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 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 If the history of EngHsh poetry teaches us any thing, it teaches us 
 that the succession of poets who have illustrated it since Chaucer is 
 divided into two classes, one of which may be said to represent the 
 characteristics of the periods wherein it flourished, while the other 
 may be said to represent the characteristics of the line which it per- 
 petuates. Belonging to the first class were the successors of Shake- 
 speare, who was an evolution of the dramatic element of the sixteenth 
 and seventeenth centuries ; the successors of Dryden, particularly 
 Pope, who was an evolution of the satiric element of the seventeenth 
 and eighteenth centuries ; and the successors of Thomson, particu- 
 larly Cowper and Wordsworth, who were an evolution of the nature- 
 element of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There are, of 
 course, other elements than those I have indicated, in the verse of 
 these poets and their followers, for no poet worthy of the name was 
 ever content to play upon one string ; but it was rather as evolutions 
 of these elements that they rose to distinction, and are remembered 
 now, than as intense individualities such as from time to time appear 
 in religion, in philosophy, in politics, and in art, and found dynasties. 
 The first of these powerful personalities in English poetry was Chris- 
 topher Marlowe. Born two months before Shakespeare, the son of a 
 shoemaker at Canterbury, nothing is known of his childhood or youth 
 ©*ccept that he was admitted to the King's School in his native city. 
 
 ■U4.8u;^ 
 
 xw 
 
W INTRODUCTION. 
 
 where he remained three or four years ; and that he was removed to 
 Cambridge, where he became a member of Benet College, and was 
 matriculated as pensioner shortly after the completion of his seven- 
 teenth year. 1 wo years later he took the degree of A.B., and, four 
 years later, that of A.M. He is believed to have owed his mainte- 
 nance at college to some wealthy relative, or some patron whose favor 
 he won by early indications of genius ; and it is plain, Dyce thinks, 
 that he was educated with a view to one of the learned professions : 
 most probably he was intended for the Church. But churchman he 
 was not to be ; for, like Greene and Nash, who had preceded him, 
 lie made his v/ay up to London, and became a player and a drama- 
 tist. Prer/iCiy wher, this occurred has not been ascertained : all that 
 is certain is, that his first play, the first part of '* Tamburlaine the 
 Great," was performed at the Curtain before his twenty-third year. 
 
 The earliest flowering of the English drama, the germs of which 
 must be sought in the rude interludes of Skelton and Heywood, was 
 the "Gorboduc" of Sackville and Newton, which was played before 
 Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, about two years anterior to the birth 
 of Marlowe. The production of " Gorboduc " was an important 
 event, partly because it was the first work written in English for 
 scenic representation that deserved the name of a tragedy, but more 
 because it was the first in which the rhyming quatrains, or couplets, 
 of earlier playwrights were supplanted by the new measure, blank 
 verse, which Lord Surrey had discovered more than twenty years 
 before. Professing to deal with history, — for Gorboduc figures in 
 the old chronicles as a king of Britain, — it was followed by a series 
 of more or less historical plays, among which may be mentioned 
 "Appius and Virginia," "Damon and Pythias," "Cambyses," "Marius 
 and Sylla," "The Battle of Alcazar," " Edward L," "Alphonsus, King 
 of Arragon," and lastly "Tamburlaine the Great." If Marlowe went 
 up to London, as he is supi)osed to have done, with the expectation 
 of finding a larger field for the exercise of his talents there than at 
 Cambridge, he went at tlie right time ; for never before nor since was 
 the demand for such talents as he possessed so clamorous or so 
 constant. It had been stimulated, if not created, by three or four 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 men like himself, one being Thomas Nash, who had been his contem- 
 porary at Cambridge; another, Robert Greene, also a Cambridge 
 man ; and a third, George Peele, who had taken the degree of M.A. 
 at Oxford. They were authors, in that they wrote for their livelihood, 
 and hack-writers, in that they wrote what the stationers wanted. Of 
 the three, Greene was the most popular; for he had a knack of 
 scribbling stories that hit the taste of the time, and he could manu- 
 facture a play at a pinch when he had an order for one. They were 
 loose and careless livers, rioting at taverns and ordinaries when a 
 successful play or pamphlet put money in their pu'rses, and skulking 
 in out-of-the-way lodgings when their money w^s gone. The period 
 was prohfic in poets, of whom the most noted w.re Thomas Sackville, 
 Lord Buckhurst, who, besides " GOrboduc," had written the Induc- 
 tion to "The Mirror for Magistrates;" Edmund Spenser, who had 
 written the " Shepherd's Calendar ; " William Warner, who had writ- 
 ten "Albion's England;" John Lyly, who had written " Euphues," 
 and several court comedies ; George Gascoigne, who had written 
 " The Steel Glass," and other poesies ; and George Whetstone, who 
 had written " Promos and Cassandra," which was one day to be of 
 use to Shakespeare in writing "Measure for Measure." It was to 
 make his way among poets like these, whose works were no doubt 
 known to him, that Marlowe went up to London ; and he made his 
 way at once with " Tamburlaine," greatly to the dissatisfaction of 
 Nash, — who, in his preHminary epistle to Greene's " Menaphon," 
 satirized him and his measure, which he described as the swelling 
 bombast of bragging blank verse, — as well as to the dissatisfaction 
 of Greene himself, whose popularity as a dramatist was suddenly 
 eclipsed. One must be somewhat familiar with Elizabethan poetry 
 before he can fully understand the significance of the dramatic revo- 
 lution that followed the production of " Tamburlaine." He should 
 at least read " Gorboduc," and two or three of the plays of Peele and 
 Greene, — say, Peele's " Arraignment of Paris," and Greene's " Or- 
 lando Furioso," — before he reads "Tamburlaine," which will amply 
 repay him for that dreary preparation, and clearly demonstrate the 
 superior genius of Marlowe. Conscious of his powers, and confident 
 
V 1 INTRO D UC TION. 
 
 of himself, he had a greater aptitude for dramatic writing than any of 
 his contemporaries. His impetuous spirit refused to be fettered by 
 rhyme, which he felt was inadequate for dramatic purposes ; and, if 
 Surrey had not discovered blank verse, we may be sure that he would 
 have discovered it, for his use of it, all things considered, was the 
 greatest discovery of all. He was the first to divine its capacities, 
 and to develop them heroically. He knew what he was about when 
 he sat down to write "Tamburlaine." 
 
 " From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits, 
 And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, 
 We'll lead you to the stately tent of war, 
 Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine 
 Threatening the world with high astounding terms, 
 And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword. 
 View but his picture in this tragic glass, 
 And then applaud his fortunes as you please." 
 
 The first part of " Tamburlaine," which was represented, we are 
 assured, before Marlowe had attained his twenty-third year, was 
 speedily succeeded by the second part. 
 
 " The general welcomes Tamburlaine receiv'd, 
 When he arrived last upon the stage. 
 Have made our poet pen his Second Part, 
 Where Death cuts off the progress of his pomp. 
 And murderous Fates throw all his triumphs down." 
 
 "Tamburlaine" was succeeded by "The Tragical History of Dr. 
 Faustus," "The Jew of Malta," "Edward the Second," and "The 
 Massacre of Paris." It may interest the reader of this sketch to 
 know that the celebrated actor Edward Allyn, the founder of Duhvich 
 College, played the part of Tamburlaine in a copper-laced coat and 
 red velvet breeches, and the part of Barabas the Jew with a false 
 nose. It would seem, indeed, as Dyce has pointed out. that, on the 
 early English stage, the children of Israel were always furnislied with 
 an extra quantity of nose, as if a race so universally hated could 
 hardly be made to appear too ugly. Tlie career of Marlowe was 
 
introduction: vii 
 
 more illustrious, it seems to me, than that of any other English poet ; 
 for no other English poet, so far as I remember, ever surpassed all his 
 contemporaries at so early an age as he, or ever achieved so much 
 distinction by his first work. Other poets, the most eminent, served 
 1 their apprenticeship in the divine art; from the beginning, Marlowe 
 was a master. That his success was resented, as we are told it was, 
 by Greene and Nash, was natural ; for, not to insist upon the jeal- 
 ousy and envy with which the poetic temperament has always been 
 credited, and of which they had, no doubt, their full share, it touched 
 them in that vital part, — the pocket. They had the market to them- 
 selves before this young interloper from Cambridge set up a stall of 
 his own, and had his wares preferred to theirs. It was monstrous, 
 sirs, monstrous. 
 
 The personal history of Marlowe was probably not worse than the 
 personal history of most of his dramatic contemporaries, — certainly 
 not worse than that of Greene, — but at best it was bad enough. 
 He was dissolute, debauched, profligate, addicted to his cups; a 
 swaggering roisterer, always ready for brawls. But others vvere as 
 ready as he ; and among them was one Francis Archer, with whom 
 he was feasting one summer-day at Deptford, and upon whom, while 
 they were playing at backgammon, he suddenly drew his dagger, 
 intending to stab him in the back. The intention was perceived by 
 Archer, who avoided the blow, and, drawing his own dagger, struck 
 him in the eye, bringing away the brains as he withdrew the weapon. 
 In a few hours he was dead. Such was Christopher Marlowe, who 
 perished in his thirtieth year, the greatest poet of his age, with the 
 exception of William Shakespeare, whose greatness had still to mani- 
 fest itself. The death of Marlowe was seized upon with avidity by 
 the Puritans, and he was held up as an awful example of the judg- 
 ment of God. He was a free-thinker, an atheist, a blasphemer ; 
 there was no known crime that was not imputed to him. As no one 
 man could have been guilty of all the wickedness he was charged 
 with, and as one of his accusers was afterwards hanged at Tyburn, let 
 us charitably render the Scotch verdict — " Not proven." The Devil 
 himself is not as black as he is painted by the theologians. 
 
VI 11 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The great gift of poetry — the greatest which Heaven has con- 
 ferred upon mankind, and the one which, if well balanced and wisely 
 exercised, confers the greatest pleasure on mankind — is a dangerous 
 gift to its possessor. It separates him from his fellows, whose pursuits 
 are of material and not spiritual things ; and it creates for him a life 
 in which they have no share. A law unto itself, it is lawlessness to 
 them. If we cast our eyes back from the poets of the nineteenth 
 century to the poets of the sixteenth century, — from Swinburne to 
 Marlowe, say, — they will not rest upon many who command respect 
 for what they were, as well as what they wrote ; who were men first, 
 and poets afterward. We find, in this small group of immortals, 
 the gracious figure of Shakespeare, the stern figure of Milton, the 
 thoughtful figure of Wordsworth : we do not find Burns there, nor 
 Byron, nor Shelley. Many of the errors with which the personal 
 history of the English poets is stained were, no doubt, temperamental ; 
 others appear to have been hereditary : but the greater number, I 
 fear, were sheer wilfulness. The consciousness of great powers is a 
 misfortune to all but the greatest minds, for these alone distinguish 
 between their use and abuse. 
 
 " Oh ! it is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength, but it is tyrannous 
 To use it like a giant." 
 
 Power for power's sake is not poetry. Byron never learned this 
 truth; but the young Keats — the manikin whom he wished some- 
 body would flay alive — knew it instinctively. Hear him : — 
 
 " A drainless shower 
 Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power; 
 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm; 
 The very archings of her eyelids charm 
 A thousand willing agents to obey; 
 And still she governs with the mildest sway: 
 But strength alone, though of the Muses born, 
 Is like a fallen angel ; trees uptorn, 
 Darkness and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres, 
 Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 
 
 Of poesy, — that it should be a friend 
 
 To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts, of man." 
 
 As we define poetry, which is not to be defined, so we divide the 
 poets into schools, which, strictly speaking, are not schools. The 
 poetry of different periods is marked by certain characteristics, which 
 are strong in some poets and weak in others, and which suggest other 
 characteristics that have not yet manifested themselves. What most 
 impresses me in the poetry of Marlowe, — a feeling of prodigality, a 
 sense of daring, the splendor of a fiery spirit, — I find in no poet 
 since, save in Algernon Charles Swinburne. I find great qualities in 
 the old dramatists, — in Kyd, in Chapman, in Tourneur, in Ford, in 
 Webster, — strange passions, strong situations, the terror and the 
 pathos of tragedy ; but, with the exception of the scenes of Webster, 
 they are not the body of their work, but rather the light that is flashed 
 upon it, and the darkness in which that light is suddenly swallowed 
 up. When we have left the great race of the old dramatists, — of 
 whom Shirley, Lamb says, was the last, — we have left the glory and 
 the greatness of English verse. We are among clever men, — satirists 
 and wits, like Dryden and Pope and their followers, writers of natural 
 description like Thomson, writers of pastorals and elegies, like Shen- 
 stone and Lyttleton; but we are not among poets, — not among the 
 makers. There is that in Collins and Gray which commands our 
 admiration ; in Cowper, which commands our respect ; in Burns, 
 which commands our love, — which ripples in smiles, and melts in 
 the mist of tears. But the fervor, the force, the elemental energy of 
 the old masters, is not theirs. They are fettered by poetic traditions. 
 These traditions were loosened by Wordsworth and Coleridge, who 
 quickened the materiality of their predecessors by the injection of 
 their own personality, which they mistook for philosophy ; and by 
 Scott, who discovered the metrical romance in balladry, or recovered 
 it from this balladry, wherein, like the famous old German emperor, 
 it had long slumbered, hearkening in dreams for the striking of the 
 hour that was to awaken it. The fetters were loosened, but not 
 broken, until Byron and Shelley rose in their young might, and indig 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 nantly rent them asunder, restoring to song its ancient kingdom, and 
 to man his freedom of mind. One has not to read far in Byron and 
 Shelley, before he feels that a new force is at work in English verse, 
 and the determination of this feeling in himself is the determination 
 of his intellectual condition. If he believes in the old order of things, 
 it is a destructive force, and he condemns it : if he believes in a new 
 order of things, it is a reconstructive force, and he applauds it. But 
 whatever he believes, he recognizes the force. It is directed, in the 
 poetry of Byron, against society and politics ; in the poetry of Shelley, 
 against society, politics, and religion. One struck at the State, the 
 other at the State and the Church. Of course their poetry was in- 
 formed with other elements than those that are implied in this brief 
 statement, for they were poets as well as revolutionists, — creators as 
 i.vell as destroyers ; but in the main it was what I have indicated, — 
 a fearless, resolute warfare with whatever men worshipped and feared. 
 It is not ended yet, but it wdll be one day. 
 
 " For freedom's battle, once begun, 
 Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft, is ever won." 
 
 There have been no sudden makings of splendid names in Eng- 
 and since the creator of " Childe Harold " woke up one morning, 
 ind found himself famous ; but there have since been mornings there 
 A'hen other creators have woke up, and found themselves not undis- 
 tinguished. It was not so difficult to startle the readers of I^iglish 
 verse in the second decade of the century as in the seventh ; for, 
 whatever we may think of the poets of the former, it is certain tliey 
 had not taken so strong a hold on their contemporaries as the poets 
 of the latter, who had attained an excellence not before dreamed of, 
 and who appeared to occupy every kingdom and province of song. 
 The glory of Scott was the last red tints of a setting sun, and the 
 glory of VVordswortii the first mild radiance of a rising moon, when 
 Byron came like a comet, and paled their ineffectual fires. It was 
 neither moonrise nor sunset when Swinburne came, but the full splen- 
 dor of noontide, — the noontide of which the genius of Tennyson was 
 
INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 the golden light, and the genius of Browning the concourse of circum- 
 ambient clouds. Between the fleeting shadow of these clouds and 
 the girdling spaces of sunshine he stepped forth, — a slight figure in 
 the garments of the Greek priesthood, — youthful but for the grave, 
 far-off look in his eyes, and passionate but for the cold severity of his 
 mien. Young priest of an old religion, he rekindled the fire upon 
 its antique altar, and restored the worship of its imperious gods. 
 Such was the coming of Swinburne with "Atalanta in Calydon." Re- 
 garded reverently at all times by the few poets who were scholars, the 
 study of Greek poetry was productive of but little in England after 
 Chapman finished his translation of Homer. Other translations of 
 lesser Greek poets followed, and other translations of Homer, the 
 chiefest being the heroic version of Pope, — which the great critic 
 Bendey admitted to be a pretty poem, though it was not Homer, — 
 and the blank- verse rendering of Covvper, which was more faithful and 
 less readable. The genius of Greek poetry was alien to the English 
 mind until it revealed itself to the young imagination of Keats, who 
 wore it in his heart of hearts, not because he was a scholar, — for a 
 scholar he was not, — but because he was a Greek. There are a thou- 
 sand faults in " Endymion," but the unpardonable fault of falsehood 
 is not one of them. It is true, everywhere true to the spirit of Greek 
 pastoral poetry, of which it was the first, and is the last, example in 
 English song. How thoroughly the genius of Keats was possessed 
 with the beautiful mythology of Greece, and how rapidly it matured 
 his wonderful genius, which in writing " Endymion " outgrew the lush 
 luxuriance of manner which is the worst defect of that poem, we see 
 in his Odes "To Psyche," and "On a Grecian Urn," — exquisite pro- 
 ductions in the purest style of art, — and in the fragment of " Hype- 
 rion," wherein magnificence of conception and severity of expression 
 are alike conspicuous, and where, for the first time, the epical height 
 of the Greeks is attained by an English poet. The secret of " Hype- 
 rion " and " Endymion " inhered in the temperament of Keats, who 
 was a Greek, as one of his friends declared. The secret of " Ata- 
 lanta in Calydon " was an outcome of the scholarship of Swinburne ; 
 for only a scholar, and a ripe one, — a Grecian as distinguished from 
 
XI 1 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a Greek, — could have written that noble tragedy. It demanded more 
 than the affluent sympathy of Keats : it demanded a fulness of knowl- 
 edge which was denied him, — knowledge of the intention which was 
 the inspiration of Greek tragedy, of the laws by which it was gov- 
 erned, and of the end to which it was directed, and which was to 
 awaken by the simplest means emotions of pity and terror. If the 
 inspiration of " Atalanta in Calydon " could have been drawn from 
 any source other than the scholarship of Swinburne, I do not know 
 where to look for it among the writings of his contemporaries or 
 predecessors. He must have admired the Hellenics of Landor, who, 
 like himself, was a Greek, though of a different type ; but a pro- 
 founder feeling than admiration for those noble productions, the spirit 
 of which is idyllic rather than dramatic, was exercised in the shaping 
 of his tragedy. He was charmed, no doubt, with Tennyson's " Ulys- 
 ses," the repose of which is suggestive of the descriptive passages in 
 Greek tragedy, and also, no doubt, with Browning's " Artemis Prolo- 
 guizes," the art of which is of a sterner cast ; but neither could have 
 discovered his genius for him, or directed him in the path he had 
 chosen. He could not have been helped by Arnold's " Empedocles 
 on y^tna," still less by his tragedy of " Merope." 
 
 What Marlowe's " Timburlaine the Great " was in our dramatic 
 literature, of which it was the first ripe flower, the first triumphant 
 voice, — such was Swinburne's "Atalanta in Calydon." There was 
 nothing like it in English verse before it appeared, and there has 
 been nothing like it since. It was the first and last awakening of the 
 tragic Muse of Greece, — a stern, magnificent, awful spirit, speaking 
 the large language of the gods, and moving to her end like Fate. 
 Tiie (jualities by which the blank verse of Marlowe is distinguished — 
 the strength which impelled his contemporaries to call it a " mighty 
 line," its daring use, not to say abuse, of language, and its wild, 
 stormy music — are conspicuous in '* Atalanta in Calydon." The ori- 
 ginality of Swinburne's blank verse is as absolute as the originality of 
 Marlowe's blank verse. It is an instrument upon which he was the 
 first to play, and whose volume of sound no hand save his could 
 evoke and control. One needs to be a poet in order to comprehend 
 
j/v/Kuuc/cnoA^.% xin 
 
 the difficulties it overcomes, and the triumphs it achieves, — the art, 
 in short, of which it is so magnificent an example. But one need 
 not be a poet in order to feel its solemnity, its grandeur, its greatness, 
 and the weight of the stern, dark thought with which it is charged. 
 And one need not be a poet to feel that he never before encountered 
 such an opulence of diction, such a wealth of words, such a largess 
 of language, as Swinburne showers upon his song. And it is not 
 merely language, of which there is a sufficiency in the poetry of the 
 period, which is rather employed in the coining of phrases than of 
 thoughts : it is the best, the strongest, the most poetic, with which the 
 vocabulary of any modern j)oet was ever enriched. It is a royal 
 treasure-house, the resources of which are incalculable and inex- 
 haustible. Another quality to be noted in Swinburne, and one which 
 allies him to the masters, is his sense of rhythm, — the music which 
 is the inspiration and creation of metrical thought, and in which it 
 lives, moves, and has its being. We find it in thq great works of 
 Shakespeare, and in his songs : in the early poems of Milton, — the 
 songs in "Comus," and passages in " Paradise Lost ; " and occasionally 
 in Beaumont and Fletcher. We do not find it in Dryden and Pope, 
 or, to come to our own time, in Scott or Byron. They knew nothing 
 of the unheard melodies of which Keats tells us, but played, with their 
 pipes or their trumpets, the old tunes which had been handed down 
 to them, and from which such life as they may once have had had 
 long since departed. It was otherwise with Swinburne, whose sense 
 of music was profound, and who had, besides, an ear of his own which 
 taught him, that, much as the masters had accomplished, they had not 
 discovered all the secrets of English verse, particularly the great 
 secret which underlies all great poetry, — the compulsion of discords 
 into harmonies. The combinations of sound which run so strangely 
 through Swinburne's poetry, and which cannot but end, one would 
 think, in the harshest discords, become, in his hands, rivers of sono- 
 rous music, which rush and roar along their several ways until they reach 
 the sea, and are swallowed up in its long, tumultuous, endless harmony. 
 When the history of English verse in the nineteenth century comes 
 to be written, Swinburne will certainly figure in one chapter, and as 
 
XIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 prominently as any of his contemporaries or predecessors. This 
 chapter will be devoted to the poetic drama, which will be consid- 
 ered — which cannot fail to be considered — a sorry survival of the 
 poetic drama of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It will 
 contain the great names of Byron, and Coleridge, and Shelley, and 
 Browning, and Tennyson, and the lesser names of Maturin, and 
 Milman, and Knowles, and Talfourd, and Bulwer ; but it will contain 
 no great works, unless the historian of the future shall persuade him- 
 self that " Pippa Passes," and " Colombe's Birthday," and " A Blot 
 on the 'Scutcheon " are such. There were great possibilities in 
 Beddoes, who conceived dramatic situations as strong as those of 
 iVebster ; but unfortunately they mastered him before he could mastei 
 (hem, and so remained suggestions, — fragments, — 
 
 " Like the red outline of beginning Adam." 
 
 There are two intellectual movements in this century, which are 
 ietrimental to, if they are not destructive of, the poetic drama. The 
 first, the creative movement, which two centuries ago was exercised 
 in the poetic drama, is now exercised in the prose novel , the second, 
 the poetic movement, which was then exercised in a general lyrical 
 exaltation, is now exercised in the narrow province of personality. 
 Men who, in the days of Shakespeare, would have written plays, in 
 our day have written novels ; and other men, who, in those days, 
 would at least have tried to write plays, are content in ours to write 
 productions which they hope will pass muster as plays on account of 
 the pretty personal j^oetry with which they are so lavishly bestrewn ! 
 Two gifts are indispensable to the dramatic poet : one is the power ot 
 forgetting himself, the other the power of remembering his characters. 
 But these gifts have not been bestowed upon the poets of our time, 
 who are always remembering themselves, and always forgetting their 
 characters, and consequently are not dramatic poets. Swinburne 
 occupies a prominent place among the crowd of contributors to the 
 poetic drama of the nineteenth century, and occupies it justly, as it 
 seems to me. There is nothing in the whole range of the F^nglisb. 
 drama with which his trilogy of plays of which Mary, Queen of Scots, 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 is the heroine, can be compared ; and whether one Hkes it or not, it is 
 certainly a remarkable work. It is remarkable for the skill with which 
 he has delineated the character and passions of that strange woman, 
 — siren of hearts, who clung to the hearts she broke, loving the love 
 if not the lover ; angel of light and darkness, and beautiful in both, 
 ■ — and it is remarkable for its length, which exceeds that of any dra- 
 matic work in the language, as the length of "The Ring and the 
 Book " exceeds that of any narrative poem. It is an epical tragedy. 
 Every thing that Swinburne has written is stamped with his indi- 
 viduality, — a confident and wilful originality, which is at once the , 
 source of his strength and his weakness. He held it in check when 
 he wrote "Atalanta in Calydon ;" but when he wrote his "Poems and 
 Ballads," it ran away with him, and he has never succeeded in mas- 
 tering it since. He was poet enough and critic enough to know that 
 " Poems and Ballads " would provoke censure. The world may be mis- 
 taken in many things, but it is not likely to be mistaken in so simple 
 a thing as its own sense of morality. It knows — we all know — that 
 we are not living in a state of nature. We have outlived its liberty, 
 its wild will, its strong instincts, — the license of its thoughts and 
 manners. We outlived all those before the first poet sang, and we 
 will not let the last poet recall them. There is no poetry in them, 
 there is not art in them : they are bad poetry, they are bad art, and, 
 worse than all, they are hideously immoral. Some such feeling as 
 \his startled the countrymen of Swinburne in " Poems and Ballads." 
 Purblind to many things, there is no limit to their vision when theii 
 eyes are once open. They saw nothing objectionable in the scene 
 between Sebald and Ottima in " Pippa Passes," which they had been 
 reading for twenty years; and nothing objectionable in " Chastelard," 
 (vhich they were then reading. But " Poems and Ballads " shocked 
 them into one of those sudden spasms of virtuous indignation to 
 which they are subject ; and they straightway proceeded to magnify 
 the poet's offences. They explained his veiled allusions, and dragged 
 his hidden meanings to light. What an ordinary reader would not 
 have understood, they compelled him to understand, committing in 
 their criticism the very fault that Swinburne committed in his poetry. 
 
Xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 What went to the genesis of these poems is a literary or personal 
 secret which it will behoove the biographers of Swinburne to discover. 
 He may have written them as so many dramatic studies, or he may 
 have written them as so many expressions of himself. But for what- 
 ever purpose they may have been written, they did not and could not 
 have come from a healthy mind : they are morbid, feverous, diseased, 
 — sick unto death with the awful sickness of the soul. It was in his 
 genius to write them, and live ; but not to regain the health, the 
 strength, the sanity, that were his when he wrote " Atalanta in Caly- 
 cjon." 
 
 It is the fortune, or the misfortune, of Swinburne, that he has not 
 been criticised : he has been praised and abused, but criticised never. 
 He was accepted at once, as he should have been ; but he was not 
 questioned, when he should have been questioned over and over. 
 His intentions have not been examined, nor his methods scrutinized. 
 He may be one of the masters of song, or he may be only one of its 
 scholars : we have to judge for ourselves which he is. I have read, 
 I believe, all that he has written, — with admiration for much, which 
 I feel is very fine ; with regret for more, which I know is very faulty, 
 He has great poetic gifts, but he is not a great poet ; for no man can 
 be a great poet who is not a wise and solid thinker, and whose lan- 
 guage is not large and direct. 
 
 I made a careful study of Swinburne's genius a year or two ago, 
 taking for my text his only attempt at a narrative poem, "Tristram of 
 Lyonesse ; " and, as what I wrote then expresses what I think now, I 
 shall repeat the substance of it here. I began by saying that it was a 
 little curious, in view of the tendency of the modern English mind 
 towards literary studies, that no one had yet made a study of his genius 
 and his method of working, both of which were remarkable, and re- 
 markably faulty. They were faulty, I said ; for measured by the large 
 methods of the great English poets, and the scope and style of their 
 work, his work was exceedingly narrow, and his nietiiod merely a 
 manner. He has published a dozen or more volumes of verse ; but 
 he has written no line that lingers in the memory, and has uttered 
 nothing that resembles a tinMii^ht. This couUl not have been the 
 
INTRODUCTION. XVU 
 
 case if he had been gifted with unusual mental endowments ; for many 
 a lesser poet has occasionally thought to some purpose, and has 
 written verses that are remembered. One of his defects, perhaps his 
 prime defect, is the brilliancy and force of his vocabulary. No poet 
 ever excelled him in the profusion with which he throws off rich and 
 picturesque and spirited words : he is a perfect master of epithets. 
 His pages are luminous mists of language, the exact meaning of 
 which, and their bearing upon the matter in hand, it is generally diffi- 
 cult to discover, they are so bravely put forth, and with such sonorous 
 pomps of sound. For his music is never less, but often more, than his 
 sense. He is a wonderful musician, if nothing else. He appears to 
 have a great command of words ; but when one looks into his manner 
 carefully, one is struck with the really small number at his command, 
 or, to state it more critically, with the rapidity with which the same 
 words are perpetually turning up, and the little they really signify. 
 The effects of brightness, for example, are indicated five times in the 
 first nine lines of "Tristram of Lyonesse," and are scattered bewilder- 
 ingly throughout the whole poem. Every thing is suggestive of 
 imagery ; but when one attempts to grasp the imagery it proves a fata 
 fnorgana, which disappears, flitting from page to page and resting 
 nowhere. He abounds with allusions to the great objects of nature, 
 the sky and the sun, and day and night ; but he never brings them 
 before us as we are accustomed to see them, — for the simple reason, 
 perhaps, that he has never seen them as they are, but as they seem to 
 him through the haze of what he would call his imagination. The 
 world as it flashes and glimmers in his lines is a very different world 
 from the spot which men call earth ; obeying other planetary condi- 
 tions than that, and exhibiting a flora and fauna of startling novelty. 
 The qualities I mentioned were as evident, I said, in Swinburne's 
 early work as in his latest, though they were not so abundant there, 
 nor of such permanent significance. There was a time when he 
 might have overcome them, or at least have put them under the 
 restraint of his critical powers ; but, unfortunately, that time is past, 
 for what at first was a tentative manner has now become a determined 
 vice, which mars all his intellectual efforts. It is due to him to say 
 
XX INTRODUCTIOX. 
 
 vocabulary, which resembles nothing so much as the luxuriance of a 
 tropical forest. The same defect marked the tentative career of 
 Keats, while he was writing " Endymion," the sense of which often 
 depends upon the good or bad luck of the poet in finding the neces- 
 sary rhyme ; but Keats outgrew this defect so rapidly, that, in little 
 more than a year after the completion of " Endymion," he began 
 "Hyperion." Swinburne wanders as aimlessly in "Tristram of Lyon- 
 esse " as if he had selected " Endymion " as a model, — a model that 
 he has fallen short of, in that he nowhere reproduces that exquisite 
 sense of poetic luxury, and that trembling sensitiveness to beauty, 
 which are vital in all that Keats wrote, — even in the bits of doggerel 
 which croon out brokenly in his careless letters. What he probably 
 had before him in writing "Tristram of Lyonesse," or what he read 
 before he sat down to write it, was "Lamia," the music of whose 
 heroic lines, as varied and strengthened by occasional triplets and 
 alexandrines, appears to have impressed him ; but not powerfully, for 
 he remembered it only at long intervals, and then merely as an effect 
 which it might be well to try again, and in rapid succession. What 
 Dryden and Keats intended and accomplished by these departures 
 from the laws of the heroic couplet, he seems never to have perceived. 
 But enough of "Tristram of Lyonesse," which I have not reprinted, 
 out of consideration for the readers of this volume, whose poetic 
 patience I had no right to burden ; and enough — more than enough 
 — of criticism of Swinburne. What I set out to do was to select 
 what was best in his poetry ; and, as this seemed to lie in three direc- 
 tions, I followed them carefully, — first in the narrow province of 
 Greek tragedy, next in the broad world of the English drama, and last 
 in the enchanted region of romantic verse. If I have done what 
 I sought to do, I have honored the genius of Algernon Charles 
 Swinburne. 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 The Century, New York, June 23, 1884. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Atalanta in Calydon 5 
 
 Erechtheus: A tragedy 44 
 
 Chastelard: A tragedy 77 
 
 Bothwell: a tragedy 13° 
 
 Mary Stuart: A tragedy 378 
 
 Poems and Ballads: 
 
 A Leave-taking 4^8 
 
 Itylus 469 
 
 Rondel 470 
 
 A Litany 47°- 
 
 A Lamentation AT^ 
 
 Anima Anceps 473 
 
 ,Song before Death 474 
 
 ^^M Rococo 474 
 
 I,, v^ Ballad of Burdens 475^ 
 
 Before the Mirror 47^ 
 
 ■^ ,^n Memory of Walter Savage Landor . 477 
 
 •.A Song in Time of Order, 1852 . . . 478 
 
 A Song in Time of Revolution, i860 . 478 
 
 To Victor Hugo 480 
 
 Before Dawn 482 
 
 — jffhe Garden of Proserpine 483 
 
 Love at Sea 484 
 
 April 485 
 
 Before Parting 486 
 
 The Sundew 486 
 
 An Interlude 487 
 
 Hendecasyllabics 488 
 
 •— -(/Sapphics 488 
 
 At Eleusis 49° 
 
 August ■ 493 
 
 A Christmas Carol 494 
 
 The Masque of Queen Bersabe . . . 495 
 
 St. Dorothy 500 
 
 The Two Dreams 508 
 
 Aholibah S^S 
 
 Madonna Mia 518 
 
 The King's Daughter 518 
 
 May Janet 5^9 
 
 The Bloody Son 520 
 
 The Sea-Swallows S^i 
 
 The Year of Love 522 
 
 The Last Oracle . 523 
 
 In the Bay ... S^S 
 
 PAGS 
 
 Poems and Ballads: 
 
 "• y/h Forsaken Garden 530 
 
 Relics 532 
 
 Sestima 533 
 
 A Wasted Vigil 534 
 
 The Complaint of Lisa 535 
 
 For the Feast of Giordano Bruno . . 538 
 
 — %Ave atque Vale 539 
 
 Memorial Verses 543 
 
 Age and Song 547 
 
 In Memory of Barry Cornwall ... 547 
 
 Epicede 548 
 
 Inferiae 549, 
 
 A Birth-Song 549 
 
 Ex-Voto 550 
 
 Pastiche 552 
 
 Before Sunset 552 
 
 Song 552 
 
 A Vision of Spring in Winter ... 552 
 
 At Parting 554 
 
 The White Czar 555 
 
 Rizpah 555 
 
 To Louis Kossuth 556 
 
 The Pilgrims 55^ 
 
 The Litany of Nations 558 
 
 Christmas Antiphoncs 561— 
 
 • Mater Dolorosa 5^4 
 
 Mater Tiiumphalis 50° 
 
 Siena 569 
 
 Cor Cordium 573 
 
 Tiresias 573 
 
 An Appeal 581 
 
 Perinde ac Cadaver 582 
 
 The Oblation 583 
 
 A Song of Italy 583 
 
 Thalassius 595 
 
 — »Herse 603 
 
 Eight Years Old 604 
 
 "NonDolet" ,V ^5 
 
 Lines on the Death of Edward John 
 
 Trelawny 606 
 
 Off Shore 607 
 
 f^Evening on the Broads 609 
 
 j -^ r-x The Emperor's Progress 6ia 
 
 *-«-. xxi 
 
XXll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Poems and Ballads: 
 
 Six Years Old 613 
 
 A Parting Song 614 
 
 By the North Sea 615 
 
 Sonnets: 
 
 To William Bell Scott 625 
 
 On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and 
 
 George Eliot 625 
 
 After looking into Carlyle's Reminis- 
 cences 'j25 
 
 A Last Look 626 
 
 Dickens .626 
 
 On Lamb's Sf)ecimens of Dramatic 
 
 Poets 627 
 
 Christopher Marlowe 627 
 
 William Shakespeare 627 
 
 Ben Jonson 638 
 
 General Index of Titles and First Lines 
 
 PACE 
 
 Sonnets: 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher 628 
 
 Philip Massinger 628 
 
 John 5 ord 62*) 
 
 John Webster 629 
 
 Thomas Decker 629 
 
 Thomas Middleton 630 
 
 Thomas Heywood 630 
 
 John Marston 630 
 
 George Chapman 630 
 
 John Day 631 
 
 James Shirley 631 
 
 The Tribe of Benjamin 631 
 
 Anonymous Plays 632 
 
 The Many 633 
 
 Epilogue 633 
 
 63s 
 
■^J 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 
 
 1 NOW DEDICATE, WITH EQUAL AFFECTION, REVERENCE, AND REGRET, 
 
 A POEM INSCRIBED TO HIM WHILE VET ALIVE IN WORDS WHICH ARE NOW RETAINED 
 
 BECAUSE THEY WERE LAID BEFORE HIM: 
 
 AN-n TO WHICH, RATHER THAN CANCEL THEM, I HAVE ADDED SUCH OTHERS AS WERE EVOKED 
 
 BY THE NEWS OF HIS DEATH: 
 
 THAT THOUGH LOSING THE PLEASURE I MAY NOT LOSE THE HONOR OF INSCRIBING 
 
 IN FRONT OF MY WORK 
 
 THE HIGHEST OF CONTEMPORARY NAMBS. 
 
(Sxeo dfj Bopir]dev anoTpono^ ak7jLi ae. Jivf/fat 
 
 T/yayav ua^rraatav 7]6vttvooi kuO' aAa, 
 irXripovaat [dXiroq deodev arofxa, nrj n Uoaev&JV 
 
 3?uiipij, ev uaiv t'Xi^v afjv iieXlyrjpvv ona, 
 TOfOf uoi6dg £<pvg ' vfj-dg d' Itl KXalo/iev, ol aov 
 
 devofied' oixofdvov^ koI ae iroOovfiev uei, 
 elire de Uiepiduv rig uvaoTpe<pdelaa npog a^Aj/v 
 
 })?idEv, i6ov, TTuvTuv (pDiTaToq Tj'kde (SpoTuv, 
 OTefifiaTa dpexpufievog vtoQrfhia x^P^^*- y^paxaXq^ 
 
 Kol TToTubv 6d(pvcu^ ufi(ptKa}jv\pe Kupu 
 T]6v n 'ZtKeXmaig km nijKTiaiv, ijdv tl xopSatCf 
 
 (laonEVO^' TToi^J.fjv ycip ij.ere(Sa?JXE Xvpav^ 
 noTiXuKL 6' ev (HjnaaujL Kadhfievcfv evpev 'AnoTiXi.:^ 
 
 uvdeai (5* tarexpev, Ttpirvu S" tduKe '/Jyetv, 
 Iluva t' ueifivTjaTov re HItx/u KopvOov re dvaed^jf, 
 
 Tjv f kipilrjae deav dvijTdg 'A/zatJpvoAi • 
 irovTov 6' h fieyui)oioiv kKoifuae Kvfiodu/ietav^ 
 
 TTjv 7^ 'Ayafjefivoviav nald' uiriduKe Tzarpi, 
 Kp<\- 6' lepovg ^f?i(j)ovg t)eoTTAT]KTCw t'lre/iipev 'Ctpeor^ 
 
 reipofxevov OTvyepalg Ivtia Kat ivOa Oeaii, 
 
 » 
 
(^eo 6f) Kal dvevde <J)l^o)V kcl uvevdev aoiS^g. 
 
 dpEyjJOfievog (idXaKfjq uvd?a Tlepaecpovrjc. 
 (jXeo ' koIjk et* eaei, kovk av nori aot napedov/j.(u 
 
 d^ofisvog, x^i-P^'^ X^P<^^ diyo)v oaiaic' 
 vvv 6' av fiVTjoufievov yXvKvmKpoc vnTi^vdsv alduc, 
 
 ola Tvxo)v oiov Trpbg aidev olog Ix^' 
 ovnoTE aoig, yipov, bfipia (jtlTioig ^lTmv ofi/iaat Tepypu^ 
 
 (T^f, yipov, ai}jdjj.evog, (PHtute, dE^iTEpag 
 Tj rpa<papd Kovig^ ^ Tpaipapbg (3c6c eotl' tl tovtuv 
 
 (ieIov Ei^TjfiEpiuv ; oh Kovig dTJui (3iog. 
 cAAa fiot rj6vTEp6g y£ nilEig ttoAi) tuv et' eovtuVj 
 
 ettTleo yap- aol fi^v ravra Oavovn (jtipu, 
 rcavpa fiEv, dlX' and K^pog tT7jTV/xa' fj.r}6' dnoTpE^d^f 
 
 irpog 6e (SaXdv in vvv tjcvxov 6fx/j,a dsxov. 
 oh yap EXc>), [liya 6ff. n OeTmv, ceOev d^ca dovvat 
 
 danTOfXEVOv nsp unuv ov yap evectlv Efxoi' 
 ovSe iiEXtKprjTOv napEXEiv ydvoQ • eI yap kvEirj 
 
 Kai GE x^poiv ipavoai Kai ai ttot' avdig IdEiv^ 
 ddKpvci TE OTTOvSaig te Kupa <P'l7mv dfi<pinoXevetv 
 
 bipdaTiUOVQ 0' lEpovc oovg upov te difzac. 
 Eld' o^eTuov (idXa yap rdd' av dfinavoEte /lEpiiivtjc* 
 
 vvv Se TtpoGudEv dvEV CTjpLaTO^ oiKTOv dyo) ' 
 ov6' e7tltvi/.(3(6lov dprfvu fj.^Xog, ri/lA' uTza/iwdeiCf 
 
 d?.7i' dirdvEvdEV hx(^v dii^LdaKpvTd nudij. 
 dlXd av x^^P^ davuv, kcI excjv yipag lodi npbc dvSputv 
 
 Trpog TE dEuv, Evipoiq eI Tig e-kegtl dEog. 
 XalpE yipov, (ptTiE x<^^P^ naTEp, 'no'Xv <j>EpTaT' doiddv 
 
 6v idofiEV, noTiV 67) (jtipTaT' uEiaofiEvuv^ 
 XOip£, Kal o2.f3ov Exotg, oiov ye davovTEi ?;tovatv, 
 
 iiovxtav exdpag Kal (piXoTTjTog drsp. 
 
C^fiaroc olxo/^Evov aoi /wij/mT' ig i arepov larai^ 
 
 aoi re <l>iX^ f^'^'WV /^VTj(iaTog olxof/ivov ' 
 bv XapiTE^ K?ialnvai Oeai, n'Xaiei 6' Acppodirij 
 
 KaX?ux6poig MovaC/v Ttprpafiivri OTEipuvoig 
 ov yof) una^ lepovg noTs yf/pag erpixl^ev uotdoic' 
 
 T7]v6e rb abv <paivtL fivr/fia t66' ti^Aamv. 
 ^ ^i'Aof Tjg fxaKupeaac f^pordc, aoi & d nvt Nv^^ 
 
 dupa noOeiva vl/^eiv, voTara dcjp', edoaav. 
 
 Tag VVV X^^KEOC: VTTVOg 1^7] KOI UVTjVEHOg oluV, 
 
 Kal ovvOanTOfievat (lolpav exovai piav. 
 evdetg Kat ai), kuXov kuI uyuKlvTov iv x^ovl Koi?.i^ 
 
 VTTVOv EipiKo/ievog, ot/g uTTuvocdi miTpag, 
 Tfj2.e irapu ^avdov TvpoTjVLKov old/ia Kadevdeic 
 
 vdpaTog, ij d' hi afj paid as yditi noOeij 
 alX' dnixeig, Kal npuaOe (pOMnToTitg uv nep undnac 
 
 evde' puKap 6' rjplv ovd' dpiyapTog iaei. 
 (3aidg enixdovluv ye xp<J^og Kal pnipa KpaTrjaei, 
 
 Tovg 6e ttot' dj^poovvtj Toiig di ttot' d^yof ex^t ' 
 TTokTUiKi 6' Tj fiTunnei ^dog ij OKorog dp(piKa?ivnTet 
 
 pvpopevovg, ddKvei 6' v-nvog iypijyopoTag ' 
 ov^ Id' 6t' kv Tvp(3oiat KaredpaOev bppa davbvTuv 
 
 fj OKuTog 7) n <pdog 6T/^£Tai rjeAlov ' 
 oid" uvap kvi'vxiov Kal kvvirvLOV ovd' vnap larat 
 
 7/ TTOTf TepTTopevoig fi nor' bdvpopevoig ' 
 dJlA' ^va "KuvTeg del Ookov avvexovm Kal Idpav 
 
 avri fipoTTjc dISpoTov, Kd?ih.MOv uvti /ctw^f. 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Chief Huntsman. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Althaea. 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 Meleager. Toxeus. 
 
 OEneus. Plexippus. 
 
 Atalanta. Herald. 
 
 Messenger. 
 Second Messenger 
 
 iO-TU) 5" 0(rTl5 ovx VTOTTCpOS 
 
 ^povrtVif 2ael9. 
 
 rdi' a 7rai.So\vfjia<; raAaifa Qearia^ firjcraTO 
 
 iTvpSari Ti.va npovoiav, 
 
 KaraiOovaa naiSbi Sa<t>oivbv 
 
 Sakbu rjKiK iirei (loXiav 
 
 avfjLfjieTpov T£ SloI /Si'ov 
 (JLOifiOKpavTOv ei afiap. 
 
 MscH. Cho. 602-612. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 AltH/EA, daughter of Thestius and Eurythemis, queen of Calydon, being with child of Meleager 
 her first-born son, dreamed that she brought forth a brand burning. And, upon his birth, came the 
 three Fates, and prophesied of him three things, namely these: that he should have great strength 
 of his hands, and good fortune in this life, and that he should live no longer when the brand then 
 in the fire were consumed ; wherefore his mother plucked it forth, and kept it by her. And the child, 
 being a man grown, sailed with Jason after the fleece of gold, and won himself great praise of all 
 men living; and, when the tribes of the North and West made war upon ^Etolia, he fought against 
 their army, and scattered it. But Artemis, having at the first stirred up these tribes to war against 
 CEneus kmg of Calydon, because he had offered sacrifice to all the gods saving her alone, but her 
 he had forgotten to honor, was yet more wroth because of the destruction of this army, and sent 
 upon the land of Calydon a wild boar which slew many and wasted all their increase, but him could 
 none slay, and many went against him and perished. Then were all the chief men of Greece gath- 
 ered together, and among them Atalanta daughter of lasius the Arcadian, a virgin; for whose sake 
 Artemis let slay the boar, seeing she favored the maiden greatly; and Meleager having despatched 
 it gave the spoil thereof to Atalanta, as one beyond measure enamoured of her; but the brethren of 
 Althaea his mother, Toxeus and Plexippus, with such others as misliked that she only should bear 
 off the praise whereas many had borne the labor, laid wait for her to take away her spoil; but 
 Meleager fought against them, and slew them: whom when Althaea their sister beheld, and knew to 
 be slain of her son, she waxed for wrath and sorrow like as one mad, and, takmg the brand whereby 
 the measure of her son's life was meted to him, she cast it upon a fire; and with the wasting thereof 
 his life likewise wasted away, that being brought back to his father's house he died in a brief space; 
 and his mother also endured not long after for very sorrow ; and this was his end, and the end of 
 that hunting. 
 
 Chief Huntsman. Maiden, and mis- 
 tress of the months and stars 
 
 Now folded in the flowerless fields of 
 heaven, 
 
 Goddess whom all gods love with three- 
 fold heart, 
 
 Being treble in thy divided deity, 
 
 A light for dead men and dark hours, 
 
 a foot 
 Swift on the hills as morning, and a hand 
 To all things fierce and fleet that roar 
 
 and range 
 
ATALAA'TA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Mortal, with gentler shafts than snow 
 
 or sleep; 
 Hear now and hcli) and lift no violent 
 
 hand, 
 But favorable and fair as thine eye's 
 
 beam 
 Hidden and shown in heaven ; for I all 
 
 night 
 Amid the king's hounds and the hunting 
 
 men 
 Have wrought and worshipped toward 
 
 thee ; nor shall man 
 See goodlier hounds or deadlier edge 
 
 of spears ; 
 But for the end, that lies unreached at yet 
 Between the hands and on the knees of 
 
 gods. 
 O fair-faced sun killing the stars and 
 
 dews 
 And dreams and desolation of the night ! 
 Rise up, shine, stretch thine hand out, 
 
 with thy bow 
 Touch the most dimmest height of trem- 
 bling heaven, 
 And burn and break the dark about thy 
 
 ways. 
 Shot through and through with arrows ; 
 
 let thine hair 
 Lighten as flame above that flameless 
 
 shell 
 Which was the moon, and thine eyes 
 
 fill the world 
 And thy lijis kindle with :3wift beams; 
 
 let earth 
 Laugh, and the long sea fiery from thy 
 
 feet 
 Through all the roar and ripple of 
 
 streaming sjirings 
 And foam in reddening flakes and flying 
 
 flowers 
 Shaken from hands and blown from lips 
 
 of nymphs 
 Whose hair or breast divides the wan- 
 dering wave 
 With salt close tresses cleaving lock to 
 
 lock. 
 All gold, or shuddering and unfurrowed 
 
 snow ; 
 And all the winds about thee with their 
 
 wings. 
 And fountain-heads of all the watered 
 
 world ; 
 Each horn of Achelous, and the green 
 
 Euenus, wedded with the straitening 
 sea. 
 
 For in fair time thou coniest ; come also 
 thou, 
 
 Twin-born with him, and virgin, Arte- 
 mis, 
 
 And give our spears their spoil, the 
 wild boar's hide, 
 
 Sent in thine anger against us for sin 
 done 
 
 And bloodless altars without wine oi 
 fire. 
 
 Him now consume thou; for thy sacri- 
 fice 
 
 With sanguine-shining steam divides 
 the dawn, 
 
 And one, the maiden rose of all thy 
 maids. 
 
 Arcadian Atalanta, snowy-souled. 
 
 Fair as the snow and footed as the wind, 
 
 From Ladon and well-wooded Manalus 
 
 Over the firm hills and the fleeting sea 
 
 Hast thou drawn hither, and many an 
 armed king, 
 
 Heroes, the crown of men, like gods in 
 fight. 
 
 Moreover out of all the /Etolian land, 
 
 From the full-flowered Lelantian pas- 
 turage 
 
 To what of fruitful field the son of 
 Zeus 
 
 Won from the roaring river and labor- 
 ing sea 
 
 When the wild god shrank in his horn 
 and fled 
 
 And foamed and lessened through his 
 wrathful fords, 
 
 Leaving clear laitds that steamed with 
 sudden sun. 
 
 These virgins with the lightening of 
 the day 
 
 Bring thee fresh wreaths and their own 
 sweeter hair, 
 
 Luxurious locks and flower-like mixed 
 with flowers. 
 
 Clean offering, antl chaste hymns; but 
 me the time 
 
 Divides from these things ; whom do 
 thou not less 
 
 Help and give honor, and to mine 
 hounds gootl speed. 
 
 And edge to spears, and luck to each 
 man's hand. 
 
ATA LA NT A IN CALYDON. 
 
 Chorus. When the hounds of spring 
 
 are on winter's traces, 
 The mother of months in meadow or 
 plain 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of 
 rain ; 
 And the brown bright nightingale am- 
 orous 
 Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign 
 faces, 
 The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 Come with bows bent and with empty- 
 ing of quivers. 
 Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
 
 With a noise of winds and many riv- 
 ers. 
 With a clamor of waters, and with 
 might ; 
 
 Bind on thy sandals, O thou most 
 fleet. 
 
 Over the splendor and speed of thy 
 feet; 
 
 For the faint east quickens, the wan 
 west shivers, 
 Round the feet of the day and the 
 feet of the night. 
 
 Where shall we find her, how shall we 
 sing to her, 
 Fold our hands round her knees, and 
 cling ? 
 
 O that man's heart were as fire and 
 could spring to her. 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams 
 that spring ! 
 
 For the stars and the winds are unto 
 her 
 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp- 
 player; 
 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling 
 to her. 
 And the southwest-wind and the west- 
 wind sing.' 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over. 
 And all the season of snows and 
 sins ; 
 
 The days dividing lover and lover, 
 The light that loses, the night that 
 
 And time remembered is grief forgot- 
 ten. 
 
 And frosts are slain and flowers begot- 
 ten. 
 
 And in grcjen underwood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the spring be- 
 gins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of 
 rushes. 
 Ripe grasses trammel a travelling 
 foot. 
 The faint fresh flame of the young 
 year flushes 
 From leaf to flower and flower to 
 fruit ; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and 
 
 fire. 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 The chestnut-husk at the chestnut- 
 root. 
 
 And Pan by noon and Bacchus by 
 night. 
 Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
 Follows with dancing and fills with 
 delight 
 The Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
 And soft as lips that laugh and hide 
 The laughing leaves of the trees di- 
 vide. 
 And screen from seeing and leave in 
 sight 
 The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves 
 bare 
 Her bright breast shortening irto 
 sighs ; 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of 
 
 its leaves. 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that 
 scare 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that 
 
 flies. 
 Althiva. What do ye singing ? what 
 
 is this ye sing ? 
 Chorus. Flowers bring we, and pure 
 lips that please the gods, 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 And raiment meet for service : lest the 
 
 d:iy 
 Turn sharp witli all its honey in our 
 
 lips. 
 Althiia. Night, a black hopnd, fol- 
 lows the white fawn day, 
 Swifter than dreams the white flown 
 
 feet of sleep; 
 Will ye pray back the night with any 
 
 prayers ? 
 And though the spring put back a little 
 
 while 
 Winter, and snows that plague all men 
 
 for sin, 
 And the iron time of cursing, yet I 
 
 know 
 Spring shall be ruined with the rain, 
 
 and storm 
 Eat up like fire the ashen autumn 
 
 days. 
 I marvel' what men do with prayers 
 
 awake 
 Who dream and die with dreaming; 
 
 any god, 
 Vea the least god of all things called 
 
 divine. 
 Is mf)re than sleep and waking ; yet 
 
 we say. 
 Perchance by praying a man shall 
 
 match his god. 
 For if sleep have no mercy, and man's 
 
 dreams 
 Bite to the blood and burn into the 
 
 bone. 
 What shall this man do waking? By 
 
 the gods, 
 lie shall not pray to dream sweet 
 
 things to-night, 
 Having dreamt once more bitter things 
 
 than rltath. 
 Chorus. Queen, but what is it that 
 
 hath burnt tliine heart? 
 For thy speech flickers like a blown-out 
 
 flame. 
 Altfuru. Look, ye say well, and know 
 
 not what ye say; 
 For all my sleep is turned into a fire. 
 And all my dreams to stuff that kin- 
 dles it. 
 Chorus. Yet one doth well being 
 
 l)atient of the gods. 
 Althita. Yea, lest they smite us with 
 
 Komc four-foot plague. 
 
 Chorus. But when time spreads find 
 
 out some herb for it. 
 Althcea. And with their healing herbs 
 
 infect our blood. 
 Chorus. What ails thee to be jealous 
 
 of their ways ? 
 Althaea. What if they give us poison- 
 ous drinks for wine? 
 Chorus. They have their will ; much 
 
 talking mends it not. 
 AlthiEa. And gall for milk, and curs- 
 ing for a prayer? 
 Chorus. Have they not given life, and 
 
 the end of life ? 
 Alth(xa. Lo, where they heal, they 
 help not; thus they do. 
 They mock us with a little piteous- 
 
 ness. 
 And we say prayers, and weep ; but at 
 
 the last. 
 Sparing a while, they smite and spare 
 no whit. 
 Chorus. Small praise man gets dis 
 praising the high gods : 
 What have they done that thou dis 
 honorest them ? 
 Alihaa. First Artemis for all this 
 harried land 
 I praise not, and for wasting of the boar 
 That mars with tooth and tusk and fierv 
 
 feet 
 Green pasturage and the grace of stand- 
 
 irig corn 
 And meadow and marsh with springs 
 
 and unblown leaves. 
 Flocks and swift herds and all that bite 
 
 sweet grass, 
 I praise her not ; what things are these 
 to praise ? 
 Chorus. But when the king did sac- 
 rifice, and gave 
 Each god fair dues of wheat and blood 
 
 and wine, 
 Her not with bloodshed nor burnt-of- 
 fering 
 Revered he, nor with salt or cloven 
 
 cake ; 
 Wherefore being wroth she plagued the 
 
 land ; but now 
 Takes off from us fate and her heavy 
 
 things. 
 Which deed of these twain were not 
 good to praise ? 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 *ox a just deed looks always either way 
 
 A' ith blameless eyes, and mercy is no 
 
 fault. 
 
 Althcea. Yea, but a curse she hath 
 
 sent above all these 
 
 To hurt us where she healed us; and 
 
 hath lit 
 ^ire where the old fire went out, and 
 
 where the wind 
 slackened, hath blown on us with dead- 
 lier air. 
 Chorus. What storm is this that tight- 
 ens all our sail .'' 
 Alth<T.a. Love, a thwart sea-wind full 
 
 of rain and foam. 
 Chorus. Whence blown, and born 
 
 under what stormier star .'' 
 Althcea. Southward across Euenus 
 
 from the sea. 
 Chorus. Thy speech turns toward 
 
 Arcadia like blown wind. 
 Althcea. Sharp as the north sets when 
 
 the snows are out. 
 Chorus. Nay, for this maiden hath no 
 
 touch of love. 
 Althcea. I would she had sought in 
 some cold gulf of sea 
 Love, or in dens where strange beasts 
 
 lurk, or fire. 
 Or snows on the extreme hills, or iron 
 
 land 
 Where no spring is ; I would she had 
 
 sought therein 
 And found, or ever love had found her 
 here. 
 Chorus. She is holier than all holy 
 days or th.'ngs, 
 The sprinkled wa*cr or fume of perfeot 
 
 fire; 
 Chaste, dedicated to pure prayers, and 
 
 filled 
 W^ith higher thoughts than heaven ; a 
 
 maiden clean. 
 Pure iron, fashioned for a sword ; and 
 
 man 
 
 She loves not; what should one such 
 do with love ? 
 Althcea. Look you, I speak not as one 
 light of wit, 
 But as a queen speaks, being heart- 
 vexed ; for oft 
 T hear mv brothers wrangling in mid 
 hall. 
 
 And am not moved ; and my son chicl- 
 ing them. 
 And these things nowise move me, but 
 
 I know 
 Foolish and wise men must be to the 
 
 end. 
 And feed myself with patience ; but this 
 
 most. 
 This moves me, that for wise men as 
 
 for fools 
 Love is one thing, an evil thing, and 
 
 turns 
 Choice words and wisdom into fire and 
 
 air. 
 And in the end shall no joy come, but 
 
 grief, 
 Sharp words and soul's division anc 
 
 fresh tears 
 Flower-wise upon the old root of tears 
 
 brought forth. 
 Fruit-wise upon the old flower of tear? 
 
 sprung up. 
 Pitiful sighs, and much regrafted pain. 
 These thmgs are in my presage, and 
 
 myself 
 Am part of them and know not ; but 
 
 in dreams 
 The gods are heavy on me, and all the 
 
 fates 
 Shed fire across my eyelids mixed with 
 
 night, 
 And burn me blind, and disilluminate 
 My sense of seeing, and my perspicuou? 
 
 soul 
 Darken with vision ; seeing I see not. 
 
 hear 
 And hearing am not holpen, but mine 
 
 eyes 
 Stain many tender broideries in the bed 
 Drawn up about my face that I may 
 
 weep 
 And the king wake not ; and my brows 
 
 and lips 
 Tremble and sob in sleeping, like swift 
 I flames 
 
 That tremble, or water when it sobs 
 
 with heat 
 Kindled from under ; and my tears fill 
 
 my breast 
 And speck the fair dyed pillows round 
 
 the king 
 With barren showers and salter thau 
 
 the sea. 
 
10 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Suc'a dreams divide me dreaming; for 
 
 long since 
 I dreamed that out of this my womb 
 
 had sprung 
 Fire and a firebrand ; this was ere my 
 
 son, 
 Meleager, a goodly flower in fields of 
 
 fight, 
 Felt the light touch him coming forth, 
 
 and wailed 
 Childlike; but yet he was not; and in 
 
 time 
 I bare him, and my heart was great; 
 
 for yet 
 So royally was never strong man born. 
 Nor queen so nobly bore as noble a 
 
 thing 
 As this my son was: such a birth God' 
 
 sent '^ — '' 
 
 And such a grace to bear it. Then 
 
 came in 
 Three weaving women, and span each 
 
 a thread. 
 Saying This for strength and That for 
 
 luck, and one 
 Saying Till the brand upon the hearth 
 
 burn down, 
 So long shall this man see good days 
 
 and live. 
 Ahd I with gathered raiment from the 
 
 bed 
 Sprang, and drew forth the brand, and 
 
 cast on it 
 Water, and trod the flame bare-foot, 
 
 and crushed 
 With naked hand spark beaten out of 
 
 spark 
 And blew against and quenched it ; for 
 
 I said, 
 These are the most high Fates that 
 
 dwell with us, 
 And wc find favor a little in their sight, 
 A little, and more we miss of, and much 
 
 time 
 Foils us ; howbeit they have pitied me, 
 
 O son, 
 And ihee most piteous, thee a tenderer 
 
 thing 
 Than any flower of fleshly seed alive. 
 Wherefore I kissed and hid him with 
 
 my hands, 
 And covered under arms and hair, and 
 
 wei)t, 
 
 And feared to touch him with my tears 
 
 and laughed; 
 So light a thing was this man, grown so 
 
 great 
 Men cast their heads back, seeing 
 
 against the sun 
 Blaze the armed man carven on his 
 
 shield, and hear 
 The laughter of little bells along the 
 
 brace 
 Ring, as birds singing or flutes blown, 
 
 and watch, 
 High up, the cloven shadow of either 
 
 plume 
 Divide the bright light of the brass, 
 
 and make 
 Hia helmet as a windy and wintering 
 
 »noon 
 Seen through blown cloud and plume- 
 like drift, when ships 
 Drive, and men strive with all the sea, 
 
 and oars 
 Break, and the beaks dip under, drink- 
 ing death; 
 Yet was he then but a span long, and 
 
 moaned 
 With inarticulate mouth inseparate 
 
 words. 
 And with blind lips and fingers wrung 
 
 my breast 
 Hard, and thrust out with foolish hands 
 
 and feet. 
 Murmuring , hut those gray women 
 
 with bound hair 
 Who fright the gods frighted not him; 
 
 he laughed 
 Seeing them, and pushed out hands to 
 
 * ^ feel and haul 
 Distaff and thread, intangible ; but 
 
 they 
 Passed, and I hid the brand, and in my 
 
 heart 
 Laughed likewise, having all my will of 
 
 heaven. 
 But now I know not if to left or right 
 The gods have drawn us hither; for 
 
 again 
 I dreamt, and saw the black brand 
 
 burst on fire 
 As a branch bursts in flower, and saw 
 
 the flame 
 Fade flower-wise, and Death came and 
 
 with dry lips 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON.. 
 
 Blew the charred ash into my breast; 
 
 and Love 
 Trampled the ember and crushed it 
 
 with swift feet. 
 This I have also at heart ; that not for 
 
 me, 
 Not for me only or son of mine, O girls, 
 The gods have wrought life, and desire 
 
 of life, 
 Heart's love and heart's division ; but 
 
 for all 
 There shines one sun and one wind 
 
 blows till night. 
 And when night comes the wind sinks 
 
 and the sun. 
 And there is no light after, and no 
 
 storm. 
 But sleep and much forgetfulness of 
 
 things. 
 In such wise I gat knowledge of the gods 
 
 (Years hence, and heard high sayings of 
 one most wise, 
 Eurythemis my mother, who beheld 
 With eyes alive and spake with lips of 
 these 
 As one on earth disfleshed and disallied 
 From breath or blood corruptible ; such 
 
 gifts 
 Time gave her, and an equal soul to 
 
 these 
 And equal face to all things ; thus she 
 
 said. 
 But whatsoever intolerable or glad 
 The swift hours weave and unweave, I 
 
 go hence 
 Full of mine own soul, perfect of my- 
 self. 
 Toward mine and me sufficient; and 
 
 what chance 
 The gods cast lots for and shake out 
 
 on us. 
 That shall we take, and that much bear 
 
 withal. 
 And now, before these gather to the 
 
 hunt, 
 I will go arm my son and bring him 
 
 forth, 
 Lest love or some man's anger work 
 him harm. 
 Chorus. Before the beginning of years 
 There came to the making of man 
 Time, with a gift of tears ; 
 Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
 
 Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 
 
 Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
 Remembrance fallen from heaven, 
 
 And madness risen from hell ; 
 Strength without hands to smite; 
 
 Love that endures for a breath ; 
 Night, the shadow of light, 
 
 And life, the shadow of death. 
 
 And the high gods took in hand 
 
 Fire, and the falling of tears. 
 And a measure of sliding sand 
 
 From under the feet of the years ; 
 And froth and drift of the sea ; 
 
 And dust of the laboring earth ; 
 And bodies of things to be 
 
 In the houses of death and of birth; 
 And wrought with weeping and laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 And fashioned with loathing and love, 
 With life before and after 
 
 And death beneath and above, 
 For a day and a night and a morrow, 
 
 That his strength might endure for a 
 span 
 With travail and heavy sorrow. 
 
 The holy spirit of man. 
 
 From the winds of the north and the 
 south 
 
 They gathered as unto strife ; 
 They breathed upon his mouth, 
 
 They filled his body with life ; 
 Eyesight and speech they wrought 
 
 For the veils of the soul therein, 
 A time for labour and thought, 
 
 A time to serve and to sin ; 
 They gave him light in his ways, 
 
 And love, and a space for delight, 
 And beauty and length of days. 
 
 And night, and sleep in the night. 
 His speech is a burning fire; 
 
 With his lips he travaileth; 
 In his heart is a blind desire, 
 
 In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
 He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 
 
 Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
 His life is a watch or a vision 
 
 Between a sleep and a sleep. 
 
 Meleager. O sweet new heaven and 
 air without a star. 
 Fair day, be fair and welcome, as to 
 men 
 
T2 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 With deeds to do and praise to pluck 
 
 from thee. 
 Come forth a child, born with clear 
 
 sound and light, 
 With laughter and swift limbs and 
 
 prosperous looks ; 
 That this great hunt with heroes for 
 
 the hounds 
 May leave thee memorable and us well 
 
 sped. 
 Allhcea. Son, first I praise thy prayer, 
 
 then bid thee speed ; 
 But the gods hear men's hands before 
 
 their lips, 
 And heed beyond all crying and sacri- 
 fice 
 Light of things done and noise of 
 
 laboring men. 
 But thou, being armed and perfect for 
 
 the deed, 
 Abide; for like rain-flakes in a wind 
 
 they grow. 
 The nven thy fellows, and the choice of 
 
 the world. 
 Bound to root out the tusked pbgue, 
 
 and leave 
 Thanks and safe days and peace in 
 
 Calydon. 
 Meleager. Yox the whole city and all 
 
 the low-lying land 
 Flames, and the soft air sounds with 
 
 them that come ; 
 The gods give all these fruit of all 
 
 their works. 
 AltJuea. Set thine eye thither and fix 
 
 thy spirit and say 
 Whom there thou knowest ; for sharp 
 
 mixed shadow and wind 
 Blown up between the morning and 
 
 the mist. 
 With steam of steeds and flash of 
 
 bridle or wheel. 
 And fire, and jjarcels of the broken dawn. 
 And dust divided by hard light, and 
 
 spears 
 That shine and shift as the edge of 
 
 wild beasts' eyes, 
 Smite ujKjn mine ; so fiery their blind 
 
 edge 
 Burns, and bright points break uji and 
 
 baffle day. 
 ^feUll}^er. The first, for many I know 
 
 not, being far off. 
 
 Peleus the Larissaean, couched with 
 
 whom 
 Sleeps the white sea-bred wife and 
 
 silver-shod. 
 Fair as fled foam, a goddess; and their 
 
 son 
 Most swift and splendid of men's chil- 
 dren born. 
 Most like a god, full of the future 
 
 fame. 
 Althaa. W^ho are these shining like 
 
 one sundered star } 
 Meleager. Thy sister's sons, a double 
 
 flower of men. 
 Althcea. O sweetest kin to me in all 
 
 the world, 
 O twin-born blood of Leda, gracious 
 
 heads 
 Like kindled lights in untempestuous 
 
 heaven. 
 Fair flower-like stars on the iroii foam 
 
 of fight. 
 With what glad heart and kindliness of 
 
 soul. 
 Even to the staining of both eyes with 
 
 tears 
 And kindling of warm eyelids with 
 
 desire, 
 A great way off I greet you, and re 
 
 joice 
 Seeing you so fair, and moulded like as 
 
 gods. 
 Far off ye come, and least in years of 
 
 these. 
 But lordliest, but wcirth love to look 
 
 ujion. 
 Aft'li-at^cr. Even such (for sailing 
 
 higher I saw far hence. 
 And where Eurotas hollows his moist 
 
 rock 
 Nigh Sparta with a strenuous-hearted 
 
 stream) 
 Even such I saw their sisters ; one 
 
 swan-white, 
 The little Helen, and less f.iir than she 
 F'air Clyta^mnestra, grave as pasturing 
 
 fawns 
 Who feed and fear some arrow ; but at 
 
 whiles, 
 As one smitten with love or wrunjj 
 
 with joy. 
 She laughs and lightens with her cyea. 
 
 and then 
 
AT ALA NT A IN CALYDON. 
 
 13 
 
 Weep.'; whereat Helen, having laughed, 
 
 yeeps too, 
 And tk other chides her, and she being 
 
 chid speaks nought, 
 But c'eeks and lips and eyelids kisses 
 
 her, 
 Laugiing; so fare they, as in their 
 
 bloomless bud 
 And full of unblown life, the blood of 
 3ods. 
 Althaa. Sweet days befall them and 
 good loves and lords. 
 And tender and temperate honors of 
 
 the hearth, 
 Peace, and a perfect life and blameless 
 
 bed. 
 But who shows next an eagle wrought 
 
 in gold. 
 That flames and beats broad wings 
 
 against the sun 
 And with void mouth gapes after 
 emptier prey? 
 Meleager. Know by that sign the 
 reign of Telamon 
 Between the fierce mouths of the en- 
 countering brine 
 On the strait reefs of twice-washed 
 Salamis. 
 Althiea. For like one great of hand 
 he bears himself, 
 Vine-chapleted, with savors of the sea. 
 Glittering as wine and moving as a 
 
 wave. 
 But who girt round there roughly fol- 
 lows him ? 
 Meleage): Ancaeus, great of hand, an 
 iron bulk, 
 Two-edged for fight as the axe against 
 
 his arm, 
 Who drives against the surge of stormy 
 
 spears 
 Full-sailed; him Cepheus follows, his 
 
 twin-born, 
 Chief name next his of all Arcadian men. 
 Althcea. Praise be with men abroad ; 
 chaste lives with us, 
 Home-keeping days and household 
 reverences. 
 Meleager. Next by the left unsan- 
 dalled foot know thou 
 The sail and oar of this .^tolian land, 
 Thy brethren, Toxeus and the violent- 
 souled 
 
 Plexippus, over-swift with hand and 
 
 tongue ; 
 For hands are fruitful, but the ignorant 
 
 mouth 
 Blows and corrupts their work with 
 barren breath. 
 Althcea. Speech too bears fruit, being 
 worthy; and air blows down 
 Things poisonous, and high-seated vio- 
 lences. 
 And with charmed words and songs 
 
 have men put out 
 Wild evil, and the fire of tyrannies. 
 Meleager. Yea, all things have they, 
 
 save the gods and love. 
 Althcea. Love thou the law and cleave 
 
 to things ordained. 
 Meleager. Law lives upon their lips 
 
 whom these applaud. 
 Althaa. How sayest thou these .'' what 
 
 god applauds new things.? 
 Meleager. Zeus, who hath fear and 
 
 custom under foot. 
 Althcea. But loves not laws thrown 
 
 down and lives awry. 
 Meleager. Yet is not less himself than 
 
 his own law. 
 Althcea. Nor shifts and shuffles old 
 
 things up and down. 
 Meleager. But what he will remoulds 
 
 and discreates. 
 Althcea. Much, but not this, that each 
 
 thing live its life. 
 Meleager. Nor only live, but lightei. 
 
 and lift up higher. 
 Althcea. Pride breaks itself, and too 
 
 much gained is gone. 
 Meleager. Things gained are gone, 
 
 but great things done endure. 
 Althiea. Child, if a man serve law 
 through all his life 
 And with his whole heart worship, 
 
 him all gods 
 Praise ; but who loves it only with his 
 
 lips, 
 And not in heart and deed desiring 
 
 it 
 Hides a perverse will with obsequious 
 
 words ; 
 Him heaven infatuates and his twin- 
 born fate 
 Tracks, and gains on him, scenting sins 
 far off, 
 
14 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 And the swift hounds of violent death 
 
 devour. 
 Be man at one with equal minded gods, 
 So shall he prosper; not through laws 
 
 torn up, 
 Violated rule and a new face of things. 
 A woman armed makes war upon her- 
 self, 
 Unwomanlike, and treads down use 
 
 and wont 
 And the sweet common honor that 
 
 she hath, 
 Love, and the cry of children, and the 
 
 hand 
 Trothplight and mutual mouth of mar- 
 riages. 
 This doth she, being unloved ; whom if 
 
 one love, 
 Not fire nor iron and the wide-mouthed 
 
 wars 
 Are deadlier than her lips or braided 
 
 hair. 
 For of the one comes poison, and a 
 
 curse 
 Falls from the other and burns the lives 
 
 of men. 
 But thou, son, be not filled with evil 
 
 dreams. 
 Nor with desire of these things; for 
 
 with time 
 Blind love burns out ; but if one feed it 
 
 full 
 Till some discoloring stain dyes all his 
 
 life, 
 lie shall keep nothing, praiseworthy, 
 
 nor die 
 The sweet wise death of old men hon- 
 orable, 
 Who have lived out all the length of all 
 
 their years 
 Blameless, and seen well-pleased the 
 
 face of gods. 
 And without shame and without fear 
 
 have wrought 
 Things memorable, and while their days 
 
 held out 
 In sight of all men and the sun's great 
 
 light 
 Have gat them glory and given of their 
 
 own i)raisc 
 To the earth that b::re them and the dav 
 
 that bred, 
 Hume friends and far-off hospitalities, 
 
 And filled with gracious and mtnorial 
 
 fame 
 Lands loved of summer or wased by 
 
 violent seas, 
 Towns populous and many unooted 
 
 ways, 
 And alien lips and native with their 
 
 own. 
 But when white age and vena-able 
 
 death 
 Mow down the strength and life within 
 
 their limbs. 
 Drain out the blood and darken their 
 
 clear eyes. 
 Immortal honor is on them, having 
 
 past 
 Through splendid life and death oesir- 
 
 able 
 To the clear seat and remote throne of 
 
 souls. 
 Lands indiscoverable in the unheard- 
 of west, 
 Round which the strong stream of a 
 
 sacred sea 
 Rolls without wind forever, and the 
 
 snow 
 There shows not her white wings and 
 
 windy feet. 
 Nor thunder nor swift rain saith any 
 
 thing. 
 Nor the sun burns, but all things rest 
 
 and thrive ; 
 And these, filled full of days, divine and 
 
 dead. 
 Sages and singers fiery from the god. 
 And such as loved their land and all 
 
 things good 
 And, best beloved of best men, libertv. 
 Free lives and lips, free hands of men 
 
 free-born. 
 And whatsoever on earth was honora- 
 ble 
 And whosoever of all the ephemeral 
 
 seed, 
 Live there a life no likcr to the gods 
 But nearer than their life of terrene 
 
 days. 
 Love thou such life, and look for such 
 
 a death. 
 But from the light and fiery dreams o' 
 
 love 
 Spring heavy sorrows and a sleepless 
 
 life. 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 15 
 
 Visions not dreams, whose lids no 
 
 charm shall close, 
 Nor song assuage them waking; and 
 
 swift death 
 Crushes with sterile feet the unripening 
 
 ear. 
 Treads out the timeless vintage ; whom 
 
 do thou 
 Eschewing embrace the luck of this thy 
 
 life, 
 Not without honor; and it shall bear 
 
 to thee 
 Such fruit as men reap from spent hours 
 
 and wear, 
 Few men, but happy ; of whom be thou, 
 
 O son, 
 Happiest, if thou submit thy soul to 
 
 fate. 
 And set thine eyes and heart on hopes 
 
 high-born 
 And divine deeds and abstinence divine. 
 So shalt thou be toward all men all thy 
 
 days 
 As light and might communicable, and 
 
 burn 
 From heaven among the stars above 
 
 the hours. 
 And break not as a man breaks nor 
 
 burn down : 
 For to whom other of all heroic names 
 Have the gods given his life in hand as 
 
 thine ? 
 And gloriously hast thou lived, and 
 
 made thy life 
 To me that bare thee and to all men 
 
 born 
 Thankworthy, a praise forever ; and 
 
 hast won fame 
 When wild wars broke all round thy 
 
 father's house. 
 And the mad people of windy mountain 
 
 ways 
 Laid spears against us like a sea, and 
 
 all 
 i^tolia thundered with Thessalian 
 
 hoofs ; 
 Yet these, as wind baffles the foam, and 
 
 beats 
 Straight back the relaxed ripple, didst 
 
 thou break 
 And loosen all their lances, till undone 
 And man from man they fell ; for ye 
 
 twain stood 
 
 God against god. Ares and Artemis, 
 And thou the mightier , wherefore she 
 
 unleashed 
 A sharp-toothed curse thou too shall 
 
 overcome ; 
 For in the greener blossom of thy life 
 Ere the full blade caught flower, and 
 
 when time gave 
 Respite, thou didst not slacken soul nor 
 
 sleep. 
 But with great hand and heart seek 
 
 praise of men 
 Out of sharp straits and many a griev- 
 ous thing. 
 Seeing the strange foam of undivided 
 
 seas 
 On channels never sailed in, and by 
 
 shores 
 Where the old winds cease not blowing, 
 
 and all the night 
 Thunders, and day is no delight to 
 
 men. 
 Chorus. Meleager, a noble wisdom 
 
 and fair words 
 The gods have given this woman : hear 
 
 thou these. 
 Meleager. O mother, I am not fain to 
 
 strive in speech 
 Nor set my mouth against thee, who art 
 
 wise 
 Even as they say, and full of sacred 
 
 words. 
 But one thing I know surely, and cleave 
 
 to this ; 
 That though I be not subtle of wit as 
 
 thou 
 Nor womanlike to weave sweet words, 
 
 and melt 
 Mutable minds of wise men as with 
 
 fire, 
 I too, doing justly and reverencing the 
 
 gods. 
 Shall not v;ant wit to see what things 
 
 be right. 
 For whom they love and whom reject, 
 
 being gods, 
 There is no man but seeth, and in good 
 
 time 
 Submits himself, refraining all his heart. 
 And I too, as thou sayest, have seen 
 
 great things ; 
 Seen otherwhere, but chiefly when the 
 
 sail 
 
i6 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 First caught between stretched ropes 
 the roaring west, 
 
 And all our oars smote eastward, and 
 the wind 
 
 First flung round faces of seafaring men 
 
 White splendid snow-flakes of the sun- 
 dering foam, 
 
 And the first furrow in virginal green 
 sea 
 
 Followed the plunging ploughshare of 
 hewn pine, 
 
 And closed, as when deep sleep sub- 
 dues man's breath 
 
 Lips close and heart subsides ; and clos- 
 ing, shone 
 
 Sunlike with many a Nereid's hair, and 
 moved 
 
 Round many a trembling mouth of 
 doubtful gods. 
 
 Risen out of sunless and sonorous gulfs 
 
 Through waning water and into shallow 
 light. 
 
 That watched us ; and when flying the 
 dove was snared 
 
 As with men's hands, but we shot after 
 and sped 
 
 Clear through the irremeable Symple- 
 gades ; 
 
 And chiefliest when hoar beach and 
 herbless cliff 
 
 Stood out ahead from Colchis, and we 
 heard 
 
 Clefts hoarse with wind, and saw through 
 narrowing reefs 
 
 The lightning of the intolerable wave 
 
 Flash, and the white wet flame of break- 
 ers burn 
 
 Far under a kindling south-wind, as a 
 lanij) 
 
 I'.urns and bends all its blowing flame 
 one way ; 
 
 Wild heights' untravclled of the wind, 
 and vales 
 
 Cloven seaward by their violent streams, 
 and white 
 
 With bitter flowers and bright salt scurf 
 
 of brine; 
 Heard sweep their sharp swift gales, and 
 
 bowing birdwise 
 Shriek with birds' voices, and with furi- 
 ous feet 
 Tread loose the long skirts of a storm; 
 and saw 
 
 the fleece 
 sea ; bu 
 
 The whole white Euxine clash^° together 
 
 and fall 
 Full-mouthed, and thunderoi* js from a 
 
 thousand throats 
 Yet we drew thither, and won "° 
 
 and won , 
 
 Medea, deadlier than the ^ 
 
 there 
 Seeing many a wonder, ar'^^jd fearfu 
 
 things to men, ^ . 
 
 I saw not one thing like this' "^'^ one see 
 
 here. 
 Most fair and fearful, feminine, ^^^ a god. 
 Faultless; whom I that love not, be 
 
 unlike, • '^^ , 
 
 Fear, and give honor, and choose from 
 
 all the gods. 
 CEneus. Lady, the daughter of Thes- 
 
 tius, and thou, son, 
 Not ignorant of your strife nor light of 
 
 wit. 
 Scared with vain dreams and fluttering 
 
 like spent fire, 
 I come to judge between you, but a 
 
 kfng 
 Full of past days and wise from years , 
 
 endured. 
 Nor thee I praise, who art fain to undo 
 
 things done : 
 Nor thee, who art swift to esteem them 
 
 overmuch. 
 For what the hours have given is given, 
 
 and this 
 Changeless ; howbeit these change, and 
 
 in good time 
 Devise new things and good, not one 
 
 thing still. 
 Us have they sent now, at our need for 
 
 help, 
 Among men armed a woman, foreign 
 
 born, 
 Virgin, not like the natural flower of 
 
 things 
 That grows and bears, and brings forth 
 
 fruit, and dies ; 
 Unlovable, no light for a husband's 
 
 house, 
 Espoused ; a glory among unwedded 
 
 girls. 
 And chosen of gods who reverence 
 
 maidenhood. 
 These too we honor in honoring her 
 
 but thou, 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 17 
 
 Abstain thy feet from following, and 
 
 thine eyes 
 From amorous touch ; nor set toward 
 
 hers thine heirt, 
 Son, lest hate bear no deadlier fruit 
 than love. 
 Althcza. O king, thou art wise, but 
 wisdom halts; and just, 
 But the gods love not justice more than 
 
 fate. 
 And smite the righteous and the violent 
 
 mouth, 
 And mix with i.nsolent blood the rever- 
 ent m?tn's, 
 And bruise -the holier as the lying lips. 
 Enough ; f..t)r wise words fail me, and 
 
 m'y heart 
 Takes -fire and trembles flamewise, O 
 
 my son, 
 O ch'iid, for thine head's sake; mine 
 ( eyes wax thick, 
 
 T'u rning toward thee, so goodly a weap- 
 oned man, 
 . i glorious ; and for love of thine own 
 eyes 
 Thev are darkened, and tears burn 
 
 them, fierce as fire, 
 And my lips pause and my soul sinks 
 
 with love. 
 Bc^t by thine hand, by thy sweet life 
 
 and eyes. 
 By thy great heart and these clasped 
 
 knees, O son, 
 I pray thee that thou slay me not with 
 
 thee. 
 For there was never a mother wortxan- 
 
 born 
 Loved her sons better; and never a 
 
 queen of men 
 More perfect in her heart toward whom 
 
 she loved. 
 For what lies light on many and they 
 
 forget, 
 Small things and transitory as a wind 
 
 o' the sea, 
 I forget never; I have seen thee all 
 
 thine years 
 A man in arms, strong and a joy to 
 
 men 
 Seeing thine head glitter and thine 
 
 hand burn its way 
 Through a heavy and iron furrow of 
 sundering spears ; 
 
 But always also a flower of three suns 
 
 old. 
 The small one thing that lying drew 
 
 down my life 
 To lie with thee and feed thee; a child 
 
 and weak. 
 Mine, a delight to no man, sweet to 
 
 me. 
 Who then sought to thee.^ who gat 
 
 help.-* who knew 
 If thou wert goodlv.'* nay, no man at 
 
 all. 
 Or what sea saw thee, or sounded with 
 
 thine oar, 
 Child? or what strange land shone 
 
 with war through thee .'' 
 But fair for me thou wert, O little life. 
 Fruitless, the fruit of mine own flesh, 
 
 and blind. 
 More than much gold, ungrown, a fool- 
 ish flower. 
 For silver nor bright snow nor feather 
 
 of foam 
 Was whiter, and no gold yellower than 
 
 thine hair, 
 
 child, my child; and now thou art 
 
 lordlier grown, 
 Not lovelier, nor a new thing in mine 
 eyes, 
 
 1 charge thee by thy soul and this my 
 
 breast, 
 Fear thou the gods and me and thine 
 
 own heart. 
 Lest all these turn against thee; for 
 
 who knows 
 What wind upon what wave of altering 
 
 time 
 Shall speak a storm and blow calamity ^ 
 And there is nothing stabile in the 
 
 world 
 But the gods break it ; yet not less, fair 
 
 son. 
 If but one thiug be stronger, if one en- 
 dure, 
 Surely the bitter and the rooted love 
 That burns between us, going from me 
 
 to thee, 
 Shall more endure than all things. 
 
 What dost thou. 
 Following strange loves? why wilt thou 
 
 kill mine heart ? 
 Lo, I talk wild and windy words, and 
 ' fall 
 
i8 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDOJST. 
 
 Irom my clear wits, and seem of mine 
 
 own self 
 Dethroned, dispraised, di >-sealed ; and 
 
 my mind, 
 That was my crown, breaks, and mine 
 
 heart IS gone, 
 \n.l I am naked ol my soul, and stand 
 Vshamed, as a mean woman; take thou 
 
 thought : 
 J.ive if thou wilt, and if thou wilt not, 
 
 look, 
 '\'\\c gods have given thee life to lose 
 
 or keep, 
 I'hou shalt not die as men die, but 
 
 thine end 
 Fallen upon thee shall break me un- 
 aware. 
 Meicaj^c?-. Queen, my whole heart is 
 
 molten witn thy tears. 
 And my limbs yearn with pity of thee, 
 
 and love 
 Compels with grief mine eyes and la- 
 boring breath : 
 F -r what thou art I know thee, and 
 
 this thy breast 
 And thy fair eyes I worship, and am 
 
 bound 
 li^ward thee in spirit and love thee in 
 
 all my soul. 
 Fur there is' nothing terribler to men 
 Than the sweet face of mothers, and 
 
 the might. 
 Hut what shall be, let be ; for us the day 
 Once only lives a little, and is not found. 
 Time and the fruitful hour are more 
 
 than wi , 
 And these la\ hold upon us; but thou, 
 
 God, ' 
 Zeus, the sole steersman of the helm of 
 
 things, 
 Fath.er, be swift to see us, and as thou 
 
 wilt 
 llelj): or if adverse, as thou wilt, 
 
 refrain. 
 Chortis. We have seen thee, O Love, 
 
 thou art fair; th(^u art goodly, O 
 
 Love ; 
 Tl.y wings make light in the air as the 
 
 wing? of a dove. 
 i hy feet are as winds that divide the 
 
 stream of the sea ; 
 ICarlh is thy covering to hide thee, the 
 
 garment of thee. 
 
 Thou art swift anc" subtle and blind i 
 
 a flame of fre ; '^ 
 
 Before thee the lai-hter, behind thee. 
 
 thf tears of desire; 
 And twain go forth beside thee, a ma; 
 
 with a maid; 
 Her eyes are the eyes of a bride who: 
 
 delight makes afraid; 
 As the breath in the buds that stir '.. 
 
 her bridal breath : 
 But Fate is the name of her; and hia 
 
 name is Death. 
 
 For ian evil blossom was bt^rn 
 
 Of sea-foam and the frothi.ng of i)iood, 
 Blood-red and bitter of f>uit, 
 And the seed of it laugihter anc' 
 tears. 
 And the leaves of it madness and ^ "^corn • 
 A bitter flower from the bud, 
 Sprung of the sea without ro"i 
 Sprung without graft from i 
 years. 
 
 The weft of the world was untrrn 
 That is woven of the day on the 
 
 night, 
 The hair of the hours was not white 
 Nor the raiment of time overworn. 
 
 When a wonder, a world's delight, 
 A perilous goddess w as born ; 
 
 And the waves of the sea as she came 
 Clove, and the foam at htr feet. 
 
 Fawning, rejoiced to bring forth 
 A fleshly blossom, a flame 
 Filling the heavens with heat 
 
 To the cold white ends of the north. 
 
 And in air the clamorous birds, • 
 And men upon earth that hear 
 Sweet articulate words 
 Sweetly divided apart. 
 And in shallow and chaimel and mere 
 The rapid and footless herds, 
 
 Rejoiced, being foolish of heart. 
 
 For all thej' said upon earth, 
 She is fair, she is white like a dove, 
 And the life of the world in her 
 breath 
 Breathes, and is born at her birth , 
 For they knew thee for njother of love, 
 And knew thee twt mothcrof<.lcath. 
 
ATALANTA IN CALVDOAT. 
 
 19 
 
 lat hadst thou to do being born, 
 
 Mother, when winds were at ease, 
 
 \s a flower of the springtime of corn, 
 
 A flower of the foam of the seas ? 
 z. r bitter thou wast from thy birth. 
 Aphrodite, a mother of strife ; 
 i - »r before thee some rest was on earth, 
 I A little respite from tears, 
 / A little pleasure of life; 
 ) ''>r life was not then as thou art. 
 But as one that waxeth in years 
 Sweet-spoken, a fruitful wife ; 
 Earth had no thorn, and desire 
 No sting, neither death any dart; 
 What hadst thou to do amongst 
 these. 
 Thou, clothed with a burning fire. 
 Thou, girt with sorrow of heart, 
 
 Thou, sprung of the seed of the 
 seas 
 \s an ear from a seed of corn, 
 ' Asa brand plucked forth of a pyre, 
 Vs a ray shed forth of the morn, 
 
 For division of soul and disease, 
 "^^or a dart and a sting and a thorn ? 
 vVhat ailed thee then to be born ? 
 
 Was there not evil enough,' 
 Mother, and anguish on earth 
 Born with a man at his birth, 
 I Wastes underfoot, and above 
 
 Storm out of heaven, and dearth 
 ! Shaken down from the shining thereof, 
 Wrecks from afar overseas 
 And peril of shallow and firth, 
 
 And tears that spring and increase 
 In the barren places of mirth, 
 That thou, having wings as a dove. 
 Being girt with desire for a girth. 
 That thou must come after these. 
 That thou must lay on him love ? 
 
 Thou shouldst not so have been born : 
 But death should have risen with 
 thee, 
 Mother, and visible fear. 
 
 Grief, and tjie wringing of hands. 
 And noise of many that mourn ; 
 The smitten bosom, the knee 
 Bowed, and in each man's ear 
 A cry as of perishing lands, 
 A moan as of people in prison, 
 A tumult of infinite griefs ; 
 
 And thunder of storm on the 
 sands. 
 And wailing of wives on the shore; 
 And under thee newly arisen 
 
 Loud shoals and shipwrecking reefs, 
 Fierce air and violent light; 
 Sail rent and sundering oar. 
 Darkness, and noises of night; 
 Clashing of streams in the sea. 
 Wave against wave as a sword. 
 
 Clamor of currents, and foam ; 
 Rains making ruin on earth. 
 Winds that wax ravenous and roam 
 As wolves in a wolfish horde; 
 Fruits growing faint in the tree, 
 
 And blind things dead in their 
 birth; 
 Famine, and blighting of corn. 
 When thy time was come to be 
 born. 
 
 All these we know of; but thee 
 
 Who shall discern or declare ? 
 In the uttermost ends of the sea 
 The light of thine eyelids and hair, 
 The light of thy bosom as fire 
 Between the wheel of the sun 
 And the flying flames of the air ? 
 Wilt thou turn thee not yet noi 
 have pity. 
 But abide with despair and desire 
 And the crying of armies undone, 
 Lamentation of one -with another 
 And breaking of city by city ; 
 The dividing of friend against friend, 
 The severing of brother and 
 brother; 
 Wilt thou utterly bring to an end? 
 Have mercy, mother! 
 
 For against all men from of old 
 Thou hast set thine hand as a curse, 
 And cast out gods from their places 
 These things are spoken of thee. 
 Strong kings and goodly with gold 
 Thou hast found out arrows to j^ierce, 
 And made their kingdoms and races 
 As dust and surf of the sea. 
 All these, overburdened with woes 
 And with length of their days waxen 
 weak, 
 Thou slewest; and sentest more 
 over 
 
20 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Upon Tyro an evil thing, 
 Rent hair and a fetter and blows 
 Making bloody the flower of the 
 cheek, 
 Th<>ugh she lay by a god as a 
 lover. 
 Though fair, and the seed of a 
 king. 
 For of old, being full of thy fire. 
 She endured not longer to wear 
 On her bosom a saffron vest, 
 On her shoulder an ashwood 
 quiver; 
 Being mixed and made one through 
 desire 
 With Enipeus, and all her hair 
 
 Made moist with his mouth, and 
 
 her breast 
 . Filled full of the foam of the 
 river. 
 Atalanta. Sun, and clear light among 
 green hills, and day 
 Late risen and long sought after, and 
 
 you just gods 
 Whose hands divide anguish and rec- 
 ompense, 
 But first the sun's white sister, a maid 
 
 in heaven, 
 On earth of all maids worshipped — 
 
 hail, and hear. 
 And witness with me if not without sign 
 
 sent. 
 Not without- rule and reverence, I a 
 
 maid 
 Hallowed, and huntress holy as whom 
 
 I serve, 
 Here in your sight and eyeshot of these 
 
 men 
 Stand, girt as they toward hunting, and 
 
 my shafts 
 Drawn ; wherefore all ye stand up on 
 
 my side. 
 If I be pure and all ye righteous gods. 
 Lest one revile me, a woman, yet no 
 
 wife. 
 That bear a spear f(^r spindle, and this 
 
 bow strung 
 For a web woven; and with pure lips 
 
 salute 
 Heaven, and the face of all the gods, 
 
 and dawn 
 Filling with maiden flames and maiden 
 flowers 
 
 The starless fold o' the stars, and mak 
 
 ing sweet 
 The warm wan heights of the air, moori* 
 
 trodden ways 
 And breathless gates and extreme hills 
 
 of heaven. 
 Whom, having offered water and blood- 
 less gifts. 
 Flowers, and a golden circlet of pure 
 
 hair. 
 Next Artemis I bid be favorable 
 And make this day all golden, hers and 
 
 ours, 
 Gracious and good and white to the 
 
 unblamed end. 
 But thou, O well-beloved, of all my 
 
 days 
 Bid it be fruitful, and a crown for all. 
 To bring forth leaves and bind round 
 
 all my hair 
 With perfect chaplets woven for thine 
 
 of thee. 
 For not without the word of thy chaste 
 
 mouth. 
 For not without law given and clean 
 
 , command. 
 Across the white straits of the running 
 
 sea " 
 From Elis even to the Acheloian horn, 
 I with clear winds came hither and gen- 
 tle gods, 
 Far off my father's house, and left un- 
 
 cheered 
 lasius, and uncheered the Arcadian hills 
 And all their green-haired waters, and 
 
 all woods 
 Disconsolate, to hear no horn of mine 
 Blown, and l^ehold no flash of swift 
 
 white feet. 
 Meli'iii:^er. For thy name's sake and 
 
 awe toward thy chaste head, 
 O holiest Atalanta, no man dares 
 Praise thee, though fairer than whom 
 
 all men praise, 
 And godlike for thy grace of hallowed 
 
 hair 
 And holy habit of thine eyes, and feet 
 That make the blown foam neither 
 
 swift nor white 
 Though the wind winnow and whirl it, 
 
 yet we jiraise 
 Gods, fountl because of thee adora 
 
 ble 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON". 
 
 And for thy sake praiseworthiest from 
 
 all men : 
 Thee therefore we praise also, thee as 
 
 these, 
 Pure, and a light lit at the hands of 
 gods. 
 Toxeus. How long will ye whet spears 
 with eloquence. 
 Fight, and kill beasts dry-handed with 
 
 sweet words ? 
 Cease, or talk still and slay thy boars 
 at home. 
 Plexippus. Why, if she ride among 
 us for a man, 
 Sit thou for her and spin ; a man grown 
 
 girl 
 Is worth a woman weaponed ; sit thou 
 here. 
 Meleager. Peace, and be wise; no 
 
 gods love idle speech. 
 Plexippus. Nor any man a man's 
 
 mouth woman-tongued. 
 Meleager. For my lips bite not sharp- 
 er than mine hands. 
 Plexippus. Nay, both bite soft, but 
 
 no whit softly mine. 
 Meleager. Keep thme hands clean ; 
 
 they have time enough to stain. 
 Plexippus. For thine shall rest and 
 
 wax not red to-day. 
 Meleager. Have all thy will of words ; 
 
 talk out thine heart. 
 Althcea. Refrain your lips, O brethren, 
 and my son, 
 Lest words turn snakes and bite you 
 uttering them. 
 Toxeus. Except she give her blood 
 before the gods. 
 What profit shall a maid be among 
 men.? 
 Plexippus. Let her come crowned and 
 stretch her throat for a knife. 
 Bleat out her spirit, and die, and so shall 
 
 men 
 Through her too prosper and through 
 
 prosperous gods ; 
 But nowise through her living ; shall 
 
 she live 
 A flower-bud of the flower-bed, or sweet 
 
 fruit 
 For kisses and the honey-makmg mouth. 
 And play the shield for strong men and 
 the spear? 
 
 Then shall the heifer and her mate lot 
 
 horns. 
 And the bride overbear the groom, and 
 
 men 
 Gods; for no less division sunders these. 
 Since all things made are seasonable in 
 
 time. 
 But if one alter unseasonable are all. 
 But thou, O Zeus, hear me that I may 
 
 slay 
 This beast before thee and no man 
 
 halve with me 
 Nor woman, lest these mock thee, 
 
 though a god. 
 Who hast made men strong, and thou 
 
 being wise be held 
 Foolish; for wise is that thing which 
 
 endures. 
 Atalanta. Men, and the chosen of all 
 
 this people, and thou, 
 King, I beseech you, a little bear with 
 
 me. 
 For if my life be shameful that I live. 
 Let the gods witness, and their wrath ; 
 
 but these 
 Cast no such word against me. Thou, 
 
 O mine, 
 O holy, O happy goddess, if I sin 
 Changing the words of women and the 
 
 works 
 For spears and strange men's faces, 
 
 hast not thou 
 One shaft of all thy sudden seven that 
 
 pierced 
 Seven through the bosom or shining 
 
 throat or side, 
 All couched about one mother's loosen- 
 ing knees. 
 All holy born, engraffed of Tantalus .!* 
 But if toward any of you I am over 
 
 bold 
 That take thus much upon me, let him 
 
 think 
 How I, for all my forest holiness, 
 Fame, and this armed and iron maiden- 
 hood. 
 Pay thus much also; I shall have no 
 
 man's love 
 Forever, and no face of children born 
 Or feeding lips upon me or fastening 
 
 eyes 
 Forever, nor being dead shall kings mj 
 
 sons 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDO.V. 
 
 Mourn me and bury, and tears on 
 
 daughters' checks 
 Burn ; but a cold and sacred life, but 
 
 strange, 
 Ijut far from dances and the back- 
 blowing torch, 
 Far off from Howers or any bed of man, 
 Shall my life be forever: me the snows 
 That face the first o' the morning, and 
 
 cold hills 
 Full of the land-wind and sea-travelling 
 
 storms 
 And many a wandering wing of noisy 
 
 nights 
 That know the thunder and hear the 
 
 thickening wolves — 
 Me the utmost pine and footless frost 
 
 of woods 
 That talk with many winds and gods, 
 
 the hours 
 Re-risen, and white divisions of the 
 
 dawn, 
 Springs thousand-tongued with the in- 
 termitting reed, 
 And streams that murmur of the mother 
 
 snow — 
 Me these allure, and know me; but no 
 
 man 
 Knows, and my goddess only. Lo 
 
 row, see 
 If one of all you these things vex at all. 
 Would Clod that any of you had all the 
 
 praise 
 And 1 no manner of memory when I 
 
 die, 
 So might I show before her perfect eyes 
 Pure, whom I follow, a maiden to my 
 
 death. 
 I'lUl for the rest let all have all thev 
 
 will; 
 For is it a grief to vou that 1 have |)art, 
 ileing woman merely, in your male 
 
 might and deeds 
 D(jne by main strength.' yet in my body 
 
 is throned 
 Ks great a heart, and in my ypirii, O 
 
 men, 
 I have not less of godlike. I'^vil it were 
 'I'hat one a coward should mix with you, 
 
 one hand 
 Fearful, one eye abase itself; and these 
 Well might ye hate and well revile, not 
 
 me. 
 
 For not the difference of the several 
 
 flesh 
 Being vile or noble or beautiful or base 
 Makes praiseworthy, but purer spirit 
 
 and heart 
 Higher than these meaner mouths and 
 
 limbs, that feed, 
 Rise, rest, and are and are not ; and for 
 
 me. 
 What should I say? but by the gods of 
 
 the world 
 And this my maiden body, by all oaths 
 That bind the tongue of men and the 
 
 evil will, 
 I am not mighty-minded, nor desire 
 Crowns, nor the spoil of slain thmgs 
 
 nor the fame ; 
 Feed ye on these, eat and wa.\ fat ; cry 
 
 out. 
 Laugh, having eaten, and leap without 
 
 a lyre ; 
 Sing, mix the wind with clamor, smiie 
 
 and shake 
 Sonorous timbrels and tumultuous hair, 
 And fill the dance up with tempestuous 
 
 feet. 
 For I will none; but having prayed my 
 
 prayers 
 And made thank-offering for prosperi- 
 ties, 
 I shall go hence, and no man see me 
 
 more. 
 What thing is this for you to shout me 
 
 down, 
 What, for a man to grudge me this mv 
 
 life 
 As it were envious of all yours, and I 
 A thief of reputations ? nay, for now, 
 If there be any highest in heaven, a god 
 Above all thrones and thunders of the 
 
 gods 
 Throned, and the wheel of the world 
 
 roll under him, 
 Judge he between me and all of you, and 
 
 see 
 If I transgress at all : but ye, refrain 
 Transgressing hands and reinless 
 
 mouths, and keep 
 Silence, lest by much foam of violent 
 
 words 
 And jiroper poison of Vour lips ye die. 
 CEiteus. () flower of Tcgea, nuiden, 
 
 fleetest foot 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 i? 
 
 And holiest head of women, have good 
 
 cheer 
 Of thy good words : but ye, depart with 
 
 her 
 In peace and reverence, each with 
 
 blameless eye 
 Following his fate; exalt your hands 
 
 and hearts, 
 Strike, cease not, arrow on arrow and 
 
 wound on wound. 
 And go with gods, and with the gods 
 
 return. 
 Chorus. Who hath given man speech ? 
 
 or who hath set therein 
 A thorn for peril and a snare for 
 
 sin ? 
 For in the word his life is and his 
 
 breath. 
 And in the word his death, 
 That madness and the infatuate heart 
 
 may breed 
 From the word's womb the deed 
 And life bring one thing forth ere 'all 
 
 pass by, 
 Even one thing which is ours yet can- 
 not die, — 
 Death. Hast thou seen him ever any- 
 where, 
 Time's twin-born brother, imperishable 
 
 as he 
 Is perishable and plaintive, clothed 
 
 with care 
 And mutable as sand. 
 But death is strong and full of blood 
 
 and fair 
 And perdurable and like a lord of 
 
 land? 
 Nay, time thou seest not, death thou 
 
 wilt not see 
 Till life's right hand be loosened from 
 
 thine hand. 
 And thy life-days from thee. 
 For the gods very subtly fashion 
 
 Madness with sadness upon earth : 
 Not knowing in any wise compassion. 
 
 Nor holding pity of any worth ; 
 And many things they have given and 
 
 taken. 
 And wrought and ruined many things ; 
 The firm land have they loosed and 
 
 shaken. 
 And sealed the sea with all her 
 
 springs; 
 
 They have wearied time with heavy 
 burdens. 
 And vexed the lips of life with breath; 
 Set men to labor and given them guer- 
 dons. 
 Death, and great darkness after death ; 
 Put moans into the bridal measure 
 And on the bridal wools a stain ; 
 And circled pain about with pleasure, 
 
 And girdled pleasure about with pair ; 
 And strewed one marriage-bed wiJi 
 
 tears and fire 
 For extreme loathing and supreme de 
 sire. 
 
 What shall be done with all these tears 
 of ours ? 
 Shall they make water-springs in the 
 fair heaven 
 To bathe the brows of morning ? or lik? 
 
 flowers 
 Be shed and shine before the starriest 
 hours. 
 Or made the raiment of the weeping 
 Seven ? 
 Or rather, O our masters, shall they b«^ 
 Food for the famine of the grievous sea, 
 
 A great well-head of lamentation 
 Satiating the sad gods? or fall and flov 
 Among the years and seasons to an'' 
 fro. 
 And wash their feet with tribulation 
 And fill them full with grieving ere 
 they go ? 
 Alas, our lords, and yet alas again ! 
 Seeing all your iron heaven is gilt as 
 gold 
 But all we smite thereat in vain; 
 Smite the gates barred with groanings 
 manifold. 
 But all the floors are paven with our 
 pain. 
 Vea, and with weariness of lips and 
 
 eyes, 
 With breaking of the bosom, and with 
 sighs. 
 We labor, and are clad and fed with 
 grief 
 And filled with days we would not fain 
 
 behold 
 And nights we would not hear of; wc 
 wax old, 
 All we wax old and wither like a leaf. 
 
atalanta in calydon. 
 
 We are outcast, strayed between bright 
 sun and moon ; 
 Our light and darkness are as leaves 
 of flowers, 
 Black flowers and white, that perish ; 
 and the noon 
 As midnight, and the night as day- 
 light hours. 
 A iittle fruit a little while is ours, 
 And the worm finds it soon. 
 
 Fut up in heaven the high gods one by 
 one 
 Lay hands upon the draught that 
 quickeneth, 
 Fulfilled with all tears shed and all 
 things done. 
 And stir with soft imperishable breath 
 The bubbling bitterness of life and 
 death, 
 And hold it to our lips, and laugh ; but 
 
 they 
 Preserve their lips from tasting night 
 or day, 
 Lest they too change and sleep, the 
 fates that spun, 
 The lips that made us and the hands 
 that slay; 
 Lest all these change, and heaven 
 bow down to none. 
 Change and be subject to the secular 
 sway 
 And terrene revolution of the s\m. 
 Therefore they thrust it from them, 
 putting time away. 
 
 I would the wine of time, made sharp 
 and sweet 
 With multitudinous days and nights 
 
 and tears 
 And many mixing savors of strange 
 years, 
 Were no more trodden of them under 
 feet. 
 Cast out and s])ilt about their ht)ly 
 places: 
 That life were given them as a fruit to eat 
 And death to drink as water; that the 
 
 light 
 Alight cl)l), drawn backward from their 
 eyes, and night 
 Hide f(jr one hour the imperishable 
 faces. 
 
 That they might rise up sad in heaven, 
 
 and know- 
 Sorrow and sleep, one paler than young 
 
 snow. 
 One cold as blight of dew and ruinous 
 
 rain; 
 Rise up and rest and suffer a little, and 
 
 be 
 Awhile as all things born with us and 
 
 we. 
 And grieve as men, and like slain 
 
 men be slain. 
 
 For now we know not of them ; but 
 one saith 
 The gods are gracious, praising God; 
 and one. 
 When hast thou seen? or hast thou felt 
 his breath 
 Touch, nor consume thine eyelids as 
 the sun, 
 Nor fill thee to the lips w ith fiery death ? 
 
 None hath beheld him, none' 
 Seen above other gods and shapes of 
 
 things, 
 Swift without feet and flying without 
 
 wings. 
 Intolerable, not clad with death or life, 
 Insatiable, not known of night or 
 day, 
 The lord of love and loathing and of 
 strife. 
 Who gives a star, and takes a sun 
 away ; 
 Who shapes the soul, and makes her a 
 barren wife 
 To the earthly body and grievous 
 growth of clav ; 
 Who turns the large limbs to a little 
 flame. 
 And binds the great sea with a little 
 sand ; 
 Who makes desire, and slays desire 
 with shame ; 
 Who shakes the heaven as ashes in 
 his hand; 
 Who, seeing the light and shadow for 
 the same, 
 Bids day waste night as fire devours 
 a brand, 
 Smites without sword, and scoiuges 
 without rotl, — 
 The supreme evil, (iod. 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 25 
 
 Yea, with thine hate, O God, thou hast 
 
 covered us, 
 One saith, and hidden our eyes away 
 from sight. 
 And made us transitory and hazardous, 
 
 Light things and slight ; 
 Yet have men praised thee, saying. He 
 nath made man thus. 
 And he doeth right. 
 Thou hast kissed us, and hast smitten ; 
 
 thou hast laid 
 U pon us with thy left hand life, and said, 
 Live : and again thou hast said. Yield 
 
 up your breath. 
 And with thy right hand laid upon us 
 
 death. 
 Thou hast sent us sleep, and stricken 
 sleep with dreams. 
 Saying, Joy is not, but love of joy 
 shall be ; 
 Thou hast made sweet springs for all 
 
 the pleasant streams. 
 In the end thou hast made them bitter 
 
 with the sea. 
 Thou hast fed one rose with dust of 
 many men ; 
 Thou hast marred one face with fire 
 of many tears ; 
 Thou hast taken love, and given us 
 sorrow again ; 
 With pain thou hast filled us full to 
 the eyes and ears. 
 Therefore because thou art strong, our 
 father, and we 
 Feeble ; and thou art against us, and 
 thine hand 
 Constrains us in the shallows of the sea 
 And breaks us at the limits of the 
 land ; 
 Because thou hast bent thy lightnings 
 as a bow. 
 And loosed the hours like arrows ; 
 and let fall 
 Sins and 'vild words and many a winged 
 woe 
 And wars among us, and one end of 
 all ; . 
 Because thou hast made the thunder, 
 and thy feet 
 Are as a rushing water when the skies 
 Break, but thy face as an exceeding heat. 
 And flames of fire the eyelids of 
 thine eyesj 
 
 Because thou art over all who are over 
 us; 
 Because thy name is life, and our 
 name death; 
 Because thou art cruel, and men are 
 piteous, 
 And our hands labor, and thine hand 
 scattereth : 
 Lo, with hearts rent and knees made 
 tremulous, 
 Lo, with ephemeral lips and casual 
 breath, 
 At least we witness of thee ere we 
 die 
 That these things are not otherwise, 
 but thus ; 
 That each man in his heart sigheth, 
 and saith. 
 That all men even as I, 
 All we are against thee, against thee, 
 O God most high. 
 But ye, keep ye on earth 
 Your lips from over-speech. 
 Loud words and longing are so little 
 worth ; 
 And the end is hard to reach. 
 For silence after grievous things is 
 good. 
 And reverence, and the fear that 
 makes men whole. 
 And shame, and righteous governance 
 of blood. 
 And lordship of the soul. 
 But from sharp words and wits men 
 
 pluck no fruit. 
 And gathering thorns they shake the 
 
 tree at root ; 
 For words divide and rend ; 
 But silence is most noble till the end. 
 Altfuva. I heard within the house a 
 cry of news. 
 And came forth eastward hither, where 
 
 the dawn 
 Cheers first these warder gods that face 
 
 the sun, 
 And next our eyes unrisen ; for unaware 
 Came clashes of swift hoofs and tram- 
 pling feet. 
 And through the windy pillared corri- 
 dor 
 Light sharper than the frequent flames 
 
 of day 
 That daily fill it from the fiery dawn j 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Gleams, and a thunder of people that 
 
 cried out, 
 And dust and hurrying horsemen; lo 
 
 their chief, 
 That rode with CEneus rein by rein, 
 
 returned. 
 What cheer, O herald of my lord the 
 king ? 
 Herald. Lady, good cheer and great : 
 
 the boar is slain. 
 Chorus. Praised be all gods that look 
 
 toward Calydon. 
 Althcca. Good news and brief; but 
 
 by whose happier hand .'' 
 Herald. A maiden's and a prophet's 
 
 and thy son's. 
 Althcca. Well fare the spear that 
 
 severed him and life. 
 Herald. Thine own, and not an alien, 
 
 hast thou blest. 
 Althcra. Twice be thou too for my 
 
 sake blest and his. 
 Herald. At the king's word I rode 
 
 afoam for thine. 
 Althiva. Thou sayest he tarrieth till 
 
 they bring the spoil ? 
 Herald. Hard by the quarry, w'^ere 
 
 they breathe, O queen. 
 Althcra. Speak thou their chance; 
 but some bring flowers, and 
 crown 
 These gods and all the lintel, and shed 
 
 wine, 
 Fetch sacrifice and slay; for Meaven is 
 good. 
 Herald. .Some furlongs northward 
 where the brakes begin. 
 West of that narrowing range of war- 
 rior hills 
 Whose brooks have lilcd with battle 
 
 when thy son 
 Smote Acarnania, there all they made 
 
 halt. 
 And with keen eye took note of spear 
 
 and hound. 
 Royally ranked: Laertes island-born, 
 The young Gerenian Nestor, I'anopeus, 
 And Cepheus and Ancacus, mightiest 
 
 thewed, 
 Arcadians ; next, and evil-eyed of these, 
 Arcadian .\talanta, with twain hounds 
 Lenjjthcning the leash, and under nose 
 and bruw 
 
 Glittering with lipless tooth and fire- 
 swift eye ; 
 
 But from her white braced shoulder the 
 plumed shafts 
 
 Rang, and the bow shone from her 
 side ; next her 
 
 Meleager, like a sun in spring that 
 strikes 
 
 Branch into leaf and bloom into the 
 world, 
 
 A glory among men meaner; Iphicles, 
 
 And following him that slew the biform 
 bull 
 
 Pirithous, and divine Eurytion, 
 
 And, bride-bound to the gods, Aiacides ; 
 
 Then Telamon his brother, and Argive- 
 born 
 
 The seer and sayer of visions and of 
 truth, 
 
 AmphJaraus ; and a fourfold strength, 
 
 Thine, even thy mother's and thy sis- 
 ter's sons ; 
 
 And recent from the roar of foreign 
 foam 
 
 Jason, and Dryas twin-begot with war, 
 
 A blossom of bright battle, sword and 
 man 
 
 .Shining; and Idas; and the keenest 
 eye 
 
 Of Lynceus ; and Admetus twice-es- 
 poused ; 
 
 And Hipi)asus and Ilyleus, great in 
 heart. 
 
 These having halted bade blow horns, 
 and rode 
 
 Through woods and waste lands cleft 
 by stormy streams. 
 
 Past yew-trees and the heavy hair of 
 jiines, 
 
 And where the dew is thickest under 
 oaks. 
 
 This way and that; but questing up 
 and down 
 
 They saw no trail, nor scented; and 
 one said, — 
 
 Plexippus, — Help, or help not, Arte- 
 mis, 
 
 And we will tlay thy boar-skin with 
 male hands ; 
 
 But saying, he ceased and said not that 
 he would, 
 
 Seeing where the green ooze of a sun' 
 struck marsh 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 27 
 
 Shook with a thousand reeds untunable, 
 And in their moist and multitudinous 
 
 flower 
 Slept no soft sleep, with violent visions 
 
 fed, 
 The blind bulk of the immeasurable 
 
 beast. 
 And seeing, he shuddered with sharp 
 
 lust of praise 
 Through all his limbs, and launched a 
 
 double dart. 
 And missed ; for much desire divided 
 
 him. 
 Too hot of spirit and feebler than his 
 
 will, 
 That his hand failed, though fervent; 
 
 and the shaft. 
 Sundering the rushes, in a tamarisk stem 
 Shook, and stuck fast. Then all abode 
 
 save one, 
 The Arcadian Atalanta: from her side 
 Sprang her hounds, laboring at the 
 
 leash, and slipped. 
 And plashed ear-deep with plunging 
 
 feet; but she. 
 Saying, Speed it as I send it for thy 
 
 sake, 
 Goddess, drew bow and loosed ; the 
 
 sudden string 
 Rang, and sprang inward, and the 
 
 waterish air 
 Hissed, and the moist plumes of the 
 
 songless reeds 
 Moved as a wave which the wind moves 
 
 no more. 
 But the boar heaved half out of ooze 
 
 and slime 
 His tense flank trembling round the 
 
 barbed wound. 
 Hateful ; and fiery with invasive eyes 
 And bristling with intolerable hair 
 Plunged, and the hounds clung, and 
 
 green flowers and white 
 Reddened and broke all round them 
 
 where they came. 
 And charging with sheer tusk he drove, 
 
 and smote 
 Hyleus; and sharp death caught his 
 
 sudden soul. 
 And violent sleep shed night upon his 
 
 eves. 
 Then Peleus, with strong strain of hand 
 
 and heart, 
 
 Shot ; but the sidelong arrow slid, and 
 slew 
 
 His comrade born and loving country- 
 man, 
 
 Under the left arm smitten, as he no 
 less 
 
 Poised a like arrow; and bright blood 
 brake afoam. 
 
 And falling, and weighed back by clam 
 orous arms, 
 
 Sharp rang the dead limbs of Eurytion 
 
 Then one shot happier, the Cadmean 
 seer, 
 
 Amphiaraus; for his sacred shaft 
 
 Pierced the red circlet of one ravening 
 eye 
 
 Beneath the brute brows of the san- 
 guine boar, 
 
 Now bloodier from one slain ; but he 
 so galled 
 
 Sprang straight, and rearing cried no 
 lesser cry 
 
 Than thunder and the roar of winter- 
 ing streams 
 
 That mix their own foam with the yel- 
 lower sea; 
 
 And as a tower that falls by fire in 
 fight 
 
 With ruin of 'walls and all its archery, 
 
 And breaks the iron flower of wa* 
 beneath. 
 
 Crushing charred limbs and molten 
 arms of men ; 
 
 So through crushed branches and the 
 reddening brake 
 
 Clamored and crashed the fervor of 
 his feet. 
 
 And trampled, springing sideways from 
 the tusk, 
 
 Too tardy a moving mould of heavy 
 strength, 
 
 Anca^us; and as flakes of weak-winged 
 snow 
 
 Break, all the hard thews of his heav- 
 ing limbs 
 
 Broke, and rent flesh fell every way, 
 and blood 
 
 Flew, and fierce fragments of no more 
 a man. 
 
 Then all the heroes di^ew sharp breath, 
 and gazed. 
 
 And smote not; but Mcle*ger, but thy 
 son. 
 
28 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Right in the wild way of the coming 
 
 curse 
 Rock-rooted, fair with fierce and fas- 
 tened lips, 
 Clear eyes, and springing muscle and 
 
 shortening limb — 
 With chin aslant indrawn to a tighten- 
 ing throat. 
 Grave, and with gathered sinews, like 
 
 a god, — 
 Aimed on the left side his well-handled 
 
 spear 
 Grasped where the ash was knottiest 
 
 hewn, and smote. 
 And with no missile wound, the mon- 
 strous boar 
 Right in the hairiest hollow of his hide 
 Under the last rib, sheer through bulk 
 
 and bone, 
 Deep in ; and deeply smitten, and to 
 
 death, 
 The heavy horror with his hanging 
 
 shafts 
 Leapt, and feU furiously, and from 
 
 raging lips 
 Foamed out the latest wrath of all his 
 
 life. 
 And all they praised the gods with 
 
 mightier heart, 
 Zeus and all gods, but chiefliest Artemis, 
 Seeing ; but Meleager bade whet knives 
 
 and flay, 
 Strip and stretch out the splendour of 
 
 the spoil ; 
 And hot and horrid from the work all 
 
 these 
 Sat, and drew breath, and drank and 
 
 made .great cheer, 
 And washed the hard sweat off their 
 
 calmer brows. 
 For much sweet grass grew higher than 
 
 grew the reed, 
 And good for slumber, and every holier 
 
 herb. 
 Narcissus, and the low-lying melilote. 
 And all of goodliest blade and bloom 
 
 that si)rings 
 Where, hid by heavier hyacinth, violet 
 
 buds 
 Blossom and burn-, and fire of yellower 
 
 flowers 
 And light of crescent lilies, and such 
 
 leaves 
 
 As fear the faun's and know the 
 
 dryad's foot ; 
 Olive and ivy and poplar dedicate, 
 And many a wellspring over-watched of 
 
 these. 
 There now they rest ; but me the king 
 
 bade bear 
 Good tidings to rejoice this town and 
 
 thee. 
 Wherefore be glad, and all ye give 
 
 much thanks. 
 For fallen is all the trouble of Calydon. 
 Alth(sa. Laud ye the gods; for this 
 
 they have given is good. 
 And what shall be, they hide until their 
 
 time. 
 Much good and somewhat grievous hast 
 
 thou said. 
 And either well ; but let all sad things 
 
 be, 
 Till all have made before the prosperous 
 
 gods 
 Burnt-offering, and poured out the floral 
 
 wine. 
 Look fair, O gods, and favorable ; for 
 
 we 
 Praise you with no false heart or flatter- 
 ing mouth. 
 Being merciful, but with pure souls and 
 
 prayer. 
 Herald. Thou hast prayed well ; for 
 
 whoso fears not these. 
 But once being prosperous waxes huge 
 
 of heart, 
 I^im shall some new thing unaware 
 
 destroy. 
 *" Chorus. O that I now, I too were 
 By deep wells and water-floods, 
 Streams of ancient hills, and where 
 All the wan green places bear 
 Blossoms cleaving to the sod, 
 Fruitless fruit, and grasses fair, 
 Or such darkest ivy-buds 
 As divide thy yellow hair, 
 Bacchus, and their leaves that nod 
 Round thy fawnskin brush the bare 
 Snow-soft shoulders of a god; 
 There the year is sweet, and there 
 Earth is full of secret springs. 
 And the fervent rose-cheeked hours. 
 Those that marry dawn and noon. 
 There are sunless, there look pale 
 In dim leaves and hidden air. 
 
AT ALA NT A IN CALYDON. 
 
 29 
 
 Pale as grass or latter flowers 
 
 Or the wild vine's wan wet rings 
 
 Full of dew beneath the moon, 
 
 And all day the nightingale 
 
 Sleeps, and all night sings; 
 
 There in cold remote recesses 
 
 That nor alien eyes assail,' 
 
 Feet, nor imminence of wings, 
 
 Nor a wind nor any tune. 
 
 Thou, O queen and holiest, 
 
 Flower the whitest of all things, 
 
 With reluctant lengthening tresses 
 
 And with sudden splendid breast 
 
 Save of maidens unbeholden, 
 
 There art wont to enter, there 
 
 Thy divine swift limbs and golden 
 
 Maiden growth of unbound hair. 
 
 Bathed in waters white. 
 
 Shine, and many a maid's by thee 
 
 In moist woodland or the hilly 
 
 Flowerless brakes where wells abound 
 
 Out of all men's sight ; 
 
 Or in lower pools that see 
 
 All their marges clothed all round 
 
 With the innumerable lily, 
 
 Whence the golden-girdled bee 
 
 Flits through flowering rush to fret 
 
 White or duskier violet, 
 
 Fair as those that in far years 
 
 With their buds left lummous 
 
 And the'T little leaves made wet 
 
 From the warmer dew of tears, 
 
 Mother's tears in extreme need. 
 
 Hid the limbs of lamus. 
 
 Of thy brother's seed ; 
 
 For his heart was piteous 
 
 Toward him, even as thine heart now 
 
 Pitiful toward us ; 
 
 Thine, O goddess, turning hither 
 
 A benignant blameless brow ; 
 
 Seeing enough of evil done 
 
 And lives withered as leaves wither 
 
 In the blasting of the sun ; 
 
 Seeing enough of hunters dead. 
 
 Ruin enough of all our year, 
 
 Herds and harvests slain and shed. 
 
 Herdsmen stricken many an one, 
 
 Fruits and flocks consumed together. 
 
 And great length of deadly days. 
 
 Yet with reverent lips and fear 
 
 Turn we toward thee, turn and praise 
 
 For this lightening of clear weather 
 
 And prosperities begun. 
 
 For not seldom, when all air 
 As bright water without breath 
 Shines, and when men fear not, fate 
 Without thunder unaware 
 Breaks, and brings down death. 
 Joy with grief ye great gods give, 
 Good with bad, and overbear 
 All the pride of us that live. 
 All the high estate. 
 As ye long since overbore. 
 As in old time long before, 
 Many a strong man and a great, 
 All that were. 
 
 But do thou, sweet, otherwise. 
 Having heed of all our prayer, 
 Taking note of all our sighs; 
 We beseech thee by thy light, 
 By thy bow, and thy sweet eyes, 
 And the kingdom of the night. 
 Be thou favorable and fair; 
 By thine arrows and thy might 
 And Orion overthrown; 
 By the maiden thy delight, 
 By the indissoluble zone 
 And the sacred hair. 
 
 Messenger. Maidens, if ye will sing 
 
 now, shift your song. 
 Bow down, cry, wail for pity; is this a time 
 For singing ? nay, for strewing of dust 
 
 and ash. 
 Rent raiment, and for bruising of the 
 
 breast. 
 Chorus. What new thing wolf-like 
 
 lurks behind thy words.? 
 What snake's tongue in thy lips ? what 
 
 fire in the eyes .'' 
 Messenger. Bring me before the 
 
 queen, and I will speak. 
 Chorus. Lo, she comes forth as from 
 
 thank-offering made. 
 Messenger. A barren offering for a 
 
 bitter gift. 
 Althcea. What are these borne on 
 
 branches, and the face 
 Covered ? no mean men living, but now 
 
 slain 
 Such honor have they, if any dwell 
 
 with death. 
 Messenger. Queen, thy twain brethren 
 
 and thy mother's sons. 
 AlthcBa. Lay down your dead till I 
 
 behold their blood 
 If it be mine indeed, and I will weep. 
 
30 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Messettgcr. Weep if thou wilt, for 
 
 these men shall no more. 
 Altluca. O brethren, O my father's 
 
 sons, of me 
 Well loved and well reputed, I should 
 
 weep 
 Tears dearer than the dear blood drawn 
 
 from you 
 But that I know you not uncomforted. 
 Sleeping no shameful sleep, however 
 
 slain. 
 For niyson surelyhath avengedyou dead. 
 Messenger. Nay, should thine own 
 
 seed slay himself, O queen .'' 
 Altluca. Thy double word brings forth 
 
 a double death. 
 Messenger. Know this then singly, by 
 
 one hand they fell. 
 Althcra. What mutterest thou with 
 
 thine ambiguous mouth } 
 Messenger. Slain by thy son's hand : 
 
 is that saying so hard.-* 
 Altfuea. Our time is come upon us : 
 
 it is here. 
 Chorus. O miserable, and spoiled at 
 
 thine own hand ! 
 Althica. Wert thou not called Me- 
 
 1 eager from this womb ? 
 Chorns. A grievous huntsman hath it 
 
 bred to thee. 
 Alth(Ea. Wert thou born fire, and 
 
 shalt thou not devour ? 
 Chorus. The fire thou madest, will it 
 
 consume even thee ? 
 AlthcBii. My dreams are fallen upon 
 
 me : burn thou too. 
 Chorus. Not without God are visions 
 
 born and die. 
 Althcea. The gods are many about 
 
 me ; I am one. 
 Chorus. She groans as men wrestling 
 
 with heavier gods. 
 Alth<m. They rend me, they divide 
 
 me, they destroy. 
 Chorus. C)r one laboring in travail of 
 
 strange births. 
 Althiea. They are strong, they are 
 
 strong : I am broken, and these 
 
 l)revail. 
 Chorus. The god is great against her : 
 
 she will ilic. 
 AlthiFu. \'ca, but not now; for my 
 
 heart too is great. 
 
 I would I were not here in sight of the 
 
 sun. 
 But thou, speak all thou sawest, and 1 
 
 will die. 
 Messenger. O queen, for queenlike 
 
 hast thou borne thyself, 
 A little word may hold so great mis- 
 chance. 
 For, in division of the sanguine spoil, 
 These men thy brethren wrangling bade 
 
 yield up 
 The boar's head and the horror of the 
 
 hide. 
 That this might stand a wonder in 
 
 Calydon, 
 Hallowed; and some drew toward 
 
 them ; but thy son, 
 With great hands grasping all that 
 
 weight of hair. 
 Cast down the dead heap clanging and 
 
 collapsed 
 At female feet, saying. This thy spoil, 
 
 not mine, 
 Maiden, thine own hand for thyself 
 
 hath reaped, 
 And all this praise God gives thee : she 
 
 thereat 
 Laughed, as when dawn touches the 
 
 sacred night 
 The sky sees laugh and redden and 
 
 divide 
 Dim lips and eyelids virgin of the sun. 
 Hers, and the warm slow breasts of 
 
 morning heave, 
 Fruitful, and flushed with flame from 
 
 lamp-lit hours, 
 And maiden undulation of clear hair 
 Color the clouds ; so laughed she from 
 
 pure heart 
 Lit with a low blush to the braided 
 
 hair, 
 And rose-colored and cold like very 
 
 dawn, 
 Golden and godlike, chastely with 
 
 chaste lips, 
 A faint grave laugh ; and all they held 
 
 their peace, 
 And she passed by ihcm. Then one 
 
 cried, Lo now, 
 Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips 
 
 at us. 
 Saying all we were despoilec^ by this 
 
 one girl? 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 And all they rode against her violently, 
 And cast the fresh crown from her hair, 
 
 and now 
 They had rent her spoil away, dishonor- 
 ing her, 
 Save that Meleager, as a tame lion 
 
 chafed, 
 Bore on them, broke them, and as fire 
 
 cleaves wood 
 So clove and drove them, smitten in 
 
 twain ; but she 
 Smote not nor heaved up hand ; and 
 
 this man first, 
 Plexippus, crying out, This for love's 
 
 sake, swe°:t, 
 Drove at Meleager, who with spear 
 
 straightening 
 Pierced his cheek through ; then Toxeus 
 
 made for him. 
 Dumb, but his spear spake ; vain and 
 
 violent words, 
 Fruitless : for him too, stricken through 
 
 both sides 
 The earth felt falling, and his horse's 
 
 foam 
 Blanched thy son's face, his slayer. 
 
 And these being slain, 
 Mone moved nor spake ; but CEneus 
 
 bade bear hence 
 These made of heaven infatuate in 
 
 their deaths. 
 Foolish; for these would baffle fate, 
 
 and fell. 
 And they passed on, and all men 
 
 honored her. 
 Being honorable, as one revered of 
 
 heaven. 
 Althcea. What say you, women ? is 
 
 all this not well done } 
 Chorus. No man doth well but God 
 
 hath part in him. 
 Althcea. But no part here ; for these 
 
 my brethren born 
 Ye have no part in, these ye know not of 
 As I that was their sister, a sacrifice 
 Slain in their slaying. I would I had 
 
 died for these ; 
 For this man dead walked with me, 
 
 child by child. 
 And made a weak staff for my feebler 
 
 feet 
 With his own tender wrist and hand, 
 
 and held 
 
 And led me softly, and showed me gold 
 
 and steel 
 And shining shapes of mirror and 
 
 bright crown, 
 And all things fair; and threw light 
 
 spears, and brought 
 Young hounds to huddle at my feet, 
 
 and thrust 
 Tame heads against my little maiden 
 
 breasts. 
 And please me with great eyes; and 
 
 those days went. 
 And these are bitter, and I a barren 
 
 queen 
 And sister miserable, a grievous thing. 
 And mother of many curses ; and she 
 
 too. 
 My sister Leda, sitting overseas 
 With fair fruits round her, and her 
 
 faultless lord. 
 Shall curse me, saying, A sorrow and 
 
 not a son. 
 Sister, thou barest, even a burning fire, 
 A brand consuming thine own soul and 
 
 me. 
 But ye now, sons of Thestius, make* 
 
 good cheer. 
 For ye shall have such wood to funeral 
 
 fire 
 As no king hath ; and flame that once 
 
 burnt down 
 Oil shall not quicken, or breath relume, 
 
 or wine 
 Refresh again ; much costlier than fine 
 
 gold. 
 And more than many lives of wander- 
 ing men. 
 Chorus. O queen, thou hast yet with 
 
 thee love-worthy things, — 
 Thine husband, and the great strength 
 
 of thy son. 
 Althcea. Who shall get brothers for 
 
 me while I live? 
 W^ho bear them .'' who bring forth in 
 
 lieu of these .'' 
 Are not our fathers and our brethren 
 
 one, 
 And no man like them ? are not mine 
 
 here slain ? 
 Have we not hung together, he and I, 
 Flowerwise feeding as the feeding bees, 
 With mother-milk for honey.' and thia 
 
 man too, 
 
32 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDOM 
 
 Dead, with mv son's spear thrust be- 
 tween his sides, 
 Hath he not seen us, later born than he. 
 Laugh with lips filled, and laughed 
 
 again for love ? 
 There were no sons then in the world, 
 
 nor spears. 
 Nor deadly births of women ; but the 
 
 gods 
 Allowed us, and our days were clear of 
 
 these. 
 I would I had died unwedded, and 
 
 brought forth 
 No swords to vex the world ; for these 
 
 that spake 
 Sweet words long since, and loved me, 
 
 will not speak 
 Nor love nor look upon me ; and all 
 
 my life 
 I shall not hear nor see them living 
 
 men. 
 But I too living, how shall I now live.'' 
 What life shall this be with my son, to 
 
 know 
 What hath been, and desire what will 
 
 not be, 
 Look for dead eyes, and listen for dead 
 
 lijjs. 
 And kill mine own heart with remem- 
 bering them. 
 And with those eyes that see their 
 
 slayer alive 
 Weep, and wring hands that clasp him 
 
 by the hand 1 
 How shall I bear my dreams of them, 
 
 to hear 
 False voices, feel the kisses of false 
 
 mouths 
 And footless sound of perished feet, 
 
 and then 
 Wake, and hear only, it may be, their 
 
 own hounds 
 Whine mastcrless in miserable sleep, 
 And see their boar-spears and their 
 
 beds and seats 
 And all the gear and housings of their 
 
 lives 
 And not the men ? Shall hounds and 
 
 horses mourn. 
 Pine with strange eyes, and prick uj) 
 
 hungry ears, 
 Famish and fail at heart for their dear 
 
 lords, 
 
 And I not heed at all > and those blind 
 
 things 
 Fall off from life for love's sake, and I 
 
 live.> 
 Surelv some death is better than some 
 
 ' life. 
 Better one death for him and these £.nd 
 
 me. 
 For, if the gods had slain them, it mav 
 
 be 
 I had endured it ; if they had fallen by 
 
 war. 
 Or by the nets and knives of privy death 
 And by hired hands while sleeping, this 
 
 thing too 
 I had set my soul to suffer ; or this hunt, 
 Had this despatched them, under tusk 
 
 or tooth 
 Torn, sanguine, trodden, broken ; for 
 
 all deaths 
 Or honorable, or with facile feet 
 
 avenged 
 And hands of swift gods following, all 
 
 save this. 
 Are bearable. But not for their sweet 
 
 land 
 Fighting, but not a sacrifice, lo these 
 Dead ; for I had not then shed all mine 
 
 heart 
 Out at mine eyes : then cither with good 
 
 speed. 
 Being just, I had slain their slayer aton- 
 
 ingly, 
 Or strewn with flowers their fire, and on 
 
 their tombs 
 Hung crowns, and over them a song, 
 
 and seen 
 Their jiraise outflame their ashes; for 
 
 all men. 
 All maidens, had come thither, and 
 
 from i)ure lips 
 Shed songs upon them, from heroic 
 
 eyes 
 Tears ; and their death had been a 
 
 deathless life ; 
 But now, by no man hired nor alien 
 
 sword, 
 By their own kindred are they fallen, in 
 
 peace, 
 After much peril, friendless among 
 
 friends. 
 By hateful hands they loved ; and hovr 
 
 shall mine 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 33 
 
 rouch these returning red and not from 
 
 war, 
 These fatal from the vintage of men's 
 
 veins, 
 Dead men my brethren ? how shall 
 
 these wasn off 
 No festal stains of undelightful wine, 
 I [ow mix the blood, my blood on them, 
 
 with me, 
 Holding mine hand? or how shall I 
 
 say. Son, 
 That am no sister? But by night and 
 
 day 
 Shall we not sit and hate each other, 
 
 and think 
 Things hate-worthy ? not live with 
 
 shamefast eyes, 
 Browbeaten, treading soft with fearful 
 
 feet. 
 Each unupbraided, each without rebuke 
 Convicted, and without a word reviled 
 Each of another? and I shall let thee 
 
 live 
 And see thee strong, and hear men for 
 
 thy sake 
 Praise me, but these thou wouldest not 
 
 let live 
 No man shall praise forever ? these 
 
 shall lie 
 Dead, unbeloved, unholpen, all through 
 
 thee ? 
 Sweet were they toward me living, and 
 
 mine heart 
 Desired them, but was then well satis- 
 fied, 
 That now is as men hungered ; and 
 
 these dead 
 I shall want always to the day I die. 
 For all things else and all men may 
 
 renew ; 
 Yea, son for son the gods may give 
 
 and take, 
 But never a brother or sister any more. 
 Chorus. Nay, for the son lies close 
 
 about thine heart, 
 full of thy milk, warm from thy womb, 
 
 and drains 
 Life, and the blood of life, and all thy 
 
 fruit. 
 Eats thee and drinks thee as who breaks 
 
 bread and eats, 
 Treads wine and drinks, thyself, a sect 
 
 of thee: 
 
 And if he feed not, shall not thy flesh 
 
 faint ? 
 Or drink not, are not thy lips dead for 
 
 thirst ? 
 This thing moves more than all things, 
 
 even thy son. 
 That thou cleave to him; and he shall 
 
 honor thee. 
 Thy womb that bare him and the breasts 
 
 he knew. 
 Reverencing most for thy sake all h's 
 
 gods. 
 Althcea. But these the gods too ga\ e 
 
 me ; and these my son. 
 Not reverencing his gods, nor mine own 
 
 heart. 
 Nor the old sweet years, nor all veneia- 
 
 ble things. 
 But cruel, and in his ravin like a beast. 
 Hath taken away to slay them : yea, 
 
 and she. 
 She the strange woman, she the flower, 
 
 the sword, 
 Red from spilt blood, a mortal flower 
 
 to men, 
 Adorable, detestable, — even she 
 Saw with strange eyes, and with strange 
 
 lips rejoiced. 
 Seeing these mine own slain of mizie 
 
 own, and me 
 Made miserable above all miseries 
 
 made, 
 A grief among all women in the world, 
 A name to be washed out with all men's 
 
 tears. 
 Chorus. Strengthen thy spirit : is this 
 
 not also a god. 
 Chance, and the wheel of all necessi- 
 ties ? 
 Hard things have fallen upon us from 
 
 harsh gods, 
 Whom, lest worse hap, rebuke we not 
 
 for these. 
 Althcea. My spirit is strong against 
 
 itself, and I 
 For these things' sake cry out on mine 
 
 own soul, 
 That it endures outrage, and dolorous 
 
 days, 
 And life, and this inexpiable impo- 
 tence. 
 Weak am I, weak and shameful ; my 
 
 breath drawn 
 
34 
 
 ATALAXTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Shames me, and monstrous things and 
 violent gods. 
 
 What shall atone? what heal me ? what 
 bring back 
 
 Strength to the foot, light to the face ? 
 what herb 
 
 Assuage me ? what restore me ? what 
 release ? 
 
 What strange thing eaten or drunken, 
 O great gods, 
 
 Make me as you, or as the beasts that 
 feed. 
 
 Slay and divide and cherish their own 
 hearts ? 
 
 For these ye show us ; and we less than 
 these 
 
 Have not wherewith to live as all these 
 things 
 
 Which all their lives fare after their 
 own kind 
 
 As who doth well rejoicing; but we ill. 
 
 Weeping or laughing, we whom eye- 
 sight fails. 
 
 Knowledge and light of face and per- 
 fect heart, 
 
 And hands we lack, and wit; and all 
 our days 
 
 Sin, and have hunger, and die infatu- 
 ated. 
 
 For madness have ye given us, and not 
 health. 
 
 And sins whereof we know not; and 
 for these 
 
 Death, and sudden destruction, un- 
 aware. 
 
 What shall we say now? what thing 
 comes of us? 
 Chorus. Alas! for all this all men 
 undergo. 
 
 AltJuca. Wherefore I will not that these 
 twain, () gods. 
 
 Die as a dog dies, eaten of creeping 
 things. 
 
 Abominable, a loathing; but though 
 dead 
 
 Shall they have honor and sm h fune- 
 real rtame 
 
 As strews men's ashes in their cncuiies' 
 face. 
 
 And blinds their eyes who hale thtm : 
 lest men say, 
 
 " Lo how they lie, and living had great 
 kin; 
 
 And none of these hath pity of them, 
 
 and none 
 Regards them lying, and none is wrung 
 
 at heart. 
 None moved in spirit for them, naked 
 
 and slain, 
 Abhorred, abased, and no tears comfort 
 
 them ; " 
 And in the dark this grieve Eurythemis, 
 Hearing how these her sons come down 
 
 to her 
 Unburied, unavenged, as kinless men, 
 And had a queen their sister. That 
 
 were shame 
 Worse than this grief. Vet how to 
 
 atone at all 
 I know not ; seeing the love of mv born 
 
 son, 
 A new-made mother's new-born love, 
 
 that grows 
 From the soft child to the strong man, 
 
 now soft, 
 Now strong as either, and still one sole 
 
 same love. 
 Strives with me, no light thing to strive 
 
 withal : 
 This love is deep, and natural to manV 
 
 blood. 
 And ineffaceable with many tears. 
 Yet shall not these rebuke' me, though 
 
 I die, ^ 
 
 Nor she in that waste world with all 
 
 her dead. 
 My mother, among the pale flocks fallen 
 
 as leaves, 
 F'olds of dead people, and alien from 
 
 the sun ; 
 Nor lack some bitter comfort, some 
 
 , poor praise. 
 Being cpicen, to have liorne her daugh 
 
 tcr like a queen 
 Righteous; and though mine own fire 
 
 burn me too. 
 She shall have honor, and these her 
 
 sons, though dead. 
 Hut all the gods will, all they do, and 
 
 wc 
 Not all wc would, yet somewhat; and 
 
 one choice 
 We have, to live and do just dteds and 
 
 die. 
 Chorus. Terrible wortls she com 
 
 munes with, and turns 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 35 
 
 Swift fiery eyes in doubt against herself, 
 
 And murmurs as who talks in dreams 
 with death. 
 Althcea. For the unjust also dieth, 
 and him all men 
 
 Hate, and himself abhors the unright- 
 eousness, 
 
 And seeth his own dishonor intoler- 
 able. 
 
 But I being just, doing right upon my- 
 self. 
 
 Slay mine own soul, and no man born 
 shames me. 
 
 For none constrains nor shall rebuke, 
 being done, 
 
 What none compelled me doing ; thus 
 these things fare. 
 
 Ah, ah ! that such things should so 
 fare ; ah me ! 
 
 That I am found to do them and endure, 
 
 Chosen and constrained to choose, and 
 bear myself 
 
 Mine own wound through mine own 
 flesh to the heart 
 
 Violently stricken, a spoiler and a spoil, 
 
 A ruin ruinous, fallen on mine own 
 son. 
 
 Ah, ah ! for me too as for these ; alas ! 
 
 For that is done that shall be, and mine 
 hand 
 
 Full of the deed, and full of blood mine 
 eyes, 
 
 That shall see never nor touch any thing 
 
 Save blood unstanched and fire un- 
 quenchable. 
 Chorus. What wilt thou do .'' what 
 ails thee ? for the house 
 
 Shakes ruinously : wilt thou bring fire 
 for it.^ 
 Althcra. Fire in the roofs, and on the 
 lintels fire. 
 
 Lo ye, who stand and weave, between 
 the doors. 
 
 There ; and blood drips from hand and 
 thread, and stains 
 
 Threshold and raiment and me passing 
 in 
 
 Flecked with the sudden sanguine drops 
 of death. 
 Chorus. Alas that time is stronger 
 than strong men, 
 
 Fate than all gods! and these are fallen 
 on us. 
 
 Aithcea. A little since, and I was glad; 
 and now 
 I never shall be glad or sad again. 
 Chorus. Between two joys a grief 
 
 grows unaware. 
 Althcva. A little while, and I shall 
 laugh ; and then 
 I shall weep never, and laugh not any 
 more. 
 Chorus. What shall be said? for 
 words are thorns to grief. 
 Withhold thyself a little, and fear the 
 gods. 
 Althfia. Fear died when these were 
 slain ; and I am as dead, 
 And fear is of the living ; these fear 
 none. 
 Chorus. TIave pity upon all people 
 
 for their sake. 
 Althcpa. It is done now : shall I put 
 
 back my day } 
 Chorus. An end is come, an end . 
 
 this is of God. 
 Althcea. I am fire, and burn myself: 
 
 keep clear of fire. 
 Chorus. The house is broken, is 
 
 broken ; it shall not stand. 
 Althcea. Woe, woe for him that 
 breaketh ; and a rod 
 Smote it of old, and now the axe is 
 here. 
 Chorus. Not as with sundering of the 
 earth. 
 Nor as with cleaving of the sea, 
 Nor fierce foreshadowings of a 
 birth. 
 Nor flying dreams of death to 
 be. 
 Nor loosening of the large world's 
 
 girth. 
 And quickening of the body of night, 
 And sound of thunder in men's 
 ears. 
 And fire of lightning in men's sight. 
 Fate, mother of desires and fears. 
 Bore unto men the law of tears. 
 But sudden, an unfathered lame. 
 And broken out of night, she 
 shone, — 
 She, without body, without name, 
 In days forgotten and foregone ; 
 And heaven rang round her as she 
 came, 
 
36 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALVDOiV. 
 
 Like smitten cymbals, and lay bare ; 
 Clouds and great stars, thunders 
 and snows, 
 The blue sad fields and folds of air, 
 The life that breathes, the life that 
 
 grows, 
 All wind, all fire, that burns or 
 blows, 
 Even all these knew her: for she is 
 great. 
 The daughter of doom, the mother 
 of death, 
 The sister of sorrow; a lifelong 
 weight 
 That no man's finger lighteneth, 
 Nor any god can lighten fate ; 
 A landmark seen across the way 
 Where one race treads as the other 
 trod; 
 An evil sceptre, an evil stay. 
 
 Wrought for a staff, wrought for a 
 
 rod. 
 The bitter jealousy of God. 
 
 For death is deep as the sea. 
 
 And fate as the waves thereof. 
 Shall the waves take pity on thee. 
 
 Or the south-wind offer thee love ? 
 
 Wilt thou take the night for thy day, 
 
 Or the darkness for light on thy way, 
 
 Till thou say in thine heart 
 
 Enough ? 
 
 Behold, thou art over fair, thou art over 
 
 wise ; 
 The sweetness of spring in thine hair, 
 
 and the light in thine eyes. 
 The light of the spring in thine eyes, 
 
 and the sound in thine ears; 
 Vet thine heart shall wax heavy with 
 sighs, and thine eyelids with 
 tears. 
 Wilt thou cover thine hair with gold, 
 
 and with silver thy feet? 
 Hast thou taken the purple to fold thee, 
 
 and made thy mouth sweet ? 
 15chf)ld, when thy face is made bare, he 
 
 that loved thee shall hate; 
 Thy face shall be no more fair at the 
 
 fall of thy fate. 
 For thy life shall fall as a leaf, and be 
 
 shed as the rain ; 
 And the veil of thine head shall be 
 grief; and the crown shall be pain. 
 
 Altluca. Ho, ye that wail, and ye that 
 sing, make way 
 Till I be come among you. Hide youi 
 
 tears, 
 Ve little weepers, and your laughing 
 
 lips. 
 Ye laughers, for a little ; lo mine eyes 
 That outweep heaven at rainiest, and 
 
 my mouth 
 That laughs as gods laugh at us ! 
 
 Fate's are we, 
 Yet fate is ours a breathing-space ; yea, 
 
 mine. 
 Fate is made mine forever; he is my 
 
 son. 
 My bedfellow, my brother. You strong 
 
 gods, 
 Give place unto me ; I am as any of 
 
 you. 
 To give life and to take life. Thou, 
 
 old earth. 
 That hast made man and unmade ; thou 
 
 whose mouth 
 Looks red from the eaten fruits of 
 
 thine own womb ; 
 Behold me with what lips upon what 
 
 food 
 I feed and fill my body; even with flesh 
 Made of my body. Lo, the fire I lit 
 I burn with fire to quench it; yea, with 
 
 flame 
 I burn up even the dust and ash there- 
 of. 
 Chorus. Woman, what fire is this 
 
 thou Inirnest with? 
 AltJura. Yea to the bone, yea to the 
 
 blood and all. 
 Chorus. For this thy face and ha-r 
 
 are as one fire. 
 Althda. A tongue that licks and beats 
 
 upon the dust. 
 Chorus. And in thine eyes arc hollow 
 
 light and heat. 
 Aithcea. C)f flame not fed with hand 
 
 or frankincense. 
 Chorus. I fear thee for the trembling 
 
 of thine eyes. 
 Althtra. Neither with love they trem 
 
 ble, nor for fear. 
 Chorus. And thy mouth shudder "-^g 
 
 like a shot bird. 
 Althtra. Not as the bride's mouth 
 when man kisses it. 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. ' 
 
 37 
 
 Chorus. Nay, but what thing is this 
 
 thing thou hast done ? 
 Althcca. Look, I am silent, speak 
 
 your eyes for me. 
 Chorus. I see a faint fire lightening 
 
 from the hall. 
 Alth(€a. Gaze, stretch your eyes, 
 
 strain till the lids drop off. 
 Chorus. Flushed pillars down the 
 
 flickering vestibule. 
 Althcea. Stretch with your necks like 
 
 birds ; cry, chirp as they. 
 Chorus. And a long brand that black- 
 ens : and white dust. 
 Althcpa. O children, what is this ye 
 see ? your eyes 
 Are blinder than night's face at fall of 
 
 moon. 
 That is my son, my flesh, my fruit of 
 
 life. 
 My travail, and the year's weight of my 
 
 womb, 
 Meleager, a fire enkindled of mine 
 
 hands 
 And of mine hands extinguished : this 
 is he. 
 Chorus. O gods, what word has flown 
 
 out at thy mouth ? 
 Althcea. I did this, and I say this, and 
 
 I die. 
 Chorus. Death stands upon the door- 
 way of thy lips, 
 And in thy mouth has death set up his 
 house. 
 Althaa. O death, a little, a little while, 
 sweet death, 
 Until I see the brand burnt down and 
 die. 
 Chorus. She reels as any reed under 
 the wind. 
 And cleaves unto the ground with stag- 
 gering feet. 
 Althcea. Girls, one thing will I say and 
 hold my peace. 
 [ that did this will weep not nor cry out, 
 Cry ye and weep : I will not call on 
 
 gods. 
 Call ye on them ; I will not pity man. 
 Show ye your pity. I know not if I 
 
 live ; 
 Save that I feel the fire upon my face, 
 And on my cheek the burning of a 
 brand. 
 
 Yea, the smoke bites me ; yea, I drink 
 
 the steam 
 With nostril and with eyelid and with 
 
 lip 
 Insatiate and intolerant; and mine 
 
 hands 
 Burn, and fire feeds upon mine eyes ; 1 
 
 reel 
 As one made drunk with living, whence 
 
 he draws 
 Drunken delight; yet I, though mad for 
 
 joy. 
 
 Loathe my long living, and am waxen 
 
 red 
 As with the shadow of shed blood; 
 
 behold, 
 I am kindled with the flames that fade 
 
 in him, 
 I am swollen with subsiding of his 
 
 veins, 
 I am flooded with his ebbing ; my lit 
 
 eyes 
 Flame with the falling fire that leaves 
 
 his lids 
 Bloodless ; my cheek is luminous with 
 
 blood 
 Because his face is ashen. Yet, O 
 
 child. 
 Son, first-born, fairest — O sweet mouth, 
 
 sweet eyes, 
 That drew my life out through my suck- 
 ling breast. 
 That shone and clove mine heart 
 
 through — O soft knees 
 Clinging, O tender treadings of soft 
 
 feet, 
 Cheeks warm with little kissings — O 
 
 child, child, 
 What have we made each other.' Lo, 
 
 I felt 
 Thy weight cleave to me, a burden of 
 
 beauty, O son. 
 Thy cradled brows and loveliest loving 
 
 lips, 
 The floral hair, the little lightening eyes 
 And all thy goodly glory; with mine 
 
 hands 
 Delicately I fed thee, with my tongue 
 Tenderly spake, saying, Verily in God's 
 
 time. 
 For all the little likeness of thy limbs, 
 Son, I shall make thee a kingly man to 
 
 fight, 
 
38 
 
 ATALAiVTA IN CALYDON: 
 
 A lordiy leader ; and hear before I 
 
 die, 
 " She bore the goodliest sword of all 
 
 the world." 
 Oh ! oh ! For all my life turns round 
 
 on me ; 
 I am severed from myself, my name is 
 
 gone, — 
 My name that was a healing, it is 
 
 changed : 
 My name is a consuming. From this 
 
 time, 
 Though mine eyes reach to the end of 
 
 all these things, 
 My lips shall not unfasten till I die. 
 Sejuichortis. She has filled with sigh- 
 ing the city, 
 And the ways thereof with tears ; 
 She arose, she girdl<"d her sides, 
 She set her face as a bride's ; 
 She wept, and she had no pity ; 
 
 Trembled, and felt no fears. 
 Sfinichorus. Her eyes were clear as 
 the sun. 
 Her brows were fresh as the day ; 
 She girdled herself with gold, 
 Her robes were manifold; 
 But the days of her worship are 
 done. 
 Her praise is taken away. 
 Seinichorus. For she set her hand to 
 the fire. 
 With her mouth she kindled the 
 same ; 
 As the mouth of a flute-player, 
 So was the mouth of her ; 
 With the might of her strong de- 
 sire 
 She blew the breath of the flame. 
 Setuichortis. She set her hand to the 
 wood. 
 She took the fire in her hand ; 
 As one who is nigh to death. 
 She panted with strange breath 
 She opened her li])s unto blood. 
 
 She breathed and kindled the brand. 
 Setuichonis. As a wood-dove newly 
 shot, 
 She sobbed and lifted her breast; 
 She sighed and covered her eyes, 
 ?'illin|^ her lips with sighs; 
 She sighed, she withdrew herself not. 
 She refrained not, taking not rest. 
 
 Setnic/iorus. But as the wind which 
 is drouth. 
 And as the air which is death, 
 As storm that severeth ships, 
 Her breath severing her lips. 
 The breath came forth of her mouth, 
 And the fire came forth of her 
 breath. 
 Second Messenger. Queen, and you 
 maidens, there is come on us 
 A thing more deadly than the face of 
 
 death : 
 Meleager the good lord is as one slain. 
 Semii/ionis. Without sword, without 
 sword is he stricken ; 
 Slain, and slain without hand. 
 Second Messen[;er. For as keen ice 
 divided of the sun 
 His limbs divide, and as thawed snow 
 
 the flesh 
 Thaws from off all his body to the hair. 
 Semiihorus. He wastes as the embers 
 quicken; 
 With the brand he fades as a brand. 
 Second Messenger. Even while thev 
 sang, and all drew hither, and he 
 Lifted both hands to crown the Arca- 
 dian's hair. 
 And fix the looser leaves, both hands 
 fell down. 
 Semic/ioriis. With rending of cheek 
 and of hair 
 Lament ye, mourn for him, weep. 
 Second Messenger. Straightway the 
 crown slid off, and smote on 
 earth. 
 First fallen; and he, grasping his own 
 
 hair, groaned. 
 And cast his raimenl round his face, 
 and tell. 
 Semiclionts. Alas for visions that 
 were. 
 And soothsayings spoken in sleep! 
 Second Messenger, l^ut the king 
 twitched his reins in, and Itapl 
 down. 
 And caught him, crving out twice "(• 
 
 child ! " and thrice, 
 So that men's eyelids tliickened will', 
 their tears. 
 Sernic/iorus. Lament with a long la 
 mentation. 
 Cry, for an end is at hand. 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON, 
 
 39 
 
 Second Afesscns^er. " O son ! " he said, 
 
 " son, lift thine eyes, draw breath, 
 
 Pity me ! " But Meleager with sharp 
 
 lips 
 Gasped, and his face waxed like as sun- 
 burnt grass. 
 Semichorus Cry aloud, O thou king- 
 dom, O nation, 
 O stricken, a ruinous land ! 
 Second Messenger. Whereat king 
 CEneus, straightening feeble 
 knees. 
 With feeble hands heaved up a lessen- 
 ing weight, 
 Ai?d laid him sadly in strange hands, 
 and wept. 
 Semichorus. Thou art smitten, her 
 lord, her desire. 
 Thy dear blood wasted as rain. 
 Second Messenger. And they with 
 tears and rendings of the beard 
 Bear hither a breathing body, wept 
 
 upon 
 And lightening at each footfall, sick to 
 death. 
 Semichorns. Thou madest thy sword 
 as a fire. 
 With fire for a sword thou art slain. 
 Secotid Messenger. And lo, the feast 
 turned funeral, and the crowns 
 Fallen ; and the huntress and the hunter 
 
 trapped ; 
 And weeping and changed faces and 
 veiled hair. 
 Meleager. Let your hands meet 
 
 Round the weight of my head ; 
 Lift ye my feet 
 
 As the feet of the dead ; 
 For the flesh of my body is molten, the 
 limbs of it molten as lead. 
 Chorus. O thy luminous fact. 
 
 Thine imperious eyes ! 
 O the grief, O the grace. 
 As of day when it dies ! 
 Who is this bending over thee, lord, 
 with tears and suppression of 
 sighs ? 
 Meleager. Is a bride so fair } 
 
 Is a maid so meek } 
 With unchapleted hair, 
 With unfilleted cheek, 
 Atalanta, the pure among women, whose 
 name is as blessing to speak. 
 
 Atalanta. I would that with feet 
 
 Unsandalled, unshod, 
 Overbold, overfleet, 
 
 I had swum not nor trod 
 From Arcadia to Calydon northward, 
 a blast of the envy of God. 
 Meleager. Unto each man his fate ; 
 
 Unto each as he saith 
 In whose fingers the weight 
 Of the world is as breath ; 
 Yet I would that in clamor of battle 
 mine hands had laid hold upon 
 death. 
 Chorus. Not with cleaving of shields 
 
 And their clash in thine ear. 
 When the lord of fought fields 
 Breaketh spear-shaft from spear, 
 Thou art broken, our lord, thou art 
 broken, with travail and labor 
 and fear. 
 Meleager. Would God he had found 
 me 
 Beneath fresh boughs ! 
 Would God he had bound me 
 Unawares in mine house. 
 With light in mine eyes, and songs in my 
 lips, and a crown on my brows ! 
 Chorus. Whence art thou sent from 
 us.^ 
 Whither thy goal } 
 How art thou rent from us, 
 Thou that wert whole. 
 As with severing of eyelids and eyes, as 
 with sundering of body and soul ! 
 Meleager. My heart is within me 
 
 As an ash in the fire ; 
 W^hosoever hath seen me. 
 Without lute, without lyre, 
 Shall sing of me grievous things, even 
 things that were ill to desire. 
 Chorus. Who shall raise thee 
 
 From the house of the dead .'* 
 Or what man praise thee 
 
 That thy praise may be said ? 
 Alas thy beauty! alas thy body! alas 
 thine head ! 
 Meleager. But thou, O mother, 
 
 The dreamer of dreams. 
 Wilt thou bring forth another 
 To feel the sun's beams 
 When I move among shadows a 
 shadow, and wail by impassable 
 streams .'• 
 
40 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDOIV. 
 
 CEneus. What thing wilt thou leave 
 me 
 Now this thing is done ? 
 A man wilt thou give me, 
 A son for my son, 
 For the light of mine eyes, the desire 
 of my life, the desirable one ? 
 Chorus. Thou wert glad aliove others. 
 
 Yea, fair beyond word ; 
 Thou wert glad among mothers; 
 For each man that heard 
 Of thee, praise there was added unto 
 thee, as wings to the feet of a bird. 
 CEneus. Who shall give back 
 
 Thy face of old years, 
 With travail made black. 
 Grown gray among fears. 
 Mother of sorrow, mother of cursing, 
 mother of tears ? 
 Meleager. Though thou art as fire 
 
 Fed with fuel in vain, 
 My delight, my desire. 
 
 Is more chaste than the rain. 
 More pure than the dewfall, more holy 
 than stars are that live without 
 stain. 
 Atalanta. I would that as water 
 
 My life's blood had thawn. 
 Or as winter's wan daughter 
 Leaves lowland and lawn 
 Spring-stricken, or ever mme eyes had 
 beheld thee made dark in thy 
 dawn. 
 Chorus. When thou dravest the men 
 
 Of the chosen of Thrace, 
 None turned him again. 
 Nor endured he thy face 
 Clothed round with the blush of the 
 battle, with light from a terrible 
 place. 
 CEneus. Thou shouldst die as he dies 
 
 For whom none sheddeth tears ; 
 Filling thine eyes 
 
 And fulfilling thine ears 
 With the brilliance of battle, the bloom 
 and the beauty, the splendor of 
 spears. 
 Chorus. In the ears of the world 
 
 It is sung, it is told. 
 And the light thereof hurled 
 And the noise thereof rolled 
 From the Acroceraunian snow to the 
 ford <jf the fleece of gold. 
 
 Meleai^er. Would God ye could carrj 
 me 
 Forth of all these ; 
 Heap sand and bury me 
 By the Chersonese 
 Where the thundering Bosphorus an 
 swers the thunder of Pontic seas. 
 CEneus. Dost thou mock at our 
 praise 
 And the singing begun 
 And the men of strange days 
 Praising my son 
 In the folds of the hills of home, high 
 places of Calydon .> 
 Meleager. For the dead man no home 
 is; 
 Ah, better to be 
 What the flower of the foam is 
 In fields of the sea, 
 That the sea-waves might be as my rai- 
 ment, the gulf-stream a garmeni 
 for me. 
 Chorus. Who shall seek thee and 
 bring 
 And restore thee thy day. 
 When the dove dipt her wing, 
 And the oars won their way 
 Where the narrowing Svmplegades 
 whitened the straits of Propontis 
 with spray ? 
 Mel easier. Will ye crown me my 
 tomb 
 Or exalt me my name. 
 Now niv spirits consume, 
 Now my flesh is a flanic ? 
 Let the sea slake it once, and men 
 speak of nje sleeping to praise 
 me or shame. 
 Chorus. Turn back now, turn thee, 
 
 As who turns him to wake ; 
 Though the life in thee burn thee, 
 Couldst thou bathe it and slake 
 Where the sea-ridge of Ilellc hangs 
 heavier, and cast uin^n west 
 waters Ijreak ? 
 Meleager. Would the winds blow me 
 back 
 Or the waves hurl me home "i 
 Ah, to touch in the track 
 
 Where the jjim- U-pint to roam 
 Cold girdles and crow is of the sea- 
 gods, cool blossoms of wateJ 
 and f'>ani! 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 C'lrtis. The gods may release 
 
 ' 'iat they made fast ; 
 1 ly soul shall have ease 
 In thy limbs at the last ; 
 But what shall they give thee for life, 
 sweet life that is overpast ? 
 Meleager. Not the life of men's veins, 
 
 Not of flesh that conceives; 
 But the grace that remains, 
 The fair beauty that cleaves 
 To the life of the rains in the grasses, 
 the life of the dews on the 
 leaves. 
 Chorus. Thou wert helmsman and 
 chief ; 
 Wilt thou turn in an hour, 
 Tby limbs to the leaf. 
 Thy face to the flower, 
 Thy blood to the water, thy soul to the 
 gods who divide and devour? 
 Meleager. The years are hungry. 
 
 They wail all their days; 
 The gods wax angry 
 And weary of praise ; 
 And who shall bridle their lips ? an 
 who shall straiten their ways ? . 
 Chorus. The gods guard over us 
 
 With sword and with rod ; 
 Weaving shadow to cover us. 
 Heaping the sod. 
 That law may fulfil herself wholh, to 
 darken man's face before G>d. 
 Meleager. O holy head of CEnais, lo 
 thy son 
 Guiltless, yet red from alien guilt, yet 
 
 foul 
 With kinship of contanihated lives, 
 Lo, for their blood ^' die ; and mine 
 
 own blood 
 For blood-sheddingof mine is mixed 
 
 therewith. 
 That death may no discern me from 
 
 my kin. 
 Vet with clean heart die and faultless 
 
 hand. 
 Not shamefully ; thouherefore of thy 
 
 love 
 Salute me, and bid fre among the 
 
 dead 
 Well, as the dead fas for the best 
 
 man dead 
 Fares sadly; nathle- 1 now faring 
 well 
 
 Pass without fear where nothing is to 
 
 fear. 
 Having thy love about me and thy 
 
 goodwill, 
 O father, among dark places and men 
 dead. 
 CEneus. Child, I salute thee with sad 
 heart and tears. 
 And bid thee comfort, being a perfect 
 
 man 
 In fight, and honorable in the house 
 
 of peace. 
 The gods give thee fair wage and dues 
 
 of death. 
 And me brief days and ways to come 
 at thee. 
 Meleager. Pray thou thy days be long 
 before thy death. 
 And full of ease and kingdom; seeing 
 
 in death 
 There is no comfort and none after- 
 growth. 
 Nor shall one thence look up and see 
 
 day's dawn 
 Nor light upon the land whither I go. 
 Live thou, and take thy fill of days, and 
 
 die 
 When thy day comes; and make not 
 
 much of death. 
 Lest ere thy day thou reap an evil 
 
 thing. 
 Thou too, the bitter mother and mother- 
 plague 
 Of this my weary body — thou too, 
 
 queen, 
 The source and end, the sower and the 
 
 scythe. 
 The rain that ripens and the drought 
 
 that slays. 
 The sand that swallows and the spring 
 
 that feeds, * 
 To make me and unmake me, — thou, T 
 
 say, 
 Althaea, since my father's ploughshare, 
 
 drawn 
 Through fatal seedland of a female 
 
 field, 
 Furrowed thy body, whence a wheaten 
 
 ear 
 Strong from tlie sun and fragrant from 
 
 the rains 
 I sprang, and cleft the closure of ;hy 
 womb, 
 
42 
 
 ATALAXTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 Mother, I dying with unforgetful tongue 
 Hail thee as holy, and worship thee as 
 
 just. 
 Who art unjust and unholy; and with 
 
 my knees 
 Would worship, but thy fire and subtle- 
 
 ulering them, dev 
 
 our me 
 
 for 
 
 Dissundernig 
 
 these limbs 
 Are as light dust and Grumblings from 
 
 mine urn 
 Before the fire has touched them ; and 
 
 my face 
 As a dead leaf or dead foot's mark on 
 
 snow, 
 And all this body a broken barren tree 
 That was so strong, and all this flower 
 
 of life 
 
 Mother, thou sole and only, thou n'V 
 
 these, 
 Keep me in mind a little when I die 
 Because I was thy first-born ; let th i 
 
 soul 
 Pity me, pity eyen me gone hence and 
 
 (load. 
 Though thou wert wroth, and thougVi 
 
 thou bear again 
 Much happier sons, and all men latex 
 
 born 
 Exceedingly excel me, yet do thou 
 Forget not, nor think shame ; I was thy 
 
 son. 
 Time was, I did not shame thee ; an4 
 
 time was, 
 I thought to live, and make thee honor- 
 able 
 
 Disbranched and desecrated misera- With deeds as great as these men's: but 
 
 bly, 
 
 they live. 
 
 % 
 
 And minished all that godlike muscle These, and I die; and what thing should 
 
 have been. 
 Surely I know not ; yet I charge thee. 
 
 seeing 
 1 am dead already, love me not the less. 
 Me, O my mother ! I charge thee bi 
 these gods, 
 y father's, and that holier breast of 
 thine, 
 Byxhese that see me dying, and that 
 
 \ which nursed, 
 Lov^^me not less, thy first-born : though 
 
 \e;rief come, 
 Grief oiW, of me, and of all these great 
 
 joy. 
 And shall .. , c always to thee; for 
 
 thou knovr St, 
 O mother, O breads that bare me, foi 
 ye know, 
 
 sweet head of myriothor, sacred eyes. 
 Vc knt)w my soulalbeit I sinned,' vc 
 
 know 
 Albeit I kneel no neither touch thy 
 
 knees, 
 But with my lips kneel, and with ray 
 
 heart 
 
 1 fall about thy fet and worship thee. 
 And yc fart-wel'now, .ill my fiicnds; 
 
 and yc. 
 Kinsmen, much )unger and glorious 
 
 more than 
 Sons of M' moth's sister: and al, 
 
 far( l 
 
 and might. 
 And lesser than a man's : for all my 
 
 veins 
 Fail me, and all mine ashen life burns 
 
 down, 
 I would thou hadst let me live ; but 
 
 gods averse. 
 But fortune, and the fiery feet of change, 
 And time, these would not, these tread 
 
 out my life, — 
 These and not thou ; me too thou hast 
 
 loved, and I 
 Thee ; but 4his death was mixed with 
 
 all my life. 
 Mine end with my beginning: and this 
 
 law, 
 This only, slays me, and not my mother 
 
 at'all. 
 And let no brother or sister grieve too 
 
 sore, 
 Nor melt their hearts out on me with 
 
 their tears, 
 Since extreme love and sorrowing over- 
 much 
 Vex the great gods, and over-loving men 
 Slay and are slain for love's sake ; and 
 
 this house 
 Shall bear much better children; why 
 
 should these 
 Weep ? but in i)atiencc let them live 
 
 their lives 
 And mine |>asK by forgotten : thou alone, 
 
ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 
 
 43 
 
 That were in Colchis with me, and bare 
 down 
 
 The waves and wars that met us : and 
 though times 
 
 Change, and though now I be not any 
 thing. 
 
 Forget not me among you, what [ did 
 
 In my good time ; for even by all those 
 days. 
 
 Those days and this, and your own liv- 
 ing souls, 
 
 And by the light and luck of you that 
 live. 
 
 And by this miserable spoil, and me 
 
 Dying, I beseech you, let my name not 
 die. 
 
 But thou, dear, touch me with thy rose- 
 like hands, 
 
 And fasten up mine eyelids with thy 
 mouth, 
 
 A bitter kiss; and grasp me with thine 
 arms. 
 
 Printing with heavy lips my light waste 
 flesh, 
 
 Made light and thin by heavy-handed 
 fate, • 
 
 And with thine holy maiden eyes drop 
 dew. 
 
 Drop tears for dew upon me who am 
 dead. 
 
 Me who have loved thee ; seeing with- 
 out sin done 
 
 I am gone down to the empty weary 
 house 
 
 Where no flesh is, nor beauty, nor swift 
 eyes, 
 
 Nor sound of mouth, nor might of hands 
 
 and feet. 
 But thou, dear, hide my body with thy 
 
 veil, 
 And with thy raiment cover foot and 
 
 head,_ 
 And stretch thyself upon me, and touch 
 
 hands 
 With hands and lips with lips : be pitiful 
 As thou art maiden perfect ; let no man 
 Defile me to despise me, saying, This 
 
 man 
 Died woman-wise, a woman's offering, 
 
 slain 
 Through female fingers in his woof of 
 
 life. 
 Dishonorable; for thou hast honored 
 
 me. 
 And now for God's sake kiss me once 
 
 and twice. 
 And let me go ; for the night gathers me. 
 And in the night shall no man gather 
 
 fruit. 
 Atalajtta. Hail thou ! but 1 with 
 
 heavy face and feet 
 Turn homeward, and am gone out of 
 
 thine eyes. 
 Chorus. Who shall contend with his 
 
 lords. 
 
 Or cross them, or do them wrong ? 
 
 Who shall bind them as with cords ? 
 
 Who shall tame them as with song .-' 
 
 Who shall smite them as with 
 
 swords } 
 For the hands of their kingdom arc 
 
 strong. 
 
ERECHTHEUS: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Erechtheus. 
 Chorus of Athenian 
 Elders. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Praxithea. 
 
 Chthonia. 
 
 Herald of Eumolpus. 
 
 Messenger, 
 Athenian HERALa 
 Athena. 
 
 Erechtheus. Mother of life and death 
 
 and all men's days, 
 Earth, whom I chief of all men born 
 
 would bless. 
 And call thee with more loving lips 
 
 than theirs 
 Mother, for of this very body of thine 
 And living blood I have my breath and 
 
 live. 
 Behold me, even thy son, me crowned 
 
 of men, 
 Me made thy child by that strong, cun- 
 ning god 
 Who fashions fire and iron, who begat 
 Me for a sword and beacon-fire on thee, 
 Me fosterling of Pallas, in her shade 
 Reared, that I first might pay the nurs- 
 ing debt, 
 Hallowing her fame with flower of 
 
 third-vear feasts. 
 And first bow down the bridled strength 
 
 of steeds 
 To lose the wild wont of their birth, 
 
 and bear 
 Clasp of man's knees and steerage of 
 
 his hand, 
 (Jr fourfold service of his fire-swift 
 
 wheels 
 That whirl the four-yoked chariot ; me 
 
 the king 
 
 44 
 
 Who stand before thee naked new, and 
 cry, 
 
 holy and general mother of all men 
 
 born. 
 
 But mother most and motherliest of 
 mine, 
 
 Earth, for I ask thee rather of all the 
 gods. 
 
 What have we done ? what word mis- 
 timed or work 
 
 Hath winged the wild feet of this time- 
 less curse 
 
 To fall as fire upon us.> Lo. I stand 
 
 Here on this brow's crown of the city's 
 head 
 
 That crowns its lovely body, till death's 
 hour 
 
 Waste it; but nos' the dew of ilawn 
 and birth 
 
 Is fresh upon it fiom thy womb, ano 
 we 
 
 Behold it born hew beauteous: one day 
 more 
 
 1 see the world'i wheel of the circling 
 
 sun 
 Roll u]) rejoicing to regard on earth 
 This one tiling goodliest, fair as heaven 
 
 or he, 
 Worth a god's g. zc or strife of gods: 
 
 but now 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 45 
 
 V/ould this clay's ebb of their spent 
 wave of strife 
 
 Sweep it to sea, wash it on wreck, and 
 leave 
 
 A costless thing contemned ; and in our 
 stead, 
 
 Where these walls were, and sounding 
 streets of men, 
 
 Make wide a waste for tongueless 
 water-herds 
 
 And spoil of ravening fishes ; that no 
 more 
 
 Should nien say, Here was Athens. 
 This shalt thou 
 
 Sustain not, nor thy son endure to see, 
 
 Nor thou to live and look on ; for the 
 womb 
 
 Bare me not base that bare me miser- 
 able, 
 
 To hear this loud brood of the Thra- 
 cian foam 
 
 Break its broad strength of billowy- 
 beating war 
 
 Here, and upon it as a blast of death 
 
 Blowing, the keen wrath of a fire-souled 
 king, 
 
 A strange growth grafted on our natu- 
 ral soil, 
 
 A root of Thrace in Eleusinian earth 
 
 Set for no comfort to the kindly land, 
 
 Son of the sea's lord and our first-born 
 foe, 
 
 Eumolpus; nothing sweet in ears of 
 thine 
 
 The music of his making, nor a song 
 
 Toward hopes of ours auspicious; for 
 the note 
 
 Rings as for death oracular to thy 
 sons 
 
 That goes before him on the sea-wind 
 blown 
 
 Full of this charge laid on me, to put 
 out 
 
 The brief light kindled of mine own 
 child's life. 
 
 Or with this helmsman hand that steers 
 the state 
 
 Run right on the under shoal and ridge 
 of death 
 
 The populous ship with all its fraught- 
 age gone, 
 
 And sails that were to take the wind of 
 time 
 
 Rent, and the tackling that should hold 
 
 out fast 
 Tn confluent surge of loud calamities 
 Broken, with spars of rudders and lost 
 
 oars 
 That were to row toward harbor, and 
 
 find rest 
 In some most glorious haven of all the 
 
 world, 
 And else may never near it: such a 
 
 song 
 The gods have set his lips on fire 
 
 withal 
 Who threatens now in all their names 
 
 to bring 
 Ruin ; but none of these, thou knowest, 
 
 have I 
 Chid with my tongue, or cursed at heart 
 
 for grief, 
 Knowing how the soul runs reinless 
 
 on sheer death 
 Whose grief or joy takes part against 
 
 the gods. 
 And what they will is more than our 
 
 desire, 
 And their desire is more than what we 
 
 will. 
 For no man's will and no desire of 
 
 man's 
 Shall stand as doth a god's will. Yet, 
 
 O fair 
 Mother, that seest me how I cast no 
 
 word 
 Against them, plead no reason, crave 
 
 no cause, 
 Boast me not blameless, nor beweep 
 
 me wronged, 
 By this fair wreath of towers we have 
 
 decked thee with, 
 This chaplet that we give thee woven 
 
 of walls, 
 This girdle of gate and temple and cita- 
 del 
 Drawn round beneath thy bosom, and 
 
 fast linked 
 As to thine heart's root, — this dear 
 
 crown of thine, 
 This present light, this city, — be not 
 
 thou 
 Slow to take heed nor slack to strength- 
 en her, 
 Fare we so short-lived howsoe'er, and 
 
 pay 
 
46 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 What price we may to ransom thee thy 
 town, 
 
 Not me my life; but thou that diest 
 not, thou. 
 
 Though all our house die for this peo- 
 ple's sake, 
 
 Keep thou for ours thy crown our city, 
 ^uard 
 
 And give it life the lovelier that we 
 died. 
 Chorus. Sun, that hast lightened and 
 loosed by thy might 
 
 Ocean and Earth from the lordship of 
 night, 
 
 Quickening with vision his eye that was 
 veiled. 
 
 Freshening the force in her heart that 
 had failed. 
 
 That sister fettered and blinded brother 
 
 Should have sight by thy grace and de- 
 light of each other, 
 Behold now and see 
 What profit is given them of thee ; 
 
 What wrath has enkindled with mad- 
 ness of mind 
 
 Her limbs that were bounden, his face 
 that was blind. 
 
 To be locked as in wrestle together, 
 and lighten 
 
 With fire that shall darken thy fire in 
 the sky. 
 
 Body to body and eye against eye 
 In a war against kind. 
 
 Till the bloom of her fields and her 
 high hills whiten 
 With the foam of his waves more 
 high. 
 
 For the sea-marks set to divide of 
 old 
 
 The kingdoms to Ocean and Earth as- 
 signed, 
 
 The hoar sea-fields from the cornfields' 
 gold. 
 
 His wine-bright waves from her vine- 
 yards' fold, 
 Fiail forces we find 
 
 To bridle the sj^irit of gods or bind 
 Till the heat of their hearts wax 
 cold. 
 
 But the peace that was stablished be- 
 tween them to stand 
 
 Is rent now in twain by the strength of 
 his hand 
 
 Who stirs up the storm of his sons over- 
 bold 
 To pluck from fight what he lost of 
 
 right, 
 By council and judgment of gods that 
 
 spake 
 And gave great Pallas the strife's fair 
 
 stake, 
 The lordship and love of the lovely 
 
 land. 
 The grace of the town that hath on it 
 
 for crown 
 But a headband to wear 
 Of violets one-hued with her hair: 
 For the vales and the green high places 
 
 of earth 
 Hold nothing so fair. 
 And the depths of the sea bear no such 
 
 birth 
 Of the manifold births they bear. 
 Too well, too well was the great stake 
 
 worth 
 A strife divine for the gods to judge, 
 A crowned god's triumph, a foiled 
 
 god's grudge, 
 Though the loser be strong and the 
 
 victress wise 
 Who played long since for so large a 
 
 prize, 
 The fruitful immortal anointed adored 
 Dear city of men without master or 
 
 lord. 
 Fair fortress and fostress of sons born 
 
 free, 
 Who stand in her sight and in thine, O 
 
 sun. 
 Slaves of no man, subjects of none ; 
 A wonder enthroned on the hills and 
 
 sea, 
 A maiden crowned with a fourfold 
 
 glory 
 That none from the pride of her head 
 
 may rend, 
 Violet and olive - leaf purple and 
 
 hoarv. 
 Song-wreath and story the fairest of 
 
 fame, 
 Flowers that the winter can blast not 
 
 or bend ; 
 A light \\\)Ox\ earth as the sun's own 
 
 fianic, 
 A name as his name, 
 Athens, a praise without end. 
 
ERECHTHEUS, 
 
 47 
 
 A noise is arisen against us of wa- 
 ters, 
 A sound as of battle come up from 
 
 the sea. 
 Strange hunters are hard on us, hearts 
 
 without pity ; 
 They have staked their nets round the 
 
 fair young city, 
 That the sons of her strength and her 
 
 virgin daughters 
 Should find not whither alive to 
 
 flee. 
 And we know not yet of the word 
 
 unwritten. 
 The doom of the Pythian we have 
 
 not heard ; 
 From the navel of earth and the 
 
 veiled mid altar 
 We wait for a token with hopes that 
 
 falter, 
 With fears that hang on our hearts 
 
 thought-smitten 
 Lest her tongue be kindled with no 
 
 good word. 
 O thou not born of the womb, nor 
 
 bred 
 In the bride-night's warmth of a 
 
 changed god's bed, 
 Put thy life as a lightning was flashed 
 
 from the light of thy father's 
 
 head, 
 O chief god's child by a motherless 
 
 birth, 
 If aught in thy sight we indeed be 
 
 worth. 
 Keep death from us thou, that art none 
 
 of the gods of the dead under 
 
 earth. 
 Thou that hast power on us, save, if 
 
 thou wilt; 
 Let the blind wave breach not thy 
 
 wall scarce built ; 
 But bless us not so as by bloodshed, 
 
 impute not for grace to us guilt, 
 Nor by price of pollution of blood set 
 
 us free ; 
 Let the hands be taintless that clasp 
 
 thy knee, 
 Nor a maiden be slain to redeem for a 
 
 maiden her shrine from the 
 
 sea. 
 O earth, O sun, turn back 
 Full on his deadly track 
 
 Death, that would smite you black and 
 mar your creatures. 
 And with one hand disroot 
 All tender flower and fruit, 
 With one strike blind and mute the 
 heaven's fair features, 
 Pluck out the eyes of morn, and 
 make 
 Silence in the east and blackness whence 
 the bright songs break. 
 Help, earth, help, heaven, that hear 
 The song-notes of our fear, 
 Shrewd notes and shrill, not clear or 
 joyful-sounding; 
 Hear, highest of gods, and stay 
 Death on his hunter's way, 
 Full on his forceless prey his beagles 
 hounding ; 
 Break thou his bow, make short 
 his hand. 
 Maim his fleet foot whose passage kills 
 
 the living land. 
 Let a third wave smite not us, father, 
 Long since sore smitten of twain, 
 Lest the house of thy son's son 
 perish. 
 And his name be barren on earth. 
 Whose race wilt thou comfort rather 
 If none to thy son remain ? 
 
 Whose seed wilt thou choose to 
 cherish 
 If his be cut off in the birth ? 
 For the first fair graft of his graffing 
 Was rent from its maiden root 
 
 By the strong swift hand of a lover 
 Who fills the night with his 
 breath ; 
 On the lip of the stream low-laughing 
 Her green soft virginal shoot 
 
 Was plucked from the stream-side 
 cover 
 By the grasp of a love like death. 
 For a god's was the mouth that kissed 
 her 
 Who speaks, and the leaves lie dead. 
 When winter awakes as at warning 
 To the sound of his foot from 
 Thrace. 
 Nor happier the bed of her sister. 
 Though Love's self laid her abed 
 By a bridegroom beloved of the 
 morning 
 And fair as the dawn's own face. 
 
48 
 
 ERECHTIIEUS. 
 
 For Prodis, ensnared and ensnaring 
 By the fraud of a twofold wile, 
 
 With the poMit of her own spear 
 stricken, 
 By the gift of her own hand fell. 
 Oversubtle in doubts, overdaring 
 In deeds and devices of guile, 
 
 And strong to quench as to quicken, 
 O Love, have we named thee 
 well ? 
 6y thee was the spear's edge whetted 
 That laid her dead in the dew, 
 
 In the n.oist green glens of the 
 midland. 
 By her dear lord slain and thee. 
 And him at the cliff's end fretted 
 By the gray keen waves, him too. 
 Thine hand from the white-browed 
 headland 
 Flung down for a spoil to the 
 sea. 
 But enough now of griefs gray-growing 
 Have darkened the house divine. 
 Have flowered on its boughs, and 
 faded, 
 And green is the brave stock 
 yet. 
 O father all-seeing and all-knowing. 
 Let the last fruit fall not of thine 
 From the tree with whose boughs 
 we are shaded, 
 From the stock that thy son's 
 hand set. 
 Erechtheus. O daughter of Cephisus, 
 from all time 
 Wise have I found thee, wife and queen, 
 
 of heart 
 Perfect; nor in the days that knew not 
 
 wind 
 Nor days when storm blew death upon 
 
 our i)eace 
 Was thine heart swoln with seed of 
 
 ]jride, or bowed 
 With blasts of bitter fear that break 
 
 men's souls 
 Who lift too high their minds toward 
 
 heaven, in thought 
 Too godlike grown for worsliip ; but of 
 
 nu^od 
 L(|ual, in good time reverent of time 
 
 bad, 
 And glad in ill days of the good that 
 were. 
 
 Nor now too would I fear thee, now 
 
 misdoubt 
 Lest fate should find thee lesser than thj 
 
 doom. 
 Chosen if thou be to bear and to be 
 
 great 
 Haply beyond all women ; and the 
 
 word 
 Speaks thee divine, dear queen, thai 
 
 speaks thee dead, 
 Dead being alive, or quick and dead ir. 
 
 one 
 Shall not men call thee living? vet 1 
 
 fear 
 To slay thee timeless with my proper 
 
 tongue. 
 With lips, thou knowest,that love thee; 
 
 and such work 
 Was never laid of gods on men, such 
 
 word 
 No mouth of man learnt ever, as from 
 
 mine, 
 Most loath to speak, thine ear most 
 
 loath shall take. 
 And hold it hateful as the grave to hear. 
 Praxithca. That word there is not in 
 
 all sj^eech of man. 
 King, that being spoken of the gods 
 
 and thee 
 I have not heart to honor, o.- dare 
 
 hold 
 More than I hold thee or the gods in 
 
 hate 
 Hearing ; but if my heart abhor it 
 
 heard 
 Being insubmissive, hokl me not thy 
 
 wife, 
 But use me like a stranger, whom thine 
 
 hand 
 Hath fed by chance, and finding thence 
 
 no thanks 
 Hung off for shame's sake to forget- 
 
 fulness. 
 Erechtheus. O, of what breath shall 
 
 such a word be made. 
 Or from what heart finti utterance } 
 
 Would my tongue 
 Were rent forth rather from the quiver- 
 ing root 
 'I'han uKide as fire or poison thus for 
 
 tlice. 
 J^rnxithen. But if thou speak of blood, 
 
 and I that hear 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 49 
 
 Be chosen of all for this land's love to 
 
 die, 
 And save to thee thy city, know this 
 
 well, 
 Happiest I hold me of her seed alive. 
 Erechtheiis. O sun that seest, what 
 
 saying was this of thine, 
 God, that thy power has breathed into 
 
 my lips? 
 For from no sunlit shrine darkling it 
 
 came. 
 Praxithea. What portent from the 
 
 mid oracular place 
 Hath smitten thee so like a curse that 
 
 flies 
 Wingless, to waste men with its plagues ."^ 
 
 Yet speak. 
 Erechtheiis. Thy blood the gods re- 
 quire not ; take this first. 
 Praxithea. To me than thee more 
 
 grievous this should sound. 
 Erechtheiis. That word rang truer 
 
 aud bitterer than it knew. 
 Praxithea. This is not then thy grief, 
 
 to see me die .'' 
 Erechtheiis. Die shalt thou not, yet 
 
 give thy blood to death. 
 Praxithea. If this ring worse, I know 
 
 not : strange it rang. 
 Erechtheiis. Alas ! thou knowest not ; 
 
 woe is me that know ! 
 Praxithea. And woe shall mine be, 
 
 knowing ; yet halt not here. 
 Erechtheiis. Guiltless of blood this 
 
 state mav stand no more. 
 Praxithea. Firm let it stand, whatever 
 
 bleed or fall. 
 Erechtheiis. O gods, that I should 
 
 say it shall, and weep ! 
 Praxithea. Weep, and say this ? no 
 
 tears should bathe such words. 
 Erechtheiis. Woe's me that I must 
 
 weep upon them ! woe ! 
 Praxithea. What stain is on them for 
 
 thy tears to cleanse ? 
 Erechtheiis. A stain of blood un- 
 
 purgeable with tears. 
 Praxithea. Whence ? for thou sayest 
 
 it is and is not mine. 
 Erechtheiis. Hear then, and know why 
 
 only of all men I 
 That bring such news as mine is, I 
 alone 
 
 Must wash good words with weeping 
 
 I and thou. 
 Woman, must wail to hear men sing, 
 
 must groan 
 To see their joy who love us; all our 
 
 friends 
 Save only we, and all save we that love 
 This holiness of Athens, in our sight 
 Shall lift their hearts up, in our hearing 
 
 praise 
 Gods whom we may not; for to these 
 
 they give 
 Life of their children, flower of all 
 
 their seed. 
 For all their travail fruit, for all theii 
 
 hopes 
 Harvest ; but we for all our good things, 
 
 we 
 Have at their hands which fill all these 
 
 folk full 
 Death, barrenness, child-slaughter, 
 
 curses, cares. 
 Sea-leaguer and land-shipwreck; which 
 
 of these. 
 Which wilt thou first give thanks for? 
 
 all are thine, 
 Praxithea. What first they give who 
 
 give this city good. 
 For that first given to save it I give 
 
 thanks 
 First, and thanks heartier from a hap- 
 pier tongue. 
 More than for any my peculiar grace 
 Shown me and not my country ; next 
 
 for this, 
 That none of all these, but for all 
 
 these I, 
 Must bear my burden, and no eye but 
 
 mine 
 Weep of all women's in this broad land 
 
 born 
 Who see their land's deliverance; but 
 
 much more, 
 Hut most for this I thank them most of 
 
 all, 
 That this their edge of doom is chosen 
 
 to pierce 
 My heart, and not my country's ; for the 
 
 sword 
 Drawn to smite there, and sharpened 
 
 for such stroke 
 Should wound more deep than anj 
 turned on me. 
 
b^ 
 
 ERhtHTIfEirii. 
 
 Chorm. Well fares the land that 
 bears such fruit, and well 
 The spirit that breeds such thought 
 and speech in man. 
 Erechtheus. O woman, thou hast 
 shamed my heart with thine, 
 To show so strong a patience : take 
 
 then all ; 
 For all shall break not nor bring down 
 
 thy soul. 
 The word that journeying to the bright 
 
 god's shrine 
 Who speaks askance and darkling, but 
 
 his name 
 Hath in it slaying and ruin broad writ 
 
 out, 
 I heard, hear thou: thus saith he: 
 
 There shall die 
 One soul for all this people ; from thy 
 
 womb 
 Came forth the seed that here on dry 
 
 bare ground 
 Death's hand must sow untimely, to 
 
 bring forth 
 Nor blade nor shoot in season, being 
 
 by name 
 To the under gods made holy, who re- 
 quire 
 For this land's life her death and 
 
 maiden blood 
 To save a maiden city. Thus I heard. 
 And thus with all said leave thee ; for 
 
 save this 
 No word is left us, and no hope alive. 
 Chorus. He hath uttered too surely 
 his wrath not obscurely, nor 
 wrapt as in mists of his breath. 
 The master that lightens not hearts he 
 enlightens, but gives them fore- 
 knowledge of death. 
 As a bolt from the cloud hath he 
 sent it aloud, and proclaimed it 
 afar. 
 From the darkness and height of the 
 horror of night hath he shown 
 us a star. 
 Star may I name it, and err not, or 
 • flame shall I say. 
 Born of tlic womb that was born 
 for the torn!) of the day? 
 O Night, whom other but thee for moth- 
 er, and Death for the father. 
 Night, 
 
 Shall we dream to discover, save thee 
 
 and thy lover, to bring such a 
 
 sorrow to sight ? 
 From the slumberless bed for thy 
 
 bedfellow spread, and his bride 
 
 under earth. 
 Hast thou brought forth a M'ild and 
 
 insatiable child, an unbearable 
 
 birth. 
 Fierce are the fangs of his wrath 
 
 and the pangs that they give ; 
 None is there, none that may bear 
 
 them, not one that would live. 
 Chthouia. Forth of the fine-spun folds 
 
 of veils that hide 
 My virgin chamber toward the full-faced 
 
 sun 
 I set my foot, not moved of mine own 
 
 will, 
 Unmaidenlike, nor with unprompted 
 
 speed 
 Turn eyes too broad or dog-like un- 
 abashed 
 On reverend heads of men and thence 
 
 on thine. 
 Mother, now covered from the light 
 
 and bowed 
 As hers who mourns her brethren ; but 
 
 what grief 
 Bends thy blind head thus earthward. 
 
 holds thus mute, 
 I know not till thy will be to lift up 
 Toward mine thy sorrow-muffled eyes, 
 
 and speak ; 
 And till thy will be, would I know this 
 
 not. 
 Praxithca. Old men and childless, or 
 
 if sons ve have seen 
 And daughter's, elder-born were these 
 
 than mine. 
 Look on this child, how young of years, 
 
 how sweet. 
 How scant of time and green of age 
 
 her life 
 Puts forth its flower of girlhood ; and 
 
 her gait 
 How virginal, how soft her speech, her 
 
 eves 
 How seemly smiling. Wise should all 
 
 ve be. 
 All honorable and kindly men of age : 
 Now give me counsel and one word to 
 
 say 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 51 
 
 That I may bear to speak, and hold my 
 
 peace 
 Henceforth for all time even as all ye 
 
 now. 
 Dumb are ye all, bowed eyes and 
 
 tongueless mouths. 
 Unprofitable : if this were wind that 
 
 speaks, 
 As much its breath might move you. 
 
 Thou then, child, 
 Set thy sweet eyes on mine ; look 
 
 through them well ; 
 Take note of all the writing of my 
 
 face 
 As of a tablet or a tomb inscribed 
 That bears me record ; lifeless now, my 
 
 life 
 Thereon that was, think written ; brief 
 
 to read, 
 Yet shall the scripture sear thine eyes 
 
 as fire, 
 And leave them dark as dead men's. 
 
 Nay, dear child, 
 Thou hast no skill, my maiden, and no 
 
 sense 
 To take such knowledge ; sweet is all 
 
 thy lore. 
 And all this bitter : yet I charge thee, 
 
 learn 
 And love and lay this up within thine 
 
 heart. 
 Even this my word : less ill it were to 
 
 die. 
 Than live and look upon thy mother 
 
 dead. 
 Thy mother-land that bare thee; no 
 
 man slain 
 But him who hath seen it shall men 
 
 count unblest. 
 None blest as him who hath died and 
 
 seen it not. 
 Chthonia. That sight some god keep 
 
 from me though I die ! 
 Praxithea. A god from thee shall 
 
 keep it : fear not this. 
 Chthonia. Thanks all my life long 
 
 shall he gain of mine. 
 Praxithea. Short gain of all yet shall 
 
 he get of thee. 
 Chthonia. Brief be my life, yet so 
 
 long live my thanks. 
 Praxithea. So long.? so little; how 
 
 long shall they live ? 
 
 Chthonia. Even while I see the sun- 
 light and thine eyes. 
 Praxithea. Would mine might shut 
 
 ere thine upon the sun ! 
 Chthonia For me thou prayest un- 
 kindly ; change that prayer. 
 Praxithea. Not well for me thou say- 
 
 est, and ill for thee. 
 Chthonia. Nay, for me well, if thou 
 
 shalt live, not I. 
 Praxithea. How live, and lose these 
 
 loving looks of thine .'* 
 Chthofiia. It seems I too, thus pray- 
 ing, then, love thee not. 
 Praxithea. Lov'st thou not life ? what 
 
 wouldst thou do to die .-* 
 Chthonia. Well, but not more than 
 
 all things, love I life. 
 Praxithea. And fain wouldst keep it 
 
 as thine age allows.? 
 Chthonia. Fain would I live, and fain 
 
 not fear to die. 
 Praxithea. That I might bid thee die 
 
 not ! Peace ; no more. 
 Chortts. A godlike race of grief the 
 gods have set 
 For these to run matched equal, heart 
 with heart. 
 Praxithea. Child of the chief of 
 gods, and maiden crowned. 
 Queen of these towers and fostress of 
 
 their king, 
 Pallas, and thou my father's holiest 
 
 head, 
 A living well of life nor stanched nor 
 
 stained, 
 O God Cephisus, thee too charge I 
 
 next, 
 Be to me judge and witness; nor thine 
 
 ear 
 Shall now my tongue invoke not, thou 
 
 to me 
 Most hateful of things holy, mourn 
 
 fullest 
 Of all old sacred streams that wash the 
 
 world, 
 Ilissus, on whose marge at flowery play 
 A whirlwind-footed bridegroom found 
 
 my child. 
 And rapt her northward where mine 
 
 elder-born 
 Keeps now the Thracian bride-bed of a 
 god 
 
52 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Intolerable to seamen, but this land 
 Finds him in hope for her sake favor- 
 able, 
 A gracious son by wedlock : hear me 
 
 then 
 Thou likewise, if with no faint heart or 
 
 false 
 The word I say be said, the gift be 
 
 given. 
 Which, might I choose, I had rather 
 
 die than give 
 Or speak and die not. Ere thy limbs 
 
 were made. 
 Or thine eyes lightened, strife, thou 
 
 knowest, my child, 
 'Twixt god and god had risen, which 
 
 heavenlier name 
 Should here stand hallowed, whose 
 
 more liberal grace 
 Should win this city's worship, and our 
 
 land 
 To which of these do reverence ; first 
 
 the lord 
 Whose wheels make lightnings of the 
 
 foam-flowered sea 
 Here on this rock, whose height brow- 
 bound with dawn 
 Is head and heart of Athens, one sheer 
 
 blow 
 Struck, and beneath the triple wound 
 
 that shook 
 The stony sinews and stark roots of the 
 
 earth 
 Sprang toward the sun a sharp salt 
 
 fount, and sank 
 Where lying it lights the heart up of 
 
 the hill, 
 A well of bright strange brine; but she 
 
 that reared 
 Thy father with her same chaste foster- 
 ing hand 
 Set for a sign against it in our guard 
 The holy bloom of the olive, whose 
 
 hoar leaf 
 High in the shadowy shrine of Pandro- 
 
 sus 
 Hath honor of us all ; and of this strife 
 The twelve most high gods judging 
 
 with one mouth 
 Acclaimed her victress : wroth whereat, 
 
 as wronged 
 That she should hold from him such 
 
 prize and place, 
 
 The strong king of the tempest-rifted sea 
 Loosed reinless on the low Thriasian 
 
 plain 
 The thunders of his chariots, swallow- 
 ing stunned 
 Earth, beasts, and men, the whole blind 
 
 foundering world 
 That was the sun's at morning, and ere 
 
 noon 
 Death's; nor this only prey fulfilled his 
 
 mind ; 
 For with strange crook-toothed prows 
 
 of Carian folk 
 Who snatch a sanguine life out of the 
 
 sea, 
 Thieves keen to pluck their bloody 
 
 fruit of s]:)oil 
 From the gray fruitless waters, has 
 
 their god 
 Furrowed our shores to waste them, as 
 
 the fields 
 Were landward harried from the north 
 
 with swords 
 Aonian, sickles of man-slaughtering 
 
 edge 
 Ground for no hopeful harvest of live 
 
 grain 
 Against us in Boeotia : these being 
 
 spent, 
 Now this third time his wind of wrath 
 
 has blown 
 Right on this people a mightier wave 
 
 of war, 
 Three times more huge a ruin; such its 
 
 ridge 
 Foam-rimmed and hollow like ;he 
 
 womb of heaven, 
 But black for shining, and with death 
 
 for life 
 Big now to birth and ripe with child. 
 
 full-blown 
 With fear and fruit of ha\oc, takes tin 
 
 sun 
 Out of our eyes, darkening the day, 
 
 and blinds 
 The fair sky's face unseasonably with 
 
 change, 
 A cloud in one and billow of battle, ;i 
 
 surge 
 High reared as heaven with monstrous 
 
 surf of spears 
 That shake on us their shadow, till 
 
 men's heads 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 53 
 
 Bend, and their hearts even with its 
 
 forward wind 
 Wither, so blasts all seed in them of 
 
 hope 
 Its breath and blight of presage ; yea, 
 
 even now 
 The winter of this wind out of the 
 
 deeps 
 Makes cold our trust in comfort of the 
 
 gods, 
 And blinds our eye toward outlook ; 
 
 yet not here. 
 Here never shall the Thracian plant on 
 
 high 
 For ours his father's symbol, nor with 
 
 wreaths 
 A strange folk wreathe it, upright set 
 
 and crowned 
 Here where our natural people born 
 
 behold 
 The golden Gorgon of the shield's de- 
 fence 
 That screens their flow^ering olive, nor 
 
 strange gods 
 Be graced, and Pallas here have praise 
 
 no more. 
 And if this be not I must give my child, 
 Thee, mine own very blood and spirit 
 
 of mine. 
 Thee to be slain. Turn from me, tuin 
 
 thine eyes 
 A little from me : I can bear not yet 
 To see if still they smile on mine or no. 
 If fear make faint the light in them, or 
 
 faith 
 Fix them as stars of safety. Need have 
 
 we. 
 Sore need of stars that set not in mid 
 
 storm. 
 Lights that outlast the lightnings; yet 
 
 my heart 
 Endures not to make proof of thine or 
 
 these. 
 Not yet to know thee whom I made, 
 
 and bare 
 What manner of woman: had I borne 
 
 thee man, 
 I had made no question of thine eyes 
 
 or heart, 
 Nor spared to read the scriptures in 
 
 them writ, 
 Wert thou my son ; yet couldst thou 
 
 then but die, 
 
 Fallen in sheer fight by chance anc 
 
 charge of spears. 
 And have no more of memory, fill no 
 
 tomb 
 More famous than thy fellows in fair 
 
 field. 
 Where many share the grave, many the 
 
 praise ; 
 But one crown shall one only girl my 
 
 child 
 Wear, dead for this dear city, and give 
 
 back life 
 To him that gave her and to me that 
 
 bare. 
 And save two sisters living; and all 
 
 this. 
 Is this not all good ? I shall give thee, 
 
 child. 
 Thee but by fleshly nature mine, to 
 
 bleed 
 For dear land's love ; but if the city fall 
 What part is left me in my children 
 
 then .^ 
 But if it stand, and thou for it lie dead. 
 Then hast thou in it a better part than 
 
 we, 
 A holier portion than we all ; for each 
 Hath but the length of his own life to 
 
 live, 
 And this most glorious mother-land on 
 
 earth 
 To worship till that life have end: but 
 
 thine 
 Hath end no more than hers ; thou, 
 
 dead, shalt live 
 Till Athens live not; for the days and 
 
 nights 
 Given of thy bare brief dark dividual 
 
 life. 
 Shall she give thee half all her age long 
 
 own 
 And all its glory; for thou givest her 
 
 these; 
 But with one hand she takes, and gives 
 
 again 
 More than I gave, or she requires of 
 
 thee. 
 Come therefore, I will make thee fit for 
 
 death ; 
 I that could give thee, dear, no gift at 
 
 birth 
 Save of light life that breathes and 
 
 bleeds, even I 
 
y4 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Will help thee to this better gift than 
 
 mine, 
 And lead thee by this little living hand, 
 That death shall make so strong, to 
 
 that great end 
 Whence it shall lighten like a god's, 
 
 and strike 
 Dead the strong heart of battle that 
 
 would break 
 Athens ; but ye, pray for this land, old 
 
 men. 
 That it may bring forth never child on 
 
 earth 
 To love it less, for none may more, 
 
 than we. 
 Chorus. Out of the north wind grief 
 
 came forth, 
 And the shining of a sword out of 
 
 the sea. 
 Yea, of old the first-blown blast blew 
 
 the prelude of this last. 
 The blast of his trumpet upon Rho- 
 
 dope. 
 Out of the north skies full of his cloud. 
 With the clamor of his storms as of a 
 
 crowd 
 At the wheels of a great king crying 
 
 aloud, 
 At the a.\le of a strong king's car 
 That has girded on the girdle of war, — 
 With hands that lightened the skies in 
 
 sunder. 
 And feet whose fall was followed of 
 
 thunder, 
 A god, a great god strange of name. 
 With horse-yoke fleeter-hoofed than 
 
 flame. 
 To the mountain bed of a maiden came, 
 Oreithyia, the bride mismated, 
 Wofuliy wed in a snow-strewn bed 
 With a bridegroom that kisses the 
 
 bride's mouth dead ; 
 Without garland, without glory, without 
 
 song. 
 As a fawn by night on the hills belated, 
 CJiven over for a spoil unto the strong, 
 from lips how ])alc so keen a wail 
 At the grasp of a god's hand on her 
 
 she gave, 
 When his l)reath that darkens air made 
 
 a havoc of her hair, 
 It rang from the mountain even to 
 
 the wave, — 
 
 Rang with a cry, IVWs me, woe is me ! 
 From the darkness upon Haemus to th? 
 
 sea; 
 And with hands that clung to her new 
 
 lord's knee, 
 As a virgin overborne with shame. 
 She besought him by her spouseless 
 
 fame, , 
 
 By the blameless breasts of a maid uiv I 
 
 married 
 And locks unmaidenly rent and harried, 
 And all her flower of body, born 
 To match the maidenhood of morn, 
 W^ith the might of the wind's wratb 
 
 wrenched and torn. 
 Vain, all vain as a dead man's vision 
 Falling by night in his old friend's 
 
 sight. 
 To be scattered with slumber and 
 
 slain ere light ; 
 Such a breath of such a bridegroom 
 
 in that hour 
 Of her prayers made mock, cf her 
 
 fears derision. 
 And a ravage of her youth as of a 
 
 flower. 
 With a leap of his limbs as a lion's, a 
 
 cry from his li])s as of thunder, 
 In a storm of amorous godhead filled 
 
 with fire, 
 From the height of the heaven that was 
 
 rent with the roar of his coming 
 
 in sunder. 
 Sprang the strong god on the spoil 
 
 of his desire. 
 And the pines of the hills were as 
 
 green reeds shattered. 
 And their branches as buds of the 
 
 soft spring scattered, 
 And the west wind and east, and the 
 
 sound of the south. 
 Fell dumb at the blast of the north 
 
 wind's mouth. 
 At the cry of his conv'ng out of 
 
 heaven. 
 And the wild beasts quailed in the 
 
 rifts and hollows 
 Where hound nor clarion of hunts- 
 
 man follows. 
 And the depths of the sea were 
 
 aghast, and whitened, 
 And the crowns of their waves were 
 
 as flame that lightened. 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 55 
 
 And the heart of the floods thereof 
 was riven. 
 But she knew not him coming for terror, 
 she felt not her wrong that he 
 wrought her, 
 When her locks as leaves were shed 
 before his breath, 
 And she heard not for terror his prayer, 
 though the cry was a god's that 
 besought her, 
 Blown from lips that strew the world- 
 wide seas with death. 
 For the heart was molten within her 
 
 to hear. 
 And her knees beneath her were 
 
 loosened for fear. 
 And her blood fast bound as a frost- 
 bound water, 
 And the soft new bloom of the green 
 
 earth's daughter 
 Wind-wasted as blossom of a tree ; 
 As the wild god rapt her from earth's 
 breast lifted. 
 On the strength of the stream of his 
 
 dark breath drifted, 
 From the bosom of earth as a bride 
 
 from the mother, 
 With storm for bridesman and wreck 
 for brother, 
 As a cloud that he sheds upon the 
 sea. 
 
 Of this hoary-headed woe 
 Song made memory long ago ; 
 Now a younger grief to mourn 
 Needs a new song younger born. 
 Who shall teach our tongues to 
 
 reach 
 What strange height of saddest 
 speech. 
 For the new bride's sake that is given 
 
 to be 
 A stay to fetter the foot of the sea. 
 Lest it quite spurn down and trample 
 
 the town, 
 Ere the violets be dead that were 
 plucked for its crown, 
 Or its olive-leaf whiten and with- 
 er.? 
 Who shall say of the wind's way 
 That he journeyed yesterday, 
 Or the track of the storm that shall 
 sound to-morrow, 
 
 If the new be more than the gray 
 
 grown sorrow ? 
 For the wind of the green first season 
 
 was keen. 
 And the blast shall be sharper than 
 blew between 
 
 That the breath of the sea blows 
 hither. 
 Herald of Eumolpus. Old men, gray 
 
 borderers on the march of death, 
 Tongue-fighters, tough of talk and sin 
 
 ewy speech. 
 Else nerveless, from no crew of such 
 
 faint folk 
 Whose tongues are stouter than their 
 
 hands come I 
 To bid not you to battle : let them strike 
 Whose swords are sharper than your 
 
 keen-tongued wail, 
 And ye, sit fast and sorrow ; but what 
 
 man 
 Of all this land-folk and earth-labor- 
 ing herd 
 For heart or hand seems foremost, him 
 
 I call, 
 If heart be his to hearken, him bid forth 
 To try if one be in the sun's sight born 
 Of all that grope and grovel on dry 
 
 ground 
 That may join hands in battle-grip for 
 
 death 
 With them whose seed and strength is 
 
 of the sea. 
 Chorus. Know thou this much for all 
 
 thy loud blast blown. 
 We lack not hands to speak with, 
 
 swords to plead, 
 For proof of peril, not of boisterous 
 
 breath. 
 Sea-wind and storm of barren mouths 
 
 that foam 
 And rough rock's edge of menace ; and 
 
 short space 
 May lessen thy large ignorance, and 
 
 inform 
 This insolence with knowledge if there 
 
 live 
 Men earth-begotten of no tenderer 
 
 thews 
 Than knit the great joints of the grim 
 
 sea's brood 
 With hasps of steel together; hcftveq 
 
 to help, 
 
56 
 
 ER ECU THE us. 
 
 One man shall break, even on their own 
 
 flood's ve.ge, 
 That iron bulk of battle; but thine eye 
 That sees it nowbwell higher than sand 
 
 or shore 
 Haply shall see not when thine host 
 
 shall shrink. 
 Herald of Eiimolptis. Not hajjly, nay, 
 
 but surely, shall not thine. 
 Chorus. That lot shall no god give 
 
 who fights for thee. 
 Herald of Evmclpiis. Shall gods bear 
 
 bit and bridle, fool, of men } 
 Chorus. Nor them forbid we, nor shalt 
 
 thou constrain \ 
 Herald of Einncipiis. Yet say'st thou 
 
 none shall make the good lot 
 
 mine \ 
 Chorus. Of thy sia^ none, nor moved 
 
 for fear of t!.ce. 
 Herald of Eumolpus. Gods hast thou 
 
 then to baffle gods of ours .'* 
 Chorus. Nor thine nor mine, but 
 
 equal-souled are they. 
 Herald of Eumolpus. Toward good 
 
 and ill, then, equal-eyed of soul "i 
 Chorus. Nay, but swift-eyed to note 
 
 where ill thoughts breed. 
 Herald of Eumolpus. Thy shaft word- 
 feathered flies yet far of me. 
 Chorus. Pride knows not, wounded, 
 
 till the heart be cleft. 
 Herald of Eumolpjis. Nc shaft wounds 
 
 deep whose wing is plumed with 
 
 words. 
 Chorus. Lay that to heart, and bid 
 
 thy tongue learn grace. 
 Herald of Eumolpus. Grace shall thine 
 
 own crave soon too late of mine. 
 Chorus. Boast thou till then, but I 
 
 wage words no more. 
 Erechtheus. Man, what shrill wind of 
 
 speech and wrangling air 
 Blows in our ears a summons from thy 
 
 lips 
 Winged with what message, or what 
 
 gift or grace 
 Requiring ? none but what his hand 
 
 may take 
 Here may the foe think hence to reaji, 
 
 nor this 
 Except some doom from Godvvard yield 
 
 it him. 
 
 Herald of Eumolpus. King of this 
 
 land-folk, by my mouth to thee 
 Thus saith the son of him that shakes 
 
 thine earth, 
 Eumolpus; now the stakes of war are 
 
 set. 
 For land or sea to win h\ throw and 
 
 wear ; 
 Choose therefore or to quit thy side 
 
 and give 
 The palm unfought for to his bloodless 
 
 hand, 
 Or by that father's sceptre, and the foot 
 Whose tramp far off makes tremble fur 
 
 pure fear 
 Thy soul-struck mother, piercmg like a 
 
 sword 
 The immortal womb that bare thee ; by 
 
 the waves 
 That no man bridles, and that bound 
 
 thy world, 
 And by the winds and storms of all the 
 
 sea. 
 He swears to raze from eyeshot of tho 
 
 sun 
 This city named not of his father's 
 
 name. 
 And wash to deathward down one flood 
 
 of doom 
 This whole fresh brood of earth yeaned 
 
 naturally. 
 Green yet and faint in its first blade, 
 
 unblown 
 With yellow hope of harvest : so do 
 
 thou, 
 Seeing whom thy lime is come to meet, 
 
 for fear 
 Yield, or gird up thy force to fight and 
 
 die. 
 Erechtheus. To fight then be it ; for 
 
 if to die or live, 
 No man but only a god knows this 
 
 much vet. 
 Seeing us fare forth, who bear but in 
 
 our hands 
 The weapons not the fortunes of our 
 
 fight ; 
 For these now rest as lots that yet 
 
 undrawn 
 Lie in the lap of the unknown hour; 
 
 but this 
 I know, not thou, whose hollow mouth 
 
 of storm 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 57 
 
 Is but a warlike wind, a sharp salt 
 
 breath 
 That bites and wounds not; death nor 
 
 life of mine 
 Shall give to death or lordship of 
 
 strange kings 
 The soul of this live citv, nor their 
 
 heel 
 Bruise her dear brow discrowned, nor 
 
 snaffle or goad 
 Wound her free mouth or stain her 
 
 sanguine side 
 Vet masterless of man ; so bid thy lord 
 Learn ere he weep to learn it, and too 
 
 late 
 Gnash teeth that could not fasten on 
 
 her flesh, 
 And foam his life out in dark froth of 
 
 blood 
 Vain as a wind's waif of the loud- 
 mouthed sea, 
 Torn from the wave's edge whitening. 
 
 Tell him this ; 
 Though thrice his might were mustered 
 
 for our scathe 
 And thicker set with fence of thorn- 
 edged spears 
 Than sands are whirled about the win- 
 tering beach 
 When storms have swoln the rivers, 
 
 and their blasts 
 Have breached the broad sea-banks 
 
 with stress of sea. 
 That waves of inland and the main 
 
 make war 
 As men that mix and grapple; though 
 
 his ranks 
 Were more to number than all wild- 
 wood leaves 
 The wind waves on the hills of all the 
 
 world, 
 Yet should the heart not faint, the head 
 
 not fall. 
 The breath not fail, of Athens. Say, 
 
 the gods 
 Yxo\\\ lips that have no more on earth 
 
 to say 
 Have told thee this the la«t good news 
 
 or ill 
 That I shall speak in sight of earth and 
 
 sun 
 Or he shall hear and see them : for the 
 
 next 
 
 That ear of his from tongue of mine 
 
 may take 
 Must be the first word spoken under- 
 ground 
 From dead to dead in darkness. Hence ; 
 
 make haste. 
 Lest war's fleet foot be swifter than thy 
 
 tongue. 
 And I that part not to return again 
 On him that comes not to depart 
 
 away 
 Be fallen before thee ; for the time is 
 
 full, 
 And with such mortal hope as knows 
 
 not fear 
 I go this high last way to the end of 
 all. 
 Chorus. Who shall put a bridle in 
 the mourner's lips to chasten 
 them. 
 Or seal up the fountains of his tears 
 for shame .^ 
 Song nor prayer nor prophecy shall 
 slacken tears nor hasten them. 
 Till grief be within him as a burnt- 
 out flame ; 
 Till the passion be broken in his 
 
 breast. 
 And the might thereof molten 
 into rest, 
 And the rain of eyes that weep be 
 
 dry, 
 And the breath be stilled of lips 
 that sigh. 
 Death at last for all men is a harbor ; 
 yet they flee from it, 
 Set sails to the storm-wind, and again 
 to sea; 
 Yet for all their labor no whit further 
 shall they be from it, 
 Nor longer, but wearier, shall their 
 life's work be. 
 And with anguish of travail until 
 
 night 
 Shall they steer into shipwreck out 
 
 of sight. 
 And with oars that break and 
 
 shrouds that strain 
 Shall they drive whence no ship 
 steers again. 
 Bitter and strange is the word of the 
 god most high. 
 And steep the strait of his way. 
 
s^ 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Through a pass rock-rimmed and nar- 
 row the light that gleams 
 On the faces of men falls famt as the 
 
 dawn of dreams, 
 The dayspring of death as a star in an 
 
 under sky 
 Where night is the dead men's day. 
 As darkness and storm is his will that 
 
 on earth is done, 
 As a cloud is the face of his strength. 
 King of kings, holiest of holies, and 
 
 mightiest of might. 
 Lord of the lords of thine heaven that 
 
 are humble in thy sight. 
 Hast thou set not an end for the path 
 
 of the fires of the sun. 
 To appoint him a rest at length ? 
 Hast thou told not by measure the 
 
 waves of the waste wide sea, 
 And the ways of the wind their master 
 
 and thrall to thee '>. 
 Hast thou filled not the furrows 
 
 with fruit for the world's increase .•' 
 Has thine ear not heard from of old, or 
 
 thine eye not read 
 The thought and the deed of us living, 
 
 the doom of us dead ? 
 Hast thou made not war upon 
 
 earth, and again made peace .-' 
 Therefore, O father, that seest us whose 
 
 lives are a breath, 
 Take off us thy burden, and give us 
 
 not wholly to death 
 For lovely is life, and the law 
 
 wherein all things live, 
 And gracious the season of each, and 
 
 the hour of its kind. 
 And precious the seed of his life in a 
 
 wise man's mind ; 
 But all save life for his life will a 
 
 base man give. 
 But a life that is given for the life of 
 
 the whole live land. 
 From a heart unspotted a gift of a 
 
 spotless hand. 
 Of pure will perfect and free, for the 
 
 land's life's sake. 
 What man shall fear not to put forth 
 
 his hand and take ? 
 For the fruit of a sweet life plucked in 
 
 its pure green prime 
 On his hand who plucks is as blood, on 
 
 hik soul as crime. 
 
 With cursing ye buy not blessing, not 
 
 peace with strife. 
 And the hand is hateful that chaffers 
 
 with death for life. 
 Hast thou heard, O my heart, and 
 
 endurest 
 The word that is said. 
 What a garland by sentence found 
 
 surest 
 Is wrought for what head ? 
 With what blossomless flowerage of 
 
 sea-foam and blood-colored foli- 
 age inwound 
 It shall crown as a heifer's for slaughter 
 
 the forehead for marriage un- 
 crowned "i 
 How the veils and the wreaths that 
 
 should cover 
 The brows of the bride 
 Shall be shed by the breath of 
 
 what lover. 
 And scattered aside ? 
 With a blast of the mouth of what 
 
 bridegroom the crowns shall be 
 
 cast from her hair. 
 And her head by what altar made 
 
 humble be left of them naked 
 
 and bare .'' 
 At a shrine unbeloved of a god unbe- 
 
 holden a gift shall be given for 
 
 the land, 
 That its ramparts though shaken with 
 
 clamor and horror of manifold 
 
 waters may stand ; 
 That the crests of its citadels crowned 
 
 and its turrets that thrust up their 
 
 heads to the sun 
 May behold him unblinded with dark- 
 ness of waves overmastering 
 
 their bulwarks begun. 
 As a bride shall thev bring her, 
 
 a prey for the bridegroom, a 
 
 flower for the couch of her 
 
 lord; 
 They shall muffle her mouth that she 
 
 cry not or curse them, and cover 
 
 her eyes from the sword. 
 They shall fasten her lips as with bit 
 
 and with bridle, and darken the 
 
 light of her face. 
 That the soul of the slayer may not 
 
 falter, his heart be not molten, 
 
 his hand give not grace 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 59 
 
 It she weep then, yet may none that 
 hear take pity; 
 If she cry not, none should hearken 
 though she cried. 
 Sha'.l a virgin shield thine head for 
 love, O city. 
 With a virgin's blood anointed as 
 for pride ? 
 Yet we held thee dear and hallowed 
 of her favor, 
 Dear of all men held thy people 
 to her heart ; 
 Nought she loves the breath of blood, 
 the sanguine savor, 
 Who hath built with us her throne 
 and chosen her part. 
 
 Bloodless are her works, and 
 
 sweet 
 All the ways that feel her feet ; 
 From the empire of her eyes 
 Light takes life, and darkness flies ; 
 From the harvest of her hands 
 Wealth strikes root in prosperous 
 
 lands ; 
 Wisdom of her word is made ; 
 At her strength is strength afraid ; 
 From the beam of her bright spear 
 War's fleet foot goes back for fear; 
 In her shrine she reared the birth 
 Fire-begotten on live earth ; 
 Glory from her helm was shed 
 On his olive-shadowed head; 
 By no hand but his shall she 
 Scourge the storms back of the sea, 
 To no fame but his shall give 
 Grace, being dead, with hers to 
 
 live, 
 And in double name divine 
 Half the godhead of their shrine. 
 But now with what word, with what 
 
 woe may we meet 
 The timeless passage of piteous feet. 
 Hither that bend to the last way's end 
 
 They shall walk upon earth ? 
 What song be rolled for a bride black- 
 
 stoled 
 And the mother whose hand of her 
 
 hand hath hold ? 
 For anguish of heart is my soul's 
 
 strength broken. 
 And the tongue sealed fast that would 
 fain have spoken, 
 
 To behold thee, O child of so bitter a 
 
 birth 
 That we counted so sweet, 
 What way thy steps to what bride- 
 feast tend. 
 What gift he must give that shall wed 
 
 thee for token 
 If the bridegroom be goodly to greet. 
 Chthonia. People, old men of my 
 
 city, lordly wise and hoar of head, 
 I, a spouseless bride, and crownless but 
 
 with garlands of the dead. 
 From the fruitful light turn silent to 
 
 my dark unchilded bed. 
 Chorus. Wise of word was he too 
 
 surely, but with deadlier wisdom 
 
 wise. 
 First who gave thee name from under 
 
 earth, no breath from upper skies, 
 When, foredoomed to this day's dark- 
 ness, their first daylight filled 
 
 thine eyes. 
 Praxithea. Child, my child that wast, 
 
 and art but death's and now no 
 
 more of mine, 
 Half my heart is cloven with anguish 
 
 by the sword made sharp for 
 
 thine, 
 Half exalts its wing for triumph, that 
 
 I bare thee thus divine. 
 Chthonia. Though for me the sword's 
 
 edge thirst that sets no point 
 
 against thy breast. 
 Mother, O my mother, where I drank 
 
 of life and fell on rest. 
 Thine, not mine, is all the grief that 
 
 marks this hour accurst and 
 
 blest. 
 Chorus. Sweet thy sleep and sweet 
 
 the bosom was that gave thee 
 
 sleep and birth ; 
 Harder now the breast, and girded with 
 
 no marriage-band for girth. 
 Where thine head shall sleep, the name- 
 child of the lords of under earth. 
 Praxithea. Dark the name and dark 
 
 the gifts they gave thee, child, in 
 
 childbirth were, 
 Sprung from him that rent the womb 
 
 of earth, a bitter seed to bear, 
 Born with groanings of the ground that 
 
 gave him way toward heaven's 
 
 dear air. 
 
