7-23. THE WIERD WANDERER OF JUTLAND. A TRAGEDY. JULIA MONTALBAN. A TALE. BY THE HON. AND REV. WILLIAM HERBERT LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 1822. DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER. The Wierd Wanderer of Jutland, a Tragedy, Julia Montalban, PiA della Pietra, and Hedin, form one Volume. Place the general Title Page before the Tales. Shortly will be Published, The GuAHiBA, a Tale, which may be added to the above. THE WIERD WANDERER OF JUTLAND. DRAMATIS PERSON/E, SWENO. Ubald. Reynald. Knights, Guests, Messengers, and Attendants. Bertha. Agnes. The Wanderer. Scene in Jutland — Sweno's Castle and its vicinity. Time, about 80 hours. THE WIERD WANDERER OF JUTLAND. ACT I. Scene I. — Swend's Hall; a Banquet. SwENo, Ubald, Reynald, Bertha, Agnes, Knights, Ladies, and Attendants. SWENO. Sit, lords, and be the draught of pleasure fiU'd E'en to the goblet's brink! We bid you welcome. And thou, dear lady, whose hand lock'd in mine. As on this day, twenty blithe years have witnessed, We pledge thee in this brimming cup of love. 5 b2 4 THE WIERD WANDERER An I. GUESTS, (drinJcwg.) Health and long life to Sweno and his dame! BERTHA. Tlianks, gentles, for this courtesy. SWENO. My Bertha, Time has sped well with us. Our lovely hostess Wears yet the hue of freshness unalloy'd. While her ripe scion, our sweet Agnes, glows 10 With beauty's blush, like a new beam of morning. We lack not aught, wherewith to tax the fates As niggards of their gifts, being doubly blest In our loved daughter and adopted son. Ubald, thy prowess in each listed field 15 Speaks no mean lineage. As my child I greet thee. UBALD. If to revere you as man's noblest type. To love you as my worthier self, to prize The far-famed honors of your noble house Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 5 As things most dear, which from ill chance to shield, 20 I would encounter danger in such shapes , As human daring may but ill assay, Be a son's duty, it is freely paid. And Uhald still the debtor. Good my lord, Your kindness makes me bankrupt of all thanks, 25 Save the poor service of a faithful arm To ward your rights. SWENO. And we dare trust it, Ubald, Though half our honors hung on the event. To-morrow, sirs, it is our mind to hold A gorgeous tournament, and, by my knighthood, 30 Who wins hath leave to be our daughter's suitor. Good Reynald, is thy lance as keen and strong, As when it tumbled the grim Saracen, Horseman and horse, tilting in Palestine? REYNALD. Ay, noble Sweno ; and a lovelier prize 35 6 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. Makes not tlic hand more sluggard in the charge. I pledge my glove to win. SWENO. Take it, young Ubald, And may all guardian saints to-morrow speed thee! So in the tilt thou dost approve thee victor, Loiid proclamation shall our heralds make 40 To all who dare impugn thy long-lost birthright; And, if none answer to that bold appeal, Valiant we know thee, and shall hold thee noble. UBALD. Ay, marry w ill I. If he cast his gauntlet, And this arm thrust him from his saddle-bow, 45 By heaven and good Saint Olaf, he shall eat it. As that huge dragon, which he slew in Syria, Would have gulp'd up the princess of — Plague on it! I cannot scan the name of half those regions Whence he has scared the devil and his imps. 50 Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 7 REYNALD, (rising.) Sweno, I was bred in war, and learnt the laws Of knightly courtesy which arrests mine anger. I know both what is due to host and guests ; Nor- would I stain thy social board with blood E'en of one chattering pie; else, taunting youth, 55 I well remember, how in Holy Land, When a base renegade provoked my scorn By some light speech, I slew the turban'd caitif With his own rapier. UBALD, And made his bare skull A bonnet for thy mistress. SWENO. Peace, peace, Ubald. 60 Let us have music. Friends, the merry Bacchus Brims not your flowing cups with wonted glee. Agnes, we tax thy sweet voice for a song. 8 THE WIEllD WANDERER Act I. Music. AGNES Sings. I. With a turf at her feet, In her windmg-sheet, 65 Shall Elfricl lie where the wild winds howl; But the deathless shame Of her lost, lost, fame, Shall weigh like a stone on the fair one's soul. II. There's a curse above 70 Upon faithless love, Can turn the morning's ray to dead midnight; There's a secret voice, When false lords rejoice, Can change to dark anguish their soul's delight. Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 9 III. The curse shall cling To the bridal ring Of the faithless lord who left her to mourn ; An angel in the sky Has graven it on high 80 On a scroll of fire that can ne'er be torn. IV. His bride is gay, And his children play, While Elfrid Hes where the wild winds roar; The fiend has set his mark 85 On their heads dark, dark. And the spirit of vengeance is near his door. ( While she is singings Sweno appears strangely agitated, and interrupts her when she has just uttered the word vengeance.^ 10 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. SWENO. 'Tis a fiend's song. Where gat you that foul strain, Crossing our mirtli with such portentous sounds, As if the deep could send the unshrouded dead 90 To scare us from our joys? AGN-ES. Father, it bodes not Evil to us; a wild lay, long since learnt From a wierd woman that craved alms : the notes So sweetly rung in mine attentive ear. Time has not robb'd me of their melody. 95 (Thunder and lightning, which had begun faintly while she was singing, becomes loud and bright^ with noise of violent rain. The agitation of SwENO increases.) SWENO. The heavens frown on this our festival. 'Tis passing strange, that sounds of such dire omen Should break upon our wassail ; quelling the pulse Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 1 1 Of high-born mirth; turning the cheek of joy To very paleness. Daughter, thy sad notes 100 Breathe an infectious gloom, and our kind guests Have miss'd the scope of that sweet mirth we wisli'd them. (Rising.) The tempest waxes, and this ancient castle Rocks with the blast. May the sun's kindlier beam Smile on our pomp to-morrow. I crave your leave. 105 Health and light thoughts attend our welcome friends. [Exeutit SwENo, Ubald, Bertha, Agnes and others. Manent Reynald and two other Knights.'] REYNALD. Great heaven! is this the man, whose mighty name Is blown to the four corners of Christ's empire, Famed for stern valor, marshalling in war With proud array his feudatory swords 110 Like a half-king in Jutland ! To be thus moved ! FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis the distemper of his inward nature. 12 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. The subtle fluid of that flaming mischief Which gives the thunder voice, steals to his heart With secret sickness, curdling all the blood 115 Till his flesh creeps. SECOND KNIGHT. Ay ; ever since that morn, Wliich to his wedded couch gave noble Bertha. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Twas a rough morn. The curse of that fair maid, Who perish'd in the flood, hath ever since Weigh'd like a stone on his distemper'd soul. 120 SECOND KNIGHT. By heaven, methinks, when piping winds do blow. Her form is manifest to his estranged eye. As when she stood on the rock's slippery verge That morn by Helen's chapel. REYNALD. Sirs, to me Your words speak riddles. —J Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 13 SECOND KNIGHT. Heard you ne'er the tale? 125 'Tis twenty years by-gone, as on this morn, Since Sweno led, with pomp and bravery Of princely cost, his bride unto the altar In Helen's chapel, built on the beetling rock Over the torrent, when Saint Mary's church 130 Lay under the Pope's ban, for a foul murder Done in the very aisle while mass was singing. REYNALD. I have mark'd its site, a wild romantic spot ; And its high tower a goodly structure, now Half ruinous: 'tis said that evil spirits 135 Shriek oft at night within its lonesome walls. SECOND KNIGHT. 'Tis like they may; it hath been long disused, A darksome fabric now, and the bleak winds Howl through its broken casements. 14 I'HE WTERD WANDKREK Act 1. FIRST KNIGHT. But that morn Of blazing tapers there was cost enough. 140 SECOND KNIGHT. 'Twas a gay pomp ; but, as the nuptial train, Advancing, near'cl that huge o'er-shelving rock Fast by the stream, the shrill winds mustering stirr'd With such fierce outrage, that each flag was rent, And the thick clouds seem'd big with lowering tempest. 145 When, as they 'gan ascend, a form above Stood with dishevell'd hair, that stream'd upon The blustering gale. It was the loveliest shape, My eyes ere then or since have witness'd ; pale As the chaste moon, and sad as sorrow's statue: 150 But a wild fierceness lighten'd from her looks. As, with one hand out-stretch'd, she gave her words To the rude blast of heaven. I heard them not With clear precision render'd to mine ear. Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 1 /t But it was bruited, that on princely Sweno 155 And all his race she breathed a deadly curse, Summoning them to the dread throne of judgment. REYNALD. Whence and who was she ? SECOND KNIGHT. It was never known ; She vanish'd like a wraith ; but on a bough, Which overhung the swoln stream's eddying foam, 160 Her mantle was found, drench'd by the angry flood ; And 'tis past doubt, she perish'd in the waters, Which roar'd that night, as they would burst their bed. REYNALD. How fared the bridal? SECOND KNIGHT. Sad as a death-wake. The bridegroom rapt in care, like one distraught 165 By some dark agony ; his lovely bride 16 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. Trembling and ashy pale : and all the while The thunder raved with such rebounding roar, That the roof quaked, and the blue lightning's blaze Made every face like a gaunt spectre glare. 170 FIRST KNIGHT. Ne'er has good Sweno, since that ominous morn, Held the mind's peaceflxl tenor. When winds roar. And the hoarse thunder makes the welkin tremble, V His heart seems touch'd as by some icy hand. Shrivelling its core; and some deep cankering wound, That preys within his soul, bleeds fresh and green. REYNALD. 'Tis past belief, in one, whose actions swell Fame's chronicle, far-told ; filling the ear Of expectation with amazing deeds ; Lending new lustre to renowned war. 180 FIRST KNIGHT. There doth not breathe a more undaunted knight Than this same Sweno, saving that touch of weakness. Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 17 Unless it be yon flower of chivalry, All conquering Ubald, fame and fortune's minion. REYNALD. Whence sprung that fiery youth, whose haughty eye Lords o'er this court, as if created man Was form'd for him, not he to yield man service ; So confident, and reckless ? SECOND KNIGHT. Faith I know not. The lady Bertha found him, a weak infant. Cradled midst roses and all summer sweets 190 In that fair chamber, now young Agnes' bower, Fast by the blooming garden. The strange elf, Lapt in deep slumber, smiled, and waking stretch'd Its little arms as if imploring kindness ; And she, just risen from a matron's throes, 195 To pitying love by that endearment moved, Kiss'd its chill'd lips that ask'd the milk of nature, And on her beauteous bosom bade it hush. c 18 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. Protection first, then favor he obtain'd, AVaxing in years, and worth, and valor ; proud 200 As if from kingly blood, hot as a lion, And mastering all spirits by his strength, The people's darling, and the bolt of battle. FIRST KNIGHT. Saving your prowess, I would pawn my sword He wins to-morrow : for of Denmark's knights 205 There lives not one can stand this Ubald's onset. REYNALD. Is it thus ? Yet shall he find one shaft too doughty. Tried oft at Acre and at Ascalon, Wliich hath beat down the brunt of Mahound's chief- tains, Though arm'd with spells of Paynim sorcery. 210 FIRST KNIGHT. God speed you, sir ! 'Twill be no mean encounter Shall stoop his crest to-morrow. Sc. 11. OF JUTLAND. 19 SECOND KNIGHT. Till then, Reynald, Let us be joyous, and with some free cheer Kill lagging time. REYNALD. E'en so ; we have seen no spectres ; And yet me thinks all heaven's blasts are stirring, 215 And its rent bosom seems one sheet of flame. [Exeunt. Scene II. A Grove in the Garden before the Castle, which is seen through the trees. The storm is abating. THE WIERD WANDERER {dlotie.) Hist ! hist ! Wild striving elements, be still. Ominous and still, as brooding mischief is ! When the fell draft of vengeance shall be quafF'd E'en to its bloody dregs, then, then laugh out, 220 c2 20 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. Thou damned spirit of the storm! Foul fiend, Hast thou so many years of lonehness, Whispering revenge, still borne me fellowship. And now, when fate's retributory curse Draws nigh to the achievement, canst thou not wait 225 For hellish joy, till the full spell be woven ? Hist ! hist ! and thou, bright sun, shine forth in glory. Until the moment of appointed justice! The day has been, when I could ill have bided The pitiless tempest and that strife of nature ; 230 But sold to fiends, I dread not now their workings, Lost in despair, and reft of every gift That makes life joyous — Hark ! 'Tis Sweno's voice ! The morn shall not dawn twice, ere thou be summon'd To thy doom ! life for life ! — Away ! away ! 235 [Exit. [Enter from the Castle, Sweno, Bertha.] SWENO. The bolts have spent their fire ; yon lurid cloud St. ir. OF JUTLAND. 21 Still, and disburthen'd of its teeming wrath, Hangs like a misty shroud on the horizon. The air is calm ; Bertha, I breathe more freely. BERTHA. Nay, good my lord, I needs must hold it strange 240 E'en to the natural temper of your soul, That you, so far removed from taint of fear. Instant in danger, firm in resolution, Shovdd start, thus from yourself estranged and wild. At these rude flaws of nature, making 245 Unkind divorce between your alter'd thoughts And that sweet peace they owe you. SWENO. O loved Bertha, There be some thoughts too deep for time to medicine. Which on the seemliest and freshest cheek Would stamp dread's livery, though the heart were steel. 250 22 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I. BERTHA. What thoughts? strange roamings of the troubled fancy, Air-blown imagination's empty bubble ! For shame, my lord ; this is the bodiless spectre Of that poor maniac, whose ill-omen'd vision Comes, like the shadow of a passing cloud, 255 O'er the bright mirror of your better judgment. Fie on't, a dream. SWENO. Would that it were a dream. That I could shake the wrathful spectre from me! The curse of that dread hour will live for ever. Call Agnes forth : I have a fearful thought, 260 Some secret evil overhangs my child. Perchance her sight may soothe me. BERTHA. Be more cheerly ; Swcno, our guests attend us. [Exit bertha. Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 23 swENo (alone.) ' . Vengeful fate, Dost thoii indeed pursue me ! Will not years Atone for one offence ! Last night methouglit 265 , A voice as from my father's tomb cried, " Sweno, " Thine hour is come ! the curse is o'er thine house !" To-day, as I approach'd the festive hall, That flaming cherub seem'd to bar my passage. Which in my life's most prosperous hours of pride, 270 A dreadful vision, oft has cross'd my path. [^Enter agnes.] swENO, {embracmg her.) Ever beloved, forefend thee, gracious heaven ! Thy father's heart is sad. AGNES. My honor'd sire, This is the very breathing hour of bliss ; The storm is roll'd away, and merry birds 275 Do trick their plumes, and sing their cheerful welcome To the mild beam of evening. Ul THE WlEllD WANDERER Act I. SWENO. The heart of youth Is ever bUthe and buoyant. AGNES. Good my father, To-day my wayward strain offended you. Shall I sing one, which oft has sooth'd your fancy 280 In the slow hours of sickness ? Much you praised Its melody, and somewhat the poor skill That gave it voice. SWENO. No, not a song, my Agnes. Music itself is out of tune to-day ; Thy gladsomest notes would fall upon my ear 285 E'en as a passing knell. AGNES. Yet is this day Held festive in our annals, chief for me And my loved father. Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 25 SWENO. Beshrew me, noble maid, If thou shalt lack the joys that well beseem Thy spring of life. The heyday of my blood 200 Is chill'd by the mind's winter ; nature wears not That bland aspect, which to the eye of youth Shows all her forms in pleasant colors deck'd. Thou shalt not miss delights or princely state, While Sweno girds a sword. AGNES. I lack no joys 295 In thy kind presence : from thy brow to chase The gloom, to sing to thee my playful ditties Winning thy lips to smile, and in thine eyes To read a father's blessing, these are joys Enough for Agnes ; nor of gayer sports 300 Is the voice hush'd in bounteous Sweno's palace. [Enter ubald.] SWENO. How fare our guests ? 26 THE WIERD WANDERER Act I, UBALD. Sweno, we miss thy presence. Upon my troth thou hast a royal guest ! That knight drinks deep, but yet his boastful speech Shames his poor draught. SWENO. The noble Reynald, Ubald? 305 UBALD. Ay, he from Palestine. O I could pluck the beard Of such a vaunter ! Pshaw ! it moves my spleen To see a comely knight and stout withal First praise his wine, then praise himself more largely, Still giving birth to some amazing tale 310 Between the cup and lip. Why, sir, this man Kills you more sultans with each draught he quaffs Than there be signs in the bright zodiac. — Arthur, And he who slew the dragon, hight Saint George, Were puny champions ! Agnes, this proud gallant 315 Will purge all Heathendom, and place his bride Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 27 Upon the top-stone of Jerusalem. A murrain on such talkers ! SWENO. Thy blood, Ubald, Knows no controul. Reynald stands well esteem'd, And many a hard field has he fought beside 320 England's bold lion Richard. UBALD. Ay, so he has ; And mown the heads of Paynim sorcerers As boys slay poppies. So it stands recorded Even on the faith of his own boastful speech. Ubald must vail his crest to such high worth, 325 (taking off his helmet, and walking impatiently.) SWENO. Rein thy rash temper. Something bodes within me That evil hangs over the house of Sweno; Perchance from thy quick passion. O my daughter, If this thy hairbrain'd playmate should be victor. Thou wilt have a wild bridegroom. 