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BELLS AND 
 POMEGRANATES 
 
 (first series) 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 WITH PREFACE AND NOTES 
 BY THOMAS J. WISE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED 
 
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 BELLS AND POMEGRANATES 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2008 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/bellspomegranateOObrowricli 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface 
 
 Chronology of Robert Browning . 
 
 List of Works dealing with the 
 Writings of Robert Browning. 
 
 Life and 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vii 
 
 PippA Passes 
 
 King Victor and King Charles 
 
 Dramatic Lyrics : 
 Cavalier Tunes — 
 
 I. Marching A.long . 
 IL Give a Rouse 
 
 IIL My Wife Gertrude 
 
 Italy and France — 
 L Italy . 
 IL France 
 
 Camp and Clois' •: — 
 
 I. Camp. [French.). 
 II. Cloister. [Spanish.) 
 In a Gondola . 
 Artemis Prologui/ces . 
 Waring .... 
 
 Queer - Worship — 
 
 I. Rudel and the Lady of Tripoli 
 
 II. Cristina . 
 Madhouse Cells 
 Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr 
 The Pied Piper of Hamelin 
 
 The Return of the Druses 
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 Notes ..... 
 
 I 
 
 59 
 
 129 
 i;>i 
 
 132 
 134 
 
 140 
 
 141 
 145 
 
 158 
 
 167 
 
 168 
 171 
 
 175 
 177 
 
 189 
 
 263 
 
 321 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ALTHOUGIi his first book was published so long 
 ago as 1833 ; although some twenty or more 
 Societies have been for the past sixteen years engaged 
 in studying his works ; although for seven years he has 
 rested in his grave in Westminster Abbey, — the British 
 Public has not yet learned to know Robert Browning 
 and has hitherto neglected to place itself upon terms 
 of intimacy with the wonderful series of writings his 
 vigorous and fruitful pen has left behind. 
 
 For this neglect no excuse can in future be advanced. 
 The high price at which the works of Robert Browning 
 have so far been published, has naturally restricted to 
 a comparatively narrow circle those who have acquired 
 and read them. The expiration of the copyrights of 
 a large proportion of the poems has made it possible 
 for these earHer books to be issued in a cheap and 
 handy form, such as will place them v*'ithin the reach of 
 all whose taste inclines towards themi. The mass of 
 Browning's work offers itself readily for division into 
 three clearly defined periods, and it is matter for con- 
 gratulation that the product of the first period, that 
 which terminated in 1864 with the publication of 
 '•' Dramatis Personce," embraces the greater part of 
 
 vii b 
 
Preface. 
 
 Browning's poetry which is most calculated to become 
 generally admired, and to take a firm and lasting hold 
 upon popular appreciation. 
 
 The two charges most frequently and most success- 
 fully brought against the poetry of Robert Browning 
 are, firstly, obscurity of thought^ and, secondly, rough- 
 ness of execution. That these charges are amply justified 
 cannot be gainsaid. But, upon the other hand, it is 
 also a fact beyond reasonable dispute that these faults 
 of mannerism, grave though they be, are more than 
 amply atoned for by the wealth of bright and vivid 
 poetry to be found, mainly, in the earlier volumes, 
 almost hidden and buried by the bulk and weight of 
 the heavier work. 
 
 With the exception of " Prospice " (from " Dramatis 
 Personas''), and some half dozen of the pieces contained 
 in the two volumes of " Men and Women," no selection 
 could possibly be made more adapted to the perusal of 
 a reader approaching for the first time the writings of 
 Robert Browning, than the series of poems and plays 
 united under the general title of " Bells and Pome- 
 granates."' Nowhere is Browning's lyrical faculty more 
 
 ^ This happy title was certainly a poetic inspiration. It is 
 thus explained by the poet in a Note appended to the eightli (the 
 final) number : 
 
 '* Here ends my first Series of ' Bells and Pomegranates,' and 
 I take the opportunity of explaining, in reply to inquiries, that I 
 only meant by that title to indicate an endeavour towards some- 
 thing like an alternation, or mixture, of music with discoursing, 
 sound with sense, poetry with thought ; which looks ambitiou.-, 
 thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred. It is little to the 
 purpose, that such) is actually one of the most familiar of the 
 many Rabbinical (and Patristic) acceptations of the phrase ; 
 because I confess that, letting authority alone, I supposed the 
 
 viii 
 
Preface. 
 
 pronounced than in the ringing " Cavalier Tunes ; " 
 nowhere is his earnest tenderness more apparent than 
 in " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon," or " Colombe's Birth- 
 day." Where can sweeter word-music be found than in 
 "The Flower's Name" or "In a Gondola?" Consider- 
 ing how vastly its circulation has been hindered by the 
 necessary restrictions of copyright, is there any English 
 poem published within the last fifty years more widely 
 known than "The Pied Piper of Hamelin?" 
 
 The collection of " Bells and Pomegranates " was 
 originally published by Edward Moxon in eight thin 
 paper-wrappered pamphlets, the total price of the eight 
 amounting to ten shillings. As might naturally be 
 expected, by far the larger proportion of these slender 
 pamphlets have now ceased to exist, and to gather 
 together a complete set of them is a matter of extreme 
 difficulty. Thus they have come to be numbered 
 among the collector's treasures. But to the student 
 they are as welcome as they are to the collector. 
 Browning never rested from pohshing and retouching 
 these his earlier, and favourite works ; and were one 
 to read carefully " Pippa Passes," for example, as it 
 appeared in 1841, and then turn to the same work as 
 it stands in its final form, whole sections of the poem- 
 bare words, in such juxtaposition, would sufficiently convey the 
 desired meaning. ' Faith and good works ' is another fancy, for 
 instance, and perhaps no easier to arrive at : yet Giotto placed a 
 pomegranate fruit in the hand ot Dante, and Raffaelle crowned 
 his Theology [in the ' Camera della Segnattira ') with blossoms of 
 the same ; as if the Bellari and Vasari would be sure to come 
 after, and explain that it was merely ' simbolo delle buone opere 
 — il quale Pomogranato fu pero usato nelle vesti del Pontefice 
 oppresso gli Ebrei.' — R. B." 
 
 ix 
 
Preface. 
 
 play would be found to have been altered almost past 
 recognition. So long and so lovingly did the poet 
 brood over his nestling before he allowed himself to 
 leave it to its flight. 
 
 It may therefore be confidently anticipated that the 
 present re-issue of " Bells and Pomegranates " will 
 prove as acceptable to the old " Browningite " as it will 
 to the reader who through its pages makes for the first 
 time an acquaintance with the author of " The Ring 
 and the Book." The former will now have access to 
 the original text, and will be enabled to contrast it 
 with the revised reading, the whole of the poems and 
 plays having been printed precisely from the first 
 edition of 1841-46. 
 
 Thomas J. Wise. 
 
CHRONOLOGY OF ROBERT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 Robert Browning born in Southampton Street, Peckham, 
 
 7th May 1812 
 Attended lectures at University College, Gower Street 1829-30 
 
 Published " Pauline " 1833 
 
 Visited St. Petersburg ....... 1833 
 
 First visited Italy 1833 
 
 Published "Paracelsus" 1835 
 
 "Straftbrd" . . . . . . 1837 
 
 „ "Sordello'' ....... 1840 
 
 ,, "Bells and Pomegranates" No. i (" Pippa 
 
 Passes ") 1841 
 
 Published "Bells and Pomegranates," No. 2 ("King 
 
 Victor and King Charles ") ..... 1042 
 Published "Bells and Pomegranates," No. 3 ("Dramatic 
 
 Lyrics") 1842 
 
 Published "Bells and Pomegranates," No. 4 ("The Return 
 
 of the Druses ") 1843 
 
 Published " Bells and Pomegranates," No. 5 ("A Blot in 
 
 the 'Scutcheon ") 1843 
 
 Published " Bells and Pomegranates," No. 6 (" Colombe's 
 
 Birthday" 1844 
 
 Published " Bells and Pomegranates," No. 7 ("Dramatic 
 
 Romances and Lyrics ") . . . . . , 1845 
 Published " Bells and Pomegranates," No. S ("Luria," 
 
 and " A Soul's Tragedy ") 1846 
 
 Married Elizabeth Barrett Barrett . 12th SeptemlDer 1846 
 
 Robert Wiedemann Barrett Browning born 9th March 1849 
 
 Published " Christmas Eve and Easter Day" . , . 1850 
 
 xi 
 
Chronology of Robert Browning. 
 
 Printed privately "Cleon" 1855 
 
 „ „ " The Statue and the Bust " . . 1855 
 
 Published " Men and Women " 1856 
 
 Mrs. Browning died at Casa Guidi , . 29th June 1861 
 
 Printed privately " Gold Hair " 1864 
 
 Published " Dramatis Personre " 1864 
 
 „ " The Ring and the Book " (vols. i. and ii.) . 1868 
 
 ,, *' The Ring and the Book " (vols. iii. and iv.) 1869 
 
 „ " Balaustion's Adventure " .... 1871 
 
 „ * ' Fifine at the Fair " 1872 
 
 „ " Red-Cotton Night-Cap Country " . .1873 
 
 ,, " Aristophanes' Apology " . . . . 1875 
 
 „ " The Inn Album " 1875 
 
 „ "Pacchiavotto" 1876 
 
 ,, " The Agamemnon of .^schylus " . . . 1877 
 
 ,, "La Saisiaz : The Tvi'o Poets of Crosic "' . 1878 
 
 „ " Dramatic Idylls " (First Series) . . . 1879 
 
 ,, •' Dramatic Idylls" (Second Series) . . 1880 
 
 The Browning Society founded 1881 
 
 Published "Jocoseria" 1883 
 
 „ "Ferishtah's Fancies" 1884 
 
 ,, " Parleyings with certain People of Importance 
 
 in their Day 1887 
 
 Published "Asolando" (post dated 1890) . . . 1889 
 
 Died at Asolo 12th December 1889 
 
 Interred in Westminster Abbey . .31st December 1889 
 ** Prose Life of Strafford " (mainly by John Forster) 
 Attributed to Browning by Dr. F. J. Furnivall, and 
 
 republished • 1S92 
 
 List of Works dealing with the Life and Writings 
 OF Robert Browning. 
 
 (i.) Biography. 
 "Life of Robert Browning." By William Sharp. 8vo. 1890 
 * Life and Letters of Robert Browning." By Mrs. 
 
 Sutherland Orr. 8vo. .... 1891 
 
 XII 
 
Browningana. 
 
 (ii.) Bibliography. 
 " A Bibliography of Robert Browning " (1833-18S1). 
 
 By Dr. F. J. Furnivall. 8vo i88l 
 
 [Forming a portion of Part I. of " The Browning Society's 
 
 Papers. "] 
 "A Complete Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and 
 
 Verse of Robert Browning." By Thomas J. Wise. 
 
 8vo 1897 
 
 (iii.) Criticism. 
 "Essays on Robert Browning's Poetry." By John T. 
 
 Nettleship. 8vo 1868 
 
 **Balaustion's Adventure." By H. Buxton Forman. 8vo. 1872 
 "Browning's Women." By Mary E. Burt. 8vo. . . 1877 
 " Sordello, a Story from Robert Browning." By Frederick 
 
 May Holland. 8vo 1881 
 
 ' ' The Browning Society's Papers " ( 1 88 1 - 1 896). Thirteen 
 
 Parts. 8vo 1896 
 
 '* Stories from Browning." By Frederick May Holland. 
 
 8vo 1882 
 
 *' Robert Browning. The Thoughts of a Poet on Art 
 
 and Faith." By Howard S. Pearson. 4to. . . 1885 
 *' A Handbook to the Works of Robert Browning." By 
 
 Mrs. Sutherland Orr. 8vo 1885 
 
 [Several times reprinted, with revisions. ] 
 *' Miss Alma Murray's ' Constance ' in Robert Browning's 
 
 ' In a Balcony.'" By B. L. Moseley, LL.B. 8vo. . x38S 
 "Sordello's Story, retold in Prose." By Annie Wall. 
 
 8vo , . 3 8 
 
 " An Introduction to the Study of Robert Browning's 
 
 Poetry." By Hiram Corson, LL.D. 8vo. . . iSS 
 " Robert Browning's Poetry : Outline Studies." Published 
 
 for the Chicago Browning Society. 8vo. ' . 1886 
 
 [A Hmited number of copies were placed on sale in Lotidon.'] 
 *' Sordello : A History and a Poem." By Caroline H. 
 
 Dall. 8vo ' . . . 1S86 
 
 " An Introduction to the Study of Browninc^." By Arthur 
 
 Symons. 8vo. ....... 1886 
 
 '■ Studies in the Poetry of Robert Browning." By James 
 
 Fctheringham. 8vo 18S7 
 
 xiii 
 
Browningana. 
 
 " A Sequence of Sonneis on the Death of Robert BroMni- 
 
 ing." By Algernon Charles Swinburne. 4to. . , 1890 
 *' Robert Browning : Chief Poet of the Age. " By William 
 
 G. Kingsland. 8vo 1 890 
 
 •• Robert Browning : Chief Poet of the Age. New 
 Edition, with Biographical and other Additions. ' 
 
 By William G. Kingsland. 8vo 1 890 
 
 ** Sordello. An Outline Analysis of Mr. Browning's 
 
 Poem." By Jeanie Morrison. 8vo. . . . 1889 
 ■'Robert Browning." By Louise Manning Hodgkins. 
 
 8vo 1889 
 
 ^'Robert Browning. Essays and Thoughts." By John 
 
 T. Nettleship. 8vo 1890 
 
 '' Robert Browning Personalia. " By Edmund Gosse. 
 
 8vo 1890 
 
 ** Robert Browning." By Gerald H. Randall. Svo. . 1890 
 "Browning's Message to his Time." By Edward 
 
 Berdoe. Svo. 1890 
 
 *' Robert Browning and the Drama " By Waller Fairfax. 
 
 Svo 1S91 
 
 "A Primer on Browning." By Mary F, Wilson. 8v.t. . 1891 
 "Browning's Criticism of Life.'* By William F. Revell. 
 
 Svo 1892 
 
 *'0f ' Fifine at the Fair,' 'Christmas Eve and Easter 
 Day,' and other of Browning's Poems." By Jeanie 
 Morrison. Svo. ....... 1892 
 
 " The Browning Cyclopaedia. " By Edward Berdoe. Svo. 1892 
 " Browning Studies." Edited by Edward Berdoe. Svo. 1895 
 "Browning and the Christian Faith." By Edward 
 
 Berdoe. Svo, 1896 
 
 **An Introduction to Robert Browning." By Bancroft 
 
 Cooke. Svo [No Date.'\ 
 
 XIV 
 
PIPPA PASSES. 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Neiv Year's Day at Asolo in the Trevisan. A large ^ 
 mean, airy Chamber. A girl, Pippa, from the 
 silk-mills, springing out of bed. 
 
 pwAY! 
 
 J^y Faster and more fast 
 
 O'er night's brim day boils at last ; 
 
 Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 
 
 Where spurting and supprest it lay — 
 
 For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
 
 Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
 
 Of eastern cloud an hour away — 
 
 But. forth one wavelet then another curled, 
 
 Till the whole sunrise., not to be supprest, 
 
 Rose-reddened, and its seething breast 
 
 Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the 
 
 world. 
 Day, if I waste a wavelet of thee, 
 Aught of my twelve-hours' treasure — 
 One of thy gazes, one of thy glances, 
 (Grants thou art bound to, gifts above measure,) 
 One of thy choices, one of thy chances, 
 (Tasks God imposed thee, freaks at thy pleasure,) 
 Day, if I waste such labour or leisure 
 
 3 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Shame betide Asolo, mischief to me ! 
 
 But in turn, Day, treat me not 
 
 As happy tribes — so happy tribes ! who live 
 
 At hand — the common, other creatures' lot — 
 
 Ready to take when thou wilt give, 
 
 Prepared to pass what thou refusest ; 
 
 Day, 'tis but Pippa thou ill-usest 
 
 If thou prove sullen, me, whose old year's sorrow 
 
 Who except thee can chase before to-morrow, 
 
 Seest thou, my day ? Pippa's — who mean to borrow 
 
 Only of thee strength against new year's sorrow : 
 
 For let thy morning scowl on that superb 
 
 Great haughty Ottima — can scowl disturb 
 
 Her Sebald's homage? And if noon shed gloom 
 
 O'er Jules and Phene — what care bride and groom 
 
 Save for their dear selves ? Then, obscure thy eve 
 
 With mist — will Luigi and Madonna grieve 
 
 — The mother and the child — unmatched, forsooth, 
 
 She in her age as Luigi in his youth. 
 
 For true content ? And once again, outbreak 
 
 In storm at night on Monsignor the)' make 
 
 Such stir to-day about, who foregoes Rome 
 
 To visit Asolo, his brother's home. 
 
 And say there masses proper to release 
 
 The soul from pain — what storm dares hurt that 
 
 peace ? 
 But Pippa — just one such mischance would spoil, 
 Bethink thee, utterly next twelvemonth's toil 
 At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil ! 
 
 And here am I letting time slip for nought 
 You fool-hardy sunbeam — caught 
 
 4 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 With a single splash from my ewer ! 
 
 You that mocked the best pursuer, 
 
 Was my basin over-deep ? 
 
 One splash of water ruins you asleep 
 
 And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits 
 
 Wheeling and counterwheeling, 
 
 Reeling, crippled beyond healing — 
 
 Grow together on the ceiling, 
 
 That will task your wits ! 
 
 Whoever it was first quenched fire hoped to see 
 
 Morsel after morsel flee 
 
 As merrily, 
 
 As giddily . . . what lights he on — 
 
 Where settles himself the cripple ? 
 
 Oh never surely blown, my martagon ? 
 
 New-blown, though ! — ruddy as a nipple, 
 
 Plump as the flesh bunch on some Turk bird's poll ! 
 
 Be sure if corals, blanching 'neath the ripple 
 
 Of ocean, bud there, — fairies watch unroll 
 
 Such turban flowers . . I say, such lamps disperse 
 
 Thick red flame thro' that dusk green universe ! 
 
 Queen of thee, floweret, 
 
 Each fleshy blossom 
 
 Keep I not, safer 
 
 Than leaves that embower it 
 
 Or shells that embosom, 
 
 From weevil and chafer ? 
 
 Laugh thro' my pane then, solicit the bee, 
 
 Gibe him, be sure, and in midst of thy glee 
 
 Worship me ! 
 
 Worship whom else ? for am I not this Day 
 
 5 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Whate'er I please ? Who shall I seem to-day ? 
 Morn, Noon, Eve, Night — how must I spend my Day? 
 
 Up the hill-side, thro' the morning. 
 
 Love me as I love ! 
 
 I am Ottima, take warning. 
 
 And the gardens, and stone house above, 
 
 And other house for shrubs, all glass in front, 
 
 Are mine, and Sebald steals as he is wont 
 
 To court me, and old Luca yet reposes. 
 
 And therefore till the shrub-house door uncloses 
 
 I . . . what now ? give abundant cause for prate 
 
 Of me (that 's Ottima) — too bold of late. 
 
 By far too confident she'll still face down 
 
 The spitefullest of talkers in our town — 
 
 How we talk in the little town below ! 
 
 But love, love, love, there 's better love I know ! 
 This love 's only day's first offer — 
 Next love shall defy the scoffer : 
 For do not bride and bridegroom sally 
 Out of Possagno church at noon ? 
 Their house looks over Orcana valley — 
 Why not be the bride as soon 
 As Ottima? I saw, myself, beside, 
 Arrive last night that bride — 
 Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash 
 Of the pale snow-pure cheek and blacker tresses 
 Than . . . not the black eyelash ; 
 A wonder she contrives those Hds no dresses 
 — So strict was she the veil 
 Should cover close her pale 
 
 6 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch, 
 Remember Jules ! — for are not such 
 Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, 
 As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature ? 
 Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, 
 Keep that foot its lady primness, 
 Let those ancles never swerve 
 From their exquisite reserve, 
 Yet have to trip along the streets like rue 
 All but naked to the knee ! 
 How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss 
 So startling as her real first infant kiss ? 
 Oh — no — not envy this ! 
 Not envy sure, for, if you gave me 
 Leave to take or to refuse 
 In earnest, do you think I'd choose 
 That sort of new love to enslave me ? 
 Mine should have lapped me round from the be- 
 ginning 
 As little fear of losing it as winning — 
 Why look you ! when at eve the pair 
 Commune inside our turret, what prevents 
 My being Luigi ? — While that mossy lair 
 Of lizards thro' the winter-time, is stirred 
 With each to each imparting sweet intents 
 For this new year, as brooding bird to bird — 
 I will be cared about, kept out of harm 
 And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm, 
 I will be Luigi ... if I only knew 
 What was my father like . . . my mother too ! 
 
 Nay, if you come to that, the greatest love of all 
 
 7 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Is God's : well then, to have God's love befall 
 Oneself as in the palace by the dome 
 Where Monsignor to-night will bless the home 
 Of his dead brother ! I, to-night at least, 
 \Vill be that holy and beloved priest. 
 
 Now wait — even I myself already ought to share 
 In that — why else should new year's hymn declare 
 
 All service ranks the same tvith God: 
 
 If now ^ as formerly he trod 
 
 Paradise^ God's presence fills 
 
 Our earthy and each but as God wills 
 
 Can work — God's puppets^ best and worsts 
 
 Are we ; there is no last norfi?'st. 
 
 Say not J a small event / Why smalll 
 Costs it more pain this thing ye call 
 A great event should come to pass 
 Than that 1 Untwine me, from the mass 
 Of deeds that make up life, one deed 
 Power shall fall short in or exceed I 
 
 And more of it, and more of it — oh, yes ! 
 So that my passing, and each happiness 
 I pass, will be alike important — prove 
 That true ! oh yes — the brother, 
 The bride, the lover, and the mother, — 
 Only to pass whom will remove — 
 Whom a mere look at half will cure 
 The Past, and help me to endure 
 The Coming ... I am just as great, no doubt, 
 
 8 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 As they ! 
 
 A pretty thing to care about 
 
 So mightily — this single holiday ! 
 
 Why repine ? 
 
 With thee to lead me, Day of mine, 
 
 Down the grass path gray with dew, 
 
 'Neath the pine-wood, blind with boughs, 
 
 Where the swallow never flew 
 
 As yet, nor cicale dared carouse : 
 
 No, dared carouse ! [^She enters the Street. 
 
 I. — Morning. Up the Hillside. The Sh7'ub House. 
 Luca's Wife Ottima, and her Paramour the 
 German Sebald. 
 
 Seb. (Sings.) Let the watching lids wink ! 
 
 Day's a-blaze with eyes^ think, — 
 
 Deep into the night drink / 
 Otti. Night ? What, a Rhineland night, then ? 
 
 How these tall 
 Naked geraniums straggle ! Push the lattice — 
 Behind that frame. — Nay, do I bid you ? — Sebald, 
 It shakes the dust down on me ! Why, of course 
 The slide-bolt catches — Well, are you content, 
 Or must I find you something else to spoil ? 
 Kiss and be friends, my Sebald. Is it full morning ? 
 Oh, don't speak then ! 
 
 Seb. Ay, thus it used to be ! 
 
 Ever your house was, I remember, shut 
 Till mid-day — I observed that, as I strolled 
 
 9 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 On mornings thro' the vale here : country girls 
 
 Were noisy, washing garments in the brook — 
 
 Herds drove the slow white oxen up the hills— 
 
 But no, your house was mute, Avould ope no eye — 
 
 And wisely — you were plotting one thing there, 
 
 Nature another outside : I looked up — 
 
 Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars, 
 
 Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. 
 
 Oh, I remember ! — and the peasants laughed 
 
 And said, " The old man sleeps with the young wife ! " 
 
 This house was his, this chair, this window — his. 
 
 Otii. Ah, the clear morning ! I can see St. Mark's : 
 That black streak is the belfry — stop : Vicenza 
 Should lie — there 's Padua, plain enough, that blue. 
 Look o'er my shoulder — follow my finger — 
 
 Seb. Morning ? 
 
 It seems to me a night with a sun added : 
 Where 's dew ? where 's freshness ? That bruised plant 
 
 I bruised 
 In getting thro' the lattice yestereve, 
 Droops as it did. See, here 's my elbow's mark 
 In the dust on the sill. 
 
 Otti. Oh shut tlij lattice, pray ! 
 
 Seb. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here 
 Foul as the morn may be — 
 
 There, shut the world out ! 
 How do you feel now, Ottima ? There — curse 
 The world, and all outside ! Let us throw off 
 This mask : how do you bear yourself ? Let 's out 
 With all of it ! 
 
 Otti. Best never speak of it. 
 
 Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it, 
 
 10 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Till words cease to be more than words. " His 
 
 blood," 
 For instance — let those two words mean " His blood " 
 And nothing more. Notice — I'll say them now, 
 '* His blood." 
 
 Otti. Assuredly if I repented 
 
 The deed — 
 
 Sob. Repent? who should repent, or why? 
 
 What puts that in your head ? Did I once say 
 That I repented? 
 
 Otti. No — I said the deed — 
 
 Seb. " The deed " and " the event " — and just now 
 it was 
 " Our passion's fruit " — the devil take such cant ! 
 Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, 
 I am his cut-throat, you are — 
 
 Otti. Here is the wine— 
 
 I brought it when we left the house above — 
 And glasses too — wine of both sorts. Black? white, 
 then? 
 
 Seb. But am not I his cut-throat ? What are you ? 
 
 Otti. There trudges on his business from the Duomo, 
 Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood 
 And bare feet — always in one place at church,. 
 Close under the stone wall by the south entry 
 I used to take him for a brown cold piece 
 Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose 
 To let me pass — at first, I say, I used — 
 Now — so has that dumb figure fastened on me — 
 I rather should account the plastered wall 
 A piece of him, so chilly does it strike. 
 This, Sebald? 
 
 II 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Seb. No — the white wine — the white wine ! 
 Well, Ottima, I promised no new year 
 Should rise on us the ancient shameful way, 
 Nor does it rise — pour on — To your black eyes ! 
 Do you remember last damned New Year's day ? 
 
 Otti. You brought those foreign prints. We lookea 
 at them 
 Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme 
 To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying 
 His own set wants the proof-mark roused him up 
 To hunt them out. 
 
 Seb. Faith, he is not alive 
 
 To fondle you before my face. 
 
 Ottt. Do you 
 
 Fondle me then : who means to take your life 
 For that, my Sebald ? 
 
 Seb. Hark you, Ottima, 
 
 One thing 's to guard against. We'll not make much 
 One of the other — that is, not make more 
 Parade of warmth, childish officious coil, 
 Than yesterday — as if, sweet, I supposed 
 Proof upon proof was needed now, now first, 
 To show I love you — still love you — love you 
 In spite of Luca and what's come to him. 
 — Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts, 
 White sneering old reproachful face and all — 
 We '11 even quarrel, love, at times, as if 
 We still could lose each other — were not tied 
 By this — conceive you ? 
 
 Otti. Love — 
 
 Seb. Not tied so sure — 
 
 Because tho' I was wrought upon — have struck 
 
 12 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 His insolence back into him — am I 
 
 So surely yours ? — therefore, forever yours ? 
 
 Otti. Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another) 
 Should we have — months ago — when first we loved, 
 For instance that May morning we two stole 
 Under the green ascent of sycamores — 
 If we had come upon a thing like that 
 Suddenly — 
 
 Seb, *'A thing " . . there again—" a thing ! " 
 
 Otti. Then, Venus' body, had we come upon 
 My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse 
 Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close — 
 Would you have pored upon it ? Why persist 
 In poring now upon it ? For 'tis here — 
 As much as there in the deserted house — 
 You cannot rid your eyes of it : for me, 
 Now he is dead I hate him worse — I hate — 
 Dare you stay here ? I would go back and hold 
 His two dead hands, and say, I hate you worse 
 Luca, than — 
 
 Seb. Off, off; take your hands off mine ! 
 
 'Tis the hot evening — off ! oh, morning, is it ? 
 
 Otti. There's one thing must be done — you know 
 what thing. 
 Come in and help to carry. AVe may sleep 
 Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night. 
 
 Seb. What would come, think you, if we let him lie 
 Just as he is ? Let him lie there until 
 The angels take him : he is turned by this 
 Off from his face, beside, as you will see. 
 
 Otti. This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass. 
 Three, four — four grey hairs ! is it so you said 
 
 13 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 A plait of hair should wave across my neck ? 
 No — this way ! 
 
 Sib. Ottima, I would give your neck, 
 
 Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, 
 This were undone ! Killing ? — Let the world die 
 So Luca lives again ! — Ay, lives to sputter 
 His fulsome dotage on you — yes, and feign 
 Surprise that I returned at eve to sup, 
 When all the morning I was loitering here — 
 Bid me dispatch my business and begone. 
 I would — 
 
 Otti. See ! 
 
 Seb. No, I'll finish. Do you think 
 
 I fear to speak the bare truth once for all ? 
 All we have talked of is at bottom fine 
 To suffer — there 's a recompense in that : 
 One must be venturous and fortunate — 
 What is one young for else ? In age we'll sigh 
 O'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over : 
 But to have eaten Luca's bread — have worn 
 His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse — - 
 Why, I was starving when I used to call 
 And teach you music — starving while you pluck'd 
 Me flowers to smell ! 
 
 Otti. My poor lost friend ! 
 
 Seb. He gave me 
 
 Life — nothing less : what if he did reproach 
 My perfidy, and threaten, and do more — 
 Had he no right ? What was to wonder at ? 
 Why must you lean across till our cheeks touch'd ? 
 Could he do less than make pretence to strike me ? 
 'Tis not the crime's sake — I'd commit ten crimes 
 
 14 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Greater, to have this crime wiped out — undone ! 
 And you — O, how feel you ? feel you for me ? 
 
 Otti. Well, then — I love you better now than ever- 
 And best (look at me while I speak to you) — 
 Best for the crime — nor do I grieve in truth 
 This mask, this simulated ignorance, 
 This affectation of simplicity 
 Falls off our crime ; this naked crime of ours 
 May not be looked over — look it down, then ! 
 Great ? let it be great — but the joys it brought 
 Pay they or no its price ? Come — they or it ! 
 Speak not ! The past, would you give up the past 
 Such as it is, pleasure and crime together ? 
 Give up that noon I owned my love for you — 
 The garden's silence — even the single bee 
 Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopt 
 And where he hid you only could surmise 
 By some campanula's chalice set a-swing 
 As he clung there — " Yes, I love you." 
 
 Seb. And I drew 
 
 Back : put far back your face with both my hands 
 Lest you should grow too full of me — your face 
 So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body ! 
 
 Otti. And when I ventured to receive you here, 
 Made you steal hither in the mornings — 
 
 Seb. When 
 
 I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here 
 Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread 
 Into a yellow haze ? 
 
 Otti. Ah— my sign was, the sun 
 
 Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree 
 Nipt by the first frost — 
 
 15 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Seb. You would always laugh 
 
 At my wet boots — I had to stride thro' grass 
 Over my ancles. 
 
 Ottt. Then our crowning night — 
 
 Seb. The July night ? 
 
 Oiti. The day of it too, Sebald ! 
 When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat, 
 Its black-blue canopy seemed let descend 
 Close on us both, to weigh down each to each, 
 And smother up all life except our life. 
 So lay we till the storm came. 
 
 Seb. How it came ! 
 
 Of it. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect ; 
 Swift ran the searching tempest overhead ; 
 And ever and anon some bright white shaft 
 Burnt thro' the pine-tree roof — here burnt and there, 
 As if God's messenger thro' the close wood screen 
 Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture. 
 Feeling for guilty thee and me — then broke 
 The thunder like a whole sea overhead — 
 
 Seb. Yes. 
 
 Otti. While I stretched myself upon you, hands 
 To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook 
 All my locks loose, and covered you with them. 
 You, Sebald, the same you — 
 
 Seb. Slower, Ottima — 
 
 Otti. And as we lay^- 
 
 Seb. Less vehemently — Love me — 
 Forgive me — take not words — mere words — to heart — 
 Your breath is worse than wine — breathe slow, speak 
 
 slow — 
 Do not lean on me — 
 
 i6 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Otti, Sebald, as we lay, 
 Rising and falling only with our pants, 
 Who said, "Let death come now — 'tis right to die ! 
 Right to be punished — nought completes such bliss 
 But woe ! " Who said that ? 
 
 Seb. How did we ever rise ? 
 Was't that we slept ? Why did it end ? 
 
 Otti. I felt 
 
 You tapering to a point the ruffled ends 
 Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips — 
 (My hair is fallen now — knot it again). 
 
 Seb. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now ; 
 This way ? will you forgive me — be once more 
 My great queen ? 
 
 Otti. Bind it thrice about my brow ; 
 
 Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress, 
 Magnificent in sin. Say that ! 
 
 Seb. I crown you 
 
 My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress, 
 Magnificent — 
 
 \]'Vithotit.'\ The year's at the spring, 
 
 And day 's at the morn : 
 
 Morning 's at seven ; 
 
 The hill-side 's dew-pearled : 
 
 The lark 's on the wing, 
 
 The snail 's on the thorn ^ 
 
 God 's in his heaven — 
 
 All 's right with the world ! [Pippa passes, 
 
 Seb. God 's in his heaven ! Do you hear that ? Who 
 spoke ? 
 
 17 c 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 You, you spoke ! 
 
 Otfi. Oh — that little ragged girl : 
 
 She must have rested on the step — we give 
 Them but one holiday the whole year round — 
 Did you e'er see our silk-mills — their inside ? 
 There are ten silk-mills now belong to you. 
 She stops to pick my double heartsease . . . Sh ! 
 She does not hear — you call out louder ! 
 
 Seb. Leave me ! 
 
 Go, get your clothes on — dress those shoulders. 
 
 Otti. Sebald? 
 
 Seb. Wipe off that paint. I hate you ! 
 
 Otti. Miserable ! 
 
 Seb. My God ! and she is emptied of it now ! 
 Outright now ! — how miraculously gone 
 All of the grace — had she not strange grace once ? 
 Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes, 
 No purpose holds the features up together, 
 Only the cloven brow and puckered chin 
 Stay in their places — and the very hair, 
 That seemed to have a sort of life in it. 
 Drops a dead web ! 
 
 Otti. Speak to me — not of me ! 
 
 Seb. That round great full-orbed face, where not an 
 angle 
 Broke the delicious indolence — all broken ! 
 
 Otti. Ungrateful — to me — not of me — perjured 
 cheat — 
 A coward too — but inLi;rate 's worse than all : 
 Beggar — my slave — a fawning, cringing lie ! 
 Leave me ! — betray me ! — I can see your drift — 
 A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks ! 
 
 i8 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Seb. My God ! 
 
 Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades — 
 I should have known there was no blood beneath ! 
 
 Otii. You hate me, then ? you hate me then ? 
 
 Seb. To think 
 
 She would succeed in her absurd attempt 
 And fascinate with sin ! and show herself 
 Superior — Guilt from its excess, superior 
 To Innocence. That little peasant's voice 
 Has righted all again. Though I be lost, 
 I know which is the better, never fear, 
 Of vice or virtue, purity or lust. 
 Nature, or trick — I see what I have done 
 Entirely now. Oh, I am proud to feel 
 Such torments — let the world take credit that 
 I, having done my deed, pay too its price ! 
 I hate, hate — curse you ! God 's in his heaven ! 
 
 Otti. Me : 
 
 Me ! no, no Sebald — not yourself — kill me ! 
 Mine is the whole crime — -do but kill me — then 
 Yourself — then — presently — first hear me speak — 
 I always meant to kill myself — wait you ! 
 Lean on my breast . . not as a breast ; don't love 
 
 me 
 The more because you lean on me, my own 
 Heart's Sebald. There — there — both deaths pre- 
 sently ! 
 
 Sel). My brain is drowned now — quite drowned : all 
 I feel 
 Is . . . is at swift-recurring intervals, 
 A hurrying-down within me, as of waters 
 Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit — 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 There they go — whirls from a black, fiery sea. 
 Otti. Not me — to him oh God be merciful ' 
 
 Talk by the iiuay in the mean time. Foreig7i Students 
 of Painting and Sculpture, fro??i Venice, assembled 
 opposite the house of Jules, a young French 
 Stattiary 
 
 1 Siu. Attention : my own post is beneath this 
 window, but the pomegranate-clump yonder will hide 
 three or four of you with a little squeezing, and 
 Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. 
 Four, five — who 's a defaulter ? Jules must not be 
 suffered to hurt his bride. 
 
 2 Stu. The poet 's away — never having much meant 
 to be here, moonstrike him ! He was in love with 
 himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his suit, 
 when suddenly a woman fell in love with him too, and 
 out of pure jealousy, he takes himself off to Trieste, 
 immortal poem and all — whereto is this prophetical 
 epitaph appended already, as Bluphocks assured me : 
 — " Tlie author on the aiithor. Here so and so, the 
 mammoth, lies, Fouled to death by buttei'fiiesy His own 
 fault, the simpleton ! Instead of cramp couplets, each 
 like a knife in your entrails, he should write, says 
 Bluphocks, both classically and inteUigibly. — yEscula- 
 pius, an epic. Catalogue of the drugs : — Hebe's plaister 
 — One strip Cools your lip; PJiodbus' emulsion — One 
 bottle Clears your throttle: Mercury s bolus — One box 
 Cures . . . 
 
 3 Stu. Subside, my fine fellow ; if the marriage was 
 
 20 
 
Pippa Fassej-. 
 
 over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a 
 minute with his bride. 
 
 2 Sti(. So should the poet's muse have been accept- 
 able, says Bluphocks, and Delia not better known to 
 our dogs than the boy. 
 
 I Stu. To the point, now. Where 's Gottlieb ? Oh, 
 listen, Gottlieb — What called down this piece of 
 friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we now assemble 
 to witness the winding-up. We are all in a tale, 
 observe, when Jules bursts out on us by and bye : I 
 shall be spokesman, but each professes himself alike 
 insulted by this strutting stone-squarer, who came 
 singly from Paris to Munich, thence with a crowd of 
 us to Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in a 
 day or tw^o alone, — oh ! alone, indubitably — to Rome 
 and Florence. Pie take up his portion with these 
 dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers ! (Is Schramm 
 brutalized ? Am I heartless ?) 
 
 Gott. Why, somewhat heartless ; for, coxcomb as 
 much as you choose, you will have brushed off- what 
 do folks style it ? — the bloom of his life. Is it too late 
 to alter? These letters, now, you call his. I can't 
 laugh at them. 
 
 4 Stu. Because you never read the sham lette. s of 
 our inditing which drew forth these. 
 
 Goif. His discovery of the truth will be frightful. 
 
 4 Stu. That 's the joke. But you should have joined 
 us at the beginning ; there 's no doubt he loves the 
 girl. 
 
 Gott. See here: "He has beea accustomed," he 
 writes, " to have Canova's women about him, in stone, 
 and the world's women beside him, in flesh, these being 
 
 21 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 as much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration ; 
 but now he is to have "... There you laugh again ! 
 You wipe off the very dew of his youth. 
 
 I Stu. Schramm (take the pipe out of his mouth, 
 somebody), will Jules lose the bloom of his youth ? 
 
 Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in 
 this world : look at a blossom — it drops presently and 
 fruits succeed ; as well affirm that your eye is no longer 
 in your body because its earliest favourite is dead and 
 done with, as that any affection is lost to the soul when 
 its first object is superseded in due course. Has a 
 man done wondering at women ? There follow men, 
 dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wonderinf 
 at men ? There 's God to wonder at : and the faculty 
 of wonder may be at the same time grey enough wi(h 
 respect to its last object, and yet green sufficiently so 
 far as concerns its novel one : thus . . . 
 
 I Stu. Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again — 
 There you see ! well, this Jules . . a wretched fribble 
 — oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno the other 
 day ! The Model-Gallery — you know : he marches 
 first resolvedly past great works by the dozen without 
 vouchsafing an eye : all at once he stops full at the 
 Psiche-fanciuUa — cannot pass that old acquaintance 
 without a nod of encouragement — "In your new place, 
 beauty? Then behave yourself as well here as at 
 Munich — I see you!" — Next posts himself deliberately 
 before the unfinished Pieta for half an hour without 
 moving, till up he starts of a sudden and thrusts his 
 very nose into . . I say into— the group — by which 
 you are informed that precisely the sole point he had 
 not fully mastered in Can ova was a certain method of 
 
 22 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 using the drill in the articulation of the knee-joint — 
 and that, even, has he mastered at length ! Good bye, 
 therefore, to Canova — whose gallery no longer contains 
 Jules the predestinated thinker in marble ! 
 
 5 Stu. Tell him about the women — go on to the 
 women. 
 
 I Stu. Why, on that matter he could never be super- 
 cilious enough. How should we be other than the 
 poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we 
 cherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least: 
 he would love at the proper time, and meanwhile put 
 up with the Psiche-fanciuUa. Now I happened to hear 
 of a young Greek — real Greek girl at Malamocco, a 
 true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron hair like sea- 
 moss — you know ! White and quiet as an apparition, 
 and fourteen years old at farthest; daughter, so she 
 swears, of that hag Natalia, who helps us to models at 
 three lire an hour. So first Jules received a scented 
 letter — somebody had seen his Tydeus at the Academy, 
 and my picture was nothing to it — bade him persevere 
 — would make herself known to him ere long — 
 (Paolina, my little friend, transcribes divinely.) Now 
 think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the 
 herd of us by such a creature ! In his very first answer 
 he proposed marrying his monitress; and fancy us 
 over these letters two, three times a day to receive and 
 dispatch ! I concocted the main of it : relations were 
 in the way — secrecy must be observed — would he wed 
 her on trust and only speak to her when they were 
 indissolubly united ? St — St ! 
 
 6 Stu. Both of them ! Heaven's love, speak softly ! 
 speak within yourselves ! 
 
 23 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 5 Sfu. Look at the Bridegroom — half his hair in 
 storm and half in calm — patted down over the left 
 temple, like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it ; and 
 the same old blouse he murders the marble in ! 
 
 2 Stu. Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal Scratchy, 
 rich that your face may the better set it off. 
 
 6 Stu. And the bride — and the bride — how magnifi- 
 cently pale ! 
 
 Gott. She does not also take it for earnest, I hope ? 
 
 I Stii. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is; we settle with 
 Natalia. 
 
 6 Slu. She does not speak — has evidently let out no 
 word. 
 
 Gott. How he gazes on her ! 
 
 T StiL They go in — now, silence ! 
 
 n. — Noon. Over Orcana. The House of ]vil'E?>^ who 
 crosses its threshold with Phene — she is silent, o?i 
 which Jules begins — 
 Do not die, Phene — I am yours now — you 
 Are mine now — let fate reach me how she likes 
 If you'll not die — so never die ! Sit here — 
 My work-room's single seat — I do lean over 
 This length of hair and lustrous front — they turn 
 Like an entire flower upward — eyes — lips — last 
 Your chin — no, last your throat turns — 'tis their scent 
 Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, look ever 
 That one way till I change, grow you — I could 
 Change into you, beloved ! 
 
 Thou by mt 
 And I by thee — this is thy hand in mine — 
 
 24 
 
PIppa Passes. 
 
 And side by side we sit — all 's true. Thank God ! 
 I have spoken — speak thou ! 
 
 — O, my life to come ! 
 My Tydeus must be carved that's there in clay, 
 And how be carved with you about the chamber ? 
 Where must I place you ? When I think that once 
 This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven 
 Without you ! Shall I ever work again — 
 Get fairly into my old ways again — 
 Bid each conception stand while trait by trait 
 My hand transfers its lineaments to stone ? 
 Will they, my fancies, live near you, my truth — 
 The live truth — passing and repassing me — 
 Sitting beside me ? 
 
 Now speak ! 
 
 Only, first, 
 Your letters to me — was 't not well contrived ? 
 A hiding-place in Psyche's robe — there lie 
 Next to her skin your letters : which comes foremost ? 
 Good — this that swam down like a first moonbeam 
 Into my world. 
 
 Those ? Books I told you of. 
 Let your first word to me rejoice them, too, — 
 This minion of Coluthus, writ in red 
 Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe — 
 Read this line . . nu, shame — Homer's be the Greek ! 
 My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type 
 With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page ; 
 " He said, and on Antinous directed 
 A bitter shaft " — then blots a flower the rest ! 
 — Ah, do not mind that — better that will look 
 When cast in bronze . . an Almaign Kaiser that, 
 
 25 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Swart-green and gold with truncheon based on hip — 
 This rather, turn to . . but a check already — 
 Or you had recognized that here you sit 
 As I imagined you, Hippolyta 
 Naked upon her bright Numidian horse ! 
 — Forget you this then ? "carve in bold relief" . . . 
 So you command me — " carve against I come 
 A Greek, bay-filleted and thunder-free, 
 Rising beneath the lifted myrtle-branch, 
 Whose turn arrives to praise Harmodius."— Praise him 
 Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms 
 Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides, 
 Only consenting at the branches' end 
 They strain towards, serves for frame to a sole face — 
 (Place your own face) — the Praiser's, who with eyes 
 Sightless, so bend they back to light inside 
 His brain where visionary forms throng up, 
 (Gaze — I am your Harmodius dead and gone,) 
 Sings, minding nor the palpitating arch 
 Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine 
 From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor who cast off 
 Their violet crowns for him to trample on — 
 Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, 
 Devoutly their unconquerable hymn — 
 But you must say a " well " to that — say " well " 
 Because j'ou gaze — am I fantastic, sweet ? 
 Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble — marbly 
 Even to the silence — and before I found 
 The real flesh Phene, I inured myself 
 To see throughout all nature varied stuff 
 For better nature's birth by means of art : 
 With me, each substance tended to one form 
 
 26 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Of beauty — to the human Archetype — 
 
 And every side occurred suggestive germs 
 
 Of that — the tree, the flower — why, take the fruit, 
 
 Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, 
 
 Curved beewise o'er its bough, as rosy Umbs 
 
 Depending nestled in the leaves — and just 
 
 From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprung ! 
 
 But of the stuffs one can be master of, 
 
 How I divined their capabilities 
 
 From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk 
 
 That yields your outline to the air's embrace, 
 
 Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure 
 
 To cut its one confided thought clean out 
 
 Of all the world : but marble ! — 'neath my tools 
 
 More pliable than jelly — as it were 
 
 Some clear primordial creature dug from deep 
 
 In the Earth's heart where itself breeds itself 
 
 And whence all baser substance may be worked ; 
 
 Refine it off to air you may — condense it 
 
 Down to the diamond ; — is not metal there 
 
 When o'er the sudden specks my chisel trips ? 
 
 — Not flesh — as flake off flake I scale, approach, 
 
 Lay bare those blueish veins of blood asleep ? 
 
 Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised 
 
 By the swift implement sent home at once, 
 
 Flushes and glowings radiate and hover 
 
 About its track ? — 
 
 Phene ? what — why is this ? 
 Ah, you will die — I knew that you would die ! 
 
 Phene begins^ o?i his having long remained silent. 
 Now the end 's coming — to be sure it must 
 
 27 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Have ended sometime ! — Tush — I will not speak 
 
 Their foolish speech — I cannot bring to mind 
 
 Half — so the whole were best unsaid — what care 
 
 I for Natalia now, or all of them ? 
 
 Oh, you . . what are you ? — I do not attempt 
 
 To say the words Natalia bade me learn 
 
 To please your friends, that I may keep myself 
 
 Where your voice lifted me — by letting you 
 
 Proceed . . but can you ? — even you perhaps 
 
 Cannot take up, now^ you have once let fall, 
 
 The music's Hfe, and me along with it ? 
 
 No — or you would . . we'll stay then as we are 
 
 Above the world — 
 
 Now you sink — for your eyes 
 Are altered . . altering — stay — " I love you, love 
 
 you,"— 
 I could prevent it if I understood 
 More of your words to me . . was't in the tone 
 Of the voice, your power ? 
 
 Stay, stay, I will repeat 
 Their speech, if that affects you ! only change 
 No more and I shall find it presently- — 
 Far back here in the brain yourself filled up : 
 Natalia said (like Lutwyche) harm would follow 
 Unless I spoke their lesson to the end. 
 But harm to me, I thought, not you : and so 
 I'll speak it, — " Do not die, Phene, I am yours " . . 
 Stop — is not that, or like that, part of what 
 You spoke ? 'Tis not my fault — that I should lose 
 What cost such pains acquiring ! is this right ? 
 
 The Bard said, do one thing I can — 
 
 Love a man and hate a man 
 
 28 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Supremely : thus my lore began. 
 
 Thro' the Valley of Love I went, 
 
 In its lovingest spot to abide ; 
 
 And just on th« verge where I pitched my tent 
 
 Dwelt Hate beside — 
 
 (And the bridegroom asked what the bard's smile 
 meant 
 
 Of his bride.) 
 
 Next Hate I traversed, the Grove, 
 
 In its hatefuUest nook to dwell — 
 
 And lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love 
 
 Next cell. 
 
 (For not I, said the bard, but those black bride's 
 eyes above 
 
 Should tell !) 
 (Then Lutwyche said you probably would ask, 
 " You have black eyes, love, — )'ou are sure enough 
 My beautiful bride — do you, as he sings, tell 
 What needs some exposition — what is this ? " 
 . . And I am to go on, without a word,) 
 
 Once when I loved I would enlace 
 
 Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face 
 
 Of her I loved in one embrace — 
 
 And, when I hated, I would plunge 
 
 My sword, and wipe with the first lunge 
 
 My foe's whole life out like a sponge : 
 
 — But if I would love and hate more 
 
 Than ever man hated or loved before — 
 
 Would seek in the Valley of Love 
 
 The spot, or in Hatred's grove 
 
 The spot where my soul may reach 
 
 The essence, nought less, of each. . . 
 
 29 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 (Here he said, if you interrupted me 
 
 With, " There must be some error, — who induced you 
 
 To speak this jargon ? " — I was to reply 
 
 Simply — "'Await till . . . until . ." I must say 
 
 Last rhyme again — ) 
 
 . . The essence, nought less, of each — 
 
 The Hate of all Hates, or the Love 
 
 Of all Loves in its glen or its grove, 
 
 — I find them the very warders 
 
 Each of the other's borders. 
 
 So most I love when Love's disguised 
 
 In Hate's garb — 'tis when Hate's surprised 
 
 In Love's weed that I hate most ; ask 
 
 How Love can smile thro' Hate's barred iron casque 
 
 Hate grin thro' Love's rose-braided mask. 
 
 Of thy bride, Giuho ! 
 
 (Then you, " Oh, not mine — 
 Preserve the real name of the foolish song ! " 
 But I must answer, " Giulio — Jules — 'tis Jules !) 
 
 Thus I, Jules, hating thee 
 
 Sought long and painfully. . . 
 
 [Jules interposes. 
 Lutwyche — who else? But all of them, no doubt, 
 Hated me — them at Venice — presently 
 For them, however ! You I shall not meet — 
 If I dreamed, saying that would wake me. Keep 
 What 's here — this too — we cannot meet again 
 Consider and the money was but meant 
 For two years' travel, which is over now 
 All chance, or hope, or care, or need of it ! 
 This — and what comes from selling these — my casts 
 And books, and medals except ... let thein go 
 
 30 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Together — so the produce keeps you safe 
 
 Out of Natalia's dutches ! If by chance 
 
 (For all 's chance here) I should survive the gang 
 
 At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, 
 
 We might meet somewhere since the world is wide. 
 
 I. 
 
 [ IVif/iouf.] Give her but a least excuse to love me ! 
 
 When — where — 
 
 How — can this arm establish her above me 
 
 If fortune fixed my lady there — 
 
 — There already, to eternally reprove me ? 
 
