LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
E V A L , 
 
 OK 
 
 THE FOOL OF TIME; 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT LYTTON. 
 
 LONDON : 
 CHAPMAN & HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1869. 
 
 I The Right of Translation is reserved.] 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
TO 
 
 COUNT ARTHUR DE GOBINEAU, 
 
 Minister of France at the Court of His Hellenic Majesty ; Member of the 
 Socittt dsiatiqve of Paris ; Author of ' Esquisse sur I'lntgaliti des Races; ' ' Traitt 
 des Ecritures Cuneiformes ;' and ' Religions et Philosophies dans I'Asie Centrale,'&c. 
 
 AMONG the most praiseworthy customs of antiquity was that 
 which imposed upon the discoverers of any new source, or 
 spring, the pious obligation to build upon the spot some altar, 
 however rude or humble, in honour of the beneficent Presiding 
 Power. I have long wished, my dear friend, to dedicate some 
 such reverent tribute of grateful feeling to those new sources 
 of instruction and enjoyment which your genial friendship and 
 fertilizing intellect have opened to myself : but were I to defer 
 the fulfilment of that wish till I have the means of accomplish- 
 ing it in a manner more to my own satisfaction, and better 
 deserving your acceptance, I should wait too long. Receive, 
 then, not for the worth of its materials, but the sincerity of 
 those sentiments which have inspired its dedication, this very 
 slight memorial of a solid and lasting esteem. 
 
 ROBERT LYTTON. 
 
 726 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE scenes which, under this title, occupy the 
 greater portion of the present volume, are of a 
 character that can be best explained by a short 
 statement of the circumstances and feelings which 
 led to their being written now many years ago. 
 
 I had long been engaged upon an attempt, which 
 was certainly a difficult one, but which had pre- 
 viously been contemplated by Schiller as neither 
 impracticable nor unworthy of his genius : to make 
 the great Revolution of 1789 the subject of poetic 
 treatment. In this attempt, the object I pro- 
 posed to myself was precisely the reverse of that 
 which has been followed in a work recently pub- 
 lished. Chronicles and Characters represent the 
 endeavour to give a concrete form to some of those 
 abstract ideas which are the final residuum of re- 
 mote historical events, and which, surviving "the 
 
 6 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 ceaseless dying of men's lives," constitute that 
 " result of man " which " doth endure above the 
 dust man drops in." But, in attempting to derive 
 the materials of poetry from historical events still 
 recent, I should, on the contrary, have endeavoured 
 to get rid altogether of the concrete character of 
 them. Keeping only in view the abstract principles 
 which they represent, I should have illustrated those 
 principles by the action of imaginary characters in 
 the delineation of which all external resemblance 
 to persons who have actually existed would have 
 been carefully avoided. Such a poem would, there- 
 fore, have been symbolic, rather than historical ; 
 panoramic, rather than dramatic. For this reason 
 the scene of it was laid, not in France or any known 
 locality, but anywhere or nowhere ; that is to say, 
 wherever the reader's own imagination might be 
 pleased to place it. For the same reason, all the 
 persons in this imaginary drama were so named as 
 to associate them as little as possible with any dis- 
 tinct nationality. They were designed to be the 
 representatives, not of this or that nation, but of 
 all society. Indeed it is not France only, but the 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 whole social organization of the eighteenth century 
 throughout Europe, that was revolutionized by the 
 events of 1789. Could those events be cancelled 
 from the memory of man, this nineteenth century 
 would be a social orphan, a political paradox, an 
 insoluble historical enigma. 
 
 It is often averred that in 1789, and throughout 
 the course of their great revolution, the French 
 people, grasping at the vain shadow of an ideal 
 society, sacrificed the valuable substance of political 
 liberty. But the aim of the French Revolution 
 was not Liberty only : it was Liberty, in connection 
 with Fraternity and Equality : and it must, I think, 
 be admitted that the effects of that revolution have 
 made clear way throughout Europe for the pro- 
 gressive self-development of modern society, by 
 loosening at the roots all kinds of political force 
 that are not in co-operation with modern ideas. In 
 the continuous, though often secret, action of 
 modern ideas upon the political structure of modern 
 society, the impetus of France is still everywhere 
 felt ; because those ideas have been baptised in the 
 blood of the French people. Doubtless, modern 
 
 6 2 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 society is not modelling itself exactly upon the ideas 
 either of Rousseau or of Robespierre. The modern 
 steam-engine, however, has scarcely any external 
 resemblance to that rude valveless mechanism in 
 which the germ of it was first embodied ; and, if 
 the discoverer of steam as a motive power had 
 been blown up by his first imperfect model of a 
 steam-engine, would it not be as reasonable to deny 
 the practical importance of his discovery, as it is 
 to ignore the constructive force of the first French 
 Revolution, because the memory of it is associated 
 with the sanguinary and revolting traditions of all 
 that was destructive in the Red Terror ] 
 
 The atrocities perpetrated by the Revolution 
 were local. The constructive ideas to which it 
 first gave, however rudely and imperfectly, social 
 expression, are universal. But to us who, whether 
 we love or hate it, are the social descendants of the 
 Revolution, much of its importance is represented 
 by its acknowledged failures, which have indicated 
 and bequeathed to us the social taskwork of our 
 own generation. The moral value of political 
 liberty, for instance, depends upon that of the com- 
 
PEEFACB. Xlll 
 
 munity which enjoys the possession of it. For, 
 since political liberty is only the absence, or sup- 
 pression, of all arbitrary and artificial interference 
 with the exercise of individual liberty, the moral 
 and intellectual character of it must obviously be 
 determined by that of the various individualities to 
 whose preponderating social tendencies it secures 
 political expression. No imaginable freedom in the 
 combined action of individual illiberalities can 
 possibly constitute a really liberal organization of 
 society. This is why the universal tendency of the 
 revolutionary idea is not to weaken the executive, 
 but to liberalize the community. It makes little 
 of political form, but much* of social fact. Its 
 antagonism is not to unity in the mechanism of 
 government, but to separation and exclusiveness in 
 the structure of society ; and to reconcile the maxi- 
 mum of political force with the minimum of social 
 privilege is the problem it propounds to us. 
 
 In England, which still stands before Europe as 
 the great representative of individualism versus 
 socialism, it must be confessed that political liberty, 
 almost unlimited, co-exists with a lamentable amount 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 of social prejudice and religious intolerance.* If 
 France, which stands before Europe as the great re- 
 presentative of socialism versus individualism, should 
 ever achieve complete political liberty, her political 
 liberty may possibly be of a higher character than 
 ours; unless, indeed, the social and moral revolution 
 which England is already undergoing should be 
 successfully completed before then. For the great 
 French Revolution has practically established in 
 France, (not merely as an intellectual conception but 
 as a realized social fact,) an organization of society 
 founded on the revolutionary idea of Equality and 
 
 * Greater even than in Spain. For there, religious intolerance 
 is the attribute, not of society, but of a government which has both 
 misconceived and misrepresented society. And even as regards 
 the intolerant portion of the community (a portion much smaller 
 than it is generally believed to be), religious intolerance is the 
 result, not so much of social traditions, and individual ten- 
 dencies, as of assiduous official training. Whereas, in England, 
 the intrusion of religious opinion upon social freedom cannot be 
 attributed to government, which is weak and temporising, but 
 results directly from the character of the community, which is 
 intolerant and powerful. The intelligence of Spain, in all the 
 great centres of population, is deeply penetrated by the modern 
 sentiment, which is anti-theological, and anti-sacerdotal, as 
 well as anti-sectarian. The same remark applies to France, and 
 all other Catholic countries. 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 Fraternity, which is already strong enough, both to 
 impose its irresistible influence upon the character 
 of eveiy administration that is, or can be, formed in 
 that country,* and also to be rapidly undermining 
 the foundations of every society throughout Europe 
 which, standing on a less thoroughly revolutionized 
 basis, has hitherto maintained itself by the strength 
 of any other social ideal. The august hopes of 
 modern society may well console it for the tem- 
 porary failure of much which the Revolution aspired 
 to construct. But society is the child of Memory 
 as well as of Hope ; and, in its fairest memories, 
 the present generation, at least, is not without cause 
 to lament the loss of some things which the Revolu- 
 tion succeeded in destroying. 
 
 Among the losses of modern society I count the 
 extinction of those delicate, slowly-formed, and far- 
 descended traditions, which are as rules of art for 
 the preservation of the beautiful in matters of social 
 convention and habit, traditions of a social supe- 
 riority made up of little things superiorly under- 
 
 * " Jamais mon gouvernement n'a devie du systeme de la 
 revolution," said Napoleon, after his return from Elba. 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 stood, and habitually treated with an inherited fine- 
 ness of perception for what is graceful and decorous 
 in personal behaviour ; traditions which, preserved 
 in the daily life of a favoured class, furnish at least 
 an appreciable standard for the perfection of social 
 intercourse. The universal deterioration of manners 
 is unquestionable and deplorable. The charm of 
 little things once lost is not a little loss.* But 
 modern society is still in process of formation. The 
 field is not yet entirely cleared. Cultivation is only 
 commencing. The soil is still being upturned ; the 
 seed is still being sown. Doubtless, among the 
 harvests of the future, flowers will blossom in due 
 season, not less fair than those which have fallen 
 
 * So soon after the Revolution as 1813, and in French society 
 which, at that time, was still deservedly celebrated for a 
 brilliancy and gracefulness no longer characteristic of it, this 
 deterioration of charm was noticed by an acute and careful 
 observer. Writing, in that year, from Paris to the Countess of 
 Albany, Sismondi says, "C'estdans la societe*, presqu'unique- 
 ment, que j'ai trouve le charme de Paris, et ce charme va 
 croissant a mesure qu'on remonle a des societes plus ages. Je 
 suis confondu du nombre d'hommes et de femmes qui appro- 
 chent de quatre-vingts ans, dont Vamabilite est infiniment 
 suptrieure a celle des jeunes gens." Sismondi himself was 
 then a young man a young man who, in the words of M. de 
 Saint-Rene* Taillandier, " remue' dans les profondeurs de 1'ame, 
 
PREFACE. XVll 
 
 beneath the harrow of time. It was not while the 
 feudal system was still struggling for existence that 
 the perfect graces of chivalry adorned society. The 
 heroes and heroines of feudal romance are the con- 
 ceptions of a later period in which feudalism had 
 
 sentait passer le souffle vivant de la revolution," and, there- 
 fore, no laudator temporis acti. After enumerating the most 
 eminent of these men and women, " qui approchent de quatre- 
 vingts ans," he adds : "Apres avoir considere ces monumens 
 d'une civilization qui se detruit, on est tout Monne, lorsqu'on 
 passe a une autre generation, de la difference de ton, d'amabi- 
 lite, et de manieres. Les femmes sont toujours gracieuses et 
 prevenantes, cela tient a leur essence ; maisrfcms les homines 
 onvoit diminuer avec lesannees V instruction comme la politesse. 
 Leur interet est tout tourne sur eux-memes. Avancer, faire 
 son chemin, est tellement le premier mobile de leur vie, qu'on 
 ne pent douter qidls riy sacrifient tout developpement de leur 
 ame, <kc." And this lost charm, what was it? The same 
 writer describes it as "ce melange parfait du meilleur ton, de 
 la plus pure elegance clans les manieres, avec une instruction 
 variee, la vivacite des impressions, la delicatesse des sentimens. 
 Tout excite 1' interet, tout eVeille la curiosite 1 , la conversation 
 est toujours variee, et cependant ces egards constants qu'inspire 
 la difference des sexes empdchent le choc des amours-propres 
 opposes, contiennent les pretentious de'placees, et donnent un 
 liant, une douceur, aces ideesneuveset profondes qu'onestetonne 
 de voir manier avec tant de facilite. " Compare this picture of 
 a society, in which already the deterioration of manners had 
 commenced, with the best society of Paris or London at the 
 present day. What society has lost in charm is obvious. Is 
 the loss a little one ? No ; for it is the loss of a beautiful ideal. 
 
XV111 PKEFACE. 
 
 attained to social perfection. And social perfection 
 involves repose, a condition denied to modern society. 
 But, when the champions of modern ideas have 
 thoroughly exterminated all those beasts of prey 
 that infest the ruins of medievalism, yet encumber- 
 ing the path and impeding the progress of modern 
 life, society will no longer be obliged to fortify its 
 position against the constantly recurring inter- 
 ference of barbarism and anarchy. We may then 
 reasonably hope that the architecture of society 
 will become more polished in the surface, more 
 ornate in the details of it, and altogether more 
 finely fitted than it is now for the undisturbed 
 enjoyment of a highly-cultivated life. 
 
 In any case, it is only in its relation to the 
 whole of European society that the French Revo- 
 lution of 1789 was contemplated by me as a 
 subject for a poem. As regards the Revolution 
 itself, my manner of viewing it is already indicated. 
 As regards the poem, the manner of writing it was 
 suggested by the form in which it presented itself 
 to my imagination. That form seemed not only to 
 admit, but even to demand, the introduction of a 
 
PREFACE. XIX 
 
 sort of supernatural dramatis personce. The object 
 of the poem was not to depict, in historical detail, 
 any particular series of events, but to give, if possi- 
 ble, imaginative forms to those abstract ideas and 
 general conceptions, from which both the character 
 and occasion of the events of 1789 were derived. 
 But the images which Poesy creates for the concrete 
 embodiment of abstract ideas, must necessarily 
 appear superhuman or supernatural ; because they 
 are the concentrated expressions of a generalized 
 experience, and the animated personification of vast 
 groups of moral or material phenomena, surpassing 
 in intensity and completeness each isolated result 
 of particular experience. All mythologies are illus- 
 trations of this fact. The gods of Homer are the 
 poetically-embodied and personified ideas of Hellas. 
 And, in a poem aiming at the aesthetic representa- 
 tion of what philosophy reveals in that momentous 
 conflict of forces whence modern society has issued, 
 it appeared to me that the great formative ideas 
 and conceptions of modern society should figure, in 
 no less majestic relation to human action, "as gods,, 
 coming up out of the earth." 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 Availing myself of this sort of supernatural ma- 
 chinery, I had endeavoured to illustrate the his- 
 torical continuity of events, by means of two great 
 panoramic visions. These visions represented, in 
 rapid procession, the synthetic evolution, from age 
 to age, of the religious and political conceptions, 
 which, by their varying influence, have determined 
 each successive phase of the development of society. 
 The subject of the poem, therefore, would have 
 included the past as well as the present ; and, be- 
 cause either my conception was too large, or my 
 faculty too small, the longer I worked at this poem 
 the more unwieldy, and yet withal unsubstantial, it 
 became. On the one hand, I was much embarrassed 
 by the difficulty of avoiding (what, indeed, no poet 
 since Goethe has entirely avoided in the presenta- 
 tion of similar conceptions) all resemblance to the 
 supernatural machinery of the Faust. On the 
 other hand, the difficulty was even greater of so far 
 imitating the example of Goethe's inimitable 
 genius as to infuse into a poem thus symbolic in 
 character, and philosophical in design, any human 
 interest at all approaching, in simplicity and inten- 
 
PREFACE. XXI 
 
 sity, to the nature of that which renders the first 
 part of the Faust (in despite of its profoundly phi- 
 losophical conception) one of the most popular and 
 generally interesting poems ever written. In the 
 foreground figure of the sketch I am describing, it 
 was my wish to illustrate the Youth and Old Age of 
 Aristocracy : the youth of it, generously impulsive ; 
 and legitimately, because efficiently, assuming the 
 championship of a society with which its interests 
 and sentiments are yet in harmony : the old age of 
 it, self-seeking, and yet self-mistrustful; desperately 
 devoted to the hopeless and anarchical task of de- 
 fending the privileges and prejudices of the few 
 against the interests and enthusiasms of the many. 
 I endeavoured to portray the boyhood of the cha- 
 racter to which this type was confided, as bright 
 with promise, and full of noble ardour and gene- 
 rous ambition, but unconsciously mistaking senti- 
 ment for opinion and impulse for principle. At- 
 tracted partly by compassion, partly by curiosity, 
 and the caprice of an imagination always in oppo- 
 sition to the impossible, this boy-heir of a noble 
 house has become the lover of a girl rescued in her 
 
XX11 PREFACE. 
 
 childhood from the violence of dissolute and crimi- 
 nal parents by a young workman. The workman 
 has sheltered and brought her up in his own home, 
 under the care of his mother supporting the two 
 women, partly by his wages as a journeyman lock- 
 smith, and partly by the scanty and occasional 
 profits which, as an obscure pamphleteer, he derives 
 from the literary investment of a vigorous intellect, 
 and an imperfect self-given education. It is by the 
 sympathy, natural to an impulsive intellectual boy- 
 hood, for the restless genius and vigorous character 
 of the young artisan that the young noble is first 
 brought into intimacy with him, and, through him, 
 with the girl whom he ultimately seduces. These 
 three characters, therefore, by reason of their best 
 qualities, are placed from the beginning in a false 
 position, which eventually leaves the two men -in 
 open and uncompromising antagonism to each other, 
 and to all which they respectively represent. 
 
 The two absorbing sentiments of the workman's 
 life are an intense ambition to ameliorate the social 
 condition of his class (by obtaining for it a share in 
 political power) and love of this girl, upon whom all 
 
PIIEFACE. XXlll 
 
 the tenderness of his nature is lavished, and with 
 whose presence he associates all that is beautiful 
 and gracious in the thought of his home. For the 
 mother, a hard vulgar-minded woman, has nothing 
 in common with her son but strength of character. 
 The child, however, who has grown into girlhood 
 tinder his watchful eye, protected by his care, and 
 dependent on his toil, is naturally graceful and 
 attractive. To cultivate her intelligence his scanty 
 leisure is devoted, and his still scantier pecuniary 
 resources to beautify her daily life, by surrounding 
 it with such humble refinements as he can afford by 
 dint of personal privation and assiduous labour 
 refinements which she is easily trained to appre- 
 ciate. The impassioned eloquence, and intensity of 
 purpose, which already destine him to become a 
 Tribune of. the People, have habituated the girl, 
 his constant listener, to a vague sentiment of dis- 
 content with the unrelieved drudgery and dreari- 
 ness of the life to which she is born. His trade as 
 a locksmith furnishes him with frequent opportuni- 
 ties of entry into the houses of the wealthy and 
 the well-born, opportunities which he so improves 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 as to procure for his young idol occasional glimpses 
 of the luxurious life, the refined manners, the beau- 
 tiful and splendid objects, which are to be found 
 within the walls of such houses. These distracting 
 visions haunt the girl's imagination. A somewhat 
 sensuous, and very impressionable and receptive 
 temperament, in constant contact with a superior 
 and partially cultivated intellect, developes in her a 
 keen sense of the beautiful ; and she, half uncon- 
 sciously, regards herself as a creature whose sensi- 
 tive appreciation of beautiful things invests her 
 with a natural title to the possession of them. She 
 has lived in constant companionship with her 
 young guardian and instructor : she regards him 
 with the tender reverence of a grateful pupil, 
 and the quiet household affection of a sister or a 
 daughter : but it has become impossible for her 
 imagination to invest him with that sort of mystery 
 and wonder which surround the sudden object of a 
 girl's first passion. As she gradually grows into 
 the consciousness of her own capacity to love, she 
 is compelled to recognize her incapacity to recipro- 
 cate the feelings with which she perceives herself 
 
PREFACE. XXV 
 
 to be regarded by this man. His claims upon grati- 
 tude and duty are too strong to leave any sponta- 
 neity to an imagination which he has unconsciously 
 stimulated beyond his power to satisfy it. The 
 terror with which she regards her position, as soon 
 as it is fully revealed to her, occasions a certain 
 timidity and embarrassment in her demeanour 
 towards him ; perceiving which, the delicacy of a 
 character naturally restrained and mistrustful in- 
 creases, upon his part, a reserve and hesitation which 
 strengthen the imperceptible barrier already exist- 
 ing between these two lives. 
 
 Therefore, when the young noble, in all the flush 
 of his brilliant, accomplished, self-confident youth, 
 appears before her as a wooer, the girl beholds in 
 him the living realization of all her secret dreams, 
 and the complete satisfaction of all her most hope- 
 less aspirations. Her vanity is flattered, her ima- 
 gination is dazzled, her senses are troubled, her 
 judgment is paralyzed, by the delicious surprise. 
 And the successful lover is really, on his part, in 
 earnest. This is a sort of gypsy episode in the 
 life of an imaginative man ; and he yields himself 
 
XXVI PREFACE. 
 
 up to the charm of it with all that enthusiastic 
 ardour which in the boyhood of men of genius so 
 often rebels against the settled formalities and con- 
 ventions of a highly artificial society. His heart is 
 affected by the sufferings of the class into which his 
 experience has penetrated, and his imagination has 
 adopted the aspirations and theories of his friend, 
 who is the passionate exponent of the wants and 
 claims of that class. He himself dreams of becom- 
 ing the regenerator of society (for to every young 
 man of more than average intellect, whose indivi- 
 duality has not been prematurely dissipated by 
 luxury, or suppressed by self-interest, society always 
 seems in need of regeneration), and, in the love 
 and wonder of this beautiful child of a class that 
 aspires to a lovelier life, he only sees the promised 
 realization of that generous dream. In the fascina- 
 tion exercised over the workman's child by the 
 noble's heir, I wished to illustrate the dawning aspi- 
 ration of the class which, in this position, she 
 partially represents, not so much for political power 
 (for that aspiration is illustrated by the male repre- 
 sentative of the same class), as for a more beautiful 
 
PREFACE. XXV11 
 
 condition of social life, such as an established aristo- 
 cracy associates, in the highest degree, with its own 
 image as the exclusive possessor of political power. 
 I confess that I am amazed by the scornful reproofs 
 with which the working man's demand for " more 
 leisure " is met by many influential representatives 
 of upper class opinion. I have often heard it said, 
 and often seen it written, that the hotly competi- 
 tive character of modern civilization imposes a 
 salutary penalty upon so selfish a luxury as leisure 
 on the part of any class, or any individual ; and 
 that, if the working man is to enjoy more leisure 
 than he already possesses, he will, at the expense of 
 the whole community, be better off than any other 
 active class in the community. But surely this 
 argument involves the unacknowledged connotation 
 of essentially different things by one and the same 
 term. It is said that, whilst tradesmen, lawyers 
 and literary men make no demand for increased 
 leisure, it is most unreasonable that working men 
 should do so. As regards tradesmen, their appre- 
 ciation of leisure must, of course, be relative to 
 their appreciation of money -making. If they value 
 
 c 2 
 
XXV111 PREFACE. 
 
 money-making more than mind-making, if they rate 
 the acquisition of wealth higher than the acquisition 
 of anything which interrupts the acquisition of 
 wealth, undoubtedly they will esteem leisure as a 
 profitless waste of time, and neither desire nor 
 demand it. That is a question for their own con- 
 sideration, in the decision of which they need neither 
 the protection, nor the exhortation, of other classes. 
 But it cannot be denied that this excessive devotion 
 to money-making " at any price," is accompanied 
 by an ugliness of social life, a narrowness and coarse- 
 ness of intelligence, a deficiency of moral indepen- 
 dence, and a slavish self-surrender to clap-trap, 
 which are by no means agreeable characteristics of 
 the lower stratum of the middle class in England. 
 
 As regards the intellectual classes, however, the 
 case is obviously different. Their labour is labour 
 of the mind. It exercises all the highest faculties 
 of the understanding. The labour of the working 
 man is labour of the hand only. It involves only the 
 minimum of mental activity, and occasions no intel- 
 lectual development. Leisure for the lawyer, the 
 writer, the statesman, means relaxation of the intel- 
 
PKEFACE. XXIX 
 
 lect. Leisure for the operative means cultivation of 
 the intellect. A society which says to the vast 
 majority of its members " You shall exercise 
 and cultivate to the utmost the mechanical fa- 
 culty of your hands, in order that you may in- 
 crease the wealth of the community, but you 
 shall never either exercise or cultivate the in- 
 tellectual faculty of your minds, whereby you might 
 increase the intelligence and morality of the com- 
 munity," is a society condemned out of its own 
 mouth, and doomed by the justice of events to 
 radical transformation. A governing class which 
 says this, is unfit to be a governing class : and the 
 demand of the working man for leisure, that is, for 
 means to complete his moral and intellectual being, 
 means to become a man instead of a human ma- 
 chine, is assuredly a demand that cannot conscien- 
 tiously be rejected by any community of Christians. 
 It astonishes me that the clergy who, as representa- 
 tives of upper-class morality, profess so anxious a 
 solicitude for the souls of the lower orders, should, 
 in the main, evince so little concern for the minds 
 and the bodies of them; and that Lord Shaftesbury's 
 
XXX PREFACE. 
 
 wise warnings should have failed to teach them 
 that the one is not more important than the other. 
 Do they suppose that a high condition of morality is 
 compatible with a low condition of intelligence, or 
 that morality can rest on any other basis than 
 men's intellectual conception of what morality is ? 
 Do they hope that men whose most pressing wants 
 are physical wants can be persuaded that the best 
 means of securing the joys of Heaven is to place 
 implicit faith in the doctrines of those whom they 
 find to be indifferent to, or ignorant of, the best 
 means of securing to them the commonest and most 
 necessary comforts of earth 1 * 
 
 * I remember being, as a boy, powerfully and painfully im- 
 pressed by the circumstances of a police case which I read in the 
 newspapers. A ruffian, living in the back slums of London, 
 had, being rnad with drink and jealousy, horribly murdered his 
 wife in a paroxysm of brutal fury. He was tried for the crime 
 and condemned to death on the clearest evidence. Owing to 
 various circumstances his execution was postponed. In the 
 short time which elapsed between the man's condemnation and 
 his death, certain Bible-readers and other philanthropic persons 
 who had access to this condemned felon, succeeded in teaching 
 him to read, and, in some degree, to think. The man's natural 
 intelligence, when unobscured by the fumes of alcohol, and 
 withdrawn from the customary savageries of a dissolute and 
 desperate life, appears to have been extraordinarily receptive. 
 
PREFACE. XXXI 
 
 It is said, however, that the wants and demands 
 of the whole community at large forbid the satis- 
 faction of this particular demand on the part of the 
 working man, without injury to the entire structure 
 of society. 
 
 If this were true, would it not be a serious 
 defect in the entire structure of society? But 
 is it true ? Is it true that, of all the organs with 
 which nature has provided him, the only ones 
 which the working man can use without injuring 
 the general welfare of the whole community, are 
 his ten fingers ; and that these he must use inces- 
 santly without hope of relaxation, now when Provi- 
 dence appears to have furnished him with two great 
 
 It was reported of him that, under the care of these teachers, 
 he learned to read so well that, before he went to the scaffold, 
 he could read the Bible without assistance. His first page of 
 that Book was read, and (so the public was informed) his first 
 prayer was breathed, almost within sound of the nails which 
 were being driven into the gibbet on which he was about to 
 perish. Certain persons were so strongly impressed by these 
 facts that they forwarded to Lord Palmerston, who was then 
 Secretary for the Home Department, a petition for mitigation 
 of sentence. But the crime was atrocious, clearly proved, and 
 without " extenuating circumstances. " The man was hanged. 
 At that time the Church was vehement in her demand for ex- 
 
XXX11 PREFACE. 
 
 means of diminishing manual labour machinery 
 and combination ? 
 
 The foregoing remarks are no digression from the 
 essential subject of this preface : and if, in making 
 them, I have interrupted the outline of a poem 
 which it is the purpose of this preface to describe, 
 it is only in order to explain the ideas which that 
 poem was intended to illustrate. The opening- 
 scenes of the poem were occupied by the action 
 of the three characters whose false position towards 
 each other has been already denned. Behind the 
 misplaced images of the two young lovers should 
 have been perceptible to the reader the hostile pre- 
 sence of all those social sanctions and prohibitions 
 
 elusive jurisdiction over the education of the people. Reading 
 this horrible story, one naturally asked, "In Heaven's name, 
 what is the Church about ? " The question was answered at 
 length by the "Times" newspaper, which contained the report 
 of this man's execution. The greater portion of that paper 
 the space of several columns at least was occupied by an 
 elaborate discussion between the Rev. Mr. Grorham and His 
 Grace the Bishop of Exeter, as to the vital church question of 
 the time whether or not an unbaptized infant is after death 
 consigned by the Deity whom Christians worship, to a place of 
 eternal torment, in punishment of the omission by its parents 
 of a prescribed ecclesiastical ceremony. This needs no comment. 
 
PREFACE. XXXlii 
 
 which derive their jurisdiction from the reiterated 
 assent of generations, and are the virtual executors 
 of the will of ages. These are clearly recognized 
 by the third character in the group that of the 
 young workman, who is never deluded by the 
 notion that the separation of classes may be re- 
 moved by simply disregarding it. His warnings 
 and remonstrances are, of course, neglected ; and 
 he goes forth, under an excessive sense of intoler- 
 able wrong, and with an unquenchable thirst for 
 vengeance, upon his crusade against a society 
 which he has learned to regard as the great cor- 
 rupter of human nature, vitiating one half of man- 
 kind by want and the other by wealth. To the 
 acquired graces and artificial refinements of this 
 society, which is reproached with having aban- 
 doned the simplicity and equality of an imaginary 
 state of nature, he attributes the ruin of all that 
 was dear to him ; and it is, therefore, from the 
 total dissolution of existing society that he de- 
 mands the salvation of mankind. Thus, he falls 
 into that reactionary asceticism which was so dis- 
 astrous to the Revolution of which he afterwards 
 
XXXIV PREFACE. 
 
 becomes the leader ; an asceticism which sought to 
 exterminate one portion of society for the benefit of 
 the remainder, and recall mankind to the repub- 
 lican simplicity of the Golden Age by means of the 
 Reign of Terror. 
 
 This episode is abruptly terminated by an event 
 which places the young noble at the head of an 
 ancient and powerful house, invested suddenly with 
 all the responsibilities and privileges of a great social 
 station, and furnished with a vast field for personal 
 ambition. In the blaze of a prospect so splendid, 
 the faint impressions of a boyish fancy are soon 
 effaced ; and together with new interests, new sen- 
 timents and opinions are formed. A man whose 
 personal position society has made so comfortable 
 is easily persuaded that society must on no account 
 be disturbed. The aristocrat has already reached 
 that stage of life at which the horizon of it ap- 
 pears bounded by certain definite and attainable 
 objects. These objects are fixed and formed by 
 the world as it is, and not by the world as it 
 might be, or should be. For the attainment of 
 them, a man takes stock of his faculties and op- 
 
PREFACE. XXXV 
 
 portunities ; lie ceases to dream and begins to plan ;. 
 impulse settles into purpose. But, in order to make 
 the world, as it is, bear fruit to him, in the form of 
 personal success, a man must cultivate the world 
 as it is. To the ambitious noble the best means of 
 extending his personal influence upon the estab- 
 lished order of things, by most effectually placing 
 him in personal harmony therewith, is a marriage 
 which perfectly accords with all the requirements 
 of his social status. The wife he selects is a model 
 of domestic virtue, with strong affections and few 
 ideas, a woman of bounded faculty, though wor- 
 thily representing all the personal graces of the 
 class to which she belongs, and devoted to her 
 husband, because he is her husband, whilst unable 
 either to understand, or to sympathise with, his- 
 imaginative temperament and complex character.. 
 The charm of his previous illegitimate passion was 
 its impulsive rebellion against the unacknowledged, 
 supremacy of the fitness of things. The charm of 
 this legitimate union is its persuasive and gracious- 
 reconciliation with all that has now become attrac- 
 tive in the acknowledged fitness of things. In, 
 
XXXVI PREFACE. 
 
 both instances, the man himself is the sport of his 
 own imagination ; and on both occasions he, for the 
 time being, sincerely believes himself to be perma- 
 nently enamoured of the realization of his fugitive, 
 and ever changing, ideal of life. 
 
 Amid all the splendid festivities with which 
 this marriage is celebrated, the outraged friend of 
 the deceived and forsaken girl endeavours to win 
 access to the bridegroom, as the bearer of a last 
 message from her dying lips, recommending to his 
 paternal protection the illegitimate fruit of their 
 ill-fated union; who is a son. But the man's 
 ragged appearance, and excited manner, expose him 
 to ridicule and outrage. He is hustled in the doors, 
 beaten by the lackies, insulted by the guests, and, 
 in a paroxysm of exasperated feeling, he strikes a 
 noble, is arrested, and thrown into prison. 
 
 There, he is visited by the priest ; who comes to 
 administer the customary conventional dose of exhor- 
 tation and admonition ; but departs silenced and 
 troubled by the terrible reproaches, the brutal 
 truths, and stabbing questions which he finds him- 
 self unable to answer. The priest is an honest, 
 
PREFACE. XXXVlli 
 
 gentle-hearted, and well-intentioned man ; whose- 
 life has been passed in laying down the theo- 
 retical law of conventional morality to misbehaved 
 intellectual children. Suddenly, for the first time, 
 he is confronted, in this capacity, with a man of 
 massive intellect, and justly outraged feelings; who, 
 treating him as the childish recipient of untested 
 doctrines devised for the convenience of a hypocri- 
 tical and vicious society, subjects him to a scathing 
 catechism, and leaves him pricked in conscience, 
 and disturbed in mind. From this priest the bride- 
 groom learns the name of his prisoner, and the ob- 
 ject of the man's visit. In great agitation, over- 
 whelmed with self-reproach, he hastens to release 
 the friend of his youth, and, so far as may be, 
 repair the past. But the generous impulse is 
 awakened too late. The prisoner has mysteri- 
 ously escaped, bearing with him, into the obscurity 
 from which he will only reissue at the head of the 
 armed Revolution, the secret he had come to 
 reveal, and the yet unwritten verdict of the Revo- 
 lution against all which it has condemned and is about 
 to destroy. Thus the past remains irreparable. 
 
TXXVlll PREFACE. 
 
 But, in the soul of the wrongdoer, retribution 
 has already commenced. This incident has sud- 
 denly evoked, in palpable form, the ghost of his 
 own youth. It rises before him wearing the image 
 -of the wronged object of his early love, and clothed 
 in eternal accusation. Immediately he is again 
 thrown out of harmony with life. From his eyes 
 drops the magic veil of his own imagination, and 
 -with it, from the woman he has wedded, all the 
 imaginary charm of her presence in his life. Once 
 more he believes himself enamoured of the woman 
 he has lost, because he has lost her. When love is 
 only the growth of the imagination, the sentiment 
 which succeeds to it is always pitiless. The hus- 
 band neglects and insults the wife whom he now 
 unjustly accuses of her failure to represent an ideal 
 with which, unknown to her, he has fancifully asso- 
 ciated the happiness of his existence. To him, the 
 faculties of expression and action afford relief from 
 the intensity of sufferings artificially occasioned. 
 To her, no such relief is possible ; and she dies, 
 broken-hearted, bequeathing to her husband one 
 child a son, the sole inheritor of his name and 
 
PEEFACE. XXXIX 
 
 titles, the sole depository of Ins hopes and schemes, 
 but sickly in mind and body, incapable of pro- 
 moting the ambition, or perpetuating the power, 
 of his father, the feeble product and representa- 
 tive of a class already degenerate and soon to 
 expire. 
 
 Meanwhile, unknown to the father, his child by 
 the woman he seduced, also a son, born in the hovel, 
 nurtured on the heath, motherless, and virtually 
 fatherless, without kindred, without a home or a 
 name, grows up in orphanage and want, yet hardy 
 and vigorous, and feeling within him all the young 
 life and savage hunger of the Revolution ; which 
 adopts him as its child, acknowledges him as its 
 heir, and recognizes in his birth a wrong to be 
 avenged. Throughout the conflict of classes and 
 principles which is to follow,, the two children are 
 gradually brought to the knowledge of each other 
 and of their common parentage ; and, at the close 
 of the poem, they would have been the last figures 
 left visible amidst the ruins of all around them 
 standing hand in hand, and looking forward, con- 
 scious at last that they are brothers. Thus, no 
 
xl PREFACE. 
 
 sooner does social anarchy begin to subside, than 
 the conception of the Family re-emerges, as the 
 permanent archetype of all society, which suffers 
 by the disorder, and revives in the recognition, of 
 that eldest and holiest of human organizations. 
 For it is only in Love that Equality can co- exist 
 with Authority, and only by the supremacy of the 
 moral, over the intellectual faculties, that the just 
 equilibrium of social interests can be peacefully and 
 permanently maintained. The Hearth was the 
 earliest altar. The Father was the earliest ruler. 
 With the Family, History begins : from the Family, 
 Religion arises : and the Family it is, which, link- 
 ing the generations to each other by the bond of 
 brotherhood, preserves from age to age, with the 
 pattern of legitimate Authority, the principle of 
 legitimate Obedience. 
 
 There was in this sketch only one other cha- 
 racter which I need particularize ; that of the 
 Priest. It appeared to me that in the opening 
 action of such a drama as this which I am describ- 
 ing, the central position should be occupied by that 
 august and venerable image. I wished to show 
 
PREFACE. Xli 
 
 him, yet undisturbed in the possession of his here- 
 ditary place as the social representative of spiritual 
 authority, presiding over the whole course of 
 human life, from birth, through marriage, to death. 
 Receding from the foreground as the action ad- 
 vances, he would have reappeared, towards the 
 close of it, under an altered aspect. Having so 
 long been recognized as an integral and necessary 
 part of the constituted order of things, it is not till 
 that order is shaken to its foundations that he is 
 compelled to examine for himself the validity of his 
 title to the place in that order which he must now 
 either surrender or justify. And this, at a moment 
 when all the conditions of thought are distracted 
 by the necessity of immediate action ! The very 
 implements of warfare have to be remodelled under 
 the fire of the foe. The security, no longer supplied 
 by custom, must now be won from conscience by 
 the agony of the soul. The age is a sharp ques- 
 tioner, and no longer tolerates commonplaces. 
 Those who would escape the devouring jaw of the 
 Sphynx must answer her enigma without equivoca- 
 tion ; and, what is yet more difficult, without hesi- 
 
 d 
 
Xii PREFACE. 
 
 tation. The Priest's authority is challenged, its 
 claims are disputed, its origin is denied. The op- 
 ponents of it are not to be silenced by deductions 
 from an hypothesis which is the very thing in dis- 
 pute. It must either be justified by argument, or 
 maintained by force. But the honest man will 
 shrink from maintaining by force what he cannot, to 
 his own conscience, justify by argument. And when 
 doubt first arises in the moment that calls for de- 
 cision, between right and wrong, I can conceive no 
 more terribly tragic situation. On the one side are 
 the claims of class, on the other those of con- 
 science : on the one side honour, on the other 
 honesty. However cruel may be the position in 
 which a man is placed if the best action of his 
 life should appear in the eyes of others to be its 
 basest, his case is certainly not bettered if the most 
 decisive action of his life should appear to his own 
 conscience to be a deliberate suppression of the 
 truth in himself. And, therefore, when the mere 
 ambitious politician, who now feels the want, not 
 of a creed, but of a cry, and looks upon the priest 
 only as a political institution, with the fortunes of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 which his own material interests and ambition 
 happen to have become associated by the force of 
 circumstances, when he comes to demand from the 
 priest a solemn blessing in the name of God upon 
 the battle flag he is about to unfurl in defence of 
 church property and priestly power, then the 
 tragedy reaches its crisis in the old man's heart- 
 broken cry of despair. 
 
 It is not without strong reasons, which will pre- 
 sently be apparent, that I have dwelt at such 
 length upon the general scope and character of a 
 conception that was never satisfactorily worked 
 out, and has long since been abandoned. A 
 mere accident discovered to me the existence of a 
 poem, which, with a power and felicity that have 
 left me thoroughly dissatisfied with my own work, 
 gives expression to an idea singularly similar to the 
 one which that work was intended to embody. In 
 an old number of the Revue des Deux Mondes, 
 I found by chance a prose translation of The 
 Infernal Comedy, a Polish poem, published 
 anonymously (I think in 1835), by Count Sigis- 
 mund Krasinski, the author (as I have since ascer- 
 
 d 2 
 
Xliv PREFACE. 
 
 tained) of many other works no less worthy to be 
 more generally known than they are. I read, and 
 read again, this strange poem with ever increas- 
 ing interest and surprise. Every detail of it re- 
 mained strongly impressed upon my memory, and 
 so confused and embarrassed all subsequent at- 
 tempts to complete my own conception that I 
 finally resolved to abandon it altogether. I was, 
 however, unwilling to do this without any record 
 of the feelings which thus induced me to relin- 
 quish a work that had long occupied my time 
 and thoughts : and, while the effect of the Polish 
 poem was yet fresh on my mind, the following 
 paraphrase of it was written with a rapidity which 
 is perhaps the best guarantee for its fidelity. 
 This paraphrase was not, indeed, then written 
 with a view to publication ; but I suppose it may 
 be properly included in a volume which, like the 
 present, is composed only of paraphrases, imita- 
 tions, and such like experimental exercises ; and I 
 confess that I now publish it not altogether without 
 a hope that it may attract attention to the very ori- 
 ginal genius of a writer who appears to be almost 
 
PREFACE. Xv 
 
 unknown out of his own country ; and so, perhaps, 
 induce some competent Polish scholar to favour all 
 who are interested in the extension of a weltliteratur, 
 with a complete and accurate translation of his 
 works. I was not aware until many months after 
 this volume had been in print, that a short account 
 of The Infernal Comedy is to be found in the 
 second volume of Eastern Europe. It does not, 
 I think, do full justice to all the merits of the 
 poem j but if the reader should be pleased to refer 
 to it, it will at least enable him to judge whether 
 I have rightly interpreted the conception of the 
 Polish poet. 
 
 In any case, he will now understand why I have 
 so long detained his attention. It is because I 
 am most anxious that he should not hastily at- 
 tribute to the author of The Infernal Comedy 
 the many defects which he will probably find 
 in Orval, and am still more anxious to disclaim 
 for myself any of the merits which, in despite of all 
 such defects, I hope the genius of the Polish poet 
 may have bequeathed to this paraphrase of one of 
 its most striking productions. It has appeared to 
 
xlvi PHEFACE. 
 
 me that the best precaution I can take, in order to 
 prevent the meaning and character of the original 
 poem from being obscured or distorted by occa- 
 sional traces, in the paraphrase, of my own previous 
 conception of the general subject of it, is to place 
 that conception, as I have now done, fairly before 
 the reader, and thus enable him to detect all such 
 traces wherever they may occur. Indeed, long 
 after these scenes were in print, I withheld them 
 from publication in the hope of making myself 
 better acquainted with a poem of which I believe 
 the present paraphrase to be the first metrical re- 
 production. But the result of my endeavours 
 leaves nothing of any great importance to be 
 changed in what I have written; and as, owing 
 to some misunderstanding between the English and 
 American publishers, Orval has already been pub- 
 lished in the United States, there remains no adequate 
 reason for any longer postponing the publication of 
 it in England. If the work should ever reach a 
 second edition, I shall then endeavour to improve 
 it ; but I sincerely believe that, in its present form, 
 it is a tolerably faithful reproduction of a poem 
 
PREFACE. Xlvii 
 
 which is unlike . anything that I know of in 
 English literature, although it must be admitted 
 that it has not altogether escaped the influence of 
 Goethe. 
 
 All that I have intentionally retained in the par- 
 aphrase of my own unfinished poem, are the names 
 of some of the characters, which will probably 
 sound less unfamiliar to English ears than any purely 
 Polish appellations. I have not retained the 
 characters themselves; although that of Orval 
 strongly resembles the character I had given to 
 my own sketch of the aristocratic chief. Kegarded 
 merely as an individual, Orval represents, not 
 the temperament of the poet, but that form of 
 the poetic temperament which is produced by a 
 spurious enthusiasm springing, not from the soul, 
 but the senses, and ever mistaking the imagination 
 for the heart. " He that hath a heart shall yet be 
 saved," is the warning note of his guardian angel ; 
 and the reason why Orval succumbs to the three 
 great temptations of his life is, that intellect with- 
 out heart, passion without love, and power without 
 sympathy, are satanic and accurst. ft The stars of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 heaven encircle thy head," exclaims the poet whose 
 conception is embodied in the following paraphrase, 
 " The waves of ocean are at thy feet. Before thee 
 springs a rainbow that spans the deep and pierces 
 the cloud. All thine eye beholds is thine, and for 
 thee only. Nations, cities, men. Thou entwinest 
 men's hearts as with a garland, weaving and scat- 
 tering it again at the caprice of thy touch. Thou 
 hast power upon men to make them weep, to make 
 them smile, and again to chase the smile away, for 
 a moment, for an hour, often for ever. But thou 
 thyself, what dost thou feel? What dost thou 
 think 1 What dost thou create 1 From thee springs 
 the fountain of Beauty : but Beauty thou art not. 
 Woe to thee, woe ! The infant that sobs upon its 
 mother's breast, the flower of the field that knows 
 not its own sweetness, are worthier in the sight of 
 the Lord than thou art. Whence art thou, fleeting 
 phantom? thou that dost proclaim the light, and 
 hast never seen it, never shalt ! Woman and thou, 
 ye are of the same origin. But thou sufFerest, thou 
 too ! Albeit thy suffering creates nothing, ministers 
 to nothing. The groans of the humblest wretch are 
 
PREFACE. xlix 
 
 counted amongst the notes that stream from the 
 harps of heaven ; but thy despairs, thy sighs, fall 
 to earth: Satan receives and adds them, with in- 
 fernal joy, to his lies and his illusions. God shall 
 deny them at last, for they themselves are the 
 denials of God. Not of thee, Poesy, mother of 
 beauty, and saving grace, not of thee do I com- 
 plain ! Happy is he in whom thou hast placed thy 
 dwelling, and dost abide even as God in the midst 
 of his world, unseen, unknown, yet universally pre- 
 sent, universally felt ; for the creatures bow them- 
 selves, and murmur, ' He is here ! ' So shall he 
 bear thee as a star upon his brow, seeking only to 
 display, not himself, but thy love : and so, loved of 
 thee, shall he love mankind, and shine as the hero 
 shines, in whose brightness his brothers rejoice. 
 But he whom thou hast placed between worlds in 
 embryo and worlds in ruin, enchanted by the me- 
 mory of the past, and the presentiment of the 
 future, woe be to him, if, unfaithful, he betray thee 
 before his watch be done, and deliver thee over to 
 the perishable joys of a perishing time. On his 
 head, as thou passest, thou dost scatter a few 
 
1 PREFACE. 
 
 flowers, and lo ! thou art gone from him for ever : 
 and he shall pass his life in weaving withered blos- 
 soms for a funeral chaplet. Woman and he are of 
 the same origin." * 
 
 Such a character, rendered restless by the con- 
 scious possession of intellectual power, and an un- 
 appeasable impatience to convert it into external 
 and visible dominion over others, impelled by great 
 vanity, and sustained by great energy, is able to 
 dazzle, to impose, to command : and its career is 
 certain to be one of great personal distinction. 
 But it is unable to create, for it is without love, 
 and never in co-operation with the creative forces 
 of human sympathy. Therefore, from a social point 
 of view, the career of such a character is a mise- 
 rable failure, useless to mankind, sterile in despite 
 of its activity, and conducive only to the suf- 
 fering of all who are socially submitted to its 
 influences. 
 
 " Because thou never hast loved aught, nor ever 
 Hast aught adored but thine own self, soul," 
 
 is the dirge with which the evil spirits receive it at 
 * The Infernal Comedy. 
 
PREFACE. 11 
 
 the goal of its ambition. For this reason, if Orval 
 be regarded as the type of a class, it appears to me 
 that he is the fitting representative of an Aristo- 
 cracy born with the instinct of command, and look- 
 ing upon the possession of political power and social 
 supremacy as a personal appanage rather than as a 
 public trust. It is the inheritor, indeed, of splendid 
 and noble traditions, and retains, even in its de- 
 generation, an external grace and dignity which have 
 survived the inward strength from which they were 
 first derived as a well-trained athlete, even in the 
 feebleness of his old age, will walk with easier gait 
 and statelier carriage than an unskilled boor in the 
 vigour of his youth : but it is placed in the midst 
 of a society whereof it has ceased to be the na- 
 tural champion, and can no longer be the chief 
 benefactor, a society to which it is already in sup- 
 prest antagonism, and which it regards, not with 
 the sympathies of a common interest, but with bitter 
 resentment as the unquestionable judge, and with 
 secret terror as the possible executioner, of its iso- 
 lated and anomalous existence. Such an aristocracy 
 is naturally selfish ; for the motives of its activity, 
 
'Hi PREFACE. 
 
 having ceased to be social, become purely personal, 
 and are anarchical in proportion to the intensity 
 they retain. It stands in the way of the world's 
 progress. It fights, not as of old, for the ge- 
 neral welfare of the community, but for the re- 
 tention of its own vested interests, without any 
 regard to their present fitness or advantage to 
 others. It is fond of big words and sounding 
 phrases. It dresses out its little passions and 
 animosities in the stolen garments of the gods j and 
 is never ashamed of claiming the highest sanction 
 of Keligion for the lowest coalitions of egotism and 
 prejudice. In order to sustain its unequal struggle 
 with " the stars in their courses " fighting against 
 it, it is compelled to tax the imagination for an 
 enthusiasm with which it is no longer spontaneously 
 supplied from the conscience and the heart. It is 
 therefore profuse in the endeavour to poeticise its 
 own selfishness with a sort of spurious poetry, which 
 parades the externals of the past in the eyes of men 
 whose social salvation depends upon a just answer 
 to the essential requirements of the present. 
 Of such an aristocracy, engaged in such a strug- 
 
PREFACE. liii 
 
 gle, the hero of my paraphrase is the type ; and 
 indeed what chiefly determined me to abandon the 
 conception upon which I had been working when 
 I first read the extraordinary poem described, was 
 the embarrassing similarity of three of my own 
 characters, and of the position in which they were- 
 placed, to the three characters which in the 
 paraphrase I have named Orval, Veronica, and 
 Muriel. In some of their most essential fea- 
 tures, at the same time, these are entirely different 
 from my own sketches : the madness of the wife,, 
 and the blindness of the son, being conceptions of 
 the Polish poet which give to his picture] of 
 Orval's domestic life a peculiar significance ; and 
 other differences separating the two conceptions 
 even more widely. Nothing of my priest, but the 
 name of him, remains in the Father Adam, who 
 scarcely appears in these scenes. Scarcely is there 
 any resemblance between my young revolutionary 
 soldier and "the Modern Brutus" of Orval, who 
 represents the "Leonard" of The Infernal Comedy ; 
 and utterly different from my own idea of the Revo- 
 lutionary Leader is the Panurge of the Polish poem. 
 
liv PREFACE. 
 
 The author has described with great minuteness 
 even the personal appearance of the man ; in- 
 troducing him in these words to the reader : 
 "A song ! once more a song ! a new song ! But 
 who shall begin it, this song ? Who shall finish 
 it 1 Ho ! give to me the Past, the Past of steel 
 iind iron, with its warrior helmets darkened by 
 floating plumes ! And over your heads shall hover 
 the enormous shadows of old cathedrals, and 
 once more out of the mists of time shall emerge 
 
 the massive masonry of gothic towers Once 
 
 more ? Ah no, the effort is in. vain ! these things 
 are gone. Never more shall they return. Tell me, 
 whosoever thou beest, what dost thou hope ? what 
 dost thou believe 1 Trust me, it is easier to slay 
 thyself, and die, and be at rest, than to invent for 
 thy life a new faith, or to resuscitate in thy soul 
 an old one. Shame on thee ! shame upon ye all ! 
 For, in despite of yourselves, miserable wretches 
 that ye are, heartless and brainless herd, the 
 world is hurrying ye on with it. It mocks ye, 
 plays with ye, pushes ye forward, and tramples 
 ye under foot. And the staggering couples, scramble 
 
PREFACE. Iv 
 
 up, totter forward, slip in blood, lose their footing, 
 and are whirled away. In blood? ay, for blood 
 there is, and verily there is no lack of it." Then 
 follows a detailed description of the revolutionary 
 multitude, mad with hate and hunger, and this is 
 the portrait of its leader. " But, in the midst, a 
 man arrives. He mounts a chair, then he mounts 
 a table. He is above them all. He speaks to 
 them. His voice, that lingers in the utterance 
 slow and strident, falls into words short, sharp, in- 
 cisive, easily retained. His brow is large, and lofty. 
 His head is wholly bald. Thought has eaten away 
 the last hairs of it. His bony countenance, framed 
 in a collar of black wiiy beard, never varies the dry 
 yellow hue of it, in which no flush of passion or 
 emotion is ever visible. He fixes on the listening 
 multitude beneath him a look, cold, quiet, impera- 
 tive, unshaken by doubt or hesitation. And, when 
 he lifts his arm, he stretches it towards them stiff, 
 straight, ungainly, with a fastening finger. And 
 they bow the head, and hush the murmur, and 
 await the benediction of a great intelligence, which 
 is not that of a great heart. A great heart ? Bah ! 
 
Ivi PREFACE. 
 
 Away with your great hearts ! Great hearts 
 and great prejudices let them die together. Vive la 
 joie, et le massacre I " * 
 
 Count Krasinski's entire conception of the revo- 
 lutionary drama is indeed profoundly sad, as will 
 appear from what I now proceed to say of it. 
 The accents of his poem are those of farewell,, 
 not of welcome. In this, more even than in any- 
 thing else, does it differ from my own. It closes with 
 the picture of a universal failure, without a hope 
 beyond. It must be remembered always that it was. 
 addressed by a Polish poet to the Polish people. 
 Representing, as it does, the life of the individual in 
 his twofold relation towards the Family and the 
 State, its action is placed by the first part of it within 
 the sphere of the domestic, and by the latter 
 portions of it, within that of the social, duties; 
 and all these duties are misconceived by the ima- 
 ginative egotist to whom everything becomes, not 
 
 * The Infernal Comedy, Part III. Whereto the author pre- 
 fixes this sentence from the Rapport du Citoyen Caillot, 
 commissaire de la sixieme chambre. An iii. 5 prairial. "II 
 fut administre', parceque le niais demandait un prStre, puis 
 pendu, a la satisfaction gene'rale," &c., &c., &c. 
 
PKEFACE. Ivii 
 
 indeed material for poetry, but a pretext for 
 poeticising about himself. Domestic sorrow and 
 public calamity, the madness and death of his 
 wife, the blindness and suffering of his child, 
 the anarchy of society, the destruction of his own 
 followers, in all he sees only a drama of which he 
 is, himself, either the hero, or the author ; and this 
 is probably what is implied by those " voices from 
 below " which are the occasional echoes to his con- 
 tinual declamation. 
 
 In the character of Muriel, I conceive Krasinski's 
 intention to have been to place, in strong contrast to 
 the spurious Poetry represented by Orval, the fate 
 of the genuine Poet, in an age of which all the pro- 
 ductions are sickly, feverish, degenerate ; and when 
 Poetry itself, no longer the voice of glad tidings, can 
 only give plaintive expression to the universal suf- 
 fering. He moves among men, understanding and 
 misunderstood j bearing their sufferings, without 
 receiving their sympathy; blind to the world of 
 material objects which engrosses their attention, 
 yet with eyes saturated by the light of a 
 spiritual life with which he cannot place himself 
 
Iviii PREFACE. 
 
 in perfect unison : and when he sings, his songs 
 are the reluctant prophecies of doom to those 
 whom he addresses. How could he sing other- 
 wise, singing to such an age as that which is 
 represented by the scene in the Mad House, where 
 the whole tragedy of society is unconsciously 
 enacted by maniacs 1 The child of this age, being 
 a poet, he becomes perforce "a prophet to his 
 father ; " but a prophet, not of salvation, but des- 
 pair. The most elaborate picture in the whole 
 poem is that of this strange sleep-walking child. 
 
 These are nearly the exact words in which it is 
 painted. "Why art thou not at play, little child? 
 Why dost thou turn from thy games and toys, thy 
 gambols in the grass, thy chase of the butter- 
 fly 1 King of the butterflies and all the pretty 
 flitting things, little friend and patron of Polichi- 
 uello, why are those soft blue eyes cast down ; so 
 full of melancholy, so full of memory, though 
 thou hast outlived as yet only the blossoms of 
 a few springs ? Already dost thou droop the brow 
 upon the little hand as one that dreams ; and the 
 little head is heavy with bright thoughts, as a little 
 
PKEFACE. liX 
 
 flower is heavy with the morning dew. And when, 
 shaking backward those golden curls of thine, thou 
 suddenly gazest up into heaven, tell me, little child, 
 what seest thou there ? with whom dost thou silently 
 converse ? For then across the pure pale brow fall 
 tiny wrinkles, fine as slender fibres of delicate silk 
 shed outward from the whirling of an unseen spindle. 
 Thy mother weeps, and deems thou dost not love 
 her. Thy little cousins and comrades are offended 
 because thou wilt not welcome them. Thy father, 
 he only, says never a word ; but he watches thee, 
 silent, sombre, and then his eyes begin to fill 
 with tears, which he hastens to suppress within the 
 depths of his soul. And yet the leech, when he 
 took thee from the womb, said 'This child will grow 
 great and strong.' And thy sponsor at the font said, 
 ' He shall become the citizen of a great nation.' Once 
 a phrenologist felt thy little head, and said, ' Madam, 
 he has immense aptitude for the exact sciences.' 
 The beggar in whose hat thine infant hand dropt 
 alms, turned and promised thee, for reward, a fair 
 and noble bride on earth, and a crown of glory in 
 heaven. Once a soldier took thee in his arms, and 
 
 t 2 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 cried, ' God bless our future colonel ! ' A gypsy 
 woman came from afar, and long she held in hers 
 the little hand, trying to read its destiny : but she 
 went away sighing, and refused the obolus they flung 
 her. A long long while a mesmeriser moved his 
 fingers before thine eyes, and waved his hand over 
 thy head, but with no effect ; except that he went 
 away half mesmerised himself. The priest that 
 came to prepare thee for confession, knelt at thy 
 foot, and would have worshipped thee as the image 
 of a saint. A painter came : he saw thee in a 
 moment of anger stamp that foot upon the ground, 
 and he drew the image that he saw, and placed it in 
 his picture of the Last Judgment; but amongst the 
 fallen angels. Meanwhile, thou art growing ; and 
 thy form grows fairer and fairer. But thou hast 
 not the freshness of childhood ; thou hast not the 
 clear whiteness of the lily, nor the warm glowing of 
 the rose. Thy beauty is the beauty of mysterious 
 thoughts, the reflex of an unseen world. And yet, 
 albeit thy soft eyes are often lustreless, thy cheek 
 pale, thy body pinched, all they that pass thee 
 pause, and murmur, ' What a lovely child ! ' If a 
 
PREFACE. Lti 
 
 flower, already fading, had a soul ; and if that flower, 
 from each of its earthward-drooping leaves, could 
 shed, not a dewdrop, but an angelic thought, that 
 flower would resemble thee, my child ! " * Such 
 is the poet's picture of this strange conception, to 
 which he applies the mocking description of Faust, 
 " Das Gemisch von Koth und Feuer." 
 
 To the foregoing account of my own acquaintance 
 with The Infernal Comedy, I am sorry that I 
 cannot add much information about the Author of 
 it. His life, like his own creations, is surrounded 
 with mystery. Of that life, however, one fact is 
 certain. Great wealth, illustrious lineage, a noble 
 name, and a noble character, did not, in the case of 
 Count Sigismund Krasinski, secure the possessor of 
 them from the worst of those afflictions to which 
 the sensitive nature of the poet is peculiarly ex- 
 posed. The story of his life is a story of calumny 
 and injustice, of exile and pain, moral suffering, and 
 grievous physical calamity ; softened, one is thank- 
 ful to believe from the report of all who were 
 personally acquainted with Countess Krasinski, by 
 
 * The Infernal Comedy. Part II. 
 
l PREFACE. 
 
 the sympathy of a beautiful and noble-minded 
 woman. I have been told by some who knew 
 him, that during the latter years of his life he- 
 was afflicted with blindness, a fact which gives- 
 peculiar pathos to his strange conception of the 
 blind poet in The Infernal Comedy. Unlike the 
 majority of the blind, however, Count Krasinski ap- 
 pears to have habitually avoided the companionship 
 of others ; and, so sensitive was his desire to escape 
 notice of any kind, that, whilst the poet himself 
 lived more by night than by day, shrinking 
 from society, and rarely visible even to his 
 friends, his poems were only circulated anony- 
 mously, and almost secretly, among those to 
 whose secular sufferings and irrepressible aspira- 
 tions they have given the most passionate utter- 
 ance. The author of The Infernal Comedy is 
 still remembered only as " The Anonymous Poet of 
 Poland," ... fit and sorrowful designation for the 
 poet of an anonymous nation ! 
 
 Those who are best acquainted with the facts of 
 his life, have hitherto, with feelings of commendable 
 delicacy, refrained from disturbing the profound 
 
PREFACE. kill 
 
 secrecy in which it was the desire of the poet 
 himself to live and die. But his own somewhat 
 untimely death, and the death of another person 
 by whose career and reputation his own were dis- 
 astrously affected, will now, it may be hoped, re- 
 move this scruple. For nothing can be more 
 honourable to the character of the Count than the 
 sentiment, only to be explained by the facts of 
 his life, which induced him to do all in his 
 power to withdraw from notice a name which his 
 genius was so capable of adorning. Born of an 
 ancient and noble Polish family, which yet num- 
 bers among its alliances more than one reigning 
 house, Count Sigismund Krasinski was the heir 
 to a considerable fortune, and the son of an 
 illustrious man, who, during the youth of the 
 poet, and most unhappily for the poet's peace 
 of mind, had rendered himself an object of exe- 
 cration to the whole Polish nation, by his sup- 
 posed betrayal of the national cause. Placed thus 
 early in life, when the feelings are most sensitive, 
 under the torturing dominion of two irreconcilable 
 sentiments, filial piety, and enthusiastic patriotism, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 the young Count appears to have imposed upon* 
 himself that scrupulous abnegation of all personal 
 distinction which he never afterwards relaxed ; and 
 it is anonymously, and from voluntary and life-long 
 exile, that he addressed to his countrymen those 
 poems which pathetically record his undying de- 
 votion to a hopeless cause. The anonymous pub- 
 lication of The Infernal Comedy was rapidly 
 followed, in the year 1836, by that of Iridion, 
 a work which is perhaps the masterpiece of its 
 author, and which certainly contains his largest and 
 most ambitious conception. Christmas Eve, and 
 The Dream of Cesara, were published in 1840, 
 under the pseudonym of Ligenza. It is reported 
 that a small poem by the same author, published 
 in Paris, and entitled The Temptation, which, 
 owing to the dullness of the censorship, received 
 the Russian imprimatur, was the cause of some 
 hundreds of young Poles being afterwards sent to 
 Siberia for unlawfully secreting copies of it. In 
 1843 the "Anonymous Poet" concluded one of the 
 most hopeful of his utterances, a great lyrical 
 outburst of patriotic prediction, by these words, 
 
PREFACE. 1XV 
 
 " Perish, my Songs, and arise, my Actions." But 
 only two years later, this poem was followed by a 
 series of lamentations which he entitled Psalms of 
 the Future, and published in 1845. His last com- 
 position was entitled Resurrecturis, a little poem 
 which was the farewell of a departing hope. On 
 the 24th of February, 1859, "The Anonymous 
 Poet of Poland " expired at Paris, and, in the words 
 of one of his most distinguished admirers and 
 countrymen, " Silence settled on his tomb." If in 
 these pages I have ventured to invade such a 
 silence, it is because silence is no longer the sorrow- 
 ful asylum of a sensitive spirit which has passed 
 beyond the reach of calumny. Silence is now only 
 injustice ; and every injustice to a man of genius 
 is a misfortune to mankind. 
 
