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 CANUTE THE GREAT: 
 
 THE CUP OF WATER. 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL FIELD. 
 
CANUTE THE GREAT: 
 THE CUP OF WATER 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL FIELU 
 
 ITottbon : 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS, 
 York Street, Covent Garden. 
 
 Clifton : 
 J. BAKER & SON. 
 
 \_A II rights rcse7'ved.'\ 
 

 CANUTE THE GREAT. 
 
 ** O Heavens ! how awful is the might of souls, 
 And what they do within themselves while yet 
 The yoke of earth is new to them." 
 
 Prelude. Book III. 
 
 479288 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 There is a peculiar pleasure in visiting a district of one's 
 native land that has retained the idiosyncrasies of a 
 province. It is like coming across an unexpected phase 
 in the character of a familiar friend. Association quickly 
 hallows what is crude in novelty. This sensation I ex- 
 perienced in an exceptional degree when, two years ago, 
 I spent some weeks of the summer in Norfolk. The 
 humble landscape, with its clear-cut outlines on the 
 horizon, its large sky, its penetrating sunshine, impressed 
 me with the absence of mystery and reserve. Unob- 
 structed stretches of corn-field lay open to the seasons 
 and the wind. As soon as I sailed among the Broads 
 I discovered that this shadowless, unguarded country 
 had a secret and seclusion of its own. Moored close to 
 the shrouding boundary of the reed-bed, among the water- 
 lilies and the soft ripples, one seemed to catch the very 
 heave of the breast of silence. Yet from the centre of 
 one of the loneliest of these rush-girdled meres the boom 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 of the ocean breaks on the ear. A few sand-hills divide 
 Horsey-Mere from the unprotected coast. 
 
 Attracted by the features and traditions of this Danish 
 kingdom, I cast about for a subject that should be of 
 use to me as a playwright; and, ultimately, — on the 
 advice of Professor A. W. Ward, to whom I beg to offer 
 my sincere thanks for the suggestion of a fine dramatic 
 problem, — determined to treat of the conflict of Edmund 
 Ironsides with Canute. The interest attaching to this 
 struggle culminates in the penitential vows of our first 
 Danish king, to govern his life thenceforward by recti- 
 tude, to observe equal judgment everywhere, and if, 
 through the intemperance and negligence of youth, he 
 had done what was not just, to endeavour by God's help 
 entirely to amend it. His later years are an expiation to 
 England for the murder of his great English foe. 
 
 The story of Canute is full of the tragic element of 
 evolution : — I say, the U'agic element., in opposition to the 
 still prevalent doctrine, that declension and calamity, 
 rather than development, are essential to the composition 
 of tragedy. The evils of an age of decline cannot be 
 compared with the pangs of a new era ; for neither the 
 race nor the individual possess in the term of decrepitude 
 that vitality that gives poignancy to regret. When, on 
 the contrary, a vigorous, aggressive, and undisciplined 
 people comes to recognise its barbarism through contact 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 with the civihzation it has defaced, it wrestles with an 
 intolerable shame. In the evolutionary struggle the 
 survivor is himself a tragic figure. Every sunrise brings 
 him into sharper antagonism with the beliefs and habits 
 that beset while they revolt him. He is alienated from 
 his gods, his forefathers, his very dreams. His hopes 
 are not founded on experience, nor his ideals on memory. 
 
 Causes such as these invest the person of Canute with 
 a singular and mournful majesty. Centuries of fierce, 
 pagan blood in his veins, he set himself to the task of 
 becoming a great Christian governor and lawgiver to men. 
 It is the business of this play to expound how these 
 things came to be, and at what cost they were achieved. 
 
 As the ages roll on, we find no grim, inhuman shapes 
 by the wheel of Destiny. The feeding of the spindle, 
 the snapping of the threads, does not indeed belong to 
 man ; but to his hands a great, formative power has been 
 given, and with this self-determination, if he has lost the 
 misery of being the plaything of the gods, he has gained 
 access to the deepest sources of pain in increased 
 capacity for humiliation and remorse. 
 
 M. F. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 It may be remarked at the outset, that that reader will 
 be least chafed by the historical inversions in these pages 
 who remembers of the period treated simply what he 
 learned as a child. Emma's marriage with Canute, which 
 did not take place till after the death of Edmund, in this 
 work immediately succeeds the partition of the kingdom. 
 Again, by special treaty, Eric and the Danish ships were 
 allowed to winter in the Thames after this division ; for 
 dramatic purposes Canute is placed in command of his 
 fleet within sight of London. In justice to Canute it 
 should be added, that not one English writer directly 
 charges him with the murder of King Edmund. It is 
 also due to Edric, earl of Mercia, to admit that there is 
 no distinct evidence that he was the author of the crime. 
 Even on the supposition that he was guilty, a hint of a 
 single chronicler is the only authority for assuming that 
 he chose his young son to be the instrument of his 
 wickedness. 
 
 From the above remarks it will be evident that the 
 story of Canute has been dealt with almost as freely as 
 if it were a legend of the Round Table. At the same 
 time the mutilations of history have been made de- 
 liberately for psychological or dramatic reasons, and 
 careful study has been given to the period. Cordial 
 thanks are due to Professors T. N. Toller and A. W. 
 Ward for the light they have thrown on obscure points, 
 and for the loan of several books difficult of access, 
 notably Laing's Sea-Kings^ and the Knutlinga Saga, 
 
 6 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Canute, son of Swend, King of Denmark. 
 
 Edmund Ironsides, son of Ethelred, King of England. 
 
 Edric Streona, an English Alderman. 
 
 Ethelnoth, Archbishop. 
 
 Thororin, a Scald. 
 
 Hardegon, an old Danish Jarl. 
 
 Alfgar, child to Edric. 
 
 Emma Elfgifu, widow of Ethelred, step-dame to 
 
 Edmund. 
 Edith, wife to Edric, sister to Edmund. 
 Elgiva, wife to Edmund. 
 GuNHiLD, a Scandinavian Prophetess. 
 
 English^ Danes, Normans, Monks, etc. 
 
 Scene. — Various parts of England. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. The Dafiish Fleet at Gainsborough. 
 Enter Canute, Thororin, and Hardegon. 
 
 Canute. My father dead ! O Skulda, not in fight ! 
 At eve among our slaughtered warriors 
 The fierce Valkyries missed him. On his couch 
 He groaned and died ignoble. 
 
 Hardegon. With no scar, 
 And yet he swore he bled. 
 
 Thororin. In health and valour 
 He stood among his men, a mighty man, 
 Straight as a fir-tree on Norwegian hills. 
 When of a sudden limb and eye were cowed ; 
 He shivered as a trunk before the axe j 
 And crying, — Help ! St. Edmund comes to slay ! 
 He fell to earth a madman. All night through 
 He called the surgeon to his uncut flesh 
 In torment and despair. At early dawn 
 He started and turned quivering to the light, 
 Then broke into a shriek, He comes again ! 
 And, pulling up the skins about his eyes, 
 Sank breathless. 
 
 Canute. O my father, hadst thou lain 
 Within thy lighted ship upon the sea, 
 And felt the gnawing of thy funeral fire 
 
lo CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 In every failing member, I, thy son, 
 
 Had joyously beheld. But on thy pillow ! — 
 
 Hardegon. Would he had left St. Edmund's town in 
 
 peace 
 
 He saw a spectre. Well I deem the dead 
 A people by themselves ; come of what stock 
 They will, it's in a ghost to freeze the blood. 
 I doubt not that St. Edmund wore a frock 
 White like a girl's, and yet was bright as Baldur 
 About the head. These Christians have a way 
 Of shining that dumbfounders. I have stopped 
 Hacking the bald-heads, frighted by that clear. 
 Fixed smiling. There is magic in these monks ; 
 They must not be insulted ; and our king 
 Sneered at the dead man's altar. 
 
 Canute. Thororin — 
 These saints we slay, these peaceful priories 
 We burn to blackness in their green retreats, 
 Have deep, compelling power and ordered sway, 
 That trouble and subdue me. I have stood 
 Among the smouldering orchards, and a sound 
 Of strange, invisible woe has struck my ear, 
 AVandering around the ruins. When I leap 
 On board my dragon-vessel, loose my soul 
 To the dark blast, scent the accustomed foam, 
 I call on Odin ; when the sea grows calm, 
 I think of those still churches, their grey priests, 
 AVith gracious, learned faces. They rebuke 
 My lawless blood, yet satisfy a want 
 That lurks within my brain. 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. i 
 
 Ha7'degon. "What is this folly ? 
 It is the things of old that keep us men. 
 
 Thororin. A gentle worship is not for a people 
 Whose mothers nurse them in a shaggy land 
 Of pines, and scarped rocks, and howling wolves ; 
 Whose fathers row their children out to sea, 
 And make the waves their playfellows, the storm 
 Their foster-sire ; who all their after days 
 Dwell in the whirl of nature. 
 
 Canute. I am back 
 With my old gods when there's a mighty wind, 
 That sets my locks a-sail. O Hardegon, 
 I am a Viking still. I, as my sires. 
 Worship All-father's Raven, as I mow 
 My way through corpses underneath its pinions ; 
 Yet with a curious dread I pause to hear 
 The monks chant in the vales. 
 
 Thororin. I know the music ; 
 It cannot match the short sweep of our verse. 
 That hath a wind behind it. 
 
 Canute. I shall live 
 To be the grandest theme, my Thororin, 
 Harp ever sounded. Hardegon, take cheer ; 
 I will hold sway in all the northern lands, 
 And in this well-loved England base a throne 
 That Cerdic's race shall shake not. 
 
 Hardegon. Sense at last ! 
 
 Thororin. And inspiration. Oh, he fires my heart ! 
 
 Canute. Who enters ? 
 
 \Enter Edric] 
 
 Hardegon. Edric, the sly alderman 
 
12 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act I. 
 
 That overtops all England. 
 
 Canute. Then a fellow 
 To use with skill and caution. 
 
 Edric. On my knees 
 I greet the king. I have vast influence, 
 Am husband to the princess, own a store 
 Of schemes and secret counsels. Verily 
 In me you have a God-send. 
 
 Canute. AVhom we greet. 
 
 Edric. I come to tell of treason. 
 
 Hardegon. Let us hear 
 Your hes. 
 
 Edric. I bring a mouthful of sour news ; 
 But if the Northmen cannot brook the truth — 
 
 Canute. Speak openly. 
 
 Edric. Then let them not believe. 
 The English Witan, breaking every oath 
 Sworn to the Dane, despatch their messengers 
 To Ethelred, entreating his return 
 From Normandy, his refuge and retreat. 
 They will receive him, so he govern better ; 
 You they will outlaw. 
 
 Canute. Yet with hostages 
 They sealed a compact to obey King Swend. 
 Traitors ! 
 
 Edric. Heyday ! This whelp has deadly ire. 
 
 Canute. I pant for vengeance on the perjurers. 
 No honour, and no faith ! 
 
 Hardegon. The viking spirit ! 
 This is the ancient mood. 
 
 Edric. What means his silence ? 
 
Sc. L] CANUTE THE GREAT. 13 
 
 Thororin. His eyes are sharp with hghtning, and his 
 forehead 
 Like a black sea-diff on which nods the corn. 
 
 Canute. It was a bond, they gave us hostages. 
 By Odin, Thor, and Frey, 
 I swear I will exact the penalty 
 Of broken faith. As they have lost my trust, 
 Their children now shall lose hands, noses, all 
 That tempts the knife. Forth with the prisoners ! Hack, 
 Lop them like saplings, make them bare of features 
 As woodmen leave their trees. 
 
 [Thororin sweeps his harp?\ 
 
 Hardegon. I hear the order 
 With joy ; — so like old Gorm's commands, right manly, 
 Just, pitiless ! \_Exit Hardegon.] 
 
 Catiute. [To Thororin.] Look on. There will be 
 moods 
 When, with your harp, you must rehearse this scene ; 
 My nature will require it. They are boys ; 
 
 Yet Thororin, I will not take their lives ; 
 
 Let them learn horror of their fathers' sin, 
 
 Return them branded to their infamous 
 
 Begetters, [^.t// Thororin.] Englishman, a bond with 
 
 you 
 To work my cause with honesty and skill. 
 This Edmund — 
 
 Edric. Is a foe to circumvent. 
 The stripling is already on his way, 
 Sent by his exiled father to the Witan 
 With promises ; — speeches will have small weight 
 
14 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 Spoken for Ethelred, who lolls his tongue 
 Which way is best for scraping off the flies ; 
 But this young prince has something in his look 
 So prompt and trusty — comely-faced like you, 
 And fresh, but more the bearing of a man. 
 
 Canute. He seeks the Witan ; let him come to me, 
 And I will make him captain of a band 
 Of most efficient youths. 
 
 Edric. No menaces ! 
 We must have patience ; when he heads the army, 
 I promise you to draw his forces off 
 Under his very nose. I simply ask 
 A twelvemonth for his ruin. Give me time. 
 \_A deep cry is heard ?\^ 
 
 Canute. They suffer, Edric — your young countrymen. 
 
 Edric. A shifty folk, these English. 
 
 Canute. Traitors' ways ! 
 Mine is the land ; I will reconquer it, 
 Will ravage, leave these waving, marshy flats. 
 These crumbling bays, and strike into the corn. 
 The horse-hoof gives possession. I will ride. 
 
 Edric. Your father fell a victim to a saint ; 
 Best get him under ground. 
 
 Cajiute. King Swend shall rest 
 At Roskild with his ancestors. Declare 
 Among your countrymen his death was caused 
 By stumbling of his horse. 
 
 Edric. Ah, no more lies. 
 All honesty, and yet — A vicious brute. 
 That flung his rider, kicked his skull, the rest 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 15 
 
 Was all delirium from injury. 
 I have the cue. 
 
 Canute \_padng excitedly]. It is my father's land : 
 Hath it not felt his mutilating mark 
 From north to south ? Hath the corn e'er been reaped 
 He hath not trampled ? Is there town or hamlet 
 Unblackened by his fires ? Hath he not quelled 
 These English hinds ? I will lay siege to London, 
 And snatch his fame from Edmund. As a tempest 
 Travels the kingdoms of a mighty plain, 
 Then breaks on one doomed spot, I will descend 
 On him in sudden ruin. He shall feel 
 In me the power and pressure of the North -, 
 The strength of fighting Asi ; all that happened 
 In Gorm's fierce bosom when he eyed a coast, 
 And the lust seized him for its ravaging. 
 A taunt, a challenge, and the waves are black 
 With dragon-fleets. I summon to my blood 
 The terrors of dead sea-kings. 
 
 {Re-enter Thororin and Hardegon.] 
 
 Hardegon. They are ready. 
 This English band. Will you not look on them ? 
 As useless as old women, these fine youths. 
 They felt it when we lopped away their hands. 
 
 Canute \laying his hand o?i his sivord\ Did I say 
 that ? . . . I was infuriate. 
 You are not in the service of King Swend ; 
 Wait till I cool ere you obey my orders. 
 Where lies my father ? I will learn the truth, 
 Handle, and scan his body. Oh, to think 
 
i6 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 That there should be no wounds, no gory issue 
 For his tremendous soul ! 
 
 Hardegon. They covered him 
 Most carefully, such fear was in his eye. 
 
 Canute. But I will cow this Edmund, this young 
 
 Christian 
 Who bribes his saint for executioner. 
 Pull down your harp, my Thororin, the chords 
 May bring some colour to the dead man's cheek. 
 [Aside.] And, Hardegon, learn the full policy 
 Of yon ill-spoken, braggart Englishman. 
 When you have brought me to my father's corpse, 
 Look to his motives. \Exeiint Canute, Thororin, and 
 
 Hardegon. Edric, having overheard Canute's last 
 
 wo?'ds, stretches himself on the royal chair vacated by 
 
 him.] 
 Edric. Look to his motives. They will be clever who 
 get at them. I haven't a brain to hatch them. Wide- 
 awake and no scruples — a man can do wonders by just 
 keeping an eye on the weather-cock. Motives ! They 
 think I married the king's daughter for the sake of the 
 blood royal — and I took her to bring down her pride 
 with low jokes, for she once curled her lip at me. To 
 pour one's ribaldry on a delicate princess, with the 
 Church to tell her all is innocent in wedlock, it has been 
 a rare pastime ! But last year I had better company, the 
 king sent me to escort his Old Lady, as they call her, to 
 Normandy. She has the wit of the couple and a grace — 
 'tis a pleasure to be near her, for she bows over your ear as 
 softly as she would with the fellows at court. If I could 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 17 
 
 but have her for my mistress when King Ethelred has 
 done languishing. But she is too keen and lofty. I 
 could never cure her of her condescension, and besides 
 I am not amorous. I like to play with fools and turn them 
 round my fingers. There is nothing to appeal to in me 
 — no conjuring by Odin — or our Lady. I am careful 
 to scrape away association from fact. Significance, sug- 
 gestion ! — they are the bane of life. That banner floating 
 there, they have worked a raven on it, and they worship 
 the black image like an idol. Flap a bit of cloth in the 
 wind, and you can lead men like sheep to the slaughter. 
 But / am not gulled. That banner is to me an indifferent 
 shred of cloth, — and everything is what it seems. I care 
 no more for a parchment than for the leather on my 
 shield. And this young Prince Edmund, with his open 
 face and hope of redeeming his father's honour ! He is 
 full of superstition and cannot thrive. 
 
 \_Re-e?iter Hardegon.] 
 
 Well, you wonder what has brought me to your 
 master ? Old statesman, it is this : your master is going 
 to win ; and I am the only Englishman who can bring 
 my own prophecy to pass, for he will not conquer with- 
 out artifice. The English prince hates cunning, so I 
 hate him ; every man likes to have employment for his 
 faculties. 
 
 Hardegon \aside\. He is as ugly as foul weather at sea. 
 Report to your young prince how we served his hostages, 
 but don't brag you sat sprawling in my master's royal seat. 
 It is unnatural to see you here at all. You are by rights 
 our enemy. 
 
 c 
 
1 8 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act 1. 
 
 Edric \risi7ig afid yawnmg\. Oh, you will not have 
 me long a spy on your tactics. I have no particular 
 ambition. I just rode over here as a friend to let you 
 know what was chancing. I am indolent by nature ; you 
 must take 7ny time ; but you will find it worth your while 
 to make me comfortable. Just give me fodder for my 
 nag, and your best flavoured Danish dishes. 
 
 Hardegofi. My own lads shall serve you \_aside\ 
 and keep a watch on you too, till you turn your reins 
 southward. Here, Harold, Ralf, an English alderman 
 wants feeding. These youngsters will be your squires ; 
 but have a care. Return to your own folk. English 
 faces will have to suffer now for their saint turning 
 murderer. \^Exit Edric attended^ 
 
 They were fine boys we hacked ; that is a fellow wants 
 pelting with the bones one has gnawed, till he is punched 
 in. I would do it myself, if it were not for orders. 
 Orders, forsooth, from my young Viking ! I shall have 
 hard times with him ; he is uncertain and masterful. 
 
 \Exit?^ 
 
 Scene H. Malmeshury. The Orchard. 
 
 E^iter Edmund and Elgiva. 
 
 Edmufid. Elgiva, I am come for you, my wife. 
 Kiss me ! You come out in the orchard, sweet. 
 Lest envious nuns should leer at our encounter. 
 As the unclean at innocence. That woman 
 Who can bear witness of a stolen kiss 
 I would abandon to the rosary's 
 
Sc. II.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 19 
 
 Perpetual toil ; but who should brag of lovers, 
 New-mating lovers, as we twain, should never 
 Look on the sun again. Dear, we are free ; 
 It is the summer morning of our love ; 
 And now my little, flushing, English rose 
 Can open all the treasures of her breast 
 To the benignant air. Give me your lips. 
 
 Elgiva. I will not, Edmund ; in my very sight 
 My lord was basely murdered. There he sat 
 Haughty and awkward, my great, trustful Dane, 
 At Edric's board. I noted that the princess 
 Was pale, she twitched her hand, she beckoned me 
 Aside, and looking up, I saw the room 
 Full of armed men, my husband in the midst, 
 Astonished, fighting with tremendous fists. 
 The lady pressed me to her bosom close 
 To hide me from the slaughter, but I broke 
 Away, and climbing to the casement saw 
 The chapel blazing where the hunted guests 
 Had fled for sanctuary. It is reported 
 That Edric is the Atheling's counsellor, 
 Edric — the lying tongue, the false, false lip. 
 I am an Englishwoman, and I cherish 
 My country to this plot of orchard-ground : 
 I would not cede an inch of English earth. 
 No, nor the seas, they should be English too. 
 With cities of strong ships. And I would love 
 The line of Cerdic ; but I must abhor 
 The fitful, shifty, dismal, obstinate, 
 Untoward Ethelred, who damps the hopes 
 
20 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 Of his stout, rallying subjects, who at Council, 
 
 Where men should meet for justice, planned the 
 
 murder 
 Of my great Danish earl : and if his son 
 Knew of the vile intent — O Edmund, Edmund ! 
 
 Edimind \_walking apart\. Arraigned a traitor by the 
 
 girl I love, 
 I cannot speak. I will return to her 
 When the last Dane is driven to his ship. 
 And yet, without her woman's faith, I go 
 Unharnessed to the field. 
 
 S^Approaching /ler.] 
 
 Then you dismiss me, 
 Uncomforted, to raise an English band, 
 That will grow sullen, and refuse to fight. 
 As you refuse to love, because I bear 
 The name of Ethelred the Redeless' son ? 
 Yet, lady, you have seen me in the midst 
 Of strong temptation play no miscreant's part. 
 That day you looked up from your wedding-veil, 
 I knew I was beloved. A deadly wrench ! 
 I saw you yielded to the Danish earl, 
 Your precious body, the pure maidenhood, 
 I would have crowned with queenship, and I swore 
 Never again to look upon your face ; 
 I banished you my heart's realm, nor revoked 
 The sentence, till this day a messenger 
 Told of your husband's death, and how you fled 
 To seek protection in these holy walls. 
 
 Elgiva. O Edmund, my great lover, my dear prince, 
 
Sc. IL] CANUTE THE GREAT. 21 
 
 Speak to me, pardon me, ask o'er again 
 For what you asked. 
 
 Edmund. Give me those honest eyes, 
 Where there is nothing hidden. What a mirror ! 
 Love, I would look down in the golden depths, 
 And find reflection. 
 
 Elgiva. Dearest heart, believe. 
 As in the orchard every part o' the tree 
 Is apple, from the blossom to the drooping 
 O' the rosy, laden branches, — you will find 
 No part of me, from my first, girlish joy 
 In your young, royal face, that is not worship. 
 Give me the freedom of your brow, my kisses 
 Long to set record there. 
 
 Edmu7id. The lips, the lips ! {^passionately kissing /ler.] 
 Elgiva, we are lord and lady here 
 I' the flecking sunlight ; but Canute would rend 
 Our England from us. 
 
 Elgiva. He shall be repulsed ; 
 For I have great possessions, and have suffered 
 To see my goodly acres in the hands 
 Of a sea-farer and a foreigner. 
 
 Edmund. Heir to your husband's confiscated fiefs — 
 Then I will seek my father, and demand 
 The lordships. 
 
 Elgiva. Edmund, let them be my gift ; 
 Exact no rights. Why should men force a boon, 
 Grasp masterful, and take from us our joy — 
 To give, to give ? My lands are yours for ever, 
 Yours with their wealth of stalwart fighting-men, 
 
22 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 Yours for the muster, for the battlefield, 
 The bloodshed, and the triumph ; yours at last 
 For pasture, blessed as this golden sward, 
 When you are England's king. 
 
 \E71ter messenger?^ 
 
 Edmund. A messenger ! 
 
 Elgiva. And from his aspect I believe he bears 
 Some weighty news. 
 
 [Edmund meets the messejiger. They co?iverse apart ?[ 
 To lie down on the grass. 
 Look up to him, and feel he is my own ! 
 His face grows solemn, and a majesty 
 Darkens his quiet eyes. \_Exit messenger?^ 
 
 Edmund. King Ethelred 
 Hath died in London. My true-hearted city. 
 Thee I possess ; but of my ravaged kingdom 
 What part beside ? The bishops, aldermen, 
 Are all without the walls, and will elect 
 The valiant young Dane who rules the north. 
 And 'gainst the stronghold of our English life 
 Presses his splendid fleet. 
 
 Elgiva. But you are king ; 
 Shire will help shire now you are in command, 
 And render you their services as freely 
 As I confer my love ; for I am England, 
 Who, when I doubted, would have none of you, 
 Who pleaded that the Dane had qualities 
 Meet for men's reverence ; and rally now 
 All native forces in me to proclaim 
 Edmund my lord. Oh, there are faithful souls ; 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 23 
 
 Trust in your people, give your heart to them, 
 And put for ever from your side the churl, 
 False-speaking Edric. 
 
 Edmimd. Let him come and go ; 
 He is ill-governed. Doubtless he fulfilled, 
 Murdering the Danish earl, some infamous 
 Plot of my father's. I shall treat him well ; 
 The reign of vile suspicion is at end, 
 And honour to the fore. 
 
 Elgiva. O happy country ! 
 I never saw this level orchard-ground 
 So full of gleams and shades. I am right glad 
 That you made love beneath the apple-trees ; 
 They are so English, and their rosy fruit 
 Is plucked in tranquil, happy, autumn days, 
 Such as our Edmund will restore to us. 
 When the great wars are ended. A sweet spot ! 
 
 \Exeiint?[ 
 
 Scene III. Lofido?i. Ethelred's corpse^ on a great bed^ 
 in a large room. 
 
 Enter Emma. 
 
 Emma. Thou infamy, the harlots found thee fair ! 
 Vindictive, mercenary, treacherous, vile, 
 A laggard, and a waverer ; how well 
 Did nature fit thee for thine enemies, 
 Thy mistresses, and all corrupting things. 
 The worm that eats thy body will revolt 
 At the unvirgin soil. Yea, I will speak. 
 
24 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act I. 
 
 Death gives us widows opportunity 
 
 To put such questions as at judgment-day 
 
 Will rise in accusation. From my anger 
 
 Thou canst not hide ; thy face is bare and fixed 
 
 Before my eyes and lips. Didst thou not sport 
 
 With other women, while I bore thee sons 
 
 With Saxon faces, boys so like their father 
 
 I loathed to give them suck, young heritors 
 
 Of thy unfeatured kingship, timid lads. 
 
 For whom I begged a refuge at the table 
 
 Of my great Norman brother ? Dost thou hear ? 
 
 Wilt thou not bribe me from my inquisition ? 
 
 Nay, but thy Danish foe shall take thy place. 
 
 In my own inmost bower. Ah me, ah me ! 
 
 Bride to the Viking ! What deep modesty 
 
 Restrains me from the thought ? I grew a girl, 
 
 When, from the walls of London, I looked down 
 
 On his young, glittering, tempestuous face. 
 
 And blushed, and gave him all the terms he sought 
 
 To win one smile. I look about the chamber ; 
 
 Do I resign my queenship ? I am fair, 
 
 My finger-tips can thrill men to their doom, 
 
 And my whole body is for empery. 
 
 I do not crave to rule ; I crave to spend 
 
 The flower o' my years, my faculties, my grace, 
 
 In service of a simple, king-like man, 
 
 Clean as the ocean, and as terrible 
 
 I' the day of tempest. 
 
 {Going up to the corpse?^ Redeless thing, thou'rt dead. 
 
 My soul peals to the echo — dead, dead, dead ! 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT 25 
 
 [Enter Edric] 
 What brings you hither, my fair son-in-law ? 
 Has faithful London looked upon your face, 
 And suffered quiet passage through her streets ? 
 You leave the Dane ? 
 
 Edric. Since you would have me give 
 My services to this young cub of Swend, 
 I give them ; and report in Edmund's ear 
 That I am rallying forces in the north. 
 But for my presence — do not feign surprise ; 
 You summoned me to bear you to the court 
 Of Normandy. I am obedient 
 To your least whim, but fear that I have journeyed 
 O'er hastily. I find you at your vigils. 
 
 Emma. Weeping the man who has dishonoured me. 
 
 Edric. There is a sure revenge. Now is your time 
 For freedom and for pleasure. 
 
