Thro' storm and snow, Behold her go, With never a friend beside her — O Shepherd of all winds that blow, To Quiet Waters guide her ! There, for a space, Let her sad face 382 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Fall in a tranquil mirror- There spirit-sore May she count o'er Her sin, her shame, her error, — And read with eyes Made sweet and wise What her strong God hath taught her, With face grown fair And bosom bare And hands made clean from slaughter — O Shepherd, seek and find her there, Beside some Quiet Water ! CHANCELLOR. BUONAPARTIST OFFICER. A MESSENGER. Messenger. 'Tis finished. In the south Gambetta screams, Summoning all the winds to strike for France, But the last breath is spent. The broken hosts Have drifted wild into Helvetia, And there, with faces sicker than the snow That glimmers up above them silently, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 383 Have twenty thousand men laid down their arms. Nothing abides to conquer. Tis not war, But mere sheep-chasing in the shambles now ; And our strong legions hold their hands and smile, Having no hearts to strike like martial men At things so little worthy of their steel. [Exit. Chancellor. I know not what strange potion they have drunk, What black magician holds them with his arts, But struggling with these Frenchmen is to fight With Circe's swine ; they know no head, no hand, But go like driftweed up and down the tide; The land they dwell in is to them as strange As Egypt's sand-hills or the Russian snows 384 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. To Buonaparte's thinning phalanxes ; They huddle and starve on their own hearths, and find The prospect foreign and barbarian ; They have no hearts, no stomachs, and they fall Before our bolts as the affrighted hordes Before the prodigies whose flash foredoom'd The Roman and the Goth. As easy 'twere to animate the dead, Or fill a flock of oxen with one soul, As fashion those false Frenchmen to the form Thy fathers wore to darken Christendom. Officer. They lack indeed a name to conjure with ; I know of one might animate them yet. Chancellor. Not that, which like a wind-bag at Sedan Burst with a puff of lean and braggart speech. The Man of Elba were himself too weak To fill this thin and broken frame of France : THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 385 It lacks a soul indeed, and such a soul ; But it is broken in the body too. I tell thee only he thou servest made This body what it is. Xot such a soul As filled it out of Buonaparte's breath, But rather like a very Incubus, Xapoleon sat and fatten'd, — round the neck Of France clung as a pamper'd slothful child That drains the weary mother hour by hour : A very Changeling, monstrous and unblest, Ev'n such as thou hast heard thy grandam tell Were dropt in peasants' cradles by the elves : A crafty, strange, mysterious sort of birth, Jealous, green-eyed, big-brain'd, and weak of feet, Drawing not merely moisture from the breast But blood and life itself. Nay, hear me out ! These changeling babes had oftentimes the skill To make the mother love them, as indeed Poor France did love her monster for a time, And she forgave him even Mexico, Because he smiled her down ; and, day by day, Fastened upon by her unnatural birth, C C 3 86 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. She like a mortal mother weakening Crawled up and down the globe. For she was glad Because the world was sunny, and the board Well-stored, the fields most golden at her door, Nor knew the fatal lips that drew her milk Were subtly sucking at her strength and life. Not till the thing fell from her, and the foe Sprang at her, did she learn her feebleness, Limbs, tongue, eyes, heart, all fail'd her as she strove, Though with the fury of a thing that dies She clings with weakening clutches to the end. CHORUS. Strophe I. Ay me, to dwell in some remote still valley, Far from the civil fret and martial pride, To sit by some sweet river musically Singing for shepherds piping happy-eyed ; Ay me, to quit sad cities and abide THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 387 Where never name of king was ever known, Where never sword is drawn or trumpet blown, Where the slow hours from morn to even- tide, Sweet, silent, and alone, Move like a feeding flock on some green mountain-side. Antistrophe I. For my heart bleeds, my soul with tears is swelling, To see mankind so tame to taunts and stings, How, knowing not the might within them dwelling, They take the tyrant's yoke like soulless things ; Crouch, crawl beneath the lash of under- lings, And even as silly sheep are bought and sold, Driven from the pleasant pasture and the fold, 388 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Drawn from the fresh fields and the crystal springs, Slain for a little gold, Slaughter'd forsooth like beasts, to please the whim of Kings. Strophe II. And even as silly seals in summer weather, With large eyes listening, from the deep below Rise up, and gather hearkening together, Because some cunning fisher fiuteth slow, And follow sleepily while the seamen row, And so are led to doom and have no fear; — Even such as these are foolish mortals here, With empty eyes that neither see nor know, But blankly gaze and peer, And follow a vain sound wherever it doth go. Antistrophe II. And, one by one, out of the wondrous portal, Whose backward darkness no man's eye may read, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 389 Some monster comes, strong, subtle, and most mortal, And him the foolish people follow in- deed, Crying, " This is no man of mortal seed, But more divine than any human thing ! " And in his steps they follow clamouring ; Whither he listeth, though their sore feet bleed, They follow him their King, — Until he sinks, and lo ! some other comes to lead. Strophe III. O mortal men, awake, and gather, and go not ; Hear wise men speak, hear God's own prophets cry. Be not as poor tame things that see not, know not, But smile, and let the unnatural birth go by; Stop ye your ears against its human sigh, 39o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And if it threatens, threaten ye again — Yea, send it forth to sow and reap the grain, As ye do, underneath the peaceful sky ; Or hold it with a chain ; And if all chains are vain, strike it and let it die. Choir Without. Gloria Deo ! Floreat Imperator ! Antistrophe III. O hearken, hearken ! for I hear a crying Of many voices, and the clang of swords, With what strange cry do voices multiply- ing Rend the day's darkness into thunderous words ? " Glory to God ! " cry these triumphant hordes, Having made sacrifice most manifold ; And unto Him the armed people hold, THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 391 With acclamations and most glad ac- cords, A foolish King and old ; " Glory to God!" they cry; — yea, glory is the Lord's. Choir Without. Glorea Deo ! Floreat Patria ! Epode. Creep closer, hearkening. Tis a sound like thunder, Deep as the roll of waves on some sad shore, And, listening, our hearts are torn asunder. Would we might die ! would that the world were o'er ! For life is bitter, and mere breath is sore, Seeing how mortal men are slain and slay At will of each new creature of a day, 392 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Crafty or foolish, him they will adore. Oh might we pass away, Die, cease, be done with earth ; slumber, and see no more. CHORUS. A MESSENGER. Messenger. Why, women, do ye linger pale-faced here, Hearkening, each with hand upon her heart ? Chorus. We hear glad sounds, the tread of mailed feet, The playing of light music, and, moreover, The organ's plagal cadence deep and low. Voices. Gloria in excelsis Deo ! Chorus. Hark ! Yonder the City burns and moans ; and here There comes a ripple of music and glad speech. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 393 Messenger. Tis a blest day. Within the triumph-hall They hail our Wilhelm German Emperor. Voices. Gloria Deo ! Plaudite, omnes gentes ! Chorus. O woe ! — while France lies bleeding at his feet! Messenger. Hush ; and stand back — why do ye wring your hands ? See ; 'tis a sight to make an old man young. [The Scene opens, revealing the interior of the Hall of Mirrors. The Kaiser, surrounded by the Princes and Leaders of the host. Priests pronouncing the Benediction, and Choristers intoning. Organ-music. A Rainbow of the mighty of the Earth Arching the great grey head; and mirror'dback, 394 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Out of a thousand silver pools of glass, A gleaming of rich robes, a flash of steel, Waves of uplifted faces round the King, All phosphorescent with their own wild light, Like to the sea washing an ocean isle Purpled with blooms and dim with orient gold. 1 Choir, Gloria in excelsis Deo ! Kaiser. From Him the Highest, who alone can give, This day I take the great imperial Crown I sought not ; at His bidding, at His hands, I take the Crown and I uplift the Sword. Choir. Cantate Deo ! Jubilate, gentes ! Priest. Hark to the Song of the Sword ! In the beginning, a Word THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 395 Came from the lips of the Lord ; And He said, "The Earth shall be, And around the Earth the Sea, And over these twain the Skies ; And out of the Earth shall rise Man, the last and the first ; And Man shall hunger and thirst, And shall eat of the fruits in the sun, And