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 CERACCHI, 
 
 A DRAMA, 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 ^< 
 
 
 nru^. 
 
 si quid vacui sub umbra 
 
 Lusimus tecum, quod et hunc in annum 
 Vivatj et plures. 
 
 Hor, 
 
 [not published.] 
 

 
 205449 
 '13 
 
 ROBINSON, 
 
 PRINTER, MAIDENHEAD, 
 
\ 
 
 ^w 
 
 TO 
 
 MT DEAR FRIEND 
 
 THE REVEREND WILLIAM J. IRONS, M. A. 
 
 OF QUEEN S COLLEGE, OXFORD, 
 
 RECTOR OF REED, AND VICAR OF BARKWAY, 
 
 IN THE COUNTY OF HERTS, 
 
 THIS LITTLE MEMORIAL 
 
 OF OLDEN TIMES, 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 
 
 S. NAYLOR, 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 To the few for whom more especially these pages 
 are printed, their contents will not be altogether 
 unfamiliar. Years have now elapsed since they 
 were first compiled, and the best apology for their 
 present appearance, may perhaps be found in the 
 favorable acceptation of some of the shorter pieces, 
 as the opportunities offered for their publication. 
 
VI. 
 
 The more immediate incentive to their re-pro- 
 duction here, will scarcely be deemed worthy the 
 explanation. 
 
 The first of the following compositions, for 
 which it has been presumed to claim the title of 
 a Drama, was designed as an impersonation 
 of the misdirected energies of a noble nature, 
 erring in its departure from habitual contempla- 
 tion of the exalted ideal of Art, into the vain 
 pursuit after its semblance in Man. The 
 story of Ceracchi, belongs to the domestic 
 history of the period. Its perusal in the lively 
 "Memoires dhme femme de qualite" at once sug- 
 gested its dramatic capabilities. The scenic 
 narrative of those memoirs has been closely 
 followed, excepting only in the developement 
 
Vll. 
 
 of the conspiracy, and which it has been ven- 
 tured to alter for the purposes appearing. 
 To anticipate the objection of adorning crime 
 by enduing the criminal in the countervailing 
 graces of a genius unborrowed of any art, would 
 be here out of place. Whether, indeed, the De- 
 mon of assassination be better entitled to assume 
 the robe of a Brutus, or the rags of a Ravailliac, 
 is but a questionable topic for prefatory discus- 
 sion. 
 
 The Passages translated from Faust, lay claim 
 to no merit beyond that of being as true and 
 literal a rendering of the original parts, as the 
 cognate genius of our own language would natu- 
 rally suggest; a characteristic of which the several 
 authors of the many English versions of the Poem, 
 
Vlll. 
 
 have uniformly declined to avail themselves. 
 Although mere verbal accuracy be, of itself, no 
 sufficient test of the merit of a translation, it is 
 not the less certain that, without its cardinal 
 observance, the spirit of the original will in vain 
 seek for a congenial exponent in another tongue. 
 
 The Translations, for the most part, were un- 
 dertaken by way of experiment, during a residence 
 at Weimar, — a name fragrant with pleasur- 
 able recollections to all Englishmen who have had 
 the happiness to sojourn there, and ever to be 
 honored and cherished by One, for the many 
 lasting recollections associated with that, to him, 
 endeared home. — Not the least portion of their 
 value, in the writer's estimation, is derived from a 
 grateful remembrance of the many kindly offices 
 
IX. 
 
 he was privileged to experience throughout their 
 progress at the hands of that most amiable and 
 highly gifted lady, Madame, de Goethe, the 
 varied and excellent qualities of whose nobly 
 endowed nature, were, as is well known to all 
 who know her, never more cheerfully exercised 
 than in the promotion of ends conducive to the 
 happiness of others. 
 
 For the Miscellaneous portion of the volume, 
 there will need, it is hoped, no further introduc- 
 tion, than, that like the first, though inscribed 
 by the pen of early youth, the leisure hand of 
 riper years has not disdained the invitation to 
 affix its "imprimatur." 
 
 Maidenhead, January, 1839. 
 
Lady ! it is a wan hand wakes to thee, 
 On a dilapidated lyre — yet how 
 Dearly once loved, the language now mast be 
 Mute as dumb echos to lost voices, know 
 Is never one, save who, with angel brow, 
 Content, hath sat the silent hour, could move 
 Kemembrance from its lethargy to flow 
 'Once more the mantled streamlet of young love, 
 Or lure the languid lid once more to look above. 
 Then take the Offering — offering if that be, 
 Which Time, the trespasser, hath sto^j^-frem thee. 
 
 January, 1839. 
 
CEE ACCHI 
 
CHARACTERS. 
 
 Napoleon Buonaparte, First Consul of France. 
 
 David, Painter to the Court. 
 
 Topino Le Brun, a young Artist. 
 
 Ceracchi, a Sculptor of Rome, domiciled in France, 
 
 Leonora, his Daughter. 
 
 The Scene throughout lies in Paris. 
 
CERACCHI. 
 
 Scene. — The Studio o/Ceracchi. 
 Ceracchi and Le Brun. 
 
 Cer. Proceed, but, with the Truth. 
 
 Le B. Since first we met 
 
 Thou hast not quarrelled with th' acquaintanceship, 
 But suffered aye that interchange of thought, 
 Where giving and receipt did make at once 
 The motive and continuance of our love, 
 Ripen to friendship, for the which I am 
 Much, much thy debtor; since to thee I owe 
 Whate'er I find in me perfectible, 
 Howbeit small. Thus learn'd I to regard thee, 
 
 B 
 
Z CEBACCffi, 
 
 As a superior nature ; one to be 
 
 Sought for the worth was in thee, and retained 
 
 At no expense too great — so thinking, judge 
 
 Of the esteem I held thy sayings in, 
 
 Thy doubts, and thine opinions, which were golden; 
 
 How shunned the risk of being spurned by thee, 
 
 How sought the chance of being loved ; for thou 
 
 Stern Censor wert to my infirmities, 
 
 Step-father to my faults — I thank thee for it. 
 
 Was not one secret in my heart, Ceracchi, 
 
 But was thine own as well : This ever so, 
 
 Nor, on the other hand, did spring a truth 
 
 Within thy bosom, but it's prizer found 
 
 In me, thy confidant. 
 
 Cer. 'Twas as it should be. 
 
 Le B. But suddenly thy manner grew estranged, 
 And wore a most unnatural diffidence : 
 Thy talk was Liberty— 
 
 Cer. Thine, not ! 
 
 Le B. And I, 
 
 No longer worthy of thy love, was thrust 
 Off as some monitor thou seem'dst to fear, 
 Or 'complice grown too dangerous to trust. 
 
 Cer. I thought thee subtle, from some things thou saidst. 
 
 Le B. Repeat them — 
 
 Cer. Words ; but for th' impression worthless ; 
 
A DRAMA. «f 
 
 Indeed, I scored them not. 
 
 Le. B. Why then mistrust me ? 
 
 Cer. Go to, thou fanciedst so. 
 
 Le B. See, now, suspicion, 
 
 The reptile that doth love the dark, protrude 
 Its feelers from thine eyeballs ! Even now 
 Thou marvelest how I have discovered thee, 
 And, like the spider tracked by his own thread, 
 All in a corner cower 'st, struck a heap ! 
 
 Cer. ( With exalted voice) 
 Who told thee, man, Ceracchi knew abasement? 
 Imagination? Scourge the liar out I 
 Who told thee that Ceracchi knew abasement? 
 Craft, say ye ? Kill her with a wiser cunning ! 
 False deeming's the most damnable deceit ; 
 It cozens him who cheats, and him who's cheated.. 
 If thy quick intuition was assumed 
 The better to beguile me to thy gaze— 
 Which I believe it was — then, I lament 
 Thine art should lord it o'er thy nature so, 
 And poor Fool pity for his folly's sake. 
 
 Le B. Come, come, no more — hast thou forgotten how 
 We have pursued the Atalante chase 
 Of Liberty, but to enrich us with 
 The gilded baits she dropped for our decoy ? 
 Hast thou forgotten how thou penetrated'st 
 
4 CERACCHI, 
 
 My very liver with the nightly tale 
 
 Of hopes and prospects blighted — fond, fond hopes, 
 
 Fair prospects, which thy mind did dwell upon 
 
 As they alone were fit to enter there ? 
 
 When thou relatedst what a dream was thine, 
 
 The dream of Liberty, on whose fulfilment 
 
 Thine happiness, thy life was staked, and thou 
 
 All in the energy of thy great soul, 
 
 Sware million deaths did cheaply purchase her ? 
 
 Nor didst thou labour in thy thought alone, 
 
 But bent thy body to the work, and proved 
 
 Thy precepts in performance — and was I 
 
 Not hand in hand with thee the while, imbibing' 
 
 From thy companionship, the self same spirit 
 
 Did animate thyself? — Ceracchi, hear me ! 
 
 Not greater grief did swell thy bursting heart 
 
 Than mine, when by th'ambition of one man, 
 
 Each glorious good thou meditatedst, died. 
 
 I, too, I wept, I mourned the evil fate 
 
 That brought our brightening prospects to a close.— 
 
 I marked the Corsican's career, and pierced 
 
 The very marrow of his inmost thoughts 
 
 Before himself durst trust his treacherous soul 
 
 With knowledge of its own fell purposes. — 
 
 Why start ye ? 
 
 Cer. At the counterpart — well — well ? 
 
A DRAMA. 
 
 Le B, Like thee 4 I ponder'd, and like thee, I dream'd 
 Night, day, of the Destroyer, 'till his image 
 Rose up a vampyre to my thoughts that suek'd 
 Their virgin blood away. — His hateful form 
 Clung, moss-like, to my memory, and choked 
 Its very vitals up — him saw I stretched 
 Upon the down bed of the Bourbon King, 
 Mocking its martyr'd monarch, — him beheld I 
 Hung'ring for th' ermine, plucking at the crown. 
 And, in the dreaminess of his dread eye, 
 Aping the state of royalty. — 
 
 Nor less 
 I marked the wan intelligence that beam'd 
 Forth from thine aspect, as thou dangled'st in 
 His train, concealing some high purpose in thee, 
 Only 'till fitting season should be found 
 For its developement. I longed to be 
 Part owner in that venture : day by day, 
 Pluming my spirit to th'endeavour : for, 
 I knew thee for a Brutus ; knowing which, 
 I feared not first to strike the Casca-blow, 
 With such a blade as thine to second it. 
 To-night I would have done it, as he stood 
 Amid his courtiers in the Tuilleries, 
 His myrmidons about him, but I mark'd 
 Thine eye, as it did scan him, and thy front, 
 
O CERACCHI 
 
 Which stood like a Messiahs', and I felt 
 
 Remorse at robbery of what did seem 
 
 The guerdon that of right belonged to thee. 
 
 Cer. Young man, how bloody is the mind of thee I 
 This is some feverish dream, go, sleep upon it : 
 And wake tlie morrow morn a wiser man ! 
 
 Le B. (draws a dagger from beneath his cloak.) 
 Do men wear daggers in their dreams ? 
 
 Cer. Tut— Tut 1 
 
 Back to thine easel, painter ! 
 
 Le B. 'Tis a rack, 
 
 On which my thoughts lie tortured. 
 
 Cer. Take thy brushes— 
 
 Le B. Daggers within my grasp ! and every touch 
 A stab upon the canvass. Talk no more on't ! 
 
 (Le Brun points to the dagger, and whispers Ceracchi.) 
 
 Cer. ( Half aloud. ) 
 Nay, nay ! — When I am with him for his bust? 
 To-morrow morn at noon he sits to me 
 For the last time but one — 
 
 Le B. (Eagerly.) 
 
 Then! 
 
 Cer. How — without 
 
 One word of warning, or of mild entreaty ? 
 
 Le B. 'Tis useless — he will foil us — strike at once ! 
 
 Cer. He was my friend. 
 
A DRAMA. 
 
 Le B. The better the less tampered. 
 
 Cer. Yes. I will speak to him : 
 
 Le B. (Scornfully.) 
 
 And bid him 'ware — 
 
 Cer. For he did love me, once. 
 
 Le B. So would lie now, 
 
 Did he not fear thee, and, so, hate. I tell thee 
 It is 'twixt him and thee as 'twixt sworn foes, 
 First blow, first blood ! 
 
 Cer. That's true — true — true ! 
 
 Le B. And give him 
 
 Another day, he's spider and thou fly ! 
 
 Cer. Yet I will speak to him. 
 
 Lc B. It will be treason 
 
 Unto his ear : thy life he'll have for it. 
 
 Cer. It will be honorable to speak him first. 
 
 Le B. All honor suits not with expediency. 
 
 Cer. Farewell — I'll think on it. 
 
 Le B. Nay, promise ! — Now ! 
 
 Cer, Well ; let it be. so — fare thee well ! yet stay — 
 Are we alone in this — this high emprise ? 
 
 Le B. There are three others well aware of him : 
 The Corsican Diana, Joseph Arena, 
 And Damerville, the General of Brigade. 
 They three have dogged him for days past, but ever 
 Foul'd on his track, he's grown so circumspect ; 
 
8 CERA.CCHI. 
 
 Thou know'st the men ? 
 
 Cer. The men I know, in common, 
 
 As good men, true and valiant — for aught else 
 I never scanned their qualities — They should 
 Be Romans who would lift an arm in this — 
 No matter ! Yet I would 'twere ours alone. 
 
 Le B. (retires. ) 
 
 Cer. Ay ! and by Heaven ! I'll do it ; I, alone ! 
 
Ji DRAMA 
 
 Scene. — An apartment in the TuiUeries. Ceracchi is dis- 
 covered at work on an unfinished bust of the First Consul. 
 The door opens and Buonaparte enters. 
 
 Buon. It was my purpose to surprise ye thus» 
 That we might sit uninterruptedly 
 An hour in talk, before the attendants knew 
 I kept th' appointment in thy Studio. 
 
 Cer. Thou feelest, too, the joy of privacy, 
 Watched ever as thou art by — 
 
 Buon. (Starts.) 
 
 Watched ! who watches ? 
 
 Cer. The world— which is observant of the man 
 "Round whom the vortices of faction whirl. 
 
 Buon. Writhe, rather say, like snakes set round about 
 My ears, to hiss and splutter forth their venom ! 
 Would God they'd but one head! 
 
 Cer. . A Nero's thought ! 
 
 Buon. Thy self-sufficient jeer ! 
 
 Cer. Suits it thy humour 
 
 So to regard it, well. 
 
 c 
 
10 C.XRACCHX, 
 
 (The first Consul takes his Seat; and Ceracchi disposes 
 himself to ivork at the Bust.) 
 
 Cer. More to the light 
 
 I prithee — so. 
 
 Buon, Thou deem'st me, then, a Nero? 
 
 And yet am I no Emperor. 
 
 Cer. In name — 
 
 And why not that, if so ye be in heart ? 
 Why frown ye ? 
 
 Buon. To thy work ; my time is short. 
 
 Cer. Work can I, and converse the while : There ia 
 A capability of mind in Art, 
 Enabling thought's divarication from 
 The immediate object of its visible theme— - 
 Prompting the seeking Spirit of the man 
 To higher intercourse elsewhere. — Besides, 
 Methought to talk with me thou cam *st ? 
 
 Buon. To talk 
 
 With thee I came, the whiles thou wert at work; 
 Not sit and listen to thy lunging tongue, 
 And be thy butt of talk, my friend, believe ye. 
 
 Cer. ( With loud violence.) 
 Would'st have me pay thee court in private? Nay ! 
 Nay, by th' Apollo of great Pihdias ! 
 
 Buon. Pish ! 
 
A DRAMA, II 
 
 Cer. Are we not man to man, as in the days 
 Of ancient fellowship ? No eye upon us, 
 Save the great eye of Heaven— * the rolling orb 
 Which all th' expanse beneath its opening lid 
 Fills with effulgence ? — 
 
 Buon. Kind and courteous, ever, 
 
 As thou wert wont, I'd have thee; but not thutf. 
 A fierce name lurketh in thy brooding brow> 
 Which I nor like, nor choose to look upon. 
 I knew thee for another once. 
 
 Cer. Another 
 
 Hope once athwart my credulous heart did throw 
 The silver shadow of her westring wing ; 
 Strewing, with flowrets fresh from morning's lap, 
 Life's green and pleasant springtide — beckoning forth 
 The latent love that languished in my soul- 
 Bidding my footsteps 'tend the path thou trod-st :— * 
 But lo ! it was a vapour ! In the glare- 
 Of the broad noon, ; that mad imagining. 
 That vain delusion dissipated, died I 
 
 Buon, (restless.) 
 
 Why this to me ? 
 
 Cer. (casting away his chisel, and advancing, with agita- 
 tion towards Buonaparte. ) 
 
 To thee -?— Thou wert that hope! 
 
12 CERACCHI. 
 
 I marked thee by the might of thine own mind 
 
 Leading the living soul of the wide world, 
 
 E 'en as a little child an elephant 
 
 Linked to its swayful will by a small cord. 
 
 I marked thee in the sunrise of thy soar, 
 
 Topping the clouds for pastime ; which to thee 
 
 Did seem but as the places where to rest 
 
 Thy foot- soles in their swift aeriel flight 
 
 Into some land of loveliness and joy. 
 
 From Austria's capture to the welcome peace 
 
 Of Campo Formio went scarce one day 
 
 But each in th' other's dear companionship 
 
 'Twixt sun and sun held converse : I from thee 
 
 Drawing the breath of pure philanthropy, 
 
 And thou, as from this altar of thine hands, 
 
 Inhaling the sweet incense o'er again. 
 
 I marked thee in, and followed thro', the plains 
 
 Of Italy, whose balmy sky first bathed 
 
 My infant limbs in its bright flood of day : 
 
 Helped thee with hand and heart-strings to upturn 
 
 The bondage of my fellow-countrymen : 
 
 Saw thee, a second Hannibal, cut through 
 
 The adamantine girdle of my home ; 
 
 Straight cleave thy passage to the Pontiff's chair,. 
 
 And wave thine eagles o'er his wildered gaze. 
 
A DRAMA, 
 
 13 
 
 Oh ! what a drunken moment of delight ! 
 When kinsmen, country, friends, all, put away 
 To serve the cause of France, and of the world, 
 Of liberty, of life, of Buonaparte ! 
 
 Buon. What raving madman art thou grown ! 
 
 Cer. Thou didst not 
 
 Think so upon a time. 
 
 Buon. Then must thou have 
 
 Most cunningly, (which fathers the suspicion) 
 Contrived thy true unvarnished character 
 To mask, or feign the one thou had'st not. 
 
 Cer. Neither, 
 
 As well thou knowest. Doth thy memory 
 Yet mindful hold of former prophecy ? 
 
 Buon. The knave's prescription for the fool's complaint ! 
 
 Cer. That which I speak of us alone concerns. 
 
 Buon. Of what would'st speak ? 
 
 Cer. At Milan was it, where, 
 
 Thine eagles having swooped o'er Italy, 
 Thou and the victor host at thy command 
 Did enter for a season. As thou stood'st 
 One day within th' embattled ranks, I made 
 My way through the opposing bayonets 
 That did surround thy person, breathless with 
 Fevering hope of friendship long estranged, 
 
14 CERACCHI, 
 
 To clasp thine hand, and, with the tears of joy, 
 
 Bedew its surface, when, (unkindly done !) 
 
 Leisurely eyeing me, thou turn'd'st, and said, 
 
 'Twas difficult to trace in memory's map 
 
 The vestige of the friend of early years, 
 
 Surrounded as thou wert with features new 
 
 And voices made familiar to thine ear. 
 
 But when my name thou heard'st, and my tongue groaned 
 
 Something about unkind forgetfulness, 
 
 And the loose-strung affection time could. warp*-* 
 
 At the rebuke thou paled'st, and replied, 
 
 1 1 do remember we were friends, but we 
 
 Have seen long separation, and the herd 
 
 About me, are from interest my friends. 
 
 And they have made me think mankind are such 
 
 As they themselves ; so many knees bend low 
 
 To my prosperity, I fain must think 
 
 All men are made for crouching, and despise them.' 
 
 Whereat I answered thee most memorably; 
 
 Ha ! Is it come to this ? Despisest thou 
 
 The world ? Then, Corsican, thou'lt domineer it 1 
 
 Did I speak true or false ? 
 
 Buon. False, false ! 
 
 Cer. Thy proof! ? 
 
 Buon. Around thee, wheresoe'er thou wilt, may 'at look, 
 
A DRAMA. 15 
 
 Thou'lt find I do not domineer, but rule. — 
 
 Cer. With iron sway, where the last Bourbon, whom 
 Thou dost usurp, before thee governed 
 With silver sceptre as compared with thine. 
 
 Buon. Which was the reason why it snapped ! Men are not 
 What thou dost take them for, and I would have them. 
 
 Cer. Else would their doom be other than it is. 
 
 Buon, I understand your sneer, and know to spurn it. 
 Ceracchi, thou art envious ! 
 
 Cer. No : by the living Spirit of the Godhead ! 
 Which quick 'neth at this hour my purest thought, 
 I would not envy power in mortal man, 
 Were it Titanian in its might, and ample 
 To give the greatest glory of the earth 
 To the possesser on't — save that which served 
 The ministry of peace to the whole world, 
 And in its compass counted every good, 
 Its blessings lavished equally on all. 
 
 Buon. (striding rapidly across the chamber ', and dart- 
 ing fierce looks at Ceracchi.) 
 Tattle for nurseries ! have done with it ! 
 Look up, and be a man ! with years grow wise ! 
 I'd rather rot, than live so long, and learn 
 So little of experience ! — Dreams — all dreams ! 
 