 Emma. Insolence ! 
 [Aside^ gla?icing toward the ded.] I would not be his 
 
 mate in anything, 
 Nor re-enact his lewdness. I am free, 
 Free, till I love. — How fares the Danish monarch ? 
 We met once. Edric, does he speak my name 
 In the same way as yours ? 
 
 Edric. 'Tis never breathed 
 Within my hearing. 
 
 Emma. Time is in my hair. 
 [Aside, taking a mirror.] I am a matron and a queen, 
 
 and yet 
 There is a starving girlhood in this face. 
 
26 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 That bitterly contrasts. 
 
 Edric. Now cheerly ! Once 
 I named you, and he started to his feet, 
 Calling his men to vanquish Ethelred ; 
 That day the foe was routed. 
 
 Emma, Thane, on you 
 I build my future and my blessedness. 
 Let not his ears forget my syllables ; 
 Picture my destiny. 
 
 Edric. I'll make it ring. 
 
 Em?jia. You shall not mention me — except my 
 pride. 
 
 Edric. A young man soon forgets. 
 
 Emma. False, false ; in youth 
 There is a warm fidelity ; all's cold 
 When greybeards hug the past. [Aside.] Oh, my beloved ! 
 
 Edric. Lady, take heart. I am a counsellor 
 The raw, young soldier may not well despise ; 
 And I will show him the advantage. What ! 
 You blench ; I mean I will extol the beauty 
 Of my fair mistress. Yet I claim reward. 
 Come now, a kiss. 
 
 Ei7ima. My lips are put away 
 For some high festival. 
 
 Edric. You yield your hand ? 
 
 Emma. As I were still a queen. It costs some pangs 
 To part with royalty. My blessed crown, 
 My fond, familiar circlet. Ah, alas ! 
 My hair falls unsupported by this wreath 
 Of gold. 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 27 
 
 Edric. A fair decline. Put this aside, 
 
 [Touching the crown.'] 
 Or rather, press it to your hps, and swear 
 To give me of your widowhood some hours, 
 Ere you again are royah 
 
 Emma. Edric, hush ! 
 'Tis my ambition makes me amorous ; 
 And I will give you sweeter recompense 
 Than any woman's favour may confer. 
 Share this my royal passion ; make me queen. 
 And I will win for you the highest place 
 In the young Viking's trust. You will not sway 
 My second husband as you swayed my first ; 
 But I have tracked allegiance in your eyes. 
 You feel he is your master. 
 
 Edric. Ironsides 
 Has valour. 
 
 Emma. And a child's simplicity ; 
 A melancholy, brave, clear-purposed man, 
 Whom any knave may cozen. Let it be 
 Your part to circumvent him. Love the Dane, 
 And you shall rise in honour. 
 
 Edric. Well, I swear — 
 Give me your hand to print my oath upon. 
 
 Emma. Edric, refrain ! My step-son at the door, 
 Must not behold us in close colloquy. 
 
 [Edric advances to the door, and greets Edmund.] 
 Safe, safe ! He has not touched me. 
 \_Looki?ig toward the bed.] Safe from hi7n, 
 The licensed to defile. And now how sweet 
 
28 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 My maidenhood returns on me. To fill 
 
 Some narrow convent bed in Normandy, 
 
 Dream of Canute, and all day say my prayers ! 
 
 But that is not so cleansing. Oh, this love 
 
 Is a diviner power than holiness ; 
 
 It puts all evil past imagining, 
 
 And crowds the soul as full as Paradise 
 
 With rapturous desires. Ah me, they come. 
 
 And I must to my tears. [Drooping over the corpse?^ 
 
 Edric \io Edmund]. You give consent, 
 Most noble Atheling, that I bear away 
 Your lady-mother to Duke Richard's court ? 
 
 Edmund. She doubtless will be welcome there, and 
 here 
 Adds to confusion. Take her oversea. 
 
 Emma \Jialf-aside\. I cannot leave him, such a proper 
 man 
 He looks, with that great brow and curling hair. 
 He has won many hearts. 
 
 \Enter Edith and the child.'] 
 
 Edmund. My sister comes 
 To pray for the great dead. Disturb her not 
 By more than briefest parting. 
 
 Edric. My sweet wife. 
 You bring our boy to look upon your sire ; 
 May he repeat his virtues ! [Edith shudders?^ 
 
 Edmund [to the child ^ drawing him away from the 
 bed\ Ah, my man, 
 Your grandsire was so loved, when wicked Swend 
 Was smitten by St. Edmund, whose dear name 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 29 
 
 I bear, the English people called him home 
 
 To govern them again. They rally now 
 
 Round me, his son, your king. Down on your knees ; 
 
 You rascal, do me homage ! 
 
 Child \_glancmg fearfully at the corpse\ Who has made 
 him 
 Like that ? O father ! 
 
 Edric. See the lad ! He thinks 
 That I have power of life and death. [Aside.] I train 
 
 him 
 To wither at a look. Though terrified, 
 He shall be forced to creep up to the corpse. 
 And touch it. — \_Alotid.'\ Come now, kiss your grandfather. 
 He cannot hurt you. Never be afraid. 
 [The child goes straight up to the kifig's body, and shrieks ?\^ 
 [To Edmund.] He does whate'er I tell him; I can count 
 On that. — Now, sirrah, down upon your knees ; 
 You must learn all your duty. Swear to fight 
 For good King Edmund. 
 
 Child. I shall be a priest. 
 But I will bless your armies. I am glad 
 That you will rule. 
 
 Edric [to Edith]. I go to Normandy, 
 My saintly princess. To your brother's care 
 And your just grief I leave you. But our boy — 
 
 Edmund. I will instruct my nephew. 
 
 Emma [embracing the child\ Dearest child, 
 My infant Ethelred, thy living cheek 
 Shall take the print of my last English kiss ; 
 For, oh, I cannot give my lips again 
 
30 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 To that cold, marble brow. \To Edmund.] Our elder son, 
 Recover our lost kingdom. 
 
 Edric. Noble prince, 
 I shall make haste to hear the proclamation 
 Of your new royalties, when this fair lady 
 Is rendered to her kinsman. [Aside.] Mark my purpose ; 
 To rid you of the dowager means friendship, — 
 No step-dame on the throne ! 
 
 Edmimd. Lady, farewell. [Exeunt Emma and Edric] 
 
 Edith. My brother ! What, together and alone 
 By this dear bed — to clasp you in my arms. 
 To feel that you are here, our country's lord 
 And saviour, and that no usurper's hand 
 Will tear our father's crown ! 
 
 Ed?mmd. Dear, send the boy 
 Away ; his eyes are wandering fearfully, 
 Too shy to look upon this stranger, Death, 
 That puts us from our ease, who every day 
 Encounter him. 
 
 Edith. Go, darling, to your prayers 
 In the near chamber. [Exit ehild.] All the Londoners 
 Are staunchly yours ? 
 
 Edmund. Edith, all Englishmen 
 Are mine ; they lack a leader, but their faith 
 Is without flaw. 
 
 Edith. You think there will be peace ? 
 
 Edmu7id, Hard fighting rather. We will give our 
 blood 
 To these invaders, and our gold shall feed 
 The sick and hungry. Glorious battlefields 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT 31 
 
 Shall glow upon our southern pasture plains \ 
 Where the sheep graze such victories shall be won 
 As shall not need the cairn to chronicle. 
 Edith, I bear my people in my heart 
 As bard his unbreathed song. 
 
 Edith. Yet stay to mourn 
 Our father ; he is desolate and cold. 
 Let me draw back the curtain. 
 
 Edmund [looking steadfastly at Ethelred]. A\ no 
 bribes, 
 No hostages, thyself 
 To pay the penalty when death exacts. 
 No more evasion, the straight road to hell, 
 And Judas' bag for thy blood-rusted gold. 
 Away, to the true miser ! 
 
 Edith. Edmund, Edmund ! 
 Give him your prayers ; we may redeem him still. 
 
 Ednnmd. From his deserts ? Then I shake off religion. 
 Heaven looks facts in the face ; he sold his country, 
 Which in a king is as he sold his God. 
 He made all fearful, for he put no trust 
 In any man, and he has died a stranger 
 To life's sweet faiths and holy confidence. 
 He leaves a Danish heir, but honest Edric 
 Makes secret preparation for my rule. 
 
 Edith \nervously caressing hin{\. When we were 
 children, and your play-fellows 
 Would cheat at games, you let me counsel you. 
 And show who played you false. As king, beware ; 
 Lean not on Edric's love. 
 
32 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 Edmund. Edith, your husband ! 
 I never will be warned the damned way 
 Of vile suspicion. You misjudge the thane, 
 And irritate his plain, outspoken nature 
 With timid reticence. 
 
 Edith. One cannot love 
 A stranger as one loves the face one knows 
 As early as the sky. 
 
 Edmund. Dear heart, although 
 The pompous Emma from our mother's tomb 
 Hath turned the people's thoughts, we two possess. 
 Each in the other, a fair gift of hers 
 For keepsake and remembrance. Hast thou heard 
 Of my great joy ? Elgiva is my wife, 
 And of her frank, sweet nature I will get 
 A race clear as the stars. Your pretty lad. 
 For his sake I could wish a brood of girls ; 
 All Cerdic's majesty is in his face ; 
 Though he is sickly. . . Alfred as a child 
 Was fragile, loved his missal. Never fear 
 But he will make a man, though full of thought, 
 And blue-eyed as an angel. Comfort, love ! 
 Will you not come along ? The priests attend. 
 Then I must bid farewell. 
 
 \TIiey kiss. Exit Edmund.] 
 
 Edith. How angrily 
 They all turn from his pillow ! In the midst 
 Of the great winter storms I often sighed 
 To be with those whom the encircling sea. 
 When it blew inward on our isle, submerged. 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 33 
 
 I think they will lie quiet in the deep, 
 
 Unharassed by the Judgment : no account 
 
 Is left of them ; their villages and towns 
 
 Have all escaped taxation and distress ; 
 
 They are no more bewildered by the dread 
 
 Of an invader ; — whilst, alas ! these kings 
 
 Can lay no hold upon oblivion. 
 
 There is great beauty still upon his face ; 
 
 It hath not been beloved. Infirmity 
 
 Sows sorer rancour in men's hearts than crime : 
 
 I know not why. He shall have many prayers. 
 
 \She kneels by the bed. Enter monks chanting?^ 
 
 Scene IV. Southampton, 
 
 Enter Canute, Hardegon, E?tglish and Danes. 
 
 Canute. Ye have proclaimed me king ! 'Tis said at 
 London 
 The citizens choose otherwise ; no more 
 In terror of my girding troops, they give 
 Oaths to the untried son of Ethelred. 
 Where lies your loyalty ? Has Ironsides 
 Your secret love ? Or do you give your hearts 
 To me, receive me as your rightful lord, 
 Trust me to cleanse the country of all robbers. 
 Liars and cheats, and ever doom just dooms 
 Alike to rich and poor ? Will ye exalt 
 My dignity, and follow my command, 
 As mindful all ye do in faithfulness 
 Is to your own behoof? 
 
 D 
 
34 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act I. 
 
 English. We will maintain 
 Our choice, and with a strict fidelity 
 Cleave to our King Canute. 
 
 Ca?tute. Now ye are mine 
 I will re-knit your virtue, make your throne 
 A seat of glory. Think not whence I am ; 
 Let Danes and Englishmen beneath my sway 
 Become a world-known race. Bear witness all 
 How I love England, — her enfolding seas, 
 Her woods, her valley-hay fields, river-sheds 
 Where cattle graze the meadows. I was born 
 In haunts of desolation ; here abides 
 A sense of times gone by, of ancient law, 
 Religious benediction. My wild home 
 Seems but mere earth on which to breathe and eat ; 
 This island has a human, blessed bond 
 Between itself and men. 
 
 English. 'Tis yours to hold. 
 And govern as you will ; we bow beneath 
 The dictates of your pleasure ; there is nought 
 On earth that may resist you. 
 Canute [aside]. Flattery ! 
 They think me a dull savage. — Ye have spoken 
 Beyond the truth. I bid you turn and look 
 Upon those billows sweeping to the shore. 
 With augment, arch, depression. Do you tell me 
 That they would stay their muster, check their onslaught 
 And fury of defiance at my bidding ? 
 If you would love me, give me faithful tongues 
 In all you say — I have no appetite 
 
5c. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 35 
 
 For adulation. Go ye hence, and gather 
 An army meet to grapple with great Edmund : 
 For ye have chosen me, but your election 
 Hard fighting must confirm. 
 
 English. Long live the king ! \Exeu7it?\ 
 
 Hardegon. We gave these pretty Englishmen the 
 breath of flames and the smoke of homesteads. Now it 
 is all excellent England. Enemies, I take it, are as natural 
 to a man as babes to a woman. Ghosts of the Vikings ! 
 Would our mothers know our voices ? 
 
 Canute. I am king now in a country where there is 
 corn-growing and the sound of bells. I must be a Christian. 
 
 Hardegon. And you know not a word of the mystery. 
 You a Christian ! Ay, stick your great hands in your hair 
 and redden. They'll have the laugh of you. 
 
 Canute. I will learn, I must alter. I am not simply 
 the grand-child of Gorm. These battle-fields are just the 
 beginning. Afterwards. . . . 
 
 Hardegon. The folly ! Rob a man of his ancestors, 
 you take all. My best hope is to become an ancestor 
 — no hold on posterity, if you be not a god to it. Then 
 just think what a time it takes a bit of coast to vary ! 
 When I sail up the fiords, the water-falls drop from the 
 same cliff, the walls of the white steeps have not budged. 
 And we reckon on these things. If they fail, there is no 
 stability. I ask you, are not the gods changeless, must 
 not divinity dwell among the old ways ? 
 
 Canute. O Hardegon, there are answers to these 
 questions; they are coming on the waves to me. \Looking 
 out on the sea abstractedly ^^^ 
 
36 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 \Eiiter Thororin.] 
 
 TJiororin. Listen ! my harp is tuned ; it shivers to 
 praise you. I have had a great madness to sing as I saw the 
 warriors gather, and heard the blast take your name inland. 
 
 Canute \u7iheeding\. No wisdom near me, — a dunce 
 and a ruler ! Oh, this shame of ignorance, that will not 
 hide itself; that must come out, and suffer, and be 
 mocked ! I sob all night for the misery. ' Tis a secret 
 that cannot be kept, yet the breaking it. . . If one 
 loved me ! [seeing Thororin.] Oh, how horrible ! More 
 praise of my big sinews. I'll be sullen. \_Tiir?is away.'] 
 
 Thororin. Deaf to my exaltation, no ear for a poet ! 
 Let me beg. Sire, you listen to my song ; it is short. 
 
 Canute. And I am the subject. The insolence of these 
 verse-makers ! They would have all life a general ear for 
 their bit of piping breath, or they stare and begin to rail. 
 Off with you, minstrel ! Thirty strophes more of your 
 theme, or you lose your head to-morrow. 
 
 Thororin. Pshaw ! — but the threat is nothing. The 
 wind, a sand-hill, and a cry for dreams, and I am full of 
 singing that instant. 
 
 Canute. Thirty strophes, and stuffed with comparisons 
 and reverence. [Exit Thororin.] 
 
 Hardegon. How he twirls his finger round the flames 
 on his lip, all impatience for me to go. He has a sea- 
 bred face. ' Tis a shame for the true, old things to 
 lose him. I will bring one who can speak — with a voice 
 that is like the rush of water from amid the foam of her 
 hair — Gunhild, the prophetess. 
 
 \To Canute.] Strange, you should have taken to 
 fretting, and all since the siege of London ! \Exit^ 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT, ^7 
 
 Canute. All, all since then. Ah, yes ! Above me bent 
 A sweet, soft-shouldered woman, with supreme, 
 Abashing eyes, and such maturity — 
 The perfect flower of years — such June of face . . . 
 So ceremonious, and yet so fearless 
 In passionate grace, that I was struck with shame, 
 And knew not where I was, nor how to speak. 
 Confounded to the heart. She made me feel 
 That I was lawless and uncivilized, — 
 Barbarian ! In all my brave array 
 I shrank from her, as she had caught me stripped 
 For some brute pastime. Is this womanhood ? 
 There's more to see each time one looks at her. 
 There's music in her ; she has listened much. 
 Pored o'er the lustrous missals, learnt how soft 
 One speaks to God, with silky filaments 
 Woven weird pictures of the fates of men. 
 Her smile is not a new-born thing, 'tis old. 
 And mellow as the uncut, timeless jewel. 
 Her forehead's runic, — it is just to-day 
 On other faces, but this lady's brows 
 Are full of fond tradition and romance. 
 I'll be her scholar, she shall teach me all, 
 And change — yea, as I love her, I am changed 
 In my ambition, in my appetites, 
 In my blood, and aspiration. \Turning to some parch- 
 
 ments.'] For her sake 
 I wrestle with these laws. My eyes are dim. 
 Worn out with gazing, and my brain is slow 
 To take the import. Sometimes on my vessel 
 
38 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 When my dull brain is drowsy with the salt, 
 I muse on this new wisdom, till its weight 
 Oppresses me with slumber, as it rises 
 In such great bulk before me. 
 
 \Reads the parchments^ sittijtg. 
 
 [Re-enter Hardegon with Gunhild.] 
 
 Hardegon. At his learning ! 
 Deal with him, spare him not. 
 
 Catmte. Whom hast thou brought ? 
 A brooding face, with windy sea of hair, 
 And eyes whose ample vision ebbs no more 
 Than waters from a fiord. I conceive 
 A dread of things familiar as she breathes. 
 
 Gunhild. O king. 
 
 Ca?mte. Ay, Scandinavia. 
 
 Gunhild. He sees 
 How with a country's might I cross his door ; 
 How in me all his youth was spent, in me 
 His ancestors are buried ; on my brows 
 Inscribed is his religion ; through my frame 
 Press the great, goading forces of the waves. 
 
 Ca?mte. Art thou a woman ? 
 
 Gunhild. Not to thee. I am 
 Thy past. 
 
 Canute. Her arms are knotted in her bosom 
 Like ivy-stems. What does she here, so fixed 
 Before my seat ? 
 
 Gunhild. Hearken ! I wandered out 
 Among the brake-fern, and the upright flags, 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 3i9 
 
 And snatching brambles, when the sun was gone, 
 And the west yellow underneath the night. 
 A fir-bough rolled its mass athwart my way, 
 With a black fowl thereon. All eve I stood 
 And gathered in your fate. You raise your hands 
 To other gods, you speak another tongue. 
 You learn strange things on which is Odin's seal 
 That men should know them not, you cast the billows 
 Behind your back, and leap upon the horse. 
 You love no more the North that fashioned you, 
 The ancestors whose blood is in your heart : — 
 These things you have forgotten. 
 
 Canute. Yes. 
 
 Gunhild. But they 
 Will have a longer memory. Alas, 
 The mournfulness that draws about my breasts ! 
 W^oe, Woe ! There is a justice of the Norn, 
 Who sings about the cradle. 
 
 Canute. Speak thy worst. 
 
 \_Aside^ risi?ig and pad?ig apart.'] How different my 
 queen ! How liberal 
 The splendour of her smile ! This woman's frown 
 Is tyrannous. So will my country look. 
 When I sail back next year ; for I shall feel 
 A dread, a disappointment, and a love 
 I loathe, it comes up from so deep a well, 
 Where I am sod and darkness. 
 
 Gunhild. At thy birth 
 Sang Urd of foregone things, of thy wild race, 
 Of rocks and fir-trees that for ages past 
 
40 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 Stood in thy native bounds, of creeping seas, 
 That call thy countrymen to journey forth 
 Among strange people ; and her song went on 
 As flesh was woven for thee in the womb ; 
 It cannot be forgotten, for she sang 
 Beginnings. 
 
 Canute. O grey-headed tyrannies 
 Of yore, I will escape you. 
 
 Gunhild. Verily, 
 They have requital. Thou wilt get a child : 
 Will it not draw from the deep parts of life ; 
 Will it not take of thee that disposition. 
 Old as the hills, and as the waterfall, 
 Whose foam alone was ever seen by man ? 
 Thou wilt produce a being of thy past, 
 And all thy change avail not. 
 
 Hardegon. How these women 
 Can sing foundations ! 
 
 Canute. If in those I breed 
 It work no blessing, to myself this new, 
 Unsettled energy within my brain 
 Is worth all odds. I cannot understand 
 Half that is meeting me. Go hence, your face 
 Is sheer confusion to me; it brings back 
 The load of ignorance, the brutishness, 
 The fetters of nativity. 
 
 Gunhild. I go : 
 But wrathful leave behind me what was told 
 When the crow bent from the swirled plume of fir, 
 And held me like a statue. 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT 
 
 Canute. O my past, 
 I loved thine aspect once, but now my mind 
 Drives thee away. It seems to me that thought 
 Is as a moving on along the air — 
 I cannot yet find language. You oppress. 
 And hinder me ; but when I brood alone, 
 Hope stirs, and there is tumult of a joy. 
 That flashes through my nature, like a sword, 
 Cutting the knots. 
 
 Gunhild. Oh, indestructible 
 Are the first bonds of living. Fare thee well. 
 Thou wilt engender thine own ancestry ; 
 Nature will have her permanence. 
 
 Canute. And I 
 Will have my impulse. 
 
 Gunhild. Oh, the blue fir-bough. 
 The bird, the fern, and iris at my feet ! 
 The whole world talks of birth, it is the secret 
 That shudders through all sap. [^.r//.] 
 
 Cafiute. She turns away 
 With rigid shoulders, and is vanishing 
 For ever. 'Tis in wrestles with her like 
 We are transformed. 
 
 [To Hardegon.] Call Edric, do you hear ! 
 And say no other word as you would live ; 
 My temper will not bear it. \_Exit Hardegon] 
 
 Winsome queen, 
 Emma, great lady, could I reach thy feet, 
 Thou hadst ne'er known such homage. It is youth, 
 Youth in its awful kindling ; it is love, 
 
42 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 When all the body is possessed by want 
 
 Of what it would be worthy of ; — such youth, 
 
 Such love I give thee. Deeper than my race, 
 
 Deeper than all my past thy sway is set ; 
 
 So able are thy brows, such strength is thine, 
 
 Thou art beneath all other elements^ 
 
 They are no more the same. Oh, wonderful ! 
 
 For I have clipped a woman in my arms. 
 
 The silent Elfgifu, my Danish wife ; 
 
 And I have known the pleasures, but they passed ; 
 
 I was not altered ; in my head no light. 
 
 No current through my faculties, no whirl 
 
 Of giddy charm. 
 
 \_E71fer Edric] Edric, you are the man ; 
 You have the opportunity that chance 
 Withholds from me. 
 
 Edric [aside]. He tramps about and catches 
 His garment's hem, a burning in his eyes. — 
 Speak out, and plainly. 
 
 CaJitite. Ha ! — The troops come in ? 
 Do they not muster ? I am thinking, Edric, 
 'Tis time now for my tactics, for the plan 
 Of conquest and repulse. You'll find me keen, 
 And ready as a captain. 
 
 Edric. I could swear 
 You have resource. You are a soldier's son. 
 And know how valid is the right of craft 
 Toward foemen. 
 
 Canute. Yes, to take them unawares 
 By artifice and ambush. Look you, thane, 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 43 
 
 I must possess this kingdom. I am moved 
 To actions of vast consequence, and need 
 Space for great laws, the power to mould a nation 
 To flawless homage. What the means you choose 
 I care not j anything I hold as just 
 That will establish justice. 
 
 Edrk. So I think. 
 
 Canute [aside]. My breath draws back her name from 
 off my tongue ; 
 I cannot utter it. 
 
 Edric. The army grows, 
 The Rave7i flaps for victory, my pate 
 Teems with its stratagems. Soon will you be 
 A single ruler ; though perchance you'll ask 
 Another for her company. [Aside.] He's red, 
 As if the northern light leapt through his face ; 
 Ho, ho ! Can't keep his counsel. — Is your mind 
 Set on the empire of a bachelor ? 
 You own too hot a pulse. 
 
 Canute. I have no doubt 
 But I shall marry. 
 
 Edric. Where's the wife to match 
 An eagle of your plumage ? 
 
 Ca7iuie. All the world 
 Is full of stately women. 
 
 Edric. I have seen 
 But one, the late king's widow. She is prime 
 Among all dames. 
 
 Cai2ute. You think that you have seen her, 
 Because you know she has a radiant skin, 
 And strange, proud eyes ! 
 
44 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act I. 
 
 Edric. Ah, you are touched, young man ! 
 But she is twice your age. 
 
 Ca7iute. She is beloved 
 Past any other woman, who was dear 
 In former times. She holds her century's 
 Most choice attainments. 
 
 Edric. Will it flatter you 
 To learn that she would throw away her veil, 
 Her husband being buried but a week, 
 To kiss that lip of yours ? 
 
 Canute. Impossible ! 
 A brute like me, a child in all but strength, 
 A Christian but in name, her enemy, 
 A spoiler, temple-burner, pirate, — she. 
 Wise, excellent in grace. 
 
 Edric. Yet she is yours. 
 With all a woman's haste ; you are the theme 
 On which she spends her wisdom. 
 
 Canute. Such a moment — 
 My future — 
 
 Edric. He is deaf to what I say. 
 All fire and trembling, ho ! 
 
 Canute. My fate is turned 
 Like a great river from its primal bed 
 Round by new thorpes and fields. My thankfulness 
 Is this : she stoops to love me, but a man 
 Grows up within me she may proudly call 
 Her lover. Edric, I will never ask ' 
 
 The honour of her fairest hand, will never 
 Take from her lips the glory of a kiss, 
 Till I am firmly king. 
 
Sc. IV.l CANUTE THE GREAT. 45 
 
 Edric. I'll drop some words 
 To keep her merry, she will bide her time ; 
 Women can wait by nature. 
 
 Camite. Scheme, have ready 
 Arms and provision. I will go elsewhere, 
 And study. Read this passage from the scroll ; 
 The language puzzles me. It runs — 
 
 Edric, Like this — 
 If a 7na7i be slain, we estimate all equally dear at forty 
 talents of pure gold. 
 
 Canute. These laws will I remodel, when I read 
 The meanings plainly. They shall be enforced 
 Through the land's length and breadth ; and he who 
 
 kills 
 Pay the due sum. [Aside.] I must out to the air. 
 And splash of the full tide. My joy as yet 
 Is lightning, thunder in my sense, a storm 
 Knit up to break in fury. — Give me this, 
 That parchment, and let no one follow me. 
 
 Edric. A word of dalliance, a sugared speech 
 To carry to the widow, co^e ! 
 
 Canute [aside]. The fool ! 
 I cannot speak. — Take her my silence, thane. 
 
 [Exeunt several y.] 
 
46 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. Assandun. The English ariny on high ground 
 above the river Crouch. The DaJiish army on lower 
 ground^ moving with booty toward their ships. 
 
 Enter Edmund. 
 
 Edmund. Under the royal ensign I await 
 The Danish onslaught ; but I fear the cowards 
 Refuse to grapple, and with robber-stealth 
 Are slinking to their ships. Can I remain 
 Here in my strong position on the hill, 
 And see the wealth of ravaged Mercia borne 
 To pirate vessels ? [Enter Edric] Edric, you mistake 
 The English keep the heights ; your Danish chieftain 
 Is skulking with his booty to the shore. 
 
 Edric. Now what a temper ! I have grown so artful 
 In tactics that you take me for a spy ; 
 Yet in your six great battles I have helped, 
 As if I stood beside you, — veered about. 
 Given your foes false hope, and spurred them on, 
 Then back to my true post. As for my motive 
 In joining you to-day, I tell you plainly, 
 I acted from a passion in my veins 
 That drove me hither. In the foreign herd 
 I could not tarry. 
 
 Edmu7id. It was natural. 
 Your country in such peril. I rejoice 
 To have you by my side, and thus to turn you 
 From action that discomforted my mind. 
 And often stained your honour. Look below. 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 47 
 
 Canute is marching by the river-bed, 
 Laden with plunder : we must intercept : 
 He shall not carry my dear England's wealth 
 Of corn and cattle to the fallow ocean. 
 In proof of trust I give you your old troops, 
 The stalwart Mercian bands ; but, Streona, 
 Let there be honest fighting. All my soul 
 Abhors deceit. It ill becomes a Christian, 
 An Englishman, to play his wits against 
 A rude, untutored warrior. 
 