drink of the streamlets that run, And shall find the wild yellow grains, And, opening earth, in its veins Sow the seeds of the same ; for of bread I have written that he shall be fed." Thus at the first said the Lord. Choir. Hark to the Song of the Sword ! The Priest. Then Man sowed the grain, and to bread Kneaded the grain, and was fed, He and his household indeed T< > the last generation and seed : 396 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Then the children of men, young and old, Sat by the waters of gold, And ate of the bread and the fruit, And drank of the stream, but made suit For blessing no more than the brute. And God said, " 'Twere better to die Than eat and drink merely, and lie Beast-like and foul on the sod, Lusting, forgetful of God ! " And He whispered, " Dig deeper again, Under the region of grain, And bring forth the thing ye find there Shapeless and dark ; and prepare Fire, — and into the same Cast what ye find — let it flame — And when it is burning blood-bright, Pluck it forth, and with hammers of sleight Beat it out, beat it out, till ye mark The thing that was shapeless and dark Grown beautiful, azure, and keen, Purged in the fire and made clean, Beautiful, holy, and bright, Gleaming aloft in the light ; — Then lift it, and wield!" said the Lord. THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 397 Choir. Hark to the Song of the Sword ! Priest. Then Man with a brighter desire Saw the beautiful thing from the fire, And the slothful arose, and the mean Trembled to see it so keen, And God, as they gather'd and cried, Thunder 5 d a Word far and wide : " This Sword is the Sword of the Strong ! It shall strike at the life's blood of wrong ; It shall kill the unclean, it shall wreak My doom on the shameful and weak ; And the strong with this sign in their hands Shall gather their hosts in the lands, And strike at the mean and the base, And strengthen from race on to race ; And the weak shall be wither'd at length, For the glory of Man in his strength, And the weak man must die," saith the Lord. 398 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Choir. Hark to the Song of the Sword ! Priest. Sire, whom all men of thy race Name as their hope and their grace ; King of the Rhine-water' d land, Heart of the state and its hand, Thou of the purple and crown, Take, while thy servants bow down, The Sword in thy grasp. Kaiser. It is done. Priest. Uplift ! let it gleam in the sun — Uplift in the name of the Lord ! Choir. Hail to the King and the Sword ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 399 Kaiser. Lo ! how it gleams in the light, Beautiful, bloody, and bright — Such in the dark days of yore The monarchs of Israel bore ; Such by the angels of heaven To Charles the Mighty was given — Yea, I uplift the Sword, Thus in the name of the Lord ! The Chiefs. Form ye a circle of fire Around him, our King and our Sire — While in the centre he stands, Kneel with your swords in your hands, Then with one voice deep and free Echo like waves of the sea — " In the name of the Lord \" Chancellor. Sire, while thou liftest the Sword, Thus in the name of the Lord, 400 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. I too, thy slave, kneel and blend My voice with the hosts that attend — Yea, and while kneeling I hold A scroll writ in letters of gold, "With the names of the monarchs who bow Thy liegemen throned lower than thou ; Moreover, in letters of red, Their names who ere long must be led To thy feet, while thou ^ftest the Sword, Thus in the name of the Lord! Voices Without. Where is he ? — he fades from our sight f Where the Sword ? — all is blacker than night. Is it nnish'd, that loudly ye cry r Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die ? O bury us deep, most deep; Write o'er us, wherever we sleep, " In the name of the Lord ! " Kaiser. While I uplift the Sword, Thus in the name of the Lord, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 4 or Why, with mine eyes full of tears, Am I sick of the song in mine ears r God of the Israelite, hear; God of the Teuton, be near ; Strengthen my pulse lest I fail, Shut out these slain while they wail — For they come with the voice of the grave On the glory they give me and gave. Chorus. In the name of the Lord ? Of what Lord ? Where is He, this God of the Sword ? Unfold Him ; where hath He his throne r Is he Lord of the Teuton alone ? Doth He walk on the earth ? Doth he tread On the limbs of the dying and dead r Unfold him ! We sicken, and long To look on this God of the strong ! Priest. Hush ! In the name of the Lord, Kneel ye, and bless ye the .Sword ! D D 402 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Bless it with soul and with brain, Bless it for saved and for slain, For the sake of the dead in the tomb, For the sake of the child in the womb, For the sake of these Kings on the knee, For the sake of a world it shall free ! Bless it, the Sword ! bless the Sword ! Yea, in the name of the Lord ! Chiefs. Deepen the circle of Fire Around him, our King and our Sire ! While in our centre he towers, Kneeling, ye spirits, ye powers, Bless it and bless it again, Bless it for saved and for slain, Bless ye the beautiful Sword, Aloud in the name of the Lord ! Kaiser. In the name of the Lord ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 403 All. In the name of the Lord ! The Choir. By the Light adored, By Father, and Son, and Spirit, By the Name and the Word, By the blood of Christ we inherit — Lord of the Rhenish land, Heart of the state and its hand, Take the Sword of the Lord, Uplift and bear it ! Where the Rhine is pour'd Round the German lands that are one with it, Where in sweet accord Fair streams fall into and run with it, Rise with the Sword in thy hand, Glory and strength of the land ; Take the Sword from the Lord, Stand up in the sun with it ! 404 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. In the name of the Lord, Tis done ; and His hand hath deckt thee : By the Light Adored, None may henceforth reject thee — Heart of the Fatherland, Heart and spirit and hand, The Lord and the Word and the Sword, Keep and protect thee ! The Kaiser. Princes, and powers, and principalities, Kings, brethren, round whose lands the Rhine rolls waves Blue as the German heaven that bends above, Ye who henceforth shall shine around our throne Like glorious constellations, in your places Set by God's hand as light for human eyes, Friends, brethren, Kings and kinsmen, words are weak, All oratory dumb, music too faint, All art too feeble and inadequate, To measure the large issue of this day. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 405 There is a God that cuts the path of Kings, Leading them whither He listeth ; and that God— Albeit at first I trembled at His hand, Albeit the path seem'd dark before my feet, And my heart fail'd me since the path was strange — That God hath led me hither, safe, supreme, Chief of a living people, arm and heart, A King, the seed of Kings, and chosen head Of Kings anointed. Him, the King of Kings, Before whose feet I am as dust, I praise ; And though the embers of my life grow cold, And snow is on my hair, and in mine eyes Doubt and a gathering darkness, Him I bless That He hath led me just before the end As to a mountain-summit, whence I see, Not darkly, but with most ineffable light, A fair long prospect of regenerate days ; And even as one upon a lofty height I hear afar-off very faint and sweet The murmur of glad cities, the deep hum Of happy millions moving to and fro In gentle interchange of life and love. 4o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. I do believe that land God gave to us, That land which robbers pillaged in the night, That land we have redeem'd with precious blood, Is blest henceforth, and the bright sword I hold May in the strong hands of my son become No firebrand but a symbol ; not a thing Left like the steel of some old warrior To rust upon the wall, but ever bright And beauteous ; not a firebrand, not a threat, But part of pomp and peaceful pageantry, Flashing with memorable light and fire Into the hungry eyes of those who prowl Like wolves around the pastures and the pens Where the Great Shepherd in the beginning set The nations of the earth. Yea, may it rise, Beautiful, terrible, and fiery fair, Like to the living sword that trembled o'er The golden Gates of Eden ; and beneath May very Eden blossom : light and flowers, Rich vineyards, yellow harvests, hamlets glad THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 407 Bosom'd in greenness, churches whose fair spires Gleaming in sunlight point the path to peace, — The Land of the great River, yours and mine, Our birthright, given back at last by God To be the heirloom of our latest seed ! The Chiefs. Flash the sword ! — and even as thunder Utter ye one living voice, — While the watching nations wonder, Hills of Fatherland, rejoice : Echo ! — echo back our prayers and accla- mations ! Chorus. France, O Mother ! lie and hearken, Make no bitterer sign of woe, Here within thee all things darken, All things brighten with thy foe : Hush thy weeping; still thy bitter lamenta- tions. 