6o 
 
 ERECHTIIEUS. 
 
 r 
 
 Chthonid. Day to day makes answer, 
 
 first to last, and life to death ; 
 
 but I, 
 Born for death's sake, die for life's 
 
 sake, if indeed this be to die, 
 This my doom that seals me deathless 
 
 till the s])rings of time run dry. 
 Chorus. Children shalt thou bear to 
 
 memory, that to man shalt bring 
 
 forth none ; 
 Yea, the lordliest that lift eyes and 
 
 hearts and songs to meet the 
 
 sun. 
 Names to fire men's ears like music till 
 
 the round world's race be run. 
 Praxithea. I thy mother, named of 
 
 gods that wreak revenge and 
 
 brand with blame, 
 Now for thy love shall be loved as thou, 
 
 • and famous with thy fame. 
 While this city's name on earth shall 
 
 be for earth her mightiest name. 
 Chthonia. That I may give this poor 
 
 girl's blood of mine 
 Scarce yet sun-warmed with summer, 
 
 this thin life 
 Still green with flowerless growth of 
 
 seedling days. 
 To build again my city; that no drop 
 Fallen of these innocent veins on the 
 
 cold ground 
 But shall help knit the joints of her 
 
 firm walls 
 To knead the stones together, and 
 
 make sure 
 The band about her maiden girdlestead 
 Once fastened, and of all men's violent 
 
 hands 
 Inviolable forever, — these to me 
 Were no such gifts as crave no thanks- 
 
 giving, 
 If with one blow dividing the sheer 
 
 life 
 I might make end, and one pang wind 
 
 up all, 
 And seal mine eyes from sorrow ; for 
 
 such end 
 The gods give none they love not; but 
 
 my heart. 
 That lcaj)s up lightened of all sloth or 
 
 fear 
 To take the gword's point, yet with one 
 
 thought's load 
 
 Flags, and falls back, broken of ning, 
 
 that halts 
 Maimed in mid flight for thy sake, and 
 
 borne down. 
 Mother, that in the places where I 
 
 played 
 An arm's-length from thy bos^m and 
 
 no more 
 Shalt find me never, nor thine eve wax 
 
 glad 
 To mix with mine its eyesight, and for 
 
 love 
 Laugh without word, filled with sweet 
 
 light, and speak 
 Divine dumb things of the inward 
 
 spirit and heart. 
 Moved silently; nor hand or lip again 
 Touch hand or lip of either, but foi 
 
 mine 
 Shall thine meet only shadows of swift 
 
 night, 
 Dreams and dead thoughts of dead 
 
 things; and the bed 
 Thou strewedst, a sterile place for all 
 
 time, strewn 
 For my sleep only, with its void sad 
 
 sheets 
 Shall vex thee, and the unfruitful cover- 
 lid 
 For empty days reproach me dead, that 
 
 leave 
 No profit of my body, but am gone 
 As not one worth being born to bear 
 
 no seed, 
 A sapless stock and branchless; yc: 
 
 thy womb 
 Shall want not honor of me, that 
 
 brought forth 
 For all this people freedom, and for 
 
 earth 
 From the unborn city born out of my 
 
 blood 
 To light the face of a'.l men ever- 
 more 
 Glorv; but lav thou this to thy great 
 
 heart 
 Whcreundcr in the dark of birth con- 
 ceived 
 Mine unlit life lay girdled with the 
 
 zone 
 That bound thy bridal bosom ; set this 
 
 thought 
 Against all edge of evil as a sword 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 To beat back sorrow, that for all the 
 
 '.vorld 
 Thou brought'st me forth a savior, who 
 
 shall save 
 Athens ; for none but I, from none but 
 
 thee. 
 Shall take this death for garland ; and 
 
 the men 
 Mine unknown children of unsounded 
 
 years, 
 My sons unrisen shall rise up at thine 
 
 hand, 
 Sown of thy seed to bring forth seed 
 
 to thee, 
 And call thee most of all most fruitful 
 
 found 
 Blessed ; but me too for my barren 
 
 womb, 
 More than my sisters for their children 
 
 born, 
 Shall these give honor, yea in scorn's 
 
 own place 
 Shall n.en set love, and bring for mock- 
 ery praise. 
 And thanks for curses ; for the dry 
 
 wild vine, 
 Scoffed at and cursed of all men, that 
 
 was I, 
 Shall shed them wine to make the 
 
 world's heart warm. 
 That all eyes seeing may lighten, and 
 
 all ears 
 Hear and be kindled ; such a draught 
 
 to drink 
 Shall be the blood that bids this dust 
 
 bring forth. 
 The chaliced life here spilt on this 
 
 mine earth, 
 Mine, my great father's mother; whom 
 
 I pray 
 Take me now gently, tenderly take 
 
 home. 
 And softly lay in his my cold chaste 
 
 hand 
 Who is called of men by my name, 
 
 being of gods 
 Charged only and chosen to bring men 
 
 under earth, 
 And now must lead and stay me with 
 
 his staff, 
 A silent soul led of a silent god, 
 Toward sightless things led sightless ; 
 
 and on earth 
 
 I see now but the shadow of mine end, 
 And this last light of all for me in 
 
 heaven. 
 Praxithea. F'arewcll I bid thee; so 
 
 bid thou not me. 
 Lest the gods hear and mock us : yet 
 
 on these 
 I lay the weight not of this grief, nor 
 
 cast 
 111 words for ill deeds back ; for if one 
 
 say 
 They have done men wrong, what hurt 
 
 have they to hear. 
 Or he what help to have said it ? surelv, 
 
 child. 
 If one among men born might say it 
 
 and live 
 Blameless, none more than I may, who 
 
 being vexed 
 Hold yet my peace; for now through 
 
 tears enough 
 Mine eyes have seen the sun that from 
 
 this day 
 Thine shall see never more ; and in the 
 
 night 
 Enough has blown of evil, and mine 
 
 ears 
 With wail enough the winds have filled, 
 
 and brought 
 Too much of cloud from over the sharp 
 
 sea 
 To mar for me the morning ; such a 
 
 blast 
 Rent from these wide void arms and 
 
 helpless breast 
 Long since one graft of me disbranched, 
 
 and bore 
 Beyond the wild ways of the unwan 
 
 dered world, 
 And loud wastes of the thunder 
 
 throated sea, 
 Springs of the night and openings of 
 
 the heaven. 
 The old garden of the Sun ; whence 
 
 never more 
 From west or east shall winds bring 
 
 back that blow 
 From folds of opening heaven or founts 
 
 of night 
 The flower of mine once ravished, born 
 
 my child 
 To bear strange children ; nor on wing^ 
 
 of theirs 
 
52 
 
 ERECrfTIfEUS. 
 
 Shall comfort come back to me, nor 
 
 their sire 
 Breathe help upon my peril, nor his 
 
 strength 
 Raise up my weakness ; but of gods 
 
 and men 
 I drift unsteered on ruin, and the wave 
 Darkens my head with imminent height, 
 
 and hangs 
 Dumb, filled too full with thunder that 
 
 shall leave 
 These ears d?ath-deafened when the 
 
 tide fincls tongue. 
 And all its wrath bears on them; thee, 
 
 O child, 
 T. help not, nor am holpen ; fain, ah 
 
 fain, 
 More than was ever mother born of 
 
 man, 
 Were I to help thee ; fain beyond all 
 
 prayer. 
 Beyond all thought fain to redeem thee, 
 
 torn 
 More timeless from me sorrowing than 
 
 the dream 
 That was thy sister ; so shalt thou be 
 
 too, 
 Thou but a vision, shadow-shaped of 
 
 sleep, 
 By grief made out of nothing ; now 
 
 but once 
 I touch, but once more hold thee, one 
 
 more kiss 
 This last time, and none other ever 
 
 more. 
 Leave on thy lips, and leave them. Go. 
 
 Thou wast 
 My heart, my heart's blood, life-blood 
 
 of my life. 
 My child, my nursling: now this breast 
 
 once thine 
 Shall rear again no children ; never 
 
 now 
 Shall any mortal blosson* born like 
 
 thee 
 Lie there, nor ever with small silent 
 
 mouth 
 Draw the sweet springs dry for an hour 
 
 that feed 
 The blind blithe life that knows not; 
 
 never head 
 Rest here to make these cold veins 
 
 warn\, nor eye 
 
 Laugh itself open with the lips that 
 
 reach 
 Lovingly toward a fount more loving; 
 
 these 
 De^th makes as all good lesser things 
 
 now dead. 
 And all the latter hopes that flowered 
 
 from these, 
 And fall as these fell fruitless ; no joy 
 
 more 
 Shall man take of thy maidenhood, no 
 
 tongue 
 Praise it ; no good shall eyes get more 
 
 of thee 
 That lightened for thy love's sake. 
 
 Now, take note, 
 Give ear, O all ye people, that my 
 
 word 
 May pierce your hearts through, and 
 
 the stroke that cleaves 
 Be fruitful to them; so shall all that 
 
 hear 
 Grow great at heart with child of 
 
 thought most high. 
 And bring forth seed in season ; this 
 
 my child. 
 This flower of this mv body, this sweet 
 
 life. 
 This fair live youth I give you, to be 
 
 slain, 
 Spent, shed, poured out, and perish ; 
 
 take my gift, 
 And give it death and the under gods 
 
 who crave 
 So much for that they give ; for this is 
 
 more. 
 Much more is this than all wc ; for they 
 
 give 
 Freedom, and for a blast, an air of 
 
 breath, 
 A little soul that is not, they give back 
 Light for all eyes, cheer for all hearts, 
 
 and life 
 That fills the world's width full of 
 
 fame and praise 
 And mightier love than children's. 
 
 This they give, 
 The grace to make thy country great, 
 
 and wrest 
 From time and death power to take 
 
 hold on her, 
 And strength to scathe forever; and 
 
 this gift, 
 
EKECHTIIEUS. 
 
 63 
 
 Is this no more than man's love is or 
 
 mine, 
 Mine and all mothers' ? nay, where that 
 
 seems more, 
 Where one loves life of child, wife, 
 
 father, friend. 
 Son, husband, mother, more than this, 
 
 even there 
 Are all these lives worth nothing, all 
 
 loves else 
 With this love slain and buried, and 
 
 their tomb 
 A thing for shame to spit on ; for what 
 
 love 
 Hath a slave left to love with ? or the 
 
 heart 
 ]3ase-born and bound in bondage fast 
 
 to fear. 
 What should it do to love thee ? what 
 
 hath he, 
 The man that hath no country ? Gods 
 
 nor men 
 Have such to friend, yoked beast-like 
 
 to base life, 
 Vile, fruitless, grovelling at the foot of 
 
 death. 
 Landless and kinless thralls of no 
 
 man's blood, 
 Unchilded and unmothered, abject 
 
 limbs 
 That breed things abject ; but who 
 
 loves on earth 
 Not friend, wife, husband, father, moth- 
 er, child, 
 Nor loves his own life for his own 
 
 land's sake. 
 But only this thing most, more this than 
 
 all, 
 He loves all well, and well of all is 
 
 loved. 
 And this love lives forever. See now, 
 
 friends. 
 My countrymen, my brothers, with what 
 
 heart 
 I give you this that of your hands again 
 The gods require for Athens : as I give, 
 So give ye to them what their hearts 
 
 would have 
 Who shall give back things better ; yea, 
 
 and these 
 I take for me to witness, all these gods. 
 Were their great will more grievous 
 
 than it is. 
 
 Not one but three, for this one thin 
 
 spun thread 
 A threefold band of children would I 
 
 give 
 For this land's love's sake ; for whose 
 
 love to-day 
 I bid thee, child, fare deathward and 
 
 farewell. 
 Chorus. O wofullest of women, yet 
 
 of all 
 Happiest, thy word be hallowed ; in all 
 
 time 
 Thy name shall blossom, and from 
 
 strange new tongues 
 High things be spoken of thee ; for 
 
 such grace 
 The gods have dealt to no man, that 
 
 on none 
 Have laid so heavy sorrow. From 
 
 this day 
 Live thou assured of godhead in thy 
 
 blood. 
 And in thy fate no lowlier than a god 
 In all good things and evil ; such a name 
 Shall be thy child this city's, and thine 
 
 own 
 Next hers that called it Athens. Go 
 
 now forth 
 Blest, and grace with thee to the doors 
 
 of death. 
 Chthojiia. O city, O glory of Athens, O 
 
 crown of my father's land, fare- 
 well. 
 Chor7is. For welfare is given her of 
 
 thee. 
 Chthottia. O goddess, be good to thy 
 
 people, that in them dominion 
 
 and freedom may dwell. 
 Chorus. Turn from us the strengths 
 
 of the sea. 
 Chthonia. Let glory's and theirs be one 
 
 name in the mouths of all na- 
 tions made glad with the sun. 
 Chorus. For the cloud is blown back 
 
 with thy breath. 
 Chthonia. With the long last love of 
 
 mine eyes I salute thee, O land 
 
 where my days now are done. 
 Chorus. But her life shall be born of 
 
 thy death. 
 Chthonia. I put on me the darkness thv 
 
 shadow, my mother, and symbol 
 
 O Earth, of my name. 
 
64 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Chorus. For thine was her witness 
 from birth. 
 Chthonia. In thy likeness I come to 
 thee darkling, a daughter whose 
 dawn and her even are the same. 
 Chorus. Be thine heart to her gra- 
 cious, O Earth ! 
 Chthonia. To thine own kind be kindly, 
 for thy son's name's sake. 
 Chorus. That sons unborn may praise 
 thee and thy first-born son. 
 Chthoiia. Ciive me thy sleep, who give 
 thee all my life awake. 
 Chorus. Too swift a sleep, ere half 
 the web of day be spun. 
 Chthonia. Death brings the shears or 
 ever life wind up the weft. 
 Chorus. Their edge is ground and 
 sharpened : who shall stay his 
 hand .> 
 Chthonia. The woof is thin, a small 
 short life, with no thread left. 
 Chortis. Yet hath it strength, 
 stretched out, to shelter all the 
 land. 
 Chthonia. Too frail a tent for covering, 
 and a screen too strait. 
 Chorus. Vet broad enough for buck- 
 ler shall thy sweet life be. 
 Chthonia. A little bolt to bar off bat- 
 tle from the gate. 
 Chorus. A wide sea-wall, that shat- 
 ters the besieging sea. 
 Chthonia. I lift up mine eyes from 
 
 the skirts of the shadow. 
 From the border of death to the limits 
 of light; 
 O streams and rivers of mountain and 
 meadow 
 That hallow the last of my sight, 
 O father that wast of my mother, 
 Cephisus, (} thou too his brother 
 From the bloom of whose banks as 
 
 a prey 
 Winds harried my sister awav, 
 O crown on the world's head lying 
 Too high for its waters to drown. 
 Take yet this one word of me ilying, 
 O city, () crown ! 
 Though land-wind and sea-wind with 
 mouths that blow slaughter 
 Should gird them to battle against 
 thee again, 
 
 New-born of the blood of a maiden thjf 
 daughter. 
 The rage of their breath shall be 
 
 vain. 
 For their strength shall be quenched 
 
 and made idle. 
 And the foam of their mouths find a 
 
 bridle, 
 And the height of their heads bow 
 
 down 
 At the foot of the towers of the 
 
 town. 
 Be blest and beloved as I love thee 
 Of all that shall draw from thee 
 breath ; 
 Be thy life as the sun's is above thee : 
 
 I go to my death. 
 Chorus. Many loves of many a mood 
 and many a kind 
 Fill the life of man, and mould the 
 
 secret mind ; 
 Many days bring many dooms, to loose 
 and bind; 
 Sweet is each in season, good the gift 
 
 it brings. 
 Sweet as change of night and day with 
 altering wings, 
 Night that lulls world-weary day, day 
 
 that comforts night. 
 Night that fills our eyes with sleep, day 
 that fills with light. 
 None of all is lovelier, loftier love is 
 
 none. 
 Less is bride's for l^ridegroom, moth- 
 er's less for son, 
 Child, than this that crowns and binds 
 up all in one; 
 Love of thy sweet light, thy fostering 
 
 breast and hand, 
 Mother Earth, and city chosen, and 
 
 natural land ; 
 Hills that bring the strong streams forth, 
 
 heights of heavenlier air. 
 Fields ariowcr with winds and suns, 
 
 woods with shadowing hair. 
 But none of the nations of men shall 
 
 they liken to thee. 
 Whose children true-born ami the fruit 
 
 of thy body are we. 
 The rest are thv sons but in figure, in 
 
 word are thy seed ; 
 We only the Hower of ihy travail, thy 
 children indeed. 
 
ERECHTIIEVS. 
 
 65 
 
 Of thy soil hast thou fashioned our 
 limbs, of thy waters their blood, 
 
 And the life of thy sjjrings everlasting 
 is fount of our flood. 
 
 No wind oversea blew us hither adrift 
 on thy shore. 
 
 None sowed us by land in thy womb 
 that conceived us and bore. 
 
 But the stroke of the shaft of the sun- 
 light that brought us to birth 
 
 Pierced only and quickened thy furrows 
 to bear us, O Earth ! 
 
 With the beams of his love wast thou 
 cloven as with iron or fire, 
 
 And the life in thee yearned for his life, 
 and grew great with desire. 
 
 And the hunger and thirst to be 
 wounded and healed with his 
 dart 
 
 Made fruitful the love in thy veins and 
 the depth of thine heart. 
 
 And the showers out of heaven over- 
 flowing and liquid with love 
 
 Fulfilled thee with child of his god- 
 head as rain from above. 
 
 Such desire had ye twain of each other, 
 till molten in one 
 
 Ye might bear and beget of your bodies 
 the fruits of the sun. 
 
 And the trees in their season brought 
 forth and were kindled anew 
 
 By the warmth of the moisture of mar- 
 riage, the child-bearing dew. 
 
 And the firstlings were fair of the wed- 
 lock of heaven and of earth ; 
 
 All countries were bounteous with blos- 
 som and bourgeon of birth, 
 
 Green pastures of grass for all cattle, 
 and life-giving corn ; 
 
 But here of thy bosom, here only, the 
 man-child was born. 
 
 All races but one are as aliens ingrafted 
 or sown. 
 
 Strange children and changelings; but 
 we, O our mother, thine own. 
 
 Thy nurslings are others, and seedlings 
 they know not of whom ; 
 
 For these hast thou fostered, but us 
 thou hast borne in thy womb. 
 
 Who is he of us all, O beloved, that 
 owe thee for birth, 
 
 Who would give not his blood for his 
 birth's sake, O mother, O Earth ,-' 
 
 What landsman is he that was fos- 
 tered and reared of thine hand 
 
 Who may vaunt him as we may in 
 death though he die for the land.'' 
 
 Well doth she therefore who gives thee 
 
 in guerdon 
 The bloom of the life of thy giving ; 
 And thy body was bowed by no fruitless 
 
 burden. 
 That bore such fruit of thee living. 
 For her face was not darkened fo; 
 
 fear, 
 For her eyelids conceived not a tear, 
 
 Nor a cry from her lips craved pity; 
 But her mouth was a fountain of song. 
 And her heart as a citadel strong 
 That guards the heart of the city 
 Messenger. High things of strong- 
 
 souled men that loved their land 
 On brass and stone are written, and 
 
 their deeds 
 On high days chanted ; but none graven 
 
 or sung 
 That ever set men's eyes or spirits on 
 
 fire, 
 Athenians, has the sun's height seen, or 
 
 earth 
 Heard in her depth reverberate as from 
 
 heaven, 
 More worth men's praise and good re- 
 port of gods 
 Than here I bring for record in youi 
 
 ears. 
 For now being come to the altar, where 
 
 as priest 
 Death ministering should meet her, and 
 
 his hand 
 Seal her sweet eyes asleep, the maiden 
 
 stood, 
 With light in all her face as of a bride 
 Smiling, or shine of festal flame by 
 
 night 
 Far flung from towers of triumph ; and 
 
 her lips 
 Trembled with pride in pleasure, that 
 
 no fear 
 Blanched them nor death before his 
 
 time drank dry 
 The blood whose bloom fulfilled them; 
 
 for her cheeks 
 Lightened, and brighter than a bridal 
 
 veil 
 
66 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Her hair enrobed her bosom, and en- 
 rolled 
 From face to feet the body's whole soft 
 
 length 
 As with a cloud sun-saturate ; then she 
 
 spake 
 With maiden tongue words manlike, 
 
 but her eyes 
 Lit mildly like a maiden's: Coimtry- 
 
 jnen, 
 With more good-will and height of hap- 
 pier heart 
 I give me to you than my mother bare. 
 And go more gladly this great way to 
 
 death 
 Than you)ig tneti boicud to battle. Then 
 
 with face 
 Turned to the shadowiest part of all 
 
 the shrine, 
 And eyes fast set upon the further 
 
 shade. 
 Take me, dear gods ; and as some form 
 
 had shone 
 From the deep hollow shadow, some 
 
 god's tongue 
 Answered, / bless you that yoicr guardian 
 
 grace 
 Gives me to guard this country, takes my 
 
 blood. 
 Your child's by name, to heal it. Then 
 
 the priest 
 Set to the flower-sweet snow of her 
 
 soft throat 
 The sheer knife's edge that severed it, 
 
 and loosed 
 From the fair bondage of so spotless 
 
 flesh 
 So strong a spirit; and all that girt 
 
 them round, 
 Gazing, with souls that hung on that 
 
 sad stroke. 
 Groaned, and kept silence after while a 
 
 man 
 Might count how far the fresh blood 
 
 crept, and bathed 
 How deep the dark robe and the bright 
 
 shrine's base 
 Red-rounded with a running ring that 
 
 grew 
 More large and chiskicr as the wells 
 
 that fed 
 Were drained of that pure cftluence. 
 
 liut the queen 
 
 Groaned not nor spake nor wept, but 
 
 as a dream 
 Floats out of eyes awakening, so passed 
 
 forth 
 Ghost-like, a shadow of sorrow, from 
 
 all sight. 
 To the inner court and chamber where 
 
 she sits 
 Dumb, till word reach her of this whole 
 
 day's end. 
 Chorus. More hapless born by far 
 Beneath some wintrier star, 
 One sits in stone among high Lydian 
 
 snows. 
 The tomb of her own woes : 
 Yet happiest was once of the daughters 
 
 of gods, and divine by her sire 
 
 and her lord. 
 Ere her tongue was a shaft for the 
 
 hearts of her sons, for the heart 
 
 of her husband a sword. 
 For she, too great of mind, 
 Grown through her good things 
 
 blind. 
 With godless lips and fire of her own 
 
 breath 
 Spake all her house to death ; 
 But thou, no mother unmothered, nor 
 
 kindled in spirit with pride of 
 
 thy seed, 
 Thou hast hallowed thy child for a 
 
 blameless blood-offering, ana 
 
 ransomed thy race by thy deed. 
 Messenger. As flower is graffed on 
 
 flower, so grief on grief 
 Engraffed brings forth new blossoms 
 
 of strange tears, 
 Fresh buds and green fruits of an alien 
 
 pain ; 
 For now flies rumor on a dark wide 
 
 wing. 
 Murmuring of woes more than ye 
 
 knew, most like 
 Hers whom ye hailed most wretched; 
 
 for the twain 
 Last left of all this house that wore 
 
 last night 
 A threefold crown of maidens, and to- 
 day 
 Should let but one fall dead out of the 
 
 wreath. 
 If inatl with grief we know not, and 
 
 sore love 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 ^7 
 
 ¥ov this their sister, or with shame 
 
 soul-stung 
 To outlive her dead, or doubt lest their 
 
 lives too 
 The gods require to seal their country 
 
 safe, 
 And bring the oracular doom to perfect 
 
 end, 
 Have slain themselves, and fallen at 
 
 the altar-foot 
 Lie by their own hands done to death ; 
 
 and fear 
 Shakes all the city as winds a wintering 
 
 tree. 
 And as dead leaves are men's hearts 
 
 blown about 
 And shrunken with ill thoughts, and 
 
 flowerless hopes 
 parched up with presage, lest the pit- 
 eous blood 
 Shedof thesemaidensguiltlessfall and fix 
 On this land's forehead like a curse that 
 
 cleaves 
 To the unclean soul's inexpiate hunted 
 
 head 
 Whom his own crime tracks hotlier 
 
 than a hound 
 To life's veiled end unsleeping; and 
 
 this hour 
 Now blackens toward the battle that 
 
 must close 
 All gates of hope and fear on all their 
 
 hearts 
 Who tremble toward its issue, knowing 
 
 not yet 
 If blood may buy them surety, cleanse 
 
 or soil 
 The helpless hands men raise, and reach 
 
 no stay. 
 Chorus. Ill thoughts breed fear, and 
 
 fear ill words ; but these 
 The gods turn from us that have kept 
 
 their law. 
 Let us lift up the strength of our 
 
 hearts in song. 
 And our souls to the height of the 
 
 darkling day. 
 If the wind in our eyes blow blood 
 
 for spray. 
 Be the spirit that breathes in us life 
 
 more strong, 
 Though the prow reel round, and the 
 
 helm point wrong. 
 
 And sharp reefs whiten the shore- 
 ward way. 
 For the steersman Time sits hidden 
 astern. 
 With dark hand plying the rudder 
 
 of doom, 
 And the surf-smoke under it flies 
 like fume 
 As the blast shears off and the oar- 
 blades churn 
 The foam of our lives that to death 
 return. 
 Blown back as they break to the 
 gulfing gloom. 
 What cloud upon heaven is arisen, 
 what shadow, what sound, 
 From the world beyond earth, from 
 the night underground, 
 That scatters from wings unbeholden the 
 weight of its darkness around ? 
 For the sense of my spirit is broken, 
 and blinded its eye. 
 As the soul of a sick man ready to 
 die. 
 With fear of the hour that is on me, 
 with dread if an end be not nigh. 
 O Earth, O gods of the land, have 
 ye heart now to see and to hear 
 What slays with terror mine eye- 
 sight, and seals mine ear } 
 O fountains of streams everlasting, are 
 all ye not shrunk up and withered 
 for fear .^ 
 Lo, night is arisen on the noon, and 
 her hounds are in quest by day, 
 And the world is fulfilled of the 
 noise of them crying for thci. 
 prey. 
 And the sun's self stricken in heaven - 
 and cast out of his course as a 
 blind man astray. 
 From east to west of the south sea- 
 line, 
 Glitters the lightning of spears that 
 shine ; 
 As a storm-cloud swoln that comes up 
 from the skirts of the sea, 
 By the wind for helmsman to shore- 
 ward ferried. 
 So black behind them the live storm 
 serried 
 Shakes earth with the tramp of its foot, 
 and the terror to be. 
 
58 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Shall tne sea give death whom the 
 
 land gave birth ? 
 O Earth, fair mother, O sweet live 
 
 Earth, 
 Hide us again in thy womb from the 
 
 waves of it, help us or hide. 
 As a sword is the heart of the god 
 
 thy brother, 
 But thine as the heart of a new-made 
 
 mother, 
 To deliver thy sons from his ravin, and 
 
 rage of his tide. 
 O strong north wind, the pilot of 
 
 cloud and rain, 
 For the gift we gave thee what gift 
 
 hast thou given us again .-' 
 O god dark-winged, deep-throated, a ter- 
 ror to forth-faring ships by night. 
 What bride-song is this that is blown 
 
 on the blast of thy breath "i 
 A gift but of grief to thy kinsmen, a 
 
 song but of death. 
 For the bride's folk weeping, and woe 
 
 for her father, who finds thee 
 
 against him in fight. 
 Turn back from us, turn thy battle, 
 
 take heed of our cry ; 
 Let thy dread breath sound, and the 
 
 waters of war be dry ; 
 Let thy strong wrath shatter the strength 
 
 of our foemen, the sword of their 
 
 strength and the shield ; 
 As vapors in heaven, or as waves 
 
 or the wrecks of ships, 
 So break thou the ranks of their 
 
 spears with the breath of thy lips. 
 Till their corpses have covered and 
 
 clothed as with raiment the face 
 
 of the sword-]:)loughed field. 
 O son of the rose-red morning, () 
 
 god twin-born with the day, 
 O wind with the yovmg sun waking, 
 
 and winged for the same wide 
 
 way. 
 Give up not the house of thy kin to 
 
 the host thou hast marshalled 
 
 from northward for prey. 
 From the cold of thy cradle in 
 
 Thrace, from the mists of the 
 
 fountains of night. 
 From the bride-bed of dawn whence 
 
 day leaps laughing, on fire for 
 
 his flight. 
 
 Come d(nvn with their doom in thine 
 
 hand on the ships thou hast 
 
 brought up against us to fight. 
 For now not in word but in deed is the 
 
 harvest of spears begun, 
 And its clamor outbellows the thunder, 
 
 its lightning outlightens the sun. 
 From the springs of the morning it 
 
 thunders and lightens across 
 
 and afar 
 To the wave where the moonset ends, 
 
 and the fall of the last low 
 
 star. 
 With a trampling of drenched red hoofs 
 
 and an earthquake of men that 
 
 meet. 
 Strong War sets hand to the scythe, and 
 
 the furrows take fire from his 
 
 feet. 
 Earth groans from her great rent heart, 
 
 and the hollows of rocks are 
 
 afraid, 
 And the mountains are moved, and the 
 
 valleys as waves in a storm-wind 
 
 swayed. 
 From the roots of the hills to the 
 
 plain's dim verge and the dark 
 
 loud shore, 
 Air shudders with shrill spears cross- 
 ing, and hurtling of wheels that 
 
 roar. 
 As the grinding of teeth in the jaws of 
 
 a lion that foam as they gnash. 
 Is the shriek of the axles that loosen, 
 
 the shock of the poles thai 
 
 crash. 
 The dense manes darken and glitter, 
 
 the mouths of the mad steeds 
 
 champ. 
 Their heads flash blind through the 
 
 battle, and death's foo' rings in 
 
 their tramp. 
 For a fourfold host upon earth and in 
 
 heaven is arrayed for the fight, 
 Clouds ruining in thunder and armies 
 
 encountering as clouds in the 
 
 night. 
 Mine ears are amazed with the terror 
 
 of trumpets, with darkness mine 
 
 eyes. 
 At the sound of the sea's host charging 
 
 that deafens the roar of the 
 
 sky's. 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 69 
 
 White frontlet is daslied upon frontlet, 
 and horse against horse reels 
 hurled, 
 
 And the gorge of the gulfs of the bat- 
 tle is wide for the spoil of the 
 world. 
 
 And the meadows are cumbered with 
 shipwreck of chariots that found- 
 er on land, 
 
 And the horsemen are broken with 
 breach as of breakers, and scat- 
 tered as sand. 
 
 Through the roar and recoil of the 
 charges that mingle their cries 
 and confound, 
 
 J. ike fire are the notes of the trumpets 
 that tiash through the darkness 
 of sound. 
 
 As the swing of the sea churned yellow 
 that sways with the wind as it 
 swells, 
 
 \s the lift and relapse of the wave of 
 the chargers that clash with their 
 bells; 
 
 And the clang of the sharp shrill brass 
 through the burst of the wave as 
 it shocks 
 
 Rings clean as the clear winds cry 
 through the roar of the surge on 
 the rocks; 
 
 And the heads of the steeds in their 
 headgear of war, and their 
 corseleted breasts, 
 
 Gleam broad as the brows of the bil- 
 lows that brighten the storm 
 with their crests. 
 
 Gleam dread as their bosoms that heave 
 to the shipwrecking wind as they 
 rise, 
 
 Filled full of the terror and thunder of 
 water, that slays as it dies. 
 
 So dire is the glare of their fore- 
 heads, so fearful the fire of their 
 breath, 
 
 And the light of their eyeballs en- 
 kindled so bright with the light- 
 nings of death ; 
 
 And the foam of their mouths as the 
 sea's when the jaws of its gulf 
 are as graves. 
 
 And the ridge of their necks as the 
 wind-shaken mane on the ridges 
 of waves ; 
 
 And their fetlocks afire as they rear 
 drip thick with a dewfall of blood 
 
 As the lips of the rearing breaker with 
 froth of the man-slaying flood; 
 
 And the whole plain reels and resounds 
 as the fields of the sea by night 
 
 When the stroke of the wind falls dark- 
 ling, and death is the seafarer's 
 light. 
 
 But thou, fair beauty of heaven, dear 
 
 face of the day nigh dead. 
 What horror hath hidden thyglory,what 
 hand hath muffled thine head .'' 
 
 O sun, with what song shall we call 
 thee, or ward off thy wrath by 
 what name, 
 With what prayer shall we seek to thee, 
 soothe with what incense, as- 
 suage with what gift. 
 If thy light be such only as lightens to 
 deathward the seaman adrift 
 
 With the fire of his house for a 
 beacon, that foemen have wasted 
 with flame .'' 
 Arise now, lift up thy light; give ear 
 
 to us, put forth thine hand. 
 Reach toward us thy torch of deliver- 
 ance, a lamp for the night of the 
 land. 
 
 Thine eye is the light of the living, 
 no lamp for the dead ; 
 
 Oh, lift up the light of thine eye on 
 the dark of our dread ! 
 
 Who hath blinded thee ? who hath 
 prevailed on thee .>* who hath en- 
 snared ? 
 
 Who hath broken thy bow, and the 
 shafts for thy battle prepared ? 
 Have they found out a fetter to bind 
 thee, a chain for thine arm that 
 was bared ? 
 Be the name of thy conqueror set forth, 
 and the might of thy master de 
 clared. 
 
 O god, fair god of the morning, O 
 glory of day, 
 
 What ails thee to cast from thy fore- 
 head its garland away ? 
 
 To jiluck from thy temples their chap 
 let enwreathed of the light. 
 
 And bind on the brows of thy god 
 head a frontlet of night ? 
 
70 
 
 ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 Thou hast loosened the necks of thine 
 
 horses, and goaded their flanks 
 
 with affright, 
 To the race of a course that we know 
 
 not, on ways that are hid from 
 
 our sight. 
 As a wind through the darkness the 
 
 wheels of their chariot are 
 
 whirled. 
 And the light of its passage is night 
 
 on the face of the world. 
 And there falls from the wings of thy 
 
 glory no help from on high. 
 But a shadow that smites us with fear 
 
 and desire of thine eye. 
 For our hearts are as reeds that a wind 
 
 on the water bows down and 
 
 goes by, 
 To behold not thy comfort in heaven 
 
 that hath left us untimely to die. 
 But what light is it now leaps forth 
 
 on the land 
 Enkindling the waters and ways of 
 
 the air 
 From thy forehead made bare. 
 From the gleam of thy bow-bearing 
 
 hand t 
 Hast thou set not thy right hand again 
 
 to the string. 
 With the back-bowed horns bent 
 
 sharj) for a spring 
 And the barbed shaft drawn. 
 Till the shrill steel sing, and the tense 
 
 nerve ring. 
 That pierces the heart of the dark 
 
 with dawn, 
 O huntsman, O king, 
 When the flame of thy face hath twi- 
 light in chase 
 Asa hound hath a blood-mottledfawn? 
 Me has glanced into golden the gray 
 
 sea-strands. 
 And the clouds are shot through with 
 
 the fires of his hands, 
 And the height of the hollow of 
 
 heaven that he fills 
 As the heart of a strong man is quick- 
 ened and thrills; 
 High over the folds of the hnv-lying 
 
 lands. 
 On the shadowless hills 
 As a guard on his walch-tuwer he 
 
 stands. 
 
 All earth and all ocean, all depth and 
 
 all height. 
 At the flash of an eyebeam are fille(J 
 
 with his might : 
 The sea roars backward, the storn] 
 
 drops dumb. 
 And silence as f'.ew on the fire of the 
 
 fight 
 Falls kind in our ears as his face in 
 
 our sight 
 With presage of peace to come. 
 Fresh hope in my heart from the 
 
 ashes of dread 
 Leaps clear as a flame from the pyre^ 
 
 of the dead. 
 That joy out of woe 
 May arise as the spring out of tempest 
 
 and snow, 
 With the flower-feasted month in hef 
 
 hands rose-red 
 Borne soft as a babe from the bear- 
 ing-bed. 
 Yet it knows not indeed if a god be 
 
 friend, 
 If rescue may be from the rage of the 
 
 sea. 
 Or the wrath of its lord have 
 
 end. 
 For the season is full now of death 
 
 or of birth. 
 To bring forth life, or an end of all ; 
 And we know not if any thing stand 
 
 or fall 
 That is girdled about with the round 
 
 sea's girth 
 As a town with its wall ; 
 But thou that art highest of the gods 
 
 most high, 
 That art lord if we live, that art lord 
 
 though we die, 
 Have heed of the tongues of our ter- 
 ror that cry 
 For a grace to the children of Earth. 
 Athenian Ilcrahi. Sons of Athens, 
 
 heavy-laden with the holy weight 
 
 of years, 
 Be your hearts as young men's lightened 
 
 of their loathlicr load of fears; 
 For the wave is sunk whose thunder 
 
 shoreward shook the shuddering 
 
 lands. 
 And unbrcached of warring wateri 
 
 Athens like a sea-rock stands. 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 71 
 
 Chorus. Well thy word has cheered 
 
 us, well thy face and glittering 
 
 eyes, that spake 
 Ere thy tongue spake words of comfort ; 
 
 yet no pause behoves it make 
 Till the whole good hap find utterance 
 
 that the gods have given at 
 
 length. 
 Athenian Herald. All is this, that yet 
 
 the city stands unforced by 
 
 stranger strength. 
 Chorus. Sweeter sound might no 
 
 mouth utter in man's ear than 
 
 this thy word. 
 Athenian Herald. Feed thy soul then 
 
 full of sweetness till' some bit- 
 terer note be heard. 
 Chorus. None, if this ring sure, can 
 
 mar the music fallen from heaven 
 
 as rain. 
 Athenian Herald. If no fire of sun 
 
 or star untimely sear the tender 
 
 grain. 
 Chorus. Fresh the dewfall of thy tid- 
 ings on our hopes reflowering 
 
 lies. 
 Athenian Herald. Till a joyless show- 
 er and fruitless blight them, rain- 
 ing from thine eyes. 
 Chorus. Bitter springs have barren 
 
 issues ; these bedew grief's arid 
 
 sands. 
 Athenian Herald. Such thank-offer- 
 ings ask such altars as expect 
 
 thy suppliant hands. 
 Chorus. Tears for triumph, wail for 
 
 welfare, what strange godhead's 
 
 shrine requires ? 
 Athenian Herald. Death's or victory's 
 
 be it, a funeral torch feeds all its 
 
 festal fires. 
 Chorus. Like a star should burn the 
 
 beacon flaming from our city's 
 
 head. 
 Athenian Herald. Like a balefire 
 
 should the flame go up that says 
 
 the king is dead. 
 Chorus. Out of heaven, a wild-haired 
 
 meteor, shoots this new sign, 
 
 scattering fear. 
 Athenian Herald. Yea, the word has 
 
 wings of fire that hovered, loath 
 
 to burn thine ear. 
 
 Chorus. From thy lips it leapt forth 
 loosened on a shrill and shadowy 
 wing. 
 Athenian Herald. Long they faltered, 
 fain to hide it deep as death that 
 hides the king. 
 Chorus. Dead with him blind hope 
 lies blasted by the lightning of 
 one sword. 
 Athenian Herald. On thy tongue 
 truth wars with error : no man's 
 edge hath touched thy lord. 
 Chorus. False was thine then, jan- 
 gling menace like a war-steed's 
 brow-bound bell ? 
 Athenian Herald. False it rang not 
 joy nor sorrow ; but by no man's 
 hand he fell. 
 Chorus. Vainly then good news and 
 evil through so faint a trumpet 
 spake. 
 Athenian Herald. All too long thy 
 soul yet labors, as who sleeping 
 fain would wake. 
 Waking, fain would fall on sleep again ; 
 
 the woe thou knowest not yet. 
 When thou knowest, shall make thy 
 memory thirst and hunger to 
 forget. 
 Chorus. Long my heart has heark- 
 ened, hanging on thy clamorous 
 ominous cry. 
 Fain yet fearful of the knowledge 
 whence it looks to live or 
 die ; 
 Now to take the perfect presage of thy 
 
 dark and sidelong flight 
 Comes a surer soothsayer sorrowing, 
 sable-stoled as birds of night. 
 Praxithea. Man, what thy mother 
 bare thee born to say. 
 Speak; for no word yet wavering on 
 
 thy lip 
 Can wound me worse than thought 
 forestalls or fear. 
 Athenian Herald. I have no will to 
 weave too fine or far, 
 O queen, the weft of sweet with bitter 
 
 speech, 
 Bright words with darkling; but the 
 
 brief truth shown 
 Shall plead my pardon for a lingering 
 tongue. 
 
72 
 
 ERECHTIIEUS. 
 
 Loath yet to strike hope through the 
 heart, and slay. 
 
 The sun's light still was lordly housed 
 in heaven 
 
 When the twain fronts of war encoun- 
 tering smote 
 
 P'irst fire out of the battle ; but not long 
 
 Had the fresh wave of windy fight 
 begun 
 
 Heaving, and all the surge of swords 
 to sway, 
 
 When timeless night laid hold of 
 heaven, and took 
 
 With its great gorge the noon as in a 
 
 gulf, 
 
 Strangled ; and thicker than the shrill- 
 winged shafts 
 
 Flew the fleet lightnings, held in chase 
 through heaven 
 
 By headlong heat of thunders on their 
 trail 
 
 Loosed as on quest of quarry; that our 
 host, 
 
 Smit with sick presage of some wrath- 
 ful god. 
 
 Quailed, but the foe as from one iron 
 throat 
 
 With one great sheer sole thousand- 
 throated cry 
 
 Shook earth, heart-staggered from their 
 shout, and clove 
 
 The eyeless hollow of heaven; and 
 breached therewith 
 
 As with an onset of strength-shattering 
 sound. 
 
 The rent vault of the roaring noon of 
 night 
 
 From her throned seat of usurpation 
 rang 
 
 Reverberate answer ; such response 
 there pealed 
 
 As though the tide's charge of a storm- 
 ing sea 
 
 Had burst the sky's wall, and made 
 broad a breach 
 
 In the ambient girth and bastion flanked 
 with stars 
 
 (Guarding the fortress of the gods, and 
 all 
 
 Crashed now together on ruin; and 
 through that cry. 
 
 And higher above it, ceasing, one nian's 
 note 
 
 Tore its way like a trumpet: Charge^ 
 
 make end, 
 Charge, halt not, strike, rend up their 
 
 strength by the roots. 
 Strike, break thevi, make your birth- 
 right^ s protnise sure, 
 Shozuyour hearts hardier than the fenced 
 
 land breeds. 
 And souls breathed in you from no spirit 
 
 of earth. 
 Sons of the sea's 7va7>es ! And all ears 
 
 that heard 
 Rang with that fiery cry, that the fine 
 
 air 
 Thereat was fired, and kindling filled 
 
 the plain 
 Full of that fierce and trumpet-quench- 
 ing breath 
 That spake the clarions silent ; no glad 
 
 song 
 For folk to hear that wist how dire a 
 
 god 
 Begat this peril to them, what strong 
 
 race 
 Fathered the sea-born tongue that sang 
 
 them death. 
 Threatening: so raged through the red 
 
 foam of fight 
 Poseidon's son Eumolpus ; and the war 
 Quailed round him coming, and our 
 
 side bore back. 
 As a stream thwarted by the wind and 
 
 sea 
 That meet it midway mouth to mouth, 
 
 and beat 
 The f^ood back of its issue; but the 
 
 king 
 Shouted against them, crying, O Father- 
 
 Source of the god my father, from thine 
 
 hand 
 Send me what end seems good no7v in thy 
 
 sight. 
 But death from mine to this man: anrl 
 
 the word 
 (^uick on his lips vet like a blast oi 
 
 fire 
 Blew them together ; and round its 
 
 lords that met 
 Paused all the reeling battle: two main 
 
 waves 
 Meeting, one hurled sheer from the sea 
 
 wall back 
 
ERECHTIIEUS. 
 
 7Z 
 
 That shocks it sideways, one right in 
 
 from sea 
 Charging, that full in face takes at one 
 
 blow 
 That whole recoil and ruin, with less fear 
 Startle men's eyes late shipwrecked ; 
 
 for a breath 
 Crest fronting crest hung, wave to wave 
 
 rose poised, 
 Then clashed, breaker to breaker ; 
 
 cloud with cloud 
 In heaven, chariot with chariot closed 
 
 on earth. 
 One fourfold flash and thunder; yet a 
 
 breath. 
 And with the king's spear through his 
 
 red heart's root 
 Driven, like a rock split from its hill- 
 side, fell 
 Hurled under his own horschoofs dead 
 
 on earth 
 The sea-beast that made war on earth 
 
 from sea. 
 Dumb, with no shrill note left of storm- 
 ing song, 
 Eumolpus; and his whole host with 
 
 one stroke 
 Spear-stricken through its dense deep 
 
 iron heart 
 Fell hurtling from us, and in fierce re- 
 coil 
 Drew seaward as with one wide wail of 
 
 waves, 
 Resorbed with reluctation; such a 
 
 groan 
 Rose from the fluctuant refluence of its 
 
 ranks, 
 Sucked sullen back and strengthless ; 
 
 but scarce yet 
 The steeds had sprung, and wheels had 
 
 bruised their lord 
 Fallen, when from highest height of 
 
 the sundering heaven 
 The Father for his brother's son's sake 
 
 slain 
 Sent a sheer shaft of lightning writhen, 
 
 and smote 
 Right on his son's son's forehead, that 
 
 unhelmed 
 Shone like the star that shines down 
 
 storm, and gave 
 Light to men's eyes that saw thy lord 
 
 their king 
 
 Stand, and take breath from battle; 
 
 then too soon 
 Saw sink down as a sunset in sea-mist 
 The high bright head that here in van 
 
 of the earth 
 Rose like a headland, and through 
 
 storm and night 
 Took all the sea's wrath on it ; and 
 
 now dead 
 They bring thee back by war-forsaken 
 
 ways 
 The strength called once thy husband, 
 
 the great guard 
 That was of all men, stay of all men's 
 
 lives. 
 They bear him slain of no man, but a 
 
 god. 
 Godlike ; and tow^ard him dead the 
 
 city's gates 
 Fling their arms open mother-like, 
 
 through him 
 Saved ; and the whole clear land is 
 
 purged of war. 
 What wilt thou say now of this weal 
 
 and woe ? 
 Praxitliea. I praise the go'ds foi 
 
 Athens. O sweet Earth, 
 Mother, what joy thy soul has of thi 
 
 son, 
 Thy life of my dead lord, mine own 
 
 soul knows 
 That knows thee godlike; and what 
 
 grief should mine, 
 What sorrow should my heart have, 
 
 who behold 
 Thee made so heaven-like happy' 
 
 This alone 
 I only of all these blessed, all thy kind, 
 Crave this for blessing to me, that in 
 
 theirs 
 Have but a part thus bitter ; give me 
 
 toq 
 Death, and the sight of eyes that meet 
 
 not mine. 
 And thee too from no godless heart or 
 
 tongue 
 Reproachful, thee too by thy living 
 
 name, 
 Father divine, merciful god, I call, 
 Spring of my life-springs, fountain of 
 
 my stream. 
 Pure and poured forth to one great end 
 
 with thine. 
 
74 
 
 EKECHTIIEUS. 
 
 Sweet head sublime of triumph and 
 
 these tears, 
 Cephisus, if thou seest as gladly shed 
 Thy blood in mine as thine own waves 
 
 are given 
 To do this great land good, to give for 
 
 love 
 The same lips drink, and comfort the 
 
 same hearts, 
 Do thou then, O my father, white- 
 
 souled god, 
 To thy most pure earth-hallowing heart 
 
 eterne 
 Take what thou gavest to be given for 
 
 these, 
 Take thv child to thee ; for her time is 
 
 full, 
 For all she hath borne she hath given, 
 
 seen all she had 
 Flow from her, from her eyes and 
 
 breasts and hands 
 Flow forth to feed this people ; but be 
 
 thou. 
 Dear god and gracious to all souls 
 
 alive, 
 Good to thine own seed also ; let me 
 
 sleep, 
 Father; my sleepless darkling day is 
 
 done, 
 My day of life like night, but slumber- 
 less : 
 For all my fresh fair springs, and his 
 
 that ran 
 In one stream's bed with mine, are all 
 
 run out 
 Into the deep of death. The gods 
 
 have saved 
 Athens; my blood has bought her at 
 
 their hand. 
 And ye sit safe; be glorious and be 
 
 glad 
 As now for all time always, country- 
 men, 
 And love my dead forever; but me, 
 
 mc, 
 What shall man give for these so good 
 
 as death ? 
 Chorus. From the cuji of my heart I 
 
 pour through my lips along 
 The niingk-d wine of a joyful and sor- 
 rowful song ; 
 Wine sweeter than honey and bitterer 
 
 than bhxjcl that is poured 
 
 From the chalice of gold, from the 
 
 point of the two-edged sword. 
 For the city /edeemed should joy flow 
 
 forth as a flood. 
 And a dirge make moan for the city 
 
 polluted with blood. 
 Great praise should the gods have 
 
 surely, my country, of thee, 
 Were thy brow but as white as of old 
 
 for thy sons to see. 
 Were thy hands as bloodless, as blame- 
 less thy cheek divine; 
 But a stain on it stands of the life-blood 
 
 offered for thine. 
 What thanks shall we give that are 
 
 mixed not and marred with 
 
 dread 
 For the price that has ransomed thine 
 
 own with thine own child's head.' 
 For a taint there cleaves to the peo- 
 ple redeemed with blood. 
 And a plague to the blood-red 
 
 hand. 
 The rain shall not cleanse it, the dew 
 
 nor the sacred flood 
 That blesses the glad live land. 
 In the darkness of earth beneath, in 
 
 the world without sun. 
 The shadows of past things reign ; 
 And a cry goes up from the ghost of 
 
 an ill deed done. 
 And a curse for a virgin slain. 
 Athena. Hear, men that mourn, and 
 
 woman without mate. 
 Hearken ; ye sick of soul with fear, 
 
 and thou 
 Dumb-stricken for thy children ; hear 
 
 ye too. 
 Earth, and the glory of heaven, and 
 
 winds of the air. 
 And the most hoiy heart of the deep 
 
 sea. 
 Late wroth, now full of quiet; hear 
 
 thou, sun. 
 Rolled round with the upper fire of 
 
 rolling heaven, 
 And all the stars returning; hills and 
 
 streams, 
 Springs and fresh fountains, day that 
 
 seest these deeds. 
 Night that shalt hide not; and thou 
 
 child of mine, 
 ('hild of a maiden, by a maid redeemed, 
 
ERECHTHEUS. 
 
 75 
 
 Blood-guiltless, though bought back 
 
 with innocent blood, 
 City mine own: I Pallas bring thee 
 
 word, 
 1 virgin daughter of the most high god 
 Give all you charge, and lay command 
 
 on all. 
 The word I bring be wasted not; for 
 
 this 
 The gods have stablished, and his soul 
 
 hath sworn. 
 That time nor earth nor changing sons 
 
 of man, 
 Nor waves of generations, nor the 
 
 winds 
 Of ages risen and fallen that steer their 
 
 tides 
 Through light and dark of birth and 
 
 lovelier death 
 From storm toward haven inviolable, 
 
 shall see 
 So great a light alive beneath the sun 
 As the aweless eye of Athens ; all fame 
 
 else 
 Shall be to her fame as a shadow in 
 
 sleep 
 To this wide noon at waking ; men 
 
 most praised 
 In lands most happy for their children 
 
 found 
 Shall hold as highest honors given of 
 
 God 
 To be but likened to the least of thine, 
 Thy least of all, my city ; thine shall 
 
 be 
 The crown of all songs sung, of all 
 
 deeds done 
 Thine the full flower for all time ; in 
 
 thine hand 
 Shall time be like a sceptre, and thine 
 
 head 
 Wear worship for a garland ; nor one 
 
 leaf 
 Shall change or winter cast out of thy 
 
 crown 
 Till all flowers wither in the world ; 
 
 thine eyes 
 Shall first in man's flash lightning lib- 
 erty, 
 Thy eongue shall first say freedom ; 
 
 thy first hand 
 Shall loose the thunder terror as a 
 
 hound 
 
 To hunt from sunset to the springs of 
 
 the sun 
 Kings that rose up out of the populous 
 
 east 
 To make their quarry of thee, and shall 
 
 strew 
 With multitudinous limbs of myriad 
 
 herds 
 The foodless pastures of the sea, and 
 
 make 
 With wrecks immeasurable and un- 
 
 summed defeat 
 One ruin of all their many-folded flocks 
 111 shepherded from Asia ; by thy side 
 Shall fight thy son the north wind, and 
 
 the sea 
 That was thine enemy shall be sworn 
 
 thy friend 
 And hand be struck in hand of his and 
 
 thine 
 To hold faith fast for aye ; with thee, 
 
 though each 
 Make war on other, wind and sea shall 
 
 keep 
 Peace, and take truce as brethren for 
 
 thy sake 
 Leagued with one spirit and single- 
 hearted strength 
 To break thy foes in pieces, who shall 
 
 meet 
 The wind's whole soul and might of me 
 
 main sea 
 Full in their face of battle, and become 
 A laughter to thee ; like a shower of 
 
 leaves 
 Shall their long galleys, rank by stagger- 
 ing rank, 
 Be dashed adrift on ruin, and in thy 
 
 sight 
 The sea deride them, and that lord of 
 
 the air 
 Who took by violent hand thy child to 
 
 wife 
 With his loud lips bemock them, by his 
 
 breath 
 Swept out of sight of being ; so great 
 
 a grace 
 Shall this day give thee, that makes one 
 
 in heart 
 With mine the deep sea's godhead, and 
 
 his son 
 With hmi that was thine helmsman, 
 
 king with king, 
 
7^ 
 
 ERECHTIIEUS. 
 
 Dead man with dead; such only names 
 
 as these 
 Shalt thou call royal, take none else or 
 
 less 
 To hold of men in honor; but with me 
 Shall these be worshipped as one god, 
 
 and mix 
 With mine the might of their mysterious 
 
 names 
 In one same shrine served singly, thence 
 
 to keep 
 Perpetual guard on Athens ; time and 
 
 change, 
 Masters and lords of all men, shall be 
 
 made 
 To thee that knowest no master and no 
 
 lord 
 Servants; the days that lighten heaven, 
 
 and nights 
 That darken, shall be ministers of thine 
 To attend upon thy glory, the great 
 
 years 
 As light-engraven letters of thy name 
 Writ by the sun's hand on the front of 
 
 the earth 
 For world-beholden witness ; such a 
 
 gift 
 For one fair chaplet of three lives en- 
 wreathed 
 To hang forever from thy storied shrine. 
 And this thy steersman fallen with tiller 
 
 in hand 
 To stand forever at thy ship's helm seen. 
 Shall he that bade their threefold tlower 
 
 be shcMU 
 And laid him low that planted, give 
 
 thee back 
 In sign of sweet land reconciled with 
 
 sea 
 And heavenlike earth with heaven: 
 
 such j)ro'nise-])lc(lgc 
 I daughter without mother born of (}od 
 To the most woful motiier born of man 
 Plight for continual comfort. Hail, and 
 
 live 
 
 Beyond all human hap of mortal doom 
 Happy; for so my sire hath sworn and 
 
 I. 
 Praxithea. O queen Athena ! from p 
 
 heart made whole 
 Take as thou givest us blessing ; never 
 
 tear 
 Shall stain for shame, nor groan untune 
 
 the song 
 That as a bird shall spread and fold its 
 
 wings 
 Here in thy praise forever, and fulfil 
 The whole world's crowning city 
 
 crowned with thee 
 As the sun's eye fulfils and crowns with 
 
 sight 
 The circling crown of heaven. There 
 
 is no grief 
 Great as the joy to be made one in will 
 With him that is the heart and rule of 
 
 life. 
 And thee, god born of god ; thy name 
 
 is ours. 
 And thy large grace more great than 
 
 our desire. 
 Chorus. From the depth of the 
 
 springs of my spirit a fountain 
 
 is poured of thanksgiving. 
 My countrv, mv mother, for thee, 
 That thy dead for their death shall have 
 
 life in thy sight and a name ever- 
 living 
 At heart of thy j^eople to be. 
 In the darkness of change ont he waters 
 
 of time thev shall turn from afar 
 To the beam of this dawn for a beacon, 
 
 the light of these pyres for a star. 
 They shall see thee who iove and take 
 
 cc^mfort, who hate thee shall see 
 
 and take warning. 
 Our mother that niakcst us free; 
 And the sons of thine earth shall have 
 
 help of the waves that made war 
 
 on their morning;, 
 And friendship and fame of the sea. 
 
CHASTELARD: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 DEDICATE THIS PLAY, AS A PARTIAL EXPRESSION OF REVERENCE AND GRATITUDE, TO THE 
 
 CHIEF OH- LIVING POETS; TO THE FIRST DRAMATIST OF HIS AGE; TO THE GREATEST 
 
 EXILE, AND THEREFORE TO THE GREATEST MAN OF FRANCE; TO VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 ARV Stuart. 
 
 AKV Beaton. 
 ^AKV Sevton. 
 .Iaky Cakmichael. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Mary Hamilton. Randolph. 
 
 Pierre de Boscosel de Chastelard. Morton. 
 Darnley. Lindsay. 
 
 Murray. Father Black. 
 
 Guards, Bitrzesses, a Preacher, Citizens, etc. 
 
 Another Yle is there toward the Northe, in the See Occe.in, where that ben fulle cruele and fiil 
 vele Wonimen of Nature: and thei han precious Stones in hire Eyen; and thei ben of that kynde, 
 hat z\{ they beholden ony man, thei slen him anon with the behrldynge, as dothe the Basilisk. 
 
 Maundevile's Voiage and Travaile, Ch. xxviii. 
 
 ACT I. MARY BEATON. 
 
 jCENE I. — The Upper Chambey in 
 Holyrood. 
 
 The foil r Maries. 
 Mary Beal \)i [sings]:—' 
 I. 
 Le nazire 
 Est d, Veaii ; 
 Entends rire 
 Ce gros flot 
 Que fait liiire 
 Et bruire 
 Le vieux sire 
 Aqnilo. 
 
 2. 
 
 Dans Vespace 
 Dii graiid ai? 
 Le vent passe 
 Coninie tui fer 
 
 Siffle et sonniy 
 Tom be et tonne ^ 
 Trend et donne 
 A la mer. 
 
 Vois, la brise 
 
 7\)urne an nord, 
 Et la bise 
 Soujffie et niord 
 Snr ta pure 
 Chcvelure 
 
 Qui fnurrmire 
 Et se tord. 
 
 Mary Hamilton. Yt)u never sing noK 
 but it makes you sad; 
 Why do you sing.? 
 
 Mary Beaton. I hardly know well 
 why ; 
 It makes me sad to sing, and very sad 
 To hold my peace. 
 
 7» 
 
1^ 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Mary Carmichcul. I know what sad- 
 dens you. 
 Mary Beaton. Prithee, what ? what ? 
 Mary Carmichael. Why, since we 
 came from France. 
 You have no lover to make stuff for 
 songs. 
 Mary Beaton. You are wise ; for 
 there my pain begins indeed, 
 Because I have no lovers out of Prance. 
 Mary Seyton. I mind me of one Oli- 
 vier de Pesme, 
 (You knew him, sweet) a pale man with 
 
 short hair, 
 Wore tied at sleeve the Beaton color. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Blue — 
 I know, blue scarfs. I never liked that 
 knight. 
 Mary Hamilton. Me ? I know him ? 
 I hardly knew his name. 
 Black, was his hair? no, brown. 
 
 Mary Seytoti. Light pleases you : 
 I have seen the time brown served you 
 well enough. 
 Mary Carmichael. Lord Darnley's is 
 
 a mere maid's yellow. 
 Mary Hamilton. No ; 
 A man's, good color. 
 
 Mary Seyton. Ah, does that burn 
 your blood,'' 
 Why, what a bitter color is this red 
 That fills your face ! if you be not in 
 
 love, 
 I am no maiden. 
 Mary Hamilton. Nay, God help true 
 hearts I 
 I must be stabbed with love then, to the 
 
 bone. 
 Yea, to the spirit, past cure. 
 
 Mary Seyton. What were you saying ? 
 I see some jest run up and down your 
 lips. 
 Mary Carmiihael. Finish your song; 
 I know you have more of it ; 
 Good sweet, I jjray you do. 
 Mary Beaton. I am too sad. 
 Mary Carmichael. This will not sad- 
 den you to sing ; your song 
 Tastes sharp of sea and the sea's bitter- 
 ness, 
 liut small pain sticks on it. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nav, it is sad ; 
 1-or either sorrow with tlic beaten lips 
 
 Sings not at all, or if it does get breath 
 Sings quick and sharp like a hard sort 
 
 of mirth : 
 And so this song does ; or I would it did, 
 That it might please me better than it 
 
 does. 
 Mary Seyton. Well, as you choose 
 
 then. What a sort of men 
 Crowd all about the squares! 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Ay, hateful men; 
 For look how many talking mouths be 
 
 there. 
 So many angers show their teeth at us. 
 Which one is that, stooped somewhat in 
 
 the neck. 
 That walks so with his chin against the 
 
 wind, 
 Lips sideways shut.^ a keen-faced man 
 
 — lo there. 
 He that walks midmost. 
 
 Mary Seyton. That is Master Knox, 
 He carries all these folk within his skin. 
 Bound up as 'twere between the brows 
 
 of him 
 Like a bad thought ; their hearts beat 
 
 inside his; 
 They gather at his lips like flies in the 
 
 sun, 
 Thrust sides to catch his face. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Look forth ; so — 
 
 push 
 The window — further — see you any 
 
 thing ? 
 Mary Hamilton. They are well gone; 
 
 but pull the lattice in. 
 The wind is like a blade aslant. Would 
 
 God 
 I could get back one day I think upon ; 
 The day we four and some six after us 
 Sat in that Louvre garden and plucked 
 
 fruits 
 To cast love-lots with in the gathered 
 
 grapes ; 
 This way : vou shut your eyes, and reach 
 
 and pluck, 
 And catch a lover for each grape you 
 
 get. 
 I got but one, a green one, and it broke 
 Between my fingers, and it ran dowq 
 
 through them. 
 Mary Seyton. Ay, and the queen fell 
 
 in a little wrath 
 15ccausc she got so many, and tore of? 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 79 
 
 Some of them she had plucked unwit- 
 tingly— 
 She said, against her will. What fell 
 
 to you ? 
 Mary Beaton, Me ? nothing but the 
 
 stalk of a stripped bunch 
 With clammy grape-juice leavings at 
 
 the tip. 
 Mary Carmichael. Ay, true, the queen 
 
 came first, and she won all ; 
 It was her bunch we took to cheat you 
 
 with. 
 What, will you weep for that now } for 
 
 you seem 
 As one that means to weep. God par- 
 don me ! 
 I think your throat is choking up with 
 
 tears. 
 You are not well, sweet, for a lying jest 
 To shake you thus much. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I am well enough : 
 Give not your pity trouble for my sake. 
 Mary Seyton. If you be well, sing out 
 
 your song and laugh. 
 Though it were but to fret the fellows 
 
 there. — 
 Now shall we catch her secret washed 
 
 and wet 
 [n the middle of her song ; for she must 
 
 weep 
 [f she sing through. 
 Mary Hamilton. I 
 
 love; 
 [ watched her eyes 
 
 masquing time 
 Feed on his face by morsels ; she must 
 
 weep. 
 Mary Beaton {sings) : — 
 
 Le navire 
 Passe et luit^ 
 Puis chavire 
 A grand bruit ; 
 Et sur ronde 
 La plus blo7tde 
 Tite au mo7ide 
 Flotte et/uit. 
 
 told you it was 
 all through the 
 
 Moi,je rame^ 
 Et Vamour 
 
 Cest ma flammey 
 Mon grand jour y 
 Ma chandelle 
 Blanche et belUy 
 Ma chapelle 
 De sijour. 
 
 Toi, mon dme 
 Et ma/oi. 
 Sots ma dame 
 Et ma loi ; 
 Sois ma mie, 
 Sois Marie, 
 Sois ma vie, 
 Toute h 7noi ! 
 
 Mary Seyton. I know the song ; < 
 song of Chastelard's 
 He made in coming over with the queen 
 How hard it rained ! he played thai 
 
 over twice, 
 Sitting before her, singing each wore 
 
 soft, 
 As if he loved the least she listened to 
 Mary Hamilton. No marvel if he 
 loved it for her sake ; 
 She is the choice of women in the world; 
 Is she not, sweet .-* 
 Mary Beatojt. I have seen no fairei 
 
 one. 
 Mary Seyton. And the most loving : 
 did you note last night 
 How long she held him with her hands 
 
 and eyes, 
 Looking a little sadly, and at last 
 Kissed him below the chin, and parted so 
 As the dance ended ? 
 
 Mary Hamilton. This was courtesy ; 
 So might I kiss my singing-bird's red bill 
 After some song, till he bit short my lip. 
 Mary Seyton. But if a lady hold her 
 bird anights 
 To sing to her between her fingers — ha } 
 I have seen such birds. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Oh, you talk empti- 
 ly; 
 She is full of grace; and marriage in 
 
 good time 
 Will wash the fool called scandal off 
 men's lips. 
 Mary Hamilton. I know not that j I 
 know how folk would gibe 
 
8o 
 
 CIIASTELARD. 
 
 If one of us pushed courtesy so far. 
 She has always loved love's fashions 
 
 well ; you wot, 
 The marshal, head friend of this Chaste- 
 lard's, 
 She used to talk with ere he brought 
 
 her here, 
 And sow their talk with little kisses 
 
 thick 
 As roses in rose-harvest. For myself, 
 I cannot see which side of her that 
 
 lurks 
 Which snares in such wise all the sense 
 
 of men ; 
 What special beauty, subtle as man's 
 
 eye 
 And tender as the inside of the eyelid is, 
 There grows about her. 
 
 Mary Cannichad. I think her cun- 
 ning speech — 
 The soft and rapid shudder of her 
 
 breath 
 In talking — the rare, tender little 
 
 laugh — 
 The pitiful sweet sound like a bird's 
 
 sigh 
 W'nen her voice breaks; her talking 
 does it all. 
 Mary Seyton. I say, her eyes with 
 those clear perfect brows : 
 It is the playing of those eyelashes, 
 The lure of amorous looks as sad as 
 
 love. 
 Plucks all souls toward her like a net. 
 
 Mary Hayniltoii. What, what I 
 V'ou ])raise her in too lover-iike a wise 
 For women that praise women ; such 
 
 report 
 Is like robes worn the rough side next 
 
 the skin. 
 Frets where it warms. 
 
 Mary Seyton. You think too much in 
 French. 
 
 Enter Darn LEY. 
 Here comes your thorn ; what glove 
 against it now } 
 Mary Hamilton. ( )h, God's good pity I 
 this a thorn of minc.=* 
 It has not run deep in yet. 
 
 .Mary Carniicliai-l. I am not sure: 
 The red runs over lo your face's edge. 
 Darn ley. Give me one word ; nay, 
 lady, for love's sake ; 
 
 Here, come this way; I will not keep 
 
 you ; no. 
 — O my sweet soul, why do you wrong 
 
 me thus ? 
 Mary Hamilton. Why will you give 
 
 mc for men's eyes to burn .-' 
 Darnley. What, sweet, I love you as 
 
 mine own soui loves me; 
 They shall divide when we do. 
 Mary Hamilton. I cannot say. 
 Darnley. Why, look you, I am broken 
 
 with the queen ; 
 This is the rancor and the bitter heart 
 That grows in you , by God it is naught 
 
 else. 
 Why, this last night she held me for a 
 
 fool — 
 Av, God wot, for a thing of stripe and 
 
 bell. 
 I bade her make me marshal in her 
 
 masque — 
 I had the dress here painted, gold and 
 
 gray 
 (That is, not gray, but a blue green like 
 
 this) — 
 She tells me she had chosen her mar- 
 shal, she. 
 The best o' the world for cunning and 
 
 sweet wit ; 
 And what sweet fool but her swcct 
 
 knight, God help ! 
 To serve her with that three-inch wit of 
 
 his } 
 She is all fool and fiddling now : for 
 
 me, 
 I am well pleased; God knows, if I 
 
 might choose 
 I would not be more troubled with her 
 
 love. 
 Her love is like a brier that rasps tlic 
 
 flesh, 
 And yours is soft like flowers. Con.c 
 
 this way, love ; 
 So, further in this window: hark \ow 
 
 here. 
 
 Enter ChastkiaRD. 
 Mary Beaton. CJood morrt)W, sir. 
 Chastelard. Good morrow, noble hulv. 
 Mary Cannichael. You have heaid 
 
 no news .'' what new s } 
 Chastelarii. Nay, I have nont. 
 That maiden-tongued male-faced Eliza 
 
 beth 
 
CHASTRLARD. 
 
 81 
 
 Hath eyes unlike our queen's, hair not 
 
 so soft, 
 And hands more sudden save for court- 
 esy ; 
 And lips no kiss of love's could brmg 
 
 to flower 
 In such red wise as our queen's; save 
 
 this news, 
 I know none English. 
 
 Mary Seyton. Come, no news of her; 
 
 For God's love talk still rather of our 
 
 queen. 
 
 Mary Beaton. God give us grace then 
 
 to speak well of her. 
 
 You did right joyfully in our masque 
 
 last night ; 
 I saw you when the queen lost breath 
 
 (her head 
 Bent back, her chin and lips catching 
 
 the air — 
 A goodly thing to see her) how you 
 
 smiled 
 Across her head, between your lips — 
 
 no doubt 
 You had great joy, sir. Did not you 
 
 take note 
 
 Once how one lock fell ? that was good 
 to see. 
 Chastelard. Yea, good enough to live 
 
 for. 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, but sweet 
 Enough to die. When she broke off 
 
 the dance, 
 Turning round short and soft — I never 
 
 saw 
 Such supple ways of walking as she has. 
 Chastelard. Why do you praise her 
 
 gracious looks to me ? 
 Mary Beaton. Sir, for mere sport ; 
 but tell me even for love 
 How much you love her. 
 
 Chastelard. I know not : it may be 
 If I had set mine eyes to find that out, 
 I should not know it. She hath fair 
 
 eyes : may be 
 I love her for sweet eyes or brows or 
 
 hair. 
 For the smooth temples, where God 
 
 touching her 
 Made blue with sweeter veins the flower- 
 sweet white ; 
 Or for the tender turning of her wrist. 
 Or marriage of the eyelid with the cheek ; 
 
 I cannot tell ; or flush of lifting throat, 
 I know not if the color get a name 
 This side of heaven — no man knows; 
 
 or her mouth, 
 A flower's lip with a snake's lip, sting- 
 ing sweet. 
 And sweet to sting with : face that one 
 
 would see 
 And then fall blind and die with sight 
 
 of it 
 Held fast between the eyelids — oh, all 
 
 these 
 And all her body and the soul to that. 
 The speech and shape and hand and 
 
 foot and heart 
 That I would die of — yea, her name 
 
 that turns 
 My face to fire being written — I know 
 
 no whit 
 How much I love them. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nor how she loves you 
 
 back? 
 Chastelard. I know her ways of lov- 
 ing, all of them : 
 A sweet soft way the first is ; afterward 
 It burns and bites like fire ; the end of 
 
 that. 
 Charred dust, and eyelids bitten through 
 with smoke. 
 Mary Beaton. What has she done for 
 
 you to gird at her ? 
 Chastelard. Nothing. You do not 
 greatly love her, you, 
 Who do not — gird, you call it. I am 
 
 bound to France ; 
 Shall I take word from you to any one "i 
 So it be harmless, not a gird, I will. 
 Mary Beaton. I doubt you will not 
 
 go hence with your life. 
 Chastelard. Why, who should slay 
 me ? no man northwards born. 
 In my poor mind; my sword's lip is nu 
 
 maid's 
 To fear the iron biting of their own, 
 Though they kiss hard for hate's sake. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Lo you, sir, 
 How sharp he whispers, what close 
 
 breath and eyes — 
 And hers are fast upon him, do you see ? 
 Chastelard. Well, which of these must 
 take my life in hand ? 
 Prav God it be the better : nay, which 
 ' hand >. 
 
82 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I think, none such. 
 The man is goodly made ; 
 She is tender-hearted toward his courte- 
 sies, 
 And would not have them fall too low 
 
 to find. 
 Look, they slip forth. 
 [Exeunt Darnley and Mary Hamil- 
 ton 
 Mary Seyton. For love's sake, after 
 them, 
 And soft as love can. 
 [Exeunt Mary C armichael and Mary 
 Seyton. 
 C/iastelard. True, a goodly man. 
 What shapeliness and state he hath, 
 
 what eyes, 
 Brave brow and lordly lip ! were it not fit 
 Great queens should love him .? 
 
 Mary Beaton. See you now, fair lord, 
 I have but scant breath's time to help 
 
 myself, 
 And I must cast my heart out on a 
 
 chance ; 
 So bear with me. That we twain have 
 
 loved well, 
 I have no heart nor wit to say ; God wot 
 We had never made good lovers, you 
 
 and I. 
 Look you, I would not have you love 
 
 me, sir. 
 For all the love's sake in the world. I 
 
 say. 
 You love the queen, and loving burns 
 
 you up. 
 And mars the grace and joyous wit you 
 
 had. 
 Turning your speech to sad, your face 
 
 to strange. 
 Your mirth to nothing : and I am pite- 
 ous, I, 
 Even as the queen is, and such women 
 
 are ; 
 And if I helped you to your love-long- 
 ing, 
 Meseems some grain of love might fall 
 
 my way. 
 And love's god help me when I came 
 
 to love : 
 I have read tales of men that won their 
 
 loves 
 On some such wise. 
 
 Chasteliird. It vou mean mercifully, 
 
 I am bound to you past thought and 
 
 thank ; if worse, 
 I will but thank your lips and not your 
 
 heart. 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, let love wait, and 
 
 praise me, in God's name. 
 Some day when he shall find me ; yet, 
 
 God wot, 
 My lips are of one color with my heart 
 Withdraw now from me, and about mid- 
 night 
 In some close chamber without light or 
 
 noise 
 It may be I shall get you speech of her; 
 She loves you well ; it may be she will 
 
 speak, 
 I wot not what ; she loves you at her 
 
 heart. 
 Let her not see that I have given you 
 
 word, 
 Lest she take shame and hate her love. 
 
 Till night. 
 Let her not see it. 
 
 Chastelard. I will not thank you now, 
 And then IMl die what sort of death 
 
 vou will. 
 Farewell. \Exit. 
 
 Mary Beaton. And by God's mercy 
 
 and my love's 
 I will find ways to earn such thank of 
 
 you. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — A Hall in the same. 
 
 TV^t? Queen, Darnley, Murray, Ran- 
 dolph, the Maries, Chastelard, 
 etc. 
 
 Queen. Hath no man seen my lord of 
 Chastelard ? 
 Nay, no great matter. Keep you on 
 
 that side : 
 Begin the purpose. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Madam, he is here. 
 Queen. Begin a measure now that 
 other side. 
 I will not dance; let them i)lay soft a 
 
 little. 
 Fair sir, we had a dance to tread to- 
 night, 
 To teach our north folk all sweet ways 
 
 of ?>ancc ; 
 But at this time we have no heart to it 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 J53 
 
 5it, sir, and talk. Look, this breast- 
 clasp is new. 
 The French king sent it me. 
 
 Chastelard. A goodly thing : 
 
 But what device ? the word is ill to catch. 
 
 Queen. A Venus crowned, that eats 
 
 the hearts of men : 
 
 '.cUnv her flies a love with a bat's wings, 
 
 \nd strings the hair of paramours to 
 
 bind 
 Jve birds' feet with. Lo what small 
 
 subtle work : 
 The smith's name, Gian Crisostomo 
 
 da — what .'' 
 Tan you read that.'' The sea froths 
 
 underfoot ; 
 She stands upon the sea, and it curls up 
 [n soft loose curls that run to one in 
 
 the wind. 
 But her hair is not shaken, there's a 
 
 fault ; 
 It lies straight down in close-cut points 
 
 and tongues. 
 Not like blown hair. The legend is 
 
 wit small : 
 Still one makes out this — Cave — if 
 you look. 
 Chastelard. I see the Venus well 
 enough, God wot, 
 But nothing of the legend. 
 Queen. Come, fair lord, 
 Shall we dance now } my heart is good 
 again. [ They dance a measure. 
 Darniey. I do not like this manner of 
 a dance, 
 This game of two by two ; it were much 
 
 better 
 To meet between the changes and to 
 
 mix 
 Than still to keep apart and whispering 
 Each lady out of earshot with her friend. 
 Mary Beaton. That's as the lady 
 serves her knight, I think: 
 We are broken up too much. 
 
 Darniey. Nay, no such thing ; 
 Be not wroth, lady, I wot it was the 
 
 queen 
 Pricked each his friend out. Look you 
 
 now — your ear — 
 If love had gone by choosing — how 
 
 they laugh. 
 Lean lips together, and wring hands 
 underhand \ 
 
 What, you look white too, sick of heart, 
 
 ashamed. 
 No marvel — for men call it — hark you 
 though — [ They pass. 
 
 Murray. Was the Queen found no 
 
 merrier in Prance ? 
 Mary Hamilton. Why, have you seen 
 
 her sorrowful to-night } 
 Murray. I say not so much ; blithe 
 she seems at whiles, 
 Gentle and goodly doubtless in all ways, 
 But hardly with such lightness and quick 
 
 heart 
 As it was said. 
 
 Mary Hamilton. 'Tis your great care 
 of her 
 Makes you misdoubt ; naught else. 
 
 Murray. Yea, may be so ; 
 
 She has no cause I know to sadden her. 
 
 [ They pass. 
 
 Queen. I am tired too soon; I could 
 
 have danced down hours 
 
 Two years gone hence, and felt no 
 
 wearier. 
 One grows much older northwards, my 
 
 fair lord; 
 I wonder men die south ; meseems all 
 
 France 
 Smells sweet with living, and bright 
 
 breath of days 
 That keep men far from dying. Peace; 
 
 pray you now. 
 No dancing more. Sing, sweet, and 
 
 make us mirth ; 
 We have done with dancing measures- 
 
 sing that song 
 You call the song of love at ebb. 
 Mary Beaton {stJigs). 
 
 Bet7veen the sitnset and the sea 
 My loz'e laid hands and lips ott me ; 
 Of sT.veet came sour, of day came flight. 
 Of long desire carne brief delight : 
 Ah, lore, and what thing came of thee 
 Between the sea-downs and the sea ? 
 
 Bct'ivcen the sea-mark and the sea 
 Joy grew to grief grief greru to me ; 
 Love turned to tears, and tears lo fire. 
 And dead delight to new desire ; 
 
84 
 
 C/IASIELARD. 
 
 Lovers talk, iove's touch there seemed to be 
 Between the sea-sand and the sea. 
 
 Between the sundown and the sea 
 
 Love watched one hour of love with me . 
 
 Then do^ufi the all-golden water-ways 
 
 His feet Jleio after yesterdays ; 
 
 I saw thefn come and saw them flee 
 
 Between the sea-foa?n and the sea. 
 
 Between the sea-strand and the sea 
 Love fell on sleeps sleep fell on me ; 
 The first star saw twain turn to one 
 Between the moonrise and the sun ; 
 The next, that saw not love, saw ?ne 
 Between the sea-banks and the sea. 
 
 Queen. Lo, sirs, 
 What mirth is here ! Some song of 
 
 yours, fair lord; 
 You know glad ways of rhyming — no 
 
 such tunes 
 As go to tears. 
 
 Chastelard. I made this yesterday; 
 For its love's sake I pray you let it 
 live. [//<? sings. 
 
 Aprh tant de jours, apr^s tant de pleurs, 
 Soyez secourable h mon dme en peine. 
 Voyez comnie Avril fait ramour aux 
 
 fleurs; 
 Dame d'' amour ^ dame aux belles cou- 
 
 leurs, 
 Dieu vous a fait belle, Amour vous fait 
 
 reine. 
 
 Rions,je fen prie ; aimons,je le 7ieux. 
 Le temps fiiit et rit et ne revient ^^uire. 
 Pour baiser le bout de tes blonds cheveux, 
 Pour baiser tes cils, ta bouche et tes yeux ; 
 JSaniour na qu^uti Jour auprh de sa 
 mhe. 
 
 Queen. 'Tis a true song; love shall 
 not pluck time back, 
 Nor time lie down with love. For mc, 
 I am old ; 
 
 Have you no hair changed since you 
 
 changed to Scot } 
 I look each day to see my face drawn 
 
 up 
 About the eyes, as if they sucked the 
 
 cheeks. 
 I think this air and face of things here 
 
 north 
 Puts snow at flower-time in the blood, 
 
 and tears 
 Between the sad eyes and the merry 
 
 mouth 
 In their youth-days. 
 
 Chastelard. It is a bitter air. 
 
 Queen. Faith, if I might be gone, sir, 
 
 would I stay ? 
 I think, for no man's love's sake. 
 Chastelard. I think not. 
 Queen. Do you not mind at landing 
 
 how the quay 
 Looked like a blind wet face in wa>; 
 
 of wind 
 And washing of wan waves? how the 
 
 hard mist 
 Made the hills ache? Your songs lied 
 
 loud, my knight : 
 They said my face would burn off cUmd 
 
 and rain 
 Seen once, and fill the crannied land 
 
 with fire. 
 Kindle the capes in their blind black- 
 gray hoods — 
 I know not what. You praise me pa>t 
 
 all loves; 
 And these men love me little; 'tis sonic 
 
 fault, 
 I think, to love me: even a fool's swvit 
 
 fault. 
 I have your verse still beating in n.v 
 
 head, 
 Of how the swallow got a wing broki n 
 In the s])ringtime, and lay upon iii^ 
 
 side 
 Watching the rest fly off i' the reil icat- 
 
 time. 
 And broke his heart with grieving it 
 
 himself 
 Before the snow came. Do you know 
 
 that lord 
 With sharp-set eyes? aiul him with 
 
 huge t hewed throat ? 
 Good friends to mc ; I had need love 
 
 them well. 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 85 
 
 ■ay 
 
 ? I will not 
 
 tis no great wit 
 old French 
 
 Why do you look one 
 
 have you 
 Keep your eyes here : 
 
 in me 
 To care much now for 
 
 friends of mine. — 
 Come, a fresh measure ; come, play well 
 
 for me. 
 Fair sirs, your playing puts life in foot 
 
 and heart. — 
 Darnley. Lo you again, sirs, how she 
 
 laughs and leans. 
 Holding him fast — the supple way she 
 
 hath! 
 Your queen hath none such; better as 
 
 she is 
 For all her measures, a grave English 
 
 maid. 
 Than queen of snakes and Scots, 
 
 Randolph. She is over-fair 
 To be so sweet, and hurt not. A good 
 
 knight ; 
 Goodly to look on. 
 
 Murray. Yea, a good sword too. 
 And of good kin ; too light of loving 
 
 though ; 
 These jangling song-smiths are keen 
 
 love-mongers. 
 They snap at all meats. 
 
 Darnley. What ! by God I think, 
 For all his soft French face and bright 
 
 boy's sword, 
 There be folks fairer : and for knightli- 
 
 ness. 
 These hot-lipped brawls of Paris breed 
 
 sweet knights, — 
 Mere stabbers for a laugh across the 
 
 wine. — 
 Queen, There, I have danced you 
 
 down for once, fair lord ; 
 You look pale now. Nay then for 
 
 courtesy 
 must needs help you; do not bow 
 
 your head, 
 I am tall enough to reach close under 
 
 it. 
 
 I Kisses him. 
 Now come, we'll sit and see this pas- 
 sage through. — 
 Darnley. A courtesy, God help us ! 
 
 courtesy — 
 Pray God it wound not where it should 
 
 heal wounds. 
 
 Why, there was here last year some 
 
 lord of France 
 (Priest on the wrong side as some folk 
 
 are prince) 
 Told tales of Paris ladies — nay, bj 
 
 God, 
 No jest for queen's lips to catch laugh- 
 ter of 
 That would keep clean; I wot he made 
 
 good mirth, 
 But she laughed over sweetly, and in 
 
 such wise — 
 Nay, I laughed too, but lothly. — 
 
 Queen. How they look ! 
 The least thing courteous galls them to 
 
 the bone. 
 What would one say now I were think- 
 ing of } 
 Chastelard. It seems, some sweet 
 
 thing. 
 Queen. True, a sweet one, sir, — 
 That madrigal you made Alys de Saulx 
 Of the three ways of love ; the first kiss 
 
 honor, 
 The second pity, and the last kiss love. 
 Which think you now was that I kissed 
 
 you with "i 
 Chastelard. It should be pity, if you 
 
 be pitiful : 
 For I am past all honoring that keep 
 Outside the eye of battle, where my 
 
 kin 
 Fallen overseas have found this many 
 
 a day 
 No helm of mine between them ; and 
 
 for love, 
 I think of that as dead men of good 
 
 days 
 Kre the wrong side of death was theirs^ 
 
 when God 
 Was friends with them. 
 
 Queen. Good; call it pity, then. 
 You have a subtle riddling skill at love 
 Which is not like a lover. For my 
 
 part, 
 I am resolved to be well done with 
 
 love. 
 Though I were fairer-faced than all the 
 
 world ; 
 As there be fairer. Think you, fair mj 
 
 knight. 
 Love shall live after life in any man? 
 I have given you stuff for riddles. 
 
bb 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Chastelard. Most sweet c[uecn, 
 They say men dying remember, with 
 
 sharp joy 
 And rai)id reliictation of desire, 
 Some old thing, some swift breath of 
 
 wind, some word. 
 Some sword-stroke or dead lute-strain, 
 
 some lost sight, 
 Some sea-blossom stripped to the sun 
 
 and burned 
 At naked ebb — some river-flower that 
 
 breathes 
 Against the stream like a swooned 
 
 swimmer's mouth — 
 Some tear or laugh ere lip and eye were 
 
 man's — 
 Sweet stings that struck the blood in 
 
 riding — nay, 
 Some garment or sky-color or spice- 
 smell. 
 And die with heart and face shut fast 
 
 on it, 
 And know not why, and weep not : it 
 
 may be 
 Men shall hold love fast always in such 
 
 wise 
 In new fair lives where all are new 
 
 things else, 
 And know not why, and weep not. 
 
 Quecu. A right rhyme, 
 And right a rhyme's worth : nay, a 
 
 sweet song, though. 
 What ! shall my cousin hold fast that 
 
 love of his. 
 Her face and talk, when life ends.? as 
 
 God grant 
 His life end late and sweet! I love him 
 
 well. 
 She is fair enough, his lover; a fair- 
 faced maid, 
 With gray sweet eyes and tender touch 
 
 of talk; 
 And that, God wot, I wist not. See 
 
 you, sir. 
 Men say I needs must get wed hasti- 
 
 ly; 
 
 Do none point lips at him ? 
 Chastelard. Yea, gucssingly. 
 Queen. God help such lips! and get 
 mc leave to laugh ! 
 What should I do but paint and put 
 
 him up. 
 Like a gilt god, a saiiitship in a shrine, 
 
 For all fools' feast .'' God's mercy o| 
 
 men's wits! 
 Tall as a housetop and as bare of 
 
 brain — 
 I'll have no staffs with fool-faced carver 
 
 heads 
 To hang my life on. Nay, for love, n& 
 
 more, 
 For fear I laugh and set their eyes on 
 
 edge 
 To find out why I laugh. Good night, 
 
 fair lords ; 
 Bid them cease playing. Give me your 
 
 hand; good night. 
 
 Scene III. — Mary Beaton's Cham- 
 ber : night. 
 
 Enter Chastelard. 
 Chastelard. I am not certain yet she 
 
 will not come ; 
 For I can feel her hand's heat still in 
 
 mine, 
 Past doubting of, and see her brows 
 
 half drawn. 
 And half a light in the eyes. If she 
 
 come not, 
 I am no worse than he thai dies to- 
 night. 
 This two years' patience gets an end at 
 
 least. 
 Whichever way I am well done with it. 
 How hard the thin sweet moon is, split 
 
 and laced 
 And latticed over, just a stray of it 
 Catching and clinging at a strip of wall, 
 Hardly a hand's-breadth. Did she turn 
 
 indeed 
 
 In going out ? not to catch up her gown 
 The page let slip, but to keep sight of 
 
 me.'' 
 There was a soft small stir beneath her 
 
 eyes 
 Hard to put on, a quivering of her 
 
 blood 
 That knew of the old nights watched 
 
 out wakefullv. 
 Those measures of her dancing too 
 
 were changed — 
 More swift and with more eager stops 
 
 at whiles 
 And rajiid pauses where breath failed 
 
 her lips. 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 87 
 
 Enter Mary Beaton. 
 Oh, she is come : if you be she indeed, 
 Let me but hold your hand; what! no 
 
 word yet ? 
 You turn and kiss me without word; O 
 
 sweet I 
 If you will slay me, be not over-quick, 
 Kill me with some slow heavy kiss that 
 
 plucks 
 The heart out at the lips. Alas ! sweet 
 
 love. 
 Give me some old sweet word to kiss 
 
 away. 
 Is it a jest ? for I can feel your hair 
 Touch me — I may embrace your body 
 
 too? 
 I know you well enough without sweet 
 
 words. 
 How should one make you speak ? This 
 
 is not she. 
 Come in the light; nay, let me see your 
 
 eyes. 
 Ah, you it is ? what have I done to you } 
 And do you look now to be slain for this 
 That you twist back and shudder like 
 
 one stabbed ? 
 Mary Beaton. Yea, kill me now, and 
 
 do not look at me : 
 God knows I meant to die. Sir, for 
 
 God's love. 
 Kill me now quick ere I go mad with 
 
 shame ! 
 Chastelard. Cling not upon my wrists : 
 
 let go the hilt : 
 Nay, you will bruise your hand with it. 
 
 Stand up; 
 You shall not have my sword forth. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Kill me now, 
 I will not rise : there, I am patient, see. 
 I will not strive, but kill me for God's 
 
 sake. 
 Chastelard. Pray you, rise up, and be 
 
 not shaken so : 
 5^Drgive me my rash words, my heart 
 
 was gone 
 After the thing you were : be not 
 
 ashamed ; 
 Give me the shame, you have no part 
 
 in it; 
 Ccn I not say a word shall do you good ? 
 Forgive that too. 
 Mary Beaton. I shall run crazed with 
 
 shame • 
 
 But when I felt your lips catch hold on 
 
 mine, 
 It stopped my breath : I would have 
 
 told you all. 
 Let me go out ; you see I lied to you, 
 And I am shamed; I pray you, loose 
 
 me, sir. 
 Let me go out. 
 
 Cnastelard. Think no base things ot 
 
 me : 
 I were most base to let you go ashamed. 
 Think my heart's love and honor go 
 
 with you : 
 Yea, while I live, for your love's noble 
 
 sake, 
 I am your servant in what wise may be. 
 To love and serve you with right thank- 
 ful heart. 
 Mary Beaton. I have given men leave 
 
 to mock me, and must bear 
 What shame they please: you have 
 
 good cause to mock. 
 Let me pass now. 
 
 Chastelard. You know I mock you 
 
 not. 
 If ever I leave off to honor you, 
 God give me shame ! I were the worst 
 
 churl born. 
 Mary Beaton. No marvel though the 
 
 queen should love you too. 
 Being such a knight. I pray you for 
 
 her love, 
 Lord Chastelard, of your great courtesy, 
 Think now no scorn to give me my last 
 
 kiss 
 That I shall have of man before I die. 
 Even the same lips you kissed and knew 
 
 not of 
 Will you kiss now, knowing the shame 
 
 of them, 
 And say no one word to me afterwards. 
 That I may see I have loved ihe best 
 
 lover 
 And man most courteous of all men 
 
 alive .'' 
 Mary Seyton {within). Here, fetch 
 
 the light: nay, this way; enter 
 
 all. 
 Mary Beaton. I am twice undone 
 
 Fly, get some hiding, sir ; 
 They have spied upon me somehow. 
 
 Chastelard. Nay, fear not; 
 Stand by my side. 
 
55 
 
 UliA^ I tLl^AKD. 
 
 Enter Mary Slvton and Mary 
 
 Hamilton. 
 Mary Hiimillon. Give me that light: 
 
 this way. 
 Chastelard. What jest is here, fair 
 ladies "i it walks late, 
 Something too late for laughing. 
 
 Mary Scyton. Nay, fair sir, 
 What jest is this of yours .'' Look to 
 
 your lady : 
 She is nigh swooned. The queen shall 
 know all this. 
 Mary Hamilton. A grievous shame it 
 is we are fallen upon ; 
 Hold forth the light. Is this your care 
 
 of us ? 
 Nay, come, look up : this is no game, 
 God wot. 
 Chastelard. Shame shall befall them 
 that speak shamefully: 
 I swear this lady is as pure and 
 
 good 
 As any maiden, and who believes me 
 
 not 
 Shall keep the shame for his part and 
 
 the lie. 
 To them that come in honor and not in 
 
 hate, 
 I will make answer. — Lady, have good 
 
 heart. 
 Give me the light there : I will see you 
 forth. 
 
 ACT H. — DARNLEY. 
 
 Scene L — 7'he great Chamber in 
 Holyrood. 
 
 The Queen and Mary Seyton. 
 Queen. But will -ou swear it } 
 Mary Seyton. Swear it, madam ? 
 Qneen. Ay — 
 Swear it. 
 
 Mary Seyton. Madam, I am not 
 
 friends with them. 
 Queen. .Swear then against them if 
 
 you are not friends. 
 Mary Seyton. Indeed I saw thcni 
 
 kiss. 
 Queen. So lovers use — 
 What, their mouths close ? a goodly 
 way of love 1 
 
 Or but the hands .'' or on her throat. 
 
 Prithee — 
 You have sworn that. 
 
 Mary Seyton. I say what I saw doix . 
 Queen. Ay, you did see her chetk- 
 
 (God smite them red!) 
 Kissed either side.'' what, they must 
 
 eat strange food. 
 Those singing lips of his.-* 
 
 Mary Seyton. Sweet meat enough — 
 They started at my coming five yards 
 
 off. 
 But there they were. 
 
 Queen. A maid may have kissed 
 
 cheeks 
 And no shame in them — yet one would 
 
 not swear. 
 You have sworn that. Pray God he be 
 
 not mad : 
 A sickness in his eyes. The left side 
 
 love 
 (I was told that) and the right cour- 
 tesy. 
 'Tis good fools' fashion. What! no 
 
 more but this } 
 For me, God knows I am no whit 
 
 wroth, — not I ; 
 But, for your fame's sake that her 
 
 shame will sting, 
 I cannot see a way to pardon her, — 
 For your fame's sake, lest that be 
 
 prated of. 
 Mary Seyton. Nay, if she were not 
 
 chaste — I have not said 
 She was not chaste. 
 
 Queen. I know you are tender of 
 
 her; 
 And your sweet word will hardly turn 
 
 her sweet. 
 Mary Seyton. Indeed I would fain do 
 
 her anv good. 
 Shall I not take some gracious word to 
 
 her } 
 Queen. Bid her not come or wait on 
 
 me lo-dav. 
 Mary Seyton. Will you see him.'' 
 Queen. See — oh, this Chastelard? 
 He doth not well to sing maids into 
 
 shame ; 
 And folk are sharj) here; yet for sweet 
 
 friends' sake 
 Assuredly I'll see him. I am nut 
 
 wroth. 
 
 % 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 89 
 
 \ goodly man, and 
 thereto — 
 
 good sword 
 
 It may be he shall wed her. I am not 
 
 wroth. 
 Alary Seytoii. Nay, though she bore 
 
 with him, she hath no great love, 
 I doubt me, that way. 
 
 Queen. God mend all, I pray — 
 And keep us from all wrong-doing and 
 
 wild words. 
 I think there is no fault men fall upon 
 But I could pardon. Look you, I would 
 
 swear 
 
 She were no paramour for any man, 
 So well I love her. 
 
 Mary Seyton. Am I to bid him in .'' 
 Queen. As you will, sweet. But if 
 
 you held me hard 
 You did me grievous wrong. Doth he 
 
 wait there } 
 Men call me over-tender; I had rather 
 
 so, 
 Than too ungracious. — Father, what 
 
 with you .'' 
 Enter Father Black. 
 Father Black. God's peace and health 
 
 of soul be with the queen ! 
 And pardon be with me though I speak 
 
 truth. 
 As I was going on peaceable men's 
 
 wise 
 Through your good town, desiring no 
 
 man harm, 
 A kind of shameful woman with thief's 
 
 lips 
 
 Spake somewhat to me over a thrust- 
 out chin. 
 Soliciting as I deemed an alms; which 
 
 alms 
 (Remembering what was writ of Mag- 
 dalen) 
 I gave not grudging but with pure good 
 
 heart. 
 When lo! some scurril children that 
 
 lurked near. 
 Set there by Satan for my stumbling- 
 stone. 
 Fell hooting Avith necks thwart and 
 
 eyes a-squint, 
 Screeched and made horns and shot 
 
 out tongues at me, — 
 As at my Lord the Jews shot out their 
 
 tongues. 
 
 And made their heads wag ; I consid- 
 ering this 
 Took up my cross in patience, and 
 
 passed forth : 
 Nevertheless one ran between my feet. 
 And made me totter, using speech and 
 
 signs 
 I smart with shame to think of: then 
 
 my blood 
 Kindled, and I was moved to smite the 
 
 knave, 
 And the knave howled ; whereat the 
 
 lewd whole herd 
 Brake forth upon me, and cast mire 
 
 and stones. 
 So that I ran sore risk of bruise or 
 
 gash 
 If they had touched ; likewise I heard 
 
 men say, 
 (Their foul speech missed not of mine 
 
 ear) they cried, 
 "This devil's mass-priest hankers for 
 
 new flesh 
 Like a dry hound ; let him seek such 
 
 at home. 
 Snuff and smoke out the queen's 
 
 French " — 
 Queen. They said that t 
 Father Black. " — French paramours 
 
 that breed more shames than 
 
 sons 
 All her court through ; " forgive me. 
 
 Queen. With my heart. 
 Father, you see the hatefulness of 
 
 these — 
 They loathe us for our love. I am not 
 
 moved : 
 What should I do being angry .'' By 
 
 this hand 
 (Which is not big enough to bruise 
 
 their lips), 
 I marvel what thing should be done 
 
 with me 
 To make me wroth. We must have 
 
 patience with us 
 When we seek thank of men. 
 
 Father Black. Madam, farewell ; 
 I pray God keep you in such patient 
 
 heart. [ Exit. 
 
 Queen. Let him come now. 
 Mary Seyton. Madam, he is at hand. 
 \^Exit 
 Enter Chastelard. 
 
Queen. Give me that broidery-frame ; 
 
 how, gone so soon? 
 No maid about ? Reach me some skein 
 
 of silk. 
 What ! are you come, fair lord ? Now 
 
 by my life 
 That lives here idle, I am right glad of 
 
 you ; 
 I have slept so well and sweet since 
 
 yesternight 
 It seems our dancing put me in glad 
 
 heart. 
 Did you sleep well ? 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, as a man may sleep. 
 Queen. You smile as if I jested ; do 
 
 not men 
 Sleep as we do ? Had you fair dreams 
 
 in the night .'' 
 For me — but I should fret you with 
 
 my dreams — 
 I dreamed sweet things. You are good 
 
 at soothsaying : 
 Make me a sonnet of my dream. 
 
 Chastelard. I will. 
 When I shall know it. 
 
 Queeti. I thought I was asleep 
 In Paris, lying by my lord, and knew 
 In some wise he was well awake, and yet 
 I could not wake too ; and I seemed to 
 
 know 
 He hated me, and the least breath I 
 
 made 
 Would turn somehow to slay or stifle 
 
 me. 
 Then in brief time he rose and went 
 
 away. 
 Saying, Let her dream, but when her 
 
 dream is out 
 I will come hack and kill her as she wakes. 
 And I lay sick and trembling with sore 
 
 fear, 
 And still I knew that I was deep asleep; 
 And thinking, / must dream now, or J 
 
 die, 
 God send me some good dreatn lest I be 
 
 slain ! 
 Fell fancying one had bound my feet 
 
 with cords, 
 And bade me dance, and the first meas- 
 ure made 
 I fell upon my face, and wept for pain ; 
 And mv cords broke, and I began the 
 
 dance 
 
 To a bitter tune ; and he that danced 
 
 with me 
 Was clothed in black with long red 
 
 lines and bars, 
 And masked down to the lips, but by 
 
 the chin 
 I knew you though your lips were sewn 
 
 up close 
 With scarlet thread all dabbled wet in 
 
 blood. 
 And then I knew the dream was not for 
 
 good. 
 And striving with sore travail to reach up ■ 
 And kiss you (you were taller in my 
 
 dream) 
 I missed your lips, and woke. 
 
 Chastelard. Sweet dreams, you said ? 
 
 An evil dream I hold it for, sweet love. 
 
 Queen. You call love sweet ; yea, what 
 
 is bitter, then .-' 
 There's nothing broken sleep could hit 
 
 upon 
 So bitter as the breaking down of love 
 You call me sweet ; I am not sweet to 
 
 you, 
 Nor you — O, I would say not sweet to 
 
 me. 
 And if I said so I should hardly lie. 
 But there have been those things be- 
 tween us, sir, 
 That men call sweet. 
 
 Chastelard. I know not how There is 
 Turns to The7e hath been ; 'tis a heavier 
 
 change 
 Than change of flesh to dust. Yet, , 
 
 though years change. 
 And good things end, and evil things 
 
 grow great. 
 The old love that was, or that was 
 
 dreamed about. 
 That sang and kissed and wept ui)on 
 
 itself, I 
 
 Laughed and ran mad with love of its | 
 
 own face. 
 That was a sweet thing. 
 
 Queen. Nay, I know not well. 
 'Tis when the man is held fast under- 
 ground 
 They say for sooth what manner of 
 
 heart he had. 
 We are alive, and cannot be well sure 
 If we loved much or little : think you Jiot 
 It were convenient one of us should die? 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 91 
 
 lOjO; 
 
 ^, but \ 
 
 Chastelard. Madam, your speech is 
 
 harsh to understand. 
 Queen. Why, there could come no 
 
 change then ; one of us 
 Would never need to fear our love 
 
 might turn 
 To the sad thing that it may grow to be. 
 I would sometimes all things were dead 
 
 asleep 
 That I have loved, all buried in soft 
 
 beds 
 And sealed with dreams and visions, 
 
 and each dawn 
 Sung to by sorrows, and all night 
 
 assuaged 
 By short sweet kisses and by sweet 
 
 long loves 
 For old life's sake, lest weeping over- 
 much 
 Should wake them in a strange new 
 
 time, and arm 
 Memory's blind hand to kill forgetful 
 
 ness. 
 Chastelard. Look, you dream still, 
 
 and sadly. 
 Queen. Sooth, a dream ; 
 For such things died or lied in sweet 
 
 love's face, 
 And I forget them not, God help my 
 
 wit ! 
 I would the whole world were made up 
 
 of sleep 
 And life not fashioned out of lies and 
 
 loves. 
 We foolish women have such times, you 
 
 know, 
 When we are weary or afraid or sick 
 For perfect nothing. 
 
 Chastelard [aside). Now would one 
 
 be fain 
 To know what bitter or what dangerous 
 
 thing 
 She thinks of, softly chafing her soft lip. 
 She must mean evil. 
 
 Queen. Are you sad, too, sir, 
 That you say nothing ? 
 
 Chastelard. 1} not sad a jot — 
 Though this your talk might make a 
 
 blithe man sad. 
 Queen. O me ! I must not let stray 
 
 sorrows out ; 
 They are ill to fledge, and if they feel 
 
 blithe air 
 
 They wail and chirp untunefully. Would 
 
 God 
 I had been a man! when I was born, 
 
 men say, 
 My father turned his face and wept to 
 
 think 
 I was no man. 
 
 Chastelard. Will you weep, too ? 
 Queen. In sooth. 
 If I were man I should be no base 
 
 man ; 
 I could have fought ; yea, I could fight 
 
 now, too. 
 If men would show me ; I would I were 
 
 the king ! 
 I should be all ways better than I am. 
 Chastelard. Nay, would you have 
 
 more honor, having this — 
 Men's hearts and loves and the sweet 
 
 spoil of souls 
 Given you like simple gold to bind 
 
 your hair } 
 Say you were king of thews, not queen 
 
 of souls. 
 An iron headpiece hammered to a head, 
 You might fail, too. 
 
 Queen. No, then I would not fail, 
 Or God should make me woman back 
 
 again. 
 To be King James — you hear men say 
 
 King yaffles, 
 The word sounds like a piece of gold 
 
 thrown down. 
 Rings with a round and royal note in it — 
 A name to write good record of; this 
 
 king 
 Fought here and there, was beaten such 
 
 a day. 
 And came at last to a good end, his life 
 Being all lived out, and for the main 
 
 part well 
 And like a king's life; then to have 
 
 men say 
 (As now they say of Flodden, here they 
 
 broke 
 And there they held up to the end) 
 
 years back 
 They saw you — y^(i, /saw the king''s 
 
 face helffied 
 Red ift the hot lit foreground of somt 
 
 fight 
 Hold the whole war as tt were by the btt^ 
 
 a horse 
 
Fit for his knees'' ^rip — the great rear- 
 ing war 
 That frothed with lips flung np, and 
 
 shook mens lives 
 Off either ffank of it like snozv ; I saw 
 ( You could not hear as his sword rang), 
 
 sa'o him 
 Shout, laugh, smite straight, and fla^v 
 
 the riven ranks. 
 Move as the wind moves, and his horse'^s 
 
 feet 
 Stripe their long flags with dust. Why, 
 
 if one died, 
 To die so in the heart and heat of war 
 Were a much goodlier thing than living 
 
 soft 
 And speaking sweet for fear of men. 
 
 W^oe's me ! 
 Is there no way to pluck this body off ? 
 Then I should never fear a man again. 
 Even in my dreams I should not; no, 
 
 by heaven. 
 Chastelard. I never thought you did 
 
 fear any thing. 
 Queen. God knows I do ; I could be 
 
 sick with wrath 
 To think what grievous fear I have 
 
 'twixt whiles 
 Of mine own self and of base men. 
 
 Last night 
 If certain lords were glancing where I 
 
 was 
 Under the eyelid, with sharp lip and 
 
 brow, 
 I tell you, for pure shame and fear of 
 
 them, 
 I could have gone and slain them. 
 
 Chastelard. Verily, 
 You are changed since those good days 
 
 that fell in France ; 
 But yet I think you are not so changed 
 
 at heart 
 As to fear man. 
 
 Queen. I would I had no need. 
 Lend me your sword a little : a fair 
 
 sword , 
 I sec the fingers that I hold it with 
 Clear in the blade, bright pink, the 
 
 shell-col(jr, 
 Drighter than flesh is really, curvet! all 
 
 round. 
 Now men would mock if I shouUl wear 
 
 it here, 
 
 Bound under bosom with a girdle, 
 
 here, 
 And yet I have heart enough to wear it 
 
 well. 
 Speak to me like a woman, let me see 
 If I can play at man. 
 
 Chastelard. God save King James ! 
 Queen. Would you could change 
 
 now! Fie, this will not do: 
 Unclasp your sword ; nay, the hilt hurts 
 
 my side ; 
 It sticks fast here. Unbind this knot 
 
 for me : 
 Stoop, and you'll see it closer ; thank 
 
 you : there. 
 Now I can breathe, sir. Ah ! it hurtL 
 
 me, though : 
 This was fool's play. 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, you are better so, 
 Without the sword; your eyes are 
 
 stronger things. 
 Whether to save or slay. 
 Queen. Alas, my side ! 
 It hurts right sorely. Is it not pitiful 
 Our souls should be so bound about 
 
 with flesh 
 Even when they leap and smite with 
 
 wings and feet, 
 The least pain plucks them back, puts 
 
 out their eyes. 
 Turns them to tears and words .' Ah, 
 
 my sweet knight, 
 You have the better of us that weave 
 
 and weep 
 While the blithe battle blows upon 
 
 your eyes 
 Like rain and wind ; yet I remember 
 
 too 
 When this last year the fight at Cor- 
 
 richie 
 Reddened the rushes with stained fen- 
 
 watcr, 
 I rode with mv good men, and took de- 
 light, 
 Feeling the sweet clear wind ujion my 
 
 eyes. 
 And rainy soft smells blown upon my 
 
 face 
 In riding, then the great fight jarred 
 
 and joined. 
 And the sound stung me right through 
 
 heart and all ; 
 For I was here, see, gazing off the hills, 
 
 Snap 
 
 Inth 
 
 The 
 
 Teetl 
 
 Tcari 
 
 And 
 
 Seem 
 
 Itell 
 
 Tobi 
 Iswe 
 
 And 
 
 This 
 
 Havf 
 
 As I 
 
 a 
 
 Asir 
 
 Hi, 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 93 
 
 la the wet air; our housings were all 
 
 wet ; 
 And not a plume stood stiffly past the 
 
 ear, 
 l]ut flapped between the bridle and the 
 
 neck ; 
 And under us we saw the battle go 
 i^ike running water; I could see by 
 
 fits 
 Some helm the rain fell shining off, 
 
 some flag 
 Snap from the staff, shorn through or 
 
 broken short 
 In the man's falling: yea, one seemed 
 
 to catch 
 The very grasp of tumbled men at 
 
 men, 
 Teeth clinched in throats, hands riveted 
 
 in hair, 
 Tearing the life out with no help of 
 
 swords. 
 And all the clamor seemed to shine, 
 
 the light 
 Seemed to shout as a man doth ; twice 
 
 I laughed — 
 I tell you, twice my heart swelled out 
 
 with thirst 
 To be into the battle ; see, fair lord, 
 I swear it seemed I might have made a 
 
 knight, 
 y\nd yet the simple bracing of a belt 
 Makes me cry out ; this is too pitiful. 
 This dusty half of us made up with 
 
 fears. — 
 Have you been ever quite so glad to 
 
 fight 
 As I have thought men must ? pray 
 
 you, speak truth. 
 Chastelard. Yea, when the time came, 
 
 there caught hold of me 
 Such pleasure in the head and hands 
 
 and blood 
 As may be kindled under loving lii:)s : 
 Crossing the ferry once to the Clerk's 
 
 Field, 
 I mind me how the plashing noise of 
 
 Seine 
 Put fire into my face for joy, and how 
 My blood kept measure with the swing- 
 ing boat 
 Till we touched land, all for the sake 
 
 of that 
 Which should be soon. 
 
 Qiu'cn. Her name, for God's Ioyc, 
 sir ; 
 You slew your friend for love's sake? 
 nay, the name. 
 Chastelard. Faith, I forget. 
 Queen. Now by the faith I have 
 You have no faith to swear by. 
 
 Chastelard. A good sword : 
 We left him quiet after a thrust or 
 twain. 
 Qiieeji. I would I had been at hand, 
 and marked them off 
 As the maids did when we played sing- 
 ing games : 
 You outwent me at rhyming; but for 
 
 faith. 
 We fight best there. 1 would I had 
 seen you fight. 
 Chastelard. I would you had ; his 
 play was worth an eye ; 
 He made some gallant way before that 
 
 pass 
 Which made me way through him. 
 
 Queen. Would I saw that! 
 How did you slay him ? 
 
 Chastelard. A clean pass — this way ; 
 Right in the side here, where the blood 
 
 has root. 
 His wrist went round in pushing, see 
 
 you, thus. 
 Or he had pierced me. 
 
 Queen. Yea, I see, sweet knight. 
 I have a mind to love you for his sake ; 
 Would I had seen ! 
 
 Chastelard. Hugues de Marsillac — 
 I have the name now ; 'twas a goodly 
 
 one 
 Before he changed it for a dusty name. 
 Queer:. Talk not of death; I would 
 hear living talk 
 Of good live swords and good strokes 
 
 struck w^ithal, 
 Tirave battles and the mirth of mingling 
 
 men. 
 Not of cold names you greet a dead 
 
 man with. 
 You are vet young for fighting ; but in 
 
 fight 
 Have you never caught a wound ? 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, twice or so : 
 The first time, in a little outlying field 
 (My first field) at the sleepy gray o\ 
 dawn. 
 
94 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 They found us drowsy, fumbling at our 
 
 girths, 
 And rode us down by heaps ; I took a 
 
 hurt 
 Here in the shoulder. 
 
 Queen. Ah, I mind well now ; 
 Did you not ride a day's space after- 
 ward, 
 Having two wounds ? yea, Dandelot it 
 
 was. 
 That Dandelot took word of it. I 
 
 know. 
 Sitting at meat when the news came V) 
 
 us 
 I had nigh swooned but for those Flor- 
 ence eyes 
 Slanting my way with sleek lids drawn 
 
 up close — 
 Yea, and she said, the Italian brokeress. 
 She said such men were good for great 
 
 queens' love. 
 I would you might die, when you come 
 
 to die, 
 Like a knight slain. Pray God we 
 
 make good ends. 
 For love too, love dies hard or easily, 
 But some way dies on some day, ere we 
 
 die. 
 Chastelard. You made a song once of 
 
 old flowers and loves. 
 Will you not sing that rather .-* 'tis long 
 
 gone 
 Since you sang last. 
 
 Queen. I had rather sigh than sing, 
 And sleep than sigh; 'tis long since 
 
 verily. 
 But I will once more sing; ay, thus it 
 
 was. \Sings. 
 
 yai vti faner hien des e/toses, 
 Afainte feuille oiler au vent. 
 En sonireant aux vieilles roses, 
 yai pleuri souvent. 
 
 Vois-tu dans les roses viortes 
 Amour qui sourit cachi ? 
 O mon (imant, d. nos portes 
 L\ii-tu vu couihii 
 
 As-tu vu jamais au monde 
 Venus ehasser et courir 
 Fille de Vonde, avec Fotide 
 Doit-el le mourir ? 
 
 Aux jours de neige et de givre 
 V amour s'effeuille et s'endort ; 
 Avec mai doit-il revivre, 
 Ou bien est-il mort ? 
 
 5- 
 
 Qui sait ou s^en vont les roses ? 
 Qui sait ou s''en va le vent ? 
 En songeant a telle c hoses, 
 yai pleuri souvent. 
 
 I never heard yet but love made good 
 
 knights. 
 But for pure faith, by Mary's holiness, 
 I think she lies about men's lips aslee]), 
 And if one kiss or pluck her by the 
 
 hand 
 To wake her, why God help youi 
 
 woman's wit, 
 Faith is but dead ; dig her grave deep 
 
 at heart. 
 And hide her face with cerecloths; fare- 
 well faith. 
 Would I could tell why I talk idly. 
 
 Look, 
 Here come my riddle-readers. Welcome 
 
 all! 
 Enter Murray, Darnley, RANDOLrii, 
 
 Lindsay, Mor ton, and other Lords. 
 Sirs, be right welcome. Stand you by 
 
 my side. 
 Fair cousin, I must lean on love or fall ; 
 You are a goodly staff, sir ; tall enough, 
 And fair enough to serve. My gentle 
 
 lords, 
 I am full glad of God that in great grace 
 1 le hath given me such a lordly stay as 
 
 this ; 
 There is no better friended queen alive. 
 For the repealing of those banished 
 
 men 
 That stand in peril yet of last year's 
 
 fault. 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 95 
 
 It is our will ; you have our seal to that. 
 Brother, we hear harsh bruits of bad 
 
 report 
 Blown up and down about our almoner; 
 See you to this : let him be sought into : 
 They say lewd folk make ballads of 
 
 their spleen, 
 Strew miry ways of words with talk of 
 
 him; 
 If they have cause let him be spoken 
 
 with. 
 Lindsay. Madam, they charge him 
 
 with so rank a life 
 Were it not well this fellow were 
 
 plucked out — 
 Seeing this is not an eye that doth 
 
 offend, 
 But a blurred glass it were no harm to 
 
 break; 
 Vea rather it were gracious to be done .-' 
 Queen. Let him be weighed, and use 
 
 him as he is ; 
 I am of my nature pitiful, ye know. 
 And cannot turn my love unto a thorn 
 In so brief space. Ye are all most 
 
 virtuous; 
 Yea, there is goodness grafted on this 
 
 land ; 
 But yet compassion is some part of 
 
 God. 
 There is much heavier business held on 
 
 hand 
 Than one man's goodness : yea, as 
 
 things fare here, 
 A matter worth more weighing. All 
 
 you wot 
 I am to choose a help to my weak feet, 
 A lamp before my face, a lord and 
 
 friend 
 To walk with me in weary ways, high 
 
 up 
 Between the wind and rain and the hot 
 
 sun. 
 Now I have chosen a helper to myself, 
 I wot the best a woman ever won ; 
 A man that loves me, and a royal man, 
 A goodly love and lord for any queen. 
 But for the peril and despite of men 
 I have some time tarried and withheld 
 
 myself, 
 Not fearful of his worthiness nor you, 
 But with some lady's loathing to let 
 
 out 
 
 My whole heart's love ; for truly this is 
 
 hard, 
 Not like a woman's fashion, shame- 
 
 facedness 
 And noble grave reluctance of herself 
 To be the tongue and cry of her own 
 
 heart. 
 Nathless plain speech is better than 
 
 much wit. 
 So ye shall bear with me ; albeit I think 
 Ye have caught the mark whereat my 
 
 heart is bent. 
 I have kept close counsel and shut up 
 
 men's lips, 
 V>w\. lightly shall a woman's will slip out. 
 The foolish little winged will of her. 
 Through cheek or eye when tongue is 
 
 charmed asleep. 
 For that good lord I have good will to 
 
 wed, 
 I wot he knew long since which way it 
 
 flew. 
 Even till it lit on his right wrist and 
 
 sang. 
 Lo, here I take him by the hand : fair 
 
 lords, 
 This is my kinsman, made of mine own 
 
 blood, 
 I take to halve the state and services 
 That bow down to me, and to be my 
 
 head. 
 My chief, my master, my sweet lord 
 
 and king. 
 Now shall I never say "sweet cousin " 
 
 more 
 To my dear head and husband ; here, 
 
 fair sir, 
 I give you all the heart of love in me 
 To gather off my lips. Did it like 
 
 The taste of it } sir, it was whole and 
 
 true. 
 God save our king ! 
 
 Darnley. Nay, nay, sweet love, no 
 
 lord; 
 No king of yours though I were lord 
 
 of these. 
 Queen. Let word be sent to all good 
 
 friends of ours 
 To help us to be glad; England and 
 
 France 
 Shall bear great part of our rejoicings 
 
 up. 
 
96 
 
 CHASTRLARD. 
 
 Give nie your hand, dear lord ; for from 
 
 this time 
 I must not walk alone. Lords, have 
 
 good cneer : 
 For you shall have a better face than 
 
 mine 
 To set upon your kingly gold and show 
 For Scotland's forehead in the van of 
 
 things. 
 Go with us now, and see this news set 
 
 out. 
 [Exeti/tt Queen, Darnley, aud Lords. 
 As Chastelard is going out, enter 
 
 Mary Beaton. 
 Mary Beaton. Have you yet heard ? 
 
 Vou knew of this.? 
 Chastelard. I know. 
 I was just thinking how such things were 
 
 made 
 And were so fair as this is. Do you 
 
 know 
 She held me here and talked, — the 
 
 most sweet talk 
 Men ever heard of .'' 
 
 Mary Beaton. You hate me to the 
 
 heart. 
 What will you do.? 
 
 Chastelard. I know not : die some 
 
 day, 
 r>ut live as long and lightly as I 
 
 can. 
 Will you now love me .? faith, but if you 
 
 do, 
 It were much better you were dead and 
 
 hearsed. 
 Will you do one thing for me .? 
 Mary Beaton. Yea, all things. 
 Chastelard. Speak truth a little, for 
 
 God's sake : indeed 
 It were no harm to do. Come, will 
 
 you, sweet "i 
 Though it be but to please God. 
 Mary Beaton. What will you do? 
 Chastelard. Ay, true, I must do some- 
 what. Let me sec : 
 To get between and tread ujjon his 
 
 face — 
 Catch both her hands anil bid men look 
 
 at iliiin, 
 Wo'N pure they were — I would do none 
 
 of these. 
 Though they got wedded all the days 
 
 in the year. 
 
 We may do well yet when all's come 
 
 and gone. 
 I pray you on this wedding night ot 
 
 theirs 
 Do but one thing that I shall ask of you. 
 And Darnley will not hunger as I shall 
 P'or that good time. Sweet, will you 
 
 swear me this.? 
 Mary Beaton. Yea ; though to do it 
 
 were mortal to my soul 
 As the chief sin. 
 
 Chastelard. I thank you : let us go. 
 
 ACT IIL — THE QUEEN. 
 
 Scene I. — The Queen's Chamber. 
 A'ii^Jit. Lights bit r /ling in front of 
 the bed. 
 
 i5"///t'r Chastelard atid^\\-R.\ Beaton. 
 Mary Beaton. Be tender of your feet 
 Chastelard. I shall not fail : 
 These ways have light enough to help 
 
 a man 
 That walks with such stirred blood in 
 
 him as mine. 
 Mary Beaton. I would yet plead with 
 
 you to save your head : 
 Nay, let this be then : sir, I chide you 
 
 not. 
 Na}^ let all come. Do not abide he 
 
 yet. 
 Chastelard. Have you read never ii . 
 
 French books the song 
 Called the Duke's Song, some boy maclj 
 
 ages back, 
 A song of drag-nets hauled across 
 
 thwart seas 
 And plucked up with rent sides, and 
 
 caught therein 
 A strange-haired woman with sad sinoj- 
 
 ing lips, 
 Cold in the cheek like any stray of sci, 
 And sweet to touch .? so that men sw- 
 ing her face, 
 And how she sighed out little Ahs of 
 
 pain 
 And soft cries sobbing sideways from 
 
 her mouth, 
 Fell in hot love, and having lain w-th 
 
 her 
 Died soon ? One time I could have tjld 
 
 it through : 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 97 
 
 Now I have kissed the sea-witch on her 
 
 eyes, 
 And my lips ache with it : but I shall 
 
 sleep 
 Full soon, and a good space of sleep. 
 Alary Beaton. Alas ! 
 Chastelard. What makes you sigh 
 
 though I be found a fool ? 
 Yc: Lave no blame : and for my death, 
 
 sweet friend, 
 I never could have lived long either way. 
 WhV; as I live, the joy I have of this 
 Would make men mad that were not 
 
 mad with love ; 
 I hear my blood sing, and my lifted heart 
 Is like a springing water blown of wind 
 For pleasure of this deed. Now, in 
 
 God's name, 
 I swear if there be danger in delight 
 I must die now : if joys have deadly 
 
 teeth, 
 I'll have them bite my soul to death, 
 
 and end 
 In the old asp's way, Egyptian-wise; be 
 
 killed 
 In a royal purple f<'.shion. Look, my 
 
 love 
 Would kill me if my body were past 
 
 hurt 
 Of any man's han^ ; and to die thereof, 
 I say, is sweeter than all sorts of life. 
 I would not have her love me now, for 
 
 then 
 I should die mcanlier some time. I am 
 
 safe, 
 Sure of her >ace, my life's end in her 
 
 sight. 
 My blood sbed out about her feet — by 
 
 God, 
 My heart feels drunken when I think 
 
 of it. 
 See you, she will not rid herself of me, 
 Not thoL»gh she slay me : her sweet lips 
 
 and life 
 Will smell of my spilt blood. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Give me good night. 
 Chastelard. Yea, and good thanks. 
 
 \Exit M.-VRY 1^ EATON. 
 
 Here is the very place : 
 
 Here has her body bowed the pillows 
 
 in, 
 A.nd here her head thrust under made 
 
 the sheet 
 
 Smell soft of her mixed hair and spice: 
 
 even here 
 Her aims pushed back the coverlet, 
 
 ])ulled here 
 The golden silken curtain halfway in, 
 It may be, and made room to lean out 
 
 loose. 
 Fair tender fallen arms. Now, if God 
 
 would, 
 Doubtless he might take pity on my 
 
 soul 
 To give me three clear hours, and then 
 
 red hell 
 Snare me forever: this were merciful : 
 If I were God now, I should do thus 
 
 much. 
 I must die next, and this were not so 
 
 hard 
 For him to let me eat sweet fruit, and 
 
 die 
 With my lips sweet from it. For one 
 
 shall have 
 This fare for common days'-bread, which 
 
 to me 
 Should be a touch kept always on my 
 
 sense 
 To make hell soft, yea, the keen pain 
 
 of hell 
 Soft as the loosening of wound arms in 
 
 sleep. 
 Ah, love is good, and the worst part of it 
 More than all things but death. She 
 
 will be here 
 In some small while, and see me face 
 
 to face 
 That am to give up life for her, and go 
 Where a man lies with all his loves 
 
 put out 
 And his lips full of earth. I think on 
 
 her. 
 And the old jileasure stings and makes 
 
 half-tears 
 Under mine eyelids. Prithee, love, 
 
 come fast. 
 That I may die soon; yea, some kisses 
 
 through, 
 I shall die joyfully enough, so God 
 Keep me alive till then. I feel her 
 
 feet 
 Coming far off; now must I hol<(l m> 
 
 heart, 
 Steadying my blood to see her patientlv 
 \_Hidcs himself l>y the bed 
 
98 
 
 CHASTELAKD. 
 
 I 
 
 Enter the QuEEN and Darnley. 
 Queen. Nay, now go back : I have 
 sent off my folk, 
 Maries and all. Pray you, let be my 
 
 hair; 
 I cannot twist the gold thread out of it 
 That you wound in so close. Look, 
 
 here it clings : 
 Ah ! now you mar my hair unwinding it. 
 Do me no hurt, sir. 
 
 Darnley. I would do you ease ; 
 Let me stay here. 
 
 Queen. Nay, will you go, my lord.? 
 Darnley. Eh .? would you use me as 
 a girl does fruit. 
 Touched with her mouth and pulled 
 
 away for game 
 To look thereon ere her lips feed? but 
 
 see. 
 By God, I fare the worse for you. 
 
 Queen. Fair sir, 
 Give me this hour to watch with and 
 
 say prayers : 
 You have not faith — it needs me to 
 
 say prayers. 
 That with commending of this deed to 
 
 God 
 I may get grace for it. 
 
 Darnley. Why, lacks it grace ? 
 Is not all wedlock gracious of itself.'* 
 Queen. Nay, that I know not of. 
 
 Come, sweet, be hence. 
 Darnley. You have a sort of jewel 
 in your neck 
 That's like mine here. 
 
 Queen. Keep off your hands and go: 
 You have no courtesy to be a king. 
 Darnley. Well, I will go : nay, but I 
 thwart you not. 
 Do as you will, and get you grace; 
 
 farewell, 
 And for my ])art, grace keep this watch 
 
 with me ! 
 For I need grace to bear with you so 
 much. [Exit. 
 
 Queen. So, he is forth. Let me be- 
 hold myself; 
 I am too pale to be so hot ; I marvel 
 So little color should be bold in tlu- 
 
 . face 
 When the blood is not (juietcd. I have 
 Hut a brief space to cool my thoughts 
 upon. 
 
 If one should wear the hair thus heaped 
 
 and curled 
 Would it look best .-* or this way in the 
 
 neck 1 
 Could one ungirdle in such wise one's 
 
 heart, 
 
 [ Taking off her girdle. 
 And ease it inwards as the waist is 
 
 eased 
 By slackening of the slid clasp on it ! 
 How soft the silk is — gracious color 
 
 too; 
 Violet shadows like new veins thrown 
 
 up 
 Each arm, and gold to fieck the faint 
 
 sweet green 
 Where the wrist lies thus eased. I am 
 
 right glad 
 I have no maids about to hasten me : 
 So I will rest, and see my hair shed 
 
 down 
 On either silk side of my woven sleeves, 
 Get some new way to bind it back with 
 
 — yea. 
 Fair mirror-glass, I am well ware of 
 
 you. 
 Yea, I know that, I am quite beautiful. 
 How my hair shines ! — Fair face, be 
 
 friends with me. 
 And I will sing to you : look in my face 
 Now, and your mouth must help the 
 
 song in mine. 
 
 Alys la chdtelaine 
 Voit venir de par Seine 
 Thii'bault le capitaine 
 Qui par le ainsi : 
 
 W^as that the wind in the casement -* 
 
 nay, no more 
 But the comb drawn through half my 
 
 hissing hair 
 Laid on my arms — yet my flesh moved 
 
 at it. 
 
 E)ans ma camaille 
 Plus de clou ijui vailU\ 
 Dans via <otte-inaille 
 Plus de fer aussi. 
 
 ;\h, but I wrong the ballad-verse: 
 
 what's good 
 In such frayed fringes of old rhymes, 
 
 to make 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 99 
 
 Their broken burden lag with us ? me- 
 
 seems 
 I could be sad now if I fell to think 
 The least sad thing; ay, that sweet 
 
 lady's fool, 
 Fool sorrow, would make merry with 
 
 mine eyes 
 For a small thing. Nay, but I will 
 
 keep glad. 
 Nor shall old sorrow be false friends 
 
 with me. 
 But my first wedding was not like to 
 
 this — 
 Fair faces then and laughter and sweet 
 
 game. 
 And a pale little mouth that clung on 
 
 mine 
 When I had kissed him by the faded 
 
 eyes 
 And either thin cheek beating with 
 
 faint blood. 
 Well, he was sure to die soon; I do 
 
 think 
 He would have given his body to be 
 
 slain, 
 Having emtsraced my body. Now, God 
 
 knows, 
 I have no man to do as much for me 
 As give me but a little of his blood 
 To fill my beauty from, though I go 
 
 down 
 Pale to my grave for want — I think 
 
 not. Pale — 
 I am too pale surely — Ah! 
 \Sees him in the glass, coming for- 
 
 xuard. 
 Chastelard. Be not afraid. 
 Queen. Saint Mary! what a shaken 
 
 wit have I ! 
 Nay, is it you ? who let you through 
 
 the doors ? 
 Where be my maidens .^ which way got 
 
 you in ? 
 Nay, but stand up, kiss not my hands 
 
 so hard ; 
 By God's fair body, if you but breathe 
 
 on them 
 You are just dead and slain at once. 
 
 What adder 
 Has bit you mirthful mad? for by this 
 
 light 
 A man to have his head laughed off for 
 
 mirth 
 
 Is no great jest. Lay not your eyes on 
 
 me ; 
 What ! would you not be slain ? 
 
 Chastelard. 1 pray you, madam, 
 Bear with me a brief space, and let me 
 
 speak. 
 I will not touch your garments even, 
 
 nor speak 
 But in soft wise, and look some other 
 
 way, 
 If that it like you ; for I came not here 
 For pleasure of the eyes ; yet, if you 
 
 will, 
 Let me look on you. 
 
 Queen. As you will, fair sir. 
 Give me that coif to gather in my 
 
 hair — 
 I thank you — and my girdle — nay, 
 
 that side. 
 Speak, if you will : yet if you will be 
 
 gone, 
 Why, you shall go, because I hate you 
 
 not. 
 You know that I might slay you with 
 
 my lips. 
 With calling out? but I will hold my 
 
 peace. 
 Chastelard. Yea, do some while. I 
 
 had a thing to say ; 
 I know not wholly what thing. O my 
 
 sweet, 
 I am come here to take farewell of love 
 That I have served, and life that I have 
 
 lived 
 Made up of love, here in the sight of 
 
 you 
 That all my life's time I loved more 
 
 than God, 
 Who quits me thus with bitter death 
 
 for it. 
 For you well know that I must shortly 
 
 die, 
 My life being wound about you as it is, 
 Who love me not; yet do not hate me, 
 
 sweet, 
 But tell me wherein I came short of 
 
 love ; 
 For doubtless I came short of a just 
 
 love. 
 And fell in some fool's fault that anger- 
 ed you. 
 Now that I talk men dig my grave foi 
 
 me 
 
lOO 
 
 CHASTE LARD. 
 
 Out in the rain, and in a little while 
 I shall be thrust in some sad space of 
 
 earth 
 Out of your eyes ; and you, O you my 
 
 love, 
 A newly wedded lady full of mirth 
 And a queen girt with all good people's 
 
 love, 
 You shall be fair and merry in all your 
 
 days. 
 is this ^.o much for me to have of you ? 
 Do but speak, sweet : I know these are 
 
 no words 
 A man should say though he were now 
 
 to die. 
 But I am as a child for love, and have 
 No strength at heart ; yea, I am afraid 
 
 to die. 
 For the harsh dust will lie upon my 
 
 face 
 Too thick to see you pass. Look how 
 
 I love you ; 
 I did so love you always, that your 
 
 face 
 Seen through my sleep has wrung mine 
 
 eyes to tears 
 For pure delight in you. Why do you 
 
 thus ? 
 You answer not, but your lips curl in 
 
 twain 
 And your face moves; there, I shall 
 
 make you weep, 
 And be a coward too; it were much 
 
 best 
 I should be slain. 
 
 Quecu. Yea, best such folk were slain ; 
 Why should they live to cozen fools 
 
 with lies .^ 
 You would swear now you have used 
 
 me faithfully; 
 Shall I not make you swear.-* I am 
 
 ware of you : 
 You will not do it , nay, for the fear of 
 
 (iod 
 You will not swear. Come, I am mer- 
 ciful ; 
 (m)(1 made a foolish woman, making me, 
 And I have loved your mistress with 
 
 whole heart ; 
 Say you do love her, you shall marry 
 
 her 
 And she give thanks: yet 1 could wish 
 
 your love 
 
 Had not so lightly chosen forth a face: 
 For your fair sake, because I hate you 
 
 not. 
 Chastelard. What is to say } why, you 
 
 do surely know 
 That since my days were counted for a 
 
 man's 
 I have loved you; yea, how past help 
 
 and sense. 
 Whatever thing was bitter to my love, 
 I have loved you ; how when I rode in 
 
 war 
 Your face went floated in among men's 
 
 helms. 
 Your voice went through the shriek of 
 
 slipping swords; 
 Yea, and I never have loved women 
 
 well, 
 Seeing always in my sight I had your 
 
 lips 
 Curled over, red and sweet; and the 
 
 soft space 
 Of carven brows, and splendor of great 
 
 throat 
 Swayed lily-wise: what pleasure should 
 
 one have 
 To wind his arms about a lesser love t 
 I have seen you ; why, this were joy 
 
 enough 
 For God's eyes up in heaven, only to see 
 And to come never nearer than I am. 
 Why, it was in my flesh, my bone and 
 
 blood, 
 Bound in my brain, to love you ; yea, 
 
 and writ 
 All my heart over : if I would lie to you, 
 I doubt I could not lie. Ah, you see 
 
 now. 
 You know now well enough ; yea, there, 
 
 sweet love. 
 Let me kiss there. 
 
 Qiiccii. I love you best of them. 
 Clasp me c|uite round till your lips 
 
 cleave on mine, — 
 False mine, that did you wrong. For- 
 give them dearly, 
 As you arc sweet to ihcni ; for by love's 
 
 love 
 I am not that evil woman in my heart 
 That laughs at a rent faith. O Chas- 
 telard, 
 Since this was broken to mc of your 
 
 new love 
 
CHASTELARJ?. 
 
 I have not seen the face of a sweet hour. 
 Nay, if there be no pardon in a man, 
 What shall a woman have for loving 
 
 him ? 
 Pardon me, sweet. 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, so I pardon you. 
 And this side now; the first way. Would 
 
 God please 
 To slay me so ! who knows how he 
 
 might please ? 
 Now I am thinking, if you know it not. 
 How I might kill you, kiss your breath 
 
 clean out. 
 And take your soul to bring mine 
 
 through to God 
 That our two souls might close and be 
 
 one twain 
 Or a twain one, and God himself want 
 
 skill 
 To set us either severally apart. 
 Oh, you must overlive me many years, 
 And manv years my soul be in waste 
 
 hell; 
 But when some time God can no more 
 
 refrain 
 To lay death like a kiss across your 
 
 lips, 
 And great lords bear you clothed with 
 
 funeral things. 
 And your crown girded over deadly 
 
 brows, 
 Then after all your happy reach of life 
 For pity you shall touch me with your 
 
 eyes. 
 Remembering love was fellow with my 
 
 flesh 
 Here in sweet earth, and make me well 
 
 of love. 
 And heal my many years with piteous- 
 
 ness. 
 Queen. You talk too sadly and too 
 
 feignedly. 
 Chastelard. Too sad, but not too 
 
 feigned ; I am sad 
 That I shall die here without feigning 
 
 thus; 
 And without feigning I were fain to live. 
 Queen. Alas, you w".ll be taken pres- 
 ently. 
 And then you are but dead. Pray you, 
 
 get hence. 
 Chastelard. I will not. 
 Qneen. Nay, for God's love be away ; 
 
 \{ju-,wiri be slain, ^m; I get shame. 
 
 God's me'rcy ''. 
 You were stark mad to come here ; kiss 
 
 me, sweet. 
 Oh, I do love you more than all men ! 
 
 yea. 
 Take my lips to you, close mine eyes 
 
 up fast. 
 So you leave hold a little : there, for 
 
 pity, 
 Abide now, and to-morrow come to 
 
 me. 
 Nay, lest one see red kisses in my 
 
 throat — 
 Dear God ! what shall I give you to be 
 
 gone .'' 
 Chastelard. I will not go. Look, 
 
 here's full night grown up ; 
 Why should I seek to sleep away 
 
 from here } 
 The place is soft, and the lights burn 
 
 for sleep ; 
 Be not you moved; I shall lie well 
 
 enough. 
 Queen. You are utterly undone. 
 
 Sweet, by my life, 
 You shall be saved with taking ship at 
 
 once. 
 For if you stay this foolish love's hour 
 
 out 
 There is not ten days' likely life in you. 
 This is no choice. 
 
 Chastelard. Nay, for I will not go. 
 Queen. Oh, me ! this is that Bayard's 
 
 blood of yours 
 That makes you mad; yea, and you 
 
 shall not stay. 
 I do not understand. Mind, you must 
 
 die. 
 Alas, poor lord, you have no sense of 
 
 me ; 
 I shall be deadly to you. 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, I saw that ; 
 But I saw not that when my death's 
 
 day came 
 You could be quite so sweet to me. 
 
 Queen. My love ! 
 If I could kiss my heart's root out on 
 
 you, 
 You would taste love hid at the core of 
 
 me. 
 Chastelard. Kiss me twice more 
 
 This beautiful bowed head 
 
I02 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 That has such hair wi»h kissing ripple? 
 
 in, 
 And shivering soft eyelashes and brows 
 With fluttered blood ; but laugh a little, 
 
 sweetly, 
 That I may see your sad mouth's laugh- 
 ing look 
 I have used sweet hours in seeing. Oh, 
 
 will you weep ? 
 I pray you, do not weep. 
 
 Queen. Nay, dear, I have 
 No tears in me ; I never shall weep 
 
 much, 
 I think, in all my life : I have wept for 
 
 wrath 
 Sometimes, and for mere pain, but for 
 
 love's pity 
 I cannot weep at all. I would to God 
 You loved me less ; I give you all I can 
 For all this love of yours, and yet 1 am 
 
 sure 
 I shall live out the sorrow of your death 
 And be glad afterwards. You know I 
 
 am sorry. 
 I should weep now; forgive me for 
 
 your part. 
 God made me hard, I think. Alas ! 
 
 you see 
 I had fain been other than I am. 
 
 Cliastelard. Yea, love. 
 Comfort your heart. What way am I 
 
 to die r 
 Queen. Ah ! will you go yet, sweet? 
 Chastelard. No, by God's body. 
 You will not see.-* how shall I make 
 
 vou see ? 
 Look, it may be love was a sort of curse 
 Made for my ])lague, and mixed up with 
 
 my days 
 Somewise in their beginning ; or indeed 
 A bitter birth begotten of sad stars 
 At mine own body's birth, that heaven 
 
 might make 
 My life taste sharp where other men 
 
 drank sweet ; 
 liut whether in heavy body or broken 
 
 soul, 
 I know it must go on to be mv death. 
 There was the matter of my fate in me 
 When I was fashioned first, and given 
 
 such life 
 As goes with a sad end; no fault but 
 
 God's. 
 
 Yea, and for all this I am not penitent. 
 You see I am perfect in these sins oi 
 
 mine, 
 I have my sins writ in a book to read ; 
 Now I shall die, and be well done with 
 
 this. 
 But I am sure you cannot see such 
 
 things, 
 God knows I blame you not. 
 
 Queen. What shall be said ? 
 You know most well that I am sorrow- 
 ful. 
 But you should chide me. Sweet, you 
 
 have seen fair wars, 
 Have seen men slain and ridden red in 
 
 them; 
 Why will you die a chamberer's death 
 
 like this.? 
 What ! shall no praise be written of my 
 
 knight. 
 For my fame's sake .-* 
 
 Chastelard. Nay, no great praise, i 
 
 think; 
 I will no more ; what should I do with 
 
 death. 
 Though I died goodly out of sight of 
 
 you ? 
 I have gone once : here am I set now, 
 
 sweet. 
 Till the end come. That is your hus 
 
 band, hark! 
 He knocks at the outer door. Kiss me 
 
 just once. 
 You know now all you have to say. 
 
 Nay, love. 
 
 Let him come quickly. 
 
 Enter Darnley, and after^cards the 
 
 Maries. 
 
 Darnley. Yea, what thing is here ? 
 
 Ay, this was what the doors shut fast 
 
 upon — 
 Ay, trust you to be fast at prayer, my 
 
 sweet ? 
 By God, I have a mind — 
 
 Chastelard. What mind then, sir? 
 A liar's lewd mind, to coin sins for jest 
 Because vou take me in such wise as 
 
 this ? 
 Look you, I have to die soon, and I 
 
 swear. 
 That am no liar, but a free knight and 
 
 lord, 
 I shall die clear of any sin to you. 
 
CHASTE LARD. 
 
 103 
 
 Save that I came for no good will of 
 
 mine ; 
 1 am no carle, I play fair games with 
 
 faith, 
 And by mine honor for my sake I 
 
 swear 
 I say but truth ; for no man's sake save 
 
 mine, 
 Lest I die shamed. Madam, I pray 
 
 you say 
 I am no liar ; you know me what I am, 
 A sinful man and shortly to be slain, 
 That in a simple insolence of love 
 Have stained with a fool's eyes your 
 
 holy hours 
 And with a fool's words put your pity 
 
 out; 
 Nathless you know if I be liar or no, 
 Wherefore for God's sake give me grace 
 
 to swear 
 (Yea, for mine too) how past all praise 
 
 you are, 
 And stainless of all shame ; and how 
 
 all men 
 Lie, saying you are not most good and 
 
 mnocent, 
 Vea, the one thing good as God. 
 
 Daruley. O sir, we know 
 You can swear well, being taken ; you 
 
 fair French 
 Dare swallow God's name for a lewd 
 
 love-sake 
 As it were water. Nay, we know, we 
 
 know ; 
 Save your sweet breath now, lest you 
 
 lack it soon ; 
 We are simple, we ; we have not heard 
 
 of you. 
 Madam, by God you are well shamed 
 
 in him : 
 Ay, trust you to be fingering in one's 
 
 face. 
 Play with one's neck-chain? ah, your 
 
 maiden's man, 
 A relic of your people's ? 
 
 Chastelard. Hold your peace, 
 Or I will set an edge on your own lie 
 Shall scar yourself. Madam, have out 
 
 your guard : 
 'Tis time I were got hence. 
 Queen. Sweet Hamilton, 
 Hold you my hand, and help me to sit 
 
 down. 
 
 Henry, I am beaten from my wits ! 
 Let me have time, and live; call out 
 
 my people — 
 Bring forth some armed guard to lay 
 
 hold on him ; 
 But see no man be slain. Sirs, hide 
 
 your swords ; 
 
 1 will not have men slain. 
 Darnley. What! is this true.-* 
 
 Call the queen's people — help the 
 
 queen there, you — 
 Ho, sirs ! come in. 
 
 Enter some with the Guard. 
 Queen. Lay hold upon that man ; 
 Bear him away, but see he have no 
 
 hurt. 
 Chastelard. Into your hands I render 
 
 up myself 
 With a free heart; deal with me how 
 
 you list, 
 But courteously, I pray you. Take my 
 
 sword. 
 Farewell, great queen; the sweetness 
 
 in your look 
 Makes life look bitter on me. Farewell, 
 
 sirs. \He is taken out. 
 
 Darnley. Yea, pluck him forth, and 
 
 have him hanged by dawn ; 
 He shall find bed enow to sleep, God's 
 
 love! 
 That such a knave should be a knight 
 
 like this! 
 Queen. Sir, peace awhile ; this shall 
 
 be as I please ; 
 Take patience to you. Lords, I pray 
 
 you see 
 All be done goodly; look they wrong 
 
 him not. 
 Carmichael, you shall sleep with me 
 
 to-night ; 
 I am sorely shaken, even to the heart. 
 
 Fair lords, 
 I thank you for your care. Sweet, stay 
 
 by me. 
 
 ACT IV. — MURRAY. 
 
 SCKNE I.— The Queen's Lod-in^ at St. 
 A )i dread's. 
 
 The Queen and the four Maries. 
 Queen. Why will you break my heart 
 with praying to mc ? 
 
I04 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 You Seyton, you Carmichacl, you have 
 
 You hold men off with bitter lips and 
 
 w'its, 
 
 eyes — 
 
 You are not all run to tears; you do 
 
 Such maidens should serve England; 
 
 not think 
 
 now, perfay. 
 
 It is my wrath or will that whets this 
 
 I doubt you would have got him slain 
 
 axe 
 
 at once. 
 
 Against his neck ? 
 
 Come, would you x\oO. come, would 
 
 Mary Seyton. Nay, these three weeks 
 
 you let him live } 
 
 agone 
 
 Mary Hamilton. Yes — I think yes; 
 
 I said the queen's wrath was not sharp 
 
 I cannot tell ; maybe 
 
 enough 
 
 I would have seen him punished. 
 
 To shear a neck. 
 
 Qtieen. Look you now. 
 
 Queen. Sweet, and you did me right, 
 
 There's maiden mercy ; I would have 
 
 And look you, what my mercy bears to 
 
 him live — 
 
 fruit. 
 
 For all my wifehood, maybe I weep 
 
 Danger and deadly speech and a fresh 
 
 too: 
 
 fault 
 
 Here's a mere maiden falls to slaying 
 
 Before tlie first was cool in people's 
 
 at once. 
 
 lips; 
 
 Small shrift for her ; God keep us from 
 
 A goodly mercy : and I wash hands of 
 
 such hearts ! 
 
 it.'— 
 
 I am a queen too that would have him 
 
 Speak you, there ; have you ever found 
 
 live, 
 
 me sharp } 
 
 But one that has no wrong and is no 
 
 You weep and whisper with sloped 
 
 queen. 
 
 necks and heads 
 
 She would — What are you saying 
 
 Like two sick birds; do you think 
 
 there, you twain "i 
 
 shame of me .'' 
 
 Ma7y Cannichael. I said a queen's face 
 
 Nay, I thank God none can think shame 
 
 and so fair an one's 
 
 of me ; 
 
 Would lose no grace for giving grace 
 
 But am I bitter, think you, to men's 
 
 away ; 
 
 faults ? 
 
 That gift comes back upon the mouth 
 
 I think I am too merciful, too meek : 
 
 it left. 
 
 AVhy, if I could I would yet save this 
 
 And makes it sv/eeter, and sets fresh 
 
 man ; 
 
 red on it. 
 
 'Tis just boy's madness ; a soft stripe 
 
 Queen. This comes of sonnets when 
 
 or two 
 
 the dance draws breath; 
 
 Would do to scourge the fault in his 
 
 These talking times will make a dearth 
 
 French blood. 
 
 of grace. 
 
 I would fain let him go. You, Hamil- 
 
 But you — what ails you that your lips 
 
 ton, 
 
 are shut .^ 
 
 You have a heart thewed harder than 
 
 Weep, if you will ; here are four friends 
 
 my heart ; 
 
 of yours 
 
 When mine would threat it sighs, and 
 
 To weej) as fast for jnty of vour tears. 
 
 wrath in it 
 
 Do you desire him dead? nav, but men 
 
 Has a bird's flight and station, starves 
 
 say 
 
 before 
 
 He was your friend, he fought them on 
 
 It can well feed or fly: my inilse of 
 
 your side. 
 
 wralh 
 
 He made vou songs — God knows whaf 
 
 Sounds tender as the running down of 
 
 songs he made ! 
 
 tears. 
 
 Speak you for him a little: will you 
 
 You are the hardest woman I have 
 
 not.> 
 
 known, 
 
 Mary Beaton. Mada:n, I have no 
 
 V'our blood has frost and cruel gall in it, 
 
 words. 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 105 
 
 Queen. No words ? no pity — 
 Have you no mercies for such men ? 
 
 God help ! 
 It seems I am the meekest heart on 
 
 earth — 
 Yea, the one tender woman left alive, 
 And knew it not. I will not let him 
 
 live, 
 For all my pity of him. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, but, madam. 
 For God's love look a little to this 
 
 thing. 
 If you do slay him you are but shamed 
 
 to death ; 
 All men will cry upon you, women 
 
 weep. 
 Turning your sweet name bitter with 
 
 their tears ; 
 Red shame grow up out of your mem- 
 ory 
 And burn his face that would speak 
 
 well of you ; 
 You shall have no good word nor pity, 
 
 none, 
 Till some such end be fallen upon you : 
 
 nay, 
 I am but cold, I knew I had no words. 
 I will keep silence. 
 
 Queen. Yea, now, as I live, 
 I wist not of it : troth, he shall not 
 
 die. 
 See you, I am pitiful, compassionate, 
 I would not have men slain for my 
 
 love's sake. 
 But if he live to do me three times 
 
 wrong. 
 Why then my shame wo'ild grow up 
 
 green and red 
 Like any flower. I am not whole at 
 
 heart ; 
 In faith, I wot not what such things 
 
 should be. 
 I doubt it is but dangerous ; he must 
 
 die. 
 Mary Beaton. Yea, but you will not 
 
 slay him. 
 Queen. Swear me that, 
 I'll say he shall not die for your oath's 
 
 sake. 
 What will you do for grief when he is 
 
 dead .-' 
 Mary Beaton. Nothing for grief, but 
 
 hold my peace ancl die. 
 
 Queen. Why, for your sweet sake one 
 
 might let him live; 
 But the first fault was a green seed of 
 
 shame. 
 And now the flower, and deadly fruit 
 
 will come 
 With a])ple-time in autumn. By my 
 
 life, 
 I would they had slain him there in 
 
 Edinburgh ; 
 But I reprieve him ; lo the thank I get. 
 To set the base folk muttering like 
 
 smoked bees 
 Of shame and love, and how love comes 
 
 of shame. 
 And how the queen loves shame that 
 
 comes of love ; 
 Yet I say naught and go about my 
 
 ways. 
 And this mad fellow that I respited 
 Being forth and free, lo now the second 
 
 time 
 Ye take him by my bed in wait. Now 
 
 see 
 If I can get goodwill to pardon him ; 
 With what a face may I crave leave of 
 
 men 
 To respite him, being young and a good 
 
 knight 
 And mad for perfect love '^. shall I go 
 
 say, — 
 Dear lords, because ye took him s/uune- 
 
 fully. 
 Let /urn not die ; because his fault is 
 
 foul, 
 Let him not die ; because if he do live 
 I shall be held a harlot of all men, 
 I prav you, siueet sirs, that he may not 
 ' die ? 
 Alary Beaton. Madam, for me I would 
 
 not have him live ; 
 Mine own heart's life was ended with 
 
 my fame, 
 And my life's breath will shortly follow 
 
 them ; 
 So that I care not much ; for vou wot 
 
 well 
 I have lost love and shame and fame, 
 
 and all 
 To no good end ; nor while he had hi? 
 
 life 
 Have I got good of him that was my 
 
 love. 
 
io6 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Save that for courtesy (which may God 
 
 quit) 
 He kissed me once as one might kiss 
 
 for love 
 Out of great pity for me ; saving this, 
 He never did me grace in all his life. 
 And when you have slain him, madam, 
 
 it may be 
 I shall get grace of him in some new 
 
 way 
 In a new place, if God have care of us. 
 Queen. Bid you my brother to me 
 
 presently. \Exentit Alaries. 
 
 And yet the thing is pitiful ; I would 
 There were some way. To send him 
 
 overseas, 
 Out past the long firths to the cold keen 
 
 sea 
 Where the sharp sound is that one 
 
 hears up here — 
 Or hold him in strong prison till he 
 
 died — 
 He would die shortly — or to set him 
 
 free 
 And use him softly till his brains were 
 
 healed — 
 There is no way. Now never while I 
 
 live 
 Shall we twain love together any more. 
 Nor sit at rhyme as we were used to do, 
 Nor each kiss other only with the eyes 
 A great way off ere hand or lip could 
 
 reach ; 
 There is no way. 
 
 Enter Murray. O, you are welcome, 
 
 sir ; 
 You know what need I have ; but I 
 
 l^raise heaven, 
 Having such need, I have such help of 
 
 you. 
 T do believe no queen God ever made 
 Was better hoi pen than I look to be. 
 What! if two brethren love not heartily, 
 Who shall be good to either one of 
 
 them ? 
 Murray. Madam, I have great joy of 
 
 your good will. 
 Queen. I pray you, brother, use no 
 
 courtesies : 
 I have some fear you will not suffer me 
 When I shall speak. Fear is a fool, I 
 
 think. 
 Vet hath he wit enow to fool mv wits, 
 
 Being but a woman's. Do not answer 
 
 me 
 Till you shall know ; yet if you have a 
 
 word 
 I shall be fain to hear it ; but I think 
 There is no word to help me ; no man's 
 
 word. 
 There be two things yet that should do 
 
 me good, — 
 A speeding arm and a great heart. My 
 
 lord, 
 I am soft-spirited as women are, 
 And ye wot well I have no harder heart : 
 Yea, with my will I would not slay a 
 
 thing. 
 But all should live right sweetly if I 
 
 might ; 
 So that man's blood-spilling lies hard 
 
 on me. 
 I have a work yet for mine honor's 
 
 sake, 
 A thing to do, God wot I know not 
 
 how. 
 Nor how to crave it of you : nay, by 
 
 heaven, 
 I will not shame myself to show it you : 
 I have not heart. 
 
 Murray. Why, if it may be done 
 With any honor, or with good men's 
 
 excuse, 
 I shall well do it. 
 
 Queen. I would I wist that well. 
 Sir, do you love me? 
 
 Murray. Yea, you know I do. 
 Queen'. In faith, you should well lovt- 
 
 me, for I love 
 The least man in your following for 
 
 your sake 
 With a whole sister's heart. 
 
 Murray. Speak simply, madam ; 
 I must obey you, being your bounden 
 
 man. 
 Queen. Sir, so it is you know wl.at 
 
 things have been, 
 Even to the endangering of mine inno 
 
 cent name, 
 And bv no fault, but bv men's evil 
 
 will. 
 If C'hastclard have trial openly, 
 I am but shamed. 
 
 Murray. 'I'his were a wound indeed, 
 If your good name should lie upon his 
 ' lip. 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 107 
 
 Queen. I will the judges put him not 
 to plead, 
 i;<or my fame's sake; he shall not an- 
 swer them. 
 Murray. What! think you he will 
 
 speak against your fame ? 
 Queen. I know not; men might feign 
 belief of him 
 For hate of me ; it may be he will 
 
 speak ; 
 In brief, I will not have him held to 
 proof. 
 Murray. Well, if this be, what good 
 
 is to be done .'' 
 
 Queen. Is there no way but he must 
 
 speak to them, 
 
 Being had to trial plainly ? 
 
 Murray. I think, none. 
 
 Queefi. Now mark, my lord ; I swear 
 
 he will not speak. 
 Murray. It were the best if you 
 
 could make that sure. 
 Quee7i. There is one way. Look, sir, 
 he shall not do it: 
 Shall not, or will not, either is one 
 
 way; 
 I speak as I would have you urder- 
 stand. 
 Murray. Let me not guess at you ; 
 
 speak certainly. 
 Queen. You will not mind me : let 
 him be removed; 
 Take means to get me surety : there be 
 means. 
 Murray. So, in your mind, I have 
 
 to slay the man } 
 Queen. Is there a mean for me to 
 
 save the man ? 
 Murray. Truly I see no mean except 
 
 your love. 
 Queen. What love is that, my lord ? 
 what think you of. 
 Talking of love and of love's mean in 
 
 me 
 And of your guesses and of slaying 
 
 him } 
 Why, I say naught, have naught to say : 
 
 God help me ! 
 I bid you but take surety of the man. 
 Get him removed. 
 Murray. Come, come, be clear with 
 me; 
 Vou bid me to despatch him privily. 
 
 Queen. God send me sufferance I 1 
 
 bid you, sir } 
 Nay, do not go : what matter if I did t 
 Nathless I never bade you ; no, by 
 
 God. 
 Be not so wroth ; you are my brother 
 
 born; 
 Why do you dwell upon me with such 
 
 eyes } 
 For love of God you should not bear 
 
 me hard. 
 Murray. What ! are you made of 
 
 flesh? 
 Queen. Oh, now I see. 
 You had rather lose your wits to do 
 
 me harm 
 Than keep sound wits to help me. 
 
 Murray. It is right strange ; 
 The worst man living hath some fear, 
 
 some love. 
 Holds somewhat dear a little for life's 
 
 sake, 
 Keeps fast to some compassion ; you 
 
 have none ; 
 You know of nothing that remembrance 
 
 knows 
 To make you tender. I must slay the 
 
 man ? 
 Nay, I will do it. 
 
 Queen. Do, if you be not mad. 
 I am sorry for him ; and he must needs 
 
 die. 
 I would I were assured you hate me 
 
 not : 
 I have no heart to slay him by my 
 
 will. 
 I pray you think not bitterly of me. 
 Murray. Is it your pleasure such a 
 
 thing were done ? 
 Queen. Yea, by God's body is it, 
 
 certainly. 
 Murray. Nay, for your love then, and 
 
 for honor's sake. 
 This thing must be. 
 
 Queen. Yea, should I set you on "i 
 Even for my love then, I beseech you, 
 
 sir, 
 To seek him out, and lest he prate of 
 
 me 
 To put your knife into him ere he come 
 
 forth : 
 Meseems this were not such wild work 
 
 to do. 
 
io8 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Murray. I'll have him in the prison 
 
 taken off. 
 Queen. I am bounden to you, even 
 for my name's sake, 
 When that is done. 
 
 Murray. I pray you fear me not 
 Farewell. I would such things were 
 
 not to do, 
 Or not for me ; vea, not for any man. 
 
 \^Exit. 
 Queen. Alas! what honor have I to 
 give thanks .'' 
 I would he had denied me : I had held 
 
 my peace 
 Thenceforth forever ; but h wrung out 
 
 the word, 
 Caught it before my lip was fain of 
 
 it — 
 It was his fault to put it in my mind, 
 Yea, and to feign a loathing of his 
 
 fault. 
 Now is he about devising my love's 
 
 death, 
 And nothing loath. Nay, since he must 
 
 needs die, 
 Would he w^ere dead and come alive 
 
 again 
 And I might keep him safe! He doth 
 
 live now, 
 And I may do what love I will to him ; 
 But by to-morrow he will be stark dead, 
 Stark slain and dead; and for no sort 
 
 of love 
 Will he so much as kiss me half a kiss. 
 Were this to do I would not do it 
 again. 
 
 Re-enter Murray. 
 What! have you taken order.'' is it 
 
 done .-* 
 It were impossible to do so soon. 
 Nay, answer me. 
 
 Murray. Madam, I will not do it. 
 Queen. How chd you say .'' 1 pray, 
 sir, s])eak again : 
 I know not what you said. 
 
 Murray. I say I will not ; 
 I have thought thereof, and have made 
 
 up my heart 
 I'o have no i)art in this: look you to it. 
 Queen. (), for Ood's sake ! you will 
 
 not have me shamed .-* 
 Murray. I will not dip my hand into 
 your sin. 
 
 Queen. It were a good deed to deliver 
 
 me. 
 I am but woman, of one blood with you, 
 A feeble woman ; put me not to shame; 
 I pray you of your i)ity do me right. 
 Yea, and no fleck of blood shall cleave 
 
 to you 
 For a just deed. 
 
 Murray. I know not : I will none. 
 Queen. Oh, you will never let him 
 
 speak to them 
 To put me in such shame? Why, I 
 
 should die 
 Out of pure shame and mine own burn- 
 ing blood; 
 Yea, my face feels the shame lay hold 
 
 on it, 
 I am half burnt already in my thought. 
 Take pity of me. Think how shame 
 
 slays a man ; 
 How shall I live, then ? would you have 
 
 me dead .? 
 I pray you for our dead dear father's 
 
 sake, 
 Let not men mock at me. Nay, if he 
 
 speak, 
 I shall be sung in mine own towns. 
 
 Have pity. 
 What ! will you let men stone me in 
 
 the ways ? 
 Murray. Madam, I shall take pains 
 
 the best I may 
 To. save your honor, and what thing 
 
 lieth in me 
 That will I do; but no close manslay 
 
 ings. 
 I will not have God's judgment gripw 
 
 my throat 
 When I am dead, to hale me into 
 
 hell 
 For a man's sake slain on this wise. 
 
 Take heed. 
 See you to that. [F..\if. 
 
 Queen. One of you maidens there 
 Bid my lord hither. Now, by MaryV 
 
 .soul. 
 He shall not die and bring me into 
 
 shame. 
 There's treason in vou like a fever, hot, 
 My holy-natured brother, cheek and 
 
 eye : 
 \'ou look red through with it; sick, 
 
 honor-sick, 
 
CHASTRLARD. 
 
 109 
 
 pecked with the blain of treason, 
 
 leper-like, — 
 L scrupulous fair traitor with clean 
 
 lips. 
 i one should sue to hell to do him 
 
 good, 
 le were as brotherly holpen as I am. 
 'his man must live, and say no harm 
 of me ; 
 may reprieve and cast him forth ; 
 yea, so — 
 'his were the best; or if he die mid- 
 way — 
 Tea, any thing, so that he die not here. 
 \To the Maries within. 
 'etch hither Darnley. Nay, ye gape 
 
 on me — 
 Vhat ! doth he sleep, or feeds, or plays 
 
 at games ? 
 A'^hy, I would see him ; I am weary for 
 
 his sake ; 
 jid my lord in. — Nathless he will but 
 
 chide ; 
 ^fay, fleer and laugh : what should one 
 
 say to him ? 
 There were some word if one could hit 
 
 on it; 
 i>ome way to close with him : I wot not. 
 — Sir, 
 
 Enter Darnley. 
 ^lease it your love I have a suit to you. 
 Darnley. What sort of suit .'' 
 Queen. Nay, if you be not friends — 
 ; have no suit towards mine enemies. 
 Darnley. Eh ! do I look now like 
 
 your enemy ? 
 Queen. You have a way of peering 
 under brow 
 [ do not like. If you see any thing 
 in me that irks you, I will painfully 
 Labor to lose it : do but show me favor, 
 ^.nd as I am your faithful humble wife 
 This foolishness shall be removed 
 in me. 
 Darnley. Why do you laugh and 
 mock me with stretched hands ? 
 Faith, I see no such thing. 
 
 Queen. That is well seen. 
 Come, I will take my heart between my 
 
 lips. 
 
 Use it not hardly. Sir, my suit begins ; 
 That you would please to make me that 
 I am, 
 
 (In sooth I think I am) mistress and 
 
 queen 
 Of mine own people. 
 
 Darnley. Why, this is no suit: 
 This is a simple matter, and your own. 
 Queen. It was, before God made you 
 
 king of me, 
 Darnley. No king, by God's grace ; 
 were I such a king, 
 I'd sell my kingdom for six roods of rye. 
 Queen. You are too sharp upon my 
 words; I would 
 Have leave of you to free a man con- 
 demned. 
 Darnley. What man is that, sweet,? 
 Queen. Such a mad poor man 
 As God desires us use not cruelly. 
 Darnley. Is there no name a man 
 
 may call him by } 
 Queen. Nay, my fair master, what 
 fair game is this } 
 Whv, vou do know him: it is Chaste- 
 lard. 
 Darnley. Ay, is it soothly ? 
 Queejt. By my life, it is ; 
 Sweet, as you tender me, so pardon him. 
 Darnley. As he doth tender you, so 
 pardon me ; ' 
 
 For, if it were the mean to save my life. 
 He should not live a day. 
 Queen. Nay, shall not he .-* 
 Darnley. Look what an evil wit ok! 
 Fortune hath: 
 Why, I came here to get his time cut 
 
 off. 
 This second fault is meat for lew(J 
 
 men's mouths ; 
 You were best have him slain at once . 
 'tis hot. 
 Queen. Give me the warrant, and .sit 
 down, my lord. 
 Why, I will sign it ; what, I understand 
 How this must be. Should not my 
 name stand here } 
 Darnley. Yea, there, and here the 
 
 seal. 
 Queen. Ay, so you say. 
 Shall I say too what I am thinking of ? 
 Darnley. Do, if you will. 
 Queen, I do not like your suit, 
 Darnley. 'Tis of no Frenchman fash 
 
 ion. 
 Queen. No, God wot : 
 
no 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 'Tis nowise great men's fashion in 
 
 French land 
 To clap a headsman's tabard on their 
 
 backs. 
 Darnley. No, madam ? 
 Queen. No ; I never wist of that. 
 Is it a month gone I did call you lord 1 
 I chose you by no straying stroke of 
 
 sight, 
 But with my heart to love you heartily. 
 Did I wrong then ? did mine eye draw 
 
 my heart .^ 
 I know not ,• sir, it may be I did wrong : 
 And yet to see you I should call it right 
 Even yet to love you ; and would choose 
 
 again. 
 Again to choose you. 
 
 Darnley. There, I love you too , 
 Take that for sooth, and let me take 
 
 this hence. 
 Queen. O, do you think I hold you 
 
 off with words ,'' 
 Why, take it then; there is my hand- 
 writing. 
 And here the hand that you shall slay 
 
 him with. 
 'Tis a fair hand, a maiden-colored one : 
 I doubt yet it has never slain a man. 
 You never fought yet save for game, I 
 
 wis. 
 Nay, thank me not, but have it from 
 
 my sight ; 
 Go and make haste for fear he be got 
 
 forth : 
 It may be such a man is dangerous ; 
 Who knows what friends he hath.? and 
 
 by my faith 
 I doubt he hath seen some fighting, I 
 
 do fear 
 He hath fought and shed men's blood ; 
 
 ye are wise men 
 That will not leave such dangerous 
 
 things alive; 
 'Twcre well he died the sooner for your 
 
 sakes. 
 Pray you make haste; it is not fit he 
 
 live. 
 Darnley. What ! will you let him die 
 
 so easily ? 
 Queen. Why, God have mercy I what 
 
 way should one take 
 To please such i)cople .-* there's some 
 
 cunning way, 
 
 Something I miss, out of my simple soul 
 What ! must one say " Beseech you do 
 
 no harm," 
 Or "for my love, sweet cousins, be not 
 
 hard," 
 Or " let him live but till the vane come 
 
 round" — 
 Will such things please you ? well then, 
 
 have your way ; 
 Sir, I desire you, kneeling down with 
 
 tears. 
 With sighs and tears, fair sir, requiie 
 
 of you, 
 Considering of my love I bear this man. 
 Just for my love's sake let him not be 
 
 hanged 
 Before the sundown ; do thus much for 
 
 me. 
 To have a queen's prayers follow after 
 
 you. 
 Darnley. I know no need for you to 
 
 gibe at me. 
 Queen. Alack ! what heart then shall 
 
 I have to jest .'' 
 There is no woman jests in such a 
 
 wise — 
 For the shame's sake I pray you hang 
 
 him ?iot, 
 Seeing ho7v I loz'e him, save indeed in 
 
 silk, 
 Sweet twisted silk of my sad haitdiwork. 
 Nay, and you will not do so much for 
 
 me ; 
 You vex your lip, biting the blood and 
 
 all: 
 Were this so hard, and you compassion- 
 ate .? 
 I am in sore case then, and will weep 
 
 indeed. 
 Darnley. What do you mean to cast 
 
 such gibes at me .-' 
 Queen. Woe's me, and will you turn 
 
 my tears to thorns ? 
 Nay, set your eyes a little in my face : 
 See, do 1 weep.^ what will you make of 
 
 me .'* 
 Will you not swear I love this prisoner "i 
 \q. are wise, and ye will have it; yet 
 
 for me 
 1 wist not of it. We arc but feeble 
 
 fools. 
 And love may catch us when we lie 
 
 asleep, 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And yet God knows we know not this 
 
 a whit. 
 Come, look on me, swear you believe 
 
 it not : 
 
 It may be I will take your word for that. 
 Darnley. Do you not love him ? nay, 
 
 but verily .-' 
 Qtieen. Now then, make answer to me 
 verily, 
 [Which of us twain is wiser.? for my 
 
 part 
 
 I will not swear 1 love not, if you will ; 
 Ye be wise men and many men, my 
 
 lords, 
 And ye will have me love him, ye will 
 
 swear 
 That I do love him ; who shall say ye 
 
 lie.? 
 Look on your paper; maybe I have 
 
 wept : 
 Doubtless I love your hanged man in 
 
 my heart. 
 What ! is the writing smutched or gone 
 
 awry .? 
 Or blurred — ay, surely so much — with 
 
 one tear. 
 One little sharp tear strayed on it by 
 
 chance .? 
 
 Come, come, the man is deadly danger- 
 ous ; 
 Let him die presently. 
 
 Darnley. You do not love him ; 
 Well, yet he need not die ; it were light 
 
 hard 
 To hang the fool because you love him 
 not. 
 Qtieen. You have keen wits and there- 
 to courtesy 
 To catch me with. No, let this man 
 
 not die ; 
 It were no such perpetual praise to you 
 To be his doomsman, and in doglike 
 
 wise 
 Bite his brief life in twain. 
 Darnley. Truly it were not. 
 Queen. Then for your honor and my 
 love of you 
 (Oh, I do love you ! but you know not, 
 
 sweet. 
 You shall see how much), think you for 
 
 their sake 
 He may go free ? 
 Darnley. How, freely forth of us ? 
 
 But yet he loves you, and being mad 
 
 with love 
 Makes matter for base mouths to chew 
 
 upon : 
 'Twere best he live not yet. 
 Queen. Will you say that ? 
 Darnley. Why should he live to breed 
 you bad reports > 
 Let him die first. 
 
 Queen. Sweet, for your sake, not so. 
 Darfiley. Fret not yourself to pity; 
 
 let him die. 
 Queen. Come, let him live a little ; it 
 shall be 
 A grace to us. 
 
 Darnley. By God, he dies at once. 
 Queen. Now, by God's mother, if I 
 respite him. 
 Though you were all the race of you in 
 
 one, 
 And had more tongues than hairs to 
 
 crv on me. 
 He should not lose a hair. 
 
 Darnley. This is mere mercy — 
 But you thank God you love him not a 
 whit ? 
 Queen. It shall be what it please; 
 and if I please 
 It shall be any thing. Give me the war- 
 rant. 
 Darnley. Nay, for your sake and love 
 of you, not I, 
 To make it dangerous. 
 
 Queen. Oh, God's pity, sir ! 
 You are tender of me; will you serve 
 
 me so. 
 Against mine own will, shew me so 
 
 much love. 
 Do me good service that I loath being 
 
 done, 
 Out of pure pity ? 
 
 Darnley. Nav, your word shall stand. 
 Queen. What makes you gape so 
 beastlike after blood .? 
 Were you not bred up on some hang- 
 man's hire, 
 And dieted with fleshmeats at his hand, 
 And fed into a fool? Give me that 
 paper. 
 Darnley. Now for that word I will not. 
 Queen. Nay, sweet love, 
 For your own sake be just a little wise- 
 Come, I beseech vou. 
 
112 
 
 CHASTELARD, 
 
 Darnley. Pluck not at my hands. 
 Queen. No, that I will not: I am 
 
 brain-broken, mad ; 
 Pity my madness for sweet marriage- 
 sake 
 And my great love's ; I love you to say 
 
 this; 
 I would not have you cross me, out of 
 
 love. 
 But for true love should I not chafe 
 
 indeed ? 
 And now I do not. 
 
 Darnley. Yea, and late you chid. 
 You chafed and jested and blew soft 
 
 and hard — 
 No, for that "fool " you shall not fool 
 
 me so. 
 Queen. You are no churl, sweet, will 
 
 you see me weep .'' 
 Look, I weep now ; be friends with my 
 
 poor tears. 
 Think each of them beseeches you of 
 
 love, 
 And hath some tongue to cry on you 
 
 for love. 
 And speak soft things ; for that which 
 
 loves not you 
 Is none of mine, not though they grow 
 
 of grief 
 And grief of you ; be not too hard with 
 
 them. 
 You would not of your own heart slay 
 
 a man ; 
 Nay, if you will, in God's name make 
 
 me weep, 
 I will not hate you ; but at heart, sweet 
 
 lord. 
 Be not at heart my sweet heart's enemy. 
 If I had many mighty men to friend, 
 I would not i)leacl too lovingly with you 
 To have your love. 
 
 Darnley. Why, yet you have my love. 
 Queen. Alas ! what shall mine ene- 
 mies do to nic 
 If I be used so hardly of my friends ? 
 Come, sir, you hate mc ; yet for all your 
 
 hate 
 You cannot have such heart. 
 
 Darnley. What sort of heart? 
 I have no heart to be used shamefully, 
 If you mean that. 
 
 Queen. Would Ciod I hivcd you not! 
 You arc too li:ird to be used lovingly. 
 
 Darnley. You are moved too much 
 
 for such a little love 
 As you bear me. 
 
 Queen. God knows you do me wrong; 
 God knows the heart, sweet, that I love 
 
 you with. 
 Hark you, fair sir, I'd have all well 
 
 with you ; 
 Do you not fear at sick men's time of | 
 
 night 
 What end may come ? are you so sure 
 
 of heart.!* 
 Is not your spirit surprisable in sleep? 
 Have you no evil dreams? Nay, look 
 
 you, love, 
 I will not be flung off your heart and 
 
 hand, 
 I am no snake : but tell me for your love. 
 Have you no fancies how these things 
 
 will end 
 In the pit's mouth? how all life-deeds 
 
 will look 
 At the grave's edge that lets men into 
 
 hell ? 
 For my part, who am weak and woman- 
 eyed. 
 It turns my soul to tears : I doubt this 
 
 blood 
 Fallen on our faces when we twain are 
 
 dead 
 Will scar and burn them : yea, for 
 
 heaven is sweet, 
 And loves sweet deeds that smell nol 
 
 of spilt blood. 
 Let us not kill : God that made mercv 
 
 first 
 Pities the pitiful for their deed's sake. 
 Darnley. Get you some painting : 
 
 with a cheek like this 
 You'll find no faith in listeners. 
 Queen. How, fair lord ? 
 Darnley. I say that looking with this 
 
 face of yours 
 None shall believe you holy. What 1 
 
 you talk. 
 Take mercy in your mouth, cat holi- 
 ness, 
 Put God under your tongue, and feed 
 
 on heaven, 
 With fear and faith and — faith, I know 
 
 not what — 
 And look as though you stood and saw 
 
 men slain 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 113 
 
 To make you game and laughter : nay, 
 
 your eyes 
 Threaten as' unto blood. What will 
 
 you do 
 To make men take your sweet word? 
 
 Pitiful — 
 You are pitiful as he that's hired for 
 
 death, 
 And loves the slaying yet better than 
 
 the hire. 
 Queen. You are wise that live to 
 
 threat and tell me so : 
 Do you love life too much .'' 
 
 Darnley. Oh, now you are sweet. 
 Right tender now : you love not blood 
 
 nor death, 
 You are too tender. 
 
 Queen. Yea, too weak, too soft : 
 Sweet, do not mock me, for my love's 
 
 sake ; see 
 How soft a thing I am. Will you be 
 
 hard .? 
 The heart you have, has it no sort of 
 
 fear ? 
 Darnley. Take off your hand, and let 
 
 me go my way. 
 And do my deed ; and when the doing 
 
 is past 
 I will come home, and teach you tender 
 
 things 
 Out of my love till you forget my 
 
 wrath. 
 I will be angry when I see good need, 
 And will grow gentle after, — fear not 
 
 that; 
 You shall get no wrong of my wrong- 
 doing. 
 So I take leave. 
 
 Queen. Take what you will ; take all. 
 You have taken half my heart away 
 
 with words : 
 Take all I have, and take no leave ; I 
 
 have 
 No leave to give : yea, shortly shall 
 
 lack leave, 
 I think, to live ; but I crave none of 
 
 you ; 
 I would have none : yet for the love I 
 
 have. 
 If I get ever a mean to show it you, 
 I pray God put you some day in my 
 
 hand 
 That you may take that too. 
 
 Darnley. Well, as he please : 
 God keep you in such love ; and so 
 
 farewell. \Exit. 
 
 Queen. So fare I as your lover, but 
 
 not well. — 
 Ah, sweet, if God be ever good to me 
 To put you in my hand I I am come to 
 
 shame ; 
 Let me think now, and let my wits not 
 
 go; 
 God, for dear mercy, let me not forget 
 Why I should be so angry: the dull 
 
 blood 
 Beats at my face, and blinds me ; I am 
 
 chafed to death. 
 And I am shamed ; I shall go mad and 
 
 die- 
 Truly I think I did kneel down, did 
 
 pray. 
 Yea, weep (who knows t ) it may be — 
 
 all for that. 
 Yea, if I wept not, this was blood brake 
 
 forth 
 And burnt mine eyelids ; I will have 
 
 blood back, 
 And wash them cool in the hottest of 
 
 his heart, 
 Or I will slay myself: I cannot tell. 
 I have given gold for brass, and lo, the 
 
 pay 
 Cleaves to my fingers ; there's no way 
 
 to mend, — 
 Not while life stays : would God that 
 
 it were gone ! 
 The fool will feed upon my fame, and 
 
 laugh ; 
 Till one seal up his tongue and lips 
 
 with blood. 
 He carries half my honor and good 
 
 name 
 Between his teeth. Lord God, mine 
 
 head will fail ! 
 When have I done thus since I was 
 
 alive ? 
 And these ill times will deal but ill 
 
 with me — 
 My old love slain, and never a new to 
 
 help, 
 And my wits gone, and my blithe use 
 
 of life. 
 And all the grace was with me. Love 
 
 — perchance 
 If I save love I shall well save myself 
 
114 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 I could find heart to bid him take such 
 
 fellows, 
 And kill them to my hand. I was the 
 
 fool 
 To sue to these, and shame myself: 
 
 God knows 
 I was a queen born, I will hold their 
 
 heads 
 Here in my hands for this. Which of 
 
 you waits ? 
 Enter Mary BEAi*bN and Mary 
 
 Carmichael. 
 No maiden of them? — what, no more 
 
 than this ? 
 Mary Canuichacl. Madam, the lady 
 
 Seyton is gone forth ; 
 She is ill at heart with watching. 
 
 Queen. Ay, at heart — 
 All girls must have such tender sides 
 
 to the heart 
 They break for one night's watching, 
 
 ache to death 
 For an hour's pity, for a half-hour's 
 
 love — 
 Wear out before the watches, die by 
 
 dawn, 
 And ride at noon to burial. God's my 
 
 pity ! 
 Where's Hamilton? doth she ail too? 
 
 at heart, 
 1 warrant her at heart. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I know not, mad- 
 am. 
 Queen. What! sick or dead? I am 
 
 well hoi pen of you : 
 Come hither to me. What pale blood 
 
 you have ! 
 Is it for fear you turn such cheeks to 
 
 me ? 
 Why, if I were so loving, by my hand, 
 I would have set my head upon the 
 
 chance. 
 And loosed him thcjugh I dietl. What 
 
 will yon do ? 
 Have you no way ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. None but your mercy. 
 Queen. Ay? 
 Why, then the thing is jnteous. Think, 
 
 for God's sake — 
 Is there no hning way to fetch him 
 
 forth ? 
 Nay, what a white thin-blooded thing 
 
 is love. 
 
 To help no more than this doth ! Were 
 
 I in love, 
 I would unbar the ways to-night, and 
 
 then 
 Laugh death to death to-morrow, mock 
 
 him dead ; 
 I think you love well with one half 
 
 your heart. 
 And let fear keep the other. Hark you 
 
 now : 
 You said there was some friend durst 
 
 break my bars — 
 Some Scotch name — faith, as if I wist 
 
 of it! 
 Ye have such heavy wits to help one 
 
 with — 
 Some man that had some mean to 
 
 save him by — 
 Tush, I must be at pains for you 1 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, madam. 
 It were no boot; he will not be let 
 
 forth. 
 Queen. I say, the name. Oh, Robert 
 
 l'>skine — yea, 
 A fellow of some heart : what saith he ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Madam, 
 The thing was sound all through, yea, 
 
 all went well, 
 But for all prayers that we could make 
 
 to him 
 He would not fly: we cannot get him 
 
 forth. 
 Queen. Great God ! that men should 
 
 have such wits as this ! 
 I have a mind to let him die for that; 
 And vet I wot not. Said he, he loathed 
 ' his life? 
 Mary Beaton. He says your gracf 
 
 given would scathe yourself. 
 And little grace for such a grace as 
 
 that 
 Be with the little of the life he kept 
 To cast off some time more unworthily. 
 Queen. God help me! what should 
 
 wise folk do with him ? 
 These men be weaker-wilted than mere 
 
 fools 
 When they fall mad once; yet by 
 
 Mary's st)ul 
 I am sorrier for him than for men right 
 
 wise. 
 God wot a fool that were more w'^^e 
 
 than he 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 115 
 
 Would love me something worse than 
 
 Chastelarcl, 
 Ay, and his own soul better. Do you 
 
 think 
 (There's no such other sort of fool 
 
 alive) 
 That he may live ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Yea, by God's mercy, 
 
 madam, 
 To your great praise and honor from 
 
 all men 
 If you should keep him living. 
 
 Queen. By God's light, 
 I have good will to do it. Are you 
 
 sure, 
 If I would pack him with a pardon 
 
 hence, 
 He would speak well of me — not hint 
 
 and halt. 
 Smile and look back, sigh and say love 
 
 runs out, 
 But times have been — with some loose 
 
 laugh cut short. 
 Bit off at lip— eh? 
 
 Mary Beaton. No, by heaven he 
 
 would not ! 
 Queen. You know how quickly one 
 
 may be belied — 
 Faith, you should know it; I never 
 
 thought the worst; 
 One may touch love, and come with 
 
 clean hands off — 
 But you should know it. What ! he 
 
 will not tly — 
 Not though I wink myself asleep, turn 
 
 blind — 
 Which that I will I say not? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, not he ; 
 We had good hope to bring him well 
 
 aboard, 
 i Let him slip safe down by the firths to 
 
 sea, 
 Out under Leith by night-setting, and 
 
 thence 
 Take ship for France, and serve there 
 
 out of sight 
 In the new wars. 
 
 Queen. Ay, in the new French wars — 
 You wist thereof too, madam, with good 
 
 leave — 
 A goodly bait to catch mine honor with 
 And let me wake up with my name bit 
 
 through. 
 
 I had been much bounden to you twain, 
 
 methinks. 
 But for my knight's sake and his love's ; 
 
 by God, 
 He shall not die in God's despite nor 
 
 mine. 
 Call in our chief lords ; bid one see to 
 
 it,— 
 Ay, and make haste, 
 {Exeunt Mary Beaton afid Mary 
 Carmichael. 
 Now shall I try their teeth : 
 I have done with fear; now nothing 
 
 but pure love 
 And power and pity shall have part in 
 
 me; 
 I will not throw them such a spirit in 
 
 flesh 
 To make their prey on. Though he be 
 
 mad indeed, 
 It is the goodliest madness ever 
 
 smote 
 Upon man's heart. A kingly knight — 
 
 in faith, 
 Meseems my face can yet make faith 
 
 in men. 
 And break their brains with beauty : 
 
 for a word. 
 An eyelid's twitch, an eye's turn, tie 
 
 them fast 
 And make their souls cleave to me. 
 
 God be thanked, 
 This air has not yet curdled all the 
 
 blood 
 That went to make me fair. An hour 
 
 agone, 
 I thought L had been forgotten of men's 
 
 love 
 More than dead women's faces are 
 
 forgot 
 Of after lovers. All men are not of 
 
 earth: 
 For all the frost of fools and this cold 
 
 land. 
 There be some yet catch fever of my 
 
 face 
 And burning for mine eyes' sake. 1 
 
 did think 
 My time was gone when men would 
 
 dance to death 
 As to a music, and lie laughing down 
 In the grave and take their funerals foi 
 
 their feasts. 
 
ii6 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 To get one kiss of me. I have some 
 
 strength yet, 
 Though I lack power on men that lack 
 
 men's blood. 
 Yea, and God wot I will be merciful ; 
 For all the foolish hardness round my 
 
 heart 
 That tender women miss of to their 
 
 praise, 
 They shall not say but I had grace to 
 
 give 
 Even for love's sake. Why, let them 
 
 take their way : 
 What ails it them though I be soft or 
 
 hard } 
 Soft hearts would weep and weep, and 
 
 let men die 
 For very mercy and sweet-heartedness ; 
 I that weep little for my pity's sake, 
 I have the grace to save men. Let 
 
 fame go — 
 I care not much what shall become of 
 
 fame, 
 So I save love, and do mine own soul 
 
 right; 
 I'll have my mercy help me to revenge 
 On all the crew of them. How will he 
 
 look. 
 Having my pardon ! I shall have sweet 
 
 thanks 
 And love of good men for my mercy's 
 
 love, — 
 Yea, and be quit of these I hate to 
 
 death, 
 With one good deed. 
 
 Enter the Maries. 
 Mary Beaton. Madam, the lords are 
 
 here. 
 Queen. Stand you about me, I will 
 
 sjx'ak to thcni. 
 I would the whole world stood up in 
 
 my face, 
 And heard what I shall say. I5id them 
 
 conic in. 
 ^■///t'r Murray, Kandoi.pk, Morion, 
 
 Lindsay, ami other Lords. 
 Hear you, fair lords, I have a word to 
 
 you ; 
 There is one thing I woukl fain under- 
 stand, — 
 If I be (|ueen, or no; for by my life 
 Melhinks I am growing un((uecnly. No 
 
 man speak .-• 
 
 Pray you take note, sweet lord ambas- 
 sador, 
 I am no queen : I never was born queen , 
 Alack, that one should fool us in thi.^ 
 
 wise ! 
 Take up my crown, sir, I will none of it 
 Till it hath" bells on as a fool's cap hath. 
 Nay, who will have it .<* no man take i 
 
 up? 
 Was there none worthy to be shamet 
 
 but I } 
 Here are enow good facesj good to 
 
 crown ; 
 Will you be king, fair brother.-* or you, 
 
 my lord .-' 
 Give me a spinner's curch, a wisj) oi 
 
 reed. 
 Any mean thing; but, God's love, no 
 
 more gold. 
 And no more shame : let boys throw 
 
 dice for it, 
 Or cast it to the grooms for tennis-play. 
 For I will none. 
 Murray. What would your highness 
 
 have .!• 
 Queen. Yea, yea, I said I was no 
 
 majesty; 
 I shall be shortly fallen out of grace. 
 What would I have ? I would have 
 
 leave to live ; 
 Perchance I shall not shortly : nay, fo. 
 
 me 
 That have no leave to respite other lives 
 To keep mine own life were small praise 
 
 enow. 
 Murray. Your majesty hath power to 
 
 respite men, 
 As we well wot ; no man saith other- 
 wise. 
 Queen. What! is this true? 'tis a 
 
 thing wonderful — 
 So great I cannot be well sure of it. 
 Strange that a C|ueen should find such 
 
 grace as this 
 At such lords' hands as ye be, — such 
 
 great lords : 
 I pray you let me get assured agam, 
 Lest I take jest for truth, and shame 
 
 myself. 
 And make you mirth : to make your 
 
 mirth of me, 
 God wot it were small pains to you, mv 
 
 lords, 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 117 
 
 But much less honor. I may send re- 
 prieve — 
 With your sweet leaves I may? 
 Murray. Assuredly. 
 Queen. Lo, now, what grace is this I 
 
 have of you ! 
 I had a will to respite Chastelard, 
 And would not do it for very fear of 
 
 you : 
 Look you, I wist not ye were merciful. 
 Morton. Madam — 
 Queen. My lord, you have a word to 
 
 me .'* 
 Doth it displease you such a man should 
 
 live ? 
 Morton. 'Twere a mad mercy in your 
 
 majesty 
 To lay no hand upon his second fault 
 And let him thrice offend you. 
 Queen. Ay, my lord ? 
 Mortoti. It were well done to muffle 
 
 lewd men's mouths 
 By casting of his head into their laps : 
 It were much best. 
 
 Queen. Yea, truly were it so ? 
 But if I will not, yet I will not, sir, 
 For all the mouths in Scotland. Now, 
 
 by heaven. 
 As I am pleased he shall not die, but 
 
 live. 
 So shall ye be. There is no man shall 
 
 die. 
 Except it please me ; and no man shall 
 
 say, 
 Except it please me, if I do ill or well. 
 Which of you now will set his will to 
 
 mine ? 
 Not you, nor you I think, nor none of 
 
 you. 
 Nor no man living that loves living well. 
 Let one stand forth and smite me with 
 
 his hand, 
 Wring my crown off and cast it under- 
 foot, 
 And he shall get my respite back of me, 
 A.nd no man else: he shall bid live or 
 
 die. 
 And no man else; and he shall be my 
 
 lord. 
 And no man else. What ! will not one 
 
 be king ? 
 Will not one here lay hold upon my 
 
 state } 
 
 I am queen of you for all things come 
 
 and gone. 
 Nay, my chief lady, and no meaner 
 
 one, 
 The chiefest of my maidens, shall bear 
 
 this, 
 And give it to my prisoner for a grace. 
 Who shall deny me } who shall do me 
 
 wrong } 
 Bear greeting to the lord of Chastelard, 
 And this withal for respite of his life. 
 For by my head he shall die no such 
 
 way: 
 Nay, sweet, no words, but hence and 
 
 back again. 
 
 [Exit Mary Beaton. 
 Farewell, dear lords; ye have shown 
 
 grace to me, 
 And some time I will thank you as I 
 
 may; 
 Till when, think well of me and what is 
 
 done. 
 
 ACT v. — CHASTELARD. 
 
 Scene I. — Before Holyrood. A croxvd 
 of people ; among them Soldiers, Bur- 
 gesses, a Preacher, etc. 
 
 First Citizen. They are not out yet. 
 Have you seen the man ? 
 What manner of man ? 
 Second Citizen. Shall he be hanged, 
 or no .'' 
 There was a fellow hanged some three 
 
 days gone, 
 Wept the whole way: think you this 
 
 man shall die 
 In better sort, now ? 
 
 First Citizen. Eh, these shawm-players 
 That walk before strange women, and 
 
 make songs ! 
 How should they die well ? 
 
 Third Citizen. Is it sooth men say 
 Our dame was wont to kiss him on the 
 
 face 
 In lewd folk's sight ? 
 
 First Citizen. Yea, saith one, all day 
 long 
 He used to sit and jangle words m 
 
 rhvme 
 To suit with shakes of faint adulterous 
 sound 
 
i8 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Some French lust in men's ears ; she 
 
 made songs too, 
 Soft things to feed sin's amorous mouth 
 
 upon, — 
 Delicate sounds for dancing at in hell. 
 Fourth Citizen. Is it priest Black that 
 
 he shall have by him 
 When they do come ? 
 
 T/iird Citizen. Ah ! by God's leave, 
 
 not so ; 
 If the knave show us his peeled onion's 
 
 head 
 And that damned flagging; jowl of his — 
 
 Second Citizen. Nay, sirs, 
 Take heed of words ; moreover, please 
 
 it you. 
 This man hath no pope's part in him. 
 
 T/urd Citizen. I say 
 That if priest whore's-friend with the 
 
 lewd thief's cheek 
 Show his foul blinking face to shame 
 
 all ours. 
 It goes back fouler ; well, one day hell's 
 
 fire 
 Will burn him black indeed. 
 
 A IVoman. What kind of man? 
 'Tis yet great pity of him if he be 
 Goodly enow for this queen's paramour, 
 A French lord overseas? what doth he 
 
 here. 
 With Scotch folk here? 
 
 First Citizen. Fair mistress, I think 
 
 well, 
 He doth so at some times that I were 
 
 fain 
 To do as well. 
 
 The IVoman. Nay, then he will not 
 
 die. 
 First Citizen. Why, see you, if one 
 
 eat a piece of bread 
 Baked as it were a certain jirophct's 
 
 way. 
 Not upon coals, now — you shall ap|)re- 
 
 hend — 
 If defiled bread be given a man to eat, 
 1 Icing thrust into his mouth, why he 
 
 shall cat, 
 And with good hap shall cat; but if 
 
 now, say, 
 One steal this, bread and beastliness 
 
 and all, 
 When scarcely for pure hunger flesh 
 
 and bone 
 
 Cleave one to other — why, if he steal 
 
 to eat. 
 Be it even the filthiest feeding — though 
 
 the man 
 Be famine-flayed of flesh and skin, I say 
 He shall be hanged. 
 
 Third Citizen. Nay, stolen said vou, 
 
 sir ? 
 See, God bade eat abominable bread. 
 And freely was it eaten — for a sign 
 This, for a sign — and doubtless as did 
 
 God, 
 So may the devil ; bid one eat freely 
 
 and live. 
 Not for a sign. 
 
 Secofid Citizen. Will you think thus 
 
 of her? 
 But wherefore should they get this fel- 
 low slain 
 If he be clear toward her ? 
 
 Thiid Citizen. Sir, one must see 
 The day comes when a woman sheds 
 
 her sin 
 As a bird moults ; and she being shifted 
 
 so, 
 The old mate of her old feather pecks 
 
 at her 
 To get the right bird back ; then she 
 
 being stronger 
 Picks out his eyes — eh? 
 
 Second Citizen. Like enough to be ; 
 But if it be — Is not one preaching 
 
 there 
 With certain folk about him? 
 
 First Citizen. Yea, the same 
 Who jireached a month since from Eze- 
 
 kicl 
 Concerning these twain, — this our 
 
 (|uccn that is, 
 And her that was, and is not now so 
 
 much 
 As queen over hell's worm. 
 
 Third Citizen. Ay, said he not, 
 This was Aholah, the first one of these. 
 Called sisters only for a type — being 
 
 twain, 
 Twain Maries, no whit Nazarenc ? the 
 
 first 
 Bred out of Egypt like the water-worm 
 With sides in wet green places baked 
 
 with slime 
 And festered tlesh that steams against 
 
 the sun : 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 119 
 
 A plague among all people, and a type 
 Set as a flake upon a leper's fell. 
 First Citizen. Yea, said he, and unto 
 
 her the men went in, 
 The men of Pharaoh's, beautiful with 
 
 red 
 And with red gold, fair foreign-footed 
 
 men. 
 The bountiful fair men, the courteous 
 
 men. 
 The delicate men with delicate feet, that 
 
 went 
 Curling their small beards Agag-fash- 
 
 ion, yea. 
 Pruning their mouths to nibble words 
 
 behind 
 With pecking at God's skirts — small 
 
 broken oaths 
 Fretted to shreds between most dainty 
 
 lips, 
 And underbreath some praise of Ash- 
 
 taroth 
 Sighed laughingly. 
 
 Second Citizen. Was he not under 
 
 guard 
 For the good word ? 
 First Citizen. Yea, but now forth 
 
 again — 
 And of the latter said he — there being 
 
 two, 
 
 The first Aholah, which interpreted — 
 
 Third Citizen. But, of this latter ? 
 
 First Citizen. Well, of her he said 
 
 How she made letters for Chaldaean 
 
 folk 
 And men that came forth of the wilder- 
 ness 
 And all her sister's chosen men ; yea, 
 
 she 
 Kept not her lip from any sin of 
 
 hers, 
 But multiplied in whoredoms toward 
 
 all these 
 That hate God mightily; for these, he 
 
 saith. 
 These are the fair French people, and 
 
 these her kin 
 Sought out of England with her love- 
 letters 
 To bring them to her kiss of love ; and 
 
 thus 
 With a prayer made that God would 
 
 break such love 
 
 Ended some while ; then crying out for 
 
 strong wrath 
 Spake with a great voice after : This is 
 
 she, 
 Yea the lew-d woman, yea the same 
 
 woman 
 That gat bruised breasts in Egypt, when 
 
 strange men 
 Swart from great suns, foot-burnt with 
 
 angry soils. 
 And strewn with sand of gaunt Chal 
 
 daean miles, 
 Poured all their love upon her: she 
 
 shall drink 
 The Lord's cup of derision that is 
 
 filled 
 With drunkenness and sorrow, great of 
 
 sides 
 And deep to drink in till the dreg drips 
 
 out: 
 Yea, and herself with the twain shards 
 
 thereof 
 Pluck off her breasts; so said he. 
 Fourth Citizefi. See that stir — 
 Are not they come ? 
 
 Third Citizen. There wants an hour 
 
 of them. 
 Draw near, and let us hearken; he will 
 
 speak 
 Surely some word of this. 
 Second Citizen. What saith he now.-* 
 The Preacher. The mercy of a harlot 
 
 is a sword, 
 And her mouth sharper than a flame of 
 
 fire. 
 
 Scene II. — /;/ Prison. 
 
 Chastclard. So here my time shuts 
 
 u]); and the last light 
 Has made the last shade in the world 
 
 for me. 
 The sunbeam that was narrow like a 
 
 leaf 
 Has turned a hand, and the hand 
 
 stretched to an arm, 
 And the arm has reached the dust on 
 
 the floor, and made 
 A maze of motes with paddling fingers. 
 
 Well, 
 I knew not that a man so sure to die 
 Could care so little; a bride-night's 
 
 lustiness 
 
120 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Leaps in my veins as light fire under a 
 
 wind : 
 As if I felt a kindling beyond death 
 Of some new joys far outside of me 
 
 yet; 
 Sweet sound, sweet smell and touch of 
 
 things far out 
 Sure to come soon. I wonder will 
 
 death be 
 Even all it seems now? or the talk of 
 
 hell 
 And wretched changes of the worn-out 
 
 soul 
 Nailed to decaying flesh, shall that be 
 
 true ? 
 Or is this like the forethought of deep 
 
 sleep 
 Felt by a tired man ? Sleep were good 
 
 enough — 
 Shall sleep be all ? But I shall not for- 
 get 
 For any sleep this love bound upon 
 
 me — 
 For any sleep or quiet ways of death. 
 Ah ! in my weary dusty space of sight 
 Her face will float with heavy scents of 
 
 hair 
 And fire of subtle amorous eyes, and 
 
 lips 
 More hot than wine, full of sweet 
 
 wicked words 
 Babbled against mine own lips, and 
 
 long hands 
 Spread out, and pale blight throat and 
 
 pale bright breasts, 
 Fit to make all men mad. I do believe 
 This fire shall never quite burn out to 
 
 the ash, 
 And leave no heat and flame upon my 
 
 dust 
 For witness where a man's heart was 
 
 burnt up. 
 For all Christ's work this Venus is not 
 
 c|uelled, 
 Pnit reddens at the mouth with blood of 
 
 men, 
 Sucking between small teeth the sap o' 
 
 the veins. 
 Dabbling with death her little tender 
 
 lips — 
 A bitter beauty, poisonous-pearled 
 
 mouth. 
 I am nut tit to live but for love's sake, 
 
 So I were best die shortly. Ah ! fair 
 
 love, 
 Fair fearful Venus made of deadlv 
 
 foam, 
 I shall escape you somehow with mv 
 
 death,— 
 Your splendid supple body and mouth 
 
 on fire, 
 And Paphian breath that bites the lips 
 
 with heat. 
 I had best die. 
 
 Enter Mary Beaton. 
 What ! is my death's time come. 
 And you the' friend to make death kind 
 
 to me .'• 
 'Tis sweetly done ; for I was sick for 
 
 this. 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, but see here; 
 
 nay, for you shall not die : 
 She has reprieved you ; look, her name 
 
 to that, 
 A present respite ; I was sure of her : 
 You are quite safe : here, take it in your 
 
 hands : 
 I am faint with the end of pain. Read 
 
 there. 
 Chastelard. Reprieve ? 
 Wherefore reprieve .^ Wlio has done 
 
 this to me ? 
 Mary Beaton. I never feared but God 
 
 would have you live. 
 Or I knew well God must have jjunished 
 
 me ; 
 Rut 1 feared nothing, had no sort of fear. 
 What makes vou stare u])on the seal so 
 
 hard.? ' 
 Will you not read now ? 
 
 Chastelard. A rejirieve of life — 
 Reprieving me from living. Nav, bv 
 
 God, 
 I count one death a bitter thing enough. 
 Mary Beaton. See what she writes; 
 
 your k)ve ; for love of you ; 
 Out of her love ; a word to save vour 
 
 life : 
 But I knew this too though vou love me 
 
 not : 
 She is your love ; T knew tiiat : yea, by 
 
 heaven. 
 Chastelard. \'oii knew I had to live 
 
 and be reprieved : 
 .Sav I were bent to die now? 
 Marv Beaton. Do not die, 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 21 
 
 F^or her sweet love's sake ; not for pity 
 
 of me, 
 You would not bear with life for me 
 
 one hour ; 
 But for hers only. 
 
 Chastelard. Nay, I love you well, 
 I wo-.ild not hurt you for more lives 
 
 than one. 
 But for this fair-faced paper of reprieve, 
 We'll have no riddling to make death 
 
 shift sides : 
 Look, here ends one of us. [Tearing it. 
 For her I love. 
 She will not anger heaven with slaying 
 
 me ; 
 For me, I am well quit of loving her; 
 For you, I pray you be well comforted. 
 Seeing in my life no man gat good by 
 
 me, 
 A.nd by my death no hurt is any man's. 
 Alary Beaton. And I that loved you .'' 
 
 nay, I loved you ; nay, 
 Why should your like be pitied when 
 
 they love t 
 Her hard heart is not yet so hard as 
 
 yours. 
 Nor God's hard heart. I care not if 
 
 you die. 
 These bitter madmen are not fit to live. 
 I will not have you touch me, speak to 
 
 me, 
 Xor take farewell of you. See you die 
 
 well. 
 Or death will play with shame for you, 
 
 and win. 
 And laugh you out of life. I am right 
 
 glad 
 I never am to see you an/ more, 
 For I should come to hate you easily; 
 I would not have you live. \Exit. 
 
 Chastelard. She has cause enow. 
 I would this wretched waiting had an 
 
 end. 
 For I wa.x feebler than I was : God 
 
 knows 
 I had a mind once to have saved this 
 
 flesh, 
 And made life one with shame. It 
 
 marvels me 
 This girl that loves me should desire so 
 
 much 
 To have me sleep with shame for bed- 
 fellow 
 
 A whole life's space ; she would be glad 
 
 to die 
 To escape such life. It may be, too, her 
 
 love 
 Is but an amorous quarrel with herself, 
 Not love of me, but her own wilful soul . 
 Then she will live, and be more glad oi 
 
 this 
 Than girls of their own will and thei: 
 
 heart's love 
 Before love mars them : so God go with 
 
 her ! 
 For mine own love — I wonder will she 
 
 come 
 Sad at her mouth a little, with drawn 
 
 cheeks 
 And eyelids wrinkled up.'' or hot and 
 
 quick 
 To lean her head on mine and leave her 
 
 lips 
 Deep in my neck? For surely she 
 
 must come ; 
 And I should fare the better to be sure 
 What she will do. But as it please 
 
 my sweet ; 
 For some sweet thing she must do if 
 
 she come, 
 Seeing how I have to die. Now three 
 
 years since. 
 This had not seemed so good an end 
 
 for me ; 
 But in some wise all things wear round 
 
 betimes, 
 And wind uj) well. Yet doubtless she 
 
 might take 
 A will to come my way, and hold my 
 
 hands, 
 And kiss me some three kisses, throat, 
 
 mouth, eyes. 
 And sav some soft three words to soften 
 
 death : 
 I do not see how this should break her 
 
 ease. 
 Nay, she will come to get her warrant 
 
 back : 
 By this no doubt she is sorely penitent, 
 Her fit of angrv mercy well blown out. 
 And her wits cool again. She must 
 
 have chafed 
 A great while through for anger to be- 
 come 
 So like pure pity ; they must have fret 
 
 ted her 
 
22 
 
 CIIASTELARD. 
 
 Nigh mad for anger : or it may be mis- 
 trust, 
 She is so false ; yea, to my death I 
 
 think 
 She will not trust me ; alas the hard 
 
 sweet heart ! 
 As if my lips could hurt her any way 
 But by too keenly kissing of her own ! 
 Ah ! false poor sweet fair lips that keep 
 
 no faith, 
 They shall not catch mine false or dan- 
 gerous ; 
 They must needs kiss me one good time, 
 
 albeit 
 They love me not at all. Lo, here she 
 
 comes, 
 For the blood leaps and catches at my 
 
 face; 
 There go her feet, and tread upon my 
 
 heart; 
 Now shall I see what way I am to die. 
 Enter the QuEEN. 
 Queen. What! is one here? Speak 
 
 to me, for God's sake : 
 Where are you lain? 
 
 Chastelard. Here, madam, at your 
 
 hand. 
 Queen. Sweet lord, what sore pain 
 
 have I had for you, 
 And been most patient ! — Nay, you are 
 
 not bound. 
 If you be gentle to me, take my hand. 
 Do you not hold me the worst heart in 
 
 the world ? 
 Nay, you must needs; but say not yet 
 
 you do. 
 I am worn so weak, I know not how I 
 
 live : 
 Reach me your hand. 
 
 Chastelard. Take comfort and good 
 
 heart ; 
 All will find end; this is some grief to 
 
 you, 
 But you shall overlive it. Come, fair 
 
 love ; 
 Be of fair cheer : I say you have done 
 
 no wrong. 
 Queen. I will not be of cheer: I have 
 
 done a thing 
 That will turn tire and burn mc. Tell 
 
 inc not ; 
 If you will do nie comfort, whet your 
 
 sword. 
 
 But if you hate me, tell me of sof 
 
 things. 
 For I hate these, and bitterly. Look 
 
 up; 
 Am I not mortal to be gazed upon ? 
 Chastelard. Yea, mortal, and not hate> 
 
 ful. 
 Queeti. O lost heart ! 
 Give me some mean to die by. 
 Chastelard. Sweet, enough. 
 You have made no fault; life is not 
 
 worth a world. 
 That you should weep to take it : would 
 
 mine were, 
 And I might give you a world-worthier 
 
 gift 
 Than 6ne poor head that love has made 
 
 a spoil ; 
 Take it for jest, and weep not : let me 
 
 go, 
 And think I died of chance or malady. 
 Nay, I die well ; one dies not best abed. 
 QueeJt. My warrant to reprieve you — ■ 
 
 that you saw ? 
 That came between your hands ? 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, not long since. 
 It seems you have no will to let me die. 
 Queen. Alas ! you know I wrote it 
 
 with my heart. 
 Out of pure love; and since you were 
 
 in bonds, 
 I have had such grief for love's sake 
 
 and my heart's, — 
 Yea, by my life I have, — I could not 
 
 choose 
 But give love way a little. Take my 
 
 hand ; 
 You know it would have jnicked my 
 
 heart's blood out 
 To write reprieve with. 
 
 Chastelard. Sweet, vour hands are 
 
 kind ; 
 Lay them about niy neck, upon my face. 
 And tell me not of writing. 
 
 Queen. Nay, by heaven, 
 I would have given vou mine own blood 
 
 to drink 
 If that could heal you of your soul- 
 sickness. 
 Yea, they kni)W that, they curse me for 
 
 yi)ur sake, 
 Kail at niv love — Would God their 
 
 heads were lojjped, 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 23 
 
 And we twain left together this side 
 
 death ! 
 But look you, sweet, if this my warrant 
 
 hold 
 You are but dead and shamed; for you 
 
 must die, 
 And they will slay you shamefully by 
 
 force 
 Even in my sight. 
 
 Chastelard. Faith, I think so they 
 
 will. 
 Qiieeti. Nay, they would slay me too, 
 
 cast stones at me. 
 Drag me alive; they have eaten poison- 
 ous words, 
 They are mad, and have no shame. 
 Chastelard. Ay, like enough. 
 Queen. Would God my heart were 
 
 greater ! but God wot 
 I have no heart to bear with fear, and 
 
 die. 
 Yea, and I cannot help you: or I 
 
 know 
 I should be nobler, bear a better heart : 
 But as this stands — I pray you for good 
 
 love, 
 As you hold honor a costlier thing than 
 
 life — 
 Chastelard. Well ? 
 Queen. Nay, I would not be denied 
 
 for shame ; 
 In brief, I pray you give me that again. 
 Chastelard. What, my reprieve .^ 
 Queen. Even so ; deny me not, 
 For your sake mainly : yea, by God you 
 
 know 
 How fain I were to die in your death's 
 
 stead. 
 For your name's sake. This were no 
 
 need to swear. 
 Lest we be mocked to death with a 
 
 reprieve, 
 And so both die, being shamed. What ! 
 
 shall I swear ? 
 What, if I kiss you ? must I pluck it 
 
 out? 
 You do not love me : no, nor honor. 
 
 Come, 
 I know you have it about you : give it 
 
 me. 
 Chastelard. I cannot yield you such a 
 
 thing again; 
 M'ot as I had it. 
 
 Queen. A coward ? what shift now ? 
 Do such men make such cravens ? 
 
 Chastelard. Chide me not : 
 Pity me that I cannot help my heart. 
 Queen. Heaven mend mine eyes that 
 took you for a man ! 
 What, is it sewn into your fllesh .'* take 
 
 heed — 
 Nay, but for shame — what have you 
 done with it .' 
 Chastelard. Why, there it lies, torn up. 
 Queen. God help me, sir ! 
 Have you done this.? 
 
 Chastelard. Yea, sweet ; what should 
 I do? 
 Did I not know you to the bone, mj 
 
 sweet ? 
 God speed you well ! you have a goodly 
 lord. 
 Queen. My love, sweet love, you are 
 more fair than he, 
 Yea, fairer many times : I love you 
 
 much, 
 Sir, know you that ? 
 
 Chastelard. I think I know that well. 
 Sit here a little till I feel you through 
 In all my breath and blood for some 
 sweet while. 
 
 gracious body that mine arms have 
 
 had, 
 And hair my face has felt on it ! grave 
 
 eyes, 
 And low thick lids that keep since years 
 
 agone 
 In the blue sweet of each particular 
 
 vein 
 Some special print of me ! I am right 
 
 glad 
 That I must never feel a bitterer thing 
 Than your soft curled-up shoulder and 
 
 amorous arms 
 From this time forth; nothing can hap 
 
 to me 
 Less good than this for all my whole 
 
 life through. 
 
 1 would not have some new pain after 
 
 this 
 Come spoil the savor. Oh, your round 
 
 bird's throat, 
 More soft than sleep or singing ; your 
 
 calm cheeks. 
 Turned bright, turned wan with kissci 
 
 hard and hot; 
 
124 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 The beautiful color of your deep curved 
 
 hands, 
 Made of a red rose that had changed to 
 
 white ; 
 That mouth mine own holds half the 
 
 sweetness of, 
 Yea, my heart holds the sweetness of 
 
 it, whence 
 My life began in me, — mine that ends 
 
 here 
 Because you have no mercy; nay, you 
 
 know 
 You never could have mercy. My fair 
 
 love. 
 Kiss me again, God loves you not the 
 
 less; 
 Why should one woman have all goodly 
 
 things ? 
 You have all beauty ; let mean women's 
 
 lips 
 Be pitiful, and speak truth : they will 
 
 not be 
 Such perfect things as yours. Be not 
 
 ashamed 
 That hands not made like these that 
 
 snare men's souls 
 Should do men good, give alms, relieve 
 
 men's pain : 
 You have the better, being more fair 
 
 than they; 
 They are half foul, being rather good 
 
 than fair ; 
 You are quite fair: to be quite fair is 
 
 best. 
 Why, two nights hence I dreamed that 
 
 I could sec 
 In through your bosom, under the left 
 
 flower, 
 And there was a round hollow, and at 
 
 heart 
 A little red snake sitting, without spot, 
 Tiiat bit — like this, and sucked up 
 
 sweet — like this. 
 And curled its lithe light body right 
 
 and left. 
 And quivered like a woman in act to 
 
 love. 
 Then there was some low fluttered talk 
 
 i' the li))s. 
 Faint sound of s(jft fierce words caress- 
 ing them - 
 Like a fair woman's v\hcn her love gets 
 
 way. 
 
 Ah! your old kiss — I know the ways 
 
 of it: 
 Let the lips cling a little. Take them 
 
 ofT, 
 And speak some word, or I go mad 
 
 with love. 
 Qi'een. Will you not have my chap 
 
 lain come to you ."* 
 Chastelard. Some better thing Ow' 
 
 yours, — some handkerchief. 
 Some fringe of scarf to make confes- 
 sion to. 
 You had some book about you that fell 
 
 out — 
 Queen. A little written book of Ron 
 
 sard's rhymes. 
 His gift, I wear in there for love of 
 
 him — 
 See, here between our feet. 
 
 Chastelard. Ay, my old lord's, — 
 The sweet chief poet, my dear friend 
 
 long since .-* 
 Give me the book. Lo you, this verse 
 
 of his: 
 With coming lilies in late April came 
 Her body, fashioned whiter for their 
 
 shame ; 
 And roses, touched with blood since A don 
 
 bled, 
 From her fair color filled their lips with 
 
 red : 
 A goodly praise : I could not praise 
 
 you so. 
 I read that while your marriage-feast 
 
 went on. 
 Leave me this book, I pray you : I 
 
 would read 
 The hymn of death here over ere I 
 
 die; 
 I shall know soon how much he knew 
 
 of death 
 When that was written. One thing 1 
 
 know now : 
 I shall not die with half a heart at 
 
 least. 
 Nor shift my face, nor weep my fauli 
 
 alive ; 
 Nor swear, if I might live, and do new 
 
 deeds, 
 I would do better. Let me keeji the 
 
 book. 
 Queen, ^'ea, keep it : as would God 
 
 you haci kept your life 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 125 
 
 Out of mine eyes and hands ! I am 
 
 wrung to the heart. 
 This hour feels dry and bitter in my 
 
 mouth, 
 As if its sorrow were my body's food 
 More than my soul's. There are bad 
 
 thoughts in me, — 
 Most bitter fancies biting me like birds 
 That tear each other. Suppose you 
 
 need not die ? 
 Chastelard. You know I cannot live 
 
 for two hours more. 
 Our fate was made thus ere our days 
 
 were made : 
 Will you fight fortune for so small a 
 
 grief "i 
 But for one thing I were full fain of 
 
 death. 
 Queen. What thing is that ? 
 Chastelard. None need to name the 
 
 thing. 
 Why, what can death do with me fit to 
 
 fear? 
 For if I sleep I shall not weep awake ; 
 Or, if their saying be true of things to 
 
 come, 
 Though hell be sharp, in the worst ache 
 
 of it 
 I shall be eased, so God will give me 
 
 back 
 Sometimes one golden gracious sight 
 
 of you — 
 The aureole woven flower-like through 
 
 your hair, 
 And in your lips the little laugh as red 
 As when it came upon a kiss and ceased, 
 Touching my mouth. 
 
 Queen, As I do now, this way,' 
 With my heart after: would I could 
 
 shed tears ! 
 Tears should not fail when the heart 
 
 shudders so. 
 But your bad thought ? 
 
 Chastelard. Well, such a thought as 
 
 this: 
 It may be, long time after I am dead, 
 For all you are, you may see bitter 
 
 days ; 
 God may forget you, or be wroth with 
 
 you : 
 Then shall you lack a little help of me, 
 And I shall feel your sorrow touching 
 
 vou, 
 
 A happy sorrow, though I may not 
 
 touch, — 
 I that would fain be turned to flesh 
 
 again. 
 Fain get back life to give up life for 
 
 you, 
 To shed my blood for help, that long 
 
 ago 
 You shed and were not holpen; and 
 
 your heart 
 Will ache for help and comfort, yea for 
 
 love, 
 And find less love than mine — for I do 
 
 think 
 You never will be loved thus in your 
 
 life. 
 Queen. It may be man will never love 
 
 me more; 
 For I am sure I shall not love man 
 
 tv<'ice. 
 Chastelard. I know not : men must 
 
 love you in life's spite; 
 For you will always kill them ; man by 
 
 man 
 Your lips will bite them dead; yea^ 
 
 though you would. 
 You shall not spare one ; all will die of 
 
 you; 
 I cannot tell what love shall do with 
 
 these. 
 Rut I for all my love shall have no might 
 To help you more, mine arms and hands 
 
 no power 
 To fasten on you more. This cleaves 
 
 my heart, 
 That they shall never touch your body 
 
 more. 
 But for your grief — you will not have 
 
 to grieve ; 
 For being in such poor eyes so beauti- 
 ful 
 It must needs be as God is rnore than 1 
 So much more love he hath of you than 
 
 mine ; 
 Yea, God shall not be bitter with my 
 
 lovCf 
 Seeing she is so sweet. 
 
 Queen. Ah ! my sweet fool, 
 Think you, when God will ruin me for 
 
 sin. 
 My face of color shall prevail so much 
 With him, so soften the toothed iron's 
 
 edge 
 
126 
 
 CHASTELARD, 
 
 To save my throat a scar ? nay, I am 
 
 sure 
 I shall die somehow sadly. 
 
 Chastclard. This is pure grief; 
 The shadow of your pity for my death, 
 Mere foolishness of pity: all sweet 
 
 moods 
 Throw out such little shadows of them- 
 selves. 
 Leave such light fears behind. You, 
 
 die like me ? 
 Stretch your throat out that I may kiss 
 
 all round 
 Where mine shall be cut through: sup- 
 pose my mouth 
 The axe-cdge to bite so sweet a throat 
 
 in twain 
 With bitter iron, should not it turn soft 
 As lip is soft to lip? 
 
 Qutcn. I am c|uitc sure 
 I shall die sadly some day, Chastclard; 
 I am quite certain. 
 
 Chastclard. Do not think such things ; 
 Lest all my next world's memories of 
 
 you be 
 As heavy as this thought. 
 
 Queen. I will not grieve you ; 
 Forgive me that my thoughts were sick 
 
 with grief. 
 What can I do to give you case at 
 
 heart ? 
 Shall I kiss now? I pray you, have no 
 
 fear 
 But that I love you. 
 
 Chastclard. Turn your face to mc ; 
 I do not grudge your face this death of 
 
 mine; 
 It is too fair — by God, you are too 
 
 fair. 
 What noise is that ? 
 
 Qt4een. Can the hour be through so 
 soon ? 
 I bade them give me but a little hour. 
 Ah! I do love you! such brief space 
 
 for love ! 
 I am yDurs all through, do all your will 
 
 with me ; 
 What if we lay and let them take us 
 
 fast, 
 Lips grasping lips? I dare do any 
 thing. 
 Chastelard. Show better cheer : let no 
 man see you mazed ; 
 
 Make haste and kiss me cover up 
 
 your throat. 
 Lest one see tumbled lace, and prate 
 
 of it. 
 Enter the Guard: Murray, Darn ley, 
 Mary Hamilton, Mary Beaton, 
 and others with thetn, 
 Darnley. Sirs, do your charge ; let 
 
 him not have much time. 
 Mary Hamilton. Peace, lest you chafe 
 
 the queen : look, her brows bend 
 Chastelard. Lords, and all you come 
 
 hither for my sake. 
 If while my life was with me like a 
 
 friend 
 That I must now forget the friendship 
 
 of, 
 I have done a wrong to any man of yoii, 
 As it may be by fault of mine I have ; 
 Of such an one I crave for courtesy 
 lie will now cast it from his mind and 
 
 heed 
 Like a dead thing ; considering my dead 
 
 fault 
 Worth no remembrance further than 
 
 my death. 
 This for his gentle honor and good-will 
 I do beseech him, doubting not to finil 
 Such kindliness if he be nobly made 
 And of his birth a courteous race of 
 
 man. 
 You, my lord James, if you have aught 
 
 toward me — 
 Or you. Lord Darnley — I dare fear no 
 
 jot, 
 Whate'er this be wherein you were 
 
 aggrieved. 
 But you will pardon all for gentleness. 
 Darnley. For my part — yea, well, if 
 
 the thing stand thus. 
 As you must die — one would not bear 
 
 folk hard — 
 And if the rest shall hold it honorable, 
 Why, I do pardon you. 
 
 Murray. Sir, in all things 
 We find no cause to speak of you bui 
 
 well r 
 For all I see, save this your deadly 
 
 fault. 
 I hold you for a noble perfect man. 
 Cha.^telard. I thank you, fair lord, for 
 
 your nobleness. 
 \o\\ likewise, for the courtesy you have 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 127 
 
 I give you thanks, sir ; and to all these 
 
 lords 
 That have not heart to load me at my 
 
 death. 
 Last, I beseech of the best queen of 
 
 men, 
 And royallest fair lady in the world, 
 To pardon me my grievous mortal sin 
 Done in such great offence of her : for, 
 
 sirs. 
 If ever since I came between her eyes 
 She hath beheld me other than I am, 
 Or shown her honor other than it is, 
 Or, save in royal faultless courtesies, 
 Used me with favor; if by speech or 
 
 face. 
 By salutation or by tender eyes, 
 She hath made a way for my desire to 
 
 live. 
 Given ear to me or boldness to my 
 
 breath ; 
 I pray God cast me forth before day 
 
 cease, 
 Even to the heaviest place there is in 
 
 hell. 
 Yea, if she be not stainless toward all 
 
 men, 
 I pray this axe that I shall die upon 
 May cut me off body and soul from 
 
 heaven. 
 Now for my soul's sake I dare pray to 
 
 you : 
 Forgive me, madam. 
 
 Queen. Yea, I do, fair sir : 
 With all my heart, in all I pardon 
 
 you. 
 Chastelard. God thank you for great 
 
 mercies. — Lords, set hence ; 
 I am right loath to hold your patience 
 
 here; 
 I must not hold much longer any man's. 
 Bring me my way, and bid me fare well 
 
 forth. 
 \As they pass ojtt, the Queen stays 
 Mary Beaton. 
 Queeft. Hark hither, sweet. Get back 
 
 to Holyrood, 
 And take Carmichael with you : go 
 
 both up 
 In some chief window whence the 
 
 squares lie clear, — 
 Seem not to know what I shall do : 
 
 mark that, — 
 
 And watch how things fare under. 
 
 Have good cheer ; 
 You do not think now I can let him 
 
 die.? 
 Nay, this were shameful madness if you 
 
 did, 
 And I should hate you. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Pray you love me, 
 
 madam. 
 And swear you love me, and will let 
 
 me live, 
 That I may die the quicker. 
 