 (I//s^, said Kate the queen : 
 
 — Only a page who carols nnseejt 
 
 Cruniblmg your hounds their messes I) 
 
 2 
 
 She 's wronged ? — To the rescue of her honour, 
 
 My heart ! 
 
 She 's poor ? — What costs it to be styled a donor ? 
 
 An earth 's to cleave, a sea 's to part ! 
 
 — But that fortune should have thrust all this upon 
 
 her ! 
 {Nay^ list, bade Kate the queen : 
 Only a page that carols unseen, 
 Fitting your hawks their jesses /) — 
 
 \V\v?K passes. 
 
 Kate ? Queen Cornaro doubtless, who renounced 
 
 Cyprus to live and die the lady here 
 
 At Asolo - and whosoever loves 
 
 Must be in some sort god or worshipper, 
 
 31 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 The blessing, or the blest one — queen or page — 
 I find myself queen here it seems ! 
 
 How strange ! 
 Shall to produce form out of shapelessness 
 Be art — and, further, to evoke a soul 
 From form be nothing ? This new soul is mine — 
 Now to kill Lutwyche what would that do ? — Save 
 A wretched dauber men will hoot to death 
 Without me. 
 
 To Ancona — Greece — some isle ! 
 I wanted silence only — there is clay 
 Every where. One may do whate'er one likes 
 In Art — the only thing is, to be sure 
 That one does like it — which takes pains to know. 
 
 Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad dream ! 
 Who — what is Lutwyche — what Natalia — 
 What the whole world except our love — my own 
 Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not. 
 Ere night we travel for your land — some isle 
 With the sea's silence on it ? Stand aside — 
 I do but break these paltry models up 
 To begin art afresh. Shall I meet Lutwyche, 
 And save him from my statue's meeting him ? 
 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
 Like a god going thro' his world I trace 
 One mountain for a moment in the dusk, 
 Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow — 
 And you are ever by me while I trace 
 — Are in my arms as now — as now — as now ! 
 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
 Some unsuspected isle in far off seas ! 
 
 32 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Talk by the way in the fuean time. T^vo or three of 
 the Austrian Police loitering with Bluphocks, an 
 English vagabond^ just in viav of the Turret, 
 
 Bluphocks/ Oh I were but a^ery worm a maggoty 
 Every fly a grig, Eve?y bough a Christmas faggot, 
 Every tune a jig I In fact, I have abjured all religions, 
 — but the last I inclined to was the Armenian — for I 
 have travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia 
 Improper (so styled because there 's a sort of bleak 
 hungry sun there,) you might remark over a venerable 
 house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription ; and brief 
 as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change 
 the mood of every bearded passenger. In they 
 turned, one and all, the young and lightsome, with no 
 irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible 
 alacrity, — 'twas the grand Rabbi's abode, in short. I 
 lost no time in learning Syriac — (vowels, you dogs, 
 follow my stick's end in the mud — Celarent, Darii, 
 Ferio /) and one morning presented myself spelling- 
 book in hand, a, b, c, — what was the purport of this 
 miraculous posy ? Some cherished legend of the past, 
 you'll say — " How Moses hocus -pocust Egypfs landivith 
 fly and locust,''— or, ^^ How to Jonah sounded harshish, 
 Get thee up and go to Tarshish," — or, " How the angel 
 meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaain," 
 — in no wise! ^^ Shackabrach — Boach — somebody or 
 other — Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex-chan-ger 
 of— Stolen goods." So talk to me of obliging a bishop ! 
 
 ^ *' He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, 
 and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." 
 
 33 D 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 I have renounced all bishops save Bishop Beveridge — 
 mean to live so — and die — As seme Greek dog-sage^ 
 dead and merry, Hellward bound in Charon^ s ferry — 
 With food for both worlds, under and upper, Lupine- 
 seed and Hecate's supper, And never an obolus . . (it 
 might be got in somehow) Tho' Cerberus should gobble 
 us — To pay the Stygiajt ferry — or you might say, Never 
 an obol To pay for the coble .... Though thanks to 
 you, or this Intendant thro' you, or this Bishop thro' 
 his Intendant — I possess a burning pocket-full of 
 zwanzigers. 
 
 1 Pol. I have been noticing a house yonder this 
 long while — not a shutter unclosed since morning. 
 
 2 Pol. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills 
 here : he dozes by the hour — wakes up, sighs deeply, 
 says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then 
 dozes again after having bidden young Sebald, the 
 foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts : never molest 
 such a household, they mean well. 
 
 Blup. Only tell me who this little Pippa is I must 
 have to do with — one could make something of that 
 name. Pippa — that is, short for Felippa — Panurge 
 consults Hertrippa — Believ''st thou, King Agrippa 2 
 Something might be done with that name. 
 
 2 Pol. Your head and a ripe musk-melon would 
 not be dear at half a zwanziger I Leave this fool, and 
 look out — the afternoon 's over or nearly so. 
 
 3 Pol. Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does 
 the principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly ? 
 There ? what 's there beside a simple signature ? That 
 English fool 's busy watching. 
 
 2 Pol. Flourish all round — "put all possible ob- 
 
 34 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 stacles in his way;" oblong dot at the end — "Detair 
 him till further advices reach you ; " scratch at bottom 
 — "send him back on pretence of some informality 
 in the above." Ink-spirt on right-hand side, (which 
 is the case here) — " Arrest him at once," why and 
 wherefore, I don't concern myself, but my instructions 
 amount to this : if Signor Luigi leaves home to-night 
 for Vienna, well and good — the passport deposed with 
 us for our visa is really for his own use, they have mis- 
 informed the Office, and he means well ; but, let him 
 stay over to-night — there has been the pretence we 
 suspect — the accounts of his corresponding and hold- 
 ing intelligence with the Carbonari are correct — we 
 arrest him at once — to-morrow comes Venice — and 
 presently, Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal 
 sure enough ! 
 
 III. — Evenhig. Inside the Turret. LuiGi and his 
 Mother entering. 
 
 Mother. If there blew wind you'd hear a long sigh, 
 easing 
 The utmost heaviness of music's heart. 
 
 Luigi. Here in the archway? 
 
 Mother. Oh no, no — in further. 
 
 Where the echo is made — on the ridge. 
 
 Luigi. Here surely then ! 
 
 How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up : 
 Aristogeiton ! " ristogeiton " — plain 
 Was't not? Lucius Junius! The very ghost of a 
 voice — 
 
 35 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Whose flesh is caught and kept by those withered wall- 
 flowers, 
 Or by the elvish group with thin bleached hair 
 Who lean out of their topmost fortress — look 
 And listen, mountain men and women, to what 
 We say — chins under each grave earthly face : 
 Up and show faces all of you ! — " All of you ! " 
 That 's the king with the scarlet comb : come down ! 
 — " Come down." 
 
 Mother. Do not kill that Man, my Luigi — do not 
 Go to the City ! putting crime aside. 
 Half of these ills of Italy are feigned — 
 Your Pellicos and writers for effect 
 Write for effect. 
 
 Luigi. Hush ! say A writes, and B. 
 
 Mother. These A's and B's write for effect I say. 
 Then evil is in its nature loud, while good 
 Is silent — you hear each petty injury — 
 None of his daily virtues ; he is old, 
 Quiet, and kind, and densely stupid — why 
 Do A and B not kill him themselves ? 
 
 Luigi. They teach 
 
 Others to kill him — me — and if I fail 
 Others to succeed ; now if A tried and failed 
 I could not do that : mine 's the lesser task. 
 Mother, they visit night by night . . . 
 
 Mother. You Luigi? 
 
 Ah will you let me tell you what you are ? 
 
 Luigi. Why not? Oh the one thing you fear to 
 hint 
 You may assure yourself I say and say 
 Often to myself; at times — nay, now — as now 
 
 a6 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 We sit, I think my mind is touched — suspect 
 
 All is not sound — but is not knowing that 
 
 What constitutes one sane or otherwise ? 
 
 I know I am thus — so all is right again ! 
 
 I laugh at myself as thro' the town I walk 
 
 And see the world merry as if no Italy 
 
 Were suffering — then I ponder — I am rich, 
 
 Young, healthy, happy, why should this fact trouble 
 
 me . . . 
 More than it troubles these ? But it does trouble me 
 No — trouble 's a bad word — for as I walk 
 There 's springing and melody and giddiness. 
 And old quaint turns and passages of my youth — 
 Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves — 
 Return to me — whatever may recreate me, 
 And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven 
 Accords with me, all things suspend their strife, 
 The very cicales laugh " There goes he and there — 
 " Feast him, the time is short — he is on his way 
 " For the world's sake — feast him this once, our 
 
 friend ! " 
 And in return for all this, I can trip 
 Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps : I go 
 This evening, mother. 
 
 Mother. But mistrust yourself — 
 
 Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him. 
 
 Liiigi. Oh, there I feel — am sure that I am right. 
 
 Mothei'. Mistrust your judgment then of the mere 
 means 
 Of this wild enterprise : say you are right, — 
 How should one in your state e'er bring to pass 
 What would require a cool head, a cold heart, 
 
 37 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 And a calm hand ? you never will escape. 
 
 Luigi. Escape — to wish that even would spoil all ! 
 The dying is best part of it — I have 
 Enjoyed these fifteen years of mine too much 
 To leave myself excuse for longer life — 
 Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy, 
 That I might finish with it ere my fellows 
 Who sparelier feasted make a longer stay ? 
 I was put at the board head, helped to all 
 At first : I rise up happy and content. 
 God must be glad one loves his world so much — 
 I can give news of earth to all the dead 
 Who ask me : — last year's sunsets and great stars 
 That had a right to come first and see ebb 
 The crimson wave that drifts the sun away — 
 Those crescent moons with notched and burning 
 
 rims 
 That strengthened into sharp fire and there stood 
 Impatient of the azure — and that day 
 In March a double rainbow stopped the storm — 
 May's warm, slow, yellow moonht summer nights — 
 Gone are they — but I have them in my soul ! 
 
 Mother. (He will not go !) 
 
 Luigi. You smile at me — I know 
 
 Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness. 
 Environ my devotedness as quaintly 
 As round about some antique altar wreathe 
 The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls 
 
 Mother. See now — you reach the city — you must 
 cross 
 His threshold — how ? 
 
 Luigi. Oh, that 's if we conspire ! 
 
 38 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Then come the pains in plenty you foresee 
 
 — Who guess not how the qualities required 
 
 For such an office — qualities I have — 
 
 Would little stead us otherwise employed, 
 
 Yet prove of rarest merit here — here only. 
 
 Every one knows for what his excellences 
 
 Will serve, but no one ever will consider 
 
 For what his worst defects might serve ; and yet 
 
 Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder 
 
 In search of a distorted ash ? — it happens 
 
 The wry spoilt branch 's a natural perfect bow : 
 
 Fancy the thrice sage, thrice precautioned man 
 
 Arriving at the city on my errand ! 
 
 No, no — I have a handsome dress packed up — 
 
 White satin here to set off my black hair — 
 
 In I shall march — for you may watch your life out 
 
 Behind thick walls — binding friends to betray you ; 
 
 More than one man spoils every thing — March 
 
 straight — 
 Only no clumsy knife to fumble for — 
 Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on 
 
 Thro' guards and guards 1 have rehearsed it all 
 
 Inside the Turret here a hundred times — 
 Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe, 
 But where they cluster thickliest is the door 
 Of doors : they'll let you pass . . they'll never blab 
 Each to the other, he knows not the favourite, 
 W^hence he is bound and what 's his business now — 
 Walk in — straight up to him — you have no knife — 
 Be prompt, how should he scream ? Then, out with 
 
 you ! 
 Italy, Italy, my Italy ! 
 
 39 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 You're free, you're free — Oh mother, I believed 
 They got about me — Andrea from his exile, 
 Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave ! 
 
 Mother. Well you shall go. If patriotism were not 
 The easiest virtue for a selfish man 
 To acquire ! he loves himself — and then, the world — 
 If he must love beyond, but nought between : 
 As a short-sighted man sees nought midway 
 His body and the sun above. But you 
 Are my adored Luigi — ever obedient 
 To my least wish, and running o'er with love — 
 I could not call you cruel or unkind ! 
 Once more, your ground for killing him ! — then go ! 
 
 Liiigi. Now do you ask me, or make sport of me ? 
 How first the Austrians got these provinces — 
 (If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon) 
 . . . Never by warfare but by treaty, for 
 That treaty whereby . . . 
 
 Mother, Well ? 
 
 Liiigi. (Sure he 's arrived — 
 
 The tell-tale cuckoo — spring 's his confidant, 
 And he lets out her April purposes !) 
 Or . . better go at once to modern times — 
 He has . . they have . . in fact I understand 
 But can't re-state the matter ; that 's my boast; 
 Others could reason it out to you, and prove 
 Things they have made me feel. 
 
 Mother. Why go to-night ? 
 
 Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now 
 A morning-star .... I cannot hear you, Luigi ! 
 
 Luigi. " I am the bright and morning-star," God 
 saith — 
 
 40 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 And, " such an one I give the morning-star ! " 
 The gift of the morning-star — have I God's gift 
 Of the morning-star ? 
 
 Mother, Chiara will love to see 
 
 That Jupiter an evening-star next June. 
 
 Luigi. True, mother. Well for those who live June 
 over. 
 Great noontides — thunder storms — all glaring pomps 
 Which triumph at the heels of June the God 
 Leading his revel thro ' our leafy world. 
 Yes, Chiara will be here — - 
 
 Mother. In June — remember 
 
 Yourself appointed that month for her coming — 
 
 Luigi. Was that low noise the echo ? 
 
 Mother. The nig.t-wind. 
 
 She must be grown — with her blue eyes upturned 
 As if life were one long and sweet surprise — 
 In June she comes. 
 
 Luigi. We are to see together 
 
 The Titian at Treviso — there again ! 
 
 [ Without.'] A king lived long ago, 
 In the morning of the world. 
 When earth was nigher heaven than now : 
 And the king's locks curled 
 Disparting o'er a forehead full 
 As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn 
 Of some sacrificial bull — 
 Only calm as a babe new-born : 
 For he was got to a sleepy mood, 
 So safe from all decrepitude. 
 Age with its bane so sure gone by, 
 41 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 (The Gods so loved him while he dreamed,) 
 That, having lived thus long, there seemed 
 No need the king should ever die. 
 
 Lufgi. No need that sort of king should ever die. 
 
 [ Wtthouf.'] Among the rocks his city was : 
 
 Before his palace, in the sun, 
 
 He sate to see his people pass. 
 
 And judge them every one 
 
 From its threshold of smooth stone. 
 
 They haled him many a valley-thief 
 
 Caught in the sheep-pens — robber-chief, 
 
 Swarthy and shameless — beggar-cheat — 
 
 Spy-prowler — or some pirate found 
 
 On the sea-sand left aground ; 
 
 Sometimes there clung about his feet 
 
 With bleeding lip and burning cheek 
 
 A woman, bitterest wrong to speak 
 
 Of one with sullen, thickset brows : 
 
 Sometimes from out the prison-house 
 
 The angry priests a pale wretch brought, 
 
 Who through some chink had pushed and pressed, 
 
 Knees and elbows, belly and breast. 
 
 Worm-like into the temple, — caught 
 
 He was by the very God, 
 
 Who ever in the darkness strode 
 
 Backward and forward, keeping watch 
 
 O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch : 
 
 These, all and every one, 
 
 The king judged, sitting in the sun. 
 
 Luigi. That king should still judge sitting in the sun. 
 
 42 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 [ JVif/iout] His councillors, on left and right, 
 
 Looked anxious up, — but no surprise 
 
 Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes, 
 
 Where the very blue had turned to white. 
 
 A python passed one day 
 
 The silent streets — until he came, 
 
 With forky tongue and eyes on flame. 
 
 Where the old king judged alway ; 
 
 But when he saw the sweepy hair, 
 
 Girt with a crown of berries rare 
 
 The God will hardly give to wear 
 
 To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare 
 
 In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights, 
 
 At his wondrous forest rites, — 
 
 But which the God's self granted him 
 
 For setting free each felon limb 
 
 Because of earthly murder done 
 
 Faded till other hope was none ; — 
 
 Seeing this, he did not dare, 
 
 Approach that threshold in the sun, 
 
 Assault the old king smiling there. 
 
 [Pippa passes. 
 
 Luigi. Farewell, farewell — how could I stay ? 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Talk by the way in the mean time. Poor Girls sitting 
 on the steps of Monsignor's brother^ s house, dose 
 to the Duomo S. Maria. 
 
 I Girl. There goes a swallow to Venice — the stout 
 sea-farer ! 
 Let us all wish ; you wish first. 
 
 43 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 2 Gh'l. I ? This sunset 
 To finish. 
 
 3 Girl. That old . . . somebody I know, 
 To give me the same treat he gave last week — 
 Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers, 
 Lampreys, and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling 
 The while some folly about how well I fare — 
 Since had he not himself been late this morning 
 Detained at — never mind where — had he not . . 
 Eh, baggage, had I not ! — 
 
 2 Gu'l How she can lie ! 
 
 3 Girl. Look there — by the nails — 
 
 2 Girl. What makes your fingers red ? 
 
 3 Girl. Dipping them into wine to write bad words 
 
 with 
 On the bright table — how he laughed ! 
 
 I Girl. My turn : 
 
 Spring 's come and summer 's coming : I would wear 
 A long loose gown — down to the feet and hands — 
 With plaits here, close about the throat, all day : 
 And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed — 
 And have new milk to drink — apples to eat, 
 Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . ah, I should 
 
 say 
 This is away in the fields — miles ! 
 
 3 Girl. Say at once 
 
 You'd be at home — she'd always be at home 1 
 Now comes the story of the farm among 
 The cherry orchards, and how April snowed 
 White blossoms on her as she ran : why fool, 
 They've rubbed the chalk-mark out how tall you were, 
 Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage, 
 
 44 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Made a dunghill of your garden — 
 
 I Girl. They destroy 
 
 My garden since I left them ? well — perhaps ! 
 I would have done so — so I hope they have ! 
 A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall — 
 They called it mine, I have forgotten why, 
 It must have been there long ere I was born, 
 Criq — criq — I think I hear the wasps o'erhead 
 Pricking the papers strung to flutter there 
 And keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse long papers 
 And the wasps eat them, prick them through and 
 through. 
 3 Girl. How her mouth twitches ! where was I 
 before 
 She broke in with her wishes and long gowns 
 And wasps — would I be such a fool ! — Oh, here ! 
 This is my way — I answer every one 
 Who asks me why I make so much of him — 
 (Say, you love him — he'll not be gulled, he'll say) 
 *' He that seduced me when I was a girl 
 Thus high — had eyes like yours, or hair like yours, 
 Brown, red, white," — as the case may be — that pleases 1 
 (See how that beetle burnishes in the path — 
 There sparkles he along the dust— and there — 
 Your journey to that maize tuft 's spoilt at least ! 
 
 1 Girl. When I was young they said if you killed 
 
 one 
 Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend 
 Up there would shine no more that day or next. 
 
 2 Girl. When you were young ? Nor are you young, 
 
 that 's true ! 
 How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away ! 
 
 45 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Why I can span them ! Cecco beats you still ? 
 
 No matter so you keep your curious hair. 
 
 I wish they'd find a way to dye our hair 
 
 Your colour — any lighter tint, indeed, 
 
 Than black — the men say they are sick of black, 
 
 Black eyes, black hair ! 
 
 3 Girl. Sick of yours, like enough, 
 
 Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreys 
 And ortolans ? Giovita, of the palace. 
 Engaged (but there 's no trusting him) to slice me 
 Polenta with a knife that had cut up 
 An ortolan. 
 
 2 Girl. Why — there ! is not that Pippa 
 We are to talk to, under the window, quick 
 Where the lights are ? 
 
 1 Girl. No — or she would sing 
 — For the Intendant said . . . 
 
 3 Girl. Oh, you sing first — 
 Then, if she listens and comes close . . Fli tell you, 
 Sing that song the young English noble made, 
 Who took you for the purest of the pure 
 
 And meant to leave the world for you — what fun ! 
 
 2 Girl. \Sings?\ 
 
 You'll love me yet ! — and I can tarry 
 Your love's protracted growing : 
 June reared that bunch of flowers you carry 
 From seeds of April's sowing. 
 
 I plant a heartfull now — some seed 
 At least is sure to strike 
 And yield — what you'll not care, indeed, 
 To pluck, but, may be like 
 46 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 To look upon . . my whole remains. 
 A grave's one violet : 
 Your look ? — that pays a thousand pains. 
 What's death ? — You'll love me yet ! 
 
 3 Girl. [To Pippa, 7e>/io approaches?^ Oh, you may 
 come closer — we shall not eat you ! 
 
 IV. — Night. The Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, 
 dismissing his Attendants. 
 
 Mon. Thanks, friends, many thanks. I desire life 
 now chiefly that I may recompense every one of you. 
 Most I know something of already. Benedicto bene- 
 dicatur . . ugh . . ugh ! Where was I ? Oh, as you 
 were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike 
 winter-weather, — but I am a Sicilian, you know, and 
 shiver in your Julys here : To be sure, when 'twas full 
 summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in pro- 
 cession the great square on Assumption Day, you 
 might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in 
 two, each like a falling star, or sink down on them- 
 selves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go ! 
 [To the Intendant] Not you, Ugo ! [The others leave 
 the apartment., where a table tvith refreshments is pre- 
 pared,] I have long wanted to converse with you, 
 Ugo! 
 
 In ten. Uguccio — 
 
 Mon. . . 'guccio Stefani, man ! of Ascoli, Fermo, 
 and Fossombruno : — what I do need instructing about 
 
 47 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 are these accounts of your administration of my poor 
 brother's affairs. Ugh ! I shall never get through a 
 third part of your accounts : take some of these 
 dainties before we attempt it, however : are you bash- 
 ful to that degree ? For me, a crust and water suffice. 
 
 Jjiten. Do you choose this especial night to question 
 me? 
 
 Mon. This night, Ugo. You have managed my 
 late brother's affairs since the death of our elder 
 brother — fourteen years and a month, all but three 
 days. The 3rd of December, I find him . . . 
 
 Inten. If you have so intimate an acquaintance with 
 your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning so 
 far back — they will hardly bear looking into so far 
 back. 
 
 Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but disappoint- 
 ments here below ! I remark a considerable pay_ 
 ment made to yourself on this 3rd of December. 
 Talk of disappointments ! There was a young fellow 
 here, Jules, a foreign sculptor, I did my utmost to 
 advance, that the church might be a gainer by us both : 
 he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden 
 he notifies to me some marvellous change that has 
 happened in his notions of art ; here 's his letter, — 
 " He never had a clearly conceived Ideal within his 
 brain till to-day. Yet since his hand could manage a 
 chisel he has practised expressing other men's Ideals 
 — and in the very perfection he has attained to he 
 foresees an ultimate failure — his unconscious hand 
 will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will 
 reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let 
 the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit : 
 
 48 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 there is but one method of escape — confiding the 
 virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will paint, not 
 carve, its characteristics," — strike out, I dare say, a 
 school like Correggio : how think you, Ugo ? 
 
 Inien. Is Correggio a painter ? 
 
 Mon. Foolish Jules ! and yet, after all, why foolish 
 He may — probably will, fail egregiously ; but if there 
 should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such 
 way — a poet, now, or a musician, spirits who have 
 conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other 
 channel, transferring it to this, and escaping our con- 
 ventional roads by pure ignorance of them, eh, Ugo ? 
 If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo ! 
 
 Inien. Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of 
 yours : first, you select the group of which I formed 
 one, — next you thin it gradually, — always retaining me 
 with your smile, — and so do you proceed till you have 
 fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls : 
 and now then ? Let this farce, this chatter end now — 
 what is it you want with me ? 
 
 Mon. Ugo . . . 
 
 Inten. From the instant you arrived I felt your 
 smile on me as you questioned me about this and the 
 other article in those papers — why, your brother should 
 have given me this manor, that liberty, — and your nod 
 at the end meant, — what ? 
 
 Mon. Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here 
 — if once you set me coughing, Ugo ! 
 
 I7iten. I have your brother's hand and seal to all I 
 possess : now ask me what for ! what service I did him 
 — ask me ! 
 
 Mon, I had better not — I should rip up old dis- 
 
 49 B 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 graces — let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By 
 the way, Maifeo of Forh, (which, I forgot to observe, 
 is your true name) was the interdict taken off you for 
 robbing that church at Cesena ? 
 
 hiten. No, nor needs be — for when I murdered your 
 brother's friend, Pasquale, for him . . . 
 
 Mon. Ah, he employed you in that matter, did he ? 
 Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this manor and 
 that liberty, for fear the world should find out my rela- 
 tions were of so indifferent a stamp : Maffeo, my family 
 is the oldest in Messina, and century after century 
 have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves 
 with every wickedness under Heaven : my own father 
 . . . rest his soul ! — I have, I know, a chapel to sup- 
 port that it may : my dear two dead brothers were, — - 
 what you know tolerably well : I, the youngest, might 
 have rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth, but from 
 my boyhood I came out from among them, and so am 
 not partaker of their plagues. My glory springs from 
 another source, or if from this, by contrast only, — for 
 I, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, Ugo. 
 I hope to repair some of their wrong, however ; so far 
 as my brother's ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can 
 stop the consequences of his crime, and not one soldo 
 shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet men 
 spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit 
 murders with ; what opportunities the virtuous forego, 
 the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself, 
 apart from other considerations, my food would be 
 millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw, 
 am I therefore to let the off-scouring of the earlh 
 seduce the ignorant by appropriating a pomp these 
 
 50 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 will be sure to think lessens the abominations so un- 
 accountably and exclusively associated with it ? Must 
 I let manors and liberties go to you, a murderer and 
 thief, that you may beget by means of them other 
 murderers and thieves ? No ... if my cough would 
 but allow me to speak ! 
 
 Inten. What am I to expect? you are going to 
 punish me ? 
 
 Mon. Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to 
 cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to 
 redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in ! 
 How should I dare to say . . . 
 
 Inten, " Forgive us our trespasses." 
 
 Mon. My friend, it is because I avow myself a very 
 worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of 
 conduct you would applaud, perhaps : shall I proceed, 
 as it were, a-pardoning ? — I ? — who have no symp- 
 tom of reason to assume that aught less than my 
 strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, 
 much less, keep others out. No — I do trespass, but 
 will not double that by allowing you to trespass. 
 
 Inten. And suppose the manors are not your bro- 
 ther's to give, or yours to take? Oh, you are hasty 
 enough just now ! 
 
 Mon. I, 2 — No. 3 ! — ay, can you read the substance 
 of a letter. No. 3, I have received from Rome ? It is 
 on the ground I there mention of the suspicion I have 
 that a certain child of my late elder brother, who 
 would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in 
 infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late 
 brother — that the pontiff enjoins on me not merely 
 the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but 
 
 51 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 the taking all pains, as guardian of that infant's herit- 
 age for the church, to recover it parcel by parcel, how- 
 soever, whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are 
 now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in 
 sealing up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising 
 my voice brings my people from the next room to dis- 
 pose of yourself. But I want you to confess quietly, 
 and save me raising my voice. Why, man, do I not 
 know the old story ? The heir between the succeed- 
 ing heir, and that heir's ruffianly instrument, and their 
 complot's effect, and the hfe of fear and bribes, and 
 ominous smiling silence? Did you throttle or stab 
 my brother's infant ? Come, now ! 
 
 Inten, So old a story, and tell it no better ? When 
 did such an instrument ever produce such an effect ? 
 Either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely, he 
 is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's 
 power so thoroughly — the child is always ready to 
 produce — as you say — howsoever, wheresoever, and 
 whensoever. 
 
 Mon. Liar ! 
 
 Inten. Strike me ? Ah, so might a father chastise ! 
 I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gal- 
 lows await me to-morrow ; for what a life did I lead ? 
 Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance every 
 time I pay his annuity (which happens commonly 
 thrice a year). If I remonstrate, he will confess all to 
 the good bishop — you ! 
 
 Mon. I see thro' the trick, caitiff! I would you 
 spoke truth for once; all shall be sifted, however — 
 seven times sifted. 
 
 Inten. And how my absurd riches encumbered me ! 
 
 52 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions 
 Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and 
 die! 
 
 Sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like youi 
 brother I frightened to death ... let us understand 
 one another. Sir, I will make away with her for you 
 — the girl — here close at hand ; not the stupid obvious 
 kind of killing ; do not speak — know nothing of hei 
 or me. I see her every day — saw her this morning — 
 of course there is no killing ; but at Rome the courte- 
 sans perish off every three years, and I can entice her 
 thither — have, indeed, begun operations already — 
 there 's a certain lusty, blue-eyed, florid-complexioned, 
 English knave I employ occasionally. — You assent, I 
 perceive — no, that 's not it — assent I do not say — but 
 you will let me convert my present havings and hold- 
 ings into cash, and give time to cross the Alps ? 'Tis 
 but a little black-eyed, pretty singing Felippa, gay silk- 
 winding girl. I have kept her out of harm's way up 
 to this present ; for I always intended to make your 
 life a plague to you with her ! 'Tis as well settled once 
 and forever : some women I have procured will pass 
 Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody, 
 and once Pippa entangled ! — you conceive ? 
 
 Mon. Why, if she sings, one might . . . 
 
 [ Without^ Over-head the tree-tops meet — 
 
 Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet — 
 
 What are the voices of birds 
 
 — Ay, and beasts, too — but words — our words, 
 
 Only so much more sweet ? 
 
 That knowledge with my life begun ! 
 
 53 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 But I had so near made out the sun — 
 Could count your stars, the Seven and One ! 
 Like the fingers of my hand- 
 Nay, could all but understand 
 How and wherefore the moon ranges — 
 And just when out of her soft fifty changes 
 No unfamiliar face might overlook me — 
 Suddenly God took me. [Pipfa />asses. 
 
 Mon. \Springing up?\ My people — one and all — all 
 — within there ! Gag this villain — tie him hand and 
 foot : he dares — I know not half he dares — but remove 
 him — quick ! Miserere fuei, Domine I quick, I say ! 
 
 Pippa's Chamber again. She enters it* 
 
 The bee with his comb, 
 The mouse at her dray. 
 The grub in its tomb 
 Wile winter away ; 
 
 But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray, 
 Where be they ? 
 Ha, ha, thanks my Zanze — 
 " Feed on lampreys, quaff Breganze " — 
 The summer of life 's so easy to spend I 
 But winter hastens at summer's end. 
 And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob- worm, pray, 
 Where be they ? 
 
 No bidding you then to . . what did Zanze say ? 
 " Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes 
 "More like . . (what said she?) — and less like 
 canoes — " 
 
 54 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Pert as a sparrow . . . would I be those pert 
 Impudent staring wretches ! it had done me, 
 However, surely no such mighty hurt 
 To learn his name who passed that jest upon me. — 
 No foreigner, that I can recollect, 
 Came, as she says, a month since to inspect 
 Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and thick rings 
 Of English-coloured hair, at all events. 
 Well — if old Luca keeps his good intents 
 We shall do better — see what next year brings — 
 I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear 
 So destitute, perhaps, next year ! 
 ^//./—something — I had caught the uncouth name 
 But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter 
 Above us — bound to spoil such idle chatter, 
 The pious man, the man devoid of blame, 
 The ... ah, but — ah, but, all the same 
 No mere mortal has a right 
 To carry that exalted air ; 
 Best people are not angels quite — 
 While — not worst people's doings scare 
 The devils ; so there 's that regard to spare ! 
 Mere counsel to myself, mind ! for 
 I have just been Monsignor ! 
 And I was you too, mother, 
 And you too, Luigi ! — how that Luigi started 
 Out of the Turret — doubtlessly departed 
 On some love-errand or another — 
 And I was Jules the sculptor's bride, 
 And I was Ottima beside, 
 And now what am I ? — tired of foohng ! 
 Day for folly, night for schooling — 
 
 55 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 New year's day is over — over ! 
 
 Even my lily 's asleep, I vow : 
 
 Wake up— here 's a friend I pluckt you. 
 
 See — call this a heart's-ease now ! 
 
 Something rare, let me instruct you, 
 
 Is this — with petals triply swollen, 
 
 Three times spotted, thrice the pollen. 
 
 While the leaves and parts that witness 
 
 The old proportions and their fitness 
 
 Here remain, unchanged unmoved now — 
 
 Call this pampered thing improved now ! 
 
 Suppose there 's a king of the flowers 
 
 And a girl-show held in his bowers — 
 
 " Look ye, buds, this growth of ours," 
 
 Says he, " Zanze from the Brenta, 
 
 I have made her gorge polenta 
 
 Till both cheeks are near as bouncing 
 
 As her . . . name there 's no pronouncing ! 
 
 See this heightened colour too — 
 
 For she swilled Breganze wine 
 
 Till her nose turned deep carmine — 
 
 'Twas but white when wild she grew ! 
 
 And only by this Zanze's eyes 
 
 Of which we could not change the size, 
 
 The magnitude of what 's achieved 
 
 Elsewhere may be perceived ! " 
 
 Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day ! 
 How could that red sun drop in that black cloud ! 
 Ah, Pippa, morning's rule is moved away. 
 Dispensed with, never more to be allowed. 
 Day's turn 's over — now 's the night's — 
 
 56 
 
Pippa Passes. 
 
 Oh Lark be day's apostle 
 
 To mavis, merle and throstle, 
 
 Bid them their betters jostle 
 
 From day and its delights ! 
 
 But at night, brother Howlet, over the woods 
 
 Toll the world to thy chantry — 
 
 Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods 
 
 Full complines with galantry — 
 
 Then, owls and bats, cowls and twats, 
 
 Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, 
 
 Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry ! 
 
 [A/fer she has begun to undress herself. 
 Now one thing I should like to really know : 
 How near I ever might approach all these 
 I only fancied being this long day — 
 . . . Approach, I mean, so as to touch them — so 
 As to . . in some way . . move them — if you please, 
 Do good or evil to them some slight way. 
 For instance, if I wind 
 
 Silk to-morrow, silk may bind \Sitting on the bedside. 
 And broider Ottima's cloak's hem — 
 Ah, me and my important passing them 
 This morning's hymn half promised when I rose ! 
 True in some sense or other, I suppose. 
 
 \As she lies down. 
 God bless me tho' I cannot pray to-night. 
 No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. 
 All service is the same with God — 
 Whose puppets^ best and worsty 
 Are we [She sleeps. 
 
 57 
 

 I 
 
KING VICTOR AND 
 KING CHARLES. 
 
PERSONS. 
 
 Victor Amadeus, First King of Sardinia. 
 Charles Emmanuel, his Son, Prince of Piedmont. 
 POLYXENA, Wife of Charles. 
 D'Ormea, Minister. 
 
 Scene — The Council Chamber of RIvoli Palace, near Turin, 
 communicating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to 
 the left and another to the right of the stage. 
 
 Time, 1730-1. 
 
King Vidlor and King Charles. 
 FIRST YEAR, 1730. 
 
 KING VICTOR. PART I. 
 
 Charles, Polyxena. 
 
 Charles. 
 
 YOU think so? Well, I do not 
 Pol. My beloved, 
 
 All must clear up — we shall be happy yet : 
 This cannot last for ever . . oh, may change 
 To-day, or any day ! 
 
 Cha. — May change ? Ah yes — 
 
 May change ! 
 
 Pol. Endure it then. 
 
 Cha. No doubt a life 
 
 Like this drags on, now better and now worse ; 
 My father may . . . may take to loving me ; 
 And he may take, too, D'Ormea closer yet 
 To counsel him ; — may even cast off her 
 — That bad Sebastian ] but he also may 
 . . Or no, Polyxena, my only friend, 
 He may not force you from me ? 
 
 Pol. Now, force me 
 
 From you ! — me, close by you as if there gloomed 
 
 61 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 No D'Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path — 
 At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand, 
 Arch-counsellor, prime confidant . . . force me ! 
 
 Cha. Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure 
 We clasp hands now, of being happy once. 
 Young was I, quite neglected, nor concerned 
 By the world's business that engrossed so much 
 My father and my brother : if I peered \ 
 
 From out my privacy, — amid the crash '% 
 
 And blaze of nations, domineered those two ; 
 'Twas war, peace — France our foe, now — England's 
 
 friend — 
 In love with Spain — at feud with Austria ! — Well — 
 I wondered — laughed a moment's laugh for pride 
 In the chivalrous couple — then let drop 
 My curtain — " I am out of it," I said — 
 When . . . 
 
 Pol, You have told me, Charles. 
 
 Cha. Polyxena— 
 
 When suddenly, — a warm March day, just that 
 Sunshine the cottager's child basks in — he 
 Takes off his bonnet as he ceases work 
 To catch the more of it — and it must fall 
 Heavily on my brother . . . had you seen 
 Philip — the lion-featured ! — not like me ! 
 
 Fol. I know — 
 
 Cha. And Philip's mouth yet fast to mine, 
 
 His dead cheek on my cheek, his arm still round 
 My neck, — they bade me rise, " for I was heir 
 To the Duke," they said, "the right hand of the Duke;" 
 Till then he was my father, not the Duke ! 
 So . . let me finish . . the whole intricate 
 
 62 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 World's-business their dead boy was born to, I 
 
 Must conquer, — ay, the brilliant thing he was, 
 
 I, of a sudden, must be : my faults, my follies, 
 
 — All bitter truths were told me, all at once 
 
 To end the sooner. What I simply styled 
 
 Their overlooking me, had been contempt : 
 
 How should the Duke employ himself, forsooth, 
 
 ^Vith such an one while lordly Philip rode 
 
 By him their Turin through ? But he was punislied, 
 
 And must put up with — me ! 'Twas sad enough 
 
 To learn my future portion and submit — 
 
 And then the wear and worry, blame on blame ! 
 
 — For, spring-sounds in my ears, spring-smells about, 
 
 How could I but grow dizzy in their pent 
 
 Dim palace-rooms at first ? My mother's look 
 
 As they discussed my insignificance — 
 
 (She and my father and I sitting by,) — 
 
 I bore : — I knew how brave a son they missed ; 
 
 Philip had gaily passed state-papers o'er 
 
 While Charles was spelling at them painfully I 
 
 But Victor was my father spite of that. 
 
 Duke Victor's entire life has been, I said, 
 
 Innumerable efforts to one end ; 
 
 And, on the point now of that end's success, 
 
 Our Ducal turning to a Kingly crown, 
 
 Where's time to be reminded 'tis his child 
 
 He spurns ? And so I suffered . . hardly suffered, 
 
 Since I had you at length ! 
 
 Pol. — To serve in place 
 
 Of monarch, minister and mistress, Charles. 
 
 Cha. But, once that crown obtained, then was't not 
 like 
 
 63 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Our lot would alter? — When he rests, takes breath, 
 
 Glances around, and sees who 's left to love — 
 
 Now that my mother 's dead, sees I am left — 
 
 Was it not like he'd love me at the last ? 
 
 Well : Savoy turns Sardinia — the Duke 's King ! 
 
 Could I — precisely then — could you expect 
 
 His harshness to redouble ? These few months 
 
 Have been . . . have been . . Polyxena, do you 
 
 And God conduct me or I lose myself ! 
 
 What would he have ? What is 't they want with me ? 
 
 Him with this mistress and this minister, 
 
 — You see me and you hear him ; judge us both ! 
 
 Pronounce what I should do, Polyxena ! 
 
 Pol. Endure, endure, beloved ! say you not 
 That he 's your Father ? All 's so incident 
 To novel sway ! Beside, our life must change : 
 Or you'll acquire his kingcraft, or he'll learn 
 His own 's a sorry way of teaching it. 
 I bear this — not that there 's so much to bear — 
 
 Cha. You bear it? Don't 1 know that you, tho' 
 bound 
 To silence for my sake, are perishing 
 Piecemeal beside me ? and how otherwise ? 
 — When every creephole from the hideous Court 
 Is stopt ; the Minister to dog me, here — 
 The Mistress posted to entrap you there ! 
 And thus shall we grow old in such a life — 
 Not careless, — never estranged, — but old ; to alter 
 Our life, there is so much to alter ! 
 
 Pol. Come — 
 
 Is it agreed tha we forego complaints 
 Even at Turin, yet complain we here 
 
 64 
 
King Vi6tor and King Charles. 
 
 At Rivoli ? 'Twere wiser you announced 
 Our presence to the King — What 's now a-foot, 
 I wonder? — Not that any more 's to dread 
 Than every day 's embarrassment — but guess 
 For me why train so fast succeeded train 
 On the high-road, each gayer still than each ; 
 I noticed your Archbishop's pursuivant, 
 The sable cloak and silver cross ; such pomp 
 Bodes . . what now, Charles ? Can you conceive ? 
 
 Cha. Not I. 
 
 Pol. A matter of some moment — 
 
 Cha, There 's our life ! 
 
 Which of the group of loiterers that stared 
 From the hme-avenue divines that I — 
 About to figure presently, he thinks, 
 In face of all assembled — am the one 
 Who knows precisely least about it ? 
 
 Pol Tush ! 
 
 D'Ormea's contrivance ! 
 
 CJia. Ay — how otherwise 
 
 Should the young Prince serve for the old King's 
 
 foil? 
 — So that the simplest courtier may remark 
 'Twere idle raising parties for a Prince 
 Content to linger D'Ormea's laughing-stock ! 
 Something, 'tis like, about that weary business 
 
 \Pointing to papcfs he has laid down, and 
 ivhich PoLYXENA exafnines. 
 — Not that I comprehend three words, of course, 
 After all last night's study. 
 
 Pol. The faint heart ! 
 
 Why, as we rode and you rehearsed just now 
 
 65 F 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Its substance . . (that 's the folded speech I mean, 
 Concerning the Reduction of the Fiefs . .) 
 — What would you have ?— I fancied while you spoke 
 Some tones were just your father's. 
 
 Cha. Flattery ! 
 
 Pol. I fancied so : — and here lurks, sure enough. 
 My note upon the Spanish Claims ! you've mastered 
 The fief-speech thoroughly — this other, mind. 
 Is an opinion you deliver, — stay, 
 Best read it slowly over once to me ; 
 Read — there 's bare time ; you read it firmly — loud 
 — Rather loud — looking in his face, — don't sink 
 Your eye once — ay, thus. " If Spain claims . . ." 
 
 Degin 
 — Just as you look at me ! 
 
 Cha. At you ! Oh, truly, 
 
 You have I seen, say, marshalling your troops — 
 Dismissing councils — or, through doors ajar, 
 Head sunk on hand, devoured by slow chagrins 
 — Then radiant, for a crown had all at once 
 Seemed possible again ! I can behold 
 Him, whose least whisper ties my spirit fast, 
 In this sweet brow nought could divert me from, 
 Save objects like Sebastian's shameless lip, 
 Or, worse, the dipt grey hair and dead white face, 
 And dwindling eye as if it ached with guile, 
 Which D'Ormea wears . . . 
 
 \As he kisses her, entei- fro7n the King's 
 aparinient D'Ormea. 
 
 . . I said he would divert 
 My kisses from your brow ! 
 
 no. [Aside?^ Here ! So King Victor 
 
 66 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 Spoke truth for once, and who 's ordained but I 
 To make that memorable? Both in call, 
 As he declared ! V^ere 't better gnash the teeth 
 Or laugh outright now ? 
 
 Clia. [7"^; PoLYXENA.] What 's his visit for ? 
 
 UO. \Aside?\^ I question if they'll even speak to 
 me. 
 
 Pol. [To Charles.] Face D'Ormea, he'll suppose 
 you fear him, else. 
 [.1/oud.] The Marquis bears the King's command, no 
 doubt. 
 
 D'O. [Aside] Precisely ! — if I threatened him, 
 perhaps ? 
 Well, this at least is punishment enough ! 
 Men used to promise punishment would come. 
 
 C/ia. Deliver the King's message. Marquis ! 
 
 B'O. [Aside] Ah — 
 
 So anxious for his fate ? [A/o//d.] A word, my Prince, 
 Before you see your father — just one word 
 Of counsel ! 
 
 C/ia. Oh, your counsel certainly — 
 
 Polyxena, the Marquis counsels us ! 
 Well, sir ? Be brief, however ! 
 
 D'O. What? you know 
 
 As much as I ? — preceded me, most like. 
 In knowledge ? So ! 'Tis in his eye, beside — 
 His voice — he knows it and his heart 's on flame 
 Already ! You surmise why you, myself, 
 Del Borgo, Spava, fifty nobles more. 
 Are summoned thus ? 
 
 C/ia. Is the Prince used to know 
 
 At any time the pleasure of the King 
 
 67 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Before his minister ? — Polyxena, 
 
 Stay here till I conclude my task — I feel 
 
 Your presence . . (smile not) . . thro' the walls, and 
 
 take 
 Fresh heart. The King 's within that chamber ? 
 
 D^O. [Passing the table luhercon a paper lles^ ex- 
 claims^ as he glafices at it,'] Spain ! 
 
 Fol. [Aside to Charles.] Tarry awhile : w^hat ails 
 the minister ? 
 
 D^O. Madam, I do not often trouble you. 
 The Prince loathes and you loathe me — let that pass ; 
 But since it touches him and you, not me, 
 Bid the Prince listen ! 
 
 Pol. [To Charles.] Surely you will listen ! 
 — Deceit ? — Those fingers crumpling up his vest ? 
 
 Cha. Deceitful to the very fingers' ends ! 
 
 D'O. [Who has approached the/n, overlooks the other 
 paper Charles contimies to hold.\ 
 My project for the Fiefs ! As I supposed ! 
 Sir, I must give you light upon those measures 
 — For this is mine, and that I spied of Spain, 
 Mine too ! 
 
 Cha. Release me ! Do you gloze on me 
 Who bear in the world's face (that is, the world 
 You've made for me at Turin) your contempt ? 
 — Your measures ? — When was any hateful task 
 Not D'Ormea's imposition ? Leave my robe ! 
 What post can I bestow, what grant concede ? 
 Or do you take me for the King ? 
 
 no. Not I ! 
 
 Not yet for King, — not for as yet, thank God, 
 One who in . . shall I say a year — a month ? 
 
 68 
 
King Vidlor and King Charles. 
 
 Ay ! — shall be wretcheder than e'er was slave 
 
 In his Sardinia, — Europe's spectacle 
 
 And the world's bye-word ! What ? The Prince 
 
 aggrieved 
 That I've excluded him our counsels ? Here 
 
 \ToucJiing the paper in Charles's hand. 
 Accept a method of extorting gold 
 From Savoy's nobles, who must wring its worth 
 In silver first from tillers of the soil, 
 Whose hinds again have to contribute brass 
 To make up the amount — there's counsel, sir ! 
 My counsel one year old ; and the fruit, this — 
 Savoy 's become a mass of misery 
 And wrath, which one man has to meet — the King : 
 You're not the King ! Another counsel, sir ! 
 Spain entertains a project (here it lies) 
 Which guessed makes Austria offer that same King 
 Thus much to baffle Spam ; he promises ; 
 Then comes Spain, breathless lest she be forestalled, 
 Her offer follows, and he promises . . . 
 
 Cha. Promises, sir, when he before agreed 
 To Austria's offer ? 
 
 no. That 's a counsel. Prince ! 
 
 But, past our foresight Spain and Austria, choosing 
 To make their quarrel up between themselves 
 Without the intervention of a friend. 
 Produce both treaties, and both promises . . . 
 
 Cha. How? 
 
 no. Prince, a counsel ! — And the fruit of that ? 
 
 Both parties covenant afresh to fall 
 Together on their friend, blot out his name, 
 Abolish him from Europe. So take note, 
 
 69 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Here's Austria and here's Spain to fight against, 
 And what sustains the King but Savoy here, 
 A miserable people mad with wrongs ? 
 You're not the King ! 
 
 Cha. Polyxena, yon said 
 
 All would clear up— all does clear up to me ! 
 
 UO. Clears up ? 'Tis no such thing to envy, then ? 
 You see the King's state in its length and breadth ? 
 You blame me now for keeping you aloof 
 From counsels and the fruit of counsels ? — AVait 
 'Till I've explained this morning's business ! 
 
 Cha. [Aside.] No- 
 
 Stoop to my father, yes, — to D'Ormea, no ! 
 The King's son, not to the King's counsellor ! 
 I will do something, — but at least retain 
 The credit of my deed ! [Aloud.] Then, D'Ormea, 
 
 this 
 You now expressly come to tell me ? 
 
 D'O. This 
 
 To tell ! You apprehend me ? 
 
 Cha. Perfectly. 
 
 And further, D'Ormea, you have shown yourself 
 For the first time these many weeks and months 
 Disposed to do my bidding ? 
 
 D'O. From the heart ! 
 
 Cha. Acquaint my father, first, I wait his pleasure : 
 Next ... or Fll tell you at a fitter time. 
 Acquaint the King ! 
 
 £>'0. [Aside.] If I 'scape Victor yet ' 
 First, to prevent this stroke at me — if not. 
 Then to avenge it ! [To Charles.] Giaeious sir, I go. 
 
 [Exit. 
 70 
 
King Vid:or and King Charles. 
 
 Cha. God, I forbore ! Which more offends — that 
 man 
 Or that man's master? Is it come to this ? 
 Have they supposed (the sharpest insult yet !) 
 I needed e'en his intervention ? No ! 
 No — dull am I, conceded, — but so dull, 
 Scarcely ! Their step decides me. 
 
 Pol. How decides ? 
 
 Cha. You would be free from D'Ormea's eye and 
 hers ? 
 — Could fly the court with me and live content ? 
 So — this it is for which the knights assemble ! 
 The whispers and the closeting of late, 
 The savageness and insolence of old, 
 — For this ! 
 
 FoL What mean you ? 
 
 C/ia. How? you fail to catcli 
 
 Their clever plot ? I missed it — but could you ? 
 These last two months of care to inculcate 
 How dull I am, — with D'Ormea's present visit 
 To prove that, being dull, I might be worse 
 Were I a king— as wretched as now dull — • 
 You recognise in it no winding-up 
 Of a long plot ? 
 
 Fol. Why should there be a plot i* 
 
 Cha. The crown 's secure now ; I should shame the 
 crown — ■ 
 An old complaint : the point is, how to save 
 My place for his Sebastian's child. 
 
 PoL In truth ? 
 
 Cha. They dare not quite dethrone Sardinia's Prince : 
 But they may descant on my dulness till 
 
 71 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 They sting me into even praying them 
 For leave to hide my head, resign my state, 
 And end the coil. Not see that ? In a word, 
 They'd have me tender them myself my rights 
 As one incapable : — some cause for that, 
 Since I delayed thus long to see their drift ! 
 I shall apprise the King he may resume 
 My rights this moment. 
 
 Pol. Pause — I dare not think 
 
 So ill of Victor. 
 
 Cha. Think no ill of him 1 
 
 Pol. ■ — Nor think him, then, so shallow as to suffer 
 His purpose be divined thus easily. 
 And yet — you are the last of a great line ; 
 There 's a great heritage at stake ; new days 
 Seemed to await this newest of the realms 
 Of Europe : — Charles, you must withstand this ! 
 
 Cha. Ah — 
 
 You dare not tlien renounce the splendid court 
 For one whom all the world despises ? Speak ! 
 
 Pol. My gentle husband, speak I will, and truth. 
 Were this as you believe, and I once sure 
 Your duty lay in so renouncing rule, 
 I could . . could ? Oh, what happiness it were 
 To live, my Charles, and die alone with you ! 
 
 Cha. I grieve I asked you. To the Presence, then I 
 D'Ormea acquaints the King by this, no doubt, 
 He fears I am too simple for mere hints. 
 And that no less will serve than Victor's mouth 
 Teaching me in full council what I am. 
 — I have not breathed, I think, these many years ! 
 