4o8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The Chiefs. Flash the sword ! — A voice is flowing From the Baltic bound in white, Though 'tis blowing chill and snowing, Blue-eyed Teutons see the light. And the far white hills of Norway hear the crying. Chorus. Thou too hearkenest, Mother dearest, Thou too hearkenest through thy tears, And thou tremblest as thou hearest, For 'tis thunder in thine ears; And thou gazest on the dead and on the dying. The Chiefs. Liibeck answers and rejoices, Though her dead are brought to her ; Potsdam thunders ; there are voices In the fields of Hanover ; And the spirits of the lonely Hartz awaken. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 409 Chorus. And in France's vales and mountains Hands are wrung and tears are shed ; Women sit by village fountains, And the water bubbles red. O comfort, O be of comfort — ye forsaken ! The Chiefs. O'er Bavarian woods and rivers, — Where the Brunswick heather waves, — On the glory goes and quivers Through the Erzgebirge caves ; And the swords of Styria gleam like moonlit water. Chorus. There is silence, there is weeping On the bloody banks of Seine, And the unburied dead are sleeping In the fields of trampled grain ; While the roadside Christs stare down on fields of slaughter. 41 o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The Chiefs. Flash the Sword ! Where need is sorest, Sitting in the lonely night, While the wind in the Black Forest Moans, the woodman sees the light ; And the hunters wind the horn and hail each other. Chorus. Strasbourg sits among her ashes With a last despairing cry, East and west red ruin flashes With a red light on the sky. Not a word ! Sit yet and hearken, O my mother ! The Chiefs. , Flash the sword ! The glades of Baden Echo ; Jena laughs anon ; Dresden old and Stuttgart gladden, There is mirth in Ratisbon : — And underneath the Linden there is leaping. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. \\\ Chorus. In thine arms the horror tarries, And the sword-flash gleams on thee, Hide thy funeral face, O Paris, Do not hearken ; do not see ; Electra, clasp thine urn — and hush thy weep- ing. The Chiefs. Hamburg kindles, and her women Sadly smile remembering all ; There are bitter smiles in Bremen, Where Vandamme's fierce feet did fall ; But the Katzbach, O the Katzbach laugheth loudly ! Chorus. Comfort, mother ! hear not, heed not ; Let the dead bury the dead ! Fold thy powerless hands and plead not, They remember sorrows fled, And their dead go by them, silently and proudly. 412 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The Chiefs. O that Fritz's soul could hear it In the walks of Sans Souci ! O to waken Liitzow's spirit, Bluchers too, the grim and free ; And the Jager, the wild Jager, would they listen'd ! Chorus. Comfort, mother ! O cease weeping ! Let the past bury the past : Faces of the slain and sleeping Gleam along upon the blast. Yea, 'twas " Leipsic " that they murmur'd as they glisten'd. The Chiefs. All the land of the great River Slowly brightens near and far ; Lost for once, and saved for ever, Korner's spirit like a star Shooteth past, and all remember the begin- ning. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 413 Chorus. They are rising, they are winging, Spirits of her singers dead, "lis an old song they are singing — Fold thy hands and bow thy head — But they sing for thee too, gentle to thy sin- The Chiefs. And the River to the ocean Rolls ; and all its castles dim Gleam ; and with a shadowy motion, Like a mist upon its brim, Rise the Dead, — and look this way with shin- ing faces. Chorus. Thine, too, rise ! — and darkly cluster, Moaning sad around thee now, In their eyes there is no lustre, They are cold as thry cold brow — Let them vanish ; let them sleep in their dark places. 4H THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The Chiefs. Flash the sword ! In the fair valleys Where the scented Neckar flows, Fair-hair'd Teutons lift the chalice, And the winter vineyard grows, And the almond forests tremble into blossom. Chorus. On thy vineyards the cold daylight Gleams, and they are deathly chill — Women wander in the grey light, And the lean trees whistle shrill ; Hold thine urn, O martyr mother, to thy bosom. The Chiefs. Flash the sword! — Sweet notes of pleasure O'er the Rhenish upland swell, And the overhanging azure Sees itself in the Moselle. All the land of the great River gleams and hearkens ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 415 Chorus. Dost thou hear them ? dost thou see them r There 'tis gladness, here 'tis pain ; One great spirit comes to free them But he holds thee with a chain. All the land of the great City weeps and darkens ! The Chiefs. River of the mighty people, Broaden to the sea and flow — Mirror tilth and farm and steeple, Darken with boats that come and go. Flow gently, like a babe that smiles and prattles. Chorus. Yea ! and though thou flow for ever, Bright and bloodless as to-day, Scarcely wilt thou wash, O River, Thy dark load of dead away, O bloody River ! O field of many battles ! 416 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. The Chiefs. On with great immortal waters Brightening to a day divine, Through the fields of many slaughters Freely roll, O German Rhine. Let the Teuton drink thy wine and wax the stronger. Chorus. On and on, O mighty River, Flow through lands of corn and vine — Turn away, O France, for ever, Look no more upon the Rhine ; On the River of many sorrows look no longer. The Chiefs. Lo ! the white Alps for a token With the wild aurora gleam, And the Spectre of the Brocken Stands aloft with locks that stream, — All the land of the great River can behold it ! THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. \\~ Chorus. Hide thine eyes and look not thither ! For in answer to their cries, Fierce the Phantasm gazeth hither With an Avenging Angel's eyes ; It is fading, and the mists of storm enfold it ! The Kaiser. The Chiefs. The Imperial Chancellor. The Governor of Paris. Chancellor. Behold ! where even in our triumph-hour Comes one with feet that linger, head that droops, And eyes that pour their fire upon the ground. Chorus. Woe to thee, Paris ; then thy cup is full. Governor. O Sire and Princes, leaders of the host, Kings, soldiers, strangers, hither have I come E ^ 4i 8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Reluctant as a captive led to death, Woe in mine heart and on mine eyelids tears, To offer up my sword, and on my knees, Not used to bend their joints to mortal men, To hold your skirts imploring in the name Of the Imperial City overthrown, Paris, the fallen Regent of the world. There Fire hath cast our fairest temples down, And now in the black embers flickers faint Ready to spring once more ; and Frost is there, Most silent, with the paralysing touch Of skeleton fingers, feeling for the heart Under the thin rags blown apart by wind ; And, worst and direst, in the open square, Witless upon a pile of fleshless bones Sits Famine, smiling with a hungry eye At Pestilence, who at her dark feet heaps The blotch'd and swollen faces of the dead In silence ; and these four full well have done Your dreadful bidding, serving as they do The strong man ever against the weak. But now, I bid ye, I beseech ye, call them off, THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 419 And in the name of God and Christ His son, Uplift your hands, and leave us, and depart. I do not think your eyes may contemplate More closely what ye have done; but silently, Seeing we lay our arms down at your feet And seeing we are broken as a reed, Turn ye your conquering faces otherwhere And leave this City once named " Beautiful " To cleanse herself and feed her hungry brood And wear her sackcloth, praying all alone With open gates for food, and warmth, and light, The homeward flying swallow and green shoots Heralding harvest. For the sad red sun Must come and go for many a dreadful day, Ere these things ye have sent against her life Perish forgotten ; and for many a day Earth must be open'd for the countless dead And dying ; and indeed the City sad Needeth the darkness of her own deep shame, That she may hide herself from all men's sight, Until she is clothed, and the piteous wounds 420 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Upon her gentle flesh are wholly heal'd. Wherefore, O leaders of the Teuton host, Accept our swords, our lives, but turn aside Your faces, seeking not to look upon More sorrow, nor to pass the dreadful gates ; For should ye gaze on our poor Paris now, The scorn of your proud eyes, as sharp as steel, Would stab her to the heart and she would die : Or madden'd, anguish'd, with her dying breath, Gather the last strength of supreme despair, And seek to drag ye with her unto doom. Kaiser. Yield up thy sword, and waste no further breath ; Turn thine appeal to God, and go thy way. The Chiefs. Glory to God. Long live the Emperor f THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 421 Chancellor. J Tis finished ; at our feet great France lies dead. Chorus. O God who leadest on the mortal race, Whither they know not, through the won- drous years, Thou mystery whose sad meaning none may trace, Light on our eyes and Music in our ears, Spirit that punishest and scatterest grace, Lord of all losses and all doubts and fears, Shedding upon the self-same hour and place The doubt that maddens and the faith that cheers, — Is there ever a smile upon a living face That doth not mean some living face's tears ? END OF THE TRILOGY. EPILOGUE. EPILOGUE. Enter Time. O Spirits seated in your just degrees, Greater and lesser, wiser and most wise, All beautiful