 Queen. Nay, sweet, see. 
 Nay, you shall see, this must not seem 
 
 devised ; 
 I will take any man with me, and go ; 
 Yea, for pure hate of them that hate 
 
 him: yea. 
 Lay hold upon the headsman, and bid 
 
 strike 
 Here on my neck; if they will have 
 
 him die. 
 Why, I will die too: queens have died 
 
 this way 
 For less things than his love is. Nay, 
 
 I know 
 They want no blood ; I will bring swords 
 
 to boot 
 For dear love's rescue though half earth 
 
 were slain ; 
 What should men do with blood } 
 
 Stand fast at watch ; 
 For I will be his ransom if I die. 
 
 \^Exeiint. 
 
 Scene HL — The Upper Chamber in 
 Holyrood. 
 
 Mary Beaton seated: ^^ARY Carmi- 
 chael at a windo7o. 
 Maiy Beaton. Do you see nothing ? 
 Mary Carmichael. Nay, but swarm^ 
 of men 
 And talking women gathered in small 
 
 space, 
 Flapping their gowns and gaping with 
 
 fools' eyes ; 
 And a thin ring round one that seems 
 
 to speak. 
 Holding his hands out eagerly: no 
 more. 
 Mary Beaton. Why, I hear more : ] 
 hear men shout The queen I 
 
128 
 
 CHASTELARD. 
 
 Mary Carmichacl. Nay, no cries yet. 
 Mary Beaton. Ah ! they will cry out 
 
 soon 
 When she comes forth ; they should 
 
 cry out on her: 
 I hear their crying in my heart. Nay, 
 
 sweet, 
 Do not you hate her > All men, if God 
 
 please. 
 Shall hate her one day; yea, one day, 
 
 no doubt, 
 I shall worse hate her. 
 
 Mary Carmichacl. Pray you, be at 
 
 peace ; 
 You hurt yourself : she will be nverciful ; 
 What ! could you see a true man slain 
 
 for you ? 
 I think I could not ; it is not like our 
 
 hearts 
 To have such hard sides to them. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Oh, not you, 
 And I could nowise : there's some 
 
 blood in her 
 That does not run to mercy as ours 
 
 doth; 
 That fair face and the cursed heart in 
 
 her 
 Made keener than a knife for manslay- 
 
 ing 
 Can bear strange things. 
 
 A/ary Cartnichael. Peace, for the peo- 
 ple come. 
 "Ah ! Murray, hooded over half his face 
 With pluckcd-down hat, few folk about 
 
 him, eyes 
 Like a man angered ; Darnley after 
 
 him. 
 Holding our Hamilton above her wrist, 
 His mouth put near her hair to whisper 
 
 with — 
 And she laughs softly, looking at his 
 
 feet. 
 Mary Beaton. She will not live long ; 
 
 God hath given her 
 Few days and evil, full of hate and love, 
 I see well now. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Hark, there's their 
 
 cry — The queen ! 
 Fair life am/ loiii;, and good days to the 
 
 queen ! 
 Mary Beaton. Vca, but God knows. 
 
 I feel such j)atiencc here 
 As I were sure in a brief while to die. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. She bends and 
 
 laughs a little, graciously. 
 And turns half, talking to I know not 
 
 whom — 
 A big man with great shoulders; ah I 
 
 the face, 
 You get his face now, — wide and dusk* 
 
 ish, yea, 
 The youth burnt out of it. A goodly 
 
 man, 
 Thewed mightily and sunburnt to the 
 
 bone; 
 Doubtless he was away in banishment, 
 Or kept some march far off. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Still you see nothing.^ 
 Mary Carmichael. Yea, now they 
 
 bring him forth with a great 
 
 noise. 
 The folk all shouting, and men thrust 
 
 about 
 Each way from him. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ah! Lord God, bear 
 
 with me. 
 Help me to bear a little with my love 
 For thine own love, or give me some 
 
 quick death. 
 Do not come down ; I shall get strength 
 
 again, 
 • Only my breath fails. Looks he sad or 
 
 blithe .? 
 Not sad I doubt yet. 
 
 Mary Cartnichael. Nay, not sad a 
 
 whit. 
 But like a man who losing gold or lands 
 Should lose a heavy sorrow; his face 
 
 set, 
 The eyes not curious to the right or left, 
 And reading in a book, his hands un- 
 bound, 
 With short fleet smiles. The whule 
 
 place catches breath. 
 Looking at him ; she seems at i)oint to 
 
 speak : 
 Now she lies back, and laughs, with her 
 
 brows drawn 
 And her lips drawn too. Now they 
 
 read his crime. 
 I see the laughter tightening her chin: 
 Why do you bend your boily, and draw 
 
 breath ? 
 They will not slay him in her sight ; I 
 
 am sure 
 She will not have him slain. 
 
CHASTELARD. 
 
 129 
 
 Mary Beaton. Forth, and fear not : 
 I was just ])raying to myself — one word, 
 A prayer I have to say for her to God 
 If he will mind it. 
 
 Mary Cannichael. Now he looks her 
 
 side ; 
 Something he says, if one could hear 
 
 thus far : 
 She leans out, lengthening her throat 
 
 to hear, 
 And her eyes shining. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ah ! I had no hope ; 
 Yea, thou God knowest that I had no 
 
 hope. 
 Let it end quickly. 
 
 Mary Cannichael. Now his eyes are 
 
 wide, 
 And his smile great ; and like another 
 
 smile 
 The blood fills all his face. Her cheek 
 
 and neck 
 Work fast and hard ; she must have 
 
 pardoned him, 
 He looks so merrily. Now he comes 
 
 forth 
 Out of that ring of people, and kneels 
 
 down ; 
 Ah ! how the helve and edge of the 
 
 great axe 
 Turn in the sunlight as the man shifts 
 
 hands ! 
 
 It must be for a show : because she sits 
 And hardly moves her head this way; 
 
 I see 
 Her chin and lifted lips. Now she 
 
 stands up, 
 Puts out her hand, and they fall mutter- 
 ing I 
 Ah! 
 
 Mary Beaton. It is done now ? 
 Alary Car?nichael. For God's love, 
 
 stay there ! 
 Do not look out. Nay, he is dead by 
 
 this; 
 
 But gather up yourself from off the floor. 
 Will she die too? I shut mine eyes, 
 
 and heard — 
 Sweet, do not beat your face upon the 
 
 ground. 
 Nay, he is dead and slain. 
 
 Mary Beaton. What ! slain indeed ? 
 I knew he would be slain. Ay, through 
 
 tlie neck ; 
 
 I knew one must be smitten through the 
 
 ' neck, 
 To die so quick : if one were stabbed 
 
 to the heart. 
 He would die slower. 
 
 Mary Cartnichael. Will you behold 
 
 him dead? 
 Mary Beaton. Yea : must a dead man 
 
 not be looked upon 
 That living one was fain of? give me 
 
 way. 
 Lo you, what sort of hair this fellow 
 
 had ; 
 The doomsman gathers it into his hand 
 To grasp the head by for all men to set : 
 I never did that. 
 
 Mary Carfnichael. For God's love, let 
 
 me go ! 
 Mary Beaton. I think sometimes she 
 
 must have held it so. 
 Holding his head back, see you, by the 
 
 hair, 
 To kiss his face, still lying in his arms. 
 Ay, go and weep : it must be pitiful 
 If one could see it. What is this they 
 
 say? 
 So perish the queen'' s traitors ! Yea, 
 
 but so 
 Perish the queen ! — God, do thus much 
 
 to her 
 For his sake only : yea, for pity's sake 
 Do thus much with her. 
 Mary Cartnichael. Prithee, come in 
 
 with me : 
 Nay, come at once. 
 
 Mary Beaton. If I should meet with 
 
 her. 
 And spit upon her at her coming in — 
 But if I live then shall I see one day 
 When God will smite her lying harlot's 
 
 mouth, — 
 Surely I shall. Come, I will go with 
 
 you ; 
 We will sit down together face to face 
 Now, and keep silence ; for this life is 
 
 hard. 
 And the end of it is quietness at last. 
 Come, let us go : here is no word to 
 
 say. 
 An usher. Make way there for the 
 
 lord of Bothwcll ; room, — 
 Place for my lord of Bothwell next the 
 
 queen. 
 
BOTHWELL: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 jroAAa fitp 7a Tptifm 
 fidfa btifjiOiTtov a.\ri, 
 noi/Tia,. t' ayfcdAat xviaiiXiitv 
 
 Aa/ui7ra(Scs~ TTcSaopoi, 
 
 wrat'd Tt xal n(6oPa.tJ.ova, Ka.v( fkoivTuv 
 
 cdyiiuip <}>jid<jai KOToy, 
 
 aW vntproKfiov av 
 
 Spb<; iPpouritxa Ti? Ae'yoc, 
 
 Ka'i yvvaiKwu <}>p«T'iV rATj/utdvwv ; 
 
 Kal Trai'ToAixou? 
 
 epojTa? araccri avyuopiOV^ fipoTuiVf 
 
 (v^vyov<; 6' 6p.avXia<: ; 
 
 OrjAuKpaTTj? aTrepwTO? tpio? wapat'iKa 
 
 KV\t)b6.Ku>V T€ Kal fipCTWl', 
 
 Aesch. CAo. 585-401. 
 
 A VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 COMME un fleuve qui donne h I'oc^an son %.me, 
 J'apporie au lieu sacr^ d'ou le vers tonne et luit 
 Mon dranie epique et plein de tumulte et de 
 
 flammc, 
 Ou vibre un si^cle dteint, oil flotte un jour qui 
 
 fuit. 
 
 Un pcuple qui rugit sous les pieds d'une femme 
 Passe, el son souffle emplit d'aube el d'ombre et 
 de bruit 
 
 Un ciel apre et guerrier qui luit comme une lame 
 Sur I'avenir deb^ut, sur le passd deiruit. 
 
 Au fond des cieux hagards, par I'orage battue, 
 Une figure d'ombre et d'etoiles vetue 
 Pleure et menace et brille en s'evanouissanl; 
 
 Ecbir d'amour qui blesse et de haine qui tue, 
 Fleur eclose au sommet du sioclc cblouissant, 
 Rose a tige epineuse et que roogit le sang. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Mary Stuart. 
 
 Marv Beaton. 
 
 Maky Sevton. 
 
 Maky Carmichael. 
 
 Jane Cokdon. Countess 0/ Bothwell. 
 
 1a>£T Stuart, Countess of A rgyle. 
 
 Margaret Lady Dougi-/\s 0/ Lochleven. 
 
 Lauy Reres. , 
 
 Henry Lord \^Ky^^v^\, King Consort. 
 
 James Heihlrn, Earl of Bothwell. 
 
 James Stuart, Earl of Murray. 
 
 James LRmglas, Earl 0/ Morton. 
 
 William Maitland of Lethington, Secreta- 
 ry of Stuff. 
 iOHN Knox. 
 )avid Rizzio. 
 
 The Earls of lIuNTLEY, Argyle, Caithness, 
 Rothes, Cassilis, Athoi,, and Mar. 
 
 Lords HicKKiKs, Lindsay, Kuiiiven, Flem- 
 ing, SkYTON, lioYD, OcUlLTKKli, HuME, 
 AkiiKUATH, and Maxwio-L, 
 130 
 
 The younger RuTHVEN. 
 
 The Master of Ochiltree, son to Lord 
 Ochiltree. 
 
 The Master of Maxwell, son to Lord Her' 
 ries. 
 
 Sir James Melville. 
 
 Sir Robert Melville. 
 
 Sir George Douglas, uncle to Darnley. 
 
 Sir William Douglas of Lochleven. 
 
 .George Douglas, his brother. 
 
 Sir William Kirkaldy of Grange. 
 
 Lord Robert Stuart, Abbot of St. Cross. 
 
 r>u Croc, Ambassador from E'rance. 
 
 Sir Nicholas Throgmorton, Ambasscuior 
 from England. 
 
 John Hamilton, Archbishop of St. An- 
 drew's. 
 
 John Leslie, Bishop of Ross. 
 
 Arthur Kkskine, Laf tain of the Guard. 
 
 Anthony Stanuen and Stuakt of Trat 
 QUAiK, Equtrriet, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 131 
 
 John Erskinb 0/ Dun. 
 
 Andrew Ker 0/ Fauldonside. 
 
 Henry Drummond 0/ Ricarton. 
 
 Archibald Beaton. 
 
 John Hepburn 0/ Bolton, Ormiston, Hay e^ 
 
 Talla, Conspirators with Bothivell. 
 Crawford, Nelson, Taylor, servants to 
 
 Darnley, 
 
 Nicholas Hubert, surnamed Paris, sev' 
 
 vant to Bothwell. 
 The Provost of Edinburgh. 
 Robert Cunningham, steward to the Earl 
 
 0/ Lennox. ■ 
 Page and Girl attending on Lady Lochbeven. 
 Burgesses, Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, 
 
 etc. 
 
 Time, March 9, 1566, to May 16, 1568. 
 
 ACT I. — DAVID RIZZIO. 
 
 Scene I. — Holyrood. 
 Enter Darnley and Mary Carmi- 
 
 CHAEL. 
 
 Darnley. But you will not believe me 
 
 though you hear; 
 You have no. faith: you steeV by sight, 
 
 and see 
 This fellow gilt and garnished with her 
 
 grace 
 Sit covered by the 'queen where lords 
 
 stand bare, 
 And jet before them lordlier; and the 
 
 sight 
 Makes firm your faith that in his hand 
 
 and eye 
 This land is but a harp to play upon. 
 Whose strings may turn to serpents or 
 
 to swords. 
 To maim his hand or charm his eye to 
 
 death. 
 You have no faith to see this, or to 
 
 read 
 The sentence that ensuing shall write 
 
 me king, 
 And worth men's fears or faiths: lo! 
 
 now you laugh, 
 As though my hope were braggart, and 
 
 myself 
 A fool and mouthpiece of its foolish 
 
 vaunt : 
 You have no faith. 
 
 Alary Carmichael. I have no wit nor 
 
 will 
 To choose between St. David for my 
 
 lord 
 And sweet St. Henry. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, Ring David now, 
 King David psalmist ; but for all his 
 
 song 
 
 I doubt he hath lost the old trick of 
 
 touch he had 
 Once in the sword-play. 
 
 Mary Carmichael. See you play not 
 Saul, 
 Who are something of his stature in 
 
 our eyes. 
 Much of his mighty presence ; be it not 
 
 said 
 He hath snipt your skirts already. 
 
 Darnley. Who said that ? 
 Who speaks of me so, lies to the blood 
 
 and bone, 
 To the heajt and soul lies. I am no 
 
 king mayhap, — 
 I do not say yet I shall die no 
 
 king : 
 God knows that, and is wise, — but man 
 
 I am, 
 Look else, who love you — 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Sir, be king for 
 me, 
 It shall content my will to you-ward, 
 
 seeing 
 I take you to be royal, and myself 
 Honest. 
 Darnley. Why honest ? what a gibe 
 is this? 
 What make you of me ? 
 
 Mary Carmichael. Yea, what should 
 I make ? 
 'Tis time I were on service. 
 
 Darnley. Oh, the queer's? 
 She gets good service, excellent service 
 
 done. 
 And worthy servants hath she, — a lib- 
 eral queen. 
 Well, if you will. 
 
 \Exit Mary Carmichael. 
 I would the month were out. 
 If earth were easier by just one less 
 knave» 
 
132 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 I might sleep well and laugh and walk 
 
 at case. 
 With none to mate me. 
 
 Enter Morton. 
 Ah ! my good lord and friend, 
 I had somewhat I would say — but let 
 
 words be. 
 The man you know of, I would you 
 
 had made him safe ; 
 I would have told you this much. 
 
 Morlofi. Sir, the earl 
 Murray being with us in the main thing 
 
 here, 
 Though he keep hand from the red 
 
 handiwork. 
 Shall enough help us. 
 
 Dartiley. Let him know it not, then : 
 Let him stand by : he must not know 
 
 it. Why, well, 
 It is the more our honor : yet would 
 
 God 
 He, being not with us, were not any- 
 where. 
 But dead, sir, dead! I say, who hath 
 
 eyes to see 
 May see him dangerous to us, and mani- 
 fest. 
 Ye have no eyes who see not : for my 
 
 part, 
 I noted him at once. Sir, by this 
 
 light. 
 When 1 first saw him — and I have eyes 
 
 to see — 
 I knew what manner of meaning in his 
 
 face 
 Lav privy and folded up and sealed and 
 
 signed. 
 I would you lords had sight and heart 
 
 like mine : 
 He should not long live daijgerous; 
 
 yet, God wot. 
 For my p<ior personal peril I would 
 
 match 
 This body against his better. 
 
 Morton. There's no need 
 Of iron words and matches here of 
 
 men, 
 Save this we meet upon; wliich being 
 
 played out 
 Leaves our hands full and henceforth 
 
 peaceable. 
 For the earl, he makes no part of men's 
 designs. 
 
 Nor would 1 have you keen to strive 
 
 with him 
 Who lies yet still, and is well liked of 
 
 men 
 That are well-willers to this common 
 
 state 
 And the open peace of the people. 
 
 Let him be ; 
 Keep your heart l.cre. 
 
 Darnley. Here is it fixed and set 
 With roots of iron. 'Tis more hono* 
 
 to us. 
 Being so more perilous, to have no help 
 Of popular hands and common friendli 
 
 ness. 
 But our hearts helpful only. 1 am sure 
 
 of her. 
 That she suspects not, — I do surely 
 
 think : 
 But yet she is subtle and secret-souled 
 
 and wise. 
 Wise woman-fashion; look you, be not 
 
 caught 
 Through too much trust in what of her 
 
 is weak, — 
 In her light mind and mutabilitv ; 
 For subtlety lies close in her light wit. 
 And wisdom wantons in her wanton 
 
 ness : 
 I know her, I know her; I have seen 
 
 her ere now, and am 
 Not all to learn in women. 
 
 Morton. I believe 
 Your grace hath grace with women as 
 
 with men, 
 And skill of sense alike in those and 
 
 thes?e, 
 I doubt not; which is well and profit- 
 able. 
 For this, how shall she know it, except 
 
 you slij) 
 And let her wring the truth out from 
 
 your hand, 
 Or kiss the truth out, hanging mouth 
 
 on mouth ? 
 But if no pressure press from hand or 
 
 lip 
 The unripe truth, the fruit so soon so 
 
 red, 
 What can she to us, though doubting 
 
 help or harm, — 
 How. if she know not surely? 
 Darnley. So 1 say. 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 133 
 
 And we that do it, we do it for all men's 
 
 good, 
 For the main people's love, thankwor- 
 
 thily — 
 And this is matter of law we take in 
 
 hand, 
 Is it not, lawful ? for the man is judged, 
 Doomed dead and damned by sentence, 
 
 in good deed. 
 Though not by scruple and show of 
 
 trial and test. 
 By clearer cause and purer policy — 
 We cannot stand toward any account- 
 able. 
 As for a slaughter, a treasonable shame, 
 To mark us red in the world's eyes ? 
 
 po man 
 Can say our fame is blotted with his 
 
 blood, 
 No man, albeit he hate us, bring in 
 
 doubt, — 
 Woman or man, — our right, our abso- 
 lute law. 
 Giving us leave — nay, biflding us do 
 
 so? 
 "So that we stand after the deed as now, 
 In no more danger or fear ? 
 Morton. In less fear, you. 
 And much more honor; now it might 
 
 please you fear. 
 Being overborne of woman and fast 
 
 bound 
 With feminine shame and weakness ; 
 
 the man's strength. 
 The sinew and nerve and spirit of roy- 
 alty. 
 Hers, and all power to use her power 
 
 on you 
 Hers, and all honor and pleasure of 
 
 high place 
 That should make sweet your lips and 
 
 bright your brows 
 Hers, and the mockery of mismarried 
 
 men 
 Yours. 
 Darnley. Nay, by God I said so ; 
 
 why, I knew it : 
 l told you thus aforetime, did I not ? 
 Morton. Truly and wisely ; if this 
 
 content you thus. 
 He is even our king. 
 Darnley. Methinks he should be 
 
 And I, God wot, content. Here came 
 
 a man 
 Some few days back, a goodly, a gentle- 
 man, 
 An honorable, that for king knave's be- 
 hoof 
 Was stript out of the better of all his 
 
 lands 
 As I of what was best part of my wife, 
 My place, and honor that grows up 
 
 with hers — 
 For of her love small fruit was left to 
 
 strip. 
 Few leaves for winter weather — but of 
 
 these. 
 These good things, am I stript as bare 
 
 as shame, 
 Even beggared as was this man. By 
 
 God's light, 
 It seems this is but justice, doth il not, 
 And I so gentle and temperate — as, by 
 
 God, 
 I was not nor I will not. 
 
 Morton. There's more need 
 Thatyou seem resolutelytemperate then, 
 And temperately be resolute, I say. 
 Till the hour to cast off temperance 
 
 and put on 
 Plain passion for the habit of your heart, 
 Which now it wears in darkness, and 
 
 by day 
 The cloak and hood of temperance. 
 
 'Bu< these fits 
 And gusts and starts of will and will 
 
 not, these 
 Blow you this side and that side till 
 
 men see 
 Too much, and trust too little. 
 Darnley. O sir, you are wise, 
 You are honorable, and a counsellor, 
 
 and my friend. 
 And I too light, too light — yet by this 
 
 light 
 I think I am worth more than your 
 
 counsel is 
 If I be worth this work here to be 
 
 done — 
 I think I am so much. 
 
 Morton. It may well be, sir. 
 And you much wiser; yet forbear youi 
 
 wrath 
 If you would have it ready io youi 
 
 hand. 
 
134 
 
 BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 Darnley. I will foroear nothing — 
 
 nor nothing bear — 
 Nor live by no man's bidding. This 
 
 year through 
 I have even been surfeited with wise 
 
 men's breath 
 And winds of wordy weather round 
 
 mine ears, — 
 Do this, spare that, walk thus, look 
 
 otherwise, 
 Hold your head kingly, or wisely bow 
 
 your neck : 
 A man might come to doubt himself no 
 
 man, 
 Being so long childlike handled. Now, 
 
 look you. 
 Look she, look God to it if I be not 
 
 man ! 
 Now is my way swept, and my foot shod 
 
 now. 
 My wallet full now for the travelling day 
 That I fare forth and forward, arrow 
 
 straight. 
 Girt for the goal, red battle-ripe at 
 
 need — 
 As need there is — you are sure — and 
 
 utter need ? 
 Morton. Is my lord not sure ? 
 Darnley. Ay, as sure as you, — 
 Surer, maybe : the need is more of 
 
 mine, — 
 This grazes your bare hand that grates 
 
 my heart • 
 Your queen it is wrongs you, and me 
 
 my wife. 
 Morton. You see that sure, too t 
 
 sharp sight, have you not } 
 Darnley. I saw it, I first — I knew 
 
 her — who knew her but I, 
 That swore, — at least, I swore to mine 
 
 own soul, 
 Would not for shame's sake swear out 
 
 wide to the world, 
 But in myself swore with my heart to 
 
 hear, — 
 There was more in it, in all their com- 
 merce, more 
 Than the mere music: he is warped, 
 
 worn through, 
 Bow-bent, uncomely in wholesome eyes 
 
 that see 
 Straighf, seeing him crooked ; but she 
 seeing awrj 
 
 Sees the man straight enough for para- 
 mour. 
 This I saw, this I swore too — silently. 
 Not loud but sure, till time should be 
 
 to speak 
 Sword's language, no fool's jargon like 
 
 his tongue. 
 But plain broad steel speech and intel- 
 ligible. 
 Though not to the ear, Italian's be it or 
 
 Scot's, 
 But to the very life intelligible, 
 To the loosed soul, to the shed blood — 
 
 for blood 
 There must be — one must slay him — 
 
 you are sure — as I am*.'' 
 For I was sure of it always : while 
 
 you said, 
 All you, 'twas council-stuff, state-handi- 
 craft, 
 Cunning of card-play between here and 
 
 there, 
 I knew 'twas this and more, sir; I kept 
 
 sight. 
 Kept heed of her, what thing she was, 
 
 what wife, 
 What manner of stateswoman and gov- 
 erness — 
 More than all you saw — did you see r 
 or \> 
 Morton. You saw first surely, and 
 some one spo4ce first out — 
 \'ou had eyes, he tongue — and both 
 
 bear witness now 
 If this must be or not be. 
 
 Darnley. Death, is that .> 
 I must kill— bid you kill him.' 
 
 Morton. Nowise, sir; 
 As little need of one as the other is 
 
 here ; 
 As little of cither as no need at all. 
 Darnley. You doubt or hand or 
 tongue, then, sir, of mine.-' 
 I would not strike, if need were, o9 
 bid strike ? 
 Morton. Neither we doubt, nor nei- 
 ther do \vc need — 
 Having you with us. 
 
 Darniev. 'Twas but so you meant ? 
 I had else been angry — nay, half 
 
 wroth I was — 
 Not as I took it — I had eUc been 
 wroth indeed. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 135 
 
 Morton. That had been grievous to 
 
 me and perilous, 
 This time of all times. 
 
 Darnley. Ay, you need me, ay; 
 I am somewhat now then, somewhat- 
 more than wont. 
 Who thus long have been nothing — 
 
 but will be ? 
 Well, so, I am with you. Shall he die 
 
 — how soon ? 
 To-day I had said, but haply not to- 
 day — 
 There might fall somewhat, something 
 
 slip awry. 
 In such swift work, ha .^ Then, what 
 
 day .'' Perchance 
 Twere better he died abed— or were 
 
 there charms, 
 Spells — if himself though be not witch, 
 
 drug-proof 
 *Tis like^ and devil-witted, being a knave 
 Born poisonous and bred sorcerous like 
 
 his kind — 
 We have heard what manner of plague 
 
 his south land spawns. 
 What sort of kith and kin to hell and 
 
 him. 
 How subtle in starry riddles and earth's 
 
 roots 
 The dog-leeches that kill your soul in 
 
 you. 
 Or only body, or both, as Catherine 
 
 please, 
 Mother that was to our Mary — have 
 
 we not ? 
 We must look to it, and closely look. 
 
 Morton. My lord. 
 Of so much being so sure, of this be too ; 
 That surely and soon in some wise very 
 
 sure 
 We are quii of him with God's help or 
 
 without. 
 Darnley. Why, that were well. I 
 
 hold you resolute ; 
 I pray you stay so, and all is well enough. 
 We have talked our time out — you 
 
 had all to say — 
 All the thing's carriage — and my mind 
 
 to take. 
 Which with plain heart I have made 
 
 you understand. 
 ' My Jtiind is, he must die then : keep 
 
 you there. \Extt. 
 
 Morton. Had God but plagued Egypt 
 
 with fools for flies, 
 His Jews had sped the quicker. 
 Enter Marv Beaton. 
 
 Is the queen risen, 
 Lady? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Not yet. Was not the 
 
 king with you ? 
 I heard him high and shrill. 
 Morton. Ay, he was here. 
 If anywhere the king be. Vou are sad, 
 Mary Beaton. I am not blithe of 
 
 bearing, I wot well, 
 Hut the word sad is sadder than I am. 
 Is he not vexed "i 
 
 Morton. I have never seen him else, 
 Save when light-heartedness and loose- 
 hung brain 
 Have made him proud and drunken: 
 
 as of late 
 He has been but seldom. There's one 
 
 sad at least ; 
 If it be sad to hang the head apart. 
 Walk with brows drawn and eyes dis- 
 
 c|uieted. 
 Speak sullen under breath, and shrug 
 
 and swear. 
 If any move hiin, and then again fall 
 
 dumb; 
 He has changed his fresher manner, 
 
 and put off 
 What little grace made his ungracious 
 
 youth 
 Fair in men's eyes a little ; if this 
 
 last. 
 He will not long last in men's lordship 
 
 here. 
 Except by love and favor shown of the 
 
 queen. 
 Mary Beaton. There he sits strong 
 
 in surety ; yet men say 
 He is discontent, disheartened, for dis- 
 taste 
 Of the like love and favor shown of 
 
 her 
 (Or not the like, yet too much near the 
 
 like) 
 Toward Rizzio ; but such men, seeing 
 
 visionary, 
 Run wide in talk, and sleep with speech 
 
 awake 
 And sight shut fast : are you not of my 
 
 mind ? 
 
'3^ 
 
 BOTH WEI J.. 
 
 Morton. I am most of theirs whose 
 mind is most toward hers, 
 
 As whose should be most noble ; but in 
 truth 
 
 Mine own is moved to hear her gra- 
 cious heart 
 
 Mismadc of, her clear courtesies mis- 
 read, 
 
 Mislikcd }ier liking, her good will ma- 
 ligned. 
 
 Even of his mouth who owes life, breath, 
 and place, 
 
 Honor and title, even to that clear good 
 will 
 
 To that her grace, liking, and courtesy. 
 Mary Beaton. You mean our lord 
 
 and hers and king of Scots? 
 Morton. As kingly a king as master- 
 ful a lord. 
 
 And no less hers than ours ; as strong 
 each way. 
 Mary Beaton. And he misreads so 
 much the queen's pure heart 
 
 As to mistake aloud her manner of 
 life, 
 
 And teach the world's broad open 
 j)u])ular car 
 
 liis graceless commentary on her mere 
 grace 
 
 And simjilc favor shown a simple 
 knave, 
 
 Her chamber-child, hervarlet? a poor 
 man, 
 
 Stranger, skilled little in great men's 
 policies 
 
 — Which is strange too, seeing he 
 hath had some chance 
 
 To learn some tricks of courts and 
 embassies, 
 
 Being therein bred, and not so very a 
 fool 
 
 But one might teach him — yet no 
 (i(jul>t .1 man. 
 
 Save for such teaching, simple and in- 
 nocent ; 
 
 Only what heart, what spirit and wit he 
 has, 
 
 Being hot and close as fiie on the old 
 faith's side 
 
 And the Krench party's — if his wit 
 were great, 
 
 It might do more than simple scrviic 
 soon. 
 
 Having her heart as 'twere by the eai 
 
 which leans 
 Still toward his saying or singing ; but 
 
 ye know 
 There is no peril in him, and the king 
 More fool than he a knave. 
 
 Morton. Well, I know not ; 
 My skill is small in tunes, yet I can tell 
 Discord between kings' ear and peo- 
 ple's tongue. 
 Which hearing as in spirit I forebear 
 Harsh future music in a state mistuned. 
 If such men lay but hand upon the 
 
 keys, 
 Touch ne'er so slight a string of policy 
 With ne'er so light a finger: I would 
 
 the queen, 
 For the dear faith I bear her, saw but 
 
 this. 
 Or that the lords were heavier-eyed to 
 
 see. 
 Mary Beaton.. Are they so keen of 
 
 soul as of their sight, — 
 To slay wrong as to see wrong."* 
 
 Morton. 'P'aith, with us 
 The hand is matched against the eye for 
 
 speed ; 
 And these no slower in stroke of sight 
 
 and sword 
 Than their sharp-sighted swift-souled 
 
 forefathers. 
 I say not this that you should gather 
 
 fear 
 Out of my saying to sow in the car of 
 
 the queen ; 
 But for truth's sake; and truly I do not 
 
 fear 
 That I have put fear in you, for you 
 
 seem 
 Not lightly fearful to me. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I would not be, 
 Where I might keep good heart anc 
 
 open eye, 
 Nor blind nor fevered with foolhardi- 
 
 ness, 
 As here mcseems T may keep; for I see 
 No hurt yet nor hurt's danger steer in 
 
 sight. 
 Save the mere daily danger of high- 
 raised heads 
 To be mis-sf)okc-n and mis-seen of men, 
 WhiLh is not for high-sealed hearts to 
 
 fear. 
 
\\ 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 137 
 
 Morton. Her heart is high enough, 
 
 and yours as hers : 
 You shall do well to hold your courage 
 
 fast, 
 Keeping your wits awake ; whereof 
 
 myself 
 I make no doubt, howbeit men fear the 
 
 queen, 
 Having our bitter folk and faith to fight, 
 Out of sharp spirit and high-heartedness 
 May do such things for love's sake or 
 
 for wrath's 
 As fools for fear's sake : which were no 
 
 less harm 
 (Turning her wit and heart against her- 
 self) 
 Than to be coward or witless. Fare 
 
 you well : 
 I will not doubt but she is well advised. 
 
 \^Exit. 
 Mary Beaton. He is but dead by this, 
 
 then. I did know it ; 
 And yet it strikes upon me sudden and 
 
 sharp, 
 As a thing unforethought on. It is 
 
 strange 
 To have one's foot as mine is on the 
 
 verge. 
 The narrowing threshold of a thing so 
 
 great. 
 To have within one's eyeshot the whole 
 
 way. 
 The perfect reach of fate from end to 
 
 end, 
 From life to life replying and death to 
 
 death 
 This is the first hour of the night, and I 
 The watcher of the first watch, by whose 
 
 lamp 
 The starless sky that grows toward birth 
 
 of stars 
 And the unlit earth and obscure air are 
 
 seen 
 Pale as the lamp's self yet not well 
 
 alight. 
 Yet by the light of my heart's fire, and 
 
 mind 
 Kindled, I see what fires of storm, what 
 
 flaws, 
 What windy meteors and cross-counter- 
 ing stars. 
 Shall be through all the watches to the 
 
 And bloodlike sunrise of the fire-eyed 
 
 day. 
 I am half content already ; and yet I 
 
 would 
 This watch were through. 
 Enter the Queen, Rizzio, and Mary 
 Seyton. 
 Queen. Nay, it is later, sure : 
 I am idle, I am idle, and flattered : you 
 
 say wrong. 
 To find my sloth some pardonable plea, 
 Which is not pardonable ; a perfect sin, 
 One writ among the sorest seven of 
 
 all; 
 Enough to load the soul past penitence. 
 Am I not late indeed "i speak truth and 
 
 say. 
 Rizzio. To watchers the sun rises evei 
 
 late. 
 Though he keep time with summer; 
 
 but your grace 
 Keeps earlier than the sun's time. 
 
 Queen. 'Tis but March, 
 And a scant spring, a sharp and starve* 
 
 ling year. 
 How bitter black the day grows! one 
 
 would swear 
 The weather and earth were of this 
 
 people's faith, , 
 
 And their heaven colored as their 
 
 thoughts of heaven, 
 Their light made of their love. 
 
 Rizzio. If it might please you 
 Look out, and lift up heart to summer- 
 ward. 
 There might be sun enough for seeing 
 
 and sense, 
 To light men's eyes at, and warm hands 
 
 withal. 
 Queen. I doubt the winter's white is 
 
 deeper dyed 
 And closer worn than I thought like to 
 
 be; 
 This land of mine hath folded itself 
 
 round 
 With snow-cold, white, and leprous mis- 
 belief. 
 Till even the spirit is bitten, the blood 
 
 pinched, 
 And the heart winter-wounded ; these 
 
 starved slaves 
 That feed on frost, and suck the snowi 
 
 for drink. 
 
I3S 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Hati»ig the light for the heat's sake, love 
 the cull! • 
 
 Wc want sonic hotter fire than summer 
 or sun 
 
 To burn their dead blood through, and 
 change their veins. 
 Rizzio. Aladam, those fires are all but 
 ashen dust . 
 
 'Tis by the sun we have now to walk 
 warm. 
 
 If I had leave to give good counsel 
 tongue 
 
 And wisdom words to work with, I 
 would say, 
 
 Rather by favor and seasonable grace 
 
 Shall your sweet light of summer-speak- 
 ing looks 
 
 Melt the hard mould of earthen hearts, 
 and i^ut 
 
 Spring into spirits of snow. Your hus- 
 band here, 
 
 Who was my friend before your lord, 
 being grown 
 
 Doubtful, and eyil-eyed against him- 
 self. 
 
 With a thwart wit crossing all counsel, 
 turns 
 
 From us-ward to their close fierce inti- 
 macy 
 
 Who are bitterest of the faction against 
 fp.lth. 
 
 And through their violent friendship has 
 become 
 
 His own and very enemy, being moved 
 
 Of mere loose heart to vex you. Now 
 there stands 
 
 On the other hand, in no wise bound to 
 him, 
 
 Knl as your rebel and his enemy 
 
 Cast forth condemned, one that called 
 home again 
 
 Might be a bond between the time and 
 
 )r)U, 
 
 Tying the wild world tamer to your 
 
 hand. 
 And in your husband's hot and unreined 
 
 mouth 
 As bit and bridle against his wandering 
 
 will. 
 Queeu. What name is his who shall 
 
 so strengtlien mc ? 
 iiiztio. Vour father gave hiui half a 
 
 biulhcr's nanic. 
 
 Quee>i. I have no brother : a blood 
 
 less traitor he is 
 Who was my father's bastard born. By 
 
 heaven, 
 1 had rather have his head loose at my 
 
 foot 
 Than his tongue's counsel rounded in 
 
 mine ear 
 Rizzio. I would you had called hiir, 
 
 out of banishment. 
 Queeu. Thou art mad, thou an mad . 
 
 l)rate me no more of him. 
 Rizzio. He is wise, and we need wis 
 
 dom ; penitent, 
 And God, they say, loves most his peni- 
 tents ; 
 Stout-hearted and well-minded toward 
 
 your grace. 
 As you shall work him, and beguilable 
 Now at your need if you but will he be. 
 And God he knows if there be need ol 
 
 such. 
 Queen. No need, no need : I am 
 
 crowned of mine own heart, 
 And of mine own will weaponed; am 1 
 
 queen 
 To have need of traitors' leave to live 
 
 by, and reign 
 By the God's grace of these } I will not 
 
 have it ; 
 Toward (}od I swear there shall be no 
 
 such need. 
 Rizzio. Yet if there were no need, 
 
 less harm it were 
 To have him easily on your royal side 
 While the time serves that he may serve 
 
 you in, — 
 Less harm than none, and profit more 
 
 than less. 
 Qrieen. He is a misborn traitor and 
 
 heretic ; 
 And of his own side baffled, a flat fooJ, 
 Who thought to have comfort of Eliza- 
 beth, 
 Large furtherance of my swect-souled 
 
 sister's love, 
 Grace and sure aid of her good plighted 
 
 word, . 
 Her honorable and precious jilighted 
 
 word, 
 And secret seal to help him; as she 
 
 durst not, 
 Yea, she would (;un aiid durst noC 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 39 
 
 Rizzio. Please you note — 
 Queen. It shall not please me; I say- 
 she hath made him kneel, 
 (And this does i)lease me indeed) hath 
 
 seen him down, 
 Seen him and spurned him kneeling 
 
 from her foot. 
 As my born traitor and subject. David, 
 
 nay, 
 But hath 'thy careful love not made thee 
 
 mad, 
 Whose counsel was my sword against 
 
 him once ? 
 Why, thou wast sworn his slayer; and 
 
 all that while 
 He held up head against us, thy one 
 
 word 
 Bade strike him dead of all men. 
 
 What ! hast thou 
 Fairly forgot his puri)ose, were I taken. 
 To speed thee out of life ? his seQret 
 
 bond. 
 Sealed with himself in spirit, thou 
 
 shouldst die ? 
 Wast thou not trothplight with that 
 
 soulless boy, 
 Ere he might thee, to rid him out of 
 
 life ? 
 Nay, and thou knowest how dear a 
 
 cause I have. 
 And thou, to slay him when the good 
 
 chance comes, 
 Which God make speedy toward us ! 
 
 by my hand, 
 Too little and light to hold up his dead 
 
 head. 
 It was my hope to dip it in his life 
 Made me ride iron-mailed, a soldieress. 
 All those days through we drove them 
 
 here and there. 
 Eastward from Fife, and hither and 
 
 forth again. 
 And broken to the border ; yea, all day 
 1 thoug-ht how worth his life it were to 
 
 ride 
 Within the shot-length of my saddlebow 
 And try my poor and maiden soldier- 
 ship. 
 And now I am bidden, and you it is 
 
 bid me, 
 Reach my hand forth forgivingly and 
 
 meek 
 T© strike with his for love and policy ? 
 
 He is beaten and broken, without help 
 
 of hope. 
 Who was mine enemy ever, and ever I 
 
 knew 
 How much he was mine enemy; and 
 
 now maimed. 
 Wounded, unseated from his power of 
 
 place. 
 Shall I raise up again and strengtheti 
 
 him, 
 Warm and bipd up his cold and o'er 
 
 bled wounds 
 With piteous cordials.'* nay, but when I 
 
 do. 
 May he have strength to wreak his will 
 
 on me, 
 And I be flung under his feet I be- 
 side. 
 He was your mocking-stock this short 
 
 while since : 
 You swore, men tell me, Daniot told it 
 
 me, — 
 Your ghostly man of counsel, — why, to 
 
 him, 
 He says, you swore the bastard should 
 
 not bide 
 With you in Scotland; it made anger 
 
 at you. 
 Put passion in their mouths who bear 
 
 you hard. 
 That you should threaten kinglike. 
 
 Hath he moved you 
 To change your heart and face toward 
 
 him at once, 
 Or do you mock, or are struck mad 
 
 indeed. 
 That now you turn to bid me cry him 
 
 home. 
 Make much of him and sing him to my 
 
 side ? 
 Rizzio. For all this, madam, if I be 
 
 not mad. 
 It were well done to do it. He is a 
 
 man 
 Well-loved, well-counselled, and though 
 
 fast in faith, 
 Yet howsoever in strong opinion bound, 
 Not so much over-ridden of his own 
 
 mind 
 As to love no man for faith's single 
 
 sake ; 
 No fire-brained preacher nor wild-witted 
 
 knave. 
 
140 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 But skilled and reared in state and 
 
 soldiership. 
 What doth it need you to misthink of 
 
 me ? 
 Say it is but this jewel he sends n»e 
 
 here 
 That pleads his part before yoa; say I 
 
 am his 
 And not your servant, or not only of 
 
 )0U 
 
 Made and again unmakable ; 'tis truth, 
 He hath given me ^ifts to be his coun- 
 sel to you, 
 And I have taken, and here I plead his 
 
 part, 
 Seeing my life hangs upon your life, 
 
 and yours. 
 If it be full and even and fortunate 
 In spite of foes and fears and friends, 
 
 must hang 
 On his, unbound from these and bound 
 
 to you. 
 Wt have done ill, having so mighty 
 
 a match, 
 So large a wager on this turn of time. 
 To leave the stakes in hand of a lewd 
 
 boy, 
 A fool and thankless ; and to save the 
 
 game 
 We must play privily, and hold secret 
 
 hands. 
 Queen. I will not have his hand upon 
 
 my part. 
 Though it were safe to sweep up gold 
 
 and all. 
 Rizzio. But till our side be strong; 
 
 then cast him off. 
 When he hath served to strengthen you- 
 
 so much . 
 
 You have no need of any strength of 
 
 his. 
 Bear with him but till time be, and we 
 
 touch 
 The heart of the hour that brings our 
 
 chance to catch 
 Hope by the flying hair, and to our 
 
 wneel 
 Bind fortune and wind-wavering m.ij- 
 
 esty. 
 To shift no more in the air of any 
 
 change, 
 But hang a steady star ; then, when the 
 
 faith 
 
 Sits crowned in us that serve her, and 
 
 you hold 
 The triple-treasured kingdom in your 
 
 lap. 
 What shall forbid you set a sudden 
 
 foot 
 Where it may please you, on thcii 
 
 hearts or heads 
 That in their season were found service 
 
 able, k 
 
 And now are stones of stumbling i* \ 
 
 Time shapes all : 
 And service he may do you, or else 
 
 offence. 
 Even as you handle this sharp point of 
 
 time, 
 To turn its edge this wary way or that; 
 And for the land and state, why, having 
 
 served. 
 He may be seasonably stript out of 
 
 these 
 When you would do some friend a 
 
 courtesy 
 Who has still been found secret and 
 
 Catholic, 
 A lantern's eye of counsel in close 
 
 dark, 
 While he did blind man's service ; but 
 
 till then 
 Let him keep land and name, and all 
 
 he will. 
 And blindly serve to the blind end in 
 
 trust. 
 To wake a naked fool. That this may 
 
 be, 
 I am firm in faith, may it be but with 
 
 youv will. 
 Queen. He will not lielp us beat his 
 
 own faith down ; 
 He is no hawk to seel and then to un- 
 
 hood. 
 Fly at strange fowl, and pluck back 
 
 blind again. 
 Rizzio. Bethink you, madam, he only 
 
 of all his kind 
 Stood out against men hotter in heresy, 
 Spake down 'their si)eeches, overbore 
 
 Pope Knox, 
 Broke with his cardinal's college of 
 
 shrewd saints, 
 In your free faith's defence, that would 
 
 have barred you 
 From custom of religion ; and I wol, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 141 
 
 Save for his help, small help had found 
 my queen 
 
 From Huntley or Hamilton, her faith- 
 fellows, 
 
 Or any their co-worshippers with her. 
 Queen. Thou art ever saying them 
 wrong ; they are stout and sure, 
 
 Even they that strove for honor's sake 
 with us : 
 
 Their one least fault I am minded to 
 forgive ; 
 
 True friends in faith, my dear own 
 blood and kin, 
 
 No birthless bastards nor mistitled men. 
 
 It pleased me bid him into banish- 
 ment. 
 
 And shall not lightly please me bid him 
 back. 
 Rizzio. Yet some men banished for 
 no less a cause. 
 
 It has been known, you have loosed 
 from banishment 
 
 I tell you for true heart. 
 
 Queen. Nay, I well know it. 
 
 You are good and faithful to ils, God 
 quit it you, 
 
 And well of us loved back; how much, 
 you know, 
 
 • Put more than is our fear of men's mis- 
 saying. 
 
 For me, I find no such foul faultiness 
 
 In the lord Bothwell but might well be 
 purged 
 
 .After long trial of English prison-bands 
 
 And proof of loyal lips and close true 
 heart 
 
 Whereout no gaoler could pluck dan- 
 gerous speech, 
 
 And then with overpassing to and fro 
 
 The strait sea wide enough to wash 
 him white 
 
 'Twixt France and us : and all this jar- 
 ring year 
 
 You have seen with what a service, in 
 full field. 
 
 Oft in our need he hath served us ; nor 
 
 was it 
 Such matter of treason and nowise par- 
 donable 
 To mix his wits with Arran's broken 
 
 brain 
 In their device to entrap mine hand 
 with his 
 
 For high state's sake and strong-winged 
 
 jiolicy, 
 When he was matched with me in most 
 
 men's mouths. 
 And found not yet for changeling or 
 
 for fool. 
 But howsoever, it pleased me pardon 
 
 him ; 
 And a stout spear for warden have I 
 
 won. 
 I have holp myself in help of him, who 
 
 now 
 Hath with good works undone his dead 
 
 misdeeds, 
 And left their memory drowned in the 
 
 under sea 
 That swept them out and washed him 
 
 in again, 
 A man remade ; and fail me whoso fails, 
 Him 1 hold fast my friend ; bui those 
 
 cast out 
 That rose up right between my will and 
 
 me 
 To make me thrall and bondslave to 
 
 their own, 
 Giving me prison and them swift banish- 
 ment 
 Whom I gave honor, and cast the crown 
 
 away. 
 And break the old natural heart of 
 
 royalty, 
 For foul faith's sake or craft of their 
 
 niiscreed ; 
 That smote with sword or speech 
 
 against all state, 
 Not through blind heat or stumbling 
 
 hardihood, 
 l^ut hate of holiness and height of mind. 
 Hateful to kingly truth, hate'rs of kings ; 
 Them though I i)ardon I would not 
 
 take to trust, 
 Nor bind up their loose faith with my 
 
 belief. 
 For all assurances of all men born. 
 Resides, I hate him, singly. 
 
 Rizzio. I have said, and say : 
 Do you as time will turn it; time turns 
 
 all. 
 Queen. I do believe there is no man's 
 
 estate 
 So miserable, so very a helpless thing. 
 So trodden und&r and overborne, as 
 
 mine. 
 
142 
 
 BO Til WELL. 
 
 ['Or first the man that I set up for lord, 
 For master of mine and mate of only 
 
 me. 
 Have I perforce put forth of my shamed 
 
 bed, 
 And broken on his brows the kingless 
 
 crown. 
 Finding nor head for gold nor hand for 
 
 steel 
 Worth name of king or husband, but 
 
 the throne 
 Lordless, the heart of marriage hus- 
 
 bandless, 
 Through his foul follies; then in the 
 
 utter world, 
 In the extreme range and race of my 
 
 whole life 
 Through all changed times and places 
 
 of its change, 
 Having one friend, I find a foe of him 
 To my true sense and soul and spirit of 
 
 thought 
 That keeps in peace the things of its 
 
 own peace, 
 Secret and surely: in faith, this frets 
 
 my faith. 
 Distunes me into discord with myself, 
 That you should counsel me against my 
 
 soul. 
 I pray you, do not. 
 
 Rizzio. Nay, I will no more. 
 Hut if you take not Murray again to 
 
 trust 
 At least in short sweet seeming for 
 
 some while, 
 So to subdue him as with his own right 
 
 hand 
 And all chief with him of his creed and 
 
 crew, 
 Then, cleaving to the old counsel, sud- 
 denly 
 Have him attainted, and being so 
 
 brought in 
 Hy sumnKjns as your traitor, with good 
 
 speed 
 Have off his head; let him not live to 
 
 turn ; 
 Choose you sure tongues to doom him, 
 
 hands to rid. 
 And be his slaying his sentence; for 
 
 tl)e rest. 
 Make to you friends Argyle and Cha- 
 tclhcrault 
 
 And such more temperate of their fac- 
 tion found 
 
 As may be servants to your pardoning 
 hand 
 
 If they be separable ; but anywise 
 
 In pardoning these, forgive not half his 
 fault 
 
 With half their pardon; cut no branch 
 of his. 
 
 But the root only; strike not but at 
 heart 
 
 When you strike him : he hath done 
 and borne too much 
 
 To live 'twixt that and this unrecon- 
 ciled, 
 
 Having on this hand his conspiracy, 
 
 On that your proclamation ; his head 
 priced, 
 
 His life coursed after with hot hound 
 and horn, 
 
 His wife thrust forth hard on her trav- 
 ailing time, 
 
 With body soft from pangs and deli- 
 cate. 
 
 To roam in winter-bound and roofless 
 woods : 
 
 These things not wholly with your 
 grace wij^ed off, 
 
 And washed with favor and fair-faced 
 love away. 
 
 Must work within him deadly and des- 
 perate. 
 Queen. Now 
 
 I find your counsel in you, no strange 
 tongue, 
 
 But the old stout speech and sure ; and 
 this same day 
 
 Will I set hand to it. I have chosen 
 the lords 
 
 That shall attaint in council these men 
 fled. 
 
 Of mortal treason ; and some two hours 
 hence 
 
 My tongue through their strange lii)s 
 shall sjieak him dead 
 
 Who is only my heart's hated among 
 men. 
 
 I am gay of heart, light as a spring 
 south-wind, 
 
 To feed my soul with his foretasted 
 death. 
 
 \'ou know the reason I have, you know 
 the right 
 
BO Til WELL. 
 
 143 
 
 And he the danger of it, being no fool, 
 For fool he is not ; I would he were 
 
 but fool. 
 Oh, I feel dancing motions in my feet, 
 And laughter moving merrily at my 
 
 lips, 
 Only to think him dead and hearsed; or 
 
 hanged — 
 That were the better. I could dance 
 
 down his life, 
 Sing my steps through, treading on his 
 
 dead neck, 
 For love of his dead body and cast-out 
 
 soul. 
 He shall talk of me to the worm of 
 
 hell. 
 Prate in death's ear, and with a speech- 
 less tongue, 
 Of my dead doings in days gone out. 
 
 Sweet lord, 
 David, my good friend and my chancel- 
 lor, 
 I thank you for your counsel. 
 
 Rizzio. May it be 
 Prosperously mine I but howsoever, I 
 
 think 
 It were not well, when this man is put 
 
 down, 
 Though Lethington be wily or Melville 
 
 wise. 
 To make your stay of any other man. 
 Queen. I would I had no state to 
 
 need no stay, 
 God witness me, I had rather be reborn. 
 And born a poor mean woman, and live 
 
 low 
 With harmless habit and poor purity 
 Down to my dull death-day, a shep- 
 herd's wife. 
 Than a queen clothed and crowned 
 
 with force and fear. 
 Rizzio. Are you so weary of crowns, 
 
 and would not be 
 Soon wearier waxen of sheepfolds "i 
 
 Queen. 'Faith, who knows? 
 But I would not be weary, let that be 
 Part of my wish. I could be glad and 
 
 good. 
 Living so low, with little labors set. 
 And little sleeps and watches, night 
 
 and day 
 Falling and flowing as small waves in 
 
 low sea 
 
 From shine to shadow and back, and 
 
 out and in 
 Among the firths and reaches of low 
 
 life: 
 I would I were away and well. No 
 
 more, 
 For dear love talk no more of policy. 
 Let France and faith and envy and 
 
 England be. 
 And kingdom go, and people : I had 
 
 rather rest 
 Quiet for all my simple space of life, 
 With few friends' loves closing my life 
 
 days in, 
 And few things known, and grace of 
 
 humble ways, — 
 A loving little life of sweet small works. 
 Good faith, I was not made for other 
 
 life; 
 Nay, do you think it.** I will not hear 
 
 thereof ; 
 Let me hear music rather, as simple a 
 
 song. 
 If you have any, as these low thoughts 
 
 of mine. 
 Some lowly and old-world song of quiet 
 
 men. 
 Rizzio. Then is the time for love- 
 songs when the lip 
 Has no more leave to counsel ; even so 
 
 be it; 
 I will sing simply, and no more counsel 
 
 you. 
 Queen. Be not unfriends ; I have 
 
 made you wroth indeed, 
 Unknowing, and pray you even for my 
 
 no fault 
 Forgive, and give me music; I am 
 
 athirst 
 For sweet-tongued pardon only. 
 
 Rizzio. If this be harsh. 
 The pardon be for fault enforced of 
 
 mine. 
 
 Love with shut wings, a little ungrown 
 
 love, 
 A blitid lost love, alit on my shut heart. 
 As on an u}ihhnvn rose an iinjledged ikn>e : 
 Feeble the Jlight as yet, feehU the flowir. 
 And I said, Sho7o me if sleef< or love thou 
 
 art. 
 Or death or sorrow, or some obscurer 
 
 power ; 
 
144 
 
 BOTHIVELL. 
 
 Show me thyself^ tf thoti be some such 
 
 pcntwr, 
 Jf fkou Ite i^oci or spirit , sorroio or /(we, 
 yyiat J tnay praise Ihee for the thing thou 
 
 art. 
 And saying, I felt tny soul a sudden 
 
 Jioiver 
 Full-Jiedged of petals, atid thereon a dove 
 Sitting full-feathered, singing at my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Yet the song^s burden heavier oti tny 
 
 heart 
 Than a man''s burden laid on a child's 
 
 power. 
 Surely most bitter of all sweet things thou 
 
 art, 
 And sweetest thou of all things bitter, 
 
 love ; 
 Aftd if a poppy or if a rose thy flower, 
 iVe know fiot, nor if thou be kite or doz>e. 
 
 But nightingale is none, nor any dove. 
 That sings so long nor is so hot of heart 
 For love of sorr-nv or sorrow of any love ; 
 Nor all thy pain hath any or all thy 
 
 p07ver. 
 Nor any knows thee if bird or god thou 
 
 art. 
 Or whether a thorn to think thee, or 
 
 whether a flower. 
 
 But surely will I hold thee a glorious 
 
 fower. 
 And thy tongue surely yiuceter than the 
 
 dove 
 Muttering in mid leaves from a feri'ent 
 
 heart 
 Something divine of some exceeding loz'e, 
 Jf thou being god out of a great god's 
 
 power 
 IVilt make me also the glad thing thou 
 
 art. 
 
 Will no fnan's mercy sho7V me where 
 
 thou art. 
 Thai I may bring thee of all my fruit 
 
 and Jhnver, 
 That with loud lips and with a mo/ten 
 
 heart 
 I may sing all thy praises, till the <lt<ve 
 Th'it I desire to have within my pinoer 
 l-iy a I iny bidding to my bosom, liwe ^ 
 
 Clothed as jvith poiver of pinions, O my 
 
 heart. 
 Fly like a do7>e, and seek one so7.'ereign 
 
 Jlower, 
 Whose thrall thou art, and sing for loz't 
 
 of love. 
 
 Queen. It sings too southerly for this 
 
 harsh north; 
 This were a song for summer-sleeping 
 
 ears, 
 One to move dancing measures in men's 
 
 feet 
 Red-shod with reek o' the vintage. 
 
 Who went there ? 
 What ! hear you not ? 
 Mary Seyton. My lord of BothwelTs 
 
 foot : 
 His tread rings iron, as to battle-ward. 
 Queen. Not his, it was not. See if 
 
 it be indeed. 
 'Twas a good song Something he had 
 
 with me — 
 I thank you for your song — I know 
 
 not what. 
 Let him come in. Sir, be with us lo 
 
 night — 
 I knew it was late indeed — at supper 
 
 time. 
 Rizzio. Madam, till night I take my 
 
 loyal leave. 
 God give you good of all things. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Queen. Doth he mock me ? 
 I care not neither; I know not. Stay 
 
 with us. 
 
 Enter Botmwki.l. 
 Good morrow, sir : we bade you. did 
 
 we not ? 
 Be with us after noon; 'lis not noor. 
 
 near, 
 And you are truer than your own word ; 
 
 and that, 
 'Tis a true man's and trusty. 
 
 Bofhwell. True it slioul'lbe, 
 Madam, if truth be ttue. and I vour 
 
 thrall, 
 And truth's for your s.ike. 
 
 Queen. I would know of you — 
 I know not what — sotnithing there 
 
 was to know. 
 I would you were not warden — as in 
 
 truth 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 145 
 
 I think to unmake you — of the marches 
 
 there. 
 'Tis a fierce office. You have a royal 
 
 sword, 
 At least a knightly ; 1 would not see it 
 
 hacked rough 
 In brawlmg border dangers. 
 
 Botlnvcll. Anywhere 
 Hand, hilt, and edge are yours, to turn 
 
 and take. 
 Use or throw by; you know it. 
 
 Queen. I know it indeed. 
 1 have not many hearts with me, and 
 
 hold 
 Precious the hearts I have and the 
 
 good hands. 
 Ladies, we have somewhat with our 
 
 servant here 
 That needs no counsel and no ear of 
 
 yours, 
 So gives you leave. \Exetnil Maries. 
 I know not why they are gone ; 
 I have nothing with you secret. 
 
 Bolhwell. Yea, one thing; 
 You cannot help it; your face and 
 
 speech and look 
 Are secret with me in my secret heart. 
 Queen. I know not that; 1 would I 
 
 did know that. 
 'Tis yet not twelve days since I sa-w 
 
 you wed 
 To my dear friend, and with what eye 
 
 you know 
 Who would not, for all love that I 
 
 might make 
 And suit to you, give ear to me, and be 
 In mine own chapel at the holy mass 
 Made one with her ; for all the feast we 
 
 kept, 
 No jewel of mine bequeathed your wife 
 
 might l)uy 
 Consent of you to take her wedded 
 
 hand 
 After the church-rite of her faith and 
 
 mine ; 
 And how much love went with your 
 
 policy, 
 I cannot tell ; yet was my will content 
 That you should wed her name and 
 
 house, lo bring 
 The race of Gordon on our side again. 
 And have its ruin rebuilded and its 
 
 might 
 
 Restored to do us service ; so you said. 
 And so I thought I knew your mind to 
 
 stand ; 
 Being so fast bound to mc, I need not 
 
 doubt 
 She could but hold you by the hand, 
 
 and I 
 That had you by the heart need grudge 
 
 not that. 
 While time gave order, and expediency 
 Required of us allowance; but in faith 
 I know not whether there be faith or no, 
 Save in my heart, wherein 1 know too 
 
 sure 
 How little wisdom is to trust in man. 
 So comes it, as you see, for all my 
 
 show, 
 I am ill at heart, and tired. 
 
 Both-well. 'Tis your own blame. 
 Queen. Yea, now, what would you 
 
 have me .'' I am yours to do it : 
 But you say nothing ; yet you say too 
 
 much. 
 My blame it is, my weary waste of 
 
 breath. 
 My wretched hours and empty blood- 
 less life. 
 My sleepy vigils and my starting sleeps, 
 All by my fault — if it be fault to be 
 More than all men loving, all women 
 
 true, 
 To hunger with the foodless heart of 
 
 grief, 
 And wither with the tearless thirst of 
 
 eyes. 
 To wander in wea"k thought through 
 
 unsown fields. 
 Past unreaped sheaves of vision ; to be 
 
 blind, 
 Weak, sick and lame of spirit and poor 
 
 of soul. 
 And to live loveless for love's bitter 
 
 sake, 
 And have to food loathing, and shame 
 
 for drink. 
 And see no cease or breach in my long 
 
 life 
 Where these might end or die; my 
 
 fault it is. 
 And I will kill my fault: for I that 
 
 loved 
 Will live to love no living thing again. 
 Both-well, As you will, then. 
 
140 
 
 nOTHlVRLL. 
 
 Queen. Nay, do not tread on nic ; 
 I am lying a worm out of your way, 
 
 aiul )ou 
 Turn back to bruise me. I am stricken 
 
 sore enough ; 
 Do not worse wound me ; I am hurt to 
 
 the heart. 
 You change and shift quicker than all 
 
 good things, 
 That all change quickly: I am fast, and 
 
 cannot change. 
 If you do hold me so, fast in your 
 
 heart. 
 You should not surely mock me. 
 
 Bothwell. I mock you not. 
 You are looser and lighter-tempered 
 
 than the wind, 
 And say I mock you : 'tis you mock 
 
 yourself, 
 And much more me that wot not of 
 
 your mind ; 
 What would you have, and would not. 
 
 Queen. Nothing, I, 
 Nothing but peace, and shall not. By 
 
 my faith, 
 I think no man ever loved woman well. 
 You laugh, and thrust your lips up, but 
 
 'tis truth, — 
 This that I think, not your light lewd 
 
 man's thought, 
 I>ut in my meaning it is bitter true. 
 l)y heaven, I have no heart for any on 
 
 earth, 
 Any man else, nor any matter of 
 
 man's. 
 But love of one man ; nay, and never 
 
 had. 
 Bothwell. I do believe it, by myself I 
 
 do. 
 Who am even the self-same natured ; 
 
 so T know it. 
 Quecti. What heart have you to hurt 
 
 me ? I am no fool 
 To hate you for your heat of natural 
 
 heart. 
 I know vou have loved and love not all 
 
 alike. 
 But somewhat all ; I hate you not for 
 
 that. 
 When have I made words of it ? sought 
 
 out times 
 To wrangle with you .'' crossed you with 
 
 myself? 
 
 What have I said, what done, by saying 
 
 or deed 
 To vex you for my love's sake .•* and 
 
 have been 
 For my part faithful beyond reach of 
 
 faith, 
 Kingdomless queen, and wife unhus- 
 
 banded. 
 Till in you reigning I might reign and 
 
 rest. 
 I have kept my body, yea from wedded 
 
 bed, 
 And kept mine hand, yea from my 
 
 sceptre's weight, 
 That you might have me and my king- 
 dom whole: 
 What have these done to take you, 
 
 what to keep, 
 Worth one day's doing of mine yet.^ 
 
 Ah ! you know. 
 For all the shape and show of things 
 
 without. 
 For all the marriage and the bodilr 
 
 bond 
 And fleshly figure of community, 
 I have loved no man, man never hath 
 
 had me whole, 
 I am virgin toward you : O my love, 
 
 love, love. 
 This that is not yours in me I abhor, 
 I pray God for your sake it may be 
 
 false. 
 Foolish and foul : I would not have it 
 
 man. 
 Not manlike, and not mine, it shall not 
 
 be. 
 Being none of love's, and rootless in 
 
 my soul. 
 Not growing of my spirit but my blood ; 
 I hate myself till it be born. 
 
 Bofh-well. Ay, sweet. 
 You talk now loud of love; but ten 
 
 days since 
 Was T not bid love well your friend, 
 
 and be 
 True husband to her? what swcet- 
 
 tongucd preacher then 
 Taught me how faith should best be 
 
 kept by change 
 Of passionate fear and pleasure and 
 
 bright pain 
 And all their strange sharp sweet so 
 
 licitudes 
 
BO Tin VEIL. 
 
 147 
 
 For such good gifts as wisdom gives 
 
 and takes 
 ¥xom hand to married hand of them 
 
 that wed ? 
 Whose counsel was this wisdom ? whose 
 
 command 
 This that set sorrow and silence as one 
 
 seal 
 On the shut lips of foolishness and love ? 
 Queen. I bade you not be wise ; or, if 
 
 I bade, 
 It was to be obeyed not. 
 Both-well. Then indeed 
 I did obey not, who did foolishly 
 To do your bidding. 
 
 Queen. Mine .^ did I say, Go ? 
 Did I say, Love her "i did I say. Hate 
 
 me ? 
 As you must hate to love her. Yea, 
 
 perchance 
 I said all this ; I know not if I said ; 
 But all this have you done ; I know 
 
 that well. 
 Both-well. Indeed I have done all this 
 
 if aught I have, 
 A.nd loved at all or loathed, save what 
 
 mine eye 
 Hath ever loathed or loved since first 
 
 it saw 
 That face which taught it faith, and 
 
 made it first 
 Think scorn to turn and look on change, 
 
 or see 
 How hateful in my love's sight are their 
 
 eyes 
 That give love's light to others. 
 
 Queen. Tell her so, 
 Not me ; I care not though you love 
 
 your wife 
 So well that all strange women's eyes 
 
 and mine 
 Are hateful to you. Oh, what heart 
 
 have I, 
 That jest and wrangle .? but indeed I 
 
 thought 
 You should do well to love her not, but 
 
 wed, 
 And make you strong, and get us 
 
 friends — but, nay, 
 God knows I know not what I thought, 
 
 or why, 
 When you should wed her: now I 
 
 think but this, 
 
 That if one love not, she does well to 
 
 die ; 
 And if one love, she does not well to 
 
 live. 
 I pray you, go ; not for my love who 
 
 pray. 
 But that for love's sake we thought well 
 
 to part. 
 And if we loved not it was well indeed. 
 Go. 
 
 Both-well. To what end .-* and whither ,-' 
 
 whencesoe'er, 
 I must come back. 
 
 Queen. Not to my feet, not mine ; 
 Where should his end be for a married 
 
 man 
 To lie down lightly, with all care cast 
 
 off. 
 And sleep more sound than in lov^j's 
 
 lap ? for sleep 
 Between the two fair fiery breasts of, 
 
 love 
 Will rest his head not oft, nor oft shut 
 
 eyes. 
 They say, that love's have looked on. 
 
 Both-well. By that law, 
 Mine eyes must wake forever. 
 
 Queen. Nay, for shame. 
 Let not the fire in them that feeds on' 
 
 mine 
 Strike fire upon my cheeks : turn off 
 
 their heat ; 
 It takes my breath like flame, and 
 
 smothers me. 
 What ! when I bid > 
 
 Both-well. You have bid me d(y be- 
 fore 
 What you have chid me doing, bui 
 
 never yet 
 A thing so past all nature hard, u .. 
 
 now 
 Shall chide me for obedience. 
 
 Queen. Well — ah nie ! — 
 I lack the heart to chide ; I have borne 
 
 too much, 
 And haply too much loved. Abs I and 
 
 now 
 I am fain too much to show it; but he 
 
 that made 
 Made me no liar, nor gave me Craft 
 
 with power 
 To choose what I might hide at will, 01 
 
 show. 
 
148 
 
 nOTIIlVEI.L. 
 
 I am simplc-soulcd and sudden in my 
 
 speech, 
 Too swift and hot of heart to guard my 
 
 lips 
 Or else lie lightly : wherefore while I 
 
 may, 
 Till my time come to speak of hate or 
 
 love, 
 I will be dumb, patient as pity's self 
 Gazing from Godward down on things 
 
 of the earth, 
 And dumb till the time be : would I 
 
 were God ! 
 Time should be quicker to lend help 
 
 and hand 
 To men that wait on him. I will not 
 
 wait, 
 Lest I wait over-long, no more than 
 
 need, — 
 By my long love, I will not. Were I a 
 
 man, 
 I had been by this a free man. 
 
 Both-well. Be content. 
 If I have any wit of soldiership, 
 'Tis not far off from this to the iron 
 
 day 
 That sets on the edge of battle, the 
 
 bare blow. 
 All that we fight or fret for. 'Tis not 
 
 like 
 Men will bear long with iheir own lin- 
 gering hopes 
 And hearts immitigable, and fiery fears 
 That burn above dead ashes of things 
 
 quenched 
 Hotter for danger, and light men forth 
 
 to fight, 
 And from between the breaking ranks 
 
 of war 
 The flower must grow of all their fears 
 
 and h()|)es, — 
 Hopes of high ]:)romisc, fears made 
 
 quick bv faith. 
 Angers, ambitions ; which to gather and 
 
 wear 
 Must be our toil and garland. 
 
 Quceu. My heart's lord, 
 I put my heart and hands into your 
 
 haml 
 To hold and help: do you what thing 
 
 in the world 
 Shall seem well to you with them, they 
 
 content 
 
 Live with your love, or die. For my 
 
 one part, 
 I would I had done with need of for 
 
 ging words. 
 That 1 might keep truth pure upon my 
 
 lips. 
 I am weary of lying, and would not 
 
 speak word more 
 To mock my heart with, and win faith 
 
 from men. 
 But for the truth's sake of my love, 
 
 which lies 
 To save the true life in me. 
 
 Botlnocll. It may be 
 You shall not long need to dress love 
 
 in lies : 
 This plighted plague of yours hath few 
 
 men friends 
 To put their bodies between death and 
 
 his. 
 Queen. Nay, I think not ; and we 
 
 shall shape us friends 
 Out of the stuff of their close enmi- 
 ties. 
 Wherewith he walks inwoven and 
 
 wound about 
 To the edge and end of peril ; yet God 
 
 knows 
 If I iox all my cause would seek his 
 
 death. 
 Whose lips have stained me with report 
 
 as foul 
 As seem to mine their kisses, that like 
 
 brands 
 Sear my shamed face with tire to think 
 
 on them ; 
 Yet would I rather let him live, would 
 
 God, 
 Without mine honor or my conscience 
 
 hurt. 
 Divide from mine his star, or bid it set. 
 And on my life lift up that light in 
 
 heaven 
 That is my day of the heart, my sun of 
 
 soul. 
 To shine till night shut up those loving 
 
 eyes. 
 That death could turn not from it 
 
 ^though the fire 
 Were quenched at heart that fed them. 
 
 Nay, no more : 
 Let me go hence, and weep not. 
 
 iExit 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 140 
 
 Bolhwell. Fire, in faith, ! 
 
 Enough to light hini down the way of 
 
 the worm, 
 And leave nie warmer. She went sud- 
 denly : 
 Doth she doubt yet ? I think, by God's 
 
 light, no: 
 I hold her over-fast by body and soul, — 
 Flesh holds not spirit closer. Now 
 
 what way 
 To shift him over the edge and end of 
 
 life, 
 She laughs and talks of, yet keep fast 
 
 my foot 
 On the strait verge of smooth-worn 
 
 stony things 
 That we stand still or slide on.'' 'Tis 
 
 a shoal 
 Whereon the goodliest galleon of man's 
 
 hope, 
 That had no burning beacon such as 
 
 mine 
 Lit of her love to steer by, could not 
 
 choose 
 But run to wreck. 
 
 Re-enter Mary Beaton. 
 Mary Beaton. Pray you, my lord, a 
 
 word. 
 If you know aught of any new thing 
 
 here. 
 You will not be about the court to- 
 night : 
 If not, of my good will I' counsel you, 
 Make hence in speed and secret, and 
 
 have hope 
 Till the next day lighten your days to 
 
 come. 
 Both-well. I had rather the close moon 
 
 and stars a-night 
 Lit me to love-bed : what warm game 
 
 is here, 
 That I must keep mine hand out ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Such a game 
 As you shall win and play not, or my wit 
 Is fallen in sickness from me. Sir, you 
 
 know 
 I am your friend, I have your hap at 
 
 heart. 
 Glad of your good, and in your crosses 
 
 crossed : 
 I pray you trust me, and be close and 
 
 wise, 
 For love of your own luck. 
 
 Bothwt'll. Tell me one thing : 
 What hand herein shall Master David 
 
 hold .? 
 Mary Beaton. I think he will not hold 
 
 the like alive. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The High Street. 
 
 Burgesses and Peoplk. 
 First Citizen. Was it not shown long 
 
 since when she came in. 
 If God were glad of her ? Two days 
 
 and nights 
 Ere she brought strife among us, and 
 
 again 
 Two nights and days when first we saw 
 
 her face, 
 We saw not once by day the sun's in 
 
 heaven, 
 The moon's by night, or any space of 
 
 stars. 
 But thick sick mist corrupting the moist 
 
 air 
 With drench of darkness, so that scarce 
 
 at noon 
 Might man spy man a bow-shot's length 
 
 away ; 
 And in man's memory on that day of 
 
 the year 
 Was never a more dolorous face of 
 
 heaven 
 Seen so to scowl on summer, as to speak 
 What comfort shall come with her to 
 
 this land; 
 But then were most eyes blind. 
 
 Second Citizen. These five years since 
 Has God filled full of signs that they 
 
 ^might see. 
 And sent his plagues to open them ; and 
 
 most, 
 This year or twain what portents of his 
 
 hand 
 Have writ us down in heaven and 
 
 trembling earth 
 For fearful flatterers and for faithless 
 
 friends 
 Whose fear and friendship have no part 
 
 in him, 
 Who knows not or can read not ? 
 
 Famine, frost, 
 Storms of stars crossing, and strange 
 
 fires in the air, — 
 Have these no tongues to chide 'with ? 
 
ISO 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Thini Citizen. Why, at first 
 A man that was no seer might see what 
 
 end 
 Should come on us that saw the mass 
 
 conic in, 
 And held our hand when man by man 
 
 feU off, 
 And heart by heart was cooled of all 
 
 its heat 
 By sprinkled holy-water of the court 
 In five days' space, tempering the fer- 
 vent edge 
 That had been fieriest on God's side: 
 
 Lord James, 
 Whose heart should weep now for it, 
 
 or burn again 
 With shame to think how he made 
 
 strong their hands 
 Who have "cast him out among the 
 
 banished lords 
 That lack their life in England, kept 
 
 himself 
 The chapel-door, that none who loved 
 
 God's law 
 Might slay the idolatrous and whorish 
 
 priest 
 In his mid sin ; and after mass was said 
 Lord Robert and Lord John of Cold- 
 
 ingham. 
 Who then had put not off our cause, 
 
 but sat 
 With faithful men as fellows at God's 
 
 board. 
 Conveyed him to his chamber : there 
 
 began 
 The curse that yet constrains us, and 
 
 must fall 
 On more than these; of whom ye 
 
 know this John 
 Is now before the face o' the fire of 
 
 God, 
 And ere he died in desperate penitence, 
 Men say, sent warning to his sister 
 
 queen 
 To turn her feet from those unquiet 
 
 ways 
 Wherein they tread behind the Pope's 
 
 to hell. 
 First Citizen. His life was like his 
 
 brother's of St. Cross, 
 As foul as need or friar's or abbot's be 
 That had no shameful part in a king's 
 
 race, 
 
 And made such end as he that lives ma; 
 
 make, 
 Whose bastard blood is proud yet, and 
 
 insults 
 As might a prince's or a ])riest's indeed, 
 Being Irulv neither, yet with either name 
 Signed as in scorn; these are our lords, 
 
 whose lust 
 Breaks down men's doors to fetch their 
 
 daughters forth. 
 Even as his townsmen vexed the doors 
 
 of Lot 
 Till God sent on them fire, who spares 
 
 but these 
 For our shame's sake, because we spare, 
 
 being men, 
 And let our hands hang swordless, and 
 
 the wrath 
 Faint in our hearts, that though God 
 
 send none down 
 Should be made fire to make a fire of 
 
 them. 
 Third Citizen. These fools and foul 
 
 that with them draw the king 
 To shame and riotous insolence which 
 
 turns 
 Past hope and love to loathing, — these, 
 
 though vile. 
 Have in them less of poison than men's 
 
 tongues 
 Who for the queen's love boast in what 
 
 brief while 
 They will pluck down God, and plant 
 
 Antichrist, 
 And pull out Knox by the ears : thus 
 
 Bothwell did, 
 And yet stands higher than any head 
 
 save his 
 Who in disdain of danger fills his hands 
 As full of gold as are his faithless lips 
 Of lie-, and bloody counsels, and 
 
 requires 
 No less than part in all their forfeit 
 
 lands 
 That live in exile, so to turn his name 
 From loon to lord, from stranger into 
 
 Scot, 
 And next the Pope's exalt it : while 
 
 this king 
 Sets all his heart to fleshly foolishness. 
 The beastlike body that eats up the 
 
 soul 
 As a bird «narcd and eaten ; and in feaj 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 151 
 
 Of God and Rimmon, with a supi)le 
 
 soul, 
 Crooks his lithe knee for ci alt, and bows 
 
 his back 
 In cither's house, yet seeks no prophet's 
 
 leave, 
 Nor hears his saying that God shall 
 
 spew the like 
 Out of his mouth. 
 Second Citizen. Yet this good grows in 
 
 him, 
 That he has fallen in anger with the 
 
 queen 
 For her knave's sake that was his 
 
 closest friend. 
 Chief craftsman and main builder of 
 
 the match ; 
 Yea, half his heart, brother and bed- 
 fellow. 
 Sworn secret on his side. 
 
 Third Citizen. There are who think 
 They have changed beds in very and 
 
 shameful deed. 
 And halved more than their own hearts. 
 
 First Citizen. He came here 
 On the Pope's party, against our kingly 
 
 lords. 
 Against the duke, our first more natu- 
 ral head. 
 Against the good-will of all godliness ; 
 And hath he now cast their cords from 
 
 him ? nay. 
 This is the stormy sickness of ill blood 
 Swelling the veins of sin in violent 
 
 youth 
 •That makes them wrangle, but at home 
 
 and heart, 
 Whatever strife there seem of hands 
 
 abroad, 
 They are single-minded in the hate of 
 
 God. 
 Did he not break forth into bitterness. 
 Being warned by Knox of youth and 
 
 empty heart, 
 Yea, rail aloud as one made mad with 
 
 wine ? 
 Did he not lay devices with this knave 
 That now ye say defiles him in his 
 
 wife. 
 To rid the noble Murray from their 
 
 way, 
 That they might ride with hotter spurs 
 for hell > 
 
 Second Citizen. God hath set strife 
 
 betwixt them, that their feet 
 Should not be long time out of their 
 
 own snares. 
 Here be the men we look for comfori 
 
 from. 
 Men that have God's mark sharp upon 
 
 the soul ; 
 Stout Ochiltree, and our main stay 
 
 John Knox. 
 Enter John Knox and Ochiltree. 
 Ochiltree. Have you yet hope that 
 
 for his people's sake 
 God will leave off to harden her hard 
 
 heart. 
 That you will yet plead with her .•• 
 John Knox. Nay, I know n ot ; 
 But what I may by word or witness 
 
 borne. 
 That will I do, being bidden : yet indeed 
 I think not to bring down her height of 
 
 mind 
 By counsel or admonishment. Her 
 
 soul 
 Is as a flame of fire, insatiable. 
 And subtle as thin water; with her 
 
 craft 
 Is passion mingled so inseparably 
 That each gets strength from other, her 
 
 swift wit 
 By passion being enkindled and made 
 
 hot, 
 And by her wit her keen and passionate 
 
 heart 
 So tempered that it burn itself not out, 
 Consuming to no end. Never, I think, 
 Hath God brought up against the peo- 
 ple of God, 
 To try their force or feebleness of faith, 
 A foe than this more dangerous, nor of 
 
 mood 
 More resolute against him. 
 Ochiltree. So long since 
 You prophesied of her when new come 
 
 in : 
 What then avails it that you counsel 
 
 her 
 To be not this born danger that she is. 
 But friends with God she hates, and 
 
 with his folk 
 She would root put and ruin ? 
 
 John Knox. Yet this time 
 I am not bidden of him to cast her off 
 
152 
 
 DOTH WELL. 
 
 I will Speak once ; for here even in our 
 
 eyes 
 Mis enemies grow great, and cast off 
 
 shame. 
 We are haled up out of hell to heaven, 
 
 and now 
 They would fain pluck us backward by 
 
 the skirt. 
 And these men call me bitter-tongued 
 
 and hard, 
 Who am not bitter; but their work and 
 
 they 
 Who gather garlands from the red pit- 
 side 
 To make foul fragrance in adulterous 
 
 hair. 
 And lift white hands to hide the fires 
 
 of God, — 
 Their sweetness and their whiteness 
 
 shall he turn 
 Bitter and black. I have no hate of 
 
 her. 
 That I should spare ; I will not spare 
 
 to strive 
 That the strong God may spare her, 
 
 and not man. 
 Ochiltree. Yea, both, so be we have 
 
 our lost lords home, 
 And the Pope's back-bowed changeling 
 
 clean cast out 
 And of a knave made carrion. 
 John Knox. For your first, 
 
 II grows as fruit 6ut of your second 
 
 wish : 
 Come but the day that looks in his dead 
 
 face, 
 And these that hate him as he hates all 
 
 good 
 Shall have their friends home, and 
 
 their honor high 
 Which the continuance of his life keeps 
 
 low. 
 Ochiltree. .Surely, for that, my hand 
 
 or any's else 
 Were hot enough to help him to his end. 
 Yet when this thing is through, and this 
 
 l^higuc jnirgcd, 
 There stands a thorn yet in our way to 
 
 prick, — 
 The loose, weak witted, half-souled boy 
 
 called king. 
 John Knox. 1 1 is of him I am bidden 
 
 speak with her, 
 
 Having but now rebuked him back 
 
 sliding 
 In God's sight and his name. It may 
 
 be yet. 
 Whether by foolishness and envious 
 
 heart. 
 Or by some nobler touch left in his 
 
 blood, — 
 Some pulse of spirit that beats to a 
 
 tune more high 
 Than base men set their hearts by, — 
 
 he will turn 
 Helpful to Godward, serviceable in soul 
 To good men's ends in hate of that they 
 
 hate. 
 I cannot say : howbeit, I fear not much 
 Her love of him will keep. him fast to 
 
 her; 
 If he be drawn in bonds after her 
 
 wheels, 
 It will be but of subtle soul and craft 
 The cords are woven that hold him. 
 
 But, for me. 
 Love they or hate, my way is clear with 
 
 them : 
 Not for her sake iror his sake shall our 
 
 Lord 
 Change counsel and turn backward*, 
 
 and save his 
 What will or wit I have to speak or 
 
 live, 
 He knows who made it little for myself, 
 But for him great ; and be you well 
 
 assured. 
 Love of their love nor doubt of their 
 
 dislike 
 Hath u|)on me more power than upon 
 
 God. 
 For now I have seen him strive these 
 
 divers years 
 With spirits of men and minds exorbi- 
 tant, 
 Souls made as iron and their face as 
 
 flame 
 Full hard and hot against him, and 
 
 their wits 
 Most serpent-strong and swift, sudden 
 
 of thought 
 And overflowing of counsel, and their 
 
 hands 
 Full of their fortune, and their hearts 
 
 made large j 
 
 To hold increase of all prosperities; j 
 
BOTHIVELL. 
 
 53 
 
 And all these are not, and I poor num 
 am, 
 
 Because he hath taken and set me on 
 his side, 
 
 And not where these were ; I am con- 
 tent alone 
 
 To keep mine own heart in his secret 
 sight 
 
 Naked and clean, well knowing that no 
 man born 
 
 Shall do me scathe but he hath bidden 
 him do. 
 
 Nor I speak word but as he hath set it 
 me. 
 First Citizen. Goes he to Holyrood ? 
 Second Citizen. Ay, sir, by noon. 
 First Citizen. There is a kindling 
 trouble in the air; 
 
 The sun is halting toward the top of 
 day; 
 
 It will be shine or rain before he 
 come. 
 Ochiltree. What ails this folk to 
 hover at our heel, - 
 
 And hang their eyes on you so heed- 
 fully.? 
 John Knox. They should be natu- 
 rally disquieted. 
 
 Seeing what new wind makes white the 
 wave o' the time 
 
 We ride on out of harbor. — Sirs, ye 
 have heard 
 
 News of your scathe and of shame done 
 to God, 
 
 And the displeasure bites you by the 
 heart, 
 
 I doubt not, if your hearts be godly 
 given : 
 
 Make your souls strong in patience ; 
 let your wrath 
 
 Be rather as iron than a3 fuel in fire. 
 
 Tempered and not consumed; heat 
 that burns out. 
 
 Leaves the hearth chillier for the flame- 
 less ash 
 
 Than ere the wood was kindled. 
 First Citizen. Master Knox, 
 
 You know us, whereto we would, and 
 by what way : 
 
 This too much patience burns our 
 cheeks with shame 
 
 That our hands are not redder than our 
 face 
 
 With slaying of manslayers who spill 
 
 blood of faith, 
 And pierce the heart of naked holiness. 
 It is far gone in rumor, how the (lueen 
 Will set on high and feed on gold that 
 
 man 
 Who was a scourge laid long since on 
 
 the saints, — 
 The archbishop of St. Andrew's; and 
 
 perforce. 
 Dyed as he stands in grain wi^h inuo 
 
 cent blood, 
 Will make him mightier for our scathe 
 
 and shame 
 Than ere the kindly people of the word 
 Has made him bare of bad authority. 
 Second Citizen. Likewise she hath 
 
 given her seal imperial 
 To a lewd man and a stranger, her own 
 
 knave, 
 Vile, and a papist ; that with harp and 
 
 song 
 Makes her way smoother toward the pit 
 
 of hell. 
 John Knoxi What needs us count 
 
 and cast offences up 
 That all we know of, how all these 
 
 have one head, — 
 The hateful head of unstanched mis- 
 belief? 
 For sins are sin-begotten, and their seed 
 Bred of itself and singly procreative ; 
 Nor is God served wUh setting this to 
 
 this 
 For evil evidence of several shame, 
 That one may say, Lo now! so many 
 
 are they; 
 But if one, seeing with God-illumined 
 
 eyes 
 In his full face the encountering face of 
 
 sin. 
 Smite once th-: one high-fronted head, 
 
 and slay, 
 His will we call good service. For 
 
 myself. 
 If ye will make a counsellor of me, 
 I bid you set your hearts ag^ainst one 
 
 thing 
 To burn it up, and keep your hearts on 
 
 fire. 
 Not seeking here a sign and there a 
 
 a sign. 
 Nor curious of all casual sufferance:^. 
 
154 
 
 nOTI/lVELL. 
 
 But steadfast to the undoing of that 
 
 thing done 
 Whereof ye know the being, however 
 
 it be, 
 And all the doing abominable of God. 
 Who questions with a snake if the 
 
 snake sting ? 
 Who reasons of the lightning if it burn ? 
 While these things arc, deadly will 
 
 these things be ; 
 And so the curse that comes of cursed 
 
 faith. 
 First Citizen. It is well said. 
 Second Citizen. Ay, and well done 
 
 were well. 
 Third Citizen. We have borne too 
 
 long for God, we that are men, 
 Who hath time to bear with evil if he 
 
 would. 
 Having for life's length even eternity; 
 But we that have but half our life to live, 
 Whose half of days is swallowed of 
 
 their nights, — 
 We take on us this lame long-suffering, 
 To sit more still and patienter than 
 
 God, 
 As though we had space to doubt in, 
 
 and long time 
 For temperate, quiet, and questionable 
 
 pause. 
 First Citizen. Let the time come — 
 Second Citizen. Nay, we must make 
 
 the time. 
 Bid the day bring forth to us the fruit 
 
 we would, 
 Or else fare fruitless forth. 
 
 Third Citizen. It is nigh noon ; 
 There will be shine and rain and shine 
 
 ere night. 
 
 Scene III 
 
 HoLVROon. 
 
 The Queen and Rizzio; Mary Sey- 
 TON and Mary Carmichael in at- 
 tendance. 
 
 Queen. Is he so tender-tongued ? it is 
 his fear 
 That plucks the fang out from his hate, 
 
 and makes 
 A stingjcss snake of his malignant 
 
 heart ; 
 He hath a mind — or, had he a mind at 
 all. 
 
 Would have a mind — to mischief; but 
 
 his will 
 Is a dumb devil. 
 
 Rizzio. Why, fear then and no love 
 Will make faith in him out of false- 
 hood's self, 
 And keep him constant through un- 
 
 stableness. 
 Queen. Fear that makes faith may 
 
 break faith ; and a fool 
 Is but in folly stable. I cannot tell 
 If he indeed fear these men more than 
 
 me; 
 Or if he slip their collar, whether or no 
 He will be firm on my side, as you 
 
 say. 
 Through very lightness; but I thmk 
 
 not of him. 
 Steadfast or slippery. Would I had 
 
 been that day 
 Handless, when I made one his hand 
 
 with mine ! 
 Yet it seemed best. I am spirit-sick 
 
 and faint 
 With shame of his foul follies and 
 
 loathed life. 
 Which hath no part but lewdness of a 
 
 man. 
 Nor style of soul nor several quality, 
 Dividing men from men, and man from 
 
 beast. 
 By working heart or complement of 
 
 brain, — 
 None, very none. I will not sec iiim 
 
 to-night. 
 I have given command to insure our 
 
 privacy. 
 Is it past noon .'' 
 
 Enter Darnley and Makv Beai'ON. 
 Darnley. You say sh*^ hath asked for 
 
 me } 
 Mary Beaton. Ay, and complainingly, 
 
 as though her love 
 Were struck at by your absence. 
 
 Darnley. Love ! her love I 
 It were a cunning stroke should print a 
 
 wound 
 In that which hath no substance, and 
 
 no spirit 
 To feel the hurt. Well, I will speak t(' 
 
 her. 
 Queen. How like a chidden bondman 
 
 of his lorJ 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 155 
 
 Looks my lord now ! Come you from 
 
 penance, sir? 
 Has the kirk put you to no private 
 
 shrunc 
 Besides the public tongue of broad re- 
 buke ? 
 We are blessed in your penitence ; it is 
 A gracious promise for you. 
 Darnley. Penitence ? 
 Queen. You have a tender faith ana 
 
 quick remorse 
 That vi'ill bear buffets easily; pray God 
 It pluck you absolution from their 
 
 hands 
 Who are godly sparing of it. We have 
 
 heard 
 A priest of theirs cast for incontinence 
 Hardly with thrice purgation of his 
 
 shame 
 Recleemed himself to kirkwaxd. 
 Darnley. I hear naught. 
 Queen. Nay, but you hear when these 
 
 rebuke you of sin 
 In the full face and popular ear of men ; 
 You hear them surely, and patiently 
 
 you hear, 
 And it shows in you godliness and 
 
 grace 
 Praiseworthy from them; for myself, 
 
 my lord, 
 I have some foolish petulances in me 
 And stings of pride that shut me out 
 
 from grace 
 So sought and bought of such men ; 
 
 but your course 
 May teach me timelier humble-minded- 
 
 ness 
 And patience to get favor : which till 
 
 now 
 I have never needed beg, and now 
 
 should prove 
 A very witless beggar. Teach me 
 
 words. 
 Pray you, to move men's minds with; 
 
 such great men's 
 As your submission purchases to be 
 Good friends and patrons to you ; for I 
 
 fear 
 Your Knox is not my friend yet. 
 
 Darnley. So I think. 
 Madam, I know not what you make of 
 
 me, 
 Nor if your jest be seasonable or no ; 
 
 I am no fool nor implement of theirs, 
 Nor paticnter of their irreverences 
 Than the queen's self; if you endure 
 
 such tongues, 
 Why, I may bear them. 
 
 Queen. Well and patiently; 
 I praise your manhood's temper for it 
 
 and am 
 The happier for your royalty of spirit 
 That will not feel wrong done of baser 
 
 men 
 To be at all wrong done you. 
 
 Darnley. Will you think it? 
 Well then, I am so, I am just your 
 
 thought; 
 You read me right, and this our friend 
 
 reads too, 
 For I am plain and easy to read right. 
 Queen. Have you made time to say 
 
 so? 
 Darnley. Ay, and this, 
 That it mislikes me — it gives me dis- 
 content 
 That men should — 
 
 Queen. Ay ? that men should — any 
 thing — 
 Bear themselves manlike, or that men 
 
 should be, — 
 It is offence done openly to you ? 
 Darnley. Nay, not offence, nor open ; 
 naught it is. 
 Or to me naught. 
 
 Queen. Naught as I think, indeed. 
 You were about to chide us ? well it is 
 You have so humble a wife of us and 
 
 true. 
 To make your chidings fruitful, that 
 
 your words 
 Bear and bring forth good seed of bet- 
 tering change. 
 I pray you, when you chide me, that 
 
 you make 
 Your stripes the gentler for my humble 
 ness. 
 Darnley. I have no mind to jest and 
 jape, and will — 
 And will not wrangle with you. 
 
 Queen. Will, and will not ? 
 They say a woman's will is made like 
 
 that, 
 But vour will yet is wilfullcr than ours 
 Darnley. Not as I think. 
 Queen. God better the king's thought 
 
156 
 
 BOTHWtLLL. 
 
 And mind more tyrannous than is his 
 
 place I 
 Darnley. If I be king — 
 Queen. And I be kingdomless, 
 And place be no place, and distinction 
 
 die 
 Between the crown and curch — Well, 
 
 on, our lord. 
 Darnlcy. Why am I out of counsel 
 
 with you? Whence 
 Am I made show of for a titular fool. 
 And have no hand in enterprise of 
 
 yours. 
 Nor tongue, nor presence ? Not alone 
 
 my name 
 That is rubbed out and grated off your 
 
 gold. 
 But myself plucked out of your register, 
 Made light account of, held as nothing- 
 ness, 
 Might move me — 
 Queen. Whither? 
 Darnley. To some show of wrath 
 More than complaint, if I were minded 
 
 ill. 
 Here is a breach made with the English 
 
 queen. 
 Our cousin of England, a wide-open 
 
 breach, 
 A great-grown quarrel, and I no part 
 
 of it. 
 Not named or known of. 
 
 Queen. You are the hai)])Ier man 
 Heavenward, if blessed be the peace- 
 able. 
 Darnley. The happier heavenward, 
 
 being the worldlier shamed; 
 The less I like it. You have suddenly 
 
 cast forth 
 A man her servant and ambassador. 
 With graceless haste and instance, from 
 
 the realm, 
 fin barren charge of bare complicity 
 With men now banished and in English 
 
 bounds. 
 But not attaint of treason toward us 
 
 yet 
 Nor deadly doomed of justice. 
 
 Qt4een. Not attaint ? 
 Give not your si)irit trouble for that ; 
 
 the act 
 Is drawn 'by this against them, and the 
 
 estates 
 
 Need but give warrant to their forfeit- 
 ure, 
 Now it has passed the lords of the 
 
 articles. 
 Take no care for it ; though it be sweet 
 
 in you, 
 And gracious, to show care of your 
 
 worst foes 
 You have on earth ; that would have 
 
 driven you forth 
 A shameful rebel to your cousin queen, 
 And naked of our foreign favor here 
 That clothc^l you with unnatural royalty 
 And not your proper purple. Forth; 
 
 you say 
 I have done this wrong ? 
 
 Darnley. I do not say you have done 
 Wise work nor unwise; but howbeit, I 
 
 say 
 I had no part in aught of it, nor knew 
 With what a spur's prick you provoked 
 
 her spleen 
 Who is not stingless to requite it you, 
 Nor with what scant of reason. 
 
 Queen. 'Tis sad truth. 
 She shows no less disquiet mind than 
 
 yours, 
 Nor a less loud displeasure : she was 
 
 kind, 
 She says, well-willed to me-ward, but 
 
 my sins, 
 Unkindliness, and soul's obduracy, 
 Have made her soft heart hard; and 
 
 for this fault 
 She will not ever counsel me again, 
 Nor cease to comfort my dear brother's 
 
 need 
 With gold^ and good compassion; and 
 
 I have 
 Even such a sister as brother of her as 
 
 him. 
 And love alike and am like loved of 
 
 them. 
 He wills me well, she swears, as she 
 
 herself, 
 And, I'll re-swear it; she wills as well 
 
 as he. 
 Darnley. Ay, we know whence this 
 
 wellsprmg of your will 
 Takes head and current ; who must 
 
 have brave wars 
 We know, fair ficlii, broad booty to 
 
 sweep up. 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 57 
 
 Space to win spurs in ; and what Eni^- 
 lish gold 
 
 Must after battle gild his heels with 
 them, 
 
 When he shall stand up in my father's 
 stead, 
 
 Lieutenant-general for you of the realm; 
 
 And who must have your brother's 
 lands we know, 
 
 Investiture must have, and chancellor- 
 ship. 
 
 And masterdom in council. Here he 
 stands, 
 
 A worthy witness to it : do you look on 
 me ? 
 
 Is it not you must be the golden sir, 
 
 The counsel-keeper, the sole tongue of 
 the head, 
 
 The general man, the goodly? Did 
 you send 
 
 Lord Bothwell hard at heel of him cast 
 forth 
 
 To make his. wrong sweet with sweet- 
 spoken words. 
 
 And temper the sharp taste of outrage 
 done 
 
 And heat in him of anger, with false 
 breath ? 
 
 Why made you not your own tongue 
 tunable 
 
 Who are native to soft speaking, and 
 who hate 
 
 With as good heart as any Scot that 
 hates 
 
 England ? or is her messenger your fool 
 
 To take blows from you and good words 
 alike 
 
 As it shall chance him cross your morn- 
 ing mood 
 
 Angry or kindly? 
 
 Qiiccn. Sir, our chancellor. 
 
 We charge you that you answer not the 
 duke. 
 Darnley. Duke ? 
 
 Queen. Ay, the duke of Rothsay; 
 whom we pray 
 
 Seek otherwhere some seemlier talking- 
 stock 
 
 To flush his hot and feverish wit upon. 
 Darnley. Your chancellor ? why went 
 not such a man 
 
 With you before the lords of the ar- 
 ticles 
 
 Now, an hour back, and yet but half 
 day through, 
 
 To hell) you speak the banished lords 
 to death ? 
 
 Is't not the heart of the ofifice, to see 
 law 
 
 Punish law's traitors, as you bid them 
 be 
 
 In the proof's teeth, who are honcster 
 than some 
 
 You bid be law's justiciaries of them ? 
 
 Why went he not? 'twere no more 
 shame nor i)raise 
 
 Than here to swell in state beside your 
 own. 
 Queen. Must we crave leave to bid 
 you twice take leave, 
 
 Or twice to ask what would you ? 
 Darnley. Truly this, 
 
 A mere mean thing, an insignificance. 
 
 If you will once more hear — oh, no- 
 wise me. 
 
 But just the man whose name you take 
 in mouth 
 
 To smite me on my face with — Master 
 Knox. 
 Queen. Are you his usher going be- 
 fore his grace 
 
 No less than servant to his master- 
 word ? 
 
 Or is it penitence and submission makes 
 you 
 
 In the holy way of honor and recom- 
 pense 
 
 So high in ofifice with him ? Say, this 
 time 
 
 For the usher's sake I'll speak with the 
 usher's lord : 
 
 Yet if I mind 'twas I bade send for 
 him 
 
 To speak of you his servant : for I hear 
 
 You did not at first stripe submit vour- 
 self, 
 
 Nor take all penance with all patience, 
 being 
 
 Brought hardly in time to harsh hu- 
 mility 
 
 Such as we see now ; which thing 
 craves excuse 
 
 To make you gracious in your master's 
 eyes, 
 
 If it be true — I would not think it 
 were — 
 
158 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 You brake in anger forth from the 
 High Kirk, 
 
 Being there rebuked, and would not sit 
 at meat, 
 
 But past away to hawking in pure, rage 
 
 After an hour or twain of high dis- 
 course 
 
 Heard with plain show of sharp un- 
 thankfulness ; 
 
 Which that you now repent, and would 
 redeem, 
 
 I will bear witness for you to your 
 lord 
 
 To make your penitential peace with 
 him. 
 
 Let him come in. 
 
 Darnley. I am no messenger. 
 Queen. Where is my chamberlain? 
 bid Marnock here — 
 
 Let the man in, and one man only more, 
 
 Whoever it be ; we'll see him privily. 
 
 Our chancellor, and our no messenger. 
 
 We have no need of to dispute with 
 him. 
 Darnley. If I go hence — 
 Queen. Why, then you stay not here. 
 Dartiley. But if I go at bidding — 
 Queen. Why, you go: 
 
 With the more speed, the less of tar- 
 riance made. 
 
 Let me not hold you half-way back : 
 farewell. 
 \Exeunt Darnley and Rn;ziO. 
 
 I have not begun so luckily, nor set 
 
 So good a face on the first half of day, 
 
 Now to keep terms with mere tongue- 
 traitors more. 
 
 Enter ]owii Knox^W JoHN Erskine 
 OF Dun. 
 
 So once we are met again, sir, you and \. 
 
 Set him before us. 
 
 John Knox. I am before your grace 
 
 Without man's haling or compulsive 
 word : 
 
 Nor at these divers times you have sent 
 for me 
 
 Have you found need to use me force- 
 fully. 
 Queen. Well, let that be; as verily 
 mesecms 
 
 *Tis I find forceful usage at your hands, 
 
 And handling such a:> never prince has 
 borne 
 
 Since first kings were ; yet have I 
 
 borne with it. 
 Who am your natural princess, and sat 
 
 by 
 To hear your rigorous manner of 
 
 speaking through 
 As loud against my kinsfolk as myself; 
 Yea, I have sought your favor dili- 
 gently, 
 And friendship of my natural subject 
 
 born. 
 And reconcilement by all possible 
 
 means ; 
 I have offered you at your own choice 
 
 and time 
 Whenso it pleased you ever admonish 
 
 me 
 Presence and audience ; yea, have 
 
 shamed myself 
 With reasonless submission; have en- 
 dured 
 The naked edge of your sharp speech, 
 
 and yet 
 Cannot be quit of you : but here to. 
 
 God 
 I make my vow I will be once revenged. 
 Give me my handkerchief. I should 
 
 take shame 
 That he can shame me with these tears, 
 
 to make 
 Mine eyes his vassals. 
 
 John Knox. Madam, true it is 
 There have been divers seasons of dis* 
 
 pute 
 Btitween your grace and me, wherein I 
 
 have never 
 Found you offended : neither now 
 
 would find 
 The offence I sought not ; yea, I knew 
 
 this well, 
 If it shall please God break your 
 
 jnison-house, 
 And lighten on your disimprisoned 
 
 soul, 
 That my tongue's freedom shall offend 
 
 you not. 
 For surely being outside the preaching- 
 place 
 I think myself no breeder of offence. 
 Nor one that gives man cause of wratb 
 
 and wrong ; 
 And being therein, I speak not of my 
 
 self 
 
BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 159 
 
 But as God bids who bids mc, speaking 
 
 plain, 
 Flatter no flesh on earth. Lo, here I 
 
 stand, 
 A single soul and naked in his eye, 
 Constrained of him, to do what thing 
 
 he will, 
 And dare and can none other. Hath 
 
 he sent me 
 To speak soft words of acceptable 
 
 things 
 in ladies' chambers or kings' courts, to 
 
 make 
 Their ways seem gracious to them ? I 
 
 wot, no. 
 I am to bring God's gospel in men's 
 
 ears, 
 And faith therein, and penitence, which 
 
 are 
 The twain parts of it : but the chief o' 
 
 the land 
 And all the main of your nobility 
 Give God no heed, nor them that speak 
 
 for God, 
 Through flattering fear and ill respect 
 
 of you ; 
 And seeing, if one preach penitence to 
 
 men. 
 He must needs note the sin he bids 
 
 repent. 
 How should not I note these men's sin 
 
 who choose 
 To serve affections in vou, and wild 
 
 will. 
 Rather than truth in God ? This were 
 
 lost breath. 
 To chide the general wrong-doing of 
 
 the world, 
 And not the very present sin that 
 
 burns 
 Here in our eyes offensive, — bid serve 
 
 God, 
 And say not with what service. 
 
 Queen. Nay, but so 
 What is it to you, or any saving me, 
 How this man married to me bears 
 
 himself? 
 "With what sign-manual has God war- 
 ranted 
 Your inquisition of us ? What am I, 
 That my most secret sanctuaries of life 
 And private passages of hours should 
 
 be 
 
 Food for men's eyes, or pavement for 
 
 men's feet 
 To peer and pasture, track and tread 
 
 upon, 
 Insult with instance .> Am I only 
 
 bound 
 To let the common -mouth communi- 
 cate 
 In my life's sweet or bitter sacrament, 
 The wine poured, the bread broken 
 
 every day ? 
 To walk before men bare, that they may 
 
 judge 
 If I were born with any spot or no. 
 And praise my naked nature "i to sub- 
 ject 
 Mine unsubmitted soul subordinate 
 To popular sight and sentence .-* What 
 
 am I, 
 That I should be alone debarred, de- 
 posed. 
 From the poor right of poor men, who 
 
 may live 
 Some hour or twain unchallenged of 
 
 the day. 
 And make to no man answer what 
 
 they do 
 As I to mine must render? who is thi« 
 That takes in hand such hard things 
 
 and such high ? 
 Sir, what man are you, that I need 
 
 account 
 For this word said, or that, or such 
 
 things done. 
 Only to you or mainly, of myself? 
 Yea, what are you within this commoiK 
 
 wealth ? 
 John Knox. A man within it, and a 
 
 subject born. 
 Madam ; and howsoever no great man. 
 Earl, lord, nor baron to bear rule 
 
 therein, 
 Yet has God made me a profitable man, 
 How abject I seem ever in your eye, 
 No member of the same unmeritable. 
 Yea, madam, this pertains not less to 
 
 me 
 Than any of all your noble-nurtured 
 
 men, 
 To warn men of what things may hurt 
 
 the same. 
 So as I see them dangerous; and here 
 
 in 
 
i6o 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 My conscience and mine office with one 
 
 tongue 
 Crave plainness of me : wherefore to 
 
 yourself 
 I say the thing I speak in public place, 
 That what great men soever at any 
 
 time 
 Shall be consenting to your lord's un- 
 
 faith 
 Or flattering furtherance of unfaith in 
 
 you, 
 They do what in them lieth to cast out 
 
 Christ, 
 Banish his truth, betray his liberty 
 And free right of this realm, and in the 
 
 er.d 
 Shall haply do small comfort to your- 
 self. 
 And for him too, your husband, it may 
 
 be 
 That as he spares not to dishonor God 
 For your delight, by service of the 
 
 mass, 
 God will not spare to smite him by 
 
 your hand 
 That faithlessly he fawns on to his loss. 
 Queen. When was there queen so 
 
 handled in the world? 
 I would I could not weep; for being 
 
 thus used 
 I needs must never or now. Is this 
 
 li^ht day ? 
 Am I asleep, or mad, or in a trance, 
 That have such words to beat about 
 
 mine ears. 
 And in mine eyes his present face who 
 
 speaks ? 
 Erskine of Dun. Madam, I pray your 
 
 grace contain your mood, 
 And keep your noble temperance of 
 
 yourself, 
 For your high sake and honor, who are 
 
 held 
 For excellence of spirit and natural 
 
 soul 
 As sovereign born as for your face and 
 
 place. 
 Kingdom, and kingly beauty; to whose 
 
 might 
 The worthiest of the world, all Europe's 
 
 chief, 
 Ilcr choice of crowns, might gladly 
 
 bow themselves 
 
 To find your favor. I beseech you 
 
 think 
 That here is no disloyalty designed. 
 Nor thing dishonorable ; for were men 
 
 mad 
 Whose wits are whole, and false whose 
 
 faiths are sound, 
 The very mouth of madness would 
 
 speak sense. 
 The very tongue of treason would 
 
 speak truth. 
 For love and service of your royalty; 
 Blind curses bless, and red rebellion 
 
 bow. 
 That came to burn and threaten. Do 
 
 not dream 
 That a man faithful Godward and well 
 
 loved 
 Can be to you-ward evil-willed, who 
 
 have 
 Power on your natural and your born 
 
 unfriends 
 To bind their good-will to you. 
 
 Queen. Words, all words; 
 I am weary of words : I have heard 
 
 words enough 
 To build and break, if breath could 
 
 break or build, 
 Centuries of men. What would they 
 
 with me, sir ? 
 These my liege folk that love me to 
 
 the death, — 
 Their death or mine, no matter, — my 
 
 fast friends 
 Whose comfortable balms so bruise 
 
 my head 
 It cannot hold the crown up; these 
 
 good hands 
 That wring my wrist round to wrench 
 
 out the staff 
 God set into mine own ; these loving, 
 
 lips 
 That take my name upon them as to 
 
 kiss. 
 And leave it rank with foam of hateful 
 
 speech ? 
 Must I lie dead de|)osed, or must I live 
 Stript shameless, naked to the very 
 
 name, 
 A crest less creature and displumed, 
 
 that feeds 
 On charities and chances? will they 
 
 give 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 I6l 
 
 Me, their queen born, me, bread or dust 
 
 to eat, 
 With a mouth water-moistened or a 
 
 dry, 
 Beggared or buried? shall I hold my 
 
 head 
 In shameful fief and tenantry of these 
 For their least wind of any wrath that 
 
 blows 
 To storm it off my shoulders ? What 
 
 were I 
 That being so born should l)e born 
 
 such a thing 
 As bondsmen might bemock the bond- 
 age of 
 And slaves contemn for slavery ? Nay, 
 
 no words : 
 A word may wound, and no word heal 
 
 again, 
 As none can me — whom all men's 
 
 words may wound — 
 Who am liable to all buffets of men's 
 
 tongues, 
 All stripes of all their scandals — and 
 
 was born 
 To no such fear — and have nor tongue 
 
 nor wit 
 To plead and gather favor — no such 
 
 grace 
 As may get grace, no piteous skilful- 
 
 ness — 
 Only my truth and tears; and would 
 
 to God 
 My tears and truth for you were wind 
 
 and fire 
 To burn and blow corruption from the 
 
 world, 
 And leave pure peace to breed where 
 
 you plant war, 
 And make the furrows fat with pesti- 
 lence 
 And the grain swell with treason I but, 
 
 too sure. 
 They too can hurt, and heal not. I am 
 
 soul-sick 
 With shame and bitter weakness ; yet, 
 
 God's will, 
 I may take strength about me to put 
 
 off 
 Some part of shame. Sir, you that 
 
 make me weep, 
 By these my tears and my sharp shame 
 of them 
 
 I swear you will not laugh to see me 
 
 laugh. 
 When my time comes: you shall not; 
 
 1 will have 
 Time to my friend yet; I shall see 
 
 you, sir. 
 If you can weep or no, that with dry eyes 
 Have seen mine wet; I will try that: 
 
 look toMt. 
 John Knox. Madam, — I speak m 
 
 very eye of God, — 
 I never took delight in any tears 
 Shed of God's creatures; yea, for my 
 
 self-sake, 
 I can but very hardly abide the tears 
 Of mine own boys whom mine own 
 
 hand and love 
 Chastens, and much less can take any 
 
 i«y . , 
 
 In this the weepmg of your majesty. 
 
 But, seeing I have given you no offen- 
 sive cause 
 
 Nor just occasion, but have spoken 
 truth 
 
 After mine office as mine own place 
 craves 
 
 Lest I, God's man, be man-sworn to 
 God's truth, 
 
 I must sustain, howb.eit unwillingly, 
 
 Rather these tears drawn of your 
 majesty 
 
 Than blood of mine own conscience 
 stabbed to death 
 
 Or through my silence of my common- 
 wealth 
 
 By my dumb treason wounded. 
 Qneen. A fair word : 
 
 I thought it was forgotten of men's 
 mouths. 
 
 And only lived in the inner heat of the 
 heart, 
 
 Too sure to want the spelling of their 
 speech. 
 
 Sir, you shall find it in my very tears, — 
 
 This blood you fear for of your com- 
 monwealth. 
 
 And in the hurts of mine authority 
 
 The wounds it lies abed with; what, 
 God help, 
 
 Can the head bleed, and not the body 
 faint ? 
 
 Or wherein should the kingdom fed 
 sucii maim 
 
l62 
 
 nOTHWELL. 
 
 As in the kingship j;tricken? there are 
 
 you, 
 If you be true man, and each true man 
 
 born 
 Subject, and circled with the bound of 
 
 rule. 
 Hurt to the heart. But heartless things 
 
 are words : 
 Henceforth I will not n<ix my speech 
 
 with yours 
 In the way of disputation ever more, 
 Nor set against your tongue the plea of 
 
 mine 
 To reason as its equal. Wait you here, 
 Here in the chamber: you, sir, come 
 
 with me 
 To counsel in my cabinet somewhile ; 
 We will return his answer. 
 [£'jr<?i<«/' Queen rt«(/ERSKiNE OF Dun. 
 
 Alary Car7nichael. She wept sore ; 
 I never saw her spirit, so chafed, so 
 
 melt 
 And thaw to such mere passion ; this 
 
 one time 
 He is sure attainted. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ay, she fain would 
 
 dare 
 Upon the spur of the hour attaint him ; 
 
 yet 
 What none dare else, she durst not : 
 
 they will put 
 Force of fair words as bridle in the 
 
 mouth 
 Of her wild will and reinless. 
 Mary Seyton. She is wise, 
 And fights not wisdom, but being coun- 
 selled well 
 Takes truce with time and tongueless 
 
 policy. 
 What! will the man speak to us .^ he 
 
 looks so hard 
 With such fast eyes and sad ; I had 
 
 not thought 
 His face so great, nor presence. 
 John Knox. Ah I fair ladies. 
 How fair were this your life and pleas- 
 urable 
 If this might ever abide, and so in the 
 
 end 
 With all this gay gear we might pass 
 
 to heaven ! 
 But fie upon that knave, Death, that 
 
 will come. 
 
 Whether we will or will not : and being 
 
 come, 
 When he has laid on his assured arrest, 
 The foul worms will be busy with this 
 
 flesh. 
 Be it never so fair and tender ; and "the 
 
 soul, 
 The silly soul shall be so feeble, I fear. 
 It can bear with it neither gold nor 
 
 pearl. 
 Painting of face, garnish, nor precious 
 
 stones. 
 Mary Beaton. Sir, for myself, small 
 
 joy this were to me. 
 That this life should live ever; nor 
 
 would I 
 Care much by praying to stretch my 
 
 days of life 
 Into more length, nor much to take 
 
 with me 
 Garnish or gold : but one thing I would 
 
 fain 
 Have to go grave-wards with me, and 
 
 keep it safe. 
 That you have cast no word or warning 
 
 on, 
 And yet women, whose hearts are 
 
 worldly worn 
 And by no creed of yours consolable, 
 Nor gladness of your gospel, love its 
 
 name 
 As dear as God's ; and its name is but 
 
 rest. 
 John Knox. Rest has no other name 
 
 but only God's. 
 Mary Beatoji. But God has many an- 
 other name than rest: 
 His name is life, and life's is weariness. 
 Johti Ktiox. Ay, but not his: that 
 
 life has lost his name ; 
 Peace is his name, and justice. 
 Alary Beaton. Ah, sir ! see, 
 Can these two names be one name 
 
 on earth 
 Can two keep house together that have 
 
 name 
 Justice and peace ? where is that man 
 
 i' the world 
 Who have found peace in the arms of 
 
 justice lain, 
 Or justice at the breast of peace asleep? 
 Is not God's justice painted like as 
 
 ours, 
 
BOTHWELt. 
 
 ««3 
 
 A strong man armed, a swordsman red 
 
 as fire, 
 Whose hands are hard, and his feet 
 
 washed in blood? 
 It were an iron peace should sleep with 
 
 him, 
 And rest were unrest that should kiss 
 
 his lips. 
 What man would look on justice here, 
 
 and Jive, 
 Peace has no more part in him. 
 
 John Knox. Lady, nay, 
 That only peace indeed which is of God 
 Hath in the just man not a part, but 
 
 all, 
 But the whole righteous life and heart 
 
 in him 
 Still peacefully possesses; who hath 
 
 not 
 Or loves not justice, he can love not 
 
 peace, 
 For peace is just ; and that thing is not 
 
 peace 
 That such men love, but full of strife 
 
 and lies, 
 A thing of thorns and treasons. This 
 
 were even 
 As if a man loving a harlot should 
 Praise her for maiden and himself for 
 
 pure 
 To love such maidenhood, when any 
 
 says 
 That he loves peace who loves not 
 
 holiness; 
 For peace is holy. Yea, and if one 
 
 seek 
 He shall find peace where bitterest 
 
 justice is, 
 In the full fire and middle might of 
 
 wrath. 
 Rather than where sloth sucks the lips 
 
 of shame . 
 Or fear with her foul brother unbelief 
 Lrves in adultery ; strife is that which 
 
 springs, 
 As a wmged worm and poisonous, of 
 
 their sheets; 
 And in the slumberless and storm- 
 strewn bed 
 That very war's self spreads for right- 
 eousness 
 Peace as a babe is born. 
 ,Mary B<at0n. Would God it were I 
 
 For 'tis a bitter childbed : these long 
 
 years 
 We look for fruit, and none comes forth 
 
 of it, 
 But yet more iron travail ; and our- 
 selves, 
 Desiring justice, quite lose hold of 
 
 peace, 
 And are distracted with our own fierce 
 
 want 
 And hungry need of right unreachable. 
 Yet it may come, and then shall peace 
 indeed. 
 John Knox, You talk against your 
 habit. 
 Re-enter Erskine OF DuN. 
 Erskine of Dun. Master Knox, 
 The queen will no more hear you at 
 
 this time, 
 But with good-will and gracious nxind 
 
 will weigh 
 Your worth and worthy meaning ya 
 your words. 
 John Knox. It may be she will never 
 hear me more. 
 Farewell, fair ladies; may God look 
 
 on you, 
 And give you chiefly comfort, which is 
 
 grace. 
 [Exeunt JoH^f Knox and Erskine of 
 Dun. 
 Mary Seyton. Why did you prate so 
 
 preacher-like with him .> 
 Mary Beaton. I cannot tell by/isking 
 of myself, 
 Nor answer for your asking. Which 
 
 of you 
 Shall wait at supper on the queen to- 
 night } 
 Mary Carmickael. None but her coun- 
 sel of close hours, Argvle. 
 Mary Beaton. .^\\t sups with them; 
 and in attendance there 
 Some two or three I heard of,- -one of 
 
 these 
 No man of arms. 
 
 Mary Seyton. What should they da 
 with arms? 
 More*need of lips to sing with. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ay, to sing : 
 It is no matter of state they meet uponl^ 
 Mary Seyton, Are your wits lost ilk 
 deed, or do you jest? 
 
1 54 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 Mary Bcifott. True, it should be for 
 no atfairs of stale 
 They fiup at nightfall in the, lesser 
 
 room, — 
 They three, and three to make the 
 music up. 
 Mary Seytoii. What ails you at it ? 
 Mary Beaton. Nothing ; I ail naught. 
 i did but think what music he should 
 
 make 
 After this preacher.' Let us to the 
 queen. 
 
 Scene IV. — Darnley's Lodging. 
 
 Darnley ««(/ Sir George Douglas. 
 Darnlcy. I think our friend of Mor- 
 ton had grown slack 
 
 But for my spurring, uncle. 
 Sir Geori^e Douglas. Nay, he is firm : 
 
 You do him less right than you do 
 yourself 
 
 To think he should need quickening. 
 Darnlcy. Oh, I know not : 
 
 What should I know.? what wit have I 
 to know .'' 
 
 I am a fool, and* have no forethought! 
 Why, 
 
 But for my resolute instance at this 
 need, — 
 
 I said to him. Be resolute, — and since 
 then, 
 
 Some six or eight hours gone, I have 
 heard such things 
 
 As would put sense and passion in 
 dead bones, — 
 
 By God I have ; it shall be seen I have. 
 
 But are you sure it should be done to- 
 night ? 
 Sir George Douglas. Ay, surely. 
 Darnley. Well, I see no surety in it. 
 
 Methinks now, every day we let him 
 live 
 
 Blows hot the popular wrath of all the 
 land. 
 
 And makes us surer, when we strike 
 indeed, 
 
 That all men's hearts will stab him 
 with our hands. 
 Sir George Douglas. By which ac- 
 count he might live long, and die 
 
 An old white death and woundless. Is 
 net thia 
 
 The man whereof you told me some 
 
 while since 
 How at clo.se midnight, your wife's 
 
 doors being locked, 
 Vou burst them open, and gat hold di 
 
 him 
 Hid in a closet of her bedchamber. 
 Save for furred gown and shirt abovit 
 
 the knave 
 Naked? and must you take him so 
 
 again, 
 And he so twice get clear of you, aini 
 
 laugh ? 
 You swore me that : what need to tell 
 
 or swear. 
 If he must live still ? weeping, with 
 
 clenched hands. 
 You swore it, praying me for our 
 
 shame's sake send 
 Word to your uncle Ruthven ; but 
 
 what need, 
 If there were no shame in the thing at 
 
 all. 
 Or but so little, as now so little it 
 
 seems, 
 There is no haste to slay him } 
 
 Darnley. Nay, you carp : 
 'Tis thus men ever catch at my good 
 
 words. 
 To turn them on their tongues, and spit 
 
 them out 
 Changed and discolored. He shall 
 
 die to-night. 
 Sir George Douglas. Assuredly. 
 Darnley. I say so, — mark» I say it, 
 I that have cause: how else could it be 
 
 sure .'' 
 But sure it is, — I say he shall not live. 
 Let us go seek Lord Morton out again, 
 And tell him it is sworn we strike to- 
 night. 
 How many of us ha,vc hands in it with 
 
 me. 
 Who cannot with mine own hand as I 
 
 would 
 Strike— -it were shameful tc me — 
 
 were it not .-* 
 For mine own hand's sake. 
 
 Sir George Douglas. There arc Lands 
 
 enough 
 Without the shame done to your high 
 
 ncss' hand ; 
 Sufficcth >ui Vk'C have it kct to the bond 
 
BOTIIWELL. 
 
 165 
 
 That signs him dead; nor need we 
 
 sum their names 
 Whose hands will strike, not spare, for 
 
 their own sakes. 
 Darnley. V/ell, let us go to make my 
 
 lord's faith sure 
 That it shall be no later than to-night. 
 
 Scene V. — The Queen's Cabinet. 
 
 The Queen, Rizzio, Countess of 
 Argyle, Lord Robert Stuart, 
 Arthur Erskine, in attendance. 
 Queen. Have I not done a queenlike 
 
 work to-day ? 
 I have made attaint my traitors of my- 
 self; 
 With no man at my hand to strengthen 
 
 me, 
 Have gone before the lords of the 
 
 articles, 
 And set my will upon them like a seal, 
 And they for their part set on their old 
 
 friends 
 The bloody seal of treason signed of 
 
 death 
 Arid countersigned of burning igno- 
 miny. 
 You are half fearful, you, lord chancel- 
 lor, 
 You my good servant ; but I knew their 
 
 necks 
 Were made to take the impression of 
 
 my foot. 
 Their wills and souls the likeness of 
 
 mine own. 
 And I have used them for the things 
 
 they are. 
 Countess of Argyle. You have been 
 
 right royal, madam, and your 
 
 lovers 
 Have joyful cause to praise you. 
 
 Queen. Will you say it. 
 Who bear as much part in his blood 
 
 as I 
 Of our dead father's giving? then I 
 
 think 
 No other tongue for love of Murray 
 
 slain 
 Shall sting me though mine own speak 
 
 off his head, 
 Obcc caught up out of England; nay, 
 
 I think 
 
 We shall get vantage of your lord'ii 
 
 friend Knox 
 Ere many days be. 
 
 Countess of Argyle. Speed your maj- 
 esty ! 
 The cord were hallowed that should 
 
 silence him. 
 Queen. Ay, though mine own hands 
 
 twist it. To spin hemp 
 For such a throat, so loud and eloquent. 
 Should better please me, and seem a 
 
 queenlier thing, 
 Than to weave silk, and flower it with 
 
 fine gold. 
 He hath a tongue to tame a tiger with, 
 Fright into fierce and violent reverence 
 The fearfullest earth's monsters. 1 do 
 
 think 
 I like him better than his creed-fellows 
 Whose lips are softer toward me; 'tis 
 
 some sport 
 To set my wit to his, and match with 
 
 mine 
 The shrewd and fiery temper of his 
 
 spirit 
 For trial of true mastery : yet to-day 
 He made me weep, weep mightily — by 
 
 faith. 
 If there be faith in any lips of earth, 
 I think to live, and laugh at his tears 
 
 yet. 
 Robert Stuart. I would the hand were 
 
 on him that might make 
 His eyes weep red, and drop out of 
 
 their rings, 
 Looking on death. What reason gives 
 
 him leave. 
 What right makes room for him to take 
 
 his way 
 So past men's patience grown so mas- 
 terful t 
 Had I one half word's warrant of your 
 
 grace. 
 His tongue should not be long inside 
 
 his lips. 
 Queen. I am no wife of Antony, to 
 
 try 
 My needle's point against his tongue s 
 
 edge ; yet 
 I have cause as good as Fulvia's, though 
 
 his speech 
 Ring somewhat short of Roman. Here 
 
 is one 
 
i6o 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 That has that southern honey on his lips 
 frozen as it seems up with this galling 
 
 air, 
 And not a note left golden, but his 
 
 tongue 
 Nipt with the chill to death as with a 
 
 knife 
 That cuts us short of music 
 
 Countess of Argyle. Yea, my lord. 
 Why will you so discomfort the good 
 
 hour 
 With tongueless sadness? We have 
 
 cause to chide, 
 That, having cause to sing, find song to 
 
 seek 
 And thought to find it ready. 
 
 Rizzio. I have been sad 
 These two hours back; I know not 
 
 what it was 
 So struck me out of mirth, for I was 
 
 merry, 
 And knew not why. 
 
 Queen. Nay, if you love me, sir, 
 You had reason to be merry with my 
 
 mirth 
 Who am blithe to be found queen over 
 
 my foes. 
 I have been glad all this good day 
 
 thereof 
 Save some few minutes that my subject- 
 saint 
 Vexed even to mere intemperance; but 
 
 few tears 
 Wept out that little bitter part of day, 
 Ancl left it sweet. Have you not heard 
 
 men say 
 This heaviness without a root of fear 
 Goes oft before some good ? now should 
 
 there be 
 Some new thing hard upon us that will 
 
 make 
 All good hearts glad. Have you no 
 
 song to mock 
 The doubt away that mocks you ? 
 
 RizT.io. At your will. 
 1 am something yet in tune for such a 
 
 song 
 As joy makes out of sorrow, when the 
 
 thought 
 Plays with false grief for joy's sake. 
 
 I'U.-asc you hear it 
 With such light audience as its worth 
 
 is light? 
 
 Queen. Ay, such a note should fit me 
 
 for this time; 
 A.fter the tuneless toil of talking day, 
 A light song lightly brings ill thoughts 
 
 asleep. 
 
 Rizzio {sings) J 
 
 LtOrd Love went ^faying 
 Where Time was playing^ 
 In light hands weighing 
 Light hearts ivith saa ; 
 Crowned king with peasant,. 
 Pale past with present. 
 Harsh hours with pleasant^ 
 
 Good hopes with bad ; 
 Nor dreamed how fleeter 
 Than Timers swift metre^ 
 0\r all things sweeter 
 
 How clothed with power ^ 
 The murderess maiden 
 Mistrust walks laden 
 
 With red fruit ruined <ind 
 dead white flower. 
 
 Ho2v close behind him 
 Ere man's fiith find him^ 
 How strong to hind him 
 
 With fea rs for ba nds^ 
 Lest once beholden 
 Of man the golden 
 God's face embolden 
 
 All hearts and hands ; 
 For if doubt were not^ 
 Whose sore shafts spare not^ 
 Large life would care uot 
 
 For death's poor houf^ 
 Seeing all life's season 
 By love's sweet reason 
 
 Made raise would sum in hii 
 eyes a flower. 
 
 Countess of Argyle. Did you hear 
 
 that? 
 Robert Stuart. What? 
 Queen. Nothing but sweet words. 
 Countess of Argyle. I heard a cry \' 
 
 the wind as of one hurt. 
 Arthur Erskine. There is no wind 
 
 up, madam. 
 Queen. Peace, I pray; 
 It was your own sense mocked you 
 
 Hear it through ; 
 There should be more, and sadder. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 167 
 
 Count es'i of Argyle. Nay, I heard. 
 
 Rizzio {sings). 
 
 By Loaie's side flying 
 As Time went crying 
 Clad news and lying 
 
 In all men's ears. 
 With blind feet gliding 
 She came deriding 
 Their Joyous tiding 
 
 That ends in tears ; 
 From Time's side failing 
 As Love sank quailing. 
 Her strong wings sailing 
 
 Made all heads cower. 
 Her wings untethered. 
 With fleet thoughts feathered. 
 
 Made weak the summer and bleak 
 the flower. 
 
 Hope fottnd no cover 
 Wherein to hover. 
 And Love no lover. 
 
 And foy no place ; 
 Till when Time creeping 
 Had left him sleeping. 
 Love knelt dozun weeping 
 
 Before her face. 
 And prayed, soul-stricken. 
 One flower fnight quicken^ 
 Though spring should sicken 
 
 And storm devour ; 
 She from her bosom 
 Flung one sere blossom. 
 
 Then passed him dead on the last 
 dead flower. 
 
 Robert Stuart. Hark ! some one 
 
 laughed there. 
 Queen. What does death i' the song ? 
 Can they not let love live, but must 
 
 needs make 
 His grave with singing.-* 'Tis the trick 
 
 of song 
 That finds no way to end else. 
 
 Rizzio. An old trick ; 
 Your merrier songs are mournfuller 
 
 sometimes 
 Than very tears are. 
 
 Queen. Do you hear noises still ? 
 Enter DaRNLEY. 
 
 Who seat you to us ? 
 
 Darnlcy. My love to my sweet lady. 
 
 \Kisses her. 
 Queen. What feet arc theirs behind 
 
 you } Who stands there ? 
 Darnley. Nay, nothing, nay, sweet, 
 
 nothing. 
 Queen. I should know — 
 Judas ! [Seeing RUTHVEN in the door 
 way. 
 Darnley. I tell you — 
 Ruthven. Let that man come forth ; 
 He hath been here too long. 
 Queen. What hath he done .■* 
 Ruthven. So please your highness, 
 how he hath done you wrong 
 To offend the honor of your majesty, 
 I dare not boldly say ; but this I 
 
 dare, 
 He hath done the king your husband's 
 
 honor wrong 
 In this past all the rest, to hinder him 
 Of the crown matrimonial, which your 
 
 grace 
 Made his by promise. Other wrongs 
 
 than this 
 Are more than I need speak of: for 
 
 the lords. 
 He hath caused you banish a great part 
 
 of them, 
 And the most chief, and at this parlia- 
 ment 
 Forefault them as for treason, that him- 
 self 
 Who jets here in his cap and damask 
 
 gown 
 Might of your grace be made a lord, and 
 
 tread 
 On men more noble : wherefore with 
 
 good cause 
 For very love T pray your majesty 
 Make not yourself his buckler who 
 
 lacks heart 
 Save to pluck forth his hanger, and not 
 
 strike. 
 But cower behind, and clasp your gown 
 
 for shield. 
 Stand from before the window, lest 
 
 perforce 
 I hale him hence by the hair. 
 
 Queen. Help us, our friends ! 
 Thrust out this death-faced traitor. 
 Arthur Er ski lie. Sir, give way. 
 Robert Stuart. Out of this orcseocc' 
 
i6S 
 
 nOTHWELL. 
 
 Ruthven. Lay no hands on me ; 
 
 \Dtaws. 
 Stand ; I will not be handled. 
 
 Enter Fauldonside and Sir 
 George Douglas. 
 Queen. Out with him ! 
 Rizzio. Save, save me, madam I 
 Queen. You are within my ward. 
 Stand from him, sirs; what! treason! 
 Fauldoisidc. Nay, then, thus. 
 
 \Putting a pistol to her hrcast. 
 
 Queen. Do him no wrong ; ye dare 
 
 not murder me : 
 
 If he have sinned, let justice pass on him. 
 
 Fauldonside. This cord shall justify 
 
 him. 
 Rizzio. Help me! help! 
 Sir Geors^e Douglas. Let go the queen. 
 Rizzio. Help me, my mistress! 
 Fa uldonside. Out! 
 Queen. Have mercy ! 
 Rizzio. Mercy! nay, I am innocent! 
 Save me, sweet lady ! 
 
 Queen. Will ye slay me too .-* 
 Fauldonside. Drag him away; pluck 
 
 his hands off her. 
 Rizzio. Help ! 
 
 [ T/uy force /lim out. 
 Queen. Why does that sheath sit 
 empty on your side ,-' 
 Where is the dagger > 
 Darnley. Why, I know not where. 
 Queen. It will be known hereafter; it 
 shall be 
 Dear blood to some of you if David's 
 
 here 
 Be spilt, my faithful servant's ; but may 
 
 God, 
 My poor true friend, have mercy on 
 your soul ! 
 Ruthven. Here, take your wife into 
 your arms, my lord, 
 And bid her fear not. — Madam, have 
 
 no fear; 
 We had sooner spend the blood of our 
 
 own hearts 
 Than you should suffer harm ; and 
 
 what we do 
 Is but your husband's bidding. Let 
 
 them pass : 
 He shall be kept for this time safe 
 
 enough 
 In my lord's chamber here. 
 
 Durnlcy. Ay shall he, safe — 
 In that same chamber where vou used 
 
 of old, 
 Hcfore this fellow grew so in your grace, 
 To come and seek me ; but since "he so 
 
 fell 
 In credit with you and familiar use, 
 Even if I come to yours I find of late 
 Small entertainnient of you, save &o 
 
 far 
 As David may sit third with us, and 
 
 set 
 To cards with you even till an hour oi 
 
 twain 
 Be gone past midnight. 
 
 Queen. I have heard not said 
 It was a duteous gentlewoman's part 
 To seek her husband's chamber, but the 
 
 man's 
 To seek the wife when he would aught 
 
 with her. 
 Darnley. Why came you to my cham- 
 ber, then, at first, 
 And ever till these few months back 
 
 that he 
 Became familiar with you.-' or am I 
 In any part now of my body failed. 
 To fall out of your grace? or what dis- 
 dain 
 Have you of me.-' or what offence of 
 
 mine 
 Makes you not use me at all times 
 
 alike, 
 Seeing I am willing to do all good 
 
 things 
 That may become a husband to his 
 
 wife .'' 
 Queen. My lord, of all the shame 
 
 here done to me, 
 \'ou have the fault: for which sake I 
 
 henceforth 
 Shall never be your wife, nor lie with 
 
 you, 
 Nor ever shall have liking of my life 
 Till I may make you bear as sore a 
 
 heart 
 As I bear now. 
 
 Ruthven. Madam, for honor's sake, 
 Be rcasonabl\- and timelv reconciled 
 To your wed lord; and with him take 
 
 advice 
 Of such good friends as love you. Give 
 
 me leave : 
 
nOTHWELL. 
 
 169 
 
 I am faint, and cannot stand to plead 
 
 with you. \Sits. 
 
 Bring w\q. to drink, for God's sake. 
 
 Dai)tley. Give my lord 
 A cup of wine. 
 
 Queen. Is this your malady "i 
 If ye shall slay me or my six-months' 
 
 child 
 By this night's force and fear, my 
 
 friends yet live 
 To wreak me of Lord Ruthven. 
 Rttthven. Be content. 
 Queen. When word goes forth how I 
 
 am handled here — 
 What, am I kinless, think you, without 
 
 help ? 
 Mine uncles, and my brother king of 
 
 P'rance, 
 All lords of all lands living, all heads 
 
 crowned. 
 Shall be one storm to shake you from 
 
 the world ; 
 And the Pope with me, and the Catho- 
 lic king, 
 And all that live or of my faiih or 
 
 blood, 
 Shall all make way upon you. 
 
 RiitJiven. I am too mean 
 That these so many ahd mighty should 
 
 take aim 
 At one such poor man here as I am. 
 
 See, 
 If you will weigh it worthily yourself. 
 This is no treason; never till this night 
 Was so good service done you. For 
 
 myself, 
 I will make answe'- to God's charge 
 
 and man's 
 How I have served you in it. 
 Queen. What have I done? 
 What thing am I, that ye should use me 
 
 thus.? 
 O miserable and desertless that I am, 
 Unkingdomed of mii->e honor I I thai 
 
 had 
 Lordship of land and natural rule of 
 
 men 
 A.m poorer here than any landless man, 
 And weaker than all women. Pray 
 
 you, sir, 
 By what law's sentence am I made 
 
 man's thrall ? 
 What lord have I offended that can bid 
 
 My face for shame be covered in your 
 
 sight } 
 Whom have I wronged } or who hath 
 
 power on me. 
 What thing soever I be, to do mc 
 
 wrong ? 
 Who hath given forth judgment on me ? 
 
 what man's right 
 Calls me his servant .? Nay, there is no 
 
 slave 
 Men strike without a sentence; and ye 
 
 strike 
 Your own righ.t in me and your nam» 
 
 to death 
 With one self-ruinous violence. 
 
 Rtcthven. Be at peace ; 
 We strike but your own sickness ofl 
 
 yourself, , 
 
 Who cut off him to save you : the dis- 
 ease 
 That dies of the physician leaves no 
 
 cause 
 That you should curse, but tliank him. 
 
 Qtceen. Thank ? ay, thank — 
 God give me grace to give you thanks I 
 
 be sure 
 Ye shall not lack my memory to it, nor 
 
 will 
 To made me worthy of you. What I 
 
 no more .'' 
 
 \Exit Ruthven. 
 I thought his wrath was large enough 
 
 for me 
 To find a murderous part in where to 
 
 die, 
 And share it with my servant. Must I 
 
 live ."* 
 Sir, you that make death warm between 
 
 jour lips. 
 And, silent,' let fall murder from your 
 
 mouth, 
 Have you no kiss to kill mc ? no love 
 
 left 
 To give me poison? Why is he gone 
 
 forth ? 
 Hath the hot falsehood eaten through 
 
 your tongue } 
 Speak. 
 
 Darnley. Why, I bade him look to 
 
 those your friends 
 That might have risen upon us; heai 
 
 you that ? 
 
 [Noise outiitU 
 
170 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 There is a clamor of thc-m in the 
 
 courts, 
 But naught to help or hurt now. He is 
 
 gone 
 To read our will out in the general ear, 
 And by proclaiming of my share with 
 
 them 
 In this their new-born justice to make 
 
 sure 
 Men's hearts that hearken; and lest 
 
 fear shake our friends, 
 Or ill-will toward us and good-will to- 
 ward you 
 Make our foes strong in malice of de- 
 sign. 
 To warn them of your brother's present 
 
 speed, 
 Who must be here with morning: my 
 
 device, 
 My trick to win all faiths that hang 
 
 on him 
 And tie them to my service with his 
 
 hand. 
 So have we all souls instant on our 
 
 side. 
 And you no way to wound us: for by 
 
 this, 
 Even with the hearing of my name 
 
 given forth 
 As parcel of the bond that writes him 
 
 dead, 
 Which is now cancelled with his blood- 
 shedding, 
 This your good town is with us, and 
 
 your lords 
 That stood for you with this man fled 
 
 or dead, 
 If they dare strike or stand yet. What 
 
 shift now ? 
 What wit? what craft.!* 
 
 Queen. My friends driven forth the 
 
 court } 
 No help upon my side? The town 
 
 raised too? 
 Darnley. We had no heart nor wit to 
 
 work with, ha ? 
 We were your fools, and heartless? 
 Queen \at the window). Help, all 
 
 friends! 
 All good men help your queen here! 
 
 Ho, mv lord. 
 My lord the IVovost! 
 Darnley. He is raised indeed* 
 
 Queen. Help for the queen! help. 
 
 Provost ! 
 Darnley. Peace, I say ; 
 You may fare worse : these are wild 
 hours. 
 Voice without. Sit down ; 
 You shall be hewn in pieces if you stir, 
 And flung into the Nor'-Loch. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, be wise ; 
 Pluck not their madness on you. 
 
 Queen. Oh, your love ! 
 It shows now kindly in vou. 
 Re-enter RuTHVEN. 
 Ruthven. All is sped; 
 The lords of the adverse party being 
 
 roused up 
 And hearing with what large applause 
 
 of men 
 The reading of our sentence in the 
 
 bond 
 And names subscribed, and proclama- 
 tion made 
 Of Murray even at heel of the act 
 
 returned. 
 Was of all mouths made welcome, in 
 
 fierce haste 
 Forth of their lodging fled confusedly 
 With no more tarriance than to bring 
 
 their lives 
 Clear of the press and cry of peril at 
 
 hand, 
 And their folk round them in a beaten 
 
 rank 
 Hurled all together ; so no man being 
 
 left, — 
 The earls of Huntley and of Rothwcll 
 
 gone, — 
 To lift a hand against the general 
 
 peace. 
 The townsmen; of their surety satis- 
 fied. 
 Brake up with acclamation of content 
 For the good comfort done them in this 
 deed. 
 Queen. What have ye made my serv- 
 ant ? 
 Ruthven. A dead dog. 
 His turn is done of service. 
 Darnley. ^'e.T, stark dead ? 
 Ruthven. They stabbed him through 
 and through with edge on edge 
 Till all their jjoints met in hSiA \ there 
 be lies, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 171 
 
 Cast forth in the outer lodge, a piteous 
 
 knave 
 And poor enough to look on. 
 
 Queen. I am content. 
 Now must I study how to be revenged. 
 Darnley. Nay, think not that way : 
 make it not so much ; 
 Be warnedr^nd wiser. 
 
 Queen. Must I not, my lord? 
 You have taught me worthier wisdom 
 
 than of words ; 
 And I will lay it up against my heart. 
 
 ACT IL — BOTHWELL. 
 Time^from March 10, rj66y to February 
 
 Scene I. — The Queen's Chamber. 
 
 Enter Darnley and Arthur Ers- 
 KINE, severally. 
 Darnley. Is the queen risen .'' 
 Arthur Erskme. She has not slept, 
 my lord. 
 They say she is in some peril of mis- 
 hap 
 
 Through the sore handling of this vio- 
 lent night, — 
 Mortal mishap it may be. 
 
 Darnley. Ay ! who say it ? 
 What should be mortal to her ? she 
 
 was not sick, 
 Nor near enough her danger. 
 
 Arthur Erskine. I am no leech : 
 Haply the fright of murderous menaces 
 And noise of swords is held medicinal ; 
 The savor of a slain friend comforta- 
 ble, 
 
 And his blood balm : if these be health- 
 ful things, 
 You have given her weakness physic. 
 Enter the QuEEN. 
 Queen. Ah, our lord ! 
 Comes he with death about him ">. I 
 
 could take it 
 As readily as condemned men take re- 
 prieve, 
 For of a life much deadlier than itself 
 Death would reprieve me. 
 Darnley. I am come to bring you 
 help. 
 
 Queen. You are ever helpful, even at 
 all needs good. 
 For stroke or speech, good always. I 
 
 am weak ; 
 Let me have execution swift or soft ; 
 Here is no strength to suffer. 
 Darnley. Sit, and rest. 
 Queen. Nay, I can stand ; or should 
 I kneel, my plight 
 Were one with my new fortune. You 
 
 may go : 
 I have but private penitence to do. 
 And privy grace to get me ; for indeed 
 I were stark mad to hope by any 
 
 mean 
 For public pardon; I am condemned, 
 
 and have 
 No hope but of such pity as dead men 
 
 gain 
 Who living found no grace in the great 
 world. 
 
 \Exit Arthur Erskine. 
 Now, what death, sir } 
 
 Darnley. You think not as you speak; 
 Your thought has other business than 
 
 your tongue. 
 And death has no part in it. 
 
 Queen. I am assured 
 I must not live. 
 Darnley. Whose doom has passed on 
 you ? 
 Not mine ; I would not have you go in 
 
 fear : 
 You may be safe as I am. 
 
 Queen. As you, my lord "i 
 I think I may, and yet may chance but 
 
 find 
 A little day of surety. 
 
 Darnley. By mine honor. 
 My word and place of sovereignty is 
 
 pledged 
 For your fair usage ; they that unseat 
 
 you 
 Shall find no king in me. 
 Queen. Nay, I think not. 
 Darnley. As they would have mc 
 friend and firm to them, 
 I told them, they should use you roy- 
 ally. 
 No state or privilege plucked off you ; 
 
 nay, 
 I have no thought by stolen strength of 
 yours 
 
172 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 To increase myself out of your weak- 
 ness ; only 
 
 I would have royalty remade in yon, 
 
 And in your honor an honorable part; 
 
 See the state in you and the name shine 
 fair, 
 
 And in your praise mine own praise 
 perfected 
 
 As parcel of it, and in your good fame 
 
 Mine own fame stablished ; as from 
 your repute 
 
 Shaken or sullied, my name too takes 
 soil, 
 
 And in your insufificience I wax weak. 
 
 So would I have the grace I gain and 
 strength 
 
 Redound to you-ward; who being queen 
 indeed, 
 
 I cannot seem unkingly. 
 Queen. 'Tis well thought. 
 
 It was my curse to know not in good 
 time 
 
 How high a sense and royal of itself 
 
 I had in you so near me. 
 Darnley. That your thought, 
 
 Misdeeming me worth no more weight 
 with you, 
 
 Hath brought us to this breach. Now 
 lies it in you 
 
 To make all whole ; these lords that in 
 my name 
 
 And for mine ends and with my leave 
 rose uj) 
 
 To rid out peril and scandal from us all. 
 
 And make red-handed witness of them- 
 selves 
 
 Against the shame and scathe of roy- 
 alty, 
 
 Are not the traitors of your thought, 
 but keep 
 
 Faith flawless toward the personal em- 
 pire here 
 
 And spirit of rule, dishonoring not the 
 law 
 
 liy forceful chastisement of secret 
 breach 
 
 That did it bloodless violence; this 
 blood shed 
 
 Must heal indeed the privy hurt of law 
 
 And all but death of kingship, in such 
 pass 
 
 Wasted and wounded ; but no hand of 
 theirs 
 
 Would stab through you your holy 
 
 majesty. 
 Cut off all life of law.wilh yours, and 
 
 make 
 Authority die with you one visible 
 
 death ; 
 No thought |)ut out your office, though 
 
 yourself 
 Were found come short thereof, to leave 
 
 this land 
 A kingless kingdom ; wherefore with 
 
 good-will 
 I counsel you make peace with their 
 
 designs 
 And friends with mine intent, which for 
 
 us both 
 Is but all power and honor. 
 
 Queen. So you see it ; 
 But were your eyes no flatterers of 
 
 themselves. 
 The sight were other : yet for my poor 
 
 part 
 I cannot care though power be oui of 
 
 sight, 
 Save that mine honor visibly is marred 
 By wreck in you of either; for in- 
 deed 
 Nor power nor honor shall hang on to 
 
 you 
 If you must wear them but at will cA 
 
 men. 
 And by strange leave of chance au- 
 thority 
 Reign or not reign. But all concerns 
 
 me not : 
 Rule as you may, be lord of that you 
 
 can, 
 I can contend not with your lords, or 
 
 you. 
 Their master-servant. Pardon me, I 
 
 am weak, 
 A feeble simple woman, without stay, 
 And witless of your worth ; yet I might 
 
 fear 
 Their j)olicies were no good friends of 
 
 yours. 
 Could we see all. Men's hearts arc 
 
 manifold. 
 Not made of glass like women's such 
 
 as mine, 
 At once transpicuous and perceptible 
 To eyes like yours that look their faults 
 
 through ; yet 
 
BOTHIVELL. 
 
 173 
 
 IVrchance you see more faults than lie 
 
 there, spots 
 That are not natural to us ; or make 
 
 too much 
 C)t' our light thoughts, and weakness ; 
 
 yet, your pardon : 
 \'()u have reason in it, being more wise 
 
 than we, 
 And stronger in your regency of soul ; 
 It may be you do well to bear me hard. 
 And I do ill who think to counsel you; 
 'Tis no great matter; for in no great 
 
 while 
 My weakness will be medicine to itself, 
 And end as I do : no default of mine 
 But must by dying be curable ; and 
 
 God knows 
 I little think to live. 
 
 Darnley. Why, have no fear; 
 You see I stand 'twixt you and all such 
 
 threat. 
 Queen. Nay, I see not ; but though 
 
 you be my friend, 
 How far soever you stand out for me. 
 There is one threat that no man's help 
 
 in the world 
 Can bring to nothing : here it speaks 
 
 in me 
 Mortal ; I know the word inevitable 
 That without breath or sound has called 
 
 me dead ; 
 I would not plead against it. 
 Darnley. Nay, you dream ; 
 You jest or dream. 
 
 Queen. I do not : I am dead. 
 What! have you slain in jest, or in a 
 
 dream 
 Have I seen death, and felt him in my 
 
 flesh, 
 Felt my blood turn, and my veins fill 
 
 with death, 
 [ And the pang pass and leave me as I 
 
 am, 
 Dead ? for my state is pangless, and my 
 
 pain 
 Perished : I have no life to bring forth 
 
 pain, 
 Or painful fruit of life ; I think in pity 
 God willed one stroke of sheer mor- 
 tality 
 Should kill all possible pain and fear 
 
 in me. 
 All after-chance of ill ; I cannot die 
 
 Twice, and can live not with my dead 
 
 self here 
 Violently slain. I am sure I have no 
 
 child. 
 I would but pray, if I had breath to pray. 
 For mere shame's sake and pity's, I 
 
 might have 
 My women with me ; and was not born 
 
 to want 
 What our most poor bare natural 
 
 womanhood 
 Seeks not in vain of meanest people : 
 
 more 
 I seek of no man's mercy. 
 
 Darnley. You shall have it ; 
 But this is fear and shaken heart in 
 
 you — 
 I trust not very danger. 
 
 Queen. I that know 
 Must bear the peril and the sense alike, 
 And patiently can bear, so but I have 
 Hope of your heart made soft towards 
 
 me ; sir, 
 Howe'er I have been untoward and 
 
 confident 
 In my blind state and sovereign folly, 
 
 now 
 God knows me if I have not need of 
 
 love 
 Who have so much of pardon. 
 
 Darnley. Is this sure. 
 Such instant and such perilous press of 
 
 time, — 
 Or but your thought it may be ? 
 
 Queeji. Nay, my thought ! 
 Is it my thought I am stricken to my 
 
 death? 
 Is it my thought you have no pity of 
 
 me ? 
 Is it my thought I had looked at other 
 
 time 
 For other joy of childbed, and such 
 
 pangs 
 As bring glad women honor? not this 
 
 death 
 That sunders me from fruit of mine own 
 
 years 
 And youth and comfort, and mere natu- 
 ral hoi:)e, 
 And love that looks on many a worse 
 
 than me ? 
 Is it my thought that for small fault 
 
 of mine, 
 
174 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 And little lack of love and duteousness, 
 I am brought to shame and mortal 
 
 chastisement ? 
 Is it my thought love is not dead in me 
 For all this chastening? and my peni- 
 tence 
 Wherewith I weep on my least wrong- 
 doings past, 
 And faith wherewith I look for pardon 
 
 yet, 
 For grace of you — is all this but my 
 
 thought ? 
 Darnley. By heaven, I will not have 
 
 you wronged of them. 
 You shall live safe and honorably. 
 
 Queen. My lord, 
 Who lives in such times honorably or 
 
 safe, 
 When change of will and violence 
 
 mutable 
 Makes all state loose and rootless ? 
 
 Think you, men 
 Who have dipped their hands in this 
 
 red act with you 
 Will, as they wash them, so wash off 
 
 their hearts 
 The burning spot of raw malignity 
 And fire and hunger of ambition made 
 So proud and full of meat, so rank in 
 
 strength, 
 So grossly fed and fattened with fresh 
 
 blood ? 
 Is it for love of your name more than 
 
 mine 
 These men that fought against my love 
 
 of you. 
 And made rebellious wars on my free 
 
 choice. 
 Smite now my very head and crown of 
 
 state 
 ir. this night's hot and present stroke ? 
 
 Be sure 
 it is the throne, the name, the j^owcr in 
 
 us. 
 That here is stabbed and bleeds from 
 
 such a wound 
 As draws out life of you no less than 
 
 me 
 If you be part of majesty indeed. 
 Yea, howsoe'er you be now borne in 
 
 hand, 
 They will but use you as an axe to 
 
 smite. 
 
 A brand to set on fire the house of 
 
 state 
 And in the doing be burnt up of itself. 
 Why, do but think with now more 
 
 temperate blood 
 What are they that have helped you to 
 
 this deed ? 
 What friends to you "i what faith toward 
 
 royalty. 
 And what good-will and surety of sound 
 
 mind. 
 Have you found in them "i or how put 
 
 in proof? 
 What bond have their loves given you 
 
 to confirm 
 Their hearts toward you stable ? Nay, 
 
 if this 
 Be all my pledge for honor and safe 
 
 life. 
 They slide upon a slippery ground in- 
 deed. 
 Dartiley. The pledge is mine, not 
 
 theirs : you have my word ; 
 No warrant of their giving, but of me. 
 What ails you to go yet in fear of them ? 
 Queen. Alas ! I know not whom I 
 
 need yet fear. 
 What men were they who helped you 
 
 to this deed ? 
 Yet it avails not me to know. I think 
 The fierce first root of violence was 
 
 not set 
 Of you nor of your uncles, though I 
 
 know 
 They of your mother's kinship love me 
 
 not; 
 But though their hearts, albeit one 
 
 blood with yours. 
 Be bitter toward me, yet being of your 
 
 blood 
 I would fain think them not so hard; 
 
 and yet 
 It was no gentle sight I had of them. 
 Nor usage ; I can see their eyes burn 
 
 still, 
 And their brows meet against me. 
 
 Such a si.i;ht 
 Again might wind all suffering up in 
 
 me, 
 And give it full release, 
 
 DarnUy. It was their plot; 
 Th.il is, for love of me they felt the 
 
 offence 
 
BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 175 
 
 Eat at their hearts. I did not set them 
 on ; 
 
 But wrath and shame's suspicion for 
 my sake 
 
 Edged and envenomed; then your poli- 
 cies too, 
 
 And injuries done the popular weal, the 
 slate 
 
 So far mishandled, — this was all men's 
 talk. 
 
 Mine uncle's chiefly, Ruthven's, and his 
 word 
 
 Was hot in the ear of Maitland and 
 Argyle, 
 
 Showing the wrong done and the further 
 fear, 
 
 More wide in issue and large in likeli- 
 hood 
 
 Than all wrong done already ; nay, and 
 plain ; 
 
 You would have given the state up to 
 strange hands. 
 
 And for strange ends; no dreaming 
 doubt of mine, 
 
 But very vision, proof : they held it so ; 
 
 And, by my faith, I with them. 
 Queen. Morton too? 
 
 Was not his wit part of your wisdom ? 
 Darn ley. Ay ; 
 
 Why, all heads highest, all subtlest, 
 could not choose 
 
 But be one judgment and one counsel 
 here. 
 
 In such a biting need •, yea, common 
 fools, 
 
 Poor senseless knaves might see it. 
 Queen. Yea, visibly. ^ 
 
 The sharpest wits and hands put armor 
 on 
 
 To go forth strong against me ; little 
 doubt 
 
 But fools and ignorance and the com- 
 mon mouth. 
 
 The very dust o' the street, the dross 
 of man. 
 
 Must needs take fire with blowing of 
 such wind. 
 
 And stir at such men's passage : their 
 mere feet 
 
 Moving would raise me up such ene- 
 mies 
 
 From the bare ground. Ruthven — 
 you said his breath 
 
 Was first to heat men's hearing with 
 
 strange words 
 And set their hearts on edge; and at 
 
 his touch 
 The quick-eyed Maitland and loose- 
 
 souled Argyle, 
 Keen to catch fire or fear from other 
 
 men's ; 
 And the full-counselled Morton — by 
 
 my life 
 (That's but a little oath now) I think 
 
 strange 
 To be at all alive, and have such men 
 So sore unfriends and secret, and their 
 
 wits 
 So sharp to set upon so slight a thing. 
 How grew this up amongst you ? 
 
 Darnley. Why, you see it ; 
 No need to set men on; their swords 
 
 were made 
 Of your own follies ; yet have comfort ; 
 
 That was so little made of, so less 
 
 worth. 
 In your late judgment, will alone be 
 
 guard 
 And buckler of yop ; come what coun- 
 sel may. 
 It shall not hold against you with mv 
 
 will, 
 And cannot work without. 
 
 Queen. Nay, that were hard. 
 I thank you ; but what counsel will they 
 
 take. 
 Think you, which way to deal with me } 
 
 ^^y soul 
 Is womanly distempered and distract 
 With doubts of them : no fear of your 
 
 good mind, 
 Of your firm love and fruitful ; but, 
 
 alas ! 
 I am no strong man as you my guard, 
 
 and ache 
 With new faint fear of their fresh 
 
 angers : then. 
 This watch on me, my ways and rooms 
 
 barred up. 
 No help nor issue, shakes and sickens 
 
 me 
 With pangs for every stroke in the 
 
 hour, that says 
 I am so much more time prisoner. 
 Darnley. For your guard, 
 
176 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 It must be later taken off; the rest 
 
 I will find mean of help for. They are 
 
 now 
 In council with your brother, new 
 
 brought home 
 With seal from me of pardon to reverse 
 Your fresh and rash attainder, in my 
 
 name 
 Now cancelled and made strengthless ; 
 
 and I think 
 There must three judgments be debated 
 
 of,- 
 Whether, for hurt done to the common 
 
 state 
 And treason to succession, you must 
 
 bear 
 Penance of death, or life's imprison- 
 ment. 
 Which fear not I will have them put in 
 
 form, 
 Nor see it pass upon you ; the third 
 
 mean 
 Is for some season that you be in ward 
 In Stirling Castle, till your warrant 
 
 given 
 And free consent to this late justice 
 
 done. 
 And to the new faith stablished in the 
 
 realm 
 By right and rule of law, religiously. 
 And to mine own investiture as king. 
 Now for no fear at all or doubt of them. 
 But very love and good desire toward 
 
 you, 
 I will go plead your part, and take them 
 
 sign 
 Of seasonable submission ; with which 
 
 word 
 I doubt not but to reconcile their 
 
 thoughts. 
 And bring their loves back bounden to 
 
 your feet. 
 Queen. Neither do I doubt. Let 
 
 them draw this bond, 
 I will set hand to what they will of me. 
 To seal you king needs now no grace 
 
 of mine, 
 Hardly my leave; and for their faith, 
 
 it has 
 Too firm a foot for my poor power to 
 
 shake, 
 Had I the will now molten in me strong 
 As ere the fire of fierce necessity 
 
 Had made it soft and edgeless ; for 
 
 their deed, 
 Say, if they hold my word of pardon 
 
 worth 
 More than mere scorn, I am bound to 
 
 thank them, being 
 Masters of me and of my wrath or will. 
 And needing show me no such courtesy; 
 And if it please them take mine oath 
 
 and hand 
 To sign them safe, and mark them from 
 
 all charge 
 Sackless and scatheless, let them take 
 
 it ; alas ! 
 I thought well they might rather take 
 
 my life. 
 And yet I think well they would take 
 
 indeed 
 But for your safeguard of me ; would 
 
 they not 
 Slay me .-' nay, by your honor tell me — 
 
 nay, 
 I know they would, had I no guard in 
 
 you. 
 Slay me defenceless. 
 Darnley. Have no fear: I have 
 
 sworn 
 They shall not touch you roughly. 
 
 Queen. Swear again, 
 That I may quite rest confident ; and 
 
 yet 
 Swear not ; I would not seem to hold 
 
 you fast 
 To your own peril ; better were I dead 
 Than you fell in their danger for my 
 
 sake. 
 Ah ! and I know not, I may hardly think 
 I hav{? you surely on my side. 
 
 Dar)iley. By heaven. 
 You shall want nothing of my help or 
 
 love. 
 Queen. How had you heart to go so 
 
 near my death .'' 
 Darnley. I had no mind to hurt you. 
 Queen. None? well, none — 
 I will not think it ; yet I was nigh dead. 
 You saw my very death here at my 
 
 breast 
 Where your child is not yet — I did 
 
 not think 
 To feel instead there murder's iron lip> 
 For his soft suckling mouth. 
 Darnley. Come, think not of it 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 177 
 
 Qi(cc7i. I had not time to think of it 
 
 indeed. 
 But I think now you will have hardly 
 
 power 
 To match your will to save me, if their 
 
 will 
 Shall yet be mortal to me : then I saw 
 You had not power, or had not will ; 
 
 and now 
 I know not which vou have yet. 
 
 Daniley. They shall find ' 
 I have power enough and will to turn 
 
 them. 
 Queen. Well — 
 I lean, then, on your hand. If you were 
 
 mine, 
 Though they were subtler and more 
 
 strong in hate, 
 They should not hold me here in peril. 
 Daniley. Plow .'' 
 Queen. No matter, so their guard 
 
 were less on me. 
 Darnley. You would take flight, 
 
 then? 
 Queen. Ay, with you for wing 
 To lift me out of prison. 
 Darnley. Whither.'* 
 Queen. Nay, 
 I am but the fool of your keen flatter- 
 ing wit. 
 Who let you see my little hope that 
 
 lives 
 To see my some day sunnier : yet God 
 
 knows 
 Without light of you it were lustre- 
 less. 
 I can look forth not, or heave up my 
 
 hand. 
 But with your help to stay me. 
 
 Darnley. Surely no. 
 As you .stand now, you cannot ; and I 
 
 were 
 A faithless fool to mine own fortune, if 
 1 loosed you out of sight for wanton- 
 ness, 
 Who have vou now in hand : but for 
 
 all this 
 li may be flight were no such unwise 
 
 mean 
 To assure our free and mutual power 
 
 on thtem, 
 And show them simply subject ; as it 
 
 is. 
 
 They have some show of hold on us 
 
 which makes 
 Our reign and freedom questionable 
 
 and slight : 
 I see some reason in it. 
 
 Queen. Why, do you think 
 That you being here their gaoler in 
 
 their eye 
 Can be their king too, or not rather 
 
 they 
 Lords both of gaol and warder .-* they 
 
 will hold you 
 But as the minister of their power on 
 
 me. 
 Of no more office than a doorkeeper 
 Nor honor than their headsman ; but 
 
 fled hence 
 You are very king indeed, by your own 
 
 hand, 
 Lord of the life you give and majesty. 
 By no man's furtherance and no grant 
 
 of theirs 
 Made pensioner and proxy for their 
 
 reign 
 Who should bear rule and you the sem- 
 blance, worn 
 As mask of all their faces, glove of 
 
 hands, 
 And hollow trumpet blown of all their 
 
 mouths. 
 But mine and all their free and sove- 
 reign king. 
 Darnley. Why, so I say; they must 
 
 be borne in hand. 
 Look you, we must not set their fears 
 
 on edge ; 
 They shall suspect not : I will take 
 
 them word. 
 And bring them to you for your bond. 
 
 Queen. Meantime, 
 I will but walk an hour here hand in 
 
 hand 
 With my good brother; let me speak 
 
 to him 
 While they shall draw the schedule. 
 
 Darnley. I will bid him 
 Attend you, and your women ; but be 
 
 sure 
 You take him not to counsel : he is 
 
 wise. 
 And full of malice ; let him not be 
 
 part 
 Of our new mind. 
 
178 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Queen. He shall not. 
 Darn ley. But you smile : 
 What should he 'do to know it? 
 Queen. He shall not know. 
 Darniey. Well, you shall see him, 
 
 and they take off your guard ; 
 I will make sure : but when and by 
 
 what means 
 Think you to fly ? 
 Queen. To-night. 
 Darniey. God help your wit! 
 To-night ? 
 
 Queen. Before the change of watch ; 
 
 I have said : 
 Weak as I stand, and burdened, and 
 
 soul-spent, 
 I will be hence. Mistrust me not for 
 
 strength ; 
 My soul shall make my body like itself, 
 A servant armed to wait upon my 
 
 thought 
 And page my purpose as its minister 
 Till the end be held in hand. This 
 
 guard removed, 
 I will find ways out to win forth to- 
 night, 
 Fear not, and servants. Go now to 
 
 the lords 
 With all submissive mild report of me. 
 And bring them to receive my word 
 
 and hand 
 To confirmation of what bond they 
 
 please 
 For pardon and possession of their 
 
 will; 
 And for your kingship — sir, assure 
 
 yourself 
 That in few hours it shall be seen and 
 
 sure 
 You shall need never seek their loves 
 
 again, 
 Or hands to help you to it, or tongues 
 
 to cry. 
 Nor be called king by will of any man, 
 Nor lord by choice of any friend on 
 
 earth. 
 Darniey. Nay, I would heed no 
 
 voices. 
 Queen. And be sure 
 You shall not build your power on 
 
 loves of theirs. 
 Nor live by their election. Go, and 
 
 thrive ; 
 
 Think how my faith and hope and love 
 
 in you 
 Find all their rest and stronghold, and 
 
 on them 
 Set up your trust and standard of your 
 
 strength. 
 
 [Exit Darnley. 
 So much is done ; go thou, then, first to 
 
 death; 
 For from this hour I have thee. — Heart, 
 
 lie still, 
 Till I may make those mightier traitors 
 
 mine 
 That shall be swords for me to smite 
 
 him with. 
 And then be free as fire. 
 
 Enter Mary Beaton. 
 
 Hast thou no news ? 
 Mary Beaton. The lord of Bothwell 
 
 lies at secret ward 
 To bear you forth of peril here by 
 
 force ; 
 He has gathered up his men beyond 
 
 the walls 
 To break this guard upon you when 
 
 you will. 
 If at your suit it shall not be with- 
 drawn ; 
 Here is his token brought me privily 
 For your own hand. 
 
 Queen. No, in my heart it is, 
 My love and lord, thy token ; this poor 
 
 heart. 
 That, ere mine ear is smitten with thy 
 
 name, 
 Hears it, and turns to springing fire. 
 
 What thanks 
 Would I not rather pay than these of 
 
 words 
 For this thy loving speed .^ Yet send 
 
 him these. 
 And bill him, I would fain say come 
 
 but wait 
 Till I have tried my traitors; if VM 
 
 tongue 
 Win them to slack their hold on me 
 
 to-night, 
 We may speed surelicr; if their hands 
 
 h'old fast, 
 Then let him smite and slay and set me 
 
 free. 
 I would have all their heads here in 
 
 my lap, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 17^ 
 
 fell him, not one or two slain sud- 
 denly, 
 That their blood shed may seem not 
 
 spilt by chance, 
 Nor lost and won in hazard of affray, 
 But sacrificed by judgment, and their 
 
 names 
 Who would have made of royalty in 
 
 me 
 Ruin, and marred the general name of 
 
 king, 
 Shall with their lives be perfectly put 
 
 out, 
 Royally ruined ; wherefore if I may 
 I will steal forth with subtle help of 
 
 words. 
 Not break their bonds with violence ; 
 
 in which hope 
 Bid him watch close. 
 
 [Exit Mary Beaton. 
 
 And when his watch is done 
 
 It v/ill be morning, and the sun shall 
 
 break 
 As fire for them that had their hour by 
 
 night 
 And light for wrath to see them and to 
 
 slay. 
 Re-enter ARTHUR Erskine, introducing 
 Murray. 
 Arthur Erskine. Madam, my lord of 
 
 Murray. 
 Queen. Ah ! my brother, 
 Had you been here, they had not used 
 
 me thus. 
 Murray. I am sorry, madam, such 
 
 things should be done 
 As even the strain of sharp necessity 
 Can make but fierce and bitter. 
 
 Queen. Is this all .'' 
 Nay, it was necessary then and just. 
 Or I must seem and strive to think it 
 
 was. 
 If you say so. But in my present sight. 
 Now when a feather's or a flower's 
 
 weight borne 
 Might make life stoop within me, sense 
 
 break down, 
 All strong capacities of nature fail ; 
 Now when the hardest heart with iron 
 
 bound 
 Might turn to very mercy for my sake, 
 Here in mine eye to do my friend to 
 death — 
 
 For howsoe'er ye hold him, yet being 
 
 dead 
 I will not say but he was friend of 
 
 mine 
 Who lies now dead and slaughtered, — 
 
 nay, by heaven, 
 I will not cast that name of friend away 
 Because the man my friend is slain for 
 
 me, — 
 I say, to kill him at my knee, to stain 
 An unborn child's brow with his mur- 
 dered blood, 
 To affray with sanguine hands, shake 
 
 with sheer blows, 
 The weak and holy warders of the 
 
 womb. 
 The reverence and remembrance of us 
 
 all 
 For that which bare us hidden before 
 
 birth 
 And after was called mother, — oh, this 
 
 deed. 
 This, though all law were cast out of 
 
 the vorld, 
 All grace "^orgotten, — this, you will not 
 
 say 
 But they did ill who did it. What ! you 
 
 weep .'• 
 These tears are made of our deal 
 
 father's blood, 
 Who left in each of us such part of him 
 As must yearn each toward other, and 
 
 divide 
 At need their mutual suffeiing : I knew 
 
 well 
 I need not fear to find not in your heart 
 Some natural seed of comfort. 
 
 Murray. That I weep 
 I take no shame, to see you ; but mine 
 
 eyes 
 Receive more comfort than their tears 
 
 can give 
 To see, for all this rash and ruthless 
 
 night. 
 Vet you stand up unwounded, and your 
 
 heart 
 Is left you to put spirit in your speech 
 Not like a sick man's. If you have no 
 
 hurt. 
 No hurt is done, though they did vio- 
 lently; 
 For this man's life was as a present 
 death 
 
I So 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 To the well-being and peace of all your 
 state, 
 
 Which, by the force of justice done on 
 him, 
 
 Stands now in surety. I would pray 
 you make 
 
 Your profit of your pain herein, being 
 wise. 
 
 As you well may; for this was not the 
 man 
 
 That you saw slain, but the man's 
 policy, 
 
 Stabbed through with all their daggers ; 
 and you see 
 
 How it lies dead and outcast. I be- 
 seech you. 
 
 For your own love and honor of high 
 rule, 
 
 Set not your heart toward it to raise it 
 up 
 
 That men would bury, lest the grave- 
 yard reek 
 
 Of d^aa men's craft and strange men's 
 creeds brought back 
 
 Prove poison to you. 
 
 Queen. I will do what men will. 
 
 I must not die, then ? 
 Murray. There are those would have 
 it 
 
 For scandal and offence cast on the 
 realm 
 
 By shame done to the popular common- 
 wealth 
 
 in majesty made shameful ; as they 
 say 
 
 Through you it hath been, and your 
 dealings known 
 
 With this dead friend : some that would 
 leave you life 
 
 Spake of life spent in sharp imprison- 
 ment 
 
 Unto your death's day: but by mine 
 award 
 
 You are cpiit of either danger ; you 
 must live 
 
 But under guard till you by word ap- 
 prove 
 
 This man's desj)atch for necessary and 
 just, 
 
 Submit yourself to call your husband 
 king, 
 
 And own the true faith rooted in this 
 realm 
 
 For lawful and for sovereign here of 
 
 rule. 
 So much you shall. 
 
 Queen. Nay, I will more than this. 
 I will seal now what you will have me 
 
 seal. 
 What bond soever: let them come to 
 
 me. 
 Who wTought this murderous matter 
 
 but last night. 
 That I may sign their pardon with my 
 
 tongue 
 Ere they can crave or threaten. Let 
 
 them come : 
 So shall my perfect purpose be more 
 
 plain 
 Freely in all things to submit myself — 
 I have your word already — to their 
 
 will : 
 Ay, even with all my new submissive 
 
 heart, 
 As else I cannot choose ; for what am I, 
 That I should think much to submit 
 
 myself ? 
 Murray. Vou shall do wisely to keep 
 
 faith with them. 
 And make your word your action's 
 
 measure : so 
 Shall hearts n(,)W loosened from you be 
 
 made fast, 
 And love reclaimed wait on you loyally 
 Through all your land's length. See, 
 
 the lords are come. 
 Enter Darnlev, Morton, and Ruth- 
 
 VKN. 
 
 Queen. Good morrow, sirs ; ye gave 
 
 me no good night. 
 Yet arc vou welcome even as life or 
 
 death 
 Were welcome to mc, coming with vour 
 
 will : 
 For without love of my good lords my 
 
 life 
 Were scarce worth holding out against 
 
 their will ; 
 Hut, if it please them I should die not 
 
 yet. 
 For their love's sake I give it welcome. 
 
 Sirs, 
 I have heard what terms ye lay upon 
 
 mine head, 
 And bow beneath them willingly, being 
 
 sure 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 I8 
 
 I 
 
 It is Dut meet I should submit myself, 
 It is but fit mere majesty bow down 
 To take the burden by good men and 
 
 wise 
 Imposed upon it ; nor shall this be 
 
 hard : 
 For what ye did so suddenly and swift, 
 If there be power of pardon in me, here 
 With as good heart even as ye did the 
 
 deed 
 Do I forgive it ; nay, I should give you 
 
 thanks 
 That ye vouchsafe of me to be forgiven ; 
 For what am I among you ? Let the 
 
 bond 
 Be drawn between us presently to sign, 
 While for an hour's space I will walk 
 
 and wait 
 Here with my noble brother, hand in 
 
 hand. 
 And heart reposed on heart, eyes an- 
 swering eyes. 
 With pure plain faith : for wha* now in 
 
 the world 
 Should lies or dumb dissembling profit 
 
 me, 
 Though I were natural liar ? as I do 
 
 trust 
 Ye shall not find me, but most faithful ; 
 
 yet. 
 If I were falser than the foam of the 
 
 sea, 
 And wilfuller than wind, what should I 
 
 do, 
 Being yours, to mock you and myself, 
 
 and lie 
 fAgainst mine own life ? for ye see me, 
 
 sirs, 
 [How I stand bare between you, without 
 
 strength, 
 [At your mere mercy, with no friend on 
 
 earth 
 If ye will be mine unfriends; and I 
 
 think 
 To live but by your grace and leave, 
 
 who might. 
 If ye were minded, speak me out of life 
 Or sign me dead with smiling; I were 
 
 mad 
 To play with lies, who feel your hands 
 
 on me 
 So heavy as they are, and have no hope 
 Save to be pitied and believed of you. 
 
 I pray you, then, have faith in me, who 
 
 live 
 In your faith only, and, if it fail me here, 
 Must die the lowliest death in all tlie 
 
 world, 
 And no man's hand to help me. 
 
 Darnley. She says truth : 
 There is no hand. 
 
 Morton. Madam, though faith stand 
 
 fast, 
 Yet fear hath something here to say of 
 
 you. 
 And wisdom to remember. We must 
 
 think 
 That what is done in service of yourself 
 You cannot hold good service when it 
 
 comes 
 So masked in blood, so vizarded like 
 
 death, 
 As this of ours doth; and that yet in 
 
 time 
 You may find mean to wreak your 
 
 wrath on us 
 For having strangely served you, and 
 
 perforce 
 Given desperation and the dangerous 
 
 time 
 So desperate a deliverance from de- 
 spair. 
 We have saved you in this service done 
 
 the state. 
 Who must have else been broken in the 
 
 breach 
 Of the state's order and the popular 
 
 law. 
 By this man living violently misused ; 
 But cannot hope yet for such thanks of 
 
 you 
 As even the deed deserves whose fierce 
 
 despatch 
 Has shaken you with thunder, and its 
 
 flame 
 Still makes your eyes blind to the good 
 
 work done, 
 And sharp need felt of it : so must this 
 
 be. 
 And so must we take heed lest, being 
 
 yet blind. 
 We give you scope and mean to hurt 
 
 yourself. 
 Queen. I did not think the thing was 
 
 yet alive 
 That could fear me. 
 
I82 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 DarnU-y. Nay, look you, she says 
 
 right : 
 We hnvc no room to fear her. 
 
 Queen. Lo, r»y lords, 
 How dangerous and how strong a thing 
 
 it is 
 That threatens here your state and 
 
 safety ! sec, 
 It is no less than woman, and unarmed. 
 Half dead, unfriended, hard on child- 
 bearing, 
 Naked of arms or means : it were not 
 
 wise 
 To leave unguarded, without spies or 
 
 swords 
 About her path, so great a danger ; yea. 
 Wise men would rather fear her force 
 
 too much. 
 Than good men show compassion. Do 
 
 your wills : 
 I am well content to know you wise, 
 
 and so 
 To bear what hard or lighter weight ye 
 
 please : 
 How sore soever, God knows, I believe 
 It shall not long afiflict me. 
 
 Murray. In my mind. 
 It now shall less distract the general 
 
 eye 
 With apprehension of strange times 
 
 and strife. 
 To see the ways again made clear, and 
 
 gates 
 Not crowded up with guard. 
 Darnley. Why, so I said. 
 Ruthven. So \ say not. Bear with 
 
 me though I seem 
 i^ess confident or free of heart than 
 
 men, 
 Whose minds are gentle as their names, 
 
 should be 
 In things of common care: what hurt 
 
 may come 
 By fault of us, we know not, but we 
 
 know 
 It is no private peril ; if we err, 
 Not we nor ours must only ache for 
 
 it, 
 But the whole popular heart of this 
 
 great land 
 Must bleed and break for our false 
 
 friendship shown. 
 And confident remission of our cause 
 
 And very duty toward her, through 
 
 mere wish 
 To be called gentle toward her ene- 
 mies. 
 Queen. I am her enemy, then : w here 
 
 lies my strength ? 
 What field ? what weapon } how shali 
 
 we make war, 
 Take truce and break it, with what 
 
 equal face 
 Stand brow to brow for battle ? By 
 
 this hand, 
 I knew not yet how strong it was, nor 
 
 worth 
 How many hands of swordsmen ; were 
 
 this true, 
 I might wax proud to be so terrible. 
 Seeing in such great men's eyes so great 
 
 a fear. 
 And only mine own fearful face therein 
 As in a mirror shadowed. 
 
 Darnley. 'Tis mere truth : 
 We should be shamed to seem in feah- 
 
 of her. 
 Yea, made a mockery in men's eyes and 
 
 mouths 
 For base and blind misgiving. 
 
 Ruthven. You, my lords 
 And equals with me in the proof of 
 
 years, 
 In the age of counsel and experience 
 
 borne 
 Of common service done our natural 
 
 state. 
 Shall best pass judgment, if in hate or 
 
 fear 
 I speak for mine own ends or enmities 
 To turn your hearts from honor. For 
 
 the queen, 
 As she shall be toward God, so I toward 
 
 her 
 Would be fast frieiul and servant ; bul 
 
 wherein 
 She is not friend with heaven nor witb 
 
 the state, 
 I were no friend to serve her, nor to sa) 
 There were no danger and no sin tc 
 
 serve. 
 Ye must all think I think not to livt 
 
 long; 
 And being so signed of sickness for m; 
 
 grave 
 With such a mortal seal, I speak al'vc \ 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 ■83 
 
 A.S one being dead that speaketh : if ye 
 
 lose 
 The grace of God here won by your 
 
 own hands, 
 The power ye have to serve him, and 
 
 the effect 
 Of his good hour, through negligence 
 
 of will, 
 Or pride or pity, ye shall see the state 
 Break from your hands, and, for one 
 
 devil cast out. 
 Seven entered in its body. Sirs, take 
 
 heed: 
 The least thing lightly overlooked or 
 
 done 
 May undo all things wrought. Keep 
 
 fast your guards ; 
 Jiy the king's counsel if they be with- 
 drawn, 
 Upon his head that bade them go shall 
 
 rest 
 What bloodshed ever follows : yet in 
 
 time 
 Think nothing weak that is not with us ; 
 
 each 
 May have some sting or weapon of it- 
 self 
 That till sloth feel it sees not. 
 
 Queen. A wise rule : 
 So should the wary wolf pen up the 
 
 lambs. 
 The falcon set good guaid upon the 
 
 wren. 
 For fear of teeth or talons 
 
 Murray. We will give 
 To the king's hand the bond for yours 
 
 to sign : 
 Meantime all ease and rf-verence shall 
 
 you have, 
 And freedom for your household folk to 
 
 serve 
 As best your need n:?.y bid them. 
 
 Queen. Sirs, farewell. 
 T will not pray you do but what ye will, 
 Which shall seem wisely to me. — Let 
 
 me have 
 Word of their instant sentence. \Aside 
 to Darivley.] 
 Darnley [aside). With all speed. 
 [i5'x^««/ Darnley, Murray, Morton, 
 and RUTHVEN. 
 Queen, Where are my servants 
 
 Standen and Traquair ? 
 
 Arthur Erskine. At hand to serve 
 
 your highness. 
 Queen. Ah, to serve ! 
 My highness is brought low, too low to 
 
 claim 
 Service of men ; if I may find but love 
 Or only pity of any, this shall be 
 All utmost service I desire of them. 
 I have but my sorrows to my subjects 
 
 left, 
 And these rebellious ; yet I keep what 
 
 state 
 And rule I may upon them. Tell those 
 
 twain 
 I pray their patience lend me but the 
 
 time 
 To hear what I would have them, and 
 
 to choose 
 If they will do it for pity. 
 
 Arthur Erskine. Think them here. 
 And your will done already. \Exit. 
 
 Queen. Yea, my will ! 
 What knowest thou may my will be ? 
 
 By this light, 
 I feel a heat and hurry of the heart 
 That burns like joy ; my blood is light 
 
 and quick. 
 And my breath comes triumphantly as 
 
 his 
 That has long labored for a moun- 
 tainous goal. 
 And sets fast foot on the utmost cliff 
 
 of all. 
 If ere the race be run my spirit be glad, 
 What when it puts the palm of peril 
 
 on, 
 And breathes clear air, and conquers ? 
 
 Nay, I think 
 The doubt itself and danger are as food 
 To strengthen and bright wine to 
 
 quicken me, 
 And lift my heart up higher than my 
 
 need. 
 Though that be high upon me. 
 
 Re-enter Erskine with Traquair 
 and Standen. 
 
 Now, my friends, 
 Ye come unlike to courtiers, come to 
 
 serve 
 Me most unlike a queen: shall I think 
 
 yet 
 I have some poor part in your memories 
 
 safe, 
 
1 84 
 
 nOTinVELL. 
 
 And you some care of what I was, and 
 
 thought 
 How I fare now ? Shall I take up my 
 
 hope, 
 That was cast down into the pit of 
 
 death, 
 To keep the name God gave me, and 
 
 the seal 
 Fhat signs me royal, by your loves and 
 
 faiths 
 Recrowned and reinstated ? Say but no, 
 Or say but naught, this hope of mine 
 
 and heart 
 Are things as dead as yesterday: my 
 
 cause 
 Lies in your lips, to comfort or con- 
 found, 
 As ye see reason. Yet, as power is 
 
 yours. 
 So let remembrance in you be for light 
 To see the face of the time by ; so let 
 
 faith. 
 Let noble pity and love be part of you, 
 To make you mindful what a cause it is 
 That ye must put in judgment, and 
 
 what life 
 For fame or shame to you through all 
 
 time born 
 Ensues upon your sentence ; for ye 
 
 choose 
 If ye will match my dangers with your 
 
 faiths. 
 And helj) me helpless with your hearts, 
 
 who lie 
 lly grief and fear made heartless; or 
 
 lend hand 
 To make my weakness weaker, and 
 
 break down 
 My brcjken wall of sovereignty; which 
 
 now 
 \Vc wot were no sore labor. 
 
 Standen. Let him die 
 As heartless toward the grace of God, 
 
 who hath 
 No heart in him to give its blood for 
 
 yours ! 
 Traquair. So say we all your ser- 
 vants. 
 Queen. Did I know it.' 
 Meihinks 1 knew, when I bade send for 
 
 you, 
 Ye should so say. Ah, friends I I had 
 
 no fear 
 
 But I should find me friends in this 
 
 fierce world. 
 Or I had died unfriended. Shall I 
 
 thank you 
 For being the true men and the kind 
 
 ye are, 
 Or take your service thankless, since I 
 
 thought 
 Ye could not else, being young and of 
 
 your kinds. 
 But needs must be my help.? ye have 
 
 not hearts 
 To strike, but at men wcaponed ; ye 
 
 would not 
 Lay hard hand on a woman weak with 
 
 child, 
 A sick sad woman that was no man's 
 
 queen 
 Of all that stood against her ; yet her son, 
 The unborn thing that pleads again 
 
 with you 
 As it could plead not with them, <his 
 
 dumb voice. 
 This sightless life and sinless, was th'^ii 
 
 king's. 
 If ever they would let it come to life. 
 Lo, here their aim was; here the wca,> 
 
 ons went, 
 That should have stabbed to death the 
 
 race of kings. 
 And cut their stem down to the root ; 
 
 here, here 
 The pistol's mouth that bruised mv 
 
 breast, the hand 
 That struck athwart my shoulder, found 
 
 their mark, 
 Made here their point to shoot at: in 
 
 my womb 
 I>y them the bud of empire should have 
 
 died. 
 That yet by you may live, and yet give 
 
 thanks 
 For flower and fruit to them that sa' ed 
 
 the seed. 
 Standen. They shall die first. 
 7'riujutiir. (."ommand us what n'\vt 
 
 way 
 There is to serve you : though the V'.iy 
 
 were fire. 
 We would be through it. 
 
 Queen. To-night, then, at first vvatc** 
 I puri)()se with the man's help — nuy, 
 
 what n.mie 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 185 
 
 Shall his be now ? king, husband, or, 
 
 God help, 
 King's father? — with the man that you 
 
 called king 
 As I called husband, to win forth of 
 
 bonds 
 By the close covered passage under- 
 ground 
 That by strange turns and strait blind 
 
 working ways 
 Winds up into the sovereign cemetery 
 Whose dust is of my fathers; there- 
 
 without 
 Wait you with horse ; and when you see 
 
 us rise 
 Out of the hollow earth among the 
 
 dead, 
 Be ready to receive and bear us thence. 
 Some two hours' haste will speed us to 
 
 Dunbar, 
 Where friends lie close, and whence 
 
 with sudden strength 
 I trust to turn on these good lords 
 
 again. 
 Do this for such poor love's sake as 
 
 your queen's, 
 And if there be thanks worthy in the 
 
 world, 
 Them shall she give ; not silver, sirs, 
 
 nor gold. 
 Nor the coined guerdon that is cast on 
 
 churls 
 To coin them into service ; but a heart. 
 If not worth love, yet loving, and a 
 
 faith 
 That will die last of all that dies in me. 
 And last of all remembrances foregone 
 Let your names go. God speed you, 
 
 and farewell. 
 
 Scene II. — Ruins of the Abbey of 
 
 HOLYROOD. 
 
 Enter Arthur Erskine, Traquair, 
 and Stan den. 
 Standen. It must be time ; the moon 
 is sick and slow 
 That should by this be higher. 
 
 Arthur Erskine. It is your eye 
 Whose sight is slow as sickness; for 
 
 the moon 
 Is seasonable and full : see where it 
 burns 
 
 Between the bare boughs and the 
 
 broken tombs 
 Like a white flower whose leaves were 
 
 fire : the night 
 Is deep and sharp wherein it hangs, 
 
 and heaven 
 Gives not the wind a cloud to carry, 
 
 nor 
 Fails one faint star of all that fill their 
 
 count 
 To lend our flight its comfort; we shall 
 
 have 
 Good time of heaven and earth. 
 
 Traquair. How shall the steeds 
 Be shared among us t 
 
 Arthur Erskine. If she keep her 
 mind. 
 My English gelding best shall bear the 
 
 queen, 
 And him the Naples courser. Hark I 
 they come. 
 Standen. It was a word said of the 
 wind to hear 
 What earth or death would answer. 
 
 These dead stones 
 Are full of hollow noises, though the 
 
 vault 
 Give tongue to no man s footfall : when 
 
 thev come. 
 It will speak louder. Lo, how straight 
 
 that star 
 Stands over where her face must break 
 
 from earth 
 As it hath broken ! it was not there 
 
 before. 
 But ere she rise is risen. I would not 
 
 give 
 The third part of this night between us 
 
 shared 
 For all the days that happiest men 
 
 may live. 
 Though I should die by morning. 
 
 Traquair. Till she come, 
 I cannot choose but with my fears take 
 
 thought. 
 Though all be after her sweet manner 
 
 done 
 And by her wise direction, what strange 
 
 ways 
 And what foul peril with so faint a 
 
 guard 
 Must of so tender feet be overpast 
 Ere she win to us. 
 
1 86 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Arthur Erskine. All these with laugh- 
 ing lijjs 
 Shall she pass through; the strength 
 
 and spring of soul 
 That set her on this danger will sustain 
 Those feet till all her will and way be 
 
 won. 
 Her spirit is to her body as a staff, 
 And her bright fiery heart the travel- 
 ler's lamp 
 That makes all shadow clear as its own 
 
 light. 
 Enter from the vaults the QuEEN a7id 
 Darnley. 
 Queen. Here come the wind and stars 
 at once on us ; 
 How good is this good air of that full 
 
 heaven 
 That drives the fume back of the sepul- 
 chres, 
 And blows the grave away ! Have no 
 
 more fear ; 
 These are no dead men. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, I fear no dead ; 
 Nothing I fear, of quick or dead, but 
 
 God. 
 Shall I not go before you .■* 
 
 Queen. Not a foot. 
 See you, my friends, what valiant hearts 
 
 are here. 
 My lord's and mine, who hardly have 
 
 crept forth. 
 In God's fear only, througft the charnel- 
 house, 
 Among the bones and skulls of ancient 
 
 kings 
 That thought not shame to stand for 
 
 stumbling-stones 
 In their jjoor daughter's way, whose 
 
 heart had failed. 
 But that his hardier heart held up her 
 
 feet, 
 Who even if winds blew did not shrink 
 
 nor shake 
 For fear of aught but Cod. The night 
 
 is kind, 
 And these March blasts make merry 
 
 with the moon 
 That laughs on our free flight. Where 
 stand your steeds .'' 
 Arthur Erskine. Madam, hard by in 
 shadow of the stones; 
 I'lcase you, this way. 
 
 Queen. I will to horse with you. 
 Darnley. No, but with me. 
 Queen. It is not my good will. 
 Ride you alone, and safer. — Friend, 
 your arm. 
 
 Scene III. — Murray's Lodging»in 
 
 HOLYROOD. 
 
 Enter Murray, Morton, and 
 
 Ruthven. 
 Morton. There is no present help '- 
 
 the violent speed 
 Of these fierce days has run our chances 
 
 down. 
 It is found certain she comes back to- 
 day; 
 Soon as their flight drew bridle at 
 
 Dunbar, 
 Yet hot from horse, she sends for 
 
 Bothwell in. 
 With all his border thievery, red-foot 
 
 knaves. 
 The hardiest hinds of Liddesdale ; 
 
 next him 
 His new bride's brother, Huntley, more 
 
 in care 
 To win the land back than revenge the 
 
 blood 
 His father lost for treason ; after these 
 Caithness with Athol, and the queen's 
 
 chief strengths, 
 The earl marshal and the archbishop ; 
 
 in few days 
 Eight thousand swords to wait on that 
 
 sweet hand 
 Was worth so little manhood ; then 
 
 Argyle, 
 Who should have been a sea-wall on 
 
 our side 
 Against the foam of all their faction, 
 
 he. 
 Struck to the heart with spite and sharp 
 
 desjiair 
 Through proof late made of English 
 
 faith, — as you, 
 My lord of Murray, felt it when ye 
 
 twain 
 Sought help, and found false heart 
 
 there, — casts himself 
 Over upon her side ; with him two more 
 Her last vear's rebels, Rothes and Glen- 
 
 cairn, 
 
BOTHWF.LL. 
 
 187 
 
 And pardon sealed for all that rose with 
 
 them 
 \Vho were not of our counsel in this 
 
 death. 
 Thus fare we without help or hope of 
 
 these, 
 And from the castle here of Edinburgh 
 The hot Lord Erskine arms in our 
 
 offence 
 His mounted guns, making the queen 
 
 more strong 
 Than had her flight won first its dark- 
 ling walls, 
 And for a free camp in the general 
 
 field 
 Set up her strength within the fortress 
 
 here — 
 Which serves her now for outwork, 
 
 while behind 
 The whole force raised comes trooping 
 
 to her hand. 
 In this deep strait that our own hands 
 
 have dug 
 And our own follies channelled, to let 
 
 in 
 Storm on our sails and shipwreck on 
 
 our hopes, 
 My counsel is that whoso may stand 
 
 fast 
 Should here in harbor bide his better 
 
 day. 
 And we make land who may not : you, 
 
 my lord, 
 As by James Melville she solicits you. 
 May honorably assure your peace with 
 
 her. 
 Being speckless in her sight of this 
 
 man's blood ; 
 We that dipped open hand in it must 
 
 hence. 
 And watch the way of the wind and set 
 
 of storm 
 Till the sea sink again. 
 
 Rtithven. Sir, so say I ; 
 You serve not us a whit nor change our 
 
 chance 
 By tarrying on our side. Let no man 
 
 fly 
 For our deed's sake, but we that made 
 
 our deed 
 The witness for us not to be gainsaid 
 By foe of ours or friend we have on 
 
 earth. 
 
 It was well done ; what else was done, 
 
 and ill. 
 We must now bear the stroke of, and 
 
 devise 
 Some healing mean in season. This is 
 
 sure, 
 That faith or friendship shall have no 
 
 long life 
 Where friendship is ingraffed on breach 
 
 of faith ; 
 But shame, despite, division, and dis- 
 trust 
 Shall eat the heart out of their amity. 
 And hate unreconcile their heartless 
 
 hands 
 Whom envious hope made fast, or cun- 
 ning fear. 
 This cannot be but nigh ; and ye that 
 
 live 
 Shall see more sure for this blind hour's 
 
 default. 
 And hold more fast, and watch more 
 
 heedfully. 
 The new chance given, for this chance 
 
 cast away. 
 I shall not see it, how near soe'er ; and 
 
 yet 
 The day that I shall die in banishment 
 Is not much nigher than must their 
 
 doom's day be 
 Whose trust is in the triumph of theii 
 
 hour. 
 Mine is now hard on end; but yours 
 
 shall last, 
 I doubt not, till its service be all done. 
 And comfort given our people. Take 
 
 the Lairds 
 Grange and Pittarrow with you to the 
 
 queen. 
 Ye shall find peace and opportunity 
 With present welcome as for proffered 
 
 love ; 
 Make swift agreement with her ; this 
 
 shall be 
 The surest staff that hope may take in 
 
 hand. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Murray. I would not say it, if ye 
 
 not knew 
 My faith dejjarts not with me from 
 
 your side, 
 Nor leaves the heart's bond broken of 
 
 our loves; 
 
8S 
 
 BOTHIVELL. 
 
 But in this trust, though loath, I take 
 
 farewell, 
 To give you welcome ere the year be 
 
 dead. 
 Ruthveii. Me shall you not, nor see 
 
 my face again. 
 Who ere the year die must be dead ; 
 
 mine eyes 
 Shall see the land no more that gave 
 
 them light, 
 But fade among strange faces ; yet, if 
 
 aught 
 I have served her, I should less be loath 
 
 to leave 
 This earth God made my mother. 
 
 Murray. Then farewell. 
 As should his heart who fares in such 
 
 wise forth 
 To take death's hand in exile. I must 
 
 fare, 
 111 now or well I know not ; but I deem 
 I have as much as you of banishment. 
 Who bear about me but the thought of 
 
 yours. 
 
 Scene IV.— Holyrood. 
 
 The Queen and Sir James Melville. 
 Queen. Am I come back to be con- 
 trolled again, 
 
 And of men meaner ? must I hold my 
 peace 
 
 Or set my face to please him.? Nay, 
 you see 
 
 I low much miscounselled is he, strajed 
 how far 
 
 I'rom all men's hope and honor, and to 
 me 
 
 How strange and thankless, whom in 
 self-dcspite 
 
 \o\\ will me yet to foster: I would live 
 
 Rather the thrall of any hind on earth. 
 Melville. I would but have your wis- 
 dom hide somewhile 
 
 The sharpness of your spirit, whose 
 edge of wrath 
 
 There is no man but now sees mani- 
 fest ; 
 
 As there is none who knows him that 
 hath cause 
 
 To love or honor ; yet great pity it is 
 
 lo see what nobler natural mind he 
 had. 
 
 And the first goodness in him so put 
 
 out 
 By cursed counsel of his mother's kin. 
 The bastard Douglas, and such ill 
 
 friends else 
 As most are unfriends : but this fire in 
 
 you 
 Who chose him, being so young, of 
 
 your own will. 
 Against the mind of many, for your 
 
 lord. 
 Shall rather burn yourself than purge 
 
 his mood. 
 And the open passion of your heart and 
 
 hate 
 Hearten in him the hate he bears not 
 
 you. 
 But them that part you from him. 
 
 Twice, you know, — 
 Or now my tongue were less for love's 
 
 sake bold, — 
 Twice hath it pleased your highness 
 
 charge me speak 
 W^hen time or need might seem for 
 
 counsel : then 
 That thus you charged me, now such 
 
 need is come. 
 Forgive that I forget not. 
 
 Queen. I might well. 
 Did you forget, forgive not ; but I know 
 Your love forgot yet never any charge 
 That faith to me laid on it ; though I 
 
 think 
 I never bade vou counsel me to bear 
 More than a queen might worthily, nor 
 
 sought 
 To be advised against all natural will, 
 That with mine honor now is joined to 
 
 speak 
 And bid me bear no more with him, 
 
 since both 
 Take part against my patience. For 
 
 his hate. 
 Henceforth shall men more covet it 
 
 than fear ; 
 My foot is on its head, that even to- 
 day 
 Shall yield its last poor power of poison 
 
 And live to no man's danger till it die. 
 
 Enter Darn LEV and Murray. 
 Welcome, dear brother and my worth) 
 lord, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 189 
 
 Who shall this clay by your own word 
 
 be clear 
 In all men's eyes that had ill thoughts 
 
 of you. 
 Brother, to-day my lord shall purge 
 
 himself, 
 By present oath before our councillors. 
 Of any part in David's murdered blood, 
 And stand as honorable in sight of all 
 Whose thought so wronged hmi as in 
 
 mine he doth 
 Who ever held him such as they shall 
 
 now 
 Murray. Must he swear this ? 
 Daridey. Who says I shall not swear ? 
 Queen. He has given his faith to 
 
 swear so much to-day, 
 And who so shameless or so bold alive 
 As dare doubt that ? 
 
 Murray. Not I : in God's name, no ; 
 No more than any other. 
 
 Darnley. Nay then, well ; 
 I am not angry. 
 
 Queen. 'Tis the noblest mood 
 That takes least hold on anger those 
 
 faint hearts 
 That hold least fire are fain to show it 
 
 first ; 
 The man that knows himself most hon- 
 orable 
 Fears least or doubts if others hold 
 
 him so ; 
 But he that has small honor in himself 
 Is quick to doubt what men may deem 
 
 of him, 
 And thence most swift in anger as in 
 
 fear 
 Of men's imagined judgments ; praised 
 
 be God, 
 Our lord is none such. Is the deed not 
 
 drawn 
 That gives into our servant Bothwell's 
 
 hand 
 The forfeit lands of IMaitland for his 
 
 own 
 That by his former fault stand for- 
 feited.? 
 Murray. Is it your purpose he shall 
 
 have those lands t 
 Queen. It is my very ])urposc. 
 Murray. I grieve at it. 
 Queen. Grieve or be glad, it stands 
 
 my purpose yet. 
 
 W^e should be gone to meet our coun- 
 cillors; 
 My heart thinks long till it shall know 
 
 my lord 
 Held of the world as noble as of me. 
 Darnley It is not time. 
 Queen. No, but much more than time 
 Come with me, brother 
 
 \Exeunt QUF.EN and MURRAY 
 Melville. I am sorry for your grace. 
 Darnley. You must not think 1 know 
 
 not all this while 
 That she doth mock me. 
 
 Melville Nay, her mood may change 
 Darnley. Never for me. I had been 
 
 much better dead 
 Than cast off thus, who cast mine own 
 
 friends off 
 And knew not for whose sake. She 
 
 hath slain the men 
 W^ho kept that night the gates while he 
 
 was slain ; 
 I would she had rather taken too mj 
 
 blood 
 Than put my life to shame : yet I may 
 
 live 
 To put that off upon her ; had I friends. 
 Shame should go back from me to her, 
 
 who thinks 
 To lay it on her wedded lord, and 
 
 laugh ; 
 As I may one day laugh yet. Heai 
 
 you news 
 Of Morton and mine uncle "i 
 
 Melville. They are fled ; 
 I hear but this, not whither. 
 Darnley. As they brewed. 
 So let tliem drink; the hands were 
 
 none of mine 
 That mixed that cup to them ; so much 
 
 I swear. 
 And niav so much with honor. Yd 
 
 would God 
 I had not chosen to lose their loves for 
 
 hers. 
 And found so cold her favor ! Scarce 
 
 escaped. 
 Scarce out of bonds, half breathless 
 
 yet with flight, 
 Xo mind was in her of my help, my 
 
 love. 
 My hand that brake her prison : for all 
 
 this, 
 
I go 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 \fy kin forsaken, mine own wrongs 
 
 and gnefs 
 Forgotten, mine own head imperilled, 
 
 mine 
 For hers that I delivered, and perchance 
 To leave within their danger had done 
 
 well. 
 No thought or thanks I get of her ; and 
 
 these 
 That, had I stood by them, might stand 
 
 by me 
 When I shall need, may mock me for 
 
 her fool. 
 And curse me for their traitor. Yet I 
 
 think, 
 Were I once clear of her as now of 
 
 these. 
 Please God, to make mine own strength 
 
 by myself, 
 "Being both ways free ; I know not well 
 
 yet how, 
 But I will take mine own part yet, or 
 
 die. \^Exeiait. 
 
 Scene V. — A Street. 
 
 Enter Two Burgesses. 
 First Burgess. What is this news 
 that flies so in the dark 
 
 Like a night-bird whereof we know it 
 is. 
 
 But of what wing we know not ."* 
 Second Burgess. This that comes 
 
 From the exiled lords in England, to 
 make bare 
 
 The face of Darnley's falsehood, with 
 what lips 
 
 He swore his deed away, and damned 
 himself? 
 
 They had no sooner knowledge of such 
 shame, 
 
 Than word was sent of him through all 
 the land. 
 
 Large witness of his full complicity 
 
 And cc^nscicncc with them of the work 
 to be 
 
 For which they groan in barren banish- 
 ment. 
 
 While he crawls here before the scorn- 
 ful {|uecn, 
 
 And has betrayed the blood of his 
 allies 
 
 To the axe's edge of unjust judgment. 
 
 First Burgess. One 
 By treason of his tongue already slain 
 Now speaks of him with breathless 
 
 mouth to God ; 
 And Maitland and two more lie undei 
 
 doom 
 Through but his witness ; yet for all 
 
 this shame 
 It seems he has won small guerdon 
 
 save the shame. 
 But hath his treason for his treason's fee ; 
 And this more comfort, to behold the 
 
 man 
 That by his lips, and nobler hands than 
 
 his, 
 Was done to righteous death, and 
 
 thrust in earth 
 Before the main door of this Abbey 
 
 church. 
 Unearthed again, and nobly re-interred 
 Hard by the grave's edge of Queen 
 
 Magdalen, 
 That men may judge how near he grew 
 
 alive 
 To the queen's side yet living ; where 
 
 instead 
 A worthier stay now in her brother 
 
 stands 
 For her false lord to look upon and 
 
 loathe 
 No less than David, and much more 
 
 to fear. 
 Whom with that David he laid trains 
 
 to slay 
 Aforetime, and again made vaunt but 
 
 now 
 In the queen's sight to slay him ; or so 
 
 herself 
 Gave word to the earl, and willed him 
 
 make demand 
 Of the king's own false fearful mouth ; 
 
 but he, 
 Whom thus perchance she sought to 
 
 make the sword 
 To pierce her husband, modestly be 
 
 spake 
 Before her face this caitiff like a friend, 
 And was put off with faint excuse ; and 
 
 yet, 
 Heart-wrung to see him stand, or any 
 
 man. 
 Fast in her favor, like one sick with 
 
 grief 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 191 
 
 The king flies forth to Glasgow, where 
 
 apart 
 His father's head is hidden ; and there 
 
 as here 
 He sits not in men's sight now royally, 
 But with some six or eight goes up and 
 
 down 
 Even where he lists, and none takes 
 
 note of him ; 
 While the miscounselled queen, grown 
 
 high in mind, 
 Holds privy commerce with the brood 
 
 o' the Pope 
 Whose plots corrupt the northward 
 
 English air. 
 And with the murderous Irish, to put 
 
 out 
 The live light of our God from sea 
 
 to sea 
 With insurrection of the fires of hell 
 And smoke of slaughter ; meantime she 
 
 reclaims 
 Of the English queen, for prisoners to 
 
 her hand. 
 The death-doomed lords in exile ; and 
 
 men say 
 They find scant countenance of the 
 
 southern court ; 
 Yet they think not she will deliver them. 
 Second Burgess. One is there hath 
 
 found sure deliverance; 
 No chain of man's can mark him pris- 
 oner more, 
 Nor whence he rests can any banish 
 
 him ;■ 
 Ruthven is dead. 
 First Burgess. God hath his friend, 
 
 then, safe ; 
 For God's friend he was ever ; and hath 
 
 died 
 Most fortunately, seeing not what we 
 
 live 
 Too soon to see. 
 
 Second Burgess. He was a nobler man 
 Than his own name was noble : no 
 
 Scot born 
 More true to the old love of his natural 
 
 land. 
 Nor stouter-hearted on the gospel side 
 \ Of all that stood to serve it. Yet have 
 
 these 
 As valiant servants ; Morton, though 
 cast out. 
 
 Lives secret yet in England, whence the 
 
 queen 
 Dares not, I think, for shame's sake, 
 
 yield him up 
 To this queen's bloody judgment, or 
 
 for fear 
 And hostile heart she will not. We 
 
 shall know 
 Shortly what upshot God will bring of 
 
 all; 
 Whate'er this be, there will be none 
 
 again 
 That shall do Darnley good. 
 
 First Burgess. I saw him swear 
 That day before the council ; he was pale 
 As one half drunken, stammering as in 
 
 wrath. 
 With insolent forehead and irresolute 
 
 eyes, 
 Between false fear and shameful hardi- 
 hood. 
 With frontless face that lied against it- 
 self. 
 And trembling lips that were not yet 
 
 abashed 
 For all their trembling. 
 
 Second Burgess. Ay, good cause was 
 
 there 
 To shake him to the soul, having cast 
 
 off 
 Friendship and faith of good men, yet 
 
 being still 
 Signed with their enemies' blood too 
 
 plain and broad 
 To gain the good-will of unrighteous- 
 ness. 
 When his day comes that men are 
 
 weary of him, 
 God shall strike home. 
 First Burgess. Then should that stroke 
 
 be swift ; 
 For evil and good alike are weary of 
 
 him. 
 
 Scene VI. — Castle of Alloa. 
 
 Murray and Darnley. 
 Darnley. Shall I not see her ? but if 
 
 I see her not 
 I will be wroken of you that shut me 
 
 out. 
 By God I will. What 1 are ye not conv 
 
 bined. 
 
192 
 
 BOTHIVELL. 
 
 Vou, my false-blooded brother, demi- 
 
 ]jriiice, 
 And liothwell, and the trustless fool 
 
 Argyle, 
 \\ ith her to unmake me ? I shall foil 
 
 you though, 
 Vea, were all three made each a triple 
 
 man 
 With thrice your heart and wit. 
 Murray. You strike too high, 
 And shear but air in sunder : there's 
 
 none yet 
 That wills you so much evil as yourself, 
 Would you but think it. Turn your 
 
 wrath on me, 
 It cannot wound or fright out of its 
 
 peace 
 A soul that answers not your hate, nor 
 
 w'orks 
 By night or light against you. 
 
 Darnlcy. Swear me that. 
 And if a devil there be, I am rid of you 
 Whom he will gripe at once, and hale to 
 
 hell. 
 You took not word to Melville from 
 
 my wife, 
 Of warning with rebuke for his past 
 
 pains 
 To reconcile us, and with charge to be 
 No more familiar with me for her 
 
 sake ; 
 You were not of her counbel to lie in 
 At Stirling, whence she fled from sight 
 
 of me, 
 Who following hither was again cast 
 
 off, 
 And till our child was born in Edin- 
 burgh 
 Might scarce have sight of her, and 
 
 may not now 
 When, scarce a month delivered, she 
 
 comes back 
 To take by sea and land her pleasure 
 
 here 
 ( )f hunt or sail among the firths and 
 
 hills 
 In such fair fellowship as casts out 
 
 mine. 
 It was not you that knew this, and 
 
 approved : 
 I pray you, swear it. 
 
 Murray. Vou arc lesser than a child. 
 That, btmg as simple, yet by innocence 
 
 Exceeds you naturally. What cause 
 
 have I 
 Or power to wrong you } what good 
 
 thing of yours 
 Should 1 desire to strip from you, and 
 
 wear, 
 What gold or grace to gird myself 
 
 withal, 
 And stand up clad in thievish orna- 
 ment 
 To take your place thrust out t Con- 
 spiracy 
 Should have some gain for warrant of 
 
 itself, 
 With vantage of some purpose; none 
 
 lays wait 
 To slay or steal save what may profit 
 
 him ; 
 So sit you safe enough. 
 
 Darnley. I shall not see her } 
 Murray. If you will be well coun- 
 selled, no : her mood 
 Is hard and keener since your child 
 
 was born. 
 And she, new-risen from childbed, 
 
 hither came 
 To taste the savor and sweetness of the 
 
 sea, 
 I think, with no mind you should follow 
 
 her; 
 Nor am myself, howbeit you hold me 
 
 hers, 
 And of one counsel to put down your 
 
 hopes. 
 More near her favor ; one man's eye 
 
 alone 
 Sees her face favorable, one only ear 
 Hears her speak soft; if he be friend 
 
 of mine, 
 You know as I know. 
 
 Darnlcy. Why, ye are reconciled; 
 I have heard what care she had to 
 
 appease both parts. 
 When you before her face had bravct' 
 
 him, saying, 
 Ere he reft Maitland's forfeit land and 
 
 state 
 Some score as honorable as he should 
 
 die, 
 And she had cast herself across your 
 
 wrath 
 With reconciling passion; av, nu 
 
 lord, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 193 
 
 T=ike note we are not so dull of ear or 
 
 brain 
 I^nt we hear word of you, and under- 
 stand 
 The traitors that ye all are, all, to 
 
 me. 
 The false heart and the lying lips that 
 
 serve 
 The murderous meaning of your will, 
 
 and hers 
 The first and worst. What! will ye 
 
 have my life ? 
 Is it my helpless blood that she would 
 
 take 
 To serve for christening-water to her 
 
 child, 
 And for the font no gift of English 
 
 gold 
 Though bright and hollow and void as 
 
 English love. 
 But the strait coffin, the vile shell of 
 
 death, 
 That hides and bears me graveward ? 
 
 but I live. 
 To save myself and to revenge I live, 
 And will not die for all you. 
 Enter the QuEEN and BOTHWELL. 
 Queen. What is this 
 That makes such wrathful or such wo- 
 
 ful war 
 Even on our ears, and here .'' We bade 
 
 you not 
 Come brawl before us like a groom, 
 
 and break 
 Our breath of peace with cries of con- 
 tumely- 
 Here is not room enough for rioters' 
 
 threats 
 To ring through and return ; in Edin- 
 burgh 
 You have leave to brawl and wail and 
 
 swear and cry. 
 Feed where you list, and love ; here I 
 
 would rest. 
 With thus much leave yet by your 
 
 gracious grant, 
 That I may somewhile sit apart, and 
 
 think 
 What man I have to husband. 
 
 Darnley. I will go : 
 I would I had not come between your 
 
 eyes 
 Nor now nor ever. 
 
 Queen. Then they had never learnt 
 What makes or makes not man worth 
 looking on. 
 Darnley. Am I not worth your eye? 
 Queen. I pray, go back : 
 I would not say what you are worth or 
 no. 
 Darnley. I am yet worth two bas- 
 tards ; and this man. 
 If he shall do me less than right, by 
 
 heaven, 
 Shall wear the proof upon him. 
 
 Murray. Sir, your words 
 Are as swords drawn of drunkards' 
 
 hands, which first 
 Feel their edge bite ; me can they make 
 
 not shrink, 
 You they may pierce, and slay your 
 
 own good name, 
 If any man be that gives ear to you. 
 Darnley. You will not fight with me .'' 
 Queen. What ! in our face .-* 
 Hath fear gone after shame ? 
 
 Murray. Let hnn pass hence : 
 He hath said truth once ; we shall not 
 fight. 
 Queen. I charge you 
 Make straight atonement ; else, though 
 
 shame be dead, 
 I will find means to raise up fear alive. 
 Darnley. Nay, I spake hot and 
 hastily : my lord, 
 You know I bear no bitter heart toward 
 
 you : 
 I am more of quick tongue than of evil 
 will. 
 Murray. Sir, so I hold you. 
 Darnley. So you do but right. 
 Nor will I stay to chafe your majesty, 
 That has all power to bid me to and 
 
 fro 
 Who yet was called your lord once of 
 
 the priest. 
 And am no lord, but servant. \Exit. 
 
 Queen. Said you, once ? 
 Not once, but twice, he hath spoken 
 
 truth to-day. 
 Yet sits it strange upon his lips. 
 
 Murray. I would 
 He had come not hither, or you not 
 bidden him back. 
 Queen. What! should he stay .^ Fait 
 brother, wot you well, 
 
194 
 
 BOri/lVELL. 
 
 I had rather touch in the dark a ser- 
 pent's flesh, 
 And with its body and breath confound 
 
 mine own, 
 Than with his breath and body. Nev- 
 er more, 
 By Mary Virgin, while these limbs are 
 
 mine 
 And these my living lips, never will I 
 Pollute myself with him ; by kiss nor 
 
 touch 
 Shall ever he defile me. Nay, too, see, 
 (You have not seen) what privacies he 
 
 hath 
 With what strange friends ; here have 
 
 I to my hand 
 Letters of his to Philip and the Pope, 
 That they should know I am slacker 
 
 toward the faith 
 Than Rome would have me, or Spain ; 
 
 he swears I am cold, 
 I have cast off care (God wot) to serve 
 
 the Church, 
 And he it is, my lord, being strong in 
 
 faith. 
 Expounds mine unfaith to them. 
 
 Bothwell. Hath he sworn 
 To sleep for their sakes in a naked 
 
 grave ? 
 If this were blown among the popular 
 
 folk, 
 Scant time there were to sew his shroud, 
 
 I ween. 
 Ere earth were shed upon him, 
 
 Murray. Ay, but, sir, 
 They must not know it ; it were not 
 
 well they knew ; 
 Nor shall it be put forth among them. 
 
 Bothxvcll. No! 
 It shall not > 
 
 Murray. By my will it shall not be, 
 Bothwell. His will ! and shall not ! Is 
 
 it cjueen, or king, 
 'J'hat holds the rod of rule in Scotland 
 
 here ? 
 Madam, what says your sometime 
 
 majesty 
 Of such a kingly will } since, for your 
 
 own, 
 It has no power, it shall not fight with his. 
 Shall not have way, nor shall not be at 
 
 all, 
 Except it swim with his will. 
 
 Murray. This is naught. 
 
 Bothwell. Yea truly, naught shall be 
 
 this will of yours, — 
 This potent will that shall not tread ik 
 
 down ; 
 Yea, what you will or will not, all is 
 
 naught. 
 Naught as your name, or title to bear 
 
 rule 
 Within the realm possessed more 
 
 royally. 
 Murray. 'Tis not a score as big-voiced 
 
 men as this 
 Shall make me weak with wagging of 
 
 their tongues, 
 That I should loose what lies into my 
 
 hand. 
 Madam, what faith I bear you and good- 
 will. 
 If that you know not, let the time and 
 
 proof. 
 Not mine own lips, be witness : in this 
 
 realm 
 I have some power to serve you, by no 
 
 craft 
 Unjustly purchased nor by force of hand 
 Won masterfully ; and for God's love 
 
 and yours 
 That which I may I will do to keep fair 
 In the open eye of all men your good 
 
 name 
 And power, which if that name be blown 
 
 against 
 With windy whispers of ill-minded folk, 
 Or such as see your marriage-bed lie 
 
 cold. 
 And know not wherefore, dies out of 
 
 your hand, 
 And is no more forever. Therefore is 
 
 it 
 I would not the worst cause of strife 
 
 you have 
 Were opened to the people : for himself, 
 ^'ou know if ever love between us were 
 Since first I fell under your stroke of 
 
 wrath 
 For his sole sake, whose match then 
 
 made with you 
 I would betimes have broken, but being 
 
 made 
 Would not now see rent shatncfully in 
 
 twain 
 That men should sj)eak you wrong. 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 195 
 
 Qtieen. You are honorable ; 
 
 But yet the whole worst cause you know 
 not of, — 
 
 That even his father Lennox writes me 
 here 
 
 Letters to put the charge thereof away, 
 
 And clear himself of fellowship there- 
 in, 
 
 Assuring his own honesty, albeit 
 
 His word is worthless with his son my 
 lord, 
 
 And his name held not as a father's 
 name. 
 
 This letter will I lay before the lords, 
 
 That they may see what manner of 
 cause he hath 
 
 To plead against us with what likeli- 
 hood, 
 
 When his own father shall forswear 
 his cause. 
 
 I am assured he hath set his lewd light 
 mind, — 
 
 Out of what fear I know not, or what 
 shame, — 
 
 To flee forth of the kingdom, and take 
 ship 
 
 For the islands westward of that south- 
 ern cape 
 
 Where the out-thrust heel of England 
 cleaves the sea; 
 
 But God knows how to live there, if by 
 spoil 
 
 Or what base mean of life : only thus 
 much 
 
 In parley with the French ambassador 
 
 He hath avowed, and wept to tell of 
 wrongs 
 
 That, as he swears, have driven him 
 down to this. 
 Murray. He is a fool, and vile : yet 
 let not him 
 
 Be the more dangerous to you even for 
 this, 
 
 That he is vile and foolish ; there 
 should be 
 
 Wise means to curb and chain the fool 
 in him 
 
 Without the scandal of the full-mouthed 
 world. 
 Queen. Such have I sought ; and pres- 
 ently I think 
 
 To have him brought again in Edin- 
 burgh 
 
 Before the lords in council, even those 
 men 
 
 Who stood in arms against him with 
 yourself 
 
 When first there grew debate upon our 
 match 
 
 (Which I could pray now with too tardy 
 tongue 
 
 That God had given you force to break 
 indeed). 
 
 And were of counsel with him afterward 
 
 In David's bloodshed, and betrayed of 
 him 
 
 Into mine hand again for perfect fear. 
 
 Fear and false heart ; even before these, 
 I say, 
 
 Whose threefold memory of him so 
 must knit 
 
 Their hearts to his, there shall he plead, 
 and say 
 
 If he have aught against me blame- 
 worthy. 
 
 Or what he would : so shall he be dis- 
 played. 
 
 And we in the eyes of all men justified 
 
 That simply deal with him and honor- 
 ably. 
 
 Not as by cunning or imperious hand, 
 
 But plain as with an equal. 
 Bothzvcll. By my head. 
 
 Your counsel, madam, is more than 
 man's poor wit. 
 Murray. It may do well : would all 
 were well indeed ! 
 
 I see no clearer way than this of yours 
 
 Nor of more peaceful promise. I will 
 
 go 
 To bid my friends together of the lords 
 Who will be counselled of me, and to 
 
 show 
 Your purpose righteous : so I take my 
 leave. 
 
 {Exit 
 Queen. Is not that light red oversea ? 
 Bothwell. Blood-red. 
 Queen. The wind has fallen : bu*. 
 there the clouds come up • 
 We shall not sail to-day. 
 
 Bothivell. No : here will be 
 No woman's weather. 
 
 Queen. Yet I had in mind 
 Either to sail or drive the deer to-day. 
 I fear not so much rainfall or sea-drift 
 
]()6 
 
 iwrinvELL. 
 
 That I sliould care to house and hide 
 
 my head. 
 I never loved the windless weather, nor 
 The dead face of the water in the sun : 
 I had rather the live wave leapt under me, 
 And fits of foam struck light on the 
 
 dark air. 
 And the sea's kiss were keen upon my 
 
 lip 
 And bold as love's and bitter ; then my 
 
 soul 
 Is a wave too that springs against the 
 
 light, 
 And beats and bursts with one great 
 
 strain of joy 
 As the sea breaking. You said well ; 
 
 this light 
 Is like shed blood spilt here by drops 
 
 and there, 
 That overflows the red brims of the 
 
 cloud. 
 And stains the moving water: yet the 
 
 waves 
 Pass, and the spilt light of the broken 
 
 sun 
 Rests not upon them but a minute's 
 
 space ; 
 No longer should a deed, methinks, 
 
 once done, 
 Kndure upon the life of memory 
 To stain the days thereafter with re- 
 morse. 
 And mar the better seasons. 
 Bot/iwell. So think I. 
 Queen. If I were man, I would be 
 
 man like you. 
 Bot/nuell. What then ? 
 Queen. And, being so loved as you of 
 
 me, 
 I would make use of love, and in good 
 
 time 
 Tut the scythe to it, and reap ; it should 
 
 not rot 
 As corn ungarnered, it should bring 
 
 forth bread 
 And fruit of life to strengthen mc : but, 
 
 mark, 
 Who would eat bread must earn bread: 
 
 would you be king } 
 Bothivell. Nay, but servant ever to 
 
 my queen 
 
 Scene VJI. — KniNHUkGH: the Par- 
 liament-House. 
 
 The QUEKN seated in state; near her 
 I)u Croc and Murray; Darnley 
 /';/ front., as at his arraignment ; on 
 the one side the Lords of the Congrega- 
 tion ; on the other those of the Queen'' s 
 party, BoTHWELL, IIUNTLEY, CAITH- 
 NESS, Athol, and the Archbishop 
 of St. Andrew's. 
 
 Queen. My lords, ye hear by hio own 
 word of hand 
 
 How fair and loyally our father writes, 
 
 To purge his name that had indeed no 
 soil 
 
 Of any blame to us-ward ; though he 
 have 
 
 No power upon our wedded lord his 
 son 
 
 To heal his heart's disease of discon- 
 tent : 
 
 Which, for myself, before God's face 
 and yours 
 
 I do protest I know not what thing 
 done 
 
 Hath in my lord begotten or brought 
 forth. 
 
 Nor of what ill he should complain in 
 me. 
 
 Nay, here in very faith and humble- 
 ness 
 
 I turn me to him, and with clasped 
 hands beseech 
 
 That he would speak even all his mind 
 of me, 
 
 In what thing ever I have given my 
 lord offence. 
 
 And if before him I stand blameworthy 
 
 Would lay my blame for burden on my 
 head 
 
 In this high jircsence ; which to bear 
 shall be 
 
 At once for penance and instruction to 
 Tue, 
 
 Who know not yet my lightest fault by 
 name. 
 Ochiltree. So would we all be certi- 
 fied of you, 
 
 Sir, that vour cause may stand forth 
 visibly, 
 Queen. l!et us go forth ; the evening j And men take cognizance of it who 
 will be fair. ' see 
 
BOTIIWELL. 
 