 Edric. To-day 
 I show you my true colours ; you shall learn 
 My inner disposition. 
 
 Edmund \to his ariny\. Englishmen, 
 Attack those recreants hastening to the sea ; 
 Hard hand-play give the robbers, beat them off 
 From shelter of their boats. Your fathers' spirit 
 Make ye defenders of the land, its fame. 
 Its homes, its ancient crown. Think of the days 
 When Alfred rose among ye, how he smote 
 The northern hosts, and drove them from his fields. 
 Ye have been faithful to me, and have followed 
 The hurry of my marches, borne scant fare. 
 Tempest, and cold, and weariness. Together 
 Six times have we encountered on the plain 
 Yon scowling mariners, and God has given 
 A measure of success. With rush of banners. 
 Descend, and strike them as a thunder-bolt. {Exeunt?^ 
 [On the lower ground ejiter Canute, Hardegon, 
 Thororin, and Danes.'] 
 
 Hardegon. The enemy is on us and our ranks 
 
48 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act II. 
 
 Waver and break ; they would not thus have faltered 
 If Swend had marshalled them ; he stood so tall, 
 And bellowed out his orders. 
 
 Thororin \_wavi71g the Danish flag\. Let them see 
 The glorious sign — our Raven's open beak, 
 And wings that flap triumphant in the wind ! 
 Good is the omen ; when those plumes are stirred 
 The hour is come for fated warriors 
 To fall beneath the battle-axe. 
 
 Canute. Stand firm ! 
 Give them no inch of ground. Though young in years, 
 My father trained my hands to slaughter, filled me 
 With great ambition for the raging field, 
 Its noble chances. In this valley's breadth 
 Free space is given. Manfully resist. 
 
 \Re-enter Edmund, and English^ 
 
 Edmund. I sought you through the ranks. I know 
 your helm. 
 And fierce, bright eyes. You are the Danish chief. 
 
 Canute. The king of England. 
 
 Edmund. I deny the name 
 To any stranger in whose alien veins 
 The blood of Cerdic flows not. The great title 
 Is mine by birthright and election. 
 
 Canute. I 
 Have half the country's voice ; my father swayed 
 These lands before me. I will have my own. 
 We'll speak together with the noise of swords ; 
 That talk may have an issue. 
 
 Edmund. So it shall. 
 
 \Strikes at Canute vehemently. Exit.'] 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 49 
 
 Hardegon. Danes, to your king ! His shield is cut 
 in twain. 
 
 Cafiute. Back, fools ; must I be cheated of revenge ! 
 He goes, and I am left with cloven arms, 
 Abased and powerless. 
 
 Hardegon. Odin, how they press us ! 
 Retreat, or we are lost. 
 
 Cafiute. God only knows 
 Which shall be master ; I will wait the end, 
 And then myself cut down my clouded youth. 
 If I am vanquished. Curse that heavy blow ; 
 It stunned me like a giant. Down it crashed, 
 And brought a darkness after it. 
 
 Thororin. My king, 
 A cruel fortune works against our powers ; 
 Our fighting men, who struggle with set teeth, 
 Are beaten. I am weary, sick of war. 
 To see the hostile folk upon our track, 
 Hewing behind our fugitives ! 
 
 Canute. The English 
 Are now disturbed ; for, with a whirlpool's sweep, 
 Half of their army swings round to our side. 
 Ah, it is Edric ! He will save the day ; 
 He has deserted. Shout your welcome loud ; 
 Pour forth your darts, and speed your death-spears 'gainst 
 The trapped and yielding English. 
 
 {Re-enter Edric] 
 
 Edric. You may fight. 
 But I defeat them with my trickery. 
 They cannot stand against me. All is lost 
 
 E 
 
50 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 For them ; for you, all gained. 
 
 Ca7mte. Hack, slay, o'erwhelm ! \^Exit?\ 
 
 \The English and Da7ies fight desperately ?\ 
 
 An Englishman [pointing to Edric]. There is the 
 traitor, the deceiver. Shame ! 
 The curse of ignominy take the wretch ; 
 May his own snares entrap him ! 
 
 Aiiother. As we fall 
 Our race disowns him. See, from our last glances 
 The devil shrinks, and turns. Comrades, farewell. 
 
 Another. Farewell, for we must perish, if we stand. 
 
 \The English are slain. Exeunt Dajies and Edric] 
 * -J?- -s?- * -x- 
 
 [Enter Edmund.] 
 Ednuind. Late, and so many slain ! A narrov^ 
 kingdom. 
 But yet of honest souls. Oh, I could stoop. 
 And kiss them, as a woman, one by one. 
 The brave, blue eyes ! Each step a recognition. 
 Ulfcytel, Wulfsige ! My Ethelweard ! 
 I would keep watch beside you, did no remnant 
 Wander the darkness for King Edmund's voice. 
 Brave hearts still ache for me. It is enough ! 
 I will divide my kingdom with my foe ; 
 We will rule neighbour chieftains. And Canute 
 Shall feel the virtue of my severed lands 
 Pass through his blood ? It is impossible ; 
 What barrier could divide us ? If a river 
 Were made the confine, I would breast the current ; 
 Or if the pleasant ranges of clear down 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 51 
 
 Defined my border I should clamber them, 
 
 And look forth coveting the golden tracts 
 
 O' the other side. Impenetrable forest 
 
 Must block me from the view. God's hand hath set 
 
 The limit of my empire in the sea ; — 
 
 I bear His finger-mark across the sand, 
 
 It chafes not ; — but wherever English voices 
 
 Gladden the breeze, there should be deep accord 
 
 In custom, purpose, hope. \Turniiig to the dead.] 
 
 I have a people 
 Will none of the invader ; all my best 
 Are here. How simply they laid down their lives ! 
 An Englishman sleeps soundly in his death. 
 As fearing no ill vision. Not a man 
 Found faithless ; this is Heaven's great reward. [Exit.] 
 [Re-enter by torchlight Canute, Edric, Hardegon, 
 Thororin, and Banes.] 
 
 Edric. Pooh, pooh ! You say 'tis no clear victory : 
 Look at this heap of Edmund's subjects — all 
 Of note about the court. 
 
 Canute [tooki?ig wistfully at the dead]. And goodly 
 faces ! 
 Here is a churchman. What a noble brow. 
 So full of thought and sweetness ! These are creatures 
 To stand about a throne. 
 
 Hardegon. The soil breeds English, 
 And Edmund lives. 
 
 Canute [impetuoiisly]. This day shall end the 
 war ; 
 Peace, treaty, or division of the land — 
 
52 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 Soldier [behind]. Hark ye ! Edmund gave our king 
 a drubbing; the place hurts, so no more encounters. 
 He's meek as a beaten man ; yet we sweated all day 
 for him. 
 
 Canute [striking Jmi{\. And duly 
 Receive your wage, you braggart, — a king's blow 
 To strike you into silence. 
 
 Hardegon. Bravely done ! 
 
 Thororin. He is stone-dead. This deed shall be 
 recounted. 
 
 Down sank the dastard, 
 He the defamer ; 
 Fierce Canute felled him, 
 Fearful in might. 
 There lies he lifeless, 
 Lost to his mother ; 
 Bloodless on battle-field, 
 Branded with shame. 
 
 Canute. This blinding flicker of the torch ! Sweep 
 down 
 The flame across his face, so ! — He is stunned. 
 God ! but his look has hardened. Thororin, 
 Stoop, find the breath. 
 
 Tho?'orin. It will not come again ; 
 The blow was fatal, — a swift punishment. 
 
 Ca?iute [mutteri7ig\ Punishment, punishment! and 
 the crime faithful speaking ; it is the false tongue wants 
 stopping. 
 
 [Edric moires away, examining the corpses ?\ 
 
 That Edric — faugh ! — I hate to see him fingering 
 the dead. Once he laid his impudent hand on my 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 53 
 
 shoulder. I have no pleasure in these victories ; they 
 
 are the gift of his treachery ; I have not won them. 
 
 All the great English are here, dead and loyal ; and 
 
 the knave spoke true, I am no match for their king. 
 
 [Aside.] You talk of punishment. By English law 
 
 A mulct of forty talents is the sum 
 
 Due from a man who murders in hot blood ; 
 
 But from a king, thrice guilty, triple fine 
 
 Shall be exacted. I will make amends ; 
 
 We are no more barbarian. Give this fellow 
 
 An honourable burial ; recount. 
 
 My Thororin, the sequel of my passion. 
 
 I will to meditation. [Exit.'] 
 
 [As Canute retires, a?t E?iglish messenger is seen approach- 
 ing his tent.] 
 
 Thoi'orin. Write the end ! 
 Impossible ! The Viking is a Christian, 
 And the great virtue of revenge is dead. 
 I sing the fiery current of the blood. 
 Its rapids, its revulsions. Let him learn 
 The mournful metres of tear-dropping women, 
 And mourn each mighty deed. 
 
 Hardegon. I give him up. 
 Great men can get the virtue out of good 
 And wickedness ; they know that right and wrong 
 Work well together. I have seen old Gorm 
 Cry like a baby, but no whit the worse 
 Next day, and ready for a massacre. 
 This lad is hopeless ; he will come to terms. 
 
54 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 \Re-eiiter Edric] 
 Here is his enemy, a man to crumble, 
 And eat into his soul. — What brings you here ? 
 You seek for your old master 'mong the dead ? 
 You will not find him, so best spare your pains. 
 
 Edric. Well, it would have saved trouble ; he will 
 scarcely take me into favour again, — but it is with my new 
 master I must parley. I am the hero of the day. He 
 owes everything to me ; and I and my Mercian troops 
 look for reward. I want money and dignities. Ah, 
 there is the royal tent. Just tell our young conqueror 
 I must break on his privacy. \_Exit Hardegon.] The 
 dogged, old creature ! — but I sent him trudging on my 
 errand. Now I come to a bit of work I shall relish. 
 This high-bred sea-king thinks he can use me con- 
 temptuously. He shall be my dependent. He has a 
 notion of keeping faith ; and the oaths he shall break ! 
 Oh, it rejoices me to dye folks my own colour, and to 
 see them wince at the discovery of their vileness. You 
 can do it easily with a woman. But it is difficult to 
 menace a keen man, with a conscience, and intrepid. I 
 must convince him he owes everything to me ; and a just 
 king rewards his servants ; ingratitude is the part of a 
 barbarian. He shall set me in the rank and place I like 
 to name, and then I can degrade him step by step. I 
 will force him to look inwards when he feels contempt. 
 That is how I dominate. 
 
 {Re-enter Hardegon.] 
 
 Hardegon. The king is musing ; you would interrupt. 
 
 Edric. The king ! He must wait for that title. Then 
 you tell him, if he does not choose to converse with me — 
 
Sc. I.] . CANUTE THE GREAT. 55 
 
 [Re~e?iter Canute wi/dly.'\ 
 
 Canute. Edric, come hither ; I shall need your service. 
 King Edmund has sent to propose that we divide the 
 land. I could win it back for myself with my sword ; 
 but your hireling soldiers damp enterprise. There would 
 be no more honour in the war ; I could never trust my 
 men again, after they had been in the company of your 
 vile, flattering Mercians. There would be nothing but 
 ill-luck and treachery, so we had best make a covenant, 
 and keep that. Within a week we meet at Olney. I do 
 not know the country. Where lies the fosse ? 
 
 Edric. Ha, ha ! Again at fault ! I must fight his 
 battles, then prescribe his policy. Wanted at every turn. 
 But thanks first, and wages. Let us wipe off the old 
 score. 
 
 Canute. Stop that bluster, you recreant ! The day 
 would have been ours without your knavery. Our men 
 had begun to rally, and the Raven gave the sign. 
 
 Edric. Just fancy ! the gods were favourable. What 
 a pity I passed into your ranks with weapons. I forgot 
 what a young one you are. If the banner floated right, 
 you did not need recruits. Well, Edmund is a man ; if 
 I had kept firm to him, to-night we should have divided 
 the spoil. And the Mercian booty too your pirates were 
 making off with — that would all have been mine ! 
 
 Canute. You shall be well rewarded. But, Edric, I 
 would have proved myself a soldier. I did not conquer. 
 The field is mine through an artifice. 
 
 Edric. The result pleases you, — the issue. Scarcely 
 anything is fit to look at in the process. I am preparing 
 
56 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 for your glory ; leave me a little to myself. As for the 
 boundary-line, we will not hurt our brains with calcu- 
 lations ; they are all artificial. A bit of blue sea is the 
 border of our empire, and, if I recollect, it is the royal 
 Danish colour. But come in, come in ! I must look to 
 your affairs. If I had not wheeled round to your 
 ranks — ^Moving towa7'ds the royal te7it?\ 
 
 Canute. There lie your people. Be careful : do not 
 trample friends' faces on your way to my tent. These 
 are all English we are passing ; you should know every 
 man by name. 
 
 Edric. As I was saying, if I had not given you my 
 forces, young man, I should have been saved this busi- 
 ness of halving the kingdom. I am indispensable. So 
 no retort. \_Exeunt^ 
 
 Scene II. Olney."^ An island in the Oiise. 
 
 Enter Canute, Edric, Hardegon, Thororin, and 
 Danes. 
 Canute. Edmund is late in coming. It is grey 
 O'er head, and sluggishly the river swims. 
 And laps up its own sound into itself. 
 As cattle are contented with their cud. 
 The noises of these English streams are low 
 After the cry of torrents. Thororin, 
 Yon willow-roots grow in fat peace along. 
 Not like the striving pines. Edric, I own 
 
 * The historical meeting took place at OIney — an island in the 
 Severn. 
 
Sc. II.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 57 
 
 To some rejoicing I am here the first ; 
 
 It gives me sense of full possession. Mind you, 
 
 I do not think this treaty will endure ; 
 
 Our hosts are tired, and we consent to slumber 
 
 Till one of us awakes. 
 
 Edric. Or not. — He stares 
 Across the river. Did he take the hint ? 
 His swift glance was uncertain. 
 
 Canute [apart]. Now they shout ; 
 The boat is launched : it is a hateful moment. 
 [To Edric] Why do you slip behind me ? 
 
 Edi'ic. But to show 
 I am your servant. 
 
 Hardegon. 'Tis to hide that face. 
 
 Canute. He is not yet in sight, no glimpse, — yon 
 isle 
 Of waving grass so blocks the view. My Danes 
 In rows are grimly silent. Thororin, 
 You love the headlong rapids of the North : 
 They fall too sudden ; one could never build 
 Beside them, never stablish governments 
 In their rude neighbourhood. Edric, he comes ; 
 I see vast shoulders moving through the rushes. 
 Would I might never meet him ! 
 
 Edric. Why ? 
 
 Canute. No matter. 
 
 Edric. Something has caught your eye among the 
 Danes. 
 Vexed ? 
 
 Canute. 'Tis that woman sitting on the slope, 
 
58 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 With streaming locks and wind-distended raiment : 
 One fierce hand tugs the grass, the other draws 
 A tress of hair through her uncertain mouth ; 
 Her narrowed, eager eyes are fixed on me ; 
 They call her Gunhild ; long have I defied her. 
 Why is she here ? 
 
 Edric. To see the spectacle ; 
 All women love to gape at pageants. Now 
 Edmund is on the stream ; the oars are splashing 
 Among the weeds. Heigh ! He has got my child 
 Against his side. 
 
 Canute. Noble to glance at, worn. 
 Though stronger built than I ! He cleft my shield ; 
 It has not been avenged. A placid look : 
 Much like his country's. Ah, the hateful thought, 
 It makes me feel a stranger, though I call 
 Half England mine. He smiles at that fair boy 
 Dipping his palm, — an honest, brightening pleasure 
 Straight from the eyes. He sees me, and the king 
 Comes forward on his face. I must prepare 
 A welcome. 
 
 Edric [aside, glancing at Canute]. Ho, his pride ! At 
 handy-dandy 
 He cares not to be first. My Dane's full lip 
 Is sulky, in his eyes a sullen gleam. 
 I cannot reach his mood. Best keep behind. 
 
 [Enter Edmund, the child, and an English train."] 
 
 Ednnmd Hail, brave Canute. That you have met 
 my terms 
 I thank your generosity ; forget 
 
Sc. II.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 59 
 
 The strife between us. With clear boundaries, 
 
 And heavy payment to your fleet, I settle 
 
 Beside you as a brother in this isle. 
 
 I am an Englishman, and, once at peace, 
 
 All grudge and wrath are over. There's my hand. 
 
 Canute. I like your speech, King Edmund. There is 
 mine. 
 All England lying southward of the Thames, 
 East Anglia and Essex are your realm ; 
 Mine what is left. 
 
 Edmimd. A mighty stretch of kingdom ! 
 Such the agreement. Now, before all men, 
 Clear-hearted before God, I swear an oath 
 Of friendship and of brotherhood to one 
 Whom I have tried in battle as a man, 
 And would, as king, be bound to. 
 
 Edric. In a trice 
 Canute is clearing, and a sudden touch 
 Of sun lights up his scowl. 
 
 Cafiute. I, too, will swear 
 With a good heart \ the heavens seal a vow 
 That I will live your brother. [Aside.] In his grasp 
 There is such amity. 
 
 Edmund. My arms and mantle 
 Take as a pledge that I am wholly yours 
 In purpose and affection. 
 
 Canute. Take my shield, 
 My sword, my robe, great Edmund. 
 
 \They exchange clothes and weapons^ 
 
 Edric. It is time 
 
6o CANUTE THE GREAT [Act II. 
 
 I gave my brat a kiss, and showed myself 
 With insolent composure. Well, young pup ! 
 
 \The child recoils^ and cli?igs to Edmund's ha?id.'\ 
 
 Canute. Is this your son? [Aside.] Who shrinks 
 away from him, 
 As culprit from the touch of burning shares. 
 It makes me hate the man. 
 
 Edniund. Ah, Edric, you ! 
 To-day annuls offences, and you chose 
 To serve the better master. 
 
 Edric. With your pardon, 
 I venture to declare I was your friend 
 When I forsook you ; I discerned the future 
 Must be a compromise, and how to hasten 
 This reconciling hour. 
 
 Edmund. My ears are shut. 
 \To Canute.] Brother, farewell. May we so grave the 
 
 vows 
 Which we have made deep in our memory. 
 That God may call us faithful when we join 
 Before His face hereafter. 
 
 Cajmte. Let me take 
 King Edmund to his boat. 
 
 Edmund. A gracious offer. 
 
 Thororin. Hateful to see him by his enemy, 
 In this flat place, amid rank grass, and mud, 
 And sated, yellow lilies. 
 
 Edniund [to the child\ Come, my boy. 
 
 Child. Look, uncle Edmund, at the bulrushes ; 
 How huge they stand. 
 
Sc. II.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 6i 
 
 Edi?iund. Here is a goodly spike ; 
 I'll cut it down, and arm you with a lance. 
 
 Child. My father gives me weapons ; let it drop. 
 
 Ed7nu7id. Nay, grasp it like a man ! This noble 
 king 
 Will think our little English boys are cravens, 
 If a reed makes them tremble. 
 
 Canute. Edric's child ! — 
 Not featured like his father. 
 
 Edimind. In each trait 
 His mother's gentle self. [ To the child.'] Now jump aboard. 
 [To Canute.] Good-bye, this honour pleases me, so well 
 I love my valiant compeer. I am staunch, 
 Canute, when I may trust. 
 
 Canute. Brother, farewell. 
 
 [^Exeunt Edmund, the child, a7id English?^ 
 A king in sooth, he looks imperial. 
 And royal London owns him as her lord. 
 
 Edric [^stealing up behind] My liege, your eye movQS 
 wistfully across 
 To Edmund's train : there cannot be two kings ; 
 There shall not. 
 
 Canute. Edric, put no evil thoughts 
 Into my heart. He is a goodly man, 
 This Edmund, sworn my brother ; in his robe 
 I stand. 
 
 Edric. Invested in his majesty ? 
 
 Canute. For I have none to give him in exchange. 
 How grew he thus ? His father was a fool. 
 
 Edric. His step-dame counts him as her enemy ; 
 
62 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act II. 
 
 Your crown were well established, she at home 
 Once more in her old place. 
 
 Canute. I feel the time 
 Is come to knot our passion. Seek her presence, 
 Ask her by all she loves in England, all 
 She covets, by her solitude, her beauty, 
 Wreathless and disenthroned, to cross the sea, 
 And take back everything. 
 
 Edric. A husband, yes ; 
 But her old kingdom also ? 
 
 Catiute. Thororin, 
 Carry this borrowed cloak ; it fits me ill. 
 
 Edric. It hampers you ; it is too large. 
 
 Canute. His arms, — 
 Rid me of all. And half the land is mine : 
 I am not king to eastward and to south. 
 And that clear ocean-marge my father's right, 
 And heritage by conquest shall be his ? 
 \_Facing apart.'] How if I whisper murder to this vile, 
 Mean-hearted alderman ? . . . My word, my oath ! 
 If that great lady would come back, she is 
 So fearful an enchantress, might I take her 
 To wife — then, as the lucky figure-head, 
 That speeds the sea-king to his victory. 
 She would ensure me monarch absolute. 
 I noted how she kept her smile alit 
 When she was thwarted — and her ancient hate 
 For Edmund ! But with him my faith is sworn. 
 \_Turni7tg.'\ Why do you cast your leg along that willow. 
 As if to ponder, Edric ? 
 
Sc. II.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 63 
 
 Edric. I would sleep, 
 And dream your dreams. 
 
 Canute. AVhat ? 
 
 Ediic. Nay, your face knows all. 
 
 Cajiiite. Where is that woman ? 
 
 Thororm. When she saw you leave 
 Edmund for Edric's company, she bounded, 
 And plucked the grass, and threw it on the stream, 
 And turned home full of smiles. 
 
 Cafiute. I almost think 
 I hate this river-bed. Quick, ferryman ! 
 We'll pass these segs and flowering rushes by. 
 And reach the stable pastures. Edric, come ; 
 Brown-study wastes your time. 
 
 Edric. At my good pleasure. 
 Thanks, thanks ! 
 
 Canute [to Thororin]. My bard, be ready with your 
 harp j 
 I need the sound of seas and cataracts. 
 
 [Exit, with his followers^ 
 
 Edric. As for me, I will just look about. Providence 
 will direct me. I am lazy ; I must have leisure, and to 
 plot murders is a real toil to the brain. Yon heron drops 
 by instinct his long neck into the water, when the fish is 
 under his bill. Meanwhile he is contemplative. But 
 the Old Lady will never rest till she has King Edmund's 
 head in a charger. Though it be fine sport to inveigle 
 him, the decoy-duck is not yet found. There is no 
 chance of my luring him into a gin ; and his kinsfolk 
 and acquaintance, followers, friends, sister, wife, nephew^ 
 
64 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 all dote on him. I have it ! — nice, tame, and such an 
 innocent. Eh, the lad can draw him to the cage. But 
 slow, slow, my sludge-river ; we need time. 
 
 Scene III. The Danish quarters at Northampton. 
 E?iter Canute a?id Emma. A crowd of Normans and 
 Da7ies is seen retiring. Emma seats herself in the 
 royal chair. Canute stands abashed befoi'e her. 
 
 Emma. And now we are together. — O my king, 
 Is it not I that crowned thee ? Streona, 
 Whom I, in all things, have the shaping of, 
 Hath thrice at my command waylaid the life 
 Of Edmund, thine arch-enemy. He drew 
 The English from their leader, left thee lord, 
 And victor of the field. Did I not first 
 See thee in London, at the siege ? We took 
 Counsel together, you and I apart ; 
 That day we settled kingdoms. Dear my lord, 
 Now tell me wherefore thou would'st mate with me, 
 Who am a wife, and mother of young kings, 
 To whom the crown upon this brow is but 
 A jewel repossessed, who must enact 
 The past in all things, unto whom you can 
 Reveal no wonder, give no morning gift 
 I shall not smile at as familiar ? Say, 
 My handsome Dane, my sea-king, O my love, 
 Bright as the prow-head of thy fairest fleets. 
 Why did you choose me, when Duke Richard's girls, 
 My brother's children, stitch their broidery, 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 65 
 
 And sigh for lovers, — why ? Am I not old, 
 
 The ancient lady of these realms, and thou 
 
 A rank invader, who hast exiled me, 
 
 Distressed my husband, driven out my bairns, 
 
 Ravaged my lands ? There should be enmity 
 
 Between us. Wherefore dost thou bring me here, 
 
 Where naturally, from long habitude, 
 
 I take the throne, as grand-dame by the fire 
 
 Her honoured corner in the ingle-nook ? 
 
 What wilt thou with me, young barbarian, 
 
 Who with so many wiles of courtesy 
 
 Hast brought me over seas ? The rumour is 
 
 Thou wilt espouse me, — if for policy, 
 
 Thou'lt rue it ; if, Canute, it be for love. . . . 
 
 Why would'st thou wed me ? 
 
 Canute. Lady, I have lived 
 A ruthless warrior, but love the things 
 Of peace and order. I have slain, and burnt, 
 And mutilated, and have loathed myself, 
 Yea, loathed the savagery. I would restore 
 To England all her holy usages, 
 Her laws, her Church, the treasures of her shrines, 
 And, chief, the lady who has gemmed her crown. 
 Her ever-honoured Lady Elfgifu. 
 
 Efuma [aside]. It is not then my beauty. — Why, there 
 is, 
 I hear, another Elfgifu, the child 
 Of murdered Aldhelm. Thou hast sons by her. 
 Oh, tell me, are they like thee ? Do they stamp 
 In spring's eternity thy radiant brows ; 
 
 F 
 
66 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 Is there young kingship in them ? I have children 
 
 So like their father, I have flung them off, 
 
 For they recall the great misgovernance 
 
 Of Ethelred the Redeless past the term 
 
 Of my maternal patience. I am true 
 
 In marriage, fair usurper. My two lads 
 
 Will bear the characters of Cerdic's line, 
 
 If they inherit. But this Elfgifu, 
 
 The lady of Northampton, speak of her. 
 
 Say, will you cast away the things she calls 
 
 Your sons, and trust the future sole to me, 
 
 Who, for your sake, relinquish all my right 
 
 In well-begotten Edward and the young 
 
 Alfred his brother ? What of Elfgifu ? 
 
 You hesitate. 
 
 Canute. Her name shall be forgotten ; 
 Her boys shall rule the far, barbarian lands ; 
 But for this England, that I love as mine, 
 I will beget, lady, a kingly son. 
 And you shall be his mother. 
 
 Emma \sohbi7ig\. Oh, my lord, 
 I would I could unearth the buried past, 
 To look it in the face and mock at it, 
 Then fling it out as refuse. I, for you. 
 Do so obliterate my loathed days ; 
 They are dark to me, imageless, unknown, 
 As the nine months before I saw the light, 
 And I in heart a virgin come to you, 
 A queenly virgin, Gem of Noi'mandy — 
 So say the writers. Dost thou find it so ? 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 67 
 
 Canute, had I been ta'en thy spoil in war, 
 
 How had'st thou served me ? Had'st thou said. She's fah'^ 
 
 But worn, TH give her to my eldest chief; 
 
 And turned to some soft, dimpled child, with eyes 
 
 That stare at love as at a pageantry. 
 
 That awes and dulls them ; or, more circumspect, 
 
 Had'st thou espoused me, and with Elfgifu 
 
 Spent thy unlawful hours ? 
 
 Canute. Had'st thou been brought 
 In all thy dazzling beauty to my knees, 
 I had not given thee thy liberty ; 
 I had commanded thou should'st braid thy hair 
 In wifely coronets ; and thou with me 
 Had'st made strong covenant thou would'st keep faith 
 Till death should part us. 
 
 Emjna. When I bear a boy — 
 As doubt not this my joy in thee shall take 
 Its form in flesh, that thou may'st see how deep 
 It enters in my nature, spite my years ; — 
 When our young Dane is born, thou wilt confer 
 On him all English royalties ? 
 