and some most beautiful, Thus far have ye beheld our Tragedy Rise to its crest of meaning like a wave, And break to the low murmur of mere foam Call'd glory. Ye have seen the Star of France Rise bloody ; ye have seen it wax and burn, Suffusing and consuming other lights Around it ; ye have watch'd it wane and fade; Ye have beheld it rise i' the west again With sicklier and yet less baleful light — Less bloody, yet more like those leprous- spheres Which follow and proclaim a pestilence ; 426 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And lastly, ye have seen it die once more Frail as a taper in the wind of war, While rising suddenly as the round moon In harvest storms, Germania brighteneth Above the wild eyes of the wondering world. Is this the end ? I hear ye smiling ask. Why, God forbid. Tho' for a time we pause, We shall continue our strange Tragedy To-morrow and to-morrow, for indeed The end is dark even to all us who play ; For mark you, much must yet be said and done, Many strange Leaders go and come, ere Heaven Sees the last scene and awful spectacle Concluding the strange Drama of the Soul. Thus far of evil there hath issued forth This good — a lesser evil ; and the air Is clearer for the thunders ye have heard Shaking the thrones of Europe and appalling The foolish-hearted people. Ye have seen, How Buonaparte swept away with fire . The living lies and blots of monarchy ; EPILOGUE. 427 How, when at last the Man became a pest, The lesser evil fair as present good Rose and destroyed him ; how by slow degrees That lie of lies, the sandstone Church of Rome, Was slowly decomposing with the wash Of the great tide of years ; how Germany, Grown subtle to the conscience and the will, Sat like an eagle breeding in a cave, Nursing her strength and teaching her fierce young Dark secret flights to try their fledgeling wings ; How in these memorable later days Caesar's last Ghost rose up and walk'd abroad. So hideous in the open common day That Csesarism, second lie of lies, Perish'd for ever from the face of things ; How, in his turn, above the wandering world, Stands up the Kaiser, with the living lie Of Right Divine upon his lips, yet blest For the time being as a feeble good, Because the base of his imperial throne 428 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Is set upon the conscience and the will Of a great people now awakening From torpor to a living hope and aim. Wherefore, I say, these Kings whom ye have seen Were God's unwilling servants, but for whom The Titan Soul of Man were still asleep, Tranced to sorrow and forgetfulness ; And now that Soul is waken' d, now, O friends, Begins the serious matter of our play, For scene by scene we purpose to set forth, To the same audience and on other nights, The mighty spiritual brightening, And the last laying of these ghosts of Kings. " O foolish mortal race," I hear ye cry, " Who will, yet will not learn, and live, and take Their birthright, and be free ! " Ay, friends, indeed, Man is a scholar eager indeed to learn, But most forgetful having learn'd. His wits Go wandering, his vacant eyes are caught By foolish pictures and by idle gleams, EPILOGUE. 429 Glibly he learns and instantly forgets. Again, again, and o'er and o'er again, He tries the same old lesson, utters it So loud and well that out of every star Angels look out with gleaming eyes and hope ; — But in a moment his bewildered brain Shuts like a lantern, and is dark as night. O spirits seated in your just degrees, O lights, O lamps, O principles divine, Be patient. Of each failure, of each loss, Of each sad repetition, in his soul Something remains — a word — a gleam — a thought — A dim sensation — a faint memory — And these perchance are working under God More strangely and more surely than ye know. Ay, but I weary. O I weary. Sleep Were better. Would the mighty play were o'er! Again and yet again the same old scenes, The same set speeches, the same blind de- spairs 430 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. And miserable hopes, the same sick fear Of quitting the poor stage ; so that I lose All count of act and scene and speech, con- fuse Scenes present and scenes past, actors long still With actors flaunting now their little hour. How like each other all the players speak Who play the tyrants ! how the kings and queens Each follow each like bees from out a hive ! Still the old speeches, the old scenes, despite The surface-change of costume and the trick Of posture. Ay, I weary ! O to see The great black Curtain fall, the music cease, All darken, the House empty of its host Of strange intelligences who behold Our Drama, till the great Hand, creeping forth In silence, one by one puts out the lights. EPILUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. EPILUDE. Enter, on the stage, the Chancellor, followed by a dark throng of Actors. They kneel. The Lord. Now what are ye who hither come and kneel ? Chancellor. The poor spent players of the Tragedy. The Lord. First, ye who played the lowliest parts of all, Fulfilling them with your best courtesy, Ye who were slain and made the sport of Kings, Come hither to my side ; for thro' your masks I see the fairest of my host. F F 434 the drama of kings. Spirits . We come ! The Lord. And ye who spake a little speech and went, And stalk' d upon the stage in rich attire, Go by, sit lower. Where is Lucifer ? Chancellor [unmasking). Here. The Lord. Thy dark part was excellently played- A trifle dull, and modell'd after him Who played the part of Man of Destiny. Lucifer Master of souls — that part I also played. The Lord. And Buonaparte. EPILUDE. 435 Lucifer. My pet character! — Sire, I prepared the play at thy command, And being thy liege servant plotted out The parts to each soul as stage-manager ; Nor willingly would have myself essayed The mighty monologues and leading parts, But that the other actors, one and all, Were slow of study and too scrupulous In the great text they spake. To all the staff I offer'd Buonaparte — None would essay it of our company ; Wherefore I made it mine, and for like reasons Kept to myself the other leading parts. The Lord. None could have played them better, or so well : And never since the earthly Play began Hast thou, mine evil Angel wrought for good, Spoke the dark speech Divine more willingly. 436 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Lucifer. Since we have played the drama to Thy liking, Deign, King of Heaven, To hear our Chorus sing the Final Song Or Epode. A poor actor on the scene, Who in the crowded background stood and gaped, A mortal poet, is the author, Sire ! It is a mere cantata — one of those Wild songs which the obscure upon the stage (Nobodies who would fain be somebodies, Starving king-haters who would fain play kings) Have ever made to while away the time ; And Thou, whose calm eyes measure all to come, Will smile to see how oft this poet tries To peer into the future and to sound The advent of thy Kingdom ; yet, indeed, The thing is pleasant to the ear when sung — Small service is true service — and we know God is not critical. EPILUDE. 137 The Lord Tis well. Sing on. Chorus. The Soul shall arise. Power and its vanity, Pride's black insanity, Lust and its revelry Shall with war's devilry Pass from humanity. The Soul shall arise. Semi-Chorus I. As from night springs golden-winged morrow, As a bloom on the grey bough in the May. Semi-Chorus II. From darkness, and from coldness, and from sorrow He shall issue living to the day. 438 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus I. As a wild, wild rose-tree when 'tis snowing Feels the unborn roses and is bright, Pants the Earth, and, though the storm be blowing, Knows the birth within her day and night. Semi-Chorus II. Like a fount by spring's warm breath unfrozen, Like a song-bird waking in the nest, On the breast of Earth awakes the chosen, First and last, the brightest and the best. Chorus of the Dead. Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie, We hear the sound and our spirits cry ; As we sleeping lie in the Lord's own Breast, Calm, so calm, for the place is blest, We, who died that this might be, Souls of the great, and wise, and free ; EPILUDE. 439 Souls that sung, and souls that sighed, Souls that pointed to God and died ; Souls of martyrs, souls of the wise ; Souls of women with weeping eyes ; Souls whose graves like waves of the sea Cover the world from west to east ; Souls whose bodies ached painfully, Till they broke to prophetic moan and ceased ; Souls that sleep in the gentle night, We hear the cry and we see the light. Did we die in vain ? did we die in vain ? Ah ! that indeed were the bitterest pain ! But we see the light and we bless the cry, Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie. Chorus of Citizens. He cometh late, this greatest under God, Promised for countless years, he cometh late— Where shall he dwell ? The cities of our state Are level with the sod. 44o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Shall he upbuild them then ? Meantime, we wait And see black footsteps where our martyrs trod. He cometh late, forsooth, he cometh late, This greatest under God ! Nor do we see the earth that he will claim Is riper yet than on the natal day. All lands are bloody, and a crimson flame Eats Hope's poor heart away. Where shall he turn for peace ? whom shall he trust for stay ? The anarchs of the world still sit and sway The hearts of men to evil ; — Hunger and Thirst Moan at the palace door; and birds of prey Still scream above the harvest as at first. Should he then come at all, This Soul on whom ye call, How should he dwell on earth ? would he not find it curst ? EPILUDE. 