 19; 
 
 Nor root nor fruit now of your discon- 
 tent ; 
 We pray you, then, make answer to the 
 
 queen. 
 Du Croc. My lord, you have held me 
 
 for a friend, and laid 
 A friend's trust on me ; for that honor's 
 
 sake 
 For which I am bounden to you, give 
 
 me now 
 Bul leave to entreat you in all faith of 
 
 heart 
 Dishonor not yourself nor this great 
 
 queen 
 By speech or silence with a show of 
 
 shame ; 
 Let it be seen shame hath no portion 
 
 here. 
 But honor only and reconciled remorse 
 That pours its bitter balm into the 
 
 wound 
 Of love somewhile divided from itself, 
 And makes it whole ; I pray you, be it 
 
 so now. 
 Queen. An honorable petition, my 
 
 good lord, 
 And one that comes reverberate from 
 
 my heart. 
 Dariiley. I will not stand the ques- 
 tion. Are ye set 
 To bait me like a bondslave.'' Sirs, I 
 
 think 
 There is no worthier man of you than I, 
 Whom ye would chide and bait and 
 
 mock; howbeit, 
 V'e shall not wring out of my smitten 
 
 lips, 
 As from a child's ye scourge till he 
 
 speak truth, 
 One word I would not; rather being 
 
 thus used 
 I will go forth the free man that I came. 
 No nobler, but as noble. For your 
 
 grace, 
 I have stood too near you now to fall 
 
 behind, 
 And stand far back with vassal hat 
 
 plucked off 
 To bow at bidding ; therefore with free 
 
 soul 
 For a long time I take farewell and go. 
 Commending you to God ; and if, as 
 
 seems. 
 
 I was or naught or grievous in youl 
 
 eye. 
 It shall not take offence this many a 
 
 day 
 At this that here offends it. So I have 
 
 done: 
 Enough said is said well. 
 
 Botlnoell [aside to the QiieeJi). I never 
 
 saw 
 Such heart yet in the fool. Madam, 
 
 speak now; 
 I wot he hath made a beard or two of 
 
 them 
 Nod favorably. 
 
 Queen. What should T say? not I. 
 Botlnoell. Speak to the ambassador; 
 
 bid him take heed 
 This feather fly not shipward, and be 
 
 blown 
 Out of our hand ; speak to him. 
 
 Queen. Have no such fear. 
 He will not fly past arm's length; the 
 
 French lord 
 Will hold him safe unbidden. Look, 
 
 they talk. 
 Bcthweil. And yet I would he had 
 
 spoken not so high. 
 I did not think but he would bend, and 
 
 mourn 
 Like a boy beaten. 
 
 Queen. With what sorrow of heart, 
 My lords, we have heard such strange 
 
 and harsh reply 
 To our good words and meaning, none 
 
 of you 
 But must be as ourself to know it well 
 But since nor kindliness nor humble 
 
 speech 
 Nor honest heart of love can so prevail 
 Against the soul of such inveteracy, 
 But wilful mind will make itself more 
 
 hard 
 Than modesty and womanhood are soft 
 Or gentleness can speak it fair, we have 
 
 not 
 One other tear to weep thereon for 
 
 shanie. 
 So without answer, yea, no word vouch- 
 safed, 
 As all ye witness, no complaint, no 
 
 cause. 
 No reason shown, but all put off io 
 
 wrath, — 
 
198 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 I would not say, ourself in you, my 
 
 lords, 
 Mocked with defiance, — it were but a 
 
 scorn 
 To hold our session further. Thus in 
 
 grief 
 Will we fare hence, and take of you 
 
 farewell. 
 Being southward bounden, as ye know, 
 
 to hear 
 At Jedburgh what complaint of wrong 
 
 there is 
 Between our own folk and the border- 
 ing men, 
 Whose wardens of the English side 
 
 have wrought us 
 Fresh wrong but late; and our good 
 
 warden here 
 Shall go before us to prepare our way. 
 
 Scene VIII. — Hermitage Castle. 
 
 The Queen and Bothwell. 
 Bothwell. I did not think you could 
 
 have rid so fast. 
 Queen. There is no love in you to lift 
 
 your heart, 
 Nor heart to lift the fleshly weight, and 
 
 bear 
 Forward : I struck my love even as a 
 
 spur 
 Into the tired side of my horse, and 
 
 made it 
 Leap like a flame that eats up all its way 
 Till I were here. 
 
 Pothivell. Why came you not before ? 
 Queen. What ! am I now too slow? 
 Bot/nuell. Ay, though you rode 
 Beyond the sun's speed, yea, the race 
 
 of time 
 That runs down all men born. Forgive 
 
 it me 
 That I was wroth and weary for your 
 
 love, 
 Here lymg alone, out of your eyes; I 
 
 could not 
 But chafe and curse, sending my sj^irit 
 
 forth 
 From this maimed flesh yet halting with 
 
 its wound 
 To move about you like a thought, and 
 
 bring me 
 Word of your works and ways. 
 
 Queen. I could not come. 
 
 Bothwell. Was there so much work 
 
 worthier to be done 
 Than this, to give love and to take 
 
 again 
 Thus } but for my part, of all things in 
 
 the world 
 I hold this best, to love you ; and I 
 
 think 
 God never made your like for man to 
 
 love. 
 Queen. You are my soldier ; but 
 
 these silk-soft words 
 Become your lips as well as mine, when 
 
 love 
 Rekindles them ; how good it is to have 
 A man to love you ! here is man in- 
 deed, 
 Not fool or boy, to make love's face 
 
 ashamed. 
 To abash love's heart, and turn to bit- 
 terness 
 The sweet blood-current in it. O my 
 
 fair lord ! 
 How fairer is this warrior face, and 
 
 eyes 
 With the iron light of battle in them 
 
 left 
 As the after-fire of sunset left in heaven 
 When the sun sinks, than any fool's 
 
 face made 
 Of smiles and courtly color ! Now I 
 
 feel 
 As I were man too, and had part myself 
 In your great strength; being one with 
 
 vou as I, 
 How sliould not I be strong? It is 
 
 your deed, 
 Bv grace of you and influence, sir, it is 
 That I fear nothing; how should I lift 
 
 up 
 Mine eyes to your eyes, O my light o' 
 
 the war. 
 And dare be fearful ? yours but looked 
 
 upon. 
 Though mine were timorous as a dove's 
 
 affrayctl. 
 For very shame would give them heart, 
 
 and fire 
 To meet the eyes of danger. What 
 
 were 1 
 To have your love, and love you, and 
 
 yet be 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 199 
 
 No more than women are whose name 
 
 is fear 
 And their hearts bloodless, — I, who 
 
 am part of you, 
 That have your love for heart's blood ? 
 
 Shall I think 
 The blood you gave me fighting for 
 
 my sake 
 Has entered in my veins, and grown in 
 
 me 
 To fill me with you ? O my lord, my 
 
 king, 
 Love me ! I think you cannot love me 
 
 yet. 
 That have done naught nor borne for 
 
 love of you ; 
 But by the eye's light of all-judging 
 
 God, 
 That if I lie shall burn my soul in hell. 
 There is not in this fierce world any 
 
 thing. 
 Scorn, agony, stripes, bonds, fears, woes, 
 
 deep shame, 
 Kingdomless ruin, but with open hands. 
 With joyous bosom open as to love, 
 Yea, with soul thankful for its great 
 
 delight 
 And life on fire with joy, for this love's 
 
 sake 
 I would embrace and take it to my 
 
 heart. 
 Both7uell. Why, there should need 
 
 not this to love you well ; 
 What should you have to bear for me, 
 
 my queen, 
 Or how should I more love you ? Nay, 
 
 sweet, peace. 
 Let not your passion break you ; your 
 
 breast burns, 
 Your very lips taste bitter with your 
 
 tears. 
 Queen. It is because — O God that 
 
 pities us ! — 
 I may not always lie thus, may not 
 
 kneel. 
 Cling round your hands and feet, or 
 
 with shut eyes 
 Wait till your lips be fast upon my face, 
 And laugh with very love intolerable 
 As I laugh now. Look, now I do not 
 
 weep, 
 I am not sad nor angered against heaven 
 That ever he divides us ; I am glad 
 
 That yet I have mine hour. Sweet, do 
 
 not speak. 
 Nor do not kiss me; let mine eyes but 
 
 rest 
 In the love's light of yours, and for a 
 
 space 
 My heart lie still, late drunken with 
 
 love's wine. 
 And feel the fierce fumes lessen and go 
 
 out 
 And leave it healed. Oh ! I have bled 
 
 for you 
 The nearest inward blood that is my 
 
 life 
 Drop by drop inly, till my swooning 
 
 heart 
 Made my face pale. I should look 
 
 green and wan 
 If by heart's sickness and blood-wast- 
 ing pain 
 The face be changed indeed; for all 
 
 these days 
 Your wound bled in me, and your face 
 
 far off 
 Was as a moving fire before mine 
 
 eyes 
 That might not come to see you ; I was 
 
 dead, 
 And yet had breath enough, speech, 
 
 hearing, sight. 
 To feel them strange and insupport- 
 able. 
 I know now how men live without a 
 
 heart. 
 Does your wound pain you } 
 
 Both-well. What ! I have a wound.'' 
 Queen. How should one love enough, 
 
 though she gave all. 
 Who had your like to love ? I pray 
 
 you tell me. 
 How did you fight ? 
 
 Bothwell. Why, what were this to 
 
 tell > 
 I caught this reiver, bv some chance of 
 
 God, 
 That put his death into mine hand, 
 
 alone. 
 And charged him ; foot to foot we 
 
 fought some space. 
 And he fought well ; a gallant knave, 
 
 God wot, 
 And worth a sword for better soldier's 
 
 work 
 
!00 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 TIkui these thieves' brawls. I would 
 
 have given him life 
 To ride among mine own men here and 
 
 serve, 
 lint he would not : so being sore hurt i' 
 
 the ihigh 
 I pushed upon him suddenly, and clove 
 Ills crown through to the chin. 
 
 Queen. I will not have you 
 I Icnceforth for warden of these borders, 
 
 sir ; 
 \Vc have hands enow for that and heads 
 
 to cleave 
 That but their wives will weep for. 
 
 Bot/nvelL Have no fear. 
 This hour had healed me of more 
 
 grievous wounds : 
 When it shall please you sign me to 
 
 your side, 
 Think I am with you. 
 
 Queen. I must ride — woe's me! 
 The hour is out. Ik not long from 
 
 me, love ; 
 And till you come, I swear by your ow^n 
 
 head 
 I will not see the thing that was my 
 
 lord, 
 Though he came in to Jedburgh. I had 
 
 thought 
 To have spoken of him, but my lips 
 
 were loath 
 To mar with harsh intrusion of his 
 
 name 
 The least of all our kisses. Tet him 
 
 be: 
 We shall have time. How fair this 
 
 castle stands ! 
 These hills are greener, and that sing- 
 ing stream 
 Sings sweeter, and the fields are bright- 
 er faced, 
 Than I have seen or heard ; and these 
 
 goc^d walls 
 That keep the line of kingdom, all my 
 
 life 
 I shall have mmd of them to love them 
 
 well. 
 Nav, yet I must to horse. 
 
 Bothwell. Ay must you, sweet ; 
 If you will ride thus fifty mile a day, 
 r.ui for your face you should be man 
 
 indeed. 
 Queen. Hut f(;r my face } 
 
 Botlnoell. If you will make me mad -^ 
 Queen. I dare not dwell with mad- 
 men ; sir, farewell. 
 Botlnvell. But for your love, and for 
 its cruelty, 
 I would have said, you should be man. 
 
 Queen. Alas ! 
 But for my love ? nav, now you speak 
 
 but truth ; 
 For I well knew there was no love in 
 
 man. 
 But we grow idle in this our laboring 
 
 time. 
 When we have wrought through all 
 
 the heat o' the day, 
 W^e may play then unblamed, and fear 
 
 no hand 
 To push us each from other : now fare 
 well. 
 
 Scene IX. — The Qiteen's Lodging 
 AT Jedburgh. 
 
 The three M.ARIES. 
 Mary Carviichael. What, will she 
 
 die .? how says this doctor now } 
 Mary Seyton. He thinks by chafinc" 
 
 of her bloodless limbs 
 To quicken the numbed life to sense 
 
 again 
 That is as death now in her veins; bu' 
 
 surely 
 I think the very spirit and sustenance 
 That keeps the life up current in tht 
 
 blood 
 Hath left her as an empty house, foj 
 
 death. 
 Entering, to take and hold it. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I say, no ; 
 She will not die of chance or weariness 
 This fever caught of riding and hoi 
 
 haste 
 Being once burnt out, as else naught 
 
 ails her, will not 
 Leave her strength tainted : she is 
 
 manly made. 
 And good of heart ; and even by this 
 
 her brain, 
 We see, begins to settle; she will live. 
 Mary Cartnuhaei. I'rav (mkI she 
 
 may, and no timt- worse than this 
 Come through her ilealh on us and all 
 
 her land 
 
BOTHIVELL. 
 
 20I 
 
 Left lordless for men's swords to carve 
 
 and share, — 
 Pray God she die not. 
 
 Mary Beaton. From my heart, amen ! 
 God knows and you if I would have her 
 
 die. 
 Mary Seyton. Would you give up 
 
 your loving life for hers } 
 Mary Beaton. I shall not die before 
 
 her ; nor, I think. 
 Live long when she shall live not. 
 
 Mary Seyton. A strange faith : 
 Who put this confidence in you .'' or is it 
 But love that so assures you to keep 
 
 life 
 While she shall keep, and lose when 
 
 she shall lose 
 For very love's sake ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. This I cannot tell, 
 Whence I do know it ; but that I know 
 
 it I know. 
 And by no casual or conjectural proof 
 Not yet by test of reason ; but I know it 
 Even as I know I breathe, see, hear, 
 
 feed, speak, 
 And am not dead and senseless of the 
 
 sun 
 That yet I look on : so assuredly 
 I know I shall not die till she be dead. 
 Look, she is risen. 
 
 Enter the Queen, supported by attend- 
 ants. 
 Queen. W^hat word was in your lips ? 
 
 That I must die .'' 
 Mary Seyton. Heaven hath not such 
 
 hard heart. 
 Queen. I think I shall not, surely, by 
 
 God's grace ; 
 Yet no man knows of God when he will 
 
 bring 
 His hour upon him. I am sick and 
 
 weak, 
 And yet unsure if I be whole of mind. 
 i think I have been estranged from my 
 
 right wits 
 These some days back ; I know not. 
 
 Prithee tell me. 
 Have I not slept } I know you, who 
 
 you are ; 
 Vou were about me thus in our first 
 
 days. 
 When days and nights were rose-leaves 
 
 that fell off 
 
 Without a wind or taint of chafing air, 
 But passed with perfume from us, and 
 
 their death 
 Had on it still the tender dew of birth. 
 We were so near the sweet warm wells 
 
 of life. 
 We lay and laughed in bosom of the 
 
 dawn, 
 And knew not if the noon had heat to 
 
 burn 
 Or the evening rain to smite us ; being 
 
 grown tall, 
 Our heads were raised more near the 
 
 fires of heaven 
 And bitter strength of storms ; then we 
 
 were glad. 
 Ay, glad and good. Is there yet one o\ 
 
 you 
 Keeps in her mind what hovers now in 
 
 mine, — 
 That sweet strait span of islanded green 
 
 ground 
 Where we played once, and set us 
 
 flowers that died 
 Before even our delight in them was 
 
 dead ? 
 Now we are old, delights are first to die 
 Before the things that breed them. 
 Maiy Seyton {aside). She roams yet. 
 IMary Beaton. I do remember. 
 Queen. Yea, I knew it ; one day 
 We wrangled for a rose' sake, and fell 
 
 out 
 With tears and words protesting each 
 
 'twas she. 
 She 'twas that set it ; and for very wrath 
 I plucked up my French lilies, and set 
 
 foot 
 On their gold heads, because you had 
 
 chafed me, saying 
 Those were her flowers who should be 
 
 queen in France, 
 And leave you, being no queen, youi 
 
 Scottish rose 
 With simpler leaves ungilt and inno 
 
 cent 
 That smelt of homelier air ; and I mine 
 
 well 
 I rent the rose out of your hand, ane 
 
 cast 
 Upon the river's running ; and a thorn 
 Pierced through mine own hand, and 
 
 wept not then; 
 
202 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 But laughed for anger at you, and glad 
 
 heart 
 To have made you weep, being worsted. 
 
 What light things 
 Come back to the light brain that sick- 
 ness shakes, 
 And makes the heaviest thought that it 
 
 can hold 
 No heavier than a leaf, or gossamer 
 That seems to link two leaves a minute, 
 
 then 
 A breath unlinks them ; so my thoughts 
 
 are, — nay. 
 And should not so: it may be I shall 
 
 die. 
 And as a fool I would not pass away 
 With babbling lips unpurged and grace- 
 less heart 
 Unreconciled to mercy. Let me see 
 That holy lord I bade be not far 
 
 off 
 While I lay sick — I have not here his 
 
 name. 
 My head is tired, yet have I strength at 
 
 heart 
 To say one word shall make me friends 
 
 with God, 
 Commending to him in the hour of un- 
 ripe death 
 1 he S])irit so rent untimely from its 
 
 house. 
 And, ere the natural night lay hold 
 
 on it. 
 Darkly divided from the light of life. 
 Pray him come to me. ^, 
 
 Mary Beaton. Is it my lord of Ross, 
 The queen would see.'' my lord is at 
 
 her hand. 
 
 Enter the BiSHOP OF Ross. 
 Queen. Most reverend father, my 
 
 soul's friend, you see 
 How little queenlike I sit here at wait 
 Till God lay hand on me for life or 
 
 death, 
 With pain for that gold garland of my 
 
 head 
 Men call a crown, and for my body's 
 
 robe 
 Am girt with mortal sickness: I wcnild 
 
 fain, 
 Before I set my face to look on death, 
 Mine eyes against his eyes, make 
 
 straight the way 
 
 My soul must travel with this flesh put 
 
 off 
 At the dark door ; I pray you for God's 
 
 grace 
 Give me that holy help that is in you 
 To lighten my last passage out of sight. 
 For this world's works, I have done 
 
 with them this day, 
 With mine own lips while yet their 
 
 breath was warm 
 Commending to my lords the natural 
 
 charge 
 Of their born king, and by my brother's 
 
 mouth 
 To the English queen the wardship of 
 
 her heir. 
 And by the ambassador's of France 
 
 again 
 To his good mistress and my brother 
 
 king 
 The care of mine unmothered child, 
 
 who has 
 No better friends bequeathable than 
 
 these ; 
 And for this land have I besought them 
 
 all,— 
 Who may beseech of no man aught 
 
 again, — 
 That here may no man for his faith be 
 
 wronged 
 Whose faith is one with mine that all 
 
 my life 
 I have kept, and fear not in it now 
 
 to die. 
 Bishop of Ross. Madam, what com- 
 fort God hath given his priests 
 To give again, what stay of spirit and 
 
 strength 
 May through their mean stablish the 
 
 souls of men 
 To live or die unve.xed of life or death, 
 Unwounded of the fear and fang of 
 
 hell. 
 Doubt not to have ; seeing though no 
 
 man be good. 
 But one is good, even God, yet in his 
 
 eye 
 The man that keeps faith sealed upon 
 
 his soul 
 Shall through the blood-shedding of 
 
 Christ be clean. 
 And in this time of cursing and flawed 
 
 faith 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 203 
 
 Have you kept faith unflawed, and on 
 
 your head 
 The immediate blessing of the spouse 
 
 of God. 
 Have no fear therefore but your sins 
 
 of life, 
 Or stains and shadows such as all men 
 
 take, 
 In this world's passage, from the touch 
 
 of time, 
 Shall fall from off you as a vesture 
 
 changed, 
 And leave your soul for whiteness as 
 
 a child's. 
 Queen. I would have absolution ere I 
 
 die. 
 But of what sins I have not strength to 
 
 say 
 Nor hardly to remember. I do think 
 I have done God some service, holding 
 
 fast 
 Faith, and his Church's fear; and have 
 
 loved well 
 His name and burden set on me to 
 
 serve. 
 To bear his part in the eye of this 
 
 thwart world, 
 And witness of his cross; yet know 
 
 myself 
 To be but as a servant without grace 
 Save of his lord's love's gift ; I have 
 
 sinned in pride, 
 Verchance, to be his servant first, and 
 
 fight. 
 In face of all men's hate and might, 
 
 alone. 
 Here sitting single-sceptred, and com- 
 pel 
 For all its many-mouthed inveteracy 
 Vhe world with bit and bridle like a 
 
 beast 
 Brought back to serve him, and bowed 
 
 down to me. 
 Whose hand should take and hale it by 
 
 the mane. 
 And bend its head to worship as I bade, 
 I, first among his faithful ; so I said, 
 And foolishly ; for I was high of heart ; 
 And now, behold, I am in God's sight 
 
 and man's 
 Nothing; but though I have not so 
 
 much grace 
 To bind again this people fast to God, 
 
 I have held mine own faith fast, and 
 
 with my lips 
 Have borne him witness if my heart 
 
 were whole. 
 Bishop of Ross. Therefore shall he 
 
 forget not in your hour. 
 Nor for his child reject you; and shall 
 
 make 
 The weight and color of your sins on 
 
 earth 
 More white and light than wool may be 
 
 or snow. 
 Queen. Yea, so my trust is of him ; 
 
 though as now 
 Scarce having in me breath or spirit of 
 
 speech 
 I make not long confession, and my 
 
 words 
 Through faintness of my flesh lack 
 
 form ; yet, pray you. 
 Think it but sickness and my body's 
 
 fault 
 That comes between me and my will, 
 
 who fain 
 Would have your eye look on my naked 
 
 soul. 
 And read what writing there should be 
 
 washed out 
 With mine own heart's tears, and with 
 
 God's dear blood. 
 Who sees me for his penitent; for 
 
 surely 
 My sins of wrath and of light-minded- 
 ness, 
 And waste of wanton will and wander- 
 ing eyes, 
 Call on me with dumb tongues for 
 
 penitence ; 
 Which I beseech you let not God reject 
 For lack of words that I lack strength 
 
 to say. 
 For here, as I repent and put from me, 
 In perfect hope of pardon, all ill 
 
 thoughts, 
 So I remit all faults against me done, 
 Forgive all evil toward me of all men, 
 Deed or device to hurt me ; yea, I 
 
 would not 
 There were one heart unreconciled with 
 
 mine 
 When mine is cold; I will not take 
 
 death's hand 
 With any soil of hate or wrath or wrong 
 
204 
 
 BO Til WELL. 
 
 About me, but being friends with this 
 
 past world 
 Pass from it in the general peace of 
 
 love. 
 Mary Beaton. Here is some message 
 
 from the world of friends, 
 Brought to your brother : shall my lord 
 
 come in ? 
 Qtteen. What lord? ye have no lord 
 
 of any man 
 While I am lady of all you. Who is 
 
 this.? 
 Message } what message ? whence ? 
 Enter Murray. 
 Miij-ray. From Edinburgh 
 Your husband new alighted in sharp 
 
 speed 
 Craves leave of access to your majesty. 
 Queen. By heaven, I had rather death 
 
 had leave than he. 
 What comes he for.? to vex me quick 
 
 or dead 
 With his lewd eyes and sodden sidelong 
 
 face 
 That I may die again with loathing of 
 
 him > 
 By God, as God shall look upon my 
 
 soul, 
 I will not see him. Bid him away, and 
 
 keep 
 Far off as Edinburgh may hold him 
 
 hence 
 .Among his fellows of the herded swine 
 'ihat not for need but love he wallows 
 
 with 
 To expend hia patr-mony of breath and 
 
 blood 
 In the dear service of dishonoring 
 
 days. 
 Murray. Let him but bide the night 
 
 here. 
 Queen. Not an hour ; 
 Not while his horse may breathe. I 
 
 will not see hiu). 
 Murray. Nay, for the world's sake, 
 
 and lest worse be said ; 
 Let him sleej) here, and come not in 
 
 your sight. 
 Queen. Unless by some mean I be 
 
 freetl of him, 
 I have no pleasure upon earth to live. 
 I will put hand to it first myself. My 
 
 lord, 
 
 See how this ill man's coming shakes 
 
 my soul. 
 And stains its thoughts with passionate 
 
 earth again 
 That were as holy water, white and 
 
 sweet, 
 For my rechristening ; I could weep 
 
 with wrath 
 To find between my very prayer and 
 
 God 
 His face thrust like a shameful thought 
 
 in sleep. 
 I cannot pray nor fix myself on heaven 
 But he must loose my holw, break up 
 
 my trust, 
 Unbind my settled senses^ and pluck 
 
 down 
 My builded house of hope. Would he 
 
 were dead 
 That puts my soul out of itr- peace with 
 
 God! 
 Comfort me, father ; let hii/i not have 
 
 way ; 
 Keep my soul for me safe, and full of 
 
 heaven 
 As it was late. — See that you rid him 
 
 hence, 
 I charge you, sir, with morning. 
 
 Murray. Yea, I shall ; 
 'Twere best he saw you not. 
 
 Queen. I think so. Hark! 
 Who is there lighted after him.' I 
 
 heard — 
 Nay, he is sick yet, wounded ; yet I 
 
 heard — 
 Pray God he be not risen too soon, 
 
 to ride 
 With his wound's danger for r y sick 
 
 ness' sake. 
 Mary Beaton. It is my lord trie war- 
 den. 
 Queen. What! 1 knew it, — 
 So soon so far, and with such speed ! 
 
 ay, never 
 Had (pieen so ill befrien ied of her own 
 So fast a friend and loving. I will see 
 
 hini ; 
 I am stronger than I was. Give me 
 
 your hands ; 
 I can stand u[)right surely. Come you 
 
 in, 
 .And help to attire me like a liviiiy 
 
 cpieen ; 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 205 
 
 These are as grave-clothes. One go 
 
 bring me word 
 How he looks now, — if weak or well 
 
 indeed, 
 If stout of cheer or tired. Say, for his 
 
 coming 
 And care unbidden of me, I thank him 
 
 not 
 If he have done his own wound hurt 
 
 thereby. 
 I will but rest, and see him : bring me 
 
 in. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene X. — Craigmillar. 
 
 The Queen, Murray, Both well, 
 Maitland, Huntley, «7z^ Argyle. 
 Queen. If it must be, or all without 
 
 it break, 
 I am content to have Lord Morton 
 
 home ; 
 Nay, all of them ye will, save two I 
 
 keep 
 To be the food of justice and my 
 
 wrath. 
 Now hunger-starven ; his red hand who 
 
 set 
 To my child-burdened breast the iron 
 
 death, 
 And the uncle of my caitiff; they shall 
 
 bleed, 
 As Ruthven should, but for death's 
 
 hastier hand 
 That plucked him up before me : for 
 
 his son, 
 Let him come back too. 
 
 Maitland. It is nobly judged. 
 And shall content the lords and land 
 
 alike 
 With such good counsel and such fair 
 
 consent 
 To see your highness moved to rid 
 
 yourself 
 Of their disease and yours, with all 
 
 men's will 
 Purged from you by the readiest mean 
 
 we may. 
 Queen. Ay, by divorce : I have then 
 
 your tongues to that, — 
 Yours, both my friends now that were 
 
 ill friends once, 
 But haudfast here in common faith to 
 
 me 
 
 And equal-hearted ; and my brother's 
 
 voice. 
 Joined with these good lords present : 
 
 but you said, 
 Was it not you said, sir, that by divorce, 
 Though leave were given of them that 
 
 might withhold. 
 And the priest's word that bound un- 
 bound us, yet 
 Some soil might fall from lips of evil 
 
 will 
 On our son's birth-name 1 
 
 Maitland. Yea, from ill men's mouths 
 And all that hate you such rebuke might 
 
 fall. 
 Which were foul shame to suffer and 
 
 be dumb, 
 Though made by your divorce unan- 
 swerable. 
 Queen. In sooth, I thought so ; and 
 
 howbeit yourself. 
 My lord of Bothwell, by the judgment 
 
 given 
 That loosed your mother's from your 
 
 father's hand 
 Stood undespoiled in fair inheritance, 
 It may be where the cast is of a 
 
 crown. 
 And such a crown as in contention 
 
 shakes 
 Two several-storied kingdoms, even the 
 
 chance 
 Should stand not questionable, and 
 
 friend nor foe 
 Have word to throw against it. 
 Maitland. So I said. 
 Bot/noell. Yet must the queen be 
 
 freed ; and for the fear 
 Lest England for his sake be moved, I 
 
 know not 
 What hold it has upon us, who but 
 
 now 
 Saw what good heart and loyal will 
 
 they bear 
 To the right heirship of your majesty 
 Who bide on our south border, when 
 
 their guns 
 From Berwick hailed you passing 
 
 hither, and made 
 The loud-mouthed crags cry to their 
 
 batteries back, 
 And tell the sundering Tweed and al/ 
 
 green hills, 
 
206 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 And all the clamorous concourse of the 
 
 sea, 
 The name that had the lordship of both 
 
 lands 
 In heritage to bind them fast in one. 
 There heart and tongue outspake of 
 
 the true north 
 That for his caitiff sake should not be 
 
 moved 
 Nor alter from its faith though he were 
 
 cast, 
 With haltered throat or millstone round 
 
 his neck, 
 From a queen's bed into the naked sea. 
 Maitland. Madam, we are here for 
 
 service of your grace, 
 Chief of your council and nobility : 
 We shall find mean whereby without 
 
 wrong done 
 To your son's title, you shall well be 
 
 quit 
 Of your ill-minded husband ; and albeit 
 My lord of Murray present here be one 
 As scrupulous of his faith a Protestant 
 As is your grace a Papist, he will look 
 As through his fingers on the work we 
 
 do, 
 And say no word, I am well assured, 
 
 of all 
 His eye may wink on. 
 
 Queen. Nay, I cannot tell ; 
 I would not have mine honor touched, 
 
 nor buy 
 My peace with hurt of conscience ; 
 
 being so wise 
 As silence proves you or as speech 
 
 proclaims, 
 Ye shall do well to let this be ; perchance 
 The good ye mean me being untimely 
 
 done 
 Might turn to my displeasure, and your 
 
 hands 
 Leave me more hurt than holpen. 
 
 Murray. You say well ; 
 For none but honorable and lawful ends 
 Have I desired this council, to procure 
 Your just and honest freeilom, and re- 
 peal 
 The banished Morton, whose advice 
 
 thereto 
 Shall not be fruitless; for no further aim 
 To no strange mean have I put hand. 
 
 Farewell. \^Exit. 
 
 Argyle. He will not know of us 
 
 enough to thwart ; 
 And so not least may serve us; but if 
 
 here 
 These hands whose help would hurt 
 
 you not be set 
 To such a bond as may put forth oui 
 
 cause. 
 And bind us to sustain it with one soul, 
 Shall they more hurt than help you .'' 
 
 Queen. Nay, ye are wise ; 
 I know not ; but I think your helpful 
 
 hands 
 Could not be set but to my service. 
 
 Huntley. Then 
 Should we set down what reason of 
 
 resolve 
 W^e have to make it manifest and sure 
 That this young fool and tyrant by our 
 
 will 
 Shall bear no rule among us, and 
 
 thereto 
 For divers causes shall he be put forth 
 One way or other, and what man soe'er 
 Shall take this deed in hand, or do it, 
 
 all we 
 Shall as our own and general act of al' 
 Defend and fortify it. 
 
 Queen. Must all set hands 
 To one same bond for warrant "i 
 
 Botlnvell. Who should fail? 
 Not we that shall devise it, nor Balfour, 
 My kinsman here and friend. 
 Queen. Must you sign too .'' 
 Botlnvell. How must I not.^ am I not 
 
 fir to serve 
 As being or coward or faithless or a 
 
 fool, 
 Or all or any.' or what misdoubt of 
 
 yours 
 Should wash my writing out or blur my 
 
 name .<* 
 What faith a faithful servant of his 
 
 hands 
 May freely challenge of the king they 
 
 serve, 
 So much I challenge of your majesty. 
 Queen. Nay, my fair lord, but for your 
 
 known faith's sake 
 And constant service the less need it 
 
 were 
 To have your hand here on our side 
 
 lest men 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 207 
 
 Should lay the deed but on mine ancient 
 
 friends, 
 Whose names not all men love yet for 
 
 my sake, 
 And call it but our privy plot and hate, 
 Which is the judgment of all wisest 
 
 lords 
 And equal sentence of the general land. 
 Maitland. So we that were not count- 
 ed with your friends 
 Should bear the whole deed and its 
 
 danger up, — 
 We whom you have loved not, madam, 
 
 for the stand 
 We made against the perilous loves 
 
 and hates 
 That loosened half your people's love 
 
 from you. 
 Yet must we have his hand too. 
 
 Bothwell. Ay, and shall. 
 I wear no gloves when hands are bared 
 
 to strike. 
 Qneen. Be it as you will ; I am noth- 
 ing in your count ; 
 !>o be it; my counsel shall not cumber 
 
 you. 
 /Do all ye list. 
 
 Maitland. And all that shall be done 
 Will be the more strength to your 
 
 majesty, 
 And comfort to your cause : which now 
 
 we go 
 With all oiw help to hearten. 
 
 Queen. Go, and thrive. 
 \Exeunt Maitland, Huntley, and 
 
 Argyle 
 I would we had no need of such men's 
 
 tongues. 
 Bothtvell. He has the wisest name on 
 
 all their side ; 
 And by the tether that holds fast his 
 
 faith 
 We lead their lesser wits what way we 
 
 will. 
 Sharp-spirited is he surely, deep of soul, 
 Cunning and fearless ; one that gives, 
 
 men say, 
 Small heed or honor to their faiths or 
 
 fears 
 And breath of holy custom ; undis- 
 
 traught 
 By doubt of God's hand paddling in our 
 
 clay 
 
 Or dream of God's eye slanted on oui 
 
 sin ; 
 As one that holds more worthily of 
 
 God, 
 — Or would not hold at all — whate'er 
 
 he be. 
 Than of a sidelong scrupulous overseer 
 That pries askance upon our piteous 
 
 lives 
 To judge of this and this, how ill or 
 
 well, 
 And mark souls white or black with 
 
 coal or chalk 
 For crowning or for burning, palms or 
 
 fires ; 
 One therefore that through all shut 
 
 ways of life 
 Lets his soul range, even like the all- 
 winnowing wind, 
 And ply her craft in all life's businesses 
 Not like a blind man burdened; sure 
 
 of hand 
 And great of counsel, like an under fire 
 That works in the earth and makes its 
 
 breach by night. 
 And leaps a league's length at the first 
 
 stride forth 
 Of its free foot, blackening the face of 
 
 men; 
 So strong and keen and secret is his 
 
 soul. 
 Queen. So he keep trust, I care not 
 
 if his creed 
 Be faced or lined with craft and 
 
 atheism. 
 His soul be close or open ; but what 
 
 bond 
 Shall bind him ours so sure that fraud 
 
 nor force 
 Mav serve against us more .'' 
 
 BotJnvell. Doubt me not that ; 
 By hilt, not edge, we hold him as a 
 
 sword 
 That in our hand shall bend not till we 
 
 break, 
 If we would break it when our work is 
 
 done. 
 Queen. Have we the strength? I 
 
 doubt not of this hand, 
 That holds my heart, if it be strong 
 
 or no, 
 More than I doubt of the eyes thai 
 
 light mine eyes, 
 
2o8 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 The lips that my lips breathe by, — O 
 
 mv life, 
 More than I doubt of mine own bitter 
 
 love, 
 More than of death's ao power to sun- 
 der us, 
 Of his no force to quench me who am 
 
 fire, — 
 Fire for your sake, that would put all 
 
 these out 
 To shine and lighten in your sight alone 
 For warmth and comfort, being to all 
 
 eyes beside 
 Or fear or ruin more fleet of foot than 
 
 fear. 
 I would I had on breast or hand or 
 
 brow 
 In crown or clasp the whole gold 
 
 wrought of the earth. 
 In one keen jewel the store of all the 
 
 sea. 
 That I might throw down at your hand 
 
 or foot 
 Sea, land, and all that in them is of 
 
 price, 
 Or in the strong wine of my piercing 
 
 love 
 Melt the sole pearl of the earth, and 
 
 drink dissolved 
 The cost of all the world's worth. 
 
 Botlnuell. Yea, my queen .'' 
 Have then no fear what man shall deem 
 
 or do ; 
 For by this fire and light of you I 
 
 swear, — 
 That is my sunlight and my fire of 
 
 dav,— 
 We shall not walk as they that walk by 
 
 night 
 Toward our great goal uncertainly, nor 
 
 swerve 
 Till we strike foot against it. Kiss me 
 
 now. 
 And bid me too speed on my way with 
 
 them 
 To bring back all their hands here to 
 
 the bond 
 Set fast as mine, or as your heart is fast 
 Set on his death whose life lies nigh 
 
 burnt out, 
 Half branfl, half ash already, in the heat 
 Of that bright wrath which makes as 
 
 red as flame 
 
 Your fearful and sweet splendor ; nay, 
 
 by heaven. 
 It flushes all the light about your face 
 With seven-times-kindled color of pure 
 
 fire, 
 And burns mine eyes beholding, as 
 
 your lips 
 And quick breath burn me kissing. Mt 
 
 sweet fear, 
 Had you not been the sweetest, even 
 
 to me 
 You must have been the fearfullest 
 
 thing alive. 
 Queen. For love is so, and I am very 
 
 love. 
 And no more queen or woman; have 
 
 no heart, 
 No head, no spirit or sense at all of life. 
 Save as of love that lives and that is I, 
 I that was woman, and bore rule alone 
 Upon myself ; who am all dis-king- 
 
 domed now. 
 Made twice a slave, — mine own soul's 
 
 thrall, and yours 
 Who wield the heart that wields me at 
 
 your will. 
 I can but do as wills the spirit in me 
 Which is your spirit's servant. Ah, 
 
 my lord, — 
 My one lord every way, my poor heart's 
 
 blood. 
 Breath of my lips and eyesight of mine 
 
 eves, — 
 How did I live the life that loved you 
 
 not .^ 
 What were those days wherein I walked 
 
 apart, 
 And went my way, and did my will 
 
 alone. 
 And thought and wrought without you 
 
 in the world '^. 
 Then I did evil and folly : 'he more 
 
 need 
 I purge me now, and perfect my desire, 
 Which is to be no more your lover, no, 
 Hut even yourself, yea niore than body 
 
 and soul, 
 One and not twain, one utter life, one 
 
 fire, 
 One will, one doom, one deed, one 
 
 spirit, one ( "lod ; 
 For we twain grown and molten each 
 
 in each 
 
POTinVELL. 
 
 209 
 
 Surely shall be as God is and no man. 
 Both-well. Ood speed us, then, till we 
 
 grow u]) to God ! 
 Me first, who first shall clear our way to 
 
 climb 
 By carving one weed's earthly coil away 
 That cumbers our straight growing : 
 
 pray for me ! 
 I will have all their hands to it in an 
 
 hour. 
 
 Scene XL — Courtyard of a Host- 
 elry AT WHITTINGHAM. 
 
 BoTHWELL and Morton. 
 Morton. Fled in pure fear of me '>. 
 well, he knows best. 
 
 Towards Glasgow, said you ? 
 
 Both-well. Soon as came the word 
 
 You were brought home with welcome 
 of the queen, 
 
 He spurs from Stirling with all heat of 
 speed, — 
 
 Even from her arms new-reconciled and 
 face 
 
 That favorably had received him ; 
 leaves the feast 
 
 Half made, and his unchristened yean- 
 ling there 
 
 Not yet signed God's, and dewy from 
 the font 
 
 Long waited for, till the English golden 
 gift 
 
 Was grown too strait to hold and hal- 
 low him, — 
 
 Flies from all sight and cheer of festal 
 folk. 
 
 And on the way being smitten sick with 
 fear 
 
 Cries out of poison working in his flesh 
 
 Blue-spotted as with ulcerous pesti- 
 lence. 
 
 Weeps himself dead, and wails himself 
 alive. 
 
 As now he lies, but bedrid ; and has 
 lain 
 
 Thi3 Christmas through, while the 
 queen held her feast 
 
 At Drummond Castle. 
 
 Mortoft. Yea, I heard so ; and you 
 
 At Tullibardine likewise, or men he, 
 
 Kept the feast high beside her. Well, 
 my lord. 
 
 Now have you time and room to say 
 
 for each 
 What ye would have of me, the queen 
 
 and you, 
 Who are hand and tongue at once ot 
 
 her design. 
 Here am I newly lighted, hot from 
 
 horse. 
 But fresh come forth of exile and ill 
 
 days 
 To do you service : let me have her 
 
 hand 
 For warrant of what dangerous work 
 
 she will. 
 And mine is armed to do it ; but till I 
 
 have. 
 Expect of me, who have seen times 
 
 strange as this. 
 Nothing. 
 Both%vell. I have her warrant in my 
 
 lips ; 
 By me she speaks you safe in serving 
 
 her. 
 Morton. Let that secure yourself : I 
 
 must have proofs. 
 Both-well. You shall have all, and 
 
 written ; but your hand 
 Must be in this with ours. 
 
 Morton. I have cause enough, 
 Good reason and good will to see it 
 
 performed, 
 But will not strike through mine own 
 
 side at him : 
 Make vour mind sure of that. 
 
 Bot/nvell. Well, you shall have it; 
 Myself will fetch your warrant from her 
 
 hand 
 That from my mouth assures you not ; 
 
 and then — 
 Morton. Then shall my hand make 
 
 answer to her own. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene XH. — Callander. 
 
 The Queen and Lady Reres. 
 Queen. I do not feel as at past part- 
 ings : then 
 My heart was sick and bitter, and mine 
 
 eve 
 Saw not beyond the grievous hour at 
 
 hand ; 
 Now when of all time I should be most 
 sad, 
 
lO 
 
 JWTNIVELL. 
 
 Being jiartcd at love's highest of height 
 
 from love, 
 And bound to meet love's poison and 
 
 my plague, 
 My life's live curse yet married to my 
 
 life, 
 Yet am I light and fuller of sweet hope 
 Than even sweet memory fills me. 
 
 Lady Reres. It is well 
 When dawn discomforts not the whole 
 
 sweet night. 
 Queen. There be stars sure that die 
 
 not of the day. 
 Or in this hoariest hour of dusk and dew 
 How should my heart be warm with 
 
 last night's fire ? 
 
 Enter BoTHWELL. 
 What ! risen so soon, my lord .'' 
 
 Bot/iwell. What ! not yet forth ? 
 That was the question laughing on your 
 
 lips, 
 And this my plea to kill the question 
 
 with. [A issing her. 
 
 I must ride now. There waits a mes- 
 senger 
 From our wed lord in Glasgow. 
 
 Queen. Ay .'* would God 
 He had slipt his saddle and borne his 
 
 charge to hell ! 
 Must we part here .-* I ask but what I 
 
 know. 
 Only to have a breath more of your 
 
 mouth, 
 A smile more of your eye, turn of your 
 
 head, 
 Before you kiss and leave me. Why 
 
 should love, 
 TTiat can change life, seat and disseat 
 
 the soul 
 In heaven or hurl it hellward, break and 
 
 build. 
 Root and unroot the very springs o' 
 
 the heart, 
 Have not the force to i)luck but twelve 
 
 hours back. 
 And twice consume and twice consum- 
 mate life. 
 Twice crowned and twice confounded ? 
 
 I would give 
 All but love's self, all hope and heat of 
 
 life, 
 But to have over this scant space again, 
 Since yesterday saw sunset. 
 
 Bothwell. You shall win 
 A better prayer than this; for one poo! 
 
 hour 
 Caught from the gripe of all good- 
 grudging time. 
 An hundred-fold in long-lived happi- 
 ness. 
 Secure and scatheless of all change or 
 
 fear. 
 Queen. Yet this joy waited on by fear 
 
 and doubt, 
 Plucked casually, a flower of accident. 
 On the rough lip and edge of danger's 
 
 breach. 
 How sweeter is it than the rose to 
 
 smell 
 We gather from our garden with gloved 
 
 hand. 
 And find nor thorn nor perfume ! You 
 
 must go, 
 And I part hence ; yet all through life 
 
 and death 
 I shall have mind of this most gracious 
 
 place, 
 Poor palace of all pleasure, where I 
 
 found 
 Brief harborage in long travel of my 
 
 life. 
 Now take farewell of me. 
 
 BotJnuell. Fair lips, farewell. 
 And love me till we kiss again and 
 
 sleep. \Exit. 
 
 Queen. So may my last sleep kiss me 
 
 at your lips. 
 And find me full of you as heaven of 
 
 light 
 ny tmii 
 id this 
 Come in that waits : he shall bear word 
 
 of me 
 Before I stand in his lord's sight again. 
 
 Enter Crawford. 
 What message from our lord your 
 
 master, sir ? 
 Crawford. Madam, with all his heart 
 
 my lord commends 
 His heart's excuses to your majesty 
 For the great grief and doubt wherein 
 
 it stands 
 Of your unstanched displeasure ; of 
 
 which fear 
 He lies soul-sick, and sends that heart 
 
 by mc 
 
 When my time comes of slumber. 
 Bid this man 
 
BOTHIVELL. 
 
 2ir 
 
 To crave its pardon of you, and for 
 
 grace 
 From your dread lips some comfortable 
 
 word 
 That may assure him who now lives in 
 
 pain 
 Through the evil news he hears from 
 
 all winds blown, 
 In all mouths open ; whence as one 
 
 distraught, 
 And knowing not how to bear himself 
 
 secure 
 Or dare put forth to meet you, for the 
 
 words 
 He hears you have said, though fain, I 
 
 know, to come 
 And clear himself of aught that you 
 
 suspect 
 By present inquisition, — this I know, 
 Though now he laid no charge on me 
 
 to say, — 
 He hath writ you word already of his 
 
 grief. 
 And finds no answer but of bitter sound, 
 Nor any light of pity from your face, 
 Nor breath of healing ; wherefore on 
 
 my knees 
 He kneels before you to require his 
 
 doom. 
 Queen. I have no remedy for fear ; 
 
 there grows 
 No herb of help to hea^ a coward 
 
 heart. 
 Fears were not rank were faults not 
 
 rank in him. 
 Crawford. It is no caitiff doubt that 
 
 pleads with you. 
 No rootless dread sprung of a craven 
 
 mood 
 That bows him down before your high- 
 ness' foot 
 To take the sovereign sentence of your 
 
 eye 
 And bide and bear its judgment given 
 
 as God's : 
 He knows, he says, by proof and speech 
 
 of men 
 What cause he has what friends of 
 
 yours to fear. 
 Queen. What ! must I ride alone to 
 
 comfort him ? 
 Tell him he may sleep sure, then, though 
 
 I come : 
 
 Lord Bo^hwell is bound back to Edin- 
 
 burgh ; 
 There is no man to affright him in my 
 
 train 
 But grooms and lackeys ; and, for all 
 
 I hear. 
 He never feared my women. 
 
 Crawford. Please it you. 
 My master doth but wish all hearts of 
 
 men 
 Were on their faces written with their 
 
 faith. 
 Queen. Hath he no more than this, 
 
 our lord, to say .'* 
 Then let him hold his peace; and bear 
 
 him word 
 That of our grace we come to cherish 
 
 him 
 With not a man's face to procure his 
 
 dread. 
 Tell him so much, and bid him keep 
 
 good heart, 
 If heart he have, even for my sake, 
 
 who swear 
 He shall not long live in this fear of 
 
 me. 
 
 Scene XIII. — Darnley's Lodging 
 IN Glasgow. 
 
 Darnley on a couch, as sick ; CRAW- 
 FORD in attendance. 
 Darnley. She is come in, then ? 
 Crawford. Presently she comes. 
 Darnley. You found her yet more 
 
 sharp of eye than tongue .'' 
 Crawford. Ay. 
 
 Darnley. Would I had but strength 
 to bring myself 
 Forth of this land where none will pity 
 
 me, — 
 No, not the least of all you, though I 
 
 die. 
 Who comes with her ? what house- 
 hold .'' I would speak 
 With Joachim her French fellow there, 
 
 to know 
 Why she should come, — you cannot 
 
 show me, — ay. 
 And if for good ; and if they come with 
 
 her, — 
 Her outland folk and Bothwell's, — or, 
 at least, 
 
212 
 
 BOTinVFLL. 
 
 If she liavc mind yet to send off or 
 
 no 
 Joseph, her dead knave's brother. Are 
 
 you sure 
 Himself shall come not? wherefore, be- 
 ing come in, 
 Should she not lodge beside me ? Nay, 
 
 I hear 
 More than she wots of, and have spies 
 
 that see 
 What counsels breed among the crew 
 
 of them. 
 What talk was that of marriage that 
 
 should be 
 Between her fiddler and no maid of 
 
 hers, 
 To what fair end ? Would God I 
 
 might take ship I 
 I would make speed for England; there 
 
 at least 
 They durst not lay their nets about my 
 
 life : 
 Here every wind that blows hath smells 
 
 of blood. 
 I am lost and doomed ; lost, lost! 
 
 Crawford. Have better thoughts. 
 Take hope to you, and cheer. 
 
 Darnley. Ay, ay, much cheer ! 
 "S'e are all in one to abuse me, snare 
 
 and slay, — 
 Ye are all one heart to hate, one hand 
 
 to smite ; 
 I have none to love nor do me good, 
 
 not one, 
 One in the world's width, of all souls 
 
 alive. 
 I am dead and slain already in your 
 
 hearts. 
 Il\ (iod, if ever I stand up strong again, 
 I will be even with all you. Doth she 
 
 think 
 I fear her.-* there is none that lives I 
 
 fear. 
 What said she to you ? 
 
 Crinvford. With her last breath she 
 
 said 
 You should no longer live in fear of 
 
 her. 
 Darttley. Why, so I do not : nay, nor 
 
 ever did. 
 Let her come now, and find I fear her 
 
 not. 
 What shall she say.? 
 
 {Without.) Make way there for *he 
 
 queen ! 
 
 Enter the QuEEN, attended. 
 Queen. How is it with our lord? 
 Darnley. Ill is it, — ill, 
 Madam, and no lord but your servant 
 
 here. 
 Will you not kiss me ? 
 
 Queen. Nay, you are sick indeed. 
 Let mc sit here, and give me but your 
 
 hand. 
 I have a word with you to speak for 
 
 love. 
 And not for chiding. 
 
 Darnley. I beseech you, no : 
 I have no force to bear man's chiding 
 
 now. 
 Being sick, and all my sickness is of 
 
 you. 
 That look so strange and heavily on 
 
 me ; 
 Howbeit I could now die, I am made so 
 
 glad. 
 For very joy to see you. If I die. 
 Look, I leave all things to your only 
 
 will. 
 And of my pure love make no testa- 
 ment, 
 Nor lay no charge on any else for 
 
 love. 
 Queen. I will rebuke you not but 
 
 tenderly. 
 As a right wife and faithful woman. 
 
 Sir, 
 What word was that you wrote me, ami 
 
 wherein 
 And wherefore taxing some for crueltv. 
 Of what suspicion misconceixcd and 
 
 born. 
 That came forth of your hand to strike 
 
 my heart ? 
 You that have found no cause, and will 
 
 not sav 
 ^^>u have found or shall lincl ever cause 
 
 of fear, 
 So to misdoubt me, — what coultl sting 
 
 you so. 
 What adder-headed thought or venom- 
 ous dream. 
 To make you shoot at this bared breast 
 
 to you 
 .Suspicion winged and whetted with ill 
 
 thoughts ? 
 
BO Til WELL. 
 
 213 
 
 What words were these to write, what 
 
 doubts to breed, 
 Of mere mistrust and stark unfriendli- 
 ness ? 
 Nay, and I know not, God can witness 
 
 me, 
 So much as what you doubt or what 
 
 misdeem, 
 Or wherein hold me dangerous or my 
 
 friends, ♦ 
 More than I know what source your 
 
 sickness hath. 
 Whereof I would fain think all this 
 
 is bred 
 And all ill fears grown but of feverish 
 
 nights. 
 What cause most ails you ? or what 
 
 think you on ? 
 Darnley. I think how I am punished, 
 
 — ay, God knows 
 I am punished that I made my God of 
 
 you. 
 What should I mean of cruelty but 
 
 yours, 
 That will not look on my sore peni- 
 tence 
 For my least sin, as God would look on 
 
 all? 
 Though I confess wherein T have failed 
 
 indeed. 
 Yet never in worse kind than was 
 
 avowed ; 
 And many a man for such revolt as 
 
 mine 
 Hath had your pardon : in this kind I 
 
 have sinned. 
 Not in such wise as ever I denied, 
 And am yet young ; and though you 
 
 should cast up 
 How often being forgiven I have gone 
 
 back. 
 And fallen in fresh offence of vou that 
 
 late 
 Forgave me, may not any twice or 
 
 thrice 
 So slip that is none older than I am, 
 Or slack his promise plighted, yet in 
 
 the end. 
 Repenting, by experience be chastised ? 
 If my weak years and grief may get but 
 
 grace, 
 I swear I never shall make fault again ; 
 And this is all, and honest, that I crave, 
 
 To have again my wife to bed and 
 
 board, 
 Which if I may not by consent of you 
 Out of this bed I never will rise more. 
 I pray you tell me whereof you re- 
 solve, 
 That I may die or live, who have no 
 
 thought 
 But only of you ; and at such luckless 
 
 time 
 As ever I offend you, even the offence 
 Grows of yourself; for when I am 
 
 wronged or wroth 
 If I for refuge might complain to 
 
 you 
 Of any that offends me, I would speak 
 Into no ear but yours ; but being 
 
 estranged. 
 What now soe'er I hear, necessity 
 Binds me to keep it in my breast, and 
 
 hence 
 I am moved to try my wit on mine own 
 
 part 
 For very anger. Now, being at your 
 
 foot. 
 Will you forgive me.'' that for love in- 
 deed 
 And fear of you have trespassed, being 
 
 so young, 
 And had no good man's counsel, and 
 
 no guard. 
 No light, no help, no stay, — was yet 
 
 scarce man. 
 And have so loved you whom I sinned 
 
 against. 
 Queen. Why would you pass in the 
 
 English ship away.-* 
 Darnley. I swear by God I never 
 
 thought thereon ; 
 I spake but with the men : but though I 
 
 had, 
 I might have well ta'en hold on such a 
 
 thought. 
 To hear much less things than the least 
 
 I heard. 
 Queen. What inquisition was it that 
 
 you made 
 To hear such things as fright you? 
 
 Darnley. Nav, by heaven, 
 I have made none ; I never sought man 
 
 out 
 To speak with any ; I swear I see no 
 
 spies. 
 
214 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Queen. Must I return to your own 
 
 car again 
 The very words were spoken ? 
 
 Dartiley. I did hear 
 There was a letter brought you to sub- 
 scribe 
 l^y certain of the council, to the intent 
 I should be cast in prison, and with 
 
 power 
 To slay me by your warrant, should 
 
 I make 
 Resistance : Highgate said so ; I con- 
 fess 
 I spake with him ; my father that first 
 
 heard 
 Brought him to speech of me. 
 Queen. Spake he so much ? 
 But Walcar, that at Stirling brought 
 
 me word 
 Of this man's speeches here, had heard 
 
 of him 
 That you with certain of our lords had 
 
 laid 
 A plot to take our son, and having 
 
 crowned 
 Reign for him king of Scots; whereon 
 
 the man, 
 Being had before our council with good 
 
 speed, 
 Swore he knew no such tale, and had 
 
 but heard 
 Some rumour blown of your imprison- 
 ment, 
 But nothing of your slaying ; to which 
 
 again 
 His witness summoned gave him 
 
 straight the lie. 
 Yet would I not conceive the tale for 
 
 true, 
 That, being incensed with some our 
 
 loyal lords 
 Who were not of the faction that should 
 
 lay 
 Such regency upon you for your son, 
 \'()u had threatened them aloud with 
 
 wrath to come. 
 What say you to it .'' 
 
 Dartiley- I say you do me wrong 
 'i'o s[)eak to me ai him tliat as you say 
 Belied me to you: who saith so of me 
 
 lies, 
 And I will }jluck liis ears from off his 
 
 head, 
 
 The knave whose tongue so misdelivers 
 
 me. 
 And, I beseech you, think he lies that 
 
 saith 
 I would be wroth with any man your 
 
 friend. 
 Or would not rather give away my life 
 Than by despite toward such displease 
 
 you : yet 
 I have heard strange things here of a 
 
 trustier tongue. 
 The Laird — you know him — of Minto, 
 
 my fast friend. 
 If any friend be fast on earth to me. 
 He told me to what bond what hands 
 
 were set ; 
 Yea, and more hands than those that 
 
 signed me dead. 
 He swore, were set to slay me ; but 
 
 God knows 
 I gave no faith to it, — would not dream 
 
 or doubt 
 You could devise, that were my proper 
 
 f^esh, 
 To do me any evil ; nay, I said 
 It was well seen you would not, by theii 
 
 writ 
 Against my life that you subscribed 
 
 not ; else. 
 Could I think once you hungered for 
 
 my death, 
 God knows I would not hold you 
 
 hungering long. 
 But make mine own throat naked for 
 
 your knife 
 As readily as your hand could pluck it 
 
 forth : 
 Howbeit the best man of mine enemies 
 
 else 
 Should buy me dear — ay, any of all 
 
 but you, 
 Except he took me sleeping ; as in- 
 deed 
 Were now not hard to take me : had I 
 
 but 
 A hand to help my heart, and health to 
 
 go. 
 A foot to stand against them, God and 
 
 you, 
 Madam, should oversee us and judge; 
 
 but now 
 You see what power I have, what hoj)e 
 
 of help, 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 215 
 
 What strength to serve my will and my 
 
 best heart 
 Lies in my broken body; ay, these 
 
 know that, 
 What force is left to second my good- 
 will 
 They know who durst not else devise 
 
 or do, 
 Had I the natural might yet of my 
 
 limbs, 
 What now — But you, if you have pity 
 
 of me, 
 Seeing me how faint I am and how sore 
 
 sick 
 And cannot eat for weakness, though I 
 
 faint, 
 That makes me loathe my meat, — but 
 
 will you not 
 Feed me and kiss me ? surely I could 
 
 live. 
 Being quickened of your hands and 
 
 piteous lips, 
 So sweet you are, and strong, and large 
 
 of life. 
 Nay, do but kiss me once though I 
 
 must die. 
 Be it but lest all men say you loved me 
 
 not. 
 Queen. I have a pain here takes me 
 
 in my side — 
 I pray you — where my sickness left it 
 
 sore 
 And liable to swift pains yet: pardon 
 
 me. 
 Darnley. 'Tis I you cannot pardon, — 
 
 I, woe's me, 
 You cannot love or pardon ; but I 
 
 swear. 
 So be it you will not leave me, I will go, 
 So but I may not lose you out of sight. 
 Borne in a litter, such as here I lie, 
 So weak, so full of sickness, where you 
 
 will. 
 Be it to Craigmillar, though death went 
 
 with me. 
 Or to the world's end, going in sight of 
 
 you. 
 Queen. Have here my hand, then, and 
 
 my faith to it, sir. 
 When there the healing springs have 
 
 washed you whole 
 A.S they shall surely, with cold cleans- 
 ing streams 
 
 Whose medicinal might shall bathe 
 
 your veins. 
 And kill the fire that feeds upon th«ir 
 
 blood, 
 I will once more dwell with you as your 
 
 wife. 
 In all the lovely works and ways of 
 
 love 
 And dues of duteous life and unity 
 That man may claim of woman. Tell 
 
 me now, — 
 Ere we go thither, where the leecn and 
 
 May help you, nor be far off from my 
 
 son, — 
 What are those lords you are wroth at ? 
 
 since I hear 
 Some are there that you threaten, as in 
 
 doubt 
 Their minds are bitter toward you : 
 
 shall I say 
 You stand in fear of Maitland .'' 
 
 Darnley. Him .'' not I, — 
 I pray you, speak not of him for my 
 
 sake, — 
 I stand in fear of no man: I beseech 
 
 you. 
 Speak me not of him; I will see no 
 
 man. 
 To be our makebate and your tale- 
 bearer ; 
 I have heard too of your brother, how 
 
 he says 
 I spake with him at Stirling, where I 
 
 swear 
 I came not in his chamber, spake not 
 
 half 
 Of all whereof he has rounded in your 
 
 ear 
 That I made plaint to him concerning 
 
 you; 
 For all my faults are published in your 
 
 eye, 
 And I deny not one, and naught put 
 
 off: 
 What should it boot me to deny my 
 
 speech ? 
 But there are they that think the faults 
 
 they make 
 Shall to all time lie still unspoken of. 
 Yet will they speak aloud of small and 
 
 great, 
 And tax alike all faults of other folk, 
 
2l5 
 
 BOTJnVELL. 
 
 The least fault as the worst, in men 
 
 like me 
 That have not craft to hide or most or 
 
 least. 
 God save you from such friendship : it 
 
 is thought, 
 Through power upon you of such evil 
 
 tongues, 
 /ourself have not your power upon 
 
 yourself, 
 y\i; by your slight still of my proffered 
 
 love 
 1 would believe you have not; such a 
 
 friend 
 Rode with you hither, — or unfriend as 
 
 I doubt : 
 I like her not, — the Lady Reres, your 
 
 friend ; 
 I pray God she may serve you, if she 
 
 'be, 
 To your own honor; it runs through all 
 
 men's mouths, 
 She was Lord Bothwell's harlot, who 
 
 stands marked 
 For a lewd liver above all men alive : 
 She and her sister both lie side by side 
 Under the like report of his rank 
 
 love, — 
 Foul concord and consent unsisterlike 
 In such communion as beas-ts shun for 
 
 shame. 
 Nay, for you know it, it lives on com- 
 mon lips. 
 Cries from all tongues, — you know it; 
 
 but for my part 
 I will love all that love you, though 
 
 they were 
 but for that love's sake shameful in 
 
 men's eyes. 
 Why will you wake not with me this 
 
 one night, 
 liut so soon leave me, and I sleep so 
 
 ill } 
 Queen. Nay, though this night I may 
 
 not watch with you, 
 1 leave "you not till you turn back with 
 
 me ; 
 I'.ut for the lords' sake must it not be 
 
 kn.)wn. 
 That, if you change not purjiose ere 
 
 that time. 
 When yf)u are whole, we shall be one 
 
 again ; 
 
 Lest when they know it, remembermg 
 
 )our loud threat 
 To make them find, if ever we agreed, 
 What small account they had made of 
 
 you, and how 
 Vou had counselled me to take nor 
 
 some of them 
 To grace again without assent of yours, 
 They fall in fear and jealousy, to see 
 The scene so broken and the play so 
 
 changed 
 Without their knowledge, that contrari 
 
 wise 
 Was first set up before them. 
 
 DariiUy. Think you then 
 Thev will for that the more esteem of 
 
 you 
 
 But I am glad at heart you speak of 
 
 them, 
 And do believe now you desire indeed 
 That we should live together in quiet- 
 ness ; 
 For, were it otherwise, to both of us 
 Might worse fall than we wot of; but I 
 
 now 
 Will do whatever vou will do, and love 
 All that you love; and I have trust in 
 
 you 
 To draw them in like manner to my 
 
 love ; 
 Whom since I know thev aim not at mv 
 
 life 
 I will love all alike, and there shall be 
 No more dissension of your friends and 
 
 mine. 
 Queen. It was by fault of you all 
 
 this fell out 
 That I must heal. For this time, fare 
 
 vou well ; 
 Whei: I get rest, I will return again. 
 
 \Exit -u>i(/t iitfendiitih. 
 Darnley. What say you now .-• she is 
 
 gentler in mine eyes 
 Than was your word of her. 
 
 Cra'iofofd. Av, sweet to sight, 
 Fxceeding gentle. Wherefore, could 
 
 one tell. 
 Should she desire to lead you so in 
 
 hand 
 Just to Craigmillar? whence report 
 
 came late 
 Of tio good counsel toward you or good 
 
 hope. 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 217 
 
 Except the hope be good, there to be 
 
 healed 
 Of all life's ill forever, once being 
 
 bathed 
 In the cold springs of death ; and hence 
 
 meseems 
 More like a prisoner than her wedded 
 
 lord 
 Are you borne off as in her bonds. 
 
 Daniley. By heaven, 
 I think but little less, and fear myself, 
 Save for the trust indeed I have in her 
 And in her promise only; howsoe'er, 
 I will go with her, and put me in her 
 
 hands, 
 Though she should cut my throat ; and 
 
 so may God 
 Between us both be judge. I have 
 
 been men's fool 
 That were but tongues and faces of my 
 
 friends : 
 I see by mine own sight now, and will 
 
 stand 
 On no man's feet but mine. Give me 
 
 to drink ; 
 I will sleep now ; my heart is healed 
 
 of fear. 
 Scene XIV. —The Queen's Apart- 
 ment IN THE SAME. 
 The Queen and Paris. 
 Queen. Here is the letter for your 
 
 lord to know 
 I bring the man on Monday, as is writ. 
 Hence to Craigmillar. Say too this by 
 
 mouth, — 
 The Ladv Reres can witness with mine 
 
 oath 
 I would not let him kiss me. Bid our 
 
 lord. 
 Mine and your lord, inquire of Mait- 
 
 land first 
 If our past purpose for Craigmillar 
 
 hold, 
 Or if the place be shifted, and send 
 
 word 
 To me that here await his will by you. 
 Be of good speed; I say not of good 
 
 trust, 
 Who know you perfect in his trust and 
 
 mine. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Paris. I am gone with all good haste 
 
 I may, 
 
 And here come back to serve your maj- 
 esty. 
 Hath it no further counsel or command 
 
 To be 
 
 mv mess 
 
 age 
 
 Queen. Tell him, night and day 
 And fear and hope are grown one thing 
 
 to me 
 Save for his sake : and say mine hour? 
 
 and thoughts 
 Are as one fire devouring grain 'w 
 
 grain 
 This pile of tares and drift of crum- 
 bling brands 
 That shrivels up in the slow breath of 
 
 time 
 The i)art of life that keeps me far from 
 
 him. 
 The heap of dusty days that sundci 
 
 us. 
 I would I could burn all at once away. 
 And our lips meet across the mid red 
 
 flame, 
 Thence unconsumcd, being made of 
 
 keener fire 
 Than any burns on earth. Say that 
 
 mine eyes 
 Ache with mine heart, and thirst with 
 
 all my veins, 
 Requiring him they have not. Say my 
 
 life 
 Is but as sleep, and my sleep very life. 
 That dreams upon him. Say I am 
 
 passing now 
 To do that office he would have me do, 
 Which almost is a traitor's; say, his 
 
 love 
 Makes me so far dissemble, that myself 
 Have horror at it ; bid him keep in 
 
 mind 
 How, were it not to obey him, I had 
 
 rather 
 Be dead before I did it; let him not 
 Have ill opinion of me for this cause. 
 Seeing he is alone the occasion of it 
 
 himself. 
 Since for mine own ])articular revenge 
 I would not do it to him that I most 
 
 hate ; 
 My heart bleeds at it. Say, he will 
 
 not come 
 But on condition I shall cleave to him 
 Hereafter, and on that word given of 
 
 mine 
 
2KS 
 
 BO Til WELL. 
 
 Will go where I would have him go : 
 
 alas ! 
 I never have deceived yet any man, 
 liut I remit me to my master's will 
 In all things wholly; bid him send me 
 
 word 
 What I shall do, and come what may 
 
 thereof 
 I shall obey him ; if some new subtler 
 
 way 
 By medicine may be thought on when I 
 
 bring 
 The man here to Craigmillar, that as 
 
 yet 
 May not this long time of himself go 
 
 forth 
 Out of the house, let him advise him- 
 self 
 How to put this in hand : for all I find. 
 This man I here endure to play upon 
 Lives now in great suspicion; yet my 
 
 word 
 Hath credit with him, but not far 
 
 enough 
 For him to show me any thing ; but yet 
 I shall draw forth of him what thing I 
 
 will 
 If my lord bid me be more plain with 
 
 him ; 
 But I will never take delight to wrong 
 The trust of any that puts trust in me ; 
 Yet may my lord command me in all 
 
 things. 
 And though by checks and hints of that 
 
 I feared 
 This man sometimes even touch me to 
 
 the quick 
 W^ith words dropt of mine honor and 
 
 my power 
 On mine own self, whereby I surely 
 
 know 
 That he suspects him of the thing we 
 
 wot 
 And of his life, yet as to that last fear 
 I r)ccd but say some three good words 
 
 to him, 
 And he rejoices, and is out of doubt, 
 lie was seen never as gay of mood as 
 
 now 
 When I make show of grace and gentle 
 
 heart, 
 And puts me in remembrance of all 
 
 things 
 
 That may assure my faith he loves me 
 
 well. 
 Let not my love suspect me for his 
 
 sake. 
 Who take such great joy of his love- 
 making 
 That I come never where he is but 
 
 straight 
 I take the sickness of my sore side here, 
 I am vexed so with it; wearied might 
 
 he be. 
 This poisonous man that gives me all 
 
 this pain. 
 When I would speak of things far 
 
 sweeter; yet 
 He is marred not overmuch of form or 
 
 face. 
 Though he have borne much, and his 
 
 venomed breath 
 Hath almost slain me though I sit far 
 
 off. 
 He would have had me watch with him, 
 
 but I 
 Put off the night ; he says he sleeps not 
 
 sound. 
 He never spake more humbly nor more 
 
 well ; 
 And if I had not proven his heart of 
 
 wax. 
 And were not mine cut of a diamond 
 Whereinto no shot ever can make 
 
 breach 
 But that which flies forth of mine own 
 
 love's hand, 
 I had almost had pity of him ; but 
 
 say 
 I bid the captain of my fortressed heart 
 F'ear not ; the place shall hold unto the 
 
 death. 
 And bid my love in recompense thereof 
 Let not his own be won by that false 
 
 kind 
 That will no less strive with him for the 
 
 same. 
 I think the twain were trained up in 
 
 one school. 
 For he hath ever tear in eye, and makes 
 Most piteous moan to arouse men's 
 
 ])ity, yea, 
 Humbly salutes them all, even to the 
 
 least. 
 To make their hearts soft toward him; 
 
 and desires 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 219 
 
 That with mine own hands I would give 
 
 him meat; 
 But let my lord, where he is, give no 
 
 more trust 
 Than I shall here. Tell him all this ; 
 
 and say 
 I am in the doing here of a work I 
 
 hate 
 Past measure; and should make him 
 
 fain to laugh , 
 
 To see mc lie so well, or at the least 
 So well dissemble, and tell him truth 
 
 'twixt hands. 
 Say, by the flatteries I perforce must 
 
 make 
 And prayers to him to assure himself 
 
 of me, 
 And by complaint made of the men de- 
 signed, 
 I have drawn out of him all we list to 
 
 know, 
 Yet never touched one word of that 
 
 your lord 
 Showed me, but only wrought by wiles ; 
 
 and say 
 "With two false kinds we are coupled, I 
 
 and he. 
 My love ; the Devil dissever us, and 
 
 God 
 Knit us together for the faithfullest pair 
 That ever he made one : this is my 
 
 faith, 
 I will die in it. Excuse me to my lord, 
 That I writ ill last night, being ill at 
 
 ease, 
 And when the rest were sleeping was 
 
 most glad 
 To write unto him, who might no more, 
 
 nor could 
 Sleep as they did and as I would de- 
 sire, 
 Even in my dear love's arms ; whom I 
 
 pray God 
 Keep from all evil, and send him all 
 
 repose. 
 And being so long my letter hindered 
 
 me 
 To write what tidings of myself I would. 
 Who had wrought before for two hours 
 
 of the day 
 Upon this bracelet I would send to him. 
 Though it be evil made, for fault of 
 
 time. 
 
 I have had so little, and I can get no 
 
 lock, 
 Though, that mine hands might end it 
 
 yester-eve, 
 I would not see the man ; but this mean 
 
 time 
 I think to make one fairer : let him not 
 Bring it in sight of any that was here, 
 For all would know it, seeing it was 
 
 wrought for haste 
 In sight of them ; yet might it bring 
 
 some harm. 
 And may be seen if he should chance 
 
 be hurt ; 
 Let him send word if he will have 
 
 it, and say 
 If he will have more gold by you, and 
 
 when 
 I shall return, and how far I may speak ; 
 For this man waxes mad to hear of him 
 Or of my brother; and when I visit 
 
 him 
 His friends come all to be my convoy, 
 
 say. 
 And he desires me come the morn 
 
 betimes 
 And see him rise. This letter that 1 
 
 send. 
 Bid my lord burn it, being so dangerous, 
 With naught in it well said, — for all 
 
 my mind 
 Was on this craft I loathe to think 
 
 upon, — 
 And if it find his hand in Edinburgh, 
 Let him soon send me word, and that I 
 
 doubt 
 Be not offended, since to doubts of him 
 I give not o'er-great credit ; but say 
 
 this, 
 That seeing to obey him, who is my 
 
 dear heart's love, 
 I spare nor honor, conscience, hazard, 
 
 state. 
 Nor greatness whatsoever, I beseech 
 
 him 
 But that he take it in good part, and 
 
 not 
 As his false brother-in-law interprets, 
 
 whom 
 I pray him give not ear to nor believe 
 Against the faithfullest lover he ever 
 
 had 
 Or ever shall have ; nor cast eye on hei 
 
BOrinVELL. 
 
 Whose feigned tears should not be 
 
 esteemed so much 
 Nor prized so as the true an,d faithful 
 
 toils 
 Which I sustain but to deserve her 
 
 place : 
 Wherett) that I despite all bonds may 
 
 climb, 
 Against my nature I betray them here 
 That may prevent me from it ; God for- 
 give me, 
 And God give him, my only love, the 
 
 hap 
 And welfare which his humble and 
 
 faithful love 
 Desires of him ; who hopes to be to 
 
 him 
 Ere long a thing new-named for recom- 
 pense 
 Of all her irksome travails. Tell him 
 
 this; 
 Say I could never stint of hand or 
 
 tongue 
 To send love to him, and that I kiss his 
 
 hands, 
 Ending; and let him think upon his 
 
 love, 
 And write to her, and that oft; and 
 
 read twice through 
 Mine evil-written letter, and keep in 
 
 mind 
 All several sayings writ of the man 
 
 therein. 
 Say for delight I have to send to him 
 I run twice over all the words I send. 
 And that each word may fasten in his 
 
 ear 
 As in his eye, and you may witness me 
 That hand and tongue and heart were 
 
 one to send, 
 I'ut all my message in your lips again 
 That here was written. Say — I know 
 
 not what ; 
 I can say naught but with my silent 
 
 hands, 
 Speak with the lips of deeds I do for 
 
 him. 
 Paris. Shall I say nothing of Lord 
 
 Darnley more ? 
 Queen. .Say, when I did but speak of 
 
 Maitland once, 
 flis caitiff flesh quaked in each joint of 
 
 him. 
 
 Each limb and bone shivered; even to 
 
 the feet 
 He shook, and his shrunk eyes were 
 
 stark with fright, 
 That like a live thing shuddered in his 
 
 hair. 
 And raised it ruffling from the roots for 
 
 dread. 
 Let him mark that : though coward the 
 
 man be^ and fool, 
 He has wit and heart enough to know 
 
 the worst 
 Of his wrong-doing, and to what man- 
 ner of man. 
 Being fool, he did it, and discerning 
 
 him 
 Think whether his cause of dread be 
 
 small or no 
 For less or more of peril. So to horse, 
 And lose no word sent of my heart to 
 
 him. 
 
 Scene XV. — Kirk of Field. 
 
 Enter T50TH\VELL. 
 BothwcU. This is the time and here 
 
 the point of earth 
 That is to try what fate will make of 
 
 me. 
 I hold here in my hand my hand's 
 
 desire. 
 The fruit my life has climbed for; day 
 
 on day 
 Have I strid over, stretching toward 
 
 this prize 
 With all my thews and spirits. I must 
 
 be glad. 
 If I could think ; yet even my cause of 
 
 joy 
 Doth somewhat shake me, that my 
 
 sense and soul 
 Seem in their springs confused, even as 
 
 two streams 
 Violently mingling: what is here to do 
 Is less now than the least I yet have 
 
 done, 
 Being but the ptitting once of the mere 
 
 hand 
 To the thing done already in device, 
 Wrought manv times out in the work. 
 
 ing soul. 
 ^\■t my heart revels not, nor feel I now 
 The blood again leap in me for dilight 
 
nOTinVELL. 
 
 22 1 
 
 That in the thought grew riotou.s and 
 
 beat high 
 With foretaste of po.sse.ssion unpo.s- 
 
 .sessed. 
 Is it that in all alike fruition slacks 
 The shrunk imagination ? in all deeds 
 The doing undoes the spirit to do, the 
 
 joy 
 Sickens, the lust is swallowed as of 
 
 sand ? 
 Why, yet the stream should run of my 
 
 desire 
 Unshrunken, and no deserts drink it up, 
 Being unfulfilled; no satiate sluggish- 
 ness 
 Gape with dry lips at the edge of the 
 
 dry cup 
 For the poor lees of longing. I am 
 
 here 
 Not royal yet, nor redder in the hand 
 Than war has dyed me fighting; the 
 
 thing done 
 Is but for me done, since I hold it so. 
 Not yet for him that in the doing must 
 
 bleed ; 
 I that stand up to do it, and in my 
 
 mind 
 IJehold across it mightier days for 
 
 deeds, 
 i-ihould not be way-sick yet nor travel- 
 tired, 
 iicfore I drink fulfilment as a wine ; 
 And here must it restore me. 
 Enter Paris. 
 
 Ha ! so soon ? 
 What news of her ? 
 
 Paris. The queen commends to you 
 Her best heart in this letter, and would 
 
 know 
 How yet your purpose toward Craig- 
 
 millar bears. 
 Whether to train him thither by her 
 
 hand 
 Or what choice else. 
 
 Bothivell. Say, the device is changed 
 By counsel and consent of whom she 
 
 wots ; 
 Here must they come ; James Balfour 
 
 and myself 
 Have waked all night to see things w^cll 
 
 begun. 
 For that bond's sake whereto his hand 
 
 was set 
 
 With mine here at Craigmillar ; all 
 
 things now 
 Stand apt and fit in this his brother's 
 
 house 
 To entertain the kingship of its guest ; 
 We have seen to it, Maitland with us. 
 
 Paris. I was sent 
 From the town hither, finding you sei' 
 
 forth, 
 But why, folk wist not. 
 
 Botlnvell. Carry to my queen 
 This diamond ; say too 1 would sen(' 
 
 my heart, 
 l>ut that she hath already, and no need 
 To pluck it forth and feel it in her 
 
 hand. 
 Bid her be swift as we have been for 
 
 love, 
 And the more surety quickens our de- 
 sign : 
 The rest unsaid shall tarry till she 
 
 come. 
 
 Scene XVI. — The Queen's Lodging 
 IN Glasgow. 
 
 The Queen /;/ bed ; I.ady Reres ana 
 Paris attending. 
 Queen. What was his word at part- 
 ing ? let it kiss 
 Mine ear again. 
 
 Paris. Being horsed, he bade me say. 
 Madam, he would be fain for love of 
 
 you 
 To train a pike all his life-days. 
 
 Queen. Please God, 
 It shall not come to that. Ere this 
 
 month die 
 That has not half a week to live, we 
 
 stand 
 In Edinburgh together. He will go 
 Without more word or fear; and being 
 
 well hence — 
 How looked my love ? 
 
 Paris. Madam, as one \x\)\\it 
 To the height of heart and hope, though 
 
 full of cares, 
 And keen in resolution. 
 Queen. I grow strong 
 To hear of him. Hath he not heart 
 
 enough 
 To fill with blood a hundred of oui 
 hearts, 
 
BO Til WELL, 
 
 Put force and daring, for the fear cast 
 
 out, 
 In all our veins made manlike ? Prithee, 
 
 Reres, 
 Was he thus ever ? had he so great 
 
 heart 
 In those dead days, such lordliness of 
 
 eye 
 To see and smite and burn in master- 
 
 dom. 
 Such fire and iron of design and deed 
 To serve his purpose and sustain his 
 
 will ? 
 Hath he not grown, since years that 
 
 knew me not. 
 In light and might and speed of spirit 
 
 and stroke 
 To lay swift hand upon his thought, 
 
 and turn 
 Its cloud to flame, its shadow to true 
 
 shape, 
 Its emptiness to fulness ? If in sooth 
 He was thus always, he should be by 
 
 now 
 Hailed the first head of the earth. 
 
 Lady Keres. It cannot be 
 But in your light he hath waxed, and 
 
 from your love. 
 Madam, drawn life and increase ; but 
 
 indeed 
 His heart seemed ever high and mas- 
 terful 
 As of a king unkingdomed, and his eye 
 As set against the sunrise ; such a brow 
 As craves a crown to do it right, and 
 
 hand 
 Made to hold empire swordlike, and a 
 
 foot 
 To tread the topless and unfooted hill 
 Whose light is from the morn of 
 
 majesty. 
 Queen. When mine eye first took 
 
 judgment of his face. 
 It read him for a king born ; and his 
 
 lips 
 Touching my hand for homage had as 
 
 'twere 
 Sj)cech without sound in them that 
 
 bowed my heart 
 In much more homage to his own. 
 
 Would c;od 
 1 could so read now, in that heart I- 
 
 serve, 
 
 What thought of me moves in it, hear 
 
 what word 
 Now hangs upon those lips ; if now his 
 
 eye 
 Darken or lighten toward mine unseen 
 
 face, 
 Or his ear hearken for my speech un- 
 heard. 
 Why art thou now not with him, and 
 
 again 
 Here the same hour to tell me } I 
 
 would have 
 More messengers than minutes that 
 
 divide 
 Mine eyes from their desire, to bring 
 
 me word. 
 With every breath, of every change in 
 
 him. 
 If he but rest or rise ; nay, might it be, 
 Of every thought or heart-beat that 
 
 makes up 
 His inner hours of life : yet, by mine 
 
 own. 
 If he so loved me, should I know them 
 
 not. 
 I will rise now, and pass to see ho\» 
 
 soon 
 We may set forth to-morrow. 
 
 Lady Reres. Can it be 
 He shall have strength ? but let youi 
 
 highness heed 
 That pretext be not given for knaves to' 
 
 say 
 You had no care to wait on his good 
 
 time, 
 But vexed and harried him, being sick, 
 
 with haste 
 And timeless heat of travel. 
 
 Queen. Fear not you : 
 I will make means to bring him in my 
 
 hand 
 As a tame hound, and have his thanks 
 
 and love 
 For bringing him so wifclike on his way. 
 It is the last pain I shall take for him. 
 The last work I shall do for marriage- 
 sake 
 And wifehood well nigh done with duty 
 
 now. 
 I have not much more time to serve 
 
 mv lord, 
 And strife shall fall between us twain 
 
 no more. 
 
BOTHWELT.. 
 
 223 
 
 Scene XVII.— Darnley's Chamker 
 IN Kirk of Field. 
 
 Darnley atid Nelson. 
 Darnley. Thou hast the keys? This 
 
 house is strange and chill, — 
 As chill as earth : I have slept no 
 
 better here. 
 Those two days that we halted on the 
 
 way 
 There at Linlithgow, I could see the 
 
 haste 
 That burnt in her to be in Edinburgh, 
 And here being come she sets me in 
 
 this grange. 
 And till her chamber be made ready 
 
 sleeps 
 In Holyrood apart, and here by day 
 Hath still by her that face I warned 
 
 her from, 
 That woman's that I spake of, plays 
 
 and sings 
 There in the garden with none else ; by 
 
 God, 
 I like not aught of it. I am sick again, 
 Sick-hearted, or my will should be a 
 
 sword 
 To sunder them. I would I were away. 
 I have ill dreams, man. 
 Nelson. Please your highness — 
 Darnley. Ay ! 
 Is majesty gone out of all men's 
 
 mouths .'* 
 Is my state dead before me, even the 
 
 name 
 Dead of my place, then ? 
 
 Nelson. There is come from court 
 Lord Robert Stuart to see your majesty. 
 Darnley. Let him come in. Robert ? 
 
 he was my friend ; 
 I think he held me dear till David 
 
 died : 
 He supped with them that night. I 
 
 found him once 
 A quick-souled fellow that would quaff 
 
 and kiss 
 The glow of woman's or a wine-cup's 
 
 mouth, 
 And laugh as mine own lips that loved 
 
 the like 
 Can now no more this long time. Let 
 
 him come. 
 Enter Robert Stuart. 
 
 My holy lord of Holyrood-house, good 
 
 day; 
 You find a fit man for a ghostly rede. 
 Robert Stuart. I am glad you have a 
 
 jest yet ; but I come 
 On graver foot than jesters run, my 
 
 lord. 
 Darnley. How, graver than your 
 
 ghostly name .'' nay, then 
 'Tis matter for a grave-side. 
 Robert Stuart. Sir, it may ; 
 I would be secret with you. 
 
 Darnley. What, alone ? 
 Why should we talk alone ^ what se- 
 cret .'' why .'' 
 Robert Stuart. I will put off my 
 
 sword, and give it your man. 
 If that will ease you. 
 
 Darnley. Ease me ? what ! by God, 
 You think I fear you come to kill me 1 
 
 Tush, 
 I am not the fool — and were that all, 
 
 being thus, 
 'Faith, you might end me with your 
 
 naked hands. 
 Leave us. {Exit Nelson. 
 
 What is it ? you make me not afraid — 
 Sir, I fear no man: what, — for God's 
 
 sake speak, 
 I am not moved, — in God's name, let 
 
 me have it. 
 Robert Stuart. I came to do you such 
 
 good service, sir. 
 As none has jdone you better, nor can 
 
 do. 
 There is an old phrase in men's mouths 
 
 of one 
 That stands between the devil and the 
 
 deep sea ; 
 So now stand you ; the man that toward 
 
 a reef 
 Drives naked on a thunderstricken 
 
 wreck 
 And helmless, hath not half your cause 
 
 of fear ; 
 The wretch that drops plague-eaten 
 
 limb from limb 
 Crumbles to death not half so fast as 
 
 you : 
 The grave expects not the new-shrouded 
 
 man 
 More surely than your corpse now cof 
 
 finless. 
 
224 
 
 BOTHWhLL. 
 
 Dtirnliv. Who put this in 
 mouth ? what enemy ? 
 
 your 
 
 How have you heart, or whosoe'er he 
 
 be, 
 Albeit ye hate me as the worm of hell 
 Who never harmed you in my hapless 
 
 days, 
 To use me so ? I am sick — 
 
 Robert Stuart. Ay, sick to death, 
 If you give ear not to me that am come 
 In very mercy, seeing I called you 
 
 friend, 
 For pity's sake to save you, or at least 
 To stretch your days out for some brief 
 
 sj^an more 
 Of life now death-devoted. 
 
 Darnley. What, so soon? 
 God would not have it done, so young I 
 
 am, — 
 What have I done that he should give 
 
 me up ? 
 So comfortless, — who hath no help of 
 
 man. 
 They say, hath God's ; God help me ! 
 
 for God knows 
 There is none living hath less help of 
 
 man. 
 Nav, and he must, as I have faith in 
 
 God, 
 Hang a'l my hope upon him. For 
 
 God's sake, 
 Whence got you this ? 
 Robert Stuart. No matter. 
 Darnley. At whose hand — 
 O me, what hand ! who is it shall touch 
 
 me .•• 
 Robert Stuart. Hark ! 
 From beneath is heard the Queen's 
 voice, singing. 
 
 Qui se Jie 
 
 A la Tie 
 A zuni-reau va vers la mort ; 
 
 lit que ronde 
 
 Rie ou grotide, 
 Elle entraiue loin du port. 
 
 Darnley. She sings I know not what, 
 
 — a jesting song, 
 A French court rhyme no graver than 
 
 a Mower, 
 Fruitless of sense: this is no threat — 
 
 a toy — 
 
 Queen {from beneath, sings). 
 
 Sur Vopale 
 
 Du Jlot pale 
 Tremble un peti de jour encor ; 
 
 Sur la plage 
 
 An luiufrage 
 Le haul vent sonne du cor. 
 
 Darnley. WHiat is it she sings nowf 
 nay, what boots to hear .'' 
 I will not hear; speak to me, — pray 
 you, speak. 
 Queen {from beneath). 
 
 La mort passe 
 
 Com me en chasse, 
 Et la foudre aboie aux cieux ; 
 
 Vair frissonne. 
 
 La mer tonne, 
 Le port se derobe aux yeux. 
 
 Plus d'itoile 
 
 Que ne voile 
 Vorage dpre an souffle noir ; 
 
 Pas de brise 
 
 Qui ne brise 
 Qjielque vaisseau sans espoir. 
 
 uVoire et nue 
 
 Sous la nue. 
 La nef briseea moitie 
 
 Jouriw et vire 
 
 Oil Pattire 
 La sombre mer sans pitii. 
 
 La nuit passe, 
 
 Et la chasse 
 S'lst itei)ite au fond des cieux ; 
 
 Mais Paurore 
 
 J^leure encore 
 Sur les morts quont vus ses yeux 
 
 Ce qui tombe 
 
 Dans la tombe 
 C \>ule ct s'en va sans retour ; 
 
 Quand sous C ombre 
 
 J^longe et combre 
 Ou la vie ou bien Vatnotir. 
 
 Robert Stuart. Whv do vcni shake, 
 and hide your eyes? take heart; 
 Let fear not be more swift to slay than 
 hate. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 225 
 
 Dafuley. I said, what hand ? you 
 
 bade me hearken: well, 
 What say you now she sings not? 
 A'obert Stuart. I have said. 
 Darnley. I will not be your baiting- 
 stock ; speak plain : 
 Whence had you word of any plot on 
 
 me ? 
 Robert Stuart. If you will heed me, 
 
 well ; if not, for me 
 I will take heed yet that it be not ill. 
 Weigh how you will my counsel, I am 
 
 sure 
 If my word now lie lightly in your ear 
 It would not lie the heavier for my oath 
 Or any proof's assurance. Whence I 
 
 had 
 This word you have of me, I am not 
 
 bound 
 To ])ut the knowledge into trust of you 
 Who trust not me in asking. 
 
 Darnley. What! I knew 
 There was no plot but yours to scare 
 
 me, none, — 
 Your plot to get my favor, stay your- 
 self 
 On me as on a staff, — affright me sick 
 With blood-red masks of words and 
 
 painted plots. 
 And so take hold upon me afterward 
 Having my strength again and state 
 
 and i^ower ; 
 A worthy friend and timely. — Nay, 
 
 but, nay, 
 I meant not so — I am half distraught 
 
 — I meant, 
 I know you for my friend indeed and 
 
 true : 
 For one thwart word in sickness cast 
 
 not off 
 Your friend that puts his trust in you, 
 
 your friend 
 That was nigh mad a minute, being 
 
 sore sick 
 And weak, and full of pain and fear, 
 
 and hath 
 No friend to help and bear with him if 
 
 you 
 Will help nor bear not. By my faith 
 
 and life, 
 I do believe you love me, and in love 
 Came, and in faith to me : if I believe 
 
 not. 
 
 God give me death at once and hell to 
 
 boot. 
 I pray you pardon. 
 
 Robert Stuart. Sir, your faith and lite 
 Have neither weight enough to poise 
 
 an oath 
 As now they hang in balance. If you 
 
 will, 
 Take to your heart my words; if not, 
 
 be sure 
 It shall not grieve me though you trust 
 
 me not. 
 Who never think to give you counsel 
 
 more. [Exit. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, but one word — how 
 
 would you have me fly ? 
 He goes, and mocks me. Would my 
 
 hands had strength 
 To dig his heart out for my dogs to 
 
 feed ! 
 He flies, and leaves me weaponless 
 
 alone 
 In the eye of peril, coward and false 
 
 heart — 
 vShould not the tongue be false too ? 
 
 If he came 
 To affright me only with a fearful face. 
 Blow but a blast of danger in mine ear, 
 And make my faith as wax that in his 
 
 breath 
 Might melt and be re-shapen of his 
 
 hands — 
 Nay, I will see the queen, and in her 
 
 eye 
 Read if his tongue spake truth, and 
 
 from her lips 
 Draw forth his witness ; if she mean 
 
 me ill, 
 I cannot now but see it. Nelson ! — • 
 
 She hath 
 No trick to keep her from mine instant 
 
 sight. 
 Knows not his errand to me ; and at 
 
 once 
 I take her unawares and catch her sou! 
 Naked, her mind plain to me, good oi 
 
 ill. 
 
 QUEKN [shii^s from t'eliKo). 
 
 F.ord Lore 7i<eiit maviug 
 Where Time xvas playing^ 
 In light hands roeighing 
 Liirht hearts with sad l 
 
226 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Cro-wned king with peasant^ 
 Pale past ivith present. 
 Harsh hours with pleasant, 
 
 Good hopes with bad ; 
 Nor dreamed how fleeter 
 Than Time's swift metre. 
 O'er all things sweeter 
 
 ILo7u clothed with power. 
 The murderess maiden 
 Alistrtist walks laden 
 
 With red fruit ruined and dead 
 white flower. 
 Darnley. What sting is in that song 
 to smite my heart, 
 And make the blood and breath come 
 short in me ? 
 
 God ! I know it — his last year's song 
 
 of death : 
 They struck it on his lips who struck 
 
 him through. 
 Nelson! I will not see her — I will 
 not die — 
 
 E7tter the Queen. 
 Queen. I heard your call from under, 
 and came in — 
 What ails you, sir.? why stare you thus 
 askance .'' 
 Darnley. I had a pang of sickness 
 that passed by 
 While you were singing. 
 
 Queen. Is my brother gone ? 
 Darnley. There was none here — 
 Your brother ? what, the earl } 
 Doth not his wife lie at St. Andrew's 
 
 sick, 
 Where he is gone to visit her.? 
 
 Queen. For love, 
 Why will you lie to me in jest } you 
 
 know 
 Here was my brother Robert. 
 Darnley. Ay, but now — 
 
 1 did not say he was not here but now. 
 
 Queett. Has he not moved you? 
 Darnley. Why should I be moved? 
 I am not lightly shaken of men's breath ; 
 What think you that he came to move 
 me for ? 
 Queen. In faith, I guess not. 
 Darnley. Nay, though I be weak, 
 I am no reed yet for \\\\\\ to blow and 
 
 make 
 What music of me shall best please his 
 mouth. 
 
 Queen. I think you are not, but for 
 all winds blown 
 Of fears and threats fixed and un- 
 shakable. 
 What said he to you that has moved 
 you not ? 
 Darnley. Nothing. 
 Queen. What! you were moved then 
 
 of his words ? 
 Darnley. I say I was not. 
 Queen. He said nothing, then } 
 You held discourse but of days foul or 
 
 fair, 
 Skies wet or dry, seasons and acci- 
 dents. 
 All things and nothing ? 
 
 Darnley. Would you not know that ? 
 Queen. Even as you list or list not, 
 
 so would I. 
 Darnley. What if it please me you 
 
 should know this not ? 
 Queen. Why, you do wisely, seeing I 
 
 love you not. 
 Darnley. I did not say so; I may 
 hold my peace, 
 Yet not for doubt that irks me of your 
 love. 
 Queen. Surely you may; good rea- 
 sons may stand thick 
 As buds in April, in your judgment's 
 
 sight. 
 To cover both your counsels from mine 
 
 eye 
 That has no lust to invade your secre- 
 sies. 
 Darnley. And if it please me show 
 it, as now it shall, 
 You will not dread I doubt your love 
 of me. 
 Queen. I have not heart to dread 
 the doubt I know 
 You have not heart to harbor of my 
 love. 
 Darnley. Why, he came here to warn 
 
 me of my life. 
 Queen. Your life ? 
 Darnley. Ay, mine ; and what now 
 
 say you to him ? 
 Queen. I say he spake as your good 
 
 friend and mine. 
 Darnley. .Ay ? 
 
 Queen. What more kindness could 
 be shown of man 
 
BOT/nVELL. 
 
 227 
 
 Than in your ear to warn me of your 
 
 life 
 If it so stand in peril ? 
 
 Darnley. Whatl you think 
 lie told it me to have me tell it you ? 
 Queen. It was done gently, brother- 
 like, for fear 
 The word of danger being first heard 
 
 by me 
 Should strike too sharp upon my slight- 
 er soul, 
 And pierce my woman's sense with 
 
 such quick pangs 
 As might dethrone my judgment, shake 
 
 my wits 
 To feminine confusion, and by force 
 Disable my swift thoughts, now maimed 
 
 with dread, 
 From their defence and office; he did 
 
 well, 
 And my heart thanks him, showing you 
 
 first his fear. 
 Who are manlike of your mood and 
 
 mould of mind, 
 And have but for your own life to take 
 
 thought. 
 Not for one dearer; as, I know you 
 
 well, 
 By mine own heart I know, to have 
 
 heard of me 
 Endangered would have killed your 
 
 heart with fear, 
 That in your personal peril beats at 
 
 ease 
 With blood as perfect as I see you now. 
 With pulse thus changeless, and with 
 
 cheek thus calm. 
 Indeed I thank him for it, and twice I 
 
 thank, 
 That he would serve you, and would 
 
 scare not me. 
 Where said he was this danger ? 
 
 Darnley. Nay, by God, 
 That would he not say ; that I nothing 
 
 know; 
 Save by some hint of shoulder or 
 
 writhed li]) 
 That seemed to shoot at you ; and when 
 
 you sang 
 He bade me hearken, and would speak 
 
 no more. 
 Queen. At me ! but if such fire be on 
 
 his tongue* 
 
 It should be forked, and set on fire of 
 
 hell. 
 At me ! but if he be not mad, to you 
 He shall approve it, instant face to 
 
 face. 
 Eye to confronted eye, word against 
 
 word, 
 He shall maintain or mark himself for 
 
 liar, — 
 With his own fire and iron brand the 
 
 brow 
 That burned not to belie me. 
 Darnley. Sweet, not here : 
 Would I could fight with him ! but be- 
 ing o'erthrown 
 Of my disease already, to what end 
 Should he come back now, save to in- 
 sult on me 
 Who have no hand to strike at him 
 
 again 
 In championship of you ? 
 
 Queen. He shall come back. 
 And twice shall oversay the word he 
 
 said 
 In your own ear, or else unswear it. 
 
 What! 
 Shall I be put to shame of mine own 
 
 blood, 
 To mine own lord in mine own love 
 
 maligned. 
 Stricken with slanderous fangs of 
 
 speech, and stabbed 
 In my heart's core of honor, yet lie 
 
 still 
 And bleed to death dumb and dishon- 
 orable ? 
 Rather let come the deadliest of my 
 
 kin. 
 Mine enemies born, and bind and burr. 
 
 me quick, 
 Or ever I die thus ; rather let all 
 The false blood of my father in strange 
 
 veins 
 Be set on fire against me, and its heat 
 Consume my fame with my frail flesh, 
 
 and make 
 My scaffold of mv kingdom ; rather 
 
 fall 
 My naked head beneath the mortal 
 
 axe. 
 And with my blood my name be spilt 
 
 and shed, 
 Than this charge come upon me. 
 
228 
 
 ih)TJiwi:ll. 
 
 Diirnley. Vou are stirred 
 I^cvond all right of reason; be not 
 
 moved : 
 You sec how I believed him. 
 
 Quitii. And to see 
 Is niv soul's comfort ; but this wound 
 
 that bleeds 
 Here in my heart's heart cannot well 
 
 be stanched 
 Till by the tongue that smote me, as 
 
 men say 
 That by the anointing of the sword 
 
 that hurt 
 The wound it made finds comfort, I be 
 
 healed. 
 Darnley. Nav, let him come; I will 
 
 maintain it to him : 
 Here, to his face, he warned me of my 
 
 death 
 Or present danger in you. 
 Queen. lie shall come. 
 But lie now dowm, and sleep; I have 
 
 wearied you. 
 Dariiiey. I pray you sing me some- 
 thing then ; indeed 
 I am weary and would forget; but now 
 
 you sang — 
 Doth that French song break where 
 
 you broke it off .-' 
 Queen. No, there is more. Sleep, I 
 
 will sing it you. \Si//^s. 
 
 Sur la grive 
 
 Kien ne reve 
 Aux nauf rages de la nuit ; 
 
 A la tromhe, 
 
 Coiiffre et torn be, 
 Au Jlot (jui frappe et qui fuit. 
 
 A pa i see 
 
 Et bais^e 
 Par les brises sans souci, 
 
 Bnlle et T^ibre 
 
 Alt jour libre 
 La belle tner sans tnerei. 
 
 Tant que dure 
 
 La nuit dure 
 Sur la ^r^re oit rit la mart, 
 
 Sous Parage 
 
 Flotte et nage 
 Lc jour qui lutte et qui sort. 
 
 Pas de brume 
 
 Que n'allume 
 Vastre ou P eclair des amours ; 
 
 J\is de Jhivune 
 
 Qui dans Pdme 
 Br tile ou luise tous les jours, 
 
 A Fatirore 
 
 Tout se dore, 
 Tout se fane avant la nuit ; 
 
 Pit que Pheure 
 
 Cliante ou pleure, 
 Dans line hcure tout s''enfuit. 
 
 Carur sans erainte, 
 
 CEil sans feinte, 
 Qiiand P amour met voile au ven^, 
 
 Sur la plage 
 
 Sans nau/rage 
 Est-il revenu souvent ? 
 
 V ombre ernporte 
 La nef tnorte, 
 ■ Et la Joie, et le beaii jour ; 
 Trap profonde 
 Etait Vonde. 
 Et trap faiblc itait V amour. 
 
 [ The scene closes. 
 
 Scene XVHL — Behind Kirk op 
 Field. 
 
 BOTHWELL, ORMISION, HEI'RURN oJ 
 
 lk)LTON, and Hay of Talla. 
 Bot/iwell. If it be done to-morrow, 
 we shall stand 
 
 The surer that the queen slept here to- 
 night. 
 
 Cousin, bring you my knaves from 
 Holvrood 
 
 At nightfall to that hinder gate where- 
 through 
 
 We three shall give you passage with 
 vour charge 
 
 To the' strait garden-plat beyond the 
 walls 
 
 Whereto the door that opens from be- 
 neath 
 
 Shall stand unbolted, and you entering 
 si)read 
 
 Along the blind floor of the nether vault 
 
 The train that shall set all these walls 
 on wing. 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 229 
 
 Ormiston. How said you, that liis 
 
 groom here had the keys ? 
 Bot/noell. That under door which 
 
 lets us down lacks none : 
 There is no lock to palter with : it 
 
 needs 
 iUit leave the bolt undrawn; and yes- 
 terday 
 ,Uy the queen's order was the door re- 
 moved 
 At bottom of the stair, to be instead 
 A cover for his bath-vat ; so there 
 
 stands 
 Ikit the main door now. 
 
 Hepbiirn. That was well devised : 
 She sleeps beneath his chamber here 
 
 to-night ? 
 Bothivell. Ay, to the west. 
 Hay. She has the stouter heart. 
 I have trod as deep in the red wash 
 
 o' the wars 
 As who walks reddest, yet I could not 
 
 sleep, 
 I doubt, with next night's dead man 
 
 overhead. 
 Bothzvell. We are past the season of 
 
 divided wills ; 
 Where but one thought :^, nothing to 
 
 be done 
 Has power to hurt the heart that holds 
 
 it fast, 
 Or leave the purpose weaker by a 
 
 wound 
 Given it of doubt or after-thought : we 
 
 have 
 One thing to do, one eye to see it, one 
 
 hand 
 To pluck it from the occasion ; what 
 
 he wills 
 None but a fool would mix his will to 
 
 achieve 
 With pain and fear ; the mind once 
 
 shaped and set 
 That works, and yet looks back and 
 
 weeps to do. 
 Is but half man's ; and all a man's hath 
 
 she. 
 Hepburn. Yet woman moulded out- 
 ward, clothed upon 
 As 'twere with feminine raiment, touched 
 
 with thoughts 
 Of female-colored fashion, woman's 
 
 craft : 
 
 She sees and thinks on what could 
 
 touch not us, 
 Nor graze in passing even our skirts of 
 
 sense : 
 Takes order for the hangings of his 
 
 bed 
 Whom we must kill to her hand, lest 
 
 water soil 
 The sable velvet from his bath, and 
 
 bids 
 Pluck down and save them ; such slight 
 
 things and strange 
 As take the thought and hold the eye of 
 
 girls, 
 Her soul, as full of great things as it is, 
 As large and fiery, bright and passion- 
 ate. 
 Takes no less thought for, and hath 
 
 heed of these 
 No less than of high deed and deep 
 
 desire 
 Beyond where sight can scale or thought 
 
 can dive 
 Of narrower eye and shallower spirit 
 
 than hers. 
 Bothivell. Most royal is she, but of 
 
 soul not all 
 Uncurbable, nor of all shafts that fly 
 Scathless, nor of all shots invulner- 
 able ; 
 She had no part else and no power 
 
 in us, 
 No part in all that mingling makes up 
 
 man. 
 No power upon our earth who are 
 
 earthlier made ; 
 She has the more might on men's ways 
 
 of soul 
 Not being almighty, nor from all man's 
 
 moods 
 Divided, but as passion-touched and 
 
 mixed 
 With all such moods as men are; na^', 
 
 not these, 
 But such as bear the rule of these, and 
 
 lead 
 Which way they will — women's; and 
 
 being so mixed 
 She is even the more entire, more whole 
 
 and strong, 
 Herself and no self other. She nor I 
 Live now on thoughts and words ; the 
 
 deed it is, 
 
230 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 Our deed a'one we live by, till being 
 
 done 
 It leave us time for life that deals with 
 
 these. 
 I will be with you ere night fall again 
 Within the town-wall; thither get you 
 
 now, 
 And doubt not of us. 
 
 Ormiston. Doubt not you to find 
 All readv bv the night and need : fare- 
 well.' 
 
 {Exeunt all but Bothwell. 
 Bothwell. The time is breathless; 
 
 earth sees heaven as chill 
 In the after air declining from high 
 
 day. 
 I would the winds would muster, or the 
 
 sun 
 Show half an eye-blink of his face that 
 
 hangs 
 Now downward to the sea, curbed in 
 
 with cloud, 
 And with a brief breath fire the rack 
 
 that flies. 
 Why should not flame break over 
 
 Arthur's Seat 
 This hour, and all the heaven with 
 
 burning tongues 
 Cry from the world's height to the under 
 
 line 
 That ends it for us gazing ? If the sky 
 Had speech as it hath fire, or night 
 
 or day 
 \'oice to declare God's pleasure or his 
 
 wrath 
 With their dumb lips of light, from 
 
 moon or sun 
 Or the mute mouths of stars, would 
 
 earth that heard 
 Take thought and counsel of the cause, 
 
 to stir 
 Men's hearts up for our deed's sake 
 
 here ? I am wrought 
 Out of myself even by this pause and 
 
 jK-ace 
 In heaven and earth, that will not know 
 
 of us 
 Nor what we compass; in this face of 
 
 things, 
 Here in this eye of ever-during life 
 'i'hat changes not in changing, fear and 
 
 ho])e, 
 The life we live, the life wc take, alike 
 
 Decline and dwindle from the shape 
 
 they held. 
 Their import and significance : all seem 
 Less good and evil, worth less hate and 
 
 love. 
 Than we would have them for our high 
 
 heart's sake. 
 How shall this day, when all these days 
 
 are done. 
 Seem to me standing where it sets my 
 
 feet } 
 Nay, whence shall I behold it "i or who 
 
 knows 
 What crest or chasm, what pit or pin- 
 nacle. 
 Shall feel my foot or gulf my body 
 
 down, 
 IJear up or break me falling.'' Fall oi 
 
 stand, 
 At least I live not as the beasts tha«- 
 
 serve. 
 But with a king's life or man's death al 
 
 last 
 Make all my travails perfect ; and a 
 
 queen. 
 The fairest face I have loved and fieri- 
 est heart, 
 Shines with my star or sets. 
 Enter Paris. 
 
 What sends she now ? 
 Paris. I came to know if you stand 
 
 fixed indeed, 
 Sir, for to-morrow. 
 
 Bot/r.K'etl. For to-morrow, man ; 
 What ails him at to-morrow."* 
 
 Paris. My dread lord, 
 Naught ails me but as part of your 
 
 design ; 
 But I beseech you by your trust of me, 
 What says this while my lord of Mur- 
 ray .'* 
 Bot/noell. He! 
 He will nor help nor hinder — but all's 
 
 one. 
 Paris. 1 fe is w isc. 
 Botlnot-ll. But is it to tell me he is 
 
 wise 
 That you bestow your t)wn wise tongue 
 
 on me ? 
 Came you to advise me or to show my 
 
 trust 
 How cracked a casket I have closed 
 
 it in 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 231 
 
 Who trusted in so white a heart as 
 yours? 
 Paris. I have a message — 
 Bothwell. Well, the message, then : 
 And as you are wise, make me not 
 
 wroth to-day. 
 Who am but foolish. 
 
 Paris. Sir, the queen by me 
 Wills you to know that from her hus- 
 band's mouth 
 She is assured there came here yester- 
 day 
 To him her brother. Abbot of St. Cross, 
 To warn him of some danger. 
 Both-well. From his mouth ! 
 Had ever mouth such hunger to eat 
 
 dust } 
 Well, it shall soon be filled and shut. 
 What else t 
 Paris. She has taxed hereof her 
 
 brother — 
 Bothwell. What, by word ? 
 Paris. No, but by note she let him 
 wist she knew it. 
 Vow he denies again his word aloud — 
 Bothwell. He does the wiselier ; there 
 your tongue struck right ; 
 She has wise men to brethren. 
 
 Paris. And desires 
 To prove it on the accuser's body, being 
 Once whole again to meet him. 
 
 Bothwell. A fair proof : 
 Doth either sword seek mine for sec- 
 ond? 
 Paris. Nay ; 
 But the queen bade me tell you he 
 
 should go 
 To her lord's chamber for his challenge' 
 
 sake. 
 And do that thing ye wot of. 
 
 Bothiuell. Tell the queen 
 [ will speak to him. We must not mar 
 
 our hand ; 
 Say will I see him before the morrow 
 
 morn. 
 Howbeit, it shall be well but for a 
 
 night 
 To put our present purpose back, and 
 
 see 
 If chance or craft will mend our hand 
 
 again. 
 Who strikes most sure strikes deepest. 
 Say I go 
 
 To try this brother's edge; if he be 
 
 sure. 
 He shall well serve u* as a glove to 
 
 wear 
 And strike, and have the whiter hands 
 
 to show. 
 
 {Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene XIX. — Darnley's Chamber. 
 Darnley atid Nelson. 
 Darnley. I never had such evil 
 
 dreams as now. 
 Save for the terror of them and after 
 
 pain, 
 I durst well swear I had not slept to- 
 night. 
 A'elsoii. You have slept seven hours. 
 Darnley. I have been seven years in 
 
 hell: 
 Mine eyes are full yet of the flames, my 
 
 flesh 
 Feels creep the fire upon it; even my 
 
 heart 
 Is as a sere leaf shrunken. 
 
 Nelson. Being awake. 
 Let not it move you. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, it shall not move. 
 Yet were they dreams to shake with 
 
 waking fear 
 A sounder state than mine is. 
 Nelson. Sir, what dreams? 
 Darnley. No matter what : I'll tell 
 
 thee yet some part, 
 That thou may'st know I shrink not for 
 
 no cause. 
 I dreamed this bed here was a boat 
 
 adrift 
 Wherein one sat with me who played 
 
 and sang. 
 Yet of his cittern I could hear no note 
 Nor in what speech he sang inaudibly, 
 But watched his working fingers and 
 
 quick lii)s 
 As with a passionate and loathing fear, 
 And could not speak nor smite him, 
 
 and methought 
 That this was David ; and he knew my 
 
 heart. 
 How fain I would have smitten him, 
 
 and laughed 
 As 'twere to mock my helpless hands 
 
 and hate. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 So drove wc toward a rock whereon 
 
 one sat 
 Singing, that all the highest air of 
 
 heaven 
 Was kindled into light therewith, and 
 
 shone 
 As with a double dawn ; stare east and 
 
 west 
 Lightened with love to hear her, and 
 
 the sky 
 Brake in red bloom as leaf-buds break 
 
 in s])ring. 
 But these bore tires for blossoms : then 
 
 a while 
 My heart too kindled, and sprang up 
 
 and sang. 
 And made sweet music in me, to keep 
 
 time 
 With that swift singing; then as fire 
 
 drops dow^n 
 Dropped, and was quenched, and in 
 
 joy's stead I felt 
 Fear ache in me like hunger; and I 
 
 saw 
 These were not stars, nor overhead was 
 
 heaven. 
 But a blind vault more thick and gross 
 
 than earth, 
 The nether firmament that roofs in 
 
 hell ; 
 And those hot lights were of lost souls, 
 
 and this 
 The sea of tears and fire below the 
 
 world 
 That still must wash and cleanse not 
 
 of one curse 
 The fair foul strands with all its wander- 
 ing brine : 
 And as we drove I felt the shallop's 
 
 sides. 
 Sapped by the burning water, plank 
 
 from plank 
 Severing; and fain I would have cried 
 
 on («i>d. 
 But that tlie rank air took me by the 
 
 throat ; 
 And ever she that sat on the sea-rock 
 Sang, and about her all the reefs were 
 
 white 
 With bones of men whose souls were 
 
 turned to fire ; 
 And if she were or were not what 1 
 
 thought, 
 
 Meseemed we drew not near enough to 
 
 know ; 
 For ere we came to sj)lit upon that reef 
 'I"he sundering planks opened, and 
 
 through their breach 
 Swarmed in the dense surf of the dolor- 
 ous sea 
 With hands that plucked and tongues 
 
 thrust out at us. 
 And fastened on me flame-like, that mv 
 
 flesh 
 Was molten as with earthly fire, and 
 
 dropped 
 From naked bone and sinew ; but mipe 
 
 eyes 
 The hot surf seared not, nor put out my 
 
 sense ; 
 For I beheld and heard out of the 
 
 surge 
 Voices that shrieked and heads that 
 
 rose, and knew 
 Whose all they were, and whence their 
 
 wrath at me ; 
 For all these cried upon me that mine 
 
 ears 
 Rang, and my brain was like as beaten 
 
 brass, 
 Vibrating; and the froth of that foul 
 
 tide 
 Was as their spittle shot in my full 
 
 face 
 That burnt it ; and with breast and 
 
 flanks distent 
 1 strained myself to curse them back, 
 
 and lacked 
 Breath ; the sore surge throttled my 
 
 tongueless s])cech, 
 Though its weight buoyed my dipping 
 
 chin, that sank 
 No lower than where my lips were 
 
 burnt with brine 
 And my throat clenched fast of the 
 
 strangling sea, 
 Till I swam short with sick strokes, as 
 
 one might 
 Whose hands were maimed. I hen mine 
 
 ill sjiirit of sleep 
 Shifted, anti showed me as a garden 
 
 walled. 
 Wherein I stood naked, a shipwrecked 
 
 man, 
 Stunned yet and staggered from the 
 
 sea, and soiled 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 233 
 
 1 
 
 With all the weed and scurf of the 
 
 gross wave 
 Whose breach had cast me broken on 
 
 that shore ; 
 And one came like a god in woman's 
 
 flesh, 
 And took mine eyes with hers, and gave 
 
 me fruit 
 As red as fire, but full of worms within 
 That crawled and gendered; and she 
 
 gave me wine, 
 But in the cup a toad was ; and she 
 
 said, 
 Eat, and I ate, and Drink, and I did 
 
 drink, 
 )\nd sickened ; then came one with spur 
 
 on tieel 
 Red from his horse o'erridden, smeared 
 
 with dust, 
 And took my hand to lead me as to rest. 
 Being bruised yet from the sea-breach; 
 
 and his hand 
 Was as of molten iron wherein mine 
 Was as a brand in fire ; and at his feet 
 The earth split, and I saw within the 
 
 gulf 
 As in clear water mine own writhen 
 
 face. 
 Eaten of worms and living ; then I 
 
 woke. 
 Nelson. It was a foul and formless 
 
 dream, my lord, 
 With no soul in it. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, I think it had not. 
 And I did mind me, wakmg, how the 
 
 queen 
 Sang me a song of shipwreck, and 
 
 strange seas, 
 And love adrift by night, and fires burnt 
 
 out 
 That shine but fo-r a song's length : I 
 
 did think 
 It was this singing made up half my 
 
 dream. 
 Yox there was talk of storms in it, and 
 
 stars. 
 And broken ships, and death that rode 
 
 in the air : 
 So was there in my dream. What step 
 
 comes here ? 
 
 Enter Robert Stuart. 
 Robert Stuart. I come to change less 
 
 than a word with you, 
 
 And take my leave for all your rest of 
 
 life. 
 Darnley. I will not speak alone with 
 
 you again : 
 Stay by me there. 
 Robert Stuart. Have you not armot 
 
 on } 
 You should not sleep with sword ungirl 
 
 on thigh. 
 Lest one should fall upon you. Foi 
 
 this time 
 I come indeed to see if you be man. 
 Or ever knew beyond the naked name 
 What grace and office should belong to 
 
 man 
 Or purpose to his sword. Reply not 
 
 yet : 
 I know you are sick, weak, pitiful, half 
 
 dead. 
 And with the ingrained infection of 
 
 your soul 
 Its bodily house grown rotten ; ali you 
 
 will ; 
 You cannot swear yourself that piteous 
 
 thing 
 That I will not believe you wretcheder; 
 No flesh could harbor such a worm 
 
 alive 
 As this thing in you taken for a soul. 
 And 'scape corruption ; but if you shall 
 
 live 
 To stand again afoot and strike one 
 
 stroke 
 For your own hand and head, you shall 
 
 fight with me 
 Or wear the lie writ red upon your face 
 With my hand's buffet, that you spake 
 
 who said 
 I had given you note of danger from 
 
 the queen. 
 Darnley. Is it a plot, her plot upon 
 
 me ? Sir, 
 By God, I never said so : what I said 
 I have heart and sword to uphold 
 
 against all swords, 
 And kill you if I might as many times 
 As you shall iterate on mc this for true 
 Which is most false. When I may 
 
 stand and go — 
 Robert Stuart. \'ea, then shall we see 
 
 fighting. I5ut as now 
 You can but swear vou said not this ol 
 
^34 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 Darnley. I am not bound to swear it 
 
 or unswcar 
 At any bidding; but so much I will — 
 That you may see no hot foul words of 
 
 yours 
 Have quenched in me the old thought 
 
 of fellowship — 
 As swear again I said but what I might 
 With honor and clear heart : I spake 
 
 no word 
 To bring you in suspicion, or to turn 
 Thwart eyes upon you of men's jeal- 
 ousies, 
 Or cast you out of favor with the queen ; 
 I said but you did warn me of my life, 
 As being my fast friend still, I thanked 
 
 you for it. 
 I know not what she says I said, but 
 
 this 
 I know : I spake no treason of you. 
 
 See, 
 This is a foolish wind of wrath that 
 
 shakes 
 And wrecks your faith in me, mine own 
 
 in you 
 Being firm and flawless ; what you have 
 
 said, you have said; 
 And what I have spoken of you was no 
 
 more 
 Than I had right to speak, and rest 
 
 your friend. 
 Robert Stuart. Will you fight with 
 
 me to maintain so much "i 
 Darnley. If I might rise, I would put 
 
 off my state 
 To stand against you equal ; you did 
 
 say it. 
 That I was even as one the law damns 
 
 dead. 
 And she was parcel of my peril. 
 
 Robert Stuart. Ay ! 
 Vou said so to her? 
 Darnley. She will not say I did. 
 Robert Stuart. Plight not your faith 
 
 to that : I am assured 
 Vou said so, and so lied; and this last 
 
 time 
 I bind you yet to meet me on this cause, 
 Or bear the lie about you as a badge. 
 Darnley. Hy Ood, I will grow strong 
 
 t(j fight with you. 
 Robert Stuart. \i I shall sec your 
 
 living face again, 
 
 It shall be as mine en<:my's ; focc to 
 
 foot 
 And hand to mortal hand we twain will 
 
 meet. 
 Or ere the day dawn I shall see you 
 
 dead. 
 Dartiley. I am like to die, then } and 
 
 your warlike words 
 Have so much iron in them, and your 
 
 heart 
 Such daring to provoke one well-nigh 
 
 dead .? 
 I wist your tongue would move more 
 
 tenderly 
 If I had now my strength of natural 
 
 hand 
 And body to bear arms : but these shall 
 
 come, 
 And you change face, and lower your 
 
 look to see. 
 Robert Stuart. I will abide my peril : 
 
 do you the like, 
 You shall do wisely ; should I say fare- 
 well, 
 It were to bid you fare not as they do 
 Who are of your kind or of your for- 
 tune ; yet 
 I bid you, sir, fare better than I think. 
 
 lExit. 
 Darnley. Ay, you think venomously. 
 
 What hour to-day 
 Should the queen come .•• 
 
 Nelson. To-night your highness knows 
 Her man Sebastian weds a maid of 
 
 hers. 
 And she makes feast for them in Holy- 
 rood 
 With masque and music; having early 
 
 supped. 
 She will l)e here somewhile with certain 
 
 lords 
 To visit you, and so pass back ere night. 
 Darnley. She shall not make so 
 
 much, when I am revived, 
 Of outland folk and fiddlers, who 
 
 should have 
 Too much of them by this. I would 
 
 she had come 
 To see me turn the lie back on his lips. 
 I did not answer as I might, being 
 
 whole, 
 But yet not like a sick man, ha .'' like 
 
 one 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 235 
 
 I 
 
 Whose wit and heart lie sick too with 
 his flesh ? 
 Nelson. Nay, with your natural spirit 
 of speech you spoke, 
 With the same heart and tongue you 
 have in health. 
 Darnley. I think I did ; I would she 
 had come betimes. 
 
 Scene XX. — The Garden behind 
 Kirk of Field. 
 
 BOTHWELL, ORMISTON, HaY. 
 
 Bothwell. Did I not bid them spare 
 no speed .-' the devil 
 I think has maimed their feet in my 
 
 despite, 
 To keep a knave so piteous out of hell. 
 By God, it will be moonrise ere they 
 come. 
 Ormiston. Tush, man ! the night is 
 
 close. 
 Bothwell. Ay, close and safe 
 As is the lock of a girl's maidenhood 
 When the gold key turns in it. They 
 
 halt like jades ; 
 God plague their laggard limbs with 
 
 goads of fire ! 
 Must they fall spavined now } 
 Hay. Here come they three. 
 And with charged hands ; be not so 
 
 outward hot. 
 But as their charge is ere we give it 
 fire. 
 Botfnvell. Teach your own tongue to 
 take your tune, not mine. 
 Enter Hepburn ivith Servants. 
 Have you some devil's cramp in your 
 
 bones, to crawi 
 At this worm's race .-' Set down your 
 load, and go. 
 
 \Exeunt Servants. 
 What lamed these knaves' feet or be- 
 lated you. 
 To hold us here thus till the moon 
 were up ? 
 Hepburn. 'Tis not yet risen ; and 
 your own word it was 
 Withheld us till the west should cast 
 off red. 
 Bothwell. Well, we have time. Ye 
 three are hands enough 
 
 To bear this down, and strew it within 
 
 the vault. 
 While I go help the queen here bide 
 
 her hour 
 Till you send Paris to me for a sign. 
 Take heed there be no noise. Let but 
 
 two stay 
 To fire the train ; you, cousin, for my love 
 Shall be one hand thereto. Pass in, 
 
 and see 
 Ye go down sure and softly. From 
 
 this gate 
 Ye know the passage under ; go, and 
 
 speed. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene XXI. — Darnley's Chamber. 
 
 The Queen, Darnley, Earls ^Cassi- 
 Lis, Huntley, a«^ Argyle. 
 
 Queen. But I must chide you for one 
 
 thing, my lord, 
 That you would hold your servant 
 
 buram here 
 Though it be for love you bear him; 
 
 he is sick. 
 And should not sleep nor watch with 
 
 you to-night. 
 You do not well to keep him from the 
 
 town 
 Against his health, who should take 
 
 physic there, 
 And come back whole to serve you. 
 
 Darnley. Let him go. 
 I did but bid him leave me not alone ; 
 I will have one for service at my hand. 
 Queen. Have you no more but just 
 
 this young man gone 
 Whom I bade go even where was best 
 
 for him t 
 Let your page lie at hand here. 
 
 Darnley. Nay, T will. 
 You sent off Alexander ? 
 
 Queen. He was sick ; 
 We should show care of them we take 
 
 to grace 
 More friendlike than by cherishing our- 
 selves 
 With their forced company; the grace 
 
 is more 
 To take thought for them whom we 
 
 hold in trust 
 
236 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Than still to exact their service, tax 
 
 their faith, 
 Whose faith and service we that lean 
 
 thereon 
 Should put to no more toil and pain 
 
 than needs, 
 l\c(piiting love with labor. 
 Dnrtiley. You say well : 
 ;'.ut what should ail him? save that 
 
 yesterday 
 He found his bed-straw here by chance 
 
 afire, 
 And flung it out at window; on which 
 
 plea 
 He would not lie to-night here, till I 
 
 bade him 
 Sleep with me as aforetime, being of 
 
 all 
 The man bound closest to my love and 
 
 trust ; 
 Then first he spake of sickness, as you 
 
 heard 
 Who sat between us. Nay, but let 
 
 him go; 
 The boy shall serve to sleep here. 
 
 Queen. Sickness makes 
 All wills to serve it like necessity : 
 Witness my will to keep my brother 
 
 here 
 Whom his wife's sickness at St. An- 
 drew's now 
 Parts from our feasts and counsels, 
 
 caught up hence 
 As if a wind had rapt him. 
 
 Daruley. She is sick too, — 
 The lady Murray .'' 
 
 Queen. Nigh to death, he says; 
 I know not : who knows how near 
 
 death he walks 
 »Vho treads as now most upright in the 
 
 sun ? 
 Ari^yie. Why have we death and 
 
 sickness in our mouths, 
 Who come forth of a feast not ended 
 
 yet 
 That in good time recalls us,!* 
 
 Queen. Presently. 
 I would you were in health to dance 
 
 me down 
 To-night but for the bride's sake; for 
 
 the groom, 
 lie may live easier th:i» vmi ..hc him 
 
 not. 
 
 Nor gall with favor or with jealousy. 
 Darn lev. W^e twain shall see this 
 
 night out c'.herwise. 
 Queen. I am sure you shall see more 
 
 of rest than I. 
 Dnrtiley. Except I watch for sick- 
 ness' sake all night. 
 Queen. That shall you not ; I charge 
 you on my love 
 Sleep sound for my sake. 
 
 Enter P'othvvell. 
 
 Are not you the bell 
 That strikes the hour to sunder us, niv 
 lord } 
 BotJnvell. Madam, I strike not yet. 
 Queen. The better : sit, 
 And make no sound of parting till your 
 
 hour, 
 No timeless note of severance. My 
 
 fair lord. 
 Have you no fair word for your noble 
 guests ? 
 Dar?J.^v. I pray you, sirs, of your 
 own gentleness. 
 Lay it not to my discourtesy for shame 
 That I can but thus sickly entertain 
 The grace ye do me ; that I meet it so, 
 i Impute not to my will that is mvself, 
 But to my weakness that is none of me 
 Save as our enemy may be part of us. 
 And so forgive it. 
 
 Huntley. Sir, we are fain to see, 
 Even in your gracious words that speak 
 
 you ill, 
 Some spirit of health already. 
 
 Cassilis. I would jiledge 
 My name and word you shall not long 
 
 lie sick, 
 Who bear yourself thus lordlikc. 
 
 \i\otse oeiinv. 
 Queen. Ah! my heart — 
 It wrings me here in passing ; jiardon 
 me. 
 Bot/noell. CJod's lightning burn them ! 
 will thev mar me now ? 
 
 [Asiile, an J exit. 
 Darnlev. Heard vou no noise.'' 
 Arj^ylc. Where.> ' 
 Qutcn. Some one stirred below ; 
 A chair thrown down or such-like. 
 
 Darn ley. Nav, I caught 
 A rush antl rattle as — 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 237 
 
 Darnley. Where is my lord gone 
 
 forth ? 
 Qiieeri. Why are you moved ? 
 Darnley. I am not moved : I am no 
 fearful fool 
 To shake and whiten as a winter tree 
 With no more wind than this is. 
 
 Queen. Do you think 
 It is your counsellor come back in 
 
 wrath 
 To warn again and threaten ? 
 
 Darnley. Nay, for him 
 I think he hath learnt a lesson of my 
 
 rede 
 To vex his soul and trouble me no 
 more. 
 
 Re-enter Bothwell. 
 Queen. What deadly news now of 
 
 what danger, sir .'' 
 Bothwell. Some fellow bearing fag- 
 ots for the fire 
 Slipt at the threshold: I have admon- 
 
 iatied him 
 What din his knaveship made even in 
 
 our ears 
 As if he had the devil there in his hands. 
 Queen [aside). It was of them ? 
 Bothwell [aside). Ay, hell take hold 
 on them ! 
 It was their din, God thank them for it 
 
 with fire, 
 Our careful helpers; but I have made 
 
 them safe : 
 The train is well-nigh laid now : what 
 
 remains 
 To strew, I have cha. ged them shed 
 
 without more sound 
 Than where the snow strikes. 
 Darnley. Must you part indeed? 
 Queen. They look for us ere long. 
 Darnley. Now know I not 
 What I would give to hold you here a 
 
 night : 
 Even half my life, I think, and know not 
 why. 
 Queen. That were too much. I slept 
 here yesterday ; 
 Were you the better for me .-* 
 
 Darnley. Ay, and no ; 
 I deemed I was the better till I slept, 
 A.nd then — 
 
 Queen. Why, did my being here break 
 your sleep ? 
 
 It shall not break to-night then. 
 Enter Paris, and stands at the door. 
 Bothwell [aside to Argyle). Time is 
 come ; 
 Touch him, and give the sign. 
 
 Darfiley. The air turns sharp ; 
 There came a wind as chill as from the 
 
 pit. 
 Why do you fix your eyes so fast on 
 me.-* 
 Queen. Not out of mind to mar your 
 
 sleep again. 
 Darjiley. I will not sleep alone. 
 Queen. Ay, will you not .'' 
 The town looks like a smoke whose 
 
 flame is out, 
 Deformed of night, defaced and fea- 
 tureless. 
 Dull as the dead fume of a fallen fire. 
 There starts out of the cloud a climb- 
 ing star. 
 And there is caught and slain. 
 Darnley. W hy gaze you so .-' 
 Queen. I looked to see if there should 
 rise again 
 Out of its timeless grave the mounting 
 
 light 
 That so was overtaken. We must part ; 
 Keep with this kiss this ring again for 
 
 me 
 Till I shall ask it of you; and good 
 night. 
 Darnley. A good night it may be to 
 folk that feast ; 
 I sec not how it shall be good to me. 
 Queen. It may be better. I must be 
 some hour 
 Again among the masquers : you that 
 
 sleep 
 Shall hear no noise and see no com- 
 pany. 
 
 Enter NELSON. 
 For this one night here comes your 
 
 chamberlain : 
 Good rest with you. ' Twas just this 
 
 time last year 
 David was slain. 
 
 Darnley. Why tell you me of that? 
 Queen. This very time as now. Good 
 night, my lord. 
 [Exeunt all but Darnley and Nelson 
 Darnley. What folk remain by me ? 
 Nelson. Sir, four of us : 
 
238 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Myself and Seymour, Taylor and his 
 boy. 
 Darvley. Let Taylor sleep here in my 
 room to-night, 
 You three in the south gallery. 
 Nelson. Well, my lord. 
 Darnley. I am left here very lonely. 
 She was kind. 
 Most kind she was; but what should 
 
 make her speak 
 Of David's slaying? 
 
 Nelson. A word that shot by chance ; 
 
 A shaft of thought that grazed her and 
 
 flew by. 
 
 Darnley. Why should she tell me of 
 
 it ? My heart runs low ; 
 
 As if my blood beat out of tune with 
 
 life, 
 I feel the veins shuddering shrink in, 
 
 and all 
 My body seems a burden to my soul. 
 Come, I will think not that way. 
 Re-enter PARIS. 
 Paris. Sir, the queen, 
 Having forgot for haste in parting hence 
 Her outer cloak of fur, hath sent me 
 
 for it, 
 Lest this night's weather strike her 
 blood a-cold. 
 Darnley. Take it, and go. 
 
 S^Exit Paris. 
 
 I do not like their eyes, 
 
 These foreign folk's that serve her. Is 
 
 it cold } 
 I feel cold here. 
 
 Nelson. A fair sharp night, my lord ; 
 And the air less cumbered than it was 
 
 with cloud. 
 Darnley. I find no night of all nights 
 
 fair to me : 
 I am sick here at my heart all the dark 
 
 hours. 
 Give me the book there. Ay, my book 
 
 of psalms ? 
 What day is this > 
 
 Nelson. The ninth of February. 
 Darnley. How says it of God's foes, 
 they were afraid 
 V/here no fear was } That am not I : 
 
 my fear 
 Dies without food. I am not as were 
 
 these. 
 I prithee IcU me, of thine honest heart, 
 
 Think'st thou I have no cause to feed 
 
 my fear, 
 Or keep the bitter life in it alive.'' 
 
 Nelson. I know not, sir ; but what you 
 
 give it of food 
 Is so nmch taken from your health of 
 
 heart 
 That goes to starve your spirit of like- 
 ly life. 
 Darnley. W'hy, then I will not feed it 
 
 with false thoughts. 
 Call here my chamber-fellow. If the 
 
 heart 
 
 Enter TAYLOR. 
 Be but the servant of chance cold and 
 
 heat. 
 And the brain bear not rule upon the 
 
 blood. 
 We are beasts who call us men. 
 
 Thomas, good night. 
 
 [ Exit Nelson. 
 What, shall we watch a while t 
 Taylor. So please your grace. 
 Darnley. I have more mind to sleep 
 
 than power to sleep : 
 Some unrest in me fights against my 
 
 rest. 
 Come hither, Will. Of all thy fellows 
 
 here, 
 I think thou lov'st me ; fain am I to 
 
 think. 
 I would not live unloved of all men 
 
 born ; 
 I hope I shall not. Dost thou feel to- 
 night 
 Thy living blood and spirit at ease in 
 
 thee .' 
 Taylor. Surely, my lord. 
 Darnley. I would thy lord did too. 
 This is a l)itter writing where he saith 
 How in his prayer he mourns, and hath 
 
 his heart 
 Discjuietetl within him; and again, 
 The fear of death is fallen upon him, 
 
 see, 
 And fearfulness and trembling, as is 
 
 writ. 
 Are come ujion him, and an horrible 
 
 dread 
 Hath him o'crwhelmed: Oh that I had, 
 
 saith he, 
 Wings like a dove I then would I flee 
 
 away, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 239 
 
 And be at rest ; would get me then far 
 
 And bide within the wilderness, it 
 
 saith ; 
 I would make haste to escape. Lo, here 
 
 am I, 
 That bide as in a wilderness indeed, 
 And have not wings to bear me forth 
 
 of fear. 
 Nor is it an open enemy, he saith, 
 Hath done me this dishonor (what hath 
 
 put 
 This deadly scripture in mine eye to- 
 night ?) 
 For then I could have borne it ; but it 
 
 was 
 Kven thou, mine own familiar friend, 
 
 with whom 
 I took sweet counsel ; in the house of 
 
 God 
 We walked as friends. Ay, in God's 
 
 house it was 
 That we joined hands, even she my wife 
 
 and I, 
 Who took but now sweet counsel mouth 
 
 to mouth, 
 And kissed as friends together. 
 
 Wouldst thou think, 
 .She set this ring at parting on my 
 
 hand 
 And to my lips her lips.'' and then she 
 
 spake 
 Words of that last year's slaughter. O 
 
 God, God ! 
 I know not if it be not of thy will 
 My heart begins to pass into her 
 
 heart. 
 Mine eye to read within her eye, and 
 
 find 
 Therein a deadlier scripture. Must it 
 
 be 
 That I so late should waken, and so 
 
 young 
 Die ? for I wake as out of sleep to 
 
 death. 
 Is there no hand or heart on earth to 
 
 help? 
 Mother ! my mother ! hast thou heart 
 
 nor hand 
 To save thy son, to take me hence 
 
 away 
 Bdf off, and hide me? But I was thy 
 
 son. 
 
 That lay between thy breasts and drank 
 of thee, 
 
 And I thy son it is they seek to slay. 
 
 My God, my God ! how shall they mur- 
 der me ? 
 Taylor. I pray you, comfort your own 
 heart, my lord : 
 
 Your passion drives your manhood out 
 of you. 
 Darnley. I know it doth : I am hare- 
 hearted, for 
 
 The hunters are upon me. There — 
 and there — 
 
 I hear them questing. I shall die, man, 
 — die. 
 
 And never see the sun more; ay, this 
 hour 
 
 Will they come in and slay me. O 
 great God, 
 
 Sweet Jesus ! will you have me die this 
 death, 
 
 Such death as never man before has 
 died ? 
 
 See how they will not let me pray to 
 
 To take my soul out of their fangs and 
 
 hell! 
 Will you not make the sun rise for my 
 
 sake. 
 That I may see you in the dawn, and 
 
 live. 
 And know the grace that God hath ere 
 
 I die? 
 Taylor. Sir, for God's love — 
 Darnley. I say I hear their feet. 
 Thou hast no ears — God hath no ears 
 
 for me, 
 Nor eyes to look upon me ; hands he 
 
 'hath,— 
 Their bloody hands to smite with, and 
 
 her heart 
 Is his toward me to slay me. Let them 
 
 come. 
 How do men die ? but I so trapped 
 
 alive, — 
 Oh, I shall die a dog's death and no 
 
 man's. 
 Mary, by Christ whose mother's was 
 
 your name. 
 Slay me not ! God, turn off from me 
 
 that heart, — 
 Out of her hands, God, God, deliver 
 
 me! 
 
240 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 ACT III.— JANE GORDON. 
 Time: from February lo to June ii, 
 
 Scene I. — Bothvvell's Apartment 
 
 IN HOLYROOD. 
 BOTHWELL, ORMISTON, HePBURN OF 
 
 Bolton, and other Gentlemen. 
 Bot/noell. Is my knave sent for to me 
 
 from the queen ? 
 Hepburn. Ay, my good lord. 
 Bothiciell. I had happier thoughts of 
 
 him, 
 Who served us but unhappily last night : 
 This Paris had been faithful, and his 
 
 tongue, 
 That might have struck a sting into my 
 
 fame, 
 Had done me loyal service, and let fly 
 No word to bring me in disgrace of men 
 When I stood friendless; for which 
 
 cause ye know 
 I gave him place with the queen's 
 
 chamberlains 
 And promise of more furtherance ; but 
 
 this thing 
 His turned his six years' service into 
 
 dust, 
 And made his faith as running water 
 
 slip 
 Between mv hands that held it for a 
 
 staff •; 
 
 For, since I first brake with him of the 
 
 He hath been for fear besotted like 
 
 a beast. 
 Ormiston. 'Faith, he was heavy 
 
 enough of cheer last night 
 When you came forth, and the tiuecn 
 
 l)arted thence 
 Ana .lithcr to the bridal. 
 
 Bolh'ocll. By this hand, 
 1 came upon him glooming and with- 
 drawn 
 Up in a nook with face as of one 
 
 hanged, 
 And asked what ailed him to put on 
 
 that gloom 
 Or make such countenance there before 
 
 the (^ueen .-' 
 
 And I would handle him in such sort, I 
 
 said. 
 As he was never in his life, — oy God, 
 I had the mind to do it, — and he, My 
 
 lord, 
 L care not what thing now ye do to me. 
 And craved he might get thence to bed, 
 
 as sick. 
 But that I would not : then, as ye twain 
 
 saw, 
 When came the wind and thunder of 
 
 the blast 
 That blew the fool forth who took wing 
 
 for death, 
 Down my knave drops me flatlong, with 
 
 his hair 
 Aghast as hedgehogs' prickles, and, 
 
 Alas, 
 My lord! what thing is this? and //<; 
 
 had seen 
 Great enterprises, marry, and many cf 
 
 them, 
 But never one that scared him so a\ 
 
 this ; 
 And such a thing would never have good 
 
 end. 
 And I should see it. By God, I had :) 
 
 will 
 To have set my dagger here into him, 
 
 but yet 
 I drew it not forth. 
 
 Ormiston. I doubt you did not well : 
 'Tis of such stuff that time makes tale- 
 bearers. 
 Bothwell. I would not strike him for 
 old service' sake, 
 j Were he more dangerous to me ; but, 
 God help, 
 What hurt here can he do us.^* I tell 
 
 you, sirs, 
 I think my star that was not swift to 
 
 rise. 
 But hung this long time strangled in 
 
 dead cloud. 
 Is even by this a tire in heavei', and 
 
 hath 
 The heat and light in it of this dead 
 
 man's 
 That it hath drunk ui) as a dcwdrop 
 
 drawn 
 Into the red mid-heat of its own heart 
 And yc that walk by light of it shai: 
 stand 
 
BOTHWKLL. 
 
 241 
 
 With morning on the footless mountain- 
 tops 
 ("rowned. 
 Heplmni. There are crags yet slip- 
 pery to be clomb, 
 And scaurs to rend their knees and feet 
 
 who rise. 
 BotJnvdl. I have my hand hc.e on 
 
 the throat of time, 
 And hold mine hour of fortune by the 
 
 hair. 
 Had I let slip this season, I had fallen 
 Naked and sheer to break myself on 
 
 death, 
 A cragsman crushed at the cliff's foot; 
 
 but now 
 Chance cannot trip me, if I look not 
 
 down 
 And let mine eye swim back among 
 
 slain fears 
 To reckon up dead dangers; but I 
 
 look 
 High up as is the light, higher than 
 
 your eyes, 
 Beyond all eagles' aeries, to the sun. 
 Or mist on. You will be king ? 
 Bothwell. Was I not crowned last 
 
 night ? 
 The hand that gave those dead stones 
 
 wings to fly 
 Gave wings too to my fortune, and the 
 
 fire 
 That sprang then in our faces, on my 
 
 head 
 Was as the gold forefigured on a king's. 
 
 Enter Paris. 
 What says the queen ? why shak'st thou 
 
 like a cur? 
 Speak, beast, or beastlike shalt thou 
 
 fare with me : 
 Has thou not seen her "i 
 Paris. Av, my lord. 
 BothwelL Ay, dog ? 
 What said she to those gaping eyes of 
 
 thine ? 
 Paris. My lord, I found her in her 
 
 mourning bed 
 New-hung with black ; her looks were 
 
 fresh and staid : 
 Her fast being broken only with an 
 
 Ere she addressed herself again to 
 sleep 
 
 She spake but three words with me of 
 
 yourself, 
 How might you fare, and when she rose 
 
 by noon 
 You should come to her : no more. 
 
 BotJiivell. So let her sleep ; 
 There are that watch for her. For 
 
 thine own part, 
 I charge thee, tell me one thing : in thy 
 
 life 
 Didst thou pledge ever promise, or 
 
 plight faith, 
 To that dead mask of kingship ? 
 Paris. Nay, my lord. 
 Bothwell. Seest thou not now these 
 
 gentlemen my friends ? 
 Not one of them but for troth's sake to 
 
 me 
 And loving service hath cast all things 
 
 off 
 To do as I shall and to fare as I ; 
 And if thou think'st, whom no faith 
 
 bound nor love 
 To serve that fool, or come 'twixt hell 
 
 and him 
 To buckler him from burning, — if thou 
 
 think'st, 
 That art my servant, thou hast sinned 
 
 toward God 
 In our offence, this lies not to thy 
 
 charge, 
 But mine who caused thee do it, and 
 
 all the lords' 
 Who with me took this work in all 
 
 their hands. 
 And if now thou have will to go thy 
 
 wav, 
 Thou shalt depart right soon with rec- 
 
 omi)cnse ; 
 But for all pains that can be put to thee 
 Thou must not take this on thy tongue 
 
 again. 
 Pa7-is. My lord, I will not. 
 Bothwell. Sirs, with me it rests 
 To take some order for the burial soon. 
 When the cpieen's eye hath dwelt upon 
 
 him dead, — 
 As shall be, lest men say for shame or 
 
 fear 
 She would not see him, — then with all 
 
 privy speed 
 He shall by night be given here to the 
 
242 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 His raiment and his horses will I take 
 By the c|ucen's gift ; for, being now- 
 highest in place, 
 I will present me kinglike to the time, 
 And come before men royal, who shall 
 
 know 
 I stand here where he stood in all their 
 
 sight; 
 So, seeing at once if I be lord or no. 
 He that shall hate me risen shall need 
 
 take heart 
 To strike betimes, or strike not. At 
 
 this hour 
 Bold heart, swift hand, are wiser than 
 
 wise brain. 
 I must be seen of all men's fear or hate, 
 And as I am seen must see them, and 
 
 smite down, 
 Or lie forever naked underfoot 
 Down in the dark for them to triumph 
 
 on. 
 That will I not; but who shall over- 
 throw 
 Must kill me kingly, sworded hand to 
 
 hand, 
 Not snared with gin or lime-twig as a 
 
 fool. 
 Nor hurled by night up howling into 
 
 heaven, 
 But in the sun's eye weaponed. Some 
 
 of you 
 Go forth, and find what noise is in the 
 
 streets, 
 "What rumors, and how tempered, on 
 
 men's tongues : 
 When I pass out among them, I will 
 
 take 
 Some fifty with me to my guard, and 
 
 ride 
 As might their king ride. Be it pro- 
 claimed abroad. 
 In mine own name and Maitland's and 
 
 Argyle's, 
 Two thousand pounds shall pay that 
 
 good man's pains 
 Who shall produce the murderers of 
 
 our king 
 For just and sudtkn judgment. In few 
 
 days, 
 If Mar be not mine unfriend and his 
 
 own, 
 Who holds the keys of Stirling, we 
 
 ^jhall pass 
 
 With some of counsel thither, and 
 
 there bide 
 Till the first reek of rumor have blown 
 
 by. 
 
 Then call m sprmg our parliament 
 
 again. 
 Het'^uru. Your heart of hope is 
 
 great: with God to friend, 
 A man could speed no better than your 
 
 hope. 
 Both-well. I tell thee, God is in that 
 
 man's right hand 
 Whose heart knows when to strike and 
 
 when to stay. 
 I swear I would not ask more hope 
 
 of heaven 
 Than of mine own heart which puts fire 
 
 to me. 
 And of mine own eye which discerns 
 
 my day. 
 And, seeing the hope wherein I go now 
 
 forth 
 Is of their giving, if I live or die. 
 With God to friend or unfriend, quick 
 
 or dead 
 I shall not wake nor sleep with then* 
 
 that fear. 
 Whose lives are as leaves wavering in 
 
 a wind, 
 But as a man foiled or a man en- 
 throned 
 That was not fooled of fortune nor of 
 
 fear. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Another Room in the 
 
 SAME. 
 
 T/ie body of Darnley lying on a bier. 
 
 Two men in attendance. 
 
 First Attendant. There is no wound. 
 
 Second Attendant. Nor hath the fire 
 
 caught here; 
 
 This gown about him is not singed ; his 
 
 face 
 Is clinched together, but on hair nor 
 
 check 
 Has fiame laid even a finger; each limb 
 
 whole. 
 And nothing of him shattered but the 
 
 life. 
 How comes he dead? 
 
 First Attendant. Tush, tush ! he died 
 by chance. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 243 
 
 Take thou no pain to know it. For 
 
 mine own mind, 
 I think it was his sickness which being 
 
 full 
 Broke as a plague-spot breaks, and 
 
 shattered him, 
 And, with his fleshly house, the house 
 
 of stone 
 Which held him dying : his malady it 
 
 was 
 That burst the walls in sunder, and sent 
 
 up 
 A ruin of flaming roofs and floors afire. 
 Second Attendant. Was not his cham- 
 ber-fellow's corpse as his ? 
 First Attendant. Ay, woundless as 
 they say, and unconsumed ; 
 1 know not surely. But the blast that 
 
 made 
 The good town ring and rock here 
 
 through her streets 
 Shook not all sleepers in the house to 
 
 death : 
 Three souls have crept forth of the 
 
 wreck alive 
 That slept without his chamber. 
 Second Attendant. What say these ? 
 First Attendant. What should they 
 say, with thanks for their own 
 hap, 
 But that this chance is dire, and this 
 
 man dead ? 
 There is no more yet for sage lips to 
 
 say, 
 That would not timeless be stopped up 
 with earth. 
 Enter the Queen and BoTHWELL. 
 Queen. Leave us, and after take your 
 
 charge again. 
 First Attendant. We must forbear her 
 till her moan be made. {Aside.) 
 {Exetint Attendants. 
 Queen. Let me look on him. It is 
 marred not much ; 
 This was a fair face of a boy's alive. 
 Bothivell. It had been better had he 
 
 died ere man. 
 Queen. That hardly was he yester- 
 day. A man ! 
 What heart, what brain of manhood 
 
 had God sown 
 In this poor fair fool's flesh to bear him 
 fruit .? 
 
 What seed of spirit or counsel ? what 
 
 good hope 
 That might have put forth flower in 
 
 any sun .'' 
 We have plucked none up who cut him 
 
 off at root, 
 But a tare only or a thorn. His cheek 
 Is not much changed, though since I 
 
 wedded him 
 His eyes had shrunken and his lips 
 
 grown wan 
 With sickness and ill living. Yester- 
 day, 
 Man or no man, this was a living soul ; 
 What is this now .'' This tongue that 
 
 mourned to me, 
 These lips that mine were mixed with, 
 
 these blind eyes 
 That fastened on me following, these 
 
 void hands 
 That never plighted faith with man and 
 
 kept, 
 Poor hands that paddled in the sloughs 
 
 of shame. 
 Poor lips athirst for women's lips and 
 
 wine. 
 Poor tongue that lied, poor eyes that 
 
 looked askant 
 And had no heart to face men's wrath 
 
 or love 
 As who could answer either, — what 
 
 work now 
 Doth that poor spirit which moved 
 
 them ? To what use 
 Of evil or good should hell put this or 
 
 heaven, 
 Or with what fire of purgatory annealed 
 Shall it be clean and strong, yet keep 
 
 in it 
 One grain for witness of what seed it 
 
 was. 
 One thread, one shred inwoven with it 
 
 alive. 
 To show what stuff time spun it of, 
 
 and rent ? 
 I have more pity such things should be 
 
 born 
 Than of his death ; yea, more than I 
 
 had hate. 
 Living, of him. 
 
 Both-well. Since hate nor pity now 
 Or helps or hurts him, were we nQ< 
 
 as wise 
 
244 
 
 BOTH WELL 
 
 To take but counsel for the day's work 
 
 here, 
 And put thought of him with him 
 underground ? 
 Queen. I do but cast once more aw ay 
 on him 
 The last thought he will ever have of 
 
 mine. 
 Vou should now love me well. 
 Bothwell. Ay should I, sweet. 
 Queen. I think you shall : it were 
 more hard than death, 
 Vou should not love me. 
 Bothwell. Nay, not possible. 
 Queen. I think God never set in flesh 
 of man 
 Such heart as yours would be, to love 
 me not, 
 Bothwell. Will you give order for his 
 
 funeral } 
 Queen. Ay. 
 But if you loved not — I would know 
 
 that now. 
 That I might die even this day, and my 
 
 hands 
 Shed no more blood nor strive more 
 
 for your sake ; 
 For if I live, whose life is of your 
 
 love, 
 I shall take on them more of toil and 
 
 blood. 
 To stain and tire them laboring all 
 
 their life. 
 I would not die bloodguiltier than is 
 
 need, 
 With redder hands than these and 
 
 wearier heart. 
 And have no love to cleanse and com- 
 fort them. 
 For this man, I forgive him. 
 Bothwell. Vox whicli Fault? 
 Queen. That he touched ever and de- 
 filed my life 
 With life of his and death. I am fain 
 
 to know 
 You do not love me for his sake the 
 
 less 
 Who so have soiled me with him. 
 
 Bothwell. Shall I not 
 Swear it, with him for sponsor to mine 
 oath ? 
 Queen. Kiss me before his face here 
 for a sign. 
 
 Bothwell. You have strange doubts 
 
 and dreams. 
 Queen. I will not have. 
 When part we hence, and whither? 
 
 Bothwell. I have word 
 Your careful warden, the grave lord ot 
 
 Mar, 
 Will hardly give my followers at youi 
 
 prayer 
 Place to come in to Stirling at our back. 
 Here now the streets begin to sound 
 
 and swarm 
 So that my guard is now for more than 
 
 pride ; 
 Wherefore I hold it well we take with us 
 Some friends of our own counsel, as 
 
 Argyle, 
 Huntley, my brother-in-law that shall 
 
 be none, 
 With Maitland and the archbishop, 
 
 and set forth 
 To the lord Seyton's, who shall give us 
 
 house 
 Till this loud world fall stiller than it is. 
 Queen. Be it where you will, and 
 
 how : do you but lead, 
 Would I not follow naked through the 
 
 world? 
 For him of whose dead face mine eyes 
 
 take leave 
 As my free soul of shameful thought 
 
 on him. 
 Let him have private burial some tit 
 
 night 
 By David whom he slew. I mind me now 
 'Tis not a year since 1 tied forth with him 
 Even through the graves where he shall 
 
 lie alone, 
 And passing through their dusty deadly 
 
 ways 
 l'\)r some few minutes of the rustling 
 
 night 
 I felt his hand quake : he will quake 
 
 not now 
 To sleep there all night long. See you 
 
 to that. ^ [Exeunt. 
 
 ScFNK HI. — Sf.vtdN Castlk. 
 Lord IIkrkiks nn<l Sir Jami-.s Mki-- 
 
 VILLE. 
 
 Jlerries. So stands it, sir : she hatb 
 put into his hands, 
 
BOTBWELL. 
 
 245 
 
 Besides the lordship of the port of 
 
 Leith, 
 The caj-tle's government of Fxlinburgh, 
 Of Inchkeith and Blackness, three 
 
 master keys 
 That keep the doors o' the kingdom. 
 
 In Dunbar 
 He sits now lord, and gathers men to 
 
 hold 
 oy her next gift Dumbarton : while she 
 
 sends 
 A privy message for a priest to plead 
 With the French king, — that by his 
 
 mother's mouth 
 And his own hand hath warned her, if 
 
 her lord 
 Sleep unrevenged, she being so shamed 
 
 henceforth 
 Must hold them for her enemies, and 
 
 put off 
 All thought to flee for fear into their 
 
 guard 
 From peril of her subjects, — even to 
 
 him 
 She sends for payment of her dower 
 
 foregone 
 Wherewith to levy hireling bands in 
 
 France 
 With but her babe for captain called, 
 
 and be 
 Fenced round at least with all of these 
 
 she may. 
 Of whose despatch none here must 
 
 know before. 
 Nor, if these fail her, of her frustrate 
 
 aim ; 
 Then, ere her mourning month be here 
 
 played out 
 With hound and horn and soldierlike 
 
 delights 
 To recreate her natural heart and life, 
 She must repass to Holyrood, and meet 
 The ambassador from England, Killi- 
 
 grew, 
 Who comes to find folk sorrowing and 
 
 in fear 
 With counsel for our peril and our 
 
 grief, 
 And falls upon us feasting; and to him 
 She plights her faith that by this par- 
 liament 
 Shall Bothwell have his trial, and the 
 
 cause 
 
 Be sifted clear in the eyes of all good 
 
 men ; 
 Wherewith content he parts, or discon- 
 tent, 
 I know not, but is gone ; and she come 
 
 back 
 Takes heed no more than of a harp 
 
 unstrung 
 What plaint or plea, what charge or 
 
 menace, comes 
 From her lord's father, but to his de- 
 mand 
 For convocation of the nobles made 
 Returns her word their house shall 
 
 meet in spring, 
 And puts his charge by lightly as she 
 
 may. 
 Of all this, nothing, in my mind, goes 
 
 well. 
 Melville. Nor aught in mine. Your 
 
 fellows of her faith 
 Who stand as yet in England on her 
 
 side 
 Will fall off from her, hearing what 
 
 I doubt 
 All ears will hear too soon : I have 
 
 shown it her 
 By letter sent me from a faithful Scot 
 That long hath wrought among them 
 
 on her part. 
 And freely thence wrote all his fear for 
 
 me 
 To lay before her, and his grief to 
 
 hear 
 Such bruit of her intent as could but 
 
 slay 
 The opinion of her judgment, who must 
 
 lose. 
 By such design, God's favor and her 
 
 fame. 
 And in each kingdom that should kiss 
 
 her hand 
 Each man's heart born her heritage, 
 
 and miss 
 The noble mark she shot at. I, adjured 
 Of him that wrote to bring this in her 
 
 eye, 
 Gave her to read it, which she gave 
 
 again, 
 Silent ; then came the secretary to me 
 A short while thence, and took me by 
 
 the hand. 
 Desiring me as by the queen's desire 
 
246 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 To let him see it, who had given him 
 
 late to know 
 I had shown her a strange letter, and 
 
 devised 
 By mine own counsel for Lord Both- 
 
 well's wreck ; 
 And having read, What thing was in 
 
 my mind, 
 He said, to do this, which being known 
 
 to the earl. 
 As shortly there was need to fear it 
 
 should, 
 Would cause him surely seek my life ? 
 
 And I, 
 It was a sore thing for true men to 
 
 see 
 So good a princess run on utter wreck, 
 And no man be so far concerned in her 
 As to forewarn of peril. He replied, 
 As one who had newly left her wroth, 
 
 I had done 
 More honestly than wisely; bade me 
 
 fly 
 
 Ere the earl came up from dining ; and 
 
 being flown 
 I know he sought to slay me, who lay 
 
 hid 
 Till his main rage was slackened ; and 
 
 the queen, 
 Who had made him swear to seek no 
 
 scathe of mine. 
 When at their meeting next she showed 
 
 it him. 
 Chid him as who would cause her to be 
 
 left 
 Of all her servants : then he swore 
 
 anew 
 I should receive no harm; whereof 
 
 again 
 Being advertised I spake with her, and 
 
 showed 
 She had never done me so much wrong 
 
 as this, 
 To make the letter a device of mine 
 Which came even whence I had given 
 
 her word ; and yet 
 Had it not come, I had held me bound 
 
 to s])eak 
 Freely, with reverence and humility, 
 My tnought as did that letter, being 
 
 of mind 
 At one therewith. lUit she would give 
 
 no ear : 
 
 Nor is there force in counsel or man's 
 wit 
 
 To avert this ill she binds upon herself, 
 
 Who breaks the bonds in twain that 
 hold her friends. 
 
 And fetters her own feet with gyves of 
 steel, 
 
 When she hath need of them to stand 
 or flee 
 
 Before the face of peril multiform 
 
 That lightens on us flame-like : you, my 
 lord, 
 
 W^hose love she hath proven, are not 
 of me to learn 
 
 The immediate feature of it. 
 Hcrries. Alas! not I: 1 
 
 I have taken too much note thereof, 
 and stand 
 
 Too near its fangs to live of them un- 
 scathed. 
 
 Except I make haste hence. 
 
 Melville. What haste, my lord? 
 I Jerries. I have sj^oken with her of 
 their purpose blown 
 
 From lip to lip already on men's breath, 
 
 To loose the bonds that bind her lover 
 yet 
 
 By witness of the lady of Buccleuch, 
 
 Who shall proclaim herself his para- 
 mour 
 
 And pre-contracted to him by promise- 
 plight 
 
 To prove his wife no lawful wife, but 
 bound, 
 
 Will she or no, and love him not or 
 love. 
 
 To sue divorce from him ; if all this fail, 
 
 Then by remonstrance of their kindred 
 blood 
 
 Found some four cousinships away, this 
 bond 
 
 Shall melt or break that parts him from 
 the c|uccn. 
 Melville. Why, ere his marriage with 
 the Lady Jane, 
 
 She had her dispensation from the 
 Tope, 
 
 For the blood mixed between them, of 
 all bars 
 
 Which might have maimed it with im- 
 pediment. 
 Ilerries. So had she, but they think 
 to cover il 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 247 
 
 As with a veil of invalidity 
 
 I'tetexted for pretence, or with dumb 
 
 show 
 Darkly disclaimed: this shall not cum- 
 ber them ; 
 And they will buy compliance and 
 
 good-will 
 Of Huntley to his sister's putting off 
 By restoration of his forfeit lands. 
 Melviilf. All tongues i' the land will 
 as one mouth of fire 
 Cry death and shame against it. 
 Herries. So said I. 
 Melville. So said you to her? 
 Herries. I said so ; whereat she, 
 As 'twere half smiling in a wondering 
 
 shame, 
 Half mourning to be guiltlessly mis- 
 judged. 
 With fervent eyes' fall and with scorn- 
 ful lips 
 Protests me, never had she thought of it. 
 Wherefore I hold it ill to tarry here. 
 Melville. Your wisdom shall do well 
 to spare no speed. 
 But get it gone from eyeshot of them 
 both. 
 Herries. I know it ; yet would I plead 
 again with her. 
 For pity and honor of the imperilled 
 
 state, 
 That should be shaken with her fall to 
 
 death. 
 And the crown shattered into shards of 
 
 gold. 
 For as a wolf anhungered and awaked. 
 That long hath slept and starved, with 
 
 foodless dreams 
 Assuaging its blunt fangs through blood- 
 less hours. 
 The common people, that in dumb dim 
 
 rest. 
 With heartless hopes assuaging its blind 
 
 heart. 
 Hath fed for ages on itself asleep. 
 Shows now the keen teeth and the 
 
 kindled eyes 
 Of ravening heads innumerable, that 
 
 gape 
 And glare about the wide ways of the 
 
 world. 
 Seeking their meat of God; and if he 
 fail, 
 
 Then of the devil that burns in minds 
 
 of men 
 Rebellious, whom their heat of heart 
 
 eats up 
 Till the fire fasten on authority 
 To lay red hands of ruin on all state. 
 And leave in ashes empire ; as of late 
 This Ket in England, and his like that 
 
 swarm 
 At heel of the new creeds in Lutheran 
 
 lands 
 To pluck the sun out of the heaven 
 
 of rule. 
 And leave men dark and kingless. 
 
 Hath not Knox 
 Struck with his fangs of speech on 
 
 monarchy 
 No less than on the Church that first 
 
 was stung. 
 Preaching for all men knowledge 
 
 equally 
 And prostitute and perilous freedom 
 
 shared 
 With all blear eyes, brute mouths, and 
 
 unwashed hands. 
 That lust for change, and take all fires 
 
 for light, 
 Except the sun's wherein their fathers 
 
 walked .'' 
 And shall not these at any breach break 
 
 in 
 That flaws the sea-wall which forbade 
 
 their sea 
 To drown all banks that bound it ? 
 
 She will make 
 Of all that lived in Scotland hers and 
 
 ours 
 A ruin and republic of strewn wrecks. 
 Ranks rent, bonds broken, all things 
 
 orderless, 
 A commonwealth of dead men's bones 
 
 and dung. 
 Dust, mire, and blood, and one red 
 
 rank of beasts 
 That rage and revel in equality. 
 
 Melville. 'Tis true, the commons are 
 as waters chafed 
 Since this wind blew amongst them : 
 
 wave by wave 
 It lifts their heads up, and the murmur- 
 ing air 
 Breathes hard and blackens with the 
 blast of change. 
 
248 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Herries. And were none touched 
 
 with danger but herself, 
 This yet were pity enough for tears of 
 
 blood, 
 So fair she is, and less by place than 
 
 kind 
 Royal, so high and so assured of spirit. 
 So full of all things all men love or 
 
 fear. 
 Heart's light and fire, a soul born 
 
 winged, with eyes 
 rhat mate the sun's eye and the light- 
 ning's; yea, 
 It were past count of pity, past men's 
 
 thought. 
 That she should fall for love's light 
 
 sake self-slain. 
 Mdville. There were one way to 
 
 serve her that would be 
 Most thankless, being thankworthiest ; 
 
 but none else. 
 Herries. That were no way for feet 
 
 that would not walk 
 Red as her enemies' did, whose passage 
 
 shook 
 With its near sound her life and fame; 
 
 such ways 
 Let Morton take, or Maitland's weap- 
 
 oned wit. 
 Whose words are swords. 
 
 Melville. It may be so they will. 
 
 Herries. Death t 
 
 Melville. Nay, who knows when death 
 
 may come 
 
 Herries. Why, they 
 Who strike the spur into his fleshless 
 
 side, 
 Who prick him forward with their craft 
 
 for goad, 
 (Jr put for sword their hatred in his 
 
 hand. 
 They have done deeds of deadlier 
 
 policy 
 Than make sulimissive show toward 
 
 l>othwell here. 
 Then snare and slay him, or put the 
 
 (jueen in ward : 
 Would they do this, they might be ser- 
 viceable 
 Hut perilous must be, putting hand to 
 
 work 
 That treads nigh treason though for 
 
 loyally. 
 
 Melville. Whose may know their 
 
 mind, it is not I. 
 Herries. She hath sent for Murray 
 
 hither ; in his eye 
 W^e may take note which way their fac- 
 tion looks. 
 If yet toward violence and red-handed 
 
 craft. 
 This mood of hers will strip her for 
 
 their strokes 
 Naked, and leave us handless that 
 
 would fight 
 On her just side against them. God 
 
 mend all ! 
 Enter the Queen, Bothwell, Seyton, 
 the Maries, and Attendants. 
 Queen. The wind has moved my blood 
 
 like wine ; I am full 
 Even to the heart's root of its spirit of 
 
 life. 
 Flew not my hawk the last flight well, 
 
 that sent 
 The tumbling hern down from her high- 
 est .? I think 
 You have none better. Is our brother 
 
 come .^ 
 Seyton. He is now alighting, madam. 
 Queen. By this hand, 
 I would when we must 'light from horse 
 
 we might 
 Take wing instead, and so what time 
 
 we live 
 Live ever at glad speed save when we 
 
 sleep ! 
 It points and edges the dull steel of life. 
 To feel the l)lood and brain in us renew 
 By help of that life lifting us, and speed 
 That being not ours is mixed with us 
 
 and serves. 
 I would hold council, and wage war, and 
 
 reign. 
 Not in walled chambers nor close pens 
 
 of state. 
 But or in saddle or at sea, my steed 
 As a sea-wave beneath the wind and me, 
 Or the sea serving as a bitted steed 
 That springs like air and fire. Time 
 
 comes, they say, 
 When we love rest, housc-kcei)ing sloth, 
 
 and calms : 
 To nie I think it will not come alive. 
 Herries. Madam, I would change yet 
 
 one woril with you 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 249 
 
 I£re I go hence, or others take your 
 
 ear. 
 Queen. So shall you, sir; yet is my 
 
 heart too light, 
 And its live blood too merry from the 
 
 chase, 
 And all my life too full of the air of joy 
 Whereon it mounts up falcon-like for 
 
 prey, 
 And hovers at its wings' width ere it 
 
 strike, 
 To give wise words wise welcome : yet 
 
 what grace 
 I may to your grave counsels will I show 
 And modesty of audience. — Tell my 
 
 brother 
 I shortly will receive him. [Exeunt all 
 
 but the Queen and Herries.] 
 
 My good lord. 
 It is for that old honor and true love 
 I bear your high name and your flaw- 
 less faith 
 That yet mine ear makes way now for 
 
 your words, 
 (n trust they will not wound it for its 
 
 pains 
 With any tuneless or intemperate breath. 
 Herries. Had I no heart, or in the 
 
 heart I have 
 ^iVo love to serve you, madam, and no 
 
 faith, 
 [ hc«d parted hence without more toil of 
 
 tongue 
 Or strife of speech unpalatable and 
 
 harsh 
 In ears made wide for music ; but in me 
 Is heart enough to burn with fire of 
 
 pain. 
 If not to lighten with that fire their eyes 
 For whose sake it consumes me, when 
 
 I see 
 Danger and death masked as true men 
 
 and bold 
 Attend about them with sheathed knives 
 
 in hand 
 And shut mouths as of serpents. Let 
 
 me not 
 Incense again your flame of spirit and 
 
 scorn 
 With faint and void reiterance of dead 
 
 words 
 That spent in vain their spirit before : 
 
 1 speak 
 
 Not now so much to move you as would 
 
 God 
 I had the might to move, but of myself 
 Rather to save my soul of faith alive, 
 And my deep heart of duty toward your 
 
 grace. 
 By speech though fruitless, and by love 
 
 though lost, 
 That will not pass forth silent, and give 
 
 way 
 To loud-tongued ruin that shall speak 
 
 too high 
 For ears to close against it. Queen of 
 
 Scots, 
 Lady that have the loftiest life in hand 
 Even yet that ever was of queen on 
 
 earth, — 
 Last hope of men that hope through 
 
 you in God, 
 Last comfort of his Church, light of his 
 
 lamp 
 That men have nigh blown out with 
 
 blasts of night, — 
 O you to whose fair face and hand uplift 
 The treble-kingdom islands should turn 
 
 back 
 Out of the shadow of storm to follow 
 
 them. 
 And in the shadow of faith instead lie 
 
 down 
 Beneath the wings that covered your 
 
 crowned head. 
 Even hers that brood above her fold 
 
 and \ours. 
 The Church your mother's, that by no 
 
 hand else 
 Looks yet to gather three lands in and 
 
 save, — 
 Who have the heart and the eye and 
 
 the hour for this 
 Which to none other God may give 
 
 again 
 So as you have them, — you that should 
 
 be writ 
 In all the royal records of the world 
 Savior, the light and the right hand of 
 
 God 
 Shown in a woman, to bring back and 
 
 build 
 What was blown down or shed as dust 
 
 on the air, — 
 You that have spirit and mind to ap 
 
 prchend, 
 
250 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 And to that apprehension put swift 
 
 hand, 
 Nor slow of soul nor fearful, — you, our 
 
 queen, 
 And England's heir, that should make 
 
 higher on earth 
 The name of Scot than any star in 
 
 heaven, 
 And on the cleft growth of two thorny 
 
 stems 
 Bid one rose flower of Catholic royalty 
 Not to be plucked or trampled, — Oh, 
 
 will you. 
 So great, so fair and fearless as you are, 
 That were you no queen, or such other 
 
 one 
 As no such high cause calls on, you 
 
 would seem 
 Not less a thing made to heroic end, 
 A creature crowned and armed by God 
 
 to bear 
 His witness to his work, and in man's 
 
 eye 
 Stand signal-wise lighting the beaconed 
 
 sea, — 
 Will you put all this as a garment off. 
 And change it like a vesture ? By your 
 
 life 
 Which is the life of this land's majesty. 
 And your high soul which is our spirit 
 
 of hope, 
 Slay not all these : help them that trust 
 
 in you ; 
 Help God, lest we believe him for your 
 
 sake 
 Ill-minded toward us for our sin, to 
 
 turn 
 This empire to a populous wilderness, 
 A riotous desert where things vile are 
 
 crowned. 
 And high made low, and low things set 
 
 on high. 
 And rule trod under with foul feet and 
 
 bare. 
 And kingdom parcelled by hard hands 
 
 and red. 
 Pity this people : give not up vour realm 
 To its own madness that takes fire at 
 
 • yours. 
 And lights its ruin at your own ruin, to 
 
 run 
 By that blind light darkling to death 
 
 and hell ; 
 
 Cast not your name down under foo! of 
 
 men 
 For such ill cause as loveless love that 
 
 is 
 Light lord of foolish women, or such 
 
 will 
 As wherewith men self-slaughtered gird 
 
 themselves. 
 For shame and pity and peril shall be 
 
 they 
 Who shall attend and wed you to vour 
 
 will. 
 And the ring broken of the kingdom's 
 
 peace 
 That is yet whole and circular as a crown 
 Shall be the new ring on your wedded 
 hand. 
 Queen. Have I not said I nevei 
 
 thought of it .-* 
 Herries. I but beseech you, keep from 
 thought of it. 
 Or from such show as puts it in men's 
 minds, 
 Queen. If this be all your counsel or 
 your care. 
 You crave but what you have : I have 
 
 given no cause. 
 By favor shown to faith and loyal hearts, 
 For the evil-witted world to tax me of 
 
 love. 
 Twice have vou had mine ear now to 
 
 this tale. 
 And thrice I pray you that you seek it 
 not. 
 Herries. I shall no more. God keep 
 your grace in joy ! 
 Enter BoPHWKLL anci MURRAY. 
 Queen. Good morrow, brother ; and 
 you, my lord, good day, 
 Since you go hence. 
 
 BotJnuell. Goes my lord from us vet.' 
 Herries. Even now I take my leave. 
 Farewell, my lords. 
 And God be with vour counsels. \Exit, 
 
 Bot/twell. Fay, he shall. 
 The cjueen was fain t(^ have your voice, 
 
 my lord, 
 Ere she go back to the distempered 
 town. 
 Murray. That shall she have, sir. 
 Queen. Brother, we hear word 
 How the good town is troubled of lewd 
 men 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 25 
 
 Wish libels writ and hung about the 
 
 streets, 
 That in our servants' name deface our 
 
 own 
 With fierce invention : wherefore I de- 
 sired 
 Vour counsel with my lord here and 
 
 good help 
 For satisfaction of well-willing men. 
 Murray. Even such will tell you it 
 
 mislikes the town 
 That Lennox, as they say, should be 
 
 debarred 
 Yxovsx entrance save with six men and 
 
 no more 
 To hold his cause up on the trial day. 
 And the main witness on his part refused 
 As. under charge of treason for his 
 
 words 
 Set forth in writing on the Tolbooth 
 
 gates ; 
 This makes them doubt of justice to be 
 
 done, 
 And brood or babble of devised delay. 
 With tongues and minds diverse and 
 
 dangerous. 
 Queen. What! 
 Shall one proclaimed our traitor pass 
 
 unscathed 
 To bear again false witness, for whose 
 
 sake 
 The ports are guarded, and the skipper 
 
 marked 
 For death who helps him from this 
 
 kingdom forth 
 To mock the judgment whence he 
 
 stands attaint 
 Of foregone treason ; and must now 
 
 stand free. 
 And the law loose him, and receive his 
 
 word 
 As a true man's and taintless? What 
 
 are they 
 Whom by such witness Lennox would 
 
 impeach 
 Besides my lord here who shall answer 
 
 him? 
 Murray. James Balfour, and your 
 
 outland serving-folk, 
 Sebastian, Joseph Rizzio, with two 
 
 French, 
 [ohn of Bordeaux, and Francis, of your 
 
 train. 
 
 Queen. They shall have trial, and 
 
 answer it. 
 Murray. 'Twere best 
 They did so soonest : time grows full 
 
 of tongues. 
 There was one late v;ent through the 
 
 streets by night, 
 With four or five accompanied for guard 
 That would let none take knowledge of 
 
 him, crj'ing 
 Of his own guilt most lamentably on 
 
 God, 
 Lord, open heaven, and pour down of thy 
 
 wrath 
 Vengeance on me and them that have 
 
 cut off 
 The innocent blood! whom the chief 
 
 magistrates 
 Have seized, and cast into the four 
 
 thieves' pit ; 
 But still his cry hangs in the common 
 
 ear. 
 Queen. Some traitor hired, or mad- 
 man ; but I sent 
 To seek the comfort of your hand and 
 
 help 
 For weightier cause than of such 
 
 tongues. 
 Murray. What cause ? 
 Queen. That shall he show who bears 
 
 most part therein ; 
 Yet are you parcel of it, and I myself 
 For love of both and honor toward you. 
 
 Speak. [TT? Both WELL. 
 
 Bothwell. My lord, I doubt not but 
 
 your heart conceived 
 Never that thing whereto being done 
 
 you feared 
 To set your hand in sign : I therefore 
 
 pray you 
 To look upon the charge for which I 
 
 stand 
 In the land's eye accountable, as one 
 That was consenting with the rest our 
 
 friends 
 To what for my poor profit was not 
 
 done. 
 Nor only plotted for no end but mine; 
 And, for the part your honor has herein, 
 To underwrite the bond that writes me 
 
 safe. 
 And set your name for seal ¥pon my 
 
 side. 
 
2 C 2 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Queen. So much would I beseech you 
 
 too : the bond 
 J5y vou subscribed here in my lord's 
 
 defence 
 Shall be the signet of your faith and 
 
 love 
 Set on my heart and his that honor you. 
 Murray. I would my duty might in 
 
 all things serve 
 No less your honor than maintain mine 
 
 own ; 
 But I will set no hand to any 1)ond 
 Shall bind me to defence or fellowship 
 Of deeds whereof I know myself no 
 
 part. 
 I gave consent to no more than divorce 
 Between two hands mismated, king's 
 
 and queen's, 
 Whereby the kingdom's heart was rent 
 
 in twain, 
 And reconcilement found not where to 
 
 stand ; 
 But of no red and secret bond of blood 
 Heard I the bruit before the deed took 
 
 fire. 
 Boihwell. Will you so swear ? what ! 
 
 none ? 
 Murray. I have said ; and you. 
 That reft your kinsman Balfour by de- 
 vice 
 Out of my hand and thwarted judg- 
 ment, see 
 Your heart be set not now to climb too 
 
 high 
 A stair whereon the foot that slips 
 
 grows red, 
 And, stumbling once in blood, falls 
 
 whence nor wing 
 Nor hand can lift it from the pit again. 
 Queen. Vex not yourself lest he 
 
 should fall or stand 
 With whom you stand or fall not. 
 
 Bof/ni'i-il. My desire 
 Was toward no help of riddling coun- 
 sellors, 
 l>ut of such friends as speak with hand 
 
 for tongue 
 And acts for parables: your wit, my 
 
 lord, 
 Is nothing of the queen's need nor of 
 
 mine. 
 Murray. It may be, no; but to make 
 
 trial of that, 
 
 Ere I take ship for France, the vay! 
 
 being barred 
 By force and strife through Flanders tc 
 
 the south 
 And those fair towns that with her high 
 
 ncss' leave 
 Shall call me guest a while in Italy, 
 I am bound for London, where 1 feai 
 
 and hope 
 My tongue may serve her more than 
 
 here your hands 
 If it make fair her cause in English eyes. 
 Bot/nucll. What hath her cause to' do 
 
 with their bleared sight. 
 Or with her name their judgment .' Who 
 
 need care 
 What color we that breathe with our 
 
 own lips 
 Wear in the mist made of their breath 
 
 far off ? 
 Murray. The ambassador that bore 
 
 her last word back 
 Hath but made way for one at point to 
 
 come 
 Whose message, carrying weight as in 
 
 wise ears 
 It needs must carry, will take form and 
 
 force 
 From present witness of his eye thai 
 
 reads 
 What mind is borne here and what 
 
 work is done. 
 What judgment or what counsel most 
 
 bears weight ; 
 Which it imports us for this land's 
 
 great sake 
 That the English queen misknow net 
 
 nor mislead 
 For fault or fraud of darkling evidence 
 Bolhii.<cll. And you it is must give 
 
 those blind eyes sight. 
 Shape to the shadows of that ignorance. 
 
 form 
 To their loose judgment of us? What 
 
 have we. 
 What hath our Scotland here or queen 
 
 of Scots, 
 To do with English tongues? can we 
 
 not strike 
 Nor stand nor walk alone, but for our 
 
 need 
 Must use their hands and feet, their wits 
 
 and eves, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 53 
 
 To help us live, or live not? Bv mv 
 
 life, 
 Which is not held in pawn yet of their 
 
 leave, 
 T had rather be an English horse or ass 
 Than on these terms a Scot, to square 
 
 my will 
 l!y their 'inscribed conditions. 
 II Murray. At your will 
 
 Lies your own way of life ; nor yet this 
 
 land's, 
 Nor theirs that living should be lords 
 
 of it. 
 Madam, to God's care I commend your 
 
 grace 
 Who take with careful heart my leave 
 
 of you, 
 Lest you too much should lack the care 
 
 of men. 
 Queen. Be not too careful for my 
 
 sake : your leave 
 Was given ere you could take it. Sir, 
 
 farewell. 
 Murray. P'arewell, as you shall will 
 
 it. ' \^Exit. 
 
 BotJnvell. God be with you ! 
 Your wisdom shall not be so hot of 
 
 foot 
 But it may be outspeeded. If it lay 
 Plots with the stranger, our prevention 
 
 here 
 Must pluck the fangs out of its craft. 
 
 And first 
 With his own hand shall Huntley draw 
 
 the bond 
 Whereto will we set ours in pledge ere 
 
 long 
 To make them fast by contract : I being 
 
 free 
 To plight mine own, as by consent un- 
 bound 
 From hers that was my wife pretended ; 
 
 you. 
 Being by this troublous time bent and 
 
 inclined 
 To seek some stay in wedlock, and put 
 
 off 
 The weak estate of widowhood, yet 
 
 loath, 
 For worthy reasons of grave strength, 
 
 to choose 
 Again a stranger subject, have made 
 
 choice 
 
 Of me desertless for my fair deserts, 
 And purpose even on heel of my di 
 
 vorce 
 For their good cause to wed me : this 
 
 subscribed 
 Shall in my keeping be laid up, and 
 
 straight 
 Hence must we back to that loud town 
 
 of yours. 
 And take^ our danger by the throat; 
 
 proclaim 
 At once my trial ; if it be possible, 
 Before word come from England ; let 
 
 the post 
 That brings you counsel of Elizabeth's 
 Find the cause judged, and the cry fallen 
 
 again, 
 And no link hanging of the gyves of 
 
 law 
 Round our free feet and steadfast. 
 
 Queen. Ah! not mine. 
 That are fast bound, and yet can stand 
 
 not fast 
 Except my love's strength hold them 
 
 up, and strike 
 These iron toils in sunder. If the bond 
 Could bind and loose indeed, knit and 
 
 unknit 
 Hands that must part from hands that 
 
 are to meet. 
 With force of more than writing, all 
 
 my heart 
 Should bleed glad drops to sign and 
 
 seal it. Sir, 
 Here was again our enemy in mine ears 
 Forewarning me of marriage ; the same 
 
 tongue 
 That was before a serpent at your heel 
 Shot out anew to sting it ; but you know 
 The craft of this state horseleech, that 
 
 by fraud 
 Takes pleasure to bear all the world in 
 
 hand 
 That no one can be sure of him, and 
 
 we 
 May least of all be by such lips allured 
 To trust and find them dangerous. 
 
 Botlnvell. Nay, by God, 
 I mind me how he left his neighbor 
 
 friends 
 In his faith's name to hang for hostages 
 Whose necks paid forfeit of his broken 
 
 bond, 
 
254 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 And made his oath a halter for the 
 
 Lairds 
 Of Lochinvar and Garlics, By my life 
 That this keen tongue would strike at, 
 
 in my mind 
 It were the best work worth a good 
 
 man's hand 
 To quit them on Lord Herries. 
 
 Queen. No, let be : 
 You will unpeople me this land of 
 
 friends. 
 Mine he must live, or lose his name, 
 
 and yours 
 For my name's sake he shall be. 
 
 Bothwell. So might I 
 Find at his hands such friendship as 
 
 they twain 
 Whose throats for him were writhen ; 
 
 and such a friend 
 Is he that stands behind our deed, and 
 
 says 
 He never heard of manslaying, fie ! not 
 
 he, — 
 Our darkling brother with close lips 
 
 and clean. 
 The blood was no part of his bond, he 
 
 says, 
 That his eyes winked on while his hand 
 
 was dry ; 
 He will not bear us witness, nor take 
 
 part 
 With me that have done more than 
 
 blink at blood. 
 He will to London, but to speak for 
 
 you. 
 That will he, being a kindly man of 
 
 kind, 
 Whole-blooded in his love and faith to 
 
 you, 
 God wot, no bastard in his brotherhood. 
 I would give God a year out of my life 
 That I have kinglike hope to live with 
 
 you, 
 P'or one sweet breath of time to strike 
 
 at him, 
 And let my sword's lip drink his body 
 
 dry. 
 And with one deep kiss drain his flesh 
 
 of blood. 
 Who smells not by the savor of his 
 
 faith 
 On what close nest of foul and fledg- 
 ling hopes 
 
 His trust sits brooding to build up him- 
 self 
 By overthrowing of that crowned head 
 
 which keeps 
 His misbegotten forehead bare of 
 
 gold — 
 And with my hand shall keep it } 
 
 Queen. Ay, though all 
 That breathe on earth mine enemies at 
 
 his beck 
 Rose by the light of his ambiguous 
 
 eyes 
 With his sheathed hand to strike, and 
 
 leave ungirt 
 This forfeit head with empire : but I 
 
 know 
 A stronger hand bared for my help and 
 
 stay, — 
 This that I touch, this that I love ; the 
 
 star — 
 That points my feet on pilgrimage, the 
 
 staff 
 That stays my steps back to that troub- 
 lous town 
 Whereof they are weary, yet would halt 
 
 not now, 
 But tread more fleet than fire their fiery 
 
 way 
 To that fair end where they were fain 
 
 to be. 
 He will set forth to-morrow. 
 
 Bothwell. Ere we go, 
 I will take order that men's tongues be 
 
 dipt 
 Who show too broad their conscience 
 
 of remorse. 
 There was a knave of Balfour's in our 
 
 trust 
 That hath by this, being found unsure 
 
 of mouth, 
 Resigned it to the counsel-keeping 
 
 worm. 
 If more there be that live not stinglcss 
 
 yet. 
 The same dumb mouth that has nor 
 
 lips nor tongue 
 Must open for them ])rivily: the grave 
 Hath gorge enough for all such secret 
 
 food, 
 And will not babble of the hands that 
 
 feed. 
 For them that being in blood of our 
 
 own kind 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 255 
 
 Will stand elsewhere against me than 
 
 in court, 
 I will make present proffer of myself 
 To answer them in arms. 
 Queen. You shall not fight. 
 Bot/naell. Not if no need be. 
 Queen. There shall be no need. 
 Not in this cause, you shall not need to 
 
 fight. 
 We will set on the trial presently, 
 And after we may sleep with no blood 
 more. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Upper Chamber 
 
 IN HOLYROOD. 
 
 T/ie Queen and Mary Beaton. 
 Queen. Is it not hard on ten ? 
 Mary Beaton. At point to strike. 
 Queen. This forenoon will outlast the 
 night for length. 
 How looks the morning.'' 
 
 Afary Beaton. Like the time of year : 
 The heaven is red, and full of wind; 
 
 the clouds 
 Are rent and routed of the striving sun 
 Like a lost army. 
 
 Queen. Is there no noise abroad ? 
 Mary Beaton. The throngs grow thick 
 in rumor ; faces scowl, 
 Eyes burn, brows bend, and all the cry 
 
 o' the crowd 
 Waits to break forth but till a fire- 
 
 flaught fall 
 To make the dumb brands speak, and 
 
 shoot out flame. 
 When he shall pass for whom it waits 
 
 to burn. 
 Yet have I seen as great a throng from 
 
 hence 
 As frets there now. 
 
 Queen. I would he had thought to- 
 day 
 To ride with doubled guard ! What 
 brawl is there ? 
 Mary Beaton. The messenger from 
 Berwick, as I think, 
 That would have entrance to you, and 
 
 is thrust back 
 By the lord Bothwell's kin that keep 
 the gates. 
 Queen. What! here so soon? I will 
 not see him till night. 
 
 I am asleep; if there be brawls i' the 
 
 court, 
 Call out the troopers, bid my French 
 
 guard forth 
 To quell all rioters. 
 
 Mary Beaton. They are of your own 
 
 part 
 That make the brawl, my lord's men 
 
 and your guard 
 That press about the gateway. 
 
 Queen. The cry sinks : 
 Is he not come, that so their noise is 
 
 fallen .? 
 Mary Beaton. And Maitland with 
 
 him : he signs them silent, takes 
 From the English messenger a letter 
 
 sealed, 
 And leaves all still. 
 
 Queejt. I prayed him see me first 
 Before he rode to trial. All will be well, 
 If he have stayed their storm, and keep 
 
 his heart 
 High as his fortune. 
 
 Etiter BOTHWELL. 
 
 Is that brawl at end } 
 Bothtuell. Here is a letter by a hot- 
 foot post 
 Brought from Sir William Drury, that 
 
 his queen 
 Through him commends her counsel in 
 
 to you, 
 And bids you, or my thought belies it, 
 
 show 
 All favor and furtherance to your 
 
 enemy's plea, 
 Lennox, whose cause she finds most 
 
 fair, and would not 
 For your own sake see slighted or put 
 
 by, 
 
 Lest your fame bleed : look if she say 
 
 not so ; 
 Else I know nothing of her maiden 
 
 mind, 
 W^ho sometime lived her prisoner. 
 
 Queen. Let that rest ; 
 But tell me what the spring was of this 
 
 noise 
 That shook our hearing : would he 
 
 speak perforce — 
 This English post, though bidden back 
 
 — with me .-' 
 Bothwell. But that our f^lows thrust 
 
 him from the gate : 
 
:56 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 My captain of the castle, a stalwart 
 
 guard, 
 The Laird of Skirling, that I put in 
 
 charge. 
 Called to the guide aloud, he should be 
 
 hanged 
 For bringing English villains through 
 
 to us here, 
 And hands were there to reive the 
 
 rope to him ; 
 Then drew your guard together and 
 
 our troops, 
 iVhose musters line the straitened 
 
 streets with steel 
 That holds embanked their muttering 
 
 multitudes 
 rill I ride through ; and those within 
 
 the gates 
 Hurtled together with blind cries and 
 
 thrusts, 
 But at my sight fell silent as a sea 
 Settling, that growls yet with the sunken 
 
 wind. 
 And holds its peace with unslaked 
 
 wrath. Then I 
 Took from the pressed and laboring 
 
 messenger 
 His letter for your hand, who were not 
 
 risen, 
 A.nd should ere night receive him : so I 
 
 said, 
 And thus it shall suffice you do, so 
 
 be it 
 We bear the bell to-day in parliament, 
 Where I should be by this at bar, to 
 
 stand 
 And make mine answer. 
 
 Queen. I am not sick of fear. 
 Yet my heart loathes its burden of this 
 
 hour. 
 And beats and drops like a bird wound- 
 ed. Nay, 
 I do not hold you : go ; 'tis but my hand 
 Fastens on yours ; my heart would have 
 
 you gone. 
 And here again to assure me of good 
 
 s])ccd. 
 Whom have we of the judges on our 
 
 side, 
 Tell nie once more, whom doubtful- 
 colored, whom 
 Our enemies certain ? let me know it 
 
 again, 
 
 That I may read the bede-roll of their 
 
 names 
 Here over in my heart while you are 
 
 gone 
 To make it sure and strong, come evil 
 
 or good, 
 That neither find me heartless. 
 
 Bothivell. Of our part 
 The lord of Arbroath for the Hamil- 
 
 tons 
 Is as his father's person, Chatelherault, 
 And Cassilis a mainstay safe as steel ; 
 Caithness and Herries are such friends 
 
 of yours 
 As love me less for your sake, yet I 
 
 think 
 Must strike to-day beside us; one man 
 
 most 
 I would we might have razed out of the 
 
 roll. 
 Which is the assessor Lindsay; who 
 
 shall be 
 As poison to us ; and evil is our chance 
 That Morton being of kin to your dead 
 
 man 
 Should not sit here to help, as but lor 
 
 this 
 I would perforce have bound him to 
 
 our side : 
 I)Ut let this be; we shall bear bravely 
 
 through 
 For all their factions and fierce policies 
 As knives ensheathed against us, or 
 
 being foiled 
 Find surer issue than they wot of. So, 
 With such good hope as grows of a 
 
 good heart. 
 Give me Ood-specd. 
 
 Queen. God-speed you as I pray 
 You may speed ever : all my prayer is 
 
 spent, 
 I can no more of wishing; what I 
 
 would, 
 That must you will, having my heart in 
 
 you, 
 That beats but with your blood, thrills 
 
 with vour sense, 
 Thinks with your thought, desires with 
 
 vour desire. 
 And lives upon your living. Where 
 
 you go. 
 You bear me wiih vou ; where your 
 
 face is .st t 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 257 
 
 Mine eye takes outlook, and where falls 
 
 your foot 
 1 tread beside you silent. Oh ! this day 
 Shall be to us as the crown o' the wave 
 
 that turns, 
 And bears inshore the lading of our 
 
 lives. 
 With all the might of its great heart 
 
 that breaks 
 And brings us into harbor; we shall 
 
 stand 
 High on the beach where it was spent, 
 
 and praise 
 The faithful hour that served us ; yea, 
 
 even this 
 Shall be a dear one to us, hi^lfj fast at 
 
 heart 
 When all the pain and doubt of it is 
 
 dead. 
 And lovingly remembered : you shall 
 
 look 
 From your high place beside your hum- 
 ble love 
 With kingly eye on this dead day, and 
 
 think 
 How she that set her crown about your 
 
 head, 
 And put her own beneath your foot, as 
 
 now 
 Bade you fare forth, and kissed you. 
 
 Bothwell. I am returned, 
 Ere I pass forth, already in my heart. 
 With my cause crowned: I cannot 
 
 doubt of speed. 
 Who have your face before mine eyes 
 
 as fire 
 And keep your words' heat in mine ear 
 
 to burn 
 If I should shrink, and sting my spirit 
 
 alive 
 For love's and shame's sake. When 
 
 we meet at night, 
 A king's kiss will I set upon these lips 
 That seal me royal ere I part. Fare- 
 well. lExit. 
 Queen. I would mine eye were in my 
 
 heart to go 
 With that beside him ; but the heart it 
 
 is 
 Sits now in the eye and follows where 
 
 it may, 
 But a street's length; then part they, 
 
 and the sight 
 
 Turns back, but not the thought; such 
 
 wings it hath 
 As the sight hath not, and is subtler 
 
 nerved 
 Than the swift spirit of the eye. O my 
 
 life's light ! 
 This is not I that looks forth after you 
 To feed her eyesight, but who leaves 
 
 you not, 
 Who rides beside you, breathes out of 
 
 your lips. 
 Looks through your eyes, and triumphs 
 
 in your heart, — 
 That unseen and inseparate thing is I. 
 Look, he is up: how royally he rides, 
 As no king else on earth ! and waves to 
 
 me. 
 As who should say. Be glad; and glad 
 
 I am. 
 Who have the lordliest lover in the 
 
 world. 
 And the most heart to love him. Ay, 
 
 that steed 
 Should be the higher of heart that 
 
 feels him stride. 
 And moves the merrier-mettled : by 
 
 none such 
 Was it before bestridden. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Was not this 
 Lord Darnley's horse } 
 
 Queen. Ay, when Lord Darnley was. 
 Mary Beaton. The horse he loved of 
 
 all the rest, and fed 
 Ere he bestrode it ever ? 
 Queen. Like enough : 
 What ails it yet to have eaten of his 
 
 hand ? 
 It bears not now the worse a better 
 
 man. 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, so it seems: it 
 
 bounds not as in wrath, 
 For aught I see, beneath him, but 
 
 heaves up 
 A sidelong head toward his new hand, 
 
 and turns 
 The light back on him of a joyful 
 
 eye. 
 So is it with only beasts that are be- 
 loved : 
 They have not hearts like ours. 
 
 Queen. What need they have .'' 
 I would have nothing love him as ] 
 
 love, 
 
258 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 And had it heart it would; yet I do 
 
 think 
 Ali beasts and men are mad that love 
 
 him not 
 As I should surely were I beast or 
 
 man. 
 He can no longc see my handkerchief; 
 Let us go in : I will not sit and wait 
 With the street's hustling faces in my 
 
 sight. {^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — The High Court of 
 
 Justice in the Tolboot^h. 
 Bothwell, with Ormiston aiid , ^hers 
 attending, at the bar; Argyle-> ,■."- 
 siding as Lord Justice ; LiNDSAY 
 as assessor; Caithness, Cassilis, 
 Rothes, Arbroath, Maxwell, 
 Herries, and others, as Jury ; Rob- 
 ert Cunningham aj spokesman /or 
 Lennox. 
 
 Ormiston (aside to Bothwell). Fie ! 
 look not down so at your feet, 
 my lord : 
 What devil is this that irks you ? in 
 
 your face 
 A fool might read you what you are : 
 
 why, so 
 Might a man look that were now going 
 
 to death. 
 Hold up your face, for God's sake, and 
 
 look blithe; 
 Alas and aye woe worth them that de- 
 vised 
 The thing that shall make all us mourn, 
 
 I trow, 
 For you that now look sadly. 
 
 Bothwell. Mold your peace : 
 I would not yet it were to do ; I have 
 An outgate any way whereby to pass, 
 As ye shall know, and soon. Trouble 
 me not. 
 Argyle. My lords, ye have heard how 
 to the indictment read 
 The accused who stands at his own in- 
 stance here 
 Returns his jjlea of guiltless ; and there- 
 on 
 The accuser next invoked to approve 
 
 his charge, 
 Nor answering nor appearing, leaves no 
 cause 
 
 For us to judge ; but here in his default 
 Is risen his servant to sustain his part 
 And unawares among us unrequired 
 Take up this charge here fallen, or 
 
 stretch at least 
 Some form across of pretext wide 
 
 enough 
 To cover with excuse this lack of 
 
 charge. 
 Which else might seem with emptiness 
 
 of cause 
 To mock your judgments ; wherefore, 
 
 if ye will. 
 He stands to plead before us. 
 Caithness., \v c are content. 
 RoUrf Cunningham. My lords, I am 
 
 here but in my master's name. 
 The earl of Lennox, to declare what 
 
 cause j 
 
 This day constrains his absence ; which j 
 
 in brief 
 Is first the brief time given for so great j 
 
 work, I 
 
 Next that he stands now naked of his ; 
 
 friends | 
 
 And fellowship of servants to maintain i 
 
 His honor with the surety of his life ; , 
 
 And, having help of no friend but him- 
 self. 
 He hath laid on me commandment to 
 
 desire 
 A day sufficient for that weight of cause 
 Which he shall have to keep it ; and if 
 
 hence 
 Your lordships at this present shall 
 
 proceed, 
 Here I protest that if the assize to-day, 
 By their twelve persons that upon this 
 
 charge 
 Shall enter now on panel, speak him 
 
 clear 
 Who stands accused for murder of the 
 
 king, 
 It shall be wilful error in men's eyes, 
 And not abuse of ignorance, by this 
 
 cause 
 That all men know him for murderer; 
 
 and hereto 
 Upon this protestation I require 
 Of your high court a document to 
 
 stand 
 And set my lord's right here on regis^ 
 ter. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 259 
 
 And those men's wrong who put it by 
 
 to-day. 
 Argyle. This is some reason if the 
 
 ground be good 
 Whereon his protest is built up, to ex- 
 cuse 
 Default of witness by defect of time ; 
 J5ut here that ground is shaken, that 
 
 we find, 
 }5y letters of his own writ to the 
 
 queen, 
 My lord of Lennox earnest to bring on. 
 With forward expedition as of fire, 
 This cause for trial, and by all pleas 
 
 intent 
 To enforce this court make haste, and 
 
 being convoked 
 Despatch with breathless justice and 
 
 short stay 
 The work wherein he seems to accuse 
 
 us now 
 For too much heat to move too fast, 
 
 and mar 
 The perfect end of trial with force of 
 
 speed. 
 Preventing him of witness. Where- 
 fore then 
 Was his own will so keen, his plaint so 
 
 loud. 
 So strong his protestation, to procure 
 The speed too late reproached, too soon 
 
 required? 
 Here are we met for judgment, whom 
 
 himself 
 Ijade the queen summon, with insistent 
 
 heat 
 And sharp solicitation urged of wrong, 
 Nay, with the stroke of an imperative 
 
 tongue. 
 As though to impel some loath or lag- 
 gard heart, 
 And found instead a free and forward 
 
 will 
 In her to meet his own ; here sits the 
 
 court. 
 There stands the man of him or his 
 
 impeached 
 To give them loyal answer ; where sits 
 
 he? 
 W here speaks his proof ? where stand 
 
 his witnesses ? 
 What sentence of what judges shall be 
 
 given 
 
 Where none stands forth to accuse; 
 Here are but words, 
 
 Surmises, light and loud and loose, that 
 blow 
 
 In the air of nameless lips and bab- 
 blers' breath 
 
 From ear to ear about the wide-mouthed 
 world : 
 
 These are not for our judgment. 
 Caithness. We sit here 
 
 To find if there be proof or likelihood 
 
 More than of common tongues that 
 mark a man 
 
 Guilty, and know not why this man or 
 that. 
 
 But some name they must have to feed 
 upon ; 
 
 And in my mind, where witness there is 
 none 
 
 Nor prosecution of a personal cause, 
 
 Even should we err to find the accused 
 man free. 
 
 It were no wilful error, nor this court 
 
 In any just man's sight accountable 
 
 As for unrighteous judgment, being cut 
 off 
 
 From evidence that it was met to hear; 
 
 Which we reject not, but require in- 
 deed. 
 
 Yet can by no solicitous mean procure. 
 
 Moreover, sirs, one flaw there is to note, 
 
 More evident than these proofs in- 
 visible, — 
 
 Even in the letter of the charge, which 
 bears. 
 
 Ye see, the ninth day's date of Febru- 
 ary, 
 
 When all we know that on the tenth it 
 was 
 
 This violence, by what hand soe'er, was 
 done : 
 
 So that I see not, for my simple part. 
 
 How any man, for that which no man 
 did, 
 
 Should stand condemned; for at this 
 date assigned 
 
 Was no such deed as this done in the 
 world. 
 MaxivcU. Why, let the charge be 
 drawn again, and straight : 
 
 The court is mocked in this. 
 
 Caithness. How mocked, my lord? 
 
 It is necessity of law, to keep 
 
'.6o 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 Pure hands by perfect heed of flawless 
 words ; 
 
 And that vou stood the dead man's 
 friend alive 
 
 CJives vou not right nor reason to rise up 
 
 And tax the reason or the right of law. 
 Maxwell. Right ! where is right in 
 all this circumstance, 
 
 r)r aught but wrong and broken judg- 
 ment ? where 
 
 Justice or shame or loyalty, to try 
 
 The truth whereon red fraud and vio- 
 lence tread, 
 
 And smother up the tongueless cry of 
 blood? 
 
 Are we not here to judge of murder 
 done, 
 
 And either from an innocent brow take 
 off 
 
 The spot of its suspicion, or convince 
 
 The branded forehead of bloodguilti- 
 ness ? 
 
 Is there no counsel on the part accused, 
 
 Nor answer of defensive argument 
 
 But of close-lipped evasion? and the 
 court 
 
 In this forsooth is mocked not ! We 
 shall stand 
 
 The shameful signs of laughter to the 
 world. 
 
 And loathing to men loyal, if this pass 
 
 With no more trial but mockery, and 
 the land 
 
 Sit silent, and attaint of innocent blood 
 
 Ilcfore the face of all men that expect 
 
 For our own sake what justice we shall 
 show 
 
 Or be defamed forever. 
 Arbroath. Sirs, meseems 
 
 Where no charge is, that no response 
 can be ; 
 
 Where none impeaches, none can stand 
 accused : 
 
 And of what mouth what challenge 
 is put forth, 
 
 And on what witness what impeach- 
 ment hangs. 
 
 To imi)lcad of guilt the man we sit to 
 
 1 fcrcin I say it is the court is mocked, 
 liven all of us, and all the baffled land. 
 And most this noble man that unac- 
 cused 
 
 Stands at our bar, and finds not to con 
 
 front 
 One witness, nor one enemy to beat 
 
 back. 
 Hut only as 'twere a wind that sounds, a 
 
 breath 
 That shifts and falters in the face of 
 
 proof, 
 A blast that envy blows, and fear breaks 
 
 off. 
 Disabled of its nature, by itself 
 Frustrate and maimed of its own evil 
 
 will. 
 Lindsay. Who talks of envious or of 
 
 fearful heart ? 
 We hear the general judgment of the 
 
 land 
 Cry out for trial, and from foreign 
 
 tongues 
 Reproach cast on us that we cast off 
 
 heed : 
 What should we do for shame if in this 
 
 cause. 
 For doubt of one man's friends or of 
 
 what power 
 Might stand behind to buckler him at 
 
 need. 
 We durst not move, nor, though the 
 
 world looked on, 
 Show but a face of justice ? 
 
 Cassilis. Must we set 
 Our judgments by the common tongue 
 
 that strikes. 
 And knows not what the hour is ? or 
 
 become 
 Thralls to the ])raise and bondmen to 
 
 the blame 
 Of men by no tie blood-bound to our 
 
 love. 
 To make our lives look in their foreign 
 
 sight 
 Fair, lest they speak us evil ? By my 
 
 head. 
 No Scot I hold him, but a strange 
 
 man's knave. 
 Whose spirit is shrunk or swollen by 
 
 their breaths. 
 Argyle. Well, let the votes be given, 
 
 and each man's doom 
 Affirm if in his true and e(|ual mind 
 The charge be proven ui)on my lord, oi 
 
 no. 
 How go the voices ? 
 
/ 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 261 
 
 Lindsay. By one-half their dooms 
 The lords here of the jury speak him 
 
 free 
 With clear acquittal of bloodguilti- 
 
 ness : 
 One-half is voiceless. 
 
 Avi^yle. He then is proclaimed 
 Of this high court not guilty, and the 
 
 charge 
 On trial stands not good aganist him. 
 
 Sir, 
 The court upon this plea declares for 
 
 you. 
 You are found free of blood. 
 BothweU. My noble lords, 
 Being proved thus in your judgments 
 
 clear of crime. 
 Here on this door will I to-day set up 
 My personal challenge in mine honor's 
 
 right 
 To meet in arms, before what judge he 
 
 will, 
 What gentleman soever undefamed 
 Shall take upon him to confront my 
 
 cause. 
 For their lewd mouths who threat, and 
 
 wear no sword, 
 Your judgment given to acquit me shall 
 
 abash 
 The malice it })uts power into mine 
 
 arm 
 With might of right to baffle. Sirs, 
 
 good day. 
 {Exit xuith Ormiston and his follow- 
 ers. 
 Argyle. Break up the court : the 
 
 cause is judged. 
 Maxioell {to Lin^dsay). Is judged .? 
 I know not of such seed what stem 
 
 will spring, 
 But that fruit sour as gall and red as 
 
 blood. 
 For men's false mouths must of this 
 
 judgment grow. 
 I would I saw less surely than I see. 
 
 Scene VI. — The High Street. 
 
 Burgesses and People. 
 First Citizen. What more of shame 
 is laid up for us.'' when 
 Will Heaven put forth a hand to touch 
 with fire 
 
 These naked sins, and shrivel } Have 
 
 you heard 
 What last lies bare for judgment.^ 
 
 Second Citizen. Why, the last 
 Is not this half-hour's shame : each 
 
 stroke each day 
 Strikes out a fresh one, that five minutes 
 
 old 
 Dies of the next forgotten. Yesterday 
 Some talk was of the challenge yet, 
 
 which now 
 No man casts thought on, though by 
 
 two good swords 
 Was battle proffered : by the stout 
 
 Laird first 
 Of Tullibardine, in that brother's name 
 Whom they for fear have taxed of 
 
 treason, so 
 To eschew his proof and peril ; he 
 
 defies 
 The challenger to combat, and requires 
 England and France for judges of the 
 
 field 
 In person of their sovereigns ; this re- 
 fused, 
 On such new plea as craven craft may 
 
 find. 
 With his queen's leave the ambassador 
 
 himself 
 Of England gladly with his own heart's 
 
 will 
 Would take the personal cause upon 
 
 him. 
 First Citizen. What ! 
 Is it for fault of Scots to match and 
 
 mate 
 The pride in Bothwell swoln with inno- 
 cent blood 
 None but Sir William Drury mav be 
 
 held 
 Worth his sword's wrath that walks by 
 
 night ? 
 Third Citize?!. Perchance 
 As for his queen he stands here de]5Uty, 
 And for our own her champion opposite. 
 Afield with swords' play or abed with 
 
 lips'. 
 They hold the match more equal. 
 Fourth Citizen. Nay, this news 
 Is gray of beard already; hear you not 
 How by this priestly parliament of 
 
 curs, 
 That to beguile us and for no good-will 
 
262 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Ilalh in the queen's name passed its 
 
 act to affirm 
 God's present gospel stablished in this 
 
 reahn, 
 The murderer lives now twice absolved 
 
 of blood, 
 And has by voice of prelates and of 
 
 earls 
 The assize allowed for good that purged 
 
 him first, 
 And shall be loosened of his marriage- 
 bond 
 That twelve months since was tied ? 
 
 his brother-in-law 
 Shall have again his forfeit lands, and 
 
 see 
 His sister from her married bed thrust 
 
 out, 
 And stir no finger ; then without more 
 
 stay 
 Who sees not where the adulterer's 
 
 foot shall climb, 
 And by what head his own be pillowed ? 
 
 Nay, 
 These papers hung against our walls by 
 
 night 
 Are tongues that prophesy but truth; 
 
 ye saw 
 That likeness of a hare enringed with 
 
 swords. 
 And of a mermaid crowned with burn- 
 ing eyes 
 Who drove' the hounds off with a two- 
 thonged scourge 
 That coursed him trembling; and her 
 
 hand indeed 
 Is found not slow to smite; a law now 
 
 lives 
 Denouncing on his head no less than 
 
 death 
 Wlio shall set uj), or seeing shall pluck 
 
 not down, 
 Such placards writ : the first soe'er who 
 
 finds 
 And leaves the writing that defames 
 
 her friend 
 To pass among the people, at her will 
 Shall lie in bonds; but if this brand 
 
 herself. 
 Then must tlie man that spared it or 
 
 that set 
 Die; so the fire-eyed (jueen of ship- 
 wreck sings 
 
 Death in their ears who sail this 
 
 dangerous sea 
 Whereon the ship reels of our stagger- 
 ing state, 
 And with the flame shot fiom her eyes 
 
 puts out 
 The light of theirs that were as light- 
 nings turned 
 On her hare-hearted lover. 
 
 Third Citizen. Yet they lack 
 The power with boast or menace to 
 
 seal up 
 The lips of poor men; but three days 
 
 ago 
 As she rode through the Grassmarket I 
 
 heard 
 I low from their stalls the women cried 
 
 on her, 
 God save your grace! but with this 
 
 added word 
 That smote the smile upon her lips to 
 
 death. 
 If ye be spotless of the dead king 'j blood. 
 Second Citizen. Such words and souls 
 
 mount nigher God's ear and eye 
 Than theirs who lent this man their 
 
 hands to slay 
 And tongues to purge him of their gen- 
 eral sin, — 
 He of St. Andrew's, and his under 
 
 priest. 
 Bishop of Ross, Leslies and Hamiltons, 
 Whose lips are bloody, and that double 
 
 soul 
 Argyle, that steers their faction ; and 
 
 this crew 
 Masked here as mouthpiece of the 
 
 loathing land 
 Must hide the people's heart and true 
 
 men's truth 
 With craft of prattling prelates; yet 
 
 such mouths 
 As are unlocked and locked attain with 
 
 gold 
 But gape till God shall pluck their 
 
 tongues out. 
 ////// Citizen. Yea, 
 Ye hear but this, and have to burn you; 
 
 ears 
 No hotter news of these men, or what 
 
 bond 
 Bears written broad and brave such 
 
 names as these 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 263 
 
 Of earls and bishops ? this is strange 
 
 yet, sirs, 
 That fires my cheek to tell you ? 
 Second Citizen. Why, men said 
 There was a knot that met of these to 
 
 sup. 
 Shut in with Bothwell's hackbutters for 
 
 guard, 
 That drew round Ainslie's Tavern, 
 
 where they sat 
 Like a strait hoop of steel to bind them 
 
 safe 
 And hold them fast from starting; and 
 
 some bond 
 Of these his guests at Bothwell's prayer 
 
 subscribed 
 There was that bound them to him, 
 
 against all foes 
 That might impeach him of the crime 
 
 discharged 
 By the open court's acquittal, from this 
 
 day 
 To take his part upon them, and stand 
 
 fast 
 As to their own cause, being made sub- 
 ject all 
 To slander and suspicion that but grows 
 Of honor and high credit held with kings: 
 So much we heard, and found not 
 
 strange. 
 Fifth Citizen. Nay, this 
 Was but the grace that served their 
 
 banquet in 
 Of meats as strong as poison ; there 
 
 ensued 
 A pledge more mortal of a bond more 
 
 base ; 
 Considering this time present, how the 
 
 queen 
 Stood husbandless, and how the gen- 
 eral weal 
 Might let her not long live so, should 
 
 her mind 
 By thought of his true services be 
 
 moved 
 To take the earl Bothwell to her loving 
 
 lord. 
 They and each man there met of them 
 
 should plight 
 His honor, truth, and heart's fidelity 
 To advance this marriage with all 
 
 furtherance given 
 Of counsel, satisfaction, and good help, 
 
 As soon as law might give it leave to 
 
 be. 
 And as their common enemy should 
 
 esteem 
 What man soever of evil will to them 
 Might seek its hinderance ; and to this 
 
 were set 
 More than those names ye spake of ; 
 
 be it for fear, 
 For craft or vantage, none of these fell 
 
 off 
 Save Eglinton that slipped for shame 
 
 away. 
 And Morton with the secretary, that 
 
 gave 
 Their voice yet for this marriage, but 
 
 would seal 
 No general bond of service on his side 
 Save these, no priest or peer of then 
 
 but lives 
 His servant pledged; their handSj 
 
 tongues, counsels, hearts. 
 His or not theirs, and all they man 
 
 sworn men. 
 Third Citizen. I have assurance of a 
 
 true man's faith. 
 That word was writ of this confederacy 
 To the English council from the Laird 
 
 of Grange, 
 Desiring knowledge with what ear their 
 
 queen 
 Shall take these tidings ; and albeit of 
 
 late. 
 In all our trouble being found slow to 
 
 help 
 She hath lost the love here borne her, 
 
 if her grace 
 For this late murder will pursue re- 
 venge. 
 She shall win all the hearts of all the 
 
 best 
 Again, he says, in Scotland ; who should 
 
 be. 
 With her good help and favor, swift to 
 
 take 
 This vengeance on them, and redeem 
 
 from fear 
 Their prince's life now trembling in the 
 
 reach 
 Of hands that slew his father ; for our 
 
 queen 
 Hath sworn she cares not for her lover's 
 
 sake 
 
164 
 
 BOTinVKIJ.. 
 
 To lose France, England, and her natu- 
 ral land, 
 And wcnikl go with him to the wild 
 
 world's end, 
 Stript to her smock, ere leave him. 
 
 Second Citizen. Has he writ 
 So much to the English court of her ? 
 
 being ours, 
 lie should let shame keep silence of 
 
 her shame. 
 First Citizen. What shame or silence 
 
 can shut up for shame 
 That which at noon walks clamorous 
 
 of itself 
 And boastful to be naked? They will 
 
 wed, 
 Though thunder sound forth sin, and 
 
 while God speaks 
 Will kiss in sight of lightning. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. Was there not 
 Some noise of strife arisen for fault of 
 
 pay 
 Among their crew of Bothwell's villains 
 
 here 
 That hold by force of hand the palace 
 
 gates ? 
 Second Citizen. Such rumor was, for 
 
 certain ; and himself 
 Strode in among the middle mutiny 
 Like a thieves' captain, and being 
 
 braved of them 
 Caught by the throat one that was lord 
 
 o' the brawl. 
 And would have slain but for the throng 
 
 that cried 
 And drove upon him shouting, till for 
 
 fear 
 He was even fain to stop with promises 
 Their mouths who clamored; which to 
 
 see fulfilled 
 Needs must he sit no lower than doth 
 
 a king. 
 T/iird Citizen. So then the gates are 
 
 open, and the queen 
 l'>y leave of these her guards, and him 
 
 their chief. 
 May jjarl in i)eace for Stirling now to 
 
 see 
 Iler son in ward there of the castellan ? 
 Where we, Ciod knows, may give him 
 
 thanks that one 
 So wise as the earl of Mar and stout of 
 
 heart 
 
 Hath our born king in covert, v\hn 
 
 might sleep 
 On that sweet breast that bore him not 
 
 so safe 
 As in a hand so honest. 
 
 First Citizen. Ay, God help, 
 There is no surety in such housekeep- 
 ing 
 As thunder comes forth of the sky by 
 
 night 
 To fall upon and burn it, yet no storm 
 Save of men's making seen, nor fire in 
 
 heaven 
 Save what rose up from under. Verily, 
 Our good lord Bothwell spake but 
 
 truth, who said 
 To good James Melville, how so strange 
 
 a thing 
 On earth was never known of : pity 'tis 
 He could not come to look upon the 
 
 corpse. 
 Though Bothwell bade him, seeing it 
 
 was removed ; 
 It was his hapless chance to find it 
 
 gone 
 And in safe keeping of some secret 
 
 hand 
 That waited on '"t living; such things 
 
 are : 
 The worse hap his. They say it had 
 
 no wound ; 
 So if bv some nvschance, as God for 
 
 bid. 
 The prince were reft unluckily of life, 
 I think he should have none for eye to 
 
 see 
 That might read evil. 
 
 Third Citizen. Who shall ride with 
 
 her.? 
 Second Citizen. Why, no great train, 
 
 lest being within the walls 
 She take the child into her hand, and 
 
 give 
 For better care to Bothwell's, with the 
 
 keys 
 That keep this castle tois l>i't yet I 
 
 think 
 His hand nor hers shall put God's 
 
 judgment back 
 That waits to take them trium]>hing, 
 
 and turn 
 To tears their laughter and our qrief t<i 
 
 joy. 
 
ISOTIIWEI.I.. 
 
 265 
 
 Scene VII. — Stirling Castle. 
 The Queen and Huntley. 
 
 Queen. Will you go back from us .'' 
 Huntley. I like it^not; 
 I do not see how this may be made 
 
 good. 
 Qiteen. There is no flaw but in your 
 
 fainter heart ; 
 The way is fair and even ; I cannot 
 
 think 
 What seed is in men's hearts that 
 
 brings forth fear 
 Out of all season. Why are you so 
 
 sad > 
 The thing is no more dangerous than it 
 
 was 
 When our first plot was laid; nay, so 
 
 much less 
 By how much these are ours whose 
 
 names and bonds 
 Speak on our side inscribed. 
 Huntley. Madam, not so ; 
 The earl of Sutherland, whose forfeit- 
 ure 
 Your grace but now remitted with mine 
 
 now, 
 When we shall meet my brother's men 
 
 in arms, 
 Will die before he yield you to their 
 
 hands. 
 Queen. My lord, you have no brother 
 
 of him now 
 That was your sister's husband. I will 
 
 write 
 To bid him bring up men enough to 
 
 out-match 
 All that ride with us homeward, and so 
 
 far 
 That none the hardi,^st shall but think 
 
 on fight. 
 Three hundred hath your earl ? then in 
 
 his rank 
 There shall be more than of our com- 
 pany. 
 That I to spare men's blood may yield 
 
 myself. 
 Hufitley. It is too gross and foolishly 
 
 devised ; 
 When I spake last with him, he laid on 
 
 you 
 The charge to say where we should 
 
 meet and when. 
 
 And what should by contrivance plead 
 
 for nic, 
 To save my name though you be yielded 
 
 up ' 
 Who ride with mc for escort ; all this 
 
 charge 
 He lays on you, and bids me write 
 
 again 
 What you shall say by letter; of him- 
 self 
 He moves not yet ; and I beseech you 
 
 think. 
 Before you move him, in what enter- 
 prise 
 You put to pledge your honor, that can 
 
 never 
 With honor wed him who being wedded 
 
 man 
 By force and violent hand hath borne 
 
 you off; 
 Nor will my folk endure it, I wot well, 
 But it must come to trial by hap of 
 
 fight 
 With doubt and accident of answering 
 
 arms : 
 Where, if we fail on our part, then on 
 
 his 
 Shall be the blame and bloody note of 
 
 war 
 Made on your personal guard ; but if we 
 
 win 
 That ride with you as followers, then 
 
 is he 
 The most forlorn of men revolted ; 
 
 else, 
 I shall be called of all that sin on earth 
 The most unthankful traitor, who being 
 
 now 
 But newly of your grace remade your 
 
 man 
 Shall yield you up by treason without 
 
 blows 
 Into a rebel's handling; and the lord's, 
 I doubt, when they shall see you in his 
 
 hold. 
 Will think not much to unswear their 
 
 oaths, deny 
 Their words and hands as given through 
 
 force or fear. 
 And signed not of their hearts; I pray, 
 
 think of it, 
 And take some other counsel to you? 
 
 mind. 
 
266 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 Queen. My lord, if you bear back my 
 
 word to him, 
 It shall be this : that, seeing I am come 
 
 so far, 
 If of his own will he withdraw him 
 
 not, 
 F'or no persuasion nor for death itself 
 Will I be brought to break my faith 
 
 with him. 
 For this you say of them that follow 
 
 you. 
 And of your fear to bear a thankless 
 
 name 
 For my supposed betraying, you should 
 
 by now 
 With him have taken counsel of the 
 
 chance. 
 And not have thrown it here across my 
 
 way, 
 Who have no choice to pass not over it, 
 Seeing I may turn not back for life or 
 
 death. 
 For fear or shame or love of any man. 
 As for the place, he doth not well to 
 
 cast 
 On me too even the election: let him 
 
 choose. 
 And send me word, with pardon that 
 
 heiein 
 I tax my lord of too much negligence. 
 For those your followers whom you 
 
 most misdoubt, 
 You shall be wise to weed our train of 
 
 them 
 If any wise mean be to draw them 
 
 forth. 
 This is my counsel, of a simple wit 
 And womanish, but not so vile at heart 
 As to go back for danger from its faith. 
 I pray you so report of mc, and say. 
 When he shall ask you of my mind 
 
 again. 
 No more but this word only : and fare- 
 well. {Exit Huntley. 
 This faint-heart honesty with half a 
 
 hand 
 Is falser found at need than falsehood's 
 
 self, 
 And ever was of me more hated. Oh, 
 That I might take these hours as in my 
 
 hand 
 And men that yet divide us, with one 
 
 grasp 
 
 To gripe them dead and pluck his fang 
 
 from time 
 That waits to fasten on us unawares 
 And make love mortal with the kiss 
 
 that kills! 
 A day and night are as a long life's 
 
 length 
 That part the hungering from the per- 
 fect hour. 
 The void from the fulfilling. — Nay, 
 
 come in. 
 Etiter Mary Beaton and Paris. 
 Alary Beaton. Here waits my lord of 
 
 Bothwell's messenger 
 To bear your word back of Lord Hunt- 
 ley's mind. 
 Queen. Ay, that I found it trustless. 
 