28 THE WIERD WANDEKKU Act I. UBALD. O good sir, 330 I am rejected, scorn'd ! I have not taken A soldan by the beard in Ascalon. SWENO. God speed thee, boy. Time was the riotous blood So kindled in my veins ; but now the frost Of years steals o'er my pride. No son of mine 335 Shall reap my ample honors ; when I fall. My house is lonely. Ubald, it needs a prop. And who shall take this guerdon from my hand With her rich heritage, must stand approved In feat of arms unrivall'd. UBALD. Princely Sweno, 340 Forgive the hasty and impatient spirit Which boils within me. Whom have I on earth But thee, my more than father? Witness heaven, If Ubald harbours in his ardent soul One wish, but to be worthy thee and thine ! 34.') Sc. 11. OF JUTLAND. 29 SWENO. And so perchance thou art. That lofty temper Which gleams from out thy soul, shows some high birthright, Though unreveal'd. — Agnes, we tarry long. \_Exeunt. END OF ACT I. so THE WIERD WANDERER Act IL ACT II. Scene — A Grove of Ancient Trees with a View of the Castle. A fine Evening after the Storm. THE WANDERER, (ulone.) The storm is hush'd; the turmoil'd elements slumber, And the fierce gale, which rock'd those battlements, 350 Is luU'd and motionless. Meek Nature now, Her fitful passion o'er, sleeps like an infant, A playful smile bedewing its moist lips As its eye sinks in stillness. — There is pleasure In the calm aspect of the firmament 355 E'en when the mind is phrensied. The gaunt wretch. Midst hideous shapes that haunt his fever'd couch, Blesses the day-breeze, and the soothing Ught That beams from the blue heaven. How sweet the breath Act II. OF JUTLAND. 31 Of this mild evening ! It steals over me 360 With thovights that have been long foregone. O Nature, Parent of our best joys, how have I scared thee ! Through what terrific mazes has the fiend Led my despairing steps! These aged trees Spread their green honors to the sun that gilds them 365 In beauty yet unblighted, as when first I trod their shade in youth: but vengeful thoughts Have prey'd upon my vitals ; they have gnaw'd Like the foul worm in secret, till this form, Once ripe with loveliness, has grown a curse, 370 A thing for wolves to bay, man's scorn and terror. {Starting with a look of derangement.) Hark, hark! It is my mother's shriek! I hear it; I hear it now : the sob, the frantic laugh Of my dead parent! They say the devil laughs, When murder is doing. Mother! Mother! look up! Know'st thou not me, thine own, thy blighted child? 32 THE WIERD WANDERER Act TI. 'Twas thus when she was dying; she knew me not, Her strange eye fixt upon the vacant air! {Starting again.) Hark to that shriek again! — Unquiet spirit, Hush! husli! — Vengeance is dark and silent; slow, 380 But certain as the shaft of destiny. Here, like death's messenger, I yield my being To the achievement of that fearful vision, Perpetual inmate of my burning thoughts, By day my agony, the bitter dream 385 Of my distemper'd nights. [^Eyiter agnes and ubald.] See, where they come. Two heedless fowls, into the net of fate ! Be still, weak heart! Hush. Hush. (She withdraws, and conceals herself in the hollow trunk of an old tree.) AGNES. The evening star, AfT II. OF JUTLAND. 33 They say, is love's sweet harbinger. How its beam, Ere yet the sun has ta'en his last farewell, 390 With every pleasant omen bids us welcome! After her boisterous throes Nature smiles on us. See, how each dewy flower is wreath'd with pearls! The sun all-radiant is with glory passing To his bright chamber. Seems it not so, love? 395 UBALD. O Agnes, all my thoughts are full of joy ; And the hot blood so tingles in my veins, Methinks I could outstrip his lazy course. Unto his orient palaces, and drag Star-throned Dominion from her seat in heaven. 400 AGNES. O rash in valour, as in love most wild ! UBALD. Nay, Agnes, on my troth I love thee soother Than the sick miser loves his hoarded pelf. Than the fat burgher his wine-mantled cup, D 34 THE WIERD WANDERER Act II. Cowards their lives, sleek hypocrites their Hes. 405 r faith, sweet lass, thou think'st I love thee well. AGNES. Thou art a saucy knave to say me thus. UBALD, (j)lai/fully.) Think'st thou, my Agnes, if love's hope were granted, Hymen his torch just lighting, all joys ready And fit appHances of blissful state, 410 The bridal deck'd, chambers with perfume breathing, That my fond grasp would cling to this soft palm {taking her hand) As its best treasure? AGNES. Faith, it need not call The tell-tale blushes to a virgin's cheek, To cry thee, ay. UBALD, {laughing). Yet on my word I would not; 415 So I must creep inglorious to thy couch, Act II. OF JUTLAND. 35 As the worm seeks its mate. My Agnes' husband Must be enshrined in the full blaze of glory. O I will place thee in such eminence, ' That men shall bow, women miss their proud looks, 420 And all cry hail, as to the sun of nature ! AGNES. Ah me! thou art a truant to true love. 'Twas ever thus ; Agnes hath scarce a part In the impetuous yearnings of thy fancy. There is some charm, some ill-devised spell, 425 That binds me closer to thy wayward soul, Else would I . . . . {she hesitates). UBALD, {smiling). What would st thou, Agnes? AGNES. {after a pause, leaning on Mm tenderly^ Love thee ever! And more for that untamed rebellious spirit, Which oft in every day's revolving space d2 36 THE WIERD \VANDEUP:R Act II. Thrills me with shapeless fears. O Ubald, Ubald, 430 Agnes hath being but in thy look's sunshine. To be thine, thine, were bliss : of other union The thought with icy chill upon my heart Falls like death's warning. UBALD. Of another union ! God's mercy! is not Agnes mine? my prize? 435 My life, my better self? Have I not won thee, earn'd thee ? Taken thee to my soul's core ? my crown, my glory ! AGNES. Would that to-morrow were past ! The palm of strife Hangs on a slippery chance. Thine arm is matchless. But the weak flutter of a maiden's fear 440 Draws the blood curdling to the seat of life, Wlien in the balance hangs all hope of bliss, And in one scale is death. Act II. OF JUTLAND. 37 UBALD. My blushing trembler, What arm of man, in tourney or in war. Has bow'd my crest? Who has withstood my dint? 445 And when this hand, worth mines of adamant, Is the high guerdon of the bloodless tilt. Will Ubald's arm be not itself to-morrow ? AGNES. I should be fearless, for on thee my trust Leans with true confidence ; my bosom throbs 450 Responsive to hope's pulse, and still is joyous. UBALD. Speak ever thus ! If valor could be lull'd, There is a charm in thy Circ'ean smile Might steep it in perdition. AGNES. Dear Ubald, I well remember, I was scant thirteen, 455 A wayward girl scarce witting what I loved, 38 THE WIERD WANDERER Act II. When one bright morn, beneath the embowering grove Deep in yon flowery garden, I was stretch'd. My hair all loose, my wimple cast aside, And my young fancy was upon the wing 460 Shaping fond wishes; when, as I mine eyes Uplifted, by my side there stood a form Such as I ne'er had seen. Her dress was strange, And motley; her cheek wore a sallow hue. But ardent through that dark complexion glow'd 465 A hectic flush : her look had such a spell As passes human tongue to tell or liken, The coiled serpent's spell, that charms its prey By the eye's glance ; nor could I my face withdraw From the full speculation of that eye 470 That gazed upon me, sweet, but sadly wild; A look, that seem'd to tell of other joys Than were familiar to her present garb. Her figure, though in guise terrific, show'd Perfect concordance, well-turn'd symmetry, 475 Act II. OF JUTLAND. 39 And the fine features of her tawny face Seem'd beauty's ruin. UBALD. Certes a wierd woman; Such figures sometimes cross our path in hfe, Holding deep converse with our destinies, Which for small price they oft reveal most strangely. AGNES. 'Twas even so. Silent some while she stood, Then, with a voice that lack'd not melody, Pour'd a wild ditty, whose sweet-warbled notes Still vibrate strangely on my captived ear. Then gently on my hand she fix'd her touch, 485 While I lay witched by that harmony. And with enquiring finger search'd my palm. Which I half fearfid yielded, half content; And she would tell my fate, for such small coin As my young means might tender. •10 THE WIERD WANDERER Act II. UBALD. Did thine ear 490 Receive her liidden lore ? AGNES. O yes, my pulse Throbb'd high and quick with expectation. She said, my soul was weak, but apt for love, And, if I lack'd not courage, I should wed My soul's best treasure ; but this threat subjoin'd, 495 If knight or prince should win my fated hand, Who owed his state to aught save shining valor, Frightful perdition would o'erwhelm my house And his that wed me. UBALD. That strange tale is rife ; And I do well believe, sweet flower of Jutland, 500 Predicted ruin hath scared many a suitor. Whose lordly crest and richly purfled trappings Shrunk from the threat of fate. Act II. OF JUTLAND. 41 AGNES. Blest be that curse, Which daunts the prowess of unwelcome rivals ! UBALD. Nay, sweetest, would I had a thousand rivals, 505 And on each head a princely diadem, So I might pluck bright honor from their crests. And place it on my Agnes' brow of beauty ! AGNES. Insatiable of glory ! Will no thought Of thy loved Agnes win thy soul to mildness? 510 O Ubald ! if thine arm be blest to-morrow, Our course is level ; the fair gales of heaven Will waft us to that fairy land of hope, Which we have gazed on, as the mariner After long peril of the boisterovis seas. 515 But if mischance attend thee, here I vow. By our best hopes, by all these maiden blushes. No force shall yield this hand, thine own true hand. To other lord : and well my soul assures me. 42 THE WIERD WANDERER Act II. (Thougli mystery hangs o'er thy secret birth) 520 That Ubald came not of ignoble race. Valor and love uphold thine arm to-morrow ! Till then, farewell. [Exit AGNES. UBALD {thoughtfully^ Of an ignoble race ! ' It cannot be ! I feel within me that, Which doth confirm me of proud origin. Else b25 Why throbs my breast with aspirations Of such high nature ? The steed bred for toil, Though pamper'd in the stall of lordly knights, Paws not the field, nor snufFs the air, and neighs. As the swift Arab, when the din of war 530 Comes on his ears erect. Yet would I give Wealth, power, all pomp of pleasure, and all hope Save thee, loved Agnes, and this trusty sword, To know my sirei {He stands thoughtfuUy ; The Wanderer comes forth u no bserved. ) Act II. OF JUTLAND. 43 WANDERER. Minion of valor, hail ! UBALD. ' Ha ! a wierd wanderer of the lonely forest ! 535 If knowledge dwells within that sallow breast, She shall resolve my fate. — • — Woman, — if woman, Nor rather of such beings as in deserts Have airy habitation! — canst thou call To thy mind's eye the semblance of the past, 540 V And things still seal'd in the deep womb of time. Lifting the veil of mazy destiny ? Speak what I am, what I shall be hereafter. WANDERER. Ubald, strange fates hang o'er thee. Thou shalt win, But winning lose, and in one day's short circle 545 Thou shalt drain all the cup of bliss and anguish. UBALD. Foul prophetess, unfold thy hidden meaning. 44 THE WIEIID WANDERER Act II. WANDERER. Peace, peace, rash youth. UBALD. Wierd woman, name my sire ! WANDERER. I may not now. There is a spirit nigh. Which, if that name were breathed, would shriek aloud With such dire adjuration of revenge. That thy young heart would shrivel like a scroll Wrapt in devouring flames. UBALD. Nay then, my sword — WANDERER. Impotent and vain ! think'st thou, that death Has terrors, for who walks night's hideous round 555 Like a bann'd spirit, to life's joys and light Than death itself more dead ? UBALD. Fear'st not mine arm ? Act II. OF JUTLAND. 45 WANDERER. As teeming tempest dreads the mutinous thunder ; As the sea trembles when its billows roar. UBALD. Terrific woman, I adjure thee, name him. 560 WANDERER. Men deem thee valiant, Ubald. Thou didst climb, A fearless stripling then, (myself did mark it,) The giddy height to the crag's beetling brow, And from its eyrie tore'st the unfledged eaglet. UBALD. 'Tis true ; where never human step had clomb 565 Upon the perilous edge, self-poised, I slew The parent savage screaming in mid air O'er the void chasm, and seized its callow young. WANDERER. Did that vain bauble fill thy soul? Below thee. Strong in its beauty, lay this smiling province 570 And Sweno's stately dome. What were thy thoughts. k> THE WIERD WAX DEREK Act II. Proud boy, as firm vipon the slippery ledge Thy foot stood fix'd, and the keen eye survey'd All the wide plain beneath it? UBALD. Thou hast touch'd A string, to which this heart knows well to answer. 575 By heaven, I gazed from that rash eminence With no mean pride. My eye stretch'd wide and far O'er fields and wastes, hamlets and haunts of men. E'en to the sea sail-studded ; and methought E'en then, some heritage as fair and princely 580 Should own me lord. WANDERER. And so perhaps 'tis written In the closed page of fate. A bloody star Glared o'er thy birth. Deeds must be done, ere thou Lord o'er the right of thy proud ancestry, Shall turn the pure sun red. Darest thou obey 585 The fearful call of thine high destinies? Act II. OF JUTLAND. 47 UBALD. To the world's verge, though bottomless and unseen. Light thou the ominous beacon; let thine arm Point o'er the field of death, and I will follow ! WANDERER. • 1 Valiant! — 'tis well: but fame dehvers thee, 590 Though vain and choleric, yet weak withal, And the frail slave of woman. Barest thou win Thy way to vengeance, and re-assert thy name. Though white arms stretch to hold thee, and loved eyes Weep blood for pity? UBALD. Wliat beseems a man, 595 That Ubald dares, though all Circassia's smiles Were leagued to lure him. WANDERER. That which vengeance bids Beseems a man, and thine own wrongs demand it. Fate has no middle path. Dost thou love, Ubald? •I'S IIIE WIKKD WANDKREH Act II. UBALD. Ask you me, prophetess? WANDERER. Death is in the kiss 600 Of those smooth Ups thou wooest. Durst thou see That beauteous form which thy weak fancy doats on, The hair dishevell'd and the white breast bared. Hang on thine arm for mercy, and yet, true To the stern call of vengeance, strike thy poniard 605 E'en to her heart's blood, Ubald? UBALD. Curst of heaven! From what abhorr'd spring flows thine hellish speech? WANDERER. It is hell speaks! It is the voice of judgment From the deep throne of night! Hist! hist! I tell thee The eagle soars which soon must swoop in blood! 610 The lordly eaglet from its eyrie cast Must plume its wing and flesh in gore its talons! V AfT II. OF JUTLAND. 49 • * UBALD. Woman, thy reason swims; thy thoughts are wild. WANDERER. I am not strange ; sometimes the dizzy mist Hangs o'er my brain, and things, long past, seem present. 'Tis the mind's noontide now; the horizon gleams, And that for which my eyeballs long have strain'd Glares close within my grasp. UBALD. Away, wierd woman ! I hold not parley with hell's messengers. WANDERER. Thou canst not leave me, save it be my will; 620 A spell is on thee, Ubald ! What fate bids, Thine arm must execute. The hour is ripe. The word is gone forth from the throne of judgment: The spirit of the deep has spoken it. Hark, Ubald, fearnot! To thy bridal feast 625 E 50 THE WIERD VVANDEllER Act II. Bid the wierd wanderer. — Do I read contempt In thy keen eye? Ha! do these weeds offend thee? UBALD. Uneartlily form, away! WANDERER. Impetuous youth! When thine heart swells with hope, I shall be near thee ! Thou standest blind upon the fiery brink 630 Of that deep gulph, which it were death to plunge in; But heaven shall succour and uphold thee, Ubald. Go forth in pi'ide! go fearless! strike and conquer! UBALD. Mysterious prophetess! thy words are awful. WANDERER. More shalt thou know hereafter : — this learn, Ubald, 635 TJiere is a fearful record in the heavens ; Angels have written it; the dead bears witness, Sweno's whole heritage, this envied province, Act II. OF JUTLAND. 51 And that weak maid withal, were a poor barter For just revenge. [Exit WANDERER. UBALD, (alone.) Forbidden lore perchance 640 And sight of visions not for man design'd Have crazed thee, beldame. Yet was I light before. And thou hast thrown a load on me. Thy features Have some strange power which thrills ine. — This rich province ! Why ay; if Sweno's daughter be my bride, 645 Who shall gainsay my claims? — Ha! spoke she true? My name, my sire unknown; the rights, by nature Stamp'd on this brow, abolish'd quite and lost; No ancient crest this gorgeous helm adorning; Shall slaves call Ubald upstart? The blood cries, 650 This must not be ! — O, though unknown, revered ! Father! how longingly my thoughts have yearn'd To know thy lineaments ! If death has snatch'd thee e2 52 THE WIERD WANDERER Act II. From this our nether world, look down on me! For oft thy form has strode across my slumbers ! 655 If treason has foredone thee, and robb'd thy son Of his best heritage, thy spotless name, O speak to me, in night's still gloom reveal'd, Declare thy wrongs ! Let Ubald fall, or wreak them ! [Enter Reynald.] REYNALD. Thou art wrapt in thought. Men speak thee keen and lightsome, 660 Not given to musing. UBALD. Each humor hath its hour. There is a blithe hour for the lip of love; The sparkling goblet, the bold clamor of battle Have theirs : there is an hour for deeper thoughts, When the soul soars alone beyond the clay 665 That cramps its nature. Be thou welcome, Reynald; To-morrow must thine helmet bow before me; This night let us be cheery. Act it. OF JUTLAND. 53 REYNALD. Thou art boastful, Rash youth! Reynald is Httle wont to strive, ' Save with his equals. His sword strikes down the lofty. But spares the herd. UBALD, {laying his hand on his sivord.) To me? to me this, Reynald? REYNALD. To whom it fits. Valor on lordly crests ^ Sits like a jewel in the diadem, Giving and taking lustre. On the low It shines unseemly, like love's rosy chaplet 675 On the bald front of age, and moves our pity. UBALD, {drawing his sword.) Thou hast said that which must be rued in blood. REYNALD. Not for thy worth, but that good gift of knighthood By princely Sweno's hand too largely lavish'd, I will e'en joust with thee to-morrow, Ubald. 680 54 THE WIERD WANDERER Act II. So thou shalt learn the weight of that tried arm Wliich Pagans shrink from. UBALD. By heaven, thou Hest, to say 'Twas largely lavish'd ! Thou darest not for thy life Brand me with lowly birth, though half my honors Lie in abeyance, and are meekly worn, 685 Till it shall please high heaven to reveal My birthright. The pure blood throbs here more warmly, Caitif, than thine. REYNALD. That speech has seal'd thy doom; Thou shalt not Uve to view to-morrow's tourney. [ They fight, inters S weno with his sword drawn.] SWENO. Forbear, Ubald, forbear! I charge thee, cease! 