 Pol. Why — it may be ! — if he desires to wed 
 
 72 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 That woman and legitimate her child — 
 
 Cha. You see as much ? Oh, let his will have way ! 
 You'll not repent confiding in me, love ? 
 There 's many a brighter spot in Piedmont far 
 Than Rivoli. I'll seek him — or, suppose 
 You hear first how I mean to speak my mind ? 
 — Loudly and firmly both, this time, be sure ! 
 I yet may see your Rhine-land — who can tell ? 
 Once away, ever then away ! I breathe. 
 
 Pol. And I too breathe ! 
 
 Cha. Come, my Polyxena ! 
 
 \Exaint. 
 
 KING VICTOR. PART II. 
 
 Enter King Victor, bearing the regalia on a cushion 
 from his apartment. He calls loudly. 
 
 D'Ormea ! — for patience fails me, treading thus 
 Among the trains that I have laid, — my knights. 
 My son, — and D'Ormea, where ? Of this, one touch — 
 
 \^Laying down the crown. 
 This fireball to these mute, black, cold trains — then ! 
 Outbreak enough ! 
 
 \Co7itemplati7ig it.] To lose all, after all ! 
 This — glancing o'er my house for ages — shaped, 
 Brave meteor, like the Crown of Cyprus now — 
 Jerusalem, Spain, England — every change 
 The braver, — and when I have clutched a prize 
 My ancestry died wan with watching for, 
 To lose it ! — by a slip — a fault — a trick 
 Learnt to advantage once, and not unlearnt 
 When past the use, — " just this once more " (I thought) 
 
 73 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 " Use it with Spain and Austria happily, 
 
 And then away with trick ! " — An oversight 
 
 I'd have repaired thrice over any time 
 
 These fifty years must happen now ! There 's peace 
 
 At length ; and I, to make of peace the most, 
 
 Ventured my project on our people here, 
 
 As needing not their help — which Europe knows, 
 
 And means, cold-blooded, to dispose herself 
 
 (Apart the plausibilities of war) 
 
 To crush the new-made King — who ne'er till now 
 
 Feared her. As Duke, I lost each foot of earth 
 
 And laughed at her : my name was left, my sword 
 
 Left, all was left ! But she can take, she knows, . 
 
 This crown herself conceded . . . 
 
 That 's to try. 
 Kind Europe ! My career 's not closed as yet ! 
 This boy was ever subject to my will — 
 Timid and tame — the fitter ! D'Ormea, too — 
 What if the sovereign 's also rid of thee 
 His prime of parasites ? — Yet I delay ! 
 D'Ormea ! 
 
 [As D' Ornica enters^ the King seats himselj. 
 My son the Prince — attends he ? 
 
 no. Sire, 
 
 He does attend. The croAvn prepared ! — it seems 
 That you persist in your resolve. 
 
 Vic. Who 's come } 
 
 The chancellor and the chamberlain ? My knights ? 
 
 no. The whole Annunziata. — If, my liege, 
 Your fortunes had not tottered worse than now . . . 
 
 Vic. Del Borgo has drawn up the schedules ? mine — 
 My son's too ? Excellent. Only, beware 
 
 74 
 
King Vid:or and King Charles. 
 
 Of the least blunder, or but fools we look. 
 First, you read the Annulment of the Oaths ; 
 Del Borgo follows . . no, the Prince shall sign ; 
 Then let Del Borgo read the Instrument — 
 On which, I enter. — 
 
 D'O. Sire, this may be truth : 
 
 You, sire, may do as you affect — may break 
 Your engine, me, to pieces : try at least 
 If not a spring remains worth saving ! Bid 
 Me counsel as I've counselled many times ! 
 What if the Spaniard and the Austrian threat ? 
 There 's England, Holland, Venice — w^hich ally 
 Select you ? 
 
 Vic. Aha ! Come, my D'Ormea, — " truth " 
 
 Was on your lip a minute since. Allies ? 
 I've broken faith with Venice, Holland, England. 
 — As who knows if not you ? 
 
 D'O. ... But not with me 
 
 Broke faith — with one ally, your best, broke faith. 
 
 Fi'c. When first I stumbled on you, Marquis — (at 
 Mondovi 'twas, — a little lawyer's clerk . . .) 
 
 D'O. ... Therefore your soul's ally ! — who brought 
 you through 
 Your quarrel with the Pope at pains enough — 
 Who 've simply echoed you in these affairs — 
 On whom you cannot therefore visit these 
 Affairs' ill fortune — whom you'll trust to guide 
 You safe (yes, on my soul) in these affairs ! 
 
 V/c. I was about to notice, had you not 
 Prevented me, that since Mondovi kept 
 With its chicane my D'Ormea's satchel stuffed, 
 And D'Ormea's self sufficiently recluse, 
 
 75 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 He missed a sight, — my naval armament 
 
 When I burnt Toulon. How the skiff exults 
 
 Upon the galliot's wave ! — rises its height, 
 
 O'ertops it even : but the great wave bursts — 
 
 And hell-deep in the horrible profound 
 
 Buries itself the galliot : — shall the skiff 
 
 Think to escape the sea's black trough in turn ? 
 
 Apply this : you have been my minister 
 
 — Next me — above me possibly ; — sad post, 
 
 Huge care, abundant lack of peace of mind ; 
 
 Who would desiderate the eminence ? 
 
 You gave your soul to get it — you'd yet give 
 
 Your soul to keep it, as I mean you shall, 
 
 My D'Ormea ! What if the wave ebbed with me ? 
 
 Whereas it cants you to another's crest — 
 
 I toss you to my son ; ride out your ride ! 
 
 no. Ah, you so much despise me then? 
 
 Vic. You, D'Ormea ? 
 
 Nowise : and I'll inform you why. A king 
 Must in his time have many ministers, 
 And I've been rash enough to part with mine 
 When I thought proper. Of the tribe, not one 
 (. . Or wait, did Pianezze ? . . ah, just the same !) 
 Not one of them, ere his remonstrance reached 
 The length of yours, but has assured me (commonly 
 vStanding much as you stand, — or nearer, say, 
 The door to make his exit on his speech) 
 — " I should repent of what I did : " now, D'Ormea, 
 (Be candid — you approached it when I bade you 
 Prepare the schedules ! But you stopped in time) 
 — You have not so assured me : how should I 
 Despise you, then ? 
 
 76 
 
King Vidlor and King Charles. 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 
 Vic. \ChaiigLng his fone?\ Are you instructed ? Do 
 My order point by point ! About it, sir ! 
 
 UO. You so despise me ? [Aside.] One last stay 
 remains — 
 The boy's discretion there. [To Chakles.] 
 
 For your sake, Prince, 
 I pleaded— wholly in your interest — 
 To save you from this fate ! 
 
 C/ia. [Aside.] Must I be told 
 
 The Prince was supplicated for — by him ? 
 
 Fie. [To D'Ormea.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and 
 the rest, 
 Our son attends them : then return. 
 
 D'O. One word . . . 
 
 C/ia. [Aside.] A moment's pause and they would 
 drive me hence, 
 I do believe ! 
 
 B'O. [Aside.] Let but the boy be firm ! 
 
 Fie. You disobey ? 
 
 C/ia. [To D'Ormea.] You do not disobey 
 Me, D'Ormea ? Did you promise that or no ? 
 
 D'O. Sir, I am yours — what would you? Yours 
 am I. 
 
 C/ia. When I have said what I shall say, 'tis like 
 Your face will ne'er again disgust me. Go ! 
 Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see. 
 And for your conduct, from my youth till now. 
 Take my contempt ! You might have spared me much. 
 Secured me somewhat, nor so harmed yourself — 
 That 's over now. Go — ne'er to come again ! 
 
 77 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 UO. As son, the father — father as, the son ! 
 My wits ! My wits ! \Exit. 
 
 Vic. \Seated?[ And you. what meant you, pray, 
 By speaking thus to D'Ormea ? 
 
 Cha. Let us not 
 
 Weary ourselves with D'Ormea ! Those few worck 
 Have half unsettled what I came to say. 
 His presence vexes to my very soul. 
 
 Vic. One called to manage kingdoms, Charles, needs 
 heart 
 To bear up under worse annoyances 
 Than D'Ormea seems — to me, at least. 
 
 Cha. [Aside.] Ah, good ! 
 
 He keeps me to the point ! Then be it so. 
 \A/ou(/.] Last night, sire, brought me certain papers — 
 
 these — 
 To be reported on, — your way of late. 
 Is it last night's result that you demand ? 
 
 Vic. For God's sake, what has night brought forth ? 
 Pronounce 
 The . . what 's your word ? — result 
 
 C/ia. Sire, tliat had proved 
 
 Quite worthy of your sneers, no doubt : — a few 
 Lame thoughts regard for you alone could wring, 
 Lame as they are, from brains, like mine, believe. 
 As 'tis, sire, I am spared both toil and sneer. 
 There are the papers. 
 
 Vic. Well sir? I suppose 
 
 You hardly burned them. Now for your result. 
 
 C/ia. I never should have done great things ot 
 course, 
 Biit . oh, my father, had you loved me more ! 
 
 78 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 Vic. Loved you ? [Aside.^ Has U'Ormea played me 
 false, I wonder? 
 [Aloud.'] Why, Charles, a king's love is diffused — 
 
 yourself 
 May overlook, perchance, your part in it. 
 Our monarchy is absolutest now 
 In Europe, or my trouble 's thrown away : 
 I love, my mode, that subjects each and all 
 May have the power of loving, all and each. 
 Their mode : I doubt not many have their sons 
 To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long — 
 I have that crown, this chair, and D'Ormea, Charles. 
 
 C/ia. 'Tis well I am a subject then, not you. 
 
 Vic. [Aside.'] D'Ormea has told him everything. 
 
 [Aioud.] Aha' 
 I apprehend you : when all 's said, )'ou take 
 Your private station to be prized beyond 
 My own, for instance ? 
 
 Cha. — Do and ever did 
 
 So take it : 'tis the method that aggrieves. . . 
 
 Vic, These words ! these words ! Let me express, 
 my friend, 
 Your thought. You penetrate what I supposed 
 A secret. D'Ormea plies his trade betimes ! 
 I purpose to resign my crown to you. 
 
 C/ia. To me ? 
 
 Vic. Now — in that chamber. 
 
 C/ia. You resign 
 
 The crown to me ? 
 
 Vic. And time enough, Charles, sure? 
 
 Confess with me, at four-and-sixty years 
 A crown 's a load. I covet quiet once 
 
 79 
 
Belis and Pomegranates. 
 
 Before I die, and summoned you for that. 
 
 Cha. 'Tis I will speak : you ever hated me, 
 I bore it, — have insulted me, borne too — 
 Now you insult yourself, and I remember 
 AVhat I believed you, what you really are, 
 And cannot bear it. What ! My life has passed 
 Under your eye, tormented as you know, — 
 Your whole sagacities one after one 
 At leisure brought to bear on me — to prove 
 Me — fool, I thought, and I submitted; now 
 You'd prove . . . what would you prove me ? 
 
 Vic. This to me? 
 
 I hardly know you ! 
 
 Cha. Know me ? Oh, indeed 
 
 You do not ! Wait till I complain next time 
 Of my simplicity ! — for here 's a sage — 
 Knows the world well — is not to be deceived — 
 And his experience and his Macchiavels, 
 His D'Ormeas, teach him — what ? — that I, this while, 
 Have envied him his crown ! He has not smiled, 
 I warrant, — has not eaten, drunk, or slept, 
 For I was plotting with my princess yonder ! 
 Who knows what we might do or might not do ? 
 Go now — be poUtic — astound the world ! — 
 That sentry in the antechamber . . nay 
 The varlet who disposed this precious trap 
 
 \Pomting to the croivn. 
 That was to take me — ask them if they think 
 Their own sons envy them their posts ! — Know me ! 
 
 Vic. But you know me, it seems ; so learn in brief 
 My pleasure. The assembly is convened . . . 
 
 Cha. Tell me Sebastian put it in your head — 
 
 80 
 
King Vi(5lor and King Charles. 
 
 You were not sole contriver of the scheme, 
 My father ! 
 
 F/r. Now observe me, sh- ! I jest 
 
 Seldom — on these points, never. Here to witness 
 (I say they are assembled) me concede, 
 And you accept Sardinia's crown. 
 
 Cha. Farewell ! 
 
 'Twere vain to hope to change this — I can end it. 
 Not that I cease from being yours when sunk 
 Into obscurity. I'd die for you, 
 But not annoy you with my presence — Sire, 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 Enter D'Ormea. 
 
 UO. [Aside.] Ila, sure he 's changed again — 
 Means not to fall into the cunning trap — 
 Then, Victor, I shall yet escape you, Victor ! 
 
 Fie. \_Suddenly placing the crown upon the head oj 
 Charles.] D'Ormea, your King ! 
 \To Charles.] My son, obey me! Charles 
 
 Your father, clearer-sighted than yourself, 
 Decides it must be so. 'P'aith, this looks real ! 
 My reasons after — reason upon reason 
 After — but now, obey me ! Trust in me ! 
 By this, you save Savoy, my subjects, me ! 
 Why the boy swoons. Come this side ! 
 
 no. \As Charles turns from him to VicroR.] 
 
 You pcKsist ? 
 Vic. Yes — I conceive the gesture's meaning. 'Faith, 
 He almost seems to hate you — how is that ? 
 
 8i G 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Be re-assured, my Charles. Is't over now ? 
 Then, Marquis, tell the new King what remains 
 To do ! A moment's work. Del Borgo reads 
 The Act of Abdication out, you sign it, 
 Then I sign ; after that, come back to me. 
 
 UO. Sire, for the last time, pause ! 
 
 Vic, Five minutes longer 
 
 I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesitate — 
 And I'll so turn those minutes to account 
 That . . . Ay, you recollect me ! 
 
 \Aside?\ Could I bring 
 My foolish mind to undergo the reading 
 That Act of Abdication ! 
 
 \As Charles motions D'Ormea to precede him. 
 Thanks, dear Charles ! 
 \Exeunt Charles and D'Ormea. 
 
 Vic. A novel feature in the boy, — indeed 
 Just that I feared he wanted most — quite right, 
 This earnest tone — your truth, now, for effect ! 
 It answers every purpose : with that look — 
 That voice, — I hear him : " I began no treaty," 
 (He speaks to Spain,) "nor ever dreamed of this 
 You show me ; this I from my soul regret ; 
 But if my father signed it, bid not me 
 Dishonour him — who gave me all, beside." 
 And, "truth," says Spain, "'tAvere harsh to visit that 
 Upon the prince." Then come the nobles trooping: 
 " I grieve at these exactions — I had cut 
 This hand off ere imposed them ; but shall I 
 Undo my father's deed ? " — And they confer ; 
 " Doubtless he was no party, after all ; 
 Give the prince time ! " — 
 
 82 I 
 
i 
 
 King Vi6lor and King Charles. 
 
 Ay, give us time — but time ! 
 Only, he must not when the dark day comes 
 Refer our friends to me and frustrate all. 
 We'll have no child's play, no desponding-fits, 
 No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor 
 To take his crown again. Guard against that ! 
 Long live King Charles 1 — 
 
 Enter D'Ormea. 
 
 King Charles's counsellor ! 
 Well, is it over, Marquis ? Did I jest ? 
 
 UO. King Charles ! AMiat then may you be? 
 
 ]'ic. Anything. 
 
 A country gentleman that 's cured of bustle 
 And beats a quick retreat towards Chamberri 
 To hunt and hawk, and leave you noisy folk 
 To drive your trade without him. I'm Count Remont — 
 Count Tende — any little place's Count ! 
 
 UO. Then, Victor, Captain against Catinat 
 At Staffarde where the French beat you, and Duke 
 At Turin where you beat the French — King, late. 
 Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sardinia, 
 —Now, any little place's Count . . 
 
 Vic. Proceed. 
 
 UO. Breaker of vows to God who crowned you 
 first. 
 Breaker of vows to Man who kept you since, 
 Most profligate to me who outraged God 
 And Man to serve you, and am made pay crimes 
 I was but privy to, by passing thus 
 To your imbecile son — who, well you know, 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Must, — when the people here, and nations there, 
 Clamour for you, the main delinquent, slipt 
 From King to — Count of any little place 
 — Surrender me, all left within his reach, — 
 I, sir, forgive you : for I see the end — 
 See you on your return (you will return) 
 To him )ou trust in for the moment . . 
 
 Vic. How ? 
 
 Trust in him ? (merely a prime minister 
 This D'Ormea !) How trust in him ? 
 
 D'O. In his fear- 
 
 His love, — but pray discover for yourself 
 What you are weakest trusting in ! 
 
 Vic. Aha, 
 
 My D'Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this 
 In your repertory ? You know old Victor — 
 Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash— (I've heard 
 Talkers who little thought the King so close) 
 Felicitous, now, were 't not, to provoke him 
 To clean forget, one minute afterward. 
 His solemn act — to call the nobles back 
 And pray them give again the very power 
 He has abjured ? — for the dear sake of — what ? 
 Vengeance on you ! No, D'Ormea : such am I, 
 Count Tende or Count anything you please, 
 — Only, the same that did the things you say, 
 And, among other things you say not, used 
 Your finest fibre, meanest muscle, — you 
 I used, and now, since you will have it so, 
 Leave to your fate — mere lumber in the midst, 
 You and your works — Why, what on earth beside 
 Are you made for, you sort of ministers ? 
 
 84 
 
King Vicflor iind King Charles. 
 
 UO. — Left, though, at Chamberri ? Your witless 
 son 
 Has more wit than to load himself with lumber : 
 He foils you that way, and I follow you. 
 
 Vic, Stay with my son — protect the weaker side ! 
 
 UO. Ay, be tossed to the people like a rag, 
 And flung by them to Spain and Austria — so 
 Abohshing the record of your part 
 In all this perfidy ! 
 
 Vic. Prevent, beside, 
 
 My own return ! 
 
 UO. That's hah' prevented now. 
 
 Twill go hard but you'll find a wondrous charm 
 In exile to discredit me. The Alps — 
 Silk-mills to watch — vines asking vigilance — ■ 
 Hounds open for the stag — your hawk 's a-wing — 
 Brave days that wait the Louis of the South, 
 Italy's Janus ! 
 
 Vic. So the lawyer's clerk 
 
 Won't tell me that I shall repent ! 
 
 UO. You give me 
 
 Full leave to ask if you repent ? 
 
 Vic. Whene'er 
 
 Sufficient time 's elapsed for that, you judge. 
 
 \Shouts inside^ " King Charles." 
 
 UO. Do you repent? 
 
 Vic. \After a slii!;ht pause^ . . . I've kept tiicm 
 waiting ? Yes. 
 Come in — complete the Abdication, sir ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ss 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Enter PoLYXENA. 
 
 Pol. A shout ? The sycophants are free of Charles ! 
 Oh, is not this hke Italy ? No fruit 
 Of his or my distempered fancy, this — 
 But just an ordinary fact ! Beside 
 Here they've set forms for such proceedings — Victor 
 Imprisoned his own mother — he should know, 
 If any, how a son 's to be deprived 
 Of a son's right. Our duty 's palpable. 
 Ne'er was my husband for the wily king 
 And the unworthy subjects — be it so. 
 Come you safe out of them, my Charles ! Our life 
 Grows not the broad and dazzling life I dreamed 
 Might prove your lot — for strength was shut in you 
 None guessed but I — strength which, untrammeled 
 
 once. 
 Had little shamed your vaunted ancestry- — 
 Patience and self-devotion, fortitude, 
 Simplicity and utter truthfulness 
 — All which they shout to lose ! 
 
 So, now m)- work 
 Begins — to save him from regret. Save Charles 
 Regret ? — the noble nature ! He 's not made 
 Like the Italians : 'tis a German soul. 
 
 Charles oiters croivncd. 
 
 Oh, where 's the King's heir? Gone : — the Crown- 
 prince ? Gone — 
 Where's Savoy? Gone : — Sardinia? Gone ! — But Charles 
 Is left ! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive, 
 
 86 
 
King Victor and King Charles. 
 
 If he looked almost handsome yester-twilight 
 As his grey eyes seemed widening into black 
 Because I praised him, then how will he look ? 
 Farewell you stripped and whited mulberry-trees 
 Bound each to each by lazy ropes of vine ! 
 Now I'll teach you my language — I'm not forced 
 To speak Italian now, Charles ? 
 
 [S/ie sees the crotvn?\ What is this ? 
 Answer me — who has done this? Answer ! 
 
 Cha. He : 
 
 I am King now. 
 
 Pol. Oh worst, worst, worst of all ! 
 
 Tell me — what, Victor ? He has made you King ? 
 What 's he then ? What 's to follow this ? You, King ? 
 
 Cha. Have I done wrong ? Yes — for you were not 
 by! 
 
 Pol. Tell me from first to last. 
 
 Cha, Hush — a new world 
 
 Brightens before me ; he is moved away 
 — The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides 
 Into a shape supporting me like yours. 
 And I alone tend upward, more and more 
 Tend upward : I am grown Sardinia's King. 
 
 Pol. Now stop : was not this Victor Duke of Savoy 
 At ten years old ? 
 
 Cha. He was. 
 
 Pol. And the Duke spent 
 
 Since then just four-and-fifty years in toil 
 To be — what ? 
 
 Cha. King. 
 
 Pol. Then why unking himself? 
 
 Cha. Those ten and four-and-fifty years. 
 
 87 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Pol Those only ? 
 
 Cha. Some new perplexities. 
 
 Pol. Which you can solve 
 
 Although he cannot ? 
 
 Cha. He assures me so. 
 
 Pol. i\nd this he means shall last — how long ? 
 
 Cha. How long ? 
 
 Think you I fear the perils I confront? 
 He 's praising me before the people's face — 
 My people ! 
 
 Pol. Then he 's changed — grown kind, the King ? 
 (Where can the trap be?) 
 
 CJia. Heart and soul — and soul. 
 
 My father, could I guard the Crown you gained, 
 Deliver it as I received it, — all 
 Would I surrender ! 
 
 Pol. Ah, it opens then 
 
 Before you — all you dreaded formerly? 
 You are rejoiced to be a king, my Charles ? 
 
 Cha. So much to dare ? The better ; — much to 
 dread ? 
 The better. I'll adventure tho' alone. 
 Triumph or die, there 's Victor still to witness 
 Who dies or triumphs — either way, alone 
 
 Pol. Once I had found my share in triumph, 
 Charles, 
 Or death. 
 
 Cha. But you are me ! But you I call 
 To take, Heaven's proxy, vows I tendered Heaven 
 A moment since. I will deserve the crown ! 
 
 Pol. You will. [Aside.] No doubt it were a glorious 
 tiling 
 
 88 
 
King Vidlor and King Charles. 
 
 For any people if a heart like his 
 Ruled over it. I would I saw the trap ! 
 
 Enter Victor. 
 
 Tis he must show me. 
 
 Vic. So the mask falls off 
 
 An old man's foolish love at last ! Spare thanks — 
 I know you, and Polyxena I know. 
 Here 's Charles — I am his guest now — does he bid me 
 Be seated ? And my light-haired, blue-eyed child 
 Must not forget the old man far away 
 At Chamberri, who dozes while she reigns ? 
 
 Pol. Most grateful shall we now be, talking least 
 Of gratitude — indeed of anything 
 That hinders what yourself must have to say 
 To Charles. 
 
 Cha. Pray speak, sire ! 
 
 Vic. 'Faith, not much to say — 
 
 Only what shows itself, once in the point 
 Of sight. You are now the King : you'll comprehend 
 Much you may oft have wondered at — ^the shifts, 
 Dissimulation, wiUness I showed. 
 For what 's our post ? Here 's Savoy and here 's Pied- 
 mont, 
 Here 's Montferrat — a breadth here, a space there — 
 To o'er-sweep all these what 's one weapon worth ? 
 I often think of how they fought in Greece 
 (Or Rome, which was it ? You're the scholar, Charles) 
 You made a front-thrust ? But if your shield, too, 
 Were not adroitly planted — some shrewd knave 
 Reached you behind ; and, him foiled, straight if thong 
 
 89 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 And handle of that shield were not cast loose 
 And you enabled to outstrip the wind, 
 Fresh foes assailed you either side ; 'scape these 
 And reach your place of refuge — e'en then, odds 
 If the gate opened unless breath enough 
 Was left in you to make its Lord a speech. 
 Oh, you will see ! 
 
 CJia. No : straight on shall I go. 
 
 Truth helping ; win with it or die with it. 
 
 Vic. 'Faith, Charles, you're not made Europe's 
 fighting-man. 
 Its barrier-guarder, if you please. You hold, 
 Not tak-^ — consolidate, with envious French 
 This side ."'nd Austrians that, these territories 
 I held — ay, .-^nd will hold . . . which you shall hold 
 Despite the couple ! But I've surely earned 
 The privilege to prattle with my son 
 And daughter tho' the world should wait the while. 
 
 Pol. Nay, sire, — at Chamberri, away for ever, 
 As soon you'll be, 'tis a farewell we bid you ! 
 Turn these few fleeting moments to account ! 
 'Tis just as though it were a death. 
 
 Vic. Indeed ! 
 
 Pol. \Aside.\ Is the trap there ? 
 
 Cha. Ay, call this parting — death ! 
 
 The sacreder your memory becomes. 
 If I misrule Sardinia, how bring back 
 My father ? No — that thought shall ever urge me. 
 
 Vic. I do not mean . . . 
 
 Pol. [ Who watches Victor narrowly this while.^ 
 
 Your father does not mean 
 That you are ruling for your father's sake • 
 
 90 
 
King Vi6lor and King Charles. 
 
 It is your people must concern you wholly 
 Instead of him. You meant this, sire? (He drops 
 My hand !) 
 
 Cha. That People is now part of me. 
 
 Vic. About the People ! I took certain measures 
 Some short time since . . Oh, I'm aware you know 
 But little of my measures — these affect 
 The nobles — we've resumed some grants, imposed 
 A tax or two ; prepare yourself, in short. 
 For clamours on that score : mark me : you yield 
 No jot of what 's entrusted you ! 
 
 PoL No jot 
 
 You yield ! 
 
 Cha. My father, when I took the oath 
 
 Although my eye might stray in search of yours, 
 I heard it, understood it, promised God 
 What you require. Till from this eminence 
 He moves me, here I keep, nor shall concede 
 The meanest of my rights. 
 
 Vic. [Aside.] The boy 's a fool. 
 
 — Or rather, I'm a fool : for, what 's wrong here ? 
 To-day the sweets of reigning — let to-morrow 
 Be ready with its bitters. 
 
 Enter D'Ormea. 
 
 There 's beside 
 Somewhat to press upon your notice first. 
 
 Cha. Then why delay it for an instant, sire ? 
 That Spanish claim, perchance ? And, now you speak 
 — This morning my opinion was mature 
 Which, boy-like, I was bashful in producing 
 
 91 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 To you — I ne'er am like to fear in future ! 
 My thought is formed upon that Spanish claim. 
 
 Vic. (Betimes indeed.) Not now, Charles. You 
 require 
 A host of papers on it — 
 
 D'O. l^Commg fonvard.'] Here they are. 
 \_To Charles.] I was the minister and much beside 
 Of the late monarch : to say little, him 
 I served ; on you I have, to say e'en less, 
 No claim This case contains those papers : with 
 
 them 
 I tender you my office. 
 
 Vic. [Ifasfi/y.] Keep him, Charles ! 
 
 There 's reason for it — many reasons : you 
 Distrust him, nor are so far wrong there, — but 
 He 's mixed up in this matter — he'll desire 
 To quit you, for occasions known to me : 
 Do not accept those reasons — have him stay ! 
 
 Fo/. [Aside.] His minister thrust on us ! 
 
 C/ia. [To D'Ormea.] Sir, believe 
 
 In justice to myself you do not need 
 E'en this commending : whatsoe'er might be 
 My feelings towards you as a private man, 
 They quit me in the vast and untried field 
 Of action. Though I shall myself (as late 
 In your own hearing I engaged to do) 
 Preside o'er my Sardinia, yet your help 
 Is necessary. Think the past forgotten, 
 And serve me now ! 
 
 jD'O. I did not offer you 
 
 My services — would I could serve you, sire ! 
 As for the Spanish matter . . . 
 
 92 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 Vtc. But despatch 
 
 At least the dead, in my good daughter's phrase, 
 Before the living ! Help to house me safe 
 Ere you and D'Ormea set the world a-gape ! 
 Here is a paper — will you overlook 
 What I propose reserving for my needs ? 
 I get as far from you as possible. 
 There's what I reckon my expenditure. 
 
 C/ia. \Reading?\ A miserable fifty thousand crowns. 
 
 Vic. Oh, quite enough for country gentlemen ! 
 Beside the exchequer happens . . . but find out 
 All that yourself. 
 
 Cha. \Still reading^ Count Tende— what is this ? 
 
 Vic. Me : you were but an infant when I burst 
 Through the defile of Tende upon France. 
 Had only my allies kept true to me ! 
 No matter. Tende 's then a name I take 
 Just as . . . 
 
 UO. The Marchioness Sebastian takes 
 The name of Spigno. 
 
 Cha. How, sir? 
 
 Vic. [To D'Ormea.] Fool! All that 
 
 Was for my own detailing. [ To Charles.] That anon ! 
 
 C/ia. [To D'Ormea.] Explain what you have said, 
 sir ! 
 
 D'O. I supposed 
 The marriage of the King to her 1 named, 
 Profoundly kept a secret these few weeks. 
 Was not to be one now he 's Count. 
 
 To/. [Aside.] With us 
 
 The minister — with him the mistress ! 
 
 C/ia. [r^ Victor.] No— 
 
 93 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Tell me you have not taken her — that woman 
 To live with past recall ! 
 
 Vic. And where 's the crime . . . 
 
 FoL [To Charles.] True, sir, this is a matter past 
 recall, 
 And past your cognizance. A day before, 
 And you had been compelled to note this — now 
 Why note it ? The King saved his House from shame 
 What the Count does is no concern of yours. 
 
 Cka. S^After a pause.'] The Spanish business, 
 D'Ormea ! 
 
 Vic. Why, my son, 
 
 I took some ill-advised . . . one's age, in fact. 
 Spoils everything : though I was over-reached, 
 A younger brain, we'll trust, may extricate 
 Sardinia readily. To-morrow, D'Ormea, 
 Inform the King ! 
 
 D'O. [ Without 7'egarding Victor, and leisurely. '\ 
 
 Thus stands the case with Spain : 
 When first the Infant Carlos claimed his proper 
 Succession to the throne of Tuscany . . . 
 
 Vic. I tell you, that stands over ! Let that rest ! 
 There is the policy. 
 
 Cha. [To D'Ormea.] Thus much I know, 
 And more — too much : the remedy ? 
 
 D'O. Of course! 
 
 No glimpse of one — 
 
 Vic. No remedy at all ! 
 
 It makes the remedy itself — time makes it. 
 
 D'O. [To Charles.] But if . . . 
 
 Vic. [Still more hastily ?\ In fine, I shall take care of 
 that — 
 
 94 
 
King Vidlor and King Charles. 
 
 And, with another project that I have . . . 
 
 UO. \_Turnmg on him?\ Oh, since Count Tende 
 means to take again 
 King Victor's crown ! — 
 
 Pol. [Throwing herself at Victor's /^r/.] 
 
 E'en now retake it, sire ! 
 Oh, speak ! We are your subjects both once more ! 
 Say it — a word effects it ! You meant not. 
 Nor do mean now, to take it — but you must ! 
 'Tis in you — in your nature — and the shame's 
 Not half the shame 'twould grow to afterward ! 
 
 Cha. Polyxena ! 
 
 Pol. A word recalls the Knights-— 
 
 Say it ! — What 's promising and what 's the past ? 
 Say you are still King Victor ! 
 
 no. Better say 
 
 The Count repents, in brief! [Victor rises. 
 
 Cha. With such a crime 
 
 I have not charged you, sire ! 
 
 PoL Charles turns from me ! 
 
 [Exeunt singly. 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 SECOND YEAR, 1731. 
 
 KING CHARLES. PART I. i 
 
 Enter Queen Polyxena a7id D'Ormea — A pause. 
 
 Pol. And now, sir, what have you to say ? 
 
 no. Count Tende . . 
 
 Pvl. Affirm not I betrayed you ; you resolve 
 On uttering this strange intelligence 
 — Nay, post yourself to find me ere 1 reach 
 The capital, because you know King Charles 
 Tarries a day or two at Evian baths 
 Behind me : — but take warning, — here an i thus 
 
 \^Seatiiig herself in th • Royal seat. 
 I listen, if I listen — not your friend 
 Explicitly the statement, if you still 
 Persist to urge it on me, must proceed : 
 I am not made for aught else. 
 
 D'O. Good: Count Tcude . 
 
 Pol. I, who mistrust you, shall acquainl ..ml' 
 Charles, 
 Who even more mistrusts you. 
 
 no. Does he so? 
 
 Pol. Why should he not ? 
 
 no. Ay, why not? Motives, seek 
 
 You virtuous people, motives ! Say, I serve 
 God at the devil's bidding — will that do ? 
 I'm proud: our People have been pacified 
 (Really I know not how) — 
 
 Pol, By truthfulness. 
 
 96 
 
King Vi(5lor and King Charles. 
 
 UO. Exactly ; that shows I had nought to do 
 With pacifying them : our foreign perils 
 Also exceed my means to stay : but here 
 'Tis otherwise, and my pride's piqued. Would you, 
 
 madam, 
 Have the old monarch back, his mistress back, 
 His measures back ? I pray you act upon 
 My counsel, or they will be. 
 
 Pol. When ? 
 
 no. Let 's think. 
 
 Home-matters settled — Victor 's coming now ; 
 Let foreign matters settle — Victor 's here : 
 Unless I stop him, as I will this way. 
 
 Pol. \Readi7ig the papers he presents ?\ If this should 
 prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor ? 
 You seek annoyances to give him pretext 
 For what you say you fear ! 
 
 no. Oh, possibly ! 
 
 I go for nothing. Only show King Charles 
 That thus Count Tende purposes return, 
 Ai.d style me his inviter if you please. 
 
 j^Ul Half of your tale is true ; most like the Count 
 Would come : but wherefore are you left with us ? 
 To aid in such emergencies. 
 
 UO. Keep safe 
 
 Those papers : or, to serve me, leave no proof 
 I thus have counselled : when the Count returns 
 And the King abdicates, 'twill stead me little 
 To have thus counselled. 
 
 Pol. The King abdicate ! 
 
 UO. He's good, we knew long since — wise, we 
 discover — 
 
 97 H 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Firm, let us hope : — but I'd have gone to work 
 And he away. Well ! 
 
 [Charles zmthout.'\ In the Council Chamber ? 
 
 D'O All's lost. 
 
 FoL Oh, surely not King Charles ! He 's changed. 
 That's not this year's care — burthened voice and 
 
 step : 
 'Tis last year's step — the Prince's voice ! 
 
 n'O. I know. 
 
 Enter Chari.es — D'Ormea retiring a Utile. 
 
 C/ia. Now wish me joy, Polyxena ! Wish it me 
 The old way. [She cml>7'aces him. 
 
 There was too much cause for that ! 
 But I have found myself again ! What's news 
 At Turin ? Oh, if you but felt the load 
 I'm free of — free ! I said this year would end 
 Or it or me — but I am free, thank God ! 
 
 Pol. How, Charles ? 
 
 Cha. You do not guess ! The day I found 
 
 Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad — 
 And how my father was involved in it, — 
 Of course I vowed to rest or smile no more 
 Until I freed his name from obloquy. 
 y\Q, did the people right — 'twas much to gain 
 That point, redress our nobles' grievance too — 
 But that took place here, was no crying shame • 
 All must be done abroad, — if I abroad 
 Appease the justly-angered Powers, destroy 
 The scandal, take down Victor's name at last 
 From a bad eminence, I then may breathe 
 
 98 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 And rest ! No moment was to lose : behold 
 The proud result — a Treaty Austria, Spain 
 Agree to — 
 
 D'O. [AsiWe.] I shall merely stipulate 
 For an experienced headsman. 
 
 C/ui. Not a soul 
 
 Is compromised : the blotted Past 's a blank : 
 Even D'Ormea will escape unquestioned. See ! 
 This reached me from Vienna ; I remained 
 At Evian to despatch the Count his news ; 
 'Tis gone to Chamberri a week ago — 
 And here am I : do I deserve to feel 
 Your warm white arms around me? 
 
 Z>'0. [Coming forward.] He knows that ? 
 
 C/ia. What, in Heaven's name, means this ? 
 
 D'O. He knows that matters 
 
 Are settled at Vienna ? Not too late ! 
 Plainly, unless you post this very hour 
 Some man you trust (say, me) to Chamberri, 
 And take precautions I acquaint you with, 
 Your father will return here. 
 
 C/ia. Is he crazed, 
 
 This D'Ormea? Here? For what? As well return 
 To take his crown ! 
 
 jD'O. He does return for that. 
 
 C/ia. [To PoLYXENA.] You have not listened to this 
 man? 
 
 Po/. He spoke 
 
 About your safety — and I listened. 
 
 [/i/e disengages himself fivm her arms. 
 
 Cha. [To D'Ormea.] What 
 
 Apprised you of the Count's intentions ? 
 
 99 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 UO. Me ? 
 
 His heart, sire ; you may not be used to read 
 Such evidence, however ; therefore read 
 
 [^Pointing to Polyxena's papers. 
 My evidence. 
 
 Cha. [To PoLYXENA.] Oh, worthy this of you ! 
 And of your speech I never have forgotten 
 Tho' I professed forgetful ness — which liaunts me 
 As if I did not know how false it was — 
 Which made me toil unconsciously thus long 
 That there might be no least occasion left 
 For what your speech predicted coming true ! 
 And now when there is left no least occasion 
 To instigate my father to such crime — 
 When I might venture to forget, I hoped, 
 That speech and recognize Polyxena — 
 Oh, w^orthy to revive and tenfold worse 
 That plague now ! D'Ormea at your ear, his slanders 
 Still in your hand ! Silent ? 
 
 I*oI. As the wronged are. 
 
 C/ta. And, D'Ormea, pray since when have you 
 presumed 
 To spy upon my father ? (I conceive 
 What that wise paper shows and easily.) 
 Since when ? 
 
 D^G. The when, and where, and how, belong 
 
 To me — 'Tis sad work, but I deal in such. 
 You ofttimes serve yourself — Pd serve you here : 
 Use makes me not so squeamish. In a word, 
 Since the first hour he went to Chamberri, 
 Of his seven servants five have I suborned. 
 
 C/ia. You hate my father? 
 
 I GO 
 
King Vidlor and'Kihg'GK-arfe. 
 
 UO. Oh, just as you will. 
 
 [Looking at Polyxena. 
 A minute since I loved him — hate him now ! 
 What matters ? — If you ponder just one thing. 
 Has he that Treaty ? — He is setting forward 
 Already. Are your guards here ? 
 
 Cha. Well for you 
 
 I have none. [To Polyxena.] Him I knew of old, 
 
 but you — 
 To hear that pickthank, further his designs ! 
 
 [To D'Ormea. 
 Guards ? were they here, I'd bid them for your trouble 
 Arrest you. 
 
 D^O. Guards you shall not want. I lived 
 
 The servant of your choice, not of your need. 
 You never greatly needed me till now 
 That you discard me. This is my arrest. 
 Again I tender you my charge — its duty 
 Would bid me press you read those documents. 
 Here, sire ! [Offeri7ig his badge of oJDlce. 
 
 Cha. [Taking it ?^ The papers also ! Do you think 
 I dare not read them ? 
 
 Pol. Read them, sir ! 
 
 Cha. They prove 
 
 My father, still a month within the year 
 Since he so solemnly consigned it me. 
 Means to resume his crown ? They shall prove that. 
 Or my best dungeon . . . 
 
 no. Even say Chamberri ! 
 
 'Tis vacant, I surmise, by this. 
 
 Cha. You prove 
 
 Your words or pay their forfeit, sir. Go there ! 
 
 lOI 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Polyxena, one chance to rend the veil 
 Thickenmg and blackening 'twixt us two. Do say 
 You'll see the falsehood of the charges proved ! 
 Do say, at least, you wish to see them proved 
 False charges — my heart's love of other times ! 
 
 Pol. Ah, Charles ! 
 
 Cha. [To D'Ormea.] Precede me, sir ! 
 
 D'O. And I'm at length 
 
 A martyr for the truth ! No end, they say, 
 Of miracles. My conscious innocence ! 
 
 [As they go out^ enter — ^by the 7niddle door— at 
 which he pauses — Victor. 
 
 Vic. Sure I heard voices ? No ! Well, I do best 
 To make at once for this, the heart o' the place. 
 The old room ! Nothing changed ! — So near my seat, 
 D'Ormea ? [Pushing away the stool w/iich is by the 
 
 King^s chair. 
 I want that meeting over first, 
 I know not why. Tush, D'Ormea won't be slow 
 To hearten me, the supple knave ! That burst 
 Of spite so eased him ! He'll inform me . . . 
 
 What ? 
 Why come I hither? All 's in rough— let all 
 Remain rough ; there 's full time to draw back — nay. 
 There 's nought to draw back from as yet ; whereas 
 If reason should be to arrest a course 
 Of error — reason good to interpose 
 And save, as I have saved so many times, 
 My House — admonish my son's giddy youth — 
 Relieve him of a weight that proves too much — 
 Now is the time, — or now or never. 'Faith, 
 This kind of step is pitiful — not due 
 
 I02 
 
King Vi(5lor and King Charles. 
 
 To Charles, this stealing back — hither because 
 
 He 's from his Capital ! Oh, Victor — Victor — 
 
 But thus it is : the age of crafty men 
 
 Is loathsome — youth contrives to carry off 
 
 Dissimulation — we may intersperse 
 
 Extenuating passages of strength. 
 
 Ardour, vivacity, and wit — may turn 
 
 E'en guile into a voluntary grace, 
 
 But one's old age, when graces drop away 
 
 And leave guile the pure staple of our lives — 
 
 Ah, loathsome ! 
 
 Not so — or why pause I ? Turin 
 Is mine to have, were I so minded, for 
 The asking ; all the Army 's mine — I've witnessed 
 Each private fight beneath me ; all the Court 's 
 Mine too ; and, best of all, my D'Ormea 's still 
 His D'Ormea ; no ! There 's some grace clinging 
 
 yet. 
 Had I decided on this step, ere midnight 
 I'd take the crown — 
 
 No ! Just this step to rise 
 Exhausts me ! Here am I arrived — the rest 
 Must be done for me. Would I could sit here 
 And let things right themselves — the masque unmasque 
 Of the King, crownless, grey hairs and hot blood, — 
 The young King, crowned, but calm before his time, 
 They say, — the eager woman with her taunts, — 
 And the sad earnest wife who beckons me 
 Away — ay, there she knelt to me ! E'en yet 
 I can return and sleep at Chamberri 
 A dream out. Rather shake it off at Turin, 
 King Victor ! Is't to Turin — yes or no ? 
 
 103 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 'Tis this relentless noonday-lighted chamber 
 That disconcerts me. Some one flung doors wide 
 (Those two great doors that scrutinise me now) 
 And out I went mid crowds of men — men talking, 
 Men watching if my lip fell or brow changed ; 
 Men saw me safe forth — put me on my road : 
 That makes the misery of this return ! 
 Oh, had a battle done it ! Had I dropped 
 — Haling some battle three entire days old 
 Hither and thither by the forehead — sunk 
 In Spain, in Austria, best of all in France — 
 Spurned on its horns or underneath its hooves 
 When the spent monster goes upon its knees 
 To pad and pash the prostrate wretch — I, Victor, 
 Sole to have stood up against France — beat down 
 By inches, brayed to pieces finally 
 By some vast unimaginable charge — 
 A flying hell of horse and foot and guns 
 Over me, and all 's lost, for ever lost — 
 There 's no more Victor when the world wakes up. 
 Then silence, as of a raw battle-field, 
 Throughout the world. Then after (as whole weeks 
 After, you catch at intervals faint noise 
 Thro' the stiff crust of frozen blood) — to creep 
 A rumour forth, so faint, no noise at all. 
 That a strange old man, face outworn for wounds, 
 Is stumbling on from frontier town to town, 
 Begging a pittance that may help him find 
 His Turin out ; laughter and scorn to follow 
 The coin you fling into his cap : and last. 
 Some bright morn, to see crowds about the midst 
 Of the market-place where takes the old man breath 
 
 104 
 
King Vi6lor and King Charles. 
 
 Ere with his crutch he strike the palace-gate 
 Wide ope ! 
 
 To Turin, yes or no — or no ? 
 
 Re-enter Charles with papers. 
 
 Cha. Just as I thought ! A miserable falsehood 
 Of hirelings discontented with their pay 
 And longing for enfranchisement ! A few 
 Testy expressions of old age that thinks 
 To keep alive its dignity o'er slaves 
 By means that suit their natures ! 
 
 {Tearing them.'] Thus they shake 
 My faith in Victor ! {Turning, he discovers Victor. 
 
 Vic. [After a pause.] Not at Evian, Charles ? 
 What 's this ? Why do you run to close the doors ? 
 No welcome for your father ? 
 
 Cha. [Aside.] Not his voice ! 
 
 What would I give for one imperious tone 
 Of the old sort ! That 's gone for ever. 
 
 Vic. Must 
 
 I ask once more . . . 
 
 Cha. No, I concede it, sir ! 
 
 You are returned for . . . true, your health declines — 
 True, Chamberri 's a bleak unkindly spot — 
 You'd choose one fitter for your final lodge — 
 Veneria — or Moncaglier — ay, that 's close, 
 And I concede it. 
 
 Vic. I received advices 
 
 Of the conclusion of the Spanish matter 
 Dated from Evian baths. — 
 
 Cha. And you forbore 
 
 105 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 To visit me at Evian, satisfied 
 The work I had to do would fully task 
 The little wit I have, and that your presence 
 Would only disconcert me — 
 
 Vic. Charles ? 
 
 Cha. — Me — set 
 
 For ever in a foreign course to yours, 
 And . . . 
 
 Sir, this way of wile were good to catch, 
 But I have not the sleight of it. The truth ! 
 Though I sink under it ! What brings you here ? 
 
 Vic. Not hope of this reception, certainly, 
 From one who'd scarce assume a stranger mode 
 Of speech did I return to bring about 
 Some awfulest calamity. 
 
 Cha. — You mean 
 
 Did you require your crown again : Oh yes, 
 I should speak otherwise ! But turn not that 
 To jesting ! Sir, the truth ! Your health declines ? 
 Is aught deficient in your equipage ? 
 Wisely you seek myself to make complaint, 
 And foil the malice of the world which seizes 
 On petty discontents ; but I shall care 
 That not a soul knows of this visit. Speak ! 
 
 Vic. [Aside.] Here is the grateful, much-professing 
 son 
 Who was to worship me, and for whose sake 
 I near had waived my plans of public good ! 
 [Aloud.] Nay, Charles, if I did seek to take once more 
 My crown, and were disposed to plague myself — 
 What would be warrant for this bitterness? 
 I gave it — grant I would resume it — well? 
 
 1 06 
 
Kino: Vidlor and Kinj^: Charles. 
 
 Cha. I should say simply — leaving out the why 
 And how — you made me swear to keep that crown : 
 And as you then intended. . . 
 
 Vic. Fool ! What way 
 
 Could I intend or not intend? As man, 
 With a man's life, when I say " I intend," 
 I can intend up to a certain point. 
 No further. I intended to preserve 
 The Crown of Savoy and Sardinia whole : 
 And if events arise to demonstrate 
 The way I took to keep it, rather 's like 
 To lose it. . . 
 
 Cha. Keep within your sphere and mine ! 
 It is God's province we usurp on else. 
 Here, blindfold thro' the maze of things we walk 
 By a slight thread of false, true, right and wrong ; 
 Truth here for us — truth everywhere for God : 
 All else is rambling and presumption. I 
 Have sworn to keep this kingdom : there 's my truth. 
 
 Vic. Truth, boy, is here — within my breast ; and in 
 Your recognition of it, truth is too ; 
 And in the effect of all this tortuous dealing 
 With falsehood, used to carry out the truth, 
 — In its success, this falsehood is again 
 Truth for the world ! But you are right : these themes 
 Are over-subtle. I should rather say 
 In such a case, frankly, — it fails, my schcr.k . 
 I hoped to see you bring about, yourself. 
 What I must bring about : I interpose 
 On your behalf — with may son's good in sight — 
 To hold what he is nearly letting go — 
 Confirm his title, add a grace, perhaps — 
 
 107 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 There 's Sicily, for instance, — granted me 
 And taken back, some years since — till I give 
 That island with the rest, my work 's half done. 
 For his sake, therefore, as of those he rules . . . 
 
 Cha. Our sakes are one — and that you could not 
 say, 
 Because my answer v/ould present itself 
 Forthwith ; — a year has wrought an age's change : 
 This people 's not the people now you once 
 Could benefit, nor is my policy 
 Your policy. 
 
 Vic. [ With an outburst.'] I know it ! You undo 
 All I have done — my life of toil and care ! 
 I left you this the absolutest rule 
 In Europe — do you think I will sit still 
 And see you throw all povrer to the people — 
 See my Sardinia, that has stood apart, 
 Join in the mad and democratic whirl 
 Whereto I see all Europe haste full-tide ? 
 England casts off her kings — France mimics England— 
 This realm I hoped was safe ! Yet here I talk, 
 When I can save it, not by force alone. 
 But bidding plagues which follow sons like you 
 Fasten upon my disobedient . . . 
 
 ^Recollecting him self ?\^ Surely \ 
 
 I could say this — if minded so — my son ? 
 
 Cha. You could not ! Bitterer curses than your curse 
 Have I long since denounced upon myself 
 If I misused my power. In fear of these 
 I entered on those measures — will abide 
 By them : so I should say, Count Tende — 
 
 Vic. No ! 
 
 1 08 
 
King Vidtor and King Charles. 
 
 But no ! But if, my Charles, your — more than old — 
 Half-foolish father urged these arguments, 
 And then confessed them futile, but said plainly 
 That he forgot his promise, found his strength 
 Fail him, had thought at savage Chamberri 
 Too much of brilliant Turin, Rivoli here, 
 And Susa, and Veneria, and Superga — 
 Pined for the pleasant places he had built 
 When he was fortunate and young — 
 
 Cha. My father ! 
 
 Vic. Stay yet — and if he said he could not die 
 Deprived of baubles he had put aside 
 He deemed for ever — of the Crown that binds 
 Your brain up, whole, sound, and impregnable, 
 Creating kingliness — the Sceptre, too. 
 Whose mere wind, should you wave it, back would beat 
 Invaders — and the golden Ball which throbs 
 As if you grasped the palpitating heart 
 Indeed o' the realm, to mould as choose you may ! 
 — If I must totter up and down the streets 
 My sires built, where myself have introduced 
 And fostered laws and letters, sciences. 
 The civil and the military arts — 
 Stay, Charles — I see you letting me pretend 
 To live my former self once more — King Victor 
 The venturous yet politic — they style me 
 Again the Father of the Prince — friends winking 
 Good-humouredly at the delusion you're 
 So sedulous in guarding from sad truth, 
 That else would break upon the dotage ! — You 
 Whom now I see preventing my old shame — 
 I tell not, point by cruel point, my tale — 
 
 109 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 For is't not in your breast my brow is hid ? 
 Is not your hand extended ? Say you not . . 
 
 Enter D'Ormea, leading i?i Polvxena. 
 
 Pol. [Advancing and withdrawing Charles — to 
 Victor.] In this conjuncture, even, he would say 
 (Tho' with a moistened eye and quivering lip) 
 The suppliant is my father — I must save 
 A great man from himself, nor see him fling 
 His well-earned fame away: there must not follow 
 Ivuin so utter, a break-down of worth 
 .So absolute : no enemy shall learn 
 He thrust his child 'twixt danger and himself, 
 And, when that child somehow stood danger out, 
 Stole back with serpent wiles to ruin Charles 
 — Body, that's much, — and soul, that's more — and 
 
 realm. 
 That 's most of all ! No enemy shall say . . : 
 
 D' O. Do you repent, sir ? 
 