16. CERACCHI. 
 
 Cer. (with calm yet earnest dignity advancing towards 
 Buonaparte, and affectionately seizing his hand.") 
 Oh ! if the manner of beseechment may- 
 Aught from its outward fashioning derive 
 Wherewith to gild persuasion, let it serve 
 That I, on knee till now unknown to bend, — (kneels.') 
 Save at the altar of my God, — do here, 
 By the dumb eloquence of mien, lift up 
 The prayer which words can speak not — and do thou 
 The all-articulate supplication feign, 
 Which, wert thou the Omnipotent, and held 
 The forked spear of fate, would penetrate 
 Thy secret chord, and make thee poise awhile 
 The rivening bolt uplifted to destroy : 
 For such a stream of words I'd use with thee 
 As should persuade persuasion — 
 
 Ah ! dost turn 
 Thine ear away ! 
 
 ( CeracchVs hand steals over the dagger concealed in his 
 breast.) 
 
 For Christ's sake ? turn again 
 That I may feel thine eye on me ! 
 
 Buon. (Disengaging his hand from CeracchVs frantic grasp) 
 Madman ! I mark the demon in thy scowl* 
 
A DRAMA, 
 
 17 
 
 QCeracchi alone. ) 
 
 Cer. — Gone ! on his lip the cold and callous sneer, 
 
 Constraining the observer to conclude 
 
 The inward part of him untuneable 
 
 To any impulse save the goading spur 
 
 Of his o'erleaping aim ! — 
 
 Had I but done it 
 
 When I was down before him, on my knees, 
 
 Suing in vain to his obduracy, — 
 
 What more had been the deed than serviceable, 
 
 As adding one number to the up-piled heap 
 
 Of mouldering tyrants ? — Had I killed him so. 
 
 How would th' approving conscience on the morrow 
 
 Have justified, as now it shall, the blow ? 
 
 And now, more nerved I feel to undertake 
 
 This awful purpose : every sinew sets 
 
 Stiller, and steadier than before, and mind 
 
 Made up to the grand effort, seems to poise 
 
 Her pinion, now no longer fluttering, 
 
 As some far journeying bird in sight of her 
 
 Long sought, long cherished, long estranged rest. 
 
 Oh blessed rest ! Oh silver sound of peace ! 
 
 Could the pure honey of that one sweet word 
 
 Drop in and mingle with the cup of blood 
 
 Whereon these gloating eye-balls are distent 
 
 Through the long waking night of life ! And ye ! 
 
 O ye base caitiff wretches, whom the deed 
 D 
 
18 CERACCHI.. 
 
 Of death allures with sordid appetite, 
 Or the fell whisperings of some passionate pang , 
 By wrath, revenge, or enmity enkindled — 
 Born of, and nurtured in the world of self ! — ■ 
 What must ye feel in the re-visitings 
 Of night and solitude, whose sable mantles 
 Shew white against the dark pall o'er your hearts, 
 Themselves more black than it ! — when I, impelled 
 On the commission of a kindred sin. 
 For ends that have no rooting in my will, 
 Nor draw their life from aught that lives in me, 
 The wavering agent, — yet am so dismayed 
 At the bare shadow of my desperate doing, 
 These hands were readier far to sack and storm 
 Life's citadel within mine own clay walls 
 Than spring the covert mine beneath another's — 
 But for the awful voice that speaks within me ! 
 (David enters.) 
 
 Dav. Pardon, mine honor'd master, the intrusion ! 
 
 Cer. The welcome friend did never yet intrude. 
 
 Dav. The Consul's willing messenger ami, 
 Of his munificence and love. You start, — 
 As well you may, for it is something rare, 
 Confessedly, from an offended humour 
 To pluck advantage. 
 
 Cer. Pray you. Sir, relate 
 
 Without the axiom 
 
A DRAMA. 19 
 
 Dav. 'Twas but now I sat 
 
 At work in the great window of my studio 
 Within the palace, on the last large painting 
 Commissioned by the Consul for the Pope ; 
 When suddenly in came he, looking fire 
 From's eyes, as is his wont when chafed, and said, 
 " David ! Ceracchi hath addressed me in 
 Language unfitting my relationship 
 To France ; he's envious : go thou to him straight 
 And say, I have a lynx eye that can pierce 
 The marrow through the bone, and have detected 
 The devil in him working for his ends ! 
 Bid him from me unalterable friendship, 
 And such regard as he who beareth sway 
 In a great empire can bestow : but mark me I 
 If that he would continue this condition 
 'Twixt him and me, then let him look he step not 
 Beyond the point at which endurance halts : 
 Else shall contempt come treading out the marks 
 Of warm esteem, all from th' obtrusion of 
 Familiarity where none is asked — • 
 Thou art an artist : so is he : no fitter 
 Person than thou to do this — go !— " Then added 
 In tone subdued, as if the flame went out 
 In that one gush of words, — .** If his sole bent 
 Be eminence, and I have power to help 
 Him to that end, (which if one man on earth 
 
20 
 
 CERACCHI, 
 
 More than another can, I am that one) 
 
 Tell him my fortune at his service stands, 
 
 And that I will go leagues to seek him out 
 
 The thing he sets his soul on — but, 1 brook not 
 
 In my affairs his idle interference : 
 
 Precedency in art, or branch of art, 
 
 Waits but a nod to signify his wish, 
 
 And the high patent's granted : — Tell him thus." — 
 
 This said, abrupt and quick was his departure. 
 
 So, seest thou, citizen, the ladder placed 
 
 By the Frst Consul's hand — do thou up-climb, 
 
 And mount to where thou mark'st the crowning point. 
 
 Cer. You speak like a true courtier, silver-tongued : 
 Yet do your words weigh not with me : I have 
 No stomach for monopoly of merit : 
 Had rather from men's inward thoughts exact 
 My patent of precedency, than owe 
 To favour, like a doled alms bestowed, 
 The meed I would demand from them by right. 
 
 Dav. Sure thou'lt not spurn the Consul's courtesy— 
 His kindness — ? 
 
 Cer. Is it meant in kindness, think ye ? 
 
 Dav. How else ? 
 
 Cer. I do not so regard it, soothly. 
 
 When once a friend so far forgets his friendship 
 As to confound all recollection of 
 The man he knew for noble in his nature, 
 
A DRAMA 
 
 21 
 
 Make proffer of his patronage to one 
 Who helped him to the opportunity 
 Of so dispensing it among the herd 
 That lick his hand for what they get by it : 
 Call you that friendship ? courtesy, i' faith ! 
 I hate the practice on't ; I'll none of it ! 
 
 Dav. Patience, and I before ye straight will set 
 The proposition in its natural light ; 
 Which seems to thy disturbed faculty 
 So strange a medium. Wherefore, know I not, 
 This change, since once I well remember thee 
 Of taste, discretion, and all rarer virtues, 
 Consummate master — but enough, 'tis changed. 
 
 Cer. Thou say'st — enough, 'tis changed — enough ! 
 
 Dav. Yet why 
 
 Thou should 'st so far have disapprenticed thee 
 Of thy discipleship to art, so much 
 Have laboured to despise the thing thou loved 'st, 
 As thus refuse its crown of eminence 
 By merit won, and proffered by acclaim, 
 Thorough the symbol of the people's choice, 
 Surpasses my conjecture. 
 
 Can'st recall 
 The many a discourse sweet and talk prolong'd 
 Deep in the waning night, what time we sat, 
 Thou and thy gentle daughter, and myself, 
 Upon the terrace hanging o'er the lake 
 
22 CERACCHI. 
 
 Before thy studio ? — 
 
 Cer. (with deep emotion) There was yet another ! — - 
 Now sitting with the Saints in their bright glory. — 
 Ah me ! too well can I recall those times ! 
 
 Dav. How pictured'st thou to my then youthful soul, 
 In colours such as none like thee could tint, 
 The glory of that greatness which was set 
 Before the son of art as for his goal — 
 The peaceful glory fitting the solitude 
 Of patient hours of struggling and abstraction 
 Apart unto the full developement 
 Of the Divinity within, devoted ! 
 Thus wontest thou to chain my thirsty ears, 
 And with the like enticements magnify 
 Before my sanguine soul the high estate 
 Of the condition high she might attain — 
 Not that thyself had reached it, and that thus 
 Thou, in the recapitulation, wert 
 Feeding vain-glorious fantasy — for thou 
 Ever beyond the many's comprehension 
 Soared'st, amid the ether blue of thought, 
 And fancy, subtilized above the scope 
 Of all who stood not next thee. — 
 
 Cer. (impatiently) Boy, no more ! 
 
 I taught thee not t' approve thy master's merits 
 Before his face — Go to, thou 'It anger me ! 
 Let us no more of this. 
 
A DRAMA. 23 
 
 Behold, my daughter 
 Hither is come to seek us— Leonora ! 
 (Leonora enters.) 
 
 Cer. My child, my best beloved ! what bringeth thee 
 Within the palace ? 
 
 Leon, (delivering to him a sealed packet) To deliver this ; 
 Which I did promise with my lips, to place 
 With mine own hands in thine ; for it concerned, 
 So did the bearer say, thee much to read it 
 Without delay. 
 
 Cer. ( Opens the packet, and reads aside) 
 To-night ! and at the play ! 
 (aloud) 
 I thank thee, child, for this thy filial love. 
 
 Dav. Nothing, I hope, unpleasant — 
 
 Cer. Nothing, nothing I 
 
 To change the hour of an appointment, only ; 
 Which I shall well enough remember. — Now 
 Must I away from hence : And ye, my children, 
 Make one another's company suffice, 
 And so farewell till sun-down ! (Exit Ceracchi.) 
 
 Leon, (who has with difficulty restrained her emotion, 
 bursting out) 
 David, thou lov'st me — truly ? 
 
 Dav. As my life ! 
 
 Leon. Life ! Dost thou love me to the death ? say that ! 
 
 Dav. Without thee, Leonora, welcome death ! 
 
24 CERACCHI. 
 
 Or life were but a living sepulchre, 
 Deep chiselled by the graver memory, 
 With one vast epitaph of joys all — all 
 With thee departed ! 
 
 Leon. Out, alas ! his passion 
 
 Doth him, of all men, make the most unfit 
 For sudden counsel in this pressing straight ! 
 
 Dav. If there be wanting aught — ? 
 
 Leon. All, David, all ! 
 
 Thy constancy, what is it more than mine ? 
 Thy firm adherence to my father's fortunes 
 Throughout the period when he stood alone, 
 Unaided but by thee, against the legion 
 Of the fierce terrorists, and braved to scorn 
 The fury of a Danton, was a thing 
 Which thou for friendship didst elect to do, 
 And admiration of my father's virtues, 
 Not for my love, which now unto the test 
 Thine would subject, to prove if it be made, 
 Of metal firm enough to forge with mine ! 
 
 Dav. Thy speech, thy tone, thy manner all are strange 
 Yet, if this be but — , as I hope it is — 
 The wayward impulse of some sudden thought 
 Engendered of the passing moment only — 
 Light duty, and by quick performance paid, — 
 I beg of thee to change it for some other, 
 Some graver 'hest, which I, by prompt fulfilment, 
 
A DRAMA. 25 
 
 Will on the instant satisfy ; 
 
 Leon. Oh David ! 
 
 Forget I am the thing I am — or, rather, 
 Remember I no longer am that thing — 
 A silly heedless maiden who did joy 
 Boccacio's pages with her Love to con. 
 As light of heart as they of whom the tales 
 Are therein told ; as prone to freaks arid jests, 
 As e'en the maddest there. — Alas ! no jeer 
 Sits on my tongue, or lurks within my heart, 
 Tho' by your looks you seem to say so — Hush ! 
 What sound ? — Are we secure from listeners ? 
 
 Dav. These are the Consul's private chambers ; none 
 Have access here without his special license. 
 But why this secresy? thy look, thy features 
 Betray an agony of grief within 
 Thine heaving bosom : I implore thee, speak 
 My Leonore, mine own betrothed. 
 
 Leon. I will, 
 
 On one condition. 
 
 Dav. Name it. 
 
 Leon. That thou promise 
 
 To seek me never more until the charge 
 I now deliver thee be out of hand, 
 And done as I shall dictate ! 
 
26 €ERACCHI. 
 
 Dav. (kneeling) I do swear, 
 
 Upon my bended knees, I'll so perform it 
 In sight of the Great God, in whose high name 
 I here do warrant for the deed ! 
 
 Leon. Amen ! 
 
 Thou must upon this mission high 
 With sudden speed be gone. — Thy love, my life, 
 My father's — all, depend upon thine haste. 
 
 Dav. Maiden ! what means this ? 
 
 Leon. Listen ! and obey ! 
 
 Thou hast the Consul's ear — go to him straight, 
 And tell him that Ceracchi — yes, my father — 
 The father that begat me — seeks his life ! 
 
 Dav. (Forbid it, gracious Heaven !) 
 
 Leon — That ere night wanes 
 
 One hour, he must be seized ! Remember 
 Thine oath ! 
 
 Dav. Deluded girl ! thy father's life 
 Thou'd'st take, and for the dagger use my tongue ! 
 I'll pluck it by the roots first ! 
 
 Leon. That thou may'st, 
 
 When it hath done my bidding, and thine oath. 
 Quick ! to the Consul ! 
 
 Dav. Gracious Powers ! I dream ! 
 
 Leon. Away, away! blood hangs upon each moment. 
 
A DRAMA. &J 
 
 Dav. Alas, she's mad ! — What proof hast thou of this ? 
 
 Leon. That care be mine. 
 
 Dav. Woman ! I can not — can not I 
 
 Leon. Then fare thee well for ever, perjurer ! 
 If thou, for love, lack'st courage, and dost will 
 To be not able when a child entreats 
 For her lost father, get thee gone, poor wretch ! 
 See what a woman, and a weak one, can ! 
 Time brooks not here delay. (rushes out) 
 
 Dav. What do I dream ? 
 
 Where am I ? — What hath passed ? Oh she is mad ! 
 Ceracchi ? — he, the god-like, an assassin ? 
 And by his child denounced ? his own heart's blood ? 
 It must not, shall not be, away, away! 
 
28 CERACCHI. 
 
 Scene. — Leonora's Chamber. — She is reclining on a couch : 
 her looks emaciated and wan. David enters softly and 
 approaches her. 
 
 Leon. Whose step is that, which with such noiseless tread 
 Doth, like a mourners sad sepulchral pace, 
 Burthen the heavy silence ? 
 
 Dav. Leonora ! 
 
 Leon, (raises herself up, fixing her disdainfal eye upon 
 him) 
 Coward forsworn ! this is thy work — behold ! 
 
 Dav. Lady, thou dost accuse me wrongfully : 
 Not my work, but thine own. — 
 
 Leon. Thou sayest — 
 
 Mine only is the deed, which thou compelledst 
 By thine unmanly hesitation. Go ! 
 
 Dav. Alas ! thou dost me most unmeasur'd wrong, 
 Yet will I bear it patiently. Not now 
 The time for exculpation, whilst thy father 
 Lies pining in the cells' unwholesome air. 
 
 Leon. I ask thee not to aggravate my woes : 
 
A DRAMA. 29 
 
 Let the big dangers yawning round suffice, 
 Without thy help t' increase them. 
 
 Dav. Lady, alas ! 
 
 Embittered is thy spirit with the gall 
 Of deep despair. Believe me, fain would I, 
 The once beloved — now scorned, yet innocent — man, 
 In these dark moments of emergency 
 The fleeting time for fleetest acts employ, 
 And, with my counsel cheer thy courage on, 
 If not by challenge fire it. 
 
 Leon. Thus it is — 
 
 A daughter, 'gainst her will, doth jeopardy 
 Her father's life for a brief space, to save 
 That father from the scaffold, and, thine aid, 
 Refused when erst 'twas lovingly implored, 
 Is now of none avail to save or help him. 
 
 Lav. Oh Leonora ! had'st but used more art 
 And less of native impulse, I had been, 
 As now I fear I can not, thine armed friend, 
 And stood for thy dear sake, the self-impeached. 
 
 Leon, (with emphasis) 
 Remember, Sir, I am Ceracchi's daughter ! 
 I have begun, I can go thro' with this. 
 
 Dav. ! Alone ! God help thee, maiden ! 
 
 (repulsed by her haughtiness, is about to depart, but re- 
 turns, and imploringly asks) 
 
30 
 
 CERACCHJ. 
 
 Is there aught 
 
 Wherein I may, by life or limb befriend thee ? 
 
 Leon. What canst thou do? thy father is he not, 
 
 Lav. Oh yes, my more than father was Ceracchi. 
 No parent was the sire to whom I owed 
 My birth, compared to him beneath whose eye 
 I upward grew : whose presence hover'd round me, 
 Like some sweet bird of calm along the waste 
 Of the world's wilderness — the dreary sea 
 Of bickering thoughts, dark clouds, and bufferings 
 Which the young venturer baffle. — This thou knowest : 
 For was it not with thee, loved Leonora, 
 The trolling noontide tripping to the night, 
 In dance fantastic all the merry months 
 Of an Italian year, that, hand in hand, 
 We wont to gild the sunny hours of youth, 
 Gladdening with mirth the parent's doating eye 
 Which knew no joyance save in either's sight ? 
 
 Leon. Oh happy, happy days ! — for ever fleeted ! 
 
 Dav. Oh say not, think not thus — when, that thy father 
 From out this present travail is delivered, 
 May we not thither tend our glad return, 
 Thou, and thy parent, and thy former friend 
 (Perchance — if but the heavens smile graciously — . 
 The future partner of thy world of love ! ) 
 Implant our settled seat in some alcove 
 
A DRAMA. 
 
 31 
 
 With art and the Old Empire eloquent, 
 High o'er the ravings of the rabble herd 
 There to reign sovereign, our hearts, infixed, 
 All in a universe by us created, 
 Of happiness, and innocence, and love ? 
 
 Leon. This from thee, David ? — Were they lies they told 
 Of the great change in thee since thou had'st been 
 Among the Consul's friends enrolled, and one 
 About his dazzling chariot- wheels display'd, 
 Choicest of chosen ones ? — 
 
 Yet could they not be — 
 Or why thy well known touch upon the wicket 
 (The little wicket opening on the lawn) 
 So long unheard by these aye-listening ears 
 Each evening, as the streaky twilight came ? — 
 The converse sweet, or melody, or stroll 
 Leisurely hastened by the warning gust 
 Of the advancing night amid the leave^, 
 Breezing th' acacia in the garden hedge — 
 So long suspended, these, so long delayed ? — 
 
 Dav. Truth told they, Leonora, when they said 
 The Consul soaring in his eagle -flight, 
 My gazing eye -balls dazzled — true, my soul, 
 With admiration only not content, 
 Sighed to participate and follow. This, 
 
32 
 
 CERACCHT. 
 
 Tho' leages asunder, did his eye observe, 
 
 His condescension, and his grace approve ; 
 
 The invitation came, his hand I kissed — 
 
 The Conqueror of Europe's lion hand ! 
 
 We were that moment, and have since been, friends. 
 
 All this thy father saw and hated ; for 
 
 The reasons which thy sad discovery 
 
 Hath made all known to thee — this was it, too, 
 
 For which no more he welcom'd me to come 
 
 And listen, as of yore, to his full tones 
 
 On themes of art that loved to descant sweet, 
 
 Or wile away the swallow- winged hours 
 
 O'er the rapt echos of thy ravishing lyre, 
 
 Warbling its night song with the bird of night 
 
 In chords that lured the eve-stars from their home* 
 
 Midway to meet the madrigal, and die — • 
 
 Leon, (hiding her face in his bosom) 
 Mine own ! my lost — but still mine own ! 
 
 Dav. Beloved ! 
 
 Need I to tell thee of the passionate grief 
 Which swept away all peace, all harmonies, 
 Save that remembrance of the past through thee 
 Made sweetly, though too sadly welcome ? How 
 I did assail thy father with entreaty 
 To look into my soul, and there behold 
 
A DRAMA 
 
 33 
 
 If any change had made me the less worth}' 
 Of his high friendship, and parental love — 
 In vain ! — such his unconquerable hate 
 Of the First Consul, whom he termed my friend. 
 But I do tire thee. — Thy bent look proclaims 
 That other thoughts live in thee. — 
 
 Leon. Oh my father ! 
 
 My dear, dear father ! wilt thou pardon me 
 For having thus betray 'd thee to the man 
 Whose death thou deem'd'st high enterprize enough 
 For thine achieving hand to compass it ! 
 
 Dav. That will he, for thy heroism's sake : 
 Besides, unto his daughter will he owe 
 His life, made precious by her love. — 
 
 Leon. Oh, David ! 
 
 My mind misgives me for the end of this. 
 What if the people should oppose his pardon ? 
 Demand his death ? or, in their mercy, grant 
 Him worse than death — a living grave — the dungeon ? 
 
 Dav. Fear'st thou the Consul will not keep his promise, 
 That he alone would save him t 
 
 Leon. I believe it, 
 
 As I believed his sole almighty arm 
 Sufficient to redeem the pledge he gave ; 
 But, the fierce tumult of first terror past, 
 
23 
 
 CERACCHI. 
 
 Sad thoughts, misgivings, and disheart'nings have 
 To th' onset of the impulse follow'd fast, 
 And dismal are the doubts I entertain 
 That he alone can save not — 'tis with him 
 As with a gallant ship upon the waves 
 Steering her course right onward ; which to do, 
 Tack with the contradictory rude gale 
 She must, not steer it right a-head to port : 
 So, if the people do demand his death 
 With their obstreperous voices, must not he 
 Swim with the current which he dare not stem ? — 
 Shuddering, I think on what I've done ! 
 
 Dav. Hope only ! 
 