690 Kind sir, {to Reynald) beseems it ill with such rude broils Act II. OF JUTLAND., 55 To scare our festive joys. Put up, good Ubald. I pray ye, sirs, on pain to lack our friendship, Pursue this wrath no further. Let not hate f Lurk in these walls, to rear her deadly front 695 Amidst our mirth. Pray ye, be friends. Who shivers One lance in wrath is banish'd from our tourney. UBALD. We shall have scope hereafter. Farewell, Reynald. IJExit Ubald. SWENO. Reynald, we should this eve be light and gladsome. But some unfriendly doom o'ertakes and thwarts us. 700 \E,xeunt. END OF ACT II. 56 THE WIERD WANDERER Act III. ACT III. Scene I. The Tournament. A Pavilion in front of the Area in which are the Lists. If it is not convenient to give a Representation of the Fight, the Scene must be so arranged that the Actors may appear to looJc down upon the Area in the back of the Stage which is out of the sight of the Audience. SwENo, Bertha, Agnes, and Attendants. SWENO. The eye of day looks cheerly on our meeting, And the bright bucklers of our helmed knights Send back his courtesy in gleams of fire. {flourish.) BERTHA. Who rides so proudly with yon cross of red ? Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 57 SWENO. 'Tis doughty Reynald, and that black devise 705 Is the known emblem of illustrious Biorn. (Jlourish.) BERTHA. Mark how they charge ! how lance and buckler crash ! The red-cross wins : that sable crest is low. J AGNES. father, who is yonder giant champion, Whose lance seems weightier than a weaver's beam, 710 He of the eagle-crest ? SWENO. Harald of the Isles. A readier knight hath never buckled steel ! And by my faith a noble wooer, Agnes. 1 knew not of his presence. This day's prize Hath drawn a sturdy suitor to the lists, 715 And our best gallants quail. By heavens, I miss 58 THE WIERD WANDERER Act III. Their prompt alacrity : strong Haralcl rides Round the void hsts as victor, undefied, And not a lance is couch'd. — See ! Shout without. Ubald! Ubald! SWENO. See, how young Ubald dares him to the proof! 720 His lance is in the rest. {flourish.) On, on they rush, Like the swift whirlwind ; they are lost in dust. By heaven, 'tis proudly done ! {Agnes screams faintly, loohing forward with eagerness.) Shout without. An Ubald ! Ubald ! SWENO. Why that huge champion of the misty isles Cumbers a rood of ground. — Right gallant Ubald ! 725 Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 59 O daughter, tliou hast lost a princely bridegroom, And his broad lands in Orkney. Much I marvel Who may withstand that dint which unhorsed Harald. BERTHA. Lo, where the red-cross gleams ! SWENO. High-crested Reynald ! If any strength can bide him, it is thine ! 730 {flourish.) BERTHA. What ails thee, child ? Thy cheek is blanch'd with fear. Remember, Agnes, of what blood thou comest. SWENO. Liffhtnins is not more sudden than their charge. Saint Mary ! they bear them nobly, both unharm'd ; The area shakes beneath them. See ! they wheel, 735 Like two big clouds careering in mid air. 60 THE WIERD WANDERER Act TII. They clash again. O what a shock was there ! The steeds are riderless upon their flanks, Shiver'd each lance. The sword must win the day. ( 77/6' clash of swords is heard.) BERTHA. Now heaven defend thee, Ubald ! thou hast need 740 Of all thy prowess. AGNES. O his foot hath slipt ! Eternal mercy, save him ! SWENO. He is up, He bears him like a lion in the fight. His blows rain thick as hail. Shout without. Hurrah ! hurrah ! Ubald, brave Ubald is the victor ! Ubald. 745 {Agnes sinks half faint into the arms of Bertha.) Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 61 SWENO. Our lion-cub has gain'd the day, and nobly. Shout without. Ubald ! brave Ubald is the victor ! Ubald ! [Flourish. Enter ubald, and otuer knights.] \ Enter ubald, with his drawn sword in his left hand, and the broken sword of Reynold in his right. "l UBALD. A boon, a boon, sir ! Bid thy seneschal Cut heronshaw and peacock with this blade, This boasted dragon-carver from Aleppo ! 750 SWENO. Ubald, we greet thee with a parent's joy. The day is thine ; but ere we make thee welcome As our child's suitor, whose abashed cheek Has changed fear's livery for a brighter color, Loud proclamation must the trumpet make, 755 To all, whatever be their rank or station, 62 THE WTERD WANDERER Act III. Sounding our summons ; so they may unfold The mystery of thy birth, which we deem noble. [Enter Reynald and others.'\ UBALD. Make proclamation for a leech, my sire ! The conqueror of the east, the sultan-slayer, 760 Has wrench'd his princely sinew. Faith 'tis well. Else Ubald had been minced by this rare blade, As trenchermen cleave larks. Say'st thou not, Rey- nald? REYNALD. False boy, thou didst take vantage of my mercy. 'Twas thy foot sHpp'd ; and, but I staid mine arm 765 In pity to thy youth, thou wert not here To taunt me thus. Thou, when I thought thee shent, Didst, tygerhke, spring on me unawares. And that tried falchion snapp'd. Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. G3 UBALD. Aye, this strong weapon, To wliich the skulls of infidels were paper, 770 Broke on the boy's arm. O 'twas foully play'd To deal the blows too fast upon thee, Reynald ! I cry thee pardon. It behoved me wait Till Reynald had ta'en breath. 'Twas most dis- courteous ; I should have waited on my bended knee 775 Thine own good time. REYNALD. This is no feud of words ; Thy way of mirth dishonoreth a name Which brooks no stain. By all the shades of those Who at life's cost have known me true and loyal, I do defy thee, Ubald, unto death. 780 Earth is too narrow for thy spring of pride. UBALD. And the nine heavens, my spirit is so buoyant ! 64 THE WFERD WANDERER Act III. Yet deem not, Ubalil from thy manly brow Would pluck the wreath of reputation By such light speech. I do embrace thy challenge ; 785 But hark ye, Reynald, this morn to arms was given, Love claims to-morrow. SWENO. Sirs, these feuds oflPend us. Thou, Agnes, as befits thee, with yon cuirass, Palm of this trysting, gird victorious Ubald. Nay, by my knighthood, had I bid thee give 790 Thyself, a worthier palm, thou couldst not change The clear complexion of thy natural hue To brighter vermeil. Agnes, on my troth I think thou fain wouldst give thy blushing self. The unsunn'd whiteness of this virgin hand, 795 A brighter guerdon. {taking her hand, jestingly.) Have a care, young trembler ! So. T. OF JUTLAND. 65 Perchance, at our citation, mailed Mars May claim him to his heaven. Have a care, daughter! (agnes lifts up the golden cuirass to offer it to ubald. At that moment the trumpet sounds again. Re- enters MESSENGER hurried.) SWENO. What tidings ? MESSENGER. Noble Sweno, scarce the herald Had proclamation made, giving loud breath 800 To the shrill trumpet's brass, when from the crowd Stepp'd forth a wizzard shape in female guise, Craving admittance to this lordly presence. {Flourish. Enter wanderer, preceded by a Herald.) WANDERER. Sweno, I come, obedient to thy best, Fate's secret to unravel, which disclosed, 805 Egress unharm'd I claim for me — and mine. F 66 THE WIERD WANDEREH Act III. SWENO. Granted. — Wheat bear'st thou? From what fountain sprung Did vaUant Ubald draw the blood of Ufe ? WANDERER. From hell's own fount accurs'd ! A fatal spell Hung on the horned moon, the raven croak'd, 810 A\lien he was born. — Ubald, behold thy mother ! UBALD. Base witch, thou liest, to say thou art my mother. 'Tis a foul lie, and thou art wild to speak it ! WANDERER. What my lips speak, shall my clear proofs avouch. UBALD. 'Tis false. Produce them, base suborned proofs ! 815 SWENO. A jewell'd bracelet by his side was left. Canst thou describe it, giving to the ear Sc. I. - OF JUTLAND. 67 Just apprehension of its form and color ? { To the Herald.) Bring forth the casket, whose lock bears the rust Of twenty years. (He unlocks it.) WANDERER. The eyes have shrewder judgment 820 Of nice proportions in the workman's art, Of shape and size, of color and quaint fashion, Than the tongue's skill can render to the ear. Behold its fellow. {She gives him a bracelet. He opens the casket, and takes out a bracelet, which he compares with it.) SWENO. On my faith 'tis strange. Two sister orbs in the most proper face 825 Shine not with liker water than those gems ; Nor the long lashes cast more equal shade, f2 68 THE WIERD WANDERER Act III. Than does the fretted gold wherein they lie, Like living lights in the fringed eyelids chased. UBALD. O treason ! O base thief, thou hast purloin'd it ! 830 BERTHA. 'Tis like she hath; with sacrilegious hand Riflins the vault, where lie entomb'd the bones Of her who gave thee being. UBALD. 'Tis like? — 'tis certain! SWENO. Say, woman, in that helpless infant's cradle What else was found, by no enquiring eye 835 Save mine and noble Bertha's ever question'd? WANDERER. A scroll, whereon these words, in thy mind's tablet Long since deep graven. — Run not the couplets thus, Though the last words be from that legend rent? Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 69 " The secret piece from this indenture torn 840 " Was sever'd at the hour this child was borne " From its proud mother; when they reunite, " The vaUant son shall meet his mother's sight." And now I tender to thy judging eye, Long saved, long cased in gold with precious care, 845 {taking it out of a small box) The fragment of that scroll. — See, see ! — it fits The nice indentures of that wavy rent, Which no art's skill could liken! See the words Traced by one hand, quaint nature's character! Comes that untainted scroll from the damp vault 850 Of charnel-houses ? Am I not thy mother? SWENO. O past conjecture wondrous! Name his father. WANDERER. He has no father ! Ask the wandering billows Of the storm-beaten sea, who made their bosom Team with the finny myriads ! Ask the winds, S55 70 THE WIERD WANDERER Act Hi. Who fill'd their darkUng and invisible womb With bUght and pestilence ! He has no father. UBALD. Dread being! mother not, but fiend, I name thee! If true the accursed tale, thy child of want, Safe cradled in the arms of joy and honor, 860 Why call'st thou now to misery and ruin ? Why dash to earth the wreath, thine art had woven? Speak, foul witch, speak. WANDERER. Betray'd, out-cast, abandoned, Man's roof has not o'er-shelter'd me ; the blast, Not age, has blanch'd these elf-locks. I have known 865 Dire want and loneHest savage wanderings. The fearfuUest glens, the tangled precipice, Have been my lair ; the demon of the tempest My comforter : to sights abhorr'd of men And fellowship with every cavern's inmate 870 Use has made me familiar ; the gaunt wolf) Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 71 The eagle, knows my coming and outgoing, And in compassion to man's outcast yields Share of his bloody banquet. Where I roam'd. The nightdew was my balm, the baleful clouds 875 My canopy ; and, by their sulphurous bolts Illumed, my rocky threshold gleam'd with splendor That did outshine the emblazon'd halls of kings. Nor envied I man's palaces. — But such Was not fit cradle for weak infancy. 880 The firm endurance of an injured soul May smile mid nature's terrors, and even hail The fiend that nurtures them ; but helpless years Lack milder mother's-milk. SWENO. What phrensy then, Mysterious phantom, say, what hateful purpose 885 Now, in the prime and summer of its growth, Strikes down that glorious scion, deck'd with honors. '72 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IH. From this exalted station, where tliy fraud 1 lad safely planted it ? WANDERER. Look upon me ; Proud mortal, mark this gaunt and abject being ; 890 These skeleton-like limbs and sun-parch'd skin ' Which once had bloom and beauty! — See me now The haggard child of want, and scorn, and wo ! Whose hope is but despair ! The very dogs Howl after me, as if the mouldering grave 895 Had cast me from its foul abhorred womb Polluting with my breath the face of heaven. Sunk as I am, perchance amid the blaze Of yon gilt banners, girded with the pomp Of gorgeous chivalry, some bosom shrinks 900 From inward horror, to whose nightly visions My lot were paradise. I would not change These tatter'd garments for your bravery. — Ubald, a-.vake! If I have dash'd from thee Sc. 1. OF JUTLAND. 73 This cup of joy, drugg'd deep with smiling mischief; 905 If all the friends of thy proud-budding youth Drop off fi'om thee, as from the wither'd tree ' The worms that fed on it ; if glory's course Rejects thee, offspring of despair and want; Know, thou hast friends among the wrecks of nature. 910 O there is joy amid the crashing storm, When the rack scuds before the rushing winds. And all is ruin ! Where the sea-mew screams Mid desert caves may be thy nuptial bower ; The howling wolves shall yield thee minstrelsy. 9 1 5 Ha ! ha ! ha ! {She laughs hidcoiishj). SWEKO, {rising.) Out of my sight, accursed of heaven ! away ! WANDERER. {Withdrawing slowly, with a look and action of threatening and savage contempt.) The curse of heaven will be soon fulfiU'd. [Exit. '* THE WIERD WANDERER Act III SWENO. Brave champions, this our joy is turn'd to sadness. Ubald, we still uphold thee ; and thy deeds Shall win thee rank and reverence and honors : 920 But such alliance suits not with our bearing; And we perforce must name, of those whose rank May make them bold to be our daughter's suitors, Reynald, though vanquish'd, victor. — Welcome, Rey- nald ! Child of my heart, come with me. AGNES. Ubald! Ubald! 925 {Exeunt all but ubald, who remains alone in deep thought. The Scene falls in front representing a Woodland outside the Lists, ubald enters slow and thoughtful, and leans on the point of his sword. He starts suddenly into a defensive attitude.) ubald. Avaunt! spectre of hell, avaunt! — Stay, Ubald! Sc. II. OP JUTLAND. 75 Thy brain is madden'd ; thy stunn'd senses reel. (Starting again.) Who dared to call this wretched being Ubald? There was a time, I well remember me, When that name sounded in the lists of fame, 930 Valor's first minion : 'twas a gallant name, And he who bore it, vail'd his crest to none. And men would doff their caps, and cry " Live Ubald '." 'Tis past — it was a dream — I am not Ubald ! All, all's unsound ! the very earth we tread on 935 A counterfeit ! a faithless sod, that mantles The bubbling of a bottomless abyss. Nature itself is false. — There is no Ubald ! He, who usurp'd that name's a slave, an upstart ! A Uar, a pitiful, a base-born slave ! 940 (A pause.) I have heard tell, that, when the unchaste moon Peeps with her broad eye glaring from above, Men's thoughts are phrensied : I do well believe, 76 THE WIERD WANDERER Act III. • That we are drawn like puppets by her power Through fate's invisible and airy maze, 945 Even as the tides of ocean ebb or swell At her strong bidding. Life's a mockery, And we, that tread this motley earth, are fools. And madmen. Else, amid the battle's hurley Wliy has this arm oft turn'd the flood of war, 950 Outvying opposition, till the cry Of victory through all the welkin rang, Filling the trump of glory ? if that name, Once bright like Lucifer, and like him lost. Falls as a star from heaven ! — O Agnes, Agnes, 955 What demon from my hand has dash'd the chalice, Which thou hadst crown'd with bliss ! — Ha ! if thy faith Forswear me now, — baseborn — despised — rejected. I will not, dare not think it. — Joy of my soul, I still have trust in thee ! Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 77 (He remains wrapt in thought, the wanderer enters tinperceived.) WANDERER, (aside.) f My son '.—alas, 960 In that brief word how many thoughts he blended ! O long divorced, estranged, from this lone heart, And yet my son ! — I thought my soul was steel'd Against all fond impression, trebly arm'd With the keen temper of the merciless blade ! 9G5 And yet how painfully the name of son Falls on this wither'd heart ! — O Ubald, Ubald, The cherub peace is waking in my soul. Which has not carol'd there since thou wert born ! (Aloud.) My son! UBALD, (seizing her vehemently.) Call me not son ! — O Satan's mate ! 970 By what foul spell hast thou atchieved my ruin ? What traitor has suborn'd thee ? Make thy treason ■^8 THE WIERD WANDERER Act III. As manifest as day, or I will tear Thy shrivelld flesh, and cast it to the wolves. Hast thou not told a tale of damning falsehood ? 975 WANDERER. If I be Satan's mate, thy fury speaks thee Child of my womb. (He lets go his hold.) 'Tis meet that I, fate's tool, Should be accurst of mine own issue. Smite me. Fierce Ubald ! Bury in eternal night The secret of thy birth ! Slay her, who bore thee ! UBALD. O terrible of women, I will kneel Even in prostration meekly to the hem Of thy rent garment, so thou wilt reveal The name of him whose stamp I bear. WANDERER. 'Twould need A raven's note to name him. Rather ask 98.5 Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 79 That fearful word, which, but once breathed aloud, Would have dissolv'd the fabric of this world And all the gorgeous firmament above us, /■Letting hell loose from its eternal chain. UBALD. And though the sky should reel, the rock-Staid sea 990 With the foundations of the crazy earth Quake to their base, I would demand it. WANDERER. Ubald, There stands between thee and thy burning wishes A wide gulph fixt, which to o'erleap were death. By all heaven's flaming lights thou art my child ! Wilt thou avenge me, Ubald ? — The event Hangs on my word, whether to uphold or plunge thee Deep, deep, into that fiery gulph of ruin. UBALD. My heart yearns painfully to know my father. 80 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IH. WANDERER. Thou slialt learn nothing, till I am revenged! 1000 Rave, thou hot youth ! Strike rashly, strike thy mother ! Or kneel, and, Ubald, swear to slay the man Who made thee fatherless ! I tell thee, son, If that thou hast an ear, a heart, a soul, That cry for vengeance, which appals me nightly, 1005 Must have been heard by thee. Swear, Ubald, swear ! UBALD. There needs no oath to spur me to that goal, No, nor blind curse ! By heaven, show me the man. That made an orphan of ill-fated Ubald, And I will drag him to such strict account, 1010 No second sun shall dawn on him and me. WANDERER. Swear it ! UBALD. By all heaven's gifts T swear it ! — Name him. Si'. II. OF .[UTLAiND. 81 ■i' WANDERER. Sweno ! proud Sweno made thee fatherless ! Haste, Ubald ! slay him ! — Wilt thou not avenge me ? UBALD. The spirit of Satan dwells in thy foul lips ! 