'Iv »> v KM i JW:«»*. «••■» . 
 
 Po EMS 
 
 AND 
 
 Dramatic Sketches 
 
 JOSEPH KINDON 
 
 
 V ' * r 
 
 - * 
 
 1^ 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 POEMS 
 
 AND 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES
 
 POEMS 
 
 AND 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH KINDON, B.A. 
 
 NEWMAN & CO., 
 43, Hart Street, Oxford Street, W.C. 
 
 1879-
 
 <
 
 PR 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 PUBLISH this volume of my poems with a 
 mixture of diffidence and confidence. It is the 
 first venture of the kind I ever made; so that I have 
 no experience of what may suit the public taste. I 
 am inclined to suspect that my style and ideas, because 
 they are so different from those of the poets of the 
 day, are little likely to win admirers. These children 
 of my imagination have been brought up in home 
 seclusion, and are now going amongst strangers. 
 What wonder, then, if the graces which the father 
 saw in them should disappear when they come under 
 entirely impartial eyes ? At the same time, I feel that 
 a father, who has employed the best years of his life 
 and much serious thought in training his children, may 
 fairly expect they will succeed when he sends them 
 into the world with the blessing of God invoked upon 
 them. To drop metaphor : it is not for the poet to 
 criticise, and a perfectly unbiassed judgment on his 

 
 \ i Preface. 
 
 own works is least of all to be expected of a man glowing 
 with creative imagination ; it is for the poet to produce, 
 and to have as little of the negative faculty about him 
 as is consistent with exact and clear expression. If 
 any one doubts, from my poetry, whether I have this 
 claim to creative imagination, I myself have so little 
 doubt of its possession that I make it my defence for 
 publishing this book. 
 
 A few words as to the dramatic sketches which take 
 up most of the volume. They have appeared in this 
 form only for convenience. That is, it is not pretended 
 
 that they display any stage-constructiveness, or could 
 possibly be acted ; but where the interest turns on 
 character, a dramatic form is obviously an advantage ; 
 it abridges description and raises a gently harmonious 
 illusion in the mind of the reader. My idea has been 
 to appeal to the great majority of educated people, who 
 do not go to theatres. I have thought they would 
 probably welcome interesting exhibitions of character 
 in a dramatic form.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Poet's Creed i to 14 
 
 Sonnets to E. H 15 to 29 
 
 LOVE POEMS. 
 
 The Worldly-Wise and Custom-Chilled ... 30 
 
 Dull Clouds may gloom 32 
 
 No ! Not for me the Lay is sung .... 34 
 
 What is it to have seen your Face ! . . . 35 
 
 To E. H 37 
 
 It may be we shall never meet .... 39 
 
 Dearest, let Indifference weave .... 41 
 
 Sweet is your Face 43 
 
 Song for Music 45 
 
 To E. H 46 
 
 Friends who bid Me 4 8 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE POEMS. 
 
 Evening 5° 
 
 Snowstorm 5 1 
 
 To a Skylark 52 
 
 To a Thrush singing at Daybreak .... 53 
 
 To the Wind at Midnight 55 
 
 To Two Primroses in early March 5 6 
 
 Written in March 57 
 
 To Birds singing in the end of February . . 59 
 Address to the Country on a return to it after 
 
 living in London 61 
 
 Tc Evening Clouds 63
 
 viii Index. 
 
 MORAL POEMS. 
 
 CAGE 
 
 Lines on the Poet Cowper 65 
 
 Reverence 67 
 
 Pleasure 68 
 
 SACRED POEMS. 
 
 Fourth Sunday in Lent 73 
 
 Fifth Sunday in Lent 74 
 
 Good Friday 76 
 
 Easter Day 79 
 
 Trinity Sunday 81 
 
 A Prayer 84 
 
 A Prayer on Whit-Sim >ay 86 
 
 Rogation Sunday, 1879 88 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 ' Ishmael ' 93 
 
 ' Ravenswood ' 169 
 

 
 POEMS. 
 
 A POET'S CREED. 
 
 The summer evening glory shone, 
 
 And round the glowing sun's bright throne 
 
 Hung roseate clouds ; 
 Fresh cooling airs from earth arose. 
 And wakened birds from their repose 
 
 In leafy shrouds. 
 
 I wandered on I scarce knew where, 
 And sought in peaceful evening air 
 
 A calm I wanted ; 
 With yet a lingering hope to find 
 Some secret sympathy by kind 
 
 Sweet nature granted. 
 
 Ere this I had found might and power 
 Sweep with her winds, with thunder lower, 
 
 Soar from her ocean, 
 Around me like a sea outspread, 
 From many a riven mountain-head, 
 
 Stopped in wild motion. 
 
 B
 
 POEMS. 
 
 But oftener would some gentler spell 
 Disorded joy or sorrow quell — 
 
 A flower's grace, 
 The tint of cloud, the song of birds, 
 The pine-wood that speaks more than words, 
 
 And takes thought's place. 
 
 And now my heart sank for the voice 
 With which sweet mothers bid rejoice 
 
 Desp.iiring ones j 
 My hopes were gone, my prospects fled, 
 And all the blame upon my head 
 
 That they throve once. 
 
 Once, but for doltish indolence, 
 Or other rarer gifts' pretence, 
 
 I had been learned ; 
 A treasure-house of ancient lore, 
 Filled with sweet wisdom all before 
 
 By glad toil earned. 
 
 Once (I had far gone on the road) 
 I might with skill have eased the load, 
 
 Sickness and pain 
 Has laid en fellow-mortals here ; 
 But bade them scarcely with a tear 
 
 To others 'plain.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 It was their duty : I could plead, 
 
 Mine was to write what men would read 
 
 Ages to come ; 
 Bright fame would crown me, I should know 
 The poet's fire, its glory throw 
 
 Around my home. 
 
 How often words like genius, fame, 
 Have tempted fools their lot to blame, 
 
 To scorn their sphere ; 
 And leaving useful tasks, to try 
 The path that their mad vanity 
 
 Alone thinks clear. 
 
 These thoughts for long my brain had kept, 
 And paced with me as on I stept, 
 
 My eyes on earth ; 
 At last when far from any town, 
 I looked to see if there was shown 
 
 Aught seeing worth. 
 
 My lane had led me to a gate, 
 
 Through which great pleasure seemed t'await 
 
 The wandering feet ; 
 With softest green the eye was cheered 5 
 Around protecting hills upreared, 
 
 With smiles did greet.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I sat and gazed upon their smiling, 
 
 And soon my frowns ceased at their wiling ; 
 
 By soft airs fanned, 
 I closed my eyes, and drearily 
 My old thoughts paced on wearily, 
 
 Like feet on sand. 
 
 But now, as in some changing dream, 
 New objects came with sudden gleam, 
 
 And thoughts akin: 
 One brightest form chased every shade, 
 And thoughts attendant stately played 
 
 Their gladder sheen. 
 
 I thought that from these hills a Grace, 
 Slow as a summer cloud swims space, 
 
 Down stepped to where 
 J gazing sat ; her form was one 
 That wingless like an angel's shone 
 
 With colours fair. 
 
 With graceful, meditative motion 
 
 She crossed the sward like rays o'er ocean — 
 
 Downcast her eyes, 
 As if she listened to the airs 
 That breathed above, from unseen players 
 
 Soft melodies.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Round her the lightest robes were trailing, 
 Her beauteous-moulded limbs scarce veiling ; 
 
 A moon 'midst cloud ! — 
 Her arms, and feet, and ankles bare 
 Showed in their curves and outlines rare 
 
 A beauty proud. 
 
 She nearer drew, and her sweet face 
 Was radiant, smiling with the grace 
 
 Of sweetest thinking ; 
 But oh ! the stately symmetry 
 Which triumphed there abashed my eye 
 
 From her lids shrinking. 
 
 Upon her rainbow-robes I saw 
 Pictures, not such as painters draw — 
 
 Art's wondering pride ; 
 But such as nature's that are brought 
 On sunny tables — mirror-caught, 
 
 Rich country side. 
 
 And as she nearer came I traced 
 Familiar spots, scenes such as graced 
 
 Our English isle : 
 Fair Devon's vales, the lakes and hills 
 Of Westmoreland — farms, meadows, rills' 
 
 Sweet English smile.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Here rivers rolled by many a town ; 
 
 There castled heights the woodlands crown : 
 
 There wide moors lay ; 
 While bare and craggy round the coasts, 
 Huge bouldered rocks held foaming hosts 
 
 Of waves at bay. 
 
 Then forms of men appeared ; and bore 
 Their painted stature on to war ; 
 
 Tall, stalwart braves ! 
 With scythed chariots, slings and bows, 
 The mailed firm Romans to oppose — 
 
 Machine-drilled slaves ! 
 
 And one supreme, Caractacus, 
 
 Fought with the foremost ; yet ev'n thus 
 
 Defied steel-thrusts ; 
 He broke the phalanx : — one form too, 
 A woman's, with Iceni few 
 
 But valour trusts. 
 
 There was the king — that age's boast, 
 Fighting sea-robbers' myriad host ; 
 
 Then wise as brave, 
 Bidding just laws and learning's light 
 Found for all time strong England's might 
 
 O'er land and wave.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 A brave successor, in whose veins 
 
 The same wise courage ran, there strains 
 
 With treacherous friends 
 Against a stronger foe ; he falls — 
 Then Freedom leaves her desolate walls ; 
 
 His soul attends. 
 
 The lion-hearted monarch's force 
 Here marshals 'neath the sacred cross, 
 
 And fills the strand ; 
 There the great conqueror brave harangues 
 The Crecy-famed, each bow-string twangs, 
 
 Swords wave in hand. 
 
 One royal speaker more did give 
 Thought to each face in crowds, made live 
 
 War-gesture wild — 
 A queen who sent few ships to brave 
 The mighty world-rich fleet and save 
 
 Freedom's rule mild. 
 
 By her rule saved was the slight seed 
 Of native culture and the creed 
 
 Of bold hearts true j 
 Great Shakspeare, Bacon, Hooker then 
 Wrote from free child-heart o'er again 
 
 What strong brains knew.
 
 8 POEMS. 
 
 I saw where counsellors were met 
 To drive a tyrant off, and set 
 
 The greatness proved 
 On throne, where aye sat sire and son, 
 Changed but by death — they braved this wrong 
 
 Who freedom loved. 
 
 Lo ! there the tide of anarchy 
 Beat on our coasts, and liberty 
 
 Swooned in death-fear ; 
 Ev'n Pitt was changing hue, but spoke 
 The calm wise faith that ever broke 
 
 Thought's chain and spear. 
 
 These scenes for long my eyes delayed, 
 At length I glanced at her afraid 
 
 Of rude surprise j 
 But she with lids like dawning's mist 
 Rising that eastern light has kissed, 
 
 Smiled in my eyes. 
 
 I stood to hear her reverently, 
 Scarce daring yet to lift my eye 
 
 To her grand face ; 
 But still 1 watched that moving scene 
 That on her robe was to be seen : 
 
 Miles in that space !
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I heard her voice melodious say : 
 'All hail, my bard, that on this day 
 
 I come to meet ; 
 In me this England's Muse regard ; 
 I come to show thy fate's not hard, 
 
 That fair hopes greet. 
 
 'Know, that upon this English land 
 I long have dwelt with my sweet band 
 
 Of fairy Graces. 
 Since the third Edward's reign our tongue 
 Began to mould, is shown in song 
 
 My spirit's traces ; 
 
 ' No other land but this blest isle 
 Has shone so 'neath a Muse's smile ; 
 
 Its second sun ! 
 Awaking strains in every age 
 That like her sweet birds' throw the gage 
 
 To all lands down. 
 
 ' There never have been wanting long 
 Some to take up this deathless song ; 
 
 I now prompt those 
 "Whom Fame rewards for sweetest lays 
 Such as these more inglorious days 
 
 Can never lose.
 
 IO POEMS. 
 
 'But most are scornful of their day, 
 And many heedless what I say 
 
 To prompt their tongue, 
 Who sweeping with long skill the chords 
 Lose heart, and pale their glowing words 
 
 Lore's ashes 'mong ; 
 
 ' Yet spite of all this seeming strife 
 'Tween this age and the poet's life, 
 
 My kingdom lasts. 
 Long as this earth shall change her seasons, 
 Beauty, in spite of poets' treasons, 
 
 The soul repasts. 
 
 'Though chiefly through my sweet bards' singing 
 I send each rapt heart heavenward winging j 
 
 Yet with my wand 
 I can my spirits bid to touch 
 With solemn joy the heart of such 
 
 As gazing stand. 
 
 ' To thee I come that thou may'st know 
 Thou hast in power to bestow 
 
 Great boon on many. 
 I give thee here of my choice spirit ; 
 But let it be thy next-best merit 
 
 To sing to any.
 
 POEMS. II 
 
 ' Oh, scorn not thou in times like these, 
 When wealth is chased and then dull ease, 
 
 To sing aloud 
 Of simple tastes and labours mild ; 
 Believe the fresh heart of a child 
 
 'Neath the most proud. 
 
 ' Go, like sweet Burns, to every heart 
 Without the trills and turns of art ; 
 
 And sing thy strain, 
 Wildly and free as Chaucer's rhyme 
 Rings down the avenues of time, 
 
 And charms world-pain. 
 
 ' Thou canst not match these glorious two ; 
 Yet follow after, with as few 
 
 Deep heart-felt words. 
 And eyes will bless thee though unseen, 
 And hearts awake that dead have been, 
 
 With trembling chords. 
 
 'I've watched thee when thou wouldst resign 
 Thy hated task, the poet's line 
 
 To pore upon 5 
 I wept that beauty's votary 
 With grim disease at war should sigh 
 
 For sweetness flown.
 
 12 POEMS. 
 
 ' Yet would thy mind become a mansion 
 In which thoughts feasted — 'neath th' expansion 
 
 Of sunny heaven. 
 How often have my spirits hasted 
 To add new flame to feeling wasted 
 
 By some pang given. 
 
 ' I stood by thee in foreign land — 
 Think ! when thy pleased eye did command 
 
 Moselle's fair vale : 
 Think of that spring on thy return 
 When with this land's grace thou didst burn, 
 
 That flushed words pale ; 
 
 ' And when to Learning's noble home 
 Thou like an uncaged bird didst come, 
 
 I still stood by ; 
 And reverence for the ' mighty dead ' 
 Ne'er scorched the dew my spirits shed, 
 
 Nor thralled thine eye. 
 
 ' But oft thy heart glowed with my fire 
 Whilst wandering past each lovely spire, 
 
 Each stately building ; 
 Where Architecture's majesties 
 Are retinued by memories — 
 
 Clouds of sun's gilding !
 
 POEMS. 13 
 
 ' I and my spirits gave yet more — 
 To glow with love, and to adore 
 
 That fair sweet girl ; 
 And when the beauty of her face 
 Had pierced thy heart, we calmed the pace 
 
 Of its mad whirl. 
 
 ' I touched thine eye to see her charm, 
 And with her grace thy heart did warm ; 
 
 Then whispering, 
 I gave sweet words and eloquence 
 To soothe strong passion's vehemence, 
 
 And raise its wing. 
 
 ' Now long since it has been a flight 
 Above this world, a heavenly light 
 
 That cheers and guides, 
 Clouded but never quenched, and sure 
 To lead to her in that home pure 
 
 Where love resides. 
 
 'Then think of all I've given and give — 
 Choicest spirit with thee to live, 
 
 To few e'er given ; 
 Thou nevermore my form shalt see, 
 But while thou liv'st I leave not thee 
 
 Till by thee driven.
 
 14 POEMS. 
 
 ' Remember what I earlier said ' — 
 With that a harp to hers was led 
 
 By unseen hand — 
 ' Listen, and imitate this strain 
 So tender-wild, so sweetly plain — 
 
 'Tis my command ! ' 
 
 She sang and harped so solemnly, 
 It was a song so sweet and high, 
 
 That her robe's hem 
 I sprang to kiss ; but on my sight 
 The stars shone out, and silent night 
 
 Stretched under them. 
 
 I called again and yet again — 
 ' Return, great fairy, who dost deign 
 
 My griefs to cheer ! 
 Oh, leave me not ; thy words were sweet ; 
 Again that melody repeat, 
 
 And singing clear.' 
 
 In vain ! dark silence chilled my heart ; 
 But long, reluctant to depart, 
 
 I often turned, 
 And light seemed oft my eyes to fill, 
 And once that song my heart to thrill, 
 
 For which I yearned.
 
 *5 
 
 SONNETS AND POEMS TO E. H. 
 
 1. 
 
 Thou, that with a soul as pure as radiant skies 
 
 Of early morning turnest to high heaven 
 Looks with an angel's rapture glowing, eyes 
 
 To which a more than earthly light is given : 
 Thou, with soft-parted lips that gently flutter 
 
 In heart's response, slow waving like the leaves 
 Of a rich breathing rose, the words they utter 
 
 Waked by a zephyr from heaven, that receives 
 The fragrance of thy saintly adoration, 
 
 And to the throne from whence on errand great 
 It came, now wafts the incense-sweet oblation, 
 
 And noblest gift earth can to heaven translate : 
 Pray too for me ; thy spirit soars above ; 
 But I can only crave for earthly love. 
 
 ii. 
 
 I toil to reach a glorious, golden fleece, 
 
 Having no store of wealth, no skill, no strength, 
 
 Unheeding weakness, watchfulness' decrease, 
 The stormy voyage and its dreary length.
 
 l6 POEMS. 
 
 Thou far above me shinest as a sun 
 
 To which I soar with feeble wings and flight. 
 Ah ! distant goal to which I cannot run ! 
 
 Thou vanishing sweet dream of real delight ! 
 Raised by an honoured father, great and good, 
 
 Whose rank and honour lingers still to bless, 
 And deck thy gifts with honouring friends who stood 
 
 Around him, and now guard thy happiness : 
 What can I say to give hope living breath ? — 
 That ranks are levelled by strong love and death. 
 
 in. 
 
 How many Aprils has this old earth seen ! 
 
 What generations have spring's coming hailed ! 
 The lives of all have like an April been, 
 
 And each seems but one day to have prevailed ; 
 Yet love that comes a lovely guest from heaven 
 
 Has ever mocked at time and out-dared death ; 
 To weary hearts such founts of glad youth given, 
 
 That age seems breathing quick fresh youthful 
 breath — 
 Oh then, dear love, what angel-power's in thee 
 
 To change this life from death and pilgrimage 
 To what it has been, may for ever be, 
 
 Part of eternal life upon earth's stage. 
 Alas ! without thee I still wander on, 
 And shuddering think on generations gone.
 
 POEMS. 17 
 
 IV. 
 
 Some minds there are that choose sad lower spheres, 
 
 That mingle with base minds and dwell with 
 thoughts 
 As dark as foul, till dark the world appears ; 
 
 While nobler love religion's bright resorts. 
 This dome of sky sunlighted, this wide earth, 
 
 Are for all souls a palace and a home, 
 Telling the humblest of their heavenly birth, 
 
 Th' enslaved of custom bidding freely roam. 
 Thou art of those who soar, I hourly fall ; 
 
 How thy great presence shames the mind in me ! 
 And how thou summonest my noblest all ! 
 
 Alas ! thy absence brings back tyranny. 
 My comfort is thou never wilt divine 
 My depth, but lift me to that height of thine. 
 
 v. 
 
 How often have I seen in cages penned 
 
 Free-hearted skylarks that to cloudless skies 
 Outstretch their yearning wings, from their breast 
 send 
 A mingling strain of grief and ecstasies 3 
 The noble strength of lordly beasts I've viewed, 
 
 Chafing with hurried pace its limits round ; 
 And rock-proud eagles with a mien subdued 
 
 c
 
 l8 POEMS. 
 
 Flashing eye-glory which no sky could bound — 
 Alas ! for nature's joys embittered so ; 
 
 Yet how much sweet this leaves, the sweetest gone. 
 These creatures miss not joy like me, or know 
 
 The agony of love that meets with none. 
 Others may touch thy hand ; thine eyes will give 
 Smiles to the sound would make my sick heart live. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Life is a laughter, then a bitter strife ; 
 
 We toil till age, thence darken to the grave ; 
 How weak society and vain its life ! 
 
 Yet is wise solitude but sadly brave. 
 
 poets sage and pastors, keep concealed 
 
 These truths, that they may taste but day by day. 
 What courage has one bright day's gleam revealed ! 
 
 What hope when far clouds kissed religion's ray ! 
 Poets are deaf to hope, and too much love 
 
 An earth where evil knowledge still does grow ; 
 Their passion makes its bowers a wailing grove 
 
 That echo sunshine-joys, fulfilled hope's woe, 
 
 1 am a singer too : love, think on me, 
 Trembling who brave impossibility.
 
 POEMS. 10. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The joyous birds ere gentle rain has ceased 
 
 Sing out their gladness to the brightening sky ; 
 And whom has not dull life awhile released 
 
 Catching some picture or face-witchery ? 
 How bright clear wit, great passion, a sad tale 
 
 Can lift the burdened soul ! Upon this earth 
 Sun-gladdened so, should thoughts immortal fail, 
 
 One heaven-inspired would weigh the sun's high 
 worth. 
 To-day 'twas more to me than sun or thought, 
 
 Than to sweet birds returning sunny gleams — 
 Thou gavest friends what my heart eager caught, 
 
 The smiles of sweet child-lips, eye-laughing beams : 
 Thy spendthrift friends take many such sweet gifts, 
 This hoarded theft my heart o'er all theirs lifts. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Here where religion's awful spirit dwells, 
 
 Hallowing the fane by heav'n-taught genius raised, 
 Prompting to lofty praise each breast that swells 
 
 Jn transport, where adoring ages praised ; 
 Here where sad solemn sculptures point and speak 
 
 Dumbly of him or her long lost to earth ; 
 But speaking trumpet-like — earth's hopes how weak ! — 
 
 Daily in prayer abasest thou thy worth.
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 Yet think not of poor human love as sin, 
 
 Though sorrow pleads and heaven must be won ; 
 
 Think of it as a resting-stage souls win, 
 A light in absence of religion's sun : 
 
 The soul has duties here ; its home's on high 5 
 
 Love is its life to all eternity. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou sweetest fair, the bloom of childhood still 
 
 Flushes thy cheek j a child's heart beats beneath 
 Thy tender bosom, womanhood does fill 
 
 Thy dawning sky with beams that gild the wreath — 
 And shall I ask to lay upon thy heart 
 
 My years of care and a thought-heavy head ? 
 Oh, think but this, sweet, life's years are no part 
 
 Of cycles, centuries and eras fled. 
 To many life is but a hurried day — 
 
 Place, wealth, fame, hide the splendour of the sun ; 
 But others storing beauty with time stray ; 
 
 While poets gaze on and are ever young. 
 No burdens but fresh flowers my mind brings 
 To add to thine to which the dew yet clings. 
 
 Sick for thy dearest love, how longing faints ! 
 
 Call it not madness, O ye mockers, nor 
 The poor conceit of folly ; for restraints 
 
 It bows to 5 pride such wounds of grief ne'er bore.
 
 POEMS. 21 
 
 I weak among the strong with patience see 
 
 All others cut their course through wind and wave, 
 Mourning that strength from fate should not quite flee, 
 
 But sink to weakness, equalled by the grave — 
 Come, ye sunlighted lands, thou depth of sky, 
 
 Tell me of strength and hope to outlive death, 
 Lend me your power, your grace, your mystery, 
 
 Oh ! let my soul on earth breathe native breath. 
 But for thy love — tears and entreaties blend, 
 That losing it too wretched life may end. 
 
 XI. 
 
 O sweetest of all England's sweet girl-faces ! 
 
 O spirit beauty come from heaven to earth ! 
 Soft blended hues, most delicate form that graces 
 
 Thought and true feeling and sweet woman-worth 5 
 Since that glad day that first my happy eyes 
 
 Blessed with thy vision true, as true as bright, 
 Thought has shone rainbow-hued, sweet melodies 
 
 Has feeling tuned to ever new delight. 
 Dear girl, if ever on these words thou look, 
 
 Frown not on praise of beauty never known, 
 Know that my heart the tears of April took 
 
 To see a glory earth had never shown. 
 Hearts are immortal, and love not as eyes 
 In kindred-spirit all their beauty lies.
 
 22 POEMS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 What is the solitude of desert wastes ; 
 
 What the wild stormy breadth of darkened seas ; 
 To loneliness of heart when life distastes ; 
 
 When dark around bids the soul's fears increase ? 
 How the companions of this earthly toil 
 
 But mock our forms, remaining ghosts of men ! 
 They have their griefs and joys, but hearts recoil, 
 
 They altered not when your heart sank again. 
 What wretched strife, what fearful dread you've known; 
 
 And how again in terror you may stand. 
 Is life as ever by the future shown 
 
 All stormy surges, with no pleasant land ? 
 No : heavenly love can guide and sweetly cheer — 
 God's can cast death's out, thine can quell life's fear. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Alas ! for all mechanic toilers, for 
 
 Noon-strength eclipsed, for lives that fade away. 
 Can hope and inward vision such restore 
 
 To gladness, show a brighter dawning day ? 
 So the Book teaches, so this earth of ours 
 
 Proclaims through all the gloom of wintry days ; 
 The grass remains and through the leafless bowers 
 
 The thrush and robin hail the sun's weak rays.
 
 POEMS. 23 
 
 But I'm no toiler; I am slave to naught, 
 And call I heaven to bless as much again ? 
 
 To enrich feeling, to ennoble thought ? 
 To give thy beauty happy arms to strain ? 
 
 I ask, but claim not what's earth's joy above, 
 
 And limit judgment nor Almighty love. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Such painful toil is here ; this earth's a stage 
 
 Set forth amid eternal time and space ; 
 Passions inflame, lusts and ambitions rage, 
 
 Invading all and each succeeding race. 
 And still insensible to love or strife 
 
 The earth her seasons and her fruits renews ; 
 It smiled when kings' ambitions poured out life, 
 
 And no man but the greatest mourned to lose. 
 Can we then idly love, be mockers too, 
 
 And laugh unsympathising in mad joy ? 
 Yes : if no pride keep feeling sweet and true, 
 
 And burning trial need search out no alloy. 
 The butterfly sips flowers all his day, 
 Yet on his wings the hues of heaven play. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Farewell — ah ! what a doom lies in that word 
 
 By our own lips pronounced ; that word half-friends 
 
 Care not to speak 5 some little love is stored, 
 
 Whose sunshine with that chilling shadow blends.
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 Oh, then what gloom's on me, who saw thy light, 
 
 While hope grew stronger, who have felt the beams 
 Thy grace and beauty poured upon my sight, 
 
 And now must see it but in shadowy dreams. 
 Scarce heard thy voice, not once I've touched thy 
 hand; 
 
 Then absence will be darkness; thou hast shared 
 Not one love-look, or word, or touch of hand 
 
 To me, when my eyes all love's meaning dared. 
 ' Farewell ' my breast heaves forth with deadly groan, 
 Farewell ! I wander heart-sick and alone. 
 
 xvr. 
 
 Once more to this thy city have I come: 
 
 Thine ! for thou art the fairy of its streets ; 
 And where thou smilest it is sunshine's home, 
 
 Thy steps make music which thy speech repeats. 
 Oh, how the hot tears spring to my drooped eyes ; 
 
 Hardly I dare look where thy beauty shines — 
 It can so beam forth, wake such ecstasies, 
 
 Or turned to wrath, be in me burning mines. 
 Longing to meet thine eye, what sickening fear 
 
 Grasps at my hurrying heart lest what I writ 
 Call up a frown my yearning eyes to sear, 
 
 My soul to pang as 'twould its mansion quit. 
 Oh ! look not so, great fairy, smile on me, 
 And let me truth for fevered vision see !
 
 POEMS. 25 
 
 XVII. 
 
 I walked through fields to-day bright with the sun, 
 
 And heard the joyous lark pour forth his glee ; 
 Freshly the wheat's green pennons every one 
 
 Waved, and the spring breeze wandered pleasantly — 
 Sunshine made all things glad : they mocked at him 
 
 Who for more blessing than deep blue skies craved ; 
 Whilst I walked spiritless, with vision dim, 
 
 And with step heavy by the wheat that waved. 
 But thou wouldst pity wretchedness, who hast 
 
 Such deep heart-reverence for sacred things, 
 And mingle tears of sympathy as fast 
 
 As angel-raptures when the full choir sings. 
 Alas, what thoughts are these ? it mocks distress 
 Thy gracious worth to know of, not possess. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Days come with promise to me ; when they pass 
 
 I'm to success no nearer 5 of each one 
 The sum is mere despair ; as in a glass 
 
 Faces, as trees in streams my hopes have gone. 
 The radiant visions were as ships in air, 
 
 As oases to desert wand'rers, bliss, 
 Gleaned from out twenty lives and gathered there 
 
 Where we two stood, light that both heads did kiss.
 
 26 POEMS. 
 
 How then, what if this be so, man and child ? 
 
 This is full many a heart's awakening ; thine 
 Is not more riven, not more desolate-wild, 
 
 That felt love's transport answer gifts divine. 
 O cruel fair, though my love's scorned and spent, 
 My breast's no hell ; God's love is given, not lent. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 O dearest, as a palely flushing bud, 
 
 Dew-bright and shrinking, may-be virgin love 
 Starts to dream-beauty in thee, understood 
 
 Best as a type of beauteous joys above ! 
 Oh, if this greet hope's trembling, thank for me 
 
 Him who has granted two hearts gladness to beam, 
 And tenderness unceasing ; for to thee 
 
 Life shall one interchange of dear love seem ; 
 Bright will this sad earth be, although there come 
 
 Sorrow and fierce temptation ; yet if trust 
 Fail not in God's love and our own, the hum 
 
 Of noon-day creatures born of the summer dust 
 Will be as misery to joy like ours, 
 Sown on this earth to bloom in heavenly bowers. 
 
 xx. 
 
 A feeble tongue have I to speak your praise ; 
 
 My verse is weak to glorify this theme ; 
 Who that once heard thee, felt thy grace amaze 
 
 His heart, would say I too had loved that dream ?
 
 POEMS. 27 
 
 Not this : ' Where are the golden gleams reflected, 
 
 And rainbow hues in this dull stream of words ? ' 
 When my heart's finest strung the strain expected 
 
 Comes by no touch aeolian as to birds. 
 Why then do I invoke sweet poetry, 
 
 And write, and strive with words, and cull the best ? 
 That from chance-shifted words some witchery 
 
 Your sweetest grace more nobly may attest. 
 Yet how can words with spirit-truth surprise 
 When hour-new thoughts of love for thee arise ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Not for this life are raptures or despair ; 
 
 Is it not written men may o'er-righteous be ? 
 Nor can the soul (poor prisoner here) long stare 
 
 On suns ideal from all earth-clouds free, 
 This know I ; so to keep the fountain pure 
 
 Of love to thee which murmurs through my heart 
 I blend calm holy flowings with it, sure 
 
 Peaceful- clear tides to torrents they impart. 
 Despair comes like a torrent : then I pray 
 
 With tears to God which call down cheerful faith ; 
 But when thy beauty fond hope thinks to stay, 
 
 Angelic peace is mine that knows not death. 
 Natures that sweet and holy are as thine 
 Always unconscious-sacred influence shine.
 
 23 POEMS. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 What wilt thou write to me? thou art to write 
 
 Words I shall tremble to unseal, and read 
 With dim eyes and a beating heart, with white 
 
 And deathly face, a careless fatal speed. 
 It will be sweet denial — canst thou pray 
 
 For mercy, and to hope like mine a stern 
 And fearful death-blow deal ? — No ! thou wilt say 
 
 Kindly my doom, that I shall dimly learn, 
 Wilt write it with dim eyes ; and I shall see 
 
 Through burning orbs its message, where a tear 
 Still stains the page ; a sigh and fragrancy 
 
 Will float above my happiness' sad bier. 
 I will not say to hope, ' expect glad things,' 
 Thus murdering trust, bright as the lark that sings. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 To-day I faced the pitiless rebuke 
 
 Of chill experience that age bestows 
 On summer-soft romance j my words and look 
 
 Glowed with its eloquence, then quickly froze — 
 Alas ! the room I sat in must have seen 
 
 Often thy loveliness, have echoed to 
 Thy speech and laughter ; here then I have been ; 
 
 Here with strong passion I for thee did sue.
 
 POEMS. 29 
 
 Nothing could move ; with trembling lips and speech 
 Storm-eloquence broke from me ; from her came 
 
 Unruffled calm and wisest words ; with each 
 
 She seemed to scorn my ' wrath of love ' to shame. 
 