 Let me entreat thee, Leonora ! — Come 
 Into the freshening breeze — thou dost forget 
 In me thy father hath a friend will die 
 A willing sacrifice for him — for thee : 
 Thou dost forget my sway with Buonaparte, 
 Which can determine him to stand between 
 Thy father and the world against his safety, 
 Should it arise to fright him from his bent, 
 Which, if my knowledge of the man aught valueth. 
 With giant's might will strive to keep his word. 
 
A DRAMA. 
 
 Come, love ! thy fancy hath o'ermaster'd thee. 
 Come, 'tis a lovely night, and all things rest.— 
 
 Leon. Save the lone prisoner in his cell. — Oh David ! 
 
 (She bursts into tears, and leans, overpowered, for 
 support on David, who gently leads her towards the 
 balcony.) 
 
36 CERACCMI. 
 
 Scene. — A Cell. Ceracchi is sitting in deep meditation ; an 
 opened letter in his hand, in which he looks from time to 
 time. 
 
 Cer. Forgive thee ? Yes ! forgiveness shalt thou have 
 E'en as thou ask'st it, — " to the uttermost." 
 Oh no ! I am not wrath with thee, my child. 
 Thou say'st (and I believe thee) " 'twas thine anchor — 
 The one strong anchor of thine only hope, 
 That with thy woman's fervour, thou let'st go 
 To save thy father's life" — which it will wreck ! 
 
 ( He takes up the letter and reads^) 
 " The secret was reveal'd to thee by one 
 Whose name thou did'st engage not to divulge " — 
 And sacred from my seeking shall it rest. 
 
 Child of my livelong love ! bone of her bone 
 Who bare thine infant body — and to death 
 At thine all-innocent birth a victim fell, 
 That thou might'st live and — curse me ? — 
 No, no ! — yet kill ! What ! and thy father too ? 
 
A DRAMA. 37 
 
 ( The door of the cell opens, and one enters muffled in a 
 cloak) 
 
 Cer. So soon ? 
 
 Figure. Art thou prepared ? 
 
 Cer. What man can say 
 
 He is so ? Yet as who hath weighed full well 
 The chances, ere he threw the die, I am ! 
 See ! thou shalt follow as I lead, and mark 
 The path unto the scaffold hath for me 
 No thorns. 
 
 (He advances towards the door) 
 
 Fig. Yet, stay ! Hast thou no thought on earth ? 
 
 Cer, Too many for remembrance — come — away ! 
 
 Fig. Awhile ! My voice doth summon not to death, 
 
 Cer. To me 'tis equal -whither, then ? 
 
 ( The cloak falls, and Napoleon Buonaparte stands forth) 
 
 Buon. To life — 
 
 And liberty ! 
 
 Cer. To liberty ? No, no ! 
 
 That hast thou sentenced to that doom which I 
 Had made thy fate ere now. 
 
 Buon. Ceracchi, 
 
 No more ! go free ; thy crime 1 do forgive. 
 
4© CERACCH7. 
 
 Cer. Forgiveness at thy hands I'll never seek. 
 
 Buon. Unsought I proffer it. 
 
 Cer. I'll none of it! 
 
 Buon. Rash criminal ! what can'st thou gain by this ? 
 
 Cer. Nothing : and therefore is it that I am 
 To thee incomprehensible. — Remember, 
 Thou can'st not kill the spirit in this clay ! 
 
 Buon. To tame that demon came I hither : — listen ! 
 Suspicion hath not in thy case, dark man ! 
 Wronged him against whose name her bat-like wing 
 Hath stumbled. — Thou art worse — in truth, thou art, 
 Much worse than thy worst enemy can feign thee. 
 Enough — thou would' st my life : In that black scowl 
 The features of the murderer I beheld ! 
 Beheld, yet spake not : for I fear'd ye not ; 
 'Gainst that was proof. — 
 
 Cer. Thou wast ? — ^say rather had'st ! 
 
 Thy proof thou wear'st, not bear'st about thee. 
 
 Buon. How ! 
 
 Cer. Thy corslet is no secret, Corsican ! 
 Though by your sudden start, till now you thought so. 
 Pray you proceed. 
 
 Buon. Incomprehensible ! I knew 
 
 The madd'ning blood- thirst in thy look ; and mark'd 
 The spirit of the cannibal jet forth 
 
A DRAMA. 39 
 
 From every joint of thee — thy fever yearn 
 Upon my warm life as I walk'd before thee ! 
 I quail 'd not ; for I deem'd thee sole — I erred. 
 My spies informed me ye were many banded : 
 My life was on more dagger's points than one : 
 The ravings of a madman passed me by : 
 The empty toad-croak fell not on mine ear : 
 But, when conspiracy dogged at my heels, 
 And the assassin's weapon wore no sheath, 
 E'en from his child's unprying eyes — 'twas over ! 
 The guilt of longer dalliance had been mine, 
 Ye were arrested, prisoned — what remains 
 But for the headsman to perform the rest ? 
 Hold — I will spare thee all confession — 
 {Buonaparte unlocks his fetters} 
 
 Go! 
 And with offended honour make thy peace ! 
 {a pause — (Jeracchi stands immoveable} 
 Buon. You linger ! — And is life so little worth ? 
 ( Ceracchi still remains fixed) 
 The doors are wide. — The guards withdrawn. — No eye e'en 
 To scan thy gait, or make thee feel its gaze. 
 One waits without, for whom each moment drags 
 The length of days by weariest hope drawn out — 
 Thy daughter. — 
 
40 
 
 CERACOHI. 
 
 Cer. Without a. pledge — a promise from my lips. 
 An oath, a compact to no more thirst after, 
 The drink my soul doth pant for. Liberty — 
 Which cannot be but through thy death ? — 
 
 Buon. Without ! 
 
 Go forth ! — Once past the threshold, thou art changed. 
 
 Cer. How little hast thou read the upright soul ! 
 
 Buon. Thine will I trust. Thou'rt free ! 
 
 Cer. And my companions? — [hear 
 
 Buon. Death — death without reprieve ! — listen ! may'st 
 The muffled bell above our heads, each minute 
 Tolling as for the dead ! 
 
 Cer. And think 'st thou thus 
 
 To cozen my poor conscience ? fie ! fie ! fie ! 
 So to misapprehend my nature — so 
 To fancy me the thing thou'd'st have me be. 
 Think 'st thou for death I had not set my thews 
 Ere I encompassed thy life ? or think 'st thou 
 For envy, 'gainst thy state I did conspire, 
 With the uncharitable rival's hate ? 
 Was mine the dull and treach'rous eye that blinked 
 Askance upon thy greatness, in sick pall our? 
 Did it not rather, high as iEtna-flame, 
 Blaze out at the bleared vent, and loud proclaim 
 To thine unwilling soul the fire within, 
 
A DRAMA, 41 
 
 Which could not quenched be, but in the change 
 Of thy tyrannic temper, or thy blood ? 
 And yet, for all, my spirit thou'd'st coward deem ! 
 Most capable her conscience to condemn, 
 And, by thy proffer'd pardon deep enthral'd, 
 Barter her best of pearls for loathed life — - 
 Life, without liberty ! — Thou know'st me not. 
 
 Buon. Madman ! is this thy lasting purpose ? 
 
 Cer. Ay : 
 
 As destiny itself immutable ! [like 
 
 Buon. True — true. I should have known was nothing 
 Mock martyrdom to grace a murderer's grave. 
 
 Cer. (abstractedly,) 
 I had a hope was something more than hope : 
 For it was plumed with an up- struggling wing, 
 And wore to my entranced faculty 
 A most undying aspect — coming ever 
 With a new grace each morning of my days — ■ 
 That, ere I died, the last completing touch 
 Might by this hand upon th' unfinished bust * 
 By Buonarotti's happiest touch inspired 
 
 * Michel Angclo Buonarotl i commenced a bust of Brutu3 at Florence, which he 
 never finished. The topic at the time called forth the epigrammatic wit of the 
 verse-makers, in allusion to the motive which might have influenced the Artisl Lo 
 leave imperfect so fine a work. 
 
 a 
 
42 CERACCHI. 
 
 Into the perfect semblance of the man 
 Who slew the Roman Tyrant, on the Ides, 
 The ever-memorable Ides of March, 
 Be consummated — and the world behold 
 How such as Brutus can look forth like gods ! 
 
 Buon. Go now, fulfil thy wish. 
 
 Cer. That can I not. 
 
 To make the marble live, the fashioner 
 Must of that life participate, whereof 
 He would impart the image to the clay. 
 Not as the Brutus' is my right arm red 
 With the ripe blood of tyranny. — 
 
 Buon. No more ! 
 
 The senseless banter of a maniac moves me 
 To nought but pity and contempt — Ceracchi, 
 My word is pledg'd for thy escape. 
 
 Cer. I know it, — 
 
 Unto my daughter ? 
 
 Buon. Do thou seize the moment : 
 
 More than this once I may not make it thine, 
 Thy life by other means is 'yond my reach. 
 
 Cer. Thou hast fulfill'd thy promise — we are quits ! 
 
 Buon. Thou wilt not? 
 
 Cer. Never ! 
 
 Buon. Think ! 
 
A DRAMA. 43 
 
 (Ceracchi waves his hand in negation) 
 
 Buon. Then, madman, die ! 
 
 (As he pronounces the last words, Leonora rushes in, and 
 throws herself into her father's arms. The officers of 
 justice appear in the back-ground ; and the scene closes 
 on all. 
 
PASSAGES 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE 
 
 FAUST 
 
 GOETHE 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 ( In a high arched narrow gothic chamber \ Faust is sitting 
 disquieted at his desk.) 
 
 Faust. At length with restless energy have I 
 Law, Physic, and alas ! Divinity 
 Throughout explored — and here I sit, poor fool ! 
 As wise as ere I went to school. 
 Magister hight, hight Doctor too ! and flout 
 My pupils by the nose about 
 Through ten years, round, and up, and down, 
 To see there's nothing can be known ! 
 'Tis that consumes me heart and bone ! 
 For sooth a cleverer man am I 
 Than all your scribbling, doctoring, preaching fry 
 Me scares no doubt, nor pang of conscience evil, 
 Nor fear of Hell, nor terror of the devil, 
 And therefore 'tis my soul no joy approves. 
 No fancy beckons me, no impulse moves 
 
48 
 
 PASSAGES 
 
 To enterprise, or thought, that should befit 
 To teach mankind some glorious benefit. 
 Without estate, no rank is mine, 
 Nor worldly gear, nor title fine : 
 No dog would thus lap up life's bitter cup — 
 Wherefore to magic I have given me up, 
 The dread experiment to try 
 If Spirits' might and augury 
 Avail the secret door to burst : 
 That I no. more, with sweat accurst, 
 Need talk what I dont understand — 
 Oh ! rather might my intellect expand, 
 Deep in the bowels of the earth behold ! 
 Watch Nature's teeming womb unfold ! 
 Nor longer deal, like mocking birds, 
 In the mere chandler-ware of words ! 
 
 Oh ! would it were, thou full orbed moon ! — 
 For whom at the dead nights' mid noon 
 At this lone desk so oft have I 
 So steadfast watched, and wearily, 
 What time athwart th' illumin'd ream 
 Thou shed'st thy melancholy beam, — 
 Thy last, last look, oh ! would it were 
 Upon my present torment here ! 
 Oh ! that on some mountain height 
 I could, all revelling in thy light, 
 Round mountain caves with Spirits evermore 
 In balmy meads of twilight hovering soar ! 
 No longer forced in knowledge fumes to mew 
 Bathe freshened in thy vivifying dew ! 
 
FROM FAUST. 49 
 
 Woe's me ! still in the dungeon pent, 
 Accursed, stifling 'prisonment ! 
 Where Heaven's loved ray itself grows dim 
 Through murk- stained mul lions struggling in. 
 Hemmed round by heaps of books up- piled, 
 Moth-eaten, mouldering, dust-defiled, — 
 
 A smoke-bleared paper reaching to the walls, 
 
 Phials and cases at due intervals 
 
 Disposed, 'mid instruments uncouth, 
 
 And heir loom lumber from ancestral halls — 
 
 This is your world I — This call a world, forsooth! 
 
 And ask ye, still, why in its nest 
 The fearful fluttering heart doth cower ? 
 And wherefore o'er the throbbing breast 
 Stalks forth some undefined power 
 Thy leaping life-blood to restrain ? — - 
 Instead of that which God infused 
 Into man's soul, and heart, and brain, 
 Of living Nature — thou art used 
 
 To what surrounds thee — moulder, smoak, and newts : 
 And pore o'er dead mens' bones, and skeletons of brutes ! 
 
 Awake ! Away ! Out, far and wide ! 
 Say, is not this mysterious book, 
 By Nostradamus' hand supplied, 
 Sufficient guide through every nook ? — 
 Therein may'st find the planets' course : 
 Mark Nature teaching Man, her brother ; 
 While mounts the soul's up- welling source 
 As talks one spirit to another. 
 
 H 
 
50 PASSAGES 
 
 In vain thy poring dull and dry, 
 Expounds to thee each holy sign — 
 Ye Spirits ! hovering anigh, 
 Make answer with your, voice divine. 
 
 (He opens the Book at the sign of the Macrocosm) 
 
 Aha ! what rapture thrills me at the sight ! 
 
 Through nerve and vein I feel the hallowed flowing 
 
 Of life-joys, fresh and filled with gladsome light ! 
 
 Was it a God who traced these symbols glowing ? 
 
 Which still the tumult raging night and day, 
 
 Pour in upon my heart a stream from Heaven, 
 
 And with mysterious mightiness display 
 
 The gracious powers by bounteous Nature given i 
 
 Am I a God ? all seems so clear ! 
 
 I see in these fair forms before me 
 
 Nature busy as the day she bore me- 
 
 Now first the wise man's meaning doth appear, 
 
 ^Tijc foorlD of j&pmtg fe not closet) for coer ! 
 
 @Tl)ine intellect, iijixu fjeart are gone ; 
 
 2£p, Keop^gte ! anti in t\je purple &tbcr 
 
 ©{ mornings* bloom unmelt t^tne £cart of stone ! 
 
 (He gazes on the Sign.) 
 
 How all into the vast Whole weaves ! 
 Each in the other moves and breathes ! 
 Ascend, descend the Heavenly Band, 
 As they the golden ewers hand : 
 With their pinions bliss-exhaling, 
 
FROM FAUST. ' 51 
 
 Up from earth to Heaven sailing, 
 
 Harmonious all, " The All " pervading ! 
 
 A sight, indeed ! yet ah ! but a mere sight ! 
 
 Adhere can I clutch thee, Nature infinite ? 
 
 Ye Breasts, where are ye ? Life-springs void of bane, 
 
 At which the universe depends, 
 
 Whereto the blighted bosom tends ! 
 
 Ye gush, ye give to drink — shall I thus pant in vain ? 
 
 (He turns over the leaves impatiently, and the sign of the 
 Earth Spirit arrests his eye.) 
 
 How differently this sign affects my sense I 
 
 Thou, Spirit of the Earth ! art near akin : 
 
 I feel my energies grow more intense, 
 
 And tingle as with wine fresh from the bin ! 
 
 1 feel as on the world I could forth go, 
 
 The earthly bliss to bear, the earthly woe — 
 
 Where storm and strife's fierce hurly-burlys blow, 
 
 And in the shipwreck's crash no trepidation know ! 
 
 The clouds are gathering o'er me ! 
 
 Her light the Moon is hiding ! 
 
 The lamp-wick flickers ! 
 
 Fumes rise ! around my head 
 
 Dart ruddy flashes !— from the roof 
 
 Down settling, Shuddering seizes me ! — ■ 
 
 It is ! I feel ! Thou comest, Spirit evoked ! 
 
 Disclose thyself ! 
 
 Ha ! How my heart it tears ! 
 
 And new sensation 
 
 Whirls the whole sense in its creation ! 
 
52 PASSAGES 
 
 I feel my heart all up to thee surrendered — 
 
 Thou must ! thou must ! though Life itself be tendered ! 
 
 {He grasps the Book, and mysteriously pronounces the 
 Sign of the Spirit. A reddish flame dances about. The 
 Spirit appears in the flame.) 
 
 Spirit. 
 Who calls me ? 
 
 Faust. {averting his countenance') 
 
 Spectre horrible ! 
 
 Spirit. 
 By might hast thou compelled me here, 
 Hast long been sucking at my sphere, 
 And now — 
 
 Faust. 
 
 I loathe thy presence fell ! 
 
 Spirit. 
 Imploringly thou suest to behold me, 
 To hear my voice, to look upon each feature- 
 Loud smites the wail of the soul-yearning creature — 
 Here am I ! — What ! and hath thy courage sold thee ? 
 What ague fit of drivling tremor now 
 Hath seized on thee, thou Superhuman, thou ? 
 Where is the Soul's high nerve, the bosom where, 
 Which all within itself a world did bear, 
 Created, nourished, and with ecstacy, 
 Swelled out to mount to where we Spirits be ? 
 
FROM FAUST, 53 
 
 Where art thou, Faust, whose call fell on mine ear 
 
 That all so eagerly would 'st have me near ? 
 
 Art thou the man, who blasted by my breath 
 
 Dost through thine inmost soul-depths quake to death, 
 
 A timid path-betrodden worm ? — 
 
 Faust. 
 Thou thing of flame ! succomb to thee ? 
 'Tis I — 'Tis Faust, thine equal ! see ! 
 
 Spirit. 
 In the floods of life, in action's storm, 
 Up and down I bubble : 
 To and fro 
 I ebb and flow — 
 Cradle and grave, 
 An endless wave, 
 
 A life of chequered joy and trouble. 
 About the loom of Time I never rest, 
 I weave the Deity's unfading vest ! 
 
 Faust. 
 Thou busy Spirit, that round the world dost wing, 
 How close I feel me to thy nature cling ! 
 
 Spirit. 
 Thy kinship lies mid those thou comprehendest. 
 Thou'rt none of mine. (Vanishes} 
 
 Faust (gathering himself up.} 
 Not thine ? 
 
54 PASSAGES 
 
 Whose then ? 
 
 I, image of the Godhead, 
 
 And not mate for thee ? 
 
 (A knocking) 
 
 Oh death ! I know it — That's my Famulus : 
 My happy fortune's over for to-day. 
 That all this feast of glorious Visions, thus, 
 The sneaking, drivling dolt should scare away ! 
 
 {Enter Wagner in his dressing-gown and night-cap, 
 a lamp in his hand. Faust turns angrily.) 
 
 Wagner. 
 Your pardon, but I heard your voice recite 
 A Grecian Tragedy, if I am right ? 
 I fain would make some progress in this art, 
 For now-a-days 'tis deemed a useful part : 
 In fact, I've heard it said, with some concern. 
 A Parson much might from a Player learn. 
 
 Faust. 
 Yes, when your Parson likewise Actor plays ; 
 As like enough may happen now-a-days. 
 
 Wagner. 
 Ah ! if within-doors one's so used to mope, 
 And scarce on holidays peeps out ones head 
 To view the world, as through a telescope — - 
 How by persuasion can the herd be led ! 
 
FROM FAUST, 00 
 
 Faust, 
 Seeking will never feeling compensate; 
 If from the soul it do not gusli, 
 And with primeval energy, elate, 
 Tho hearts of all serenely hush. 
 For ever ye may ponder and compare, 
 Hash messes from another man's carouse. 
 And of your own wee ashen-heap, (O rare !) 
 The tinder, by a breath to sparks arouse : 
 Of babes and apes the wonderment may'st be. 
 If such your palate — but soul linked to soul, 
 Dream not thereof in thy stupidity, 
 Unless the tide from thine own bosom roll. 
 
 Wagner. 
 Delivery crowns the Orator's success. 
 I feel it well, yet can't at all progress. 
 
 Faust. 
 Go seek some honest calling, then ; 
 And be no more the mere bell-wether fool : 
 Plain sense and reason offer men ; 
 No mountebank to mart them from a stool. 
 Whene'er the impulse to speak out is strong, 
 What need of striving after stale sing-song ? 
 Sooth ! all your spouts and speechifyings fine, 
 In which you mock so miserably your race, 
 Are unrefreshiug as the night wind's whine 
 That rattles the dry leaves in autumn's face. 
 
 Wagner. 
 Eh, Lord ! How long is Art ! 
 
56 PASSAGES 
 
 And life how brief and brittle ! 
 
 I often feel my bead and heart a little 
 
 Misgive me in my critics' arduous part. 
 
 How very difficult the means to get 
 
 Whereby a man the fountain head may reach ! 
 
 And ere one's over half the journey yet, 
 
 Poor Devil ! perhaps upon the road his carcase lies to bleach ! 
 
 Faust. 
 From sheepskin, then, is holy water drained, 
 From whence a draught the thirst for ever stills? 
 Invigoration hast thou ne'er obtained 
 Until thy soul is slaked at her own rills ! 
 
 Wagner. 
 
 Your pardon — 'Tis a great delight to feel 
 Transfused into the spirit of the past : 
 Observe how thought her able men, and deal 
 In speculations on our victories vast. 
 
 • 
 Faust. 
 Truly, as vast as are the stars that glisten ! — 
 My friend, times past are as a book seven sealed : 
 What you the spirit of the age would christen 
 Is in reality your own revealed, 
 In which the times are mirrored — what 
 A lamentable thing is often that ! 
 The first glance is enough to scare away ! 
 A dust hole and a lumber closet ! » 
 
 Or e'en, at best, a dramatised state play, 
 For saws pragmatical the sure deposit, 
 
FROM FAUST. O/ 
 
 Such as the Puppets splutter in their day. 
 
 Wagner. 
 But, then, the world — man's heart and brain — 
 All men of these would fain some knowledge gain. 
 
 Faust. 
 Ay, what the world call knowledge — yet 
 There's none can name the child by its true epithet ! 
 The few that have thereof a smattering learned 
 And to the mob preached what they've felt and seen, 
 These have been alway crucified and burned — 
 Excuse me, Friend, the night is growing late, 
 And, by your leave, we now will separate. 
 