 Canute \throwing himself at her feet and daspiiig her 
 hand\ All, all. 
 Yet, my enchanting queen, see that he show 
 Some traces of his mother. If you crave 
 That I should dote on him, he must not be 
 A simple warrior, but of courtly grace, 
 CompeUing charm, accomplished in all arts. 
 Loving the harp, a gentle-mannered king. 
 Lavish to learning. 
 
68 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act II. 
 
 Emma. Mother to a monk ! 
 Is child-bed labour for the tonsure ? Whew ! 
 My Danish son shall war, burn, ravage, slay, 
 Never break faith, never buy off with gold 
 His country's enemies, despise all guile, 
 And, like a man, sin, harry, and pursue, 
 Till all is under foot. 
 
 Canute. Then must you give 
 A daughter to me, that these clear, keen eyes 
 A second time subdue a conqueror. 
 And give us broad dominion. Noble lady, 
 How bountiful and blessed you must be. 
 Thus to forget my many injuries. 
 And give me promise of an empire, rich 
 In heirs , and kingdoms, — rich to me in this \passionately 
 
 embracing her\ 
 My Norman gem, Emma, my Elfgifu. 
 My stately England. Come, thou art my queen. 
 
 Emma. And beautiful ? 
 
 Canute \draiving bac1z\. You must not sting my blood. 
 Oh, you will learn. — I struggle with my awe ; 
 I have known sack and pillage. Should I take you 
 As a man takes the woman he desires — 
 I cannot speak. Mine, mine ! 
 
 E7tima. You are afraid 
 To touch me. What, you tremble ! 
 
 Canute. Emma, think ! 
 I hold back by the jaws a savageness 
 Of inbred nature. And a fear of shame, 
 Of uttering dishonour to my love. 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT 69 
 
 My worship of you, makes me almost stone, 
 
 And courteous like a host You should not ask me 
 
 If you are beautiful. All charms of earth. 
 
 All that draws waves to shore, all influence 
 
 Of stars or sun are in your face, and quiver 
 
 In me as I behold it. 
 
 Emma. You should woo 
 Trusting my courage. Speak to me of fear 
 In love — 
 
 Canute. The taunt is perilous. 
 
 Efftma. As well 
 Face a great warrior with dissuasive words : 
 We will not meet ; we are not matched hi skill. 
 From stripling's mouth such words are vanity. 
 They show the arrant craven. 
 
 Canute. For your sake 
 I wrestled to become a Christian lover ; 
 You challenge my fierce past ; you have no mercy. 
 I'm made of primal stuff. You do not know. 
 
 Emma. My heart is like the magnet, unalarmed 
 At its completest triumph. 
 
 Canute. Cruel queen. 
 You go the way to make me cold with terror. 
 And powerless to approach you. Give your voice 
 Its softest resonance ; 'twill win me back 
 To love, to warmth, and confidence. O Emma, 
 It was your sovereign culture, and your tones, 
 Almost religious in their loveliness, 
 That bound my passion to you. 
 
 Emma. Ah, forgive. 
 
70 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 I glory in your mettle, in the flash 
 
 Of bright desire that hurries from your eyes. 
 
 Canute, I have been mated with a creature 
 
 Who took my favours with a weary face. 
 
 Whose hands were soft, whose lips were treacherous. 
 
 It injures me to think of him ; he's naught. 
 
 In you I greet a man — whose sex stands up 
 
 Within him, ruling every element ; 
 
 'Tis captain of his body. When 'tis so. 
 
 And those who wed us bear the virile stamp, 
 
 What can we do but worship ? 
 
 Canute. Nay, my part 
 Is to revere. I ponder on your grace, 
 Your state in movement : why, your very smile 
 Tames like a lyre. Great lady, shall my love 
 Be sacrilegious ? I have seen them burn 
 The lovely missals in the libraries, 
 And a hot flush has come into my face ; 
 'Twas all that they could do with them, but there — 
 The pictures, and the story, the bright words 
 Of God — all wasted : let me be your scholar, 
 Instruct me, make me worshipful, be patient. 
 And you will fashion me a king so great 
 That you yourself shall tremble at my fame ; 
 For I will raise an empire and excel 
 In every princely art. I have ambition. 
 But there is something that I lack that sways 
 The conduct of the world. That hour we met 
 At London, how I loved to watch your face 
 Wrinkling in state-craft, and in policy 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 71 
 
 So subtle 'mid the blundering warriors ! 
 I could not let the beauty simply stir 
 Desire, that may redeem the negligence 
 Of my untempered youth, raise me to honour, 
 Benignity, and wisdom. 
 
 Emma. But the toil ! 
 One must not dim these glittering, blue eyes 
 With the thick-lettered pages. Woo me, woo ! 
 Be amorous ; a woman best imparts 
 Her knowledge and her mysteries to one 
 Adoringly receptive. Ah — the Redeless 
 Had not been christened so, had he relied 
 On my illuming sense, my intellect, 
 My temper, and discretion. All are yours. 
 So you will be my lover. 
 
 Ca?iute. Now I feel 
 Strength to found kingdoms. 
 
 Emma \_embrachig him\ For thou art a king. 
 
 Scene IV. A dimly-lighted room; in a smaller rooi?i^ the 
 child sleeping. Enter Edith. 
 
 Edith. They bound me to a traitor and a churl. 
 And yet my grandsire had eight under-kings 
 For vassals. He will weary of me soon, 
 And I at Romsey, or some royal house. 
 Shall dwell where there is diligence and peace. 
 How beautiful this loneliness ! It seems, 
 At balmy evening, like that holy time 
 
72 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 Spent in the cloister, with this difference — 
 My son lies in my sight ; and I who ever 
 Have loved men's souls, and prayed for their redemp- 
 tion, — 
 But coldly, as God loved the world before 
 The Bethlehem Babe lay in His cradle, — now 
 Faint in my importunity to save. 
 For I have learnt how terrible the strength 
 Of evil, and how great infirmity 
 Besets soft, striving natures. When I kneel 
 And offer supplication for the child, 
 I feel him press and vibrate in the chords 
 O' my inmost being. Ghostly premonitions 
 Enhance my restless care and terror, portents 
 No stretch of happy days could quite expunge : 
 For I had vision of him, ere his birth, 
 Lifting a gory hand half-full of flowers ; 
 It seemed while he lay slumbering on my knee. 
 One came and whispered to him, and he laughed, 
 And did not know me any more. I shudder 
 When his remorseless father forces him 
 To lash his favourite hound, or blind the falcon 
 He cherished from the nest. A messenger 
 Says Edric comes to-night ; and I have known 
 The child turn cold, yea, stammer, and tell lies 
 If he but heard his footfall on the stairs. 
 There is one way to save him ; as he sleeps 
 Gently to part him from his enemies : 
 I have so often tried, but he will lie 
 With soft, wide lips, as when I suckled him, 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 73 
 
 And he fell dreaming from the breast. Alas ! 
 He never has outgrown his infancy. 
 How I must pray ! 
 
 \E71ter Edric, unperceived.'] 
 Edric. She looks a lady born, 
 And I am proud to own her ; slender hands, 
 And hair down to the knees ! Her eyes are fresh 
 With constant tears, — a dew that shall not dry, — 
 And the thin, curving lips are beautiful, 
 Though worn with ceaseless prayers. My pretty saint ! 
 I love her, and must now, in jealousy. 
 Purge her of earthly passion. Will she yield 
 To the proposal I shall make to-night ? 
 How long ago she would have lost her wits, 
 Save for the chapel and confessional ! 
 
 \¥jV>yy:yi perceives hhn^ and starts back.'] 
 Edith, sit down by me. I ride at dawn, 
 And need some hours of rest. Watch by my couch, 
 And waken me at midnight, when I start 
 For Edmund's quarters ; for your brother sends 
 A chamberlain to beg that he may borrow 
 Our Alfgar — a month's play and bed-fellow ; 
 And the request is opportune. My king 
 Is sick of semi-governance. I know 
 An easy death to keep the murderer 
 Clean of suspicion ; — a few, pregnant words 
 To our meek offspring, and, without offence, 
 Canute is well-established on his throne, 
 And heavily my debtor. You are mute ; 
 My plan commends itself? 
 
74 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act II. 
 
 Edith. If it must be, 
 Why did you tell me of it ? 
 
 Edric. To bespeak 
 Heaven's blessing on the scheme and execution. 
 Give me a kiss ; — a face of ivory 
 To match yon crucifix. Now get within. 
 
 \Motioning to the child's room. Exit Edith.] 
 Unearthly creature ! She will win forgiveness 
 Of my vile sin before it is committed ; 
 While Edmund lies at peace upon his bed, 
 She will have prayed me guiltless of his murder. 
 She was revolted when I married her 
 By my dull lewdness ; in our wedded hours. 
 As I unfolded to her my atrocious 
 And unimagined culpability. 
 She grew the guardian angel of my spirit ; 
 And now, asleep or waking, I am certain 
 Of pardon for my most appalling crimes, 
 And, trusting to her saintly vigilance. 
 Can close my eyes and fall asleep without 
 K pater-noster. [Lies down — closes his eyes.] 
 
 \_jRe-enter Edith, with a dagger.] 
 
 Edith. I will not suborn 
 Any poor, guilty wretch to do the deed. 
 But ope for him myself the door of Hell, 
 And close it on the instant. And the child — 
 This is an easy deed, and, unforbidden, 
 I lift my arm to slay. His time is come ! 
 \_She strikes his breast^ and swoons. He rises in armour^ 
 nnhurt.] 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 75 
 
 Edric. A simple scratch, but sly and treacherous ; 
 She must not go unpunished. How to hurt ? 
 If I should leave her thus, she will wake dazed, 
 And stutter forth my deed. By heaven, such hate 
 Comes on me I could kill her.^What, revived ! 
 You woke me roughly, and an hour too soon. 
 Now we can talk of my design. 
 
 Edith. Oh, if 
 Edmund must die — 
 
 As there may be state reasons, do it thus — 
 Let him not suffer. You had never known. 
 Take, take the sword. 
 
 Edric. Here is my instrument. 
 
 \Turning to the child^ who watches fi-ovi his bed?[ 
 Awake ! Ha, ha, awake ! What, sirrah, staring ? 
 You have not slept. Get ready for a journey. 
 You watched, I know it by your face, the way 
 Your mother raised her arm to murder me. 
 Get up ; I want you to do that again 
 On uncle Edmund, when he lies asleep. 
 I'll teach you. 
 
 \The child trembles^ and dresses himself^ his eyes fixed on 
 his mother. 'Edric J)uts a dagger in his bosom ?^ 
 
 Edith. There are voices — it begins. 
 God ! God ! the dagger gleams from out his vest, 
 And his white, witless eyes are fixed on me ; 
 There is no speech upon his lips, he wanders 
 As the fiend to and fro. Come to me, Alfgar ; 
 I cannot lift myself. My boy, be brave. 
 Put that away \^poi?iting to the dagger], and though he 
 torture you. ... 
 
76 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act II. 
 
 God ! I cannot speak, it grows confused ; 
 
 1 feel the fetters on my brain struck off. 
 No matter, you can play about the same ; 
 I feel so happy. 
 
 Edric. He shall promise me 
 Entire obedience. If he disobey, 
 He knows his punishment : I blind his eyes, 
 And leave him shut up in the dark for ever. 
 \The child utters a wild scream.] 
 
 Edith. Ah, ah ! an idiot laugh. How pleasantly 
 He'll spend the days, and mutter in the grass. 
 'Tis sweet as death, this madness. Up and down 
 r the sunshine, and to laugh the whole long day. 
 
 Child. I could not see to do it ! 
 
 Edith. No ; he's blind ! 
 Give me the dagger. I am free at last — 
 Free, free. And now I'll tell you something strange ; 
 I never shall remember any more. 
 Come, we are play-fellows, and you must hide 
 In the deep water. None will find you there, 
 Down in the irioat, by the neglected well — 
 The sedges keep a-rocking. \She seizes the child, and 
 sways to and fro with him in her arms.] 
 
 Though he's drowsy, 
 I cannot close his eyes ; but never mind, 
 We are quite happy. 
 
 [Edric snatches the child, and strikes Edith down.] 
 
 Child. Father, let us go : 
 I cannot bear the feel of her, — her arms 
 Are snaky — take me where it must be done ; 
 I will not flinch 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 77 
 
 Edric [setting the child before him\ With this young 
 innocent 
 To cloak my purpose, I will set aside 
 The royal line, and push up to the throne. 
 [Glancing at Edith.] Will it not gall her? I foresaw 
 
 this raving. 
 And brought a nun to take her to her cell 
 At Malmesbury ; after my sore discipline, 
 The cordials of religion. \To the child.'] Come along. 
 
 [Exit, with the child.] 
 [Edith rises, a?id looks carefully rotmd the room.] 
 
 Edith. An orphan ! I shall find him hereabouts. 
 They said I must go searching in the tombs ; 
 But there are madmen in the rocks, and one 
 Has struck me on the brow. A pretty boy. 
 And his poor mother crying. I am fearful 
 That she has lost her wits. I will be bold. 
 And face the peril. 
 
 Prioress. Lady, come with me. 
 
 Edith. No, no ! that is the way to Paradise ; 
 I will not be your dupe. If you can lead 
 To the black moat, by the neglected well, 
 Down in the rushes, I will whisper you 
 ■\Vhere he is hidden. Softly step along. [Exeunt P\ 
 
78 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. A room on the nortJwn hanJz of the Thames^ 
 overlooking the Danish fleet. 
 
 Enter Canute. 
 
 Canute. Sunset ! The air is ominous. I muse 
 On Danish majesty, my splendid fleet, 
 England's great city-river, and my Ravens 
 Flapping across ; yet by King Edmund's favour 
 I winter in the Thames. 
 
 [E titer Thororin.] 
 O Thororin, 
 Be near me, play to me ; I am beset 
 By terrible temptations. 
 
 Thororin. English priests 
 Should teach you their religion ; or your lady, 
 Your Christian queen, can she not give instruction, 
 And-settle you in conduct ? We are friends, 
 Love binds us ; she is satisfied to listen 
 Hour after hour to the triumphant verse 
 I sang when you were pagan. Look at her ! 
 
 [Emma and Edric are seen landLng?\ 
 She gives her hand to Streona. Confess 
 Your misery to that fine, goading face, 
 And it will cure despondency. 
 
 [Thororin withdraws as Emma and Edric approach?^ 
 
 Ca?mte. He hurts 
 Deep, deep, — for he has visions, and should know 
 That I was crying out in mortal pain 
 For divination, insight, such as poets 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 79 
 
 Should draw from open gazing on the world. 
 'What means my queen ? Although her lips are rigid, 
 A stormy secret plays about her brows, 
 And, passing Edric's hand, she speeds to me, 
 Urgent, despotic. 
 
 Emma. King of England, hail ! 
 My all-possessing, worshipful, young lord. 
 Ah, ah, a regal flush ! Wilt thou to London ? 
 It is an air I love. Come, a behaviour 
 Less frank in its disclosures ; feign surprise ! 
 
 Camcte. What means this greeting ? Edmund is not 
 dead? 
 
 Em?!ia. All, all his lands are joined this day to 
 yours ; 
 I give you half a kingdom, for you took me 
 Without a dowry. 
 
 Canute. Did he die by nature ? 
 His cheek.was withered when I saw him last ; 
 Six battles had he fought, and swept like fire 
 Now here, now there, calling slow country-folk 
 To gather to his wars. A noble ruler ! 
 \To Edric] He died at peace, — with housel? 
 
 Edric. AVhat a question ! 
 When I sit down to feast, I know a sheep 
 Has bled for my repast. 
 
 Canute [setzmg Edric]. What, you have slain 
 Your very lord, who pardoned you your vileness, 
 Who trusted you ? 
 
 Edric. Ay, ay, he was a fool ; 
 He trusted everybody, even you ; 
 
So CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III. 
 
 He treated you like one of the old stock, 
 
 Who knew the strength of covenant. 
 
 [Canute relaxes his hold.'] We settled 
 
 At Olney I should do this bit of work ; 
 
 And now perform your part ; the Mercian earldom, 
 
 And that respect you pay a man who serves 
 
 At some great crisis ! 
 
 Camite. Caitiff, did I give you 
 A word or a command that day I swore ? 
 
 Edric. The solemn oaths were all for Edmund's ears ; 
 With me connivance was enough. Come, come, 
 No temper ! There is sunset on the towers 
 Of London ; all those gilded battlements 
 Are yours, and no suspicion : in a fit 
 Of lunacy my lad, while bedfellow 
 To his good uncle, stabbed him as he slept. 
 The childish actor had been ably prompted, 
 And terror made him perfect at the art ; 
 His guilt is palpable. He roams the fields, 
 A jabbering little devil, full of secrets 
 To make Beelzebub an eaves-dropper. 
 [Aside.] I waste my breath ; a change is on his features. 
 I know this quiet ; it arrests the sense, 
 Like the appeasing movement of a storm. 
 That paralyses, ere it devastate. 
 Best let her feel its fury. [Ti^ms to Emma, who remains 
 
 breathlessly stari?ig at Canute.] 'Tis a sickness 
 Needs the domestic touch ; I take my leave. 
 When it is opportune recall my service. 
 Urge my desert. 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT 8i 
 
 Canute. I fear to deal the blow, 
 And make a lightning end. I would call forth 
 My feasting jarls — they would bespatter him 
 With such disgraces, ridicule, and flaunts. 
 That he would die, unstruck, of countless gibes, 
 And feel by prophecy his corpse would serve 
 For next day's merriment. S^Seizing Edric suddeJily?\ 
 
 Thou hast offended 
 Beyond the bounds of nature, and the darkness 
 Shall never cover thee ; for thee no grave, 
 But infinite exposure in the sun ; 
 Corruption blazon thee the thing thou art, 
 Abhorred and dissolute ! 
 
 [Canute stra?igles Ya)Vac^ flings his body into the stream^ 
 and gazes out?\ 
 
 Emma. To look at it 
 The male's fierce nature in its nakedness, 
 With passions that dumb creatures in their lairs 
 Conceive in solitude ! How break it in ? 
 Wild as the waters that engulfed the world, 
 It rages in its hour of dominance, 
 And all familiar outlines are destroyed ; 
 There is no sky, no comfort, no relief. 
 No streak in the great wilderness. O God, 
 Thou gavest us our beauty and our guile 
 To win these creatures. I will try a touch, — 
 'Tis softer than the voice, more powerful. 
 
 Canute. I teem with memory. Old Gorm would glare 
 Above his cup \^'hose hand is this ? 
 
 Emma. My king, 
 
 G 
 
82 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III. 
 
 You are a murderer. 
 
 Canute. I slew him not, 
 The great lord Edmund ; if indeed I slew, 
 I loved his kingdom, loved his people, all 
 The other side, the hills beyond the stream ; 
 I loved him, yea, I hugged him to my heart, 
 I felt him royal. 
 
 Emma. O Canute, you murdered 
 The faithful Edric. 
 
 Canute. God ! what I have done 
 Is bloody round my brain ; I cannot see. 
 I'm dazed to find my wife, and this close room 
 Behind me, when I leave the boundless wind, 
 And my far childhood. 
 
 Ei?ima. Spend your senseless wrath 
 On me, your Emma, who exalted you 
 To your most dear ambition. Yet you slew 
 The faithful servant who fulfilled the deed, 
 
 Canute. Did you not lay a hand on me and weep ? 
 Emma. He loved you truly — as your queen doth love, 
 And therefore I must weep him. Did you fear 
 Alfred, my eldest born of Ethelred, 
 I would myself with my own hands destroy 
 His sight, his life, whatever you should crave ; 
 For all that derogates from your estate 
 Is fitted for destruction. 
 
 Canute \_unheeding\. Is it thus 
 That Hell begins ? and can God make damnation 
 With just a little shifting of the days ? 
 When me the live hour brings its transient tale, 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 83 
 
 I look it in the face : but shall the past 
 Ride down and meet me on the open plain ? 
 Can nothing grow obscure, — the mighty figure, 
 Erect and kindly, — the reproachful glance 
 On skulking Edric ? Am I forced to feel 
 Again the pressure of the great, warm hands, 
 And mutter words of feigning amity ? 
 Nay, crowd the English people on the bank. 
 Unveil the hypocrite, call me by names 
 Shall strip me bare of majesty — a coward, 
 A cunning, sleek barbarian. Supreme 
 Above me thou shalt sit a king and judge — 
 Ah, I bethink me there are tears and prayers, 
 And drops of blood fall from the crucifix, 
 Or the great agony would overcome, 
 And I should fail of penitence 3 it works 
 Like death within me. 
 
 Emma. Desolate, abandoned ! 
 Oh, I must rally him. — My dearest lord, 
 Do not grow pale as one in guiltiness. 
 Never till now have I beheld you blench. 
 The deed was my conception \ you are free. 
 I could not suffer you a demi-king. 
 Nor make you present of a demi-heir ; 
 Therefore I ordered Edmund should be slain ; 
 1 gave command upon our marriage day, 
 And Edric nodded. 
 
 Ca7iute \unheeding\. I have seen a fox 
 Steal round a yard to snatch ; a prowling dog 
 Creep for a bone. Ah, Edric, you and I 
 
84 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III, 
 
 Are mates, the fiends will couple us 'm. hell, 
 
 To hunt down the unwary. I repent 
 
 I plunged you in the cold ; — my flaming cheek 
 
 Must bear the shame, while cool oblivion ^ 
 
 Washes you o'er and o'er. 
 
 Enwia. He sickens me 
 With his dull raving. — My exceeding love 
 Moved me to hint to Edric . . . 
 
 Canute \_leaping to the wi?idow\ Has he sunk ? 
 The moon has spread a sheet upon the stream, 
 And hidden all that's fatal. Treachery — 
 Ay, here, and my own act. 
 
 Emma. He is intent 
 On self-reproach and bitterness. 
 
 Canute. The stars 
 Have steadfast faces, and prefix our doom ; 
 It is the wandering comets lead astray 
 With unsteered courses. What is permanent 
 Is god-like, and the shifty things a flaw 
 And a discredit to the universe. 
 Heaven hath so honoured man that he can bring 
 His word to pass, and make a feeble promise, 
 A breath, and an endeavour, more assured 
 Than rise or set of sun. That majesty 
 Being disowned, there is no use in kings. 
 No purpose to accomplish. \Tur7iing to Emma.] 
 
 Edmund's sons 
 Shall have their portion ; I can make amends. 
 But that's not large enough ! I would be rid 
 Of degradation, of the filching nature, 
 The vileness in the blood. 
 
Sc. I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 85 
 
 Emma [aside]. God pardon me ! 
 Until I hear that Edmund's babes are slain, 
 
 I have no strength for travail. Oh, I faint. 
 
 'Twas thoughtless ' fore a woman in my state 
 To hack and murder. You are terrible ; 
 Your wrath, I fear, has cost your land an heir. 
 For him, for you, I sinned. Canute, I die ; 
 Pardon and pray for me. 
 
 Canute. She's deadly white. 
 
 Lady, have I hurt you ? 
 Emma. Ay, to death. 
 
 A mailed voice ! — I am used to minstrel's tones ; 
 And the reproach cut. I shall surely die 
 Barren and cursed, but on my failing knees 
 
 1 pray you nurse these children as your own, 
 Adopt them both, and for your unborn babe 
 Harbour no guilty thought. 
 
 Canute. You madden me. 
 Emma, you cannot mean 
 
 Emma. Nay, give my child 
 A third of your possessions, be untrue 
 To your great, bridal oath. What is a woman, 
 A mother, that your word to her should bind. 
 Though sealed with bridegroom's kisses. At my knees 
 You swore such things — a promise that the fruit 
 Of our embrace should own as heritage 
 All English royalties. Be false, dear king. 
 Add broken vows to deeds of faithlessness, 
 And take advantage of my sex ; all men 
 Write truth to wives and maidens on a tablet 
 
86 CANUTE THE GREAT, [Act III. 
 
 Of running water. They are Edmund's sons ; 
 And you repent. 
 
 Canute. My lot is tied to yours, 
 Fell tigress, temptress. Would you have your den 
 Bloody with slaughtered babes ? 
 
 Emma. I cannot bear 
 The sight of blood, the talk of butchery. 
 These children, let me never hear their names ; 
 But bring me word they are not in the land. 
 We have removed the trouble of two kings ; 
 No rival princes should encumber us ; 
 For if you hold to the legitimate 
 And lawful issue, there are royal lads, 
 The two I pushed back from the throne to set 
 My young usurper there. I'd rather see 
 The boys I bore, than these step-grandchildren, 
 Mounting my dais-steps. I must entreat 
 You keep good faith with me. 
 
 Canute. You hold me bound 
 To that wild oath ? 
 
 Emma. Your lips were hot and ready ; 
 Your hands embraced my fingers. Ah, but then 
 I had not stooped from my great widowhood. 
 I was so amorous, I forgot my lover 
 Was not of gentle mould ; like kingly Edmund, 
 I trusted the barbarian. Ay, strike me ! 
 Your viking humour is not void of charm. 
 King Ethelred was sorry oftentimes, 
 Exceeding sorr}', he had bribed the Danes ; 
 A while ago you brought him to my mind ; 
 Do not be sorry. . . 
 
Sc I.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 87 
 
 Canute. Have you no remorse ? 
 
 Emma. That you are England's king ? Impossible ! 
 Go, and prevent mischance. Remove these babes, 
 All will be well. 
 
 Canute. They never shall be slain, 
 But harboured safely where I cannot lay 
 My cruel hands about them. Over-sea, 
 Olaf, my brother, shall be foster nurse ; 
 You shall not look on them [starting up\ I will give 
 
 orders 
 They presently set sail. 
 
 Emma [intercepting hint]. King Edmund's widow 
 May trust your tenderness ; I bow a victim 
 To your most killing hate. How opportune 
 The river flows beneath ! I cannot live. 
 Yet, queenly, choose the manner of my death. 
 Lift me, my lord, once more into your arms, 
 Then fling me from you. [He pushes her a%va\\ and she 
 falls.] 
 
 Canute. God ! no more temptation ! 
 Let me not touch you, for my pulses dance 
 With murderous fever. All my promises 
 I will perform, and then I shall breathe free 
 To pour on you the measure of my hate. 
 To punish, to divorce you. [Exit.] 
 
 E?nma. Gone ! His wrath 
 Has left me smitten — such huge, manly rage ; 
 I'm shaken to the heart. So it should be. 
 One cannot love a man whose hands show not 
 As clearly they were made to deal stout blows, 
 
88 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III. 
 
 As his smooth Kps for kisses' tender use. 
 
 But yet my child, — he should not peril him, — 
 
 And, oh, the hatred in his quivering breath 
 
 As he forsook me. I have suffered treatment 
 
 Worthy of lamentation, and a sea 
 
 Heaves at my bosom ; but I loose no vvxeping. 
 
 Without him all is tearless, desperate ; 
 
 I have a headlong wish to die. Alas ! 
 
 We cannot look each other in the face. 
 
 When there is jar between us ; so accursed 
 
 Are quarrels of true love. I do not doubt 
 
 But my inextricable charm will keep 
 
 This boy in adoration. I will rest me 
 
 Upon our marriage-bed, on the dear couch. 
 
 Till I have strength, and beauty soothed enough 
 
 Simply to rise and draw him to my feet. \Exit?^ 
 
 Scene II. The same ; later. 
 
 Entei' Canute. 
 
 Ca7iute. She dared not wait my coming, and shall 
 look 
 No more upon my face. — A vacancy, 
 A blank ! that scarf left trailing on the floor, 
 A shred too of her robe, — I must have trampled, 
 Have hurt her, as I thrust her off. A shred, 
 A tag, and is it thus that women suffer ? 
 We can inflict so little on such natures ; 
 We cannot make reprisals. Slavish tears 
 For Edric, and, — O Hel ! — a bloody gleam 
 
Sc. IL] CANUTE THE GREAT. 89 
 
 Across her eyes, when I proclaimed the rights 
 
 Of Edmund's children. I am cut adrift, 
 
 Far, far from the great, civilizing God, — 
 
 Dull, speechless, unappraised. 
 
 \A voice singing.] Is that a child 
 
 At babble with his vespers ? — Silver sweet ! 
 
 It minds me of the holy brotherhood, 
 
 Chanting adown the banks. As yesterday 
 
 I see all clear, how as they moved they chanted, 
 
 And made a mute procession in the stream. 
 