 It is so impossible to paraphrase precisely, in 
 English verse, such a poem as this Infernal Comedy, 
 that I am only too conscious that the pervading 
 defect of my own paraphrase of it is over- wordiness. 
 It must be remembered, however, that the only 
 natural language of such a character as Orval 
 is rant ; and it will also be obvious that, when 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 the scope of a subject is indefinitely larger than 
 the limits within which the treatment of it is 
 confined, very much must be left to the imagi- 
 nation. To stimulate rather than to satisfy the 
 thought and fancy of others, must be the chief 
 object of a poet whose own fancies and thoughts are 
 compelled to traverse lightly and nimbly a wide 
 field of contemplation : and, for the sufficient attain- 
 ment of the effect which he wishes to produce, he 
 must, of necessity, trust rather to the sympathetic 
 co-operation of his readers, than to the positive soli- 
 dity of those airy paths along which they are invited 
 to follow the flight of his ideas. Therefore, to those 
 who may be willing to follow this " Fool of Time " 
 across the wildernesses, camps, and forests through 
 which he is now waiting to lead them, I may say, 
 in the words of a personage thoroughly acquainted 
 with the conditions of all such fantastic travel, 
 
 " If Jack-o'-lantern 
 
 Shews you his way, tho' you should miss your own 
 You ought not to be too exact with him. " 
 
 In conclusion, let me take this opportunity of 
 stating, that all the contents of the present volume 
 
PKEFACE. Ixvii 
 
 *\vere written many years ago, and were in print 
 before the publication of Chronicles and Characters. 
 
 R. LYTTON. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ORVAL; OR, THE FOOL OF TIME. 
 
 EPOCH I. BRIDE AND BBIDEGBOOM ... ... 9 
 
 II. HUSBAND AND WIFE ... ... 87 
 
 > III. FATHEB AND BON ... ... ... 101 
 
 IV. MAN AND MAN ... ... ... 147 
 
 V. MAN AND FATE 241 
 
 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 NONNOS. EUBOPA ... ... ... ... 291 
 
 VIRGIL. THE BEES OF ARISTJBUS ... ... ... 299 
 
 LUCRETIUS. INVOCATION TO VENUS ... ... 313 
 
 DANTE. THE FIBST CANTO OF THE INFEBNO ... 319 
 
 FRANCESCA DA BIMINO ... ... 324 
 
 MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI. - SONNETS AND 
 MADRIGALS. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE ... ... 331 
 
 LOVE VINDICATED ... ... ... 332 
 
 MADRIGALS ... ... ... 332 
 
 CANZONE ... ... 335 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 RONSARD. -SONNETS AND CHANSONS. 
 
 "VO1CI LE BOIS QUE MA SAINCTE ANGELETTE " ... 341 
 
 "CACHE POUB CEST NUICT" ... ... ... 8*1 
 
 " PAGE SUY MOT" ... ... ... ... 342 
 
 "LES ESPICS SONT A CERES" ... ... ... 343 
 
 " MA DOUCE JOUVENCE " ... ... ... 343 
 
 DANISH. THE ELVES ... ... ... 347 
 
 LORD OLAP ... ... ... ... 351 
 
 SERVIAN. THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO ... 365 
 
 I. THE STAG AND THE VILA ... ... ... 890 
 
 II. LOVE AND SLEEP ... ... ... ... 392 
 
 III. TITTLE-TATTLE ... ... ... 394 
 
 IV. MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS ... ... 395 
 
 V. LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY ... ... ... 397 
 
 VI. A SOUL'S SWEETNESS ... ... ... 897 
 
 VII. REMINISCENCES ... ... ... 398 
 
 VIII. SLEEP AND DEATH ... ... ... 399 
 
 IX. A CONJUGAL DISPUTE ... ... 400 
 
 X. DEGREES OB AFFECTION ... ... ... 403 
 
 XI. THE PAIR IKONIA ... ... ... ... 405 
 
 XII. A WISH ... ... ... ... 407 
 
 XIII. IMPERFECTION ... ... ... 40S 
 
 XIV. EMANCIPATION ... ... ... ... 409 
 
 XV. THE VOICE OF NATURE ; OR, WHAT THE FISH 
 
 SAID TO THE MAIDEN ... ... ... 409 
 
 XVI. THE MALADY OF MOl'O ... ... ... 410 
 
 XVII. A SERVIAN BEAUTY ... 412 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XVIII. A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN ... ... 418 
 
 XIX. BOLOZANOVITCH THE KNAVE ... ... 416 
 
 XX. THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA ... ... ... 418 
 
 XXI. SLEEPLESSNESS ... ... ... 424 
 
 XXII. NEGLECTED FLOWERS ... ... 424 
 
 XXIII. PLUCKING A FLOWER ... ... ... 425 
 
 XXIV. TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER ... ... ... 426 
 
 XXV. A MESSAGE ... ... ... ... 427 
 
 XXVI. ISOLATION ... ... ... ... 428 
 
 XXVII. A REGRET ... ... ... ... 428 
 
 XXVIII. THE BAN OP VARADIN ... ... ... 430 
 
 XXIX. FATIMA AND MEHMED ... ... ... 431 
 
EERATA. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Page 161. Epoch. IV. Scene II. Eighth line from the top 
 of the page, last word ; after "kind " a comma. 
 
 P. 171. Epoch IV. Scene III. Ninth line from the top of 
 the page. For "it matters not if a knife be laid," read " it 
 matters not if the knife be laid." 
 
 P. 208. Epoch IV. Scene V. Sixth line from the top of 
 the page. Instead of " Friend," read "Friends." 
 
 PARAPHRASES. 
 
 P. 299. Third line. For "Along Peneian Tempo's flying," 
 &c. read "Along Peneian Tempe flying," &c. 
 
 P. 300. Twelfth line from the top of the page. For "Legia," 
 read "Ligea." 
 
 P. 305. Last word of last line. For "the Getomaser," read 
 "the Getse roam." 
 
 P. 307. Seventh line from the foot of the page. For "ferry- 
 men," read "ferryman." 
 
 P. 308. Second paragraph, fourth line. For "Rhipaean," 
 read "Rhiphasan." 
 
 P. 314. Last word of last line, After "while" omit the 
 comma. 
 
 P. 326. Seventh verse, third line. There should be a comma 
 after the word "Endeavour". 
 
 P. 349. Stanza 7. Fifth line. For "That charms stars 
 and moons," read " That charm stars and moons." 
 
 P. 368. III. First line. For " probratime, " read " pobra- 
 time. " 
 
 P. 372. Third line, For "on high degree," read "or high 
 
Vlll ERRATA. 
 
 P. 372. Third line from the foot of the page. For " this 
 hall," read "his hall." 
 
 P. 384. Second line. Instead of "carved and cleft," read 
 "rent and reft." 
 
 P. 384. Seventh line from the foot of the page. For "touch- 
 ing," read "touch." 
 
 P. 404. Last line. For "ceased," read "ceased." 
 P. 409. Second poem. Third line. For "thy," read "they." 
 P. 410. Eighth line from the foot of the page. 
 Instead of 
 
 "Gazed, the pale Packinitza on him," 
 read 
 
 "Gazed, and the pale Pachinitza on him." 
 P. 421. Last line of the third paragraph. For "the words," 
 read "these words." 
 
 P. 421. Second line of the last paragraph. Instead of "For 
 her, "read " From her. ' ' 
 
ORVAL; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THE FOOL OF TIME. 
 
 A POEM. 
 (IN FIVE EPOCHS: DOMESTIC AND SOCIAL.) 
 
 La preponderance du cceur sur I'esprit, .... unique source, spontanee on 
 systematique, de 1'hannonie humaine." AUOUSTE COMTE. 
 
FIKST EPOCH. 
 
 BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM, 
 
ORVAL; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE FOOL OF TEME, 
 
 EPOCH I. 
 
 SCENE I. Sunset. Mountain and Valley near the Castle of 
 Orval, which is partly visible in the background. Mists 
 forming over the landscape. Distant joy-bells, which cease 
 as the scene opens. The Guardian ^dnael descends. 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 PROM soul to soul hath war been waged, 
 From star to star, from sun to sun : 
 
 Nor e'er shall be the strife assuaged 
 That's hourly lost and hourly won. 
 
 ANCIENT or DAYS, that here in light, 
 And there in darkness, dost array Thee, 
 
 Thou madest day, Thou madest night, 
 And both obey Thee. 
 
 The sons of night Thy servants are : 
 They work Thy will, no less than we, 
 
 The sons of light, that with them war 
 Unwearied where no end can be. 
 
12 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 But woe to man, if light in vain 
 
 He sees, and seeks the darkness rather ! 
 From seed of evil, evil grain 
 That man shall gather. 
 
 Dreams fade, deeds fail, and days depart, 
 And all is changed in time and place. 
 
 Thrice blessed are the pure in heart : 
 For only they shall see God's face. 
 
 Man's life from cradle leads to tomb : 
 
 Man's love from Earth may lead to Heaven : 
 
 Be thankful, therefore, thou to whom 
 A heart was given. 
 
 Hold fast, man, to whom God gives, 
 To keep thy heart still undefiled, 
 
 The holy human love that lives 
 In kiss of wife, and kiss of child, 
 
 Hold fast the gift ! The hour, that now 
 To Heaven returns, to Heaven is bearing 
 
 A husband's sacramental vow, 
 Vow'd in God's hearing. 
 
 The pure in heart God's face shall see. 
 They of the Blest are blessed most. 
 Man's heart, O Lord, lies bare to Thee : 
 
 Shall this man, Lord, be saved, or lost ? 
 Though o'er his soul be cast the net 
 
 That Satan weights with strong temptation, 
 He that hath yet a heart may yet 
 Escape damnation. 
 
 (The Guardian Angel ascends.} 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. ]3 
 
 EVIL SPIEITS (rising icitli tlie mist}. 
 
 With the vapours arising from earth arise, 
 Shadows of Falsehood, whose shapes are lies, 
 
 And enter where ye are waited ! 
 Phantoms, and films, and illusions, 
 That mimic the light you loathe, 
 "With deliriums, dreams, and confusions 
 
 The creature that calls you, clothe ! 
 Choke the conscience, and cheat the eyes, 
 Strangle the spirit, but stifle its cries : 
 
 For the fall of the fool is fated. 
 Love to lust, and courage to crime, 
 And sense to sin, for the fool of time, 
 Orval! Orval ! 
 
 Thou, first, loved beauty of youth's lost bloom, 
 The Departed of Yesterday, rise from the tomb, 
 
 And bewilder him that bewails thee. 
 Too soon to the darkness hurried, 
 Wan ghost, to the light rearise, 
 And, haunting him, dead but unburied, 
 
 Eeappear in a dream to his eyes. 
 In the dews of the night be thou bathed, and bound 
 With the blossoms that grow upon graves, and crown'd, 
 
 By the heart of the fool that hails thee, 
 With the stars of the night, till the grave- worm's 
 
 slime 
 
 Be as glow-worm lights to the fool of time, 
 Orval! Orval! 
 
 Thou also, old picture of Paradise, well 
 In the cobwebb'd lumber-chamber of Hell 
 
14 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I, 
 
 Hast thou rested, rotted, and rusted : 
 Beelzebub's masterpiece, painted 
 
 Long since, though thy canvas be old, 
 And the hues of it tarnisht and fainted, 
 
 Yet retoucht with our purple and gold, 
 Thou shalt brighten, and glitter, and glow, for him, 
 "With the colours of Eden ere they wax'd dim. 
 
 Come forth, and be furbisht and dusted i 
 O Nature, mother of sins sublime, 
 Fair be thy face to the fool of time, 
 Orval! Orval ! 
 
 Last, thou, too, carrion bird of prey, 
 Whose name upon earth is Ambition, away, 
 
 Where the huntsman to hunt thee hastens ! 
 Stuff d with Hell's ashes and cinders, 
 
 Famed Bird of Perdition, depart 
 From thy perch on the Past. Nothing hinders 
 
 Thy flight, though a scarecrow thou art. 
 Spread thy wings in the ardours of morn, and bright 
 As the sunrise, and swift as the wind, be thy flight, 
 
 Till firmly thy talon fastens, 
 Red with carnage, and crooked with crime, 
 On the ruin'd heart of the fool of time, 
 Orval! Orval! 
 
 SCENE II. Twilight. On the road to the Castle. Bridal 
 Guests and Kinsmen passing. 
 
 COUNTRY KINSMAN. 
 I say, good men should choose good wives. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 15 
 
 i 
 
 TOWN KINSMAN. 
 
 Good Cousin, 
 
 Were I about to choose a lackey, now, 
 I'd choose him, Coz, for his good looks : because 
 There's nothing you can absolutely know 
 About your lackey, but the looks of him, 
 Until you've hired him. But, were I to choose 
 A wife, I'd choose her for her fortune, Coz, 
 Because there's nothing else a man can know 
 About a maiden, till he has married her. 
 Our fair new Cousin . . 
 
 COUNTRY KINSMAN. 
 
 With brown woodland eyes, 
 
 Shy as a forest creature freshly caught 
 
 Zounds, Cousin ! if Oval's not the lovingest spouse, 
 As she's the loveliest, the world has seen 
 Since Adam married Eve among the roses, 
 The devil take him ! 
 
 A PRIEST. 
 
 Son, I have known this lady, 
 Since when she was the sweetest child, whom now 
 I know the sweetest woman, in Christendom ; 
 Nor ever in the simple saintliness 
 Of her most innocent soul, have I known aught 
 To wish away. 
 
 COUNTRY KINSMAN. 
 I am glad to hear it, Father ; 
 For patience is the strength of Saints : and much 
 I fear that Orval's bride may need that virtue. 
 
16 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 Young is he yet ; and youth in him was ever 
 More full of whims and wanderings than the wind. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 Ay, our old House should have an older Head : 
 And more than ever in this swaggering age, 
 Whose starts and turns make sound experience seem 
 A stubborn ass. But this wild nephew of mine 
 Is wilder than a young unhooded hawk, 
 And cramm'd with crazy thoughts : the flatter'd fool 
 Of the new-fangled time's pernicious prate, 
 Which no sane man can sanction. 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 Uncle, Uncle, 
 
 You wrong my cousin Orval ! I and he 
 Were schoolmates. What the boy was, I believe 
 The man is yet. Rash, choleric, if you will, 
 But not less proud of his old name is he 
 Because more proud, justly more proud, dear Uncle, 
 Of his own power to add new value to it : 
 Nor yet unmanly vain of gifts the gods 
 Give no man that is ignorant of their worth : 
 To him all noble names are trumpet notes 
 Sounding his spirit to arms : and his full mind 
 Is stored with every kind of generous fuel 
 That's quick to kindle to whatever spark 
 Time, as he passes, from his torch shakes out. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 Green wood ! green wood ! all smoke arid splutter, 
 
 boy. 
 Who was that Priest ? 
 
gCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 17 
 
 COUNTRY KINSMAN. 
 
 His name is Father Adam. 
 
 TOWN KINSMAN. 
 Not the first .man in the world ? Eh, Coz r i 
 
 POOR KINSMAN. 
 
 Well, I, 
 
 For my part, say that I most cordially 
 Applaud this marriage : which not only links 
 Two lordly lines in one, but also mends 
 What in the solid substance of our House 
 A somewhat too close contact with the Court 
 Hath here and there rubb'd shabby. 
 
 TOWN KINSMAN. 
 
 How he'll cringe 
 
 To the new Countess, with his lap-dog looks ! 
 Already is he hankering, look at him, 
 After his platter. 
 
 COUNTRY KINSMAN. 
 
 For all that, he's right. 
 I scorn the Court. No king shall ever hang 
 His key between two buttons on my back. 
 I'll be no lackey, who was born a lord. 
 And as for Orval, youth's a fault time mends. 
 I like his generous wildness well enough. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 'Faith, all these greatly-gifted youths begin 
 By taking out a patent of their own 
 For the creation of the world : and end 
 
18 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 By selling it for something they find still 
 Worth having in the world, just as it is, 
 As soon as they grow wiser. 
 
 COUNTRY KINSMAN. 
 
 Certainly. 
 And good wives make good husbands . . . 
 
 TOWN KINSMAN. 
 
 Good books say. 
 
 And I say, Coz, a sweetheart's cream : a bride 
 Butter : a wife . . . stale cheese. Tender's the gate. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 And the sun's down. Boy, lift the link this way. 
 Come, gentlemen ; we 're not an hour too soon. 
 
 SCENE Ill. Tivilight. Under the walls of the Castle. A 
 graveyard adjoining a garden. The Castle, lighted in the 
 background. Dance music from within. 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT (hovering low}. 
 I hear a sound, long silenced, heard 
 
 Long since ; when in this frozen breast 
 The burning wells of sense were stirr'd 
 
 By that wild music's wandering quest. 
 Long since, and so long since, alas, 
 
 I may no more remember when, 
 In dream, or wake, my dwelling was 
 
 Among the homes and hearts of men. 
 Long since I heard what now I hear ; 
 
 My lip was warm with love and wine : 
 Men's praise was murmur' d in my ear, 
 
 So fair a woman's form was mine. 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 19 
 
 But now the fiends that howl behind 
 
 Command my heartless, homeless ghost 
 Some earthly form more fair to find 
 Than was the earthly form she lost. 
 
 ( Over the graves.) 
 
 Blue eyes of Beauty, closed and cold, 
 Though film'd by death, and stain'd with mould, 
 
 Beneath the gravestone dreaming ; 
 Awake ! and yield to mine the hue 
 You give the graveyard violet blue, 
 When grey March mornings, drench' d with dew, 
 Among the graves are gleaming. 
 
 Bright hair of Beauty, mixt with moss, 
 Rich threads the red worm runs across, 
 
 When to his work he passes ; 
 Float from the grave, and give to mine 
 The gay gold gleams you grant to shine 
 Through butter-cups that glitter fine 
 
 Between the graveyard grasses. 
 
 Red lips of Beauty, bloodless lips, 
 Whose lover cold, Corruption, slips 
 
 Through coffin planks to kiss you ; 
 Yield what, to flush the graveyard rose 
 With reflex light, your redness throws 
 Up bramble stems. No bud that blows 
 
 From these will miss you. 
 
 Ho ! Satin sark, on narrow bed, 
 For a dead Queen's slumber spread, 
 Slumbering chaste in charnel ; 
 Leave the limbs, though they be cold, 
 
 c 2 
 
20 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 Of the corpse which thou dost fold, 
 Clothe me ! Thou, too, crown of gold, 
 Deckt with grave-grown darnel ! 
 
 (Over the flowers.} 
 
 Woe to thee, garden ! woe 
 Be to thy warden ! Who 
 
 Cometh to check me ? 
 Pansy, and passionflower, 
 Pranking your lady's bower, 
 Bed rose, and lily, shower 
 
 Eare blooms to deck me ! 
 
 Eed rose, and lily white, 
 Mine must you be to-night. 
 
 Fade ye, and fall ye ! 
 Wrench'd be from root and stem 
 Flower-gold, and flower-gem ! 
 Deck me my diadem, 
 
 Each as I call ye ! 
 
 Blighted this garden be, 
 Blossom, and branch, and tree ! 
 
 Perish, or come to 
 Bloom in my cheek and breast, 
 Koses and lilies ! Eest 
 Euin'd and dispossest, 
 
 Garden, and home too ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME, 21 
 
 SCENE IV. Night. Within the Castle. Private chamber with 
 a balcony overlooking illuminated gardens. Folding doors 
 (closed] in the background communicating with the state 
 apartments of the Castle. Orval and Veronica in the balcony. 
 
 SONG- (with music, from the gardens). 
 
 The Spirit that shepherds and feeds 
 The soft herds of the unseen Hours 
 
 (Among life's flowers, that are weeds, 
 
 And among love's weeds, that are flowers) 
 
 Wherever his light will leads, 
 
 As he wanders this world of ours, 
 Those flocks of his 
 Whose sweet food is 
 
 The fresh-fallen dew of the blossoming bliss 
 
 That is wither'd as soon as it flourishes : 
 
 OEVAL. 
 Not yet ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Then one kiss more, my own dear love, 
 My husband, ... all best things in one best word ! 
 
 OEVAL. 
 
 breathe not. breathe not, even . , . much less, move, 
 Thou fair fulfilment of all dreams ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 My lord, 
 
 Guests in the garden . . . look ! My ladies wait 
 To robe thy bride. 
 
22 ORVAL ; OR, [PART I. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 'Twill be no more the same 
 As it hath been, when we two pace in state, 
 I the staid spouse, and you the bashful dame. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 Dear despot ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Sweet, I prithee, by the flame 
 Of this one moment's fire life's substance prove, 
 Then take the ashes, Chance ! I have lived, I love. 
 
 (They embrace). 
 
 SONG (from the gardens). 
 He hath open'd the pale penfold, 
 
 Gray Twilight had woven together, \ 
 Of the dim day's faded gold 
 
 And the eve's wan azure weather. 
 
 And the stars and sea-winds 
 
 Which that Spirit unbinds, 
 As they dance forth in light and in laughter, 
 
 Loosen, each from his lair 
 
 In the caverns of Care, 
 The passionate hopes that were pining there, 
 
 By Pride lockt fast, 
 
 To follow at last, 
 
 Those dancers, dancing after. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 I must away ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Oh, dreams less fair than this 
 
SCENE IV,] THE FOOL OF TIME. 23 
 
 Have died ere now, slain by their own strong bliss ! 
 Wake me not yet ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 I hear my ladies call. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No ! 'twas the night-wind in those trembling trees 
 That tremble, being near thee ; or the fall 
 Of yonder fountain, sighing for far seas, 
 As I for thee . . . some Naiad's madrigal ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 Flatterer ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 My love is great ; all language small. 
 
 SONG (as before). 
 Night is come forth from her hold : 
 And the forests and fields unfold, 
 Mutter, and sigh, and stir : 
 While, to wander away with her, 
 From their camps on the mountains cold, 
 
 Cedar, and pine, and fir 
 Are borne upon shadows bold, 
 Having husht, lest their way be told, 
 Bird, cricket, and grasshopper. 
 At her bosom she bears 
 The twin-born heirs 
 
 Of all that is brightest and all that is best, 
 In the gift of their mighty mother : 
 Whose faint lips, prest 
 To that mother's breast, 
 
24 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 Are fed deep on the streams 
 Of the dim sweet dreams 
 That nourish each nurseling brother : 
 But, O, which is her fleetest and fairest son ? 
 For soft-winged Sleep is the name of the one, 
 And swift-winged Love is the other. 
 
 A WAITING WOMAN (entering). 
 The bride' s-ladies of Lady Orval attend 
 My lady in her chamber. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah, the end ! 
 WAITING WOMAN. 
 
 The lords of Montmirail, and Fontlerey, 
 Conan, and Cornuant, and Yitikend, 
 Cuthbert, and Giles of Orm 
 
 ORVAL, 
 
 Enough ! go say 
 That Lady Orval comes. 
 
 (Exit Waiting Woman.} 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 I must not stay. 
 
 Dear love, this noise and heat, how wearisome ! 
 The tiresome dance, the tedious talk ! . . How blest, 
 Dear love, 'twill be in our own quiet home 
 To be alone together, and to rest. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No, no ! A costlier fancy comes in place 
 Of that which must depart now ... to complete, 
 And crown Love's feast-day with a final grace, 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 25 
 
 For Love's feast-night to cherish. Go now, Sweet ! 
 
 Bathe all that beauty in new beams. Prepare 
 
 Thy perfect splendour. Think what I must feel 
 
 When presently I stand aside, as 'twere, 
 
 Prom my own bliss . . mix with the crowd . . conceal, 
 
 So far as fancy can, from every thought 
 
 The knowledge of my sovereignty in thee ; 
 
 And see thee float before me sumptuously 
 
 In light, by thy full-beaming beauty wrought 
 
 (From love's bright never-failing source, thyself !) 
 
 Around thee . . . like the languid splendour, blent 
 
 With balmy spices, when some radiant elf 
 
 Kindles all round him his rare element, 
 
 Upfloating to his native ether free, 
 
 While bursts the wizard's limbec .... as tho' nought 
 
 Of thee were mine, but that which all may see ; 
 
 Till, spent with wishful wonder, back I sink, 
 
 Back on the dear delicious truth divine 
 
 That bids me live, with lavish leave to think, 
 
 And feel, and know, that all of thee is mine ! 
 
 Mine, to make costly chaos and confusion 
 
 Of this well-order'd world ! mine, mine the right 
 
 To ruffle that calm hair's composed profusion, 
 
 And free that bosom from its bondage bright ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 hush ! my poor heart dreads this dear delusion. 
 
 1 shudder, gazing from that dizzy height 
 Where thy praise holds me ... into an abyss. 
 I, who am full of faults, and weak and slight, 
 With nothing but the love you'll never miss 
 To keep me lovely in my dear love's sight. 
 
26 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 When you shall find me nothing of all this 
 Your fancy feigns nie now . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Quench fancy quite 
 In feeling thus, then . . . drown'd in such a kiss ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 May God, beneath whose gaze my heart lies bare 
 
 As the unclouded summer, grant the prayer 
 
 I pray'd when at His altar late I knelt, 
 
 This morn, and pray'd, when on my cheek I felt 
 
 My mother's tears . . . that I may be to thee 
 
 All that his wife, my whole heart loves, should be ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Go, robe thyself in glory ! Let my glance, 
 Borne on thy beauty down the bounding dance, 
 Glide, where thou glidest, as the passionate bee 
 Follows hot fragrance through midsummer air. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 My Orval ! Dost thou wish it ? would that we 
 Might glide away out of all noise and glare, 
 And be quite quiet ... in each other hidden 
 Safe from all eyes ! But what by thee is bidden 
 Seems ever sweet to do. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Veronica ! 
 
 (She breaJcs from 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 27 
 
 SONG (as before}. 
 Ere the moon is washt down by the wave in the west, 
 
 (O thought dread and sweet ! ) 
 Ere the nightingale, roused by the moon, is at rest, 
 
 They shall meet ! 
 They, the twain who, of mortals, were taught by the 
 
 Power 
 
 That gave sweets to the bee, giving scent to the flower, 
 To find in each other, what few find out, 
 
 The one thing sweet in a world so sour, 
 The one thing sure in a life of doubt. 
 They shall meet, O where, 
 They, the Strong and the Fair ? 
 In what hour, not of time ? in what land, not of earth ? 
 There where life is delight, and where being is birth : 
 Where the soul and the sense are one feeling alone, 
 As the heaven and the moonlight are two and yet one : 
 Where the eyes from the lips 
 Drink delicious eclipse, 
 While, in rose-braided car, 
 
 Love, free lord of his own, 
 To the fair, the afar, 
 
 The unseen, the unknown, 
 Through faint depths of dim fire 
 
 Is drawn, with tugg'd rein, 
 By the steeds of Desire, 
 
 In strong triumph amain, 
 Through the twilit courts of the orient porch 
 
 Of the Dawn of Life ; where the bashful train 
 Of those tender timorous Spirits, that are 
 The bearers bright of his blushing torch, 
 
28 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH I. 
 
 Are waiting the will, of the Morning Star, 
 To unfasten the gate which the Destinies bar 
 On the brave bold world, that is yet unborn, 
 
 Of the resolute race that is yet to be, 
 When the sunrise of Freedom, in Truth's fair morn, 
 Shall be solemn and bright over land and sea, 
 And all earth be one nation, whose name is borne, 
 
 Trampling tyranny, scorning scorn, 
 By the gentle, the just, and the free. 
 
 ORVAL (alone). 
 Ay ! wherefore should it dawn not now, that day ? 
 
 SONG (as before}. 
 
 For the eyes of Hate shall be held so near 
 
 To the looks of Love, that their light shall sear 
 
 His baleful balls, and snaky Error 
 Die, caught in the fangs of her own child, Terror. 
 dawn of the day we have waited long ! 
 O star of the summits we seek in song !' 
 Arise, and be bright 
 
 On the bridal bower 
 We have fashion' d to-night 
 For Beauty and Power ; 
 Prom whose embrace 
 
 Bring the bright first-born 
 Of the Promist Race, 
 
 The mild monarchs of Morn, 
 The strong lords of the Luminous Hour ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Wherefore not now . . . not here ? For some new world 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 29 
 
 Majestic, populous with august shapes 
 
 Of power, and light, and loveliness, begins 
 
 From out mine inmost being to put forth fast 
 
 Full pulses of a multitudinous life. 
 
 ye innumerable teeming thoughts, 
 
 Forces, and faculties, and fantasies, 
 
 That rise within me, lords of lucid stars 
 
 Whose light makes midnight glorious, are ye not 
 
 The monarchs of To-morrow ? I have roam'd, 
 
 Horsed on four-hooved Cheiron, reedy plains 
 
 Where river nymphs rose up to stare at us, 
 
 And Amazonian maidens aim'd swift darts 
 
 That sung and miss'd us, as we fleeted past . 
 
 Into old sleepy woods. I have twang'd the strings 
 
 Of Orpheus' harp, and tasted berries brown, 
 
 Asclepios gather'd out of gusty groves 
 
 By night for none but me. I have sail'd far 
 
 With heroes in a hollow ship, through gulfs 
 
 And plunging seas, to Colchis ; and have seen 
 
 Black-eyed Medea boiling bitter herbs, 
 
 And pluckt the fleecy prize, and hasted home 
 
 Outspeeding Jason's ship. And, after all 
 
 These wonders, I awoke, I knew not where, 
 
 Toucht by a woman's hand. And this stale world 
 
 Of common life looks new and strange to me, 
 
 Who find myself set suddenly, aware, 
 
 Awake, with eyes wide ope, a living man, 
 
 In the mid concourse of mankind ... to cope, 
 
 Contend with, conquer, or be crusht by it ? No ! 
 
 Already in my right hand glows and throbs 
 
 The golden ball of empire ! In my soul 
 
 Already stirs the instinct of command, 
 
30 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH i. 
 
 The godlike purpose, the preponderant will, 
 
 The proud resolve, and all that makes a man ! 
 
 Farewell, you fair, fast-fading forms ! Farewell, 
 
 You ghostly nurses of the full-grown strength 
 
 That in these pulses pants, impatient now 
 
 For action ! Let mankind take heed ! There comes, 
 
 Uncall'd, among the multitude of men, 
 
 A stranger, native to an age not theirs ; 
 
 Who means from out the mass of mortal deeds 
 
 To carve a mighty monument for dreams 
 
 That are immortal. Let mankind make way ! 
 
 PHANTOM VOICES (on the air, dispersedly}. 
 
 Whither, whither, do we float to find thee ? 
 
 Thee, whom we chose and cherisht for our own ! 
 Dost thou not hear upon the dark behind thee 
 Familiar voices making fondest moan ? 
 
 Whilst thou wast ours, 
 
 Say, did we ever seek, false friend, to bind thee 
 Faster than falling flowers 
 
 Which, for thy careless crown 
 Cull'd by our fond hands from forgotten bowers, 
 If lightest winds blew (could blown rose-leaves blind 
 
 thee ?) 
 
 Dropp'd from thy loose locks, in soft-shaken 
 showers, 
 
 Laughingly down? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Whence are those voices ? I have heard them once, 
 When? Where? But now how changed their tone ! 
 how faint ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 31 
 
 Doth the wind sing them ? or doth fancy feign 
 The fleeting echo of departed days ? 
 What are those forms that float before mine eyes, 
 And seem to sink into yon drowning dark 
 With desperate gestures, and wan visages? 
 
 THE VOICES (growing fainter}. 
 
 Faintly, ah faintly (effort unavailing !) 
 
 Strive we to reach thee ! Thou recedest ever. 
 Where doth the fault lie? What hath been the 
 
 failing ? 
 Was it thine or ours ? ah, vain the dear endeavour, 
 
 Loved one, but lost ! 
 
 And upon the midnight air we hush our wailing ; 
 Ghost, "after withering ghost, 
 
 Wounded, with wings that shiver, 
 Shaked by the night-wind, a despairing host, 
 Lost as loosed blossoms on the bleak air sailing 
 Down from hurt boughs that, bitten by the frost, 
 Bloom again never ! 
 
 OuvAL. 
 
 They fade. So best ! Lost friends, whose liquid eyes, 
 That shine through swimming tears, from mine recede 
 Like sad stars waning in the windy mist 
 Night sends to quench them . . . you, whose woe- 
 ful arms, 
 
 Yet waving, melt upon the midnight air, 
 Whose voices I no longer disentwine 
 From the night-swarming murmurs of the crowd 
 Beneath me ... fare you well, without regret ! 
 
32 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH i. 
 
 If from the world of dreams I am come down 
 
 To earth at last, it is because on earth 
 
 I find at last a world of dreams fulfill' d 
 
 In one unblemisht life's beneficence 
 
 Of love for me. God, if my full soul falter, 
 
 Faithless to faith so fair, my soul disown ! 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGEL (passing above]. 
 Keep thy vow before God's altar, 
 And be my brother before God's throne. 
 
 A KINSMAN (of the House of Orval, entering with 
 Father Adam). 
 
 I told you we should 'light upon him here, 
 
 Lost in the admiration of himself. 
 
 Rouse, Orval ! All thy kindred wait below. 
 
 FATHER ADAM. 
 Peace be upon this house, and thee, my son ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Peace, Father ? No ! In passion there's no peace. 
 Painters and priests have given dove's wings to Love. 
 They err, Love's wings have eagle plumes. 
 
 FATHER ADAM. 
 
 My son, 
 
 Those Loves with eagle plumes are birds of prey 
 Or birds of passage. Holy household love 
 Eanges no further than the dove's wing bears 
 The dove's breast from her nested brood. All loves 
 That are not also duties, loves that build 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 33 
 
 No nest, are wanton wanderers, fed by chance 
 
 Or plunder ; and the husbandman does well 
 
 To scare them off", or shoot them down. Young man, 
 
 There's more in holy marriage than mere love. 
 
 And that small consecrated golden hoop 
 
 Circling the finger of a wife, the vow 
 
 Breathed o'er it from a husband's heart converts 
 
 Into Eternity. Love takes it up, 
 
 And turns it to a sacred talisman 
 
 That opes to him the sacramental doors 
 
 Of that mysterious temple roofing all 
 
 The space between God's altar and man's tomb. 
 
 KINSMAN. 
 
 That's what I say myself. Most certainly, 
 Love's the least part of marriage. Look you now, 
 Dear Cousin, at this marriage of your own 
 Which all of us rejoice at I not least ; 
 Won from the wandering ways youth roams alone, 
 Fitly companion'd, taking with you all 
 That should accompany life's traveller, trains 
 Of goodly baggage, troops of trusty friends, 
 You enter here life's broad main highway, bound 
 For where life's sober business must begin 
 In serious earnest. You begin it well, 
 With all the necessary furniture ; 
 Lord, as by these wise nuptials now you are, 
 Of half a province, with a princely name. 
 Think what you may be, should be, must be. Cousin, 
 The king is old and weak, and knows no more 
 Than a sick pauper in a hospital, 
 Plagued by a dozen vile diseases, each 
 
34 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH i. 
 
 Disputed by a dozen doctors, where 
 
 To turn, or whom to trust. Last year's new nostrums 
 
 Are all used up : last year's new minister 
 
 Totters already : and the hasty time 
 
 Wears out great reputations fast as men 
 
 Wear boots out on forced marches. You're the man, 
 
 The very man that's wanted . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What ! to smear 
 
 My white hands with the soils of your bad work, 
 That's daily weaiying hands, no longer clean, 
 Of clumsy drudges, task'd in vain to keep 
 This execrable heap of rotten rubbish, 
 You call a system, just a little longer 
 Than, if the wind blows, it seems likely now 
 To hold together ? I'll not touch it, Cousin. 
 I will not turn state tinker, stop one hole, 
 And make a dozen ; by a pauper prince 
 Paid from the plunder of a pauper people, 
 And call'd fine names, for doing foolish work, 
 By foolish folk. No, Father, you say well. 
 There's more in marriage than mere love : though 
 
 love, 
 
 If true to one, is true to all. But if 
 I march forth to the battle-field of life 
 Bearing love's banner, it shall be to fight 
 Not in the rear, but in the van, and win 
 New realms for man. 
 
 KINSMAN. 
 I've but one word to say, then. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 35 
 
 Tis what a certain celebrated cook 
 Said to his too enthusiastic pupil : 
 ' You push the pepper to fanaticism. ' 
 But here comes Lady Orval. 
 
 FATHER ADAM. 
 
 Welcome, daughter ! 
 
 BRIDE'S-LADIES (entering with Lady Orval). 
 
 Love us, Lord Orval, for the loveliness 
 
 We must restore to you ; our sweet tasks done. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I do, dear ladies, and most lovingly 
 For your loved kindnesses I thank you all. 
 Commend me to the Graces, who, I see, 
 When Venus lost her godhead, wisely came 
 To live with you. 
 
 MASTER ANDREW (entering). 
 
 My lord, the hall is thronged 
 By liegemen to the Orvals, vassals, friends 
 And guests, inquiring for their noble host, 
 With voices whose impatient eagerness 
 I know not how to answer. 
 
 .ORVAL. 
 
 We are ready. 
 
 Give me thy hand, dear love. Throw wide the doors. 
 Thou tremblest, my Veronica ? 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Stay by me ! 
 
 (The doors are thrown open.) 
 D 2 
 
36 ORVAL ; OE, THE FOOL OF TIME. [EPOCH I. 
 
 BETAINERS. 
 
 Long live the Bride and Bridegroom ! Louder, lads ! 
 Long live our Lord and Lady ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Thanks to all, 
 
 From us and ours. Pair welcome, worthy friends ! 
 Joy's mouth is mute. Let music make amends. 
 
 ORVAL and VERONICA pass down the hall saluting the guests. 
 Music as the scene closes. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST EPOCH. 
 
SECOND EPOCH. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIPE. 
 
SECOND EPOCH. 
 
 SCENE I. Night. Gothic Bedchamber. Bed with canopy, 
 flumes, and heraldic ornaments, $c. A lamp burning dimly. 
 In the bed Veronica asleep. Beside the bed, in a chair, Orval, 
 ilso asleep. 
 
 ORVAL (speaking in his sleep). 
 
 "WHENCE com'st thou ? wherefore art thou here again P 
 
 Tiou whom, for many a wretched night and day, 
 
 lone as an orphan in a stepdame's house, 
 
 Sad as a Sadducee beside a tomb, 
 
 Hemory hath mourn'd ! What rests 'twixt thee and 
 
 me 
 
 Of aught resembling intercourse, less vain 
 Than fancy figures from a wind that sighs 
 Between two graves ? Why dost thou haunt me thus ? 
 What can I more ? art thou not satisfied ? 
 Why are the dead not dead ? who can undo 
 What time hath done ? who can win back the wind ? 
 Beckon lost music from a broken lute ? 
 Renew the redness of a last year's rose ? 
 Or dig the sunken sunset from the deep ? 
 Why lingerest thou, with those heart-breaking eyes ? 
 What can my love avail thee ? Life is lost. 
 Why beckonest thou ? How can I follow thee ? 
 Dost thou not see Prometheus' fate is mine ? 
 The rock, the chain, the vulture at the heart ! 
 Away ! 
 
40 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 (Awaking). Where am I ? Ah . . . beside my wife ! 
 My wife ? . . . What is there in that little word 
 To make my flesh creep, and my conscience cry, 
 And wrap my life fast with infernal fire, 
 And change this pleasant earth into a hell ? 
 Veronica ! . . . thou light of a lost star, 
 Thou heaven unhallow'd, thou unhaloed saint, 
 Thou injured injury, thou sinless source 
 Of sin, thou faultlessness all full of faults, 
 Thou loss in gain, thou death in life ! What woe 
 That wants a name yet shall have thine to wear ? 
 Happy, thou sleepest, thou unhappy cause 
 Of sleeplessness. Sleep on ! dream on ! wake never ! 
 Would I had never slept, or never waked ! 
 For I have slept too long, or waked too soon, 
 Who, dreaming, dream'd thee . . . what thou 
 
 wast, 
 
 And, waking, wake to ... what can never be ! 
 I dream'd, and saw .... 'twas nothing but a dream ! 
 I wake, and see ... 'tis nothing like my dream ! 
 Yet thou art fair, my lost Veronica : 
 Too fair thou art, too fair not to be woo'd, 
 And fond as fair . . . too fond not to be won : 
 Tender as evening air, true as a star ; 
 Pure as the dewdrop of an April dawn ; 
 Gentle, as creatures that were never wrong'd ; 
 Faithful, as creatures that no wrong can change, 
 Because their faith is like a dead friend's love, 
 Something that's ever what it was . . . But She ? 
 ... heavenly angels ! Are these haunted eyes 
 The dupes, or the deceivers, of my heart ? 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 41 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT (rises). 
 
 Woe ! woe ! thou hast betray'd me and thyself ! 
 (Evil Spirit sinks.) 
 
 ORVAL (starting up). 
 
 Accursed be the day, accurst the hour, 
 
 Wherein I wedded ! Curst the hour, the day, 
 
 When I betray'd . . . madman, for what ? for what ? 
 
 The glorious bride of my immortal soul ! 
 
 Whose beauty . . . Pool, to think Earth's fairest face 
 
 Could outface Heaven's ! 
 
 VERONICA (waking). 
 
 Home of my heart ! my Orval ! 
 Where is he ? Am I alone ? . . . Love, art thou 
 
 there ? 
 Thank God ! thank God ! I dream'd of thee. My 
 
 dream 
 
 Was sad and strange. But thou art there, thank God ! 
 What ails thee, love ? Arisen, and clad already ? 
 Thou should'st have waked me sooner. Day ? is it 
 
 day? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Day ? no, child. Night. Black midnight. Sleep 
 
 again ! 
 Turn thee upon thy pillow. Sleep ! sleep fast ! 
 
 YERONICA. 
 
 What ails thee, love ? thy voice is strange : thine eyes 
 Are wild . 
 
42 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Air, air ! fresh air ! An evil dream 
 A feverish fancy nothing. Heed me not. 
 Sleep, child. Thou canst. Sleep on. I'll walk awhile. 
 Heaven's breath upon my brow, the sight of stars, 
 The fresh cold rustling in the roofless fields 
 Of the first birds, will help this aching head. 
 Sleep fast, Veronica ! The night is long. 
 
 (He rushes out.) 
 
 SCENE II. Night. A garden by a graveyard, as before. 
 
 ORVAL (walking with agitated gestures). 
 
 O fool ! fool ! miserable, brainless beast ! 
 
 What devil was in thee when thou didst that deed ? 
 
 Who drugg'd the cup which thy besotted soul 
 
 Suck'd, as 'twere nectar, to the deadly dregs ? 
 
 What bribed thee, brute, to be the murderer 
 
 Of thine own liberty ? this double chain 
 
 Of never-changing custom, whose cramp links 
 
 So glitter'd in thy gross and greedy gaze 
 
 That thou didst take their gilded iron for gold, 
 
 And sell thyself to clutch them ! Break it now 
 
 Thou canst not, though thou tear away the flesh 
 
 They cling to, and canker. Out on this cheat, time, 
 
 That wins eternity away from all 
 
 Who trust the present's fraudulent promise pledged 
 
 Upon a bankrupt future ! What hath been 
 
 This life of mine, since that disastrous hour 
 
 Which made it mine no more ? . . Death's leave to rot 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 43 
 
 Down to the grave by gradual dull decays, 
 And moulder slowly ! 
 
 (Clock strikes from the Castle tower.} 
 Ha ! is it not the hour 
 
 When I was wont to mount my throne ? My throne ! 
 Where is it ? where my nimble ministers, 
 Those beautiful bright Spirits of burning orbs, 
 Whose congregated glories girt me round 
 With rows of starry brows intensely tura'd 
 To me, their monarch ; hands in homage raised, 
 Radiant, to reach my sceptre's point that, where 
 I waved, it sway'd them, as the unseen wind 
 Around their ardent centre sways the tops 
 Of yearning flames : so yearn'd they all to me ! 
 And my will ruled them all, like a young god. 
 Where are they vanisht from me "? What new lord 
 Sits on the throne my vassals built for me, 
 Waving my wand ? Minions, must I return 
 Like a repentant abdicated prince, 
 Yet hankering after power too rashly yielded, 
 To ciy your pity, beg your leave to take 
 My crown again, and sue back your releast 
 And vagrant suffrage ? Rather shall I be 
 Like some lost god, whom loss of empire goads, 
 Clad in fierce grandeur of a fallen fiend, 
 And hungry for old incense gone, to prowl 
 About the precincts of his perisht power, 
 With red eyes peering into empty bowls 
 Among his brazen shrines, and in the dark, 
 Where no more tapers burn, crouching to catch 
 And crush apostate priests. But no, by heaven ! 
 
44 OEVAL ; on, [EPOCH u. 
 
 My spirit, that long hath slept, awakes. Still mine 
 
 Is all that made me what I was your lord ! 
 
 Bright slaves, behold me ! Tremble ! appear ! obey ! 
 
 (He waves his arms wildly.} 
 (After a pause). They come not. I hear nothing but 
 
 the wind 
 
 Sighing among the graves : and nothing see 
 But the wan clouds, whitening and darkening fast, 
 As through their melancholy membrane thin, 
 Like a faint impulse through a sick man's veins, 
 The flitting of the momentary moon 
 Comes and is gone. Nature draws down the veil 
 O'er her divine deep eyes, and like a stranger 
 Hastes from me. Vox clamantis in deserto ! 
 I cry and there is none to answer me, 
 Call and none comes. The Spirit that once plagued 
 
 Saul 
 
 Plagues me : and unto me too, as to him, 
 The voices of the oracles are dumb. 
 God ! Thou art just. Thy priests have consecrated 
 The union of two human lives. But Thou ? 
 Wilt Thou vouchsafe no severance of the bond 
 Which now unites two corpses ? 
 
 (Evil Spirit rises.} 
 
 Ah, she comes ! 
 
 Bright One, again thy breath is on my brow ! 
 Again, again, those deep eyes in my soul 
 On their own trembling image are shining sad 
 As stars on a dark water ! Calm and pale 
 Dictatress of my passionate destinies, 
 Beest thou but empty air, phantom or dream, 
 Or insubstantial vapour, the vext mind 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 45 
 
 Sends hovering up from the unquiet heat 
 
 Of its own burning thoughts, small care have I 
 
 To know aught else of thee than that tJwu art ; 
 
 And how beautiful thou art to me ! 
 
 Child of mine inmost self, that comest thus, 
 
 In the last watches of the wakeful night, 
 
 To tempt the father that begat thee, . . stay ! 
 
 If thus it be, and thou, indeed, no more, 
 
 Image of all beatifying beauty, 
 
 Than the poor painted creature of the cloud 
 
 And habitant of hollow nothingness ; 
 
 What then am I, from whose corporeal self 
 
 And palpable humanity, fair fiend, 
 
 Thou hast suckt out the nobler essences 
 
 To feed the light of those bewildering eyes ? 
 
 This is the dross and refuse of a man, 
 
 Not I, not anything ! So let me breathe 
 
 In that fine air thou breathest, . . else I die ! 
 
 Thou hast dislodged me from myself . . I claim 
 
 Inhabitation of thine airy sphere. 
 
 All thine I am. Lead on. I follow thee. 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT. 
 
 I have heard. Eemember thou, 
 Mortal, thine immortal vow ! 
 Through the night air dark and hollow, 
 Where I lead thee, follow ! follow ! 
 Further than the rocky ledge 
 Of the stretch'd land's sea-girt edge, 
 Further than where heaven's clear cope 
 O'er the flat sea's end doth slope ; 
 Higher than tree-top ever grew 
 
46 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 Mountain reach'd, or wild bird flew ; 
 
 Deeper than those depths of green 
 
 By the drowning seaman seen ; 
 
 There where sun hath never set, 
 
 Never rose hath wither' d yet, 
 
 Beauty never ceased to be 
 
 Beautiful, nor freedom free : 
 
 There, where life is life for ever, 
 
 Love, the light it loses never ; 
 
 Where, a bright immortal child, 
 
 Joy is ever fresh and wild, 
 
 Fed on flowers that never there 
 
 Winter strips of blossoms bare. 
 
 Would'st thou woo me ? Hither to me ! 
 
 Night and day must thou pursue me. 
 
 Come, my lover ! Darkness cover 
 
 All the life whose light is over. 
 
 To me ! Woo me ! Would'st thou view me 
 
 As I am, pursue, pursue me ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Best ! rest ! 0, if thou be the exprest Desire 
 Of all desires, the Thought of every thought, 
 Why rest no longer than a fleeting 'thought, 
 A vain desire ? 
 
 THE VOICE OF VERONICA (from a window in the 
 Castle.) 
 
 Dear heart, the night is chill. 
 
 Thou wilt take cold. Come back, come back, my own ! 
 Without thy presence I am full of fears 
 In this drear dim old chamber, all alone. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 47 
 
 haste, dear heart ! The morning breaks. Haste 
 
 home ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Anon ! anon ! 
 
 (Evil Spirit sinks.} 
 
 VOICE ON THE AIR (dying away} 
 
 Weak mortal lover, 
 Fare thee well ! The charm is over. 
 Soon to meet, though now to part, 
 Faithless soul, and feeble heart, 
 Hers thou art not : mine thou art. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Gone ! . . . Yet methought with promise of return. 
 And then ? . . . Hers, hers, whate'er She be ! Fare- 
 well, 
 
 Home of my fathers, and thou native land ; 
 Farewell, old garden where my boyhood play'd ; 
 Farewell, friends, kindred, all ... and farewell, she 
 Form'd for all these, only not form'd for me ! 
 
 VOICE FROM THE WlNDOW ABOVE. 
 
 Orval ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Anon! anon! 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 
 Prithee come soon. 
 
 1 am not very strong just now, dear love, 
 Not since our little Muriel was born, 
 
 Nor very well ; nor able to say why 
 These faint cold seizures frighten me so much. 
 But come, thou dearest ! 
 
48 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And my child ? . . . Gods ! gods ! 
 (He re-enters tlie house.} 
 
 SCENE III. An Antechamber in the Castle. A Nurse and 
 Doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR. 
 
 The child is a fine one perfectly healthy wants 
 nothing but his natural nourishment. But you must 
 be careful about your mistress. 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 my dear lady ! What is the matter with her, 
 Doctor? 
 
 DOCTOR. 
 Nerves, only nerves. Nothing but nerves. 
 
 NURSE. 
 And what is nerves, Doctor ? 
 
 DOCTOR. 
 
 Nerves are ... humph ! nerves are ... (looking 
 at his watch). Bless my soul, how late it is ! Be 
 good enough to see that Lady Orval takes the draught 
 I have prescribed, every fourth hour. And above all, 
 no excitement! no excitement ! The child will do 
 very well. Which is the way, my good woman ? 
 Thank you. Remember, no excitement. And the 
 draught every four hours. (Exit.} 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 49 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 my dear lady ! if I knew what ailed her. Nerves ? 
 Sweet soul, 'tis the heart, I fear, that is breaking. 
 
 SCENE IV. Evening. A chamber in the Castle, lighted and 
 richly furnished. High Gothic windows open. Through them 
 a wild landscape is dimly visible. The night is sultry and 
 cloudy with partial moonlight, frequently obscured. A.t one 
 end of the chamber Veronica is seated by her harp. Near 
 her, an infant asleep in a cradle. At the other end Orval, 
 leaning against a windoio, and apparently watching the 
 night : his back turned to Veronica. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 I have sent to Father Adam. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Eh ? ... ah, true, 
 The Priest. Quite right. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 He will be here at noon 
 To-morrow. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 In truth ? at noon to-morrow. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 At noon. 
 That's settled. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Thanks. 
 
 E 
 
50 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 And all the Family, 
 Of course I mean both Families, attend. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Good. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Everything is now in readiness. 
 I have arranged it all myself. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Thanks. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 All. 
 And made good Master Andrew jealous. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No, 
 I am not jealous, child. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Thou ? . . . (ah, the old, 
 Old aching empty end of every effort ! ) 
 I have distributed the largesses : 
 The winter cloaks for the old women. . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Thanks. 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Such pretty hoods and ribbons for the young ones : 
 And food and drink and music for them all. 
 
SCEKE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 51 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Ay, food and drink. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 Dost tliou approve ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Of course. 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Dear God be thank'd ! This ceremony over, 
 Our little Muriel will be a Christian. 
 Sleep, sleep, my little one ! my pretty one ! 
 How the child has been dreaming ! Only see, 
 The little coverlet is all tumbled. Sleep, 
 My little Muriel, my pretty chick ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Oh, the heat here ! This house is stifling me. 
 There's thunder somewhere. I can feel it in me. 
 Would the storm only burst ! . . Ouf ! I shall choke. 
 
 VERONICA (after watching in silence for some 
 
 her husband, whose back is turned, draws the harp to 
 her, and sings). 
 
 If my love but loved me, I, 
 What should I do ? I that love him ! 
 Eise, and live ? or drop and die ? 
 If I knew some way to prove him 
 Mine at last, hap then what may 
 Tone of voice, or glance of eye, 
 Could they make my love my lover, 
 
 E 2 
 
52 ORVAL ; OE, [EPOCH II. 
 
 Should I even dare to try 
 Such a power ? who now, to move him 
 Trying all I can, no way 
 To win him to me can discover, 
 For all my trying night and day ! 
 (With sudden vehemence). 
 
 To-day, . . . to-morrow . . . yesterday ... for ever ! 
 
 What have I done ? what have I done, sweet saints ? 
 
 Orval ! I cannot bear it. Look on me ! 
 
 Dost thou not see that I am dying of it ? 
 
 Not one word dost thou speak to me. Not one ! 
 
 Not even one kind look, one answering smile. 
 
 Dost thou not even see what I am suffering ? 
 
 All find me alter'd since .... ah, love, all eyes 
 
 Save thine are sad to see this withering change. 
 
 Hath no one told thee, love, how pale I am, 
 
 And thin, and weak, and wasted ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 (Surely now 
 
 The hour approaches !) On the contrary, 
 My love, I never saw you looking better. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Alas ! I think you see me not at all. 
 You do not see nor hear me. When I speak 
 You turn away impatient. When you speak 
 'Tis not to me. How have I wrong'd thee, Orval ? 
 Thou dost wrong me most deeply. Whose the fault ? 
 This morning I confess'd all sins of mine 
 With tears of sorrowfullest penitence 
 To Him that is more pitiful than thou. 
 
SCENE TV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 53 
 
 Eor I have sinn'd to Him . . . often, to thee 
 
 Never ! At the confessional I set 
 
 Bare in God's sight each sore and bleeding nerve 
 
 Of this bruised heart ; and search'd out all its faults, 
 
 The secretest ones that seem scarce faults at all 
 
 At first, or only faults like those friends find 
 
 In a loved face ; who love it all the more 
 
 For just such blemishes as serve to break, 
 
 With here and there the quaint familiar turn 
 
 Of some defective feature, outlines else 
 
 Too faultless, they aver, to crave and get 
 
 The lenient pity, love soon turns to praise. 
 
 Such faults are worst. Love laps them round so well 
 
 With borrow'd lovelinesses that beguile 
 
 Kind Custom to conceal them for his sake ! 
 
 And she contrives to baffle our best search, 
 
 Hiding them from us in our best-known selves, 
 
 Till, fed on unsuspected tolerance, oft, 
 
 Like savage creatures, tame in infancy, 
 
 Which yet no kindness can for long redeem 
 
 From their original wildriess, these praised faults, 
 
 As we and they grow older, turn themselves 
 
 To drear deformities, revealed at last 
 
 By those unflattering looking-glasses, eyes 
 
 That love's departure leaves wide open . Alas ! 
 
 Many such faults I found : but none, God knows, 
 
 None against thee ! in all my soul no thought 
 
 That should oifend thee, Orval. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 You have not 
 Offended me. 
 
54 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 Heaven knows how I have loved thee ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And 'tis my duty also to love thee. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 O hush ! . . . not that ... not Duty . . . that drear 
 
 word! 
 
 Harsh charity which the unwilling eye 
 And grudging heart dole out to orphan hopes. 
 Par better buried in the grave of love, 
 Than fed on such cold comfort. Kather say 
 Thou canst not love me, Orval. Truth is sad. 
 But truth is best. The bitter truth once faced, 
 Both will be freer from the fear of it. 
 And let the rest come on us as God wills ! 
 T have heard say there is in all our bones 
 A humour Nature's kindly forethought keeps 
 Hid in them, with no seeming use at all, 
 Until you break them, when the fracture frees 
 This wholesome juice that helps her healing hand 
 To mend its mischief. May be, broken hearts 
 Have some such secret balm in readiness 
 To make the best of ruin. But do not, love, 
 Begin to hate me now, because you think 
 That you must love me, whom you cannot love. 
 Only the truth, love ! I shall bear it somehow. 
 Only the truth ! 'tis doubt that tortures most. 
 The truth ! it could not even surprise me, love, 
 If I had counted on myself. But then, 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 55 
 
 I thought so little of myself at first, 
 
 So much of what was great and strong in you, 
 
 Which seem'd to cover me and keep me safe. 
 
 I always knew myself unworthy thee, 
 
 And always fear'd that you must find this out, 
 
 But not so soon. All seems so sudden now. 
 
 I should have been prepared .... 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 ^Veronica ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Love, if you knew I recognized your right 
 To take back all the love I never claim' d, 
 Nor ever quite call'd mine, you'd have no cause 
 To hate me thus. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Veronica ! 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Not me, 
 Not me, have pity upon ! But . . . . O my husband, 
 
 (Rushes to the cradle) 
 
 This . . innocent remnant of my wretched love, 
 That never wrong' d thee . . . Think ! it is God's gift, 
 Not mine, not mine ! father, look on it, 
 It is thine own ! it is thyself ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Tears? prayers? 
 
 Clasp' d hands ? and supplicating sobs ? Wife, wife. 
 What have I said, what have I done, to bring 
 
56 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II, 
 
 This vehement battery of most stormy speech 
 And fierce reproach upon me ? Prithee rise. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Nay, not till, on the altar I build here 
 To patience, all the love I render back 
 With unreproachful tears, the duty too, 
 That cannot comfort me who claim it not, 
 Be dedicated to thy child, whose birth 
 Was the beginning of my burial. Orval, 
 Swear thou wilt love thy son ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Him ? . . and thee too ! 
 I love ye both. Believe it. 
 
 (He stoops to kiss her.') 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT (rises). 
 
 Hail, my lover ! 
 
 Our bridal hour is come. Away with me, 
 There, whence thy sighs have won me ! 
 
 VERONICA (flinging herself into his arms}. 
 Husband ! 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Haste ! 
 (The storm bursts outside.) 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Orval ! that crash ! the thunder-bolt hath fallen 
 Upon our roof. The terrible lightning flash 
 Is in mine eves ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 57 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 How fair thou art ! how fair, 
 Bright mystery ! ethereal sorceress ! 
 Thine eyes are wells of wonder ! thy loose locks 
 Gold labyrinths wherein love wanders lost ! 
 Eipe budding kisses, bright with crimson dew, 
 And bathed in breathing balm, are thy red lips ! 
 And thy looks draw me, fill'd with music, forth 
 In response to them, as a minstrel's hand 
 Draws hidden tune out of a throbbing lute. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Help ! help, my husband ! all the air is fire. 
 I burn ! I stifle ! Help ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Once more, once more, 
 That voice, though I should die to hear it ! 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 She 
 
 That would retain thee must, herself, depart, 
 With all things that decay. Her little life 
 Is but a dying taper's smoke. Her love 
 A leaf that falls before the gust of time, 
 Confounded with a million like it, lost 
 And trodden down into the common clay. 
 Her beauty is the heritage of the worm ; 
 Her youth the play and sparkle of a stream 
 Which soon the winter of old age shall freeze. 
 I am immortal. 
 
58 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Orval, Orval ! Saints, 
 
 Save us, . . save kim, my husband ! The house burns. 
 The choking smoke ! the scorching flame ! Speak, 
 
 Orval, 
 
 What seest thou yonder with those staring eyes 
 Pixt on the fearful fiery glare ? Help ! help ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Hush, woman! hush ! Creature of clay, blaspheme not ! 
 Daughter of Eve, thou standest in the light 
 Of that Divine Ideal, in whose image 
 The Almighty One conceived thee, too. But thou, 
 Even in thy mother's womb, woman, hast heard 
 The whisper of the serpent, and thou art 
 That which thou ait ! 
 
 THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Come ! 
 (Veronica swoons). 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Farewell, clay ! I follow. 
 
 SCENE V. Early Dawn. High mountain landscape. 
 
 ORVAL (ascending). 
 
 It spreads before me, opens out on me, 
 And round me, all I have loved, and long'd to lose 
 The life of my life in, winning it ! My heart 
 Leaps like a river-god's what time he hears, 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 59 
 
 Fluttering the cold reeds of his frozen banks, 
 The first, faint, solitary kingfisher : 
 And all at once his drowsy godhead awakes, 
 And he, no blind, frost-bitten brooklet now, 
 But Ocean's lusty child, shakes free his limbs 
 Of their cold chains, which frowning Tanai's takes, 
 And hastes to find, in some bright island bay 
 Par off, the sportive sea-maid that he loves. 
 
 VOICE IN THE AIR. 
 Hither to me ! hither to me ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Still on, 
 
 Higher I mount, and higher : as a strong star, 
 Stopp'd by no cloud that clings to the world's edge 
 Where night's lees settle. Far behind me fades, 
 And far beneath me, the loath' d life I leave. 
 Ha ! miserable insects, misnamed men, 
 Wretchedest worms that never yet had wings 
 To save you from yourselves, that sting each other ! 
 Swarm on, sting on ! and, in the dust that breeds ye, 
 Grovel, and grope, and crawl, and die content ! 
 For once, your prey escapes you. 
 
 VOICE IN THE AIR. 
 
 Follow! follow! 
 Higher ! still higher, follow ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I follow. Lead! 
 
60 ORVAL ; on, [EPOCH n. 
 
 SCENE VI. Noon. Within the Church. Veronica, priest, 
 sponsors, nurse, and child. Guests, kinsmen, and retainers, 
 $c. Organ music. 
 
 A GUEST. 
 
 So hotly bidden, and so coldly thank'd ! 
 Strange, that Lord Orval comes not ! 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Strange, if he 
 
 Were not strange ! Doubtless, he is all this while 
 Penning some page of an immortal poem, 
 Kesolved that nothing but the end of the world, 
 Which some folks think at hand, shall interrupt him, 
 And break off his best strophe. 
 
 A THIRD. 
 
 Hush ! Look yonder. 
 How woeful white our hostess 
 
 THE FIRST. 
 
 Ay ! she seems 
 In pain, poor lady. What a wretched face ! 
 
 THE SECOND. 
 She has not spoken yet to any of us. 
 
 THE FIRST. 
 And what strange eyes ! 
 
 THE THIRD. 
 