 Tell my lord 
 He makes me mad to put his faith in 
 
 him 
 And to mistrust that which is wholly 
 
 his, 
 Even her true heart to whom he should 
 
 have sent 
 Word every day what she should do for 
 
 him. 
 And hath done nothing of it. I did 
 
 say 
 He should take heed of that false 
 
 brother-in-law. 
 Of whom his negligence and heedless 
 
 faith 
 Have put us in the danger ; on my part 
 There has lacked nothing toward the 
 
 work in hand. 
 And had he not more changed his mind 
 
 than I 
 Since I went from him, he should need 
 
 not now 
 By stranger's lips inquire of my resolve. 
 Say how you see me, and till he send 
 
 mc word 
 That I will here lie sick, as Ciod he 
 
 knows 
 What health I have at heart. Would 
 
 1 were dead, 
 For all I see goes ill ; but tell vour 
 
 lord 
 This was not in his promise that I find. 
 Nor no such matter ; but he lets me 
 
 sec 
 What power has absence on him, to 
 
 whose bow 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 267 
 
 His hand has yet another string than 
 
 mine. 
 And look you warn him of this brother- 
 in-law 
 That he hath babbled of our enterprise 
 Wherein he puts but forth a heartless 
 
 hand, 
 And in what great men's ears he well 
 
 may guess 
 Who knows which most are dangerous; 
 
 yet methinks 
 If still we have need to flatter them, so 
 
 much 
 Might naturally be pleaded on his part, 
 That his good service and long amity 
 Might well deserve his pardon and 
 
 their love 
 If past a subject's duty he put forth, 
 Not to constrain me, but assure himself 
 Of such place nigh me that no foreign 
 
 tongue 
 May by strange counsel hinder my con- 
 sent 
 To that whereto he trusts his service 
 
 shall 
 Make him one day to attain ; with such 
 
 excuse 
 Shall he persuade them that he stands 
 
 compelled 
 To make pursuit against his enemies : 
 And he may find fair words at will to 
 
 say 
 To Maitland most of all, through whose 
 
 keen tongue 
 We hold the rest by the ear ; but if at 
 
 last 
 The deed of our device mislike him 
 
 now. 
 Let him send word, and leave not on my 
 
 head 
 The blame of all; and if it like him 
 
 yet, 
 Say I beseech him for the honor of 
 
 God 
 To come with no less force accom- 
 panied 
 Than of three hundred men ; rather 
 
 with more. 
 For that is all the main part of my 
 
 care; 
 Seeing as for Huntley, I assure myself 
 Te in our play shall henceforth bear no 
 
 part 
 
 But of an honest and a fearful man 
 Whose thought and all his toil of heart 
 
 it is 
 To keep the load of treason from his 
 
 name. 
 Therefore I would not have my lord in 
 
 all 
 Trust or mistrust him, but be circum- 
 spect 
 And take more power unto him. 
 
 Paris. So shall I say ; 
 Your highness hath no message more 
 
 for me .■* 
 Queen. God wot no time it is for us 
 
 to change 
 Tokens and toys of love ; yet I would 
 
 send. 
 For very sorrow, something but in sign 
 That of my heart's grief I accuse not 
 
 him 
 For his cold writing or forgetfulness. 
 His little memory of me and little care, 
 And least of all his promise-breach, 
 
 being now 
 So far made his that what thing pleases 
 
 him 
 Is acceptable to me, and all my thoughts 
 To his so willingly subdued, that all 
 That comes of him proceeds of no 
 
 such root. 
 In mine esteem, as loveless negligence 
 Nor any love's lack, but such only 
 
 cause 
 As I desire, being just and reasonable. 
 Which is the final order he should 
 
 take 
 For his own surety and honor, who 
 
 alone 
 Is my life's stay for which I only will 
 Preserve it, and without which in this 
 
 world 
 My soul desires not but a sudden death. 
 Bear therefore to him, for testimony of 
 
 me, 
 How lowly I submit me to his law 
 In sign of homage this that I take off 
 Of my head's ornament, which is the 
 
 chief 
 And guide of other members, as to say 
 How being possessed of that as of a 
 
 spoil 
 Which is the principal, he needs must 
 
 have 
 
!68 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 The remnant subject to him with heart's 
 
 consent. 
 And for that heart, that seeing I have 
 
 left it him 
 Long since I have not now in hand to 
 
 give, 
 This stone instead I send him, painted 
 
 black 
 And sown with tears and bones, a 
 
 sepulchre 
 Whereto my heart is likened, being 
 
 as it 
 Carved like a tomb or certain recep- 
 tacle 
 To harbor his commandments in, and 
 
 hold 
 More fast than all his memory and his 
 
 name 
 Therein enclosed as in the ring my 
 
 hair, 
 To come forth never till the grant of 
 
 death 
 Shall let him rear a trophy of my 
 
 bones. 
 As is the ring full of them, set therein 
 For sign he has made full conquest of 
 
 my heart. 
 That even the bones must be to him 
 
 bequeathed 
 For memory of his victory and my loss 
 That was so sweet to me : tell him but 
 
 this. 
 And say that by the enamelling of black 
 He shall discern her steadfastness who 
 
 sends 
 And by the tears my fears innumerable 
 Lest I displease him, and those tears I 
 
 shed 
 For his dear absence asid for heart's 
 
 disdain 
 That I may not in outward shape be 
 
 his 
 As with full strength ami heart and 
 
 spirit I am, 
 And with good cause; for were my 
 
 merit more 
 Than hers of all born ever for men's 
 
 love 
 Found worthiest and most i)erfect, and 
 
 as much 
 As I desire it might be in his eve. 
 Well might I s(i rest ever, and shall 
 
 strive 
 
 Still to maintain me in his government 
 As worthily as I may. Say, I beseech 
 
 him 
 That is mine onlv good, in as good part 
 To take it at my hand as I at his 
 With extreme joy received our marriage 
 
 bond. 
 That till the marriage of our bodies be 
 Made publicly shall part not from my 
 
 breast, 
 Which keeps it now in sign of all the 
 
 bliss 
 I can or hope for or desire on earth : 
 And that my letter here brake off for 
 
 dread 
 Lest this as much should weary him to 
 
 read 
 As I took joy to write it; therefore, 
 
 say, 
 Here did I set a kiss as on his hand 
 With such devotion as I pray to God 
 To give him long and blessed life, and 
 
 me 
 That only good of all which I desire 
 And only may pretend to in the world. 
 His lov^e and his good favor who doth 
 
 hold 
 Alone my life up; and this trust I 
 
 showed 
 To you in whom I know the trust he 
 
 hath 
 As I sliall for his sake whose wife I 
 
 am, 
 His humble and obedient lawful wife. 
 To whom my heart and body are dedi- 
 cate 
 And shall in no wise unto death be 
 
 changed 
 Nor good nor evil make me go from it. 
 So tell him, and despatch. 
 
 {Exit Paris. 
 What said Lotd .Mar 
 Touching the child's charge to you ? 
 
 Marv Beaton. Hut thus much : 
 That he would never let it from his 
 
 hand 
 Save with assent of the three several 
 
 states, 
 And on condition there shall be jmo- 
 
 claimed 
 .'^ome honest lord and worthv such a 
 
 charge 
 As captain of the castle of Edinlnirgh, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 269 
 
 Where only may the prince, he says, lie 
 
 safe 
 From them that slew his father. 
 
 Queeti. Ay, so brave ? 
 There speaks a man of trust, found 
 
 honorable. 
 I had as lief be dead as see such men 
 Stand so at point to thwart me : by my 
 
 life, 
 I hold it not a straw's worth in the scale 
 If I must live so shackled. What ! and 
 
 now, 
 When my life trembles on the top of fate. 
 And all my days hang from this edge 
 
 of time 
 'Twixt night and light suspended, 
 
 whence one hour 
 May hurl all hopes down breathless to 
 
 the pit. 
 And cast me broken at the mountain's 
 
 foot. 
 Or set me sure and steadfast in the sun. 
 To be so crossed of cozening honesties. 
 And honors made of craft, and fraudu- 
 lent faith. 
 Would spur a blood more sluggish than 
 
 my sleep 
 And prick a drowsier passion. Well, 
 
 let be: 
 Our time will come to take all these in 
 
 hand. 
 What may doubt deem, then, I would 
 
 do with him, 
 That am his mother ? Nay, I know 
 
 their thought : 
 It is their fear and hatred of my lord 
 That glares askant on me ; and the 
 
 child's self, 
 I think, as little loves me as he need. 
 Knowing In what love I held his father. 
 
 Come, 
 I will yet see, before I take my leave. 
 If there be such a nature in our blood 
 As can command and change the spirit- 
 ual springs 
 And motions of our thought, advance 
 
 or check 
 The pulse of purpose in the soui that 
 
 moves 
 Our longings and our loathings to their 
 
 end 
 By mere control and force unreasonable 
 Of motiveless compulsion ; if such blind 
 
 And sensual chances of the stirring 
 
 veins 
 That feed the heart of child or mother 
 
 may 
 Divert and dull the mind's design, 01 
 
 turn 
 The conscience and the current of the 
 
 will 
 From its full course and action. I 
 
 believe, 
 Albeit I would not hurt the life I bare, 
 Nor shed its blood, it is not possible 
 Such love should live between my child 
 
 and me. 
 Who know what source he came of 
 
 more than mine, 
 And how that part of me once mixed 
 
 therewith 
 Was sullied thence and shamed in 
 
 mine own sight. 
 That loathes to look upon it, yet must 
 
 see 
 In flesh and blood the record writ and 
 
 sealed 
 As oft as I behold him : and you saw 
 He would not lie within mine arm, nor 
 
 kiss, 
 But like a fox-cub scratched and strove. 
 
 to be 
 Free of my hands again. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I see no need 
 In heaven or earth why you should love 
 
 him. 
 Queen. No? 
 They say such law there is to enforce 
 
 such love 
 On either part: I know not; but I 
 
 think 
 Love should but flower from seed of 
 
 love, and this 
 Was but a tare sown timeless and in 
 
 hate ; 
 Yet so much am I mother in my mind, 
 That, be it for love or loathing, from 
 
 my heart. 
 When I perforce commend him to that 
 
 care 
 Which will not yield him naturally to 
 
 mine, 
 F'ain would I parting know if soon or 
 
 late 
 Mine eyes shall turn upon that face 
 
 again 
 
70 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 Which out of me was moulded, and 
 
 take note, 
 When each on each looks equal-eyed, 
 
 and sees 
 His crown a shadow that makes mine 
 
 a shade, 
 What king must this be, and what 
 
 queen shall I. 
 
 Scene VIII. — Dunbar. A Room 
 
 IN THE Castle. 
 Maitland rtW Sir James Melville. 
 Melville. What, have you seen them 
 
 since we came from horse .-* 
 How looks she now t 
 
 Maitland. Disquieted and strange ; 
 And he so hot and high of mood, I 
 
 think 
 W'e have no safeguard from him but in 
 
 her; 
 And Huntley that at Stirling spake with 
 
 me 
 Of this their counsel, and must now 
 
 suspect 
 It was by me discovered to the lords. 
 Will turn perforce his fear of Both- 
 well 's wrath 
 Into a sv/ord to strike as straight as he 
 Even at my life, it may be ; which her 
 
 grace 
 Shall easilier from fear of them redeem 
 Than her own fame from evidence of 
 
 men, 
 That seeing her prisoner see too if she 
 
 came 
 By force or no, and led by heart or 
 
 hand. 
 To Ijonds indeed or freedom. 
 
 Melville. Nay, myself 
 Was warned of him that rode in charge 
 
 of me, — 
 The laird here of Blackadder, — how 
 
 lord 
 Was of our lady's counsel; and but now 
 As thev rode in I heard him swear, and 
 
 lau^h, 
 Who would soe'er or would not, in 
 
 their spite, 
 Yea, though herself she would not with 
 
 her will, 
 Vet should the (|uecn perforce now wed 
 
 with him. 
 
 Maitland. The deed has flushed his 
 
 brain and blood like wine : 
 He is wroth and merry at once, as a 
 
 man mad. 
 There will no good come of it. 
 
 Melville. Surely, sir. 
 Of such loose crafts there cannot : al] 
 
 this land 
 Will cry more loud upon her than on 
 
 him 
 If she be known consenting. 
 
 Maitland. If she be ! 
 How shall not all ears know it on earth 
 
 that hear } 
 But two miles out of Edinburgh, at 
 
 noon, 
 Accompanied of all her guard and us. 
 She, meeting in mid-road at Almond 
 
 Bridge, 
 The unthought-on Bothwell at his horse- 
 troop's head. 
 Who with twelve men lays hand upon 
 
 her rein, 
 Yields herself to him for fear our blood 
 
 be spilt. 
 Or theirs or ours, for tenderness of 
 
 heart 
 Submits her to his violent masterdom, 
 Forbids our swords, ties up all hands 
 
 with words. 
 And doglike follows hither at his hand 
 For pure surprise and suddenness of 
 
 fear 
 That plucks the heart out of resistance ; 
 
 then. 
 Riding beneath the south wall of the 
 
 town, 
 On show of summons to the castle sent 
 For help of us enforced thus of our 
 
 foes, 
 We get but fire of guns charged full of 
 
 sound 
 With hay stuffed in for jiowder ; nno 
 
 God knows 
 Balfour knew naught of this, the gov- 
 ernor. 
 Who was forewarned not first of their 
 
 design, 
 How by no means to cross but further 
 
 it 
 With forecast of his office; nay, all this 
 Was uiulevisctl, and on the sudden 
 
 wrought 
 
BO Til WELL. 
 
 271 
 
 To take her by swift stroke of simple 
 
 hand; 
 And so astonied were we all, and so 
 The castellan, and most of all the 
 
 queen. 
 Why, though the world be drunk with 
 
 faith in lies. 
 Shall God make this too gospel ? From 
 
 this day 
 Shall she begin her ruin ; with rent 
 
 heart 
 I see the ways wherethrough her life 
 
 shall lie, 
 And to what end ; for never henceforth 
 
 more 
 Shall she get good or comfort of men's 
 
 love, 
 Nor power nor honor that a queen 
 
 should have, 
 Nor hap nor hope renewed in all her 
 
 days. 
 She has killed herself to take her king- 
 dom off, 
 And give into strange keeping. 
 
 Enter the Queen, Bothwell, and 
 
 Huntley. 
 Bothwell. Here he stands, — 
 This was the knave that was to baffle 
 
 me : 
 He shall die here. 
 
 Huntley. I will not lose the part 
 My sword should have in him : this 
 
 hour and hand 
 Shall cut off craft and danger. Stand, 
 and die. 
 Maitland. Is it the queen's will that 
 pursues my life ? 
 Then let it strike, and end. 
 
 Queen, I charge you, hold ! 
 I will not foully twice be forced of men 
 To stand and stain mine eyes with 
 
 sight of blood 
 Shed of a friend, and guiltless. Hold, 
 I say ! 
 Bothwell. Stand by, for I will slay 
 
 him. 
 
 Queen. Slay me, then. 
 
 For I will fling my body on their points 
 
 Before your swords shall find him. 
 
 Hark you, sir, [Tc' Huntley. 
 
 Whose father died my traitor in my 
 
 sight: 
 £f one hair perish of my servant's head, 
 
 You that had back your lands and 
 
 goods but now 
 Again .shall lose them with your forfeit 
 
 life 
 For boot of this man's blood. 
 Bothwell. Woman, give way ! 
 Queen. Give all your swords way 
 toward me ; let me bleed 
 Ere this my friend that has been true 
 
 to me : 
 I swear he shall not. 
 
 Maitland. Madam, for God's love, 
 Come you not in their peril ; I am 
 
 armed, 
 If both not run upon me. 
 
 Bothwell. Fool, I say, 
 Give place, or I shall know not what I 
 
 do ; 
 Make me not mad. 
 
 Queen. I cannot fear you yet. 
 Will you strike now? 
 
 Bothwell. I should but do you right. 
 Why thrust you in between me and this 
 
 man 
 Whom your heart knows for traitor, 
 
 and whose tongue 
 Crossed and betrayed our counsel to 
 
 the lords? 
 Had he his will, we should not stand 
 
 to-day 
 Here heart to heart, but you in ward of 
 
 them. 
 And I divided from you. 
 Queeti. My sweet lord, 
 Let not your wrath confound my happi 
 
 ness; 
 Stain not ' my fair and fortunate hour 
 
 with blood 
 Shed of a good man who shall serve 
 
 us yet. 
 It shall more help to have him live our 
 
 friend 
 Than fifty-fold slain of our enemies. 
 Bothwell. Have your will's way: he 
 cannot cross us now ; 
 I care not if he live. 
 
 Maitland. I am bounden to you 
 For so much grace. 
 
 Queen. Vex not his mood again. 
 To-morrow shall all friends be recon- 
 ciled; 
 To-night rest here in surety. 
 
 Bothwell, Be it so. [Exeunu 
 
IWTinVELL. 
 
 Scene IX. — The Same. 
 
 The Queen, Both well, and the Arch- 
 msHOP of St. Andrew's. 
 
 Queen. What counsel, father .^ if their 
 
 league be made 
 So .soon and strong at Stirling, we had 
 
 need 
 Surely by this be fast in Edinburgh. 
 \Ve have sent thither freely as our 
 
 friends 
 Lord Huntley and James Melville, who 
 
 were here 
 As in our ward, not prisoners; every 
 
 day 
 Here lingering makes our enemies bit- 
 
 terer-tongued 
 And our strange state more hazardous ; 
 
 myself 
 More ta.xed for willing bondage, or my 
 
 lord 
 For violence done upon me. 
 
 Archbishop. In my mind, 
 There is no mean of policy now but 
 
 speed, 
 Nor surety but short counsel and stout 
 
 heart. 
 The lords at Stirling, while you put off 
 
 time, 
 Athol and Mar, and Morton with 
 
 Argyle, 
 Are sworn to crown the prince, and of 
 
 his name 
 Make to their cause a standard, if you 
 
 cleave 
 Still to my lord here, from whose vio- 
 lent hand 
 With your own leave they fain would 
 
 pluck you forth. 
 And keep your honor hurtless ; but 
 
 they see 
 Vou will have no deliverance at their 
 
 hands 
 I'roiu him who, as they say, doth boast 
 
 himself. 
 If he may get your child once in his 
 
 ward. 
 To warrant him forever in good time 
 Krom all revenging of his father's 
 
 death. 
 Nav, it is bruited of them all about 
 How you at i)arting would have given 
 
 the boy 
 
 An apple poisoned, which he put away. 
 And dogs that ate it after swelled and 
 
 died. 
 Bothzvell. The devil is in their lips- 
 
 had I free way, 
 Fire should seal up and sear them. 
 
 Arclibishop. So they talk ; 
 The very children's tongues are hot on 
 
 you, 
 And in their plays your shadowy action 
 
 staged 
 And phantoms raised of your presented 
 
 deed : 
 Boys that in Stirling streets had made 
 
 their game 
 To act again the slaying of Darnley, so 
 Were ra])t with passion of the pastime 
 
 feigned 
 They well-nigh slew the player that took 
 
 on him 
 Your part, mv lord, as murderer, and 
 
 came off 
 Half hanged indeed and breathless; 
 
 this I hear, 
 And more much weightier daily from 
 
 that part 
 Pointing the same way on you ; sure it 
 
 is, 
 From France and England messengers 
 
 desire 
 To have the prince delivered to their 
 
 charge 
 As to be fostered for his surety's sake 
 Of one or other, safclicr so bestowed 
 In foreign harborage of a stranger 
 
 court 
 Than at the rough breast of his natu- 
 ral land ; 
 Such offer comes there of Elizabeth 
 To those uncjuiet lords, but other aid 
 They must of her not look for to their 
 
 part 
 WMio stand against their sovereign. 
 
 Now. since these 
 Are dangers evident, and everyday 
 Puts m(jrc in them of dangerous, best 
 
 it were, 
 I think, to meet them warlike point to 
 
 point. 
 Your hands and powers made one, and 
 
 muiti|)lied 
 I!y mutual force and faith ; or you must 
 
 part, 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 273 
 
 And each lose other, and yet be neither 
 saved, 
 
 Or presently with one sole face confront 
 
 The many-mouthed new menace of the 
 time. 
 
 With divers heads deformed of enmi- 
 ties 
 
 That roar and ravin in the night of 
 state 
 
 Made dim with factions; only majesty, 
 
 With light of bared and kindled brows 
 and eyes. 
 
 Can face them to consume; do you but 
 show 
 
 Your soul as high as is your crown, 
 and power 
 
 As plain as is your cause, you shall en- 
 force. 
 
 By resolution and a forthright will, 
 
 The obedience and the allowance of 
 these men 
 
 That would constrain you by the fear 
 of them 
 
 Within the limit of their leave. I say, 
 
 Proclaim at once the fore-ordained di- 
 vorce 
 
 Between his sometime lady and mv 
 lord, 
 
 And hard thereon your marriage, as 
 compelled 
 
 By perilous instance of necessity 
 
 At once to assure you of a husband's 
 help 
 
 And present strength in this your need, 
 who stand 
 
 Fenceless and forceless with no man 
 for stay. 
 
 And could desire none truer and wor- 
 thier trust 
 
 Than him whose service done and val- 
 iant name 
 
 May warrant your remission of such 
 fault 
 
 As men lay on him for the seeming 
 force 
 
 With which unwillingly he stood con- 
 strained 
 
 To save you even for love's sake from 
 their hands. 
 
 Whence, had not he redeemed you as 
 by might. 
 
 They had done you worse wrong than 
 he seemed to do. 
 
 This shall excuse the speed that you 
 
 put on, 
 And leave their hands no time to rise 
 
 that would 
 Prevent you, being unmarried ; and 
 
 your own. 
 Forestalling them, shall take again and 
 
 steer 
 The helm of this land's general weal, 
 
 else left 
 To their cross guidance and false pilot- 
 age. 
 BotJnuell. By God, well said and 
 
 counselled. 
 Queen. All is well. 
 Or shall, if but one thing be ; and \\\ 
 
 you 
 That lies alone of all men. Nay, you 
 
 know it : 
 Wrong me not now to ask. 
 
 BotJnvell. Wrong you not me. 
 To cross my wit with riddles, which you 
 
 know 
 From no man's lips I love. 
 
 Queen. I know not yet 
 If there be naught on any lips that live 
 Save mine that you love better : I can 
 
 tell 
 Too little of your likings. 
 Bothwell. Be not wroth 
 That thus much of them I desire you 
 
 learn. 
 And set your heart to it, once being 
 
 schooled. Fair queen. 
 These are no chambering times, nor sit 
 
 we here 
 To sing love's catches counter-changed 
 
 with words 
 That cross and break in kisses : what 
 
 you will. 
 Be swift to s])eak, or silent. 
 
 Queen. What I will ? 
 I will be sure there hangs about your 
 
 heart 
 No thought that bound it once to one 
 
 cut off 
 And yet may feed it with desire to share 
 What is my treasure and my right to 
 
 have 
 With her most undeserving; which in 
 
 you 
 Were more than Jason's falsehood was, 
 
 that gave 
 
74 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 To his new wife such vantage of his old 
 As you give her of me, whose narrower 
 
 heart 
 Holds not a third part of the faith and 
 
 love 
 That my obedience bears you, though 
 
 she wear 
 Against my will such vantage in your 
 
 sight, 
 By my hard hap ; yet would I think 
 
 not so. 
 Nor liken you to such a trustless man 
 And miserable as he was, nor myself 
 To one so wronged a woman, and being 
 
 wronged 
 In suffering so unpitiful as she. 
 Yet you put in me somewhat of her 
 
 kind 
 That makes me like unto her in any 
 
 thing 
 That touches you or may preserve you 
 
 mine 
 To whom alone you appertain, if that 
 May be called mine by right appropri- 
 ated 
 Which should be won through faithful 
 
 travail, yea, 
 Through only loving of you as God 
 
 knows 
 I do and shall do all my days of life 
 For i^ain or evil that can come thereof: 
 In recompense of which, and all those 
 
 ills 
 You have been ca.se of to me, and 
 
 must think 
 That I esteem no evils for your sake. 
 Let not this woman with her heartless 
 
 tears 
 Nor piteous passion thrust me out of 
 
 door, 
 \Vh(j should sit sole and secret in your 
 
 heart. 
 What hath she borne, or I not borne, 
 
 for you, 
 And would not bear again ? or by what 
 
 gift 
 Have I set store or spared it that might 
 
 To buy your heart's love to me ? Have 
 
 I found 
 Empire, or love of friends, or pride, or 
 
 ])eace. 
 Or hijnor, or safe life, or iimocence. 
 
 Too good things to put from me ; or 
 
 men's wrath. 
 Terror or shame or hatred of mine 
 
 own, 
 Or breach of friends, or kingdom's 
 
 wreck, or sin. 
 Too fearful things to embrace and make 
 
 them mine 
 With as good will and joyous height of 
 
 heart 
 As hers who takes love in her prosper- 
 ous arms 
 And has delight to bridegroom ? Have 
 
 I not 
 Loved all these for your sake? and 
 
 those good things, 
 Have I not all abhorred them ? Would 
 
 I keep 
 One comfort or one harbor or one hope. 
 One ransom, one resource, one resting- 
 place, 
 That might divide me from your dan 
 
 ger, save 
 This head whose crown is humbled at 
 
 your foot 
 From storm that smote on yours? 
 
 Would I sleep warm 
 Out of the wind's way when your saii 
 
 was set 
 By night against the sea-breach / 
 
 Would I wait 
 As might your wife to hear of you, hov/ 
 
 went 
 The day that saw your battle, and hold 
 
 off 
 Till the cry came of fallen or conquer. 
 
 ing men 
 To bid me mourn or triumph ? Kath 
 
 my heart 
 Place for one good thought bred not of 
 
 your good. 
 Or ill thought not depending on your 
 
 ill? 
 What hath she done, that yours hath 
 
 place for her. 
 Or time or thought or pity? 
 
 Both-velL What have I, 
 That yours should fix on her untimely ? 
 
 Nay, 
 Last year she was my wife, and moved 
 
 you not ; 
 And now she is turned forth naked of 
 
 that name, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 275 
 
 And stripped as 'twere to clothe you, 
 
 comes this heat, 
 And fear takes fire lest she turn back, 
 
 or I 
 To thrust you forth instead • you are 
 
 fair and fool 
 Beyond all queens and women. 
 
 Queen. There spake truth. 
 For then you said, most loving. But 
 
 indeed 
 This irks me yet, this galls with doubt 
 
 and fear. 
 That even her plea to be divorced from 
 
 you 
 On some forepast adulterous charge, — 
 
 which proved 
 She wins her asking, — leaves your hand 
 
 not loose 
 By law to wed again, but your same 
 
 deed 
 Frees her from you, and fetters you 
 
 from me. 
 Then stand we shamed and profitless : 
 
 meseems 
 God's very hand can loose not us and 
 
 join. 
 Who binds and looses; though Buc- 
 cleuch make oath 
 * She was contracted to you first, and 
 this 
 No righteous marriage ; though she 
 
 plight her soul 
 As she made proffer for our hope's 
 
 sake ; yea, 
 Though you should bring a hundred 
 
 loves to swear 
 They had the firstlings of your faith, 
 
 who kept 
 No faith with any, nor will keep with 
 
 me, 
 God knows, and I, that have no war- 
 rant yet 
 In my lord's word here which unweds 
 
 you, being 
 Matched with your cousin in the fourth 
 
 degree, 
 And no proof published if the Church's 
 
 grace 
 Were granted for it, or sought ; no help 
 
 of this. 
 If your love give not warrant ; and 
 
 therein 
 If she hath half or I have less than all, 
 
 Then have I nothing of you. — Speak 
 
 to him • 
 Bid him not break his faith, not this 
 
 now mine ; 
 Plead for me with him, father, lest he 
 
 lie, 
 And I too lose him : God shall pardon, 
 
 say. 
 What sin we do for love, or what for 
 
 wrath. 
 Or to defend us from the danger of 
 
 men, 
 But to me, — me, say, if he be forsworn, 
 That God shall forgive it him, nor I. 
 Archbishop. Be not too careful to 
 confound yourself. 
 Those bonds are broken by God's leave 
 
 and law : 
 Make no fresh bonds of your own 
 
 fears, to do 
 What harm these do no more ; he hath 
 
 put her off : 
 Rest there content. 
 
 Queen. Nay, why should I then trust 
 
 He shall not put off me in heart for 
 
 her.? 
 
 Bolhwell. Why, have your choice 
 
 then, and mistrust t God's death ! 
 
 I had deemed I had learnt of women's 
 
 witlessness 
 Some little learning, yet I thought no 
 
 more 
 Than that it was but light as air, snow, 
 
 foam, 
 And all things light, not lighter. I 
 
 would know 
 What men hold foolish yet that hold 
 
 you wise, 
 If not Vour fear. 
 
 Queen. Doth she not love you .'' 
 Bothioell. Ay. 
 
 Queen. Hath she not cause to hate, 
 and doth not hate. 
 Who sues to be put from you, for your 
 
 fault 
 Craves leave to be cut off, as I crave 
 
 leave 
 To take you from her hands, her gift ? 
 
 Bothwell. God knows : 
 She may love, hate, or hate not neither 
 
 love. 
 Or both alike: I know not. 
 Queen. But I know 
 
2/6 
 
 BO Til WELL. 
 
 That you can love not. Nay, then help 
 
 me, (iod ! 
 If I did know this, I would kill myself. 
 \'ft to more proof I would I had put 
 
 your heart, 
 Kre I gave up to it all the might of 
 
 mine — 
 Which is but feebleness. Well, we 
 
 will go ; 
 There is no better counsel. Pardon me 
 If my fear seem to wrangle with my 
 
 faith : 
 They are j^arts but of my love, that 
 
 with itself 
 Strives to be master of its grief and 
 
 joy 
 Lest either overbear it, and therewith 
 Put out my life. Come : all things shall 
 
 be well. 
 
 Scene X. — Holyrood. 
 Enter Herries and SiR James MEL- 
 VILLE. 
 
 Hcrries. Is the work done ? 
 Melville. They are wedded fast ; and 
 
 now 
 I think would one of them to free her- 
 self 
 Oive the right hand she hath given him. 
 
 Hcrrit-s. What, so soon ? 
 Came she as loath into the council-hall. 
 Or were her answers as compelled and 
 
 strange ? 
 Melville. I have not seen for any 
 
 chance till now 
 St) changed a woman in the face as she, 
 Saving with extreme sickness. She 
 
 was wed 
 In her old mourning habits, and her 
 
 face 
 As deadly as were they; the soft warm 
 
 ioy 
 That laughed in its fair feature, and 
 
 put heart 
 In the eyes and gracious lips as to 
 
 salute 
 All others' eyes with sweet regardful- 
 
 ncss, 
 Looked as when winds have worn the 
 
 white-rose leaf; 
 No fire between her eyelids, and no 
 
 flower 
 
 In the April of her cheeks ; their spring 
 
 a-cold, 
 And but for want of very heart to weep 
 They had been rainier than they were 
 forlorn. 
 ELcrries. And his new grace of Ork- 
 ney ? 
 Melville. The good duke 
 Was dumb while Adam Bothwell with 
 
 grave lips 
 Set forth the scandal of his lewd life 
 
 past 
 And fair faith of his present penitence. 
 Whose days to come being higher thar. 
 
 his i)ast place 
 Should expiate those gone by, and their 
 
 good works 
 Atone those evil : hardly twitched his 
 
 eye. 
 Or twinkled half his thick lip's curve 
 
 of hair. 
 Listening; but when the bishop made 
 
 indeed 
 Mis large hard hand with hers so flower- 
 Tike fast. 
 He seemed as 'twere for pride and 
 
 mighty heart 
 To swell aiul shine with passion, ami 
 
 his eye 
 To take into the fire of its red look 
 All dangers and all atlverse things that 
 
 might 
 Rise out of days unrisen, to burn them 
 
 up 
 With its great heat of triumph ; and 
 
 the hand 
 Fastening on hers so griped it that her 
 
 lips 
 Trembled, and turned to catch the 
 
 smile from his, 
 ;\s though her spirit had put its own 
 
 life off. 
 And sense of jov or property of pain. 
 To close with his alone; but this twin 
 
 smile 
 Was briefer than a flash or gust that 
 
 strikes 
 And is ni)t; for the next word was not 
 
 said 
 Ere her face waned again to winter 
 
 ward 
 ;\s a m(u)n smitten, and her aiir^wer 
 
 came 
 
BO Til WELL. 
 
 27: 
 
 As words from dead men wickedly 
 
 wrung forth 
 By craft of wizards, forged and forceful 
 
 breath 
 "Which hangs on lips that loathe it. 
 
 Herries. Will you think 
 This was not haply but for show, to 
 
 wear 
 The likeness as of one not all con- 
 strained 
 Nor all consenting, willingly enforced 
 To do her will as of necessity ? 
 1 hat she might seem no part yet of his 
 
 plot, 
 But as compelled by counsel of those 
 
 lords 
 Who since her coming have subscribed 
 
 by name 
 The paper of advice that in his cause 
 Declares what force of friends has 
 
 Bothvvell here 
 In Lothian and on all the border's 
 
 march 
 To keep good order, and how well it 
 
 were 
 She should for surety wed him whom 
 
 she needs 
 Must wed for honor, or perforce live 
 
 shamed 
 By violence done upon her. 
 Melville. No : there hung 
 Too much of fear and passion on her 
 
 face 
 To be put off when time shall be to 
 
 unmask. 
 The fire that moved her, and the mount- 
 ing will. 
 While danger was and battle was to be. 
 Now she hath leapt into the pit alive 
 To win and wear the diamond, are no 
 
 more : 
 Hope feels the wounds upon its hands 
 
 and feet 
 That clomb and clung, now halting 
 
 since the hour 
 That should have crowned has bruised 
 
 it. No, 'tis truth : 
 She is heart-struck now, and labors 
 
 with herself, 
 As one that loves, and trusts not but 
 
 the man 
 Who makes so little of men's hate may 
 
 make 
 
 Of women's love as little; with this 
 
 doubt 
 New-born within her, fears that slept 
 
 awake, 
 And shame's eyes open that were shut 
 
 for love. 
 To see on earth all pity hurt to death 
 By her own hana, and no man's face 
 
 her friend 
 If his be none for whom she casts them 
 
 off. 
 And finds no strength against him in 
 
 their hands. 
 Herries. Small strength indeed, or 
 
 help of craft or force, 
 Must she now look for of them ; and 
 
 shall find, 
 I fear, no stay against men's spirits and 
 
 tongues, 
 Nor shelter in the observance of their 
 
 will 
 That she puts on, submitting her own 
 
 faith 
 To the outward face of theirs, as in 
 
 this act 
 Of marriage, and the judgment now 
 
 enforced 
 Against the allowance of the mass, albeit 
 With a bruised heart and loathing did 
 
 she bow 
 That royal head and hand imperious 
 
 once 
 To give so much of her soul's trust 
 
 away ; 
 And little shall it stead her. 
 
 Melville. So fear I : 
 'Tis not the warrant of an act affirmed 
 Against the remnants of her faith, nor 
 
 form 
 Of this strange wedlock, shall renew to 
 
 her 
 Men's outworn love and service ; nay, 
 
 and strife 
 Lies closer to her than fears from out- 
 ward : these 
 Whose swords and souls attend on her 
 
 new lord. 
 Both now for fault of pay grown 
 
 mutinous, 
 From flat revolt they hardly have re- 
 deemed 
 With the queen's jewels and that Eng 
 
 lish gift 
 
2/8 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Of the gold font sent hither for the 
 
 prince, 
 That served him not for christening, 
 
 melted now 
 To feed base hands with gold, and stop 
 
 loud throats. 
 Whose strength alone and clamor put 
 
 such heart 
 In Bothwell, that he swore to hang the 
 
 man 
 Who would not speak their banns at 
 
 first, and now 
 But utters them with lips that yet pro- 
 test 
 Of innocent blood and of adulterous 
 
 bonds 
 By force proclaimed, and fraudful ; and 
 
 this Craig 
 The townsmen love, and heed not that 
 
 for craft 
 Each day will Bothwell hear men 
 
 preach, and show 
 To them that speak all favor, and will 
 
 sit 
 A guest at burghers' boards unsum- 
 
 moned; yet 
 Men's hate more swells against him, to 
 
 behold 
 How by ihe queen he rides unbonneted, 
 And she rebukes his too much courtesy ; 
 So that their world witnin doors and 
 
 without 
 Swells round them doubtfully toward 
 
 storm, and sees 
 This hot-brained helmsman in his own 
 
 conceit 
 Even here in port, who drifts indeed at 
 
 sea. 
 Herries. Short time will wind this 
 
 up: the secretary, 
 Whose blood the queen would see not 
 
 shed of him, 
 l.> slipped away for Stirling, there to join 
 With Lindsay and the lords ere this 
 
 combined, 
 I'rcnn whom I may not now divide my- 
 self. 
 On the child's party. Not a hand will 
 
 stay 
 Nor heart upon this side-; the llamil- 
 
 tons, 
 For their own ends that set this mar- 
 riage on, 
 
 Will for those ends with no sad hearts 
 behold 
 
 At others' hands her imminent over- 
 throw. 
 Melville. This was the archbishop's 
 counsel, that annulled 
 
 Last year's true marriage to procure the 
 queen's. 
 
 And even therein betray her. God 
 mend all ! 
 
 But I misdoubt me lest the sun be set 
 
 That looked upon the last of her good 
 days. 
 
 Scene XL — The Same. 
 The Queen and Bothwell; Mary 
 Beaton and Arthur Erskine in 
 attendance. 
 
 Queen. Are you yet wroth } 
 Bothwell. Are you yet wise ? to know 
 If I be wroth, should less import than 
 
 this 
 Which I would fain find of you. 
 
 Queen. By my life, 
 I think I am but wise enough to know 
 That witless I was ever. 
 
 Bothzuell. Ay, but most, 
 You mean, to wed me, that am graceless 
 
 more 
 Than witless you that wedded, in men's 
 
 eyes 
 Who justliest judge of either; yet, by 
 
 God, 
 Had I not grace enough to match with 
 
 you, 
 I must have less than in their minds 
 
 I have 
 And tongues of them that curse me. 
 
 But what grief 
 Wrings now your heart or whets your 
 
 tongue, that strikes 
 When the heart stirs not ? 
 
 Queen. Nav, no grief it is 
 To be cut off from all men's company, 
 Watched like a thief lest he bieak 
 
 ward by night, 
 My chamber-door set round with men 
 
 al-arms, 
 My steps and looks espied on, hands 
 
 and feet 
 Fettered as 'twere with glances of 
 
 strange eyes 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 279 
 
 That guard me lest I stray ; my ways, 
 
 my words, 
 My very sleep, their subject. 
 Both-well. You were wont 
 To walk more free ; I wot you have 
 
 seen fair days 
 When you lived large i' the sun, and 
 
 had sweet tongues 
 To sing with yours, and haply lips and 
 
 eyes 
 To make song sweeter than the lute 
 
 may : now 
 'Tis hard that you sit here my woful 
 
 wife. 
 Who use you thus despitefully, that 
 
 yet 
 Was never queen so mated with a 
 
 groom 
 And so mishandled : have you said so ? 
 Queen. I ? 
 Bothwell. Who hath put these words 
 
 else in men's mouths, that prate 
 How you lie fast in prison ? I did know 
 A woman's tongue keen as her faith 
 
 was light. 
 But faith so like the wind spake never 
 
 yet 
 With tongue so like a sword's point. 
 
 Queen. No, my lord ? 
 Tis well that I should hear so first of 
 
 you. 
 Who best may know the truth of your 
 
 worst word. 
 Bothwell. Is it no truth that men so 
 
 speak, and you. 
 By speech or silence or by change of 
 
 face. 
 By piteous eyes or angry, give them 
 
 cause 
 To babble of your bonds ? What 
 
 grace you show 
 Toward others is as doubt and hate of 
 
 me 
 In these our enemies' sight, who see it, 
 
 and swear 
 You are kept in ward here of my will, 
 
 and made. 
 Out of no trust or love but force and 
 
 fear. 
 Thrall to my hand. Why, being but 
 
 two days wed. 
 Must there be cause between us of dis- 
 pute 
 
 For such a thing as this man, in whose 
 
 name 
 I am crossed and slighted of your wan- 
 ton will } 
 Queen. If he be worth no mor« than 
 
 you conceive. 
 What grace I do him can hurt you.-* 
 
 Bothwell. I conceive ! 
 Why, what worth is he with you, that I 
 
 should 
 Conceive the least thought of him ? 
 
 Were I hurt. 
 Assure yourself it would be to his 
 
 death : 
 Lay that much to your heart. 
 Queen. My heart is killed. 
 I have not where to lay it. 
 
 Bothwell. Pray you, no tears. 
 I have seen you weep when dead men 
 
 were alive, 
 That for your eye-drops wept their 
 
 hearts' blood out : 
 So will not 1. You have done me fool 
 
 ish wrong. 
 And haply cast your fame for food to 
 
 hounds 
 Whose teeth will strip it hour by hour 
 
 more bare 
 Whereon they have gnawed before. 
 
 Queen. What have I done ? 
 Speak. 
 Bothtuell. Nay, I will, because you 
 
 know not. Hark : 
 You are even too simple and harmless ; 
 
 being man's wife. 
 Not now the first time, you should buy 
 
 more wit 
 Though with less innocence ; you have 
 
 given a gift, 
 Out of your maiden singleness of soul 
 And eye most witless of misconstruing 
 
 eyes, 
 Where you should not: this is strange 
 
 truth to you. 
 But truth, God help us! that man's 
 
 horse who was 
 Your husband, and whose chattels, 
 
 place, and name 
 Lie in my hold I think now lawfully. 
 Whence none is like to wring them, 
 
 have you given 
 Out of my hand to one of whom fame 
 
 saith 
 
28o 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 That by the witness of a north-land 
 
 witch 
 lie when I die must wed you, and mv 
 
 life 
 Shall last not half a year ; for in your 
 
 bed 
 Must lie two husbands after me, and 
 
 you 
 Shall in your fifth lord's lifetime die by 
 
 fire. 
 Now, being but third and least in worth 
 
 of these, 
 I would not have you die so red a death. 
 Hut keep you from all fresh or fiercer 
 
 heat 
 Than of my lips and arms ; for which 
 
 things' sake 
 I am not blithe, so please you, to behold 
 How straight this lay lord abbot of 
 
 Arbroath 
 Sits in your husband's saddle. Pardon 
 
 me 
 That with my jealous knowledge I con- 
 found 
 Your virginal sweet ignorance of men's 
 
 minds, 
 111 thoughts and tongues unmannerly, 
 
 that strike 
 At the pure heart which dreams not on 
 
 such harm : 
 It is my love and care of your life's 
 
 peace 
 Makes me thus venturous to wage 
 
 words with you, 
 And put such troublous things in your 
 
 fair mind, 
 Whereof Ood wot you knew not; and 
 
 to end. 
 Take this much of me : live what life 
 
 you mav, 
 Or die what death, while I have part 
 
 in you, 
 None shall have part with me ; nor 
 
 touch nor word. 
 Nor eye nor hand, nor writing, nor one 
 
 'thought, 
 The lightest that may hang ui^on a look, 
 Shall man get of you that I know not 
 
 of. 
 And answer not upon him. He you 
 
 sure 
 I am not of such fool's mould cast in 
 
 tlesh 
 
 As royal-blooded husbands; being no 
 
 king. 
 Nor kin of kings, but one that keep 
 
 unarmed 
 My head but with my hand, and have 
 
 no wit 
 To twitch you strings, and match you 
 
 rhyme for rhyme, 
 And turn and twitter on a tripping 
 
 tongue. 
 But so much wit to make my word and 
 
 sword 
 Keep time and rhyme together, say and 
 
 slay. 
 Set this down in such record as you list, 
 But keep it surer than you keep your 
 
 mind 
 If that be changing ; for bv heaven and 
 
 hell 
 I swear to keep the word I give you 
 
 fast 
 As faith can hold it, that who thwarts 
 
 me here, 
 Or comes across my will's way in my 
 
 wife's, 
 Dies as a dog dies, doomless. Now, 
 
 your pleasure : 
 I prate no more. 
 
 Qnct'it. Shall I be handled thus? 
 Bot/nvc-ll. You have too much been 
 handled otherwise : 
 Now will I keep you from men's hands 
 
 in mine, 
 Or lack the use of these. 
 
 Queen. What, to strike me.? 
 You shall not need : give me a knife to 
 
 strike. 
 That I may let my life out in his eye, 
 Or I will (irown myself. 
 
 Bot/ncell. Why, choose again: 
 I cross you not. 
 
 Queeii. Clive me a knife, I say. 
 Arthur Erskifie. Make not our hearts 
 bleed, madam, as they burn 
 To hear what we hear silent. 
 
 Both-vell. Comfort her : 
 You were her chamber-knight on 
 David's day. 
 Arthur Erskine. My lord, the rev- 
 erence that the' cpieen's sight 
 bears, 
 And awe toward he*-, make me thu.- 
 slow to set 
 
noTinvr.LL. 
 
 281 
 
 My hand to do what work my heart 
 
 bids ; else 
 I would not doubt to stand before your 
 
 grace, 
 And make such answer as her servant 
 
 may. 
 Queen. Forbear him, Arthur : nay, 
 
 and me ; 'tis I 
 ; )n whom all strokes first fall and sorest 
 
 smite, 
 Who most of all am shieldless, without 
 
 stay, 
 And look' for no man's comfort. — Pray 
 
 you, sir, 
 If it be in your will that I cast off 
 This heavy life to lighten your life's 
 
 load 
 That now with mine is laden, let me 
 
 die 
 More queenlike than this dog's death 
 
 you denounce 
 Agains'^t the man that falls into your 
 
 hate; 
 Though not for love, yet shame, be- 
 cause I was 
 A queen that loved you : else you 
 
 should not seem 
 So royal in her sight whose eyes you 
 
 serve. 
 Nor she when I am dead with such 
 
 high heart 
 Behold you, nor with such glad lips 
 
 commend 
 As conqueror of me slain for her love's 
 
 sake 
 And servant of her living in your love. 
 Let me die therefore queenlike, and 
 
 your sword 
 Strike where your tongue hath struck ; 
 
 though not so deep, 
 It shall suffice to cleave my heart and 
 
 end. 
 Bothwell. Hear you, my queen : if we 
 
 twain be one flesh, 
 I will not have this daintier part of it 
 Turn any timeless hand against itself 
 To hurt me, nor this fire which is your 
 
 tongue 
 Shoot any flame on me r no fuel am I 
 To burn and feed you ; not a spark you 
 
 shed 
 Shall kindle me to ruin, but with my 
 
 foot 
 
 Rather will I tread out the light that 
 
 was 
 A firebrand for the death of many a 
 
 man 
 To light the pile whereon they burnt 
 
 alive. 
 What! have I taken it in my hand to 
 
 scorch 
 And not to light me } or hath it set 
 
 fire 
 To so few lives already, that who bears 
 Needs not to watch it warily and wake 
 When the night falls about him .'' Nay, 
 
 the man 
 Were twice the fool that these your 
 
 dead men were. 
 Who seeing as I have seen and in his 
 
 hand 
 Holding the fire I carry through the 
 
 dark 
 To be the beacon of my travelling days, 
 And shine upon them ended, should 
 
 not walk 
 With feet and eyes both heedful at 
 
 what hour. 
 By what light's leading, on what ground 
 
 he goes, 
 And toward what end. Be therefore 
 
 you content 
 To keep your flame's heat for your ene- 
 mies' bale. 
 And for your friend that large and lib- 
 eral light 
 That gave itself too freely, shot too 
 
 far, 
 Till it was closed as in a lantern up 
 To make my path plain to me ; which 
 
 once lost, 
 The light goes out forever. 
 
 Queen. Yea, I know ; 
 My life can be but light now to your 
 
 life. 
 And of no service else ; or, if none 
 
 there. 
 Even as you say, must needs be 
 
 quenched; and would 
 The wind that now beats on it and the 
 
 sea 
 Had quenched it ere your breath, aM(f 
 
 I gone out 
 WHth no man's blood behind me I 
 
 Bothiuell. Come, be wise : 
 Our sun is not yet sunken. 
 
282 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Queen. No, not yet : 
 The sky must even wax redder than it 
 
 is 
 When that shall sink; darkness and 
 
 smoke of hell, 
 Clouds that rain blood, and blast of 
 
 winds that wreck, 
 Shall be about it setting. 
 
 Bothwell. What ! your heart 
 Fails you now first that shrank not 
 
 when a man's 
 .♦light well at need have failed him ? 
 
 Queen. Ay, and no ; 
 It is the heart that fired me, fails my 
 
 heart ; 
 And as that bows beneath it, so doth 
 
 mine 
 Bend, and will break so surely. 
 
 Bothwell. Nay, not mine : 
 There is not weight yet on our adverse 
 
 part. 
 Fear not, to bend it. 
 
 Queen. Yet it fails me now. 
 I have leant too much my whole life's 
 
 weight on it 
 With all my soul's strength, and be- 
 neath the fraught 
 I hear it split and sunder. Let me 
 
 rest : 
 I would fain sleep a space now. Who 
 goes there .'* 
 Mary Beaton. A suitor to behold 
 
 your majesty. 
 Queen. I will not see him. Who 
 should make suit to me .'' 
 Who moves yet in this world so miser- 
 able 
 That I can comfort ? or what hand so 
 
 weak 
 It should be now my suppliant, or up- 
 lift 
 In prayer ff)r help's sake to lay hold on 
 
 mine ? 
 What am I to give aid or alms, who 
 
 have 
 Nor alms nor aid at hand of them to 
 
 whom 
 I gave not some but all part of myself.^ 
 I will not see him. 
 
 Mary Beaton. It is a woman. 
 Queen. Ay ? 
 liut yet I think no queen ; and cannot 
 be 
 
 But therefore happier and more strong 
 
 than I. 
 Yet I will see what woman's face for 
 
 grief 
 Comes to seek help at mine; if she be 
 
 mad. 
 Me may she teach to lose my wits and 
 
 woes, 
 And live more enviable than ye that yet 
 Have wit to know me wretched. 
 Enter Jane Gordon. 
 
 Who is this.' 
 Are you my suitor ? 
 
 Ja7ie Gordon. I am she that was 
 Countess of Bothwell : now my name 
 
 again 
 Is that my father gave me. 
 
 Queen. Ay, no more ; 
 You are daughter yet and sister to 
 
 great earls. 
 And bear that honor blameless; be it 
 
 enough ; 
 And tell me wherefore by that name 
 
 you come. 
 And with what suit, before me. 
 
 Jane Gordon. Even but this : _ 
 To look once on you, and to bid fare- 
 well, 
 Ere I fare forth from sight. 
 
 Queen. Farewell ; and yet 
 I know not who should in this world 
 
 fare well. 
 Is the word said ? 
 
 Jane Gordon. A little leave at last 
 I pray you give me : that I seek it 
 
 not 
 For love or envy toward my sometime 
 
 lord. 
 Or heart toward you disloyal now my 
 
 queen, 
 Let me not plead uncredited. I came 
 Surely with no good hope to no glad 
 
 end. 
 But with no thought so vile of will as 
 
 this, 
 To thrust between your hearts the care 
 
 of me. 
 Claim right or challenge pity, melt or 
 
 fret 
 Your eves with forced compassion : 1 
 
 did think 
 To have kissed your hand, and some 
 thing said for sign 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 283 
 
 I had come not of weak heart or evil 
 
 vill, 
 15ut in good faith, to see how strong in 
 
 love 
 They stand whose joy makes joyless all 
 
 my life, 
 Whose loving leaves it loveless, and 
 
 their wealth 
 Feeds full upon my famine. Be not 
 
 wroth : 
 I speak net to rebuke you of my want, 
 (Jr of my loss reprove you, that you 
 
 take 
 My crown of love to gild your crown 
 
 of gold; 
 I know what right you have, and take 
 
 no shame 
 To sit for your sake humbled, who 
 
 being born 
 A poor mean woman would not less 
 
 have been 
 l)y God's grace royal, and by visible 
 
 seal 
 A natural queen of women ; but being 
 
 crowned 
 \o\x make the throne imperial, and 
 
 your hand 
 Puts power into the sceptre ; yea, this 
 
 head 
 Of its gold circlet takes not majesty. 
 But gives it of its own ; this may men 
 
 see, 
 And I deny not ; nor is this but just, 
 That I, who have no such honor born 
 
 or given, 
 Should have not either, if it please you 
 
 not, 
 Tnat which I thought I had ; the name 
 
 I wore, 
 The hand scarce yet a year since laid 
 
 in mine, 
 The eye that burned on mine as on a 
 
 wife's, 
 The lip that swore me faith, the heart 
 
 that held 
 No thought or throb wherein I had no 
 
 part, 
 Or heaved but with a traitor's breath, 
 
 and beat 
 With pulse but of a liar. 
 
 Bothwell. Ay, swore I so ? 
 Why, this was truth last year then. 
 Queen. Truth, my lord ? 
 
 What does the fire of such a word as 
 
 this 
 Between such lips but burn them, as 
 
 mine ears 
 Burn that must hear by your device and 
 
 hers 
 With what strange flatteries on her 
 
 prompted lij^s 
 This dame unwedded lifts her hand 
 
 unringed 
 To abash me with its show of faith, 
 
 and make 
 Your wife ashamed at sight of such a 
 
 love 
 As yet she bears you that is not your 
 
 wife ? 
 Bothwell. What devil should prick 
 
 me to such empty proof 
 And pride unprofitable.'' I pray you 
 
 think 
 I am no such boy to boast of such a 
 
 spoil 
 As chamberers make their brag of. 
 
 Let her speak. 
 And part not as unfriends. 
 Queen. Madam, and you 
 That thus renumber and resound his 
 
 vows. 
 To what good end I know not, in our 
 
 ear, — 
 What would you have of him whom 
 
 your own will 
 Rose up to plead against as false, to 
 
 break 
 His bonds that irked you, and unspeak 
 
 the word 
 That held you hand in hand } Did you 
 
 not pray 
 To be set free from bondage, and now 
 
 turn 
 To question with the hand that you 
 
 put off 
 If it did well to loose you ? 
 Jane Gordon. Truly, no ; 
 Nor will I question with your grace in 
 
 this. 
 Whether by mine own will and uncom- 
 
 pelled 
 I only would have put that hand away 
 That I will say would yet have held 
 
 mine fast 
 But for my frowardness and rancorous 
 
 mind; 
 
284 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Let all 'his even be so; as he shall 
 
 sav 
 Who will say naught but with your 
 
 ciueenly will, 
 Why, so will' I. Yet ere I am gone, 
 
 my lord, — 
 Oh, not my lord, but hers whose thrall 
 
 am I, — 
 My sometime friend and yet not enemy, 
 If this thing not offend you, that I 
 
 crave 
 So much breath of you as may do me 
 
 right, 
 I pray you witness for me how far forth 
 And 'fo'r what love's sake I took part 
 
 with you. 
 Or gave consent to our devised divorce, 
 And if this were for hate ; for you 
 
 should know 
 How much of old time I have hated 
 
 you, 
 How bitter made my heart, what jeal- 
 ous edge 
 Set on mine envy toward you : spare 
 
 not then 
 To say if out of cold or cankered heart 
 I sought, or yielded shamefully for 
 
 spite, 
 To be divided from you. Nay, forbear ; 
 Speak not, nor frown on me ; you can- 
 not say 
 1 was your loveless or disloyal wife. 
 Or in my void bed on disconsolate 
 
 nights 
 Sought comfort but of tears : nor that 
 
 I held 
 Mine honor hurt of that which bruised 
 
 mv heart, 
 And grudged to help you to mine own 
 
 most wrong, 
 And lend you mine own hand to smite 
 
 myself, 
 And make you by mine own mouth 
 
 (piit of me. 
 This that I did, and wherefore I did 
 
 this. 
 And if for love's or hate's sake, verily 
 You shall not say you know not, and 
 
 the (|ueen 
 Shall blame me not to put you yet in 
 
 mind, 
 Kor think it much that I make record 
 
 licrc 
 
 Of this that was between us : wherefore 
 
 now 
 I take no shame at this my leave-taking 
 To part as one that has not erred 
 
 herein. 
 To love too little; this shall not be said 
 When one bethinks him such a woman 
 
 was. 
 That with poor spirit or with contracted 
 
 heart 
 I gave myself to love you, or was found 
 Too mean of mind or sparing of my 
 
 soul 
 To cast for love the crown of love 
 
 away. 
 And when vou bade refuse you for mv 
 
 lord,' 
 Whom, had you bidden, with my 
 
 whole heart's blood 
 I had thought not much to purchase 
 
 for my love : 
 But seeing nor blood nor all my body's 
 
 tears 
 Might buy you back to love me, I was 
 
 fain 
 That vou should take them and mv verv 
 
 ' life 
 To buy new love and life with. Sir, 
 
 and now 
 Ere we twain part — 
 
 Queen. What! are ye parted not ? 
 Between his lover and my lord I stand, 
 And see them weep and wrangle ere 
 
 they part, 
 And hold my peace for pity! 
 
 Jane Gordon. God shall judge 
 If with jHire heart and patience, or 
 
 with soul 
 That burns and pines, I would have 
 
 said farewell : 
 I crave but this much of your grace 
 
 and God's, — 
 Make me at last not angry. 
 
 Queen. Have you held 
 No counsel or communion with my loril 
 Since — I am shamed that take upon 
 
 my lips 
 Such inc'iuisition. If you have aught 
 
 yet, speak ; 
 I bid not nor forbid you. 
 
 jfane Gordon. Naught but this, — 
 To unpledge my faith, unplight my 
 love, and so 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 2S5 
 
 Set on his hand the seal by touch of 
 
 mine 
 That sunders us. 
 
 Queen. You shall not take his hand. 
 Jane Gordon. I think not ever then 
 
 to touch it more, 
 Nor now desire, who have seen with 
 
 eyes more sad 
 \Iore than I thought with sorrowing 
 
 eyes to see 
 When I came hither : so this long last 
 
 time 
 tarewell, my lord; and you, his queen, 
 
 farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Qiceen. Hath she made end ? While 
 
 I have part in you, 
 None shall have part %vith me ; was this 
 
 my lord. 
 Was this not you that said so? 
 
 Botlnvell. Come, enough : 
 1 am bound not to be baited of your 
 
 tongues. 
 Queen. Bid her come back. 
 Bot/noell. What! are you foolish? 
 
 think 
 You twain shall look in cither's eyes 
 
 no more. 
 Queen. Why should I look in yours 
 
 to find her there ? 
 For there she sits as m a mirror shown 
 l>y the love's light enkindled from your 
 
 heart. 
 That flashed but on me like a fen-fire lit 
 To lure me to my grave's edge, whence 
 
 I fall 
 Deep as the pit of hell ; but yet for 
 
 shame 
 Deny not her to me as me to her, 
 Me that have known this ever, but 
 
 lacked heart 
 To put the thing to use I knew; and 
 
 now 
 For both our sakes who have loved 
 
 you, play not false 
 But with one love at once; take up 
 
 your love 
 And wear it as a garland in men's 
 
 sight. 
 For it becomes you : if you love me 
 
 not. 
 You have lied by this enough; speak 
 
 truth, shake hands. 
 Loose hearts, and leave me. 
 
 Bothwell. Vex not me too long, 
 Vexing your own heart thus with 
 
 vanity; 
 Take up your wisdom that you have at 
 
 will. 
 And wear it as a sword in danger's 
 
 sight 
 That now looks hard upon us. Mine 
 
 you are. 
 Love iiie or love not, trust me not or 
 
 trust. 
 As vours am I ; and even as T in you. 
 Have faith in me, no less nor further: 
 
 then 
 We shall have trust enough on either 
 
 part 
 To build a wall about us at whose 
 
 foot 
 That sea of iron swayed by winds of 
 
 war 
 Shall break in foam like blood; and 
 
 hurled once back. 
 The hearts and swords of all our 
 
 enemies fallen 
 Lie where they fell forever. Know 
 
 but this. 
 And care not what is unknown else : 
 
 we twain 
 Have wrought not out this fortune that 
 
 we have, 
 Nor made us way to such an hour and 
 
 power, 
 To let men take and break it, while as 
 
 fools 
 We kiss and brawl and cry and kiss 
 
 again, 
 And wot not when they smite. For 
 
 these next days. 
 We will behold the triumph held at 
 
 Leith 
 And pageant of a sea-fight as set forth 
 With open face and spirit of joyous- 
 
 ness. 
 To fix this faith in all men's eyes and 
 
 minds. 
 That while life lives we stand indis- 
 soluble : 
 Then shall you send out for your child 
 
 again 
 Forth of Lord Mar's good keeping, 
 
 that your heart 
 May here have comfort in his present 
 sight ; 
 
86 
 
 BOTI/IVELL. 
 
 So shall all these who make his name 
 
 their sword 
 Lie wcajionless within our hand and 
 
 hold, 
 Who are drawn in one against us, or 
 
 prepare, 
 While we delay, for Stirling; where by 
 
 this, 
 I am certified on faith of trusty men, 
 Argyle is met with Morton, our good 
 
 friends 
 That served us for their turn, with some 
 
 that helped 
 To make our match and some that 
 
 would have marred. 
 Once several-souled, now in their envies 
 
 one, 
 A.S Lindsay, Athol, Ilcrries; and to 
 
 these 
 Maitland is fled, your friend that must 
 
 not bleed, 
 Vour counsellor is stolen away and 
 
 lives 
 To whet his wit against you; but my- 
 self, 
 When we have shown us to the people, 
 
 and seen 
 What eye they turn upon our marriage 
 
 feast. 
 Will ride to Melrose, and raise up from 
 
 sleep 
 Their hardy hearts whom now mine 
 
 unfriends there 
 Hold in subjection ; Herries nor Lord 
 
 Ihunc 
 Nor ^L-lxwcll shall have power to tie 
 
 them up 
 When I shall bid them forth, and all 
 
 the march 
 Shall rise beneath us as with swell 
 
 o' the sea 
 And wash of thickening waters when 
 
 the wind 
 Makes the sea's heart leap with such 
 
 nii^ht of joy 
 As hurls its waves together ; there shall 
 
 we 
 Ride on their backs as warriors, and 
 
 our ship 
 Dance high toward harbor. Put but 
 
 on the spirit 
 Vou had in all times that beset your 
 
 peace, 
 
 Since you came home, with danger; in 
 
 those wars 
 That made the first years clamorous of 
 
 your reign. 
 And in this past and perilous year of 
 
 ours 
 Where you lacked never heart. Be 
 
 seen again 
 The royal thing men saw you ; these 
 
 your friends 
 Shall look more friendly on our wedded 
 
 faith 
 Seeing no more discord of our days 
 
 to be. 
 And our bold borderers with one heart 
 
 on fire 
 Burn in your warlike safeguard, once to 
 
 strike 
 And end all enemies' quarrel. When 
 
 we part. 
 At Borthwick Castle shall you look for 
 
 me, 
 Where I will gather friends more fain 
 
 of fight 
 Than all our foes may muster. 
 
 Queen. Sir, so be it ; 
 But now my heart is lower than once it 
 
 was. 
 And will not sit, I think, again so high, 
 Though my days turn more prosperous 
 
 than I deem. 
 But let that be. — Come, friends, and 
 
 look not sad 
 Though I look sadder; make what 
 
 cheer wc may, 
 For festival or fight, or shine or shower, 
 I will not fail you yet. God give me 
 
 heart, 
 That never so much lacked it ! yea, he 
 
 shall. 
 Or I will make it out of mine own 
 
 fears. 
 And with my feebleness increase my 
 
 force, 
 And build my hope the higher that joy 
 
 lies low 
 Till all be lost and won. — Lead you, 
 
 my lord. 
 And fear not l)ut I follow : I have wept 
 When I should laugh, and laughed 
 
 when I should weep. 
 And now live humbler than I thought 
 
 to be ; 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 287 
 
 I ask not of your love, but of mine own 
 I have yet left to give. Come, we will 
 
 see 
 These pageants or these enemies; my 
 
 heart 
 Shall look alike on either. Be not 
 
 wroth ; 
 I will be merry while I li^e, and die 
 When I have leave. My spirit is sick : 
 
 would God 
 We were now met at Borthwick, with 
 
 men's spears 
 And noise of friends about us; friend 
 
 or foe, 
 I care not whether; here I am sore at 
 
 heart, 
 As one that cannot wholly wake nor 
 
 sleep 
 Till death receive or life reprieve me. 
 
 Come ; 
 We should be glad now : let the world 
 
 take note 
 We are glad in spite and sight of enmi- 
 ties 
 That are but worth the hour they take 
 
 to quell. 
 
 Scene XIL — Stirling Castle. 
 
 Maitland and Lindsay. 
 Lindsay. Is there such breach be- 
 tween them ? why, men said, 
 
 When they would ride through Edin- 
 burgh, and he 
 
 Bareheaded at her bridle, she would 
 take 
 
 By force and thrust his cap upon hie 
 head 
 
 With loving might and laughing; and 
 at Leith 
 
 They saw the false fight on the waters 
 join. 
 
 And mid-May pageants that shone down 
 the sun. 
 
 As with glad eyes of lovers newly wed 
 
 Whose hearts were of the revel ; and 
 so soon 
 
 Are hearts and eyes divided ? 
 Maitland. Not an hour 
 
 May she draw breath but in his eye, 
 nor see 
 
 But whom he shall give entrance ; in 
 her sight 
 
 lie thought to have slain me, but she 
 
 came between. 
 And set for shield her bosom to his 
 
 sword 
 In her own chamber : so each day and 
 
 night 
 By violent act or viler word than deed 
 He turns her eyes to water-springs of 
 
 tears, 
 Who leaves not yet to love him ; such 
 
 strong hold 
 By flesh or spirit or either made one fire 
 Hath such men's love on women made 
 
 as she. 
 For no foul speech, I think, nor strokes 
 
 nor shame 
 Would she go from him, but to keep 
 
 him fast 
 Would burn the world with fire; and 
 
 no force less 
 Shall burn their bonds in sunder. 
 
 Lindsay. We will bring 
 And kindle it in their sight. They are 
 
 southward fled 
 To meet at Borthwick : thither we de- 
 sign, 
 To raise the Merse with Hume, and 
 
 with Lord Mar 
 And with the Douglas' following bind 
 
 them round, 
 And take them in one snare, whence 
 
 one of these 
 Shall creep not forth with life or limb 
 
 that feels 
 No hound's fang fasten on it; and his 
 
 mate 
 Shall see their feet smoke with his 
 
 slaughtered blood. 
 
 Scene XIII. — Borthwick Castle. 
 
 The Queen and Bothwell; Mary 
 Beaton in attendance. 
 Queen. You should be hence again; 
 
 since you came in 
 From Melrose with no levies at youi 
 
 back, 
 We have heard no news of friends, an(i 
 
 hear but now 
 That we are ringed with Morton's foU 
 
 about ; 
 How shall he not have laid unhapp] 
 
 hand 
 
288 
 
 BOTJIWI.LL. 
 
 Upon your messenger that bare our 
 
 word 
 Of summons to the archbishop and 
 
 your friend 
 lialfou'r to be with Huntley at our side? 
 Botlnvell. Ay, he is trapped that bore 
 
 my letters hence, 
 I doubt not; none have feet to run 
 
 aright, 
 Eves to see true, hands to bring help, 
 
 but they 
 That move them to our ruin. This 
 
 HaUour, 
 Whom I laid trust on since our fiery 
 
 night 
 As on a true man bound of force to me. 
 Has fallen in conference and device of 
 
 plots, 
 I hear, with that lean limb of policy 
 That loves me not, James Melville, by 
 
 whose mouth 
 Being warned I meant to take out of 
 
 his hand 
 The castle-keys of Edinburgh, and give 
 To one my closer kinsman for more 
 
 trust'. 
 He has made him friends of ancient 
 
 foes, and seeks, 
 l)y no less service than pursuit of them 
 Who slew the king your husband, to 
 
 deserve 
 Their favor who are risen of honest 
 
 heart 
 iJut to chastise these slayers, of whom 
 
 (iod wot 
 Themselves were none, nor he that 
 
 hunts with them 
 Upon the trail of treason. Oh, your 
 
 lords 
 Arc worthy friends and enemies, and 
 
 their tongues 
 As trusty as their hands are innocent, 
 When thev see time to turn. 
 Qiu-tn. 1 woultl their lives 
 Lay all between my lips, and with one 
 
 breath 
 r n)ight cut all theirs off! nor tongue 
 
 nor hand 
 Should rise ui them against us, to deny 
 Their work disclaimed when done. 
 
 What slaves are these 
 Thiit make their hands red with men's 
 secret blood, 
 
 And with their tongues would lick them 
 
 white, and wash 
 The sanguine grain out with false froth 
 
 of words 
 From lying lips that kissed the dead to 
 
 death. 
 And now cry vengeance for him .'' But, 
 
 my lord. 
 Make you haste hence to-night ere ihey 
 
 be here 
 That if we tarry will beset us; I 
 Should hang but as a fetter on your 
 
 foot, 
 Which should pass free forth to Dun- 
 bar, and raise 
 With sound even of its tread and for- 
 ward speed 
 The force of all the border. 
 
 Bothwell. Where I go. 
 There shall you not be far to find : to- 
 night ' 
 I will sleep here. 
 
 Qut'i'fi. God give you rest and 
 strength, 
 To make that heart which is the lord 
 
 of mine 
 Fresh as the spirit of sunrise ! for last 
 
 night 
 Vou slept not well. 
 
 BothiviU. No ; I had dreams, that 
 am 
 No natural dreamer; I will sleep apart, 
 With Cranston's son to lie at hand, or 
 
 wait 
 If I lack service. 
 
 Qjurii. Nay, let me be there : 
 I will not weary you with speech, nor 
 
 break 
 Vour sleej) with servile and otihcious 
 
 watch. 
 But sit and keep it as a jewel is kept 
 That is more dear than eyesight to its 
 
 lord. 
 Or as mine eyes can keep not now theii 
 
 own, 
 Now slumber sits far from them. Let 
 me wake. 
 Botiiwcll. No, not with me. 
 Qii<-cn. What, lest I trouble you .!* 
 Should my being there put dreams in 
 
 you again, 
 To cross your sleep with me.'' 
 Bothwcll. Belike it might. 
 
BO Til WELL. 
 
 2S9 
 
 Queen. Nay, I was no part of your 
 
 dreams, I think ; 
 \'ou dream not on me waking nor 
 
 asleep, 
 Iiut if you dream on no face else nor 
 
 mine, 
 I will be yet content. 
 
 Bothivell. Well, so it was, 
 I dreamt at once of either ; yet I know 
 
 not 
 Why I should tell my dream. Your 
 
 lord that was, 
 They say, would prattle of his fears by 
 
 night 
 And faces of false peril ; I was never 
 So loath by day to face what fear I 
 
 might 
 As to be sick in darkness; but this 
 
 dream 
 I would not see again. Yet was it 
 
 naught ; 
 I seemed to stand between two gulfs of 
 
 sea 
 On a dark strait of rock, and at my foot 
 The ship that bore me broken ; and 
 
 there came 
 Out of the waves' breach crying of 
 
 broken men 
 And sound of splintering planks, and 
 
 all the hull 
 Shattered and strewn in pieces; and 
 
 my head 
 Was as my feet and hands, bare, and 
 
 the storm 
 Blew hard with all its heart upon me ; 
 
 then 
 Came you, a face with weeping eyes, 
 
 and hair 
 Half glimmering with a broken crown 
 
 that shone 
 Red as of molten iron ; but your limbs 
 Were swathed about and shrouded out 
 
 of sight. 
 Or shown but as things shapeless that 
 
 the bier 
 Shows ready for the grave ; only the 
 
 head 
 Floated, with eyes fast on me, and be- 
 neath 
 A. bloodlike thread dividing the bare 
 
 throat 
 As with a needle's breadth, but all be- 
 low ' 
 
 Was mufl-Jed as with cerecloths ; and 
 
 the eyes 
 Wept ; then came one we wot of, clad 
 
 in black. 
 And smiling, and laid hands on me 
 
 more cold 
 Than is a snake's kiss or the grave's. 
 
 and thrust 
 Between that severed head, weeping 
 
 and crowned. 
 That mourned upon me, and mine eyes 
 
 that watched, 
 Her own strange head wrapped widow- 
 like and wan 
 In habit of one sorrowing, but with lips 
 That laughed to kiss me ; and there- 
 with at once 
 Your face as water flowed out of my 
 
 sight, 
 And on mine own I felt as drops of 
 
 blood 
 Falling, but if your tears they were, or 
 
 hers, 
 Or cither's blood, I knew not; on mine 
 
 eyes 
 The great dead night shut doorwise 
 
 like a wall, 
 And in mine ears there sprang a noise 
 
 of chains, 
 And teeth ground hard of prison-grates 
 
 that jarred 
 And split as 'twere with sound my 
 
 heart, which was 
 As ice that cleaves in sunder : for there 
 
 came 
 Through that black breathless air an 
 
 iron note 
 Of locks that shut and sounded, and 
 
 being dumb 
 There left me quick entombed in stone. 
 
 and hid 
 Too deep for the day's eyeshot ; then 
 
 I woke 
 With the sea's roaring and the wind's 
 
 by night 
 Fresh in my sense, and on my travail- 
 ing heart 
 A weight of walls and floors and upper 
 
 earth 
 That held me down below the breach 
 
 o' the sea 
 Where its tide's wash kept witness 
 
 overhead 
 
2C)0 
 
 BOTHIVELL. 
 
 How went the scornful days and nights 
 
 above, 
 Where men forgot me, and the living 
 
 sun 
 As a dead dog passed over. 
 
 Queen. What, alone? 
 She went not with you living under- 
 ground 
 To sit in chains and hear the sea break ? 
 
 Nay, 
 She would not cast you off. This was 
 
 your love, — 
 Your love of her and need of her sweet 
 
 sight. 
 That brought her so upon your sleep, 
 
 and made 
 Your sense so fearful of all things but 
 
 this. 
 And all else heard and seen so terrible 
 But her face only : she should comfort 
 
 you, 
 Whom I should bring to wreck; why, 
 
 so she said. 
 Saying how she had loved you whom I 
 
 loved not ; yea, 
 Her eyes were sad, she said, that saw 
 
 forsooth 
 So little love between us: this sweet 
 
 word. 
 This word of hers at parting, this it 
 
 was 
 Of which your dream was fashioned, to 
 
 give sign 
 How firm she sits and fast yet in your 
 
 heart. 
 Where 1 was never. 
 
 Bothtijell. Well, how be it soe'er, 
 I would not drean» again this dead 
 
 dream out 
 For less than kingly waking : so good 
 
 night. 
 For I will sleep alone. 
 
 Queen. No, with my heart. 
 That lies down with you though it 
 
 sleeps not. (io. 
 And dream of no less loving prayer 
 
 than mine 
 That calls on God for sleep to comfort 
 
 you, 
 And keep your heart from sense of 
 
 aught more hard 
 Thau her great love who made it. 
 
 yExit lioTHWKLL. 
 
 'Tis a night 
 That puts our France into my mind: 
 
 even here 
 By those warm stars a man might call 
 
 it June, 
 Were such nights many; their same 
 
 flower-bright eyes 
 Look not more fair on Paris, that mine 
 
 own 
 Again shall hardly look on. Is it not 
 
 strange 
 That in this gray land and these griev- 
 ous hours 
 I should so find my spirit and soul 
 
 transformed 
 And fallen in love with pain, my heart 
 
 that was 
 Changed and made humble to his love- 
 less words 
 And force as of a master.'' By my 
 
 faith, 
 That was till now fixed never, and made 
 
 as fire 
 To stand a sunlike star in love's live 
 
 heaven, — 
 A heaven found one in hue and heat 
 
 with hell, — 
 I had rather be mis-handled as I am 
 Of this first man that ever bound me 
 
 fast. 
 Than worshipped through the world 
 
 with breaking hearts 
 That gave their blood for worship. I 
 
 am glad 
 He sometime should misuse me ; else I 
 
 think 
 I had not known if I could love or 
 
 no. 
 If you could love man with my heart 
 
 as now. 
 You would not mock nor marvel. 
 .\fary Beaton. No, not then. 
 Queen. It is not in your heart : there 
 
 lies not power 
 In you to be for evil end or good 
 The strange thing that is I. 
 
 Mary Beaton. There does not, no, 
 Nor can lie ever : could I love at all, 
 It were but as mean women, meanly 
 
 so 
 I do the best to love not. 
 
 Queen. Hark! what noise ? 
 Look forth and see. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 291 
 
 Mary Beaton. A sound of men and 
 
 steeds ; 
 The ring is round us ; hark, the cry of 
 
 Hume, 
 There Lindsay, and there Marl 
 
 Queen. Call up my lord : 
 I will not go to vex him ; but do you 
 Haste and awake them. 
 
 {Exit Mary Beaton. 
 
 Be it not in mine eyes 
 
 That he first sees death risen upon his 
 
 sleep, 
 If we must die ; being started out of 
 
 rest. 
 If he should curse me, were my heart 
 
 not slain 
 With the opening of his eyes in wrath 
 
 on mine .'' 
 
 Re-enter Mary Beaton. 
 Mary Beaton. My lord is raised and 
 
 fled ; but in the press 
 The lord of Cranston's son that slept 
 
 with him 
 Is fallen by flight into the enemy's 
 
 hands. 
 Who cry out for him yet as hounds 
 
 that quest, 
 And roar as on their quarry. 
 Queen. Fled, and safe } 
 Mary Beaton. Ay, past their hands' 
 
 reach that had rent him else ; 
 Be sure he is forth, and free, or you 
 
 should hear 
 More triumph in these cries. 
 
 Queen. God, thou art good I 
 Fling wide the window : I will know of 
 
 them 
 If they be come to slay me. — What, 
 
 my lords ! 
 Are all these men of mine that throng 
 
 by night 
 To make such show of service, and 
 
 present 
 Strange offices of duty ? Where are ye 
 That are chief ushers to their turbulent 
 
 love 
 Who come thus riotously to proffer it ? 
 Which is first here 1 a bold man should 
 
 he be 
 That takes unbidden on him such 
 
 desert — 
 Let me not say, a traitor. 
 Lindsay {without). Where is he, 
 
 The traitor that we seek."* for here is 
 
 none 
 But in your bosom. 
 
 Queen. Here then ends your search, 
 For here am I ; and traitors near 
 
 enough 
 I see to pierce the bosom that they 
 
 seek. 
 Where never shall be treason till its 
 
 blood 
 Be spilt by hands of traitors that till 
 
 now 
 Durst never rise so near it. 
 Lindsay. Give him forth, 
 Or we will have these walls down. 
 
 Queen. What, with words .'' 
 Is there such blast of trumpets in your 
 
 breath 
 As shook the towers down of the foes 
 
 of God 
 At the seventh sounding } yet we stand 
 
 and laugh 
 That hear such brave breath blown and 
 
 stormlike speech 
 Fly round our ears: is it because your 
 
 war, 
 My lords, is waged with women, that 
 
 ye make 
 Such woman's war on us ? 
 
 Mar {without). Madam, we come 
 To take you from his hand that is your 
 
 shame, 
 And on his shameful head revenge that 
 
 blood 
 Which was shed guiltless ; hither was 
 
 he fled, 
 We know, into your shelter : yield him 
 
 up. 
 Ere yet worse come than what hath 
 
 worst come yet 
 Queen. There is none here to die by 
 
 you but I, 
 And none to mock you dying. Take 
 
 all your swords; 
 It is a woman that they came to slay, 
 And that contemns them : go not back 
 
 for fear ; 
 Pluck up your hearts ; one valiant 
 
 stroke or twain. 
 And ye are perfect of your work, and I 
 Forever quit of treason ; and I swear, 
 By God's and by his mother's name and 
 
 mine, 
 
292 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 Kxcept ye slay me presently, to have 
 Such vengeance of you and my traitors 
 
 all 
 As the hnul world shall ring with; so 
 
 to-night 
 I>e counselled, and prevent me, that am 
 
 here 
 Yet in your hands ; if ye dare slay me 
 
 not, 
 Ve are dead now here already in my 
 
 doom : 
 Take heart, and live to mock it. 
 
 Mar. He is fled. 
 Here boots us not to tarry, nor change 
 
 words 
 With her that hath such vantage as to 
 
 know 
 We have missed our prize and purpose 
 
 here, which was 
 To take the traitor that is fled, and 
 
 bring 
 Whither we now ride foiled, to Edin- 
 burgh, 
 Thence to return upon them. 
 
 Lindsay. Hear yet once : 
 /ou, madam, till our day be set of doom. 
 Look to the adulterer's head that hence 
 
 is flown, 
 Whose shame should now stand redder 
 
 in your face 
 Than blushes on his hand your hus- 
 band's blood, 
 \nd cleave more fast ; for that dead 
 
 lord's revenge 
 sVill we make proclamation, and raise 
 
 up 
 The streets and stones for vengeance 
 
 of your town 
 That sits yet sullied with bloodguilti- 
 
 ness 
 Till judgment make it clean; whose 
 
 walls to-night 
 Myself, for fault of better, ere I sleep 
 Will scale though gates be fastened, 
 
 and therein 
 liring back and stablish justice that 
 
 shall be 
 A memory to the world and unborn 
 
 men 
 Of murder anfl adultery. 
 Queen. CJood my lord, 
 Wc thank you for the care you have 
 
 and pains 
 
 To speak before you smite; and that 
 
 so long 
 The deed can follow not on the swift 
 
 word 
 For lack of spirit and breath to mate 
 
 with it ; 
 So that they know who hear your threat 
 
 betimes 
 What fear it bears and danger, and for 
 
 fear 
 Take counsel to forestall it. Make 
 
 good speed ; 
 For if your steed be shod but with fleet 
 
 speech. 
 Ere you shall stride the wall of our 
 
 good town 
 Its foot may trip upon a traitor's grave. 
 Mary Beaton. They ride fast yet: 
 
 hear you their starting cry ? 
 Queen. For each vile word and ven- 
 omous breath of theirs, 
 I will desire at my lord's hand a head 
 When he shall bring them bound before 
 
 my foot. 
 If thou hast counsel in thee, serve me 
 
 now : 
 I must be forth, and masked in such 
 
 close wise 
 As may convey me secret to his side 
 Whence till our wars be done I will 
 
 not part 
 Nor then in peace forever : in this 
 
 shape 
 I should ride liable to all eyes and 
 
 hands 
 That might waylay me flying; but I 
 
 will play 
 As in a masque for pastime, and put 
 
 on 
 A horseboy's habit, or some meaner 
 
 man's 
 That wears but servant's steel upon his 
 
 thigh 
 And on his sleeve the badge but of a 
 
 groom. 
 And so pass noteless through toward 
 
 Haddington, 
 Whither my lord had mind to flee at 
 
 need. 
 And there exjiect me. Come : the 
 
 night wears out ; 
 The shifting wind is shari)cr than U 
 
 was, 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 293 
 
 And the stars falter. Help me to put off 
 I'his outward coil of woman ; my heart 
 
 beats 
 Fast as for fear a coward's might beat, 
 
 for joy 
 That spurs it forth by night on warriors' 
 
 ways, 
 And stings it with sharp hope to find 
 
 his face 
 That shall look loving on me, and with 
 
 smiles 
 Mock the false form and cheer the con- 
 stant heart 
 That for his love's sake would be man's 
 
 indeed. 
 
 ACT IV. — JOHN KNOX. 
 Time : June 15 ami 16, 1567. 
 
 Scene \. — Carberry Hill. 
 
 77/d' Queen, Bothwell, <?«<;/ Soldiers. 
 Queen. I would this field where fate 
 and we must cross 
 
 Were other than it is ; but for this 
 thought. 
 
 On what ill night some score of years 
 ago 
 
 Here lav our enemy's force before that 
 fight 
 
 Which made next day the face of Scot- 
 land red, 
 
 And trod her strength down under 
 English feet, 
 
 I would not shrink in this wide eye of 
 dawn. 
 
 In the fair front of such a summer's 
 day, 
 
 To meet the mailed face of my traitors' 
 host 
 
 And with bared brows outbrave it. 
 BotJnvcll. Keep that heart, 
 
 For fear we need it. Look beyond the 
 bridge 
 
 There at this hill's foot on the western 
 bank, 
 
 How strong they stand under the gather- 
 ing tight: 
 
 I have not seen a battle fairer set 
 
 Or in French fields, or these our thirst- 
 ier lands 
 
 That feed unslaked on blood. 
 
 Qiieefi. They grow now green, — 
 These hills and meadows that with 
 
 slain men's lives 
 Have fed the flocks of war; come ten 
 
 years yet. 
 And, though this day should drench 
 
 them W'ith more death 
 Than that day's battle, not a stain shall 
 
 stand 
 On their fresh face for witness. Had 
 
 God pleased 
 To set a strong man armed with hands 
 
 to fight. 
 And on his head his heritage to keep, 
 Sworded and crowned a king, in my sad 
 
 stead. 
 To fill the place I had not might to 
 
 hold ; 
 And for the child then bitterly brought 
 
 forth, 
 Unseasonable, that being but woman 
 
 born 
 Broke with the news her father's heart, 
 
 who died 
 Desperate in her of comfort, had he 
 
 sent 
 The warrior that I would be, and in 
 
 time 
 To look with aweless eye on that dav's 
 
 fight 
 That reddened with the ruin of our 
 
 hopes 
 The hour that rocked my cradle, — who 
 
 shall say 
 The scathe of Pinkie Cleugh and all 
 
 that blood 
 Had made the memory so unfortunate 
 Of that which was my birth-time } Be- 
 ing a man, 
 And timelier born to better hap than 
 
 mine, 
 I might have set upon that iron day 
 Another mark than signs it in our sight 
 Red with reproach forever. 
 Bothwell. Ay, my queen? 
 These four nights gone, you met me 
 
 soldier-like 
 Escaped from Borthwick, whence I 
 
 brought you in, 
 Three darkling hours past midnight, to 
 
 Dunbar, 
 Where you put off that sheath of fight- 
 ing man 
 
294 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 For this poor woman's likeness yet you 
 
 wear, 
 Wherein you rode with your six hun- 
 dred men 
 To meet at Haddington but two days 
 
 since 
 These sixteen hundred border folk I 
 
 led, 
 And pass with me to Seyton : did you 
 
 find 
 Your life more light in you, or higher 
 
 your heart. 
 Inside that habit than this woman's 
 
 coat 
 That sits so short upon you ? 
 
 Queen. By my life, 
 I had forgot by this to be ashamed 
 Of the strange shape I ride in, but 
 
 your tongue 
 Smites my cheek red as is this scanted 
 
 weed 
 Wherein I mask my queenship ; yet 
 
 God knows 
 I had liefer ride thus forth toward such 
 
 a day 
 Than hide 'my sick heart and its fears 
 
 at home 
 In kinglier garments than this mask of 
 
 mine. 
 Thus with my kirtle kilted to the knee 
 Like girls that ride in poor folks' bal- 
 lads forth 
 Yox love's sake and for danger's less 
 
 than mine. 
 ^'et had I rather as your henchman ride 
 At your right hand, and hear your bri- 
 dle ring. 
 Than sit thus womanly to watch men 
 strike. 
 Bothwell. There will be parleying 
 first : I have word of this, 
 That they set forth at heaviest of the 
 
 night 
 From Fdinburgh to cross our march 
 
 betimes, 
 And by the French ambassador your 
 
 friend 
 At Musselburgh were overtaken, 
 
 whence 
 \Vc l«>()k for news by him wluit hearts 
 
 they bear, 
 What iHJwer, and what intent; he hath 
 la'en on him 
 
 To stand between our parts as mediator 
 And bear the burden of our doubtful 
 
 peace ; 
 We must fight mouth to mouth ere 
 
 hand to hand, 
 But the clean steel must end it. 
 
 Queen. Now would God 
 I had but one day's manhood, and 
 
 might stand 
 As king in arms against this battle's 
 
 breach 
 A twelve-hours' soldier, and my life to 
 
 come 
 Be bounded as a woman's ! all those 
 
 days 
 That must die darkling should not yet 
 
 put out 
 The fiery memory and the light of joy 
 That out of this liad lightened, and its 
 
 heat 
 Should burn in them for witness left 
 
 behind 
 On those piled ashes of my latter life. 
 
 God, for one good hour of man, and 
 
 then 
 Sleep or a crown forever ! 
 
 Bothwell. By God's light, 
 The man that' had no joy to strike for 
 
 you 
 Were such a worm as God yet never 
 
 made 
 For men to tread on. Kiss me : by 
 
 your eyes 
 And fiery li})s that make my heart's 
 
 blood hot, 
 
 1 swear to take this signet of your kiss 
 As far into the fight as man may bear. 
 And strike as two men in mine arm 
 
 and stroke 
 Struck with one sense and spirit. 
 
 Queen. If I might change 
 But this day with you in your stead to 
 
 strike, 
 And you look on me fighting, as for 
 
 me 
 Vou have fought ere this last heat so 
 
 many a prize, 
 Or for your own hand ere your own 
 
 was mine, 
 I would pray God for naught again 
 
 alive. 
 But since my heart can strike net in mn 
 
 hand. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 295 
 
 Fight you for me ; put on my heart to 
 
 yours, 
 And let the might of both enforce your 
 
 arm 
 With more than its own manhood and 
 
 that strength 
 Which is your natural glory. 
 
 Bothwell. Sweet, I think. 
 When we have rid through this day's 
 
 wrath, if God 
 Shall give us peace and kingdom and 
 
 long life. 
 And make them fruitful to us, we shall 
 
 bring forth 
 A brood of kings as lions. Now in 
 
 brief 
 If this shall be, or shall not, may we 
 
 know ; 
 For look where yonder, facing to the 
 
 sun 
 Comes up to us-ward from the under 
 
 field 
 One with a flag of message ; in mine 
 
 eye 
 It is the Frenchman. 
 
 Queen. I will meet him here; 
 Here will I sit upon this rock for 
 
 throne. 
 And give such audience as my fortune 
 
 may, — 
 Either the last that shall salute me 
 
 queen. 
 Or first of my new reign, that from this 
 
 day 
 Shall fearfully begin for them whose 
 
 fear 
 Till now has held me shackled, and my 
 
 will 
 Confined of theirs unqueenly. 
 
 Bothwell. I meantime 
 Will see our line in order; for this 
 
 truce 
 Must hold not long ; I would our hosts 
 
 should meet 
 Before the heat strikes of the middle 
 
 day, 
 And this June sun drop on our soldiers' 
 
 heads 
 Or shoot their eyes out. 
 
 lExit. 
 Queen. If God give us peace ! 
 Vet, though he give and we twain sec 
 
 good days, 
 
 I would not lose for many fortunate 
 
 years. 
 And empire ringed with smooth secu- 
 
 rity. 
 The sharp and dangerous draught of 
 
 this delight 
 That out of chance and peril and keen 
 
 fear 
 Springs as the wine out of the trampled 
 
 grape 
 To make this hour sweet to my lips, 
 
 and bid 
 My dancing heart be like a wave in the 
 
 sun 
 When the sea sways between the sun 
 
 and wind 
 As my sense now between the fears 
 
 and hopes 
 That die to-day forever. Oh ! this doubt 
 That is not helpless, but has armor on 
 And hands to fight with, has more joy 
 
 withal. 
 And puts more spirit into the flesh of 
 
 life. 
 More heart into the blood, and light in 
 
 the eyes. 
 Than the utter hour of triumph, and 
 
 the fight 
 More than the prize is worth man's 
 
 prizing; yea. 
 For when all's won, all's done, and 
 
 naught to do 
 Is as a chain on him that with void 
 
 hands 
 Sits pleasureless and painless. I had 
 
 rather 
 Have looked on Actium with Mark 
 
 Antony 
 Than bound him fast on Cydnus. O 
 
 my hour! 
 Be good to me, as even for the doubt's 
 
 sake 
 More than safe life I love thee ; yet 
 
 would choose 
 Not now to know, though I might see 
 
 the end. 
 If thou wilt be good to me ; do thy 
 
 work. 
 Have thine own end ; and, be thou bad 
 
 or good, 
 Thou shalt nor smite nor crown a 
 
 queen in heart 
 Found lesser than her fortune. 
 
2g6 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Enter Du Croc. 
 
 Now, my lord, 
 What is their will who by such sove- 
 reign show 
 Should be my lords indeed? if you 
 
 that came 
 'Twixt crown and crown ambassador 
 
 pass now 
 Between our camps on message : but 
 
 this day 
 Shall leave in Scotland but one sove- 
 reignty 
 To see that sun sink. 
 
 Du Croc. Madam, from the lords 
 I come on errand but for love and fear 
 That move me toward your highness; 
 
 on whose part 
 I reasoning with them of their faith to 
 
 you. 
 And bond wherein their loyalties should 
 
 live, 
 Bv counsel of the Laird of Lethington, 
 Was charged to bear you from them 
 
 present word 
 For what they stand against your sight 
 
 in arms, 
 And will not but by force of yours 
 
 dissolve 
 Till it be granted. 
 
 Qiieen. Speak, my lord : I know 
 Your heart is whole and noble as their 
 
 faith 
 Is flawed and rotten ; no disloyal word 
 Shall make your tongue disloyal in 
 
 mine ear, 
 Speaking for them. 
 
 Du Croc. This is their whole de- 
 mand : 
 That from the bloody hand which holds 
 
 your own 
 You pluck it forth, and cast him from 
 
 your sight 
 To judgment, who now stands through 
 
 you secure. 
 And makes his weapon of your 
 
 wounded name. 
 And of your shame his armor; and to 
 
 him 
 They offer fight with cqtial hand to 
 
 hand. 
 Of noble seconds in what sum he will 
 To match in blood and number with 
 
 his own. 
 
 If so he list to meet their chosen oi 
 
 men 
 In personal battle, backed with less or 
 
 more 
 Or singly sworded; but this much they 
 
 swear, — 
 They had rather make their beds in the 
 
 earth alive 
 Than yet sit still and let this evil be. 
 And on your own part I beseech your 
 
 grace. 
 Set not your heart against the hearts of 
 
 these, 
 Lest it be broken of them, but betimes 
 Call yet to mind what grief and shame 
 
 will be 
 Among your friends in France and all 
 
 our part 
 To see you so with this man's hap in- 
 wound 
 That in his fall you cast yourself away, 
 And hand in hand run on with him ta 
 
 death. 
 Queen. They are all forsworn that 
 
 seek his death : all they 
 With these blown tongues now quest- 
 ing for his blood 
 By judgment set him free as inno- 
 cence, 
 And now take back the doom they 
 
 gave, and turn 
 On their own heads the lie : devise 
 
 such shame 
 As lewd folk loathe, to gird themselves 
 
 withal. 
 And wear it for a jewel ; seek and set 
 The name of liar upon them like a 
 
 crown, 
 And bind about them as a coat and 
 
 cloak 
 Plain treason and ungilded infamy. 
 Bare as a beggar ; let them sue for 
 
 grace, 
 Kneel here and ask mc favor ; save as 
 
 thus 
 I treat not with them. Say how I sit 
 
 here. 
 In this mean raiment, on this naked 
 
 stone, 
 Their queen to judge them, and with 
 
 heart to weigh 
 Their fault against my mercy; whid 
 
 yet once, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 297 
 
 Though hardly their submission may 
 
 deserve, 
 Say, haply they may find. 
 
 Re-enter Bothwell. 
 Botfnvell. Good diy, my lord. 
 You look far off upon me ; by your 
 
 brow 
 And strange-eyed salutation I may read 
 The burden of your this day's embassy. 
 Is it but I whom all these ranked m 
 
 arms 
 Are come against to battle ? 
 
 Dh Croc. Ay, my lord: 
 No hand is raised there dangerous to 
 
 the queen. 
 Nor thought of heart not loyal. 
 
 Bot/nvell. Why to me ? 
 What hurt have' I done to them? none 
 
 of these 
 But would be gladly in my place, who 
 
 had 
 The heart to seek it; 'tis the braver 
 
 man 
 That ever fortune follows : what I hold 
 I have won not basely, but from forth 
 
 her hand 
 Have ta'en it manlike, and with spirit 
 
 as good 
 Have girt me to maintain it. For my 
 
 part, 
 I seek no bloodshed, but in single field 
 Will meet with whom their lot shall 
 
 fall upon 
 That shall be found fair champion on 
 
 their part 
 To bear the general o'larrel ; and to 
 
 this 
 My state and present name shall be no 
 
 bar, 
 But the queen's consort as her man 
 
 shall fight 
 In any good cause simply with God's 
 
 help 
 With any sword that shames not mine 
 
 to meet. 
 Queen. It is my cause : me must they 
 
 strike, or none ; 
 Myself am all the quarrel ; let them 
 
 yield, 
 Or give me battle. 
 
 Bothwell. Then, no need of words : 
 Let but your excellency stand here 
 
 bv. 
 
 And see the show as once that envoy 
 
 bound 
 'Twixt Hannibal and Scipio; by God's 
 
 grace 
 This too shall be worth sight and good 
 
 report 
 If he not fail us. 
 
 Du Croc. Madam, with rent heart 
 Must I take leave, then, of you. 
 
 Queen. Sir, farewell. 
 I pray you, say not that you saw me 
 
 weep : 
 These tears are not to turn the sword's 
 
 edge soft. 
 Nor made of fear nor pity; but my 
 
 heart 
 Holds no more rule on my rebellious 
 
 eyes 
 Than truth on those my traitors ; yet I 
 
 trust 
 Again to bring both under. 
 
 [Exit Du Croc. 
 Bothivell. We must tight ; 
 Yet had I rather take it on mine hand 
 Than dare the general field. 
 Queen. No, for God's love. 
 Bothwell. God hath not so much 
 love of us to serve; 
 Nor would I wager on his head to- 
 day 
 That he shall fight upon our side 
 
 Look there ! 
 They are at point to cross ; even now 
 
 you see 
 The first glint on them stirring of ths 
 
 sun 
 As they set forth to make by the eastern 
 
 bank 
 Along the meadows edgeways toward 
 
 Dalkeith 
 Before they turn in wheel, and take th 
 
 hills; 
 I see their bent of battle ; yet we keep 
 The slopes and crest here with ou 
 
 covering lines 
 If they stand fast. 
 
 Queen. What, have you fear of. that 
 Both-well. I cannot tell. The da^ 
 grows fiery hot : 
 I would we might close in at once, and 
 
 strike 
 Before the noon burn ; all the pause we 
 make. 
 
!98 
 
 BOTIIWELL. 
 
 Who stand here idle watchers till they 
 
 join, 
 Takes off some heart from us for weari- 
 ness, 
 And gives us doubt; I would the field 
 were set. 
 Queen. Why should not we that wait 
 for them and chafe 
 Break rather on them coming, and 
 
 brush off 
 Their gathering muster from the hill- 
 skirts there 
 With one sheer stroke of battle as from 
 
 heaven, 
 Right on them hurling down with all 
 
 our host 
 Out of these heights ere they made 
 head below ? 
 Both-well. No, my sweet captain : we 
 must hold this fast, 
 This height of vantage, and keep close 
 
 our ranks 
 As I have ranged in order : see again. 
 How they sweep round, and settle fast 
 
 in'file 
 There on the ridge of Cowsland, with 
 
 their backs 
 Turned on the sun that climbs toward 
 
 noon too fast, 
 And in their front that hollow gap of 
 
 hill 
 Three crossbow-shots across ; so far 
 
 apart 
 We look upon each other for a 
 
 breath, 
 And hold our hands from battle; but 
 
 you see 
 How soon both sides must lash to- 
 gether : yea, 
 I would we might not hold off yet an 
 
 hour, 
 But close at once, and end. 
 
 Queen. That burgh below, 
 Is it not Preston Tans ? These hills 
 
 are set 
 As stages for the show of such high 
 
 game 
 As is played out for God's content 
 
 on earth 
 Between men's kings and kingdoms; 
 
 yet I think 
 He tha't beholds hath no such joy o' the 
 game 
 
 As he that plays, nor can the joy be 
 
 known 
 Save of man only, that man has to 
 
 play 
 When the die's throw rings death for 
 
 him or life. 
 Row clear the wind strikes from the 
 
 mounting sun ! 
 I am glad at heart the day we have 
 
 of fight 
 Should look thus lively on both sides 
 
 that meet 
 Beneath so large an open eye of heaven. 
 The wind and sun are in my blood ; 
 
 I feel 
 Their fire and motion in me like a 
 
 breath 
 That makes the heart leap. Dear, I 
 
 too have read 
 The tale of Rome whence lightly you 
 
 chose out 
 A likeness for us; but the parts we 
 
 bear. 
 We are to play them with a difference, 
 
 take 
 A fairer end upon us though we fall 
 Than they that in their hazard were 
 
 most like 
 To this our imminent fortune: had I 
 
 been 
 She for whose lips love let the round 
 
 world fall. 
 And all man's empire founder, on that 
 
 day 
 When earth's whole strengths met on 
 
 the warring sea. 
 And side with side clashed of the king- 
 domed world, 
 I had not given my galleys wings for 
 
 fear 
 To bear me out of the eye of battle, 
 
 nor 
 Put space of flight between me and my 
 
 love. 
 More than I think on this wave's edge 
 
 that foams 
 To leave oui chance unshipwrccked, o- 
 
 forsake 
 Mv more imperial Antony. 
 
 'Bothicfll. Would that now 
 We stood less near their hazard ! on 
 
 our part 
 I fear to see the lines already melt 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 299 
 
 If we hold longer off, and this firm 
 
 front 
 Unfix itself and with no stroke dis- 
 solve 
 As snows in summer: half my folk by 
 
 this 
 For thirst are fallen upon the wine- 
 casks there 
 We brought from Seyton ; and for those 
 
 that stand, 
 We have not half their hearts upon our 
 
 side 
 Whose hands are armed to uphold it. 
 
 I must fight 
 With whom they choose, and take upon 
 
 my hand 
 The day with all its issue: if our cause 
 Be set upon the general cast of fight, 
 It is but lost. Let messengers be sent 
 To know of the enemv if his challenge 
 
 hold 
 Which I stand armed to answer; but 
 
 no Scot 
 Shall bear the message and betray our 
 
 peed : 
 Two Frenchmen of your guard shall 
 
 cross, and bring 
 Their fighter's name back that my sword 
 
 must know, 
 A.nd we twam meet, and end it in fair 
 
 field 
 Between these ranks ; and for my single 
 
 part, 
 I nm glad the chance should hang but 
 
 on my hand, 
 And my sole stroke determine the dim 
 
 war 
 That flags yet in the dark and doubt of 
 
 fate 
 Till mine arm fix it fast, and in God's 
 
 sight 
 Confirm and close the chapter of it. 
 
 Come, 
 Choose you your envoys. 
 
 Queen. Nay, choose you the man 
 That you will fight with ; let him be 
 
 not one 
 Who had no part with us in Darnley's 
 
 blood. 
 So God shall strike not on his unjust 
 
 side 
 Who fights against you. 
 Bothiuell. 'Faith, if God were judge. 
 
 He should not do us right to approve 
 
 their cause 
 Who helped us to that slaying, and in 
 
 its name 
 Take on them now to accuse us, and 
 
 appeal 
 As guiltless to him against their proper 
 
 deed 
 And this right hand that wrought but 
 
 with their will ; 
 Wherefore, so far forth as it hangs on 
 
 God, 
 From such a champion I should bear 
 
 the bell. 
 If he be righteous ; which to assure you 
 
 of. 
 That even for God's sake you may feel 
 
 no fear. 
 Let Morton meet me. 
 
 Queen. Oh, that two-tongued knave ! 
 The worst of all my traitors, whom I 
 
 spared 
 And should have slain when you had 
 
 brought him home 
 To help despatch his friend that had 
 
 been ! Nay, 
 Him shall you meet not : he shall die 
 
 no death 
 So brave as by your sword ; the axe 
 
 thinks long 
 To clasp his cursed neck; your hand, 
 
 dear lord, 
 Shall not redeem it. 
 
 Boihwell. Come, content you, sweet ; 
 Him I must meet, or other; and my- 
 self 
 Care not if one that struck with us it be 
 Or one that struck not ; only for your 
 
 ease. 
 To make you trustful for God's judg- 
 ment's sake 
 And confident of justice, I thought well 
 To choose a man of counsel with us 
 
 then. 
 And on this challenge fight with him, 
 
 that God 
 Might witness with us of his treacherous 
 
 cause 
 If I should win the field ; but, by this 
 
 hand, 
 I put more trust in it and in my sword 
 Than in God's hand or judgment. Havf 
 
 no fear* 
 
302 
 
 BOTIIIVELL. 
 
 The just and unjust that he looks upon, 
 With blameless hand dividing their just 
 
 doom 
 To one and other. Yea, as thou art 
 
 Lord, 
 With eye to read between our hearts, 
 
 and hand 
 To part between us punishment and 
 
 grace. 
 Hear, God, and judge ; and as thy sen- 
 tence is. 
 So shall man's tongue speak ever of 
 
 this day 
 And of his cause that conquers. 
 
 Morton. Laird of Grange, 
 While these that twice brought mes- 
 sage from the queen 
 Bear now this last news back of what 
 
 they hear. 
 Lest, when the traitor knows whom he 
 
 shall meet. 
 His foul heart fail him, and his false 
 
 foot flee 
 By what way forth is left him toward 
 
 Dunbar, 
 Take you two hundred horse, and with 
 
 good speed 
 Cross to the right beyond this hollow 
 
 ground. 
 And cut him off: so, though he fain 
 
 would fly 
 And she stand fast or follow, yet we 
 
 hold 
 As in one toil the lioness and the wolf 
 That clomb by night into the lion's bed. 
 Who stand now staked about with nets, 
 
 and, ringed 
 With pikes and hounds of hunters, 
 
 glare at bay 
 With eyes and teeth that shine against 
 
 us vet ; 
 But the fierce feet are trammelled in 
 
 our toils, 
 Nor shall the tongues lap life again of 
 
 man. 
 Dti Croc. Ay, lion-like, my lord, she 
 
 bears herself, 
 As who should shake all spears or 
 
 shafts away 
 Like leaves that fell upon her, and all 
 
 fears 
 As grains of dust brushed off; but he 
 
 too makes 
 
 Such gallant show at need of such good 
 
 heart 
 As in this utter peril where he stands 
 Might wni, for one that had no unjust 
 
 cause. 
 Pity and praise of enemies, and for him 
 At least such mingled and discolored 
 
 fame 
 As falls not on a coward ; nor can men 
 Report him in his end and sore extreme 
 But as a soldier tried of hand and 
 
 brain. 
 Skilful and swift, with heart to match 
 
 his eye 
 And wit to serve them ; could these yet 
 
 avail 
 To ransom him by spirit of soldiership 
 And craft with courage tempered as 
 
 with fire 
 To wield with fiery cunning the wide 
 
 war. 
 He should not fall but mightily, nor 
 
 cease 
 But with a strife as earthquake. 
 
 Morton. Well, my lord. 
 With no such strife we think to win 
 
 him. — Go, 
 And if they send again to treat with us, 
 Speak you with her, and bring us once 
 
 more word. 
 
 Scene HL — The Queen's Camp. 
 
 The Queen and Bothwell. 
 Queen. Are we quite lost i 
 Bothwell. Ay, if I fight not; but 
 I will not die and fight not. 
 
 Queen. What, no help.'' 
 Ls there not left a score of manlike men 
 To stand and strike round us that in 
 
 their ring 
 Mav fight enclosed, and fall where none 
 
 shall fly? 
 Are all our strengths slid from us ? not 
 
 one troop 
 That has not piecemeal dropix?d with 
 
 shame away ? 
 Not some twelve friends to back us yet, 
 
 and die 
 As never men died nobler ? 
 Both-.oell. No, not three: 
 My levies there of Lothian and the 
 Merse 
 
BOTHIVELL. 
 
 303 
 
 A.re slipped away like water; of your 
 
 men 
 Not yet four hundred lie along the 
 
 heights, 
 Nor half will stay of these a half-hour 
 
 hence. 
 Look too where yonder rides about the 
 
 hill 
 The Laird of Grange, between us and 
 
 Dunbar, 
 As to make onset with two hundred 
 
 horse 
 Thence where the way is smooth, while 
 
 those in front 
 Charge up the hill right on our unfenced 
 
 camp, 
 And their trap's teeth shut on us. This 
 
 remains 
 Of all our chance, this one way to make 
 
 end, 
 That, while they yet refuse me not a 
 
 man 
 To bear the day's weight on his sword 
 
 and mine, 
 I go to meet whom they soever choose. 
 With no more question made ; and this 
 
 I will. 
 If yet they grant me but their meanest 
 
 man 
 For opposite as equal. 
 
 Queen. Have they hearts, 
 That have you for their fiery star of 
 
 fight 
 To see and not to follow ? That I 
 
 could 
 But give mine own among all these 
 
 away, 
 And with the parcels of it portioned 
 
 out 
 Divide myself into a hundred hearts 
 Of manlier-spirited blood, to raise us 
 
 up 
 For these a tribe of soldiers ! Speak 
 
 to them. 
 And they will hear, and hunger to go 
 
 on 
 Full of your words to death; yea, all 
 
 as I 
 Will thirst to die around you. O my 
 
 God! 
 What is their blood, that it can kindle 
 
 not 
 To be so called of such a chief to die, 
 
 To hear his words, and leap not ? Hast 
 
 thou made 
 Such stuff of man's flesh as we take 
 
 for man. 
 And mixed not soul enough to serve 
 
 the hound 
 Who gives for love his life up ? These 
 
 go back. 
 These that might die, they start aside 
 
 from death. 
 They have no joy to close with it, but 
 
 fear, — 
 These that I deemed, come what might 
 
 worst on us. 
 Should fall with face and heart one fire 
 
 of joy 
 To ride on death, and grapple him and 
 
 die. 
 Have I not heard of men once in the 
 
 world ? 
 I see none only but mine only love. 
 Who finds not one to follow. You 
 
 shall fight. 
 And, if we thrive not, shame them with 
 
 your end 
 As I with mine ensuing. That I might 
 
 stand 
 Your second, and my sword be page to 
 
 yours. 
 As on your death my death should wait 
 
 at need, 
 And halt not after ! No, you shall not 
 
 die. 
 O miserable white hanging hands, that 
 
 rest 
 Baffled and bloodless! let your king- 
 dom go. 
 Let all things pass together: what of 
 
 price 
 Should ye keep back that could not 
 
 fight for him 
 Who falls for lack of seconds? Nay 
 
 the fault 
 Com«s all of me that fail him, I "t 
 
 is 
 Bring down that high head to th« eartb 
 
 with mine. 
 That helmless head, for my sake; oh, 
 
 for love's, 
 Kiss me, and kill me ! be not wroth, 
 
 but strike ; 
 For if I live I shall but deal more 
 
 death, 
 
302 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 The just and unjust that he looks upon, 
 With blameless hand dividing their just 
 
 doom 
 To one and other. Yea, as thou art 
 
 Lord, 
 With eye to read between our hearts, 
 
 and hand 
 To part between us punishment and 
 
 grace, 
 Hear, God, and judge; and as thy sen- 
 tence is, 
 So shall man's tongue speak ever of 
 
 this day 
 And of his cause that conquers. 
 
 Morton. Laird of Grange, 
 While these that twice brought mes- 
 sage from the queen 
 Bear now this last news back of what 
 
 they hear. 
 Lest, when the traitor knows whom he 
 
 shall meet, 
 His foul heart fail him, and his false 
 
 foot flee 
 By what way forth is left him toward 
 
 Dunbar, 
 Take you two hundred horse, and with 
 
 good speed 
 Cross to the right beyond this hollow 
 
 ground, 
 And cut him off: so, though he fain 
 
 would fly 
 And she stand fast or follow, vet we 
 
 hold 
 As in one toil the lioness and the wolf 
 That clomb by night into the lion's bed, 
 Who stand now staked about with nets, 
 
 and, ringed 
 With pikes and hounds of hunters, 
 
 glare at bay 
 With eyes and teeth that shine against 
 
 us vet ; 
 But the fierce feet are trammelled in 
 
 our toils, 
 Nor shall the tongues laj) life again of 
 
 man. 
 Du Croc. Ay, lion-like, my lord, she 
 
 bears herself, 
 As who should shake all spears or 
 
 shafts away 
 Like leaves that fell upon her, and all 
 
 fears 
 As grains of dust brushed off; but he 
 
 too makes 
 
 Such gallant show at need of such good 
 
 heart 
 As in this utter peril where he stands 
 Might win, for one that had no unjust 
 
 cause. 
 Pity and praise of enemies, and for him 
 At least such mingled and discolored 
 
 fame 
 As falls not on a coward ; nor can men 
 Report him in his end and sore extreme 
 But as a soldier tried of hand and 
 
 brain. 
 Skilful and swift, with heart to match 
 
 his eye 
 And wit to serve them ; could these yet 
 
 avail 
 To ransom him by spirit of soldiership 
 And craft with courage tempered as 
 
 with fire 
 To wield with fiery cunning the wide 
 
 war, 
 He should not fall but mightily, nor 
 
 cease 
 But with a strife as earthquake. 
 
 Morton. Well, my lord, 
 With no such strife we think to win 
 
 him. — Go, 
 And if they send again to treat with us, 
 Speak you with her, and bring us once 
 
 more word. 
 
 Scene HL — The Queen's Camp. 
 
 The Queen and Both well. 
 Queen. Are we quite lost .-' 
 Botfnvell. Ay, if I fight not; but 
 I will not die and fight not. 
 
 Queen. What, no help.'' 
 Ls there not left a score of manlike men 
 To stand and strike round us that in 
 
 their ring 
 May fight enclosed, and fall where none 
 
 sh.ill flv? 
 Are all our strengths slid from us ? not 
 
 one trooj) 
 That has not piecemeal dropjjed with 
 
 shame away ? 
 Not some twelve friends to back us yet, 
 
 and die 
 As never men died nobler ? 
 Both-.vell. No, not three : 
 My levies there of Lothian and the 
 Merse 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 303 
 
 Are slipped away like water; of your 
 
 men 
 Not yet four hundred lie along the 
 
 heights, 
 Nor half will stay of these a half-hour 
 
 hence. 
 Look too where yonder rides about the 
 
 hill 
 The Laird of Grange, between us and 
 
 Dunbar, 
 As to make onset with two hundred 
 
 horse 
 Thence where the way is smooth, while 
 
 those in front 
 Charge up the hill right on our unfenced 
 
 camp, 
 And their trap's teeth shut on us. This 
 
 remains 
 Of all our chance, this one way to make 
 
 end, 
 That, while they yet refuse me not a 
 
 man 
 To bear the day's weight on his sword 
 
 and mine, 
 I go to meet whom they soever choose, 
 With no more question made ; and this 
 
 I will. 
 If yet they grant me but their meanest 
 
 man 
 For opposite as equal. 
 
 Queen. Have they hearts. 
 That have you for their fiery star of 
 
 fight 
 To see and not to follow "i That I 
 
 could 
 But give mine own among all these 
 
 away. 
 And with the parcels of it portioned 
 
 out 
 Divide myself into a hundred hearts 
 Of manlier-spirited blood, to raise us 
 
 up 
 For these a tribe of soldiers ! Speak 
 
 to them. 
 And they will hear, and hunger to go 
 
 on 
 Full of your words to death ; yea, all 
 
 as I 
 Will thirst to die around you. O mv 
 
 God! 
 What is their blood, that it can kindle 
 
 not 
 To be so called of such a chief to die, 
 
 To hear his words, and leap not ? Hast 
 
 thou made 
 Such stuff of man's flesh as we take 
 
 for man. 
 And mixed not soul enough to serve 
 
 the hound 
 Who gives for love his life up ? These 
 
 go back. 
 These that might die, they start aside 
 
 from death. 
 They have no joy to close with it, but 
 
 fear, — 
 These that I deemed, come what might 
 
 worst on us. 
 Should fall with face and heart one fire 
 
 of joy 
 To ride on death, and grapple him and 
 
 die. 
 Have I not heard of men once in the 
 
 world "i 
 I see none only but mine only love, 
 Who finds not one to follow. You 
 
 shall fight. 
 And, if we thrive not, shame them with 
 
 your end 
 As I with mine ensuing. That I might 
 
 stand 
 Your second, and my sword be page to 
 
 yours. 
 As on your death my death should wait 
 
 at need. 
 And halt not after ! No, you shall not 
 
 die. 
 O miserable white hanging hands, that 
 
 rest 
 Bafiied and bloodless! let your king- 
 dom go, 
 Let all things pass together: what of 
 
 price 
 Should ye keep back that could not 
 
 fight for him 
 Who falls for lack of seconds ? Nay 
 
 the fault 
 Com«s all of me that fail him, I t 
 
 is 
 Bring down that high head to the eartb 
 
 with mine. 
 That helmless head, for my sake; oh, 
 
 for love's. 
 Kiss me, and kill me ! be not wroth, 
 
 but strike ; 
 For if I live I shall but deal more 
 
 death, 
 
;o4 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 And where I would not shall the more 
 
 destroy, 
 Living and loving; yea, whom I would 
 
 save, 
 Him shall I slay the surelier; save 
 
 then me, 
 Lest I do this, and dying abhor myself, 
 Save me and slay; let not my love 
 
 again 
 Kill more than me, that would have 
 
 shed my blood 
 To spare the blood I shed ; make me 
 
 now sure ; 
 Let me cease here. 
 Bothwell. Peace, and give heed : you 
 
 see 
 Whither the day has brought us, and 
 
 what hope 
 Holds anywhere of rescue ; this one 
 
 lot 
 Lies in my hand by fortune to be 
 
 drawn, — 
 That yet by God's and by our enemies' 
 
 grace 
 I may fight singly though my whole 
 
 world fail, 
 And end no less than soldier. Now, 
 
 my queen, 
 As you are highest of women's hearts 
 
 that live,' 
 And nobler than your station stands 
 
 your soul, — 
 As you had never fear, and in this 
 
 past 
 As ever you have loved me, — by such 
 
 sign 
 And in such name I charge you, put 
 
 me not 
 In this great need to shame : let me go 
 
 forth 
 As should yourself being king, had you 
 
 the cause 
 I'hat r)ur linked loves put on me. I'y 
 
 that heart 
 'Iliat is so fain within you to be man's, 
 NLnke mc not meaner than the man I 
 
 am, 
 Nor worthless of the name; think with 
 
 what soul 
 Would you stand up to battle in my 
 
 stead, 
 \nd wrong mc not to pluck that prize 
 away, 
 
 Which, were you I, you would not yield 
 
 to me. 
 Nor I would ask of you ; desire not 
 
 this, 
 To have me for your sake so vile a 
 
 thing, ' 
 
 When I should rise up worthiest, that 
 
 no man 
 Could bear such name, and live; bid me 
 
 not be — 
 Because you love me that are first on 
 
 earth 
 And crowned of queens most royal — 
 
 such a slave 
 As might not seek and be not spit 
 
 upon 
 The foulest favor that is given for 
 
 gold 
 From lips more vile than all things else 
 
 but I 
 Who durst not fight for you : make me 
 
 not this ; 
 Let me die rather such a man as might, 
 Having your love, had fortune lovecl 
 
 him too. 
 Have lived beside you kinglike, and 
 
 not left 
 Less memory than a king's. 
 Qiteeu. Oh, you shall go ! 
 Look how I hold you not : yes, you 
 
 shall fight, 
 And I sit strengthless here. — Vou shall 
 
 not yet : 
 If I did know that God were with my 
 
 heart, 
 Then should you go indeed; could 1 
 
 sit sure 
 My prayer had power upon him, and 
 
 mv cause 
 Had made him mine to fight for mc. 
 
 and take 
 My charge and this field's issue in his 
 
 hand, 
 I would not doubt to send you. Nay, 
 
 myself 
 Will si)eak to those mv soldiers; thev 
 
 will fight; 
 They shall not choose for shame who 
 
 hear me speak, 
 liut fear to fight not. Oh, for all this 
 
 yet, 
 If they were men about me, they would 
 
 sweep 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 305 
 
 Those traitors from the hillside as a 
 
 wind, 
 And make me way to live. What! if I 
 
 speak, 
 If I kneel to them, each man by his 
 
 name, 
 Bid him fight for me though I be not 
 
 king, 
 Mis king to lead him, —as, had I been 
 
 born 
 My father's son, they should have 
 
 fought, and found 
 A king to fight for and a sword to lead 
 Worth many a good sword's following, 
 
 — nay, but these 
 That will not fight for you whose sword 
 
 they s^ 
 Worth afl their swords to follow, for 
 
 no king's 
 Would they take heart to strike. 
 
 Love, you shall go : 
 Send out a flag to bid one come and 
 
 say 
 Who dares of all fight with you. Why, 
 
 methought 
 This march-folk loved you and your 
 
 sword's bright name 
 That burned along their borders : is 
 
 there left 
 No such fierce love of theirs and faith 
 
 at need 
 To do us soldier's service ? 
 Bothwell. Look, and see : 
 Their ranks unknit themselves, and 
 
 slide more fast 
 From the bare slopes away whereon 
 
 they stand 
 Than the last leaves or the last snows 
 
 that fade 
 From off the fields or branches : and 
 
 this thaw 
 Speaks not our spring, but winter. 
 
 Let them pass ; 
 If I may stand but in mine enemy's 
 
 face, 
 One foot of ours shall slip not, and one 
 
 hand 
 Be reddened on our side. I will go 
 
 send 
 Word with your flag of truce by Ormis- 
 
 ton. 
 To bid their spokesman to us. \Exit. 
 Queen, What am I worth, 
 
 That can nor fight nor pray } my heart 
 
 is shut 
 As a sealed spring of fire, and in mine 
 
 ears 
 This air that holds no thunder, but fait 
 
 day. 
 Sounds louder than a stricken brazen 
 
 bell 
 That rings in a great wind, or the blown 
 
 sea 
 That roars by night for shipwreck. 
 A'e-enter Bothwell with Kirkaldy. 
 Bothwell. Here is he 
 That brings our lords' will with him, 
 
 and shall show 
 But in your private ear ; I while you 
 
 please 
 Will wait apart upon you. [Retires. 
 
 Queen. Is it you. 
 Is it my friend of France, my knight 
 
 and friend. 
 Comes on such errand in mine extreme 
 
 need 
 To me that honored him .-* Sir, time 
 
 has been 
 That, had one asked me what man most 
 
 on earth 
 I would for trust have sought the ser- 
 vice of 
 In such sore straits as this, I had found 
 
 no name 
 But yours to leap the first upon my 
 
 lips, 
 On whom I have seen my father, the 
 
 French king, 
 Point with his hand, saying, Yonder 
 
 goes there one 
 Of the most valiant men in all our 
 
 And ever would he choose you on his 
 
 side 
 In all his pastimes for your manhood's 
 
 sake 
 And might in jousts of men and gal- 
 lant games, 
 And when they shot for mastery at the 
 
 butts 
 Would make you shoot two arrows still 
 
 for one, 
 And took delight beyond all shots of 
 
 theirs 
 To see how far forth would your great 
 
 shaft fly, 
 
3o6 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Sped for his pleasure ; and my heart 
 
 grew great 
 For my land's sake whereof your 
 
 strength was made, 
 That bore such men for honor; and the 
 
 best 
 Who served my father Henry in his 
 
 wars 
 Looked reverently upon you horsed at 
 
 head 
 Of your brave hundred men that rode 
 
 with you, 
 And never the great constable of France 
 Would speak to you uncovered as to 
 
 one 
 Less than his own place worthy; and 
 
 your hand 
 Here on these marches hath not lost 
 
 its praise 
 For many as fair a stroke as overthrew 
 Between our ranks and the English in 
 
 mid-field 
 Lord Rivers' brother, fighting for this 
 
 land 
 That with a tongue as true and service- 
 able 
 You strove in speech to save the free- 
 dom of. 
 That by no policy it should be subdued 
 To a French province. So for faith 
 
 and love. 
 For valor, wisdom, and tor gentleness, 
 I wist no Scot had worthier name alive : 
 Shall I say now I have no deadlier 
 
 foe? [KiRKAl.DY /{-//^r/j. 
 
 I do not bid you kneel : speak, and 
 
 stand up ; 
 I have no help or comfort of men's 
 
 knees, 
 Nor pleasure of false worship; well I 
 
 know, 
 For all knees bowed, how hearts and 
 
 hands are bent 
 (Jf mine own men against me. Speak, 
 
 I i)ray : 
 I am as their servant bound who speak 
 
 in you 
 And o])cn-earcd to hear them. 
 
 Kirkatdy. From the lords. 
 Madam, no word I have to bring but 
 
 f)ne, 
 That from this field they will not part 
 
 alive 
 
 Without the man in bonds they came 
 to seek; 
 
 Him will they take, or die : but on you' 
 part 
 
 They have no thought that is not set to 
 serve 
 
 And do you honor, would but you for- 
 sake 
 
 The murderer of your husband, who to 
 you 
 
 Can be no husband, being but lately 
 wed 
 
 To the earl of Huntley's sister, and 
 your friend 
 
 By your own mean and favor. 
 
 Queen [to Both well). Hold, my 
 lord : 
 
 Let not your man give fire. — Sir, guard 
 yourself : 
 
 See you not where one stands to shoot 
 at you ? — 
 
 You will not do me this dishonor, see- 
 ing 
 
 I have given my faith he should come 
 safely through. 
 
 And go back safe } 
 
 Bothwell. Why let him, then, and say 
 
 That I will yet maintain my proffered 
 cause 
 
 To fight with any that shall challenge 
 me 
 
 Of the king's murder. 
 
 Kirkahiy. Sir, the first was I 
 
 To let you wif myself would fight with 
 you 
 
 Upon that quarrel; and the first re- 
 fused, 
 
 As being nor earl nor lord nor mate of 
 yours. 
 
 But a poor baron only; the like word 
 
 You sent to Tullibardine ; in whose 
 place 
 
 Stands now my lord of Lindsay, if your 
 heart 
 
 Yet fail you not to meet him, as it 
 seems 
 
 Now to grow cold in shadow of his 
 sword 
 
 That hangs against you in the air ad- 
 vanced, 
 
 Darkening vour sight and spirit. 
 /)'('/'//7<v7/'(AW//f Queen). Shall this 
 be said. 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 307 
 
 This shame go forth forever through 
 
 the world 
 Of one that held you by the wedded 
 
 hand 
 And loosed it even for fear ? Now let 
 
 me go : 
 There is no way now but the best, and 
 
 this 
 You shall no more forbid me : one last 
 
 time 
 I do implore you, make not of your 
 
 love 
 The branding-iron that should sign me 
 
 slave 
 In sight of all men always, and on you 
 Stamp the vile name of wife to no true 
 
 man, 
 Bnt harlot of a coward : who shall 
 
 spare 
 To throw that name and shame on 
 
 such a love 
 As came to such an end as ours shall 
 
 come 
 If here its sun set bloodless, but more 
 
 red 
 With shame than blood could brand it ? 
 
 Queen. I have thought, 
 And set my heart against all chance to 
 
 come 
 Of blame or blood that ever shall mark 
 
 me ; 
 Alone I take it on mine only hand. 
 And will not yield this one thing up to 
 
 yours, 
 Who have yielded all things else, and 
 
 this I would. 
 But that I may not with my soul 
 
 alive. — 
 Sir, if my lords within whose hand I 
 
 am 
 Shall stand content to let my husband 
 
 Into their ward will I give up myself 
 On what good terms shall please them 
 
 to call good. 
 So he may pass forth freely with such 
 
 friends 
 Of these that have not hands enough 
 
 to fight 
 As shall cleave to him ; I pray you 
 
 make good speed. 
 And let this day have end. 
 
 Kirkaldy. Madam, I go. S^Exit. 
 
 Queen. Do not speak yet : a word 
 
 should burst my heart ; 
 It is a hollow crystal full of tears 
 That even a breath might break, and 
 
 they be spilt 
 And life run out with them ; no dia- 
 mond now, 
 But weaker than of wax. Life of that 
 
 heart, 
 There is but one thing hath no rem- 
 edy, — 
 Death. All ills else have end or hope 
 
 of end, 
 And time to work their worst before 
 
 time change : 
 This death hath none ; there is all hope 
 
 shut fast, * 
 All chance bound up forever : change 
 
 nor time 
 Can help nor comfort this. You shall 
 
 not die ; 
 I can hold fast no sense of thought but 
 
 this, — 
 You shall not. 
 
 Bothwell. Well, being sundered, we 
 
 may live, 
 And living meet ; and here to hold the 
 
 field 
 Were but a deadly victory, and my hand 
 The mockery of a conqueror's ; we 
 
 should pass 
 No less their prisoners from the field 
 
 thus won 
 Than from these lists defeated. You 
 
 do well ; 
 They dare not urge or strain the power 
 
 they have 
 To bring me prisoner where my witness 
 
 borne 
 Might show them parcel of the deed 
 
 and guilt 
 For which they rise up to lay hold on 
 
 me 
 As upright men of doom, and with pure 
 
 hands 
 To hale me to their judgment. I will 
 
 go, 
 Till good time bring me back ; and you 
 
 that stay. 
 Keep faith with me. 
 
 Queen. Oh, how does one break faith ? 
 What are they that are faithless.^ b^ 
 
 my love, 
 
308 
 
 BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 I cannot tell or think how I should lie, 
 Should live and lie to you that are my 
 
 faith, 
 My soul, my spirit, my very and only 
 
 (Jod, 
 My truth and trust that makes me true 
 
 of heart, 
 My life that feeds and light that lightens 
 
 me, 
 My breath and blood of living. Doth 
 
 God think 
 How I shall be without you ? what 
 
 strange breath 
 Shall my days draw, what strange blood 
 
 feed my life. 
 When this life that is love is gone from 
 
 them 
 /Vnd this light lost? Where shall my 
 
 true life go, 
 And by what far ways follow to find 
 
 love. 
 Fly where love will ? Where will you 
 turn from me ? 
 Bothivell. Hence will I to Dunbar, 
 and thence again 
 There is no way but northward and to 
 
 ship 
 From the north islands; thence be- 
 times abroad 
 By land or sea to lurk, and find my life 
 Till the wheel turn. 
 
 Queen. Ah God! that we were set 
 Far out at sea alone by storm and 
 
 night 
 To drive together on one end, and 
 
 know 
 If life or death would give us good or 
 
 ill 
 And night or day receive, and heaven 
 
 or earth 
 Forget us or remember! — He comes 
 
 back : 
 Here is the end. 
 
 Both-well, liut till lime change his 
 tune; 
 No more nor further. We shall find 
 our (lay. 
 Qneen. Have we not found ? I know 
 not what we shall, 
 But what hath been and is, and whence 
 
 they are, 
 God knows if now I know not. He is 
 here. 
 
 Re-enter Kirkaldy. 
 Kirkaldy. Madam, the lords return 
 by me this word : 
 With them must you go back to Edin 
 
 burgh, 
 And there be well entreated as o 
 
 friends ; 
 And for the duke, they are with on* 
 
 mind content 
 He should part hence for safe and 
 
 present flight; 
 But here may tarry not, or pass not 
 
 free. 
 This is the last word from them by my 
 mouth. 
 Queen. Ay is it, sir, — the last word 
 I shall hear, — 
 Last in mine ear forever: no com- 
 mand 
 Nor threat of man shall I give ear to 
 
 more. 
 That have heard this. — Will you not 
 
 go, my lord .'' 
 Is it not I would hold you. 
 Bothu<cll. Then, farewell, 
 And keep your word to me. What, no 
 
 breath more } 
 Keep then this kiss too with the word 
 
 you gave. 
 And with them both my heart and its 
 
 good hope 
 To find time yet for you and me. Fare- 
 well. \Exit. 
 Queeu. O God! God! God! 
 
 Cover my face for me : 
 I cannot heave my hand up to my 
 
 head ; 
 Mine arms are broken. 
 
 Is he got to horse ? 
 I do not think one can die more than 
 
 this. 
 I did not say farewell. 
 
 Kirkaldy'. My lord is gone. 
 Queen. Whom spake I to .^ I have 
 no woman here. 
 All these men's eyes have seen my 
 
 naked face 
 Wrung without tears for anguish, and 
 
 no hantl 
 Hide my blind eyes if hajily they might 
 
 weep 
 Great drops of blood and fiery. — Laird 
 of Grange, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 309 
 
 .' yield myself upon such terms to you 
 A.S in these lords' name you rehearsed 
 
 to me : 
 Have here my hand for sign. 
 Kirkaldy. Upon this hand 
 I lay the loyal witness of my lips 
 For duteous heart and service, and 
 
 crave leave 
 That I may lead your highness through 
 
 these ranks, 
 Where at the hill's foot we may find 
 
 your friends 
 Who shall come forth to meet you as 
 
 their queen 
 With all fair reverence. 
 
 Queen. Lead me to my lords : 
 For one so poor a servant as I am. 
 Here are too many masters. I could 
 
 pray, 
 But that they lack my service and should 
 
 chafe 
 If I dwelt long upon my prayer, and let 
 My daty sleep or slacken toward them ; 
 
 else 
 I could pray God to shut up from these 
 
 lands 
 His hand and eye of favor, that no dew 
 Might breed herefrom and no bloom 
 
 break again 
 Nor grass be glad forever ; rain nor sun 
 Comfort their cankered face and harden- 
 ing heart, 
 Nor hand that tilled or foot that trod of 
 
 man 
 Pass and not curse them. Let me look 
 
 but once 
 Upon this hill whereon till this ninth 
 
 hour 
 Mine enemies' hands have crucified my 
 
 heart. 
 The sun burns yet, and the stream runs ; 
 
 nor eye 
 Nor ear have these nor pity. Come, I 
 
 talk, 
 Who had no mind ; God will not heed 
 
 me : come. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Camp of the 
 Lords. 
 
 Morton, Hume, Lindsay, etc. 
 Morton. What, is the Frenchman 
 gone? 
 
 Lindsay. With heavy cheer. 
 By this to set sad foot in Edinburgh. 
 Morton. There should we be by night- 
 fall ; and you see 
 How the day reddens downward, and 
 
 this hill 
 Hath all its west side fiery; he hath 
 
 done 
 The queen and us small service, to put 
 
 off 
 Her hour of yielding. Look! the last 
 
 spears left 
 Begin to move in sunder ; there he 
 
 flies. 
 The traitor, with his heartless handful 
 
 backed 
 That yet for fear cling to him ; and on 
 
 this side 
 Grange leads her down the hill between 
 
 our horse. 
 Who comes not like one captive. 
 Enter the QuEEN and KiRKALDY. 
 Queen. Tell me, sirs, 
 Are they my doomsmen whom I come 
 
 to find. 
 And those your headsmen who stand 
 
 sworded there 
 And visored soldier-like, that cry on 
 
 me 
 To burn and slay me ? Let me have 
 
 quick doom, 
 And be beyond their crying. 
 Morton. Madam, I think 
 You cannot fear of us a deadly doom, 
 Nor shall you find. — .Silence those 
 
 throats, I say! 
 Queen. I have not said I feared ; nor 
 
 shall there come 
 For you that lying breath upon my lips. 
 What will ye do with what of me ye 
 
 have 
 If not what these tongues cry for ? 
 
 Morton. Some man ride, — 
 You, Laird of Grange, with two or 
 
 three at back, — 
 And with the flatlong stroke of your 
 
 good swords 
 Smite their mouths dumb. — Madam, 
 
 take you no heed: 
 They shall not hurt you. 
 
 Queen. Sir, no heed have I ; 
 I think these common haters shall not 
 
 hurt 
 
3IO 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Indeed, nor smite me but with tongues ; 
 
 'tis you, 
 My good lords only, from whose noble 
 
 hands 
 I look to take my death, who would not 
 
 lose 
 Nor lack this royal office. For my 
 
 sake 
 Do them no hurt, I pray, who are but 
 
 your mouths 
 As you their hands; I see no choice of 
 
 you, 
 Or them the lesser traitors. 
 
 Hume. I will go : 
 Ride you that way, sir, by their ranks 
 
 who shout. 
 As I this side; for every way men hear 
 How the field rings that all the hills 
 
 roar back 
 With noise of names and cries to burn 
 
 the whore 
 And murderess of her husband: spare 
 
 no strokes 
 To shame or smite them silent. 
 
 Queen. You, my friends, 
 Good servants that have care of my 
 
 good name. 
 And loyal lovers — of your love and 
 
 grace, 
 May it please you show me whither I 
 
 must go 
 To find what face of death ? or if yet 
 
 none, 
 And yet ye have not the hardy hearts 
 
 to slay. 
 To uncrown and slay me, I require you 
 
 then 
 Deliver me into my kinsmen's hands 
 Of the house of Hamilton, in whose 
 
 good ward 
 I am content to abide men's evil will 
 With honorable surety; which refused, 
 ( )f life nor honor shall I hold me sure 
 For all your vows and voices, but 
 
 esteem 
 My life to be as all your honors, dead. 
 Morton. Madam, with mocks you 
 
 cannot make us mad. 
 To bring you to their trustless hands 
 
 whose ward 
 Should be to you but dangerous, and 
 
 to us, 
 And all thi>» kingdom's hope in heritage, 
 
 And all men's good, most mortal. You 
 
 must go 
 With us to Edinburgh, and being made 
 
 safe 
 Abide the judgment there that shall not 
 
 fall 
 By fierce election of men's clamorous 
 
 mouths 
 Whose rage would damn you to the 
 
 fire-clad death. 
 But by their sentence who shall do no 
 
 wrong. 
 If justice may with honor make them 
 
 sure, 
 And faith defend from error. 
 
 Queen. Ay, my lord ? 
 I shall be doomed, then, ere I die, and 
 
 stand 
 Before their face for judgment who 
 
 should kneel 
 To take my sentence as a scourge, and 
 
 bear 
 What brand my tongue set on them? 
 
 Nay, ye are mad. 
 Kings have been slam with violence 
 
 and red craft. 
 Or fallen by secret or by popular hands ; 
 But what man heard yet ever of a king 
 Set to the bar of his own men, to plead 
 For life with rebels' reasons, and wage 
 
 words 
 With whoso dare of all these baser 
 
 born 
 Rise up to judge him? Surely I shall 
 
 die, — 
 Be rent perchance in pieces of men's 
 
 fangs. 
 But of their mouths not sentenced. In 
 
 fair field 
 That only steel that bids a king's neck 
 
 stoop 
 Is the good sword that in a warlike 
 
 hand 
 Makes his head bow, and cuts not off 
 
 his crown 
 But with the stroke of battle : who halh 
 
 seen 
 By doom of man a king's head king- 
 
 domlcss 
 Bow down to the axe and l)K)ck? so 
 
 base an ctlgc 
 Can bite not on such necks. Let UiC 
 
 bleed here, 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 311 
 
 By their swift hands who ravin for my 
 
 blood ; 
 Or be assured how if ye let me live 
 I live to see you die for me as 
 
 dogs : 
 Ye shall be hanged on crosses, nailed 
 
 on rows, 
 For birds to rend alive ; ye shall have 
 
 doom, 
 A dog's doom and a traitor's, and the 
 
 cord 
 Strangle the sentence in your laboring 
 
 lips, 
 And break the plea that heaves your 
 
 throat, and leaves 
 Ifour tongue thrust forth to blacken : 
 
 ye shall wage 
 Words and try causes with the worms 
 
 and flies 
 Till they leave bare your bones to sun 
 
 and wind 
 As shame shall leave your titles. Was 
 
 it you [7b Lindsay. 
 
 That were to fight before me with my 
 
 lord? 
 Give me your hand, sir : by this hand 
 
 of yours 
 I swear for this thing yet to have your 
 
 head, 
 And so thereof assure you. 
 
 Morton. Bid the camp 
 Strike, and set forth behind us. Sirs, to 
 
 horse ; 
 And, madam, be not yet so great of 
 
 speech 
 As utterly to outwear your spirit of 
 
 strength 
 With pain and passion that can bear 
 
 no fruit 
 But wind and wrath and barren bitter- 
 ness. 
 Vex not yourself more than your foes 
 
 would ve.x. 
 Of whom we would be none that ride 
 
 with you 
 From them to guard you that would lay 
 
 red hands 
 On you yet faint and weak from this 
 
 nerce day. 
 Queen. My body and head wax faint, 
 
 but not my heart ; 
 I have yet there fire enough for all of 
 
 you, 
 
 To burn your strengths up that my fee- 
 bler limbs 
 
 Can make my heart not yield to nor 
 bow down. 
 
 Nor fear put out its fires. Come, 
 worthy lords. 
 
 And lead me to my loving town again, 
 
 That bears your heads not yet above 
 its gates 
 
 Where I shall see them festering if I 
 live. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V, — Edinburgh: A Room in 
 THE Provost's House. 
 
 Enter Maitland and Provost. 
 Maitland. Are the gates fast t 
 Provost. Ay; but the street yet 
 
 seethes 
 With ebb and flow of fighting faces 
 
 thronged, 
 And crush of onset following on her 
 
 heel 
 Where she came in, and whence at her 
 
 own call 
 You drove them off her; and above 
 
 the ranks 
 Flaps the flag borne before her as she 
 
 came, 
 Wrought with the dead king's likeness ; 
 
 and their cry 
 Is yet to burn or drown her. It were 
 
 but 
 A manlike mercy now for men to show. 
 That she should have some woman's 
 
 hand of hers 
 To tend her fainting who should be 
 
 nigh dead 
 With fear and lack of food and weari- 
 ness. 
 Maitland. Nay, if she die not till she 
 
 die for fear, 
 She must outlive man's memory : twice 
 
 or thrice 
 As she rode hither with that sable flag 
 Blown overhead whereon the dead man 
 
 lay 
 Painted, and by him beneath a garden 
 
 tree 
 His young child kneeling, with soft 
 
 hands held up, 
 And the word underwritten of his 
 
 prayer, — 
 
312 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 Judge and avenge my cause, O Lord, — 
 
 she seemed 
 At point to swoon, being sick with two 
 
 clays' fast, 
 And with faint fingers clung upon the 
 
 rein. 
 And gaped as one athirst with foodless 
 
 lips 
 And fair head fainting; but for very 
 
 scorn 
 Was straightway quickened and uplift 
 
 of heart, 
 And smote us with her eyes again, and 
 
 spoke 
 No weaker word but of her constant 
 
 mind 
 To hang and crucify, when time should 
 
 be, 
 These now her lords and keepers ; so 
 
 at last 
 Beneath these walls she came in with 
 
 the night. 
 So pressed about with foes that man by 
 
 man 
 We could but bring her at a foot's pace 
 
 through 
 Past Kirk of Field between the roaring 
 
 streets. 
 Faint with no fear, but hunger and 
 
 great rage. 
 With all men's wrath as thunder at her 
 
 heel. 
 And all her fair face foul with dust and 
 
 tears. 
 But as one fire of eye and cheek that 
 
 shone 
 With heat of fiery heart and unslaked 
 
 will 
 That took no soil of fear. 
 
 Provost. What shall be done 
 When sentence shall pass on her? 
 
 Maithnid. By my will, 
 She shall not die, nor lose her royal 
 
 name. 
 Wherein the council only shall bear 
 
 rule. 
 And take to its own hand the care to 
 
 wreak 
 On her false lord now fled our general 
 
 wrong, 
 Who Ijeing i)ut overtaken of its sword 
 Shall be divorced at once from her and 
 
 life. 
 
 Proz'ost. But this shall not content 
 
 the common will, 
 Nor theirs who bind and loose it with 
 
 their tongues 
 And cry now for her blood ; the town 
 
 is loud 
 With w^omen's voices keener than of men 
 To call for judgment on her and swift 
 
 death 
 Sharp as their anger. 
 
 Maitland. Ay, the time is mad 
 With noise of preachers and the femi- 
 nine spleen 
 That of mere rage and blind mobility 
 Barks in brute heat foi blood; but on 
 
 these tongues 
 The state yet hangs not, nor the general 
 
 weal 
 1 Is swayed but by the violent breath of 
 
 these. 
 Here sits she safe. 
 
 Provost. I would I knew it-, her 
 
 mood 
 Is as a wind that blows upon a fire, 
 And drives her to and fro : she will not 
 
 eat, 
 But rages here and there, and cries 
 
 again 
 On us for traitors, on her friends for 
 
 help. 
 On God for comfort of her cause and 
 
 crown 
 That of his foes and hers is violated, 
 And will not stint her clamors, noi 
 
 take rest. 
 For prayer nor bidding. 
 
 Maitland. I will speak with her 
 Ere I go hence ; though she were mild 
 
 of mood. 
 The task were hard with Knox for 
 
 opposite 
 To bend the council to such policy 
 As might assure her but of life, whicV* 
 
 thus 
 She whets the weaj^on in his tongue to 
 
 take. \^E.xeunt. 
 
 SCKNK VI. — AN(VrHF.R R<30M IN THE 
 SAMK. 
 
 7Vu- QUKKN and an Am NOANT. \ 
 
 Qucun. Wilt thou be true? but if 
 thou have not heart, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 313 
 
 Vet do not, being too young to sell 
 
 man's blood, 
 Betray my letter to mine enemies' hands 
 Where it should be a sword to smite 
 
 me with; 
 If thou lack heart, I say, being but a 
 
 boy. 
 Swear not and break thine oath : but if 
 
 thou have. 
 Thou shalt not ask, for this mine errand 
 
 done, 
 The thing I will not give thee. At 
 
 Dunbar 
 Bring but this letter to my husband's 
 
 hand ; 
 Spare for no speed; if it were possible, 
 I would it might be with him ere day 
 
 dawn 
 On me condemned of men. I have no 
 
 hope. 
 Thou seest, but in thee only: thou art 
 
 young. 
 And mean of place, but be thou good 
 
 to me 
 And thou shalt sit above thy masters 
 
 born 
 And nobles gray in honor. Wilt thou go? 
 Have here mine only jewel, and my 
 
 faith 
 That I plight to thee, when my hand 
 
 may choose, 
 To give thee better gifts. Haste, and 
 
 so thrive 
 As I by thee shall. \Exit Attendant. 
 Though thou play me false, 
 Thou dost no more than God has done 
 
 with me, 
 And all men else before thee : yet I 
 
 could not 
 But write this worthless one word of 
 
 my love, 
 Though I should die for writing it in 
 
 vain. 
 And he should never read it. 
 Enter Maitland. 
 
 Come you not 
 To tell me of my commons and your 
 
 friends, 
 That by their will despite you I must 
 
 die ? 
 J" It were no stranger now than all things 
 
 are 
 That fall as on me dreaming. 
 
 Maitland. Madam, no : 
 I come to plead with you for your own 
 
 life, 
 Which wrath and violent mood would 
 
 cast away. 
 Queen. What is my life to any man 
 
 or me 
 As ye have made it } If ye seek not 
 
 that, 
 Why have ye torn me from my hus- 
 band's hand, 
 With whom ye know that I would live 
 
 and die 
 With all content that may be in the 
 
 world .'' 
 Maitlafid. For your own honor have 
 
 we sundered you. 
 You know not him, who late writ word 
 
 — myself 
 Can show this letter — to the Lady 
 
 Jane, 
 She was his wife and you his concubine. 
 No more but sport and scandal in his 
 
 sheets, 
 And loved for use but as a paramour, 
 And for his ends to rise and by your 
 
 lips 
 Be kissed into a kingdom ; and each 
 
 week 
 Since they were first but as in show 
 
 divorced 
 And but of craft divided, on some days 
 Have they held secret commerce to 
 
 your shame 
 As wedded man and wife. 
 
 Qneen. There is one thing 
 That I would ask of even such friends 
 
 as you, — 
 To turn me with my lord adrift at sea. 
 And make us quit of all men. 
 
 Maitland. For yourself, 
 You drive on no less danger here of 
 
 wreck, 
 Seeing for your life if England take no 
 
 care 
 France will nor strike nor speak ; and 
 
 had you not 
 In your own kindly kingdom yet some 
 
 friends 
 Whose hearts are better toward you, 
 
 these wot well 
 You have none left you helpful in the 
 
 world. 
 
314 
 
 BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 Vet what we may will I and all these 
 do 
 
 To serve you in this strait ; so for this 
 night 
 
 Let not your peril, which can breed 
 not fear, 
 
 For that breed anger in you ; and fare- 
 well. {Exit. 
 Queen. None but such friends ? O 
 yet my living lord, 
 
 still my comfort, hadst thou none 
 
 but me 
 As I save thee have no man, we would 
 
 go 
 Hand fast in hand to dreadless death, 
 
 and see 
 With such clear eyes as once our mar- 
 riage-bed 
 Fire, or the sword's light lifted to make 
 
 end 
 Of that one life on both our lips that 
 
 laughed 
 To think he could not sunder them who 
 
 smote. 
 Nor change our hearts who chilled 
 
 them ; we would kiss. 
 Laugh, and lie down, and sleep : but 
 
 here in bonds 
 
 1 will not tamely like a dumb thing die 
 That gives its blood and speaks not. 
 
 If I find 
 No faith in all this people, yet my 
 
 curse 
 Shall through this casement cry in all 
 
 their ears 
 That are made hard against me. — Ho 
 
 there ! you, 
 All that pass by, your queen am I that 
 
 call: 
 Have I no friend of all you to turn 
 
 back 
 The swords that point on this bare 
 
 breast, the hands 
 That grasp and hale me by the hair to 
 
 death, 
 I)y this discrowned rent hair that wore 
 
 too soon 
 The kingdom's weight of all this land 
 
 in gold ? 
 Have I no friend ? no friend ? 
 
 I'oue 'iuithout. Av, here was one ; 
 Know you yet him ? — Raise up the ban- 
 ner there, 
 
 That she may look upon her lord, and 
 
 take 
 Comfort. 
 
 A Woman. What! was not this that 
 
 kneels the child 
 Which hung once at that harlot's breast 
 
 now bare. 
 And should have drunk death from its 
 
 deadly milk ? 
 Hide it for shame ; bind up the wanton 
 
 hair. 
 Cover the poisonous bosom : here is 
 
 none 
 To kiss the print of that adulterer's 
 
 head 
 Which last lay on it. 
 
 Another Voice. Whither is he flown. 
 Whose amorous lips were bloody, and 
 
 left red 
 The shameless cheek they fed on as 
 
 with shame ? 
 Where is your swordsman at your back 
 
 to guard 
 And make your sin strut kinglike .<* 
 
 where his hand 
 That made this dead man's child kneel 
 
 fatherless. 
 And plead with God against you for 
 
 his blood? 
 Where is your king-killer? 
 Queen. The day shall be 
 That I will make this town a fire, and 
 
 slake 
 The flame with blood of all you : there 
 
 shall stand 
 No mark of man, no stone of these its 
 
 walls, 
 To witness what my wrath made ruin 
 
 of 
 That turned it first to smoke, and then 
 
 put out 
 With all your blood its ashes. 
 Enter Provost. 
 
 Hear you, sir, 
 How we are handled of our townsfolk 
 
 there, 
 Being yet in ward of you ? but by my 
 
 head. 
 If now bv force it fall not, vou as these 
 Shall buv this of n^e bloodily, and 
 
 first 
 Shall bleed of all whose lives will jiav 
 
 not me. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 315 
 
 Provost. Madam, as you desire to see 
 
 that day, 
 Contain yourself: this flame whereon 
 
 you blow 
 Will fasten else untimely on your hand, 
 And leave it harmless toward us. I 
 
 beseech you. 
 Though but for hate of us and hope to 
 
 hurt. 
 Eat, and take rest. 
 
 Queen. I will not: what are ye. 
 That I should care for hate of you to 
 
 live 
 Who care not for the love's sake of my 
 
 life ? 
 If I shall die here in your hateful hands, 
 In God's I put my cause, as into them 
 I yield the spirit that dares all enemies 
 
 yet 
 By force to take it from me. Die or 
 
 live 
 I needs must at their bidding; but to 
 
 sleep, 
 Eat, drink, weep, laugh, speak or keep 
 
 silence, these 
 They shall not yet command me till I 
 
 die. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VII. — The High Street. 
 
 A Crowd of Citizens. 
 Eirst Citizen. Who says she shall not 
 
 die? 
 Second Citizen. Even he that stands 
 First in this city, Morton : by his doom, 
 Death shall not pass upon her. 
 Eirst Citizen. Will he say it .'' 
 Yet is this man not all the tongue or 
 
 hand 
 That Scotland has to speak or smite 
 with. 
 Third Citizen. Nay, 
 When he so spake against their honest 
 
 voice 
 Who called for judgment, one arose 
 
 that said — 
 I know not who, but one that spake for 
 
 God — 
 That he who came between God's 
 
 sword and her 
 Should as a stayer of justice by the 
 
 sword 
 Be stricken of God's justice. ' 
 
 Eirst Citizen. What said he .'' 
 
 Third Citizen. No word, but frowned ; 
 
 and in his eye and cheek 
 sprang a 
 as 'twere 
 
 eye 
 fire, 
 
 There sprang a fire, and sank again. 
 
 For scorn that anger should have leave 
 
 to speak. 
 Though silently ; but Maitland writhed 
 
 his lip, 
 And let his teeth grin doglike, and be- 
 tween 
 There shot some snarling word that 
 
 mocked at God, 
 And at the servants of his wrath, who 
 
 wait 
 To see his will done on her, and men's 
 
 hands 
 Made ministers to set it forth so broad 
 That none might pass and read not. 
 
 Second Citizen. Why, by this 
 Part hangs of it already in men's sight: 
 I have word here from Dunbar, of one 
 
 that was 
 An officer of Bothwell's, and alive 
 Laird of Blackadder, whom they seized 
 
 at sea 
 Flying from death to deathward, and 
 
 brought back 
 To be nigh rent in pieces of their hands 
 Who haled him through the streets to 
 
 hang, and left 
 Not half a man unbroken or unbruised 
 To feel the grip o' the gallows. 
 Eirst Citizen. They did well : 
 Shall we do worse, that have within our 
 
 hand 
 The heart and head of all this evil, her 
 By whom all guilt looks guiltless till she 
 
 die 
 A whore's death or a murderer's, burn 
 
 or drown. 
 And leave more free the common doom 
 
 of man 
 To pass on lesser sins .-' While sht 
 
 doth live. 
 How should it speak for shame to bid 
 
 men die 
 For what sin done soever, who might 
 
 say 
 She lives and laughs yet in God's face 
 
 and eye, 
 And finds on earth no judgment as do 
 
 these 
 
316 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Whose bloodiest hands are whiter than 
 
 her soul ? 
 Let her die first. 
 
 Third Citizen. Ay shall she, if God 
 
 put 
 Upon those lips that never lacked it yet 
 His fire to burn men's hearts, and make 
 
 that tongue 
 His sword that hath been ever. Yes- 
 ternight 
 Came Knox to Edinburgh, and here 
 
 should speak 
 By this among us of the doom to fall 
 On us or her, that if it bruise her not 
 Must glance aside against us. 
 Second Citizen. He is here. 
 Draw nigh, but make no noise. 
 Enter John Knox. 
 First Citizen. Nay, all the press 
 Heaves round about him silent. 
 
 Others. Sirs, give place; 
 Make way for Master Knox to stand 
 
 and speak 
 Here in your midst ; here is it higher ; 
 
 give way. 
 Make room to hear him. Peace there, 
 
 and stand still. 
 John Knox. What word is this that 
 
 ye require of man ? 
 Ye that would hear me, what speech 
 
 heard of mine 
 Should lift your hearts up if they sit 
 
 not high, — 
 If they lack life, should quicken } for 
 
 this day 
 Ye know not less than I know that the 
 
 Lord 
 Hath given his enemy to you for a 
 
 prey. 
 His judgment for a fire: what need 
 
 have ye, 
 C3r he what need of other tongues to 
 
 sjK'ak 
 Than this which burns all ears that 
 
 hear on earth 
 The blast of this day's justice blown 
 
 in heaven — 
 As where is he that hears not ? In your 
 
 hand 
 Lies now the tloom of God to deal, and 
 
 she 
 Ucfore your face to abide it, in whose 
 
 mouth 
 
 His name was as a hissing ; and had I 
 The tongues in mine of angels, and 
 
 their might. 
 What other word or mightier should I 
 
 seek 
 Than this to move you.-* or, should \e 
 
 wax cold. 
 What fuel should I find out to kindle 
 
 you ? 
 If God ve hear not, how shall ye heat 
 
 me .-* 
 
 Or if your eyes be sealed to know not 
 
 her, 
 If she be fit to live or no, can I 
 With words unseal them.-* None sc 
 
 young of you 
 But hath long life enough to understand 
 And reason to record w hat he hath seen 
 Of hers and of God's dealings mutually 
 Since she came in. Then was her 
 
 spirit made soft. 
 Her words as oil, and with her amorous 
 
 face 
 She caught men's eyes to turn them 
 
 where she would. 
 And with the strong sound of her nam 8 
 
 of queen 
 Made their necks bend; that even of 
 
 God's own men 
 There were that bade refuse her nc t 
 
 her will. 
 Deny not her, fair woman and gre; t 
 
 queen. 
 Her natural freedom born, to give Go i 
 
 praise 
 What way she would, and pray whi t 
 
 prayers ; though these 
 Be as they were, to God abominable 
 And venomous to men's souls. S ) 
 
 came there back 
 The cursed thing cast forth of u ;, 
 
 and so 
 Out of her fair face and imperious eyes 
 Lightened the light whereby men walk 
 
 in hell. 
 And I that sole stood out, and bade not 
 
 let 
 The lightning of this curse come down 
 
 on us 
 And fiv with feet as fire on all wiinls 
 
 blown 
 To burn men's eyes out that beheld 
 
 God's face, 
 
EOT// WELL. 
 
 317 
 
 That being long blind but now gat 
 
 sight, and saw, 
 And praised him seeing; I that then 
 
 spake and said. 
 Ten thousand men here landed of our 
 
 foes 
 Were not so fearful to me on her side 
 As one mass said in Scotland ; that 
 
 withstood 
 The man to his face I loved, her father's 
 
 son, 
 Then mastered by the pity of her, and 
 
 made 
 Through that good mind not good, — 
 
 who then but I 
 Was taxed of wrongful will, and for 
 
 hard heart 
 Miscalled of men? And now, sirs, if 
 
 her prayer 
 Were just and reasonable, and unjust I 
 That bade shut ears against it ; if the 
 
 mass 
 Hath brought forth innocent fruit, and 
 
 in this land 
 Wherein she came to stablish it again 
 Hath stablished peace with honor; if 
 
 in her 
 It hath been found no seed of shame, 
 
 and she 
 That loved and served it seem now in 
 
 men's sight 
 No hateful thing nor fearful ; if she 
 
 stand 
 Such a queen proven as should prove 
 
 honorable 
 The rule of women, and in her that 
 
 thing 
 Be shown forth good that was called 
 
 evil of me. 
 Blest and not curst, — then have I 
 
 sinned, and they 
 That would have crossed me would 
 
 have crossed not God : 
 Whereof now judge ye. Hath she 
 
 brought with her 
 Peace, or a sword ? and since her in- 
 coming 
 Hath the land sat in quiet, and the 
 
 men 
 Seen rest but for one year ? or came 
 
 not in 
 Behind her feet, right at her back, and 
 
 shone 
 
 Above her crowned head as a fierier 
 
 crown. 
 Death, and about her as a raiment 
 
 wrapt 
 Ruin ? ancl where her foot was ever 
 
 turned 
 Or her right hand was pointed, hath 
 
 there fallen 
 No fire, no cry burst forth of war, nc 
 
 sound 
 As of a blast blown of an host of men 
 For summons of destruction? Hath 
 
 God shown 
 For sign she had found grace in his 
 
 sight, and we 
 For her sake favor, while she hath 
 
 reigned on us. 
 One hour of good, one week of rest, 
 
 one day ? 
 Or hath he sent not for an opposite 
 
 sign 
 Dissensions, wars, rumors of wars, 
 
 and change. 
 Flight and return of men, terror with 
 
 power, 
 Triumph with trembling ? Hath one 
 
 foot stood fast, 
 One head not bowed, one face not 
 
 veiled itself, 
 One hand not hidden ? Was this once 
 
 or twice 
 That ye beheld, this brief while of her 
 
 reign. 
 Strong men one day make mouths at 
 
 God, the next 
 Lie where his foes lie fallen ? or since 
 
 she came 
 Have ye seen raised up of them and 
 
 cast down 
 But one or two that served her ? 
 
 Which of these. 
 Which of them all that looked on her 
 
 and loved. 
 And men spake well of them, and pride 
 
 and hope 
 Were as their servants, — which of all 
 
 them now 
 Shall men speak well of ? How fared 
 
 he the first 
 Hailed of his own friends and elect her 
 
 lord. 
 Who gave her kinsmen heart and god 
 
 less hope 
 
3i8 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 By him to reign in her and wield this 
 
 land, 
 Vet once with me took counsel and 
 
 sought grace, 
 And suddenly God left him, and he 
 
 stood 
 Brain-smitten, with no bride-bed now 
 
 nor throne 
 To conquer, but go senseless to his 
 
 grave. 
 The broken-witted Hamilton, — what 
 
 end, 
 Think ye, had this man ? Or what 
 
 hope and hap 
 The next whose name met on men's lips 
 
 with hers. 
 And ballads mourned him in his love's 
 
 sight slain, — 
 Gordon, that in the dawn of her dark 
 
 day 
 Rose northward as a young star fiery 
 
 red. 
 Flashed in her face, and fell, for her 
 
 own breath 
 Quenched him ? What good thing gat 
 
 they for her sake. 
 These that desired her, yet were mighty 
 
 lords, 
 Great in account of great men ? So 
 
 they twain 
 Perished ; and on men meaner far than 
 
 these 
 When this queen looked, how fared 
 
 they? folk that came 
 With wiles and songs and sins from 
 
 oversea. 
 With harjMng hands and dancing feet, 
 
 and made 
 Music and change of phrases in her 
 
 ear, — 
 White rose out of the south, star out of 
 
 France, 
 Light of men's eyes and love ! yea, 
 
 verily. 
 Red rose out of the pit, star out of hell, 
 Fire of men's eyes and burning ! for 
 
 the first 
 Was caught as in a chamber snare, and 
 
 fell 
 Smiling, and died with Fumut-II, the 
 
 most fair 
 And the most cruel princess in the 
 
 world. — 
 
 With suchlike psalms go suchlike soul- 
 
 to God 
 Naked, — and in his blood she washeu 
 
 her feet 
 Who sat and saw men spill it ; and this 
 
 reward 
 Had this man of his dancing. For the 
 
 next. 
 On him ye know what hand was last 
 
 year laid, — 
 David, the close tongue of the Pope, 
 
 the hand 
 That held the key of subtle and secret 
 
 craft 
 As of his viol, and tuned all strings of 
 
 state 
 With cunning finger; not the foot o' 
 
 the king 
 Before God's ark when Michal mocked 
 
 at him 
 Danced higher than this man's heart 
 
 for confidence 
 To bring from Babylon that ark again 
 Which he that touches, he shall surely 
 
 die, — 
 But not the death of Uzzah ; for 
 
 thereon 
 God's glory rests not, but the shadow 
 
 of death. 
 And dead men's bones w ithin it : yet 
 
 his trust 
 Was to lift up again and to relume 
 The tabernacle of Moloch, and the star 
 Of Remphan, figures which our fathers 
 
 made, 
 That such as he might go before, and 
 
 1)1 ay 
 On timbrels and on psalteries and on 
 
 harps, 
 On cornets and on cymbals ; and the 
 
 Lord 
 Brake him ; and she being wroth at 
 
 God took thought 
 How they that saw might call his place 
 
 of death 
 The breach of David, and her heart 
 
 waxed hot 
 Till she should make a lireach upon his 
 
 foes 
 As God on him, and with a dire new 
 
 name 
 And a new memory quite put out that 
 
 name 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 319 
 
 And memory of his slaying ; yea, all 
 
 this land, 
 That hath seen evil of many men before 
 And sins of many years, hath seen till 
 
 now 
 No sin as hers, nor on her forefathers 
 Whose hands were red and their hearts 
 
 hard hath seen 
 The note of such an evil as in her 
 
 heart 
 Became a fire conceiving, and brought 
 
 forth 
 The deed that in her hand was as a 
 
 sword 
 New tempered in that fire. For no 
 
 such deed 
 Was this as all theirs who play false 
 
 or slay, 
 Take gifts for whoredom, or lay snares 
 
 to kill ; 
 But she gave gifts to hire her lover's 
 
 knife 
 That it might pierce her husband : even 
 
 this land — 
 This earth whereof our living limbs are 
 
 made. 
 This land renewed of God, this earth 
 
 redeemed. 
 With all souls born therein to worship 
 
 him 
 That call it mother — was the hire she 
 
 gave 
 To fee the adulterer's hand when it 
 
 should rise 
 Against her lord to slay him ; yea, all 
 
 of you. 
 And each part of this kingdom, and 
 
 each man 
 That but draws breath within her range 
 
 of reign, 
 Were parcel of this hire, as counted 
 
 coins 
 To make the sum up of her goodly gift. 
 And he that of their hands was bought 
 
 and sold, 
 Her wedded husband, that had bowed 
 
 his head 
 Before her worshipped idol, — think ye 
 
 not 
 That by her hand God gave him all his 
 
 wage 
 Who was a less thing in his eyes than 
 
 she, 
 
 And viler than her service .-• for the fire 
 Fell not from heaven that smote him, 
 
 yet not less 
 Was kindled of God's wrath than of 
 
 man's hate, 
 And in a woman's craft his will put 
 
 forth 
 To make her sin his judgment. But of 
 
 these. 
 The slain and slayer, the spoiler and 
 
 the spoiled. 
 That each have lain down by her wed- 
 ded side, 
 Which will ye say hath slept within her 
 
 bed 
 A sleep more cursed, and from more 
 
 evil dreams 
 Found a worse waking ? he that with a 
 
 blast 
 Which rent the loud night as a cry 
 
 from hell 
 Was blown forth darkling from her 
 
 sheets, or he 
 That shared and soiled them till this 
 
 day whereon 
 God casts him out upon the track of 
 
 Cain 
 To flee forever with uncleansed red 
 
 hands, 
 And seek and find not where in the 
 
 waste world 
 To hide the wicked writing on his brow 
 Till God rain death upon him .-' for his 
 
 foot, 
 Be sure, shall find no rest, his eye no 
 
 sleep. 
 His head no covert and his heart no 
 
 hope. 
 His soul no harbor and his face no 
 
 light; 
 But as a hound the wolf that bleeds to 
 
 death 
 God's wrath shall hunt him through 
 
 the dark, and fear 
 Shall go before him as a cloud by day. 
 By night a fire, but comfort not his 
 
 head 
 By day with shadow, nor with shine by 
 
 night 
 Guide lest his foot be dashed against a 
 
 stone, 
 But in fair heaven before the morning's 
 
 face 
 
S20 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 Make his air thick with thunder, and 
 
 l^ut out 
 All laniplikc eyes of stars that look on 
 
 him, 
 Till he lie down blind in the dust, and 
 
 die. 
 Or if God haply give his lightnings 
 
 charge 
 They hurt him not, and bid his wind 
 
 pass by 
 And the stroke spare him of the bolted 
 
 cloud. 
 Then seeing himself cast out of all that 
 
 live. 
 But not of death accepted, everywhere 
 An alien soul and shelterless from God, 
 He shall go mad with hate of his own 
 
 soul. 
 Of God and man and life and death, 
 
 and live 
 A loathlier life and deadlier than the 
 
 worm's 
 That feeds on death, and when it rots 
 
 from him 
 Curse God and die. Such end have 
 
 these that loved; 
 And she that was beloved, what end 
 
 shall she ? 
 What think ye yet would God have 
 
 done with her. 
 Who puts her in our hand to smite or 
 
 spare 
 That hath done all this wickedness ? 
 
 For these, 
 What were they but as shadows in the 
 
 sun 
 Cast by her passing, or as thoughts that 
 
 fled 
 Across her mind of evil, types and 
 
 signs 
 Whereby to s])ell the secret of her soul 
 Writ by her hand in blood? What 
 
 power had they. 
 What sense, what si)irit, that was not 
 
 given of her, 
 Or what significance or shape of life 
 Their act or purpose, formless else and 
 
 void. 
 Save as her will and jircscnt force of 
 
 her 
 Gave breath to them and likeness? 
 
 None of these 
 Hath done or suffered t-vil save for her, 
 
 Who was the spring of each man's deed 
 
 or doom 
 And root for each of death, and in his 
 
 hand 
 The sword to die by and the sword to 
 
 slay. 
 Shall this be left, then, naked in the 
 
 world 
 For him that will to stab our peace to 
 
 death ? 
 What blood is this drips from the 
 
 point, what sign. 
 What scrijDture is enamelled on the 
 
 blade ? 
 Lo, this fair steel forged only to divide 
 This land from truth, and cut her soul 
 
 in twain. 
 To cleave the cords in sunder that hold 
 
 fast 
 Our hope to heaven and tie our trust to 
 
 God,— 
 Here by the hilt we hold it, and well 
 
 know 
 That if we break not, this now blunted 
 
 edge. 
 Being newly ground and sharpened of 
 
 men's hands 
 That walch if ours will yet loose hold 
 
 of it. 
 Shall pierce our own hearts through 
 
 Ay, be ye sure. 
 If ye bid murder and adultery live, 
 They live not stingless; not a Scot that 
 
 breathes, 
 No man of you nor woman, but hath 
 
 part 
 Tn each her several sin and punishment 
 That yc take off from her. But what 
 
 are these 
 That with their onths or arms wouUl 
 
 fence her round. 
 And hide her from God's lightnings? 
 
 Know they not 
 — Or if thev know not, will ye too be 
 
 blind'? — 
 What end that Lord who hath bowed 
 
 so many a head, 
 So many and niiuhty, of those her 
 
 former friends, 
 Hath power to make of these men? 
 
 Shall they stand, 
 Because they have done God service 
 
 while they would, 
 
BOrinVELL. 
 
 321 
 
 And cease to serve him? or their good 
 
 deeds past 
 Who served not God as Job forsooth 
 
 tor naught 
 Sustain their feet from falling? 
 
 Strength nor craft, 
 Nor praise nor fear nor faith nor love 
 
 of men, 
 Shall be for buckler to them, nor his 
 
 name 
 A helm of vantage for the Douglas' 
 
 head 
 If he make stiff against the yoke of 
 
 God 
 Too proud a neck, that for the curb 
 
 cast off 
 May feel the weight and edge that iron 
 
 hath. 
 To check high minds and chasten ; nor 
 
 his wit 
 Nor subtle tongue shall be for Leth- 
 
 ington 
 But as a pointless and unfeathered shaft 
 Shot heavenward without hurt, that 
 
 falls again 
 In the archer's eye to pierce it ; and 
 
 his lips 
 That were so large of mockery when 
 
 God spake, 
 By present organ of his works and 
 
 wrath 
 And tongueless sound of justice audi- 
 ble. 
 Shall drink the poison of their words 
 
 again, 
 And their own mocks consume them; 
 
 and the mouth 
 That spat on Christ, now pleading for 
 
 his foes. 
 Be stricken dumb as dust. Then shall 
 
 one say, 
 Seeing these men also smitten, as ye 
 
 now 
 Seeing them that bled before to do her 
 
 good, 
 God is not mocked ; and ye shall surely 
 
 know 
 What men were these and what man he 
 
 that spake 
 The things I speak now prophesying, 
 
 and said 
 That if he spare to shed her blood for 
 
 shame. 
 
 For fear or pity of her great name or 
 
 face, 
 God shall require of you the innocent 
 
 blood 
 Shed for her fair face' sake, and frorrt 
 
 your hands 
 Wring the price forth of her blood- 
 guiltiness. 
 Nay, for ye know it, nor have I need 
 
 again 
 To bring it in your mind if God ere 
 
 now 
 Have borne me witness: in that dreary 
 
 day 
 When men's hearts failed them for pure 
 
 grief and fear 
 To see the tyranny that was, and rule 
 Of this queen's mother, where was no 
 
 light left 
 But of the fires wherein his servants 
 
 died, 
 I bade those lords that clave in heart 
 
 to God, 
 And were perplexed with trembling 
 
 and with tears, 
 Lift up their hearts, and fear not ; and 
 
 they heard 
 What some now hear no more, the 
 
 word I spake 
 Who have been with them, as their 
 
 own souls know. 
 In their most extreme danger : Cowper 
 
 Moor, 
 Saint Johnston, and the Crags of Edin- 
 burgh, 
 Are recent in my heart ; yea, let these 
 
 know. 
 That dark and dolorous night wherein 
 
 all they 
 With shame and fear were driven forth 
 
 of this town 
 Is yet within my mind ; and God for- 
 bid 
 That ever I forget it. What, I say, 
 Was then my exhortation, and what 
 
 word 
 Of all God ever promised by my 
 
 mouth 
 Is fallen in vain, they live to testify 
 Of whom not one that then was doomed 
 
 to death 
 Is perished in that danger ; and thei: 
 
 foes. 
 
322 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 How many of these hath God before 
 
 their eyes 
 Plague-stricken with destruction ! lo the 
 
 thanks 
 They render him, now to betray his 
 
 cause 
 Put in their hands to stablish; even 
 
 that God's 
 That kept them all the darkness through 
 
 to see 
 Light, and the way that some now see 
 
 no more, 
 But are gone after light of the fen's 
 
 fire, 
 And walk askant in slippery ways; but 
 
 ye 
 Know if God's hand have ever when I 
 
 spake 
 Writ liar upon me, or with adverse 
 
 proof 
 Turned my free speech to shame ; for 
 
 in my lips 
 He put a word, and knowledge in my 
 
 heart, 
 When I was fast bound of his enemies' 
 
 hands 
 An oarsman on their galleys, and be- 
 held 
 From off" the sea whereon 1 sat in 
 
 chains 
 The walls wherein I knew that I there 
 
 bound 
 Should one day witness of him ; and 
 
 this pledge 
 Hath God redeemed not? Nay then, 
 
 in God's name. 
 If that false word fell unfulfilled of 
 
 mine. 
 Heed ve not now nor hear me when 
 
 1 say 
 That for this woman's sake shall God 
 
 cut off 
 The hand that spares her as the hand 
 
 that shields, 
 And make their memory who take part 
 
 with her 
 As theirs who stood for Baal against 
 
 the Lord 
 With Ahab's tlaughter ; for her reign 
 
 and end 
 Shall be like Athaliah's, as her birth 
 Was from the womb of Jezebel, that 
 
 slew 
 
 The prophets, and made foul with blood 
 
 and fire 
 The same land's face that now her seed 
 
 makes foul 
 With whoredoms and with witchcrafts; 
 
 yet they say 
 Peace, where is no peace, while the 
 
 adulterous blood 
 Feeds yet with life and sin the murder- 
 ous heart 
 That hath brought forth a wonder to 
 
 the world 
 And to all time a terror ; and this blood 
 The hands are clean that shed, and 
 
 they that spare 
 In God's just sight spotted as foul as 
 
 Cain's. 
 If then this guilt shall cleave to you 
 
 or no. 
 And to your children's children, for her 
 
 sake, 
 Choose ye; for God needs no man that 
 
 is loath 
 To serve him, and no word but his own 
 
 work 
 To bind and loose their hearts who 
 
 hear and see 
 Such things as speak what I lack words 
 
 to say. 
 First Citizen. She shall not live. 
 Second Citizen. If by their mouths to- 
 day 
 She be set free from death, then by 
 
 our hands 
 She dies to-morrow. 
 
 Voices in the crowd.. Nav, to fire with 
 
 her! 
 Fire for the murderess ! cast her bones 
 
 in the lake ! 
 Burn, burn and drown ! She shall not 
 
 live to-night. 
 
 Scene VIII. — A Room in the Pro- 
 vost's House. 
 
 The Queen, Athol, and Morton. 
 Queen. I will not part from hence: 
 here will I see 
 What man dare do uj^on me, 
 
 Athol. I lear vou not 
 How the cry thickens for your blood 
 
 This night 
 Scarce has time left to bave you. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 323 
 
 Queen. I will die. 
 
 Morton. Madam, your will is no more 
 
 now the sword 
 That cuts all knots in sunder : you must 
 
 live, 
 And thank the force that would not 
 
 give you leave 
 To give your foes the blood they seek 
 
 to spill. 
 Here every hour's is as an arrow's 
 
 flight 
 Winged for your heart ; if in these 
 
 clamorous walls 
 You see this darkness by the sun cast 
 
 out, 
 You will not see his light go down 
 
 alive. 
 Queen. What men are ye then, that 
 
 have made my life 
 Safe with your oaths, that walled it 
 
 round with words. 
 Fenced it with faith, and fortressed it 
 
 with air 
 Made of your breaths and honors ? 
 
 When ye swore, 
 I knew the lie's weight on your lips, 
 
 and took 
 My life into mine hand; I had no 
 
 thought 
 To live or ride among you but to death, 
 And whither ye have led me, to what 
 
 end. 
 Nor I nor God knows better than I 
 
 knew 
 Then when ye swore me safe ; for then 
 
 as now 
 I knew your faith was lighter than my 
 
 life, 
 And my life's weight a straw's weight 
 
 in the wind 
 Of your blown vows. Pledge me your 
 
 faith to this. 
 That I shall die to-night if I go forth. 
 And if I stay live safe, and I will 
 
 go 
 In trust to live, being here assured to 
 
 die. 
 Morton. We swore lo save you as 
 
 you swore again 
 To cast the traitor from you, and 
 
 divorce 
 Your hand forever from the blood on 
 
 his ; 
 
 And with that hand you wrote to him 
 
 last night 
 Vows of your love and constant heart 
 
 till death 
 As his true wife to serve and cleave to 
 
 him. 
 The boy that should have borne your 
 
 letter lacked 
 Faith to be trusty to your faithless 
 
 trust. 
 And put it in our hand. 
 
 Queen. Why, so I thought: 
 I knew there was no soul between these 
 
 walls. 
 Of child or man, that had more faith 
 
 than ye 
 Who stand their noblest ; nor shall one 
 
 soul breathe, 
 If here ye put not out my present life. 
 When I come back, that shall not burn 
 
 on earth 
 Ere hell take hold of it. 
 
 Morton. It is well seen, 
 Madam, that fear nor danger can pluck 
 
 forth 
 Your tongue that strikes men mad with 
 
 love or scorn. 
 Taunted or tempted; yet it shall not 
 
 wrest 
 Death from men's hands untimely: 
 
 what was sworn. 
 That you should live, shall stand ; and 
 
 that it may. 
 To-night must you part hence; this 
 
 lord and I 
 Will bring you through to Holyrood 
 
 afoot, 
 And be your warders from the multi- 
 tude 
 As you pass forth between us ; thence 
 
 to Leith, 
 And there shall you take water, and ere 
 
 dawn 
 Touch at Burntisland, whence some 
 
 twenty miles 
 Shall bear you to Lochleven and safe 
 
 guard 
 On the Fife border. He that has your 
 
 charge 
 Is one not trusted more than tried 
 
 of us, — 
 Sir William Douglas; in whose moth- 
 er's ward 
 
324 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 At Kinross there shall you abide what 
 
 end 
 God shall ordain of troubles. At this 
 
 need 
 No kincl'ier guard or trustier could 
 
 secure 
 The lite we pluck out of the popular 
 
 mouth 
 That roars agape to rend it. You must 
 
 go- 
 Queen. Must I not too go barefoot ? 
 
 Being your queen, 
 Ve do me too much grace : I should be 
 
 led 
 In bonds between you, with my written 
 
 sins 
 Pinned to my forehead, and my naked 
 
 shame 
 Wrapt in a shameful sheet : so might I 
 
 pass, 
 If haply I might pass at all alive 
 Forth of my people's justice, to salute 
 With seemly show of penance her 
 
 chaste eyes 
 Whom ye have chosen for guard upon 
 
 her queen 
 And daughter of the king her para- 
 mour, 
 Whose son being called my brother I 
 
 must call, 
 Ilaply, to win her favor and her son's. 
 And her good word with him as media- 
 tress. 
 My father's harlot mother. Verily, 
 Ye are worthy guardians of fair fame, 
 
 and friends 
 Fit to have care of reputation, men 
 That take good heed of honor ; and the 
 
 state 
 That hath such counsellors to comfort it 
 Need fear no shame nor stain of such 
 
 reproach 
 As makes it shrink when with her 
 
 lords' good will. 
 Advised of all tongues near her and 
 
 approved, 
 A queen may wed the worthiest born 
 
 of men 
 Her subjects, and a warrior take to wife 
 One that being widowed of his hand 
 
 and hel|) 
 Were such a thing as I am. From my 
 
 lord 
 
 I held mv kingdom : now my hand 
 
 lack's his. 
 What queen am I, and what slaves ye, 
 
 that throng 
 And threat my life with vassals, to 
 
 make vile 
 Its majesty foregone with abject fear 
 Of my most abject .!* Yet though I lack 
 
 might 
 Save of a woman friendless and in 
 
 bonds, 
 My name and place yet lack not, nor 
 
 the state 
 And holy magic that God clothes withal 
 The naked word of king or queen, and 
 
 keeps 
 In his own shadow, hallowed in his 
 
 hand. 
 Such heads unarmed as mine, that men 
 
 may smite 
 But no man can dis-hallow. In this 
 
 faith. 
 Not to your faith I yield myself for 
 
 fear. 
 But gladly to that God's who made of 
 
 me 
 What ye nor no man mightier shall 
 
 unmake, — 
 Your queen and mistress. Lead me 
 
 through my streets, 
 Whose stones are tongues now crying 
 
 for my blood. 
 To my dead fathers' palace, that hath 
 
 o])ed 
 On many kings and traitors. It may be 
 I shall not see these walls and gates 
 
 again 
 That cast me out; but if alive or dead 
 I come back ever to require my part 
 And place among my fathers, on my 
 
 tomb 
 Or on my throne shall there ^taiic 
 
 graved for aye 
 The living word of this day's work and 
 
 that 
 Which is to wreak me on it ; and this 
 
 town 
 Whence I go naked in mine enemies' 
 
 hands 
 Shall be the flame to light men's eyes 
 
 that rcail 
 What was endured and what revenged 
 
 of me. 
 
/:0 77/ir/iLL. 
 
 325 
 
 ACT v.— THE QUEEN. 
 
 Twi£: From July 20, 1567, to May 16, 
 1568. 
 
 Scene I. — Holyrood. 
 
 Morton and Maitland. 
 Morton. I know not yet if we did 
 
 well to lay 
 No public note of murder on the queen 
 In this our proclamation that sets forth 
 But the Dare justice of our cause, and 
 
 right 
 We had to move against her; while 
 
 her act 
 Stands yet unproven, and seen but by 
 
 surmise, — 
 Though all but they that will rot seem 
 
 to know 
 May know the form and very life of 
 
 it, — 
 She hath a sword against us and a stay 
 In the English hearts and envious 
 
 hands that wait 
 To strike at us, and take her name to 
 
 And edge the weapon of their evil will 
 Who only are our enemies, and stand 
 Sole friends of hers on earth ; for 
 
 France, we see, 
 Will be no screen nor buckler for her, 
 
 though 
 Fire were now lit to burn her body, or 
 
 steel 
 Ground sharp to shear her neck : from 
 
 Catherine's mouth 
 Had Murray not assurance, and from 
 
 him 
 Have we not word that France will 
 
 stir no foot 
 To save or spill her blood? England 
 
 alone 
 By her new-lighted envoy sends rebuke 
 Made soft and mixed with promise and 
 
 with pledge 
 Of help and comfort to her against our 
 
 part 
 Who by this messenger imperiously 
 Are taxed and threatened as her trai- 
 tors : this 
 Must we now answer with a brow as 
 
 free 
 
 And tongue as keen, seeing how his 
 
 queen in him 
 Desires the charge and wardship of our 
 
 prince 
 Which we must nowise grant. 
 
 Maitlatid. For fear's sake, no. 
 Nor for her threats, which rather may 
 
 pluck on 
 More present peril, of more fiery foot, 
 To the queen's life ; yet surer might 
 
 we stand 
 Having the crown's heir safe and girt 
 
 about 
 With foreign guard in a strange land, 
 
 than here 
 Rocked in the roar of factions, his frail 
 
 head 
 Pillowed on death and danger; which 
 
 once crushed, 
 And that thin life cut off, what hand 
 
 puts forth 
 To take the crown up by successive 
 
 right 
 But theirs that would even now dip 
 
 violent hand 
 In the dear heart's blood of their kins- 
 woman. 
 That it might take this kingdom by the 
 
 throat 
 When she were slain ? and rather by 
 
 our mean 
 Would they procure her slaying than 
 
 by their own 
 Make swift the death which they desire 
 
 for her, 
 And from our hands with craft would 
 
 draw it down 
 By show of friendship to her and threat 
 
 of arms 
 That menace us with mockery and false 
 
 fear 
 Of her deliverance by their swords, 
 
 whose light 
 Being drawn and shining in our eyes 
 
 should scare 
 Our hearts with doubt of what might 
 
 fall if she 
 Stood by their help rckingdomed, and 
 
 impel 
 Even in that fear our hands to spill her 
 
 blood 
 That lag too long behind their wish, 
 
 who wait 
 
326 
 
 BOTHIVELL. 
 
 Till seeing her slain of us they may rise 
 
 up 
 Heirs of her cause and lineage, and 
 
 reclaim 
 By right of blood and justice and re- 
 venge 
 The crown that drops from Stuart to 
 
 Hamilton 
 With no more let or thwart than a 
 
 child's life 
 Whose length should be their pleas- 
 ure's • and with these 
 Against our cause will England league 
 
 herself 
 If yet the queen live prisoner of our 
 
 hands, 
 And these her kin draw swords for her ; 
 
 but they. 
 Though England know not of it, nor 
 
 have eye 
 To find their drift, would mix their 
 
 cause with ours. 
 If from the queen's head living we 
 
 should pluck 
 The royal office, and as next in blood 
 Instate them regents ; who would reign 
 
 indeed 
 Rather by death's help, if they might, 
 
 and build 
 On her child's grave and hers their 
 
 regency. 
 Than rule by deputation ; yet at need 
 Will be content by choice or leave of us 
 To take the delegated kingdom up 
 And lack but name of king : which 
 
 being installed 
 I doubt they think not long to lack, or 
 
 live 
 Its patient proxies ever. So the land. 
 Shaken and sundered, looks from us to 
 
 these, 
 From these again to us-ward, and hears 
 
 blown 
 Upon the light breath of the doubtful 
 
 hour 
 Rumors of fear which swell men's 
 
 hearts with wrath 
 To hear of southern wars and counsels 
 
 hatched 
 That think with fright to shrink them 
 
 up, and bind 
 Their blood's course fast with threats. 
 
 Eet England know. 
 
 Her menace that makes cold no vein 
 
 of ours 
 May heat instead the centre and the 
 
 core 
 Of this land's pulse with fire, and in 
 
 that flame 
 The life we seek not and the crown it 
 
 wears 
 Consume together. France will rest 
 
 our friend. 
 Whether the queen find grace to live In 
 
 bonds. 
 Or bleed beneath our judgment; '.le 
 
 that comes 
 On errand thence to reconcile with 
 
 us 
 Her kin that stand yet on the adverse 
 
 part 
 Hath but in charge to do her so much 
 
 good 
 As with our leave he may, and break 
 
 no bond 
 That holds us firm in friendship ; if we 
 
 will. 
 She may be held in ward of France, 
 
 and live 
 Within the bound there of a convent 
 
 wall 
 Till death redeem her; but howe'er he 
 
 speed 
 Who hath commission with what power 
 
 he may 
 To make of our twain factions one such 
 
 league 
 As may stand fast and perfect friend 
 
 with France, 
 And in what wise by grace of us he 
 
 may 
 To do our prisoner service and entreat 
 That grace to drop upon her, this main 
 
 charge 
 He needs must keep, to hold allied in 
 
 one 
 Scotland and France, and let our hand 
 
 not plight 
 Fresh faith instead with England; so 
 
 for us 
 PVom France looks forth no danger 
 
 though she die, 
 F'or her no help; and these void Eng 
 
 lish threats. 
 That bring no force to back them bur 
 
 their own 
 
BOTHIVELL. 
 
 327 
 
 And find not us unfriended, do but 
 
 blow 
 The embers that her life still treads 
 
 upon 
 Which being enkindled shall devour it. 
 
 Morton. Ay, 
 And each day leaves them redder from 
 
 the breath 
 That fhrough the land flies clamorous 
 
 for her blood 
 From lips which boast to bear upon 
 
 them laid 
 The live coal burning of the word that 
 
 God 
 Gives them to speak against her; the 
 
 south towns 
 Are full of tongues that cry on our 
 
 delay 
 To purge the land plague-stricken with 
 
 her life; 
 He first who never feared the face of 
 
 man, 
 John Knox, and Craig his second, fill 
 
 men's ears 
 "With words as arrows edged and winged 
 
 to slay; 
 And all the wide-mouthed commons, 
 
 and more loud 
 The women than their men, stretch 
 
 their shrill throats 
 With cries for judgment on her: and 
 
 herself, 
 As parcel of the faction for her death. 
 Takes part with them against her 
 
 friends, and swears 
 To the English envoy who was charged 
 
 by stealth 
 To plead with her for mercy on her life 
 And privily persuade her, as we find. 
 To cast out Bothwell from her secret 
 
 thought. 
 She would die first ere so divorce her 
 
 soul 
 From faith and hope that hangs on him, 
 
 and feeds 
 Her constant spirit with comfort which 
 
 sustains 
 His child alive within her ; for she 
 
 thinks 
 Haply to move men's hearts even by 
 
 the plea 
 That hardens them against her, being 
 
 believed, 
 
 For the false fruit's sake of her fatal 
 
 womb. 
 The seed of Bothwell, that with her 
 
 should burn 
 Rather than bring forth shame, and in 
 
 this land 
 Become a root of wars unborn and fire 
 Kindled among our children. 
 
 Maitland. Nay, this plea 
 Can be but somewhile to defend her 
 
 life, 
 And put back judgment : never could 
 
 she think, 
 Though love made witless whom the 
 
 world found wise. 
 His seed might reign in Scotland- 
 
 Morton. We are not 
 So barren of our natural brood of kings 
 As to be grafted from so vile a stock, 
 Though he were now cut off who grows 
 
 yet green 
 Upon the stem so shaken and pierced 
 
 through 
 With cankers now that gnaw the grain 
 
 away. 
 Nor if the child whom, whatsoe'er 
 
 he be, 
 We for the kingdom's comfort needs 
 
 must seem 
 To take for true-begotten, and receive 
 As issued of her husband's kingly blood, 
 Should live not to take up with timely 
 
 hand 
 The inheritance whereto we hold him 
 
 born; 
 Should the crown therefore by his death 
 
 derive 
 To the queen's kin, or hand of Hamil- 
 ton 
 Assume the state and sway that slides 
 
 from his, — 
 His father hath a brother left alive, 
 The younger son of Lennox, who might 
 
 put 
 More hopefully his nephew's title on 
 Than leave it for the spoil of hungry 
 
 hands 
 That would make war upon our present 
 
 state. 
 Unseat the rule of stablished things, 
 
 unmake 
 The counsel and the creed whereby wt 
 
 stand. 
 
328 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 And Scotland with us, firm of foot and 
 
 free 
 Against the whole face of the weaponed 
 
 world : 
 I^ut this boy's crown shall be a golden 
 
 ring 
 To hoop and hold our state and strength 
 
 in one, 
 And with the seemly name of king 
 
 make sure 
 The rent bulk of our laboring com- 
 monwealth, 
 And solder its flawed sides ; his right 
 
 of reign 
 Is half our gift who reign in him, and 
 
 half 
 His heritage of blood, whose lineal 
 
 name 
 Shall not by note of usurpation strike 
 With strangeness or offence the world's 
 
 wide ear 
 That hears a Stuart our prince's uncle 
 
 crowned 
 In the dead child's succession, and this 
 
 state 
 Made safe in him and stable to sustain 
 What chance abroad may range or 
 
 breed at home 
 Of force to shake it. 
 
 MaitliDiJ. While the child lives yet, 
 A nearer hope than of his father's 
 
 kin 
 Looks fairer on us; yet in that life's 
 
 wreck 
 This rope might hold at need. 
 
 Morton. Ay, or we fall. 
 Who stand against the house of Hamil- 
 ton 
 In this man's name, — his kinsman 
 
 Kuthven, Mar, 
 Myself and Aihol, who sustain his cause 
 Against their part alone. 
 
 Maitlavd. So do you well ; 
 Vet had I rather on the (piccn's appeal, 
 In her dead father's and her young 
 
 child's name 
 Pleading for life, with proffer to resign 
 Her kingdom to the council's hands or 
 
 his 
 Whom it mav mark for regent, she 
 
 might live 
 Kvtn yet our titular (picen, and in her 
 
 name 
 
 The counci\ govern of our trustiest 
 
 heads ; 
 While in safe ward of England or of 
 
 F^rance, 
 P'ar from his kindred, might her son 
 
 grow safe, 
 And under strange and kindlier suns 
 
 his strength 
 Wax ripe to bear a kingdom. To this 
 
 end, 
 Save Bothwell's life I see no present 
 
 let, 
 Who lives her shame and danger, but 
 
 being slain 
 Takes off from her the peril of men's 
 
 tongues. 
 And her more perilous love that while 
 
 he lives 
 It seems will never slacken till her life 
 He made a prey for his, but in his death 
 Dies, or lives stingless after : wherefore 
 
 most 
 It now imports us to lay hand on him, 
 And on that capture to proclaim di- 
 vorce 
 Between them ere he die, as presently 
 His death should seal it and his blood 
 
 subscribe. 
 So might she live, and bring against our 
 
 cause 
 No blame of men or danger. 
 
 Morton. In my mintl. 
 Better it were to crown her son for 
 
 king. 
 And send her for safe keeping hence in 
 
 guard 
 To live in England prisoner, while we 
 
 stand 
 As safe from her as blameless of her 
 
 blood. 
 Who reigning but in name on ^s should 
 
 reign 
 Indeed on all our enemies' hopes, and 
 
 turn 
 From us the hopeless hearts of half our 
 
 friends 
 For the bare name's sake of her seen> 
 
 ing reign 
 And mask of false-faced cmiMrc. 
 
 MtiilliDtd. As I think, 
 The main mind of the council will not 
 
 bend 
 To anv reason on our ])arts proposed 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 329 
 
 For her removal hence or titular | To seal some part yet of this secret 
 
 rcign, 
 Nor with the breath of our advice be 
 
 blown 
 Beside their purpose. If the queen 
 
 consent 
 That her son's head be hallowed with 
 
 her crown, 
 And hers he bare before him, she shall 
 
 live, 
 And that close record of her secret 
 
 hand, 
 The proofs and scriptures in her casket 
 
 locked 
 That seal her part in Darnley's blood- 
 shedding, 
 Shall yet lie dumb in darkness; else, I 
 
 dread, 
 She shall be tried by witness in them 
 
 WTit, 
 
 And each word there be clamorous on 
 
 men's tongues 
 As the doom uttered of her present 
 
 death. 
 And not more instant should her judg- 
 ment be 
 Than her swift execution; for they 
 
 thmk, 
 I know, to find no safety while she 
 
 lives ; 
 So that in no case shall she pass alive 
 Out of this realm while power is in 
 
 their lips 
 To speed or stay her. 
 
 Morton. Thev shall never think 
 To set before all eyes the whole tale 
 
 forth 
 In popular proof and naked evidence 
 To plead against her : Balfour, that be- 
 trayed 
 Her counsels to us, should then have 
 
 done more scathe 
 Than ever he did service. They must 
 
 know 
 It were not possible to let this proof 
 Stand in the sun's sight, and such 
 
 names be read 
 For partners of her deed and not her 
 
 doom 
 As Huntley's and Argyle's. Have they 
 
 not heard — 
 What should sutifice to show if there be 
 
 cause 
 
 up — 
 How dearly Bothwell held those privy 
 
 scrolls 
 Preserved as witness to confound at 
 
 need 
 The main part of his judges, and abash 
 Their sentence with their clear com- 
 plicity 
 In the crime sentenced .'' yea, so dear a 
 
 price 
 He set on these, that flying for life he 
 
 sends 
 Dalgleish his trustiest servant from 
 
 Dunbar 
 To bring again from Balfour's hands to 
 
 his 
 The enamellec* casket in whose silver 
 
 hold 
 Lay the queen's letters and the bond 
 
 subscribed 
 Which at Craigmillar writ a live man 
 
 dead. 
 This was a smooth and seasonable 
 
 hour 
 For one of so soft spirit and tender 
 
 heart 
 To send and seek, for love of good days 
 
 gone, 
 A love-gift that his lady brought from 
 
 France 
 To hold sweet scents or jewels; and 
 
 the man 
 That to his envoy so delivered it, 
 And sent our council warning to wav- 
 
 lay 
 And where to intercept it, — this was 
 
 one 
 Meet for such trust and amorous offices, 
 Balfour, that, yielding us the castle 
 
 up. 
 Yields likewise for a sword into our 
 
 hands 
 To take by stroke of justice the queen's 
 
 life 
 His witness with what words she 
 
 tempted him 
 From her own lips, how lovingly and 
 
 long. 
 To kill her husband; yet he durst not; 
 
 then 
 How at her bidding he might well take 
 
 heart. 
 
330 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 She said, to do it ; yet he stood fearful 
 
 off; 
 Whereat she brake into a glimmering 
 
 wrath 
 That called him coward, and bade him 
 
 live assured, 
 If his tongue ever let this counsel forth, 
 By her sure mean and suddenly to 
 
 die. 
 Maitland. This were a sword to drink 
 
 her life indeed, 
 But that my hope is better of the lords 
 Than that their heart is fixed upon her 
 
 death; 
 And for the commons and their fiery 
 
 tongue, 
 The loud-lipped pilot of their windy 
 
 will. 
 This famine of their anger shall feed 
 
 full, 
 And slake its present need but with the 
 
 spoil 
 Made of the piteous remnants of her 
 
 faith 
 By the stout hand here of their friend 
 
 Glencairn, 
 Who from this chapel of her palace 
 
 rends 
 All holy ornament, grinds down with 
 
 steel 
 The images whereon Christ dies in 
 
 gold, 
 Unsanctifies her sovereign sanctuary, 
 Unmoulds her God, and mints and 
 
 marks him new. 
 And makes his molten chalices run 
 
 down 
 Into strange shape and service : this 
 
 should ease, 
 Mcseems, the hunger of the hate they 
 
 bear 
 That creed for which they held her 
 
 first in hate. 
 And, for the secular justice to be done 
 For his death's sake whom all these 
 
 loathed alive. 
 It should content them that the trial 
 
 has passed 
 On those we held in hand, and by this 
 
 test 
 The man whose marriage masque on 
 
 that loud night 
 Was pretext for the cjucen to lie apart 
 
 From the near danger of her husband's 
 
 bed, 
 Sebastian, stands approved as innocent 
 And no part of her purpose; while the 
 
 twain 
 Who bore the charge that was to load 
 
 with death 
 The secret house, and to their master's 
 
 hands 
 Consigned the mean of murder, have 
 
 endured 
 The perfect proof of torture, and con- 
 fessed 
 In the extreme pang of evidence en- 
 forced 
 The utmost of their knowledge. 
 
 Morton. These may serve 
 To allay men's instant angers; but 
 
 much more 
 His face should profit us whom France 
 
 detains 
 With suit and proffer from the queen- 
 mother 
 With all their force and flower of war 
 
 or craft 
 To help him to the crown of his own 
 
 land, 
 Or throne at least of regency therein, 
 If he will take but France for constant 
 
 friend, 
 And turn our hearts with his from 
 
 England : this 
 Would Catherine give him for his 
 
 friendship's sake 
 Who gives her none for all this, but 
 
 his hope 
 Cleaves yet to England, though for 
 
 fraud or fear 
 Again it fail him. So being foiled and 
 
 wroth. 
 He hath, she tells him, a right English 
 
 heart. 
 And in that faith withholds him craftily 
 From his desired dejiarture and re- 
 
 turn. 
 Which should be more of all this land 
 
 desired 
 Than of himself. This I^lj^hinstone 
 
 that comes 
 Vox him from Paris, in his master's 
 
 name 
 To plead as in her brother's for the 
 
 queen. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 331 
 
 Bears but the name of Murray in his 
 
 mouth, 
 Whose present eye and tongue, whose 
 
 spirit and mind. 
 Our need of him requires. When 
 
 their intent 
 Shall by the lords in council be made 
 
 known 
 To him that stands here for Elizabeth, 
 How in her name will he receive the 
 
 word 
 That but from Murray's lip she thinks 
 
 to hear, 
 And then determine with what large 
 
 response 
 For peace or war she may resolve 
 
 herself ? 
 Maitland. If she shall find our coun- 
 cil one in will 
 To shed by doom of judgment the 
 
 queen's blood, 
 Even by Throgmorton's mouth I am 
 
 certified 
 That she will call on France to strike 
 
 with her 
 For this their sister's sake, and join in 
 
 one 
 Their common war to tread our treason 
 
 down ; 
 Or, if she find not aid of France, from 
 
 Spain 
 Will she seek help to hold our French 
 
 allies 
 With curb and snafHe fast of Spanish 
 
 steel. 
 For fear their powers against her lend 
 
 us might 
 That would not lend against us; she 
 
 meantime, 
 While Philip's hand hath France as by 
 
 the hair, 
 i^hall loosen on us England, to redeem 
 That forfeit life which till the day of 
 
 fight 
 Her trust is but in Murray to preserve, 
 Seeing he spake never word in English 
 
 ear 
 Against this queen his sister. 
 
 Morton, Being returned, 
 He shall bear witness if his heart be 
 
 bent 
 Rather to thii queen's love or that 
 
 queen's fear 
 
 Than to the sole weal of his natura. 
 
 land, 
 That hath more need he should take 
 
 thought for her 
 Than one of these or the other. If the 
 
 lords 
 Be purposed, as I guess, to bid the 
 
 queen. 
 Ere this month end, make choice of 
 
 death or life, — 
 To live uncrowned, and call her young 
 
 son king. 
 Or die by doom attainted, — none but 
 
 he 
 By her submission or her death must 
 
 rise 
 Regent of Scotland; and each hour 
 
 that flits 
 With louder tongue requires him, and 
 
 rebukes 
 His tardiness of spirit or foot to flee 
 By swift and private passage forth of 
 
 France 
 To where our hearts wait that have 
 
 need of him. 
 
 Scene II. — Lochleven Castle. 
 
 The Queen and Mary Beaton. 
 Queen. I would I knew, before this 
 
 day be dead, 
 If I must live or die. Why art thou 
 
 pale ? 
 It seems thou art not sad, though I sit 
 
 here, 
 And thou divide my prison ; for I 
 
 see 
 Thine eye more kindled, and thy lip 
 
 more calm, 
 And hear thy voice more steadfast, than 
 
 it was 
 When we were free of body: then the 
 
 soul 
 Seemed to sit heavy in thee, and thy 
 
 face 
 Was as a water's wearied with the 
 
 wind. 
 Dim eye and fitful lip, whereon thy 
 
 speech 
 Would break and die untiraiely. Do 
 
 these walls, 
 And that wan wrinkling water at their 
 
 foot. 
 
33^ 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 For my sake please thee ? Thou 
 
 shouldst love nie well, 
 Or hate, I know not whether, if to 
 
 share 
 The Clip wherein T drink delight the lip 
 That pledges in it mine. 
 
 Mixry Beaton. If 1 be pale. 
 For fear it is not, nor for discontent, 
 Here to sit bounded: I could well be 
 
 pleased 
 To shoot my thoughts no farther than 
 
 this wall 
 That is my body's limit, and to lead 
 My whole life's length as quiet as we 
 
 sit 
 Till death fulfilled all quiet, did I 
 
 know- 
 There were no wars without, nor days 
 
 for you 
 Of change and many a turbulent chance 
 
 to be 
 Whence I must not live absent. 
 
 Queen. Hast thou part, 
 Ihink'st thou, as in time past, predes- 
 tinate 
 In all my days and chances ? 
 Mary Beaton. Yea, I know it. 
 Queen. If thou have grace to proph- 
 esy, perchance 
 Canst thou tell too how I shall fare 
 
 forth hence, — 
 If cjuick or dead ? I had rather so 
 
 much know 
 Than if thou love or hate me. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Truly, then. 
 My mind forecasts with no great ques- 
 tioning 
 You shall pass forth alive. 
 Queen. What, to my death ? 
 Mary Beaton. To life, and death that 
 comes of life at last : 
 I know not when it shall. 
 Queen. I would be sure 
 If our good guardian know no more 
 
 than thou : 
 1 think she shoultl ; vet if she knew I 
 
 think 
 I should not long desire to know as 
 
 nuu h, 
 Hut the utmost thing that were of her 
 
 foreknown 
 Should in niine eye stand open. 
 Mary Beaton. She is kind. 
 
 Queen. I would she were a man that 
 had such heart : 
 So might it do me service, 
 Mary Beaton. So it may. 
 Queen. How? in her son.-* Av 
 
 haply, could I bring 
 Mine own heart down to feed theii 
 
 hearts with hope. 
 They might grow great enough to do 
 
 me good. 
 I tell thee yet, I thought indeed to die 
 When I came hither. 'Tis but five 
 
 weeks gone, — 
 Five, and two days : I keep the count 
 
 of days 
 Here; I can mind the smell of the 
 
 moist air 
 As we took land, and when we got to 
 
 horse 
 I thought I never haply might ridt 
 
 more. 
 Nor hear a hoof's beat on the glad 
 
 green ground, 
 Nor feel the free steed stretch him to 
 
 the way, 
 Nor his flank bound to bear me : then 
 
 meseemed 
 Men could not make me live in prison 
 
 long; 
 It were unlike my bemg, out of my 
 
 doom ; 
 Free should I live, or die. Then came 
 
 these walls. 
 And this blind water shuddering at 
 
 the sun. 
 That rose ere we had ten miles ridden: 
 
 and here 
 The black boat rocked that took nn 
 
 feet off shore. 
 And set them in this prison; and as I 
 
 came 
 The honev-heavy heather touched m\ 
 
 sense 
 Well-nigh to weeping: I did think to 
 
 die, 
 .And smell naught sweeter than the 
 
 naked grave. 
 Vet sit we not among the worms and 
 
 roots, 
 lUit can see this much, — from the round 
 
 tower heie. 
 The scjuare walls of the main towe^ 
 
 opposite. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 333 
 
 And the bare court between ; a gracious 
 
 sight. 
 Yet did they not so well to let me 
 
 live, 
 If they love life too; I will find those 
 
 friends 
 That found these walls and fears to 
 
 fence me with 
 A narrower lodging than this seven 
 
 feet's space 
 That yet I move in, where nor lip nor 
 
 limb 
 Shall breathe or move forever. 
 Mary Beaton. Do you think 
 You shall not long live bound .-^ 
 
 Queen. Impossible. 
 I would have violent death, or life at 
 
 large ; 
 And either speedy. Were it in their 
 
 mind 
 To slay me here and swiftly, as I 
 
 thought, 
 Thou wouldst not here sit by their 
 
 leave with me : 
 They get not so much grace who are 
 
 now to die, 
 And could not need it ; yet I have heard 
 
 it said 
 The headsman grants what sort of 
 
 grace he may — 
 A grievous grace — to one about to 
 
 bleed 
 That asks some boon before his neck 
 
 lie down ; 
 Thy face was haply such a boon to me, 
 Being cradle-fellows and fast-hearted 
 
 friends. 
 To see before I died, and this the gift 
 Given of my headsmen's grace : what 
 
 think'st thou ? 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, 
 That I know naught of headsmen. 
 
 Queen. Thou hast seen — 
 It is a sharp, strange thing to see men 
 
 die. 
 I have prayed these men for life, thou 
 
 knowest, — have sent 
 Prayers in my son's and my dead 
 
 father's name. 
 Their kings that were and shall be, and 
 
 men say 
 One was well loved of the people, and 
 
 their love 
 
 Is good to have, a goodly stay — and 
 
 yet 
 I do not greatly think I fear to die. 
 I would not put off life yet; if I live, 
 For one thing most shall these men pay 
 
 me dear, — 
 That I was ever touched with fear of 
 
 death. 
 Thou hast heard how seeing a child on 
 
 the island once. 
 Strayed over from the shore, I cried to 
 
 him 
 Through the pierced wall, between five 
 
 feet of stone. 
 To bid my friends pray God but for 
 
 my soul. 
 My body was worth little ; and they 
 
 thought 
 I was cast down with bitter dread of 
 
 heart : 
 Please God, for that will I get good 
 
 revenge. 
 I dream no more each night now on 
 
 my lord. 
 And yet God knows how utterly I 
 
 know 
 I would be hewn in pieces — yea, I 
 
 think — 
 Or turned with fire to ashes for his 
 
 sake : 
 Surely I would. 
 
 Enter Lady Lochleven. 
 Lady Lochleven. Good morrow to 
 
 your grace. 
 Queen. Good madam, if the day be 
 
 good or no 
 Our grace can tell not; while our grace 
 
 had yet 
 The grace to walk an hour in the sun's 
 
 eye 
 With your fair daughters and our bed- 
 fellows 
 About your battlements that hold us 
 
 fast. 
 Or breathe outside the gateway where 
 
 our foot 
 Might feel the terrace under, we might 
 
 say 
 The morn was good or ill : being here 
 
 shut up. 
 We make no guesses of the sun, but 
 
 think 
 To find no more good morrows. 
 
334 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Lady Loc/ilez'en. Let your grace 
 Chide not in thought with me; for this 
 
 restraint, 
 That since your late scarce intercepted 
 
 flight 
 lias been imposed upon me, from my 
 
 heart 
 I think you think that I desired it not. 
 Queen. Ay, we were fools, we Maries 
 
 twain, and thought 
 To be into the summer back again, 
 And see the broom blow in the golden 
 
 world, — 
 The gentle broom on hill. For all 
 
 men's talk 
 And all things come and gone yet, yet I 
 
 find 
 I am not tired of that I see not here, — 
 The sun, and the large air, and the 
 
 sweet earth. 
 And the hours that hum like fire-flies 
 
 on the hills 
 As they burn out and die, and the 
 
 bowed heaven, 
 And the small clouds that swim and 
 
 swoon i' the sun, 
 And the small flowers. Now should I 
 
 keep these things 
 But as sweet matter for my thoughts in 
 
 French. 
 To set them in a sonnet, here at home 
 1 read too plain in our own tongue my 
 
 doom. 
 To see them not, and love them. 
 
 I*ardon me : 
 I would have none weep for me but 
 
 my foes, 
 And then not tears. Be not more dis- 
 content 
 Than I to think that you could deem 
 
 of me 
 As of one thankless; who were thank- 
 less found. 
 Not knowing that by no will or work of 
 
 yours 
 I sit sujjpressed thus from the sun : 'tis 
 
 mine. 
 My fault that smites me; and my 
 
 masters' will, 
 N'ot mine or vours, it is, that for my fault 
 Devised this penance; which on me 
 
 wrought out 
 May fall again on them. 
 
 Lady Lochleven. Madam, alas ! 
 I came on no such errand to your 
 
 grace 
 As lacked more words to make it sad 
 
 than those 
 It was to speak; and these have I put 
 
 back 
 Too long and idly. Here are now at 
 
 gate 
 Three messengers sent from the parlia- 
 ment 
 To speak with you. 
 
 Queen. With us to speak .' you know. 
 Nor chamberlain nor herald have we 
 
 here 
 To marshal men before us. Let them 
 
 come. 
 Whom all our kingdom left could keep 
 
 not out 
 From this high presence-chamber. Stay : 
 
 I would not 
 Be stricken unaware, nor find in you 
 That which I thought not ; it were out 
 
 of kind, 
 Unwomanlike, to give me to their 
 
 hands 
 Who came to slay me, knowing not 
 
 why they came ; 
 Is it for that } ' 
 
 Lady Lochlez<en. God's grace forbid 
 
 it ! nay — 
 Queen. I ask if they bring warrant 
 
 for my death } 
 I have seen such things and heard, since 
 
 leaves bloomed last. 
 That this were no such marvellous 
 
 thing to hear. 
 But if this be, before I speak with thcjn, 
 I will know first. 
 
 Lady Lochle^'en. Let not your high- 
 ness dread — 
 Queen I do not bid you put me out 
 
 of dread. 
 Have you not heard, and hear .> The 
 
 cjueen desires 
 To know of her born subject till she 
 
 die, 
 And keeper of her prison, if these men 
 Be come to slay her. 
 
 Lady Lochle-ten. They come to bid 
 
 your grace — 
 Queen. Bid my grace do their bid- 
 ding.'' that is like ; 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 335 
 
 That I should do it were unlike. I 
 
 must live, 
 I see, this some while yet. What men 
 
 are these ? 
 Lady Lochlez'en. The first, Sir Robert 
 
 Melville; then the lords 
 Ruthven and Lindsay. 
 
 Queen. Bid my first friend in, 
 While one friend may be bidden; he, I 
 
 think. 
 Can come but friendlike. 
 
 \Exit Lady Lochleven. 
 
 What should these desire ? 
 
 One head of theirs I swore last month 
 
 to have. 
 That then beheld me, some day, if that 
 
 hand 
 Whereon I swore should take not first 
 
 my life. 
 And one, the son of him that being nigh 
 
 dead 
 Rose from his grave's edge to pluck 
 
 down alive 
 A murdered man before him, — what 
 
 should he 
 Bring less than murder, being his 
 
 father's son, 
 [n such a hand as his that stabbed my 
 
 friend ? 
 Mary Beaton. Perchance they come 
 
 to take your crown, not life. 
 Queen. What, my name too ? but till 
 
 I yield it them, 
 They have but half the royal thing 
 
 they hold, 
 The state they ravish; and they shall 
 
 not have 
 My name but with my life ; while that 
 
 sits fast, 
 As in my will it sits, I am queen, and 
 
 they 
 My servants yet that fear to take my 
 
 life ; 
 For so thou seest they fear ; and I did 
 
 ill. 
 That in first sight of present-seeming 
 
 death 
 Made offer to resign into their hands 
 What here is mine of empire: I shall 
 
 live, 
 And being no queen I live not. • 
 Enter Sir Robert Melville. 
 
 Welcome, sir ; 
 
 I have found, since ever times grew 
 
 strange with me. 
 Good friends of your good brother and 
 
 yourself. 
 And think to find. What errand have 
 
 you hero ? 
 Sir R. Melville. Let not your majesty 
 
 cast off the thought 
 Which calls me friend, though I be 
 
 first to bear 
 An evil errand. 'Tis the council's mind 
 That you shall live, and in their hand 
 
 the proofs 
 Shall die that plead against you — 
 
 Queen. Is this ill .-' 
 I know not well what proof that man 
 
 could show 
 Would prove men honest that make 
 
 war on faith, 
 Show treason trusty, bleach rebellion 
 
 white. 
 Rid liars look loyal; and much less I 
 
 know 
 What proof might speak against me 
 
 from their lips 
 Whose breath may kill and quicken 
 
 evidence, 
 Or what good change of mind rebuke 
 
 the lie 
 That lived upon them; but that I must 
 
 live, 
 And of their proofs unspotted, sounds 
 
 not worse 
 Than if a friend had come to bear me 
 
 word 
 That I must die belied. 
 
 Sir R. Melville. Upon these terms 
 Are they content for you to live in 
 
 ward : — 
 That you yield up as with free hand the 
 
 crown 
 And right of kingdom to your son, who 
 
 straight 
 At Stirling shall receive it from their 
 
 hands ; 
 Else shall your grace be put to trial, 
 
 and bear 
 The doom ensuing, with what of mortal 
 
 weight 
 May hang upon that sentence. 
 
 Queen. Sir, melhought 
 This word of doom for shame's sake 
 
 now was dead 
 
33(5 
 
 BOTinvF.r r.. 
 
 Even in their mouths that first it soiled, 
 
 and made 
 Even shamclessness astonished ; not 
 
 again 
 We thought to hear of judgment, \vc 
 
 that are, 
 While yet we are any thing, and yet 
 
 must be. 
 The voice which deals, and not the ear 
 
 which lakes, 
 Judgment. God gave man might to 
 
 murder me, 
 Who made me woman, weaker than a 
 
 man ; 
 But God gave no man right, I think, to 
 
 judge, 
 Who made me royal. Come then, I 
 
 will die : 
 I did not think to live. Must I die 
 
 here ? 
 Sir R. Melville. Madam, my errand — 
 Queen. Ay, sir, is received 
 Here in my heart : I thank you ; but 
 
 you know 
 I had no hope before ; yet sounds it 
 
 strange 
 That should not sound, to die at such 
 
 men's hands, 
 A queen, and at my years. Forgive 
 
 me, sir : 
 Me it not comforts to discomfort you, 
 Who are yet my friend — as much as 
 
 man on earth — 
 If anv, you — that come to bid mc 
 
 die. 
 Sir J\. Meh'ille. Be not cast down so 
 
 deep : I have an errand 
 From the English queen, your friend, 
 
 and here cnsheathed 
 l>y mv sword's secret side, for your fair 
 
 hand 
 A letter writ from her ambassador 
 Praying you subscribe what thing my 
 
 comrades will, 
 Since naught whereto your writing was 
 
 com|)elled 
 Pan hang hereafter on you as a chain 
 When but for this bond written you 
 
 stand free. 
 Queen. Av, I know that: how speaks 
 
 Elizabeth.? 
 Sir A'. AMTille. She bids you at all 
 
 times account of her 
 
 As a sure friend and helpful ; has, 1 
 know. 
 
 Indeed no mind to fail you. 
 Queen. This your comfort 
 
 Is no small comfort to me; I had 
 rather 
 
 I)e bounden to her than any prince 
 alive. 
 
 Is it her counsel, then, that I subscribe 
 
 My traitors' writing.? I will do it. But, 
 sir. 
 
 Of those that sit in state in Edinburgh 
 
 Which was it chose you for my com- 
 forter } 
 
 I know my lord of Morton would send 
 none ; 
 
 It was the secretary? 
 
 Sir R. Melville. Madam, the same. 
 Queen. Did I not well then, think 
 you, when I cast 
 
 This body of mine between him and 
 the swords 
 
 That would have hewn his body? [ 
 did think 
 
 He was my friend. Bid now mine ene- 
 mies in. 
 
 And I will sign what sort of shame 
 they will. 
 
 And rid them hence. 
 
 Efiter Lindsay and t/ie youns^er Ruth- 
 
 YEN. 
 
 'Tis five weeks gone, mv lord, 
 
 [To Lindsay. 
 
 Since last we looked on vou ; for you, 
 
 fair sir, [To RUTHVEN. 
 
 .A. vcar I think and four good months 
 
 are sjied 
 Since, at that father's back whose name 
 
 you bear, 
 I saw vour face dashed red with blood 
 
 Mv lords, 
 Ye come to treat with us ambassa 
 
 dors 
 Sent from our subjects ; and we cannc i 
 
 choose, 
 Being held of them in bonds from 
 
 whom ve come, 
 But give vou leave to speak. 
 
 Lindsay. Thus, briefly, madam : — 
 If you will live to die no death by 
 
 •doom, 
 This threefold bond of contract that 
 
 we bring 
 
BOrnWELL. 
 
 337 
 
 Requires your hand ; wherein of your 
 free will 
 
 First must you yield the crown of Scot- 
 land up 
 
 To your child's hand; then by this sec- 
 ond deed 
 
 The place and name of regent through 
 this realm 
 
 To the earl of Murray shall you here 
 assign, 
 
 Or, if he list not take this coil in hand. 
 
 Then to the council ; last, this deed em- 
 powers 
 
 The lords of Mar and Morton with my- 
 self 
 
 To set the crown upon the young king's 
 head. 
 
 These shall you sign. 
 
 Queen. These I shall sign, or die. 
 
 ViwX. hear you, sirs : when hither you 
 brought these. 
 
 Burned not your hearts within you by 
 the way 
 
 Thinking how she that should subscribe 
 was born 
 
 King James's daughter ? that this 
 shameful hand, 
 
 Fit to sustain nor sword nor staff o' 
 the realm, 
 
 Hath the blood in it of those years of 
 kings 
 
 That tamed the neck and drove with 
 spurs the sides 
 
 Of this beast people that now casts off 
 me .'' 
 
 Ay, this that is to sign, no hand but 
 this 
 
 Throbs with their sole inheritance of 
 life 
 
 Who held with bit and bridle this 
 bound land, 
 
 And made it pace beneath them. 
 What are ye 
 
 That I should tell you so, whose fathers 
 fought 
 
 Beneath my fathers } Where my grand- 
 sire fell, 
 
 And all this land about him, were there 
 none 
 
 That bore on Flodden, sirs, such names 
 as yours. 
 
 And shamed them not ? Heard no 
 men past of lords, 
 
 That for the king's crown gave theii 
 
 crown of life 
 For death to harry ? Did these grieve 
 
 or grudge 
 To be built up into that bloody wall 
 That could not fence the king.^* Were 
 
 no dead found 
 Of that huge cirque wherein my grand- 
 sire lay, 
 But of poor men and commons ? Yea, 
 
 my lords, 
 I think the sires that "bred you had not 
 
 heart 
 As men have writ of them, but sent to 
 
 fight 
 For them their vassals visored with 
 
 their crests. 
 And these did well, and died, and left 
 
 your sires 
 That hid their heads forever and lived 
 
 long. 
 The name and false name of their deeds 
 
 and death. 
 How should their sons else, how should 
 
 ye, being born, 
 If born ye be, not bastards, of those 
 
 lords 
 Who gat this lying glory to be called 
 Loyal, and in the reek of a false field 
 To fall so for my fathers, — how, I say, 
 Dare sons of such come hither, how 
 
 stand here, 
 From off the daughter's head of all 
 
 those kings 
 To pluck the crown that on my fathers' 
 
 heads 
 Ye say they died to save ? I will not 
 
 sign : 
 No, let some Flodden sword dip in my 
 
 bl ood ; 
 Here I sit fast, and die. — Good friend 
 
 that was, 
 
 \To Sir R. Melville. 
 Tell my great sister that you saw my 
 
 hand 
 Strive, and leave off to sign : I had no 
 
 skill 
 To shape false letters. 
 
 Ruthven. Madam, no man here 
 But knows by heart the height of your 
 
 stout words 
 And strength of speech or swec'/rgs 
 
 all this breath 
 
33^^ 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 Can blow not back the storm yourself 
 
 raised up, 
 Whose tempest shakes the kingdom 
 
 from vour hand, 
 And not men's hate. You have been 
 
 loved of men ; 
 All faith of heart, all honor possible. 
 While man might give, men gave you. 
 
 Now those deeds 
 Which none against your will enforced 
 
 you do 
 Have set that spirit against you in 
 
 men's minds, 
 That till you die (as then your memory 
 
 may). 
 Nor your fair beauty nor your fiery 
 
 heart 
 Can lay with spells asleep. 
 
 Sir R. Melville [aside). I pray you, 
 
 madam, 
 Think on mine errand. 
 
 Queen. Wherefore should I sign? 
 If I be queen that so unqueen myself. 
 What shall it profit me to give my foes 
 This one thing mine that hallows me, 
 
 this name, 
 This royal shadow.^ If I be no queen, 
 Let me bleed here ; as being uncrowned 
 
 I know 
 That I shall die of all your promises. 
 Lindsay. We came not, madam, to 
 
 ]:»ut force on you. 
 And save your life by violence ; but 
 
 take note, 
 
 {Laying his hand on her arm. 
 As in this hand your own is fast, and 
 
 hath 
 No power till mine give back its power 
 
 again 
 To strive or sign, so fast are you in 
 
 ward, 
 For life or death, of them that bid you 
 
 live 
 And be no queen, or die. 
 
 Queen. I thank you, sir. 
 That of your love and courtesy have 
 
 set 
 This knightlv sign upon mv woman's 
 
 flesh 
 For proof if I be (juecn or no, that 
 
 bear 
 Such writing on my body of men's 
 
 hands 
 
 To seal mine abdication. Sirs, read 
 
 here : 
 What need I sign again .-• Here may 
 
 men see 
 If she be queen of Scotland on whose 
 
 arm 
 Are writ such scriptures as I wist not 
 
 yet 
 Men's eyes might read on any woman 
 
 born. 
 Yet will I write, being free, to assure 
 
 myself 
 This is my hand indeed that wears the 
 
 sign 
 Which proves it vassal to the stronger. 
 