 Wagner. 
 For many an hour I fain had kept awake, 
 A willing listener to your learned talk : 
 Yet since to-morrow morning's sun will break 
 On Easter-day, permit some queries as we walk. 
 With zeal I mean on study's path to go ; 
 Know much, yet all that's to be known would know. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Faust. (Solus.) 
 That any hope should in the brain abide, 
 Which ever to each rotten stuff will cling. 
 With rav'nous clutch for treasure groping wide, 
 And all elate to find some tadpole thing ! — 
 
 I 
 
O© PASSAGES 
 
 And dared such mortal speech as his presume 
 Here in this Spirit element to sound ? 
 Yet soothly did thy step dispel the gloom. 
 Thou simplest of the sons of earth around ! 
 'Twas thou who from despair didst set me free, 
 Which even then my sense was maddening fast — 
 For ah ! the vision seemed so huge to me, 
 I felt as dwarf before a giant vast. 
 
 I, image of the Godhead, that so near 
 Did deem myself unto the mirror truth, 
 Revelling in heaven's lustrous atmosphere 
 And stripped of all the properties of earth — 
 I, more than cherub, whose unfettered will 
 E'en thro' the veins of nature to explore, 
 And in the God-life to enjoy my fill, 
 Presumptuous, dared — am barred atonement's door 
 One thunder-word hath swept all trace of me. 
 
 I dare not to compare myself with thee. 
 
 And had I e'en possessed the power to incline 
 
 Still, firm to hold thee here, no power was mine. 
 
 In that blessed happy moment 1 
 
 At once so lowly felt and high ; 
 
 Inexorably ye thrust me off 
 
 On human life's tumultuous surf — ■ 
 
 Who'll teach me ? what am I to shun ? 
 
 Shall I each impulse heed, or none ? 
 
 Alas ! our actions, like our sorrows, choke 
 
 The path of life with weeds, and mire, and smoke ! 
 
FROM FAUST. 59 
 
 The noblest work that e'er the mind inspired 
 With added newness more and more augments : 
 Whene'er the good of this world we've acquired, 
 We designate the better, trick, nonsense. 
 The glowing feelings which have given us life 
 Freeze up amid the earthly strife. 
 
 If phantasy at first with venturous flight, 
 
 Hope-buoyed, into eternity expand, 
 
 Sufticeth soon of space a little mite, 
 
 When all her hopes lie wrecked upon the strand, 
 
 Or down Time's whirlpool sucked out sight of land ! 
 
 All in the deep recesses of the heart 
 
 Care makes his lair, implants his rankling dart : 
 
 And, restless, rocks about, supplanting peace and joy, 
 
 In a new mask appearing constantly — 
 
 At one time as a house, retinue, wife — 
 
 Now fire, flood, tempest, poison, or the knife. 
 
 Our courage doth before each bugbear quail, 
 
 And what we never lose we without ceasing wail. 
 
 Deep, deep I feel no part of me's divine ! 
 
 The worm that traileth in the dust am I ! 
 
 A reptile thing, on which no sun can shine, 
 
 All crushed and covered o'er by the chance passer by. 
 
 Is not that dust which on a hundred shelves 
 
 These towering walls within their sides compress ? 
 
 The trumpery of a thousand toys that delves 
 
 The moth-pit, whence in vain I seek egress ? 
 
 In this place shall I 'light on what I lack ? 
 
60 PASSAGES 
 
 In thousand books read o'er the ten-told theme, 
 How every where itself mankind doth rack ? 
 How here and there one happy one has been ? 
 
 Thou, hollow scull ! what mean'st thou by that grin ? 
 
 But that thy brain, like mine, once lost its way ? 
 
 Seeking with joyousness the truth to win, — 
 
 In bitter darkness pining for sweet day ? 
 
 Ye, too, ye instruments, forsooth ! must mock, 
 
 With wheels, cogs, arcs, and such machinery: 
 
 I reached the door which ye were to unlock — 
 
 Your beards are grizzled, yet the bolts defy 
 
 Nature, mysterious, in the light of day ! 
 
 Permits no hand to tear her vale away : 
 
 And what she may not to thine heart reveal 
 
 Ye'll never wrench, by lever, screw, or reel. 
 
 Thou antique furniture, by me unused, 
 
 Art here because ye stood my Fathers' stead. 
 
 And thou, old scroll, by nightly smoke suffused, 
 
 Which the lone lamp upon this desk hath spread — 
 
 Better my little were all spent and gone 
 
 Than sit and sweat beneath that little's weight ; — 
 
 Whate'er thy sires have left thee make thine own; — 
 
 Acquirement must possessing compensate ; — 
 
 Things useless form the chiefest misery, 
 
 And what the moment needs it can alone supply. 
 
 Yet wherefore fasten on yon spot your sight ? 
 Is yonder Flask a loadstone to the look? 
 And whence this sudden gleam of lovely light, 
 
FROM FAUST. 61 
 
 As when, all underneath the murk midnight, 
 The moon, up-peering, pearls the forest nook i 
 
 I greet thee, precious phial ! Thou sole store ! 
 
 In thee all intellect and art adore. 
 
 The deepest reverence thy touch inspires, 
 
 Thou type of sweetest slumber-juice — 
 
 Of deadly essences and subtle fires 
 
 Spirit sublimed ! 
 
 Come down, thou costly cruise ! 
 To me, thy Lord, no favour thou'lt refuse ! 
 On thee I gaze — The strife grows powerless : 
 The Soul's bright flood away is gently ebbing — 
 Th' unfathomable sea outstretched, lies beckoning — 
 Its glassy waters chide my lingering stay — 
 To unknown climes invites the newborn day.— 
 A car of flame midway on fleecy wing 
 Hitherward lowers, the light wind winnowing. 
 Already do I feel the impulse strong 
 Thro' unknown realms to soar enrapt along — 
 'Mid spheres of spotless new activity. 
 And thou — worm that thou art, can this then be 
 Thy portion — thine the God-like augury ? 
 Ay ! go now, resolutely turn 
 Thy back on Earth's all-kindly sun : 
 Presumptuous dare to burst the brazen gate 
 Before whose portal all in trembling wait : 
 Up ! now's the hour for deeds to demonstrate 
 How mortal worth immortal might can brave, 
 How tortured fancy quails not 'fore that grate 
 
62 
 
 PASSAGES 
 
 At which the herd are phrenzied, and where rave 
 Around its jaws the hot flames of all Hell — 
 Now prove Death hath no terrors fit to quell 
 Thy thirst for nothingness' lethean well ! 
 
 Now from the cobwebs of thy long repose 
 
 I reach thee down, dispeller of my woes ! 
 
 Come, ancient Bowl ! whose clear crystalline face 
 
 Shines bright as yore within thine antique case .* 
 
 For thee I've sighed, yet sought not, many a year. 
 
 Thro' vistas dim of many a lonely tear, 
 
 Filled with the festal hours of home and youth, 
 
 I've thought of thee, old whetstone of high mirth ! 
 
 How joyously from lip to lip 
 
 Ye passed, and cheered at every sip ! 
 
 The storied urn with chasings rich — 
 
 The legends by the jovials each 
 
 In rhyme recounted as they laughed and quaffed, 
 
 The generous liquor draining at a draught — 
 
 Youth, hope, love, happiness, festivity, 
 
 Come trooping up the while I gaze on thee ! 
 
 To no companion now I hand thee o'er — 
 
 Thy legends prompt my sparkling wit no more — 
 
 The amber juice now darkling in thy brim 
 
 With drunkenness divine the sight can dim ! 
 
 This drink selected, this prepared have I, 
 
 The last ! The draft of deep solemnity ! 
 
 Here's to The Morrow ! pledge it manfully ! 
 
 (He lifts the Bowl to his mouth.) 
 
FROM FAUST. 63 
 
 (Peal of Bells, and Chorus of Voices.) 
 
 Chorus of Angels, 
 Christ is arisen ! 
 Joy to the Mortal One ! 
 Whom the poor perishable 
 Grov'ling and heritable 
 Frailties encumbered ! 
 
 Faust. 
 What deep'ning burst, what chair's symphonious roil 
 With loadstone power repels the lifted bowl ! 
 Already with your solemn roar ye wide, 
 Wide wafted bells the holy Easter-tide 
 Usher ye in ? ye choirs ! and do ye sing 
 The heaven-attuned song of comforting, 
 Whilome all in the lone sepulchral night, 
 By angels faltered from their lips of light, 
 Assurance sweet of pledge new proffering ? 
 
 Chorus of Women, 
 With spices we bathed him, 
 His Faithful, we swathed him : 
 In raiments of snow 
 We laid him all low : 
 Ah ! and we found him 
 No longer below ! 
 
 Faust. 
 
 What seek ye mighty music mild 
 
 Of Heaven, with me laid low in dust? 
 
64 
 
 PASSAGES 
 
 Oh peal where ye can penetrate — The child 
 
 Of unbelief your message may not trust ! 
 
 The fondest-born of Faith is Mystery ! 
 
 Not to that placid sphere may I up-tower 
 
 In venturous flight, e'en while enwrapt I hear 
 
 The music of my boyhood's happiest hour, 
 
 Calling me back again to life — For me, 
 
 Yes ! once, there breathed the kiss of heavenly love. 
 
 O'er the calm Sabbath stealing as a dove. 
 
 Its pealing chime had mysteries for me ; 
 
 And prayer was inmost heartfelt ecstacy ! 
 
 Yearning most sweet, and strangely haunting fears, 
 
 Impelled me forth to wander wood and wold : 
 
 And, in the utterance of countless tears, 
 
 I felt the germ of a new world unfold — 
 
 Th' unbounded gladness of life's salient springs. 
 
 With infant clutch around me Memory clings : 
 
 Her tiny force stays back my purpose vain. 
 
 Peal on, peal on celestial melting strain ! 
 
 The tears flow fast — Earth hath her own again. 
 
 
FROM FAUST. 65 
 
 Scene. — Faust's Study. 
 
 Faust and Mephistopheles. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Cheer up, then ! leave philosophy, 
 And straight into the world with me. 
 I tell you the mere speculative fellow 
 Is like a brute, that some mad Sprite doth tether 
 Down on an arid heath — whilst, close around, 
 The unctuous herbage bursts the virgin ground. 
 
 Faust. 
 But how commence ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 This moment hence ! 
 What martyrdom is this of thine ! 
 A precious weary way one's life to pine ! 
 Your boys make over to the churl next door : 
 Nor plague yourself with threshing of a straw 
 The best you know, you do not dare 
 
 K 
 
66 PASSAGES 
 
 To teach the younkers — 
 I hear one coming now ! 
 
 On the stair, 
 
 Faust. 
 
 I can not see him ! 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Indeed the poor child has had long to wait — 
 He must not he dismissed disconsolate. 
 Come, help me on your cap and gown — 
 A capital disguise yourself must own. 
 
 (He puts on the Dress.) 
 
 Now trust the issue to my ready wit, 
 Barely a quarter hour will roast the spit. 
 Meanwhile prepare you for our pleasauntfy tie. 
 
 (Exit Faust.) 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 ( In Faust 's long garments , ) 
 
 For you ! — both reason, knowledge, but despise, — 
 Man's loftiest, noblest, highest faculties, — 
 And, strengthened by the Spirit of delusion 
 In the belief of magical illusion — 
 I have you, then, conditionless. 
 On him hath Fate a noble mind bestowed, 
 Which ever unrestrained would onward press : 
 Whose energies, o'ertaxed, forever goad 
 
FROM FAUST. 6J 
 
 Beyond the Earth's enjoyments. Him 
 Thro' Life's wild path I'll urge along, — 
 With its each vague unmeaning whim : — 
 And he shall pause amid the throng, 
 And in amaze stick fast — his greed 
 On meats that whet, not fill, shall feed : 
 And sue in vain for succour in his need — 
 That, were he not unto the Devil given, 
 Still to perdition must have headlong driven ! 
 
 (A Student enters*} 
 
 Student. 
 Newly arrived you see me here ; 
 A most devout petitioner, 
 To know and hear the man of sense 
 Whom all regard with reverence. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Tut ! lay the compliment in store — - 
 You see a man, like many more. 
 Have you looked elsewhere round you—? 
 
 Student. 
 
 Compassionate my wants, I pray ! 
 I come with courage keen and good : 
 Not flush of money, but all fresh of blood. 
 My mother scarce would let me part — 
 But I am fain to learn at the best mart. 
 
 Nay! 
 
do passages 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Then here's the very place — 
 
 Student. 
 
 'Dont knovv,- 
 Somehow, — I would already go. — 
 The walls, the halls, can no how like — 
 The space is narrow as a dike — 
 No green to look on — not a tree — 
 On seats in chambers aye to be, 
 Sight, hearing, thinking, cease for me ! 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Habit is every thing — the child no zest 
 Exhibits for the mother's asking breast. 
 Yet soon the urchin shews his appetite, 
 And even so will you increased delight 
 Each day at Wisdom's fount imbibe. 
 
 Student. 
 About her neck with joy I'd ever cling, 
 But how that lofty eminence to win ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Say first, ere further pro and con, 
 What study you would fix upon ? 
 
 Student. 
 My wish were to be deeply learned, 
 And for the kind of knowledge burned, 
 Which treats of things in Heaven and Earth, 
 
FROM FAUST. 69 
 
 Of Science' course, and Nature's birth. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Ye' re all upon the right tack there, 
 But of bewilderment beware ! 
 
 Student. 
 I'm heart and soul in this — and yet 
 On summer holidays to get 
 A little nice diverting leisure, 
 Would be, in sooth, a real pleasure. — 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Use well your time — rapid's its flight — 
 Tho' method is one means to multiply it. 
 On this account, my dearest friend, 
 The logic of the schools I'd recommend, 
 In this the mind shews well apparrelled : 
 In Spanish leather pinched and barrelled, 
 With gait and tread more circumspect 
 To walk reflexion's road erect, 
 And shun the shilly-shambling awkward, 
 That will-o-the-wisps it back and forward. 
 Then many a day will be consumed 
 In teaching what was once assumed 
 As easy as one's meals to achieve ; 
 But now, by logic's alchemy, 
 Without first, second, third, can't be. 
 For with the mind's stuff, verily, 'tis 
 As with the tapester's masterpiece, 
 
70 PASSAGES 
 
 "Where one thread moves a thousand ties, 
 
 Now here, now there the shuttle flies — 
 
 Invisibly the web flows on, 
 
 A thousand loop-holes linked by one. 
 
 Then comes One to philosophize, 
 
 To peep and prove the hows and whys : 
 
 The first was so ; the second so : 
 
 Therefore the third and fourth you know : 
 
 And, failing first and second both, 
 
 In vain you'll seek the third and fourth ! 
 
 The schoolmen prize this universally, 
 
 Yet never were known to make good tapestry ! 
 
 AVhoso the Living studies and describes, 
 
 The living Spirit from the form first drives ; 
 
 Beneath his ken imagines all laid bare, — 
 
 But ah ! th' informing Soul is wanting there ! 
 
 The chemists call't encheiresin naturae, 
 
 And set themselves in laughing stocks demurely ! 
 
 Student. 
 I don't precisely comprehend — 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 You'll find that matter easy in the end ; 
 When you have learned how to reduce, 
 And classify for ready use. 
 
 Student. 
 All this confuses with such racking pain, 
 As I'd a mill wheel whirling in my brain. 
 
from faust. 71 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 To Metaphysicks next your care 
 
 Must be directed in particular. 
 
 Look well ye're deeply versed by it 
 
 In what's beyond the human wit. 
 
 A sounding phrase will stand you in good stead, 
 
 For all which is, or is not, in the head. 
 
 And for this half year, 'specially, 
 
 Observe strict regularity. 
 
 Five lectures every day, at least : 
 
 And as the clock strikes in at feast. 
 
 Be well prepared before you go : 
 
 The paragraph read through and through : 
 
 That ye may better note at home 
 
 Nothing's been said but what's set down. 
 
 Be busy writing down whatever's stated, 
 
 As if the Holy Spirit itself dictated. 
 
 Student. 
 You will not need to tell me that again ; 
 Its great advantages are very plain. 
 
 For when a thing in black and white is safely written down , 
 The pocket can most comfortably carry for the crown. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 But choose a Faculty — 
 
 Student. 
 
 All things before, 
 I do abominate the Law. 
 
7~ PASSAGES 
 
 M EPHISTOP PI EL ES . 
 
 I cannot think yon much to blame in this. 
 I know precisely where the thing's amiss. 
 Both Law and Laws, like family diseases, 
 Increase as their posterity increases. 
 Shifting eternally from race to race, 
 And stealing, like a taint, from place to place. 
 Reason's made nonsense, charity a curse ! 
 Woe's thee ! for all thine ancestors the worse ! 
 The law that's born with us — of that alas ! 
 The question is considered merest farce. 
 
 Student. 
 Your words my reverence have but multiplied : 
 Oh happy he Avho takes you for his guide ! 
 Almost, I'd wish Divinity to study — ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 I would not set your senses in a flurry. — 
 As touching this — it is so very hard 
 Along the course to keep ones' proper guard. 
 So much inveterate poison lies within ; 
 Hardly distinguished from the medicine, 
 The best rule is to hear but only one. 
 And take your tenets from this lexicon, — 
 As general precept, hold fast by the text. 
 You make the passage thus secure, unvext, 
 And reach the pillared fane of certainty. 
 
 Student. 
 Yet must there, sure, to words some meaning be ? 
 
from faust. 73 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Quite right ! tho' if yon drive it, you're undone. 
 For just as ones' ideas are getting thin, 
 In nick of time a friendly word steps in. 
 With words a glorious argument's begun : 
 By words a system's logically spun : 
 Words furnish Faiths with their particular quota : 
 From words subtract you can not one iota ! — 
 
 Student. 
 You're pardon, I'm detaining you with questions : 
 Yet once again vouchsafe a few suggestions. 
 Would you indulge your humble servant in 
 A pregnant word or two on Medicine ? — 
 Three years, is little space for rapid stride, 
 God knows ! and then the field's so wide ! 
 Could one but find a finger-post at need ! 
 You'd feel the distance dwindle as you read ! 
 
 Mephistopheles. {aside) 
 I'm weary of the dr^ pedantic tone — 
 Once more again into t?ie Devil grown ! 
 
 (Aloud) 
 
 The spirit of Med'cines' easily explained. 
 Into the universe you pry, with gaze intense, — ■ 
 To let it go to pieces in the end, 
 As pleases Providence ! 
 In vain you have your meetings scientific : 
 
 L 
 
74 - PASSAGES 
 
 Each man's experience is not more prolific 
 
 Than his capacity — give me the man 
 
 Who grasps the moment in his span ! — 
 
 Ye seem of tolerable build, nor will 
 
 Lack courage though ye have not skill : 
 
 And if yourself will on yourself rely, 
 
 Others, be sure, will trust implicitly. 
 
 Especial, learn the way the women hold : 
 
 Their everlasting Ohs and Ahs, 
 
 So thousand fold, 
 
 Are curable as common scars, 
 
 All from one point — You'll have them under thumb 
 
 So you the half devotional but come ! 
 
 A knighthood you'll require to make them see 
 
 Your own arts' vast superiority. 
 
 A dozen trick-tracks you may then solicit, 
 
 Which others knock for, centuries at the wicket. 
 
 Practise the gentle pressure of the pulse ; 
 
 And pass, with languid looks and dulce, 
 
 Your arms about their'slender waist 
 
 To feel if they're too tightly laced — 
 
 Student. [and wlv 
 
 Now that looks something like — besides, one sees the how 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Good friend, life's green and grey is theory : 
 
 Student. 
 1 vow to you I feel as in a dream ! 
 
FROM FAUST. 75 
 
 Might I presume some other time upon 
 Your wisdom — not too troublesome to seem ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Whatever I can promise shall be done. 
 
 Student. 
 Unwillingly I make my parting bow — 
 Might I intrude my Album ere I go ? — • 
 This little mark of favor grant, I pray. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Well, well ! 
 
 {He writes and returns the book) 
 
 Student, (reads) 
 
 Eritis "sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum." 
 
 (Closes the book reverentially, and takes his departure) 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 Obey the old Law, and my Grandam the Snake. — 
 Soon or late, your God-likeness will cause you to quake ! 
 
 Faust (enters) 
 Whither away now ? 
 
 Mephistopheles, 
 Where you please. We'll towards 
 The lesser first, the great world afterwards. 
 
7Q PASSAGES 
 
 With what delight, and profit some, 
 You'll run through the curriculum ! 
 
 Faust. 
 
 But how with my long beard shall I 
 
 Enact my part successfully ? 
 
 Th' attempt must fail — indeed I never 
 
 As worlds' adept was reckoned clever. 
 
 I feel myself with each observance harrassed — 
 
 Where others are, so little and embarrassed. — 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 My friend, all that's a secondary thought ; 
 So soon as you feel confidence within there, 
 At once the art of living you have caught. 
 
 Faust. 
 How then shall we depart from hence ? and where 
 Your horses, carriages, and equipage ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 An outspread mantle will afford the stage 
 O.i which we'll journey thro' the air — 
 But mind ! no heavy baggage you'll require 
 In this our little trip. — A breath of fire 
 From out my pocket-lucifers will lift 
 Our bodies from this Earth. — As swift 
 As light we mount the buoyant atmosphere ! 
 Once for all, welcome, on your new career ! 
 
FROM FAUST. 77 
 
 A Small neat Chamber. 
 
 Margaret, 
 
 (Braiding and binding up her hair) 
 
 I would give something now to learn 
 Who was the Gentleman this morn ? — 
 Such boldness with such gallantry contended — 
 Of some high family h'll be descended, 
 That's certain ! — on his brow 'tis writ — 
 Else were he not so forward, by good bit. 
 