 Then for a lip -white languor to control, 
 
 I summoned madness strength to fill my soul. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 No longer will I pour out thought and verse 
 
 To ease my heart, and thy great worth to prove ; 
 No words can utter it 5 I'm tortured worse 
 
 The more I whisper or groan forth my love — 
 Thou art so lovely pride were in good place ; 
 
 So simple as no loveliness were there 5 
 So sweet and noble is thy mien and face, 
 
 Rich thought and feeling too must be thy share. 
 I'd say with such a wealth of grace and gift 
 
 Thou art an angel ; but thy womanhood 
 Is tender-gracious — oh, its traits uplift 
 
 Thy love to angels, kind as sternly good. 
 Thou greatest heavenly blessing to a man, 
 I cannot match thee, but none other can.
 
 3° 
 
 THE 
 WORLDLY-WISE AND CUSTOM-CHILLED. 
 
 The worldly-wise and custom-chilled 
 Have ever railed on love like mine, 
 
 A world of duller forms has filled 
 
 Their minds that never knew of thine, 
 
 Till all idea of such was killed. 
 
 And peace to them ! — forgiveness for 
 Their thrusting-stabs of wisdom, wit. 
 
 These earthly weapons cannot war 
 'Gainst spirit, nor can hope to hit 
 
 Truth so beyond experience' lore. 
 
 Their prudent loves and social joy 
 
 Are earth's rewards and labour's crown ; 
 
 The heaven that instincts here enjoy, 
 Life's flower in country and in town, 
 
 Fairest when Death comes to destroy. 
 
 But can they know that there is love 
 
 That flashed upon the eager soul 
 With light as from some star above — 
 
 Though o'er it clouds for life must roll, 
 That fills for life the soul with love ?
 
 POEMS. 31 
 
 They cannot — thou alone can'st guess, 
 
 If burning words of anguish tell, 
 If gestures, acts are bars where press 
 
 Souls passioning — the body's cell 
 As if to burst in their distress ; 
 
 Then thou alone may'st antedate 
 Th' eternal bloom my love shall know, 
 
 Thy dear love can alone abate 
 The pangs of an immortal throe, 
 
 Which else must tardy Death await.
 
 32 
 
 DULL CLOUDS MAY GLOOM. 
 
 Dull clouds may gloom the freshest green 
 
 That decks the trees in gladdest May, 
 And thunder-showers the slender screen 
 So pierce that drowned is the sweet lay 
 
 Rejoicing birds 
 Sang as if summer-eves had been, 
 
 And lovers' words. 
 
 Yet ere the setting of the sun 
 
 The rain has ceased, the clustered leaves 
 A softer lustre have put on, 
 
 While the still-listening air receives 
 
 The clear full notes, 
 Hailing gold-clouds as past each one 
 
 A cloud-veil floats. 
 
 Dear girl, thy beauty is more bright 
 
 Than May and fresher than her leaf, 
 Thy graciousness — as winter's night 
 Thy cloudy absence has to grief 
 
 Been and must be 
 Till more than summer bless my sight 
 
 In smiles from thee.
 
 POEMS. 3$ 
 
 What music then would'st thou awake 
 
 In me who sing so feebly now ! 
 
 How life itself would seem to make 
 
 A harmony that planets know 5 
 
 To music's laws 
 Bending its course ; for thy sweet sake 
 
 To glide or pause. 
 
 Oh, teach the worldly-wise who pour 
 
 Contempt when fondest lovers weep, 
 And teach the slave who would not war 
 A beauty in his heart to keep, 
 
 That worth and grace 
 Answering to love like mine ask more 
 
 Than this earth's space. 
 
 r>
 
 34 
 
 NO! NOT FOR ME THE LAY IS SUNG. 
 
 No ! not for me the lay is sung ; 
 
 No ! not for me the jest is spoken ; 
 He cares not how my heart is wrung, 
 
 He cares not how my spirit's broken. 
 
 I never meet his love-lit eye ; 
 
 No sunny smile for me is beaming ; 
 He heeds not if I smile or sigh ; 
 
 Nor knows that bitter tears are streaming. 
 
 He knows not — would he care to know ? 
 
 Would even his triumph smile at seeing, 
 The agony of hopeless woe, 
 
 The frenzy pale when life is fleeing ? 
 
 Why does he careless now neglect 
 
 Her whose least sigh once wakened sorrow ? 
 
 Why did his tender looks reflect 
 
 A beauty sunbeams cannot borrow ? 
 
 Awake, I pour despairing tears, 
 
 Asleep, I dream of long past pleasure ; 
 
 Then gladly, Death, I'll meet thy fears. 
 Oh, quickly bring oblivion's treasure. 
 
 N.B. — Only the last three quatrains are mine. The first 
 two are part of a song in three quatrains by Marian. I con- 
 sidered the last quatrain of this song so decidedly inferior to 
 the beauty of the preceding stanzas that I have ventured to 
 substitute some of my own composing. — J. K.
 
 35 
 
 WHAT IS IT TO HAVE SEEN YOUR FACE. 
 
 What is it to have seen your face, 
 
 And to have known 
 
 Something of the enchanting grace 
 
 Around you thrown ? 
 
 What is it to have seen you smile 
 
 A lovely greeting ? 
 
 The face of each showing the while 
 
 That hearts were meeting. 
 
 What is it to have seen you pray, 
 
 And while the singing 
 
 Rose, to have watched the heavenly ray 
 
 In your face springing ? 
 
 What is it to have known the grief 
 
 Your absence brings ? 
 
 When blue skies, birds, field, flower and leaf 
 
 Are joyless things. 
 
 What is it to have mourned in soul, 
 
 When scorching tears 
 
 Chased one another, and the goal 
 
 Friends hid with fears ?
 
 36 POEMS. 
 
 When they and Prudence glanced at thee, 
 
 Then cursed my folly ; 
 
 Calling my true love-loyalty, 
 
 Mad melancholy. 
 
 fairest, sweetest all has been 
 
 So bitter-sweet, 
 
 1 could sad consolation glean 
 
 Though ne'er we meet. 
 
 Bitter it is to have been near, 
 
 But no word spoken ; 
 Ne'er sunned on by your beauty clear 
 
 In peace unbroken — 
 
 But to have known this earth can show 
 
 A presence like thine, 
 
 Changes imagination's glow 
 
 To hues divine ; 
 
 And when such worth and holiness 
 
 Has pierced the heart, 
 
 Thought has gained life and loveliness 
 
 Unknown to Art.
 
 37 
 
 To E. H. 
 
 Again thou blessest these sad eyes 
 
 That long have searched for thee, 
 And on the quiet minster lies 
 
 Sweet awful mystery. 
 
 Thy face beams radiance ; the still air 
 
 Seems fragrant — I can hear 
 
 Nought of the choir's praise, nought of prayer ; 
 But floating music near. 
 
 I see thee only — thou art fair, 
 
 And gracious as morning ; 
 
 I gaze as on sun-rising, where 
 
 Birds hail day's returning. 
 
 A long night has thy absence been, 
 
 I waked and wept in pain, 
 
 Groaning for what I once had seen 
 
 That no day brought again. 
 
 Thou com'st once more, my joy, my life, 
 
 My darkened soul's fair sun ! 
 
 Oh, beam unclouded, end the strife 
 
 By thy first sight begun.
 
 .38 POEMS. 
 
 Call me to thee with one kind smile 
 
 Then one sweet gracious word 
 
 Whisper — I shall look sad awhile, 
 
 Thinking it was not heard. 
 
 How mighty is thy power to bless; 
 
 I can scarce lower fall ; 
 God can send woe or happiness — 
 
 Lord, unto Thee I call ! 
 
 Spare this dear child of Thine the grief 
 
 I've known and yet may know; 
 
 Oh, let me ever in belief 
 
 Of loving-kindess glow !
 
 39 
 
 IT MAY BE WE SHALL NEVER MEET. 
 
 It may be we shall never meet 
 
 Again, 
 That ne'er shall kisses^on thy sweet 
 
 Lips rain, 
 
 Nor thy quick-heaving bosom make 
 
 Mine glow, 
 Nor starting tears the lashes shake 
 
 Down slow ; 
 
 Silence will not be sweeter than 
 
 Our speech, 
 When the hushed breath and pulses can 
 
 Love teach. 
 
 Words will not linger that the eyes 
 
 May rove, 
 To tremors timed, as flushes rise, 
 
 To move. 
 
 Thy dear lips will not oracles 
 
 Reveal, 
 Sweet wisdom thought and sense each stills 
 
 To feel ■
 
 ^O POEMS. 
 
 For us romance in sunny bowers 
 
 Is not, 
 Nor will enchantment twilight hours 
 
 Allot. 
 
 If this be so a sigh shall be 
 
 Each breath, 
 And with each wish that's born in me 
 
 Call death ; 
 
 I will not rail on hope because 
 
 She lied ; 
 Nor rage that Heaven's eternal laws 
 
 So tried. 
 
 But with sad-patient eyes I'll view 
 
 The past j 
 Nor fear what coming false or true 
 
 May haste ; 
 
 Only when others love I'll weep 
 
 Awhile, 
 And when death's shadows o'er me creep 
 
 Will smile.
 
 4i 
 
 DEAREST, LET INDIFFERENCE WEAVE. 
 
 Dearest, let indifference weave 
 
 Its moonlight grace 
 
 Around some other form, and leave 
 For aye thy face. 
 
 Too long its marble stateliness 
 
 Has clung to thee j 
 
 It seems from veiling loveliness 
 Lovely to be ; 
 
 But oh, how lovelier were thy brow 
 
 In pity bending} 
 What tender grace thy laugh would show 
 
 With my song blending. 
 
 Thou can'st more lovely be, sweet face, 
 More stately-gracious, 
 
 Thou moving form with leaf-waving grace 
 
 'Gainst blue heaven spacious ! 
 
 How my poor heart felt ecstasy, 
 
 Thinking it saw 
 Tremulous kindness glisten thine eye, 
 
 And mine o'erawe.
 
 42 POEMS. 
 
 If this was not seen ; poor, poor heart ! 
 
 And sadder life ; 
 With some scenes wholly, all in part 
 
 Sick-desperate strife. 
 
 Dearest one, rouse me from sweet sad dreams 
 T ) waking bliss, 
 
 Shine forth, let these be sunrise gleams 
 That thin clouds kiss ; 
 
 Tell me I saw most true when light 
 
 Of love seemed breaking, 
 
 That my heart truly hailed the sight 
 
 As the lark earth forsaking. 
 
 Oh, how I then could sing to thee, 
 And live for ever, 
 
 Gazing on heart-felicity 
 
 Death could not sever ! 
 
 Death comes to aged in heart and limb, 
 Not to pure-loyal 
 
 Souls that sing thanksgiving with eyes dim 
 For God's gift-royal.
 
 43 
 
 SWEET IS YOUR FACE. 
 
 Sweet is your face — oh sweeter far 
 
 Than thought can measure, 
 
 And genius must describing mar 
 
 Your heart's rich treasure. 
 
 O misery ! that such rich worth 
 
 Of face and heart 
 Should sadden all this lovely earth, 
 
 Soul-gloom impart ! 
 
 That one should sigh for them and find 
 
 They cannot be ; 
 Another win careless as wind 
 
 Their fragrancy. 
 
 Is this God's will lest such rich joys 
 
 Should make earth, Heaven- 
 Is ecstasy and mid-sky poise 
 
 But one bird given ? 
 
 Must thou, sweet girl, with rich gifts bless 
 One who them spurns, 
 
 Scarce glancing at the loveliness 
 
 That my heart burns ?
 
 44 POEMS. 
 
 Oh, do not so ! Good God, avert 
 
 This joyless wreck ; 
 
 Let not the unloving her desert 
 
 And beauty deck ! 
 
 But give them me — let order reign, 
 And pleasure free, 
 
 In two lives pure from licence-stain, 
 Find liberty.
 
 45 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come, brave mounting lark, O trill 5 
 
 Let me happy know 
 "Where bright May flowers drink the rill, 
 
 And its margin glow. 
 
 Summer-joy, O blackbird pipe, 
 
 On glad echo call, 
 Till your notes crowd thick like ripe 
 
 Fruit on orchard wall. 
 
 Thrill the heart of fragrant glooms, 
 
 Nightingale, delay 
 Melody as light entombs 
 
 Every starry ray. 
 
 Poet, let all grace o'erflow, 
 
 Music, image pour, 
 Till thy page have caught the glow 
 
 Heavenly fancy wore. 
 
 Long delayed, come victor Love, 
 
 Bring one thought of her ; 
 Nothing more than heaven above 
 
 May excel that fair.
 
 46 
 
 To E. H. 
 
 Sometimes to a lovely face 
 
 Tenderly 
 Wanders, and in beauty's maze 
 
 Dwells mine eye ; 
 But my heart is faithful to thy grace. 
 
 Often on my listening ear 
 
 Falls a tone 
 Light and laughing, sweet and clear, 
 
 Girlhood's own j 
 And I smile to think that thou art near. 
 
 Rarely comes a grace of motion 
 
 From afar, 
 And my heart beats with devotion 5 
 
 Yet at war 
 Thinks of thee with tenderer emotion. 
 
 Never beauty, sweetness, grace, 
 
 Like to thine, 
 Could I in another trace — 
 
 Heart of mine ! 
 Though alone each seems to take thy place.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Visit oft my mind and wake 
 
 Ecstasy. 
 Oh, thy mien and voice will make 
 
 Ear and eye 
 Dream and fairest presences forsake. 
 
 47
 
 48 
 
 FRIENDS WHO BID ME. 
 
 Friends who bid me banish thee, 
 Banish thee from all my thoughts, 
 
 Can they guess the secrecy, 
 Secrecy of love's resorts, 
 
 When new love for thee is found 
 
 In each lovely sight and sound ? 
 
 They who talk of wretchedness, 
 Wretchedness of hopeless love, 
 
 Can they deem this weariness, 
 Weariness their peace above, 
 
 When I who could never get 
 
 Word or look can ne'er forget ? 
 
 The^ who speak of happiness, 
 Happiness apart from thee, 
 
 Can they know the dreariness, 
 Dreariness of life to me. 
 
 When thy beauty blessed my eye 
 
 Was it beauty that could die?
 
 poems. 49 
 
 They who hint at faithlessness, 
 Faithlessness ! If they can find 
 
 One of thy worth and graciousness, 
 Graciousness might change my mind ; 
 
 But they know not, as I know, 
 
 One like thee dwells not below. 
 
 Dearest, see my love and woe, 
 
 Love and woe's fidelity, 
 Only thou canst ever know, 
 
 Ever know my loyalty — 
 Must in my breast dumbly plead 
 Truth but thy love's truth can read
 
 5° 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 The setting sun now leaves the sky, 
 And tinges western clouds with glory ; 
 
 The birds 'cross darkening heaven fly ; 
 The falling leaf tells winter's story ; 
 
 The kine in distant meadows low; 
 
 By fitful gusts the trees are driven ; 
 Then silent gleams the moon, and slow, 
 
 With stately step, she climbs the heaven j 
 
 The stars are following one by one ; 
 
 The crimson from the west is failing ; 
 The moon has now the heavens won, 
 
 And through bright clouds is proudly sailing. 
 
 I leave with steps unwilling, slow, 
 
 Such glorious views of earth and heaven : 
 
 Ah, why should man so seldom know 
 The peace, the love to Nature given!
 
 5 1 
 
 SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Now Nature pours 
 
 Her fleecy stores 
 Wide over all the plain ; 
 
 The mad wind shakes 
 
 The feath'ry flakes, 
 Dancing to sky again. 
 
 The blindinar shower 
 
 Makes small birds cower, 
 And fly to cottage thatch j 
 
 Man shuns in haste 
 
 The stormy blast, 
 And presses down the latch. 
 
 Deep, deeper yet, 
 
 Her coverlet 
 Kind Nature lays on earth ; 
 
 The wind may blow 
 
 His keenest now, 
 Young seeds will have their birth. 
 
 'Tis winter's smile 
 
 That doth beguile 
 The horrors of his reign : 
 
 Thus all the year 
 
 Does beauty cheer ; 
 Till green Spring smiles again.
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Lark ! that wheeling in thy flight 
 
 Singest to the god of day, 
 Rising now with streaming light, 
 
 Scatt'ring eastern clouds away. 
 
 Thou the spirit of the scene, 
 Chasing envious clouds afar, 
 
 Soon as e'er his face was seen, 
 Sang'st his triumph in the war. 
 
 Else why to the earth so near 
 Circles thy impulsive flight ? 
 
 Who when heaven is blue and clear, 
 Soar' st beyond the reach of sight. 
 
 Hence thy song's impetuous thrill ! 
 
 Hence thy wild, impulsive flight ! 
 Victory thou dost herald shrill, 
 
 Gained by sun o'er clouds of night. 
 
 Bravest bird, that stay'st below, 
 
 When all heaven thou might'st enjoy 
 
 Duty thus done, we should know, 
 P'r'aps thy ecstasy of joy.
 
 53 
 
 TO A THRUSH SINGING AT DAYBREAK. 
 
 Sweet Thrush, that high upon a leafless tree 
 With loud note hailest the scarce dawning east 3 
 
 Fly not ! but still pour forth melody — 
 
 Stay where the light shines on thy speckled breast. 
 
 Far up yon valley now in mist concealed, 
 
 Thy notes came mingled with the gurgling stream, 
 
 Now loud, now faint, by distance half-revealed, 
 They sounded sweet as in a pleasant dream. 
 
 Long hast thou sung and happy was thy strain 
 While creeping fog hid all the earth from sight ; 
 
 But see ! at length the sun bursts forth again 
 And silvers curling mists with shafts of light. 
 
 I came to thee with sorrow at my heart ; 
 
 By hope deluded, sick of this world's strife — 
 Whether my fault or others caused the smart, 
 
 I loved not man nor cared for my own life. 
 
 I looked on Nature with a careless eye, 
 
 On melancholy preyed with brooding soul ; 
 
 In vain to me her hills, her fields, her sky 
 In rich variety she did unroll.
 
 ^,4 POEMS. 
 
 But hearing thee — thou sing'st in very scorn 
 Of unbelief and spite and bitter hate : 
 
 I everything forget whilst I am borne 
 
 On floods of joy and love that ne'er abate. 
 
 Farewell, sweet bird ! 'midst roar of cities' strife, 
 This song of thine shall sweeten memory j 
 
 Through hardest years of aging, wearying life, 
 
 My love shall childlike grow with thoughts of thee.
 
 55 
 
 TO THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Howl, thou Wind, o'er moor and ocean ; 
 
 Sailor s wife and wanderer scare ; 
 Crash the trees j let wave-commotion 
 
 Darkening surge j the moon's face bare ! 
 
 Scream thy triumph, blusterer, soaring 
 Where the clouds in quiet lie ; 
 
 Dive 'neath ocean, swell thy roaring 
 With the thunder of the sky. 
 
 I can laugh at thee, this shelter 
 Trembles not, though thou assail ; 
 
 Summon ice, thy fiercest pelter ! 
 Shield and sheltered never quail. 
 
 Friend ! — a rough one ; I no longer 
 Blame thy manners ; long I've known 
 
 Health thou giv'st, the more, the stronger 
 Wings thy flight o'er sea and town. 
 
 I'll not call thy generous speeding 
 Rough, unceremonious haste : 
 
 Perhaps to some sky-anthem's leading 
 True's the voice howls o'er the waste.
 
 5<5 
 
 TO TWO PRIMROSES IN EARLY MARCH. 
 
 O pale twin sisters I could weep 
 Seeing how tremblingly you peep 
 
 With sweet sad faces : 
 Alas ! the beams that wakened you 
 Should first have whispered, ' Weeks ensue 
 
 Ere spring-time graces.' 
 
 Then ye had lien awhile, to spring 
 When violets have blossoming ; 
 
 Ye would have gazed 
 On flowery banks and leafy trees, 
 To hear the lark's sky-ecstasies 
 
 Your heads had raised. 
 
 Now ye must look on dull grass growing, 
 Now ye must feel the March winds blowing ; 
 
 The clouds' dull rack 
 See drearily blue heaven pace, 
 Against them rustling branches trace 
 
 All bare and black. 
 
 Ye cannot frown, ye came to show 
 Beauty, and kindness to bestow ; 
 
 Frowned on austerely, 
 Ye can but plead, with tenderer look, 
 That ye were born in your dull nook 
 
 To please it merely.
 
 67 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH. 
 
 Upon this high rock seated, how mine eyes 
 Exult to view sunlighted moorland, far 
 Down-stretching miles cloud-shaded. Oh, ye clouds, 
 That high above me float — how are ye charmed ! 
 How slowly do ye pace and earthwards gaze 
 Where your light shadows dance o'er the gold-brown 
 
 heather. 
 O ! ye soft breezes, how like spirits free, 
 Ye wave this tract, then rising fan my cheek, 
 Then pipe aloft your music ! O fair earth, 
 O lands awaiting April's tears and laughter, 
 Though Spring be not yet come, yet fiercest Winter 
 With blasts, has left you smiling patiently ! 
 Come ever thus to me, thus sweetly courted 
 By sunbeams, by the breezes and the clouds, 
 And I like thee will smile. For as to thee, 
 Though now 'tis early summer with me too, 
 Decay and grief will come, and wintry age, 
 If bright yet cold — a form that is less lovely, 
 Less patient than your own. Then visit me, 
 Me who now love thee carelessly, and like 
 A child its mother ; me in whom the wealth 
 Of children, rich soul-sunshine, now may seem 
 By manhood but thin clouded 3 when I laugh
 
 58 POEMS. 
 
 At shallow laughter, and thy quiet smile 
 
 Appears a sweet rebuke — come to me thus, 
 
 In watchings, amid losses, in the dreams 
 
 Of age's night, and sunny gratitude 
 
 Shall beam from me too — thanksgiving to God, 
 
 And to friends ministering tenderness, 
 
 A sunset glow and harvest of sweet smiles, 
 
 So heart-felt, so ennobling those dull clouds 
 
 That throng my setting, and so breaking through, 
 
 With such quick following streams of golden light, 
 
 That it shall overflow the fountain even 
 
 Of their soul-beauty ; those who came denyingly 
 
 Shall find in charity its own reward, 
 
 And solace treasured for much future toil, 
 
 Less gracious perhaps, less pitying than this 
 
 Lavished on me, for sweetness that was thine.
 
 59 
 
 TO BIRDS SINGING IN THE END OF 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 What calls your chanting forth, sweet birds — 
 
 Bare trees ? a leaden sky ? 
 A month of piercing winds ere Spring 
 
 Deck your homes daintily ? 
 
 Or does this dull still evening smile ? 
 
 That hill-side stand out clear ? 
 Its hanging woods, are fragrant shades 
 
 And lovely hues yet there ? 
 
 The western glory, is it gone ? 
 
 Was earth a lovely sky? 
 Have odorous gales scarce seemed to breathe, 
 
 And then swept sighing by ? 
 
 Or did your little tender mates 
 
 Ask for some solace sweet ? 
 And do you, stifling coward-fears, 
 
 With promises them greet ? 
 
 Yes, you are saying, ' Wait, sweet wife, 
 
 Green shall your bower be ; 
 The wind you feared so yesterday 
 
 Shakes not a leafy tree.
 
 60 POEMS. 
 
 'Think, when the sunbeams dance, and I 
 
 Swing by your side as gay ; 
 The breeze that brings the sunbeams tuned 
 By leaves to my sweet lay. 
 
 ' Then will this bare cold earth provide 
 Sweet fruits and many a flower ; 
 Then will we bring our little ones 
 Some fresh food every hour.' 
 
 Blest are poor birds who dream this dream, 
 Compared with yonder man : — 
 
 We realize as much again ; 
 
 Their dreams exceed life's span.
 
 6i 
 
 ADDRESS TO 
 RETURN TO 
 
 THE COUNTRY ON A 
 IT AFTER LIVING IN 
 LONDON. 
 
 Once more I greet you, hills and plains and fields, 
 Wide stretching skies and winds that freely roam, 
 Hail to you all ! Ye too, still dearer friends, 
 Green tender things, high branching trees, sweet 
 
 flowers, 
 And every singing, every flying bird ! 
 How happily your freedom once again 
 My spirit tastes. Oh, how your innocent ways 
 And buoyant gestures make it dance again 
 To your own long-loved measure ! I for long 
 Was prisoned in a city ; nothing there 
 Could cheer my heart like one brief glance of love 
 In your sweet faces. Beauty lives not there, 
 And money cannot bring it to the streets 
 That Commerce throngs. I've gazed on all wealth's 
 
 glitter, 
 Then sighed for gentleness like yours ; have yearned 
 For nobly-simple liberty like yours, 
 Then said it must be there — it was not there 
 Although 'twas sky above and earth below. 
 I shuddered meeting day by day but crowds, 
 ot men, but forms enslaved, all meeting crowds,
 
 6% POEMS. 
 
 And crowds still hurrying, following after crowds. 
 
 But you refresh me ! I will think those weeks 
 
 A wicked dream of weeks — let me forget it ! 
 
 Speak to me, sunny hills, where shadows dance, 
 
 And utter solemn music, sweeping winds ; 
 
 Roll in your grandeur, clouds that pace heaven's blue, 
 
 And speak with majesty to humblest things ; 
 
 Awe with your thunder, flee through space, or pause 
 
 Glancing your shafts of light, while man's heart 
 
 speaks. 
 Ye waving trees, fresh green things, little birds, 
 Commune again as ever delicately 
 With kindred graces, or us fellow- mortals. 
 Prompt me each day to mingle with your beauties, 
 Your thousand kindnesses, my sweetest fancies, 
 Clear faith and hope, contentment, liberty, 
 Unenvying charity, and gratitude. 
 This interchange be ours till death shall come ; 
 Then may I gently die like one of you, 
 Leaving a fragrant memory on earth, 
 Unsorrowing beauty, love that cannot die. 
 
 -^S—^— f—
 
 6.3 
 
 TO EVENING CLOUDS. 
 
 Ye clouds that softly glow in the western sky, 
 
 Ye gentle hills, fairer than earth can show. 
 
 With what calm grace ye float, and pause to dream 
 
 "Where tender blue is fading ! Ye are as bowers, 
 
 As happy Eden-homes for blest-sweet spirits 
 
 To dwell in, gazing on your love and beauty ; 
 
 And yet themselves more loving-beautiful, 
 
 Wiser than thought or speech, and raying goodness. 
 
 My soul was as a weary sun-scorched stream 
 
 Hidden 'midst rocks, faint as the sheltering birds, 
 
 Or as a flower whose petals thirst for dew, 
 
 With thoughts of earth clogg'd as by frost is lock'd 
 
 The liquid music in the song-birds' throats. 
 
 But ye have beamed in beauty, like the smiles 
 
 Of bride or mother, calling gladness forth, 
 
 Bidding soul-freedom cheerfully to live — 
 
 As you glide on desponding not, with grace 
 
 Answering the louder triumphs of the day, 
 
 And not despairing though dull night, and then 
 
 A day's glare, intercept the evening hours. 
 
 And shall my soul, whose nobler beauty can 
 
 Far oftener shine, ev'n here on earth, where passion 
 
 Proclaims herself divine, and senses claim 
 
 All strength — shall it not speak authority ?
 
 64 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 And with a silent eloquence o'erwhelming ? 
 
 Since an eternal sunshine is its home ; 
 
 A king himself, love, beauty, goodness, truth, 
 
 Will give its gazing rapture faculties, 
 
 With worlds of beauty, graces, and rich pomps 
 
 Attendant like to yours and far surpassing.
 
 65 
 
 LINES ON THE POET COWPER. 
 
 Great Christian-poet, glory of our land, 
 
 Worthy successor of the prophet-band, 
 
 Whose numbers less from human genius flow 
 
 Than with the Spirit's aid divinely glow ! 
 
 How shall I justly praise unfailing, skill, 
 
 Themes which themselves our soul and reason fill ; 
 
 And modesty and goodness that appear 
 
 Attendant wit and transport high to fear ! 
 
 Great poet and great Christian, what but grace 
 
 Could change the course that Pride bade Genius 
 
 trace ? 
 Who save great David or Isaiah yet 
 Strove not beyond success or truth to get ? 
 Who in these flowery paths would rest content 
 With here and there a pretty wild-flower's scent ? — 
 Only the less by all the Muses fired 
 Than by the word of God himself inspired ! 
 And thou art of the glorious few, howe'er 
 Thy earthly life showed desolate and bare, 
 Thine was the gloom (none such before or since) 
 A palace-solitude might yield a prince ; 
 A two-fold grandeur, intellectual light 
 And spirituality — a snow-capped height ! 
 None of the ' mighty dead ' could sympathise, 
 
 F
 
 66 POEMS. 
 
 Nor any living feel thy ecstasies ; 
 
 Only on consecrated Bible-ground 
 
 Awful and fit companionship was found. 
 
 Ye poets greater far in taste's esteem, 
 
 Compared with his what must your laurels seem ? 
 
 Rewards vain intellect for flattery gives, 
 
 For incense by which false refinement lives. 
 
 Here yield your titles to whose lesser name 
 
 Felt all your fires, but never stooped to fame ; 
 
 Could swell with ardour, yet with grace retire 
 
 From turgid pomp and passion some call fire ; 
 
 His wit and delicatest humour play, 
 
 Yet idiot-sprightly licence spurn away. 
 
 Which of you would have dared to choose your 
 
 themes, 
 Or fashion them alone where Heaven's light beams ? 
 Where then had been your volumes, where your 
 
 praise 
 Outlasting life, to endure immortal days ? — 
 There had your pages lived and there your fame, 
 With his, unquenched by all the last day's flame, 
 Echoed perhaps above in angel-strains, 
 A lofty song of truth that aye remains. 
 
 ^0><$N^-
 
 67 
 
 REVERENCE. 
 
 ' That angel of the world. ' — (Shakspeare.) 
 
 If seeking knowledge we miss reverence. 
 
 Then all our knowledge is a fair pretence ; 
 
 Knowledge gives sight and skill for earth's rewards ; 
 
 Her eyes and wings can raise us heavenwards : 
 
 The poorest man and duller than the clods, 
 
 In pagan times, she made the friend of gods : 
 
 Since God no more to walk with man descends, 
 
 She is the trusted messsenger He sends : 
 
 To vassal man since closed was Eden's door, 
 
 She comes from God's high court th' ambassador. 
 
 The charter of our heavenly liberties 
 
 Is writ in language known but to her eyes ; 
 
 And of God's speech, unlearned since man's offence, 
 
 The kind interpreter is Reverence.
 
 68 
 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 Pleasure, best loved friend of man ! 
 Sought by him through all life's span, 
 Hast thou had in heaven thy birth, 
 Worshipped as thou art on earth ; 
 Man and woman, rich and poor, 
 Thou dost to thy shrine allure ; 
 And receiv'st their richest treasure, 
 Hard-earned gains and scanty leisure ; 
 Money, health, time, thought is given 
 To enjoy thy earthly heaven ; 
 Wise, fool, knave, thy votaries, 
 Cynics, who deem all else lies. 
 Toilers brain and body tasking 
 Are but deeper motive masking ; 
 And when most in drudgeries mixt 
 Most on thee their eyes are fixt : 
 Pleasure ! dost thou will disarm ; 
 If not, say what is thy charm ? 
 Poet, who dost now inquire 
 Why all men me so desire ; 
 Who although a favourite 
 Canst not fathom with thy wit 
 What should be my subtle charm, 
 With which man's will I disarm.
 
 POEMS. 69 
 
 Knowledge"on thee I now bestow; 
 Poets and children best I know ; 
 And when knowledge too is thine 
 Teach thou those who me malign : 
 Few but seeking me find care ; 
 All the world my seekers are 5 
 Those who find me but a name 
 Now I'll show themselves must blame. 
 
 See, first my loveliest votaries ! 
 
 Who throng the palace rooms, 
 
 And through the long night's glooms 
 Shine on each heart with sweet words and eyes ; 
 Through long lighted chambers gay music sounds, 
 And lightly the foot of each dancer bounds : 
 
 Friendship and love join hands ; 
 Beauty to grandeur lends her grace ; 
 Formality unbends, to give mirth place ; 
 Who with the hard- won triumph flushed each heart 
 
 commands. 
 