 Sirs, 
 Take back your papers; and albeit, mv 
 
 lord. 
 The conquest you have made of me, 
 
 henceforth 
 Lift up your heart with pride, I pray 
 
 you yet. 
 Boast not yourself on women overmuch, 
 Lest being their conqueror called, and 
 
 praised for that, 
 Men call you too their tyrant. Once 
 
 and twice 
 Have we grasped hands : the third 
 
 time they shall cross 
 Must leave one cold forever. Nay, I 
 
 pray, 
 W^ho may command not surely, yet I 
 
 pray, 
 Speak not, but go : ye have that ye 
 
 came for ; go. 
 And make your vaunt to have found so 
 
 meek a thing 
 As would yield all, and thank you. 
 {Exeunt Lindsay, Kituvkn, <7W S'R 
 K. Melville. 
 
 Hast thou read 
 Of sick men healed with baths of chil- 
 dren's blood .'' 
 I must be healed of this my plague <>: 
 
 shame, 
 This sickness of disgrace they leave 
 
 with me, 
 loathing in theirs my body. 
 
 Mary Beaton. In such streams 
 You have washed your hands already. 
 
 Queen. What, in war "*. 
 Ay, there I have seen blood shed for 
 
 ^»>c. and yet 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 339 
 
 Wept not nor trembled; if my heart 
 
 shrink now, 
 it is for angry pity of myself 
 That I should look on shame. 
 
 Mary Beaton. What shame, my 
 
 queen ? 
 Queen. Thy queen ? why, this, that I, 
 
 queen once of Scots, 
 Am no more now than thine. Call 
 
 back the lords: 
 I will unsign their writing, and here die ; 
 It were the easier end. 
 
 Mary Beaton. It is your will — 
 Forgive me, madam — on this cause 
 
 again 
 To grapple with Lord Lindsay } 
 
 Queen. True, not yet ; 
 Thou thought'st to make me mad, 
 
 remembering that ; 
 But it hath made me whole. My wits 
 
 are sound. 
 Remembering I must live. When I 
 
 have slept. 
 Say I would gladly see the kindlier 
 
 face 
 Again of our dear hostess with her son 
 To put those angry eyes out of my 
 
 sight 
 That lightened late upon me ; say, bemg 
 
 sad. 
 And (if thou wilt) being frighted, I 
 
 must find 
 The comfortable charities of friends 
 More precious to me. 'Tis but truth, 
 
 I am fain. 
 Being tired, to sleep an hour : mine 
 
 eyes are hot ; 
 Where tears will come not, fire there 
 
 breeds instead. 
 Thou knowest, to burn them through. 
 
 Let me lie down ; 
 I will expect their comforts in an hour. 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene TIL — Holyrood. 
 
 Maitland and Sir Nicholas 
 
 Throgmorton. 
 Throgtnorton. Why would your coun- 
 cil give no ear to me 
 Ere they rode hence so hot to crown 
 
 their prince ? 
 Why hear not first one word ? 
 
 Maitland. One threat the more 
 From your queen's lips bequeathed by 
 
 rote to yours. 
 Or one more promise } If we run her 
 
 course, 
 This queen will leave us in the briers, 
 
 we know. 
 There to lie fast or labor till the thorns 
 Have rent our flesh and raiment. 
 Throgmorton. Sir, take thought 
 If help were sent not at the siege of 
 
 Leith, 
 When France had grasped you by the 
 
 throat, and sea 
 To land gave battle, from that sove- 
 reign's hand 
 Whom now ye trust not. 
 
 Maitlajid. Ay, for her own ends 
 She cast the French out, and flung back 
 
 their power 
 Which here was deadly to her, and of 
 
 that deed 
 Had recompense with surety : but what 
 
 aid 
 Must we now look for of her, on whose 
 
 will 
 Hang all our enemies' hopes 1 I would 
 
 I had been 
 Banished seven years my country, and 
 
 your queen 
 On that condition had but as a friend 
 Dealt freely with us. Let her now 
 
 proclaim, 
 Her own seed failing, this our prince 
 
 her heir. 
 And England shall no less have care of 
 
 him 
 Than we his lineal servants; else, if 
 
 hence 
 We yield him to your keeping, mea 
 
 will say 
 We have given our natural master to 
 
 be kept 
 As among wolves a sheep, and made 
 
 our hope 
 The fosterling of danger: and small 
 
 trust 
 Should we put in her that has newly 
 
 dealt 
 By secret message to subvert our state, 
 We know, with those indeed of oui 
 
 queen's kin 
 From whose report we know it. 
 
340 
 
 BOTIIIVELL. 
 
 Throoniortou. What have they said ? 
 Maiilauii. That you brought proffers 
 
 of her aid and love 
 To incite their arms, to quicken the 
 
 slow snake 
 Whose sting lies cold yet in their policy, 
 I'.ut watched and warmed of her with 
 
 hand and eye 
 The perfect poison should put forth, 
 
 and thrust 
 At once the hot and cloven tongue of 
 
 war 
 I'Lven in our face and bosom ; but for 
 
 fear, 
 It may be, or being yet at heart's root 
 
 Scots, — 
 For this or that cause, through false 
 
 heart or true. 
 So is it, that in doubt of your good 
 
 mind 
 Toward them or Scotland, in whose 
 
 breast you sought 
 To make the mutual swords of her own 
 
 sons 
 Clash as they crossed once more, drink- 
 ing her blood, 
 Thev sent us word of all your embassy. 
 'J'lnoi^mortoi. But you, whate'er these 
 
 thought or feigned to think. 
 Think no such foolish evil as fools 
 
 may, — 
 Deem not of England as the Scot who 
 
 deems 
 She hath no will, no line of life, no 
 
 ho])e. 
 No thought but Scotland's ruin, and 
 
 our queen 
 No sense of aught here done, — her 
 
 sister's doom. 
 The people's rage, the council's pur- 
 pose, — naught 
 P.ut where to find in these a guileful 
 
 mean 
 To strike at Scotland? why, these fears 
 
 are old. 
 White-bearded dreams, suspicions long 
 
 grown gray, 
 I )angcrs and doubts toothless and eye- 
 less now 
 That fright nor babe nor dotard; and 
 
 your thought 
 Kinds 'room for such? What profit 
 
 should she have 
 
 To turn your swords against each 
 
 other's throats, 
 And pick some privy chance of vantage 
 
 up 
 That fell between vour factions at her 
 
 feet ? 
 Such chance indeed of vantage might 
 
 there fall 
 For your own queen, who nowise has 
 
 been slow 
 To nurse the chance, and wait on it anc' 
 
 serve. 
 From strifes rekindled and requicken 
 
 ing claims 
 Set each at each in England, whence 
 
 or craft 
 Or force might filch or seize for Scot- 
 land's sake 
 Some no less jewel than her eye ere 
 
 now 
 Was fixed so fast on, even the crown 
 
 that hangs 
 In doubt yet of unsure inheritance. 
 As hangs not yours for us to pluck at, 
 
 who. 
 Reign whoso may when this (pieen's 
 
 life is quenched. 
 In Scotland sliall reign never. 
 
 MaitUitid. That I know. 
 And this no less : that he who reigns 
 
 shall reign 
 Never by right of England's leave or 
 
 love. 
 Her ward or servant; as, this queen 
 
 removed. 
 Haply ye hope her lineal heir might 
 
 be. 
 And in that hope work with these 
 
 I lamiltons 
 To strike at us in Mary's name, and 
 
 jiluck 
 Death from our hands upon her; yon, 
 
 your (|ueen, 
 And they her kinsfolk, all ye seek her 
 
 death ; 
 No word but of her freedom in your 
 
 mouths, 
 No end than this less looked for in 
 
 your hearts. 
 Speak to the council as but nf>w to me, 
 Defv them in her cause, not all the 
 
 world 
 lor three days' space shall save her 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 341 
 
 TJirogmorton. Nay, not we 
 Desire the queen's death at your hand 
 
 provoked, 
 Kut here from Tullibardine's mouth I 
 
 know 
 Her kin at secret heart desire no less; 
 And will ye but allow their house its 
 
 right 
 By heritage to reign, no need, they say. 
 To take more care for her, who privily 
 May be put out of life, and no man 
 
 more 
 In that dead name be troubled; and 
 
 again, 
 11 they with no such promise bemg 
 
 assured 
 Shall not join hands with you, and 
 
 Elngland then 
 Shall bring the queen back whom ye 
 
 spared to slay, 
 Ye are lost, and they not winners. 
 
 Therefore is it 
 Thac of Lord Mar and of yourself I 
 
 seek 
 Help for the queen's deliverance, who 
 
 being dead 
 Can profit no man but your foes and 
 
 ours 
 That love not England more than they 
 
 love you, 
 Nor you than they love England : shall 
 
 not both 
 With their own cause take part ? 
 
 Maitland. It is too late ; 
 What part should we take with you, to 
 
 what end, 
 Since all the council knows your traffic 
 
 now 
 With their chief foes, and how being 
 
 there betrayed 
 You can but bring us such a friendship 
 
 back 
 As they would none of? 
 
 Throgtnorton. Sir, if yet you fear, 
 If you suspect yet that our queen 
 
 desires 
 To speed the death of yours or make 
 
 it sure 
 By pleading for her, or by threat of war 
 Denounced for her sake, let this letter 
 
 be 
 The seal and warrant of our single 
 heart, 
 
 Wherein she threatens war, — but smile 
 
 not yet, — 
 If in his mother's name for him dis- 
 crowned 
 Ve crown the child that has but wailed 
 
 one year. 
 This should the lords have seen ; but 
 
 even for doubt 
 Lest it should set their spirits on such 
 
 fire 
 As but her blood shed presently could 
 
 slake, 
 Ana this be deemed its aim indeed at 
 
 heart 
 And privy purpose of her hand who 
 
 writ, 
 Your eye alone must read that reads it 
 
 now 
 And the lord Murray's; for they know 
 
 that send. 
 And with it send me this for secret 
 
 charge, 
 They know the truth and heat of fiery 
 
 will 
 That urges our queen's heart upon this 
 
 war, 
 And for no end but for her sake who 
 
 sits 
 Held fast in bonds of her own subjects 
 
 born, 
 And with her all the majesty on earth 
 That walks with monarchs, and no 
 
 king alive 
 But wears some shameful parcel of her 
 
 chain. 
 Maitland. Though this be truth, yet 
 
 they that hold it false 
 Will join in wrath with them that hold 
 
 it true. 
 Even for the threat's sake and f«>i 
 
 shame, will join 
 To write red answer in the slaii. 
 
 queen's blood 
 Back to the queen that threatens. Nay, 
 
 herself 
 Who sits in bonds yet of us will not 
 
 vield 
 To come forth singly safe, nor give 
 
 consent 
 That Bothwell should fare worse than 
 
 she, or have 
 More harm or danger; and being thua 
 
 incensed, 
 
34^ 
 
 BOTinVEI.I.. 
 
 A three-edged weapon in the council's 
 
 hand 
 Is drawn to smite at need, a treble 
 
 charge 
 Whereon to impeach her : on that stat- 
 ute first 
 Made of this land's religion seven 
 
 years since. 
 Which though she signed not, yet its 
 
 breach in her 
 Shall stand for guilt before them; and 
 
 thereto 
 Shall she be challenged of incontinence 
 With more than Bothwell, who by 
 
 noteless nights 
 Have made her bed adulterous, and of 
 
 each 
 The proof that seals her shame in him, 
 
 they say. 
 Lies in their hand ; last, of her mur- 
 dered lord 
 Their warrant cries against her; and 
 
 from these 
 No man may think to quit her nor 
 
 secure. 
 Save he that here comes timeliest for 
 
 such toil 
 As none beside may take upon his 
 
 hand. 
 
 Enter MURRAY. 
 Welcome, my lord, and to a land that 
 
 lacks 
 As never yet it lacked or looked for 
 
 you. 
 What comfort bring you for her 
 
 wounds from France 
 Besides that present help of hand and 
 
 head 
 We heard returned an hour since.' 
 
 Murray. Sir, thus much : 
 All of our faith in France will in our 
 
 cause 
 Live or die fighting; gold, and men in 
 
 arms. 
 Will flow thence on us in full stream 
 
 and free 
 If Scotland set but ojien hand or breast 
 To greet them coming; they will buy 
 
 our love 
 At what best price they may. 
 
 77ir(xinort(>n. Hut you, my lord, 
 Vhat have loved Fngland ever, and 
 
 that know 
 
 The worth and unworth weighed of 
 
 either friend, 
 French faith or English, will not surely 
 
 buy 
 With heavy hate of England the light 
 
 love 
 That ?>ance and fraud would sell you; 
 
 nor for this 
 Cast off the fortune and the peace 
 
 unborn 
 That may bind fast in one strong rinjj 
 
 of sea 
 Two jewels become one jewel, one such 
 
 land 
 As from the stout fort of a single heart 
 Fixed like a sea-rock might look forth 
 
 and laugh 
 Upon the under w\ars of all the world. 
 And see not higher the heads of king- 
 doms risen 
 Than of small waves in summer.? Will 
 
 you pluck 
 This hope out of the hopeful hand of 
 
 time 
 Ere he can gather, — this good fruit that 
 
 grows 
 On the green present branch of time's 
 
 gray tree 
 To feed the future where the hungry 
 
 past 
 Could get but blood for bread, and with 
 
 bare steel 
 Died starved and smitten ? 
 
 Murray. Sir, when I came in 
 By secret flight from France, out of the 
 
 guard 
 Wherein I lived inwalled with watch of 
 
 men 
 That the court set about me to with- 
 hold 
 My foot from England ; when an Eng- 
 lish boat 
 Had borne me oversea by secret night 
 From privy port to port, — at the long 
 
 last 
 I saw your queen's face darken on mine 
 
 own 
 As on a servant favor-fallen, that came 
 To take rebuke, and speak not ; in her 
 
 speech 
 I found no note of favor, no good word, 
 Nor honor such as late in France I 
 
 found, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 343 
 
 And finding fled from: sharply with 
 
 strange eyes 
 She glanced against me ; taxed me with 
 
 the bonds 
 Wherein men held my sister; half a 
 
 threat 
 Was all her promise ; I returned but 
 
 this,— 
 I would be still a Scotsman, and this 
 
 land 
 I had more mind to serve, and do her 
 
 good, 
 Than either of these queens ; so parted 
 
 thence 
 Unfriendlike, yet with no breach openly 
 Proclaimed of friendship ; and being 
 
 here, my mind 
 Is yet to serve no mistress but alone 
 This earth my bones were bred of, this 
 
 kind land 
 Which moulded me and fostered; her 
 
 strong milk 
 Put manhood in my blood, and from 
 
 my heart 
 If she that nurtured need it now to 
 
 drink 
 I think not much to shed it. If those 
 
 lords 
 In whom her power now stands shall 
 
 with one mouth 
 Bid me put on this weight of regency, 
 For no man's fear shall I deny them : 
 
 she, 
 Your queen, that threatens me with 
 
 ignominy 
 If I obey their choice and call, must 
 
 know 
 That to God only and my heart, those 
 
 twain 
 That are one eye to know me and to 
 
 judge, 
 Will I refer it; and of them bemg 
 
 known 
 That with pure purpose and no soiled 
 
 intent 
 [ take this charge up, I will bear it 
 
 through 
 To the right end. Yet, ere my mind 
 
 be fixed, 
 I will behold her that was queen, and 
 
 see 
 How sits the spirit within her; but 
 
 howe'er, 
 
 Till Pothwell in our hands lie trapped 
 
 and dead 
 She must not pass forth free ; and we 
 
 will hold 
 No traffic for the bear's skin merchant 
 
 like 
 Before the bear be caught ; but if your 
 
 queen 
 Proclaim against us therefore war, be 
 
 sure 
 We will not lose our lives, yield up our 
 
 lands. 
 And bear repute of rebels through the 
 
 world, 
 Who might, how loath soe'er, in all 
 
 men's eyes 
 Make our cause clear as righteousness: 
 
 the proofs 
 Which in our hands lie darkling yet, 
 
 but bear 
 The perfect witness of those ill deeds 
 
 past 
 That bring her thus in danger of our 
 
 doom 
 And righteous peril of all-judging law. 
 Must to the world's eye nakedly set forth 
 What cause is hers, and ours; when if 
 
 I stand 
 In the king's likeness of the state elect. 
 To him in me shall all knees bend, and 
 
 hearts 
 Kneel subjected; for them that hold 
 
 apart. 
 No head shall stand of any Hamilton 
 That shall not bow before my sword or 
 
 me. 
 
 Scene IV. — Lochleven Castle. 
 The Queen ^;/^/ George Douglag. 
 Queen. Will he be here to-day ? Ala?, 
 my friend ! 
 I made my hope of this till he shouP. 
 
 come. 
 And now he comes I would not loo'* 
 
 on him. 
 I know not what put hope into my feay 
 That this your mother's and my father'o 
 
 son 
 Should do me good for evil. 
 
 George Douglas. Madam, I think 
 The mind can be but good that mar 
 shals him 
 
344 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 To your fair presence ; nay, though 
 
 even his soul 
 Were damned so deep as to desire your 
 
 death, 
 He durst not come to show us his 
 
 purpose here 
 Who were not chosen for murderers 
 
 at his hire, 
 Init guards and servants that would 
 
 shed their lives 
 Ere yours should look on danger. 
 
 Queen. That we know, 
 And have no better wage than love to 
 
 give. 
 Which more to give we grudge not, 
 
 being so poor. 
 Than from your queen's hands you 
 
 disdain to take ; 
 But what knows he ? For aught our 
 
 brother knows, 
 Your mother and yourself are envious 
 
 guards 
 That hate me for my faith as for my 
 
 fault. 
 And hold your hands but till he bids 
 
 you slay. 
 Or yield me to my slayers. Ah ! my 
 
 last knight, 
 You shall do well to leave me at my 
 
 need : 
 He will command you : when this 
 
 brother knows 
 I am not hated, think you then my 
 
 friend 
 Shall not be chidden from me ? 
 
 George Dcmi^las. When my life 
 Is bidden from my body : not till then 
 Shall I be found obedient. 
 
 Kilter Lady I.ochleven. 
 Queen. l»e but wise, 
 And wisdom shall not let you dis- 
 obey. 
 Our noble hostess, you have borne a 
 
 son, 
 I dare not say more noble, but I dare 
 More simple, than his elders, — one 
 
 whose heart 
 .Stands fast when fortune stands not, 
 
 and re(|uires, 
 As other men do i)ower and j.'li)ry and 
 
 gold, 
 No guerdon but the nu-nioiy writ of 
 
 him 
 
 To have been most true when fortune 
 
 was most false. 
 And most to have loved whom she 
 
 most hated : this 
 Shall not of them be written. Come 
 
 you not 
 To bring one to me that shall never sin 
 As he by faith and folly? I would say 
 Of my great brother and your kingly 
 
 son 
 Nothing but good ; yet can nor you 
 
 nor I 
 Say that he loves me and my fallen 
 
 estate 
 More than the power he comes to take 
 
 from me. 
 Or rather from their hands that ere he 
 
 came 
 Had rent it out of mine. Nay, look 
 
 not sad : 
 You should be merrier than my mother 
 
 might, 
 Were she now living. 
 
 Lady Lochleven. God shall witness 
 
 me 
 What joy I have of such a guest, or 
 
 pride 
 To be so stricken, madam, of your 
 
 tongue 
 Chastising me for trium]ih : if my heart 
 Exalt itself for this day's sake, God 
 
 knows. 
 Who hears you mock me 
 
 Queen. Nay, I said no scorn ; 
 I had rather need to pray you in his 
 
 name 
 Scorn not at me. Let him come in'. I 
 
 know 
 What ceremony my masters should jnil 
 
 on 
 Were but to mock their servant. 
 Enter MURRAY, Athol, </;/f/ Morton 
 Sirs, vou twain 
 That brought me two months since 
 
 between you safe 
 Out of the town by night that sought 
 
 my blood 
 Myself bid welcome; but she is not I 
 Tliat in this presence should make wel- 
 come here 
 My father's son; nor shall my speech 
 
 usurp 
 For modesty that office : yet indeed 
 
BOTIIIVELL. 
 
 345 
 
 I am giad, my lord, to sec your face, 
 
 that must 
 Bring comfort, or an q\\(\ of all this life 
 That yet needs comfort. 
 
 Murray. What I may, I will : 
 Yet haply shall you find not in my 
 
 words 
 Or death or comfort ; as you give them 
 
 heed, 
 Shall they prove comfortable or deadly. 
 
 — Sirs, 
 I have that to speak and hear that but 
 
 requires 
 The Lady Mary's ear and mine : I pray 
 
 you. 
 Take not offence that I crave leave to 
 
 say 
 We must for some space lack your 
 
 company. 
 Mortoji. My lord, the land that puts 
 
 her trust in you 
 Bids us obey, well knowing that love 
 
 nor fear 
 Shall bend you from her service. 
 Lady Lockleven. Sir — 
 Murray. Your will .'' 
 Lady Lochleven. I am nc parcel of the 
 
 sovereign state 
 That gives you of its greatness, nor 
 
 have right 
 To s])eak commandingly ; yet ere I go 
 I would desire you by what name I 
 
 may. 
 Look on this lady with such equal eyes 
 As nor the wrath and hate of violent 
 
 men. 
 Nor sense of evil done to this land's 
 
 peace 
 By her mischance and evil counsellors, 
 Nor (what I would not fear to find in 
 
 you) 
 Desire of rule with pride of station, 
 
 may 
 Divert to do her wrong, or glance asid.'. 
 From the plain roadway of that right- 
 eousness 
 Whose name is also mercy. This at 
 
 least 
 Surely by me may be of you recpiired, 
 That in this house no wrong by word 
 
 or act. 
 By deed or threat, may touch her. 
 Murray. Be assured 
 
 Xo wrong shall ever touch her by my 
 
 hand, 
 And be ccjntent to know it. 
 
 Qut'i-n. Madam, these lords 
 Know that I thought ere this to find o^ 
 
 you 
 A mediatress between me and your 
 
 son : 
 I have my hope, and with a humble 
 
 heart 
 I take your intercession thankfully. 
 [Exeuni ail hut the QiiF.KN ^wrt' MUR- 
 RAY. 
 Murray. T would I had another cause 
 
 to speak, 
 Or you to listen, than this bitter theme 
 That brings irP back together, though for 
 
 that 
 I had died a foreign man. 
 
 Queen. I thought not, sir, 
 When we last parted ere the break cl 
 
 spring. 
 To meet you thus in summer ; but 
 
 these months 
 Have wrought things stranger on me. 
 
 Murray. Say, yourself 
 Have made of them more strange and 
 
 perilous use 
 Than is the fruit they bear. I am no! 
 
 come 
 To flatter with you ; that I seek youi 
 
 death 
 I think you fear not, yet should surely 
 
 know 
 The man that seeks were now more like 
 
 to speed 
 Than he that would preserve it 
 
 Heaven and earth 
 As with the tongue of one same law 
 
 demand 
 Justice against you; nor can i)it> 
 
 breathe 
 But low and fearful, till the right be 
 
 weighed 
 That must in pity's spite and fear's be 
 
 done. 
 Or this land never thrive. For thai 
 
 right's sake. 
 And not for hatred or rebellious heart, 
 Do men require that judgment pass on 
 
 you. 
 And bring forth execution : the broad 
 
 world 
 
346 
 
 BOTHWELL, 
 
 Expects amazedly when wc that rule 
 Shall purge this' land of blood, which 
 
 now looks red 
 In the world's eye, and blushing not 
 
 for shame 
 Blushes with bloodshed ; in men's gen- 
 eral mouths 
 The name of Scot is as a man's attaint 
 Of murderous treason, or as his more 
 
 vile 
 That for base heart and fear, or hire of 
 
 gold. 
 With folded hands watches the hands 
 
 that slay 
 Grow great in murder ; and God's 
 
 heavy doom 
 Shall be removed not from us, nor his 
 
 wrath, 
 Well may we fear, shall lighten, till the 
 
 deed 
 That reeks as recent yet toward the 
 
 fair heavens 
 Be thoroughly cleansed with judgment. 
 
 Queen. Must I too 
 lileed to make Scotland clean of baser 
 
 blood 
 Than this she seeks of mine ? 
 
 Murray. If you shall die, 
 Bethink you for what cause, and that 
 
 sole thought 
 Shall seal your lips up from all pride 
 
 of plea 
 That would put in between your deed 
 
 and doom 
 The name of queen to cover you. No 
 
 age 
 That lived on earth red-handed with- 
 out law 
 Ever let pass in peace and unchastised 
 Such acts as this that yet in all men's 
 
 ears 
 Rings as a cry unanswered. When 
 
 your lord 
 Lay newly murdered, and all tongues 
 
 of friends 
 Were loud in prayer to you to save 
 
 your name 
 From stain of accusation, and yield u]) 
 That head to judgment which the whole 
 
 world held 
 Blood-guilty, first with subtle stretch of 
 
 time 
 Did you put back the trial, then devise 
 
 To make it fruitless save of mockery; 
 
 next, 
 I cannot say for shame what shame 
 
 foregone 
 Moved you to put upon this loathing 
 
 land 
 That great dishonor to behold and bear 
 The man your lover for its lord, and 
 
 you. 
 Queen of all Scots and thrall of one 
 
 most base. 
 While yet the ring was from his finger 
 
 warm 
 That sealed it first, and on his wedded 
 
 hand 
 The young blood of your hubband, ere 
 
 the print 
 Had cooled of marriage or of murder, — 
 
 you 
 In the hot circle of his amorous arms 
 A new-espoused adulteress. Will you 
 
 say 
 You were enforced or by false counsels 
 
 bent 
 To take him to your bosom ? In what 
 
 eye 
 Was not the foregone commerce of 
 
 your loves 
 As bare as shame ? what ear had heard 
 
 not blown 
 His name that was your sword and 
 
 paramour. 
 Whose hand in yours was now as steel 
 
 to slay, 
 Now as a jewel for love to wear, a 
 
 pledge 
 Hot from your lips and from your hus- 
 band's heart ? 
 Who knew not what should make this 
 
 man so proud 
 That none durst speak against him of 
 
 your friends 
 But must abide for answer unaware 
 The peril of the swords that followed 
 
 him ? 
 Went he not with you where you went, 
 
 and bade 
 Men come and go, do this or do not, 
 
 stand 
 Or pass as pleased him, ere that day 
 
 had risen 
 Which gave the mockery of a ravished 
 
 bride 
 
tiOTHWELL. 
 
 347 
 
 To the false violence of his fraudful 
 
 rape 
 That hardly she could feign to fear, or 
 
 hide 
 The sweetness of the hour when she 
 
 might yield 
 That which was his before, and in men's 
 
 eyes 
 Make proof of her subjection ? Nay, 
 
 forbear ; 
 Plead not for shame that force was put 
 
 on you 
 To bear that burden and embrace that 
 
 shame 
 For which your heart w»s hungry : foe 
 
 nor friend 
 Could choose but see k, and that the 
 
 food desired 
 Must be but mortal tc you. Think on 
 
 this, — 
 How you came hither crowned these 
 
 six years gone. 
 In this same summer month, and with 
 
 what friends 
 (Jirt round about, and guarded with 
 
 what hopes, 
 And to a land how loving; and these 
 
 years. 
 These few brief years, have blown from 
 
 off your boughs 
 All blossom of that summer, though 
 
 nor storm 
 Nor fire from heaven hath wrecked nor 
 
 wind laid low 
 That stately tree that shadowed a glad 
 
 land. 
 But now being inly gnawn of worms to 
 
 death. 
 And made a lurking-place for poisonous 
 
 things 
 To breed and fester at its rotten root. 
 The axe is come against it. None save 
 
 you 
 Could have done this, to turn all hearts 
 
 and hands. 
 That were for love's sake laid before 
 
 your feet, 
 To fire and iron whetted and made 
 
 hot 
 To war against you. No man lives that 
 
 knows 
 What is your cause, and loathes not; 
 
 though for craft 
 
 Or hope of vantage some that know 
 
 will seem 
 To know not, and some eyes be rather 
 
 blind 
 Than see what eyeless ignorance in its 
 
 sleep. 
 If but it would, must needs take note 
 
 of : none 
 Whose mind is maimed not by his own 
 
 mere will. 
 And made perforce of its own deed 
 
 l^erverse, 
 Can read this truth awry. What have 
 
 you clone } 
 Men might weep for you, yea, behold- 
 ing it. 
 The eyes of angels melt : no tide of 
 
 tears 
 Could wash from hand or soul the sin- 
 ful sign 
 That now stands leprous there ; albeit 
 
 God knows 
 Myself for very pity could be glad 
 By mine own loss to ransom you, and 
 
 set 
 Upon your soul again the seal of peace. 
 And in your hand its empire ; but your 
 
 act 
 Has plucked out of men's hearts that 
 
 fain would keep 
 The privilege of mercy. God alone 
 Can lose net that forever, but retains 
 For all sins done that cry for judgment 
 
 here 
 The property of pity, which in man 
 Were mere compliance and confederacy 
 With the sin pardoned. So shall you 
 
 do best. 
 Being thus advised, to entertain the 
 
 hope 
 Of nothing but God's mercy, and hence- 
 forth 
 Seek that as chiefcst refuge ; for in 
 
 man 
 There shall no trust deliver you, nor 
 
 free 
 Body nor soul from bonds. Weep not 
 
 for that; 
 But let your tears be rather as were 
 
 hers 
 That wept upon the feet of God, and 
 
 bought 
 With that poor price her pardon. 
 
\4S 
 
 BO Til WELL. 
 
 Queen. So should I, 
 If grief more great may buy it than 
 
 any o*" theirs 
 That had sinned more than I ; nay, 
 
 such have been, 
 And have been pardoned. I have done 
 
 ill, and given 
 My name for shame to feed on, put 
 
 mine honor 
 Into mine enemies' keeping, made my 
 
 fame 
 A prey and pasture for the teeth of 
 
 scorn. 
 I dare not say I wist not by what mean 
 I should be freed of one that marred 
 
 my life, 
 Who could by no mean else be quit of 
 
 him 
 Save this blind way of blood: yet men 
 
 there were 
 More wise than I, men much less 
 
 wronged of him, 
 That led me to it, »nd left me ; but 
 
 indeed 
 I cite not them to extenuate by strange 
 
 aid 
 Mine own rash mind and unadvised- 
 
 ness, 
 7'hat brought forth fruit of death ; yet 
 
 must you know 
 What counsels led me by the hand, 
 
 and whence 
 My wrath was fostered; and how all 
 
 alone. 
 How utterly uncomforted, and girt 
 With how great i)cril, when the man 
 
 was slain, 
 I stood, and found not you to counsel 
 
 me, 
 And no man else that loved; and in 
 
 such need, 
 If I did ill to seek to that strong hand 
 Which had for me done evil, — if evil 
 
 it were 
 To avenge me of mine enemy, — what 
 
 dicl they 
 That by their hands and voices on his 
 
 side 
 Put force on me tt) wed him ? \'ct I 
 
 sav not, 
 I was indeed enforced : I will not mock 
 With one false plea my penitent heart, 
 
 nor strive 
 
 With words to darken counsel, noi 
 
 incep.se 
 By foolishness your wisdom, to jMovokc 
 A judgment heavier than I wail for 
 
 nay, 
 Vou have not said that bitter thing oi 
 
 me 
 That I may dare unsay ; what most 1 
 
 would, 
 I must deny not : yet I pray vou think, 
 Kven as might God, being just, what 
 
 cause I had. 
 What plea to lighten my sore load of 
 
 sin, — 
 Mismated and miscounselled, and had 
 
 seen 
 Of my sad life not wholly nineteen 
 
 years 
 When I came hither crowned; as yet 
 
 would God 
 Your head, my brother, had endured 
 
 for mine 
 That heaviness of honor, and this 
 
 hand 
 The weight of Scotland, that being laid 
 
 in mine 
 Has fallen and left it maimed, and on 
 
 my brows 
 A mark as his whose temples for his 
 
 crime 
 Were ringed with molten iron ! l\ake 
 
 them now. 
 Though but for pity of me that pray 
 
 you take, 
 And bear them better than I did ; for 
 
 me. 
 Though no plea serve me in the sight 
 
 of man. 
 Nor grace excuse my fault, I am yet 
 
 content. 
 If I may live but so much time in 
 
 bonds 
 As may suffice for ("lod to pardon me, 
 Who shall not long put off to j^ardon, 
 
 then 
 .Shut eyes and slocji to death. 
 
 Munay. I had thought tcvnight 
 To speak no more with you, but let that 
 
 hope 
 Which only in God's name I gave you 
 
 bear 
 What fruit it might with prayer and 
 
 watching : yet 
 
POTHWF.LL. 
 
 349 
 
 Take comfort, and assure yourself of 
 
 life, 
 And, if it may be, honor; one of these 
 I may take on me to redeem, and one 
 So as I may will I preserve from death 
 Dealt of men's tongues that murder it. 
 
 But you, 
 Keep these things in your heart : that 
 
 if you raise 
 Within this realm a faction, or devise 
 To break these bonds, I shall not keep 
 
 an hour 
 This power I have to save you ; nor 
 
 shall keep 
 If France or England be by word of 
 
 yours 
 Stirred up to strike at our frail peace ; 
 
 nor yet 
 If you shall cleave to him that should 
 
 for shame 
 As from this land be cast out from your 
 
 heart : 
 But if toward God your faults be faith- 
 fully 
 In good men's sight acknowledged, and 
 
 that life 
 You led with your false lord, and all 
 
 sins past. 
 Loathed and lamented, and in days to 
 
 be 
 The living purpose in you manifest 
 Of a more modest habit, and a life 
 More nobly fashioned; if the slaughter 
 
 done 
 On your dead husband seem of you 
 
 abhorred, 
 And those ill days misliked wherein 
 
 your fame 
 Drank mortal poison from his murder- 
 er's hand, — 
 If this be seen, and that your mind 
 
 lives clear 
 From counsel of revenge upon those 
 
 lords 
 Who sought your reformation, nor 
 
 with hope 
 Nor dangerous forethought of device to 
 
 be 
 Renews itself to do them some day 
 
 wrong, — 
 Then may you now sit safe, and un- 
 
 reproved 
 Expect an end of bondage ; for at large 
 
 You cannot think to live yet, who in 
 
 time 
 May haply by repentance be restored, 
 And, for your prison somewhile here 
 
 endured. 
 Find yet your throne again, and sit 
 
 renewed 
 More royal than men wist who saw the 
 
 ship 
 Put in from France that bore you. 
 
 Queen. O my friend, 
 O brother, found now father to me too, 
 Who have raised and rebegotten mt 
 
 from death. 
 By how much less I thank you for m\ 
 
 life, 
 Think so much more for honor I give 
 
 thanks 
 That you raise up the hope in me to 
 
 have 
 Which was nigh dead for shame. Oh ! 
 
 let me hold 
 
 {Etnhracing him. 
 My comfort in mine arms, and with 
 
 dumb lips 
 Kiss you my thanks : I looked for less 
 
 than this, 
 But yet for comfort of you. One thing 
 
 more. 
 Having so much, will I require, and 
 
 cease, — 
 Even for my son's sake and mine own 
 
 to lay 
 The charge upon you of this regency 
 Which none might bear so noble, nor 
 
 bring back 
 Her peace again to Scotland, as I know 
 Your hand shall bring; and, had I 
 
 known betimes, 
 T had not started from its curb aside. 
 Nor set against its strength, in no good 
 
 hour, 
 The feebleness of mine. But if your 
 
 heart 
 Be large enough to let forgiveness in 
 Of mv wrongs done, and days of wan- 
 ton will, 
 Take this charge too, — to keep for me 
 
 the forts 
 Of all that was my kingdom : I would 
 
 have 
 Nothing of mine lie now not in your 
 
 hand. 
 
350 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 Keep too my jewels ; all I had of 
 
 worth, 
 What help without you should I have 
 
 of it, 
 What profit or what surety ? Let your 
 
 heart 
 Cast her not out who prays you of your 
 
 grace, 
 Take these in trust and me. 
 Murray. I may not these ; 
 But vou, that put yourself into my trust, 
 I will not fail. 
 
 Queen. Nay, you shall keep them too. 
 Murray. I would not put my hand 
 forth uncompelled 
 To take for life and death the burden 
 
 up 
 That burns as fire, and bows the back 
 
 that bears 
 As with an iron load ; and certainly 
 He that shall take this kingdom on his 
 
 hand, 
 I think, shall live not long : nor pride 
 
 nor hope. 
 But very love and strong necessity. 
 Could only bow me down to obey their 
 
 will 
 Who should enforce on mine the task 
 
 to bear 
 This grievous office, that if Scotland bid 
 I for her sake must bear till I may die. 
 But if I be not bidden, {<-,\ no love 
 Or fear, or lust of kingdom, will I seek 
 The labor and the grief of that great 
 
 charge 
 That I may live and feel not. 
 
 Quecu. By my lips. 
 That have no royal right to speak for 
 
 her 
 Now, think that yet she bids you, seeing 
 
 none else 
 To undo mine evil done on her, and 
 
 heal 
 The wounds mine enemies and myself 
 
 have made 
 In her sweet peace; she hath no stay 
 
 but you : 
 Whom other should she seek to } And 
 
 for me 
 Again I dare not urge you, but my 
 
 heart 
 U turned into a prayer that pleads with 
 yours 
 
 To lend its weakness comfort of youi 
 
 strength 
 By taking off its fears ; these that break 
 
 mine 
 Can bow not yours : oh ! take from nu 
 
 that weight 
 Which were to you but sport and orna 
 
 ment, — 
 The natural honor of a hand so strong 
 And spirit elect of all men's souls alive 
 To do a work imperial. 
 
 Murray. If not else 
 But by me only may this land find 
 
 peace. 
 By me, then, shall it. For your private 
 
 charge. 
 Impute not to me for default of love 
 That I beseech you lay no more on 
 
 me 
 Than public need enforces: in my trust 
 Your treasures were no safer than they 
 
 stand 
 Now that I keep them not, and no 
 
 man's tongue 
 Can tax me with them as detained from 
 
 you 
 By fraud or usurpation ; which mine car 
 Were loth to know was muttered. 
 
 Queen. But you see 
 Nor thev nor I have surety save in you : 
 Let it be seen of them that else may 
 
 doubt. 
 How thankfully I trust you ; even for 
 
 that 
 Do thus, to do me good in men's report 
 When they shall see us at one: from 
 
 mine own hand. 
 Except you take them, shall they not be 
 
 rent 
 By rraft or force of hidden or harrying 
 
 hands 
 That could not wrest from yours what 
 
 mine must yield 
 For fault of you to help me? 
 
 Murray. As you will. 
 I would not cross you where I might 
 
 content : 
 Yet willingly I cannot take on me 
 More charge than needs of privy trusts 
 
 to keep 
 That bring men's blame about them 
 
 but in this 
 My will shall be your servant. 
 
nOTIIlVELL. 
 
 351 
 
 Re-enter Lady Lochleven and 
 George Douglas. 
 
 For this time 
 I take farewell : be patient, and seek 
 
 peace 
 Whence God may send it. — To your 
 
 gentler hand, 
 While yet the Lady Mary lives in ward, 
 Behooves not me commend her, being 
 
 but bound 
 As reverently as may beseem your son 
 In the state's name to charge you that 
 
 she find 
 At all men's hands that guard her now 
 
 about 
 Good usage with safe keeping ; which 
 
 to assure 
 Shall hardly need this young man's 
 
 service here. 
 For whom the state has other use, and 
 
 I 
 A worthier work than still to keep such 
 
 watch 
 As porters use or pages. 
 
 Lady Lochleven. He and I 
 Stand at vour bidding ; yet were nowise 
 
 loth 
 The state that gave should take this 
 
 charge away 
 It laid upon us. 
 
 Queen. Sir, the grace you brought 
 And comfort, to me sorrowing and 
 
 afraid, 
 Go ever with you ; and farewell. 
 
 Murray. Farewell. 
 \^Exennt\^i\.T>\ Lochleven and Mur- 
 ray. 
 Queen. Will you not go ? 
 George Dotiglas. Whither you bid, 
 
 and when, I will go swiftly. 
 Queen. With your lord and mine, 
 I would have said : yet irks it me to 
 
 say 
 My lord, who had none under heaven, 
 
 and was 
 Of these my lords once lady. Said I 
 
 not 
 You should do well to cast off care of 
 
 me. 
 Whom you must leave indeed now at 
 
 command 
 More powerful of more potent lips 
 
 than mine ? 
 
 I would not have you set your youngel 
 
 will 
 Against his word imperial ; nor, I think, 
 Doth he fear that, who bids us come 
 
 and go, 
 And whose great pleasure is that you 
 
 part hence. 
 And I sit here. Be patient, and seek 
 
 peace. 
 You heard him bid me : patience we 
 
 must have 
 If we would rest obedient; and for 
 
 peace, 
 So haply shall we find it, having 
 
 learnt 
 What rest is in submission. 
 
 George Douglas. Bid me stay, 
 And that my will shall part not hence 
 
 alive 
 What need I swear ? 
 
 Queen. Alas ! your will may stay. 
 Your will may wait on me to do mc 
 
 good. 
 Your loves and wishes serve »ie, wher 
 
 yourself 
 Shall live far off. Our lord forbids. 
 
 them not : 
 It is the service of your present hand. 
 The comfort of your face, help of your 
 
 heart. 
 That he forbids me. 
 
 George Douglas. And, though God 
 
 forbade. 
 Save by my death he should compel 
 
 me not 
 To do this bidding : only by your 
 
 mouth. 
 Of all that rule in heaven and earth, 
 
 will I 
 Be willingly commanded. 
 
 Qjieen. You must go. 
 Nay, I knew that: how should one stay 
 
 by me } 
 There was not left me, by God's wrath 
 
 or man's. 
 One friend when I came hither, in the 
 
 world. 
 And from the waste and wilderness of 
 
 grief 
 If one grain ripen, — from the stone and 
 
 sand 
 If one seed blossom, — if my misery 
 
 find 
 
.s^- 
 
 BOTHWRLL. 
 
 One spring on earth to assuage its fiery 
 
 lip,- 
 How should I hope that God or man 
 
 will spare 
 To trample or to quench it? 
 George Douglas. I am here 
 While you shall bid me live, and only 
 
 hence 
 When you shall bid me but depart and 
 
 die. 
 Queen. There was a time when I 
 
 would dream that men 
 There were to do my bidding, — such 
 
 as loved 
 And were beloved again, and knew not 
 
 fear 
 Xor hope but of love's giving ; but 
 
 meseemed 
 That in my dream all these weie cast 
 
 away, 
 And by God's judgment, or through 
 
 wrath of men, 
 Or mine own fault, or change and chance 
 
 of time, 
 I lived too long to look for love in 
 
 vain. 
 Many there are that hate me now of 
 
 men : 
 Doth one live yet that loves? 
 
 George Douglas. If one there were 
 That for vour love's sake should abhor 
 
 his life, 
 Hating all hope save this, to die for 
 
 you, — 
 What -should he do to die so ? 
 
 Queen. If I bade 
 That for my love's sake he should love 
 
 his life, 
 And use its strength to cherish me, 
 
 who knows 
 If he would hcccl ? or say I gave com- 
 mand 
 To do some ill thing or of ill report, — 
 Were it to slay our brother now gone 
 
 hence, — 
 Would one do that ? I would not have 
 
 it done. 
 Though I should bid him. Do not 
 
 answer me 
 As though I questioned with you seri- 
 ously. 
 Or spake Of things that might be 
 
 thought upon^ 
 
 Who do but jest with grief as with my 
 
 friend, 
 That plays again familiarly with me. 
 And from the wanderings of a joyless 
 
 wit 
 Turn to clasp hands with sorrow. You 
 
 must go. 
 George Douglas. Ay, when you bid; 
 
 but were my going from you 
 Part of your grief, which is more grief 
 
 to me 
 Than my soul's going from forth my 
 
 body were, 
 I would not set my face from hence 
 
 alive. 
 Queen. I hold it not for no part of 
 
 my grief 
 To bid you from me : yet being here 
 
 bound in 
 As I with walls aiul waters, we should 
 
 tind 
 Less help than yet I hope for of your 
 
 hand 
 Being hence enlarged. We will take 
 
 counsel, sir. 
 And choose, with no large choice to 
 
 make of frieiuls, — 
 To whom we shall appoint you, — by 
 
 what mean 
 To deal for our deliverance : as, with 
 
 one 
 Once of my household, and this lady's 
 
 kin, 
 Who here of all my Maries the last 
 
 left 
 Partakes my bonds ; the Laird ot 
 
 Ricarton, 
 My husband's kinsman ; and what readi- 
 est friends 
 Once more mav be raised up, as when 
 
 I fled 
 From shame and peril, and a prison- 
 house 
 As hateful as these bonds, to find on 
 
 earth — 
 Ah ! no such love and faith as yours in 
 
 man. 
 
 S< - F. N E V. — III) L V ROOD. 
 
 MirRRAY and Morton. 
 Murray. I am vexed with divers 
 counsels, and my will 
 
BO Til WELL. 
 
 353 
 
 Sees nor its way nor end. This act 
 
 proclaimed 
 That seals the charge of murder on the 
 
 queen 
 '.) justify our dealing had to it hands 
 ihat here first met : Kirkaldy with 
 
 Glencairn, 
 i'.alfour with Maitland, Huntley with 
 
 Argyle, 
 J'lue man with traitor, — all were as 
 
 one mind, 
 Une tongue to tax her with complicity. 
 Found art and part with them that 
 
 slew her lord. 
 Men praised the council for this judg- 
 ment given 
 \s from a single and a resolute soul ; 
 Scarce one withstood save Herries, 
 
 and his voice 
 Was as a wind that sings in travellers' 
 
 ears 
 I'nheeded; then the doom that gives 
 
 to death 
 All that in act maintain the former 
 
 faith. 
 And writes for Catholic traitor, should 
 
 have purged 
 The state of treacherous or of danger- 
 ous friends 
 Such as made protest then against this 
 
 law. 
 And fled from our part to the Hamil- 
 
 tons, — 
 ^Jailhncss and Athol, with the bishop 
 
 called 
 CX Murray, whom the Assembly met 
 
 to judge 
 !;v one same doom has with Argyle 
 
 condemned 
 '\o stand in sackcloth for adulteries 
 
 past 
 At Stirling through the time of service 
 
 held 
 Within the chapel royal. Such men's 
 
 stay 
 It irks not me to lose, who by their loss 
 Were fain to win their enemies for my 
 
 friends 
 More fast and faithful ; but men's sun- 
 dering minds 
 Nor council nor assembly can reknit. 
 Though Knox there sit by Maitland, 
 
 and Balfour 
 
 Touch sides with Craig; and while the 
 
 state as now 
 Lives many-minded and distraught of 
 
 will. 
 How shall its hope be stable ? 
 
 Morton. Some there are 
 Have all their will, or more than we 
 
 that rule 
 By secular wit and might : the preachers 
 
 reign 
 With heavier hand than ours upon the 
 
 state, 
 Who in this late assembly by their 
 
 doom 
 Bade your fair sister of Argyle partake 
 The sackcloth penance of her slippery 
 
 lord 
 For scandal to the Kirk done when last 
 
 year 
 At the font's edge her arms sustained 
 
 our prince 
 For baptism of such hands as served 
 
 the mass : 
 If it have leave long to sit lawgiver. 
 Their purity will i)inch us. 
 Murray. Have no fear : 
 It shall not Douglas ; and we lack 
 
 their help 
 Who sway the commons only with 
 
 their breath, 
 Now most of all when our high coun- 
 sels fail. 
 And hopes are turned as 'twere to 
 
 running streams 
 That How from ours to feed our ene- 
 mies' hands 
 With washings of our wreck, waifs of 
 
 our strength. 
 That melts as water from us. Those 
 
 chief twain 
 Whose league I sought by marriage, 
 
 and had hope 
 To bind them to us as brethren, when 
 
 Argyle 
 With me should knit himself anew, to 
 
 wed 
 His brother to the sister of my wife 
 With happier hope than he espoused 
 
 mine own, 
 While Huntley's son should lead my 
 
 daughter home, 
 And with this fourfold knot our loves 
 
 be tied, 
 
354 
 
 BOTHWELL. 
 
 And fortunes with each other's growth 
 ingratfed, — 
 
 Both these look back now toward the 
 Hamiltons 
 
 To mingle factions with them, being 
 assured 
 
 Our hands now lack the secret sword 
 we had 
 
 To draw at need against them, since 
 their names 
 
 Set at Craigmillar to the bond of blood 
 
 Are with that bond consumed, and no 
 tongue left 
 
 To wag in witness of their part of guilt. 
 
 Now Bothwell's knaves are hanged 
 that laid the train, 
 
 And Hay with them, and one most 
 near his trust, — 
 
 His kinsman Hepburn, from whose 
 mouth condemned, 
 
 And Ormiston's, we have confession 
 wrung 
 
 That n.arks with blood as parcel of 
 their deed 
 
 More than Balfour that in the assem- 
 bly sit. 
 
 And must partake his surety. This, my 
 lord, 
 
 Craves of us care and counsel, that our 
 names 
 
 Be writ not fool or coward, who took 
 in hand 
 
 Such trust to work such treason. 
 Morton. Nay, no Scot 
 
 Shall say we fell from faith or treach- 
 erously 
 
 Let men's hopes fade that trusted us, 
 and sank 
 
 Through feebleness of ours : yet have 
 we strength 
 
 To lower the height of heart and confi- 
 dence 
 
 That makes their faction swell, who 
 were but late 
 
 Too faint of spirit, too fearful and un- 
 sure. 
 
 To be made firm with Knglish subsi- 
 dies. 
 
 Three thousand marks, that Scrope by 
 secret hand 
 
 Sent from Carlisle to Hcrries, .could 
 not serve 
 
 To give or shape or sinew to their plots 
 
 Who are now so great their houses' 
 
 heir must wed 
 No lowlier than a queen, and Both 
 
 well's wife. 
 For this divorced or widowed. 
 
 Murray. Ay ; we know 
 The archbisho]) his good uncle with 
 
 this youth 
 Hath in Dumbarton fortified himself; 
 And while they there sit strong and 
 
 high in hope 
 Our prisoner and our penitent late, wc 
 
 hear. 
 Grows blithe of mood and wantoti ; 
 
 from her sight 
 Have I dismissed my mother's young* st 
 
 born, 
 Lest in her flatteries his weak faith be 
 
 snared 
 And strangled with a smile ; and for 
 
 her hand 
 I have found a fitter suitor than 
 
 Arbroath 
 When she shall wed again, within 
 
 whose veins 
 Some drops of blood run royal as her 
 
 own ; 
 Methuen, whose grandsire was the 
 
 third that set 
 His ring on that Queen Margaret's 
 
 wedded haiid 
 From the seventh Henry sent ambassa- 
 dress 
 To our fourth James, to bring for 
 
 bridal gift 
 Her father's love and England's to her 
 
 lord. 
 And with the kiss of marriage on his 
 
 lips 
 To seal that peace which with her hus- 
 band's life 
 Found end at Flodden from her 
 
 brother's hand 
 That split the heart of Scotland. So 
 
 the (jueen, 
 If she wed Methuen, shall espouse a 
 
 man 
 Whose father of the same c|ucen\ 
 
 womb was born 
 That bore her father ; and whose blood 
 
 as hers 
 Is lineal from the seed of Knglish 
 
 kings. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 355 
 
 rhrough one same mother's sons, queen 
 
 once of Scots, 
 And daughter born and sister, though 
 
 unqueened, 
 Of those twain Henries that made 
 
 peace and war 
 With Scotland and her lord ; and by 
 
 this match 
 The Hamiltons being frustrate of their 
 
 hope 
 Could yet not tax us with a meaner 
 
 choice 
 Than they would make for her, who 
 
 while she lives 
 Must stand thenceforth far off from 
 
 their designs 
 And disallied from all that in her name 
 Draw now to head against us ; and 
 
 some help 
 We need the more to cross them now, 
 
 that France, 
 To whom I thought to seek as to my 
 
 friend 
 And thence find aid in this necessity 
 That else finds none, since England's 
 
 jealous craft 
 Puts in our enemies' hands gold for a 
 
 sword 
 More sharp than steel — France, that 
 
 would send at need 
 The choice of all her sons that hold our 
 
 faith 
 To live and die beside us here in arms, 
 Cirows chillier toward us than the chan- 
 ging wind 
 That brings back win*:er ; for the brood 
 
 of Guise, 
 Our prisoner's friends and kinsmen of 
 
 Lorraine, 
 Prevail again on Catherine's adverse 
 
 part. 
 Whose hate awhile gives way to them, 
 
 and yields 
 Our cause into their hands that were 
 
 more like 
 To help this daughter of their danger- 
 ous house 
 Take up the crown resigned, and through 
 
 their strength 
 Renew this kingdom's ruin with her 
 
 reJgn, 
 Than send us aid and arms to guard its 
 
 peace 
 
 From inroad as from treason : which 1 
 
 doubt 
 We shall hear new5 of from my 
 
 brother's tongu\., 
 Enter Sir William Douglas. 
 Who comes without a herald. 
 
 Sir W. Douglas. Sir, the news 
 Is dashed with good and evil equally, 
 That here I bring you ; for the treasons 
 
 laid 
 Have missed their mark, and left un- 
 
 wounded yet 
 My house's honor, that retains in trust 
 So great a charge. You had word ere 
 
 this of me, 
 By what strange fortune was their plot 
 
 made known. 
 Who thought to fall upon us unaware. 
 And find a ferry for some seventy 
 
 swords 
 To cross the lake in mine own barge 
 
 surprised. 
 And smite those thirty guards that hold 
 
 the walls. 
 And make a murderous passage for the 
 
 queen 
 To come forth free with feet that 
 
 walked in blood ; 
 And how by one, a Frenchman of her 
 
 train, 
 Who, being not in their counsel, heard 
 
 some speech 
 Of such a preparation, and conceived 
 This was a plot to take her from your 
 
 hand. 
 Laid by the fiercer faction of the Kirk 
 That sought to snare and slay her in 
 
 your despite, 
 To me was all discovered ; and be- 
 
 times 
 I gave command no barge thenceforth 
 
 should pass 
 Between the main shore and mine island 
 
 walls, 
 But a skiff only that with single oars 
 Might be rowed over. BafHed thus, 
 
 here friends 
 Were fain to buy the boatman's faith 
 
 with gold, 
 Whom on suspicion I dismissec^ but 
 
 since, 
 F'inding less trust and seryice in the 
 
 knave 
 
35r^ 
 
 BO TH WELL. 
 
 That had his place, called back, and j A little wroth but more in laughter 
 
 bade take heed } baied 
 
 Of these that would have won to their ! Her head, and bade stretch oars and 
 
 device take the land 
 
 \ foundling page within my castle bred, On their lives' peril; which regarding 
 
 And called by mine own name ; who 
 
 by this i)lot 
 Should have seduced for them my sen- 
 tinels. 
 And 0])ed the gate by night : but yet 
 
 I find, 
 For all toils set and gins to take their 
 
 faith, 
 In him and them no treason; yet so 
 
 near 
 Was treason to us, that not long since 
 
 the queen 
 I lad well-nigh slii)ped beyond our guard 
 
 by day, 
 In habit of a laundress that was hired 
 So to shift raiment with her; but being 
 
 forth 
 J'ctimes, as was this woman's use to 
 
 come, 
 In the low light In- dawn, at such an 
 
 hour 
 As she was wont to sleep the morning 
 
 out, — 
 The fardel in her hand of clothes 
 
 b*-ought forth. 
 And on her face the muffler, — it befell 
 That as she sat before ihe rowers, and 
 
 saw 
 Some half her free brief way of water 
 
 jiast, 
 By turn of head or lightning of her 
 
 look 
 For mirth she could not hide, and joy- 
 ous heart, 
 Or but by some sweet note of majestv. 
 Some new l)right bearing and imperious 
 
 change 
 
 not. 
 They straight put back as men amazed, 
 
 but swore 
 To keep fast locked from mine of all 
 
 men's eyes 
 The secret knowledge of this frustrate 
 
 craft. 
 So set her down on the island side again, 
 With muffled head and hidden hands 
 
 to wring 
 And weep apart for passion, where my 
 
 watch 
 Looks now more strict upon her; but I 
 
 think,— 
 For all her wrath and grief to be In- 
 chance 
 From her near hope cast down and 
 
 height of mind 
 Wherein she went forth laughingly to 
 
 find 
 What good might God bring of her 
 
 perilous hour, — 
 She hath lost not yet nor changed that 
 
 heart nor hope, 
 But looks one day to mock us. 
 
 ALurroy. So I think ; 
 And in that fear would have vou keep 
 
 fast watch 
 V>)- night and day till we take off the 
 
 charge 
 Laid on your faith, and or enfranchise 
 
 her 
 Or change her place of ward ; which, 
 
 ere the spring 
 That holds in chase this winter's flying 
 
 foot 
 I He turned to summer, haply shall be 
 
 From her false likeness, so she drew j done. 
 
 their eyes What fashion holds our mother with the 
 
 That one who rowed, saying merrily, (|ueen ? 
 
 Let us see I Sir /T. LJoiix''!as. As she was e\ei 
 
 ly/uil manner of dnnie is t/iis, would tender of her state, 
 
 fain ])luck dow 
 
 Her muffler, who to guard it suddenly 
 I'ut uj) her fair white hands, which see- 
 ing thev knew, 
 And marvelled at her purpose; she 
 thereat, 
 
 And mild in her own office, so she 
 
 keeps 
 Observance yet and reverence more 
 
 than meet 
 Save toward -x (|uccn, toward this her 
 
 guest enforced, 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 357 
 
 Who smiles her back a prisoner's 
 
 thanks, and sighs 
 That should smile in prison ; but 'twixt 
 
 whiles 
 Some change of mood will turn to 
 
 scorn or s])leen 
 Her practised patience, and some word 
 
 take wing 
 Forth from her heart's root through her 
 
 lips that hath 
 I'he gall of asps within it; yet not 
 
 this 
 Turns the heart hard or bitter that 
 
 awaits 
 Her gentler change, pitying the wrong 
 
 it bears. 
 And her that wrongs it for the sorrow's 
 
 sake 
 That chafes and rends her. 
 
 Murray. Pity may she give, 
 And be praised for it ; but to enter- 
 tain 
 Hope or desire that wars against her 
 
 trust 
 Should turn that praise to poison. 
 
 Have you seen 
 Since George went thence, or noted ere 
 
 he went, 
 In her no token of a mingled mind 
 That sways 'twixt faith and such a faith- 
 less hope 
 As feeds a mother's love with deadly 
 
 dreams 
 Of prophesying ambition ? for in him 
 I spied the sickness of a tainted heart 
 And fever-fired from the most mortal 
 
 eyes 
 That ever love drank death of. 
 Sir W. Doitghis. No, my lord. 
 Murray. I would fain trust her mind 
 
 were whole in this, 
 And her thoughts firm ; yet would not 
 
 trust too far, 
 Who know what force of fraud and fire 
 
 of will 
 In that fierce heart and subtle, without 
 
 fear. 
 That God hath given so sweet a hiding- 
 place. 
 Make how much more the peril and the 
 
 power 
 Of birth and kinglier beauty, that lay 
 
 wait 
 
 For her son's sake to tempt her. We 
 
 will hold 
 More speech of this: here shall you 
 
 rest to-night. \Exeuitt. 
 
 Scene VI. — Lochleven Castle. 
 
 The Queen and Mary Beaton. 
 Queen. Is it not sunset .'' what should 
 
 ail the day 
 To hang so long in heaven ? the world 
 
 was blind 
 By this time yesternight. The lake 
 
 gleams yet. 
 Will the sun never sink, for all the 
 
 weight 
 That makes this hour so heavy ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. WHiile you speak, 
 The outer gate that stands till nightfall 
 
 wide 
 Shuts on the sundown , and they bring 
 
 the keys 
 That soon the page shall put into our 
 
 hand 
 To let in freedom. 
 
 Queen. I could weep and laugh 
 For fear and hope and angry joy and 
 
 doubt 
 That wring my heart. I am sick at 
 
 once and well. 
 Shall I win past them in this handmaid's 
 
 dress 
 If we be spied t My hood is over 
 
 broad ; 
 Help me to set it forward: and your 
 
 own 
 Sits loose ; but pluck it closer on your 
 
 face 
 Vox cloak and cover from the keen 
 
 moon's eye 
 That peers against us. Twice, thou 
 
 knowest, yea thrice, 
 God has betrayed me to mine enemies' 
 
 hands 
 Even when my foot was forth : if it slip 
 
 now. 
 He loves nor kings that hold his otifice 
 
 here 
 Nor his own servants, but those faith 
 
 less mouths 
 That mock all sovereignties in earth oi 
 
 heaven. 
 If here he fail me, and I fall again 
 
358 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 To sit in bonds a year — by God's own 
 
 truth, 
 I swear I will not keep this wall of 
 
 flesh 
 To cage my spirit within these walls of 
 
 stone, 
 But break this down to set that free 
 
 from these, 
 That, being delivered of men's wrongs 
 
 and his. 
 It may stand up, and gazing in his eyes 
 Accuse him of my traitors. 
 
 Mary Beatou. Keep good heart. 
 Your hope before was feverish and too 
 
 light, 
 And so it failed you: in this after-plot 
 There is more form and likeness than 
 
 in those 
 That left you weeping. Let not passion 
 
 now 
 Foil your good fortune twice, or heat of 
 
 mood 
 From keen occasion take the present 
 
 edge, 
 And blunt the point of fortune. 
 
 Queen. If I knew 
 This man were faithful — oh, my heart 
 
 that was 
 Is melted from me, and the heart I have 
 Is like wax melting. Were my feet 
 
 once free. 
 It should be strong again : here it sinks 
 
 down 
 As a dead fire in ashes. Dare we think 
 I shall find faith in him, who have not 
 
 found 
 In all the world .'' no man of mine there 
 
 is, 
 None of my land or blood, but hath 
 
 betrayed, 
 Ik'traycd or left me. 
 
 Mary Bea/oti. Nay, too strange it 
 were 
 That you should come to want men's 
 
 faith, and look 
 I'or love of man in vain. These were 
 
 your jewels, 
 Wn\ cannot live to lack them : nav, but 
 
 less.— 
 \'()ur toniiuoM onuiinents to wear and 
 
 leave, 
 \'uur change of raiment to cast off, and 
 bind 
 
 A fresher robe about you : while men 
 
 live. 
 And you live also, these must give you 
 
 love. 
 And you must use it. 
 
 Queen. So one told me once, — 
 That I must use and lose it. If my 
 
 time 
 Be come to need man's love, and find ii 
 
 not, 
 I have known death make a prophet of 
 
 a man 
 That living could foretell but his own 
 
 end. 
 Not save himself, being foolish ; and I 
 
 too, 
 I am mad as he was, now to think on 
 
 him 
 Or my dead follies. Were these walls 
 
 away, 
 I should no more; ay, when this strait 
 
 is past, 
 I shall win back my wits and my blithe 
 
 heart, 
 And make good cheer again. 
 Enter Page. 
 Page. Here are the keys. 
 I had wrought instead a ladder for our 
 
 need, 
 With two strong oars made fast across. 
 
 for fear 
 I had failed at last from under my lord*.- 
 
 eve 
 To sweep them off the board-head 
 
 here they ring, 
 As joy-bells here to give your highness 
 
 note 
 The skiff lies moored on the island's 
 
 lee, and waits 
 But till the castle boats by secret 
 
 hands 
 Be stripped of oars and rowlocks, and 
 
 pursuit 
 Made helpless, maimed of all its means,' 
 
 the crew 
 Is ready that shall leml us swifter wing 
 'I'han one man's strength to fly with; 
 
 and bevond 
 Your highness' friends upon the further 
 
 bank 
 Wait with my master's horses. Never 
 
 was 
 A fairer i)lot or likelier. 
 
BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 359 
 
 Queen. How thy face 
 Lightens! Poor child, what knowest 
 
 thou of the chance 
 That cast thee on my fortunes ? it may 
 
 be 
 To death ere life break bud, and thy 
 
 poor flower 
 The wind of my life's tempest shall cut 
 
 off, 
 And blow thy green branch bare. Many 
 
 there be 
 Have died, and many that now live 
 
 shall die, 
 Ere my life end, for my life's sake ; and 
 
 none 
 There is that knows, of all that love or 
 
 hate. 
 What end shall come of this night's 
 
 work, and what 
 Of all my life-days. I shall die in 
 
 bonds, 
 Perchance, a bitter death ; yet worse it 
 
 were 
 To outlive dead years in prison, and to 
 
 loathe 
 The life I could not lose. This will 
 
 not be : 
 No days and nights shall I see wax and 
 
 wane, 
 Kindled and quenched in bondage, any 
 
 more : 
 For if to-night I stand not free on earth 
 As the sun stands in heaven, whose 
 
 sovereign eye 
 Next day shall see me sovereign, I 
 
 shall live 
 Not one day more of darkling life, as 
 
 fire 
 Pent in a grate, bound in with blacken- 
 ing bars, 
 But like a star by God hurled forth of 
 
 heaven 
 Fall, and men's eyes be darkened, and 
 
 the world 
 Stand heart-struck, and the night and 
 
 day be changed 
 That see me falling. If I win not forth, 
 But, flying, be taken of the hands that 
 
 were 
 Before laid on me, they shall never 
 
 think 
 To hold me more in fetters, but take 
 
 heart 
 
 To do what earth saw never yet, and 
 
 lay 
 By doom and sentence on their sover- 
 eign born 
 Death ; I shall find swift judgment, 
 
 and short shrift 
 My justicers shall give me : so at least 
 Shall I be quit of bondage. Come, my 
 
 friends, 
 That must divide with me for death or 
 
 life 
 This one night's issue ; be it or worst 
 
 or best, 
 Yet have ye no worse fortune than a 
 
 queen, 
 Or she than ye no better. On this hour 
 Hang all those hours that yet we have 
 
 to live : 
 Let us go forth to pluck the fruit of 
 
 this 
 That leans now toward our hand. My 
 
 heart is light; 
 Be yours not heavier ; for your eyes 
 
 and mine 
 Shall look upon these walls and waves 
 
 no more. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VH. — The Shore of Loch 
 Leven. 
 
 George Douglas, Beaton, Ricar- 
 TON, with Attendafits. 
 George Douglas. I hear the beat of 
 the oars : they make no haste. 
 How the stars thicken ! if a mist would 
 
 take 
 The heaven but for an hour, and hide 
 them round — 
 Ricarton. How should they steer then 
 straight.^ We lacked but light. 
 And these are happy stars that sign 
 
 this hour 
 With earnest of good fortune ; ano 
 
 betimes 
 See by their favor where the prize we 
 
 seek 
 Is come to port. 
 Enter the QuEEN, Mary Beaton, 
 
 Page, and a girl attending. 
 Queen. Even such a night it was 
 I looked again for to deliver me. 
 Remembering such a night that broke 
 my bonds 
 
;6o 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 Two wild years past that brought me 
 
 through to this ; 
 The wind is loud beneath the mount- 
 ing moon, 
 And the stars merry. Noble friends, 
 
 to horse ; 
 When I shall feel my steed exult with 
 
 me, 
 I will give thanks for each of your good 
 
 deeds 
 To each man's several love. I know 
 
 not yet 
 That I stand here enfranchised; for 
 
 pure joy 
 I have not laid it yet to heart : me- 
 
 thinks 
 This is a lightning in my dreams to- 
 night. 
 That strikes and is not, and my flat- 
 tered eyes 
 Must wake with dawn in bonds. — 
 
 Douglas, I pray, 
 If it be not but as a flash in sleep, 
 And no true light now breaking, tell 
 
 me you. 
 That were my prison's friend: I will 
 
 believe 
 1 am free as fire, free as the wind, the 
 
 night. 
 All gladfieet things of the airier ele- 
 ment 
 That take no hold on earth ; for even 
 
 like these 
 Seems now the fire in me that was my 
 
 heart. 
 And is a song, a flame, a burning 
 
 cloud 
 That moves before the sun at dawn, 
 
 and fades 
 With fierce delight to drink his breath 
 
 and die. 
 If ever hearts were slabbed with joy to 
 
 death, 
 This that cleaves mine should do it, 
 
 and one sharj) stroke 
 ricrce through the tiirilled and trem- 
 bling core like steel, 
 And cut the roots of life. Nay, I am 
 
 crazed, 
 To stand and babble like one mad 
 
 with wine, 
 Stung to the heart and bitten to the 
 brain 
 
 With this great drink of freedom; ohi 
 
 such wine 
 As fills man full of heaven, and in his 
 
 veins 
 Becomes the blood of gods. I would 
 
 fain feel 
 That I were free a little, ere that sense 
 Be put to use: those walls are fallen 
 
 for me, 
 Those waters dry, those gaolers dead, 
 
 and this 
 The first night of my second reign, that 
 
 here 
 Begins its record. I will talk no more. 
 Nor waste my heart in joyous words, 
 
 nor laugh 
 To set my free face toward the large- 
 eyed sky. 
 Against the clear wind and the climb- 
 ing moon. 
 And take into mine eyes and to my 
 
 breast 
 The whole sweet night and all the stars 
 
 of heaven, 
 But put to present work the heart and 
 
 hand 
 That here rise up a queen's. Bring me 
 
 to horse : 
 We will take counsel first of speed. 
 
 and then 
 Take time for counsel. 
 
 Beaton. Madam, here at hand 
 The horses wait : Lord Seyton rides 
 
 with us 
 Hence to Queen's Ferry, where beyond 
 
 the Forth 
 We reach Claude Hamilton, who with 
 
 fresh steeds 
 Expects us; to Long Niddry thence, 
 
 and there 
 Draw rein among the Seytons, ere 
 
 again 
 We make for ILamilton, whose walls 
 
 should see 
 The sun and ns together. 
 
 Qiu-t-n. Well devised. 
 Where is the girl that tied with us, and 
 
 gave 
 These garments for my surety ? She 
 
 shall have 
 Her part in my good hour, that in mine 
 
 ill 
 Did me good service. 
 
BOTinVELL. 
 
 361 
 
 Ricarton. Madam, she must stay : 
 We have not steeds enough, and those 
 
 we have 
 May bear no load more than perforce 
 
 they must, 
 Or we not hope to speed. 
 
 Queen. Nay, she shall go, 
 Xot bide in peril of mine enemies 
 
 here 
 While we fly scathless hence. 
 Girl. Most gracious queen, 
 Of me take no such care : I am well 
 
 content 
 They should do with me all they would, 
 
 and I 
 Live but so long to know my queen as 
 
 safe 
 As I for her die gladly. 
 
 Ricarton. She says well : 
 Get we to horse. I must ride south to 
 
 rouse 
 My kinsfolk, and with all our Hepburn 
 
 bands 
 Seize on Dunbar ; whence northward I 
 
 may bear 
 Good tidings to your lord. 
 
 Queen. God make them good 
 That he shall hear of me, and from his 
 
 mouth 
 Send me good words and comfort ! You 
 
 shall ride 
 Straight from Lord Seyton's with my 
 
 message borne 
 To all good soldiers of your clan and 
 
 mine, 
 And wake them for our common lord's 
 
 dear love 
 To strike once more, or never while 
 
 they live 
 Be called' but slaves and kinless: then 
 
 to him 
 For whom the bonds that I put off to- 
 night 
 Were borne and broken. — Douglas, of 
 
 that name 
 Most tender and most true to her that 
 
 was 
 Of women most unfriended, and of 
 
 queens 
 Most abject and unlike to recom 
 
 pense. 
 Fake in your hand the hand that it set 
 
 free. 
 
 And lead me as you led me forth of 
 
 bonds 
 To my more perfect freedom. — Sirs, to 
 
 horse. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VIIL — Hamilton Ca.stle. 
 
 IVie Queen, Argyle, a.fid Huntley. 
 Quecfi. I ever thought to find your 
 
 faiths again 
 When time had set me free; nor shall 
 
 my love 
 To my good friends be more unprofit- 
 able 
 Than was my brother's, from whose 
 
 promised hand 
 Both have withdrawn the alliance of 
 
 your own 
 To plight once more with mine : your 
 
 son, my lord. 
 And, noble sir, your brother, will not 
 
 fail 
 Of worthier wedlock and of trustier 
 
 ties 
 Than should have bound them to a 
 
 traitor's blood. 
 His daughter, and the sister of his wife, 
 Whom he so thought to honor, and in 
 
 them 
 Advance his counsels and confirm his 
 
 cause, 
 Through your great names allied, who 
 
 now take part 
 More worthily with one long over- 
 thrown. 
 And late re-risen with many a true man't 
 
 more 
 And royally girt round with many a 
 
 friend's ; 
 Nor need we lay upon our kinsmen 
 
 here 
 All our hope's burden, nor submit ou: 
 
 hand 
 To marriage with our cousin's of 
 
 Arbroath 
 For fault of other stay. F'or mine owi^, 
 
 mind, 
 I would stand rather on Dumbarton 
 
 rock 
 Walled in with Fleming's spears, thnn 
 
 here sit fast 
 With these six thousand ranged about 
 
 the walls 
 
I 
 
 3(52 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 That five davs' suns have brought to 
 
 strengthen nic 
 Since I fled hither in these poor same 
 
 weeds 
 That yet for need I wear. Now, by the 
 
 'joy 
 I had that night to feel my horse be- 
 neath 
 Bound like my heart that through those 
 
 darkling ways 
 Shot sunwards to the throne, I do not 
 
 think 
 Thus to sit long at wait, who have the 
 
 hands 
 Subscribed here of so many loyal lords 
 To take no thought but of their faith to 
 
 me, 
 Nor let dissension touch their hearts 
 
 again 
 Till I sit crowned as arbitress of all 
 When the great cause is gained. Each 
 
 bloodless day 
 Makes our foes greater : from Dunbar 
 
 Lord Hume, 
 Who thence with hand too swift cut off 
 
 our friends, 
 Brings now six hundred to my brother's 
 
 flag, 
 Who hangs hard by us ; and from Ed- 
 inburgh 
 Grange leads his hundreds ; all the 
 
 Glasgow folk, 
 For love of Lennox, with the Lothian 
 
 carles, 
 Draw round their regent hither; and 
 
 God knows 
 These are no cowards nor men vile 
 
 esteemed 
 'I'hat stand about him : better is he 
 
 served 
 Of them than we of Ilerrics, whose false 
 
 wit 
 Works with an open face and a close 
 
 heart 
 For other ends than live u[)on his 
 
 tongue, 
 And fill with protestation those loud 
 
 li])s 
 That plead and swear on both sides; 
 
 he would stand 
 My counsellor, yet has not craft enough 
 To draw those enemies hence that watch 
 
 us here 
 
 By tumult raised along ..le border side 
 For none to quell but Murray, who was 
 
 bound 
 From Glasgow where he lies yet to 
 
 Dumfries, 
 But halts to gather head, and fall on us 
 When we set forth; which by my pri- 
 vate will 
 I would not yet, but that my kinsmen 
 
 yearn 
 To bid him battle ; and with victory won 
 Seize to themselves the kingdom by my 
 
 hand. 
 Which they should wield then at their 
 
 will, and wed 
 To their next heir's : so should ye have 
 
 their seed 
 For kings of Scotland, who were 
 
 leagued ere this 
 With our main foes, and to their hands 
 
 but late 
 By composition and confederacy 
 Would have given up my life to buy 
 
 their ends 
 Even with the blood whose kinship in 
 
 their veins 
 Thev thought should make them royal. 
 
 Argyle. We must fear 
 These days that fleet, and bring us no 
 
 more strength. 
 Bring to the regent comfort and good 
 
 hope 
 From England of a quiet hand main- 
 tained 
 Upon the borders, and such present 
 
 peace 
 As fights against us there upon his side. 
 While he stands fast and gathers friends, 
 
 who had 
 But common guard about him when 
 
 vour grace 
 Fled hither first, yet would not at the 
 
 news 
 For dread of our near neighborhood 
 
 turn back 
 With that thin guard to Stirling; and 
 
 by this 
 The chiefs of all his part arc drawn to 
 
 him, 
 Morton and Mar, Semple with Ochii 
 
 tree. 
 And they that wrung forth of your royai 
 
 hand 
 
BOTHWELL. 
 
 363 
 
 The writing that subscribed it kingdom- 
 less : 
 All these are armed beneath him. 
 
 Queen. These are strong, 
 Yet are our friends not weaker : twain 
 
 alone, 
 Vou twain with whom I speak, being 
 
 on my side, 
 I would not fear to bide the feud of 
 
 these ; 
 And here are Cassilis, Eglinton, Mont- 
 rose, 
 Ross, Crawford, Errol, Fleming, Suther- 
 land, 
 Herries with Maxwell, Boyd and Oli- 
 
 phant, 
 And Livingstone, and Beaumont that 
 
 was sent 
 To speak for France as with mine 
 
 uncle's tongue 
 Pleading with those my traitors for that 
 
 life 
 Which here he finds enfranchised; and 
 
 all these 
 As one true heart to me and faithful 
 
 hand. 
 In God's name and their honor's 
 
 leagued as friends 
 Who till mine enemies be cast down 
 
 will know 
 Naught save their duty to me, that no 
 
 strife 
 Shall rend in sunder, and no privy jar 
 Rive one from other that stands fast by 
 
 me. 
 This have they sworn ; and, by my trust 
 
 in them, 
 I will not doubt with favor or with force 
 To quell the hardiest heart set opposite. 
 Have I not sent forth word of amnesty 
 To every soul in Scotland free save 
 
 these. 
 The top and crown of traitors, Morton 
 
 first ; 
 And Lindsay, from whose hand I took 
 
 a pledge 
 To be redeemed with forfeit of his head ; 
 Semple, that writ lewd ballads of my 
 
 love, 
 And that good provost who-^ I swore 
 
 to give. 
 Tor one night's prison given me in his 
 
 house, 
 
 A surer gaol for narrower resting-place 
 Than that wherein I rested not ; and 
 
 last 
 Balfour, that gave my lord's trust up 
 
 and mine ? 
 Upon these five heads fallen will I set 
 
 foot 
 When I tread back the stair that 
 
 mounts my throne. 
 All others shall find grace : yea, though 
 
 their hearts 
 Were set more stark against me and 
 
 their hands 
 More dangerous aimed than these ; for 
 
 this God knows 
 My heart more honours and shall ever 
 
 love 
 A hardy foe more than a coward friend; 
 And Hume and Grange, mine enemies 
 
 well approved, 
 Could love or recompense reknit their 
 
 faiths 
 To my forsworn allegiance, in mine 
 
 eyes 
 Should stand more clear than un- 
 
 revolted men 
 Whose trustless faith is farther from 
 
 my trust 
 Than from my veins the nearness of 
 
 their blood. 
 I am not bitter-hearted, nor take pride 
 To keep the record of wrongs done to 
 
 me 
 For privy hate to gnaw upon, and fret 
 Till all Its wrath be wroken ; I desire 
 Not blood so much of them that seek 
 
 mine own 
 As victory on them, who being but 
 
 subdued 
 For me may live or die my subjects : 
 
 this 
 I care not if I win with liberal words 
 Or weapons of my friends, for love or 
 
 fear, 
 Or by their own dissensions that may 
 
 spring 
 And blossom to my profit; and I hold 
 Nor fear nor grief grievous nor terri- 
 ble 
 That might buy victory to me, for 
 
 whose sake 
 Peril and pain seem pleasant, and aij 
 
 else 
 
3^4 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 That men thirst after as I thirst fo" 
 
 this — 
 Wealth, honour, pleasure, all things 
 
 weighed therewith — 
 Seem to my soul contcmjjtible and vile. 
 Nor would I reign that I might take 
 
 revenge, 
 Hut rather be revenged that I might 
 
 reign. 
 For to live conquered and put on defeat, 
 To sit with humbled head and bear 
 
 base life, 
 Endure the hours to mock me, and the 
 
 days 
 To take and give me as a bondslave up 
 For night by night to tread on — while 
 
 death lives, 
 And may be found, or man lay hold on 
 
 him, 
 I will not have this to my life, but die. 
 I know not what is life that outlives 
 
 hoj-je. 
 But I will never: when my power were 
 
 past, 
 My kingdom gone, my trust brought 
 
 down, my will 
 Frustrate, I would not live one heart- 
 less hour 
 To think what death were gentlest; 
 
 none so sharp 
 But should be softer to my bosom 
 
 found 
 Than that which felt it strike. 
 Huntley. You speak as ever 
 Your ow'n high soul and speech ; no 
 
 spirit on earth 
 Was ever seen more kinglike than lifts 
 
 up 
 With yours our hearts to serve you for 
 
 its sake 
 As these have served that here would 
 
 s))eak with you. 
 Enter Bkaton and Mary Beaton. 
 To whom our loves vield place. 
 
 {Exeunt Arcjyi.k and HUNTI.F.Y. 
 Queen. My chance were ill 
 If to no better love your loves gave 
 
 way 
 Than that which makes us friends. — 
 
 You are come betimes. 
 If you come ready now to ride ; here lie 
 The letters vou must bear: the cardi- 
 nal's thiii, 
 
 Mine 
 
 Torraine, to whose 
 first news of mv 
 
 our 
 
 uncle's of 
 
 kind hand 
 Did I commend the 
 
 flight 
 Sent from Lord Sey ton's while 
 
 horses breathed ; 
 By this shall he receive my mind writ 
 
 large. 
 And turn his own to help me. Look 
 
 you say 
 Even as I write, you left me in such 
 
 mind 
 As he would know me, — for all past 
 
 faults done 
 Bent but to seek of God and of the 
 
 world 
 Pardon; as knowing that none but onlv 
 
 God 
 Has brought me out of bonds, and inly 
 
 fixed 
 In perfect purpose for his mercy shown 
 To show a thankful and a constant 
 
 heart. 
 As simple woman or as queen of Scots, 
 In life and death fast cleaving to his 
 
 Church, 
 As I would have him that shall read 
 
 believe 
 My life to come shall only from his lips 
 Take shape and likeness, by their breath 
 
 alone 
 Still swayed and steered ; to whom you 
 
 know I look 
 For reconciling words that may subdue 
 To natural pity of my laboring cause 
 The queen that was my mother, and 
 
 her son 
 My brother king that in my husl)and's 
 
 seat 
 Sits lineal in succession. Sav too this, 
 That without help I may not hold mine 
 
 own ; 
 And therefore shall he stand the mo.c 
 
 mv friend, 
 And do the kindlier, the more haste he 
 
 makes 
 With all good speed to raise and to 
 
 despatch 
 A lew of a thonsantl harcpicbusmcn 
 To fill the want up of my ranks, that 
 
 yet 
 Look leaner than mine enemies'. Thi:> 
 
 for France. 
 
BOTinrr.LL. 
 
 365 
 
 And this to the English queen deliver- 
 ing say, 
 I look, being' free now, for that help of 
 
 hers 
 That in my last years' bonds not once 
 
 or twice 
 I had by word of promise, and not 
 
 doubt 
 This year to have indeed ; which if I 
 
 may, 
 When from her hand I take my crown 
 
 again, 
 J shall thenceforth look for no other 
 
 friend, 
 And try no further faith. This private 
 
 word 
 In London to the ambassador of Spain 
 Fail not to bear, that being set round 
 
 with spies 
 I may not write ; but he shall tell his 
 
 king 
 The charges that men cast on me are 
 
 false, 
 And theirs the guilt that held me in 
 
 their bonds 
 Who stand in spirit firm to one faith 
 
 with him 
 From whom I look for counsel. I well 
 
 think 
 My sister's love shall but desire to hold 
 A mean betwixt our parties, and pro- 
 nounce 
 On each side judgment, as by right and 
 
 might 
 'Twixt mine and me the imperial medi- 
 
 atress, 
 Commanding peace, controlling war, 
 
 that must 
 Determine this dark time, and make 
 
 alone 
 An end of doubt and danger ; which 
 
 perchance 
 May come before her answer. Haste, 
 
 and thrive. 
 
 \Exit Beaton. 
 Now, what say you ? shall fortune stand 
 
 our friend 
 But long enough to seem worth hope 
 
 or fear, 
 Or fall too soon from us for hope to 
 
 help 
 X fear to hurt more than an hour of 
 
 chance 
 
 Might make and unmake.^ This were 
 
 now my day 
 To try the soothsaying of men's second 
 
 sight 
 Who read beyond the writing mI the 
 
 hour, 
 And utter things unborn : now would 
 
 I know. 
 And yet I would not, how my life shall 
 
 move 
 And toward what end forever; which 
 
 to know 
 Should help me not to suffer, nor 
 
 undo 
 One jot that must be done or borne 
 
 of me. 
 Nor take one grain away. I would not 
 
 know it ; 
 For one thing haply might that knowl- 
 edge do. 
 Or one thing undo, — to bring down 
 
 the heart 
 Wherewith I now expect it. We shall 
 
 know, 
 When we shall suffer, what God's hour 
 
 will bring; 
 If filled with wrath full from his heavy 
 
 hand, 
 Or gently laid upon us. I do think, 
 If he were wroth with aught once done 
 
 of me. 
 That anger should be now fulfilled, and 
 
 this 
 His hour of comfort; for he should not 
 
 stand, 
 For his wrath's sake with me, mine 
 
 enemies' friend. 
 Who are more than mine his enemies. 
 
 Never yet 
 Did I desire to know of God or man 
 What was designed me of them; nor 
 
 will now 
 For fear desire the knowledge. What 
 
 I may. 
 That will I foil of all men's enmities. 
 And what I may of hope and good 
 
 success 
 Take, and praise God. Yet thus much 
 
 would I know, 
 If in your sight, who have seen my 
 
 whole life run 
 One stream with yours since either had 
 
 its spring, 
 
566 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 My chance to come look foul or fair 
 
 again 
 I5y this (lay's light and likelihood. 
 
 Mary Beaton. In sooth, 
 No soothsayer am I ; yet so far a seer, 
 That I can see but this of you and me. 
 We shall not part alive. 
 
 Queen. Dost thou mean well .-* 
 rhou hast been constant ever at my 
 
 hand 
 And closest when the worst part of my 
 
 fate 
 Came closest to me ; firm as faith or 
 
 love 
 Hast thou stood by my peril and my 
 
 pain, 
 And still, where I found these, there 
 
 found I thee ; 
 And where I found thee, these were 
 
 not far off. 
 When I was jjroud and blithe (men 
 
 said) of heart. 
 And life looked smooth and loving in 
 
 mine eyes, 
 Thou wouldst be sad and cold as au- 
 tumn winds. 
 Thy face discomfortable, and strange 
 
 thy speech. 
 Thy service joyless; but when times 
 
 grew hard. 
 And there was wind and fire in the 
 
 clear heaven. 
 Then wast thou near; thy service and 
 
 thy speech 
 Were glad and ready ; in thine eyes thy 
 
 soul 
 Seemed to sit fixed at watch as one 
 
 that waits 
 And knows, and is content with what 
 
 shall be. 
 Nor can I tell now if thy sight should 
 
 ])Ut 
 
 More faith in mc, or fear, to trust or 
 
 doubt 
 The chance forefigurcd in thee ; for 
 
 tliou art 
 As 'twere my fortune, faithful as man's 
 
 fate. 
 Inevitable. I cannot read the roll 
 Thut I might dccni were hiilden in thy 
 
 hand, 
 Writ with my days to be, nor from 
 
 thine eyes 
 
 Take light to know; for fortune is too 
 
 blind 
 As man that knows not of her; and 
 
 thyself, 
 That art as 'twere a type to me and 
 
 sign 
 Incognizable, art no more wise than I 
 To say what I should hope and fear to 
 
 learn. 
 Or why, from thee. 
 
 Mary Beaton. This one thing I know 
 
 well, 
 That hope nor fear need think to feed 
 
 upon, 
 That I should part from you alive, or 
 
 you 
 Take from me living mine assurance yet 
 To look upon you while you live, and 
 
 trace 
 To the grave's edge your printed feet 
 
 with mine. 
 Queen. Wilt thou die too.? 
 Mary Beaton. Should I so far, so 
 
 long. 
 Follow my queen's face, to forsake at 
 
 last'. 
 And lose my name for constancy? n 
 
 you. 
 Whose eyes alive have slain so many 
 
 men, 
 Want, when death shuts them, one to 
 
 die of you 
 Dying, who had so many loving lives 
 To go before you living.^ 
 
 Queen. Thou dost laugh 
 Always, to speak of death ; and at this 
 
 time 
 God wot it should beseem us best to 
 
 smile 
 If we must think upon him. I and thou 
 Have so much in us of a single heart. 
 That we can smile to hear of that or 
 
 see 
 Which sickens and makes bleed faint 
 
 hearts for fear. 
 And well now shall it stand us both in 
 
 stead 
 To make ours hard against all ch.mce, 
 
 and walk 
 Bclwetn our friends and foes indiffer 
 
 cntly 
 As who may think to see them one day 
 
 shift 
 
iwrnivELL. 
 
 367 
 
 From hate to love, and love again to 
 
 hate, 
 As time with peaceable or warlike hand 
 Shall carve and shape them ; and to go 
 
 thus forth, 
 And make an end, shall neither at my 
 
 need 
 Deject me nor uplift in spirit, who pass 
 Not gladly nor yet loathly to the field 
 That these my present friends have in 
 
 mv name 
 Set for the trial of my death or life. 
 Thou knowest long since God gave me 
 
 cause to say 
 I saw the world was not that joyous 
 
 thing 
 Which men would make it, nor the hap- 
 piest they 
 That lived the longest in it : so I thought 
 That year the mightiest of my kinsmen 
 
 fell. 
 Slain by strong treason ; and these five 
 
 years gone 
 Have lightened not so much my life to 
 
 me, 
 That I should love it more, or more 
 
 should loathe 
 That end which love or loathing, faith 
 
 or fear, 
 Can put not back nor forward by a day. 
 \Exetint. 
 
 Scene IX. — Langside. 
 
 Murray, Morton, Hume, Lindsay, 
 Ochiltree, Sir William Doug- 
 las, KiRKALDY, and their forces. 
 Murray. They cannot pass our place 
 of vantage here, 
 To choose them out a likelier. Let our 
 
 lines 
 Lie close on either side the hollow strait 
 Flanked as the hill slopes by those cot- 
 tage walls. 
 While here the head of our main force 
 
 stands fast 
 With wings flung each way forth : that 
 
 narrow street 
 Shall take them snared and naked. 
 Sir W. Douglas. I beseech you. 
 If you suspect no taint or part in me 
 Of treason in our kin, that I may have 
 The first of this day's danger 
 
 Murray. No man here, 
 Of all whose hearts are armed for Scot 
 
 land, hath 
 First place in this day's peril, no man 
 
 last; 
 But all one part of peril, and one 
 
 place 
 To stand and strike, if God be good to 
 
 us. 
 In the last field that shall be fought for 
 
 her 
 Upon this quarrel. Who are they that 
 
 lead 
 The main of the queen's battle .-* 
 
 Kirkaldy. On their left 
 Lord Herries, and Argyle in front 
 
 with him 
 Claude Hamilton and James of Evan- 
 dale 
 Bring up their turbulent ranks. 
 
 Lindsay. Why, these keep none 
 That crowd against us ; horse and min- 
 gled foot 
 Confound each other hurtling as they 
 
 come 
 Sheer up between the houses. 
 
 Murray. Some default 
 That maims the general strength has in 
 
 their need 
 Held them an hour delaying; our 
 
 harquebusmen, 
 Two thousand tried, the best half of our 
 
 foot, 
 Keep the way fast each side even to 
 
 this height 
 Where stands our strength in the open. 
 
 We shall have. 
 If aught win through of all their chiv- 
 alry. 
 Some sharp half-hour of hand to-hand 
 
 at last 
 Ere one thrust other from this brow. -^ 
 
 Lord Hume, 
 Keep you the rear of our right wing that 
 
 looks 
 Toward Herries and his horsemen; 
 
 Ochiltree, 
 Stand you beside him; Grange and 
 
 Lmdsay here 
 Shall bide with me the main front of 
 
 their fight 
 When these break through our guard 
 
 Let word be given 
 
\6S 
 
 BOTH WELL. 
 
 That no man when the day is won shall 
 
 dare 
 Upon our side to spill one droji of blood 
 That may be spared of them that yield 
 
 or riy. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene X. — Another Part of the 
 Field. 
 
 Enter Herri ES and Seyton, -oith their 
 soldiers. 
 Herries. If they of our part hold the 
 hill-top yet, 
 For all our leader's loss we have the day. 
 Seyton. They stand this half-hour 
 locked on both sides fast, 
 And grappling to the teeth. I would 
 
 to God 
 When for faint heart and very fear 
 
 Argyle 
 Fell from his horse before the battle 
 
 met, 
 The devil had writhed his neck round ; 
 
 whose delay 
 At point to charge first maimed us ; else 
 
 by this 
 We had scattered them as crows. 
 
 Make u]) again. 
 And drive their broken lines in on the 
 
 rear 
 While those in front stand doubtful. 
 
 Charge once more. 
 Enter OcHILTKEE and IIUME, u<ilh 
 
 soldiers. 
 And all this side is ours. — Lord Ochil- 
 tree, 
 Yield, in the queen's name. 
 
 Ochiltree. In the king's I stand 
 To bid his traitors battle. 
 
 [ They flight ; OcH I LTREE/;//j. 
 Herries. Stand thou too, 
 Or give us place : I had rather have 
 
 to-day 
 At my sword's end thee than a meaner 
 
 man 
 'I'o try this cause. 
 
 //tune. This edge of mine shall try 
 Which side and steel be truer. 
 
 [ 'Jhey Ji^ht ; 1 1 U M E is -wounded. 
 .Seyton. Ooci and the queen I 
 .Set on; this height once ours, this day 
 
 is too. 
 And all days after 
 
 Herries. Halt not yet, good friends. 
 Till with our bright swords we have 
 
 crowned the hill 
 Whereon they stand at grapple. Close 
 
 again. 
 And we ride lords at large of the free 
 
 field 
 Whence these fall hurled in sunder. 
 
 Seyton. To the height ! 
 Our fellows are fast locked yet with our 
 
 foes : 
 Make up there to their comfort. 
 Enter Lindsay, Kirkaldy, Sir Wil- 
 liam Douglas, young Ochiltree, 
 with soldiers. 
 Lindsay. Sirs, not yet : 
 Ere ye win through, there be more 
 
 spears to break 
 Than there in tight are fastened. Stand, 
 or yield. 
 Herries. The Highland folk that 
 doubtfully held off 
 Are fallen upon our flank : hear you the 
 
 noise } 
 Back, sirs, bear back : we are sped. 
 
 [Exit with his followers. 
 Seyton. The day is gone : 
 Let life go after; for I will not fly 
 To meet my queen's face as a beaten 
 
 man. 
 Enter Murray, Morton, etc.., with 
 soldiers. 
 Murray. Charge once, and then 
 sheathe swords ; tlie field i.s 
 ours: 
 They fly now both ways broken. Some 
 
 one spur 
 To bid those knaves that howl upon the 
 
 rear 
 Cut short their quest of blood. They 
 
 were too slack 
 Who are now so hot, when first the 
 
 hunt was up : 
 They shall not flesh those fangs on tly- 
 
 \\\f^ men 
 That in the fight were bloodless. 
 
 Seyton. Men, stand fast; 
 Let not the currish cry of Highland 
 
 hounds 
 liark on your fugitive cpiarry : here a 
 
 man 
 May fall not like a stag or harried 
 hare, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 369 
 
 Hut die more soldier-like than in the 
 
 toils 
 With their loud pack upon him. 
 
 Young Ochiltree. Die then here, 
 \nd pay me for my father, if God 
 
 please 
 My life with his shall lie not on thy 
 
 hand, 
 I '.lit thine on mine as forfeit. 
 
 [ They fight ; S EYTON falls. 
 Murray. Slay him not: 
 I say, put up your sword. 
 
 Young Ochiltree. Sir, pardon me. 
 There bleeds my father yet : he too 
 
 shall die. 
 Murray. Young man, nor he nor any 
 
 of his part 
 When I say. Live. Take up your sword 
 
 again ; 
 And by" this hand that struck it from 
 
 your own 
 lie ruled, and learn what loyal use it 
 
 hath. 
 Which is not on its prisoner. Send 
 
 forth word 
 That none take life of any man that 
 
 yields. 
 Pursue, but slay not ; for the day is won, 
 And this last battle ended that shall see 
 liy Scottish hands the reek of Scots- 
 men slain 
 Defame the face of Scotland. While 
 
 I live. 
 If God as on this day be good to her, 
 Her eyes shall look on her own blood 
 
 no more. [Exetint. 
 
 Scene XI. — The Heights near 
 
 Langside. 
 The Queen, Mary Beaton, Fleming, 
 Boyd, and young Maxwell. 
 Queen. This is the last time I shall 
 
 look on war : 
 Upon this day I know my fate is set 
 As on a sword's point. Does the fight 
 
 stand still, 
 That we see nothing on that hill's brow 
 
 stir 
 Where both sides lashed together ? 
 
 Fleming. If the light 
 Tell mine eyes truth that reel with 
 
 watching, both 
 Stand with spears crossed and locked 
 
 so hard, and points 
 
 So fast inwound with such inveteracy. 
 That steel can thrust not steel an inch 
 
 away, 
 Nor foot push foot a hair's-brcadth 
 
 back that hangs 
 On the hill's edge, and yields not. 
 
 Hark ! the noise 
 Grows sharper and more various in its 
 
 cry 
 Than first it was : there comes upon the 
 
 day 
 Some change for good or ill ; but for 
 
 my charge, 
 I would not say. Would God my hand 
 
 were there ! 
 But take its chance upon it. 
 
 Queett. Be content 
 To stand this day our soldier at her side 
 Who will not live to lay such charge 
 
 again 
 On them that love her. Lo there ! on 
 
 the left 
 They charge again from our part. 
 
 Maxwell. There it is 
 My father fights : his horse are they 
 
 that make 
 The hill's length rock and lighten as a 
 
 sea. 
 Look where the waves meet as that 
 
 wind of steeds 
 Sweeps them together; how they reel 
 
 and fall 
 There with the shock from under of 
 
 the storm 
 That takes in rear and breaks their 
 
 guard, and leaves 
 The right wing of the rebels cloven in 
 
 twain. 
 And in the cleft their first men fallen 
 
 that stood 
 Against the sea-breach. Oh! this gal- 
 lant day 
 Shows us our fortune fair as her fair 
 
 face 
 For whom we came to seek it, and the 
 
 crown 
 That it gives back more glorious. 
 
 Queen. If we knew 
 How fares our van — Nay, go not 
 
 from me one. 
 Lest we be scattered. 
 
 Boyd. Hear you not a cry 
 ' As from the rear, a note of ruin, sent 
 
57 o 
 
 HOTHWELL. 
 
 Higher than the noise of horsemen; 
 
 and therewith 
 A roar of fire as though the artillery 
 
 there 
 Spake all at once its heart untimely out ? 
 Pray God our powder be not spent by 
 
 chance, 
 And in its waste undo us ! 
 Queen. My heart is sick, 
 Yet shall it not subdue me while mv 
 
 will 
 Hath still a man's strength left. I was 
 
 not thus — 
 I will not think what ever I have been. 
 The worst day lasts no longer than a 
 
 day. 
 And its worst hour hath but an hour of 
 
 life 
 Wherein to work us evil. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Here comes one 
 Hot-spurred with haste, and pale with 
 
 this hour's news : 
 Now shall we know what work it had 
 
 to do, 
 And what the next hour may. 
 
 E)itc7- George Douglas. 
 George Douglas. The day is lost. 
 There is Init one way with us ; here we 
 
 stand 
 As in death's hand already. You must 
 
 fly. 
 
 Madam, while time be left or room for 
 flight. 
 
 As if there be I know not. 
 Fleming. Is the van 
 
 Broken ? 
 
 George Douglas. Look up where late 
 it stood so fast 
 
 That well-nigh for an hour the grappling 
 ranks 
 
 Were so enlinked in front, the men be- 
 hind 
 
 That fired across the rank of them be- 
 fore. 
 
 And hurled their pistols in their ene- 
 mies' face 
 
 Above their comrades' heads that held 
 the van 
 
 Saw them yet reeking on the spear- 
 shafts lodged 
 
 That caught them flatlong fallen athwart 
 
 the staves 
 Fixed opposite and level, till a shot 
 
 Slew him that led behind the artillery 
 
 up 
 As the first round was ended on our 
 
 part, 
 And straight a gunner's linstock 
 
 dropjjed, and gave 
 Fire to the powder-wagon. 
 
 Max7i<ell. But the horse — 
 We saw my father's with Lord Seyton's 
 
 horse 
 Hurl up against the left side round the 
 
 hill. 
 And break their right wing in the rear. 
 
 George Douglas. Ye saw ? 
 But not who brought them rescue, and 
 
 bore back 
 Your father's force with might and ruin: 
 
 Grange 
 And Lindsay, with my brother third, 
 
 who fights 
 With the more bitter heart and hate to- 
 day 
 For our name's sake to purge him of 
 
 my deed, 
 And wreak him on my friends ; and 
 
 would to God, 
 But for the service' sake I had to do, 
 He had met me whom perchance he 
 
 sought, and slain. 
 Ere I had borne this news out of the 
 
 fight 
 To bid you fly ! 
 
 Queen. Wliere will God set mine end ? 
 I am wearied of this flying from death 
 
 to death 
 That is my life, and man's: where'er I. 
 
 go,' 
 From God and death I fly not; and 
 
 even here 
 It may be they must find me. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, not yet : 
 Take heart again, and fly. 
 
 Queen. Oh ! this I knew, — 
 Even by thine eyes I knew it a great 
 
 while since 
 As now by mine. Our end of fear is 
 
 come, 
 That casts out hope as well. Let us 
 
 make hence. 
 Perchance our help is in Dumbarton 
 
 yet, 
 
 Upon the rock where I would fain at 
 first 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 371 
 
 \ lave set my feet. — How say you, Flem- 
 ing, now ? 
 May we there make us fast ? 
 
 George Douglas. Tlie ways are 
 
 thronged 
 With arms and noise of enemies ; 
 
 everywhere 
 The land is full of death and deadly 
 
 cries 
 From throats that gape for blood ; the 
 
 regent's horse 
 Hold alTthe highway; and the straiter 
 
 lanes 
 Stand thick with peasant folk whose 
 
 hands are armed 
 With staves and sickles in their rage 
 
 caught up 
 'J\) strike at you for fault of sword or 
 
 pike 
 Wherewith to charge us flying: no way 
 
 is left 
 ];ut south to Galloway and Lord Mer- 
 ries' land, 
 Where you may breathe but for a 
 
 doubtful day 
 In the sea's sight of refuge. 
 Maxioell. In God's name. 
 Take his good counsel, madam ; as you 
 
 know 
 The noble Douglas wise and true, be- 
 lieve 
 So shall you find my father's men and 
 
 mine 
 In this great need. 
 
 Queen. Come, help me then to horse ; 
 If I must ride some hundred miles to 
 
 breathe. 
 As we must fly no less, I think, or fall 
 Among our foes that follow, in my 
 
 mind 
 The worst it were not, nor the unkind- 
 
 liest death, 
 To die in saddle. I will not give again. 
 So please it God, into mine enemies' 
 
 hands 
 My body up for bondage. Twice or 
 
 thrice 
 I have ridden hard by stars of March 
 
 or May, 
 With false or true men to my left and 
 
 right, 
 The wild night through, for death or 
 
 kingly life ; 
 
 And if I ride riow with few friends at 
 
 hand, 
 I have none false of them ; or if as 
 
 once 
 One ride with me that had my hate 
 
 alive. 
 Who rode with me to his own grave, 
 
 and now 
 Holds me in chase toward mine, — O 
 
 thou that wast 
 My hate and husband, whom these men 
 
 to-day 
 Take on them to revenge, and in thy 
 
 name 
 Turn all men's hearts against me that 
 
 were born 
 Mine, and all swords that served me ! 
 
 if thou be 
 A shadow at hand, a ghost unrecon- 
 ciled. 
 That waits to take his triumph, hear 
 
 and see 
 If in this hour that smites me, which is 
 
 thine. 
 Thou find one thought in me that bows 
 
 my heart. 
 One pang that turns it from the thing 
 
 it was. 
 One pulse that moves me to repent or 
 
 fear 
 For what was done or shall be ; if thou 
 
 have 
 But so much power upon me to be 
 
 called 
 Less hateful or more fearful, and thy 
 
 death 
 With aught of dread have clothed the 
 
 thought of thee 
 That thv life had not; if thou seest me 
 
 fly, 
 
 Then must thou see too that thou shalt 
 not see. 
 
 In death or life, one part of spirit or 
 sense 
 
 In me that calls thee master. To God's 
 hand 
 
 I give the rest ; but in mine own I hold 
 
 The perfect power for good or evil 
 days 
 
 To keep the heart I had, and on my- 
 self 
 
 Lose not one jot of lordship : so maj 
 God 
 
3/2 
 
 BOTinVELL. 
 
 Love me no less, and be no slower, I 
 
 think, 
 To helji my soul than theirs more vile 
 
 than mine 
 And made for chance to mar, whereon 
 
 their fate 
 Has power as on their bodies. If he 
 
 will, 
 Now should he help, or never; for we 
 
 leave 
 A field more fatal to us, and day more 
 
 foul, 
 Than ever cast out hope. I am loath 
 
 to go 
 More than to die; yet, come what will 
 
 soe'er, 
 I shall no more. — Thou told'st me not 
 
 of this, 
 
 [ To Mary Beaton. 
 But yet I learnt it of thee. Come, we 
 
 have 
 One dark day less of doom to see and 
 
 live, 
 Who have seen this, and die not. Stay 
 
 bv me : 
 I know thou wilt ; if I should bid thee 
 
 go. 
 It were but even as if I bade thee 
 
 stay 
 Who hast as far to fiee from death as I. 
 \_ExeHnt. 
 
 Scene XII. — Dundrennan Abbey. 
 
 The Queen and Herries. 
 Queen. Talk not to me of France, 
 this man it was 
 
 That gave his tongue to serve my kins- 
 men's plea, 
 
 Who fain had seen me plight at 
 Hamilton 
 
 1(3 their Arbroath my hand and king- 
 dom ; nay, 
 
 1 will not seek my fate at Catherine's 
 hand, 
 
 Nor on those lips that were my moth- 
 er's watch 
 
 My life hang weighed between a word 
 and smile, 
 
 Nor on that sleek face of the Floren- 
 tine 
 
 Read mv doom writ, nor in her smooth 
 swart cheek 
 
 See the blood brighten with desire o* 
 
 mine. 
 I will not live or die upon her tongue 
 Whose hate were glad to give me death 
 
 or life 
 More hateful from her giving ; and I 
 
 know 
 How she made proffer to my last year's 
 
 lords 
 To take me from their bondage to her 
 
 own, 
 And shut my days up cloistered ; even 
 
 such iove 
 Should PVance afford me now that in 
 
 men's sight 
 I stand yet lower, as fallen from this 
 
 year's hojje 
 To live discrowned forever. Tell him 
 
 this 
 Who rode with vou behind me from 
 
 the field, 
 And bid him bear his mistress word 
 
 of me 
 As one that thinks not to be made the 
 
 mean 
 For them to weave alliance with mv 
 
 foes. 
 And with the purchase of my bartered 
 
 blood 
 Ijuv back their power in Scotland. 
 
 Hemes. I shall say it. 
 Yet this man's fricndsliip, madam, 
 
 might find faith, 
 Who by so wild a way has followed 
 
 you 
 To this third day that sees your flight 
 
 at end. 
 Where you may sit some forty days 
 
 secure 
 In trust and guard of mine. 
 Queen. Av, here I might, 
 Were I well weary with my two nights' 
 
 sleep 
 On this hard earth that was mv naked 
 
 bed 
 Whom it casts out of kingdom; bu*'. 
 
 my lord, 
 For thirtv leagues and more of ric.den 
 
 ground, 
 .And two davs' fare of jieasants' meal 
 
 and milk, 
 I am not vet nigher but by two (.lays to 
 
 death. 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 373 
 
 Nor spent in spirit for weariness or 
 
 fear, 
 Nor in my body broken, that my need 
 Should hold me here in bonds, or on 
 
 your faith 
 Lay a new charge of danger. Here, 
 
 you say. 
 And Beaumont with you, I may bide 
 
 awhile 
 The levy of my friends whose rallying 
 
 force 
 May gather to me, or in their default 
 Hence to Dumbarton may I pass by 
 
 sea, 
 Or forth to France with safer sails, and 
 
 prove 
 What faith is there in friendship. Now 
 
 my mind 
 Is nowise here to tarry : your true love 
 Shall not for guerdon of its trust and 
 
 care 
 Be tried again with peril, that as well 
 May be put by for your faith's sake and 
 
 mine 
 So mutually made much of; nor shall 
 
 they, 
 Whose wounds run red yet from their 
 
 regent's hand 
 That on this border laid so sore a 
 
 scourge 
 As late their blood bore witness, for 
 
 my sake 
 Or give their blood again, or lose their 
 
 faith 
 That should for me be proven, and 
 
 being found true 
 Bring them to death should we twice 
 
 fail, or false 
 Turn their safe life to shame. This 
 
 shall not be; 
 But I, content to make no trial of these, 
 Will hold them true, and leave them 
 
 unessayed 
 To live in honor. Friends I yet should 
 
 have 
 Whose peace and life lie not in those 
 
 men's hands 
 That would make prey of mine ; their 
 
 faith is firm 
 And their hearts great as mine own 
 
 hope in them 
 Who look toward me from England ; 
 
 all the north 
 
 No less desires me than I need their 
 
 love, 
 To lift our creed and cause up that lies 
 
 low, 
 But wounded not to death. I have 
 
 their names 
 Who first I think will meet me face to 
 
 face. 
 And lay their loyal hands in mine, and 
 
 pledge 
 Their noble heads for surety ; lord and 
 
 knight 
 Whose fathers yielded up their lives 
 
 for faith 
 Shall fail not now to seek me cast out 
 
 hence. 
 And gird me fast with all their follow- 
 ing round 
 And stalwart musters of their spearmen 
 
 raised 
 To do me service of stout heart and 
 
 steel 
 For these lords' sake that call me lady; 
 
 names 
 That bear the whole might of this north- 
 ern land 
 Upon their blazon, and the grace and 
 
 strength 
 Of their old honor with them to that 
 
 side 
 That they shall serve on ; first the two 
 
 great earls, 
 Then Dacre, Norton, Swinburne, Mark- 
 infield, 
 With all their houses, all the border's 
 
 flower 
 Of ancient faith and fame; had I but 
 
 these 
 To rise up when I call,- and do me right, 
 I were not poorly friended, with no 
 
 more 
 Than this for trust to lean on. But I 
 
 think 
 To find not such friends only as their 
 
 name 
 And cause should make in danger fast 
 
 to mine. 
 To link our names in all men's eyes that 
 
 read 
 Of faith in man forever : even the queen 
 My sister's self shall fight upon my side, 
 Being either found my friend for whom 
 
 she swore. 
 
374 
 
 nOTHWELL. 
 
 a I were slain, to fill this land with 
 
 fires, 
 Or, casting off my cause and mc, stand 
 
 up 
 As much their enemy that partake mv 
 
 faith 
 As mine who lack not friends in all her 
 
 land 
 That in this cause cast off will strike at 
 
 her 
 For God's sake on my party. But 
 
 indeed 
 I look to find not such a foe of her 
 As should have heart or wit to fight 
 
 with me, 
 Though she had will who has not; for 
 
 her mind, 
 Still moving like a blown and barren 
 
 sea, 
 Has yet not ever set so far toward storm 
 Or so much shifted from its natural 
 
 tide 
 As to seem safe or prosperous for their 
 
 sails 
 Who traffic for my ruin ; and I fear 
 No wind of change that may breathe 
 
 sharp on me 
 When once I stand in mine own name 
 
 to speak 
 Before her face and England's. If she 
 
 will, 
 By her shall I come back to reign her 
 
 friend : 
 If not by her, then by their loves and 
 
 hands 
 Who shall put off her sovereignty for 
 
 mine. 
 There is not and there needs no better 
 
 way 
 Than here lies fair before my feet, which 
 
 yet 
 Are not so tired but they may tread it 
 
 through 
 To the good end. My heart is higher 
 
 again 
 'I'han ere that field it was, I know not 
 
 whv. 
 Which sent w\k: hither, ^'ou shall write 
 
 for me 
 W<jrd to the warden of Carlisle, and 
 
 say 
 V.jur (jueen seeks covert for her crown- 
 less head 
 
 With him the first in England; and 
 
 thereon 
 Kre he .send answer, or to-morrow set, 
 Will I pass over. 
 
 Hcrries. I would fain believe 
 His queen were true of heart, and all 
 
 your friends 
 As strong to serve as faithful : yet mav 
 
 she 
 Have better will than she has power to 
 
 make, 
 As it would be, your servant ; and the 
 
 land 
 Is many-minded, rent with doubt in 
 
 twain. 
 And full of fears and factions. Vou 
 
 may pass, 
 Even in this hope that now builds up 
 
 your heart, 
 To find less help at no less need than 
 
 here 
 On darker ways and deadlier: vet vour 
 
 will 
 Shall if it hold be done. 
 
 Queen. Despatch, and write : 
 To stand before the gate of davs to 
 
 be, 
 And beat their doors for entrance, is 
 
 more pain 
 Than to pass in, and look on life or 
 
 death. 
 Here will I sleej) within your ward to- 
 night. 
 And then no more in Scotland. Nay, 
 
 make haste : 
 I would those hours were past that hold 
 
 me here. 
 
 Scene XIH. — The Shore oe Sol 
 
 WAV KlRTH. 
 
 The Queen, Mary Beaton, Herries. 
 George Douglas, Page and Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Queen. Is not the tide yet full } 
 /ferries. Come half an hour, 
 And it will turn ; but ere that ebbbcgip. 
 Let me once more desire your pardon, 
 
 though 
 I plead against your i)lcasurc. Hert- 
 
 you stand 
 Not yet dethroned from royal hope, nol 
 yet 
 
BO 111 WELL. 
 
 375 
 
 Discrowned of your great name, whose 
 
 natural power 
 Faith here forgets not, nor man's loyal 
 
 love 
 Leaves off to honor : but gone hence, 
 
 your name 
 Is but a stranger's, subject to men's 
 
 laws, 
 Alien and liable to control and chance 
 That are the lords of exile, and com- 
 mand 
 The days and nights of fugitives ; your 
 
 hope 
 Dies of strange breath, or lives between 
 
 strange lips ; 
 And nor your will nor only God's 
 
 beside 
 Is master of your peace of life, but 
 
 theirs 
 Who, being the lords of land that har- 
 bors you. 
 Give your life leave to endure their 
 
 empire. What 
 Can man do to you that a rebel 
 
 may. 
 Which fear might deem as bad as ban- 
 ishment ? 
 Not death, not bonds, are bitterer than 
 
 his day 
 On whom the sun looks forth of a 
 
 strange sky. 
 Whose thirst drinks water from strange 
 
 hands, whose lips 
 Eat strangers' bread for hunger; who 
 
 lies down 
 In a strange dark, and sleeps not, and 
 
 the light 
 Makes his eyes weep for their own 
 
 morning, seen 
 On hills that helped to make him man, 
 
 and fields 
 Whose flowers grew round his heart's 
 
 root ; day like night 
 Denies him, and the stars and airs of 
 
 heaven 
 Are as their eyes and tongues who know 
 
 him not. 
 Go not to banishment : the world is 
 
 great. 
 But each has but his own land in the 
 
 world. 
 There is one bosom that gives each 
 
 man milk, — 
 
 One country, like one mother : none 
 
 sleeps well 
 Who lies between strange breasts ; no 
 
 lips drink life 
 That seek it from strange fosters. Go 
 
 not hence : 
 You shall find no man's faith or love on 
 
 earth 
 Like theirs that here cleave to you. 
 
 Queen. I have found. 
 And think to find, no hate of men on 
 
 earth 
 Like theirs that here beats on me 
 
 Hath this earth 
 Which sent me forth a five-yeari,' child, 
 
 and queen 
 Not even of mine own sorrows, to come 
 
 back 
 A widowed girl out of the fair warm 
 
 sun 
 Into the grave's mouth of a dolorous 
 
 land 
 And life like death's own shadow, that 
 
 began 
 W^ith three days' darkness, — hath this 
 
 earth of yours 
 That made mine enemies, at whose 
 
 iron breast 
 They drank the milk of treason ; this 
 
 hard nurse. 
 Whose rocks and storms have reared 
 
 no violent thing 
 So montrous as men's angers, whose 
 
 wild minds 
 Were fed from hers and fashioned ; 
 
 this that bears 
 None but such sons as being my friends 
 
 are weak, 
 And strong, being most my foes, — hath 
 
 it such grace 
 As I should cling to, or such virtue 
 
 found 
 In some part of its evil as my heart 
 Should fear, being free, to part from ? 
 
 Have I lived. 
 Since I came here in shadow and storm, 
 
 three days 
 Out of the storm and shadow ? Have 
 
 I seen 
 Such rest, such hope, such respite from 
 
 despair. 
 As thralls and prisoners in strong dark 
 
 ness may 
 
37<5 
 
 BOTH IV ELL. 
 
 Before the light look on them ? Hath Here must my true men and theii 
 there come j queen take leave, 
 
 One chance on me of comfort, one poor ; And each keep thought of other. — Mv 
 change, ! fair page, 
 
 One possible content that was not born \ Before the man's change darken on 
 
 Of hope to break forth of these bonds, i your chin, 
 
 I may come back to ride with you at 
 
 or made 
 
 Of trust in foreign fortune ? Here, I | 
 
 knew, 
 Could never faith nor love nor comfort 
 
 breed 
 While I sat fast in prison : ye, my 
 
 friends, 
 The few men and the true men that 
 
 were mine. 
 What were ye but what I was, and 
 
 what help 
 Hath each love had of other, yours of 
 
 mine. 
 Mine of your faith, but change of fight 
 
 and fiight. 
 Fear and vain hope and ruin ? Let me 
 
 Who have been but grief and danger to 
 
 my friends : 
 It may be I shall come with power 
 
 again 
 To give back all their losses, and build 
 
 up 
 What for my sake was broken. 
 
 Merries. Did 1 know V, 
 Vet were I loath to bid you part, and 
 
 find 
 What there you go to seek; but know- 
 ing it not, 
 My heart sinks in me, and my spirit is 
 
 sick. 
 To think htnv this fair foot once parted 
 
 hence 
 May rest thus light on Scottish ground 
 
 no more. 
 Queen. It shall tread heavier when it 
 
 steps again 
 On earth which now rejects it; I shall 
 
 live 
 To bruise their heads who wounded me 
 
 at heel. 
 When I shall set it on their necks. 
 
 Come, friends, 
 I think the fisher's boat halh hoised up 
 
 sail 
 That is to bear none but one friend and 
 
 me : 
 
 To a more fortunate field . howe'er 
 
 that be. 
 Ride you right on with better hap, and 
 
 live 
 As true to one of merrier days than 
 
 mine 
 As on that night to Mary once your 
 
 queen. 
 Douglas, I have not won a word of 
 
 you : 
 What would you do to have me tarry .=• 
 George Douglas. Die. 
 Queen. I lack not love, it seems, then, 
 
 at my last. 
 That word was bitter; yet I blame it 
 
 not, 
 Who would not have sweet words ui:>on 
 
 my lips 
 Nor in mine ears at parting. I should 
 
 And stand not here as on a stage to 
 
 play 
 My last part out in Scotland : I have 
 
 been 
 Too long a queen too little. By mv 
 
 life, 
 I know not what should hold me here, 
 
 or turn 
 My foot back from the boat-side, save 
 
 the thought 
 How at Lochlcven I last set foot 
 
 aboard, 
 And with what hope, and to what end , 
 
 and now 
 I i^ass not out of prison to my friends. 
 But out of all friends' help to banish 
 
 mcnt. — 
 Farewell, Lord Hcrries. 
 
 Ilerries. Cod go with my queen. 
 And bring her back with better friends 
 
 than 1 ! 
 Queen. Mcthinks the sand yet cleav- 
 ing to my foot 
 Should not with no more words be 
 
 shaken off, 
 
BOTH WELL. 
 
 171 
 
 Nor this my country from my parting 
 
 eyes 
 Pass unsaluted; for who knows what 
 
 year 
 May see us greet hereafter ? Yet take 
 
 heed, 
 Ye that have ears, and hear me ; and 
 
 take note, 
 Ye that have eyes, and see with what 
 
 last looks 
 Mine own take leave of Scotland. 
 
 Seven years since 
 Did I take leave of my fair land of 
 
 France, 
 My joyous mother, mother of my joy, 
 Weeping ; and now with many a woe 
 
 between. 
 And space of seven years' darkness, I 
 
 depart 
 From this distempered and unnatural 
 
 earth 
 That casts me out unmothered, and go 
 
 forth 
 On this gray, sterile, bitter, gleaming 
 
 sea 
 With neither tears nor laughter, but a 
 
 heart 
 That from the softest temper of its 
 
 blood 
 Is turned to fire and iron. If I live. 
 If God pluck not all hope out of my 
 
 hand, 
 If aught of all mine prosper, I that go 
 Shall come back to men's ruin, as a 
 
 flame 
 The wind bears down, that grows 
 
 against the wind. 
 And grasps it with great hands, and 
 
 wins its way, 
 And wins its will, and triumphs ; so 
 
 shall I 
 Let loose the fire of all my heart to 
 
 feed 
 On these that would have quenched it. 
 
 I will make 
 From sea to sea one furnace of the 
 
 land. 
 Whereon the wind of war shall beat its 
 
 wings 
 
 Till they wax faint with hopeless hope 
 
 of rest, 
 And with one rain of men's rebellious 
 
 blood 
 Extinguish the red embers. I will leave 
 No living soul of their blasi)heming 
 
 faith 
 Who war with monarchs : God shall 
 
 see me reign 
 As he shall reign beside me, and his 
 
 foes 
 Lie at my foot with mine ; kingdoms 
 
 and kings 
 Shall from my heart take spirit, and at 
 
 my soul 
 Their souls be kindled to devour for 
 
 prey 
 The people that would make its prey 
 
 of them, 
 And leave God's altar stripped of sac- 
 rament 
 As all kings' heads of sovereignty, and 
 
 make 
 Bare as their thrones his temples; I 
 
 will set 
 Those old things of his holiness on 
 
 high 
 That are brought low, and break be- 
 neath my feet 
 These new things of men's fashion ; I 
 
 will sit 
 And see tears flow from eyes that saw 
 
 me weep, 
 And dust and ashes and the shadow of 
 
 death 
 Cast from the block beneath the axe 
 
 that falls 
 On heads that saw me humbled; I will 
 
 do it. 
 Or bow mine own down to no royal 
 
 end. 
 And give my blood for theirs if God's 
 
 will be. 
 But come back never as I now go forth 
 With but the hate of men to track my 
 
 way. 
 And not the face of any friend alive. 
 Mciry Beaton. But I will never le«.ve 
 
 you till you die. 
 
MARY STUART: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Trpa<r<70vaa Siky) fj.iy' avTel' 
 
 avr'i S( n\r)yr)^ <^oi'i'a? (/jOfiaf 
 n\r)yrii> Tiyerio- bftdaavri. na6fly, 
 Tpi.yipujv ixiiOoi TaSf tjitoufl. 
 
 iEsCH. CAo. 30c 
 
 DEDICATE THIS PLAY, NO LONGER, AS THE FIRST PART OF THE TRILOGY WHICH IT COMPLETES 
 
 WAS DEDICATED, TO THE GREATEST EXILE, BUT SIMPLY TO THE GREATEST MAN OF 
 
 FRANCE; TO THE CHIEF OF LIVING POETS; TO THE FIRST DRAMATIST OF HIS 
 
 age; TO MY BELOVED AND REVERED MASTER, VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONv^. 
 
 Mary Stuart. 
 
 Mary Beaton. 
 
 QiEEN Elizabeth. 
 
 Barbara Mowbray, 
 
 Lord Burgh ley. 
 
 Sir Francis Walsingham. 
 
 William Davison. 
 
 Robert Dvdlev, Ear/ 0/ Lei'ces/er. 
 
 George Talbot, Ear/ 0/ Shrewsbury. 
 
 Earl of Kewt. 
 
 Henry Carey, Lord Huusdon. 
 
 Sir Christopher Hatton. 
 
 Sir Thomas P.romlkv, Lord Chancellor. 
 
 PoPHAM, Attoruey-Geueral. 
 
 Eckkton, Solicitor-Geueral. 
 
 Gawuy, the Queer's Serjeant. 
 
 Sir Amvas Paui.et. 
 
 Sir Drew Drukv. 
 
 Commissioners, Privy Councillors, 
 Time, from August i 
 
 Sir Thomas Gorges. 
 
 Sir William Wade. 
 
 Sir Andrew Melville. 
 
 Robert Beale, Clerk 0/ the Council. 
 
 Curle and Nau, Secretaries to the Queen 0/ 
 Scots. 
 
 GoRiON, her Apothecary. 
 
 Father John Ballard, " 
 
 Anthony Babington, 
 
 Chidiock Tichborne, 
 
 John Savage, 
 
 Charles Tilney, 
 
 Edward Abington, 
 
 Thomas Salisbury, 
 
 Robert Barnwell, 
 
 Thomas Phillipps, Secretary toWalsingham 
 
 M. de Chateauneuf. 
 
 M. UE Bellievre. 
 Sheriffs, Citizens, Officers, and Attendants. 
 4, 1586, TO February 18, 1587. 
 
 Conspirators. 
 
 ACT I. — ANTHONY BABING- 
 TON. 
 
 Scene I. — Kakington'-s Lodging. 
 A Veiled Picture on the Wall. 
 
 Enter liAIUNGTON, TiCUHORNK, 
 NKN', AHINGToN, SaLI.SHUKY, 
 
 Tii.- 
 und 
 
 I'.AkNWKI.I.. 
 
 liubm^on. Welcome, good friends 
 and welcome this good day 
 378 
 
 That ca.sts out hoix:, and brings in cer- 
 tainty 
 
 To turn raw s|)ring to summer. Now 
 not long 
 
 The flower that crowns the front of all 
 our faiths 
 
 Shall bleach to death in prison ; now 
 the trust 
 
 That took the night with fire as of a star 
 
 Grows red and broad as i»inrise in our 
 sight, 
 
MAKY STUART. 
 
 379 
 
 Who held it dear and desperate once, 
 
 now sure, 
 l>ut not more dear, being surer. In my 
 
 hand 
 I hold this England and her brood, and 
 
 all 
 That time out of the chance of all her 
 
 fate 
 Makes hopeful or makes fearful : days 
 
 and years, 
 Triumphs and changes bred for praise 
 
 or shame 
 From the unborn womb of these un- 
 known, are ours 
 That stand yet noteless here ; ours even 
 
 as God's, 
 Who puts them in our hand as his, to 
 
 wield 
 And shape to service godlike. None 
 
 of you 
 But this day strikes out of the scroll of 
 
 death. 
 And writes apart immortal : what we 
 
 would, 
 That have we ; what our fathers, breth- 
 ren, peers. 
 Bled and beheld not, died and might 
 
 not win. 
 That may we see, touch, handle, hold it 
 
 fast. 
 May take to bind our brows with. By 
 
 my life, 
 I think none ever had such hap alive 
 As ours upon whose plighted lives are 
 
 set 
 The whole good hap and evil of the 
 
 State, 
 And of the Church of God, and world of 
 
 men, 
 And fortune of all crowns and creeds 
 
 that hang 
 Now on the creed and crown of this our 
 
 land. 
 To bring forth fruit to our resolve, and 
 
 bear 
 What sons to time it please us; whose 
 
 mere will 
 fs father of the future. 
 Tibiey. Have you said ? 
 Babingto7i. I cannot say too much of 
 
 so much good. 
 Tilney. Say nothing, then, a little, and 
 
 hear one while : 
 
 Your talk struts high and swaggers 
 
 loud for joy, 
 And safely may perchance, or may not, 
 
 here ; 
 But why to-day we know not. 
 
 Babi)igton. No, I swear. 
 Ye know not yet, no man of us but one. 
 No man on earth ; one woman knowS; 
 
 and I, 
 I that best know her, the best begot of 
 
 man 
 And noblest : no king born so kingly 
 
 souled. 
 Nor served of such brave servants. 
 Tichborne. What, as we ? 
 Babington. Is there one vein in one oi 
 
 all our hearts 
 That is not blown aflame as fire with 
 
 air 
 With even the thought to serve her .' 
 
 And, by God, 
 They that would serve had need be 
 
 bolder found 
 Than common kings find servants. 
 
 Salisbury. Well, your cause } 
 What need or hope has this day's heat 
 
 brought forth 
 To blow such fire up in you .-* 
 Babington. Hark you, sirs : 
 The time is come, ere I shall speak of 
 
 this. 
 To set again the seal on our past oaths. 
 And bind their trothplight faster than 
 
 it is 
 With one more witness; not for shame- 
 ful doubt, 
 But love and perfect honor. Gentlemen, 
 W^hose souls are brethren sealed and 
 
 sworn to mine. 
 Friends that have taken on your hearts 
 
 and hands 
 The selfsame work and weight of deed 
 
 as I, — 
 Look on this picture : from its face to 
 
 day 
 Thus I pluck off the muffled mask, and 
 
 bare 
 Its likeness and our purpose. Ay, look 
 
 here ; 
 None of these faces but are friends of 
 
 each. 
 None of these lips unsworn to all the 
 
 rest, 
 
icSo 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 None of these hands unplighted. Know 
 
 ye not 
 What these have bound their souls to? 
 
 And myself, 
 T tliat stand midmost painted here of 
 
 all, 
 Have I not right to wear of all this 
 
 ring 
 The topmost flower of danger? Who 
 
 but I 
 Should crown and close this goodly 
 
 circle up 
 Of friends I call my followers? There 
 
 ye stand. 
 Fashioned all five in likeness of mere 
 
 life, 
 Just your own shapes, even all the man 
 
 but speech. 
 As in a speckless mirror; Tichborne, 
 
 thou, 
 My nearest heart and brother next in 
 
 deed. 
 Then Abington, there Salisbury, Tilney 
 
 there. 
 And Barnwell, with the brave bright 
 
 Irish eye 
 That burns with red remembrance of 
 
 the blood 
 Seen drenching those green fields turned 
 
 brown and gray 
 Where fire can burn not faith out, nor 
 
 the sword 
 That hews the boughs off lop the root 
 
 there set 
 
 On such hot wheels toward evil goals 
 
 or good. 
 And desperate each as other; but th.i« 
 
 each. 
 Seeing here himself and knowing why 
 
 here, may set 
 His whole heart's might on the instant 
 
 work, and hence 
 Pass as a man rechristened, bathed 
 
 anew, 
 And swordlike tempered from the touch 
 
 that turns 
 Dull iron to the two-edged fang of steel 
 Made keen as fire by water. So, I 
 
 say, 
 Let this dead likeness of you, wrought 
 
 with hands 
 W' hereof ye wist not, working for mine 
 
 end 
 Even as ye gave them work, unwittingly, 
 Quicken with life your vows and pur- 
 poses 
 To rid the beast that troubles all the 
 
 world 
 Out of men's sight and God's. Are yc 
 
 not sworn 
 Or stand not ready girt at perilous need 
 To strike under the cloth of state itself 
 The very heart we hunt for ? 
 
 Tiihlwrne. Let not then 
 Too high a noise of hound and horn 
 
 give note 
 How hot the hunt is on it, and ere we 
 
 shoot 
 
 To spread in spite of axes. Friends, Startle the royal quarry ; lest your crv 
 take heed : Oive tongue too loud on such a trail. 
 
 These are not met fov nothing here in 
 
 show. 
 Nor for poor pride set forth and boast- 
 ful heart 
 To make dumb brag of the undone deed, 
 
 and wear 
 The ghost and mockery of a crown 
 
 unearned 
 llefore their hands have wrought it for 
 
 their heads 
 Out of a golden danger, glorious doubt, 
 An act incomparable, by all time's 
 
 mouths 
 To be more blessed and cursed than all 
 
 deeds done 
 In this swift fiery world of ours, that 
 
 drives 
 
 and we 
 More piteously be rent of our own 
 
 hounds 
 Than he that went forth huntsman too, 
 
 and came 
 To play the hart he hunted. 
 
 Bab'in^^ton. Ay, but, see, 
 Your apish poct's-likcncss holds not 
 
 here, 
 If he that fed his hounds on his changetl 
 
 flesh 
 Was charmed out of a man, and bayeO 
 
 to death, 
 lUit through pure anger of a perfect 
 
 maitl ; 
 For she that should of huntsmen turn 
 
 us harts 
 
MAKY STCAKT. 
 
 381 
 
 Is Dian but in mouths of her own 
 
 knaves, 
 And in paid eyes hath only godhead on, 
 And light to dazzle none but them to 
 
 death. 
 Yet I durst well abide her, and proclaim 
 As goddess-like as maiden. 
 Bartiivcll. Why, myself 
 Was late at court in presence, and her 
 
 eyes 
 Fixed somewhile on me full in face ; yet, 
 
 'faith, 
 I felt for that no lightning in my blood, 
 Nor blast in mine as of the sun at noon 
 To blind their balls with godhead : no, 
 
 ye see, 
 I walk yet well enough. 
 
 Abiiigton. She gazed at you } 
 Bartnoell. Yes, 'faith : yea, surely : 
 
 take a Puritan oath 
 To seal my faith for Catholic. What, 
 
 God help. 
 Are not mine eyes vet whole, then .'' am 
 
 I blind 
 Or maimed or scorched, and know not } 
 
 By my head, 
 I find it sit yet none the worse for fear 
 To be so thunder-blasted. 
 Abington. Hear you, sirs ? 
 Tichbortie. I was not fain to hear it. 
 Barnwell. W^hich was he 
 Spake of one changed into a hart .'' bv 
 
 God, 
 There be some hearts here need no 
 
 charm, I think. 
 To turn them hares of hunters ; or if 
 
 deer, 
 Not harts but hinds, and rascal. 
 
 Babington. Peace, man, peace ! 
 Let not at least this noble cry of hounds 
 Flash fangs against each other. See 
 
 what verse 
 I bade write. under on the picture here : 
 These are my comrades, whom the peril's 
 
 self 
 Draws to it. How say you ? will not all 
 
 in the end 
 Prove fellows to me? how should one 
 
 fall off 
 Whom danger lures and scares not? 
 
 Tush ! take hands ; 
 U was to keep them fast in all time's 
 
 sight 
 
 I bade my painter set you here, and me 
 Your loving captain ; gave him sight of 
 
 each 
 And order of us all in amity. 
 And if this yet not shame you, or your 
 
 hearts 
 Be set as bovs' on wrangling, yet, 
 
 behold, 
 I pluck as from my heart this witness 
 
 forth '[ Taking out a letter. 
 
 To what a work we are bound to,— 
 
 even her hand 
 Whom we must bring from bondage, 
 
 and again 
 Be brought of her to honor. This is 
 
 she, 
 Mary the queen, sealed of herself and 
 
 signed 
 As mine assured good friend forever. 
 
 Now, 
 Am T more worth, or Ballard? 
 
 Tilney. He it was 
 Bade get her hand and seal to allow of 
 
 all 
 That should be practised ; he is wise. 
 
 Babington. Ay, wise ! 
 He was in peril too, he said, God wot. 
 And must have surety of her, he ; but I, 
 'Tis I that have it, and her heart and 
 
 trust. 
 See all here else, her trust and her good 
 
 love. 
 Who knows mine own heart of mine 
 
 own hand writ 
 And sent her for assurance. 
 Salisbury. This we know : 
 What we would yet have certified of 
 
 you 
 Is her own heart sent back, you say, for 
 
 yours. 
 Babington. I say ? not I, but proof 
 
 says here, cries out 
 Her perfect will and purpose. Look 
 
 you, first 
 She writes me what good comfort hath 
 
 she had 
 To know by letter mine estate, and thus 
 Keknit the bond of our intelligence, 
 As grief was hers to live without the 
 
 same 
 This great while past ; then lovingly 
 
 commends 
 In me her own desire to avert betimes 
 
^^^ 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Our enemies' counsel to root out our 
 
 faith 
 With ruin of us all; for so she hath 
 
 shown 
 All Catholic princes what long since 
 
 thcv have wrought 
 Against the king of Spain; and all this 
 
 while 
 The Catholics naked here to all misuse 
 Fall off in numbered force, in means 
 
 and power, 
 And if we look not to it shall soon lack 
 
 strength 
 To rise and take that hope or help by 
 
 the hand 
 Which time shall offer them; and see 
 
 for this 
 What heart is hers! she bids you know 
 
 of me 
 Though she were no part of this cause, 
 
 who holds 
 Worthless her own weighed with the 
 
 general weal, — 
 She wmH be still most willing to this end 
 To employ therein her life and all she 
 
 hath 
 Or in this world may look for. 
 Ttchborne. This rings well ; 
 But by what present mean prepared 
 
 doth hers 
 Confirm your counsel ? or what way set 
 
 forth 
 So to prevent our enemies with good 
 
 speed 
 That at the goal we find them not, and 
 
 there 
 Fall as men broken ? 
 
 Pahini^tou. Nav, what think you, man. 
 Or what esteem of her, that hope should 
 
 lack 
 Herein her counsel? hath she not been 
 
 found 
 Most wary still, clear-spirited, bright of 
 
 wit'. 
 Keen as a sword's edge, as a bird's eye 
 
 swift, 
 Man-hearted ever ? First, for crown 
 
 and base 
 Of all this enterprise, she bids me here 
 I-.xaminc with good heeil of good event 
 What power of horse and foot among 
 
 us all 
 W« may well muster, and in every shire 
 
 Choose out what captain for them, it 
 
 we lack 
 For the main host a general, — as, in- 
 deed, 
 Myself being bound to bring her out of 
 
 bonds. 
 Or here with you cut off the heretic 
 
 queen. 
 Could take not this on me, — what 
 
 havens, towns, 
 What ports to north and west and south, 
 
 may we 
 Assure ourselves to hold in certain 
 
 hand 
 For entrance and receipt of help from 
 
 France, 
 From Spain, or the Low Countries ; in 
 
 what place 
 Draw our main head together ; for how 
 
 long 
 Raise for this threefold force of foreign 
 
 friends 
 Wage and munition, or what harbors 
 
 choose 
 For these to land; or what provision 
 
 crave 
 Of coin at need or armor; by what 
 
 means 
 The six her friends deliberate to pro- 
 ceed; 
 And, last, the manner how to get her 
 
 forth 
 From this last hold wherein she ne-vly 
 
 lies: 
 These heads hath she set down, and 
 
 bids me take 
 Of all seven points counsel and com 
 
 mon care 
 With as few friends as may be of the 
 
 chief 
 Ranged on our part for actors; and 
 
 thereon 
 Of all devised with diligent speed de- 
 
 si)atch 
 Word to the ambassador of Spain in 
 
 France, 
 Who, to the experience past of all the 
 
 estate 
 Here on this side aforetime that he hath, 
 Shall join goodwill to serve us. 
 
 Tthwy. Ay, no more ? 
 Of us lio more I mean, who being most 
 near 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 38; 
 
 To the English queen our natural mis- 
 tress born 
 Take on our hands, her household pen- 
 sioners', 
 The stain and chiefest peril of her blood 
 Shed by close violence under trusty no 
 
 word, 
 No care shown further of our enterprise 
 That flowers to fruit for her sake ? 
 
 Bahington. Fear not that ; 
 Abide till we draw thither — ay— she 
 
 bids 
 Get first assurance of such help to come, 
 And take thereafter, what before were 
 
 vain. 
 Swift order to provide arms, horses, 
 
 coin. 
 Wherewith to march at word from every 
 
 shire 
 Given by the chief; and save these 
 
 principals 
 Let no man's knowledge less in place 
 
 partake 
 The privv ground we move on, but set 
 
 for'th 
 For entertainment of -the meaner ear 
 We do but fortify us against the plot 
 Laid of the Puritan part in all this 
 
 realm 
 That have their general force now drawn 
 
 to head 
 In the Low Countries, whence being 
 
 home returned 
 They think to spoil us utterly, and usurp 
 Not from her only and all' else lawful 
 
 heirs 
 The kingly power, but from their queen 
 
 that is 
 (As we may let the bruit fly forth dis- 
 guised) 
 Wrest that which now she hath, if she 
 
 for fear 
 fake not their yoke upon her, and 
 
 therefrom 
 Catch like infection from plague-tainted 
 
 air 
 The purulence of their purity; with 
 
 which ]Dlea 
 We so may stablish our confederacies 
 As wrought but for defence of lands, 
 
 lives, goods, 
 From them that would cut off our faith 
 
 and these ; 
 
 No word writ straight or given directly 
 
 forth 
 Against the queen, but rather showing 
 
 our will 
 Firm to maintain her and her lineal 
 
 heirs, 
 Myself (she saith) not named. Ha ! gal- 
 lant souls. 
 Hath our queen's craft no savor of 
 
 sweet wit. 
 No brain to help her heart with ? 
 
 Tichbornc. But our end — 
 No word of this yet? 
 
 Babington. And a good word here, 
 And worth our note, good friend : being 
 
 thus prepared. 
 Time then shall be to set our hands on 
 
 work. 
 And straight thereon take order that 
 
 she may 
 Be suddenly transported out of guard. 
 Not tarrying till our foreign force come 
 
 in. 
 Which then must make the hotter 
 
 haste ; and seeing 
 We can make no day sure for our 
 
 design. 
 Nor certain hour appointed when she 
 
 might 
 Find other friends at hand on spur of 
 
 the act 
 To take her forth of prison, ye should 
 
 have 
 About you always, or in court at 
 
 least. 
 Scouts furnished well with horses of 
 
 good speed 
 To bear the tiding to her and them 
 
 whose charge 
 Shall be to bring her out of bonds, that 
 
 these 
 May be about her ere her keeper have 
 
 word 
 What deed is freshly done, — in any 
 
 case. 
 Ere he can make him strong within the 
 
 house 
 Or bear her forth of it ; and need it 
 
 were 
 By divers ways to send forth two or 
 
 three, 
 That one may pass if one be stayed- 
 
 nor this 
 
384 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Shcjuld we forget, to assay in the hour 
 
 of need 
 To cut the common posts off : by this 
 
 plot 
 May we steer safe, and fall not miser- 
 ably, 
 As they that labored heretofore here- 
 in, 
 Through over-haste to stir upon this 
 
 side 
 Ere surety make us strong of strangers' 
 
 aid. 
 And if at first we bring her forth of 
 
 bonds, 
 Be well assured, she l^ids us — as I 
 
 think 
 She doubts not me that I should let 
 
 this slip, 
 Forget so main a matter — well as- 
 sured 
 To set her in the heart of some strong 
 
 host, 
 Or strength of some good hold, where 
 
 she may stay 
 Till we be mustered, and the ally drawn 
 
 in. 
 For should the queen, being scathless 
 
 of us yet 
 As we unready, fall upon her flight. 
 The bird untimely fled from snare to 
 
 snare 
 Should find, being caught again, a nar- 
 rower hold. 
 Whence she should fly forth never, if 
 
 cause indeed 
 Should seem not given to use her 
 
 worse ; and we 
 Should be with all extremity pursued. 
 To her more grief ; for this should 
 
 grieve her more 
 Than what might heaviest fall upon 
 her. 
 Tilncy. Ay? 
 She hath had, then, work enough to do 
 
 to weep 
 For them that bled before : Northum- 
 berland, 
 The choice of all the- north, spoiled, 
 
 banished, slain ; 
 Norfolk, that should have ringed the 
 
 fourth sad time 
 The fairest hand wherewith fate ever 
 led 
 
 So many a man to deathward, or sealed 
 
 up 
 So many an eye from sunlight. 
 
 /uil>in^i^to?i. Hy my head. 
 Which is the main stake of this cast, 1 
 
 swear 
 There is none worth more than a tear 
 
 of hers 
 That man wears living or that man 
 
 might lose, 
 Borne upright in the sun, or for her 
 
 sake 
 Bowed down by theirs she weeps for. 
 
 Nay, but hear : 
 She bids me take most vigilant heed, 
 
 that all 
 May prosperously find end assured, and 
 
 you 
 Conclude with me in judgment; to mv- 
 
 self, 
 As chief of trust in my particular. 
 Refers you for assurance, and com- 
 mends 
 To counsel seasonable and time's ad- 
 vice 
 Your common resolution ; and again, 
 If the design take yet not hold, as 
 
 chance 
 For all our will may turn it, we shoukl 
 
 not 
 Pursue her transport nor the plot laid 
 
 else 
 Of our so baflfled enterprise; but say 
 When this were done we might not 
 
 come at her, 
 Being by mishap close guarded in the 
 
 Tower 
 Or some strength else as dangerous, 
 
 yet, she saith. 
 For God's sake leave not to proceed 
 
 herein 
 To the utmost undertaking ; for her 
 
 self 
 At any time shall most contentedly 
 Die, knowing of our deliverance from 
 
 the bonds 
 Wherein as slaves we are holden. 
 
 full tnvcll. So shall I, 
 Knowing at the least of her enfran- 
 chisement 
 Whose life were worth the whole blood 
 
 shed o' the world 
 And all men's hearts made empty. 
 
MAK'Y STUART. 
 
 385 
 
 Bahini^toii. Ay, good friend, 
 Here speaks she of your fellows, ihat 
 
 some stir 
 i\!ight be in Ireland labored to begin 
 Some time ere we take aught on us, 
 
 that thence 
 The alarm might spring right on the 
 
 part opposed 
 To where should grow the danger : she 
 
 meantime 
 Should while the work were even in 
 
 hand assay 
 To make the Catholics in her Scotland 
 
 rise, 
 And put her son into their hands, that 
 
 so 
 No help may serve our enemies thence ; 
 
 again, 
 Tb.at from our plots the stroke may 
 
 come, she thinks 
 To have some chief or general head of 
 
 all 
 Were now most apt for the instant end ; 
 
 wherein 
 I branch not off from her in counsel, 
 
 yet 
 Conceive not how to send the ap- 
 pointed word 
 To the earl of Arundel now fast in 
 
 bonds 
 Held in the Tower she spake of late, 
 
 who now 
 Would have us give him careful note 
 
 of this, 
 Him or his brethren ; and from oversea 
 Would have us seek, if he be there at 
 
 large. 
 To the young son of dead Northum- 
 berland, 
 And Westmoreland, whose hand and 
 
 name, we know. 
 May do much northward ; ay, but this 
 
 we know. 
 How much his hand was lesser than his 
 
 name 
 When proof was put on either; and the 
 
 lord 
 Paget, whose power is in some shires 
 
 of weight 
 To incUne them us-ward; both may 
 
 now be had, 
 A.nd some, she saith, of the exiles prin- 
 cipal, 
 
 If the enterprise be resolute once, with 
 
 these 
 May come back darkling; Paget lies in 
 
 Spain, 
 Whom we may treat with by his broth- 
 er's mean, 
 Charles, who keeps watch in Paris. 
 
 Then in the end 
 vShe bids beware no messenger sent forth 
 That bears our counsel bear our letters : 
 
 these 
 Must through blind hands precede 
 
 them, or ensue 
 By ignorant posts, and severally de- 
 spatched ; 
 And of her sweet wise heart, as we 
 
 were fools, — 
 But that I think she fears not, — bids 
 
 take heed 
 Of spies among us and false brethren, 
 
 chief 
 Of priests already practised on, she 
 
 saith. 
 By the enemy's craft against us. What ! 
 
 forsooth. 
 We have not eyes to set such knaves 
 
 apart, 
 And look their wiles through, but 
 
 should need misdoubt 
 — Whom shall I say the least on all 
 
 our side ? — 
 Good Oilbcrt Gifford with his kind 
 
 boy's face 
 That fear's lean self could fear not? 
 
 But God knows 
 Woman is wise, but woman : none so 
 
 bold. 
 So cunning none, God help the soft 
 
 sweet wit, 
 But the fair flesh with weakness taints 
 
 it : why. 
 She warns me here of perilous scrolls 
 
 to keep 
 That I should never bear about me, 
 
 seeing 
 By that fault sank all they that fell 
 
 before 
 Who should have walked unwounded 
 
 else of ]iroof. 
 Unstayed of justice. But this following 
 
 word 
 Hath savor of more judgment: we 
 
 should let 
 
386 
 
 MARY S TV ART. 
 
 As little as we may our names be 
 
 known, 
 Or purpose here, to the envoy sent from 
 
 France, 
 Whom though she hears for honest, we 
 
 must fear 
 I lis master holds the course of his 
 
 design 
 Far contrary to this of ours, which 
 
 known 
 Might move him to discovery. 
 
 Tichhonie. Well forewarned : 
 Fore-armed enough were now that cause 
 
 at need 
 Which had but half so good an armor 
 
 on 
 To fight false faith or France in 
 
 Bahiiii^ton. Peace a while ; 
 Here she winds up her craft. She hath 
 
 long time sued 
 To shift her lodging, and for answer 
 
 hath 
 None but the castle of Dudley named 
 
 as meet 
 To serve this turn ; and thither may 
 
 depart. 
 She thinks, with parting summer; 
 
 whence may we 
 Devise what means about those lands 
 
 to lay 
 For her deliverance; who from present 
 
 bonds 
 May but by one of three ways be dis- 
 charged : 
 When she shall ride forth on the moors 
 
 that part 
 Her jirison-place from Stafford, where 
 
 few folk 
 Use to |)ass over, on the same day set. 
 With fifty or threescore men, well 
 
 horsed and armed. 
 To take her from her keeper's charge, 
 
 who rides 
 With but S(jme score that bear but 
 
 pistols; next, 
 To come by dec]:) night round the dark- 
 ling house, 
 And fire the barns and stables, which 
 
 being nigh 
 Shall draw the household huddling 
 
 forth to help, 
 And they that come to serve her, wear- 
 ing; each 
 
 A secret sign for note and cognizance, 
 May some of them surprise the house, 
 
 whom she 
 Shall with her servants meet and sec- 
 ond ; last. 
 When carts come in at morning, these 
 
 being met 
 In the main gateway's midst may by 
 
 device 
 Fall or be sidelong overthrown, and we 
 Make in thereon, and suddenly possess 
 The house, whence lightly might we 
 
 bear her forth 
 Ere help came in of soldiers to relief 
 Who lie a mile or half a mile away 
 In several lodgings. But, howe'er this 
 
 end. 
 She holds her bounden to me all her 
 
 days. 
 Who proffer me to hazard for her love. 
 And doubtless shall as well esteem of 
 
 you. 
 Or scarce less honorably, when she 
 
 shall know 
 Your names who serve beneath me ; so 
 
 commends 
 Her friend to God, and bids me burn 
 
 the word 
 That I would wear at heart forever : 
 
 yet. 
 Lest this sweet scripture haply write 
 
 us dead, 
 Where she set hand I set my lips, and 
 
 thus 
 Rend mine own heart with her sweet 
 
 name, and end. 
 
 [ Tears the letter. 
 Salisbury. She hath chosen a trusty 
 
 servant. 
 Bal>i Hilton. Ay, of me ? 
 What ails you at her choice ? was this 
 
 not X 
 That laid the ground of all this work, 
 
 and wrought 
 Your hearts to shape for service .-* or 
 
 perchance 
 The man was you that took this first 
 
 on him, 
 To serve her dying and living, ami 
 
 ]>ut on 
 The blood-red name of traitor and the 
 
 deed 
 Found for her sake not murderous? 
 
MAKV STUAKT.' 
 
 387 
 
 Salisbury. Why, they say 
 First Gifford put this on you, Ijallard 
 
 next, 
 Whom he brought over to redeem your 
 
 heart 
 Half lost for doubt already, and refresh 
 I'he flagging flame that fired it first, and 
 
 now 
 Fell faltering half in ashes, whence his 
 
 breath 
 Hardly with hard pains quickened it, 
 
 and blew 
 The gray to red rekindling. 
 
 Babington. Sir, they lie 
 Who say for fear I faltered, or lost 
 
 heart 
 For doubt to lose life after: let such 
 
 know 
 It shames me not, though I were slow 
 
 of will, 
 To take suck work upon my soul and 
 
 hand 
 As killing of a queen ; being once 
 
 assured, 
 Brought once past question, set beyond 
 
 men's doubts 
 By witness of God's will borne sensibly, 
 Meseems I have swerved not. 
 
 Salisbicry. Ay, when once the word 
 Was washed in holy water, you would 
 
 wear 
 Lightly the name so hallowed of 
 
 priests' lips 
 That men spell murderer; but till Bal- 
 lard spake, 
 The shadow of her slaying whom we 
 
 shall strike 
 Was ice to freeze your purpose. 
 Tichborne. Friend, what then ? 
 Is this so small a thing, being English 
 
 born. 
 To strike the living empire here at 
 
 heart 
 That is called England ? stab her pres- 
 ent state. 
 Give even her false-faced likeness up 
 
 to death, 
 With hands that smite a woman ? I 
 
 that speak, 
 Ve know me if now my faith be firm, 
 
 and will 
 To do faith's bidding; yet it wrings 
 
 not me 
 
 To say I was not quick nor light of 
 
 heart, 
 Though moved perforce of will un- 
 willingly. 
 To take in trust this charge upon mc. 
 
 Barnwell. I 
 With all good will would take, and give 
 
 God thanks, 
 The charge of all that falter in it : by 
 
 heaven, 
 To hear in the end of doubts and 
 
 doublings heaves 
 My heart up as with sickness. Why, 
 
 by this 
 The heretic harlot that confounds our 
 
 hope 
 Should be made carrion, with those 
 
 following four 
 That were to wait upon her dead: all 
 
 five 
 Live yet to scourge God's servants, and 
 
 we prate 
 And threaten here in painting. By my 
 
 life, 
 I see no more in us of life or heart 
 Than in this heartless picture. 
 
 Babitigtoit. Peace, again. 
 Our purpose shall not long lack life, 
 
 nor they 
 Whose life is deadly to the heart of 
 
 ours 
 Much longer keep it : Burghley, Wal- 
 
 singham, 
 Hunsdon and Knowles, all these four 
 
 names writ out. 
 With hers at head they worship, are 
 
 but now 
 As those five several letters that spell 
 
 death. 
 In eyes that read them right. Give me 
 
 but faith 
 A little longer: trust that heart a 
 
 while 
 Which laid the ground of all our glo- 
 ries; think 
 I that was chosen of our queen's friends 
 
 in France, 
 By Morgan's hand there prisoner for 
 
 her sake 
 On charge of such a deed's device as 
 
 ours 
 Commended to her for trustiest, and a 
 
 man 
 
588 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 More sure than might be Ballard and 
 
 mcire tit 
 To bear the burden of her counsels, — I 
 Can )"'c not undeserving, whom she 
 
 trusts, 
 That ye should likewise trust me ; 
 
 seeing at first 
 She writes me but a thankful word, 
 
 and this, 
 God wot, for little service ; I return, 
 For aptest answer and thankworthiest 
 
 meed, 
 'vVord of the usurper's plotted end, and 
 
 she 
 With such large heart of trust and 
 
 liberal faith 
 \s here ye have heard requites me : 
 
 whom, I think. 
 Fox you to trust is no too great thing 
 
 now 
 For me to ask and have of all. 
 
 Tiihboriie. Dear friend, 
 Mistrust has no part in our mind of you 
 More than in hers; yet she too bids 
 
 take heed, 
 /\s I would bid you take, and let not 
 
 slip 
 The least of her good counsels, which 
 
 to keep 
 No whit proclaims us colder than her- 
 self 
 Who gives us charge to keep them, 
 
 and to slight 
 No whit proclaims us less unserviceable 
 Who are found too hot to serve her, 
 
 than the slave 
 Who for cold heart and fear might fail. 
 
 Babitt}:^ton. Too hot ! 
 Why, what man's heart hath heat 
 
 enough or blood 
 To give for such good service "i Look 
 
 you, sirs, 
 This is no new thing for my faith to 
 
 kee]). 
 My soul to feed its fires with, and my 
 
 hope 
 F'^i-x eyes upon for star to steer by : she 
 That six years hence the boy that I was 
 
 then, 
 And page, ye know, to Shrewsbury, 
 
 gave his faith 
 I'o serve and worship with his body 
 
 and soul 
 
 For only lady and queen, with powei 
 
 alone 
 To lift my heart up and bow down 
 
 mine eyes 
 At sight and sense of her sweet sove- 
 reignty. 
 Made thence her man forever; she 
 
 whose look 
 Turned all my blood of life to tears 
 
 and fire. 
 That going or coming, sad or glad (for 
 
 yet 
 She would be somewhile merry, as 
 
 though to give 
 Comfort, and ease at heart her servants, 
 
 then 
 Weep smilingly to be so light of mind. 
 Saying she was like the bird grown 
 
 blithe in bonds, 
 That if too late set free would die foi 
 
 fear. 
 Or wild birds hunt it out of life ; if 
 
 sad. 
 Put madness in me for her suffering's 
 
 sake, 
 If joyous, for her very love's sake) still 
 Made my heart mad alike to serve her, 
 
 being 
 I know not when the sweeter, sad or 
 
 blithe, 
 Nor what mood heavenlicst of her, all 
 
 whose change 
 Was as of stars and sun and moon in 
 
 heaven, — 
 She is well content — ye have heard 
 
 her — she, to die. 
 If we without her may redeem our- 
 selves. 
 And loose our lives from bondage ; but 
 
 her friends 
 Must take, forsooth, good heed they be 
 
 not, no. 
 Too hot of heart to serve her ! Anil 
 
 for me, 
 Am I so vain a thing of wind anc smoke 
 That your deep counsel must have care 
 
 to keep 
 My lightness safe in wardship ? I sought 
 
 none, — 
 Craved no man's counsel to draw ])lain 
 
 mv plot, 
 Nec^ no man's warning to dispose my 
 
 deed. 
 
MARY SlXrART. 
 
 389 
 
 Have I not laid of mine own hand a 
 
 snare 
 To bring no 'ess a lusty l)ird to lure 
 Than Walsingham with proffer of my- 
 self 
 For scout and spy on mine own friends 
 
 in France 
 To iiil his wise wide ears with large 
 
 report 
 Of all things wrought there on our side, 
 
 and plots 
 Laid tor our queen's sake ? and for all 
 
 his wit 
 This politic knave misdoubts me not, 
 
 whom ye 
 Hold yet too light and lean of wit to 
 
 pass 
 Unspied of wise men on our enemies' 
 
 part, 
 Who have sealed the subtlest eyes up 
 
 of them all. 
 Ticnborne. That would I know; for 
 
 if they be not blind. 
 Hut only wink upon your proffer, seeing 
 More than they let your own eyes find 
 
 or fear. 
 Why, there may lurk a fire to burn us all 
 Masked in them with false blindness. 
 
 Babiiigton. Hear you, sirs .-' 
 Now, by the faith I had in this my friend, 
 And by mine own yet flawless toward 
 
 him, yea 
 By all true love and trust that holds 
 
 men fast. 
 It shames me that I held him in this 
 
 cause 
 Half mine own heart, my better hand 
 
 and eye. 
 Mine other soul and worthier. Pray 
 
 you, go : 
 Let us not hold you ; sir, be quit of us ; 
 Go home, lie safe, and give God thanks ; 
 
 lie close. 
 Keep your head warm and covered. 
 
 Nay, be wise ; 
 We are fit for no such wise folk's fel- 
 lowship, 
 No married man's who being bid forth 
 
 to fight 
 Holds his wife's kirtle fitter wear fur 
 
 man 
 Than theirs who put on iron : I did 
 
 know it, 
 
 Albeit I would not know; this man that 
 
 was, 
 This soul and sinew of a noble seed. 
 Love and the lips that burn a bride- 
 groom's through 
 Have charmed to deathward, and in 
 
 steel's good stead 
 Left him a silken spirit. 
 
 Tichbonie. iJy that faith 
 Which yet I think you have found as 
 
 fast in me 
 As ever yours I found, you wrong me 
 
 more 
 Than, were I that your words can make 
 
 me not, 
 I had wronged myself and all our 
 
 cause ; I hold 
 No whit less dear, for love's sake even, 
 
 than love. 
 Faith, honor, friendship, all that all my 
 
 days 
 Was only dear to my desire, till now 
 This new thing, dear as all these only 
 
 were, 
 Made all these dearer. If my love be 
 
 less 
 Toward you, toward honor, or this 
 
 cause, then think 
 I love my wife not either, — whom you 
 
 know 
 How close at heart I cherish, — but in 
 
 all 
 Play false alike. Lead now which way 
 
 you will. 
 And wear what likeness : though to all 
 
 men else 
 It look not smooth, smooth shall it 
 
 seem to me. 
 And danger be not dangerous ; w here 
 
 you go, 
 For me shall wildest ways be safe, and 
 
 straight 
 For me the steepest ; with your eyes 
 
 and heart 
 Will I take count of life and death, 
 
 and think 
 No thought against your counsel ; yea, 
 
 by heaven, 
 I had vather follow and trust my friend 
 
 and die, 
 Than halt and hark mistrustfully be 
 
 hind 
 To live of him mistrusted. 
 
390 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Bahiu^i^ton. Why, well said : 
 Strike hands upon it ; I think you shall 
 
 not find 
 A trustless pilot of me. Keep we fast, 
 And hold you fast my counsel, we shall 
 
 see 
 The state high-builded here of heretic 
 
 hope 
 Shaken to dust and death. Here comes 
 
 more proof 
 To warrant me no liar. — You are 
 
 welcome, sirs; 
 Enter Ballard, disguised, and Savage. 
 Good father captain, come you plumed 
 
 or cowled. 
 Or stoled or sworded, here at any hand 
 The true heart bids you welcome. 
 
 Ballard. vSir, at none 
 Is folly welcome to mine ears or eyes. 
 Nay, stare not on me stormily : I say, 
 I bid at no hand welcome, by no name, 
 Be it ne'er so wise or valiant on men's 
 
 lil-^s, 
 Pledge health to folly, nor forecast 
 
 good hope 
 For them that serve her, I, but take of 
 
 men 
 Things ill done ill at any hand alike. 
 Ye shall not say I cheered you to your 
 
 death, 
 Nor would, though naught more danger- 
 ous than your death, 
 Or deadlier for our cause and God's in 
 
 ours, 
 Were here to stand the chance of, and 
 
 your blood, 
 Shed vainly with no seed for faith to 
 
 sow. 
 Should be not poison for men's hopes 
 
 to drink. 
 What is this picture? Have ye sense 
 
 or souls, 
 Eyes, ears, or wits to take assurance 
 
 in 
 Of how ye stand in strange men's eyes 
 
 and ears, 
 How fare upon their talking tongues, 
 
 how dwell 
 In shot of their susi)icion, and sustain 
 lli)w great a work how lightly.-' Think 
 
 ye not 
 These men have ears and eyes about 
 
 your ways, 
 
 Walk with your feet, work with your 
 
 hands, and watch 
 When ye sleep sound and babble in 
 
 your sleep ? 
 What knave was he, or whose man 
 
 sworn and spy, 
 That drank with you last night } whose 
 
 hireling lip 
 Was this that pledged you, Master 
 
 Babington, 
 To a foul quean's downfall and a fair 
 
 queen's rise .'' 
 Can ye not seal your tongues from tav- 
 ern speech, 
 Nor sup abroad but air may catch it 
 
 back, 
 Nor think who set that watch upon your 
 
 lips 
 Yourselves can keep not on them .' 
 
 Babington. What, my friends! 
 Here is one come to counsel, God be 
 
 thanked, 
 That bears commission to rebuke us 
 
 all. 
 Why, hark you, sir, you that speak 
 
 judgment, you 
 That take our doom upon your double 
 
 tongue 
 To sentence and accuse us with one 
 
 breath, 
 Our doomsman and our justicer for 
 
 sin. 
 Good Captain Ballard, Father Fortes- 
 cue, 
 Who made you guardian of us poor 
 
 men, gave 
 Your wisdom wardship of our follies, 
 
 chose 
 Your faith for keeper of our faiths, that 
 
 yet 
 Were never taxed of change or doubted .' 
 
 \'ou, 
 'Tis you that have an eye to us, and 
 
 take note 
 What tiuR' we keep, what place, what 
 
 company. 
 How far may wisdom trust us to be 
 
 wise 
 Or faith esteem us faithful ; and vour- 
 
 self 
 Were once the hireling hand and 
 
 tongue and eye 
 That waited on this very Walsingham 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 391 
 
 To spy men's counsels and betray their 
 
 blood 
 Whose trust had sealed you trusty? By 
 
 God's light, 
 A goodly guard I have of you, to 
 
 crave 
 What man was he I drank with yester- 
 night. 
 What name, what shape, what habit, as, 
 
 forsooth, 
 Were I some statesman's knave and 
 
 spotted spy, 
 The man I served, and care dnot how, 
 
 being dead, 
 His molten gold should glut my throat 
 
 in hell. 
 Might question of me whom I snared 
 
 last night. 
 Make inquisition of his face, his gait. 
 His speech, his likeness. Well, be 
 
 answered, then : 
 By God, I know not ; but God knows I 
 
 think 
 The spy most dangerous on my secret 
 
 walks. 
 And witness of my ways most worth 
 
 my fear. 
 And deadliest listener to devour my 
 
 speech. 
 Now questions me of danger, and the 
 
 tongue 
 Most like to sting my trust and life to 
 
 death 
 Now taxes mine of rashness. 
 
 Ballard. Is he mad t 
 Or are ye brain-sick all with heat of 
 
 wine. 
 That stand and hear him rage like men 
 
 in storms 
 Made drunk with danger ? Have ye 
 
 sworn with him 
 To die the fool's death too of furious 
 
 fear 
 And passion scared to slaughter of 
 
 itself? 
 Is there none here that knows his cause 
 
 or me, 
 Nor what should save or spoil us ? 
 
 Tichborne. Friend, give ear : 
 For God's sake, yet be counselled. 
 
 Babington. A\, for God's ! 
 What part hath God in this man's 
 counsels ? Nay. 
 
 Take you part with him ; nay, in God'i 
 
 name go ; 
 What should you do to bide with me! 
 
 Turn back : 
 There stands your captain. 
 
 Savage. Hath not one man here 
 One spark in spirit or sprinkling left 
 
 of shame ? 
 I that looked once for no such fellow 
 
 ship. 
 But soldiers' hearts in shapes of gen 
 
 tlemen, 
 I am sick with shame to hear men's 
 
 jangling tongues 
 Outnoise their swdlds unbloodied. 
 
 Hear me, sirs ; 
 My hand keeps time before my tongue, 
 
 and hath 
 But wit to speak in iron ; yet as now 
 Such wit were sharp enough to serve 
 
 our turn 
 That keenest tongues may serve not. 
 
 One thing sworn 
 Calls on our hearts: the queen must 
 
 singly die. 
 Or we, half dead men now with dally- 
 ing, must 
 Die several deaths for her brief one, 
 
 and stretched 
 Beyond the scope of sufferance ; where- 
 fore here 
 Choose out the man to put this peril on, 
 And gird him with this glory; let him 
 
 pass 
 Straight hence to court, and through 
 
 all stays of state 
 Strike death into her heart. 
 
 Babington. Why, this rings right; 
 Well said, and soldierlike; do thus, 
 
 and take 
 The vanguard of us all for honor. 
 
 Savage. Ay, 
 Well would I go, but seeing no courtly 
 
 suit 
 Like yours, her servants and her pen- 
 sioners. 
 The doorkeepers will bid my baseness 
 
 back 
 From passage to her presence. 
 
 Babington. Oh ! for that. 
 Take this, and buy: nay, start not froin 
 
 your word ; 
 You shaU not. 
 
392 
 
 MAA'V STUART. 
 
 Sazas^e. Sir, I shall not. 
 Babitigton. Here's more gold; 
 Make haste, and God go with you. If 
 
 the plot 
 Be blown on once of men's suspicious 
 
 breath, 
 We are dead, and all die bootless 
 
 deaths — be swift — 
 And her we have served we shall but 
 
 surely slay. 
 
 I will make'trial again of Walsingham 
 
 If he misdoubt us. Oh ! my cloak and 
 
 sword — \K)i ocking xvilh in . 
 
 I will go forth myself. What noise is 
 
 that ? 
 Get you to Gage's lodging; stay not 
 
 here ; 
 Make speed without for Westminster; 
 
 perchance 
 There may we safely shift our shapes 
 
 and'fly, 
 If the end be come upon us. 
 
 Ballard. It is here. 
 Death knocks at door already. Fly! 
 farewell. 
 Babitigtoti. I would not leave you, 
 but they know you not: 
 V'ou need not fear, being found here 
 singlv. 
 Ballard. No. 
 
 Babingfou. Nay, halt not, sirs; no 
 word but haste ; this way, 
 Ere they break down the doors. God 
 
 speed us well ! 
 [Exeunt all but Ballard. As they go 
 out enter an Officer ivith Soldiers. 
 Officer. Mere's one fo.x yet by the 
 
 foot: lay hold on him. 
 Ballard. What would you, sirs ? 
 Officer. Why, make one foul bird 
 fast. 
 Though the full flight be scattered ; for 
 
 their kind 
 Must prey not here again, nor here 
 
 ])ut on 
 The jay's loose feathers for the raven 
 
 priest's 
 To mock the blear-cvcd marksman: 
 
 these plucked off 
 Shall show the nest that sent this 
 
 fledgling, forth, 
 Hatched in the hottest holy nook of 
 bell. 
 
 Ballard. I am a soldier. 
 Officer. Ay, the badge we know 
 Whose broidery signs the shouldeis oi 
 
 the file 
 That Satan marks for Jesus. Bind hiti 
 
 fast : 
 Blue satin and slashed velvet and golt 
 
 lace, 
 Methinks we have you, and the hat's 
 
 band here 
 So seemly set with silver buttons, all 
 As here was down in order. By r \y 
 
 faith, 
 A goodly ghostly friend to shrive a 
 
 maid 
 As ever kissed for penance . pity 'tis 
 The hangman's hands must hallow hin? 
 
 again 
 When this lay slough slips off, and 
 
 twist one rope 
 For priest to swing with soldier. Bring 
 
 him hence. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Chartley. 
 
 Mary Stuart ^//r/ Mary IJeaton. 
 Mary Stuart. We shall not need 
 
 keep house for fear to-day : 
 The skies are fair and hot ; the wind 
 
 sits well 
 For hound and horn to chime with. I 
 
 will go. 
 Afarv Beaton How far from this tci 
 
 Ti.xall > 
 Mary Stuart. Nine or ten, 
 Or what miles more, I care not : wc 
 
 shall f^nd 
 Fair field and goodly quarry, or ht 
 
 lies, 
 The gospeller that bade us to the sport 
 Protesting yesternight the shire had 
 
 none 
 To shame Sir Walter Aston's. God 
 
 be praised, 
 I take such pleasure yet to back my 
 
 steed 
 And bear my crossbow f^r i dcer'i 
 
 death well, 
 I am almost half content — and yet 1 
 
 lie — 
 To ride no harder nor more dangcrouf 
 
 heat. 
 And hunt no beast of game less gallant 
 
MAA'V STUART. 
 
 393 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, 
 Vou grew long since more patient. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Ah, God help! 
 What should I do but learn the word 
 
 of him 
 These years and years, the last word 
 
 learnt but one, 
 That ^ver I loved least of all sad 
 
 words ? 
 The last is death for any soul to learn, 
 The last save death is patience. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Time enough 
 Wq. have had ere death of life to learn 
 
 it in 
 Since ,ou rode last on wilder ways 
 
 than theirs 
 That drive the dun deer to his death. 
 
 Mary Sttiart. Eighteen — 
 How many more years yet shall God 
 
 mete out 
 P'or thee and me to wait upon their 
 
 will, 
 And ho])e or hope not, watch or sleep, 
 
 and dream 
 Awake or sleeping ? Surely fewer, I 
 
 think, 
 Than half these years that all have 
 
 less of life 
 Than one of those more fleet that flew 
 
 before. 
 I am yet some ten years younger than 
 
 this queen. 
 Some nine or ten; but if I die this 
 
 year, 
 And she some score years longer than 
 
 I think 
 Be royal-titled, in one year of mine 
 I shall have lived the longer life, and 
 
 die 
 The fuller-fortuned woman. Dost thou 
 
 mind 
 The letter that I writ nigh two years 
 
 gone 
 To let her wit what privacies of hers 
 Our trusty dame of Shrewsbury's 
 
 tongue made mine 
 Ere it took fire to sting her lord and 
 
 me } 
 How thick soe'er o'erscurfed with poi- 
 sonous lies, 
 Of her I am sure it lied not ; and per- 
 chance 
 I did the wiselier, having writ my fill. 
 
 Vet to withhold the letter when she 
 
 sought 
 Of me to know what villanies had it 
 
 poured 
 In ears of mine against her innocent 
 
 name : 
 And yet thou knowest what mirthful 
 
 heart was mine 
 To write her word of these, that, !^nd 
 
 she read, 
 Had surely, being but woman, made 
 
 her mad, 
 Or haply, being not woman, had not 
 
 'Faith, 
 How say'st thou.'* did I well } 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ay, surely well 
 To keep that back you did not ill tc 
 
 write. 
 Mary Stuart. I think so, and agair 
 
 I think not ; yet 
 The best I did was bid thee burn it 
 
 She, 
 That other Bess I mean of Hardwick, 
 
 hath 
 Mixed with her gall the fire at heart 
 
 of hell, 
 And all the mortal medicines of the 
 
 world, 
 To drug her speech w ith poison ; and 
 
 God wot 
 Her daughter's child here that I bred 
 
 and loved, 
 Bess Pierpoint, my sweet bedfellow 
 
 that was, 
 Keeps too much savor of her grand- 
 
 am's stock 
 For me to match with Nau : my secre- 
 tary 
 Shall with no slip of hers ingraft his 
 
 own, 
 Begetting shame or peril to us all 
 From her false blood and fiery tongue. 
 
 K.xcept 
 I find a mate as meet to match with 
 
 him 
 For truth to me as Gilbert Curie hath 
 
 found, 
 I will play Tudor once, and break the 
 
 banns. 
 Put on the feature of Elizabeth 
 To frown their hands in sunder. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Were it not 
 Some tyranny to take her likeness on 
 
394 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 And bitter-hearted grudge of matri- 
 mony 
 For one and no*, hi' brother secretary, 
 Forbid your F'reri- hman's banns for 
 
 jealousy, 
 And grace your English with such 
 
 liberal love 
 As Barbara fails not yet to find of you 
 Since she Writ Curie for Mowbray ? 
 
 And herein 
 There shovvs no touch of Tudor in 
 
 your mood 
 More than its wont is ; which indeed is 
 
 naught ; 
 The world, they say, for her should 
 
 waste, ere man 
 Should get her virginal goodwill to 
 
 wed. 
 Mary Stuart. I would not be so tem- 
 pered of my blood. 
 So much mismade as she in spirit and 
 
 flesh. 
 To be more f jir of fortune. She should 
 
 hate 
 Not me — albeit she hate me deadly — 
 
 more 
 Than thee or any woman. By my 
 
 faith, 
 Fain wonld I know, what knowing not 
 
 of her now 
 I muse upon and marvel, — if she have 
 Desire or pulse or passion of true heart 
 F^ed full from natural veins, or be in- 
 deed 
 All bare and barren all as dead men's 
 
 bones 
 Of all sweet nature and sharp seed of 
 
 love. 
 And those salt springs of life, through 
 
 fire and tears 
 That bring forth pain and j)leasure in 
 
 their kind 
 Tf) make gcjod days and evil, all in her 
 Lie sere and sapless as the dust of 
 
 death. 
 I have found no great good haj) in all 
 
 my days. 
 Nor much good cause to make me glad 
 
 of (Jod; 
 Vet have I had and lacked not of my 
 
 life 
 My good things and mine evil, being 
 
 not yet 
 
 Barred from life's natural ends of evii 
 
 and good 
 Foredoomed for man and woman 
 
 through the world 
 Till all their works be nothing; and of 
 
 mine 
 I know but this — though I should die 
 
 to-day, 
 I would not take for mine her fortune. 
 
 Mary Beaton. No .'' 
 Myself perchance I would not. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Dost thou think 
 That fire-tongued witch of Shrewsbury 
 
 spake once truth. 
 Who told me all those quaint, foul, 
 
 merry tales 
 Of our dear sister, that at her desire 
 I writ to give her word of, and at thine 
 Withheld, and put the letter in thine 
 
 hand 
 To burn, as was thy counsel ? For my 
 
 part, 
 How loud she lied soever in the charge 
 That for adultery taxed me with het 
 
 lord, 
 And, being disproved before the council 
 
 here. 
 Brought on their knees to give them- 
 selves the lie 
 Her and her sons by that first lord of 
 
 four 
 That took in turn this hell-mouthed 
 
 hag to wife. 
 And got her kind upon her, — yet ii) 
 
 this 
 I do believe she lied not more than I 
 Reporting her by record, how she said 
 What infinite times had Leicester and 
 
 his queen 
 Plucked all the fruitless fruit of baffled 
 
 love 
 That being contracted privily they 
 
 might ; 
 With what large gust of fierce and 
 
 foiled desire 
 This votaress crowned, whose vow 
 
 could no man break, 
 Since (lod, whose hand shuts up the 
 
 unkindly womb, 
 Had sealed it on her body, man by 
 
 man 
 Would course her kindlcss lovers, and 
 
 in quc«t 
 
MAMV XTUART. 
 
 395 
 
 Pursue them hungering as a hound in 
 heat, 
 
 Full on the fiery scent and slot of lust, 
 
 That men took shame and laughed and 
 marvelled: one. 
 
 Her chamberlain, so hot would she 
 trace, 
 
 A.nd turn perforce from cover, that him- 
 self, 
 
 Being tracked at sight thus in the gen- 
 eral eye, 
 
 Was even constrained to play the pite- 
 ous hare, 
 
 And -A'ind and double till her amorous 
 chase 
 
 Were blind with speed and breathless ; 
 but the worst 
 
 Was this, that for this country's sake 
 and shame's 
 
 Our huntress Dian could not be content 
 
 With Hatton, and another born her 
 man 
 
 And subject of this kingdom, but to 
 heap 
 
 The heavier scandal on her countrymen 
 
 Had cast the wild growth of her lust 
 away 
 
 On one base-born, a stranger, whom of 
 nights 
 
 Within her woman's chamber would 
 she seek 
 
 To kiss and play for shame with 
 secretly; 
 
 And with the duke her bridegroom that 
 should be, — 
 
 That should and could not, seeing for- 
 sooth no man 
 
 Might make her wife or woman, — had 
 
 she dealt 
 rt-s with this knave his follower; for by 
 night 
 
 She met him coming at her chamber 
 
 door 
 .^n her bare smock and night-rail, and 
 
 thereon 
 Bade him come in ; who there abode 
 
 three hours. 
 r;ut fools were they that thought to 
 
 bind her will. 
 And stay with one man, or allay the 
 
 mood 
 That ranging still gave tongue on sev- 
 eral heats 
 
 To hunt fresh trails of lusty love. AU 
 
 this. 
 Thou knowest, on record truly was set 
 
 down. 
 With much more villanous else: sh* 
 
 prayed me write 
 That she might know tAe natural spirit 
 
 and mind 
 Toward her of this fell witch whose 
 
 rancorous mouth 
 Then bayed my name, as now being 
 
 great with child 
 By her fourth husband, in whose charge 
 
 Hay 
 As here in Paulet's ; so being moved I 
 
 wrote. 
 And yet I would she had read it, though 
 
 not now 
 Would I re-write each word again, 
 
 albeit 
 I might, or thou, were I so minded, ot 
 Thyself so moved to bear such witness. 
 
 But 
 'Tis well we know not how she had 
 
 borne to read 
 All this and more ; what counsel gave 
 
 the dame. 
 With loud excess of laughter urginp 
 
 me 
 To enter on those lists of love-making 
 My son for suitor to her, who thereby 
 Might greatly serve and stead me in 
 
 her sight ; 
 And, I replying that such a thing could 
 
 be 
 But held a very mockery, she returns, 
 The queen was so infatuate and dis- 
 traught 
 With high conceit of her fair fretted 
 
 face 
 As of a heavenly goddess, that her 
 
 self 
 Would take it on her head with no 
 
 great pains 
 To bring her to believe it easily; 
 Being so past reason fain of flattering 
 
 tongues. 
 She thought they mocked her not no» 
 
 lied who said 
 They might not sometimes look her full 
 
 in face 
 i ^r the light glittering from it as the 
 sun; 
 
39^ 
 
 MAKV STUART, 
 
 And so perforce must all her women : Belied her, saying she then must needs 
 
 say, i die soon 
 
 And she' herself that spake, who durst For timeless fault of nature. Nov. 
 
 not look belike 
 
 F"or fear to laugh out each in other's The soothsaying that speaks short be' 
 
 face I span to be 
 
 Rven while they fooled, and fed her May prove more true of presage. 
 
 vein with words, \ Mary Beaton. Have you hope 
 
 Mor let their eyes cross when they The chase to-day may serve oui further 
 
 spake to her 
 \nd set their feature fast in a frame 
 To keep grave countenance with gross 
 
 mockery lined ; 
 And how she prayed me chide her 
 
 daughter, whom 
 She might by no means move to take 
 
 this way, 
 And for her daughter Talbot was 
 
 assured 
 She could not ever choose but laugh 
 
 outright 
 Even in the good queen's flattered face. 
 
 God wot, 
 Had she read all, and in my hand set 
 
 down, 
 I could not blame her though she had 
 
 sought to take 
 My head for payment* no less poise on 
 
 earth 
 Had served, and hardly, for the writer's 
 
 fee ; 
 I could not much have blamed her ; all 
 
 the less, 
 That I did take this, though from slan- 
 derous lijis. 
 For gosjxM and not slander, and that 
 
 now 
 I vet do well l^elieve it. 
 
 Marv Heaiou. And herself 
 Had well believed so much, and surely 
 
 seen, — 
 For all your j^rotcst of discredit made 
 
 ends 
 Than to renew your spirit, and bid 
 
 time speed } 
 Mary Stuart. I see not, but I mav 
 
 the hour is full 
 Which I was bidden expect of them to 
 
 bear 
 More fruit than grows of promise. 
 
 Babington 
 Should tarry now not long; fron» 
 
 France our friends 
 Lift up their heads to us-ward, and 
 
 await 
 What comfort may confirm them from 
 
 our part 
 Who sent us comfort ; Ballard's secret 
 
 tongue 
 Has kindled England, striking from 
 
 men's hearts 
 As from a flint the fire that slept, and 
 
 made 
 Their dark dumb thoughts and dim 
 
 disfigured hopes 
 Take form from his and feature, aim 
 
 and strength. 
 Speech and desire toward action ; all 
 
 the shires 
 Wherein the force lies hidden of our 
 
 faith 
 Are stirred and set on edge of prese-* 
 
 deed 
 And hope more imminent now of help 
 
 to come 
 
 With Ood to witness that vou could And work to do than ever; not this 
 
 not take 
 Such tales 4or truth of her, nor would 
 
 not, —yet 
 Sou meant not she should take your 
 
 word for this. 
 As well I think she would not. 
 
 Marv Stuart. Haply, no. 
 W'c d() i)rotcst not thus to be believed. 
 And yet the witch in one thing seven 
 
 years since 
 
 We hang on trust in succor that conie.«« 
 
 short 
 By Philip's fault from Austrian John, 
 
 whose death 
 Put widow's weeds on mine unwcddcd 
 
 hoi)e, 
 Late troihplight lO his enterprise in v^ 
 That was li>'set me free, but m'^iht r»«« 
 
 be.il 
 
A/A/i^y STUART. 
 
 397 
 
 The faith it pledged, nor on the hand 
 
 of hope 
 Make fast the ring that weds desire 
 
 with deed 
 And promise with perforn-.ance ; Parma 
 
 stands 
 More fast now for us in his uncle's 
 
 stead, 
 Albeit the lesser warrior, yet in place 
 More like to avail us, and in happier 
 
 time 
 To do like service; for my cousin of 
 
 Guise, 
 His hand and league hold fast our 
 
 kinsman king. 
 If not to bend and shape him for our 
 
 use. 
 Vet so to govern as he may not thwart 
 Our forward undertaking till its force 
 Discharge itself on England : from no 
 
 side 
 I see the shade of any fear to fail 
 As those before so bafHed ; heart and 
 
 hand 
 Our hope is armed with trust more 
 
 strong than steel, 
 And spirit to strike more helpful than 
 
 a sword 
 In hands that lack the spirit; and here 
 
 to-day 
 It may be I'shall look this hope in the 
 
 eyes. 
 And see her face transfigured. God is 
 
 good : 
 ile will not fail his faith forever. Oh 
 That I were now in saddle ! Yet an 
 
 hour, 
 And I shall be as young again as 
 
 May 
 Whose life was come to August; like 
 
 this year, 
 I had grown past midway of my life, 
 
 and sat 
 Heartsick of summer ; but new-mounted 
 
 now 
 I shall ride right through shine and 
 
 shade of spring 
 With heart and habit of a bride, and 
 
 bear 
 A brow more bright than fortune. 
 
 Truth it is, 
 r <5se words of bride and May should 
 
 on my tongue 
 
 Sound now not merry, ring no joy-bells 
 
 out 
 In ears of hope or memory; not foi 
 
 me 
 Have they been joyous words ; but thiF 
 
 fair day 
 All sounds that ring delight in forlu 
 
 nate ears. 
 And words that make men thankful 
 
 even to me 
 Seem thankworthy for joy they have 
 
 given me not 
 And hope which now they should not. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, who knows ? 
 The less they have given of joy, the 
 
 more they may ; 
 And they who have had their happiness 
 
 before 
 Have hope not in the future ; time o'er- 
 
 past 
 And time to be have several ends, nor 
 
 wear 
 One forward face and backward. 
 
 Mary Stuart- God, I pray, 
 Turn thy good words to gospel, and 
 
 make truth 
 Of their kind presage! but our Scots- 
 women 
 Would say, to be so joyous as T am. 
 Though I had cause, as surely cause 1 
 
 have. 
 Were no good warrant cf good hope 
 
 for me. 
 I never took such comfort of my trust 
 In Norfolk or Northumberland, nor 
 
 looked 
 For such good end as now of all my 
 
 fears 
 From all devices past of policy 
 To join my name with my misnatured 
 
 son's 
 In handfast pledge with England's, ere 
 
 niv foes 
 His counsellors had flawed his craven 
 
 faith, 
 And moved my natural blood to cast 
 
 me off 
 Who bore him in my body, to com« 
 
 forth 
 Less childlike than a changeling. Bm 
 
 not long 
 Sba'l they find means by him to work 
 
 their will, 
 
39» 
 
 ^fARY STUART. 
 
 Nor he bear head against me ; hope 
 
 was his 
 To reign forsooth without my fellow- 
 ship, 
 And he that with me would not shall 
 
 not now 
 Without or with me wield not or divide 
 Or part or all of empire. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Dear my queen, 
 Vex not your mood with sudden change 
 
 of thoughts ; 
 Your mind but now was merrier than 
 
 the sun 
 Half rid by this through morning: we 
 
 bv noon 
 Should blithely mount and meet him. 
 
 Mary Stuart. So I said. 
 My spirit is fallen again from that glad 
 
 strength 
 Which even but now arrayed it; yet 
 
 what cause 
 Should dull the dancing measure in my 
 
 blood 
 For doubt or wrath. I know not. Being 
 
 once forth, 
 My heart again will quicken. 
 
 {Sings. 
 
 And ye maun braid your yellcnu hair. 
 And busk ye like a bride ; 
 
 IVi' sevenscore men to bring ye /lame, 
 And ae true love b:side ; 
 
 Between the birk and the green roruan 
 Fu" blithely shall ye ride. 
 
 O ye maun braid my yelloiu hair. 
 But braid it like nae bride : 
 
 And I maun gang my ways, tnither, 
 Wi ' nae true hn>e beside ; 
 
 Between the kirk and the kirkyard 
 /»'«' sadly shall I ride. 
 
 How long since, 
 How long since was it last I heard or 
 
 sang 
 Such light lost ends of old faint rhyme 
 
 worn thin 
 With use of country songsters ? When 
 
 we twain 
 Were maidens but some twice a span's 
 
 length high, 
 Thou hadst the hai)picr UKinory to hold 
 
 rhvme. 
 But not tor songs the merrier. 
 
 Mary Beaton. This was one 
 That I would sing after my nurse, I 
 
 think. 
 And weep upon in France at six yeari 
 
 old 
 To think of Scotland. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Would I weep for 
 that, 
 Woman or child, I have had now years 
 
 enough 
 To weep in : thou wast never f>ench 
 
 in heart. 
 Serving the queen of France. Poor 
 
 queen that was, 
 Poor boy that played her bridegroom 1 
 
 now they seem 
 In these mine'eyes that were her eyes 
 
 as far 
 Beyond the reach and range of old- 
 world time 
 As their first fathers' graves. 
 
 Enter SiR Amyas Paulet. 
 Paulet. Madam, if now 
 It please you to set forth, the hour is 
 
 full, 
 And there your horses ready. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Sir, my thanks. 
 We are bounden to you and this goodly 
 
 day 
 For no small comfort. Is it your will 
 
 we ride 
 Accompanied with any for the nonce 
 Of our own household .'' 
 
 Paulet. If you will, to-day 
 Your secretaries have leave to ride with 
 you. 
 Mary Stuart. We keep some state, 
 then, yet. I pray you, sir, 
 Doth he wait on you that came here 
 
 last month, — 
 A low built, lank - cheeked, Judas- 
 bearded man, 
 Loan, supple, grave, pock-pitten, yellow- 
 polled, 
 A smiling fellow with a downcast eye? 
 Paulet. Madam, I know the man foi 
 
 none of mine. 
 Mary Stuart. I give you joy as you 
 should give God thanks, 
 Sir, if I err not ; but mescemed this 
 
 man 
 Found gracious entertainment here, and 
 took 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 399 
 
 Such counsel with you as I surely 
 
 thought 
 Spake him your friend, and honorable. 
 
 But now, 
 If I misread not an ambiguous word, 
 It seems you know no more of him or 
 
 less 
 Than Peter did, being questioned, of 
 
 his Lord. 
 Patdet. I know not where the cause 
 
 were to be sought 
 That might for likeness or unlikeness 
 
 found 
 Make seemly way for such compari- 
 son 
 As turns such names to jest and bitter- 
 ness : 
 Howbeit, as I denied not nor disclaimed 
 To know the man you speak of, yet I 
 
 may 
 With very purity of truth profess 
 The man to be not of my following. 
 
 Mary Stuart. See 
 How lightly may the tongue that thinks 
 
 no ill 
 Or trip or slip, discoursing that or 
 
 this 
 With grave good men in purity and 
 
 truth. 
 And come to shame even with a word ! 
 
 God wot. 
 We had need put bit and bridle in our 
 
 lips 
 Ere they take on them of their foolish- 
 ness 
 To change wise words with wisdom. — 
 
 Come, sweet friend, 
 Let us go seek our kind with horse and 
 
 hound 
 To keep us witless company ; belike. 
 There shall we find our fellows. 
 [Exeunt Mary Stuart and Mary 
 Beaton. 
 Patilet. Would to God 
 This day had done its office ! mine till 
 
 then 
 Holds me the verier prisoner. 
 Enter Phillipps. 
 Phillipps. She will go .? 
 Paulet. Gladly, poor sinful fool, — 
 
 more gladly, sir, 
 Than I go with her. 
 Phillipps. Yet you go not far : 
 
 She is come too near her end of way 
 
 faring 
 To tire much more men's feet that 
 
 follow. 
 Pajdet. Ay. 
 She H'alks but half blind yet to the end. 
 
 Even now 
 She spake of you, and questioned 
 
 doubtfully 
 What here you came to do, or held what 
 
 place 
 Or commerce with me : when you 
 
 caught her eye, 
 It seems your courtesy by some grace- 
 less chance 
 Found but scant grace with her. 
 
 Phillipps. 'Tis mine own blame, 
 Or fault of mine own feature ; yet for- 
 sooth 
 I greatly covet not their gracious hap 
 Who have found or find most grace 
 
 with her. I pray. 
 Doth Wade go with you .'' 
 
 Patdet. Nay, — what ! know you 
 
 not ? — 
 But with Sir Thomas Gorges, from the 
 
 court, 
 To drive this deer at Tixall. 
 
 Phillipps. Two years since, 
 He went, I think, commissioned from 
 
 the queen 
 To treat with her at Sheffield.^ 
 
 Paulet. Ay, and since 
 She hath not seen him ; who being 
 
 known of here 
 Had haply given her swift suspicion 
 
 edge. 
 Or cause at least of wonder. 
 
 Phillipps. And I doubt 
 His last year's entertainment oversea 
 As our queen's envoy to demand of 
 
 France 
 Her traitor Morgan's body, whence he 
 
 brought 
 Naught save dry blows back from the 
 
 Duke d'Aumale, 
 And for that prisoner's quarters here 
 
 to hang 
 His own not whole but beaten, should 
 
 not much 
 Incline him to more good regard of her 
 For whose love's sake her friends have 
 
 dealt with him 
 
400 
 
 MAf^y STUART. 
 
 So honorably ; nor she that knows of 
 
 this 
 Be the less like io take his presence 
 
 here 
 For no good presage to her : you have 
 
 both done well 
 To keep his hand as close herein as 
 
 mine. 
 Paiilet. Sir, by my faith I know not, 
 
 for myself. 
 What pait is for mine honor, or where- 
 in 
 Of all this action laid upon mine hand 
 The name and witness of a gentleman 
 May gain desert or credit, and increase 
 In seed and harvest of good men's 
 
 esteem 
 For heritage to his heirs, that men 
 
 unborn 
 Whose fame is as their name derived 
 
 from his 
 May reap in reputation ; and indeed 
 1 look for none advancement in the 
 
 world 
 Further than this that yet for no man's 
 
 sa'.te 
 Would I forego, to keep the name I 
 
 have 
 And honor, which no son of mine shall 
 
 say 
 I have left him not for any deed of mine 
 As perfect as my sire bequeathed it me : 
 I say, for any word or work yet past 
 No tongue can thus far tax me of de- 
 cline 
 From that fair forthright way of gentle- 
 man, 
 Nor shall for any that I think to do 
 Or aught I think to say alive : howbeit, 
 I were much bounden to the man would 
 
 say 
 But so much for me in our mistress' ear, 
 'i'he treasurer's, or your master Walsing- 
 
 hani's, 
 Whose office here I have undergone 
 
 thus hjug, 
 And had I leave more gladly would 
 
 l)ut off 
 Than ever I put on me; being not one 
 'J'b.at out of love toward Fngland even 
 
 or CJod 
 At mightiest men's desire would lightly 
 
 be 
 
 Foi loyalty disloyal, or approved 
 In ".rustless works a trusty traitor •, this 
 He that should tell them of me, to pro- 
 cure 
 The speedier end here of this work 
 
 imposed, 
 Should bind me to him more heartily 
 
 than thanks 
 Might answer. 
 
 Phillips. Good Sir Amyas, you and I 
 Hold no such office in this dangerous 
 
 time 
 As men make love to for their own 
 
 name's sake 
 Or personal lust of honor; but herein 
 I pray you yet take note, and pardon 
 
 me 
 If I for the instance mix your name with 
 
 mine. 
 That no man's private honor lies at 
 
 gage, 
 Nor is the stake set here to play for 
 
 less 
 Than what is more than all men's 
 
 names alive, — 
 The great life's gage of England ; in 
 
 whose name 
 Lie all our own impledged, as all our 
 
 lives 
 For her redemption forfeit, if the cause 
 Call once upon us. Not this gift or 
 
 this, 
 Or what best likes us, or were gladliest 
 
 given, 
 Or might most honorably be parted 
 
 with 
 For our more credit on her best be- 
 half, 
 Doth she we serve, this land that made 
 
 us men, 
 Require of all her children; but 
 
 demands 
 Of our great duty toward her full deserts, 
 luen all we have of honor or of life, 
 Of breath or fame, to give her What 
 
 were I, 
 Or what were you, being mean or nobly 
 
 born. 
 Vet moulded both of one land's natural 
 
 womb 
 Anil fashioneil out of Fngland, to deny 
 What gift she crave soever, choose and 
 
 grudge 
 
M^/?V STUART. 
 
 401 
 
 What grace we list to give or what 
 
 withhold, 
 Refuse and reckon with her when she 
 
 bids 
 Yield up, forsooth, not life but fame to 
 
 come, 
 K good man's praise or gentleman's 
 
 repute, 
 Or lineal pride of children, and the 
 
 light 
 Of loyalty remembered ? which of these 
 Were worth our mother's death, or 
 
 shame that might 
 Fall for one hour on England ? She 
 
 must live, 
 And keep in all men's sight her honor 
 
 fast, 
 Though all we die dishonored; and 
 
 myself 
 Know not nor seek of men's report to 
 
 know 
 If what I do to serve her till T die 
 Be honorable or shameful, and its end 
 Good in men's eyes or evil ; but for 
 
 God, 
 I find not why the name or fear of 
 
 him 
 Herein should make me swerve or 
 
 start aside 
 Through faint heart's falsehood, as a 
 
 broken bow 
 Snapped in his hand that bent it, ere 
 
 the shaft 
 Find out his enemies' heart, and I that 
 
 end 
 Whereto I am sped for service even of 
 
 him 
 Who put this office on us. 
 
 Paulet. Truly, sir, 
 I lack the wordy wit to match with 
 
 yours, 
 Who speak no more than soldier; this 
 
 I know, — 
 1 arn sick in spirit and heart to have in 
 
 hand 
 Such work or such device of yours as 
 
 yet 
 For fear and conscience of what worst 
 
 may come 
 I dare not well bear through. 
 
 Phillipps. Why, so last month 
 V'ou writ my master word, and me to 
 
 boot. 
 
 I had set you down a course for manj 
 
 things 
 You durst not put in execution, nor 
 Consign the packet to this lady's hand 
 That was returned from mine, seeing all 
 
 was well, 
 And you should hold yourself most 
 
 wretched man 
 If by your mean or order there should 
 
 _ spring 
 Suspicion 'twixt the several messengers 
 Whose hands unwitting each of other 
 
 ply 
 The same close trade for the same 
 
 golden end. 
 While either holds his mate a faithful 
 
 fool, 
 And all their souls, base-born or gently 
 
 bred. 
 Are coined and stamped and minted 
 
 for our use 
 And current in our service : I thereon. 
 To assuage your doubt and fortify your 
 
 fear. 
 Was posted hither, where by craft and 
 
 pains 
 The web is wound up of our enter- 
 prise, 
 And in our hands we hold her very 
 
 heart 
 As fast as all this while we held im- 
 pawned 
 The faith of Barnes that stood for Gif- 
 
 ford here 
 To take what letters for his mistress 
 
 came 
 From southward through the ambassa^ 
 
 dor of France, 
 And bear them to the brewer, your hon- 
 est man, 
 Who wist no further of his fellowship 
 Than he of Gifford's, being as simple 
 
 knaves 
 As knavish each in his simplicity. 
 And either serviceable alike, to sh:-*t 
 Between my master's hands and yt^viri 
 
 and mine 
 Her letters writ and answered to und 
 
 fro; 
 And all these laiths as w^ather-tiqpi 
 
 and safe 
 As was the box ♦ha*^ held ihrvse letter^ 
 
402 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 At bottom of the barrel, to give up 
 The charge there sealed and ciphered, 
 
 and receive 
 A charge as great in peril and in price 
 To yield again, when they drew off the 
 
 beer 
 That weekly served this lady's house- 
 hold whom 
 We have drained as dry of secrets 
 
 drugged with death 
 As ever they this vessel, and return 
 To her own lips the dregs she brewed 
 
 or we 
 For her to drink have tempered. What 
 
 of this 
 Should seem so strange now to you, or 
 
 distaste 
 So much the daintier palate of your 
 
 thoughts, 
 That I should need reiterate you by 
 
 word 
 The work of us o'erpast, or fill your 
 
 ear 
 With long foregone recital, that at last 
 Your soul may start not, or your sense 
 
 recoil, 
 To know what end we are come to, or 
 
 what hope 
 We took in hand vo cut this peril off 
 ]!y w^hat close mean soe'er and what 
 
 foul hands 
 Unwashed of treason, wliich it yet mis- 
 likes 
 Your knightly palm to touch or close 
 
 with, seeing 
 The grime of gold is baser than of 
 
 blood 
 That barks their filthy fingers ? yet 
 
 with these 
 Must you cross hands and grapple, or 
 
 let fall 
 The trust you took to treasure. 
 
 Paulft. Sir, I will, 
 lAcn till the queen take back that gave 
 
 it ; yet 
 Will not join hands with these, nor 
 
 take on mine 
 The taint of their contagion ; knowing 
 
 no cause 
 That should confound or couple my 
 
 good name 
 With theirs more hateful than the reck 
 
 of heJl. 
 
 You had these knaveries and these 
 
 knaves in charge, 
 Not I that knew not how to handle 
 
 them. 
 Nor whom to choose for chief of trea 
 
 sons, him 
 That in mine ignorant eye, unused to 
 
 read 
 The shameful scripture of such facea. 
 
 bare 
 Graved on his smooth and simpk- 
 
 cheek and brow 
 No token of a traitor; yet this bo\. 
 This milk-mouthed weanling with his 
 
 maiden chin, 
 This soft-lipped knave, late suckled as 
 
 on blood 
 And nursed of poisonous nipples, have 
 
 you not 
 Found false or feared by this, whom 
 
 first you found 
 A trustier thief and worthier of his 
 
 wage 
 Than I, poor man, had wit to find 
 
 him? I, 
 That trust no changelings of the church 
 
 of hell, 
 No babes reared priestlike at the paps 
 
 of Rome, 
 Who have left the old harlot's deadly 
 
 dugs drawn dry, 
 I lacked the craft to rate this knave of 
 
 price, 
 Your smock-faced Gifford, at his worth 
 
 aright. 
 Which now comes short of promise. 
 
 Phillipps. Oh, not he ! 
 Let not your knighthood for a slippery 
 
 word 
 So much misdoubt his knaveship : here 
 
 from France, 
 On hint of our suspicion in his ear 
 Malf-jcstinglv recorded, that his hand 
 Were set against us in one j^olitic track 
 With his old yokefellows in craft and 
 
 creed, 
 Betraying not them to us but ourselves 
 
 to them, 
 My Gilbert writes me with such heat 
 
 of hand, 
 Such jiitcous ]>rotcstation of his faith. 
 So stuffed and swoln with burly-bellied 
 
 oaths, — 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 403 
 
 A.nd God and Christ confound him if 
 
 he lie, 
 And Jesus save him as he speaks mere 
 
 truth, — 
 My gracious godly priestling, that your- 
 self 
 Must sure be moved to take his truth 
 
 on trust, 
 Or stand for him approved an atheist. 
 
 Fau/t'L Well, 
 That you find stuff of laughter in such 
 
 gear, 
 And mirth to make out of the godless 
 
 mouth 
 Of such a twice-turned villain, for my 
 
 part, 
 I take in token of your certain trust, 
 And make therewith mine own assur- 
 ance sure, 
 To see betimes an end of all such 
 
 craft 
 As takes the faith forsworn of loud- 
 
 tongued liars, 
 And blasphemies of brothel-breathing 
 
 knaves, 
 To build its hope or break its jest 
 
 upon ; 
 And so commend you to your charge, 
 
 and take 
 Mine own on me less gladly; for by 
 
 this 
 She should be girt to ride, as the old 
 
 saw saith. 
 Out of God's blessing into the warm 
 
 sun, 
 And out of the warm sun into the pit 
 That men have dug before her, as her- 
 self 
 Had dug for England else a deeper 
 
 grave 
 To hide our hope forever : yet I would 
 This day and all that hang on it were 
 
 done. [Exeuuf. 
 
 Scene IIT. — Before Tixall Park. 
 
 Mary Stuart, Mary Beaton, Pau- 
 LET, CURLE, Nau, and Atteiidaiits. 
 Mary Stuart. If I should nevermore 
 back steed alive, 
 lUit now had ridden hither this fair day 
 The last road ever I must ride on 
 earth. 
 
 Yet would I praise it, saying of all 
 
 days gone 
 And all roads ridden in sight of stars 
 
 and sun 
 Since first I sprang to saddle, here at 
 
 last 
 I had found no joyless end. These 
 
 ways are smooth, 
 And all this land's face merrv; yet I 
 
 find 
 The ways even therefore not so good 
 
 to ride. 
 And all the land's face therefore less 
 
 worth love, 
 Being smoother for a palfrey's ma"den 
 
 pace 
 And merrier than our moors for out- 
 look : nay, 
 I lie to say so ; there the wind and sun 
 Make madder mirth by midsummer, 
 
 and fill 
 With broader breadth and lustier 
 
 length of light 
 The heartier hours that clothe for even 
 
 and dawn 
 Our bosom-belted billowy-blossoming 
 
 hills 
 Whose hearts break out in laughter 
 
 like the sea 
 For miles of heaving heather. Ye 
 
 should mock 
 My banished praise of Scotland ; and 
 
 in faith 
 I praised it but to prick you on to 
 
 praise 
 Of your own goodly land ; though field 
 
 and wood 
 Be parked and parcelled to the sky's 
 
 edge out. 
 And this green Stafford moorland 
 
 smooth and strait 
 That we but now rode over, and by 
 
 ours 
 Look pale for lack of large live moun 
 
 tain bloom 
 Wind-buffeted with morning, it should 
 
 be 
 Worth praise of men whose lineal 
 
 honor lives 
 In keejiing here of history. But me 
 
 seems 
 I have heard. Sir Amyas, of your lib 
 
 eral west 
 
404 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 As of a land more aftluent-soulcd than 
 this, 
 
 And fruitful-hearted as the south-wind t 
 here 
 
 I find a fair-faced change of temperate 
 clime 
 
 From that bald hill-brow in a broad 
 bare plain 
 
 Where winter laid us both his prison- 
 ers late 
 
 Fast by the feet at Tutbury ; but men 
 say 
 
 Vour birthright in this land is fallen 
 more fair 
 
 In goodlier ground of heritage : per- 
 chance, 
 
 Grief to be now barred thence by mean 
 of me, 
 
 Who less than you can help it or my- 
 self, 
 
 Makes you ride sad and sullen. 
 Paulet. Madam, no : 
 
 I pray you lay not to my wilful charge 
 
 The blame or burden of discourtesy 
 
 That but the time should bear which 
 lays on me 
 
 This weight of thoughts untimely. 
 Mary Stuart. Nay, fair sir, 
 
 If I, that have no cause in life to seem 
 
 Glad of my sad life more than prison- 
 ers may, 
 
 Take comfort yet of sunshine, he me- 
 thinks 
 
 That holds in ward my days and nights 
 might well 
 
 Take no less pleasure of this broad 
 blithe air 
 
 Than his poor charge that too much 
 troubles him. 
 
 What! are we nigh the chase? 
 Paulet. Even hard at hand. 
 Mar-^' Stuart. Can I not see between 
 the glittering leaves 
 
 Cilcam the dun hides and flash the 
 startled horns 
 
 That we must charge and scatter? 
 Were I (jueen, 
 
 And had a crown to wager on my hand. 
 
 Sir, I would set it on the chance to- 
 day 
 
 To shoot a flight beyond you. 
 Paulet. Verily, 
 
 The hazard were loo heavy for my skill ; 
 
 I would not hold your wager. 
 Majy Stuart. No ! and why ? 
 Paulet. For fear to come a bowshot 
 
 short of you 
 On the left hand, unluckily. 
 Mary Stuart. My friend. 
 Our keeper's wit-shaft is too keen for 
 
 ours 
 To match its edge with pointless iron. 
 
 Sir, 
 Your tongue shoots farther than my 
 
 hand or eye 
 With sense or aim can follow. — Gil- 
 bert Curie, 
 Your heart yet halts behind this cry 
 
 of hounds, 
 Hunting your own deer's trail at home, 
 
 who lies 
 Now close in covert till her bearing- 
 time 
 Be full to bring forth kindly fruit of 
 
 kind 
 To love that yet lacks issue ; and in 
 
 sooth 
 I blame you not to bid all sport go by 
 For one white doe's sake travailing, 
 
 who myself 
 Think long till I may take within mine 
 
 arm 
 The soft fawn suckling that is yeaned 
 
 not yet, 
 But is to make her mother. We must 
 
 hold 
 A goodly christening feast with prison- 
 er's cheer 
 And mirth enow for such a tender thing 
 As will not weep more to be born in 
 
 bonds 
 Than babes born out of gaoler's ward, 
 
 nor grudge 
 To find no friend more fortunate than 1 
 Nor happier hand to welcome it, nor 
 
 name 
 More prosperous than jHuir mine to 
 
 weal, if Ciod 
 Shall send the new-made mother's 
 
 breast, for love 
 Of us that love his mother's maiden 
 
 hood, 
 A maid to be my name-child, and in 
 
 all 
 Save love to them that love her, b>- 
 
 God's grace, 
 
AfAS!y STUART. 
 
 405 
 
 Most unlike me ; for whose unborn 
 
 sweet sake 
 Pray you meantime be merry. — 'Faith, 
 
 methinks 
 Here be more huntsmen out afield to- 
 day, 
 And merrier than my guardian. Sir, 
 
 look up : 
 What think you of these riders.? — All 
 
 my friends, 
 Make on to meet them. 
 
 Paulet. There shall need no haste : 
 They ride not slack or lamely. 
 Mary Stuart. Now, fair sir, 
 What say you to my chance on wager.? 
 
 Here 
 I think to outshoot your archery. — By 
 
 my life, 
 That too' must fail if hope now fail me ; 
 
 these 
 That ride so far off yet, being come, 
 
 shall bring 
 Death or deliverance. Prithee, speak 
 
 but once ; 
 
 [Aside /^ Mary Beaton. 
 Say, these are they we looked for ; say, 
 
 thou too 
 Hadst hope to meet them ; say, they 
 
 should be here, 
 And I did well to look for them ; O 
 
 God! 
 Say but I was not mad to hope ; see 
 
 there; 
 Speak, or I die. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, not before they 
 
 come. 
 Maty Stuart. Dost thou not hear my 
 
 heart .? It speaks so loud, 
 I can hear nothing of them. Yet I 
 
 will not 
 Fail in mine enemy's sight. This is 
 
 mine hour 
 That was to be for trium])h ; God, I pray. 
 Stretch not its length out longer ! 
 
 Mary Beaton. It is past. 
 Enter Sir Thomas Gorges, Sir Wil- 
 liam Wade, atid Soldiers. 
 Mary Stimrt. What man is this that 
 
 stands across our way ? 
 Gorges. One that hath warrant, mad- 
 am, from the queen 
 Vo arrest your P'rench and English 
 
 secretary, 
 
 And for more surety see yourself re 
 
 moved 
 To present ward at Tixall here hard by, 
 As in this j^aper stands of her sub- 
 scribed. — 
 Day hands on them. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Was this your riddle's 
 
 word t [To Paulet. 
 
 You have shot beyond me indeed, and 
 
 shot to death 
 Your honor with my life. — Draw, sirs, 
 
 and stand : 
 Ye have swords yet left to strike with 
 
 once, and die 
 By these our foes are girt with. vSome 
 
 good friend, — 
 I should have one yet left of you, — 
 
 take heart. 
 And slay me here. For God's love, 
 
 draw : they have not 
 So large a vantage of us, we must needs 
 Bear back one foot from peril. Give 
 
 not way: 
 Ye shall but die more shamefully than 
 
 here. 
 Who can but here die fighting. What ' 
 
 no man ? 
 Must I find never at my need alive 
 A man with heart to help me? O my 
 
 God, 
 Let me die now, and foil them ! — 
 
 Paulet, you, 
 Most knightly liar and traitor, was not 
 
 this 
 Part of your charge, to play my hang- 
 man too. 
 Who have played so well my dooms- 
 man, and betrayed 
 So honorably my trust, so bravely set 
 A snare so loyal to make sure for death 
 So poor a foolish woman ? Sir, or you 
 That have this gallant office, great as 
 
 his. 
 To do the deadliest errand and most 
 
 vile 
 That even your mistress ever laid on 
 
 man. 
 And sent her basest knave to bear and 
 
 slay. 
 You are likewise of her chivalry, and 
 
 should not 
 Shrink to fulfil your title ; being a 
 
 knight. 
 
4o6 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 For her dear sake that made you, lose 
 
 not heart 
 To strike for her one worthy stroke, 
 
 that may 
 Rid mc defenceless of the loathed long 
 
 life 
 She gapes for like a bloodhound. Nay, 
 
 I find 
 A face beside you that should bear for 
 
 me 
 Not life inscribed upon it; two years 
 
 since 
 I read therein at Sheffield what good will 
 She bare toward me that sent to treat 
 
 withal 
 So mean a man and shameless, by his 
 
 tongue 
 To smite mine honor on the face, and 
 
 turn 
 My name of queen to servant ; by his 
 
 hand 
 So let her turn my life's name now to 
 
 death, 
 Which I would take more thankfully 
 
 than shame 
 To plead and thus prevail not. 
 
 Faiilet. Madam, no : 
 With us you may not in such suit pre- 
 vail. 
 Nor we by words or wrath of yours be 
 
 moved 
 To turn their edge back on you, nor 
 
 remit 
 The least part of our otifice, which 
 
 deserves 
 Nor scorn of you nor wonder, whose 
 
 own act 
 Has laid it on us; wherefore with less 
 
 rage 
 Please you take thought now to submit 
 
 yourself, 
 l".ven for vour own more honor, to the 
 
 effect 
 Whose cause was of your own device, 
 
 that here 
 I'.ears fruit unlooked for; which being 
 
 rijjc in time 
 You cannot choose but taste of, nor 
 
 mav we 
 Hut do the season's bidding, and the 
 
 (iuc<:n s 
 Who weeps at heart to know it. 
 arm these men • 
 
 Dis- 
 
 Take you the prisoners to your present 
 
 ward. 
 And hence again to London : here 
 
 meanwhile 
 Some week or twain their lady must 
 
 lie close. 
 And with a patient or impatient heart 
 Expect an end and word of judgment : 1 
 Must with Sir William back to Chart 
 
 ley straight. 
 And there make inquisition ere day 
 
 close 
 What secret serpents of what treasons 
 
 hatched 
 May in this lady's papers lurk, whence 
 
 we 
 Must pluck the fangs forth of thrm yet 
 
 unfleshed. 
 And lay these plots like dea..'. and 
 
 strangled snakes 
 Naked before the council. 
 Mary Stuart. I must go ? 
 Gorges. Madam, no help : I pray your 
 
 pardon. 
 Mary Stuart. Ay? 
 Had I your pardon in this hand to give, 
 And here in this my vengeance — 
 
 Words, and words! 
 God, for thy pity ! what vile thing is this 
 That thou didst make of woman ? even 
 
 in death. 
 As in the extremest evil of all our 
 
 lives. 
 We can but curse or pray, but prate and 
 
 weep. 
 And all our wrath is wind that works 
 
 no wreck. 
 And all our fire as water. — Noble sirs. 
 We are servants of your servants, and 
 
 obey 
 The beck of your least groom ; obsequi 
 
 ously. 
 We pray vou but report of us so much, 
 Submit 'us to you. Yet would I take 
 
 farewell, 
 May it not displease you, for old ser- 
 vice' sake. 
 Of one my servant here that was, and 
 
 now 
 Hath no word for me; yet I blame him 
 
 not, 
 Who am past all help of man. — Go. 
 
 witness me, 
 
MARY STL/ART. 
 
 407 
 
 I would not chide now, Gilbert, though 
 
 my tongue 
 Had strength yet left for chiding, and 
 
 its edge 
 Were yet a sword to smite with, or my 
 
 wrath 
 A thing that babes might shrink at; 
 
 only this 
 Take with you for your poor queen's 
 
 true last word, — 
 That if they let me live so long to see 
 The fair wife's face again from whose 
 
 soft side. 
 Now laboring with your child, by violent 
 
 hands 
 Vou are reft perforce for my sake, while 
 
 I live 
 I will have charge of her more carefully 
 Than of mine own life's keeping, which 
 
 indeed 
 I think not long to keep, nor care, God 
 
 knows. 
 How soon or how men take it. Nay, 
 
 good friend. 
 Weep not : my weeping time is well- 
 nigh past. 
 And theirs whose eyes have too much 
 
 wept for me 
 Should last no longer. — Sirs, I give you 
 
 thanks 
 For thus much grace and patience shown 
 
 of you. 
 My gentle gaolers, towards a queen 
 
 unqueened. 
 Who shall nor get nor crave again of 
 
 man 
 What grace may rest in him to give her. 
 
 Come, 
 Bring m^e to bonds again, and her with 
 
 me 
 That hath not stood so nigh me all 
 
 these years 
 To fall ere life doth from my side, or 
 
 take 
 Her way to death without me till I die. 
 
 ACT n. — WALSINGHAM. 
 
 Scene I. — Windsor Castle. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth ami Sir Francis 
 Walsinoham. 
 Elizabeth. What will ye make me ? 
 Let the council know 
 
 I am yet their loving mistress, but they 
 
 lay 
 Too strange a burden on my love who 
 
 send 
 As to their servant word what ways to 
 
 take. 
 What sentence of my subjects given 
 
 subscribe, 
 And in mine own name utter. Bid 
 
 them wait : 
 Have I not patience } and was never 
 
 quick 
 To teach my tongue the deadly word of 
 
 death. 
 Lest one day strange tongues blot my 
 
 fame with blood : 
 The red addition of my sister's name 
 Shall brand not mine. 
 
 Walsingham. God grant your mercy 
 
 shown 
 Mark not your memory like a martyr's 
 
 red 
 With pure imperial heart's-blood of 
 
 your own 
 Shed through your own sweet-spirited 
 
 height of heart 
 That held your hand from justice ! 
 
 Elizabeth. I would rather 
 Stand in God's sight so signed with 
 
 mine own blood 
 Than with a sister's — innocent ; oi 
 
 indeed 
 Though guilty — being a sister's — 
 
 might I choose. 
 As being a queen I may not surely, — « 
 
 no — 
 I may not choose, you tell me. 
 Walsingham. Nay, no man 
 Hath license of so large election given 
 As once to choose, being servant called 
 
 of God, 
 If he will serve or no, or save the 
 
 name 
 And slack the service. 
 
 Elizabeth. Yea, but in his Word 
 I find no word that w^hets for king- 
 killing 
 The sword kings bear for justice : yet 
 
 I doubt. 
 Being drawn, it may not choose but 
 
 strike at root — 
 Being drawn to cut off treason. Wal 
 
 singham, 
 
408 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Vou are more a statesman th?n a gos- 
 peller ; 
 Take for your tongue's text now no text 
 
 of God's, 
 But what the Devil has put into their 
 
 lil)s 
 Who should have slain me; nay, what 
 
 by God's grace, 
 Who bared their purpose to us, through 
 
 pain or fear 
 ^.ath been wrung thence of secrets writ 
 
 in fire 
 At bottom of their hearts. Have they 
 confessed ? 
 Walsingham. The twain trapped first 
 
 in London. 
 Elizabeth. What, the priest ? 
 Their twice-turned Ballard, ha.^ 
 Walsingham. Madam, not he. 
 Elizabeth. God's blood I ye have 
 spared not him the torment, 
 knaves ? 
 Of all I would not spare him. 
 
 Walsingham. Verily, no; 
 The rack hath spun his life's thread out 
 
 so fine 
 There is but left for death to slit in 
 
 twain 
 The thickness of a spider's. 
 Elizabeth. Ay, still dumb ? 
 Walsingham. Dumb for all good the 
 pains can get of him ; 
 Had he drunk dry the chalice of his craft 
 Brewed in design abhorred of even his 
 
 friends 
 With poisonous purpose toward your 
 
 majesty, 
 lie had kept scarce harder silence. 
 
 Elizabeth. Poison? ay — 
 That should be still the churchman's 
 
 household sword, 
 Or saintly staff to bruise crowned heads 
 
 from far, 
 And break them with his precious 
 
 balms that smell 
 Rank as the jaws of death, or festal 
 
 fume 
 When Rome yet reeked with Borgia. 
 
 But the rest 
 Had grace enow to grant me for good- 
 will 
 Some death more gracious than a rat's ? 
 God wot. 
 
 I am boundcn to them, and will charge 
 
 for this 
 The hangman thank them heartily ; they 
 
 shall not 
 Lack daylight means to die by. God 
 
 meseems. 
 Will have me not die darkling like n 
 
 dog. 
 Who hath kept my lips from poison, 
 
 and my heart 
 From shot of English knave or Spanish, 
 
 both 
 Dubbed of the Devil or damned his 
 
 doctors, whom 
 My riddance from all ills that plague 
 
 man's life 
 Should have made great in record ; and 
 
 for wage 
 Your Ballard hath not better hap to fee 
 Than Lopez had or Parry. Well, he 
 
 lies 
 As dumb in bonds as those dead dogs 
 
 in earth, 
 You say; but of his fellows newlv ta'en 
 There are that keep not silence : what 
 
 say these ? 
 Pour in mine ears the poison of their 
 
 plot 
 Whose fangs have stung the silly 
 
 snakes to death. 
 Walsingham. The first a soldier, 
 
 Savage, in these wars 
 That sometimes serving sought a trai 
 
 tor's luck 
 Under the prince Farnese, then of late 
 At Rheims was tempted of our traitors 
 
 there. 
 Of one in chief, Gifford the seminarist, 
 My smock-faced spy's good uncle, to 
 
 take off 
 Or the earl of Leicester or your gra. 
 
 cious self; 
 And since his passage hither, to con- 
 firm 
 His hollow-hearted hardihood, hath 
 
 had 
 Word from this doctor more solicitous 
 
 yet 
 Sent by my knave his nej^hew, who of 
 
 late 
 Was in the seminary of so deadly seed 
 Their reader in i)hilosophy, that their 
 
 head. 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 409 
 
 Even Cardinal Allen, holds for just and 
 
 good 
 The purpose laid upon his hand ; this 
 
 man 
 Makes yet more large confession than 
 
 of this, 
 Saying from our Gilbert's trusty mouth 
 
 he had 
 Assurance that in Italy the Pope 
 Hath levies raised against us, to set 
 
 forth 
 For seeming succor toward the Par- 
 mesan, 
 But in their actual aim bent hither, 
 
 where 
 With French and Spaniards in one 
 
 front of war 
 They might make in upon us ; but from 
 
 France 
 No foot shall pass for inroad on our 
 
 peace 
 Till — so they phrase it — by these 
 
 Catholics here 
 Vour majesty be taken, or — 
 
 Elizabeth. No more — 
 Bui only taken ? springed but bird-like ? 
 
 Ha! 
 They are something tender of our poor 
 
 personal chance — 
 Temperately tender : yet I doubt the 
 
 springe 
 Had haply maimed me no less deep 
 
 than life 
 Sits next the heart most mortal. Or 
 
 — so be it 
 I slip the springe — what yet may 
 
 shackle France, 
 Hang weights upon their purpose who 
 
 should else 
 Be great of heart against us? They 
 
 take time 
 Till I be taken — or till what signal else 
 As favorable ? 
 