 Eyes ! do you call them eyes ? 
 They glow like pits of fire where nameless things, 
 That died unblest, are being burn'd away. 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 61 
 
 THE FIRST. 
 What finely-carven features ! 
 
 THE SECOND. 
 
 Yes, but carved 
 
 From some clear stuff, not like a woman's flesh, 
 And colour'd like half-faded white-rose leaves. 
 'Tis all too thin, and wan, and wanting blood, 
 To take my taste. No fulness, and no flush ! 
 A wateiy half-moon in a wintry sky 
 Looks less uncomfortably cold. And .... well, 
 I never in the eyes of a sane woman 
 Saw such a strange unsatisfied regard. 
 
 A FOURTH. 
 
 Humph ! this begins to look less festival 
 Than funeral. Or, if a feast, a strange one, 
 Like Timon's last ... a putting a good face 
 
 THE SECOND. 
 On a bad case. 
 
 THE FOURTH. 
 And I that (pity me !) 
 Declined a breakfast with an epicure 
 Just to please Orval ! 
 
 THE FIRST. 
 Listen ! 
 
 THE PRIEST. 
 
 Muriel,, wilt thou 
 Receive the holy baptism of Christ ? 
 
62 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 SPONSORS. 
 I will. 
 
 FIRST GUEST. 
 
 Look ! look ! how those wild eyes wax wide, 
 And flash with formidable intensity ! 
 
 THE SECOND. 
 
 She stretches out her arms toward the child. 
 What is she muttering ? Mark her. She will speak. 
 But .... Gracious heavens ! 
 
 THE FOURTH. 
 
 Aha ! did I not say it, 
 * There's something here amiss ' ? 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 She staggers. 
 
 THIRD. 
 
 Marquis ; 
 
 Your arm ! You are the nearest of us. Quick, 
 Or she wiU fall ! 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Muriel, dost thou renounce 
 The devil and all his works ? dost thou renounce 
 The pomps and vanities of this wicked world, 
 And all the sinful lusts of the flesh? 
 
 SPONSORS. 
 
 I do. 
 
 FOURTH GUEST. 
 'Faith, that's a large concession ! 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 63 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 Hush ! Those lips 
 
 Struggle . . . that white face twitches. What is she 
 saying? 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Muriel, receive her blessing, who unblest ' 
 Hath given to thee, what unto her was given 
 To grieve for, got the bitter gift of life ! 
 For I, that did in sorrow bear thee, most 
 Do sorrow that thou must much sorrow bear. 
 Yet one thing is reveal' d, which comforts me : 
 Begot in Sorrow, shalt thou Song beget. 
 So shall thy father scorn thee not, as me 
 He scorns, for songless sadness: and so God 
 Shall hear thy voice among the morning stars, 
 And in between the palms of Paradise, 
 And where the singing of those Spirits sounds 
 To whom God listens, and forget thee not, 
 As me He hath forgotten. Powers shall be 
 About thee, cohorts through a perilous land, 
 And cloud by day, and fire by night. . . . 
 
 Ha, fiends ! 
 
 Can all the sworded Seraphs and sentinel Saints, 
 That stand on guard by this baptismal font, 
 Not keep those plucking fingers from their prey ? 
 Son, have the Black Ones got thee ? Touch him not ! 
 The sign is on his forehead. Know your lord. 
 This is God's crowned Poet ! 
 
 SPONSORS. 
 
 What wild words 
 Are these ? and art thou mad, Veronica ? 
 
64 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 Kevere these solemn precincts, nor insult 
 God's House, thyself, and us. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 They hold him not. 
 
 Wings hath he, like a dove's, to flee away 
 And be at rest. God gave him those dove's wings. 
 He is God's gracious bird, that sang to us 
 A little while, before the morning light 
 Was quench' d in cloud. But he is fled away. 
 God hides him safe. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Lady, this violent speech 
 Wastes all our minds in fearful wonder ; frights 
 From her chaste cells, whose incensed masonry 
 Is dim with the pure breath of pious thoughts, 
 The solemn echo that inhabits here, 
 Unused to answer sinful cries ; plucks down 
 The heavenward wings of holy prayer ; and kills 
 The startled soul of sanctity. 
 
 Hell's power 
 
 Shall not prevail against this sign. Behold ! 
 Satan, I charge thee by the Name I serve, 
 Come out of her ! Let every Christian soul 
 Pray for her peace. Woman . . . you do forego 
 The reverence owed yourself, to outrage thus 
 Our sacred office, and the temple of God. 
 Anathema Sathanas ! Fade retro ! 
 
 RELATIONS (muttering). 
 Indecent ! . . . Scandalous ! . . . Intolerable ! 
 
gCENE VI. J THE FOOL OF TIME. 65 
 
 She hath disgraced us all. . . Where's Orval ? . . , 
 
 Shame ! 
 
 Drag her away ! . . . What devil hath got into her ? . . 
 Can no one shut those lips ? . . . 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Remember, Muriel ! 
 
 Remember, or my curse be on thee, son ! 
 For the black wings are buzzing after us. 
 If the black fingers catch thee by the hair, 
 I know where they will drag thee. Higher yet ! 
 Fly higher yet ! Show them the crown God girt 
 About thy forehead. How I pray'd for that ! 
 And now it glitters clear ... a crown of stars, 
 And every star with mystic music fill'd ! 
 Show them thy crown, Poet, and they will crouch, 
 And so we shall escape them. Fly ! fly ! fly ! 
 Farewell, my dove. I cannot follow thee. 
 Thou hast such nimble wings, thou bird of God. 
 And Heaven is so far off. Ah, turn ! they throng 
 Faster and faster. Save me ! 
 
 GUESTS. 
 
 Look to her ! 
 Oh miserable lady ! 
 
 (Veronica falls insensible.} 
 
 FIRST GUEST. 
 Come away ! 
 
 Something hath happen'd in the House of Orval 
 Which never should have been. 
 
66 ORVAL ; OB, [EPOCH II. 
 
 FOURTH. 
 
 Ah, said I not 
 
 1 Something is here amiss ' ? 
 
 SECOND. 
 
 In any case, 
 
 Our presence, I conceive, will be less thank'd 
 Than our departure. After you, my lord. 
 
 FIRST. 
 Your Excellency first. 
 
 SECOND. 
 
 Nay, then, indeed, 
 If you insist . . . 
 
 THIRD. 
 Marquis ! 
 
 FOURTH. 
 
 Ten thousand thanks. 
 Exquisite flavour ! How do you call this snuff? 
 
 THIRD. 
 
 I had it from the old king : and he's a judge. 
 Well, friend, you may be, after all, in time 
 To eat your breakfast with your epicure. 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 Come, gentlemen. Unwilling, have we been, 
 As unwisht, witnesses of this sad scene. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 67 
 
 SCENE VII. Cloudy crag, and precipice, above a stormy sea. 
 
 ORVAL (still ascending}. 
 
 Where is she ? Whither fleeted, on the wind 
 
 That whips me through this wit her' d waste? Where 
 
 am I? 
 
 Have they a name for men to know them by, 
 These desert steeps, .... Calpe, or Caucasus, 
 Atlas, or utmost Thule's mountain-tops 
 Mark'd on no mariner's chart? One thing is sure; 
 That never, even in dream, I trod, before, 
 The dreadful pavement of this dizzy path 
 That winds I know not where : never beheld 
 The broken in argent of that savage sea 
 That in his beached basin, far below, 
 Boils like Hell's cauldron ; nor yon livid peak 
 Peering and disappearing through those gaps 
 Of restless cloud, tormented by the wind. 
 How horribly the huge stone's solid bulk 
 Seems hovering in the gust above my head ! 
 Fierce as Death's altar, wreathed for sacrifice 
 With snaky shapes that round it, gaping, twine. 
 And what are they ? Troops of pale ghostly priests, 
 Or but fantastic vapours, sweeping round 
 With hooded heads, and waving arms ? whose dance 
 About their dismal altar floats in time 
 To ... what low humming sound of surly song 
 Comes from the abyss to cheer them ? Am I, then, 
 The victim these are waiting ? the one thing 
 Yet wanting to complete their ghastly rites ? 
 
 F 2 
 
68 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 I care not. I must on. Here is no rest. 
 
 Already have I cross'd the groaning tract 
 
 Of thunder, that with dense blue drench blots all 
 
 The blighted plain out. Par beneath me, borne 
 
 About these fang'd and crooked crags, I hear 
 
 Faint noises only, as ever arid anon 
 
 Between black sullen shores of gulfy cloud 
 
 There runs, and breaks, and falls, a pallid sea 
 
 Of momentary fire. Still on ! still on ! 
 
 The few lean firs, and solitary pines, 
 
 That struggled, few and fewer, as on I pass'd, 
 
 To keep pace with me, all have fallen away. 
 
 I have outstript them, scarcely heeding how 
 
 They stopp'd aghast, dejected, gazing where 
 
 They dared not clamber. Nature's self cried ' Halt ! 
 
 I can no further go ! ' Yet on went I, 
 
 And still must on, still on, while aught is left 
 
 Above me where man's foot may tread. Still on ! 
 
 A VOICE IN THE AIR. 
 
 Follow ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 I follow. 
 
 THE VOICF. 
 Haste ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Where art thou ? 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 
 Here. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 69 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Ever beyond ! 
 
 THE YOICE. 
 Hither to me ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 At last 
 
 Behold the summit ! Further pathway none 
 To foot of man, beyond the utmost edge 
 Of this sheer precipice, earth's reach'd end vouchsafes. 
 Here must I rest. Here where, save stormy winds, 
 None ever mounted. Leagues below me, wheels 
 The wild sea eagle in his highest night. 
 Higher than Babel's builders ever built 
 I have attain'd. 
 
 VOICE IN THE AIR. 
 
 Hither to me ! 
 ORVAL. 
 
 "Where art thou ? 
 THE VOICE. 
 I wait thee, my lover ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 But far off 
 
 Thou art already. And I cannot pass 
 Where pathway none can be. Nor from myself 
 Spin, spiderlike, a passage through the vast 
 And vacant air to reach thee. I have climb'd 
 The sudden sidewall of the world. Beyond 
 Is nothing but the abyss. 
 
70 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE (nearer, am 
 
 Where are thy wings ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Already dost thou flout me, mocking fiend ? 
 
 THE SECOND YOICE. 
 Is not thy soul immortal, infinite, 
 As thy desire, which on a single thought 
 Can soar beyond the battlements of space, 
 And, swifter than the speed of shooting stars, 
 Traverse the empyrean ? Yet dost thou cling, 
 Fear's captive, to some few bare inches left 
 Of Earth's base dust? What ! art thou Earth's at last, 
 Poor cowering piece of most presumptuous clay, 
 That would' st have only Heaven? Advance! ad- 
 vance ! 
 
 Why dost thou shrink ? Stopp'd by a little stone, 
 Scared by a passing wind ! Ha, doth thy flesh 
 Shiver, thy bones ache, in' the buffeting blast, 
 Great Spirit ? searcher of the unsearchable, 
 Climber of the inaccessible ! Dost fear ? 
 Dost falter ? thou, the undaunted ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Insolent voice, 
 
 I falter not. Show but thyself. Appear 
 In any form however horrible ! 
 Take substance, and confront me ! Leave thy lair 
 In the loose element . . . come forth . . . approach, 
 That I may crush thee ! Dare me to the endeavour, 
 And if I quail before thee, never more 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 71 
 
 May I behold the beauty I would embrace ! 
 I fear thee not. 
 
 THE FIRST VOICE. 
 Lean on me. Take my hand, 
 And it shall guide thee. 
 (The Phantom of the Voice appears beyond the precipice.} 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Heaven and earth ! . . . . Fast, fast, 
 The flowers from off those glorious tresses fall, 
 And turn themselves to venomous crawling things, 
 With bloated pouches, and thick-speckled skins, 
 And fangs that flicker on the clammy crag ! 
 
 THE PHANTOM. 
 Haste, my lover, haste ! I wait thee. Come ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Great God ! . . . What hideous whirlwind shakes, and 
 
 rends 
 To rags, the shuddering splendour of that robe ? 
 
 THE PHA.NTOM. 
 
 Hither to me ! Why dost thou linger ? Come, 
 My wooer, my wild lover, my bright lord ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The whirling sleet is white on her wet hair. 
 How bony grows the beauty of that breast ! 
 
 THE PHANTOM. 
 
 Hast thou forgot thy vow ? Art thou not mine ? 
 Come, traitor ! Come ! 
 
72 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 horrible ! horrible ! 
 The sudden lightning hath stabb'd out her eyes. 
 
 VOICE (wailing away). 
 Blind ! blind for evermore ! Eternal dark ! 
 
 VOICES OF EVIL SPIRITS (in the whirlwind}. 
 Away now, thou ancient damnation ! 
 
 Thy task is accomplisht. Farewell ! 
 Return to thine old habitation, 
 
 And abide in the nethermost Hell. 
 Gone is the robe we gave thee, 
 
 Crumbled thy crown : 
 Never a prayer can save thee. 
 Drop, though it cannot lave thee, 
 
 Into Lethe ! Down, and drown ! 
 And thou, dost thou shrink, the unshrinking ? 
 Descend ! Thou hast mounted in vain. 
 For each mariner shipwreckt, and sinking, 
 
 There is room in the infinite main. 
 Others, ere thou, have striven 
 
 And fail'd. Not first 
 Nor last art thou, to whom Heaven, 
 For the profit of Hell, hath given 
 The pride that in Hell is curst. 
 
 , ORVAL. 
 
 My God, for this then am I lost that I, 
 The earth-born, have unearthly beauty loved 
 Better than all earth gave me ? follow'd this, 
 Trusted in this, suffer' d for this ! for this, 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 73 
 
 Forsaking all, am I forsaken now 
 By that for which all else I have forsaken ? 
 Defrauded by I know not what false fiend 
 Whose form was like an angel's fashion'd ! 
 
 VOICES OF EVIL SPIBITS. 
 
 Stay! 
 
 This fool hath yet a word to say, 
 Lest God hear him, still be near him ! 
 We are watching for our prey. 
 The soul that hath woo'd her is blind 
 As the Hell that hath won our wan elf. 
 The wonder was he of mankind, 
 Who in wonderment worshipt himself ; 
 And still, though the idol he worshipt be 
 Broken, unbrokenly worships he. 
 Prate on ! we hear thee exulting, 
 Add folly to folly, and sin 
 To sin, proud fool, insulting 
 The Heaven thou could'st not win. 
 That Heaven lay near thee, and round thee. 
 Thou hadst but to enter, and dwell 
 Content in the Paradise found thee, 
 And barter'd by thee for Hell. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 For this, you unjust skies ? for this .... Vain ! vain ! 
 The last hour locks me round. The surcharged blast 
 Spouts blinding storm. The wroth sea roars, and rises 
 Higher and higher, as though the dead men's hearts 
 Were heaving underneath it. Rock by rock, 
 The ruin'd land sinks : and a fervid light, 
 
74 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 More dismal than all blackest blackness, burns 
 
 The withering world's red shrivell'd edges bare 
 
 Of aught save that strange horror which begins 
 
 Where all else ends. It rises still, that sea ! 
 
 White fire, and whirling water, and hissing wind, 
 
 And crackling crag, in one red gulf of Hell 
 
 Confounded, and, confounding all things else ! 
 
 Merciless and o'erwhelming elements, 
 
 Man never was your master ! Unseen hands 
 
 Are hugging me. And on my shoulder hangs 
 
 The dragging fiend. Help ! help, thou Heavenly One ! 
 
 EVIL SPIRITS. 
 
 Sons of the Father of lies, 
 
 Eejoice ! we have play'd for, and won him. 
 He struggles, and groans, and cries : 
 
 But the weight of our falsehood is on him. 
 Kound him and over him 
 Hover, and cover him, 
 Baffle, bewilder, and drag him down ! 
 If he should break from the net we throw for him, 
 Still shall we know him again for our own. 
 Our mark he beareth, 
 Wherever he fareth : 
 
 We have bitten it deeper than flesh and bone : 
 Tears though he weep on it, 
 Tears shall but deepen it, 
 Tears that bewail what they cannot atone ! 
 Time shall harden it, 
 Lest God pardon it. 
 When we return for him so shall we find him. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 75 
 
 Shatter the spell now ! Unblind, unbind him, 
 Loosen, and launch him, and leave him alone ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The strife is futile. My brain breaks. The abyss 
 Lays out long hands upon me. Ah, at last 
 My soul sees clear. At last, and yet too late ! 
 Omnipotent one, must it be ever thus, 
 And ever shall Thy Ffce triumphant be ? 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGEL (passing above}. 
 Peace, wild winds and stormy waters ! 
 
 Peace, thou troubled soul, to thee ! 
 Pride that snares, and Sin that slaughters, 
 Passion's phrenzied sons and" daughters, 
 
 Pass, and set this sinner free ! 
 
 Holy dew, from Heaven alighted, 
 
 Ere in childhood Faith began, 
 Brighten Faith in manhood blighted ! 
 Holy symbol, sign'd and slighted, 
 
 For the child's sake, save the man ! 
 
 Turn thee to the ancient places ! 
 
 Holy angels undefiled 
 Live in loving human faces. 
 Griefs are given to thee for graces, 
 
 And for guide a little child. 
 
 From the grave though Love impeach thee 
 
 For the loveless years of yore, 
 From the cradle Love shall reach thee 
 Pardoning hands to turn and teach thee. 
 
 Go in peace, and sin no more. 
 
76 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 SCENE VIII. Gothic chamber in the Castle of Otval same as 
 in Scene IV. 
 
 ORVAL (entering hurriedly, followed by servants). 
 Where is your mistress, I say ? 
 
 A SERVANT. 
 Lady Orval has been ill, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Not in her chamber ! where is she ? Speak. 
 
 ANOTHER SERVANT 
 Our Lady left the Castle yesterday. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Left? gone? where? 'sdeath, sirrah, why dost thou 
 answer not ? Speak, you staring fool ! Are you all 
 dumb ? Zounds ! do you know me ? Am I a man 
 to be mocked by mine own valets ? Andrew ! Where 
 is Andrew ? 
 
 SERVANTS (whispering). 
 
 Ay, Master Andrew, go forward. Tell him thou. 
 We dare not 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 (I would I were a tinker's ass ! I had rather carry 
 tin kettles than this news. O Lord, is it not the very 
 day our poor Lady first came to the Castle ? I shall 
 never get it off my heart. It lies there as heavy as 
 lead.) 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Andrew ! 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 77 
 
 ANDREW. 
 Ay, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Come hither, Andrew. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 Ay, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Nearer, Andrew. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Ay, my lord. (It will choke me. It sticks like a 
 fish-bone in a man's gullet.) 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 So, Andrew. Art thou too in the conspiracy ? Where 
 is thy lady ? Devils in hell ! dost thou hear me, 
 fellow ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 No, my lord, ay, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Where is she gone ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Gone ! Ay, my lord. Indeed, to be sure. And 'tis 
 there the pity of it, I say. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Knave, thou shalt smart for this. Where is my wife ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 Gone, my lord. 
 
78 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Where ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 Away, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 The witch catch thee ! Whither, sirrah ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 To the Mad-House. 
 
 (Exeunt servants hastily.} 
 
 ORVAL (after a long pause). 
 
 Veronica ! Veronica ! .... Eh ? ... hark ! 
 Was it her voice there ? . . . No . . . Veronica ! 
 Gone ? gone ? . . . What said those men to me, just 
 
 now? 
 
 Impossible ! . . . Oh, she but hides herself. 
 I should have guess'd that sooner. A child's trick, 
 Poor girl, to punish me for my long absence. 
 Ah, but this lasts too long. Veronica ! 
 Veronica ! . . . Enough ! enough ! . . . Forgive ! 
 Forget ! . . I do implore thee, love ! . . . No sound. 
 And surely I search'd everywhere . . . No trace 1 
 
 And those men's faces Oh no, no ! my God, 
 
 That were too horrible ! 
 
 Hilo! hilo! Without! 
 
 Without ! . . . No voice ... no footstep ... no reply ! 
 The house is empty. 
 
 And the woman to whom 
 I vow'd a faithful heart, a life of love, 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 79 
 
 And loving care . . . Devil ! have I cast her, living, 
 Into the dwelling of the damn'd ? It was 
 So pure a thing, so innocent and glad ! 
 Perfectly fair and good, to me God gave her. 
 What have I done with her ? Where is she now ? 
 Ha ! ha ! .... Who laugh'd then ? ... was it I 
 
 myself? 
 
 Mad ? . . is it I, not she, that's mad ? . . Ah no, 
 I dare not hope that. It would be too just, 
 Therefore too merciful. I can reason yet, 
 A.nd reasonably know myself a wretch. 
 There is no blood upon these hands of mine. 
 Why do they feel so like a murderer's ? 
 Thou cursed hand ! thou hast kill'd the innocent. 
 Quick, then, and kill the guilty ! 
 
 (Draws his dagger.} 
 
 Out, thou sharp 
 Straightforward justicer ! 
 
 (Sinking his hand?) 
 
 Nay ! even thou 
 
 Would'st be too lenient. There's no point o' the law 
 Thou dost administer can reach and strike 
 The original culprit. Silly lancet, all 
 Thy simple surgeoning cures nothing. Here 
 There is an ulcer which thou canst not probe. 
 The soul ! the soul ! I cannot kill the soul ! 
 Back to thy case ! 
 
 (He sheathes the dagger.} 
 
 What ami, then? In Hell 
 What name shall devils invent for one more damn'd 
 Already than Hell's devilishest ? . . . And she ? 
 
80 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 Where now is laid that saintly head ? What cries 
 Of horror and of infamy now shame 
 Those modest ears ? That brow so calm . . . that lip 
 So innocently smiling . . . changed, O Heaven ! 
 Changed . . . and by me ... to what ? Ah wretched 
 
 wife, 
 
 Didst thou send forth, into the wilderness 
 Where God himself was tempted, and where all 
 Save He have perish'd, thy poor simple mind 
 To seek me, and hast lost it thus ? 
 
 A VOICE FROM BELOW. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Optime ! Optime f what a theme 
 For a tremendous poem ! What a rare 
 Dramatic genius ! Bravo ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah, the voice 
 Of Satan still ! Peace, mocking fiend. 
 
 What, ho ! 
 My horse ! my pistols ! ho ! 
 
 To horse ! to horse ! 
 (Rushes out.') 
 
 SCENE IX. In the house of one of the Orval Family. Young 
 and Old Kinsmen. 
 
 YOUNO KINSMAN. 
 
 I have been to the castle, but could learn no more 
 than that Orval had returned, and left it suddenly. I 
 am off to the camp this evening. Perhaps when you 
 
SCENE IX.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 81 
 
 see him you will oblige me by mentioning to him the 
 trifling service I have been so fortunate as to have had 
 it in my power to render him. I make a point of 
 neglecting no opportunity to help those who can help 
 me. And I like to show respect for the Head of our 
 House, and a due concern for the dignity of all its 
 members. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 Humph ! But really I have half forgotten what it 
 was all about. 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 You remember that shocking scene in the church the 
 other day and all that has happened since ? Well, 
 one of those daily scribblers fellows who live in garrets 
 pelting princely names with onion peel, contrived to 
 get hold of the story wrote and printed it, after his 
 own fashion not omitting our Cousin's name even, in 
 one of his insolent pamphlets, and 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 All the world read it. I remember. The publisher 
 made a fortune by it. Go on. 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 I found out the hole where this vermin burrowed. 
 And sent my valet to cudgel the rascal. The castiga- 
 tion was a sound one. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 Well? 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 Whereupon my man . . . you will hardly believe 
 it, . . . sends me a challenge. 
 
82 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 Good heavens ! You did not accept it ? 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 Of course not. How could I ? I should have been 
 delighted to have had the honour of running- any gentle- 
 man through the body to oblige Orval. But a fellow 
 with no name except on a title-page whose father 
 nobody knows, and whose mother everybody might 
 have known. A poor devil who must have pawned 
 his shirt, if he had one, for the loan of a sword to cross 
 with mine . . . 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 Oh certainly quite impossible a very presumptu- 
 ous fellow. But what did you do ? 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 Put myself to infinite trouble pray tell Orval 
 went to town for no other purpose saw the minister 
 and had my man lodged in gaol the same evening ; 
 where he is safe for life. And what is more, I natter 
 myself that I have not only arranged this little private 
 matter promptly and satisfactorily, but also that it has 
 enabled me to become a public benefactor. For the 
 rascal, when he was arrested, had already begun the 
 publication of twelve volumes of periodical blasphemy 
 and sedition, which he entitled a Dictionary of the 
 Sciences (he is one of those confoundedly popular 
 busybodies who profess to know everything, and who 
 really know nobody), but which was in fact nothing 
 less than a series of insidious and venomous attacks 
 
SCENE IX. j THE FOOL OF TIME. 83 
 
 upon Religion and Aristocracy, Church and State, and 
 everything else that is sacred. I feel that I have 
 extinguished a volcano. And as for the publisher of 
 that libel . . Trust me, he will make no more fortunes 
 out of the affairs of our Family. The man is ruined. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 Oh, that is your man, is it ? I know him well his 
 books, I mean. A dangerous dog. For he writes 
 wittily, and, it must be confessed, with extreme 
 beauty of style. This sort of writers is the most 
 dangerous of all. Wit and elegance should not be 
 tolerated except in the well-born. Ministers make a 
 huge mistake in dealing with the press. They pro- 
 hibit coarse language, vulgar virulence, sheer down- 
 right stupid abuse : all of which are harmless enough. 
 And they tolerate refinement, grace, wit, good taste ; 
 which are damnably dangerous. I look upon all these 
 popular penmen as so many tailors, whose sly purpose 
 it is to cut out and put together the patchwork of 
 society after the pattern of their own interests. They 
 desire, of course, to stitch their frieze so fast to our 
 velvet, that all may look one and the same piece : 
 we, on the contrary, to prevent such ignoble contact. 
 Yet you prohibit the use of blunt bodkin, and coarse 
 packthread, that make no way at all through such a 
 piece of work; which needs delicate handling.. And 
 you allow the sharp needle that flits fast, and the fine 
 silk that goes through. A mistake. Wit is the only 
 instrument nice enough to carry the social thread safely 
 from top to bottom, and tack the frieze to the velvet so 
 tight, that the seam between them is invisible. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 Wit or no wit . . if I were the State, 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 The State would be even more in debt than it is. 
 But what then ? 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 I would hang all writers, printers, and publishers. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 
 No use. The stream of time is troubled to the 
 depth, and the mud must come to the surface some- 
 how. We must try to improve the people by degrees : 
 for, I doubt we cannot chain it up much longer, and 
 the cur is by no means fit to go loose. Fideliter 
 dedicisse .... 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 Improve the people ! Well, I saw a peasant broken 
 on the wheel yesterday for stabbing an abbot a young 
 man of one of our best families who had kindly im- 
 proved the condition of the brute's sister. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. ;" 
 
 Humph ! You have acted very becomingly. And 
 I will tell Orval if I see him. Anything more ? It is 
 time for my bath and chocolate. 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 Thanks. I will not detain you. 
 
 OLD KINSMAN. 
 Detain me, young gentleman ? 
 
SCENE X.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 85 
 
 YOUNG KINSMAN. 
 
 Ten thousand pardons. I meant to say I kiss your 
 hand, Uncle. So delighted you approve. If you 
 will kindly tell Orval. Thanks. My coach is at the 
 door. An infinite number of good days to you, 
 Uncle! 
 
 SCENE X. Corridor in a Mq,d-House. 
 
 WIFE OF THE MAD-HOUSE DOCTOR (with a bunch 
 
 of keys, followed by Orval}. 
 
 No, I think not, Sir. They tell me there is no 
 hope of the lady's recovery. Poor thing ! I am 
 grieved that my husband is not here. It would 
 have given him the greatest satisfaction to have the 
 honour of waiting on your worship. He could 
 have explained to you, better than I, the nature of 
 this malady. Interesting case. My husband, Sir, 
 has been very successful in the treatment of this 
 kind of insanity. He has given much study to the 
 subject. .Perhaps you have read his book upon the 
 Brain ? Tis much admired. But the worst cases 
 cases like this, I fear, are quite incurable. Quite. 
 This way, if you please, Sir. You won't mind the 
 noise ? There is no danger. 'Tis only Howling 
 Tom. A violent case, very. But we keep him 
 chained. The lady, poor dear, is quiet enough. 
 Pray, Sir, observe the view from that window. The 
 finest in this part of the country. Indeed, we are 
 very healthily situated. But the establishment is 
 large, Sir. Large, dear me, and costs a deal to keep 
 
86 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 up. And so little encouragement ! One year we 
 accommodated no less than four hundred lunatics, and 
 not a sixpence from Government. Some of them 
 paupers, too. For the Parish obliges us to receive 
 them. But that sort of patients seldom lives long. 
 Which is the Lord's mercy. To be sure, one makes 
 something, when the season is good, by the gardens 
 and orchards. Our pears are especially successful. 
 Some of our patients are vastly fond of gardening, 
 Sir. And we occupy them that way. Only the 
 milder sort, of course. Bless your heart, there's a 
 young man here that is a smart hand at pruning wall 
 fruit. Yet for all that, he will swear you by St 
 Christopher that he is a king's bastard. But there's 
 no harm in him. Pray, Sir, is it true that the lady's 
 husband ran away in the night with another gentle- 
 man's lady ? Well, I dare say, if the lady had been 
 married as long as I and that's full thirty years ; 
 thirty years, Sir, come next Lady-day she would 
 not have taken it so mightily to heart. In truth, she 
 looks but a child. This is a strange world. Is it not, 
 Sir ? The gallery to the right, if you please. We 
 have been thin, very thin, this year. But perhaps we 
 shall do better by and by. Let us all hope for the 
 best. That's what I say, Sir. And the Lord be 
 bountiful to them that deserve it. Now, Sir. This 
 way. (Exeunt.} 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 87 
 
 SCENE XI. In the Mad-House. High vaulted Chamber 
 barely furnished. Window barred. On a low wooden sofa 
 Veronica is lying. Ojval, with the Doctor's wife, at the 
 door. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Leave me alone with her ! 
 
 DOCTOR'S WIFE. 
 
 I do not dare. . 
 Sir, if ray husband knew . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Tush, woman ! away ! 
 
 Let none dare come 'twixt her and me. Stand back. 
 (Pushes her out, and enters ; shutting the door behind 
 
 VOICE FROM THE CELLS ABOVE. 
 
 You have chain'd up your God ! You have crucified 
 Christ Jesus ! 
 
 VOICE FROM THE CELLS BELOW. 
 
 To the gallows, to the block, 
 With every old grey head that wears a crown ! 
 Princes, and priests, and men with noble names, 
 And all that's clad in purple, and wears soft raiment, 
 All they whose feet go delicately, all they 
 Whose lips are fed on dainty fare, I doom. 
 The time is come to liberate mankind, 
 And by me only must the blow be struck. 
 
88 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 VOICE FROM THE ElGHT. 
 
 Down on your knees, you dogs ! Down in the dust 
 Before your lord and master ! Lick my feet. 
 Grovel and fawn ! For, by the grace of God, 
 I only, I myself, and none but I, 
 Am your legitimate sovereign. Cringe, you curs ! 
 
 VOICE FROM THE LEFT. 
 
 The red stars start and plunge. The skinny moon 
 Time hath forgot to feed with sallow fire, 
 And she is dead : and on her pucker' d cheek 
 Blue plague-spots sprout. He hath arrived at last, 
 The long-hair* d comet with a hungry eye, 
 That, shark-like, swims about all drowning worlds. 
 The great and terrible Judgment Day is at hand. 
 Thou that art in the city, flee away ! 
 Thou that art in the mountain, hide thyself ! 
 And woe be to the breasts that do give suck ! 
 Time is condemn'd : for he hath slain his sons. 
 The secrets of all hearts shall soon be known. 
 Thou sea, give up thy dead ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Veronica ! 
 Dost thou not know me ? 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Ay. Have I not sworn 
 Fidelity to thee ... and love . . . till death ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Give me thy hand, love. Let us fly this place. 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 89 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 I cannot. All's so weary here. I think 
 My heart hath got into my head. It feels 
 So full, . . and oh, so heavy ! and I am weak : 
 I cannot bear the weight of it. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 One step, 
 
 But one ! Lean on me. All's prepared. One step ! 
 The horses wait below. Lean on me, sweet. 
 So ... I will bear thee. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Nay, let me rest here. 
 I am very weary, lord. I have gone far, 
 And suifer'd much. Thou seest how weak I am. 
 I will obey thee, lord. But I need time. 
 I am slow of effort, and change ever came 
 To me unkindly, and was hard to bear. 
 Be patient with me, lord. If I rest here 
 A little while, I think that presently 
 I shall grow worthy of thee. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 my God ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 God ? Yes. How I have pray'd to God for this ! 
 Three nights and days, unceasing .... but they seem'd 
 Three lives and deaths of agony. Then, at last 
 God heard me. 
 
90 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 I am judged : and Hell begins. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 And sent a sudden Spirit to comfort me, 
 
 And take me out of trouble, and teach me words 
 
 That can make worlds wonderful worlds ! wherein 
 
 "Tis possible to enter and escape 
 
 From any kind of this world's wretchedness, 
 
 If one knows how. For he is full of eyes 
 
 And voices, and his breath is burning fire. 
 
 So that there came a change : and I began 
 
 To see those bright surprising things which God 
 
 Sees, unsurprised, for ever. For, when first 
 
 Thou hadst left me, lord, and I was all alone, 
 
 And knew that I must still be all alone 
 
 For evermore even though new things should come 
 
 To sit beside me, speaking with feign'd tones, 
 
 And trying all they can, for my sad sake, 
 
 To look like old things then I pray'd, ' God, 
 
 Grant me,' . . I pray'd, . . ' since all things else are 
 
 gone, 
 
 Never to come again, that he may come 
 Who never came before, the Spirit with eyes 
 And voices he, that on his lips hath song, 
 And vision in his looks, that I may see, 
 Though I have lost it, what life might have been. 
 Lest even in Heaven I should be ignorant.' 
 
 ORVAL. 
 For her sake, not for mine, have pity, God ! 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 91 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 And this God granted to me. For my prayer 
 "Was strong. And on the third sad day, dear lord, 
 (Because, I think, God wisht me worthier thee) 
 That Spirit came : and then the wondrous change : 
 And I became a Poet. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Veronica ! 
 
 VEEONICA. 
 
 Yes. Scorn me not. I am not what I was. 
 Wilt thou not praise me, Master ? Ha ! feel here, 
 How it beats in me, all this brave new world 
 That I am Queen of ! how it shakes me . . feel . . 
 So yearning to be freed ! One word of mine, 
 One little word can loose, or lock, it fast. 
 'Tis as I will. Shall I not show it thee? 
 Wilt thou not see how beautiful it is ? 
 Couldst thou have made it fairer, lord ? Say no ! 
 Breathe not too hard. Such things are slight. Some- 
 times 
 
 A breath dissolves them, as a breath begets. 
 But be quite quiet, as it is good to be 
 When the long, loud, and heavy daylight leaves 
 Sore labour loosed, and the tired sense is soothed, 
 And ready to receive in thankful peace, 
 As best behoves, what comes : first, a light wind, 
 So light, that all along a sleepy land 
 Laden with summer, it can make no sound 
 Where it winds softly, as a harmless snake, 
 
92 ORYAL ; OH, [EPOCH II, 
 
 Unhoused by some wise Indian's charming; pipe, 
 
 Through little hamlets husht, and old warm woods 
 
 Solemn at sunset, till, to prove its power, 
 
 With laughter low it lifts the loose rose leaves 
 
 And lays them on the grass, where lovers sit 
 
 Lonely as thou and I ; and then, a star 
 
 Silent and sudden, stol'n there, who knows how ? 
 
 In heaven just where the waning amber flame 
 
 Of the faint west burns to a clear cold green. 
 
 So softly, and so silently, my world 
 
 Out of my heart grows, as a summer night 
 
 Grows out of heaven. Only be very still, 
 
 Only lean back with half- shut eyes, and lips 
 
 Half-open, acquiescent as they are 
 
 Whose hearts are happy ; and thou too wilt fed 
 
 Its presence, as a summer night is felt 
 
 Bather than seen. Is it not fair enough 
 
 For thee to dwell in, also ? Master, say, 
 
 Thou wilt not leave me all alone again 
 
 Those wretched days, and long unrestful nights ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Never ! nor night nor day. So help me Heaven ! 
 Poor innocent fawn that by the heedless hand 
 That should have fed thee hast been stricken down ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Nay, am I not thine equal ? I know all. 
 W r hy should I fear thee ? Sit upon the ground 
 Beside me, and look up, and listen. Thine eyes 
 Are bright ; but not so starry bright as those 
 Of other creatures fair, and strong, and strange, 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 93 
 
 That nightly come from far to hear me sing, 
 
 Crouching at my cold feet : creatures born wild, 
 
 But tamed by songs that lure them from their lairs 
 
 Where mountain springs are loosed, or lower down, 
 
 Moss-mason'd haunts where hermit violets hide ; 
 
 Or grottoes gray, under dim ancient gulfs 
 
 Of drowsy seas, where water gods grow old 
 
 And placid, propt on quiet coral beds 
 
 Blush-coloured by the sea-maids ; or far, far 
 
 Beyond the sempiternal frosts, in caves 
 
 That glitter with witch fires to welcome home, 
 
 Ere the short northern night be spent, some wan 
 
 Sea-fairy, coming in her flying-coat 
 
 Of white swan-feathers. Others, with long hair 
 
 And lustrous serpent limbs, that love to lie 
 
 Low among yellow maize in a hot land, 
 
 Long sallow summer noons ; and some that leave 
 
 Their wandering camps on thunder-paven clouds, 
 
 To listen ... as thou listenest now. Nay, wait ! 
 
 What shall the Spirits that serve me bring to thee ? 
 
 Wilt thou the light of the load-star, lord? 
 Or pluckt-out eyes of the Pleiads ? My King, to thee 
 
 Pharaoh's chariot, and crown, and sword, 
 Shall they fetch from the deep ? Or fling to thee, 
 Bobbing Orion, his burning band ? 
 
 They can dive, and soar, and run, 
 
 Serving me ever by sea and land : 
 
 Because my song is a mighty one. 
 
 What shall we bring to thee ? 
 
 What shall we sing to thee ? 
 
94 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH n. 
 
 Master, praise us, and prize our worth. 
 
 Listen ! we cling to thee 
 
 Singing, and sing to tliee 
 ongs of sorrow, and songs of mirth : 
 Songs of the winds and waves, 
 
 Plagues, famines, and earthquakes, and wars : 
 Ditties of death and of birth : 
 Litanies learn'd from the graves : 
 
 Lullabies sung by the stars 
 To the dead that sleep under the earth. 
 
 QRVAL. 
 
 Misery ! misery ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 Embrace me, now ! 
 My husband, I am happy at last. 
 
 VOICE FROM THE, CELLS BELOW. 
 
 Behold, 
 
 The days of endurance are o'er ! 
 With mine own right hand have I slain 
 Seven kings : and their crowns were of gold, 
 And their robes were red with the stain 
 Of a trampled people's gore. 
 And a hundred Priests, as they sung 
 High mass at the lighted altar, 
 I caught by the throat, and hung 
 Their heads in a hempen halter. 
 But there resteth a too-many-more. 
 
 VOICE FROM THE CELLS TO THE LEFT 
 
 Woe to ve ! woe ! for the sun 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 95 
 
 Is about to be snuft out : 
 And the spent stars, one by one, 
 Shall sink, and leave never a spark : 
 And the world shall wander about 
 In the dark, like a day that is done, 
 And lose its way in the dark. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 As mine is lost already ! Fitly sings 
 The voice of some mad miserable wretch 
 The unconscious dirge of all that's dying here 
 In my life's utter failure ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Sigh no more. 
 
 Why wilt thou sadden me ? Thine eyes are wet : 
 Thy cheek is wan. Canst thou, too, grieve ? Smile, 
 
 Orval ! 
 
 I know a secret that shall comfort thee. 
 Thy son will be a Poet. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What meanest thou ? 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 The Priest, with holy water at the font, 
 Baptized him Muriel. But I, with tears 
 Pour'd from the wells of a most perfect woe, 
 Baptized him POET. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 God, my punishment 
 Is just. But it is more than I can bear. 
 
96 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IT. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 Art thou not satisfied, great Master ? 
 
 VOICE FROM THE CELLS ABOVE. 
 
 Father, 
 Forgive them, for they know not what they do. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Hush ! Didst thou hear him ? Was there ever a man 
 So mad as that ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Merciful Heavens ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 In truth 
 
 That man is mad. He knows not what he says. 
 But stoop ! . . . Lean down thine ear ... close . . . 
 
 closer ... so, 
 For 'tis a fearful thing. 
 
 Now, I must tell thee 
 How it will be, if ever God goes mad. 
 There's not a worm that crawls about this earth 
 But suddenly 'twill cry out ' / am God ' / 
 Mark this . . . and, soon as it hath cried out thus, 
 Proclaiming its divinity, 'twill die 
 Dismally, rot, and putrify, and breed 
 From the foul dust of its dead wretchedness 
 Wretcheder reptiles still. The sun and moon, 
 And all the stars of heaven, that stand so fast, 
 Will stagger, feeling God's hand loosed, and fall 
 Upon each other, and all together, dasht 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 97 
 
 Into eternal darkness, disappear. 
 
 Then Jesus Christ, that loves us, will no more 
 
 Have power to save us : God Himself, in whom 
 
 He trusted, as we trusted Him, being lost. 
 
 In both hands will He lift up His great Cross, 
 
 And, as a woodman to the water drags 
 
 Wearily a fell'd tree, and casts it in, 
 
 And lets the torrent take and whirl it away 
 
 From where it grew, i' the old time, when birds 
 
 Came in from heaven to house among its leaves, 
 
 Safe from the dark, and, safe from noontide heats, 
 
 The little children slept beneath its boughs, 
 
 From age to age, so shall He cast that Cross 
 
 Into the torrent of departing time : 
 
 And there shall it be shatter'd, and men's lives 
 
 All litter'd with sad ruins of what it was. 
 
 Tell no man this. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Beturn, Veronica, 
 Wilt thou not see thy child ? 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 He is not there. 
 He hath flown away. I know it. God gave him 
 
 wings. 
 
 He is gone to wander the wide universe, 
 The winds know where : but they will never tell, 
 For no man understands what the winds say. 
 He hath far to go. And when he comes again 
 He will have gazed on all things that God made 
 Glorious, and terrible, and beautiful ; 
 
 H 
 
98 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH II. 
 
 And tokens of them shall he bring with him, 
 Lest men should doubt him. When he comes again, 
 Then wilt thou love him, Orval, for the sake 
 Of his bright spoils. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Woman ! . . . My heart is broken. 
 Ah, God ! that change ? . . . 
 
 Veronica ! . . . Thou ailest ? 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Yes. They have hung up somewhere in my head 
 A burning lamp. And ever that lamp swings 
 Backwards and forwards. And it hurts me, lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Veronica ! for Heaven's sweet sake . . . 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Woe ! woe ! 
 
 To MURIEL THE POET ! "For his days 
 Are number'd. Woe to Muriel ! woe ! woe ! 
 The Dark Ones have him. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Holloa ! Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 DOCTOR'S WIFE (entering with oilier women, and in 
 
 great agitation). 
 
 A blister ! . . . Quick ! . . . Fetch mustard to the feet ! 
 Run to the Apothecary ! Bustle, wench ! 
 A blister ! . . . I must look to the lady here. 
 Ah, sir, 'tis you have been the cause of this. 
 
SCENE XI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 99 
 
 dear ! dear ! What will my husband say ? 
 How could I help it, if he forced me out ? 
 Quick, you there, to the storeroom ! 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Fare thee well, 
 My husband ! 
 
 DOCTOR'S WIFE. 
 Lord ha' mercy, what is this ? 
 Are you the lady's husband after all ? 
 I'm sure I beg your worship's pardon. Wench, 
 Dip me that spunge in vinegar. Make haste ! 
 Well, this is wonderful ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Love, do not die. 
 
 Pity me. Pardon me. Not die ! not die ! 
 If you but knew what ages of remorse 
 This moment's wretchedness contains ! how lost, 
 How utterly, miserably lost I am, 
 If I lose you, love ! I have sinn'd ! I have sinn'd ! 
 
 1 dare not die. There must be years of pain 
 Ere I can hope to win a grave near thine. 
 
 VERONICA. 
 
 Beloved, I do well. I know at last 
 Thou lovest me. And I am dying. Thank God ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Alas, that swollen throat, and reddening brow . . . 
 . . . Pity, dread Power ! lift up Thy heavy hand ! 
 
 H 2 
 
100 ORVAL; OR, THE FOOL OF TIME. [EPOCH n. 
 
 DOCTOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Sir, she will burst a blood-vessel. Pray, sir, 
 Help me to cut this corset. She must choke. 
 A knife ! a knife, wench ! Anything that's near ! 
 What will my husband say to this ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No, no ! 
 
 This spasm must pass. There . . I have cut it . . see ! 
 Her breast is bare. . . She breathes. Veronica ! 
 She hears me not. Tor God's sake, Madam, speak! 
 Such things must happen often in such a place 
 And you are used to them you are not afraid 
 That she will die ? Look at her Tell me surely 
 Nothing's to fear ? 
 
 THE DOCTOR (who has entered unobserved while Orval 
 was speaking}. 
 
 No, sir. Nor yet to hope. 
 
 Sir, you may drop that dagger. There's no breath 
 Left in that bosom. Upon those lips no pain 
 Where the last life-blood trickles. She sleeps well. 
 Nothing will wake her now. Cover the corpse. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND EPOCH. 
 
THIED EPOCH. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
THIRD EPOCH. 
 
 SCENE I. Sunset. Interior of a Gothic Chapel. Monu- 
 ments, arms, banners, $c. Through an open door and 
 porch in the background are seen a garden and graveyard 
 (as in preceding scenes] . The rays of the setting sun, pass- 
 ing through a stained window, between the tombs, fall in 
 prismatic colours on the face and figure of the child, 
 Muriel, who is kneeling. Orval is standing beside his son. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 PRAY, Muriel, pray, my son, for the repose 
 Of thy dead mother's soul. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Mater Kegina ! 
 
 Ave Veronica ! pro nobis ora ! 
 Queen of the flowers and stars ! 
 
 L ORVAL. 
 
 That is no part, 
 Boy, of thy prayer. Thou hast changed the words of 
 
 it. 
 
 Think, child, again. Pray for thy mother's soul. 
 This is the day, and this the hour, she died, 
 Ten years ago. Pray for her soul's peace. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Hail 
 Veronica ! Mater Eegina, hail ! 
 
104 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Thou movest among the holy angels of God, 
 As the moon moveth through the stars of heaven : 
 And from their folded wings the angels pluck 
 Pure purple plumes, and strew them at thy feet : 
 And over these thou walkest, clad in mild 
 And melancholy splendour, as the moon 
 Walks o'er the purple wavelets of the sea. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Boy, boy ! what is this talk? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 The words pierce through me, 
 And pass from out of me. I cannot help it. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Rise, son. God listens not to prayers like thine. 
 Alas ! thy mother thou hast never known. 
 How, therefore, should'st thou love her ? 
 
 MURIEL, 
 
 Deeply, Father. 
 I see my Mother often. 
 
 ORVAL (starting). 
 Where? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 In dreams. 
 
 Dreams ? Everywhere I see her. Yesterday, 
 For instance, when . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 When . . . Boy, what say'st thou? 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 105 
 
 MUKIEL. 
 
 Father, 
 How pale she is ! but oh how beautiful ! 
 
 ORVAL (troubled]. 
 Doth she speak ever ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 Ay, last night . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Last night ? 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Methought I saw her down the darkness floating, 
 Vested in white, wan as a star-beam veiTd 
 In wandering mist. And ever as she flew 
 This song she sang, which in my soul still sounds. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 What sang she ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 I can sing it. But the tune, 
 The music, and the magic of it all, 
 Are gone ! gone . . . gone ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 The words, Muriel ? the words ? 
 
 MURIEL (sings). 
 From off the immemorial palms 
 
 "Whose murmur thrills, from dawn to even, 
 The golden Paradisal calms 
 
 With music only beard in Heaven, 
 
106 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 I strip the balmy branches down, 
 
 To build a place of dreams and shadows, 
 
 Where thou may'st sleep, more soft and deep, 
 Than dews in leaves and grasses, grown 
 To seed, in windless meadows. 
 
 I glide among the glorious throngs 
 
 Of choral seraphs, weaning 
 Away, for thee, from out their songs 
 
 The music's mMmost meaning. 
 From wells of wonder, depths of dream, 
 
 For thee, my child, I gather 
 Sweet sounds, and sights, and dim delights ; 
 
 That thou may'st speak with power, and seem 
 A prophet to thy father. 
 
 There, Father! There's no word I have forgotten. 
 Only the tune was something otherwise. 
 But all day long I hear so many, and then 
 The echoes of them grow confused. For all 
 Passes, so swift ! so swift ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Veronica, 
 
 Merciless Pythoness, whose spirit, fed fierce 
 From troubled Memory's sad prophetic springs, 
 Still shrieks for sacrifice ! Wilt thou destroy 
 Even thine own child ? Is not my cup of doom 
 Fill'd to the bitter brim ? Must my son pay 
 Thy vengeance for his father's crime ? and I 
 Dig out my heart to hold another grave ? 
 Is thy revenge, wrong'd one, not sated yet ? 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 107 
 
 Revenge ? What am I raving ? Is not she 
 
 At rest, in Heaven ? These are the common cheats 
 
 Of childhood's easily self-deceiving brain, 
 
 Whose uncorrected custom is to clothe 
 
 With mimic imagery our own crude troops 
 
 Of bodily feelings, till they front the eye 
 
 Garb'd in a borrow'd life, and seem to be 
 
 The individual external shapes 
 
 Of things not shaped within us. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Now again, 
 
 Father, I hear my mother's voice. Her form 
 I see not. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Where, child, dost thou hear the voice ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Yonder, among the graves and cypresses, 
 Where the sun's light is fading fast. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The voice 
 What is it saying ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Singing, Father. Listen! 
 
 (Sings.} 
 
 Gifts I bring to thee, many in one, 
 Spirit of Muriel, soul of my son ! 
 
108 OEVAL ; OE, [EPOCH in. 
 
 Gifts from the Powers that dwell on the height : 
 
 Gifts from the Powers that dwell in the deep : 
 Magic of music and marvellous light, 
 
 Magic of marvellous dream and sleep ! 
 Much shall be taken : but much is given : 
 When the shade is on earth, and the star is in heaven. 
 From the depths of the love of a mother 
 
 In thy soul have I pour'd, I am pouring, 
 Such a light as shall last when all other 
 
 Is perisht, and earth is deploring 
 That her darkest night, ere his day be done, 
 Should dwell in the eyes of her brightest son. 
 And the name of the gifts that I give thee 
 
 Is BEAUTY : that never is past. 
 For if Beauty but love and not leave thee, 
 
 Thy father shall love thee at last. 
 And thine eyes shall be shut : but thy spirit shall see : 
 And I pass : but I pass not away from thee. 
 
 Ah me ! I lose the rest. 
 
 ORVAL (musingly). 
 
 Is it possible 
 
 That the last word upon a dying lip, 
 The last thought of a parting soul, should be 
 The thought and word of all eternity ? 
 O horrible ! ... if, after all, among 
 The blessed souls in Heaven (for, surely, she 
 Is with them) there be spirits who are .... mad ! 
 
 MUEIEL. 
 My mother's voice grows faint. I lose it, Father, 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 109 
 
 There, in the light that's going from the graves. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Dreadful Corrector of man's pride ! hast thou 
 Predestined, then, the child of my last hopes 
 To a life of madness, an untimely grave ? 
 Mercy ! from Thy feeble creature, doom'd 
 To breast a bruising world, take not away 
 Thy guiding gift of Eeason ! Architect 
 Of this inimitable monument 
 (Not built by hands, nor reparable here) 
 To the most sorrowful memory of a soul 
 That sleeps, I trust, in sempiternal peace, 
 Shatter not what Thyself hast made so fair ! 
 Behold how desolate am I ! who gaze 
 Around my life as, round a wasted land, 
 A watchman gazes, from a ruin'd tower : 
 An eminence above a solitude ! 
 Pity my child, and pluck him from the clutch 
 Of those infernal persecutors all 
 That persecute me still. To me Thou hast given 
 Strength to support the burthen and the strain 
 Of fierce intolerable thought. But him ? 
 A single thought, intense as those that burn 
 Nightly and daily here, might scorch and snap 
 The slender thread of his most delicate life. 
 God ! God ! For ten long weary wastes of years, 
 Neither by day, nor yet by night, have I 
 Known rest. And men have envied me my lot ! 
 And in the clumsy catalogue, this blind 
 Ill-judging world compiles for ignorant Fame, 
 I have been number'd with the fortunate ! 
 
110 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 There is no human heart that knows what pains, 
 
 What torments from within and from without, 
 
 What fearful memories, what foreboded ills, 
 
 Thou hast imposed on mine. God, Thou hast spared 
 
 My reason, but to stone hast stricken my heart. 
 
 For I have gazed in the Gorgonian eyes 
 
 Of that most Beauteous Horror : and henceforth 
 
 The heart is ice, the imagination fire. 
 
 Father of Love, grant me to love my child ! 
 
 Creator, spare thy creature ! 
 
 Eise, boy. Sign 
 The cross, and come. Peace to thy mother's soul ! 
 
 SCENE II. A. public promenade. Persons of all classes pass- 
 ing. Orval in conversation with a Philosopher. 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Trust me, my lord ! I never am deceived. 
 When I speak positively I have grounds 
 For what I say. And I repeat, the time 
 Approaches, when we shall emancipate 
 Women and negroes. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah, . . . you think . . . 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 I know it. 
 
 The countenance of Humanity is about 
 To assume new features. All that we behold 
 Implies amelioration, the approach 
 Of a more perfect social epoch. Yes, 
 Society must regenerate itself 
 By the elimination of decrepit forms. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. Ill 
 
 ORVAL. 
 You think so ? 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 Surely, even as this old globe 
 We all inhabit, in its progress round 
 The central light . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 See you that rotten tree 
 Yonder? 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Where? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 There. 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 What ? with the green leaves budding 
 Upori the wither'd bark ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The same. How many 
 Years longer, should you say, that tree can stand ? 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 How can I tell ? One . . . two, perhaps. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And yet 
 
 Although the roots be rotten, the trunk touchwood, 
 Fit only for the fire, young leaves are budding 
 Upon the wither'd branch. Do you mark it ? 
 
112 OEYAL; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Well, 
 What does that signify ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Nay, sir, I know not. 
 
 Save that the tree must fall, and be reduced 
 To powder, which the winds of heaven will soon 
 Sweep from the surface of the earth. 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 What then ? 
 My lord, you are wandering from the subject-matter. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I ? on the contrary. I was but seeking 
 An image of this age : an illustration 
 Of you, sir, and your theories. 
 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Well, I say ... 
 (They pass.} 
 
 SCENE III. A lonely place among the mountains. 
 
 ORVAL (in reflection). 
 
 To ashes I have burn'd the wealth of time 
 Upon the greedy altar of full-cramm'd 
 Unsatisfied Experience : that grim god 
 That hath a hundred hands to snatch and seize, 
 And in them all nothing to give. All kinds 
 Of knowledge and of passion I have cast 
 
SCENE IT.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 113 
 
 Into the ever hungering fire of one 
 
 Intense necessity to feel. All doubts 
 
 I have interrogated, all desires dislodged 
 
 From sullen slumber in their savage lairs, 
 
 And hunted hotly to the death ; all hearts 
 
 I have ran sack' d : and in mine own I find 
 
 Only the grave's great nothingness. My will 
 
 Can wake in others every sentiment, 
 
 Every emotion ; but within myself 
 
 (Whose soul dwells dark in vast vacuity) 
 
 There is not either hope, or fear, or faith, 
 
 Or love. I walk through life, as through a desert 
 
 Once throng'd with cities, temples, palaces, 
 
 Places of sin and pleasure for proud kings, 
 
 Whose pride God punisht, pulling down their towers, 
 
 Making their places empty, and their land 
 
 A nameless solitude. I seem to see 
 
 (Since nothing breaks the boundless prospect bare 
 
 All round my barren path) ... to see far off, 
 
 Beforehand, and so, unsurprised, encounter 
 
 The coming of all possible events. 
 
 I have no fear, and no desire have I, 
 
 That's not already old, and quite worn out. 
 
 I know that blindness on my son must fall. 
 
 I know the irreparably rotten frame 
 
 And structure of this old society 
 
 Wherein I live, whereof I am a part, 
 
 Must fall to pieces. All these things I know, 
 
 And, knowing them, suffer even as God rejoices 
 
 In myself only, for myself alone ! 
 
114 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGEL {passing in the air above). 
 Love thy neighbour ! love thy neighbour 
 
 As thou lovest thyself ! Tor others, 
 Not thine own self only, labour, 
 
 Live, and suffer. Help thy brothers : 
 Heal the hurt : and bind the broken. 
 So shall pain to thee be token 
 
 Of the pardoning power of what 
 Pain, for others borne, makes ever 
 Most divine in man's endeavour 
 
 To reach God. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What voice was that ? 
 
 Unhappy child ! Doom'd, for a father's fault 
 By a mad mother's wrongs, to darken'd days. 
 An endless incompleteness ! a half-life 
 Made up of glorious failures ! a flaw'd star 
 PilTd with a beauteous sadness of eclipse ! 
 Faint shadow of a fleeting angel, forced 
 To follow through a rough and thorny world 
 Feebly, the far, far off celestial flight 
 Of that wing'd glory, whose bright parentage 
 Its substanceless and scatter'd radiance owns 
 Vainly, earth's weary traveller still, and still 
 Heaven's fugitive outcast ! Most unhappy child ! 
 Most miserable father ! 
 
 No escape 
 
 Prom the revengeful furies ! no surcease 
 Of everlasting punishment ! no rest 
 Anywhere found ! 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 115 
 
 What is yon mighty eagle 
 That rises yonder from the black ravine 
 Above the monumental mountains, bright 
 With sudden sunlight on his splendid wings, 
 Like Glory from a tomb ? 
 
 THE EAGLE. 
 
 Hail, Orval! Hail! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 He spreads his flight toward me. And the loud 
 Harsh-sounding beat of his enormous vans 
 Is like the hiss and rush of iron shot 
 Heard through the smoke of battle. 
 
 THE EAGLE. 
 
 With the sword 
 
 Of thy forefathers, Orval, shalt thou all 
 Their ancient glory and power reconquer. Hail ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 His circling flight a windy whirlpool makes 
 
 And wavering darkness on the dismal air 
 
 Above my head. Bound and around he wheels 
 
 On iron wing. My dizzy brain, too, whirls 
 
 Round and around. Fast, faster ! on the wind 
 
 My hair is danced ... my pnlse beats . . . faster! 
 
 faster ! 
 
 His keen eye glitters on me, hard and cold, 
 As the sharp shining of an unsheathed glaive. 
 It pierces through my brow, and through my brain, 
 It pierces ... Ha ! at last ... I comprehend ! 
 
 i 2 
 
116 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 THE EAGLE. 
 
 Be bold and cruel. Nothing fear, 
 
 Nothing; yield. To none give way. 
 Crirnson'd all be thy career 
 
 With the blood of trampled prey. 
 Strong of will, and hard of hand, 
 Vanquish foes, and friends command : 
 O'er men's lives thy purpose spread : 
 Paven be thy path with power, 
 Piece of perishable clay ! 
 Soon man's longest day is sped : 
 Soon the living are the dead : 
 
 Make immortal life's brief hour, 
 Be a god : create, destroy, 
 
 Subject all things to thy sway ! 
 Life is power, and power is joy, 
 Though it be but for a day. 
 (The Eagle disappears into a cloud). 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I thank thee well, bird of the boundless air, 
 Lord of the summits, rider of the storm ! 
 Hail to thee from these heaven-insulting hills 
 Whose bare and blasted pinnacles have been 
 Sole witnesses of our wild colloquy ! 
 Whate'er thou art true messenger, or false 
 Prophet or tempter boding harbinger 
 Of evil, or high augury of good, 
 Hail to thee, Glory's solitary herald ! 
 And, O thou mighty Genius of the Past, 
 Hear mv heart's invocation ! If from earth 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 117 
 
 Thou beest, with the departed ages, gone 
 
 Into the bosom of invisible God, 
 
 Yet come thou back ! come to my call ! return, 
 
 Inspire my soul with thy strong solemn breath, 
 
 Prompt my heart, guide my dedicated hand, 
 
 And fashion into formidable deeds 
 
 The fiery thoughts that in me rise ! 
 
 (Setting his foot on a worm.) 
 
 Die, reptile ! 
 
 Nature thy lost life lacks not. The eyed air 
 Sees not earth hears not and the winds of heaven 
 Take hence no record of the fugitive pang 
 Of thy minute extinction. In the abyss 
 Of imminent confused calamity 
 Which I behold, beginning, at my feet, 
 To gape for men, thousands like thee shall perish, 
 Leaving behind them neither name, nor fame, 
 Nor glory, nor regret. Not one of those 
 Reckless innumerable clouds, that roll 
 Through heaven's remorseless emptiness, will pause 
 To weep celestial drops of pity down 
 On hosts of earth's unnoticeable sons 
 Whom time is to oblivion hastening now. 
 And I myself? . . Before me dim, and drear, 
 And lurid, hewn through the tirne-harden'd mass 
 Of mortal misery, I begin to see, 
 As by the light of battle-fires, my own 
 Predestined pathway to a bloody grave. 
 
 thou blue heaven, that girdlest in cold peace 
 This groaning earth ! Behold, her weary womb 
 
118 ORVAL ; OB, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Travails, tormented with the endless birth 
 Of endless woes : yet is thine infinite calm 
 Untroubled by her infinite agony ! 
 
 Nature ! pitiless mother ! I go forth 
 Upon a perilous journey. But at length 
 
 1 am about to live the life of man 
 
 The natural life, of man ! For I go forth 
 
 To fight my brothers. Sound thy trumpet, Time, 
 
 And bid me to the battle. My spirit is arm'd. 
 
 SCENE IV. After dark. A Hovel on a heath. At the door 
 of the Hovel. 
 
 A VOICE OUTSIDE. 
 What lives when it is buried ? 
 
 A VOICE INSIDE. 
 
 Liberty. 
 What wakes when it is slumbering ? 
 
 VOICE OUTSIDE. 
 
 Hevenge. 
 
 VOICE INSIDE. 
 When the dogs bark, what doth the fox do ? 
 
 VOICE OUTSIDE. 
 
 Burrow. 
 
 VOICE INSIDE. 
 When the fox burrows, what do the geese ? 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 119 
 
 VOICE OUTSIDE. 
 
 Cackle. 
 
 VOICE INSIDE. 
 When the geese cackle, what do the cubs cry ? 
 
 VOICE OUTSIDE. 
 Panurge ! 
 
 VOICE INSIDE. 
 
 Enter Lucius Junius Brutus ! 
 
 {The Modern Brutus enters the Hovel.) 
 