 The crowded theatre next view, 
 
 Where words of genius ever new 
 The fate of gods, and heroes great unroll, 
 See, how the graceful gesture, well-formed speech 
 Sway the passion-pierced soul ! 
 The mind's feast share to ear and eye 3 
 While eloquence and wisest maxim teach, 
 
 And dwell for ever in the memory :
 
 70 POEMS. 
 
 The heroes' language learnt, all march toward heroes' 
 
 goal. 
 But ecstasy soon falls below the height I reach. 
 
 See laughing comedies revealing 
 
 The age's follies — each one clearly showing ; 
 But with bright wit the worst concealing ; 
 
 While frowns are changed to looks with red mirth 
 glowing. 
 
 Hark ! how the lofty hall resounds 
 
 To silent multitudes, 
 Where choral singing joined to harmonies 
 Of instruments, from walls and roof rebounds ; 
 
 Then ceases ; desert solitudes 
 Are like the place, whilst one short moment lies 
 A rapture on the heart past utterance ; 
 
 Long afterwards does memory 
 
 Flutter the heart with joy, brighten the eye 
 With what was heard and felt as in a trance — 
 Seeming a foretaste, echo perhaps of heavenly 
 
 symphonies. 
 
 Long could I speak of this 5 but lo ! 
 My name is called by different earth-dwellers — 
 
 The midnight riotous care-quellers, 
 The debauchee, the drunkard — all who know 
 
 Fierce joy when quiver tongues and reel the 
 brains ;
 
 POEMS. 71 
 
 When headstrong degradation 
 
 Is blown to a flame by emulation 3 
 And he is best fool-knave whom worst crime stains 3 
 The wisest who has worst life seen and known 3 
 
 The wittiest whose thoughts' clothes 
 
 Are the most blasphemous oaths ; [groan. 
 
 While judgment exiled sits and murdered feelings 
 
 Now, see my kingdom where I'm absolute 3 
 
 The chambers of young childhood's breast are 
 mine 5 
 
 No rival there intrudes, fierce joy to scorn 
 
 Our happiness 3 with dazzling shine 
 To turn our fresh shade to a desert bare 3 
 
 No tiger-malice from him born ; 
 That having tasted once mad licence-fare 
 With craving never satisfied is cursed 5 
 But sets revenge to waste, and ev'ry flower uproot. 
 Far different they — the sight of butterfly 
 Or bird can make their bubble-envies burst : 
 
 Such joys are not so loud, 
 
 But that their hearts can sing reply ; 
 Nor so outshining that through slumber's shroud 
 In dreams returning they the lightest sleep outstare. 
 
 One other kingdom holds my sway, 
 Not absolute, as childhood's, yet 
 A sister-kingdom there is set 3 
 With poets and the lovers of their art,
 
 72 POEMS. 
 
 The humble wooers of great Nature's grace, 
 
 To whom she gives her power to sway the heart, 
 The gentle beauty that each draws 5 
 The might of law that overawes ; 
 
 Her shapes and colours make thought's living face 
 
 The heart of man to this sweet influence gives 
 
 Its secrets, like an air-harp changing, 
 
 As kindred winds are o'er it ranging : 
 
 'Tis thus fair truth with beauty lives 
 
 In every age's verse 5 and where these come I stay.
 
 73 
 
 FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 
 
 Shut from Thy presence, Lord, cast from Thy love, 
 
 This is on earth to lose Heaven above ; 
 
 'Lone with my sin and its bondage to dwell, 
 
 This is in life to be living in hell. 
 
 Oh, give me not wealth, give not wealth's pleasures 
 
 here, 
 Bestow not sweet fame or the world's titles dear ; 
 Let no woman's love, no sweet converse be mine, 
 Let intellect, wit, or sweet fancy ne'er shine ; 
 Nature's beauties or grandeurs ne'er gladden my heart, 
 Nor taste and refinement delight me in Art — 
 But raise me once more to communion with Thee, 
 Make sin's beauty hateful and thus make me free, 
 Confessing my vileness, not cherishing'sin. 
 Oh ! cause Truth's bright dawning on night to begin, 
 Then hideous spectres shall vanish away, 
 And passion's wind cease with the brightness of day ; 
 Thy word will have calmed the tempestuous wave 
 And I shall be nearer my port in the grave. 
 
 -SNStvr^Nf.
 
 74 
 
 FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 
 
 Lord, while on Thee I trust 
 
 How am I blest ! — 
 This world's a sinful maze, 
 
 Long since I must 
 Have perished, or been wandering ill at rest, 
 
 Did not Thy love 
 Watch with such tenderness my ways, 
 
 That where I dangers pass 
 I sternly eye with courage from above 
 
 Their threats and lures j 
 But when my eyes, alas ! 
 
 Would melt in weakness, when the charm 
 Of lying sin, 
 
 Of falsest joys assures, 
 When a weak woman's look, 
 
 Or fool-companions' jests, or even the calm 
 Bribe of ambitions hard to win 
 
 Must make me fall, 
 Never to rise, wind-shook, 
 
 And trodden down to earth, 
 Past a new life's recall — 
 
 Then, Lord, I feel Thy gracious hand ; 
 My fierce, sin-searching eyes [birth — 
 
 See nought but love and things of heavenly
 
 POEMS. 75 
 
 Child-innocency, a fair band 
 
 Of sister Charities, the zeal 
 Of kingly minds, the ecstasies 
 
 Of two white souls, the beams 
 That speak a mothers yearnings, glances 
 
 That simple manhood-bravery reveal. 
 How hast Thou blest as in fair dreams, 
 
 Both eye and ear unmeriting, 
 With this Thy universe, where dances 
 
 Flower and sunbeam, where exults 
 Beauty in Summer and fresh Spring ; 
 
 Where the storm and majesty 
 Of Winter thunder scorn on who insults 
 
 With folly Thy divinity! — 
 Oh, if Thy grace 
 
 Has thus on me been poured, 
 Who share in that great death, 
 
 And run the race 
 (Though feebly here) 
 
 Of my dear Lord, 
 Long as I draw this breath 
 
 Grant it me still, 
 And on life's prospect drear 
 
 Let these poor eyes 
 Look calmly — with Heaven's light them fill, 
 
 Pure beaming suns till death to set and rise !
 
 16 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY. 
 
 What is that poured-forth agony to me 
 Wliich on this day 
 We speak of tremblingly, 
 And view with silent mind, 
 That dares not stay, 
 Blinded, o'erwhelmed by what it sees, 
 Darkly and glancingly, 
 Enough the veil behind 
 To terrify with wonder — 
 Enough with fear for those who mock to freeze 
 
 Of whom am I, 
 Who of the day which more than Sinai's thunder 
 Proclaimed, think little. What 
 Though earth in terror oped her graves, 
 
 And fainting Death forgot 
 His office, giving life 
 
 To those cast up 
 By the earth-waves ! — 
 All cannot overawe the strife 
 
 Of sin in this weak breast ; 
 Nor love for who the bitter cup 
 
 Drank — the afflicted, despised, 
 
 Companionless guest, 
 The God without comeliness, 
 The King chastised,
 
 POEMS. 77 
 
 The Bruised of the Lord, 
 Without guile, 
 Who could no less 
 Sweet sympathy afford — 
 Not only sacrifice, the smile 
 
 That speaks heart-love. 
 The word so dear 
 To grief, though never spoken 
 
 To him with pain above 
 All that is known to fear. 
 This might have broken 
 Sin's spell, and hushed for ever 
 Its uproar and tongues ; 
 Though while this body clothes 
 Its whispers never. 
 But with loudest lungs 
 To holy thought that loathes 
 Pride, vanity, and lust, 
 
 It speaks of each 
 All varyingly, ceaselessly, 
 Like summer flies, or dust 
 In clouds repeated ; 
 As if to make them reach 
 
 To every act, 
 Or that the soul may lie 
 Like sunshine defeated— 
 Lord, if it is the slave 
 The dull brute-body's purpose to enact, 
 Send still more grace.
 
 78 POEMS. 
 
 Oh ! let not one weak soul 
 
 Thy Son did save 
 Be under sin's dominion, 
 But give it strength to fly 
 Towards the heavenly goal, 
 Dove-like above the wave 
 Of this earth, on a pinion 
 Death will make strong to waft beyond the sky.
 
 79 
 
 EASTER-DAY. 
 
 O Death and Hell, what can your might 
 
 Do now ? Ye that were lords 
 Of sorrow and destruction 5 how are ye quite 
 
 Subdued since He 
 Entered your foul dominions! — your laws and cords, 
 With more than Samson-strength, 
 Flung off ! This mighty conqueror, see, 
 Offers to us his peace, 
 To reach the length 
 Of his almighty arm, 
 Far as your trembling thrones, where cease 
 
 The absolute cruelties ; 
 Whose fount of lesser griefs and harm 
 Is dried — earth-lusts and passions, 
 The pagan joys of sense ; the lies 
 Of art or intellect ; 
 
 All fashions 
 Of weak self-love ; 
 This life and friendship's clinging selfishness, 
 
 The masks immortal thoughts affect — ■ 
 These fade and fail, 
 Death's retinue, with death retiring ; 
 
 Since from above 
 Grace came with Faith and Hope to bless 
 This earthly life, and to prevail 
 With heavenly shapes and voices ; 
 With whispered kindnesses, desiring
 
 80 POEMS. 
 
 Nothing to know 
 But pure sincerity ; 
 With Innocency that rejoices 
 In its own thoughts, and can bestow 
 Praise that the blush and sigh 
 Of Guilt repenting hope to win ; 
 And Honesty so clear and bold 
 That deeds the smallest shine, 
 And words of heroes seem not men — 
 All these can triumph o'er the spectres old : 
 Sickness, shame, strife, 
 Rome's iron fate and will, 
 Greece's stern camp in the domain 
 Of Death itself, the death-free sensual life — 
 
 All these no longer fill 
 The world, Hell's ensigns and the shades 
 Of black o'er-hovering Death. 
 Though tempted here and tried, 
 
 All that degrades 
 Can fall away j with angel-thoughts our mind 
 
 Even while we draw our breath 
 May glow — then what hast thou beside 
 
 Death ? Ye Hell-minions what ? 
 When ev'n the body ye must find 
 
 Snatched from your grasp, 
 And perfected to share the soul's blest lot. 
 Lord give me faith that I 
 That out-stretched hand may clasp 
 Which from the grave lifts to an eternal sky.
 
 8i 
 
 TRINITY SUNDAY. 
 
 O mystery of mysteries, 
 
 Unvisited 
 By our world-roving reason, whose 
 
 Wide searching eyes, 
 Rays from the fountain-head 
 
 Of that sun-spirit-blending 
 Dazzle and close ; 
 Though they but towards it looked, 
 With thought strength spending 
 
 Dark Bible-words 
 To picture — unrebuked, 
 Unshamed by weakness to behold 
 The rainbowed throne, 
 The myriad eyes and wings of birds 
 
 Around ; 
 Then with a gaze more bold 
 The Father and the Sinai God, 
 
 The Friend of the Three, 
 The Presence shown 
 Where faith was found 
 In patriarch and prophet, — who abode 
 Embodied gloriously 
 Night-long in lightning-cloud, 
 
 G
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 Or blazed forth more 
 From 'tween the Cherubim. 
 Next its eyes fall 
 Where the Son stands, not the bowed 
 
 Gethsemane-grieving, 
 Not the rebuker of craft and lore 
 Ranked against Him 
 The all-wise, the all-true ; 
 But him whom believing 
 Worshipped, the God-nature seen, 
 Now clothed with it too. 
 Last its e)es see 
 A comforting Spirit serene — 
 Both pity and wisdom live 
 In His calm face, 
 His hands are stretched on high 
 
 To point to heaven, 
 And that He thence may give 
 Rich gifts of grace 
 Unceasingly. 
 Then to these fainting eyes 
 With their last strain 
 Tis given 
 To see but One unlikest rise 
 And rule alone, 
 Then suddenly again 
 To shine forth one of the Three— 
 Oh, wondrous ! — threefold will 
 And action multiplied ; yet one
 
 POEMS. 83 
 
 Commingling mind ! 
 Great One, 
 And Three — Justice in Love, 
 
 And holy Comfort, still 
 Changing to Love and Justice, find 
 In the depths of your wisdom and kindness 
 Some way from above 
 
 Into all hearts, 
 And give for our blindness 
 The gifts that each 
 Imparts : — 
 The awful reverence, 
 Love, and the sense 
 Of friendship and son-ship here. 
 Lonely on earth's dull beach 
 We shall not then sit listening, 
 Or sadly view the glistening 
 Waves of eternity, but more 
 Shall see and hear — 
 The eternal Paradise, 
 And its golden shore, 
 The hallelujahs loud 
 That with sweet angel-voices fall and rise, 
 Mixt with harp symphonies — 
 These be to us by you allowed, 
 Blest Trinity, whom this day we adore !
 
 b 4 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 Lord, when the fragrant air is bright, 
 And fields are shining after rain, 
 
 The glorious arch of coloured light 
 
 Crowns with triumphant Beauty's reign. 
 
 When amid Minster pillars high 
 
 The anthem through wide arches rings, 
 
 Then all its glories meet the eye, 
 Dilating with the echoings. 
 
 When to child-beauty comes the gaze 
 
 Of wild imaginative joy — 
 Not youthful spirit, genius' rays 
 
 So clearly shine through earth's alloy. 
 
 But if thou should'st my manhood crown 
 With this recipient of Thy grace, 
 
 Her tender beauty would come down 
 Like dew upon a flower's face. 
 
 Her kindness and her graciousness 
 Would give my life the holy peace 
 
 That weeps forth grateful humbleness, 
 And glows in prayer when they increase.
 
 POEMS. 85 
 
 O Lord, if this dear child of thine 
 
 To my unworthiness is given, 
 Grant to us with the light to shine 
 
 That beams around us from Thy Heaven. 
 
 Let worldly, unbelieving eyes 
 
 Look on our home and see the face 
 
 Each of us turns when kind replies 
 Linger to add to thought their grace. 
 
 Let them of us learn how to pray, 
 And how to trust each hour Thy will, 
 
 Seeing our eyes' quick glistening ray, 
 Or patient tears, with which they fill. 
 
 H-e -€€$IF = ^°+
 
 85 
 
 A PRAYER ON WHITSUNDAY. 
 
 Upon this day Thy Gracious Spirit came 
 And played around blest heads in tongues of flame, 
 It lightly flew in turn from brow to brow, 
 Angels as men, men did as angels show. 
 
 But since that day when Heaven-rays blessed the 
 
 sight 
 Thy Spirit with eternal aureole-light 
 Crowns not our brows, but sits our hearts within, 
 And shines not through the body's cloud of sin. 
 
 None heal as with a touch, or freely speak 
 In tongues they from slow learning did not seek ; 
 The Spirit-lightnings may no longer blaze 
 Darkness of things of earth and sense t' amaze. 
 
 But in each heart its rule may be supreme 
 With truth and power on every thought to beam, 
 To speak the word that quenches passion's fires 
 And points the will to incense-pure desires ; 
 
 With truth eternal, ignorance it can bless, 
 And give the earthly-sorrowing, happiness — 
 But can Thy holy spirit sympathise, 
 O Lord, with what beneath such blessing lies ?
 
 POEMS. 87 
 
 It is the Comforter, and, if to me 
 
 Such comfort in the hope of love can be, 
 
 The sunshine hope that cheers my storm-tossed mind 
 
 In that same pureness must its pure source find. 
 
 That sweet girl shines from far and seems to smile 
 In kindness that can all the past beguile — 
 Lord, as I prayed amidst that chastening gloom 
 I praise in faith Thy Spirit does illume.
 
 88 
 
 ROGATION SUNDAY, 1879. 
 
 Weary in heart and brain I call to Thee. 
 Oh, hear the sinner's call and answer me, 
 Thou that in heaven everlastingly 
 
 Dwellest alone, 
 Father and Son, whom never eye can see, 
 
 Bend from Thy throne ! 
 
 Yearning for death and heavenly joys I find 
 Duties and trials fast to this earth bind, 
 Sin to point mocking how far, far behind 
 
 In the heavenly race 
 I linger, to make duty hard and blind 
 
 As Samson's mill-pace. 
 
 I long for love — Thou knowest how I love, 
 Ardour, despair, two passions through me rove : 
 Alas ! she cannot know, although this prove 
 
 Madness and wrath : — 
 A poor heart's frenzy could not in her move 
 
 Love to come forth.
 
 POEMS. 89 
 
 I crave for fame, and fame is worldliness j 
 Yet have I thoughts that glorify distress, 
 That thrill delight, and people loneliness 
 
 With Graces, Powers, 
 When over all this worldly pain and stress 
 
 My glad soul towers. 
 
 I ask for Heaven, and earthly love, and fame j 
 Fool-hope ! such self -destroying gifts to claim ; 
 Still, I entreat Thee in Thy Son's great name, 
 
 Almighty Lord; 
 I faint and fail ; but Thou art still the same, 
 
 The same Thy word. 
 
 It came to me this day ; Thy house of prayer 
 Heard, ' Verily I say to you whate'er ' . . . 
 To, ' He will give it you.' — O God, I share 
 
 With Christ Thy Son 
 Humanity He this day yet did wear 
 
 Ere heavenwards gone. 
 
 ^€fSs*£t^
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES.
 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 g-etarjj-eir Sanes from u gramatk Sluttjr 
 
 CALLED 
 
 << 
 
 ISHMAEL." 
 
 IDZR-A-IMI^TIS IFIEIRSOItsrJE!. 
 
 Abraham. 
 
 Ishmael. 
 
 Eliezer, Abraham's 
 
 Steward. 
 King Abimelech. 
 Aner. 
 
 ESCHOL. 
 
 Mamre. 
 Sarah. 
 Hagar 
 
 Hagar's Maid. 
 Young Men. 
 Shepherds. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE II. 
 
 AN OPEN SPACE NEAR THE TENTS. 
 
 Hagar meeting Eliezer, the Steward. 
 
 Eliezer. — Well, Hagar seek you shade from heat 
 within ? 
 
 Hagar. — Yea, and for kinder fellowship in trees, 
 In flowers, in the birds and beasts than Sarah. 
 When Abraham is forth to watch his shepherds 
 I must go too ; so hard to me is Sarah.
 
 94 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Eliezer. — Yet it were better to keep peace within. 
 God's peace is on my master and his house. 
 Disaster cannot touch him ; he's a flower 
 That spreads its petals boldly to the sun, 
 And brightens ; yet ia brightest rose a canker 
 May poison from within ; and many a man 
 Domestic discord robs of peace and honour, 
 All but his wives accord him. 
 
 Hagar. — Then the fault 
 
 Must be in Sarah — I stir up no discord 5 
 Her jealousy it is 5 because in me 
 She sees the mother of that mighty race 
 Which Abraham says God has promised him. 
 Me as a slave her malice urges her 
 To taunt and vex — She cannot so degrade me ! 
 Her every word's an insolent appeal 
 Against God's just decision, and proves just 
 The curse upon her of a barren womb. 
 
 Eliezer. — Hagar, forbear this passion, which may 
 tempt 
 The most high God to snatch from you a son 
 You build such boasting on. Think of that time 
 When with like passion you from Sarah fled : 
 And why you then returned. 
 
 Hagar. — J then returned, because, being faint and 
 weary 
 A heavenly presence, as in sweetest dreams, 
 Spoke comfort to me 5 with music blessed the ear 
 Dinned by my mistress' railing — and, far more,
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 95 
 
 Gave promises so liberal. I could pity 
 
 Poor chiding Sarah ; with a beating heart 
 
 And with light footsteps could again return ; 
 
 Within the gloomy threshold, breathe the air, 
 
 That erst had stifled as if every other 
 
 Had been a mountain breath. 
 Eliezer. — This being so, 
 
 And that for years you have borne this servitude 
 
 Why is it suddenly intolerable ? 
 
 Has the bright vision faded to your hope ? 
 Hagar. — No ; it grows brighter with my sweet boy's 
 growth ; 
 
 My heart beats with it when I see him coming, 
 
 The fresh blood mantling his soft blooming 
 cheeks, 
 
 With springing step unwearied from the field ; 
 
 Or when those lustrous eyes Egyptian suns 
 
 Gave first to me, glow, answering Abraham's 
 words 
 
 And vision-weaving speech. Oh, then I see him 
 
 Beautiful as the angel of my dream. 
 Eliezer. — Say not thy dream ; an angel came to thee — 
 
 But if this happy promise brighter shine, 
 
 Why this impatience ? 
 Hagar. — Eliezer, she my mistress 
 
 Is tenfold harsher — can'st guess why it is so ? 
 Eliezer. — Yes, for I know how age must grudge the 
 pleasures 
 
 It sees poured out on others.
 
 g6 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Hagar. — 'Tis not so ! 
 
 But hoped-for joys make present pleasures tasteless. 
 
 Eliezer. — Yes ; Hagar, as she longer lives, a past 
 Of longer hope deferred she must look back on. 
 
 Hagar. — I say 'tis hope she thinks ere long fulfilled, 
 That wakes her long-tamed patience to revolt. 
 
 Eliezer. — Yes, Sarah hopes, and Abraham hopes too, 
 That in her age she yet may have a son. 
 
 Hagar. — She thinks to have an Ishmael in the womb, 
 And grieves she gave me unto Abraham. 
 
 Eliezer. — This now reminds me Abraham has said 
 An angel promised it ; then lest it be, 
 Submit in time ; for should this be so, Hagar, 
 She will be dearer loved by Abraham, 
 And you will be again a servant to her, 
 Not even second though her equal now, 
 By Ishmael being tied to Abraham's love, 
 He will not then be sole progenitor. 
 
 Hagar. — You are as Sarah fooled by Abraham, 
 Who shows as little kindness in beguiling 
 Her with his dreams as he would show to me 
 In now degrading me and Ishmael. 
 
 Eliezer. — Now, Hagar, what avails this jealous passion ? 
 Which makes thee to blaspheme and call thy lord 
 A liar and his converse with the Highest 
 An idle dream. Be wiser and submit ! 
 'Tis near the mid-day hour when Abraham 
 Returns with all his men to shelter. Serve 
 within ! —
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. gj 
 
 But see where Ishmael comes, and in his hand 
 A man's spear, which he running balances 
 As if it were a staff ; his eyes from his head 
 Look forth as though at each step he took aim, 
 And singled out a hundred enemies. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 UNDER THE SHADE OF TREES IN THE HEAT 
 OF THE DAY. 
 
 Abraham and his Young Men around him. 
 The Jiocks outspread before them. 
 
 Abraham. — Young men, exult with me in praise to God. 
 Look on this peaceful scene, these rich-fleeced 
 
 flocks ! 
 You that have fought with me and with me 
 
 journeyed, 
 Behold the abundant fruits ; contend with me 
 Once more in praise, or dumb with wonder hear 
 That richer promises are being fulfilled ! 
 Then, like hushed crowds that wait to greet their 
 
 prince, 
 Let acclamation swell prolonged to heaven. 
 But till these heavens have numbered the full 
 
 course, 
 
 H
 
 98 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Till destined days have changed with light and 
 
 darkness 
 Let smiles so soon to blossom into laughters 
 Upon all faces shine — let no one's grief 
 In presence of such blessings doubt that Goodness 
 Will quench all sorrows or bring greater blessing — 
 Talk out to God of them ; Kis ear will hear, 
 And though unseen, cheer more than sympathy 
 Of dearest friend. But if a friend you need, 
 And dread to speak to such great majesty 
 That veils itself so oft in power and wrath, 
 Speak at your pressing need to God ; to me 
 Rehearse as to a father lesser griefs. — 
 Speak, Eliezer, let me with gentle breaths 
 Disperse the cloud that rests upon thy brow. 
 
 Eliezer. — My lord, I have no trouble, nothing dis- 
 quiets me. 
 
 Abraham. — Yes, when I talked of blessings and of 
 smiles 
 I thought you frowned. 
 
 Eliezer. — A passing thought, no more ; 
 
 When you first spoke of wealth, my thoughts 
 
 would swarm 
 Upon a little sore — the care that more wealth 
 brings. 
 
 Abraham. — Thou art my faithful friend • yet be not foe 
 To thine own soul, a stranger unto God — 
 He grant His gifts not to fix eye and mind on, 
 But that we more may think on Him the giver.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 99 
 
 Think not such things can fill the mind ; they 
 
 do so 
 When multiplied by avarice in thought. 
 Thou seest the sky is larger than the earth, 
 Unless with grovelling eyes we walk like beasts. 
 I say this but that our sons here may know 
 How to use wealth if it should come to them — 
 But speak, you two, that musing sit and whisper, 
 Does this care press on you, or do you scheme 
 To live with pleasant wealth without a care ? 
 
 ist Young Man. — Father, we ask not wealth nor ease, 
 but honour. 
 This peaceful scene delights us not, although 
 'Tis blessing from above ; for God had given 
 All this and more, wrung from the heathen kings. 
 Think of the time when you did rescue Lot ! 
 They tell me after that most glorious day, 
 The King of Sodom bowed before his greater, 
 The King of Salem blessed you solemnly, 
 But wealth you did disdain. 
 
 Abraham. — Son, thou speak'st rashly ! 
 
 'Tis fool-ambition that sets war 'bove peace ; 
 War is God's scourge, and when we fight we are 
 His feeble instruments of wrath • we prosper 
 Only when humbly we obey the call. 
 And wilt thou make thyself the judge of sin ? 
 Art thou so pure ? — does sin call unto thee 
 Or unto heaven for vengeance? Oh, look round ; 
 Tremble at swiftest judgments, more than might
 
 IOO DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Of human arm, though with God's help could 
 
 bring. 
 But if thou rashly tak'st the sword, know this : 
 The sword unblessed can bring nor wealth nor 
 
 peace 
 When both are needed most ; thy life 'twill save, 
 But leave so many enemies that age 
 Will be quenched in blood, no time to thee be 
 
 giv'n 
 To meditate, to speak out praise to God, 
 Or feel His love in promises, though dim, 
 That lift the wearied soul above this earth. 
 2nd Young Man. — Father, let me too speak ; I do 
 
 abjure 
 This self-sought honour, which must bring the 
 
 scourge 
 Recoiling on a man's own head. I know 
 You have in calm God-fearing peace found honour 
 More than war most successful could have given. 
 Yet think if now be not the time for war, 
 For executing judgment, for God's wrath. 
 Is not God's honour slighted by Abimelech, 
 Who sent to take his servant's wife by force ? 
 And when report of your exploits waked fear, 
 Did he not send her back with presents, gifts 
 Of men and women-servants — wretched salves 
 For God's offended honour ? Once ag-ain 
 I mention that great day my brother spoke of : 
 Was it not for avenging Lot's indignity,
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. lOI 
 
 And far more — their contempt of God who 
 
 wrought it, 
 That then with solemn ceremony kings 
 Went forth to meet the conqueror returning 
 And on him showered such blessing that heaped 
 
 spoil 
 Seemed dross and worthless chaff ? 
 Abraham. — And who, my son, 
 
 Who can suppose himself God's champion ? 
 Who can lean always on His promises ? 
 Who, free from passion, with obedient heart 
 Can listen for God's voice, then against sin 
 No inward frailty welcomes, take the sword, 
 And with eye fixed wait the great Captain's word ? 
 Beware, lest thou attribute to thy God 
 Thy earth-born passions, thy vain-glory name 
 His honour, or 'midst uproar of ambitions, 
 Of strifes in thine own breast, hear them com- 
 manding. 
 Know too, that war is but one punishment. 
 If chosen by the Highest, perform it humbly. 
 Thou talk'st of my exploits ; but mine eyes flashed 
 Nor my cheeks flushed in highest victory 
 As thine have done in but recalling them. 
 His terror dwelt with me but little less 
 Than with mine enemies — this insult given 
 How know'st thou 'tis not on Abimelech 
 Avenged already ? How if God, 
 Not by an arm of flesh, but by His voice
 
 102 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 His presence has this trembling soul affrighted, 
 Or sent some secret scourge upon his household ! — 
 Forbear then ! cease this boastful warrior strain ; 
 'Tis impious : rather fear lest thou offend 
 By thy presumption more than the offenders 
 Thou deem'st so ripe for punishment. 
 
 Eliezer. — My lord ! 
 
 Two shepherds here desire to speak to you. 
 
 Ahraham. — Bid them stand forth ; they are men of 
 peace. How oft, 
 Returning from some hill-side, where celestials 
 Had been my company, has their plain speech 
 And simple thinking, 'kin to the dignity 
 Of nature's thousand forms and sounds, not 
 
 jarred 
 Upon my mind uplifted but recalled 
 With gentle summons ; like the golden light 
 That wakens from sweet dreams — But, Eliezer, 
 I like not that ! 
 
 Eliezer. — What like you not, my lord ? 
 
 Ahraham. — What means that spear in the young 
 shepherd's hand ? 
 I have not seen such since the day I armed 
 All of my household. Now is mine anger stirred, 
 If you my sons, that spoke in praise of war, 
 Have armed anticipating my command, 
 Ev'n now perhaps strife begun — yes, there is 
 
 blood. 
 Speak, man, who's is it on that spear ?
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. IO3 
 
 Young Shepherd. — My lord, 
 
 I found this by your tent. 
 
 ist Young Man. — And we, my lord, 
 
 Know nothing of the matter; think not we, 
 Though youth's blood prompt us would usurp 
 
 command ; 
 Call not our zeal rebellion. 
 
 Abraham. — Say then, shepherd, 
 
 What mean you by thus bringing to my presence 
 This bloody spear ? 
 
 Young S. — My lord, I found it by your tent. 
 
 My father here says this is blood of sheep, 
 And as he thinks, some thief has here been busy, 
 Then thrown the spear, to 'scape suspicion, from 
 
 him. 
 Because I would not have you robbed though 
 
 mine, 
 I say my flock tended with care these five years, 
 I have not lost one from ; this blood's of sheep 
 From other shepherd's fold — then now I offer 
 My service to you to find whence 'tis missing, 
 And who has taken it. 
 
 Eliezer (aside). — This is the spear 
 
 Young Ishmael carried, that he flung aside 
 On entering Hagar's tent. How easily 
 I might explain and get this clown dismissed ; 
 But tongue be dumb, for if it must be told 
 I'll not exalt the boy more, so to make 
 My own climb harder.
 
 JO4 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Old Shepherd. — My son has said what's true. 
 
 We found the spear all bloody where he said ; 
 And from the fold, my lord, I've lost a sheep 
 Which I supposed had strayed — what need of 
 
 more? 
 I will no further speak ! the times are peaceful ; 
 And, nothing heard, this must be blood of sheep 
 That silent died, first driven to some tent. 
 
 Abraham. — If this be so, have you, has any one 
 Suspicion of the thief or slenderest clue 
 By which to find him ? 
 
 Young S. — My lord, this man, 
 
 My father, who has served you long, and I, 
 Who will as long serve with like faithfulness, 
 Till I am old as he is — we both think 
 You do yourself some wrong in trusting much 
 These servants given by King Abimelech. 
 
 Old S. — Son, by your leave — My lord, I did but say, 
 That, being town-bred, unused to large flocks, 
 They were unapt at service and did need 
 Directions so repeated that our labours 
 Seemed ever growing. 
 
 Young S. — Nay, father, bear me out. 
 
 You thought, and I too thought, both weighing 
 
 more 
 Our master's profit than our own, if guilt 
 Should fall on any for a deed like this 
 It must be on those who so lately served 
 The strong thief Kingr Abimelech.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I05 
 
 Old S — My lord, 
 
 One of these men I certainly did hear 
 In converse with thy oldest servant say, 
 That God could not have been with you in battle 
 Upon that day you rescued Lot, because 
 That wicked King of Sodom joined with you. 
 
 Abraham. — But you, who fought with me, what did 
 you say? 
 Did you not bear God witness ? 
 
 Old S. — Aye, my lord. 
 
 But silently, your other servant spoke 
 Against this villain, I stopped my ears and ran 
 To lose his blasphemy, and be assured 
 He is like to have committed this less crime. 
 
 Abraham. — And how much better 'twould thine age 
 have fitted 
 To have enlightened this poor ignorant man ! 
 How ill this rancour suits with thy grey hairs, 
 A crown of glory if they shade a face 
 With goodness and with wisdom eloquent ! 
 But this unkind, ill-founded jealousy 
 Demands some punishment. — Bind these men 
 
 both of them, 
 That on this slight ill-woven tale hang slanders 
 And baseless calumnies. — Thou prating knave, 
 
 [To Young S.J 
 Art thou so simple, or does passion blind thee, 
 To think men would kill sheep with spears > 
 That blood
 
 106 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 May be a man's and shed by thee in quarrel ; 
 The words repeated here that there were mixed 
 With murderous blows — Take both of them away, 
 And feed on bread and water. [Shepherds led out. 
 