1015 Thou darest not say it ! WANDERER, Wilt thou not avenge me ? UBALD, {with great emotioti.) Say, who ! and when, and where ! how fell my father ? WANDERER. Nay. not a word, till that dread debt be paid : Then shall my speech reveal no humble rights. Ubald, thine oath ! Vengeance on haughty Sweno t UBALD. Mysterious Being, thy words fall like drops Of poison, blistering whate'er they touch. My soul is horror-struck. Shall Ubald slay One sire, kind substitute for nature's tie, 82 THE WIERI) WANDERER Act 111. At thy strange bidding, unreveal'd the tale 1025 Of his lost birthright, and unknown his father ? WANDERER. Wilt thou not slay him ? UBALD. By the living light, I will not touch his hoary brow with harm, For all that thou and thy fell crew can tempt with ! WANDERER. say not thus — 'twere better for thee, Ubald, 1030 To riot in the blood of innocents, To earn the mark of Cain, than bear the doom \^niich must o'erwhelm thee if thou brave this bidding. Stay! the ground quakes beneath thee! UBALD. Let it gape : 1 will not hurt the head of honor'd Sweno. 1035 WANDERER. Beware ; his lot is seal'd ; and thine hangs trembling Sell. OF JUTLAND. 8S In the eternal scale ; whether to reap Thy glorious heritage, or wear a curse, Which but to whisper would make the horrent hair 'Bristle thy youthful brows. Wilt thou kill Sweno ? UBALD. Not, though the firm earth yawn'd, and from its depth Fate own'd thy ministry. WANDERER. O fiends of vengeance, Sear up my milk of nature ! Dry the source Of pity's womanish tears, or let them fall Like A'ater on the hissing furnace cast, 1045 Giving new strength to all-devouring flame ! Devoted Ubald, be fate's will atchieved, Though it must shiver thee ! If vengeance move not. Love shall perforce arouse thee ! Shall that Reynald To-morrow, triumphing in thy disgrace, 1050 Lead Agnes to the altar ! Shall Ubald gape. And cry, " Long live the bride ! Health and ripe joys Or THE WIERD WANDERER Act 111. This may be rued; for thou perforce art mine In all thy flood of beauty, and must bend. This splendid heritage outweighs thy love. [Exit. END OF ACT III. Act IV. OF JUTLAND. 107 ACT IV. Scene I. THE WANDERER, {alofie.) That thou dost love the maid suits well my purpose; It is the helm which guides thee to that port Where vengeance calls ; but think not thou shalt take That viper to thy bed, the child of Sweno ! Lost as I am, and stamp'd by nature's curse, Thou art my son; and sooner would I wring 1335 The life blood from this heart, than see thee batten On that abhorred couch. Once have I stood Between thee and that leap, when fate seem'd fixt. And thou already in thine ardent hopes Forejoyd'st her charms. Once more I will arrest thee. Ere Agnes be thy wife; or, if thou wedd'st. 108 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IV. Thou shalt embrace a corse. — This is fate's seal, {producing a phial.) Love's antidote. This philtre from tliine hand Shall lull her maidish fears in that sound sleep Which knows no waking. [Enter ubald.] UBALD. Woman, still thou meet'st me At each turn like my evil destiny. What wilt thou? WANDERER. Aid thee. UBALD. I would be alone. The blood is stirr'd within me, and thy sight Offends my thoughts. WANDERER. Hast thou seen Agnes ? Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 109 UBALD. Seen her ! In the broad face of day I have reqmred her, 1350 ' My prize, my right. Great gods ! I have been scorn'd. Trampled by Sweno's pride. WANDERER. 9 'Tis well. — The curse Will soon o'ertake him. Thou seek Agnes' chamber ; The shades of evening thicken, and the sounds Of clamorous revelry are sunk in silence; 1355 It is the hour of love. UBALD. Speak not of love ; I feel a strange and preternatural awe Thrill through me in thy presence. Leave me, woman. WANDERER. Yet will I aid thee, Ubald. Take this phial, A potent philtre, brew'd with secret spells 1360 When the moon's face was full : in man 'twould breed 110 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IV. Aversion, fear, or death ; but, given to woman, Its powerful charm will so entlirall her will Led by its strong invisible influence, That she must bend to him who ministers. 1 365 Give this, and she is won. UBALD, {taking it). I have e'en heard That such things are, and of portentous might. Thou rosy draught, in which the loves sit smiling. No sea-tost mariner ere hail'd the land With its fresh dawn of verdure, no sick mourner 1370 The beam of health, with such heart-stirring joy As the scorn'd lover, vex'd with hopeless wishes. Would bless thy perfidy ! O most subtle thief. Canst thou with witching and seductive skill From the closed issues of the pitiless mind 1375 Draw sweet accordance, moulding the stern thoughts Even to the form and quality of fondness? Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. Ill WANDERER. The virtue is in the proof. Present that philtre, And thou shalt find the gently kindled heart Turn quick and tremulously to thy bidding, 1380 As doth the magnet to its proper pole. UBALD. These toys are for the humble ; — such as crawl Content to owe their summer-growth of fortune To paltry plotting and mean artifice. Woman, I scorn thy gifts. (He dashes it on the gromid.) When Ubald takes 1385 The kiss of love, or unbought wreath of honor By a wizzard's trick, fall from him, gracious Heaven ! To others thy curst wares ! my hopes need no Unhallow'd aid. WANDERER. Mad boy, thou art undone ! The fruit, when thou hast press'd its precious savor, 112 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IV. Shall turn to bane : the venomous rind cling to thee Loathsome, destroying life. Still take my counsel, Ere fate shall close her adamantine gate Thro' which there is no return. UBALD. I will not, sorceress. Thine indirect and artful policy 1395 Suits not my bearing. — Come, thou holy parent. First source of love, with unadulterate speech Inform my tongue, and show the guileless spell Of thine own eloquence, resistless Nature ! — Bid thy priest wait me under Helen's porch. 1400 Thus far I use thee. [Exit. THE WANDERER, {alone.) O fell Destiny, With what prevailing and tremendous power Thou goad'st me to the goal ! Thy tread is like The rush of many waters, indistinct Sc. I. OF JUTLAND. 113 But dreadful, coming louder on the ear And big with ruin. I am borne on by fate 1405 And that relentless never-ceasing voice , Which swells within me to the utterance, My mother's cry. It is here, here, here, rising {She touches her forehead) As the low murmur from the hollow earth Which bodes the hurricane. — See there! See there! She stands; she beckons — See! she glares upon mc, As in the frantic moments of her death. There was none near her in that agony. But the lost wretch who drew perdition on her. Away, away, this is no time for thought. 1415 [Exit. 114 THE WIERD WANDEUKR Act IV. Scene II. The Garden before the Door of Agnes' Chamber. Dusk. UBALD. Once more, loved shades, I tread your fragrant lawn. Scene of my earliest joys! not, as before, Elate and joyous; but, like night's marauder, I steal unto the plunder of those joys Day will not yield me. I am ill used to deeds 142Q That shun the light; my firm nerve quakes and trembles. Which never blench'd before. Strange thoughts assail me. With what a plain and level course till now My barque has steer'd through this world's stormy ocean, Breasting its turbulent wave as if in triumph! 1425 Now is my course obscured, and tempest-tost I roam amid the billows. In thee, Agnes, Sc. II. OP JUTLAND. 115 Life's only sunshine dwells: joy, fatne, and glory, Are but the rays of one revolving circle, In which thy cherish'd form is fixtand center'd. — 1430 No voice. — The sounds of mirth have ceased within, And no lights flit along those arched casements. Now to love's work ! Be still, thou murky air, And shroud with thy soft veil the theft I purpose! (Holding out the key and tinlocJcing the door.) thou quaint minister to daring love, 1435 *^ Do thy kind secret ofiice, and unlock This shrine of chastity! — Hush! — Agnes! Agnes! 'Tis Ubald's voice that steals upon thy slumber. AGNES, (coming out fearfully.) What means my Ubald? At this hour! alone! How couldst thou break the privacy of my chamber? 1 dare not speak with thee. UBALD. Nay, nay, Agnes, Time yields no season now for doubt or scruples. ^2 116 THE VVIERi:) WANDERER Act IV. I would not trench, no not by one small atom, Upon that reverence my love should yield thee ; But, while we speak, e'en now wing'd moments fly, 1445 To wrest thee from mine arms for ever. Agnes, I have not built my love upon the sand? Thy faith will not fall from me? AGNES. Sooner, Ubald, This timid heart would brave the oppressor's sword. Than fall from thee; but steal not like a thief 1450 Upon the night; I dare not greet thee freely. My life, my lord. UBALD. ' If Ubald is thy life. Thou must be his, and this night, lovely trembler. AGNES. Ubald, thou art wild to say to-night. UBALD. 1 am not wild: and yet I am wild, Agnes, 1455 He. II. OF JUTLAND. 117 -:' To think that life's whole joy is on the cast Of this swift hour. AGNES. This hour! UBALD. Thou darest not bide Till the morn break, and with insulting joy Reynald shall come to tear thee to the altar! AGNES. O never, Ubald! by our loves I swear 1460 Sooner to die, than wrong thee! UBALD. Oaths are vain. Hands even now are plying, chaplets woven. To deck thee for to-morrow's sacrifice; Sweno has vow'd it. Agnes, thou art mine This night, or blood must stream upon thy bridal. 1465 AGNES. Merciful heaven! what dost thou meditate? O Ubald, smite not in thy wrath ! 118 THE VVIERU WANDERER Act IV. UBALD. 'Tis thou, Thy cold delay, which goads me to such phrensy. Say, dearest, thou wilt be my bride to-night. The priest awaits; thy Ubald kneels to thee. 1470 AGNES. Ubald, thou wrong'st the chaster thoughts of duty. Which dare not yield what the weak heart would grant. I must not hear thee ; but the trembling soul Bleeds to say nay. I may not fly my father. UBALD. Then bide, O false one, and be Reynald's victim! — And yet thou darest not wed him ! — Agnes, Agnes, Thou couldst not yield this hand, thine Ubald's treasure. And look upon the sun, that lit thy treason. AGNES. Indeed I durst not. UBALD. Agnes, this hand is pledged Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 119 To me and to my fortunes; it was given 1480 In the fair prime and sunshine of our loves, Which must abide through every change of season, Not worn as summer garments, to be cast When ruder hours assail us. Here I hold it Before the face of heaven, and those pure orbs 1485 Which heard the pledge. I will not loose this hand. Till at the altar vows assure thee mine. Though it were parricide to hold it, Agnes. Thy sire will come! Despair hath wrought me mad. {Kneeling, and clasping her hand passionately .) Say thou wilt be my bride! Have mercy, Agnes! 1490 Blood will be spilt ere morn, if thou deniest me. AGNES. O Ubald, I am riven by love and duty. Would that I durst! UBALD. O yield thee to my faith ! To say me nay, is to say nay for ever. Agnes, to-night or never we must wed. 1495 120 THE WIEllD WANDERKR Act IV. AGNES. Ubald, do not tempt me to a deed, Which shall embitter all our after-joys. Heaven will not smile on disobedient vows. My sire will curse us. Spare me, beloved Ubald ! 1 have not strength to strive against thy wrath. 1500 L'BALD. The priest attends us, love. The solemn rites, That make thee mine, shall steep thy thoughts in peace. AGNES. Dear Ubald, peace can never crown the guilty. I am too weak, too deeply pledged in love, To hold that proud demeanor, which I owe 1505 To my own name and to my noble father. But do not cozen me with empty hopes! Guilt may have some brief pleasures, great though anxious ; But peace dwells' only in the path of duty. Make me not, Ubald, what thyself will scorn, 1510 An outcast child! Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 121 UBALD. Would Ubald cause thee sorrow? In infant years, whene'er thy heart was sad, And I had been but one day absent, thou Wouldst rush into mine arms and there pour forth Thy gentle sorrows, and they straight would vanish. And wouldst thou place a bottomless gulph between us ? Thou wilt not tear thee from me ? Night is waning. Come, best beloved! AGNES, {yielding.) I am too weak. {Stopping again.) ' Hark, Ubald! There is an angry whisper of the air, The shivering trees do rustle with each other. 1520 O tempt me not to ruin, loved, loved Ubald ! Let me once see my sire, and press his knees With burning tears, that he may spare his child! UBALD. Agnes, the word of knighthood duly given 122 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IV. Is law to Swcno. There is now no hope 1525 Save in our instant union. Footsteps move Through yon dark corridor. Come friend or foe, Ubald will not resign thee but in death. Yield, love; despair and death are in delay. AGNES. {She leans upon him with a burst of tears.) Ubald, I yield me; but my bosom shrinks 1530 With ominous terrors. UBALD. Fear not! Come, dear bride. {^Exeunt. Scene III. Before the Porch of Helen's Chapel. Night. THE WANDERER, (ttlone.) Stay, moon, thy rising! When thy conscious eye Shall pierce the curtain'd east, fate's bolt must fall, Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 123 Blurring thy beams with blood. O I am faint, And gladly would I lay this fever 'd head 1535 On the cold ground, and lull my thoughts in death. The memories of years rise ghastly round me, , And the soul sickens with the sad review Of all my wanderings. At such an hour (I mind it now, although the mist hangs often 1540 O'er my benighted mind) those treacherous joys, That trembled in it like a beam from heaven. Stole to my heart, foreshowing bliss and rapture ; But, tasted, turn'd heaven to hell, and made this earth A howling wilderness. O lost dehght! 1545 Time was, that I was fair, and bhthe, and lovely: My heart expanded to the God of nature. And every morning, in my humble bower Of woodbine and wild sweets, I pour'd my strain, Sweet orisons of praise, to him who bless'd me. 1550 Visions of innocence, where are ye fled? My brain is like a furnace, and the fiend 124 THE WIEllD WANDERER Act IV. Goads me to ruin: — yet I dare not waver Now, on the dizzy gulph of that toss'd ocean Upon whose brink I stand. But this my cup 1555 Of vengeance will I drink, and then, lost mother, Thy spirit shall have peace! Blind chaos, come! Ubald, O my son ! thou art the shaft Twenty long winters in fate's quiver stored, And whetted by revenge. I must be brief; 15G0 1 have upheld thee once ; again the pit Yawns close beneath thy feet, and I have digg'd it. The hour draws nigh. Yet have I one strong spell To ward thy ruin, and thou perforce shalt venge me. [Exit. {Enter UBALD and agnes.) AGNES. Stay, best beloved ! I heard a voice, dear Ubald ; 15G5 This place is awful. Let me yet return. UBALD. Mine Agnes, cheer thy heart: this loneliness Is fitting tender thoughts. Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 125 AGNES. Too strongly loved ! My father's curse will blast me. I shall hang Even as a wither'd wreath upon thy neck, 1570 And thy quick temper will upbraid my sadness. Perchance thy love, my only prop, will leave me. Wilt thou not hate my tears? UBALD. In mirth or sorrow, Ever my own! I will make tears my drink. Ambrosial sighs my food. The very gods 1575 Shall envy me. — Our harbinger of bliss Peers through her misty shroud. {The moon rises.) So radiant love, SmiUng through tears, shall light mine Agnes' brow. AGNES, {clinging close to ubald.) Ubald, who comes ? [Enter Monk.^ UBALD. A friend! our trustiest friend. 126 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IV. Whose blessing, gentle inaid, shall seal ouv union. 1580 Welcome, kind father! These still rocks are lonely; No eye shall break upon our privacy, Save yon pure orb, our hymeneal lamp, That smiles upon us. Though our modest bridal Must shun the glare of pompous blazonry, 1585 We make thee almoner of this our largesse. 'Tis fit that gifts should crown the church's rites, And charity draw down a blessing on them. {Giving him a purse.) MONK. 'Tis fitting, noble youth : and Father Francis Hath a right trusty hand, and knows full well 1590 Where to apply this cordial; what souls need The cheering comfort of thine alms, and where 'Twere cast away, like jewels unto swine. {aside.) By our mass, a goodly gift, and well bestow'd! UBALD. We are the debtors to your kindness, Father, 1595 Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 127 And shall not stint our gifts. Bear'st thou the key Of this lone chapel, through whose color'd pane The moonlight gleams on the neglected altar, And chides us for delay? MONK. When doth the woodman Forget his ax, or the true knight his falchion? IGOO And think'st thou Father Francis doth not bear The weapons of his ministry? This key Unfolds the portal of that massive arch Into the shrine; this, at love's witching mandate. Shall ope the cell beneath it, where is strewn 1605 The bridal couch. AGNES. Ubald, I am dismay 'dj The vei'y rocks and chapel frown on us : The shrine of God looks awful in this gloom. And my heart's pulse is chill'd. Thou wilt not guide me Into the bowels of that ruinous den, 1610 Where fiends perchance abide? 128 THE WIERD WANDEREll Act IV. MONK. In truth, fair lady, Rife is the rumor that these cells are held By restless spirits, far from human tread ; But trust me, they are jovial souls that haunt them. I have known somewhat of their pranks myself. 1615 But fear not, lady ; spectres come not nigh This glen to-night, for I have exorcised it. Nor flesh, nor spirit walks within these doors Without my leave. Come, lady, to the chapel. UBALD. Lean on me, loveliest burthen ! Let this arm 1620 Be now, as ever, the sole prop of Agnes. Thou wilt not fear while Ubald is beside thee. AGNES. Forgive me, Ubald, that each breath appalls me : My fluttering heart beats quick with guilty terror; I dread this very darkness which befriends us, 1625 The fitful breathing air, and these lone walls. Lest the mute stones should find a voice to curse mr Sc. 111. OF JUTLAND. 129 [77/e Monk, who has unlocJced the chapel door, pushes it open, after some delay and exertion, with a hoarse grating noise J\ AGNES shrieks, and draivs back. O Ubald, let us turn ! Nature forewarns us ; As cautiously we cross'd the forest glen, Beneath each rustling leaf a tongue seem'd lurking ; And now from out these walls, this ruin'd shrine, Night's ominous bird will scream and flap his wing Over our bridal. Turn we, dearest Ubald! My father will relent. UBALD. Gods ! am I mock'd ? Shall Ubald be the jest of every slave? 1635 E'en at the altar's groundsill yield my right, And see insulting Reynald swoop my bride In his curst talons? Sooner Chaos come! By heaven, it is not well, it is not well. To stir my blood thus, Agnes ! K, 130 THE WIERD WANDERER Act IV. AGNES. Be not angry! 