 SCENE V. Noon. An apartment in the Castle. Orval, 
 Muriel, and a Physician. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 All science hitherto has fail'd. In you 
 Is my last hope. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Your lordship's confidence 
 Honours me much. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Speak to him, Muriel. 
 Explain to him thy sensations, child. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 I neither 
 
 Can recognize you, Father, nor this gentleman. 
 Sparks of bright fire entangled in black webs 
 
120 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Before my eyes seem to be passing ever. 
 Sometimes it seems a crawling of black snakes 
 With glittering spots that sparkle as they glide 
 Into a twisted globe of dusky coils ; 
 Sometimes a golden cloud : then the cloud opens, 
 Breaks into sparks, stains, and soft colours, and all 
 Once more is darkness. But I feel no pain. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 Come hither, little lord. What is his age ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Twixt ten years and eleven. 
 
 DOCTOR. 
 
 Turn this way, 
 To the window . . so; my boy. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Well, Doctor? 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Well, 
 
 The eyelids are quite healthy. All the white 
 0' the eye is clear. The veins are not surcharged. 
 The nerves are sound, too. Have no fear, young sir. 
 We soon shall cure you. (To Orval) : Not a hope, 
 
 my lord ! 
 
 The pupil is insensible to light. 
 Complete paralysis of the optic nerve ! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 All's dark around me. Utterlv dark. 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 121 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Alas! 
 Those sightless orbs are staring at the sun. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 I can see better when I close my eyes. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 The mind has wasted, here, the body's force. 
 You must beware of catalepsy. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Anything 
 
 You please . . . the half o* my fortune . . . all of it . 
 If you but cure my son ! 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Science, my lord, 
 Has no capacity to compensate 
 Nature's defeat. We can do nothing here. 
 My duty to your lordship. I've a case 
 Of cataract in the neighbourhood . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Stay, sir, 
 
 For mercy's sake ... as you are a Christian man . . 
 Leave us not thus ! Wait ! wait ! examine further. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Perhaps it might be interesting to you 
 To know the name of this disease . . 
 
122 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No hope, then ? 
 Indeed no hope ? Indeed ? 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 'Tis amaurosis. (Exit.} 
 
 ORVAL (embracing his son}. 
 
 But thou see'st yet, my child my hope my all ! 
 A little yet ? Muriel, a little ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 I can 
 Hear thy voice only, Father. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Muriel, 
 
 Turn to the window. Look ! the day is clear, 
 The sun shines bright. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 I see, as though it were, 
 A multitude of changing shapes that swim 
 Past, fast, between the eyelid and the eye. 
 I seem to recognize amongst them things 
 I knew once places I have seen and scraps 
 Of books that I have read. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Then thou seest yet ? 
 
 Muriel, thou seest yet ? the blind see not, boy. 
 But thou seest . 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 123 
 
 MURIEL. 
 With my mind's eyes, Fatter, yes. 
 
 ORVAL (kneeling). 
 
 Great Spirit, that dwellest hi eternal- light, 
 Illumine those dark eyes .... 
 
 (Starting up) 
 
 Tush ! 'tis in vain. 
 
 Whom do I kneel to ? For no prayers of mine 
 Are pathways to God's presence. 
 
 A YOICE BEHIND. 
 
 Thankless one, 
 Thy son is now a poet. Be satisfied. 
 
 SCENE \l. Night. At the sign of the Dragon. A sort of 
 loft, accessible only from below by a ladder which is indis- 
 tinctly seen through a dark aperture. In one part of the 
 floor an iron ring is fastened, forming the handle to a trap- 
 door. The loft is dimly lighted. 
 
 THE MODERN BRUTUS (alone). 
 
 What, if Panurge were betraying us ? 
 
 It wrongs my faith to fear it. But why all 
 
 These compromises, these delays, these pardons ? 
 
 Or wherefore should he spare this man the worst, 
 
 The proudest, and most powerful, of our foes ? 
 
 He cannot fear him, cannot pity him, 
 
 And cannot need him. Why then these misgivings ? 
 
 For, Orval gone, the head goes, and therewith 
 
 Must fall the body at once. 
 
124 ORYAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Well, I have leave 
 
 To test this brother's truth : who should be here 
 Already, I think. He seems trustworthy, stout 
 Of heart and will. Why did Panurge seem 
 To be so sure the man would disobey 
 The order I must give him ? 
 
 If he shrink .... 
 
 (Lifts up the trap-door looks down, and closes it again 
 
 with a sif/k.~) 
 All is prepared. 
 
 shame ! worst of all, 
 Mother, that we should ever be compell'd 
 By the strict justice of thine injured cause 
 To sacrifice to thee one of thy sons, 
 One of our brothers ! But be witness thou, 
 Dread and dear Goddess, whom I breathe to serve 
 And live to die for, that in all this world 
 There's nothing I love more than I love thee ; 
 Nothing that from the deep and bitter cry 
 Of thy great outraged heart mine own withholds, 
 Nothing in me that is not thine ! Mother, 
 Is not thy cry for ever in mine ears, 
 Thy wrongs for ever present to mine eyes, 
 Thy patient centuries of suffering, 
 Thy pains, and shames, and injuries, all mine, 
 And thy predestined, though so long-delay'd, 
 Dominion the sole business of my thoughts ? 
 My heart is virgin, and my soul sincere. 
 Be witness, Mother, if it be my doom 
 To smite a brother, 'tis not that thy son 
 I love not, Mother, but that I love thee 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 125 
 
 More than lie loved thee, the degenerate one ! 
 
 (A distant clock strikes.) 
 The hour ! 
 
 (Looking doion tlie ladder?) 
 
 He comes. 
 
 (A youth, meanly clad, enters by the ladder, which the 
 Modern Brutus draws up, closing the aperture?) 
 Thou art exact. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 And thou. 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 Welcome, my brother ! 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 Thou hast seen the Chief? 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 I have. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 And hast received the orders ? 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 The man's name, Brother? 
 
 (Modern Brutus ^ohispers him). 
 
 Orval ? all I fear'd ! 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Thou shrinkest ? Great the peril, if thou fail. 
 But men that are in earnest never fail. 
 Great is the peril, yes. Greater the cause, 
 
126 ORVAL ; OE, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Greater the glory . . . great if tliou succeed, 
 Great if thou perish. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 Orval ? why that man ? 
 Brother, must that man die ? 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Brother, lie must. 
 Thou knowest the forfeit? 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 Ay, If that were all . , . 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 It is not all. By thee or by another 
 He dies. Thy death can save him not. And yet 
 Thou diest if he but live beyond the hour 
 Thine oath, to him, made final. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 Brother, listen ! 
 
 This Orval is not as the others are : 
 Hopelessly unimprovable by time. 
 Hath he not pleaded for the People's Cause 
 Often? 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS, 
 For pastime, yes. When he was young. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 And who more loudly hath denounced than he 
 The wrongs we all have suffered from his class ? 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 127 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 When ? when there seeni'd no chance of their redress. 
 To whom ? to those whose ears, he knew, were deaf. 
 Then it was safe. Friend, when mankind began 
 To dwell in cities, each behind him left, 
 In the wilds, his individuality. 
 In this, our modern epoch, every man, 
 High, low, or rich, or poor, is but a cork 
 Dropt by the purblind accident of birth 
 On one or other of the mighty waves 
 Of that most stormy sea Society. 
 He seems to move, but moves not : he is moved 
 By the elemental current. As the cork 
 Is by the wave it floats on, so the man 
 Is, by the class that he belongs to, borne 
 Where wind and tide, and not his own will, urge him. 
 The man's capacity of choice, whate'er 
 It pleases him to call it, judgment, will, 
 Or conscience is, unconsciously to him, 
 Conditioned by the circumstance of what 
 Supports and bears him. When the skies are clear, 
 And seas are calm, each cork that floats at ease, 
 Loose in its lazy element, hath leave 
 Of wind and wave to look this way and that, 
 And please itself with profitless selection 
 Of one or other prospect out of reach. 
 But when the storm comes, all are whirled, and driven 
 Whichever way the waves, that bear them, beat. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 Not Orval. Ever from the titled tribe 
 
128 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Of most ignoble men with, noble names 
 This man stood separate : and to them belongs 
 No more than to the lowland the lone alp 
 That from the lowland soars. Companionless 
 He in his solitary conscience . . . 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Tut! 
 
 In the long run, the conscience of a man 
 Bests in the bosom of his class. The point 
 Of individual honour is for each 
 Fixt by the general interest of the whole. 
 And if I say " the whole " I mean, of course, 
 Merely the whole of those whose interests hang 
 Together in one balance. The whole tribe 
 Of bears, wolves, lions, tigers, have, no doubt, 
 Interests in common to themselves, which we, 
 The tribes of men, find much opposed to ours. 
 But, being a man, when I say " Liberty " 
 I mean not liberty for tigers, wolves, 
 Lions, and bears, but liberty for men ; 
 Which may mean death to lions, and their like. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 Hast thou a mother ? 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 No. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 But once thou hadst ? 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 129 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 None but THE EEVOLUTION. Motherless 
 And fatherless, and nameless have I lived, 
 Until I lived for what is now to me 
 Father and mother both . . OUR CAUSE. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 Alas! 
 Tor then thou canst not understand. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Why not ? 
 THE YOUTH. 
 Brother, that man once saved my mother's life. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 Which, Son of Freedom, that man's life now kills. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 My father was a vagrant and a thief 
 (For rich men have made poverty a crime). 
 He lived between the high road and the jail 
 Lived ? starved I scarce know how : died on the 
 
 gallows. 
 
 We tramp'd, and tramp'd my mother and myself, 
 A mere brat then barefoot from barn to barn 
 To the great town to beg my father's life 
 Back from the hangman's hand and reacli'd the town 
 At dawn in time to join the gaping crowd 
 Beneath the scaffold where they strangled him. 
 My mother's shrieks disturb 'd the ceremony 
 Which they call'd Justice Vindicated marr'd 
 
130 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 The Majesty of Law that was their phrase 
 
 They hailed her to the jail, and from the jail 
 
 They hailed her to the Justice. When a man 
 
 Insults some noble lady, what does she ? 
 
 I know not. But I know that every word 
 
 That man said was an outrage, and a wrong, 
 
 An infamous wrong to womanhood : and I know, 
 
 While he was speaking, that my mother spat 
 
 In that man's face. Spit in the face of Justice ? 
 
 A vagrant, and a tramp, a felon's wife? 
 
 Off with her to the whipping-post ! Just then, 
 
 As they were dragging her away I think 
 
 I hear her shrieks yet see those eyes, and see 
 
 The stare change in them from intensest terror 
 
 To indignation, as there came a sneer 
 
 Curling the courtly and contemptuous lip 
 
 Of some young noble who had lounged in there 
 
 Whilst strolling homeward from a night's debauch. 
 
 I think that sneer was not for my poor dam, 
 
 But her tormentors. But she knew not that. 
 
 The brute that held her had a knife in his belt. 
 
 She pluckt it out, sprang loose, and stabb'd the youth. 
 
 The wound was skin-deep, but the skin was noble. 
 
 The crime was patent, and the sentence death, 
 
 Death by the wheel. that last night of all 
 
 Pass'd with my wretched mother, in the den 
 
 Of their condemn'd ones ! O the agony 
 
 When that door open'd as I deem'd, on deatji, 
 
 The death of all I ever loved my mother ! 
 
 But it was life. 'Twas the young noble's self 
 
 That came to save us. He had pleaded for her ; 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 131 
 
 He brought her pardon . . . she was free ! Brother, 
 
 If you but knew what was the meaning then 
 
 Of that word . . . Free ! Brother, that noble's name 
 
 Was Orval. Brother, Orval is the man 
 
 That spared my mother's life. I cannot kill him. 
 
 MODEEN BRUTUS. 
 
 Alas ! alas, my brother ! why, why 
 Fell not to me the glorious task ? Call back 
 That hasty word, that breath that breaks an oath ! 
 Brother, were men at peace, man's great cause gairi'd, 
 The sword of Freedom sheath'd, her banners furl'd, 
 Her troops disbanded, and her foes disperst, 
 We two might sit here, side by side, all night, 
 Praising this Orval for his one good deed : 
 And thou shouldst teach me thy dead mother's name, 
 That I might teach, for that name's sake, this rough 
 Coarse voice of mine, hoarse from harsh battle-cries, 
 To find out tenderer tones . . . Were there but time ! 
 But there's no time no peace. We are at war, 
 And war hath two sides only Friend and Foe. 
 What separates foes from friends ? A name : a flag : 
 A uniform : the colour of a coat : 
 Ende guides, but safe ! No nice distinctions stop 
 War's brutal but inevitable path. 
 'Tis not a man, it is a cause, we fight, 
 Though with the cause we strike the man. War's 
 
 fault, 
 
 And theirs that forced war on us-, but not ours. 
 My friend, my brother in arms, let the dead 
 Bury their dead ! Woe be to him whose hand 
 Is on the plough if he turn back before 
 
 K 2 
 
132 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH in. 
 
 The field be furrow'd. I that never knelt 
 
 To any man, behold, I kneel to thee ! 
 
 Brother, once more, wilt thou redeem thine oath ? 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 Brother, once more, I will not. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Be it so. 
 Mine own I must redeem, then. 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 How? 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Unheard, 
 
 Unseen. In silence, and in secresy. 
 Here, and at once. Ere long the time shall be, 
 When the scorn'd Justice of The Kevolution, 
 Now forced to hide in holes and dens like this 
 Her sacred head, and trust unwitness'd hands 
 Like mine to do her bidding in the dark, 
 Shall strike her victim on the public place, 
 Crowds in the streets, crowds on the housetops, crowds 
 Everywhere round her, to applaud the blow ! 
 Behold thy grave. 
 
 {He opens the trap.) 
 
 Mother of mighty times, 
 Goddess armipotent, whose strong right hand 
 Plucks down upon the heads of trembling kings 
 The mouldering masonries their slaves have^ built 
 Against the march of thy majestic hosts ! 
 Fair harvester, whose foizon, now full-ear' d, 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 133 
 
 Is ripening fast, large-hearted Liberty, 
 
 Look down, and bless thy victim, and thy priest. 
 
 Brother, one last embrace . . . brother no more ! 
 
 Not I have torn our bond of brotherhood. 
 
 Pardon one, as I needs must pardon thee, 
 
 Unhappy youth ! Sad for thy sake am I 
 
 Who dare not spare thee, for the sake of Her 
 
 That claims, from me the blow, from thee the blood. 
 
 This is not murder : it is sacrifice. 
 
 Thou hast been judged. 
 
 PANURGE (suddenly appearing through the open trap.} 
 And art acquitted. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Thou! 
 How art thou here, Panurge ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Lucius Junius, 
 
 Wherever the Cause needs me, there am I. 
 What matter how ? Dost thou not know me yet ? 
 Brutus, withhold thine hand. Rise up, young man. 
 I have heard all. And, for thy broken oath 
 This once, I pardon thee. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 My Chief, our laws . . . 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Enjoin unquestioning obedience, 
 
 Brutus, to me. Not against human rights, 
 
 But human wrongs, my banner is unfurl'd. 
 
134 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 This blood shall not be on it. States and thrones, 
 And dynasties, and churches, have been founded 
 On crimes : whereof I hold the worst of all 
 To be Ingratitude. Our empire, boy, 
 Needs no such vile assistance. Lucius Junius, 
 Open this door, and let that ladder down. 
 
 (Brutus obeys in silence.} 
 (To the Youth, in a whisper). Young man, I cannot 
 
 save thee, nor thy friend, 
 
 Beyond to-night. Lord Orval's life is doom'd : 
 His death is certain . . . save for the sole chance, 
 The last, that's left to him . . . Let him know that . . . 
 Flight. Instant flight. Let him know that, young 
 
 man, 
 If thou would'st save him. Hush! (Aloud). Brutus, 
 
 thou hast 
 
 Served firmly, and served faithfully, the Cause. 
 Blessed are they that hear and do. Embrace 
 Thy pardon'd Brother. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 He hath yet to prove 
 He is my brother. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 And he shall. Away, 
 
 Young man ! Thou hast thy brother's confidence 
 To win back, mine to justify. Depart. 
 (Whispering). Make haste ! Thou hast not half an 
 hour to lose, 
 
 (The Youth descends the ladder.) 
 Did I not tell thee, Lucius Junius Brutus, 
 This man would fail us ? 
 
SCENE VI.] THE TOOL OF TIME. 135 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 But why pardon him ? 
 Why didst thou let him go ? 
 
 PANURGE, 
 
 Because I knew 
 That he would go to carry out my will. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS, 
 What ! dost thou trust him yet ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Implicitly, 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 To do what ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 To warn Orval. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 To warn Mm ? 
 Wilt thou let liim escape ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Unthinking boy ! 
 
 How can he ? If he fly, he is lost. I fear, 
 I fear he will not fly ! 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 But if he do ? 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Disgrace first, and death afterwards, for him. 
 His life ? that's nothing. But his influence ? 
 
136 OBVAL; OR, [EPOCH in. 
 
 That's all. That's what we must annihilate. 
 
 Dost thou not see how easy it is to take 
 
 This man's life? but how difficult to take 
 
 Its influence from the lives of other men ? 
 
 'Tis that which we must aim at. If he fly 
 
 (Be satisfied, I have him in my net 
 
 He cannot 'scape me) if he fly why then, 
 
 His influence flies with him, and is lost. 
 
 Then, body and soul, and name and fame, he is mine ! 
 
 Boy, there are lives and lives, and deaths and deaths. 
 
 This man's life is impress'd in palpable forms 
 
 Upon the public mind ; and this man's death 
 
 Must be impress'd upon it also thus. 
 
 'Tis not enough for me to have his life. 
 
 There's too much of it living in his name. 
 
 I must have both. I know that frighten'd hind, 
 
 Soon as he leaves this house, will haste to warn him. 
 
 My only fear is that he will not fly, 
 
 So will he 'scape me. I shall have to weave 
 
 New webs. But doubt not, I shall catch him yet. 
 
 His mind to mine for mastery ? . . . We shall see ! 
 
 Now leave me, Brutus. I must be alone. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS (going). 
 What, if Panurge is betraying us ? 
 
 SCENE VII. Night. A Chamber in the Castle. Lights j $c. 
 Physician and Kinsmen. 
 
 FIRST KINSMAN. 
 
 Undoubtedly. Most sad. But are you sure, sir ? 
 Stone blind*? 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 137 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Unusual . . . extraordinary, 
 So young . . . 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 He always was a weakly child. 
 The mother died . . . you understand ? 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 The mother ? 
 How ? ... do you mean . . . ? 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 
 Precisely. 
 
 OEVAL (entering], 
 
 Pardon me, 
 
 Gentlemen, for so long detaining you. 
 But 'tis not till past midnight that of late 
 The crisis comes. Then he begins to speak. 
 Follow me. This way, Doctor. 
 
 THIRD EELATION. 
 
 After you, sir. 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 I am all anxiety to contemplate 
 This deeply interesting phenomenon. (Exeunf). 
 
 SCENE VIII. A Bed-chamber^ dimly lighted. Orval'Physi- 
 cian, Niirse, and Kinsmen as before. Muriel asleep. 
 
 FIRST KINSMAN. 
 Hush! Listen! 
 
138 
 
 ORVAL ; OR, 
 
 [EPOCH in. 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 Is he awake ? His eyes are open. 
 And yet he seems to hear not. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Gentlemen, 
 Really, I must entreat your silence. 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 
 Strange ! 
 
 MURIEL (rising]. 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 Mark ! the arms folded. 
 
 FISRT KINSMAN. 
 
 Upon the breast. He seems to walk as one 
 That walks with difficulty through a crowd. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 Gentlemen, I entreat . . . 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 Dear Lord ! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Avaunt 
 
 Creatures of Darkness ! Am I not the son 
 Of Light and Song? Where are my singing robes? 
 Off, Helkgarb ! Who hath clad me in it ? Ye ? 
 What will ye with me ? Shall I yield to ye 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 139 
 
 The empire of my soul ? Ye ? I defy ye ! 
 Never, abortive terrors, sullen shapes 
 Sent to torment me, never shall I be 
 The slave of him whose sceptre sent you forth ! 
 Not though mine eyes be taken from me : mine 
 Mine eyes are still. I know where they are gone. 
 My mother bathes them in the light of Heaven : 
 They shall return to me, star-sighted, strong, 
 Sun-searching, splendid with sidereal fire. 
 
 FIRST KINSMAN. 
 Mad ! Just like his poor mother. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 As I suspected. 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 O Holy Virgin, give the lad these eyes 
 Of mine, or I shall weep them blind as his ! 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 
 It is a melancholy satisfaction 
 
 Always, to be quite sure one can do nothing 
 
 To mitigate the affliction of one's friends. 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 Lord ! Lord ! that I should live to hear him talk 
 
 Like a proud Pagan, or wild man o' the woods, 
 
 Or any other common creature ! I 
 
 That suckled the poor brat at mine own breast, 
 
 Ay, did I ! and a finer babe was never 
 
 Put to the nipple. Many's the time I said it, 
 
140 . ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH in. 
 
 " Look if our little lord (the Saints preserve hinr!) 
 Come not to something great ! " And, O Lord, Lord, 
 To come to this ! 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Be silent my good woman. 
 This is extremely interesting. 
 
 FIRST KINSMAN. 
 Hist! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Mother ! 
 
 Dear Mother of mine in Heaven, I prithee send 
 Down to me images of lovely things : 
 That I, with these, may make me, here i' the midst 
 Of this great darkness, Mother, a new world, 
 Like that which I have lost. 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 
 What think you, Coz ? 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 Gentlemen, really . . . 
 
 FIRST KINSMAN. 
 Listen ! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Let us go hence . . . April hath gone before. 
 I know the way she went. And we shall find 
 Things dropt by her in the grass. Come down with 
 
 me 
 Into the dimmest wildness of the wood, 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 141 
 
 Where only here and there the hidden sun 
 
 Brightens the clear translucent green, and paves 
 
 Our whisperous path with drops of fire, that trickle 
 
 Through tender webs of winking shade. The moss 
 
 Is ever fresh and buxom to the foot 
 
 Under these low-bent boughs. I know a place 
 
 Quiet and happy, quite shut in with leaves 
 
 And flowers ; faint woodbine, and the bramble rose, 
 
 And freckled foxglove, cloven ivy, and loose 
 
 Convolvuluses, all the walls have woven 
 
 With fragrant broidery : and underneath 
 
 The pleasant grass is multitudinous all 
 
 With merry daisies thick as evening stars, 
 
 And plots of tufted thyme, and primroses, 
 
 Pale priestesses, with countenances calm 
 
 In sanctuaries of rough dewy leaves, 
 
 And cowslips, and anemones, and violets, 
 
 And crocuses, like points of windless flames 
 
 Tenderly curved and stain' d. This place is safe. 
 
 An old tree holds it in one arm of his. 
 
 The winds are warn'd to vex us not. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 SECOND RELATION. 
 His talk is wholly unintelligible. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Precisely as I had anticipated. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 Ah, they have spoil'd my palace ! Bud and leaf 
 
142 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH III. 
 
 Shatter'd ! Is no place safe from them ? Ah me, 
 Again the ghastly darkness ! Mother ! Mother ! 
 
 KINSMAN. 
 I never saw such anguish in a face. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Mother, I hear thee not. I hear thee not ! 
 Leave me not all alone in the great darkness. 
 Oh! 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 What a moan ! 
 (Muriel sinks back, exhausted, on the led.) 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 My lord, it is my duty 
 To state the truth to you without reserve. 
 
 SECOND KINSMAN. 
 
 Ay, hear him, Cousin. Speak out, Doctor. Tell us 
 Precisely what this means. 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 My lord, your son 
 Is victim to a mental malady, 
 Superinduced by a too exquisite sense, 
 Become habitual, as I greatly fear, 
 Of his sad physical calamity. 
 Extreme cerebral agitation thus, 
 Acting upon a bodily frame o'erwrought 
 Already by the habit of a life 
 Somewhat too studious for his childish years, 
 Induces the condition of what, thus 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 143 
 
 Developed, as we find it here, my lord, 
 Must be call'd normal trance. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Inscrutable 
 
 Lawgiver ! hear how glibly doth this pedant 
 Explain thy laws ! 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 A pen and ink, if you please. 
 We must try soothing remedies. I fear 
 Tis no great use, though. Laurel decoctio . . . 
 Aqua. . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 You will find all that you can want, sir, 
 In the next room. Go, write out what you will. 
 Gentlemen, Cousins, I entreat your leave 
 To be alone. 
 
 KINSMEN. 
 
 Cousin, good night. Good night. 
 (Exeunt with the Physician.} 
 
 MURIEL (waking}. 
 
 Good night ? . . A long, long night ! They should 
 
 have said 
 
 A night without an end. Not good ! not good ! 
 Father, I am very tired. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Lean on me, lad. 
 So . . Let me lift thee into bed. 
 
144 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH in. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 My sleep 
 
 To-night was broken by strange voices, Father. 
 Where are we ? If I could, I would sleep again. 
 I am so tired. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Sleep, my poor boy. Sleep sound. 
 Thy father's blessing be upon thy dreams. 
 My blessing ? Ah, what can my blessing give him ? 
 Not light, alas, nor health, nor joy, nor peace. 
 Sleep, Muriel. Sleep, unhappy child ! 
 
 For me 
 
 The blood-red battle-dawn is breaking. Here 
 There is no time for tears, none for regret ! 
 Soon, at the head of a half-barbarous 
 Handful of men, must I go forth, to cope 
 With the mad masses of mankind. And thou ? 
 How shalt thou fare, poor boy ? sick, helpless, blind ! 
 Child-poet, with no audience in a world 
 Of grown-up miseries ! Poor perishing bud, 
 Blighted from birth, and canker'd in the green, 
 Last of a lofty, old, illustrious tree ! 
 Sole, fragile, scion of a haughty House 
 Whose sires, of yore, in iron harness trod 
 Tremendous fields, and bearded brawling kings. 
 Farewell ! heart of mine, bear up, bear up 
 Against this load Break not, thou stubborn heart ! 
 Let all break on thee, till this breaking world 
 Be ended. Sleep, my son. He sleeps already. 
 And, sleeping smiles . . . ah, not on me! Once more, 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 145 
 
 Once more . . . one last sad kiss . . . and then . . . 
 
 farewell, 
 
 Thou most unfortunate of the angels stray'd 
 Prom Heaven ! 
 
 ANDREW (entering hastily). 
 
 My lord, the man that brought this letter 
 Kefused to wait : but left it, vehemently 
 Affirming it to be of urgent import, 
 Concerning nothing less than life or death 
 Or imminent danger to your lordship. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Good. 
 Leave it. And leave me. (Exit Servant.) 
 
 I arn weary of all things. 
 Life can bring nothing new . . . not even death. 
 
 (Opens the letter, languidly, and reads). 
 " Thine hours are counted. Fly, Lord Orval, fly ! 
 There is no inch of all this land that's safe 
 For thee to stand on. The Sicorn Brotherhood 
 Are sworn to have thy life. Their hands are lifted 
 Invisibly against thee, everywhere : 
 Their daggers are all round thee, day and night, 
 When the air seems most empty : and their eyes, 
 Unseen, are on thee. Linger not an hour. 
 One whom thou hast befriended ; and that knows 
 More than he may reveal. 
 
 Burn this. And fly." 
 I fly ? He little knows me that wrote this. 
 (Burns the letter in the candle.) 
 L 
 
146 OEVAL ; OR, THE FOOL OF TIME. [EPOCH III, 
 
 THE NURSE. 
 My lord, the Doctor asks your presence. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I come. 
 
 Rest by the boy. And watch him well. " He sleeps. 
 .... Rather to arms at once ! to arms ! Arise, 
 Arise, mine eagle ! Havoc calls. I come. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD EPOCH. 
 
FOUBTH EPOCH. 
 
 MAN AND MAN 
 
 L 2 
 
FOURTH EPOCH. 
 
 SCENE I. Night. Interior of a subterranean Cellar ; filthy, 
 and ill-lighted by a lanthorn swung from the vaulting. 
 Along the walls pistols and cutlasses suspended. On tJie floor 
 broken wine-flasks and empty barrels strewn about. In the 
 midst, under the lanthorn, a rude table. Thereon a greasy 
 volume open .' pens, ink in a broken wine-glass, and a large 
 earthen bowl smeared over the edges with blood. On a sort of 
 altar, a skeleton gorgeously robed and crowned. Tapers burn- 
 ing before it. Between the altar and the table a small high 
 platform, covered with crimson cloth, and canopied in black. 
 On the platform is seated the President of the Secret Society 
 O/THE AVENGERS. Before him, at the foot of the platform, 
 a Novice, kneeling, with hands bound, breast bare, and marks 
 of blood upon it. The rest of the Brotherhood is grouped 
 around the Novice. 
 
 THE PRESIDENT, 
 AND to maintain inviolate secrecy. 
 
 THE NOVICE. 
 I swear. So help me God ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 Citizen Novice, 
 
 Thy tongue trips. Have a care. There is no God. 
 We have deposed him. He was in our way, 
 Eor, being a tyrant, he made common cause 
 
150 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 With the other tyrants. Bring the symbol forth 
 6f brutish Superstition. 
 
 (One of the brethren brings forward a crucifix.} 
 
 Man, behold 
 
 The no-more-to-be-tolerated badge 
 Of thy past degradation. Spit on it. 
 
 NOVICE: 
 Citizen Atheist, I obey. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 Remove it. 
 He hath saved his throat. 
 
 THE BROTHER. 
 
 Back to thy tomb, defunct 
 Divinity ! 
 
 THE PRESIDENT. 
 To spare not man, nor woman, 
 Against whose life the edict hath gone forth. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 I swear. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 To execute, without remorse, 
 Without reluctance, and without delay, 
 Whatever order shall be given to thee. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 I swear. 
 
 THE PRESIDENT. 
 Upon all persons, old or young, 
 Or high or low, or great or small, or here 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 151 
 
 Or elsewhere, nobles, prelates, princes, kings, 
 Or those that do adhere to the same. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 I swear. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 And to observe the aforesaid laws to the death. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 I swear. 
 
 PEESIDENT. 
 
 He hath pass'd the triple ordeal. 
 Enter his name upon the Books. 
 
 A BROTHER (writing). 
 
 Josiah 
 
 Cobble. Eyes grey, small. Hair red. Stature low. 
 Age four and twenty years. Former condition, 
 Maker of boots and shoes in the employ 
 Of the Enemies of Human Freedom. Sworn 
 A Brother of the Secret Philosophical 
 And Philanthropical Society 
 Of the AVENGERS : .sitting in this city 
 On the First Day of the Second Month o' the Year 
 One, of the General Emancipation. 
 Enter'd. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 Unbind his hands. Give him the bowl. 
 Eise, Brother, and embrace thy brethren. Drink. 
 
 CHORUS OF THE UNITED BROTHERHOOD. 
 Press the grapes of the vintage of vengeance. Thine, 
 
152 ORVAL ; OE, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 Young vintager, now is the vineyard gate. 
 And drink, Son of Freedom, the blood and the wine : 
 
 The wine of the wanton, the blood of the great ! 
 Fallen thy bonds are. Behold, we have burst them. 
 
 Laugh ! Not on nectar the old gods nurst 
 The growth of the young gods, who have disperst them : 
 And stronger than nectar, to quench our thirst, 
 Is the cup of the curses wherewith we have curst them 
 
 By whom we were curst. 
 Feed on the flesh of the princes of earth. 
 
 Let it fatten thee now, as our own fatten'd them. 
 There be plenty of bones, and of blood no dearth : 
 
 And these dishes are garnisht with gold and gem. 
 Sign'd are the lintels, and sharpen' d the daggers. 
 The powerless strikes, and the powerful staggers. 
 
 The halters are spun. 
 
 Judged are the judges : rod-beaten the lictors : 
 Tried the tribunals : and vanquisht the victors : 
 The heads are all reckon'd : the headsman is beckon'd : 
 Our work hath begun. 
 (A knocking without.} 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 Back to your places, all of you ! Remove 
 Those weapons. Each man to his work again. 
 Who knocks ? 
 
 A VOICE OUTSIDE. 
 
 A friend, and Freedom's Son. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 His name ? 
 

 SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 153 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 Lucius Junius. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 'Tis the Modern Brutus ! 
 Salute him, Brothers. Open in the name 
 Of Liberty. Hail to thee, Lucius Junius ! 
 (The Modern Brutus enters.) 
 
 OMNES. 
 
 Brutus, thy brethren here, in thee, salute 
 The soul of Rome's best Roman. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Good, friends, good ! 
 
 I see that you are sharpening your knives 
 Heady for use. Good, good ! Be all prepared. 
 What art thou making, Brother Citizen ? 
 
 ONE OF THE BRETHREN. 
 A hempen rope. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Good ! He that 'scapes the steel 
 Must hang by the cord. And thou ? 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 I stole this knife 
 
 Out of the kitchen of an old Archbishop. 
 And it has sliced him many an ortolan. 
 I am giving it a new handle, and an edge. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Good, good ! Some throats are easier cut than capons. 
 And thou? 
 
154 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 A THIRD. 
 
 This is the fowling-piece with which 
 The keeper of ray lord shot my boy, Jack, 
 For having stolen a hare. The man had this 
 When, last night, I shot Mm. I took it from him. 
 It is a keepsake. I am giving it 
 A new lock. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Good, good ! There be other vermin 
 Than hares that now need thinning. Keep the gun. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 But tell us, Brother Citizen, is the day 
 Fixtyet? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Oh patience, Citizen President ! 
 I want a man of you. Which is the idlest ? 
 Or which the boldest ? 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 There's a novice here 
 
 That hath not yet been tried. Wilt thou have him ? 
 He took the oath but even now. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Good, good ! 
 Follow me, Brother Novice. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 I obey. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 155 
 
 SCENE II. Noon. The Revolutionary Camp. Within the 
 Tent of Panurge. Citizens armed, standing sentry. 
 Shouting without. 
 
 PANURGE (entering the tent). 
 
 How many hundred brainless brutes have howl'd 
 Hurrah to every word that from my lips 
 Hath fallen just now ! What one of all them 
 Divined my simplest meaning, comprehended 
 The plainest of my purposes, or caught 
 The faintest glimmer of the goal to which 
 My will is leading them ? fervide 
 Imitatorum pecm ! 
 
 (The Modern Brutus enters with the Novice.) 
 Is it the man ? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 Dost thou know Lord Orval ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Know him ? Yes, 
 "By sight, great Citizen. He once spoke to me. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 In truth ? what said he ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 At the Church door once, 
 Meaning no harm, I brusht him as I pass'd. 
 He turn'd, and kick'd me, adding, with an oath, 
 
156 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 " Out of my way, hound ! " I have made a rope 
 To hang him with. Tis ever in my pocket. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 To-morrow thou wilt go to him, at daybreak : 
 And say to him that I intend to see him ; 
 That I will visit him at midnight, tell him, 
 Alone in private without witnesses. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Citizen General, how many men 
 Do you propose to give me ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Not a man. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 There will be danger. With no escort . . . 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Man, 
 
 Thine escort is Panurge's name. Alone 
 Thou must approach him. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 I obey. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 And tell him, 
 
 For certain, that to-morrow at midnight 
 I shall be with him. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 And if he should hang me ? 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 157 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Thou wilt have had the honour, then, to perish 
 A martyr to the People's Cause. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Long live 
 The People's Cause ! . . (The devil take 'em all !) 
 
 PAN URGE. 
 
 And now good day, good Citizen. Depart. 
 Forget not. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Citizen General, I obey. (Exit.) 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Why these half measures, these delays, Panurge ? 
 
 Or to what end these midnight meetings with 
 
 The People's foes? these parleyings with a man 
 
 Like Orval ? Had I but thy sanction then 
 
 When I besought it, Orval at this hour 
 
 Had not been living. And that snare of thine 
 
 To catch him flying hath fail'd egregiously. 
 
 Flight ? he is in the field against us now, 
 
 First, foremost, and sole formidable foe ! 
 
 Panurge, when I vow'd to follow thee, 
 
 To admire thee, to obey thee when I made 
 
 Thee master of my mind, it was because 
 
 I then believed thee master of thine own : 
 
 A man of keen eye and sure hand : a man 
 
 Of one aim, and one blow. 
 
158 ' ORVAL ; OH, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Peace, prattler, peace ! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 All is in readiness. The arms are forged, 
 The cannon cast, the powder magazined, 
 And the battalions drill'd, and the lists drawn. 
 Our troops wait only for the word to move. 
 The lightnings and the thunders of our power 
 Vibrate impatient in thy slack right hand. 
 Speak the word only, and the thunder falls. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Rash boy ! thy hot brain and o'erweening youth 
 Know not the majesty of restraint. Mistake not 
 Impulse for power. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Nay, think, Panurge ! think ! 
 Already these amazed aristocrats 
 Terrified, trembling, fly like a tame herd 
 That scents the unseen lion. Abandoning 
 To desolation their doom'd palaces, 
 And paper-palisaded castles all, 
 They have assembled their unscatter'd strengths 
 In the firm-mason'd Fastness of St. John. 
 We with our legions need but flood the land 
 To overwhelm them in their last retreat. 
 Our dogs might in a day destroy such rabbits 
 In such a warren. Give the word. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Not yet. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 159 
 
 What need of haste ? Their doom is sure. Effete 
 
 Both morally and physically, weak 
 
 Old toothless lapdogs whelp'd by Luxury, 
 
 Nature, the hardy mother of brave men, 
 
 Spurns them with loathing from her wholesome lap. 
 
 And, whether it be to-morrow or to-day 
 
 That we exterminate the litter, boy, 
 
 It matters not the weight of a hair. Go to. 
 
 I know my hour. 
 
 BKUTUS. 
 
 What daunts thee, then ? 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Nought daunts me. 
 I am but the Doomsman. Nature is the Judge. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Albeit, when Nature's voice cries to thee " Strike ! " 
 What stays thy laggard hand thus ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Mine own will : 
 Thy master, Lucius, Junius, Brutus. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Psha! 
 
 Thy will ? who knows ? Thy whim, more like. And I, 
 Whose hand hath smitten upon their guilty thrones 
 The consecrated tyrannies of time, 
 Whose knee was never crook'd to man or God, 
 Who fear no consequence, and spare no foe, 
 Am I to follow blindly the blind guidance 
 Of thy dark brain ? 
 
160 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 Blindly. It is thine oath. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 Thou art betraying us, Panurge ! 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Tush! 
 
 Mistrust is the hobgoblin of weak minds. 
 For there where ignorance doth a darkness make, 
 Any old broomstick serves to make a fear. 
 But have a care. Speak not so loud, young man. 
 Some of my folk might hear thee. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Of % folk ? 
 
 Our folk ! We have no spies here. And what then ? 
 My speech is my true heart's ambassador 
 That scorns disguise, and boldly goes his way 
 To challenge Falsehood where he finds her. Man, 
 What if our folk do hear my voice ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Why, then 
 
 I shall be forced to have thee shot, for daring 
 To raise it in my presence. 
 
 (With sudden tenderness). 
 
 Trust me, boy. 
 Have patience. 
 
 BRUTUS (with emotion). 
 Pardon ! I forgot myself. 
 But (earnestly), Chief, I fear not death in any form. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 161 
 
 And if my death be necessary, if 
 My death can help or serve the People's Cause, 
 Serve only, even, for salutary example, 
 Speak ! I am ready to die. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 (An ardent mind ! 
 
 This man believes and hopes. It is a pity 
 That such a happy man should ever die. 
 Earth hath too few of his thrice fortunate kind 
 And cannot profitably spare what she 
 So rarely is possest of.) Boy, think more. 
 Speak less. Grow older. Live. And in good time 
 Thou wilt be able to understand . . . Delay. 
 Are the new cartridges distributed ? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 Yes. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 Dost thou know no more of this Lord Orval ? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 No. Why ? In truth, I care to know no more 
 Than is already known of that bad man. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 He hath assembled all his vassals. And they 
 Are faithful to him. They believe in him. 
 They follow him, and still look up to him. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 A handful of born slaves ! It is in us, 
 Faith's true force is incarnate. 
 
 M 
 
162 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 I would see him 
 With mine own eyes . . . hear him with mine own 
 
 ears 
 
 Not thine . . . and read the soul of this strange man. 
 Too proud he is ! too proud. Pride must be humbled. 
 He should be one of Us. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 He ? One of us ? 
 He, the aristocrat ! 
 
 PANURGE. 
 No. He, the poet. 
 You understand not. Leave me. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Am I pardon'd, 
 Citizen General ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Boy, wert thou not . . . But go ! 
 Leave me. Thy life belongs to the Good Cause. 
 I charge thee keep it safe. Boy, thine own hand 
 Shall plant the People's Flag upon the towers 
 And rooftops of the Fastness of St John. 
 Now leave me. 
 
 BRUTUS (going). 
 Truly, he is a great man. 
 How could I doubt him ? Out, base heart ! (Exit). 
 
 PANURGE (alone). 
 
 Ay, Orval ! 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 163 
 
 It must be with mine own eyes only, and only 
 
 In thine own face, that I the riddle read 
 
 Writ by the Destinies for thee and me. 
 
 Strange, that this man, alone of all the world, 
 
 Dares to resist me ! What, compared to mine, 
 
 Is this man's strength ? Nothing, It cannot weigh 
 
 A dozen grains of sand i' the scale. Some few 
 
 Raw boors, and stupid serfs, that follow yet 
 
 The blazoned boast of his affronting flag, 
 
 With tnat blind instinct of fidelity 
 
 That's ever in tame creatures. Nothing more. 
 
 Why do I wish to see, to hold discourse 
 
 With this one man ? Hath my own spirit now been 
 
 Confronted, for the first time, with its peer ? 
 
 Perchance its rival ? . . . I must crush shall crush 
 
 him. 
 
 But then ? . . . thou mysterious Power of Thought, 
 That in me sittest, weaving webs to catch 
 The buzzing folly of this brief fly, man ! 
 Easier shalt thou deceive all human kind 
 Than thine own self. What? Art thou not the 
 
 thought 
 
 Of earth's unthinking millions ? the bright soul 
 O' the brute material multitude ? And thou, 
 Doubtest thou of thyself ? What were but crime 
 In others, is, in thee, completed law, 
 Power fulfill' d and perfect. Thou hast given 
 A name to nameless masses of mankind, 
 A language to dumb droves of beasts of burden, 
 A soul to soulless human engines, call'd 
 Forth out of formless chaos, and created 
 A whole world's manifest fabric in the form 
 
 M 2 
 
16i ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 And image of thyself, and breathed into it 
 
 A motion and a light. But thou thyself, 
 
 O soul, what art thou ? shapeless ? doubting ? dark ? 
 
 Uncertain of the goal to which thou goest ? 
 
 Nay then, I swear it, soul, thou art sublime ! 
 
 SCENE III. Sunset, which deepens towards the close of the 
 scene. The Forest. Booths, tents, canvas encampments. 
 Torchfires, and wandering lights among the distant trees. 
 A space cleared in the midst, with a rude gallows erected. 
 Men and women dancing round it. Various groups passing 
 over the foreground. ORVAL and THE NOVICE. Orval 
 advances, holding the Novice by the hand, who follows re- 
 luctantly. Orval is enveloped in a long mantle, and wears 
 the Cap of Liberty. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Eemember ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 On my life, my lord, I swear it ! 
 I will return you safely if myself 
 Do 'scape the perils you have put upon us 
 By this most desperate venture. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Glance of eye, 
 
 Or turn of head, and at my foot thou liest, 
 A bullet in thy scull. Sir, I am arm'd. 
 And, mark me ! I am risking my own life, 
 Thine hath for me less value than a doo-'s. 
 
 o 
 

 SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 165 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Hi ! ... You will crush my wrist-bone ! Zounds, 
 
 my lord, 
 Your hand hath iron claws ! How must I serve you ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Address me as a comrade newly come. 
 What are those dancing yonder ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Round the gallows ? 
 
 That is the new dance of the Libertines, 
 Freedom's bolero. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 On, then ! let us see it. 
 
 CHORUS (of men and women, half naked, dancing round 
 the galloics in caps of Liberty). 
 
 Bread to eat ! bread to eat ! 
 
 Or we will have heads to gnaw. 
 We have cook'd the cooks that cook'd the meat, 
 And so we must eat it raw. 
 
 Hourrah ! 
 
 For, that men should starve while there's flesh to 
 carve, 
 
 Is neither logic nor law, 
 
 Hourrah ! 
 Kings have had no pity on us : 
 
 Dance about the gallows ! 
 Priests have had no pity on us : 
 Dance ! dance, good fellows ! 
 
166 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 God liath had no pity on us : 
 
 Dance about the gallows ! 
 
 Down, then, with God, and with Priests, and Kings ! 
 Enough, and too much have we had of these things ! 
 
 Dance, dance, good fellows ! 
 
 ORVAL (to a girl dancing), 
 
 Wench, I rejoice to see thee step so brisk. 
 Thy leg is stockingless, but, 'faith ! 'tis stout, 
 And jigs it bravely ! 
 
 THE GIRL (dancing). 
 
 God a' mercy, man ! 
 
 This day hath kept us waiting long enough. 
 All my life long have I wash'd dishes up, 
 And scour'd floors, ay, with never a good word, 
 Never a Thank-ye ! Only cuffs and kicks, 
 And offal, when the dogs had had enough. 
 Damnation ! it is time for me to feed 
 When I am hungry, sleep when I am tired, 
 And dance when the whim takes me ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Dance, girl ! dance ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 The devil on it, we must budge, my lord, 
 Or you will be discover'd. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 If I am, 
 
 'Twill be the worse for thee. Come further on. 
 What have we yonder ? 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 167 
 
 NOVICE. 
 By the oak-stump ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ay- 
 
 NOVICE. 
 That is the Lackeys' Club. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Why then, no doubt, 
 We shall find old acquaintances this way. 
 
 NOVICE (aside). 
 
 Ten thousand ducats to be out o' the wood ! 
 This man is mad ! 
 
 FIRST LACKEY. 
 Yes, friend : I had the honour 
 To slit my master's throat last night. 
 
 SECOND LACKEY. 
 
 Fine fellow ! 
 Your health. I'm looking for my Baron still. 
 
 A VALET. 
 
 Citizens, pray let us admire ourselves ! 
 Already long ago whilst blacking boots, 
 Even till our backs grew crooked, long ago, 
 Whilst curling wigs, and powdering noble pates, 
 Even till our own wax'd bald, ... we felt within us 
 The glorious consciousness of our own rights. 
 Not vainly, have we stood behind the chairs 
 Of sage Philosophers, and heard them talk : 
 
168 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Whilst stirring up the chocolate we served them, 
 They stirr'd in us the philosophic soul ! 
 Not vainly, by the tables of the great 
 Have we been watchers : secrets, grudged to kings, 
 Slipp'd out to us. And truly, if we cringed 
 To carry the bread-basket up and down, 
 Whilst for the banquet we did count out loaves, 
 We for the scaffold then were counting heads. 
 Ay ! and if, when we pour'd the wine, we smiled, 
 It was because the wine began to smell 
 Already like the blood it was enriching 
 For us to taste hereafter ! Drink, then, all, 
 Drink, Citizens, with me ... health to our Club ! 
 
 CHORUS OF LACKEYS. 
 
 Health to our Club ! and to our President ! 
 For he is a Philosopher. Drink death 
 To all our Masters ! Live Philosophy ! 
 Live Freedom, and the Eights of Man ! 
 
 THE VALET. 
 
 My friends, 
 
 I thank you, with emotion, not unworthy 
 The generous sentiments you have express'd. 
 
 CHORUS OP LACKEYS. 
 
 Broken ! broken are the bonds of servile duty ! 
 
 Burst at length in man's supreme emancipation ! 
 From the boudoirs, perfumed sweet, of painted Beauty, 
 
 From the languid-lighted halls and haunts of Fashion, 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 169 
 
 From the satin-circled walls and scented ambers 
 Of the sleek and whisper-swarming antechambers 
 
 Of dethroned Boyalty, 
 
 And the primly-paced saloons of Art and Science, 
 We together are come forth to hurl defiance 
 On the victor-voice of Freedom, freely, under the free 
 sky, 
 
 At the doors where courtiers cringe, 
 Slaves to every creaking hinge, 
 Creatures to a golden key, and students of a lie ! 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 And the statesman, with his scheme 
 Of little frauds to cheat the state : 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 And the poet with his theme 
 
 Of little flatteries to the great : 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 And the soldier, o'er his sword 
 
 Ducking to the slave he serves : 
 And the king, whose kingly word 
 
 Shifts each way his terror swerves ! 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 And the dainty Dame of Honour 
 With the badge of shame upon her ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 We have seen, and we can tell 
 All that's hid 'twixt Heaven and Hell ! 
 
170 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 What was wliisper'd shall be shouted ! 
 What was trusted shall be doubted ! 
 What was honour'd shall be scouted ! 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 What was unknown all shall know ! 
 What was high shall then be low. 
 For such secrets blood must flow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ay, such filth to be wash'd clean, 
 Blood shall flow of King and Queen. 
 Such strange sickness needs strange cures. 
 Tin's is our Credo. What is yours ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Excellent company ! Why these are men 
 Of rarest information, full of matter ! 
 What are those voices from the hill, that sound 
 Like wild beasts howling ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 'Tis the Butcher's Club. 
 
 CHORUS OF BUTCHERS. 
 
 Hatchet and axe 
 
 Shall pay no tax 
 To any king on his throne, 
 
 Whilst bones and blood 
 
 Are the People's food, 
 So keep ye the blood and the bone, 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 171 
 
 Hah ha ! 
 
 Keep ye the blood and the bone ! 
 We are The Jolly Butchers, we : 
 Our purple palace the shambles be. 
 Hither, good fellows, and sing with me, 
 
 Merrily, merrily sing ; 
 Cutting of throats is a rare good trade ! 
 
 For love, or for money 'tis all one thing. 
 And it matters not if a knife be laid 
 To the throat of a calf or a king, 
 
 Hah ha ! 
 
 For a calf will bleed like a king ! 
 We are the children of Strength and Blood : 
 
 And we know what blood and strength can do. 
 It is we that find the People food. 
 
 Though the kings provide for the business too. 
 To every man his due, my friend, 
 
 To every man his due ! 
 For the kings we have slaughter 'd the calf and ox : 
 
 For the People we slaughter the kings. 
 While there's flesh in the shambles or blood on the 
 
 blocks, 
 The Jolly Butcherman sings, 
 
 Hah ha ! 
 
 The Jolly Butcherman sings : 
 Hatchet and axe 
 Shall pay no tax 
 To any king on his throne : 
 For bones and blood 
 Are the People's food, 
 So keep ye the blood and the bone, 
 
172 OEVAL ; on, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 Hali ha ! 
 Make much of the blood and the bone ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I like these fellows better. They, at least, 
 Have grace to leave Philosophy alone, 
 And spare us that vile cant, that sickens me, 
 Of Freedom, and Enlightenment, and so forth. 
 Madam, your Humble Servant ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 You forget ! 
 
 Pray call her Citizen, or Freedom's Daughter, 
 Or else Emancipated Bondswoman. 
 You will destroy us with your old-world titles. 
 As you love life, be careful ! 
 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 Madam, quotha? 
 
 What is this fellow ? Fy ! thou dost stink 
 Most villanous strong, methinks, of the old leaven ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 'Faith ! my tongue tripp'd then. 
 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 Man, I am as thou. 
 
 A woman free unfetter'd independent ! 
 My favours I distribute without stint 
 To that society whence I derive 
 The rights I exercise in doing thus. 
 To all free men, freely, I give my love. 
 Hark ! .... an' thou hadst not such a frosty eye . . . . 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 173 
 
 Thou art a sturdy knave .... I like thee well .... 
 Kiss! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And, pray, hath this same society 
 Given thee also, worthiest of women, 
 These jewels ? that gold bracelet ? those pearl earrings ? 
 O most exceeding generosity ! 
 O rare, beneficent Society ! 
 
 THE WOMAN. 
 
 This trash ? . . . and yet 'tis pretty .... truly, pearls 
 Suit well enough this sort of hair ! . . . Nay, these 
 Were given me by my husband I would say 
 My enemy the enemy of Woman 
 The enemy of Liberty and Love 
 In the old days, ere I enjoy'd my freedom. 
 Husbands are Man's and Woman's Enemies ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Freest of women, verily I wish thee 
 An infinite enjoyment ! 
 
 (They pass on.} 
 
 Knowest thou 
 
 W r ho is yon soldier, leaning all alone, 
 I' the rocky ground, against the blasted oak ? 
 How doth he eye the setting sun ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 He yonder ? 
 
 Oh, he is Fortune's soldier. Brave enough ! 
 But yet a hireling. I do know the man. 
 The Revolution hath employ'd him thrice 
 
174 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 In divers foreign countries. He hath won 
 Nine battles taken seven towns . . . 
 
 Good eve, 
 
 General Castrocaro ! What ! already 
 Planning campaigns ? some new design a-foot ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 
 Pools ! Though in Freedom ye may be my brothers, 
 In Genius ye are not my kindred. Go ! 
 My plans are known but by the victories 
 Which they achieve. Disturb me not. Away ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Hark ye ! Take my advice. Hang up that fellow. 
 Hang him to-night. This, trust me, is the stuff 
 That makes an Aristocracy. 
 
 A WEAVER. 
 
 Too late ! 
 Curses, and maledictions ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 No beggar, or he would be better clothed. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What dost thou there in the rank ditch, poor wretch ? 
 Why, how now ? Look ! there is not so much skin 
 Upon this mummy, sir, as would suffice 
 To cover the whole compass of thy valour ! 
 
 WEAVER. 
 Curses, and maledictions ! Curse, and curse, 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 175 
 
 And curse, again, the Merchants of the Earth ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 This knave is strong in the arithmetic. 
 Hark, how he adds and multiplies ! And yet 
 Methinks he doth repeat himself too oft. 
 
 WEAVER. 
 
 Accursed be the Merchants of the Earth ! 
 For they have suck'd the life-blood out of me. 
 My fairest years the years when other men 
 Wander about the free and happy fields, 
 In blissful hand-in-hand with her they love, 
 And breathe the blessed air,, and the fresh flowers, 
 Till they bless God that they are young, and live, 
 And do enjoy the joyfulness of living, 
 I evermore was weaving my death-shroud 
 At their rapacious and remorseless looms ; 
 Coffin'd alive in their damn'd factories ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Drink, then, the cup thou clutchest in thy hand. 
 The wine will yet refresh thee. 
 
 WEAVER. 
 
 Late ! too late ! 
 
 I have no strength to lift it to my lips. 
 I have crawl'd here to die. Alas ! for me 
 The Day of Freedom dawns too late. I curse 
 The Merchants of the Earth that do sell silk ! 
 Ay, and the Princes of the Earth that wear it ! 
 I curse the Trader, for he buys men's bodies ! 
 I curse the Courtier, for his glossy coat 
 
176 ORVAL; OK, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Is woven from the fibre of men's lives ! 
 Curses, and maledictions ! curses, curs .... 
 (He dies.-) 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Pah, what a hideous corpse ! It stinks already. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Look on this carrion, miserable hound ! 
 
 Where now be your big-mouthed promises ? 
 
 Where be your virtues ? your philosophies ? 
 
 What now ? the dust hath claim'd fraternity 
 
 With your free brother. Warn the worm away, 
 
 Lest he make free with this starved inch of Freedom ; 
 
 For he is Nature's tyrant ; and it seems 
 
 He loves a savoury meal. Come, Citizen, 
 
 And study here the perfect state of man ! 
 
 The Emancipation of the Human Eace ! 
 
 NOVICE (aside). 
 
 Insolent Noble ! may thy carcase too 
 
 Kot ere 'tis older, and the dogs devour it ! 
 
 (Aloud). My lord, we must away ! The sun hangs 
 
 low. 
 
 And I am sworn to give account this night 
 To him that sent me, of my mission. 
 
 OEVAL. 
 
 Hold ! 
 
 I have a fancy to see more of this. 
 March ! march, sir ! 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 177 
 
 A. VOICE FKOM THE TREES. 
 
 Son of Freedom, bid good-night 
 To the old Sun ! 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE FROM THE FOREST. 
 
 Good-night to thee, old tyrant ! 
 I do salute thee with a parting curse. 
 Long while hast thou our hard taskmaster been. 
 Long hast thou driven us to labour, forth 
 From stall and shed, to sweat, and still to groan ; 
 Thou only smiling from thy golden chair 
 Up yonder, evermore the same damn'd smile. 
 To-morrow shalt thou find thy slaves set free. 
 Now to the devil with thee ! off ! give place 
 To the Dark Hour, our friend. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Here comes a band 
 
 Of peasants. We must draw aside, my lord, 
 Or we shall be accosted. 
 
 PEASANTS (passing}. 
 
 Forwards, friends ! 
 
 Yonder, among the booths, the girls are dancing. 
 What fun ! d'ye hear the fiddle squeak ? up yonder 
 There's beer and wine, and cakes, and junketing. 
 And there our friends are roasting for us all 
 The oxen from the plough ! Hourrah ! hourrah ! 
 
 A GIRL'S VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 
 March ! march, old guts ! This is a lazy lord. 
 Kick him up, wooden-shoes ! That's right. 
 
178 . ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 VOICE OF A NOBLE. 
 
 Good friends, 
 Mercy ! I am an old man. Mercy ! mercy ! 
 
 A MAN'S VOICE. 
 
 The more sins, then, hast thou to answer, grey-beard ! 
 Yah-ha ! Oh, Kate hath got him. Take her off. 
 There's ne'er a terrier hath a sharper tooth 
 Than Kate. She'll kill him ! 
 
 THE NOBLE'S VOICE. 
 
 Friends, if you would hear me ! 
 
 A GIRL'S VOICE. 
 Give back my lover's blood, my father's curse ! 
 
 A MAN'S VOICE. 
 Give back to me my long days of forced labour ! 
 
 A WOMAN'S VOICE. 
 Give back my poor boy that was flogg'd to death ! 
 
 A MAN'S VOICE. 
 Give back, give back to me my daughter's shame ! 
 
 OTHER VOICES. 
 
 Up with him ! By the devil's beard, old sir, 
 You shall hang high, as suite a gentleman ! 
 
 THE NOBLE'S VOICE. 
 
 Children, . . . why I might be your father ! Mercy ! 
 Indeed I never meant you any wrong. 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 179 
 
 And, if I did you wrong and knew it not, 
 I do repent me. Look on these grey hairs. 
 An old man's blood, what can it profit you ? 
 Sins have I, that is sure, to answer for, 
 But which among you must not say the same ? 
 O let me live ! take anything but life, 
 For that is robbing God, whose gift it is ! 
 And I will give you up my parks, and manors, 
 My castles, and my summer villas all. 
 And you shall have my bailiffs, all of them, 
 To roast, or hang, or anything you please. 
 If these have done you wrong, I knew it not. 
 
 A MAN'S VOICE. 
 
 If you talk more, we'll pat a pitchfork through you. 
 Come, hoist him ! We shall miss the dancing else. 
 
 CHORUS OF PEASANTS. 
 
 A bluebottle fly of Beelzebub 
 
 Came buzz on the hive of the working bees. 
 We have clipp'd the wing of this gilded grub, 
 
 And we bring him now to rot at his ease. 
 Their Lordships lordly carcases 
 
 Shall be thick as straw on the stubble lands. 
 When their castles burn like furnaces, 
 
 We shall have fuel to warm our hands. 
 As for us, who are hungry, and poor, and cold, 
 
 And weary enough of the long day's work, 
 We must have fire, food, slumber, and gold, 
 
 So up with the torch arid the three-prong'd fork ! 
 (They pass on.} 
 
 N 2 
 
180 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I could not mark his features in the crowd, 
 Nor recognize his voice. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 No doubt it was 
 One of your Lordship's noble friends or kinsmen. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Whoe'er he was, I care not. I despise him. 
 For he will die, a coward. Him I scorn, 
 And thee I loathe. Move on, sir ! Here's a path 
 Should lead us somewhere. Bah ! some day, who 
 
 knows ? 
 
 We shall make poetry of all this filth. 
 Come, sirrah ! Do you hear me ? 
 
 (They disappear into the forest}. 
 
 SCENE IV. Night. Another part of the forest. Moonlight 
 at intervals. In the background, the ruins of a Church, 
 and in the midst of the ruins the Altar of Reason lighted. 
 The ground broken and uneven. The scene frequently ob- 
 scured. Confused noises in all directions. ORVAL and the 
 NOVICE. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 This fine red foolscap hath been torn to tatters 
 Down there i' the brushwood. What are those strange 
 
 fires 
 Among the ruins ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 We have lost our wav 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 181 
 
 In the low thickets. As I fancied, tins 
 Must be the heart of the forest. Those red fires 
 Are from the altars of the New Religion, 
 Whsre Amathusius, nightly, at this hour, 
 Initiates the neophytes. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Come on, then, 
 And let us look at the New Prophet ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Softly ! 
 
 Here every step is on the chance of death. 
 We are approaching to the sanctuary. 
 Cover thy face ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ay ! round these steps are strewn 
 The ruins of the centuries ! Here lies 
 The old colossus of the Christian World 
 Tumbled in splinters. Column, capital, 
 Arch, shaft, nicli3, statue, pedestal, and plinth, 
 A heap of undistinguishable stones ! 
 My heel strikes on the images of saints. 
 Sharp morsels of stain' d glass, the costly work 
 Of noble masters who praised God with power, 
 And worshipp'd as they work'd, where'er I walk 
 Crackle and fly to bits beneath my foot. 
 The moon, it seems too, dare not look this way. 
 Have a care, sirrah, how you pick your steps ! 
 Here 'tis pitch dark. 
 
 This should have been some cloister 
 Once, by the clammy travertine that peels 
 
182 OEVAL ; OE, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Under my finger from the crumbled wall. 
 
 Pah ! . . . and the frescoes here, do they sweat blood ? 
 
 My hand is wet ! 
 
 Thank heaven ! a gleam of light 
 Shows yonder grating like the bars of Hell. 
 What have we here? A marble warrior sleeping 
 Upon a marble tomb. He hath not waked, 
 Though on his head the roof hath fallen down. 
 He must have fought hard to deserve such rest. 
 To sleep thus, were to be supremely blest ! 
 For he that sleeps, sleeps for himself : but he 
 That waketh, knoweth not for what he wakes. 
 Where are we ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Forty days, and forty nights 
 Our people toil'd here at the axe and crowbar. 
 We have destroy 'd the last of all the churches. 
 This was the graveyard. 
 
 (Distant songs faintly heard.} 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Men of the new times, 
 
 Your songs delight me not ! Before, behind, 
 Here there and everywhere, where'er I gaze, 
 Dimly I see faint shadows and pale lights, 
 That pass and wander all among these ruins : 
 From place to place they float on the night winds : 
 They hover to and fro, and find no rest, 
 But, with an ever-wavering motion, mix 
 Their lifeless ghosts among the living throng 
 Of men and women yonder. This night's, heart 
 Must have a guilty conscience ! Pause we here. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 183 
 
 VOICES RAPIDLY PASSING ONWARDS. 
 
 First Voice. Hail, Brothers, in the name of Liberty ! 
 Second Voice. Hail, Brothers, by the baptism of 
 
 blood ! 
 Third Voice. Hail, Brothers, to the Light of Reason, 
 
 hail! 
 Fourth Voice. Haste ! haste, or ye will be too late ! 
 