 I'll inquire 
 If any of my servants now are missing, 
 If any have received a wrong — Young men 
 If any wish my favour, come not thus 
 With loud complaint of fancied wrongs or real ; 
 If fancied, yet proclaimed with confidence, 
 How must red shame defend itself with lies, 
 And the offended ne'er be reconciled ! 
 Such flaming wrath and such a wall of shame 
 Will spring 'tween reconciliation ! But, 
 If real let th' offended one think this, 
 That he too may have erred, that the offence 
 Was perhaps repented of, and the offender 
 Ready to mingle tears, which shame now dries 
 And turns to sparkling wrath, the downcast lids 
 Veiling defiance. Follow not these men ! 
 Admit not basest jealousy ; your fellows 
 Rather treat kindly. We dwell in the light, 
 Recipients of gracious promises ! 
 All kings, if peace of mind and bodies' safety 
 No less ennoble than rich robes and pomp, 
 With retinues. Let then these starved souls grow* 
 These darkened minds have light ! But where to- 
 day 
 Is my beloved son Ishmael ? he should have heard
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 107 
 
 With brightening face my teachings ; yet, to say 
 
 truth, 
 Glad am I for his innocent boyhood he 
 Has not been witness of this saddening malice ; 
 And our first speeches made in praise of war 
 He happily escaped. I grieve, beholding 
 His blood with such themes easily takes fire — 
 Where is he ? 
 
 Eliezer. — My lord, I saw him near the mid-day hour 
 At Hagar's tent. 
 
 Abraham. — Then, young men, to your duties 
 
 Till setting of the sun. I'll presently 
 Go in to find my son. Come, Eliezer. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 End of Act I.
 
 I08 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 hagar's tent. 
 Ishmael asleep — Hagar by him. 
 
 Hagar. — Sleep on my precious boy ! From thy smooth 
 
 brow 
 I lift this straying curl, and place it where 
 It floats with the black ripples on the pillow. 
 What a holy calm broods o'er the smooth full 
 
 eyelids ! 
 Which glow with light like clouds that veil the 
 
 sun. 
 See, from the silver veils dark fringes sweep 
 To touch his cheek ! What sweet unconsciousness 
 Is in those lips, parted with pretty pout ! 
 How gently heaves with each life-giving breath 
 That smooth white front. These rounded limbs 
 Now careless flung are oh, how full awake 
 Of spring and suppleness ! — their morning freedom 
 Has made them early prisoners, on them lies 
 A death-like stillness ; quiet sleep embraces, 
 Turning to sculptured grace their cunning beauty.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I09 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 sarah's tent. 
 
 Sarah — Hagar's maid. 
 
 Sarah. — Well, I will do my best and intercede 
 
 To spare thy lover's life. Now dry your eyes ! 
 So you poor innocent would be a mother! 
 God grant your wish, and make you happier 
 Than I your mistress ! 
 
 Maid. — God bless you, madam, 
 
 Would I could make you happier. 
 
 Sarah. — Something thou canst do. 
 
 Maid. — All I can do is heartily at your service. 
 
 Sarah. — Then pray to God for me ! He hears the 
 prayer 
 Of innocent virgins such as you are. You 
 Have never felt temptation's fiercest, know not 
 A past without a hope 5 with you experience 
 Brings joys unlooked for; all is pleasure with you; 
 And what's to come still brighter. You did 
 
 never 
 Gaze on a sunlike hope until the eye 
 Of your poor mind was closed to every other; 
 Or with rash malice quench the light of faith 
 And cherish sullenly your grief amidst 
 The darkness of ingratitude. 
 
 Maid. — Oh, madam, 
 
 Would" I were good as you are : I can promise
 
 1IO DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 I'll weep for you, but sure I am my prayers 
 Would naught avail if yours remain unanswered. 
 
 Sarah. — Well, girl, weep not for me ; thou dost 
 rebuke me. 
 I pray God quickly may fulfil His promise, 
 That I may laugh, my tears be tears of joy. 
 
 {Aside.) Remember, God, my tears, forget that laugh 
 That preluded these tears and mocked Thy 
 promise. 
 
 {Aloud.) Now, girl, forgive my self-abandonment ; 
 Thou hast thy present sorrow, which to thee 
 Is great who could'st not bear the weight of 
 
 mine. 
 1 will thy master Abraham solicit 
 In a convenient mood. Yet tell me now, 
 Why didst thou not ask Hagar for this favour, 
 Who is thy oftener mistress ? 
 
 Maid. — Madam, I did. 
 
 I asked her. Most unkindly she refused me. 
 
 Sarah. — She wisely doubted p'rhaps her influence 
 With Abraham. 
 
 Maid. — That was her poor excuse, 
 
 So faintly spoken that a child might see 
 She knew herself to be possessed of it ; 
 But of the precious ware would not one scruple 
 Consent to barter for my poor advantage. 
 
 Sarah. — That was her sole excuse ? she would 
 vouchsafe 
 No other to you ?
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. Ill 
 
 Maid. — Oh yes ; — that these new servants 
 
 From King Abimelech were honest people, 
 And ought not to be blamed maliciously. 
 
 Sarah. — And did she praise the honourable king ? 
 Or blame him that he rather had not chosen 
 Her for his chance-come wife ? 
 
 Maid. — She said not so ; 
 
 But that he would have done us all a kindness, 
 Had he still kept possession of yourself. 
 
 Sarah. — She dared not say so ! — this shall Abraham — 
 Well, girl, he shall soon know of your request. 
 Now leave me ; he will soon return, and I 
 Must first prepare myself against his coming. 
 [Exit Maid, and Sarah to inner part of tent. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 AN open space. 
 
 Abraham — Hagar — Ishmael. 
 
 Hagar. — My lord, I pray thee has Eliezer told you 
 Aught to the advantage of dear Ishmael, 
 Anything in his praise ? 
 
 Abraham. — I think no, Hagar. 
 
 Thou hast such appetite to hear his praises,
 
 112 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 That I could never keep them from thee, should 
 What man soever speak them. I will now 
 Myself a little praise him. See, what fine poise, 
 With what a grace he balances himself, 
 To watch what there has stirred within that bush, 
 What bird or beast — all creatures known to him ! 
 Not their eyes are so keen (not half so beautiful) 
 Nor their soft feet so silent in their footing 
 As are his footsteps, moving unconsciously, 
 Elastic with the spring of boyhood, timed 
 To boyhood's spirits. 
 Hagar. — Well, you have praised the son so much, the 
 
 mother 
 So left out from the praise grows jealous, fearing 
 At first you would come short, as you proceed, 
 She calms at hearing justice dealt upon 
 Her dearest in full measure ; but in the end 
 Finds what she deemed impossible, herself 
 Grudging her.son his treasure, thirsting for 
 One drop from his o'erflowing fountains. 
 Abraham. — Yes 5 
 
 The treasure of such health, such spirits, sleep 
 That comes uncalled, folding the body round 
 As soft and closely as a mother's arms, 
 And giving it to life fresh as a dew-washed 
 
 flower. 
 We all feel envious of such sweet gifts 
 That once have been our own, and which for ever 
 We would have ours. But why so sad, Hagar ;
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 113 
 
 This though so grave is yet a common loss 
 As each puts on the man or woman. 
 
 Hagar. — Yes ; 
 
 And is there no sweet gift, no power, no 
 
 passion 
 For man and woman, which, alas, that 'tis not ! 
 Is too oft none of theirs ? Is there no life, 
 No sweet refreshing, tender languishment, 
 No fire that kindles at the heart, that throbs 
 Through pulse and brain, that looks out at the eyes 
 All in a moment ? This is life indeed, 
 Beyond weak childhood's. They will find it so 
 Who carry the poor ashes of a heart, 
 And look from beamless sockets on the past, 
 With the eyes of the grave. 
 
 Abraham. — Why, what means this? 
 
 Why suddenly dost thou breathe out these curses ? 
 Against whom ? 
 
 Hagar. — Myself, my lord ! 
 
 Abraham. — Thyself ! Why so ? 
 
 Why dost thou curse thyself in health and beauty ? 
 Thy eyes are beaming through thy tears, then 
 
 why 
 Condemn them to the grave ? 
 
 Hagar. — Ah, my lord, listen ! 
 
 And ere the look of scorn fly to thy face, 
 Before the word of cold contempt fall crushing 
 On my poor heart, ere as from viper-jaws 
 The poison flash forth on me — hear me but speak !
 
 114 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Abraham. — Say on ; I change not countenance, nor 
 
 speak 
 One word till thou hast eased thy heart. Most 
 
 gladly 
 Would I by listening banish thy sad looks 
 For ever, Hagar. 
 Hagar. — Ah, how sweet is pity 
 
 Coming from thee! then hear me, dearest lord. 
 I long have watched thee, but to learn what 
 
 pleased, 
 Or what brought shadows to thy face ; what fired 
 Thine angry eye ; what speech would droop thy 
 
 lids, 
 Or circle them with large o'erpowering thoughts. 
 If any news, whate'er may happen, I 
 Can tell what look 'twould bring thee ; at a 
 
 glance 
 I read in thy face all that happens to thee. 
 I have a maid who calls this magic ; know, 
 'Tis love, who quickly learns, whose memory 
 Is ever young. — But more, I'll tell thee more ! 
 This care each hour to learn, to please, to answer, 
 With cheerful brave humility for years 
 All unrewarded soared at the highest pitch, 
 Still singing with new force its heavenly notes 
 Far o'er a clamorous self-deafening world ; 
 Its strength fed by a heart whose fulness could 
 No measure find for its large gifts of love. 
 But now, alas ! it 'gins to flag, to falter.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 11^ 
 
 Must then, my lord, this faithful servant perish? 
 Need it grow aged or toil worn ? Speak one word 
 To make it young again ; one moment now 
 Of love like to its own, to answer to its years, 
 Would be a draught of youth perennial. 
 Abraham( aside). — How easy 'twere, how hard 
 
 'tis to forbear 
 To look into those melting eyes, to clasp 
 In passionate embrace that yielding form, 
 Then find ourselves together in the midst 
 Of a new world, where all is brightness, all 
 Uncloying everlasting happiness. 
 (Aloud.) ^But know this, Hagar, such a moment's 
 bought 
 With all this life's collected happiness, 
 Its light all gathered to this falling star ; 
 This fierce extreme, if answered by another, 
 Must fall by its own weakness 5 but, unanswered, 
 Turns to as fierce extreme of hate ; both soon 
 Are neither love nor hate ; our mortal grossness 
 Forbids our spirit the strong love of angels 
 Or hate of devils. Give best love to God, 
 And make no man thine idol. He can give 
 Richest return, and temper so thy love 
 With awful reverence that it. shall be 
 No fierce extreme akin to tiger hate. 
 Ev'n so love me — say not thou'rt in my power, 
 I love thee ; but thou'rt free to love God more. 
 Nor think that I can give thee that great love
 
 I l6 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Which I long since have given to my God. 
 Oh, cease to ask it ! think no more of it j 
 We may not here beneath God's eye adventure 
 One moment's rapture for a life's true peace 
 And peaceful truth. [Exit. 
 
 Hagar. — And peaceful falsehood ! 
 
 Death of the soul, stagnation and corruption ! 
 Apostasy from that great god of truth 
 In each true breast ! O, thou great god of love, 
 Forgive that I have spent thy precious gifts 
 Upon a soulless wretch that scorned them all. 
 Make me the channel now of bitter curses 
 Great as thy blessings ; give me cunning now 
 To be a serpent's, let me embracing kiss 
 And poison as I kiss ; let kindness dwell 
 Still in my face, a traitor to give up 
 All bravery to hideous massacre, 
 All innocence to lust and butchery. 
 I will devise most hideous slanders, rest 
 I'll scare with whispered treacheries, all proved 
 Against his dearest ; his bed shall now be thorns, 
 His honour blackened so (while pent-up shame 
 Shall see no proof to let its vengeance forth), 
 Himself as pierced and helpless as 
 In some wild dream ! The saintly Sarah too, 
 I will her whiteness mire with calumny. 
 Hark, this way comes the steward Eliezer, 
 A slavish parasite 5 yet might I win 
 His interest in my conspiracies.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. l\J 
 
 Enter Eliezer. 
 
 Eliezer. — Not yet within ? Who's stirring here with 
 thieves, 
 Adulterers and base conspirators ? 
 
 Hagar. — "Tis I ; but why from you, Eliezer, comes 
 This passionate impatience ? 
 
 Eliezer. — Ah, Hagar! Is it you? Forgive that once 
 I chode you, using fierce and angry words 
 Against our master Abraham. The like 
 Are ready now at my lips, and but a sigh 
 Wafts them to yours again. 
 
 Hagar. — Then give them me. 
 
 The love I bear my lord will lighten them ; 
 Yet all the weight vou feel I too will feel 
 With kindest sympathy. 
 
 Eliezer. — Then listen, Hagar. 
 
 As 1 now parted from him just returned, 
 Ere we changed greeting, ' God watch over you,' 
 I whispered to him, 'Think again, my lord ; 
 My son deserves that post.' To which he 
 
 answers, 
 His countenance as black as wind-heaped clouds 
 That thunder bursts, 'And did thy subtle wife 
 Teach thee her wicked importunity ? ' 
 Then, seeing anger pale me he proceeds, 
 ' Forgive me ; what was I saying here, Eliezer ? ' 
 I would have answered him, but he again 
 Bursts in with, ' Trouble me no more, and leave 
 me.'
 
 Il8 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Hagar. — Well, he was chafed ; something had troubled 
 him. 
 
 Eliezer. — And is it then on me, his faithful steward, 
 His counsellor, his right hand — is it on me 
 He vents his anger ? Should he hide from me 
 His own grief, and, much worse, give me a bitt 'rer ? 
 
 Hagar. — No ; but you speak of one whose heart is 
 marble. 
 Your wisest counsel he would deem not yours 
 But God's that speaks through you to him ; you 
 
 are 
 No more but His mere instrument that served ; 
 And not a friend to whom sweet gratitude 
 Is due. He would not stick to cast you off, 
 Be sure. 
 
 Eliezer. — If I thought so, then be assured 
 
 I would pay him nor gratitude nor service ; 
 I would deserve his base ingratitude. 
 If I must be called thief, being honest, I 
 Will handle wealth untoiled for ; if in youth 
 I had been falsely censured for my wildness, 
 I would have swum in seas of lust ; much wine 
 Should have consumed, and quarrel ended me. 
 But tell me Hagar, why comes this from you, 
 What prompts you now to speak such words of 
 
 him; 
 To talk of his ' marble heart ' ? 
 Hagar. — First spoken now, 
 
 But whispered by my heart these many years —
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I 19 
 
 If you perceive but base ingratitude, 
 
 What freezings, harsh repulses, what forced cheer, 
 
 And frowning 'gainst her smiles his wife has 
 
 known ; 
 Yea, and the wife who's borne a son to him. 
 When each might claim, the one for the other's 
 
 sake 
 One look of love their way, one wide embrace 
 To clasp them to his heart together — look you ! 
 He but commends us to his God and leaves us. 
 Eliezer (aside). — This Hagar meditates some wicked- 
 ness ; 
 She speaks thus fiercely or to draw me on 
 Or else to sound my mind and win ine to her. 
 I'll seem to yield that I may know her secret. 
 (Aloud.) Then, Hagar, suffer it no longer ; show him 
 The power you have to pain as well as please. 
 You know how I am galled ; that there is nothing 
 You can devise against him I'll not second — 
 I who am aged with thought both night and day 
 To plan success and build prosperity, 
 Yet knew it must pace quicker as this grew 
 And sow a wrinkle at each step — the heart 
 And faculties all dulled that might enjoy 
 What his successes shared me — I must now 
 Not only have endured these toils and losses, 
 But see the prize snatched from my wearied 
 
 hands — 
 My o'er-toiled self driven out.
 
 120 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Hagar. — I'm glad of this ! 
 
 Now we'll together work to punish him — 
 
 Not for revenge, thou would'st not have revenge ? 
 Eliezer. — Yes, for revenge; I thirst for it. 
 Hagar. — Thou dost not ! 
 
 Thou play'st me false. For what can he have 
 done 
 
 To call revenge from thee ? 
 Eliezer. — I say for thee ! 
 
 My wrong demands but punishment, but thine 
 
 Calls loudly for revenge. 
 Hagar. — Then now, attend ! 
 
 We'll strike at him through Sarah ; she's the one 
 
 That he best loves ; then what if we could win 
 
 Abimelech once more to rob us of her 
 
 And this time not to yield her back ! 
 Eliezer. — How keenly 
 
 This would vex Abraham — 'twere thy revenge. 
 Hagar. — Not so ! I said that she was his best-loved; 
 
 But with no heart to love, if she were dead 
 
 Ke would but mourn for her a fortnight's space. 
 
 We can but hope to taint and wound his honour ; 
 
 This will be punishment but no revenge. 
 Eliezer. — Then am I glad; I would not have revenge. 
 Hagar. — Thy part would be upon the appointed day 
 
 To give his servants opportunity, 
 
 To see our young men with the servants busied 
 
 In distant labours, then to check pursuit. 
 
 I have a maid of subtle tongue, and she
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 121 
 
 Shall with her lover to Abimelech. 
 
 She can persuade him Sarah longs for him, 
 
 Extol her grace, and tell of her languishment, 
 
 That the exploit is easy, and is much 
 
 Expected of him. 
 Eliezer. — I will do my part. 
 
 But who is your maid's lover ? 
 Hagar. — That same shepherd 
 
 Who brought to Abraham the bloody spear, 
 
 And now is kept a prisoner with his father. 
 Eliezer. — Then he must first be freed ; we need but 
 say 
 
 The spear was Ishmael's ; had I been there 
 
 I had myself explained and spared him this ; 
 
 I'll tell our master Abraham. 
 Hagar. — But you — 
 
 Were you not present when they brought the 
 spear ? 
 
 They told me you brought them. 
 Eliezer. — They told you true. 
 
 But I was called away and heard no more ; 
 
 I could not then remember that the spear 
 
 Was what young Ishmael carried. 
 Hagar. — Forget again ; 
 
 Let Abraham still think it the shepherd's. 
 Eliezer. — Then, how can he go to Abimelech ? 
 Hagar. — Let some suspicion still be clinging to him ; 
 
 Then will these injured servants help our plot. 
 
 He can be freed and sent, it shall be said,
 
 122 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 A little while in exile, which will be 
 Our wanted opportunity to send him. 
 Eliezer. — The spear shall not be Ishmael's, nor the 
 blood 
 The blood of wolf — how well all hangs together ! 
 Let us now part and speak again to-morrow. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 End of Act II.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 123 
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. 
 
 TIME, EARLY MORNING A GRASSY VALLEY. 
 
 Young Men exercising on horseback and foot with 
 Hunted spears and swords. 
 
 1st Young Man. — Have at you again ! I was killed 
 by you 
 And now rise up to be a fresh assailant, 
 Although half spent. I hope when 't comes to 
 
 fighting, 
 My adversary will be something weaker, 
 Or I more skilful. 
 ind Young Man. — Brother, I shall be, 
 
 When the day comes for fighting on, your side. 
 We have so fortified our weaknesses 
 That none shall stand against us. 
 1st Younn Man. — You have learnt 
 
 My weaknesses, and where I am too rash ; 
 But I know not where you're assailable ; 
 You have both strength and cunning, I but 
 strength. 
 2nd Young Man. — Upon the day of battle all arc 
 strangers ;
 
 i24 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 And each stands up with strength, nor fear we 
 
 cunning, 
 But help each one the other. 
 
 Another part of the meadow. 
 
 ist Young Man. — Well, while we breathe our horses 
 tell me now 
 
 To what end is all this ? 
 2nd Young Man. — All what? this exercise ? 
 
 ist Young Man. — What is its purpose ? 
 2nd Young Man. — Thou should'st have asked this 
 
 Ere my arm wearied ; I could have cuffed thee, 
 then, 
 
 To excellent purpose. 
 ist Young Man. — I understand thee then to say, 
 
 This exercise can make the fist reply 
 
 Where the tongue fails ; is this wit used as well 
 
 Against a friend as enemy ? 
 2nd Young Man. — Against a friend 
 
 Who makes his tongue no better that a fist, 
 
 And idly beats the air, against the enemy 
 
 Not to be idly beating air oneself. 
 tst Young Man. — Then, marry, friend! so wilt thou 
 then not need 
 
 To come to exercise ; for women's tongues 
 
 Are fists that beat the husband's ears, and thou 
 
 Might'st then cuff on for using tongues as fists 
 
 That idly beat the air.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 12^ 
 
 2nd Young Man. — Women ! who talks of women ? 
 I tremble for you, brother ; I never knew 
 A resolute, valiant man who talked of them : 
 They've wit — not wisdom ; beauty but not strength. 
 I'll fight for women, but not stay with them. 
 
 ist Young Man. — Thou art a fool ! When I first 
 asked my question, 
 It was but to lead on to this plain answer ; 
 There is no life but pleasure, no reward, 
 If toil makes not enjoyment sweeter. 
 
 2nd Young Man. — Well, 
 
 Thou wilt be pleasure's slave, as much outworn 
 And wearied in its service as the furrowed 
 And horny-fisted toilers. I must hope 
 That thorny labour will hedge in and spur thee 
 Betimes from thy down bed, giving thy life 
 Some sweetness. 
 
 ist Young Alan. — For thee, I hope some dame 
 
 Will cross thine eye, and soften in her lap 
 From very shame thy fierce disdains ; will take 
 From thy revenges some fool-hardiness, 
 And make thee once or twice before thou diest 
 Forgive a wronger. 
 
 2nd Young Man. — Well, be not moved ; we both 
 
 May still be proud of wit and strength ; if these, 
 When we shall meet hereafter shall be found 
 The one or other lacking, 'twill be women. 
 
 ist Young Man. — And if — let these words bring us 
 truce — the devils
 
 126 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Ambition, pride, self-boastfulness, contempt, 
 Be exorcised and banished, 'twill be women. 
 
 Another part of the meadow. 
 
 ist Young Man. — We are exercised and valiant ! give 
 us war ! 
 Let our lord Abraham lead us forth, or leave us 
 Ourselves to seek out exploits and adventures ! 
 
 2nd Young Man. — He lead us forth ! we might be 
 cowards ; shames, 
 Indignities he'll let be heaped upon him. 
 'Tis coming age that dulls his judgment, and 
 Abates his vigour. He does think we all 
 Are past exploits as he is. 
 
 Enter Ishmael. 
 
 ist Young Man. — Ishmael, when you are master, will 
 you not 
 
 Lead forth our strength, and under your captain- 
 ship 
 
 Shall we not all, with eager step and eye, 
 
 Seek out new dangers, and be crowned with 
 glory ? 
 Ishmael. — I'll prove myself your captain by the share 
 
 I take of hazard ; who takes more, and wins 
 
 More glory, him I'll serve as captain. We shall 
 all 
 
 Compete as cheerful as reward ; no action 
 
 Shall unrewarded die.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 11"] 
 
 \st Young Man. — That's to be stirring ! 
 
 Curse on these sleepy times ! A day will be 
 More precious then than a year is now. We shall 
 Much grudge these misspent years. 
 
 2nd Young Man. — Thou'lt not endure 
 
 To let a villain king, a heathen lecher, 
 Send out his army to fetch in your wife, 
 To add to his wife-army ! 
 
 Ishmael. — Of whom do you talk ? 
 
 2nd Young Man. — Of Abraham, thy father ; I say 
 thou — 
 
 Ishmael. — I will not hear a word in his dispraise; 
 If you must praise me but by robbing him 
 Of his true praise, speak not another word : 
 I will not act perhaps like him, when as he 
 I am a man ; but if a man of any pith 
 My bravery will be but what his was. 
 
 Both. — Heaven keep you ! 
 
 We'll serve you too as faithfully, be sure, 
 And far more willingly, than we serve him. 
 
 Another part of the meadow. 
 
 Enter Abraham and Old Servant. 
 
 Abraham. — The God of heaven bless you, my brave 
 sons ! 
 You bring back noblest youth to me. I see 
 In your fixed serious eyes and manly gestures, 
 Your grace and quickness — in all these I see
 
 128 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Beauty unsullied, sweet grave dignity, 
 
 A spirit wrought up thirsting for great deeds, 
 
 Done for themselves in scorn of flattery, 
 
 Or bribes of wealth and pleasure. If purity 
 
 Thus shine from within while strength rides on 
 
 your arm, 
 Doubt not God's favour ; your mind's fortitude 
 Will then, be certain, guide your actions with 
 A royal judgment ; it shall never need 
 To stoop for flattery, or soothing, or delight 
 (That softens not relieves) in the arms of women. — 
 Are all our servants here, the new ones mustered ? 
 
 Young Man. — I know not ; shall I look to it, my lord? 
 
 Abraham. — Go, I would have all virtuous and brave, 
 
 [Exit Young Man. 
 Though courage be with virtue gone awhile, 
 From ill examples town life brought them. — Say 
 
 thou, 
 Did thy wife tempt thee ? hast thou thus faithful 
 
 been, 
 Through much domestic discord ? 
 
 Old Servant. — No ; my lord, 
 
 May God be with her soul — she was obedient, as 
 In service to you, faithful. 
 
 Abraham. — There be some such, 
 
 That shine with light reflected : thy sun-goodness 
 Made her beam faintly j there's an awe in some 
 Towards nobler natures ; she saw angrily 
 Thou could'st not be seduced.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 120 
 
 Old Servant. — My lord, I pray you, 
 
 Speak not in your high wisdom such dread censure, 
 Or I must think it proved ; yet not once 
 I saw her angry with this base intent, 
 To drive me to ingratitude. 
 
 Abraham. — I speak not 
 
 Knowing of aught against her, but if thus 
 As true and simple as'thou speakest her, 
 I say thou hast been blessed above the wise, 
 The rich, the noble. From ten thousand women 
 Thou hast picked one, the chiefest — all the rest 
 Weigh not together that one. 
 
 Old Servant. — Well, my lord, 
 
 I would believe you for a greater wonder j 
 This passes my dull understanding ; but 
 My mind so long has leant upon you, I 
 Must still believe your oracle 5 should error 
 Come now to you, yourself must tell me so. 
 The opposite I'll but from you believe. 
 You've shown me how your goodness is re- 
 warded 3 
 I've learned from you how to find God in life, 
 Not in the clouds and skies. 
 
 Abraham. — But think'st thou no t 
 
 He is a spirit that walks earth and skies ? 
 
 Old Servant. — My lord, I see He blesses you ; I know 
 not. 
 T have been blessed when I have walked as you. 
 
 \_Re-enter Young Man.
 
 130 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Young Man. — My lord, of these new servants one can- 
 not be found. 
 He is missing ; no trace of him for this two days. 
 Abraham. — Why, where is he ? not with the flocks ; 
 He is 
 No shepherd — them have I seen this morning, 
 
 [Enter Eliezer. 
 Eliezer, know you why there's missing now 
 One of our servants given by Abimelech? 
 Eliezer. — My lord, I know not, nor did know him 
 
 missing. 
 Abraham. — See that his place is filled, and meanwhile 
 
 search. 
 Eliezer. — My lord, if you should want the fullest 
 numbers, 
 Those two are prisoners who brought the spear j 
 They might be freed, since nothing's brought 
 against them. [to me 
 
 Abraham. — The father and the son, who brought 
 
 The bloody spear and railed upon their fellows ? 
 Eliezer. — The same ! they have been punished for 
 their railing ; 
 The younger would be married. 
 Abraham. — That shows him foolish, 
 
 And soon to prove most wicked ; being a fool, 
 His wife will sway his actions and bring forth 
 Her hoarded wickedness. 
 Eliezer. — My lord, you are harsh in this ; 
 
 They may be fools together.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I31 
 
 Abraham. — In God's eyes, doubtless. 
 
 But in man's eyes, he's the simpler — talk not of 
 
 him. 
 Let him be left ; he's harmless where he is. 
 Inquire more strictly, has he not learnt quarrel 
 From one speech with this woman — that man 
 
 missing — 
 Has he left complaint? Have the old man released ! 
 
 [Exit Abraham and Old Servant. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Abraham and Sarah in a tent — Sarah lying on 
 a led — Abraham sitting ly her. 
 
 Sarah. — Thanks to the God of Heaven — my God and 
 
 my Lord ! 
 Oh, I can scarcely speak, my heart so swells 
 With gratitude ; scarcely can I look up — 
 So well my eyes with tears of thankfulness 5 
 The heavy burden that I've borne these years 
 Is eased ; a balm has soothed, a comfort cheered. 
 The aching sad reproach that ever sat 
 Beyond sweet patience' cure at my poor heart. 
 God, thou hast eased my heart when it was 
 
 breaking,
 
 132 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 And with a joy far greater than the sorrow- 
 Hast made it laugh again with hope fulfilled ! 
 
 Abraham. — O dear-loved wife, how art thou blessed ; 
 what woman 
 Has had the birth of such a longed-for child 
 So gloriously heralded ? Those three shining 
 
 ones, 
 Who honoured so this earth — that they should 
 
 deign 
 To grace this dwelling with their presences ! 
 And speak such gracious words, accompanied 
 With gestures of such awful dignity ! 
 
 Sarah. — Yet leave not out, to humble me and teach me 
 To be more grateful — how I did mock in my 
 
 heart 
 With scornful laughter such as one might use 
 To humblest mortals ! 
 
 Abraham. — Forget it, dearest wife, 
 
 As it had never been ; thou see'st that God 
 Has given the freest pardon with this blessing 
 That thy laugh doubted — thou didst believe 
 Them mortals: — the woman spending thought 
 
 and care 
 With cheerful humbleness on lower duties 
 Oft finds her wings too weak to soar above them. 
 Thy poor heart yearned so, that the sudden promise 
 Seemed to mock it ! 
 
 Guard {without). — My lord Abraham! 
 
 Abraham. — Who calls? come in and speak your message.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETTHES. I 33 
 
 Enter Guard. 
 Guard. — Master, I come in duty bound to tell you 
 The prisoners have been released as you 
 Did send us word; we wait dismissal. 
 Abraham. — The old man I gave freedom to — the 
 younger 
 It is your duty still to guard. 
 Guard. — My lord, they are both released — the first 
 By your word through your steward Eliezer, 
 The younger by your word that came through 
 
 Hagar, 
 "Who sent her maid with escort to conduct him 
 Into short exile, there to wait until 
 His strife-provoking speeches are forgotten. 
 This was the message brought that you had sent. 
 Abraham. — Then Hagar sent it and not I — Enough ! 
 Let all be free and joyous on this day. 
 He shall have freedom ; and your slackness 
 
 too 
 Comes on a day on which 'tis discipline ; 
 Go spread the news and let all faces beam 
 And hands be raised to God in thankfulness 
 For sending me this day a son. 
 
 [Exit Guard. 
 Sarah. — Was it the shepherd who had brought to you 
 A bloody spear round which he wove suspicions ? 
 Abraham. — It was; he taught me with ill-judged 
 suspicions 
 To be of him suspicious with rash judgment.
 
 134 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Sarah. — Then he it was that Hagar's maid entreated 
 With tears and strong petition I should urge you 
 Freely to pardon and restore to favour. 
 
 Abraham. — And now it seems she has won her mistress 
 Hagar 
 To furnish her with escort for his rescue. 
 Well, she is cunning and may marry him ! 
 I hope he may not find beneath her rule 
 A bondage heavier than ours, a punishment 
 More grievous, though his tongue be now o'er- 
 
 crowed 
 And innocent of slander. 
 
 (Aside.) Her mistress taught it her. 
 
 The soft and tender heart of that kind woman 
 Could not let them languish ; her heart took fire ; 
 She is a champion in Love's cause — the haste ! 
 To send an escort with the maid to head it, 
 And give discharge at once if he were bound — 
 No time to ask my leave ! Thy passion is 
 Fierce as a tigress, as supple and as certain as 
 Its spring ! — how tame to this seems thought and 
 
 wisdom, 
 Approved and gentle feeling, all response 
 Of meditation or sure intuition ; 
 To this wrought passion, thundering on its course 
 Towards high'st success or irretrievable destruction. 
 