441 Semi-Chorus I. As the young lamb by its dam runs leaping, As the young bird to the old bough clings, Born to Earth in darkness and in weeping, He shall cherish her from whom he springs. Semi-Chorus II. He shall guide her blind feet very slowly, He shall guide her as none other can, He shall crown her brows and hail her holy, Mother of the mighty Soul of man. Chorus. The Soul shall arise. Sweetness and sanity, Slaying all vanity, Shall to love's holiness, Meekness and lowliness, Shepherd humanity. The Soul shall arise. 442 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Semi-Chorus I. He shall rise a creature and a spirit, Guiding Earth, yet guided as they go. If her low voice speaketh he shall hear it : Secrets of her bygone he shall know. Semi-Chorus II. He shall hear her voice and answer brightly ; They shall wander on by ways untrod ; He shall rest upon her bosom nightly, Nestling there and looking up to God. Semi-Chorus I. Shall they dwell for evermore together, Earth and the fair creature of her breast r Nay ; but on some day of golden weather They shall find a pleasant spot and rest. Semi-Chorus II. Peace ! ye souls who make sad acclamation, Wringing hands o'er broken towns of stone, Soon the Soul shall build a habitation Fairer than the fairest overthrown. EPILUDE. 443 Epode. Comfort, O true and free, Soon shall there rise for ye A City fairer far than all ye plan ; Built on a rock of strength, It shall arise at length, Stately and fair and vast, the City meet for man ! Towering to yonder skies Shall the fair City rise In the sweet dawning of a day more pure : House, mart, and street, and square, Yea, and a fane for prayer — Fair, and yet built by hands, strong, for it shall endure. In the fair City then Shall walk white-robed men, Wash'd in the river of peace that watereth it ; Woman with man shall meet Freely in mart and street — At the great council-board woman with man shall sit. 444 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Hunger and Thirst and Sin Shall never pass therein. Fed with pure dews of love, children shall grow. Fearless and fair and free, Honour'd by all that see, Virgins in golden zones shall walk as white as snow. There, on the fields around, All men shall till the ground, Corn shall wave yellow, and bright rivers stream ; Daily, at set of sun, All, when their work is done, Shall watch the heavens yearn down and the strange starlight gleam. In the fair City of men All shall be silent then, While, on a reverent lute, gentle and low, Some holy Bard shall play Ditties divine, and say Whence those that hear have come, whither in time they go. EPILUDE. 445 No man of blood shall dare Wear the white mantle there ; No man of lust shall walk in street or mart ; Yet shall the Magdalen Walk with the citizen ; Yet shall the sinner stand gracious and pure of heart. Now, while days come and go, Doth the fair City grow, Surely its stones are laid in sun and moon. Wise men and pure prepare Ever this City fair. Comfort, O ye that weep ; it shall arise full soon. When, stately, fair, and vast, It doth uprise at last, Who shall be King thereof, say, O ye wise \ — When the last blood is spilt, When the fair City is built, Unto the throne thereof the Monarch shall arise. 446 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. Flower of blessedness, Wrought out of heart's distress, Light of all dreams of saintly men who died, He shall arise some morn One Soul of many born, Lord of the realms of peace, heir of the Crucified. O but he lingereth, Drawing mysterious breath In the dark womb where he was cast as seed. Strange was the seed to sow, Dark is the growth and slow ; Still hath he lain for long — now he grows quick indeed. Quicken, O Soul of Man ! Perfect the mystic plan — Come from the womb where thou art darkly wrought ; Wise men and pure prepare Ever thy City fair — Come when the City is built, sit on the Throne of Thought. EPILUDE. 447 Earth and all things that be Wait, watch, and yearn for thee, To thee all living things stretch hands be- reaven ; — Perfect and sweet and bright, Lord of the City of Light, Last of the fruits of Earth, first of the fruits of Heaven. THE END. NOTES. G G NOTES. Page 3. Close round it snowing Are the Seraphs white, And next ?nore dim The Cherubim ; And from rings to rings, &c. un cerchio d'igne. . . . E questo era d'un altro circuncinto, E quel dal terzo, e'l terzo poi dal quarto, &c, E quello avea la fiamma piu sincera, Cui men distava la favilla pura, Credo, perocche piu di lei s'invera. Dante, Par., Cant, xxviii. , Page 8. Have ye forgot the sin of Fhrynichos ? This sin was the celebration of the miseries of the Ionians, in a tragedy called the Capture of Miletos. When, however, two years after the Battle of Salamis, Phrynichos chronicled the defeat of Xerxes, he met with an enthusiastic reception, and his success encouraged ./Eschylos to write the Persrn, — in some respects the very finest of the extant Greek tragedies, for the very reasons which make it inferior in ghastly tremendous- ness to the Orestean Trilogy. 452 NOTES. Page 23. Enter Stein. Of Stein's character as a patriot and a statesman, it is un- necessary to say one word. How cruelly Prussia rewarded him for his services is well known ; but the day of his apotheosis is at hand. We all know Arndt's songs, and his soul through them. Jahn is less familiar to all but historical students ; he was, however, a great creature — a source of constant inspiration to German patriots, and particularly the Gymnasiarchs. For particulars concerning these men, and many others as great in soul, who, rising in the moment of peril to save their country, were first welcomed, and after victory treated as lunatics and criminals, see Richter (" Geschichte des Deutschen Freiheit- skrieges) and the volume called " Geschichte des Liitzowschen Frei-corps," published in 1826, at Berlin. Page 28. O spirits dreaming, &c. Omnes enim per se divum natura necesse est, &c. Luc., I. 45. Page 40. But yestermom the old man Wieland stood Enlarging his weak vision for an hour Upon the demigod, who of Greece and Rome Talhed like a petulant schoolboy. Menzel (Geschichte des Deutschens), while justly inveighing against the literary heroes of Weimar, who were incapable of a patriotic sentiment, alleges that Wieland was kept standing an hour in Napoleon's presence, and when, unable from his old age to continue on his feet, he asked permission to retire, Napo- leon is said to have considered it an unwarrantable liberty. This is manifestly unjust to Buonaparte, who reserved all his brutality for queens and political opponents. Wieland himself, in his letters, gives an excellent account of the interview : it is more interesting and less familiar than the interview with Goethe. NOTES. 455 "I had not been many minutes there before Napoleon came across the room towards us : the duchess then formally pre- sented me to him ; and he addressed me affably with some words of compliment, looking me steadily in the face. Few- persons have appeared to me to see through a man so rapidly. He instantly perceived that, notwithstanding my celebrity, I was a plain unassuming old person, and, as he seemed desirous of making a good impression on me, he at once assumed the manner best adapted to attain his end. I never saw a man in appearance calmer, plainer, milder, or more unpretending. No trace was visible about him of the consciousness that he was a great monarch. He talked to me like an old acquaintance with his equal, and, w T hich was very rare with him, chatted with me exclusively an entire hour and a half, to the great surprise of all who were present. At length, about midnight, I began to feel inconvenience from standing so long, and took the liberty of requesting his majesty's permission to withdraw. ' Allez done,' said he, in a very friendly tone ; ' bon sot/-!' The more remarkable traits of our interview were as follows : — The previous play having made Csesar the subject of our conversation, Napo- leon observed that he was one of the greatest characters in all history ;] and that indeed he would have have been without exception the greatest but for one blunder. I was about to inquire to what blunder he alluded, when he seemed to read the question in my eye, and continued, ' Csesar knew the men who wanted to get rid of him, and he ought to have been rid of them first.' If Napoleon could have read all that passed in my mind, he would have perceived me saying, ' Such a blunder will never be laid to your charge.' From Csesar our conversa- tion turned to the Roman people ; and he praised warmly their military and their political system ; while the Greeks, on the contrary, seemed to stand low in his opinion. The eternal contest between their little republics was not formed, he said, to produce anything great ; but the Romans were always intent on grand purposes, and thus created the mighty colossus which bestrode the world. I pleaded for the arts and literature of the Greeks ; but he treated both with contempt, and said that they only served to make objects of dispute. "He preferred Ossian to Homer. In poetry he professed to 454 NOTES. \ value only the sublime, the energetic, and the pathetic writers, especially the tragic poets. Of Ariosto he spoke in some such terms as those which had been used by Cardinal Hippolito, of Este ; not aware, however, I think, that in doing this he was giving me a box on the ear. For anything humorous he seemed to have no liking; and, notwithstanding the flattering friendli- ness of his apparent manner, he repeatedly gave me the idea of his being cast from bronze. " At length, however, he had put me so much at my ease, that I asked him how it happened that the public worship, which he had in some degree reformed in France, had not been rendered more philosophic, and more on a par with the spirit of the times. 