 Vic. \_Resuniing him self ?\^ D'Ormea? This is well ! 
 Worthily done, King Charles, craftily done ! 
 Judiciously you post these to o'erhear 
 The little your importunate father thrusts 
 Himself on you to say ! Ay, they'll correct 
 The amiable blind facility 
 You showed in answering his peevish suit : 
 What can he need to sue for ? Bravely, D'Ormea, 
 Have you fulfilled your office : but for you. 
 The old Count might have dravn some few more livres 
 To swell his income ! Had you, Lady, missed 
 The moment, a permission had been granted 
 
 I lO 
 
King Vi(5tor and King Charles. 
 
 To build afresh my ruinous old pile — 
 But you remembered properly the list 
 Of wise precautions I took when I gave 
 Nearly as much away — to reap the fruits 
 I ever looked for ! 
 
 Cha. Tlianks, sir : degrade me, 
 
 So you remain yourself. Adieu ! 
 
 Vic. I'll not 
 
 Forget it for the future, nor presume 
 Next time to slight such potent mediators ! 
 Had I first moved them both to intercede, 
 I mi^ht have had a chamber in r\Ioncaglier ? 
 — V.'ho knows ? 
 
 Cha. Adieu ! 
 
 ]'ic. You bid me this adieu 
 
 With the old spirit ? 
 
 Cha. Adieu ! 
 
 Vic. Charles — Charles — 
 
 Cha. Adieu ! \Exit Victor. 
 
 Cha. You were mistaken, Marquis, as you hear! 
 'Twas for another purpose the Count came. 
 The Count desires Moncaglier. Give the order ! 
 
 UO. \Leisiirely?[ Your minister has lost your 
 confidence, 
 Asserting late, for his own purposes, 
 Count Tende would . . . 
 
 Cha. [Flinging his badge bach.] Be still our minister ! 
 And give a loose to your insulting joy — 
 It irks me more thus stifled than expressed. 
 Loose it ! 
 
 Z>'(9. There 's none to loose, alas ! — I see 
 I never am to die a mcutyr ! 
 
 Ill 
 
Be]ls and Pomegranates. 
 
 Pol Charles ! 
 
 Cha. No praise, at least, Polyxena — no praise ! 
 
 \Exeu7it omnes. 
 
 KING CHARLES. PART II. 
 
 Night. — D'Ormea seated, foldi?ig papers he has been 
 exa??iining. 
 
 This at the last effects it : now, King Charles 
 
 Or else King Victor — that 's a balance : now 
 
 For D'Ormea the arch-culprit, either turn 
 
 O' the scale, that 's sure enough. A point to solve, 
 
 My masters — moralists — whate'er 's your style ! 
 
 When you discover why I push myself 
 
 Into a pitfall you'd pass safely by, 
 
 Impart to me among the rest ! No matter. 
 
 Prompt are the righteous ever with their rede 
 
 To us the wicked — lesson them this once ! 
 
 For safe among the wicked are you set. 
 
 Old D'Ormea. We lament life's brevity. 
 
 Yet quarter e'en the threescore years and ten, 
 
 Nor stick to call the quarter roundly " life." 
 
 D'Ormea was wicked, say, some twenty years — 
 
 A tree so long was stunted — afterward 
 
 "What if it grew, continued growing, till 
 
 No fellow of the forest equalled it ? 
 
 'Twas a shrub then — a shrub it still must be : 
 
 While forward saplings, at the outset checked, 
 
 In virtue of that first sprout keep their style 
 
 Amid the forest's green fraternity. 
 
 112 
 
King Viftor and King Charles. 
 
 Thus I shoot up — to surely get lopped down, 
 And bound up for the burning. Now for it ! 
 
 Enter Charles and Polyxena with Attendants. 
 
 UO. \^Rises^^ Sire, in the due discharge of this my 
 office — 
 This enforced summons of yourself from Turin, 
 And the disclosure I am bound to make 
 To-night, there must already be, I feel, 
 So much that wounds . . . 
 
 Cha. Well, sir ? 
 
 UO. — That I, perchance, 
 
 May utter also what another time 
 Would irk much, — it may prove less irksome now. 
 
 Cha, What would you utter? 
 
 UO. That I from my soul 
 
 Grieve at to-night's event : for you I grieve — 
 E'en grieve for . . . 
 
 Cha. Tush, another time for talk ! 
 
 I've some intelligence, and more expect. 
 My kingdom is in imminent danger ? 
 
 no. Let 
 
 The Count communicate with France — its King 
 His grandson will have Fleury's aid for this 
 Though for no other war. 
 
 Cha. First for the levies 
 
 What forces can I muster presently ? 
 
 [D'Ormea delivers papers which Charles inspects. 
 
 Cha. Good — very good. Montorio . . how is this ? 
 — Equips me double the old complement 
 Of soldiers ? 
 
 tUO, Since his land has been relieved 
 
 113 « 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 From double impost this he manages : 
 But under the late monarch . . . 
 
 Cha. Peace. I know. 
 
 Count Spava has omitted mentioning 
 What proxy is to head these troops of his. 
 
 UO. Count Spava means to head his troops himself. 
 Something 's to fight for now ; " whereas," says he, 
 "Under the Sovereign's father " . . . 
 
 Cha. It would seem 
 
 That all my people love me. 
 
 UO. Yes. [7(? PoLYXENA, while Charles co/ilmues 
 to inspect the pipers. 
 
 A temper 
 Like Victor's may avail to keep a state — 
 He terrifies men and they fall not off — 
 Good to restrain ; best, if restraint were all : 
 But with the silent circle round him ends 
 Such sway. Our King's begins precisely there. 
 1' or to suggest, impel, and set at work, 
 Is quite another function. Men may slight 
 In time of peace the King who brings them peace : 
 In war, — his voice, his eyes, help more than fear. 
 They love you, sire ! 
 
 Cha. [To Attendants.] Bring the Regalia forth. 
 Quit the room. And now, Marquis, answer me — 
 Why should the King of France invade my realm ? 
 
 D*0. Why? Did I not acquaint your Majesty 
 An hour ago ? 
 
 Cha. I choose to hear again 
 
 What then I heard. 
 
 UO. Because, sire, as I said. 
 
 Your father is resolved to have the crown 
 
 114 
 
King Victor and King Charles. 
 
 At any risk, and, as I judge, calls in 
 These foreigners to aid him. 
 
 Cha. And your reason 
 
 For saying this ? 
 
 D'O. ^Aside.l Ay, just his father's way ! 
 \To Charles.] The Count wrote yesterday to your 
 
 Forces' Chief 
 Rhebinder, — made demand of help — 
 
 Cha. To try 
 
 Rhebinder — he 's of alien blood : aught else ? 
 
 D'O. Receiving a refusal, — some hours after, 
 The Count called on Del Borgo to deliver 
 The Act of Abdication : he refused, 
 Or hesitated, rather — 
 
 Cha. What ensued? 
 
 UO. At midnight, only two hours since, at Turin. 
 He rode in person to the citadel 
 With one attendant, to Soccorso gate, 
 And bade the governor San Remi open — 
 Admit him. 
 
 Cha. For a purpose I divine. 
 
 These three were faithful, then ? 
 
 no. They told • 
 
 And I— 
 
 Cha. Most faithful — 
 
 no. Tell it you— with this 
 
 Moreover of my own : if, an hour hence, 
 You have not interposed, the Count will be 
 Upon his road to France for succour. 
 
 Cha. Good ! 
 
 You do your duty, now, to me your monarch 
 Fully, I warrant ? — have, that is, your project 
 
 115 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 For saving both of us disgrace, past doubt ? 
 
 UO. I have my counsel, which is the only one. 
 A month since, I besought you to employ 
 Restraints which had prevented many a pang : 
 But now the harsher course must have its way. 
 These papers, made for the emergency. 
 Will pain you to subscribe : this is a list 
 Of those suspected merely — men to watch ; 
 This — of the few of the Count's very household 
 You must, however reluctantly, arrest j 
 AV^hile here 's a method of remonstrance (sure 
 Not stronger than the case demands) to take 
 With the Count's self. 
 
 Cha. Deliver those three papers. 
 
 Pol. [ While Charles inspects them — to D'Ormea.] 
 Your measures are not over-harsh, sir : France 
 Will hardly be deterred from coming hither 
 By these. 
 
 no. What good of my proposing measures 
 Without a chance of their success ? E'en these 
 Hear what he'll say at my presenting. 
 
 Cha. [ Who has sigfied the?fi.^ There ! 
 
 About the warrants ! You've my signature. 
 What turns you pale ? I do my duty by you 
 In acting boldly thus on your advice. 
 
 D'O. [Reading them separately.'] Arrest the people 
 I suspected merely ? 
 
 Cha. Did you suspect them ? 
 
 D'O. Doubtless : but — but — sire, 
 
 This Forquieri 's governor of Turin ; 
 And Rivarol and he have influence over 
 Half of the capital. — Rabella, too ? 
 
 ii6 
 
King Vidor and King Charles. 
 
 Why, sire — 
 
 Cha. Oh, leave the fear to me. 
 
 no. [Sti/ I reading.'] You bid me 
 
 Incarcerate the people on this list ? 
 Sire — 
 
 Cha. Why, you never hade arrest those men. 
 So close related to my father too, 
 On trifling grounds ? 
 
 D'O. Oh, as for that, St. George, 
 
 President of Chamberri's senators, 
 Is hatching treason — but — 
 [.5*//// more troubled.] Sire, Count Cumiane 
 Is brother to your father's wife ! What's here ? 
 Arrest the wife herself? 
 
 Cha. You seem to think 
 
 It venial crime to plot against me. W^ell ? 
 
 D^O. [lP7io has read the last paper ?\ Wherefore am 
 I thus ruined ? Why not take 
 My life at once ? This poor formality 
 Is, let me say, unworthy you ! Prevent it, 
 You, madam ! I have served you — am prepared 
 For all disgraces — only, let disgrace 
 Be plain, be proper — proper for the world 
 To pass its judgment on 'twixt you and me ! 
 Take back your warrant — I will none of it. 
 
 Cha. Here is a man to talk of fickleness ! 
 He stakes his life upon my father's falsehood, 
 I bid him — 
 
 no. Not you ! Were he trebly false, 
 You do not bid me — 
 
 Cha. Is't not written there ? 
 I thought so : give — I'll set it right. 
 
 T17 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 no. Is it there? 
 
 Oh, yes — and plain — arrest him — now — drag here 
 Your father ! And were all six times as plain, 
 Do you suppose I'd trust it ? 
 
 Cha. Just one word ! 
 
 You bring him, takeii in the act of flight 
 Or else your life is forfeit. 
 
 no. Ay, to Turin 
 
 I bring him ? And to-morrow ? 
 
 Cha. Here and now ! 
 
 The whole thing is a lie — a hateful lie — 
 As I believed and as my father said. 
 I knew it from the first, but was compelled 
 To circumvent you ; and the crafty D'Ormea, 
 That bafPied Alb'eroni and tricked Coscia, 
 The miserable sower of the discord 
 'Twixt sire and son, is in the toils at last ! 
 Oh, I see — you arrive — this plan of yours. 
 Weak as it is, torments sufficiently 
 A sick, old, peevish man — wrings hasty speech 
 And ill-considered threats from him ; that 's noted ; 
 Then out you ferret papers, his amusement 
 In lonely hours of lassitude — examine 
 The day-by-day report of your paid creatures — 
 And back you come — all was not ripe, you find, 
 And as you hope may keep from ripening yet — 
 But you were in bare time ! Only, 'twere best 
 I never saw my father — these old men 
 Are potent in excuses — and, meantime, 
 D'Ormea's the man I cannot do without ! 
 
 Pol. Charles — 
 
 Cha. Ah, no question ! You're for D'Ormea too ! 
 
 ii8 
 
King Vidlor and King Charles. 
 
 You'd have me eat and drink, and sleep, and die 
 
 With this lie coil'd about me, choking me ! 
 
 No, no — he 's caught. [To D'Ormea.] You venture life, 
 
 you say. 
 Upon my father's perfidy ; and I 
 Have, on the whole, no right to disregard 
 The chains of testimony you have wound 
 About me ; though I do — do from my soul 
 Discredit them : still I must authorise 
 These measures — and I do. Perugia ! 
 [Many officers enter?\ Count — 
 You and Solar, with all the force you have. 
 Are at the Marquis' orders : what he bids, 
 ImpUcitly perform ! You are to bring 
 A traitor here ; the man that 's likest one 
 At present, fronts me ; you are at his beck 
 For a full hour ; he undertakes to show you 
 A fouler than himself, — but, failing that. 
 Return with him, and, as my father lives. 
 He dies this night ! The clemency you've blamed 
 So oft, shall be revoked— rights exercised 
 That I've abjured. 
 
 [To D'Ormea.] Now, Sir, about the work ! 
 To save your king and country ! Take the warrant ! 
 
 no. [Boldly to Perugia.] You hear the Sovereign's 
 mandate. Count Perugia ? 
 Obey me ! As your diligence, expect 
 Reward. All follow to Moncaglier ! 
 
 Cha. [In great anguish^ D'Ormea ! 
 
 [Exit D'Ormea, cum suis. 
 He goes lit up with that appalling smile ! 
 
 [To PoLVXENA after a pause. 
 119 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 At least you understand all this ? 
 
 PoL These means 
 
 Of our defence — these measures of precaution ? 
 
 Cha. It must be the best way. I should have else 
 Withered beneath his scorn. 
 
 Pol. AVhat would you say ? 
 
 Cha. Why, you don't think I mean to keep the 
 crown, 
 Polyxena ? 
 
 Pol. You then believe the story 
 
 In spite of all — That Victor 's coming ? 
 
 Cha. Coming ? 
 
 I feel that he is coming — feel the strength 
 That has upheld me leave me at his coming ! 
 'Twas mine, and now he takes his own again. 
 Some kinds of strength are well enough to have ; 
 But who's to have that strength ? Let my crovvn go ! 
 I meant to keep it — but I cannot — cannot ! 
 Only he shall not taunt me — he the first — 
 See if he would not be the first to taunt me 
 With having left his kingdom all exposed — 
 With letting it be conquered without stroke — 
 With . . no — no — 'tis no worse than when he left it, 
 I've just to bid him take it, and, that over, 
 We fly away — fly — for I loathe this Turin, 
 This Rivoli, and titles loathe, and state. 
 We'd best go to your country — unless God 
 Send I die now. 
 
 Pol. Charles, hear me ! 
 
 Cha. — And again 
 
 Shall you be my Polyxena — you'll take me 
 Out of this woe. Yes, do speak — and keep speaking! 
 
 I20 
 
King Vi6lor and King Charles. 
 
 I would not let you speak just now for fear 
 You'd counsel me against him — but talk, now, 
 As we two used to talk in blessed times — 
 Bid me endure all his caprices — take 
 Me from this post above him ! 
 
 Pol. I believe 
 
 We are undone, but from a different cause : 
 All your resources, down to the least guard, 
 Are now at D'Ormea's beck : what if this while 
 He acts in concert with your father ? We 
 Indeed were lost. This lonely Rivoli — 
 Where find a better place for them ? 
 
 Cha. \Pacing the room.] And why 
 
 Does Victor come ? To undo all that's done ! 
 Restore the past — prevent the future ! Seat 
 Sebastian in your seat and place in mine 
 . . . Oh, my own people, whom will you find there 
 To ask of, to consult with, to care for, 
 To hold up Vv'ith your hands ? Whom ? One that's 
 
 false — 
 False — from the head's crown to the foot's sole, false ! 
 The best is that I knew it in my heart 
 From the beginning, and expected this, 
 And hated you, Polyxena, because 
 You saw thro' him, though I too saw thro' him. 
 Saw that he meant this while he crowned me, while 
 He prayed for me, — nay, while he kissed my brow, 
 I saw — 
 
 Fo/. But if your measures take effect, 
 And D'Ormea 's true to you ? 
 
 Cha. Then worst of all ! 
 
 I shall have loosed that callous wretch on him 1 
 
 121 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Well may the woman taunt him with his child — • 
 
 I, eating here his bread, clothed in his clothes, 
 
 Seated upon his seat, give D'Ormea leave 
 
 To outrage him ! We talk — perchance they tear 
 
 My father from his bed — the old hands feel 
 
 For one who is not, but who should be there — 
 
 And he finds D'Ormea ! D'Ormea, too, finds him ! 
 
 — The crowded chamber w^hen the lights go out — ■ 
 
 Closed doors — the horrid scuffle in the dark — 
 
 Th' accursed promptings of the minute ! My guards ! 
 
 To horse — and after, with me — and prevent ! 
 
 Pol, \Seizing his hand.'] King Charles ! Pause you 
 upon this strip of time 
 Allotted you out of eternity ! 
 
 Crowns are from God — in his name you hold yours. 
 Your life 's no least thing, were it fit your life 
 Sliould be abjured along with rule ; but now, 
 Keep both ! Your duty is to live and rule — 
 You, who would vulgarly look fine enough 
 In the world's eye deserting your soul's charge, — 
 Ay, you would have men's tongues — this Rivoli 
 Would be illumined — while, as 'tis, no doubt, 
 Something of stain will ever rest on you — • 
 No one will rightly know why you refused 
 To abdicate — they'll talk of deeds you could 
 Have done, no doubt, — nor do I much expect 
 Future achievements will blot out the past, 
 Envelop it in haze — nor shall w^e two 
 Be happy any more j 'twill be, I feel, 
 Only in moments that the duty's seen 
 As palpably as now — the months, the years 
 Of painful indistinctness are to come — 
 
 122 
 
King Victor and King Charles. 
 
 While daily must we tread the palace rooms 
 
 Pregnant with memories of the past — your eye 
 
 ]\Iay turn to mine and find no comfort there 
 
 Through fancies that beset me as yourself — ■ 
 
 Of other courses with far other issues 
 
 We might have taken this great night — such bear 
 
 As I will bear ! What matters happiness ? 
 
 Duty ! There 's man's one moment — this is yours ! 
 
 [Putting the crown on Jiis head^ and the 
 sceptre in his hand^ she places him on his 
 seat : a iong pause and silence. 
 
 Enter WOrmea, cum suis, andYiCTOV.. 
 
 Vic. At last I speak ; but once — that once to you. 
 'Tis you I ask, not these your varletry, 
 Who 's King of us ? 
 
 Cha. \From his seat.] Count Tende . . . 
 
 Fie. What your spies 
 
 Assert I ponder in my soul, I say — 
 Here to your face, amid your guards. I choose 
 To take again the crown I gave — its shade, 
 For still its potency surrounds the weak 
 White locks their felon hands have discomposed. 
 Or, I'll not ask who 's King, but simply, who 
 Withholds the crown he claims ? Deliver it ! 
 I have no friend in the wide world — nor France 
 Nor England cares for me — you see the sum 
 Of what I can avail. Deliver it ! 
 
 Cha. Take it, my father ! 
 
 And now say in turn, 
 Was it done well, my father — sure not well 
 
 123 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 To try me thus ! I might have seen much cause 
 For keeping it — too easily seen cause ! 
 But from that moment e'en more woefully 
 My life had pined away, than pine it will. 
 Already you have much to answer for. 
 My life to pine is nothing, — her sunk eyes 
 Were happy once ! No doubt, my people think 
 That I'm their King still — but I cannot strive ! 
 Take it ! 
 
 Vic. [ One hand on the crown Charles offers^ the other 
 on his neck.] So few years give it quietly, 
 My son ! It will drop from me. See you not ? 
 A crown 's unlike a sword to give away — 
 That, let a strong hand to a weak hand give ! 
 But crowns should slip from palsied brows to heads 
 Young as this head — yet mine is weak enough, 
 E'en weaker than I knew. I seek for phrases 
 To vindicate my right. 'Tis of a piece ! 
 All is alike gone by with me — who beat 
 Once D'Orleans in his lines — his very lines ! 
 To have been Eugene's comrade, Louis' rival, 
 And now. . . 
 
 C/ia. [Putting the croicn on him.] The King speaks, 
 yet none kneels, I think ! 
 
 Vic. I am then King ! As I became a King 
 Despite the nations — kept myself a King — . 
 
 So I die King, with Kingship dying too 
 Around me ! I have lasted Europe's time ! 
 What wants my story of completion ? Where 
 Must needs the damning break show ? Who mistrusts 
 My children here — tell they of any break 
 Twixt my day's sunrise and its fiery fall ? 
 
 124 
 
Kkig Vicflor and King Charles. 
 
 And who were by me when I died but they ? 
 Who ?— D'Ormea there ! 
 
 Cha, What means he ? 
 
 Vic. Ever there ! 
 
 Charles — how to save your story ? Mine must go ! 
 Say — say that you refused the crown to me — 
 Charles, yours shall be my story ! You immured 
 Me, say, at Rivoli. A single year 
 I spend without a sight of you and die — 
 That will serve every purpose — tell that tale 
 The world ! 
 
 Cha. Mistrusts me ? Help ! 
 
 Vic. Past help, past reach ! 
 
 'Tis in the heart — you cannot reach the heart : 
 This broke mine, that I did believe you, Charles, 
 Would have denied and so disgraced me, 
 
 Pol. Charles 
 
 Has never ceased to be your subject, sire — 
 He reigned at first through setting up yourself 
 As pattern : if he e'er seemed harsh to you, 
 'Twas from a too intense appreciation 
 Of your own character : he acted you — 
 Ne'er for an instant did I think it real, 
 Or look for any other than this end. 
 I hold him worlds the worse on that account ; 
 But so it was. 
 
 Cha. I love you, now, indeed ! 
 
 \To Victor.] You never knew me ! 
 
 Vic. Hardly till this moment, 
 
 When I seem learning many other things. 
 Because the time for using them is past. 
 If 'twere to do again ! That 's idly wished, 
 
 125 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Truthfulness might prove poUcy as good 
 
 As guile. Is this my daughter's forehead ? Yes — 
 
 I''\e made it fitter now to be a Queen's 
 
 Than formerly — I've ploughed the deep lines there 
 
 That keep too well a crown from slipping off ! 
 
 No matter. Guile has made me King again. 
 
 Louis — 'twas in King Victor's time — long since, 
 
 When Louis reign'd — and, also, Victor reign'd — 
 
 How the world talks already of us two ! 
 
 God of eclipse and each discolour'd star, 
 
 Why do I linger then ? 
 
 Ha ! Where lurks he ? 
 D'Ormea ! Come nearer to your King ! Nov/ stand ! 
 \ColIectmg his sfreiigth as D'Ormea approaches. 
 But you lied, D'Ormea ! I do not repent. \^Dies. 
 
 126 
 
DRAMATIC LYRICS. 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 CAVALIER TUNES. 
 
 I.— MARCHING ALONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 1' ^ ENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King, 
 \^ Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing : 
 And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 
 And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, 
 Marched them along, fifty-score strong, 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 
 
 II. 
 
 God for King Charles ! Pym and such carles 
 
 To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries ! 
 
 Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. 
 
 Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 
 
 Till you're {^Chorus) marching along, fifty-sco7-e strongs 
 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song, 
 
 III. 
 
 Hampden to Hell, and his obsequies' knell 
 
 Serve Rudyard, and Fiennes, and young Harry as well 
 
 England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! 
 
 Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here 
 
 129 K 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 (C/io.) Marching along^ fifty-score strongs 
 
 Great-hearted genthmen, singing this song ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarls 
 To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles ! 
 Hold by the right, you double your might ; 
 So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, 
 
 {Cho.) March 7ve along^ fifty-score strongs 
 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! 
 
 IL— GIVE A ROUSE. 
 
 I, 
 
 KfNG Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse : here 's, in Hell's despite now, 
 King Charles ! 
 
 II. 
 
 AVho gave me the goods that went since ? 
 Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
 Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
 Who found me in wine you drank once ? 
 
 {Cho.) King Chat'ies^ and ivho'll do him right now ? 
 King Charles^ atid 7tiho 'j* ripe for fight now 1 
 Give a 7'ouse : hef^e '^, in HelTs despite 7ioWy 
 Kijig Charles 1 
 
 III. 
 To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
 By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
 
 130 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
 
 While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? 
 
 {Cho.) King Charles, and whdll do him right mnv ? 
 
 King Charles, a7id who 'j- ripe for fight now ? 
 
 Give a rouse : here V, in Hell's despite now, 
 
 King Charles ! 
 
 III.— MY WIFE GERTRUDE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! 
 Rescue my Castle, before the hot day 
 Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, 
 {Cho.) Boot, saddlcy to horse, and away ! 
 
 II. 
 Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you 'd say ; 
 Many 's the friend there, will listen and pray 
 " God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay, 
 {Cho.) " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 Forty miles off, Hke a roebuck at bay, 
 Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array ; 
 Who laughs, '' Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 
 {Cho.) " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ?" 
 
 IV. 
 
 Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, honest and gay, 
 Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay ! 
 " I 've better counsellors ; what counsel they ? 
 {Cho.) ^^ Boot, saddle J to horse, and away ! " 
 
 131 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 ITALY AND FRANCE. 
 
 I.— ITALY. 
 
 That 's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
 Looking as if she were alive; I call 
 That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf's hands 
 Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
 Will 't please you sit and look at her ? I said 
 " Fra Pandolf," by design, for never read 
 Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 
 The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 
 But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
 The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
 And seemed as they w^ould ask me, if they durst, 
 How such a glance came there ; so not the first 
 Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
 Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
 Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 
 Fra Pandolf chanced to say " Her mantle laps 
 *' Over my Lady's wrist too much," or " Paint 
 " Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
 * * Half-flush that dies along her throat ; " such stuff 
 Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 
 For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
 A heart . . how shall I say ? . . too soon made glad, 
 Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er 
 She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
 Sir, 'twas all one ! My favour at her breast. 
 The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
 The bough of cherries some officious fool 
 
 132 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 
 
 She rode with round the terrace — all and each 
 
 Would draw from her alike the forward speech, 
 
 Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good; but 
 
 thanked 
 Somehow . . I know not how . . as if she ranked 
 My gift of a nine hundred years old name 
 With anybody's gift. Who 'd stoop to blame 
 This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 
 In speech — (which I have not) — could make your will 
 Quite clear to such an one, and say " Just this 
 " Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, 
 " Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let 
 Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 
 Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 
 — E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse 
 Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
 Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 
 Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 
 Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 
 As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet 
 The company below then. I repeat, 
 The Count your Master's known munificence 
 Is ample warrant that no just pretence 
 Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 
 Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
 At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
 Together down. Sir! Notice Neptune, tho', 
 Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 
 Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. 
 
 133 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 II.— FRANCE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Christ God, who savest man, save most 
 Of men Count Gismond who saved me 
 
 Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, 
 Chose time and place and company 
 
 To suit it ; when he struck at length 
 
 My honour's face 'twas with full strength. 
 
 II. 
 
 And doubtlessly ere he could draw 
 
 All points to one, he must have schemed 1 
 
 That miserable morning saw 
 Few half so happy as I seemed. 
 
 While being dressed in Queen's array 
 
 To give our Tourney prize away 
 
 III. 
 
 I thought all loved me, did me grace 
 To please themselves ; 'twas all their deed ; 
 
 God makes, or fair or foul, our face ; 
 If showing mine so caused to bleed 
 
 My Cousins' hearts, they should have dropped 
 
 A word, and all the play had stopped. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They, too, so beauteous ! Each a queen 
 By virtue of her brow and breast ; 
 134 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Not needing to be crowned, I mean, 
 
 As I do. E'en when I was dressed 
 Had either of them spoke, instead 
 Of glancing sideways with still head ! 
 
 V. 
 
 But no : they let me laugh, and sing 
 My birthday song quite through ; adjust 
 
 The last rose in my garland, fling 
 A last look on the mirror, trust 
 
 My arms to each an arm of theirs, 
 
 And so descend the castle-stairs — 
 
 VI. 
 
 And come out on the morning troop 
 Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, 
 
 And called me Queen, and made me stoop 
 Under the canopy — (a streak 
 
 That pierced it, of the outside sun, 
 
 Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun) — 
 
 VII. 
 
 And they could let me take my state 
 And foolish throne amid applause 
 
 Of all come there to celebrate 
 
 My Queen's day — Oh, I think the cause 
 
 Of much was, they forgot no crowd 
 
 Makes up for parents in their shroud ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Howe'er that be, when eyes were bent 
 Upon me, both my Cousins cast 
 
 135 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Theirs down ; 'twas time I should present 
 
 The victor with his . . . there, 'twill last 
 No long time . . the old mist again 
 Blinds me . . but the true mist was rain. 
 
 IX. 
 
 See ! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk 
 With his two boys : I can proceed. 
 
 Well, at that moment, who should stalk 
 Forth calmly (to my face, indeed) 
 
 But Gauthier, and he thundered " Stay ! " 
 
 And all did stay. " No crowns, I say ! " 
 
 X. 
 
 " Bring torches ! Wind the penance-sheet 
 " About her ! Let her shun the chaste, 
 
 " Or lay herself before their feet ! 
 " Shall she, whose body I embraced 
 
 " A night long, queen it in the day ? 
 
 " For Honour's sake no crowns, I say ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 I ? ^^^hat I answered ? As I live, 
 I never thought there was such thing 
 
 As answer possible to give. 
 
 What says the body when they spring 
 
 Some monstrous torture-engine's whole 
 
 Strength on it? No more says the soul. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Till out strode Gismond ; then I knew 
 That I was saved. I never met 
 136 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 His face before, but, at first view, 
 
 I felt quite sure that God had set 
 Himself to Satan ; who would spend 
 A minute's mistrust on the end ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He strode to Gauthier, in his throat 
 
 Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth 
 
 With one back-handed blow that wrote 
 
 In blood men's verdict there. North, South, 
 
 East, West, I looked. The lie was dead. 
 
 And damned, and truth stood up instead. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 This glads me most, that I enjoyed 
 The heart of the joy, nor my content 
 
 In watching Gismond was alloyed 
 By any doubt of the event : 
 
 God took that on him — me he bid 
 
 Watch Gismond for my part : I did. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Did I not watch him while he let 
 His armourer just brace his greaves, 
 
 Rivet his hauberk, on the fret 
 
 The while ! His foot . . my memory leaves 
 
 No least stamp out, nor how anon 
 
 He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And e'en before the trumpet's sound 
 
 Was finished there lay prone the Knight, 
 137 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Prone as his lie, upon the ground : 
 
 My Knight flew at him, used no sleight 
 Of the sword, but open-breasted drove, 
 Cleaving till out the truth he clove. 
 
 XVII, 
 
 Which done, he dragged him to my feet 
 And said " Here die, but end thy breath 
 
 " In full confession, lest thou fleet 
 
 "From my first, to God's second death ! 
 
 "Say, hast thou lied?" And, " I have lied 
 
 " To God and her," he said, and died. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked 
 — What safe my heart holds tho' no word 
 
 Could I repeat now, if I tasked 
 My powers for ever, to a third 
 
 Dear even as you are. Pass the rest 
 
 Until I sank upon his breast. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Over my head his arm he flung 
 
 Against the world ; and scarce I felt 
 
 His sword, that dripped by me and swung, 
 A little shifted in its belt, 
 
 For he began to say the while 
 
 How South our home lay many a mile. 
 
 XX. 
 
 So 'mid the shouting multitude 
 
 We two walked forth to never more 
 13S 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Return. My Cousins have pursued 
 
 Their Hfe untroubled as before 
 I vexed them. Gauthier's dweUing-place 
 God hghten ! May his soul find grace ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Our elder boy has got the clear 
 
 Great brow ; tho' when his brother's black 
 Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here ? 
 
 And have you brought my tercel back ? 
 I just was telling Adela 
 How many birds it struck since May. 
 
 139 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 CAMP AND CLOISTER. 
 
 I.— CAMP. {French) 
 
 I. 
 
 You know we French stormed Ratisbon 
 
 A mile or so away 
 On a little mound, Napoleon 
 
 Stood on our storming-day ; 
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how. 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
 As if to balance the prone brow 
 
 Oppressive with its mind. 
 
 II. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused " My plans 
 
 " That soar, to earth may fall 
 "Let once my army-leader Lannes 
 
 " Waver at yonder wall." 
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 
 III. 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy 
 
 You hardly could suspect — 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed 
 Scarce any blood came thro') 
 140 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 
 
 " We've got you Ratisbon ! 
 " The Marshal's in the market-place, 
 
 " And you'll be there anon 
 "To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
 
 " Where I, to heart's desire, 
 " Perched him ! " The Chief's eye flashed ; his plans 
 
 Soared up again like Are. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
 
 Softened itself, as sheathes 
 A film the mother eagle's eye 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes: 
 " You're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride 
 
 Touched to the quick, he said : 
 " I'm killed, Sire ! " And, his Chief beside, 
 
 Smiling the boy fell dead. 
 
 IL— CLOISTER. {Spanish.) 
 
 I. 
 
 Gr-r-r — there go, my heart's abhorrence ! 
 
 ^Vater your damned flower-pots, do ! 
 If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, 
 
 God's blood, would not mine kill you ' 
 141 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 What ? your myrtle-bush wants trimming ? 
 
 Oh, that rose has prior claims — 
 Needs its leaden vase filled brimming ? 
 
 Hell dry you up with its flames ! 
 
 II. 
 
 At the meal we sit together ; 
 
 Salve tibi I I must hear 
 Wise talk of the kind of weather 
 
 Sort of season, time of year : 
 Noi a plenteous cork-crop : scarcely 
 
 Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt : 
 What^s the Latin name for ^^ parsley ^^ ? 
 
 What 's the Greek name for Swine's Snout ? 
 
 Ill 
 Phew ! We'll have our platter burnished, 
 
 Laid with care on our own shelf! 
 With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, 
 
 And a goblet for ourself, 
 Rinsed like something sacrificial 
 
 Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — 
 Marked with L. for our initial ! 
 
 (He, he ! There his lily snaps !) 
 
 IV. 
 
 Saintf forsooth ! While brown Dolores 
 Squats outside the Convent bank, 
 
 With Sanchicha, telling stories, 
 Steeping tresses in the tank, 
 
 Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs 
 — Can't I see his dead eye grow 
 142 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Bright, as 'twere a Barbary corsair's ? 
 That is, if he'd let it show. 
 
 V. 
 
 When he finishes refection, 
 
 Knife and fork across he lays 
 Never, to my recollection. 
 
 As do I, in Jesu's praise. 
 I, the Trinity illustrate, 
 
 Drinking watered orange-pulp ; 
 In three sips the Aiian frustrate ; 
 
 While he drains his at one gulp ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, those melons ! If he 's able 
 
 We're to have a feast ; so nice ! 
 One goes to the Abbot's table, 
 
 All of us get each a slice. 
 How go on your flowers ? None double ? 
 
 Not one fruit-sort can you spy ? 
 Strange ! — And I, too, at such trouble, 
 
 Keep 'em close-nipped on the sly ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 There 's a great text in Galatians, 
 
 Once you trip on it, entails 
 Twenty-nine distinct damnations, 
 
 One sure, if another fails. 
 If I trip him just a-dying. 
 
 Sure of Heaven as sure can be. 
 Spin him round and send him flying 
 
 Off to Hell a Manichee ? 
 143 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Or, my scrofulous French novel, 
 
 On grey paper with blunt type I 
 Simply glaVjce at it, you grovel 
 
 Hand and foot in Belial's gripe. 
 If I double down its pages 
 
 At the woeful sixteenth print, 
 When he gathers his greengages, 
 
 Ope a sieve and slip it in't ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Or, the Devil ! — one might venture 
 
 Pledge one's soul yet slily leave 
 Such a flaw in the indenture 
 
 As he'd miss till, past retrieve, 
 Blasted lay that rose-acacia 
 
 We're so proud of ! Hy^ Zy, Hinc 
 St, there 's Vespers ! Plena gratia 
 
 Ave^ Virgo I Gr-r-r — you swine ! 
 
 T44 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SEND my heart up to thee, all my heart 
 
 In this my singing ! 
 For the stars help me, and the sea bears part ; 
 
 The very night is clinging 
 Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space 
 
 Above me, whence thy face 
 May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place 
 
 II. 
 
 Say after me,"and try to say 
 
 My words as if each word 
 
 Came from you of your own accord, 
 
 In your own voice, in your own way : 
 
 This woman^s heart, and soul, and brain 
 
 Are mine as much as this gold chain 
 
 She bids me wear ; which (say again) 
 
 / choose to make by cherishing 
 
 A precious thiftg, or choose to fling 
 
 Over the boat-side, ring by ring ; 
 
 And yet once more say ... no word more ! — 
 
 Since words are only words. Give o'er ! 
 
 Unless you call me, all the same, 
 
 Familiarly by my pet-name 
 
 Which if the Three should hear you call 
 
 And me reply to, would proclaim 
 
 At once our secret to them all : 
 
 145 
 
Bells and Pomeirranates. 
 
 o 
 
 Ask of me, too, command me, blame- 
 Do break down the partition-wall 
 'Twixt us the daylight world beholds 
 Curtained in dusk and splendid folds. 
 
 III. 
 What 's left but — all of me to take ? 
 I am the Three's, prevent them, slake 
 Your thirst ! 'Tis said the Arab sage 
 In practising with gems can loose 
 Their subtle spirit in his cruce 
 And leave but ashes : so, sweet mage, 
 Leave them my ashes when thy use 
 Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 I. 
 
 Past we glide, and past, and past ! 
 
 What's that poor Agnese doing 
 Where they make the shutters fast? 
 
 Grey Zanobi's just a- wooing 
 To his couch the purchased bride : 
 
 Past we glide ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Past we glide, and past, and past ! 
 
 Why 's the Pucci Palace flaring . 
 Like a beacon to the blast ? 
 
 Guests by hundreds — not one caring 
 
 If the dear host's neck were wried : 
 
 Past we glide ! 
 
 146 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 I 
 
 V. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Moth's kiss, first ! 
 
 Kiss me as if you made believe 
 
 You were not sure this eve, 
 
 How my face, your flower, had pursed 
 
 Its petals up ; so here and there 
 
 Brush it, till I grow aware 
 
 Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 
 
 2. 
 
 The Bee's kiss, now ! 
 Kiss me as if you entered gay 
 My heart at some noonday, 
 A bud that dares not disallow 
 The claim, so all is rendered up, 
 And passively its shattered cup 
 Over your head to sleep I bow. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I. 
 
 What are we two ? 
 
 I am a Jew, 
 
 And carry thee, farther tlian friends can pursue, 
 
 To a feast of our tribe. 
 
 Where they need thee to bribe 
 
 The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe 
 
 Thy . . . Shatter the vision for ever ! And now, 
 
 As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou ! 
 
 2. 
 
 But again, what we are ? 
 The sprite of a star, 
 
 147 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 I lure thee above where the Destinies bar 
 
 My plumes their full play 
 
 Till a ruddier ray 
 
 Than my pale one announce there is withering away 
 
 Some . . . Scatter the vision for ever ! And now, 
 
 As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? 
 The land's lap or the water's breast ? 
 To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, 
 Or swim in lucid shallows, just 
 Eluding water-lily leaves, 
 An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust 
 To lock you, whom release he must ; 
 Which life were best on Summer eves ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Lie back ; could I improve you ? 
 From this shoulder let there spring 
 A wing ; from this, another wing ; 
 Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you ! 
 Snow-white must they spring, to blend 
 With your flesh, but I intend 
 They shall deepen to the end, 
 Broader, into burning gold. 
 Till both wings crescent-wise enfold 
 Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet 
 To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet 
 As if a million sword-blades hurled 
 Defiance from you to the world ! 
 
 148 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Rescue me thou, the only real ! 
 And scare away this mad Ideal 
 That came, nor motions to depart ! 
 Thanks ! Now, stay ever as thou art ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 I. 
 
 He and the Couple catch at last 
 Thy serenader ; while there 's cast 
 Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 
 Gian pinions me, Himself has past 
 His stylet thro' my back ; I reel ; 
 And ... is it Thee I feel ? 
 
 2. 
 
 They trail me, do these godless knaves, 
 Past every church that sains and saves, 
 Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 
 By Lido's wet accursed graves. 
 They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, 
 And ... on Thy breast I sink ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Dip your arm o'er the boat-side elbow-deep 
 As I do : thus : were Death so unUke Sleep 
 Caught this way ? Death's to fear from flame or steel 
 Or poison doubtless, but from water — feel ! 
 
 Go find the bottom ! Would you stay me ? There ! 
 Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass 
 To plait in where the foolish jewel was, 
 I flung away : since you have praised my hair 
 'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. 
 
 149 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Must we, must we Ho7ne? Too '^uiely 
 
 Know I where its front's demurely 
 
 Over the Giudecca piled ; 
 
 Window just with window mating, 
 
 Door on door exactly waiting, 
 
 All 's the set face of a child : 
 
 But behind it, where's a trace 
 
 Of the staidness and reserve, 
 
 Formal lines without a curve, 
 
 In the same child's playing-face ? 
 
 No two windows look one way 
 
 O'er the small sea-water thread 
 
 Below them. Ah, the autumn day 
 
 I, passing, saw you overhead ! 
 
 First out a cloud of curtain blew, 
 
 Then, a sweet cry, and last came you — • 
 
 To catch your lory that must needs 
 
 Escape just then, of all times then, 
 
 To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds, 
 
 And make me happiest of men. 
 
 I scarce could breathe to see you reach 
 
 So far back o'er the balcony. 
 
 To catch him ere he climbed too high 
 
 Above you in the Smyrna peach. 
 
 That quick the round smooth cord of gold, 
 
 This coiled hair on your head, unrolled. 
 
 Fell down you like a gorgeous snake 
 
 The Roman girls were wont, of old 
 
 When Rome there was, for coolness' sake 
 
 To place within their bosoms. 
 
 Dear lory, may his beak retain 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Ever its delicate rose stain 
 
 As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 
 
 Marked their thief to know again ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Stay longer yet, for others' sake 
 Than mine ! what should your chamber do ? 
 — With all its rarities that ache 
 In silence while day lasts, but wake 
 At night-time and their Hfe renew, 
 Suspended just to pleasure you 
 That brought reluctantly together 
 These objects and, while day lasts, weave 
 Round them such a magic tether 
 That dumb they look : your harp, beheve, 
 With all the sensitive tight strings 
 That dare not speak, now to itself 
 Breathes slumbrously as if some elf 
 Went in and out tall chords his wings 
 Get murmurs from whene'er they graze, 
 As may an angel thro' the maze 
 Of pillars on God's quest have gone 
 At guilty glorious Babylon. 
 And while such murmurs flow, the nymph 
 Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell, 
 As the dry limpet for the lymph 
 Come with a tune he knows so well. 
 And how the statues' hearts must swell ! 
 And how the pictures must descend 
 To see each other, friend with friend ! 
 Oh, could you take them by surprise, 
 You'd find Schidone's eager Duke 
 151 
 
Bells and Pomegranates, 
 
 Doing the quaintest courtesies 
 
 To that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke : 
 
 And deeper into her rock den 
 
 Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 
 
 You'd find retreated from the ken 
 
 Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser — 
 
 As if the Tizian thinks of her ! 
 
 As if he is not rather bent 
 
 On trying for himself what toys 
 
 Are these his progeny invent, 
 
 What litter now the board employs 
 
 Whereon he signed a document 
 
 That got him murdered ! Each enjoys 
 
 Its night so well, you cannot break 
 
 The sport up, so, for others' sake 
 
 Than mine, your stay must longer make I 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I. 
 
 To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 
 Is used to tie the jasmine back 
 That overfloods my room with sweets, 
 Be sure that Zorzi somehow meets 
 My Zanze : if the ribbon 's black 
 I use, they're watching ; keep away. 
 
 2. 
 
 Your gondola — let Zorzi wreathe 
 A mesh of water-weeds about 
 Its prow, as if he unaware 
 Had struck some quay or bridge- foot stair ; 
 That I may throw a paper out 
 As you and he go underneath. 
 ^52 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There 's Zanze's vigilant taper ; safe are we ! 
 Only one minute more to-night with me ? 
 Resume your past self of a month ago ! 
 Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 
 The lady with the colder breast than snow : 
 Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand 
 More than I touch yours when I step to land, 
 And say, All thanks, Siora . . . 
 
 Heart to heart 
 And lips to lips ! Once, ere we part, 
 Make me thine as mine thou art ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 It was to be so, Sweet, and best 
 Comes 'neath thine eyes, and on thy breast. 
 Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards ! Care 
 Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
 My blood will hurt. The Three I do not scorn 
 To death, because they never lived : but I 
 Have lived indeed, and so — (yet one more kiss) — can 
 die. 
 
 153 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 ARTEMIS PROLOGUIZES. 
 
 I AM a Goddess of the ambrosial courts, 
 And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed 
 By none whose temples whiten this the world. 
 Thro' Heaven I roll its lucid moon along ; 
 In Hades shed o'er my pale people peace ; 
 On Earth, I, caring for the creatures, guard 
 Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek, 
 And every feathered mother's callow brood, 
 And all that love green haunts and loneliness. 
 Of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns 
 Of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem, 
 Upon my image at Athenai here ; 
 Of such this Youth, Asclepios bends above, 
 Was dearest to me, and my buskined step 
 To follow thro' the wild-wood leafy ways, 
 And chase the panting stag, or swift with darts 
 Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leopard low, 
 He paid not homage to another God : 
 Whence Aphrodite, by no midnight smoke 
 Of tapers lulled, in jealousy despatched 
 A noisome lust that, as the gadbee stings. 
 Possessed his stepdame Phaidra for the child 
 Of Theseus her great husband then afar. 
 But when Hippolutos exclaimed with rage 
 Against the miserable Queen, she judged 
 Intolerable life, and, pricked at heart 
 An Amazonian stranger's race had right 
 To scorn her, perished by the murderous cord : 
 
 154 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll 
 
 The fame of him her swerving made not swerve, 
 
 Which Theseus saw, returning, and believed, 
 
 So, in the blindness of his wrath, exiled 
 
 The man without a crime, who, last as first, 
 
 Loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth. 
 
 But Theseus from Poseidon had obtained 
 
 That of his wishes should be granted Three, 
 
 And this one imprecated now — alive 
 
 May ne'er Hippolutos reach other lands ! 
 
 Poseidon heard, ai ai ! And scarce the prince 
 
 Had stepped into the fixed boots of the car, 
 
 That give the feet a stay against the strength 
 
 Of the Henetian horses, and around 
 
 His body flung the reins, and urged their speed 
 
 Along the rocks and shingles of the shore, 
 
 When from the gaping wave a monster flung 
 
 His obscene body in the coursers' path : 
 
 These, mad with terror as the sea-bull sprawled 
 
 W^allowing about their feet, lost care of him 
 
 That reared them ; and the master-chariot-pole 
 
 Snapping beneath their plunges like a reed, 
 
 Hippolutos, whose feet were trammelled sure, 
 
 Was yet dragged forward by the circling rein 
 
 Which either hand directed ; nor they quenched 
 
 The frenzy of their flight before each trace, 
 
 Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woeful car, 
 
 And boulder-stone, sharp stub, and spiny shell. 
 
 Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the sands 
 
 On that detested beach, was bright with blood 
 
 And morsels of his flesh : then fell the steeds 
 
 Head-foremost, crashing in their mooned fronts, 
 
 155 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Shivering with sweat, each white eye horror fixed. 
 
 His people, who had witnessed all afar, 
 
 Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos. 
 
 But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced, 
 
 Indomitable as a man foredoomed. 
 
 That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer, 
 
 I, in a flood of glory visible. 
 
 Stood o'er my dying votary, and deed 
 
 By deed revealed, as all took place, the truth. 
 
 Then Theseus lay the woefullest of men, 
 
 And worthily ; but ere the death-veils hid 
 
 His face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed 
 
 To his rash sire. Whence now Athenai wails. 
 
 But I, who ne'er forsake my votaries, 
 
 Lest in the cross-way none the honey-cake 
 
 Should tender, nor pour out the dog's hot life ; 
 
 Lest at my fane disconsolate the priests 
 
 Should dress my image with some faded poor 
 
 Few crowns, made favours of, nor dare object 
 
 Such slackness to my worshippers who turn 
 
 Elsewhere the trusting heart and loaded hand, 
 
 As they had climbed Olumpos to report 
 
 Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne — 
 
 I interposed : and, this eventful night. 
 
 While round the funeral pyre the populace 
 
 Stand with fierce light on their black robes that blind 
 
 Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clip 
 
 O'er the dead body of their withered prince. 
 
 And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated 
 
 On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab 
 
 'Tis bruised on, groans away the heavy grief— 
 
 As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed, 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Sending a crowd of sparkles thro' the night, 
 And the gay fire, elate with mastery, 
 Towered like a serpent o'er the clotted jars 
 Of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense, 
 And splendid gums like gold, — my potency 
 Conveyed the perished man to my retreat 
 In the thrice venerable forest here. 
 And this white-bearded Sage who squeezes now 
 The berried plant is Phoibos' son of fame, 
 Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught 
 The doctrine of each herb and flower and root, 
 To know their secret'st virtue and express 
 The saving soul of all — who so has soothed 
 With lavers the torn brow and murdered cheeks. 
 Composed the hair and brought its gloss again, 
 And called the red bloom to the pale skin back. 
 And laid the strips and jagged ends of flesh 
 Even once more, and slacked the sinew's knot 
 Of every tortured limb — that now he lies 
 As if mere sleep possessed him underneath 
 These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh, cheer, 
 Divine presenter of the healing rod 
 Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye. 
 Twines his lithe spires around ! I say, much cheer ! 
 Proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies ! 
 And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs, 
 Ply, as the Sage directs, these buds and leaves 
 That strew the turf around the Twain ! While I 
 In fitting silence the event await. 
 
 157 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 WARING. 
 
 I. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^V HAT 's become of Waring 
 Since he gave us all the slip, 
 Chose land-travel or seafaring, 
 Boots and chest, or staff and scrip, 
 Rather than pace up and down 
 Any longer London-town ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Who'd have guessed it from his lip, 
 
 Or his brow's accustomed bearing, 
 
 On the night he thus took ship. 
 
 Or started landward, little caring 
 
 For us, it seems, who supped together, 
 
 (Friends of his too, I remember) 
 
 And walked home thro' the merry weather, 
 
 Snowiest in all December ; 
 
 I left his arm that night myself 
 
 For what 's-his-name's, the new prose -poet. 
 
 That wrote the book there, on the shelf — 
 
 How, forsooth, was I to know it 
 
 If Waring meant to glide away 
 
 Like a ghost at break of day ! 
 
 Never looked he half so gay ! 
 
 III. 
 
 He was prouder than the Devil : 
 How he must have cursed our revel ! 
 158 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Ay, and many other meetings, 
 
 Indoor visits, outdoor greetings, 
 
 As up and down he paced this London, 
 
 With no work done, but great works undone. 
 
 Where scarce twenty knew his name. 
 
 Why not, then, have eadier spoken, 
 
 Written, bustled ? Who 's to blame 
 
 If your silence kept unbroken ? 
 
 True, but there were sundry jottings, 
 
 Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings, 
 
 Certain first-steps were achieved 
 
 Already which — (is that your meaning?) 
 
 Had well borne out whoe'er believed 
 
 In more to come : but who goes gleaning 
 
 Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved 
 
 Stand cornfields by him ? Pride, o'erweening 
 
 Pride alone, puts forth such claims 
 
 O'er the day's distinguished names. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Meantime, how much I loved him, 
 
 I find out now I've lost him : 
 
 I, who cared not if I moved him, 
 
 — Could so carelessly accost him, 
 
 Never shall get free 
 
 Of his ghostly company, 
 
 And eyes that just a little wink 
 
 As deep I go into the merit 
 
 Of this and that distinguished spirit — 
 
 His cheeks" raised colour, soon to sink, 
 
 As long I dwell on some stupendous 
 
 And tremendous (God defend us !) 
 