 Sarah. — Why is my lord so moody ? why that staring 
 With earnest looks on vacancy ? you were now 
 All sunshine 5 bidding others smile you frown.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 135 
 
 Abraham. — Dear wife, calm noble-hearted woman, 
 These sun-like joys must be right humbly borne; 
 Gazed on too eagerly they blind and sadden ; 
 Feeding my heart too full with them, it beckoned 
 A fasting sorrow — the sense of recent frailty, 
 And too much yielded to temptation. 
 
 Sarah. — Then, as thou badest me some short time since 
 Safely dismiss in presence of such blessings 
 All thought of weaknesses that threatened them ; — 
 So I entreat you now, mar not the peace, 
 The dignity of the uplifted heart, with thoughts 
 That tempest it with worldly strifes and passions. 
 
 Abraham. — Sweet woman ! the peace of heaven is upon 
 thee. 
 Thou pourest from thy love-o'erflowing heart 
 The sweet and liberal graces of young children. 
 And with my spirit I have drunk of them 
 At its refreshing fountain. I go forth 
 To keep it clear, unsoiled, unvisited 
 By venomous creatures or the falling leaves 
 That passion's winds have blasted. Sleep thou 
 
 here, 
 Shrouded by angels' wings ! — She is asleeep ! 
 Smiling in peace as innocent as her child ; 
 The invisible angels whisper to her in dreams, 
 And with their rustling wings, unheard awake, 
 Tune soft sphere-music to her wondering ear. 
 
 [Exit Abraham.
 
 I$6 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Abraham and Eliezer in a tent — Sarah asleep. 
 
 Abraham. — What man, why look so pale, why dost 
 thou tremble, 
 When I do tell thee that I know of it ? 
 I knew he had escaped ; I knew who sent him ; 
 'Twas done in a rebellious spirit doubtless, 
 A head-strong passion ever rules that woman, 
 And draws all to it — 'tis a fascination, 
 I know its cause and what has led to it — 
 Yea, and must soon, too soon, bewail its course. 
 Thou art pale at this, the end foreshadowing. 
 Be brave, methinks that I can see yet farther, 
 Yet sympathise with her as much as thou. 
 
 Eliezer. — O my lord, pardon me. I confess all to thee — 
 Yea, all that ever passed 'twixt her and me 
 Shall now come forth, and you shall judge of it ; 
 I with much sorrow and entreaty for forgiveness, 
 Now tell thee — 
 
 Abraham. — Tell me nothing, ask not to be forgiven. 
 Thou need'st it not, I know thee, Eliezer, 
 How faithfully, with what unwearied patience 
 Thou hast preserved in peace my growing wealth, 
 Commanded all my household, ta'en the care, 
 And left the comfort of prosperity —
 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 137 
 
 Tax me not now to utter forth thy praises — 
 They're known to all, and I do feel them most ; 
 But what could vigilance prevail to check 
 Imperious passion, that like a raging sea 
 Cannot be stopped, but must be yielded to, 
 And left to dash in vain against the rock 
 Of calm, well-ordered reason : — 'tis a nature 
 All in arms; a populace armed. If thou 
 Would'st muster every faculty for one, 
 One mighty rush as of an avalanche, 
 Thou mightest then oppose it ; but thou know'st 
 That this is reason's, feeling's suicide 
 To give mad passion ten-fold life. 
 
 Eliezer (aside). — He knows not then my share in it — 
 I am safe. [say'st, 
 
 (Aloud.) My lord, thou speak'st of Hagar — as thou 
 My vigilance could never check her passion. 
 But must it not forewarn you — would you be 
 Its victim unprepared? 
 
 Abraham. — No, Eliezer, I would be prepared; 
 I would save her from the bitter penalty 
 This passion pays. 
 
 Eliezer. — You know what she intends 
 
 By sending this young shepherd with his wife 
 To King Abimelech ? 
 
 Abraham. — To keep him from the sight 
 
 Of angry eyes his falsehood kindled here. 
 
 Eliezer. — My lord, ask me not how I have discovered ; 
 But 'tis to move Abimelech to come
 
 138 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 With force to fetch away your wife there sleeping. 
 Who this day bore you that most precious son. 
 
 Abraham. — It cannot be — she would not venture this ! 
 Has she so little knowledge ? How know'st this ? 
 
 Eliezer. — Ask me not how ! — I know it — Hagar's anger, 
 Her haste in freeing him, the maid she sent, 
 She has a subtle tongue my lord — all these 
 Prove that this is so. 
 
 Abraham. — All these are but surmises ? 
 
 Good Eliezer, here thy zeal's suspicion, 
 A fault of age and one I must forgive, 
 But thou know'st not this Hagar as I know her — 
 She is most proud, most passionate — her heart 
 Is given or lost, and ever noble she, 
 Of a spirit, always in extremes, will aye 
 Command, or else bewail with tenderness, 
 That never looks up but to frown on fate : 
 It is not wretched malice 'gainst all others. 
 Now come with me ; I fear lest louder talk 
 Awaken Sarah ; — I have much to give thee 
 Of necessary counsel. We must celebrate 
 This joyful day with feasting. I would all 
 With me should joy ; while pleasant tasteful food 
 Cheers and invigorates, I would all smiled, 
 And seated round me answered my glad looks, 
 With eyes that beam reflecting gratitude. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 End of Act III.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. [39 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE II. 
 
 hagar's tent. 
 
 Hagar. 
 
 Hagar. — What can mine anger do but burn within r 
 It preys upon me. Do mine enemies 
 Feel for one moment but a spark from its flame ? 
 It was hurled forth with all my strength against 
 
 them, 
 And from a greater height falls on my head ! 
 What has my curse availed ? It was mere breath 
 Chased by the winds ! What is my hate to them ? 
 What is't but fire to water, whose moment's rage 
 Is hissed to blackness ? It is some meteor 
 That idlers hardly gaze on, which may blaze 
 Unheeded in dull silence overhead ; 
 That is but seen to be smiled at; they will teach 
 A babe ere long to point his finger at it ! 
 It is a poor caged beast that chafes with rage 
 But that its masters may more smile and triumph! 
 My son was yesterday the blessed heir 
 Of richest promises ; his strength was dear; 
 His acts all doubled in his father's eye. 
 Now he's the servant of a poor weak babe, 
 An outcast from his father's heart; and I, 
 Who was but prized for his sake, with his fall
 
 I40 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 I am forgotten — the poor instrument, 
 
 When the object loses value must be flung away ! 
 Enter Ishmael. 
 
 Ah, dearest son, blame not, but comfort me. 
 
 Alas, thou art despoiled, art cheated, tricked, 
 
 Robbed of thy right ; a babe possesses it ! [talk, 
 Ishmaet. — What mean you, mother? if of a babe you 
 
 Sarah has borne a son. My father's glad ; 
 
 I never saw him gladder. 
 Hagar. — He smiles upon your death ! 
 
 You are now as one that's dead to him, my boy. 
 
 You may boast of courage now; his favour's gone ! 
 Ishmael. — I'll make it come again. But have you heard. 
 
 What preparation forward goes of his young men? 
 
 They are all in arms ! 
 Hagar. — Have you heard why ? 
 
 Is Abraham to lead them ? 
 Ishmael. — No, and 'gainst whom 
 
 They know not ; they are something angered. 
 Hagar. — Know not 'gainst whom ? Tis not against 
 
 your father ? 
 Ishmael. — No, 'tis to guard him from some other foe ; 
 
 Eliezer set them on ; yet they complain. 
 
 My father heads them not, that they must keep 
 
 This arming secret from him 3 such was the word 
 
 They had from Eliezer. 
 Hagar. — 'Tis most strange ! 
 
 They murmured then to you ? 
 Ishmael. — Yes, and ere now
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 141 
 
 Have uttered such to me. In vain I tell them, 
 
 Think not I'll hear it. Speak not against my 
 father. 
 
 Give me not praise that's more than mine to rob 
 
 Him of what justly is his due. 
 Hagar. — Son, listen to me. This was only right 
 
 As long as Abraham was kind to you, 
 
 And gave your due ; but now he'll rob you of it, 
 
 Of praise and rights alike ; for all is changed ; 
 
 He is thine enemy : these men are thy friends. 
 
 Thou see'st they love thee still. Now list to me; 
 
 Put thyself at their head, recover thou 
 
 The rights that now slip from thee. Urge not love. 
 
 Thou art thy father's son no more. Obedience 
 
 Is only due to me, thy mother. 
 Ishmael. — Mother, be sure 
 
 If there be some real enemy they know of, 
 
 And that my father will not right against him, 
 
 Be assured that I, young as I am, will join them. 
 Hagar. — Suppose no enemy, or grant there be, 
 
 I tell thee none can be a greater one 
 
 Than Abraham. 
 Ishmael. — My father, Abraham \ 
 
 I will go straight and ask him what I have done. 
 
 He has forgiven me ere now, and tells me 
 
 Ever to speak out boldly to him. 
 Hagar. — Thou wilt not understand ! 
 
 Son, thou must fight against him, take from him 
 
 That which he holds !
 
 142 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Ishmael. — Mother, I cannot do so. 
 
 One look of his would shame me. 
 
 Hagar. — Thou foolish boy, 
 
 Has he not shamed thee more than this already ? 
 I tell thee he has robbed thee ; thou art nothing j 
 And Sarah's son is everything. 
 
 Ishmael. — Then if 
 
 I may but live with him and love him still ; 
 I'll make him love us both. I'll love my 
 brother. 
 
 Hagar. — And if thou dost thou hatest me, thy mother. 
 Now choose. — Sweet son, obey me; 'tis but to go 
 And fight with thy dear friends, or not to fight, 
 And not against thy father. 'Tis but to arm 
 And ask him for thy own — he'll praise the deed, 
 And think thee brave ; 'tis meet thou shinest now, 
 Excelling in his eyes ; that babe will else 
 Snatch from thee all that thou hast won, and 
 
 keep it. 
 Now join these youths, and say these words to 
 
 them : — 
 ' I come to join you ; we must from my father 
 Take some authority and wealth that's mine, 
 'Tis time I had my share, 'tis time, my friends, 
 That you had your just share of enterprise.' 
 Speak thus, act thus — thou win'st thy father's 
 
 love 
 And thy companions' — do it not, thou losest all, 
 Any father's favour, mine, thy comrades' — all.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. T43 
 
 Ishmael. — Well, mother, I'll obey you ; 'tis my wish 
 
 As captain to lead forth my brave companions ; 
 
 My father keeps them p'rhaps too close at home ; 
 
 If you say he would love me for it after, 
 
 I'll do it. 
 Hagar. — Now about it, son ! I'll take thee with me; 
 
 "With me thou shalt address these brave young 
 men ; 
 
 'Twill win the love of all ; doubt not of it ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 an open space. 
 
 Abraham — Hagar — Ishmael. 
 
 Hagar. — You ask my reason. I'll not render it j 
 If love reveal not this, think not that I 
 Will lead indifference to it. Ask the lioness 
 Robbed of her precious young, why she does 
 
 rage; 
 Ask the cloud that's torn by the loud thunder why 
 It flashes angry lightning ; ask the sea 
 Lashed by the winds why it so gapes for ships ; 
 And if these answer not, will woman answer, 
 Why her fierce mischief follows her wrecked love '
 
 144 .DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Think you that she will change your gentle 
 coldness 
 
 By tame and humble answers into scorn ? 
 Abraham. — Is this then woman's love ? or wreck of 
 love ? 
 
 Can man's mere prudence she calls cold in- 
 difference, 
 
 Urge her to mix in treasons 'gainst his life, 
 
 And be to him worse than an enemy ? 
 
 Can she that once has loved her lord become 
 
 So basely treacherous ? 
 Ha gar. — He has taken more than life — 
 
 Her pride, her peace, her happiness is gone ! 
 
 What is her life to him ; it is his scorn! 
 
 What is his death to her, if she too dies, 
 
 If both at last together rest in peace ? 
 Abraham. — This is mere fury, and a poor excuse 
 
 For treason, which should meet with punishment. 
 
 Why should it not ? As those poor instruments 
 
 That thou hast used have died, why should'st not 
 thou 
 
 Die by a death more dreadful ? 
 Hagar. — Seek not now 
 
 To frighten me with threats : I care not for them; 
 
 Though from a tyrant, I have never feared thee; — 
 
 Alas, I loved thee ever ! 
 Ishmael. — Father, for me she speaks. 
 
 Anger her not, she thinks you love me not — 
 
 She is my mother ; how can I smile and see you
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 145 
 
 So vexing her ? You love us not ! nay, now 
 I'll anger you to have you rail on me. 
 
 Abraham. — Then, Ishmael, my child, tell calmly now, 
 What makes your mother so revengeful towards 
 
 me, 
 So fierce and bitter in her speech and look ? 
 
 Ishmael. — It is now Sarah has a son, you say, 
 
 He must have rights you promised me ; I none. 
 We think that your dear love is ebbing from 
 
 us ; 
 We that did dance upon fresh laughing waves, 
 Are now left stranded, poor unsightly hulls. 
 
 Abraham. — Believe it not, my child ! thou art as dear, 
 And as delightful to mine eye as when 
 I had no second son : — could I forget 
 My dear loved first-born ? When have I seemed 
 Less loving:, Ishmael ? when have I shown 
 By any act, a wish that thou should'st lose 
 Thy rights ? 
 
 Hagar. — Believe him not, my Ishmael ; 
 
 For he has given me hopes much greater. Ah ! 
 How sweet his smile ; how the poor heart 
 
 before it 
 Can like a fool unlock its treasures. Rather, 
 How can a mouth that has framed such a smile 
 Not fear to be struck dumb at that word 
 
 treachery ? 
 How can that smile enslave its beauty so 
 To be the liar of that shameless mouth !
 
 I4<5 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Abraham. — Hagar, for shame ! thou heap'st up a dis- 
 grace 
 To teach this child to think of his father so. 
 
 hhmael. — Mother, forbear. I told you he was kind. 
 I do believe him ; you are fierce with him. 
 Forgive me ! He's my father ; look in his eyes, 
 There is a soul of goodness in them. He has 
 
 promised. 
 Then let us both be satisfied. 
 
 Hagar. — My lord, if you will grant one poor request, 
 The last that Hagar offers thee, her heart 
 Shall be as dead to treachery as love ; 
 Give all the love, the favour that's my due, 
 To this dear boy — let his life be as blest, 
 As mine was wretched ; for my lavished love, 
 Now give return to him, and I will bless thee 
 As if for life I had been dearly loved, 
 And mourned not as for worse than widowhood. 
 
 Abraham. — I understand not half thy bitter words, 
 Thou ceasest not to pour them forth ; my love 
 Thou art as scornful of as I was not, [have it ! 
 As I have never been of thine ; thou wilt not 
 Then gladly I must grant what thou has begged. 
 Come, Ishmael, we two can love as friends, 
 And both still love thy mother, she will p Vaps 
 Love us the more if we look not upon her, 
 If we speak kindly to her she but answers 
 With angry speeches, we will talk together, 
 While she speaks still to the winds.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 147 
 
 Hagar. — You mock me still ; 
 
 How easy when the heart is cold to mock ! 
 How hard while it still glows to keep from rage 
 At hearing such dire cruelty — rage 'gainst itself 
 For having weakened its own self for such. 
 But I will bear it all. I say my heart 
 Is dead to love or hate, if thou wilt love 
 In that full measure due to me, this boy. 
 
 Ishmael. — Mother, he has said he would ; why do you 
 still 
 Speak with such anger to him ? Be at peace : 
 Embrace him as I do ! 
 
 Hagar. — Embrace thou him for me. 
 
 I am at peace with him if he now do 
 The like to thee. 
 
 Abraham (embracing Ishmael). — Yes, thus I end all 
 discord, 
 And Hagar, if sweet childhood take thy love, 
 Thy love should to itself take some sweet child- 
 hood. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A TENT. 
 
 Sarah — Eliezer — Sarah lying on a bed. 
 
 Eliezer. — Madam, I saw my master Abraham 
 
 Dismiss his armed protectors — they are gone.
 
 I4& DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 The way lies free to King Abimelechj 
 And you are stolen again ; unless, I say, 
 Unless you could alarm your lord, and make him 
 (As I could not) look to his safety. 
 
 Sarah. — I said before, 
 
 And say again, my lord may seem unwise, 
 But to do more, were faithlessness in God ; 
 God did protect us so and fight for us 
 When King Abimelech first came on us, 
 That you, and all may rest in faith assured, 
 He ne'er will tempt again our champion. 
 
 Eliexer. — Ay, madam, yet may not his shame 
 
 Be stronger than his fear ; may not you trust 
 Unwarrantably in a Providence 
 That gives most help to those that help them- 
 selves ; 
 'Tis scorn of instruments through which he works, 
 That he allows to work, if, when these are urged, 
 As they are now, with the like we fight not too. 
 What potent means are now in use against you ! 
 Think, with what subtle tongue, this Hagar's 
 
 maid 
 Will paint your beauty and your yielding weak- 
 ness! 
 Imputing vice to raise your value more 
 In his vice-loving eyes, which prompts his heart, 
 And shames his mind to make a second raid ! 
 
 Sarah. — Let her but try ! she draws down death upon 
 her —
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 149 
 
 Her mistress too, deserves no less — but thou, 
 If thou malignest King Abimelech, 
 And thus distrustest so God's providence, 
 Wilt draw on thine own head a punishment 
 No less accursed — begone, why earnest thou 
 To trouble me with tricks and poor designs 
 Of wicked, God-forgetting women? art thou of 
 
 them ? — 
 Know then that God gives to the course of time, 
 To bring their plans to ridicule, themselves 
 To punishment. 
 
 Eliezer. — Madam, I do entreat you, 
 
 Call not the faithful watch who gives alarm, 
 Or him who cries at sight of coming danger, 
 The thief and the assailant ; if my care 
 Has been suspicious fearfulness — my eyes 
 Seeing my fancies, pardon me ! but this at worst 
 Is being forewarned — the zeal if over-zeal 
 Incurs no feverish danger-haste, but only 
 Impatience without danger. 
 
 Sarah. — Why all this talk ? 
 
 I ask thee, Art thou of them ? say at once, 
 I am not — and not of their company, 
 Be not so full of their thoughts, now go ! 
 For I would rest with this sweet babe beside me. 
 O that thou hadst the faith in God that we have ! 
 God, open this man's eyes as Thou hast ours ! 
 And open this man's heart as Thou hast ours ! 
 
 [Sleeps.
 
 I^O DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Eliezer. — She sleeps. Well, this is all my alarming 
 and dauger-crying brings. I'll say no more and let 
 the danger come; it may be as they say, that 
 God protects them, and if so God protects me 
 from disgrace too. What a trembling she gave 
 me when she said, ' Are you of them/ yet she 
 knows nothing. Well, if I only run more risk by 
 giving the alarm than by keeping silent, I'll keep 
 silent. Whatever comes I have given full warning. 
 
 [Exit Eliezer. 
 
 End of Act IV.
 
 ! 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I5I 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 tables spread under the shade of trees. 
 
 Abraham — King Abimelech — Aner — Eschol — 
 
 Mam re — their Sons — Young Men, Servants, &c. 
 
 — Sarah — Hagar — their Wives, Maid-servants, 
 
 &c, waiting on them. 
 
 Aner (aside to Eschol and Mamre). — How royal is this 
 feast ; how royally 
 Does Abraham become the table ; how his eye 
 Beams with a welcome round ! — 'tis bright as 
 
 youth's j 
 His wrinkles hid with smiles ; he looks as fresh 
 As from that conquest that we three did share in 
 (Now many a year ago), his manhood came. 
 Eschol (aside to Aner and Mamre). — Yes, should a 
 stranger now behold the two, 
 If he were told one was a king, the other 
 At first a shepherd, now with richest flocks, 
 A dweller still in tents — which would he crown ? 
 Mamre (aside to Aner and Eschol). — He'd say the 
 man who eyed his questioner 
 With such full glances, who looked up so boldly,
 
 Ij2 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 And spoke so calmly forth his well-weighed 
 
 words, 
 Was certainly the king. That he, saying naught, 
 Who scarce looks up, but listens with bowed 
 
 head, 
 Is one who counts and counts again his wealth, 
 Viewing his flocks, conversing but with shepherds. 
 
 Aner (aside to Eschol and Mature). — The wonder's 
 greater when you know our friend 
 Has never deigned to count : on that great day, 
 You both know how for each of us he laid 
 Sure wealth on wide foundation, from his own 
 Plucked the foundation laid. 
 
 Abraham. — What talk you of so earnestly, my three 
 Tried and most dear associates in arms ? 
 Does thought of that great day, or my as great 
 And later blessing sober you ? 
 
 Aner. — My brother, we were wondering, as we called 
 The past again to view, how it should happen, 
 That you who robbed yourself and made us rich, 
 Should after lingering so outstrip us all, 
 And win a wealth, that is as great as this 
 Your present happiness! 
 
 Eschol. — What is your secret, brother ? you can spare it. 
 What is the talisman, the charm, the watch-word, 
 Has made you able to go in and out, 
 'Mongst jealous heathen foes still journeying on, 
 Your wealth so poorly guarded, it would seem 
 A bribe to thieves to steal it.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I53 
 
 Abraham. — I marvel you should ask who fought with 
 
 me; 
 
 And who now see a son born to my age. 
 
 (Turning to King Abimelech.) 
 The King Abimelech, my greater, he 
 Can tell you that no greatness is in me, 
 That he so prosperous now could stoop to lying ! 
 So valiantly as he once fought with you, 
 Yet from suspicion only of mere strangers, 
 With coward fear could cling to baser falsehood. 
 Was't not so ? 
 
 Abimelech. — And if it were so, what small lapse it was 
 Of pardonable weakness — hide it rather. 
 You wrong yourself, my brother ; all who hear you 
 Must magnify your fault ; for who would think 
 "With this grave speech of yours 'tis what it is, 
 A theme for gentle laughter — but your pardon ! 
 I see you are angry. 
 
 Abraham. — No, you've made me sad, 
 
 And on this day when I thought nothing could. 
 I am in these men's eyes so lifted up, 
 That they give me God's glory. I bade thee 
 To prove me nothing ; thou hast raised me 
 
 higher, 
 Making my glory falser, God's left hid. 
 How I must tremble when I pray to Him ; 
 Lest thankless for this blessing, for this wealth, 
 This gracious promise now fulfilled to me, 
 And safe prosperity 'midst enemies,
 
 1^4 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 I too call faithlessness a lapse, a weakness, 
 So pardonably human ; thus you called it. 
 Yet that sin struck at all my happiness, 
 For it was doubt, denial of this favour, 
 His promises and His kind providence, 
 To whom I owed all wealth, success, and peace, 
 That then were mine — such ample proofs of love! 
 Talk no more lightly of it — Sarah, come, 
 Tell all of us to whom thou ow'st this blessing 
 To have a son in thine old age ; say now, 
 What faith it gives to thee. 
 Sarah. — My lord, and my lord's friends, all you who 
 
 hear me, 
 Rejoice with me, for God hath made me to laugh ! 
 Give Him the glory, look with solemn faces, 
 With slowly moving lips speak out your praise 
 To this wide heaven whence such blessing flows. 
 But laugh with me, and look with radiant smiles 
 Into my eyes that triumph. Who would have said 
 That Sarah in old age should bear a son ! 
 Yet see, I yesterday did wean the child, 
 From whom the seed that's promised is to spring. 
 Who now will doubt God's promises? How 
 
 foolish, 
 How wicked was I doubting all would be 
 In me fulfilled ! 
 Ishmael (aside to Hagar). — Is she not foolish now? 
 Doubting that in myself there is fulfilled 
 All promise 3 this she boasts of is but more,
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 155 
 
 And larger measure, why so much on it ? 
 
 Why do they look so grave ? I will laugh for them 
 (Sarah sees Ishmael laughing and looks angrily at him.) 
 
 Tell them, my mother, thou hadst better cause 
 
 To laugh at God's fulfilment ! 
 Hagar (aside to Ishmael). — Hush, my son! 
 
 Thy father called her ; 'tis his policy now 
 
 To let her boast 'fore great and many friends. 
 (Aside.) Yet I fear for thee, he makes too much of it. 
 Abraham. — Wife, wherefore so pale ? this day's too 
 much for thee. 
 
 This blessing overpowers — what, still worse ? 
 
 Conduct her to my tent ; all you my friends, 
 
 Disperse now, leave us to our peaceful quiet. 
 
 Great joys are dangerous as greatest griefs, 
 
 And blessings borne not humbly turn to curses ; 
 
 We added your rich kindness and now groan 
 
 Beneath our treasures' load. [rest 
 
 Abimelech. — Farewell, my brother, may God's blessing 
 
 On you and Sarah. 
 Aner. — Brother, farewell, I carry blessing from you 
 
 In righteous wise instruction. 
 Eschol. — With kindest farewell, I too thank you 
 brother — 
 
 The secret of the King of kings is with you. 
 Mamre. — Farewell, dear brother, I have learnt from 
 thee 
 
 That looking heavenwards gives the kingly mien. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 I56 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 hagar's tent. 
 
 Hagar and Eliezer. 
 
 Hagar. — Did Abraham then give the smallest way 
 
 1 To Sarah's wildness, to her senseless folly ? 
 Eliezer. — At first he would not, said he had promised 
 you 
 To show that loving favour to his first-born 
 He had shown before. 
 Hagar. — And did he change from this ? 
 
 Eliezer. — He did, when solemnly she spake these 
 words, 
 ' Cast out the bondwoman ; her son shall not 
 Be heir with the son of the free.' At this he 
 
 changed ; 
 Yet left her saying that he could not. 
 Hagar. Heartless wretch ! — 
 
 Why did he not cast her out ; he was tame ! 
 Why should he let her tongue run on against us ! 
 Eliezer. — Hagar, howe'er this be, take my advice — 
 Tempt not thy fortune further. What if he 
 
 change ? 
 He may side with her. Wait not thou for it ! 
 Hagar. — I will not wait! — I'll end this wretched strife
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 1 57 
 
 And make him swear 'fore God, in God's own 
 
 name, 
 In Sarah's presence too what he has promised. 
 She then shall know herself to be a devil, 
 If she should tempt him break his oath to God! 
 Eliezer. — Believe me, he will never swear so much. 
 I saw how much he changed. Do not hope this. 
 Do anything but this. 
 Hagar. — What would'st thou have me do ? 
 
 Eliezer. — Go forth with Ishmael ; I will furnish you. 
 In ending strife you call his blessing on you, 
 His help, and his protection ; but opposing 
 What certain must befall, you get disgrace, 
 Contempt, and unhelped banishment. 
 Hagar. — Think'st thou that all are coward slaves as 
 thou art ! 
 Think'st thou that all are base in mind as thou 
 
 art ! 
 Could Sarah bring disgrace on me though thou 
 Should'st help her devilry with cunning? Dar'st 
 
 thou 
 Upon thy master heap this vile abuse ? 
 Begone, or I shall tear out that base tongue that 
 
 spake it, 
 And stab to the heart that framed it, spill its dregs, 
 And with the filthy channels that conveyed it. 
 
 [Exit Eliezer. 
 Contaminate the winds ! — 'Tis well thou'rt srone ! 
 
 O 
 
 I would not stain my hands with blood of man.
 
 1^8 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Jt is not true ! — he trembled as he told it ; 
 Seeing her rage he thought my lord must be 
 As fearful and as wickedly unjust 
 As he would be — he has no sense of truth, 
 And his poor, false mind yields at the first assault 
 Of malice and strong lying. Why advise it ? 
 Why should he speak this to me ? — 'tis himself 
 To free from all suspicion. He does fear 
 Lest I revive conspiracy, or the old 
 Be traced in part to him. — O traitor ! worse ! 
 O wretch unfeeling who for coward-safety, 
 When nothing threatens would'st betray thy friends 
 To misery and death ! — O my sweet son ! 
 What wild beasts lurk around thy innocence ! 
 Whose treacherous-cruel and base savagery 
 Would drown in blood thy beauty — wretched envy 
 Spurring to malice so their blind brute-fury 
 That rage would live much longer than thy life, 
 And without light be trampling still ; but know, 
 And let thy tenderness, sweet boy, take courage, 
 Thy parents shame their glare, and can appal 
 
 them 
 With watch of truthful eyes ; they durst not come 
 One poor step farther, though at the bound they 
 
 came, 
 Winged with their hate and hateful jealousies, 
 With rankling malice galling their base hearts — 
 No more ! — I give them thought and words too 
 
 many.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 *59 
 
 If for eternity live truth and right 
 These insects of an hour are not worth anger ; 
 I will go forth and cool the blood a little, 
 This viper's sting has heated ; long before 
 I should have crushed it crawling, with my heel. 
 
 [Exit Hagar. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A HILL-SIDE, TOWARDS EVENING. 
 
 Two Shepherds. 
 
 1st Old Shepherd. — Didst thou see the king, man, and 
 his young men, how bravely they came to the 
 feast and went away again — all mounted ? It was 
 a brave sight ! 
 
 2nd Old Shepherd. — Ay, that did I, brother, I marvelled 
 he should bring such show to our valley ; but our 
 master need not fear him ; our master's wiser 
 than he, for all his show ! 
 
 ist Old Shepherd. — I was minded to run down to him 
 through them all and kneel down to him for my 
 son — my poor son, though they say he is dead. 
 
 tnd Old Shepherd. — That he is most certain j you had 
 got nothing by this, brother, it would have angered 
 him, no more.
 
 I0O DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 1st Old Shepherd. — Yet when I saw all those brave 
 youths, I thought, why could not my son be 
 amongst them ; he was a strong lad ! — he wanted 
 to rise ! — he would have risen if he had lived. 
 Why couldn't he live ? What fear had King 
 Abimelech of him with all those lads arouni 
 him ? 
 
 2nd Old Shepherd. — Why, dost not see ? King 
 Abimelech did not kill him for himself, but for 
 our master's sake ; the fear he has for our mas- 
 ter made him kill thy son, as it made him make 
 this show to day. Our master prospers — let all 
 who wish to prosper too say, ' Good ! ' to it — if 
 any say, 'I will prosper more,' or, 'He shall not 
 prosper' — the word's enough — he dies — thy son 
 said this, he died — thou didst half say it, thou wast 
 nearly dead — is this not so ? 
 
 1st Old Shepherd. — Yes, yes, I know it, brother, yet 
 'tis hard. I would our master prospered and yet 
 that I had not lost my son. I rind his service 
 hard ; for I must give my strength and give my 
 son too, for food and clothing. 
 
 2nd Old Shepherd. — Thou'd'st better tell him so ! — 
 see, here he comes ! 
 
 i st Old Shepherd. — No, no, I do unsay it — speak 
 not thou of it. 
 
 [Enter Abraham. 
 
 2nd Old Shepherd. — God's blessing on you, master; to 
 your sons
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. l6l 
 
 Your blessing and prosperity for a life 
 As long as yours ! 
 Alraham. — God's blessing rest upon you both — I pray 
 you, 
 Has either seen my son, young Ishmael ? 
 2nd Old Shepherd. — I have not seen him, master. 
 15/ Old Shepherd. — I have neither. 
 
 Abraham. — Go each of you a different way, and seek 
 him. 
 Send him to me ; I stay here till he comes — 
 
 {Exeunt Shepherds. 
 To tell him what ? — to tell him he has lost 
 A father, I have lost a son. O God 
 Prompt me to speak it gently ! Thou hast 
 
 laid 
 This bitter task upon me ; lighten it, 
 That it swell not his heart as mine; or hide, 
 Hide his face from me, blind my vision to it ; 
 Let me like lightning strike and vanish ; make 
 His child-heart rocky and defiant as a man's ! 
 Soften his mother's rage ; as to a storm 
 That sweeps inevitable may she bend. 
 Give him an angel's eloquence to win her; 
 Fill up her void of love with thine, and banish 
 For ever from her breast her direst foe, 
 Mad headstrong jealousy. 
 
 [Enter Ishmael. 
 Ishmael. — O father, I sought everywhere to find 
 you : 
 
 M
 
 l62 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 I have a favour I must ask of you. 
 I'm glad to find you here alone. 
 
 Abraham. — What is it, Ishmael ? God grant that it be 
 Something thy father Abraham can grant ! 
 
 Ishmael. — I have ta'en you in ill time ; I see you are 
 grave ; 
 But I must speak it, or perhaps occasion 
 May never serve again. 
 
 Abraham. — It may not — speak ! 
 