'My dear Wi eland,' he replied, 'worship is not made for philosophers ; they believe neither in me nor in my priest- hood. As for those who do believe, you cannot give them or leave them wonders enough. If I had to make a religion for philosophers, it should be just the reverse.' In this tone the conversation went on for some time ; and Buonaparte professed so much scepticism, as to question whether Jesus Christ had ever existed. This is very common every-day scepticism ; so that in his free thinking I saw nothing to admire, but the open- ness with which he exposed it." : Page 57. Enter Louisa of Prussia. I have here taken a slight liberty with history. The high- minded queen's famous interviews with Buonaparte took place at Tilsit, a year previous to the Congress at Erfurt in 1808, and two years after Buonaparte, standing at the tomb of Frederick Sanspareil, had publicly aspersed Louisa's fame. Page 69. Compound of Scapth and Olympian Jove. So the Abbe de Pradt, in his savage character of Napoleon, against whom he felt all the bitterness of a slighted tool : — " L'homme qui, unissant dan ses bizarreiies tout ce qu'il y a de NOTES. 455 plus eleve et de plus vil parmi les mortels, de plus majestueux dans l'eclat de la souverainete, de plus peremptoire dans le commandment, avec ce qu'il y a d'ignoble et de plus lache jusque dans ses plus grands attentats, joignant les guet-apens aux detronements, presente une espice de Jupiter- Scapin qui n'avait pas encore paru sur la scene du monde." Page 73. On Jena Prussia's feeble body died, &c. Everbody has followed the miserable campaign of 1806. " Les Prussiens sont encore plus stupides que les Autrichiens," cried Buonaparte, amazed at the wretched pottering of the Duke of Brunswick, adding afterwards, on hearing that the enemy expected him from Erfurt when he was already at Nu- remberg, "lis se tromperont furieusement, ces perruques ! " Wliy, how now, hath Pope Pius lost his wits ? &*c. There can be no doubt that Napoleon's sharp dispute with, and subsequent savage treatment of, the aged Pope made the French supremacy trebly odious to the Catholic population. Pius VII. showed a spirit worthy of a grander cause. Of course, he was contending against the avalanche ; but even such oppo- sition hastened its rush into the gulf that awaited it. Page 117. O Spirit of Man ! A foolish Titan ! This picture of the Spirit of Man mast not be read with any reference to the shallow and barbarous myth of Prometheus, which represents the demigod-like spirit of Humanity contend- ing against a Deity of unutterable malevolence- 456 NOTES. Page 128. Light of the Lotus and all mortal eyes, Whose orbit nations like to heliotropes Shall follow with lesser circle and sweet sound ! Proclus, in his "Discourse on Magic," preserved in the Latin translation of Ficinus, has the following exquisitely- beautiful passage : — " In the same manner as lovers gradually advance from that beauty which is apparent in sensible forms to that which is divine, so the ancient priests, when they considered that there is a certain alliance and sympathy in natural things to each other, and of things manifest to occult powers, and discovered that all things subsist in all, fabricated a sacred science from this mutual sympathy and similarity. Thus they recog- nised things supreme in such as are subordinate, and the subordinate in the supreme ; in the celestial regions, terrene properties subsisting in a casual and celestial manner, and in earth celestial properties, but according to a terrene condition. For how shall we account for those plants called heliotropes — that is, attendants on the sun, moving in correspondence with the revolution of its orb ; or for selenitropes, attendants on the moon, turning in exact conformity to her motion ? It is because all things pray and hymn the leaders of their respective orders ; but some intellectually, and others rationally ; some in a natural and others after a sensible manner. Hence the sun-flower, as far as it is able, moves in a circular dance towards the sun, so that if any one could hear the pulsation made by its circuit in the ah, he would perceive something composed by a sound of this kind, in honour of its being such as a plant is capable of framing. . Hence, too, we may behold the sun and moon in the earth, although according to a terrene quality ; but in the celestial regions, all plants, and stones, and animals possessing an intel- lectual life according to a celestial nature. Now the ancients, having contemplated this mutual sympathy of things, applied for occult purposes both celestial and terrene natures, by means of which, through a certain similitude, they deduce divine virtues into this inferior abode. For, indeed, similitude itself is a suffi- cient cause of binding things together in union and content. NOTES. 457 Thus, if a piece of paper is heated, and afterwards placed near a lamp, though it does not touch the fire, the paper will be sud- denly inflamed, and the flame will descend from the superior to the inferior parts. This heated paper we may compare to a certain relation of inferiors to superiors, and its approximation to the lamp, to the opportune use of things according to time, place, and matter. But the procession of fire into the paper aptly represents the movement of divine light, to that nature which is capable of its reception. Lastly, the inflammation of the paper may be compared to the deification of mortals, and to the illumination of material natures, which are afterwards earned upwards like the enkindled paper, from a certain participation of divine seed. "Again, the lotus, before the rising of the sun, folds its leaves into itself, but gradually expands them on its rising, unfolding them in proportion to the sun's ascent to the zenith ; but as gradually contracting them, as that luminary descends to the west. Hence this plant, by the expansion and contraction ot its leaves, appears no less to honour the sun, than men by the gestures of their, eyelids and the motion of their lips." Page 161. Strange are the bitter things God wreaks on cruel Kings ; Sad is the cup drunk up By Kings accurst, &c. A portion of this chorus is versified from Dio Chrysostom's "Treatise on Arbitrary Government." "Napoleon Fallen," when published in its first rough shape, opened with a chorus of German citizens, somewhat too colloquial in manner to suit the mystic quality of the scenes which followed, and therefore now suppressed. Most of the other choruses are new, and those retained are entirely altered and remodelled. Page 239. With Sin and Death our mothers' milk was sour, The womb wherein we grew from hour to hour Gather 'd pollution dark from the polluted frame. This measure is used once or twice by Slielley. 458 NOTES. Page 250. Yet he, too, fell. Early or late, all fall. No fruit can hang for ever on the tree, &c. An eminent friend " admits " that I do full justice to Napo- leon on the intellectual side, but "is inclined to dispute" his title to a " moral consciousness," and to question whether he is "capable" of any such "remorse" as I portray. This is an- other illustration of how many meanings men may find in a poem according to their different lights. So far from attempting to represent the speaker as feeling mere " remorse," I was por- traying, in his final soliloquy, a mood of unutterable perversity — a line of thought only possible to a fourth-rate intellect in which the moral consciousness was virtually inert and dead. From my own point of view, so utter was the wicked hopeless- ness of this soliloquy, that I should certainly have altered it, had my conscience not told me that every word was dramati- cally true. Page 288. Worshipping Thammnz and all gods obscene. See the superb passage in " Paradise Lost," Book I., line 446. Thammuz came next behind, Whose annual M'ound in Lebanon allured The Syrian damsels to lament his fate In amorous ditties all a summer's day, While smooth Adonis, &c. .Page 300. How long shall I to this sick world, this mass Of social sores, this framework of disease, This most iitfected many-member 'd earth, Play the hard surgeon ? To the reader who may question the moral truth of my representation of Count Bismarck, I recommend a careful study of his speeches now collected and published at Berlin. Once NOTES. 