 159 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous 
 
 Demoniaco-seraphic 
 
 Penman's latest piece of graphic. 
 
 Nay, my very wrist grows warm 
 
 With his dragging weight of arm ! 
 
 E'en so, swimmingly appears, 
 
 Thro' one's after-supper musings, 
 
 Some lost Lady of old years. 
 
 With her beauteous vain endeavour, 
 
 And goodness unrepaid as ever ; 
 
 The face, accustomed to refusings, 
 
 We, puppies that we were . . . Oh never 
 
 Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled 
 
 Being aught like false, forsooth, to ? 
 
 Telling aught but honest truth to ? 
 
 What a sin had we centupled 
 
 Its possessor's grace and sweetness ! 
 
 No ! she heard in its completeness 
 
 Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter, 
 
 And, truth at issue, we can't flatter I 
 
 Well, 'tis done with : she 's exempt 
 
 From damning us thro' such a sally ; 
 
 And so she glides, as down a valley, 
 
 Taking up with her contempt. 
 
 Past our reach ; and in, the flowers 
 
 Shut her unregarded hours. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, could I have him back once more, 
 This Waring, but one half-day more 1 
 Back, with the quiet face of yore. 
 So hungry for acknowledgment 
 1 60 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Like mine ! I'd fool him to his bent ! 
 
 Feed, should not he, to heart's content ? 
 
 I'd say, " to only have conceived 
 
 ' ' Your great works, tho' they never progress, 
 
 "Surpasses all we've yet achieved ! " 
 
 I'd He so, I should be believed. 
 
 I'd make such havoc of the claims 
 
 Of the day's distinguished names 
 
 To feast him with, as feasts an ogress 
 
 Her sharp-toothed golden-crowned child ! 
 
 Or, as one feasts a creature rarely 
 
 Captured here, unreconciled 
 
 To capture ; and completely gives 
 
 Its pettish humours licence, barely 
 
 Requiring that it lives. 
 
 vr. 
 
 Ichabod, Ichabod, 
 
 The glory is departed ! 
 
 Travels Waring East away ? 
 
 Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, 
 
 Reports a man upstarted 
 
 Somewhere as a God, 
 
 Hordes grown European-hearted, 
 
 Millions of the wild made tame 
 
 On a sudden at his fame ? 
 
 In Vishnu-land what Avatar? 
 
 Or, North in Moscow, toward the Czar, 
 
 Who, with the gentlest of footfalls 
 
 Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright 
 
 With serpentine and siennite, 
 
 Steps, with five other Generals, 
 
 i6i M 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Who simultaneously take snufF, 
 That each may have pretext enough 
 To kerchiefwise unfurl his sash 
 Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff 
 To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, 
 And leave the grand white neck no gash ? 
 In Moscow, Waring, to those rough 
 Cold natures borne, perhaps, 
 Like the lambwhite maiden, (clear 
 Thro' the circle of mute kings. 
 Unable to repress the tear. 
 Each as his sceptre down he flings), 
 To the Dome at Taurica, 
 Where now a priestess, she alway 
 Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech 
 With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach, 
 As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands 
 Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands 
 W^here breed the swallows, her melodious cry 
 Amid their barbarous twitter ! 
 In Russia ? Never ! Spain were fitter ! 
 Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain 
 That we and ^A^aring meet again — 
 Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane 
 Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid 
 All fire and shine — abrupt as when there 's slid 
 Its stiff gold blazing pall 
 From some black coffin-lid. 
 Or, best of all, 
 I love to think 
 
 The leaving us was just a feint ; 
 Back here to London did he slink ; 
 ?^- 162 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 And now works on without a wink 
 Of sleep, and we are on the brink 
 or something great in fresco-paint : 
 Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, 
 Up and down and o'er and o'er 
 He splashes, as none splashed before 
 Since great Caldara Polidore : 
 Then down he creeps and out he steals 
 Only when the night conceals 
 His face — in Kent 'tis cherry-time. 
 Or, hops are picking ; or, at prime 
 Of March, he steals as when, too happy, 
 Years ago when he was young. 
 Some mild eve when woods were sappy, 
 And the early moths had sprung 
 To life from many a trembling sheath 
 Woven the warm boughs beneath, 
 While small birds said to themselves 
 What should soon be actual song, 
 And young gnats, by tens and twelves, 
 Made as if they were the throng 
 That crowd around and carry aloft 
 The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, 
 Out of a myriad noises soft. 
 Into a tone that can endure 
 Amid the noise of a July noon, 
 When all God's creatures crave their boon, 
 All at once and all in tune. 
 And get it, happy as Waring then, 
 Having first within his ken 
 What a man might do with men, 
 And far too glad, in the even-glow, 
 163 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 To mix with the world he meant to take 
 Into his hand, he told you, so — 
 And out of it his world to make, 
 To contract and to expand 
 As he shut or oped his hand. 
 Oh, Waring, what 's to really be ? 
 A clear stage and a crowd to see ! 
 Some Garrick — say — out shall not he 
 The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck ? 
 Or, where most unclean beasts are rife. 
 Some Junius — am I right? — shall tuck 
 His sleeve, and out with flaying-knife ! 
 Some Chatterton shall have the luck 
 Of calling Rowley into life ! 
 Some one shall somehow run a muck 
 With this old world, for want of strife 
 Sound asleep : contrive, contrive 
 To rouse us. Waring ! "\^'ho 's alive ? 
 Our men scarce seem in earnest now : 
 Distinguished names, but 'tis, somehow, 
 As if they played at being names 
 Still more distinguished, like the games 
 Of children. Turn our sport to earnest 
 With a visage of the sternest ! 
 Bring the real times back, confessed 
 Still better than the very best ! 
 
 164 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 II. 
 
 I. 
 
 " When I last saw ^Varing . . ." 
 (How all turned to him who spoke — 
 You saw Waring ? Truth or joke ? 
 In land-travel, or sea-faring ?) 
 
 II. 
 
 " We were sailing by Triest, 
 
 " Where a day or two we harboured : 
 
 " A sunset was in the West, 
 
 " When, looking over the vessel's side, 
 
 " One of our company espied 
 
 " A sudden speck to larboard. 
 
 " And, as a sea-duck flies and swims 
 
 " At once, so came the hght craft up, 
 
 " With its sole lateen sail that trims 
 
 " And turns (the water round its rims 
 
 " Dancing as round a sinking cup) 
 
 "And by us like a fish it curled, 
 
 " And drew itself up close beside, 
 
 " Its great sail on the instant furled, 
 
 " And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried, 
 
 "(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 
 
 " ' Buy wine of us, you English Brig ? 
 
 " ' Or fruit, tobacco and cigars ? 
 
 " ' A Pilot for you to Triest ? 
 
 " ' Without one, look you ne'er so big, 
 
 " ' They'll never let you up the bay ! 
 
 " ' We natives should know best.' 
 
 "I turned, and 'just those fellows' way/ 
 
 165 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 " Our captain said, * The 'long-shore thieves, 
 " Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' 
 
 III. 
 " In truth, the boy leaned laughing back ; 
 " And one, half-hidden by his side 
 *' Under the furled sail, soon I spied, 
 " With great grass hat, and kerchief black, 
 "Who looked up, with his kingly throat, 
 *' Said somewhat while the other shook 
 " His hair back from his eyes to look 
 " Their longest at us ; and the boat, 
 " I know not how, turned sharply round, 
 " Laying her whole side on the sea 
 " As a leaping fish does ; from the lee 
 " Into the weather cut somehow 
 " Her sparkling path beneath our bow ; 
 " And so went off, as with a bound, 
 " Into the rose and golden half 
 "Of the sky, to overtake the sun, 
 " And reach the shore like the sea-calf 
 " Its singing cave ; yet I caught one 
 " Glance ere away the boat quite passed, 
 " And neither time nor toil could mar 
 " Those features : so I saw the last 
 " Of Wearing ! " — You ? Oh, never star 
 Was lost here, but it rose afar ! 
 Look East, where whole new thousands are ! 
 In Vishnu-land what Avatar ? 
 
 i66 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 QUEEN-WORSHIP. 
 
 I.— RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. 
 
 I. 
 
 I KNOW a Mount the Sun perceives 
 
 First when he visits, last, too, when he leaves 
 
 The world ; and it repays 
 
 The day-long glory of his gaze 
 
 By no change of its large calm steadfast front of snow. 
 
 A Flower I know, 
 
 He cannot have perceived, that changes ever 
 
 At his approach, and in the lost endeavour 
 
 To live his life has parted, one by one, 
 
 With all a flower's true graces, for the grace 
 
 Of being but a foolish mimic sun, 
 
 With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. 
 
 Men nobly call by many a name the Mount, 
 
 As over many a land of theirs its large 
 
 Calm steadfast front, like a triumphal targe 
 
 Is reared, and still with old names, fresh ones vie, 
 
 Each to its proper praise and own account : 
 
 Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look 
 Across the waters to this twilight nook, 
 — The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook ! 
 
 III. 
 Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed ? 
 Go ! Saying ever as thou dost proceed 
 
 167 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 That I, French Rudel, choose for my device 
 A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice 
 Before its idol : see ! These inexpert 
 And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt 
 The woven picture ; 'tis a woman's skill 
 Indeed ; but nothing baffled me, so, ill 
 Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed 
 On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees 
 On the flower's breast as on a platform broad : 
 But, as the flower's concern is not for these 
 But solely for the sun, so men applaud 
 In vain this Rudel, he not looking here 
 But to the East — the East ! Go, say this, Pilgrim 
 dear ! 
 
 II.— CRISTINA. 
 
 I. 
 
 She should not have looked at me, 
 
 If she meant I should not love her : 
 There 's plenty . . men, you call such, 
 
 I suppose . . she may discover 
 All her soul to, if she pleases. 
 
 And yet leave much as she found them. 
 But I'm not so, and she knew it 
 
 When she fixed me, glancing round them. 
 
 II. 
 
 ^^^hat ? To fix me thus meant nothing ? 
 
 But I can't tell . . . there 's my weakness . , 
 What her look said : no vile cant, sure, 
 
 About "need to strew the bleakness 
 i6S 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 " Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed 
 
 " That the Sea feels " — no " strange yearning 
 
 " That such souls have, most to lavish 
 
 ".Where there's chance of least returning;," 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows ! 
 
 But not quite so sunk that moments, 
 Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, 
 
 When the spirit's true endowments 
 Stand plain out from its false ones. 
 
 And apprise it if pursuing 
 The right way or the wrong way, 
 
 To its triumph or undoing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There are flashes struck from midnights, 
 
 There are fire-flames noondays kindle, 
 Whereby piled-up honours perish. 
 
 Whereby swoln ambitions dwindle, 
 While this or that poor impulse. 
 
 Which for once had play unstifled. 
 Seems the sole work of a life-time 
 
 Away the rest have trifled. 
 
 V. 
 
 Doubt you if, in some such moment, 
 As she fixed me, she felt clearly, 
 
 Ages past the soul existed, 
 
 Here an age 'tis resting merely, 
 
 Hence, fleets again for ages : 
 
 And the true end, sole and single, 
 169 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 It stops here for is, this love-way, 
 With some other soul to mingle ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Else it loses what it lived for, 
 
 And eternally must lose it ; 
 Better ends may be in prospect. 
 
 Deeper blisses, if you choose it, 
 But this life's end and this love-bliss 
 
 Have been lost here. Doubt you whether 
 This she felt, as, looking at me, 
 
 Mine and her souls rushed together ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh, observe ! Of course, next moment, 
 
 The world's honours, in derision, 
 Trampled out the light for ever : 
 
 Never fear but there 's provision 
 Of the Devil's to quench knowledge 
 
 Lest we walk the earth in rapture ! 
 Making; those who catch the secret 
 
 Just so much more prize their capture. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Such am I : the secret 's mine now ! 
 
 She has lost me — I have gained her 
 Her soul 's mine : and, thus, grown perfect, 
 
 I shall pass my life's remainder, 
 That just holds out the proving 
 
 Our powers, alone and blended — 
 And then, come next life quickly, 
 
 This life will have been ended ! 
 170 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 MADHOUSE CELLS. 
 
 I. 
 
 There's Heaven above, and night by night, 
 
 I look right through its gorgeous roof; 
 No suns and moons though e'er so bright 
 
 Avail to stop me ; splendour-proof 
 I keep the broods of stars aloof : 
 For I intend to get to God, 
 
 For 'tis to God I speed so fast, 
 For in God's breast, my own abode, 
 
 Those shoals of dazzling glory past, 
 I lay my spirit down at last. 
 I lie where I have always lain, 
 
 God smiles as he has always smiled ; 
 Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, 
 
 Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled 
 The Heavens, God thought on me his child, 
 Ordained a life for me, arrayed 
 
 Its circumstances, every one 
 To the minutest ; ay, God said 
 
 This head this hand should rest upon 
 Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun. 
 And having thus created me. 
 
 Thus rooted me, he bade me grow 
 Guiltless for ever, like a tree 
 
 That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know 
 
 A law by which it prospers so : 
 But sure that thought and word and deed 
 
 All go to swell his love for me. 
 Me made because that love had need 
 171 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 o 
 
 Of something irrevocably 
 Pledged solely its content to be. 
 Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend, 
 
 No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop ! 
 I have God's warrant, could I blend 
 
 All hideous sins, as in a cup, 
 To drink the mingled venoms up. 
 Secure my nature will convert 
 
 The draught to blossoming gladness fast, 
 While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt, 
 
 And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast. 
 As from the first its lot was cast. 
 For as I He, smiled on, full fed 
 
 By unexhausted power to bless, 
 I gaze below on Hell's fierce bed, 
 
 And those its waves of flame oppress, 
 Swarming in ghastly wretchedness. 
 Whose life on earth aspired to be 
 
 One altar-smoke, so pure ! — to win 
 If not love like God's love to me, 
 
 At least to keep his anger in. 
 And all their striving turned to sin ! 
 
 Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white 
 With prayer, the broken-hearted nun. 
 
 The martyr, the wan acolyte. 
 The incense-swinging child, — undone 
 Before God fashioned star or sun ! 
 God, whom I praise ; how could I praise 
 
 If such as I might understand. 
 Make out, and reckon on, his ways, 
 
 And bargain for his love, and stand, 
 Paying a price, at his right hand ? 
 172 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 II. 
 
 The rain set early in to-night, 
 
 The sullen wind was soon awake, 
 It tore the elm-tops down for spite, 
 
 And did its worst to vex the lake, 
 I listened with heart fit to break. 
 When glided in Porphyria : straight 
 
 She shut the cold out and the storm, 
 And kneeled and made the cheerless grate 
 
 Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; 
 Which done, she rose, and from her form 
 Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl. 
 
 And laid her soiled gloves by, untied 
 Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 
 
 And, last, she sate down by my side 
 And called me. When no voice replied. 
 She put my arm about her waist, 
 
 And made her smooth white shoulder bare, 
 And all her yellow hair displaced. 
 
 And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, 
 And spread o'er all her yellow hair. 
 Murmuring how she loved me ; she 
 
 Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, 
 To set its struggling passion free 
 
 From pride, and vainer ties dissever. 
 And give herself to me for ever : 
 But passion sometimes would prevail. 
 
 Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain 
 A sudden thought of one so pale 
 
 For love of her, and all in vain ; 
 And she was come through wind and rain. 
 Be sure I looked up at her eyes 
 173 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Proud, very proud ; at last I knew 
 Porphyria worshipped me ; surprise 
 
 Made my heart swell, and still it grew 
 While I debated what to do. 
 
 That moment she was mine, mine, fair, 
 Perfectly pure and good : I found 
 
 A thing to do, and all her hair 
 In one long yellow string I wound 
 Three times her little throat around, 
 And strangled her. No pain felt she : 
 
 I am quite sure she felt no pain. 
 As a shut bud that holds a bee 
 
 I warily oped her lids ; again 
 Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. 
 And I untightened next the tress 
 
 About her neck ; her cheek once more 
 Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss : 
 
 I propped her head up as before, 
 Only, this time my shoulder bore 
 Her head, which droops upon it still : 
 
 The smiling rosy little head, 
 So glad it has its utmost will, 
 
 That all it scorned at once is fled, 
 And I, its love, am gained instead ! 
 Porphyria's love : she guessed not how 
 
 Her darling one wish would be heard. 
 And thus we sit together now, 
 
 And all night long we have not stirred, 
 And yet God has not said a word ! 
 
 174 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 THROUGH THE TvIETIDJA TO ABD-EL 
 KADR.— 1842. 
 
 I. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride, 
 
 With a full heart for my guide, 
 
 So its tide rocks my side, 
 
 As I ride, as I ride, 
 
 That, as I were double-eyed, 
 
 He, in whom our Tribes conlide, 
 
 Is descried, ways untried 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 II. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride 
 
 To our Chief and his Allied, 
 
 Who dares chide my heart's pride 
 
 As I ride, as I ride ? 
 
 Or are witnesses denied — 
 
 Through the desert waste and wide 
 
 Do I glide unespied 
 
 As I ride, as I ride? 
 
 III. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 When an inner voice has cried, 
 
 The sands slide, nor abide 
 
 (As I ride, as I ride) 
 
 O'er each visioned Homicide 
 
 That came vaunting (has he lied ?) 
 
 175 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 To abide — where he died 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride, 
 
 Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, 
 
 Yet his hide, streaked and pied, 
 
 As I ride, as I ride, 
 
 Shows where sweat has sprung and dried, 
 
 — Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed — 
 
 How has vied stride with stride 
 
 As I ride, as I ride ! 
 
 V. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 Could I loose what Fate has tied, 
 
 Ere I pried, she should hide 
 
 As I ride, as I ride, 
 
 All that 's meant me : satisfied 
 
 When the Prophet and the Bride 
 
 Stop veins I'd have subside 
 
 As I ride, as I ride ! 
 
 176 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN ; 
 A child's story. 
 
 {^Written fo)\ and inscribed to y W. M. the Younger.) 
 
 I. 
 
 Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick, 
 
 By famous Hanover city ; 
 The river Weser, deep and wide, 
 Washes its wall on the southern side ; 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 
 But, when begins my ditty, 
 Almost five hundred years ago, 
 To see the townsfolk suffer so 
 
 From vermin, 'twas a pity. 
 
 II. 
 
 Rats! 
 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 
 
 And bit the babies in the cradles, 
 And eat the cheeses out of the vats. 
 
 And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
 And even spoiled the women's chats, 
 
 By drowning their speaking 
 
 With shrieking and squeaking 
 In fifty different sharps and flats. 
 
 III. 
 At last the people in a body 
 
 To the Town Hall came flecking : 
 
 177 N 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 'Tis clear, cried they, our Mayor 's a noddy ; 
 
 And as for our Corporation — shocking 
 To think we buy gowns hned with ermine 
 For dolts that can't or won't determine 
 What's like to rid us of our vermin ! 
 Rouse up, Sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
 To find the remedy we're lacking. 
 Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! 
 At this the Mayor and Corporation 
 Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
 
 IV. 
 
 An hour they sate in council, 
 
 At length the Mayor broke silence : 
 For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 
 
 I wish I were a mile hence ! 
 It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
 I'm sure my poor head aches again 
 r ve scratched it so, and all in vain. 
 Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! 
 Just as he said this, what should hap 
 At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 
 Bless us, cried the Mayor, what 's that ? 
 (With the Corporation as he sate. 
 Looking little though wondrous fat) 
 Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 
 Any thing like the sound of a rat 
 Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! 
 
 v. 
 Come in ! — the Mayor cried, looking bigger : 
 And in did come the strangest figure ! 
 His queer long coat from heel to head 
 
 178 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
 
 And he himself was tall and thin, 
 
 With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
 
 And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin. 
 
 No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin. 
 
 But lips where smiles went out and in — 
 
 There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
 
 And nobody could enough admire 
 
 The tall man and his quaint attire : 
 
 Quoth one : It 's as my great-grandsire. 
 
 Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, 
 
 Had walked this way from his painted tomb-stone ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 He advanced to the council-table : 
 And, Please your honours, said he, I'm able, 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 All creatures living beneath the sun 
 That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 
 After me so as you never saw ! 
 And I chiefly use my charm 
 On creatures that do people harm. 
 The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper ; 
 And people call me the Pied Piper. 
 (And here they noticed round his neck 
 A scarf of red and yellow stripe. 
 To match with his coat of the self same cheque ; 
 And at the scarfs end hung a pipe ; 
 And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying 
 As if impatient to be playing 
 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
 Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
 
 179 
 
Dells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Yet, said he, poor piper as I am, 
 
 In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
 
 Last June, from, his huge swarms of gnats ; 
 
 I eased in Asia the Nizam 
 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats : 
 
 And, as for what your brain bewilders, 
 
 If I can rid your town of rats 
 
 WiW you give me a thousand guilders ? 
 
 One ? fifty thousand ! — was the exclamation 
 
 Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Into the street the Piper stept. 
 
 Smiling first a little smile. 
 As if he knew what magic slept 
 
 In his quiet pipe the while ; 
 Then, like a musical adept, 
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled 
 Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
 And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. 
 You heard as if an army muttered ; 
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
 And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; 
 And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
 Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, 
 Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 
 
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins. 
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers. 
 
 Families by tens and dozens, 
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
 
 1 80 
 
I 
 
 Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Followed the Piper for their lives. 
 
 From street to street he piped advancing, 
 
 And step for step they followed dancing, 
 
 Until they came to the river Weser 
 
 Wherein all plunged and perished 
 
 — Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 
 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 
 (As he the manuscript he cherished) 
 
 To Rat-land home his commentary. 
 
 Which was, At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. 
 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
 
 Into a cider-press's gripe : 
 
 And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, 
 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 
 
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks. 
 
 And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ! 
 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 
 (Sweeter than by harp or by psaltery 
 
 Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice ! 
 
 The world is grown one vast drysaltery ! - 
 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your nunchcon. 
 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! 
 
 And just as one bulky sugar puncheon. 
 
 Ready staved, like a great sun shone 
 
 Glorious scarce an inch before me. 
 
 Just as methought it said. Come, bore me ! 
 
 — I found the Weser roUing o'er me. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 You should have heard the Hamelin people 
 Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 
 
 i8i 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Go, cried the Mayor, and get long poles ! 
 
 Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 
 
 Consult with carpenters and builders, 
 
 And leave in our town not even a trace 
 
 Of the rats ! — when suddenly up the face 
 
 Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 
 
 With a, First, if you please, my thousand guilders I 
 
 IX. 
 
 A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; 
 
 So did the Corporation too. 
 
 For council dinners made rare havock 
 
 With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock ; 
 
 And half the money would replenish 
 
 Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish ; 
 
 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
 
 AVith a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 
 
 Beside, quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, 
 
 Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
 
 We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
 
 And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 
 
 So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
 
 From the duty of giving you something for drink, 
 
 And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 
 
 But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
 
 Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
 
 Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
 
 A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! 
 
 X. 
 
 The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 
 No trifling ! I can't wait, beside ! 
 
 182 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 I've promised to visit by dinner time 
 Bagdat, and accept the prime 
 Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he 's rich in, 
 For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
 With him I proved no bargain-driver, 
 With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! 
 And folks who put me in a passion 
 May find me pipe after another fashion. 
 
 XI. 
 
 How ? cried the Mayor, d'ye think I'll brook 
 
 Being worse treated than a Cook? 
 
 Insulted by a lazy ribald 
 
 With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
 
 You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 
 
 Blow your pipe there till you burst ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Once more he stept into the street ; 
 
 And to his lips again 
 Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 
 
 And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
 " Never gave th' enraptured air) 
 There was a rustling, that seem'd like a bustling 
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, 
 Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
 Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering. 
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering^ 
 Out came the children running. 
 All the little boys and girls, 
 
 183 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
 
 And sparkUng eyes and teeth Uke pearls, 
 
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
 
 The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
 As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 
 Unable to move a step, or cry 
 To the children merrily skipping by — 
 Could only follow with the eye 
 That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
 But how the Mayor was on the rack. 
 And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 
 As the Piper turned from the High Street 
 To where the Weser rolled its waters 
 Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 
 However he turned from South to West, 
 And to Coppelburg Hill his steps addressed, 
 And after him the children presse ' ; 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 He never can cross that mighty top ! 
 He 's forced to let the piping drop, 
 And we shall see our children stop ! 
 When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 
 A wondrous portal opened wide. 
 As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
 And the Piper advanced and the children follow'd, 
 And when all were in to the very last. 
 The door in the mountain side shut fast. 
 Did I say, all ? No ! One was lame, 
 And could not dance the whole of the way ; 
 
 184 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 And in after years, if you would blame 
 
 His sadness, he was used to say, — 
 
 It 's dull in our town since my playmates left ! 
 
 I can't forget that I'm bereft 
 
 Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
 
 Which the Piper also promised me ; 
 
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
 
 Joining the town and just at hand. 
 
 Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew. 
 
 And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
 
 And every thing was strange and new ; 
 
 The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here. 
 
 And their dogs outran our fallow deer. 
 
 And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
 
 And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 
 
 And just as I felt assured 
 
 My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
 
 The music stopped and I stood still, 
 
 And found myself outside the Hill, 
 
 Left alone against my will. 
 
 To go now limping as before, 
 
 And never hear of that country more. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 
 
 There came into many a burgher's pate 
 A text which says, that Heaven's Gate 
 Opes to the Rich at as easy a rate 
 
 As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! 
 
 The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South 
 
 To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 
 Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
 i8^ 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
 If he'd only return the way he went, 
 
 And bring the children behind him. 
 But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, 
 And Viper and dancers were gone for ever, 
 They made a decree that lawyers never 
 
 Should think their records dated duly 
 If, after the day of the month and year, 
 These words did not as well appear, 
 " And so long after what happened here 
 
 " On the Twenty-second of July, 
 "Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six :" 
 And the better in memory to fix 
 The place of the Children's last retreat, 
 They called it, the Pied Piper's Street — 
 Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
 Was sure for the future to lose his labour. 
 Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern 
 
 To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; 
 But opposite the place of the cavern 
 
 They wrote the story on a column, 
 And on the Great Church Window painted 
 The same, to make the world acquainted 
 How their children were stolen away; 
 And there it stands to this very day. 
 And I must not omit to say 
 That in Transylvania there 's a tribe 
 Of alien people that ascribe 
 The outlandish ways and dress 
 On which their neighbours lay such stress 
 To their fathers and mothers having risen 
 Out of some subterraneous prison 
 i86 
 
Dramatic Lyrics. 
 
 Into which they were trepanned 
 Long time ago in a mighty band 
 Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
 But how or why they don't understand. 
 
 XV. 
 
 So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 
 
 Of scores out with all men — especially pipers : 
 
 And, whether they rid us from rats or from mice. 
 
 If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise. 
 
 187 
 
THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
PERSONS. 
 
 The Grand-Master's Prefect. 
 
 The Patriarch's Nuncio. 
 The Republic's Admiral. 
 I.OYS DE Dreux, Knight-Novice. 
 Initiated Druses — Djabal. 
 
 ,, ,, Khalil. 
 
 ,, ,, Anael. 
 
 „ ,, IMaani. 
 
 ,, ,, Karshook, Raghib, Ayoob, and others. 
 
 Uninitiated Druses. 
 Prefect's Guard, Nuncio's Attendants, Admiral's Force. 
 
 Time, 14 — . 
 
 Place— An Islet of the Southern Sporades, colonized by Druses 
 of Lebanon, and garrisoned by the Knights-Hospitallers of 
 Rhodes. 
 
 Scene — A Hall in the Prefect's Palace. 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 E7itcr sieallhily Karshook, Raghib, Ayoob, and other 
 iiiitiated Druses, each as he etiiers casting off a robe 
 that coficeals his distinctive black vest and white 
 turban ; then, as giving a loose to exultation, 
 
 Karshook. 
 
 THE moon is carried off in purple fire : 
 Day breaks at last ! Break glory, with the day 
 On Djabal, ready to resume his shape 
 Of Hakeem, as the Khalif vanished erst 
 On red Mokattam's brow — our Founder's flesh, 
 As he resumes our Founder's function ! 
 
 Ragh. Death 
 
 Sweep to the Christian Prefect that enslaved 
 So long us sad Druse exiles o'er the sea ! 
 
 Ay. Most joy be thine, O Mother- mount ! Thy 
 brood 
 Returns to thee, no outcasts as we left. 
 But thus — but thus ! Behind, our Prefect's corse ; 
 Before, a presence like the morning — thine, 
 Absolute Djabal late, and Hakeem now 
 That day breaks ! 
 
 191 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Kar. Off then, with disguise at last I 
 
 As from our forms this hateful garb we strip, 
 Lose every tongue its glozing accent too, 
 Discard each limb the ignoble gesture ! Cry, 
 'Tis the Druse Nation, warders on our mount 
 Of the world's secret, since the birth of time, 
 — No kindred slips, no offsets from thy stock, 
 No spawn of Christians are we. Prefect, we 
 Who rise . . . 
 
 Ay. Who shout . . . 
 
 Ragh, Who seize, a first-fruits, ha^ 
 
 Spoil of the spoiler ! Brave ! 
 
 \They begin to tear down, and to dispute for^ 
 the decorations of the hall. 
 
 Kar, Hold ! 
 
 Ay. — Mine, I say; 
 
 And mine shall it continue ! 
 
 Kar. Just that fringe ! 
 
 Take anything beside ! Lo, spire on spire, 
 Curl serpentwise wreathed columns to the top 
 Of the roof, and hide themselves mysteriously 
 Among the twinkling lights and darks that haunt 
 Yon cornice, — where the huge veil they suspend 
 Before the Prefect's Chamber of delight 
 Floats wide, then falls again as if its slave, 
 The scented air, took heart now, and anon 
 Lost heart to buoy its breadths of gorgeousness 
 Above the gloom they droop in, — all the porch 
 Is jewelled o'er with frosted charactery, 
 A Rhodian eight-point cross of white flame, winking 
 Hoar-silvered like some fresh-broke marble-stone : 
 Raze out the Prefect's Cross there, so thou leav'st me 
 
 192 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 That single fringe ! 
 
 Ay. Ha, wouldst thou, dog-fox ? Help ! 
 
 — Three hand breadths of gold fringe my son was set 
 To twist the night he died ! 
 
 Kar. Nay, hear the knave ! 
 
 And I could witness my one daughter borne 
 A week since to the Prefect's couch, yet fold 
 These arms, be mute lest word of mine should mar 
 Our Master's work, delay the Prefect here 
 A day, prevent his sailing hence for Rhodes — 
 How know I else ? — Hear me denied my right 
 By such a knave ! 
 
 Ragh. \lnterposing\. Each ravage for himself ! 
 Booty enough ! On Druses ! Be there found 
 Blood and a heap behind us ; with us, Djabal 
 Turned Hakeem ; and before us, Lebanon ! 
 Yields the porch ? Spare not ! There his minions 
 
 dragged 
 Thy daughter, Karshook, to the Prefect's couch : 
 Ayoob, thy son, to soothe the Prefect's pride, 
 Bent o'er that task, the death-sweat on his brow, 
 Carving the spice-tree's heart in scroll-work there : 
 Onward in Djabal's name ! 
 
 As the tumult is at height^ enter Khalil. A pause and 
 
 silence. 
 
 Kha. Was it for this 
 
 Djabal hath summoned you ? Deserve you thus 
 A portion in to-day's event ? What, here — 
 When most behoves your feet fall soft, your eyes 
 Sink low, your tongues lie still, — at Djabal's side, 
 
 193 o 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Close in his very hearing, who, perchance, 
 Assumes e'en now lost Hakeem's dreaded shape, — 
 Dispute you for these gauds ? 
 
 Ay. How say'st thou, KhaUl ? 
 
 Doubtless our Master prompts thee ! Take the fringe, 
 Old Karshook ! I supposed it was a day . . . 
 
 K/ia. For pillage ? 
 
 Jvar. Hearken, Khalil ! Never spoke 
 
 A boy so like a song-bird ; we avouch thee 
 Prettiest of all our Master's instruments 
 Except thy bright twin-sister — thou and Anael 
 Challenge his prime regard : but we may crave 
 (Such nothings as we be) a portion too 
 Of Djabal's favour ; in him we believed, 
 His bound ourselves, him moon by moon obeyed, 
 Kept silence till this daybreak — so may claim 
 Reward : who grudges me my claim ? 
 
 Ay. To-day 
 
 Is not as yesterday ! 
 
 J^ag/i. Stand off ! 
 
 X/ia. Rebel you ? 
 
 Must I, the delegate of Hakeem, draw 
 His wrath on you, the day of our Return ? 
 
 Other Druses. Wrench from his grasp the fringe ! 
 Hound ! must the earth 
 Vomit her plagues on us thro' thee? — and thee? 
 Plague me not, Khalil, for their fault ! 
 
 Kha. Oh, shame ! 
 
 Thus breaks to-day on you, the m.ystic tribe 
 That, flying the approach of Osman, bore 
 Our faith, a merest spark, from Syria's Ridge 
 Its birth-place, hither : let the sea divide 
 
 194 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 These hunters from their prey, you said, and safe 
 
 In this dim islet's virgin solitude 
 
 Tend we our faith, the spark, till happier time 
 
 Fan it to fire ; again till Hakeem rise 
 
 According to his word that, in the flesh 
 
 Which faded on Mokattam ages since, 
 
 He, at our extreme need, would interpose, 
 
 And, reinstating all in power and bliss, 
 
 Lead us himself to Lebanon once more. 
 
 Was 't not thus you departed years ago, 
 
 Ere I was born ? 
 
 Druses. 'Twas even thus, years ago. 
 
 Kha. And did you not — (according to old laws 
 Which bid us, lest the Sacred grow Prophane, 
 Assimilate ourselves in outward rites 
 With strangers fortune makes our lords, and live 
 As Christian with the Christian, Jew with Jew, 
 Druse only with the Druses) — did you call 
 Or no, to stand 'twixt you and Osman's rage 
 (Mad to pursue e'en hither thro' the sea 
 The remnant of your tribe) a race self-vowed 
 To endless warfare with his hordes and him. 
 The White-cross Knights of the adjacent Isle ? 
 
 Kar. And why else rend we down, wrench up, rase 
 out? 
 The Knights of Rhodes we thus solicited 
 For help, bestowed on us a fiercer pest 
 Than aught we fled—their Prefect ; who began 
 By massacre, who thinks to end to-day 
 By treachery, a scheme of theirs for crushing 
 Each chance of our return, and taming us 
 Bond-slaves to Rhodes for ever. 
 
 195 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Kha. Say I not ? 
 
 You, fitted to the Order's purposes, 
 Your Sheikhs cut off, your very garb proscribed, 
 Must yet receive one degradation more ; 
 You, from their Prefect, were to be consigned 
 To the Knights' Patriarch, ardent to outvie 
 His predecessor in all wickedness ; 
 When suddenly rose Hakeem in the midst, 
 Djabal, the man in semblance, but our Khalif 
 Confessed by signs and portents. Ye saw fire 
 Bicker round Djabal, heard strange music flit 
 Bird-like about his brow ? 
 
 Druses. We saw — we heard. 
 
 Kha. And as he said hath not our Khalif done ? 
 — Not so disposed events (from land to land 
 Going invisibly) that when, this morn. 
 The pact of villany complete, there comes 
 This Patriarch's Nuncio with this Master's Prefect 
 To consummate their treason, each will face 
 For a crouching handful, an uplifted nation ; 
 For simulated Christians, confessed Druses ; 
 And, for slaves past hope of the Mother-mount, 
 Freedmen returning there 'neath Venice' flag ; 
 — Venice, which, these proud Hospitallers' foe, 
 Grants us from Candia escort home at price 
 Of our relinquished islet — Venice, brothers. 
 Whose promised argosies should stand by this 
 Towards the harbour : is it now that you, 
 And you, selected from the rest to carry 
 The burthen of the Khalif's secret, further 
 To-day's event, entitled by your wrongs, 
 And witness in the Prefect's hall his fate— 
 
 196 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 That you dare clutch these gauds ? Ay, drop them ! 
 
 Kar, True, 
 
 Most true, all this ; and yet, may one dare hint, 
 Thou art tlie youngest of us ? — tho' employed 
 Abundantly as Djabal's confidant, 
 Transmitter of his mandates, even now : 
 Much less whene'er beside him Anael graces 
 The cedar throne, his Queen-bride, art thou like 
 To occupy its lowest step that day ! 
 And, Khalil, wert thou plucked as thou aspirest, 
 Forbidden such or such an honour, — say. 
 Would silence serve so amply ? 
 
 Kha. Karshook thinks 
 
 I covet honours ? Well, nor idly thinks ! 
 Honours ? I have demanded of them all 
 The greatest ! 
 
 Kar, I supposed so. 
 
 Kha. Judge yourselves ! 
 
 Turn — thus : 'tis in the alcove at the back 
 Of yonder columned porch, whose entrance now 
 The veil hides, that our Prefect holds his state; 
 Receives the Nuncio when the one, from Rhodes, 
 The other lands from Syria ; there they meet. 
 Now, I have sued with earnest prayers . . , 
 
 Kar. For what 
 
 Shall the Bride's brother vainly sue ? 
 
 Kha. That mine — 
 
 Avenging in one blow a myriad wrongs, 
 — Might be the hand that slays the Prefect there ! 
 Djabal reserves that office for himself. \A sikfice. 
 
 Thus far, as youngest of you all, I spoke 
 — Scarce more enlightened than yourselves : since, near 
 
 197 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 As I approach him, nearer as I trust 
 Soon to approach our Master, he reveals 
 Only the Khalif's power, not glory yet : 
 Therefore I reasoned with you : now, as servant 
 To Djabal, bearing his authority, 
 Hear me appoint your several posts ! Till noon 
 None see him save myself and Anael — once 
 The deed achieved, our Khalif will appear. 
 
 Enter a Druse. 
 
 The Druse. Our Prefect lands from Rhodes ! — With- 
 out a sign 
 That he suspects aught since he left our Isle ; 
 Nor in his train a single guard beyond 
 The few he sailed with hence — so have we learned 
 From Loys. 
 
 Kar. Loys ? Is not Loys gone 
 For ever ? 
 
 Ay. Loys, the Frank Knight, returned ? 
 
 The Druse. Loys, the boy, stood on the leading 
 prow 
 Conspicuous in his gay attire — has leapt 
 Into the surf already : since day-dawn 
 I kept watch to the Northward ; take but note 
 Of my poor vigilance to Djabal ! 
 
 Kha. Peace ! 
 
 Thou, Karshook, with thy company, receive 
 The Prefect as appointed : see all keep 
 The wonted show of servitude : announce 
 His entry here by the accustomed peal 
 Of trumpets, then await the further pleasure 
 
 198 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Of Djabal ! (Loys back, whom Djabal sent 
 
 To Rhodes that we might spare the single Knight 
 
 Worth sparing !) 
 
 Enter a second Druse. 
 
 The Druse. I espied him first ! Say, I 
 First spied the Nuncio's galley from the South ! 
 Said'st thou a Crossed-key's flag would flap the mast ? 
 It nears apace ! One galley and no more — 
 If Djabal chance to ask who spied the flag, 
 Forget not I it was ! 
 
 Kha. Thou, Ayoob, bring 
 
 The Nuncio and his followers hither ! Break 
 One rule prescribed, ye wither in your blood, 
 Die at your fault ! 
 
 Enter a third Druse. 
 
 The Druse. I shall see home, see home 1 
 
 — Shall banquet in the sombre groves again. 
 Hail to thee, Khalil ! Venice looms afar — 
 The argosies of Venice, like a cloud, 
 Bear up from Candia in the distance ! 
 
 Kha. Joy ! 
 
 Summon our people, Raghib ! Bid all forth ! 
 Tell them the long-kept secret, old and young ! 
 Set free the captives, have the trampled raise 
 Their faces from the dust, because at length 
 The cycle is complete, and Hakeem's reign 
 Begins anew ! Say, Venice for our guard. 
 Ere night we steer for Syria ! Hear you, Druses ? 
 Hear you this crowning witness to the claims 
 
 199 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Of Djabal ! Oh, I spoke of hope and fear, 
 Reward and punishment, because he bade 
 Who has the right ; for me, what should I say 
 But, mar not those imperial lineaments, 
 No majesty of all that rapt regard 
 Vex by the least omission ! Let him rise 
 Without a check from you ! 
 
 Druses. Let Djabal rise ! 
 
 Enter Lots. — The Druses are silent 
 
 Loys. Who speaks of Djabal ? — for I seek him, 
 friends ! 
 [Aside.] Tu Dieu I 'Tis as our Isle broke out in song 
 For joy its Prefect-incubus drops off 
 To-day, and I succeed him in his rule ! 
 But no — they cannot dream of their good fortune ! 
 \Aloud?\ Peace to you. Druses ! I have tidings for you, 
 But first for Djabal : where 's your tall bewitcher, 
 With that small Arab thin-lipped silver mouth ? 
 
 Kha. {Aside to Karshook.] Loys, in truth ! Yet 
 Djabal cannot err ! 
 
 Kar. [To Khalif.] And who takes charge of Loys ? 
 That's forgotten. 
 Despite thy wariness ! Will Loys stand 
 And see his comrades slaughtered ? 
 
 Zoj's. [Aside.] How they shrink 
 
 And whisper, with those rapid faces ! What ! 
 The sight of me in their oppressors' garb 
 Strikes terror to the simple tribe ! God's shame 
 On those that bring our Order ill repute ! 
 But all 's at end now ; better days begin 
 
 290 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 For these mild mountaineers from over-sea ; 
 
 The timidest shall have in me no Prefect 
 
 To cower at thus ! \_Aloud.'] I asked for Djabal. 
 
 Kar. [Aside.'] Better 
 
 One lured him, ere he can suspect, inside 
 The corridor ; 't were easy then despatch 
 A youngster. [To Loys.] Djabal passed some minutes 
 
 since 
 Thro' yonder porch, and . . . 
 
 Kha. [Aside.] Hold ! What, him despatch ? 
 
 The only Christian of them all we charge 
 No tyranny upon ? Who, — noblest Knight 
 Of all that learned from time to time their trade 
 Of lust and cruelty among us, — heir 
 To Europe's pomps, a truest child of pride, — 
 Yet stood between the Prefect and ourselves 
 From the beginning ? Loys, Djabal makes 
 Account of, and precisely sent to Rhodes 
 For safety ? — I have charge of him ! 
 
 [To Loys.] Sir Loys, — 
 
 Loys. There, cousins ! Does Sir Loys strike you 
 dead? 
 
 Kha. [Advancing.] Djabal has intercourse with few 
 or none 
 Till noontide : but, your pleasure ? 
 
 Loys. " Intercourse 
 
 ** With few or none ? " — {Ah, Khalil, when you spoke 
 I saw not your smooth face ! All health ! — and health 
 To Anael ! How fares Anael ?) — " Intercourse 
 " With few or none ? " Forget you I've been friendly 
 With Djabal long ere you or any Druse ? 
 — Enough of him at Rennes, I think, beneath 
 
 2QI 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 The Duke my father's roof ! He'd tell by the hour, 
 With fixed white eyes beneath his swarthy brow, 
 Plausiblest stories . . . 
 
 Kha. Stories, say you ? — Ah, 
 
 The quaint attire ! 
 
 Loys. My dress for the last time. 
 
 How sad I cannot make you understand, 
 This ermine, o'er a shield, betokens me 
 Of Bretagne, ancientest of provinces 
 And noblest ; and, what 's best and oldest there, 
 See, Dreux', our house's blazon, which the Nuncio 
 Tacks to an Hospitaller's vest to-day ! 
 
 Kha. The Nuncio we await ? What brings you 
 back 
 From Rhodes, Sir Loys ? 
 
 Loys. How you island-tribe 
 
 Forget the world's awake while here you drowse f 
 What brings me back? What should not bring me, 
 
 rather ? 
 Is not my year's probation out ? I come 
 To take the knightly vows. 
 
 Kha. What's that you wear? 
 
 Loys. This Rhodian cross ? The cross your Prefect 
 wore. 
 You should have seen, as I saw, the full Chapter 
 Rise to a man while they transferred this cross 
 From that unworthy Prefect's neck to . . . (fool — 
 My secret will escape me !) In a word, 
 My year's probation 's passed, and Knight ere eve 
 Am I ; bound, like the rest, to yield my wealth 
 To the common stock, to live in chastity, 
 (We Knights espouse alone our Order's fame) 
 
 202 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 — Change this gay weed for the black white-crossed 
 
 gown. 
 And fight to death against the Infidel. 
 — Not, therefore, against you, you Christians with 
 Such partial difference only as befits 
 The peacefuUest of tribes ! But Khalil, prithee, 
 Is not the Isle brighter than wont to-day ? 
 Kha. Ah, the new sword ! 
 
 Leys. See now ! You handle sword 
 
 As 'twere a camel's staff ! Pull ! That 's my motto, 
 Annealed, ^^ Fro fide," on the blade in blue. 
 
 Kha. No curve in it ? Surely a blade should 
 
 curve ! 
 Loys. Straight from the wrist ! Loose — it should 
 
 poise itself ! 
 Kha. [ Waving with ifrepressible exultation the sword. 
 We are a nation, Loys, of old fame 
 Among the mountains ! Rights have we to keep 
 With the sword too ! 
 
 \Reviejnberi7ig himself.'] But I forget — you bid me 
 Seek Djabal ? 
 
 Loys. What ! A sword's sight scares you not ? 
 
 (The People I will make of him and them ! 
 Oh, let my Prefect-sway begin at once !) 
 Bring Djabal — say, indeed, that come he must ! 
 
 Kha. At noon seek Djabal in the Prefect's Chamber, 
 And find — [Aside.'] Nay, 't is thy cursed race's 
 
 token, 
 Frank pride, no special insolence of thine ! 
 [Aloud.] Tarry, and I will do your bidding, Loys. 
 [71? the rest, aside.] Now, forth you ! I proceed to 
 Djabal straight. 
 
 203 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Oh, adds it not a joy to even thy joy, 
 Djabal, that I report all friends were true ? 
 
 [Exit Yj^kiAY.^ followed by the Druses. 
 Loys. Tu Dieii ! How happy I shall make these 
 Druses ! 
 Was 't not surpassingly contrived of me 
 To get the long list of their wrongs by heart, 
 Then take the first pretence for stealing off 
 From these poor islanders, present myself 
 Sudden at Rhodes before the noble Chapter, 
 And (as best proof of ardour in its cause 
 Which ere to-night will have become, too, mine) 
 Acquaint it with this plague-sore in its body. 
 This Prefect and his villanous career ? 
 The princely Synod ! All I dared to ask 
 Was his dismissal ; and they graciously 
 Consigned his very office to myself — 
 Myself may heal whate'er 's diseased ! 
 
 And good 
 For them they did so ! Since I never felt 
 How lone a lot, tho' brilliant, I embrace. 
 Till now that, past retrieve, the lot is mine — 
 To live thus, and thus die ! Yet, as I leapt 
 On shore, so home a feeUng greeted me 
 That I could half believe in Djabal's story 
 Of some Count Dreux and ancestor of ours 
 Who, sick of wandering from Bouillon's war. 
 Left his old name in Lebanon. 
 
 Long days 
 At least to spend in the Isle ! and, my news 
 
 known^ 
 An hour hence, what if Anael turns on me 
 
 204 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 The great black eyes I must forget ? 
 
 Why, fool, 
 P ecall them, then ? My business is with Djabal, 
 Not Anael ! Djabal tarries : if I seek him ? — 
 The Isle is brighter than its wont to-day I [Ext^. 
 
 205 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Enter Djabal. 
 
 Dja. I — Hakeem ? To have wandered thro' the 
 
 world, 
 Sown falsehood, and thence reaped now scorn, now 
 
 faith, 
 For my one chant with many a change, my tale 
 Of outrage, and my prayer for vengeance — took 
 No less than Hakeem ? The persuading Loys 
 To pass probation here ; the getting access 
 By Loys to the Prefect ; worst of all, 
 The gaining my tribe's confidence by fraud 
 That would disgrace the very Franks, a few 
 Of Europe's secrets that subdue the flame. 
 The wave, — to ply a simple tribe with these 
 Took Hakeem? 
 
 And I feel this first to-day ! 
 Does the day break, is the hour imminent 
 When one deed, when my whole life's deed, my deed 
 Must be accomplished ? Hakeem ? What of Hakeem ? 
 Shout, rather, " Djabal, Youssof's child, thought slain 
 "With his whole race, the Druses' Sheikhs this 
 
 Prefect 
 ** Endeavoured to extirpate — saved, a child, 
 *' Returns from traversing the world, a man, 
 " Able to take revenge, lead back the march 
 " To Lebanon " — so shout, and who gainsays ? 
 But now, because delusion mixed itself 
 
 206 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Insensibly with this career, all 's changed ! 
 Have I brought Venice to afford us convoy ? 
 True — but my jugglings wrought that ! Put I heart 
 Into our people where no heart lurked ? — Ah, 
 What cannot an impostor do ! 
 
 Not this ! 
 Not do this which I do ! Not bid, avaunt 
 Falsehood ! Thou shalt not keep thy hold on me ! 
 — Nor even get a hold on me ! 'Tis now 
 This day — hour — minute — 'tis as here I stand 
 On the accursed threshold of the Prefect, 
 That I am found deceiving and deceived ! 
 And now what do I ? — hasten to the few 
 Deceived, ere they deceive the many — shout, 
 As I professed, I did believe myself! 
 Say, Druses, had you seen a butchery — 
 
 If Ayoob, Karshook saw Maani there 
 
 Must tell you how I saw my father sink ; 
 My mother's arms twine still about my neck ; 
 I hear my brother's shriek, here 's yet the scar 
 Of what was meant for my own death-blow — say, 
 If you had woke like me, grown year by year 
 Out of the tumult in a far-off clime, 
 Would it be wondrous that delusions grew ? 
 I walked the world, asked help at every hand ; 
 Came help or no ? Not this and this ? Which helps 
 When I returned with, found the Prefect here, 
 The Druses here, all here but Hakeem's self. 
 Reserved for such a juncture, — could I call 
 My mission aught but Hakeem's ? Promised Hakeem 
 More than performs the Djabal — you absolve ? 
 — Me, you will never shame before the crowd 
 
 207 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Yet happily ignorant ? — Me both throngs surround ! 
 — Who, thus surrounded, slay for you and them 
 The Prefect, lead to Lebanon ! No Khalif, 
 But Sheikh once more ! Djabal — no longer . . . 
 
 Enter Khalil hastily, 
 
 Kha. — Hakeem ! 
 
 'Tis told ! The whole Druse nation knows thee, 
 
 Hakeem, 
 As we ! and mothers lift on high their babes 
 Who seem aware, so glisten their great eyes. 
 Thou hast not failed us ; ancient brows are proud ! 
 Our elders could not earlier die, it seems. 
 Than at thy coming ! The Druse heart is thine ! 
 Take it ! my lord and theirs, be thou adored ! 
 
 Dja. [Aside.] Adored ! — but I renounce it utterly ! 
 
 K/ia. Already are they instituting choirs 
 And dances to the Khalif, as of old 
 'Tis chronicled you bade them. 
 
 D/a. [Aside.] I abjure it ! 
 
 'Tis not mine — not for me ! 
 