 [Gazi/ig abstractedly oil the water.] 
 
 Merrily sang the monks of Ely, 
 
 As Canute the king passed by. 
 
 Row to the shore, knights, said the king, 
 
 And let us hear these Churchmen sing. 
 
 Still are they singing ? It was Candlemas, 
 
 My queen sat splendid at the prow and listened 
 
 With heaving breast. 'Twas then the passion seized me 
 
 To emulate, to let her know my ear 
 
 Had common pleasure with her, and I trilled 
 
 The story out. The look she turned on me ! 
 
 The choir shall sing this music. I resolved 
 
 In the glory of the verse to civilize 
 
 My blood, to sweeten it, to give it law, 
 
 To curb my wild thoughts with the rein of metre. 
 
 Row to the shore ! So pleasantly it ran, 
 
 A ripple on the wave. I grew ambitious 
 
 To be a scholar like King Alfred, gather 
 
 Wise men about me, in myself possess 
 
 A treasure, an enchantment. For an instant 
 
90 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III. 
 
 I looked round royally, and felt a king. 
 
 The abbey-chant, the stream, the meadow-land, 
 
 The willows glimmering in the sun ; — a poet 
 
 Wins things to come so close. A plash, a gurgle ! 
 
 There's a black memory for the river now \ 
 
 And hark ! strange, solemn, Latin words that toll. 
 
 And move on slowly to me. . . . Up the stair. — 
 
 Without the door. A wail, a litany ! 
 
 \Entei' Child singing^ 
 
 Child. Miserere mei^ Deus, secu7tdiim rnagnam miseri- 
 cordiam tiiam ; 
 
 Et secundum miiltitudinem iniseratiomwi itiaruiiij dele 
 iniquitaiem meam. 
 
 Canute. How perfectly he sings the music ! Child, 
 Who art thou with that voice, those dying cheeks ? 
 Art thou an angel sent to wring my heart. 
 Or is it mortal woe ? Thine arms are full. 
 
 Child. Green, country herbs, they say, will staunch a 
 wound ; 
 And I have run about the fields and gathered 
 Those I could catch up quickly : — for the blood 
 Was leaping all the while. But here is clary, • 
 The blessed thistle, yarrow, sicklewort, 
 And all-heal red as gore. I knew a wood 
 So dark and cool, I crept for lily-leaves ; 
 Then it grew lonely, and I lost the way. 
 But, oh, you must not beat me ; it is done. 
 Father, I stabbed him, throw away the whip ! 
 Now God will scourge me. So I plucked the flowers. 
 And sang for mercy in the holy words 
 Priest Sampson taught me, Miserere I 
 
Sc. II.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 91 
 
 Canute. This 
 Is Edric's child, the little murderer, 
 Who did my deed of treason. Edmund, turn 
 Those trustful eyes from off me. 
 
 Child. Take me back. 
 He will be dead ... He fell, O father, fell, 
 And when I put my cheek against his side. 
 Gave a great pant. Let's pray for him together. 
 Can you sing Miserere ? For I did it. 
 And then he looked . . . Once in the ivy-tod 
 I caught an owl, and hurt its wing. 'Twas so 
 He looked. Oh, quickly tell me where he Hes — 
 Next room ? or down the passage ? Do you know 
 He was my uncle, and was kissing me, 
 One, two, three, on my head, 
 
 Canute. Cease ! From these hps. 
 White, childish penitents, how awful sounds 
 The wild avowal of their treachery. 
 Child, it was I who struck your uncle's side, 
 Who falsely kissed him ; it was I who set 
 Your father on this wickedness ■ 'twas I 
 Who drove your frantic innocence to work 
 The sin of my conception. Can you learn 
 That I alone am guilty, and God's wrath 
 Will visit me with judgment ? 
 
 Child. Come along. 
 And take me where he is. How can I go ? 
 I do not know the path or time of day. 
 The leaves are fading. Can the blood flow long 
 Before it kills ? I saw it spirt and jump ; 
 
92 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III. 
 
 I could not see it now. I ran and ran . . . 
 Perchance I stayed too long about the fields. 
 'Tis dark ; no trees and hedges. He is gone, 
 And I am damned for ever ; the fresh herbs 
 Could once have saved me. 
 
 Cajiute. He is chill and fainting ; 
 Give me these hands. 
 
 Child. I am not much afraid. 
 Before I struck at him my skin was hot ; 
 Now dew is falling on me ; it is cool. 
 Let me lie in your arms where I can look 
 Up at the sky. There's some one . . . and he grows 
 So kindly. Oh, he smiles down all the w^ay. 
 Quite golden in my eyes. 
 
 Canute. He sees the moon. 
 How pale and cold he's growing ! All the flowers 
 Are slipping down. I cannot bear his weight. 
 'Tis condemnation. There is just a spot 
 Here on his garment, one bright drop of blood, 
 Sprinkling his spirit ; he is saved ; on him 
 It is the very mark of Christ ; on me 
 The blot that makes illegible my name 
 I' the book of life. 
 
 Child. If I should fall asleep, 
 It will not matter, for I could not see 
 The healing plants by night ; besides my eyes 
 Will open wide at morning. I must hold 
 The blessed thistle in my hand, and pray ; 
 And God may so forgive me. Miserei-e I 
 
 Canute. The child is dying on my breast. He closes 
 
SC. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 93 
 
 His frightened eyes ; the notes are on his hps, 
 His arm still round my shoulder. 
 
 • Sharply flows 
 
 The Thames now he is dead ; the rush, the hum, 
 Are like a conscience haunting me without. 
 I cannot bear it. I will fling him forth 
 To the engulfing river, and forget him. 
 Rank, pagan impulse ! I would learn the prayer, 
 Recall the gracious song, — and stormy sagas 
 Come hurtling through my brain. I am a stranger 
 To our sweet Saviour Christ ; I cannot pray ; 
 I love the slaughter of my enemies. 
 And to exact full vengeance. Little one. 
 Thou shalt have fair, white sere-cloth, and a circlet 
 Of purest gold. Now that I look on thee, 
 It grows soft in my heart as when they chanted 
 Across the stream. — Canute the king passed by, 
 And listened. — They shall sing about thy grave. 
 
 [^He bows himself over the child a fid weeps. '\ 
 
 Scene IH. Malmesbury. The Orchard — moonlight. 
 Edith by a pool. 
 Edith. They must not dress me like a penitent . . . 
 It was for kindness. White, white up in heaven, 
 And glist'ring : how it sails about the sky ; 
 And I am for the water. I will do 't — 
 They put it on me as a dreadful task 
 To pull him out. Oh, here are golden flowers ; 
 
94 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act III, 
 
 I will step softly in . . . but at the roots 
 
 It's black and treacherous — foul iris-bed. 
 
 Back, back 1 I cannot bear the filth. O Edric, 
 
 I will have courage, yea, I will be damned. 
 
 Damned for your sake. When it grows dark again, 
 
 I'll fling down in the water. For a little . . . 
 
 Oh, I will come to you, I know my service — 
 
 But just to watch the silver in the clouds, 
 
 Where there is muffled music. Gloria ! 
 
 It's full through all the heavens, and the child 
 
 Sings clearer than the rest. How beautiful 
 
 To w^atch him from so very far away. 
 
 I loiter. I came down to the deep pool 
 
 To get damnation ; they shall never say 
 
 That I deserted him, who am his wife. 
 
 How he has drawn me to him from the hour 
 
 He humbled me. I think he grows more strong 
 
 Now he is with the devils, and will bring 
 
 A host of them to carry me away. 
 
 No, no ! 'Tis I myself must enter it ; 
 
 For His obedie?ice that shall break her in, 
 
 He said, / will not force her. Now 'tis dark, 
 
 And I shall stumble on the choking rushes, 
 
 If I should try to drown. Who walks the orchard, 
 
 Weeping so bitterly ? 
 
 Elgiva. O England, England, 
 Dost feel it at thy heart, thou hast no king ? 
 Ah me, and no avenger ? The twin boys 
 I bore, that should have rid thee of thy tyrant, 
 Rock on the chilly sea : such little ones. 
 
Sc. III.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 95 
 
 Cast forth without a nurse. O pitiless ! 
 We do not keep a fire where no one comes ; 
 I'm lonely, and the ashes in my blood 
 Tell of such desolation. I have lost 
 My twain, and all my kindness — 
 
 Edith. Lady, lady, 
 'Tis quiet ; you can rock a child to sleep 
 Down there, if that's your meaning. Come along. 
 
 Elgiva. It is his sister Edith, who has had 
 Strange woe ; whose little son . . . O God ! O 
 
 Heaven ! 
 She stands there from whose body came the thing 
 That widowed me. So tall she is and white — 
 The fountain of my tears. 
 
 Edith. I want your hand 
 To do it with. I held an iris-leaf — 
 It flashed like a drowned sword, and then I cried 
 A ghost I The moonlight laughed so merrily. 
 But I will say the Scripture over : Wives, 
 Obey your husbands. He is hidden there. 
 Under the cresses. 
 
 Elgiva [aside]. She is surely mad. 
 I'll be an angry keeper, and my mood 
 Gives me a touch of cruelty. — Stand still. 
 How dare you stir ? 
 
 Edith. It is all learnt by heart ; 
 It must be done ; he watches all the while. 
 Though out of sight. 
 
 Elgiva. Come back to me. Obey ! 
 
 Edith. Ah, now you know the word — obey ! Yes, 
 yes. 
 
96 CANUTE THE GREAT [Act III. 
 
 I will do all you tell me. 
 
 Elgiva. Then walk back. 
 [Aside] O God, that I should be so harsh ! She fixes 
 Such waiting eyes upon me, timorous, 
 Yet full of noble candour, Edmund's eyes. 
 That could not learn suspicion. — Come away ; 
 Sit on the bank. She does it like a child. 
 A child ! I fill with tenderness : God sends her 
 To keep my heart a mother's. How it throbs 
 Against her nestling forehead ! 
 
 Edith. I am happy ; 
 You said I must not drown. Indeed 'twas foul. 
 And I am fond of linen newly washed 
 I mean in shallow water, where the pebbles 
 Are clear and burnished . . . for — you do not know— 
 I felt that I was making me a harlot 
 To perish with him. Say it over to me. 
 Forbid it every hour and every day. 
 Now, and each moment ! Save me by your voice. 
 Lest the reeds have me, and the loathsomeness. 
 The violating dregs. 
 
 Elgiva. You shall not die ; 
 It is a great command ; and mortal sin 
 It were to disobey. 
 
 Edith. Is that the word ? 
 I feel an impulse sucking me apart 
 From this dear side, and yonder — 
 
 Elgiva. I am strong ; 
 You shall not go. Obey me. 
 
 Edith, There it is ! 
 
Sc. III. CANUTE THE GREAT. 97 
 
 Your voice is living, his down there is dead ; 
 He could but catch me with the water plants ; 
 You hold me in your lap, and twine me round 
 So firmly in your arms. Obey^ obey ! 
 Just as you think it well for me. I know 
 Why they have dressed me as a penitent ; 
 My feet are muddy ; but my hair, you see, 
 Is golden when I turn it to the moon. 
 Quite clear and shining. Shall I tie it up 
 The old way, like a crown ? Faugh, it is damp ; 
 I thought I had not sinned. 
 
 Elgiva. It is the dew 
 Of autumn-eve, my dearest. You shall be 
 My care, my child, my blessing. We will live 
 Thus hand-in-hand, for we are sisters, both 
 Beloved of Edmund. It was in this orchard 
 His first kiss crowned my lips below the trees ; 
 Their buds were red : the apples now are fallen. 
 The boughs no more possess them. Do I cry ? 
 But there is something calm as Paradise 
 I' the climate of this weeping. All the night 
 Is one blue home of stars, and I am certain 
 Of a sweet sudden that my boys are safe 
 In the far country, and will live at peace, 
 And grow up with their father's spirit near. 
 I think it is this crooning at my breast 
 Makes me so blessed ; like the wood-dove's moan. 
 Sorrow and comfort are both reconciled 
 In this low music. She is sleeping half, 
 And half complaining. Noble Edmund's sister, 
 
 H 
 
98 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act IV. 
 
 And England's royal princess ! 
 
 Edith. I have never 
 Known all this joy since I was three years old. 
 I go back in your arms through many days 
 Till I can find that I lay warm like this, 
 Taking no thought, my blood just like a prayer 
 They chant to measured harmonies. 
 
 Elgiva. She enters 
 The life of heaven, though outside its door, 
 And a mad nun at Malmesbury ! I will lead her 
 To my own cell ; for the bland night is sending 
 Its sleep to earth, and visiting her brain 
 To heal all ache. My woman-child, my own. \_Exeiint^ 
 
 Scene IV. Glastonbury. 
 
 Early morning. The burial-ground ; beyond^ the churchy 
 open, disclosing Edmund's tojnb, by which Canute 
 stands. 
 
 Enter Archbishop Ethelnoth and a Monk. 
 
 Monk. Doth the king still keep vigil ? 
 
 Ethelnoth. I have watched unseen through the whole 
 night. Sometimes he would be restlessly pacing ; and 
 anon, he would hide his face — dash his rosary to earth. 
 But his great, fierce hands showed the wrestling. In the 
 third watch a change came ; his prayers were all said ; 
 he turned from the tomb, and looked up. Then he fell 
 a musing, long, long. It was just when the day trem- 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 99 
 
 bled, and he watched all the changes in the sky, like 
 a child. After that he never moved till the bell sounded 
 for matins. 
 
 Monk. Monuments all about him, and he had no 
 fear of the dead ? 
 
 Ethebioih. Not the least : he looked often at the 
 graves, with a kingly eye too. 
 
 Monk. You think he is penitent ? 
 
 Ethehioth. I would fain have questioned him : his 
 face was so full of responses. But there was a privacy 
 about it, kept me well in the shadow. 
 
 Monk. This is curious. If he should have a great 
 vision to recount ! Did his brows shine ? 
 
 Ethehioth. Well, to be honest, there is nothing in 
 Scripture comparable with his aspect. The bright colour 
 is come back to his cheeks ; and his eyes burn again like 
 stars. He looked sickly so long. 
 
 Monk. Yes ; and it is marvellous a night in the chapel 
 should recover him. I could never live through it. 
 There is so much that is supernatural. But he does not 
 know how the corpses bloom about him — fresh as re- 
 surrection-morn ; he has never seen a saint's coffin 
 opened, nor breathed the fragrant, spiced air from the 
 lips. He is back now at his prayers. 
 
 Ethelnoth. And the sunlight of the dawn is over him. 
 His head glows like an altar seized by God's descent. 
 I must see now that he rests and has meat. He will 
 suddenly hunger, and then no patience. It is the swoop 
 of the falcon on the woodcock. Get within. 
 
 \_Exit Monk.] 
 
loo CANUTE THE GREAT [Act IV. 
 
 \To Ca?mte.'] I trust you have found peace and 
 absolution ? 
 
 Canute, 'Tis for King Edmund that I kept the watch : 
 I said the prayers, the great mulct for his soul ; 
 My task was ended long since in the dark. 
 
 Ethebioth. It should have kept you lowly on your 
 knees 
 Till dawn. A penance — have you learnt them all, 
 The varied, slow, humiliating rites ? 
 
 Canute. 'Tis little that I know except the creed, 
 And Pater-noster that Christ sang Himself, 
 And taught to His disciples : seven prayers 
 There are in that Divine one, and he sends 
 To God a message touching every want 
 A man may have, who sings it in his heart, 
 As I above this tomb. Oh, I^have deeply 
 Foredone myself; but mercy hath been shown me, 
 And I for ever shall hold fast in thought 
 All this night's miracle. 
 
 Ethelnoth. Confide the vision. 
 You have an aspect most mysterious. 
 As God had forced an entrance to your soul. 
 
 Canute. O Ethelnoth, I have given up the keys of the 
 city to Him. There is no warfare longer between us. 
 They are wonderful Hands to fall into, and a wide world 
 that is opening. I must be a pilgrim. 
 
 Ethelnoth. Then you saw one call you to St. Peter's 
 dome; or St. Joseph, who himself took the young Child 
 to a new country, with his wanderer's staff pointed your 
 route ? 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. loi 
 
 Canute. No ; 'tis the need of travel, 
 That I may think. God is a law-giver, 
 And in the mysteries of nature prints 
 The characters of rule. All things with Him 
 Are from a source, and of necessity 
 As stern as that which makes corruption sequence 
 To the slacked bonds of life. 
 
 Ethelnoth. How shall you journey ? 
 
 Canute. Not by the sea — that's pagan ; by slow high- 
 ways. 
 Pausing at cities. 
 
 Ethelnoth. This is worldly business, 
 Of which your soul will get no benefit. 
 
 Canute [pomting to the altar]. Are your eyes glutted 
 with the treasure there ? 
 My breach of faith has opened intercourse 
 'Twixt me and heaven : we do not haggle now 
 On the first point at issue. Oh, this large. 
 Wide world of sorrow — 'tis as I had entered 
 A kingdom. Let us out into the light. 
 
 \Tur7iing to the burial-ground^ 
 Such very early morning, autumn-time, 
 A rigour in the air ; from the dark chapel 
 How sharp the contrast ! — golden sycamores, 
 The dew a filmy veil across the grass. 
 The blue mist o' the orchard. 'Tis the moment 
 When nature puts on immortality, 
 Casting her mortal weeds, and this elation 
 Springs from itself, a current in the air 
 That hath no ripple. 
 
I02 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act IV. 
 
 \Re-e7iter Monk : a procession passes.^ 
 
 From the Fount of God 
 
 I have drunk and am refreshed. My Edmund's England 
 
 Shall be no fleeting kingdom. Ethelnoth — [Exeunt info 
 
 the Churchy conversing^ and fi7ially joining the procession.'\ 
 
 Monk. Why, he looks like a bridegroom coming out 
 of his chamber. I will at once set this down. How 
 he towers above the band of brethren ! Heaven's favour 
 is assuredly upon him — and so beautiful ! He has the 
 roses and lilies of a woman — not like brother Thurstan, 
 with the great, red patches in his cheeks. But it's in the 
 Scriptures — holiness always gets into the skin. My com- 
 plexion is a poor witness to my sanctity. \_Exit into the 
 Church?^ 
 
 [Enter Emma into the bjirial-g?'ound.^ 
 
 Emma. Love, love! — Fll learn it in the burial-ground ; 
 Love, love ! — they think that I come here to pray ? 
 Ay, as monks pace this path in orisons 
 To be beloved — of God. What dost thou here, 
 
 \E71ter Thororin.] 
 My Thororin, in this drear water-land. 
 This isle of apple-orchards ? Thou stand'st mute. 
 I left thy noble Viking at the tomb 
 Of Edmund, weeping ; some vicissitude 
 Has fallen on him ; he is shrunk and shamed. 
 
 Thororin. And changed to thee, my queen ? 
 
 Emma. Oh, Heaven severs 
 More hearts than it unites. Thou art a poet, 
 And hath he banished thee his company ? 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 103 
 
 Thoi'orin. We two have stood together when the stars 
 Shone straight down in the sea, and I have sped 
 The ship with music fleeter than the wind. 
 I will to sea ; there I shall dream of him, 
 Ah, there I shall recover — 
 
 Emma. Thororin, 
 Thou hast my queenly heart. I can disburthen 
 Only to thee — a priest is judge of sin : 
 Who cares for sin ? Who would be healed of that ? 
 The hunger and the thirst about the heart 
 The poet can assuage ; he knows the truth — 
 That love is the religion, and the body 
 But a poor pagan till it learn its rites. 
 We were so happy : none should look on lovers ; 
 I' the world 'tis outrage, and on Heaven's part 
 It spoils the privacy. Two souls alone 
 With the blind sky and unrecording earth 
 To witness them — then there may be disclosures. 
 Deep, amorous friendship ; but with God to watch — 
 He's made all ill betwixt us. 
 
 Thororin. I have lost 
 The poet's joy, for in my Danish lord 
 All Sagas were accomplished. He betrays 
 Imagination, and the trust of song ; 
 He has befooled my dreams, and I will go. 
 With me flies Gunhild ; when she heard the king 
 Was praying, with an altered countenance. 
 She tossed her arms and cried, He is imdone,^ 
 No hope for Scandinavia^ but his child — 
 
I04 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act IV. 
 
 And a beam crossed her forehead. 
 
 Emma. She would bless 
 My babe if she beheld him ; he is featured 
 Like Gorm, his father's lawless grandfather 
 And stares out at the sea. 
 
 Thororin. Yea, she spake true ; — 
 Our king is lost ; last night I saw him shudder 
 Passing my harp, and my resolve is taken. 
 He shall not look upon the sacred creature, 
 That never speaks save to proclaim its love. 
 Withdraw your heart as I the instrument 
 That has no music for him. 
 
 Emma. Oh, to cease 
 From loving is impossible. He's changed, 
 I recognise it, but the man in him 
 Endures ; the tough love overlives these things ; 
 I could not quite forsake him. I will labour 
 To found fair abbeys, and enrich the Church, 
 Then, 'tis my last ambition, he will build 
 A stately tomb for me — a marriage bed ; 
 For I shall lie and listen to his voice. 
 Awake and trembling : he will talk of sin. 
 And pray, and stumble in the Latin words. 
 Till I shall laugh to hear him, but his thought 
 Will be of a gold-haired and royal saint. 
 Serene at God's right hand, and meet for worship. 
 'Twill please me, as I moulder at his knee. 
 To know he has that picture, and that Emma 
 Draws him o' nights to the moonlighted choir. 
 You sing love overlives death : sing it loud 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 105 
 
 In Norway ! I will act it j I will feign. 
 
 TJiororin. Nay, be yourself, show you despise this 
 doting, 
 Show how ignoble is a reign of peace. 
 This sleepy air is not for warriors ; 
 Rouse him to conquest ; let him see your scorn. 
 
 Emma. And alienate him so. Have you not learnt. 
 My poet, love is the great, feigning art ; 
 Itself the desperate, deep reality 
 That puts on all disguises ? Feign to love, 
 All living creatures crowd to jeer at you, 
 Dead in dissimulation : be a lover. 
 And all that your beloved covets most 
 You will become. Did my lord set his heart 
 On gem, or missal, I would gratify 
 His whim, and now saints are his admiration — 
 
 Thororin. O noble-featured queen, you cannot grow 
 One of these petty women, with blank faces ; 
 Your brow gleams as the flashing, northern sky. 
 And you wall cease to charm him when you wear 
 A stagnant, dull sobriety. 
 
 \Re-enter Canute, Ethelnoth, and procession from the 
 church. King and Archbishop walk apart. '\ 
 
 Emma. He comes ; 
 Is he not beautiful, a very hero ? 
 To Norway ! Spread his glory in the North ! 
 When the great battle-lust possesses him 
 He will be perfect pagan. Oh, I love thee, 
 For thou hast sunof of that in all the world 
 
io6 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act IV. 
 
 Most worthy of eternal chronicle, 
 And endless iteration. 
 
 Thororin. Come away ! 
 Let us not look on him. The bells and chanting 
 Have thrust the homely sagas from his mind. 
 
 Emma. O harp, that keeps him famous through the 
 world, 
 
 Thororin, my poet, on thy brows 
 
 1 set my lips. Couple my'name with his ; 
 Sing of our kingly bairn. — Forget the rest — 
 Sing of his glory, sing the conqueror. 
 
 Thororin [scowling at Canute]. A tattling penitent ! 
 Oh, I will tell 
 Great lies to make men tremble at thy name, 
 And thou shalt burn and harry like the rest. 
 The son of Swend, but fiercer in destruction. 
 I will keep faith with thee ; my harp shall never 
 Know thy dishonour. 
 
 Emma. Seven battlefields 
 Thou hast to sing, and Edmund's overthrow. 
 Farewell ! [Exit Thororin ; she watches Canute.] He 
 
 doth not even look on me. 
 There is a seeking passion in his face. 
 He's thinking how he best can serve his God. 
 Some faces never alter. 
 
 [Ethelnoth advances to her.] 
 Ethdnoth. Noble lady. 
 What do you in the early morning air ? 
 
 Emma \aside\. He thinks I am so wrinkled and so 
 stricken 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 107 
 
 That I disfigure the young day ? My beauty 
 Shall dazzle and humiliate the monk, 
 And then — \gla7ices at Canute] 
 
 'Tis said you lived here as a boy. 
 Archbishop, you have often paced this path 
 Among the abbey dead, — I came here humbly 
 To look for sepulture ; my waning years 
 Incline me earthward, as those stooping trees 
 Bend their decaying branches to the ground. 
 
 Ethehioth. Daughter, these precincts are not yet for you ; 
 There's summer on your features, and your hair 
 Is radiant as Queen Guinevere's, whose bones 
 Moulder beneath you. 
 
 Eiiwia [shiidderi?ig\. Have I found the grave 
 Of Guinevere ? 
 
 Ethebwth. Yes, lady, it was opened 
 Six years ago — the bloom still on her face, 
 But dusty. 
 
 Emma \kneeling\. Will you let me lie beside 
 This lovely queen ? Oh, deeper in the earth ! 
 
 \Flijigs herself on the ground?^ 
 I am an ageing woman : — meet I die. 
 And give him my wild soul to wanton with. 
 
 [Canute /^i'j'(?i' near her.] 
 God, he is cruel, with sharp instruments 
 He's cutting at my heart. Ah, blessed father. 
 Did we twain walk together, we would found 
 Such stately houses, for I love the Church ; 
 Yet oh ! — it is my mortal sin — my husband 
 Is foremost in my heart. 
 
io8 CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act IV. 
 
 Ethelnoth. This reverie 
 Hath been too much prolonged, he doth not notice 
 His noble queen ; she is a royal creature, 
 Doubtless of great munificence. I'll bring 
 This pair together. 
 
 Emjna. All my revenues, 
 If you can make him penitent of this, 
 His infamous neglect. 
 
 [Ethelnoth walks apart ivith Canute.] 
 In very truth. 
 My heart will burst its banks from this contraction 
 And pressure of my rage. I do not feign ; 
 The fury in me doth transgress the limits 
 Of life's determined channels. \_Exit Ethelnoth.] 
 
 Canute [approaching]. Desolate ! 
 My lady, with her bright hair in the grass 
 Untressed. Ah ! you mistake ; it was not here 
 They laid the king we murdered. 
 
 Evuna. Here is buried 
 Our Arthur, faultless monarch of the West, 
 And Guinevere, his beauteous, wicked queen. 
 Oh, give me leave my lord, to lie with her. 
 Canute. You say that she was wicked. 
 Evuna. So am I. 
 She had a heart too passionate, and beauty 
 That bore no bloom save in the clime of love. 
 We shall speak low together ; she will prate 
 Of Lancelot, but I shall say my /msba?td 
 Was my sole lover, and became a pilgrim : 
 I lay a shrouded figure on the bed, 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. 109 
 
 When he returned. 
 
 Canute. Emma, my precious queen, 
 You make me stark with horror : for my soul 
 I go to Rome ; for I have wrought a deed 
 So black, so diabolical, I shudder 
 For hell by day and night. The time will come 
 When it will be far better for us, far. 
 Than all on middle earth, that we had ever 
 Performed God's will, and very earnestly 
 Loved Him with inward heart. 
 
 Emma. You grow religious. 
 The ties of earth unloose. Make no farewell, 
 Do not come near me living ; but this favour 
 I ask of you, when you return from Rome, 
 Visit my grave. You will have learnt how lowly 
 The courtesy to death. 
 
 Canute. O Emma, Emma, 
 My greatest, dearest, it was in your heart 
 To put away my rival. 
 
 Enwia. You can pray. 
 It is the chief use of your lips. I'll die ! 
 
 {Stooping over Guinevere's grave?^ 
 I would be buried with my kind ; your place 
 Will be by flawless Arthur. 
 
 Camite. Do you jeer ? 
 Then I will fling you off from bed and board. 
 
 Emma. Clip my long hair, and dress me as a nun ? 
 I prithee give me into custody 
 O' the archbishop. To the barred cell ! 
 For he is gentle ; he will bring my boy 
 
no CANUTE THE GREAT. [Act IV. 
 
 To play bo-peep at kissing. 
 