 The Priests 
 
 Of Liberty have all her altars lit. 
 The Psalm of Liberty is chaunting now. 
 Haste, Brothers, haste ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 It is too late to turn. 
 
 We must push onwards now. No help for it ! 
 The vast crowd, swarming all this way, shuts fast 
 Each outlet in our rear. Pray, pray be cautious ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Follow my finger yonder. What is he, 
 That man, whose form, upon the rolling smoke 
 Dilated, and by smoky vapours cuii'd 
 Laocoon-like, looks risen from out the fire ? 
 Red-lit by those infernal flames, his face 
 Is as a fallen angel's. And his voice, 
 Blown hoarse this way upon the gusty dark, 
 Is like a madman's. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 That is Amathusius, 
 
 The inspired Prophet of the Future. Eound him 
 Behold his priests philosophers, and poets, 
 
ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Musicians, artists, writers ; at their feet, 
 The new-made votaries, naked girls and boys. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah ha ! That is your Aristocracy ? 
 Now show me him that sent thee. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Him I see not. 
 He is not of these. 
 
 AMATHUSIUS THE PROPHET. 
 Daughter of Liberty, 
 
 Arise ! approach ! come to her Prophet's breast ! 
 Come naked ! come thou free from shame, and free 
 From ancient prejudice. Thou, chosen first, 
 Free Bride of Free Humanity ! Deep, deep, 
 I drink the floated odours of thy hair ! 
 Sweet, sweet ! I drain the red love of thy lip ! 
 Daughter of Liberty, upon thy brow 
 The goddess seals this consecrating kiss ! 
 
 A GIRL. 
 
 I fly into thine arms ! I pant for thee, 
 Prophet of Liberty ! I love ... I burn ! 
 
 ANOTHER GIRL. 
 
 Behold ! I spread mine arms out on the air 
 To reach thee, O Beloved ! . . . I faint I fall- 
 I pant with passion at thy feet ! I writhe 
 I grovel at thy throne ! . . . I burn ! I burn ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 The poor wretch is, indeed, in a convulsion. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 185 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Oh, if you wait, you will see more of them. 
 This happens every night. But hark ! . . . 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Behold, 
 
 I am transfigured, thrill'd, beatified ! 
 Daughter of Liberty, from thine embrace 
 I gather inspiration. Hearken, all ! 
 I am about to prophesy. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The girl 
 
 Has fallen on the flint, now, in a fit. 
 Abominable profanation ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Hist! 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Lo now ! we twain, my delicate white witch, 
 We are the breathing symbols of a world 
 Ennobled, and regenerated. Mark ! 
 Around us are the ruins everywhere 
 Of a benighted, but abolish'd, Past. 
 Our foot is on the altar and the shrine 
 Of a deposed Divinity. Rejoice, 
 All ye to whom, in us, hath been reveal'd 
 The bridals of the Better Day ! Eejoice ! 
 
 CHORUS OF WOMEN. 
 Blessed thou among women, O bride 
 
 And beloved of the Prophet ! Lo, we, 
 Thy sisters, exult in the pride 
 
 Of ourselves consecrated in thee ! 
 
186 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH I r . 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Hark ! I proclaim a new world ! a new God ! 
 The People's God : the God of Happiness, 
 Pleasure, and Plenty ! The old God of Sorrow 
 Sinks, with the ruins of a world of tears, 
 Smit by the Light of .Reason, to the abyss ! 
 Blood must wash out the traces of past pain, 
 And we will dig the earth with graves to hold 
 The griefs that have been walking to and fro 
 Upon her surface till they grew too many. 
 Those that would save the altars of the Past 
 Shall perish on them. I have prophesied. 
 
 CHORUS OF MEN. 
 Destroy'd are the temples of Pride and Oppression ! 
 
 And unmorticed the hands from the bodies of those 
 Who built them of old. We have offer'd Priests' 
 
 flesh on 
 
 Each fane whence the Priest hath bless'd Liberty's 
 foes 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Mine eagle ! mine eagle ! yet fulfil 
 Thine auguries of old ! Mine Eagle, rise ! 
 And of the bones of all these murderers 
 I will rebuild anew the Church of Christ ! 
 
 A MULTITUDE OF YoiCES, 
 
 Liberty, Liberty, and Happiness ! 
 Pleasure, and Love ! Hourrah ! hourrah ! 
 
 CHORUS OF PRIESTS. 
 
 Where now 
 Are the Kings, and the Princes, and Priests, 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 187 
 
 With their mitres, and sceptres, and ermine, 
 Who prey'd on the People like beasts ? 
 
 CHORUS OF ASSASSINS. 
 We have .made a clear house of the vermin ! 
 
 FIRST ASSASSIN. 
 I slew the first king ! 
 
 SECOND ASSASSIN. 
 I the second ! 
 
 THIRD ASSASSIN. 
 
 I 
 The third ! 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 ' Be ye exalted, in the day 
 Of exaltation, men of the red hand ! 
 For ye among the chosen have been chosen, 
 And ye among the saints are sainted most ! 
 
 CHORUS OF ASSASSINS. 
 Through midnight, a midnight band, 
 Do we walk the troubled land, 
 With the knife hid in the hand. 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Daughter of Liberty, awake ! arise ! 
 Sleepest thou, Daughter? Sleep no more, no more ! 
 
 (The Thunder bursts overhead .) 
 Hark ! The free elements, the everlasting 
 Sublime Destroyers, call to us ! ... to us, 
 The Children of Destruction ! we that are 
 As thunder and as lightning searching earth 
 
188 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 To desolate, and purify with fire ! 
 
 The Ignorance of Nations hath ascribed 
 
 To our free kindred of the skies, till now, 
 
 Co-partnership with human Slavery : 
 
 And, in the various fablings of mankind, 
 
 The thunder ever was the slave of Power. 
 
 First, antique Kronos, then Olympian Zeus, 
 
 And last, the Christian's Triple Tyrant, claim' d 
 
 Dominion of the desolating bolt. 
 
 Yet is it, rather, Nature in revolt 
 
 That frets her old confine, and utters forth 
 
 These revolutionary voices, dash'd 
 
 From the deep heart of discontent, and streaks 
 
 The sky with fiery protest ! 
 
 Wake ! Arise ! 
 
 Oh ! if the thunders ever served the gods, 
 Then serve they, now, that New Divinity 
 Whose ministers we are ! But they are free 
 Of the free heaven, as we of the free earth. 
 For there is no more God in Heaven, and soon 
 On earth there will be no more worshippers ! 
 
 OEVAL. 
 
 There was a time, if I had heard this noise 
 In heaven, I would have held it for a sign, 
 And cried . . . God wakes ! Beware ! 
 
 But Thou, God, 
 
 Hast Thou, Thyself, in Thine eternal toil 
 At setting things to rights, which presently 
 Go wrong again, hast Thou, too, lived to feel 
 What to Thy creature is the last result 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 189 
 
 Of Thy grand gift of life, this weary longing 
 For utter self-forgetfulness ? 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 Through every hideous mask of yon mad dance 
 Still must I recognize the mocking eyes 
 Of mine own hopes ? those phantoms of my youth 
 That, in life's unattainable distance seen, 
 Once seem'd so fair, changed, by what wicked spell, 
 To gross and foul realities ; which yet, 
 Even in their basest degradation, keep 
 (Like fallen and degenerate Spirits, transform' d 
 Into the mimics of their former selves 
 On that infernal stage where imps of Hell 
 Are apes of Heaven) strange semblance horrible 
 Of their original beauty ! 
 
 Fearful Shape, 
 
 Whose maniac mouth with bloody spume is smear'd, 
 And round whose lurid robe is LICEN CE writ, 
 Fell Antic, marshalling this monstrous Masque ! 
 Art thou not she that, clad in glorious beams, 
 Fair as the Future, solemn as the Past, 
 And far as both from life's dull Present, once 
 Stood o'er me, murmuring " I am LIBERTY " ? 
 And thou, grim Giant with the gory club 
 And brutish brow, methinks through all disguise 
 I know thy face, though fairer face was thine 
 When first I hail'd and named thee BROTHERHOOD, 
 And with rash voice, invoked thee from afar, 
 Whom, being come, I loathe ! Oh, Circe's wand 
 Is on us here ! and noble Spirits, that sail'd 
 Bold over perilous seas to win life's prize, 
 
190 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 From heroes turn'd to hogs and wolves, with howl 
 And grunt proclaim the moral of their lives 
 Whom love of beauty lured, from their safe home 
 In happy human carelessness of life's 
 Eternal incompleteness, to pursue 
 Impossible Ideals. We are fool'd 
 By time, and plagued with granted prayers. Hence- 
 forth 
 
 Let man, whose realm is in the Actual, leave 
 To the great God, what, by the greedy grasp 
 Of his impatient passion, man destroys, 
 The Ideal Beauty ! I am sick of hope. 
 
 (The storm increases?) 
 
 What ? you untutor'd Spirits of the Storm, 
 Have ye learn'd nothing from your past defeats ? 
 To-morrow, will you be fast chain'd again : 
 To-morrow, the old forces, the old forms, 
 The old legitimate authorities 
 That keep things in their places, will come back, 
 And, laughing, look you out of countenance ! 
 Then must you be humiliated much 
 By smiling heavens, mock'd by little breezes, 
 And baffled by a sunbeam ! Wretched rebels, 
 Boll on ! you can get nothing by this noise. 
 I, too, know these hysterics. Be at peace ! 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Daughter of Liberty, come forth ! Descend ! 
 
 Now must we march once more our midnight rounds, 
 
 To institute Destruction in the House 
 
 Of this Old God that by the People's voice 
 
 Hath been deposed. Forth ! forth ! Awake, I say ! 
 

 SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 191 
 
 THE GIRL (awaking], 
 
 For tliee ! . . for thee . . . and all mankind ... I burn 
 With love . . . with love ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Who is the giant yonder 
 
 That bars their progress, with his brawny bnlk ? 
 A mere youth, yet a giant ! Mark him now. 
 He is speaking with your Prophet. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Hell and devils ! 
 By all that's desperate, 'tis he ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 'Tis who ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 The Modern Brutus. And they come this way. 
 We are both dead men ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Thou poor poltroon ! hide here 
 Under my cloak .... But, if thou shakest thus, 
 I'll strangle thee ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 For mercy's sake, away ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No ! I will see this farce out to the end. 
 What are those women, dancing in the ruins, 
 Among the smouldering embers, robed like queens ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Those yonder ? They are Countesses, Princesses, 
 
192 ORVAL ; OE, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 Great ladies that have left their wedded lords, 
 And have embraced the New Beligion, here. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Methinks I could weep now, if this were not 
 The very scorn of scorn ! O women ! women, 
 Whom we have loved, and honour'd, ay ! and served,- 
 Loved with the loyal heart of honest man, 
 That fears no falsehood where he trusts all truth ! 
 Honour'd on knightly knee, with tender homage, 
 Half deified with holy poesies, 
 And held unsullied in the secretest shrine 
 Of things divine within us ! . . Served, ah God ! 
 Served with the soldier's sword, the poet's pen, 
 And all the thousand nameless services 
 Of silent adoration, that make strong 
 The better portion of men's days and deeds ! 
 Were ye not mothers, daughters, sisters, wives ? 
 Our mothers, and our daughters, and our sisters ? 
 And we almost have worship 'd you as angels ! 
 Why then, . . . why then, God bless my Grandmother ! 
 For we will yet be merry. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 They are firing 
 The chancel yonder ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What, then, do we fight for? 
 Homes without love, hearths without honour left ! 
 Veronica, thy pure soul is in Heaven. 
 I am glad of it ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 193 
 
 A VOICE FROM BENEATH. 
 
 Now for an epitaph, 
 Pious, pathetic, but yet not too long ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Peace, mocker ! or speak only to my mind. 
 My heart thou knowest not. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 They pour this way ! 
 We are dead men. Curse this aristocrat, 
 For he will be the death of me ! 
 
 THE PROPHET (advancing, and to Orval). 
 How, Brother ? 
 
 What art thou, that dost look thus sad and haughty ? 
 Why art thou not, here, in the midst of us ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Lost ! lost ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 I am of the Destroyers also. 
 
 PROPHET. 
 Whence ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Prom a distant Brotherhood, new come. 
 I saw your fires far off, and folio w'd them. 
 
 THE MODERN BRUTUS. 
 Who is thy fellow ? wherefore doth he hide 
 His head, thus, in thy cloak ? 
 
194 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 My younger brother. 
 A vow is on him, not to show his face 
 Till he hath murder'd at the least, a Baron. 
 
 PROPHET. . 
 And whom hast tliou slain, Brother ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I was sworn, 
 
 Only upon the eve of my departure 
 From Spain, a member of the Spanish Club. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 For whom, then, hast thou destin'd the first blow 
 Of thy yet unslaked steel and virgin hand ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 For thee ! if thou betrayest us. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 Good ! good ! 
 Here, Brother, take my dagger. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Brother, mine 
 Will serve the purpose. 
 
 CHORUS OF ASSASSINS. 
 
 Live the Modern Brutus ! 
 Live the Assassin of the Spanish Club ! 
 
 CHORUS OF POETS. 
 Little leg to little foot : 
 And now a little body to 't : 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 195 
 
 Little face to little feature : 
 We have made a little creature. 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Next a little claw, to fight with, 
 And a little tooth, to bite with, 
 And a little paunch to fit. 
 Who knows what may come of it ? 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Though the limbs be small and pliant, 
 They may grow, and make a giant. 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Give it, now, a little tongue ; 
 
 And a little word to utter. 
 It will talk when it grows strong. 
 
 Hark ! the lips begin to mutter. 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Though the voice be faint and weak, 
 Earth shall shake when it can speak. 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Make it little wings, to fly 
 Over earth and over sky ; 
 Wings shall sprout on either shoulder : 
 It shall soar when it grows older. 
 
 o 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Wings of butterfly just now : 
 Wings of eagle soon will grow. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Choose we now a little name 
 
 To call tlie little creature by, 
 And be sure 'tis still the same 
 
 When it waxes stout and high. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Nay ! no name yet. Let it be 
 Naked, nameless, wing'd, and free 
 
 As the Son of Cytherea 
 When to Psyche's couch came lie : 
 
 Felt, not seen, a young Idea! 
 
 VOICES IN THE DISTANCE. 
 Away ! the breeze that's in the trees 
 
 Hath warn'd us not to stay. 
 The dark grows thin. The birds begin. 
 
 The dawn's at hand. Away ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 The night is ending. 
 
 DISTANT VOICES. 
 
 To the East ! the East ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 The forest will be emptied in an hour. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 But who come yonder ? 
 
 NOVICE. . 
 
 We shall presently 
 Distinguish their appearance. They approach us. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 197 
 
 CHORUS OF PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 From its helpless infancy 
 
 In the film-eyed ages, we 
 Have Ayean'd the Human Eace, my friend : 
 
 Nurst the bantling on the knee 
 
 Of divine Philosophy ; 
 
 Taught the child its A,B,C. 
 And given it a name and a place, my friend. 
 
 Now the course o' the world is free, 
 And we are the first in the race, my friend ! 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Like a long-delay 'd sunrise 
 
 That all at length, and all at once, 
 Leaps among the cloven chasms 
 Of the Dawn, in sudden spasms 
 Of inextinguishable laughter, 
 Till all the wonder over-runs 
 
 The riven East with red surprise, 
 And every cloud that roof'd the skies 
 Burns like a blazing rafter, 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Even so, though sunken long 
 In gulfs of darkness, down among 
 
 The old benighted centuries, 
 To our invocation wakes 
 The Light of Truth with a heart of fire, 
 
 Eagle plumes and sanguine eyes ; 
 And with a sudden splendour takes 
 
 Earth and skies, to so comprise 
 A whole world's long desire ! 
 
198 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Like a trumpet sounding on 
 Men to die at Marathon, 
 Like the clash of sword on shield, 
 Triumphing the trampled field, 
 Clash'd on purple plains Platsean, 
 Hark ! from hill to hill, the pa3an 
 
 Of the People's Liberty ! 
 Comrade of the conquering cause, 
 Whom the gust of combat draws 
 
 Out of darken'd lands, on high 
 Lo ! the light of larger laws 
 
 Flooding all Futurity ! 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Pilgrim from the land of night, 
 Superstition's home for ages, 
 Thou, lured hither by the light 
 Pour'd by us upon the pages 
 Of the ancient Book of Life, 
 Thou shalt open with a knife 
 What was sealed from the sight 
 Of the schools and of the sages. 
 
 DISTANT VOICES. 
 
 Hark hark ! the watch-dogs bark ! 
 
 The east is growing grey. 
 The red cock is crowing, hark ! 
 
 Comrades, come away ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 199 
 
 AN ASSASSIN. 
 
 Hail to thee, comrade ! hark ! . . . I drink thy health 
 In this old skull of an old Saint. Good-night ! 
 (He throws the skull to Orval, and passes.} 
 
 CHORUS OF ASSASSINS. 
 
 The arrow flieth in the noon. 
 The sickness walks below the moon, 
 And so walk we. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Brother follow ! through the hollow 
 Night thy comrades call to thee ! 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Hist ! hist ! The moon's in a mist. 
 There is a ghost walking over the lea. 
 Well I wist what he hides in his fist, 
 For he mutters and talks 
 To himself as he walks, 
 But he doth not wish that the world should see. 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Over wood and over water, 
 Hark ! I hear the howlet's daughter 
 
 (He hath daughters three !) 
 Call her sisters, " Come and slaughter 
 
 The rats in the hollow tree. 
 We may do as we list, for the moon's in a mist, 
 And nobody now can see." 
 
200 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 When the night had kill'd the day, 
 I did hear the lion say 
 To the leopard . . . " Come away, 
 Brother leopard ! here is prey." 
 
 FIRST SEMI-CHORUS. 
 I have seen the Destroyer, the Angel 
 That beareth the final evangel, 
 
 Descending with blood on his wings, 
 
 To purchase of priests and of kings 
 The earth for a burial-ground, 
 
 To bury the Old Dead God. 
 He survey 'd it, and measured it round 
 
 And across with his measuring rod. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 As the dog-fish through the dark 
 
 Of his dismal world doth sail, 
 Never swerving from his mark, 
 
 Where he tracketh a sick whale ; 
 Even so, do we go 
 Up and down, and to and fro 
 By a road without a name, 
 With a meaning and an aim, 
 
 And a hate that shall not fail. 
 Following still, and still pursuing, 
 Over regions red with ruin, 
 Evermore some kings undoing, 
 
 Speed we on our trail ! 
 
 DISTANT VOICES. 
 The wan stars sink beneath the brink 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 201 
 
 Where the cold-tided day 
 Whitens night's shore, arid still flows o'er 
 Faint, but how fast ! Away ! 
 
 FIRST DANCING GIRL. 
 Kill for me, Brother, Prince Lois ! 
 
 SECOND DANCING GIRL. 
 And kill for me, Brother, Duke John ! 
 
 FIRST DANCING GIRL. 
 Go to, thou, with thy noise ! 
 Let the old one be first made away with ! 
 
 DANCING CHILDREN. 
 Goodman knave ! we have broken our toys. 
 Bring us the head of a noble to play with, 
 Or the crown of a king . . . what fun ! 
 
 CHORUS OF ARTISTS. 
 Here's a new temple to build, my friend, 
 
 The People's new Faith, to enshrine it : 
 And we, the men of the modern guild, my friend, 
 
 We are the folks to design it. 
 
 FIRST ARTIST. 
 Gothic is out of date. 
 
 SECOND ARTIST. 
 And nobody cares for Byzantine. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 No ! Let it be something great, 
 
 Stately, and elephantine ! 
 Builded strong shall be every column, 
 
202 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Of twelve dead kings in a circle solemn : 
 And the capitals shall be bossy and full, 
 Each boss made out of a noble's skull. 
 And the gory locks shall drip evermore 
 Rare tracery red of the richest gore ! 
 Art is immortal, 'tis true, my friend ! 
 
 But meanwhile, sometimes her servants starve. 
 Now we have found something new,, my friend, 
 
 Better than marble to cut and carve. 
 (They pass}. 
 
 DISTANT VOICES. 
 
 The night is passing : the dawn is at hand. 
 Hasten away, o'er the wasted land ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Away, my lord, away ! the ground is clear. 
 We may escape unnoticed. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Silence, cur! 
 
 Once more, once more ere I depart, once more 
 Seek, my soul, to compass palpably, 
 And set before thee in a single shape, 
 Distinct to thought, the whole circumference 
 Of this infernal chaos, which some fiend 
 Frees roaring from the riven womb of Time 
 To overwhelm creation ! 
 
 What hath made 
 
 This brute beast tame hath made me fierce. 'Tis well ! 
 Oh I had need enough of this strong wine, 
 To wake the drowsy heart that in me dwells, 
 And sting my spirit back to life again ; 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 203 
 
 For, by the mass I it is a weaiy world, 
 
 And I am sick of watching it ! so sick, 
 
 I would be well content to sleep it out, 
 
 Even as God doth ! But I thank thee, Scorn, 
 
 For thou hast made me man ! Come, Horror ! come, 
 
 And harrow all my heart ! Come, bitter Eage, 
 
 And wring me to the nerve, that I may roar 
 
 Defiance, till I crack the sleepy doors 
 
 Of Heaven's indifferent Justice, and break up 
 
 This maddening silence ! Resolution come, 
 
 Though from the midriff of Despair, and mail 
 
 My manhood up in iron purposes ! 
 
 O for one echo of the Fiat, heard 
 
 In Heaven, what time the Sons of Morning sang 
 
 To see the cosmic beauty of a world 
 
 Forth issuing from the formless infinite ! 
 
 He that should ever hear within himself 
 
 That word of God re-echoed from the Past, 
 
 And save thereof one syllable of Power 
 
 To re-create creation . . . soul of mine, 
 
 That man would be ... 
 
 VOICE FROM BELOW. 
 
 A little God -Almighty ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Who spoke then ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 Nay, not I. Let us away. 
 
 OEVAL. 
 
 Well ! if it be not mine, the nobler part, 
 To heal and to regenerate, be it mine, 
 
204 
 
 ORVAL ; OR, 
 
 [EPOCH iv. 
 
 What yet remains, to crush, and to subdue ! 
 Ay ! when the lion dies, why let the bees 
 Build houses and make honey in his carcase. 
 The lion lives, though ; and his heart in me 
 Is^ beating yet ! 0, swift, mine eagle, swift 
 And fierce thy flight be ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Dawn is breaking yonder. 
 And I shall die of ague in these dews. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Let us descend, then. Put me on my way, 
 And I will free thee, when we reach the valley. 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 Where wilt thou drag me, through this boiling mist ? 
 Halt ! I can go no further. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 March ! Down there 
 
 The torch-fires dwindle in the vaporous dells : 
 The cries and songs of last mad night's mad revel 
 Paint off along the forest. 
 
 (The dawn becomes faintly visible. A pale light creeps 
 over the scene, and the mists begin to rise and move.} 
 
 Dost thou mark 
 
 Upon yon white and rolling vapours borne 
 Among the haggard forest trees, whence yet 
 The night-dews drip, pale shadows passing by ? 
 Hear'st thou no moan upon the morning air ? 
 
 NOVICE. 
 I see not anything but the raw mists : 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 205 
 
 Hear nothing but the tumbling stone that falls 
 Prom precipice to precipice beneath us. 
 Come ! or we shall be founder'd in the fog ! 
 
 SPIRITS PASSING IN THE MlST. 
 
 Mourn for the Dead Christ, mourn ! 
 
 Where have they buried our Lord ? 
 In the heart of the mad world's scorn ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah God, for my horse, and my sword ! 
 I will hew Thee a cross out of every tree, 
 To crucify them that have crucified Thee ! 
 
 THE SPIRITS (passing). 
 By the shrines, among the tombs, 
 
 Was our blissful twilight dwelling. 
 Through the glories and the glooms, 
 Did our bosoms bear the swelling 
 Silver psalm, and the sonorous 
 Anthem's solemn- chanted chorus, 
 
 And the organ's deep Amen, 
 From the golden pipes out-welling 
 
 Music to the hearts of men. 
 Whither shall we seek new dwelling, 
 Sisters ? 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE BELLS. 
 Ah, there is no telling ! 
 All the world is changed since then. 
 Prom the swallow-swarmed steeple, 
 Prom our homes in happy bells, 
 To the hearts of faithful people 
 Over fields, and floods, and fells, 
 
206 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Did our white wings, music-haunted, 
 Bear sweet invocations, chaunted 
 
 By the silver Sabbath chimes ; 
 And in lonely forests daunted 
 
 Savage creatures from their crimes. 
 Now our homes are ruin'd wholly : 
 Now our haunts are no more holy : 
 And we wander, sadly, slowly, 
 
 Tenants of the troubled times. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE CASEMENTS. 
 We, that lived among the gleaming 
 Garments of the sworded Saints, 
 
 In a rose and amber glory ; 
 We, that sail'd the purple-streaming 
 Pageant, which the sunset paints 
 With a martyr's mighty story 
 On the calm Cathedral floor, 
 
 Underneath the flaming casement, 
 
 When the day is downward stealing : 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE DOME. 
 
 We, that hung and hover'd o'er 
 Angels smiling sweet amazement 
 Prom the golden-misted ceiling, 
 In the glowing dome above ; 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE AISLES. 
 
 We, that shifted soft surprises 
 Of still light, where sinks or rises, 
 
 Through the palely-pillar'd grove 
 Shade of morning or of even ; 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 207 
 
 CHORAL SPIRITS. 
 Now upon the winds of heaven 
 Lurid-lighted with red levin, 
 Hither, hither, dimly driven, 
 
 Down the darkness do we move. 
 (The sun rises.) 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah, the sun rises ! in whose golden beam 
 
 Their forms are melted from my sight. And now 
 
 They fade away across the pine-tree tops ! 
 
 NOVICE. 
 There is the valley. Yonder lies your road. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 blessed dawn of day ! O blowing breeze 
 Of the fresh morning ! hail, thrice hail to ye ! 
 
 Now .... JESU, AND MY SWORD ! 
 
 Here fellow, take 
 
 The symbol and the thing together. Keep them. 
 Thou hast earn'd both. 
 (Throws a purse, with the Cap of Liberty, to the Novice?) 
 
 NOVICE. 
 
 I have your Lordship's word 
 Pledged to his safety, who shall visit you 
 To-night. But ... 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Tush ! away ! We gentlemen 
 
208 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Break not our promise . . . JESU, AND MY SWORD ! 
 
 VOICES (answering from tlie valley). 
 MARIA, AND OUR SWORDS ! Long live our lord ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Pare thee well, Citizen ! Thou to thine own, 
 And mine to me. I do not envy, sir, 
 The knave that owns you. 
 
 Jesu, and Maria ! 
 Jesu Maria, and our swords ! 
 
 Friend, welcome ! 
 (He descends the valley.} 
 
 SCENE V. Early morning. Valley and Woodland in the 
 domain of Orval. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Through the deep quietness of these old woods 
 
 I walk un welcomed. The offended flowers 
 
 Look on me, like the faces of lost friends. 
 
 Yet there is nothing I have won from life, 
 
 Nor anything I yet may hope to win, 
 
 That's worth to me what in the winning it 
 
 I have flung away the friendship of such things ! 
 
 THE VOICE OF MURIEL (singing from the heart of 
 the wood}. 
 
 The ivy hangs and the violet blows 
 
 Above and beneath in the bright June weather. 
 I breathe the breath of the bramble rose, 
 
 And I and the sweet birds sing together. 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 209 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 all that's left my of lost youth ! How like 
 The music of the dirge of my dead heart 
 Sounds thy glad matin song to these sad ears ! 
 
 THE VOICE OF MURIEL (singing). 
 Sing, happy bird, and rebuke the world 
 
 For its foolish cares and its empty deeds, 
 And its gods of clay and of gold, whose cmi'd 
 
 Hot incense Tophet with darkness feeds. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Blind ! and I pitied, who now envy him ! 
 
 THE VOICE OF MURIEL. 
 Mine eyes are shut : but my heart is not. 
 
 And my spirit feels what your eyes see merely, 
 The mighty mirth of our mother Earth, 
 
 When the glory of God on her face shines clearly. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Poor flower, thou know'st not thou art perishing ! 
 you inexorable unjust Powers 
 That mock us with your seeming leave to choose 
 The paths on which you thrust us headlong, why, 
 Why have you ever whirl' d my life away 
 From all love's holding-places ? 
 
 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL (above). 
 
 Foolish child ! 
 
 Chide not the nursing hand that stole away, 
 To save for Love, the toys Love else had broken. 
 
 p 
 
210 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What hath Love been to me ? The Impossible. 
 And still for ever, The Impossible ! 
 What was it that my vain youth loved ? a dream, 
 A phantom, ever beckoning me away 
 To deserts, where it left me lone . . . 
 
 THE YOICE. 
 
 The Past. 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And now, life's journey well nigh o'er ; when, tired, 
 I can scarce further fare, and fain would rest, 
 What's left for love to linger on ? a child : 
 A life for ever beyond mine . . . 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 
 The Future. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 What, then, am I ? ' 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 The Present. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Mystic Voice, 
 
 That dost mine inmost questionings answer thus, 
 Yet further answer, What art thou ? 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 
 The hour, 
 Orval, is not far off when thou shalt know. 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 211 
 
 SCENE VI. Night. The Tent of Panurge. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Wait me by the witch elm. And if thou hear 
 A pistol-shot, fired from the Castle, bring 
 Thy fellows to the rescue. Otherwise 
 Wait me till dawn. 
 
 MODERN BRUTUS. 
 
 O head of all our hopes ! 
 Once more I do conjure thee 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Tush! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Yet think 
 
 'Tis an aristocrat the worst of all, 
 And the most desperate. Thou goest alone. 
 He, in the centre of his strength, is arm'd. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Go to ! Go to ! This Old Nobility 
 Breaks not its word of honour. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 But ... 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 The Prince 
 
 Of Darkness hath his commendable points, 
 His courtesies, and his punctilios. 
 
 p 2 
 
212 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 We all must trust the Devil himself sometimes. 
 Farewell till dawn. Ho ! lights without there ! 
 Watch. (Exit.) 
 
 SCENE VII. Night. Manorial Hall in the Castle of Orval. 
 Arms, blazons, and family portraits along the walls. In the 
 foreground a marble table lighted by a brazen lamp. On the 
 table a chart outspread, and beside the chart a sword and 
 pistols, richly jewelled. In the background a smaller table, 
 carved and gilded; the coverlet splendidly embroidered. 
 Thereon a silver wine flagon and goblets. One side of the 
 scene is closed by a carved screenwork, through which is the 
 entrance to the hall, an open archway hung with tapestried 
 curtains. On the other side a vast hearth, surmounted by an 
 antique clock. ORVAL is seated at the table studying the chart. 
 He looks up as the hand of the dial points to midnight. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Midnight ! It was, methinks, at this same hour, 
 
 Upon the eve of battle and of death, 
 
 That the last Brutus, if the tale be true, 
 
 Beheld his Evil Genius. I await 
 
 A like encounter, haply a like fate ; 
 
 Who, ere that unreturning traveller, Time, 
 
 Add to lost hours this night's now neighbour' d noon, 
 
 Here in my fathers' hall must, face to face, 
 
 Behold a being of no fathers' born ; 
 
 A man without a birthplace or a name, 
 
 An apparition from the immense abyss 
 
 Of nothingness arisen (who knows ?) to be 
 
 Perchance the father of an age not mine ; 
 
 If I, lone champion of the kingly past, 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 213 
 
 Whose ghostly armies are the dead and gone, 
 
 Whose battle-cry is a world's epitaph, 
 
 Now fail to hmi this human portent back 
 
 Into the blackness of the bottomless pit, 
 
 From whence it issues. I ? Ay, there's the point 
 
 Where stealthy thought creeps in to steal the heart 
 
 Of hardiest enterprise. What is my blood 
 
 To consecrate ? Or is it yet so well 
 
 Worth saving from the slough wherein it sinks, 
 
 This marrowless and miserable frame 
 
 Of things, that styles itself Society ? 
 
 The unkingly tenancy of kingly thrones, 
 
 The coalesced and concrete egotisms 
 
 Of Class, the unintelligence of Power, 
 
 The Church's great uncharity, and all 
 
 The organized hypocrisy of things ! 
 
 Can man's wit cheat, against such desperate odds, 
 
 Nature's remorseless wisdom ? Am I not 
 
 Leading a self-surrender'd host to fight 
 
 For an already-abdicated cause ? 
 
 It may be. I devote myself to death 
 
 For that which haply cannot live. So be it ! 
 
 Why, this is as I will. This is my strength, 
 
 This the respect that saves my self-respect. 
 
 For what I do, I do because I must, 
 
 With manly made-up mind, foursquare to fate, 
 
 Possessing perfectly what is mine own, 
 
 The deed ; and careless of what is not mine, 
 
 Fate's dealing with it after it is done. 
 
 To calculate the gain or loss of it, 
 
 That would spoil all. What's failure ? or success ? 
 
 Nothing. They have no value in themselves. 
 
214 ORVAL ; on, [EPOCH iv 
 
 They are base counters. What gives worth to them 
 
 Is just the so much of a man's own self 
 
 As he can stake upon them. Any man 
 
 May be a martyr to whatever cause 
 
 Can pay the price of martyrs' crowns. But he 
 
 That's martyr to his faith in martyrdom, 
 
 And gives himself to death, because he deems 
 
 To die for any cause is, in itself, 
 
 A nobler thing than any cause men die for, 
 
 That man hath surely won the perfect palm, 
 
 And I will win it ! Were it possible 
 
 To contemplate success as being made 
 
 The measure of the value of the act 
 
 And its prescribed repayment, I might pause. 
 
 For who that champions any human hope 
 
 Through life's inhuman battle could accept, 
 
 Here in the witness of Eternal God, 
 
 Unscared, the dread responsibility 
 
 Of being answerable for success ? 
 
 But loyalty to failure is at least 
 
 Absolved from shame, whatever be the event. 
 
 Souls of my dead forefathers, me, an arm'd 
 
 Lone watcher by your knightly tombs, inspire 
 
 With that undaunted scorn of doubt that once 
 
 I' the wondrous ages whence, with duteous rites, 
 
 My spirit invokes ye, did inspire yourselves 
 
 To those high deeds whereof I am the heir ! 
 
 Last of the lion-hearts whose lordly life 
 
 Once fill'd those hollow images of men 
 
 With helmed heads from yonder wall down bent 
 
 Above my own, sole guardian of the hearth 
 
 Which your renown makes honourable yet, 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 215 
 
 Sole resolute remnant of your race and mine, 
 Fallen upon times that are not ours, behold 
 In me whatever now remains on earth 
 To represent your virtues and your faults ! 
 
 (Clock strikes?) 
 Be nigh me now ! I am prepared. 
 
 MASTER ANDREW (entering?) 
 
 My lord, 
 The man that was expected is arrived. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Admit him. 
 
 PANTJKGE (entering?) 
 
 'Give good even to your lordship ! 
 
 (Exit Master Andrew^} 
 Taith, I am ill at ceremonious turns 
 Of language, phrases, titles ! 
 
 (Throws down his cap and mantle ; and, gazing round 
 him, eyes impatiently the arms and portraits on the 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Sir, be -seated ! 
 
 I thank you for the faith you have reposed 
 In the reputed honour of this roof; 
 And thus, after the fashion of my fathers, 
 I pledge my guest. 
 
 (Goes to the table in the background; pours wine ; and 
 offers a gollet to Panurge?) 
 
216 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 PANURGE (taking the goblet mechanically; Ms eye still 
 fixed on the armorial bearings, ~c.}. 
 
 Humph ! ha ! .... If I mistake not, 
 Yon daub of red and blue along the wall 
 Is, in the language of the dead and buried, 
 Call'd an escutcheon. 'Tis a kind of painting 
 Will soon be out of fashion. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Sir, all fashions 
 
 That go come back again. What seems the newest 
 Is but the oldest, which, when it returns, 
 Is least remember'd : God having been pleased 
 To economize the invention of mankind. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 There spoke the son o' the Old Nobility ! 
 I know the man .... opinionated, proud, 
 Arrogant, supercilious, nice in speech, 
 Keckless in deed, self-confident : whose thoughts 
 Are brazen gods the braggart Vanity, 
 That makes them, worships : and the man himself, 
 Her proselyte, prays to them never more 
 Than when no soldier in the field, no coin 
 Is left him in the coffer. Desperate men 
 Are ever frantic in their trust in God, 
 Not finding in themselves what can be trusted. 
 Their fears are fathers to their faiths. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 All force 
 Begins in fear ; else fear were purposeless : 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 217 
 
 The force of forethrift in the fear of want, 
 The force of honour in the fear of shame. 
 But who fears God of all men least fears man. 
 Belief is nourisht at the mother breast 
 Of Providence : the beggar Unbelief 
 Lives on the alms of Fortune. 
 
 PANUEGE. 
 
 Show me, then, 
 
 But so much only as the nether spark 
 Of that fire-barbed bolt which is to fall, 
 Blasting the rabble and republican heads 
 Of our stark -naked unbelieving host ; 
 Or but a feather of the wings of one 
 Of all those harness'd angels that are pledged, 
 Upon the invocation of your priests, 
 To smite our revolutionary ranks 
 And raise the siege about your harass'd halls. 
 Bid the bolt fall, or bid the angel smite : 
 And if, by fast or prayer, cross sign'd, hymn sung, 
 Or any other pious conjuring, 
 Thou canst compel them to perform the task 
 Assign'd them by the priesthood of thy faith, 
 Be that faith mine, Lord Orval ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Friend, methinks 
 Thy humour lacks originality. 
 So old is Atheism, and so stale 
 That creed's vocabulary, I confess 
 That I had hoped speech newer from the man 
 Of the new epoch. 
 
218 ORYAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV, 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Tut ! all speech is trash 
 That takes transmitted value from the man 
 That speaks it, as from what to speak it moves him 
 He takes his own. Be what I represent, 
 Not how I represent it, thy concern. 
 My creed and its vocabulary both, 
 If old, are also new, as nature. Cries 
 Of half a world's intolerable wrong, 
 The wail of unrequited toil, the moan 
 Of martyr'd patience, the tumultuous shout 
 For knowledge from long-pining Ignorance pour'd, 
 The howl of human hunger, and the shriek 
 Of irrepressible protest, power no more 
 Can stifle in the angry heart of man, 
 Demanding recognition of a race 
 In prejudice imprison'd, dogg'd by doubt, 
 By fear tormented, and by custom bound 
 To bestial habitudes ; . . all these, light lord, 
 Are but the broken scatter'd utterances 
 Of that indignant Truth whose creed I preach, 
 Whose hand I arm, and whose retributive 
 Dominion trumpet-tongued I have proclaim'd 
 Above the annihilation of thine own ! 
 This is the faith of millions that in me 
 Hath found a voice. As for myself, the sole 
 Divinity that I acknowledge now 
 Is the all-procreant intellect that rules 
 This restless brain ; whose power, whate'er it be, 
 Suffices to give meat to starving mouths, 
 And hope to stricken hearts. Canst thou aver 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 219 
 
 The G-od thou worshipest hath ever been 
 As helpful to His worshippers ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The God 
 
 My sires before me worshipt, with the faith 
 Which they bequeathed unspotted to their son, 
 I worship still. And He, that gave to them 
 Power and glory in their days of pride, 
 To me hath given, in mine hour of trial, 
 Patience to bear^ and courage to withstand. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Nay, then, but I will swear thee, by the book 
 Of thy good deeds, thou dost a devil serve. 
 Leave we, however, these absurd disputes 
 Unto the theologians ; if, in truth, 
 There be yet theologians to dispute them. 
 To business, noble sir ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Speak. I am dumb 
 
 To learn the cause and object of this most 
 Unsought and unintelligible honour. 
 Citizen God, I wait thine oracle. 
 
 PANURGE (musingly). 
 Ay. Wherefore am I here . . . thou askest. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I? 
 
 Nay, sir, I did not question you. 
 
220 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Proud host, 
 
 I question then myself : and to myself 
 Make answer : first, because I wisht to know thee 
 As man may know man, and to judge of thee 
 As man may judge of man. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Licet videre 
 
 Virgilium ... an interest, Virgil shared, 
 Doubtless, with each Numidian lion last 
 Arrived in Rome . . . 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 In the next place, because 
 
 I wisht to save thee (do not frown, Lord Orval !) 
 As man would save man, if he could. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Save me ? 
 
 For thy first wish I thank thee. For the second 
 My thanks I needs must keep, sir, for my God, 
 And my good sword. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Thy sword ? thy God ? words, names, 
 Nothings ! But hearken. Multitudes of mouths 
 Shriek for thy blood. Strong hands, gaunt arms, are 
 
 stretcht 
 
 To seize thee. What is thy defence ? A few 
 Handfuls of men, ill arm'd, ill fed, a few 
 Handfuls of earth scant room for tall men's graves. 
 Where is thine ordnance? where thv foundries, stores 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 221 
 
 Of siege ? thy muniments of war ? Where, most 
 Of all, the valour of thy followers troops 
 They are not ? Where the manliness in whose 
 Behalf thou dost thy manhood sacrifice ? 
 Come, come ! I talk, my lord, to no blind fool, 
 No blundering blockhead. Were I in thy place, 
 I know what it were best that I should do. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Sir ! ... I am patient. . 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Well, then . . . hark ! Were I 
 Lord Orval, I would say to this man here, 
 This man that had a whim a trick o' the heart, 
 A start of nature call it what you will 
 To so think of me, that he came by night 
 Out of my foeman's camp, companionless, 
 With no guard but his faith in my good word, 
 To save my life . . . this man who offers me, 
 In the frank name of Friend, a title won 
 Prom something nobler than the gewgaws daub'd 
 On yonder garish wall . . a title, man, 
 Refused to thousands that revere him, even 
 As God, and follow him as Destiny, 
 Were I the man that you, Lord Orval, seem, 
 And you the friend I speak of I to him 
 Would say " Alliance between thee and me ! 
 Mine army I disband, my lordship keep, 
 Lands, manors, seignories, and titles all, 
 Upon the faith of his full-plighted word, 
 Who fearless trusted to my own his life." 
 Thine age, Lord Orval ? 
 
222 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Whatsoever age 
 
 Hath grace of God to be the least like yours, sir. 
 Inquisitor, what is mine age to thee ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Methinks, if nothing but the timely frost 
 Of life's eventual winter should in thee 
 Obstruct the springs of nature, they have yet, 
 Ere they shoot o'er the fall, some fifteen years 
 Through which to flow. For life in men like thee 
 Flows fast, and soon flows out. Thou should'st be 
 
 young. 
 
 On that pale face passion, not time, hath prey'd, 
 And thy frame, firmly mason'd in the form 
 Of noblest manhood, might defy decay 
 For yet another half of human life 
 Stretcht to the longest, if the life that frets 
 Its fiery channels through, those violent veins 
 Were of more sluggish element. 
 (He muses.} 
 
 So be it ! 
 
 Be one gap golden in the iron rule 
 Of the inexorable Necessity, 
 One head exempted from the curse of all ! 
 What harm in that ? No ! live, Lord Orval ! live 
 The last of all the nobles of this land ! 
 Keep thy broad fields and thine ancestral halls, 
 Thy bright excepted title keep. To us 
 Surrender but the drivellers, dotards, dolts 
 Of that doom'd class thou canst not save. Stand off, 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 223 
 
 Or at my side stand safe. Leave room and way 
 For the arm'd Justice of the Kevolution, 
 Whose victims, they : whose pontiffs I and thou, 
 Co-Caesars, partners in the purple robe 
 Of more than Roman power. To thee I pour 
 This first libation ! 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Grant me patience, Heaven ! 
 Sir, I have listen'd. Are we at the end ? 
 Each word that, in the pictured presences 
 Of my dead fathers, you have dared to speak 
 To me their son, has been an insult. Well, 
 I have listen'd. Have you more to add ? But no, 
 By Heaven, Citizen General, forbear ! 
 Patience is human, and must end at last. 
 Inflict no more upon my knowledge that 
 You stand here safe, sir, in my knightly word, 
 And under the asylum of my roof. 
 
 / 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Thy roof! thy word! Pride, thou hast many 
 
 names ! 
 
 What ? with the old and tatter'd rags long dropt 
 From the broad banner of Humanity, 
 Think'st thou to patch and purfle and trick out 
 The naked Vanity that still goes bare ? 
 Tinsel ! still tinsel ! and still shame behind ! 
 Man, man, there's life in that fast-swelling vein, 
 Warm life in that flusht brow and flashing eye. 
 And yet I tell thee all this vigorous life 
 
224 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Thou hast coupled to a corpse. Go to ! To me 
 Names are but nothings. Dost thou think I wince ? 
 No, for thou canst not look me in the face 
 And swear, by the oath of a gentleman, that thou 
 And thine deserve not death : and, after death, 
 Oblivion ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ha ! And thou and thine, what else 
 Have ye deserved ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Life ! Victory ! Hearken why. 
 There's but one law of things immutable, 
 Invincible. 'Tis that which doth compel 
 The world to pass out of one phase of life 
 Into another, and so ever on. 
 And by this law already thou and thine 
 Have been condemn'd, as old, weak, overfull, 
 To pass away, and so make room for us 
 That be young, strong, and hungry. Strive no more 
 With fate. Vce metis ! Yield ; for we must have. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Ah, boaster ! sole of mortal men, to thee 
 Hath Destiny her hidden mind reveal'd ? 
 That thou should'st menace me with victory ? 
 Thou man of clay, thou creature of a chance ! 
 Not less than all that are of woman born 
 Mark for the first ball in the battle-hour, 
 Or the first stroke of any sabre slasht 
 At hazard through the cannon's smoky breath ! 
 

 SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 225 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Do not deceive thyself, Lord Oval. Me 
 
 Fate, my wise mother, head and foot, hath dipt 
 
 In the invulnerable lake. Along 
 
 The paths I tread Chance walks not. Mortal foes 
 
 I scorn. Nor sword can strike, nor bullet pierce 
 
 Me that am mail'd in Nature's iron, until 
 
 My being shall have ceased to be to thine 
 
 A dread Necessity. When from my path 
 
 Hath perisht all obstruction, wheresoe'er 
 
 That path may lead me matters not. My work 
 
 Will have been done. But hark ! Time mocks at us. 
 
 (Clock strikes.} 
 
 Man, I must leave thee to thy fate. One word ! 
 If thou be weary of thine own life, still 
 Thou hast a son. Save him. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The safety, sir, 
 
 Of that pure soul is in God's keeping. Here, 
 On earth, the son's place is beside the sire. 
 (Buries Ms face in his hands.} 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Ay, meditate ! For meditation is 
 Fit neighbour to the grave. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Away, wild fool ! 
 
 Thou knowest not what passes here, nor canst ! 
 Sir, if in your low nature there be depths 
 
226 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 I fathom not, there yet are heights in mine 
 
 You cannot scale. Keep thou thy world. Leave 
 
 mine 
 To me. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 My world ? I have none. I keep nothing. 
 Slave of one thought, and bondsman to one form ! 
 With every impulse of my will I make, 
 And, having made, destroy a hundred worlds. 
 Nor can thy fancy image, even in dream, 
 My mind's unfrontier'd realm. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Abortion born 
 
 Of Nature in decline ! thy boasted sense 
 Is barren to conceive what is the strength 
 Of those whose noble fixity of faith 
 O'er fortune's fleeting sands is founded firm 
 Under the present in the solid past. 
 Look yonder on the images of those 
 Whose life in me is living. Scan their forms, 
 Their faces mark ! On every noble brow 
 The selfsame blood is eloquent : the same 
 High thought shines clear from every kingly eye. 
 That blood in me yet flows, and in my heart 
 That thought, the patriarchal heritage 
 Of honour'd lives, is resolute. But thou, 
 Man of the day that hath no yesterday, 
 Where is thy native land ? thy homestead where ? 
 Thy wandering tent is every evening pitcht 
 Upon the ruins of thy neighbour's hearth, 
 Thy march is every morn to rapine new. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 227 
 
 But home of thine thou hast not, wheresoe'er 
 Men honour yet the memory of their sires. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Honour their memory by all means ! Well 
 Have I been studying all this while, my lord, 
 The list of your illustrious ancestors. 
 See if I have not ..." mark'd their faces, scann'd 
 Their forms " exactly ! This grave Councillor 
 Grill'd Jews and roasted witches to the taste 
 Of priestly palates, the approved head-cook 
 And caterer to that cannibal, the Church. 
 Well, I admire the beard of him, and praise 
 The barber's skill that trimm'd it. This one here 
 Was a King's Chancellor, and had in charge 
 The Great Seal, and sign manual. They served him, 
 Upon occasion, to forge documents, 
 Falsify acts and deeds, buy judges, rob 
 The public treasure, and appropriate 
 The private property of lesser men. 
 Yonder fine fellow, with the soft black eyes, 
 White ruffles, and smooth chin, only seduced 
 The wives and daughters of his friends. But here 
 Comes next a Patriot who proudly wears 
 The Golden Pleece, which paid the services 
 Of his sword's hiring by the Spanish King. 
 That noble lady in the stainless silks, 
 With swanlike throat, and stately brow serene, 
 She was her footman's mistress. This one here, 
 With such a glory of gold curls, and such 
 Unstinted revelation of rich charms, 
 Was a king's concubine. Behold, my lord, 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 ORYAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 The spotless fountains of your lineage fair 
 And noble ! But the Judgment Day draws nigh. 
 And O be sure that we ignoble men, 
 Whose mean task is to ply the rope and axe, 
 Shall not forget these most illustrious lords, 
 Nor yet their worthy offspring. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Slanderer ! 
 
 Son of our serfs, thou liest in thy throat ! 
 Had not my noble fathers shelter'd thine, 
 Thou hadst not stood before me to blaspheme 
 Their honest names. And when, from out the herd 
 Of animal brutes they had for ages been, 
 Thy base begetters did at last begin 
 To emerge into humanity, it was 
 Our fathers that for thine built churches, schools, 
 And taught them human duties. Wretch ! thy curse, 
 Shatter'd, from off their ancient glory falls 
 As once of old in fragments fell the brand 
 Of the black Painim from the stainless shield 
 Of Christendom's pure Knighthood. Thee and thine, 
 Do I not know ye ? Sir, I have visited 
 Your rabble camp. I know you all. Your mad 
 Philosophers,. your atheistic priests, 
 Your consecrated murderers, horrible 
 And sexless harlots . . . under every mask 
 Of your abominable devil's dance 
 Last night, sir, I detected and I scorn'd 
 The face of every worn-out villany 
 And wither'd vice of the old world, smear'd o'er 
 With the coarse barbarous war-paint of the new. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 229 
 
 I heard your new songs, and I recognized 
 In all the same old burden, " Blood and gold ! " 
 " Kapine and wrong ! " But you, sir, you yourself 
 I saw not. Why ? Because you did not deign, 
 And rightly did not deign, sir, to descend 
 Prom where the folly of your worshippers 
 Above their heads, on your dishonest throne, 
 Hath raised you, back to your low native place 
 In the rank filth and ordure at their feet. 
 Because you, in your secret soul, despised 
 The dupes of your imposture. What remains ? 
 But if one spark of man yet in thee burns, 
 Look on my face, Panurge, 'tis the face 
 Of one whom thou canst neither dupe nor daunt, 
 And not less thoroughly despise thyself 
 Than those whom thou despisest. 
 
 (He seats himself, under the arms of his Family.} 
 
 PANURGE (musingly). 
 
 True. My world 
 Is not yet in the actual developed. 
 'Tis but the rough sketch of the future time. 
 An infant giant . . . must be nurst and taught : 
 It grows apace will grow up in good time 
 Prom cubhood into manhood. It hath need 
 Of nourishment care and it may be, too, 
 No gentle discipline. But mark me, Orval, 
 The time shall come when this brute world of mine 
 Will thoroughly acquire the consciousness 
 Of its existence as a fact in time 
 Indisputable : when it will cry out 
 " I AM ! " and then in all the universe 
 
230 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Of Nature shall no other voice be left 
 To answer " I am too." 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Well, sir ? and then ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 And then, Lord Orval, from the life in me 
 This night incarnate shall a race arise, 
 Such as the teeming earth has never yet 
 Eear'd from her fruitful bosom. Men as gods, 
 Knowing both good and evil : masters they 
 Both of themselves and of their home, this globe ; 
 Which globe itself shall be to them one vast 
 Palace of Pleasure, by the Spirits of Art 
 And Science rear'd into the golden light 
 Of the glad time, a happy fabric fair 
 In the wide-porched doors of whose serene 
 Dominion shall the elements of earth 
 And heaven await the bidding of their lords ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Thou liest, impostor ! and thy strain'd voice fails 
 To hit the pitch of inspiration. Slave 
 Of Keason, she thou servest hath sealed up 
 The springs of prophecy and oracle. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Man, interrupt me not ! Millions of hearts 
 Have hunger'd for this prophecy, vouchsafed 
 To thee alone. I tell thee, in that time, 
 Mankind shall commune with a god a god 
 Unlike to thine incapable of death 
 
SCENE VII .] THE FOOL OF TIME. 231 
 
 Wrench'd from the bosom of the vast unknown 
 By the strong toil and trouble infinite 
 Of centuries of unappeased desire. 
 From his long hiding-place in heaven at last 
 Torn down and welcomed to this world of theirs 
 By his stout human children, in the day 
 When man shall have attain' d the age at which 
 Knowledge of Truth is man's inheritance. 
 Then shall Humanity both save itself 
 And save its God. 
 
 OEVAL. 
 
 Blasphemer, centuries 
 Have flow'd already from the fount of time, 
 Since when the God, of whom thou feelest now 
 The inevitable necessity, revealed 
 Himself to those who, of his earthly sons, 
 Have eyes to see, or ears to hear. And ere 
 Thy birth was to the service of his foes 
 Permitted, by that God Humanity 
 Hath even from thee been saved. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 A brave god ! Count 
 The nigh two thousand years of human pain 
 And degradation irremediable 
 Since 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 On the summit of the seven hills, 
 In the strong heart of sempiternal Rome, 
 Over the lost dominion of the Caesars, 
 
232 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH iv. 
 
 Above the ruin'd remnants of a power 
 
 More powerful than thine, girt by fall'n god s 
 
 Nobler than those thou worshipest fall'n gods 
 
 That dared not lift up from the dust of time 
 
 Their hopeless heads, to gaze upon the feet 
 
 Of their excruciated Conqueror there, 
 
 Once in the morning of my life I saw 
 
 That Cross, and Him that hung thereon, with arms 
 
 Outstretcht to east and west in the embrace 
 
 Of infinite benediction ! 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Bah ! the old 
 
 Old nursery doggrel, the long lullaby 
 With which how many periwigg'd and powder'd 
 Respectable old women have for years 
 Been getting off to sleep that overgrown 
 Big baby the Fool-People ! Shake this heap 
 Of rusty iron, and rnethinks 'twill sound 
 A truer note. 
 
 (Strikes the armour.} 
 But thou ? I read thy heart. 
 What faith is there is of a nobler kind. 
 Listen to me, Lord Orval. If thy soul 
 Hath ever loved Truth better than all creeds 
 That seek to cramp and cannot even clasp her ; 
 If thou hast ever follow'd her fair steps 
 Beyond the bounds of Use and Wont beyond 
 The perishable aims that tie small minds 
 To small successes ; if thou hast ever felt 
 Thyself to be of God created, in 
 The image of Humanity, God's Son, 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 233 
 
 Bather than of blind Chance in the mere, form 
 
 Of a three-hundred-years-old Noble ; if 
 
 Thou seest, across the universe of deeds, 
 
 Beyond the few poor earthy inches spann'd 
 
 By the brief shadow of thyself, the vast 
 
 Capacities of Nature's wondrous gift, 
 
 A human life ; and, seeing this, dost prize 
 
 The gift, for man's sake not thine own ; then heed 
 
 The voice that now perchance for the last time, 
 
 At the last hour, is speaking. Orval, rise ! 
 
 Bise, soul and heart of Nature's nobleman, 
 
 Par nobler in thy manly right to be, 
 
 Than in whatever title to the name 
 
 Of meaner men ignoble Custom grants ! 
 
 Bise, and consider, for man's sake, with me 
 
 What shall be done to help him. 
 
 ORVAL (in great agitation). 
 
 Tempter ! Son 
 
 Of the old Serpent ! . . But no. These are dreams. 
 The first man perish'd in the wilderness 
 Among the brutes : and their lost Paradise 
 Men may not now recapture. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 (Ha? have I hit 
 
 At last the weak spot in Pride's buckler ! Fool 
 Not to have seen this sooner ? He is troubled. 
 Have I, by a mere blunder, toucht at last, 
 The sensitive nerve of poesy the chord 
 That sounds in golden unison with hope 
 To the man's inmost heart ? Victoria /) 
 
234 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I too have dream'd . . . Ah, if my blood, even yet, 
 Could purchase . . if my head . . . man, you should 
 
 have it ! 
 But no, the days are past. It is too late. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Listen ! We cannot put back time. The dead 
 Their dead must bury. Think ! A leech forbids 
 His patient to take any exercise : 
 Warns him that movement may to life be fatal. 
 The patient disobeys, and walks a mile. 
 What think you of that leech, if, to repair 
 The mischief done, he make his patient walk 
 The whole mile back ? The People's sick, my lord, 
 Your friends forbade it stir. But it does stir : 
 Moves forward somehow. And its doctors now, 
 Who had forbidden it to move at all, 
 Insist upon its moving back again. 
 Is motion backward less injurious 
 Than motion forward ? * 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Grant your simile. 
 Forward . . to what ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Ay, there's the point to which 
 I sought to bring this talk. When two wise men 
 Discuss dispassionately such a point 
 They cannot fail to agree upon it. 
 
 * An anachronism of Panurge's. I think that B^rne has said this, 
 or something like it. O. M. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 235 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Well? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 I take it there's no grounded difference 
 Between, what on the surface seem opposed, 
 Our real opinions. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Sir, proceed. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 I will. 
 
 The point. What kind of Government is best ? 
 Government by the best. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 But who are they ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 The real aristoi : the most capable 
 
 Of governing : the wise men : I and thou. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And, sir, if you and I be knaves, being wise, 
 What power is it likely we shall leave 
 To that most dangerous class the honest men ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 If all start fair, the power a man attains 
 Is proof of his capacity for power. 
 And never in the history of mankind 
 Was such a field for power as I have clear'd. 
 Think ! is it nothing to have swept away 
 
236 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH IV. 
 
 Parliament, Church, and Aristocracy ? 
 All's even now. And o'er the level waste 
 What rises but supreme necessity 
 For the superior mind and stronger hand ? 
 For men must still be govern'd. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 You grant that ? 
 PANURGE. 
 Of course. And govern'd by the best, I say. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 So the old obsolete, much abused device 
 Of Aristocracy has yet some part 
 To play in the new system ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Yes, renew'd 
 
 Itself, though, in the person of its new 
 And better representatives. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Of course. 
 But what becomes then of Equality ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Think not that I suppose any one man 
 Is worth as much as any other man. 
 No fool am I. The wise and noble-minded 
 Are worth more than the ignorant and base. 
 Equality means equal start for all ; 
 Not equal prizes for the swift and slow. 
 The true great men should get the true great power. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 237 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Yes. But great men, sir, are a kind of fruit 
 
 That does not grow on every common tree. 
 
 God grants them to us rarely. When they come, 
 
 They come to power in their own great way, 
 
 Do what we will, by nature's force in them ; 
 
 And when they come not, there's no kind of care 
 
 Or forcing culture can from sapless stocks 
 
 Make such fruits grow. Sir, no philosophy, 
 
 If nature makes but little men, can turn 
 
 Those little men to great men 'tis to save 
 
 The little men from being slaves and tools 
 
 Not to true great men, but untrue great rogues, 
 
 Which little men for great men oft mistake, 
 
 That the Philosophy of Government 
 
 Should be applied. Science ? what need of that, 
 
 To know a giant when he strides in view ? 
 
 Or move on swiftly, mounted on his back ? 
 
 Or trample monsters vanquisht by his club ? 
 
 But if the race of giants be extinct, 
 
 As travellers tell, till giants grow again, 
 
 Let Science help us to make seven-league boots, 
 
 And clubs mechanical that, fitly plied, 
 
 May in a dwarfs hand deal a giant's blow, 
 
 Skill eking out the thrift of force. This Church, 
 
 This Parliament, this Aristocracy, 
 
 Contrivances which Science had devised 
 
 To do the business of society, 
 
 You have abolish'd . . . what ! in the wild wish 
 
 That some great man, who has not yet appear'd, 
 
 Should, when he conies, if he should ever come, 
 
238 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH iv, 
 
 Find round him ample room in which to tiy 
 
 His hand at renovating ruin ? Sir, 
 
 Call you this prospect progress ? You put back 
 
 The world, not forward ; leaving all to Chance, 
 
 The blind brute-headed, unintelligent god, 
 
 Placed on his old barbarian throne again. 
 
 Sir, better to my thinking, a bad King 
 
 Check'd by a not much better Parliament, 
 
 A loose Nobility, and a lazy Church, 
 
 Than such an absolute Chaos as you make, 
 
 With no more hopeful prospect in reserve 
 
 Than ultimate Order in that worst of shapes, 
 
 A single-handed Despotism, crown'd 
 
 And robed i' the name of wrong'd Democracy. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Not Despotism, if the canvass'd choice 
 Of the free Many crown the chosen One. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Whom having crown'd, if the free Many then 
 Should, being human, haply change its mind, 
 Repent its choice, and wish the chosen One 
 A chosen Other, shall this most free Many 
 Be free to uncrown, as 'twas free to crown ? 
 Is the free Many free to change as choose ? 
 If so, then where is your stability ? 
 If only free to give, but, having given, 
 Not free to take again its gift abused, 
 Where is your liberty ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 We cannot quite 
 Leave time out of the account. Men must improve 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 239 
 
 Ere things can be improved. But one wise man, 
 
 Wielding the power which many thousand fools 
 
 May in a lucky moment be induced 
 
 To delegate to him on their behalf, 
 
 Can in a year improve things, more than they 
 
 Can in a century improve themselves. 
 
 I say, Make way for the strong men. 
 
 OEVAL. 
 
 And I, 
 Leave room, sir, for the weak. They have God's 
 
 leave 
 
 To live as well as we. Alas, Panurge, 
 Do we not strangely seem to have changed parts ? 
 For you, my Citizen Guest, have all this while 
 Been speaking for Aristocratic Rights ; 
 For Popular Privileges, I. 'Tis there 
 The hopelessness, the misery of it all ! 
 Ages, perchance a hundred years ago 
 That might have then been possible, which now 
 Our fates forbid, and we made common cause 
 Who now must be no common foes. Too late ! 
 We can no longer understand each other, 
 Never forgive each other for the past. 
 The hour hath struck for both : and both must fight, 
 And one must fall. Nature and time, in strange 
 Conspiracy, have made us enemies 
 Beyond all reconcilement. Now farewell, 
 My Citizen Guest. 'Tis time that we should part. 
 My vassals shall conduct thee to thy friends. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Farewell, Lord Orval ! Till we meet once more 
 
 
240 OEVAL ; OR, THE FOOL OF TIME. [EPOCH IV. 
 
 On the storm'd ramparts. Then, when thou hast left 
 Nor ball nor powder . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 We will then cross swords, sir. 
 Ho, Herman ! Andrew ! 
 