 Ishmael. — This day at the feast when all was joyousness, 
 And I was joyful, jesting with companions — 
 We listened not, nor heard your serious talk ; 
 We looked not on your faces till you drew 
 Both eyes and ears by calling loud for Sarah. 
 She then as loudly and with moving gesture 
 Spoke forth her happiness and praised its Giver. 
 I heard her solemn words, but seriousness 
 Seemed to me then mere sport and mockery. 
 I doubted too their import ; she gave praise 
 For one son, not for me the other ; this 
 I whispered laughing to my mother Hagar. 
 'Twas then a glance of fierceness fell on me 
 Darted from Sarah's eyes, falling on mine, 
 That careless gazed with blinding lightning-flash. 
 This weighted my light heart, and stilled my 
 
 mirth 
 As thunder silences the singing birds. 
 I come now, father, and confess my fault ; 
 And ask for thy forgiveness j then that thou
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 163 
 
 Should'st beg forgiveness for the fault confessed 
 From Sarah. 
 
 Abraham. — Yes, I forgive thee. O my son, 
 
 Why com'st thou now to show more grace, and 
 
 win 
 More love, to give more pain in pleasing so ! 
 
 Iskmael. — Yes, I am sure of your love, my dear father - t 
 But not so sure of Sarah's — speak to her for me. 
 
 Abraham (aside). — 'Tistime I tell him all. 
 
 (Aloud.) Listen to me, my son, speak not the while ; 
 'Twill pain thee now to hear what I must say j 
 But answer not — each word's a grief to speak ; 
 Make me speak no word twice, and stay me not 
 To think on what I am speaking — 'Tis not Sarah — 
 Think not her wishes wrong thee — God has 
 
 spoken; 
 I am His messenger to thee and Hagar — 
 Thy mother and thyself must leave me — answer 
 
 not ! 
 Thou art my firstborn, truly, but my son 
 No less by a bond- woman — Sarah's son 
 Is son of a free-woman — he must be my heir, 
 By staying here thou would'st be his co-heir. 
 This cannot be, for God has spoken it, 
 Confirming Sarah's words. Look not so sad ! 
 This blessing's left thee, thou too art an heir 
 Of promises — God hath told me thine 
 Shall be a mighty race ; thy name shall live ; 
 Thyself be honoured through all future ages.
 
 \6\ DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 This exile shall at first seem hard ; yet doubt not 
 Thy life's preserved for greatness. O my son, 
 God's love and mine shall ever follow thee ! 
 Now go to Hagar — as the Lord sent me, 
 Say I sent thee. May-be He speaks again, 
 In this dread hour when I much need His 
 comfort. 
 
 [Exit ISHMAEL. 
 
 [After some time exit Abraham. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 AN OPEN SPACE NEAR THE TENTS ELIEZER AND 
 
 YOUNG MEN. 
 
 Ishmael coming out alone meets Abraham carrying 
 a leathern water-bottle. 
 
 Abraham. — God's blessing on thee, dearest Ishmael ; 
 where 
 Is Hagar ? Did you give my message, Eliezer ? 
 Eliezer. — I did, my lord, but she would scarcely hear it — 
 
 Called it a lie. 
 Abraham. — Where is she, Ishmael? Wherefore comes 
 
 she not ? 
 Ishmael. — Father, she will not come till I return, 
 And say I must depart and you are here.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. l6$ 
 
 Abraham. — Then go and tell it her. Why are these 
 here? [To Eliezer. 
 
 [Exit Ishmael. 
 Eliezer. — They heard her clamour, and had fears lest 
 Hagar 
 Did meditate some violence. 
 Abraham. — Well, they are faithful, but not too kind 
 servants. 
 
 Enter Sarah. 
 Wife, wherefore are you come ? 
 Sarah. — I come to give a parting word of kindness, 
 To show poor Hagar I forgive her angers, 
 To mingle with the blessings you bestow 
 My word of prayer and comfort. 
 Enter Ishmael followed by Hagar, looking down. 
 Abraham. — Hagar, you've heard my message, and 
 have heard [leave us ; 
 
 God's message too. I mourn that you must 
 But you must journey towards the desert Paran ; 
 Both Sarah, I, and all of us have come 
 To call God's blessing on you. I will bind 
 This vessel on you to preserve your lives ; 
 'Twill save from thirst, God will provide the rest. 
 
 Hagar looks not on him, and moves away when he goes 
 to bind the bottle upon her. 
 
 What mean you Hagar, still to disobey 
 
 Both God's commands and mine ! Oh make not 
 
 harder 
 
 The task God wills, and I must execute ;
 
 l66 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Enough, it is His positive command. 
 
 Now, pain us not by what is useless rage ! 
 Hagar. — Son, speak again, and tell him first, I speak 
 
 Not once more to him if I go or stay. 
 
 But say, wilt thou yield tame obedience, 
 
 And see thy birthright thus snatched from thee by 
 
 This weakest trickery and this wretched babe? 
 Sarah. — Thou swarthy slave, what right hast thou to 
 speak 
 
 So vilely of this free-born child of mine ? 
 Abraham. — Peace, Sarah ! let her go with blessing ; 'tis 
 her rage 
 
 That tempests in her when she speaks against us! 
 Hagar. — I wait to hear you speak, my son. I scorn 
 
 To speak one word to her, and of her babe. 
 
 I'll never speak again. Now kill and banish 
 
 Me thy own mother with one word, or prove 
 
 Thou art a man and her most dear-loved son ! 
 Abraham. — Stay, son, speak not ; this is too cruel for 
 thee. 
 
 Hagar, now wrath is cruel to your son ; 
 
 See, how your anger blinds ! — He shall not answer ! 
 
 Your death and banishment shall never seem 
 
 To hang upon his word ! Now go, 
 
 Wait not his answer, only hear my blessing ! 
 Hagar. — Ishmael's made dumb ! My son is over- 
 awed. 
 
 Both Abraham and Sarah now may kill, [not ! 
 
 Or curse me dead. I go not ! Ishmael bids me
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. I<5/ 
 
 Young Men. — We said she would not, never will 
 she go ! 
 
 Eliezer. — Young men, be ready all against the signal. 
 Then seize and bind her ! She must be carried 
 hence. 
 
 Abraham. — Who must be seized, thou aged cruelty ? 
 Young men, I do command you, bind Eliezer, 
 Carry him hence, and go with him yourselves ! 
 We need not this officious championship. 
 
 [Exeunt Young Men with Eliezer. 
 Now Hagar, take my blessing, then depart 
 At once with Ishmael. Hear again what God 
 Has promised thee, to cheer thy banishment. 
 At first this must be grievous, why I know not ; 
 But trial will o'ertake thee in the desert. 
 To try thy faith, in what great blessing follows, 
 This sweet child like a fading flower shall sicken, 
 He shall seem dying ; thou awhile shalt leave him, 
 Thy sad heart agonized to see the sight, 
 Not daring to look on it. Then an angel 
 Shall come to thee and bid thee rise and look. 
 From that same hour, as if this angel gave it, 
 Thy dear-loved Ishmael shall be blessed 5 the 
 
 hand 
 Of God shall be with him. He shall become 
 A mighty archer, brave and skilled in fight, 
 The hand of every man against him, his 
 Stronger than every man's ; the founder of 
 A mighty race, who shall great cities build,
 
 l68 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Possessors of high arts, of light, of knowledge, 
 That then shall shine when all the world around 
 Is sunk in barbarous ignorance • this shall hand 
 His name and honour down to distant ages. 
 This child thou see'st, to him shall generations 
 Through the long centuries of years look back, 
 In him behold their great progenitor. [son. 
 
 Now take my blessing with you. Kiss me, my 
 May God in heaven bless both you and Hagar ; 
 And keep you, looking on you lovingly, 
 As I have done 5 but more than I could do ; 
 "With everlasting eyes, untiring guardianship ; 
 Sweet boy, a last farewell to you and Hagar ! 
 
 Sarah. — My blessing on you both, and free forgiveness 
 Of all against myself; this kiss to thee, 
 Young Ishmael, heir to all these blessed promises, 
 A kind farewell to you and Hagar ! 
 
 Ishmael. — Farewell to you, dear father; farewell to you, 
 
 Dear Sarah ; may God's blessing rest on you, 
 
 As I believe His blessing rests on me ! 
 
 Abraham linds the bottle on Hagar, who slowly 
 
 follows Ishmael. 
 
 [Exeunt Abraham and Sarah. 
 
 End of Act V. 
 FINIS.
 
 169 
 
 % gramaiir Skefrjy 
 
 CALLED 
 
 'E/AVE1TSWOOD.' 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 This ' dramatic sketch ' is founded on the story of Scott's 
 well-known novel ' The Bride of Lammermoor.' I made 
 what use I could of all the characters, but was obliged to omit 
 the comic ones and to supply their place by very solemn and 
 serious allegorical names, which I hope I have redeemed from 
 the coldness and meagreness that they generally imply. 
 
 The pathetic story is known to most readers, but a brief 
 outline may be of service : 
 
 The father of Lord Edgar Ravenswood was at one time 
 possessed of all the estates that at the beginning of Scott's 
 story were the property of Sir William Ashton. There was 
 naturally very bitter feeling between the two families, the 
 property having changed hands chiefly for party reasons and 
 by confiscation. An old family had been ruined and an up- 
 start family enjoyed their wealth. Lord Edgar inherited this 
 hate and a wretched remnant of the property called Wolf's 
 Crag. But love is the strongest of all the passions, and the 
 beauty of Lucy Ashton charmed away his feelings of revenge. 
 The affection was returned — the young nobleman was hand- 
 some and had saved her life. All might have ended peace- 
 fully, but for the jealousy and prejudice of one person, Lady 
 Ashton. This woman lost all motherly feeling, and though
 
 I/O INTRODUCTION. 
 
 she knew how completely her daughter's affections were 
 engaged, she did not scruple to coerce her, even at the risk of 
 health and reason. Such devilry will pride sometimes prompt 
 a heart to ! It ended in the complete overthrow of the poor 
 girl's mind, under circumstances horrible enough. She had 
 married the man her mother forced upon her ; but on the 
 first night after the wedding, while all were dancing and 
 enjoying themselves, shrieks were heard coming from the 
 bridal chamber. The room was burst open and the wife was 
 found a laughing maniac, with the husband stabbed to the 
 heart lying on the bed. Ravenswood himself is represented 
 by Scott as having been necessarily delayed abroad, and, all 
 letters being intercepted by Lady Ashton's precautions, as 
 having heard nothing. At last one message from his lover 
 did reach him, and he returned just in time to find her married 
 to another. The scene of proud defiance and terrible earnest- 
 ness where he faces all the family, reproaches poor Lucy 
 Ashton, and restores the pledge of her engagement, is painted 
 with all the power of Scott's genius, and must be referred to 
 by the reader, since it was impossible to reproduce it in this 
 play. His death followed early on the next day, so that these 
 lovers died within perhaps six hours of each other. Riding 
 by a shorter way along the shore to keep his appointment for 
 a duel with Colonel Ashton, it is nearly certain he was 
 engulfed, horse and all, in a quicksand. Only a plume was 
 found near the spot where he had last been seen. This is 
 typical of what is left of the pride and wealth of these families 
 — only a beautiful yet terrible romance ; at the same time, 
 one which may cause them never to be forgotten.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 171 
 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir William Ashton. 
 
 Lord Edgar Ravenswood. 
 
 Hayston of Bucklaw. 
 
 Captain Craigengelt. 
 
 Caleb Balderstone. 
 
 Colonel Douglas Ashton. 
 
 Charles Edward Stuart. 
 
 A Chaplain. 
 
 A Lawyer. 
 
 Two French Soldiers. 
 
 Lady Ashton. 
 
 Lucy Ashton, her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Douglas Ashton. 
 
 A Nurse. 
 
 Old Alice. 
 
 AlLSIE GOURLAY. 
 
 Annie Winnie. 
 
 Revenge. 
 
 Charon. 
 
 Despair. 
 
 Destruction. 
 
 Discord. 
 
 Malice. 
 
 Spite. 
 
 Famine. 
 
 Murder. 
 
 Swearing. 
 Drunkenness. 
 The Seven 
 
 Deadly Sins. 
 Evil Spirits. 
 Honour. 
 Courage. 
 Faith. 
 Hope. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 Temperance. 
 
 Simplicity. 
 
 Purity. 
 
 Truth. 
 
 Fame. 
 
 Peace. 
 
 Concord. 
 
 Fairies.
 
 172 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 * 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 INTERIOR OF A COTTAGE AT NIGHT. 
 
 By a brazier nf coals burning low — Old Alice — 
 
 AlLSIE GOURLAY ANNIE WlNNIE. 
 
 Alice. — What charm did'st utter while thou gav'st his 
 lips 
 
 Herb aconitum with nine others 'stilled? 
 Ailsie. — Keep the soul, through body go, 
 
 Thus permit the Powers below. 
 Alice. — This hour he's slept, his soul at peace, but now 
 
 He frowns and mutters — who is by him ? — who ? 
 Annie. — You said his chaplain. 
 
 Alice. — Ask not of him. He spoke, 
 
 But I could hear no words. 
 Annie. — They were, 'Forgive, 
 
 Or take no sacrament.' 
 Alice. — His answer was, 
 
 ' I will repent but ne'er forgive ; he is 
 
 My enemy in death.' Th^ chaplain's gone — 
 
 Who kneels ? 
 Annie. — His son! I'm deaf to what they speak.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 1 73 
 
 Ails'ie. — The flame leaps in this brazier ; 'tis my drug 
 
 Kindles afresh his life. 
 Alice. — It gives his soul 
 
 Fuel for one bright highest flicker, to last 
 While I am speaking of it. He is strong 
 To sit up straight in bed; he stretches hands — 
 Both hands, and searches with them — there ! 
 Both now are resting on his son's bowed head ; 
 His eyes gleam bright as frost-surrounded fires, 
 As thus he screams and whispers, ( Son, 
 ' I can bequeath no patrimony, lands 
 ' I had but have not. I bequeath my curse. 
 ' Cut off this lock of hair, cut one of thine.' 
 
 The youth has taken two. * Now fling them both 
 ' Upon those blazing coals. Now kneel again. 
 ' As those two locks have shrivelled and are 
 
 naught, 
 ' So wilt thou hunt till they are naught — if this 
 ' My curse thou should'st fulfil — the lives of his 
 'And him who robbed me, cheated me of mine, 
 ' Disgraced my house, degraded my great name. 
 ' Not in the field of fight by violence 
 ' He snatched all from me, but by creeping guile. 
 ' Think him more base for this, not kinder ; tread 
 ' His life out like a scorpion's ; but not yet, 
 ' Not yet ! — abide your time ; and when you strike, 
 ' Strike sure. My strength is going, my curse 
 ' Dies on my lips — let your lips speak it till 
 ' Tis done ; whisper it daily till "
 
 IJ4 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Annie. — This flame 
 
 Sinks in white ashes ! 
 Alice. — He is ashes now. 
 
 Come, you are wanted to lay out his corpse. 
 
 I'll go and take some rest ; lead my blind steps ! 
 
 Lo, I am in this dark real world again. 
 
 Go you, I know my cottage ; reach my crutch ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 wolf's crag — a chamber. 
 Lord Edgar Ravenswood — Chaplain. 
 
 Ravenswood. — Then we must lose you, sir. It grieves 
 me much. 
 You have been my father's friend, my boyhood's 
 
 friend. 
 Alas, my means may not reward a service, 
 Holy and necessary and faithful too. 
 
 Chaplain. — But that 
 
 No private means of mine are by to feed 
 Those that pertain to me, I would, my lord, 
 Die in your service, and perform the rites 
 Daily in this your chapel which have been 
 By me these twenty years performed : to leave it
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 175 
 
 Is such a grief to me, my wife, and children, 
 That high'st preferment should not lure us, only- 
 Dire necessity like that now speaks. 
 
 Ravens wood. — You leave 
 
 A district poorer for your going ; now 
 May sour and insolent presbyters yet more 
 Lord it — while you remained this air we breathe 
 Was purer. 
 
 Chaplain. — By their fruits you know them ; as 
 
 Their greed for money, their base faith, was shown 
 In that betrayal of King Charles, the fruit 
 Corrupt and bitter of hypocrisy, 
 Which yet professes to religion's name — 
 So was this taint apparent in to-day's 
 So heartless interruption ; when all eyes 
 Should have been weeping, and all mouths 
 Dumb with true reverence and sorrow — then 
 To stare on us and bawl forth claims of law ! 
 See, my lord, these are they who in their chapels 
 Will push for precedence and hour-long wrangle. 
 Enter Caleb Balderstone. 
 
 Caleb. — My lord, your guests demand more wine. 
 
 Ravenswood. — Give't, then ! 
 
 You keep the cellar, give it them. 
 
 Caleb. — We have 
 
 The newer that was to be kept a year ; 
 The old is drunk — must they have two years' 
 share ? 
 
 Ravenswood. — Ay, or two more. Go, give it them.
 
 I/O DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Caleb. — We have 
 
 But two years' fair supply. 
 
 Ravenswood. — Empty the cellar, go ; 
 
 We'll try and fill't again. 
 
 Caleb. — My lord, to-morrow 
 
 It could be filled. I only urge convenience ; 
 Might we not have new guests too soon to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 Ravenswood. — You shall lose your office, Caleb — serve 
 your guests. 
 Are you a butler to neglect them ? — go ! 
 
 [Pushes him out. 
 This faithful wretch so clings to my poor 
 
 fortunes, 
 He'll swear they flourish still. 
 
 {A burst of revelry heard.) And that sounds like it ! 
 How often have the walls of yonder castle 
 Listened to merriment like that, when bold 
 And loyal soldier-hearts beat fervently 
 To acclamations that their strong voice uttered, 
 One of my ancestors speaking to their eyes 
 And ears, the man whom they had followed 
 To the hunt or fight, and seen him ever foremost, 
 First in the sport, the boldest of bold horsemen, 
 Whose merry laugh came floating back to them ; 
 Or in the field as gay on charger heading 
 Their troop through the hail of bullets, fighting on 
 Against the king — then woe to that king ! — or 
 with him.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 1/7 
 
 After this chase or fight, the end the same, 
 With feasting, merriment, quaffing to the dead, 
 Toasting the living, they at the castle gathered ; 
 There would laugh over, telling of the scrambles, 
 The scratches got, or laugh as much to speak 
 Of deadly spear-thrusts, seen a moment ere 
 They drank the heart's blood, seen not soon 
 
 enough 
 To push quite past a limb or finger. This 
 Would be talk for men ; but ladies were then 
 
 cheered, 
 Talked to as lovingly, with courtesy 
 As gentle by these warriors, whose reward 
 Was to receive sweet smiles in their true hearts. 
 The dance would then answer to music's sound. 
 Youth would give promise of exploits to beauty 
 Great as his love, and beauty generously 
 Would fire the youths by graciousness to deeds 
 Great as were his who'd won the bride, whom 
 
 you, 
 Your father, or a grandsire had bade honour 
 The honourable hero on that day. 
 Chaplain. — I do remember to have joined a lady 
 Unto a princely man, your father's cousin. 
 What a fairy was she ! how all faces seemed 
 On that night doubly lighted, by keen joy, 
 Then by the torches' shining on bright glitter, 
 Dresses, and gold, and diamonds ! — how the 
 
 walls 
 
 N
 
 I78 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 That rang with music, how the floor that 
 
 trembled 
 Beneath the pulse of feet, seemed to be moving ! 
 One as its tapestry were living; and the floor 
 As if it were a sea with bright glad waves. 
 My eyes swam then to look on what my heart 
 So thrilled ; they swim now thinking on't. 
 
 Ravenswood. — When scenes like this, and many a scene 
 as noble, 
 Have been the history, happy, chequered, sad, 
 Of one great family, is there not some right 
 To keep the great stage for that family ? 
 May other baser ones inhabit rooms, 
 And tread the walks all sacred to us, to 
 Some joy or woe of one of our great name ? 
 These spots heard hallowed words or saw such 
 
 looks 
 As frenzied the beholders — is it, then, 
 Less of a sacrilege for baser natures 
 To tenant here than lie dead in our tombs ? 
 Enter a Lord. 
 
 Lord. — Come, Ravenswood, why mourn so much the 
 dead ? We want your presence. 
 
 Ravenswood. — I'll follow you. Farewell ! And let 
 me oft hear of you. [To Chaplain. 
 
 Chaplain. — Farewell, my lord ! 
 
 [Exit Chaplain. 
 
 Lord. — We're hatching a sweet plan. This is it. II 
 you lead on we'll follow and clear the Lord
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. l^Q 
 
 Keeper out of your castle. We'll fight, my lord, 
 as we fought for your father. What say you to't ? 
 
 Ravenswood. — I don't wish for braver fellows. To- 
 morrow we'll think over it and be steady too. 
 
 Lord. — Steady we are not; give me your arm, my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 a terrace walk. on a seat. 
 
 Lucy Ashton — Nurse. 
 
 Nurse. — Bless you, dear, you have a sweet voice. I said 
 you would have when you cried so prettily as a 
 baby. It shall win you a fine husband soon, and 
 then I may go. But I shall never be happy till 
 I see you married. 
 
 Lucy. — Have I improved so much? I think it is the 
 sweet songs more than the dull teaching. Will 
 you bear another, Nurse ? 
 
 Nurse. — Ay, to be sure I will ; they cheer my old ears ; 
 though there is a story of a poor lady — she was 
 perhaps your years, dear — there was one song she 
 sang plaintively. 
 
 Lucy. — Only one song ?
 
 iSo DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Nurse. — You shall hear why — It was the song her 
 lover taught her and his favourite one; so when 
 he left her — 
 
 Lucy. — Did he leave her — oh, why ? 
 
 Nurse. — He left to join his regiment, which was in 
 France, and this song she sang to sweeten her 
 memory of him — she would sing it every evening; 
 and if company were at the castle they liked to 
 hear her sing it. 
 
 Lucy. — Because she sang it better than any one else 
 could. 
 
 Nurse. — She sang it with a melting sweetness; so that 
 all who heard her could not help weeping. 
 
 Lucy. — Did she weep ? [weep. 
 
 Nurse. — I did not say she wept ; but she made others 
 
 Lucy. — And did he return and marry her ? 
 
 Nurse. — No, there is the sadness of it. One evening 
 she was singing this song, and she seemed to sing 
 with such power — oh, so beautifully ! and yet 
 wildly ; as you shall see — for when the last note 
 was done, she did not sit down, and all had started 
 to their feet hearing her sing so — well, past them 
 all she darted towards the open window — for it 
 was summer — leapt out, and ran over the terrace, 
 as it might be here — 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, Nurse, what did she mean ? 
 
 Nurse. — Why, the poor thing had gone mad. When 
 the gentlemen an hour later came np to her she 
 was mad !
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. l8l 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, how dreadful ! But what made her so, 
 
 Nurse ? 
 Nurse. — Her lover had that moment broken his vow. 
 
 They heard by the next ship that he had married 
 
 a noble lady in France. 
 Lucy. — Poor, poor, lady ! But the wickedness of that 
 
 man ! My song, I see, may be very sad, when I 
 
 thought it only pretty. 
 Nurse. — Now sing it, dear. 
 Lucy sings. — Ye flowers fresh that garland May, 
 
 Ye fires on summer skies that play ; 
 
 The waters laugh ; the leaves have stirred 
 
 To hear your love-chant, singing bird. 
 
 I wander 'mongst the beechen shade, 
 And tread where sunny beams have strayed - f 
 For here where once I heard her talk 
 I with her spirit seem to walk. 
 
 She is no spirit, were she so 
 How sweet through death to her to go ! 
 Oh ! smile not skies, but frown as when 
 They thundered, 'Never come again.' 
 
 ' Never on peril of your life ! ' 
 Ye shades may see a bloody strife ! — 
 Yet lull me, say they will not come, 
 That she alone your paths will roam. 
 
 Wave every branch ! and sing out clear, 
 Sweet birds, when sweeter sounds ye hear - T
 
 l82 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 And where her footsteps glide your grace, 
 Ye ferns and trees in fresh founts trace. 
 
 But if she comes not, summer fly ; 
 
 Ye leaves and bhds, ye flowers, die; 
 
 Let winter crash the forest drear, 
 
 And drown with floods, with lightning sear ! 
 
 Nurse. — I should love you for singing so, dear, if I 
 were a young man. But come, it has made you 
 pale; we must quicken those roses to life again. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A LIBRARY AT RAVENSWOOD CASTLE. 
 
 Sir W. Ashton — a Lawyer. 
 
 Lawyer. — The scene was as I\e told it; I was seized, 
 Pinioned and twenty swords were at my throat ; 
 And this for bidding them desist from forms 
 Popish and traitorous, showing my warrant from 
 
 you. 
 Sir William. — And having silenced you, the prayers 
 
 were read, 
 The surpliced clergyman with prayer-book 
 
 standing, 
 And all engaging with him in it ?
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 1 83 
 
 Lawyer. — All this was done, Sir William ; but worse 
 
 follows. 
 The ceremony o'er, these gentlemen 
 Listened, while he who calls himself The Master > 
 Addressed a speech inflaming them to anger 
 'Gainst you and me your messenger; he said, 
 'Bailiffs aud ruffians, but for your drawn swords, 
 ' Most kind and noble kinsmen, had this day 
 ' Prevented the due rites of burial to 
 ' My father. Thanks to you, noble friends ; I feel 
 ' Strong to oppose his malice who has dug, 
 ' And meanly now disturbs this grave. Know well 
 ' I will requite such insult on him, or may I 
 'Be driven by him to my grave, and be 
 'Molested thus in it.' He said this speech, 
 And all with gesture threatening, murmur deep, 
 Applauded what he said. This done, all go 
 And feast the evening at his tower. I there 
 Gleaned through some waiting-men, they spoke 
 
 and pledged 
 Vows of a murderous violence towards you. 
 Now take your measures, sir, for certainly 
 These knaves have plotted for your life. 
 Sir William. — I thank you for your service; take this 
 
 purs.-. 
 Be ready ; in two days you may be sent 
 With letters to the Council. Go, and refresh you. 
 
 [Exit Lawyer. 
 Why, this is as I'd have it; such a scene,
 
 184 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 The violence, the contempt a magistrate 
 Speaking by writ received, this laid before 
 The Privy Council, worded as I could word it, 
 Might seem a riot, or a treason. No! 
 I would not take his life, but let him be 
 Prisoner in the keep of Edinburg; [venged 
 
 Then were this young snake tamed, I were re- 
 For that fierce contest, searching, dangerous, 
 That maze of lawsuit that his father led me. 
 This youth must be attainted — might he not 
 Wrest from me all I've gained ? this castle, land ? — 
 Could not changed ministers make confiscate ? 
 Would he were limited to ten square feet, 
 That I might hold these miles with safety ! 
 Enter Lady Ashton. 
 
 Lady A. — So busy, Sir William ? 
 
 Sir William. — I am, and over urgent business. 
 
 Lady A. — But I come on urgent business too. Attend! — 
 
 Sir W. — Another time ! 
 
 Lady A. — You shall hear me now, or never hear what 
 concerns your daughter's welfare at all. 
 
 Sir W. — What, Lucy's? Well, let me hear it. 
 
 Lady A. — She is arrived at a marriageable age, William. 
 Have you any reasonable suitor to propose ? 
 
 Sir W. — I have not. Lucy is free to choose. 
 
 Lady A. — It remains with me as usual to guard the 
 honour of our family. Lucy is not to choose for 
 herself. I have already chosen for her. 
 
 Sir IV.— Whom?
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 185 
 
 Lady A. — Mr. Hayston, the Laird of Girnington. 
 Sir IV. — The man who has just come into the property 
 
 of Lady Girnington ? 
 Lady A. — The same : he is a rich man and a man of 
 
 influence. 
 Sir IV.—WeW, we'll think it over. 
 Lady A. — The carriage is waiting. We had better go 
 
 together and call on the new Laird. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 End of Act I.
 
 l86 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 THE CAVE OF DESPAIR, ' FAR UNDERNEATH A 
 CRAGGY CLIFF.' 
 
 Despair on a rocky throne. Around him, leaning against 
 old stocks and stul-s of trees, a council consisting of 
 Revenge, Spite, Murder, and the Seven Deadly 
 
 Sins. 
 
 Sloth. — Why am I hurried here I fain would know, 
 By spirits powerfuller than myself? Why placed 
 Amidst hard stones and stocks in this bleak cave, 
 I that lie snug and feast among the rich ? — 
 Curse on you all for this long speech, talk you ! 
 
 Lust, — Ay, let us finish and reiurn to earth, 
 
 Where brother Sloth provides me work in plenty. 
 I fain would triumph never ceasingly, 
 Run like a fire through blood to the eyes, or lurk 
 A maddening serpent, as I chance to find 
 Together or singly all men. 
 
 Spite, — Are there none 
 
 To sway as evil spirits but yourselves ? 
 Have you been aided, being witless both ? 
 And shall you not advise with nobler spirits,
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 187 
 
 How to subdue the greater ones, not sluggards, 
 And shame-lost ere you meet them, earthly- 
 creatures ? 
 Will you not listen and applaud ? 
 
 Wrath. — Wranglers, go ! — 
 
 Is this the talk we're met for ? Speak, Despair ; 
 If not J '11 here defV all laws and so. 
 
 Murder. — .Arid T too — lo ! the blood on this knife's dry. 
 
 Despair. — You bluster louder than my music sounds. 
 The screech-owl and the wailing wind this cave 
 Pierce both by night and day ; — and I must miss 
 
 them ! 
 Now hear wnat's brought us. 
 
 Revenge. — Fellow-accursed, I got this summons for ye, 
 That ye might hail me victor and rejoice, 
 Applauding and conceiving all my triumph, 
 Then that ye might devise how ye could share, 
 Partaking in this triumph, making not 
 Mine by a jot the less but yours as great. 
 By certain oaths, and frowns, and pangs of spirit 
 Which we have senses for, each for his own— 
 You, brother Murder, for much kindred ones; 
 By certain lures, I S3y, which the earth betwixt us 
 Could not prevent, in full flight to me came 
 Bidding to be present, and to ply my darts, 
 Leaving them winged on the air about him, 
 Or to breathe myself upon the air he breathed. 
 This ' he ' it was my chief delight to watch, 
 Till Heaven's king bade his soul depart. In death
 
 l88 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 I mustered all my arts, my courage, power. 
 I saw him as in a phial to his son 
 That poison hand I had stored within his heart ; 
 This son now has the precious stock engrafted 
 Upon his vigorous root, and as I hope 
 Years and my skill shall make it bear more fruit. 
 This is my tale. I share my triumph with you, 
 Yet lessen nothing of it. Can your wisdoms, 
 Each in his proper sphere, devise if aught 
 Your several labours may effect for you. 
 I can but see my own ; but you may share, 
 And not touch mine, taking the spoil that's 
 yours. 
 
 Pride. — I triumph too in him as much as you, 
 And owe you nothing for this confidence. 
 
 Revenge. — But others, cousin, I vouchsafed this to. 
 
 Pride. — I answered as the chief of all here present. 
 
 Spite. — Why then are you not throned and president ? 
 
 Murder. — I know not whom you speak of. Who is he ? 
 
 ' Who is he ? We can never guess. 
 
 Gluttony . ) 
 
 Covetousness. — I've met you on the threshold of a heart 
 
 Where I am lord. Is that your ' he,' Revenge ? 
 
 Revenge. — With him I have faint power j but he I 
 
 spoke of 
 
 Acknowledges no sway of yours in thought. 
 
 Despair. — I know him not; we none of us have 
 
 summons. 
 
 Therefore, Revenge, reveal his name and place.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 189 
 
 'Twill be for us the toilsome conflict only ; 
 
 No easy victory as it was with you. 
 Revenge. — His name's Lord Ravenswood; the victim 
 whom 
 
 I urge him still against is the Lord Keeper ; 
 
 So is he called by those in the East Lothian ; 
 
 He holds the castle and its territory 
 
 That was the Ravenswoods' for centuries ; 
 
 He has a wife and daughter nearly woman — 
 
 All this I say to whet your wit and purpose. 
 
 You who could not approach Lord Ravenswood, 
 
 Can you find access to this family ? 
 Envy. — You spoke of ' he ' ; but that Lord Keeper's wife 
 
 I rule as you Lord Ravenswood. 
 Wrath.— And I 
 
 As much as you! [To Envy. 
 
 Gluttony. — I rule her son and servants ! 
 
 Lust. — Envy has bid me look towards her daughter. 
 
 I've looked far off ; the Holy Spirit guards her. 
 