1640 Let not thy wrath destroy me quite with anguish! What prop, what hope hath Agnes, but thy kindness? Beloved, forgive my weakness : I am thine ; But, O ! what harbor hath the guiky child. If thou too chide her? UBALD. It is tempting fate 1645 To dally thus with time. Pursuit may reach us. By all the honors I have earn'd and proudly, I turn not living hence, till thou art mine ! MONK. I like not this mine office. If the maiden Decline the church's rite, I take my leave. 1650 UBALD, {stepping before him.) Not so, Sir Priest; stay yet! it were not safe To rouse the wrath of Ubald. Agnes, Agnes, V Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. Vol Assure this Father of thy free consent! The sacred gate stands open. (Taking her hand: she leans upon him.) Thus, beloved! Lean thus upon my neck, O thus for ever! 1655 AGNES. I have not strength to tell my Ubald nay. [She enters the Chapel, supported by Ubald, and followed by the Monk.l END OF ACT IV. K 2 132 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. ACT V. Scene L Night. Before Sweno'* Window. The Wanderer alone enters cautiously. sweno'* voice within. Bertha! wanderer. His voice ! his voice ! O tones once clear, With what dread tremor fall ye on my heart! O that the space of unrecorded time, Wliich has crept slowly, withering hope and life, 1660 Could be annihilate ; and days, long sunk In its devouring gulph, rise fresh and fair ! O Sweno, Sweno, that my soul was chaste Thy conscience knows ; that I was mild and gentle The cursed triumph of thy fraud bears witness! 1665 Sc. 1. OF JUTLAND. 133 That I am hideous now as hell's own inmates, Blotted from honor's book, disgraced, abandon'd, That is thy work, thy foul and damning deed. A stranger sits upon my rightful seat. The bright throne of my hopes ; and here I wander, Given to the pitying tempests, cast in hate Forth from my lawful bed, to be the scorn Of things that howl; while thou, adulterous lord, Smilest o'er my wreck. The hour of wrath is come. The plague is o'er thine house. O heavy sleep, 1675 Weigh down the brow of Sweno ! seal his lids In silence, whose next sleep is in the grave! Sweno, Sweno, I summon thee to death! [Exit. Scene II. SwENoV Chamber. SWENO. BERTHA. BERTHA. The evening is far spent, and drowsy night 134 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. Spreads her still mantle o'er the face of nature. 1680 Sweno, thy mind needs rest. SWENO. O gentle Bertha, The limbs may lack refreshment, but the mind Hath no sweet pause, while shapeless dread hangs o'er it, E'en in the lap of sleep. That strange wierd woman Has cast a withering spell upon my soul, 1685 And her last words ring dreadful in mine ear, O Bertha ! I am sick at heart, and cheerless ; The memory of the past preys keen and darkling On my deep-burthen'd soul. The curse of her. Who bann'd us, still pursues me. BERTHA. What means my lord? 1690 Have not his firm asseverations made His Bertha certain, that her wondrous form. Beauteous in madness, was unknown to Sweno? SWENO. And be that added to the bitter sum; Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 135 Bertha, my speech deceived thee. Not unknown 1695 Her voice, hke fate's last summons, smote my soul. Still when the tempests rave, and sheeted lightning Sets the pale vision of her form before me. That sound appalls my fancy; from above Retributory vengeance frowns on Sweno. 1700 BERTHA. Be my lord's thought less gloomy ! Twenty years The sun hath smil'd on us, and all things prosper'd. As if kind fortune's course outsped thy wishes. SWENO. Ay, my loved wife: but heaven's deep wrath delay'd O'erwhelms with tenfold vengeance. BERTHA. Nay, good Sweno, 1705 Heaven has still joys in store to cheer the evening Of thy bright glories : thou unbend thy sorrows, Disclose the bitter secret of thy thoughts, And let my love assuage them. 136 THE WIERD WANDEREIi Act V. SWENO. Gentle Bertha! From my youth up I have been proud and fearless. Bitter must be the pangs which now can wring Self-accusation from the mouth of Sweno. But it shall be. Pride wrought the deed that stains The fair field of my conscience, which yet knows No other blot: and that dark pride shall stoop 1715 Even to confession of my inward horrors. I will be henceforth humble, very humble. BERTHA. Speak, and be yet my proud and glorious husband ! The evil now abjured, whate'er it be, Humiliates not. SWENO. Was she not fair? BERTHA. O yes; 17^0 I well remember, on the raving blast. Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 137 When her locks stream'd (her beauteous form between us And the fire-flashing storm) I could almost Have bow'd and worshipp'd : but the ban, that flow'd From her ill-ominous lips in phrensy, spoke her 1725 A maniac or a fiendlike spirit, and say'st thou Not then unknown? SWENO. O Bertha! she was known Even to the inmost chamber of my heart. There was a time, if she had ask'd of Sweno Wealth, fortune, station, character, whate'er 1730 Makes man amongst his fellows vain or glorious, I had all given and freely ; so enshrined . ' Was her bright image in my soul : e'en now My fancy views her innocent and lovely, The temple of pure joys, as first I saw her 1735 Staunching my wounds, while I lay faint and bloodless. BERTHA. What wounds? when, where inflicted? say, kind Sweno. 138 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. SWENO. 'Twas dusk; alone I journey'd through the forest, Where the trees leaning from the ruinous steep Spread their rude canopy o'er a mountain brook, 1 740 Then dry and stony. Crossing the ravine, A bow-shot slew my steed; loud rose the shout Of rushing men unmerciful. I staid My back against a rock and kept at bay The yelling ruffians, when a hand unseen 1745 From the crag's summit smote me, and I fell Senseless and seeming dead into the hollow. BERTHA. Ah me! and none to help? SWENO. Yes, there was one, A shape like heaven's pure spirits, to whom I owe Life rescued from that deep and bloody trance. 1750 BERTHA. How came she in that glen? Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 139 "** SWENO. A cottage, mantled With flowery sweets, on the lone forest's border, , Gave birth and nurture to her loveliness. Widow'd, forlorn, though sprung of gentle blood. Her mother had no joy, no hope, but her; 1755 Yet in that rich indeed. Passing the glen At earliest dawn to seek their scanty herd. She found me thus. BERTHA. And saved thee! That poor maniac, Sweno, thy life's preserver! Is it thus? SWENO. I tell thee. Bertha, if the slave, that fell'd me, 1 7G0 Had thrust his weapon to the seat of life, I had died then reproachless, nor thus stoop'd To strew the ashes of too late repentance O'er my devoted head. From that long trance I woke, as by an angel's touch redeem'd. 1765 140 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. I had seen nothing on this goodly earth Like her who stood beside me. Her bright liue, Her shape, her charms, were in the spring of youth. With every full-form'd lovehness new-blown ; Of such superior and exalted grace 1770 As woo'd the sense to worship : her dark eyes Shone with no earthly lustre, proud, yet bashful; And their glance seem'd to say, " Love me, for I " Am worth the loving, and can well repay " With the best bliss of life." BERTHA. But thy keen wounds, 1775 How were they staunch'd? SWENO. There, where I carried phrensy, Disgrace, and death! By beauty nursed I wax'd In health and vigor, while the mind's deadlier fever Waked hot within. But Elfrid's soul was haughty. And, when to lawless passion I gave voice, 1780 Sc. II, OF JUTLAND. 141 The flush of indignation crimson'd o'er Those beauteous cheeks, where love sate still supreme ; And those dark eyes, which seem'd his throne and altar, Became a kilUng plague. Stung with desire, Maddening, I swore, if she would bless my love, 1785 That she should share my name, rank, wealth and honors. My oaths prevail'd. O Bertha ! I did call The living God to witness with such strong ^ And terrible denouncement, that my soul Shrinks now from the remembrance. I invoked 1790 A curse on me and mine to everlasting. If I should fail. BERTHA. Immortal justice, spare us! SWENO. Heaven bears record, how I adored and wrong'd her; How in brief space those vows, joy-seal'd, were broken. Health strung my hmbs ; the prize from thy fair hand 142 THE VVIERD WANDKIIER Act V. 'Mid Christendom's best knights intourney won Waked loftier thoughts. Pride scorn'd the lowly gem Which it had robb'd of lustre. Yet once more I saw her, mournful, and presaging death, In her lone bower. I spoke not what I purposed, 1800 But her pale features an expression wore So sad, and yet so steadfast, that her look Pierced to my inmost soul, which shrunk beneath it. Her words were few ; but from a harp, o'er which Oft I had hung in rapture, her white hand 1805 Waked a most wild and dissonant harmony; And then a song broke forth, which on my soul Has sear d its words in fire ; ne'er heard since then. Till from my Agnes the ill-omen'd notes Stole on my nerves, like the cold ague's fit. 1810 BERTHA. Nor seen again? until our nuptial hour, When the flood whelm'd her. SWENO. Never. — That direful music Sc. 1[. OF JUTLAND. 143 Was her last parting ; nor did I hear reproach, Save on the morning of her piteous fate That ominous threat which burst over our bridal: 1815 But here indelible her image dwells, And shapeless fears appall me. BERTHA. Let the balm Of Bertha's tried affection soothe thy thoughts. SWENO. Go, Bertha, to thy couch: myself will follow, Short space to penitent devotion given. 1820 BERTHA. Tarry not, my loved lord. [Exit Bertha. SWENO, alone. {He sits down.) I know not why. Or what vain terrors undefined oppress me. There is no living thing can daunt my strength ; But visions of the past rise thick before me. 144 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. And his own secret thoughts quell Sweno's pride. 1825 O sleep, sweet sleep, when will thy balmy wing Lap me in still forgetfulness, without Thy fearful train of soul-appalling fancies ? Steal, gentle soother, o'er my troubled spirits ! [After a pause, the door opens slowly, and The Wanderer enters cautiously.^ WANDERER. Sweno, awakel Hie thee to Agnes' chamber! 1830 Search the maid's bower ! The dainty bird is gone. The virgin honors of thy house are blasted. Sweno, arise ! or sit thou unrevenged. Till foul dishonor stare thee in the face Plain as the sun! Ubald has stolen thine Agnes. 1835 The vaulted chamber under Helen's chapel Is witness to their loves. There seek, there find them ! Up, Sweno, rise ! 'tis Elfrid bids thee wake ! [Exit. SWENO. Are my thoughts crazed, or stood that form before me ? Sc. II. OF JUTLAND. 145 Art thou a phantom from the oozy deep, 1840 Breaking night's stillness with unhallow'd voice, Or shape of flesh and blood, that warn'st me thus? The WANDERER, aUttS ELFRID, witliout. Singing. : The fiend has set his mark , On their heads, dark, dark, And the spirit of vengeance is near his door. 1 845 SWENO. The voice, the voice, the very tones of Elfrid! Dread judgment, hang'st thou o'er my fated house? Not on my child, great God of mercies, not On my poor Agnes ! — Bertha, Bertha, sleeps she In the sweet rest of innocence unharm'd? 1850 My child, my Agnes, hear me! Bertha! Bertha! [/'J,r/7. 146 THE WIERD WANDEREU Act V. Scene III. Moonlight. Before the door of the Cavern under ■ Helenas Chapel, which ic seen above, and a project- ing point of rock still higher. TJie River on one side appearing to wind close behind the projecting rock. The Monk is seen descending a rocky stair- case from the Chapel, followed by Ubald and Agnes. The Monk unlocks the door of the Cavern. MONK. Fear nothing, lady, though the bridal couch Seem lonesome. Evil spirits have no power Over the chaste. Dread no worse warlock here. Than him whose mastering spell subdues thy beauty E'en to his wish and will. Sweet dreams of love And waking joys attend ye ! [Exit. AGNES. O, loved Ubald, What have we done ! where has thy passion led me ! My maiden couch untenanted ; my mother, Sc. in. OF JUTLAND. 147 My sire renounced ! Will not the curse of heaven Burst on the rash and disobedient child? UBALD. ' Think not so gloomily ! This night was cuU'd From the pure calendar of hallow'd hours To be our bliss. AGNES. Ubald, a solemn blessing Upon my virgin forehead has just stamp'd 1865 The name of wife. It was my only wish, And this fond heart, though timid, should be joyous. Why does fear chill my thoughts? Why hangs a mist Of vague and shapeless terrors on my soul? Are they of guilty disobedience born, 1870 Or omens of deep warning? Cheer me, love, For my strength fails. UBALD. No breath of harm shall near thee ; Bid thine eyes beam with joy! Come, gentle Agnes! l2 148 THE WIERD WANDEREll Act V. AGNES. Nay, Ubakl, stay, and breathe this pleasant air. See, how the moon rides glorious in yon sky! 1875 From infant years I loved that silver light, And the unvaried music of the waters. That glimmer with its beam. Pleasant and calm Under this rock falls sweetly on the ear The murmur of the river. Sit we here; 1880 That cave is terrible. UBALD. Light of my being, It grieves thine Ubald's tongue to say thee nay. Thy flight may be perceived, and hasty wrath Pour its arm'd scouts around. In that retirement Secure we rest; and vague pursuit may fret 1885 And spend its breathless speed, but never reach us. AGNES, {unwillingly yielding.) That cloister's vault is dismal as a tomb. [^Exeunt. Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 14-9 {The door closes after them grating heavily After a short pause, enters The Wanderer Elfrid, cautiously.) * ELFRID. Ye beetling rocks, and thou, lone chapel, once Witness of Elfrid's wrongs, behold her triumph! Haste, Sweno, to thy doom! The chapel closed — All hush'd — all silent — save this heart, which throbs As it would burst the impediments of life. V O dreadful!— O my son! Thy reckless passion Has overleap'd my speed and marr'd thee. Ubald, Where art thou? Pray this earth to cover thee, 1895 Ere thy rash guilt be blazon'd to the sun ! \A shriek is heard within the cavern. Hark to that shriek of fear! O vengeful phantoms, One moment yet be still! — Come, Sweno, Sweno! I am belated; in my own toils caught, And wrapp'd in terrors. Sweno! dullard, haste! 1900 150 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. {She ascends the stairs, and passes behind the Chapel. After a pause, enter from the cell hastily Agnes, Ubald.) AGNES. Night is terrific in that hideous cavern. UBALD. Nay, gentle Agnes. These are vain illusions, The coy fears of a maiden. Hath not Ubald Power, strength, and will, to shield thee from all danger? AGNES. Bear with me, Ubald; 'tis not lack of love, 1905 That scares me from thy couch. The icy hand Of horror is upon me. I dare not rest In that tremendous gloom. UBALD. Wayward enchantress. Night hath no darkness where my Agnes is ! Thyself art light, and joy, and loveliness. 1910 Cheer thee, sweet trembler; on thy coral lips Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 151 The breath of love is stirring. Thy chaste bosom Is the dear shrine of bhss. Appease thy fears. AGNES. f O Ubald ! as I near'd that frightful couch, Lifting its veil with slow and timid hand, 1915 I saw, though in thick darkness, plain and lit By its own ghastliness, a grinning fiend. And, shrieking, back I fell. Methought I lay Wrapt in my shroud and coffin, while around Glared thousand hideous phantoms as in triumph, 1920 The least too horrible for human gaze. I tremble, Ubald, and am thrill'd with dread; For love's dear sake forbear me. swENO, {without.) Ubald! ho! AGNES. My father ! Shield me, Ubald, from his wrath ! \_E71ters SwENO with his sword drawn. Agnes shrinks hack towards the rock.'\ 152 THE WIEKD WANDlillER Act V. SWENO. Traitor, my daughter! — O my Agnes here! 1925 {To Ubald.) Glorious requital of parental cares ! Heap, heap dishonor on the house that rear'd thee, But hope not, caitif, to escape the sword Of an avenging father. Die, ungrateful ! Perish, base-born seducer! UBALD, {parrying his blows ivithout returning them.) Peace, peace, Sweno! 1930 Put up thy sword; Ubald would not offend One hair of thine for all the wealth of worlds. Sire of my Agnes, Ubald kneels to thee. \He drops on one knee. SWENO. Kneel not for life ! Die, coward, faithless Ubald ! UBALD, (rising.) Thy fury is unmanly, O beware, 1935 Stir not the fiend, which lurking in my heart Cries vengeance on thine head ! — Hold ! hold ! Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 153 ELFRID, {on the rock above.) Thine oath ! Thine oath ! Slay him who made thee fatherless ! UBALD. Tempt me no further, Sweno, on thy hfe ! I know not if that wizard tongue speaks true, 1940 Which cries that Sweno made me fatherless. My thoughts grow perilous ; there is that within me Which swells to think that I have lost a father. And lost by thee. Stand off, or bid good angels guard thee ! SWENO. Die, traitor, die ! This for my ravish'd daughter, 1945 This for foul breach of hospitable faith. (uBALD parries his blows.) AGNES. O father, hold ! BERTHA, (without.) This way, this way ! the din Of swords is loud. 154 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. AGNES. Hold, husband, father, hold ! ELFRiD, {above.) Thine oath, thine oath ! Think, Ubald, on thy sire ! UBALD. The spirit of my parent calls for vengeance ; 1950 Perish, fond thoughts ! (uBALD at last Jights with sweno. Enter ber- tha, REYNALD, KnigJits, and Attendants with torches. ■ agnes at the same moment rushes forward to part ubald and sweno, and re- ceives the point o/'sweno's sword in her breast. She shrinks back and hangs with both hands on ubald's shoulder; at the same time ubald's sword strikes down sweno.) agnes. O I am sorely hurt ! (ubald supports agnes. bertha kneels by SWENO, and is engrossed with attendance on him.) Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 155 UBALD. Lean on me ; thus ! — Ah me, 'tis thy blood, Agnes. BERTHA. O Sweno, Sweno, thy life's fount is gushing. ^ Thy blood wells fast away ; I cannot staunch it. ELFRiD, {above.) Sweno, look up ! It is thy son, thy son ! 1955 Elfrid's accursed issue sends thy soul Burning to Hell ! It is thy son has made That hateful offspring of thy faithless nuptials As lost, as sunk in infamy, as curst, As she whose tongue upbraids thee ! Agnes, Agnes, Despair and perish ! Ubald is thy brother ! UBALD. O horrible, horrible ! Witch, fury, demon ! There is a lying spirit in thy mouth ; Thou durst not thus have outraged nature's mercies. ELFRID. Mercy for who shows mercy ! Blood for blood ! 