 (Enter Andrew and Herman.} 
 
 PANUKGE. 
 
 Madman ! Be it so. 
 
 I am sad. I would have saved thee. Thou and I 
 Are eagles of one feather. But the bolt 
 Of heaven hath on thine eirie fall'n. Behold, 
 In yonder purple Oriel, while we speak, 
 The sun is rising. To the sun I soar. 
 Adieu ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Adieu, sir ! Andrew, from these halls 
 Safe to the outposts of our enemy 
 Escort our guest. Adieu. 
 
 (Exit Panurge, escorted by Andrew and Herman. Orval 
 remains lost in thought : then with a heavy sigh,} 
 
 The spurring hour 
 
 Posts to the bourne. And this fool, life, at last, ^^ 
 Chasing the future, falls into the past. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH EPOCH. 
 
FIFTH EPOCH. 
 
 MAN AND PATE. 
 
FIFTH EPOCH. 
 
 SCENE I. Early morning. Interior of tJie for tress-chapel of St. 
 John. Lofty columns, with niches, supporting the nave, on 
 either side. In each niche is an armed statue : and the Senators 
 and chief Ecclesiastical Dignitaries are seated, one under every 
 statue, in their robes of state, to left and right. Behind them, 
 through the spaces between the columns, the rest of the Nobility, 
 armed and in dense masses, is visible. In the background, by 
 the main altar, the Archbishop is seated in a splendid chair, 
 gorgeously clad, and having across his knees an antique sword. 
 Behind and around the altar is grouped the rest of the Priest- 
 hood. OKVAL, bareheaded, kneeling before the altar with a 
 banner in his hand. Organ music. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 IN the last of Thy churches, here, 
 
 Of Thy servants the last, do we 
 God of our fathers, revere 
 
 Thy name ; and we call upon Thee. 
 For have we not heard with our ears, 
 
 And have not our fathers told 
 What was done in the former years, 
 
 The great deeds of the days of old ? 
 How the heathen Thy hand hath driven, 
 
 When it planted Thy people in : 
 How the nations Thy wrath hath riven, 
 
 When it cast them out in their sin. 
 
 fi 2 
 
ORVAL ; OE, [EPOCH V. 
 
 In Thy name hath the refuge been 
 
 Of our sires, in the old generations ; 
 And or ever the hills were seen 
 
 Didst Thou stablish the world's foundations. 
 Therefore tremble we not, neither fear, 
 
 Though the earth be removed and flee, 
 And the hills from their place disappear 
 
 And be sunk in the midst of the sea. 
 In Thy name have we bended the bow, 
 
 In Thy name we have girded the sword, 
 In Thy name shall we overthrow, 
 
 And scatter our enemies, Lord. 
 But, wherefore yet sleepest Thou ? 
 
 And be Thou not absent for ever ! 
 Hide, hide riot Thy face from us now, 
 
 But arise, O Lord, and deliver ! 
 
 A NOBLE IN THE CROWD. 
 Mark him ! Not Lucifer, ere Heaven he lost 
 Could have look'd haughtier. 
 
 A SECOND. 
 
 Nor young Alexander 
 
 "When he had conquer'd what, for all he boasts, 
 Lord Orval hath not conquer'd yet the world. 
 
 A THIRD. 
 
 Ay. And what hath he done, this mimic Mars, 
 To justify the godship he puts on 
 So proudly ? 
 
 THE FIRST. 
 Nothing. 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 245 
 
 THE SECOND. 
 
 For ten foemen fallen 
 Beneath his sword, a hundred of his own 
 Have been most rashly wasted. 
 
 (Organ ceases.} 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 Hist ! the choice 
 
 Of this man to the undeserved command 
 Of us, men noble as himself nay, nobler, 
 Is what . . . 
 
 SECOND. 
 Behoves us to prevent. 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 My thought. 
 
 THIRD. 
 And mine. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Here on Thine altar, Lord of Hosts, 
 That didst to me, Thy faithful soldier, grant 
 The strength to take it, kneeling, I lay down 
 This banner, pluckt in battle from Thy foes. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP. 
 
 Servant of God, receive this sacred sword 
 Which Bouillon's noble Chief in Holy Land 
 Made famous. 
 
 VOICES. 
 Hail to Orval ! Orval, hail ! 
 
246 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP. 
 
 Next, with the benediction of these hands, 
 And by the general suffrage of thy peers, 
 Keceive of all our armies, and of this 
 Renown' d and ancient citadel, the last 
 Whence floats our ensign, the supreme command: 
 Whom, in the name of all, I now proclaim 
 General-in-chief. 
 
 VOICES. 
 Hail, Orval! 
 A VOICE IN THE CROWD. 
 
 I protest. 
 
 OMNES. 
 Silence ! away with him ! Hail, Orval ! hail ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Friends, Fellow-soldiers, Princes, Senators, 
 If there be any one among you all 
 That can against mine honest name advance 
 Aught to disgrace the choice wherewith you grace it, 
 Let him stand forth, and look me in the face, 
 And, like a noble gentleman, lay bare 
 His purpose and his sword. 
 
 (Silence.} 
 
 ARCHBISHOP. 
 
 No voice disputes 
 Thy well-won title. 
 
 OMNES. 
 Hail, Lord Orval! hail! 
 
SCENE I.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 247 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 You do accept me for your leader, then ? 
 
 OMNES. 
 We do ! we do ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I cannot promise you 
 That I will lead you all to victory : 
 Ask that of God : but I do pledge myself 
 To lead you all to glory. 
 
 OMNES. 
 Hail! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Swear all, 
 
 Each on his own good sword, as thus swear I 
 On noble Godfrey's saintly brand, to Heaven 
 That hears, and our own hearts, brave gentlemen, 
 That, long as in our knightly hands be life, 
 Blood in our veins, or in our bodies breath, 
 We will not yield up our fair fathers' faith, 
 The names they won us, or the lands they left ; 
 So swear to live, and so to die at last, 
 Dying unshamed, when He that gave us life 
 His gift recalls, of hunger, if He will, 
 Hot thirst, or else what honourable men, 
 Losing all else save honour's self, may win, 
 Wounds that grace noble life with noble death ; 
 Bequeathing, if nought else, their fathers' fame 
 Pair to our sons no heritage of shame ! 
 
248 OEVAL ; OK, [EPOCH V. 
 
 OMNES. 
 
 We swear ! we swear ! 
 
 (The Arclibisliop raises tlie cross over the altar, all draw 
 their sicords and kneel. ,) 
 
 O Lord our God, 
 Smite with Thine avenging rod, 
 Him that sweareth, if he be 
 To his oath forsworn, and Thee ! 
 By the righteous wrath of Heaven 
 Perish, if in heart of craven, 
 Head of traitor, soul of spy, 
 Treason, fear, and perjury ! 
 
 HYMN (with organ music as the scene closes). 
 
 The Lord is King : and hath put on 
 
 Glorious apparelling. 
 Earth the footstool, Heaven the throne, 
 
 Of the Lord, our God and King ! 
 Let God arise, and scatter'd be 
 
 All His enemies ! and they 
 That hate Him shall before Him flee, 
 
 As smoke that vanisheth away. 
 Lord, we call Thee from the deep. 
 
 Hear our cry, consider well ! 
 Shall He slumber, shall He sleep, 
 
 He that watcheth Israel ? 
 

 SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 249 
 
 SCENE II. Afternoon. Platform on the ramparts. 
 
 VOICES WITHOUT. 
 "Way for the wounded ! 
 
 (The wounded are carried across the stage. Nobles en- 
 tering in disorder?) 
 
 A COUNT. 
 
 Who will surgeon me 
 
 This gash ? I bleed to death. Chirurgeon ho ! 
 Where's Orval ? 
 
 A BARON. 
 
 Orval ? When I saw him last 
 He was surrounded by our swarming foe, 
 But fighting still. No lion fiercer. 
 
 A PRINCE. 
 
 Well, 
 It was a desperate sortie. 
 
 THE COUNT. 
 
 Desperate? ay, 
 They shambled us like sheep. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 
 All's lost ! 
 
 ORVAL (entering, followed by Andrew and vassals). 
 
 Lost? ha! 
 
 Who said then " All is lost " ? What man of you, 
 That in his heart hath manhood left and life, 
 
250 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 Dare say "All's lost"? 
 
 THE PRINCE. 
 
 What, Orval ? never more 
 I thought to see thee amongst living men. 
 Welcome, brave chief ! We bleed at every pore. 
 What's left of us ? How long can we hold out ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 So long as we are living men : no longer. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 
 Count, you have seen that cruel man. How say you, 
 If we should fall into his bloody hands, 
 Shall we find mercy ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Mercy ? ay, my lord ! 
 
 Such shameful mercy as the hangman grants 
 The felon that he gibbets a swift end. 
 Thy father would have scorn'd such mercy. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 
 Ah, 
 
 Then nothing's left but to defend ourselves 
 As best we may. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 And you, Prince ? What say you ? 
 THE PRINCE. 
 
 My lord, a word with you. 
 
 (They walk apart.} 
 
 All this is well 
 To put upon the crowd. But you and I 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 251 
 
 Know that we must capitulate. My lord, 
 After this day's disastrous end, to think 
 We can repulse the enemy is not 
 Courage, but madness. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Hush ! speak lower, Prince. 
 
 THE PRINCE. 
 Wherefore ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 'Twere pity if our friends should hear 
 From one whose name was honourable once 
 Words that dishonour it. (Aloud.} Remember, sirs, 
 That unto him who of surrender speaks 
 The punishment is death. 
 
 THE COUNT, THE BARON, AND THE PRINCE 
 TOGETHER. 
 
 The punishment 
 Is death to him that of surrender speaks. 
 
 OMNES. 
 Ay, no surrender ! Death, but no surrender ! 
 
 (They go out} 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Where is my son ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 In the north tower. He sits 
 All day upon the flinty step beneath 
 The iron door that on the dungeons opes, 
 Singing strange songs. 
 
252 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH v. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 The western bastion arm 
 More strongly. We are weakest on that side. 
 See that the wall be double mann'd : this night 
 They may attack us. Go, good Andrew, ere 
 The sun sinks from our western outlook mark 
 The enemy, and bring me word of him. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 God help us ! my lord, our soldiers faint. 
 They are o'erwatch'd. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 There is no lack of wine 
 For princely tables in our cellars stored. 
 Broach them the best. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 I will, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 See to it. 
 (Exit Andrew.} 
 
 (Orval ascends the ramparts, and eyes the plain from 
 beside the standard of St. John, ichich is planted on 
 the ramparts.} 
 
 Yonder, from his red ramparts of the west, 
 Into his black and cloudy coffin, sinks 
 The bloody sun. And yonder spreads the foe. 
 My day is setting. And, like thee, sun, 
 I to a gory grave am going down. 
 I too, like thee, have travell'd the world round. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 253 
 
 Bright be mine end as thine ! When we are gone 
 What shall come after ? On what world not ours 
 Still wilt thou shine, and we, thy peers, be dust, 
 Who, whiles we yet were living souls, to thee 
 No homage owed ! The days are few and fast. 
 And soon I, they, all these, that keep the forms 
 And semblances of men, shall be dead clay. 
 What matter, if, while yet we are, we are 
 Immortal in the moment we make ours ? 
 
 solitude of sovereignty ! which they 
 
 That creep, and they that soar, aspire to reach, 
 By no base crawling guile, nor no blind flight, 
 But with the firm-set footsteps of a man 
 Whose vision measures what his manful will 
 Hath made the pathway of his purposes, 
 
 1 have attain'd to be this day supreme 
 And paramount arbiter of those that were 
 My seeming equals yesterday. Content ! 
 My days haste from me, but I grasp myself. 
 
 such as never in the time gone by 
 
 1 was, when through the dark of dreamless nights 
 I watch'd the rising of thy nebulous star, 
 
 Thou phantom Poesy, am I, who jiow 
 Hail life's bright burning brief Reality ! 
 What if my days be number'd, being cramm'd 
 With numberless delights ? And we will cheat 
 The chary time with memorable deeds 
 That shall outlive him, and whiles yet he lives 
 Peed him on passionatest pleasures. War, 
 Thou grand begetter of immortal men, 
 Make thou this lean life big with burly lust 
 Of glory, and fame gotten with a gust ! 
 
254 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 SCENE III. Night. A Chamber in the Fortress, in the 
 wall of which is an iron door. Muriel is seated on the step 
 of the door. Another door leading to the ramparts. 
 
 ORVAL (entering from the second door). 
 
 A hundred men fresh-breathed to the redoubt ! 
 After the battle they that fought must rest. 
 See the south battery arm'd. 
 
 A VOICE BEHIND THE DOOR. 
 
 God help us all ! 
 
 ORVAL (laying down his arms). 
 Dear Muriel, thou hast heard the barking mouths 
 Of our artillery. But fear not, son ! 
 Our walls are stout. 'Tis not to-night, nor yet 
 To-inorrow, they will fall. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Yes. I have heard 
 
 The cannon, Father ; but I mind it not. 
 I have had other cause of fear. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 For me, lad ? 
 MURIEL. 
 No. For I know thine hour is not yet come. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Mine hour ! Ay, truce to care ! My heart to-night 
 Is light and vacant. If the raven croaks, 
 'Tis o'er the corpses of our enemies 
 
SCENE III.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 255 
 
 Which we have left to feed him in the glen. 
 I am all thine. Tell me thy pretty thoughts, lad, 
 And I will hear thee as in the old time 
 In our old home. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 Follow me, Father. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Whither? 
 
 MURIEL (opening the iron door). 
 Down to the Dread Tribunal. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 How, boy ? Who 
 
 Hath taught thee to undo this iron door ? 
 Hold, Muriel ! hold ! this gloomy stair leads down 
 Only to dismal subterranean dens 
 Where rot the bones of long-forgotten men. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Ay, Father. There, where thine imperial eye 
 No ray in the eternal midnight finds 
 To guide thy steps, my spirit its path discerns. 
 Follow. The darkness to the darkness goes. 
 
 (He descends. Orval snatches up the lamp, and 
 
 follows). 
 
 SCENE IV. Vast subterranean dungeons hewn in the rock, 
 and strewn with rusty chains, bones, and old instruments of 
 torture. Cells in various directions barred with iron 
 gratings. The obscurity is feebly lighted by the lamp which 
 ORVAL holds at the foot of a huge rocky stone ; on the top oj 
 which MUKIEL is standing, in a listening attitude. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Son 1 son ! 
 
256 ORVAL; .OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Hush, Father ! hush ! 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Come back ! come back ! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Dost thou not hear their voices ? 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Nothing, boy, 
 But the eternal silence of the tomb. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 Dost thou not see their forms ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 I can perceive 
 
 Only the giant shadows to whose shapes 
 This wavering flame uncertain motion lends. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 I see them. They approach. One after one 
 Forth troop they from their gloomy dens, and sit 
 In dismal synod yonder. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Wretched boy, 
 
 The night-damp's giddy cold doth fever thee ! 
 Boy, wilt thou rob me of the little strength 
 That's left me, who now need so much ? so much ! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 I see them, Father . . . pale and fearful forms 
 Dim-garmented, with solemn faces stern, 
 
SCENE IV.] ' THE FOOL OF TIME. 257 
 
 Assembling to the dreadful Judgment Seat ; 
 Whereto they summon ... ah, he comes, The Accused ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Muriel ! 
 
 MURIEL. 
 Dost thou hear them ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Muriel ! 
 
 YOICES (faintly, out of the far darkness). 
 By the rights that from wrongs we have wrung, 
 
 By the power that on pain hath been nurtured, 
 We, who were strangled and hung, 
 
 We, who were fetter'd and tortured, 
 Limbs that were gall'd by the gyve, 
 
 Mesh that was bum'd in the fire, 
 Bodies once buried alive 
 
 In the midnight and mire, 
 We arise in the fulness of time : 
 ' And, for robes, in our wrongs we array us, 
 Who are judges at last of the crime 
 
 Which the sons for the fathers must pay us. 
 Por the guilty too late is repentance 
 
 Now that we, who were victims, are fates : 
 And Satan our terrible sentence 
 
 To execute waits. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 What seest thou, Muriel ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 The Accused ! the Accused ! 
 
258 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Who is he ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 Father! Father, 'tis thyself! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 O boy ! O son 1 Must tlwu my doomsman be ? 
 
 THE "VOICES (growing louder]. 
 Son of a race accurst, in thee 
 All its crimes completed be : 
 All its powers united, all 
 Its grandeurs, grandest in thy fall : 
 All the passions, all the pride 
 Which the dead Past deified ! 
 Of thy race the last, yet first, 
 Thou the greatest, thou the worst, 
 Highest crown' d, and deepest curst ! 
 Fated son of fatal sires, 
 In whose glory flash their fires 
 Brightest as the flame expires ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 What hearest thou ? what art thou gazing at ? 
 Muriel, I charge thee, come ! Unman me not. 
 
 A VOICE IN THE DARKNESS. 
 
 Because thou never hast loved aught, nor ever 
 Hast aught adored save thine own self, soul, 
 
 Therefore the face of God shalt thou see never. 
 Evil thy course, Damnation be thy goal ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 259 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Son, I see nothing. But methinks I hear 
 Prom underground, and in the gloomy air 
 Above me, mutterings, menaces, and moans. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 But HE now lifts his head, haughty as thine 
 When thou art anger'd, Father, and responds 
 To the dread shadows that do challenge him, 
 With resolute defiance, even as thou 
 When those whom thou despisest are not weak. 
 
 THE VOICES. 
 
 As we, in our wretchedness, wretchedly thou 
 
 Shalt perish unburied, unblest, unknown, 
 And never a tomb upon earth shall show 
 
 If the dust beneath it were once thine own. 
 None shall weep for thee : none shall pray for thee : 
 
 Never a parting psalm be sung, 
 Never a priest shall point death's way for thee, 
 
 Never a passing bell be rung. 
 Swift and sudden thine end shall be, 
 
 And bloody and bitter as ours hath been. 
 
 With the selfsame chain 
 To this rock of pain, 
 
 Yet black with the blood we have bled in vain, 
 As thy fathers bound us, do we bind thee, 
 
 To bleed unpitied and die unseen ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 At last I see, and know, ye, Spirits damn'd ! 
 
 B 2 
 
260 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Father, advance not ! In the name of Christ 
 I do beseech thee, Father ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Muriel, 
 What seest thou yet ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 A form. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Whose form ? 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Thine own. 
 
 Thy second self thine image ghastly pale 
 Chain' d and they torture it. I hear it groan. 
 Forgive me, Father, but . . . 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 My son ! 
 MURIEL. 
 
 This night 
 
 My Mother came, and charged me ... 
 (He swoons, and falls.} 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Nothing else 
 
 Was wanting. To the threshold of Hell's Hall 
 Mine own son drags me. Veronica, 
 Implacable Spirit ! and Thou, God, to Whom 
 I have so oft, and so intensely, pray'd, 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 261 
 
 Is all in vain ? Away ! down here i' the dark 
 The shadows overcome me. Up ! away ! 
 Back to the light ! Where I have yet to combat 
 With living men. When I have lost or won 
 That combat, let what else remains begin : 
 Eternal memory, and eternal pain ! 
 
 (Exit, bearing Muriel in Ms arms.} 
 
 THE VOICES (fainting away.} 
 Because thou never hast loved aught, nor ever 
 
 Hast aught adored, but thine own self, soul, 
 Therefore shalt thou the face of God see never. 
 
 Evil thy course, Damnation be thy goal ! 
 
 SCENE V. Interior Court of the Fortress, crowded with the 
 besieged nobles ; old men, women, and children in various 
 attitudes of distress. OKVAL in the midst, his arms folded. 
 In front, the envoy of Panurge (an old noble and kinsman to 
 Orval). Cries and confusion in the doors. 
 
 OEVAL. 
 No. By my son's life, by my dead wife, no ! 
 
 THE WOMEN. 
 Pity! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 No Pity. Providence to us 
 Grants but the last grand general pity death. 
 
 THE WOMEN. 
 
 Not here ! not here ! better the hangman's hands. 
 We die of fever and of famine here. 
 Our babes are corpses at our milkless breasts, 
 
262 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 THE MEN. 
 
 Sdeath ! but we'll hear this honourable man. 
 Send him not back unheard. We'll hear the Envoy. 
 He comes commission'd from Panurge's self 
 To bring us terms. We'll hear him. Speak, old man ! 
 
 THE KINSMAN. 
 
 Good citizen was I my whole life long. 
 Good citizen and honest is my heart. 
 If I have undertaken to come here, 
 Graced with the confidence of that great man 
 Who is the People's Bepresentative, 
 It is because I understand my age, 
 And recognize its glorious mission. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Back 
 
 "Unworthy and ridiculous old man ! 
 Hide those grey hairs for shame, ere I forget 
 The weakness they should honour. 
 
 (Andrew, hark! 
 
 Prithee, good knave, find Herman. Bid him haste 
 With all our spears to join us here. Be swift.) 
 
 (Exit Andrew.} 
 
 A COUNT. 
 Orval, thy madness thr&ws us all away. 
 
 OTHER NOBLES. 
 
 Are we his vassals ? 'Sdeath, he shall find out 
 What we are made of! We'll no more obey him. 
 
 THE PRINCE. 
 This honest Envoy, this good nobleman, 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 263 
 
 Brings us, I doubt not, honourable terms. 
 Behoves us hear them in our own behalf. 
 
 THE OTHEES. 
 Keeping our lives, we'll yield the citadel. 
 
 THE ENVOY. 
 
 The great man who hath sent me grants your lives 
 To all of you, upon the just condition 
 That you henceforth become good citizens, 
 And recognize the age in which it is 
 Our glorious privilege to live. 
 
 OMNES. 
 
 Well spoken! 
 
 We recognize the age in which it is 
 Our glorious privilege to live. We wish 
 To be henceforth good citizens. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Curs ! hounds ! 
 
 My very noble, somewhat foolish, most 
 Forgetful friends, methinks before you were 
 Good citizens you swore a certain oath 
 As loyal noble men to die with me 
 Rather than yield, save with your valued lives, 
 One inch of these old walls. That oath be sure 
 I shall not break, nor you ! Good citizens, 
 I mean to make you die like men, although 
 I cannot make you live like gentlemen. 
 Aha, you love your lives ? you wish to be 
 Good citizens ? you recognize (pray how ?) 
 The glorious age in which you have found out 
 
264 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH v. 
 
 It is a privilege to live ? Then ask 
 Your fathers why they taught you to oppress 
 And to despise all sons of Adam born 
 Uiigraced by what the despicable lives 
 You care to keep have to disgraces turn'd, 
 Your most dishonoured titles ? 
 
 You, Sir Count, 
 
 Ask your half-starved, emancipated serfs 
 How you have recognized this glorious age 
 In which it is your privilege to live. 
 And you, sir ? Life's a privilege, no doubt. 
 But how have you employ'd it ? Playing cards, 
 Corrupting women, in soft foreign lands 
 Squandering the misused revenues your hard 
 And grasping bailiffs wrung from the sore toil 
 Of miserable peasants in your own, 
 To pay your joyless orgies ? 
 
 You, my lord, 
 
 You also recognize this glorious age ; 
 In which your special privilege, we know, 
 Hath ever been to fawn upon the strong 
 And trample on the weak. 
 
 What, Lady ! you too ? 
 Last of how many other loves, not all 
 Quite glorious, do you love this glorious age ? 
 It was your privilege but have you used it ? 
 To teach your children to be brave and true, 
 High-minded, pure, and so add honest men 
 To this most honest world in which it is 
 Our privilege to live. 
 
 you great gods ! 
 Must men be turn'd to worms before they die ? 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 265 
 
 Death is before us : but, like soldiers, march 
 With me to find it in a soldier's grave, 
 And not, as felons, where the hangman waits 
 To trim the gallows. 
 
 NOBLES (whispering to each other). 
 
 How can we rely 
 
 Upon the promise of this renegade ? 
 He brings no written word. Eeport avers 
 Panurge never spares when he can smite. 
 
 OTHERS. 
 
 Ay, that's to pause at. Once in those red hands, 
 Who knows what worse than death may be our doom ? 
 
 OTHEKS. 
 
 Dead men, though, are we now. In all our stores 
 There's not a crumb of bread left. 
 
 THE WOMEN. 
 
 Men, have mercy 
 
 On us, and on your children ! Must we starve ? 
 Yonder there's bread enough to feed our slaves 
 Till they be fat. And here we die by inches. 
 
 THE MEN. 
 We'll hear the Envoy further. 
 
 OTHERS. 
 
 No, at once 
 Surrender. There's no holding out. 
 
 OTHERS. 
 
 Surrender ! 
 Surrender ! we waste time. 
 
266 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 THE ENVOY. 
 
 I promise you, 
 
 As I have said, your liberties and lives 
 If you surrender. Pleading for your sakes 
 Who, though unwise, I yet will hope, my friends, 
 This much have I obtain'd of that great man 
 Who with his confidence hath honoured me. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Hence, hound ! or plead for thine own life. 
 
 (Andrew and Herman enter, with troops.} 
 
 Ho, comrades ! 
 
 Miss not your mark . . . yon Cap of Liberty, 
 The terror of its worthy wearer, now 
 Sets shaking on his foolish forehead. Aim ! 
 (The Envoy runs off.) 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Pind, bind, and to his master send him back. 
 A moment, gentlemen ! I have a word 
 To say to some old friends here. 
 
 (Addressing his soldiers in turn.} 
 
 Luke, thy hand ! 
 It is not easy to forget thy face 
 While yet it keeps that scar : and I remember 
 No huntsman ever handled hunting spear 
 As thou with that left hand of thine. Ah, Luke, 
 The boars had a bad time of it when we 
 Were somewhat younger. And hast thou forgotten 
 That day I saved thee from a broken neck 
 On the Black Mountain, when we could not find 
 The izard we had shot ? 
 
SCENE V.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 267 
 
 And you, old friends ; 
 
 Faith, 'twas a lucky chance that fired your farms, 
 For we rebuilt them better. Eh ? 
 
 And you, 
 
 Do you remember when to our domains, 
 Flying from your bad lord, you came by night ? 
 I think you lack'd not shelter, aid, and food, 
 Till we found land to build you houses on, 
 And fields for your own tillage. 
 
 Well, the times 
 
 Are changed since then : and may be you are changed, 
 As others are. The ground I go to win 
 Is scant, and only wide enough to hold 
 One brave man's bones. Long have you follow'd me. 
 But now if you would follow me, old friends, 
 It must be to the grave. I counsel you 
 Bather to follow these most noble lords 
 Who love their lives, as doubtless you love yours, 
 And leave me here to die, a little wiser, 
 But not much sadder, friends, than I have lived. 
 
 SOLDIERS. 
 Long live our noble master ! long live Orval ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 See that whatever rests of meat and wine 
 Be shared among our faithful soldiers, Herman. 
 Then to the ramparts ! Friends, this braggart foe 
 Shall find there is some life left in us yet. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 Wine, boys, and meat ! then to the ramparts, ho ! 
 
268 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 The will of God be done ! We are all dead men. 
 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 God bless Lord Orval ! Wine and meat, lads ! Come ! 
 
 (Exeunt soldiers?) 
 
 THE WOMEN. 
 Orval, we curse thee in our children's name ! 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 God, curse this Orval, for our fathers' sake ! 
 
 MEN. 
 For our wives' sake we curse thee, Orval ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Curse 
 Yourselves for cowards. To the ramparts, ho ! 
 
 SCENE VI. Ramparts of St John. Corpses, dismounted can- 
 non, and broken arms scattered over the ground. Distant 
 artillery and shouts of victory outside. Soldiers passing 
 rapidly across the stage. ORVAL in the breach. ANDREW 
 beside him. 
 
 ORVAL (sheathing his sicord). 
 To conquer danger is to conquer fate. 
 We have repulsed them. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Our last cartridges 
 
 Have served us well. But they must rally soon. 
 And then .... There's not a pound of powder left 
 Among us all. 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 269 
 
 . ORVAL. 
 What ! is aU spent ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 My lord, 
 No mortal man can conquer destiny. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 Bring my son to me, Andrew. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Ay, my lord. 
 
 ORVAL (looking over the wall). 
 The smoke of battle hath obscured my sight. 
 The glen beneath me seems to swim and sink 
 In a great sea of blood, and yonder crags 
 To stagger like sick men. So much my thoughts 
 My senses have confounded. 
 
 (Seats himself in the breach. ,) 
 
 What avails 
 
 The short-lived angel of this little world, 
 Whose name is man, to get himself call'd great, 
 If after a few years of noisy life 
 Into the eternal silence he falls back ? 
 One should be God or nothing. 
 
 (Andrew enters with Muriel.) 
 
 Andrew, take 
 
 A dozen trusty men"of mine own band ; 
 Search every cellar, every vault explore, 
 And beat back to the ramparts and the walls 
 All those whom there methinks that thou shalt find 
 Skulking conceal'd. 
 
270 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 Even Princes, Counts, and Dukes ? 
 
 ORVAL. 
 All whom thou findest. 
 
 (Exit Andreic.} 
 Son, give me thy hand. 
 It is the last time that thy father's lips 
 May touch thy brow. 'Tis like thy mother's, boy. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Father, before the trumpet call'd to arms, 
 I heard her voice. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 What said she ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 " Son, to-night 
 Thou shalt be with me." 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Nought of me ? 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 Nought else. 
 Only " Thou shalt be with me, son, to-night." 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Will my strength fail me here, at the last stage 
 Of life's disastrous journey ? One step more. 
 Courage, tired heart ! the grave is near. 
 
 My son, 
 
 
SCENE VI.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 271 
 
 We are about to part. I cannot tell 
 If we shall ever meet again. 
 
 MURIEL. 
 
 O Father, 
 Leave me not ! We will go together. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Child, 
 
 It may not be. Our ways are not the same. 
 Sad hath the life I gave thee been, my son, 
 But happiness awaits thee : and, among 
 Thy kindred cherubs, soon wilt thou forget 
 The earthly father thou shalt see no more. 
 
 MUEIEL. 
 
 What are those cries ? I tremble. Hark ! they come, 
 O Father, and the bellowing cannon-mouths 
 Proclaim it ... the Last Hour which was foretold ! 
 (The nobles in disorder are driven to the walls, pursued 
 by Andreio and Herman. Firing and shouts without.} 
 
 ORVAL. 
 On, Herman ! On ! 
 
 A VOICE IN THE CROWD. 
 
 You give us broken guns, 
 No powder and no ball, and bid us stand 
 Marks to be shot at ! 
 
 OTHER VOICES. 
 
 'Sdeath ! How can we keep 
 
 These shattered walls, unarm' d, half-starved ? . . Back ! 
 back! 
 
272 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 OTHERS. 
 Back ! Whither art thou driving us ? 
 
 ORVAL (with a terrible cry). 
 
 To DEATH! 
 
 Son, son, one last embrace ! Boy, in this kiss 
 Would that to thine I could unite my soul 
 For evermore ! But I begin to see 
 The way that I am going. 'Tis not thine. 
 
 (Muriel falls, struck by a ball, and dies.} 
 
 VOICE IN THE AIR. 
 
 To me, my Son's pure Spirit ! 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 Dead ? To me, 
 
 My peers in arms ! Dead ? And I loved him. Friends, 
 The foe is but a sword's length from us. Up, 
 And roll him from the ramparts ! 
 
 (The enemy begins to appear over the battlements} 
 
 Who's for Orval ? 
 
 An Orval, ho ! Down, Sons of Freedom ! down, 
 And feed the other nobler birds of prey. 
 An Orval ! ho, an Orval ! Friends, have at them ! 
 (Exit, followed by all tmnultuously } 
 
 SCENE Nil. Another part of the platform. 
 
 NOBLES (rushing past in disorder). 
 
 The Red Flag waves over the Western Fort. 
 Fly ! they are on us. 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 273 
 
 FORCES OF THE ENEMY IN PURSUIT. 
 Freedom, and No Quarter ! 
 
 THE ENVOY (of Scene V.} 
 
 That is the chief lieutenant of Lord Orval. 
 You know me, all, an honest citizen. 
 The scoundrel beat, and did misuse me vilely, 
 When for the People's Cause I pleaded here. 
 'Tis a blood-thirsty knave. I say, he beat me. 
 Down with him, honest citizens ! 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Ha, fox ! 
 
 The old dog hath a tooth left in his head. 
 (Wounds the Envoy.} 
 
 THE ENVOY. 
 The wretch will kill me. Help, good citizens ! 
 
 CITIZENS. 
 
 That man shot Ralph. We saw him on the wall. 
 Down with the greybeard ! Freedom, and No 
 
 Quarter ! 
 
 (Fighting \ Andrew falls. They pass on.} 
 
 ORVAL (entering, covered with blood, his sword drawn). 
 This way they follow 'd when those cowards fled. 
 Who's here ? What, Andrew ? Art thou down, old 
 
 friend ? 
 Thou bleedest ? 
 
 ANDREW. 
 Ay, to death. 
 
274 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 
 brave, and true ! 
 
 my old faithful servant ! 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Let me be. 
 
 1 am a dying man. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 I'll leave thee not. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Go, get you gone. I am dying. 
 ORVAL. 
 
 All that's left 
 
 Of Orval, gallant soldier, I give thee 
 In these true tears. There's no one left on earth 
 To shed such tears for me. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 Then keep thy tears. 
 
 ORVAL. 
 I'll help thee hence. 
 
 ANDREW. 
 
 I am past help of all 
 
 Save the great God into whose hand I fall. 
 Look to thyself. There's that upon thy soul 
 I would not have on mine for all the glory 
 Of all the kingdoms of the world. (Dies.) 
 
 ORVAL (flinging his sword over the wall). 
 Away ! 
 
 
SCENE VII.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 275 
 
 Go also tliou, last trusty friend! No more 
 Shall Orval need thy service. We go hence 
 As naked as we came. Now nothing's left 
 Of Orval save himself. All mine are fall'n, 
 And those poor trembling wretches whom I ruled 
 Are kneeing their new master. 
 
 (Looks round.} 
 
 Here all's bare. 
 
 The foe returns not. We will rest awhile. 
 This is as good a height as any other 
 From which to look back on the broken world 
 Which I have thrown behind me, and consider 
 What sort of thing it was. Hark ! now again 
 The cry comes this way. Ha ! from the North Tower 
 The red flag flutters. 'Tis my name, they call. 
 The rabble shrieks for Orval. Bloodhounds base, 
 Have you no scent ? Here is your noble quarry ! 
 (Shouting from the wall.} Orval is here ! Behold me. 
 
 I am Orval ! 
 
 But ye are not my judges, wretched grains 
 Of most ignoble dust which the wild wind 
 Of aimless accident awhile blows up, 
 Nor yet my doomsmen. By no mortal hand 
 Dies Orval. 
 (He mounts the wall, and gazes over the precipice beneath} 
 
 Earth, take back whate'er of thine 
 Held for awhile this yet unconquer'd Spirit, 
 Which now goes hence. All mine eternity 
 I see before me black and terrible, 
 And, in the midst, God, like a sun that burns 
 For ever, lighting nothing. Farewell, world ! 
 Eeceive me, thou, my native element, 
 
 T 2 
 
276 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 Into whose vast and sombre depths, thus, thus, 
 With outstretcht arms and open'd spirit, I plunge ! 
 (He leaps from the wall, and disappears into the abyss 
 
 SCENE VIII. Interior Court of the Fortress, Flourish of 
 Trumpets. The conquered Nobles, with their wives and 
 children, are led in, chained. After them, Panurge, the 
 Modern Brutus, General Gastrocaro (see Epoch IV., Scene 
 III.), and other Revolutionary Chiefs. With them, the 
 Envoy. 
 
 PANURGE (addressing the prisoners) . 
 Thy name ? 
 
 FIRST PRISONER. 
 Enulphus, Seignior of Beaurain. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 A name that shall be heard on earth no more. 
 Thine ? 
 
 SECOND PRISONER. 
 Guy de Malpas, Lord of Montmirail. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 Thou hast pronounced it the last time. And thine ? 
 
 THIRD PRISONER. 
 Pons, Prince of Arden. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 Thine? 
 
 FOURTH PRISONER. 
 
 John, Duke of Onn. 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 277 
 
 PANURGE. 
 Struck from the list of living men, John, Pons ! 
 
 CASTROCARO. 
 
 These rascals have our forces held in check 
 Nigh four whole months : and you see here with 
 
 what : 
 Some dozen guns, and obsolete parapets ! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 How many more of them remain ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Oh, take them ! 
 
 They are not worth our reckoning. Take them hence, 
 And make examples of them all ... save one 
 Whatever one of all of them can tell 
 Where we shall find this Orval. 
 
 SEVERAL VOICES. 
 
 When the trump 
 
 That call'd our troops in, sounded victory, 
 Sudden he disappear'd. Till then, we saw him 
 Here, there, and everywhere, from wall to wall. 
 
 THE ENVOY. 
 
 Citizen President, suffer me to speak 
 
 As intercessor for these prisoners' lives. 
 
 'Tis they, Great Citizen, that did erewhile 
 
 (Upon my urging what the love I bear 
 
 The People's Cause gave eloquence to urge) 
 
 Into my hands deliver up the keys 
 
 Of this strong place, where else we had not stood 
 
278 OEVAL ; OR, [EPOCH v. 
 
 Triumphant now. Winch conduct, I opine, 
 Deserves the praise of all good citizens, 
 And proves they are good citizens themselves. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Be silent, citizen ! I recognize 
 No intercessor 'twixt mine own right hand 
 And my decrees. Thyself shall see them hang'd. 
 I charge thee with the expedition of it. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Good citizen, my life long, have I been. 
 The proofs are patent. But I did not serve 
 The People's Cause to see my kinsmen kill'd 
 Like common felons . . . 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 This old Doctrinaire 
 
 Is wearisome. Gag him, and hang him tight. 
 March. Where is Orval ? Who can bring us to him ? 
 A sack of gold for Orval dead or alive ! 
 
 (Enter a Lieutenant}. 
 What news ? Hast thou seen Orval ? 
 
 LIEUTENANT. 
 
 Citizen Chief, 
 
 By order of the General Castrocaro 
 I, with my men, the western ramparts storm'd. 
 There, as we enterd, by the parapet 
 Of the third bastion, we beheld a man 
 Alone amid the dying and the dead. 
 " Seize him ! " I cried. And at the word our troops 
 Had well nigh scaled the bastion, when the man 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OP TIME. 279 
 
 Sprang to the outer rock there paused and seem'd 
 With searching glance to sound the abyss beneath 
 
 him : 
 
 Then spread his arms, and, as a swimmer drops 
 Into the sea, he plunged. We saw no more : 
 But heard the body bound from stone to stone 
 Over the precipice. His sword we found 
 Under the parapet. Behold it here. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 There's blood upon the hilt, and on the blade 
 The arms of Orval graven. Well I know it. 
 He hath kept his word. Glory to him ! To you 
 The gallows. 
 
 (To Castrocaro.} See them hung within an hour. 
 Then set about the raizing of this Fort. 
 Brutus ! 
 
 (Exeunt all but the Modern Brutus, who approaches 
 Panurge, They seat themselves on the bastion?) 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Yon sun that now is setting fast 
 Shall rise to-morrrow on an alter'd world ! 
 Thou hast watch'd long, and needest rest. Dear 
 
 Master, 
 
 Incessant care hath stol'n a march on age, 
 And mark'd thy forehead first. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 The hour of rest 
 
 Is not for me, boy, yet. The last death-groan 
 Of my grand foe completes but half my task. 
 
280 ORVAL ; OR, [EPOCH V 
 
 Nothing's done yet. All, all remains to do. 
 Prom Oval's death my life begins. Look forth. 
 See yonder plains whose dark immensity, 
 Beneath us, stretches 'twixt my thoughts and me ; 
 The yet untraversed field of my designs ! 
 Those smouldering homesteads must be palaces : 
 Those deserts we must people : pierce yon rocks : 
 With golden harvests clothe those arid tracts : 
 Dry up those marshes : plant yon barren heath : 
 Channel this valley, and that waste redeem, 
 Unite those lakes, and give to each his part 
 And profit of the soil our swords have won : 
 Until the living be the dead twice told 
 In number, and the new world's opulence 
 Outshine the old world's riches. Until then 
 We have not justified our first dread deed, 
 Destruction's drear necessity. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 To achieve 
 
 Those giant tasks, the God of Liberty 
 Will give us strength. 
 
 PAN URGE. 
 
 What say'st thou of a God ? 
 Here, our foot slips in human blood. That blood 
 Was once a living thing, which thought, spake, acted. 
 What is it now ? Behind me I can see 
 Nothing but these dismantled fortress walls ; 
 Before me, nothing but yon wasted plain ; 
 And yet I feel as though, besides us two, 
 SOME ONE were here. 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 281 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Why here's what was, indeed, 
 Some one an hour ago, but nothing now. 
 Se how his corpse is mangled ! 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Not so much 
 
 But I can recognize his face. It was 
 Lord Orval's faithful servant. That man's name, 
 I think, was Andrew. But that man is dead, 
 And has no name now. Or, at least, no name 
 That we can guess. Yet there's a Spirit here, 
 A living Spirit (hath It any name ?) 
 A dreadful Spirit of I know not Whom, 
 And know not What, seems hovering over us. 
 Mark, Brutus, yon black boulder jutting out 
 From the steep precipice. There's blood on it. 
 What if 'twere Orval's ? There's no special hue 
 Of redness to distinguish one man's blood 
 Prom any other man's. Yet men's blood differs. 
 'Tis there he must have fallen. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 my Chief, 
 
 Why dost thou tremble ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 See'st thou yonder, boy ? 
 
282 ORVAL; OR, [EPOCH V. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 PANUEGE. 
 What? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Why, nothing but the setting sun 
 "Reddening the cloud on yonder mountain peak. 
 What's to be mark'd in that ? 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 A sign ! a sign ! 
 I know it. I have seen it in bad dreams. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 Lean upon me. Thy face is white as death. 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Millions of men obey me. Multitudes, 
 Nations in arms. Where is my People ? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Hark ! 
 
 Their cry is yet upon the air beneath us. 
 Thy People call thee. In their name, and mine, 
 Pluck those changed eyes from yonder reddening rock ! 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 He stands there, still ! Pierced with three nails, which 
 are 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE FOOL OF TIME. 
 
 283 
 
 Three stars. His arms are stretch' d across the world. 
 We cannot pass them. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Master, I see nothing. 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 PANURGE. 
 
 Vicisti, Galilee! 
 
 (He dies.) 
 
 END OF THE POEM. 
 
 
IMITATIONS 
 
 AND 
 
 PARAPHRASES. 
 
Une langue a 1'^gard d'une autre est un chiffre oil les mots sont 
 changes en mots, et non les lettres en lettres." PASCAL. 
 

NONNOS 
 
EUROPA. 
 
 IMITATION. 
 
 (From the opening of the First Dionysiac.) 
 
 SING, O goddess, the thunder-breath, the bearer of 
 
 lightening 
 
 Prom the luminous son of Kronos, the ardent heralding 
 Of a bright child-birth, the glow of a nuptial glory, 
 
 brightening 
 
 The fiery bridal chamber of burning Semele ! Sing 
 The double birth of Bacchus, whom, moist from the 
 
 midst o' the flame, 
 Zeus pluckt, the unripe fruit of a motherhood half 
 
 unblown : 
 Father and mother both was the god, by a twofold 
 
 name, 
 To him, for whose sweet sake a masculine womb in his 
 
 own 
 Self-wounded body he wrought ; forgetting not how, 
 
 of yore, 
 
 With the pang divine of another birth, parturient, he 
 Forth from out of his own bright swollen forehead bore 
 Full-arm'd the dazzling dread of Athene issuing free. 
 Bring, Muses, to me bring bacchanal wands, and 
 smite 
 
292 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 The shaken cymbals shrill, and fetch me the thyrsus 
 
 spear, 
 Earned of divine Dionysos ! And forthwith unto my 
 
 sight, 
 As I mingle your dances among, may the multiform 
 
 Proteus appear, 
 Leaving afar by the Pharos his favourite isle, and 
 
 roll'd 
 
 In changes many as be these mystical songs of mine ! 
 For, if like an orbed dragon his trailing form he fold, 
 I will sing how, under the ivied spear, in a war divine 
 The turbulent giants were stricken, they and their 
 
 dragon hair : 
 
 And if, as a bellowing lion, he toss his billowy mane, 
 Ye, as I sing, shall behold young Bacchus, my boy-god 
 
 fair, 
 In the arms of Ehea, snatching the nipple her lion 
 
 cubs drain : 
 Bat, if, in the midst of his manifold metamorphose, 
 
 anon 
 Like a fretful leopard he leap, into praise my song shall 
 
 roll, 
 
 Singing how over the gorgeous Ind rode the triumph- 
 ing son 
 Of Zeus, when the pard and the elephant pull'd at his 
 
 chariot pole : 
 Then, if he should fashion himself to the form of a 
 
 tusked boar, 
 While he fashions himself, will I fashion my song till 
 
 its strain be aglow 
 
 With the loves of the son of Thyone, and how he wed- 
 ded of vore 
 
KONK08. 293 
 
 Aura, the daugliter of Cybele, Aura, the beautiful foe 
 Of the tusked boars, the mother of that third Bacchus 
 
 to be : 
 And again, what time away in a wave of the water he 
 
 glides, 
 With divine Dionysos my song shall be plunged in 
 
 the unplumb'd sea, 
 As when, from the Thracian's assault, he fled under the 
 
 nethermost tides : 
 But if, into the shape of a rustling tree, at the last, he 
 
 shoot, 
 While his borrow'd branches murmur, my song shall be 
 
 heard between, 
 
 Praising Icarios, lord of the winepress red when the foot, 
 With the foot competing, crushes the glad grape 
 
 bunches green. 
 Bring to me, Mimelones, the bacchanal wands, and 
 
 cover 
 
 (Brightly replacing thus this common diurnal vest) 
 With the fair and spotted fawn skin, fragrantly 
 
 sprinkled over 
 By odorous drops of the sweet Maronid nectar, my 
 
 breast ! 
 
 Keep ye for Menelaos, led by Homeros, and her 
 Whose hidden dwelling is down in the depths of the 
 
 hollow main, 
 
 Eidothea, keep ye the coarse seal's coat of briny fur, 
 And bring me the cymbals and buckler. Not mine be 
 
 the dulcet strain 
 
 Of the double-throated fife : lest Phoebos offended be. 
 For I know he is vext by each vivid pipe's importunate 
 
 din 
 
294 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Since the challenge of Marsyas when he in scorn up- 
 hung on a tree 
 
 The flesh of that felon flay'd, and made of it a puft 
 
 wine-skin, 
 To punish his insolent pipe, having peel'd the boaster 
 
 bare, 
 And left his bleeding limbs of their brown hide dis- 
 
 possest. 
 
 But thou, O goddess, begin ! begin, and first declare 
 The story of Kadmos old, and all his wandering quest. 
 
 On the beach of Sidon now, bull-shaped, with an up- 
 thrust horn, 
 
 Zeus from alying throat had sent forth a lovesick lowing, 
 
 Softening an ardent eyeball ; while, in light bonds up- 
 borne, 
 
 Round the white limbs of a woman infant Eros was 
 throwing 
 
 Intertwined hands. For to her his curved throat 
 
 The mariner bull bends low, down sinking a duteous 
 knee ; 
 
 And, while o'er his glossy flank the girl's form seems 
 to float, 
 
 Bearing Europa, smoothly, silently, saileth he. 
 
 Out of the reach of the ripple, though faint with a 
 lovely fear, 
 
 She, unmoving, is moved : so, silently, seated high 
 
 On the back of a scaly triton, as she on her swimming 
 steer, 
 
 Thetis, and Aphrodite, and Galatea go by. 
 
 Kyanochsetes admires the cloven-footed swimmer : 
 
 Triton afar replies to the god's insidious lowing, 
 
NONNOS. 295 
 
 From his clearly-echoing conch : and, aghast, in the dim 
 
 green glimmer, 
 
 Nereus to Doris turns with a pointed finger, showing 
 That ravisht maiden fair, that horned sailor divine, 
 Shapes of wonder and awe ; for the girl's hand holds 
 
 the horn 
 Of her breathing bark, like a helm, as he beats breast - 
 
 deep the brine, 
 And the girl's eyes glance o'er the glooming wave 
 
 with a gaze forlorn. 
 
 Desire her pilot is : and the crafty Boreas lifts 
 And puffs with an amorous breath her garment's float- 
 ing fold ; 
 
 Over her bounteous bosom his silken sail he shifts, 
 And wantons there at his own wild will like a lover bold. 
 So on a dolphin borne when haply a Nereid glides 
 To visit her liquid realms light over the lulled sea, 
 At the touch of her guiding hand her seaborn steed 
 
 divides 
 
 With a foamy furrow the fields that his azure pasture be. 
 Eros, herdsman now for the nonce, with his bow's 
 
 sharp hook, 
 Turn'd into a pastoral goad, the mild bull's shoulder 
 
 smites : 
 Through Poseidon's liquid fallows while thus, with the 
 
 shepherd crook 
 
 Of Kypris, he the horned spouse of Here excites, 
 The pure and austere cheek of virgin Pallas (cold maid 
 That never a mother knew) is flusht with a scornful 
 
 shame, 
 
 Beholding her mighty father, the son of Kronos, wade 
 In a watery furrow, led by a woman's finger, tame. 
 
296 
 
 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 But the midsea wave and tide give way to the ardent 
 
 god; 
 For was it not down in the midsea deeps that the 
 
 globed blue 
 With the birth of Aphrodite brighten'd and greaten'd 
 
 and glow'd ? 
 And Europa leads and is led, and is captain and cargo 
 
 too. 
 
VIEGIL. 
 
THE BEES OF AKISTLEUS. 
 
 PARAPHRASE. 
 
 the Fourth Georgic.) 
 v. 317. 
 
 THE shepherd Aristseus, when his bees 
 
 Sickness (so runs the tale) or dearth destroy'd, 
 
 Along Peneian Tempe's flying, above 
 
 The sacred headspring rested sad, and thus, 
 
 With much-reproachful moan, his parent call'd : 
 
 " Mother Gyrene, who the gulfy deeps 
 
 Of this stream boldest ! mother, if indeed 
 
 Thymbrsean Apollo, as thou dost aver, 
 
 Be my begetter, why was I begot 
 
 To bear the grudge of most unfavouring fates, 
 
 Though from the gods' illustrious lineage sprung ? 
 
 Or whither fleeted is thy sometime love 
 
 Of us, whom wherefore didst thou oft exhort 
 
 To hope the heaven itself ? For now, behold, 
 
 Even the poor honour of this mortal life, 
 
 By me, endeavouring all things, barely wrung 
 
 From tilth and the hard tendance of the herd, 
 
 Thou being my mother, I must needs forego ! 
 
300 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Haste, therefore, to make end ! with thine own hand 
 
 Uproot my pleasant woodland places all, 
 
 Fall on my sheepfolds with unfriendly fire, 
 
 Burn up my barns, my crops exterminate, 
 
 Arid lay the tough axe to my tender vines, 
 
 If thou art weary of thy son's renown." 
 
 That sound, in halls beneath the waters high, 
 
 The mother heard. Around her sat the Nymphs. 
 
 Plucking Milesian wools of watchet hue : 
 
 Brymo, and Xantho, and Phyllodoce, 
 
 With sparkling tresses round their white necks pour'd ; 
 
 Legia, and Nissea, and Thalia, 
 
 And Spio, and Cymodoce ; with whom 
 
 Maiden Cydippe, and Lycoria 
 
 O' the yellow hair, to whom were newly known 
 
 Lucina's earliest labours ; Beroe, 
 
 And Clio, sister Oceanitides : 
 
 Each with gold fillet girt about the brows, 
 
 Each garb'd in skins gay-colour'd ; and Ephyre, 
 
 Opis, and Asian Deiopei'a ; and, all 
 
 Her darts at last laid by, swift Arethuse. 
 
 Among them Clymene the tale was telling 
 
 Of Vulcan's frustrate forethought, and the frauds 
 
 Of Mars, and his sweet thefts ; and all the loves 
 
 Full-frequent of the gods, since Chaos was, 
 
 She number' d. Taken by whose song, the while 
 
 The listening Nymphs around their spindles whirl'd 
 
 The fluent threads, yet once again that moan 
 
 Of Aristaeus struck his mother's ears ; 
 
 And all those Nymphs upon their glassy seats 
 
 Were startled. Foremost of her sisters then, 
 
VIRGIL. 301 
 
 Above the topmost wave her yellow head 
 
 Upheaving, Arethusa glanced around : 
 
 And, from aloof, " Not idly scared," she cried, 
 
 " Sister Gyrene, by such moan wert thou; 
 
 Whose chiefest care, sad Aristaaus' self, 
 
 Stands by the wave of thy Peneian Sire 
 
 Weeping, and, by thy name, thee, cruel, calls." 
 
 To her the mother by new fear heart-struck, 
 
 " hither bring him, bring him unto us ! 
 
 To him," she cried, " the thresholds of the gods 
 
 It is vouchsafed to traverse." And forthwith 
 
 She bade the waters wide asunder shrink, 
 
 Wherethro' the youth might enter. The scoop'd wave 
 
 Even as a mountainous hollow, around him hung : 
 
 The abyss received him to its bosom vast, 
 
 And down beneath the river he was drawn. 
 
 There moves he, marvelling at his mother's home, 
 And her wet kingdoms : lakes in caverns lock'd, 
 And sounding groves : there, by the unwieldy toil 
 Of waters all bewilder'd, round he looks, 
 And in their places sees those rivers all 
 That wander underneath the massy earth : 
 Phasis, and Lycus, and the headspring high 
 Whence, first from under-ground, Enipeus bursts, 
 Whence Father Tiber, whence smooth Anio flows, 
 And roughly-sounding rocky Hypanis, 
 Mysian Cai'cus, and, with double horn, 
 Golden bull-brow'd Eridanus, than whom 
 No river through rich-cultured lands goes down 
 More passionately into the purple sea. 
 
 Soon as her son was enter' d in, beneath 
 
302 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Her chamber's sparry-hanging roof, and there 
 Gyrene knew his woes, though vainly wept, 
 Not irremediable, in order round, 
 Her sisters all their liquid fountains pour 
 Upon his hands ; and diapers they bear 
 Daintily woven. Part, the tables load 
 With viands, and full goblets range. Anon, 
 With fired Pancheean spice the altars glow. 
 And " Take we beakers of Maeonian wine," 
 The mother cried, " And to Oceanus 
 " Libations pour ! " So saying, herself the Sire 
 Of all things, Ocean, and her Sister Nymphs, 
 (The hundred woodland ministers, and they 
 That tend upon the streams, a hundred more) 
 Invoking, thrice with liquid nectar drench'd 
 The blazing altar. Thrice the quicken'd flame, 
 High as the roof-top leaping, flash'd. Then she, 
 By that fair omen fortified, began : 
 
 " There dwells in the Carpathian gulf a Sage 
 
 To Neptune dear ; sea-colour'd Proteus. He 
 
 That wanders the wide water, charioted 
 
 By his two-footed steeds to fishes join'd, 
 
 Now to revisit his loved native land 
 
 Pallene, and the Emathian port, is gone. 
 
 Him, both we Nymphs revere, and Nereus' self, 
 
 Our Sire grandaeval : for to him, as seer, 
 
 Be all things known, that are, or once have been, 
 
 Or in the far off time are yet to be. 
 
 So pleased it Neptune, whose unwieldy flocks, 
 
 Rank seals, he pastures underneath the gulf. 
 
 Him, son, behoves thee first to seize, and bind, 
 
VIRGIL. 303 
 
 That he thy cause of mischief may declare, 
 
 And second the event. For counsel none 
 
 He unenforced vouchsafes : nor may'st thou him 
 
 Beseeching turn : on whom, when caught, hard force 
 
 And chains essay : round these, if thou persist, 
 
 His frustrate wiles shall waste themselves away. 
 
 Myself, what time the sun's mid-ardours burn, 
 
 When thirsty is the herb, and to the herd 
 
 Most pleasant every haunt of happy shade, 
 
 Thee to the hiding places will conduct 
 
 Wherein the old man, weary from the wave, 
 
 Betakes himself, whom there, in slumber sunk 
 
 Supine, thou may'st most easily assail. 
 
 Howbeit, when him thou boldest in thy hands 
 
 Fast bound, his various aspects, even then, 
 
 Shall fool thee with brute faces counterfeit : 
 
 For sudden shall he seem a bristly boar, 
 
 Fell tigress, dragon scaled, and lioness 
 
 With tawny mane ; or, to escape his chains, 
 
 Give forth anon sharp sound of crackling flame, 
 
 Or, in thin waters falling, melt away. 
 
 But thou, the more he shift his shapes, so much 
 
 The more, son, tighten stern his stubborn bonds ; 
 
 Till to the same his form returns, as when 
 
 With sleepy eyelids sunk thou saw'st him first. 
 
 So counsell'd she : and liquid odour pour'd 
 Ambrosial o'er her son, that all his frame 
 With fragrance flooded : on his curls composed 
 Came breathing gusts of sweet, and to his limbs 
 Light nimble health. 
 
 A hollow huge there is, 
 
304 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Deep-cavem'd in the side of a hoar crag, 
 Wherein the oft-wind-beaten wave o' the sea 
 Into long gorges breaks, and falls ; erewhile 
 To storm-struck mariners a haven safe. 
 There Proteus, under the broad beetling cliff, 
 Houseth : and there, turn'd from the light o' the day, 
 The Nymph among the shadows placed the youth. 
 Herself, at hand, in vapour veil'd, retires. 
 
 By this, swift Sirius, scorching thirsty Ind, 
 Was hot in heaven : and now the fiery sun 
 His middle orbit had nigh fill'd : the grass 
 Was parching : and to muddy ooze the beams 
 Baked in their suck'd and shrunken river-beds 
 The tepid brooks ; when from the sea-wave forth 
 Came Proteus, seeking his accustom'd cave. 
 Around him the vast deep's moist people play'd, 
 And, shambling, shook abroad the salt sea-spray. 
 Anon, to slumber, scatter'd here and there, 
 About the sea-beach, settled the sea-beasts. 
 Himself, meanwhile, as one that tends his herds 
 The hills among, what time the Even star 
 Back to their stalls, his beeves from pasture bids, 
 And the lambs' bleating the wolf's hunger whets, 
 Above them, in the midst, upon a crag 
 Sat down considerate, and their number told. 
 
 Whom to assail soon as the chance he spied, 
 Scarce Aristseus the old man vouchsafed 
 Scant time to stretch at ease his wearied limbs, 
 But with alarum loud upon him rush'd, 
 Prone where he lay, and him fast manacled. 
 
VIRGIL. 305 
 
 He, not unmindful of his art meanwhile, 
 
 Himself to all manner of marvellous shapes transform'd : 
 
 Fire, formidable beast, and flowing stream. 
 
 But, when by no false seeming might he 'scape, 
 
 Vanquisht, he turned anon into himself, 
 
 With human countenance resumed - } and said : 
 
 " Rash boy, who bade thee our abodes approach ? 
 
 Or here what seek'st thou ? " But the other cried : 
 
 " Proteus, thou know'st : thyself, thou know'st : nor thee 
 
 May any man in aught deceive. Do thou 
 
 Therefore, thine own deceivings, prithee, cease. 
 
 Here, to the gods obedient, are we come, 
 
 Of our misfortunes to enquire the cause." 
 
 Thus far he spake : whereto in answer, shaked 
 
 By mighty spasms, the prophet around him roll'd 
 
 The glassy glare of his sea-colour'd eyes, 
 
 And grimly gnashing, thus the fates declared : 
 
 " Thee nothing less than wrath divine reproves. 
 Large debt thou owest of evil done : and worse 
 (If fates forbid not) hast deserved, than these 
 Retributive woes by wretched Orpheus waked, 
 Indignant raging for his ravisht spouse. 
 She headlong flying, headlong to her doom, 
 From thy pursuit the river-banks along, 
 Spum'd with unheedful steps in the high reed 
 A hydra huge that by the rivage housed. 
 The hill-tops, then, with their lamentings loud, 
 In chorus, her companion Dryads fill'd : 
 Deep moan'd the Rhodopeian mountains : moan'd 
 Craggy Pangeea, and the region wild 
 
 Of Rhesus : moan'd those realms the Getomaser : 
 
 x 
 
306 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Hebras : and where, from A-thens, the North Wind 
 
 Bore ravisht Orithyia to his haunt. 
 
 But he, his heart's love-sickness solacing 
 
 To a hollow shell, the lonesome shores along, 
 
 Thee, at the dawning of the day, sweet wife, 
 
 Thee, at the darkening, solitary sung. 
 
 " Down, even, through the jaws of Taenarus, down 
 To the high doors of Dis, and that black grove, 
 With hideous darkness horrible, he went : 
 Down to the Manes, and their dreadful king, 
 And hearts to human prayers implacable. 
 Moved by his music from the nether seats 
 Of Erebus, lean shades and lightless shapes 
 Came nocking, thick as birds, at eventide, 
 In multitudes, that to the woodlands wing, 
 Or from the hills are driven by winter rains : 
 Matrons, and men, and bodies with no life 
 Of high-soul' d heroes, and unwedded maids, 
 Children, and youths upon the funeral pyre 
 Before the faces of their parents stretch'd : 
 Whom the slow ooze of that unlovely marsh 
 About Cocytus binds with sooty slime 
 And shapeless sedge, or ninefold Styx constrains. 
 
 " Amazement all the habitations husht 
 
 Of Tartarus, and the inmost depths of death, 
 
 And those cold tangled coils of livid snakes 
 
 Woven in the locks of the Eumenides : 
 
 Cerberus his three silenced jaws withheld 
 
 Wide gaping : and Ixion's orbed wheel, 
 
 Still'd from the whirling of the wild wind, stood. 
 
YIRGIL. 307 
 
 " Anon, returning, all those perils 'scaped, 
 With his restored Eurydice, what time 
 He reach'd the upper airs (behind him she : 
 Tor such command Proserpina imposed), 
 That lover rash his frenzied fancy seized ; 
 Fault to forgive, if Death forgiveness knew ! 
 Sudden he paused : and his Eurydice, 
 His, now that day's true light is reach'd at last, 
 Unmindful, by his love, alas, o'ercome, 
 Turn'd to behold : thus all his labour lost : 
 Broken his pact with Death's unpardoning lord : 
 And thrice, from all his fens, Avernus shriek'd ! 
 
 " ' Ah, what hath lost me, miserable,' she moan'd, 
 ' Orpheus, and thee ? what fatal frenzy this ? 
 Me, hark ! once more the cruel Fates recall, 
 And sleepy death my swimming sight obscures. 
 Farewell ! For I fare hence, in the vast night 
 That gathers round me, and in vain to thee 
 Weak hands am waving ; thine, alas, no more ! ' 
 Speaking, she faded sudden from his sight, 
 Like vapour mixt with unsubstantial air : 
 Nor him, yet yearning ah how much to say, 
 And shadows pale with frustrate passion clasping, 
 She any more beheld : for never more 
 The ferrymen of Orcus to o'erpass 
 The opposing deep permitted. What to do 
 Is left him ? whither should he turn ? to whom 
 Appeal, who mourns a now twice-ravisht spouse ? 
 The Manes by what weeping, by what voice 
 Of wail may he the Nether Powers, appease ? 
 She, cold, meanwhile, in Stygian bark is borne. 
 