 Walsinghain. Till she they serve be 
 
 brought 
 Safe out of Paulet's keeping. 
 
 Elizabeth. Ay? they know him 
 So much my servant, and his guard so 
 
 good, 
 That sound of strange feet marching 
 
 on our soil 
 Against us in his prisoner's name per- 
 chance 
 
 Might from the walls wherein she sits 
 
 his guest 
 Raise a funereal echo? Yet I think 
 He would not dare — what think'st 
 
 thou might he dare 
 Without my word for warrant? If 
 
 knew 
 This — 
 
 IValsingham. It should profit not 
 
 your grace to know 
 What may not be conceivable for 
 
 truth 
 Without some stain on honor. 
 
 Elizabeth. Nay, I say not 
 That I would have him take upon hi? 
 
 hand 
 More than his trust may warrant : yet 
 
 have men, 
 Good men, for very truth of their good 
 
 hearts. 
 Put loval hand to work as perilous 
 
 Well, 
 God wot I would not have him so trans- 
 gress — 
 If such be called transgressors. 
 
 Walsitigham. Let the queen 
 Rest well assured he shall not. So far 
 
 forth 
 Our swordsman Savage witnesses of 
 
 these 
 That moved him toward your murder 
 
 but in trust 
 Thereby to bring invasion over sea : 
 Which one more gently natured of his 
 
 birth, 
 Tichborne, protests with very show of 
 
 truth 
 That he would give no ear to, knowing, 
 
 he saith. 
 The miseries of such conquest : nor, it 
 
 seems. 
 Heard this man aught of murderous 
 
 purpose bent 
 Against your highness. 
 
 Elizabeth. Naught ? why then, again, 
 To him I am yet more bounden, who 
 
 may think, 
 Being found but half my traitor, at my 
 
 hands 
 To find but half a hangman. 
 
 IValsingham. Nay, the man 
 Herein seems all but half his own mai^ 
 
 being 
 
410 
 
 MAI^Y STUART. 
 
 Made merely out of stranger hearts and 
 
 brains 
 Their engine of conspiracy; for thus 
 Forsooth he pleads, that Babington his 
 
 friend 
 First showed him how himself was 
 
 wrought upon 
 By one man's counsel and persuasion, 
 
 one 
 Held of great judgment, — Ballard, on 
 
 whose head 
 All these lay all their forfeit. 
 
 Elizabeth. Yet shall each 
 Pay for himself red coin of ransom 
 
 down 
 In costlier drops than gold is. But of 
 
 these 
 Why take we tliought.'' Their natural- 
 subject blood 
 Can wash not out their sanguine-sealed 
 
 attempt, 
 Nor leave us marked as tyrant : only 
 
 she 
 That is the head and heart of all your 
 
 fears. 
 Whose hope or fear is England's, quick 
 
 or dead, 
 Leaves or imperilled or impeached of 
 
 blood 
 Me, that with all but hazard of mine 
 
 own, 
 God knows, would yet redeem her. I 
 
 will write 
 With mine own hand to her privily, — 
 
 what else ? — 
 Saying, if by word as privy from her 
 
 hand 
 She will confess her treasonous prac- 
 tices. 
 They shall be wrapped in silence up, 
 
 and she 
 By judgment live unscathed. 
 
 Walsin^^hani. Being that she is. 
 So surely will she deem of your great 
 
 grace. 
 And see it but as a snare set wide, or 
 
 net 
 Spread in the bird's sight vainly. 
 
 Elizabeth. Why, then, well : 
 She, casting off my grace, from all 
 
 men's grace 
 Cuts off herself, and even aloud avows 
 By silence and suspect of jealous heart 
 
 Her manifest foul conscience : on which 
 
 proof 
 I will proclaim her to the parliament 
 So self-convicted. Yet I would not 
 
 have 
 Her name and life by mortal evidence 
 Touched at the trial of them that now 
 
 shall die. 
 Or by their charge attainted : lest mv- 
 
 self 
 Fall in more peril of her friends than 
 
 she 
 Stands yet in shot of judgment. 
 
 Walsingham. Be assured, 
 Madam, the process of their treasons 
 
 judged 
 Shall tax not her before her trial-time 
 With public note of clear complicity 
 Even for that danger's sake which 
 
 moves you. 
 Elizabeth. Ale 
 So much it moves not for my mere life's 
 
 sake — 
 Which I would never buy with fear of 
 
 death — 
 As for the general danger's, and the 
 
 shame's 
 Thence cast on queenship and on wo- 
 manhood 
 By mean of such a murderess. But, 
 
 for them, 
 I would the merited manner of their 
 
 death 
 Might for more note of terror be re- 
 ferred 
 To me and to my council : these at 
 
 least 
 Shall hang for warning in the world's 
 
 wide eye 
 More high than common traitors, with 
 
 more pains 
 Being ravished forth of their more vil 
 
 lanous lives 
 Than feed the general throat of justice. 
 
 Her 
 Shall this too touch, whom none that 
 
 serves henceforth 
 But shall be sure of hire more terrible 
 Than all past wage of treason. 
 
 IValsin^'hatn. Why, so tar 
 As law gives leave — 
 
 Elizabeth. What prat'st thou me of 
 
 law.? 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 411 
 
 rxod's blood ! is law for man's sake 
 
 made, or man 
 For law's sake only, to be held in 
 
 bonds, 
 Led lovingly like hound in huntsman's 
 
 leash 
 Or child l^y finger, not for help or stay. 
 But hurt and hinderance ? Is not all 
 
 this land 
 And all its hope a' d surety given to 
 
 time 
 Of sovereignty and freedom, all the 
 
 fame 
 And all the fruit of manhood hence to 
 
 be. 
 More than one rag or relic of its law 
 Wherewith all these lie shackled? as 
 
 too sure 
 Have states no less than ours been 
 
 done to death 
 With gentle counsel and soft-handed 
 
 rule 
 For fear to snap one thread of ordi- 
 nance 
 Though thence the state were strangled. 
 
 VValsingham, Madam, yet 
 There need no need be here of law'j 
 
 least breach, 
 That of all else is worst necessity — 
 Being such a mortal medicine to the 
 
 state 
 As poison drunk to expel a feverish 
 
 taint 
 Which air or sleep might purge as 
 
 easily. 
 Elizabeth. Ay; but if air be poison- 
 struck with plague. 
 Or sleep to death lie palsied, fools 
 
 were they. 
 Faint hearts and faithless, who for 
 
 health's fair sake 
 Should fear to cleanse air, pierce and 
 
 probe the trance. 
 With purging fire or iron. Have your 
 
 way. 
 God send good end of all this, and pro- 
 cure 
 Some mean whereby mine enemies' 
 
 craft and his 
 May take no feet but theirs in their 
 
 own toils. 
 And no blood shed be innocent as 
 
 mine. 
 
 Scene II. — Chartley. 
 
 Mary Beaton and Sir Amyas 
 
 Paulet. 
 Paidet. You should do well to bid 
 
 her less be moved 
 Who needs fear less of evil. Since we 
 
 came 
 ^gain from Tixall this wild mood of 
 
 hers 
 Hath vexed her more than all men's 
 
 enmities 
 Should move a heart more constant. 
 
 Verily, 
 I thought she had held more rule upon 
 
 herself 
 Than to call out on beggars at the 
 
 gate 
 When she rode forth, crying she had 
 
 naught to give. 
 Being all as much a beggar too as they, 
 W' ith all things taken from her. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Being so served, 
 In sooth she should not show nor 
 
 shame nor spleen. 
 It was but seventeen days ye held her 
 
 there 
 Away from all attendance, as in bonds 
 Kept without change of raiment, and 
 
 to find, 
 Being thence haled hither again, no 
 
 nobler use. 
 But all her papers plundered — then 
 
 her keys 
 By force of violent threat wrung from 
 
 the hand 
 She scarce could stir to help herself 
 
 abed : 
 These were no matters that should 
 
 move her. 
 Paidet. None, 
 If she be clean of conscience, whole of 
 
 heart. 
 Nor else than pure in purpose, but 
 
 maligned 
 Of men's suspicions : how should one 
 
 thus wronged 
 But hold all hard chance good to 
 
 approve her case 
 Blameless, give praise for all, turn all 
 
 to thanks 
 That might unload her of so sore a 
 
 charge. 
 
412 
 
 MARY STUAKT. 
 
 Despoiled not, but clisburdciied ? Her 
 
 great wrath 
 Pleads hard against her, and itself 
 
 spake loud 
 Alone, ere other witness might unseal 
 ^Vrath's tierce interpretation: which 
 
 ere long 
 Was of her secretaries expounded, 
 
 Mary Beaton. Sir, 
 As you are honorable, and of equal 
 
 heart 
 Have shown such grace as man being 
 
 manful may 
 To such a piteous prisoner as desires 
 Naught now but what may hurt not 
 
 loyalty 
 Though you comply therewith to com- 
 fort her. 
 Let her not think your spirit so far 
 
 incensed 
 By wild words of her mistress cast on 
 
 you 
 In heat of heart and bitter fire of 
 
 spleen. 
 That you should now close ears against 
 
 a prayer 
 Which else might fairly find them 
 
 open. 
 Paiilet. Speak 
 More short and plainly : what I well 
 
 may grant 
 Shall so seem easiest granted. 
 
 Mary Beaton. There should be 
 No cause, I think, to seal your lips up, 
 
 though 
 I crave of them but so much breath as 
 
 may 
 Give mine ear knowledge of the wit- 
 ness borne 
 (If aught of witness were against her 
 
 borne) 
 Hy those her secretaries you spake of. 
 
 ' PauUt. This 
 With hard expostulation was drawn 
 
 forth 
 At last of one and other, that they 
 
 twain 
 Had writ by record from their lady's 
 
 nujuth 
 'i'o Babington some letter which implies 
 Close conscience of his treason, and 
 
 good-will 
 To meet his service with complicity : 
 
 Hut one thing found therein of dead 
 
 liest note 
 The Frenchman swore they set not 
 
 down, nor she 
 Hade write one word of favor nor assent 
 Answering this murderous motion to- 
 ward our queen : 
 Only, saith he, she held herself not 
 
 bound 
 For love's sake to reveal it, and thereby 
 For love of enemies do to death such 
 
 friends 
 As only for her own love's sake were 
 
 found 
 Fit men for murderous treason : and 
 
 so much 
 Her own hand's transcript of the word 
 
 she sent 
 Should once produced bear witness of 
 
 her. 
 Mary Beaton. Ay? 
 How then came this withholden "i 
 
 Paulet. If she speak 
 Hut truth, why, truth should sure be 
 
 manifest. 
 And shall, with God's good-will, tc 
 
 good men's joy 
 That wish not evil : as at Fotheringav 
 When she shall come to trial must be 
 
 tried 
 If it be truth or no : for which assay 
 You shall do toward her well and faith 
 
 fully 
 To bid her presently prepare her soul 
 That it may there make answer. 
 Mary Beaton. Presently? 
 Paulet. Upon the arraignment of her 
 
 friends who stand 
 As 'twere at ])oint of execution now 
 Ere sentence pass upon them of theii 
 
 sin. 
 Would you no more with me ? 
 
 Afarv Bi-aton. I am bounden to you 
 For thus much tidings granted. 
 
 Paulet. So farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Mary Beaton. So fare I well or ill as 
 
 one who knows 
 He shall not fare much further toward 
 
 his end. 
 Here looms on me the landmark of mv 
 
 life. 
 That I have looked for now some scor? 
 
 of years 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 413 
 
 Even with long-suffering eagerness of 
 
 heart 
 And a most hungry patience. I did 
 
 know, 
 Yea, God, thou knowest I knew this 
 
 all that while, 
 From that day forth when even these 
 
 eyes beheld 
 Fall the most faithful head in all the 
 
 world, 
 Toward her most loving, and of me 
 
 most loved, 
 By doom of hers that was so loved of 
 
 him 
 He could not love me nor his life at all, 
 Nor his own soul, nor aught that all 
 
 men love, 
 Nor could fear death nor very God, or 
 
 care 
 If there were aught more merciful in 
 
 heaven 
 Thau love on earth had been to him. 
 
 Chastelard, 
 I have not had the name upon my lips 
 That stands for sign of love the truest 
 
 in man 
 Since first love made him sacrifice of 
 
 men, 
 This long sad score of years retribu- 
 tive 
 Since it was cast out of her heart and 
 
 mind 
 Who made it mean a dead thing ; nor, 
 
 I think, 
 Will she remember it before she die 
 More than in France the memories of 
 
 old friends 
 Are like to have yet forgotten ; but for 
 
 me, 
 Fiaply, thou knowest, so death not all 
 
 be death 
 If all these years I have had not in 
 
 my mind 
 Through all these chances this one 
 
 thought in all, — 
 That I shall never leave her till she 
 
 die. 
 Nor surely now shall I much longer 
 
 serve 
 Who fain would lie down at her foot 
 
 and sleep. 
 Fain, fain have done with waking. Yet 
 
 my soul 
 
 Knows, and yet God knows, I would 
 
 set not hand 
 To such a work as might put on the 
 
 time. 
 And make death's foot more forward 
 
 for her sake : 
 Yea, were it to deliver mine own soul 
 From bondage and long-suffering of 
 
 my life, 
 I would not set mine hand to work hei 
 
 wrong. 
 Tempted I was — but hath God need 
 
 of me 
 To work his judgment, bring his time 
 
 about, 
 Approve his justice if the word be just, 
 That whoso doeth shall suffer his own 
 
 deed. 
 Bear his own blow, to weep tears back 
 
 for tears. 
 And bleed for bloodshed ? God should 
 
 spare me this 
 That once I held the one good hope on 
 
 earth, — 
 To be the mean and engine of her end, 
 Or some least part at least therein : I 
 
 prayed, 
 God, give me so much grace — who 
 
 now should pray, 
 Tempt me not, God. My heart swelled 
 
 once to know 
 I bore her death about me ; as I think 
 Indeed I bear it : but what need hath 
 
 God 
 That I should clinch his doom with 
 
 craft of mine ? 
 What needs the wrath of hot Elizabeth 
 Be blown aflame with mere past writ- 
 ing read, 
 Which hath to enkindle it higher al 
 
 ready proof 
 Of present practice on her state and. 
 
 life ? 
 Shall fear of death or love of England 
 
 fail. 
 Or memory faint, or foresight fall stark 
 
 blind. 
 That there should need the whet and 
 
 s])ur of shame 
 To turn her spirit into some chafing 
 
 snake's. 
 And make its fang more feared foi 
 
 mortal.? Yet 
 
414 
 
 MARY STUART 
 
 I am glad, and I repent me not, to know 
 I have the writing in my bosom sealed 
 That licars such matter, with her own 
 
 hand signed, 
 As she that yet repents her not to have 
 
 writ 
 Repents her not that she refrained to 
 
 send. 
 And fears not but long since it felt the 
 
 fire — 
 Being fire itself to burn her, yet un- 
 
 quenched, 
 Hut in my hand here covered harmless 
 
 "1^' 
 Which had in charge to burn it. What 
 
 perchance 
 Might then the reading of it have 
 
 wrought for us, 
 If all this fiery poison of her scoffs 
 Making the foul froth of a serpent's 
 
 tongue 
 More venomous, and more deadly 
 
 toward her queen, 
 Even Ikss of Hardwick's bitterest 
 
 babbling tales. 
 Had touched at heart the Tudor vein 
 
 indeed ? 
 Enough it yet were surely, though that 
 
 vein 
 Were nov/ the gentlest that such hearts 
 
 may hold, 
 And all doubt's trembling balance that 
 
 way bent, 
 To turn, as with one mortal grain cast 
 
 in. 
 The scale of grace against her life that 
 
 writ. 
 And weigh down pity deathward. 
 Enter Mary Stuart. 
 Mary Stuart. Have we found 
 Such kindness of our keeper as may 
 
 give 
 Some ease from expectation ? or must 
 
 hope 
 Still fret for ignorance how long here 
 
 we stay 
 As men abiding judgment ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Now not long, 
 lie tells me, need we think to tarry; 
 
 since 
 The lime and place of trial arc set, next 
 
 month 
 To hold it in ihc castle of Fotheringay. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Why, he knows well 
 
 I were full easily moved 
 To set forth hence ; there must I find 
 
 more scope 
 To commune with the ambassador of 
 
 P>ancc 
 By letter thence to London : but, God 
 
 help, 
 Think these folk truly, doth she verilv 
 
 think. 
 What never man durst yet, nor woman 
 
 dreamed. 
 May one that is nor man nor woman 
 
 think. 
 To bring a queen born subject of no 
 
 laws 
 Here in subjection of an alien law 
 By foreign force of judgment .-' Were 
 
 she wise. 
 Might she not have me privily made 
 
 away ? 
 And being nor wise, nor valiant but of 
 
 tongue, 
 Could she find yet foolhardiness of heart 
 Enough to attaint the rule of royal 
 
 rights 
 With murderous madness? I will think 
 
 not this 
 Till it be proven indeed. 
 
 Mary Beaton. A month come round. 
 This man protests, will prove it. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Ay! {protests ? 
 What protestation' of what l^rotestant 
 Can unmake law that was of God's 
 
 mouth made, 
 Unwritc the writing of the world, unsay 
 The general saying of ages ? If I go, 
 Compelled of God's hand or constrained 
 
 of man's. 
 Yet God shall bid me not nor man 
 
 enforce 
 My tongue to plead before them for mv 
 
 life. 
 I had rather end as kings before mc, 
 
 die 
 Rather by shot or stroke of murderous 
 
 hands, 
 Than so make answer once in face of 
 
 man 
 As one brought forth to judgment. Are 
 
 they mad. 
 And she most mad for envious heart of 
 
 all, 
 
MARY STUAkT. 
 
 415 
 
 To make so mean account of me ? 
 Methought, 
 
 When late we came back hither, soiled 
 and spent 
 
 And sick with travel, I had seen their 
 worst of wrong 
 
 Full-faced, with its most outrage : when 
 I found 
 
 My servant Curie's young new-delivered 
 wife 
 
 Without priest's comfort, and her babe 
 unblessed, 
 
 A nameless piteous thing born ere its 
 time. 
 
 And took it from the mother's arms 
 abed, 
 
 And bade her have good comfort, since 
 myself 
 
 Would take all charge against her hus- 
 band laid 
 
 On mine own head to answer, — deem- 
 ing not 
 
 Man ever durst bid answer for mv- 
 self 
 
 On charge as mortal, — and, mine almo- 
 ner gone, 
 
 Did I not crave of Paulet for a grace 
 
 I lis chaplain might baptize me this poor 
 babe. 
 
 And was denied it, and with mine own 
 hands 
 
 For shame and charity moved to chris- 
 ten her 
 
 There with scant ritual, in his heretic 
 sight, 
 
 By mine own woful name, whence God, 
 I pray. 
 
 For her take off its presage ? I mis- 
 deemed. 
 
 Who deemed all these and yet far more 
 than these 
 
 For one born queen indignities enough. 
 
 On one crowned head enough of buf- 
 fets . more 
 
 Hath time's hand laid upon me ; yet I 
 keep 
 
 Faith in one word I spake to Paulet, say- 
 ing 
 
 Two things were mine though I stood 
 spoiled of all 
 
 As of my letters and my privy coin 
 
 By pickpurse hands of office : these 
 things yet 
 
 Might none take thievish hold upon to 
 
 strip 
 His prisoner naked of her natural 
 
 dcnver, — 
 The blood yet royal running here un- 
 
 spilled. 
 And that religion which I think to keep 
 Fast as this royal blood until I die. 
 So, where at last and howsoe'er I fare, 
 I need not much take thought, nor thou 
 
 for love 
 Take of thy mistress pity : yet meseems 
 They dare not work their open will on 
 
 me ; 
 But God's it is that shall be done, and I 
 Find end of all in quiet. I would sleep 
 On this strange news of thine, that 
 
 being awake 
 I may the freshlier front my sense there- 
 of 
 And thought of life or death. Come in 
 
 with me. 
 
 Scene HI. — Tyburn. 
 
 A Crowd of Citizefts. 
 First Citizen. Is not their hour yet 
 
 on ? Men say the queen 
 Bade spare no jot of torment in their 
 
 end 
 That law might lay upon them. 
 
 Second Citize7i. Truth it is, 
 To spare what scourge soe'er man's 
 
 justice may 
 Twist for such caitiff traitors, were to 
 
 grieve 
 God's with mere inobservance. Hear 
 
 you not 
 How yet the loud lewd braggarts of 
 
 their side 
 Keep heart to threaten that for all this 
 
 foil 
 They are not foiled indeed, but yet the 
 
 work 
 Shall prosper with deliverance of their 
 
 queen, 
 And death for her of ours, though they 
 
 should give 
 Of their own lives for one an hundred- 
 fold? 
 Third Citizen. These are bold 
 
 mouths : one that shall die to- 
 
 daV 
 
4i6 
 
 M.IA'V STUART. 
 
 Heing this last week arraigned at West- 
 minster, 
 Had no such heart, they say, to his 
 
 defence, 
 Who was the main head of their trea- 
 sons. 
 First Citizeti. Ay, 
 Antl yesterday, if truth belie not 
 
 him. 
 Durst with his doomed hand write some 
 
 word of prayer 
 To the queen's self, her very grace, to 
 
 crave 
 Grace of her for his gracelessness, that 
 
 she 
 Might work, on one too tainted to 
 
 deserve, 
 A miracle of compassion, whence her 
 
 fame 
 For pity of sins too great for pity of 
 
 man 
 Might shine more glorious than his 
 
 crime showed foul 
 In the eye of such a mercy. 
 
 Second Citizen. \'et men said 
 He spake at his arraignment soberly 
 With clear mild looks and gracious 
 
 gesture, showing 
 The purport of his treasons in such 
 
 wise 
 That it seemed pity of him to hear 
 
 them, how 
 All their beginnings and proceedings 
 
 had 
 First head and fountain only for their 
 
 spring 
 From ill persuasions of that poisonous 
 
 priest 
 Who stood the guiltiest near, by this 
 
 man's side 
 Ajjproved a valiant villain. Barnwell 
 
 ne.xt. 
 Who came but late from Ireland here 
 
 to court. 
 Made simply protestation of design 
 To work no personal ill against the 
 
 Cjuccn, 
 Nor pauit rebellion's face as murder's 
 
 red 
 With blood imperial : Tichborne then 
 
 avowed 
 He knew the secret of their aim, and 
 
 kept, 
 
 And held forsooth himself no traitor, 
 
 yet 
 In the end would even plead guilty 
 
 Donne with him. 
 And Salisbury, who not less professed 
 
 he still' 
 Stood out against the killing of the 
 
 queen, 
 And would not hurt her for a kingdom. 
 
 So, 
 When thus all these had pleaded, one 
 
 by one 
 Was each man bid say fairly, for his 
 
 part. 
 Why sentence should not pass : and Bal 
 
 lard first, 
 Who had been so sorely racked he 
 
 might not stand. 
 Spake, but as seems to none effect ; of 
 
 whom 
 Said Babington again, he set them 
 
 on, 
 He first, and most of all him, who be- 
 lieved 
 This priest had power to assoil his soui 
 
 alive 
 Of all else mortal treason. Ballani 
 
 then, 
 As in sad scorn — Yea., Master Babing- 
 ton, 
 Quoth he, lay oil upon me, but / wis/i 
 For you the shedding of my blood mii;;ht 
 
 be 
 The saving of your life : hiKi'beit, for 
 
 that. 
 Say 7vhat you will ; and I will say no 
 
 more. 
 Nor spake the swordsman Savage aught 
 
 again. 
 Who, first arraigned, had first avowed 
 
 his cause 
 Guilty ; nor yet spake Tichborne aught 
 
 l)ut Donne 
 Spake, and the same said Barnwell, - 
 
 each had sinned 
 For vcrv conscience onlv; Salisbury 
 
 last 
 Besought the queen remission of his 
 
 guilt. 
 Then spake Sir Christopher Hatton for 
 
 the rest 
 That sat with him commissioners, and 
 
 showed 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 417 
 
 How by dark doctrine of the semina- 
 ries, 
 
 And instance most of Ballard, had been 
 brought 
 
 To extreme destruction here of body 
 and soul 
 
 A sort of brave youths otherwise en- 
 dowed 
 
 With goodly gifts of birthright; and in 
 fine 
 
 There was the sentence given that here 
 even now 
 
 Shows seven for dead men in our pres- 
 ent sight. 
 
 And shall bring six to-morrow forth to 
 die. 
 
 Enter Babington, Ballard (^carried 
 in a chair), TiCHHORNE, Savage, 
 Barnwell, Tilney, and Akington, 
 guardtd: Sheriff, Executioner, Chap- 
 lain, etc. 
 
 First Citizen. What, will they speak ? 
 Second Citizen. Ay ; each hath leave 
 in turn 
 
 To show what mood he dies in toward 
 his cause. 
 Ballard. Sirs, ye that stand to see 
 us take our doom, 
 
 I being here given this grace to speak 
 to you 
 
 Have but my word to witness for my 
 soul, 
 
 That all I have done and all designed 
 to do 
 
 Was only for advancement of true faith 
 
 To furtherance of religion : for myself 
 
 Aught would I never, but for Christ's 
 dear church 
 
 Was mine intent all wholly, to redeem 
 
 Her sore affliction in this age and land, 
 
 As now may not be yet : which know- 
 ing for truth, 
 
 I am readier even at heart to die than 
 live. 
 
 And dving I crave of all men pardon 
 whom 
 
 My doings at all have touched, or who 
 thereat 
 
 Take scandal ; and forgiveness of the 
 queen 
 
 If on this cause I have offended her. 
 Savage. The like say I, that have no 
 skill in speech, 
 
 But heart enough with faith at heart to 
 
 die. 
 Seeing but for conscience and the com 
 
 mon good. 
 And no preferment but this general 
 
 weal, 
 I did attempt this business. 
 
 Bartiwell. I confess 
 That I, whose seed was of that hallowed 
 
 earth 
 Whereof each pore hath sweated blood 
 
 for Christ, 
 Had note of these men's drifts, which 1 
 
 deny 
 That ever I consented with, or could 
 In conscience hold for lawful. That I 
 
 came 
 To spy for them occasions in the court, 
 And there being noted of her Majesty 
 She seeing mine eyes peer sharply like 
 
 a man's 
 That had such purpose as she wist 
 
 before 
 Prayed God that all were well — if this 
 
 were urged, 
 I might make answer, it was not un- 
 known 
 To divers of the council that I there 
 Had matters to solicit of mine own 
 Which thither drew me then: yet I 
 
 confess 
 That Babington, espying me thence 
 
 returned. 
 Asked me what news : to whom again 
 
 I told. 
 Her majesty had been abroad that 
 
 day. 
 With all the circumstance I saw there. 
 
 Now, 
 If I have done her majesty offence, 
 I crave her pardon : and assuredly 
 If this my body's sacrifice might yet 
 Establish her in true religion, here 
 Most willingly should this be offered 
 
 up. 
 Tilney. I came not here to reason of 
 
 mv faith, 
 But to die simply like a Catholic, pray- 
 ing 
 Christ give our queen Elizabeth long 
 
 life. 
 And warning all youth born take heed 
 by me. 
 
4i8 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Abington. I likewise, and if aught I 
 
 have erred in aught 
 I crave but pardon as for ignorant sin, 
 Holding at all points tirm the Catholic 
 
 faith; 
 And all things charged against me I 
 
 confess, 
 Save that I ever sought her highness' 
 
 death: 
 In whose poor kingdom yet ere long, I 
 
 fear, 
 Will be great bloodshed. 
 
 Sheriff. Seest thou, Abington, 
 Here all these people present of thy 
 
 kind 
 Whose blood shall be demanded at thy 
 
 hands 
 If dying thou hide what might en- 
 danger them ? 
 Speak therefore, why or by what mor- 
 tal mean 
 Should there be shed such blood? 
 
 Abington. All that I know 
 You have on record : take but this for 
 
 sure, — 
 This country lives for its iniquity 
 Loathed of all countries, and God loves 
 
 it not. 
 Whereon I pray you trouble me no 
 
 more 
 With questions of this world, but let 
 
 me pray. 
 And in mine own wise make my peace 
 
 with God. 
 Babington. Yox me, first head of all 
 
 this enterprise, 
 I needs must make this record of my- 
 self, 
 I have not conspired for profit, but in 
 
 trust 
 Of men's persuasions whence I etood 
 
 assured 
 This work was lawful which I should 
 
 have done, 
 And meritorious as toward God; for 
 
 which 
 No less I crave forgiveness of my queen, 
 And that my brother may possess my 
 
 lands 
 In heritage else forfeit with my head. 
 Tichbortte. Good countrymen and my 
 
 dear friends, you look 
 For something to be said of me, that am 
 
 But an ill orator; and my text is 
 
 worse. 
 Vain were it to make full discourse of 
 
 all 
 This cause that brings me hither, which 
 
 Ijefore 
 Was all made bare, and is well known 
 
 to most 
 That have their eyes upon me : let me 
 
 stand 
 For all young men, and most for those 
 
 born high, 
 Their present warning here : a friend T 
 
 had, 
 Ay, and a dear friend, one of whom I 
 
 made 
 No small account, whose friendship foi 
 
 pure love 
 To this hath brought me : I may not 
 
 deny 
 He told me all the matter, how set 
 
 down. 
 And ready to be wrought; which al- 
 ways I 
 Held impious, and denied to deal there- 
 in : 
 But only for my friend's regard was I 
 Silent, and verified a saying in me, 
 Who so consented to him. Ere this 
 
 thing chanced, 
 How brotherly we twain lived heart in 
 
 heart 
 Together, in what flourishing estate. 
 This town well knows : of whom went 
 
 all report 
 Through her loud length of Fleet-street 
 
 and the Strand 
 And all parts else that sound men's 
 
 fortunate names, 
 But Babington and Tichborne ? that 
 
 therem 
 There was no haughtiest threshold 
 
 found of force 
 To brave our entry; thus we lived our 
 
 life. 
 And wanted nothing we might wish for : 
 
 then. 
 For me, what less was in my head, God 
 
 knows, 
 Than high state matters .> Give me 
 
 now but leave 
 Scarce to declare the miseries I sus 
 
 taiucd 
 
ATARY STUART. 
 
 419 
 
 Since I took knowledge of thie action, 
 
 whence 
 To his estate I well may liken mine, 
 Who could forbear not one forbidden 
 
 thing 
 To enjoy all else afforded of the world : 
 The terror of my conscience hung on 
 
 mc ; 
 Who, taking heed what perils girt me, 
 
 went 
 To Sir John Peters hence in Essex, 
 
 there 
 Appointing that my horses by his mean 
 Should meet me here in London, 
 
 whence I thought 
 To flee into the country: but being 
 
 here 
 I heard how all was now bewrayed 
 
 abroad ; 
 Whence Adam-like we fled into the 
 
 woods. 
 And there were taken. My dear coun- 
 trymen, 
 Albeit my sorrows well may be your 
 
 joy, 
 
 Yet mix your smiles with tears : pity 
 
 my case, 
 Who, born out of an house whose name 
 
 descends 
 Even from two hundred years ere Eng- 
 lish earth 
 Felt Norman heel upon her, wore it 
 
 yet 
 Till this mishap of mine unspotted. 
 
 Sirs, 
 I have a wife, and one sweet child : my 
 
 wife, 
 My dear wife Agnes : and my grief is 
 
 there ; 
 And for six sisters too left on my hand : 
 All my poor servants were dispersed, I 
 
 know. 
 Upon their master's capture : all which 
 
 things 
 Most heartily I sorrow for : and though 
 Naught might I less have merited at 
 
 her hands, 
 Yet had I looked for pardon of my 
 
 fauit 
 From the queen's absolute grace and 
 
 clemency ; 
 That the unexpired remainder of my 
 
 years 
 
 Might in some sort have haply recom 
 
 penscd 
 This former guilt of mine whereof I 
 
 die : 
 But seeing such fault may find not such 
 
 release 
 Even of her utter mercies, heartily 
 I crave at least of her and all the world 
 Forgiveness, and to God commend my 
 
 soul, 
 And to men's memory this my penitence 
 Till our death's record die from out the 
 
 land. 
 First Citizen. God pardon him ! 
 
 Stand back: what ail these 
 
 knaves 
 To drive and thrust upon us.' Help 
 
 me, sir ; 
 I thank you : hence we take them full 
 
 in view : 
 Hath yet the hangman there his knife 
 
 in hand.'' 
 
 ACT HI. — BURGHLEY. 
 
 Scene I. — The presence - chamber in 
 Fotheringay Castle. At the upper end ^ 
 a chair of state as for QuEEN Eliza- 
 beth; opposite, in the centre of the 
 halloa chair for Mary Stuart. The 
 Commissioners seated on either side 
 along the wall : to the riirht, the Earls, 
 with Lord Chancellor Bromley 
 and Lord Treasurer Burghlev; 
 to the left, the Barons, with the Knights 
 of the Privy Council, among them 
 Walsingham and Paulet; Pop- 
 ham, Egerton, and Gavvdy, as 
 Counsel for the Crcnvn. Enter >L\RY 
 Stuart, supported by Sir Andrew 
 Melville, and takes her place. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Here are full many 
 men of counsel met ; 
 Not one for me. 
 
 \The Chancellor rises. 
 Bromley. Madam, this court is held 
 To make strait inquisition as by law 
 Of what with grief of heart our queen 
 
 has heard, — 
 A plot upon her life, against the faith 
 Here in her kingdom stablished : on 
 which cause 
 
420 
 
 AfAKY STUART. 
 
 Our charge it is to exact your answer 
 
 here, 
 And put to proof your guilt or inno- 
 cence. 
 Afarv Stuart (risino). Sirs, whom by 
 
 .strange constraint I stand before, 
 My lords, and not my judges, — since 
 
 no law 
 Can hold to mortal judgment answer- 
 able 
 A princess free-born of all courts on 
 
 earth, — 
 I rise not here to make response as one 
 Responsible toward any for my life, 
 Or of mine acts accountable to man, 
 Who see none higher save only God in 
 
 heaven. 
 I am no natural subject of your land, 
 That 1 should here plead as a criminal 
 
 charged, 
 Nor in such wise appear I now : I came 
 On your queen's faith to seek in Eng- 
 land help 
 By trothplight pledged me : where by 
 
 promise-breach 
 I am even since then her prisoner held 
 
 in ward : 
 Yet, understanding by report of you 
 Some certain things I know not of to 
 
 be 
 Against me brought on record, by my 
 
 will 
 I stand content to hear and answer 
 
 these. 
 Bromley. Madam, there lives none 
 
 born on earth so high 
 Who for this land's laws' breach within 
 
 this land 
 .Shall not stand answerable before those 
 
 laws. 
 Bnri^hlcy. I.ct there be record of the 
 
 jirisoner's plea 
 And answer given such protest here set 
 
 down. 
 And so proceed wc to this present 
 
 charge. 
 Gawiiy. My lords, to unfold by length 
 
 of circumstance 
 The model of this whole conspiracy 
 Sh(;ul(l lay the pattern of all treasons 
 
 bare 
 That ever brought high state in danger. 
 
 This 
 
 No man .there lives among us but hath 
 
 heard, — 
 How certain men of our cjueen's house- 
 hold folk. 
 Being wrought on by persuasion of 
 
 their priests. 
 Drew late a bond between them, bind- 
 ing these 
 With others of their faith accomplices 
 Directed first of Anthony Babington 
 By mean of six for execution chosen 
 To slay the queen their mistress, and 
 
 thereon 
 Make all her trustiest men of trust 
 
 away ; 
 As, my lord treasurer Burghley present 
 
 here, 
 Lord Hunsdon, and Sir Francis Wal- 
 
 singham, 
 And one that held in charge a while 
 
 agone 
 This lady now on trial, — Sir Francis 
 
 Knowles. 
 That she was hereto privy, to her power 
 Approving and abetting their device, 
 It shall not stand us in much need to 
 
 show. 
 Whose proofs are manifoldly manifest 
 On record written of their hands and 
 
 hers. 
 Mary Stuart. Of all this I know noth- 
 ing : Babington 
 I have used for mine intelligencer, sent 
 With letters charged at need, but never 
 
 yet 
 Spake with him, never writ him word 
 
 of mine 
 As privy to these close conspiracies. 
 Nor word of his had from him. Never 
 
 came 
 One harmful thought upon me toward 
 
 your (luccn. 
 Nor knowledge ever that of other hearts 
 Was harm designed against her. 
 
 Proofs, ye say, 
 Forsooth ye hold to impeach me : I 
 
 desire 
 But only to behold and handle them 
 If they in sooth of sense be tangible 
 More than mere air and shadow. 
 
 Buri^liUy. Let the clerk 
 Produce those letters writ from Bal)ing 
 
 ton. 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 421 
 
 Mary Sfuart. What then ? It may be 
 
 such were writ of him : 
 Be it proved that they came ever in my 
 
 hands. 
 If Babington affirm so much, I say 
 He, or who else will say it, lies openly. 
 Gawdy. Here is the man's confession 
 
 writ ; and here 
 Ballard's the Jesuit ; and the soldier's 
 
 here, 
 Savage, that served with Parma. 
 Mary Stuart. What of these ? 
 Traitors they were, and traitor-like they 
 
 lied. 
 Gawdy. And here the last her letter 
 
 of response 
 Confirming and approving in each 
 
 point 
 Their purpose, writ direct to Babington. 
 Mary Stuart. My letter t None of 
 
 mine it is . perchance 
 It may be in my cipher charactered, 
 But never came from or my tongue or 
 
 hand . 
 I have sought mine own deliverance, 
 
 and thereto 
 Solicited of my friends their natural 
 
 help: 
 Yet certain whom I list not name there 
 
 were. 
 Whose offers made of help to set me 
 
 free 
 Receiving, yet I answered not a word. 
 Howbeit, desiring to divert the storm 
 Of persecution from the Church, for 
 
 this 
 To your queen's grace I have made 
 
 most earnest suit : 
 But for mine own part, I would pur- 
 chase not 
 This kingdom with the meanest one 
 
 man's death 
 In all its commonalty, much less the 
 
 queen's. 
 Many there be have dangerously 
 
 designed 
 Things that I knew not : yea, but very 
 
 late 
 There came a letter to my hand which 
 
 craved 
 My pardon if by enterprise of some 
 Were undertaken aught unknown of 
 
 me. 
 
 A cipher lightly may one counterfeit. 
 As he that vaunted him of late in 
 
 France 
 To be my son's base bi other; and I 
 
 fear 
 Lest this, for aught mine ignorance of 
 
 it knows. 
 May be that secretary's fair handiwork 
 Who sits to judge me, and hath prac- 
 tised late, 
 I hear, against my son's life and mine 
 
 own. 
 But I protest I have not so much as 
 
 thought 
 Nor dreamed upon destruction of the 
 
 queen : 
 I had rather spend most gladly mine 
 
 own life 
 Than for my sake the Catholics should 
 
 be thus 
 Afflicted only in very hate of me. 
 And drawn to death so cruel as these 
 
 tears 
 Gush newly forth to think of. 
 
 Burghley. Here no man 
 Who hath showed himself true subject 
 
 to the state 
 Was ever for religion done to death ; 
 But some for treason, that against the 
 
 queen 
 Upheld the pope's bull and authority. 
 Mary Stuart. Yet have I heard it 
 
 otherwise affirmed, 
 And read in books set forth in print as 
 
 much. 
 Burghley They that so write say too 
 
 the queen hath here 
 Made forfeit of her royal dignity. 
 
 Walsingham. Here I cah God to 
 
 record on my part 
 That personally or as a private man 
 I have done naught misbeseeming 
 
 honesty. 
 Nor as I bear a public person's place 
 Done aught thereof unworthy. I con- 
 fess 
 That, being right careful of the queen's 
 
 estate 
 And safety of this realm, I have 
 
 curiously 
 Searched out the practices against it 
 
 nay, 
 Herein had Ballard offered me his help 
 
4- 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 I durst not have denied him; yea, I 
 
 would 
 Have recompensed the pains he had 
 
 taken. Say 
 I have practised aught with him, why 
 
 did he not, 
 To save his life, reveal it? 
 
 i\fary Stuart. Pray you, sir, 
 Take no displeasure at me . truth it is 
 Report has found me of your dealings, 
 
 blown 
 From lip to ear abroad, wherein myself 
 1 put no credit ; and could but desire 
 Yourself would all as little make 
 
 account 
 Of slanders flung on me. Spies, sure, 
 
 are men 
 Of doubtful credit, which dissemble 
 
 things 
 Far other than they speak. Do not 
 
 believe 
 That I gave ever or could give consent 
 Once to the queen's destruction . I 
 
 would never. 
 These tears are bitter witness, never 
 
 would 
 Make shipwreck of my soul by com- 
 passing 
 Destruction of my dearest sister. 
 
 Ga7ody. This 
 Shall soon by witness be disproved: as 
 
 here 
 Even by this letter from Charles Paget's 
 
 hand 
 Transcribed, which Curie your secre- 
 tary hath borne, 
 Plain witness you received, touching a 
 
 league 
 Ik'twixt Mendo/aand llallard, who con- 
 ferred 
 Of this land's fore-orduined invasion, 
 
 thence 
 To give v<^u freedom. 
 
 Miiry Stuart. What of this ? ye shoot 
 Wide (jf the purpose, this approves 
 
 not me 
 Consenting to the queen's destruction. 
 Gaiody. That stands proven enough 
 
 by word ()f Habington, 
 Who dying avowed it, and by letters 
 
 passed 
 From him to you, whom he therein 
 
 acclaims 
 
 As his most dread and sovereign lad]; 
 
 and queen. 
 And by the way makes mention pass 
 
 mgly 
 Of a plot laid by transference to con 
 
 vey 
 This kingdom to the Spaniard. 
 
 Mary Sttiart. I confess 
 There came a priest unto me, saying \i 1 
 Would not herein bear part, I with m\ 
 
 son 
 Alike should be debarred the inherit 
 
 ance: 
 His name ye shall not have of me ; but 
 
 this 
 Ye know, that openly the Spaniard lay.« 
 Claim to your kingdom, and to none 
 
 will give 
 Place ever save to me. 
 
 Burghley. Still stands the charge, 
 On written witness of your secretaries. 
 Great on all points against you. 
 Mary Stuart. Wherefore then 
 Are not these writers with these writ 
 
 ings brought 
 To outface me front to front .' For 
 
 Gilbert Curie, 
 He is in the Frenchman's hands a 
 
 waxen toy, 
 Whom the other, once mine uncle's 
 
 secretary. 
 The Cardinal's' of Lorraine, at his mere 
 
 will 
 Moulds, turns, and tempers , being him 
 
 self a knave 
 That may be hired or scared with peril 
 
 or' com 
 To swear what thing men bid him. 
 
 Truth again 
 Is this that I deny not, seeing myself 
 ,\gainst all right held fast in Fnglish 
 
 ward, 
 I have sought all help where I might 
 
 hope to find ; 
 Which thing that I dispute not, let this 
 
 be 
 The sign that I disclaim no jot of truth 
 In all objected to me. For the rest. 
 All majesty that moves in all the world. 
 And all safe station of all princes liorn, 
 Fall, as things unrespectcd, to the 
 
 ground, 
 If on the testimony of secretaries 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 423 
 
 And on their writings merely these 
 depend, 
 
 Being to their likeness thence debased. 
 For me, 
 
 Naught I delivered to them but what 
 first 
 
 Nature to me delivered, that I might 
 
 Recover yet at length my liberty. 
 
 I am not to be convicted save alone 
 
 By mine own word or writing. If these 
 men 
 
 Have written toward the queen my sis- 
 ter's hurt 
 
 Aught, I wist naught of all such writ at 
 all: 
 
 Let them be put to punishment ; I am 
 sure, 
 
 Were these here present, they by testi- 
 mony 
 
 Would uimg me clear of blame. 
 Gaivdy. Yet by their mean 
 
 They could not in excuse of you deny 
 
 That letters of communion to and 
 fro 
 
 Have passed between you and the Span- 
 iard, whence 
 
 What should have come on England 
 and the queen 
 
 These both well know, and with what 
 messages 
 
 Were English exiles entertained of you 
 
 By mean of these men, of your secre- 
 taries, 
 
 Confirmed and cherished in conspiracy 
 
 For this her kingdom's overthrow : in 
 France 
 
 Paget and Morgan, traitors in design 
 
 Of one close mind with you, and in your 
 name 
 
 Cheered hence for constant service. 
 Mary Stuart. That I sought 
 
 Comfort and furtherance of all Catho- 
 lic states, 
 
 By what mean found soever just and 
 good. 
 
 Your mistress from myself had note long 
 since 
 
 And open warning : uncompelled I 
 made 
 
 Avowal of such my righteous purpose, 
 nor 
 
 In aught may disavow it. Of these late 
 plots 
 
 No proof is here to attaint mine inno- 
 cence. 
 Who dare all proof against me : Babing 
 
 ton 
 I know not of, nor Ballard, nor their 
 
 works ; 
 But kings my kinsmen, powers that 
 
 serve the Church, 
 These I confess my comforters, in hope 
 Held fast of their alliance. Yet again 
 I challenge in the witness of my words 
 The notes writ of these letters here 
 
 alleged 
 In mine own hand : if these ye bring not 
 
 forth. 
 Judge all good men if I be not con- 
 demned 
 In all your hearts already, who per- 
 chance. 
 For all this pageant held of lawless 
 
 law. 
 Have bound yourselves by pledge to 
 
 speak me dead. 
 But I would have you look into your 
 
 souls. 
 Remembering how the theatre of the 
 
 world 
 Is wider, in whose eye ye are judged that 
 
 judge, 
 Than this one realm of England. 
 Btirghley. Toward that realm 
 Suffice it here that, madam, you stand 
 
 charged 
 With deadly purpose : being of proven 
 
 intent 
 To have your son conveyed to Soain, 
 
 and give 
 The title you pretend upon our crown 
 Up with his wardship to King Philip. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Nay, 
 I have no kingdom left to assign, nor 
 
 crown 
 Whereof to make conveyance : yet is 
 
 this 
 But lawful, that of all things which are 
 
 mine 
 I may dispose at pleasure, and to none 
 Stand on such count accountable. 
 
 Burghley. So be it 
 So far as may be; but your ciphers 
 
 sent 
 By Curie's plain testimony to Babing 
 
 ton, 
 
424 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 To the lord Lodovic, and to Fernihurst, 
 Once provost on your part in Edinburgh, 
 By mean of Grange your friend his 
 
 father-in-law, 
 Speak not but as with tongue imperial, 
 
 nor 
 Of import less than kingdoms. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Surely, sir, 
 Such have I writ, and many ; nor there- 
 in 
 Beyond my birth have trespassed, to 
 
 commend 
 That lord you speak of, and another, 
 
 both' 
 My friends in faith, to a cardinal's dig- 
 nity, 
 And that, I trust, without offence : 
 
 except 
 It be not held as lawful on my part 
 To commune with the chiefest of my 
 
 creed 
 By written word on matters of mine own 
 As for your queen with churchfolk of 
 
 her kind. 
 Burghley. Well were it, madam, that 
 
 with some of yours 
 You had held less close communion : 
 
 since by proof 
 Reiterated from those your secretaries 
 It seems you know right well that Mor- 
 gan who 
 Sent Parry privily to despatch the queen. 
 And have assigned him annual pension. 
 
 Mary Stuart. This 
 I know not, whether or no your charge 
 
 be truth ; 
 But I do know this Morgan hath lost 
 
 all 
 For my sake, and in honor sure I am 
 That rather to relieve him I stand 
 
 bound, 
 Than to revenge an injury done your 
 
 queen 
 Hy one that lives my friend, and hath 
 
 dct^crved 
 Well at mine hands : yet, being not 
 
 bound to this, 
 I did affright the man from such 
 
 attemj^ts 
 Of crimes against her, who contrariwise 
 Hath out of I'jigland oi)cnly assigned 
 Pensions to Gray my traitor, and the 
 
 Scots 
 
 Mine adversaries, as also to my son, 
 To hire him to forsake me. 
 
 Burghley. Nay, but seeing 
 Hy negligence of them that steered the 
 
 state 
 The revenues of Scotland sore impaired, 
 Somewhat in bounty did her grace 
 
 bestow 
 Upon your son the king, her kinsman : 
 
 whom 
 She would not, being to her so near of 
 
 blood. 
 Forget from charity. No such iielp it 
 
 was. 
 Nor no such honest service, that your 
 
 friends 
 Designed you, who by letters hither 
 
 writ 
 To Paget and Mendoza sent as here 
 Large proffers of strange aid from over- 
 sea 
 To right you by her ruin. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Here was naught 
 Aimed for your queen's destruction: 
 
 nor is this 
 Against me to be charged, that foreign 
 
 friends 
 Should labor for my liberty. Thus 
 
 much 
 At sundry times I have signified aloud 
 Bv open message to her, that I would 
 
 still 
 Seek mine own freedom. Who shall 
 
 bar me this ? 
 Who ta.\ me with unreason, that I sent 
 Unjust conditions on my part to be 
 To her propounded, which now many 
 
 times 
 Have alway found rejection ^ yea, when 
 
 even 
 For hostages I proffered in my stead 
 To be delivered up with mine own 
 
 son 
 The Duke of Guise's, both to stand in 
 
 pledge 
 That nor vour queen nor kingdom 
 
 should through me 
 Take aught of damage ; so that hence 
 
 by proof 
 I see myself utterly from all hope 
 Already barred of freedom. But I now 
 Am dealt with most unworthily, whose 
 fame 
 
AfAJ^y STUART. 
 
 42s 
 
 And honorable repute are called in 
 
 doubt 
 Before such foreign men of law as may 
 By miserable conclusions of their craft 
 Draw every thin and shallow circum- 
 stance 
 Out into compass of a consequence : 
 Whereas the anointed heads and con- 
 secrate 
 Of princes are not subject to such laws 
 As private men are. Next, whereas ye 
 
 are given 
 Authority but to look such matters 
 
 through 
 As tend to the hurt of your queen's 
 
 person, yet 
 Here is the cause so handled, and so 
 
 far 
 Here are my letters wrested, that the 
 
 faith 
 Which I profess, the immunity and 
 
 state 
 Of foreign princes, and their private 
 
 right 
 ~)i mutual speech by word reciprocate 
 From royal hand to royal, all in one 
 Are called in question, and myself by 
 
 force 
 Brought down beneath my kingly 
 
 dignity, 
 \nd made 'to appear before a judg- 
 ment-scat 
 As one held guilty ; to none end but this, 
 ill to none other purpose, but that I 
 J^Iight from all natural favor of the 
 
 queen 
 Be quite excluded, '<xnd my right cut 
 
 off 
 '^rom claim hereditary : whereas I 
 
 stand 
 Here of mine own good-will to clear 
 
 myself 
 Of all objected to me, lest I seem 
 To have aught neglected in the full 
 
 defence 
 Of mine own innocency and honor. 
 
 This 
 Would I bring likewise in your minds, 
 
 how once 
 This queen herself of yours, Elizabeth, 
 Was drawn in question of conspiracy 
 That Wyatt raised against her sister, 
 
 vet 
 
 Ye know she was most innocen^ For 
 
 me. 
 With very heart's religion I affirm, 
 Though I desire the Catholics here 
 
 might stand 
 Assured of safety, this I would not yet 
 Buy with the blood and death of any 
 
 one. 
 And on mine own part rather would I 
 
 play 
 Esther than Judith ; for the people's 
 
 sake 
 To God make intercession, than deprive 
 The meanest of the people born of 
 
 life. 
 Mine enemies have made broad repor 
 
 aloud 
 That I was irreligious : yet the time 
 Has been, I would have learnt the faitl: 
 
 ye hold, 
 But none would suffer me, for all \ 
 
 sought. 
 To find such teaching at your teachers 
 
 hands ; 
 As though they cared not what my sou 
 
 became. 
 And now at last, when all ye can y( 
 
 have done 
 Against me, and have barred me fron 
 
 my right. 
 Ye may chance fail yet of your caus< 
 
 and hope. 
 To God and to the princes of my kin 
 I make again appeal, from you again 
 Record my protestation, and reject 
 All judgment of your court : I hac'. 
 
 rather die 
 Thus undishonored, even a thousand 
 
 deaths. 
 Than so bring down the height of 
 
 majesty ; 
 Yea, and thereby confess myself as 
 
 bound 
 By all the laws of England, even in 
 
 faith 
 Of things religious, who could nevei 
 
 learn 
 What manner of laws these were : I am 
 
 destitute 
 Of counsellors, and who shall be mj 
 
 peers 
 To judge my cause through, and giv« 
 
 doom thereon. 
 
426 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 I am ignorant wholly, being an absolute 
 
 queen, 
 And will do naught which may impair 
 
 that state 
 In me nor other princes, nor my son ; 
 Since yet my mind is not dejected, nor 
 Will r sink under my calamity. 
 My notes are taken from me, and no 
 
 man 
 Dares but step forth to be my advocate. 
 I am clear from all crime done against 
 
 the queen, 
 I have stirred not up one man against 
 
 her : yet, 
 Albeit of many dangers overpast 
 I have thoroughly forewarned her, still 
 
 I found 
 No credit, but have always been con- 
 temned. 
 Though nearest to her in blood allied. 
 
 "when late 
 Ye made association, and thereon 
 An act against their lives on whose 
 
 behalf. 
 Though innocent even as ignorance of 
 
 it, aught 
 Might be contrived to endangering of 
 
 the queen 
 From foreign force abroad, or privy 
 
 plots 
 At home of close rebellion, I foresaw 
 That, whatsoever of peril so might rise 
 Or more than all this for religion's 
 
 sake, 
 My many mortal enemies in her court 
 Should lay upon me all the charge, 
 
 and I 
 liear the whole blame of all men. 
 
 Certainly, 
 T well might take it hardly, nor without 
 High cause, that such confederacy was 
 
 made 
 With mine own son, and I not know- 
 ing : but this 
 I speak nf)t of, being not so grieved 
 
 thereat 
 As that mine own dear sister, that the 
 
 queen, 
 Is misinformed of mc, and I, now kept 
 These many years in so strait prison, 
 
 and grown 
 Lame of my limlxi, have lien neglected, 
 
 nor 
 
 For all most reasonable conditions 
 
 made 
 Or proffered to redeem my liberty 
 Found audience or acceptance; and at 
 
 last 
 Here am I set with none to plead for 
 
 me. 
 But this I pray, that on this matter u' 
 
 mine 
 Another meeting there be kept, and I 
 Be granted on my part an advocate 
 To hold my cause up ; or that, see'ng 
 
 ye know 
 I am a princess, I may be believed 
 By mine own word, being princely: for 
 
 should I 
 Stand to your judgment, who most 
 
 plainly I see 
 Are armed against me strong in preju 
 
 dice. 
 It were mine extreme folly : more than 
 
 this. 
 That ever I came to England in such 
 
 trust 
 As of the plighted friendship of your 
 
 queen, 
 And comfort of her promise. Look, 
 
 my lords. 
 Here on this ring; her pledge of love 
 
 was this. 
 And surety, sent me when I lay in 
 
 bonds 
 Of mine own rebels once; regard it 
 
 well ; 
 In trust of this I came amongst you • 
 
 none 
 But sees what faith I have found to 
 
 keep this trust. 
 Burghley. Whereas I bear a double 
 
 person, being 
 Commissioner first, then coun'^ellor in 
 
 this cause. 
 From me as from the queen's rommis 
 
 sioner here 
 Receive a few words first. Your prot- 
 est made 
 Is now on record, and a transcr'pt of it 
 Shall be delivered you. To us i.^ given 
 Under the (pjecn's hand our authority, 
 
 whence 
 Is no appeal, this grant being rati6*<d 
 With the great seal of England > noi 
 
 arc we 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 42/ 
 
 With prejudice come hither, but to 
 
 judge 
 By the straight rule of justice. On 
 
 their part, 
 These the queen's learned counsel here 
 
 in place 
 Do level at nothing else but that the 
 
 truth 
 May come to light, how far you have 
 
 made offence 
 Against the person of the queen. To 
 
 us 
 Full power is given to hear and dili- 
 gently 
 Examine all the matter, though your- 
 self 
 Were absent : yet for this did we 
 
 desire 
 To have your presence here, lest we 
 
 might seem 
 To have derogated from your honor; 
 
 nor 
 Designed to object against you any 
 
 thing 
 But what you knew of, or took part 
 
 therein, 
 Against the queen's life bent. For 
 
 this were these 
 l^our letters brought in question, but to 
 
 unfold 
 V'our aim against her person, and 
 
 therewith 
 All matters to it belonging ; which per- 
 force 
 Are so with other matters interlaced 
 As none may sever them. Hence was 
 
 there need 
 Set all these forth, not parcels here 
 
 and there. 
 Whose circumstances do the assurance 
 
 give 
 I^pon what points you dealt with Bab- 
 
 ington. 
 Mary Stuart. The circumstances 
 
 haply may find proof. 
 But the fact never. Mine integrity 
 Nor on the memory nor the credit 
 
 hangs 
 Of these my secretaries, albeit I know 
 They are men of honest hearts . yet if 
 
 they have 
 Confessed in fear of torture any thing. 
 Or hope of guerdon and impunity, 
 
 It may not be admitted, for just cause 
 Which I will otherwhere allege. Men's 
 
 minds 
 Are with affections diversly distraught 
 And borne about of passion : nc: 
 
 would these 
 Have ever avowed such things against 
 
 me, save 
 For their own hope and profit. Letters 
 
 may 
 Toward other hands be outwardly ad- 
 dressed 
 Than they were writ for : yea, and many 
 
 times 
 Have many things been privily slipped 
 
 in mine 
 Which from my tongue came never. 
 
 Were I not 
 Reft of my papers, and my secre- 
 tary 
 Kept from me, better might I then 
 
 confute 
 These things cast up against me. 
 
 Burghley. But there shall 
 Be nothing brought against you save 
 
 what last- 
 Stands charged, even since the nine- 
 teenth day of June : 
 Nor would your papers here avail you, 
 
 seeing 
 Your secretaries, and Babington him 
 
 self, 
 Being of the rack unquestioned, have 
 
 affirmed 
 You sent those letters to him ; which 
 
 though yourself 
 Deny, yet whether more belief should 
 
 here 
 On affirmation or negation hang 
 Let the commissioners judge. But, to 
 
 come back. 
 This next I tell you as a counsellor, 
 Time after time you have put forth 
 
 many things 
 Propounded for your freedom ; that all 
 
 these 
 Have fallen all profitless, 'tis long of 
 
 you, 
 And of the Scots ; in no wise of the 
 
 queen. 
 For first the lords of Scotland, being 
 
 required. 
 Flatly resused, to render up the king 
 
428 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 In hostage : and when treaty last was 
 
 held 
 Upon your freedom, then was Parry 
 
 sent 
 V>y your dependant Morgan privily 
 To niakc the queen away by murder. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Ah ! 
 You are my adversary. 
 
 Burghley. Yea, surely I am 
 To the queen's adversaries an adver- 
 sary. 
 But now hereof enough : let us proceed 
 Henceforth to proofs. 
 
 Mary Stuart. I will not hear them. 
 Burghley. Yet 
 Hear them will we. 
 
 Mary Stuart. And in another place 
 I too will hear them, and defend myself. 
 Gawdy. First let your letters to 
 Charles Paget speak. 
 Wherein you show him there is none 
 
 other way 
 For Spain to bring the Netherlands 
 
 again 
 To the old obedience, but by setting up 
 A prince in England that might help 
 
 his cause ; 
 Then to Lord Paget, to bring hastilier 
 His forces up for help to invade this 
 
 land ; 
 And Cardinal Allen's letter, hailing you 
 His most dread sovereign lady, and sig- 
 nifying 
 The matter to the prince of Parma's 
 
 care 
 To be commended. 
 
 Mary Stuart. I am so sore beset, 
 I k'-'j.v not how by point and circum- 
 stance 
 To meet vour manifold impeachments. 
 
 This 
 I see through all this charge for evil 
 
 truth, 
 That P.abingtcn and my two secretaries 
 Have even to excuse themselves ac- 
 cused me : yet, 
 As touching that conspiracy, this I 
 
 Of those six men for execution chosen 
 I never heara ; and all the rest is 
 
 naught 
 To this pretended purpose of your 
 
 charge. 
 
 For Cardinal Allen, whatsoe'er he have 
 
 writ, 
 I hold him for a reverend prelate, so 
 To be esteemed, no more : none save 
 
 the Pope 
 Will I acknowledge for the Church'j 
 
 head 
 And sovereign thence on thought oi 
 
 spirit of mine ; 
 But in what rank and place I stand 
 
 esteemed 
 Of him and foreign princes through the 
 
 world, 
 I know not, neither can I hinder 
 
 them 
 By letters writ of their own hearts and 
 
 hands 
 To hail me queen of England. As for 
 
 those 
 Whose duty and plain allegiance sworn 
 
 to me 
 Stands flawed in all men's sight, — my 
 
 secretaries, — 
 These merit no belief. They which 
 
 have once 
 Forsworn themselves, albeit they swear 
 
 again 
 With oaths and protestations ne'er so 
 
 great, 
 Are not to be believed. Nor may 
 
 these men 
 By what sworn oath soever hold them 
 
 bound 
 In court of conscience, seeing they 
 
 have sworn to me 
 Their secrecy and fidelity bcfc:\., 
 And are no subjects of this country. 
 
 Nau 
 Hath manv times writ other than I 
 
 bade. 
 And Curie sets down whate'er Nau bids 
 
 him write ; 
 But for my part I am ready in all to 
 
 bear 
 The burden of their fault, save what 
 
 may lay 
 A blot upon mine honor. Ilaply t^o 
 These things did they confess to save 
 
 themselves; 
 Supposing their avowal could hurt not 
 
 me, 
 Who, being a queen, they thought, goor 
 
 ignorant men. 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 429 
 
 More favorably must needs be dealt 
 
 withal. 
 For Ballard, I ne'er heard of any such, 
 But of one Mallard once that proffered 
 
 me 
 Such help as I would none of, knowing 
 
 this man 
 Had vowed his service too to Walsing- 
 
 ham. 
 Gawdy. Next, from your letters to 
 
 Mendoza, writ 
 By Curie, as freely his confession 
 
 shows, 
 In privy cipher, take these few brief 
 
 notes 
 For perfect witness of your full de- 
 sign. 
 You find yourself, the Spaniard hears 
 
 thereby, 
 "Sore troubled what best course to take 
 
 anew 
 For your affairs this side the sea, 
 
 whereon 
 Charles Paget hath a charge to impart 
 
 from you 
 Some certain overtures to Spain and 
 
 him 
 In your behalf, whom you desire with 
 
 prayer 
 Show freely what he thinks may be 
 
 obtained 
 Thus from the king his master. One 
 
 point more 
 Have you reserved thereon depending, 
 
 which 
 On your behalf you charge him send 
 
 the king 
 Some secret word concerning, no man 
 
 else. 
 If this be possible, being privy to it : 
 Even this, that seeing your son's great 
 
 obstinacy 
 Xn heresy, and foreseeing too sure there- 
 on 
 Most imminent danger and harm thence 
 
 like to ensue 
 To the Catholic Church, he coming to 
 
 bear rule 
 Within this kingdom, you are resolved 
 
 at heart, 
 [n case your son be not reduced again 
 To the Catholic faith before your death, 
 
 — whereof 
 
 Plainly you say small hope is yours se 
 
 long 
 As he shall bide in Scotland, — to give 
 
 up 
 To that said king, and grant in absolute 
 
 right, 
 Your claim upon succession to this 
 
 crown, 
 By your last will made ; praying him 
 
 on this cause 
 From that time forth wholly to take 
 
 yourself 
 Into his keeping, and therewith the 
 
 state 
 And charge of all this country ; which, 
 
 you say, 
 You cannot for discharge of conscience 
 
 think 
 That you could put into a prince's 
 
 hands 
 More zealous for your faith, and abler 
 
 found 
 To build it strong upon this side again, 
 Even as through all parts else of Chris 
 
 tendom. 
 But this let silence keep in secret, lest 
 Being known it be your dowry's loss in 
 
 France, 
 And open breach in Scotland with your 
 
 SOJ^, 
 
 And in tKis realm of England utterly 
 
 Your ruirj and destruction. On your 
 part 
 
 Next is he bidden thank his lord the 
 king 
 
 For Kberal grace and sovereign favor 
 shown 
 
 Lord Paget and his brother, which you 
 pray him 
 
 Most earnestly to increase, a.id gratify 
 
 Poor Morgan with some pension foi 
 yo'ir sake, 
 
 Who hath not for your sake only en- 
 dured so much. 
 
 But for the common cause. Likewise, 
 ai.d last, 
 
 Is one he knows commended to his 
 charge 
 
 With some more full supply to be sus- 
 tained 
 
 Than the entertainment that yourself 
 allot 
 
 According to the little means you have. 
 
430 
 
 MA/^y STUART. 
 
 Bur^hUy. Hereon stands proof ap- 
 parent of that charge 
 
 Which you but now put by, that you 
 design 
 
 To give your right supposed upon this 
 realm 
 
 Into the Spaniard's hold; and on that 
 cause 
 
 Lie now at Rome Allen and Parsons, 
 men 
 
 Your servants and our traitors. 
 Mary Stuart. No such proof 
 
 Lives but by witness of revolted men, 
 
 My traitors and your helpers; who to 
 me 
 
 Have broken their allegiance bound by 
 oath. 
 
 When, being a prisoner clothed about 
 with cares, 
 
 I languished out of hope of liberty, 
 
 Nor yet saw hope to effect of those 
 things aught 
 
 Which many and many looked for at 
 my hands. 
 
 Declining now through age and sick- 
 ness, this 
 
 To some seemed good, even for reli- 
 gion's sake. 
 
 That the succession here of the Eng- 
 lish crown 
 
 Should or be stablished in the Spanish 
 king 
 
 Or in some English Catholic. And a 
 book 
 
 Was sent to me to avow the Spaniard's 
 claim ; 
 
 Which being of me allowed not, some 
 there were 
 
 In whose displeasure thence I fell ; but 
 now 
 
 Seeing all my hope in England desper- 
 ate grown, 
 
 I am fully minded to reject no aid 
 
 Abroad, but resolute to receive it. 
 IValsin^ham. Sirs, 
 
 licthink you, were the kingdonw so 
 conveyed. 
 
 What should become of you and all of 
 
 yours. 
 Estates and honors and |)()steritics, 
 Being to such hands delivered. 
 
 liidTi^hUy. Nay, but these 
 In no such wise can be conveyed away 
 
 By personal will, but by successive right 
 
 Still must descend in heritage of law. 
 
 Whereto your own words witness, say- 
 ing if this 
 
 Were blown abroad your cause were 
 utterly 
 
 Lost in all hearts of English friends. 
 Therein 
 
 Your thoughts hit right : for here in all 
 men's minds 
 
 That are not mad with envying at the 
 truth. 
 
 Death were no loathlier than a stranger 
 king. 
 
 If you would any more, speak : if not 
 aught. 
 
 This cause is ended. 
 
 Mary Stuart. I recjuire again 
 
 Before a full and open parliament 
 
 Hearing, or speech in person with the 
 queen, 
 
 Who shall, I hope, have of a queen 
 regard. 
 
 And with the council. So, in trust 
 hereof, 
 
 I crave a word with some of you apart. 
 
 And of this main assembly take fare- 
 well. 
 
 ACT. IV. — ELIZABETH. 
 
 Scene I. — Richmond. 
 
 Walsingham and Davison. 
 Walsi)igham. It is God's wrath, too 
 
 sure, that holds her hand ; 
 His plague upon this people, to pre- 
 serve 
 By her sole mean her deadliest enemy, 
 
 known 
 By proof more potent than approof of 
 
 law 
 In all points guilty, but on more than 
 
 all 
 Toward all this country dangerous. Tu 
 
 take off 
 From the court held last month at 
 
 Kotheringay 
 Authority with so full commission 
 
 given 
 To pass upon her judgment — suddenly 
 Cut short by message of some threw 
 
 lines writ 
 
MARY STC/ART. 
 
 431 
 
 With hurrying hand at midnight, and 
 
 despatched 
 To maim its work upon the second 
 
 day, — 
 What else may this be in so wise a 
 
 queen 
 15ut madness, as a brand to sear the 
 
 brain 
 Of one by God infatuate? yea, and 
 
 now 
 That she receives the French ambas- 
 sador 
 "With one more special envoy from his 
 
 king, 
 Except their message touch her spleen 
 
 with fire. 
 And so undo itself, we cannot tell 
 What doubt may work upon her. Had 
 
 we but 
 Some sign more evident of some private 
 
 seal 
 Confirming toward her by more per- 
 sonal proof 
 The Scottish queen's inveteracy, for 
 
 this 
 As for our country plucked from immi 
 
 nent death 
 We might Miank God ; but wi<-h such 
 
 gracious words 
 Of piteous challenge and imperial 
 
 plea 
 She hath wrought by letter on our mis- 
 tress' mind, 
 We may not thmk her judgment so 
 
 could slip, 
 Borne down with passion or forgetful- 
 
 ness. 
 As to leave bare her bitter root of 
 
 heart 
 And core of evil will there laboring. 
 
 Davison. Yet 
 I see no shade of other surety cast 
 From any sign of likelihood. It were 
 Not shameful more than dangerous, 
 
 though she bade, 
 To have her prisoner privily made 
 
 away ; 
 Yet stands the queen's heart well-nigh 
 
 fixed hereon 
 When aught may seem to fix it ; then 
 
 as fast 
 Wavers, but veers to that bad point 
 
 again 
 
 Whence blowing the wind blows down 
 
 her honor, nor 
 Brings surety of life with fame's destruo 
 
 tion. 
 Walsinghajn. Ay, 
 We are no Catholic keepers, and his 
 
 charge 
 Need fear no poison in our watch-dog's 
 
 fang. 
 Though he show honest teeth at her, to 
 
 threat 
 Thieves' hands with loyal danger. 
 Enter Queen Elizabeth, attended by 
 BuRGHLEY, Leicester, Hunsdon, 
 Hatton, and others of the Council. 
 Elizabeth. No, my lords, 
 We are not so weak of wit as men that 
 
 need 
 Be counselled of their enemies. Blame 
 
 us not 
 That we accuse your friendship on this 
 
 cause 
 Of too much fearfulness: France we 
 
 will hear; 
 Nor doubt but France shall hear us all 
 
 as loud 
 As friend or foe may threaten or pro- 
 test. 
 Of our own heart advised, and resolute 
 
 more 
 Than hearts that need men's counsel. 
 
 Bid them in. 
 Enter Chateauneuf and BELLlfevRE, 
 
 attended 
 From our fair cousin of France what 
 
 message, sirs 1 
 Bellihjre. I, madam, have in special 
 
 charge to lay 
 The king's mind open to your majesty, 
 Which gives my tongue first leave of 
 
 speech more free 
 Than from a common envoy. Sure it 
 
 is, 
 No man more grieves at what his hear: 
 
 abhors. 
 The counsels of your highness* ene- 
 mies, 
 Than doth the king of France : whereir 
 
 how far 
 The queen your prisoner have borne 
 
 part, or may 
 Seem of their works partaker, he can 
 judge 
 
432 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Naught : but much less the king may 
 
 understand 
 What men may stand accusers, who rise 
 
 UJ) 
 
 Judge in so great a matter. Men of law- 
 May lay their charges on a subject . but 
 The queen of Scotland, dowager queen 
 
 of France, 
 And sister made by wedlock to the king, 
 To none being subject, can be judged 
 
 of none 
 Without such violence done on rule as 
 
 breaks 
 Prerogative of princes. Nor may man 
 That looks upon your present majesty 
 In such clear wise apparent, and retains 
 Remembrance of your name through all 
 
 the wcrld 
 For virtuous wisdom, bring his mind to 
 
 think 
 That England's royal-souled Elizabeth, 
 Being set so high in fame, can so forget 
 Wise Plato's word, that common souls 
 
 are wrought 
 Out of dull iron and slow lead, but 
 
 kings 
 Of gold untempered with so vile alloy 
 As makes all metal up of meaner men 
 But say this were not thus, and all men's 
 
 awe 
 Were from all time toward kingship 
 
 merely vain. 
 And state n() more worth reverence, yet 
 
 the i)lea 
 Were naught which here your ministers 
 
 pretend, 
 Tiiat while the queen of Scots lives you 
 
 may live 
 No day that knows not danger. Were 
 
 she dead, 
 Rather might then your peril wax indeed 
 T(^ sliajjc and sense of heavier portent, 
 
 whom 
 'i'he Catholic states now threat not, nor 
 
 your hiiul, 
 For tins (lueen's love, but rather for 
 
 their faith's. 
 Whose cause, were she by violent hand 
 
 removed, 
 Could DC but furthered, and its enter- 
 prise 
 Put on more strong and prosi)erous pre- 
 text : yea, 
 
 Vou shall but draw the invasion on this 
 
 land 
 Whose threat you so may think to stay 
 
 and bring 
 Imminence down of inroad. Thus far 
 
 forth 
 The queen of Scots hath for your person 
 
 been 
 Even as a targe or buckler which has 
 
 caught 
 All intercepted shafts against your 
 
 state 
 Shot, or a stone held fast within your 
 
 hand. 
 Which, if you cast it thence in fear or 
 
 wrath 
 To smite your adversary, is cast away, 
 And no mean left therein for menace. 
 
 If 
 You lay but hand upon her life, albeit 
 There were that counselled this, her 
 
 death will make 
 Your enemies weapons of their own 
 
 despair 
 And give their whetted wrath excuse and 
 
 edge 
 More plausibly to strike more peril- 
 ously. 
 Your grace is known for strong in fore- 
 sight ; we 
 These nineteen years of your wise reign 
 
 have kept 
 Fast watch in France upon you : of 
 
 those claims 
 Which lineally this queen here prisoner 
 
 may 
 Put forth on your succession have you 
 
 made 
 The stoutest rampire of your rule • and 
 
 this 
 Is grown a by-word with us, that their 
 
 cause 
 Who shift the base whereon their jioli 
 
 cies lean 
 Bows down toward ruin : and of loyal 
 
 heart 
 This will I tell yon. madam, which hath 
 
 been 
 (iiven me for truth assured of one whose 
 
 place 
 Affirms him honorable, how openly 
 A certain prince's minister that well 
 May stand in your suspicion says abroad 
 
MARY STUAkT. 
 
 433 
 
 That for his master's greatness it were 
 
 good 
 The queen of Scots were lost already, 
 
 seeing 
 He is well assured the Catholics here 
 
 should then 
 All wholly range them on his master's 
 
 part. 
 Thus long hath reigned your highness 
 
 happily, 
 Who have loved fair temperance more 
 
 than violence : now. 
 While honor bids have mercy, wisdom 
 
 holds 
 Equal at least the scales of interest. 
 
 Think 
 What name shall yours be found in time 
 
 far hence, 
 Even as you deal with her that in your 
 
 hand 
 Lies not more subject than your fame to 
 
 come 
 In men's repute that shall be. Bid her 
 
 live, 
 And ever shall my lord stand bound to 
 
 you, 
 And you forever firm in praise of men. 
 Elizabeth. I am sorry, sir, you are 
 
 hither come from France 
 Upon no better errand. I appeal 
 To God for judge between my cause and 
 
 hers 
 Whom here you stand for. In this 
 
 realm of mine 
 The queen of Scots sought shelter, and 
 
 therein 
 Hath never found but kindness ; for 
 
 which grace 
 In recompense she hath three times 
 
 sought my life. 
 No grief that on this head yet ever fell 
 Shook ever from mine eyes so many a 
 
 tear 
 As this last plot upon it. I have read 
 As deep, I doubt me, in as many books 
 As any queen or prince in Christendom, 
 Yet never chanced on aught so strange 
 
 and sad 
 As this mv state's calamity. Mine own 
 
 life' 
 Is by mere nature precious to myself, 
 '^nd in mine own realm I can live not 
 
 safe. 
 
 I am a poor lone woman, girt about 
 With secret enemies that perpetually 
 Lay wait for me to kill me. From your 
 
 king 
 Why have not I my traitor to my hands 
 Delivered up, who now this second time 
 Hath sought to slay me, Morgan .'' On 
 
 my part, 
 Had mine own cousin Hunsdon here 
 
 conspired 
 Against the French king's life, he had 
 
 found not so 
 Refuge of me, nor even for kindred's 
 
 sake 
 From the edge of law protection ; and 
 
 this cause 
 Needs present evidence of this man's 
 
 mouth. 
 Bellih'7'e. Madam, there stand against 
 
 the queen of Scots 
 Already here in England on this charge 
 So many and they so dangerous wit- 
 nesses. 
 No need can be to bring one over more : 
 Nor can the king show such unnatural 
 
 heart 
 As to send hither a knife for enemies' 
 
 hands 
 To cut his sister's throat. Most 
 
 earnestly 
 My lord expects your resolution ; which 
 If we receive as given against his 
 
 plea, 
 I must crave leave to part for Paris 
 
 hence. 
 Yet give me pardon first if yet once 
 
 more 
 I pray your highness be assured, and so 
 Take heed in season, you shall find this 
 
 queen 
 More dangerous dead th?n living. 
 
 Spare her life, 
 And not my lord alone, but all that 
 
 reign, 
 Shall be your sureties in all Christian 
 
 lands 
 Against all scathe of all conspiracies 
 Made on her party; while such reme- 
 dies' ends 
 As physic states with bloodshedding, to 
 
 cure 
 Danger by death, bring fresh calami 
 
 ties 
 
1^34 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Far oftcner forth than the old are healed 
 
 of them 
 Which so men thought to medicine. To 
 
 refrain 
 From that red-handed way of rule, and 
 
 set 
 Justice no higher than mercy sits beside, 
 Is the first mean of kings' prosperity 
 That would reign long ; nor will my lord 
 
 believe 
 Your highness could put off yourself so 
 
 much 
 As to reverse and tread upon the law 
 That you thus long have kept and hon- 
 orably : 
 But should' this perilous purpose hold 
 
 right on, 
 I am bounden by my charge to say, the 
 
 king 
 Will not regard as liable to your laws 
 A queen's imperial person, nor will hold 
 Her death as but the general wrong of 
 
 kings, 
 And no more his than as his brethren's 
 
 all. 
 But as his own and special injury done. 
 More than to these injurious. 
 Elizabeth. Doth your lord 
 Bid you speak thus .'' 
 
 Bellih've. Ay, madam : from his 
 mouth 
 Had 1 command what speech to use. 
 
 Elizabeth. You have done 
 Better to speak than he to send it. Sir, 
 You shall not presently depart this land 
 As one denied of mere discourtesy. 
 T will return an envoy of mine own 
 To speak for me at Paris with the king. 
 You shall bear back a letter from my 
 
 hand, 
 And give your lord assurance, having 
 
 seen, 
 I cannot be so frighted with men's 
 
 threats 
 That they shall not much rather move 
 
 my mind 
 To quicken than to slack the righteous 
 
 doom 
 Which none must think by menace to 
 
 put back, 
 Or daunt it with defiance. Sirs, good 
 (lav. [Exeunt Ambasaatiors. 
 
 I were us one belated with false lights 
 
 If I should think to steer my darkglih 
 
 way 
 By twilight furtherance of their wiles 
 
 and words. 
 Think you, my lords, France yet would 
 
 have her live ? 
 Burghley. If there be other than the 
 
 apparent end 
 Hid in this mission to your majesty. 
 Mine envoys can by no means fathom 
 
 it, 
 Who deal for me at Paris : fear of 
 
 Spain 
 Lays double hand as 'twere upon the 
 
 king. 
 Lest by removal of the queen of Scots 
 A way' be made for peril in the claim 
 More potent then of Philip; and if 
 
 there come 
 From his Farnese note of enterprise 
 Or danger this way tending, France will 
 
 yet 
 Cleave to your friendship though his 
 
 sister die. 
 Elizabeth. So, in your mind, this half- 
 
 souled brother would 
 Steer any way that might keep safe hii^ 
 
 sail 
 Against a southern wind, which here, 
 
 he thinks, 
 Her death might strengthen from the 
 
 north again 
 To blow against him off our subject 
 
 straits. 
 Made servile then and Spanish ? Yet 
 
 perchance 
 There swells behind our seas a heart 
 
 too high 
 To bow more easily down, and bring 
 
 this land 
 More humbly to such handling, than 
 
 their waves 
 15ow down to ships of strangers, or their 
 
 storms 
 To breath of any lord on earth but God. 
 What thinks our cousin ? 
 
 I/uusiioH. That if Spain or France 
 Or both be stronger than the heart in 
 
 us 
 Which beats to battle ere they menace, 
 
 why, 
 In God's name, let them rise and make 
 
 their prey 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 435 
 
 Of what was England ; but if neither 
 
 be,— 
 The smooth-cheeked French man-har- 
 lot, nor that hand 
 Which holp to light Rome's fires with 
 
 English limbs, — 
 Let us not keep, to make their weakness 
 
 strong, 
 A pestilence here alive in England, 
 
 which 
 Gives force to their faint enmities, and 
 
 burns 
 Half the heart out of loyal trust and hope 
 With heat that kindles treason. 
 
 Elizabeth. By this light, 
 I have heard worse counsel from a wise 
 
 man's tongue 
 Than this clear note of forthright sol- 
 diership. 
 How say you, Dudley, to it ? 
 Leicester. Madam, ere this 
 You have had my mind upon the matter, 
 
 writ 
 But late from Holland, that no public 
 
 stroke 
 Should fall upon this princess, who may 
 
 be 
 By privy death more happily removed 
 Without impeach of majesty, nor leave 
 A sign against your judgment, to call 
 
 down 
 Blame of strange kings for wrong to 
 
 kingship wrought 
 Though right were done to justice. 
 
 Elizabeth. Of your love 
 We know it is that comes this counsel; 
 
 nor, 
 
 I Had we such friends of all our servants, 
 need 
 Our mind be now distraught with dan- 
 gerous doubts 
 That find no screen from dangers. Yet 
 
 meseems 
 One doubt stands now removed, if doubt 
 
 there were 
 Of aught from Scotland ever : Walsing- 
 
 ham, 
 You should have there intelligence 
 
 whereof 
 To maJve these lords with us partakers. 
 
 Walsingham. Nav, 
 Madam, no more than from a trustless 
 hand 
 
 Protest and promise : of those twain 
 
 that come 
 Hot on these Frenchmen's heels in 
 
 embassy. 
 He that in counsel on this cause was 
 
 late 
 One with my lord of Leicester now, to 
 
 rid 
 By draught of secret death this queen 
 
 away, 
 Bears charge to say as these gone hence 
 
 have said 
 In open audience, but by personal note 
 Hath given me this to know, that how- 
 
 soe'er 
 His king indeed desire her life be spared, 
 Much may be wrought upon him, would 
 
 your grace 
 More richly line his ragged wants with 
 
 gold. 
 And by full utterance of your parlia 
 
 ment 
 Approve him heir in England. 
 
 Elizabeth. Ay ! no more ? 
 God's blood ! what grace is proffered us 
 
 at need. 
 And on what mild conditions! Say I 
 
 will not 
 Redeem such perils at so dear a price. 
 Shall not our pensioner too join hands 
 
 with France, 
 And pay my gold with iron barter back 
 At edge of sword he dares not look 
 
 upon. 
 They tell us, for the scathe and scare he 
 
 took 
 Even in this woman's womb when shot 
 
 and steel 
 Undid the manhood in his veins unborn, 
 And left his tongue's threats hand- 
 less .? 
 Walsi)i(;ham. Men there be, 
 Your majesty ijiust think, who bear but 
 
 ill. 
 For pride of country and high-hearted- 
 
 ness. 
 To see the king they serve your servant 
 
 so 
 That not his mother's life and once their 
 
 queen's 
 Being at such point of peril can enforce 
 One warlike word of his, for chance of 
 
 war 
 
4i< 
 
 MAKY STUART. 
 
 Conditional against you. Word came 
 
 late 
 From Edinburgh, that there the citizens 
 With hoot and hiss had bayed him 
 
 through the streets 
 As he went heartless by ; of whom they 
 
 had heard 
 This published saying, that in his per- 
 sonal mind 
 The blood of kindred or affinity 
 So much not binds us as the friendship 
 
 pledged 
 To them that are not of our blood : and 
 
 this 
 Stands clear for certain, that no breath 
 
 of war 
 Shall breathe from him against us 
 
 though she die, 
 Except his titular claim be reft from him 
 On our succession ; and that all his 
 
 mind 
 Is but to reign unpartnered with a 
 
 power 
 Which should weigh down that half his 
 
 kingdom's weight 
 Left to his hand's share nominally in 
 
 hold. 
 And for his mother, this would he 
 
 desire, 
 That she were kept from this day to her 
 
 death 
 Close i:)risoner in one chamber, never 
 
 more 
 To speak with man or woman ; and 
 
 hereon 
 Tnat proclamation should be made of 
 
 her 
 As of one subject formally declared 
 To the English law whereby, if she 
 
 offend 
 Again with iterance of conspiracy. 
 She shall not as a (pieen again be tried, 
 lUit as vour vassal and a private head 
 Live liable to the dijom and stroke of 
 
 death. 
 Eliziihfth. She is buunden to him as 
 
 he long since to her, 
 Who would have given his kingdom up 
 
 at least 
 To his dead father's slayer; in whose 
 
 red hand 
 llow safe had lain his life too, chnibt 
 may guess, 
 
 Which yet kept dark her purpose then 
 
 on him. 
 Dark now no more to us-ward. Think 
 
 you then 
 That they belie him, whose suspicion 
 
 saith 
 His ear and heart are yet inclined to 
 
 Spain, 
 If from that brother-in-law that was 
 
 of ours. 
 And would have been our bridegroom, 
 
 he may win 
 Help of strange gold and foreign sol- 
 diership, 
 With Scottish furtherance of those 
 
 Catholic lords 
 Who are stronger-spirited in their faith 
 
 than ours, 
 Being harried more of heretics, as they 
 
 say, 
 Than these within our borders, to root 
 
 out 
 The creed there stablished now, and do 
 
 to death 
 Its ministers, with all the lords their 
 
 friends. 
 Lay hands on all strong places there, 
 
 and rule 
 As prince upon their party.'' since he 
 
 fain 
 From ours would be divided, and cast 
 
 in 
 His lot with Rome against us too, from 
 
 these 
 Might he but earn assurance of their 
 
 faith. 
 Revolting from his own. May these 
 
 things be 
 More than mere muttering breath ot 
 
 trustless lies, 
 And half his heart yet hover toward our 
 
 side 
 F'or all such hope or purpose? 
 
 Walsinirhani. Of his heart 
 We know not, madam, surely; nor 
 
 doth he 
 Who follows fast on their first envoy 
 
 sent, 
 And writes to e.xcuse him of his mes- 
 sage here 
 On her behalf apparent, but in sooth 
 Aimed otherwise; the >Laster I nieai' 
 of Gray, 
 
AfARY STUART. 
 
 437 
 
 Who swears me here by letter, if he be 
 
 not 
 True to the queen of England, he is 
 
 content 
 To have his head fall on a scaffold : 
 
 saying. 
 To put from him this charge of em- 
 bassy 
 Had been his ruin, but the meaning of 
 
 it 
 Is modest and not menacing; whereto 
 If you will yield not yet to spare the 
 
 life 
 So near its forfeit now, he thinks it 
 
 well 
 You should be pleased by some com- 
 mission given 
 To stay by the way his comrade and 
 
 himself. 
 Or bid them back. 
 Elizabeth. What man is this, then, 
 
 sent 
 With such a knave to fellow ? 
 
 Walsingharn. No such knave. 
 But still your prisoner's friend of old 
 
 time found, — 
 Sir Robert Melville. 
 
 Elizabeth. And an honest man 
 As faith might wish her servants; but 
 
 what pledge 
 Will these produce me for security 
 That I may spare this dangerous life, 
 
 and live 
 Unscathed of after practice ? 
 
 Walsingham. As I think, 
 The king's self and his whole nobility 
 W^ill be her personal pledges; and her 
 
 son, 
 If England yield her to his hand in 
 
 charge, 
 On no less strait a bond will undertake 
 For her safe keeping. 
 
 Elizabeth. That were even to arm 
 With double power mine adversary, 
 
 and make him 
 The stronger by my hand to do me 
 
 hurt — 
 Were he mine adversary indeed : which 
 
 yet 
 I will not hold him. Let them find a 
 
 mean 
 For me to live unhurt, and save her 
 
 life, 
 
 It shall well please me. Say this king 
 
 of Scots 
 Himself would give his own inheritance 
 
 up 
 Pretended in succession, if but once 
 Her hand were found, or any friend's of 
 
 hers, 
 Again put forth upon me for her sake, 
 Why, haply so might hearts be satisfied 
 Of lords and commons then to let her 
 
 live. 
 But this I doubt he had rather take her 
 
 life 
 Himself than yield up to us for pledge ; 
 
 and less, 
 These men shall know of me, I will 
 
 not take 
 In price of her redemption : which 
 
 were else, 
 And haply may in no wise not be held, 
 To this my loyal land and mine own 
 
 trust 
 A deadlier stroke and blast of sound 
 
 more dire 
 Than noise of fleets invasive. 
 
 Walsingham. Surely so 
 Would all hearts hold it, madam, in 
 
 that land 
 That are not enemies of the land and 
 
 yours ; 
 For ere the doom had been proclaimed 
 
 an hour 
 Which gave to death your main foe's 
 
 head and theirs. 
 Yourself have heard what fire of joy 
 
 brake forth 
 From all your people ; how their 
 
 church-towers all 
 Rang in with jubilant acclaim of bells 
 The day that bore such tidings, and the 
 
 night 
 That laughed aloud with lightning of 
 
 their joy 
 And thundered round its triumph: 
 
 twice twelve hours 
 This temi)est of thanksgiving roared 
 
 and shone 
 Sheer from the Solway's to the Chan- 
 nel's foam 
 With light as from one festal-flaming 
 
 hearth 
 And sound as of one trumpet ; not a 
 
 tongue 
 
438 
 
 AfAKY STUART. 
 
 Hut praised God for it, or heart that 
 leapt not up, 
 
 Save of vour traitors and their coun- 
 try's : these 
 
 Withered at heart and shrank their 
 heads in close, 
 
 As though the bright sun's were a bas- 
 ilisk's eye, 
 
 And light, that gave all others comfort, 
 flame 
 
 And smoke to theirs of hell's own dark- 
 ness, whence 
 
 Such eyes were blinded or put out with 
 fire. 
 Elizabeth. Yea, I myself, I mind me, 
 might not sleep 
 
 Those twice twelve hours thou speak'st 
 of. By God's light. 
 
 Be it most in love of me or fear of her 
 
 I know not, but my peojjle seems in 
 sooth 
 
 Hot and an hungered on this trail of 
 hers : 
 
 Nor is it a people bloody-minded, used 
 
 To lap the life up of an enemy's vein 
 
 Who bleeds to death unweaponed : our 
 good hounds 
 
 Will course a quarry soldier-like in war, 
 
 Bui rage not hangman-like upon the 
 prey. 
 
 To flesh their fangs on lim'os that strive 
 not : yet 
 
 Their hearts are hotter on this course 
 than mine, 
 
 W' hich most was deadliest aimed at. 
 IValsiiiglunn. ICvcn for that 
 
 How should not theirs be hot as fire 
 froin hell 
 
 To burn your danger uj), and slay that 
 soul 
 
 Alive that seeks it? Thinks your maj- 
 esty 
 
 There beats a heart where treason hath 
 not turned 
 
 All I'.nglish blood to p(jison, which 
 would feel 
 
 No deadlier pang of dread more death- 
 ful to it 
 
 To hear of yours endangered than to 
 feel 
 
 A swortl against its own life bent, or 
 
 know 
 Death imminent as darkness overhead 
 
 That takes the noon fr(jm one man's 
 
 darkening eye 
 As must your death from all this peo- 
 ple's .? Vou 
 Are very England: in your light of life 
 This living land of yours walks only 
 
 safe, 
 And all this breathing people with your 
 
 breath 
 Breathes unenslaved, and draws at each 
 
 pulse in 
 Freedom: your eye is light of theirs, 
 
 your word 
 As God's to comfort England, whose 
 
 whole soul 
 Is made with yours one, and her wit- 
 ness you 
 That Rome'or hell shall take not hold 
 
 on her 
 Again till God be wroth with us so 
 
 much 
 As to reclaim for heaven the star that 
 
 yet 
 Lights all your land that looks on it, 
 
 and gives 
 Assurance higher than danger dares 
 
 assail 
 Save in this lady's name and service 
 
 who 
 Must now from you take judgment. 
 
 Elizabeth. Must ! by God, 
 I know not imist but as a word of mine, 
 My tongue's and not mine ear's famil- 
 iar. Sirs, 
 Content yourselves to know this much 
 
 of us. 
 Or having known remember, that we 
 
 sent 
 The lord of Buckhurst and our servant 
 
 Beale 
 To acquaint this queen our prisoner 
 
 with the doom 
 Confirmed on second trial against her ; 
 
 saving 
 Her word can weigh not down the 
 
 weightier guilt 
 Approved upon her, and by parliament 
 Since fortified with sentence. Yea, 
 
 my lords. 
 Ye should forget not how by message 
 
 then 
 I bade her know of mc with whaf 
 
 strong force 
 
MAKY STUART. 
 
 439 
 
 C\ strenuous and invincible argument 
 i Km urged to hold no more in such 
 
 delay 
 The process of her execution^ being 
 The seed-plot of these late conspiracies, 
 Their author and chief motive ; and am 
 
 told 
 That if I yield not, mine the guilt must 
 
 be 
 In God's and in the whole world's suf- 
 fering sight 
 Of all the miseries and calamities 
 To ensue on my refusal ; whence, albeit 
 I know not yet how God shall please to 
 
 incline 
 My heart on that behalf, I have thought 
 
 it meet 
 In conscience yet that she should be 
 
 forewarned. 
 That so she might bethink her of her 
 
 sins 
 Done both toward God offensive and 
 
 to me, 
 And pray for grace to be true penitent 
 For all these faults : which, had the 
 
 main fault reached 
 No farther than mine own poor person, 
 
 God 
 Stands witness with what truth my heart 
 
 protests 
 I freely would have pardoned. She to 
 
 this 
 Makes bitter answer as of desperate 
 
 heart, 
 All we may wreak our worst upon her ; 
 
 whom 
 Having to death condemned, we may 
 
 fulfil 
 Our wicked work, and God in paradise 
 With just atonement shall requite her. 
 
 This 
 Ye see is all the pardon she will ask. 
 Being only, and even as 'twere with 
 
 prayer, desired 
 To crave of us forgiveness ; and there- 
 on 
 Being by Lord Buckhurst charged on 
 
 this point home, 
 That by her mean the Catholics here 
 
 had learnt 
 To hold her for their sovereign, — on 
 
 which cause 
 Nor my religion nor myself might live 
 
 Uncharged with danger while her life 
 
 should last, — 
 She answering gives God thanks aloud 
 
 to be 
 Held of so great account upon his side^ 
 And in God's cause and in the Church 
 
 of God's 
 Rejoicingly makes offering of her life; 
 Which I, God knows how unrejoicingly. 
 Can scarce, ye tell me, choose but take. 
 
 or yield 
 At least for you to take it. Yet, being 
 
 told 
 It is not for religion she must die. 
 But for a plot by compass of her own 
 Laid to dethrone me and destroy, she 
 
 casts 
 Again this answer barbed with mockery 
 
 back, — 
 She was not so presumptuous born, to 
 
 aspire 
 To two such ends yet ever : yea, so far 
 She dwelt from such desire removed in 
 
 heart, 
 She would not have me suffer by her 
 
 will 
 The fillip of a finger; though herself 
 Be persecuted even as David once, 
 And her mishap be that she cannot so 
 Fly by the window forth as David: 
 
 whence 
 It seems she likens us to Saul, and looks 
 Haply to see us as on Mount Gilboa 
 
 fallen. 
 Where yet, for all the shooters on her 
 
 side, 
 Our shield shall be not vilely cast away, 
 As of one unanointed. Yet, my lords. 
 If England might but by my death 
 
 attain 
 A state more flourishing with a better 
 
 prince. 
 Gladly would I lay down my life ; who 
 
 have 
 No care save only for my people's sake 
 To keep it : for niyself, in all the world 
 I see no great cause why for all this coil 
 I should be fond to live or fear to die. 
 If I should say unto you that I mean 
 To grant not your petition, by my faith. 
 More should I so say haply than I mean : 
 Or should I say I mean to grant it, this 
 Were, as I think, to tell you of my mind 
 
440 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 More than is fit for you to know : and 
 thus 
 
 I must for all petitionary prayer 
 
 Deliver you an answer answerless. 
 
 Yet will I pray God lighten my dark 
 mind, 
 
 That being illumined it may thence fore- 
 see 
 
 What for his church and all this com- 
 monwealth 
 
 May most be profitable : and this once 
 known, 
 
 My hand shall halt not long behind his 
 will. 
 
 Scene II. — Fotheringay 
 
 Sir Amyas Paulet n7id Sir Drew 
 Drury. 
 Paulet. I never gave God heartier 
 
 thanks than these 
 I give to have you partner of my charge 
 Now most of all, these letters being to 
 
 you 
 No less designed than me, and you in 
 
 heart 
 One with mine own upon them. Cer- 
 tainly, 
 When I put hand to pen this morning 
 
 past, 
 That master Davison by mine evidence 
 Might note what sore disquietudes I 
 
 had 
 To increase my griefs before of body 
 
 and mind, 
 I looked for no such word to cut off 
 
 mine 
 As these to us both of Walsingham's 
 
 and his. 
 W^ould rather yet I had cause to still 
 
 com|)lain 
 Of those unanswered letters two months 
 
 past, 
 Than thus be certified of such intents 
 As God best knoweth I never sought to 
 
 know, 
 Or search out secret causes : though to 
 
 hear 
 Nothing at all did breed, as I confessed, 
 In me some hard conceits against my- 
 self, 
 I had rather yet rest ignorant than 
 ashamed 
 
 Of such ungracious knowledge. This 
 shall be 
 
 Fruit as I think of dread wrought on the 
 queen 
 
 Bv those seditious rumors whose report 
 
 Blows fear among the people lest our 
 charge 
 
 Escape our trust, or, as they term it now, 
 
 Be taken away, — such apprehensive 
 tongues 
 
 So phrase it, — and her freedom strike 
 
 men's hearts _ 
 
 More deep than all these flying fears I 
 that say * 
 
 London is fired of Papists, or the Scots 
 
 Have crossed in arms the Border, or 
 the north 
 
 Is risen again rebellious, or the Guise 
 
 Is disembarked in Sussex, or that now 
 
 In Milford Haven rides a Spanish 
 fleet,— 
 
 All which, albeit but footless floating 
 lies. 
 
 May all too easily smite and work too 
 far 
 
 Even on the heart most royal in the 
 world 
 
 That ever was a woman's. 
 Df-nry. Good my friend, 
 
 These noises come without a thunder- 
 bolt 
 
 In such dense air of dusk expectancy 
 
 As all this land lies under; nor will 
 some 
 
 Doubt or think much to say of thosf 
 reports. 
 
 They are broached and \ ented of men't, 
 credulous mouths 
 
 Whose ears have caught them from such 
 lips as meant 
 
 Merely to strike more terror in the 
 Queen, 
 
 And wrmg that warrant from her hover- 
 ing hand 
 
 Which falters yet and flutters on her lip 
 
 While the hand hangs and trembles 
 half advanced 
 
 Upon that sentence which, the treas- 
 urer said, 
 
 Should well ere this have spoken, see 
 ing it was 
 
 More than a full month old and foui 
 days more 
 
ATARY STUART. 
 
 441 
 
 W hen he so looked to hear the word of 
 
 it 
 Which yet lies sealed of silence. 
 
 Paulet. Will >ou say, 
 Or any as wise and loyal, say or think 
 It was but for a show, to scare men's 
 
 wits. 
 They have raised this hue and cry upon 
 
 her flight 
 Supposed from hence, to waken Exeter 
 With noise from Honiton and Sampfield 
 
 spread 
 Of proclamation to detain all ships. 
 And lay all highways for her day and 
 
 night, 
 And send like precepts out four manner 
 
 of ways 
 From town to town, to make in readi- 
 ness 
 Their armor and artillery, with all speed. 
 On pain of death, for London by report 
 Was set on fire ? though, God be there- 
 fore praised, 
 We know this is not, yet the noise hereof 
 Were surely not to be neglected, see- 
 ing 
 There is, meseems, indeed no readier 
 
 way 
 To levy forces for the achieving that 
 Which so these lewd reporters feign to 
 
 fear. 
 Drury. Why, in such mighty matters 
 
 and such mists 
 Wise men may think what hardly fools 
 
 would say. 
 And eyes get glimpse o( more than sight 
 
 hath leave 
 To give commission for the babbling 
 
 tongue 
 Aloud to cry they have seen. This noise 
 
 that was 
 Upon one Arden's flight, a traitor, 
 
 whence 
 Fear flew last week all round us, gave 
 
 but note 
 Ifow lightly may men's minds take fire, 
 
 and words 
 Take wing that have no feet to fare 
 
 upon 
 More solid than a shadow. 
 
 Paulet. Nay, he was 
 Escaped indeed: and every day thus 
 
 brings 
 
 Forth its new mischief; as this last 
 
 month did 
 Those treasons of the French ambas 
 
 sador 
 Designed against our mistress which 
 
 God's grace 
 Laid by the knave's mean bare to whom 
 
 they sought 
 For one to slay her, and of the Pope's 
 
 hand earn 
 Ten thousand blood-incrusted crowns a 
 
 year 
 To his most hellish hire. You will not 
 
 say 
 This too was merely fraud or vision 
 
 wrought 
 By fear or cloudy falsehood } 
 
 Drtiry. I will say 
 No more or surelier than I know : and 
 
 this 
 I know not thoroughly to the core of 
 
 truth 
 Or heart of falsehood in it. A man may 
 
 lie 
 Merely, or trim some bald lean truth 
 
 with lies. 
 Or patch bare falsehood with some tat- 
 ter of truth, 
 And each of these pass current : but of 
 
 these 
 Which likeliest may this man's tale be 
 
 who gave 
 Word of his own temptation by these 
 
 French 
 To hire them such a murderer, and 
 
 avowed 
 He held it godly cunning to comply, 
 And bring this envoy's secretary to 
 
 sight 
 Of one clapped up for debts in New- 
 gate, who 
 Being thence released might readily, as 
 
 he said. 
 Even bv such means as once this lady's 
 
 lord 
 Was made away with, make the queen 
 
 away 
 W^ith powder fired beneath her bed — 
 
 whv, this, 
 Good sooth, I guess not ; but I doubt 
 
 the man 
 To be more liar than fool, and yet, God 
 
 wot, 
 
442 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 More fool than traitor; most of all in- 
 tent 
 
 To conjure coin forth of the French- 
 man's ]:)urse 
 
 With tricks of mere effontery: thus at 
 least 
 
 We know did W^alsingham esteem of 
 him : 
 
 And if by Davison held of more ac- 
 count, 
 
 Or merely found more serviceable, and 
 made 
 
 A mean to tether up those quick French 
 tongues 
 
 From threat or pleading for this pris- 
 oner's life, 
 
 I cannot tell, and care not. Though 
 the queen 
 
 Hath staved this envoy's secretary from 
 flight 
 
 Forth of the kingdom, and committed 
 him 
 
 To ward within the Tower while Cha- 
 teauneuf 
 
 Himself should come before a council 
 held 
 
 At my lord treasurer's, where being thus 
 accused 
 
 At first he cared not to confront the 
 man, 
 
 But stood upon his office, and the 
 charge 
 
 Of his king's honor and prerogative — 
 
 Then bade bring forth the knave, who 
 being brought forth 
 
 Outfaced him with insistence front to 
 front, 
 
 And took ihe record of this whole tale's 
 truth 
 
 Upon his soul's damnation, challen- 
 ging 
 
 The r'>enchman's answer in denial 
 hereof. 
 
 That of his own mouth had this witness 
 been 
 
 Traitorously tempted, antl by personal 
 plea 
 
 Directly drawn to treason : which 
 awhile 
 
 Struck (himl) the ambassador as ama/ied 
 with wrath, 
 
 Till presently, the accuser being re- 
 moved, 
 
 He made avowal this fellow some whil 
 
 since 
 Had given his secretary to wit there ia 
 One bound in Newgate who beini 
 
 thence released 
 Would take the queen's death on hi 
 
 hand : whereto 
 Answering, he bade the knave avoii 
 
 his house 
 On pain, if once their ways shouk 
 
 cross, to be 
 Sent bound before the council : whc 
 
 replied 
 He had done foul wrong to take nc 
 
 further note. 
 But being made privy to this damned 
 
 device 
 Keep close its perilous knowledge ; 
 
 whence the queen 
 Might well complain against him ; and 
 
 hereon 
 Thev fell to wrangling on this cause, 
 
 that he 
 Professed himself to no man answer- 
 able 
 For declaration or for secret held 
 Save his own master : so that now is 
 
 gone 
 Sir W'illiam Wade to Paris, not with 
 
 charge 
 To let the king there know this queen 
 
 shall live. 
 But to require the ambassador's recall, 
 And swift delivery of our traitors there 
 To jiresent justice : yet may no man say, 
 For all these half-faced scares and poli- 
 cies. 
 Here was more sooth than seeming. 
 
 Patilet. Why, these crafts 
 Were shameful then as fear's most 
 
 shameful self. 
 If thus your wit read them aright ; and 
 
 we 
 Should for our souls and lives alike do 
 
 ill 
 To jeopard them on such men's surety 
 
 given 
 As make no more account of simjilt 
 
 faith 
 Than true men make of liars: and 
 
 these are they, 
 Our friends and masters, that rebuko 
 
 us both 
 
MARY STU/iRT. 
 
 4^3 
 
 iJy speech late uttered of her majesty 
 For lack of zeal in service and of care 
 She looked for at our hands, in that we 
 
 have not 
 In all this time, unprompted, of our- 
 selves 
 Found out some way to cut this queen's 
 
 life off. 
 Seeing how great peril, while her ene- 
 my lives, 
 She is hourly subject unto ; saying, she 
 
 notes, 
 Besides a kmd of lack of love to her. 
 Herein we have not that particular 
 
 care 
 Forsooth of our own safeties, or indeed 
 Of the faith rather and the general 
 
 good. 
 That politic reason bids; especially. 
 Having so strong a warrant and such 
 
 ground 
 For satisfaction of our consciences 
 To Godward, and discharge of credit 
 
 kept 
 And reputation toward the world, as is 
 That oath whereby we stand associated 
 To prosecute inexorably to death 
 Both with our joint and our particular 
 
 force 
 All by whose hand and all on whose 
 
 behalf 
 Our sovereign's life is struck at: as by 
 
 proof 
 Stands charged upon our prisoner. 
 
 So they write, 
 As though the queen's own will had 
 
 warranted 
 The words that by her will's authority 
 Were blotted from the bond, whereby 
 
 that head 
 Was doomed on whos« behoof her life 
 
 should be 
 By treason threatened : for she would 
 
 not have 
 Aught pass which grieved her subjects' 
 
 consciences, 
 She said, or might abide not openly 
 The v/hole world's view : nor would she 
 
 any one 
 Weie punished for another's fault: and 
 
 so 
 Cut off the plea whereon she now de- 
 sir ss 
 
 That we should dip our secret hands in 
 
 blood 
 With no direction given of her own 
 
 mouth 
 So to pursue that dangerous head to 
 
 death 
 By whose assent her life were sought : 
 
 for this 
 Stands fixed for only warrant of such 
 
 deed, 
 And this we have not, but her \ftorc 
 
 instead 
 She takes it most unkindly toward her 
 
 self 
 That men professing toward her loyally 
 That love that we do should in any 
 
 sort, 
 For lack of our own duty's full dis- 
 charge, 
 Cast upon her the burden, knowing as 
 
 we 
 Her slowness to shed blood, much more 
 
 of one 
 So near herself in blood as is this 
 
 queen, 
 And one with her in sex and quality. 
 And these respects, they find, or so 
 
 profess. 
 Do greatly trouble her : who hath sun- 
 dry times 
 Protested, they assure us, earnestly, 
 That if regard of her good subjects' 
 
 risk 
 Did not more move her than the per- 
 sonal fear 
 Of proper peril to her, she never would 
 Be drawn to assent unto this blood- 
 shedding : 
 And so to our good judgments they 
 
 refer 
 These speeches they thought meet to 
 
 acquaint us with 
 As passed but lately from her majesty, 
 And to God's guard commend us: 
 
 which God knows 
 We should much more need than de- 
 serve of him 
 Should we give ear to this, and as they 
 
 bid 
 Make heretics of these papers; which 
 
 three times 
 You see how Davison hath enforceci 
 on us: 
 
444 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 But they shall taste no fire for me, nor 
 
 pass 
 Back to his hands till copies writ of 
 
 them 
 Lie safe in mine for sons of mine to 
 
 keep 
 In witness how their father dealt herein. 
 Drury. You have done the wiselier: 
 
 and what word soe'er 
 Shall bid them know your mind, I am 
 
 well assured 
 It well mav speak for me too. 
 
 Paulet. Thus it shall : 
 That having here his letters in my 
 
 hands, 
 I would not fail, according to his 
 
 charge, 
 To send back answer with all possible 
 
 speed 
 Which shall deliver unto him my great 
 
 grief 
 And bitterness of mind, in that I am 
 So much unhappy as I hold myself 
 To have lived to look on this unhappy 
 
 day. 
 When I by plain direction am required 
 From my most gracious sovereign's 
 
 mouth to do 
 An act which God forbiddeth, and the 
 
 law. 
 Hers are my goods and livings, and my 
 
 life. 
 Held at her disposition, and myself 
 Am ready so to lose them this next 
 
 day 
 If it shall please her so, acknowledging 
 I hold them of her mere goodwill, and 
 
 do not 
 Desire them to enjoy them but so long 
 As her great grace gives leave : but 
 
 Ood forbid 
 That I should make for any grace of 
 
 he.s 
 So foul a shipwreck of my conscience, 
 
 or 
 Leave ever to my poor posterity 
 So great a blot, as privily to shed blood 
 With neither law nor warrant. So, in 
 
 trust 
 That she, of her accustomed clemency, 
 Will take my dutiful answer in good 
 
 part, 
 By his good mediation, as returned 
 
 From one who never will be less in 
 
 love, 
 Honor, obedience, duty to his queen, 
 Than any Christian subject living, thus 
 To God's grace I commit him. 
 
 Drury. Though I doubt 
 She haply shall be much more wroth 
 
 hereat 
 Than lately she was gracious, \\hen she 
 
 bade 
 God treblefold reward you for your 
 
 charge 
 So well discharged, saluting you by 
 
 name 
 Most faithful and most careful, you 
 
 shall do 
 Most like a wise man loyally to write 
 But such good words as these, whereto 
 
 myself 
 Subscribe in heart : though being not 
 
 named herein 
 (Albeit to both seem these late letters 
 
 meant) 
 Nor this directed to me, I forbear 
 To make particular answer. And in- 
 deed. 
 Were danger less apparent in her life 
 To the heart's life of all this living 
 
 land, 
 I would this woman might not die ai 
 
 all 
 By secret stroke nor open sentence. 
 
 Paulet. I 
 Will praise God's mercy most for t\.is 
 
 of all, 
 When I shall see the murderous cause 
 
 removed 
 Of its most mortal peril : nor desire 
 A guerdon ampler from the queen we 
 
 serve. 
 Besides her commendations of my faith 
 For spotless actions and tor safe re- 
 gards, 
 Than to see judgment on her enemy 
 
 done ; 
 Which were for me that recompense 
 
 indeed 
 Whereof she writes as one not given 
 
 to all, 
 But for such merit reserved to crown its 
 
 claim 
 Above all common service: nor save 
 
 this 
 
MAA'Y STUART. 
 
 445 
 
 Could any treasure's promise in the 
 
 world 
 So ease those travails and rejoice this 
 
 heart 
 That hers too much takes thought of, 
 
 as to read 
 Her charge to carry for her sake in it 
 This most just thought, that she can 
 
 balance not 
 The value that her grace doth prize me 
 
 at 
 In any weight of judgment : yet it were 
 A word to me more comfortable at heart 
 Than these, though these most gracious, 
 
 that should speak 
 Death to her death's contriver. 
 
 Drury. Nay, myself 
 Were fain to see this coil wound up, 
 
 and her 
 Removed that makes it : yet such things 
 
 will }:luck 
 1 id at men's hearts that think on 
 
 them, and move 
 Compassion that such long strange 
 
 years should find 
 So strange an end : nor shall men ever 
 
 say - 
 But she was born right royal ; full of 
 
 sins, 
 It may be, and by circumstance or choice 
 Dyed and defaced with bloody stains 
 
 and black. 
 Unmerciful, unfaithful, but of heart 
 So fiery high, so swift of spirit and clear, 
 In extreme danger and pain so lifted up, 
 So of all violent things inviolable. 
 So large of courage, so superb of soul. 
 So sheathed with iron mind invincible 
 And arms unbreached of fireproof con- 
 stancy, — 
 By shame not shaken, fear or force or 
 
 death, 
 Change, or all confluence of calami- 
 ties, — 
 And so at her worst need beloved, and 
 
 still. 
 Naked of help and honor when she 
 
 seemed. 
 As other women would be, and of hope 
 Stripped, still so of herself adorable 
 By minds not always all ignobly mad 
 Nor all made poisonous with false grain 
 
 of faith. 
 
 She shall be a world's wonder tc all 
 
 time, 
 A deadly glory watched of marvelling 
 
 men 
 Not without praise, not without noble 
 
 tears. 
 And if without what she would never 
 
 have 
 Who had it never, — pity, — yet from 
 
 none 
 Quite without reverence and some kind 
 
 of love 
 For that which was so royal. Yea, and 
 
 now 
 That at her prayer we here attend on 
 
 her. 
 If, as I think, she have in mind to 
 
 send 
 Aught written to the queen, what we 
 
 may do 
 To further her desire shall on my part 
 Gladly be done, so be it the grace she 
 
 craves 
 Be naught akin to danger. 
 
 Patdet. It shall be 
 The first of all, then, craved by her of 
 
 man, 
 Or by man's service done her, that was 
 
 found 
 So harmless ever. 
 
 E7iter Mary Stuart and Mary Bea- 
 ton. 
 Mary Stuart. Sirs, in time past by 
 T was desirous many times, ye know. 
 To have written to your queen : bui 
 
 since I have had 
 Advertisement of my conviction, seeing 
 I may not look for life, my soul is set 
 On ])rei)aration for another world : 
 Yet none the less, not for desire of life, 
 But for my conscience's discharge and 
 
 rest. 
 And for my last farewell, I have at 
 
 heart 
 By you to send her a memorial writ 
 Of somewhat that concerns myself, 
 
 when I 
 Shall presently be gone out of this world. 
 And to remove from her, if such be 
 
 there. 
 Suspicion of all danger in receipt 
 Of this poor paper that shall come from 
 
 me, 
 
44^ 
 
 MAfi!Y STUART. 
 
 Mvself will take the assay of it, and so 
 With mine own hands to yours deliver 
 it. 
 Paidet. Will you not also, madam, 
 be content 
 To seal and close it in my presence up? 
 Mary Stuart. Sir, willingly; but I 
 beseech your word 
 Pledged for its safe delivery to the 
 queen. 
 Paiilet. I plight my faith it shall be 
 
 sent to her. 
 Mary Stuart. This further promise I 
 desire, you will 
 Procure me from above certificate 
 It hath been there delivered. 
 
 Drury. This is more 
 Than we may stand so pledged for : in 
 
 our power 
 It is to send, but far beyond our power, 
 As being above our place, to promise 
 
 you 
 Certificate or warrant. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Yet I trust 
 Consideration may be had of me 
 After my death, as one derived in blood 
 From your queen's grandsire, with all 
 
 mortal rites 
 According with that faith I have pro- 
 fessed 
 All mv life-days as I was born therein. 
 This 'is the sum of all mine askings: 
 
 whence 
 Well might I take it in ill part of you 
 To w Ish me seal my letter in your sight, 
 Bewraying vour hard opinion of me. 
 
 Pauht. This 
 Vour own words well might put into my 
 
 mind. 
 That so beside my expectation made 
 Proffer to take my first assay for me 
 f)f the outer pari of it: for you must 
 
 think 
 I was not ignorant that by sleight of craft 
 There might be as great danger so con- 
 veyed 
 Within the letter as without, and thus 
 I could not for ill thoughts of you be 
 
 blamed. 
 Concurring with you in this jealousy : 
 F"or had yourself not moved it of your- 
 self 
 Sir Drew nor I had ever thought on it. 
 
 Mary Stuart. The occasion why 1 
 
 moved it was but this : 
 That having made my custom in time 
 
 past 
 To send sometimes some tokens to yout 
 
 queen, 
 At one such time that I sent certain 
 
 clothes 
 One standing by advised her cause my 
 
 gifts 
 To be tried thoroughly ere she touched 
 
 them ; which 
 I have since observed, and taken order 
 
 thus 
 With Nau, when last he tarried at the 
 
 court, 
 To do the like to a fur-fringed counter- 
 pane 
 Which at that time I sent : and as for 
 
 this, 
 Look what great danger lies between 
 
 these leaves 
 That I dare take and handle in mv 
 
 hands. 
 And press against my face each part of 
 
 them 
 Held open thus, and either- deadly side. 
 Wherein your fear smells death sown 
 
 privily. 
 Paulet. Madam, when so you charged 
 
 your secretary 
 Her majesty was far from doubt, I 
 
 think. 
 Or dream of such foul dealing; and I 
 
 would 
 Suspicion since had found no just cause 
 
 given. 
 And then things had not been as now 
 
 thev are. 
 Mary Stuart. Ikit things arc as they 
 
 are, and here I stand 
 Convicted, and not knowing how many 
 
 hours 
 I have to live vet. 
 
 Paulet. Macfam, you shall live 
 As many hours as God shall please ; but 
 
 this 
 May be said truly, that you here have 
 
 been 
 Convicted in most honorable sort 
 And favorable. 
 
 Mary Stuart. What favor have I 
 
 found ? 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 A47 
 
 Paulet. Your cause hath been exam- 
 i| ined scrupulously 
 
 By many our eldest nobles of this realm, 
 Whereas by law you should but have 
 
 been tried 
 By twelve men as a common person. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Nay, 
 Your noblemen must by their peers be 
 tried. 
 Paulet. All strangers of what quality 
 soe'er 
 In matter of crime are only to be tried 
 In other princes' territories by law 
 That in that realm bears rule. 
 
 Mary Stuart. You have your laws : 
 But other princes all will think of it 
 As they see cause ; and mine own son is 
 
 now 
 No more a child, but come to man's 
 
 estate. 
 And he will think of these things bit- 
 terly. 
 Drury. Ingratitude, whate'er he think 
 of them, 
 Is odious in all persons, but of all 
 In mightiest personages most specially 
 Most hateful : and it will not be denied 
 But that the queen's grace greatly hath 
 
 deserved 
 Both of yourself and of your son. 
 
 Mary Stuart. What boon 
 Shall I acknowledge .'' Being in bonds, 
 
 I am set 
 Free from the world, and therefore am 
 
 I not 
 Afraid to speak ; I have had the favor 
 
 here 
 To have been kept prisoner now these 
 
 many years 
 Against my will and justice. 
 
 Paulet. Madam, this 
 "Was a great favor, and without this 
 
 grace 
 You had not lived to see these days. 
 Mary Stuart. How so ? 
 Paulet. Seeing your own subjects did 
 pursue you, and had 
 The best in your own country. 
 
 Mary Stuart. That is true. 
 Because your Mildmay's ill persuasions 
 
 first 
 Made me discharge my forces, and then 
 caused 
 
 I 
 
 Mine enemies to burn my friends' main 
 
 holds. 
 Castles and houses. 
 
 Paulet. Mowsoe'er, it was 
 By great men of that country that the 
 
 queen 
 Had earnest suit made to her to have 
 
 yourself 
 Delivered to them, which her grace 
 
 denied. 
 And to their great misliking. 
 
 Drury. Seventeen years 
 She hath kept your life to save it ; and 
 
 whereas 
 She calls your highness sister, she hath 
 
 dealt 
 In truth and deed most graciously with 
 
 you 
 And sister like, in seeking to preserve 
 Your life at once and honor. 
 Mary Stuart. Ay ! wherein ? 
 Drury. In that commission of your 
 
 causes held 
 At York, which was at instance of your 
 
 friends 
 Dissolved to save your honor. 
 
 Maty Stuart. No : the cause 
 Why that commission was dissolved 
 
 indeed 
 Was that my friends could not be heard 
 
 to inform 
 Against my loud accusers. 
 Paulet. But your friend 
 The bishop's self of Ross, your very 
 
 friend. 
 Hath written that this meeting was 
 
 dismissed 
 All only in your favor; and his book 
 Is extant : and this favor is but one 
 Of many graces which her majesty 
 Hath for mere love extended to you. 
 
 Mary Stuart. This 
 Is one great favor, even to have kept 
 
 me here 
 So manv years against my will. 
 
 Paulet. It was 
 For your own safety, seeing your coun- 
 trymen 
 Sought your destruction, and to that 
 
 swift end 
 Required to have you yielded up to 
 
 them, 
 As was before said. 
 
T48 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Afary Stuart. Nay, then, I will speak. 
 I am not afraid. It was determined 
 
 here 
 That I should not depart ; and when I 
 
 was 
 Demanded by my subjects, this I know, 
 That my lord treasurer with his own 
 
 close hand 
 Writ in a packet which by trustier 
 
 hands 
 Was intercepted, and to me conveyed, 
 To the earl of Murray, that the devil 
 
 was tied 
 Fast in a chain, and they could keep 
 
 her not. 
 But here she should be safely kept. 
 
 Drury. That earl 
 Was even as honorable a gentleman 
 As I knew ever in that country bred. 
 Mary Stuart. One of the worst men 
 
 of the world he was : 
 A foul adulterer, one of general lust, 
 A spoiler and a murderer. 
 Drury. Six weeks long. 
 As I remember, here I saw him ; where 
 He bore him very gravely, and main- 
 tained 
 The reputation even on all men's 
 
 tongues 
 In all things of a noble gentlenian : 
 Nor have I heard him evil spoken of 
 Till this time ever. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Yea, my rebels here 
 Are honest men, and by the queen 
 
 have been 
 Maintained. 
 Paulet. You greatly do forget your- 
 self 
 To charge her highness with so foul a 
 
 fault, 
 Which you can never find ability 
 To prove on her. 
 
 Mary Stuart. What tlid she with the 
 
 French, 
 I i)ray you, at Newhavcn ? 
 
 Paulet. It appears 
 You have conceived so hardly of the 
 
 queen 
 My mistress, that you still invctcratcly 
 Interpret all her actions to the worst. 
 Not knowing the truth of all the cause; 
 
 but yet 
 I dare assure you that her majesty 
 
 Had most just cause and righteous, in 
 
 respect 
 As well of Calais as for other ends. 
 To do the thing she did, and more to 
 
 have done, 
 Had it so pleased her to put forth her 
 
 power. 
 And this is in you great unthankfulness 
 After so many favors and so great, 
 Whereof you will acknowledge in no 
 
 wise 
 The least of any; though her majesty 
 Hath of her ovvn grace merely saved 
 
 your life. 
 To the utter discontentment of the best 
 Your subjects once in open parliament, 
 Who craved against you justice on the 
 
 charge 
 Of civil law-breach and rebellion. 
 
 Mary Stuart. I 
 Know no such matter, but full well I 
 
 know 
 Sir Francis Walsingham hath openly. 
 Since his abiding last in Scotland, said 
 That I should rue his entertainment 
 
 there. 
 Paulet. Madam, you have not rued 
 
 it, but have been 
 More honorably entertained than ever 
 
 yet 
 Was any other crown's competitor 
 In any realm save only this : whereof 
 Some' have been kept close prisoners, 
 
 other some 
 Maimed and unnaturally disfigured, 
 
 some 
 Murdered. 
 
 Mary Stuart. But I was no comjicti- 
 
 tor : 
 All I required was in successive right 
 To be reputed but as next the crown. 
 Paulet. Nay, madam, you went fur 
 
 ther, when you gave 
 The English arms and style, as though 
 
 our cjuccn 
 Had been but an usurper on VDur 
 
 right. 
 Mary Stuart. My husband and my 
 
 kinsmen did therein 
 What they thought good: I had naught 
 
 to do with it. 
 Paulit. Why would you not then 
 
 loyally renounce 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 449 
 
 Vour claim herein pretended, but with 
 such 
 
 Condition, that you might be authorized 
 
 \ext heir apparent to the crown ? 
 I\ftirv Stuart. I have made 
 
 At sundry times thereon good proffers, 
 which 
 
 Could never be accepted. 
 Fiuiiet. Heretofore 
 
 It hath been proved unto you presently, 
 
 That in the very instant even of all 
 
 Your treaties and most friendlike of- 
 fers, were 
 
 Some dangerous crafts discovered. 
 Mary Stuart. You must think 
 
 I have some friends on earth ; and if 
 they have done 
 
 Any thing privily, what is that to me ? 
 Fa u let. Madam, it was somewhat to 
 you, and I would 
 
 For your own sake you had forborne 
 it, that 
 
 After advertisement and conscience 
 given 
 
 Of Morgan's devilish practice, to have 
 killed 
 
 A sacred queen, you yet would enter- 
 tain 
 
 The murderer as your servant. 
 Mary Stuart. I might do it 
 
 With as good right as ever did your 
 queen 
 
 So entertain my rebels. 
 Drury. He advised : 
 
 This speech is very hard, and all the 
 case 
 
 Here differs greatly. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Y'ea, let this then be : 
 
 Ye cannot yet of my conviction say 
 
 But I by partial judgment was con- 
 demned. 
 
 And the commissioners knew my son 
 could have 
 
 No right, were I convicted, and your 
 queen 
 
 Could have no children of her womb ; 
 whereby 
 
 They might set up what man for king 
 they would. 
 Paulet. This is in you too great for- 
 getfulness 
 
 Of honor and yourself, to charge these 
 lords 
 
 With two so foul and horrible faults, 
 
 as first 
 To take your life by partial doom from 
 
 you, 
 And then bestow the kingdom where 
 
 they liked. 
 Mary Stuart. Well, all is one to me: 
 
 and for my part 
 I thank God I shall die without regret 
 (3f any thing that I have done alive. 
 Paulet. I would entreat you yet be 
 
 sorry at least 
 For the great wrong and well-deserv- 
 ing grief 
 You have done the queen, my mistress. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Nay, thereon 
 Let others answer' for themselves : I 
 
 have 
 Nothing to do with it. Have you borne 
 
 in mind 
 Those matters of my moneys that we 
 
 last 
 Conferred upon together ? 
 
 Paulet. Madam, these 
 Are not forgotten. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Well it is if aught 
 Be yet at all remembered for my good 
 Have here my letter sealed and super- 
 scribed. 
 And so farewell — or even as here men 
 
 mav. 
 
 {Exeunt Paulet and Drury. 
 Had I that old strength in my weary 
 
 limbs 
 That in my heart yet fails not, fain 
 
 would I 
 Fare forth if not fare better. Tired 
 
 I am, 
 But not so lame in spirit I might not 
 
 take 
 Some comfort of the winter-wasted sun 
 This bitter Christmas to me, though 
 
 my feet 
 W^ere now no firmer nor more helpful 
 
 found 
 Than when I went but in my chair 
 
 abroad 
 Last weary June at C hartley. I can 
 
 stand 
 And go now without help of either 
 
 side, 
 And bend my hand again, thou seest, 
 
 to write : 
 
450 
 
 A/AA'V STUART. 
 
 I did not well perchance in sight of 
 
 these 
 To have made so much of this lame 
 
 hand, which yet 
 God knows was grievous to me, and 
 
 to-day 
 To make my letter up and superscribe 
 And seal it with no outward show of 
 
 pain 
 Before their face and inquisition ; yet 
 I care not much in player's wise pit- 
 
 eously 
 To blind such eyes with feigning : 
 
 though this Drew 
 Be gentler and more gracious than his 
 
 mate. 
 And liker to be wrought on; but at last 
 What need have I of men? 
 
 Mary Beaton. What then you may, 
 I know not, seeing for all that was and is 
 W^e are yet not at the last; but when 
 
 you had, 
 Vou have hardly failed to find more 
 
 help of them 
 And heartier service than more pros- 
 perous queens 
 Exact of expectation : when your need 
 Was greater than your name or natural 
 
 state. 
 And wage was none to look for but of 
 
 death, 
 As though the expectancy thereof and 
 
 hope 
 Were more than man's prosperities, 
 
 men have given 
 Heart's thanks to have this gift of God 
 
 and you 
 For dear life's guerdon, even the trust 
 
 assured 
 To drink for you the bitterness of death. 
 Mary Stuart. Ay, one said once it 
 
 must be, — some one said 
 I must be perilous ever, and my love 
 More deadly than my wiP was evil or 
 
 good 
 Toward any of all these that through 
 
 me should die : 
 I know not who, nor when one said it ; 
 
 but 
 I know too sure he lied not. 
 
 Mary Beaton. No; I think 
 This was a seer indeed. 1 nave heard 
 
 of men 
 
 That under imminence of death gre\< 
 
 strong 
 With mortal foresight, yet in life-da\e 
 
 past 
 Could see no foot before them, no' 
 
 provide 
 For their own fate or fortune any thing 
 Against one angry chance of accident 
 Or passionate fault of their own loves 
 
 or hates 
 That might to death betray them : such 
 
 an one 
 Thus haply might have prophesied, and 
 
 had 
 No strength to save himself. 
 
 Mary Stuart. I know not ; yet 
 Time was when I remembered. 
 
 Mary Beaton. It should be 
 No enemy's saying whom you remen; 
 
 ber not ; 
 You are wont not to forget your ene 
 
 miei; yet 
 The word rang sadder than a friend's 
 
 should fall 
 Save in some strange pass of the spirit 
 
 or flesh 
 For love's sake haply hurt to death. 
 
 Mary Stuart. It seems 
 Thy mind is bent to know the name of 
 
 me. 
 That of myself I know not. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, my mind 
 Has other thoughts to beat upon : for 
 
 me 
 It may suffice to know the saying for 
 
 true. 
 And never care who said it. 
 
 Mary Stuart. True ? too sure, 
 God to mine heart's grief hath approved 
 
 it. Sec, 
 Nor Scot nor Fnglishman that takes on 
 
 him 
 The service of my sorrow, but partake? 
 The sorrow of my service ; man by 
 
 man, 
 As that one said, they perish of me : 
 
 yea. 
 Were I a sword sent ujion earth, or 
 
 I)lague 
 Hred of aerial poison, I could be 
 No deadlier where unwillingly I strike, 
 Who where I would can hurt not : Percy 
 
 died 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 451 
 
 IJy his own hand in prison, Howard by 
 
 law; 
 rhese young men with strange torments 
 
 done to death, 
 \Vho should have rid me and the world 
 
 of her 
 That is our scourge, and to the Church 
 
 of God 
 A pestilence that wastes it : all the 
 
 north 
 Wears yet the scars engraven of civil 
 
 steel 
 Since its last rising: nay, she saith but 
 
 right, 
 Mine enemy, saying by these her ser- 
 vile tongues 
 I have brought upon her land mine own 
 
 land's curse, 
 And a sword follows at my heel, and 
 
 fire 
 Is kindled of mine eyeshot. And be- 
 fore, 
 Whom did I love that died not of it? 
 
 Whom 
 That I would save might I deliver, 
 
 when 
 I had once but looked on him with love, 
 
 or pledged 
 Friendship? I should have died, I 
 
 think, long since, 
 That many might have died not, and 
 
 this word 
 Mad not been written of me nor ful- 
 filled. 
 But perished in the saying, a prophecy 
 That took the prophet by the throat, 
 
 and slew — 
 As sure I think it slew him. Such a 
 
 song 
 Might my poor servant slain before my 
 
 face 
 Have sung before the stroke of violent 
 
 death 
 Had fallen upon him there for my sake. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ah ! 
 Vou think so ? this remembrance was 
 
 it not 
 That hung and hovered in your mind 
 
 but now. 
 Moved your heart backward all unwit- 
 tingly 
 ro some blind memory of the man long 
 
 dead ? 
 
 Mary Stuart. In .sooth, I think my 
 
 prophet should have been 
 David. 
 
 Mary Beaton. You thought of him ? 
 
 Mary Stuart. An old sad thought : 
 
 The moan of it was made long since, 
 
 and he 
 Not unremembered. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Nay, of him indeed 
 Record was made, — a royal record : 
 
 whence 
 No marvel is it that you forgot not him. 
 Mary Stuart. I would forget no 
 
 friends nor enemies : these 
 More needs me now remember. 
 
 Think'st thou not 
 This woman hates me deadlier — or 
 
 this queen 
 That is not woman — than myself could 
 
 hate 
 Except I were as she in all things ? 
 
 Then 
 I should love no such woman as am I 
 Much more than she may love me : yet 
 
 I am sure. 
 Or so near surety as all belief may be, 
 She dare not slay me for her soul's 
 
 sake ; nay. 
 Though that were made as light of as 
 
 a leaf 
 Storm-shaken, in such stormy winds of 
 
 state 
 As blow between us like a blast of 
 
 death, 
 For her throne's sake she durst not, 
 
 which must be 
 Broken to build my scaffold. Yet, God 
 
 wot, 
 Perchance a straw's weight now cast in 
 
 by chance 
 Might weigh my life down in the scale 
 
 her hand 
 Holds hardly straight for trembling: if 
 
 she be 
 Woman at all, so tempered naturally 
 And with such spirit and sense as thou 
 
 and I, 
 Should I for wrath so far forget myself 
 As these men sometime charge me 
 
 that I do, 
 My tongue might strike my head off. 
 
 By this head 
 That yet I wear to swear by, if life be 
 
452 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Thankworthy, God might well be 
 
 thanked for this 
 Of me or whoso loves mc in the world, 
 That I spake never half my heart out 
 
 yet, 
 
 For any sore temptation of them all. 
 
 To her or hers ; nor ever put but once 
 
 My heart upon my paper, writing j^lain 
 
 The things I thought, heard, knew for 
 truth, of her. 
 
 Believed or feigned — nay, feigned not 
 to believe 
 
 Of her fierce follies fed with wry- 
 mouthed praise. 
 
 And that vain ravin of her sexless lust 
 
 Which could not feed nor hide its hun- 
 ger, curb 
 
 With patience nor allay with love the 
 thirst 
 
 That mocked itself as all mouths 
 mocked it. Ha ! 
 
 What might the reading of these truths 
 have wrought 
 
 Within her maiden mind, what seed 
 have sown, 
 
 Trow'st thou, in her sweet spirit, of re- 
 venge 
 
 Toward me that showed her queenship, 
 in the glass 
 
 A subject's hand of hers had put in 
 mine, 
 
 The likeness of it loathed and laugh- 
 able 
 
 As they that worshipped it with words 
 and signs 
 
 Beheld her and bemocked her ? 
 Mary Beaton. Certainly, 
 
 I think that soul drew never breath 
 alive 
 
 T(j whom this letter might seem par- 
 donable 
 
 Which timely you forbore to send her. 
 Mary Stuart. Nay, 
 
 I doulit not I did well to keej) it back — 
 
 And did not ill to write it; for God 
 knows 
 
 It was no small ease to my heart. 
 Mary Jicatou. Hut say 
 
 I had not burnt it as you bade me burn, 
 
 Hut kept it i)rivily safe against a need 
 
 That I mighl haply some time have of 
 it.> 
 Mary Stuart. What, to destroy mc ? 
 
 Mary Beaton. Hardly, sure, to save. 
 Mary Stuart. Why shouldst thou 
 
 think to bring me to my death } 
 Mary Beaton. Indeed, no man am I 
 
 that love you; nor 
 Need I go therefore in such fear of you 
 As of my mortal danger. 
 
 Mary Stuart. On my life, 
 (Long life or short, with gentle or vio- 
 lent end, 
 I know not, and would choose not, 
 
 though I might 
 So take God's office on me) one that 
 
 heard 
 Would swear thy speech had in it, and 
 
 subtly mixed, 
 A savor as of menace, or a sound 
 As of an imminent ill or perilous sense 
 Which was not in thy meaning. 
 
 Maty Beaton. No: in mine 
 There lurked no treason ever ; nor have 
 
 you 
 Cause to think worse of me than lov- 
 
 ally. 
 If proof may be believed on witness. 
 
 A/ary Stuart. Sure, 
 I think I have not, nor I should not 
 
 have : 
 Thy life has been the shadow cast of 
 
 mine, 
 A present faith to serve my present need, 
 A foot behind my footsteps; as long 
 
 since 
 In those French dances that we trod, 
 
 and laughed 
 The blithe way through together. Thou 
 
 couldst sing 
 Then, and a great while gone it is by 
 
 this 
 Since I heard song or music; I could 
 
 now 
 Find in my heart to bid thee, as t he- 
 Jews 
 Were once bid sing in their captivity 
 One of their songs of Sion, sing me now, 
 If one thou knowcst, for love of that 
 
 far time. 
 One of our songs of Paris. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Give me leave 
 A little to cast up some wandering 
 
 words, 
 And gather back such memories as may 
 
 beat 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 453 
 
 \l)out my mind of such a song, and yet 
 I think I might renew some note long 
 
 dumb 
 I'hat once your ear allowed of. — I did 
 
 pray, \^Aside. 
 
 Icmpt me not, God : and by her mouth 
 
 again 
 lie tempts me — nay, but prompts me, 
 
 being most just. 
 To know by trial it all remembrance be 
 Dead as remorse or pity that in birth 
 Died, and were childless in her: if she 
 
 quite 
 Forget that very swan-song of thy love, 
 My love that wast, my love that wouldst 
 
 not be. 
 Let God forget her now at last as I 
 Remember : if she think but one soft 
 
 thought, 
 Cast one poor word upon thee, God 
 
 thereby 
 Shall surely bid me let her live : if none, 
 I shoot that letter home, and sting her 
 
 dead. 
 God strengthen me to sing but these 
 
 words through. 
 Though I fall dumb at end forever. 
 
 Now — \She sings. 
 
 Ap7-h tant dejojirs, aprh tant de pleurs, 
 Soyez secourable d, fnoti dme en peine. 
 V'oyez comme Avril fait Vamour aux 
 
 fleiirs ; 
 Dame d^amour^ dame mix belles coulenrs, 
 Dieu voiis a fait belle, Amour vousfait 
 
 reine. 
 
 Rions^je t''en prie ; aimons,Je le vejix. 
 Lc temps fuit et rit et ne revieut gu^re 
 Pour baiser le bout de tes blonds cheveux, 
 Pour baiser tes cils, ta bouc/ie et tesyeux ; 
 U amour n'a qu'unjour auprh de sa mere. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Nay, I should once 
 
 ha'-e known that song, thou 
 
 say'st, 
 Ana him that sang it and should now be 
 
 dead : 
 Was it — but his rang sweeter — was it 
 
 not 
 Remy Belleau ? 
 
 Mary Beaton (My letter — here at 
 
 heart !) \Aside. 
 
 I think it might be — were it better writ 
 And courtlier phrased, with Latin spice 
 
 cast in. 
 And a more tunal)le descant. 
 
 Mary Stuart. Ay ; how sweet 
 Sang all the world about those stars 
 
 that sang 
 With Ronsard for the strong mid star 
 
 of all. 
 His bay-bound head all glorious with 
 
 gray hairs. 
 Who sang my birth and bridal ! When 
 
 I think 
 Of those French years, I only seem to 
 
 see 
 A light of swords 4nd singing, only hear 
 Laughter of love and lovely stress of 
 
 lutes. 
 And in between the passion of them 
 
 borne 
 Sound of swords crossing ever, as of 
 
 feet 
 Dancing, and life and death still equally 
 Blithe and bright-eyed from battle. 
 
 Haply now 
 My sometime sister, mad Queen Madge, 
 
 is grown 
 As grave as I should be, and wears at 
 
 waist 
 No hearts of last year's lovers any more 
 Enchased for jewels round her girdle- 
 stead, 
 But rather beads for penitence ; yet I 
 
 doubt 
 Time should not more abash her heart 
 
 than mine, 
 Who live not heartless yet. These 
 
 days like those 
 Have power but for a season given to 
 
 do 
 No more upon our spirits than they may, 
 And what they may we know not till it 
 
 be 
 Done, and we need no more take thought 
 
 of it, 
 As T no more of death or life to-day. 
 Mary Beaton. That shall you surely 
 
 need not. 
 Mary Stuart. So I think, 
 Our keepers being departed; and b^ 
 
 these, 
 Even by the uncourtlier as the gentlei 
 
 man. 
 
454 
 
 MARY STL' ART. 
 
 I read as in a glass their queen's plain 
 
 heart, 
 And that bv her at last I shall not die. 
 
 Scene III. — Greenwich Palace. 
 Queen Elizaheth and Davison. 
 Elizabeth. Thou hast seen Lord How- 
 ard .'' I bade him send thee. 
 Davison. Madam, 
 But now he came upon me hard at hand. 
 And by your gracious message bade me 
 
 in. 
 Elizabeth. The day is fair as April : 
 
 hast thou been 
 Abroad this morning } 'Tis no winter's 
 
 sun 
 That makes these trees forget their 
 
 nakedness, 
 And all the glittering ground, as 'twere 
 
 in hope. 
 Breathe laughingly. 
 
 Davison. Indeed, the gracious air 
 Had drawn me forth into the park, and 
 
 thence 
 Comes my best speed to attend upon 
 
 your grace. 
 Elizabeth. My grace is not so gracious 
 
 as the sun 
 That graces thus the late distempered 
 
 air ; 
 And you should oftener use to walk 
 
 abroad. 
 Sir, than your custom is : I would not 
 
 have 
 Good servants heedless of their natural 
 
 health 
 To do me sickly service. It were 
 
 strange 
 That one twice bound as woman and as 
 
 queen 
 To care for good men's lives and loyal- 
 ties 
 Should prove herself toward either 
 
 dangerous. 
 Davison. That 
 Can be no jiart of any servant's fear 
 Who lives for service of your majesty. 
 Elizabeth. I would not have it be, — 
 
 (iod else forbid ! — 
 Who have so loyal servants as I hold 
 AH now that bide about me; lor I will 
 
 not 
 
 Think, though such villany once were 
 
 in men's minds, 
 That twice among mine English gentle- 
 men 
 Shall hearts be found so foul as theirs 
 
 who thought, 
 When I was horsed for hunting, to way- 
 lay 
 And shoot me through the back at 
 
 unawares 
 With poisoned bullets ; nor, thou 
 
 knovvest, would I, 
 When this was opened to me, take such 
 
 care. 
 Ride so fenced round about with iron 
 
 guard. 
 Or walk so warily as men counselled me 
 For loyal fear of what thereafter might 
 More prosperously be plotted : nay, 
 
 God knows, 
 I would not hold on such poor terms 
 
 my life. 
 With such a charge upon it, as to 
 
 breathe 
 In dread of death or treason till the day 
 That they should stop my trembling 
 
 breath, and ease 
 The piteous heart that panted like a 
 
 slave's 
 Of all vile fear forever. So to live 
 Were so much hatefuller than thus to 
 
 die, 
 I do not think that man or woman draws 
 Base breath of life the loathsomest on 
 
 earth 
 Who by such purchase of perpetual fear 
 And deathless doubt of all in trust of 
 
 none 
 Would shuddcringly prolong it. 
 
 Davison. Even too well 
 Your servants know that greatness of 
 
 your heart 
 Which gives you yet unguarded ti> '.ucirs 
 
 eyes ; 
 And were unworthier found to serve or 
 
 live 
 Than is the unworthiest of them, did not 
 
 this 
 Make all their own hearts hotter with 
 
 desire 
 To be the bulwark or the price of your;" 
 Paid to redeem it from the arrest of 
 
 death. 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 455 
 
 Elizabeth. So haply should they be 
 
 whose hearts beat true 
 With loyal blood; but whoso says they 
 
 are 
 Is but a loving liar. 
 
 Davison. I trust your grace 
 Hath in your own heart no such doubt 
 
 of them 
 As speaks in mockery through your lips. 
 
 Elizabeth. By God, 
 I say much less than righteous truth 
 
 might speak 
 Of their loud loves that ring with 
 
 emptiness, 
 And hollow-throated loyalties whose 
 
 heart 
 Is wind and clamorous promise. Ye 
 
 desire, — 
 With all your souls ye swear that ye 
 
 desire, — 
 The queen of Scots were happily re- 
 moved. 
 And not a knave that loves me will put 
 
 hand 
 To the enterprise ye look for only of me 
 Who only would forbear it. 
 
 Davison. If your grace 
 lie minded yet it shall be done at all, 
 The way that were most honorable and 
 
 just 
 \Vere safest, sure, and best. 
 
 Elizabeth. I dreamt last night 
 Our murderess there in hold had tasted 
 
 death 
 I'.y execution of the sentence done 
 That was pronounced upon her ; and the 
 
 news 
 So stung my heart with wrath to hear 
 
 of it 
 That had I had a sword, — look to't, 
 
 and 'ware ! — 
 I had thrust it through thy body. 
 
 Davison. God defend ! 
 ' Twas well I came not in your highness' 
 
 way 
 While the hot mood was on you. But 
 
 indeed 
 I would know soothly if your mind be 
 
 changed 
 From its late root of purpose. 
 
 Elizabeth. No, by God ; 
 But I were fain it could be somewise 
 
 done. 
 
 And leave the blame not on me. And 
 
 so much. 
 If there were love and honesty in one 
 Whom I held faithful and exact of care. 
 Should easily be performed; but here 
 
 I find 
 This dainty fellow so precise a knave 
 As will take all things dangerous on his 
 
 tongue. 
 And nothing on his hand : hot-mouthed 
 
 and large 
 In zeal to stuff mine ears with promises, 
 But perjurous in performance : did he 
 
 not 
 Set hand among you to the bond where- 
 by 
 He is bound at utmost hazard of his 
 
 life 
 To do me such a service .'* yet I could 
 Have wrought as well without him, had 
 
 I wist 
 Of this faint falsehood in his heart. 
 
 There is 
 That Wingfield whom thou wot'st of, 
 
 would have done 
 With glad good-will what I required of 
 
 him. 
 And made no Puritan mouths on't. 
 
 Davison. Madam, yet 
 Far better were it all should but be 
 
 done 
 By line of law and judgment. 
 
 Elizabeth. There be men 
 Wiser than thou that see this otherwise. 
 Davison. All is not wisdom that of 
 
 wise men comes. 
 Nor are all eyes that search the ways 
 
 of state 
 Clear as a just man's conscience. 
 
 Elizabeth. Proverbs ! ha } 
 Who made thee master of these sen- 
 tences. 
 Prime tongue of ethics and philosophy.? 
 Davison. An honest heart to serve 
 
 your majesty ; 
 Naught else nor subtler in its reach of 
 
 wit 
 Than very simpleness of meaning. 
 
 Elizabeth. Nay, 
 I do believe thee; heartily I do. 
 Did my lord admiral not desire thee 
 
 bring 
 The warrant for her execution t 
 
456 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Davison. Ay, 
 Madam; here is it. 
 
 Elizabeth. I would it might not be, 
 Or being so just were yet not neces- 
 sary. 
 Art thou not heartily sorry — wouldst 
 
 thou not, 
 I say, be sad — to see me sign it .'' 
 
 Davison. Madam, 
 I grieve at any soul's mishap that lives, 
 And specially for shipwreck of a life 
 To you so near allied ; but seeing this 
 
 doom 
 Wrung forth from justice by necessity, 
 I had rather guilt should bleed than 
 
 innocence. 
 Elizabeth. When I shall sign, take 
 
 thou this instantly 
 To the lord chancellor: see it straight 
 
 be sealed 
 As quietly as he may, not saying a 
 
 word, 
 That no man come to know it untimely : 
 
 then 
 Send it to the earls of Kent and 
 
 Shrewsbury, 
 Who are here set down to see this jus- 
 tice done : 
 I would no more be troubled with this 
 
 coil 
 Till all be through. But, for the place 
 
 of doom. 
 The hall there of the castle, in my 
 
 mind, 
 Were fitter than the court or open 
 
 green. 
 And as thou goest betake thee on thy 
 
 way 
 To Walsingham, where he lies sick at 
 
 home, 
 And let him know what hath of us 
 
 been done : 
 Whereof the grief, I fear me, shall go 
 
 near 
 To kill his heart outright. 
 Davison. \'our majesty 
 I lath vet not signed the warrant. 
 
 Elizabeth. Ha! i\oCC^ blood! 
 Art thou from tutor of philosojjhy late 
 Grown counsellor too, and more than 
 
 counsellor, thou 
 To appoint me where and what this 
 
 hand of mine 
 
 Shall at thy beck obsequiously sub 
 
 scribe 
 And follow on thy finger.' Bv Gods 
 
 death, 
 What if it please me now not sign at 
 
 all > 
 This letter of my kinswoman's last 
 
 writ 
 Hath more compulsion in it, and more 
 
 power 
 To enforce my pity, than a thousand 
 
 tongues 
 Dictating death against her in mine 
 
 ear 
 Of mine own vassal subjects. Here 
 
 but now 
 She writes me she thanks God with all 
 
 her heart 
 That it hath pleased him by the mean 
 
 of me 
 To make an end of her life's pilgrim- 
 age. 
 Which hath been weary to her; and 
 
 doth not ask 
 To see its length drawn longer, having 
 
 had 
 Too much experience of its bitterness : 
 Wni only doth entreat me, since she 
 
 may 
 Look for no favor at their zealous 
 
 hands 
 Who are first in councils of mv mir.- 
 
 istry, 
 That onlv I myself will grant her 
 
 prayers ; 
 Whereof the first is, since she cannot 
 
 hope 
 For English burial with such Catholic 
 
 rites 
 As here were used in time of the an- 
 cient kings, 
 Mine ancestors and hers, and since the 
 
 tombs 
 Lie violated in Scotland of her sires, 
 That so soon ever as her enemies 
 Shall with her innocent blood be satt 
 
 ated, 
 Her body by her servants may bo 
 
 borne 
 To some ground consecrated, there to 
 
 be 
 Interred : and rather, she desires, in 
 
 l-'rancc, 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 457 
 
 Where sleep her honored mother's 
 
 ashes ; so 
 At length may her poor body find the rest 
 Which living it has never known: 
 
 thereto, 
 She prays me, from the fears she hath 
 
 of those 
 To whose harsh hand I have aban- 
 doned her, 
 She may not secretly be done to death. 
 But in her servants' sight and others', 
 
 who 
 May witness her obedience kept and 
 
 faith 
 To the true Church, and guard her 
 
 memory safe 
 From slanders haply to be blown 
 
 abroad 
 Concerning her by mouths of enemies : 
 
 last. 
 She asks that her attendants, who so 
 
 well 
 And faithfully through all her miseries 
 
 past 
 Have served her, may go freely where 
 
 they please. 
 And lose not those small legacies of 
 
 hers 
 Which poverty can yet bequeath to 
 
 them. 
 This she conjures me by the blood of 
 
 Christ, 
 Our kinship, and my grandsire's 
 
 memory, 
 Who was her father's grandsire and a 
 
 king, 
 And by the name of queen she bears 
 
 with her 
 Even to the death, that I will not 
 
 refuse. 
 And that a word in mine own hand 
 
 may thus 
 Assure her, who will then as she hath 
 
 lived 
 Die mine affectionate sister and pris- 
 oner. See, 
 Howe'er she have sinned, what heart 
 
 were mine, if this 
 Drew no tears from me : not the mean- 
 est soul 
 That lives most miserable but with 
 
 such words 
 Must needs draw down men's pity. 
 
 Davison. Sure it is. 
 This queen hath skill of writing : and 
 
 her hand 
 I lath manifold eloquence with various 
 
 voice 
 To express discourse of sirens or of 
 
 snakes, 
 A mermaid's or a monster's, uttering 
 
 best 
 All music or all malice. Here is come 
 A letter writ long since of hers to you 
 From Sheffield Castle, which for shame 
 
 or fear 
 She durst not or she would not thence 
 
 despatch, 
 Sent secretly to me from Fotheringay, 
 Not from her hand, bui with her own 
 
 hand writ. 
 So foul of import and malignity 
 I durst not for your majesty's respect 
 With its fierce infamies afire from hell 
 Offend your gracious eyesight ; but 
 
 because 
 Your justice by your mercy's ignorant 
 
 hand 
 Hath her fair eyes put out, and walks 
 
 now blind 
 Even by the pit's edge deathward, par- 
 don me 
 If w'hat you never should have seen be 
 
 shown 
 By hands that rather would take fire in 
 
 hand 
 Than lay in yours this writing. 
 
 [Gives her a Letter. 
 Elizabeth. By this light, 
 Whate'er be here, thou hadst done pre- 
 
 sumjjtuously. 
 And Walsingham thy principal, to 
 
 keep 
 Aught from mine eyes that being to me 
 
 designed 
 Might even with most offence enlighten 
 
 them. 
 Here is her hand, indeed ; and she 
 
 takes up [Reading. 
 
 In gracious wise enough the charge 
 
 imposed 
 By promise on her and desire of ours, 
 How loath soe'er she be, regretfully 
 To bring such things in question of 
 
 discourse. 
 Vet with no passion but sincerity, 
 
458 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 As God shall witness her, declares to 
 
 us 
 What our good lady of Shrewsbury 
 
 said to her 
 Touching ourself in terms ensuing : 
 
 whereto 
 Answering, she chid this dame for such 
 
 belief, 
 And reprehended for licentious tongue, 
 To speak so lewdly of us ; which her- 
 self 
 Believes not, knowing the woman's 
 
 natural heart 
 An evil will as then to us-ward. Here 
 She writes no more than I would well 
 
 believe 
 Of her as of the countess. Ha ! 
 
 Davison. Your grace 
 Shall but defile and vex your eyes and 
 
 heart 
 To read these viDanies through. 
 
 Elizabeth. God's death, man ! peace : 
 Thou wert not best incense me toward 
 
 thine own. 
 Whose eyes have been before me in 
 
 them. What ! 
 Was she not mad to write this.^ Otie 
 
 that had 
 Your promise — lay with you times imtn- 
 
 herless — 
 All license and all privateness that may 
 Be used of wife and husband! yea, of 
 
 her 
 And more dead men than shame remem- 
 bers. God 
 Shall stand her witness — with the devil 
 
 of hell 
 For sponsor to her vows, whose spirit 
 
 in her 
 Begot himself this issue. Ha! the duke 
 
 — Nay, God shall give me patience — 
 
 and his knave, 
 And Hatton — God have mercy! nay, 
 
 but hate. 
 Hate and constraint and rage have 
 
 wrecked her wits, 
 And continence of life cut off from lust, 
 
 — This common stale of Scotland, that 
 
 has tried 
 
 The sins of three rank nations, and con- 
 sumed 
 
 Their veins whose life she took not, — 
 Italy, 
 
 France that put half this poison in her 
 
 blood. 
 And her own kingdom that being sick 
 
 therewith 
 Vomited out on ours the venomous 
 
 thing 
 Whose head we set not foot on; but 
 
 may God 
 Make my fame fouler through the 
 
 world than hers, 
 And ranker in men's record, if I spare 
 The she-wolf that I saved, the woman- 
 beast, 
 Wolf-woman — how the Latin rings we 
 
 know. 
 And what lewd lair first reared her, and 
 
 whose hand 
 Writ broad across the Louvre and Holy 
 
 rood 
 Ltipanar ; but no brothel ever bred 
 Or breathed so rank a soul's infection, 
 
 spawned 
 Or spat such foulness in God's face and 
 
 man's. 
 Or festered in such falsehood as her 
 
 breath 
 Strikes honor sick with, and the spirit 
 
 of shame 
 Dead as her fang shall strike herself, and 
 
 send 
 The serpent that corruption calls her 
 
 soul 
 To vie strange venoms with the worm 
 
 of hell. 
 And make the face of darkness and the 
 
 grave 
 Blush hotter with the fires wherein that 
 
 soul 
 Sinks deeper than damnation. 
 
 Davison. Let your grace 
 Think only that but now the thing is 
 
 known 
 And self-discovered which too long your 
 
 love 
 Too dangerously hath cherished ; and 
 
 forget 
 All but that end which vet remains for 
 
 her, 
 That right by pity be not overcome. 
 Elizabeth. God pity so my soul as 1 
 
 do right, 
 And show me no more grace alive or 
 
 dead 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 459 
 
 I 
 
 Than I do justice here. Give me again 
 That "warrant I put by, being foolish: 
 
 yea, 
 Thy word spake sooth, — my soul's eyes 
 
 were put out; 
 I could not see for pity. Thou didst 
 
 well — 
 I am bounden to thee heartily — to cure 
 My sight oi this distemper, and my soul. 
 Here in God's sight I set mine hand, 
 
 who thought 
 Never to take this thing upon it, nor 
 Do God so bitter service. Take this 
 
 hence. 
 And let me see no word nor hear of her 
 Till the sun see not such a soul alive. 
 
 ACT v. — MARY STUART. 
 Scene I. — Mary's Chamber in 
 
 FOTHERINGAY CaSTLE. 
 
 Mary Stuart aw^/MARY Beaton. 
 Alary Stuart {sings). 
 
 O Lord 7ny God, 
 
 I have trusted in thee ; 
 O yesji fny dearest one^ 
 
 N'ow set me free. 
 In prison'' s oppression. 
 In sorrow's obsession, 
 
 I weary for thee. 
 IVith sighing and crying 
 Bowed doxvn as dying, 
 I adore thee, I implore thee, set me free ! 
 
 Free are the dead : yet fain I would have 
 
 had 
 Once, before all captivity find end, 
 Some breath of freedom living. These 
 
 that come, 
 I think, with no such message, must not 
 
 find. 
 For all this lameness of my limbs, a 
 
 heart 
 As maimed in me with sickness. Three 
 
 years gone, 
 When last I parted from the earl mar- 
 shal's charge, 
 I did not think to see his face again 
 '^urned on me as his prisoner. Now his 
 
 wife 
 
 Will take no jealousy more to hear of 
 
 it, 
 I trust, albeit we meet not as unfriends, 
 If it be mortal news he brings me. Go, 
 If I seem ready, as meseems I should, 
 And well arrayed to bear myself indeed 
 None otherwise than queenlike in their 
 
 sight. 
 Bid them come in. 
 
 [Exit Mary Beaton. 
 
 I cannot tell at last 
 
 If it be fear or hope that should expect 
 
 Death : I have had enough of hope, and 
 
 fear 
 Was none of my familiars while I lived 
 Such life as had more pleasant things 
 
 to lose 
 Than death or life may now divide me 
 
 from, 
 'Tis not so much to look upon the sun 
 With eyes that may not lead us where 
 
 we will, 
 And halt behind the footless flight of 
 
 hope 
 With feet that may not follow ; nor were 
 
 aught 
 So much, of all things life may think to 
 
 have. 
 That one not cowardly born should find 
 
 it worth 
 The purchase of so base a price as this. 
 To stand self-shamed as coward. I do 
 
 not think 
 This is mine end that comes upon me ; 
 
 but 
 I had liefer far it were than, were it not, 
 That ever I should fear it. 
 Enter Kent, Shrewsbury, Beale, 
 and Sherijff. 
 
 Sirs, good day : 
 With such good heart as prisoners have, 
 
 Ibid 
 You and your message welcome. 
 
 Kent. Madam, this 
 The secretary of the council here hath 
 
 charge 
 To read as their commission. 
 Mary Stuart. Let me hear 
 In as brief wise as may beseem the time 
 The purport of it. 
 
 Beale. Our commission here 
 Given by the council under the great 
 
 seal 
 
4^0 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Pronounces on your head for present 
 
 doom 
 Death, by this written sentence. 
 Mary Stuart. Ay, my hjrds ? 
 May I believe this, and not hold myself 
 Mocked as a child with shadows? In 
 
 God's name. 
 Speak you, my lord of Shrewsbury : let 
 
 me know 
 If this be dream or waking. 
 
 A'ent. Verily, 
 No dream it is, nor dreamers we that 
 
 pray. 
 Madam, vou meetly would prepare your- 
 self 
 To stand before God's judgment 
 
 presently. 
 Mary ciitnA..t. I *^^d rather so than 
 
 ever stand again 
 Before the face of man's. Why speak 
 
 not you, 
 To whom I speak, my lord earl marshal .'' 
 
 Nay, 
 Look not so heavily : by my life, he 
 
 stands 
 As one at point to weep. Why, good my 
 
 lord, 
 To know that none may swear by Mary's 
 
 life, 
 And hope again to find belief of man 
 Upon so slight a warrant, should not 
 
 bring 
 This trouble on your eyes: look up, and 
 
 say 
 The word you have for her that never 
 
 was 
 Less than your friend, and prisoner. 
 
 Shre7vshiiry. None save this, 
 Which willingly I would not speak, I 
 
 may : 
 That presently your time is come to die. 
 Mary Stuart. Why, then, I am well 
 
 content to leave a world 
 Wherein I am no more serviceable at 
 
 all 
 To God or man, and have therein so 
 
 long 
 l^ndured so much aftliction. All my life 
 1 have ever earnestly desired the love 
 And friendship of vour queen; have 
 
 warned her oil 
 Of coming dangers ; and have cherished 
 
 long 
 
 The wish that I but once might speak 
 
 with her 
 In plain-souled confidence, being well 
 
 assured. 
 Had we but once met, there an end had 
 
 been 
 Of jealousies between us : but our foes, 
 With equal wrong toward either, treach- 
 erously 
 Have kept us still in sunder; by whose 
 
 craft 
 And crooked policy hath my sister's 
 
 crown 
 Fallen in great peril, and myself have 
 
 been 
 Imprisoned, and inveterately maligned, 
 And here must now be murdered. iJut 
 
 I know 
 That only for my faith's sake I must die. 
 And this to know for truth is recom- 
 pense 
 As large as all my sufferings. For tnt 
 
 crime 
 Wherewith I am charged, upon this 
 
 holy book 
 I lay mine hand for witness of my plea. 
 I am wholly ignorant of it; and sol- 
 emnly 
 Declare that never \et conspiracy 
 Devised against the queen my sister's 
 
 life 
 Took instigation or assent from me. 
 Kent. Vou swear but on a popish 
 
 Testament : 
 Such oaths are all as worthless as the 
 
 book. 
 Mary Stuart. I swear upon the book 
 
 wherein I trust : 
 Would you give rather credit to mine 
 
 oath 
 Sworn on your Scrii)tures that I t;ust 
 
 not in ? 
 A'lut. ^L1dam, I fain would have you 
 
 heartily 
 Renounce your superstition; toward 
 
 which end 
 With us the godly dean of Peter 
 
 borough. 
 Good Richard Fletcher, well approved 
 
 for faith 
 Of God and of the (|ueen, is hithei 
 
 come 
 To proffer you his prayerful ministry. 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 461 
 
 Mary Stuart. If you, my lords, or he 
 will pray for me, 
 
 I shall be thankful for your prayers; 
 but may not 
 
 With theirs that hold another faith mix 
 mine. 
 
 I pray you, therefore, that mine almoner 
 may 
 
 1 lave leave to attend on me, that from 
 his hands 
 
 I, having made confession, may receive 
 
 The sacrament. 
 
 Kent. We may not grant you this. 
 Mary Stuart. I shall not see my 
 chaplain ere I die .-* 
 
 But two months gone, this grace was 
 granted me 
 
 By word expressly from your queen, to 
 have 
 
 Again his ministration ; and at last 
 
 In the utter hour and bitter strait of 
 death. 
 
 Is this denied me ? 
 
 Kent. Madam, for your soul 
 
 More meet it were to cast these mum- 
 meries out, 
 
 And bear Christ only in your heart, 
 than serve 
 
 With ceremonies of ritual hand and 
 tongue 
 
 His mere idolatrous likeness. 
 Mary Stuart. This were strange. 
 
 That I should bear him visible in my 
 hand, 
 
 Or keep with lips and knees his titular 
 rites. 
 
 And cast in heart no thought upon 
 him. Nay, 
 
 Put me, I pray, to no more argument ; 
 
 But if this least thing be not granted, 
 yet 
 
 Grant me to know the season of my 
 death. 
 Shrewsbury. At eight by dawn to- 
 morrow you must die. 
 Mary Stuart'. So shall I hardly see 
 the sun again. 
 
 By dawn to-morrow ? meanest men con- 
 demned 
 
 Give not their lives' breath up so sud- 
 denly : 
 
 Howbeit, I'had rather yield you thanks, 
 who make 
 
 Such brief end of the bitterness of 
 
 death 
 For me who have borne such bitter 
 
 length of life. 
 Than plead with protestation of appeal 
 For half a piteous hour's remission ; 
 
 nor 
 Henceforward shall I be denied of 
 
 man 
 Aught, who may never now crave aught 
 
 again, 
 But whence is no denial. Yet shall 
 
 this 
 Not easily be believed of men, nor find 
 In foreign ears acceptance, that a queen 
 Should be thrust out of life thus. Good 
 
 my friend, 
 Bid my physician Gorion come to me : 
 I have to 'speak with him — sirs, with 
 
 your leave — 
 (3f certain moneys due to me in France. 
 What! shall I twice desire your leave, 
 
 my lords. 
 To live these poor last hours of mine 
 
 alive 
 At peace among my friends ? I have 
 
 much to do. 
 And little time wherein to do it is left. 
 Shrewsbury [to Kent apart). I pray 
 
 she may not mean worse than I 
 
 would 
 Against herself ere morning. 
 
 Kent. Let not then 
 This French knave's drugs come near 
 
 her, nor himself : 
 We will take order for it. 
 
 Shreiusbury. Nay, this were but 
 To exasperate more her thwarted 
 
 heart, and make 
 Despair more desperate than itself. 
 
 Pray God 
 She be not minded to compel us put 
 Force at the last upon her of men's 
 
 hands 
 To hale her violently to death, and 
 
 make 
 Judgment look foul and fierce as mur 
 
 der's face 
 With stain of strife and passion. 
 [Exeunt all but M.\RY Stuart and 
 
 Mary Bkaton. 
 Afarv Stuart. So, my friend, 
 The last of all our Maries are you left 
 
462 
 
 MA/^y STUART. 
 
 To-morrow. Strange has been my life, 
 
 and now 
 Strange looks my death upon me: yet, 
 
 albeit 
 Nor the hour nor manner of it be mine 
 
 to choose, 
 Ours is it yet, and all men's in the 
 
 world, 
 To make death welcome in what wise 
 
 we will. 
 Bid you my chaplain, though he see 
 
 me not, 
 Watch through the night, and pray for 
 
 me: perchance, 
 When ere the sundawn they shall bring 
 
 me forth, 
 I may behold him, and upon my knees 
 Receive his blessing. Let our supper 
 
 be 
 Served earlier in than wont was : 
 
 whereunto 
 I bid my true poor servants here, to 
 
 take 
 Farewell, and drink at parting to them 
 
 all 
 1 he cup of my last kindness, in good 
 
 hope 
 They shall stand alway constant in 
 
 their faith, 
 And dwell in peace together: there- 
 upon 
 What little store is left me will I share 
 Among them, and between my girls 
 
 divide 
 My wardrobe and my jewels severally. 
 Reserving but the black robe and the 
 
 red 
 That shall attire me for my deatR ; and 
 
 last 
 With mine own hand shall be my will 
 
 writ out, 
 ,\nd all memorials more set down 
 
 therein 
 That I would leave for legacies of love 
 To mv next kinsnien and my house- 
 hold folk. 
 And to the king my brother yet of 
 
 France 
 Must I write briefly, but a word to say 
 I am innocent of the charge wlureon I 
 
 die 
 Now for my right's sake claimed ui)on 
 
 this crown, 
 
 And our true faith's sake, but an\ 
 
 barred from sight 
 Even of mine almoner here, though 
 
 hard at hand ; 
 And I would bid him take upon his 
 
 charge 
 The keeping of my servants, as I think 
 He shall not for compassionate shame 
 
 refuse. 
 Albeit his life be softer than his heart; 
 And in religion for a queen's soul pray 
 That once was styled Most Christian, 
 
 and is now 
 In the true faith about to die, deprived 
 Of all her past possessions. But this 
 
 most 
 And first behooves it, that the king of 
 
 Spain 
 By Gorion's word of mouth receive my 
 
 heart. 
 Who soon shall stand before him. Bid 
 
 the leech 
 Come hither, and alone, to speak with 
 
 me. 
 
 \Exit Mary Beaton. 
 She is dumb as death: yet never in her 
 
 life 
 Hath she baen quick of tongue. For 
 
 all the rest. 
 Poor souls, how well they love me, all 
 
 as well 
 I think I know ; and one of them or 
 
 twain 
 At least may surely see me to my death 
 Ere twice the hours have changed 
 
 again. Perchance 
 Love that can weep not would the glad- 
 
 lier die 
 For those it cannot weep on. Time 
 
 wears thin : 
 They should not now play laggard : 
 
 nav, he comes. 
 The last that ever speaks alone with 
 
 me 
 Before my soul shall speak alone with 
 
 God. 
 
 Enter GoRlON. 
 I have sent once more for you to no 
 
 such end 
 As sick men for physicians : no strong 
 
 drug 
 May {)ut the death next morning 
 
 twelve hours back 
 
MARY STUART. 
 
 463 
 
 Whose twilight overshadows me, that 
 
 am 
 Nor sick nor medicinable. Let me 
 
 know 
 If I may lay the last of all my trust 
 On you that ever shall be laid on man 
 To prove him kind and loyal. 
 
 Gorion. So may God 
 Deal with me, madam, as I prove to 
 
 you 
 Faithful, though none but I were in the 
 
 world 
 That you might trust beside. 
 
 Mary Stuart. With equal heart 
 Do I believe and thank you. I would 
 
 send 
 To Paris for the ambassador from 
 
 Spain 
 This letter with two diamonds, which 
 
 your craft 
 For me must cover from men's thiev- 
 ish eyes. 
 Where they may be not looked for. 
 
 Gorion. Easily 
 Within some molten drug may these be 
 
 hid, 
 And faithfully by me conveyed to 
 
 him. 
 Mary Stuart. The lesser of them 
 
 shall he keep in sign 
 Of my good friendship toward himself : 
 
 but this 
 In token to King Philip shall he give 
 That for the truth I die, and dying com- 
 mend 
 To him my friends and servants, Gil- 
 bert Curie, 
 His sister, and Jane Kennedy, who 
 
 shall 
 To-night watch by me ; and my ladies 
 
 all 
 That have widured my prison : let him 
 
 not 
 Forget from his good favor one of 
 
 these 
 That I remember to him ; Charles 
 
 Arundel, 
 And either banished Paget ; one whose 
 
 heart 
 Was better toward my service than his 
 
 hand, 
 Morgan ; and of mine exiles for their 
 
 faith, 
 
 The prelates first of Glasgow and of 
 Ross ; 
 
 And Liggons and Throgmorton, that 
 have lost 
 
 For me their leave to live on English 
 earth ; 
 
 And Westmoreland, that lives now- 
 more forlorn 
 
 Than died that earl who rose for me 
 with him. 
 
 These I beseech him favor for my sake 
 
 Still : and forget not, if he come agam 
 
 To rule as king in England, one of them 
 
 That were mine enemies here : the 
 treasurer first. 
 
 And Leicester, Walsingham, and Hunt- 
 ingdon, 
 
 At Tutbury once my foe, fifteen years 
 gone. 
 
 And Wade that spied upon me three 
 years since, 
 
 And Paulet here my gaoler : set them 
 down 
 
 For him to wreak wrath's utmost jus- 
 tice on, 
 
 In my revenge remembered. Though 
 I be 
 
 Dead, let him not forsake his hope to 
 reign 
 
 Upon this people : with my last breath 
 left 
 
 I make this last prayer to him, that not 
 the less 
 
 He will maintain the invasion yet de- 
 signed 
 
 Of us before on England : let him think, 
 
 It is God's quarrel, and on earth a cause 
 
 Well worthy of his greatness ; which 
 being won, 
 
 Let him forget no man of these nor me. 
 
 And now will I lie down, that four 
 hours' sleep 
 
 May give me strength before I sleep 
 again. 
 
 And need take never thought for wak- 
 ing more. 
 
 Scene II. — The Presemce Chamber. 
 
 Shrewsbury, Kent, Paulet, Drury., 
 Melville, and Attendants. 
 Kent. The stroke is past of eight. 
 Shrewsbury. Not far, my lord 
 
4^4 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Kent. What stays the provost and 
 
 the sheriff yet 
 That went ere this to bring the prisoner 
 
 forth ? 
 What! are her doors locked inwards? 
 
 Then perchance 
 Our last night's auguries of some close 
 
 design 
 By death contrived of her self-slaugh- 
 terous hand 
 To baffle death by justice hit but right 
 'I'he heart of her bad purpose. 
 
 Shrewsbury. Fear it not : 
 See where she comes, a queenlier thing 
 
 to see 
 Than whom such thoughts take hold 
 
 on. 
 Enter Mary Stuart, led by two gentle- 
 men and preceded by the Sheriff ; 
 Mary Beaton, Barbara Mow- 
 bray, aftd other ladies behind, who re- 
 niaijt tn the doorway. 
 Melville {kneeling to Mary). Woe am 
 
 I, 
 Madam, that I must bear to Scotland 
 
 back 
 Such tidings watered with such tears as 
 
 these ! 
 Mary Stnart. Weep not, good Mel- 
 ville : rather should your heart 
 Rejoice that here an end is come at 
 
 last 
 Of Mary Stuart's long sorrows; for be 
 
 sure 
 That all this world is only vanity. 
 And this record I pray you make of me. 
 That a true woman to my faith I die. 
 And true to Scotland and to France ; 
 
 but God 
 Forgive them that have long desired 
 
 mine end. 
 And with false tongues have thirsted 
 
 for my blood 
 As the hart thirsteth for the water- 
 brooks. 
 O God, who art truth, and the author 
 
 of all truth. 
 Thou knowcst the extreme recesses of 
 
 my heart. 
 And hf)w that I was willing all my days 
 That Kngland should with Scotland be 
 
 fast friends. 
 Commend me to my son : tell him that I 
 
 Have nothing done to prejudice his 
 
 rights 
 As king. And now, good Melville, fare 
 
 thee well. 
 My lord of Kent, whence comes it that 
 
 your charge 
 Hath bidden back my women there at 
 
 door 
 Who fain to the end would bear me 
 
 company ? 
 Kent. Madam, this were not seemly 
 
 nor discreet. 
 That these should so have leave to vex 
 
 men's ears 
 With cries and loose lamentings : haply 
 
 too 
 They might in superstition seek to dip 
 Their handkerchiefs for relics in your 
 
 blood. 
 Mary Stuart. That will I pledge my 
 
 word they shall not. Nay, 
 The queen would surely not deny me 
 
 this, 
 The poor last thing that I shall ask on 
 
 earth. 
 Even a far meaner person dying, I 
 
 think, 
 She would not have so handled. Sir, 
 
 you know 
 I am her cousin, of her grandsire's 
 
 blood, 
 A queen of France by marriage, and by 
 
 birth 
 Anointed queen of Scotland. My poor 
 
 girls 
 Desire no more than but to see me 
 
 die. 
 Shrewsbury. Madam, you have ler.ve 
 
 to elect of this your train 
 Two ladies with four men to go with 
 
 you. 
 Mary Stuart. I choose from forth 
 
 mv Scottish following here 
 Jane Kennedy, with Elspcth Curie : of 
 
 men, 
 Bourgoin and Gorion shall attend on 
 
 me, 
 Gervais and Didier. — Come then, let 
 
 us go. 
 \Exeunt: manent Mary Beaton and 
 Barbara Mowbray. 
 Barbara. I wist I was not worthy, 
 
 though my child 
 
MAA'V STUART. 
 
 465 
 
 It is that her own hands made Chris- 
 tian : but 
 I deemed she should have bid you go 
 
 with her. 
 Alas ! and would not all we die with 
 
 her? 
 Mary Beaton. Why, from the gallery 
 
 here at hand your eyes 
 May go with her along the hall be- 
 neath 
 Even to the scaffold; and I fain would 
 
 hear 
 What fain I would not look on. Pray 
 
 you, then, 
 If you may bear to see it as those below, 
 Do me that sad good service of your 
 
 eyes 
 For mine to look upon it, and declare 
 All that till all be done I will not see : 
 I pray you of your pity, 
 
 Barbara. Though mine heart 
 Break, it shall not for fear forsake the 
 
 sight 
 That may be faithful yet in following 
 
 her, 
 Nor yet for grief refuse your prayer, 
 
 being fain 
 To give your love such bitter comfort, 
 
 who 
 So long have never left her. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Till she die — 
 I have ever known I shall not till she 
 
 die. 
 See you yet aught? if I hear spoken 
 
 words, 
 My heart can better bear these pulses, 
 
 else 
 Unbearable, that rend it. 
 
 Barbara. Yea, I see 
 Stand in mid hall the scaffold, black as 
 
 death, 
 And black the block upon it ; all 
 
 around, 
 Against the throng a guard of halber- 
 diers ; 
 And the axe against the scaffold-rail 
 
 reclined, 
 And twc Tien mc.sked on either hand 
 
 beyond ; 
 And hard behind the block a cushion 
 
 set, 
 P>lack, as the chair behind it. 
 Mary Beaton, When I saw 
 
 Fallen on a scaffold once a young man's 
 
 head, 
 Such things as these I saw not. Nay, 
 
 but on : 
 I knew not that I spake; and toward 
 
 your ears 
 Indeed I "pake not. 
 
 Barbara. All those faces change ; 
 She comes more royally than ever yet 
 Fell foot of man triumphant on this 
 
 earth. 
 Imperial more than empire made her, 
 
 born 
 Enthroned as queen sat never. Not a 
 
 line 
 Stirs of her sovereign feature ; like a 
 
 bride 
 Brought home she mounts the scaffold ; 
 
 and her eyes 
 Sweep regal round the cirque beneath, 
 
 and rest. 
 Subsiding with a smile. She sits, and 
 
 they. 
 The doomsmen earls, beside her ; at her 
 
 left 
 The sheriff, and the clerk at hand on 
 
 high, 
 Te read the warrant. 
 
 Mary Beaton. None stands there but 
 
 knows 
 What things therein are writ against 
 
 her : God 
 Knows what therein is writ not. God 
 
 forgive 
 All! 
 
 Barbara. Not a face there breathes 
 
 of all the throng 
 But is more moved than hers to hear 
 
 this read. 
 Whose look alone is changed not. 
 
 ^fary Beaton. Once I knew 
 A face that changed not in as dire an 
 
 hour. 
 More than the queen's face changes. 
 
 Hath he not 
 Ended ? 
 
 Barbara. You cannot hear them 
 
 speak below : 
 Come near, and hearken ; bid not me 
 
 repeat 
 All. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I beseech you — for I 
 
 may not come. 
 
40D 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 
 Barbara. Now speaks Lord Shrews- 
 bury but a word or twain ; 
 And brieflicr yet she answers, and 
 
 stands up 
 As though to kneel, and pray. 
 
 Mary Beaton. I too have prayed : 
 God hear at last her prayers not less 
 
 than mine, 
 Which failed not, sure, of hearing. 
 
 Barbara. Now draws nigh 
 That heretic priest, and bows himself, 
 
 and thrice 
 Strives, as a man that sleeps in pain, 
 
 to speak, 
 Stammering : she waves him by, as one 
 
 whose prayers 
 She knows may naught avail her ; now 
 
 she kneels, 
 And the earls rebuke her, and she an- 
 swers not, 
 Kneeling. O Christ, whose likeness 
 
 there engraved 
 She strikes against her bosom, hear 
 
 her ! Now 
 That priest lifts up his voice against 
 
 her prayer. 
 Praying ; and a voice all round goes up 
 
 with his : 
 But hers is lift up higher than climbs 
 
 their cry. 
 In the great psalms of penitence ; and 
 
 now 
 She prays aloud in English; for the 
 
 Pope 
 Our father, and his Church; and for 
 
 her son. 
 And for the queen her murderess; and 
 
 that God 
 May turn from England yet his wrath 
 
 away ; 
 And so forgives her enemies; and im- 
 plores 
 High intercession of the saints with 
 
 Christ, 
 Whom crucified she kisses on his 
 
 cross, 
 And crossing now her breast — ah, 
 
 heard you not ? 
 Even as thine arms were spread upon the 
 
 cross, 
 .So mahe thy j^rare, O Jesus, 7vide for me, 
 Rncnr vte to thy mercy so, and so 
 /•ofi^iT'e my sins. 
 
 Mary Beaton. So be it, if so God 
 
 please. 
 Is she not risen up yet ? 
 
 Barbara. Yea, but mine eyes 
 Darken : because those deadly twain 
 
 close masked 
 Draw nigh as men that crave forgive- 
 ness, which 
 Gently she grants ; For now, she said, 1 
 
 hope 
 You shall end all my troubles. Now 
 
 meseems 
 They would put hand upon her as to 
 
 help. 
 And disarray her raiment ; but she 
 
 smiles — 
 Heard you not that? can you nor hear 
 
 nor speak, 
 Poor heart, for paiii } Truly, she said, 
 
 my lords, 
 1 7tever had such chamber-grooms before 
 As these to wait on me. 
 
 Mary Beaton. An end, an end ! 
 Barbara. Now come those twain upon 
 
 the scaffold up 
 Whom she preferred before us ; and she 
 
 lays 
 Her crucifix down, which now the heads- 
 man takes 
 Into his cursed hand, but being rebuked 
 Puts back for shame that sacred spoil of 
 
 hers. 
 And now they lift her veil up from her 
 
 head 
 Softlv, and softly draw the black robe 
 
 ' off. 
 And all in red as of a funeral flame 
 She stands up statelier vet before them, 
 
 tall 
 And clothed as if with sunset ; and she 
 
 takes 
 From Elspcth's hand the crmison 
 
 sleeves, and draws 
 Their covering on her arms : and now 
 
 those twain 
 Burst out aloud in weeping; and she 
 
 si)eaks — 
 Weep not : I promised for you. Now she 
 
 kneels ; 
 And Jane binds round a kerchief on her 
 
 eyes ; 
 And smiling last her hcavenliest smile 
 
 on earth. 
 
MA/^y STUART. 
 
 467 
 
 She waves a blind hand toward them, 
 
 with Farewell, 
 Farewell, to meet again ; and they come 
 
 down, 
 And leave her praying aloud, In thee, O 
 
 Lord, 
 I put my trust. And now, that psalm 
 
 being through, 
 She lays between the block and her soft 
 
 neck 
 Her long white peerless hands up ten- 
 derly, 
 Which now the headsman draws again 
 
 away. 
 But softly too. Now stir her lips 
 
 again — 
 
 Into thine hands, O Lord, into thine hands., 
 Lord, I commend my spirit. And now — 
 
 Bu< now. 
 Look you, not I, the last upon her. 
 
 Mary Beaton. Ha ! 
 He strikes awry : she stirs not. Nay, 
 
 but now 
 He strikes aright, and ends it. 
 Barbara. Hark, a cry ! 
 Voice below. So perish all fou!id ene- 
 mies of the queen ! 
 Another Voice. Amen ! 
 Mary Beaton. I heard that very cry go 
 up 
 Far off long since to God, who answers 
 here. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 A LEAVE-TAKING. 
 
 Let us go hence, my songs : she will not 
 
 hear ; 
 Let us go hence together without fear. 
 Keep silence now, for singing-time is 
 
 over. 
 And over all old things and all things 
 
 dear. 
 She loves not you nor me as all we love 
 
 her : 
 Yea, though we sang as angels in her 
 
 ear. 
 She would not hear. 
 
 Let us rise up and part: she will not 
 
 know. 
 Let us go seaward as the great winds 
 
 go. 
 Eull of blown sand and foam. What 
 
 help is there ? 
 There is no help, for all these things are 
 
 so, 
 And all the world is bitter as a tear. 
 And how these things are, though ye 
 
 strove to show. 
 She would not know. 
 
 Let us go home and hence : she will not 
 
 weep. 
 \Vc gave love many dreams and days to 
 
 keep, 
 Flcjwers without scent, and fruits that 
 
 would not grow, 
 Saying, " If thou wilt, thrust in thy 
 
 sickle, and reap." 
 All is reaped now ; no grass is left to 
 
 mow : 
 And we that sowed, though all we fell 
 
 on sleep, 
 She would not weep. 
 4r.8 
 
 Let us go hence and rest . she will not 
 love. 
 
 She shall not hear us if we sing here- 
 of, 
 
 Nor see love's ways, how sore they are 
 and steep. 
 
 Come hence, let be, lie still ; it is 
 enough. 
 
 Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep ; 
 
 And, though she saw all heaven iu 
 flower above, 
 She would not love. 
 
 Let us give up, go down : she will not 
 care. 
 
 Though all the stars made gold of all 
 the air. 
 
 And the sea moving saw before it 
 move 
 
 One moon-flower making all the foam- 
 flowers fair; 
 
 Though all those waves went over us, 
 and drove 
 
 Deep down the stifling lips and drown- 
 ing hair. — 
 She would not care. 
 
 Let us go hence, go hence : she will not 
 
 see. 
 Sing all once more together; surelv 
 
 she. 
 She too, remembering days and words 
 
 that were. 
 Will turn a little toward us, sighing; 
 
 but we, 
 We are hence, we are gone, as though 
 
 we had not been there. 
 Nay, and though all men seeing had 
 
 pity on me. 
 She would not see. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 469 
 
 ITYLUS. 
 
 Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, 
 How can thine heart be full of the 
 spring ? 
 A thousand summers are over and 
 dead. 
 What hast thou found in the spring to 
 follow ? 
 What hast thou found in thine heart 
 to sing? 
 What wilt thou do when the sum- 
 mer is shed ? 
 
 swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, 
 Why wilt thou fly after spring to the 
 
 south. 
 The soft south whither thine heart 
 is set ? 
 Shall not the grief of the old time fol- 
 low ? 
 Shall not the song thereof cleave to 
 thy mouth ? 
 Hast thou forgotten ere I forget ? 
 
 Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, 
 Thy way is long to the sun and the 
 south ; 
 But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire, 
 Shedding my song upon height, upon 
 hollow. 
 From tawny body and sweet small 
 mouth 
 Feed the heart of the night with 
 fire. 
 
 1 the nightingale all spring through, 
 
 O swallow, sister, O changing swal- 
 low. 
 All spring through till the spring 
 be done, 
 Clothed with the light of the night on 
 the dew. 
 Sing, while the hours and the wild 
 birds follow. 
 Take flight and follow and find the 
 sun. 
 
 Sister, my sister, O soft, light swallow, 
 Though all things feast in the spring's 
 guest-chamber, 
 How hast thou heart to be glad 
 thereof yet.-* 
 
 For where thou fliest I shall not follow, 
 Till life forget, and death remember, 
 Till thou remember, and I forget. 
 
 Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, 
 I know not how thou hast heart to sing. 
 Hast thou the heart? is it all past 
 over ? 
 Thy lord the summer is good to follow. 
 And fair the feet of thy lover the 
 spring; 
 But what wilt thou say to the spring 
 thy lover? 
 
 O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, 
 My heart in me is a molten ember, 
 And over my head the waves have 
 met. 
 But thou wouldst tarry, or I would fol 
 low, 
 Could I forget, or thou remember, 
 Couldst thou remember, and I for- 
 get. 
 
 O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, 
 The heart's division divideth us. 
 Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree ; 
 But mine goes forth, among sea-gulfs 
 hollow. 
 To the place of the slaying of Itylus, 
 The feast of Daulis,'the Thracian 
 sea. 
 
 O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, 
 I pray thee sing not a little space. 
 Are not the roofs and the linteis wet.' 
 The woven web that was i^lain to fol- 
 low, 
 The small slain body, the flower-like 
 face. 
 Can I remember if thou forget ? 
 
 O sister, sister, thy first-begotten ! 
 The hands that cling and the feet 
 that follow, 
 The voice of the child's blDod cry- 
 ing yet. 
 Who hath remembered me ? Who hath 
 forgotten ? 
 Thou hast forgotten, O summer swal- 
 low. 
 But the world shall end when I 
 forget. 
 
470 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 rondp:l. 
 
 These many years since we began to be, 
 What have the gods done with us ? what 
 
 with me, 
 ,Vhat with my love ? They have shown 
 
 me fates and fears. 
 Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer 
 
 than the sea. 
 Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that 
 
 veers, 
 These many years. 
 
 With her, my love, with her have they 
 done well ? 
 
 But who shall answer for her ? who shall 
 tell 
 
 Sweet things or sad, such things as no 
 man hears ? 
 
 Mav no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, 
 
 From eyes more dear to me than star- 
 riest spheres 
 These many years ! 
 
 But if tears ever touched, for any grief. 
 Those evelids folded like a white-rose 
 
 leaf, 
 Deep double shells wherethrough the 
 
 eye-flower peers, 
 Let them weep once more only, sweet 
 
 and brief. 
 Brief tears and bright, for one who gave 
 
 her tears 
 These many years. 
 
 A LITANY. 
 
 iv oiipaViZ <f>atvvai 
 Kpv\i/ut nap' VfiiV avya<:, 
 
 fj.ia<: np'o vvKTOi ima i'VKra<: f(f rt, k.t.K. 
 A nth. Sac. 
 
 FIRST ANTII'HONE. 
 
 Ai.L the bright lights of heaven 
 
 I will make dark over thee; 
 One night shall be as seven, 
 
 '!1iat its skirts may cover thee; 
 I will send on thy strong men a sword, 
 
 On thv remnant a rod : 
 W shall know that I am the I.ord, 
 
 Saith the Lord Cod. 
 
 SECOND ANTIPHONE. 
 
 All the bright lights of heaven 
 Thou hast made dark over us ; 
 
 One night has been as seven. 
 That its skirt might cover us; 
 
 Thou hast sent on our strong men a 
 sword. 
 On our remnant a rod : 
 
 We know that thou art the Lord, 
 
 Lord our God ! 
 
 THIRD ANTIPHONE. 
 
 As the tresses and wings of the wind 
 
 Are scattered and shaken, 
 I will scatter all them that have sinned : 
 
 There shall none be taken ; 
 As a sower that scattereth seed. 
 
 So will I scatter them ; 
 As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, 
 
 1 will break and shatter them. 
 
 FOURTH ANTIPHONE. 
 
 As the wings and the locks of the wind 
 
 Are scattered and shaken. 
 Thou hast scattered all them that have 
 sinned : 
 
 There was no man taken ; 
 As a sower that scattereth seed, 
 
 So hast thou scattered us ; 
 As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, 
 
 Thou hast broken and shattered us. 
 
 FIFTH ANTIPHONE. 
 
 From all thy lovers that love thee, 
 
 I God will sunder thee ; 
 I will make darkness above thee. 
 
 And thick darkness under thee ; 
 Before me goeth a light. 
 
 Behind me a sword : 
 Shall a remnant find grace in my sight : 
 
 I am the Lord. 
 
 SIXTH ANTIPHONE. 
 
 From all our lovers that love us, 
 
 Thou God didst sunder us ; 
 Thou madest darkness above us, 
 
 And thick darkness under us; 
 Thou hast kindled thv wrath for a light, 
 
 And maile ready thy sword : 
 Let a remnant find grace in thy sight, 
 
 We beseech thee, O Lord I 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 471 
 
 SEVENTH ANTIPHONE. 
 
 Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment 
 
 For sins on this wise ? 
 For the glittering of raiment, 
 
 And the shining of eyes, 
 For the painting of faces, 
 
 And the sundering of trust, 
 For the sins of thine high places 
 
 And delight of thy lust ? 
 
 For your high things ye shall have lowly, 
 
 Lamentation for song; 
 For, behold, I God am holy, 
 
 I the Lord am strong. 
 Ye shall seek me, and shall not reach me 
 
 Till the wine-press be trod; 
 In that hour ye shall turn, and beseech 
 me, 
 
 Saith the Lord God. 
 
 EIGHTH ANTIPHONE. 
 
 Not with fine gold for a payment, 
 
 But with coin of sighs, 
 But with rending of raiment. 
 
 And with weeping of eyes. 
 But with shame of stricken faces, 
 
 And with strewing of dust. 
 For the sin of stately places 
 
 And lordship of lust; 
 
 With voices of men made lowly, 
 
 Made empty of song, 
 O Lord God most holy, 
 
 O God most strong, 
 We reach out hands to reach thee 
 
 Ere the wine-press be trod ; 
 We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech 
 thee, 
 
 O Lord our God ! 
 
 NINTH ANTIPHONE. 
 In that hour thou shalt say to the night. 
 
 Come down and cover us ; 
 To the cloud on thy left and thy right, 
 
 Be thou s]:)read over us. 
 A snare shall be as thy mother. 
 
 And a curse thv bride; 
 Thou shalt put her away, and another 
 
 Shall lie by thy side. 
 
 Thou shalt neither rise up by day, 
 
 Nor lie down by night. 
 Would God it were dark! thou shalt 
 say; 
 
 Would God it were light! 
 And the sight of thine eyes shall be 
 made 
 
 As the burning of fire ; 
 And thy soul shall be sorely afraid 
 
 For thy soul's desire. 
 
 Ye whom your lords loved well. 
 
 Putting silver and gold on you, 
 The inevitable hell 
 
 Shall surely take hold on you; 
 Your gold shall be for a token, 
 
 Your staff for a rod ; 
 With the breaking of bands ye are 
 broken, 
 
 Saith the Lord God. 
 
 TENTH ANTIPHONE. 
 
 In our sorrow we said to the night, 
 
 Fall down and cover us ; 
 To the darkness at left and at right. 
 
 Be thou shed over us. 
 We had breaking of spirit to mother, 
 
 And cursing to bride ; 
 And one was slain, and another 
 
 Stood up at our side. 
 
 We could not arise by day, 
 
 Nor lie down by night ; 
 Thv sword was sharp in our way, 
 
 Thv word in our sight ; 
 The delight of our eyelids was made 
 
 As the burning of fire, 
 And our souls became sorely afraid 
 
 For our soul's desire. 
 
 We whom the world loved well. 
 
 Laving silver and gold on us. 
 The kingdom of death and of hell 
 
 Riseth up to take hold on us; 
 Our gold is turned to a token. 
 
 Our staff to a rod : 
 Yet shalt thou bind them up that were 
 broken, 
 
 O Lord our God 1 
 
47 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 A LAMENTATION. 
 
 Who hath known the ways of time, 
 Or trodden behind his feet ? 
 
 There is no such man among men. 
 For chance overcomes him, or crime 
 Changes; for all things sweet 
 In time wax bitter again. 
 Who shall give sorrow enough, 
 
 Or who the abundance of tears .'' 
 Mine eyes are heavy with love. 
 
 And a sword gone thorough mine ears, 
 A sound like a sword and fire, 
 For pity, for great desire ; 
 Who shall insure me thereof. 
 
 Lest I die, being full of my fears? 
 
 Who hath known the ways and the 
 wrath, 
 The sleepless spirit, the root 
 And blossom of evil will. 
 The divine device of a god t 
 Who shall behold it, or hath .? 
 
 The twice-tongucd prophets are mute. 
 The many speakers are still ; 
 No foot has travelled or trod, 
 No hand has meted, his path. 
 Man's fate is a blood-red fruit, 
 
 And the mighty gods have their fill 
 And rela.x not the rein, or the rod. 
 
 Ye were mighty in heart from of old, 
 
 Ye slew with the spear, and are slain. 
 Keen after heat is the cold, 
 
 Sore after summer is rain. 
 And melteth man to the bone. 
 
 As water he weareth away, 
 
 As a flower, as an hour in a day, 
 Fallen from laughter to moan, 
 liut my spirit is shaken with fear 
 
 Lest an evil thing begin. 
 New-born, a spear for a spear. 
 
 And one for another sin. 
 Or ever our tears began. 
 
 It was known from of old and said; 
 One law for a living man, 
 
 And another law for the dead 
 For these arc fearful and sad. 
 
 Vain, and things without breath ; 
 While he lives let a man be glad, 
 
 For none hath joy of his death. 
 
 Who hath known the pain, the old pain 
 of earth, 
 Or all the travail of the sea. 
 The many ways and waves, the birth 
 Fruitless^ the labor nothing worth .=• 
 Who hath known, who knoweth, O 
 gods t not we. 
 
 There is none shall say he hath seen. 
 
 There is none he hath known. 
 Though he saith, Lo, a lord have I 
 been, 
 
 I have reaped and sown ; 
 I have seen the desire of mine eyes. 
 
 The beginning of love. 
 The season of kisses and sighs, 
 
 And the end thereof. 
 I have known the ways of the sea, 
 
 All the perilous ways ; 
 Strange winds have spoken with me, 
 
 And the tongues of strange days. 
 I have hewn the pine for ships; 
 
 Where steeds run arow, 
 I have seen from their bridled lips 
 
 Foam blown as the snow. 
 With snapping of chariot-poles 
 
 And with straining of oars 
 I have grazed in the race the goals. 
 
 In the storm the shores ; 
 As a greave is cleft with an arrow 
 
 At the joint of the knee, 
 I have cleft through the sea-straits 
 narrow 
 
 To the heart of the sea. 
 When air was smitten in sunder, 
 
 I have watched on high 
 The ways of the stars and the thun 
 der 
 
 In the night of the skv ; 
 W^here the dark brings forth light as a 
 flower. 
 
 As from lips that dissever ; 
 One abidcth the space of an hour, 
 
 One endureth forever. 
 Lo. what hath he seen or known 
 
 Of the way and the wave 
 Unbeholden, unsailed-on, unsown, 
 From the breast to the grave } 
 
 Or ever the stars were made, or skies, 
 Gi ief was born, and the kinless night« 
 
POKMS A A' I) /BALLADS. 
 
 Mother of gods without form or 
 name. 
 And light is born out of heaven, and 
 dies, 
 And one day knows not another's 
 light; 
 liut night is one, and her shape the 
 same. 
 But dumb the goddesses underground 
 Wait, and we hear not on earth if their 
 feet 
 Rise, and the night wax loud with 
 their wings; 
 Dumb, without word or shadow of 
 sound ; 
 And sift in scales, and winnow as 
 wheat 
 Men's souls, and sorrow of mani- 
 fold things. 
 
 III. 
 Nor less of grief than ours 
 The gods wrought long ago 
 To bruise men one by one ; 
 But with the incessant hours 
 Fresh grief and greener woe 
 Spring, as the sudden sun 
 Year after year makes flowers ; 
 And these die down and grow, 
 And the next year lacks none. 
 
 As these men sleep, have slept 
 The old heroes in time fled, 
 No dream-divided sleep ; 
 And holier eyes have wept 
 Than ours, when on her dead 
 Gods have seen Thetis weep, 
 With heavenly hair far-swept 
 Back, heavenly hands out-spread 
 Round what she could not keep, 
 
 Could not one day withhold. 
 One night; and like as these 
 W^hite ashes of no weight, 
 Held not his urn the cold 
 Ashes of Heracles ? 
 
 For all things born, one gate 
 Opens, — no gate of gold ; 
 Opens; and no man sees 
 Beyond the gods and fate. 
 
 ANTMA ANCFPS. 
 
 Tii.i. death have broken 
 Sweet life's love-token. 
 Till all be spoken 
 
 That shall be said. 
 What dost thou praying, 
 O soul, and jjlaying 
 With song and saying. 
 
 Things flown and fled .' 
 For this we know not — 
 That fresh s|)rings flow not 
 And fresh griefs grow not 
 
 When men are dead; 
 WHien strange years cove** 
 Lover and lover. 
 And joys are over, 
 
 And tears are shed. 
 
 If one day's sorrow 
 Mar the day's morrow ; 
 If man's life borrow. 
 
 And man's death pay; 
 If souls once taken. 
 If lives once shaken. 
 Arise, awaken. 
 
 By night, by day, — 
 W^hv with strong crying 
 And years of sighing. 
 Living and dying. 
 
 Fast ye and pray .' 
 Vox all your weeping, 
 Waking and sleeping. 
 Death comes to reaping. 
 
 And takes away. 
 Though time rend after 
 Roof-tree from rafter, 
 A little laughter 
 
 Is much more worth 
 Than thus to measure 
 The hour, the treasure, 
 The pain, the pleasure, 
 
 The death, the birth -. 
 Grief, when davs alter, 
 Like joy shall falter; 
 Song-book and psalter. 
 
 Mourning and mirth. 
 Live like the swallow ; 
 Seek not to follow. 
 Where earth is hollow, 
 
 Under the earth. 
 
474 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 SONG BEFORE DEATH. 
 
 (from the FRENCH.) 
 
 1795- 
 Sweet mother, in a minute's span 
 
 Death parts thee and my love of thee : 
 Sweet love, that yet art living man, 
 
 Come back, true love, to comfort me. 
 Mack, ah, come back ! ah, wellaway ! 
 liut my love comes not any day. 
 
 As roses, when the warm West blows. 
 Break to full flower, and sweeten 
 spring. 
 
 My soul would break to a glorious rose 
 In such wise at his whispering. 
 
 In vain I listen; wellaway! 
 
 My love says nothing any day. 
 
 You that will weep for pity of love 
 On the low place where I am lain, 
 
 I pray you, having wept enough. 
 Tell him for whom I bore such pain 
 
 That he was yet, ah ! wellaway ! 
 
 My true love to my dying day. 
 
 ROCOCO. 
 
 Take hands, and part with laughter: 
 
 Touch lips, and part with tears ; 
 Once more and no more after, 
 
 Whatever comes with years. 
 We twain shall not re-measure 
 
 The ways that left us twain, 
 Nor crush the lees of pleasure 
 
 YxQxn sanguine grapes of pain. 
 
 We twain once well in sunder, 
 
 What will the mad gods do 
 For hate with me, I wonder. 
 
 Or what for love with you .-' 
 Forget them till November, 
 
 And dream there's A|)ril yet; 
 Forget that I remember, 
 
 And dream that I forget. 
 
 Time found our tired love sleeping. 
 And kissed away his breath; 
 
 Hut what should we do weei)ing, 
 Though light love sleep to death } 
 
 We have drained his lips at leisure, ' 
 Till there's not left to drain 
 
 A single sob of pleasure, 
 A single pulse of pain. 
 
 Dream that the lips once breathless 
 
 Might quicken if they would; 
 Say that the soul is deathless ; 
 
 Dream that the gods are good; 
 Say March may wed September, 
 
 And time divorce regret : 
 But not that you remember. 
 
 And not that I forget. 
 
 We have heard from hidden places 
 
 What love scarce lives and hears; 
 We have seen on fervent faces 
 
 The pallor of strange tears ; 
 We have trod the wine-vat's treasure* 
 
 Whence, ripe to steam and stain, 
 Foams round the feet of pleasure 
 
 The blood-red must of pain. 
 
 Remembrance may recover, 
 
 And time bring back to time 
 The name of your first lover. 
 
 The ring of my first rhyme ; 
 But rose-leaves of December 
 
 The frosts of June shall fret, 
 The day that you remember, 
 
 The day that I forget. 
 
 The snake that hides and hisses 
 
 In heaven, we twain have known 
 The grief of cruel kisses. 
 
 The jov whose mouth makes moan; 
 The pulse's pause and measure. 
 
 Where in one furtive vein 
 Throbs through the heart of pleasure 
 
 The purpler blood of jiain. 
 
 We have done with tears and treason* 
 
 And love for treason's sake; 
 Room for the swift new seasons, 
 
 The years that burn and break. 
 Dismantle and dismember 
 
 Men's days and dreams, Juliette; 
 For love may not remember, 
 
 But time will not forget. 
 
 Life treads down love in flying, 
 
 Time withers him at root ; 
 Bring all dead things and dying, 
 
 Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, 
 
rOEAfS AND BALLADS. 
 
 A7S 
 
 vVhere, crushed by three clays' pressure, 
 Our three days' love lies slain; 
 
 And earlier leaf of pleasure, 
 And latter flower of pain. 
 
 Breathe close upon the ashes. 
 
 It may be flame will leaj) ; 
 Unclose the soft close lashes. 
 
 Lift up the lids, and weep. 
 Light love's extinguished ember. 
 
 Let one tear leave it wet, 
 For one that you remember, 
 
 And ten that you forget. 
 
 A BALLAD OF BURDENS. 
 
 The burden of fair women. Vain de- 
 light, 
 And love self-slain in some sweet 
 shameful way, 
 And sorrowful old age that comes by 
 night 
 As a thief comes that has no heart 
 
 by day, 
 And change that finds fair cheeks and 
 leaves them gray. 
 And weariness that keeps awake for 
 hire. 
 And grief that says what pleasure 
 used to say : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of bought kisses. This is 
 sore, 
 A burden without fruit in childbear- 
 
 ing; 
 Between the nightfall and the dawn 
 threescore. 
 Threescore between the dawn and 
 
 evening. 
 The shuddering in thy lips, the shud- 
 dering 
 In thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire, 
 Makes love seem shameful and a 
 wretched thing : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, 
 kneel down, 
 Cover thy head, and weep ; for verily 
 
 These market-men that buy thy white 
 and brown 
 In the last days shall take no thought 
 
 for thee ; 
 In the last clays like earth thy face 
 shall be, 
 Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with 
 brine and mire. 
 Sad with sick leavings of the sterile 
 sea : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of long living. Thou shalt 
 fear 
 Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy 
 bed; 
 And say at night, " Would God the day 
 were here ! " 
 And say at dawn, " Would God the 
 
 day were dead ! " 
 With weary days thou shalt be clothed 
 and fed, 
 And wear remorse of heart for thine 
 attire, 
 Pain for thy girdle, and sorrow upon 
 thine head : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of bright colors. Thou 
 shalt see 
 Gold tarnished, and the gray above 
 the green ; 
 And as the thing thou seest thy face 
 shall be. 
 And no more as the thing beforetime 
 
 seen. 
 And thou shalt say of mercy, " It hath 
 been ; " 
 And living, watch the old lips and loves 
 expire. 
 And talking, tears shall take thy 
 breath between : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of sad sayings. In that day 
 
 Thou shalt tell 'all thy days and 
 
 hours, and tell 
 
 Thy times and ways and words of love, 
 
 and say 
 
 How one was dear, and one desirable, 
 
470 
 
 POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 And sweet was life to hear and sweet 
 to smell ; 
 Kut now with lights reverse the old 
 hours retire, 
 And the last hour is shod with fire 
 from hell : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of four seasons. Rain i.i 
 spring, 
 White rain and wind among the ten- 
 der trees ; 
 A summer of green sorrows gather- 
 ing ; 
 Rank autumn in a mist of miseries, 
 \Vith sad face set towards the year, 
 that sees 
 The charred ash drop out of the drop- 
 ping pyre. 
 And winter wan with many mala- 
 dies ; 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of dead faces. Out of sight 
 And out of love, beyond the reach of 
 hands. 
 Changed in the changing of the dark 
 and light. 
 They walk and weep about the bar- 
 ren lands 
 Where no seed is, nor any garner 
 stands, 
 Where in short breaths the doubtful 
 days rcsi)ire, 
 And time's turned glass lets through 
 the sighing sands : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of much gladness. Life 
 and lust 
 Forsake thee, and the face of thv de- 
 light ; 
 And underfoot the heavy hour strews 
 dust. 
 And overhead strange weathers burn 
 
 and bite ; 
 And where the red was, lo the blood- 
 less white ; 
 And where truth was, the likeness of a 
 liar ; 
 And where day was, the likeness of 
 the night : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 l'envuy. 
 Princes, and ye whom pleasure quick 
 eneth. 
 Meed well this rhyme before youi 
 pleasure tire ; 
 For life is sweet, but after life is death. 
 This is the end of every man's desire 
 
 BEFORE THE MIRROR. 
 
 (VERSES WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE.) 
 
 INSCRIBED TO J. A. WHISTLER. 
 
 I. 
 White rose in red rose-garden 
 
 Is not so white ; 
 Snowdrops that j^lead for pardon 
 
 And pine for fright 
 Because the hard East blows 
 Over their maiden rows. 
 
 Grow not as this face grows from 
 pale to bright. 
 
 Behind the veil, forbidden, 
 
 Shut up from sight. 
 Love, is there sorrow hidden, 
 
 Is there delight .'* 
 Is joy thy dower or grief, 
 White rose of weary leaf. 
 
 Late rose whose life is brief, whose 
 loves are light .'* 
 
 Soft snows, that hard winds harden 
 
 Till each flake bite. 
 Fill all the flowerless garden 
 
 Whose flowers took flight 
 Long since when summer ceased, 
 And men rose up from feast. 
 
 And warm west wind grew east, and 
 warm day night. 
 
 II. 
 "Come snow, come wind or thunder 
 
 High up in air, 
 I watch my face, and wonder 
 
 At my bright hair ; 
 Naught else e.xalts or grieves 
 The rose at heart, that heaves 
 
 With love of her own leaves and lips 
 that pair. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 A77 
 
 **wShe knows not loves that kissed her 
 
 She knows not where : 
 Art thou the ghost, my sister, 
 
 White sister there, 
 Am I the ghost, who knows ? 
 My hand, a fallen rose, 
 
 Lies snow-white on white snows, and 
 takes no care. 
 
 " I cannot see what pleasures 
 
 Or what pains were ; 
 What pale new loves and treasures 
 
 New years wUl bear ; 
 W^hat beam will fall, what shower, 
 What grief or joy for dower: 
 
 But one thing knows the flower, — the 
 flower is fair." 
 
 Glad, but not flushed with gladness, 
 
 Since joys go by; 
 Sad, but not bent with sadness, 
 
 vSince sorrows die ; 
 Deep in the gleaming glass 
 She sees all past things pass. 
 
 And all sweet life that was lie down 
 and lie. 
 
 There glowing ghosts of flowers 
 
 Draw down, draw nigh ; 
 And wings of swift spent hours 
 
 Take flight and fly ; 
 She sees by formless gleams, 
 She hears across cold streams. 
 
 Dead mouths of many dreams that 
 sing and sigh. 
 
 P^ace fallen and white throat lifted, 
 
 With sleepless eye 
 She sees old loves that drifted, 
 
 She knew not why, — 
 Old loves and faded fears 
 Ploat down a stream that hears 
 
 The flowing of all men's tears beneath 
 the sky. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF WALTER 
 SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 Back to the flower-town, side by side. 
 
 The bright months bring, 
 New-born, the bridegroom and the bride. 
 
 Freedom and spring. 
 
 The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, 
 
 Filled full of sun ; 
 All things come back to her, being 
 free, — 
 
 All things but one. 
 
 In many a tender wheaten plot 
 
 Flowers that were dead 
 Live, and old suns revive ; but not 
 
 That holier head. 
 
 By this white wandering waste of sea. 
 
 Far north, I hear 
 One face shall never turn to me 
 
 As once this year ; 
 
 Shall never smile and turn and rest 
 
 On mine as there, 
 Nor one most sacred hand be prest 
 
 Upon my hair. 
 
 I came as one whose thoughts half lin 
 ger. 
 
 Half run beiore ; 
 The youngest to the oldest singer 
 
 That England bore. 
 
 I found him whom I shall not find 
 
 Till all grief end. 
 In holiest age our mightiest mind. 
 
 Father and friend. 
 
 But thou, if any thing endure. 
 
 If hope there be, 
 O spirit that man's life left pure, 
 
 Man's death set free. 
 
 Not with disdain of days that were 
 
 Look earthward now : 
 Let dreams revive the reverend hair, 
 
 The imperial brow ; 
 
 Come back in sleep, for in the life 
 
 Where thou art not 
 We find none like thee. Time and strife 
 
 And the world's lot 
 
 Move thee no more ; but love at least, 
 
 And reverent heart. 
 May move thee, royal and released. 
 
 Soul, as thou art. 
 
47 
 
 rOEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 And thou, his Florence, to thy trust 
 
 Receive and keep, 
 Kcc]) safe his dedicated dust. 
 
 His sacred sleep. 
 
 So shall thy lovers, come from far. 
 
 Mix with thy name. 
 As morning-star with evening-star, 
 
 His faultless fame. 
 
 A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER. 
 
 1852. 
 
 Push hard across the sand, 
 
 For the salt wind gathers breath ; 
 
 Shoulder and wrist and hand. 
 Push hard as the push of death. 
 
 The wind is as iron that rings, 
 The foam-heads loosen and flee ; 
 
 It swells and welters and swings. 
 The pulse of the tide of the sea. 
 
 And up on the yellow cliff 
 
 The long corn flickers and shakes; 
 Push, for the wind holds stiff, 
 
 And the gunwale dips and rakes. 
 
 Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, 
 The quiver and beat of the sea! 
 
 While three men hold together, 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 Out to the sea with her there. 
 Out with her over the sand, 
 Let the kings keep the earth for their 
 share ! 
 We have done with the sharers of 
 land. 
 
 They have tied the world in a tether, 
 They have bought over God with a 
 fee ; 
 
 While three men hold together, 
 'ihc kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 Wc have done with the kisses that sting, 
 The thief's mouth red from the feast. 
 The blood on the hands of the king, 
 And the lie at the lips of the priest. 
 
 W'ill they tie the winds in a tether, 
 Put a bit in the jaws of the sea } 
 
 While three men hold together. 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 Let our flag run out straight in the wind! 
 
 The old red shall be floated again 
 When the ranks that are thin shall be 
 thinned. 
 When the names that were twenty are 
 ten ; 
 
 When the devil's riddle is mastered, 
 And the galley-bench creaks with a 
 Pope, 
 
 W^e shall see Puonaparte the bastard 
 Kick heels with his throat in a rope 
 
 While the shepherd sets wolves on his 
 sheep, 
 
 And the emperor halters his kine, 
 While Shame is a watchman asleep. 
 
 And Faith is a ke*'per of swine, — 
 
 Let the wind shak^ our flag like a 
 feather, 
 Like the plumes ol t>ie foam of the 
 sea ! 
 While three men hold *ogether, 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 All the world has its burdens to bear, 
 From Cavcnne to the Austrian whips. 
 
 Forth, with the rain in our hair 
 
 And the salt sweet ft)am in our lips; 
 
 In the teeth of the hard glad weather, 
 In the blown wet face of the sea; 
 
 While three men hold together. 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 A SONG IN TIMF OF REVOLU 
 TION. i860. 
 
 The heart of the rulerD is Mck, and the 
 high-priest cover? h's head. 
 
 For this is the song of the v^uick that is 
 heard in the ears of the dead. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 479 
 
 The poor and the halt and the blind are 
 keen and mighty and fleet : 
 
 Like the noise of the blowing of wind is 
 the sound of the noise of their 
 feet. 
 
 The wind has the sound of a laugh in 
 the clamor of days and of deeds : 
 
 'I'he priests are scattered like chaff, and 
 the rulers broken like reeds. 
 
 The high-priest sick from qualms, with 
 his raiment bloodily dashed; 
 
 The thief with branded palms, and the 
 liar with cheeks abashed. 
 
 They are smitten, they tremble greatly, 
 they are pained for their pleasant 
 things : 
 
 For the house of the priests made state- 
 ly, and the might in the mouth of 
 the kings. 
 
 T'hey are grieved and greatly afraid; 
 
 they are taken, they shall not flee : 
 For the heart of the nations is made as 
 
 the strength of the springs of the 
 
 They were fair in the grace of gold, they 
 walked with delicate feet ; 
 
 They were clothed with the cunning of 
 old, and the smell of their gar- 
 ments was sweet. 
 
 For the breaking of gold in their hair 
 they halt as a man made lame: 
 
 They are utterly naked and bare ; their 
 mouths are bitter with shame. 
 
 Wilt thou judge thy peo])le now, O king 
 that wast found most wise ? 
 
 Wilt thou lie any more, O thou whose 
 mouth is emptied of lies? 
 
 Shall God make a pact with thee, till 
 his hook be found in thy sides.' 
 
 Wilt thou put back the time of the sea, 
 or the place of the season of 
 tides .'' 
 
 Set a word in thy lips, to stand before 
 God with a word in thy mouth : 
 
 That ' the rain shall return in the land, 
 and the tender dew after drouth." 
 
 But the arm of the elders is broken, their 
 strength is unbound and undone : 
 
 They wait for a sign of a token ; they 
 cry, and there cometh none. 
 
 Their moan is in every jilace, the cry of 
 
 them filleth the' land : 
 There is shame in the sight of their face, 
 
 there is fear in the thews of their 
 
 hand. 
 
 They are girdled about the reins with a 
 curse for the girdle thereon : 
 
 For the noise of the rending of chains, 
 the face of their color is gone. 
 
 For the sound of the shouting of men, 
 they are grievously stricken at 
 heart : 
 
 They are smitten asunder with pain, 
 their bones are smitten apart. 
 
 There is none of them all that is whole ; 
 
 their lips gape open for breath : 
 They are clothed with sickness of soul, 
 
 and the shape of the shadow of 
 
 death. 
 
 The wind is thwart in their feet ; it is 
 full of the shouting of mirth ; 
 
 As one shaketh the sides of a sheet, so 
 it shaketh the ends of the earth. 
 
 The sword, the sword is made keen ; the 
 iron has opened its mouth ; 
 
 The corn is red that was green ; it is 
 bound for the sheaves of the 
 south. 
 
 The sound of a word was shed, the sound 
 of the wind as a breath, 
 
 In the ears of the souls that were dead, 
 in the dust of the deepness of 
 death : 
 
48o 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Where the face of the moon is taken, 
 the ways of the stars undone, 
 
 The light of the whole sky shaken, the 
 light of the face of the sun ; 
 
 Where the waters are emptied and bro- 
 ken, the waves of the waters are 
 stayed ; 
 
 Where God has bound for a token the 
 darkness that maketh afraid ; 
 
 Where the sword was covered and hid- 
 den, and dust had grown in its 
 side, 
 
 A word came forth that was bidden, the 
 crying of one that cried : 
 
 The sides of the two-edged sword shall 
 
 be bare, and its mouth shall be 
 
 red, 
 Yox the breath of the face of the Lord 
 
 that is felt in the bones of the 
 
 dead. 
 
 TO VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 In the fair days when god 
 By man as godlike trod. 
 And each alike was Greek, alike was 
 free, 
 God's lightning spared, they said, 
 Alone the happier head 
 Whose laurels screened it; fruitless 
 grace for thee 
 To whom the high gods gave of right 
 Their thunders and their laurels and 
 their light. 
 
 .Sunbeams and bays before 
 (Jur master's servants wore, 
 
 Vu\ these Apollo left in all men's lands ; 
 Hut far from these ere now, 
 And watched with jealous brow, 
 
 l<ay the blind lightnings shut between 
 God's hands, 
 And only loosed on slaves and kings 
 
 The terror of the tempest of their 
 wings. 
 
 Born in those younger years 
 That shone with storms of spears. 
 
 And shook in the wind blown from a 
 dead world's pyre. 
 When by her back-blown hair 
 Napoleon caught the fair 
 And fierce Republic with her feet of 
 fire, 
 And stayed with iron words and hands 
 Her rtight', and freedom in a thousand 
 lands : 
 
 Thou sawest the tides of things 
 
 Close over heads of kings. 
 And thine hand felt the thunder, and to 
 thee 
 
 Laurels and lightnings were 
 
 As sunbeams and soft air 
 Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea 
 
 Mixed, or as memory with desire. 
 Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre. 
 
 For thee man's spirit stood 
 Disrobed of flesh and blood. 
 And bare the heart of the most secret 
 hours ; 
 And to thine hand more tame 
 Than birds in winter came 
 High hopes and unknown flying forms 
 of powers, 
 And from thy table fed, and sang ^ 
 Till with the tune men's ears took fire 
 and rang. 
 
 Even all men's eyes and ears 
 
 With fiery sound' and tears 
 Waxed hot, and cheeks ciiught flame 
 and eyelids light. 
 
 At those high songs of thine 
 
 That stung the sense like wine. 
 Or fell more soft than dew or snow by 
 night. 
 
 Or wailed as in some flooded cave 
 Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave. 
 
 But we, our master, we 
 Whose hearts, uplift to thee, 
 Ache with the pulse of thy remembered 
 song, — 
 We ask not nor await 
 From the clinched hands of fate. 
 As thou, remission of the world's old 
 wrong ; 
 Respite we ask not, nor release : 
 Freedom a man may have, he shall not 
 peace. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 481 
 
 Though thy most fiery hoj^e 
 Storm heaven, to set wide ope 
 The all-sought-for gate whence God or 
 chance debars 
 All feet of men, all eyes — 
 The old night resumes her skies, 
 Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and 
 stars. 
 Where naught save these is sure in 
 sight, 
 And, paven with death, our days are 
 roofed with night. 
 
 One thing we can : to be 
 Awhile, as men may, free ; 
 But not by hope or pleasure the most 
 stern 
 Goddess, most awful-eyed. 
 Sits, but on either side 
 Sits sorrow and the wrath of hearts that 
 burn. 
 Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, 
 And memory gray with many a flower- 
 less year. 
 
 Not that in stranger's wise 
 I lift not loving eyes 
 To the fair foster-mother France, that 
 gave 
 Beyond the pale fleet foam 
 Help to my sires and home ; 
 Whose great sweet breast could shelter 
 those and save 
 Whom from her nursing breasts and 
 hands 
 Their land cast forth of old on gentler 
 lands. 
 
 Not without thoughts that ache 
 For theirs and for thy sake, 
 I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head ; 
 I, whose young song took flight 
 Toward the great heat and light 
 On me a child from thy far splendor 
 shed. 
 From thine high place of soul and 
 song. 
 Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made 
 them strong. 
 
 Ah I not with lessening love 
 For memories born hereof. 
 
 I look to that sweet mother-land, and 
 see 
 The old fields and fair full streams, 
 And skies, but fled like dreams 
 The feet of freedom and the thought of 
 thee ; 
 And all between the skies and graves 
 The mirth of mockers and the shame 
 of slaves. 
 
 She, killed with noisome air. 
 Even she ! and still so fair, 
 Who said, " Let there be freedom," and 
 there was 
 Freedom ; and as a lance 
 The fiery eyes of France 
 Touched the world's sleep, and as a 
 sleep made pass 
 Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes 
 Smitten with fire and thunder from new 
 skies. 
 
 Are they men's friends indeed 
 W^ho watch them weep and bleed .'* 
 
 Because thou hast loved us, shall the 
 gods love thee .-' 
 Thou, first of men and friend, 
 Seest thou, even thou, the end ? 
 
 Thou knowest what hath been, knowest 
 thou what shall be ? 
 Evils may pass and hopes endure ; 
 
 But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure. 
 
 O nursed in airs apart, 
 O poet highest of heart. 
 Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so 
 many things ? 
 Are not the years more wise, 
 More sad than keenest eyes. 
 The years with soundless feet and sound- 
 ing wings .'' 
 Passing we hear them not, but past 
 The clamor of them thrills us, and their 
 blast. 
 
 Thou art chief of us, and lord; 
 Thy song is as a sword 
 Keen-edged and scented in the blade 
 from flowers ; 
 Thou art lord and king ; but we 
 Lift younger eyes, and see 
 Less of high hope, less light on wary 
 dering hours ; 
 
482 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Hours that have borne men down so 
 long, 
 Seen the right fail, and watched uplift 
 the wrong. 
 