1965 156 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. Ubakl, yon fate-struck caitif was thy sire, Who cast thee fatherless on this wide world ; Who murder'd Elfrid's fame, and peace, and reason. And made me what I am, Hell's slave and victim. My mother's frantic spirit stands beside him, 1970 Smiling in agony, and calls me hence ! Am I not avenged? Now, now laugh out. Fiends of dismay ! Mix earth, and air, and sea ! Unbind the angels, which have power to slay When the sixth trump has sounded ! Hell is loose, ' And nothing can the fiends of vengeance brew Feller than this ! — O for a whirlwind's blast, To cover with unfathomable night The deeds which I have wrought ! — My brain is fire. Welcome, despair, and death, and phrensy, welcome ! Eternal ruin yawns ! I come ! I come ! {She springs from the rock into the torrent beneath.) REYNALD. Tremendous wreck of reason! O most dreadful ! Sc. III. OF JUTLAND, 157 AGNES, {in a low voice to ubald.) Cast me not from thee ! I am gone, and quickly, Where they nor wed, nor are in marriage given. Dying I yet may clasp thine hand. Kind Ubald, 1985 ,One parting kiss, but pure as angel's greeting ! O hold me up, fast, fast ! I swim ! I sink ! 'Tis sweet to die upon thy bosom, Ubald. {She dies.) UBALD, {in a low voice.) Speak ! gentle Agnes, say thou art not gone ! O still, still, breathless, silent as the grave! 1990 SWENO, {whose eyes had continued riveted on the spot where ELFRID stood, and unconscious of what was passing round him.) Eternal justice, upon me alone. Not on mine issue, let thy terrors fall! My life is ebbing fast. Thine hand, loved Bertha ! O Agnes, O my child, my child, where art thou ? l-'>8 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. Thy voice was ever music to my soul; 1995 Say he is not thy husband ! Hft the weight Of that deep anguish, which appalls me dying! (bertha, ivho had been kneeling by sweno without attending to agnes, shrieks suddenly on perceiving that she is dead.) BERTHA. Ah me ! she is gone for ever ! Sweno, Sweno, She rush'd between thee and hot Ubald's sword, To stay the hasty temper of such wrath, 2000 And thine own hand has slain her. SWENO. O my child, If thou wert wedded to that bed of incest, Thy death is the sweet sleep of innocence. And life had been a curse ! My gentle Agnes, Fatally hast thou rued one perilous act 2005 Of disobedience to thy guilty sire ; And thou art gone before me !~ I am sick Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 159 With terrors keener than the pang of death. Beloved, ill-fated Bertha, thou hast found In me, who should have been thy stay and glory, 2010 The rock whereon thy hopes have all made wreck. Ubald, I charge thee, live! though scathed and blasted By heaven's dread bolt. UBALD, {starting from his silent contemplation of the dead AGNES.) Who bids that wretch, that once Was Ubald, live ? His fount of life is dried ! My Agnes was the life, the light of Ubald. 2015 {After a convulsive agony of grief and a pause.) They say she was my sister, and thou father ; And both are slain — my father by my sword ; And that wierd demon was indeed my mother ! O world, what art thou, but a hell of horrors ? And who bids Ubald live ? 160 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. {The Knights lay hands upon ubald to prevent his injuring himself.) UBALD, {casting them with violence from him.) Unhand me, sirs ; 2020 My wrath is dangerous. {After a pause, he throws down his sword.) Yes, I will live. Ubald will never shrink from fate. — {He kneels.) O ' ^ father. Curse me not dying ! At the tomb of Christ Through blood of infidels my sword shall hew Its way to pardon ; the bare stone my couch, 2025 The spring my drink, and the hair-shirt my clothing. No joy, or pride, or hope shall come near Ubald; But strict achievement of dire penance cleanse My desolate soul of parricidal guilt. And for my bones win peace. SWENO. I curse thee not. 2030 Sc. III. OF JUTLAND, 161 Thou art my heir — A solemn contract. ... I Destroyed it^-I . . . I . . . Farewell — Ubald — Bertha. {He dies.) . BERTHA. O bitter fate ! O cheerless ! in one day Stript of all joy, more lonesome than the dead ! {To UBALD.) Monster, this curse shall cling to thee ; thy guih, 2035 Redder than scarlet, shall incarnadine The banners of the just, and bar them from The temple of their Savior ; and the tomb, Whose indiscriminate yearning swallows all, Shall cast thy marrowless unquiet bones 2040 Forth from its maw : no mass or requiem Shall win for thy gaunt skeleton a place In the still church's bosom, till the lapse Of hundred winters shall have hush'd the wail Of thy remorseful spirit, and earn'd for thee 2045 That rest which death denies the parricide ! M 162 THE WIERD WANDERER Act V. {Rismg.) Yet one word, ere we part for ever, Ubald ! Sleeps that fair victim undefiled in death ? UBALD. The dew of blushing morn has never bathed A bud of innocence more pure and stainless. 2050 BERTHA. Swear it ! by all the wreck which thou hast wrought, By all thy hopes of mercy, Ubald, swear it ! UBALD. God's lightning rive this head already blasted, If ought my love has dared, which should have call'd One blush to the pure cheek of virgin meekness ! 2055 BERTHA. Heaven's mercies hover o'er thy head, mine Agnes ! {throwing herself down with her cheek on agnes.) Here let me lie, and breathe my last beside thee ! reynald. Ubald, we have been foes, but in this ruin. Sc. III. OF JUTLAND. 163 As all our hopes, so be our angers buried. Here let us close as friends. Unto Christ's banner With thee I vow my strength. Thou, stately offspring Of the most noble house, soar eagle-like Aloft, and let the gale, which rived thine eyrie, But waft thee nearer to thy native heaven. APPENDIX. The groundwork of the foregoing Tragedy originates in a Danish ballad, founded upon circumstances which are said to have occurred towards the end of the fourteenth centuiy. The subject first suggested itself to me in reading a Danish play by Ingemann, which adheres to the traditional story; and at the same time that I observed the most glaring defects in the structure of his drama, it occurred to me that the principal fea- ture of the tradition would furnish a fine tragical subject, if the story were so altered as to give it unity of action and interest. I have adopted thus much of the Danish story. A woman, who had been abandoned by a powerful and illustrious knight, to whom she had borne a son, and had contrived to introduce her infant unknown into his family, returns, after wandering twenty years, still animated with the desire of vengeance, and hoping to accomplish it through the means of her son, whom she finds in the immediate prospect of marrying his sister by another mother, their affinity not being suspected. Upon this foundation I have constructed my drama, with an entire dissi- milarity of the subsequent circumstances, and of the conduct and character of the persons, Avith the exception of the fact that the father falls, as in tlie Danish story, by the hand of his son, the events which lead to that catastrophe being quite dif- ferent. In Iiigemann's play, the character of the injured IG6 APPENDIX. woman is low, and so cold-blooded and atrocious, after an in- terval of twenty years, that it is quite unnatural; and the part is almost superfluous, for in his drama nothing arises out of her agency which might not have occurred equally without her intervention ; and her part, which occupies no considerable space, might perhaps have been totally omitted without dis- advantage. The part of Ubald in his play is not less disgust- ingly atrocious, and the original interest is broken up by his escaping the danger of tnaiTying his sister, through the most extraordinary fickleness, by suddenly falling in love with ano- ther lady, disguised as a servant-maid, and murdering his father to prevent his obstructing their union. The improbability also of his father's wife having taken a fancy to him when four years old, in the arms of a beggar-woman, and obtained him from her to bring up with her own daughter, and two illustrious knights being equally desirous of maiTying their only daughters to him, is very conspicuous in the Danish play. In my own view of the proper mode of handling such a sub- ject, I considered that the whole agency of the piece should centre in the revengeful female, that her birth and original claims must be more respectable, that the atrocity of her cha- racter must be diminished by the evident influence of derange- ment in consequence of her wrongs and sufferings, and a notion that the spirit of her mother was calling upon her for vengeance ; that it should be relieved by touches of better feel- ing and agonizing recollections, and such a view of her former loveliness as would not be inconsistent with the general dispo- sitions of her mind. I have been anxious in the conduct of the stoiy to preserve the most perfect unity of interest, but to con- ceal from the reader the secret upon which the plot hinges, until the last act. By preserving the character of Agnes un- APPENDIX. 167 ^ - sullied, I have perhaps sacrificed to feelings of delicacy a por- tion of the force of tragical effect that might have been pro- duced, but I hope that it will not be found to have been inju- diciously diminished. Imagining that the reader may have some curiosity to know the particulars of Ingemann's play, I have added a short abstract of it. In the arrangement of the first scene of this tragedy, I had in my recollection the supper of Macbeth. For the substance of the line — " 'Tis a fiend's songj where gat you that foul strain?" as well as for the general idea of a song having been learnt from the fortune-teller, I am indebted to Ingemann. The verse, " I dread this very darkness which befriends us," and the two following lines, are copied from two splendid verses of Euripides, Tepafxpci T okS, yuj/ ttots (p^oyyrii' loi. and in the passage which commences " Methinks I could outstrip his lazy course" my thoughts were directed to the following fine lines of the same author : 'A-jpJJv lioifiriv i/X/w Trpoe avaroXi)v Kat y>7c ivepde, cvparbg S)v Epacrai roSe, Tuiv ^EtJjv yueytV/jv w=r' t'x^tv TvpavpiSa. The words " This is the bodiless spectre," have reference to Lady Macbeth's " This is the air-drawn dagger." Reynald's boast that he had slain a renegade was, I believe, suggested to me by the last speech of Othello 3 and the words " Who bids that thing, that once was Ubald, live?" by " Who calls that wretched thing that was Alonzo?" The ideas in the exclama- 168 APPENDIX. tion of Agnes, " What dost thou meditate ? O Ubald, strike not in thy wrath," and in the four lines beginning " In infant's years," were derived from a passage in a Danish prose play called Duvcca. The line " Guilt may have some brief plea- sures, great tho' anxious," was suggested by a beautiful couplet in Dryden, " Then with tumultuous joys my bosom beat. And guilt, that made them anxious, made them great,'' If ray play contains any more coincidences worth mentioning Avith other authors, they are accidental, and I am not aware of them. The scene of my drama is removed to an earlier period than that of the tradition. WILLIAM HERBERT. ABSTRACT OF INGEMANN'S DANISH PLAY CALLED LOVERIDDEREN, THE LION KNIGHT. The play commences with a soliloquy by Griiihikla, a for- tune-teller, who, in the very outset, destroys all the dignity that might have been given to her character by informing the audience that she is a coalheaver's daughter. She denounces vengeance against Venno, a knight to whom she had borne a son twenty years before, and who had broken an oath " which the powers of darkness had heaj'd," and which was probably a promise of marriage. She says that she is the she-wolf, and her son Ubald the wolf whom she has let loose amidst his do- mestic flock. Ubald enters, singing a hunting-song. She in- forms him that when he was four years old, Margaret, the wife of Venno, seeing him a tawny infant in the arms of a beggar- woman his mother, had obtained him from her to educate as her own child: that his mother was burnt for a witch, but that her ghost still walks j that when she meets him again the third time she will tell him who his father is ; and she urges him to conclude immediately the marriage which was intended between himself and Joanna, who was the daughter of Venno and Margaret, and consequently his half sister. She leaves Ubald, who departs after a long soliloquy and another hunting- 170 APPENDIX. song. Then follows a very long and tedious scene between Joanna and her father, who are joined first by Margaret and afterwards byUbald, the sole purj)ort of which is to show that althougli Ubald and Joanna are deeply attached to each other, they are both uncomfortable and unaccountably uneasy, he from the natural restlessness of his disposition, she from an ap- prehension that although she loves him she shall never be happy with a man of such a character; for which rational fear her parents rebuke her : but Lady Margaret says she has not yet got all Joanna's wedding-clothes ready, and by way of a put-oft, Joanna proposes to him to go to the neighbouring castle of Count Everard and win a golden cuirass, which was to be tilted for the next day, and promises when he returns with it to name the wedding-day. Off goes Ubald in full armouf, and leaves Joanna and the old people to prose a little longer. The act closes with a soliloquy of Venno's, expressing remorse for the misdeeds of his youth, for which he says that many have cursed him while he was living in joy. The Second Act opens with a long conversation in the gar- den of Everard's castle between his daughter Agnes and her Avaiting-maid ; on seeing Ubald approach, they retire behind the bushes; and after a song and a speech from Ubald, they return, having changed clothes with each other. Ubald imme- diately falls over head and ears in love with the supposed wait- ing maid, and is almost uncivil to the pretended lady of the castle, who is personated by the maid, and who leaves him alone with Agnes, saying that he seems to have found what he prefers to her. A scene of courtship follows between Ubald and Agnes, whom he supposes to be the servant; and after her departure a long soliloquy by Ubald, who is a little ashamed of himself. Grinhilda, who has overheard all that passed, comes APPENDIX. 171 ^ in after his departure, and in a few lines says that it is all one whether the catastrophe is brought about by his marrying his sister or proving unfaithful to her. Then follows a scene of songs and drinking between Reinald, Ubald and Knights in the castle. They go out and are succeeded by Agnes and her father Everard, to whom she relates all that has passed between her and Ubald, avowing that she is very partial to him, and is confident he will be victorious in the tournament. The Count IS. at first, not veiy well pleased at her forwardness, but ends with saying " well," and they go out upon the terrace to see the combatants. The scene changes to Venno's house, where Joanna sings to him a song which commences thus, " Ah^ stranger knight, can I trust thee ? Wilt thou not deceive my heart ? Wilt thou here in the cellar live a^d be dweller with thy little dark girl ?" Venno is disturbed, and says aside that it is the song of the coalheaver's daughter, and asks how she learned it. She tells him she learnt it of a beggar-woman, and relates a dream about two men burning coals in a hole, and a frightful woman between them, who was just like that beggar- woman. Venno remains alone, and says that perhaps the beg- gar-woman was the very person who once captivated him in the coalheaver's cellar; and recollects that she threatened that she would pursue him in the next world if not in this. Grin- hilda immediately enters the room, and after a short conversa- tion tells him that Ubald is making love to Agnes at Everard's castle, and laughing treacherously at him and Joanna. Venno takes down an old suit of armour, which he puts on, and goes forth. The Third Act opens with a long scene between Margaret and Joanna, uneasy at the sudden and disturbed departure of Venno. A messenger, who is sent round to invite company. 1 72 APPENDIX. but not them, to the wcddincf of Agnes, informs them that Ubald has been victorious and is to marry her immediately. The scene then changes to Everard's castle, where Ufo, who is angry at his overthrow by Ubald, tells Reinald that Everard's castle belonged to one of Venno's ancestors, who, on account of some dark crime, laid a curse upon the place, and foretold a bloody end to all his race. Next follows a love-scene between Ubald and Agnes, at the end of which Everard questions Ubald concerning his birth, but obtains no information j he then en- quires why Ubald has not invited Venno amongst the other guests to the wedding, and is told that Venno is an odd fellow, who does not like to leave his fireside. Agnes asks if it is the same Venno concerning whom there was a prophecy that if his daughter should fall in love, she and her whole family would be destroyed. Ubald goes out hunting. Venno meets and challenges him. He disarms Venno, and gives him in custody to some of Everard's men to be confined in the tower of the castle, as a ruflian who had attacked him. Grinhilda comes to Ubald and asks him why he spared the old man's life, and says she will dance at his wedding in the morning. The scene changes to Venno's prison : his soliloquy is interrupted by Grin- hilda without, who tells him that her old love for him is revi- ved, and shows him a hole through which he may escape to liberty and vengeance. The Fourth Act introduces Joanna disguised as a pilgrim and conducted by a shepherd through Everard's garden. After her departure, Venno enters with a rusty sword, which he says Grinhilda has given him. The scene changes to a supper, with song and mirth, in the castle. Everard is informed by a fright- ened servant that the ghost of old Venno (the ancestor) has been just seen again near the tower. Ubald will go out to APPENDIX. 