 (Exit) 
 
 Mephistopheles, Faust. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Come in, but softly ! — come along ! 
 
 Faust (after a. pause) 
 Beseech you, leave me here alone. 
 
78 PASSAGES 
 
 Mephistopheles (looking around) 
 Few Girls so tidy, I must own. 
 
 (Exit) 
 
 Faust (gazing rapturously) 
 Welcome sweet twilight shades that throng 
 These hallowed precints ! occupy my soul 
 Ye sweetest pangs of love, that on the dew 
 Of hope live languishing ! — How all about 
 Breathes the full feeling of deep quietude, 
 Of order and contentment ! — In this scant, 
 What fullness ! — In this cell what scope for bliss ! 
 
 (He throws himself into a leathern arm-chair by the bed) 
 
 Receive me, thou, whose open arms have ta'en 
 
 In joy and grief the generations gone ! 
 
 Ah ! oft, how oft ! round this ancestral throne 
 
 Have hung the prattling troop ! and even here 
 
 Hath she, Beloved One ! with rosy lip 
 
 Bestowed the kiss of innocence upon 
 
 The grandsires feeble hand, her little heart 
 
 Elated at the Christmas gift received ! 
 
 Maiden ! I feel thy spirit rustling nigh — 
 
 Thy spirit of order and beneficence, 
 
 Which as a Mother, o'er thee daily broodeth, 
 
 Bids thee the covering o'er the board outspread, 
 
 And strews beneath our feet the chrystal sand. 
 
 Dear hand ! — so angel like ! 
 
 The Cot thro' thee becomes a paradise ! 
 
FROM FAUST. 79 
 
 And here — 
 
 (He puts the bed- curtain aside) 
 
 What blissful tremor through my senses flows ! 
 
 Would I might linger here the hours away ! 
 
 Here Nature fashioned in her gossamer dreams 
 
 The inborn Angel-form ! Here lay the child 
 
 Its infant bosom fed with lifes' warm streams ! 
 
 And here, in hallowed masonry up-piled, 
 
 The God-like image beatific smiled ! 
 
 And thou — what hath impelled thee here ? 
 
 Moved deep I feel throughout my every pore ! 
 
 What wouldst thou here ? what weighs thine heart so near ? 
 
 Poor Faust I cannot recognize thee more ! 
 
 What magic mist enshrouds me in this place ? 
 
 The longing sense would not an instant tarry — 
 
 And now — Loves' dream dissolves my soul apace ! 
 
 Are we but straws blown as the wind doth vary ? 
 
 And were she e'en to step this moment in, 
 
 What pennance wouldst not proffer for the sin ! 
 
 The mighty Boaster, then alas ! how small ! 
 
 All at her feet dumb foundered down would fall ! 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Make haste ! I see her coming from below ! 
 
 Faust. 
 Hence thou ! away ! I leave this spot no more ! 
 
£0 passages 
 
 Mephi8tophel.es. 
 
 This casket holds within a trifling store — 
 Elsewhere I got it — put it where 'twill shew 
 Within the closet, and I promise you 
 She'll go right daft. The nicknacks for another 
 I did inclose ; but sure the wide world over 
 Youth's youth, and toys, though toys, are ever new. 
 
 Faust. 
 I know not — shall I ? — 
 
 Mepkistopheles. 
 
 Can you ask i 
 Or perhaps you'd put the treasure in your pocket ? 
 In that case I advise your lust you mask,— 
 Spare me, save daylight ere it burn the socket. 
 I trust you are not covetous ? — I stand 
 Scratching and rubbing — head as well as hand. 
 
 (He places the casket in the closet, and closes it) 
 
 Now off ! away ! 
 
 And bend to your sway 
 
 The pretty sweet popinjay. 
 
 And yet you stand staring 
 
 As for lecture preparing, 
 
 With physic, metaphysic, bodily 
 
 Within your philosophic eye — 
 
 Now off! 
 
 (Exeunt) 
 

 FROM FAUST. 81 
 
 Margaret {with a lamp) 
 It is so close, so sultry here about — 
 And yet it is not half so hot without ! 
 
 {She opens the Casement) 
 
 I feel I scarce know how to tell : — 
 Would Mother were come heme, and well! 
 All o'er I tremble ! — yet I own 
 A silly timid girl I'm grown. 
 
 {She sings as she undresses) 
 
 The King of Thule. 
 
 There was a King in Thule, 
 Right constant to the grave : 
 To whom a goblet golden 
 His dying Mistress gave. 
 
 Was nought he prized so dearly ; 
 Each feast he drained it dry ; 
 And often as he drank thereout, 
 The tears came plenteously. 
 
 And when his days were numbering 
 He counted out his thrift ; 
 Gave all unto his own right heir, 
 All — save the goblet-gift. 
 M 
 
82 PASSAGES 
 
 Then, gathering all his nobles, 
 He bade the wassail be : 
 Within the Hall ancestral — 
 The Donjon by the sea. 
 
 Up stood that aged Toper 
 And drained the bowls' bright blood ; 
 Then hurled the hallowed goblet 
 Down in the rolling flood ! 
 
 He watched it diving — drinking — 
 Then sink beneath the roar ! 
 His eye-lids soon were sinking — 
 His lips drank never more ! 
 
 (She opens the closet to put away her dress, and perceives 
 the casket.) 
 
 Whence did this pretty casket come ? 
 
 I'm sure I shut the closet down. 
 
 'Tis strange ! I wonder what's inside ? 
 
 Some one, belike, has let it bide 
 
 In pledge for money Mother's lent ? 
 
 And here's a key, too — must be meant 
 
 To open it, — and fastened by a string ! 
 
 I've a good mind t' unlock the pretty thing! 
 
 What's this ? good Heaven ! only see ! 
 
 In all my days I never looked to be 
 
 So blessed with .such a sight ! why these 
 
 Are ornaments that might with ease, 
 
FROM FAUST. 83 
 
 Adorn a Queen in her magnificence ! 
 How would the chain become me ? whence 
 The lovely things ? — whose property ? — - 
 
 (She decks herself in them and steps before the glass) 
 
 Oh! were 
 The earrings mine ! — I do declare 
 One looks quite altered in them ! — Sooth, 
 What matters loveliness and youth ? 
 They're all right proper in their way — 
 Esteemed as things of every day — 
 Their praises half like pity ring. — 
 Towards gold all tends, 
 On gold depends 
 (Poor creatures as we are) our every thing ! 
 
81 PASSAGES 
 
 (A Garden.) 
 
 Margaret, Faust. 
 Margaret. 
 
 Promise me, Henry 
 
 Faust 
 
 What I can ! 
 
 Margaret. 
 Now tell me, dost thou hold by any faith ? 
 Thou art an excellent good man, 
 But then, I fear, heed'st not what Scripture saith? 
 
 Faust. 
 Leave that, my Child : thou feel'st to thee I'm true. 
 For her I love my soul and body too 
 I'd yield — rob no one, I, of church or creed — 
 
 Margaret, 
 That is not right !— -We must believe indeed. 
 
from faust. 85 
 
 Faust. 
 
 Mast we ? 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 Ah could I once thy bent 
 Incline ! — Slight'st too the holy Sacrament — 
 
 Faust. 
 I honor it. 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 Yet long for't not— 
 To mass, confession — hast this many a day 
 Not been — Believest thou in God ? 
 
 Faust. 
 
 Who is there, Dearest, dares to say 
 I do believe in God ? 
 Of Priest, Philosopher, may'st ask, 
 Their answer will but seem to cast 
 Derision on th' Inquirer — 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 Thou bcliev'st not ? 
 
 Faust. 
 Misheed me not, thou Angel face ; 
 Who dare him address, 
 And who confess 
 I believe him ? 
 Who feel so vain 
 
88 PASSAGES 
 
 Himself to constrain 
 
 To say, I believe him not ? 
 
 The All-comprehender ! 
 
 The All-sustainer ! 
 
 Holds and sustains he not 
 
 Thee, me, Himself? 
 
 Do not the Heavens arch them over us ? 
 
 Spreads not the Earth out underneath our feet 
 
 And mount not, with their friendly aspects ever, 
 
 The eternal stars up — up ? 
 
 Look I not eye in eye on thee ? 
 
 And tends not every thing, heart, soul, and brain 
 
 To thee, and weaves its secresy 
 
 Eternal, visible, invisible, around thee ? 
 
 Fill up thine heart, as big as 'tis, thereof, 
 
 And when in that one thought thou art beate, 
 
 Call it then as ye will — 
 
 Call't Joy, or Heart — Love — God ! 
 
 I have no name for it ! 
 
 Feeling is every thing ! 
 
 Name is but sound and vapour ! — 
 
 Mist-surrounding Heaven-glow ! — 
 
 Maegaret. 
 That is all right fine and good, — 
 The Parson says the same almost, 
 Only in somewhat other words. 
 
 Faust. 
 All hearts in every place 
 
FROM FAUST. 87 
 
 Under the Heavens feel its grace, 
 Each by its particular sign 
 And why not I by mine ? 
 
 ■9|£ 3ffr *3j£ "3f? -5}f 
 
 Note. Faust's Deism, it should seem, does not assume the mysticism peculiar to hiss 
 mind, until after he falls in love— that first impulse of his Devil-endowed 
 youth— when it expresses itself in the ahove passionate specimen. 
 
88 PASSAGES 
 
 Margaret's Chamber. 
 
 Margaret 
 at the spinning wheel, alone. 
 
 My heart is full : 
 My peace is o'er — 
 Never returning, 
 Oh ! nevermore ! 
 
 Where I am, not he, 
 Is a grave to me. 
 The world and all 
 To me is gall. 
 
 My silly brain 
 How it throbs again ! 
 And every thought 
 Unmeaning aught ! 
 
FROM FAUST. 89 
 
 My heart is full, 
 My peace is o'er- 
 Lost, for ever 
 And evermore ! 
 
 For him I watch 
 Thro' the lattice flowers 
 Upon the latch 
 For him look hours, 
 
 His lofty tread ! 
 His noble mien ! 
 His lips soft red ! 
 His eyes bright sheen ! 
 
 His discourse sweet ! 
 Its magic flow ! 
 His fervid clasp ! 
 His kisses' glow ! 
 
 My heart is full, 
 My peace is o'er 
 Lost for ever 
 And evermore ! 
 
 N 
 
90 PASSAGE* 
 
 My bosom yearns 
 For him ! for him ! 
 It must, — it burns 
 To beat on him ! 
 
 And kiss him so — 
 As I would kiss — 
 And on his kisses 
 Die in bliss ! 
 
FROM FAUST. &l 
 
 Cathedral 
 
 Service — Organ — and Choir. — Margaret amongst many 
 persons — Evil Spirit behind her. 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 How different was it, Margaret, 
 When, as yet all innocence, 
 Thou trod'st this altar-step; 
 Murmuring thy many a canticle 
 From breast-held book ; 
 Half child-diversion, 
 Half God-in-spirit — 
 Margaret ! 
 
 Where rests thy head ? 
 Within thine heart 
 What deed of crime ? 
 Pray'st thou for thy mother's soul, who 
 To long long woe sunk silently thro' thee ? 
 Whose blood upon thy threshold ? 
 
92 PASSAGES 
 
 And underneath thine heart 
 Spurts it not gushing still, 
 And, with mysterious reality, 
 Thyself torments, and it ? 
 
 Margaret. 
 Woe! Woe! 
 Were I recollections free 
 Which glare around, and thro', and 'thwart, 
 In spite of me ! 
 
 Choiit. 
 Dies irse dies ilia 
 Solvet sseclum in favilla. 
 
 (voluntary') 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Horror grips thee ! 
 The last trump blows doom ! 
 The grave vaults tremble ! 
 And thine heart, 
 Raked up again 
 From ember quiet 
 To fierce flaminess, 
 Throbs high ! 
 
 Margaret. 
 Oh were I hence ! 
 I feel as if the organs' tone 
 
FROM FAUST. 93 
 
 Choked up my throat ! 
 
 And every chant 
 
 My heart strings melted ! 
 
 Choir. 
 Judex ergo cum sedebit, 
 Quidquid latet adparehit, 
 Nil inultum remanebit. 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 The chancel pillars 
 Enclose me in ! 
 The arches' span 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Hide thee? Sin and shame 
 Live not hidden ! 
 Air ? light ? 
 Woe thee ! 
 
 Choir. 
 Quid sum miser tunc dicturus ? 
 Quern patronum rogaturus ? 
 Cum vix Justus sit securus. 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 The Angels in glory 
 Averting, turn from thee ! 
 
94 PASSAGES 
 
 The white ones stretch, shuddering, 
 No welcome hand to thee ! 
 Woe ! 
 
 Choir. 
 Q uid sum miser tunc dicturus ? 
 
 Margaret. 
 Neighbour, your scent-bottle! 
 
 (She swoons.^) 
 
SCENES 
 
 A DRAMA 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES THE FIRST 
 
 
 
96 SCENES FROM 
 
 Scene. — The Earl Strafford's Cabinet— Enter Antonk 
 his Secretary, with papers and letters, which he arranv 
 on a table furnished with all materials for nightly stud? 
 He lights the lamp, and touches the repeater on the ta 
 it strikes One. 
 
 Antonio. 
 So late, and still he tarries at the Council ! 
 
 (Enter Strafford — thoughtful and abstracted) 
 
 Strafford. 
 Now, are the letters ready ? 
 
 A NT ON JO, 
 
 They but wait 
 Yor: 
 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 97 
 
 Antonio. 
 The packets for the north, shall they he sent 
 Immediate]',' ? 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 Even before the others, 
 Few friends are ours in Scotland ; and those few 
 So sluggish in their love, 'tis of all thi 
 Most necessary they should be first roused. 
 We shall have need of all. 
 
 Antonio. 
 Hath aught new happened ? 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 Nought in appearance — in effect much. Thus — 
 
 Mens' thoughts have waked their passions up from sleep, 
 
 And these are monsters that can bide no rest, 
 
 'Till they have worked them weary 'Tis at hand, Sir ! 
 
 What be those roils ? 
 
 Antonio, 
 
 Petitions. 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 Those ? 
 
 Antonio. 
 
 Petitions, 
 
98 
 
 SCENES FROM 
 
 Strafford, (seats himself) 
 Give me their substances. 
 
 Antonio, (reads) 
 
 The first from one 
 Who lent himself to Vane upon the matter 
 Of the abeyanced Baronny ; and forged 
 Libels upon your Lordship 'till the fellow 
 
 Strafford. 
 (Poor knave ! He'd write me Jove for a Jacobus !) 
 
 Antonio. 
 Was prosecuted, cast and fined — and npw, 
 For want of means to satisfy the law, 
 Lies rotting out his miserable carcase 
 In its most proper element, a gaol. 
 He prays you interpose your influence 
 To get his sentence mitigated, being 
 ''Contrite of heart, relying much, moreover, 
 In your good qualities" — (and in his own 
 Impudence above comparison !) 
 
 The man is poor 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 Antonio, 
 
 The wretch is penny less. 
 
 
charles the first. , 99 
 
 Strafford. 
 Pity that poverty doth breed the world 
 So many rogues. — Convey this to the fellow, 
 
 (gives money) 
 And tell him he is free — to follow honesty, 
 
 Antonio. 
 My Lord ! this wasp you'll suffer — ? 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 'Tis my will, Sir. 
 The others ? 
 
 Antonio. 
 This the prayer of a poor devil 
 In solitary ward long kept — 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 For what ? 
 
 Antonio. 
 
 He spat 
 Upon the person of the King; was seized 
 With more, and sentenced by the Star Chamber 
 To 'prisonment within the common gaol. 
 
 Strafford. 
 What seeks he ? 
 
100 scenes from 
 
 Antonio. 
 
 Intercession — 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 None for him. 
 'Tis an inexpiable offence. That man 
 Must be no better than a beast in spirit : 
 A stall, or stye, no matter which, for such 
 Were half too good a habitation — no : 
 Favor with me he finds not. To the rest. 
 
 Antonio. 
 This from a Lady much reduced — she begs you 
 Will speak the Queen about her suit — she seeks 
 A place of some employment for her Son, 
 Who'd gladly, for his mother's sustenance, 
 Toil daily with his hands — -says he disdains not, 
 Altho' a Gentleman, all hardest travail. 
 
 Strafford. 
 I cannot serve the Lady in this matter; 
 As she might learn from any chronicler 
 Who gapes in th' atmosphere of court — The Queen 
 In her dislike of me is so munificent. 
 That hatred is a term far too proverbial 
 To designate th' affection she doth bear me. 
 Is there no other means ? — Is she so low 
 To take a charity nor deem it insult ? 
 

 charles the first. 101 
 
 Antonio. 
 That were a hazardous thing. 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 True: charity 
 
 Genders much obligation, and doth fetter 
 The independant soul in iron — yet 
 
 There is a grace in giving can extract 
 
 The poison of dependancy it brings, 
 
 And, as its honeys' price, inflicts no sting: 
 
 This with the donor lies ; whose inclination, 
 
 Unfettered of constraint, or stern regard 
 
 Of paramount duty, is all capable 
 
 To shew th' ineffability of man, 
 
 And give without divesting from the gift 
 
 In its bestowment — that is charity. 
 
 To meet this Lady's present needs, convey 
 
 A service of my costliest plate to her : 
 
 But so as — 
 
 Antonio. 
 That were somewhat difficult, 
 I know not if your Lordship's rich to own 
 A common tankard even — 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 How ? what mean ye ? 
 
 Antonio. 
 You do forget each gold and silver piece 
 
102 SCENES FROM 
 
 (Such was your Lordship's order) to he found 
 Was melted down for the King's urgencies, 
 What time the Parliament refused him grants. 
 
 (Enter a Servant in haste) 
 
 Servant. . 
 Lord Digby doth entreat an interview ! 
 His errand, thus he bids me state, of deep 
 Importance. Scarce he'll wait for a reply. 
 
 Strafford. 
 Dreamed I it thundered now ? such suddenness 
 Of something soon as suddenly to happen, 
 Hangs like the sultry courier of a storm 
 About my temples — Yet how long he seems ! — 
 
 (Enter Lord Digby) 
 
 Why do thy pale lips like a grave-gap yawn 
 My Lord? Imagination hath her terrors, 
 Humanity its fears !— The worst ? — I am 
 Prepared — out with it, only! — 
 
 Digby. 
 Thou'rt impeached ! — 
 And in that word condemned ! 
 
 Strafford, (with dignified composure) 
 Who hath done this ? 
 
CHARGES THE FIRST, 103 
 
 Strafford and Digey. 
 
 DlGBY. 
 
 The warfare of mankind is man : to wage it 
 
 A proper knowledge is most necessary, 
 
 Of plots, gins, snares, contrivances and foils; 
 
 These are the bucklers, breastplates, swords, helms, shields 
 
 A war of traps and dark advantages — 
 
 A strife of unfair buffets — wily array 
 
 Of countervail, and night-attack, and stabs — 
 
 Bandit-like ambush — these th' hereditary 
 
 Contests a man is heir to — these the weapons 
 
 He doth inherit for the nonce — 
 
 Strafford. 
 Look he to wield them ! 
 
 Digby. 
 Dexterity grows with their use and practice. 
 
 Strafford, 
 Are these thy sober thoughts ? 
 
 P 
 
104 SCENES FROM 
 
 DlGBY. 
 
 Fixed principles — 
 The firmer rooted since resisted most. 
 Truth is a light than shine will. 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 So is fallacy 
 A wisp that will decoy — pity truth's light 
 Shines not where thickest murk is ! 
 
 DlGBY. 
 
 Saddest, fen-fires 
 Will start to make his way most intricate 
 Whose tread is most uncertain ! 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 Mine is not so. 
 
 DlGBY, 
 
 Thou hast determined ? 
 
 Strafford. 
 
 Ay! 
 
 DlGBY. 
 
 Come ! let's away then ! 
 
 Strafford. 
 Whither I go, you'll come not. 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST, 105 
 
 DlGBY. 
 
 Death alone — 
 
 Strafford. 
 Shall put the love of our two lives asunder. 
 One word at parting, only— Digby ! why 
 Dost mar the stately stature of thy mind, 
 And bend thy neck to slavery worse than bonds — 
 The yoke of thine opinions ? fly ! escape them ! 
 I will in treat of you in your own eloquence, 
 Which was so feeling friendly urged on me, 
 Loose these infernal trammels ! never yet 
 Did he who worshipped Cunning for his goddess, 
 With his own self feel satisfied — no, never 
 Did the smooth jaundice of his jealous face 
 Call up one prayer for his beatitude, 
 Or thrill one bosom at his woe. Believe me, 
 There is less victory than triumph, when 
 Guile over greatness is the vanquisher. 
 Still smiles superior her undaunted brow — 
 Still laughs at Fortune, for her impotence, 
 The lip that cries not "craven" to her scowl. 
 Whate'er the sneers of men, rise thou above them ! 
 Whate'er their proffered plaudits, do thou spurn them ! 
 Whate'er their fashions, go not with them, if 
 They war against thy reason : — and, 'fore all, 
 Buy no man's favor, not thy King's e'en, with 
 The price of the pure gold conscience is made of! — 
 And now farewell ! — 
 
106 SCENES FROM 
 
 Scene. — In the Palace at Whitehall. — Enter the King, holding 
 in his hand the Warrant for Strafford's Execution. — The 
 Archbishop of York, Dr. Juxon, the King's Chaplain, and 
 Lords in attendance. 
 
 Charles. 
 Give me the pen ! quick ! while my hand is firm. 
 Fie Sirs, ye are not zealous in this business ! 
 Look how ye waver ! — Now ! — give me the pen ! 
 