 Canute. You will make him 
 A murderer, a traitor. 
 
 Emvia. Like his father ! 
 
 Canute. Since penitents are dumb beneath the 
 scourge, 
 I do not chide you. [Aside.] There is strength in me 
 To judge her, and condemn. A fatal creature ! 
 Can you repent ? 
 
 Emma. Of noble Edmund's death ? 
 Most bitterly — for England has no king, 
 
 [Canute turns away.] 
 And he had royal gifts. Oh, I am mad 
 Thus from the grass to hiss at him. He goes ; 
 Then all is disannulled between our lives, — 
 I am a lonely corpse. Help, help ! Come back ! 
 
 Canute. What would the queen with an unkingly 
 man, 
 Whose crown she shares ? 
 
 Emma. A lie, a hateful lie. 
 The wet mould at my breast is chill, and bitter 
 The memories that come up through the turf 
 Of that lost woman. 
 
 Canute. Emma, do you find 
 Your mate in her ? 
 
 Emma. Yea, since she sinned for love. 
 There is no wickedness I would not work, 
 No crimes so monstrous that it would not seem 
 Part of my wifely duty, no deception 
 I would not practise for your dear advance. 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. in 
 
 I pray you mark, my king, that I confess 
 My guilt. [Aside.] I am not feigning, so my nature 
 Yearns for his deeper love. — My noble Dane, 
 \Re-e7iter ExHELNOTH/ef^r/^/Z/y.] 
 Your glory I have dimmed ; as I deserve, 
 Put me away from you. 
 
 Ethelnoth [distractedly]. This must not be, 
 What God has joined ■ 
 
 Canute. Sever you not, you fool, 
 With priestly intervention. She is mine ! 
 
 [Raising ajid clasping Emma. Exit Ethelnoth.' 
 Mine, mine, — the dearer for her wickedness, 
 The more to be desired ! Be not afraid, 
 I have learnt this, sin is a mighty bond 
 'Twixt God and man. Love that hath ne'er forgiven 
 Is virgin and untender ; spousal passion 
 Becomes acquainted with life's vilest things, 
 Transmutes them, and exalts. Oh, wonderful, 
 This touch of pardon, — all the shame cast out ; 
 The heart a-ripple with the gaiety. 
 The leaping consciousness that Heaven knows all, 
 And yet esteems us royal. Think of it — 
 The joy, the hope ! 
 
 Emvia. The joy ! To see your face 
 Turned to my brow, that's joy ; and if your soul 
 Could even thus incline to my poor spirit. 
 All would be firm between us. I am old. 
 And fixed in disposition, hard to move. 
 Not changed in one rare day. Oh, you are young ; 
 Have patience, give me slowly of your hopes. 
 
112 CANUTE THE GREAT. Act IV. 
 
 Your happiness. I thought I had no king, — 
 All royalty was gone. But you are great 
 Beyond our nuptial night, beyond the day 
 That saw us crowned together. 
 
 Canute. Starry tears. 
 Such as the northern seas dashed in the face 
 Of your young Viking. 
 
 Einina. O Canute, these words 
 Give me a home again upon your breast. 
 Not wholly changed ! 
 
 Caiiute. For thou art mine. Thus linked, 
 We will serve England ; law and peacefulness 
 Shall, of our effort, dwell within her shores. 
 My brother could no more. 
 
 Einnia. This altar-cloth 
 Hid in my robe — I had it in my thought 
 To lay it secretly on Edmund's shrine. 
 Will you present it ? 
 
 Canute. O my Elfgifu, 
 Say that you wrought it carefully with tears. 
 
 Emma. No ; God forbid the foul hypocrisy ! 
 These blue and shining peacocks that I sewed 
 Were for pure love, and every lady-stitch 
 Entwisted for your sake. 
 
 Canute. A frank confession. 
 [Aside.] The glorious, golden heart ! — Then we together 
 Will lay it on our kingly brother's tomb. 
 Emma, the holy places I have wrecked 
 Make ruin in my dreams. 
 
 Emma. With all my relics 
 
Sc. IV.] CANUTE THE GREAT. ii 
 
 You shall give reparation : we will found 
 Great houses. [Aside.] Now his eyes are shed on me 
 Full as the morning sun. — And for our England 
 We will take common thought. 
 
 Ca7iute. Her sons shall serve 
 One God and worship Him, one Christendom 
 For ever hold, and with right truthfulness, 
 Even as thou, shall love Canute their lord. 
 And I have vowed, in that I basely slew 
 Their hero-king, that all my altered years 
 Shall be a great atonement, and accomplish 
 The best of his conception. We are led 
 By baffling roads to wisdom, but a light 
 Creeps ever after as we step along ; 
 I turned back in my sin, and then I saw 
 The dogging lustre. Let us take our gift. 
 Your work, my queen, to Edmund's sepulchre. 
 This is to be a pilgrim : — the new life 
 Is full of blessing. Come ! {Exeunt into the Church.] 
 
THE CUP OF WATER. 
 
 ** Earth's young significance is all to learn." 
 
 Robert Browninz- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The story dramatised in these pages is taken from one 
 of "the projects or arguments of poems" given in the 
 recent, complete edition of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's 
 works. 
 
 Among these " arguments " there is indeed one bearing 
 so unmistakably the stamp of the poet's genius that to 
 handle it would be profane. The fragment of Michael 
 Scofs IVootng enfolds the germ of a ballad that must have 
 surpassed even J^ose Mary in strength of spiritual im- 
 agination. The Cup of Water is a simpler theme, un- 
 touched by the peculiar magic of the author's style, — a 
 ballad in outline, yet full of suggestion of the " inner 
 whispers " and struggles of the heart. I have taken it 
 reluctantly from the dead hands of the poet whom, as 
 artist, I so profoundly revere, not, let me once for all 
 assure my readers, with the thought of continuing work 
 he has begun, but rather of modifying for dramatic 
 purposes material he has left unused. 
 
 June I, 1887. 
 
 117 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Almund, a young King. 
 
 Hubert, Almund's Friend. 
 
 Reuben, an old Gardener. 
 
 Cara, a woodland Girl. 
 
 MiLLiCENT, a Princess, betrothed to Almund. 
 
 Scene. A Wood — twice removed to the Garden of 
 Millicent's Castle. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. The Wood. 
 
 Enter Almund and Hubert. 
 
 Almund. The woods are leafless, but the hazel-twigs 
 Are sprouting ; if one hangs one's head aside, 
 'Tis green against the sky. Our callow spring 
 Is chilly, wild, and petulant so often 
 I am not much surprised to feel this ice 
 Among the pushing buds. 
 
 Hubert. Surprised — not you ! 
 The even tenour of your disposition 
 Will never own a marvel ; while for me 
 There's novelty in every change of day ; 
 Faces distract my humour, and the tunes 
 A minstrel strikes up one upon another 
 Ring through my blood and take away my breath 
 With simple fascination. 
 
 Almund. Yes, dear lad ; 
 It is your gaiety and bubbling youth 
 That keep our bond so fresh. 
 
 Hubert. Oh, I am sure 
 There is no sweeter fervour in the world 
 Than that of early friendship, when it flows 
 From childhood's fount, and two unhindered spirits 
 Shake the same gusty tempests from their brows, 
 
 119 
 
I20 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act I. 
 
 Welcome the same soft sun, and face together 
 Each day's new, yet famihar, circumstance. 
 With women it is different ; they keep 
 So far apart, and do not care to hsten 
 Unless one speak of love. 
 
 Almund. They choose a theme, 
 The sole to which God deigns to lend an ear. 
 The racking terror one is not beloved 
 Once laid to rest, the deeper aim of speech 
 Attains its goal, and one may give one's tongue 
 To gaiety, as yonder babbling brook. 
 Babbling of nothing. Ah, we reach its source 
 Beside this wretched hut ; the moss is trodden 
 Around, the starry spurges of the spring-time 
 Grow gold about it, and the withered leaves 
 Crackle above the runlet. Yonder stoops 
 A maiden with her cup, — and I am thirsty, 
 Although I did not know it. 
 
 \Enier Cara at a distance?^ 
 
 Hubert. What a frigid 
 And lonely look the little figure has ! 
 
 Almund. A starving daisy ! — Girl, you have a cup, 
 And I am thirsty. Will you give me drink ? 
 
 Hubert. Ay, catch this bankside dribble for us, lass. 
 
 Cara [to Almund]. Yes, sir. [Going to t/ie/ozmtain.] 
 
 Almund. Oh, Hubert, watch how she is bending. 
 As if her ear were open to some secret 
 Among the mouldered ferns. 
 
 Hubert. She's lovely, lovely, 
 Provokingly demure. 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 121 
 
 Almund. The cup is full. 
 
 Hubert \to Cara]. Serve me the first, and I will hand 
 it on. 
 Why do you pause and tremble ? 
 
 Cara. He shall have it. \_P ashing past Hubert.] 
 No, no ! He asked me. 
 
 Almund. Gently, child ! I'll kiss 
 The edge, and then my friend shall have his draught. 
 
 Cara. But you shall drink. It is for you. 
 
 Almund. What, first. 
 When a dear comrade asks ? Wliere were my manners, 
 My charity ? 
 
 Cara. He tried to snatch the cup ; 
 He has not drunk, I pulled it from his lips. 
 You said that you were thirsty, and for you 
 I caught the rill. Drink, drink ! 
 
 Hubert. How laughable ! 
 
 Abnund. My friend before me ! Take the cup to 
 him. — 
 [Aside.] ^\^at passion in the hazel eyes ! O God, 
 I am betrothed ; I know it like a curse 
 That has begun to work. She turns away 
 With piteous submission ; as a blast 
 I bend her spirit. 
 
 Hubert [to Cara, taking the ciip\. Bravely oftered now, 
 You pretty scold ! Why, Almund, there are tears 
 Splashed on her cheek — a tempest in a second. 
 
 Almund [aside]. To comfort her, enfold her to my 
 heart. 
 And keep her ! 
 
122 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act I. 
 
 Hiibe7't. Jove ! I ever was esteemed 
 A scoffer at the ladies : this bright wildness 
 Of sudden crying washes off my guilt, 
 And I am all for love. — Up with your apron, 
 And dry your eyes ; we only want the water 
 You gathered from the bank. Where do you live ? 
 
 Cara. Close by. 
 
 Hubert. Within that hovel ? 
 
 Cara. Yes. 
 
 Hubert. How shortly 
 You answer, such a nipping tongue you have ! \Passing 
 the cup to Almund.] 
 
 Almund. You do not live alone ? 
 
 Cara. Sir, with my father, 
 But quite alone. By day he fells the trees ; 
 A great way off I sometimes hear his axe. 
 When I am sitting lonely ; and at night 
 He sleeps within his cabin. 
 \_Coming up to Almund.] Drink again ! 
 
 Almund [drzjiking]. All that is left ; yet all was meant 
 for me. 
 
 Ca?-a. Give me the cup. I'll hold it to the stone. 
 And bring it running over. 
 
 Hubert. What a bound ! 
 As freakish as a February lamb's. 
 
 Cara. Full, full as ever. 
 
 Almund. I will drain it, child.] 
 No passing on, — you see, the very cupful 
 You meant for me at first, at last I drink, 
 No jot abated. 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 123 
 
 Hubert. You are talking now 
 Above her head. 
 
 Almund. Her soft look understands. 
 
 Hubert. I love that gentleman, I am his friend ; 
 Will you not turn, and give me but a smile ? 
 There's a gay, little woman. Now a kiss ! \_SnatcIiifig 
 
 one.] 
 How swift a change ! Her childhood is all gone ; 
 Adorably a girl, she shrinks and flushes 
 The wild-wood red of yonder whortle-blooms. 
 xAh, I have kindled love with just a touch. 
 And stung the bud with light. Oh, joy ! Oh, love ! 
 
 Ahnund. Come, let us go. I will no longer wait ; 
 The wind is keen among these boughs. Good-bye. 
 
 Hubert. Farewell, delicious hermit. 
 
 \To Almund.] That is cruel ! 
 Note her sly modesty — she waves to you. 
 And only you. It is a lovely method 
 That virgins have of hiding what they hope 
 To turn the other way in all they do. 
 [Almund, unperceived by Hubert, throws a kiss to Car a.] 
 And, hark, that is her little trill, a spirt 
 Of song, the early bird. \Exit Cara.] 
 
 Ahnund. She's immature. 
 And like the very month of March, — as tart, 
 Impetuous, provoking. It is sweet 
 When Spring is thought about, and is not here. 
 
 Hubert. Almund, I love her, love her ! You were 
 moved ; 
 I saw her charm strike inward. Do not wince ; 
 
124 THE CUP OF WATER, [Act I. 
 
 If you are plighted, you are yet too young 
 To have no idle fancies. She is worthy 
 My love, although she is a cottager ? 
 
 Ahtufid, That's nothing; burn up all such circum- 
 stance 
 If you would love indeed. To ashes with it ! 
 
 Hubert How vehement your tone ! 
 
 Almufid \_abstractedly\. To be beloved 
 Even from the very fountain of the heart, 
 To touch the well-head of a maiden-passion. 
 The bright spring from the rock ; in the cool draught 
 To feel the virgin, solitary years, 
 And win access to the deep flow and current 
 Of the dark water-bed among the hills ; — 
 It is a miracle one fears to greet, 
 A sign that does not modify events, 
 But re-adjusts the soul. 
 
 Hubert. You brood on love 
 Too solemnly \ it is a simple joy. 
 
 Almund. I talk at random. How these catkins dust 
 One's velvet ! You are happy ? 
 
 Hubert. Oh, I feel 
 That all my merriment of disposition 
 Was but a childish matter \ the man's rapture 
 Steadies me and ennobles. Yet I swear 
 She much preferred you till I took that kiss, 
 And all my fervour crept into her face. 
 I must not tease my wayward anchorite. 
 Or she will run to you ; that brow of yours 
 Seems to extend protection. 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 125 
 
 Ahnund [aside]. She is mine. 
 The water came not straighter from the earth, 
 Than she herself to me. 
 
 Hiibert. You are unmindful ; 
 I vainly prate to one in reverie, — 
 Indifferent to my fortune. 
 
 Almu7id. May you win her ! 
 You are my friend. 
 
 Hubert. I doubt not she will listen ; 
 The small, cold cheek grew ruddy. We shall wed, 
 When you espouse your Millicent. 
 
 Almund [astde]. Thus God 
 Severs, without the clemency of death. [Exeunf.] 
 
 SCENE II. T/ie Wood. Next day. 
 
 Enter Hubert. 
 
 Hubert. How my heart throbs, and how philosophers 
 Would laugh to see me hurry to this inlet 
 Of winding turf amid the rusted leaves ; 
 For love, they say, is like the pretty dint 
 In the green pasture that, with use, becomes 
 A beaten, dusty road ! Oh, not with her ! — 
 She has such moods to follow ; she is changeful 
 As this tempestuous morning. What a wreck 
 Of spring's bright sheddings on the ground amid 
 The pine's red autumn-refuse ! Broken Hfe ! 
 I will not moralize \ I'll call her name. 
 What syllables will bring her ? She's a darling, 
 Miniature's self, the point of space, yet all 
 
126 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act I. 
 
 I can conceive, all that my heart requires. 
 Is there no means to bring her ? Hark ! Be quiet, 
 All treble voices of the meagre season ; 
 Here's a wild catch a-singing. Oh, the glee ! 
 Car a [singing afar]. 
 
 Where winds abound, 
 
 And fields are hilly, 
 
 Shy daffodilly 
 Looks down on the ground. 
 
 Rose-cones of larch 
 
 Are just beginning ; 
 
 Tho' oaks are spinning 
 No oak -leaves in March. 
 
 Spring's at the core, 
 
 The boughs are sappy. 
 
 Good to be happy 
 So long, long before ! 
 
 \Runni7ig to himP[ Where is your friend ? 
 
 Hubert. To-day I come alone. 
 You must not fancy, little maid, that I 
 Am but another's shadow. Let me keep 
 These restless fingers \tries to kiss her]. Ah, it comes 
 
 again. 
 Your colour of the bilberry's flowering tufts. 
 My kiss is not forgotten? 'Twas to warm 
 Your icy cheek my lips grew pitiful ; 
 But when they rested there, and chased the frost, 
 They longed to lead up summer to your face 
 By kissing, ever kissing. Do not look 
 So harshly coy. O little, woodland girl, 
 I'm making love. 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 127 
 
 Cara. I love, I love. I made it 
 As droplets from the great earth filled my cup ; 
 I made it yesterday. I love, I love ! 
 
 Hubert. How shrill the passion of this tiny throat ! 
 You loved me at first sight ; so I loved you, 
 And shall. . . Oh, now I know there \s>for ever 
 To make room for such loving. 
 
 Cara. Do you think 
 That he can love like that ? 
 
 Hubert. You mean the king ? 
 
 Cara. No, not the king. My lover is a man 
 Who tells me he is thirsty ; I have never 
 Seen anything so noble in my life. 
 He bade me give you drink. He is not proud. 
 He did not make me humble in my heart, — 
 I leapt within. 
 
 Hubert. Hush, hush ! I shall be angry. 
 How dare you speak of loving him? It is 
 A fearful treason. What, a tiny subject, — 
 The least, sure, that he governs, — to presume. 
 As if she were a princess, to call lover 
 Her sovereign lord ! There, there ! You did not 
 
 know 
 It was a king who showed you courtesy. 
 Now you will understand. You see those fences, — 
 The flowers that grow inside you never touch. 
 
 Cara. Oh, yes; I climb the paling for the clumps 
 Of juniper, and for the jay's blue plume, 
 That glitters so with the black bars across : 
 I never heed what's written to forbid ; 
 
128 THE CUP OF WATER, [Act I. 
 
 It is all made for me on either side 
 The bit of mossy fencing : that I know. 
 
 Hube7't. Well, you may snatch the flowers ; but there 
 are things 
 Quite out of reach, that it is wickedness 
 Even to want. You must be dutiful, 
 And glad to fill your pitcher for the king, 
 When he rides down the forest ; but to dream 
 That you could marry him ! His mate is chosen 
 In Millicent, a noble lady, honoured 
 By all the people. Do not grow so black 
 Across this forehead, — such a withered sadness, 
 Such bleak despair ! 
 
 Cara. Why, you have nearly killed 
 All in my bosom. 
 
 Hubert. Sit upon these logs. 
 Against my arm, and let me tell you, child, 
 As you have loved in silly ignorance 
 One who could never give the least return. 
 Who dare not, and who would not ; I have loved 
 Less madly, but with passion like to yours, 
 You, only you. 
 
 Cara, I hate her. 
 
 Hubert. God above ! 
 You startled me with that short virulence, 
 Those grinding teeth. Be silent, wicked lass. 
 
 Cara. Cara would slay her. 
 
 Hubert, Oh, is that your name ? 
 How -lovely and enticing ; why, the winds 
 Are heart-tied to the sound. Cara, be gentle. 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 129 
 
 Put by this dreary wrath, and let me kiss 
 
 The loathsome curses from your lips. Come, come, 
 
 Ripple the mouth to beauty, let these eyes 
 
 Take on their vanished glances. 
 
 Cara. He is mine ; 
 A thief has hold of him, my own, my own, 
 My king, my love, my love ! 
 
 Hubert. He never was. 
 Never will be your love. This is the nonsense 
 That women, who know nothing of the world. 
 Prate to their narrow souls. The king would laugh 
 To hear you chirp such folly. 
 
 Cara \_springing from Hubert, and standing apart\ 
 It's more wicked 
 Than anything that's done. I know what hurts. 
 I plucked once a big bough of apple-bloom ; 
 I wanted it to hold down in my frock. 
 And smell \ they said it was too good for me, 
 I should have let the apple-tree alone 
 To be of use in autumn. All my pleasure 
 Was robbed, — they tried to snatch the bough away ; 
 I ran and buried it, for I was glad 
 It should be wet and grimy in the soil. 
 It is so dreadful to make anything 
 That springs up in the heart seem black and wicked ; 
 And it is such a lie ! The king would laugh ? 
 He had a still, grave face ; I am quite sure 
 That he would never laugh at anything 
 So terrible and sudden. Why, the oak 
 Has a white, bony bough amid the leaves ; 
 
ISO THE CUP OF WATER. [Act I. 
 
 That's where the Hghtning struck. I do not laugh, 
 I think what it must suffer 'oeath the green, 
 So scathed and ugly. 
 
 Hubert, Cara, do not put 
 Such hatred in your eyes ; if the great lady 
 Who loves the king — 
 
 Cara. Great ladies cannot love. 
 You must be poor and famished to be hungry ; 
 No crust at home, and all the whortles picked 
 Before you reach the common — then the tears 
 Come choking. It's when everything is gone ! 
 Why should I live ? 
 
 Hubert. O Cara, for his friend. 
 Remember, I am here ; and if you love 
 The king, would live for him, you must include 
 His cherished comrade Hubert in affection. 
 For I am half of Almund, and would die 
 To do him service. 
 
 Cara. Then you are not spiteful ? 
 I thought you snatched the cup away to keep 
 My lover thirsty. 
 
 Hubert. Dearest, but to plague, 
 And daunt your pretty eagerness, that seemed 
 Excessive to a stranger. 
 
 Cara. But I knew 
 All through me that I loved him. 
 
 Hubert. See, this cloak. 
 And ring, blood-red, were his. Ah, swiftest kisses 
 Light on these senseless objects. Will you, Cara, 
 Touch what he never cared for, and refuse 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 131 
 
 The least caress to what he holds most dear, 
 
 His living friend, myself? \_She kisses him ?^ Divine the 
 
 freshness. 
 The firm assault, the intrepidity 
 Of this short kiss ! Until I marry her, 
 'Twill be a smarting memory. 
 
 Cara. He loves you. 
 Have you not all you want ? 
 
 Hubert. No ; for I long 
 To take you to my arms. 
 
 Cara. Are you not filled 
 With everything you need ? I want and weary 
 Simply because you said he did not love, 
 And could not love me. 
 
 Hubert. Terrible the tears 
 That cannot gather, but are in the look ! 
 Child, will you take this ring he used to wear. 
 And think of me as giving it ? 
 
 Cara. Oh, sir, 
 I'll never lose it. 
 
 Hubert. Hold the finger out ; 
 Now you are my betrothed. Love, are you faint ? 
 
 Cara. I felt it like his grasp, his claim ; my body 
 Was frightened with its joy. 
 
 Hubert [aside]. Only his chiding 
 Can end this strange distraction. On her hand 
 The crimson jewel, like the winkling red 
 Upon the hazel, seems familiar, settled 
 Where it should fidy be. — Think you are mine 
 Now that I leave you lonely. [Going.] 
 
132 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 Cava. Gentleman — 
 
 Hubert. No, Cara, I am Hubert. 
 
 Cara. If you meet him, 
 Oh, tell him I am his, a weary child. 
 Tired out since yesterday. \^Exit Hubert mourfifully?^ 
 
 I'll go along 
 The wood, and say it over to myself. 
 He can7iof, can?iot love me ; but I know 
 Deep in my heart he does. There was a gift — 
 The king had something for me in his eyes ; 
 And when he waved good-bye. . . I am quite sure 
 God made him for me ; he will come again. [Exit.] 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. A Tej'r ace-garden. 
 
 Enter Almund. 
 
 Almiind. Not all at once ! It comes too suddenly 
 To learn one's youth from the sharp cry of love. 
 There was no preparation, — my whole body 
 Answers that eager girlhood. Love, love, love, 
 Without which we are made of the mere clay 
 Of the world's aged floor ! Not all at once ! — 
 Such news of honour and of joy — to be 
 Chosen of God to add the master-touches 
 To His unfinished work : He gives the lover 
 His coy girl Eve to make a woman of. 
 To warm, to waken. Ah, those changeful eyes — 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 133 
 
 To fill with love's imperishable light ; 
 
 That cheek to alter, — such an obdurate, 
 
 Untempered cheek, — and a red mouth that never 
 
 Has learnt its heavenly use. I think I see her 
 
 What I would make her ; I am called to it 
 
 As tiller to his toil. And ignorance — 
 
 The bonds I made in ignorance, before 
 
 I knew there were such powers, this youth, this loving ; 
 
 Bonds senseless as the winter covenant 
 
 Of frost-bound forest that, at rise of sap, 
 
 Breaks into red and olive — must avail 
 
 For life's suppression ! I am still a boy, 
 
 You7ig as they figure Cupid^ so my Hubert 
 
 Hath often carolled. Ah, the sunny lad, 
 
 I could not be his rival ; and the fact. 
 
 That must be nailed through flesh and bone to fasten 
 
 My unsubmitting senses to the cross. 
 
 Is this : / am betrothed. 
 
 \Enter Hubert.] 
 
 Hubert. Almund, the darling. 
 That with her wildness and her storms has made 
 Such wreck of my astonished heart, refuses 
 To listen to my importunity. 
 
 Almund. Then do not urge her, Hubert, 'tis a nature 
 That must not be distressed. 
 
 Hubert. But she is certain, 
 Sweet fellow, that you love her : to prevent 
 Vain hope, I told her that you could not love, 
 Being betrothed. 
 
 Almund. Oh, Hubert, you said justly. 
 
134 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 [Aside] Birds make no covenant ; they sing and build ; 
 There's no before and after — 
 
 Hubert. And I think 
 That I can comfort her. 
 
 Almund [turfting a7vay\ Stiff promises 
 And resolutions, and yon fleeting clouds 
 Grow golden as they travel. 
 
 Hubert. You will speak, 
 And make her understand ? For, were you free, 
 I think that I could move you, in compassion 
 To woo her for yourself. To see her suffer 
 Is just like speaking to a child that's lost ; 
 One cannot help, one cannot show the way, 
 And she keeps sobbing. 
 
 Almund. I will go to her. 
 
 Hubert. You must not break her heart. 
 
 Ahnund. By noon to-morrow 
 I'll yield her to more tender guardianship. 
 Oh, Hubert, it is sweet to be beloved — 
 ' Tis to be born again, and find the world 
 Waiting the senses' pleasure, at one's feet. 
 It never hath been known how women love ; 
 But those unpractised lips let fall a secret 
 Most terrible, transforming. Can you bear 
 The pressure of such passion ? 
 
 Hubert. You forget. 
 Dear Almund,. that she gave the cup to you. 
 Tis not for Hubert to be much beloved, 
 Nor is he covetous ; 'tis but to soothe her 
 I ask your intervention. Did I think 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 135 
 
 That you would bruise her, with harsh, tyrannous, 
 Will-breaking words — 
 
 Almund. I shall be just and patient. 
 Come to the woods, and you will find it quelled, 
 This pitiful rebellion. 
 
 Hubert. Plead with her ! 
 To you, love is a duty ; but your friend 
 Is bold to promise summer to his wife. 
 That shall creep lingering round the aged years 
 And recreate them golden. 
 
 Alniu7td. I will offer 
 No blandishments ; — an error to correct, 
 An ignorance, and mischief to remove. 
 And then my task is ended. Seek your bride 
 By that lone well amid the bulrushes, 
 Where I so often wander — 
 
 Hubert. And none drink ! 
 A cheerless place, blocked by the meadow-sweet. 
 And willow-herb in autumn ; I remember 
 Your moody haunt by the mud-stifled stream, 
 That now must be half-spectral with the stalks 
 Of skeleton, grim reeds. I hate the aspect 
 Of that neglected well where everything 
 Is put from its right purpose, or forgotten. 
 Bring me the lass where yesterday she stooped 
 Her pitcher in the spring. 
 
 Almund. Just at its source ! 
 You shall have all your pleasure. \Exit Hubert,] 
 
 How unconscious 
 In his beseeching and perplexity ! 
 
136 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 'Tis blessed that he craves her, otherwise 
 I could be wild and wanton. \Draws out tablets and ivrites.^ 
 [To an old gardener who approaches?^ Reuben, take 
 This letter to your mistress. 
 