173 "^ encounter the gliost. After he is gone, Joanna comes in as a pilgrim and asks Agnes if she has seen an old man with white hair and a drawn sword; and promises to bring her a wedding garland. The scene then changes to the outside of the tower. Ubald goes in with his sword drawn : after Avhich Venno en- ters, and presently hears Ubald calhng him within repeatedly. Venno, bent upon vengeance, iiishes into the tower with his jdrawn sword. The Fifth Act opens with Agnes telling her father how late ' and disturbed Ubald returned to her, and that she sat up with him till day-break, when he went out again. Ubald enters 5 Everard sends Agnes to her chamber, and questions Ubald con- cerning his disturbed appearance. Ubald admits that he has seen the ghost, and entreats Everard to have the tower walled up immediately. In the next scene Joanna brings the wedding garland to Agnes, who is called by Everard to the wedding. Then follows a duel between Ufo and Reinald, who professes himself friendly to Ubald : after their departure Joanna en- ters, and is told by Grinhilda that Ubald has mmdered her father in the tower. Joanna goes in, and comes out again nearly distracted: the wedding music is heard; Grinhilda gives her a dagger, and tells her to avenge her father. The procession enters 3 Joanna stops it, accuses Ubald of the secret murder of her father, summons him to answer for it in the next world after a year and a day, and then stabs herself. Agnes is carried out, followed by Everard. Grinhilda enters, tells Ubald that she is his mother and Venno was his father, and departs again. Ubald in his despair is comforted by Reinald, who proposes to accompany him to the Holy land. Thus ends the play of Ingemann ; the story is continued in a ballad, which says that Lady Margaret was sitting one even- 174 APPENDIX. ing alone, when a loud knocking sounded on the door. It was Reinald with the remains of Ubald. He departed, and left a skeleton, which was buried, but the next day it was found standing by the church door. Three times it was buried and as often returned again to the porch, where it remained in spite of all endeavours to remove it, and at midnight its groans and footsteps were always heard in the chapel. A hundred years after, a lady descended from Agnes, in consequence of a tradi- tion, went at night into the church to pray for the repose of the dead body. The skeleton stood at the door and refused to let her go out alive, unless she could obtain his pardon from an old man with white hair and a pale female who stood beside them. She prayed incessantly till they relented, and as she passed out through the church door, the skeleton fell to the ground ; and the next day it was buried for ever. END OF THE WIERD WANDERER. POETICAL WORKS OF % THE HON. AND REV. W, HERBERT, LATELY PUBLISH ID BV JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, LONDON. MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. In 2 Vols. 8vc. 16s. OSSIANI DARTHULA GR.^^CE REDDITA ; ACCEDUNT MIS- CELLANEA. 8vo. 3s. 6d. HELGA. A Poem, in Seven Cantos. Second Edition. 79. 6d. HEDIN, OR THE SPECTRE OF THE TOMB. A Tale. 8vo. os.6d. PIA DELLA PIETRA. A Tale. 8vo. 3s. 6d. LONDON: PRlNVtD BY C. ROWOlrril, BtLL Y,»nD, TEJU'LE UA R. JULIA MONTALBAN, A TALE. BY THE HON. AND REV. WILLIAM HERBERT. LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 1822. LONDON: PniNTED BY C. ROWORTH, BELL YARD, TEMn.E BAR. The story upon which this Tale is founded is altered from that of Julia de Roubigny. The subject was taken from a general recollection of that interesting little volume, to which I have not had an opportunity of referring. Some important alterations have been intentionally made in the story, and perhaps others inadvertently, as I had no particular wish to adhere to it. 52 JULIA MONTALBAN. i JULIA MONTALBAN. Sweet bird of night, that on the lonehest spray Like an inthralled angel pour'st thy lay, Earth has no strain to match thy plaintive notes. Whose mournful music on the moonbeam floats. By thee, all other warbUng of the grove 5 Seems heartless ; thine the very soul of love. Some secret tie thro' nature's ample bounds Unites the sweetest with the saddest sounds; The eye of sorrowing beauty hath a spell. Which in its radiance mirth can ne'er excell; 10 And she who stands upon the stormy beach, Pale as the wave-tost corse which she would reach. 8 JULIA MONTALBAN. With arms out-stretcli'd, rent veil, and streaming hair, The lovely living statue of despair. Can more enslave the soul by heauty's power, 15 Than all which sparkling moves in pleasure's hour. And thee of all the nine alone I woo. Sad loveliest Muse, to sorrow ever true! Thee oft entranced my fancy has descried, Thy stately mien, thy step of graceful pride ; 20 The shape of slender mould, the glossy hair, The forehead smooth, the neck of beauty rare; The robe of jet that girds thy breast of snow. Making the whitest bosom whiter glow; The witching eloquence of thy dark eyes, 25 Where the love-lighted smile half-kindled dies ; And from thy coral lip the melting strain That makes grief bliss, and lighter pleasures vain. Long shall the mind's rapt eye enamor'd dwell On thee, chaste Muse, and own thy powerful spell. 30 JULIA MONTALBAN. 9 From thee my verse proceeds; O be it thine To fill the fancy, and exalt the hne ! f Stamp thou thine own bright image on my page, And it shall live beyond Time's latest age! Wintry and bleak was the Sierra's brow, 35 And thy black ridge, Cordova, capp'd with snow. Deep sigh'd the gale ; thro' swift-borne clouds, serene The moonlight stream'd upon that lonely scene. Silvering the glens beneath ; while far and wide Night's shadows flitted o'er the mountain's side. 40 Full on a cheerless chamber fell its ray. Where, pale and almost spent, a matron lay. Mournful her look ; upon her bosom prest Both hands were clasp'd ; the breath scarce heaved her breast. Fixt upon one, who neither moved nor spoke, 45 Her eyes seera'd heaven's last blessing to invoke. iO JULIA MONTALDAN. One painful thought alone appear'd to stay The parting soul, and crave some brief delay ; While he, her partner in each earthly care, Sat chain'd to grief, and conquer'd by despair. 50 Behind stood one, whose mien some pity wore, And, though unblest his office, still forbore; By his sad prisoner, waiting for the close Of life's last scene in that abode of woes. E'en the hard hand of justice dared not strive 55 To break that tie which nature soon must rive. Nor long the pause; her glass was nearly run. Her limbs unnerved, her strength almost foredone. 'Tis said, strong wishes can in Death's despight Arrest the spirit and deny his right ; 60 But soon the spell must pass; without a groan Her weak pulse ceased; that last desire was gone. Then rose the shriek of one, to whom the view Of death, and the heart's agony were new. JULIA MONTALBAN. H Her own sweet Julia ; she, who o'er her bed 65 Had watch'd desponding, and now saw her dead. Each moment had foretold it: but that grief, So sure and present, now was past belief. Say ye, who early o'er a mother's grave Have seen the plumed pomp of burial wave, 70 How oft your fancy unconstrain'd by wo Has seem'd to hear her cherish'd accents flow ! View'd her loved couch, void room, or wonted chair, And almost thought to see her image there ! Perchance that incredulity of gi-ief 75 To desolation brings some faint relief. Deludes the pang, and soothes the youthful heart With that fond hope from which it will not part. Sweet childhood, in the lap of kindness rear'd, How are thy careless sports by love endear'd ! 80 Thine is the love, that knows no timid blush. The heedless brow, which changeful pleasures flush; 12 JULIA MONTALBAN. The gentle confidence, that fears no harm ; The breast, which gaily throbs without alarm ! O that thus manhood could securely sail 85 On the smooth tide adown life's pleasant vale! O that the dreams of childhood could remain, When years steal on, and reason grows with pain ! Joys cheerful as the spring had o'er the head Of infant Julia their best influence shed. 90 There was a light of mirth in her blue eyes The liquid azure of her native skies ; And the free ringlets of her glossy hair, Like wanton tendrils, deck'd her forehead fair: Her cheek was radiant with the hue of joy, 95 Unmixt enchantment, hope without alloy. Young Roderic, by her parents' bounty rear'd. Her toils partook, and every sport endear'd ; Together did their opening minds explore The sage's precepts, and the poet's lore: 100 JULIA MONTALBAN. 13 So closely link'cl in infantine delight, They were but happy in each other's sight. No tremulous thought (if such they knew) of care, No bliss had one, the other did not share. Time fled too swiftly, bearing in its flight 105 Those precious days of sunshine ever bright. The sylphlike form grew ripe with woman's charms. The bosom throbb'd with undefined alarms ; That eye of cloudless mirth now veil'd its gleam, And bashful mildness shed a gentler beam. 110 The hour of parting came, and keenly proved To each pain'd breast how tenderly it loved. E'en then Rodrigo dared not own the fire Of his full mind, or speak his rash desire. Call'd in youth's morning to a foreign chme, 1 1 5 He then first learnt that poverty was crime. A noble orphan by Velasquez fed. His lot seem'd cast to press a barren bed; 14 JULIA MONTALBAN. Till wealth, hard-earn'd by toilsome length of years, Should raise him to a level with his peers. 120 Forth he must fare, where fortune's smiles invite, While richer suitors woo his lost delight. But though that pang had well nigh forced the blood From his life's fountain, still it was withstood. Love spoke in the flush'd cheek; it lit the eyes; 125 It pour'd the soul's strong passion in its sighs; But, unrecorded by one daring word. Its vows were breathed in silence, and unheard. To Cuba's coast he went, and with him bore A mind as ardent to that burning shore. 1 30 But Julia, from Valentia's beauteous vale. With mournful eye beheld his gliding sail. Her troubled bosom heaved ; a busy thought Rose in her heart, by treacherous fancy brought, Which murmur'd painful doubts within her breast 135 Of cold unkindness or of love supprest. ■lULlA MONTALBAN. I'') In him had all emotion seem'd to sleep ; She long'd to fall upon his neck and weep; , There was reserve and pride in his adieu; And something to her feelings strange and new ; 1 40 And yet, before he bounded from the strand, His quick convulsive grasp had press'd her hand; And one last look seem'd rashly to confess What the proud soul had labor'd to repress. She gazed upon the flowers, whose laughing birth 145 t Show'd as if bliss alone were upon earth. The trees in stateliest beauty round her growing. The sea so clear, the hills with sunshine glowing. And the unclouded firmament on high, The pure immeasurable depth of sky ; 1 50 She thought the world untenanted and lone, And she amid that bliss the only one, The lorn, the hopeless. He, whose breath had given. To earthly joys a sweet foretaste of heaven. 16 JULIA MONTALBAN. Was floating fast upon the perilous wave 155 To other climes, perchance a foreign grave ; And there was none beside to understand The voice that whisper'd from sky, sea, and land, The secret charm which on the breeze's wing Stole on each sense from nature's blossoming. 160 Time pass'd, and yet arose no livelier view ; Her eye its lustre, her cheek lost its hue. Why was she sad ? She knew not ; this alone Her bosom felt, that all its mirth was flown. But soon a weightier blow, substantial care, 165 Made her of that grief's vanity aware. Man Uttle prizes what each day bestows, While fancy builds a frightful pile of woes ; Till, reft of joys that were his daily food, He learns by loss that what he held was good. 170 JULIA MONTALBAN. 17 The wheels slow roUins; thro' Valentia's walls Bore her for ever from her native halls. Law, like a harpy, with its ravenous train. Had stripp'd her father of his rich domain ; Remote from splendor, in a lonely dell 1 75 Hard by the dark Sierra doom'd to dwell. There yet one humble mansion own'd him lord, But sorrow scowl'd upon his frugal board. O sweet Contentment, what art thou, and where? In what wild covert is thy tangled lair, 180 That man can never reach thee? Dost thou dwell In the low cabin or the rocky cell, Or lay thee stretch'd beneath some gilt alcove, Where perfumes breathe and music whispers love ? Art thou the proud concomitant of wealth, 185 The prize of beauty, or the child of health? 18 JULIA MONTALBAN. Say, dost thou lavish in the peasant's cot Thy cherub smiles to cheer his rugged lot, And are the rich, the honor'd, and the gay, In fruitless search for ever doom'd to stray? 190 Or, still to place and fortune unconfined, Is thy sole harbour in the peaceful mind? Those vales are fair, those hills are evergreen, The careless rustic joys that lovely scene. Why does Velasquez scorn his humble hall? 195 Why is the bread, that daily feeds him, gall ? Save that, regardless of what sweets remain. His bosom turns unto the past with pain. Two years dragg'd slowly on with heavy wing, And Juha's fondness could no comfort bring. 200 Peevish and doubly jealous of respect, He seem'd past hope, and all his pleasures wreck'd. The wife, who with him trod the summer ways Of fortune, sooth VI him in his wintry days, JULIA MONTALBAN, 19 Watch'd o'er his fretful mood with patient love, 205 Too sad to cheer, too gentle to reprove. Grief was young Julia's portion, and she seem'd As one who woo'd not pleasure, but had dream'd Unutterable bliss, whose radiance spread Peace in her soul, to worldly wishes dead: 210 But still her pensive smile might cast a shade On Seville or Valentia's sprightliest maid; And, as if born to deck some higher sphere, She trod life's walk with little hope or fear. For all her griefs were certain; in her sire 21.") The mind's adversity had quell'd its fire; Her mother, stricken by that helpless doom, Look'd to the peaceful haven of the tomb ; And he had vanish'd as a morning dream, Who held the dearest place in her esteem. 220 Herself, that lightsome child of infcint mirth, Was now a thing too sainted for this earth ; 20 JULIA MONTALBAN. Like those pure sylphs, that bend in mild distress Over the couch of dying loveliness ; And, school'd in that unfriended house of wo, 225 Sate patience, like a glory, on her brow. But painful scenes drew nigh : fate had not shed Its utmost malice on Velasquez' head. ' E'en on that night of mourning, while his wife Still press'd the fatal couch, just reft of life, 230 Stern justice dragg'd him from his gloomy home, . To linger cheerless in a living tomb. Young Julia shared his doom, content to dwell A self-devoted victim in his cell. There, spiritless as the corse which he had left, 2o5 Disease assail'd him, of all hope bereft. His pallet was of straw, and Julia hung O'er his uneasy sleep. Carelessly flung On her white bosom, the dishevell'd hair Made heri more beauteous even in despair. 240 JULIA MONTALBAN. ~l. She sate entranced, while memory round her drew Forms of the past in long and sad review. In her heart graven with unerring truth She traced each pastime of her earliest youth; And in that dungeon, free and unconfined, 245 Valentia's charms came beaming on her mind ; Rodrigo's smile ; the mutual joys and fears Which had endear'd him in her infant years ; And then the clouded brow, the constrain'd look ; The pleading eye, when that last leave he took ; 250 The hasty pressure of her yielded hand ; The barque, that bore him from his native land. Next rose the grief, that reft her of her home, Torn from the shades where once she loved to roam ; Her mother's failing strength, her kind caress, 255 Foreboding thoughts which she would fain repress ; The paleness that betray'd life's dwindling flame, The slow decay of that exhausted framco 22 JULIA MONTALBAN. Then keener thoughts arose ; the pang, that prey'd Like poison on her heart, to none bewray'd ; 260 The tale, which dagger-Uke had smote her soul, " Rodrigo wedded to a rich Creole." Faithless she fain would hold him, and forsworn; Was not his image in her bosom worn ? Had she not scorn'd for him all wealth beside, 265 Montalban's rank, Montalban's honest pride ? But of reproach the comfort was denied ; How had he woo'd her ? by what promise tied ? Her tears stole slow, and that heart-humbling thought To its sad home her sickening memory brought. 270 Her eyes were fixt upon her father's face, On which despair had stamp'd its fatal trace. Its hue was alter'd, and approaching death Was almost striving with his smother'd breath. Her heart was well nigh bursting, as she saw 275 His grey hairs sunk upon that couch of straw. JULIA MONTALBAN. 23 Deep self-reproof assail'd her ; and a pang, That did arouse her, through her bosom rang. Her mother's hmbs on the unhonor'd bier Lay among strangers ; and the hoary sire 280 Seem'd to upbraid her heart, which, for the toy Of fancy lavish'd on a reckless boy, Had scorn'd the good, the glorious, and the brave, Whose name might honor, and whose wealth might save. She had forbad Montalban, though her mind 285 Esteem'd him best and noblest of mankind. How now recall him ? how her wish unfold. And seem to sell her loveUness for gold ? She look'd upon her father, and his fate Smote her deep conscience, but it was too late. 290 She gazed, and even then steps hurrying broke His unrefreshing sleep, and he awoke. His debts were cancell'd ; but the call in vain Of freedom roused him, and he stirr'd with pain. 24 JULIA MONTALBAN. Then pale and lialf-upraisecl, with earnest look 295 Foreboding death, his Julia's hand he took. " One friend alone," he said, " of human kind " Sought me when fallen, to my failings blind ; " And, proud himself, yet strove to be allied " To me, who, wreck'd in, fortune, still had pride. 300 " The secret bounty, which unbars my chains, " Flows from that fountain, and the debt remains. " One gift I have ; one only can repay " The heart-felt boon, and that vast debt outweigh." He ceased; she hardly felt the young blood rush Suffusing o'er her face the kindled blush, Or how each nerve was to the utmost bent, While hastily she pour'd her rash consent. Her thoughts were so exalted ; and her voice Declared the boon she granted was her choice. 310 JULIA MONTALBAN. 25 'Twas all Velasquez' lingering soul required ; Smiling he bless'd their union, and expired. Montalban's prime was past, and days of ruth Had cast some painful cloud upon his youth. Which left a sad impression ; and his mind 315 Was proud and lofty, but his feehngs kind. Adversity, the bane of blither cheer. To him had made Velasquez doubly dear ; And, scarce perceived, young Julia's influence stole With unresisted empire o'er his soul. 320 Once fixt love's altar there, it was a power Which sway'd his passions, rooted in its core. O thou stern god ! imperious, fearful Love ! In thy deceitful cradle as a dove, Thou in thy might dost like a giant move! 325 Thro' the wide universe thy strength is spread, And nature quivers underneath thy tread ! 26 JULIA MONTALBAN. Whether thou art of hell or child of heaven, To thee on this our world all power is given. Blest author of delight, and yet our bane ! 330 All bliss, all guilt, are mingled in thy reign. Thy steps are viewless as the lapse of time. And lead the soul from ecstacy to crime. Thy lip thou clothest with an angel's smile, Lord of each dearest charm that can beguile ; 335 And thou dost lure the wretch thou wilt destroy With such sweet rapture, that to fall is joy. But, in thy passion roused, thou art of might To make man's essence shrink before thy sight. Thy look, which late with mildest beauty shone, 340 Shall like a gorgon turn his heart to stone ; Murder, and Rape, and Phrensy rise from hell. And the whole host of Sin obey thy spell. The sunbeams dawn'd upon their bridal bed, The bed of mourning for her parents dead ; 345 JUUA MONTALBAN. 