459 more, however, let me warn the student that the great states- man is approached from the divine side, during the highest mood of which, from the dramatic point of view, he is capable. That mood, unhappily, is a low enough one. Page 412. to waken Zut:ow's spirit '. Richter writes thus of the corps organized by Liitzow during the German "War of Liberation : — " With the utmost truth we may say that in Lutzow's volun- teer corps lived the idea of the war. The universal enthusiasm elevated itself here to a noble self-consciousness. In the other corps this and that individual might attain the same high intellectual position that was the property here of the whole body ; the soldier entered with full sympathy into the dignity of his personal mission, and fought from clear conviction, not from blind impulse. Those loose and roving adventurers that to a certain extent will always mix themselves up with a volun- teer corps, were kept in check here by the number of high and noble spirits with whom they found themselves in daily com- munion. Here, whatsoever glowed with holy revenge against the recklessness of a foreign tyranny ; whatsoever, in other parts of Europe, had manifested itself to be animated by a spirit of unyielding animosity to Napoleon's despotism ; whosoever had learned, under long-conquering banners, to curse the conquests, and . to despise the conqueror, were gathered together in one knot of many-coloured but one-hearted fellowship. These men were all penetrated by the conviction that, in the nature of things, no power merely military, no cunning of the most refined despotism, can in the long-run triumph over native freedom of thought and tried force of will. They looked upon themselves as chosen instruments in the hand of the divine Nemesis, and bound 'themselves by a solemn oath to do or to die. They were, in fact, virtually free when Germany yet lay in chains ; and for them the name of ' Free Corps ' (Frei Schaar) had a deeper signifiance than that of free (volunteer) soldiers. Here the deed of the individual was heralded by the thought that measured inwardly, and rejoiced in the perception of its own capability. Here the triumphant spirit of patriotism broke 460 NOTES. forth in song, in poetry, which is the outspread wing of enthu- siasm. The prince, the philosopher, the bard served under Liitzow, as volunteers, in the humblest capacity. The Prince of Karolath, Steffens, Jahn, Theodore Korner, and many other consecrated names belonged to this noble body; nay, even females, under well-concealed disguises, came boldly forward to share with this brave band all the toils and hardships of the sterner sex. The enemies of France, from Spain and the Tyrol, joined themselves to this corps, trusting to find here, at length, that revenge of their righteous cause which a mysterious Provi- dence had hitherto delayed. Riedl and Ennemoser commanded a body of Tyrolese sharpshooters, and among them was the son of Andrew Hofer. From the French armies, Dutchmen and Saxons, Westphalians and Altmarkers, rejoiced to belong to the " Black Corps " {Die Schwarze Schaar), as these troops, from their uniform, were familiarly named. In the whole body there was scarcely an individual who, on the plea of personal history or qualities, might not claim peculiar distinction. And so free were they from all prejudices of class, so jealous in a high self- respect, that no person was admitted into their number who refused to serve as a common Jager. Their fame has remained among the printed records of the war ; a separate volume eter- nizes the exploits of a small body of not more than 3,400 Page 436. Deign, King of Heaven, To hear our Chorus sing the Final Song Or Epode .... Thou, whose calm eyes measure all to come, Will S7nile to see how oft this poet tries To peer into the future and to sound The adveiit of Thy Kingdom. A crude early version of this " final song " was printed as a sequel to "Napoleon Fallen;" but "Christ" appeared there instead of " the Soul " in the final passages. I found that the words, " Christ shall arise and reign," were too literally inter- preted as a statement that Jesus Christ was to come in the flesh NOTES. 461 and rule the world ; and as I meant nothing of the sort, but only that the spiritual part of Christ should be present during the reign of the perfect Spitit of Humanity, I have taken good care this time to avoid misconstruction. There is another miscon- struction which I fear — that of a mere pantheistic reading of my " Cantata." Surely, however, no reader who has followed my representation of divine agencies throughout the Drama will do me the injustice of supposing that I consider man by any means the highest of beings. There are times, indeed, when I doubt if he is the highest of animals. We find on examination that those gentlemen who insist most on the superiority of man in the scale of nature, insist quite as much on the adjective " white," and coming a little nearer home, on the adjective "British." The formula that man is highest of beings, when uttered here in Britain, then generally resolves itself into this other formula — " the British white man is the highest of beings." Conceive a chain of development culminating in Mr. Carlyle at one point, at another in Mr. Disraeli, and at another in ex- Governor Eyre. ON MYSTIC REALISM: ON MYSTIC REALISM. "Poesie ist das absolut Reelle. Dies ist der Kern meiner Philosophie. Je poetischer, je wahrer." — Novalis (Schriften, vol. iii. p. 171). In the present work, and in the works which have pre- ceded it from the same pen, an attempt is made to com- bine two qualities which the modern mind is accustomed to regard apart — reality and mystery, earthliness and spiri- tuality ; and this combination, whether a merit or a fault, is a consequence of natural temperament, and perfectly incurable. The writer dropped into a world a few years ago like a being fallen from another planet. His first impression was one of surprise and awe ; — he stood and wondered — and here, on the same spot, he stands and wonders still. What is nearest to him seems so sublime, unaccountable, and inexhaustible, andoccasionally,indeed, so droll and odd, that he has never ceased to regard it with all the eyes of his soul from that day to this. Others may go to the mountain-tops and interrogate the spheres. Wiser men may peruse the Past, and see there, afar away, the dreamy poetry for which the spirit eternally yearns. More acquiescent men may look heavenward, slowly and strangely losing the habit of earthly perception altogether. With all these, with all who love beauty near or afar away, in any shape or form, abides the twofold blessing of reverence and love. But the Mystic is occupied hopelessly with what immediately surrounds him. Minuter examination leads only to extremer joy H H 66 ON MYSTIC REALISM: and wonder. To him this ever-present reality is the only mystery, and in its mystery lies its sublime fascina- tion and beauty. Only what is most real and visible and certain is marvellous, and only that which is marvellous has the least fascination. What he sees may be seen by every soul under the sun, for it is the soul's own reflec- tion in the river of life glassed to a mirror by its own speed. This close examination of human nature from the mystic side is not so common that men will tolerate it calmly. " What is the dullard looking at ? " cries the passer-by ; " what are these wretched beings who sur- round him? — costermongers, thieves, magdalen-women, village schoolmasters, nomads, — what is the sentimentalist trying to find among these ? He floods them with the light of his own vacant mind, and calls that light their souls .'" So the speaker passes on — to the heights of the Alps, perhaps, where he finds communion; God communicating with all men somewhere. A more elaborate person pauses next before the Mystic. " The man is in error," is his criticism ; " he would fain prove himself an artist, but art deals only with things beautiful, — with remote forms of nature, with the dreamy past, with antique turns of thought, with what is essentially exquisite in itself— and it has, moreover, a terminology quite at variance with ordinary speech. Man yearns to the unknown and illimit- able, and demands distance in the subjects of his art." And this other goes his way, grateful to God for Greece and Italy, and for Lessing and Winkelman. Mean- time the poor criticised barbarian has not budged. He looks on into the eyes nearest to him, and ah ! what distance does he not find there ? Approaching each creature as ever from the mystic side, he becomes, in spite of himself, an optimist. The moment he seizes or examination is the divine moment, when the creature under examination — be it Buonaparte or a street-walker, Bismarck or " Barbara Gray " — is at its highest and best, A NOTE FOR THE ADEPT. 