 J^/ia. Why pour they wine 
 
 Flavoured like honey and bruised mountain herbs ? 
 Or wear those strings of sun-dried cedar-fruit ? 
 Oh — let me tell you — Esaad, we supposed 
 Doting, is carried forth, eager to see 
 The sun rise on the Isle — he can see now ! 
 The shamed Druse women never wept before : 
 They can look up when we reach home, they say. 
 Smell ! — sweet cane, saved in Lilith's breast thus 
 long— 
 
 208 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Sweet ! — it grows wild in Lebanon. And I 
 Alone do nothing for you ! Tis my office 
 Just to announce what well you know ; but thus 
 You bid me. At this selfsame moment tend 
 The Prefect, Nuncio, and the Admiral 
 Hither, by their three sea-paths — nor forget 
 Who were the trusty watchers ! — You forget? 
 Like me, who do forget that Anael bade ... 
 
 Dja, [Aside.] Ay, Anael, Anael — is that said at last ? 
 Louder than all, that would be said, I knew ! 
 What does abjuring mean, confessing mean. 
 To the people ? Till that woman crossed my path, 
 On went I solely for my people's sake : 
 I saw her, and myself too saw I first, 
 And slackened pace : " if I should prove indeed 
 Hakeem — with Anael here ! " 
 
 J^/ia. (Ah, he is rapt !) 
 
 Dare I at such a moment break on you 
 Even to do my sister's bidding ? Yes ! 
 The eyes are DjabaFs and not Hakeem's yet ! 
 Though but till I have spoken this, perchance. 
 
 Dj'a. [Aside.] To yearn to tell her, and yet have no 
 one 
 Great heart's-word that will tell her ! I could gasp 
 Doubtless one such word out, and die ! 
 
 [Aloud.] You said 
 That Anael . . . 
 
 Kha. . . . Fain would see you, speak with you, 
 Before you change, discard this Djabal's shape 
 She knows, for Hakeem's shape she is to know : 
 Something 's to say that will not from her mind : 
 I know not how — " Let him but come ! " she said. 
 
 209 p 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Dja. \Half apart?[ My nation — all my Druses — 
 how fare they ? 
 Those I must save, and suffer thus to save, 
 Hold they their posts? Wait they their Khalif too ? 
 
 Kha. All at the signal pant to flock around 
 That banner of a brow ! 
 
 Dja. [Aside.'] And when they flock, 
 
 Confess to them, and after, for reward. 
 Be chased with bowlings to her feet perchance ? 
 — Have the poor outraged Druses, deaf and blind 
 Precede me there — forestall my story, there — 
 Tell it in mocks and jeers — 
 
 I lose myself! 
 Who needs a Hakeem to direct him now" ? 
 I need the veriest child — why not this child ? 
 
 [Turning abruptly to Khalil. 
 You are a Druse too, Khalil ; you were nourished 
 Like Anael with our mysteries : if she 
 Could vow, so nourished, to love only one 
 AVho should revenge the Druses, whence proceeds 
 Your silence ? Wherefore made you no essay, 
 Who thus implicitly can execute 
 My bidding ? What have I done, you could not ? 
 And, knowing more than Anael the prostration 
 Of our once lofty tribe, the daily life 
 Of this detested . . . 
 
 (Does he come, you say, 
 This Prefect ? All 's in readiness ? 
 
 Kha. The sword, 
 
 The sacred robe, the Khalif s mystic tiar. 
 Laid up so long, all are disposed beside 
 The Prefect's chamber.) 
 
 2IO 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Dja. — Why did you despair ? 
 
 Kha. I know our nation's state. Too surely know, 
 As you, wiio speak to prove me ! Wrongs like theirs 
 Should wake revenge : but when I sought the wronged 
 And spoke, — " The Prefect stabbed your son — arise ! 
 " Your daughter, while you starve, eats shameless bread 
 " In his pavilion — then, arise ! " — my speech 
 Fell idly — 'twas, '' Be silent, or worse fare ! 
 *' Endure, till time's slow cycle prove complete ! 
 " Who may'st thou be that tak'st on thee to thrust 
 " Into this peril — art thou Hakeem ? " No ! 
 Only a mission like your mission renders 
 All these obedient at a breath, subdues 
 Their private passions, brings their wills to one ! 
 
 Dja. You think so ? 
 
 Kha. Even now — when they have witnessed 
 
 Your miracles — had I not threatened them 
 With Hakeem's vengeance, they would mar the whole, 
 And lie ere this, each with his special prize, 
 Safe in his dwelling, leaving our main hope 
 To perish ! No ! When these have kissed your feet 
 At Lebanon, the Past purged off, the Present 
 Clear, for the Future even Hakeem's mission 
 May end, and I perchance, or any child. 
 Could rule them thus renewed. — I talk to thee ! 
 
 Dja. And wisely. (He is Anael's brother, pure 
 As Anael's self.) Go say, I come to her. 
 Haste ! I will follow you. \^Exit Khalil. 
 
 Oh, not confess 
 To these — the blinded multitude — confess, 
 Before at least the fortune of my deed 
 Half authorize its means ! Only to her 
 
 211 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Let me confess my fault, who in my path 
 Curled up like incense from a mage-king's tomb 
 When he would have the wayfarer descend 
 Thro' the earth's rift and take hid treasure up. 
 When should my first child's-carelessness have stopped 
 If not when I, whose lone youth hurried past 
 Letting each joy 'scape for the Druses' sake, 
 At length recovered in one Druse all joys? 
 Were her brow brighter, her eyes richer, still 
 Would I confess ! On the gulfs verge I pause. 
 How could I slay the Prefect, thus and thus ? 
 Be thou my guardian, not destroyer, Anael ! [Exif. 
 
 Enter Anael, and Maani. who is assisting to array 
 her in the ancient dress of the Druses, 
 
 An. Those saffron vestures of the tabret-girls ! 
 Comes Djabal, think you ? 
 
 Mad. Doubtless Djabal comes. 
 
 An. Dost thou snow-swathe thee kinglier, Lebanon, 
 Than in my dreams ? — Nay, all the tresses off 
 My forehead — look I lovely so ? He says 
 That I am lovely. 
 
 AT ad. Lovely ! nay, that hangs 
 
 Awry. 
 
 An. You tell me how a khandjar hangs ? 
 The sharp side, thus, along the heart, see, marks 
 The maiden of our class. Are you content 
 For Djabal as for me ? 
 
 Mad, Content, my child. 
 
 An. Oh, mother, tell me more of him. He comes 
 Even now — tell more, fill up my soul with him ! 
 
 212 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Mad. And did I not . . . yes, surely . . . tell you all ? 
 
 An. What will be changed in Djabal when the 
 Change 
 Arrives ? Which feature ? Not his eyes ! 
 
 Mad. 'Tis writ, 
 
 Our Khalif's eyes rolled fire and clove the dark 
 Superbly. 
 
 An. Not his eyes ! His voice perhaps ? 
 
 Yet that 's no change ; for a grave current lived 
 — Grandly beneath the surface ever lived, 
 That, scattering, broke as in live silver spray 
 While ... ah, the bUss ... he would discourse to me 
 In that enforced, still fashion, word on word ! 
 'Tis the old current that must swell thro' that. 
 For what least tone, Maani, could I lose ? 
 'Tis surely not his voice will change ! 
 
 — If Hakeem 
 Only stood by ! If Djabal, somehow, passed 
 Out of the radiance as from out a robe ; 
 Possessed, but was not it ! 
 
 He lived with you ? 
 Well — and that morning Djabal saw me first 
 And heard my vow never to wed but one 
 Who saved my People first — that day . . . proceed ! 
 
 Mad. Once more then : from the time of his 
 return 
 In secret, changed so since he left the Isle 
 That I, who screened our Emir's last of sons, 
 This Djabal, from the Prefect's massacre 
 — Who bade him ne'er forget the child he was, 
 — Who dreamed so long the youth he had become — 
 I knew not in the man that child ; the man 
 
 213 
 
Bells and Pomegranates, 
 
 Who spoke alone of hopes to save our tribe, 
 How he had gone from land to land to save 
 Our tribe — allies were sure, nor foes to dread ; 
 And much he mused, days, nights, alone he mused; 
 But never till that day when, pale and worn 
 As by a persevering woe, he cried 
 *' Is there not one Druse left me ? " — And I showed 
 The way to Khalil's and your hiding-place 
 From the abhorred eye of the Prefect here, 
 So that he saw you, heard you speak — till then, 
 Never did he announce — (how the moon seemed 
 To ope and shut the while above us both !) 
 — His mission was the mission promised us — 
 The cycle had revolved — all things renewing, 
 He was lost Hakeem clothed in flesh to lead 
 His children home anon, now veiled to work 
 Great purposes — the Druses now would change. 
 
 An. And they have changed ! And obstacles did sink, 
 And furtherances rose ! And round his form 
 Played fire, and music beat her angel wings ! 
 My people, let me more rejoice, oh, more 
 For you than for myself ! Did I but watch 
 Afar the pageant, feel the Khalif pass, 
 One of the throng, how proud were I — tho' ne'er 
 Singled by Djabal's glance ! But to be chosen 
 Flis own from all, the most his own of all, 
 To be exalted with him, side by side. 
 Lead the exulting Druses, meet ... ah, how 
 Worthily meet the maidens who have watched 
 Ever beneath the cedars — how deserve 
 This honour in their eyes ? So bright are they 
 That saffron-vestured sound the tabrets there — 
 
 214 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 The girls who throng there in my dreams ! One hour 
 
 And all is over : how shall I do aught 
 
 That may deserve next hour's exalting ? — How ? — 
 
 \Suddcnly to Maani. 
 Mother, I am not worthy him ! I read it 
 Still in his eyes ! He stands as if to tell me 
 I am not, yet forbears ! Why else revert 
 To one theme ever ? — how mere human gifts 
 Suffice him in myself — whose worship fades, 
 Whose awe goes off ever at his approach, 
 As now, that as he comes . . . 
 \As DjABAL enters^ Oh, why is it 
 I cannot kneel to you ? 
 
 Dja. Rather 'tis I 
 
 Should kneel to you, my Anael ! 
 
 An, Even so ! 
 
 For never seem you . . . shall I speak the truth ? . , . 
 Never a God to me ! 'Tis the Man's hand, 
 Eye, voice ! Oh, do you veil these to our people, 
 Or but to me ? Them, let me think, to them ! 
 And brightness is their veil, shadow — my truth ! 
 You mean that I should never kneel to you 
 — So I will kneel ! 
 
 Dja. \Preventing /ler.] No — no ! 
 
 \_Feeltng the khandjar as he raises her. 
 Ha, have you chosen . . . 
 
 An. The khandjar with our ancient garb. But, 
 Djabal, 
 Change not, be not exalted yet — give time 
 That I may plan more, perfect more. My blood 
 Beats— beats ! 
 [Ast'de.] O must I then — since Loys leaves us 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Never to come again, renew in me 
 
 Those doubts so near effaced already — must 
 
 I needs confess them now to Djabal ? — Own 
 
 That when I Loys saw and Loys heard, 
 
 My faith fell, and the woeful thought flashed first 
 
 That each effect of Djabal's presence, taken 
 
 For proof of more than human attributes 
 
 In him by me whose heart at his approach 
 
 Beat fast, whose brain while he was by swam round, 
 
 Whose soul at his departure died away, 
 
 — That every such effect might have been wrought 
 
 In others' frames, tho' not in mine, by Loys 
 
 Or any merely mortal presence ? Doubt 
 
 Is fading fast ; shall I reveal it now ? 
 
 And yet to be rewarded presently 
 
 With doubt unexpiated, undisclosed ! 
 
 Dja. [Aside.] Avow the truth ? I cannot ! In what 
 words 
 Avow that all she loves in me is false ? 
 — Which yet has served that flower-like love of hers 
 To climb by, like the clinging gourd, and clasp 
 With its divinest weallh of leaf and bloom : 
 Could I take down the prop-work, in itself 
 So vile, yet interlaced and overlaid 
 With painted cups and fruitage — might these still 
 Bask in the sun, unconscious their own strength 
 Of matted stalk and tendril had replaced 
 The old support thus silently withdrawn ! 
 But no ; the beauteous fabric crushes too. 
 'Tis not for my sake but for Anael's sake 
 I leave her soul this Hakeem where it leans ! 
 And yet — a thought comes : here my work is done 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 At every point ; the Druses must return — • 
 Venice is pledged to that : 'tis for myself 
 I stay now, not for them — to stay or spare 
 The Prefect whom imports it save myself? 
 What would his death be but my own reward ? 
 Then, mine I will forego. It is foregone ! 
 Let him escape with all my House's blood ! 
 Ere he can land I will have disappeared, 
 And Hakeem, Anael loved, shall, fresh as first, 
 Live in her memory, keeping her sublime 
 Above the world. She cannot touch that world 
 By ever knowing what I truly am, 
 Since Loys, — of mankind the only one 
 Able to link my present with my past, 
 That life in Europe with this Island life. 
 Thence able to unmask me, — I've disposed 
 Safely at last at Rhodes, and . . . 
 
 Enter Khalil. 
 
 Kha. Loys greets you ! 
 
 Dja. Loys ? To drag me back ? It cannot be ! 
 
 An. Loys ! Ah, doubt may not be stifled so ! 
 Doubt must be quite destroyed or quite confirmed, 
 Must find day somehow live or dead. 'Tis well ! 
 
 Kha. Can I have erred that you so gaze on me? 
 True, 
 I forgot, in the glad press of tidings 
 Of higher import, Loys is returned 
 Before the Prefect, with, if possible, 
 Twice the light-heartedness of old. You'd think 
 On some inauguration he expects 
 
 217 
 
Bells and Pomegranates, 
 
 To-day, the world's fate hung. 
 
 Dja. — And asks for me ? 
 
 Kha. Ah, you know all things ! You in chief he 
 greets, 
 But every body else is to be happy 
 At his arrival, he declares : were Loys 
 Thou, Khalif, he could have no wider soul 
 To take us in with. How I love that Loys ! 
 
 Dja. Shame winds me with her tether round and 
 round. 
 
 All. [Aside.] Loys ? I take the trial : meet it is 
 The little I can do be done ; that faith, 
 All I can offer, want no perfecting 
 Which my own act may compass. Aye, this way 
 All may go well nor that ignoble spot 
 Be chased by other aid than mine. Best go 
 Close to my fear, weigh Loys with my Lord, 
 The mortal's with the more than mortal's gifts ! 
 
 Dja. [Aside.] Before, there were so few deceived, 
 and now 
 There's doubtless not one least Druse in the Isle 
 But (having learned my superhuman claims, 
 And calling me his Khalif now) will clash 
 The whole truth out from Loys at first word ! 
 And Loys, for his part, will hold me up, 
 With a Frank's unimaginable scorn 
 Of this imposture, to my people's eyes, 
 To Khalil's eyes, to Anael's eyes ! Oh, how 
 — How hold him longer yet a little while 
 From them, amuse him here until I plan 
 How he and I at once may leave the Isle ? 
 There 's Anael ! 
 
 218 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 An. Please you? 
 
 DJa. (Anael only !) Anael, 
 
 I would pass some few minutes here within 
 Ere I see Loys : you shall speak with him 
 Until I join you and declare the end. 
 
 An. [Aside]. As I divined: he bids me save myself, 
 Allows me the probation — I accept ! 
 Let me see Loys ! 
 
 Loys. [JViViouL] Djabal ! 
 
 An. [Aside.'] 'Tis his voice. 
 
 The smooth Frank trifler with our people's wrongs, 
 The self-complacent boy-inquirer, loud 
 On this and that inflicted tyranny, 
 — Aught serving to parade an ignorance 
 Of how wrong feels, inflicted ! Let me close 
 With what I viewed at distance, and, myself, 
 Probe this delusion to the core ! 
 
 JDJa. He comes ! 
 
 Khalil, along with me ! while Anael waits 
 Till I return once more — and but once more ! 
 
 [Exeunt Djabal a?id Khalil. Manet Anael. 
 
 219 
 
Bells and Pomegranates, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Anael and Loys. 
 
 An. Here leave me ! Here I wait another. 'Twas 
 For no mad protestation of a love 
 Like this you say possesses you, I came. 
 
 Loys. Love — how protest a love I dare not feel ? 
 Mad words may doubtless have escaped me — you 
 Are here — I only feel you here ! 
 
 An. No more ! 
 
 Loys. Say but again, whom could you love ? I 
 dare, 
 Alas ! say nothing of myself, who am 
 A Knight now, and when Knighthood we embrace 
 Love we abjure : so speak on safely — speak, 
 Lest I speak and betray my faith so ? Sure 
 To say your breathing passes thro' me, changes 
 My blood to spirit, and my spirit to you, 
 As Heaven the sacrificer's wine to it — 
 This is not to protest my love ? You said 
 You could love one . . . 
 
 An. One only ! We are bent 
 
 To the earth — who raises up my tribe, I love ; 
 The Prefect bends us — who removes him ; we 
 Have ancient rights — who gives them back to us, 
 I love. — Forbear me ! Let my hand go ! 
 
 Lays. Him 
 
 You could love only ? Where is Djabal ? Stay ! 
 Yet wherefore stay ? Who does this but myself ? 
 Pad I apprised her that I come to do 
 
 220 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Just this, what more could she acknowledge ? No ! 
 She sees into my heart's core : what is it 
 Feeds either cheek with red as June some rose ? 
 Why turns she from me ? Ah fool, over-fond 
 To dream I could call up . . 
 
 . . What never dream 
 Yet feigned ! 'Tis love ! Oh Anael speak to me ! 
 Djabal ! 
 
 An. Seek Djabal by the Prefect's ch-amber 
 At noon ! [^She paces the room. 
 
 Loys. And am I not the Prefect now ? 
 Is it my fate to be the only one 
 Able to win her love, the only one 
 Unable to accept her love ? The Past 
 Breaks up beneath my footing — came I here 
 This morn as to a slave, to set her free 
 And take her thanks, and then spend day by day 
 Beside her in the Isle content ? What works 
 This knowledge in me now ! Her eye has broken 
 The faint disguise away — for Anael's sake 
 I left the isle, for her espoused the cause 
 Of the Druses, all for her I thought, till now, 
 To live without ! 
 
 As I must live : to-day 
 Ordains me Knight, forbids me — never shall 
 Forbid me to profess myself, heart, arm 
 Thy soldier ! 
 
 An. Djabal you awaited, comes ! 
 
 Lays. What wouldst thou, Loys ? See him ? Nought 
 beside 
 Is wanting — I have felt his voice a spell 
 From first to last. He brought me here, made known 
 
 221 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 The Druses to me, drove me hence to seek 
 
 Redress for them ; and shall I meet him now 
 
 When nought is wanting but a word of his 
 
 To — what? — induce me to spurn hope, faith, pride, 
 
 Honour away, — to cast my lot among 
 
 His tribe, become a proverb in men's mouths, 
 
 Breaking my high pact of companionship 
 
 With those who graciously bestowed on me 
 
 The very opportunities I turn 
 
 Against them. Loys, they procured thee, think, 
 
 What now procures her love ! Not Djabal now ! 
 
 An. The Prefect also comes. 
 
 Loys. Him let me see. 
 
 Not Djabal ! Him, degraded at a word, 
 To please me, — to attest belief in me — 
 And, after, Djabal ! Yes, ere I return 
 To her, the Nuncio's vow shall have destroyed 
 This heart's rebellion, and coerced this will 
 For ever. 
 
 Anael, not until the vows 
 Irrevocably fix me . . . 
 
 Let me leave her 
 The Prefect, or I lose myself for ever. [Exit. 
 
 A?i. Yes, I am calm now — just one way remains — 
 So I attest my faith in him : for, see, 
 I am quite lost now ; Loys and Djabal stand 
 On either side — two men ! I balance looks 
 And words, give Djabal a man's preference, 
 No more. The Khahf is absorbed in Djabal ! 
 It is for a love like this that he who saves 
 My race, selects me for his bride ? One way ! — 
 
 222 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Enter Djabal. 
 
 DJa. [To himself?^ No moment is to spare then ; 'tis 
 resolved ! 
 If Khalil may be trusted to lead back 
 The Druses, and if Loys can be lured 
 Out of the Isle — can I procure his silence 
 Or promise never to return at least, — 
 All 's over ! Even now my bark is ready ; 
 I reach the next wild islet and the next, 
 And lose myself thus in the sun for ever ! 
 Anael remains now. — Think ! She loved in me 
 But Hakeem — Hakeem 's vanished ; and on Djabal 
 Had never glanced — 
 
 A71. Djabal, I am thine own ! 
 
 Dja. Mine ? Djabal's ? — As if Hakeem had not 
 been? 
 
 An. Not Djabal's? Say first, do 5'ou read my 
 thoughts ? 
 Why need I speak, if you can read my thoughts ? 
 
 Dja. I do not, I have said a thousand times. 
 
 An. (My secret's safe, I shall surprise him yet !) 
 Djabal, I knew your secret from the first — 
 Djabal, when first I saw you . . . (by our porch 
 You leant and pressed the tinkling veil away. 
 And one fringe fell behind your neck — I see !) 
 I knew you were not human, for I said 
 " This dim secluded house where the sea beats 
 Is Heaven to me — my people's huts are Hell 
 To them ; this august form will follow me. 
 Mix with the waves his voice will, him have I 
 And they the Prefect ; Oh, my happiness 
 
 223 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Rounds to the full whether I choose or no ! 
 His eyes met mine, he was about to speak, 
 His hands grew damp — surely he meant to say 
 He let me love him — in that moment's bliss 
 I shall forget my people, pine for home — 
 They pass and they repass with palHd eyes ! " 
 I vowed at once a certain vow — this vow — 
 Not to embrace you till my tribe was saved — 
 Embrace me ! 
 
 Dja, [Shrinki?ig.'] And she loved me ! Nought 
 
 remained 
 But that ! Nay, Anael, is the Prefect dead ? 
 
 An. Ah, you reproach me ! True, his death crowns 
 
 all, 
 I know — I should know — and I would do much, 
 Believe — but, death — Oh, you, who have known 
 
 death, 
 Would never doom the Prefect, were death fearful 
 As we report ! 
 
 Death ! — A fire curls within us 
 From the foot's palm, and fills up to the brain. 
 Up, out, then shatters the whole bubble-shell 
 Of flesh perchance ! 
 
 Death ! — witness I would die, 
 Whate'er death be, would venture now to die 
 For Maani — for Khalil — but for him ? — 
 Nay but embrace me, Djabal, in assurance 
 My vow will not be broken, for I must 
 Do something to attest my faith in you. 
 Be worthy you ! 
 
 DJa. [Ai'oi'dmg /ler.] I come for that — to say 
 Such an occasion is at hand — 'tis like 
 
 224 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 I leave you — that we part, my Anael, — part 
 For ever ! 
 
 An. We part ? Just so ! I have succumbed, he 
 thinks, 
 I am, he thinks, unworthy — and nought less 
 Will serve than such approval of my faith ! 
 Then, we part not ! Yet remains there no way 
 
 short 
 Of that ? Oh, not that ! 
 
 Death !-!-Vet a hurt bird 
 Died in my arms — its eyes filmed — " Nay it sleeps," 
 I said, " will wake to-morrow well " — 'twas dead ! 
 
 DJa. I stand here and time fleets — Anael — I come 
 To bid a last farewell to you — we never 
 Perhaps shall meet again — but, ere the Prefect 
 Arrives . . . 
 
 Enter Khalil, breathlessly. 
 
 Kha. He 's here ! The Prefect ! Twenty guards, 
 No more — no sign he dreams of danger — all 
 Awaits you only — Ayoob, Karshook, keep 
 Their posts — wait but the deed's accomplishment 
 To join us with your Druses to a man ! 
 Still holds his course the Nuncio — near and near 
 The fleet from Candia's steering. 
 
 Dja. [Aside.] All is lost ! 
 
 — Or won ? 
 
 X/ia. And I have laid the sacred robes, 
 
 The sword, the head-tiar, at the porch as 'twas 
 Commanded — You will hear the Prefect's trumpet. 
 
 DJa. Anael, I keep them, him then, past retrieve 
 
 225 Q 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 I slay — 'tis forced on me ! As I began 
 I must conclude — so be it ! 
 
 Kha. For the rest 
 
 (Save Loys, but a solitary sword) 
 All is so safe that — I will ne'er entreat 
 Your post again of you — tho' danger 's none, 
 There must be glory only meet for you 
 In slaying the Prefect ! 
 
 An, And 'tis now that Djabal 
 
 Would leave me ! — in the glory meet for him ! 
 
 Dja. As glory I would yield the deed to you, 
 Or any one ; what peril there may be 
 I keep. All things conspire to hound me on ! 
 Not now, my soul, draw back, at least ! Not now ! 
 The course is plain, howe'er obscure all else — 
 Once offer this tremendous sacrifice, 
 Prevent what else will be irreparable, 
 Secure these transcendental helps, regain 
 The Cedars — then let all this clear itself ! 
 I slay him ! 
 
 Kha. Anael, and no part for us ! 
 
 \To Djabal.] Hast thou possessed her with . . . 
 
 Dja. [To Anael.] Whom speak you to? 
 
 What is it you behold there ? Nay, this smile 
 Turns stranger — shudder you ? The man must die. 
 As thousands of our race have died thro' him. 
 A blow, and I discharge his weary soul 
 The body that pollutes it — let him fill 
 Some new expiatory form of earth. 
 Or sea, the reptile, or some aery thing — 
 What is there in his death ? 
 
 An. My brother said 
 
 226 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Is there no part in it for us ? 
 
 Dja. For Khalil,— 
 
 The trumpet will announce the Nuncio's entry ; 
 Here I shall find the Prefect hastening 
 In the Pavilion to receive him — here 
 I slay the Prefect ; meanwhile Ayoob leads 
 The Nuncio with his guards within — once he 
 Secured in the outer hall, bid Ayoob bar 
 Entry or egress till I give the sign 
 Which waits the landing of the argosies 
 Yourself announce : when he receives my sign 
 Let him throw ope the palace doors, admit 
 The Druses to behold their tyrant ere 
 We leave for ever this detested spot. 
 Go, Khalil, hurry all — no pause — no pause ! 
 Whirl on the dream, secure to wake anon ! 
 
 Kha. What sign ? 
 
 Dja, Whoe'er shall show my ring admit 
 
 To Ayoob and the Nuncio. How she stands ! 
 Have I. not — I must have some task for her. 
 Anael ! not that way ! That's the Prefect's chamber. 
 Anael, keep you the ring — give you the sign ! 
 (It holds her safe amid the stir) — You will 
 Be faithful ? 
 
 An. \Taking the ring.] I would fain be worthy 
 you ! [Trumpet without. 
 
 Kha. He comes. 
 
 Dja. And I too come ! 
 
 An, One word, but one ! 
 
 Say, shall you be exalted at the deed ? 
 Then ? On the instant ? 
 
 Dja. I exalted? What? 
 
 227 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 He there — we thus— our wrongs revenged — our tribe 
 Set free — Oh then shall I, assure yourself, 
 Shall you, shall each of us, be in his death 
 Exalted ! 
 
 Kha. He is here ! 
 
 Dja. Away — away ! \Exeunt, 
 
 Enter the Prefect with Guards, and Loys. 
 
 The Prefect. [To Guards.] Back, I say, to the galley 
 every guard ! 
 That 's my sole care now— see each bench retains 
 Its complement of rowers — I embark 
 O' the instant, since this Knight will have it so, 
 Alas me ! Could you have the heart, my Loys ? 
 [To a Guard who whispers^ Oh, bring the holy Nuncio 
 here forthwith ! [Exeunt Guards. 
 
 Loys, a rueful sight, confess, to see 
 The grey discarded Prefect leave his post, 
 With tears i' the eye ! So you are Prefect now ? 
 You depose me — you succeed me ? Ha, ha ! 
 
 Loys. And dare you laugh, whom laughter less be- 
 comes 
 Than yesterday's forced meekness we beheld . . , 
 
 Pref. . . . When you so eloquently pleaded, Loys, 
 For my dismissal from the post ? — Ah, meek 
 With cause enough, consult the Nuncio else ! 
 And wish him the like meekness — for so staunch 
 A servant of the church can scarce have bought 
 His share in the Isle, and paid for it, hard pieces ! 
 You've my successor to condole with, Nuncio ! 
 I shall be safe by then i' the galley, Loys ! 
 
 228 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Lays. You make as you would tell me you rejoice 
 To leave your scene of . . . 
 
 Pref. Trade in the dear Druses ? 
 
 Blood and sweat traffic ? Spare what yesterday 
 We had enough of ! Drove I in the isle 
 A profitable game ? Learn wit, my son, 
 Which you'll need shortly ! Did it never breed 
 Suspicion in you all was not pure profit, 
 When I, the insatiate . . . and so forth . . . was bent 
 On having an associate in my rule ? 
 W^hy did I yield this Nuncio half the gain, 
 If not that I might also shift . . . what on him ? 
 Half of the peril, Loys ! 
 
 Loys, Peril ? 
 
 Pref, Hark you ! 
 
 I'd love you if you'd let me — this for reason, 
 You save my life at price of . . . well, say risk 
 At least, of yours. I came a long time since 
 To the Isle : our Hospitallers bade me tame 
 These savage wizards, and reward myself. 
 
 Loys, The Knights who so repudiate your crime ? 
 
 Pref. Loys, the Knights — we doubtless understand 
 Each other ; as for trusting to reward 
 From any friend beside myself ... no, no ! 
 I clutched mine on the spot, when it was sweet 
 And I had taste for it. I felt these wizards 
 Alive — was sure they were not on me, only 
 When I was on them : but with age comes caution : 
 And stinging pleasures please less and sting more. 
 Year by year, fear by fear ! The girls were brighter 
 Than ever ('faith, there 's yet one Anael left 
 T set my heart upon)— Oh, prithee, let 
 
 229 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 That brave new sword lie still ! — These joys were 
 
 brighter, 
 But silenter the town too as I passed. 
 With this alcove's delicious memories 
 Yet to b ; mingled visions of gaunt fathers, 
 Quick-eyed sons, fugitives from the mine, the oar, 
 Stealing to catch me : brief, when I began 
 To quake with fear — (I think I hear the Chapter 
 Solicited to let me leave, now all 
 Worth staying for was gained and gone !) — I say 
 That when for the remainder of my life 
 All methods of escape seemed lost — ^just then 
 Up should a young hot-headed Loys spring, 
 Talk very long and loud, in fine, compel 
 The Knights to break their whole arrangement, have 
 
 me 
 Home for pure shame — from this safehold of mine 
 Where but ten thousand Druses seek my life, ■'^- 
 To my wild place of banishment, San Gines 
 By Murcia, where my three fat manors lying. 
 Purchased by gains here and the Nuncio's gold, 
 Are all I have to guard me, — that such fortune 
 Should fall to me I hardly could expect ! 
 Therefore, I say, I'd love you ! 
 
 Loys. Can it be ? 
 
 I play into your hands then ? Oh, no, no ! 
 The Venerable Chapter, the Great Order 
 Sunk o' the sudden into fiends of the pit ? 
 But I will back — will yet unveil you ! 
 
 Pref, Me ? 
 
 To whom ? — perhaps Sir Galeas, who in Chapter 
 Shook his white head thrice — and some dozen time§ 
 
 23P 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 My hand this morning shook for value paid ? 
 To that Italian saint Sir Cosimo ? — 
 Indignant at my wringing year by year 
 A thousand bezants from the coral-divers, 
 As you recounted ; felt he not aggrieved ? 
 Well might he — I allowed for his half share 
 Merely one hundred ! To Sir . . . 
 
 Loys. See ! you dare 
 
 Inculpate the whole Order ; yet should I, 
 A youth, a sole voice, have the power to change 
 Their evil way had they been firm in it ? 
 Answer me ! 
 
 Pref. Oh, the son of Bretagne's Duke, 
 
 And that son's wealth, the father's influence, too, 
 And the young arm, we'll even say, my Loys, 
 — The fear of losing or diverting these 
 Into another channel by gainsaying 
 A novice too abruptly, could not influence 
 The Order ! You might join, for aught they cared, 
 Their red-cross rivals of the Temple ! Well, 
 I thank you for my part at all events ! 
 Stay here till they withdraw you ! You'll inhabit 
 This palace — sleep, perchance, in this alcove ) 
 Good ! and now disbelieve me if you can : 
 This is the first time for long years I enter 
 Thus [lifts the arras] without feeling just as if I lifted 
 The lid up of my tomb ! 
 
 Zoys. They share his crime ! 
 
 God's punishment will overtake you yet ! 
 
 Pre/. Thank you it does not ! Pardon this last 
 flash: 
 I bear a graver visage presently 
 
 23* 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 With the disinterested Nuncio here — 
 
 His purchase-money safe at Murcia too ! 
 
 Let me repeat — for the first time no draught 
 
 Coming as from a sepulchre salutes me. 
 
 When we next meet, this folly may have passed, 
 
 We'll hope — Ha, ha ! [Exit thro' the arras. 
 
 Loys. Assure me but — he 's gone ! 
 
 He could not lie ! Then what have I escaped ! 
 I, who have so nigh given up happiness 
 For ever, to be linked with him and them ' 
 Oh, opportunest of discoveries ! I 
 Their Knight ? I utterly renounce them all ! 
 Hark ! What, he meets by this the Nuncio ? Quick 
 To Djabal ! I am one of them at last, 
 Those simple-hearted Druses — Anael's tribe ! 
 Djabal ! She 's mine at last. Djabal, I say ! [Exit. 
 
 n^ 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Enter Djabal. 
 
 Dja. Let me but slay the Prefect — The end now ! 
 To-morrow will be time enough to pry 
 Into the means I took : suffice, they served, 
 Ignoble as they were, to hurl revenge 
 True to its object. \Seeing the robes^ etc. disposed, 
 
 ... Mine should never so 
 Have hurried to accomplishment ! Thee, Djabal, 
 Far other moods befitted ! Calm the Robe 
 Should clothe this doom's awarder. 
 
 [^Taking the rode.] Well, I dare 
 Assume my nation's Robe. I am at least 
 A Druse again — chill Europe's poHcy 
 Drops from me — I dare take the Robe : why not 
 The Tiar ? I rule the Druses, and what more 
 Betokens it than rule? — yet — yet — [Lays down the Tiar. 
 [Footsteps in the alcove.] He comes ! 
 
 \Taki7ig the sword. 
 If the Sword serves, let the Tiar lie ! So, feet 
 Clogged with the blood of twenty years can fall 
 Thus lightl y ! Round me, all ye ghosts ! He'll lift . . . 
 Which arm to push the arras wide ? — or both ? 
 Stab from the neck down to the heart — there stay ! 
 Near he comes — nearer — the next footstep ! Now ! 
 
 \As he dashes aside the arraSy Anael is discovered. 
 Ha ! Anael ! Nay, my Anael, can it be ? 
 Heard you the trumpet ? I must slay him here, 
 And here you ruin all. Why speak you not ? 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Anael, the Prefect comes ! [Anael screams.] So late 
 
 to feel 
 'T is not a sight for you to look upon ? 
 A moment's work — but such work ! Till you go 
 I must be idle — idle, I risk all ! 
 
 [^Pointing to her hair. 
 Those locks are well, and you are beauteous thus, 
 But with the dagger 'tis I have to do ! 
 
 An. Mine — Look ! 
 
 Dja. Blood — Anael ? 
 
 An. Djabal — 'tis thy deed ! 
 
 It must be — I had hoped to claim it mine — 
 Be worthy thee — but I must needs confess 
 'Twas not I, but thyself ... not I have . . . 
 
 Djabal ! 
 Speak to me ! 
 
 Dja. Oh my punishment ! 
 
 A?i. Speak to me ! 
 
 While I can speak — touch me — despite the blood ! 
 When the command passed from thy soul to mine, 
 I went, fire leading me, muttering of thee, 
 And the approaching exaltation, — make 
 One sacrifice ! I said, — and he sate there, 
 Bade me approach ; and, as I did approach, 
 Thy fire with music burst into my brain — 
 'Twas but a moment's work, thou saidst — perchance 
 It may have been so — Well, it is thy deed ! 
 
 Dja. It is my deed ! 
 
 An. His blood all this ! — this ! and . . 
 
 And more — sustain me, Djabal — Wait not — now 
 Let flash thy glory ! Change thyself and me ! 
 Jt mtist be ! Ere the Druses flock to us j 
 
 234 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 At least confirm me ! Djabal — blood gushed forth — 
 He was our Tyrant — but I looked he'd fall 
 Prone asleep — why else is Death called sleep? 
 Sleep ? He bent o'er his neck — Tis sin, I know, 
 Punish me, Djabal, but wilt thou let him ? 
 Be it thou that punishest, not he — who creeps 
 On his red breast— is here — 'tis the small groan 
 Of a child — no worse ! Bestow the new life, then I 
 Too swift it cannot be, too strange, surpassing ! 
 
 [I'dllowing him up and down. 
 Now ! Change us both ! Change me and change 
 thou ! 
 
 Dja. [^Sinks on his knees. ^ Thus ! 
 
 Behold my change ! You have done nobly ! I ! — 
 
 An. Can Hakeem kneel ? 
 
 Dja. No Hakeem, but mere Djabal ! 
 
 I have spoke falsely, and this woe is come. 
 No — hear me ere scorn blasts me ! Once and ever, 
 The deed is mine . . Oh think upon the Past ! 
 
 An. [To herself,] (Did I strike once, or twice, or 
 many times ?) 
 
 Dja. . . I came to lead my tribe where, bathed in 
 glooms. 
 Doth Bahumid the Renovator sleep — 
 Anael — I saw my tribe — I said, " Without 
 A miracle this cannot be " — I said 
 "Be there a miracle ! " — for I saw you ! 
 
 An. (His head lies south the portal !) 
 
 Dja. — To this end 
 
 What was I with my purity of soul ? 
 Little by little I engaged myself — 
 JJeaven would accept me for its instrument 
 
 2y^ 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 I hoped — I said it had accepted me I 
 
 Afi. Is it this blood breeds dreams in me ? Who 
 said 
 You were not Hakeem ? And your miracles — 
 The fire that plays innocuous round your form ? 
 
 [^Again changing her whole manner. 
 Ah, you would try me — you are Hakeem still ! 
 
 DJa. Woe — woe ! As if the Druses of the Mount 
 (Scarce Arabs even there — but here, in the Isle, 
 Beneath their former selves) should comprehend 
 The subtle lore of Europe ! A few secrets 
 That would not easily affect the meanest 
 Of the crowd there, could wholly subjugate 
 The best of our poor tribe ! Again that eye ? 
 
 An. [After a pause springs to his neck.] Djabal, in 
 this there can be no deceit ! 
 Why, Djabal, were you human only, — think 
 Maani is but human, Khalil human, 
 Loys is human even — did their words 
 Haunt me, their looks pursue me ? Shame on you 
 So to have tried me ! Rather, shame on me 
 So to need trying ! Could I, with the Prefect 
 And the blood, there— could I see only you ? 
 — Hang by your neck over this gulf of blood ? 
 Speak, I am saved ! Speak, Djabal ! Am I saved ?' 
 \As Djabal slowly tmclasps her arms^ and 
 puts her silently from him. 
 Hakeem would save me ! Thou art Djabal ! Crouch ! 
 Bow to the dust, thou basest of our kind ! 
 The pile of thee I reared up to the cloud — 
 Full, midway, of our fathers' trophied tombs, 
 ^ased on the living rock, devoured not by 
 
 236 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 The unstable desert's jaws of sand, — falls prone ! 
 Fire, music, quenched : and now thou liest there 
 A ruin obscene creatures will moan thro' ! 
 — Let us come, Djabal ! 
 
 Dja. Whither come ? 
 
 An. At once — 
 
 Lest so it grow intolerable. Come ! 
 Will I not share it with thee ? Best at once ! 
 So feel less pain ! Let them deride — thy tribe 
 Now trusting in thee, — even Loys deride ! 
 Come to them, hand in hand, with me ! 
 
 Dja. Where come ? 
 
 A?i. Where ? — to the Druses thou hast wronged ! 
 Confess 
 Now that the end is gained ... (I love thee now) 
 That thou hast so deceived them . . (better love thee 
 Perchance than ever :) Come, receive their doom 
 Of infamy ! . . . (Oh, best of all I love thee ! 
 Shame with the man, no triumph with the God 
 Be mine !) Come ! 
 
 Dja. Never ! More shame yet ? and why ? 
 
 Why ? You have called this deed mine — it is mine ! 
 And with it I accept its circumstance — 
 How can I longer strive with Fate ? The Past 
 Is past — my false life shall henceforth come true — 
 Hear me : the argosies touch land by this — 
 What if we reign together ? — if we keep 
 Our secret for the Druses' good ? — by means 
 Of their gross superstition plant in them 
 New life ? I am from Europe : all who seek 
 Man's good must awe man : by such means as thes€, 
 We two will be divine to them — we are ! 
 
 237 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Let them conceive the rest — and I will keep them 
 
 Still safe in ignorance of all the past — 
 
 All great works in this world spring from the ruins 
 
 Of greater projects — ever, on our earth, 
 
 Babels men block out, Babylon s they build. 
 
 I wrest the weapon from your hand ! I claim 
 
 The deed ! Retire ! You have my ring — you bar 
 
 All access to the Nuncio till the forces 
 
 From Venice land ! 
 
 An. You will feign Hakeem then ? 
 
 Dja. \Ptits the Tiar of Hakeem on his head.] And 
 from this moment that I dare ope wide 
 Eyes that refused till now to see, begins 
 My true dominion ! for T know myself, 
 And what I am to personate. No word ? 
 
 [Exit Anael. 
 
 'Tis come on me at last ! His blood on her 
 
 Such memories will follow that ! Her eye, 
 
 And her distorted lip and ploughed black brow — 
 
 Ah, fool ! Has Europe then so poorly tamed 
 
 The Syrian blood from out thee ? Thou presume 
 
 To work in this foul earth by means not foul ? 
 
 Scheme, as for Heaven, — but, on the earth, be glad 
 
 If but a ray like Heaven's be left thee ! Thus 
 
 I shall be calm — in readiness — no way 
 
 Surprised. [A noise without. 
 
 This should be Khalil and my Druses ! 
 Venice is come then ! Thus I grasp thee, sword ! 
 Druses, 'tis Hakeem saves you ! In ! Behold 
 The Prefect ! 
 
 238 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Entef' Loi^s. Djabal hides the khandjar in his robe. 
 
 Lays. Oh, well met, Djabal ! — but he's close at 
 hand. 
 You know who waits there ? [Points to the alcove. 
 
 AVell ; and that 'tis there 
 He meets the Nuncio ? Well ! Now, a surprise — 
 He there — 
 
 Dja. I know — 
 
 Loys. is now no mortal's lord. 
 
 Is absolutely powerless — call him, dead — 
 He is no longer Prefect — you are Prefect ! 
 Oh, shrink not ! I do nothing in the dark, 
 Nothing unworthy Breton blood, believe ! 
 I understood at once your urgency 
 That I should leave this isle for Rhodes — I felt 
 What you were loath to speak — your need of help ; 
 I have fulfilled the task that earnestness 
 Imposed on me ; have, face to face, confronted 
 The Prefect in full Chapter, charged on him 
 What you have told and I have seen ; he stood 
 Mute, offered no defence, no crime denied ; 
 On which I spoke of you and of your Druses' 
 Slight difference in faith from us . . . all you've urged 
 So oft to me — I spoke, too, of your goodness 
 And patience — brief, I hold henceforth the Isle 
 In charge, am nominally Prefect, but 
 You are associated in my rule — 
 You are the Prefect ! Ay, such faith had they 
 In my assurance of your loyalty 
 (For who insults an imbecile old man ?) 
 
 239 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 That we assume the Prefecture this hour ! 
 You gaze at me ! a greater wonder yet — 
 See me throw down this fabric I have built ! 
 These Knights, I was prepared to worship . , . . but 
 Of that another time ; what 's now to say 
 Is — I shall never be a Knight ! Oh, Djabal, 
 Here first I throw all prejudice aside, 
 And call you brother ! I am Druse like you ! 
 My wealth, my friends, my power, are wholly yours, 
 Your people's, which is now my people — for 
 There i§ a maiden of your tribe I love- 
 She loves me — Khalil's sister 
 
 Dja. Anael? 
 
 Loys. Start you ? 
 
 What I say seems unknightly ? Thus it chanced — 
 When first I came a novice to the Isle . . . 
 
 Enter one of the Nuncio's Guards from the alcove. 
 
 Guard. Oh, horrible ! Sir Loys ! Here is Loys ! 
 Djaball \Others enter from the alcove. 
 
 [Pointing to Djabal.] Secure him, bind him — this 
 is he ! \_They surround Djabal. 
 
 Loys, Madmen — what is't you do ? Stand from my 
 friend, 
 And tell me ! 
 
 Guards. Thou canst have no part in this — 
 Surely no part — But slay him not ! The Nuncio 
 Commanded, Slay him not ! 
 
 Loys. Speak, or . . . 
 
 Guard. The Prefect 
 
 Lies murdered there by him thou dost embrace. 
 
 240 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Loys. By Djabal ? miserable fools ! How Djabal ? 
 \A Guard lifts Djabal's robe; Djabal yf/z/^j 
 down the khandjar. 
 Lays. \After a pause ?\^ Thou hast received some 
 insult worse than all — 
 Some outrage not to be endured — 
 
 \To the Guards.] Stand back ! 
 He is my friend — more than my friend ! Thou hast 
 Slain him upon that provocation ! 
 
 Guards. No ! 
 
 No provocation ! 'Tis a long devised 
 Conspiracy — the whole tribe is involved — 
 He is their Khalif — 'tis on that pretence — 
 All is just now revealed, I know not how, 
 By one of his confederates — who, struck 
 With horror at this murder, has apprized 
 The Nuncio. As 'twas said we find this Djabal 
 Here where we take him. 
 
 Dja. [Aside.] Who breaks faith with me ? 
 
 , Zoys. [To Djabal.] Hear'st thou? Speak! Till 
 
 thou speak I keep off these. 
 Or die with thee. Deny this story ! Thou 
 A Khalif, an impostor ? Thou, my friend, 
 Whose tale was of an inoffensive race. 
 With . . . but thou know'st — on that tale's truth I 
 
 pledged 
 My faith before the Chapter : what art thou ? 
 
 Dj'a. Loys, I am as thou hast heard. All 's true I 
 No more concealment ! As these tell thee, all 
 Was long since planned. Our Druses are enough 
 To crush this handful : the Venetians land 
 Even now in our behalf. Loys, we part here ! 
 
 241 R 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Thou hast served much, would'st fain have served me 
 
 more; 
 It might not be. I thank thee — As thou hearest, 
 We are a separated tribe : farewell ! 
 
 Loys. Oh, where will truth be found now? Canst 
 thou so 
 Belie the Druses ? — This not thy sole crime ? 
 Those thou professest of our Breton stock 
 Are partners with thee ? Why I saw but now 
 Khalil my friend — he spoke with me — no word 
 Of this ! and Anael — whom I love, and who 
 Loves me — she spoke no word of this ! 
 
 Dja. Poor Boy ! 
 
 Anael who loves thee ? Khalil fast thy friend ? 
 We, offsets from a wandering Count of Dreux ? 
 No — older than the oldest — princelier 
 Than Europe's princehest tribe are we. — Enough 
 For thee that on our simple faith we found 
 A monarchy to shame your monarchies 
 At their own trick and secret of success. 
 The child of this our tribe shall laugh upon 
 The palace-step of him whose life ere night 
 Is forfeit — as that child shall know — and yet 
 Shall laugh there ! What, we Druses wait forsooth 
 The kind interposition of a boy ? 
 — Can only save ourselves when thou concedest ? 
 — Khalil admire thee ? He is my right hand, 
 My delegate ! — Anael accept thy love ? 
 She is my Bride ! 
 
 Loys. Thy Bride ? She one of them ? 
 
 Dja. My Bride ! 
 
 Loys. And she retains her glorious eyes ! 
 
 242 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 She, with those eyes, has shared this miscreant's guilt ! 
 Ah — who but she directed me to find 
 Djabal within the Prefect's chamber ? Khalil 
 Bade me seek Djabal there ! Too true it is ! 
 What spoke the Prefect worse of them than this ? 
 Did the Church ill to institute long since 
 Perpetual warfare with such serpentry 
 As these ? Have I desired to shift my part, 
 Evade my share in her design ? 'Tis well ! 
 
 Dja. Loys, I have wronged thee — but unwittingly. 
 I never thought there was in thee a virtue 
 That could attach itself to what thou deemest 
 A race below thine own. I wronged thee, Loys, 
 But that is over. All is over now. 
 Save the protection I ensure against 
 My people's anger — by their Khalif s side 
 Thou art secure and may'st depart : so, come ! 
 
 Loys^. Thy side ? — I take protection at thy hand ? 
 
 Enter other Guards. 
 
 Guards. Fly with him ! Fly, my Master ! 'Tis too 
 true ! 
 And only by his side thou may'st escape — 
 The whole tribe is in full revolt — they flock 
 About the palace — will be here — on thee — 
 And there are twenty of us, with the Guards 
 Of the Nuncio, to withstand them ! Fly — below 
 The Nuncio stands aghast. At least let us 
 Escape their wrath, O Hakeem ! We are nought 
 In thy tribe's persecution ! \To LoVs.] Keep by him 
 
 243 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 He is their God, they shout, and at his beck 
 Are Ufe and death ! 
 
 Loys \Springing at the khandjar Djabal had thrown 
 down seizes him by the throat.^ 
 Thus by his side am I ! 
 Thus I resume my knighthood and its warfare ! 
 Thus end thee, miscreant, in thy pride of place ! 
 Thus art thou caught ! Without, thy dupes may cluster, 
 Friends aid thee, foes avoid thee, — thou art Khalif, 
 How say they ? — God art thou ! but also here 
 Is the least, meanest, youngest the Church calls 
 Her servant, and his single arm avails 
 To aid her as she lists. I rise, and thou 
 Art crushed ! Hordes of thy Druses flock without ; 
 Here thou hast me who represent the Cross, 
 Honour and Faith, 'gainst Hell, Mahound, and thee ! 
 Die ! [Djabal remains calm. 
 
 Implore my mercy, Khahf, that my scorn 
 May help me ! Nay — I cannot ply thy trade — 
 I am no Druse — no stabber — and thine eye, 
 Thy form, are too much as they were — my friend 
 Had such ! Speak ! Beg for mercy at my foot ! 
 
 [Djabal still silent. 
 Heaven could not ask so much of me — not sure 
 So much ! I cannot kill liim so ! 
 
 Thou art 
 Strong in thy cause then ! Dost outbrave us, then ! 
 Heard'st thou that one of thine accomplices, 
 Thy very people, has accused thee ? Meet 
 His charge ! Thou hast not even slain the Prefect 
 As thy own vile creed warrants. Meet that charge- 
 Come with me and disprove him — be thou tried 
 
 244 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 By him, nor seek appeal — this promise me — 
 Or I will do God's office ! What, shalt thou 
 Boast of assassins at thy beck, yet Truth 
 Want even an executioner? Consent, 
 Or I will strike — look in my face — I will ! 
 
 Dja. Give me again my khandjar, if thou darest ! 
 
 [LoVs gives it. 
 Let but one Druse accuse me, and I plunge 
 This home. A Druse betray me ? Let us go ! 
 [Aside.] Who has betrayed me ? [S/ioufs without. 
 
 Hearest thou ? I hear 
 No plainer now than years ago I heard 
 That shout — but in no dream now ! They return ! 
 Wilt thou be leader with me, Loys ? Well ! 
 
 \JExeunt. 
 
 «45 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 The Uninitiated Druses, covering the stage ttimulttiously, 
 and speaking together. 
 