 I should be wounded by his sword, one step 
 
 Approaching nearer. 
 Spite. — Poor foolish minx, I've hummed 
 
 Into her ear to help you, tunes of free songs ; 
 
 And she has answered innocently, singing 
 
 Words that you might have — 
 Lust. — Might have what done to ? 
 
 How could I taint words more she would have left, 
 
 If once she had known them ? 
 Wrath. — Choke yourself, Spite !
 
 190 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Have any of us power, or words or actions to 
 Put to the tongue or hand of any ? 
 Despair. — Have we not power, then, where God's spirit 
 
 reigns not 
 To whisper ? to come on with the scowling rack ? 
 In moaning: wind to utter it ? can we not 
 Prompt when a mortal's weak? can you not, 
 
 Wrath, 
 Follow each wrong with oath or wicked pledge ? 
 And, if your whisper groaned with a branch or 
 
 hissed 
 With flood, was this not if he spoke it placed 
 Upon his tongue? — vou, iVlurder, can show knives 
 That else wou'd lie dell, glittering, or in water 
 Spread a taste speaking of fell poison ; so, you, 
 
 Lust, 
 Can wait for banquets to make fleshly-minded, 
 Then make flesh shine, e>es sparkle (what more 
 
 easy ?) 
 Before the swimming eyes. Come, Spirits, 
 
 rouse ye ! 
 Answer your powers, make greater your great 
 
 names. 
 Ye've heard what dear Revenge has nobly told ye, 
 All for your benefits. It remains you labour, 
 Each in bis sphere employing perfect skill. 
 Profess and demonstrate your might as spirits ! 
 As sleepless, inextinguishable sovereignties ! 
 Opposed to puny mortals, strong alone
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 191 
 
 In their Creator's aid, that aid themselves 
 So oft refusing, oftener scorning given. 
 Now vanish earthwards ; here let darkness reign ; 
 Your bright effulgent presences withdraw, 
 And thunderous speech that awes my winds to 
 silence ! 
 They all vanish, and the cave becomes dark and silent. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 a woodland scene. on a seat under a tree. 
 
 Sir William Ashton — Lucy Ashton. 
 
 Sir William. — To you, child, life has been as a sunny 
 wood, 
 As pure and sweet, the sorrows waving shadows, 
 The mystery as a peeping sky through foliage. 
 Would it could be so ever, that you could bring 
 Still, as you now bring to my wintry mind, 
 A summer in your breath, and eye, and step ! 
 Ah ! but as seasons change, so years will change, 
 Making me sadder, taking my fairy from me. 
 Why lo, she hears me not ; my age is tedious. 
 I'll make her spirits answer cheerfulness;
 
 192 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 They are deaf to spleen — Lucy, what find you 
 there ? 
 
 Lucy. — Dear father, you were smiling as you talked, 
 And my thoughts strayed from wilful happiness. 
 Now speak again your thoughts ! 
 
 Sir William. — They were too sad. 
 
 You caught the smile that mocked them, not the 
 
 sadness. 
 Your sweet hive keep the honey ! Give me some. 
 What were you watching, or what thinking of, 
 Looking on nothing ? 
 
 Lucy. — Gladly I'll tell you. 'Twas 
 
 This pretty comedy, upon a stage 
 Of mossy green, a single little actor 
 Frisking upon it, lighted by darting sunbeams. 
 One second-space upon that root was poised, 
 After his downward run, a little squirrel, 
 Who then sprang on the turf, light as a leaf 
 That a breeze has eddied, where his eye had seen 
 One precious nut, that nimble little hands 
 Caught and held up to his mouth, o'er which his 
 
 eyes 
 Brightened, and that thick feathery grace of tail 
 Waved triumph. 'Twas too brief 5 for lo, a fern 
 : Bowed lower by the wind, sent shadows o'er him; 
 At this, the pretty scared thing dropped his prize, 
 And scampered to a branch — a watch-tower 
 
 whence, 
 No enemy seen, he soon returns, or nearly ;
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 193 
 
 For ere he reached it your foot crushed a twig ; 
 Now seeing me too move he's vanished, perhaps 
 To where his woody cave lies far above us. 
 
 Sir William. — From which my wisdom gleans that 
 smallest things, 
 Most innocent and seemingly most free, 
 Are yet debarred not shadows real to them. 
 So must it be with all, my daughter. 
 
 Lucy. — Yes 
 
 I would we two could live together here ! 
 For here you smile, dear father, as you smile not 
 Within your lordly castle ; would we were 
 Cottagers here like your mere servants are, 
 Yet with our minds not sordid, but quite free ; 
 And glad as these summer guests, the birds and 
 bees. [pain 
 
 Sir William. — This is a dream, no life on earth, where 
 And care must be within, if all without 
 Is golden happiness ; as winter comes, 
 That changes all this glory, so come moods, 
 Treacherous as storms on cedared ocean isles ; 
 So doubts, remorse, reproaches, pangs (if none 
 For the past as keen for the future years) 
 Will gloom and toss our minds, that now are 
 
 lakes, 
 Mirrors for every leaf and lapping gently 
 A little boat, and now are blackened gulfs 
 Hurrying their foam and all that trust them on 
 them. 
 
 o
 
 J94 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Lucy. — Look, sir, you've called down judgment — see 
 
 there peeps, 
 No more an innocent squirrel ; 'tis a bull, 
 He seems scarce tame. 
 Sir William. — Come, Lucy, we'll return ; 
 
 The creature sees us not ; we need not fear it. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter Lord Ravenswood. 
 Ravenswood. — I range these coverts a mere fugitive, 
 And tread another's lands that should be mine. 
 All this wide champaign and this wood that 
 
 skirts it, 
 With more beyond the castle and around it, 
 All were my father's, and his father's father's. 
 Here have they chased with hounds and merry 
 
 horn, 
 Leapt with their steeds, or reined them 'mid these 
 
 glades, 
 And spread the hunter's feast. I wander here 
 With less share of these than their ghost might 
 
 claim, 
 And am a weak unmanly thing, denied 
 The sport that nerved them for exploits of war, 
 And braced their sinews till more gloriously 
 They swung the battle-sword. I will not bear it. 
 If here I may not hunt, I too can fight, 
 And win perhaps glory. [ will sail for France. 
 But first I will confront this cunning wretch, 
 Reproach him with his knavery, call the curse
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES, 195 
 
 Which the innocent base-defrauded may call down. 
 
 He shall be plainly shown his villany. 
 
 Who knows ! some keen remorse may visit him, 
 
 And be my slow avenger when I'm gone. 
 
 Hold ! who are walking there ? — 'tis he, and with 
 
 him, 
 His innocent daughter — she's his guardian angel, 
 And has averted for this day my curses. 
 Why have they stopped, what holds them ? Oh, 
 
 is't so ? 
 
 Ravenswood levels his gun and Jires. 
 'Twas timed to but one second, the fell brute 
 In but a second had been trampling them 
 Fallen beneath his horns. See, she has fainted ! 
 I'll go to help that enemy. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Hope, Faith, Temperance, with attendant 
 
 Fairies. 
 Hope. — Dear sisters, peace may yet be born and live 
 Between these mortals angered by bitter loss, 
 And gain as bitter, of dull earth-possessions, 
 Of land and wealth that brings no store to the 
 
 soul. 
 How all the gladder faculties of mind [power ! 
 Are clogged and droop with weight of vainest 
 Ev'n these, so nearly dead, I can inspire, 
 And with sky-brightness cheer death-clouding 
 
 eyes. 
 Yea, sensual minds I prompt to taste in heaven 
 The joys of a spirit.
 
 1^6 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Temperance. — But not on earth to know them, 
 
 Or breathe the airs of paradise as those 
 Who hate and wander far from pleasure's bowers. 
 Rapt are their souls, etherealised their bodies 
 Who purge off grossness by strict abstinence. 
 They here have visions with unclouded eyes, 
 Of glory more than earth's — of beauty greater 
 Than human face may glow with ; even here 
 The music that enchants their inner sense 
 Is what their life still moves to, sweeter strains, 
 And more subduing to calm holiness, 
 Than any born of art, or nature-prompted 
 In fragrant woods as these. 
 
 Faith. — This happy chance, 
 
 If it should bring pure thought to follow where 
 Before was passion and anger, then may grow 
 The glad assurance of sweet recompense, 
 And happy long eternity hereafter ; 
 Where care and pain attended ease will come 
 To life not passion-troubled. What far greater 
 Than frank and hopeful pureness will crown life, 
 Or fresh delight of young simplicity 
 Untouched by chill experience ! To untempted 
 And abstinence-true mortals, should the trust 
 In mighty Powers and Him, the chief one, come ; 
 Then they have here a glad immortal's joy, 
 And touch and converse with immortal friends 
 Unseen and heard not — angels that on wings 
 O'ershadow, or in skies far distant sing.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 10} 
 
 Fairies sing. 
 
 We the spirits of the earth, 
 
 Of its meadows, of its fountains, 
 Love the summer, greet its mirth 
 
 In the field and on the mountains. 
 
 Where we come the zephyrs blow, 
 When we smile the grass is greener, 
 
 When we sing streams murmuring flow, 
 And the strife of bird is keener. 
 
 Love and joy so mingling play 
 
 In our happy songs and faces, 
 That no mortal wit could say 
 
 Which more, heart or sunshine graces. 
 
 With the night no sleep benumbs, 
 
 Then the moon or glow-worm lightens, 
 
 Or we wander, fancy comes 
 
 To the room a red hearth brightens. 
 
 ■&* 
 
 If pure, happy man or maid, 
 
 If sweet childhood sends us greeting, 
 From afar where we have strayed 
 
 Come we with fair pleasures meeting. 
 
 Or a flower we wave to them, 
 Or bird-warbling sweetly waken, 
 
 Or make tremble on a stem 
 
 Dew that sunshine has o'ertaken.
 
 I98 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Would we had some gifts for you, 
 Mighty angel-powers descended. 
 
 Both dear love and service true 
 In our fairy song is blended. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 End of Act II.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. IQQ. 
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. 
 
 LONDON : A ROOM IN COLONEL DOUGLAS ASHTOn's 
 
 HOUSE. 
 
 Colonel and Servant. 
 
 Colonel. — Here are the letters ; this small one to Lady 
 
 Fairleigh, that sealed one to Captain Craigengelt. 
 Servant. — 'Tis not addressed so, Colonel. 
 Colonel. — No, blockhead ; he's to deliver it. 
 Servant. — I understand your honour. 'Twill burn 
 
 our fingers taking it ; he's dead as soon as he 
 
 gets it. 
 Colonel. — He is, Johnson, if my sword answers my 
 
 hand. 
 Servant. — May we not give it him on a sword, Colonel ? 
 
 I am half afraid to touch it. 
 Colonel. — The letter it goes with will cool it, that is as 
 
 sweet as the other's bitter. 
 Servant. — I warrant it, sir ; and let me remind you I 
 
 told you of her first and found her nest. 
 Colonel. — Your duty, Johnson ; do the like again. Go 
 
 now, my wife comes home presently — let her not 
 
 see those letters.
 
 200 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Servant. — Tut, Colonel. I am secret and faithful, 
 wise and cunning, quiet or loud, in any matter 
 you choose to employ me, so long as I can lose 
 money at play and drink wine at table. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Colonel. — Which two vices will always keep you my 
 servant, friend. I could make your life miserable 
 at a moment's notice, and therefore you must 
 keep my pleasures going every hour. Ha ! this 
 is a merry life enough. I challenge the husband 
 and make love to his wife. What did he say in 
 the House? I forget ; but I know I taunted him 
 into giving me the lie. Hurrah for politics ! 
 My dear lady mother will fill my purse as long as 
 I support her party, and this means sword-practice 
 and love-making. Ha ! who's this ? my wife's 
 step. Why, plague on it ! my mother was to be 
 here first and take her away. I shall now have 
 to listen to her love-making, it is usually com- 
 plaint-making. What matter ! it will give zest to 
 an evening with Lady Soft-eyes. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Douglas Ashton. 
 Dear Clara, are you ready ? My mother comes to 
 take you presently. 
 
 Mrs. D. — I am ready, Douglas ; but I would say a 
 word or two before I leave you. 
 
 Colonel. — Ay, ay, I understand. It is good-bye! 
 Well, I must attend the House, Clara. Kiss me 
 now.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 201 
 
 Mrs. D. — So cold ! So brief ! Douglas, you were 
 
 not so once. 
 Colonel. — I know it, dear. Good-bye! 
 Mrs. D. — Stay, hear me, Douglas. This coldness 
 
 makes me suspect you. 
 Colonel. — I hoped to part with you peacefully, but you 
 
 will not have it so. 
 Mrs. D. — Oh, Douglas, look to yourself for the blame. 
 
 Be the man you were, the kind, faithful husband 
 
 I knew you once. 
 Colonel. — And know me not now ! Is that your 
 
 meaning ? 
 Mrs. D. — Does not your fierceness force it on me ? 
 
 No ! I do not know it, but would that you ceased 
 
 to make me think it ! 
 Colonel. — Well, Clara, have done with these foolish 
 
 fancies ? You see they waste my time and make 
 
 your cheek pale — leave them to poor starved lovers. 
 Mrs. D. — Promise me one thing, Douglas. 
 Colonel. — What is it ? 
 Mrs. D. — To leave this wicked London and this 
 
 whirl of politics as soon as you decently can, 
 
 and to live on some small estate in the quiet 
 
 country. 
 Colonel. — Impossible, Clara. This wicked city and 
 
 this whirl of politics are my very life. 
 Mrs. D. — And they cost the life of me. 
 Colonel. — You may live away from both, as you 
 
 already do from one.
 
 202 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Mrs. D. — But knowing you are here would bring 
 
 them stifling round me if I were across the ocean. 
 Colonel. — No, no, dear. Try fresh air and forgetful- 
 
 ness. See, here is my mother at last. 
 Mrs. D. (aside). — What a final stab is that phrase, 
 
 • at last.' 
 
 Enter Lady Ashton. 
 Colonel. — Mother, I give Clara into your charge. 
 
 Keep her out of politics or I must leave them too. 
 Lady A. — No, Douglas ; you shall press on still, and 
 
 to be quite free I will take charge of her. Our 
 
 enemies think to muster strong this next session, 
 
 and our poor lord in Scotland may hold up his 
 
 head. This is the dream of some. 
 Colonel. — And what is the reality, Lady Schemer ? 
 Lady A. — The reality is that we may drive him off 
 
 the perch he has left to him, and may include his 
 
 Wolf's Crag in our estate. 
 Colonel. — That would be pressing this lean bird too far. 
 Lady A. — Not if the creature has a beak and claws 
 
 whetted by revenge, and a title, forsooth, greater 
 
 than ours. Let him have no land or stone in 
 
 Scotland and Scotland will soon hear no more of 
 
 his title. 
 Colonel. — Of his title-deeds ! 
 Lady A. — Have done jesting, Douglas, and take 
 
 example less from your father than from me. 
 Mrs. D. — Are these his jests, Lady Ashton? He 
 
 never jests now as he used to.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 20% 
 
 Lady A. — Yet you make yourself his jest by com- 
 plaining of this. Come, dear, your company will 
 make him a fool. Learn to esteem a husband for 
 being serious, especially at such a time as this. 
 Be thankful you have not a husband who can 
 only learn to jest worse and worse. 
 
 Airs. D. — I would laugh at his worst. 
 
 Lady A. — Come, come, you are now a fool in earnest. 
 I see Douglas smiles. It is time you left him. 
 Douglas, do you forget the House meets in ten 
 minutes? 
 
 Colonel. — I had, indeed. 
 
 [Going. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Stop, you are forgetting to say good-bye. 
 
 Lady A. — Let him go, Clara. Why, that was happily 
 forgotten when such pressing business urges. 
 Go, Douglas, we follow you out. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 garden in front of old alice's cottage. 
 
 Lord Ravenswood — Lucy Ashton. 
 
 Ravenswood. — Call to her, Lucy. Let her come to 
 meet us. 
 Let not our ent'ring startle timid age.
 
 204 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Lucy. — Nay, let us wait her leisure ; 'tis the hour 
 
 She paces round these favourite paths and touches 
 Here perhaps or there a flower. 
 
 Raven swood. — She is guided 
 
 In all her actions by some inner sense. 
 I've talked with her, and she has gestured 
 
 towards me, 
 Answering my gestures like an orator 
 That eyes his adversary. 
 
 Lucy. — In the past she lives. 
 
 Would she could cast our future for us : tell us 
 Whether indeed this feud might end for ever — 
 We be its healers. Ah, me ! 
 
 Ravenswood. — Why that deep sigh, dearest ? 
 
 Lucy. — Could we but in a little home like this, 
 Midst blossoming roses, live thus in a wood 
 Quiet as this ! — how often would my singing 
 Float from the windows, mingling with the birds'. 
 What sweetness were within, what peace without ! 
 Think of our summers in such paths as these 
 Stepping together with light steps, encircled 
 With happy arms ; then plucking autumn fruits 
 Or greeting with like smiles spring's blossomings. 
 Think in grim winter what warm gentleness 
 Would from our hearth shine on all faces round. 
 Ah ! pomp may come, and wealth may find us 
 
 happy, 
 Yet not so sweetly happy. 
 
 Ravenswood. — Holy simplicity has made you, dearest,
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 205 
 
 A fount of quiet sunshine ; your child's heart 
 
 Speaks from your eyes calmly and sweetly too. 
 
 Nay, I repeat but what their sweetness taught me. 
 
 I could not hate an enemy like you ; 
 
 And that revenge bequeathed to me with curses, 
 
 I found die in me like ill ghosts at dawn. 
 
 You were the dawn that broke the clouds which 
 
 brooded 
 So long upon our house. Then, dear, be happy, 
 As I am happy, feeling peace within me, 
 And sunshine in my breast where surged dark 
 
 tumults. 
 Talk you of peace and happiness as but 
 Guests of sweet cottages as this ? Then know 
 That they may visit palaces, that pomp 
 May be sweetly borne, borne with humility ; 
 Wealth maybe deemed a discipline, and bowed to 
 Lowly by the holder as to trial sent. 
 Does peace and happiness here reign where roses 
 Cling in embrace and birds sing cheerfully ? 
 It is the calm of death — here a poor blind one 
 Is slowly deathwards creeping j 'tis an avenue 
 Where one with funeral pace is tottering to 
 Her grave. 
 Lucy. — Dear Edgar, what a gloom of thoughts ! 
 Your words have brought on darkness. How I 
 
 shudder ! 
 Surely this is not summer, nor these flowers 
 Live here sweet lives.
 
 206 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Ravenswood. — Lucy, I cannot cheer you, 
 
 Thinking too much how future woes may sadden, 
 Alas ! may separate. Oh, let this thought 
 
 strengthen, 
 Know that I'm ever your dear love to shield you ; 
 Though absent, think you ever have the love 
 That stronger is than death — how then can 
 
 foes ? — 
 Let not ev'n spiritual terrors quell your mind. 
 
 Lucy. — Edgar, you catch the gloomy tone and sad- 
 ness 
 With which old Alice hints presentiments. 
 I fear not change in you, dear ; fear in me 
 No change that terrors, either foes or spirits, 
 Could awe and strike with ; but why talk of such ? 
 Does not my father see and countenance 
 All that has passed between our hearts of love ? 
 
 Ravenswood. — Dear Lucy, come; we'll use a rustic 
 pledge — 
 I break this gold in two, take you the half of it, 
 And swear to keep it. 
 
 Lucy. — This I take to wear 
 
 Next to my heart, nor part from it till you 
 Join that half to it, when this contract's void. 
 I swear by heaven to do this ! 
 
 Ravenswood. — And I, too, 
 
 Will keep this next my heart, nor take it thence 
 To lose it till you join your half to it. 
 I swear by heaven to do't !
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 10"] 
 
 Enter Old Alice. 
 Alice. — What voices here ? "What words are those ye 
 
 utter ? 
 Lucy — We are friends, that visit you. 
 Alice. — And he ? 
 
 Lucy. — A friend of mine and yours. 
 Alice. — Of mine, not yours! 
 
 Ravenswood. — Her friend, your friend, her dearest, 
 
 Alice, friend. 
 Alice. — Ha, but now speak ! how comes this, Ravens- 
 wood 
 
 And Ashton — such two, friends ? 
 Lucy. — Yes, to my father ; 
 
 He's staying in our castle, where my father 
 
 Offers him kindness, gives him with his hand 
 
 Friendship to last for life. 
 Alice. — And you, my lord ? 
 
 Ravenswood. — I answer courtesy like his as kindly, 
 
 And will not lengthen this long feud. A curse 
 
 Cannot be still bequeathed, as I was prompted 
 
 To take it and deliver it. I say 
 
 That Christian charity prohibits this, 
 
 And louder calls for obedience. 
 Alice. — Will this save 
 
 You from a death of ignominy — her 
 
 From worse than death, then death to follow this ? 
 
 What fatal days, and weeping trains ! — poor dame ! 
 
 So haughty, you shall bend. But you, Sir 
 William,
 
 2o8 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Oh, you shall be a willow crushed by storms, 
 Rooted up, plunged in the eddying stream, down 
 
 hurled ! 
 Alas ! for youth, for beauty blasted so ! 
 Lucy. — Poor Alice, age is making wreck of thoughts, 
 And sending thick dark fancies to your brain. 
 What visions are these ? — can you see the sky, 
 That you so stare upon it ? 
 Alice. — Ay, so heaven wills ! 
 
 Tell me, do I now look upon bright skies, 
 Or is night there ? 
 Lucy. — To your sealed eyes 'tis night. 
 
 May I guide you, Alice ; talk more cheerfully. 
 Come, let me read to you. 
 Alice.— I once could see, 
 
 And till this hour I could look up and tell 
 Where the sun stood, if skies were summer skies, 
 And how much after dawn, what hours were left. 
 But now 'tis night. Will Lucy Ashton guide me ? 
 Lucy. — I will right gladly in the paths you know. 
 
 I've seen you surely treading them. 
 Alice. — But now I know them not. How light your 
 step is ! 
 Dear child, your step's still light. 
 Lucy. — How her thoughts wander ! how she weakens 
 too! 
 Wait not, dear Edgar, I shall stay with her. 
 Alice. — Ay, let him go ; come in, and shut my door. 
 
 [Exit with Lucy.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 200, 
 
 Ravenswood. — I like not words so ominous and boding. 
 She speaks with raven voice, and this chimes 
 
 sadly 
 With thoughts I cannot stifle. I have flung 
 All that revenge my father deemed so just — 
 And who knows 'tis not just ? — this father's 
 
 kindness, 
 How if it be but smooth hypocrisy ? 
 Her mother's mood, will that be kindness or 
 A tiger-hate ? That way the whisperings 
 Share hard and smooth between them. And this 
 
 fairy, 
 Is she a strength and noble spirit I 
 May grow and strengthen near and nobly wing 
 
 with 
 While life shall last ? Her gentle beauty is, 
 Yea, and her sweet soft temper, rest and peace ; 
 Obedience too, and concord, that will shine 
 As light in a cloud within our earthly home. 
 Enough ! no more I crave ; how this o'erbuys 
 My paltry vengeance with the pride of them 
 Who bade me keep it ! Even yet I fear, 
 By how much love I bear her gentleness, 
 That dear obedience will be weak surrender 
 And quailing in the face of enmity, 
 Quelling her love as thunder stills the birds.
 
 2,10 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 LONDON : CAPTAIN CRAIGENGELt's CHAMBERS. 
 
 SftUIRE Hayston — Craigengelt. 
 
 Hayston. — And you're his second, Cragie? 
 Craigengelt. — In this duel, as in the other three. 
 Hayston. — Then he shall not have you for the fifth ; 
 
 for I'll have you myself. 
 Craigengelt. — I'll second both. It is sport I like. I 
 
 bet against my man, and if he lives he pays it. 
 Hayston. — And, because fortune never gave a favour 
 
 to such a scoundrel as yourself, the man you 
 
 second always does live. 
 Craigengelt. — Laird Hayston, I can take affront from 
 
 you because of your new importance. 
 Hayston. — And you could take affront before because 
 
 of your own importance — to your country. 
 Craigengelt. — Well, well, we know each other and 
 
 can joke. 
 Hayston. — But I'm not inclined to joke. I want you 
 
 to be my second against Colonel Ashton. 
 Craigengelt. — Have a care, Laird 5 he is the devil at a 
 
 home-thrust ! 
 Hayston. — Do you think I am a coward ? What do 
 
 I care for his home-thrusts. Listen to my 
 
 grievance.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 211 
 
 ■Craigengelt. — Ay, what has he done? 
 
 Hays ton. — He has done nothing. It is the family 
 have insulted me. You remember Lady Ashton 
 put her daughter Lucy into my head, that I asked 
 her permission to court Lucy, and obtained it. 
 Now, listen what follows ! I sro to the castle to 
 see the girl and find an accepted suitor there. 
 
 ■Craigengelt. — How, an accepted suitor ? 
 
 Hayston. — .Accepted by the father. It was Lord 
 Edgar Ravenswood. He is at this moment 
 staying in the house. The old gentleman 
 preached me a sermon on the subject of forgive- 
 ness of injuries and the advantages of a close 
 alliance. 
 
 ■Craigengelt. — What! — said his daughter was to marry 
 Ravenswood? 
 
 Hayston. — Not exactly that, but he said as much as 
 showed he was only waiting for one of them to 
 ask him. 
 
 Craigengelt. — And what said Miss Lucy? 
 
 Hayston. — Oh, she sees nothing and is as simple as a 
 child. If the girl herself favoured him I would 
 let her go, and be hanged ! But what galls me is 
 that these deceitful parents should trifle with 
 me so. 
 
 Craigengelt. — Do you think Lady Ashton would preach 
 forgiveness and close union ? 
 
 Hayston. — I fancy the devil would show his cloven 
 foot i f tint was tried.
 
 212 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Craigengelt. — I know she hates Ravenswood. We 
 
 all know her will is Sir William's too ; you say 
 
 the parents, yet name but him — rather name her 
 
 and you name the parents. 
 Hays ton. — But what shall I do ? 
 Craigengelt. — Send me to her instead of to Colonel 
 
 Douglas, and you will find yourself escorting her 
 
 to Scotland to-morrow. 
 Hays ton. — Go, my dear boy ! — but do the escorting 
 
 for me too. Til go to Scotland and get the 
 
 manor in order for you. 
 Craigengelt. — For the bride, Laird, for the bride ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENEIV. 
 
 A FOUNTAIN-SIDE ON THE ASHTON ESTATE. 
 
 Enter Peace, Simplicity, Purity — Peace in white 
 
 flowing roles, Simplicity in a sky-blue girdled robe, 
 
 Purity in a lustrous silver-shining mantle. 
 
 From the other side enter Courage and Honour, each 
 
 in purple military cloak, with helmet in his hand and 
 
 sandals on his feet. 
 
 Peace. — Assure us, mighty princes, that he too, 
 As she is changed, changes to that blest mood 
 When concord's music breathing- from far skies
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES 2 1^ 
 
 Is heard above the tumult of this earth, 
 With all its envies, strifes, and jealousies ; 
 That not a thought disturbs save thought of good. 
 Is he within my kingdom ? may they live 
 Together, serving me and honouring these 
 My sisters ? 
 
 Honour. — Yes, great queen, we gladly came, 
 
 Hearing your joyful summons, since we come 
 To tell that he who serves us faithfully, 
 Who was in bitter hatred, now has eyes 
 That kindly, lovingly meet those he shunned, 
 That light and rainbow sheen now mingling play 
 Where lightnings glittered, yet that nothing's 
 
 lost 
 Which it became his spirit nobly keep. 
 
 Courage. — He would be still adventurous, and risk 
 Limbs as before in fight — yea, and the toil, 
 The cares of life that shame a noble pride 
 He would endure, still graced with constancy, 
 But that a sweeter lot rewards him. 
 
 Purity. — Our thanks to you, sirs, that your vigilance 
 Has awed pretenders who had used your names 
 To dim his youth's frail judgment, hiding from 
 
 him 
 Paths that led on to happiness as rare 
 As they were faint. But what could vision quicken, 
 And cloudy error chase from his clear mind, 
 If not strong purpose and integrity 
 Prompted by you ? — this made sight eagle-eyed,
 
 214 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 And joined a dove-like wisdom to it; this 
 Has crowned him great successor to the house 
 Whose fame he was to win back by revenge, 
 Heaping on loss disgrace — so ran the curse. 
 Now, see what grace and glory no revenge, 
 And more, ev'n reconciling love can give ! 
 Oh, to receive the charge of vengeful hate 
 Was noble, to translate it thus to love 
 Is nobler still. How youth may sometimes shine 
 With truth and beauty soul-born, while the sire 
 Counsels in madness scorninsr to look within! 
 Had this youth not obeyed still conscience, but 
 The shout of his raged father, then this house 
 Had with its losses fallen, that now stands 
 Stately on losses smiling. 
 
 Simplicity. — Henceforth I see my favourite child 
 embraced 
 By love's arms and by glory's ; hers will be 
 No shrinking love, nursed 'midst alarms and anger. 
 She has that crown of woman, holy love; 
 And he who loves, the sacred vows that bind them 
 Will call down praise upon her ; these have built 
 A throne of justice and strong unity, 
 Whereon she shall sit cherishing dear love, 
 Dowered with all earthly blessings, dear to him, 
 And nearer heaven. 
 
 Peace. — Let chiefest joy be for this concord won, 
 That the stored fruits, and golden glory shed 
 From this rich horn will be poured out upon them..
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 215 
 
 Princes, you bring us joyful hope of this. 
 
 Now let us hover round invisible 
 
 Where these two beauteous mortals walk alone, 
 
 Or with embracing arms, and be we near them. 
 
 Their speech attuning, wakening sweet grace, 
 
 And making looks beam eloquence, each one's 
 
 Majestic sad or radiant ; let them see 
 
 Beauty and pure solemnity and love 
 
 With each shy glance, then utter gentle words 
 
 Of soft air-music, solemn as that or glad. 
 
 The scene closes. 
 
 End of Act III.
 
 i\6 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 a room in the castle. 
 
 Sir William Ashton — Lady Ashton. 
 
 Sir William. — What, bid him go ! — turned him out 
 with insult ? my guest ! — why is this ? 
 
 Lady Ashton. — To save us from worse ruin. What 
 have you done ! — taken a serpent to your breast 
 — to her breast, perhaps — then, ask you why I 
 fling it away ? 
 
 Sir William. — Who is a serpent ? 
 
 Lady Ashton. — Lord Ravenswood! I'll show you why. 
 He comes to creep into our daughter's affections ; 
 to win some of our wealth, that he may spend it 
 as wickedly and as foolishly as his fathers have 
 spent money j to flaunt his empty title in our 
 eyes j to scorn us all, if his cunning should 
 succeed. Is this the creature you foster ? 
 
 Sir William. — And how if he be not so penniless and 
 mean ? how if his party do not win him back 
 some of the estate ? Lord Athole, his friend 
 here, will tell you what a chance he has. Is it 
 not wise then to keep friends with him ? Would 
 a match with Lucy be so ridiculous if he should 
 regain more than half possession ?
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 21"] 
 
 Lady Ashton. — Lord Athole told you this! I have been 
 in London six months, watching the turns of 
 fortune, talking with ministers, and with the 
 Duchess of Marlborough herself. This is mere 
 invention of Lord Athole's. It is no doubt to do 
 a kindness for his friend. But we are to think if 
 this would be a kindness for ourselves. 
 
 Sir William. — It is, if this is true. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — It is the wildest of untruths; but grant- 
 ing this may be, would you see calmly this last 
 rag of nobility and poor proud rake joined to our 
 house, and one of our family ? 
 
 Sir William. — I find him peaceable and well behaved. 
 I don't know that he is addicted to vice. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — You don't know, and you won't know 
 till it is too late, unless I stop it. But this is done. 
 I sent him words that will chase him from here. 
 I know how to lash his ridiculous pride. 
 
 Sir William. — Then it is too late ! I can do nothing 
 to keep up our character for hospitality and 
 charity. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — And blind folly ! — no ! — But tell me 
 now; is not the Laird Hayston everything you 
 could wish for a son-in-law ? His estate good, 
 his person handsome, his character fair. 
 
 Sir William. — I know nothing against him. What 
 are you going to do ? 
 