308 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 " Him, rumour'd tales report, for seven whole months 
 
 Continuous, weeping on a windy crag 
 
 Far off by Strymon's solitary wave : 
 
 Charm'd from their lairs by his melodious moan, 
 
 Came tigers, creeping under caverns cold, 
 
 Lull'd into languor, and the lured oak trees. 
 
 So Philomela in the poplar shade 
 
 Laments, bewailing her departed brood, 
 
 Whom, haply, passing, the hard ploughman spied, 
 
 And from the nest, yet callow, filch'd : but she 
 
 Mourns, brooding night by night upon the bough, 
 
 There pours and pours her miserable song 
 
 And with sad plainings fills the region round. 
 
 " No woman's beauty him, nor wedlock, soothed. 
 Lonely along the Hyperborean wilds 
 Of ice, and frosty Tanai's, and the wolds 
 Unwidow'd ever of Khipsean snows 
 Wandering, his lost Eurydice he wail'd, 
 And the vain gifts of Dis. Stung by his scorn * 
 The Thracian women, in the revels fierce 
 Of midnight Bacchus, and the season due 
 To rights divine, the youth asunder rent, 
 And wide upon the wilds his ruins strew'd. 
 Even then, tho' from the marble shoulders torn, 
 The while his head (Eagrian Hebrus whirl' d 
 Down the mid-stream, still ' Ah Eurydice ! ' 
 * Hapless Eurydice ! ' from chilly lips 
 The voice call'd ever ; and the parting soul 
 
 * " Quo muncre, &c." By which pious office of his rendered 
 indignant, &c. 
 
VIRGIL. 309 
 
 ' Eurydice ! ' ' Eurydice ! ' the rocks 
 
 All down the stream re-echoed as it roll'd." 
 
 Thus Proteus : and adown the steep he sprang, 
 
 Plunged, and the bubbling billow above him whirl' d. 
 
 But not Gyrene. " Son," to him, o'erawed, 
 
 Returning lightly, " Put away, " she said, 
 
 " Sad thoughts out of thy heart. Of thy mischance 
 
 This the sole cause. For this, unhappy boy, 
 
 The woodland Nymphs, with whom her wont it was 
 
 In the high groves to wake the choral dance, 
 
 Death on thy bees have sent. But, suppliant, thou 
 
 Bring offerings, and imploring peace, revere 
 
 The mild Napsese that to votive gifts, 
 
 In wrath relentful, light forgiveness grant. 
 
 The manner, first, of thy beseeching them 
 
 In order due will I declare. Four bulls 
 
 Well-chosen, and in shape surpassing all, 
 
 Of those, now thine, that on the summits feed 
 
 Of green Lycseus, and, by yoke untoucht, 
 
 Heifers as many more, do thou select : 
 
 Therewith, four altars to those goddesses, 
 
 In their high precincts, build : and from the throats 
 
 Of these let forth the sacred blood : and leave 
 
 The bodies of them in the leafy grove. 
 
 Then, when her rising the ninth dawn reveals, 
 
 Lethcean poppies to the nether ghost 
 
 Of Orpheus offer : arid a heifer slay, 
 
 With a black sheep, appeased Eurydice 
 
 Revering thus : and to the grove return." 
 
 Nor linger'd he. But those maternal words 
 Duteous obey'd. Forth to the hallow'd groves 
 
310 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 He went : and there the altars raised, and there 
 Four chosen bulls, in shape surpassing all, 
 And heifers by the yoke as yet untoucht 
 As many more, he led. Anon, what time, 
 This done, her rising the ninth dawn reveal'd, 
 Lethaean poppies to the nether ghost 
 Of Orpheus given, he to the grove return'd. 
 But there a wonder, sudden, and to tell 
 Surpassing strange, was witness'd. All about 
 Those bulls' half-molten entrails, and deep down 
 I' the heifer's womb, a sound of humming bees, 
 That, bubbling up from out the bursten ribs, 
 Swarm'd forth in clouds innumerable : and now 
 They fly together on the tall tree-tops, 
 And from the bended boughs in cluster hang. 
 
LUCRETIUS. 
 
INVOCATION TO VENUS 
 
 AND 
 
 INTRODUCTION OF THE EPICUREAN PHILOSOPHY. 
 PARAPHRASE. 
 
 (De rerum natura, lib. 1.) 
 
 BENIGNANT Mother of the ^Enead race, 
 
 Terms, to gods and men delightful ! Thou 
 
 That, underneath the sliding signs of heaven, 
 
 With concourse throngest the ship-bearing sea 
 
 And fruitful earth : by whose conceiving, all 
 
 That lives doth leap into the light o' the sun : 
 
 Thee, Goddess, thee, at thine approach, the winds 
 
 Flee, and the skyey clouds : the doedal earth 
 
 To thee her flow'rets sweet uprears : to thee 
 
 The waters wide of Ocean laugh, and all 
 
 The stainless heaven in full-pour'd light is clear. 
 
 Soon as the vernal forehead of the day 
 
 Unveil'd appears, what time the procreant gale 
 
 Of free Favonius nimbly breathes abroad, 
 
 Thee, Goddess, and thy comings, thrill'd at heart 
 
 By thy strong sweetness, first the aery birds 
 
 Herald ; and then, their happy haunts about, 
 
 The wild herds bound,, and swim the torrent brooks. 
 
 So taken by delight of thy sweet lures 
 
314 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 With fond desire, the life of all that lives 
 To follow thee, where'er thou wilt, is fain ; 
 Till last, amid the seas, among the hills, 
 And by the flowing of the headlong streams, 
 Green grassy lawns, and leafy homes of birds, 
 In every breast implanting balmy love, 
 Each, in his several kind, thou dost constrain 
 With lusty heart life's ages to renew. 
 
 Sole, who dost universal nature sway, 
 
 Since without thee may never aught arise 
 
 Into the regions of celestial light, 
 
 Nor lovely aught, nor aught delightful be, 
 
 Thee my divine associate I desire 
 
 In verses yet unwritten, to reveal 
 
 The NATURE OF THE UNIVERSE OF THINGS, 
 
 Which now I meditate for Memmius' son, 
 
 Memmius my friend; whom, Goddess, thou hast 
 
 will'd, 
 
 Gifted in all, at all times to excel. 
 So much the more, Divine Inspirer, grant 
 Enduring sweetness to these words of mine : 
 And lull, meanwhile, war's barbarous business all 
 To slumbrous rest the lands and seas around : 
 For thou alone our mortal hearts canst help 
 With hushful peace. Since Mars armipotent, 
 That over war's wild labours lorddom wields, 
 Oft in thy lap, by love's eternal wound 
 O'ermaster'd, flings himself; and, gazing up 
 (His full firm-moulded throat back-sloped at ease), 
 Into his soul thy sweetness there he breathes, 
 There feeds on love his famisht looks, the while, 
 
LUCRETIUS. 315 
 
 His sigh'd-forth spirit upon thy lip doth hang. 
 
 O'er him, so leaning, as thy sacred form, 
 
 O Goddess, all its fluent beauty bends, 
 
 Pour from thy lips a language of soft sounds, 
 
 And for thy Romans, O Kenown'd, beseech 
 
 Untroubled peace. For, neither may we hope 
 
 With even mind, in this uneven hour 
 
 That shakes the land, our purpose to pursue, 
 
 Nor Memmius' noble scion, in a time 
 
 So toss'd, be wanting to the common weal. 
 
 For what remains, to me, Memmius, lend 
 
 Thine ears' free listening ; and, from cares withdrawn, 
 
 Thyself to truth's pure argument address. 
 
 Nor yet, despised ere comprehended, spurn 
 
 My gifts, for thee, with studious zeal, disposed. 
 
 For of the supreme order of the spheres, 
 
 The gods, and nature's primal sources all, 
 
 Discourse with thee I purpose ; and to show 
 
 Whence nature all things doth to being bring, 
 
 Put forth, and nourish ; whither, also, she 
 
 Anon, dissolving, doth restore them all. 
 
 These, in the rendering of our argument, 
 
 Matter, we call ; the elemental seeds 
 
 And generative substances of things ; 
 
 Naming them primal ; since all things that are 
 
 From these, the first, derivatively come. 
 
 For all the being of the gods must needs, 
 Of its own nature, perfect peace enjoy, 
 Living immortally, far off removed 
 From all this coil of sublunary things : 
 
316 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Exempt from peril, from all pain exempt, 
 Itself to itself sufficing, and of us 
 Naught needing, neither by the good, nor ill 
 Men do, disposed to favour or to wrath. 
 
 What time man's life before his own eyes lay 
 
 Low grovelling, ground to earth beneath the weight 
 
 Of grim Religion, that from cloudy air 
 
 Her lifted head in heaven put forth, and stood 
 
 High over men with horrible countenance, 
 
 A man in Greece, then first of all mankind, 
 
 Dared to uplift, against her, mortal eyes, 
 
 And, fearless fronting, firm withstand, her. Him 
 
 Nor rumours of the gods, nor thunder-bolts, 
 
 Nor heaven with muttering menace, could dismay 
 
 But rather all the more within him roused 
 
 Sharp courage, and the yearning of his soul 
 
 To be the first to shatter the shut bars 
 
 Of Nature's portals. Therefore, his soul's strength 
 
 Prevail'd : and he, in high procedure, far 
 
 O'erpass'd the wide world's burning boundary walls, 
 
 And traversed in the spirit and the thought 
 
 The vast immeasurable infinite. 
 
 Thence, now, triumphant, he to us reports 
 
 What may be ; what may not be ; what, in fine, 
 
 Is the capacity of all things ; what 
 
 The bound abysmal. Whence, in turn, brought down 
 
 And trodden 'neath our feet Religion writhes. 
 
 Us level with heaven's height his victory sets. 
 
DANTE. 
 
THE FIRST CANTO OF THE INFERNO. 
 
 PARAPHRASE. 
 
 (In terza rima.') 
 
 UPON the journey of our life midway 
 Methought that, from the right path stray'd, I stood 
 In a wood obscure. Full hard it is to say 
 
 How savage, rough, and stubborn, was that wood : 
 
 Whereof such dread as death can scarce excel 
 My thought renews. But, to set forth the good 
 Which there I found, I needs must also tell 
 
 What other things I did encounter there. 
 Into this wood how me the chance befell 
 
 To enter, memory may not well declare, 
 
 So full of slumber was I at that place 
 Whence, leaving the true path, I wander'd here. 
 But, soon as I had near'd a mountain's base, 
 
 Whereby the vale subsided, that with fear 
 My heart had pierced, I, lifting up my face, 
 
 Beheld his shoulders in the rays, now clear, 
 
 Of that full planet robed, which pilots right 
 Man's every path. Whereat, were quieted 
 A little the long stirrings of affright 
 
320 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 That in the hollow of my heart were bred 
 By the so piteous passage of the night. 
 
 And even as one that, with back-turned head, 
 
 When up from out of ocean 'scaped to shore, 
 Pants, and the perilous deep doth wistful scan, 
 So turn'd my spirit, flying still, to explore 
 
 That pass yet never left by living man. 
 Anon, athwart the wilderness, once more 
 I, after rest of wearied limbs, began 
 
 To foot the upward path ; where of my feet 
 The one firm-set was lowest all the way. 
 
 And lo, a lithe she-leopard, passing fleet, 
 With fur of many colours coated gay, 
 Hard by the upslope ! Nor would she retreat 
 
 Thenceforthfrom sight, but round nay path didplay 
 
 Till oft I turn'd with purpose back to fare. 
 It was the season when the morning springs, 
 
 And now, amid the stars that with him were 
 
 When Love Divine first moved those beauteous things, 
 The sun was rising. Hope the happy air, 
 The season sweet, and gay apparellings 
 
 Of that bright beast inspired : yet 'twas not so 
 With me, but what my hope was made worse dread 
 By vision of what seem'd a lion, who 
 
 Against me came with high-uplifted head, 
 And all so hunger-mad, 'twas even as tho' 
 Air's self- the awe of him disquieted. 
 
 Therewith a she-wolf, that did look to be 
 Stuff* d in her leanness with all lusts ; and, long 
 Ere now, with miseries manifold hath she 
 
DANTE. 321 
 
 Made lean the life of many a mortal throng. 
 So huge a heaviness she cast on me, 
 
 Wrought from her aspect fierce, of fear so strong, 
 
 That of the height all hope I lost. As one, 
 Glad of his getting, when to him is nigh 
 
 The time that takes it from him, maketh moan 
 With all his being's might, even so was I, 
 In such a sudden sorrow so far gone ; 
 
 By that unpeaceable beast continually 
 
 Tormented ; which, sore baffling me, at last 
 Little by little drove me backward where 
 
 The sun is silent. There, down ruining fast, 
 
 Nigh to the nether space, my sense was ware 
 Of one before me in the wildness vast, 
 
 That, for long silence, seem'd faint- voiced. To him, 
 Soon as I saw him, " Pity me ! " I cried, 
 " Whate'er thou beest, true man, or shadow dim." 
 
 " No man : but what was once man," he replied. 
 
 " Lombards were my begetters, both of them, 
 And Mantuans they, by country, either side. 
 
 Myself sub Julio bom, though late, at Home 
 Beneath benign Augustus dwelt, i' the day 
 Of feign'd and fabling gods. Poet, him come 
 
 Prom Troy, just offspring of Anchises grey, 
 When burn'd was Ilium, once his haughty home, 
 I sung. But thou, why dost thou rather, say, 
 
 To perils such return, than scale yon mount 
 Delightful, source and cause of every bliss ? " 
 " art thou Virgil, and indeed that fount 
 
 Whence suchfull flow of utterance streams ? " to this 
 
322 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 I, with shamed forehead, answer' d, " Thee I count 
 The light and honour of all song that is ! 
 
 Requite me my much love, and study slow, 
 
 That me to search thy volume have constrain'd. 
 Thou art my master, and my maker thou, 
 
 Thou only he of whom I have obtain'd 
 That style whose beauty me makes honour'd now ! 
 Behold what beast compels me leave ungain'd 
 
 That height ! famed for wisdom, from her paw 
 That shakes my veins and pulses, save me ! " He, 
 Soon as the weeping of my woe he saw, 
 
 Made response to me, " Other pathway thee 
 Behoves it to attempt, if from the jaw 
 Of this wild desert thou thyself would'st free. 
 
 She against whom thou clamourest, that she-beast, 
 
 Lets no man pass her, but doth all impede 
 Even to the death. The greed of whose grim breast 
 So cursed is, not anything can feed 
 
 Her ravenous lust, which, ever after feast, 
 Worse famine than before doth in her breed. 
 
 Many the beasts wherewith she couples be, 
 And many more they shall be, till arrive 
 That Greyhound which shall pine her heart, till she 
 
 Wretchedly perish. Not by land shall live, 
 Nor yet by lucre, but by wisdom, he, 
 And love and virtue. And his folk shall thrive 
 
 'Twixt either Feltro. He shall lift on high 
 
 That so-low-fallen Italy for whose sake 
 Maiden Camilla in time past did die, 
 
 Euryalus, Nisus, Turnus : and shall make 
 
DANTE. 323 
 
 From his pursuing through all cities fly 
 Back into Hell her that Hell's bound to break 
 
 Hate first impell'd. I, therefore, for thy good 
 
 Considering, thee now counsel and commend 
 To follow me. And I, from out this wood 
 
 Thy guide will be, with whom thou mayest wend 
 That everlasting deep where dwells the brood 
 Of those whose desperate shrieks thine ears shall rend, 
 
 And gaze on spirits of the former time 
 In dole, demanding second death ;- then who, 
 Content, in fire endure, with hope to climb 
 
 Hereafter, whensoever time be due, 
 
 To the beatified : whose blissful clime 
 If thou to visit then aspirest too, 
 
 Unto that end another spirit shall be ; 
 
 Worthier than I ; to whose high ministering 
 
 Thee will I, then departing, leave* For me 
 
 He that above hath empire and is king 
 
 Holds rebel to his law, and doth decree 
 That by my means shall none have entering 
 
 Into His state. He in all parts hath sway, 
 
 But there His throne is, there His palace high, 
 There doth He chiefly dwell. O happy they 
 Whom there He chooses ! " 
 
 And to him, then I, 
 
 " poet, by that God that in thy day 
 
 Thou didst not know (this ill and worse to fly) 
 
 I charge thee, lead me where thou said'st, aright ; 
 
 That I may see Saint Peter's Gate, and those 
 That, by thy showing, be in such sad plight." 
 Onward he moved : and I behind him close. 
 
FKANCESCA DA RIMING. 
 
 PARAPHRASE. 
 
 (Fifth Canto of the Inferno.} 
 
 WHEN of my Teacher I had learn' d the names 
 Of those renowned knights of other days, 
 And theirs, the former time's most famous dames, 
 
 Lost in sad wonder, after mute amaze, 
 
 " Bard," I began, " much is my heart inclined 
 To parley with yon twain that, where I gaze, 
 
 Seem coming, borne so light upon the wind." 
 
 And he to me : " Their nearer neighbouring note ; 
 Then, by the love that moves them, thus entwined, 
 Charge them, and they will come." No sooner smote 
 
 The swift gust near us, which those spirits, join'd, 
 Did simultaneous to our sight upfloat, 
 
 Than, moved to utterance, " Come ! O come," I 
 cried, 
 
 " Afflicted souls ! nor yet to our inquiring 
 Deny discourse, if by nought else denied," 
 As doves, solicited by fond desiring, 
 
 To their loved nest, on steady wings and wide, 
 Through air are wafted by the sweet inspiring 
 Of their own wishes swift ; so, parting there 
 
DANTE. 325 
 
 Dido's dim throng, the twain toward us sail'd 
 In such wise speeding through that evil air ; 
 So much my cry compassionate prevail'd. 
 
 " being that, beneficent and fair, 
 Through this obscure comest, visiting," they wail'd, 
 " Us that have earth embrued with bloody stain, 
 
 Were He, the Universal King, our friend, 
 Since thou hast pity on our pitiless pain, 
 
 Prayers to Him we for thy peace would send. 
 
 Whate'er to hear, or haply tell, thou art fain, 
 To tell or hear, thy bidding we attend, 
 
 What time, as now, the wind is whist. The land 
 
 That bore me seaward lies where Po proceeds 
 Down, with his sequent waters, to his rest. 
 
 Love, that in gentle heart scant kindling breeds, 
 
 Him, by the fairness of the form that drest 
 This spirit once (and yet indignant bleeds 
 
 Sharp memory of its taking off !) possest ; 
 
 Love, that in one beloved doth love beget, 
 Me too well pleased with pleasing him, so well 
 That, as thou seest, he hath not left me yet : 
 
 Love led us to one death : Cai'na's hell 
 Waits him that spilt our lives." Such response met 
 My sense, from such resentful sorrowing sent, 
 
 That so long, for the sadness of it, was 
 My countenance in such dejection bent, 
 
 The Poet cried, " What musest thou ? " " Alas ! " 
 
 I answer'd, " What sweet thoughts, what fond intent 
 Have brought them to this 'miserable pass ! " 
 Then, yet once more returning to the two, 
 
326 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 " Francesca, pitifullest tears," I cried, 
 " For thy deep woes I weep. Yet tell me how 
 To him and thee did Love the means provide, 
 
 First in the time of your sweet sighs, to know 
 Your yet uncertain wishes ? " She replied, 
 
 " There is no greater pang than to recall 
 In misery days of happiness that were. 
 And that thy Teacher knows. Yet I, if all 
 
 So deep be thy desire to see laid bare 
 
 Of our love's growth the root original, 
 Will speak as one that weeping tells his care. 
 For pleasant passing of the time, one day, 
 
 Of love-thrall'd Launcelot the tale we read : 
 We were alone : all danger far away 
 
 From our suspecting : though the colour fled 
 
 Our faces oft, and oft our looks to stray 
 Into each other's eyes that reading led. 
 
 One point alone o'ercame us. We the while 
 
 Thus reading still, still unsuspecting ever, 
 When as we read of that so long'd-for smile 
 
 That such deep love did, with such dear endeavour. 
 
 To so sweet kissing of sweet lips beguile, 
 He that from me shall be disparted never 
 
 Me on the mouth all trembling kist. Accurst 
 The felon book was, and its scribe as well ! * 
 That day we read no more. 
 
 While thus the first, 
 
 The other spirit made moan so miserable 
 
 * " Galeottofu il libro, e chi lo scrisse." 
 Those commentators who affirm that the Galeotto of this line 
 
DANTE. 327 
 
 That, by sick pity all my sense disperst, 
 Down, as to earth a dead corpse falls, I fell." 
 
 is the proper name of GALAHAD are probably right. They have, 
 at least, ample warrant for their opinion in the sixty-sixth 
 chapter of the Italian Romance of Lancilotto, relating " Come 
 la Reina conobbe Lancilotto . . . e come la prima congiunzione fu 
 fatta fra Lancilotto e Ginevra per lo mezzo di Galeotto." The 
 obvious sense of the passage is that both the book and its 
 author were go-betweens. But, although the go-between of 
 the Italian Romance is called Galahad, a name which 
 probably was to Dante's Italian contemporaries (as that of 
 Shakespeare's Pandarus was, and is, to Englishmen) a synonym 
 for pimp, yet, in any case, the force of Dante's sup. 
 posed allusion to him would be lost upon English readers who 
 cannot associate the memory of the "Virgin Knight" with 
 the ignoble character and functions ascribed to the Galahad of 
 the Italian tale. For this reason I am content to take the 
 simple common meaning of the word galeotto, viz., a felon 
 a scoundrel the French galerien. Mr. Gary, indeed, trans- 
 lates the line thus 
 
 " The book and writer both were love's purveyors ; " 
 but this euphuistic paraphrase appears to me to convey no 
 sense of the denunciatory intensity of Francesca's abrupt and 
 startling exclamation. There is a dramatic effect in the angry 
 suddenness with which the narrator of the tragedy breaks off 
 her narration by an implied curse, just at the point where the 
 situation she is describing was broken into, and abruptly 
 ended, by a crime : and I think it little matters how you 
 translate this word galeotto, so long as you retain unimpaired 
 the imprecatory force which it gives to the whole passage. 
 
 0. M. 
 
MICHELAGNOLO BUONABROTL 
 
SONNETS AND MADRIGALS. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 THE BIETH OP LOVE. 
 
 I KNOW not if, in waking dream, or sleep, 
 
 His light, that made her, on my soul hath shined ; 
 Or if from out the memory or the mind 
 
 Aught else of brightness, pour'd, my spirit doth steep. 
 
 Perchance within me some late beam I keep 
 Of Heaven's original glory left behind ; 
 Some smouldering sense of scarce I know what kind 
 
 Of sweetest pain ; whence I perforce must weep. 
 
 Not of myself, nor can I well declare 
 
 Whence, is the power that in me moves, and guides 
 My dazzled heart through every new surprise. 
 
 But, since I saw you, lady, thus I fare, 
 
 Whom bitter sweet with yes and no divides. 
 Doubtless 'tis all the doing of your eyes. 
 
332 
 
 LOVE VINDICATED. 
 
 CALL it not impious crime, nor mortal sin, 
 That noble love that mighty Beauty excites 
 In him whose softly-opening heart invites 
 
 Some beam of holier light to enter in. 
 
 Love wakes, and moves ; and plumes his wings to win 
 His upward goal. And oft the soul, that slights 
 Her earthly home, to Heaven's ancestral heights 
 
 Doth, by his ardour lured, her flight begin. 
 
 The love that speaks of thee aspires on high, 
 Nor feebly burns nor falters. To obey 
 A baser passion my true heart were shamed. 
 
 True Love for Heaven, as Lust for Earth, doth sigh: 
 This doth the soul, that doth the senses, sway : 
 And at ignoble mark his bow is aim'd. 
 
 MADKIGALS. 
 
 i. 
 
 ME, though unbound yet free in vain, 
 What fetter binds and brings to thee ? 
 
 If sight of thee, with unseen chain, 
 Can fetter those thyself would' st free, 
 
MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI. 333 
 
 What power have I those eyes to flee 
 
 Whose warm desire 
 The darts of Love hath dipt in fire ? 
 
 IT. 
 
 Why memory of those eyes, and the dear hope 
 Whereby I live not only, but am blest, 
 From hour to hour do all my days beguile, 
 Demand the cause, wherewith in vain I cope, 
 Of Love, and Nature, that allow no rest, 
 And the fond wont that mine hath been long while 
 
 With all life's hours to pile 
 
 Love's monument to thee. 
 Life soon were death, could life no longer see 
 
 Your light, sweet eyes : 
 For all my life is by your light begot, 
 
 And soon it dies 
 
 If banisht, after birth, to any spot 
 Unsweeten'd by the light that in you lies. 
 
 in. 
 
 How is it, that I am mine no more ? 
 Who from myself hath banisht me ? 
 Who in myself more seems to be 
 At home, than was myself before ? 
 How hath it happ'd, that I should miss 
 
 The moment when she slipp'd so slyly 
 Into my heart ? and what is this, 
 
 This wistful love, that through the eyes 
 Into the soul doth steal so shyly, 
 
 And, there grown bold and wanton, tries 
 A thousand ways of exit wily ? 
 
334 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If, here, in sculptured stone, 
 Whereto erewhile did Art her form consign, 
 
 That form, while years roll on, 
 May live, O what with her sweet self, divine 
 Not to mine only, but all mortal sight 
 
 By Heaven shall then be done ? 
 Since she Heaven's making is ; this marble, merely 
 
 mine ! 
 
 Yet must she fade, and follow Time's brief flight ; 
 And all her beauty is but hers in spite, 
 If Death, that takes her life, the dead stone spare. 
 
 "What shall repair 
 
 This wrong to Nature done by Time's disdain, 
 If, while her son's works stay, her own be ta'en ? 
 
 v. 
 
 While, to the call of Time, my days fleet fast, 
 
 Love still disputes Time's power, 
 
 Nor will forego one hour 
 
 That's owed him yet, despite the long years past. 
 My soul, that groans and cries 
 
 As one that, injured, dies, 
 Laments in me my better life downcast. 
 
 'Twixt what to bless and blast 
 Hath power, 'twixt Death and Love, 
 
 Dubious, my vext heart strove 
 To choose the best, yet doth it hug the worst. 
 Thus by bad custom is good counsel curst. 
 
335 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 Low doth life's flame burn down, and faint, in me, 
 Fast as from fallen thunder fades away 
 The fluttering fire that wing'd his ardent flight. 
 Love, all thine ancient hurts I pardon thee : 
 But my faint heart, where chill'd thy hot darts stay, 
 Deep wounded once, doth no new wounds invite. 
 If all thy fires these languid eyes could light, 
 The worn-out heart would not rekindle now 
 
 Its long-quench'd glow. 
 Wherefore I shun thee, Love, in self-disdain ; 
 Too weak a wearying war to wage again. 
 
 Me, by new beauty, would'st thou, haply, lure 
 Back to the perilous pass, my dull desire, 
 Warn'd by old woes, will now no more essay ? 
 Worst are those ills which later years endure : 
 And I should be as ice before the fire, 
 That doth not kindle, but dissolves away. 
 Death, from the danger of my later day 
 Sole saviour now, must pluck me from the harm 
 
 Of thy fierce arm, 
 
 That, working woe by sight of others' weal, 
 Still strives to whirl a long arrested wheel. 
 
336 IMITATIONS AXD PARAPHRASES. 
 
 My soul, with whom Death parleys, doth prepare, 
 Taking cold counsel of herself, within 
 Sad shade of solemn thoughts that neighbour night, 
 This body soon to leave behind her, where 
 Her ghostly journey must, ere long, begin j 
 Which mingled hope and fear but dimly light. 
 Ah, Love ! how fierce thou standest, full in sight 
 Of my sad eyes ; strong-arm' d, from me to rend, 
 
 What me defend, 
 
 These timely thoughts of Death ; that thy wild hours 
 May from a wither'd tree snatch leaves and flowers ! 
 
 What can I more ? What owe I thee ? My debt 
 Is paid in full. More hours can he afford 
 Whose past's whole wealth thy greedy garner stocks ? 
 What craft or what compulsion back may get 
 To thee my homage gone, ungenerous lord, 
 Who mak'st the pain thy seeming pity mocks ? 
 The soul that hath undone her dungeon locks, 
 And loosed her bonds, knows better than again 
 
 To hug her chain, 
 
 And all her new-found freedom, fool'd, forego 
 His service to resume, that wrought her woe. 
 
 Whatever earth brings forth earth takes again : 
 And more and more all mortal beauty fleets : 
 Who loves (and this know I) is never free : 
 Near neighbour is great pleasure to great pain : 
 And most by those that deepest drain the sweets 
 The bitters in life's chalice tasted be. 
 O tyrant Love, what is thy will of me ? 
 
MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI. 837 
 
 Wilt thou that I, oblivious of past ill, 
 
 Be thy fool still, 
 
 While the scant time, my near departure claims, 
 Be spent by thee on sorrows and on shames ? 
 
 Go, song of mine, from ice by fire begot ! 
 And haply if Love meet thee by the way, 
 
 Bid him delay 
 
 To war with one that challenges him not : 
 Tell him, he wins no glory by the blow 
 That smites a long-already-fallen foe. 
 
RONSARD. 
 
SONNETS AND CHANSONS. 
 
 PARAPHRASES. 
 I. 
 
 " Void le bois que ma saincte Angelette" 
 
 HERE is the wood that freshen' d to her song : 
 See here the flowers that keep her footprints yet : 
 Where, all alone, my saintly Angelette 
 
 Went wandering with her maiden thoughts along : 
 
 Here is the little rivulet where she stopp'd : 
 
 And here the greenness of the grass shows where 
 She linger'd through it, searching here and there 
 
 Those daisies dear which in her breast she dropp'd : 
 
 Here did she sing : and here she wept : and here 
 Her smile came back : and there I seem to hear 
 
 Those faint half-words wherewith my heart is rife : 
 There did she sit : there childlike did she dance 
 To some vague impulse of her own romance. 
 
 Ah, Love on all these thoughts unwinds my life ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 " Cache pour cest nuict" 
 
 HIDE for a night thy horn, good Moon ! Fair fortune 
 For this shall keep Endymion ever prest 
 Deep-dreaming amorous on thine argent breast, 
 
 Nor ever shall enchanter thee importune. 
 
342 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 Hateful to me the day : most sweet the night ! 
 I fear the myriad meddling eyes of day : 
 But courage comes with night. Close, close, I 
 pray, 
 
 Your curtains, dear dark skies, on my delight ! 
 
 Thou, too, thou Moon, thoutoo hast felt love's power ! 
 Pan with a white fleece won thee for an hour. 
 
 And you, siderial signs in yonder blue, 
 Favour the fire whereby my heart is moved ! 
 
 Forget not, signs, the greater part of you 
 Was only set in heaven for having loved. 
 
 m. 
 " Page suy moy" 
 
 FOLLOW, my Page, where the green grass embosoms 
 The enamell'd season's freshest-fallen dew : 
 Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew 
 
 Of frail-lived April's newliest-nurtured blossoms. 
 
 Take from the wall, now, my song-tuned lyre. 
 .Here will I. sit, and charm out the sweet pain 
 Of a dark eye whose light hath burn'd my brain, 
 
 The unloving loveliness of my desire ! 
 
 And here mine ink, and here my papers, place : 
 A hundred pages white, whereon to trace 
 
 A hundred words of desultory woe : 
 Words which shall last like graven diamonds sure, 
 
 That some day hence a future race may know, 
 And ponder on, the pain that I endure. 
 
RONSARD. 343 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Les espies sont a Ceres." 
 
 CERES hath her harvests sweet : 
 
 Chloris hath the young green grass : 
 Woods for Eauns with cloven feet : 
 
 His green laurel Phoebus has : 
 Minerva hath her olive tree : 
 And the pine's for Cybele. 
 Sweet sounds are for Zephyr's wings : 
 
 Sweet fruit for Pomona's bosom : 
 For the Nymphs are crystal springs : 
 
 And for Flora bud and blossom : 
 But sighings, weepings, sad ideas, 
 These alone are Cytherea's. 
 
 v. 
 
 " Ma douce jouvence" 
 
 MY sweet youth now is all done : 
 
 The strength and the beauty are gone : 
 
 The tooth now is black : and the head now is white : 
 And the nerves now are loos'd : in the veins 
 Only water (not blood now) remains 
 
 Where the pulse beat of old with delight. 
 
 Adieu ! O my lyre ! O adieu 
 
 You sweet women, my lost loves ! and you, 
 Each dead passion ! The end creepeth nigher. 
 
 Not one pastime of youth has kept pace 
 
 With my age : nought is left in their place 
 But the bed, and the cup, and the fire. 
 
344 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 My head is confused with low fears, 
 And sickness, and too many years, 
 
 Some care in each corner I meet. 
 And wherever I linger, or go, 
 I turn back, and look after, to know 
 
 Jf Death be still dogging my feet : 
 
 Dogging me down the dark stall- 
 That windeth, I cannot tell where, 
 
 To some Pluto, that opens for ever 
 His cave to all comers : alas, 
 How easily down it all pass, 
 
 And return from it never, ah never ! 
 
DANISH. 
 
 Und wenn ein Irrlicht euch die We.ee weisen sol, 
 So must ihr's so genau nicht nehmcn. 
 
 ' 
 
THE ELVES. 
 
 IMITATIONS. 
 
 STRETCHING the tired limbs over the ground, 
 Laying the head o'er the Elfin Mound, 
 Seem'd I, or dream'd I, to hear and to see 
 Two milk-white maidens come lightly to me, 
 
 So lightly to me r 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 Two milk-white maidens : two little elf-girls : 
 One of them kist me under the curls : 
 One of them whisper' d me warm in the ear 
 " Up, and dance with us ! the moon shines clear 
 
 On mountain and mere." 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming; is o'er. 
 
 3 
 
 " And look ! and my sisters shall glance the sweet 
 
 glances : 
 And rise ! and nry sisters shall dance the sweet dances : 
 
348 IMITATIONS AND PABAPHRASES. 
 
 And list ! and my sisters shall sing the sweet songs." 
 And the Elves of the forest came round me in throngs, 
 
 Around me in throngs ! 
 
 I saw them, but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 And a marvellous music in air was heard, 
 And voices neither of breeze nor bird : 
 And the torrent, that never before stood still, 
 Stopp'd all at once of his own wild will 
 
 On the windy hill. 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 The torrent, tint never before was at rest, 
 Still'd every beat of his bubbling breast : 
 And the little white delicate fishes all 
 Danced, dimpling the diamond waterfall 
 
 That stood like a wall. 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 The little s'y fishes with silvery tails 
 Paddled and play'd : and the nightingales 
 And all the sweet things that live in the air 
 Sang aloud down the valleys, and everywhere 
 Through the moonlight fair. 
 
DANISH. 349 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 7 
 
 " And wilt thou be of us ? and wilt thou be ours ? 
 We will play thee strange music, and ply thee strange 
 
 powers : 
 
 Dance thee sweet dances, and sing thee sweet tunes : 
 And teach thee to read and to write the great runes 
 
 That charms stars and moons." 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 8 
 
 " And that dreaming dragon, that sleepeth, roll'd 
 Fold over fold, on a heap of red gold, 
 Shall lift up the eyelid from over the eye, 
 And sleepily see thee, and, seeing thee, fly 
 
 To the desert, and die." 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 9 
 
 Eound the elfin ring did the music flow : 
 And they danced high, and they danced low. 
 I watch'd them, drooping an eyelid bland, 
 But grasping the glaive in the wary hand, 
 
 Not trusting the band. 
 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
350 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 10 
 
 And " Hearest thou ? fearest thou, fool, to feel pleasure ? 
 Delayest thou ? weighest thou mirth with a measure ? 
 We will give thee quick riddance : long rest from all 
 
 strife : 
 And cut off the cares that encumber thy life 
 
 With a sharp, sharp knife." 
 I saw them but once : I shall see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 11 
 
 If the cock had not crow'd at that moment so shrill, 
 And the red dawn flicker'd far off on the hill, 
 Which sent them all flitting, by tens and twelves, 
 I might have been there with them yet, and the Elves 
 
 Had my soul to themselves. 
 But I saw them once only, and saw them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
 12 
 
 Thou, that ridest by night over elfin ground, 
 Lay not the head on the Elfin Mound. 
 And let not the eyelid sink over the eye : 
 For the Elves are fair : and the Elves are sly : 
 
 And a man might die. 
 
 Once only I saw them : I see them no more. 
 Dreaming is o'er. 
 
LORD OLAF. 
 
 PART I. 
 1 
 
 To the merry wedding feast to bid the wedding guest, 
 Light, Lord Olaf, unespied, in the middle night doth 
 
 ride : 
 But the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 2 
 
 the merry, merry wives ! fair they dance by fours 
 
 and fives : 
 But the Elf Queen of them all ... he hath heard the 
 
 Elf Queen call, 
 And the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 While the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 3 
 
 " Hail, Lord Olaf, to the dance ! while the moon is in 
 
 a trance, 
 And the shade is on the tree, get thee down and dance 
 
 with me, 
 Por the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood." 
 
352 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 4 
 
 " Nay, nay," he answer' d, "nay, I may neither list nor 
 
 stay, 
 For to-morrow, to-morrow is my merry marriage 
 
 day." 
 But the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 " List, Lord Olaf ! an' ye will dance with me by yonder 
 
 hill, 
 Ye shall have a sark of silk, soft as sleep and white 
 
 as milk." 
 And the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow, 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 6 
 
 " Hist ! a silken sark snow-white : for my mother 
 
 bleach'd it bright 
 
 In the mad moonlight, in the middle of the night." 
 O the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow, 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 7 
 " Nay, I may no more delay ; neither list to what ye 
 
 say; 
 For to-morrow, for to-rnorrow is my merry marriage 
 
 day." 
 
DANISH. 353 
 
 But the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 " List, Lord Olaf ! an' with me ye will dance by yonder 
 
 tree, 
 Ye shall have a scarf of gold broider'd bright on 
 
 scarlet fold." 
 And the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 " Take the golden scarf away ! I may neither look nor 
 
 stay : 
 For to-morrow, to-morrow, is my merry marriage 
 
 day." 
 But the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 10 
 
 "Hist, Lord Olaf! scarlet fold, broider'd gay with 
 
 burning gold : 
 For I wrought it in the cold of the cavern'd hills of 
 
 old." 
 
 the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
354 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 11 
 
 " Keep, keep the silken sark, and the golden scarf ! 
 
 for hark, 
 Prom the far off forest dells comes a sound of bridal 
 
 bells ! " 
 But the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 12 
 
 " An' ye will not dance with me, list, Lord Olaf, ye 
 
 shall be 
 Fairest bridegroom ever borne to his grave on bridal 
 
 morn." 
 Ho ! the dance flies fast through the hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
 13 
 
 Light she leapt to his red horse : " Now ride on across 
 
 the gorse ! 
 " Ride ! " she cried, " Not every bride clasps a dead 
 
 man to her side ! " 
 And the dance flies fast through the- hollow, hollow 
 
 wood, 
 And the white women dance in the wild wood. 
 
DANISH. 355 
 
 PART II. 
 
 1 
 
 Pale, Lord Olaf stood before his own good castle door, 
 And his mother from the gate call'd " Lord Olaf, why 
 
 so late ? " 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 " And, Lord Olaf, do ye ail ? Why, son Olaf, why so 
 
 pale? 
 For thy cheek is white as death, and there's blood upon 
 
 the heath." 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 " Mother, mother, much I ail : and my cheek may well 
 
 be pale. 
 Evil, evil was the chance ! I have seen the Elf Queen 
 
 dance. 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, whose kissing is so 
 
 cold!" 
 
 4 
 
 " Hold ! what say ye, my son ? and what is it ye 
 
 have done? 
 And what shall I tell thy bride ? " " Tell her, teU her 
 
 that I ride," 
 (0 Elf Oueen, Elf Queen, thy kissing is so cold !) 
 
356 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. 
 
 5 
 
 " That I ride around, around in the forest, with my 
 
 hound : 
 In the forest through the gorse, to try my red roan 
 
 horse." 
 But the Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so 
 
 cold! 
 
 Blithely blows the castle horn for the merry marriage 
 
 morn : 
 And the silver music swells from the swinging bridal 
 
 beUs. 
 But the Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so 
 
 cold! 
 
 Come the minstrels : comes the priest : with the merry 
 
 wedding guest : 
 And the bride with the bride maiden : and the banquet 
 
 board is laden. 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 8 
 
 And the hydromel is pour'd, and the red wine, round 
 
 the board. 
 " Mother, mother, where is he that should be here with 
 
 me?" 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
DANISH. 357 
 
 "0 he rides around, around in the forest with his 
 
 hound ; 
 In the forest, through the gorse with his greyhound 
 
 and his horse." 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 10 
 
 " Nay, his horse is in the stall, and his greyhound in 
 
 the hall : 
 And 0, dear as these may be, more Lord Olaf loveth 
 
 me!" 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold! 
 
 11 
 
 " Long his horse may stand in stall, and his greyhound 
 
 bide in hall : 
 
 Weary men do slumber deep : and he lyeth in a sleep." 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 12 
 
 Then the scarlet cloth she raised, and upon his face 
 
 they gazed : 
 
 And fear fell upon them all, the feasters in that hall. 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 13 
 
 " maiden, maiden, weep ! He that sleepeth such a 
 sleep 
 
358 IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES, 
 
 Needeth but a narrow bed ! " Not a word the maiden 
 
 said. 
 The Elf Queen, the Elf Queen, her kissing is so cold ! 
 
 14 
 
 On the mournful morrow morn three corpses forth 
 
 were borne : 
 
 From the castle corpses three : and two were fair to see. 
 Elf Queen, Elf Queen, thy kissing is so cold ! 
 
SERVIAN. 
 
 Omne meum : nihil meura. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 WHEN the following poems were first published 
 they were criticised in the Saturday Review by a writer, 
 than whom there are probably few Europeans more 
 thoroughly conversant with the languages, the litera- 
 ture, and the social life of the East ; and for whom I 
 entertain too sincere a respect to neglect this oppor- 
 tunity of endeavouring to remove from his mind a 
 misapprehension, occasioned (much to my regret) by 
 the unintentional ambiguity of my own language. 
 
 Assuming from some words in a short preface, by 
 which the first edition of them was accompanied, that 
 these verses were offered to the public as a translation 
 of songs orally collected by myself from the wandering 
 singers of them in Servia, my critic proceeded, (and, 
 I must add, very courteously) to protest against a 
 pretension which I had certainly no intention whatever 
 of putting forward in their behalf. 
 
 These ballads, as was stated in the preface to which 
 I refer, are neither Translations nor. Paraphrases. 
 Strictly speaking, indeed, I cannot properly call them 
 even Imitations ; for they attempt neither the imitation 
 of Servian metres, nor the treatment of subject in 
 purely Servian forms, nor even the faithful expression 
 of purely Servian sentiment. In fact, they represent 
 nothing more than the result of a passing wish to 
 
362 SERVIAN. 
 
 embody in forms of my own the personal impressions 
 made upon myself by the popular poetry of a people 
 amongst whom I was living when they were written. 
 In the preface alluded to reference was made to the 
 French prose translation of Servian ballads and legends 
 (from which the subjects of these verses are taken) 
 in the work of M. Dozon : to the privilege of whose 
 personal intercourse, no less than to his interesting 
 book, I am indeed greatly indebted for information 
 about a country in which he has long resided ; although, 
 in the composition of these versions of Servian song, 
 I also received assistance from others of my acquaint- 
 ance in that country. 
 
 But in that unlucky preface it was said of these 
 verses that, " whether weeds or wild-flowers, they had, 
 at least, been gathered upon native soil." And it is to 
 this not very original figure of speech, occurring, as 
 it did, immediately after a description of the blind bards 
 of Servia, and the mode in which the traditions of their 
 race are preserved by the songs they sing, that I must 
 attribute the misfortune of having conveyed to the 
 mind of my accomplished critic an impression that I 
 intended to pass off my own verses as derived from 
 original sources, and translated by myself from the 
 recitation of those singers. I am sorry for it. I 
 intended nothing of the kind. All I meant to imply 
 was that my verses had been prompted, and were 
 characterized, by the local influences of a period passed 
 in contemplation of much of the scenery to which they 
 often refer, and in personal contact with the people 
 from whose history, habits, and sentiments, the subjects 
 of them are derived. In short, the publication of 
 
NOTE. 363 
 
 these ballads was occasioned only by a belief that the 
 freshness of impressions, thus directly received, might 
 possibly have imparted to them some of the qualities 
 which ought to be found in original verse. There is a 
 merit which belongs to accurate translation, and there 
 is a merit which belongs to spirited paraphrase. I 
 presume to think, however, that there is also another 
 kind of merit (belonging neither to the one nor the 
 other) in the vividness with which a writer may succeed 
 in imparting to the minds of his readers sensations 
 added to the stock of his own individuality by contact 
 with a literature embodying the thoughts and fancies 
 of an experience unfamiliar to himself and to his 
 countrymen. It is the attainment of this kind of 
 merit which is here aimed at. Goethe, indeed, who 
 probably knew nothing of Servian, has left us a version 
 of one of these very ballads : and Goethe's version has 
 a merit and an interest of its own, as an original work, 
 notwithstanding the fact that it was composed from an 
 Italian translation. Goethe was neyer in Servia, nor 
 could any personal knowledge of that country be needed 
 by so great an artist as Goethe, either to prompt, or 
 justify, the annexation of any province of Servian Song 
 to his literary domains. For myself, however, I confess 
 that if I had never been in Servia these verses would 
 never have been written, and should they succeed in 
 conveying to the sense of any reader of them some- 
 thing of the novelty of those impressions which 
 induced me to write them, they will have sufficiently 
 accomplished the object of their author. 
 
 OWEN MEEEDITH. 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSO.YO, 
 
 i. 
 
 THE Sultan Murad o'er Kossovo comes 
 With banners and drums. 
 
 There, all in characters fair, 
 
 He wrote a letter ; and there 
 
 Bade his estaffettes despatch 
 
 To bear it to Krouchevatch, 
 
 To the white-wall'd town of the Tzar, 
 
 To the hands of Prince Lazar. 
 
 " Listen, Lazarus, chief of the Serbs, to me ! 
 
 That which never hath been, that which never shall be, 
 
 Is that two lords one land should sway, 
 
 And the same rayas two tributes pay. 
 
 Send to me, therefore, the tributes and keys ; 
 
 The golden keys of each white town ; 
 
 And send me a seven years' tribute with these. 
 
366 SERVIAN. 
 
 But if this thou wilt not do, 
 
 Then come thou down over Kossovo : 
 
 On the field of Kossovo come thou down, 
 
 That we may divide the land with our swords. 
 
 These are my words." 
 
 When Lazarus this letter had read, 
 Bitter, bitter were the tears he shed. 
 
 II. 
 
 A grey bird, a falcon, comes flying apace 
 
 Prom Jerusalem, from the Holy Place ; 
 
 And he bears a light swallow abroad. 
 
 It is not a grey bird, a falcon, God wot ! 
 
 But the Saint Elias ; and it is not 
 
 A light swallow he bears from afar, 
 
 But a letter from the Mother of God 
 
 To the Tzar who in Kossovo stays. 
 
 And the letter is dropt on the knees of the Tzar ; 
 
 And these are the words that it says : 
 
 " Lazarus, Prince of a race that I love, 
 
 Which empire choosest thou ? 
 
 That of the heaven above ? 
 
 Or that of the earth below ? 
 
 If thou choose thee an earthly realm, 
 
 Saddle horse, belt, spur, and away ! 
 
 Warriors, bind ye both sabre and helm, 
 
 And rush on the Turks, and they 
 
 With their army whole shall perish. 
 
 But, if rather a heavenly crown thou cherish, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 367 
 
 At Kossovo build ye a temple fair. 
 There no foundations of marble lay, 
 But only silk of the scarlet dye. 
 Range ye the army in battle-array, 
 And let each and all full solemnly 
 Partake of the blessed sacrament there. 
 For then of a certainty know 
 Ye shall utterly perish, both thou, 
 And thine army all ; and the Turk shall be 
 Lord of the land that is under thee." 
 
 When the Tzar he read these words, 
 
 His thoughts were as long and as sharp as swords. 
 
 " God of my fathers, what shall I choose ? 
 
 If a heavenly empire, then must I lose 
 
 All that is dearest to me upon earth ; 
 
 But if that the heavenly here I refuse, 
 
 What then is the earthly worth ? 
 
 It is but a day, 
 
 It passeth away, 
 
 And the glory of earth full soon is o'er, 
 
 And the glory of God is more and more." 
 
 "What is this world's renown? " 
 
 (His heart was heavy, his soul was stirr'd.) 
 
 " Shall an earthly empire be preferr'd 
 
 To an everlasting crown ? 
 
 At Kossovo build me a temple fair : 
 
 Lay no foundations of marble down, 
 
 But only silk of the scarlet dye." 
 
 Then he sent for the Servian Patriarch : 
 
 With him twelve bishops to Kossovo went. 
 
368 SERVIAN. 
 
 It was at the lifting of the dark : 
 They ranged the army in battle-array, 
 And the army all full solemnly 
 Received the blessed sacrament, 
 And hardly was this done, when lo ! 
 The Turks came rushing on Kossovo. 
 
 in. 
 
 Ivan Kossantchitch, my probratime, 
 What of the Turk ? How deem ye of him ? 
 Is he strong, is he many, is he near ? 
 Our battle, say ! may we show him ? 
 May we hope to overthrow him ? 
 What news of him bringest thou here ? 
 
 And Ivan Kossantchitch replied : 
 
 " Milosch Obilitch, my brother dear, 
 
 I have lookt on the Turk in his pride. 
 
 He is strong, he is many, he is near, 
 
 His tents are on every side. 
 
 Were we all of us hewn into morsels, and salted, 
 
 Hardly, I think, should we salt him his meat. 
 
 Two whole days have I journeyed, nor halted, 
 
 Toward the Turk, near the Turk, round him, and 
 
 never 
 
 Could I number his numbers, or measure his end. 
 Prom the Maple to Sazlia, brother, my feet 
 Have wander'd ; from Sazlia round by the river, 
 Where the river comes round to the bridge with a 
 
 bend; 
 And over the bridge to the town of Zvetchan ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 369 
 
 Prom Zvetchan to Tchechan, and further, and ever 
 Further, and over the mountains, wherever 
 Foot may fall, or eye may scan, 
 I saw nought but the Mussulman. 
 
 " Eastward and westward, and southward and nor'- 
 
 ward, 
 
 Scaling- the hillside, and scathing the gorse, 
 Horseman to horseman, and horse against horse ; 
 Lances like forests when forests are black ; 
 Standards like clouds flying backward and forward, 
 "White tents like snowdrifts piled up at the back. 
 The rain may, in torrents, fall down out of heaven, 
 But never the earth will it reach : 
 Nothing but horsemen, nothing but horses, ' 
 Thick as the sands which the wild river courses 
 Leave, after tempest, in heaps on the beach. 
 Murad, for pasture, hath given 
 To his horsemen the plain of Mazguite. 
 Lances a-ripple all over the land, 
 Tost like the bearded and billowy wheat 
 By the winds of the mountain driven 
 Under the mountain slab. 
 Murad looks down in command 
 Over Sitnitza and Lab." 
 
 " Answer me, Ivan, answer ye me, 
 
 Where may the tent of Murad be ? 
 
 His milk-white tent, may one see it afar 
 
 O'er the plain, from the mountain, or out of the 
 
 wood ? 
 For I have sworn to the Prince Lazar 
 
370 SERVIAN. 
 
 A solemn vow upon Holy Rood, 
 
 To bring him the head of the Turkish Tzar, 
 
 And set my feet in his infidel blood." 
 
 " Art mad, my pobratime, art mad ? 
 Where may the tent be, the tent of Murad ? 
 In the midst of a million eyes and ears : 
 In the midst of a million swords and spears, 
 In the heart of the camp of the Turk. 
 Fatal thy vow is, and wild is the work ; 
 For hadst thou the wings of the. falcon, to fly 
 Fleeter than lightning, along the deep sky, 
 The wings of the falcon, though fleet be they, 
 Would never bear thee thy body away." 
 
 And Milosch abjured him : "0 Ivan, my brother 
 
 (Tho' not by the blood, yet more dear than all other), 
 
 See thou say nothing of this to our lord, 
 
 Lest, ye sorrow his heart ; and say never a word, 
 
 Lest our friends be afflicted, and fail. But thou 
 
 Shalt rather answer to who would know, 
 
 And boldly aver to the Tzar, 
 
 ' The Turk is many, but more are we, 
 
 And easy and light is the victory : 
 
 For he is not an army of men of war, 
 
 But a rabble rather 
 
 Of rascals that gather 
 
 To promise of plunder from places afar ; 
 
 Priests and pedlars, 
 
 Jugglers and fiddlers, 
 
 Dancers and drummers, 
 
 Varlets and mummers, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 371 
 
 Boys and buffoons all craven loons 
 That never in burly of battle have bled, 
 Never have combated sword in hand ; 
 They are only come, the beggars, for bread, 
 And to feed on the fat of the land. 
 And the dreadful dismal dysentery 
 Is among their men, and their horses die, 
 Of a daily increasing malady.' ' : 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, our Tzar, 
 At Krouchevatch high Slava doth hold. 
 Around him, sitting by cups of gold, 
 His sons and his seigneurs are. 
 
 To right, the reverend Youg Bogdan ; 
 Round whom the nine young Yougovitch ; 
 To left, that thrice-accursed man, 
 The traitor black, Vouk Brankovitch ; 
 And many a lord, along the board, 
 And last of all, in the knightly train, 
 Milosch, the manly Yoi'vod ; 
 Next him, Servian Voi'vodes twain, 
 Ivan Kossantchitch, his brother in God, 
 And Milan Toplitza, a man without stain. 
 
 And the Tzar bade pour the purple wine, 
 
 And, brimming up his golden cup, 
 
 Lookt all adown that lordly line. 
 
 " To whom shall the King first pledge ? " he began. 
 " If first to age, this health should be, 
 
 2 B 2 
 
372 SERVIAN. 
 
 To no man do I drink but thee, 
 Eevered old Youg Bogdan ; 
 But if to rank on high degree, 
 Vouk Brankovitch, I drink to thee. 
 If to friendship be the toast, 
 My brothers nine, I know not which 
 Amongst you all I love the most, 
 You gallant-hearted Yougovitch ! 
 If to beauty, then be thine, 
 Ivan, first the flowing wine. 
 If to length and strength of limb, 
 Then the wine to Milan brim, 
 No man measures height with him. 
 If to valour, more than even 
 Stature, beauty, friendship, age, 
 Our first honours should be given, 
 Then to Milosch must we pledge. 
 Yet, be that as it may be, 
 Milosch, I drink to none but thee ! 
 Milosch, thy health ! 
 Drink, man, drink ! 
 Why should any man care to think ? 
 Traitor or true, or friend or foe, 
 To thee I drain this goblet low ; 
 And, ere to-morrow, at Kossovo, 
 Thou thy master hast betray'd 
 To the Turk, for wages paid, 
 (Frie*nd or foe, whate'er befall, 
 True or traitor, what care I ?) 
 The King drinks to thee in this hall, 
 Lip to lip, and eye to eye, 
 Pledge me now in sight of all ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOYO. 373 
 
 And, since to thee I fill it up, 
 Take thou too this golden cup, 
 And add it to ill-gotten wealth 
 Milosch, thy health ! " 
 
 Lightly Milosch bounded up, 
 
 Lightly caught the golden cup, 
 
 To the black earth bow'd his head, 
 
 And " Noble master, thanks ! " he said, 
 
 " For the pledge thou pledgest me, 
 
 And thanks that, of thy courtesy, 
 
 Thou to me dost first allot, 
 
 A true, true health, O King, to thee, 
 
 To pledge back in this golden token ; 
 
 Thanks for this, my lord, but not 
 
 For the words which thou hast spoken. 
 
 For, oh ! (and may my loyalty, 
 
 Dear liege, not fatal prove to me, 
 
 Before the truth is judged between 
 
 Us, and his fair company) 
 
 My true heart is sound and clean, 
 
 Traitor never have I been, 
 
 Traitor never will I be ! 
 
 But at Kossovo to-morrow morn 
 
 I trust, as I am a living man, 
 
 A soldier and a Christian, 
 
 To go to the death for the true, true faith, 
 
 True to the last where my faith is sworn, 
 
 Careless of calumny, scorning scorn ! 
 
 The traitor is sitting by thy side, 
 
 He toucheth thy robe, thy wine he drinketh, 
 
 To God and his king he hath foully lied, 
 
374 
 
 SERVIAN. 
 
 Vouk Brankovitch, tlie servile-eyed, 
 
 Christian false, and perjured friend ! 
 
 God judge between us twain i' the end, 
 
 And perish he in the thought he thinketh ! 
 
 To-morrow a noble day will be, 
 
 For at Kossovo all men shall see 
 
 What is the truth betwixt us two, 
 
 And who is traitor, and who is true. 
 
 For I swear by the great sun in the sky, 
 
 And I swear by the living God on high 
 
 That judgeth us all, whate'er befall, 
 
 When at Kossovo upon battle-plain, 
 
 Murad, the Turk, I have sought and slain 
 
 (Sought and slain, for I swore by the rood 
 
 To set my feet in his Turkish blood), 
 
 If God but grant me safe and sane 
 
 A living man to come again 
 
 Back to white-wall'd Krouchevatch, 
 
 And there that traitor foul I catch, 
 
 Vouk Brankovitch, I will have by the throat. 
 
 All men shall see it, and all men shall note, 
 
 For it shall be done in the light of the sun.' 
 
 To my good war-lance I will fix his skull, 
 
 As a woman fixes a ball of wool 
 
 To her distaff when her spinning is done. 
 
 Then I will bear him to Kossovo, 
 
 Bear him back to the battle-plain ; 
 
 All men shall see it, and all men shall know 
 
 Who is the traitor of us twain." 
 
 V. 
 
 At the royal board a noble pair 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 Sit together, and full sad they are. 
 
 Lazarus and his Militza fair, 
 
 The sweet-eyed Tzarina and the Tzar. 
 
 Troubled is the Tzar's broad brow, 
 
 The Tzarina' s eyes are dim, 
 
 And, with tears that dare not flow, 
 
 The Tzarina says to him : 
 
 " Lord Lazarus, golden crown 
 Of Servia, and sweetheart my own ! 
 To-morrow morn to Kossovo 
 With thee to the battle go 
 Servitors and Voi'vodes. 
 I alone, in these abodes, 
 Vacant of thy voice, remain ; 
 Hearing, haply, on the wind, 
 Murmurs of the battle-plain ; 
 Heavy of heart, and sad of mind, 
 Silent in sorrow, alone with pain. 
 O think on this, my life, my lord, 
 Never a soul to carry a word 
 To Kossovo, from me to thee, 
 To Krouchevatch from thee to me ; 
 Wherefore, lord of my brothers nine, 
 The sons of Youg, our father old, 
 (Golden stars in a crown of gold !) 
 Let one, for once, be wholly mine. 
 Mine to witness the tears I weep ; 
 Mine to solace the vigil I keep ; 
 Mine alone, of my nine brothers, 
 To pray with me for those eight others ; 
 Of brothers nine, but leave me one 
 
 375 
 
376 SERVIAN. 
 
 To swear by when the rest be gone! " 
 
 And Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, replied : 
 " Militza, sweetheart, wife true-eyed, 
 Of thy nine brothers, tell to me which 
 Thou lovest best, that he should rest 
 In our white palace to watch by thee. 
 Which of them, sweetheart ? tell to me ! " 
 And she answer'd, "Bocko Yougovitch." 
 And Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, replied : 
 " Militza, sweetheart, wife true-eyed, 
 To-morrow, when from her red bower 
 The watery dawn begins to break, 
 Ere yet the sun hath felt his power 
 Seek thou the city walls, and take 
 Thy post against the Eastern gate : 
 There shalt thou see the army pass, 
 To mantle the field in martial state, 
 And trample the dew-drop out of the grass. 
 All lusty warriors, leal and true, 
 Who in battle have never turn'd their backs, 
 In complete steel, with curtle axe ; 
 Each spearman true, as his own true steel. 
 And, foremost of all, that, with iron heel, 
 Crush the wet violet down in the moss, 
 With purple plumes, in vesture rich, 
 Thy brother, Bocko Yougovitch, 
 Bearing the standard of the Cross. 
 Seize thou the golden bridle-ring, 
 Greet him fair from his lord the king, 
 And bid him that he the standard yield 
 To whomsoever he deemeth best, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 377 
 
 And turn about from the battle-field, 
 In our white palace with thee to rest." 
 
 YI. 
 
 Now, when the dawn from her red bower 
 
 Upclomb the chilly skies, and, all 
 
 Athwart the freshening city tower, 
 
 The silent light began to fall 
 
 About the breezy yellow flower 
 
 That shook on the shadowy city wall, 
 
 Militza, through the glimmering streets, 
 
 Goes forth against the Eastern gate. 
 
 There, all i' the morning light, she meets 
 
 The army on to the distant down, 
 
 Winding out of the dusky town, 
 
 To mantle the field in martial state, 
 
 And trample the dew-drop out of the grass. 
 
 brothers, a goodly sight it was ! 
 
 With curtle axe, in complete steel, 
 
 So many a warrior, lusty and leal, 
 
 So many a spearman, stout and true, 
 
 Marching to battle in order due. 
 
 And foremost among that stately throng, 
 
 With, over his helmet's golden boss, 
 
 Floating plumes of the purple rich, 
 
 The gallant Bocko "Yougovitch 
 
 Bearing the standard of the Cross. 
 
 All blazing gold his corselet beam'd, 
 
 Imperial purple fold on fold, 
 
 The mighty Christian ensign stream'd 
 
 Over his red-roan courser bold ; 
 
378 
 
 SERVIAN. 
 
 And high upon the standard top 
 Against the merry morning gleam 'd 
 An apple wrought of purest gold ; 
 Thereon the great gold cross, from which 
 All glittering downward, drop by drop, 
 Great golden acorns, lightly hung, 
 Over his shining shoulder flung 
 Plashes of light o'er Yougovitch. 
 
 She caught the bridle ring : in check 
 The red-roan courser paw'd the ground. 
 About her brother's bended neck 
 Her milk-white arm she softly wound, 
 And half in hope, and half in fear, 
 She whisper'd in the young man's ear : 
 " Brother, my liege and thine, the king, 
 Commits me to thy comforting. 
 He greets thee fair, and bids me say 
 (The which with all my heart I pray) 
 That thou the royal ensign yield 
 To whomsoever thou deemest best, 
 And turn about from the battle-field 
 At Krouchevatch with me to rest, 
 That of nine brothers I may have one 
 To swear by when the rest be gone." 
 