 Here flock we, obeying the summons. Lo, Hakeem 
 hath appeared, and the Prefect is dead, and we return 
 to Lebanon ! My manufacture of goats' fleece must, 
 I doubt, soon fall away there— Come, old Nasif — link 
 thine arm in mine — we fight if needs be — Come, 
 what is a great fight-word ? Lebanon ? (My 
 daughter — my daughter!) — But is Khalil to have the 
 oflice of Hamza ? — Nay, rather if he be wise, the 
 monopoly of henna and cloves — Where is Hakeem ? — 
 The only prophet I ever saw, prophesied at Cairo 
 once in my youth — a little black Copht, dressed all 
 in black too, with a great stripe of yellow cloth flapping 
 down behind him like the back-fin of a water-serpent. 
 Is this he ? Biamrallah ! Biamreh ! Hakeem ! 
 
 Enter the Nuncio with Guards. 
 
 Nuncio. [To his Attendants.] Hold both, the sor- 
 cerer and this accomplice 
 
 Ye talk of, that accuseth him ! And tell 
 
 Sir Loys he is mine, the Church's hope ! 
 
 Bid him approve himself our Knight indeed ! 
 
 Lo, this black disemboguing of the Isle ! 
 
 [To the Druses.] Ah, Children, what a sight for these 
 old eyes 
 
 That kept themselves alive this voyage through 
 
 246 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 To smile their very last on you ! I came 
 To gather one and all you wandering sheep 
 Into my fold, as tho' a father came . . . 
 As tho', in coming, a father should . . . 
 
 [To his Guards.] (Ten, twelve,. 
 Twelve guards of you, and not an outlet ? None ? 
 The wizards stop each avenue ? Keep close ! ) 
 \To the Druses.] As if one came to a son's house, I 
 
 say, 
 So did I come — no guard with me — to find . . 
 Alas — Alas ! 
 
 A Druse. Who is the old man ? 
 
 Another, Oh, ye are to shout ! 
 
 Children, he styles you. 
 
 Druses. Ay, the Prefect 's slain ! 
 
 Glory to the Khalif, our Father*! 
 
 Nuncio, Even so ! 
 
 I find, ye prompt aright, your Father slain ; 
 While most he plotted for your good, that father 
 (Alas ! how kind ye never knew) — lies slain — 
 \Aside^ (And Hell's worm gnaw the glozing knave — 
 
 with me 
 For being duped by his cajoleries ! 
 Are these the Christians ? These the docile crew 
 My bezants went to make me Bishop o'er ?) 
 [To his Attendants, who whisper^ What say ye does 
 
 this wizard style himself? 
 Hakeem ? Biamrallah ? The third Fatemite ? 
 What is this jargon ? He — the insane Khalif, 
 Dead near three hundred years ago, come back 
 In flesh and blood again ? 
 
 J)ruses, He mutters ! Hear ye ? 
 
 »47 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 He is blaspheming Hakeem — the old man 
 Is our dead Prefect's friend ! Tear him ! 
 
 Nuncio. Ye dare not ! 
 
 I stand here with my five-and-sixty years, 
 The Patriarch's power behind, and God's above 
 
 me ! 
 Those years have witnessed sin enough ; ere now 
 Misguided men arose against their lords, 
 And found excuse ; but ye, to be enslaved 
 By sorceries — cheats ; — alas ! the same tricks tried 
 On my poor children in this nook of the earth 
 Could triumph, — that have been successively 
 Exploded, laughed to scorn, all nations thro' — 
 '''' Romaioi^ loiidaioite kai prosehitoi^ 
 Cretes and Arabians "—you are duped the last ! 
 Said I, refrain from tearing me ? I pray ye 
 Tear me ! Shall I return to tell the Patriarch 
 That so much love was wasted — every gift 
 Rejected, from his benizon I brought, 
 Down to that galley-full of bezants, sunk 
 An hour since at the harbour's mouth, by that . , , 
 That . . . never will I speak his hated name ! 
 \To his Servants.] What was the name his fellow slip- 
 fetter 
 Called their arch-wizard by ? [They whisper.'] One 
 Djabal was't ? 
 
 Druses. But how a sorcerer ? false wherein ? 
 
 Nuncio. (Ay, Djabal !) 
 
 How false ? Ye know not Djabal has confessed . . . 
 Nay, that by tokens found on him we learn . . . 
 What I sailed hither solely to divulge — 
 How by his spells the demons were allured 
 
 248 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 To seize you — not that these be aught save lies 
 
 And mere illusions — is this clear ? I say, 
 
 By measures such as these he would have led you 
 
 Into a monstrous ruin — follow ye ? 
 
 Say, shall ye perish for his sake, my sons ? 
 
 Druses. Hark ye 1 
 
 Nuncio. — Be of one privilege amerced ? 
 
 No ! Infinite the Patriarch's mercies be ! 
 No ! With the Patriarch's hcense, still I bid 
 Tear him to pieces who misled you ! Haste ! 
 
 Druses. The old man's beard shakes, and his 
 eyes are white ! After all, I know nothing of Djabal 
 beyond what Karshook says, he knows but what 
 Khalil says, who knows just what Djabal says himself — 
 Now the little Copht Prophet I saw at Cairo in my 
 youth began by promising each bystander . , , 
 
 Enter Khalil and the initiated Druses, 
 
 Kha. Venice and her deliverance are at hand ! 
 Their fleet stands thro' the harbour ! Hath he slain 
 The Prefect yet ? Is Djabal's change come yet ? 
 Nuncio. [To Attendants.] What 's this of Venice ? 
 Who 's this boy ? 
 [Attendants whisper^ One Khalil ? 
 Djabal's accomplice, Loys called but now 
 The only Druse save Djabal's self to fear ? 
 \To the Druses.] I cannot hear ye with these aged 
 
 ears . . . 
 Is it so ? Ye would have my troops assist ? 
 Doth he abet him in his sorceries ? 
 
 249 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Down with the cheat, guards, as my children bid ! 
 
 [^They sprmg at Khalil — as he beats them back. 
 Stay — no more bloodshed ! — spare deluded youth ! 
 Whom seek'st thou ? (I will teach him) — Whom, my 
 
 child ? 
 Thou knowest not what these know, and just have 
 
 told. 
 I am an old man, as thou seest — have done 
 With earth, and what should move me but the truth ? 
 Art thou the only fond one of thy tribe ? 
 'Tis I interpret for thy tribe ! 
 
 Kha. Oh, this 
 
 Is the expected Nuncio ! Druses, hear — 
 Endure ye this ? Unworthy to partake 
 The glory Hakeem gains you ! Why, by this 
 The ships touch land — who makes for Lebanon ? 
 They'll plant the winged Hon in these halls ! 
 
 Nuncio. (If it be true ! Venice ? — Oh, never 
 true ! 
 Yet, Venice would so gladly thwart the Knights, 
 And fain get footing here so close by Rhodes ! 
 Oh, to be duped this way !) 
 
 Kha. Ere ne appears 
 
 To lead you gloriously, repent, I say ! 
 
 Nuncio. Oh, any way to stretch the arch-wizard 
 stark 
 Ere the Venetians come ! Were he cut off 
 The rest were easily tamed.) He? Bring him 
 
 forth ! 
 Since so you needs will have it, I assent ! 
 You'd judge him, say you, on the spot ? Confound 
 The sorcerer in his very circle ? Where 's 
 
 250 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Our short black-bearded sallow friend who said 
 He'd earn the Patriarch's guerdon by one stab ? 
 Bring Djabal forth at once ! 
 
 Druses. Ay, bring him forth I 
 
 The Patriarch drives a trade in oil and silk — 
 And we're the Patriarch's children — true men, we ! 
 Where is the glory ? Show us all the glory ! 
 
 Kha. You dare not so insult him ! What, not see . , 
 (I tell thee, Nuncio, these are uninstructed, 
 Untrusted — they know nothing of our Khalif !) 
 — Not see that if he lets a doubt arise 
 'Tis but to give yourselves the chance of seeming 
 To have some influence in your own return ! 
 That all may say they would have trusted him 
 Without the all-convincing glory — ay 
 And did! Embrace the occasion, friends! For, think — '-'- 
 What merit when his change takes place ? But now, 
 For your sakes he should not reveal himself ! 
 No — could I ask and have. I would not ask 
 The change yet ! 
 
 Enter Djabal and Loys 
 
 Spite of all, reveal thyself ! 
 I had said pardon them for me — for Anael — 
 For our sakes pardon these besotted men — 
 Ay — for thine own — they hurt not thee ! Yet now 
 One thought swells in me and keeps down all else ! 
 This Nuncio couples shame with thee, has called 
 Imposture thy whole course, all bitter things 
 Has said — he is but an old fretful man ! 
 
 251 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Hakeem — nay, I must call thee Hakeem now — 
 Reveal thyself ! See, Druses ! (Anael ?) See t 
 Loys. [7^ DjABAL.] Here are thy people ! Keep thy 
 
 word to me ! 
 Dja. Who of my people hath accused his Khalif ? 
 Nuncio. So, this is Djabal, Hakeem, and what not ? 
 A fit deed, Loys, for thy first Knight's day ! 
 May it be augury of thy after life ! 
 Ever be truncheon of the Church as now 
 That, Nuncio of the Patriarch, having charge 
 Of the Isle here, I claim thee [turning to Djabal] as 
 
 these bid me. 
 Forfeit for murder done thy lawful prince ! 
 Why should I hold thee from their hands ? (Spells, 
 
 children ? 
 But hear how I dispose of all his spells !) 
 Thou art a Prophet ? — would'st entice thy tribe 
 Away ? — thou workest miracles ? (Attend ! 
 Let him but move me with his spells!) I, Nuncio . . . 
 Dia. . . Which how thou cam'st to be, I say not 
 
 now. 
 Though I have also been at Stamboul, Luke ! 
 — Ply thee, Luke Mystocthydi, with my spells ? 
 If Venice, in her Admiral's person, choose 
 To ratify thy compact with her foe, 
 The Hospitallers, for this Isle — withdraw 
 Her warrant of the deed which reinstates 
 My people in its freedom, tricked away 
 By him I slew, — refuse to convoy us 
 Afar to Lebanon at price of the Isle, 
 — Then time to try what miracles may do ! 
 Dost thou dispute the Republic's power ? 
 
 252 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Nuncio. Lo ye ! 
 
 No ! The renowned Republic was and is 
 The Patriarch's friend : 'Tis not for courting Venice 
 That I — that these implore thy blood of me ! 
 Lo ye, the subtle miscreant ! Ha, so subtle ? 
 Ye, Druses, hear him ! Will ye be deceived ? 
 Hov; he evades me ! Where 's the miracle 
 He works ? I bid him to the proof — fish up 
 Your galley-full of bezants that he sunk ! 
 That were a miracle ! One miracle ! 
 Enough of trifling, for it chafes my age — 
 I am the Nuncio, Druses ! I stand here 
 To save you from the good Republic's wrath 
 When she shall find h(^ fleet was summoned just 
 To aid the mummeries of this wizard here ! 
 
 \^As the Druses hesitate^ his Attendants whisper. 
 Ah, well suggested ! Why, we hold this while 
 One, who, his close confederate till now, 
 Confesses Djabal at the last a cheat. 
 And every miracle a cheat ! Who throws me 
 His head ? I make three offers, once I offer, — 
 And twice . . . 
 
 Dja. Let who moves perish at my foot ? 
 
 Kha. Thanks, Hakeem, thanks ! Oh, Anael, 
 Maani, 
 Why tarry they ? 
 
 Druses. [To each other^ He can ! He can ! Live 
 fire — 
 \To the Nuncio.] (I say he can, old man ! Thou 
 
 know'st him not.) 
 Live fire plays round him — See ! The change 
 begins ? 
 
 253 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Look not at me ! It was not I ! 
 
 Dja. What Druse 
 
 Accuseth me, as he saith ? I bid each bone 
 Crumble within that Druse ! None, Loys, none 
 Of my own people, as thou saidst, have raised 
 A voice against me. 
 
 Nujicio. [Aside.] Venice to come ! Death ! 
 
 jDJa. [Continuing.] Now speak and go unscathed, 
 how false soe'er ! 
 Seest thou my Druses, Luke ? I would submit 
 To thy pure malice did one least Druse speak ! 
 How said I, Loys ? 
 
 Nuncio. [To his Attendants, who whisper.] Ah, ye 
 counsel so ? 
 [Aimid.] Bring in the witness then who, first of all, 
 Told this man's treasons ! Now I have thee, 
 
 Djabal ! 
 Ye hear that ? If one speaks, he bids you tear him 
 Joint after joint — well then, one does speak ! One, 
 Whom I have not as yet e'en spoken with, 
 But who hath voluntarily proposed 
 To expiate, by confessing thus, the fault 
 Of having trusted him. [They bring in a veiled Druse. 
 
 Loys. Now Djabal, now ! 
 
 Nuncio. Friend, Djabal fronts you ! (Make a ring, 
 sons ! — say 
 The course of Djabal ; what he was, and how ; 
 The wiles he used, the aims he cherished all ; 
 Explicitly as late you spoke to these I 
 
 Loys. Thou hast the dagger ready, Djabal ? 
 
 Dja. Speak, 
 
 Recreant ! 
 
 254 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 Druses. Stand back, fool ! farther ! Suddenly 
 You shall see some huge serpent glide from under 
 The empty vest — or down will thunder crash ! 
 Back, Khalil ! 
 
 Kha, I go back ? Thus go I back ! 
 
 \To Anael.] Unveil ! Nay, thou shalt face the Khalif ! 
 Thus ! 
 
 \He tears away Anael's veil: T>]ABM. folds 
 his arms and bows his head: the Druses 
 fall back : Lots springs from the side of 
 DjABAL and the Nuncio. 
 Loys. Then she was true — she only of them all ! 
 True to her eyes — may keep those glorious eyes 
 And now be mine, once again mine ! Oh, Anael — ' 
 Dared I think thee a partner in his crime ? 
 That blood could soil that hand — nay, 'tis mine— 
 
 Anael, 
 Mine now ? Who offer thee before all these 
 My heart, my sword, my name — so thou wilt say 
 This Djabal, who affirms thou art his bride, 
 Lies — say but that he lies ! 
 
 Dja, Thou, Anael ? 
 
 Loys. Nay, Djabal, nay, one chance for me— the 
 last! 
 Thou hast had every other— thou hast spoken 
 Days, nights, what falsehood listed thee— let me 
 Speak first— I will speak— Anael— 
 
 Nuncio. Loys, pause ! 
 
 Thou art the Duke's son, Breton's choicest stock — 
 Loys de Dreux— God's sepulchre's first sword — 
 This wilt thou spit on, this degrade— this trample 
 To earth ! 
 
 25s 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Loys, Ah, who had said, " One day this Loys 
 " Will stake these gifts against some other good 
 " In the whole world ? " — I give them thee ! I 
 
 would 
 My strong will might bestow real shape on them, 
 That I might see, with my own eyes, thy foot 
 Tread on their very neck ! 'Tis not by gifts 
 I put aside this Djabal — we will stand . . . 
 We do stand — see — two men ! Djabal, stand forth ! 
 Who 's worth her — I or thou ? I — who for Anael 
 Kept tamely, soberly my way, the long 
 True way — left thee each by-path — kept 
 Without the lies and blood, — or thou, or thou ? 
 Come out of this blood ! Love me, Anael, leave 
 
 him ! 
 \To Djabal.] Now speak — now, quick upon what I 
 
 have said. 
 Thou with the blood, speak if thou art a man ! 
 
 Dja. [To Anael.] Ah, was it thou betrayedst me? 
 
 Then, speak ! 
 *Tis well — I have deserved this — I submit — 
 Nor 'tis much evil thou inflictest — life 
 Ends here. The cedars shall not wave for us — 
 For there was crime, and must be punishment. 
 See fate ! By thee I was seduced — by thee 
 I perish — yet do I, can I repent ! 
 I, with an Arab instinct thwarted ever 
 By my Frank policy, — and, in its turn, 
 A Frank brain, thwarted by my Arab heart — 
 While these remained in equipoise I lived 
 Nothing ; had either been predominant, 
 As a Frank schemer or an Arab mystic, 
 
 256 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 I had been something ; — now, each has destroyed 
 The other — and behold from out their crash 
 A third and better nature rises up — 
 My mere Man's-nature ! And I yield to it — 
 I love thee — I — who did not love before ! 
 An. Djabal — 
 
 DJa. . . . How could I love while thou adoredest me ? 
 Now thou despisest, art above me so 
 Immeasurably — thou, no other, doomest 
 My death now — this my steel shall execute 
 Thy judgment — I shall feel thy hand in it ! 
 Oh, luxury to worship, to submit, 
 To be transcended, doomed to death by thee ! 
 An, My Djabal ! 
 
 DJa. Dost hesitate ? I force thee then ! Approach ! 
 Druses ! for I am out of reach of fate ; 
 No further evil can befall me — Speak ! 
 Hear, Druses, and hear. Nuncio, and hear, Loys ! 
 An. Hakeem ! 
 
 [S/ie/a//s dead. The Druses scream^ grovelling 
 before him. 
 Druses. Ah Hakeem ! — not on me thy wrath ! 
 Biamrallah, pardon ! — never doubted I ! 
 Ha, dog, how sayest thou ? 
 
 \2hey seize and sunvund the Nuncio and hi 
 
 Guards. Lovs flings himself upon the 
 
 body of Anael, on which Djabal con- 
 
 tmues to gaze as stupefied. 
 
 Nuncio. Caitives ! Have ye eyes ? 
 
 V»'liips, racks should teach you ! AVhal, his fools ? his 
 
 dupes ? 
 Leave me ! Unhand me ! 
 
 257 S 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Kha. \Approaching Djabal timidly.'] Save her for 
 my sake ! 
 She was already thine — she would have shared 
 To-day thine exaltation — think ! this day 
 Her hair was plaited thus because of thee — 
 Yes, feel the soft bright hair — feel ! 
 
 Nuncio. \_Siruggli^ig with those who have seized him?\ 
 
 "What, because 
 His leman dies for him ? You think it hard 
 To die ? Oh, would you were at Rhodes, and choice 
 Of deaths should suit you ! 
 
 Kha. \Bending over Anael's body?\ Just restore her 
 life! 
 So little does it ! there — the eyelids tremble ! 
 'Twas not m}- breath that made them — and the lips 
 Move of themselves — I could restore her life ! 
 Hakeem, we have forgotten — have presumed 
 On our free converse — we are better taught. 
 See, I kiss — how I kiss thy garment's hem 
 For her ! She kisses it — Oh, take her deed 
 In mine — Thou dost believe now, Anael ? — See 
 She smiles ! Was her lip ope thus o'er the teeth 
 When first I spoke ? She doth believe in thee ! 
 Go not without her to the cedars. Hakeem ! 
 Or leave us both — I cannot go alone — 
 I have obeyed thee, if I must say so — 
 Hath Hakeem thus forgot all Djabal knew ? 
 Thou feelest then my tears fall hot and fast 
 Upon thy hand — and yet thou speakest not ? 
 Ere the Venetian trumpet sound — ere thou 
 Exalt thyself, O Hakeem ! save her — save her ! 
 
 Nuncio. And the accursed Republic will arrive 
 
 258 
 
The Return of the Druses, 
 
 And find me in their toils — dead, very like, 
 Under their feet ! 
 
 "iVhat way — not one way yet 
 To foil them ? None ? [Observing Dj aval's face. 
 
 What ails the Khalif ? Ah, 
 That ghastly face — a way to foil them yet ! 
 [To the Druses.] Look to )'Our Khalif, Druses ! Is 
 
 that face 
 A Khalifs? Where is triumph — where is . . . what 
 Said he of exaltation — hath he promised 
 So much to-day? Why then exalt thyself? 
 Cast off that husk, thy form, set free thy soul 
 In splendour : now bear witness — here I stand — 
 I challenge him exalt himself, and I 
 Become, for that, a Druse like all of you ! 
 
 The Druses. Exalt thyself — exalt thyself, O Hakeem! 
 Dja. [Advances.] I can confess now all from first to 
 last. 
 There is no longer shame for me. I am . . . 
 
 [Here fhj Veneiian truuipetsoiinds — the Druses 
 shout, his eye catches the expression of 
 those about him., and., as the old dream 
 comes back., he is again confident and in- 
 spi?-ed. 
 . . . Am I not Hakeem ? And ye would have crawled 
 But yesterday within these impure courts 
 Where now ye stand erect ! Not grand enough ? 
 — V/hat more could be conceded to such beasts 
 As all of you, so sunk and base as you, 
 But a mere man ? — A man among such beasts 
 Was miracle enough — yet him you doubt, 
 Him you forsake, him fain would you destroy — 
 
 259 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 With the Venetians at your gate, the Nuncio 
 Thus — (see the baffled hypocrite !) and best 
 The Prefect there ! 
 
 Druses. No, Hakeem, ever thine ! 
 
 Nuncio. He lies — and twice he hes — and thrice he 
 Hes ! 
 Exalt thyself, Mahound ! Exalt thyself ! 
 
 Dja. Druses ! we shall henceforth be far away ! 
 Out of mere mortal ken — above the cedars — 
 But we shall see ye go — hear ye return — 
 Repeopling the old solitudes, — thro' thee, 
 ]My Khalil ! Thou art full of me— I fill 
 Thee full — my hands thus fill thee ! Yester eve 
 — Nay, but this morn — I deemed thee ignorant 
 Of all to do, requiring words of mine 
 To teach it — now, thou hast all gifts in one, 
 With truth and purity go other gifts ! 
 All gifts come clustering to that — go lead 
 My people home whate'er betide ! 
 
 \Tnrnmg to the Druses?^ Ye take 
 This Khalil for my delegate ? To him 
 Bow as to me ? He leads to Lebanon — 
 Ye follow ? 
 
 Druses. We follow ! Now exalt thyself ! 
 
 Dja. \Raises Lovs.] Then to thee, Loys ! How 
 have I wronged thee, Loys ! 
 Yet, wronged, no less thou shalt have full revenge, 
 Fit for thy noble self, revenge — and thus : 
 Thou, loaded with these wrongs, the princely soul, 
 The first sword of Christ's sepulchre — thou shalt 
 Guard Khalil and my Druses home again ! 
 Justice, no less — God's justice and no more 
 
 260 
 
The Return of the Druses. 
 
 For those I leave ! — to seeking this, devote 
 Some few days out of thy Knight's brilliant life, 
 And, this obtained them, leave their Lebanon, 
 My Druses' blessing in thine ears — (they shall 
 Bless thee a blessing sure to have its way) 
 — One cedar-blossom in thy ducal cap. 
 One thought of Anael in thy heart — perchance, 
 One thought of him who thus, to bid thee speed, 
 His last word to the living speaks ! This done, 
 Resume thy course, and, first amid the first 
 In Europe, take my heart along with thee ! 
 Go boldly, go serenely, go augustly — 
 What can withstand thee then ? 
 
 [He bends ove7' Anael.] And last to thee ! 
 Ah, did I dream I was to have this day 
 Exalted thee ? A vain dream — hast tliou not 
 Won greater exaltation ? What remains 
 But press to thee, exalt myself to thee ? 
 Thus I exalt myself, set free my soul ! 
 
 [He stabs himself. As he falls, supported by 
 Khalil and Loys, the Venetians enter : 
 the Admiral advances. 
 Admiral. God and St. Mark for Venice ! Plant the 
 Lion ! 
 
 [At the clash of the planted standard, the 
 
 Druses shout, and move tu7nultuously 
 
 foniiard, Lol^s drawing his sword. 
 
 Dja. [Leading them a few steps betiveen Khalil and 
 
 Loys.] On to the Mountain ! At the Mountain, 
 
 Druses ! [Dies, 
 
 261 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 
 
 FEBRUARY ii, 1S43. 
 
 PERSOXS. 
 
 Mildred Tresham 
 
 GUENDOLEN TrESHAM . 
 
 TiiOROLD, Lord Tresham 
 Austin Trksham . 
 Henry, Earl Mertoun . 
 Gerard , . , . 
 
 Miss Helen Faucit. 
 Mrs. Stirling. 
 Mr. Phelps. 
 
 ,, Hudson. 
 
 „ Anderson. 
 
 ,, G. Bennett, 
 
 Other Retainers of Lord Tresham. 
 
 Time, 17—. 
 
A Blot In the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The interior of a Lod^e in Lord Tresham's 
 Fark. Many Retainers croivded at the window^ 
 supposed to command a view of the entra?ice to his 
 Mansion. Gerard, the Warrener, sitting alone^ 
 his back to a table on which are flagons^ etc. 
 
 I. 
 
 AY — do — push, friends, and then you'll push down 
 me. 
 — What for ? Does any hear a runner's foot, 
 Or a steed's trample, or a coach-wheel's cry ? 
 Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant ? 
 But there 's no breeding in a man of you 
 Save Gerard yonder : here 's a half-place yet, 
 Old Gerard ! 
 
 Ger. Save your courtesies, my friend. 
 
 Here is my place. 
 
 2. Now, Gerard, out with it ! 
 
 What makes you sullen this of all the days 
 r the year ? To-day that young, rich, bountiful. 
 Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match 
 With our Lord Tresham thro' the country-side, 
 
 265 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Is coming here in utmost bravery 
 To ask our Master's Sister's hand ? 
 
 Ger. What then ? 
 
 2. What then ? Why, you she speaks to, if she 
 
 meets 
 Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart 
 The boughs to let her thro' her forest walks, 
 You, always favourite for your no-deserts, 
 You've heard these three days how Earl Mertoun sues 
 To lay his heart, and house, and broad lands too, 
 At Lady Mildred's feet — and while we squeeze 
 Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss 
 One congee of the least page in his train. 
 You sit o' one side — " there 's the Earl," say I — 
 " What then," say you ! 
 
 3. I'll wager he has let 
 Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred, swim 
 Over the falls and gain the river ! 
 
 Ger. Ralph, 
 
 Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day 
 For you and for 5^our hawks ? 
 
 4. Let Gerard be ! 
 
 He 's cross-grained, like his carved black crossbow 
 
 stock. 
 Ha, look now, while w^e squabble with him, look ! 
 Well done, now — is not this beginning, now. 
 To purpose ? 
 
 I. Our retainers look as fine — 
 
 That's comfort ! Lord, how Richard holds himself 
 With his white staff ! Will not a knave behind 
 Prick him upright ? 
 
 4. He 's only bowing, fool ! 
 
 266 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 The Earl's man bent us lo^Yel• by this much. 
 
 I. That 's comfort. Here 's a very cavalcade ! 
 
 3. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop 
 Of silk and silver varlets there, should find 
 Their perfumed selves so indispensable 
 On high days, holy days ! Would it so disgrace 
 Our Family, if I, for instance, stood — 
 In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks, 
 A leash of greyhounds in my left ? 
 
 Ger, With Hugh 
 
 The logman for supporter — in his right 
 The bill-hook — in his left the brushwood shears. 
 
 3. Out on you, crab ! What next, what next ? The 
 Earl ! 
 
 I. O, Walter, groom, our horses, do they match 
 The Earl's ? Alas, that first pair of the six — 
 They paw the ground — Ah, Walter ! and that brute 
 Just on his haunches by the wheel ! 
 
 6. Ay — Ay ! 
 
 You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear, 
 At soups and sauces — what 's a horse to you ? 
 Dye mark that beast they've slid into the midst 
 60 cunningly? — then, Philip, mark this further; 
 No leg has he to stand on ! 
 
 1. No? That 's comfort. 
 
 2. Peace, Cook. The Earl descends.— Well, Gerard, 
 
 see 
 The Earl at least ! Come, there 's a proper man, 
 I hope ! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede, 
 Has got a starrier eye — 
 
 3. His eyes are blue — 
 But leave my hawks alone ! 
 
 267 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 4. So young, and yet 
 So tall and shapely ! 
 
 5. Here 's Lord Tresham's self! 
 There now — there 's what a nobleman should be ! 
 He 's older, graver, loftier, he 's more like 
 
 A House's Head ! 
 
 2. But you'd not have a boy 
 
 — And what 's the Earl beside ? — possess too soon 
 That stateliness ? 
 
 1. Our Master takes his hand — 
 Richard and his white staff are on the move — 
 Back fall our people — (tsh ! — there 's Timothy 
 Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties — 
 
 And Peter 's cursed rosette 's a-coming off !) 
 — At last I see our Lord's back and his friend's — 
 And the whole beautiful bright company 
 Close round them — in they go ! 
 
 \_Jwj1pi71g down from the wmdow-bench, ci^^d 
 making for the table and its jtigs, etc. 
 
 Good health, lon'^; life, 
 Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his House ! 
 
 6. My father drove his father first to court 
 After his marriage-day — ay, did he ! 
 
 2. God bless 
 Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl ! 
 Here, Gerard, reach your beaker ! 
 
 Ger. Drink, my boys : 
 
 Don't mind me — all 's not \'\\i\\\. about me — drink. 
 2. [Aside.] He 's vexed, now, that he let the show 
 escape ! 
 [To Ger.] Remember that the Earl returns this way — 
 Ger. That way? 
 
 268 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 2. Just SO. 
 
 Ger. Then my way 's here. {Exit. 
 
 2. Old Gerard 
 
 ^^'ill die soon — mind I said it : he was used 
 To care about the pitifullest thijig 
 That touched the House's honor — not an eye 
 But his could see wherein — and on a cause 
 Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard 
 Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away 
 In cares that this was right, nor that was wrong, 
 Such a point decorous, and such by rule — 
 (He knew such niceties, no herald more) 
 And now — you see his humour — die he will ! 
 
 2. God help him ! Who 's for the great servants' 
 
 hall 
 To hear what 's going on inside ? They'd follow 
 Lord Tresham into the saloon. 
 
 3. I!- 
 
 4. I !- 
 
 Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door, 
 Some hint of how the parley goes inside ! 
 Prosperity to the great House once more — 
 Here 's the last drop ! 
 
 I. Have at you ! Boys, hurrah ! 
 
 \Exeinil. 
 
 265 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Scene II. — A Saloon in the Ma?tsion. 
 Enter Lord Tresham, Lord Mertoun ; Austin, 
 
 a}ld GUENDOLEN. 
 
 Tres/i. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once 
 more, 
 To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name 
 — Noble among the noblest in itself. 
 Yet taking in your person, fame avers. 
 New price and lustre, — (as that gem you wear, 
 Transmitted from a thousand knightly breasts. 
 Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord, 
 Seems to re-kindle at the core) — your name 
 Would win you welcome ! 
 
 Afer. Thanks ! 
 
 Tresh. But add to that. 
 
 The worthiness and grace and dignity 
 Of your proposal for uniting both 
 Our Houses even closer than respect 
 Unites them now — add these, and you must grant 
 One favour more, nor that the least, — to think 
 The welcome I should give ; — 'tis given ! Ivly lord, 
 My only brother, Austin — he 's the King's. 
 Our cousin. Lady Guendolen — betrothed 
 To Austin : all are yours. 
 
 Afer, I thank you — less 
 
 For the expressed commendings which your seal, 
 And only that, authenticates — forbids 
 My putting from me . . to my heart I take 
 Your praise . . but praise less claims my gratitude 
 
 270 
 
A Blot ill the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Than the indulgent insight it implies 
 
 Of what must needs be uppermost with one 
 
 Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask 
 
 In weighed and measured unimpassioned words 
 
 A gift, which if as quietly denied. 
 
 He must withdraw, content upon his cheek, 
 
 Despair within his soul : — that I dare ask 
 
 Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence 
 
 That gift, I have to thank you for. Lord Tresham, 
 
 I love your sister — as you'd have one love 
 
 That lady . . oh more, more I love her. Wealth, 
 
 Rank, all the world thinks nie^ they're yours, you know, 
 
 To hold or part with, at your choice — but grant 
 
 My true self, me without a rood of land, 
 
 A piece of gold, a name of yesterday. 
 
 Grant me that lady and you . . . Death or life ? 
 
 Gueii. [^Apart to Aus.] Why, this is loving, Austin ! 
 
 Aus. He 's so young ! 
 
 Giien, Young ? Old enough, I think, to half surmise 
 He never had obtained an entrance here 
 Were all this fear and trembling needed. 
 
 Aus. Hush \ 
 
 He reddens. 
 
 Gue?i. Mark him, Austin, that's true love! 
 
 Ours must begin again. 
 
 Tres/i. Vv'c'U sit, my lord. 
 
 Ever with best desert goes diffidence. 
 I may speak plainly nor be misconceived. 
 That I am wholly satisfied with you 
 On this occasion, when a falcon's eye 
 Were dull compared with mine to search out faults, 
 Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to give 
 
 271 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Or to refuse. 
 
 Mer. But you, you grant my suit? 
 
 I have your word if hers ? 
 
 Tresh, My best of words 
 
 If hers encourage you. I trust it will. 
 Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way ? 
 
 Mer. I . . I . . our two demesnes, remember, 
 touch — 
 I have been used to wander carelessly 
 After my stricken game — the heron roused 
 Deep in my woods has trailed its broken wing 
 Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours, — or else 
 Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight 
 And lured me after her from tree to tree, 
 I marked not whither . . I have come upon 
 The Lady's wondrous beauty unaware, 
 And — and then . . I have seen her. 
 
 Giien. \Aside to Aus.] Note that mode 
 
 Of faultering out that when a lady passed 
 He, having eyes, did see her ! You had said — 
 " On such a day I scanned her head to foot ; 
 " Observed a red, where red should not have been, 
 " Outside her elbow, but was pleased enough 
 " Upon the whole." Let such irreverent talk 
 Be lessoned for the future ! 
 
 Tresh. What 's to say 
 
 ]\Iay be said briefly. She has never known 
 A mother's care ; I stand for father too — 
 Her beauty is not strange to you it seems — 
 You cannot know the good and tender heart, 
 Its girl's trust, and its woman's constancy, 
 How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, 
 
 272 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free 
 
 As light where friends are — how embued with lore 
 
 The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet 
 
 The . . one might know I talked of Mildred — thus 
 
 We brothers talk ! 
 
 Mer. I thank you. 
 
 Tresh. In a word, 
 
 Control 's not for this lady ; but her wish 
 To please me outstrips in its subtlety 
 My power of being pleased — herself creates 
 The want she means to satisfy. My heart 
 Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own. 
 Can I say more ? 
 
 Mer. No more — thanks, thanks — no more ! 
 
 Tresh. This matter then discussed . . . 
 
 ^ter. . . AVe'll waste no breath 
 
 On aught less precious — I'm beneath the roof 
 That holds her : while I thought of that, my speech 
 To you would wander — as it must not do, 
 Since as you favour me I stand or fall. 
 I pray you suffer that I take my leave ! 
 
 T^rs/!. With less regret 'tis suffered, that again 
 We meet, I hope, so shortly. 
 
 McT. AVe? again?— 
 
 Ah yes, forgive me — when shall . . you will crown 
 Your goodness by forthwith apprising me 
 When . . if . . the Lady will appoint a day 
 For me to wait on you — and her. 
 
 Tresk. So soon 
 
 As I am made acquainted with her thoughts 
 On your proposal — howsoe'er they lean — 
 A messenger shall bring you the result. 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Afer. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. 
 Farewell till we renew . . I trust, renew 
 A converse ne'er to disunite again. 
 
 Tresh. So may it prove ! 
 
 Mer. You, Lady, you, Sir, take 
 
 My humble salutation ! 
 
 Guen. and Aus. Thanks ! 
 
 Tresh. Within there ! 
 
 Servants enter. Tresham conducts Mertoun to the 
 door. Meantime Austin remarks^ 
 
 Well, 
 Here I have an advantage of the Earl, 
 Confess now ; /'d not think that all was safe 
 Because my lady's brother stood my friend. 
 Why, he makes sure of her — " do you say, yes — 
 " She'll not saj^ no " — what comes it to beside ? 
 / should have prayed the brother, " speak this speech, 
 " For Heaven's sake urge this on her — put in this — 
 " Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing, — 
 " Then set down what she says, and how she looks, 
 " And if she smiles," and, in an under breath, 
 " Only let her accept me, and do you 
 " And all the world refuse me if you dare ! " 
 
 Guefi. lliat way you'd take, friend Austin? ^^'hat 
 a shame 
 I was your cousin, tamely from the first 
 Your bride, and all this fervour 's run to waste ! 
 Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? 
 l^he Earl 's a fool. 
 
 Aus. Here 's Thorold. Tell him so ! 
 
 274 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Ti'esh. [Returning.'] Now, voices, voices ! 'St ! the 
 lady's first ! 
 How seems he ? — seems he not . . come, faith give 
 
 fraud 
 The mercy-stroke whenever they engage ! 
 Down with fraud — up with faith ! How seems the 
 
 Earl ? 
 A name ! a blazon ! if you knew their worth, 
 As you will never ! come — the Earl ? 
 
 Giie?i. He 's young. 
 
 Trcsh. What 's she ? an infant save in heart and 
 brain. 
 Young ! Mildred is fourteen, remark ! And you . . 
 Austin, how old is she ? 
 
 Giien. There 's tact for you ! 
 
 I meant that being young was good excuse 
 If one should tax him . . 
 
 Tresh. Well ? 
 
 Gtien. — With lacking wit. 
 
 Tresh. Pie lacked wit ? Where might he lack wit, 
 so please you ? 
 
 Guen. In standing straiter than the steward's rod 
 And making you the tiresomest harangues, 
 Instead of slipping over to my side 
 And softly whispering in my ear, " Sweet lady, 
 " Your cousin there will do me detriment 
 " He Httle dreams of — he 's absorbed, I see, 
 " In my old name and fame — be sure he'll leave 
 " My Mildred, when his best account of me 
 " Is ended, in full confidence I wear 
 " My grandsire's periwig down either cheek 
 " I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes " . . 
 
 275 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 TresJi. . . "To give a bt-st of best accounts, your- 
 self, 
 " Of me and my demerits." You are right ! 
 He should have said what now I say for him. 
 You golden creature, will you help us all ? 
 Here 's Austin means to vouch for much, but )'ou 
 — You are . . what Austin only knows ! Come up, 
 All three of us — she 's in the Library 
 No doubt, for the day 's wearing fast ! Precede ! 
 
 Gtteii. Austin, how we must — ! 
 
 Tresh. Must what? Must speak truth, 
 
 Malignant tongue ! Detect one fault in him ! 
 I challenge you ! 
 
 Giieu. Witchcraft 's a fault in him, 
 
 For you're bewitched. 
 
 Tresh. What 's urgent we obtain 
 
 Is, that she soon receive him — say, to-morrow- 
 Next day at farthest. 
 
 Giien. Ne'er instruct me ! 
 
 Tresh, Come ! 
 
 • — He 's out of your good graces since, forsooth. 
 He stood not as he'd carry us by storm 
 AMth his perfections ! You're for the composed, 
 Manly, assured, becoming confidence ! 
 ■ — Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll give you . 
 I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled 
 With petting and snail-paces. Will you ? Come ! 
 
 \Exeimt. 
 
 276 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Scene III. — Mildred's Chamber. A painted window 
 in the background. Mildred and Guendolen. 
 
 Guen. Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have 
 not left 
 Our talkers in the Library, and climbed 
 The wearisome ascent to this your bower 
 In company with you, — I have not dared . . 
 Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you 
 Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood, 
 Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell — 
 — Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most 
 Firm-rooted heresy — your suitor's eyes. 
 He would maintain, were gray instead of blue — 
 I think I brought him to contrition ! — Well, 
 I have not done such things, (all to deserve 
 A minute's quiet cousin's-talk with you,) 
 To be dismissed so coolly ! 
 
 Mil. Guendolen, 
 
 What have I done . . what could suggest . . 
 
 Giien, There, there ! 
 
 Do I not comprehend you'd be alone 
 To throw those testimonies in a heap, 
 Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities, 
 With that poor, silly, heartless Guendolen's 
 Ill-timed, misplaced, attempted smartnesses — 
 And sift their sense out ? now, I come to spare you 
 Nearly a whole night's labour. Ask and have ! 
 Demand, be answered ! I^ck I ears and eyes ? 
 Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table 
 The Conqueror dined on when he landed first, 
 
 277 
 
Bells and Pomeorranates. 
 
 Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take — 
 The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed ? 
 Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes ! 
 
 Mil. My brother- 
 
 Did he . . you said that he received him well ? 
 
 GiieJi. If I said only "well" I said not much — 
 Oh, stay — which brother? 
 
 Mil. Thorold ! who — who else ? 
 
 Giien. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half, — • 
 Nay, hear me out — with us he 's even gentler 
 Than we are with our birds. Of this great House 
 The least retainer that e'er caught his glance 
 Would die for him, real dying — no mere talk : 
 And in the world, the court, if men would cite 
 The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold's name 
 Rises of its clear nature to their lips : 
 But he should take men's homage, trust in it, 
 And care no more about what drew it down. 
 He has desert, and that, acknowledgment j 
 Is he content ? 
 
 Alii. You wrong him, Guendolen. 
 
 Guen. He 's proud, confess ; so proud with brooding 
 o'er 
 The light of his interminable line, 
 An ancestry with men all paladins, 
 And women all . . 
 
 Mil. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late ! 
 
 AMien yonder purple pane the climbing moon 
 Pierces, I know 'tis midnight. 
 
 Guen. Well, that Thorold 
 
 Should rise up from such musings, and receive 
 One come audaciously to graft himself 
 
 278 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, 
 No slightest spot in such an one . . . 
 
 Mil. Who finds 
 
 A spot in Mertoun ? 
 
 Guen. Not your brother ; therefore, 
 
 Not the whole world. 
 
 Mil. I'm weary, Guendolen. — 
 
 Bear with me ! 
 
 Guen. I am foolish. 
 
 Mil. Oh, no, kind— 
 
 But I would rest. 
 
 Guen. Good night and rest to you. 
 
 I said how gracefully his mantle lay 
 Beneath the rings of his light hair ? 
 
 Mil. Brown hair ! 
 
 Guen. Brown ? why it is brown — how could you 
 
 know that ? 
 Mil. How? did not you — Oh Au:jtin 'twas, de- 
 clared 
 His hair was light, not brown — my head ! — and, 
 
 look, 
 The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber ! Sweet, 
 Good night ! 
 
 Guen. Forgive me — sleep the soundlier for me ! 
 
 \Going^ she turns suddrnly. 
 Mildred ! 
 Perdition ! all 's discovered. — Thorold finds 
 — That the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers 
 \Vas grander daughter still — to that fair dame 
 Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance ! 
 
 {^Exit. 
 Mil. Is she — can she be really gone at last ? 
 
 279 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 My heart — ^I shall not reach the window ! Needs 
 Must I have sinned much, so to suffer ! 
 
 [SAe lifts the small lamp which is suspended 
 before the Virgin'' s image in the window^ 
 and places it by the purple pane. 
 There ! [^She returns to the seat in front. 
 Mildred and Mertoun ! Mildred, with consent 
 Of all the world and Thorold, — Mertoun's bride ! 
 Too late ! 'Tis sweet to think of, sweeter still 
 To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up 
 The curse of the beginning ; but I know 
 It comes too late — 'twill sweetest be of all 
 To dream my soul away and die upon ! 
 
 [.4 noise without. 
 The voice ! Oh, why, why glided sin the snake 
 Into the Paradise Heaven meant us both ? 
 
 [ The window opens softly. A low voice sings. 
 
 There 's a woman like a dew-drop, she 's so purer than 
 the purest, 
 
 And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure 
 faith 's the surest : 
 
 And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on 
 depth of lustre 
 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the 
 wild-grape cluster, 
 
 Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose- 
 misted marl^le : 
 
 Then her voice's music . . call it the well's bubbling, 
 the bird's warble ! 
 
 \A figure wrapped i?i a mantle appears at the 
 window. 
 280 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 And tliis woman says, " My days were sunless and my 
 
 nights were moonless, 
 "Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's 
 
 heart's outbreak tuneless, 
 " If you loved me not ! " And I who — (ah, for words 
 
 of flame !) adore her ! 
 Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before 
 
 her — 
 
 [^He enters — approaches her seat, a7id be?ids over her. 
 
 I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice 
 
 takes me. 
 And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as 
 
 hers she makes me ! 
 \_The Earl throws off his slouched hat and long cloak. 
 
 My very heart sings, so I sing, beloved ! 
 
 2\fil. Sit, Henry — do not take my hand. 
 
 Mer. 'Tis mine ! 
 
 The meeting that appalled us both so much 
 Is ended. 
 
 Mil. What begins now? 
 
 Mer. Happiness 
 
 Such as the world contains not. 
 
 Mil. That is it. 
 
 Our happiness would, as you say, exceed 
 The whole world's best of blisses : we — do we 
 Deserve that ? Utter to your soul, what mine 
 Long since, beloved, has grown used to hear, 
 Like a death-knell so much regarded once, 
 And so familiar now ; this will not be ! 
 
 Mer. Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother's face, 
 Compelled myself — if not to speak untruth 
 
 281 
 
Bells and Pomeo^ranates. 
 
 tr 
 
 Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside 
 The truth as what had e'er prevailed on me 
 Save you, to venture ? Have I gained at last 
 Your brother, the one scarer of your dreams. 
 And waking thoughts' sole apprehension too ? 
 Does a new life, like a young sunrise, break 
 On the strange unrest of the night, confused 
 With rain and stormy flaw — and will you see 
 No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops 
 On each live spray, no vapour steaming up, 
 And no expressless glory in the east ? 
 When I am by you, to be ever by you, 
 When I have won you and may worship you, 
 Oh, Mildred, can you say " this will not be " ? 
 
 Mil. Sin has surprised us ; so will punishuKjnt. 
 
 Mer. No — me alone, who sinned alone ! 
 
 Mil. The night 
 
 You likened our past life to — was it storm 
 Throughout to you then, Henry ? 
 
 Mer. Of your life 
 
 I spoke — what am I, what my life to waste 
 A thouglit about when you are by me ? — you 
 It was, I said my folly called the storm 
 And pulled the night upon. — 'Twas day with me — 
 Perpetual dawn with me. 
 
 Mil. Come what, come will, 
 
 You have been happy — take my hand ! 
 
 Mer. How good 
 
 Your brother is ! I figured him a cold — 
 Shall I say, haughty man ? 
 
 Mil. They told me all. 
 
 I know all. 
 
 282 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Mer. It will soon be over. 
 
 Mil Over ? 
 
 Oh, what is over ? what must I live thro' 
 And say, " 'tis over? " Is our meeting over? 
 Have I received in presence of them all 
 The partner of my guilty love, — with brow 
 Trying to seem a maiden's brow — with lips 
 \yhich make believe that when they strive to form 
 Replies to you and tremble as they strive, 
 It is the nearest ever they approached 
 A stranger's . Henry, yours that stranger's . . lip — 
 With cheek that looks a Virgin's, and that is . . , 
 Ah, God ! some prodigy of thine will stop 
 This planned piece of deliberate wickedness 
 In its birth even — some fierce leprous spot 
 Will mar the brow's dissimulating — I 
 Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, 
 But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story, 
 The love, the shame, and the despair — with them 
 Round me aghast as men round some cursed fount 
 That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not 
 . . . Henry, you do not wish that I should draw 
 This vengeance down ? I'll not affect a grace 
 That 's gone from me — gone once, and gone for ever ! 
 
 Mer. Mildred, my honour is your own. I'll share 
 Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. 
 A word informs your brother I retract 
 This morning's offer . . time will yet bring forth 
 Some better way of saving both of us. 
 
 Mil. I'll meet their faces, Mertoun ! 
 
 Mer, When ? to-morrow ? 
 
 Get done with it ! 
 
 283 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Mil. Oh, Henry, not to-morrow ! 
 
 Next day ! I never shall prepare my words 
 And looks and gestures sooner ! — How you must 
 Despise me ! 
 
 Mer. jSIildred, break it if you choose, 
 
 A heart the love of you uplifted — still 
 Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony, 
 To Heaven ! but, Mildred, answer me, — first pace 
 The chamber with me — once again — now, say 
 Calmly the part, the . . what it is of me 
 You see contempt (for you did say contempt) 
 — Contempt for you in ? 1 would pluck it off 
 And cast it from me ! — but no — no, you'll not 
 Repeat that ? — will you, Mildred, repeat that ? 
 
 Mil. Dear Henry — 
 
 Mer. I was scarce a boy — e'en now 
 
 What am I more ? And you were infantine 
 When first I met you— why, your hair fell loose 
 On either side ! — my fool's cheek reddens now 
 Only in the recalling how it burned 
 That morn to see the shape of many a dream ! 
 — You know we boys are prodigal of charms 
 To her we dream of — I had heard of one. 
 Had dreamed of her, and I was close to her, 
 Might speak to her, might live and die her own, 
 Who knew ? — I spoke — Oh, Mildred, feel you not 
 That now, while I remember every glance 
 Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test 
 And weigh them in the diamond scales of Pride, 
 Resolved the treasure of a first and last 
 Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth j 
 — That now I think upon your purity 
 
 284 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 And utter ignorance of guilt — your own 
 
 Or other's guilt — the girlish undisguised 
 
 Delight at a strange novel prize — (I talk 
 
 A silly language, but interpret, you !) 
 
 If I, with fancy at its full, and reason 
 
 Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, 
 
 If you had pity on my passion, pity 
 
 On my protested sickness of the soul 
 
 To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch 
 
 Your eyelids and the eyes beneath — if you 
 
 Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts — 
 
 If I grew mad at last with enterprise 
 
 And must behold my beauty in her bower 
 
 Or perish — (I was ignorant of even 
 
 ]SIy own desires — what then were you ?) if sorrow — ■ 
 
 Sin — if the end came — must I now renounce 
 
 My reason, blind myself to light, say truth 
 
 Is false and lie to God and my own soul ? 
 
 Contempt were all of this ! 
 
 Alil. Do you believe , , • 
 
 Or, Henry, I'll not WTong you — you believe 
 That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er 
 The past ! ^^'^e'll love on — you will love me still ! 
 
 Mei\ Oh, to love less what one has injured ! Dove, 
 Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast — 
 Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength ? 
 Flower I have crush'd, shall I not care for thee ? 
 Bloom o'er my crest my fight-mark and device ! 
 Mildred, I love you and you love me ! 
 
 Mil. Go ! 
 
 Be that your last word. I shall sleep to-night. 
 
 Mer. This is not our last meeting ? 
 
 285 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Mil. One night more. 
 
 Mer. And then — think, then ! 
 
 Mil. Then, no sweet courtship-days, 
 
 No dawning consciousness of love for us, 
 No strange and palpitating births of sense 
 From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes, 
 Reserves and confidences : morning 's over ! 
 
 Mcr. How else should love's perfected noontide 
 follow? 
 All the dawn promised shall the day perform. 
 
 Mil. So may it be ! but 
 
 You are cautious. Love ? 
 Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls ? 
 
 Mei'. Oh, trust me ! Then our final meeting 's fixed ? 
 To-morrow night ? 
 
 Mil. Farewell ! Stay, Henry . . wherefore ? 
 
 His foot is on the yew-tree bough — the turf 
 Receives him — now the moonlight as he runs 
 Embraces him — but he must go — is gone — 
 Ah, once again he turns — thanks, thanks, my love ! 
 He 's gone — Oh I'll believe him every word ! 
 I was so young — I loved him so — I had 
 No mother — God forgot me — and I fell. 
 There may be pardon yet — all 's doubt Ijeyond. 
 Surely the bitterness of death is past ! 
 
 \Sceiie shuts. 
 
 286 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene — The Library. 
 
 Enter Lord T res ham hastily. 
 
 This way — In, Gerard, quick ! 
 
 \^As Gerard enters^ Tresham secures the door. 
 
 Now speak ! or, wait — 
 I'll bid you speak directly. \Seais himself. 
 
 Now repeat 
 Firmly and circumstantially the tale 
 You've just now told me ; it eludes me ; either 
 I did not listen, or the half is gone 
 Away from me — How long have you lived here ? 
 Here in my house your father kept our woods 
 Before you ? 
 