 Lady Ashton. — Leave all tome. Lucy shall be pressed 
 to name the wedding-day in all due time. At
 
 2l8 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 present, owing to your weakness, that person has 
 
 got some influence over her. 
 Sir William. — If he has won her heart, she shall 
 
 marry no one else, though she does not marry 
 
 him. 
 Lady Ashton. — I said nothing about heart. I think I 
 
 understand my daughter. No, no, it is a trifling 
 
 sentiment that will soon leave her memory. 
 Sir William. — I never encouraged her to feel more, or 
 
 indeed to be anything but friendly to Lord 
 
 Ravenswood. 
 Lady Ashton. — No great mischief is done yet ; and if 
 
 you will leave Lucy to me all will be well. 
 Sir William. — I do, with all my heart — these affairs of 
 
 love I cannot have the patience to understand. 
 Lady Ashton. — Nor are they intended for a man's 
 
 understanding. They are a woman's concern, 
 
 and a mother's. Come, we must find our guest. 
 
 And listen with a deaf ear to the folly he talks 
 
 of his party and their prospects. Remember, 
 
 William, you have a listener of councillors and a 
 
 receiver of private news in me too. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 2IC; 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 HADES. 
 
 At a cloud-built table with imaginary viands on it, the 
 
 spirits of Lord Ravenswood and several ancestors ; 
 
 also, the spirits Revenge, Wrath, and Lust. 
 
 Charon presides. 
 
 Lord Ravenswood. — Tell me again — some spiteful spirit 
 told me 
 My son was making league and amity, 
 Was breaking oaths to my death-bed. 
 Revenge. — All is changed ! 
 
 I was quite dispossessed of n be and banned. 
 Those glistering meek slaves to goodness, Peace, 
 Simplicity, with Honour and the like, 
 Hovered around my son and favourite ; 
 Tausrht him their looks and lanscuag^e ; showed to 
 
 him 
 Visions of future bliss and paths I knew not. 
 All was to be bright thought, and light should 
 
 shine, 
 Like that gleams from yon Heaven, round about 
 
 him. 
 I and my darkness were not once to gloom him. 
 At this moment the spirits of other ancestors, with an 
 Angel, approach the hall.
 
 220 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Charon. — Stop, spirits. Let me answer these who 
 haunt us ! 
 
 Angel. — Break up your cursed assembly. Boast not 
 here, 
 As if in Hell already, of great sin 
 That some unhappy spot of earth beholds. 
 Charon, I say, dismiss them ; touch this vision, 
 And let this table vanish, and these walls ! 
 
 Charon. — Begone, these spirits have their liberty ; 
 
 I grant them this device, and hear their speeches. 
 They may not yet be tortured with good thoughts, 
 With fierce remorse from sight of naked ill 
 They did on earth, nor with reproaches keen, 
 When they shall see afar off blessed spirits. 
 Begone, and torture not yourselves, you good, 
 And sorrowing ancestors — this is Hades ; 'tis 
 Nor Heaven nor Hell, and I am Hades' ruler. 
 
 [They vanish. 
 
 Revenge. — I say that all is changed ! 
 
 Wrath. — Bid vassal spirits 
 
 Chase, and with wickedest curses plague those 
 
 spirits, 
 Who came to mock us. Let not that angel stay 
 
 here. 
 Charon, I say — dost hear me ? 
 
 Charon. — Did'st hear me ? — 
 
 Art thou here master ? speak again advice 
 And insolent bidding, I will chase thee hence, 
 To wander lonely with but half-friend men !
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 221 
 
 Revenge.-— Have pity, Charon ; let our ears drink 
 pleasure ; 
 And give us all companionship awhile. 
 
 Charon. — Proceed ! I'm peaceful to obedience. 
 
 Revenge. — I say that now most sweet confusion's near, 
 The spirit Peace is weeping fled from him ; 
 Bloodshed may come, but death and foul disgrace 
 Is near. 
 
 Lord Ravenswood. — Dissrrace and death for which of 
 them ? 
 
 Revenge. — Death for your son ; it cannot but be so, 
 But he is one, be cheerful, they all die; 
 All meet disgrace, and die, if not of grief, 
 Of bitter shame. This must be so, if such 
 The tide of passion and its height in two, 
 At the least in two frail human hearts ; they must 
 Burst, and in bursting shatter kindred hearts. — 
 Speak, Wrath, will this tide cease but with 
 A riving of its channel ? will it cease 
 To seethe till swallowed by the gaping cleft 
 Of earthquake-death ? 
 
 JFrath. — This is your wish. 
 
 But I can see a heart, and have seen many, 
 That burn with my flame unconsumed for a life, 
 A life of generous measure ; such is this one ; 
 Mine is a spirit of strength, as well as might. 
 What tell you me of tides ? I scorch, yet burn 
 not. 
 A spirit creeps to Lust and whispers.
 
 222 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Lust. — Spirits, I'll say my speech and leave ye ; Io ! 
 I've summons from the earth, where myriad 
 
 sparks 
 Should now be blown to flames. I let them lie ; 
 But now word comes they must be blown or 
 
 perish. 
 This, then, is my delight regarding these, 
 That the pure love, which had so nearly triumphed 
 Is now quite frustrate ; so the triumph's mine ! 
 That pure example had quite shamed my arts 
 In many where I still may work at will. 
 These I may still fail once to touch ; at least 
 They will not thwart and vex me ; now I go; 
 Make me not speak more; I'm in haste to go. 
 Charon. — Vou have your liberty to pass these walls. 
 
 Come not again, but on a like occasion ! 
 Lust. — Gladly ! this fieshless place, spirits like these 
 but cheer. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Revenge. — Well, spirits, brother Wrath disputes my 
 triumph — 
 See, we both triumph ; what can exceed success 
 When partners and twin zeals each compass it ! 
 Each attain fullest ! drink, brother Wrath, to 
 
 mine, 
 I drink to your success, both being so sure. 
 Wrath. — Here, take my drink, and give me yours ; so, 
 best, 
 We mingle tempers.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 223 
 
 They drink fire, which courses through them ; the others 
 
 shudder. 
 Charon. — Enough of fiery drinks and speeches ! turn 
 your eyes 
 Where milder sights and sounds may greet you. 
 
 An army is seen marching to martial music, their 
 looks noble and defiant ; suddenly all the horrors of a 
 battle are seen, and the music changes to discord. 
 
 Children are playing in fields ; suddenly they are 
 grown men and worn en, drinking and wrangling i?2 gaudy 
 tap-rooms. 
 
 An orator is stirring a crowd to patriotism ; suddenly 
 it is dark, he is taking a bribe with one hand, and un- 
 Jastening the city gate with the other. 
 
 A preacher is seen exhorting a congregation to holi- 
 ness ; then they are seen to separate and speak poisonous 
 words, at which the hearers sicken; they handle false 
 weights, bad books, &c, they are seen stealing opinions 
 from others, putting their hands into the hearts of others 
 and crushing out tender feelings; selling the opinions 
 qftemvards as their own. 
 
 Singers and musicians are seen to make people weep ; 
 a painter exhibits pictures, on which people gaze with 
 rapture ; a poet is reciting his verses to an enthusiastic 
 audience. Then loud thunder terrifies the audience listening 
 to music, which ceases in discord ; blinding dust enters the 
 eyes of the picture-viewers, and the colours are all defaced; 
 the poet is mocked by an invisible speaker, who is heard 
 as distinctly as he is ; his audience look angrily at him,
 
 224 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 and, in going, pick up leaves of his hook, which are 
 
 found to contain words of ribaldry, excellence, impurity, 
 
 and noble feeling all mingled together. 
 
 Lord Ravenswood. — What means this, Charon, tell us ! 
 What scenes, and crowds, and thoughts, have 
 
 passed me 3 yet all seems mingled. 
 Less numerous than diverse! 
 
 Charon. — These walls I've skill to make reflect all rays 
 Or mingle all ; this heaped variety 
 Comes from the mingling of most diverse beams^ 
 More than can be on earth ; hence these were 
 
 visions 
 Earth cannot show ; and yet the types are there, 
 But separate, never joined to write this language. 
 These walls have focussed for us on that space 
 The light of Heaven's pure shine, and glare of 
 
 Hell. 
 Hence were the scenes so blent, goodness and evil 
 With such quick change supplanting each the 
 
 other. 
 It is a fable and a sport here ; but on earth 
 This is a bitter truth. Spirits, I bid ye vanish ! 
 One touch of mine must now make all dissolve. 
 I call ye not again nor serve your pleasure, 
 Till spirits like these have need of you ; you come 
 To Hades only bringers of joy — now vanish ! 
 
 The scene closes.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 225 
 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 a room in the castle. 
 
 Lady Ashton — Ailsie Gourlay. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — I say she's sick, but not so sick in 
 fancy 
 As I would have her. Can you heal the one 
 And sway the other ? 
 
 Ailsie. — Ay, madam, both. 
 
 She shall have fancies and be strong to fancy. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — You know the legends, proverbs, 
 prophecies, 
 That darken this name Ravenswood, and awe 
 From union, even friendship with them ? 
 
 Ailsie. — 'Tis said they won estates, wealth, wives alike, 
 
 By bloodshed, bold as robber chiefs, or treacherous. 
 
 The fifth of the line, the eighth, some few besides, 
 
 Have won fair high-born dames by influence 
 
 Peaceful and just ; but he, the fifth, accused 
 
 By her, poor proud one, of unfaithfulness, 
 
 Assembled on a night his paramours, 
 
 And while to music feasting with them, heard 
 
 His orders being obeyed, her soul sent forth 
 
 From an upper window, following her shrieks. 
 
 That eighth lord, strangled some say, poisoned 
 
 others, 
 
 a
 
 226 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 His sweet wife of a year ; she was livid found. 
 
 He heard her taunting him for love of gold ; 
 
 When years had gone her spirit haunted him. 
 
 He died pursuing it, and sword in hand 
 
 Had leapt a precipice. 
 Lady Ashton.— A cursed race ! you know 
 
 Doubtless a prophecy or so as fatal ? 
 Ailsie. — Ay, let none match with one of them; 'tis 
 said, 
 
 The last— and this may be the last — will woo, 
 
 Not a fair bride, not a rich, no bonny bride, 
 
 A dead bride to his arms ! think of it fair ones. 
 
 Poor murdered wives before have yet been wives ; 
 
 This last on the wedding night shall die. 
 Lady Ashton.— Hush, hush ! 
 
 You comment much too fatally ; you fright 
 
 Me who am steel to fears — yet Lucy's stubborn 
 
 It must be told, perhaps indirectly, yet 
 
 Told her as she may know what mishap waits 
 
 On any marrying with this fiendish race. 
 
 I may call them such if what you say be true. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Servant.— Madam, you bade me bring all letters to you. 
 
 Here's one was given me to give elsewhere. 
 Lady Ashton.— You do your duty; go, and keep watch 
 still. 
 
 If any negligence lets go by any 
 
 That moment you're dismissed. 
 
 \Exit Servant.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 22/ 
 
 Lady Ashton {reading letter). — I shall stay two 
 months— I then must go to France. But let 
 me hear from you, though I cannot see you. 
 The bearer of this is faithful to us, you can send 
 by him. 
 
 (Aside.) So now we know your tactics, noble lord. 
 She shall not answer you, or she may write, 
 As she has written, never shall it reach you. 
 
 (Aloud.) You know your part, Dame Gourlay: when I 
 call 
 Come to my daughter's chamber. I must leave 
 you. [Exit Lady Ashton. 
 
 Ailsie. — I would not second you so willingly, 
 
 Press on your daughter cruel fears like these, 
 Were I not, hated though I am, and praised 
 As you, great lady, may be, far'your better 
 Where mother-feeling's talked of. Can I but 
 Make this weak thing, her daughter, weaker still. 
 Ev'n then Laird Hayston marries her, but she, 
 Her beauty gone with health and power of mind, 
 Will never rival my strong daughter's beauties ; 
 My daughter's not enslaved or banished, keeping- 
 Still her old place in this Laird Hayston's love — 
 He promised her 't should be so ; but this plan, 
 And my skill here, shall make that promise sure. 
 This is the worst — it may be he'll not wed her. 
 
 [Exit. 
 End of Act IV.
 
 228 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 ACT V. SCENE J. 
 
 calais: a hill-side near the harbour. 
 
 Ravenswood. 
 
 Here let me rest and meditate — how soon 
 
 Wafted from Scotland I tread foreign shores ! 
 
 Hail to thee, land dearer to me than mine ! 
 
 Welcome, ye strangers, and your language to me. 
 
 But, O ye land of glory, welcome more ! 
 
 Terror of battles, honour with death-wounds 
 bought, 
 
 Thanks from the heart-sore and life-desperate for 
 
 Moments when life 'midst death blazes or dies too! 
 
 See, with this sword I'll teach my sinking heart 
 
 Strongly once more to beat, the smouldering fire 
 
 To brighten and flash forth from my eyes, or 
 learn 
 
 What peace is with the honoured lying dead. 
 Two French soldiers pass by. 
 1st. — Qui est ce monsieur-la ? mais qu"il est morne ! 
 2nd. — C'estun diable anglais 5 il est maintenant triste. 
 
 Savez-vous pourquoi ? Parce qu'il n'est pas ivre- 
 mort. [lvres. 
 
 Tous les anglais sont tristes quand ils ne sont pas
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 229 
 
 1st. — Sans doute il medite de faire le suicide. 
 
 2nd. — Interromprons-nous ses mechantes meditations. 
 He! bon-jour, monsieur ! 
 
 Ravens wood. — Good day, friends. Where is your 
 general ? 
 
 15/. — Allons-nous en; il ne parle pas francais. 
 
 2nd. — Adieu, monsieur. 
 
 [Exeunt soldiers. 
 
 Ravensivood. — I could not answer them; my mother's 
 tongue 
 Clings to me ; ah ! and more than speech will 
 
 cling. 
 Can I forget her ? How my heart still yearns ! 
 'Twas wicked folly to forsake revenge 
 So just, so solemnly inherited ; 
 But 'twas for her ; I had a heart for love ; 
 And she was beautiful and gentle too. 
 I felt in Paradise beneath her eyes, 
 And hearing music float from her dear lips 
 I've dreamt of golden peace that poets sing — 
 What Eden-bliss our innocence would know ! 
 Was not^the prophecy of gentle vows 
 A whispered fragrance round us ? Have I not 
 Symbols her fingers pledged with to all time ? 
 Has she not mine ? Oh, this was then a dream, 
 Or faith was her mere jest of acted faith. 
 She would not answer now, would meet my eyes 
 And wonder feign to see mine speak of love, 
 Whose cold heart felt it never — can this be ?
 
 23O DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Was that look false, that trembling tear-drop false, 
 That tone which thrilled me, and those artless 
 
 words, 
 Could they be false ? Oh, how if she poor deer, 
 Poor trembling fawn be pent in that retreat 
 By murderous threats without. Her guardians are, 
 By cruel pride possessed, to devils turned ; 
 If feeling thwart it, kindness is nardness to them. 
 How can this poor soft soul of hers oppose 
 Devilry kindness-veiled — they force on her 
 This man their love for her, not her love, chooses. 
 Is not this murdering kindly, sweetly poisoning 
 Feeling and truth ? O deadly foes to truth, 
 Hateful earth-dwellers to the pure good spirits 
 Who look on evil weeping that runs its course ! 
 Yet stay, you Lucy tempt their wickedness ; 
 Did not my messages of agony 
 Spur you to one brief answer ? Could you not 
 Face for one moment terror, to assure 
 Him who endured dark doubtful loneliness ? 
 Whose heart sank for your cheering ; should I now 
 Speak to your face this charge, would not shame 
 
 flush vou ? 
 I cannot see this shame, thinking I see her, 
 Or give her face dishonour — who can tell ? 
 Some chance may have waylaid those messages, 
 My posts forgot their preciousness and gave not 
 The words I sent. To hold such straws ! they 
 
 were
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 23 I 
 
 Not one but fifty. Yet I'll see this truth. 
 For one day, but for one, I will return, 
 And face the truth and her and all of hers, 
 Meeting their frowns, pierced by her words and 
 
 looks ; 
 This done, I will return to serve despair, 
 Till welcome death shall hide me in the grave. 
 Enter the Young Chevalier, Charles Edward 
 Stuart, an officer, a sergeant, and attendants. 
 Officer. — Your Highness will embark a week from now ; 
 All is prepared ; the force we shall have with us 
 May laugh at Sir John Cope's. But better still, 
 We may evade and pass him in the Lothians, 
 Going with unabated strength and forces, 
 Where no troops face us, south to England's heart. 
 Charles Edward. — Will Sir John Cope so suffer it ? 
 ■Officer. — He is reported 
 
 An over-cautious leader, slow to move ; 
 His age would promise this. Then, marking 
 
 here, 
 This landing-place is near — Hist! who is yonder? 
 Speak to him, sergeant. 
 
 Ravenswood comes forward. 
 Charles Edward. — You have a sword, sir. Are you 
 serving us ? 
 We have strange faces hourly with us. You are 
 English. 
 Ravenswood. — A Scotchman, sir, who offers you his 
 service.
 
 232 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Charles Edward— My service is a desperate one ; you 
 
 know me ? [No, 
 
 Ravenswood. — Ira glad of it. I'm desperate too, sir. 
 
 I know you not. 
 Ckarles Edward. — You have a noble mien, a Scotch- 
 man r — 
 Do you support or not the government ? 
 Ravenswood. — This government has robbed me and 
 my father, 
 And given estates of ours that centuries 
 Have still seen ours to its mere parasite. 
 We fought and lost our blood then lost our lands, 
 For what ? for thinking James, the crowned king, 
 Should not submit to lose his lawful rights, 
 Divine and just. This cheating herd robbed him 
 And next robbed us — you see, sir, how I love 
 them. 
 Charles Edward.— A noble spirit ! Come, sir, serve 
 with me, 
 And if success should bless me, I here promise 
 All those estates shall yet be yours — you wonder. 
 Come to that house and meet my friends, and 
 
 join us. 
 You shall hear gladly whom you serve, a prince 
 Who feels a pride in honouring such as you. 
 
 {Exeunt,
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 233 
 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Hayston — Lucy — Lady Ashton. 
 
 Hayston. — You answer not, young lady, dear Miss 
 Ashton. 
 Pardon uncouthness that is honesty, 
 Blunt, not untender, I would say I love, 
 That I will love for life and learn each day 
 To make you happier and to please you more. 
 Can you accept and love me for this wish ? 
 I cannot speak it better. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — Lucy, dearest, speak ; 
 
 This gentleman has offered you dear love ; 
 He is our dear friend, mine, your father's too 5 
 We've told him you have promised to be guided 
 By what we wish for you ; and him we wish 
 To be our son, your husband. Speak, my child, 
 It is for you to answer. 
 
 Lucy. — Madam, I promised this, 
 
 This strict submission to you on condition, 
 And not so as you say. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — She means, Laird Hayston, 
 
 The promise that intriguer got from her 
 Is not renounced by him in answer to 
 Requests she might recall it. Lucy, dear, 
 His silence, whom you made this promise to
 
 234 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Written and signed, implies renouncement by 
 him ; 
 
 You must not look for more ; he is ashamed 
 
 To answer openly ; but this is answer. 
 Lucy. — He may yet answer it; no time has passed 
 
 Sufficient for his answer. 
 Lady Ashton. Not sufficient ? 
 
 Lucy. — No ; not by full a week since my last went. 
 Lady Ashton. — Have you then sent? 
 Lucy. — Ay, madam, lately sent ! 
 
 Lady Ashton. — What meant you, fool ; to drag 
 dishonour on you ? 
 
 Undutif ul, weak thing ! Now, dearest Lucy, 
 
 How could you do this ? 
 Hayston. — Miss Ashton's right ; 
 
 And would I had delivered what she sent ! 
 
 I would have fetched it from him. 
 Lady Ashton. — Must we wait 
 
 Still till your messages are answered ? 
 
 Will you send new ones weekly, and refuse 
 
 To answer this approved friend ? Must his love 
 
 Be thrust aside while thus you trifle ? 
 Lucy. — Spare me ! 
 
 I will abide by this one, in one week, 
 
 By which time he could answer ; if he should not 
 
 I will obey you all. 
 Hays ton. — Nay, lady, though 1 long 
 
 To see you head my table with your graces, 
 
 I will postpone this longer than you say.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 235 
 
 You act most honourably by this man, 
 
 And teach right feeling to us ; then be braver, 
 
 Demand more time. I give you three, not one 
 
 week ; 
 Reckon delays and accidents of travel 
 As all excuses for him ; but if then, 
 When thrice his shortest sending-time be passed, 
 You hear not from him, I shall claim you mine, 
 That day, St. Jude's day, you shall marry me. 
 
 Lucy — Sir, you are generous. I have said I shall j 
 But till that day I must not speak to you, 
 And you will kindly cease to question me. 
 
 Hayston. — Till that day you are not to see or hear me. 
 I take my leave at once. Till then, farewell, 
 Dear bride in prospect ! 
 
 [Kisses her, and going. 
 
 Lady Ashton. — You'll speak with William, Laird, 
 before you leave. 
 We must have conference on this together. 
 When next we meet 'twill be to sign and seal. 
 
 [Exeunt Hayston and Lady Ashton. 
 
 Lucy. — To sign and seal — to seal my coffin lid ! 
 How am I pressed to this ! why, gallant lord, 
 Whose speech was music speaking of the theme 
 This boor in love untunes — why have you left 
 Her now so needing and so drooping for 
 One kind refreshing word, with desert-silence 
 To answer cries and listenings? Oh, your beauty 
 And flow of musical speech is cruel art.
 
 236 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Your ancestors were lawless lovers to 
 Maiden and wife alike, you are their son. 
 You guess my sufferings, who knew my love — 
 Is this the love you spoke of strong as death ? 
 That knows my happiness is dying, brings 
 No life to raise it. Oh, he mocks my love. 
 He sued for it, then scorned it, thinking love 
 That woman gave a^toy; so many think it; 
 Or spurred on by" revenge he joyed to bruise it. 
 No, I'll not think so of him ; kind he is, 
 But to himself first; he would grieve to see, 
 And therefore looks not where pain answers him. 
 He fain would idly pass by pain in me 
 To rouse it in another. 'Tis man's pride. 
 Yea, taunt us, call our sex weak, worthless but 
 For your mere toy and pleasure, to be ta'en 
 Or left as chance comes, yet are women great, 
 And men the worthless ones if truth be worth. 
 Women are slow to vow, and pressed to vows 
 May break them ; but let her own heart propose 
 Gently its own true vow — on that rich soil 
 A sweet immortal flower braves all storms, 
 And blooms when storms are past in heaven, the 
 
 home 
 Of that so precious birth — poor man and earth, 
 Unworthy ye to hold it ! Blush, O man, 
 Whose shows and lying words receive the love 
 Of her who undeceived yet loves ; your shows 
 Deceive poor artless maidens ; but their love
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 237 
 
 Humbles itself to love still ; then smile on. 
 It is your refuge from a death of shame 
 To say that our great love is but your due. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 THE SEMBLANCE OF A MOONLIT RUIN, BUILT OF 
 
 CLOUDS, AND OVER THE SPOT WHERE ASHTON 
 
 MANOR IS SITUATED. 
 
 TIME : MIDNIGHT FOLLOWING ST. JUDE'S DAY. 
 
 Standing in the arch 'of a window, Destruction. 
 Around him on the earthy stone-strewn floor, Famine, 
 Discord, Malice, Swearing, Drunkenness, these 
 all lighted by their own pallor. Swarming in the 
 darkness of the ruined aisles are myriad Lies, Envies, 
 False-accusings, Evil-thinkings, Hatreds, Uncleannesses, 
 Jealousies, Supplantings, Defamings. 
 
 Destruction. — What, Malice ? say't again ! each detail 
 twice ! 
 Thou sharpest-sighted spirit, feast our ears ; 
 What, he already stabbed ! — to the heart did'st 
 say ? 
 Malice. — Lo, he has not had time to shriek before —
 
 238 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 There now the breath's all from him, and the 
 
 guests 
 Are still at the dance ; all revel there, and here 
 All blood j but will she stab herself ? — she laughs - 7 
 The murderess dances with a glee, the best — 
 The youngest, maddest at the ball seem tame. 
 
 Drunkenness. — There's drinking too ! why all this talk 
 of dance ? — 
 I can see much deep drinking ! 
 
 Famine. — But no want — 
 
 Why was I summoned ? 'tis to mock my power — 
 
 Discord.— Ay, let it perish, thou gaunt, emptying 
 might ! 
 Go, triumph not with us, or I will go, 
 Not to have my delight by selfish spleen 
 Tainted, or by your presence. 
 
 Destruction. — Spirits, peace ! 
 
 Hear wisdom first, then separate and rage. 
 Why am I here above ? why have ye sworn 
 By that oath devils keep t'obey me here ? 
 Not that I am your greater, though more wise, 
 None is more powerful of all of us, 
 But all are brothers. Opportunity 
 May come to one or other — can it make 
 That one or other powerfuller ? it comes 
 From me or him his neighbour ; we do all 
 Give opportunity and take ; and oft 
 The same is shared by two or all — what scorn, 
 And worthy puny man to raise dispute,
 
 DRAMATIC. SKETCHES. 239 
 
 To call a brave work-fellow enemy, 
 
 Or think one selfish who his utmost zeal 
 
 Plying, at farthest limit of his sphere, 
 
 Admits the zeal and sphere of him who blames ! 
 
 May not o'er this earth spot more spirits than one 
 
 Look in exultant joy ? I've seen the fire 
 
 Ye've put in your heart's place, kindle and glow, 
 
 Your gleaming sights ye twice have changed to 
 
 meteors, 
 To hear what Malice talked and see it too, 
 Quickened by him. I too — ye saw me spread 
 Till all this arch was filled. Now, Discord, speak, 
 How relish you this spectacle? — see there ! 
 They dance and she sits muttering — what peace ! 
 But with the light, what terror ! 
 Discord. — King and brother, 
 
 I'm bound by oath to call you wise, yet now 
 I'll think myself yet wiser — what is this ? 
 Your opportunity not mine — see there ! 
 It is all death, end both to strife and peace ! — 
 While these fierce enemies and severed friends, 
 These lovers plagued and parted to my wish — 
 While both were well, not mad or dead, I say, 
 The sweetest tumult, jangling, tuneless noise, 
 Came to my ears, my eyes could see all thoughts 
 So mingled-maddening, yet not making mad ; 
 No reason or health-quailing, but as much 
 Of wretched variance as the heart of man, 
 Or that spot earth can hold.
 
 24O DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Swearing. — I so think, 
 
 And by hell's burning hold that all is here 
 Mere death, no lusty life of sin confused. 
 Destruction. — O weak short-sighted spirits, I can urge, 
 But not bring home true wisdom 3 speak no more ! 
 Ay, cast your lightnings feller than had tumbled 
 A towered height like this unruined, real. 
 Ye meet deserved scorn. I now command 
 Ye all with this pretence remove and sway 
 Above the spot where Ravenswood lies hid — 
 His horse, and gallantry, and beauty, all 
 Quenched in the shifting traceless sand. 
 They remove midway. 
 Malice. — 'Tis what ? 
 
 Not lightning now, no redness, purest light — 
 Tell me what's this, wise spirit ? — I must fly. 
 Destruction. — And I, too, all of us by some great power 
 Are now constrained ; the oath no longer binds. 
 The ruin changes to a sunlighted cathedral built of 
 clouds and over the same spot; from the windows, 
 which are painted, representations of saints and holy 
 forms seem to be invoking blessing. Enter Truth, 
 Concord, Fame, Charity. These all clothed as in 
 glistening sunny cloud. Graces and cherubs fill the 
 aisles in white apparel. Far up a kind of vista, St. Cecilia 
 is touching the notes of an organ, from which echoing 
 music rolls, and the cherubs sing reply. Above all are 
 heard the speeches of the four, sounding trumpet-like 
 
 and melodious.
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 24 I 
 
 Truth. — Look not below, sweet sisters, look above, 
 Upon that home to which they shall ascend 
 Whose love was purer than the earth can know — 
 As pure as zealous 5 but that flame must be 
 Not held in earthly forms ; it cannot dwell 
 With breath and hours on earth, but must aspire. 
 How then could two such mingle ? Both must 
 
 flee, 
 But separate, to the blest abodes to clothe 
 Immortal spirit, spirit white and pure 
 In deathless free unhindering body ; none 
 Will there deny its great authority 5 
 None will pretend a bar to union there. 
 All wealth, and power, and might, and liberty, 
 Are there for each ; nor can between the two 
 Any weak jealousy or fearfulness, 
 One frail suspicion, or dark shadow come ; 
 For all is clear strong thought and feeling sure, 
 Gazing with undimmed eyes, unweighted heart, 
 A mind untrammeled, and untainted thought 5 
 The object looked on, loved, as beautiful, 
 As clear, and as delightful ; all is joy; 
 The faithful lover and the loved one kiss 
 With thoughts as bright as faces 5 each one sees 
 His, her idea reflected, summing all 
 In each sweet moment 5 what he long has loved 
 In hope, and deeply hidden in his heart, 
 She offers him ; what she had whispering hid, 
 Not spoken and scarce thought, but trembling felt, 
 
 R
 
 24a DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 He gives eye, ear, and mind ; their beauty is 
 Of soul and substance, grace in thought and look ; 
 Their love is both an act and essence ; now 
 A thrill of eloquence and now a mood. 
 
 Fame. — Upon the earth their memory shall live, 
 
 And add a fragrance to the sweetest thoughts 5 
 Their story shall win entrance to the soul, 
 As melody sinks in attentive ears : 
 For not from anger shouting glory came 
 Their pleading to me, from no battle-tield, 
 Where bravery had wrong and madness wed 3 
 But from the depths of pure despairing hearts, 
 By worldly powers o'er-mastered, wrongly slain ; 
 The might of circumstance, of custom's sway, 
 Wielded by servants of their tyranny. 
 The cry was to these noble ones a knell, 
 But not to honour, not to lofty praise ; 
 The funeral chant of the mere body is 
 The song of triumph for their body's deed. 
 For all the good it sings of conquering souls ; 
 For these of earthly deeds besides, that first 
 Their great souls though imprisoned prompted. 
 
 Charity. — Frailty has mingled with much nobleness, 
 Else had they not been human ; but their names, 
 So much has sweet and noble grace come round 
 
 them, 
 Shall waken no reproach. They have so lived 
 As to be mourned in death, to meet renown, 
 Which sweet and happy lives had missed ; by death
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 243 
 
 They have been crowned to pattern noble lite, 
 For death has shown their strength of love ; how 
 
 strong 
 The sweetest, and the scorned by many, bond 
 Of simple pure souls may be — trust it, ye 
 Who cling yet trembling to It 5 and a thought 
 How strong, unworldly, unsucceeding love, 
 So checked and hindered, may be, must inspire 
 The sternest, most unwise. Now see, what 
 
 power 
 In sweetness, that's no hardness, may be found ! 
 See, from what earth is, losing such as these ! 
 It would be poorer; I should mourn for it 
 That now has lost such ; but their memory 
 Will be a light and precious gift to shine, 
 To gild, to guide, and gladden as a sun. 
 Their lives on earth, though sweet and dear to 
 
 earth, 
 Had been a humble cheering taper-light, 
 Sent from their homes on darkness ; now day- 
 brightness, 
 They beam forth to us from the spirit world. 
 Concord. — Though strife may surge on earth, yet while 
 a sky 
 Of calm blue ether stretches over it, 
 And while eternity is heir to time, 
 The rule unbroken will be peace, the end 
 A peace and rest. Some hours of every day, 
 Days of each year, and years of centuries,
 
 244 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
 By wars within, without, of thought and act, 
 
 Must still be troubled ; but the powers of wrath, 
 
 Of tumult and of trouble are of time ; 
 
 The spirits of great peace, of rest and joy, 
 
 Of love and amity, eternal. Hence 
 
 The might their whispers give to minds like these. 
 
 The music they inspired was as a march 
 
 To which these hearts beat strongly, and could lift 
 
 Their spirit to this beauty ; 'twas a march 
 
 And inspiration ; what they saw was great 
 
 And great their brave approach — that poise and 
 
 height 
 They were down flung from ; they had else not 
 
 been 
 Mortals upon this earth, nor now would soar 
 Above earth's highest to the height of heaven. 
 
 The music grows fainter and the vision gradually fades. 
 
 Printed by H. Blacklock & Co., Allen Street, Goswell Road, E.C.
 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 73, line 13, for sin. read sin, 
 
 ,, 157, „ 21, ,, conveyed it. „ conveyed it

 
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