 Reuben. Ay, sir, and happy ; but she hasn't left the 
 terrace-walk an hour. It's my belief she spied you 
 coming through the shrubs, for, bless you, sir, she was 
 off, leaving her pruning-knife under the rose-tree, — her 
 hair was a bit blown on her forehead, and her hands 
 sort o' sticky. She likes you, sir, to see her in her best ; 
 and I shouldn't wonder if she isn't putting on that 
 lavender gown took your fancy last June, with fresh 
 sprigs at her bosom. I say to her, the taste of young 
 gentlemen will change. I've worked for the great 
 families, — they like carnations one year, and the next 
 nothing but pansies will please them. I'll be up the 
 teep in no time ; for, sir, she'll think more of this 
 [holding up the letter'] than of the buds on the tree that's 
 named after you, though she smells at the pink blossoms 
 as if they were lilacs in full bloom. It's all sweet, I 
 reckon, when one is young, and of a warm climate 
 inside like the vine-house. [Exit.] 
 
 Almund. So it should be in youth — all sweet. How 
 hateful 
 Become the creatures that one ought to love. 
 What heathendom our past with them ! That day 
 When we stood peering down into the stream 
 Together, and I smiled : Look, Millice7it, 
 How Heaven mates tis I we had brought our books 
 To learn by heart \ but even then I feel 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 137 
 
 I could not bear her touch upon my shoulder, 
 And when we read of dire Necessity 
 I thought she had that form. She shared my studies, 
 The noble woman-scholar, and I fancied, 
 
 \Enter Millicent.] 
 I fancied that I loved her. Oh, my Hubert, 
 Gleeful and foolish in yon purple copse. 
 How you will mock my wisdom ! Down the beeches 
 The lady paces in that blemished gown 
 I hate the long, limp folds of. I remember 
 The child wore a blue, spotted skirt, and apron 
 Sprinkled with berries. Well, there are three yards 
 Betwixt us still. Better at once begin. 
 Now she is nearer I discern a smile 
 Irrelevantly silver on her brow ; 
 I hate such unwooed shining. — Millicent, 
 There is not any reason in the world 
 Why we should not be married ? 
 
 Millicent. But this query. 
 Abrupt, and so impulsive, furnishes 
 Sufficient reason. I would have you wait 
 Until you are a man. 
 
 Almimd. To love you better ? 
 Oh, that can never be ! You ask too much ; 
 For the boy's adoration cannot wear 
 On into manhood. 
 
 Millicent. But I dreamed, beloved. 
 That something fairer would remain, a rose 
 Of June, when all spring's flickering flowers were shed. 
 I have so watched you. 
 
138 THE CUP OF WATER, [Act II. 
 
 Abtiund. And the vigilance 
 Were pardonable in maternal eyes, 
 But in a wife — 
 
 Millice7it. Almund, if I believed 
 The noble spirit you have made my own 
 Would not grow riper 'neath my wifely care, 
 I never would ensheath it in my love. 
 Dear, I must foster you. 
 
 Alniu?id. I shall not answer 
 Your foolish dreams \ put by your expectations, 
 And let me play my part : we lived retired, 
 But my year's kingship has already taught me 
 I cannot be a vessel to be moulded 
 By any woman's will. I shall become 
 Another being as the years increase. 
 And your fond worship of my youth will vex 
 As any ancient, lapsed idolatry. 
 You too must change. 
 
 Millicent. The stream will darken, dear. 
 Infallibly, if there are clouds o'erhead. 
 
 Almund. I mean, I do not ask you to desire 
 Always my highest good — you must remember 
 If you are married to me, we shall meet 
 Not in elected moments, but in moods 
 Often discordant ; you will find me sullen. 
 Morose, reserved, and must not diet me 
 With simples from your herbal : ask no questions, 
 Imagine nothing : let me find you merry, 
 If I need merriment, sad, when I grieve. 
 I speak thus frankly to prevent mistake, 
 
Sc. L] THE CUP OF WATER. 139 
 
 And disappointment after we are married, 
 As we must be at once. The northern tribes 
 Have broken on us. I would leave a queen 
 To guard my kingdom. 
 
 Millicent. Whom you will not trust 
 To rule your heart. 
 
 Almund. Not the despotic way ; 
 I must be free and irresponsible. 
 Is it so slight a thing that I can leave you 
 Sole regent of my kingdom ? Would you rather 
 Sway my caprices than be made the mistress 
 And governor of all that I possess ? 
 'Tis an unqueenlike choice. 
 
 Millicent. I have not made it ; 
 We must no more interpret what the other 
 Suffers, or fails to suffer. 
 
 Almufid. Many things 
 Disturb me. Hubert, my supremest soldier, 
 Is changed and petulant. 
 
 Millicent, What ails your Hubert ? 
 
 Almund. He's deep in love. 
 
 Millicent. For the three thousandth time ? 
 
 Ahnimd. Once, as death strikes; one cannot tell 
 before ! — 
 The difference 'twixt innocence and guilt, 
 'Twixt peace and wildest ferment ! Hubert loves 
 A forester's young daughter, and to-morrow 
 I go to bid her marry him : she's wilful. 
 
 Millicent. You speak from knowledge; you have 
 looked on her. 
 
140 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 Almund. She gave us drink as we rode down the 
 wood. 
 To see his pride fall off him ! He forgot 
 She was a peasant ; the bright, naked feet 
 Were beautiful to him, and the wild hair, 
 That brushed one as she stooped, — no pony's mane 
 Is rougher, and our Hubert loves to see 
 A lady's tresses subject to her art ; 
 Yet when this woodland lass — 
 
 Millicent. You do not name her. 
 
 Almund. She has no name, one does not think of that ; 
 She carols like a bird — to Hubert's ear ; 
 One holds one's breath to listen. He neglected 
 To ask her name. 
 
 Millicent. Almund, you are quite certain 
 That she will love him ? 
 
 Ahnund. 'Tis enough for woman 
 To be beloved ; she never must put forth 
 Her powers of loving ; 'tis not to be borne. 
 
 Millice?it. Yea, if she love her husband, tho' he slight 
 her, 
 Unconscious of her worship, she can spend 
 Her unwooed kisses on her babes, and give 
 Her womanhood's crown jewels as an alms. 
 'Tis nobler surely than to wed unloving, 
 And hate the very moulding of the lip 
 One feeds from one's own bosom. 
 
 Almund. You forget 
 How Hubert dotes ; the glory of great dames 
 Grows cloying and monotonous to one 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 141 
 
 Who once has seen a girl's breast heave with passion, 
 And watched her wonder at the miracle 
 That love was working in her. He is changed, 
 Humbled and changed ; but we will do him honour \ 
 He shall be made an earl. 
 
 Milliceiit. Simply for winning 
 His heart's desire — such conduct needs reward ? 
 Nay, if the king himself had coveted 
 This girl — suppose it possible — and yet, 
 For sake of his pre-contract with a princess. 
 Renounced her, I indeed should count him worthy 
 Of gravest admiration. 'Tis not noble 
 To stoop from our conditions, which involve 
 Our duties ; to forego, for sake of them, 
 Some pleasure that would tempt us from our place, 
 Would give a kingly impress to an action 
 Worthy a woman's deepest reverence, 
 And worship of a queen. Our bright-lipped Hubert 
 Is but indifferent to external things \ 
 Yet this is somewhat : let us give to him 
 The title he despises. — And our wedding — 
 You wish to speak of it — affairs of state 
 Demand the form ; but for the sacrament ? 
 
 Almwid. The bond, my princess, never shall be 
 formal. 
 I leave you for these wild, uncertain wars, 
 My wife, to be the mother of the son 
 Our kingdom craves : there is no greater trust. 
 
 Milliceni. Than that of regent — guardian too and 
 nurse, 
 
142 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 Protective of your treasure ? You are weary 
 To-night and anxious ; had I been your lady, 
 I should have begged you to disburthen, now 
 You crave but my queen's wisdom I retire, 
 And leave you to self-healing. 
 
 Ahnund. Millicent, 
 ' Tis as you took the heliotropes away, 
 I love the scent of. There are fierce temptations, 
 And troubles of such sort as candour's self 
 May not give tongue to ; this must be : — the maiden 
 Is reticent, for nature drops a secret 
 Most precious in her bosom ; but the boy 
 Turns to wild conflict with the fiends, 
 
 Millicent. A husband 
 Fights with a strong-armed angel at his side ; 
 You seek such safeguard 'gainst your enemies ? 
 My Almund, it is yours. O lovely brows ! 
 
 \_Sfoopi?ig and kissing his forehead?^ 
 ' Twixt welcome and farewell there is but little 
 In woman's life, except she be a queen, 
 As you will make me. Then all's different. [Exit.] 
 
 Almund. How sweet a majesty is in her steps, 
 How undeserved a grace ! Now she is gone 
 ' Tis as the ordering sunlight were withdrawn. 
 And each unguided action perilous. 
 Yet she approves my course, my Hubert's marriage. 
 Even our own — I am the more confirmed 
 To keep our contract. Just that little figure 
 To frighten to conformity. Ah me ! [Exil.] 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 143 
 
 Scene II. The Wood, 
 Enter Almund and Cara. 
 
 Cara. My dear is come, is come ! 
 
 \They clasp in a long^ silent ejfibrace.'] 
 
 Almund. O little love, 
 My woman, pre-elected from the hour 
 I was conceived a man, yet lost, forbidden ! 
 All the great, germinating force that pushes 
 A leaf-bud forth has bounded to your mouth 
 To form that kiss. 
 
 Cara. Down in my heart it lay. 
 Panting to reach you all this long, long while, 
 My king, my lover. 
 
 Ahmmd. Ah, to join these names, 
 As this frank voice is able ! — By and bye 
 I'll face the severing hour. God, we may hold 
 For just a moment what we may not keep, 
 And thus conceive our sacrifice. 
 
 Cara. But listen : 
 I ran and gathered the white, blinking sallows, 
 The shoots of cuckoo-pint, and fallen cones, 
 To dress my fountain ready. 
 
 Almmid. Is it true 
 You put these dabbling bunches round the spring 
 For me ? Then they are dearer than the banners 
 That hailed me king. 
 
 Cara [stooping over the spiirges\ I told you he would 
 come, 
 You tiny flowers, and you would not believe ; 
 
144 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 Now look at him, and love him. You dear man, 
 I wonder what I had to think about 
 Before I saw you. Now I have no time 
 For sleep ; I dare not go to bed at all, 
 Lest I should find it altered in my heart 
 When I awake ; and sometimes in my bosom 
 I lose all breath, and dare not think of you, 
 The world is grown so large. 
 
 Almiind. It is the freedom 
 Of love, that breaks all puny bonds, and rushes 
 Clean through our being to God's crystal sea. 
 Kiss me again. 
 
 Cara. But it is not good-bye. 
 I put my musk-pot in the window-sill. 
 And all is sweet and warm there in the sun 
 For hours ; and I must do this every day, 
 If the young plant's to thrive. Again to-morrow. 
 And every day for ever you will come ; 
 It never will be ended. All the birds 
 Are singing in me, and the crowds of flowers 
 Are tossing in my joy. You must not watch me 
 As you were putting by this happiness. 
 To think about hereafter. Thousand kisses 
 Keep growing for my lover ; up they spring, 
 And I could dance to feel them. 
 
 Almiind. Little mouth. 
 Your love were perfect if it kissed to death ; 
 But I am strong ; all voices wail in me 
 / cainiot die. The glory of this moment 
 Is fearful, for it shows how black and small 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 145 
 
 We are in common life, when Memory 
 Makes gossip in our ears. Shall she be called 
 The mother of sweet poetry who fetters 
 All aspiration, drags us down to earth. 
 And makes us mortal, pett}', scrupulous, 
 Slaves, cowards, fatalists ? I must remember 
 Hubert will soon be here. Oh, Cara, Cara, 
 Did he not tell you that I am a king. 
 And you must never love me ? 
 
 Cara. Your false friend, 
 He said you had a lady. 
 
 Almund. It is true. 
 Oh, what is hell but truth — a fiery candour ! 
 
 \^Breaksfrom her.] 
 
 Cara. ^Miy do you cast me out into the wind ? 
 You were my lover. Are you now the king. 
 The cruel king ? 
 
 AlmuTid [thrawing himself on the ground and buryi?ig 
 his face in the grass\ I cannot bear to hear 
 The foot-fall of her voice. God ! she will come. 
 And bleat for me ; — lambs wander over graves, 
 And stop, and bleat, and shake their woolly heads. — 
 I will be buried from her sight. 
 
 Cara. It hurts 
 Too much to leave off lo\-ing suddenly. 
 That is an early wasp, — they used to sting me 
 When they settled on my arm. How hard I feel ! 
 I knew it must be terrible to freeze, 
 And broke the brook — it ached so underneath ; 
 I know now how it ached. / must not love him ! 
 
146 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 I shall not any more : it is as certain 
 
 As that no breath can issue from the dead. 
 
 \^Shaki}}g Almund.] Turn back your face. Oh, you are 
 
 old and changed ; 
 And yet you look as you would live for ever. 
 I cannot understand. 
 
 Ahmmd. You raised my head 
 Too soon, before the penal change was over ; 
 It was the moment of my sentence, dearest, 
 And it was more than I could bear to see 
 The buds, the ruby twigs, the darting light, 
 And your loved, early face. 
 
 Cara. You have put death 
 Far off. ... I feel that I can never reach 
 So many miles away. I'm but a child. 
 And you have left me nothing. 
 
 Almund. God, I know 
 The pain to come is cruel, brutal, vile. 
 
 Cara. You do not know; you took the cup of 
 water, 
 And gave it to your friend. You do not love me. 
 
 Almund. I love you far beyond all kissing's pace, 
 Faster than thought, with every breath I draw. 
 Cara. Then keep me, keep me ! 
 Almund. Little life, I cannot. 
 There is a lady, who for many years 
 Has loved me, not like you, but with affection 
 As strong as the unswerving confidence 
 She places in my honour. 
 Cara. And you love her ? 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. i^y 
 
 Almund. Nay, Cara, not a whit. I do not love her, 
 Yet she shall be my wife. 
 
 Cara. Poor lady ! 
 
 Almund. Cara, 
 If you can feel for her who keeps me from you, 
 Who severs us, a loving, unloved woman, — 
 Be yet a little kinder still, and pity 
 The man who cherishes, and longs for you. 
 My noble Hubert, who with thoughtless ardour, 
 As delicate as rash, has yet a way 
 Of touching like a nurse. My little, wounded. 
 Piteous Cara, let him take your hand, 
 And shelter you from loneliness. 
 
 Cara. Oh, cruel ! 
 So base you spoil my love, you hurt it all, 
 Till I must cry for shame. I am too young, 
 Too mere a slip, to understand your wishes ; 
 But they are cruel, cruel, and so wicked 
 That you will talk in vain. 
 
 Almu7id [aside]. Her chaste resentment 
 Lashes me like a wind. — Oh, Cara, Cara, 
 If I can yield to Hubert my dear passion, 
 My whole delight in you, while you, for me, 
 Will to my friend resign yourself in marriage, 
 Shall we not be united ? He will join 
 Together our best goodness on the day 
 He marries you and owes you to my loss. 
 Could you but understand ! 
 
 Cara. It is too bitter — 
 All that you say ; it falls like flakes of snow. 
 
148 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 I'm numb and hopeless, and my merry joys 
 Are dropping off for ever. 
 
 Almund. O my God ! 
 Can it be rightly done — within her blood 
 To kill the blessed life, and make its promise 
 A scattered vanity ? Yet Hubert comes, 
 And Millicent awaits me, and the power 
 To gather joy unmerited belongs 
 In no-wise to my nature. Will you then 
 Receive from me my friend to be your husband. 
 To comfort you, to foster ? Come, the tears 
 Are staunched at last ; but do not clasp your hands, 
 And knot them like the little oak above. 
 Speak to me, Cara. 
 
 Cara. I am humble now. 
 
 Almund. What do you mean ? 
 
 Cara. I will obey you, king. 
 
 Ahimnd. How hard and cold your words ! 
 
 Cara. For I am dead. 
 Dead to the spring, and hope, and mating-time. 
 
 Almund. Both blasted, both deformed, God looking 
 on, 
 And April in the earth ! We each are spoiled 
 For nature's stainless function ; but the blight 
 Is deeper in my girl ; for I am strengthened 
 By bonds and conscience. Hubert comes at last. 
 \E71ter Hubert at a distance.^ 
 
 Cara \_springing up at Almund\ I'll kill myself un- 
 less you promise me, 
 I'll curse you like a ghost unless you ask him 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATERr 149 
 
 To let me give you water once a year, 
 
 To let me grasp your face into my being, 
 
 And hear your wintry voice. I'll curse your wife, 
 
 Your friend, and all you love so preciously — 
 
 Listen, you king, I'll curse them all unless 
 
 You make him vow. 
 
 Almund. Hubert will grant this favour. 
 [AsiWe.'\ Then there will be one day of resurrection, 
 One day the grave-clothes will be tenantless — 
 Oh, heavenly condition ! 
 
 Hubert. Have you won, 
 My Almund ? 
 
 Ahniuid. She is yours. 
 
 Hiibert. Then come to me, 
 My king-wooed joy ! Almund, she does not stir ; 
 You misinterpret. 
 
 Almund. No ; she does but pause 
 To hear me ask a boon — that you and I 
 Shall meet her once a year upon the spot 
 Where first we saw her, by the creeping rill, 
 And she shall give to me alone a cup 
 Of the slow-dropping water. Will you grant 
 This wish of hers and mine ? It is some comfort 
 For her new-aching grief. You understand — 
 I have been harsh and lofty. 
 
 Hubert. This is little, 
 A thing scarce worth the asking from a friend. 
 Who loves you, and who owes you everything, 
 Even his treasured bride. My Cara, rise, 
 Come to my arms. I do not ask a smile, 
 
ISO THE CUP OF WATER. [Act II. 
 
 Until we know each other, and are friends 
 Well-learnt in love. Say, with your woodland voice, 
 That you are mine. 
 
 Cara. I'll marry you. 
 
 Hubert. Dear child, 
 You startle me ; your voice has lost its tones 
 Of waking bird-songs ; if indeed you care 
 No tittle for me, I may pine with grief, 
 But I will leave you happy. 
 
 Cara. Do not go ; 
 Make me your wife. 
 
 Hubert. God witness that I will ; 
 For I have loved these tiny lips, these eyes. 
 Thrilling with shadowed impulse, and a light 
 Of new-year sunbeams, loved them hour by hour, 
 Day after day, have thought of them at dawn, 
 At noon, and eve. 
 
 Almimd [aside]. I loved her so entirely 
 I never saw her beauties one by one. 
 
 Cara. When I am married . . . 
 I will be good and gentle. 
 
 Hubert. Darling ! 
 
 Cara. Do not 
 Believe I shall be disobedient. 
 
 Hubert. I never fear it, and your waywardness 
 Is lovelier than submission. Put aside 
 This anxious scanning of your neAv estate. 
 
 Cara. I will be meek and dutiful. 
 
 Hubert. Hush, hush ! 
 You mind me of a bird whose nest is stolen : 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 151 
 
 An anguish of re-iteration pours 
 Sharp on the air. Do not be frightened, Cara, 
 To leave your home. My friend has given me 
 This tract of trees, and a lone castle near ; 
 There shall you dwell, and freely as of yore 
 Shall haunt the spring, and pluck the shady flowers. 
 A piercing sunbeam strikes across your face ; 
 Trust me, my love, we'll have no formal manners, 
 But roam the forest, you a woodland countess. 
 And I a rustic earl. Come, I have won 
 Your father, while the king was winning you. 
 You are my bride : bring with you all your graces. 
 And do not fear men's looks more than the glance 
 Of jays or critic squirrels ; let your movements 
 Keep their alert caprices, and your voice 
 Its acrid key, and sudden songfulness. 
 Be all you were, and be my own besides. 
 But do not change. 
 
 Cai-a. I will be good. 
 
 Hubert. Come, come ! 
 No more of that, it pains me. Like a child, 
 Kiss me to heal the hurt. 
 
 Cara. I will. 
 
 Hubert. The flavour, 
 The fine, elastic pressure of these lips 
 Is gone ; but I forget, I must have patience, 
 Till you Hnk Hubert's name with happiness, 
 With gifts, and life, and bounty. Do not trouble 
 That I should know how you have set your heart 
 Unwitting on the king ; so loyally 
 
152 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 I love him, I could give him even you, 
 Were he not plighted. We will only live, 
 Dearest, to do his pleasure. 
 
 Almund. Once a year, — 
 Never meanwhile, — I meet in frosty March 
 The good earl's wife. 
 
 \Aside, kissing her bi-owi\ God seals upon their fore- 
 heads 
 Those whom He chooses, His elect. Farewell. 
 
 \ExeuJlt^^ 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene I. The Terrace- Walk. 
 E}iter IMiLLiCENT. 
 
 Millice7it. I have not seen my terrace-walk two years. 
 Now that the rumour reaches me my husband 
 Is coming home, I have put by my rule, 
 And left the busy city for a day. 
 To see if the young sycamore he planted 
 Be grown, and all the bosky paths kept clear. 
 He used to love the garden. In my absence 
 There have been changes, the great storm has broken 
 That row of poplars that shut out the country ; 
 We can see Hubert's lodge ; the woody fringe 
 Is full of gaps. How fares the lady Cara ? 
 
 \E?iter Reuben at a distance. ^ 
 There's my old man to gossip with ; but yet 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 153 
 
 It were more queenly to await events, 
 
 And give them quiet audience. [27? Reuben.] This ivy, — 
 
 Reuben, your master hkes it dipped in March ; 
 
 It overtops the wall. 
 
 Reuben. Now what an eye ! 
 There has not been the time, though I'm a rare one 
 For clipping ; you can scarcely tell the nature 
 Of any of these trees, I've twisted them 
 So to my pattern. You, I recollect, 
 Were always for a garden a bit wild ; 
 The weeds, you thought, were prettty on the walks 
 Where they could do no harm. 
 
 Milliceni. But the king likes 
 The even gravel ; you can give me pleasure 
 Only as you content him. 
 
 Reuben. That's the point. 
 I never saw a lady like yourself 
 So anxious ; all would now be apple-pie, 
 If you had a fresh colour. When I wheeled you 
 I' my barrow down the walks, and made you wreaths 
 Of hen-and-chicken daisies every day. 
 Save Sunday, when you whimpered, — why, you were 
 A pretty one, and no mistake, with solid. 
 Round, rosy cheeks ; you've fallen off in flesh, 
 And lost that placid look the master liked ; — 
 Come now, I know he liked it, for one day. 
 When you were but a princess, he was standing 
 And looking toward your lattice, while I cursed 
 The bitter, grating wind : Ah^ therms fail' iveather 
 For yon, I doubt not, Sir, I said— bit riled 
 
154 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 To see him staring so ; but when I looked, . 
 And saw you hke a balsam at the pane, 
 I did not wonder. 
 
 Millicent. Is his friend arrived, 
 The good lord Hubert ? All our preparations 
 Are vain, if he be absent. For two summers 
 They have been kept apart by these long wars, 
 My husband in the north, and his dear captain 
 Striving to quell the western tribes. No rumour 
 Has reached you, Reuben, of the earl's return ? 
 
 Reuben. Not a word ; but his lady must be missing 
 him. It's lonely for a woman when her child dies, and 
 she has to look after his burial. We can put the little 
 things in their coffins. It is not fit a mother should do 
 that, — she's too warm and tender. 
 
 Millicent. A child, a child ! And did you say a son ? 
 But the babe's dead and blasted ! 
 
 Reuben. Well, I own 
 I never thought good luck would come of it 
 After the christening. — Seemed presumptuous 
 Of a young wench that might have been my daughter 
 To make her brat a namesake of the king. 
 
 Millicent. The lady Cara had then a fair babe ? 
 Would it had lived ! Reuben, you misconstrue ; 
 'Twas duteous of the mother to remember 
 Who raised her husband to nobility. 
 Most gladly had the king been god-father 
 To our dear Hubert's son. 
 
 Reuben. But Almund, Almiuid ! 
 To hear the common children shout his name ! 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 155 
 
 For she would take the httle fellow down 
 
 To paddle in the spring and sail the flowers \ 
 
 And all the villagers were fond of her, 
 
 And the boy too. You must not take it ill ; — 
 
 I think it right that you should know \ — the women 
 
 All said he was the image of the king. 
 
 I went myself to have a look at him 
 
 One day, and it was wonderful — not like ! — 
 
 Why, the blue larkspurs come up blue this year, 
 
 And last ; — he'd got the lashes, and the eyes. 
 
 And the high forehead. It had been more decent 
 
 To call him Hubert. Taking all in all 
 
 I think it is as well he's with the Lord, 
 
 Where he can do no mischief with his looks, 
 
 Poor innocent ! 
 
 Millicent. O Reuben, you forget 
 His mother. 
 
 Reuben. But if she'd no rights to him ? 
 Lord, how you startle me with that hot face ; 
 'Tis like the day of judgment, — flame of hell, 
 Before one gets a hearing. 
 
 Millicent. You remember 
 Your master when he courted me, — his aspect 
 Might well seem god-like to a peasant girl. 
 One day, at hunt, grown thirsty in the wood. 
 He asked for drink : Lord Hubert loved the child 
 Who filled the cup, and, at the king's command, 
 She married him, but never has forgotten 
 Her bright, brief day of honour. Once a year 
 She offers tribute from the spring by which 
 
!56 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 She first obeyed her king. If her sweet son 
 
 Were Hke him, it is hard to think he died, 
 
 Being the only creature in the world 
 
 Who might have brought some comfort to your mistress. 
 
 Let the truth travel like a cleansing frost 
 
 Through all the country side. You promise me ? 
 
 Reuben. Why, lady, it's too much to remember, and 
 you knock it so into my head with your sharp, clanging 
 voice, — it bewilders me. But I take it you're satisfied 
 with the young master ; leastways, whatever you think, 
 you won't have tongues wagging. I'll quiet 'em, I'll say 
 no man can tell the colour of a bloom before it opens. 
 It doesn't depend on the seed. And they won't con- 
 tradict me. So, good even. [Exif.] 
 
 Millicent. A barren wife, and the young boy born 
 like him 
 Not his — so much dishonour and no sin ; 
 All faithful to their vows ! 
 
 \Looki?ig towards Hubert's casile?\ The sun breaks out 
 After the gusty rain, and rims yon towerS; 
 Ah, Hubert's wife can take him to a grave. 
 Where they can weep together. 
 
 \_Biiries her face in her hands.'] 
 \Enter Almund.J 
 
 Almund. Millicent. 
 
 Millicent, You are not unexpected, though you come 
 More suddenly than looked for. All your fields 
 Are sown for harvest, and the river dammed 
 Just where you thought to stop the current's rush ; 
 Old Reuben has been singing many a day 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 157 
 
 Over the rose-shoots and the trim arcade. 
 
 husband, why so sudden a return ? 
 
 1 scarcely have prepared . . . 
 Almtmd. You are too noble 
 
 For ghastly fooling, for this weary talk 
 Of preparation. Ready for my coming ! 
 Yes, ready with your sobs. 
 
 Millice7it. A little weeping 
 That I was desolate. 
 
 Almwid. I have not heard 
 111 news ', I feel it in the air, and see it 
 Now in your face. Why did you weep ? I thought 
 It was because you could not lift a son 
 To give that heart-deep greeting that a wife 
 No other way can utter. Tell me all : 
 The pulses of my heart are muffled bells 
 That toll and shiver : — give me utmost truth — 
 This pausing is unworthy. SfiraspingMwAACY.'^'f'^ arm.] 
 
 Alillicent. Hubert's wife 
 Bore him a son, a lovely boy that died 
 Just as he prattled Mothe?\ He was nursed 
 Beside a forest-brook ; the peasants say 
 He had your stamp on every lineament, 
 His eyes your very own — and I rejoice. 
 
 Almtmd. Immeasurable faith ! You hold my name 
 Unspotted by my people's vile suspicion ; 
 You love the likeness that another wrought 
 In pure idolatry ? I thought you cold, 
 Too cold to be a mother, and a softness, 
 A joy has crept into your face as though 
 
158 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 You answered a babe's cry. We draw together ; 
 My Millicent, weep on. 
 
 Millicent. The Httle lad 
 Was christened Ahiiund. 
 
 Almund. But the mother lived ? 
 
 Millicent. She lives for you to comfort her. 
 