 Ger. — As his father did, my lord. 
 I have been eating sixty years, almost, 
 Your bread. 
 
 Tresh. Yes, yes — You ever were of all 
 The servants in my father's house, I know, 
 The trusted one. You'll speak the truth. 
 
 Ger. I'll speak 
 
 God's truth : night after night . . . 
 
 Tresh. Since when ? 
 
 Ger. At least 
 
 A month — each midnight has some man access 
 To Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 
 Tresh. Tush, "access" — 
 
 287 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 No wide words like " access " to me ! 
 
 G^r. He runs 
 
 Along the woodside, crosses to the south, 
 Takes the left tree that ends the avenue . . . 
 
 Tresh. The last great yew-tree ? 
 
 Ger. You might stand upon 
 
 The main boughs like a platform . . Then he . . 
 
 Tresh. Quick ! 
 
 Ger. . . . Climbs up, and, where they lessen at the 
 top, 
 — I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, 
 I think — for this I do not vouch — a line 
 That reaches to the Lady's casement. 
 
 Tresh. Which 
 
 He enters not ! Gerard — some wretched fool 
 Dares pry into my sister's privacy ! 
 When such are young it seems a precious thing 
 To have approached, — to merely have approached — 
 Got sight of the abode of her they set 
 Their frantic thoughts upon ! He does not enter ? 
 Gerard ? 
 
 Ger. There is a lamp that 's full in the midst, 
 Under a red square in the painted glass 
 Of Lady Mildred's . . 
 
 Tresh. Leave that name out ! Well ? 
 
 That lamp ? 
 
 Ger. — Is moved at midnight higher up 
 To one pane — a small dark-blue pane — he waits 
 For that among the boughs ; at sight of that 
 I see him, plain as I see you, my lord, 
 Open the Lady's casement, enter there . , , 
 
 Tresh. And stay? 
 
 288 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Ger, An hour, two hours. 
 
 Tresh. And this you saw 
 
 Once ? — twice ? — quick ! 
 
 Ger. Twenty times. 
 
 Tresh. And what brings you 
 
 Under the yew-trees ? 
 
 Ger. The first night I left 
 
 My range so far to track the stranger stag 
 That broke the pale, I saw the man. 
 
 Tresh, Yet sent 
 
 No cross-bow shaft thro' the marauder ? 
 
 Ger. But 
 
 He came, my lord, the first time he was seen, 
 In a great moonlight, light as any day, 
 From Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 
 Tresh. [After a pause.] You have no cause — 
 
 — Who could have cause to do my sister wrong ? 
 
 Ger. Oh, my lord, only once — let me this once 
 Speak what is on my mind ! Since first I noted 
 All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net 
 Plucked me this way and that — fire, if I turned 
 To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire, 
 If down I flung myself and strove to die. 
 The lady could not have been seven years old 
 When I was trusted to conduct her safe 
 Thro' the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn 
 I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand 
 Within a month. She ever had a smile 
 To greet me with — she . . if it could undo 
 What 's done to lop each limb from off this trunk . . 
 All that is foolish talk, not fit for you — 
 I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt 
 
 289 U 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 For Heaven's compelling : but when I was fixed 
 To hold my peace, each morsel of your food 
 Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too, 
 Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts 
 What it behoved me to do. This morn it seemed 
 Either I must confess to you, or die : 
 Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm 
 That crawls, to have betrayed my Lady ! 
 
 Tresh. No- 
 
 No — Gerard ! 
 
 Ger. Let me go ! 
 
 Tresh, A man, you say — 
 
 What man ? Young ? Not a vulgar hind ? What 
 dress ? 
 
 Ger. A slouched hat and a large dark foreign 
 cloak 
 Wraps his whole form : even his face is hid ; 
 But I should judge him young; no hind, be sure ! 
 
 Tres/i. Why? 
 
 Ger. He is ever armed : his sword 
 
 Projects beneath the cloak. 
 
 Tresh. Gerard, — I will not say 
 
 No word, no breath of this ! 
 
 Ger. Thanks, thanks, my lord ! 
 
 [Exif. 
 [Tresham /^aces the roofn. After a pai/se, 
 Oh, thought 's absurd ! — as with some monstrous fact 
 That, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give 
 Merciful Heaven that made the sun and stars, 
 The waters and the green delights of earth. 
 The He 1 I apprehend the monstrous fact — 
 Yet know the Maker of all worlds is good, 
 
 290 
 
A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 
 
 And yield my reason up, inadequate 
 
 To reconcile what yet I do behold — 
 
 Blasting my sense ! There 's cheerful day outside — 
 
 This is my library — and this the chair 
 
 My father used to sit in carelessly, 
 
 After his soldier-fashion, while I stood 
 
 Between his knees to question him — and here 
 
 Gerard our gray retainer, — as he says. 
 
 Fed with our food from sire to son an age, — 
 
 Has told a story — I am to believe ! 
 
 That Mildred ... oh no, no ! both tales are true. 
 
 Her pure cheek's story and the forester's ! 
 
 Would she, or could she, err — much less, confound 
 
 All guilts of treachery, of craft, of . . . Heaven 
 
 Keep me within its hand ! — I will sit here 
 
 Until thought settles and I see my course. 
 
 Avert, oh God, only this woe from me ! 
 
 [As he sinks his head between his arms on the 
 table Guendolen's voice is heard at 
 the door. 
 Lord Tresham ! [She knocks ^^ Is Lord Tresham 
 there ? 
 
 [Tresham, hastily turnings pulls down the 
 first book above him and opens it. 
 Tresh. Come in ! [She enters. 
 
 Ah Guendolen — good morning. 
 
 Guen. Nothing more ? 
 
 Tresh. What should I say more ? 
 Guen. Pleasant question ! more ? 
 
 This more ! Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain 
 Last night till close on morning with '* the Earl " — 
 " The Earl " — whose worth did I asseverate 
 
 291 
 
Bells and Pomegranate^. 
 
 Till I am very fain to hope that . . . Thorold, 
 What is all this ? You are not well ! 
 
 Tresh. Who, I? 
 
 You laugh at me. 
 
 Guen. Has what I'm fain to hope 
 
 Arrived, then ? Does that huge tome show some blot 
 In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back 
 Than Arthur's time ? 
 
 Tresh. When left you Mildred's chamber ? 
 
 Guen. Oh late enough, I told you ! The main 
 thing 
 To ask is, how I left the chamber. Sure, 
 Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon 
 Of Earls no such ungracious . . . 
 
 Tresh. Send her here ! 
 
 Guen. Thorold ? 
 
 Tresh. I mean — acquaint her, Guendolen, — 
 —But mildly ! 
 
 Guen. Mildly ? 
 
 Tresh. Ah, you guess'd aright ! 
 
 I am not well — there is no hiding it. 
 But tell her I would see her at her leisure — 
 That is, at once ! here in the Library ! 
 The passage in that old Italian book 
 We hunted for so long is found, say, — found — 
 And if I let it slip again . . you see. 
 That she must come — and instantly ! 
 
 Guen. I'll die 
 
 Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed 
 Some blot i' the 'Scutcheon ! 
 
 Tresh. Go ! or, Guendolen, 
 
 Be you at call, — with Austin, if you choose, — 
 
 292 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 In the adjoining gallery — There, go ! .\;. 
 
 [£xii GUENDOLEN. 
 
 Another lesson to me ! you might bid 
 
 A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct 
 
 Some sly investigation point by point 
 
 With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch 
 
 The inquisitorial cleverness some praise ! 
 
 If you had told me yesterday, " There 's one 
 
 " You needs must circumvent and practise with, 
 
 " Entrap by policies, if you would worm 
 
 "The truth out — and that one is — Mildred!" 
 
 There — 
 There — reasoning is thrown away on it ! 
 Prove she 's unchaste . . why you may after prove 
 That she 's a poisoner, traitress, what you will ! 
 Where I can comprehend nought, nought 's to say, 
 Or do, or think ! Force on me but the first 
 Abomination, — then outpour all plagues, 
 And I shall ne'er make count of them ! 
 
 En^er Mildred. 
 
 Mt'I. What book 
 
 Is it I wanted, Thorold ? Guendolen 
 Thought you were pale — you are not pale ! That 
 
 book ? 
 That 's Latin surely ! 
 
 Tres/i. Mildred — here 's a line — 
 
 (Don't lean on me — I'll EngHsh it for you) 
 " Love conquers all things." What love conquers 
 
 them? 
 What love should you esteem — best love ? 
 

 Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Mil True love. 
 
 Tresh. I mean, and should have said, whose love is 
 best 
 Of all that love or that profess to love ? 
 
 Mil. The list 's so long — there 's father's, mother's, 
 husband's . . . 
 
 Tresh. Mildred, I do believe a brother's love 
 For a sole sister must exceed them all ! 
 For see now, only see ! there 's no alloy j 
 
 Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold 
 Of other loves — no gratitude to claim ; 
 You never gave her life — not even aught 
 That keeps life — never tended her, instructed, 
 Enriched her — so your love can claim no right 
 O'er hers save pure love's claim — that 's what I call 
 Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope 
 To be such friends, for instance, she and you, 
 As when you hunted cowslips in the woods. 
 Or played together in the meadow hay. 
 Oh yes — with age, respect comes, and your worth 
 Is felt, there 's growing sympathy of tastes, 
 There 's ripened friendship, there 's confirmed esteem, 
 — Much head these make against the new-comer ! 
 The startling apparition — the strange youth — 
 Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say, 
 Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change 
 This Ovid ever sang about !) your soul 
 . . . Her soul that is, — the sister's soul ! With her 
 'Twas winter yesterday ; now, all is warmth. 
 The green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice, 
 *' Arise and come away ? " Come whither ? — far 
 Enough from the esteem, respect, and all 
 
 294 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 The brother's somewhat insignificant 
 
 Array of rights ! all which he knows before — 
 
 Has calculated on so long ago ! 
 
 I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) 
 
 Contented with its little term of life, 
 
 Intending to retire betimes, aware 
 
 How soon the back-ground must be place for it, 
 
 I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds 
 
 All the world's loves in its unworldliness. 
 
 Mil. What is this for ? 
 
 Tresh. This, Mildred, is it for ! 
 
 Oh, no, I cannot go to it so soon ! 
 That 's one of many points my haste left out — 
 Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film 
 Between the being tied to you by birth. 
 And you, until those slender threads compose 
 A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes 
 And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours — 
 So close you live and yet so far apart ! 
 And must I rend this web, tear up, break down 
 The sweet and palpitating mystery 
 That makes her sacred ? — You — for you I mean, 
 Shall I speak — shall I not speak ? 
 
 Mil. Speak ! 
 
 Tresh. I will. 
 
 Is there a story men could — any man 
 Could tell of you, you would conceal from me ? 
 ril never think there 's falsehood on that lip ! 
 Say " There is no such story men could tell," 
 And I'll believe you, tho' I disbelieve 
 The world . . the world of better men than I, 
 ^nd women such as I suppose you — Speak 1 
 
 295 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 {AJter a pause.'] Not speak ? Explain then ! clear up 
 
 all, then ! Move 
 Some of the miserable weight away 
 That presses lower than the grave ! Not speak ? 
 Some of the dead weight, Mildred ! Ah, if I 
 Could bring myself to plainly make their charge 
 Against you ! Must I, Mildred ? Silent still ? 
 [After a pause.'] Is there a gallant that has night by 
 
 night 
 Admittance to your chamber ? 
 [After apause.] Then, his name ! 
 
 Till now, I only had a thought for you — 
 But now, — his name ! 
 
 Mil. Thorold, do you devise 
 
 Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit 
 There be ! 'tis nought to say that I'll endure 
 And bless you, — that my spirit yearns to purge 
 Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire — 
 But do not plunge me into other guilt ! 
 Oh, guilt enough ! I cannot tell his name. 
 
 Tf^esh. Then judge yourself! How should I act? 
 Pronounce ! 
 
 Mil. Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt me 
 thus! 
 To die here in this chamber by that sword 
 Would seem like punishment — so should I glide 
 Like an arch-cheat into extremest bliss ! 
 'Twere easily arranged for me ! but you — 
 What would become of you ? 
 
 Tresh. And what will now 
 
 Become of me ? I'll hide your shame and mine 
 From every eye ; the dead must heave their hearts 
 
 2Q6 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Under the marble of our chapel-floor ; 
 
 They cannot rise and blast you ! You may wed 
 
 Your paramour above our Mother's tomb : 
 
 Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. 
 
 We two will somehow wear this one day out : 
 
 But with to-morrow hastens here — the Earl ! 
 
 The youth without suspicion faces come 
 
 From Heaven, and hearts from . . , whence proceed 
 
 such hearts ? 
 I have despatched last night at your command 
 A missive bidding him present himself 
 To-morrow here — thus much is said — the rest 
 Is understood as if 'twere written down — 
 " His suit finds favour in your eyes," — now dictate 
 This morning's letter that shall countermand 
 Last night's — do dictate that ! 
 
 Mil. But, Thorold— if 
 
 I will receive him as I said ? 
 
 Tresh. The Earli 
 
 Mil. I will receive him ! 
 
 Tresh. \Starting up?^ Ho there ! Guendolen ! 
 
 GuENDOLEN and Austin enter. 
 
 And, Austin, you are welcome too ! Look there! 
 The woman there ! 
 
 Alls, and Gi^en. How ? Mildred ? 
 
 Tresh. Mildred once ! 
 
 Now the receiver night by night, when sleep 
 Blesses the inmates of her father's house, 
 — I say, the soft sly wanton that receives 
 Jler guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof that hol(^s 
 
 297 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 You Guendolen, you Austin, and has held 
 A thousand Treshams — never one like her ! 
 No lighter of the signal lamp her quick 
 Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness 
 To mix with breath as foul ! no loosener 
 Of the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread, 
 The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go ! 
 Not one composer of the Bacchant's mien 
 Into — what you thought Mildred's, in a word ! 
 Know her ! 
 
 Gueti. Oh, Mildred look at me, at least ! 
 Thorold — she 's dead, I'd say, but that she stands 
 Rigid as stone and whiter ! 
 
 Tresh. You have heard . . , 
 
 Guen. Too much ! you must proceed no further ! 
 
 Mil. Yes — 
 
 Proceed — All ^s truth ! Go from me ! 
 
 Tresh. All is truth, 
 
 She tells you ! Well, you know, or ought to know, 
 All this I would forgive in her — I'd con 
 Each precept the harsh world enjoins, I'd take 
 Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, 
 I'd bind myself before them to exact 
 The prescribed vengeance — and one word of hers, 
 The sight of her, the bare least memory 
 Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride 
 Above all prides, my all in all so long. 
 Had scattered every trace of my resolve ! 
 What were it silently to waste away 
 And see her waste away from this day forth, 
 Two scathed things with leisure to repent. 
 And grow accjuainted with the grave, and di^ 
 
 2q8 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Tired out if not at peace, and be forgotten ? 
 
 This were not so impossible to bear ! 
 
 But this — that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed 
 
 Of love with the successful gallant there, 
 
 She'll calmly bid me help her to entice, 
 
 Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth 
 
 Who thinks her all that 's chaste, and good, and pure, 
 
 — Invite me to betray him . . who so fit 
 
 As honour's self to cover shame's arch-deed ? 
 
 —That she'll receive Lord Mertoun — (that's her 
 
 phrase) — 
 This who could bear? Why, you have heard of 
 
 thieves — \ 
 
 Stabbers— the earth's disgrace— who yet have laughed, 
 "Talk not of tortures to me— I'll betray 
 " No comrade I've pledged faith to "—you have heard 
 Of wretched women— all but Mildreds— tied 
 In wild illicit ties to losels vile 
 You tempt them to forsake, and they'll reply 
 " Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I have 
 "In him, why should I leave him then for gold, 
 " Repute, or friends ? " and you have felt your heart 
 Respond to these poor outcasts of the world 
 As to so many friends ; bad as you please. 
 You've felt they were God's men and women still, 
 So not to be disowned by you ! but she. 
 That stands there, calmly gives her lover up 
 As means to wed the Earl that she may hide 
 Their intercourse the safelier ! and, for that, 
 I curse her to her face before you all ! 
 Shame hunt her from the earth ! Then Heaven do 
 
 right 
 
 299 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 To both ! It hears me now — shall judge her then ! 
 
 [As Mildred fainfs and falls^ Tresham 
 rushes out. 
 
 Aus. Stay, Tresham, we'll accompany you ! 
 
 Guen. We? 
 
 What, and leave Mildred? We? why, where 's my 
 
 place 
 But by her side, and where 's yours but by mine ? 
 Mildred— one word — only look at me then ! 
 
 Aus. No, Guendolen ! I echo Thorold's voice ! 
 She is unworthy to behold . . 
 
 Guen. Us two ? 
 
 If you spoke on reflection and if I 
 Approved your speech— if you (to put the thing 
 At lowest) you, the soldier, bound to make 
 The King's cause yours, and fight for it, and throw 
 Regard to others of its right or wrong, 
 — If with a death-white woman you can help. 
 Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, 
 You left her — or if I, her cousin, friend 
 This morning, playfellow but yesterday. 
 Who've said or thought at least a thousand times, 
 " I'd serve you if I could," should now face round 
 And say " Ah, that's to only signify 
 " I'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself — . 
 " So long as fifty eyes await the turn 
 " Of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish, 
 " I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need — 
 ''When every tongue is praising you, I'll join 
 " The praisers' chorus — when you're hemmed about 
 " With lives between you and detraction — lives 
 *' To be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye, 
 
 300 
 
A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 
 
 " Rough hand should violate the sacred ring 
 ** Their worship throws about you, — then, indeed, 
 " Who'll stand up for you stout as I ? " If so 
 We said and so we did, not Mildred there 
 Would be unworthy to behold us both, 
 But we should be unworthy, both of us, 
 To be beheld by — by — your meanest dog 
 AVhich, if that sword were broken in your sight 
 Before a crowd, that badge torn off your breast, 
 And you cast out with hootings and contempt, 
 — Would push his way thro' all the hooters, gain 
 Your side, go off with you and all your shame 
 To the next ditch you chose to die in ! Austin, 
 Do you love me ? Here 's Austin, Mildred, — here 's 
 Your brother says he don't believe one half — 
 No, nor half that — of all he 's heard ! He says, 
 Look up and take his hand ! 
 
 Aus. Look up and take 
 
 My hand, dear Mildred ! 
 
 Mi7. I — I was so young ! 
 
 Beside, I loved him, Thorold — and I had 
 No mother — God forgot me — so I fell ! 
 
 Gi^en. Mildred ! 
 
 Afi/. Require no further ! Did I dream 
 
 That I could palliate what is done ? All 's true. 
 Now, punish me ! A woman takes my hand ! 
 Let go my hand ! You do not know, I see — 
 I thought that Thorold told you. 
 
 Gtnn. What is this ? 
 
 Where start you to ? 
 
 MiV. Oh Austin, loosen me ! 
 
 You heard the whole of it — your eyes were worse 
 
 301 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 In their surprise than Thorold's ! Oh, unless 
 
 You stay to execute his sentence, loose 
 
 My hand ! Has Thorold left and are you here ? 
 
 G2ien. Here, Mildred, we two friends of yours will 
 wait 
 Your bidding ; be you silent, sleep or muse ! 
 Only, when you shall want your bidding done, 
 How can we do it if we are not by? 
 Here 's Austin waiting patiently your will ! 
 One spirit to command, and one to love 
 And to believe in it and do its best, 
 Poor as that is, to help it — why, the world 
 Has been won many a time, its length and breadth, 
 By just such a beginning ! 
 
 Mil. I believe 
 
 If once I threw my arms about your neck 
 And sunk my head upon your breast, that I 
 Should weep again ! 
 
 Guen. Let go her hand now, Austin. 
 
 Wait for me. — Pace the gallery and think 
 On the worl(f s seemings and realities 
 Until I call you. \\Exit Austin. 
 
 Mil. No — I cannot weep ! 
 
 No more tears from this brain — no sleep — no tears ! 
 O Guendolen, I love you ! 
 
 Guc7i. Yes : and " love " 
 
 Is a short word that says so very much ! 
 It says that you confide in me. 
 
 Mil Confide ! 
 
 Giien. Your lover's name, then ! I've so much to 
 learn. 
 Ere I can work in your behalf ! 
 
 302 
 
A Blot in the *Scutcheon. 
 
 Mil. My friend, 
 
 You know I cannot tell his name. 
 
 Guen. At least 
 
 He is your lover ? and you love him too ? 
 
 Mil. Ah, do you ask me that ? — but lam fallen 
 So low ! 
 
 Guen. You love him still, then ? 
 
 Mil. My sole prop 
 
 Against the guilt that crushes me ! I say 
 Each night ere I he down, I was so young, 
 I had no mother — and I loved him so ! 
 And then God seems indulgent, and I dare 
 Trust him my soul in sleep. 
 
 Guen. How could you let us 
 
 E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun then ? 
 
 Mil. There is a cloud around me. 
 
 Guen. But you said 
 
 You would receive his suit in spite of this ? 
 
 Mil. I say there is a cloud . . 
 
 Guen. No cloud to me I 
 
 Lord Mertoun and your lover are the same ! 
 
 Mil. What maddest fancy . . . 
 
 Guen. [^Calling aloud.'] Austin ! (Spare your pains — 
 When I have got a truth that truth I keep) — 
 
 Mil. By all you love, sweet Guendolen, forbear • 
 Have I confided in you . . 
 
 Gifen. . . Just for this ! 
 
 Austin ! — Oh, not to guess it at the first ! 
 But I did guess it — that is, I divined — 
 Felt by an instinct how it was — why else 
 Should I pronounce you free from all that heap 
 Of sins which had been irredeemable ? 
 
 303 
 
Bells and Pomegranates, 
 
 I felt they Avere not yours — what other way 
 
 Than this, not yours? The secret 's wholly mine ! 
 
 Mil. If you would see me die before his face . . 
 
 Gtien. I'd hold my peace ! And if the Earl returns 
 To-night? 
 
 Mil. Ah, heaven, he 's lost ! 
 
 Guen, I thought so ! Austin ! 
 
 Enter Austin. 
 
 Oh where have you been hiding ? 
 
 Aus. Thorold 's gone, 
 
 I know not how, across the meadow-land. 
 I watched him till I lost him in the skirts 
 Of the beech-wood. 
 
 Guen. Gone ? All thwarts us ! 
 
 Mil. Thorold too ? 
 
 Guen. I have thought. First lead this Mildred to 
 her room. 
 Go on the other side : and then we'll seek 
 Your brother ; and I'll tell you, by the way, 
 The greatest comfort in the world. You said 
 There was a clew to all. Remember, sweet. 
 He said there was a clew ! I hold it. Come ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 304 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 Scene I. — The end of the Yeiv-tree Avenue undct 
 Mildred's window. A light seen through a 
 central red pane. 
 
 Enter Tresham through the trees. 
 
 Again here ! But I cannot lose myself. 
 
 The heath — the orchard — I have traversed glades 
 
 And dells and bosky paths which used to lead 
 
 Into green wild-wood depths, bewildering 
 
 My boy's adventurous step ; and now they tend 
 
 Hither or soon or late ; the blackest shade 
 
 Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide, 
 
 And the dim turret I have fled from fronts 
 
 Again my step ; the very river put 
 
 Its arm about me and conducted me 
 
 To this detested spot. Why then, I'll shun 
 
 Their will no longer — do your will with me ! 
 
 Oh, bitter ! To have reared a towering scheme 
 
 Of happiness, and to behold it razed, 
 
 Were nothing : all men hope, and see their hopes 
 
 Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew : 
 
 But I . . to hope that from a line like ours 
 
 No horrid prodigy like this would spring, 
 
 Were just as though I hoped that from these old 
 
 Confederates against the sovereign day, 
 
 Children of older and yet older sires 
 
 305 X 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 (Whose living coral berries dropped, as now 
 
 On me, on many a baron's surcoat once, 
 
 On many a beauty's wimple) would proceed 
 
 No poison-tree, to thrust from Hell its root. 
 
 Hither and thither its strange snaky arms. 
 
 Why came I here ? what must I do \—[A bell strikes] 
 
 —a bell ? 
 Midnight ! and 'tis at midnight . . . Ah, I catch 
 — Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now, 
 And I obey you ! Hist ! This tree will serve ! 
 
 \He retires behind one of the trees. After a 
 pause, enter Mertoun cloaked as before. 
 Mer. Not time ! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat 
 Of hope and fear, my heart ! I thought the clock 
 In the chapel struck as I was pushing thro' 
 The ferns. And so I shall no more see rise 
 My love-star ! Oh, no matter for the Past ! 
 So much the more delicious task to see 
 Mildred revive — to pluck out, thorn by thorn, 
 All traces of the rough forbidden path 
 My rash love lured her to ! Each day must see 
 Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed ! 
 Then there will be surprises, unforeseen 
 Delights in store. I'll not regret the Past ! 
 
 \The light is placed above in the purple pane» 
 And see, my signal rises ! Mildred's star ! 
 I never saw it lovelier than now 
 It rises for the last time ! If it sets 
 'Tis that the re-assuring sun may rise ! 
 
 \As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the 
 avenue Tresham arrests his arm. 
 Unhand me — peasant, by your grasp ! Here 's gold. 
 
 306 
 
A Blot in the *Scutcheon. 
 
 *Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck 
 A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath 
 The casement there ! Take this, and hold your 
 peace. 
 
 Tresh. Into the moonlight yonder, come with me ! 
 — Out of the shadow ! 
 
 Mer. I am armed, fool ! 
 
 Tresh. Yes, 
 
 Or no ? — You'll come into the light, or no ! 
 My hand is on your throat — refuse ! — 
 
 Mer. That voice ! 
 
 Where have I heard . . no — that was mild and slow. 
 I'll come with you ! 
 
 [^They advance to the front of the stage. 
 
 Tresh. You're armed — that 's well. 
 
 Your name — who are you ? 
 
 Mer. Tresham ! — she is lost ! 
 
 Tresh. Oh, silent ? Do you know, you bear yourself 
 Exactly as in curious dreams I've had 
 How felons, this wild earth is full of, look 
 When they're detected, still your kind has look'd ! 
 The bravo holds an assured countenance — 
 The thief is voluble and plausible — 
 But silently the slave of lust has crouched 
 When I have fancied it before a man ! 
 Your name ? 
 
 Mer. I do conjure Lord Tresham — ay, 
 
 Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail — 
 That he for his own sake forbear to ask 
 My name ! As heaven 's above, his future weal 
 Or woe depends upon my silence ! Vain ! 
 I read your white inexorable face ! 
 
 307 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Know mCj Lord Tresham ! 
 
 \^He throws off his disguises. 
 
 Tresh. Mertoun ! 
 
 [After a pause.'] Draw now ! 
 
 Mer. Hear me 
 
 But speak first ! 
 
 Tresh. Not one least word on your life ! 
 
 Be sure that I will strangle in your throat 
 The least word that informs me how you live 
 And yet are what you are ! No doubt 'twas you 
 Taught Mildred still to keep that face and sin ! 
 We should join hands in frantic sympathy 
 If you once taught me the unteachable, 
 Explained how you can live so, and so lie ! 
 With God's help I will keep despite my sense 
 The old belief — a life like yours is still 
 Impossible ! Now draw ! 
 
 Mer. Not for my sake, 
 
 Do I entreat a hearing — for your sake, 
 And most, for her sake ! 
 
 Tresh. Ha, ha, what should I 
 
 Know of your ways ? A miscreant like yourself, 
 How must one rouse his ire ? — A blow ? — that 's great 
 No doubt, to him ! one spurns him, does one not ? 
 Or sets the foot upon his mouth — or spits 
 Into his face — come — which, or all of these ? 
 
 Mer. 'Twixt him, and me, and Mildred, Heaven be 
 judge ! 
 Can I avoid this ? Have your will, my Lord ! 
 
 [He draius, and^ after a few passes^ falls. 
 
 Tresh. You are not hurt ? 
 
 Mer. You'll hear me now ! 
 
 308 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 
 
 Tresh. But rise ! 
 
 Mer. Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now ! " 
 And what procures a man the right to speak 
 In his defence before his fellow-man, 
 But — I suppose — the thought that presently 
 He may have leave to speak before his God 
 His whole defence ? 
 
 Tresh. Not hurt ? It cannot be ! 
 
 You made no effort to resist me. Where 
 Did my sword reach you ? Why not have returned 
 My thrusts ? Hurt where ? 
 
 Mer. My lord — 
 
 Tresh. How young he is ! 
 
 Mer. Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet 
 I have entangled other lives with mine. 
 Do let me speak — and do beUeve my speech, 
 That when I die before you presently, — 
 
 Tresh. Can you stay here till I return with help ? 
 
 Mer. Oh, stay by me ! When I was less than boy 
 I did you grievous wrong, and knew it not — 
 Upon my honour, knew it not ! Once known, 
 I could not find what seemed a better way 
 To right you than I took : my life — you feel 
 How less than nothing had been giving you 
 The life you've taken ! But I thought my way 
 The better — only for your sake and hers. 
 But as you have decided otherwise, 
 Would I had an infinity of lives 
 To offer you ! — now say — instruct me — think ! 
 Can you from out the minutes I have left 
 Eke out my reparation ? Oh — think — think! 
 For I must wring a partial — dare I say, 
 
 309 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Forgiveness from you ere I die ? 
 
 Tresh, I do 
 
 Forgive you. 
 
 Mer. Wait aiid ponder that great word ! 
 
 Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope 
 To speak to you of — Mildred ? 
 
 Tresh. Mertoun, — haste 
 
 And anger have undone us. 'Tis not you 
 Should tell me for a novelty you're young- 
 Thoughtless — unable to recall the Past ! 
 Be but your pardon ample as my own ! 
 
 Mer. Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a drop 
 Of blood or two, should bring all this about ! 
 Why, 'twas my very fear of you — my love 
 Of you — (what passion 's like a boy's for one 
 Like you ?) — that ruined me ! I dreamed of you — 
 You — all accompHshed — courted every where — 
 The scholar and the gentleman. I burned 
 To knit myself to you — but I was young, 
 And your surpassing reputation kept me 
 So far aloof — oh, wherefore all that love ? 
 With less of love my glorious yesterday 
 Of praise and gentle words and kindest looks 
 Had taken place perchance six months ago ! 
 Even now — how happy we had been ! And yet 
 I know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham ! 
 Let me look up into your face — I feel 
 'Tis changed above me — yet my eyes are glazed — 
 Where ? where ? \^As he efideavours to raise himself 
 his eye catches the lamp.^ 
 
 Ah, Mildred ! What will Mildred do ? 
 Tresham, her life is bound up in the life 
 
 310 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 That 's bleeding fast away ! — I'll live — must live. 
 There ! if youll only turn me I shall live 
 And save her ! Tresham — oh, had you but heard ! 
 Had you but heard ! What right have you to set 
 The thoughtless foot upon her life and mine, 
 And then say, as we perish, " Had I thought, 
 " All had gone otherwise." We've sinned and die : 
 '^Qver you sin, Lord Tresham ! — for you'll die, 
 And God will judge you. 
 
 Tresh. Yes, be satisfied — 
 
 That process is begun. 
 
 Mer. And she sits there 
 
 Waiting for me. — Now say you this to her — 
 You — not another — say, I saw him die 
 As he breathed this — "I love her " — (you don't know 
 What those three small words mean) say, loving her 
 Lowers me down the bloody slope to death 
 With memories ... I speak to her — not you 
 Who had no pity — will have no remorse. 
 Perchance intend her. . . . Die along with me, 
 Dear Mildred ! — 'tis so easy — and you'll 'scape 
 So much unkindness ! Can I lie at rest. 
 With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds 
 Done to you— heartless men to have my heart, 
 And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm, 
 Aware, perhaps, of every blow — Oh God ! — 
 Upon those lips — yet of no power to tear 
 The felon stripe by stripe ? Die, Mildred ! Leave 
 Their honourable world to them — for God 
 We're good enough, tho' the world casts us out ! 
 
 \A whistle is heard 
 
 Tresh. Ho, Gerard ! 
 
 311 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Enter Gerard, Austin, and Guendolen with 
 lights. 
 
 No one speak ! you see what 's done ! 
 I cannot bear another voice ! 
 
 Mer. There 's light — 
 
 Light all about me and I move to it. 
 Tresham, did I not tell you — did you not 
 Just promise to deliver words of mine 
 To Mildred ? 
 
 Tresh. I will bear those words to her. 
 
 Mer. Now? 
 
 Tresh. Now ! Lift you the body, Gerard, and leave 
 me 
 The head. 
 
 \As they have half raised Mertoun, he turns 
 suddenly. 
 
 Mer. I knew they turned me — turn me not from 
 her ! 
 There ! stay you ! there ! [^Dies. 
 
 Guen. [After a pause.'] Austin, remain you here 
 With Thorold until Gerard comes with help — 
 Then lead him to his chamber. I must go 
 To Mildred. 
 
 Tresh. Guendolen, I hear each word 
 
 You utter — did you hear him bid me give 
 His message ? Did you hear my promise ? I, 
 And only I, see Mildred ! 
 
 Guen. She will die. 
 
 Tresh. Oh no, she will not die ! I dare not hope 
 She'll die. ^^'hat ground have you to think she'll die ? 
 
 312 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Why, Austin 's with you ! 
 
 Aus. Had we but arrived 
 
 Before you fought ! 
 
 Tresh, There was no fight at all ! 
 
 He let me slaughter him — these boys ! — I'll trust 
 The body there to you and Gerard — thus ! 
 Now bear him on before me. 
 
 Aus. Whither bear him ? 
 
 Tresh. Oh, to my chamber. When we meet there 
 next, 
 We shall be friends. 
 
 \They bear out the body ^Mertoun. 
 Will she die, Guendolen ? 
 
 Guen. Where are you taking me ? 
 
 Tj-esh. He fell just here ! 
 
 Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life 
 — You who have nought to do \nth Mertoun's fate, 
 Now you have seen his breast upon the turf, 
 Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help ? 
 When you and Austin wander arm in arm 
 Thro' our ancestral grounds, will not a shade 
 Be ever on the meadow and the waste — 
 Another kind of shade than when the night 
 Shuts the woodside with all its whispers up 
 But will you ever so forget this night 
 As willingly to cross this bloody turf 
 Under the black yew avenue ? That 's well ! 
 You turn your head ! and / then ? — 
 
 Gt^en. What is done 
 
 Is done ! My care is for the living. Thorold 
 Bear up against this burthen — more remains 
 To set the neck to ! 
 
 313 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Tresh. Dear and ancient trees '^/ 
 
 My fathers planted, and I loved so well ! 
 What have I done that, like some fabled crime 
 Of yore, lets loose a fury — free to lead 
 Her miserable dance amidst you all ? 
 Oh never more for me shall winds intone 
 With all your tops a vast antiphony, 
 Demanding and responding in God's praise ! 
 Hers ye are now — not mine ! Farewell — Farewell ! 
 
 \Exeunt, 
 
 Scene H. — Mildred's Chamber. Mildred 
 alo7ie. 
 
 He comes not ! I have heard of those who seemed 
 Resourceless in prosperity, — you thought 
 Sorrow might slay them when she Hsted — yet 
 Did they so gather up their diffused strength 
 At her first menace, that they bade her strike, 
 And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn. 
 Oh, 'tis not so with me ! the first woe fell. 
 And the rest fall upon it, not on me : 
 Else should I bear that Henry comes not ? — fails 
 Just this first night out of so many nights ? 
 Loving is done with ! were he sitting now 
 As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love 
 No more — contrive no thousand happy ways 
 To hide love from the loveless, any more ! 
 I think I might have urged some little point 
 In my def.-nce to Thorold ; he was breathless 
 
A Blot in the *Scutcheon. 
 
 For the least hint of a defence ; but no ! 
 
 The first shame over, all that would might fall. 
 
 No Henry ! Yet I merely sit and think 
 
 The morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have crept 
 
 Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost 
 
 Her lover — oh, I dare not look upon 
 
 Such woe ! I crouch away from it ! 'Tis she, 
 
 Mildred, will break her heart, not I ! The world 
 
 Forsakes me — only Henry 's left me — left ? 
 
 When I have lost him, for he does not come. 
 
 And I sit stupidly . . . Oh Heaven, break up 
 
 This worse than anguish, this mad apathy, 
 
 By any means or any messenger ! 
 
 Tresh. [ Without?^ Mildred ! 
 
 Mil. Come in ! Heaven hears me 
 
 [Tresham e7ite7-s?\ You ? alone ? 
 Oh, no more cursing ! 
 
 Tresh. Mildred, I must sit. 
 
 There — you sit ! 
 
 Mil. Say it, Thorold — do not look 
 
 The curse — deliver all you come to say ! 
 What must become of me ? Oh speak that thought 
 Which makes your brow and speech so pale ! 
 
 Tresh. My thought 
 
 Mil. All of it ! 
 
 Tresh. How we waded — years ago — 
 
 After the water-lilies till the plash, 
 I know not how, surprised us and you dared 
 Neither advance nor turn back, so we stood 
 Laughing and crying until Gerard came — 
 Once safe upon the turf, the loudest, too. 
 For once more reaching the relinquished prize I 
 
 315 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 How idle thoughts are — some men's — dying men's ! 
 Mildred, — 
 
 Mil. You call me kindlier by my name 
 Than even yesterday — what is in that ? 
 
 Tresh. It weighs so much upon my mind that I 
 This morning took an office not my own ! 
 I might . . of course, I must be glad or grieved, 
 Content or not, at every little thing 
 That touches you —I may with a wrung heart 
 Even reprove you, Mildred ; I did more — 
 You must forgive me ! 
 
 Mil. Thorold ? do you mock ? . . 
 
 Or no . . and yet you bid me . . say that word ! . . 
 
 Tresh. Forgive me, Mildred ! — are you silent, 
 sweet ? 
 
 Mil. [^Starting up.^ Why does not Henry Mertoun 
 come to-night ? 
 Are youy too, silent ? 
 
 [^Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to 
 his scabbard which is etnpty. 
 Ah, this speaks for you ! 
 You've murdered Henry Mertoun ! now proceed ! 
 What is it I must pardon ? This and all ? 
 Well, I do pardon you — I think I do. 
 Thorold, how very wretched you must be ! 
 
 Tresh. He bade me tell you . , 
 
 Mil. What I do forbid 
 
 Your utterance of ! so much that you may tell 
 And will not — how you murdered him . . but, no I 
 You'll tell me that he loved me, never more 
 Than bleeding out his life there — must I say 
 " Indeed," to that ? Enough ! I pardon you ! 
 
 316 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 Tresh. You cannot, Mildred ! for the harsh words, 
 yes: 
 Of this last deed Another's Judge — whose doom 
 I wait in doubt, despondency, and fear. 
 
 Mil. Oh true ! there 's nought for me to pardon ! 
 True ! 
 You loosed my soul of all its cares at once — 
 Death makes me sure of him for ever ! You 
 Tell me his last words ? He shall tell me them. 
 And take my answer — not in words, but reading 
 Himself the heart I had to read him late, 
 Which death . . . 
 
 Tresh. Death ? you are dying too ? Well said 
 
 Of Guendolen ! I dared not hope you'd die — 
 But she was sure of it. 
 
 Mil. Tell Guendolen 
 
 I loved her, and tell Austin . . . 
 
 Tresh. . . Him you loved — 
 
 And me ? 
 
 Mil. Ah Thorold ! was't not rashly done 
 To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope 
 And love of me, you loved I think, and yet 
 Suffered to sit here waiting his approach 
 While you were slaying him ? Oh, doubtlessly 
 You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech 
 — Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath 
 And respite me ! — you let him try to give 
 The story of our loves, and ignorance. 
 And the brief madness, and the long despair — 
 You let him plead all this, because your code 
 Of honour bids you hear before you strike — 
 But at the end, as he looked up for life 
 
 317 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 Into your eyes — you struck him down ! 
 
 Tresh. No ! no ! 
 
 Had I but heard him — had I let him speak 
 Half the truth — less — had I looked long on him, 
 I had desisted ! Why, as he lay there, 
 The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered all 
 The story ere he told it ! I saw thro' 
 The troubled surface of his crime and yours 
 A depth of purity immovable ! 
 Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest 
 Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath ! 
 I would not glance — my punishment's at hand. 
 There, Mildred, is the truth ! and you — say on — 
 You curse me? 
 
 Mil. As I dare approach that Heaven 
 
 Which has not bade a living thing despair. 
 Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain, 
 But bids the vilest worm that turns on it 
 Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive not. 
 But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls ! 
 
 [Fal/s on his neck. 
 There ! do not think too much upon the Past ! 
 The cloud that 's broke was all the same a cloud 
 While it stood up between my friend and you ! 
 You hurt him 'neath its shadow — but is that 
 So past retrieve ? I have his heart, you know— 
 I may dispose of it — I give it you ! 
 It loves you as mine loves ! Confirm me, Henry ! 
 
 [nies. 
 
 Tresh. I wish thee joy, beloved ! I am glad 
 In thy full gladness ! 
 
 Gtcen. [ Without.'] Mildred ! Tresham ! 
 
 318 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 
 
 {Entering with Austin.] Thorold, 
 
 I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons ! 
 That 'swell — 
 
 Tresh, Oh ! better far than that ! 
 
 Guen. She 's dead ! 
 
 Let me unlock her arms ! 
 
 Tresh. She threw them thus 
 
 About my neck, and blessed me, and then died. 
 — You'll let them stay now, Guendolen ! 
 
 Aus. Leave her 
 
 And look to him ! What ails you, Thorold ? 
 
 Giien. White 
 
 As she — and whiter ! Austin — quick — this side ! 
 
 Aus. A froth is oozing thro' his clenched teeth — 
 Both lips, where they're not bitten thro', are black ! 
 Speak, dearest Thorold ! 
 
 Tresh. Something does weigh down 
 
 My neck beside her weight — thanks — I should fall 
 But for you, Austin, I believe ! — there — there — 
 'Twill pass away soon ! — ah, — I had forgotten — 
 I am dying. 
 
 Guen. Thorold — Thorold — why was this ? 
 
 Tresh. I said, just as I drank the poison off. 
 The earth would be no longer earth to me, 
 The life out of all life was gone from me ! 
 There are blind ways provided, the foredone 
 Heart-weary player in this pageant-world 
 Drops out by, letting the main masque defile 
 By the conspicuous portal : — I am thro' — 
 Just through ! — 
 
 Guen. Don't leave him, Austin ! death is close. 
 
 Tresh. Already Mildred's face is peacefuller ! 
 
 319 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 I see you, Austin — feel you — here's my hand, 
 
 Put yours in it — You, Guendolen, yours too ! 
 
 You're Lord and Lady now — You're Treshams — Name 
 
 And fame are yours — You hold our 'Scutcheon up. 
 
 Austin, no Blot on it ! You see how blood 
 
 Must wash one blot away : the first blot came 
 
 And the first blood came. To the vain world's 
 
 eye 
 All 's gules again — no care to the vain world 
 From whence the red was drawn ! 
 
 Aus. No blot shall come ! 
 
 Tres/h I said that — yet it did come. Should it 
 
 come, 
 Vengeance is God's not man's. Remember me ! 
 
 Guen. S^Letting fall the pulseless arm?^ Ah, Thorold 
 we can but — remember you 1 
 
 '1 
 
 320 
 
NOTES. 
 
 "A Blot in the "Scutcheon." 
 
 This play was first performed at Drury Lane on 
 February nth, 1843, when Miss Helen Faiicit took the 
 part of Mildred Tresham, Mrs. Stirling that of Guendolen, 
 and Mr. Phelps, Lord Tresham. 
 
 On the 27th of November — some five years later — the 
 play was re\ ived by Mr. Phelps, at Sadler's Wells Theatre, 
 and proved a decided success. Mr. Phelps himself took 
 the part of Lord Tresham, and Miss Cooper that of 
 Mildred Tresham. It was excellently mounted, and well 
 acted. 
 
 Not for some seven-and-thirty years after Mr. Phelps's 
 revival was " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon " again put on the 
 boards : when, on May 2nd, 1885, it was performed at St. 
 George's Hall, under the direction of Mr. Charles Fiy, 
 and was a most interesting performance, Mr. Browning 
 himself being present in a private box. 
 
 Three years later (March i8th, 1888) a still more inter- 
 esting revival of the play has to be recorded, on this 
 occasion under the auspices of the Browning Society. It 
 was performed at the Olympic Theatre, Miss Alma Murray 
 taking the part of Mildred Tresham. Mr. Browning and 
 his sister were present on this occasion also. 
 
 in March, 1885, ^^^- Lawrence Barrett gave a very suc- 
 cessful performance of the play at Boston, U.S.A. 
 
 "Artemis Prologuizes." 
 
 This poem had been destined to form part of a longer 
 composition, and was suggested by the " Hippolytos"' of 
 Euripides. Mr. Brov\ning wrote concerning it : 
 
 321 y 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 " I had better say, perhaps, that the above is nearly all 
 retained of a tragedy I composed, much against my en- 
 deavour, while in bed with a fever two years ago — it went 
 further into the story of Hippolytus and Aricia ; but when 
 I got well, putting only thus much down at once I soon 
 forgot the remainder." 
 
 "Colo:ibe's Birthday." 
 
 This play was first produced at the Haymarkct Theatre 
 on April 23th, 1853. Miss Helen Faucit undertook the 
 character of Colombe, Mr. Barry Sullivan impersonating 
 Valence. 
 
 In 1854 "Colombe's Birthday" was produced at the 
 Harvard Athenaeum, Boston, U.S.A., and was received 
 with breathless attention and hearty applause. 
 
 On November 19th, 1885, the play was revved by the 
 Browning Society, at St. George's Hall, Miss Alma Murray 
 taking the part of Colombe. The performance was a most 
 successful one. 
 
 " How THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT 
 
 TO AlX." 
 
 Mr. Browning has distinctly stated that there is no sort 
 of historical foundation for this poem : " I wrote it under 
 the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had 
 been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a 
 gallop on the back of a certain good horse, ' York,' then in 
 my stable at home. It was written in pencil on the fly-leaf 
 of Bartoli's ' Simboli,' I remember." 
 
 " LURTA." 
 
 This tragedy deals with one of the many hereditary out- 
 breaks of feud between Florence and Pisa. At the begin- 
 ning of the fifteenth century the early death of Galeazzo 
 
 322 
 
Notes. 
 
 Visconti had put an end, for a time, to the power of that 
 ambitious and dangerous family in Florence. But Pisa, 
 the old enemy of the Florentines, had fallen under the 
 tyrannous supremacy of a member of the hated house of 
 Visconti — Gabriello Maria, a son of Gian Galeazzo. 
 Florence had thus a new cause of grievance against Pisa ; 
 she detested not only the city, but its ruler. In 1404 she 
 fitted out an expedition against Pisa, and two years later 
 captured the city, after a long and cruel siege. This is, 
 apparently, the bare historical foundation of the play. 
 
 "The Glove." 
 
 This poem — the story of which has also been told by 
 Schiller and Leigh Hunt — is of especial interest on account 
 of the wide departure taken by Mr. Browning from the 
 facts as narrated in the commonly accepted version. 
 
 "The Lost Leader." 
 
 This poem has probably given rise to more controversy 
 than any other of Mr. Browning's compositions. But the 
 question of its reference to Wordsworth has been set 
 finally at rest by Mr. Browning himself, in a letter to Rev. 
 A. B. Grosart, from which the following passage has been 
 extracted : 
 
 " I did in my hasty youth presume to use the great and 
 venerated personality of Wordsworth as a sort of painter's 
 model, one from which this or the other particular feature 
 may be selected and turned to account : had I intended 
 more, above all such a boldness as portraying the entire 
 man, I should not have talked about ' handfuls of silver 
 and bits of riband.' These never influenced the change 
 of politics in the great poet ; whose defection, nevertheless, 
 accompanied as it awis by a regular face-about of his 
 special party, was to my juvenile apprehension, and even 
 mature consideration, an event to deplore." 
 
 -» o 1 
 
 0^0 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." 
 
 This poem was written for, and inscribed to, William 
 Macready, the elde^n son of the celebrated actor. Young 
 Macready had much talent for drawing, and on one occa- 
 sion asked Mr. Browning to give him some subject for 
 illustration ; the result was the ever-popular " Pied Piper 
 of Hamelin." 
 
 The story of the Piper was taken from one of the 
 "Familiar Letters" of James Howell (Section vi., Letter 
 xlvii.). 
 
 It is interesting to record that some year or two anterior 
 to the date of the composition of " The Pied Piper," Mr. 
 Browning's father had produced a poem founded upon the 
 same legend. The MS. of this effusion is still extant. 
 
 "The Return of the Druses." 
 
 This play was originally christened " Mansoor the 
 Hierophant," and under this title it was duly advertised at 
 the end of the 1840 edition of " Sordello." In a letter 
 addressed to Mr. Edmund Gosse on June 4th, 1879, Mr. 
 Browning thus detailed his reason for making the change : 
 
 " ' Mansoor' was one of the names of the third Vatemite 
 Caliph, Biamvallah, — but the word ' Hierophant ' was used 
 inadvertently. I changed the title to ' The Return of the 
 Druses,' and the name to ' Djabal.' It is very good of you 
 to care about the circumstance." 
 
 "Waring." 
 
 The original of " Warmg '' was the late Mr. Alfred 
 Domett, who was born at Camberwell, May 2o!;h, 1811. 
 He published a volume of poems in 1883 ; was called to 
 the Bar at the Middle Temple in 1841 ; emigrated to New 
 Zealand in 1842, and eventually became Premier of that 
 Colony. He returned to England in 1871. In 1872 he 
 published his chief poem, " Ranolf and Amohia, a South 
 
 324 
 
Notes. 
 
 Sea Day Dream." He died at Kensington, in November, 
 1887. 
 
 Several of ihe poems contained in " Bells and Pome- 
 granates " had appeared previously in various periodicals, 
 as follows : 
 
 "Claret and Tokay." 
 
 Originally printed in " Hood's Magazine," vol 1., No. vi., 
 June, 1844, p, 525. 
 
 "France and Spain." 
 
 Originally printed (under the title of " The Laboratory, 
 A7icien Regime''')^ in "Hood's Magazine," vol. i., No. vi., 
 June, 1S44, pp. 513, 514- 
 
 "Garden Fancies." 
 
 Originally printed in " Hood's Magazine," vol. 11., 
 No. vii., July, 1844, pp. 45-48. 
 
 " Madhouse Cells."— I. 
 
 " There's Heaven above; and 7iight by night .•" 
 
 Originally printed (under the title of " Johannes 
 Agricola,--; in "The Monthly Repository," vol. x., New 
 Series, 1836, pp. 45, 46. 
 
 "Madhouse Cells." — II. 
 
 " The ram set early in to-?iight." 
 
 Originally printed (under the title of "Porphyria," in 
 "The Monthly Repository," vol. x., New Series, 1836, 
 pp. 43, 44. 
 
 "Pippa's Song." 
 
 " A King lived long ago.' 
 
 Originally printed (with considerable variations) in 
 "The Monthly Repository," vol. ix.. New Series, 1835, 
 pp. 707, 70S. 
 
 325 
 
Bells and Pomegranates. 
 
 "The Boy and the Angel." 
 
 Originally printed (with considerable variations) in 
 "Hood's Magazine," vol. ii., No. viii., August, 1844, PP- 
 140-142. When the poem was reprinted in No. vii. of 
 " Bells and Pomegranates," five new couplets were added. 
 
 "Flight of the Duchess." 
 
 Originally printed in "Hood's Magazine," vol. iii., 
 No. iv., April, 1845, PP- 313-318. 
 
 "The Tomb at St. Praxed's." 
 
 Originally printed in " Hood's Magazine," vol. iii., 
 No. ii., March, 1845, PP* 237-239. 
 
 355 
 
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