27 But half her sorrows were not yet fulfill'd. Her pulse of anguish never might be still'd. A letter came ; she paused ; her eyes grew dim. The characters confusedly seem'd to swim. Rodrigo's hand, Rodrigo's heart was there : 350 Read on, thou wretched victim, and despair ! Deep blush'd her cheek, but next a pallid hue Death's veriest semblance o'er her features threw ; For her unheard beyond the Atlantic main. His faithful wishes had been breathed in vain ; 355 For her, though hopeless, and to fate resign' d. The profFer'd hand of wealth he had declined. Now lavish fortune his firm truth repaid. And a rich heritage his will obey'd. Again elate he trod the Spanish shore ; 360 He came to sue ; he came to part no more ; And high in hope, in ignorance still blest, Unveil'd the rapturous passion of his breast. 28 JULIA MONTALBAN. Her pain'd heart shrunk: she met Montalban's eye; The blush return'd, and she suppress'd a sigh : 365 Then shuddering started, and in haste conceal'd The dangerous scroll, too dear to be reveal'd. Tears had full scope within her secret bower, And love resistless re-usurp'd its power. Life was her bitterest burthen ; but she stood 370 In her uprightness firm and unsubdued. She dared not see Rodrigo: with the thought Of what she was, her feelings were distraught. Then came another scroll ; Rodrigo's ear Had learnt her fate, had nothing left to fear. 375 How had he found her ! to what fate consign'd ! Not in the grave ; they might have there been join'd ! But spoil'd and fetter'd in a rival's bed, More lost to love's embraces than the dead ! Few words on that ill-omen'd scroll were traced, 380 Few, but with passion's burning touch impress'd. JULIA MONTALBAN. 29 By every joy which they had hoped or known, She was adjured to meet him once alone. ^ From her she cast it shrinking and afraid, Then bending meekly to her God she pray'd ; 385 And sadly strengthen'd in her purpose rose, Firm in her duty, calm amidst her woes. There is a spirit in each gloomiest wild, To love allied, lone fancy's shadowy child ; And he, who mourns beneath the oak's broad arms. Hath strange society with nature's charms. The tangled brake, the waters still and clear, The rock's deep shade, are to his humor dear; Far from wealth's canopy and burnish'd dome The interminable forest seems his home ; 395 E'en the hoarse voices of the wave and wind Speak a known language to his troubled mind; In every moss-grown trunk he hails a friend. And nature's rudest forms some solace lend. 80 JULIA MONTALByVN. Julia's cheek glow'd with fever; all her frame 400 Was parch'd and quivering with an inward flame. She loath'd her chamber, and opprest with heat, Sought the cool garden's loneliest retreat. Had Roderic named that place, she would have fled, Rather than meet him, to her bridal bed ; 405 Yet, by some strange mischance, the mourner found E'en there the man whom she would most have shunn'd. She wish'd to fly, but trembling (as her feet Denied their office) sank upon the seat. She would have bade him leave her, but each word 410 Died on her lips unfinish'd and unheard. She would have struggled with the hand that squeezed Her hand, which it had passionately seized ; But powerless, witless, on his neck she fell With such a burst of sorrow, as might tell 415 The agony which swell'd within her breast, Too strong to yield, too big to be represt. JULIA MONTALBAN. 31 Montalban sought her at the fall of day; The fatal scroll upon her pillow lay. He saw ; he read. — A sudden film came o'er 420 His sight amazed — he judged not — he forbore. With hasty voice he call'd, enquired her path, And follow'd, more in wonder, than in wrath. Just when broke forth her sorrow's whelming flood, With startled horror by the seat he stood ; 425 Where Julia, clasp'd in young Rodrigo's arms, Sobb'd on his bosom, heedless of her charms, While the full soul seem'd pouring thro' his eyes. And his dehghted spirit drank her sighs. Enough, enough — O too much had he seen ! 430 O that impervious gloom had wrapp'd the scene! Backward few steps he stagger'd, both hands clasp'd Upon his forehead, and for breath he gasp'd. Him they observed not, by one grief possest And in that throb of torment almost blest. 435 32 JULIA MONTALByVN. Rodrigo ask'd but that one sweet farewell, That solace in despair, and he wovdd dwell In wilds untrodden, of all joy forlorn, And waste a life too blasted to be borne. But Julia's heart was rived ; she could not speak : 440 He press'd his burning face against her cheek, And from that trance she started ; — one farewell, One sad eternal parting ! and the spell Dropp'd from her eyes : stood sinful love unveil'd In full deformity, and faith prevail'd ; . 445 As homeward like a panting dove she flew, Scared from the peril of that last adieu. Four things the wise man* knew not to declare, The eagle's path athwart the fields of air; The ship's deep furrow thro' the ocean's spray; 450 The serpent's winding on the rock; the way • Proverbs, c. xxx. vv. 18, 19. JULTA MONTALBAN. 33 Of man with woman. — Into water clear The jealous Indian rudely thrust his spear, And, quick withdrawing, pointed how the wave Subsided into stillness. The dark grave, 455 Which knows all secrets, can alone reclaim The fatal doubt once cast on woman's fame. Night's shade fell thick ; the evening was far spent Ere proud Montalban to her chamber went. Slowly he enter'd, and with cautious glance 460 Cast his eye round, before he did advance. A bowl half fill'd upon the board he placed. And with brief speech his sorrowing bride address'd: " The night advances, Julia: hast thou pray'd " To Him whose wrath is round the sinner's bed ? 465 " Yes, honor'd Albert," the sad wife replied, " The heart is frail by mortal passions tried; 34 JULIA MONTALRAN. " The voice of God is awful, when the breast *' Of the weak sufferer is by guilt opprest; " But mercy dawns upon the patient head, 470 " The peace of Him who for our failings bled." He fix'd upon her face a silent look Of utter misery, and then sternly spoke. " If morn's first ray must glimmer on our bier, " Couldst thou envisage death without a fear ? . 475 " Are thy thoughts chasten'd, Julia? canst thou go " With me before the throne of bliss or wo?" His firm voice falter'd ; but the dismal word, E'en as fate's warning, by his bride was heard. His cheek was like the hue of one long dead ; 480 But his lip quiver'd, and his eye was red ; And such dark feelings character'd his gaze, That Julia shrunk with terror and amaze. JULIA MONTALBAN. 35 She paused; her eye fell doubtful on that bowl; O'er all her frame a shuddering horror stole. 485 Then thus with downcast look ; (she dared not raise Her eye to meet again that fearful gaze:) " Yes, Albert ; I have made my peace with heaven, " At whose pure shrine my secret thoughts are shriven. " Whene'er fate calls, this humble soul obeys ; 490 " The tear of sorrow asks no fond delays. " With tremulous hope the lingering heart may move " Thro' life's blest walks, illumed by blissful love ; " Cold duty's path is not so blithely trod, " Which leads the mournful spirit to its God." 495 She spoke, half timid, and presaging ill From his knit brow and look severely still. The thought of death came o'er her; and the mind Disown'd her words, more fearful than resign'd. T)2 36 JULIA MONTALBAN. Love's Secret influence heaved the conscious breast 500 Witli fluttering pulse, that would not be at rest. Stern Albert mark'd the tremor of her brow, And the cheek's fitful color come and go. His eye was big with anguish, as it stray'd O'er all the charms, which her thin robe betray'd, 505 The perfect loveliness of that dear form In its full spring of beauty ripe and warm ; And never had she look'd so worth his care. So sweet, so graceful, so surpassing fair, When the pure glow of innocent delight 510 Flush'd her young cheek and sparkled in her sight, As languid, in that careless garb array'd. Half lit by the pale lamp, half hid in shade. He would have given his very life to kiss Those lips by beauty moulded for his bliss, 515 Once more in tenderest rapture to have press'd That shape angelic to his troubled breast; JUIJA MONTALBAN. 37 But pride forbade, and from each living charm Drew fiercer hate, which love could not disarm. Upon that form of beauty, now his bane, 520 Seem'd foul pollution to have fixt its stain. Awhile he paced the floor with heavy stride, Then gazed once more upon his sorrowing bride; And, parting with his hands the glossy hair On the white forehead of the silent fair, 525 Look'd wistfully ; then, bending sad and slow, Fix'd one long kiss upon that brow of snow. It seem'd as if love's spirit in his soul Was battling with his passion's fierce control. He sat before her ; on one hand reclined 530 His face, which told the struggle of his mind ; The other held the bowl : she raised her head, As, slow his hand extending, thus he said : " Drink, Julia; pledge me in this cup of peace; " Drink deep, and let thy tears of sorrow cease." 535 38 JULIA MONTALliAN. Her eye was fixt and motionless; her cheek Had lost its changeful hue; she did not speak. Her nerves seem'd mimb'd, and icy horror press'd, Like a cold weight of lead, upon her breast. " Drink, Julia;" spoke again that dreadful voice, 540 " Drink, Julia, deep; for thou hast now no choice." A fatal shiver seem'd to reach her soul. And her hand trembled, as it touch'd the bowl ; But duty's call prevail'd o'er shapeless dread; She look'd witli silent terror, and obey'd. 545 I know not, whether it was fancy's power Which smote each conscious sense in that dread hour, (But he half started, and in truth believed That a deep lengthened sob was faintly heaved. And some dark shuddering form behind liim pass'd,550 Which o'er her shape its fearful shadow cast,) JULIA MONTALBAN. 89 Or whether, doom'd at mortal guilt to grieve, Thus his good angel sadly took his leave. Breathless he listen'd, by his thoughts appall'd; (The hour of mercy could not be recall'd.) 555 Then to his lips in turn the draught applied, Which should in death unite him with his bride. 'Twas done; a long, still, solemn pause ensued, And Albert speechless his sad victim view'd. There was not in her chamber sound or breath, 560 But all was hush'd and ominous of death ; The very lustre, which the dim light shed. Was like a watchfire burning by the dead. The darksome tapestry heaved not on the wall, And like night's spectres stood its figures tall; 565 They seem'd in shadowy stillness to survey The twain illumed by the lamp's pallid ray : And JuUa, half suspicious of her fate, Mark'd the stern aspect of her ghastly mate. 40 JULIA MUNTALBAiN. At length with solemn voice Montalban broke 570 That awful silence, and more mildly spoke. " The hour of thy deceitfulness is past ; " Our lives are waning, and the die is cast. " Let thy mind turn from frailty, and the heart " Unveil its bitter secret, ere we part. 575 " But first, O Julia, once my hope and pride, " By thine own voice let Albert's deeds be tried. " Sad memories of earlier years may lend " My brow a gloom which fondness should unbend : " Perchance it wants the soft and winning grace, 580 *' The smiling vermeil of a younger face; " But in what chaste endearment couldst thou find " Or love more warm, or kindness more refined ? " Have not my cares, with anxious pleasure fraught, " Outsped thy wishes and foi'erun thy thought? 585 " Speak thou my sentence ; this lorn heart appeals ^' To thine own thoughts and what thy conscience feels. JULIA MONTALBAN. 41 " O in thy treason, Julia, madly prized " Above all joys which ever love devised, " Even in thy guilt so excellently fair, 590 " 'Tis bliss to gaze on thee in this despair! " Speak, thou frail angel! be in death forgiven! " That sinful breast is Albert's only heaven!" He stopp'd ; the whelming passion of his soul Rose like a deluge, bursting pride's control; 595 Full swell'd the tide of agonizing grief, And in deep sobs his suffering forced relief. On either hand with strength he press'd his brow. Torn by remorse his lips would not avow. Julia rose quick and startled ; she had heard GOO With strange amazement each appalling word. Her mind was troubled, but she dared not think That the sad peace of death was in that drink. How could she dread from him that deed of hell, Who, to her sorrow, had but loved too well ! 605 42 JULIA MONTALBAN. Yet conscious thoughts awoke some secret fear; The deep reproof fell painful on her ear: For the weak heart, tho' pvu-e of guilt within. Still nourish'd wishes which to think was sin. " Forbear, my lord," the trembling mourner cried, " Forbear, nor deem thus harshly of thy bride ! " Thou wilt not kill me ? I have chastely worn " The bonds of duty, and am not forsworn. " O Albert, thou didst take my hand alone, " And all I had to yield thee is thine own ! G15 " Fond love is wayward as the mountain flower, " Which blooms spontaneous in its rocky bower; " Spreads its pure incense on the fitful gale, " Wliich fans the cradle where it wills to dwell: " But sickening pines beneath the hand of care, 620 " And breathes no sweets but in its native air. " If some vain thoughts and youthful dreams arise, " Forgive the tears, that trembling veil my eyes. ( r JULIA MONTALBAN. 4'3 " The struggling soul shall every wish subdue; " Thy mournful Julia to her vows is true. Q^5 ' Believe me, Albert, though the suffering mind " Pour some weak sighs, the spirit is resign'd. " No thought lurks there, which needs to be forgiven ; " All that of life remains, to thee is given." " Short space, dissembler!" wrathful Albert cried; " Think'st thou, that night thy guilty loves can hide? " Rodrigo! — Traitress, does the color rise *' To those white cheeks, which thy calm speech belies ?" A sudden blush o'erran her ivory cheek, As thus with tremulous voice she strove to speak. Qd5 " Thou wrong'st me! e'en now, exiled from his land " By hapless love, he seeks a foreign strand." 44 JULIA M0NTAL13AN. " 'Tis false," said Albert, and his brow grew dark; " The moonlight gleams upon him cold and stark." « Uprose the wrathful husband ; as he stood, 640 The lamp's ray shone upon the clotted blood Staining his garment, and the baleful glow Of such fierce passion lighten'd from his brow, That Julia shriek'd, as if his vengeful arm Had spilt before her eyes the life-blood warm 645 Of him her soul adored. A dizzy pain More sharp than death shot keenly thro' her brain. And " Hast thou kill'd him, Albert?" loud she scream'd, Gazing where on that blood the lamp still gleam'd. " I thank thy jealous rage; thro' all my veins 650 " I feel thy fatal draught and deathhke pains, " The last fell gift of mercy to thy bride, " First of thy love, now victim of thy pride. " I do not curse thy phrensy ! Canst thou bear " Of thine own soul the weight and deep despair ? 655 JULIA MONTALBAN. 45 * " Albert> I do not curse thee for the slain ! " Two hopeless spirits thou hast loosed from pain." She said, and sunk in anguish on the floor, Her white hands wildly clasp'd, to rise no more; And never did a child of earthly woes 660 Such loveliness in hour of death disclose. Her eyes upon the fretted ceiling fix'd A look of hope with such sharp suffering mixt, That the pure soul seem'd striving thro' the sight To find its God, and win its way to light. QQ5 Thy thoughts of joy, Montalban, all are past; And this still hour of murder is thy last! But canst thou gaze unmoved upon that form? Those youthful limbs are beauteous yet and warm; The eyes, which sparkled once with free delight, 670 Speak yet the feehng soul, and still are bright; But thy swift poison spreads thro' every vein, That tender shape must writhe with inward pain; 46 JULIA MONTALBAN. Cold and unconscious shall that blushing face, Which met thy love, lie sunk in death's embrace; 675 The unzoned breast, which heaves so smooth and white, Shall be ere morning loathsome to the sight. Gaze, gaze, thou rash despoiler, till thine eyes Grow dim with grief, and thine heart burst with sighs! For thou hast madly dash'd away in scorn 680 That gem of beauty which thou might'st have worn ; Thou hast destroy'd the loveliest of the fair; Canst thou behold thy work and not despair ? The morn dawn'd glorious upon vale and hill. But Julia's chamber was all hush'd and still. 685 The noonday's sultry beam gilt spire and tower. But no sound stirr'd within her peaceful bower. Its casements close remain'd in quiet gloom ; Its dark alcove was silent as the tomb. At length strange whispers ran, that voice or word 690 Was not return'd by Julia or her lord ; JULIA MONTALBAN. 47 That one who pass'd the garden's private door Had found a fair youth slain and stiff in gore : And some within had hsten'd with affright Sounds hke last agonies at dead of night: 695 The bodeful tale grew rife, and at late hour With anxious fear they burst the nuptial bower. There, all untenanted the bridal bed. Upon the floor the twain were stiff and dead. Loved Julia lay, upon her graceful arm 700 The cheek reclined, as if in life yet warm ; But cold death's livid hue upon her skin Show'd what a piteous waste was wrought within. Her features seem'd, tho' now in slumber deep. After some painful struggle sunk to sleep. 705 The aspect of her lip serene and mild. Perchance death's last convulsion, sadly smiled. Montalban's strength appear'd more lately spent; O'er her pale corse his lifeless form was bent, 48 JULIA MONTALBAN. And inward agony still seem'd to strain 710 His ghastly features, as if wrung by pain. His bloody glove, yet clench'd, appear'd to press The hand of that fair victim to his face ; As if, deep striving with his latest breath. His lips convulsed had clung to it in death. 715 His throes were strong and fierce ; and he, that slew That form of loveliness, had most to rue. Her soul to bliss, awaken'd from despair. In mild forgiveness pour'd its latest prayer; It breathed no thought, which angels would deny ; 720 A beam of glory lit her dying eye : The patient spirit from its frail abode, By faith upraised, stole gently to its God. FINIS. LondoD : t'rinted by C. Rovoi'tlj, Bell Yard, Temple Bar. / -_»■ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. i'orm L9-40»n-7, '56(079084)444 Wi b^ ^ III 4 Herbert - PR^ [i7B5 V«ierd wanderer Hiiiew of Jutland UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 370 850 o PR Hlil6w i^' ■^>M m H >^-\/^ (■/ _,mii^ ^^ ^^^^ *^-W7i :t^M^