 Almund. Not dead — 
 
 Milliceni. There is another remedy than death ; 
 It shall be given her. This is a moment 
 When speech takes on its full reality, 
 And says the whole within us. You have loved 
 This cottage-girl as God would have a man 
 To love a woman ; you fulfilled His dream. 
 I have upheld you in your covenant 
 To me, and made you break the holy law 
 Of perfect, human passion. O my king, 
 You were a noble boy, and year by year 
 The beauty goes from off you. 
 
 Alviund. Millicent — 
 
 Millicent. We each have sinned ; but I, because I 
 love you, 
 'Scape inner ruin : you, my tortured husband, 
 Are cramped by loveless honour, straitened, spoiled, 
 Grown hard and bitter, though your conquering lips 
 Keep violent mastery o'er pain and want. 
 
 Almund. O God, you can befriend my agony, 
 You suffer with my passion ? Noble wife, 
 I, who can never love you, from henceforth 
 Worship with all my soul. 
 
 Millicent. I have confessed, 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. 159 
 
 My Almund, and committed to my voice 
 
 The silences of womanhood, that you 
 
 Might hear the love that you can never see, 
 
 Because I have no child. My lips present 
 
 A gift of such devotion as no travail 
 
 Hath ever brought to birth : a solemn gift 
 
 To hold forth to a husband. Take the vows. 
 
 Given in marriage, back again. How pale 
 
 You stand, as if misjudging me ! I know 
 
 That you are pure as I in the fulfilment 
 
 Of our unblessed bond. 
 
 Almtmd, Oh, I could curse 
 
 My tongue that will not say what still I feel, 
 
 That troth should be for ever. 
 Millicent. Would you keep me 
 
 The thing I am, a wife, and the eternal 
 Thou shall not to a man's felicity, 
 
 That he perforce must hate ? 
 Almtmd. I do not, hating 
 Myself alone. 
 
 Millicent. I will deliver you. 
 Your voice grates on me, — 'tis a voice in irons. 
 
 Almund. O fearful love ! But you forget my Hubert 
 Has he no rights ? 
 
 Millicent. Almund, I do not think 
 Of Hubert ; I will answer for no man 
 In such a coil as ours. What I have said 
 Lies between you and me ; I loose the fetters 
 That make your home a prison. You shall speak 
 All in your writhing heart, renew its passions, 
 
i6o THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 And fear no impious jealousy, no pride 
 Of injured claims. I pray you to entrust 
 Your pain, your deathless love for Hubert's wife, 
 To me, who, self-divorced from you, shall give 
 No mis-becoming comfort, no unchartered 
 Compassion and relief. 
 
 Almu7id. Then be my friend, 
 Not the dishonoured wife whom I shall never 
 Forgive myself for wedding. Millicent, 
 As no young bridegroom dare, I lay my soul 
 Naked before your eyes. I thought I loved you ; 
 Suddenly passion leapt in me, — pure fervours 
 Of life ; I strove to quell them, and I could not, 
 But whelmed them in suppression, till my brain 
 Was mad with evil. O my woman-friend, 
 I know the deeps of sin as none can know 
 Who do ill actSj for I have spent my days 
 Looking down, down into the pit of hell. 
 Because my love lay drowning in the slime, 
 And I must watch, in agony that often 
 Pressed through my flesh as dew, yet dried the tears 
 For ever from my eyes. 
 
 Millicent. You pause ; my pity 
 Stretches beyond all horror. 
 
 Almund. Then it is 
 For her, not me. The anguish of my guilt, 
 My holy love polluted, were as nothing 
 In misery beside the pressing thought 
 Of how she suffered, — such a child, and yet 
 All womanhood was waiting in her heart. 
 
Sc. I.] THE CUP OF WATER. i6i 
 
 Till I should wed her. The first year I went, 
 
 And with her husband met her by the spring, 
 
 She looked at me until I only saw 
 
 Great, busy eyes that seemed to use my face 
 
 As yarn to fasten on a spinning-wheel. 
 
 I nearly died ; upon my horse's neck 
 
 I fell unconscious. 
 
 MiUicent. You are trembling now. 
 
 Almund. With weakness at the outrush of my 
 secrets 
 From loneliness and burial : 'tis like 
 The passage of an earthquake. 
 
 Millicent. Let me press 
 This burning forehead, for my hands are cold, 
 While the divulging torrent of your voice 
 Takes heed of nothing, but that I attend, 
 Too merciful to comfort. 
 
 Almund. I am freed. 
 But all in ruins. Now you know the worst 
 And best of my despair — its lustful madness. 
 Its rooted love to her. As if I knelt 
 Beside Christ's mother I am not ashamed. 
 For your compassion, fouled by no reproach, 
 Stings not my blood. 
 
 Millicent. And once again this brow 
 Is frank as in your boyhood, just as open. 
 Thank God ! 
 
 Almund. I like to feel your touch, it seems 
 To know me, and to soothe each painful throb 
 Close to its source. But, Millicent, to-day 
 
r62 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 According to my promise I should enter 
 The forest. 
 
 Milliceni. Yes, I know, and you must hasten ; 
 The day wears on. Nay, do not start so wildly, 
 For if you are ungentle, you will scare 
 The Httle, childless mother, and may kill her 
 Who is your Hubert's wife. 
 
 Al?7iund. I will be tender. 
 Touch me again ! Farewell, my great, new friend. 
 The guardian of my soul. I kiss these hands. 
 These saving hands. Your eyes — how beautiful ! 
 
 Scene II. The Wood^ by the Spring. 
 Enter Cara. 
 
 Cara. The little face 
 Grew hard, I dared not kiss it any more ; 
 And now, unless he come — It is the day. 
 How the birds quarrel ! — I must just return, 
 And dig the little grimy body up. 
 All night I listened close down on the turf 
 If he should call me ; but he cannot call 
 With those hard, alien lips. He seems to hate me. 
 And I hate him, — I hate, I hate the dead, 
 I do not want to see them any more, 
 They are such changelings. When the neighbours came 
 And looked at the stone image, with no trace 
 Of want or feebleness, they called it like 
 The little, tender, playful, tottering lad 
 I stooped to steady. God could never mould 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 163 
 
 A baby's dimpling cheek ; — it's tears, tears, tears ! 
 He shapes the dead, and alters all the lines 
 O' the lids and mouth ; one cannot find the old. 
 Sweet spots for kisses. Hubert will return 
 And pet me. I have seen a dog some stranger 
 Passes his hand across ; it gives no pleasure, 
 The creature feels it's kind, and then walks off 
 More wretched. Ah, the baby did not know, 
 He never tried to comfort. There's no use 
 For Cara in the world : the old are useless, 
 But then they are half-dead. I cannot cry, 
 I know if once I sobbed that I should never 
 Catch the sweet air again. The leaves are budding, 
 These chestnut-leaves. Oh, they have woolly wraps, 
 They're young — quite little ones. 
 
 \E?iter Almund.] 
 
 Almund. A widowed creature, 
 With strange, snow-sprinkled hair, and empty eyes. 
 I dare not startle her, — she stands too nigh 
 The precipice of death for me to thrill her 
 With joyful news. 
 
 Cara \tur71h1g and sprmgtJig to him\ Why, he is 
 grown a man ! 
 O Almund, Almund. This is wonderful ! 
 It hurts so at my heart. It must be years 
 Since it all happened. Do not let me loose ; 
 If you will only stay a little while 
 ' Twill be all over ; you can settle then 
 Whether it's wrong or right. Pull down your curls 
 For me to play with. Silky, summer hair ! 
 
i64 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 I made his fine like this. Oh, I am happy. 
 Don't speak, and change it. 
 
 Almund. Cara, Usten ! Hush ! 
 I am not married to the queen. I'm free. 
 
 Cara. And I am Huberfs wife! It makes me 
 laugh ; 
 It is not true, and a wise king knows better 
 Than make believe. I had a little son ; 
 God knew the truth ; He built him step by step 
 Like you — a perfect miniature, and yet 
 With hair less auburn. I was glad to give him 
 Cara's own hazel threads. He's yours and mine. 
 You'll see him when you bury me ; break open 
 The tiny coffin ; let us lie together. 
 
 Almund. I dare you speak of death ; you shall not 
 die 
 Till you are mine. What is your woman's hunger ? 
 You faint with it ; but when a man must fast 
 His appetite grows eager for revenge. 
 Now, Cara, you must pay to me the debt 
 Of love's long-rankling score. Come, cuddle close ; 
 Each stir and change you make is chronicled 
 Through all my body, and the blessedness 
 Repeats that I have got you in my arms. 
 Till I can just believe it. These long years 
 My life has been a barren sea-shore washed 
 By surging floods of passion ; nothing grew there, 
 Nothing took root, there was no food, no shelter. 
 Don't travel far away with those soft eyes ! 
 You're thinking of the child ; it maddens me. 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 165 
 
 Cara, I'm thirsty ; give me of love's drink ! 
 Have you forgotten ? 
 
 Cara. No, for I remember 
 A lady loves you. Almund, it is fearful . . . 
 
 Almimd. Call me the king. 
 
 Cara \smiling\. I'm used now to the name. 
 I shouted to my little lad so often 
 On the brow of the big field where there's the echo, 
 Simply to hear the name. O Almund, Almund, 
 There must not be this misery again ; 
 We women cannot bear it. Once I saw her ; 
 She could not speak, but she just pressed my hand. 
 And kissed me. I will give you back to her, 
 If you will only stay a little while. 
 Now say it over to me like a hymn. 
 How you have always loved me. Do not promise 
 That you will not forget — I have no fear ; 
 It's graven in your eyes. But those three years 
 You did not come — before too he was born ; 
 I must not think of it. . . . It hurts again 
 Here at my heart. O Almund, Almund, Almund ! 
 Something shrieks in me ; I must call the child 
 Across the fields. . . 
 
 \She shrieks aiid falls hack dead. 
 
 Almund. O God, she is a mother. 
 The small, bleak spirit shrills out in the air 
 A cry for love, and I am starving here : 
 'Tis death's strange irony ; and once she stood 
 The red lips kissing me as fast as dew 
 Is shaken from a thorn. Oh, I shall find 
 
1 66 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 All the great years of hell inadequate 
 
 To mourn this mighty error and defeat. — 
 
 To put such gift away, and youth and manhood 
 
 Stirring within me ! I refused her love, 
 
 And must cohabit now with lust for ever. 
 
 She does not heed me. She is soft, maternal. 
 
 And full of heavenly cares. I cannot touch her, 
 
 I can but stand here damned and impotent, 
 
 Most bitterly aloof, and unremorseful 
 
 Of everything save virtue. 
 
 [Enter Hubert.] 
 Take her, Hubert ; 
 
 Though whether she be yours or mine, I know not — 
 An ancient gift come back upon my hands 
 While you were at the wars. I gave her once ; 
 You begged her of me : women are not chattels 
 To deal with as one's generosity 
 May prompt or straiten. . . . 
 
 Hubert. Almund, she is dead ! 
 Cara, my little wife, — oh, she has broken 
 Her tender heart with grieving for our boy. 
 No babe to fondle,^no poor, clumsy Hubert 
 To light the piteous smile for, — so you asked 
 Grim death to take you where you might have rest, 
 You little, weary creature. AVhy, 'tis something 
 To see you lying, love, the pretty mouth 
 Freed from all struggle, and the hazel eyes 
 Fallen asleep, — they were the dearest eyes 
 In all the world, — but when they looked so dumb, 
 When nothing happened in them, and they grew 
 
Sc. IL] THE CUP OF WATER. 167 
 
 A prison for the tears, I could but pray 
 
 To fall in battle, and forget the pain ; 
 
 Yet all this while you have been happy, sweet. 
 
 And singing with the child. You promised me 
 
 You would be happy when the babe was born. 
 
 This wavy hair ! O Cara, we must smooth it ; 
 
 You must remember, love, that you are dead, 
 
 And we must have some state ; the king himself 
 
 Will lift you. Almund, I could never rid her 
 
 Of that poor, superstitious, fond belief 
 
 You loved her : it would please her now to think 
 
 You helped to bury her [looking tip\. What have you 
 
 done? 
 You have not murdered her ? I thought you came 
 To comfort her, to drink the promised cup. 
 And found her lifeless : but some guilty deed 
 Is written on your brow. 
 
 Almiind. Death came between, 
 Or you had found me an adulterer. 
 Now, Hubert, judge me. 
 
 Hubert. Hush, for there are devils 
 This sweet face must not wot of. You accuse her 
 To me, her husband, who am sure she loved you 
 Heart-brokenly as God would have a sinner 
 Yearn for His favour. Could you misinterpret ? 
 You have fierce, flaming eyes. Oh, it is cruel 
 To think they fell on her. 
 
 Almund. Yes, I have lusted ; 
 Yet, Hubert, she died quiet in my arms. 
 I have not wronged you. 
 
1 68 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 Hubert. But your face is flint, 
 As when I trusted you to plead for me, 
 And found my Cara crouching and subdued, 
 And you a moody tyrant. You've no touch 
 For such fine natures. You have told her now — ■ 
 Have you ? — that she was wicked and unfaithful, 
 For loving you. 
 
 Almimd. It is irrational 
 To try to ope one's being to the dead ; 
 And, Hubert, you have never known your friend. 
 You do not even call by their own names 
 My sins and my temptations. I must back, 
 Back to life's dreary offices. Farewell. [Gomg.] 
 
 Hubert. The straight, gaunt figures ! And how sharp 
 a look 
 He fixed on the poor outlines ! Nay, I'll buy 
 One more last grace for her. Almund, come back. 
 And seal these eyes with kisses ; they will purge you 
 Of every evil thought. You stumble. — Almund, 
 What secret are you hiding from your friend ? 
 Could you not bear her importunity ? 
 It was most innocent — such as the princess, 
 I mean the lady Millicent herself, 
 Had scarcely blamed. 
 
 Almund. What, do you lead me to her ? 
 Can she be mine now 'neath the coffin-lid, 
 And will you never touch her any more, 
 Nor look upon the face of her young son. 
 Who bears my features ? Will you make a place 
 For me to lie beside her when I'm dead, 
 And never come between ? — / avi her lover. 
 
Sc. II.] THE CUP OF WATER. 169 
 
 Hubert. O Almund, you look young — an exaltation, 
 A glory in your face ; the past unfolds 
 In all its miracle, — for, ah, how dearly 
 If you have loved her, have you loved your friend. 
 Take the brown head to rest upon your knee, 
 For mine has simply been the nurse's part. 
 The httle one bore piningly, and now 
 We've found where she belongs. 
 
 Almund [folding Cara i?i his arms]. Oh, she had 
 drink 
 For a man's deepest thirst. 
 
 Hubert. Poor, broken trifle — 
 All that is left to offer to my friend 
 Amid this cursed, senseless sacrifice. 
 How dared you keep your love from her ? 
 
 Almu7id. The princess, 
 My troth-plight ; there were others. 
 
 Hubert. I forgot. 
 My Almund, you are born that none can live 
 Without your love ; there is no little weed 
 But will proclaim its birthright to the sun ; 
 You hid from this sweet vetchling, and the leaves 
 Lost all their sturdy twine. — Ay, there were others. 
 This blessed heart, she could not understand 
 That love can have no empery on earth, 
 There are so many others. 'Tis but little 
 That we can do for them, and yet to ease 
 Their pain there hath been all this tragedy. 
 I know not if 'tis well. 
 Almund. She has the kisses 
 
I70 THE CUP OF WATER. [Act III. 
 
 Of three long years ago ; my Hubert knows 
 
 How dearly Almund rates him ; Millicent 
 
 Will in deep-bosomed friendship be my own ; 
 
 And things are settled on this blithe, green earth 
 
 Almost as it were heaven, where happy souls 
 
 Ne'er vex themselves with marriage. The young kingcups 
 
 Are sprouting lustily, and golden nature 
 
 Is full of her fresh joys. Oh, we must learn 
 
 To drink life's pleasures if we would be pure, 
 
 Deep, holy draughts, and the girl-cupbearer 
 
 Must not be set aside. 
 
Crown Svo, parchment cover, 6s. 
 Second Edition. 
 
 CALLIRRHOE: 
 
 FAIR ROSAMUND, 
 
 By MICHAEL FIELD. 
 
 Eontion : 
 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS, 
 
 York Street, Covent Garden. 
 
 mifton : 
 BAKER & SON. 
 
 -^ic 0PI]^I0N3 ^ OF ^ ¥PE ^ PI^Egg -^^ 
 
 ON THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 From the ''SATURDAY REVIEW:' 
 " It is many years since we have read a new poem so instinct with the 
 immutable attributes of poetry, so free from current cant and trick, and 
 animated by an inspiration so warm and native and unfailing. The 
 drama, though classic in subject, is modern in form, and almost de- 
 nuded of lyrical ornament. There is no chorus, and there are no 
 experiments in Greek metres. Still more characteristic is the inter- 
 polation of certain humorous scenes conceived in the wanton spirit of 
 the Elizabethan drama ; and, underlying all, runs an eccentric vein of 
 fateful irony, which affords the most individual expression of the 
 author's genius. , . . This bald outline of the action of course only 
 indicates the leading motif o{\\\q. drama, the virtue and power of love's 
 sacrifice ; it must be left to the reader to enjoy the skill with which 
 the dramatic conduct is evolved, the beauty of the conception of the 
 drama, the strength and purity of the language, and the brilliant dis- 
 tinction and consistent development of the chief characters. In ' Fair 
 Rosamund ' are several scenes worthy of comparison with the most 
 striking in * Callirrhoe,' though the drama is less comprehensive in 
 projection ; not less certainly than the latter does it prove Mr. Field to 
 be a poet of notable endowments and distinguished powers." 
 
 From the ''SPECTATOR.'' 
 " These poems are poems of great promise ; ... we have found 
 a wealth of surprises in the strength, the simplicity, and the terseness 
 of the imaginative feeling they display, that convinces us of his power 
 to do much more than he has here done, — though even that is no trivial 
 beginning. . . . If that has not the true poetic fire in it, — dramatic 
 
fire, too, as well as poetic — the present writer must be destitute of all 
 discernment. To him it sounds like the ring of a new voice, which is 
 likely to be heard far and wide among the English-speaking peoples." 
 
 From the '' ATHENE UM.'' 
 "The writer vmdoubtedly possesses the two qualities absolutely es- 
 sential to all dramatic writing — those of being able to create and to 
 make the creations express themselves with the terse and vivid expres- 
 sion which, by a happy epithet, at times lays bare an entire condition 
 of mind. . . . Very striking, despite a false note or two, and 
 showing something almost of a Shakespearean penetration into a half- 
 human nature, is the scene between Machaon and the Faun." 
 
 From the ''ACADEMY.'' 
 " Mr. Field is very clear as to his message. He sings the glories 
 of enthusiasm, and preaches the gospel of ecstasy to an old chiller- 
 minded world. It is not often, in modern English verse, that we 
 light upon a book so genuinely romantic. The scorn of bourgeois 
 common-place, the ««z/ young hatred of 'the lame creature, custom,' 
 the urgent battle waged against routine in these plays, with their fresh 
 poetic ring, belong to another age than ours. ... It will be seen 
 that here is a young writer, with plenty of convictions and plenty of 
 courage. In addition, we may credit him with a fresh gift of song, a 
 picturesque and vivid style, as yet without distinction or reserve." 
 
 From the " TIMES :' 
 "Will Mr. Field become a poet in the sense in which the title is 
 rarely granted ? Perhaps — ' II ne faiU phis qiCtin pas ; mais cest ouje 
 V attends:'' 
 
 From the * ' BAIL V NE WS:' 
 " The author is to be congratulated on the promise, and even to a 
 great extent, on the performance, of ' Callirrhoe.' One cannot read 
 the book without saying, ' This is poetry in places, and everywhere is 
 far above the level of the verse maker.' ... It will be very 
 interesting to watch the future literary fortunes of ' Michael Field.' " 
 
 From the ''PALL MALL GAZETTE:' 
 "Mr. Field's first and longest play ... is by no means the 
 best, though it has merits. The second, * Fair Rosamund,' has real 
 power. The scenes in which Eleanor encourages the dissension and 
 disobedience of her sons are more like the work of the minor Eliza- 
 bethans than the similar work of any recent writer, except the late Mr. 
 Home. ... A man who can write as follows ought to do some- 
 thing : 
 
 Now I can see their scrimped kirtles green, 
 And swinging beads of dew about their necks. 
 They've not the pretty caps of midsummer, 
 Poor midges— only cowslip bells, o'er-young, 
 2 
 
That fall at every jerk ; and dirty cups 
 From acorns of last year. 
 I'll make my tiny peaked bonnets red,< 
 And see if they will pick 'em from the twigs. 
 
 We do not think Drayton would have refused to sign this. Indeed, 
 the whole piece is very interesting, especially if compared with Mr. 
 Swinburne's too little known juvenile work on the same theme. Mr. 
 Field has a less original and masterly command of verse than Mr. 
 Swinburne then showed, and much less splendour and variety ot 
 diction;^ but his work is, perhaps, more directly human, and therefore 
 more dramatic in interest, and his touches of nature are more spon- 
 taneous, and less weakened by dwelling on them." 
 
 From the ''SCOTSMAN:' 
 
 " A WORK not only of remarkable promise, but of notable performance 
 as well. . . . In ' Fair Rosamund ' Mr, Field has chosen a theme 
 that has become hackneyed in dramatic poetry. Yet the airy freshness 
 and bloom, which are the great charms of his classic play, are as 
 noticeable here ; and it also exhibits not less his strength in character 
 drawing and his facile management of blank verse metre. In both 
 poems there is that ethereal quality that distinguishes what is poetry 
 from what is not ; and they will raise keen expectation regarding what 
 else their author may have to offer to the world. " 
 
 From the " YORKSHIRE POST:' 
 
 *' ' Callirrhoe and Fair Rosamund ' . . . are powerful, unique, 
 and such as an author may be heartily congratulated upon, but they 
 give us the impression of buds rather than full blooms. The man 
 who wrote these two poems will yet write more fully and adequately 
 for the complete rounding of a theme — at least we hope so ; or his 
 own work's good promise will be broken. With more freedom, more 
 fulness, with better form, . . . the author, we are sure, could 
 adequately portray tragedy either for the stage or the study." 
 
 From the ''LIVERPOOL MERCURY:' 
 
 *' Birth-marks of the tragedist — so conspicuously absent from even 
 such masterly works as the Laureate's ' Harold ' and ' Queen Mary,' 
 are unmistakably visible in these two short and in many ways imperfect 
 poems. ... A great attitude of passion is scaled in this scene. 
 . . . The Queen is conceived in somewhat Marlowesque fashion. 
 She is not of humanity, but of the Eumenides. ... A really 
 imaginative creator . . . will often make his dialogue proceed by 
 abrupt starts, which seem at first like breaches of continuity, but are in 
 reality true to a higher though more occult logic of evolution. This 
 last characteristic we have remarked in Mr. Field, and it is one he 
 shares with Shakespeare." 
 
From ' ' HARPER'S NE W MONTHL V MA GAZINE. " 
 "Mr. Field has a voice of his own, whatever his sins of Hterary 
 omission or commission, . . . a style which certainly possesses the 
 rare merit of striking one as original and poetic." 
 
 Fro VI the ''CENTURY'' MAGAZINE. 
 " * Callirrhoe ' is classical merely in subject and time, and is treated 
 in a modern way, the characters being living men and women, with a 
 language compact of beauty and imagination. ' Fair Rosamund ' is 
 brief, strong — the culminating act of a tragic scheme that has beguiled 
 great artists to its handling. . . . Michael Field is ambitious, and 
 has warrant for it." 
 
 Crown Svo, pa7'chment cover ^ 'js. dd. 
 
 THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY, 
 WILLIAM RUFUS, 
 
 LOYALTY OR LOVE? 
 
 By MICHAEL FIELD. 
 
 -Nc 0PIJVI0N5 ^ 6E ^ JFPE ^ PREgg. :!£<- 
 "THE FATHER'S TRAGEDY." 
 
 Fro7Pi the ' ' A THENJE UM. " 
 " This is a powerful and essentially virile composition, all the cha- 
 racters, especially the weak-minded, much-suffering king, being deli- 
 neated with care and discrimination, while the dramatic expression not 
 unfrequently rises to almost the strength of Elizabethan men." 
 
 From the " CONTEMPORARY REVIEW." 
 "Every scene is vivid and dramatically necessaiy. The verse is 
 . . . unforced and eloquent." 
 
 From the ' ' SA TURD A Y RE VIE W. " 
 " ' The Father's Tragedy ' contains several scenes of uncommon 
 power, many passages of exalted and sustained imaginative fire, where 
 pathos and passion burn and thrill to the irresistible awakening of 
 responsive emotions. ..." 
 
 4 
 
"WILLIAM RUFUS." 
 
 From the ''BRITISH QUARTERLY:' 
 "Though not a i^v^ liberties have been taken with history, it is 
 faithful to the leading types, full of movement, and is, above all, con- 
 sistent with itself. Some of the speeches of William Rufus, Flambard, 
 and Anselm are instinct with vigour, and here and there we have a 
 line or two that dwells persistently in the memory." 
 
 From the '' ATHEN.^UMy 
 " 'William Rufus ' is in one way a remarkable experiment, being 
 a work without any feminine interest at all. It is a gloomy and power- 
 ful production, ... in point of style even more vigorous than 
 ' The Father's Tragedy.' " 
 
 "LOYALTY OR LOVE?" 
 
 From the ''ACADEMY:' 
 *• The scene where the young prince renounces claim to the crown of 
 Sicily, and the last scene of all, have dramatic quality of a high rank. 
 In the latter the same note recurs which gave such charm to the 
 episode of the Faun in ' Callirrhoe,' a sort of speaking straight out as 
 it were, which, in its delicate and pathetic cadence, goes far to redeem 
 the faults of the play." 
 
 From the "BRITISH QUARTERLY:' 
 " Some of the situations are very affecting and effectively used." 
 
 Crown Svo, paper cover, \s. 
 
 BRUTUS ULTOR. 
 
 By MICHAEL FIELD. 
 
 (Author of " Callirrhoe and Fair Rosamund," "The Father's Tragedy,'" etc.) 
 
 -He 0PI]SII0]SIg -f 0E ^ JiipE \ Pr^E^g. :[^^ 
 
 From, the ' ' A CADE MY. " 
 "The present poem contains some passages which in their pregnant 
 and incisive brevity immediately suggest the work of our old dramatists, 
 and would not disgrace the greatest of them. ... It may be 
 
pronounced an adequate treatment of a high subject, a drama not 
 unworthy of the very considerable reputation which its author has 
 already achieved." 
 
 From the " CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS 
 
 ** * Brutus Ultor ' is a true Roman play. Plutarch might speak a 
 prologue to it. The author's qualities are already well known. Here 
 they are shown perhaps to greater advantage than ever before. There 
 is something very fascinating in the speed and vigour of this play." 
 
 From the ''SPECTATORS 
 
 *' The sympathy of Brutus with the multitude and its wrongs, its 
 wantonness, its imbecility, at the very moment when he is called to 
 rule it and impose upon it the sacred yoke of law, is expressed with 
 true genius. . . . On the whole, we should say that this play 
 stands next to * Fair Rosamund ' among Michael Field's achievements, 
 but that it does not reach that high-water mark." 
 
 From the Nexv York ''NATIONS 
 
 " ... In 'Brutus Ultor ' there is the same quality of excess. 
 It is joined, however, with a dramatic strength unsurpassed in this age. 
 . . . For real power, this short drama is unsurpassed by any of its 
 author's previous writings." 
 
 From the " A THEN^EUMS 
 
 "The author of 'Brutus Ultor ' has, without doubt, many qualities 
 which are essential to dramatic composition. She has power, concen- 
 tration, and that now unusual quality of weirdness. . . ." 
 
 From the "LITERARY WORLDS 
 
 "In 'Brutus Ultor' . . . Michael Field unfolds the familiar 
 historical tragedies in verse that seems to quiver with aching life. . . . 
 The entire conception of this tragical drama is dignified and impressive 
 in the extreme." 
 
 From the " DAIL Y NEWS." 
 
 " It is emphatically true that this author can 7vr2te, nor are such 
 pure characters as Lucretia's beyond the range of her genius." 
 
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