 York. 
 Thus have I proffered it your Majesty 
 These many several times. So please you, Sire, 
 To sign the document ? 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Too late ! Too late ! 
 See how my hand doth tremble, and each sinew 
 Drags in paralysis of agony 
 The fingers tight together ! — 'Tis your fault. 
 See ye, the quill doth dance ; it hath a soul in't ! 
 Lips, too, that chatter strangely : Hark! my Lords, 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 107 
 
 Hear ye ? it will not do a deed of murder ! 
 Demons ! what would ye tempt me to ! avaunt ! 
 I do abominate ye ; hence ! away ! 
 
 (He grasps J axon by the arm) 
 
 Tarry ! there's that upon thy countenance 
 
 Looks like the shadow of a human soul, 
 
 Tho' perched upon the effigie of the Devil — 
 
 Man ! — Come, let's look on thee ! why, how thou quiver'st ! 
 
 Or is't the trepidation of my touch 
 
 Which so communicates its electricity ? — 
 
 Why then there is some sympathy in thee. 
 
 Yet look'st so humanlike withal, almost 
 
 I could denote thee Bloodsucker' — come nearer ! 
 
 ( The King gates wistfully in his face) 
 
 Methinks thou hast called sp a tide, a flow 
 Of waters to my brain ; — faint images 
 Of waves that once lay weltering in the mind, 
 And took in their recess all memory with them. 
 Did we not talk together of him, once ? 
 
 Juxon. 
 We did, my Leige. 
 
 Charles. 
 He was my friend you know; 
 I his, and yet 
 
108 SCENES FROM 
 
 (A noise of voices without) 
 
 What's that ? 
 
 York. 
 
 A clamour 
 Raised by the people in the Palace Court 
 Assembled ; justice ask they on Earl Strafford. 
 
 Charles. 
 Bloodhounds without baying their answer too 
 Bloodhounds within — nothing more natural ! 
 There is an instinct men call sympathy 
 Dotli run creation thro'. — 
 
 {again to Juxoii) 
 
 As I was saying — ■ 
 
 (the noise icithout, repeated.) 
 
 Charles. 
 Howl on, ye hell-dogs ! — Is it ye who bellow 
 For execution on great Strafford's body, 
 Which the foul chosen from yourselves have sat 
 In judgment on, and doomed for his rare virtues ! 
 Hence, rabid kennel of distempered curs ! 
 Or, must ye human flesh for your grim fangs, 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 109 
 
 Take mine ! on Strafford's gorge ye not — begone ' 
 
 York, (aside) 
 This madlike mood if it do last will mar us. 
 The Queen, too, hath o'erstayed th' appointed hour ! 
 
 Charles, (to Juxon.) 
 Tell me how shall I save him ? thou hast been 
 A servant long ; wert faithful ever ; thrust not 
 Thyself into the pupil of mine eyes, 
 Nor haunted me by importunity 
 To do one thing for your own sole advantage. 
 Thou never dogg'dst me at each angle-turn, 
 To ape the officious Slave to me, thy Caesar: 
 Therefore, and for much more, did I ne'er know 
 Disgust nor loathing at the mention of 
 Thyself bcsyllabled. For this it was 
 That I to other man did oftener talk 
 Than they to me, of thee — that thou wert left 
 So naked and unvisited of pelf : 
 Which now, let me confess to thee, doth teem 
 Such volumes for thee, to my thoughts ; for thou 
 Should 'st be, so far as self-aggrandisement 
 Acquits thee, a most honest man, methinks. 
 Tell me how I may chouse these vexed Devils 
 That track me with their cry of justice ever, 
 Saying the bond of peace 'twixt King and nation 
 Can be but ciphered in my Strafford's blood, 
 My friend's heart's blood ?— . 
 
110 SCENES FROM 
 
 (Enter Queen Henrietta.) 
 
 Charles. 
 My Queen! my Henrietta ! 
 
 Henrietta, (placing her hand on his forehead.) 
 How pale and wan is thy sad countenance, 
 My Charles ! what is it here doth palpitate 
 And throb throughout the house of thine high thought ! 
 Thy temples have been bound with aconite, 
 Surely, they burn so fiercely ! See ! thine eyes 
 How dim ! there is a tear hangs scalding there ! 
 What is the matter with thee Husband ? 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Much : 
 Too much for poor humanity to bear — 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 Now tell me what doth sit so heavy on thee ? 
 
 I do deserve thy confidence for love — not ? 
 
 Is it some broil between thy followers 
 
 The Cavaliers, and their arch roundhead foes ? 
 
 Encounters have disgraced our streets so oft 
 
 Of late, nay e'en our palaces, our hearths, 
 
 That should not move thee. Hath the Parliament 
 
 Done any thing to anger thee anew ? 
 
 Thou frown'st ! It is so — is some difference 
 
 'Twixt thee and thy bad Commons ? surely never 
 
 A death can be the cause of all thy grief? 
 
charles the first. 
 Charles. 
 
 11! 
 
 No more 
 
 Henrietta. 
 I will discover it — what profit 
 Can'st find in this restraint upon the swayings 
 Of thy communicative soul, which lately 
 Hath been so niggard of its trusts, so barred 
 And bolted from its natural confidences ? 
 I was the sharer of them once, why now not ? 
 Is it so selfish, grief? or so contemptuous, 
 It will not stoop to tell its sorrow ? 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Listen ! 
 There were two friends of fortune high, but cast 
 In two contrarious moulds — the one was senior 
 In point of years, but weak and suckle-like, 
 Pining, by nature, for support ; nor ceased he 
 To droop 'till he did find it — in the other. 
 That other was a man of subtile frame : 
 A sov'reignty of mind fell to his lot ; 
 And he Avas noble 'yond his friend, by how 
 Much eaglets are than owls the nobler, yet 
 Sought he the first one's friendship — for he was 
 Ambitious as a Titan for much power — 
 That he might glorify his friend in him. 
 That friend could give much power — and he gave it. 
 The power he gave, himself knew its avail not : 
 And so lie gave it for his own advantage, 
 
 Q 
 
112 SCENES FROM 
 
 And for the general good, conscious himself 
 Of his own natural incapacity, 
 Which t'others might did make seem nigh infirm, 
 They were so hugely disproportionate. 
 
 Henrietta. 
 It was right kingly so to act ! 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Now, mark me ! 
 The delegated power brought greatness with it, 
 For he to whom 'twas given did use it well : 
 And the two friends were one in fellowship, 
 He whence the power did spring, and he who swayed it. 
 Oh ! theirs was friendship such as few can feel ! 
 And not a want that was to one peculiar — 
 For they had grown into one mind, one being; 
 And not a wish but was of double growth — 
 For theirs was an indissoluble choice, 
 Of the same wants engender'd, and so nourished 
 Of inclination that had birth in either, 
 And mutual accord, whose echo lived 
 -^-'Twere difficult to tell in which it lived. — 
 Hold — I do wander from the history ! 
 The delegated power brought greatness with it, 
 And greatness 'gender'd envy— comprehend'st thou ? 
 And enemies were rife, all busy-active 
 To raze down glory and build up a thing 
 O'er which themselves might clamber— 
 
charles the first. 113 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 Well Charles ? well ? 
 
 Charles. 
 Oh Henrietta, thou art gentle, good, 
 Thy face is as the chaste moon's countenance 
 When she doth draw her silvery veil aside 
 And intercede her silent eloquence 
 In the still life of love : thine eyes can talk 
 Pity's serene infusion to the soul, 
 And melt an iron lid to sulphurous drops, 
 Tho' they fall inward on the stone-cold heart. 
 Look on these bloody Butchers ! speak to them ! 
 Teach them how mercy is a thing divine, 
 And deifies the man dispensing it ; 
 Tell them he was my friend — alack ! they have none! 
 They are ambitious-little, and ambition 
 Brooks not equality, that's friendship's soul. 
 
 York. 
 His majesty the King doth wrong his servants : 
 It is the people's cry — 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 The people, Charles, 
 Do cry, not these, for the execution. 
 Believe't, the people — 
 
 Charles, (thrusting her away) 
 Viper ! 
 
j 14 scenes from 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 Out upon thee ! — 
 Is this the meed of all my fondness, Charles ? 
 
 Charles. 
 I deemed thee angel, now I know thee fiend ! 
 
 Henrietta. 
 A Queen struck for a Fav'rite ! blood of Medicis ! 
 Where but in England could thy veins have felt 
 The blow, and burst not ? 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Henrietta, go 
 Into thy — 
 
 Henrietta. 
 France ! to France ! 
 
 (As she is going the Kinq detains her} 
 
 Henrietta . (triumphing!//*) 
 
 Thou tremblest ! 
 
 Charles. 
 To think a wife could plead against her husband — 
 
 (Exit Henrietta) 
 
 Charles. 
 So they have robbed me too of her ! — well, well ! 
 She was so kind — so constant — loving — good : 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 115 
 
 The last green link that bound the man, Charles Stuart, 
 To the false tender fancies that beset us 
 Which we unwittingly call joys — we know not ! 
 Give me the — Document ! — 
 
 She was the planet 
 Astronomers do feign opposed to blood. 
 When stars do vanish must their influence cease ? 
 
 (Draws a letter from his doublet} 
 
 This is his writing- — and he prays me by it 
 Delay no longer his decease — How envious 
 Should that man's end be on whose latest eve 
 Life seems so little worth ! yet he was one 
 Had honors shed on him, and called his King 
 Friend, in his better days — that helped him not, 
 No more that it did Buckingham ! both, both 
 Drained of each drop of life by my regards ! 
 This by the unkind stab, the stab of tongues. 
 
 (Frantically to those present) 
 
 Why cleave ye to me, Sirs ? there is no sap here 
 
 To put forth food in fruits — the sheltering bough, e'en, 
 
 On which ambition's vulture tribe may pluck 
 
 Their plunder on, is snapped — nor leaf nor bud 
 
 Sprout on me — save to wither.— Save ye, shun me ! 
 
 I am the Tree of Death — the noxious plant 
 
 Which serves the savages for executioner, 
 
116 SCENES FROM 
 
 That yieldeth poison for the wild man's steel, 
 
 And smites all life within its fell horizon ! 
 
 Come not anear me Sirs, I'm Death ! I'm Death ! 
 
 And dissolution breathes the air I breathe ! 
 
 That she should turn upon me ! She ! 
 
 Dearest of deadly plagues, sweet nightingale, 
 
 Delusion-triller, bosom-thorned, whose love 
 
 Was cankerous love, and its caress all lethal ! 
 
 How oft hath his familiar name been on 
 
 Those pouting perjurers, her lips ! how sweetly 
 
 The modest comment of each grace run thro', 
 
 Approvement in each syllable, and pride ! 
 
 Each word that made him eminent, wise, good, 
 
 How musical to recapitulate 
 
 As her own voice invented ! 
 
 To think endurance can not dwell with goodness; 
 
 Nor charity in woman — e'en in her not ! 
 
 The little love which in this heart could find 
 
 A place, thro' her was 'gendered : and I gazed 
 
 With other eyes than the fierce Misanthropes', 
 
 Mankind had made me : Mine own wrongs were set 
 
 Oat of the sum in my mind's table-book: 
 
 And, borrowing a lens from her fair vision, 
 
 Things wore to my abused faculty 
 
 A robe of radiant illusion, beamier 
 
 Than ever poet, lover, maid or boy, 
 
 In phrenziest, fondest, maddest mood imagined. 
 
 Why could this cheat endure not ? Henrietta ? 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 117 
 
 York, (aside) 
 Mark how his hand is palsied ! — 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Juxon ! tell me 
 "When is the Earl to die ? 
 
 Juxon. 
 
 Immediately 
 Your majesty hath given your fiat. 
 
 Charles. 
 
 So hasty ? 
 
 York. 
 I will forewarn you, Sire, shallow delay 
 Avails not in the end. — The populace 
 Will have the death the law hath 'warded them, 
 And, justice still unsatisfied, declare 
 More victims than the one shall forth be singled. 
 They do despise the Earl's enamourment 
 Of life, say they, and will abide no more — 
 
 (Charles hands the letter of Strafford to Fork, who peruses its 
 contents ) 
 
 York. 
 I should be last to cavil at such heroism, 
 Were I in artifice some whit less learned. 
 
118 scenes from 
 
 Charles. 
 I asked not your opinion on this letter '. 
 Sufficeth you have seen it — hold ! no more ! 
 
 (A pause) 
 
 And yet meseems my thoughts do cleave unto 
 Procrastination as a precious shrine 
 Where I may kneel and be at rest a moment, 
 As yet no bloody stain upon my souk — 
 Another hour, and I must be al] friendless ! 
 
 ( The King signs the warrant.} 
 
 (Another pause} 
 
 Charles. 
 Hath nobody a word to say to me ? 
 Oh Henrietta ! thine were murderous thoughts ! 
 
 (He falls senseless into the arms of Juxon.) 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 119 
 
 Scene> — A Chamber in the Lord Fairfax's House — Lord 
 and Lady Fairfax-*-,s7j<? leaning on him, as they gaze out 
 from the window. 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 Almost the dappled clouds blot out the moon, 
 That wrestles like an amazon with darkness — - 
 Struggling for the mastery ! 
 
 (A pause') 
 
 Hear ye the owls upon the abbey porch ? 
 Harsh clappers to the bell of midnight, they 1 
 
 (Another pause) 
 
 Tell me, how 5 is't murk sorrow's craped mutes 
 Stand sentry at thy lip's dumb port, sweet Lord ! 
 See how revolving thought his leaden wheels 
 Hath dragg'd along thy brow — with deep-digg'd rutts 
 Marking the track he took ! All me ! I fear 
 
 11 
 
t20 SCENES FROM 
 
 Thou hast some secret sorrow at thine heart, 
 
 Which I, thy wife, may know not : some sad grief 
 
 That is not mine to share, who am thine half— 
 
 If so, thou dost but cheat thine own dear self; 
 
 For it doth grieve me more, to know thou griev'st, 
 
 Unknowing yet the cause, than if I knew 
 
 To help thee to divide, and to sustain it. 
 
 Hearest ? — yet answer 'st not ! — where are thy books ?- 
 
 Thy pictures ? — and thy bronzed cabinets, 
 
 That did delight thine hours with their rich stores, 
 
 And feed thy life with incense ? — where thy lute ? 
 
 I have not heard its tone this many a day : 
 
 Be the strings broken ? I will get thee new ones, 
 
 So thou wilt play to me — what say'st thou, love ? 
 
 Car'st not to do't? — tell me some story, then: 
 
 Some tearful tale, that suits with thine own mood. 
 
 Or if thou wilt not — so — I am content. 
 
 In short — do as ye list, so thou'rt but near me. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Now art thou jesting, love : thou know'st full well, 
 More of myself is thine, than I can claim. 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 My share is small; but thine were small indeed. 
 Who hath the rest of thee ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 The Commonwealth — 
 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 1?2I 
 
 Lady Fairfax, 
 And of thy thought likewise ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Ay much of that — 
 
 Lady Fairfax, 
 Say all— she is- thy wife, not I. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Alas'/ 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 What said that sigh, my lord ? come, tell me true. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 It wish'd not done, what cannot he undone. 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 How much was that ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Many dark doings, born- 
 Within the paltry space of few brief months. 
 O my poor country ! when will end thy troubles ? 
 Discordant Mars, with gory hilt hath been 
 For six dread years predominant; yet still 
 Insatiate for blood, bares his red blade, 
 Greedy alert for havoc ! 
 
122 scenes from 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 
 Yet awhile — 
 
 Fairfax. 
 I see the torrent — hear its angry roar — 
 But what am I, that might but yesterday 
 Have stemm'd its fury ? — nought ! — to morrow, what ? — 
 The cedar totters ! who will heed the sward ? 
 I saw our captive King not long ago ; 
 He that was grace and majesty itself 
 Totter *d with gait infirm, and feeble step, 
 The grim coparceners of long confinement- — 
 Sighing his griefs aloud. The hazel locks 
 Which down his shoulders swung their swart crisp curls, 
 Had shrivelled into lank, and matted hair, 
 Grief gray'd and silver-hoary ere its time; 
 And all his mien forlorn and miserable. 
 Much did he speak of his dear people still — 
 Theme uppermost in his unranged thoughts — 
 He blamed himself, he said, for all that happ'd ; 
 And wish'd once more to see his people happy, 
 And ev'ry man content. This as he spake, 
 Big globous drops fell on his untrimm'd beard, 
 And hung their pure bright testimony there, 
 As witnesses of his sincere intent. 
 The sight of thing so high thus brought so low 
 Did fill my soul with sympathy—while he — 
 Firm as an oak he stood, bearing his wrongs; 
 Scath'd but not blasted; rended but not fell VI t 
 
charles the first. 123 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 Sweet life, think not upon these ugly things. 
 Come, let me kiss and kill despondency ; 
 Here shall not be her empire. Thou art mine ;• 
 And I will reign thy empress ; so content thee.. 
 Now are no joyous revels of a court 
 To mock at thy distemp'rature : no dames 
 To cram thee with Cyrnean honeycombs, 
 And force thee, in thy spite, to swallow down 
 The bitter sweet of satire ; therefore I 
 Will talk thee into thine own ridicule, 
 And shew thee these crook 'd-back habilliments — 
 
 Who's yon, with moody and dejected front, 
 Counting at every tread the marble's vein ? 
 He should be by his port, one of thy kin, 
 Or rather thy antipodes, sweet Lord ; 
 Who are true shadows of ourselves they say. 
 Surely that figure is beknown to me, 
 Look ? dost thou see him, Love ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 'Tis Cromwell ! hush ! 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 Why is thy cheek so sudden pale, my Lord ? 
 What freezes thus thy fascinated sight ? 
 Yon snake? — heed not his antick mummeries. 
 Alas ! J may not mingle breath with thine, 
 But e'en so soon do these hard-favor "d men, 
 
124 SCENES FROM 
 
 Break in upon the short-liv'd intercourse 
 Of thy sad hours with mine — indeed, 'tis hard — 
 
 {Exit Lady Fair f ax. y 
 
 Enter Cromwell. 
 Good day, my Lord ! methinks ye look but ill — 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Then am I the true mirror of thyself. 
 
 Cromwell. 
 No wonder that — for in these sickly times, 
 What is there which the murrain pestilence 
 Leaves sound ? It is our fault — your fault and mine — 
 And, were it not for certain puking qualms, 
 That swarm like maggots on men's good intentions, 
 Had never lain so long our work's reproach. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 No more ! illustrious hypocrite ! I ask 
 What thing doth prompt thee, Cromwell, thus to me 
 To moot the King's destruction \ art thou wrong'd 
 More than the rest of us, that thou shouldst thus 
 Heap thy vendictive hate upon his head ? 
 Flinch not, fierce man ! I can look into thee : 
 Another sun hath risen on thy world : 
 Oh what a prospect do I see within thee ! 
 Horrid hath been the journey of thy life ! 
 Thro' seas of blood, o'er hills of human flesh; 
 And thou the pilot of those dreadful seas, 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST- 125 
 
 The guide to whom those hills were most familiar ! 
 Oh, if thou canst, shut up thy window 'd self, 
 Lest eyes look in, and see thy sooty soul. 
 
 Cromwell. 
 Lord Fairfax, I have heard thee patiently ; 
 And noted well thy vague unmeaning taunts — 
 If soul but thou — thou see'st how cool I am — 
 How dared ye, Fairfax to revile me so ? 
 Me who have done thy bidding : propp'd thee up : 
 Been all subservient to thy purposes : 
 Hung at thy elbow : waited on thy beck : 
 Mingled a patriot's tear. — 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 (A crocodile's ! — ) 
 
 Cromwell. 
 With thine — forbear ! thou canst not move me, Thomas. 
 Have we not wept together? pray'd together ? bled ? 
 O, rather was I not as offspring fond 
 Of thy fair reputation — 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 To abuse it ! 
 
 Cromwell. 
 Oft nestling me beneath thy covert wing ! 
 Did I e'er guide thy pen? — 
 
126 SCENES FROM 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Yes, with thy tongue ! 
 
 Cromwell. 
 Or stain the ink of it ! — 
 
 Thou liest ! 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Ay, with rank poison! 
 
 Cromwell. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Ha!— 
 
 Cromwell. 
 Thou canst not move me Fairfax — 
 Were not thy deeds thine own ? dost thou deny it ? 
 What ! wilt thou one day use me for thy steed, 
 And spur my labouring sides to save thy neck ; 
 Then on the morrow swear I gallop'd off with thee? 
 If thou repent'st thee of the good thou'st done, 
 It is the sign of a remorseless soul ! 
 If thou neglectedst that which ought t'have been — ■ 
 What's in my name that it should stand between 
 Thou and thy God, Lord Fairfax ! charge not me 
 With thy delinquencies : I'll not endure it. 
 Praised be Heaven, I ne'er was yet the dupe 
 Of mine own conscience, nor the thing to melt 
 Ben-eath a woman's thimble oratory : 
 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 127 
 
 What hath been done let them investigate, 
 Whose province 'tis to take strict cognizance, 
 And scann the deeds of others — should I fear ? 
 What must be done, why let it come to pass : 
 Justice shall have free course — she cries aloud, 
 And with an angry voice, for Stuai;t's head : 
 Nor by the Lord ! shall she go unappeas'd. 
 
 Fairfax, (to Cromwell.) 
 O God of truth ! look on this murderous man. 
 Was it with such discourse ye gain'd my heart, 
 And won me to the cause of liberty ? 
 Was it with schemes of blood, base regicide, 
 That Fairfax's ear was won ? his falchion pledg'd ? 
 His ploughshare forged into a halbert spike ? 
 
 Cromwell. 
 What wouldst thou have ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Freedom but not revenge. 
 