467 whether that " best " be intellectual beatification or the simple vicarious instinct which merges in the identity of another. He sees the nature spiritualised, in the dim strange light of whatever soul the creature possesses. This light is often very dim indeed, very doubtful — so doubtful that its very existence is denied by non-mystic men whose musings assume the purely spiritual and unimaginative form. But be the teaching true or false, be the light born in the subject examined or in the human sentiment that broods over it, this mystic approach to the creature at his highest point of spiritualisation, this mode of approach which seems unnatural to many because it involves the most minute enumeration of details and the most careful display of the very facts of life which artists try most to conceal, is the only procedure possible to the present writer. The personal key-note to all his work — poor enough, God knows, is all that work from his own point of view — is to be found in the " Book of Orm," and most of all in the poem entitled " The Man Accurst." Imagination is not, as some seem to imply, the power of conjuring up the remote and unknowable, but the gift of realising correctly in correct images the truths of things as they are and ever have been. He who can see no poetry in his own time is a very unimaginative person. The truly imaginative being is he who carries his own artistic distance with him, and sees the mighty myths ol life vivid yet afar off, glorified by the truth which is Eternal. How many people can walk out on a starry night, or sit by the side of the sea, unmoved ? But let a comet appear, or a star shoot, and they exclaim, " How beautiful ! " Let a whale rise up in the water and roar, and they think, " How wonderful are the works of God ! " These are the people, and their name is legion, who lack as yet the consecrating gleam of the imagination. As for the Mystic, he needs neither a comet nor a whale to fill his soul with a sense of the wonderful ; he needs still less the dark vistas of tradition or the archaic scenery of 468 ON MYSTIC REALISM; obscure periods. He comes into the world, as has been said, like a man dropped from the moon, and he walks all his life as among wonderful beings in a strange clime. How far has he not wandered, how far has he not yet to wander ? — and every face he sees is turned in the same direction. Faces ! how they haunt them with their weird beauty and divine significance ! Go where he may, his path swarms with poetic forms. All is glorified and awful. What is nearest seems of all the most sublime and unaccountable. It is with difficulty that he can bear any book or contemplate any painted picture, seeing what books and pictures present themselves in the strangely- coloured lives of his fellow-beings. He turns to history — not in disdain of what exists, but in search of explanation and corroboration, and in order to discover what part of the strange show there is perishable, what part is durable and eternal. Having as he thinks discovered that, he may become a poet, and put on record his own idea or autobiography, written in reference to his own time, but to be used in all after-times as explanatory and corroborative. Homer, the Greek tragedians, Aristo- phanes, Plato, David and the prophets, the authors of the Sagas and Lieds, Dante, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Wil- liam Langdale, Chaucer, the ballad-singers of Scotland and England, Ben Jonson, Shakspere, La Fontaine, Burns, Wordsworth, Jean Paul, Balsac, Shelley, Tennyson, Whit- man, — do we find any of these men, poets all of them, turning away from his own time because it is too unin- teresting ? or, on the contrary, do we find them penetrat- ing to the very soul of it, stirring to every breath of it, uttering every dream and aspiration of it ? Does Dante try to write like Virgil, though he sits at Virgil's feet ? Does Chaucer ape Boccaccio, though he wears the Deca- meron next his heart ? Does Ben Jonson reproduce Plautus or La Fontaine Rabelais ? Does Burns, having drunk Scotch ballads into his soul, sing as the ballad-writers sang ? Do we find Wordsworth seeking for subjects far A NOTE FOR THE ADEPT. 469 back in the dark ages ? Has Shelley so little imagination as to reproduce Greek tragedy as it was, or so much imagination as to make of his " Prometheus " a veritable modern poem [in spite of the falsehood and shallowness of the myth it preserves] with a distinctly modern purpose and scope ? " But," some one again interposes, " this is such an unpoetic age, and the surroundings of modern life are so vulgar." The writer understands this objection, and there is reason in it. The majority of people find their ordinary associations vulgar and unpoetic, and like to be lured away from them and interested. . So much the worse, alas ! for the majority. But let it be at once admitted that the poet fails altogether if he fails to lure readers and interest them as they desire. He is no mere moral teacher, but a singer of the beautiful, and his real business in this world is not to join in a chorus raised by any group of people, but to explain some point of beauty which has rested altogether hidden until his advent. It people are unimaginative, he comes to teach them imagi- nation : if people dislike modern subjects, he comes to make them like modern subjects. If ordinary people perceived the sublime mysteries of contemporary life, if ordinary people understood the faces and souls they behold daily, it would be a waste of time to sing to them. If men in general understood the higher historical issues and perceived the higher poetry of the siege of Paris, what good would it be to celebrate it in song? And this poem, for example, fails altogether — is veritably less than nothing — is a futility, a mere wind-bag — if it does not make the reader feel the events it describes as he never, by any possibility, felt them before. In the " Drama of Kings," as in " London Poems," " Inverburn," and " Meg Blane," in the presentment of the characters of Buonaparte, Louis Napoleon, and Prince Bismarck, — as in the characters of " Nell," " Liz," " Meg Blane," and the rest, — one point of view is adopted ; not 47o ON MYSTIC REALISM. the point of view of the satirist, nor that of the politician, nor that of the historian ; but that of the realistic Mystic, who, seeking to penetrate deepest of all into the soul, and to represent the soul's best and finest mood, seizes that moment when the spiritual or emotional nature is most quickened by sorrow or by self-sacrifice, by victory or by defeat. In good honest truth, the writer has had far greater difficulty in detecting the spiritual point in these great leaders than in the poor worms at their feet. The utterly personal moods of arbitrary power, the impossibility of self-abnegation for the sake of any other living creature, the frightful indifference to all ties, the diabolic supremacy of the intellect, make the first Emperor a figure more despairing to the Mystic than the coster girl dying in childbed in a garret, or the defiant woman declaiming over the corpse of her deformed seducer. It is this sense of the superlatively diabolic that has made the author, in the Epilogue, attribute the performance of the three lead- ing characters to Lucifer himself; — only let it be under- stood not to the irreclaimable and Mephistophelian type of utter evil, but to the Mystic's Devil, a spirit difficult to fathom individually, but clearly in the divine service working for good. Perhaps, by the way, the supernatural machinery of Prelude and Epilude is a defect, like all allegory ; and if the consensus of wise criticism inclines to its condemnation as a defect, it will be obliterated, no author having a right to resist the wish of his readers where their dislike corresponds with a doubt of his own. But if it serves to keep before the reader the fact that the whole action of the drama is seen from the spiritual or divine auditorium, he will not regret its intro- duction ; and in using it without perfect faith, he may plead the example of the greatest poetic sceptic of modern times. No one did fuller justice to mystic truths than the great positivist who wrote the first and second " Fausts." Concerning the mere form of the poem and its resem- A NOTE FOR THE ADEPT. 471 blances to the Greek, little need be said. It is the first serious attempt ever made to treat great contemporary events in a dramatic form and very realistically, yet with something of the massive grandeur of style characteristic of the great dramatists of Greece. In minor points of detail the author is sanguine that it is not at all Greek, nor in any sense of the word archaic. The interest is epic rather than tragic ; but what the leading character is to a tragedy France is to the "Drama of Kings," — a wonderful genius guilty of many sins, terribly overtaken by misfor- tune, and attaining in the end perhaps to purification. It is unnecessary to add any more by way of explana- tion, save to say that most of the metrical combinations used in the choruses are quite new to English poetry, and that where a measure is employed which has been used successfully by any previous poet, the fact is chronicled in the notes. One word in conclusion. For this new experiment in poetic realism, the writer asks no favour but one — a quiet hearing. He has a faint hope that if readers will do him the honour to peruse the work as a whole, and then patiently contemplate the impression left in their own minds, the first feeling of repulsion at an innovation may give place in the end to a pleasanter feeling. Perhaps, however, this is too much to ask from any member of so busy a generation, and he should be grateful to any one who will condescend to read the " Drama" in fragments. Die Masse konnt ihr nur durch Masse zwingen ; Ein Jeder sucht sich endlich selbst was aus. Wer vieles bringt, wird manchem etwas bringen, Und Jeder geht zufrieden aus dem Haus. . . . Was hilft's, wenn ihr ein Ganzes dargebracht ! Das Publicum wird es eucb doch zerpfliicken. Robert Buchanan. 1,'D CO., PRINTERS, CITY ROAD, LONDON. WORKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. I. UNDERTONES. By Robert Buchanan. Price 6s. II. INVERBURN. By Robert Buchanan. Price 6^. III. LONDON POEMS. 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