 But " Foul befall," the young man said, 
 " The man that turns his horse's head, 
 Whoe'er he be, from battle-plain : 
 Turn thee, sister, turn again 
 To thy white tower ! I will not yield 
 The Holy Cross 'tis mine to bear, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 379 
 
 Nor turn about from the battle-field. 
 Not though the king should give, I swear, 
 The whole of Krouchevatch to me, 
 Would I turn thitherwards with thee. 
 To-day will be the noblest day 
 Yon sun in heaven did ever see ; 
 Nor shall my own true comrades say 
 This day, in sorrow or scorn, of me, 
 ' The craven heart that dared not go 
 To the great fight at Kossovo ; 
 That fear'd to find a saintly death, 
 Nor pour'd his blood for Holy Rood, 
 Nor fell for the Christian faith.'" 
 He prickt his horse toward the gate, 
 And, through a cloud of hoary mist 
 Glittering like one great amethyst, 
 Swept forth into the morning wan. 
 Then up there rides in royal state, 
 With his seven sons, old Youg Bogdan. 
 She stopt them one by one ; she took 
 The bridle rein ; she spoke to them all. 
 Not one of them all would turn and look : 
 Not one of them all would listen and wait ; 
 But the trumpet sounded in the gate, 
 And they follow'd the trumpet call. 
 
 And after these, a little space, 
 
 Yoin Yougovitch not far 
 
 She spied come riding at slow pace, 
 
 Leading the destriers of the Tzar, 
 
 All trapt and housed with gold be they, 
 
380 SERYIAN. 
 
 And going an amble by the way. 
 His good steed was of dapple grey. 
 She caught the bridle ring : in check 
 The good grey courser paw'd the ground. 
 Her milk-white arm she softly wound 
 About her brother's bended neck ; 
 And half in hope, and half in fear. 
 She whisper'd in the young man's ear : 
 " Brother, my liege, and thine, the king, 
 Commits me to thy comforting. 
 He greets thee fair, and bids me say 
 (The which with all my heart I pray) 
 That thou the royal destriers yield 
 To whomsoever thou deemest best, 
 And turn about from the battle-field 
 In Krouchevatch with me to rest, 
 That of nine brothers I may have one 
 To swear by when the rest be gone." 
 
 But " Sister, foul befall," he said, 
 
 " The man that turns his horse's head, 
 
 Whoe'er he be, from battle-plain : 
 
 Turn thee, sister, turn again 
 
 To thy white tower ! I will not yield 
 
 The destriers of my lord the Tzar, 
 
 Nor turn about from the battle-field, 
 
 Where all my noble kinsmen are, 
 
 Albeit to meet my death I go 
 
 To the great fight at Kossovo ; 
 
 To pour my blood for Holy Eood, 
 
 To fight to the death for the Christian Faith, 
 
THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 381 
 
 With my kinsmen all to fight and fall, 
 With our foreheads against the foe." 
 
 Through the gate he prickt his steed, 
 And off to the dreary downs afar, 
 Leading as fast as he might lead 
 The destriers of the Tzar. 
 But Dame Militza, when no more 
 She heard the echoing hoofs that bore 
 Her brother from her, even as one 
 Prom whom the light of life is gone, 
 Pell swooning on the cold curb-stone. 
 
 Then came the Tzar himself anon, 
 And his great war-horse pacing on, 
 Did stoutly neigh in lusty pride ; 
 But when he past beside that stone, 
 He stopt, and stoopt, and swerv'd aside. 
 There, all her fair white length o'erthrown, 
 The Tzar his own true wife espied, 
 And fast the bitter tears down ran, 
 As he call'd to his servant Gouloban 
 
 " Good Gouloban, my faithful friend, 
 In this thy trusty service prove ; 
 Prom off thy milk-white horse descend, 
 And, as thou dost thy master love, 
 In thy true arms thy mistress take, 
 With whom to her tall tower go ; 
 And, God forgive thee for my sake, 
 But go not thou to Kossovo. 
 I will requite thee when again 
 
382 SERVIAN. 
 
 I meet thee, if I be not slain, 
 Howbeit, I deem my doom at hand, 
 For the Turk is lord of half the land." 
 
 Down stept the trusty serving man, 
 Full fast his bitter tears down ran, 
 And sad was the heart of Gouloban. 
 He lifted up that drooping flower, 
 Lifted her on to his milk-white steed, 
 And rode with her to her tall tower, 
 As fast as he might speed. 
 
 There laid he her in linen bed, 
 
 And lowly laid her lovely head. 
 
 But o'er the airy morning smote, 
 
 Along the blowing breeze remote, 
 
 A solitary trumpet note. 
 
 Full well the milk-white war-horse knew 
 
 The music of that martial sound, 
 
 And in the courtyard paw'd the ground, 
 
 And blithely from his nostrils blew 
 
 The morning mist. Then Gouloban 
 
 Adown the turret stairway ran, 
 
 He leapt to stirrup, he leapt to selle, 
 
 From fleeting hands he waved farewell ; 
 
 Again he heard the trumpet blow, 
 
 And he rode back to Kossovo. 
 
 VII. 
 
 All when the misty morn was low, 
 And the rain was raining heavily 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 383 
 
 Two ravens came from Kossovo, 
 Flying along a lurid sky : 
 One after one, they percli'd upon 
 The palace of the great Lazar, 
 And sat upon the turret wall. 
 One 'gan croak, and one 'gan call, 
 " Is this the palace of the Tzar ? 
 And is there never a soul inside? " 
 
 Was never a soul within the hall, 
 
 To answer to the ravens' call, 
 
 Save Militza. She espied 
 
 The two black birds on the turret wall, 
 
 That all in the wind and rain did croak, 
 
 And thus the ravens she bespoke : 
 
 " In God's great name, black ravens, say, 
 
 Whence came ye on the wind to-day ? 
 
 Is it from the plain of Kossovo ? 
 
 Hath the bloody battle broke ? 
 
 Saw ye the two armies there ? 
 
 Have they met ? And, friend or foe, 
 
 Which hath vanquisht ? How do they fare ? " 
 
 And the two black fowls replied : 
 
 " In God's great name, Militza, dame, 
 
 From Kossovo at dawn we came. 
 
 A bloody battle we espied : 
 
 We saw the two great armies there, 
 
 They have met, and ill they fare. 
 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen are 
 
 The Turkish and the Christian Tzar. 
 
 Of the Turks is nothing left ; 
 
384 SERVIAN. 
 
 Of the Serbs a remnant rests, 
 Hackt and hewn, carved and cleft, 
 Broken shields, and bloody breasts." 
 And lo ! while yet the ravens spoke, 
 Up came the servant, Miloutine : 
 And he held his right hand, cleft 
 By a ghastly sabre stroke, 
 Bruised and bloody, in his left ; 
 Gasht with gashes seventeen 
 Yawn'd his body where he stood, 
 And his horse was dripping blood. 
 
 " O sorrow, sorrow, bitter woe 
 And sorrow, Miloutine ! " she said ; 
 " For now I know my lord is dead. 
 For, were he living, well I know, 
 Thou hadst not left at Kossovo 
 Thy lord forsaken to the foe." 
 
 And Miloutine spake, breathing hard : 
 
 " Get me from horse : on cool greensward 
 
 Lay me, lay me, mistress mine : 
 
 A little water from the well. 
 
 To bathe my wounds in water cold, 
 
 For they are deep and manifold ; 
 
 And touching my lip with rosy wine, 
 
 That I may speak before I die. 
 
 I would not die before I tell 
 
 The tale of how they fought and fell." 
 
 She got him from his bloody steed, 
 
 And wiped the death-drops from his brow, 
 
 And in the fresh grass laid him low ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 385 
 
 And washt his wounds in water cold, 
 For they were deep and manifold ; 
 Full ghastly did they gape and bleed : 
 She stanch'd them with her garment's fold, 
 And lightly held his body up, 
 And bathed his lips with rosy wine, 
 And all the while her tears down ran, 
 And dropt into the golden cup ; 
 And still she question'd of the war : 
 " tell me, tell me, Miloutine, 
 Where fell the glorious Prince Lazar ? 
 Where are fallen my brothers nine ? _ 
 Where my father, Youg Bogdan ? 
 Where Milosch, where Vouk Brankovitch ? 
 Arid where Strahinia Banovitch ? " 
 
 Then when the servant, Miloutine, 
 Three draughts had drain'd of rosy wine, 
 Although his eyes were waxing dim, 
 A little strength came back to him. 
 He stood up on his feet, and, pale 
 And ghastly, thus began the tale : 
 
 " They will never return again, 
 Never return ! ye shall see them no more ; 
 Nor ever meet them within the door, 
 Nor hold their hands. Their hands are cold, 
 Their bodies bleach in bloody mould. 
 They are slain ! all of them slain ! 
 And the maidens shall mourn, and the mothers de- 
 plore, 
 Heaps of dead heroes on battle plain. 
 
 2 c 
 
386 SERVIAN. 
 
 Where they fell, there they remain, 
 Corpses stiff in their gore. 
 But their glory shall never grow old 
 Fallen, fallen, in mighty war, 
 Fallen, fighting about the Tzar, 
 Fallen, where fell our lord Lazar ! 
 Never more be there voice of cheer ! 
 Never more be there song or dance ! 
 Muffled be moon and star ! 
 For broken now is the lance, 
 Shiver'd both shield and spear, 
 And shatter'd the scimitar. 
 And cleft is the golden crown, 
 And the sun of Servia is down, 
 O'erthrown, o'erthrown, o'erthrown, 
 The roof and top of our renown, 
 Dead is the great Lazar ! 
 
 " Have ye seen when the howling storm-wind takes 
 
 The topmost pine on a hoary rock, 
 
 Tugs at it, and tears, and shakes, and breaks, 
 
 And tumbles it into the ocean ? 
 
 So when this bloody day began, 
 
 In the roaring battle's opening shock, 
 
 Down went the grey-hair'd Youg Bogdan. 
 
 And following him, the noblest man 
 
 That ever wore the silver crown 
 
 Of age, grown grey in old renown, 
 
 One after one, and side by side 
 
 Fighting, thy nine brothers died : 
 
 Each by other, brother brother 
 
 Following, till death took them all. 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 387 
 
 But of these nine the last to fall 
 Was Bocko. Him, myself, I saw, 
 Three awful hours a sight of awe, 
 Here, and there, and everywhere, 
 And all at once, made manifest, 
 Like a wild meteor in a troubled air, 
 Whose motion never may be guest. 
 For over all the lurid rack 
 Of smoking battle, blazed and bum'd, 
 And stream'd and flasht, 
 Like flame before the wind upturn'd, 
 The great imperial ensign splasht 
 With blood of Turks : where'er he dasht 
 Amongst their bruised battalions, I 
 Saw them before him reel and fly : 
 As when a falcon from on high, 
 Pounce on a settle-down of doves, 
 That murmurs make in myrrhy groves, 
 Comes flying all across the sky, 
 And scatters them with instant fright ; 
 So flew the Turks to left and right, 
 Broken before him. Milosch fell, 
 Pursued by myriads down the dell, 
 Upon Sitnitza's rushy brink, 
 Whose chilly waves will roll, I think, 
 So long as time itself doth roll, 
 .Bed with remorse that they roll o'er him. 
 Christ have mercy on his soul, 
 And blessed be the womb that bore him. 
 Not alone he fell. Before him 
 Twelve thousand Turkish soldiers fell, 
 Slaughter'd in the savage dell. 
 
 2 c 2 
 
388 SERVIAN. 
 
 His right hand was wet and red 
 With the blood that he had shed, 
 And in that red right hand he had 
 (Shorn from the shoulder sharp) the head 
 Of the Turkish Tzar, Murad. 
 
 " There resteth to Servia a glory, 
 
 A glory that shall not grow old ; 
 
 There remaineth to Servia a story, 
 
 A tale to be chanted and told ! 
 
 They are gone to their graves grim and gory, 
 
 The beautiful, brave, and bold ; 
 
 But out of the darkness and desolation, 
 
 Of the mourning heart of a widow'd nation, 
 
 Their memory waketh an exultation ! 
 
 Yea, so long as a babe shall be born, 
 
 Or there resteth a man in the land 
 
 So long as a blade of corn 
 
 Shall be reapt by a human hand 
 
 So long as the grass shall grow 
 
 On the mighty plain of Kossovo 
 
 So long, so long, even so, 
 
 Shall the glory of those remain 
 
 Who this day in battle were slain. 
 
 " And as for what ye inquire 
 
 Of Vouk, when the wonn and mole 
 
 Are at work on his bones, may his soul 
 
 Eternally singe in hell -fire ! 
 
 Curst be the womb that bore him ! 
 
 Curst be his father before him ! 
 
 Curst be the race and the name of him ! 
 
THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 389 
 
 And foul as his sin be the fame of him ! 
 For blacker traitor never drew sword 
 False to his faith, to his land, to his lord ! 
 And doubt ye, doubt ye, the tale I tell ? 
 Ask of the dead, for the dead know well ; 
 Let them answer ye, each from his mouldy bed, 
 For there is no falsehood among the dead : 
 And there be twelve thousand dead men know 
 Who betray'd the Tzar at Kossovo." 
 
390 
 
 i. 
 
 THE STAG AND THE VILA. 
 
 O'ER the mountain, the wild stag browses the mount- 
 ain herbage alone, 
 
 At morn he browses, at noon he sickens, at eve he 
 maketh moan. 
 
 From the rifts of the rocky quarries the Vila* hears 
 him, and calls, 
 
 * The Vilas are supernatural beings that appear frequently 
 in the poetry, and exist to this day in the popular superstition, 
 of the Serbs. I have been unable to trace their origin, but they 
 would seem to be a remnant of the early Slave mythology ; 
 and, being a mountain race, to have survived the fate of the 
 lowland members of the fairy family, notwithstanding the pre- 
 sence of perhaps almost as many " holy freres " as those to 
 whose " blessing ofthorpes and dairies ," Chaucer, in his day, 
 attributed the fact that " there bin no faeries. " They are a 
 kind of fierce Oreads, dwelling among the mountains and 
 forests, and sometimes about the margin of waste waters. 
 Their attributes are varying, and not distinctly ascertainable, 
 but they are mostly terrible, and hostile to man. They are 
 not, however, incapable of sympathy with the human race ; 
 for they have been known (though generally after being van- 
 quished by them) to love great heroes. Evidence of this is to 
 be found in the recorded exploits of Marko Kralievitch. That 
 hero was beloved by one of these beings, who, indeed, pro- 
 phesied his death, and that of his horse, Charatz. This 
 
THE STAG AND THE VILA. 391 
 
 " beast of the mountain meadows, the woods, and 
 
 the waterfalls, 
 What sorrow is thine, so great that, browsing at mom, 
 
 at noon thou ailest, 
 And now to the stars thou art moaning ? What is it 
 
 that thou bewailest? " 
 And the stag to the Vila makes answer, mournfully 
 
 moaning low : 
 " queen of the mountain, my sister ! I mourn for 
 
 my lost white doe, 
 My milk-white doe, my darling ! from me, o'er the 
 
 mountain track, 
 She wander'd away to the fountain ; she wander'd, 
 
 she never came back. 
 Either forlornly she wanders, mourning me, missing 
 
 her way, 
 
 animal was aged above one hundred and fifty years at the 
 period of his death, and, according to some authorities, was 
 the gift of a Vila. The love of these beings, however, is 
 generally treacherous, and often fatal. The Vilas are not im- 
 mortal, nor invulnerable. The Vila Ravioela, who wounded 
 the voivode Milosch with a golden arrow, was.nearly massacred 
 by Marko. They preserve, however, through incalculable 
 time, supernatural youth and beauty. They believe in God 
 and Saint John, and abhor the Turks. When they appear to 
 mortal eyes it is as 
 
 " Unwedded maids, 
 
 Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
 Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love," 
 with long hair floating over their shoulders, and .clothed in 
 snow-white vesture. They are wise in the use of herbs and 
 simples, they know the properties of every flower and berry, 
 and possess strange medical arts. 
 
392 SERVIAN. 
 
 Or the hunters have follow'd and found her, and she 
 
 hath perisht their prey, 
 Or else she forgets me, the faithless thing ! and ever 
 
 by valley and crag 
 Strays wanton after a belling note, and follows another 
 
 stag. 
 If she be lost in the lonesome places, and holbws 
 
 under the moon, 
 I pray that God, of his goodness, will guide her back 
 
 to me soon. 
 If the hunters have slain my beloved one, wandering 
 
 the woodland alone, 
 I pray that God, of his justice, will send them a fate 
 
 like my own ; 
 But if she follows another stag, caring no more to come 
 
 back, 
 I pray that God, in his vengeance, guide the hunter 
 
 fleet on her track." 
 
 ii. 
 
 LOVE AND SLEEP. 
 
 I WALKT the high and hollow wood, from dawn to 
 
 eveiidew, 
 The wild-eyed wood stared on me, and unclaspt, and 
 
 let me through, 
 Where mountain pines, like great black birds, stood 
 
 percht against the blue. 
 
 Not a whisper heaved the woven woof of those warm 
 trees : 
 
LOVE AND SLEEP. 393 
 
 All the little leaves lay flat, unmoved of bird or 
 
 breeze : 
 Day was losing light all round, by indolent degrees. 
 
 Underneath the brooding branches, all in holy shade, 
 Unseen hands of mountain things a mossy couch had 
 
 made; 
 There asleep among pale flowers my beloved was laid. 
 
 Slipping down, a sunbeam bathed her brows with 
 
 bounteous gold, 
 Unmoved upon her maiden breast her heavy hair was 
 
 roll'd, 
 Her smile was silent as the smile on corpses three 
 
 hours old. 
 
 " God ! " I thought, " if this be death, that makes 
 
 not sound nor stir ! " 
 My heart stood still with tender awe, I dared not 
 
 waken her, 
 But to the dear God, in the sky, this prayer I did 
 
 prefer : 
 
 " Grant, dear Lord, in the blessed sky, a warm wind 
 
 from the sea, 
 To shake .a leaf down on my love from yonder leafy 
 
 tree; 
 That she may open her sweet eyes, and haply look on 
 
 me." 
 
 The dear God, from the distant sea a little wind 
 
 releast, 
 It shook a leaflet from the tree, and laid it on her 
 
 breast. 
 
394 
 
 SERVIAN. 
 
 Her sweet eyes ope'd, and looked on me. 
 tell the rest ? 
 
 How can I 
 
 in. 
 
 TITTLE-TATTLE. 
 
 Two lovers kist in the meadow green, 
 
 They thought there was none to espy : 
 
 But the meadow green told what it had seen 
 
 To the white flock wandering by. 
 
 The white flock told it the shepherd : 
 
 The shepherd the traveller from far : 
 
 The traveller told it the mariner, 
 
 Watching the pilot star : 
 
 The mariner told it his little bark : 
 
 The little bark told it the sea : 
 
 The sea told it the river, 
 
 Flowing down by the lea : 
 
 The river told it the maiden's mother, 
 
 And so to the maid it came back : 
 
 The maiden, as soon as she heard it, 
 
 Curst them all for a tell-tale pack : 
 
 " Meadow, be barren for ever, 
 
 Grass, grow not henceforth from the mould of thee ! 
 
 Flock, be devour'd by the wolf ! 
 
 Shepherd, the Turk seize hold of thee ! 
 
 Traveller, rot of the fever ! 
 
 Mariner, drown in the gulf ! 
 
 Bark, may the whirlwind perplex thee, 
 
MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS. 395 
 
 And break thee against the shore ! 
 Sea, may the moon ever vex thee ! 
 Kiver, be dry evermore ! " 
 
 IV. 
 MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS. 
 
 WHERE mountains shut the silence up, a milk-white 
 
 maiden stood : 
 
 Her face was like a light, and kindled all the solitude. 
 And while the wild white mountain flowers turned 
 
 passionately pale, 
 
 And while the chilly water ran reluctant to the vale, 
 And the bald eagle, near the sun, stood still on some 
 
 tall peak, 
 That milk-white maiden to her own sweet face began 
 
 to speak : 
 
 " face, sweet source of all my care, 
 
 Fair face (because T know thee fair !) 
 
 If I knew thou should'st be kist 
 
 By any husband, wither' d, old, and grey, 
 
 I would wander, mist-like, with the mist, 
 
 The monstrous mountain many a league away, 
 
 Until, in some abandon'd place, 
 
 Where the starved wolf cracks the bones 
 
 Of perisht men, and the wind groans 
 
 For want of something to devour, 
 
 I should find, wild in the wind, 
 
 Among the blotcht and mildew'd stones, 
 
396 SERVIAN. 
 
 The harsh-blowing absinth flower ; 
 
 And pluck the stubborn root of it, 
 
 That from the bitter fruit of it 
 
 I might the blighting juice express ; 
 
 Therewith to bathe thee, O my face, my face ! 
 
 Till all thy beauty should be bitterness, 
 
 And each unloved caress 
 
 Burn on the old man's lip, which should embrace 
 
 Death on thy rosy portals, O my face ! 
 
 " But if I knew, my face, my face ! 
 
 That thy lips should be kist by whom I would list, 
 
 I would glide, unespied, to a place, my face, 
 
 Where red roses, I know, ripely ripple and blow, 
 
 And white lilies grow more snowy than snow ; 
 
 And all in the balmy evening light, 
 
 While the dew is new, and the stars but a few, 
 
 The roses so red, and the lilies so white, 
 
 I would pluck, with the sunset upon them, and press 
 
 Erom those flowers their sweetest sweetnesses, 
 
 To embalm thee, my face, till what he should embrace 
 
 Should be fairer than lilies and richer than roses ; 
 
 So that when on thy lips my beloved one reposes, 
 
 A thousand summers of fragrant sighs 
 
 Might fan the faint fire of his soul's desire 
 
 With raptures pure as the rivers that rise 
 
 Among the valleys of Paradise." 
 
A SOUL'S SWEETNESS. 397 
 
 V. 
 LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY. 
 
 He. Violet,* little one mine ! 
 
 I would love thee, but thou art so small. 
 
 She. Love me, my love, from those heights of thine, 
 And I shall grow tall, so tall! 
 The pearl is small, but it hangs above 
 A royal brow, and a kingly mind : 
 The quail is little, little, my love, 
 But she leaves the hunter behind. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A SOUL S SWEETNESS. 
 
 He. maiden of my soul ! 
 
 What odour from the orange hast thou stole, 
 That breathes about thy breast with such sweet 
 
 power ? 
 
 What sweetness, unto me 
 More sweet than amber honey to the bee 
 That builds i' the oaken bole, 
 And sucks the essential summer of the year 
 To store with sweetest sweets her hollow tower ? 
 Or is it breath of basil, maiden dear? 
 Or of the immortal flower ? 
 
 * Violet is a pet name, as well as a proper name. 
 
398 
 
 SERVIAN. 
 
 She. By the sweet heavens, young lover ! 
 
 No odour from the orange have I stole ; 
 
 Nor have I robb'd for thee, 
 
 Dearest, the amber dower 
 
 Of the building bee, 
 
 From any hollow tower 
 
 In oaken bole : 
 
 But if, on this poor breast thou dost discover 
 
 Fragrance of such sweet power, 
 
 Trust me, my beloved and my lover, 
 
 'Tis not of basil, nor the immortal flower, 
 
 But from a virgin soul. 
 
 VII. 
 
 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 He. AND art thou wed, my Beloved ? 
 My Beloved of long ago ! 
 
 SJte. I am wed, my Beloved. And I have given 
 A child to this world of woe. 
 And the name I have given my child is thine, 
 So that, when I call to me my little one, 
 The heaviness of this heart of mine 
 For a little while may be gone. 
 For I say not ..." Hither, hither, my son ! " 
 But . . . " Hither, my love, my Beloved ! " 
 
SLEEP AND DEATH. 399 
 
 VIII. 
 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 THE morning; is growing.: the cocks are crowing : 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
 'Tis not the morning light ; 
 Only the moonbeam white. 
 Stay, my white lamb, stay, 
 And sleep on my bosom, sleep ! 
 
 The breeze is blowing : the cattle are lowing : 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
 'Tis not the cattle there ; 
 Only the call to prayer. 
 Stay, my white lamb, stay, 
 And sleep on my bosom, sleep ! 
 
 The Turks are warning to the mosk : 'tis morning ! 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
 'Tis not the Turks, sweet soul ! 
 Only the wolves that howl. 
 Stay, my white lamb, stay, 
 And sleep on my bosom, sleep ! 
 
 The white roofs are gleaming : the glad children 
 
 screaming : 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
400 SERVIAN. 
 
 Tis the night-clouds that gleam : 
 The night winds that scream. 
 Stay, my white lamb, stay, 
 And sleep on my bosom, sleep ! 
 
 My mother in the gateway calls to me ..." Come 
 
 straightway ! " 
 And I must away, love, away ! 
 
 Thy mother 's in her bed, 
 Dumb, holy, and dead. 
 Stay, my white lamb, stay, 
 And sleep on my bosom, sleep ! 
 
 IX. 
 A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 
 
 ALL at the mid of the night, there arose 
 A quarrel 'twixt husband and wife ; 
 For, the young Omer Bey and his spouse, 
 Palling into discussion and strife, 
 Wild words to each other they said, 
 Side by side, at the dead 
 Of the night, on their marriage bed. 
 
 Had it been about anything less 
 The quarrel might have passt by ; 
 But it was not a trifle, you guess, 
 That set words running so high. 
 Yet the cause in dispute (to be brief) 
 Was only a white handkerchief, 
 
A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 401 
 
 Broider'd all over with gold, 
 And scented with rose and with amber, 
 So sweet the whole house could not hold 
 That scent from the nuptial chamber. 
 For (the whole truth herewith to disclose) 
 This handkerchief border 'd with. gold, 
 And scented with amber and rose, 
 Had been given to the Bey (to enfold 
 Her letters, which lay on his breast), 
 By the mistress that he loved best. 
 But his wife had a sensitive nose 
 For the scent of amber and rose ; 
 And the fiend himself only knows 
 Whether, but for a lie, ere the close 
 Of that quarrel there had not been blows. 
 
 " You know I've a sister, my treasure, 
 
 The wife of our friend Zekir Bey ; 
 
 I love her, you know, beyond measure, 
 
 And she, dear, on our bridal day, 
 
 To me gave this white handkerchief, 
 
 Border'd all over with gold, 
 
 And scented with amber and rose ; 
 
 Which precious, for her sake, I hold, 
 
 Though the scent of it, much to my grief, 
 
 Has troubled our nuptial repose." 
 
 Smiling, her husband she heard, 
 Feeling no faith in his word, 
 For troubled his face was, she saw. 
 Up she leapt by the light of the taper, 
 Barefooted, and seized ink and paper ; 
 And wrote to her sister-in-law : 
 
 2 D 
 
402 SERVIAN. 
 
 " Wife of our friend, Zekir Bey, 
 
 Long live thy husband, nought ail him, 
 
 May'st thou never have cause to bewail him ! 
 
 Speak truth, and fear nothing. But say 
 
 (For truly the truth must be told) 
 
 To thy brother, on our bridal day, 
 
 Did'st thou give a white handkerchief, brightly 
 
 Embroider'd all over with gold, 
 
 And scented with rose and with amber 
 
 So sweet, that the scent of it nightly 
 
 May be smelt in the Bey's bridal chamber ? " 
 
 When this came to the wife of the Bey, 
 
 She burst into tears, as she read : 
 
 And " Pity upon me ! " she said, 
 
 " For I know not, alas ! what to say. 
 
 If I speak truth, I put strife 
 
 'Twixt the brother I love and his wife ; 
 
 If I speak false, much I dread 
 
 Lest my husband die for it," she said. 
 
 Then the letter she laid in her breast, 
 
 And she ponder'd with many a sigh, 
 
 " I choose of two evils the least, 
 
 If my husband must die, let him die ! 
 
 Since the choice lies 'twixt one or the other 
 
 Any husband a woman may spare, 
 
 But the sister that injures a brother 
 
 Does that which she cannot repair." 
 
 Thus shrewdly the matter she saw : 
 And she wrote to her sister-in-law : 
 
DEGREES OF AFFECTION. 403 
 
 " Wife of my brother, the Bey ! 
 
 My husband is well. May naught ail him ! 
 
 And I trust I shall never bewail him. 
 
 To my brother on your marriage day 
 
 (And truly the truth shall be told) 
 
 I gave a white handkerchief, brightly 
 
 Embroider'd all over with gold, 
 
 And scented with rose and with amber 
 
 So sweet, that the scent (as you say, 
 
 And as I cannot doubt of it) nightly 
 
 May be smelt in the Bey's bridal chamber." 
 
 x. 
 
 DEGREES OF AFFECTION*. 
 
 UP and down the Tchardak,* underneath the blossom'd 
 
 roof, 
 
 Musing, young lovo, f at midnoon, walkt all aloof. 
 Suddenly the Tchardak broke beneath him : slipping 
 
 through 
 The rotten plank, he fell, and his right arm was snapt 
 
 in two. 
 Straight, a leech he sought him. Evil leech, in truth, 
 
 he found. 
 Save the mountain Vila, none had skill to heal the 
 
 wound : 
 But the Vila claim'd in price of service, ere the cure 
 
 began, 
 
 * A sort of gallery or verandah, running round a house. 
 Also, sometimes, a pavilion, summer-house, or granary, 
 f Diminutive for lovan or John. 
 
 2 D 2 
 
404 SERVIAN. 
 
 The right hand of the mother of the maim'd and 
 
 mangled man ; 
 The long hair of his sister with the riband in the 
 
 hair ; 
 And the white pearl necklace which his wife was wont 
 
 to wear. 
 The mother gave her right hand, and the sister gave 
 
 her curls ; 
 But the wife refused her necklace ..." I ? I will not 
 
 give my pearls ! 
 Each is perfect, each is precious, nowhere else is such 
 
 a set. 
 'T\vas my dowry from my father, and I mean to wear 
 
 it yet." 
 This the Vila of the mountain heard ; and, anger'd in 
 
 her mood, 
 
 She dropt a little purple drop of poison in the food 
 Of young lovo, and he died. 
 
 Then, for the murder'd man, 
 
 Those three women to lament, in funeral dole began. 
 One there was that, deeply mourning, evermore did 
 
 grieve : 
 One that miss'd and mourn' d for him at morning and 
 
 at eve : 
 One that mourn'd him now and then, with eyes a 
 
 little dim, 
 And looks a little changed, whenever she remember'd 
 
 him. 
 She whose sorrow ceased not, mourning more than any 
 
 other, 
 
THE FAIR IKONIA. 405 
 
 Missing aye her murcler'd son, was young Ib'vo's 
 
 mother : 
 She that mourn'd at morning, and at evening mourn'd 
 
 and miss'd her 
 Brother, when day came or went, was young lovo's 
 
 sister. 
 She that mourn'd him now and then, when sometimes 
 
 in her life 
 Old memories fill'd vacant hours, was young lovo's 
 
 wife. 
 
 XI. 
 THE FAIR IKONIA. 
 
 THE fair Ikonia boasted at the bath, 
 
 Gaily, amidst the matrons ..." Tell me which 
 
 Amongst you, matrons, such a husband hath 
 
 As mine., Idvo Morniakovitch ? 
 
 Where he goeth, there I go : 
 
 Where he resteth, there rest I : 
 
 Is he silent ? then I know 
 
 That he names me silently : 
 
 Does he speak ? of me he speaketh : 
 
 Does he dream ? of me he dreameth : 
 
 Does he wake ? for me he waketh : 
 
 Mine by night, when moonlight beameth ! 
 
 Mine at dawn, when daylight breaketh ! . 
 
 First from dreams of me to wake, 
 
 That his kiss may ope my eyes : 
 
 * Dear, tlie daicn, begins to break, 
 
406 SERVIAN. 
 
 Light of my life, arise ! arise ! ' 
 Life is long, the journey through it 
 Lone and weary, others tell. 
 I shall never turn and miss him 
 From my side, and this is well." 
 This the wily widow, Anna, 
 Heard, and slyly slipt away : 
 Then she clothed herself with splendour : 
 And she stood, in rich array, 
 Where, from the Bazar, lovo 
 Came home, singing all the way : 
 I)eckt her cheeks with painted roses, 
 Darker dyed her midnight hair, 
 Breathed the breath of perfumed posies, 
 Laid her bounteous bosom bare, 
 Stood like glory in the gateway, 
 Murmur'd, mild as evening air, 
 
 " Sad, lovo, seems thy case, 
 
 Wedded to a barren wife ; 
 
 If thou would' st not see thy race 
 
 Pass and perish, with thy life, 
 
 Wed with me, and I will bear thee 
 
 Every year a noble heir, 
 
 Every year a gracious infant, 
 
 With strong hands and golden hair."* 
 
 Long he listen'd : soft her voice was ; 
 
 Long he lookt : her dark eyes glisten'd. 
 
 * The epithet "golden" generally implies "strength" in 
 the Serb poetry. The words are literally " with golden hands," 
 Sec. 
 
A WISH. 407 
 
 As the counsel, so the choice was. 
 All too long he lookt and listen'd. 
 Thus the wily widow, Anna, 
 Won lovo then and there : 
 And each year a boy she bore him 
 With strong hands and golden hair. 
 Silent walk'd the fair Ikonia, 
 Making neither moan nor word, 
 Up the great Bazar walkt silent, 
 And she bought herself a cord : 
 
 In the garden square a golden 
 Orange-tree grows all alone, 
 There her silken cord she fasten'd, 
 And she hang'd herself thereon. 
 
 Came one running to lovo, 
 " On thy golden orange-tree, 
 Fair Ikonia, dead, is hanging.'* 
 
 " Hanging ? Let her hang ! " quoth he, 
 " I've a fairer far than she." 
 
 XII. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 I WOULD I were a rivulet, 
 
 And I know where I would run ! 
 
 To Save, the chilly river, 
 
 Where the market boats pass on ; 
 
 To see my dear one stand 
 
408 SERVIAN. 
 
 By the rudder ; and whether the rose 
 Which, at parting, I put in his hand, 
 Warm with a kiss in it, blows ; 
 Whether it blows or withers : 
 I pluckt it on Saturday ; 
 I gave it to him on Sunday ' 
 On Monday he went away. 
 
 XIII. 
 IMPERFECTION. 
 
 ALL in the spring, 
 
 When little birds sing, 
 
 And flowers do talk 
 
 From stalk to stalk ; 
 
 Whispering to a silver shower, 
 
 A violet did boast to be 
 
 Of every flower the fairest flower 
 
 That blows by lawn or lea. 
 
 But a rose that blew thereby 
 
 Answer'd her reproachfully 
 
 (All in the spring, 
 
 When little birds sing, 
 
 And flowers do talk 
 
 From stalk to stalk) : 
 
 " Violet, I marvel me 
 
 Of fairest floAver by lawn or lea 
 
 The fairest thou should'st boast to be; 
 
 For one small defect I spy, 
 
 Should make thee speak more modestly 
 
EMANCIPATION. 409 
 
 Thy face is faslrion'd tenderly, 
 But then it hangs awry." 
 
 XIV. 
 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 THE Day of Saint George ! and a girl pray'd thus 
 
 " Day of Saint George, when again to us 
 
 Thou returnest, and thy carouse 
 
 Here in my mother's house, 
 
 May'st thou find me either a corpse or a bride, 
 
 Either buried or wed ; 
 
 Bather married than dead ; 
 
 But however that may betide, 
 
 And whether a corpse or a spouse, 
 
 No more in my mother's house." 
 
 xv. 
 
 THE VOICE OF NATURE ; OR, WHAT THE FISH SAID 
 TO THE MAIDEN. 
 
 BY the sea a maiden is sitting, 
 
 And she says to herself at her knitting : 
 
 " O my heart ! what more deep than the ocean, 
 Or more wide than the plain can be ? 
 Or more swift than the horse in his motion ? 
 Or more sweet than the food of the bee ? 
 Or more dear than a brother ? " 
 
410 SERVIAN. 
 
 And a fish from the sea replies : 
 
 " maiden, but a little wise ! 
 The plain is less wide than the sea, 
 And the heaven more deep than this is ; 
 Eyes swifter than horses be ; 
 And honey less sweet than kisses ; 
 And a lover more dear than all other." 
 
 XVI. 
 THE MALADY OF MOIO. 
 
 Mo'io, the Tzarovitch (bolder is no man !) 
 
 Walkt to the Bath with the Turk lords one day : 
 
 Mahmoud the Pacha's white wife (and what woman 
 
 Is fairer than she is ?) was walking away. 
 
 Even as the sun, o'er the ardours of even, 
 
 Looks on the moon, ami the moon on the sun, 
 
 Wistfully, each, disunited in heaven, 
 
 Soon to be pacing far pathways alone, 
 
 So through the mist of a moment of ecstacy, 
 
 Thrilled with a rapture delicious and dim, 
 
 Mute on the pale Pachinitza the Tzarovitch 
 
 Gazed, the pale Pachinitza on him. 
 
 Moi'o walkt silently back to his palace : 
 
 Troubled his heart was, and changed was his mood. 
 
 Straightway he sicken'd of love, and lay dying, 
 
 Dying of love for the wife of Mahmoud. 
 
 Ladies the loveliest all came to visit him : 
 
 Only the wife of Mahmoud stay'd away. 
 
 Then the Sultana rose up and wrote to her 
 
THE MALADY OF HOlO. 411 
 
 " Wouldst thou be greater than all of us, say ? 
 Moi'o is lying upon his couch dying ; 
 Sore is his sickness, and fatal they say : 
 Ladies the loveliest all come to visit him, 
 Thou, art thou more, Pachinitza, than they ? " 
 She, when she heard of it, loopt up her white sleeve, 
 Loopt up her light robe as white as a star ; 
 Presents she bore for him, worthy a monarch's son, 
 Figs from the sea-coast, and grapes from Mostar. 
 Lightly she trod o'er the long golden gallery, 
 Past all ungreeted the corridor dim, 
 Pale, the dumb purple pavilion she enter'd, 
 Where the Sultana was watching by him. 
 Softly she sat by his bed-side, and softly 
 Wiped from his forehead the fever, and said, 
 " This is a malady known to me surely ! 
 Long did I watch, and long weep by the bed 
 Once where my brother lay moaning and mad of it, 
 Moaning and madden'd, unable to move ; 
 Poison they said it was. I, too, have drank of it. 
 This is the passionate poison of love." 
 Trembling he listen'd, as trembling she utter 'd it. 
 Lightly he leapt from the couch where he lay, 
 Fasten'd, behind her, the long golden gallery, 
 Laught as he sank on her soft lips, and they 
 Three white days, little heeding the daylight, 
 Three blue nights, little noting the moon, 
 Seal'd by sweet kisses in silent caresses, 
 Eested, while round them May melted to June. 
 Gaily the nightingale sang in the garden. 
 Love the bird sang of, and sweet was the tune. 
 Three white days, little loving the daylight, 
 
412 SERVIAN. 
 
 Three blue nights, ill at rest 'neath the moon, 
 
 Mahmoud the Pacha walkt, mourning his miss'd one, 
 
 " Come, Pachinitza, come back to me soon ! " 
 
 Sadly the nightingale sang in his garden. 
 
 Love the bird sang of, but harsh was the tune. 
 
 Then, when the fourth day was low in the orient, 
 
 Mahmoud the Pacha sat down in his hall ; 
 
 There a white letter he wrote to the Sultan : 
 
 " Sultan Imperial, dear master of all ! 
 
 There's a white dove, with a gold treasure casket, 
 
 Flown to thy doors from thy servant's abode. 
 
 Send back my white dove, restore me my treasure, 
 
 If thou hast fear of the justice of God." 
 
 But to the Pacha the Sultan sent answer : 
 
 " Mahmoud, my servant, behoves thee to know 
 
 There's in my palace a falcon unhooded, 
 
 And what he hath taken he never lets go." 
 
 XVII. 
 A SERVIAN BEAUTY. 
 
 'Tis the Kolo* that dances before the white house, 
 And 'tis Stoian's fair sister, fair, fair is she ! 
 
 * Kolo, signifying literally a wheel, is the generic term for 
 all the Servian national dances ; in most of which the dancers, 
 either taking hands, or united each to each by a handkerchief 
 tied round the waist or to the girdle, form a ring and advance 
 or retreat to and from the centre to a monotonous music, 
 either of the voice or some very simple wind instruments. 
 Both sexes take part in these dances, which are frequently in 
 the open air. 
 
A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 413 
 
 Too fair she is truly, too fair heaven knows, 
 
 (God forgive her !) so cruel to be. 
 
 The fair Vila, whom the wan clouds fondly follow 
 
 O'er the mountain wherever she roam it, 
 
 Is not fairer nor whiter than she. 
 
 Her long soft eyelash is the wing of the swallow 
 
 When the dew of the dawn trembles from it, 
 
 And as dawn-stars her bine eyes to me ; 
 
 Her eyebrows so dark are the slender sea-leeches ;* 
 
 Her rich-bloomed cheeks are the ripe river peaches, 
 
 Her teeth are white pearls from the sea ; 
 
 Her lips are two half-open'd roses ; 
 
 And her breath the south wind, which discloses 
 
 The sweetness that soothes the wild bee. 
 
 She is tall as the larch, she is slender 
 
 As any green bough the birds move ; 
 
 See her dance 'tis the peacock's full splendour ! 
 
 Hear her talk 'tis the coo of the dove ! 
 
 And, only but let her look tender 
 
 'Tis all heaven melting down from above ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 MILITZA has long soft eyelashes, 
 
 So darkly-dreaming droopt on either cheek, 
 
 You scarce can gness what little lightning flashes 
 
 Prom those deep eyes, beneath them beaming, break. 
 
 And her fair face, like a flower, 
 
 * A strange, but very frequent, simile in Servian poetry. 
 
414 SERVIAN. 
 
 Has such drooping ways about it, 
 I have watcht her, many an hour, 
 Three full years (0 never doubt it !), 
 And yet never have seen fairly 
 Eyes or face, reveal'd so rarely ! 
 
 Only just to rob one glance 
 Prom the happy grass beneath her 
 On the green where maidens dance 
 When the month makes merry weather, 
 1 the Kolo call'd together, 
 Trusting to my happy chance. 
 While the dance grew sweeter, faster 
 (Bosoms heaving, tresses shaken), 
 Suddenly with dim disaster 
 All the sky was overtaken. 
 Soiling darkness drown 'd the sunlight, 
 Boiling thunder drencht the valleys, 
 And in heaven was left but one light 
 From the lightning's livid sallies. 
 
 Like a necklace lightly shatter'd, 
 
 Shedding rubies, shedding pearls, 
 
 Here and there the Kolo scatter'd 
 
 All its bevy of bright girls. 
 
 Little, darling, timid creatures ! 
 
 Each, with frighten'd flutter'd features, 
 
 Lifted up her pretty eyes 
 
 To the tempest growling o'er her ; 
 
 But Militza, very wise, 
 
 Still kept looking straight before her. 
 
A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 415 
 
 Little voices, silvery, wild, 
 All at once, in fretful cadence, 
 Brake out chiding the sweet child. 
 " What, Militza ! " cried the maidens, 
 " Those grass -grazing eyes, I wonder, 
 From the ground can nothing startle ? 
 Hark, child! how it groans, the thunder ! 
 See ! the lightnings, how they dartle 
 Here and there by angry fits, 
 In and out the stormy weather ! 
 Hast thou wholly lost thy wits, 
 Little fool ? Or must we deem 
 Thou wouldst something wiser seem 
 Than the whole world put together ? " 
 
 But Militza answers . . . "Neither 
 Have I lost my wits, nor grown 
 Wiser, maidens, I must own, 
 Than the whole world put together. 
 I am not the Vila white, 
 Who, amidst her mountain ranges, 
 Lifting looks of stormy light, 
 Through his fifty moody changes, 
 Woos the tempest's troubled sprite 
 Down the mountain melting o'er her 
 I am not a Vila white, 
 But a girl that looks before her." 
 
416 SERVIAN. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 BOLOZANOVITCH THE KNAVE. 
 
 DJOUL.* the Turk, on a morning in May, 
 When every bird is brilliant in feather, 
 And every flower in blossom is gay, 
 To celebrate sweetly the merry May weather, 
 From dawn to dusk, in dance and play, 
 Call'd a hundred matrons and maids together. 
 And the fairest maiden of all, that day, 
 Was the maid Bolozanovitch loved, they say. 
 
 He sought her all a summer noon, 
 
 And on to eventide ; 
 
 He sought her under the summer moon, 
 
 Through all the country wide, 
 
 Till at nightfall he came, in the mist and murk, 
 
 To the lighted house of Djoul, the Turk. 
 
 " Djoul, Djoul with the raven hair ! 
 
 Give me a shift of linen fair, 
 
 Such as thyself art wont to wear 
 
 On the day when the glad new moon is born ; 
 
 Paint me the eyebrow with antimony ; 
 
 These bronzed cheeks with white and red 
 
 Colour ; and comb me, and curl me the head ; 
 
 Hang me over the shoulders free 
 
 Silken tresses two or three, 
 
 * For Gul, the Turk word, meaning rose. 
 
BOLOZANOVITCH THE KNAVE. 417 
 
 Such as by matron or maid are worn ; 
 
 Bind me the brow with a golden braid, 
 
 And clothe me, anon, in the clothes of a maid 
 
 From head to foot, with many a fold 
 
 Of the milk-white tunic flowing and full ; 
 
 And give me a distaff of gold 
 
 And a ball of Egyptian wool ; 
 
 Then suifer me thus 'mid the maidens to move, 
 
 That I may speak to the maiden I love." 
 
 Djoul, the Turk with the raven hair, 
 
 Laught as she listen'd, and granted his prayer. 
 
 She clothed him in clothes of a maid, 
 
 Comb'd him and curl'd him the hair, 
 
 Painted his dark face fair, 
 
 Over his long limbs laid 
 
 Many a milk-white fold 
 
 Of vesture flowing and full ; 
 
 Then gave him a distaff of gold, 
 
 And a ball of Egyptian wool ; 
 
 And when he was trickt, and pincht, and padded, 
 
 And painted, and plaster'd, to look like a lass, 
 
 Because he yet lookt like the knave that he was, 
 
 This good counsel she added : 
 
 " Bolozanovitch, knave, take note ! 
 When anon, 'mid our women ye stand, 
 The old women take by the hand, 
 And kiss on their finger tips ; 
 The young women kiss on the lips ; 
 But for those that are maidens and girls, 
 You shall kiss them under the throat, 
 
 And over the collar of pearls." 
 
 2 E 
 
418 SERVIAN. 
 
 Bolozanovitch gladly (the knave !) 
 
 Gave heed to the counsel she gave, 
 
 And of all, as she bade him, took note. 
 
 The old women each on the finger tips 
 
 He kist, and the young women each on the lips, 
 
 And the maidens under the throat. 
 
 Maidenlike thus 'mid the maidens he moved, 
 
 Drooping the eyelid over the ground ; 
 
 But when he came to the maiden he loved, 
 
 He made her a little red wound 
 
 Just in the soft white fold 
 
 Of her slender throat. Then she 
 
 Cried out to the women around, 
 
 " Strike ! strike with your distaffs of gold, 
 
 The knave who has wounded me ! 
 
 For this was not a woman. Behold, 
 
 'Tis the knave Bolozanovitch, he ! 
 
 xx.* 
 
 THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 
 
 WHAT is it so white on the mountain green ? 
 A flight of swans ? or a fall of snow ? 
 The swans would have flown, and the snow would have 
 been 
 
 * This poem was translated by Goethe into German, in 
 1789, from an Italian translation published by the Abbe Fortis 
 in 1774; and was thus first of these national songs and legends 
 that ever passed from Servia into more civilized lands. Goethe's 
 translation (Klaggesang von der edeln Fraun des Asan Aga) is 
 uiirhymed. 
 
THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 419 
 
 Melted away long ago. 
 It is neither snow-fall, nor yet swan-flight, 
 But the tent of Hassan Aga so white. 
 Sore was the wound which in battle he got, 
 His mother and sister (for these without blame 
 Might do as they listed) to visit him came ; 
 But his wife, for the modest-minded shame 
 Of a matron chaste, could not. 
 
 Wherefore, when he had heal'd him his wound so sore, 
 
 Anger'd he said to his faithful spouse : 
 
 " Meet me no more, see me no more, 
 
 'Mid our children, within my white house." 
 
 He frown'd and he rode away. 
 
 Silent with deep dismay. 
 
 The Turkish woman wept, 
 
 Bitterly wept at her husband's word, 
 
 Clothed herself with sorrow, and crept 
 
 Into her chamber, and cover'd her brows, 
 
 When the hoof of a horse was heard 
 
 At the door of the Aga's house. 
 
 The fair Aguinitza* fled trembling away 
 
 To the window, to fling herself down in her fear : 
 
 Her two little daughters came running, and they 
 
 Cried, " Mother, come back, mother dear ! 
 
 For it is not our father Hassan is here, 
 
 But our uncle Pmtorovitch Bey." 
 
 Back she turn'd, faltering she came, 
 Weeping she fell on the breast of her brother, 
 
 * The wife of an Aga ; as Pachinitza, wife of a Pacha. 
 
 2 E 2 
 
420 SERVIAN. 
 
 And . . . "0 my brother," . . . she cried . . . "the shame, 
 From her children to sever a mother ! " 
 
 The Bey held silence, nor answer'd a word, 
 
 His smile was stern but his eyes were dim, 
 
 As he drew from his silken pouch, and laid 
 
 In the hands of his sister, the letter which said 
 
 That her dower to her should, in full, be restored, 
 
 And she should return to their mother with him.* 
 
 When the fair Turk that letter had read, 
 
 Her children she call'd to her one by one, 
 
 She kist her two boys on the brow and cheek : 
 
 She kist her two girls on their lips' young red 
 
 But when to the little one, lying alone 
 
 In the little cradle, she came, 
 
 The little one smiled as he slept : 
 
 Her heart began to break 
 
 With an inward anguish of shame : 
 
 She could neither move nor speak : 
 
 She sat down by the cradle and wept. 
 
 Then her brother Pintorovitch Bey 
 Drew softly the cradle away, 
 Lifted her into the saddle behind, 
 Turn'd, as he mounted, and kist her, 
 And rode off to his house with his sister, 
 Over the hills, in the wind. 
 
 Not long in the house of her mother 
 She rested ; not even a week. 
 Lovers, one after the other, 
 
 * The writing of divorce. 
 
THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 421 
 
 Came riding to sue and to seek : 
 For never more lovely a lady 
 Breath'd beauty to trouble the land, 
 And soon from Imoski the Kadi 
 Came gaily to ask for her hand. 
 
 " O spare me, save me, my brother ! 
 My poor heart in sunder is reft : 
 My poor eyes are full of old tears : 
 Let me not be the bride of another, 
 For the sake of my little ones left, 
 For the sake of the once happy years ! " 
 
 But of all this full lightly he thought, 
 And he gave to the Kadi her hand : 
 Then sadly the Bey she besought, 
 And moaning she made her demand 
 On a fair paper, pure white, 
 The words to Imaski to write : 
 
 " Fair greeting, in fair courtesy, 
 For her that hath been given to thee, 
 And courtesy to her prayer ! 
 When the noble Svats* assembled be, 
 
 * The Servian ceremonial of marriage is very peculiar. 
 On the wedding day the bridegroom proceeds to the house of 
 the bride, accompanied by the guests, of both sexes, who attend 
 the marriage on his invitation ; and who in this capacity (of 
 guests or witnesses) are called Svats. He is supported by a 
 Koum, or Best- man, a Start Sv at, or chief guest (the oldest and 
 most honoured of the company), who attest the marriage, and 
 a Dever (paranymph or groomsman), which latter personage 
 may be a married man. These receive the bride from the 
 
422 SERVIAN. 
 
 And ye come in a nolle company 
 
 From her white house to carry tliy bride, 
 
 Bring ye a long white covering fair 
 
 To cover her eyes ; that so, when ye ride 
 
 Beside the white house of the Aga, she 
 
 May see not the little ones there''' 
 
 When this letter was come to the Kadi's hand, 
 
 He assembled the noblest Svats of the land ; 
 
 And they all in a noble company rode 
 
 To carry the bride from her white abode. 
 
 Gaily to seek her they started, 
 
 And with her they gaily departed. 
 
 But, when they were merrily riding before 
 
 The Aga's white house, from the window at once 
 
 Lookt her two little daughters ; her two little sons 
 
 Came running to her from the door, 
 
 And ..." Come back, mother dear, with us, come ! 
 
 For dinner is waiting at home." 
 
 Then, weeping, the twice-wedded spouse 
 To the bold Stari Svat, ..." Dear, my brother in 
 God, 
 
 hands of her parents, and are hound not to lose sight of her 
 till she enters her new home. All participation in the nuptial 
 ceremonial is . interdicted by custom to the parents of the 
 bride, who do not again behold their daughter until eight days 
 after the marriage. A mother, indeed, cannot, compatibly 
 with established usage, attend or be near her daughter in 
 child-bed. By being groomsman or witness to a marriage, a 
 relationship is contracted with the bride's family of a nature so 
 close and so strict as to be deemed incompatible with marriage 
 at any future period between the groomsman and any member 
 of that family. 
 
THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 423 
 
 For the dear love of God, pass not by this abode ! 
 
 Let the horse wait here by the house ; 
 
 That I, ere I see them no more, 
 
 (My dear ones, my little ones, see them no more !) 
 
 May speak, though it be but a while." 
 
 And the horses stopt straightway, and stood by the 
 
 door, 
 
 And she past through the door with a smile. 
 Gay gifts to her children she gave : 
 To both of her boys bold and brave 
 Golden jatagans rich, and to both 
 Of her girls a long tunic of cloth. 
 But when to the little one, lying alone 
 In the cradle, she came, she laid mournfully on 
 The small cradle a white orphan garment, 
 A little white garment, and sigh'd, 
 And turn'd from the cradle wild-eyed, 
 With looks of despairing endearment. 
 
 All of this Hassan Aga espied, 
 
 And he turn'd to his two sons, and cried, 
 
 " Little orphans, come here ! come to me ! 
 
 For pitiless, children, is she, 
 
 Your mother stone-hearted, the bride ! " 
 
 Cruel, cruel and keen was the word ! 
 
 Silent she listen' d and heard, 
 
 Heard the harsh words that he said. 
 
 To the black earth she bow'd her bright head : 
 
 She had not another reply, 
 
 Than to droop her white forehead, and die : 
 
 For the heart of the mother was broken in twain 
 
 For the love, and the loss, of her little ones ta'en. 
 
424 SERVIAN. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 SLEEPLESSNESS. 
 
 SLEEP will not take the place of Love, 
 
 Nor keep the place from Sorrow. 
 
 Oh, when the long nights slowly move ' 
 
 To meet a lonely morrow, 
 
 The burthen of the broken days, 
 
 The grief that on the bosom weighs, 
 
 And all the heart oppresses, 
 
 But lightly lies on restless eyes 
 
 Love seals no more with kisses. 
 
 XXII. 
 NEGLECTED FLOWERS. 
 
 LITTLE violet, drooping all alone, like my own 
 Drooping heart, I would pluck thee; but there's none, 
 
 no, not one ! 
 To whom I dare to give thee : so I leave thee, and 
 
 pass on. 
 
 I would give thee gladly, gladly, if I dared, to AH Bey ; 
 But too proud (ah well-a-day !) is Ali Bey so they say ! 
 Proud he is ! I do not dare. Would he care, he, 
 
 to wear 
 Any flower that buds or blows ? . . . save the rose, I 
 
 suppose ! 
 
 No ! rest there, and despair ! Live or die ! Thou and I 
 Have no chance to catch one glance from his eye, 
 
 passing by. 
 
PLUCKING A FLOWER. 425 
 
 XXIII. 
 PLUCKING A FLOWER. 
 
 He. MAIDEN, vermeil rose ! 
 Unplanted, unsown. 
 Blooming alone 
 As the wild-flower blows, 
 With a will of thine own ! 
 Neither grafted nor grown, 
 Neither gather'd nor blown, 
 O maiden, rose ! 
 Blooming alone 
 In the green garden-close, 
 Unnoticed, unknown, 
 Unpropt, unsupported, 
 Unwater'd, unfed, 
 Unkist, and uncourted, 
 Unwoo'd, and unwed, 
 O sweet wild rose, 
 Who knows ? Who knows ? 
 Might I kiss thee, and court thee ? 
 My kiss would not hurt thee ! 
 sweet, sweet rose, 
 In the green garden- close, 
 If a gate were undone, 
 And if I might come to thee, 
 And meet thee alone ? 
 Sue thee, and woo thee, 
 And make thee my own ? 
 
 Clasp thee, and cull thee, what harm would be 
 done? 
 
426 SEEVIAN. 
 
 She. Beside thy field my garden blows. 
 
 Were a gate in the garden left open . . . who 
 
 knows ? 
 
 And I water 'd my garden at eventide ? 
 (Who knows ?) 
 
 And if somebody silently happen'd to ride 
 That way ? And a horse to the gate should be 
 
 tied? 
 
 And if somebody (who knows who?), unespied, 
 Were to enter my garden to gather a rose ? 
 Who knows ? . . . I suppose 
 No harm need be done. My beloved one, 
 Come lightly, come softly, at set of the sun! 
 Come, and caress me ! 
 Kiss me, and press me ! 
 Fold me, and hold me ! 
 Kiss me with kisses that leave not a trace, 
 But set not the print of thy teeth on my face, 
 Or my mother will see it, and scold me. 
 
 XXIV. 
 TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER. 
 
 O MAIDEN, mother's golden treasure ! 
 
 Purest gold of perfect pleasure ! 
 
 Do they beat thee, and ill-treat thee, 
 
 That I meet thee all alone ? 
 
 Do they beat thee, that I meet thee 
 
 All too often, all too late, 
 
 After nightfall, at the gate 
 
A MESSAGE. 427 
 
 Of the garden, all alone ? 
 Tell me, tell me, little one, 
 Do they do it ? If I knew it, 
 They should rue it ! I would come 
 Often er, later, yet again, 
 (Hail, or snow, or wind, or rain !) 
 Oftener, later ! Nor in vain : 
 For if mother, for my sake, 
 Were to drive thee out of home, 
 Just three little steps 'twould take 
 (Think upon it, little one !) 
 Just three little steps, or four, 
 To my door from mother's door. 
 Love is wise. I say no more. 
 Ponder on it, little one ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A MESSAGE. 
 
 SWEET sister of my loved, unloving one, 
 
 Kiss thy wild brother, kiss him tenderly ! 
 
 Ask him what is it, witless, I have done 
 
 That he should look so coldly upon me ? 
 
 Ah, well ... I know he recks not ! Let it be. 
 
 Yet say ..." There's many a woodland nodding yet 
 
 For who needs wood when winter nights be cold." 
 
 Say ..." Love to give finds ever love to get. 
 
 There lack not goldsmiths where there lacks not gold. 
 
 The wood will claim the woodman by-and-by ; 
 
 The gold (be sure !) the goldsmith cannot miss ; 
 
428 ' SERVIAN. 
 
 Each maid to win finds lads to woo : and I ..." 
 Well, child, but only tell him, tell him this ! 
 Sweet sister, tell him this ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 ISOLATION. 
 
 THE night is very dark and very lonely : 
 And as dark, and all as lonely, is my heart : 
 And the sorrow that is in it night knows only : 
 For the dawn breaks, and my heart breaks. Far apart 
 From my old self seems my new self. And my mother 
 And my sister are in heaven, so they say : 
 And the dear one dearer yet than any other 
 Is far, far away. 
 
 The sweet hour of his coming . . . night is falling ! 
 The hour of our awakening . . . bird on bough ! 
 The hour of last embraces . . . friends are calling 
 " Love, farewell ! " ... and every hour is silent 
 now. 
 
 XXVII. 
 A REGRET. 
 
 LOST empire of my maidenhood ! 
 Could I be once more what I would, 
 Then what I am I would not be. 
 Ah well-a-day, and woe is me ! 
 Could I a maiden be once more, 
 And unknow all that I have known, 
 And feel as I have felt of yore, 
 I would not change with any queen ; 
 Not for sceptre, crown, or throne, 
 
A REGRET. 429 
 
 If I could be what I have been 
 Would I grow what I have grown. 
 
 Lost empire of my maidenhood ! 
 Sweetest sweet ! and chiefest good I 
 Now that thou art gone, I know, 
 Could I call thee back again ! 
 How to keep thee. Even so ! 
 Loss is all my gain ! 
 
 Would that I were with the flocks 
 As of old among the rocks ! 
 For the flocks do blithely bleat, 
 And the mountain airs blow sweet, 
 And the river runneth fleet, 
 Eunning to the happy sea : 
 But the glory of the river, 
 And the gladness of the flocks, 
 And the mirth among the rocks, 
 And the music on the wind 
 Ministrant to a merry mind, 
 These are joyous things, for ever 
 Dead, or fled, for me ! 
 
 On the wind there moans for ever 
 One word only, which the river, 
 Murmuring, murmurs to the shore, 
 And the flocks, with chilly bleat, 
 Evermore that word repeat, 
 And that word is Nevermore ! 
 Nevermore, never, never 
 Any more, by mount or river, 
 
430 SERVIAN. 
 
 Shall I be as I have been, 
 
 A mountain maid, a virgin queen ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 THE BAN OF VARADIN. 
 
 A WAS SAILER in wildest ways, 
 But foul befall the churl who says 
 That what he drinks he never pays, 
 So mad a devil dwells within 
 The brain of Peter Doi'tchiri, 
 The burly an of Varadin ! * 
 
 Three hundred ducats in a day, 
 Good sooth, he swill'd them all away ! 
 And, when he had no more to pay, 
 First his massy mace of gold, 
 Then this coal-black horse he sold. 
 "Fill up the can, keep out the cold, 
 And let the merry devil in, 
 Sweetheart ! " laught Peter Doitchin, 
 The burly Ban of Varadin ! 
 
 Quoth King Mathiasf . . . " Burly Ban, 
 God curse thee for a brainless man, 
 Whose goods flow from him in the can ! 
 Three hundred ducats in a day, 
 Thou hast swill'd them all away, 
 And, for lack of more to pay, 
 Thou thy massy mace of gold, 
 
 Servian name for Petervardein, fortress in Hungary, 
 f Probably Mathias Corvinus. 
 
FATIMA AND MEHMED. 4:31 
 
 And thy coal-black war-steed bold, 
 Fora sorry stoup hast sold." 
 
 " King Mathias, cease thy prattle ! 
 Brainless heads are hard in battle : 
 Fighting men make thirsty cattle. 
 Had'st thou the tavern drain'd with me, 
 The tavern wench upon thy knee, 
 (So sweet and sound a wench is she !) 
 Thou would'st have drunk up thy good town 
 Of Pesth, with Buda tower and down, 
 Camp, acropolis, court, and crown ! " 
 
 XXIX. 
 FATIMA AND MEHMED. 
 
 BENEATH a milk-white almond tree, 
 
 Fatima and Mehmed be. 
 
 The black earth is their bridal bed ; 
 
 The thick-starred sky clear-spread 
 
 Is their coverlet all the night, 
 
 As they lie in each other's arms so white. 
 
 The grass is full of honey-dew ; 
 
 The crescent moon, that glimmers through 
 
 The unrippled leaves, is faint and new : 
 
 And the milk-white almond blossoms 
 
 All night long fall on their bosoms. 
 
 THE END. 
 
JOHN CHILDS AND SOX, PfilNTEBS. 
 
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