 Cromwell. 
 Now didst thou ever dream of liberty ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Thou sayest well ; I dream'd of liberty. 
 Oh she has been the polestar of my course 
 An intense magnet to my loaded soul, 
 A sweet deception, a most fair untruth, 
 
 S 
 
128 SCENES FROM 
 
 Which, tho' so false, I fain would real deem; 
 Patting the cheat upon myself with gladness. 
 Ah thou hast worm'd from me, my golden hopes; 
 My hopes for thee — for I did love thee once ! — 
 For friends, for countrymen, for self, for all. 
 Fain I'd have giv'n (a father's legacy) 
 This charter to my children's children's heirs : 
 And in that gift made mention of thy name — 
 How we did tug for it ; how prosper'd too ; 
 And how themselves should keep the precious gift- 
 
 Cromwell. (jeeringly^ 
 Fairfax when thou didst dream of liberty, 
 How look'd she to the pupil of thine eye ? 
 Came she i'th'gory, saffron-dipped stole 
 Of griin-gear'd contest ? or in amice white, 
 Of sweet concession, with her olive wand? 
 How beamed her glance ? 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 As wide unlike to thine, 
 As a mild planet to a fenfire's glare ! 
 
 Cromwell. 
 What fool wcrt thou to dream of liberty ! 
 Wed thee to love, to jealousy, to hate, 
 To rank despair, but not to liberty ! 
 Indulge in hope, hut not of liberty ! 
 Cheat men with words, beguile their cred'lous ears. 
 But rally not the herd with that lame catch, 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 129 
 
 That tinkling weather-bell of old, yclep'd 
 
 Sweet liberty ! 
 
 What fool e'er found her habitation out ? 
 
 Her den, her palace, or her hermitage ? 
 
 What human guest e'er grac'd her dainty board ? 
 
 Swill'd of her bowl ? or sipped her bucket pure ? 
 
 The fowls are free, that ride the stormy wave — 
 
 The people, too, on elm tree tops that build, 
 
 Braving with battlements of twigs the heavens, 
 
 The commonwealths of crows, and cormorants, 
 
 They're free ! 
 
 If thou'dst be wise, hie to the terrene poles, 
 
 Go, Orpheus like, go scour old Earth's fag ends, 
 
 And lacerate thy lungs with crying loud 
 
 Liberty ! there mayst, 'mid pyramids of ice, proclaim 
 
 Thine empire sole, and dream that thou art free ! 
 
130 SCENES FROM 
 
 Scene. — A Chamber in St. James's Palace — King Charles, 
 habited in deep black, is seated at a table intently perusing 
 a volume — His Children the Princess Elizabeth and the 
 Duke of Gloucester on either side, their hands in his. 
 A Halberdier in the distance leaning on his pike. 
 
 Charles. 
 "To be, or not to be, that is the question" — 
 With me, no time is now to put the question. 
 A smile — a sigh — a jest — a sympathy — 
 A little talk — a little travelling — 
 Some shaking of the hands — more of the head — 
 This th' evidence? — O compound rare 
 Of contrarieties, ycleped life ! 
 Contingent good, outweighed by certain ill ! 
 What is't to lose ye? riches, profit, gain. 
 To let the wave of things close o'er our heads, 
 And sink so imperceptibly away, 
 That scarce a bubble notes the gap we make. 
 To kiss one's hand, as on a journey bound, 
 And bid gocd bye to all — -one last good night, 
 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 131 
 
 Compose us then to Death's undaybreak'd dose — ■ 
 And dream about the world we've left behind — 
 But to be thrust, not rock'd, into this sleep; 
 To have our mid-day, ope, undrowsy lids 
 Seal'd ere the hour of rest, shut down upon 
 Life's landscape, whilst the sun shines vertical ; 
 To be enchain'd to Death, not wedded to't; 
 Made wanton food for his unhungered maw; 
 Converted to his present property, 
 By man so soon his perquisite — 
 
 Children. 
 
 Dear father ! 
 
 Charles. 
 No, here I live ! these are my miniatures — > 
 Myself re-edified, remodell'd fair ! 
 O life ! if thou wert ever sweet, 'tis now. 
 How rich is he who counteth out his wealth 
 In pretty coins like these ; whose surfaces 
 Stamp'd o'er and o'er with his own image, shine, 
 Unscratch'd by th' world's rough currency — 
 Who would not grow a miser o'er such heaps ? — 
 
 As he regards the Children, tears trickle dozen his cheeks — - 
 The Children with their handkerchiefs dry them. 
 
 Children. 
 Don't weep dear father ! — ■ 
 
132 
 
 SCENES FROM 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Must I leave my babes ? 
 O Guil ! regard these orphans when I'm gone. 
 
 Gloucester. 
 When you have left us, father, will you not 
 Come back once more to see us ? 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Never, boy ! 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 Alas ! will no one snatch thee from this place? 
 
 Charles. 
 Care not for me, dear love : my time hath fleeted. 
 Our days are number W, and mine hour is come. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 Not one to help thee, father ? 
 
 Charles. 
 
 What mean'st love I 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 Uncle of France, can he not save thy life ? 
 
 Charles. 
 Alack ! sweet heart, he with the other crowns 
 Will never stir 'till I am dead and gone : 
 
CHARLES THE FIRST. 133 
 
 Then, ravenous like wolves for Charles' goods, 
 They will send hither to divide his spoil, 
 And quarrel for the mastery of his chattels — ■ 
 The world is yet all strange to thee my girl. 
 
 Gloucester. 
 This morning when they brought this dismal suit, 
 Methought they clad us in't, that we might die. 
 
 Elizabeth, {embracing his knees') 
 
 do not leave us father ! 
 
 Gloucester. 
 
 I will die ! 
 
 Charles. 
 Elizabeth ! sweet heart ! dry up thy tears. 
 
 1 fain would speak a charge to thee — hear'st love? 
 
 {Giving her a ring) 
 
 Give this remembrance to thy mother, child, 
 (If e'er hereafter ye may meet again) 
 And tell her thus : that next to Him above, 
 She was my stay and comfort when 1 died. 
 
 (\4 roll of drums heard without) 
 
 Halberdier. 
 
 The time is up — the princes must depart. 
 
134 
 
 SCENES FROM 
 
 Charles, (takes Gloucester on his knee) 
 Yet once — one little moment, and I've done ! 
 And now they will cut off thy father's head — 
 
 Gloucester, 
 And brother Charles's too? 
 
 Charles. 
 (Ay when they catch him,) 
 And make thee king - , and then they'll cut off thine : 
 But, mark me child, thou must not be a king' 
 Whilst yet thy brothers Charles and James do live. 
 
 Gloucester. 
 I will be torn in pieces first ; I will ! — 
 
 Charles. 
 Remember that ! and now remember me ! 
 
 He embraces the Children repeatedly , and delivers them to the 
 Halberdier, who leads them aicay sobbing bitterly. The 
 King, overpowered, sinks into his seat, arid covers his face 
 with his cloak. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 POEMS. 
 
135 
 
 IL PE8CATOR. 
 
 Hence ye listless restless crew ! 
 To your haunt, the town, and brew 
 What ye will of toil and trouble 
 'Mid the City's froth and bubble. 
 Hence ! nor with your tramp profane 
 The peaceful fishers' still domain ! 
 
 On a green bank let me lie, 
 Fragrant with the cowslips by : 
 At my feet a glassy stream. 
 Shingling right athwart the beam 
 Of the noontides' golden ray, 
 Quickened by the curling spray, 
 As it spangling, sparkling, breaks 
 In a thousand rainbow streaks — 
 There with purple hook, and line 
 Where gossamer doth intertwine 
 Its filmy-textured, fleecy form 
 With soft silk from the throwster worm. 
 
 T 
 
136 Miscellaneous 
 
 Fling the pearly minnow in, 
 Where the great trout's rudder-fin 
 Sweeps the eddies in a mound, 
 Chasing his scaly prey around. 
 Or, if summer's sun be cut, 
 And the June birds' merry note 
 Melodious from the tranquil sky 
 Fills the fields with ecstacy, 
 We along the winding marge 
 Or alder bank will roam at large, 
 And, light as leaves in autumn fall 
 At the dead year's funeral, 
 From needle-top the glossy fly, 
 Mottled o'er with many a dye, 
 Graceful throw successively : — 
 Mark the chevin as they rise 
 
 Eager for the veiled prize : 
 
 Or, with keener eye essay 
 
 The deep pool, where the live-long day 
 
 The ogre pike doth lurking lie. 
 
 Come, the fisher's life and try ! 
 
 Track the footway by the side 
 
 Of the river's snaky tide, 
 
 Befringed deep with rushes high, 
 
 And reeds that evermore do sigh, 
 
 As tho' the shepherd God were lurking nigh : 
 
 And when the hot oppressive hour 
 
 Of high noon weighs upon each flower; 
 
 When every thing that lives hath dropp'd to rest, 
 
 And nature's self dreams out her sweet siest 
 
Poems. 137 
 
 There, in some branch-ychcquered glade, 
 Outstrelch'd all underneath the shade 
 Of doddered oak or hazel's lofty stem, 
 Bedight in lichens crisped diadem, 
 The sweet repast, we'll calm prepare, 
 And each the gladd'ning converse share : 
 With songs and mirth and many a laugh, 
 The whiles the circling juice we quaff,* 
 And, as the stealing minutes creep, 
 And shadows lengthen in the vale, 
 (With finny spoils the turf bespangled, 
 The how, the where, each prey entangled) 
 We'll pile the rainbow-hued heap, 
 And tell the evervarying tale ; 
 Until the gray fly's horn, with echo shrill,. 
 Herald of even, o'er the western lull 
 The mellow air doth musically fill. 
 
 AVRITTEN IN THE DUNGEON OF CHILLON. 
 
 How -still ! how solemn ! solemn still as then, 
 What season paused of long captivity 
 The sickening clank — when freedom was made free, 
 And Bonnivard thrust out on life again, 
 
138 Miscellaneous 
 
 A voiceless, hopeless, bondage-altered man! 
 
 Meseems I see a shadow human-like, 
 
 Gazing with wistful brow on yon red ring 
 
 Deep wedged in the grim stone. Reflexion's sting 
 
 For him no more hath venom — hers to strike 
 
 Thought but not hope upon ! forlorn and wan, 
 
 The pillow's hue with his assimilates, 
 
 And seems his soul with petrifaction mates ! 
 
 The vision thrilled me, and I started up ! 
 But empty calm was all — seemed in the cave 
 Time's pulse at stillness audible did stop, 
 To choose with light and hope one common grave- 
 Save fragments falling piece-meal. Drop by drop 
 Trickled the oozings from Leman's blue wave, 
 And silence to the soul a mildew-sadness gave. 
 
 MOUNTAIN GOATS. 
 
 "Wide straying wanderers, that on Idris' top. 
 Or Snowdon's twinborn peak the scant herb crop- 
 Or range the mossy mantle, dew-besprent, 
 Of Skiddaw, orPlinlymmon's battlement, 
 How little is bested 
 
Poems. 139 
 
 Your ever browsing tread 
 
 By sweet vicissitude of season sent ! 
 
 Kough bearded people ! whether ye whilom, 
 
 When Maro died, did roam 
 
 From rural Arcady your ancient home — 
 
 Or, with far erring feet, 
 
 From Hebron, pristine seat, 
 
 Guided by many a patriarchal crook, 
 
 Your venerable race hencefar betook, 
 
 Tradition tells not — long long ages syne 
 
 Of the Trinacrian muse extinct the line, 
 
 And shepherd-kings and kingdoms all are gone. 
 
 Ye on the dwindling apex of a cone 
 
 Point perched, I've shuddering marked : 
 
 O'er pine-brow 'd alps uptoiling often heark'd 
 
 Your tinkling monologue to th' idle hind, 
 
 Piping his Lydian measure in the wind, 
 
 On warbling flute 
 
 Of elder shoot — 
 
 Alternate concord, sweet and well denned — 
 
 Long on his staff the listening Traveller leans : 
 
 The music melts him, all his manhood weans, 
 
 And in the dew-drop of a wanderer's tear 
 
 Oozes the honied pang of many a memory dear. 
 
110 Miscellaneous 
 
 LETHE. 
 
 The l)rook glid fast, the brook glid slow, 
 
 In a drowsy lulling dream : 
 
 So lullingly the brook did go 
 
 That you might fancy in its flow 
 
 An invitation in. 
 
 And alders by the brook did grow 
 
 Half out half in the stream. 
 
 The Nymph upon the bank she stood, 
 Toying with the licorous flood : 
 One foot on the margent trippeth ; 
 One foot in the waters dippeth ; 
 (So the swarthy swift that sippeth 
 As skims she, her wings to lave.) 
 Standeth she, those trees like to, 
 The alders on the bank that grew 
 Half in half out the wave. 
 
 The bats did flit, the owls did hoot, 
 For it was cventime : 
 
Poems. 141 
 
 The water rats athwart did shoot, 
 And wild fowl gambolled to boot 
 The stream from lime to lime. 
 All all is still, by heath, by hill, 
 The curfew clapper save that curleth 
 The ear around in thrilling sound — 
 How many more such notes profound ? 
 The curfew clapper sure now burlieth 
 More than is her wont ! — all's still ! 
 
 The brook glid fast, the brook glid slow, 
 
 In a drowsy lulling dream : 
 
 So lullmgly the brook did go 
 
 That you might fancy in its flow 
 
 An invitation in — 
 
 The Nymph upon the bank she stood, 
 
 Coying with the licorous flood — 
 
 Hastily her bosom heaveth, 
 
 Like the ripple that receive th 
 
 The load of her loveliness ! 
 
 The Nymph is in the stream — sweet creature ! 
 
 Plunging playfully, each feature 
 
 Glows than doth each wave no less. 
 
 The bat doth scream, the owl doth hoot ! 
 
 Ply to and fro, the rat and coot ! 
 
 The curfew ceased hath to swing ! 
 
 The quarter chimes bemuffled ring ! 
 
 The Nymph is in the stream — God save her ! 
 
 Plunging fearfully — o'erwave her 
 
142 Miscellaneous 
 
 The troubled alder trees and beech — 
 So near and yet so out of reach ! 
 The dismal sun looks luridly, 
 Twice-sized, and sultry roan : 
 Now must the sun, assuredly, 
 Amain be hastening home; 
 Yet why hath he, with vapory veil, 
 So mystically shone ? 
 
 The Nymph is in the stream — God take her ! 
 
 Floating breathless — who shall wake her 
 
 From her saintly death-sleep dream ? 
 
 Down, and further down the stream, 
 
 She is floating, floating found. 
 
 The hymn of wail, upspiring, wound 
 
 Her spirit round : 
 
 Yes, Death did take her ! 
 
Poems. M3 
 
 HEROD AND MAPJAMNE, 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Herod the Great, last King of Jerusalem, on his departure from the City to meet 
 Anthony at Laodicea, gave in charge to Joseph that if Anthony should kill him 
 (Herod) Joseph should immediately cause to he murdered Mariamne, Herod's beauti- 
 ful Queen, pretending that as he had a tender affection for his wife he was afraid of 
 the injury offered him, if, after his death, she for her beauty should be engaged to 
 some other man. 
 
 Jcseplius. 
 
 Herod and Mariamne. 
 
 Herod. 
 By the light along thy brow, 
 By the gloss upon thy tresses, 
 By each unaccomplished vow 
 That the load of life oppresses 
 "When mortality transgresses, 
 
 Promise, dearest ! 
 
144 Miscellaneous 
 
 Mariamne. 
 By the body thou dost bear, 
 By the soul that's caverned there, 
 By the torments of despair, 
 
 Thou art nearest ! 
 
 Herod. 
 Should the foeman take my life, 
 Should the dungeon vault immure me, 
 Wilt thou be another's wife ? 
 Could another's love allure ye ? 
 Cans' t thou too of this assure me, 
 
 Dearest ? dearest ? 
 
 Mariamne. 
 Though the turtle cease to build, 
 Though the sun forget to gild, 
 Yet shall never be fulfilled 
 
 That thou fearest. 
 
 Herod and Joseph. 
 
 Herod. 
 Take, I charge thee, take this dagger : 
 Swear thee, if I die, to stab her — 
 Slave ! dost dare my purpose stagger ? 
 Swear it ! Swear 
 
 
Poems. 145 
 
 Joseph. 
 Mighty Herod ! life is lovely ; 
 Beauty lovelier — let it move thee 
 Once to lift thy soul above thee — 
 
 How she's fair ! 
 
 Herod. 
 Traitor ! limbless will I tear thee ! 
 
 Joseph. 
 Spare, great Herod ! spare, oh spare me ! 
 
 Herod. 
 Promise ! or my slaves shall bear ye 
 
 Lifeless away ! 
 
 Joseph. 
 Give me, fearful man ! the dagger. 
 
 Herod. 
 See ye stumble not nor stagger ! 
 
 Joseph. 
 I will promise — 
 
 He$od. 
 
 Swear ! 
 
 Joseph. 
 
 To stab her 
 On thy death day. 
 
146 Miscellaneous 
 
 Mariamne and Joseph. Afterwards Herop. 
 
 Mariamne. 
 
 Pour me poison to the brim — 
 Life, that was all love for him 
 Breast to breast, nor limb to limb 
 
 Shall longer steal ! 
 
 Joseph. 
 Soft ye. soothe ye, beauteous dame, 
 Truest love is never tame ; 
 Herod's passion's not the same 
 
 That triners feel. 
 
 Mariamne. 
 Herod gave thee charge to kill me — 
 See this bosom — 
 
 Joseph, (aside) 
 Still thee, still thee, 
 fluttering heart ! Ah !— 
 
Poems. 147 
 
 Here may'st fill thee : 
 Strike it, strike ! 
 
 
 Joseph. 
 Dead he is not, Mariamne ; 
 Home returning, he will hand ye 
 To the throne where loves will fan ye 
 
 Bridal-like. 
 
 Mariamne. 
 Was not mine to be his fate ? 
 Love no longer now — but hate ! 
 Joy of vengeance, joy elate ! 
 
 Come soothe my breast ! 
 
 Herod (rushing in) 
 
 Mariamne ! 
 
 Mariamne. 
 Herod ! dearest ! 
 
 Herod. 
 Thou, and thou alone, art nearest ! 
 In this bosom all thou fearest 
 
 Set at rest ! 
 
^48 Miscellaneous 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF TERPSICHORE, 
 
 The King did fret, the King- did fume, 
 And not a noble dar'd presume 
 In his eyesight stand — in his presence be — 
 So stirred up was he ! 
 
 Nights and mornings nine there went 
 
 By o'er the castle's battlement : 
 
 Cloudy mornings ten save one 
 
 Have risen since his gloom begun. 
 
 Brow be wrinkled, beard uncombed. 
 
 He sitteth in gloom all gloomily ; 
 
 His hounds, 'twixt whom and him to be 
 
 One humour seemed where'er they roamed. 
 
 Their master's mood partook, and foamed 
 
 All at the mouth right rabidly; 
 
 Listless round about they lay; 
 
 All gloomily in gloom lolled they. 
 
 Now what can make the monarch so ? 
 There's not a single soul doth know. 
 
Poems. 149 
 
 Yet every lawful means they try 
 His spell to break — 
 
 First, minstrelsy. 
 The monarch hears, bat heedeth not 
 Now what can be his ail ? God wot ! 
 
 'Gins the monarch's brow to lower ! 
 
 Storm of music down to shower 
 
 Ceaseth suddenly ! 
 
 And now the solemn song is raised ; 
 
 Now the Hero's prowess praised; 
 
 His feats loud sung, his conquests rung, 
 
 His mercy millioned by each tongue ; 
 
 But, no, no, no, decreaseth 
 
 The gradual quire ; 
 
 The monarch's ire 
 
 Observed was to boil the higher, 
 
 Himself the theme — that ceaseth. 
 
 Now what can make the monarch so, 
 Not a single soul doth know. 
 Yet every lawful means they try 
 His spell to break — 
 
 And, bright as day 
 Ere minute-mouldered, Dowsabel — 
 She who knew to soothe him well — 
 Timid came. She loved the King : 
 And feared him as an awful thing — 
 She was, he said, ay holier far 
 
150 Miscellaneous 
 
 Than were one half the saints in the calendar. 
 
 But now to see her frowned the king ; 
 
 To look upon such lovely thing 
 
 Not now he choosed ; 
 
 But she was crafty, was the fair, 
 
 And precious of her debonair, 
 
 And seldom in it used. 
 
 She knelt, she spake — he heard, not listened : 
 
 Ceased she suddenly, then glistened 
 
 In her eye a future tear, 
 
 Eave-hung, trembling, pearled it there — 
 
 Eloquent it shewed all o'er, 
 
 Like the soul of some long'balmed orator 
 
 Come back to move pity on earth once more. 
 
 Yet for all that tear could tell 
 
 Heedeth not the monarch's ee — 
 
 Still gloomily in gloom sits he. 
 
 Now what can make the monarch so ? 
 Dowsabel doth she not know 
 The means to make her power avail ? 
 Ay, Dowsabel, thou knowest well 
 The means to make thy power avail. 
 
 Lo ! refulgent 'fore the throng, 
 Dowsabel with lute and gong; 
 Round her brow the wreathlet curling — 
 Wreathlet fresh of blending rods 
 Gathered green from ivy tods — 
 On her taper fingers twirling 
 
Poems. 151 
 
 Lifted high, the tambour-drum, 
 
 Gingle-circled, thumped with thumb ; 
 
 Fast and fleet and faltering never, 
 
 Round and round she spins, and halts, 
 
 Deftly to her foot's endeavour 
 
 Waves her ivied wand so clever, 
 
 'Till subsides, unseen to sever, 
 
 Her step into th' aerial waltz. 
 
 Floats she in ether, now easterly, westerly, 
 
 Skims the smooth surface, now this way now that : 
 
 Pictures the progress of day, and of yesterday, 
 
 On rolling, on toiling, curved now, now flat. 
 
 Faint thee not, faint thee not, Dowsabel, Dowsabel ! 
 
 Lo the great Monarch looks over thee now ! 
 
 Dowsabel, Dowsabel, dance thee well, dance thee well ! 
 
 Clouds are departing the great Monarch's brow. 
 
 So trips it merry Dowsabel 
 
 With her quivering feet so well. 
 
 See the twin-born spheres of ocean 
 
 On her white neck white waves telling ; 
 
 Mimicking the sea's commotion, 
 
 Surge on surge on surge quick welling ! 
 
 See her slender satined feet 
 
 Making music every beat ! 
 
 Dancing ever, right and left, 
 
 Gliding, sliding, nimble paced, 
 
 Leaping languid, half bereft 
 
 By motion of her robes displaced — 
 
 Working, weaving, through and through, 
 
152 MlSCELLANEO 
 
 tying, smoothly, \\ ho 
 
 Could look on her and love not i 
 The Monarch's brow from wrinl 
 Wiih her mouse eye spietli she; 
 And deftly from his lap she shook 
 The beads, and relic-box, and hook — 
 The Hall with shouts resounded! 
 The wily Monk, confounded, 
 Drew o'er his brow the cowls 1 dark shade,- 
 The King uprose, and from his waist, 
 Thick with glittering jewels graced, 
 A studded girdle gave the maid — 
 Sweet Dowsabel, who knew so well 
 The means to make her power avail — 
 And never more the King was known 
 To parley with the monk alone. 
 
mi. 153 
 
 THE SLAVER 
 
 The whirlwind is roaring ; 
 The Heavens are warring 
 
 With Earth : 
 The vessels asunder 
 Crack, splinter, sink under 
 
 The surf. 
 
 The rent sails are flattering ; 
 The white spray upsputtering 
 
 Mast high. 
 The sea vulture's screamings 
 Drown th' overboard seamens 
 
 Last cry. 
 
 Now dying, now nearing, 
 The thunder's careering 
 
 Strikes d 
 One gallant ship shivers, 
 Her gunflash delivers 
 
 Sound n 
 
154 Miscellaneous 
 
 "See ! the monsters who man us r 
 "To the tempest their canvass 
 
 Have spread ! 
 "Tis the hour for remembrance, 
 "Sons ! let not your vengeance 
 
 Lie dead !" 
 
 Thus the Chief — as he uttered, 
 The black captives muttered. 
 
 "Avenge !" 
 Their chains were soon o'er them, 
 Their fiends lo before them — 
 
 "Revenge !" 
 
 Ah ! who shall make mention 
 Of God's dread prevention 
 
 That day ? 
 There was carnage and slaughter 
 'Till red rolled the water 
 
 Away, 
 
 "We are free ! we are free ! 
 "But on what shore shall we 
 
 Find home !" 
 "On the white Isles of Ocean !" 
 Shouted throats in commotion, 
 
 "Come, come ! ; 
 
Poems, 155 
 
 LOVE AS LANDSCAPE PAINTER, 
 (from goethe) 
 
 On a peak at early morn reclining, 
 Stedfastly I watched the gray mist falling, 
 Like the folds of a transparent curtain, 
 Shrouding all things in a moonlight dimness, 
 
 Said a Boy. who sudden stood beside me, 
 
 How cans't sit, good Friend, so long and ponder 
 
 Musing vacant on an empty vapour? 
 
 Hast thou lost all pleasure now for painting ? 
 
 Sculpture, too, hath she no sweet allurements ? 
 
 At the child I stared, and said within me, 
 Surely will the Urchin play magister ? 
 
 Wilt thou ever be thus dull and lazy, 
 Said the boy, can nothing rouse thy stupor? 
 Come, now, I will sketch a little picture — 
 Picture that shall wake thy idle pen* 
 
158 Miscellaneous 
 
 Then, his ruby red forefinger lifting, 
 Radiant as the bloom of damask roses, 
 Tricing faint lines on the outspread carpet, 
 'Gan to draw a richly varied landscape. 
 
 High aloft he drew a sun's bright circle, 
 Dazzling to the sight with beaming splendour : 
 On each cloud was tinged a golden border — 
 Clouds thro' which the molten sunbeams darted. 
 Next appeared the graceful waving summits 
 Of refreshing trees that robed the mountains, 
 Rising gradual in a wide perspective. 
 Nor beneath was glassy water wanting: 
 For anon he drew a winding river, 
 Circumambient, and so like to nature, 
 In the sunbeams it appeared to glisten, 
 And I fancied I could hear it murmur 
 As it flow'd along its sloping margin. 
 Flowers blossomed on the white wave's surface, 
 Glowing tints, too, the green meadows checquered, 
 Gold and purple with enamel blending, 
 Emerald green and flaming bright carbuncle ; 
 Last of all behold the purple Heavens 
 'Gainst the hills their pearly arc expanding ! 
 So harmoniously their hues contrasted, 
 At the spectacle I swelled with rapture, 
 Now the Artist, now the work admiring. 
 
 Have I then, said he, at length succeeded ? 
 Art convinced I understand the mystery ? 
 
 1 
 
Poems, 157 
 
 Look again ! now comes the master- movement, 
 Then lie lifted cautiously his finger, 
 Where the ground the sun's bright rays reflected, 
 Lo ! the form of a most lovely maiden ! 
 Beautiful her mien, and rich her vesture; 
 Auburn ringlets floated round her temples, 
 And her cheeks were of the same bright colour, 
 With the hand by which they were depicted. 
 
 Oh thou boy! exclaimed I, what great master 
 Hath endowed thy pencil with his magic ? 
 Thou, whose touches breathe divine-like nature, 
 Into canvass quickened life infusing ? 
 Scarce I said, when lo ! all gently fanning, 
 Rose a breeze that stirred the mountain summits, 
 Into waves each river-ripple curling : 
 Filled the garments of the maiden lovely, 
 And — what scared my wonder-stricken senses — - 
 She herself, that woman-fair creation, 
 Rose to come, and in a moment stood she 
 'Twixt the urchin artist and his scholar ! 
 
 Now was all commotion, all bestirment — 
 Rivers, flowers, trees, the veiled vestment— 
 And the slender feet of her all lively — 
 Think ye on my rock I lay fast rooted, 
 Like a rock immoveable remaining ? 
 
158 Miscellaneous 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 A robin sat on a bramble bush, 
 
 Discoursing to the last of light : 
 
 Lord ! how his little throat did push 
 
 Forth stanzas with a giant's might ! 
 
 A nest of tiny things hard by, 
 
 To him upon the bush did cry 
 
 In sweet beseechful melody. 
 
 Two beings were — two cherub things — ■ 
 
 Scarce summers six with fleecy wings 
 
 Had breezed their buxom cheeks. The one 
 
 A scarf upon her neck had om 
 
 Forth both had strolled to see the sun 
 
 Set flush along the horizon — well ! 
 
 What evil chance them twain befell ? 
 
 Listen, I to you will tell 
 
 If evil chance them twain befell. 
 
 Fair fruit groweth on the tree ; 
 
 The children, with their hands so free, 
 
 Pluck and pluck— now grammercv 
 
Poems. 159 
 
 Poor Robin's young, for thee, for thee ! 
 
 The Robin ceased hath ? no ; hush ! 
 
 Hear him from the bramble bush, 
 
 Twittering still his twilight trill — 
 
 Mournful, yet melodious fill ! 
 
 With high delight 
 
 The Children laugh outright ! 
 
 And, eagerly elate, 
 
 Search, discover, plunder straight ! 
 
 A cloud goes overthwart the moon ! 
 
 The Robin now hath ceased his tune; 
 
 He'll wake with sorrow on the morrow, 
 
 And change his gurgling note full soon. 
 
 The Children grew to man's estate ; 
 And mixed with the world, and ate 
 Bread of joy ; and, grateful, owned 
 Life was pleasant, life was fair ; 
 For wedlock came, and love was there, 
 And offsprings with their parents features- 
 A family of loving creatures ! 
 
 They lived upon an Island small 
 Girt round about with poplars tall ; 
 A life of happiness — not long, 
 O misery ! O woe in store ! 
 Once arose a fearful squall — 
 There put in Pirates, fierce and strong — 
 These stole the infants one and all — 
 They never were seen more. 
 
 X 
 
160 Miscellaneous 
 
 Such evil chance, as I you tell, 
 
 The young ones of those twain befell : 
 
 And to this day 'tis unconfest 
 
 If drew the plundered Robin's nest 
 
 That visitation horrible ! 
 
 A Yew-tree rooteth on yon lonely mound, 
 
 Of antique mould, and awe-impressing growth ; 
 
 No herbage greens the mossless trunk around, 
 
 Nor clinging tendril plights its wedded troth. 
 
 In unrepose, the sombre branches rest ; 
 
 So dark the gloom their shadow trails along, 
 
 That e'en the Raven, last of birds unblest, 
 
 Ne'er croaks amid the boughs his boding song — 
 
 The work of centuries, alone it stands ! 
 
 Its gnarled trunk scored by the fairy bands 
 
 That drop at nightfall from far lunar lands — 
 
 A knotted trunk ! close twisted like a brood 
 
 Of adder-young, as round their dam they rise, 
 
 Coiling in contest for the stricken food 
 
 By her held vertical — dead poison lies 
 
 Hid in the treacherous cups of honied juice 
 
 Which those murk branches temptingly put forth, 
 
 Yclad in vermeil garb of coral glues. 
 
 Ah ! pluck not, Clamberer ! 'tis thy young life's worth ! 
 
 Tree of unlifelike stillness ! solemn plant 
 
 Of sad-significance ! whose wild arms flung — 
 

 Poems. 261 
 
 Fit emblem of contortion ! — far aslant 
 
 Hell gates' declivity (so Naso sung) 
 
 Distilled o'er wandering Ghosts the deadly sleep — 
 
 Lo here thine earthly attributes ! to keep 
 
 Unjoyous cheer at Death's drear festival, 
 
 And sojourn in his citadel of graves, 
 
 Whene'er yon Tree doth spread its gloomy pall 
 
 Athwart mine eve-tide way — like storm-tinged waves, 
 
 Dark as its dismal hues the sick soul grows : 
 
 So mournfully it sways its boughs in each faint gust that blovv I 
 
 A word that signifies 
 What its sound denies — 
 A look that expresses 
 The prettinesses 
 Of thoughts it would mask, 
 (And how hard that task !) 
 When the heart pants for fear, 
 And Hope's sickly tear 
 Hangs dimming the sight, 
 
 In the noon of the night, 
 When two bosoms tremble 
 To think they dissemble 
 What either doth feel, 
 Yet fears to express it, 
 'Till both learn to guess it, 
 And lisp it, and bless it — 
 What disproves 
 These are Loves' ? 
 
162 Miscellaneous 
 
 Date obolum belisario!" 
 
 Loud, long, and listless howled the ev'ning wind, 
 For it was Winter — thoughtful men did keep 
 Lone twilight's interval, revolving deep 
 High themes of speculation for the mind, 
 Jn silent solitude, 
 Reflection's chosen mood — 
 And calm was all, and quiet in its kind ! 
 
 When sudden drawled an unlink 'd melody 
 Of creaking, piercing tones, along the night ; 
 Now fast — now slow — now loud — how halting quite 
 Before expressed — joined now, with hideous cry, 
 Like mattock'd worms, together, 
 Twisting erewhile they tether, 
 "Curse on thy calling, Psalmist !" mutter 'd I. 
 
Poems 163 
 
 Zounds ! is a Piper's soul so constitute, 
 That hateful noise makes music to his ear ? 
 Or limping utterance preferable to hear ? 
 Hath he so subjugate his senses to't ? 
 
 Again uplifts the screech ; 
 
 Divided each from each, 
 In see saw, yawning stops, like bray of long-ear'd brute ! 
 
 Out on thee, knave ! thou mak'st my bowels yearn ! 
 
 I shall go mad — thank Heaven, 'tis over now ! 
 
 Once more, all's still — thou'rt tired out, I trow, 
 
 Minstrel perverse, that canst rejection spurn ! 
 
 Still there ? — I thought thee gone — 
 Tell me, thou lyric drone, 
 Are minstrels only won 
 
 To bear unbent the load of iron unconcern ? 
 
 Hard is thy chance ! yet art thou obstinate, 
 Killing the hours hy piecemeal as thou dost ; 
 Tho\ may be, thou'rt inured to know the worst 
 In hardship's calendar ; — made desolate 
 
 By man's rough usages ? 
 
 And in revenge it is, 
 Thou early doggs't his quiet, haunt'st him late. 
 
164 Miscellaneous 
 
 Perhaps tliou'rt meagre ? — famished ? — then why not 
 
 Seek other travail ? — 'tis afforded thee 
 
 From fellow man to sue for charity; 
 
 Thou'dst rather wrench thy dole, than beg a jot — 
 
 Old man ! 'tis well in thee ; 
 
 Thy independency 
 A nobler boon deserves, than is thy lot ! 
 
 Methinks his music grows more musical ! — 
 Fetch me my cap and mantle ! — quick ! — apace ! — 
 So — I must see him — sure a minstrel's face 
 Can tell a wand 'ring tale historical ! — 
 Lo ! in the road he stands, 
 Turning with oft changed hands 
 A sun-warp'd case of pipes mechanical ! — 
 
 See how the cold snow, drifting heedless down, 
 Grows o'er him as a garment — yet he shakes 
 From his brown unstitched brim, the lodging flakes, 
 And empties with one hand the hollow crown, 
 Nor ceases once his tune, 
 But turns and turns aboone, 
 Of cold or wet regardless, taunt or frown. -<, 
 
Poems. 165 
 
 One foot i'th' drain, one on the curb doth rest, 
 And up and down, on this side, then on that, 
 At windows casts his eyne, where idlers sat, 
 But, noting him, had fled as from a pest, 
 Tho' that was hours ago, 
 Still there he stands below; 
 Urging sans asking the Minstrel's meek behest. 
 
 Mark well his lineaments ! — see how they speak ! 
 His kindred far — his clime a foreign land — 
 Where — not as here — man's heart doth prompt his hand, 
 Where music holds eternal passion- week — 
 Music, the Minstrel's ware — 
 Music, the Southern's care — 
 Alas ! why leave his country? — shouldst thou seek ? 
 
 The aged man hath watch'd me — will he go? 
 Scared by the scann of chill indifference, 
 When ic'd neglect could not amove him hence ? 
 Ay — he hath slung his organ — no — yes — no — 
 
 Yes, he hath said his say — 
 
 Taken his homeless way — 
 Take this, old man!— no thanks! — 't'will house thee from 
 the snow. 
 
166 Miscellaneous 
 
 From Goethe, 
 
 Devotion. 
 Thou fadcst, and art so friendly : 
 Consumest, and sing'st so sweet. 
 
 Poet. 
 
 Fell love hath dealt with me dreadly, 
 And, I will confess it meet, 
 I sing with a heart sore laden ; 
 Seest thou the tapers fading ? 
 They shine as for ever they fleet. 
 
 I will not beg what thou proffers 't not ; 
 I will not take what thou offer 'st not ; 
 And should thine eye still still deny 
 The love mine looks for, even I 
 Will feign thee fond exceedingly. 
 
 There's that in thy nature cherisheth: 
 For its lack mine own fast perisheth : 
 As echo to sound, as footfalls on ground, 
 As green reeds to the river bank's margent round- 
 Such need for affection's found. 
 
Poems. 
 
 167 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 To a Redbreast, singing on an icicle. 
 
 How, ruddy- nippled Robin, canst thou sit, 
 Trilling forlorn amid the aguish jaws 
 Of jellied winter tide ? is it because 
 Thy feet are colder than the chill of it ? 
 Hath Summer's soft uncharity so killed 
 All thy soul sensitive, that even thou, 
 Perforce, art dead to persecution now ? 
 Hard, grievous doom ! and pitlessly fulfilled ! 
 How oft partakes our circumstance of thine, 
 Wee filmy-footed thing ! like thee we pine . 
 
 In callous mood this world's inclemency, 
 And wail our big woes in thy dolorous key- 
 Man, feeling Man, 'numbed in neglect's hard mould, 
 Walks barefoot o'er Life's ice, nor feels the surface cold ! 
 
 Y 
 
168 - - ■ rs 
 
 II. 
 
 To the Memory of Blake, the Artist. 
 
 Mighty Magician I. mightier than, I wis, 
 
 Great Uther's prophoWpeer! no Merlin thou., 
 
 To whom signs unsubstantial all did bow. 
 
 Eye had not seen, mind made, such mysteries 
 
 As veined thy mood and fashion. Shadows hurled 
 
 From some deep dreanry sphere, their plumes upfurled, 
 
 Slow flitting, hovered o'er thy fine filmed sight. 
 
 Creator of a World within a World ! 
 
 Where dim mysteriousness, obscurely bright, 
 
 O'er all cowers brooding — what thy power, and whence, 
 
 To sift thy soul so fine, and mentalize 
 
 Whate'er in thee was clayey? how dispense 
 
 Such magic distillation ? and make rise — 
 
 Thy wand a chalk — -such awful Mummeries ? 
 
POEJTS 
 
 III. 
 
 After tits Sp 
 
 ANISH. 
 
 Stood a tear in love J lanthes' ej 
 
 Chrystal bright the gathering moi >.i 
 
 Fond I dwelt upon the drop, and listen* I 
 
 Long the rising sigh — till grief beguiled 
 
 Dumb love's dowry, — I could look no more 
 
 Spread anon a misty sea before me - 
 
 Thick it threw its briny breakers o'er me, 
 
 Down my chill cheek trickling salt and sore. 
 
 Sudden, sweet, and sadly sob'bing sighs fell 
 
 From the Maiden as she stood beside me, 
 
 With her mute lips meaning more than words tell- 
 
 'Twas a pangful moment did divide ne 
 
 From thy lip's last breathing, loved lanthe !— 
 
 Lips that were thy soft sLoul's sanctua 
 
170 Miscellaneous 
 
 IV. 
 
 Written at Kusnacht 
 
 " TELL met him in the road, a little below Brunnen, and in an instant 
 an arrow laid him dead at his feet.'' 
 
 Naylor's Helvetia. 
 
 If it be Murder to avenge a Life, 
 
 Or crime to slay the slayer; to restore 
 
 The tide of soul thro' Freedom's languid pore 
 
 By plucking off the Vampire : or with knife 
 
 To the heart to stab a Tyrant in his might, 
 
 And in one offering hecatombs combine — 
 
 Whole hecatombs that at oppression's shrine 
 
 Had else paid sacrifice of wrong o'er right — 
 
 Then was, great Tell, that glorious guilt all thine ; 
 
 Whose bolt, son-saviour once, twice true could steer 
 
 To twang atonement o'er a Gesler's bier,, 
 
 The very air, incorporate of thee, 
 
 Teems with glad impulses of Liberty. 
 
171 
 
 V. 
 
 April Sun in College. 
 
 What life is there in light ! not quickened more 
 By sweet return of Spring, the Winter's gloom ; 
 Nor glen where day-beams come at, to resume 
 Their seasonable reign, than is the floor 
 Of this my "pensive citadel," tricked o'er 
 With the first foot-marks of the courier Sun, 
 Revivified. For tho' to me belong 
 The antique chamber with its gothic door, 
 And tendrilled casement, where the rose may run 
 His wild love 'bout the vine, and vesper song 
 Burst forth of trilling redbreast on mine ear, 
 What would they all without thee, Sunbeam dear? 
 In which the peopling gnats, 'till slopes far night, 
 May revel blithe — such life is there in light ! 
 
. i 
 
 3Eli'LA.-NE0US 
 
 VJ 
 
 ■"MI AT 
 
 A little Bird there is, with small shrill note, 
 Frequent on heaths and barren uplands gray; 
 Which, as the traveller wends him on his way, 
 Anticipates his path, perching by rote 
 Upon the roadside stones : and many a day, 
 She for his sole companion, far away 
 Journies the Wanderer, cheered along I wote 
 By the plumed partner of his pilgrimage, 
 Whose plainful pipe for many a weary stage, 
 Blast-tuned, concordant, in Eolian scream, 
 Lifts up a desert song — lo ! like a dream, 
 Fleet fleeing from the sleeper's waking sight, 
 Wide o'er the waste she wings her fitful flight, 
 Returning ne'er ! —farewell, s\Veet Eremite ! 
 
Poems 
 
 173 
 
 VII. 
 
 Art-Nature, 
 
 Some covert dell, thick set, and overgrown 
 
 All with the squandrous bramble, hcatherbell, 
 
 And pervanehe loved, that by some ancient well, 
 
 Or at the plinth of a once sculptured stone, 
 
 Emblems the loveliness of contrast — leading 
 
 No inlet, save an avenue of Elms, 
 
 Wildly across the mist of their still realms 
 
 Mazes of maddest architecture threading : 
 
 A gentle slope of lawn, left natural 
 
 For some traditionary holiness, 
 
 Still rcquiemed by the robin at dusk-fall, 
 
 Still audible thorough its loneliness — 
 
 Hither to wander, listening, and feel 
 
 Her step approach — her step unchangeable ! 
 
CONFESSION. 
 (from goethe) 
 
 What is to hide the hardest ? Fire : 
 
 For by noon the smoak betrays : 
 
 By night, the flame, the terrifier ! 
 
 Moreover, hard to hide always 
 
 Is Love, which, never so stilly fed, 
 
 Will peep 'neath the lid where he's canopied. 
 
 Yet the hardest to hide is a Poet's strain : 
 
 Ye'll stove it under a bushel in vain. 
 
 Be't fresh from the Poet's anvil hit, 
 
 Then is he full of nought but it : 
 
 Be it all neat and cleanly written, 
 
 What else but all should be with't smitten ? 
 
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