 But thine imperial soul, 
 As years and ruins roll 
 To the same end, and all things and all 
 dreams 
 With the same wreck and roar 
 Drift on the dim same shore, 
 Still in the bitter foam and brackish 
 streams 
 Tracks the fresh water-spring to be, 
 And sudden sweeter fountains in the 
 sea. 
 
 As once the high god bound 
 
 With many a rivet round 
 Man's savior, and with iron nailed him 
 through, 
 
 At the wild end of things, 
 
 Where even his own bird's wings 
 F'lagged, whence the sea shone like a 
 drop of dew. 
 
 From Caucasus beheld below 
 I'ast fathoms of unfathomable snow ; 
 
 So the strong God, the chance 
 
 Central of circumstance. 
 Still shows him exile who will not be 
 slave ; 
 
 All thy great fame and thee 
 
 Girt by the dim strait sea 
 With multitudinous walls of wandering 
 wave ; 
 
 Shows us our greatest from his throne 
 Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own. 
 
 Yea, he is strong, thou say'st, 
 
 A mystery many-faced. 
 The wild beasts know him, and the wild 
 birds flee ; 
 
 The blind night sees him, death 
 
 .Shrinks beaten at his breath. 
 And his right hand is heavy on the sea : 
 
 We know he hath made us, and is 
 king; 
 Wc know not if he care for any thing. 
 
 Thus much, no more, we know • 
 He bade what is, be so. 
 
 Hade light be, and bade night be, one 
 by one ; 
 
 Hade hope and fear, bade ill 
 
 And good redeem and kill. 
 Till all men be aweary of the sun. 
 
 And this world burn in its own flame, 
 And bear no witness longer of his name. 
 
 Yet though all this be thus, 
 Be those men praised of us 
 Who have loved and wrought and sor 
 rowed, and not sinned 
 For fame or fear or gold. 
 Nor wa.xed for winter cold. 
 Nor changed for changes of the worldly 
 wind ; 
 Praised above men of men be these. 
 Till this one world and work we know 
 shall cease. 
 
 Yea, one thing more than this, 
 
 We know that one thing is. 
 The splendor of a spirit without blame, 
 
 That not the laboring years 
 
 Blind-born, nor any fears, 
 Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame ; 
 
 But purer power with fierv breath 
 FillS; and exalts above the gulfs of death. 
 
 Praised above men be thou. 
 Whose laurel-laden ])row. 
 Made for the morning, droops not in the 
 night ; 
 Praised and beloved, that none 
 Of all thy great things done 
 Flies higher than thy most equal spirit's 
 flight; 
 Praised, that nor doubt nor hope 
 could bend 
 Earth's loftiest head, found upright to 
 the end. 
 
 BEFORE DAWN. 
 
 SwF.F.T life, if life were stronger. 
 Earth clear of years that wrong her, 
 Then two things might live longer. 
 
 Two sweeter things than they, — 
 Delight, the rootless flower, 
 And love, the blooinless bower; 
 Delight that lives an hour. 
 
 And love that lives a day. 
 
POEMS AA'D BALLADS. 
 
 483 
 
 From evensong to daytime, 
 When April melts in Maytime, 
 Love lengthens out his playtime, 
 
 Love lessens breath by breath, 
 And kiss by kiss grows older 
 On listless throat or shoulder 
 Turned sideways now, turned colder 
 
 Than life that dreams of death. 
 
 This one thing once worth giving 
 Life gave, and seemed worth living ; 
 Sin sweet beyond forgiving 
 
 And brief beyond regret : 
 To laugh and love together. 
 And weave with foam and feather 
 And wind and words the tether 
 
 Our memories play with yet. 
 
 Ah ! one thing worth beginning, 
 One thread in life worth spinning. 
 Ah, sweet, one sin worth sinning 
 
 With all the whole soul's will ; 
 To lull you till one stilled you, 
 To kiss you till one killed you, 
 To feed you till one filled you. 
 
 Sweet lips, if love could fill ; 
 
 To hunt sweet Love, and lose him 
 Between white arms and bosom, 
 Between the bud and blossom, 
 
 Between your throat and chin ; 
 To say of shame — what is it? 
 Of virtue — we can miss it; 
 Of sin — we can but kiss it, 
 
 And it's no longer sin ; 
 
 To feel the strong soul, stricken 
 Through fleshly pulses, quicken 
 Beneath swift sighs that thicken. 
 
 Soft hands and lips that smite ; 
 Lips that no love can tire. 
 With hands that sting like fire, 
 Weaving the web Desire 
 
 To snare the bird Delight. 
 
 But love so lightly plighted. 
 Our love with torch unlighted, 
 Paused near us unaffrighted, 
 
 Who found and left him free : 
 None, seeing us cloven in sunder. 
 Will weep or laugh or wonder ; 
 Light love stands clear of thunder, 
 
 And safe from winds at sea. 
 
 As, when late larks give warning 
 Of dying lights and dawning. 
 Night murmurs to the morning, 
 
 " Lie still, O love, lie still ; " 
 And half her dark limbs cover 
 The white limbs of her lover. 
 With amorous i)lumes that hover 
 
 And fervent lips that chill ; 
 
 As scornful day represses 
 Night's void and vain caresses, 
 And from her cloudier tresses 
 
 Unwinds the gold of his, 
 With limbs from limbs dividing, 
 And breath by breath subsiding ; 
 For love has no abiding, 
 
 But dies before the kiss : 
 
 So hath it been, so be it; 
 For who shall live and flee it.^ 
 But look that no man see it 
 
 Or hear it unaware : 
 Lest all who love and choose him 
 See Love, and so refuse him ; 
 For all who find him lose him, 
 
 But all have found him fair. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 
 
 Here, where the world is quiet, 
 Here, where all trouble seems 
 
 Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 
 In doubtful dreams of dreams ; 
 
 I watch the green field growing 
 
 P'or reaping folk and sowing. 
 
 For harvest time and mowing, 
 A sleepy world of streams. 
 
 T am tired of tears and laughter. 
 And men that laugh and weep, 
 Of what mav come hereafter 
 For men that sow to reap : 
 T am weary of days and hours, 
 Blown buds of baVren flowers, 
 Desires and dreams and powers, 
 And every thing but sleep. 
 
 Here life has death for neighbor, 
 
 And far from eye or ear 
 Wan waves and wet winds labor, 
 
 Weak ships and spirits steer; 
 
484 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 They drive adrift, and whither 
 They wot not who make thither ; 
 liut no such winds blow hither, 
 > And no such things grow here. 
 
 "iNo growth of moor or coppice, 
 / No heather-flower or vine, 
 'But bloomless buds of poppies, 
 Green grapes of Proserpine, 
 I'ale beds of blowing rushes 
 Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
 Save this whereout she crushes 
 Yox dead men deadly wine. 
 
 Pale, without name or number. 
 In fruitless fields of corn, 
 
 Thev bow themselves and slumber 
 All night till light is born; 
 
 And like a soul belated. 
 
 In hell and heaven unmated, 
 
 By cloud and mist abated 
 Comes out of darkness morn. 
 
 Though one were strong as seven, 
 He too with death shall dwell. 
 
 Nor wake with wings in heaven, • 
 Nor weep for pains in hell ; 
 
 Though one were fair as roses, 
 
 His beauty clouds and closes; 
 
 And well though love reposes, 
 In the end it is not well. 
 
 I 
 
 Pale, beyond porch and portal. 
 
 Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 
 i Who gathers all things mortal 
 With cold immortal hands; 
 Her languid lips are sweeter 
 Than love's who fears to greet her 
 To men that mix and meet her 
 P'rom many times and lands. 
 
 She waits for each and other. 
 She waits for all men born; 
 Forgets the earth her mother, , 
 
 The life of fruits and corn; 
 And spring and seed and swallow 
 Take wing for her, and follow 
 Where summer song rings hollow. 
 And flowers are put to scorn. 
 
 There go the loves that wither, 
 The old loves with wearier wings; 
 
 And all dead years draw thither, 
 
 And all disastrous things; 
 Dead dreams of days forsaken, 
 Blind buds that snows have shaken 
 Wild leaves that winds have taker 
 Red strays of ruined springs. 
 
 We are not sure of sorrow, 
 
 And joy was never sure ; 
 
 To-day will die to-morrow ; 
 
 Time stoops to no man's lure ; 
 And love, grown faint and fretful, 
 With lips but half regretful 
 Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 
 Weeps that no loves endure. 
 
 From too ntuch love of living. 
 From hope and fear set free. 
 
 We thank with brief thanksgiving 
 Whatever gods may be 
 
 That no life lives forever; 
 
 That dead men rise up never ; 
 
 That even the weariest river 
 Winds somewhere safe to sea. 
 
 Then star nor sun shall waken, 
 Nor any change of light ; 
 
 Nor sountl of waters shaken, 
 Nor any sound or sight ; 
 
 Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, 
 
 Nor days nor things diurnal : 
 
 Only the sleej) eternal 
 In an eternal night. 
 
 LOVE AT SEA. 
 
 We are in love's land to-day: 
 
 Where shall we go? 
 Love, shall we start or stay, 
 
 Or sail or row ? 
 There's many a wind and way, 
 And never a May but May: 
 We are in love's hand to-day ; 
 
 Where shall we go ? 
 
 Our land-wind is the breath 
 Of sorrows kissctl to death, 
 
 And jovs that were ; 
 Our ballast is a rose ; 
 Our way lies where God knows, 
 
 ,\nd (ove knows where. 
 
 We are in love's hand to-day 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 485 
 
 Our seamen are fledged Loves, 
 Our masts are bills of doves, 
 
 Our decks fine gold ; 
 Our ropes are dead maids' hair, 
 Our stores are love-shafts fair 
 
 And manifold. 
 
 We are in love's land to-day — 
 
 Where shall we land you, sweet ? 
 On fields of strange men's feet, 
 
 Or fields near home ? 
 Or where the fire-flowers blow. 
 Or where the flowers of snow, 
 
 Or flowers of foam ? 
 
 We are in love's hand to-day — 
 
 Land me, she says, where love 
 Shows but one shaft, one dove, 
 
 One heart, one hand. 
 — A shore like that, my dear. 
 Lies where no man will steer, 
 
 No maiden land. 
 
 Imitated from Theophile Gautier. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF THE VIDAME 
 DE CHARTRES. 12 — 1 
 
 When the fields catch flower, 
 And the underwood is green. 
 
 And from bower unto bower 
 The songs of the birds begin, 
 I sing with sighing between. 
 
 When I laugh and sing, 
 
 I am heavy at heart for my sin ; 
 
 I am sad in the spring 
 
 For my love that I shall not win. 
 
 For a foolish thing. 
 
 This profit I have of my woe, 
 
 That I know, as I sing, 
 I know he will needs have it so 
 
 Who is master and king, 
 
 Who is lord of the spirit of spring. 
 I will serve her, and will not spare 
 
 Till her pity awake 
 Who is good, who is pure, who is fair, 
 
 (Even her for whose sake 
 Love hath ta'en me and slain unaware. 
 
 my lord, O Love, 
 
 I have laid my life at thy feet; 
 Have thy will thereof. 
 Do as it please thee with it, 
 For what shall please thee is sweet. 
 
 1 am come unto thee 
 
 To do thee service, O Love ! 
 Yet cannot I see 
 
 Thou wilt take any pity thereof, 
 Any mercy on me. 
 
 But the grace I have long time sought 
 
 Comes never in sight. 
 If in her it abideth not, 
 
 Through thy mercy and might, 
 
 Whose heart is the world's delight. 
 Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die, 
 
 For my heart is set 
 On what hurts me, I wot not why, 
 
 But cannot forget 
 What I love, what I sing for and sigh. 
 
 She is worthy of praise ; 
 
 For this grief of her giving is worth 
 All the joy of my days 
 
 That lie between^ death's day and 
 birth, 
 
 All the lordship of things upon earth. 
 Nay, what have I said ? 
 
 I would not be glad if I could : 
 My dream and my dread 
 
 Are of her, and for her sake I would 
 That my life were fled. 
 
 Lo, sweet, if I durst not pray to you. 
 
 Then were I dead ; 
 If I sang not a little to say to you, 
 
 (Could it be said) 
 
 O my love, how my heart would be 
 fed; 
 Ah, sweet who hast hold of my heart, 
 
 For thy love's sake I live ; 
 Do but tell me, ere either depart. 
 
 What a lover may give 
 For a woman so fair as thou art. 
 
 The lovers that disbelieve, 
 False rumors shall grieve 
 And evil-speaking shall part. 
 
4S6 
 
 POEAfS A. YD BALE ADS. 
 
 BEFORE PARTING. 
 
 A MONTH or twain to live on honey- 
 
 conil) 
 Is pleasant ; but one tires of scented 
 
 time, 
 Cold sweet recurrence of accepted 
 
 rhyme, 
 And that strong purple under juice and 
 
 foam 
 Where the wine's heart has burst ; 
 Xor feel the latter kisses like the first. 
 
 Once yet, this poor one time : I will 
 
 not pray 
 Even to change the bitterness of it, 
 The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, 
 To make your tears fall where your 
 
 soft hair lay 
 All blurred and heavy in some per- 
 fumed wise 
 Over my face and eyes. 
 
 And yet who knows what end the 
 
 scythed wheat 
 Makes of its foolish poppies' mouths 
 
 of red ? 
 These were not sown, these are not 
 
 harvested, 
 They grow a month, and are cast under 
 
 feet, 
 And none has care thereof, 
 As none has care of a divided love. 
 
 I know each shadow of your lips by 
 rote. 
 
 Each change of love m eyelids and 
 eyebrows ; 
 
 The fashion of fair temples tremu- 
 lous 
 
 With tender blood, and color of your 
 throat ; 
 
 I know not how love is gone out of this, 
 
 Seeing that all was his. 
 
 Love's likeness there endures upon all 
 
 these : 
 I '.lit out of these one shall not gather 
 
 love. 
 I )ay hath ncjt strength nor the night 
 
 shade enough 
 To make love whole, and fill his lips 
 
 with ease, 
 
 As some bee-builded cell 
 Feels at filled lips the heavy honey 
 swell. 
 
 I know not how this last month leaves 
 
 your hair 
 Less full of purple color and hid spice, 
 And that luxurious trouble of closed 
 
 eyes 
 Is mi.xed with meaner shadow and 
 
 waste care ; 
 And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems 
 
 not yet 
 Worth patience to regret. 
 
 THE SUNDEW. 
 
 A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow green. 
 And pricked at lip with tende'" >ed. 
 Tread close, and either way you tread 
 Some faint black water jets between 
 Lest you should bruise the curious head 
 
 A live thing mav be; who shall know.> 
 The summer knows and suffers it; 
 F^or the cool moss is thick and sweet 
 Each side, and saves the blossom so 
 That it lives out the long June heat. 
 
 The deep scent of the heather burns 
 About it : breathless though it be. 
 Bow down and worship ; more than we 
 Is the least flower whose life returns. 
 Least weed renascent in the sea. 
 
 We are vexed and cumbered in earth's 
 
 sight 
 W^ith wants, with many memories: 
 These see their mother what she is, 
 Glad-growmg, till August leave more 
 
 bright 
 The apple-colored cranberries. 
 
 Winil blows and bleaches the strong 
 
 grass, 
 Blown all one way to shelter it 
 From trample of strayed kinc, with feet 
 Felt heavier than the moorhen was, 
 ' Strayed uji jiast patches of wild wheat 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS: 
 
 4^7 
 
 You call it sundew : how it grows, 
 If with its color it have breath, 
 If life taste sweet to it, if death 
 Pain its soft petal, no man knows : 
 Man has no sight or sense that saith. 
 
 My sundew, grown of gentle days. 
 In these green miles the spring begun 
 Thy growth ere April had half done 
 With the soft secret of her ways, 
 Or June made ready for the sun. 
 
 red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower I 
 
 1 have a secret halved with thee. 
 The name that is love's name to me 
 Thou knowest, and the face of her 
 Who is my festival to see. 
 
 The hard sun, as thy petals knew. 
 Colored the heavy moss-water : 
 Thou wert not worth green midsummer. 
 Nor fit to live to August blue, 
 O sundew, not remembering her. 
 
 AN INTERLUDE. 
 
 In the greenest growth of the Maytime, 
 I rode where the woods were wet. 
 
 Between the dawn and the daytime : 
 The spring was glad that we met. 
 
 There was something the season wanted. 
 Though the ways and the woods smelt 
 sweet, — 
 
 The breath at your lips that panted. 
 The pulse of the grass at your feet. 
 
 You came, and the sun came after. 
 
 And the green grew golden above ; 
 And the flag-flowers lightened with 
 laughter. 
 And the meadow-sweet shook with 
 love. 
 
 Your feet in the full-grown grasses 
 Moved soft as a weak wind blows : 
 
 You passed me as April passes. 
 With face made out of a rose. 
 
 By the stream where the stems were 
 slender, 
 Your bright foot paused at the sedge : 
 
 It might be to watch the tender 
 
 Light leaves in the springtime hedge, 
 
 On boughs that the sweet month 
 blanches 
 
 With flowery frost of May; 
 It might be a bird in the branches; 
 
 It might be a thorn in the way. 
 
 I waited to watch you linger 
 
 With foot drawn back from the dew, 
 Till a sunbeam straight like a finger 
 
 Struck sharp through the leaves at 
 you. 
 
 And a bird overhead sang Follow, 
 And a bird to the right sang Here ; 
 
 And the arch of the leaves was hol- 
 low. 
 And the meaning of May was clear. 
 
 I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 
 I knew what the bird's note said : 
 
 By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, 
 You were queen by the gold on your 
 head. 
 
 As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember 
 Recalls a regret of the sun, 
 
 I remember, forget, and remember 
 What Love saw done and undone. 
 
 I remember the way we parted, 
 The day and the way we met : 
 
 You hoped we were both broken- 
 hearted. 
 And knew we should both forget. 
 
 And May with her world in flower 
 Seemed still to murmur and smile 
 
 As you murmured and smiled for an 
 hour : 
 I saw you turn at the stile. 
 
 A hand like a white wood-blossom 
 You lifted, and waved, and passed, 
 
 With head hung down to the bosom. 
 And pale, as it seemed, at last. 
 
 And the best and the worst of this is, 
 That neither is mosi to blame, 
 
 If you've forgotten my kisses, 
 And I've forgotten your name. 
 
488 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 HENDECASVLLABICS. 
 
 In the month of the long decline of 
 
 roses, 
 I, beholding the summer dead before 
 
 me, 
 Set my face to the sea, and journeyed 
 
 silent, 
 Gazing eagerly where above the sea 
 
 mark 
 Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of 
 
 lions 
 Half divided the eyelids of the sun- 
 set; 
 Till I heard as it were a noise of waters 
 Moving tremulous under feet of angels 
 Multitudinous, out of all the heavens; 
 Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered 
 
 foliage, 
 Shaken fitfully, full of sound and 
 
 shadow ; 
 And saw, trodden upon by noiseless 
 
 angels, 
 Long mysterious reaches fed with 
 
 moonlight. 
 Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding 
 
 channel, 
 Blown about by the lips of winds I knew 
 
 not. 
 Winds not born in the north nor any 
 
 quarter. 
 Winds not warm with the south nor any 
 
 sunshine ; 
 Heard between them a voice of exulta- 
 tion, 
 " Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is 
 
 faded, 
 Even like as a leaf the year is withered, 
 All the fruits of the day from all her 
 
 branches 
 Oathered, neither is any left to gather. 
 All the flowers are dead, the tender 
 
 bhjssoms, 
 All are taken away; the season wasted. 
 Like an ember among the fallen ashes. 
 Now with light of the winter days, with 
 
 moonlight. 
 Light of snow, and the bitter light of 
 
 hoar-frost, 
 Wc bring flowers that fade not after 
 
 autumn, 
 Tale white chaplets and crowns of lat- 
 ter seasons, 
 
 Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves 
 
 were falser), 
 Woven under the eyes of stars and 
 
 planets 
 When low light was upon the windy 
 
 reaches 
 Where the flower of foam was blown, 
 
 a lily 
 Dropt among the sonorous fruitless 
 
 furrows 
 And green fields of the sea that make 
 
 no pasture : 
 Since the winter begins, the weeping 
 
 winter, 
 All whose flowers are tears, and round 
 
 his temples 
 Iron blossom of frost is bound forever." 
 
 SAPPHICS. 
 
 All the night sleep came not upon my 
 
 eyelids, 
 Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed 
 
 a feather. 
 Yet with lips shut close and with eyes 
 
 of iron 
 Stood and beheld me. 
 
 Then to me so lying awake a vision 
 Came without sleep over the seas and 
 
 touched me. 
 Softly touched mine eyelids and lips; 
 and I too. 
 Full of the vision. 
 
 Saw the white implacable .\phrodite. 
 Saw the hair unbound and the feei 
 
 unsandalled 
 Shine as fire of sunset on western 
 waters ; 
 Saw the reluctant 
 
 Feet, the straining plumes of the doves 
 
 that drew her, 
 Looking always, looking with necks 
 
 reverted, 
 Hack to Lesbos, back to the hills where 
 
 under 
 Shone Mitylcne; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 489 
 
 Heard the flying feet of the Loves be- 
 hind her 
 Make a sudden thunder upon the waters, 
 As the thunder flung from the strong 
 unclosing 
 Whigs of a great wind. 
 
 So the goddess fled from her place, with 
 
 awful 
 Sound of feet and thunder of wings 
 
 around her ; 
 While behind a clamor of singing 
 
 women 
 Seveied the twilight. 
 
 Ah the singing, ah the delight, the pas- 
 sion ! 
 
 All the Loves wept, listening ; sick with 
 anguish. 
 
 Stood the crowned nine Muses about 
 Apollo ; 
 Fear wasi upon them, 
 
 While the tenth sang wonderful things 
 
 they knew not. 
 Ah the tenth, the Lesbian! the nine 
 
 were silent. 
 None endured the sound of her song 
 
 for weeping ; 
 Laurel by laurel. 
 
 Faded all their crowns; but about her 
 
 forehead, 
 Round her woven tresses and ashen 
 
 temples 
 White as dead snow, paler than grass 
 
 in summer, 
 Ravaged with kisses, 
 
 Shone a light of fi.~e as a crown for- 
 ever. 
 Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite 
 Paused, and almost wept ; such a song 
 was that song, 
 Yea, by her name too 
 
 Called her, saying, *' Turn to me, O my 
 Sappho ! " 
 
 Yet she turned her face from the Love's, 
 she saw not 
 
 Tears for laughter darken immortal eye- 
 lids. 
 Heard not about her 
 
 P'earful fitful wings of the doves de 
 
 parting. 
 Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite 
 Shook with weeping, saw not hei 
 
 shaken raiment, 
 Saw not her hands wrung ; 
 
 Saw the Lesbians kissing across theii 
 
 smitten 
 Lutes with lips more sweet than the 
 
 sound of lute-strings. 
 Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand 
 
 her chosen, 
 Fairer than all men ; 
 
 Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, 
 Full of songs and kisses and little 
 
 whispers, 
 Full of music ; only beheld among them 
 Soar, as a bird soars 
 
 Newlyfledged, hervisible song,a marvel, 
 Made of perfect sound and exceeding 
 
 passion. 
 Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thun- 
 ders. 
 Clothed with the wind's wings. 
 
 Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, 
 
 and scattered 
 Roses, awful roses of holy blossom; 
 Then the Loves thronged sadly with 
 
 hidden faces 
 Round Aphrodite, 
 
 Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were 
 
 silent ; 
 Yea, the gods waxed pale ; such a song 
 
 was that song. 
 All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion. 
 Fled from before her. 
 
 All withdrew long since, and the land 
 was l^arren, 
 
 Full of fruitless women and music only. 
 
 Now perchance, when winds are as- 
 suaged at sunset. 
 Lulled nt the dewfall, 
 
 \\\ the gray sea-side, unassuaged, nn 
 
 heard of, 
 Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of tw; 
 
 light, 
 
490 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Ghosts of outcast women return lament- 
 ing. . . u 
 Purged not m Lethe, 
 
 Clothed about with flame and with 
 
 tears, and singing 
 Songs that move the heart of the shaken 
 
 heaven, 
 Songs that break the heart of the earth 
 
 with pity, 
 Hearing, to hear them. 
 
 AT ELEUSIS. 
 
 Men of Eleusis, ye that with long 
 
 staves 
 Sit in the market-houses, and speak 
 
 words 
 Made sweet with wisdom as the rare 
 
 wine is 
 Thickened with honey; and ye sons of 
 
 these 
 Who in the glad thick streets go up 
 
 and down 
 For pastime or grave traffic or mere 
 
 chance ; 
 And all fair women having rings of gold 
 (^n hands or hair; and chiefest over 
 
 these 
 I name you, daughters of this man the 
 
 king, 
 Who dipi)ing deep smooth pitchers of 
 
 pure brass 
 Under the bubbled wells, till each 
 
 round lip 
 Stooped with loose gurgle of waters in- 
 coming, 
 Found me an old sick woman, lamed 
 
 and lean, 
 Besio ; a rrrowth of builded olive-boughs 
 Whence in'iUii)lied thick song of thick- 
 plumed throats — 
 Also wet tears filled up my hollow 
 
 hands 
 Hy reason of my crying into them — 
 And pitied me; for' as cold water ran 
 And washed ''le pitchers full from lip 
 
 to lip, 
 So washed both eyes full the strong salt 
 
 of fears. 
 And ye put water to my mouth, made 
 
 sweet 
 
 With brown hill-berries: so in time 1 
 
 spoke, 
 And gathered my loose knees from 
 
 under me. 
 Moreover, in the broad, fair halls this 
 
 month 
 Have 1 found space and bountiful abode 
 To please me. I Demeter speak of 
 
 this, 
 Who am the mother and the mate 
 
 of things: 
 For as ill men by drugs or singing 
 
 words 
 Shut the doors inward of the narrow 
 
 womb 
 Like a lock bolted with round iron 
 
 through. 
 Thus I shut up the body and sweet 
 
 mouth 
 Of all soft pasture and the tender land, 
 So that no seed can enter in by it. 
 Though one sow thickly, nor some 
 
 grain get out 
 Past the hard clods men cleave and 
 
 bite with steel 
 To widen the sealed lips of them for 
 
 use. 
 None of you is there in the peopled 
 
 street 
 But knows how all the dry-drawn fur 
 
 rows ache 
 With no green spot made count of in 
 
 the black; 
 How the wind finds no comfortabk 
 
 grass. 
 Nor is assuaged with bud nor breath 
 
 of herbs; 
 And in hot autumn, when ye house the 
 
 stacks. 
 All fields are helpless in the sun, all 
 
 trees 
 Stand as a man stripped out of all but 
 
 skin. 
 Nevertheless, ve sick have help to get 
 Hy means and stablished ordinance of 
 
 (iod; 
 For God is wiser than a good man is. 
 But never shall new grass be sweet in 
 
 earth 
 Till I get righted of my wound an J 
 
 wrong 
 Bv changing counsel (A ill-minded Zeus 
 For of all other gods is none save me 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 491 
 
 Clothed with like power to build and 
 
 break the year. 
 I make the lesser green begin, when 
 
 spring 
 Touches not earth but with one fearful 
 
 foot ; 
 And as a careful gilder with grave art 
 Soberly colors and completes the face, 
 Mouth, chin, and all, of some s'veet 
 
 work in stone, 
 I carve the shapes of grass and tender 
 
 corn, 
 And color the ripe edges and long 
 
 spikes 
 With the red increase and the grace of 
 
 gold. 
 No tradesman in soft wools is cunninger 
 To kill the secret of the fat white 
 
 fleece 
 With stains of blue and purple wrought 
 
 in it. 
 Three moons were made, and three 
 
 moons burnt away. 
 While I held journey hither out of 
 
 Crete, 
 Comfortless, tended by grave Hecate, 
 Whom my wound stung with double 
 
 iron point ; 
 For all my face was like a cloth wrung 
 
 out 
 With close and weeping wrinkles, and 
 
 both lids 
 Sodden with salt continuance of tears. 
 For Hades and the sidelong will of 
 
 Zeus, 
 ■\nd that lame wisdom that has writhen 
 
 feet, 
 _anning, begotten in the bed of Shame, 
 These three took evil will at me, and 
 
 made 
 Such counsel, that when time got wing 
 
 to fly 
 This Hades out of summer and low 
 
 fields 
 Forced the bright body of Persephone ; 
 Out of pure grass, where she lying 
 
 down, red flowers 
 Made their sharp little shadows on her 
 
 sides, 
 Pale heat, pale color on pale maiden 
 
 flesh, — 
 And chill water slid over her reddening 
 
 feet. 
 
 Killing the throbs Jn their soft blood ; 
 
 and birds, 
 Perched next her elbow, and pecking a. 
 
 her hair. 
 Stretched their necks more to see her 
 
 than even to sing. 
 A sharp thing is it I have need to say ; 
 For Hades holding both white wrists of 
 
 hers 
 Unloosed the girdle, and with knot by 
 
 knot 
 Pound her between his wheels upon 
 
 the seat. 
 Pound her pure body, holiest yet and 
 
 dear 
 To me and God as always, clothed 
 
 about 
 With blossoms loosened, as her knees 
 
 went down, 
 I>et fall as she let go of this and this 
 Py tens and twenties tumbled to her 
 
 feet. 
 White waifs or purple of the pasturage. 
 Therefore with only going up and down 
 My feet were wasted, and the gracious 
 
 air. 
 To me discomfortable and dun, became 
 As weak smoke blowing in the under- 
 world. 
 And finding in the process of ill days 
 What part had Zeus herein, and how as 
 
 mate 
 He coped with Hades, yokefellow in 
 
 sin, 
 I set my lijis against the meat of gods, 
 And drank not, neither ate or slept, in 
 
 heaven. 
 Nor in the golden greeting of their 
 
 mouths 
 Did ear take note of me, nor eve at all 
 Track my feet going in the ways of 
 
 tneni. 
 Like a great fire on some strait slip of 
 
 land 
 Petween two washing inlets of wet sea 
 That burns the grass up to each lip of 
 
 beach. 
 And strengthens, waxing in the growth 
 
 of wind. 
 So burnt my soul in me at heaven and 
 
 earth, 
 Each way a ruin and a hungry plague, 
 Visible evil ; nor could any night 
 
49^ 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Put cool between mine eyelids, nor the 
 
 sun 
 With competence of gold fill out my 
 
 want. 
 Yea, so my flame burnt up the grass 
 
 and stones, 
 
 Cooled the sharp noons, and busied the 
 
 warm nights 
 In care of this my choice, this child my 
 
 choice, 
 Triptolemus, the king's selected son : 
 That this fair yearlong body, which 
 
 Shone to the salt-white edges of thin sea, ! hath grown 
 
 Distempered all the gracious w^ork, and Strong with strange milk upon the 
 made I mortal lip 
 
 Sick change, unseasonable increase of 
 
 days 
 And scant avail of seasons ; for by this 
 The fair gods faint in hollow heaven : 
 
 there comes 
 No taste of burnings of the twofold fat 
 To leave their palates smooth, nor in 
 
 their lips 
 Soft rings of smoke, and weak scent 
 
 wandering ; 
 All cattle waste and rot, and their ill 
 
 smell 
 Grows alway from the lank, unsavorv 
 
 flesh 
 That no man slays for offering; the sea 
 And waters moved beneath the heath 
 
 and corn 
 Preserve the people of fin-twinkling 
 
 fish. 
 And river-flies feed thick upon the 
 
 smooth ; 
 Rut all earth over is no man or bird 
 (Except the sweet race of the kingfisher) 
 That lacks not, and is wearied with 
 
 much loss. 
 Meantime, the purple inward of the 
 
 house 
 Was softened with all grace of scent 
 
 and sound 
 In ear and nostril perfecting my praise ; 
 Faint grape-flowers and cloven honey- 
 cake 
 And the just grain with dues of the 
 
 shed salt 
 Made me content : yet my hand loos- 
 ened not 
 Its gripe upon your harvest all year 
 
 long- 
 While I, thus womannuifHcd in wan 
 flesh 
 
 And nerved with half a god, might so 
 
 increase 
 Outside the bulk and the bare scope of 
 
 man ; 
 And waxen over large to hold within 
 Base breath of yours, and this impover- 
 ished air, 
 I might exalt him past the flame of 
 
 stars, 
 The limit and walled reach of the great 
 
 world. 
 Therefore my breast made common to 
 
 his mouth 
 Immortal savors, and the taste whereat 
 Twice their hard life strains out the 
 
 colored veins, 
 And twice its brain confirms the narrow 
 
 shell. 
 Also at night, unwinding cloth from 
 
 cloth 
 As who unhusks an almond to the white. 
 And pastures curiously the purer taste, 
 I bared the gracious limbs and the soft 
 
 feet, 
 Unswaddled the weak hands, and in 
 
 mid-ash 
 Laid the sweet flesh of either feeble 
 
 side, 
 More tender for impressure of some 
 
 touch 
 Than wax to any pen ; and lit around 
 Kire, and made crawl the white, worm- 
 
 shajjen flame, 
 And leap in little angers spark oy 
 
 spark 
 At head at once, and feet ; and the 
 
 faint hair 
 Hissed with rare sprinkles in the closer 
 
 curl, 
 And like scaled oarage of a keen thin 
 
 And waste externals of a perished face, fish 
 
 Preserved the levels of my wrath and ! In sea-water, so in pure fire his feet 
 
 love ' j Struck out, and the flame bit not in his 
 
 Patiently ruled ; and with soft offices flesh, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 493 
 
 But like a kiss it curled his lip, and 
 
 heat 
 Fluttered his eyelids; so each night I 
 
 blew 
 The hot ash red to purge him to full 
 
 god. 
 Ill Is it when fear hungers in the soul 
 For painful food, and chokes thereon, 
 
 being fed ; 
 And ill slant eyes interpret the straight 
 
 sun, 
 But in their scope its white is wried to 
 
 black : 
 By the queen Metaneira mean I this; 
 For with sick wrath upon her lips and 
 
 heart, 
 Narrowing with fear the spleenful pas- 
 sages, 
 She thought to thread this web's fine 
 
 ravel out. 
 Nor leave her shuttle split in combing 
 
 it ; 
 Therefore she stole on us, and with 
 
 hard sight 
 Peered, and stooped close ; then with 
 
 pale, open mouth 
 As the fire smote her in the eyes be- 
 tween 
 Cried, and the child's laugh sharply 
 
 shortening 
 As fire doth under rain, fell off; the 
 
 flame 
 Writhed once all through and died, and 
 
 in thick dark 
 Tears fell from mine on the child's 
 
 weeping eyes. 
 Eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance 
 And mortal fallen anew. Who not the 
 
 less 
 From bud of beard to pale-gray flower 
 
 of hair 
 Shall wa.x vine-wise to a lordly vine, 
 
 whose grapes 
 Bleed the red, heavy blood of swoln 
 
 soft wine, 
 Subtle with sharp leaves' intricacy, until 
 Full of white years and blossom of 
 
 hoary days 
 I take him perfected; for whose one 
 
 sake 
 I am thus gracious to the least who 
 
 stands 
 Filleted with white wool and girt upon 
 
 As he whose i)rayer endures upon the 
 
 lip 
 And falls not waste: wherefore let sac- 
 rifice 
 Burn and run red in all the wider ways. 
 Seeing I have sworn by the pale tem 
 
 pies' band 
 And poppied hair of gold Persephone 
 Sad-tressed and pleached low down 
 
 about her brows, 
 And by the sorrow in her lips, ar.d death 
 Her dumb and mournful-mouthed min- 
 ister, 
 My word for you is eased of its harsh 
 
 weight 
 And doubled with soft promise ; and 
 
 your king 
 Triptoiemus, this Celeus dead and 
 
 swathed 
 Purple and pale for golden burial, 
 Shall be your helper in my services, 
 Dividing earth and reaping fruits there- 
 
 of 
 In fields where wait, well-girt, well- 
 
 wreathen, all 
 The heavy-handed seasons all year 
 
 through ; 
 Saving the choice of warm spear-headed 
 
 grain, 
 And stooping sharp to the slant-sided 
 
 share 
 All beasts that furrow the remeasured 
 
 land 
 With their bowed necks of burden 
 
 equable. 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 There were four apples on the bough. 
 Half gold, half red, that one might know 
 The blood was ripe inside the core; 
 The color of the leaves was more 
 Like stems of yellow corn that grow 
 Through all the gold June meadow's 
 floor. 
 
 The warm smell of the fruit was good 
 To feed on, and the split green wood, 
 With all its bearded lips and stains 
 Of mosses in the cloven veins. 
 Most pleasant, if one lay or stood 
 In sunshine or in happy rains. 
 
494 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 There were four apples on the tree, 
 Red stained through gold, that all might 
 
 see 
 The sun went warm from core to rind ; 
 The green leaves made the summer 
 
 blind 
 In that soft place they kept for me 
 With golden apples shut behind. 
 
 The leaves caught gold across the sun, 
 And where the bluest air begun. 
 Thirsted for song to help the heat j 
 As I to feel my lady's feet 
 Draw close before the day were done : 
 Both lips grew dry with dreams of it. 
 
 In the mute August afternoon 
 They trembled to some undertune 
 Of music in the silver air: 
 Great pleasure was it to be there 
 Till green turned duskier, and the moon 
 Colored the corn-sheaves like gold hair. 
 
 That August time it was delight 
 To watch the red moons wane to white 
 *Twixt gray seamed stems of apple- 
 trees : 
 A sense of heavy harmonies 
 Grew on the growth of patient night, 
 More sweet than shapen music is. 
 
 But some three hours before the moon 
 The air, still eager from the noon, 
 Flagged after heat, not whglly dead; 
 Against the stem 1 leant my head; 
 The color soothed me like a tune, 
 Green leaves all round the gold and red. 
 
 I lay there till the warm smell grew 
 More sharp, when Jlecks of yellow dew 
 Between the round ripe leaves had 
 
 blurred 
 The rind with stain and wet • T heard 
 A wind that blew and breathed and blew, 
 Too weak to alter its one word. 
 
 The wet leaves next the gentle fruit 
 Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root 
 Felt the mould warmer: I, too, felt 
 (As water feels the slow gold melt 
 Kight through it when the day burns 
 
 mute) 
 I'hc peace, of time wherein love dwelt. 
 
 There were four apples on the tree. 
 Gold stained on reel, that all might see 
 The sweet blood filled them to th€ core: 
 The color of her hair is more 
 Like stems of fair faint gold, that be 
 Mown from the harvest's middle-floor. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.* 
 
 Three damsels in the queen's chamber, 
 
 The queen's mouth was most fair : 
 She spake a word of God's mother 
 As the combs went in her hair. 
 Mary that is of might. 
 Bring us to thy Son's sight. 
 
 They held the gold combs out from her. 
 
 A span's length off her head : 
 She sang this song of God's mother 
 And of her bearing-bed. 
 Mary most full of grace. 
 Bring us to thy Son's face. 
 
 When she sat at Joseph's hand. 
 She looked against her side ; 
 And either way from the short silk band 
 Her girdle was all wried. 
 Mary that all good may. 
 Bring us to thy Son's way. 
 
 Mary had three women for her bed : 
 
 The twain were maidens clean ; 
 The first of them had white and red, 
 The third had riven green. 
 Mary that is so sweet. 
 Bring us to thy Son's feet. 
 
 She had three women for her hair : 
 Two were gloved soft and shod ; 
 The third had feet and fingers bare, 
 She was the likcst (rod. 
 Mary that wicldeth land. 
 Bring us to thy Son's hand. 
 
 She had three women for her ease : 
 
 The twain were good women ; 
 The first two wcre'the two Maries, 
 The third was Magdalen. 
 Mary that perfect is. 
 Bring us to thy Son's kiss. 
 
 ' Suggested by a drawing of Mr- D. G Ro$ 
 sctti's 
 
POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 495 
 
 Joseph had three workmen in his stall, 
 
 To serve him well upon : 
 The first of them were Peter and Paul, 
 The third of them was John. 
 Mary, God's handmaiden, 
 Bring us to thy Son's ken. 
 
 *' If your child be none other man's, 
 
 But if it be very mine, 
 The bedstead shall be gold two spans, 
 The bedfoot silver fine." 
 Mary that made God mirth, 
 Bring us to thy Son's birth. 
 
 •* If the child be some other man's, 
 
 And if it be none of mine, 
 The manger shall be straw two spans, 
 Betwixen kine and kine." 
 Mary that made sin cease, 
 Bring us to thy Son's peace 
 
 Christ was born upon this wise : 
 
 It fell on such a night, 
 Neither with sounds of psalteries, 
 Nor with fire for light. 
 
 Mary that is God's spouse, 
 Bring us to thy Son's house. 
 
 The star came out upon the east 
 
 With a great sound and sweet : 
 
 Kings gave gold to make him least, 
 
 And myrrh for him to eat. 
 
 Mary, of thy sweet mood, 
 
 Bring us to thy Son's good. 
 
 He had two handmaids at his head, 
 
 One handmaid at his feet : 
 The twain of them were fair and red. 
 The third one was right sweet. 
 Mary that is most wise, 
 Bring us to thy Son's'eyes. Amen. 
 
 THE MASQUE OF QUEEN BER- 
 SABE 
 
 A MIRACLE-PLAY. 
 
 King David. Knights mine, all 
 be in hall, 
 I have a council to you all, 
 Because of this thing God lets fall 
 
 Among us for a sign. 
 
 that 
 
 For some days hence as I did eat 
 From kingly dishes my good meat, 
 There flew a bird between my feet 
 
 As red as any wine. 
 This bird had a long bill of red, 
 And a gold ring above his head; 
 Long time he sat and nothing said. 
 Put softly down his neck, and fed 
 
 From the gilt patens fine : 
 And as I marvelled at the last. 
 Me shut his two keen eyen fast, 
 And suddenly woxe big and brast 
 
 Ere one should tell to nine. 
 
 Privms Miles. Sir, note this that I 
 will say : 
 That Lord who maketh corn with hay. 
 And morrows each of yesterday, 
 
 He hath you in his hand. 
 
 Secundiis Miles [Pagajius quidatn). 
 By Satan I hold no such thing ; 
 For if wine swell within a king 
 Whose ears for drink are hot and ring, 
 The same shall dream of wine-bibbing 
 
 Whilst he can lie or stand. 
 
 Queen Bersabe. Peace now, lords, for 
 Godis head. 
 Ye chirk as starlings that be fed, 
 And gape as fishes newly dead : 
 The devil put your bones to bed, 
 
 Lo, this is ail to say. 
 
 Secundiis Miles. By Mahound, lords. 
 I have good will 
 This devil's bird to wring and spill ; 
 For now meseems our game goes ill. 
 
 Ye have scant hearts to play. 
 
 Tertins Miles. Lo, sirs, this word is 
 there said. 
 That Urias the knight is dead 
 Through some ill craft : by Poulis head, 
 I doubt his blood hath made so red 
 This bird that flew from the queen's bed 
 
 Whereof ye have such fear. 
 
 King David. Yea, my good knave, 
 and is it said 
 That I can raise men from the dead? 
 By God I think to have his head 
 Who saith words of my lady's bed 
 
 For any thief to hear. 
 Et percutiat etim in capite. 
 
496 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Queen Bersabe. I wis men shall spit 
 at me, 
 And say it were but right for thee 
 That one should hang thee on a tree . 
 lit)! it were a fair thing to see 
 The big stones bruise her false body ; 
 
 Fie ! who shall see her dead ? 
 
 King David. I rede you have no fear 
 of this, 
 F'or as ye wot, the first good kiss 
 I had must be the last of his; 
 Now are ye queen of mine, I wis, 
 And lady of a house that is 
 
 Full rich of meat and bread. 
 
 PrijHus Miles. I bid you make good 
 cheer to be 
 So fair a queen as all men see. 
 And hold us for your lieges free: 
 By Peter's soul that hath the key. 
 
 Ye have good hap of it. 
 
 Secuudus Miles. I would that he were 
 hanged and dead 
 \Vho hath no joy to see your head 
 \\ith gold about it, barred on red : 
 I hold him as a sow of lead 
 
 That is so scant of wit. 
 
 Tunc dicat Nathan propheta. O 
 king ! I have a word to thee : 
 The child that is in Bersabe 
 Shall wither without light to see; 
 This word is come of God by me 
 
 For sin that ye have done. 
 Because herein ye did not right, 
 To take the fair (juc lamb to sn)ite 
 That was of Urias the knight: 
 
 Ye wist he had but one. 
 I- nil many sheep I wot ye had, 
 And many women, when ye bade 
 To do your will and kcej) you glad; 
 .And a good crown about your head 
 
 With gold to show thereon. 
 This L'rias had one poor house, 
 With low-barred latoun shot-windows, 
 .And scant of corn to fill a movisc ; 
 And rusty basnets for his brows, 
 
 To wear them to the bone. 
 \'<a, the roofs also, as men sain, 
 \\\ re thin to hold against the rain : 
 Tiierefore what rushes were there lain 
 
 Grew wet withouten foot of men ; 
 The stancheons were all gone in twain 
 
 As sick man's 'flesh is gone. 
 Xathless he had great joy to see 
 The long hair of this Bersabe 
 Fall round her lap and round her knee 
 Fven to her small soft feet, that be 
 Shod now with crimson royally. 
 
 And covered with clean gold. 
 Likewise great joy he had to kiss 
 Her throat, where now the scarlet is 
 Against her little chin, I wis. 
 
 That then was but cold. 
 No scarlet then her kirtle had, 
 And little gold about it sprad ; 
 But her red mouth was always glad 
 To kiss, albeit the eyes were sad 
 
 With love they had to hold. 
 
 Secundus Miles. How ! old thief, thy 
 wits are lame ; 
 To clip such it is no shame ; 
 I rede you in the devil's name. 
 Ye come not here to make men game : 
 By Tcrmagaunt that maketh grame, 
 
 I shall to-bete thine head. 
 
 Hi( Diabolns capiat eiim. 
 This knave hath sharp fingers, perfay; 
 Mahound you thank and keep alway. 
 And give you good knees to pray ; 
 What man hath no lust to play, 
 The devil wring his ears, I say : 
 There is no more but weilaway, 
 
 For now am I dead. 
 
 A'ing David. Certes his mouth is 
 wried and black. 
 Full little pence be in his sack • 
 This devil hath him by the back, 
 
 It is no l)oot to lie. 
 
 A\ithan. Sitteth now still, and lea»n 
 of me 
 .\ little while, and ye shall see 
 The face of God's strength presently. 
 All (lueens made as this Bersabe, 
 All that were fair and foul ye be, 
 
 Gome hither ; it am I. 
 
 Et hie omnes cantabunt. 
 
 Iferodias. I am the queen Hcrodias. 
 This headband of mv temples was 
 King Herod's gold band woven me: 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 497 
 
 This broken dry staff in my hand 
 Was the queen's staff of a great land 
 
 Betwixen Perse and Samarie, 
 For that one dancing of my feet. 
 The fire is come in my green wheat, 
 
 From one sea to the other sea. 
 
 Aholibah. I am the queen Aholibah. 
 My lips kissed dumb the word of Ah 
 
 Sighed on strange lips grown sick 
 thereby. 
 God wrought to me my royal bed : 
 The inner work thereof was red, 
 
 The outer work was ivory. 
 My mouth's heat was the heat of flame 
 For lust towards the kings that came 
 
 With horsemen riding royally. 
 
 Cleopatra. T am the queen of Ethiope. 
 Love bade my kissing eyelids ope, 
 
 That men beholding might praise love; 
 My hair was wonderful and curled ; 
 My lips held fast the mouth o' the world 
 
 To spoil the strength and speech 
 thereof. 
 The latter triumph in my breath 
 Bowed down the beaten brows of death, 
 
 Ashamed they had not wTath enough. 
 
 Abihail. I am the queen of Tyrians. 
 My hair was glorious for twelve spans, 
 
 That dried to loose dust afterward. 
 My stature was a strong man's length : 
 Mv neck was like a place of strength 
 
 Built with white walls, even and hard. 
 Like the first noise of rain leaves catch 
 One from another, snatch by snatch, 
 
 Is my praise, hissed against and 
 marred. 
 
 Aziibah. I am the queen of Amorites. 
 My face was like a ]ilace of lights 
 
 With multitudes at festival. 
 The glory of my gracious brows 
 Was like Clod's house made glorious 
 
 With colors upon either wall. 
 Between my brows and hair there was 
 A white space like a space of glass 
 
 With golden candles over all. 
 
 Aholah. I am the queen of Amalek. 
 Ihere was no tender touch or fleck 
 To spoil my body or bared feet. 
 
 My words were soft like dulcimers, 
 And the first sweet of grape-flowers 
 
 Made each side of my bosom sweet. 
 My raiment was as tender fruit 
 Whose rind smells sweet of spice-tree 
 root. 
 Bruised balm-blossom and budded 
 wheat. 
 
 Ahiitoam. I am the queen Ahinoam. 
 Like the throat of a soft slain lamb 
 
 Was my throat, softer veined than 
 his: 
 My lips were as two grapes the sun 
 Lays his whole weight of heat upon 
 
 Like a mouth heavy with a kiss: 
 My hair's pure purple a wrought fleece, 
 My temples therein as a piece 
 
 Of a pomegranate's cleaving is. 
 
 Atarah. I am the queen Sidonian. 
 My face made faint the face of man, 
 
 And strength was bound between my 
 brows. 
 Spikenard was hidden in my ships. 
 Honey and wheat and myrrh in strips, 
 
 White wools that shine as color does, 
 Soft linen dyed upon the fold, 
 Split spice and cores of scented gold. 
 
 Cedar and broken calamus. 
 
 Semiramis. I am the queen Semira- 
 mis- 
 The whole world, and the sea that is 
 
 In fashion like a chrysopras. 
 The noise of all men laboring, 
 The priest's mouth tired through thanks- 
 giving, 
 The sound of love in the blood's 
 pause, 
 The strength of love in the blood's beat 
 All these were cast beneath my feet. 
 And all found lesser than I was. 
 
 Hesione. I am the queen Ilesione. 
 The seasons that increased in me 
 
 Made my face fairer than all men's. 
 I had the summer in my hair; 
 And all the jiale gold autumn air 
 
 Was as the habit of my sense. 
 My body was as fire that shone : 
 God's beauty that makes all things one 
 
 Was one among my handmaidens. 
 
49^' 
 
 rOEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 Chrysothftnis. I am the queen of 
 Samothrace. 
 God, making roses, made my face 
 As a rose tilled up full with red. 
 My prows made sharp the straitened 
 
 seas 
 From Pontus to that Chersonese 
 
 Whereon the ebbed Asian stream is 
 shed. 
 My hair was as sweet scent that drips : 
 Love's breath begun about my lij^s 
 Kindled the lips of people dead. 
 
 Thomyris. I am the queen of Scy- 
 thians. 
 My strength was like no strength of 
 man's, 
 My face like day, my breast like 
 spring. 
 Mv fame was felt in the extreme land 
 That hath sunshine on the one hand, 
 
 And on the other star-shining, 
 ^'ea, and the wind there fails of breath ; 
 Vca, and there life is waste like death ; 
 Vea, and there death is a glad thing. 
 
 Harhas. I am the queen of Anakim. 
 In the s])ent years whose speech is dim, 
 
 Whose raiment is the dust and death, 
 My stately body without stain 
 Shone as the shining race of rain 
 
 Whose hair a great wind scattereth. 
 Now hath God turned my lips to sighs, 
 riucked off mine eyelids from mine eyes, 
 And scaled with seals my way of breath. 
 
 Myrrha. I am the queen Arabian. 
 The tears wherewith mine eyelids ran 
 
 Smelt like my perfumed eyelids' smell. 
 A harsh thirst niadc my soft mouth hard, 
 That ached with kisses afterward; 
 
 My bram rang like a beaten bell. 
 As tears on eyes, as fire on wood. 
 Sin fed upon my breath and blood, 
 
 Sin made my breasts subsitle and 
 swell. 
 
 Pasiphae. I am the queen Pasiphac. 
 N )t all the pure clean-colored sea 
 
 Gould cleanse or cool my yearning 
 veins ; 
 Nor any root nor herb that grew, 
 Flag-leaves that let green water through, 
 
 Nor washing of the dews and rains. 
 From shame's pressed core I wrung the 
 
 sweet 
 I'ruit's savor that was death to eat, 
 
 Whereof no seed but death remains- 
 
 Sappho. I am the queen of Lesl^ians. 
 My love, that had no part in man's, 
 
 Was sweeter than all shape of sweet. 
 The intolerable infinite desire 
 Made my face pale like faded fire 
 
 When the ashen pyre falls through 
 with heat. 
 My blood was hot wan wine of love. 
 And my song's sound the sound thereof, 
 
 The sound of the delight of it. 
 
 Alessalina. I am the queen of Italy. 
 These were the signs God set on me : 
 
 A barren beauty subtle and sleek. 
 Curled carven hair, and cheeks worn 
 
 wan 
 W'ith fierce false lips of many a man. 
 Large temples where the blood ran 
 weak, 
 A mouth athirst and amorous, 
 And hungering as the grave's mouth 
 does. 
 That, being an hungered, cannot 
 speak. 
 
 Amestris. I am the queen of Persians. 
 My breasts were lordlier than bright 
 swans. 
 My body as amber fair and thin. 
 Strange flesh was given my lips for 
 
 bread. 
 With poisonous hours my days were 
 fed, 
 And my feet shod with adder skin. 
 In Shushan toward Kcbatane 
 I wrought my joys with tears and j^ain, 
 My loves with blood and bitter sin. 
 
 Ephrath. I am the (pieen of Rcj^haim. 
 God, that some while refraincth him. 
 
 Made in the end a spoil of me. 
 My rumor was upon the world 
 As strong sound of swoln water hurled 
 
 Through |)orchcs of the straining sea 
 My hair was like the flag-flower, 
 .Anil my breasts carven goodlier 
 
 'I'han beryl with chalcedony. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 499 
 
 Pasithea. T am the queen of Cypriotes. 
 Mine oarsmen, laboring with brown 
 throats, 
 
 Sang of me many a tender thing. 
 My maidens, girdled loose, and braced 
 With gold from bosom to white waist. 
 
 Praised me between their wool-comb- 
 ing. 
 All that praise Venus all night long 
 With lips like speech and lids like song 
 
 Praised me till song lost heart to sing. 
 
 Alaciel. I am the queen Alaciel. 
 My mouth was like that moist gold cell 
 
 W hereout the thickest honey drips. 
 Mine eyes were as a gray-green sea; 
 The amorous blood that smote on me 
 
 Smote to my feet and finger-tips. 
 My throat was whiter than the dove. 
 Mine eyelids as the seals of love. 
 
 And as the doors of love my lips. 
 
 Efigone. I am the queen Erigone. 
 The wild wine shed as blood on me 
 
 Made my face brighter than a bride's. 
 My large lips had the old thirst of earth. 
 Mine arms the might of the old sea's 
 girth 
 
 Bound round the whole world's iron 
 sides. 
 Within mine eyes and in mine ears 
 W^ere music and the wine of tears. 
 
 And light, and thunder of the tides. 
 
 Et hie exeunt., et dicat Bersabe re^^ina. 
 Alas! God, for thy great pity 
 And for the might that is in thee, 
 Behold, I vvoful Bersabe 
 Cry out with stoopings of my knee, 
 And thy wrath laid and bound on me 
 
 Till I may see thy love. 
 Behold, Lord, this child is grown 
 Within me between bone and bone 
 To make me mother of a son. 
 Made of my body with strong moan : 
 There shall not be another one 
 
 That shall be made hereof. 
 
 King David. Lord God, alas ! what 
 shall I sain .-' 
 Lo, thou art as an hundred men 
 Both to break and build again : 
 The wild ways thou makest plain, 
 
 Thine hands hold the hail and rain, 
 And thy fingers both grajie and grain ; 
 Of their largess we be all well fain. 
 
 And of their great pity: 
 The sun thou madest of good gold, 
 (Jf clean silver the moon cold. 
 All the great stars thou hast told 
 As thy cattle in thy fold 
 Every one by his name of old; 
 W^ind and water thou hast in hold, 
 
 Both the land and the long sea; 
 Both the green sea and the land, 
 Lord God, thou hast in hand. 
 Both white water and gray sand; 
 Upon thy right or thy left hand 
 There is no man that may stand : 
 
 Lord, thou rue on me. 
 
 wise Lord, if thou be keen 
 To note things amiss that been, 
 
 1 am not worth a shell of bean 
 
 More than an old mare meagre and 
 
 lean. 
 For all my wrong-doing with my queen, 
 It grew not of our heartes clean. 
 
 But it began of her body. 
 For it fell in the hot May, 
 I stood within a paven way 
 Built of fair bright stone, perfav. 
 That is as fire of night and day. 
 
 And lighteth all my house. 
 Therein be neither stones nor sticks. 
 Neither red nor white bricks, 
 }iut for cubits five or six 
 There is most goodly sardonyx. 
 
 And amber laid in rows. 
 It goes round about my roofs, 
 (If ye list ye shall have proofs) 
 There is good space for horse and hoof^ 
 
 Plain and nothing perilous. 
 For the fair green weather's heat, 
 And for the smell of leaves sweet. 
 It is no marvel, well ye weet, 
 
 A man to waxen amorous. 
 This I say now by my case 
 That sjjied forth of that royal place: 
 There I saw in no great sjMce 
 Mine own sweet, both body and face 
 
 Under the fresh boughs. 
 In a water that was there 
 She wesshe her goodly body bare, 
 And dried it with her owen hair: 
 Both her arms and her knees fair, 
 
 Both bosom and brows; 
 
500 
 
 POEMS A, YD n A I, LADS. 
 
 I'.oth shoulders and eke thighs, 
 Tho she wesshe upon this wise ; 
 Ever she sighed with little sighs, 
 
 And ever she gave God thank. 
 Vea, God wot I can well see yet 
 lioth her breast and her sides all wet, 
 And her long hair withouten let 
 Spead sideways like a drawing net; 
 Full dear bought and full far fet 
 Was that sweet thing there y-set; 
 It were a hard thing to forget 
 How both lips and eyen met, 
 
 lireast and breath sank. 
 .So goodly a sight as there she was, 
 Lying looking on her glass 
 l>y wan water in green grass. 
 
 Yet saw never man. 
 So soft and great she was and bright 
 AVith all her body waxen white, 
 I woxe nigh blind to see the light 
 Shed out of it to left and right : 
 This bitter sin from that sweet sight 
 
 Between us twain began. 
 
 A'athan. Now, sir, be merry anon, 
 For ye shall have a full wise son, 
 (joodly and great of rtesh and bone : 
 There shall no king be such an one, 
 
 I swear by (iodis rood. 
 Theref(jrc, lord, be merry here, 
 .And go to meat withouten fear, 
 .•\nd hear a mass with goodly cheer ; 
 For to all folk yc shall be dear, 
 
 And all folk of your blood. 
 
 Et tunc dicaiit Latidatniis. 
 
 ST. DOROTHY. 
 
 It hath been seen, and yet it shall be 
 seen. 
 
 That out of tender mouths Ciod's praise 
 hath btten 
 
 Made ])erfect, and with wood and sim- 
 ple string 
 
 lie hath played music sweet as shawm- 
 playiiig 
 
 To i)lease himself with softness of all 
 sound ; 
 
 And no small thing but hath btcn some- 
 time found 
 
 Full sweet of use, and no such humble- 
 ness 
 
 Hut God hath bruised withal the sen 
 
 tences 
 And evidence of wise men witness- 
 ing; 
 No leaf that is so soft a hidden thing 
 Tt never shall get sight of the great sun ; 
 The strength of ten has been the 
 
 strength of one, 
 •And lowliness has waxed imperious. 
 There was in Rome a man Theophi- 
 
 lus, 
 Of right great blood and gracious ways, 
 
 that had 
 All noble fashions to make people glad 
 And a soft life of pleasurable days. 
 He was a goodly man for one to praise, 
 Flawless and whole upward from foot 
 
 to head ; 
 His arms were a red hawk that alwav 
 
 fed 
 On a small bird with feathers gnawed 
 
 upon. 
 Beaten and plucked about the bosom- 
 bone 
 Whereby a small round fleck like fire 
 
 there was : 
 They called it in their tongue lan\pa- 
 
 dias ; 
 This was the banner of the lordly man. 
 In many straits of sea and reaches wan 
 Full of quick wind, and many a shaken 
 
 firth, 
 It had seen fighting days of either earth. 
 Westward or east of waters (laditane 
 (This was the place of sea-rocks under 
 
 Spain 
 Called after the great praise of Her- 
 cules), 
 And north beyond the washing Pontic 
 
 seas. 
 Far windy Russian places fabulous. 
 And salt fierce tides of storm-swoln 
 
 Bosphorus. 
 Now, as this lord came straying in 
 
 Rome town. 
 He saw little lattice open down, 
 .And after it a press of maidens' heads 
 That sat upon their cold small quiet 
 
 beds 
 Talking, and played upon short-stringed 
 
 lutes; 
 And other some ground perfume out of 
 
 roots 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 501 
 
 Gathered by marvellous moons in Asia, 
 Saffron and aloes and wild cassia, 
 Colored all through and smelling of 
 
 the sun ; 
 And over all these was a certain one 
 Clothed softly, with sweet herbs about 
 
 her hair, 
 And bosom flowerful ; her face more 
 
 fair 
 Than sudden-singing April in soft 
 
 lands; 
 Eyed like a gracious bird, and in both 
 
 hands 
 She held a psalter painted green and 
 
 red. 
 This Theophile laughed at the heart, 
 
 and said, — 
 " Now God so help me hither and St 
 
 Paul, 
 As by the new time of their festival 
 I have good will to take this maid to 
 
 wife." 
 And herewith fell to fancies of her life, 
 And soft half-thoughts that ended sud- 
 denly. 
 This is man's guise to please himself, 
 
 when he 
 Shall not see one thing of his pleasant 
 
 things. 
 Nor with outwatch of many travailings 
 Come to be ^ased of the least pain he 
 
 hath 
 For all his love and all his foolish wrath. 
 And all the heavy manner of his mind. 
 Thus is he like a fisher fallen blind. 
 That casts his nets across the boat awry 
 To strike the sea, but lo ! he striketh 
 
 dry. 
 And plucks them back all broken for 
 
 his pain. 
 And bites his beard, and casts across 
 
 again. 
 And reaching wrong slips over in the 
 
 sea. 
 So hath this man a strangled neck for 
 
 fee. 
 For all his cost he chuckles in his 
 
 throat. 
 This Theophile that little hereof wote 
 Laid wait to hear of her what she might 
 
 be: 
 Men told him she had name of Doro- 
 thy, 
 
 on a more gracious 
 
 And was a lady of a worthy house. 
 Thereat this knight grew inly glorious 
 That he should have a love so fair of 
 
 place. 
 .She was a maiden of most quiet face. 
 Tender of speech, and had no hardi- 
 hood. 
 But was nigh feeble of her fearful 
 
 blood ; 
 Her mercy in her was so marvellous 
 From her least years, that seeing her 
 
 schoolfellows 
 That read beside her stricken with a 
 
 rod, 
 She would cry sore, and say some word 
 
 to God 
 That he would ease her fellow of his 
 
 pain. 
 There is no touch of sun or fallen rain 
 That ever fell 
 
 thing. 
 
 In middle Rome there was in stone- 
 working 
 The church of Venus painted royally. 
 The chapels of it were some two or 
 
 three, 
 In each of them her tabernacle was, 
 And a wide window of six feet in glass 
 Colored with all her works in red and 
 
 gold. 
 The altars had bright cloths and cups 
 
 to hold 
 The wine of Venus for the services, 
 Made out of honey and crushed wood- 
 berries 
 That shed sweet yellow through the 
 
 thick wet red. 
 That on high days was borne upon the 
 
 head 
 Of Venus' priest, for any man to drink ; 
 So that in drinking he should fall to 
 
 think 
 On some fair face, and in the thought 
 
 thereof 
 Worship, and such should triumph in 
 
 his love. 
 For this soft wine that did such grace 
 
 and good 
 Was new trans-shaped and mixed with 
 
 love's own blood. 
 That in the fighting Trojan time was 
 
 bled ; 
 For which came such a woe to Dionied 
 
502 
 
 rOJ-.AfS AA'O bAL.LAO^. 
 
 That he was stifled after in hard sea. 
 And some said that this wine-shedding 
 
 should be 
 Made of the falling of Adonis' blood, 
 That culled upon the thorns and 
 
 broken wood, 
 And round the gold silk shoes on 
 
 Venus' feet : 
 The taste thereof was as hot honey 
 
 sweet. 
 And in the mouth ran soft and riotous. 
 This was the holiness of Venus' house. 
 It was their worship, that in August 
 
 days 
 Twelve maidens should go through 
 
 those Roman ways 
 Naked, and having gold across their 
 
 brows. 
 And their hair twisted in short golden 
 
 rows, 
 To minister to Venus in this wise ; 
 And twelve men chosen in their com- 
 panies 
 To match these maidens by the altar- 
 stair, 
 All in one habit, crowned upon the 
 
 hair. 
 Among these men was chosen The- 
 
 o])hilc. 
 This knight went out, and prayed a 
 
 little while. 
 Holding Queen Venus by h^r hands 
 
 and knees : 
 I will give thee twelve roval images 
 Cut in glad gold, with marvels of 
 
 wrought stone. 
 For thy sweet priests to lean and pray 
 
 upon, 
 Jasper and hyacinth and chrysopras. 
 And the strange Asian thalamite that 
 
 was 
 Hidden twelve ages under heavy sea 
 Among the little sleepy pearls, to be 
 A shrine lit over with soft candle-flame 
 lUjrning all night red as hot brows of 
 
 shame, 
 So thou wilt be my lady without sin. 
 Goddess that art all gold outside and 
 
 in, 
 Help me to serve thee in thy holy 
 
 way. 
 Thou knowest, Love, that in my bearing 
 
 day 
 
 There shone a laughter in the singir.g 
 
 stars 
 Round the gold-ceiled bride-bed whereni 
 
 Mars 
 Touched thee and had thee in your 
 
 kissing wise. 
 Now, therefore, sweet, kiss thou my 
 
 maiden's eyes 
 That they may open graciously towards 
 
 me; 
 And this new fashion of thy shrine 
 
 shall be 
 As soft with gold as thine own hapi)y 
 
 head. 
 The goddess, that was painted with 
 
 face red 
 Between two long green tumbled sides 
 
 of sea, 
 Stooped her neck sideways, and spake 
 
 pleasantly : 
 Thou shalt have grace as thou art 
 
 thrall of mine. 
 And with this came a savor of shed 
 
 wine, 
 And plucked-out petals from a rose's 
 
 head : 
 And softly with slow laughs of lip she 
 
 said, — 
 Thou shalt have favor all thy days of 
 
 me. 
 Then came Theojihilus to Dorothy, 
 Saying: O sweet, if one should strive or 
 
 speak 
 Against God's ways, he gets a beaten 
 
 cheek 
 For all his wage and shame above all 
 
 men. 
 Therefore I have no will to turn again 
 When God saith "go," lest a worse 
 
 thing fall out. 
 Then she, misdoubting lest he went 
 
 about 
 To catch her wits, made answer some- 
 what thus : 
 I have no will, my lord Thcophilus, 
 To speak against this worthy word o£ 
 
 yours ; 
 Knowing how God's will in all sj^eech 
 
 endures, 
 Tliat save by grace there may no thing 
 
 be said. 
 Then Theophile waxed light from foot 
 
 to head. 
 
POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 503 
 
 And softly fell upon this answering : 
 It is well seen you are a chosen thing 
 To do God service in his gracious way. 
 I will that you make haste and holiday 
 To go next year upon the Venus stair, 
 Covered none else, but crowned upon 
 
 your hair, 
 And do the service that a maiden doth. 
 She said: But I that am Christ's maid 
 
 were loath 
 To do this thing that hath such bitter 
 
 name. 
 Thereat his brows were beaten with 
 
 sore shame. 
 And he came off, and said no other 
 
 word. 
 Then his eyes chanced upon his banner- 
 bird. 
 And he fell fingering at the staff of it, 
 And laughed for wrath, and stared 
 
 between his feet. 
 And out of a chafed heart he spake as 
 
 thus: 
 Lo how she japes at me Theophilus, 
 Feigning herself a fool, and hard to 
 
 love ; 
 Yet in good time for all she boasteth of 
 She shall be like a little beaten bird. 
 And while his mouth was open in that 
 
 word, 
 He came upon the house Janiculum, 
 Where some went busily, and other 
 
 some 
 Talked in the gate called the gate 
 
 glorious. 
 The emperor, which was one Gabalus, 
 Sat over all and drank chill wine alone. 
 To whom is come Theophilus anon. 
 And said as thus : Beau sire, Dieu voiis 
 
 aide. 
 And afterward sat under him, and said 
 All this thing through as ye have wholly 
 
 heard. 
 This Gabalus laughed thickly in his 
 
 beard. 
 Vea, this is righteousness and maiden 
 
 rule. 
 Truly, he said, a maid is but a fool. 
 And'japed at them as one full villanous, 
 In a lewd wise, this heathen Gabalus, 
 And sent his men to bind her as he 
 
 bade. 
 Thus have they taken Dorothy the maid, 
 
 And haled her forth as men hale pick- 
 purses : 
 
 A little need God knows they had of 
 this. 
 
 To hale her by her maiden gentle ha?r. 
 
 Thus went she lowly, making a soft 
 prayer, 
 
 As one who stays the sweet wine in his 
 mouth, 
 
 Murmuring with eased lips, and is 
 most loath 
 
 To have done wholly with the sweet of 
 it: 
 Christ king, fair Christ, that knowest 
 all men's wit 
 
 And all the feeble fashion of my ways, 
 
 perfect God, that from all yester- 
 
 days 
 Abidest whole with morrows perfected, 
 
 1 pray thee by thy mother's holy head, 
 Thou help me to do right, that I not 
 
 slip : 
 I have no speech nor strength upon mv 
 
 lip, 
 Except thou help me, who art wise and 
 
 sweet. 
 Do this, too, for those nails that clove 
 
 thy feet, 
 Let me die maiden after many pains. 
 Though I be least among thy hand- 
 maidens, 
 Doubtless I shall take death more 
 
 sweetly thus. 
 Now have they brought her to King 
 
 Ciabalus, 
 Who laughed in all his throat some 
 
 breathing-whiles. 
 By God, he said, if one should leap two 
 
 miles. 
 He were not pained about the sides so 
 
 much. 
 This were a soft thing for a man to 
 
 touch. 
 Shall one so chafe that hath such little 
 
 bones .'' 
 And shook his throat with thick and 
 
 chuckled moans 
 For laughter that she had such holi- 
 ness. 
 What aileth thee, wilt thou do services ? 
 It were good fare to fare as Venus doth. 
 Then said this lady with her maiden 
 
 mouth, 
 
504 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Shamefaced, and soiucthing paler in the 
 
 cheek : 
 Now, sir, albeit my wit and will to 
 
 speak 
 Give me no grace in sight of worthy men. 
 For all my shame yet know I this again, 
 I may not speak, nor after down-lying 
 Rise up to take delight in lute-playing, 
 Nor sing nor sleep, nor sit and fold my 
 
 hands, 
 r.ut my soul in some measure under- 
 stands 
 God's grace laid like a garment over 
 
 me. 
 For this fair God that out of strong, 
 
 sharp sea 
 Lifted the shapely and green-colored 
 
 land, 
 And hath the weight of heaven in his 
 
 hand 
 As one might hold a bird, and under 
 
 him 
 The heavy golden planets beam by 
 
 beam 
 liuilding the feasting-chambers of his 
 
 house. 
 And the large world he holdeth with 
 
 his brows, 
 And with the light of them astonisheth 
 All place and time and face of life and 
 
 death, 
 And motion of the north wind and the 
 
 south. 
 And is the sound within his angel's 
 
 mouth 
 Of singing words and words of thanks- 
 giving. 
 And is the color of the latter spring 
 And heat upon the summer and the 
 
 sun. 
 And is beginning of all things begun, 
 And gathers in him all things to their 
 
 end, 
 And with the fingers of his hand doth 
 
 bend 
 The stretched-out sides of heaven like 
 
 a sail. 
 And with his breath he makcth the red 
 
 pale, 
 And fills with blood faint faces of men 
 
 dead. 
 And with the sound between his lips 
 
 arc fed 
 
 Iron and fire and the white body oi 
 
 snow, 
 And blossom of all trees in places low. 
 And small bright herbs about the little 
 
 hills. 
 And fruit pricked softly with birds' 
 
 tender bills, 
 And flight of foam about green fields 
 
 of sea. 
 And fourfold strength of the great 
 
 winds that be 
 Moved always outward from beneath 
 
 his feet. 
 And growth of grass and growth o( 
 
 sheaved wheat 
 And all green fiower of goodly-growing 
 
 lands; 
 And all these things he gathers with 
 
 his hands, 
 And covers all their beauty with his 
 
 wings : 
 The same, even God that governs all 
 
 these things, 
 Hath set my feet to be upon his ways. 
 Now, therefore, for no painfulness of 
 
 days 
 I shall put off this service bound on 
 
 me. 
 Also, fair sir, ye know this certainlv. 
 How God was in his flesh full chaste 
 
 and meek. 
 And gave his face to shame, and either 
 
 cheek 
 Gave up to smiting of men tyrannous. 
 And here with a great voice this 
 
 Gabalus 
 Cried out and said : By God's blood 
 
 and his bones, 
 This were good game betwixen niglii 
 
 and nones 
 For one to sit and hearken to such 
 
 saws : 
 I were as lief fall in some big beast's 
 
 jaws 
 As hear these women's jaw-teeth chat- 
 tering; 
 \\\ God a woman is the harder thing, 
 One may not put a hook into her 
 
 mouth. 
 Now by St. Luke I am so sore adroutb 
 For all these saws, I must needs drink 
 
 again ; 
 But I pray (Jod tlelivcr all us men 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 505 
 
 From all such noise of women and their 
 
 heat. 
 That is a noble scripture, well I weet, 
 That likens women to an empty can; 
 When God said that, he was a full wise 
 
 man. 
 1 trow no man may blame him as for 
 
 that. 
 And herewithal he drank a draught, 
 
 and spat. 
 And said : Now shall I make an end 
 
 hereof. 
 Come near, all men, and hearken for 
 
 God's love, 
 And ye shall hear a jest or twain, God 
 
 wot. 
 And spake as thus with mouth full 
 
 thick and hot: 
 But thou do this, thou shalt be shortly 
 
 slain. 
 Lo, sir, she said, this death and all this 
 
 pain 
 1 take in penance of my bitter sins. 
 Yea, now, quoth Gabalus, this game 
 
 begins. 
 Lo, without sin one shall not live a span. 
 Lo, this is she that would not look on 
 
 man 
 Between her fingers folded in thwart 
 
 wise. 
 See how her shame hath smitten in her 
 
 eyes 
 That was so clean, she had not heard of 
 
 shame. 
 Certes, he said, by Gabalus my name. 
 This two years back I was not so well 
 
 l^leased. 
 This were good mirth for sick men to 
 
 be eased, 
 And rise up whole and laugh at hearing 
 
 of. 
 I pray thee, show us something of thy 
 
 love, 
 Since thou wast maid thy gown is 
 
 waxen wide. 
 Yea, maid I am, she said, and some- 
 what sighed, 
 As one who thought upon the low fair 
 
 house 
 Where she sat working, with soft 
 
 bended brows 
 Watching her threads, among the 
 
 school-maidens. 
 
 And she thought well, now God had 
 
 brought her thence. 
 She should not come to sew her gold 
 
 again. 
 Then cried King Galabus upon his= 
 
 men 
 To have her forth, and draw her with 
 
 steel gins. 
 And as a man hagridden beats and 
 
 grins, 
 And bends his body sidelong in his bed, 
 So wagged he with his body and knave's 
 
 head. 
 Gaping at her, and blowing with his 
 
 breath. 
 And in good time he gat an evil death 
 Out of his lewdness with his cursed 
 
 wives : 
 His bones were hewn asunder as with 
 
 knives 
 For his misliving, certes it is said. 
 But all the evil wrought upon this maid, 
 It were full hard for one to handle it. 
 For her soft blood was shed upon her 
 
 feet. 
 And all her body's color bruised and 
 
 faint. 
 But she, as one abiding God's great 
 
 saint. 
 Spake not nor wept for all this travail 
 
 hard. 
 W' herefore the king commanded after 
 
 ward 
 To slay her presently in all men's sight. 
 And it was now an hour u))on the nigiit, 
 And winter-time, and a few stars be 
 
 gan. 
 The weather was yet feeble and all wan 
 For beating of a weighty wind and 
 
 snow. 
 And she came walking in soft wise and 
 
 slow, 
 And many men with faces piteous. 
 Then came this heavy cursing Gabalus 
 That swore full hard into his drunken 
 
 beard ; 
 And faintly after without any word 
 Came Theophile some paces off the 
 
 king. 
 And in the middle of this wayfarmg 
 Full tenderly beholding her he said; 
 There is no word of comfort with 
 
 men dead, 
 
;o6 
 
 POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 Nor any face and color of things sweet ; 
 Hut always with lean cheeks and lifted 
 
 feet 
 These dead men lie all aching to the 
 
 blood 
 With bitter cold, their brows withoutcn 
 
 hood 
 Ideating for chill, their bodies swathed 
 
 full thin : 
 Alas! what hire shall any have herein 
 To give his life and get such bitterness ? 
 Also the soul going forth bodiless 
 Is hurt with naked cold, and no man 
 
 saith 
 If there be house or covering for death 
 To hide the soul that is discomforted. 
 Then she beholding him a little said: 
 Alas! fair lord, ye have no wit of this; 
 For on one side death is full poor of 
 
 bliss, 
 And, as ye say, full sharp of bone and 
 
 lean ; 
 But on the other side is good and green, 
 And hath soft flower of tender-colored 
 
 hair 
 Grown on his head, and a red mouth as 
 
 fair 
 As may be kissed with lips ; thereto his 
 
 face 
 Is as God's face, and in a perfect place 
 Full of all sun and color of straight 
 
 boughs. 
 And waterheads about a painted house 
 That hath a mile of flowers either way 
 Outward from it, and blossom-grass of 
 
 May 
 Thickening on many a side for length 
 
 of heat. 
 Hath Ciod set death upon a noble seat 
 Covered with green and flowered in the 
 
 fold, 
 In likeness of a great king grown full 
 
 old 
 And gentle with new temperance of 
 
 blood ; 
 And on his brows a purflcd purple hood, 
 They may not carry any golden thing ; 
 And plays some tune with subtle finger- 
 ing 
 On a small cithern, full of tears and 
 
 sleep, 
 And heavy pleasure that is quick to 
 
 weep, 
 
 And sorrow with the honey in her 
 
 mouth ; 
 And for this might of music that he 
 
 doth, 
 Are all souls drawn toward him with 
 
 great love. 
 And weep for sweetness of the noise 
 
 thereof. 
 And bow to him with worship of their 
 
 knees ; 
 And all the field is thick with companies 
 Of fair-clothed men that play on shawms 
 
 and lutes. 
 And gather honey of the yellow fruits 
 Between the branches waxen soft and 
 
 wide ; 
 And all this peace endures in either 
 
 side 
 Of the green land, and God beholdeth 
 
 all. 
 And this is girdled with a round fair 
 
 wall 
 Made of red stone, and cool with heavy 
 
 leaves 
 Grown out against it, and green blossom 
 
 cleaves 
 To the green chinks, and lesser wall- 
 weed sweet, 
 Kissing the crannies that are split with 
 
 heat, 
 And branches where the summer draws 
 
 to head. 
 And Thcophile burnt in the check, 
 
 and said : 
 Vea, could one see it, this were marvel- 
 lous. 
 I pray you, at your coming to this house. 
 Give me some leaf of all those tree- 
 branches ; 
 Seeing how sharp and while our 
 
 weather is, 
 There is no green nor gracious red to 
 
 sec. 
 Vea, sir, she said, that shall I cer- 
 tainly. 
 And from her long sweet throat without 
 
 a fleck 
 Undid the gold, and through her 
 
 stretchcd-out neck 
 The cold axe clove, and smote away 
 
 her head : 
 Out of her throai the tender blood full 
 
 red 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 507 
 
 Fell suddenly through all her long soft 
 
 hair. 
 And with good speed for hardness of 
 
 the air 
 Each man departed to his house again. 
 Lo I as fair color in the face of 
 
 men 
 At seed-time of their blood, or in such 
 
 wise 
 As a thing seen increaseth in men's 
 
 eyes, 
 Caught first far off by sickly fits of 
 
 sight,— 
 So a word said, if one shall hear aright. 
 Abides against the season of its growth. 
 This Theophile went slowly, as one 
 
 doth 
 That is not sure for sickness of his 
 
 feet; 
 And, counting the white stonework of 
 
 the street. 
 Tears fell out of his eyes for wrath and 
 
 love, 
 Making him weep more for the shame 
 
 thereof 
 Than for true pain : so went he half a 
 
 mile. 
 And women mocked him, saying : 
 
 Theophile, 
 Lo, she is dead ; what shall a woman 
 
 have 
 That loveth such an one ? so Christ me 
 
 save, 
 I were as lief to love a man new-hung. 
 Surely this man has bitten on his 
 
 tongue. 
 This makes him sad and writhled in 
 
 his face. 
 And when they came upon the paven 
 
 place 
 That was called sometime the place 
 
 amorous. 
 There came a child before Theophilus, 
 Bearing a basket, and said suddenly : 
 Fair sir, this is my mistress Dorothy 
 That sends you gifts ; and with this he 
 
 was gone. 
 In all this earth there is not such an 
 
 one 
 For color and straight stature made so 
 
 fair. 
 The tender growing gold of his pure 
 
 hair 
 
 Was as wheat growing, and his mouth 
 
 as flame. 
 God called him Holy after his own 
 
 name. 
 With gold cloth like fire burning he 
 
 was clad. 
 But for the fair green basket that he 
 
 had, 
 It was filled up with heavy white and 
 
 red; 
 Great roses stained still where the first 
 
 rose bled, 
 Burning at heart for shame their heart 
 
 withholds ; 
 And the sad color of strong mari- 
 golds 
 That have the sun to kiss their lips for 
 
 love ; 
 The flower that Venus' hair is woven of, 
 The color of fair apples in the sun. 
 Late peaches gathered when the heat 
 
 was done, 
 And the slain air got breath ; and after 
 
 these 
 The fair faint-headed poppies drunk 
 
 with ease. 
 And heaviness of hollow^ lilies red. 
 Then cried they all that saw these 
 
 things, and said 
 It was God's doing, and was marvel- 
 lous. 
 And in brief while this knight The- 
 ophilus 
 Is waxen full of faith, and witnesseth 
 Before the king, of God and love and 
 
 death. 
 For which the king bade hang him 
 
 presently. 
 A gallows of a goodly piece of tree 
 This Gabalus hath made to hang him 
 
 on. 
 Forth of this world lo Theophile is 
 
 gone 
 With a wried neck — God give us better 
 
 fare 
 Than his that hath a twisted throat to 
 
 wear ! 
 But truly for his love God hath him 
 
 brought 
 There where his heavy body grieves 
 
 him nought, 
 Nor all the people plucking at his feet- 
 But in his face his lady's face is sweet; 
 
5o8 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 And through his lips her kissing lips 
 
 are gone. 
 God send him peace, and joy of such 
 
 an one 1 
 This is the story of St. Dorothy. 
 T will you of your mercy pray for me 
 Because I wrote these sayings for your 
 
 grace, 
 That I may one day see her in the face. 
 
 THE TWO DREAMS. 
 
 (from BOCCACCIO.) 
 
 I WILL that if I say a heavy thing 
 \our tongues forgive me; seeing ye 
 
 know that spring 
 lias flecks and fits of pain to keep her 
 
 sweet, 
 And walks somewhile with winter-bitten 
 
 feet. 
 Moreover it sounds often well to let 
 One string, when ye play music, keep 
 
 at fret 
 The whole song through ; one petal 
 
 that is dead 
 Confirms the roses, be they white or red ; 
 Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hear 
 As the thick noise that breaks mid 
 
 weeping were ; 
 The sick sound aching in a lifted throat 
 Turns to sharp silver of a perfect note ; 
 And though the rain falls often, and 
 
 with rain 
 Late autumn falls on the old red leaves 
 
 like pain, 
 I deem that God is not disquieted. 
 Also while men are fed with wine and 
 
 bread, 
 They shall be fed with sorrow at his 
 
 hand. 
 There grew a rose-garden in Florence 
 
 land 
 More fair than many; all red summers 
 
 through 
 The leaves smelt sweet and sharp of 
 
 rain, and blew 
 Sideways with tender wind ; and there- 
 in fell 
 Sweet sound wherewith the green waxed 
 
 audible, 
 
 As a bird's will to sing disturbed his 
 
 throat. 
 And set the sharp wings forward like a 
 
 boat 
 Pushed through soft water, moving his 
 
 brown side 
 Smooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook 
 
 with pride 
 His deep warm bosom, till the heav) 
 
 sun's 
 Set face of heat stopped all the songs 
 
 at once. 
 The ways were clean to walk, and deli- 
 cate ; 
 And when the windy white of March 
 
 grew late. 
 Before the trees took heart to face the 
 
 sun 
 With ravelled raiment of lean winter 
 
 on. 
 The roots were thick and hot with hol- 
 low grass. 
 Some roods away a lordly house 
 
 there was, 
 Cool with broad courts and latticed 
 
 passage wet 
 From rush-flowers and lilies ripe to 
 
 set. 
 Sown close among the strewings of the 
 
 floor ; 
 And either wall of the slow corridor 
 Was dim with deep device of gracious 
 
 things; 
 Some angel's steady mouth and weight 
 
 of wings 
 Shut to the side; or Peter with straight 
 
 stole 
 \x\(\. beard cut black against the aureole 
 That spanned his head from nape to 
 
 crown ; there 
 Mary's gold hair, thick to the girdle 
 
 tie 
 Wherein was bound a child with tender 
 
 feet; 
 Or the broad cross with blood nigh 
 
 brown on it. 
 Within this house a righteous lonl 
 
 abode, 
 Ser Averardo; patient of his mood, 
 And just of judgment; and to child he 
 
 had 
 A maid so sweet that her mere sight 
 
 made glad 
 
FORMS AXn BALLADS. 
 
 509 
 
 Men sorrowing, and unbound the brows 
 
 of hate ; 
 And where she came, the lips that pain 
 
 made strait 
 Waxed warm and wide, and from un 
 
 tender grew 
 Tender as those that sleep brings pa- 
 tience to. 
 Such long locks had she, that with knee 
 
 to chin 
 She might have wrapped and warmed 
 
 her feet therein. 
 Right seldom fell her face on weeping 
 
 wise; 
 Gold hair she had, and golden-colored 
 
 eyes, 
 Filled with clear light and fire and large 
 
 repose 
 Like a fair hound's ; no man there is 
 
 but knows 
 Her face was white, and thereto she 
 
 was tall ; 
 In no wise lacked there any praise at 
 
 all 
 To her most perfect and pure maiden 
 
 hood; 
 No sin I think there was in all her 
 
 blood. 
 She, where a gold grate shut the roses 
 
 in, 
 Dwelt daily through deep summer 
 
 weeks, through green 
 Flushed hours of rain upon the leaves; 
 
 and there 
 Love made him room and space tQ 
 
 worship her 
 With tender worship of bowed knees, 
 
 and wrought 
 Such pleasure as the pained sense pal- 
 ates not 
 For weariness, but at one taste undoes 
 The heart of its strong sweet, is raven- 
 ous 
 Of all the hidden honey; words and 
 
 sense 
 Fail through the tune's imperious 
 
 prevalence. 
 In a poor house this lover kept apart, 
 Long communing with patience next 
 
 his heart 
 If love of his might move that face at 
 
 all, 
 Tuned evenwise with colors musical ; 
 
 Then after length of days he said thus ■. 
 
 " Love, 
 For love's own sake and for the love 
 
 thereof. 
 Let no harsh words untune your gra 
 
 cious mood ; 
 For good it were, if any thing be 
 
 good, 
 To comfort me in this pain's plague of 
 
 mine ; 
 Seeing thus, how neither sleep nor 
 
 bread nor wine 
 Seems pleasant to me, yea no thing 
 
 that is 
 Seems pleasant to me ; only I know 
 
 this, 
 Love's ways are sharp for palms of 
 
 piteous feet 
 To travel, but the end of such is sweet : 
 Now do with me as seemeth you the 
 
 best." 
 She mused a little, as one holds his 
 
 guest 
 By the hand musing, with her face 
 
 borne down : 
 Then said, " Yea, though such bitter 
 
 seed be sown. 
 Have no more care of all that you have 
 
 said ; 
 Since if there is no sleep will bind your 
 
 head, 
 Lo, I am fain to help vou certainly : 
 Christ knoweth, sir, if I would have 
 
 you die ; 
 There is no pleasure when a man is 
 
 dead." 
 Thereat he kissed her hands and yellow 
 
 head, 
 And clipped her fair long body many 
 
 times : 
 I have no wit to shape in written rhymes 
 A scanted tithe of this great jov they 
 
 had. 
 They were too near love's secret to 
 
 be glad, 
 As whoso deems the core will sureh 
 
 melt 
 From the warm fruit his lips caress. 
 
 hath felt 
 Some bitter kernel where the teeth shut 
 
 hard ; 
 Or as sweet music sharpens after 
 
 ward, 
 
';io 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 ]king half disrelished both for sharp 
 and sweet ; 
 
 As sea-water, having killed over-heat 
 
 In a man's body, chills it with faint 
 ache; 
 
 So their sense, burdened only for love's 
 sake. 
 
 Failed for pure love ; yet so time served 
 their wit, 
 
 Thcv saved each day some gold reserves 
 of it, 
 
 Being wiser in love's riddle than such 
 be 
 
 Whom fragments feed with his chance 
 charitv. 
 
 All things felt sweet were felt sweet 
 overmuch ; 
 
 The rose-thorn's prickle dangerous to 
 touch, 
 
 And flecks of fire in the thin leaf- 
 shadows ; 
 
 Too keen the breathed honey of the 
 rose. 
 
 Its red too harsh a weight on feasted 
 eyes ; 
 
 They were so far gone in love's histo- 
 ries, 
 
 Beyond all shape and color and mere 
 breath, 
 
 Where pleasure has for kinsfolk sleep 
 and death. 
 
 And strength of soul and body waxen 
 blind 
 
 For weariness, and flesh entoiled with 
 mind, 
 
 When the keen edge of sense foretast- 
 eth sin. 
 Even this green place the summer 
 caught them in 
 
 Seemed half deflowered and sick with 
 beaten leaves 
 
 In their strayed eyes ; these gold flower- 
 fumed eves 
 
 P>urnt out to make the sun's love-offer- 
 ing. 
 
 The midnoon's prayer, the rose's thanks- 
 giving, 
 
 1 he trees' weight burdening the 
 strcngthless air, 
 
 The shape of her stilktl eyes, her 
 colored hair. 
 
 Her body's balance from the moving 
 feet. — 
 
 All this, found fair, lacked yet one grain 
 
 of sweet 
 It had some warm weeks back : so 
 
 perisheth 
 On May's new lip the tender April 
 
 breath : 
 So those same walks the wind sowed 
 
 lilies in 
 All April through, and all their latter 
 
 kin 
 Of languid leaves whereon the autumn 
 
 blows, — 
 The dead red raiment of the last year's 
 
 rose, — 
 The last year's laurel, and the last year's 
 
 love. 
 Fade, and grow things that death grows 
 
 weary of. 
 What man will gather in red summer- 
 time 
 The fruit of some obscure and hoar^ 
 
 rhyme 
 Heard last midwinter, taste the heart 
 
 in it. 
 Mould the smooth semitones afresh, refit 
 The fair limbs ruined, flush the dead 
 
 blood through 
 With color, make all broken beauties 
 
 new 
 For love's new lesson — shall not such 
 
 find pain 
 When the marred music laboring in his 
 
 brain 
 Frets him with sweet sharp fragments, 
 
 and lets slip 
 One word that might leave satisfied his 
 
 lip,- 
 One touch that might put fire in all the 
 
 chords } 
 This was her pain : to miss from all 
 
 sweet words 
 Some taste of sound, diverse and deli- 
 cate, — 
 Some speech the old love found out to 
 
 com])ensate 
 For seasons of shut lips and drowsi- 
 ness ; 
 Some grace, some word the old love 
 
 found out to bless 
 Passionless months ami undelighted 
 
 weeks. 
 The flowers had lost their summer 
 
 ticcntcd checks. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 511 
 
 Their lips were no more sweet than 
 
 daily breath : 
 The ''ear was plagued with instances of 
 
 deith. 
 So fell it, these were sitting in cool 
 
 grass 
 With leaves about, and many a bird 
 
 there was 
 Where the green shadow thickliest im- 
 
 pleached 
 Soft fruit and writhen spray and blos- 
 som bleached 
 Dry in the sun or washed with rains to 
 
 white : 
 Her girdle was pure silk, the bosom 
 
 bright 
 With purple as purple water and gold 
 
 wrought in. 
 One branch had touched with dusk her 
 
 lips and chin, 
 Made violet of the throat, abashed with 
 
 shade 
 The breast's bright plaited work : but 
 
 nothing frayed 
 The sun's large kiss on the luxurious 
 
 hair. 
 Her beauty was new color to the 
 
 air. 
 And music to the silent many birds. 
 Love was an-hungered for some perfect 
 
 words 
 To praise her with; but only her low 
 
 name 
 *' Andrevuola " came thrice, and thrice 
 
 put shame 
 In her clear cheek, so fruitful with new 
 
 red 
 That for pure love straightway shame's 
 
 self was dead. 
 Then with lids gathered as who late 
 
 had wept, 
 She began saying, " I have so little 
 
 slept. 
 My lids drowse now against the very 
 
 sun ; 
 Yea, the brain aching with a dream 
 
 begun 
 Beats like a fitful blood; kiss but both 
 
 brows, 
 And you shall pluck my thoughts grown 
 
 dangerous 
 A-lmost away." He said thus, kissing 
 
 tnem: 
 
 '• O sole sweet thing that God is glad 
 
 to name, 
 My one gold gift, if dreams be sharp 
 
 and sore 
 Shall not the waking time increase 
 
 much more 
 With taste and sound, sweet eyesight 
 
 or sweet scent ? 
 Has any heat too hard and insolent 
 Burnt bare the tender married leaves, 
 
 undone 
 The maiden grass shut under from the 
 
 sun .'' 
 Where in this world is room enough 
 
 for pain .-* " 
 The feverish finger of love had 
 
 touched again 
 Her lips with happier blood ; the pain 
 
 lay meek 
 In her fair face, nor altered lip nor 
 
 cheek 
 With pallor or with pulse ; but in her 
 
 mouth 
 Love thirsted as a man wayfaring doth. 
 Making it humble as weak hunger is. 
 She lay close to him, bade do this and 
 
 this. 
 Say that, sing thus : then almost weep- 
 ing-ripe 
 Crouched, then laughed low. As one 
 
 that fain would wipe 
 The old record out of old things done 
 
 and dead, 
 She rose, she heaved her hands up, and 
 
 waxed red 
 For wilful heart and blameless fear of 
 
 blame ; 
 Saying, " Though my wits be weak, this 
 
 is no shame 
 For a poor maid whom love so punish- 
 
 eth 
 With heats of hesitation and stopped 
 
 breath 
 That with my dreams I live yet heavily 
 For pure sad heart and faith's humility. 
 Now be not wroth, and I will show you 
 
 this. 
 " Methought our lips upon their 
 
 second kiss 
 Met in this place, and a fair day we 
 
 had, 
 And fair soft leaves that waxed and 
 
 were not sad 
 
^ 12 
 
 POEMS A XI) Py ALL ADS. 
 
 With shaken rain, or bitten through with 
 drouth ; 
 
 When I, beholding ever how your 
 mouth 
 
 Waited for mine, the throat being fallen 
 back, 
 
 Saw crawl thereout a live thing fiaked 
 with black 
 
 Specks of brute slime and leper-colored 
 scale, 
 
 A devil's hide with foul flame-writhen 
 grail 
 
 F'ashioned where hell's heat festers 
 loathsomest ; 
 
 And that brief speech may ease me of 
 the rest, 
 
 Thus were you slain and eaten of the 
 thing. 
 
 My waked eyes felt the new day shud- 
 dering 
 
 On their low lids, felt the whole east so 
 beat, 
 
 Pant with close pulse of such a plague- 
 struck heat, 
 
 As if the palpitating dawn drew breath 
 
 For horror, breathing between life and 
 death, 
 
 'i'ill the sun sprang blood-bright and 
 violent." 
 
 So finishing, her soft strength wholly 
 spent. 
 
 She gazed each way, lest some brute- 
 hooved thing, 
 
 The timeless travail of hell's child-bear- 
 ing, 
 
 Should threat upon the sudden : where- 
 at he. 
 
 For relish of her tasted misery 
 
 And tender little thornprick of her 
 ])ain, 
 
 Laughed with mere love. What lover 
 among men 
 
 Hut hath his sense fed sovereignly 'twixt 
 whiles 
 
 With tears and covered eyelids and sick 
 smiles 
 
 And soft disaster of a pained face? 
 
 What pain established in so sweet a 
 place, 
 
 l:ut the plucked leaf of it smells fra- 
 grantly ? 
 
 What color burning man's wide-open 
 eve 
 
 Hut may be pleasurably seen ? what 
 
 sense 
 Keeps in its hot sharp extreme vio 
 
 lence 
 No savor of sweet things? The be 
 
 reaved blood 
 And emptied flesh in their most broken 
 
 mood 
 Fail not so wholly, famish not when 
 
 thus 
 Past honey keeps the starved lip covet- 
 ous. 
 Therefore this speech from a glad mouth 
 
 began, 
 Hreathedin her tender hair and temples 
 
 wan 
 Like one prolonged kiss while the lips 
 
 had breath : 
 "Sleep, that abides in vassalage of 
 
 death 
 And in death's service wears out half 
 
 his age. 
 Hath his dreams full of deadly vassal- 
 
 age, 
 Shadow and sound of things ungra- 
 cious ; 
 Fair shallow faces, hooded bloodless 
 
 brows. 
 And mouths past kissing; yea, myself 
 
 have had 
 As harsh a dream as holds your eyelids 
 
 sad. 
 ♦' This dream 1 tell you came three 
 
 nights ago: 
 In full mid sleep I took a whim to know 
 How sweet things might be ; so I turned 
 
 and thought ; 
 Hut save my dream all sweet availed me 
 
 not. 
 First came a smell of pounded spice 
 
 and scent 
 Such as God ripens in some continent 
 Of utmost amber in the Syrian sea ; 
 And breatlis as though some costly rose 
 
 could be 
 Spoiled slowly, wasted by some bitter 
 
 fire 
 To burn the sweet out leaf by leaf, and 
 
 tire 
 The flower's poor heart with heat and 
 
 waste, to make 
 Strong magic for some perfumed wo- 
 man's sake. 
 
P0E^rs Axn ballads. 
 
 513 
 
 Then a cool naked sense beneath my 
 
 feet 
 Of bud and blossom ; and sound of 
 
 veins that beat 
 As if a lute should play of its own 
 
 heart 
 And fearfully, not smitten of either 
 
 part ; 
 And all my blood it filled with sharp 
 
 and sweet 
 As gold swoln grain fills out the husked 
 
 wheat ; 
 So I rose naked from the bed, and 
 
 stood 
 Counting the mobile measure in my 
 
 blood 
 Some pleasant while, and and through 
 
 each limb there came 
 Swift little pleasures pungent as a flame. 
 Felt in the thrilling flesh and veins as 
 
 much 
 As the outer curls that feel the comb's 
 
 first touch 
 Thrill to the roots and shiver as from 
 
 fire ; 
 And blind between my dream and my 
 
 desire 
 I seemed to stand, and held my spirit 
 
 still 
 Lest this should cease. A child whose 
 
 fingers spill 
 Honey from cells forgotten of the bee 
 Is less afraid to stir the hive and see 
 Some wasp's bright back inside, than I 
 
 to feel 
 Some finger-touch disturb the flesh like 
 
 steel. 
 I prayed thus : Let me catch a secret 
 
 here 
 So sweet, it sharpens the sweet taste of 
 
 fear. 
 And takes the mouth with edge of wine ; 
 
 I would 
 Have here some color and smooth shape 
 
 as good 
 As those in heaven whom the chief gar- 
 den hides 
 With low grape-blossom veiling their 
 
 white sides, 
 And lesser tendrils that so bind and 
 
 blind 
 Their eyes and feet, that if one come 
 
 behind 
 
 To touch their hair thev sec not, neither 
 
 fly; 
 This would I see in heaven, and not die. 
 vSo praying, I had nigh cried out and 
 
 knelt. 
 So wholly my prayer filled me: till I 
 
 felt 
 In the dumb night's warm weight of 
 
 glowing gloom 
 Somewhat that altered all my sleeping- 
 room, 
 And made it like a green low place 
 
 wherein 
 Maids mi.x to bathe : one sets her small 
 
 warm chin 
 Against a ripple, that the angry pearl 
 May flow like flame about her : the next 
 
 curl 
 Dips in some eddy colored of the sun 
 To wash the dust well out ; another one 
 Holds a straight ankle in her hand and 
 
 swings 
 With lavish body sidelong, so that rings 
 Of sweet fierce water, swollen and splen- 
 did, fail 
 All round her fine and floated body 
 
 pale. 
 Swayed flower-fashion, and her balanced 
 
 side 
 Swerved edgeways lets the weight of 
 
 water slide. 
 As taken in some underflow of sea 
 Swerves the banked gold of sea-flowers ; 
 
 but she 
 Pulls down some branch to keep her 
 
 perfect head 
 Clear of the river: even from wall to 
 
 bed, 
 I tell you, was mv room transfigured so. 
 Sweet, green and warm it was, nor could 
 
 one know 
 If there were walls or leaves, or if there 
 
 was 
 No bed's green curtain, but mere gentle 
 
 grass. 
 There were set also hard against the 
 
 feet 
 Gold plates with honey and green grapes 
 
 to eat. 
 With the cool water's noise to hear in 
 
 rhymes : 
 And a wind warmed me full of furzti 
 
 and limes 
 
SH 
 
 rOEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 And all hot sweets the heavy summer 
 
 fills 
 To the round brim of smooth cup- 
 
 shapcn hills. 
 Next the grave walking of a woman's 
 
 feet 
 Made my veins hesitate, and gracious 
 
 heat 
 Made thick the lids and leaden on mine 
 
 eyes : 
 And I thought ever, surely it were wise 
 Not yet to see her : this may last (who 
 
 knows ? ) 
 Five minutes; the poor rose is twice a 
 
 rose 
 IJecause it turns a face to her, the wind 
 Smgs that way; hath this woman ever 
 
 sinned, 
 1 wonder ? as a boy with apple-rind, 
 I played with pleasures, made them to 
 
 my mind, 
 Changed each ere tasting. When she 
 
 tame indeed, 
 t'irst her hair touched me, then I grew 
 
 to feed 
 On the sense of her hand ; her mouth 
 
 at last 
 Touched me between the cheek and lip, 
 
 and past 
 Over my face with kisses here and 
 
 there 
 Sown in and out across the eyes and 
 
 hair. 
 Still I said nothing; till she set her 
 
 face 
 More close and harder on the kissing- 
 
 place, 
 And her mouth caught like a snake's 
 
 mouth, and stung 
 So faint and tenderly, the fang scarce 
 
 clung 
 Mijre than a bird's foot: yet a wound 
 
 it grew, 
 A great one, let this red mark witness 
 
 you 
 Uncler'the left breast; and the stroke 
 
 thereof 
 So clove my sense that I woke out of 
 
 love. 
 And knew not what this dream was, nor 
 
 had wit ; 
 But now (iod knows if I have skill of 
 it." 
 
 Ilcreat she laid one paim against her 
 lips 
 To stop their trembling ; as when water 
 
 slips 
 Out of a beak-mouthed vessel with 
 faint noise, 
 
 And chuckles in the narrowed throat, 
 and cloys 
 
 The carven rims with murmuring, so 
 came 
 
 Words in her lips with no word right oi 
 them, 
 
 A beaten speech thick and disconsolate, 
 
 Till his smile ceasing waxed compas- 
 sionate 
 
 Of her sore fear that grew from any 
 thing, — 
 
 The sound of the strong summer thick- 
 ening 
 
 In heated leaves of the smooth apple- 
 trees : 
 
 The day's breath felt about the ash- 
 branches. 
 
 And noises of the noon whose weight 
 still grew 
 
 On the hot heavy-headed flowers, and 
 drew 
 
 Their red mouths open till the rose- 
 heart ached ; 
 
 For eastward all the crowding rose was 
 slaked 
 
 And soothed with shade : but westward 
 all its growth 
 
 Seemed to breathe hard with heat as a 
 man doth 
 
 Who feels his temples newly feverous. 
 
 And even with such motion in her 
 brows 
 
 As that man hath in whom sick days 
 begin. 
 
 She turned her throat and spake, her 
 voice being thin 
 
 As a sick man's, sudden and tremulous; 
 
 " Sweet, if this end be come indeed on us, 
 
 Let us love more ; " and held his mouth 
 with hers. 
 
 As the first sound of flooded hill-waters 
 
 Is heard bv people of the meadow-grass, 
 
 ( )r ever a wandering waif of ruin pass 
 
 With whirling stones and foam of the 
 brown stream 
 
 Flaked with fierce yellow : so behold 
 ing him 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 515 
 
 She felt before tears came her eyelids 
 
 wet, 
 Saw the face deadly thin where life was 
 
 yet, 
 Heard his throat's harsh last moan 
 
 before it clomb : 
 And he, with close mouth passionate 
 
 and dumb, 
 Burned at her lips: so lay they without 
 
 speech, 
 Each grasping other, and the eyes of 
 
 each 
 Fed in the other's face: till suddenly 
 He cried out with a little broken cry 
 This word, " O help me, sweet, I am 
 
 but dead ! " 
 And even so saying, the color of fair 
 
 red 
 Was gone out of his face, and his 
 
 blood's beat 
 Fell, and stark death made sharp his 
 
 upward feet 
 And pointed hands ; and without moan 
 
 he died. 
 Pain smote her sudden in the brows 
 
 and side, 
 Strained her lips open, and made burn 
 
 her eyes : 
 For the pure sharpness of her miseries 
 She had no heart's pain, but mere 
 
 body's wrack. 
 But at the last her beaten blood drew 
 
 back 
 Slowly upon her face, and her stunned 
 
 brows 
 Suddenly grown aware and piteous 
 Gathered themselves', her eyes shone, 
 
 her hard breath 
 Came as though one nigh dead came 
 
 back from death ; 
 Her lips thrt)bbed, and life trembled 
 
 through her hair. 
 And in brief while she thought to 
 
 bury there 
 The dead man, that her love might lie 
 
 with him 
 In a sweet bed under the rose-roots 
 
 dim 
 And soft earth round the branched 
 
 apple-trees. 
 Full of hushed heat and heavy with 
 
 great ease, 
 And no man entering divide him thence. 
 
 Wherefore she bade one of her hand- 
 maidens 
 
 To be her help to do upon this wise. 
 
 And saying so the tears out of her 
 eyes 
 
 Fell without noise, and comforted her 
 heart : 
 
 Yea, her great pain eased of the sorest 
 part 
 
 Began to soften in her sense of it. 
 
 There under all the little branches sweet 
 
 The place was shapen of his burial ; 
 
 They shed thereon no thing funereal, 
 
 But colored leaves of latter rose-blos- 
 som. 
 
 Stems of soft grass, some withered red 
 and some 
 
 Fair and flesh-blooded ; and spoil splen- 
 dider 
 
 Of marigold and great spent sunflower. 
 And afterwards she came back with- 
 out word 
 
 To her own house ; two days went, and 
 the third 
 
 Went, and she showed her father of 
 this thing. 
 
 And for great grief of her soul's travail- 
 ing 
 
 He gave consent she should endure in 
 peace 
 
 Till her life's end; yea, till he^ time 
 should cease, 
 
 She should abide in fellowship of i)ain 
 
 And having lived a holy year or twain 
 
 She died of pure waste heart and weari- 
 ness. 
 
 And for love's honor in her love's dis- 
 tress 
 
 This word was written over her tomb's 
 head : 
 
 " Here dead she lieth, for whose sake 
 Love is dead." 
 
 AHOLIBAH. 
 
 In the beginning God made thee 
 A woman well to look upon, 
 Thy tender body as a tree 
 
 WhTcon cool wind hath always 
 
 blown 
 Till the clean branches be weL 
 grown. 
 
5i6 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 There was none like thee in the land; 
 The girls that were thy bondwomen 
 
 Did bind thee with a purple band 
 Upon thy forehead, that all men 
 Should know thee for God's hand- 
 maiden. 
 
 Strange raiment clad thee like a bride, 
 With silk to wear on hands and 
 feet, 
 And plates of gold on either side : 
 
 Wine made thee glad, and thou 
 
 didst eat 
 Honey, and choice of pleasant 
 meat. 
 
 And fishers in the middle sea 
 
 Did get thee sea-fish and sea-weeds 
 
 In color like the robes on thee; 
 
 And curious work of plated reeds. 
 And wools wherein live purple 
 bleeds. 
 
 And round the edges of thy cup 
 
 Men wrought thee marvels out of 
 gold, 
 Strong snakes with lean throats lifted 
 up, 
 Large eves whereon the brows had 
 
 hold,' 
 And scaly things their slmie kept 
 cold. 
 
 For thee they blew soft winds in flutes. 
 And ground sweet roots for cunning 
 scent ; 
 Aiade slow because of many lutes, 
 
 The wind among thy chambers 
 
 went 
 Wherein no light was violent. 
 
 (iod called thy name Aholibah, 
 His tabernacle being in thee, 
 
 A witness through waste Asia; 
 
 Thou wcrt a tent sewn cunningly 
 With gold and colors of the sea. 
 
 God gave thee gracious ministers 
 
 And all their work who i)lait and 
 weave : 
 
 The cunning of embroiderers 
 
 That sew the j)illow to the sleeve. 
 And likeness of all things that live. 
 
 Thy garments upon thee were fair 
 
 With scarlet and with yellow 
 thread; 
 Also the weaving of thine hair 
 
 Was as fine gold upon thy head, 
 And thy silk shoes were sewn with 
 red. 
 
 All sweet things he bade sift, and 
 ground 
 As a man grindeth wheat in mills 
 With strong wheels alway going round ; 
 He gave thee corn, and grass that 
 
 fills 
 The cattle on a thousand hills. 
 
 The wine of many seasons fed 
 
 Thy mouth, and made it fair and 
 clean; 
 Sweet oil was poured out on thy head, 
 And ran down like cool rain be- 
 tween 
 The strait close locks it melted in. 
 
 The strong men and the ca])tains knew 
 Thy chambers wrought and fash 
 ioned 
 
 With gold and covering of blue, 
 
 And the blue raiment of thine head 
 Who satest on a statelv bed. 
 
 All these had on their garments wrought 
 The shape of beasts and cree})ing 
 things. 
 The body that availeth not, 
 
 Flat backs of worms and veined 
 
 wings. 
 And the lewd bulk that sleeps and 
 stings. 
 
 Also the chosen of the years. 
 
 The multitude being at ease, 
 
 With sackbuts and with dulcimers 
 
 And noise of shawms and psalteries, 
 Made mirth within the e.irs of these. 
 
 But as a common woman doth. 
 
 Thou didst think evil and devise; 
 The sweet smell of thy breast and 
 mouth. 
 Thou madest as the harlot's wise. 
 And there was painting on thine 
 eyes. 
 
POEMS AiVD BALLADS. 
 
 517 
 
 Vea, in the woven guest-chamber 
 And by the painted passages 
 Where the strange, gracious paintings 
 were, 
 State upon state of companies, 
 There came on thee the lust of 
 these. 
 
 Because of shapes on either wall 
 
 Sea-colored from some rare blue 
 shell 
 
 At many a Tyrian interval. 
 
 Horsemen on horses, girdled well, 
 Delicate and desirable, — 
 
 Thou saidest : I am sick of love : 
 
 Stay with me flagons, comfort me 
 
 With apples, for my pain thereof, 
 Till my hands gather in his tree 
 That fruit wherein my lips would 
 be. 
 
 Yea, saidest thou, I will go up 
 
 When there is no more shade than 
 one 
 May cover with a hollow cup, 
 
 ' And make my bed against the sun 
 Till my blood's violence be done. 
 
 Thy mouth was leant upon the wall 
 
 Against the painted mouth, thy chin 
 Touched the hair's painted curve and 
 fall ; 
 Thy deep throat, fallen lax and 
 
 thin, 
 Worked as the blood's beat worked 
 therein. 
 
 Therefore, O thou Aholibah, 
 
 God is not glad because of thee ; 
 
 And thy fine gold shall pass away 
 
 Like those fair corns of ore that be 
 Washed over by the middle sea. 
 
 Then will one make thy body bare 
 To strip it of all gracious things, 
 
 And pluck the cover from thine hair. 
 And break the gift of many kings, 
 Thy wrist-rings and thine ankle- 
 rings. 
 
 Likewise the man whose body joins 
 To thy smooth body, as was said, 
 
 Who hath' a girdle on his loins. 
 
 And dyed attire ujion his head, — 
 The same who, seeing, worshipped, 
 
 Because thy face was like the face 
 
 Of a clean maiden that smells 
 sweet. 
 
 Because thy gait was as the pace 
 Of one' that opens not her feet. 
 And is not heard within the street : 
 
 Even he, O thou Aholibah, 
 
 Made separate from thy desire, 
 
 Shall cut thy nose and ears away. 
 
 And bruise thee for thy body's hire. 
 And burn the residue with fire. 
 
 Then shall the heathen people say, 
 The multitude being at ease; 
 
 Lo, this is that Aholibah 
 
 Whose name was blown among 
 
 strange seas. 
 Grown old with soft adulteries. 
 
 Also her bed was made of green, 
 
 Her windows beautiful for glass. 
 
 That she had made her bed between : 
 Yea, for pure lust her body was 
 Made like white summer-colored 
 grass. 
 
 Her raiment was a strong man's spoil ; 
 Upon a table by a bed 
 
 She set mine incense and mine oil 
 To be the beauty of her head, 
 In chambers walled about with red. 
 
 Also between the walls she had 
 
 Fair faces of strong nien portrayed; 
 
 All girded round the loins, and clad 
 With several cloths of woven braid 
 And garments marvellously made. 
 
 Therefore the wrath of God shall be 
 Set as a watch upon her way; 
 
 And whoso findeth by the sea 
 
 Blown dust of bones will hardly say 
 If this were that Aholibah. 
 
5i8 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 MADONNA MIA. 
 
 r.\nER green apple-boughs 
 That never a storm will rouse, 
 Mv lady hath her house 
 
 IJetu'ecn two bowers; 
 In either of the twain, 
 \\y:i\ roses full of rain ; 
 She hath for bondwomen 
 
 All kind of flowers. 
 
 She hath no handmaid fair 
 To draw her curled gold hair 
 Through rings of gotd that bear 
 
 Her whole hair's weight; 
 She hath no maids to stand 
 Gold-clothed on either hand: 
 In all the great green land 
 
 None is so great. 
 
 She hath no more to wear 
 Hut one white hood of vair 
 Drawn over eyes and hair, 
 
 Wrought with strange gold, 
 Made for some great queen's head, 
 Some fair great queen since dead ; 
 And one strait gown of red 
 
 Against the cold. 
 
 l')eneath her eyelids deep 
 Love lying seems asleep, 
 l.(^ve, swift to wake, to weep, 
 
 To laugh, to gaze ; 
 Her breasts are like white birds, 
 And all her gracious words 
 As water-grass to herds 
 
 In the June-days. 
 
 To her all dews that fall 
 
 And rains are musical ; 
 
 Her fl(nvers are fed from all, 
 
 I ler jov from these ; 
 In the deep-feathered firs 
 Their gift of joy is hers, 
 In the least breath that stirs 
 
 Across the trees. 
 
 She grows with greenest leaves. 
 Ripens with reddest sheaves, 
 Forgets, rcmenibers, grieves, 
 And is not sad ; 
 
 The quiet lands and skies 
 Leave light upon her eyes : 
 None knows her, weak or wise, 
 Or tired or glad. 
 
 None knows, none understands, 
 What flowers are like her hands; 
 Though you should search all lands 
 
 Wherein time grows, 
 What snows are like her feet. 
 Though his eyes burn with heat 
 Through gazing on my sweet, 
 
 Yet no man knows. 
 
 Only this thing is said: 
 
 That white and gold and red, 
 
 God's three chief words, man's bread 
 
 And oil and wine. 
 Were given her for dowers. 
 And kingdom of all hours. 
 And grace of goodly flowers 
 
 And various vine. 
 
 This is my lady's praise: 
 God after many days 
 Wrought her in unknown ways. 
 
 In sunset lands. 
 This was my lady's birth : 
 God gave her might and mirth, 
 And laid his whole sweet earth 
 
 Between her hands. 
 
 Under deep apple-boughs 
 .My lady hath her house; 
 She wears upon her brows 
 
 The flower thereof; 
 All saying but what G(k1 saith 
 To her is as vain breath ; 
 She is more strong than death, 
 
 Heing strong as love. 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTLK. 
 
 We were ten maidens in the green corn, 
 Small red leaves in the mill-water: 
 
 Fairer maidens never were born. 
 
 Apples of gold for the king's daugh 
 ter. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 519 
 
 We were ten maidens by a well-head, 
 Small white birds in the mill-water : 
 
 Sweeter maidens never were wed, 
 Rings of red for the king's daughter. 
 
 The first to spin, the second to sing, 
 Seeds of wheat in the mill-water; 
 
 The third may was a goodly thing. 
 White bread and brown for the king's 
 daughter. 
 
 The fourth to sew, and the fifth to play, 
 Fair green weed in the mill-water; 
 
 The sixth may was a goodly may. 
 
 White wine and red for the king's 
 daughter. 
 
 The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed, 
 Fair thin reeds in the mill-water; 
 
 The ninth had gold work on her head, 
 Honey in the comb for the king's 
 daughter. 
 
 The ninth had gold work round her 
 hair. 
 Fallen flowers in the mill-water ; 
 The tenth may was goodly and fair. 
 Golden gloves for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 We were ten maidens in a field green, 
 Fallen fruit in the mill-water: 
 
 Fairer maidens never have been, 
 
 Golden sleeves for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 By there comes the king's young son, 
 A little wind in the mill-water; 
 
 " Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one," 
 A crown of red for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "Out of ten mays ye'll give me the 
 best," 
 
 A little rain in the mill-water; 
 A bed of yellow straw for all the rest, 
 
 A bed of gold for the king's daughter. 
 
 He's ta'en out the goodliest. 
 
 Rain that rains in the mill-water; 
 
 A comb of yellow shell for all the rest, 
 A comb of gold for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 He's made her bed to the goodliest. 
 Wind and hail in the mill-water; 
 
 A grass girdle for all the rest, 
 
 A girdle of arms for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 He's set his heart to the goodliest, 
 Snow that snows in the mill-water; 
 
 Nine little kisses for all the rest. 
 
 An hundredfold for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest. 
 Broken boats in the mill-water; 
 
 Golden gifts for all the rest. 
 
 Sorrow of heart for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "Ye'll make a grave for my fair body," 
 
 Running rain in the mill-water; 
 " And ye'll streek my brother at the side 
 of me," 
 The pains of hell for the king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 MAY JANET. 
 
 (BRETON.) 
 
 ** Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet, 
 And go to the wars with me." 
 
 He's drawn her by both hands, 
 With her face against the sea. 
 
 " He that strews red shall gather white, 
 He that sows white reap red. 
 
 Before your face and my daughter's 
 Meet in a marriage-bed. 
 
 "Gold coin shall grow in the yellow 
 field. 
 
 Green corn in the green sea-water. 
 And red fruit grow of the rose's red. 
 
 Ere your fruit grow in her." 
 
 " But I shall have her by land," he said, 
 " Or I shall have her by sea. 
 
 Or I shall have her by strong treason 
 And no grace go with me." 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Iler father's drawn her l)y both hands, 
 He's rent her gown from her, 
 
 lie's ta'en the smock round her body. 
 Cast in the sea-water. 
 
 The captain's drawn her by both sides 
 
 Out of the fair green sea: 
 " Stand up, stand uj), thou May Janet, 
 
 And come to the war with me." 
 
 The first town they came to, 
 
 'Inhere was a blue bride-chamber ; 
 
 He clothed her on with silk. 
 And belted her with amber. 
 
 The second town they came to, 
 The bridesmen feasted knee to knee ; 
 
 He clothed her on with silver, 
 A stately thing to see. 
 
 The third town they came to. 
 
 The bridesmaids all had gowns of 
 gold; 
 He clothed her on with purple, 
 
 A rich thing to behold. 
 
 The last town they came to, 
 He clothed her white and red. 
 
 With a green flag either side of her 
 And a gold flag overhead. 
 
 THE BLOODY SON. 
 
 (FINNISH.) 
 
 "O WHERE have ye been the morn sae 
 late, 
 
 My merry son, come tell me hither.'' 
 O where have ye been the morn sae late .-' 
 
 .\nd I wot I hae but anither." 
 " IJy the water-gate, by the water-gate, 
 
 O dear milher." 
 
 " And whattcn kin' o' wark had ye there 
 to make, 
 .My merry son, come tell me hither .•• 
 And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there 
 to make } 
 And I wot I hae but anither." 
 " I watered mv steeds with water frae 
 the lake', 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " Why is your coat sae fouled the dav. 
 My merry son, come tell me hither ? 
 
 Why is yf)ur coat sae fouled the day? 
 And I wot I hae but anither." 
 
 " The steeds wer stamping sair by the 
 weary banks of clay, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " And where gat ye thae sleeves of 
 red, 
 My merry son, come tell me hither.' 
 And where gat ye thae sleeves of red ? 
 
 And I wot I hae but anither." 
 " I have slain my ae brither by the 
 weary water-head, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " And where will ye gang to mak your 
 mend, 
 My merry son, come tell me hither ? 
 And where will ye gang to mak your 
 mend .-* 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 "The warldis way, to the warldis end, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 "And what will ye leave your father 
 dear. 
 My merry son, come tell me hither } 
 And what will ye leave your father 
 dear .'' 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 " The wood to fell and the logs to bear. 
 For he'll never see my body mair, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " And what will ye leave your mither 
 dear, 
 My merry son, come tell me hither ? 
 And what will ye leave your mither 
 dear } 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 "The wool to card and the wool *o 
 
 wear. 
 For ye'Il never see my body mair, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 "And what will ye leave for your wife 
 to take. 
 My mcrrv son, come tell me hither.^ 
 And what will ve leave for your wife to 
 take ? 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 
rot: MS AND BALLADS. 
 
 521 
 
 " A goodly gown and a fair new make, 
 For she'll do nae mair for my body's 
 sake, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " And what will ye leave your young 
 son fair, 
 My merry son, come tell me hither ? 
 And what will ye leave your young son 
 fair ? 
 And I wot ye hae not anither." 
 *' A twiggen school-rod for his body to 
 
 bear, 
 Though it garred him greet he'll get 
 nae mair, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 "And what will ye leave your little 
 daughter sweet. 
 My merry son, come tell me hither? 
 And what will ye leave your little daugh- 
 ter sweet ? 
 And I wot ye hae not anither." 
 " Wild mulberries for her mouth to 
 
 eat, 
 She'll get nae mair though it garred her 
 greet, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " And when will ye come back frae 
 roamin'. 
 My merry son, come tell me hither ? 
 And when will ye come back frae 
 roamin' i*. 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 " When the sunrise out of the north is 
 comen, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " When shall the sunrise on the north 
 side be, 
 My merry son, come tell me hither? 
 When shall the sunrise on the north 
 side be ? 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 " When chuckie-stanes shall swim in 
 the sea, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " When shall stanes in the sea swim. 
 My merry son, come tell me hither ? 
 
 When shall stanes in the sea swim ? 
 And I wot I hae not anither." 
 
 " When birdies' feathers are as lead 
 therein, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 " When shall feathers be as lead. 
 My merry son, come tell me hither? 
 
 When shall feathers be as lead? 
 And I wot 1 hae not anither." 
 
 " When God shall judge between the 
 quick and dead, 
 O dear mither." 
 
 THE SEA-SWALLOWS 
 
 This fell when Christmas lights were 
 done. 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ; 
 But before the Easter lights begun ; 
 The wavs are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne. 
 
 Two lovers sat where the rowan blows. 
 And all the grass is heavy and 
 fine, 
 By the gathering place of the sea-swal- 
 lows 
 When the wind brings them over 
 Tyne. 
 
 Blossom of broom will never make 
 bread. 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ; 
 Between her brows she is grown red, 
 That was full white in the fields by 
 Tyne. 
 
 " O what is this thing ye have on. 
 Show me now, sweet daughter of 
 mine ?" 
 "O father, this is my little son 
 
 That I found hid in the sides of 
 Tyne. 
 
 " O what will ye give my son to eat, 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ? " 
 " Een-water and adder's meat. 
 
 The ways are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tvne." 
 
b22 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 "Or what will ye get my son to wear, 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ? " 
 " A weed and a web of nettle's hair, 
 The ways are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne." 
 
 " Or what will ye take to line his bed. 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ? " 
 " Two black stones at the kirk-wall's 
 head, 
 The wavs are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne." 
 
 " Or what will ye give my son for land, 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ?" 
 "Three girl's paces of red sand, 
 
 The wavs are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne." 
 
 •• Or what will ye give me for my son. 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine .'' " 
 " Six times to kiss his young mouth 
 on, 
 The ways are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne. 
 
 " But what have ye done with the bear- 
 ing-bread. 
 And what have ye made of the wash- 
 ing-wme } 
 Or where have ye made your bearing- 
 bed. 
 To bear a son in the sides of Tyne ? " 
 
 "The bearing-bread is soft and new. 
 
 There is no soil in the straining wine ; 
 The bed was made between green and 
 blue. 
 It stands full soft by the sides of 
 Tyne. 
 
 " The fair grass was my bearing-bread. 
 The well-water my washing-wine; 
 
 The low leaves were my bcai ing-bcd, 
 And that was best in the sides of 
 Tyne." 
 
 "O daiighter, if ye have done this thing, 
 I wut the greater grief is mine; 
 
 This was a bitter child-bearing. 
 
 When ye were got by the sides of 
 Tyne. 
 
 " About the time of sea-swallows 
 That fly full thick 'oy six and nine, 
 
 Ye'll have my body out of the house, 
 To bury me by the sides of Tyne. 
 
 " Set nine stones by the wall for twaii/, 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ; 
 For the bed I take will measure ten. 
 The ways are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne. 
 
 "Tread twelve girl's paces out for 
 three, 
 Red rose leaves will never make 
 wine ; 
 For the pit I made has taken me. 
 The ways are sair fra' the Till to the 
 Tyne." 
 
 THE YEAR OF LOVE. 
 
 There were four loves that one by one, 
 Following the seasons and the sun. 
 Passed over without tears, and fell 
 Away without farewell. 
 
 The first was made of gold and tears. 
 The next of aspen-leaves and fears, 
 The third of rose-boughs and rose-roots, 
 The last love of strange fruits. 
 
 These were the four loves faded. Hokl 
 Some minutes fast the time of gold 
 When our lips each way clung and 
 
 clove 
 To a face full of love. 
 
 The tears inside our eyelids met, 
 Wrung forth with kissing, and wept wet 
 The faces cleaving each to each 
 Where the blood served for speech. 
 
 The second, with low patient brows 
 Hound under aspen-colored boughs 
 And eyes made strong and grave with 
 
 sleep 
 And yet too weak to weep; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 523 
 
 The third, with eager mouth at ease 
 Fed from late autumn honey, lees 
 Of scarce gold left in latter cells , 
 With scattered flower-smells, — 
 
 ITair sprinkled over with spoilt sweet 
 (,)f ruined roses, wrists and feet 
 Slight-swathed, as grassy girdled 
 
 sheaves 
 Hold in stray poppy-leaves; 
 
 The fourth, with lips whereon has bled 
 Some great pale fruit's slow color, shed 
 From the rank bitter husk whence drips 
 Faint blood between her lips, — 
 
 Made of the heat of whole great Junes 
 Burning the blue dark round their moons 
 (Each like a mown red marigold). 
 So hard the flame keeps hold, — 
 
 These are burnt thoroughly away. 
 Only the first holds out a day 
 Be)'ond these latter loves that were 
 Mai!e of mere heat and air. 
 
 Anvi now the time is winterly 
 The first love fades too : none will see, 
 Whi n April warms the world anew. 
 The place wherein love grew. 
 
 THE LAST ORACLE. 
 (a. d. 361.) 
 
 ei?raT ■ T<i> /SatriAiji, \aixai neae SaiSa\oi avAa * 
 ov no ydv \a\fOV(Tay ' anev^eTO Kai \d\oi' v6u>p. 
 
 Years have risen and fallen in dark- 
 ness or in twilight, 
 A;,^es waxed and waned that knew not 
 thee nor thine. 
 White the world sought light by night 
 and sought not thy light. 
 Since the sad last pilgrim left thy 
 dark mid shrine. 
 Da. i< the shrine, and dumb the fount of 
 song thence welling, 
 S re for words more sad than tears 
 of blood, that said : 
 Te/i he king, on earth has fallen the 
 glorious dwellings 
 
 And the water-springs that spake an 
 quenched and dead. 
 Not a cell is left the god, no roof, 7to 
 co7>er ; 
 In his hand the prophet laurel flcnvtrs 
 no more. 
 And the great king's high sad heart, 
 thy true last lover, 
 Felt thine answer pierce and cleave it 
 
 to the core. 
 And he bowed down his hopeless 
 head 
 In the drift of the wild world's 
 tide. 
 And dying, Thou hast conquered, he 
 said, 
 Galila:an ; he said it, and died. 
 And the world that was thine and 
 
 was ours 
 When the Graces took hands with 
 
 the Hours 
 Grew cold as a winter wave 
 In the wind from a wide-mouthed 
 
 grave. 
 As a gulf wide open to swallow 
 The light that the world held dear. 
 O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear ! 
 
 Age on age thy mouth was mute, thy 
 face was hidden, 
 And the lips and eyes that loved thee 
 blind and dumb; 
 Song forsook their tongues that held 
 thy name forbidden. 
 Light their eyes that saw the strange 
 god's kingdom come. 
 Fire for light and hell for heaven and 
 psalms for paeans 
 Filled the clearest eyes and lips most 
 sweet of song. 
 When for chant of Greeks the wail of 
 Galilaeans 
 Made the whole world moan with 
 hymns of wrath and wrong. 
 Yea, not yet we see thee, father, as they 
 saw thee. 
 They that worshipped when the world 
 was theirs and thine. 
 They whose words had power by thine 
 own power to draw thee 
 Down from heaven till earth seemed 
 more than heaven divine. 
 
5^4 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 For the shades are al)out us that 
 hover 
 \Vhen darkness is half withdrawn, 
 And the skirts of the dead night 
 cover 
 The face of the live new dawn. 
 For the past is not utterly past, 
 Though the word on its lips be the 
 
 last, 
 And the time be gone by with its 
 
 creed 
 When men were as beasts that bleed, 
 As sheep or as swine that wallow. 
 In the shambles of faith and of 
 fear. 
 O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear ! 
 
 Vet it may be, lord and father, could 
 we know it. 
 We that love thee for our darkness 
 shall have light 
 More than ever prophet hailed of old, 
 or poet 
 Standing crowned and robed and 
 sovereign in thy sight. 
 To the likeness of one God their dreams 
 enthralled thee, 
 Who wast greater than all gods that 
 waned and grew ; 
 Son of God the shining son of Time 
 they called thee. 
 Who wast older, O our father, than 
 they knew. 
 For no thought of man made gods to 
 love or honor 
 Ere the song within the silent soul 
 began ; 
 Nor might earth in dream or deed take 
 heaven upon her 
 Till the wcjrd was clothed with speech 
 
 by lips of man. 
 And the word and the life wast thou. 
 The spirit of man and the breath; 
 And before thee the gods that bow 
 
 Take life at thine hands and death. 
 For these are as ghosts that wane, 
 That are gone in an age or twain ; 
 Harsh, merciful, passionate, pure, 
 Tliey perish, but thou shalt endure; 
 lie their life as the swan's or the 
 swallow. 
 They pass as the flight of a year. 
 
 O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear ! 
 
 Thou the word, the light, the life, the 
 breath, the glory. 
 Strong to help and heal, to lighten 
 and to slay. 
 Thine is all the song of man, the world's 
 whole story; 
 Not of morning and of evening is thy 
 day. 
 Old and younger gods are buried or 
 begotten 
 From uprising to downsetting of thy 
 sun. 
 Risen from eastward, fallen to westward 
 and forgotten. 
 And their springs are many, but their 
 end is one. 
 Divers births of godheads find one 
 death appointed, 
 As the soul whence each was born 
 makes room for each ; 
 God by god goes out, discrowned and 
 disanointed. 
 But the soul stands fast that gave 
 
 them shape and speech. 
 Is the sun yet cast out of heaven } 
 Is the song yet cast out of man } 
 Life that had song for its leaven 
 To quicken the blood that ran 
 Through the veins of the songless 
 
 years 
 More bitter and cold than tears ; 
 Heaven that had thee for its one 
 Light, life, word, witness, O sun, — 
 Are they soundless and sightless and 
 hollow. 
 Without eye, without sjieech, with- 
 out ear .'' 
 O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear 1 
 
 Time arose, and smote thee silent at 
 
 his warning ; 
 Change ami darkness fell on men that 
 
 fell from thee ; 
 Dark thou satest, veiled with light, \yc- 
 
 hind the morning, 
 Till the soul of man should lift up 
 
 eyes and sec. 
 Till the blind mute soul get speech 
 
 again and eyesight, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 525 
 
 Man may worship not the light of life 
 within ; 
 In his sight the stars whose fires grow 
 dark in thy sight 
 Shine as sunbeams on the night of 
 death and sin. 
 Time again is risen with mightier word 
 of warning, 
 Change hath blown again a blast of 
 louder breath ; 
 Clothed with clouds and stars and 
 dreams that melt in morning, 
 Lo, the gods that ruled by grace of 
 
 sin and death ! 
 They are conquered, they break, they 
 are stricken, 
 Whose might made the whole world 
 pale; 
 They are dust that shall rise not or 
 quicken 
 Though the world for their death's 
 sake wail. 
 As a hound on a wild beast's trace. 
 So time has their godhead in chase; 
 As wolves when the hunt makes 
 
 head, 
 They are scattered, they fly, they are 
 
 fled; 
 They are fled beyond hail, beyond 
 hollo, 
 And the cry of the chase, and the 
 cheer. 
 O father of all. of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear ! 
 
 Day by day thy shadow shines in heaven 
 beholden. 
 Even the sun, the shining shadow of 
 thy face : 
 Xing, the ways of heaven before thy 
 feet grow golden ; 
 God, the soul of earth is kindled 
 with thy grace. 
 In thy lips the speech of man whence 
 gods were fashioned. 
 In thy soul the thought that makes 
 them and unmakes ; 
 By thy light and heat incarnate and im- 
 passioned, 
 Soul to soul of man gives light for 
 light, and takes. 
 As they knew thy name of old time 
 could we know it, 
 
 Healer called of sickness, slayer in* 
 voked of wrong. 
 Light of eyes that saw thy light, god, 
 king, priest, poet. 
 Song should bring thee back to heal 
 
 us with thy song. 
 For thy kingdom is past not awav, 
 Nor thy power from the place there- 
 of hurled : 
 Out of heaven they shall cast not the 
 day. 
 They shall cast not out song from 
 the world. 
 By the song and the light they give, 
 We know thy works that they live ; 
 With the gift thou hast given us of 
 
 speech 
 We praise, we adore, we beseech. 
 We arise at thy bidding, and follow, 
 W^e cry to thee, answer, appear, 
 O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear ! 
 
 IN THE BAY. 
 
 Beyond the hollow sunset, ere a star 
 
 Take heart in heaven from eastward, 
 while the west, 
 
 Fulfilled of watery resonance and rest. 
 
 Is as a port with clouds for harbor- 
 bar 
 
 To fold the fleet in of the winds from 
 far 
 
 That stir no plume now of the bland 
 sea's breast ; 
 
 Above the soft sweep of the breathless 
 bay 
 
 South-westward, far past flight of night 
 and day, 
 
 Lower than the sunken sunset sinks, 
 and higher 
 
 Than dawn can freak the front of heaven 
 with fire, — 
 
 My thought with eyes and wrings made 
 wide makes way 
 
 To find the place of souls that I de- 
 sire. 
 
526 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 If any piace for any soul there be, 
 
 Disrobed and dise'ntrammelled ; if the 
 might, 
 
 The fire and force that filled with ar- 
 dent light 
 
 The souls whose shadow is half the 
 light we see, 
 
 Survive, and be suppressed not of the 
 night, — 
 
 This hour should show what all day 
 hid from me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Night knows not, neither is it shown to 
 
 dav, 
 l^v sunlight nor by starlight is it shown. 
 Nor to the full moon's eye nor footfall 
 
 known. 
 Their world's untrodden and unkindled 
 
 way ; 
 Nor is the breath nor music of it blown 
 With sounds of winter or with winds 
 
 of May. 
 
 It yet these twain survive your worldl> 
 
 breath, 
 Jov trampling sorrow, life devouring 
 ' ' death. 
 If perfect life possess your life all 
 
 through. 
 And like your words your souls be 
 
 deathless too. 
 To-night,' of all whom night encompass-^ 
 
 eth. 
 My soul would commune with one soul 
 
 of you. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Above the sunset, might I see thine 
 eves 
 
 That were above the sun-dawn in our 
 skies, 
 
 Son of the songs of morning, — thine 
 that were 
 
 First lights to lighten that rekindling 
 air 
 
 Wherethrough men saw the front of 
 England rise. 
 
 And heard thine loudest of the lyre- 
 notes there, — 
 
 Hut here, where light and darkness 
 
 reconciled 
 Hold earth between them as a weanling 
 
 child 
 IJetween the balanced hands of death 
 
 and birth, 
 Even as they held the new-born shape 
 
 of earth 
 When first life trembled in her limbs 
 
 and smiled, — 
 Here hope might think to find what 
 
 hope were worth. 
 
 Past Hades, past Elysium, past the long. 
 Slow, smooth, strong lapse of Lethe ; 
 
 past the toil 
 Wherein all souls are taken as a spoil. 
 The Stygian web of waters, — if your 
 
 song 
 lie (lutnched not, O our brethren, but 
 
 be strong 
 As ere ye too sjjook off our temporal 
 
 coil ; 
 
 If yet thy fire have not one spark the 
 
 less, 
 O Titan, born of her a Titaness, 
 Across the sunrise and the sunset's 
 
 mark 
 Send of thy lyre one sound, thy fire one 
 
 spark, 
 To change this face of our unworthi- 
 
 ness, 
 A-cross this hour dividing light from 
 
 dark; 
 
 X. 
 
 To change this face of our chill time. 
 
 that hears 
 No song like thine of all that crowd 
 
 its ears. 
 Of all its lights that lighten all day long 
 Sees none like thy most tieet and fiery 
 
 sphere's 
 Out-lightening Sirius, — in its twilight 
 
 throng, 
 \u thunder and no sunrise like thy 
 ' song. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 527 
 
 Hath not the sea-wind swept the sea- 
 line bare 
 
 To pave with stainless fire, through 
 stainless air, 
 
 A passage for thine heavenlier feet to 
 tread 
 
 Ungrieved of earthly floor-work ? hath 
 it s])read 
 
 No covering splendid as the sun-god's 
 hair 
 
 To veil or to reveal thy lordlier head? 
 
 XII. 
 Hath not the sunset strewn across the 
 
 sea 
 A way majestical enough for thee ? 
 What hour save this should be thine 
 
 hour — and mine, 
 If thou have care of any less divine 
 Than thine own soul ; if thou take 
 
 thought of me, 
 Marlowe, as all my soul takes thought 
 
 of thine ? 
 
 Before the moon's face as before the 
 
 sun, 
 The morning star and evening star are 
 
 one 
 For all men's lands as England. Oh, if 
 
 night 
 Hang hard upon us, — ere ovx day take 
 
 night, 
 
 Shed thou some comfort from thy day 
 
 long done 
 On us pale children of the latter light ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For surely, brother and master, and 
 
 lord and king, 
 Where'er thy footfall and thy face 
 
 make spring 
 In all souls' eyes that meet thee where- 
 
 soc'er, 
 And have thy soul for sunshine and 
 
 sweet air, — 
 Some late love of thine old live land 
 
 should cling, 
 Some living love of England, round 
 
 thee there. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Here from her shore, across her sunni- 
 est sea. 
 
 My soul makes question of the sun for 
 thee. 
 
 And waves and beams make answer. 
 When thy feet 
 
 Made her ways flowerier and their 
 flowers more sweet 
 
 With childlike passage of a god to be, 
 
 Like spray these waves cast off her foe- 
 men's fleet. 
 
 Like foam they flung it from her, and 
 like weed 
 
 Its wrecks were washed from scornful 
 shoal to shoal, 
 
 From rock to rock reverberate ; and 
 the whole 
 
 Sea laughed and lightened with a death- 
 less deed 
 
 That sowed our enemies in her field for 
 seed. 
 
 And made her shores fit harborage for 
 thy soul. 
 
 xvii. 
 Then in her green south fields, a poor 
 
 man's child, 
 Thou hadst thy short sweet fill of half 
 
 blown joy. 
 That ripens all of us for time to clov 
 With full-blown pain and passion , ere 
 
 the wild 
 World caught thee by the fiery heart, 
 
 and smiled 
 To make so swift end of the godlike 
 
 boy. 
 
 xviii. 
 For thou, if ever godlike foot there trod 
 These fields of ours, wert surely like a 
 
 god. 
 Who knows what splendor of strange 
 
 dreams was shed 
 With sacred shadow and glimmer of 
 
 gold and red 
 From hallowed windows, over stone and 
 
 sod. 
 On thine unbowed, bright, insubmissive 
 
 head.? 
 
528 
 
 POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The shadow stayed not, but the splendor 
 
 stays, 
 ( )ur brother, till the last of English days. 
 No day nor night on English earth shall 
 
 be 
 Forever, spring nor summer, Junes nor 
 
 ^Iays, 
 ]!ut somewhat as a sound or gleam of 
 
 thee 
 Shall come on us like morning from the 
 
 sea. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Like sunrise never wholly risen, nor yet 
 (^)uenched; or like sunset never wholly 
 
 set, 
 A light to lighten as from living eyes 
 Thecold, unlit, close lids of one that lies 
 Dead, or a ray returned from death's far 
 
 skies 
 To fire us living lest our lives forget. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Yox in that heaven what light of lights 
 may be. 
 
 What splendor of what stars, what 
 spheres of flame 
 
 Sounding, that none may number nor 
 may name, 
 
 We know not, even thy brethren ; yea, 
 not we 
 
 Whose eyes desire the light that light- 
 ened thee. 
 
 Whose ways and thine are one way and 
 the same. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 r.ut if the riddles that in sleep we read. 
 And trust them not, be flattering truth 
 
 indeed, 
 .As he that rose our mightiest called 
 
 them, — hi-, 
 .Much higlur than thou as thou much 
 
 higher than we, — 
 There, might we say, all flower of all 
 
 our seed. 
 All singing soul* arc as one sounding 
 
 sea. 
 
 XX 1 1 1. 
 
 All those that here were of thy kind 
 
 and kin, 
 lieside thee and below thee, full of love, 
 Full-souled for song, — and one alone 
 
 above 
 Who.se only light folds all your glories 
 
 in — 
 With all birds' notes from nightingale 
 
 to dove 
 Fill the world whither we too fain would 
 
 win ; 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The world that sees in heaven the sove- 
 reign light 
 
 Of sunlike Shakespeare, and the fiery 
 night 
 
 Whose stars were watched of Webster; 
 and beneath. 
 
 The twin-souled brethren of the single 
 wreath. 
 
 Grown in king's gardens, plucked from 
 pastoral heath. 
 
 Wrought with all flowers for all men's 
 heart's delight. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And that fi.xed fervor, iron-red like 
 Mars, 
 
 In the mid moving tide of tenderer stars. 
 
 That burned on loves and deeds the 
 darkest done. 
 
 Athwart the incestuous prisoner's bride- 
 house bars ; 
 
 And thine, most highest of all their tires 
 but one. 
 
 Our morning star, sole risen before the 
 sun. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And one light risen since theirs to run 
 
 such race 
 Thou hast seen, O Phosphor, from thy 
 
 pride of place. 
 Thou hast seen Shelley, him that was 
 
 to thee 
 As light to fire or dawn to lightning; 
 
 me, — 
 Me likewise, O our brother, shall thou 
 
 sec. 
 And 1 behold thee, face to glorious 
 
 face > 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 529 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 You twain the same swift year of man 
 
 hood swept 
 Down the steep darkness, and our father 
 
 wept. 
 And from the gleam of Apollonian tears 
 A holier aureole rounds your memories, 
 
 kept 
 Most fervent-fresh of all the singing 
 
 spheres, 
 And April-colored through all months 
 
 and years. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 You twain, fate spared not half your 
 
 fiery span ; 
 The longer date fulfils the lesser man. 
 Ye from beyond the dark dividing date 
 Stand smiling, crowned as gods, with 
 
 foot on fate. 
 For stronger was your blessing than his 
 
 ban. 
 And earliest whom he struck, he struck 
 
 too late. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yet love and loathing, faith and unfaith 
 yet 
 
 Bind less to greater souls in unison, 
 
 And one desire that makes three spirits 
 as one 
 
 Takes great and small as in one spirit- 
 ual net 
 
 Woven out of hope toward what shall 
 yet be done 
 
 Ere hate or love remember or forget ; 
 
 Woven out of faith and hope and love 
 
 too great 
 To bear the bonds of life and death 
 
 and fate ; 
 Woven out of love and hope and faith 
 
 too dear 
 To take the print of doubt and change 
 
 and fear ; 
 And interwoven with lines of wrath and 
 
 hate 
 Blood-rod with soils of many a sanguine 
 
 year. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Who cannot hate, can love not: if he 
 grieve, 
 
 His tears are barren as the unfruitful 
 rain 
 
 That rears no harvest from the green 
 sea's plain. 
 
 And as thorns crackling this man's laugh 
 is vain. 
 
 Nor can belief touch, kindle, smite, re- 
 prieve 
 
 His heart who has not heart to dis- 
 believe. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 But you, most perfect in vour hate and 
 
 love. 
 Our great twin-spirited brethren ; you 
 
 that stand 
 Head by head glittering, hand made 
 
 fast in hand. 
 And underfoot the fang-drawn worm 
 
 that strove 
 To wound you living ; from so far above, 
 Look love, not scorn, on ours that was 
 
 your land. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 For love we lack, and help and heat 
 
 and light 
 To clothe us and to comfort us with 
 
 might. 
 What help is ours to take or give.-* but 
 
 ye — 
 Oh, more than sunrise to the blind cold 
 
 sea. 
 That wailed aloud with all her waves 
 
 all night. 
 Much more, being much more glorious, 
 
 should you be. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 As fire to frost, as ease to toil, as dew 
 To flowerless fields, as sleep to slacken- 
 ing pain. 
 As hope to souls long weaned from 
 
 hope again 
 Returning, or as blood revived anew 
 To dry-drawn limbs and every pulseless 
 
 vein, — 
 Even so toward us should no man be 
 but you. 
 
530 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 One rose before the sunrise was, and one 
 Before the sunset, lovelier than the sun. 
 And now the heaven is dark and bright 
 
 and loud 
 With wind and starry drift and moon 
 
 and cloud, 
 And night's cry rings in straining sheet 
 
 and shroud : 
 What help is ours if hope like yours 
 
 be none ? 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 O well-beloved, our brethren, if ye be, 
 Then are we not forsaken. This kind 
 
 earth 
 Made fragrant once for all time with 
 
 your birth. 
 And bright for all men with your love, 
 
 and worth 
 The clasp and kiss and wedlock of the 
 
 sea, 
 Were not your mother if not your 
 
 brethren we. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Because the days were dark with gods 
 and kings. 
 
 And in time's hand the old hours of 
 time as rods, 
 
 When force and fear set hope and faith 
 at odds, 
 
 Ve failed not, nor abased your plume- 
 plucked wings; 
 
 And we that front not more disastrous 
 things, 
 
 How should we fail in face of kings 
 and gods "i 
 
 XXXVI 11. 
 
 For now the deep dense plumes of night 
 are thinned 
 
 .Surely with winnowing of the glimmer- 
 ing wind 
 
 Whose feet are fledged with morning; 
 and the breath 
 
 Begins in heaven that sings the dark to 
 death. 
 
 And all the night wherein men grc^aned 
 and sinned 
 
 Sickens at heart to hear what sundawn 
 saith. 
 
 xxxrx. 
 
 O first-born sons of hope and fairest ! ye 
 Whose prows first clove the thought 
 
 unsounded sea 
 Whence all the dark dead centuries 
 
 rose to bar 
 The spirit of man lest truth should 
 
 make him free. 
 The sunrise and the simset, seeing one 
 
 star. 
 Take heart as we to know you that ye 
 
 are. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Ye rise not, and ye set not : we that say 
 Ye rise and set like hopes that set and 
 
 rise 
 Look yet but seaward from a land-locked 
 
 bay; 
 But where at last the sea's line is the 
 
 sky's, 
 And truth and hope one sunlight in 
 
 your eyes, 
 No sunrise and no sunset marks their 
 
 day. 
 
 A FORSAKEN GARDEN. 
 
 In a coign of the cliff between lowland 
 and highland. 
 At the sea-down's edge between wind 
 ward and lee. 
 Walled round with rocks as an inland 
 island. 
 The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
 A girdle of brushwood and thorn en- 
 closes 
 The steep square slope of the blos- 
 soniless bed 
 Where the weeds that grew green from 
 the graves of its roses 
 Now lie dead. 
 
 The fields fall southward, abrupt and 
 broken, 
 To the low last edge of the long lone 
 land. 
 If a step should sound or a word be 
 sjioken. 
 Would a ghost not rise at the strange 
 guest's hand? 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 531 
 
 So long have the gray bare walks lain 
 guestless. 
 Through branches and briers if a man 
 make way, 
 He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, 
 restless 
 Night and day. 
 
 The dense hard passage is blind and 
 stifled 
 That crawls by a track none turn to 
 climb 
 To the strait waste place that the years 
 have rifled 
 Of all but the thorns that are touched 
 not of time. 
 The thorns he spares when the rose is 
 taken ; 
 The rocks are left when he wastes 
 the plain ; 
 The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- 
 shaken, 
 These remain. 
 
 Not a flower to be prest of the foot that 
 falls not ; 
 As the heart of a dead man the seed- 
 plots are dry; 
 From the thicket of thorns whence the 
 nightingale calls not. 
 Could she call, there were never a 
 rose to reply. 
 Over the meadows that blossom and 
 wither, 
 Rings but the note of a sea-bird's 
 song. 
 Only the sun and the rain come hither 
 All year long. 
 
 The sun burns sear, and the rain dishev- 
 
 ^ 
 
 els 
 
 One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless 
 breath. 
 Only the wind here hovers and revels 
 In a round where life seems barren 
 as death. 
 Here there was laughing of old, there 
 was weeping. 
 Haply, of lovers none ever will 
 know, 
 Whose eyes went seaward a hundred 
 sleeping 
 Years ago. 
 
 Heart handfast in heart as they stood, 
 " Look thither," 
 Did he whisper ? " Look forth from 
 the flowers to the sea; 
 For the foam-flowers endure when the 
 rose-blossoms wither, 
 And men that love lightly may die — 
 But we ? " 
 And the same wind sang, and the same 
 waves whitened, 
 And or ever the garden's last petals 
 were shed, 
 In the lips that had whispered, the eyes 
 that had lightened. 
 Love was dead. 
 
 Or they loved their life through, and 
 then went whither ? 
 And were one to the end — but what 
 end who knows? 
 Love deep as the sea as a rose must 
 wither, 
 As the rose-red seaweed that mocks 
 the rose. 
 Shall the dead take thought for the 
 dead to love them } 
 What love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
 They are loveless now as the grass 
 above them 
 Or the wave. 
 
 All are at one now, roses and lovers, 
 Not known of the cliffs and the fields 
 and the sea. 
 Not a breath of the time that has been 
 hovers 
 In the air now soft with a summer to 
 be. 
 Not a breath shall there sweeten the 
 seasons hereafter 
 Of the flowers or the lovers that 
 laugh now or weep. 
 When as they that are free now of weei>- 
 ing and laughter 
 We shall sleep. 
 
 Here death may deal not again forever; 
 Here change may come not till all 
 change end. 
 From the graves they have made they 
 shall rise up never. 
 Who have left naught living to rav 
 age and rend. 
 
532 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Karth, stones, and thorns of the wild 
 ground growing, 
 While the sun and the rain live, these 
 shall be ; 
 Till a last wind's breath, upon all these 
 blowing. 
 Roll the sea. 
 
 Till the slow sea rise, and the sheer cliff 
 crumble, 
 Till terrace and meadow the deep 
 gulfs drink. 
 Till the strength of the waves of the 
 high tides humble 
 The fields that lessen, the rocks that 
 shrink, 
 Here now in his triumph where all 
 *hings falter. 
 Stretched out on the spoils that his 
 own hand spread, 
 As a god self-slain on his own strange 
 altar, 
 Death lies dead. 
 
 RELICS. 
 
 This flower that smells of honey and 
 
 the sea, 
 White laurustine, seems in my hand to 
 
 be 
 A white star made of memory long 
 
 ago 
 Lit in the heaven of dear times dead to 
 
 me. 
 
 A star out of the skies, love used to 
 
 know 
 Here held in hand, a stray left yet to 
 
 show 
 What flowers my heart was full of in 
 
 the days 
 That are long since gone down dead 
 
 memory's flow. 
 
 Dead memory that revives on d(niblful 
 
 ways, 
 Half hearkening what the buried sea 
 
 son says, 
 Out of the world of the unai)parcnt 
 
 dead 
 Where the lost Aprils are, and the lost 
 
 Mays. 
 
 Hower, once I knew thy star-vrhitc 
 
 brethren bred 
 Nigh where the last of all the land 
 
 made head 
 Against the sea, a keen-faced prom 
 
 ontory, — 
 Flowers on salt wind and sprinkled sea 
 
 dews fed. 
 
 Their hearts were glad of the free 
 
 place's glory; 
 The wind that sang them all his storm) 
 
 story 
 Had talked all winter to the sleepless 
 
 spray, 
 And as the sea's their hues were hard 
 
 and hoary. 
 
 Like things born of the sea and the 
 
 bright day. 
 They laughed out at the years vhat 
 
 could not slay, 
 Live sons and joyous of unquiet 
 
 hours, 
 And stronger than all storms that 
 
 range for prey. 
 
 And in the close indomitable flow- 
 ers 
 
 A keen-edged odor of the sun and 
 showers 
 Was as the smell of the fresh honey- 
 comb 
 
 Made sweet for mouths of none but 
 paramours. 
 
 Out of the hard green wall of leaves 
 that clomb. 
 
 They showed like windfalls of the snow 
 soft foam, 
 Ox feathers from the weary south- 
 wind's wing, 
 
 Vx\x as the spray that it came shore- 
 ward Irum. 
 
 And thou, as white, what word hast 
 
 thou to bring ? 
 If my heart hearken, whereof wilt thou 
 
 sing? 
 For some sign smely thou, too, hast 
 
 to bear 
 Some word far south was taught thee 
 
 of the spring. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 533 
 
 IVhite like a white rose, not like these 
 
 that were 
 Taught of the wind's mouth and tne 
 
 winter air, 
 Poor tender thing of soft Italian 
 
 bloom, 
 Where once thou grewest, what else 
 
 for me grew there ? 
 
 Born in what spring and on what city's 
 
 tomb. 
 By whose hand wast thou reached, and 
 
 plucked for whom ? 
 There hangs about thee, could the 
 
 soul's sense tell, 
 An odor as of love and of love's 
 
 doom. 
 
 Of days more sweet than thou wast 
 
 sweet to smell, 
 Of flower-soft thoughts that came tc 
 
 flower and fell, 
 Of loves that lived a lily's life and 
 
 died. 
 Of dreams now dwelling where dead 
 
 roses dwell. 
 
 O white birth of the golden mountain- 
 side 
 
 That for the sun's love makes its bosom 
 wide 
 At sunrise, and with all its woods and 
 flowers 
 
 Takes in the morning to its heart of 
 pride I 
 
 Of the cliff overcome and overgrown 
 That all that flowerage clothed as flesh 
 clothes bone. 
 That garment of acacias made for 
 May, 
 Whereof here lies one witness over- 
 blown. 
 
 The fair brave trees with all theii 
 
 flowers at play. 
 How king-like they stood up into the 
 
 day ! 
 How sweet the day was with them, 
 
 and the night ! 
 Such words of message hr.ve dead 
 
 flowers to say. 
 
 This that the winter and the wind made 
 
 bright. 
 And this that lived upon Italian light. 
 Before I throw them and these words 
 
 away. 
 Who knows but I what memories too 
 
 take flight ? 
 
 SESTIMA. 
 
 I SAW my soul at rest upon a day 
 As a bird sleeping in the nest of 
 night. 
 Among soft leaves that give the star- 
 j light way 
 
 Thou hast a word of that one land of To touch its wings but not its eyes 
 
 ours, 
 And of the fair town called of the fair 
 
 towers, 
 A word for me of my San Gimi- 
 
 gnan, 
 A word of April's greenest-girdled 
 
 hours ; 
 
 Of the breached walls whereon the 
 
 wallrtowers ran 
 Called of Saint Fina, breachless now of 
 
 man, 
 Though time with soft feet break 
 
 them stone by stone. 
 Who breaks down hour by hour his 
 
 own reign's span ; 
 
 with light 
 So that it knew as one in visions may. 
 And knew not as men waking, of 
 delight. 
 
 This was the measure of my soul's 
 delight; 
 It had no power of joy to fly by day, 
 Nor part in the large lordship of the 
 light; 
 But in a secret, moon-beholden way 
 Had all its will of dreams and pleasant 
 night. 
 And all the love and light that sleep 
 ers may. 
 
534 
 
 POEAfS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Hut such life's triumph as men waking 
 may 
 It might not have to feed its faint 
 delight 
 Between the stars by night and sun by 
 day, 
 Shut up with green leaves and a little 
 light ; 
 Because its way was as a lost star's 
 way, 
 A world's not wholly known of day 
 or night. 
 
 All loves and dreams and sounds and 
 gleams of night 
 Made it all music that such minstrels 
 may, 
 And all they had they gave it of de- 
 light ;' 
 But in the full face of the fire of 
 day 
 What place shall be for any starry 
 light, 
 What part of heaven in all the wide 
 sun's way ? 
 
 Vet the soul woke not, sleeping by the 
 way, 
 Watched as a nursling of the large- 
 eyed night, 
 And sought no strength nor knowledge 
 of the day. 
 Nor closer touch conclusive of de- 
 light. 
 Nor mightier joy nor truer than dream 
 ers may, 
 Nor more of song than they, nor more 
 of light. 
 
 For who slcej)s once, and sees the secret 
 light 
 Whereby sleep shows the soul a fair- 
 er way 
 Between the rise and rest of day and 
 night, 
 Shall care no more lo fare as all men 
 may, 
 I'.ut he his place of pain or of delight, 
 There shall he dwell, beholding night 
 as day. 
 
 Song, have thy day, and take thy fill of 
 
 light 
 Before the night be fallen across thy 
 
 way ; 
 Sing while he may, man hath no long 
 
 delight. 
 
 A WASTED VIGIL. 
 
 CoULDST thou not watch with me one 
 
 hour.!* Behold, 
 Dawn skims the sea with flying feet of 
 
 gold. 
 With sudden feet that graze the gradual 
 
 sea: 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 What, not one hour ? For star by star 
 
 the night 
 Falls, and her thousands world by world 
 
 take flight; 
 They die, and day survives, and what 
 
 of thee } 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 Lo, far in heaven the web of night un 
 
 done, 
 And on the sudden sea the grad-ial sun ; 
 Wave to wave answers, tree responds 
 
 to tree : 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ^ 
 
 Sunbeam by sunbeam creeps from line 
 to line. 
 
 Foam by foam quickens on the bright- 
 ening brine; 
 
 Sail by sail passes, flower by flower gets 
 free : 
 CouKlst thou not watch with me .^ 
 
 Last year, a brief while since, an age 
 
 A whole year past, with bud and bloom 
 and snow, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 535 
 
 O moon that wast in heaven, what 
 friends were we ! 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 Old moons, and last year's flowers, and 
 
 last year's snows, 
 Who now saith to thee, moon ? or who 
 
 saith, rose ? 
 O dust and ashes, once found fair to see ! 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 O dust and ashes, once thought sweet 
 
 to smell ! 
 With me it is not, is it with thee, well ? 
 O sea-drift blown from windward back 
 
 to lee ! 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The old year's dead hands are full of 
 
 their dead flowers, 
 The old days are full of dead old loves 
 
 of ours, 
 Born as a rose, and briefer born than 
 
 she : 
 Couldst thou not watch with me .-• 
 
 IX. 
 Could two days live again of that dead 
 
 year. 
 One would say, seeking us and passing 
 
 here, 
 Where is she? and one answering, 
 Where is he ? 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 Nay, those two lovers are not anywhere ; 
 If we were they, none knows us what 
 
 we were, 
 Nor aught of all their barren grief and 
 
 glee : 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 XI. 
 Half false, half fair, all feeble, be my 
 
 verse 
 Upon thee not for blessing nor for 
 
 curse. 
 
 For some must stand, and some must 
 fall or flee : 
 Couldst thou not watch with me .'' 
 
 XII. 
 
 As a new moon above spent stars thou 
 
 wast ; 
 But stars endure after the moon is past, 
 Couldst thou not watch one hour, 
 
 though I watch three ? 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What of the night.? The night is full. 
 
 the tide 
 Storms inland, the most ancient rocks 
 
 divide ; 
 Yet some endure, and bow nor head 
 
 nor knee : 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 XIV. 
 Since thou art not as these are, go thy 
 
 ways ; 
 Thou hast no part in all my nights and 
 
 days. 
 Lie still, sleep on, be glad — .as such 
 things be : 
 Thou couldst not watch with me. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF LISA. 
 
 (Double Sestina.) 
 
 Decameron, x. 7. 
 
 There is no woman living that draws 
 
 breath 
 So sad as I, though all things sadden 
 
 her. 
 There is not one upon life's weariest 
 
 way 
 Who is weary as I am weary of all but 
 
 death.' 
 Toward whom I look as looks the sun- 
 flower 
 All day with all his whole soul toward 
 
 the sun ; 
 While in the sun's sight I make moan 
 
 all day. 
 And all night on my sleepless maiden 
 
 bed 
 
536 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Weep and call out on death, O Love, 
 
 and thee, 
 That thou or he would take me to the 
 
 dead, 
 And know not what thing evil I have 
 
 done 
 That life should lay such heavy hand 
 
 on me. 
 
 Alas! Love, what is this thou wouldst 
 
 with me ? 
 What honor shalt thou have to quench 
 
 my breath, 
 Or what shall my heart broken profit 
 
 thee ? 
 
 Love, O great god Love, what have 
 
 I done, 
 That thou shouldst hunger so after my 
 
 death ? 
 My heart is harmless as my life's first 
 
 day : 
 Seek out some false fair woman, and 
 
 plague her 
 Till her tears even as my tears fill her 
 
 bed: 
 
 1 am the least flower in thy flowery 
 
 way, 
 liut till my time be come that I be dead, 
 Let me live out my flower-time in the 
 
 sun. 
 Though my leaves shut before the sun 
 
 flower. 
 
 U Love, Love, Love, the kingly sun- 
 flower ! 
 Shall he the sun hath looked on look 
 
 on me. 
 That live down here in shade, out of 
 
 the sun. 
 Here living in the sorrow and shadow 
 
 of death ? 
 Shall he that feeds his heart full of the 
 
 day 
 Care t(j give mine eyes light, or my lips 
 
 breath ? 
 Ik-cause she loves him, shall my lord 
 
 love her 
 Who is as a worm in my lord's kingly 
 
 way ." 
 I shall not see him or kncnv him alive 
 
 (jr deail ; 
 iJut thou, I know thee, U Love, and 
 
 pray to thee 
 
 That in brief while my brief life-days 
 be done, 
 
 And the worm quickly make my mar- 
 riage-bed. 
 
 For underground there is no sleepless 
 bed: 
 
 But here since 1 beheld my sunflower 
 
 These eyes have slept not, seeing all 
 night and day 
 
 His sunlike eyes, and face fronting the 
 sun. 
 
 Wherefore, if anywhere be any death, 
 
 I would fain find and fold him fast to 
 me. 
 
 That I may sleep with the world's eld- 
 est dead. 
 
 With her that died seven centuries 
 since, and her 
 
 That went last night down the night- 
 wandering way. 
 
 For this is sleep indeed, when labor is 
 done, 
 
 Without love, without dreams, and with- 
 out breath, 
 ithout th( 
 of thee. 
 
 Ah! but, forgetting all things, shall I 
 
 thee ? 
 Wilt thou not be as now about my bed 
 There underground as here before the 
 
 sun .'' 
 Shall not thy vision vex me alive and 
 
 dead. 
 Thy moving vision without form or 
 
 breath ? 
 I read long since the bitter tale of her 
 Who read the tale of Launcelot on a 
 
 day. 
 And died', and had no quiet after death, 
 But was moved ever along a weary way. 
 Lost with her love in the underworld; 
 
 ah me, 
 O my king, () my lordly sunflower. 
 Would Cod to me, too, such a thing 
 
 were done ! 
 
 But if such sweet and bitter things be 
 
 done, 
 'I hen, flying from life, I shall not fly 
 
 from thee. 
 For in that livini' world without a .'^ua 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 537 
 
 Vhy vision will lay hold upon me 
 
 citad, 
 And meet and mock me, and mar my 
 
 peace in death. 
 Yet if being wroth, God had such pity 
 
 on her, 
 Who was a sinner and foolish in her 
 
 day. 
 That even in hell they twain should 
 
 breathe one breath, 
 Why should he not in some wise pity 
 
 me ? 
 So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed, 
 I may look up and see my sunflower 
 As he the sun, in some divine strange 
 
 way. 
 
 poor my heart, well knowest thou in 
 
 what way 
 This sore sweet evil unto us was done. 
 For on a holy and a heavy day 
 
 1 was arisen out of my still small bed 
 To see the knights tilt, and one said to 
 
 me 
 " The king ; " and seeing him, somewhat 
 
 stopped my breath ; 
 And if the girl spake more, I heard not 
 
 her. 
 For only I saw what I shall see when 
 
 dead, 
 A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower. 
 That shone against the sunlight like 
 
 the sun. 
 And like a fire, O heart, consuming 
 
 thee. 
 The fire of love that lights the pyre of 
 
 death. 
 
 ITowbeit I shall not die an evil death 
 
 Who have loved in such a sad and sin- 
 less way. 
 
 That this my love, lord, was no shame 
 to thee. 
 
 So when mine eyes are shut against the 
 sun, 
 
 O my soul's sun, O the world's sun- 
 flower. 
 
 Thou nor no man will quite despise me 
 dead. 
 
 And dying I pray with all my low last 
 breath 
 
 That thy whole life may be as was that 
 day, 
 
 T'hat feast-day that made trothplight 
 death and me. 
 
 Giving the world light of thy great 
 deeds done ; 
 
 And that fair face brightening thy bri- 
 dal bed. 
 
 That God be good as God hath been to 
 her. 
 
 That all things goodly and glad remain 
 with her, 
 
 All things that make glad life and good- 
 ly death ; 
 
 That as a bee sucks from a sunflower 
 
 Honey, when sunmier draws delighted 
 breath, 
 
 Her soul may drink of thy soul in like 
 way, 
 
 And love make life a fruitful marriage- 
 bed 
 
 Where day may bring forth fruits of joy 
 to day 
 
 And night to night till days and nights 
 be dead. 
 
 And as she gives light of her love to 
 thee. 
 
 Give thou to her the old glory of days 
 long done ; 
 
 And either give some heat of light to me, 
 
 To warm me where I sleep without the 
 sun. 
 
 O sunflower made drunken with the sun, 
 O knight whose lady's heart draws thine 
 
 to her. 
 Great king, glad lover, I have a word to 
 
 thee. 
 There is a weed lives out of the sun's 
 
 way, 
 Hid from the heat deep in the meadow's 
 
 bed. 
 That swoons and whitens at the wind's 
 
 least breath, 
 A flower star-shaped, that all a summer 
 
 day 
 Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower 
 For very love till twilight finds her dead. 
 But the great sunflower heeds not her 
 
 poor death. 
 Knows not when all her loving life is 
 
 done ; 
 And so much knows my lord the king 
 
 of me. 
 
538 
 
 POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 Ay, all day long he has no eye for 
 
 me ; 
 With golden eye followuig the golden 
 
 sun 
 From rose-colored to purple-pillowed 
 
 bed, 
 From birthplace to the flame-lit place of 
 
 death, 
 From eastern end to western of his 
 
 way. 
 So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower. 
 So the white star-flower turns and yearns 
 
 to thee, 
 The sick weak weed, not well alive or 
 
 dead. 
 Trod under foot if any pass by her, 
 Pale, without color of summer or sum- 
 mer breath 
 In the shrunk shuddering petals, that 
 
 have done 
 No work but love, and die before the 
 
 day. 
 
 But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every 
 
 day, 
 I>e glad and great, O love whose love 
 
 slays me. 
 Thy fervent flower made fruitful from 
 
 the sun 
 Shall drop its golden seed in the world's 
 
 way. 
 That all men thereof nourished shall 
 
 praise thee 
 For grain and flower and fruit of works 
 
 well done ; 
 Till thv shed seed, O shining sunflower, 
 iJring forth such growth of the world's 
 
 garden-bed 
 As like the sun shall outlive age and 
 
 death. 
 And yet I would thine heart had heed 
 
 of her 
 Who loves thee alive; but not till she 
 
 be dead. 
 Come, Love, then, (|uickly, and take 
 
 her utmost breath. 
 
 Song, speak for me who am dumb as 
 
 are the dead ; 
 From my sad beil of tears I send ft»rth 
 
 thee, 
 To fly all day from sun's birth \.o sun's 
 
 death' 
 
 Down the sun's way after the flying 
 
 sun. 
 For love of her that gave thee wings 
 
 and breath 
 Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower. 
 
 FOR THE FEAST OF GIORDANO 
 BRUNO, 
 
 PHILOSOPHER AND MARTYR. 
 I. 
 
 Son of the lightning and the light that 
 glows 
 Beyond the lightning's or the morn- 
 ing's light. 
 Soul splendid with all-righteous love 
 of right. 
 In whose keen fire all hopes and fears 
 
 and woes 
 Were clean consumed, and from their 
 ashes rose 
 Transfigured, and intolerable to 
 
 sight 
 Save of purged eyes whose lids had 
 cast off night. 
 In love's and wisdom's likeness when 
 
 they close, 
 Embracing, and between them truth 
 stands fast. 
 Embraced of either; thou whose feet 
 
 were set 
 On English earth while this was Eng- 
 land yet. 
 Our friend that art, our Sidney's frienc 
 
 that wast, 
 Heart hardier found and higher than all 
 men's past, 
 Shall we not praise thee though thine 
 own forget .•' 
 
 Lift up thy light on us and on thine 
 own, 
 () soul whose spirit on earth was as 
 
 a rod 
 To scourge off priests, a sword to 
 pierce their God, 
 \ staff for man's free thought to walk 
 alone, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 539 
 
 A. lamp to lead him far from shrine and 
 throne 
 On ways untrodden where his fathers 
 
 trod 
 Ere earth's heart withered at a high 
 priest's nod, 
 And all men's mouths that made not 
 
 prayer made moan. 
 From bonds and torments and the 
 ravening flame, 
 Surely thy spirit of sense rose up to 
 
 greet 
 Lucretius, where such only spirits 
 meet, 
 And walk with him apart till Shelley 
 came 
 To make the heaven of heavens more 
 heavenly swe«^t, 
 And mix with yours a third incorporate 
 name. 
 
 AVE ATQUE VALE. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. 
 
 Nous devious pourtant lui porter quelques 
 
 fleurs ; 
 Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes 
 
 doiileurs, 
 Et quand Octobre souffle, emondeur des 
 
 vieux arbres, 
 Son vent melancolique \ I'entour de leurs 
 
 marbres, 
 Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien 
 
 ingrats. 
 
 Les Fleurs dii Mai. 
 
 Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or 
 laurel. 
 Brother, on this that was the veil of 
 
 thee } 
 Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the 
 sea, 
 Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet 
 or sorrel, 
 Such as the summer-sleepy dryads 
 
 weave, 
 Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains 
 at eve ? 
 
 Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before. 
 Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with 
 
 heat 
 And full of bitter summer, but more 
 sweet 
 To thee than gleanings of a northern 
 shore 
 Trod by no tropic feet .'' 
 
 For always thee the fervid languid 
 
 glories 
 Allured of heavier suns in mightier 
 
 skies ; 
 Thine ears knew all the wandering 
 
 watery sighs 
 Where the sea sobs round Lesbian 
 
 promontories. 
 The barren kiss of piteous wave to 
 
 wave 
 That knows not where is that Leu- 
 
 cadian grave 
 Which hides too deep the supreme head 
 
 of song. 
 Ah ! salt and sterile as her kisses were, 
 The wild sea winds her and the green 
 
 gulfs bear 
 Hither and thither, and vex and work 
 
 her wrong. 
 Blind gods that cannot spare. 
 
 III. 
 Thou sawest, in thine old singing sea- 
 son, brother. 
 Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us : 
 Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds 
 poisonous, 
 Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none- 
 other 
 Blowing by night in some unbreathcd 
 
 m clime ; 
 The hidden harvest of luxurious time, 
 Sin without shape, and pleasure without 
 speech ; 
 And where strange dreams in a tu- 
 multuous sleep 
 Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits 
 weep ; 
 And with each face thou sawest the 
 shadow on each, 
 Seeing as men sow men reap. 
 
540 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 O sleepless heart and sombre soul un- 
 sleeping. 
 That were athirst for sleep and no 
 
 more life 
 And no more love, for peace and no 
 more strife ! 
 Now the dim gods of death have ii 
 their keeping 
 Spirit and body and all the springs 
 
 of song, 
 Is it well now where love can do no 
 wrong, 
 Where stingless pleasure has no foam 
 or fang 
 Behind the unopening closure of her 
 
 lips ? 
 Is it not well where soul from body 
 slips, 
 And flesh from bone divides without a 
 pang 
 As dew from flower-bell drips ? 
 
 It is enough : the end and the beginning 
 Are one thing to thee, who art past 
 
 the end. 
 O hand unclasped of unbeholden 
 friend ! 
 For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms 
 for winning. 
 No triumph ai\d no labor and no lust, 
 Only dead yew-leaves and a little 
 dust. 
 () quiet eyes wherein the light saith 
 naught. 
 Whereto the day is dumb, nor any 
 
 night 
 With obscure finger silences your 
 sight, 
 Nor in your speech the sudden soul 
 speaks thought, 
 Sleep, and have sleep for light. 
 
 Now all strange hours and all strange 
 loves arc over. 
 Dreams and desires and sombre songs 
 
 and sweet. 
 Hast thou found place at the great 
 knees and feet 
 Uf some pale Titan-woman like a lover, 
 
 Such as thy vision here solicited, 
 
 Under the shadow of her fair vast 
 head, 
 The deep division of prodigious breasts, 
 
 The solemn slope of mighty limbs 
 asleej), 
 
 The weight of awful tresses that still 
 keep 
 The savor and shade of old-world pine- 
 forests 
 
 Where the wet hill-winds weep.'' 
 
 Hast thou found any likeness for thy 
 vision } 
 O gardener of strange flowers, what 
 
 bud, what bloom. 
 Hast thou found sown, what gathered 
 in the gloom ? 
 What of despair, of rapture, of deris- 
 ion. 
 What of life is there, what of ill or 
 
 good ? 
 Are the fruits gray like dust, or bright 
 like blood } 
 Does the dim ground grow any seed of 
 ours, 
 The faint fields quicken any terrene 
 
 root. 
 In low lands where the sun and moon 
 are mute. 
 And all the stars keep silence.' Are 
 there flowers 
 At all, or any fruit? 
 
 Alas! but though my flying song flies 
 after, 
 
 O sweet strange elder singer, thy 
 more fleet 
 
 Singing, and footprints of thv fleeter 
 feet, 
 Some dim derision of mysterious laugh- 
 ter 
 
 From the blind tongueless warders of 
 the dead. 
 
 Some gainless glimj-jse of Proser- 
 pine's veiled head. 
 Some little sound of unregarded tears 
 
 Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, 
 
 And from pale mouths some cadence 
 of dead sighs, — 
 
POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 541 
 
 These, only these, the hearkening spirit 
 hears. 
 Sees only such things rise. 
 
 Thou art far too far for wings of words 
 
 to follow, 
 Far too far off for thought or any 
 
 prayer. 
 What ails us with thee, who art wind 
 
 and air ? 
 What ails us gazing where all seen is 
 
 hollow ? 
 Yet with some fancy, yet with some 
 
 desire, 
 Dreams pursue death as winds a fly 
 
 ing fire, 
 Our dreams pursue our dead, and do 
 
 not find. 
 Still, and more swift than they, the 
 
 thin flame flies. 
 The low light fails us in elusive skies, 
 Still the foiled earnest ear is deaf, and 
 
 blind 
 Are still the eluded eyes. 
 
 Not thee, oh ! never thee, in all time's 
 changes, 
 
 Not thee, but this the sound of thy 
 sad soul, 
 
 The shadow of thy swift spirit, this 
 shut scroll 
 I lay my hand on, and not death es- 
 tranges 
 
 My spirit from communion of thy 
 song; 
 
 These memories and these melodies 
 that throng 
 Veiled porches of a Muse funereal, — 
 
 These I salute, these touch, these 
 clasp and fold 
 
 As though a hand w,ere in my hand 
 to hold. 
 Or through mine ears a mourning musi- 
 cal 
 
 Of many mourners rolled. 
 
 f among these, I also, in such station 
 As when the pyre was charred, and 
 piled the sods, 
 
 And offering to the dead made, and 
 
 their gods. 
 The old mourners had, standing to make 
 
 libation, 
 I stand, and to the gods and to the 
 
 dead 
 Do reverence without prayer or praise, 
 
 and shed 
 Offering to these unknown, the gods of 
 
 gloom. 
 And what of honey and spice my 
 
 seed-lands bear. 
 And what I may of fruits in this 
 
 chilled air, 
 And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb 
 A curl of severed hair. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But by no hand nor any treason stricken. 
 Not like the low-lying head of Him, 
 
 the king, 
 The flame that made of Troy a ruin- 
 ous thing. 
 Thou liest, and on this dust no tears 
 could quicken 
 There fall no tears like theirs that all 
 
 men hear 
 Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear 
 Down the opening leaves of holy poets' 
 pages. 
 Thee not Orestes, not Electra, 
 
 mourns ; 
 But bending us-ward with memorial 
 urns 
 The most high Muses that fulfil all ages 
 Weep, and our God's heart yearns. 
 
 For, sparing of his sacred strength, not 
 often 
 Among us darkling here the lord of 
 
 light 
 Makes manifest his music and his 
 might 
 In hearts that open and in lips tha: 
 soften 
 With the soft flame and heat of songs 
 
 that shine. 
 Thy lips indeed he touched with bittei 
 . wine. 
 
54- 
 
 rOEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 And nourished them indeed with bitter 
 bread ; 
 Yet surely from his hand thy soul's 
 
 food came, 
 The fire that scarred thy spirit at his 
 flame 
 Was lighted, and thine hungering heart 
 he fed 
 Who feeds our hearts with fame. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Therefore he too now at thy soul's sun- 
 setting, 
 God of all suns and songs, he too 
 
 bends down 
 To mix his laurel with thy cypress 
 crown, 
 And save thy dust from blame and from 
 
 forgetting. 
 Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert 
 and art. 
 Compassionate, with sad and sacred 
 heart, 
 Mourns thee of many his children the 
 last dead. 
 And hallows with strange tears and 
 
 alien sighs 
 Thine unmelodious mouth and sun- 
 less eyes, 
 And over thine irrevocable head 
 Sheds light from the u.ider skies. 
 
 Knd one weeps with him in the ways 
 Lethean, 
 And stains with tears her changing 
 
 bosom chill ; 
 That obscure Venus of the hollow 
 hill, 
 I'hat thing transformed which was the 
 Cythcrean, 
 With lips that lost their Grecian laugh 
 
 divine 
 Long since, and face no more called 
 iCrycinc 
 \ ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. 
 Thee also with fair flesh and singing 
 
 spell 
 Did she, a sad and second prey, com- 
 pel 
 Into the footless places once more trod, 
 And shadows hot from hell. 
 
 And now no sacred staff shall break in 
 blossom, 
 No choral salutation lure to light 
 A spirit sick with perfume and sweet 
 night 
 And love's tired eyes and hands and 
 barren bosom. 
 There Is no help for these things; 
 
 none to mend. 
 And none to mar ; not all our songs, 
 O friend ! 
 Will make death clear, or make life 
 durable. 
 Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild 
 
 vine 
 And with wild notes about this dust 
 of thine 
 At least I fill the place where white 
 dreams dwell, 
 And wreathe an unseen shrine. 
 
 Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, 
 
 pardon, 
 If sweet, give thanks ; thou hast no 
 
 more to live ; 
 And to give thanks is good, and to 
 
 forgive. 
 Out of the mystic and the mournful 
 
 garden 
 Where all day through thine hands 
 
 in barren braid 
 Wove the sick flowers of secrecy 
 
 and shade. 
 Green buds of sorrow and sin, and 
 
 remnants grav. 
 Sweet-smelling, jxile with poison, san- 
 guine-hearted. 
 Passions that sprang from sleep and 
 
 thoughts that started. 
 Shall death not bring us all as thee one 
 
 day 
 Among the days departed ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 For thee, oh, now a silent soul, my 
 
 brother. 
 Take at my hands this garland, ami 
 
 farewell. 
 Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry 
 
 smell, 
 
POEMS AiVD BALLADS. 
 
 543 
 
 And chill the solemn earth, a fatal 
 mother, 
 With sadder than the Niobean womb, 
 And in the hollow of her breasts a 
 tomb. 
 Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are 
 done : 
 There lies not any troublous thing 
 
 before, 
 Nor sight nor sound to war against 
 thee more, 
 For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, 
 All waters as the shore. 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF TH^OFHILE GAU- 
 TIER. 
 
 Death, what hast thou to do with me .? 
 
 So saith 
 Love, with eyes set against the face of 
 
 Death ; 
 What have I done, O thou strong 
 
 Death, to thee, 
 That mine own lips should wither from 
 
 thy breath } 
 
 Though thou be blind as fire or as the 
 
 sea. 
 Why should thy waves and storms make 
 
 war on me ? 
 Is it for hate thou hast to find me fair, 
 Or for desire to kiss, if it might be, — 
 
 My very mouth of song, and kill me 
 there ? 
 
 So with keen rains vexing his crownless 
 hair. 
 With bright feet bruised from no de- 
 lightful way. 
 
 Through darkness and the disenchanted 
 air, — 
 
 Lost Love went weeping half a winter's 
 day. 
 
 And the armed wind that smote him 
 seemed to say, 
 How shall the dew live when the 
 dawn is fled. 
 
 Or wherefore should the Mayflower out- 
 last May ? 
 
 Then Death took Love by the right 
 
 hand, and said, 
 Smiling, Come now, and look upon thy 
 
 dead, 
 l^ut Love cast down the glories of his 
 
 eyes, 
 Aird bowed down like a flower his 
 
 flowerless head. 
 
 And Death spake, saying, What ails 
 
 thee in such wise, 
 Being god, to shut thy sight up from the 
 
 skies .-' 
 If thou canst see not, hast thou ears 
 
 to hear .'' 
 Or is thy soul too as a leaf that dies ? 
 
 Even as he spake with fleshless lips of 
 fear, 
 
 l^ut soft as sleep sings in a tired man's 
 ear, 
 Behold, the winter was not, and 'ts 
 might 
 
 Fell, and fruits broke forth of the bar- 
 ren year. 
 
 And upon earth was largess of great 
 light. 
 
 And moving music winged for world- 
 wide flight, 
 And shapes and sounds of gods be- 
 held and heard, 
 
 And day's foot set upon the neck ol 
 night. 
 
 And with such song the hollow ways 
 
 were stirred 
 As of a god's heart hidden in a bird, 
 Or as the whole soul of the sun in 
 
 spring 
 Should find full utterance in one flower- 
 
 soft word, — 
 
 And all the season should break forth 
 
 and sing 
 From one flower's lips, in one rose tri- 
 
 umjjhing ; 
 Such breath and light of song as of a 
 
 flame 
 Made ears and spirits of them that heard 
 
 it ring. 
 
544 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 And Love beholding knew not for the 
 
 same 
 The shape that led him, nor in face nor 
 
 name ; 
 For he was bright, and great of thews, 
 
 and fair, 
 And in Love's eyes he was not Death, 
 
 but Fame. 
 
 Not that gray ghost whose life is empty 
 
 and bare, 
 And his limbs moulded out of mortal 
 
 air, 
 A cloud of change that shifts into a 
 
 shower. 
 And dies, and leaves no light for time to 
 
 wear ; 
 
 llut a god clothed with his own joy and 
 
 power, 
 A god re-nsen out of his mortal 
 
 hour 
 Immortal, king and lord of time and 
 
 s]jacc, 
 With eyes that look on them as from a 
 
 tower. 
 
 And where he stood the pale sepulchral 
 
 place 
 liloomed, as new 'ife might in a blood 
 
 less face. 
 And where men sorrowing came to 
 
 seek a tomb 
 With funeral flowers and tears for grief 
 
 and grace, — 
 
 They saw with light as of a world in 
 
 bloom 
 The portal of the House of Fame 
 
 illume 
 The ways of life wherein we toiling 
 
 tread. 
 And watched the darkness as a brand 
 
 consunic. 
 
 And through the gates where rule the 
 
 deathless dead 
 The sound of a new singer's soul was 
 
 shed 
 That sang among his kinsfolk, and a 
 
 beam 
 Shot from the star on a new ruler's 
 
 head ; 
 
 A new star lightening the Lethean 
 stream, 
 
 A new song mixed into the song su- 
 preme 
 Made of all souls of singers and their 
 might. 
 
 That makes of life and time and death 
 a dream : 
 
 Thy star, thy song, O soul that in our 
 sight 
 
 Wast as a sun that made for man's 
 delight 
 Flowers and all fruits in season, be- 
 ing so near 
 
 The sun-god's face, our god that gives 
 us light. 
 
 To him, of all gods that we love or 
 
 fear. 
 Thou among all men by thy name wast 
 
 dear, — 
 Dear to the god that gives us spirit 
 
 of song 
 To bind and burn all hearts of men 
 
 that hear ; 
 
 The god that makes men's words too 
 
 sweet and strong 
 For life or time or death to do them 
 
 wrong. 
 Who sealed with his thy spirit for a 
 
 sign. 
 And filled it with his breath thy whole 
 
 life long; 
 
 Who made thy moist lips fiery with new 
 wine 
 
 Pressed from the grapes of song the 
 sovereign vine. 
 And with all love of all things loveli- 
 est 
 
 Gave thy soul power to make thoni 
 more divine. — 
 
 That thou niight'st breathe upon the 
 
 breathless rest 
 Of marble, till the brows and lips and 
 
 breast 
 Felt fall from off them as a cancelled 
 
 curse 
 That speechless slccj) wherewith they \ 
 
 lived opprest ; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 545 
 
 Who gave thee strength and heat of 
 spirit to pierce 
 
 All clouds of form and color that dis- 
 perse, 
 And leave the spirit of beauty to 
 re-mould 
 
 In types of clean chryselephantine 
 verse; 
 
 Who gave thee vk-ords more golden than 
 
 fine gold 
 To carve in shapes more glorious than 
 
 of old. 
 And build thy songs up in the sight 
 
 of time 
 As statues set in godhead manifold, — 
 
 In sight and scorn of temporal change 
 
 and clime 
 That meet the sun re-risen with refluent 
 
 rhyme — 
 As god to god might answer face to 
 
 face — 
 From lips whereon the morning strikes 
 
 sublime. 
 
 Dear to the god, our god who gave thee 
 
 place 
 Among the chosen of days, the royal 
 
 race, 
 The lords of light, whose eyes of old 
 
 and ears 
 Saw even on earth and heard him for a 
 
 space. 
 
 There are the souls of those once mor- 
 tal years 
 
 That wrought with fire of joy and light 
 of tears, 
 In words divine as deeds that grew 
 thereof, 
 
 Such music as he swoons with love who 
 hears. 
 
 There are the lives that lighten from 
 above 
 
 Our under lives, the spheral souls that 
 move 
 Through the ancient heaven of song- 
 illumined air, 
 
 Whence we that hear them singing die 
 with love. 
 
 There all the crowned Hellenic heads, 
 
 and there 
 The old gods who made men godlike 
 
 as they were. 
 The lyric lips wherefrom all songs 
 
 take fire. 
 Live eyes, and light of Apollonian hair. 
 
 There, round the sovereign passion of 
 
 that lyre 
 Which the stars hear, and tremble with 
 
 desire. 
 The ninefold light Pierian is made one 
 That here we see divided, and aspire. — 
 
 Seeing, after this or that crown to be 
 
 won ; 
 But where they hear the singing of the 
 
 sun. 
 All form, all sound, all color, and all 
 
 thought 
 Are as one body and soul in unison. 
 
 There the'song sung shines as a picture 
 
 wrought. 
 The painted mouths sing that on earth 
 
 say naught. 
 The carven limbs have sense of blood 
 
 and growth. 
 And large-eyed life that sseks nor lacks 
 
 not aught. 
 
 There all the music of thy living mouth 
 Lives, and all loves wrought of thine 
 
 hand in youth, 
 And bound 'about the breasts and 
 
 brows with gold, 
 And colored pale or dusk from north 
 
 or south. 
 
 Fair living things made to thy will of old, 
 Born of thy lips, no births of mortal 
 
 mould. 
 That in the world of song about thee 
 
 wait 
 Where thought and truth are one and 
 
 manifold. 
 
 Within the graven lintels of the gate 
 That here divides our vision and our fate, 
 The dreams we walk in and the 
 truths of sleep. 
 All sense and spirit have life inseparate. 
 
546 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 There, what one thinks, is his to grasp 
 and keep ; 
 
 There are no dreams, but very joys to 
 reap ; 
 No foiled desires that die before de- 
 light. 
 
 No fears to see across our joys, and 
 weep. 
 
 There hast thou all thy will of thought 
 
 and sight. 
 All hope for harvest, and all heaven for 
 
 flight; 
 The sunrise of whose golden-mouthed 
 
 glad head 
 To paler songless ghosts was heat and 
 
 light. 
 
 Here, where the sunset of our year is 
 
 red, 
 Men think of thee as of the summer 
 
 dead. 
 Gone forth before the snows, before 
 
 thy day. 
 With unshod feet, with brows un- 
 
 chaplcted. 
 
 Couldst thou not wait till age had 
 
 wound, they say. 
 Round those wreathed brows his soft 
 
 white blossoms .'' Nay, 
 Why shouldst thou vex thy soul with 
 
 this harsh air, — 
 Thy bright-winged soul, once free to 
 
 take its way .'' 
 
 Nor for men's reverence hadst thou 
 
 need to wear 
 The holy flower of gray time-hallowed 
 
 hair ; 
 Nor were it fit that aught of thee 
 
 grew old. 
 Fair lover all thy days of all things 
 
 fair. 
 
 And hear we not thy words of molten 
 
 gold 
 Singing? or is their light and heat 
 
 a-cold 
 Whereat men warmed their spirits? 
 
 Nay, for all 
 These yet are with us, ours to hear and 
 
 hold. 
 
 The lovely laughter, the clear tears, the 
 
 call 
 Of love to love on wavs where shadows 
 
 fall. 
 Through doors of dim division and 
 
 disguise, 
 And music made of doubts unmusical 
 
 The love that caught strange light from 
 
 death's own eyes,' 
 And filled death's lips with fiery words 
 
 and sighs. 
 And half asleep let feed from veins 
 
 of his 
 Her close red warm snake's mouth. 
 
 Egyptian-wise : 
 
 And that great night of love more 
 strange than this,^ 
 
 When she that made the whole world's 
 bale and bliss 
 Made king of the whole world's de- 
 sire a slave, 
 
 And killed him in mid kingdom with a 
 kiss; 
 
 Veiled loves that shifted shapes and 
 
 shafts, and gave,^ 
 Laughing, strange gifts to hands that 
 
 durst not crave, 
 Flowers doubled-blossomed, fruits of 
 
 scent and hue 
 Sweet as the bride bed, stranger than 
 
 the grave ; 
 
 All joys and wonders of old lives and 
 
 new 
 That ever in love's shine or shadow 
 
 grew. 
 And all the grief whereof he dreams 
 
 and grieves, 
 And all sweet roots fed on his light and 
 
 dew ; 
 
 All these through thee our spirit of 
 
 sense perceives, 
 As threads in the unseen woof thy music 
 
 weaves, 
 
 * I..T Mortc Amourcusp. 
 2 Unc Niiit <if CleopAtrc. 
 ^ MadcinoJhcllc dc M.iupin. 
 
POEMS AND h'A/.LA/XS. 
 
 54; 
 
 Birds caught and snared that fill our 
 
 ears with thee, 
 ay-blossoms in thy wreath of brow- 
 bound leaves. 
 
 ^lixed with the masque of death's old 
 
 comedy 
 Though thou too pass, have here our 
 
 flowers, that we 
 For all the flowers thou gav'st upon 
 
 thee shed, 
 ).nd pass not crownless to Persephone. 
 
 Blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy- 
 red 
 
 We wind with poppies for thy silent 
 head. 
 And on this margin of the sundering 
 sea 
 
 Leave thy sweet light to rise upon the 
 dead. 
 
 AGE AND SONG. 
 
 (to BARRY CORNWALL.) 
 
 In vain men tell us time can alter 
 Old loves, or make old memories falter ; 
 That with the old year the old year's 
 life closes. 
 The old dew still falls on the old sweet 
 
 flowers. 
 The old sun revives the new-fledged 
 hours. 
 The old summer rears the new-born 
 roses. 
 
 n. 
 Much more a Muse that bears upon her 
 Raiment and wreath and flower of 
 honor. 
 Gathered long since and long since 
 woven. 
 Fades not or falls as fall the vernal 
 Blossoms that bear no fruit eternal. 
 By summer or winter charred or 
 cloven. 
 
 HI. 
 
 No time casts down, no time upraises, 
 Such loves, such memories, and such 
 praises, 
 
 As need no grace of sun or shower, 
 No saving screen from frost or thunder. 
 To tend and house around and under 
 
 The imperishable and fearless flower 
 
 IV. 
 
 Old thanks, old thoughts, old aspira 
 
 tions, 
 Outlive men's lives and lives of na- 
 tions, 
 Dead, but for one thing which sur- 
 vives — 
 The inalienable and unpriced treasure. 
 The old joy of power, the old pride of 
 pleasure. 
 That lives in light above men's lives. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF BARRY CORN 
 WALL. 
 
 (Oct. 4, 1874.) 
 
 In the garden of death, where the sing- 
 ers whose names are deathless 
 One with another make music un- 
 heard of men, 
 
 Where the dead sweet roses fade not 
 of lips long^breathless. 
 And the fair eyes shine that shall 
 weep not or change again. 
 
 Who comes now crowned with the 
 blossom of snow-white yea.s? 
 
 What music is this that the world of 
 the dead men hears ? 
 
 Beloved of men, whose words on our 
 
 lips were honey. 
 Whose name in our ears and our 
 
 fathers' ears was sweet. 
 Like summer gone forth of the land his 
 
 songs made sunny, 
 To the beautiful veiled bright world 
 
 where the glad ghosts meet. 
 Child, father, bridegroom and bride, 
 
 and anguish and rest. 
 No soul shall pass of a singer than this 
 
 more blest. 
 
4S 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Hlest for the years' sweet sake that were 
 
 filled and brightened, 
 As a forest with birds, with the fruit 
 
 and the flower of his song ; 
 For the souls' sake blest that heard, and 
 
 their cares were lightened, 
 For the hearts' sake blest that have 
 
 fostered his name so long ; 
 By the living and dead lips blest that 
 
 have loved his name, 
 And clothed with their praise and 
 
 crowned with their love for fame. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah, fair and fragrant his fame as flowers 
 
 that close not, 
 That shrink not by day for heat or 
 
 for cold by night. 
 As a thought in the heart shall increase 
 
 when the heart's self knows not. 
 Shall endure in our ears as a sound, 
 
 in our eyes as a light; 
 Shall wax with the years that wane 
 
 and the seasons' chime. 
 As a white rose thornless that grows in 
 
 the garden of time. 
 
 The same year calls, and one goes hence 
 
 with another. 
 And men sit sad that were glad for 
 
 their sweet songs' sake ; 
 The same year beckons, and elder with 
 
 younger brother 
 Takes mutely the cup from his hand 
 
 that we all shall take.' 
 They pass ere the leaves be past or the 
 
 snows be come ; 
 And the birds are loud, but the lips 
 
 that outsang them dumb. 
 
 Time takes them home that we loved, 
 fair names and famous. 
 To the soft long sleej), to the broad 
 sweet bosom of death ; 
 
 IJut the flower of their souls he shall 
 take not away to shame us, 
 
 » Sydney Dobcll died Aug. aa, 1874. 
 
 Nor the lips lack song forever that 
 now lack breath. 
 
 For with us shall the music and per- 
 fume that die not dwell. 
 
 Though the dead to our dead bid wel 
 come, and we farewell. 
 
 EPICEDE. 
 
 (James Lorimer Graham died at Florence, ApriJ 
 30, 1876.) 
 
 Life may give for love to death 
 Little . what are life's gifts worth 
 To the dead wrapt round with earth ? 
 
 Yet from lips of living breath 
 
 Sighs or words we are fain to give, 
 All that yet, while yet we live, 
 
 Life may give for love to death. 
 
 Dead so long before his day. 
 Passed out of the Italian sun 
 To the dark where all is done 
 
 Fallen upon the verge of May; 
 Here at life's and April's end 
 How should song salute my friend 
 
 Dead so long before his day 1 
 
 Not a kindlier life or sweeter, 
 
 Time, that lights and quenches men, 
 Now may quench or light again ; 
 
 Mingling with the mystic metre 
 Woven of all men's lives with his. 
 Not a clearer note than this. 
 
 Not a kindlier life or sweeter. 
 
 In this heavenlicst part of earth 
 He that living loved the light, 
 Light and song, may rest aright. 
 
 One in death, if strange in birth, 
 With the deathless dead that make 
 Life the lovelier for their sake 
 
 In this heavenliest part of earth. 
 
 Light, and song, and sleep at last, — 
 Struggling hands and suj^pliant knees 
 Clet no goodlier gift than these. 
 
 Song that holds remembrance fast, 
 Light that lightens death, attend 
 Round their graves who have to 
 friend 
 
 Light, and song, and sleep at last. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 549 
 
 INFERI^. 
 
 Spring, and the light and sound of 
 
 things on earth 
 Re-quickening, all within our green 
 
 sea's girth ; 
 A time of passage or a time of birth 
 Fourscore years since as this year, 
 
 first and last. 
 
 The sun is all about the world we see. 
 The breath and strength of very spring ; 
 
 and we 
 Live, love, and feed on our own hearts : 
 
 but he 
 Whose heart fed mine has passed 
 
 into the past. 
 
 Past, all things born with sense and 
 
 blood and lireath ; 
 The flesh hears naught that now the 
 
 spirit saith. 
 If death be like as birth, and birth 
 
 as death. 
 The first was fair — more fair should 
 
 be the last. 
 
 Fourscore years since, and come but 
 
 one month more. 
 The count were perfect of his mortal 
 
 score 
 Whose sail went seaward yesterday 
 
 from shore 
 To cross the last of many an unsailed 
 
 sea. 
 
 Light, love, and labor up to life's last 
 
 height, — 
 These three were stars unsetting in his 
 
 sight, 
 Even as the sun is life and heat and 
 
 light. 
 And sets not nor is dark when dark 
 
 are we. 
 
 The life, the spirit,land the work were one 
 That here — ah ! who shall say, that 
 
 here are done ? 
 Not I, that know not; father, not thy son. 
 For all the darkness of the night and 
 
 sea. 
 
 March 5, 1877. 
 
 A BIRTH-SONG. 
 
 (For Olivia Frances Madox Rossetti, born Sepl 
 20, 1875.) 
 
 Out of the dark sweet sleep 
 Where no dreams laugh or weep, 
 
 r)Orne through bright gates of birih 
 Into the dim sweet light 
 Where day still dreams of night 
 While heaven takes form on earth, 
 White rose of spirit and flesh, red lily 
 of love, 
 What note of song have we 
 Fit for the birds and thee, 
 Fair nestling couched beneath the 
 mother-dove .'' 
 
 Nay, in some more divine 
 Small speechless song of thine 
 
 Some news too good for words, 
 Heart-hushed and smiling, we 
 Might hope to have of thee. 
 The youngest of God's birds, 
 If thy sweet sense might mix itself with 
 ours, 
 If ours might understand 
 The language of thy land, 
 Ere thine become the tongue of mortal 
 hours : 
 
 Ere thy lips learn too soon 
 Their soft first human tune. 
 
 Sweet, but less sweet than now, 
 And thy raised eyes to read 
 Glad and good things indeed, 
 But none so sweet as thou : 
 Ere thought lift up their flower-soft lids 
 to see 
 What life and love on earth 
 Bring thee for gifts at birth, 
 But none so good as thine who hast 
 given us thee : 
 
 Now, ere thy sense forget 
 The heaven 'that fills it yet, 
 
 Now, sleeping or awake. 
 If thou couldst'tell, or we 
 Ask and be heard of thee, 
 
 For love's undying sake, 
 
550 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 From thy dumb lips divine and bright 
 mute speech 
 Such news might touch our ear 
 That then would burn to hear 
 Too high a message now for man's to 
 reach. 
 
 Ere the gold hair of corn 
 Had withered wast thou born, 
 
 To make the good time glad; 
 The time that but last year 
 Fell colder than a tear 
 
 On hearts and hopes turned sad. 
 High hopes and hearts requickening in 
 thv dawn, 
 Even theirs whose life-springs, child, 
 Filled thine with life and smiled. 
 But then wept blood for half their own 
 withdrawn.' 
 
 If death and birth be one, 
 And set with rise of sun, 
 
 And truth with dreams divine, 
 Some word might come with thee 
 From over the still sea 
 
 Deep hid in shade or shine. 
 Crossed by the crossing sails of death 
 and birth, 
 Word of some sweet new thing 
 Fit for such lips to bring. 
 Some word of love, some afterthought 
 of earth. 
 
 If love be strong as death, 
 By what so natural breath 
 
 As thine could this be said? 
 By what so lovely way 
 Could love send word to say 
 He lives and is not dead.'' 
 Such word alone were fit for only thee, 
 If his and thine have met 
 Where si)irits rise and set, 
 His whom wc see n<jt, thine whom 
 scarce we see : 
 
 His there new-born, as thou 
 New-born among us now ; 
 His, here so fruitful-souled, 
 
 ' Oliver M.iclox Brown died Nov. 5, 1874, in 
 his twentieth year. 
 
 Now veiled and silent here, 
 Now dumb as thou last year, 
 A ghost of one year old : 
 If lights that change their sphere in 
 changing meet. 
 Some ray might his not give 
 To thine who wast to live, 
 And make thy present with his past life 
 sweet 1 
 
 Let dreams that laugh or weep, 
 All glad and sad dreams, sleep; 
 
 Truth more than dreams is dear. 
 Let thoughts that change and fly, 
 Sweet thoughts and swift, go by; 
 More than all thought is here. 
 More than all hope can forge, or mem. 
 ory feign. 
 The life that in our eyes. 
 Made out of love's life, lies. 
 And flower-like fed with love for sun 
 and rain. 
 
 Twice royal in his root 
 The sweet small olive-shoof 
 Here set in sacred earth ; 
 Twice dowered with glorious grace 
 From either heaven-born race 
 thirst blended in its birth ; 
 Fair god or genius of so fair an hour, 
 For love of either name 
 Twice crowned, with love and fame. 
 Guard and be gracious to the tair-named 
 
 flower. 
 Oct. 19, 1875. 
 
 EX-VOTO. 
 
 When their last hour shall rise 
 Pale on these mortal eyes. 
 Herself like one that dies. 
 
 And kiss me dying 
 The cold last kiss, and fold 
 Close round my limbs her cold 
 Soft shade as raiment rolled. 
 
 And leave them lying, — 
 
 If aught my soul would say 
 Might move to hear me pray 
 The birth-god of mv day 
 That he might hearken, 
 
I'UhlM^ AXD BALLADS. 
 
 551 
 
 This grace my heart should crave, 
 To find no landward grave 
 That worldly springs make brave, 
 World's winters darken, — 
 
 Nor grow through gradual hours 
 The cold blind seed of flowers 
 Made by new beams and showers 
 
 From limbs that moulder. 
 Nor take my part with earth ; 
 Ikit find for death's new birth 
 A bed of larger girth, 
 
 More chaste and colder. 
 
 Not earth's for spring and fall, 
 Not earth's at heart, not all 
 Earth's making, though men call 
 
 Earth only mother, 
 Not hers at heart she bare 
 Me, but thy child, O fair 
 Sea, and thy brother's care. 
 
 The wind thy brother. 
 
 Vours was I born, and ye, 
 The sea-wind and the sea. 
 Made all my soul in me 
 
 A song forever, 
 A harp to string and smite 
 For love's sake of the bright 
 Wind and the sea's delight, 
 
 To fail them never : 
 
 Not while on this side death 
 I hear what either saith, 
 />nd drink of cither's breath 
 
 With heart's thanksgiving 
 That in my veins like wine 
 Some sharp salt blood of thine, 
 Some springtide ]3ulse of brine, 
 
 Yet leaps up living. 
 
 When thy salt lips well-nigh 
 Sucked in my mouth's last sigh, 
 Cirudged I so much to die 
 
 This death as others? 
 Was it no ease to think 
 The chalice from whose brink 
 Fate gave me death to drink 
 
 Was thine, — my mother's.-' 
 
 Thee too, the all-fostering earth, 
 Fair as thy fairest birth, 
 
 More than thy worthiest worth, 
 
 We call, we know thee. 
 More sweet and just and dread 
 Than live men highest of head 
 Or even thy holiest dead 
 
 Laid low below thee. 
 
 The sunbeam on the sheaf, 
 The dew-fall on the leaf. 
 All joy, all grace, all grief, 
 
 Are thine for giving : 
 Of thee our loves are born. 
 Our lives and loves, that mourn 
 And triumph ; tares with corn, 
 
 Dead seed with living; 
 
 All good and ill things done 
 In eye-shot of the sun 
 At last in thee made one 
 
 Rest well contented ; 
 All words of all man's breath, 
 And works he doth or saith, 
 All wholly done to death, 
 
 None long lamented. 
 
 A slave to sons of thee, 
 Thou, seeming, yet art free; 
 But who shall make the sea 
 
 vServe even in seeming? 
 What plough shall bid it bear 
 Seed to the sun and the air. 
 Fruit for thy strong sons' fare, 
 
 P>esh wine's foam streaming? 
 
 What old-world son of thine, 
 Made drunk with death as wine, 
 Hath drunk the bright sea's brine 
 
 With lips of laughter ? 
 Thy blood they drink; but he 
 Who hath drunken of the sea 
 Once deei)lier than of thee 
 
 Shall drink not after. 
 
 Of thee thy sons of men 
 
 Drink deep, and thirst again,— 
 
 For wine in feasts, and then 
 
 In fields for slaughter ; 
 I'.ut thirst shall touch not him 
 Who hath felt with sense grown dim 
 Rise, covermg lip and limb. 
 
 The wan sea's water. 
 
55^ 
 
 rOEArS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 All fire of thirst that aches 
 The salt sea cools and slakes 
 More than all springs or lakes, 
 
 Freshets or shallows ; 
 Wells where no beam can burn 
 Through frondage of the fern 
 That hides from hart and hern 
 
 The haunt it hallows. 
 
 Peace with all graves on earth 
 For death or sleep or birth 
 I5e alway, one in worth 
 
 One with another ; 
 P)Ut when my time shall be, 
 O mother, O my sea, 
 Alive or dead, take me, 
 
 Me too, my mother ! 
 
 PASTICHE. 
 
 Now the days are all gone over 
 
 Of our singing, love by lover. 
 
 Days of summer-colored seas 
 
 Blown adrift through beam and breeze. 
 
 Now the nights are al\ past over 
 Of our dreaming, dreams that hover 
 In a mist of fair false things. 
 Nights afloat on wide wan wings. 
 
 Now the loves with faith for mother, 
 Now the fears with hope for brother, 
 Scarce are with us as strange words, 
 Notes from songs of last year's birds. 
 
 Now all good that comes or goes is 
 As the smell of last year's roses, 
 As the radiance in our eyes 
 Shot from summer's ere he dies. 
 
 Now the morning faintlicr risen 
 Seems no god come forth of prison, 
 Hut a bird of plume-plucked wing, 
 I'ale with thoughts of evening. 
 
 Now hath hope, out-raced in running, 
 (iivcn the torch up of his cunning, 
 And the jialm he thought to wear, 
 Kvcn to his own strong child, — despair. 
 
 BEFORE SUNSET. 
 
 In the lower lands of day 
 
 On the hither side of night. 
 There is nothing that will stay. 
 
 There are all things soft to sight; 
 
 Lighted shade and shadowy light 
 In the wayside and the way. 
 
 Hours the sun has spared to smite.. 
 Flowers the rain has left to play. 
 
 Shall these hours run down and say 
 
 No good thing of thee and me ? 
 Time that made us and will slay 
 
 Laughs at love in me and thee; 
 
 l^ut if here the flowers may see 
 One whole hour of amorous breath, 
 
 Time shall die, and love shall be 
 Lord as time was over death. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Love laid his sleepless head 
 On a thorny rosy bed; 
 And his eyes with tears were red, 
 And pale his lips as the dead. 
 
 And fear and sorrow and scorn 
 Kejjt watch by his head forlorn, 
 Till the night was overworn. 
 And the world was merry with morn. 
 
 And Joy came up with the day, 
 And "kissed Love's lips as he lay, 
 And the watchers ghostly and gray 
 Sped from his pillow avvay. 
 
 And his eyes as the dawn grew br'g'xt. 
 And his lips waxed ruddy as light : 
 Sorrow may reign for a night. 
 But day shall bring back delight. 
 
 A VISION OF SPRING IN 
 WINTER. 
 
 O TENPF.R time that love thinks Jonj 
 to see, 
 Sweet foot of spring that with hei 
 footfall sows 
 
FORMS AXn r. ALL ADS. 
 
 553 
 
 Late snow-like flowery leavings of the 
 
 Too soft for arrows of the sun to mar. 
 
 snows, 
 
 Moves with the mild gait of an un- 
 
 Be not too long irresolute to be ! 
 
 grown moon : 
 
 mother-month, where have they hid 
 
 Hard overhead the half-lit crescent 
 
 den thee ? 
 
 swims, 
 
 Out of the pale time of the flowerless 
 
 The tender-colored night draws hard- 
 
 rose, 
 
 ly breath, 
 
 I reach my heart out toward the spring- 
 
 The light is listening; 
 
 time lands. 
 
 They watch the dawn of slender-shapen 
 
 I stretch my spirit forth to the fair 
 
 limbs, 
 
 hours. 
 
 Virginal, born again of doubtful death, 
 
 The purplest of the prime; 
 
 Chill foster-father of the weanling 
 
 I lean my soul down over them, with 
 
 spring. 
 
 hands 
 
 
 Made wide to take the ghostly 
 
 
 growths of flowers ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 I send my love back to the lovely 
 
 As sweet desire of day before the day, 
 
 time. 
 
 As dreams of love^ before the true 
 
 
 love born, 
 
 ir. 
 
 From the outer edge of winter over- 
 
 Where has the greenwood hid thy 
 
 worn 
 
 gracious head } 
 
 The ghost arisen of May before the 
 
 Veiled with what visions while the 
 
 May 
 
 gray world grieves, 
 
 Takes through dim air her unawakened 
 
 Or muffled with what shadows of 
 
 way, 
 
 green leaves, 
 
 The gracious ghost of morning risen 
 
 With warm intangible green shadows 
 
 ere morn. 
 
 spread 
 
 With little unblown breasts and child- 
 
 To sweeten the sweet twilight for thy 
 
 eyed looks 
 
 bed.> 
 
 Following, the very maid, the girl- 
 
 What sleep enchants thee ? what de- 
 
 child spring. 
 
 light deceives.? 
 
 Lifts windward her bright brows, 
 
 W^here the deep dreamlike dew before 
 
 Dips her light feet in warm and moving 
 
 the dawn 
 
 brooks, 
 
 Feels not the fingers of the sunlight 
 
 And kindles with her own mouth's 
 
 yet 
 
 coloring 
 
 Its silver web unweave, 
 
 The fearful firstlings of the plume- 
 
 Thy footless ghost on some unfooted 
 lawn 
 
 less boughs. 
 
 Whose air the unrisen sunbeams fear 
 
 
 to fret 
 
 V. 
 
 Lives a ghost's life of daylong dawn 
 and eve. 
 
 I seek thee sleeping, and awhile I see 
 
 Fair face that art not, how thy maiden 
 
 
 breath. 
 
 III. 
 
 Shall put at last the deadly days to 
 
 Sunrise it sees not, neither set of star, 
 
 death. 
 
 Large nightfall, nor imperial pleni- 
 
 And fill the fields and fire the woods 
 
 lune. 
 
 with thee, 
 
 Nor strong sweet shape of the full- 
 
 And seaward hollows where my feet 
 
 breasted noon ; 
 
 would be 
 
 But where the silver-sandalled shadows 
 
 When heaven shall hear the word 
 
 are, 
 
 that April saith 
 
554 
 
 POEMS AND BALI. A US. 
 
 To change the cold heart of the weary 
 time, 
 To stir and soften all the time to 
 tears, 
 Tears joyfuller than mirth; 
 As even to May's clear height the young 
 days climb 
 With feet not swifter than those fair 
 first years 
 Whose Howers revive not with thy 
 flowers on earth. 
 
 I would not bid thee, though T might, 
 give back 
 One good thing youth has given and 
 
 borne away : 
 I crave n<jt any comfort of the day 
 That is not, nor on time's re-trodden 
 
 track 
 Would turn to meet the white-robed 
 hours or black 
 That long since left me on their mor- 
 tal way; 
 Nc;r light nor love that has been, nor 
 the breath 
 That comes with morning from the 
 sun to be, 
 And sets light hope on fire ; 
 No fruit, no flower thought once too 
 fair for death. 
 No flower nor hour once fallen from i 
 life's green tree, , 
 
 No leaf once plucked, or once ful- j 
 filled desire. 
 
 The morning song beneath the stars 
 that '^it(\ 
 With twilight through the moonless 
 
 mountain air, 
 W'hilc youth with burning lips and 
 wreathless hair 
 Sang toward the sun that was to crown 
 
 his head, 
 Rising; the hopes that triumphed and 
 fell dead. 
 The sweet swift eyes and songs of 
 hours that were, — 
 These may'st thou not give back for- 
 ever ; these. 
 
 As at the sea's heart all her wrecks 
 lie waste. 
 Lie deeper than the sea • 
 But flowers thou may'st, and winds, and 
 hours of ease. 
 And all its April to the world thoj 
 may'st 
 Give back, and half my April bade 
 to me. 
 
 AT PARTING. 
 
 For a day and night Love sang to us, 
 played with us, 
 Folded us round from the dark and 
 the light; 
 And our hearts were fulfilled of the 
 
 music he made with us, 
 Made with our hearts and our lips while 
 he stayed with us, 
 Stayed in mid passage his pinions 
 from flight 
 For a day and a night. 
 
 From his foes that kept watch with his 
 wings had he hidden us. 
 Covered us close from the eyes that 
 would smite. 
 From the feet that had tracked and the 
 
 tongues that had chidden us 
 Sheltering in shade of the myrtles for- 
 bidden us 
 Spirit and flesh growing one with 
 delight 
 For a day and a night. 
 
 But his wings will not rest, and his feel 
 will not stay for us: 
 Morning is here in the joy of its 
 might; 
 With liisM)reath has he sweetened a 
 
 night and a dav for us: 
 Now let iiim pass, and the myrtles make 
 way for us ; 
 Love can but last in us here at his 
 height 
 For a day and a night. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS.. 
 
 555 
 
 THE WHITE CZAR. 
 
 fin an English magazine of 1877, there ap- 
 peared a version of some insolent lines addressed 
 by " A Russian Poet to the Empress of India." 
 lo these the first of the two following sonnets 
 was designed to serve by way of Counterblast. 
 The writer will scarcely be suspected of royalism 
 or imperialism; but it seemed to him that an in- 
 sult levelled by Muscovite lips at the ruler of 
 England might perhaps be less unfitly than un- 
 officially resented by an Englishman who was 
 also a republican.] 
 
 I, 
 
 Gehazt by the hue that chills thy 
 cheek 
 And Pilate l)y the hue that sears thine 
 
 hand 
 Whence all earth's waters cannot 
 wash the brand 
 That signs thy soul a manslayer's 
 
 though thou speak 
 All Christ, with lips most murderous 
 and most meek — 
 Thou set thy foot where England's 
 
 used to stand ! 
 Thou reach thy rod forth over Indian 
 land! 
 Slave of the slaves that call thee lord, 
 
 and weak 
 As their foul tongues who praise thee 1 
 
 son of thera 
 Whose presence put the snows and stars 
 to shame 
 In centuries dead and damned that 
 reek below 
 Curse-consecrated, crowned with crime 
 and flame, 
 To them that bare thee like them 
 
 shalt thou go 
 P'orth of man's life, — a leper white 
 as snow. 
 
 Call for clear water, wash thine hands, 
 be clean, 
 Cry, What is truth? O Pilate! thou 
 
 shalt know 
 Haply too soon, and gnash thy teeth 
 for woe 
 Ere the outer darkness take thee round 
 unseen 
 
 That hides the red ghosts of thy race 
 obscene 
 Bound nine times round with hell's 
 
 most dolorous flow, 
 And in its pools thy crownless head 
 lie low 
 By his of Spain who dared an English 
 
 queen 
 With half a world to hearten him for 
 
 fight. 
 Till the wind gave his warriors and 
 their might 
 To shipwreck and the corpse-encum- 
 bered sea. 
 But thou, take heed, ere yet thy lips 
 wax white, 
 I^est as it was with Philip so it 
 
 be, 
 O white of name and red of hand, 
 with thee I 
 
 RIZPAH. 
 
 How many sons, how many genera- 
 tions, 
 For how long years hast thou be- 
 
 wept, and known 
 Nor end of torment nor surcease of 
 moan, 
 Rachel or Rizpah, wofullest of na* 
 
 tions, 
 Crowned with the crowning sign of' 
 desolations, 
 And couldst not even scare off with 
 
 hand or groan 
 Those carrion birds devouring bon© 
 by bone 
 The children of thy thousand tribula- 
 tions } 
 Thou wast our warrior once ; thy sons 
 
 long dead 
 Against a foe less foul than this made 
 head, 
 Poland, in years that sound and shii\e 
 afar; 
 Ere the east beheld in thy bright sword* 
 blade's stead 
 The rotten corpse-light of the Russian 
 
 star 
 That lights towards hell his bond- 
 slaves and their Czax. 
 
.^56 
 
 POEMS AND n ALL ADS. 
 
 TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 Except he serve her sorrowing, with 
 
 
 strange pain. 
 
 Light of our fathers' eyes, and in our 
 
 Travail and bloodshedding and 
 
 own 
 
 bitterer tears ; 
 
 Star of the unsetting sunset ! for thy 
 
 And when she bids die he shall surely 
 
 name, 
 
 die. 
 
 That on the front of noon was as a 
 
 And he shall leave all things under the 
 
 flame 
 
 sky. 
 
 In the great year nigh thirty years agone 
 
 And go forth naked under sun and 
 
 When all the heavens of Europe shook 
 
 rain. 
 
 and shone 
 
 And work and wait and watch out 
 
 With stormy wind and lightning, 
 
 all his years. 
 
 keeps its fame 
 
 
 And bears its witness all day through 
 
 — Hath she on earth no place of habi- 
 
 the same. 
 
 tation > 
 
 Not for past days and great deeds past 
 
 — Age to age calling, nation answering 
 
 alone, 
 
 nation. 
 
 Kossuth, we praise thee as our Landor 
 
 Cries out, Where is she } and there 
 
 praised; 
 
 is none to say ; 
 
 But that now too we know thy voice 
 
 For if she be not in the spirit of men, 
 
 upraised, — 
 
 For if in the inward soul she hath no 
 
 Thy voice, the trumpet of the truth 
 
 place, 
 
 of God, 
 
 In vain they cry unto her, seeking her 
 
 Thine hand, the thunder bearer's, raised 
 
 face. 
 
 to smite 
 
 In vain their mouths make much of 
 
 As with heaven's lightning for a 
 
 her; for they 
 
 sword and rod 
 
 Cry with vain tongues, till the 
 
 Men's heads abased before the Musco- 
 vite. 
 
 heart lives again. 
 
 — O ye that follow, and have ye no 
 
 
 repentance ? 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 For on your brows is written a mortal 
 
 
 sentence. 
 
 Who is vour lady of love, O ye that pass 
 Singing r and is it for sorrow of that 
 
 An hieroglyph of sorrow, a fiery sign, 
 
 That in your lives ye sha 1 not 
 
 which was 
 
 pause or rest. 
 
 That ye sing sadly or dream of what 
 shall be .> 
 
 Nor have the sure sweet common love, 
 
 nor keep 
 
 For gladly at once and sadly it 
 
 Friends and safe days, nor joy of life 
 
 seems ye sing. 
 
 nor sleep. 
 
 — Our lady of love by you is un 
 
 — These have we not, who have one 
 
 beholden ; 
 
 thing, the divine 
 
 For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor 
 
 Face and clear eyes of faith and 
 
 lips, nor golden 
 
 fruitful breast. 
 
 Treasure of hair, nor face nor form. 
 
 
 But we 
 
 — And ye shall die before your thrones 
 
 That love, we know her more fair 
 
 be won. 
 
 than any thing. 
 
 — Yea, and the changed world and the 
 
 
 liberal sun 
 
 — Is she a queen, having great gifts to 
 
 Shall move and shine without us. 
 
 give > 
 
 and we lie 
 
 — Yea, these that whoso hath seen 
 
 Dead ; but if, she loo move on 
 
 her shall not live 
 
 earth, and live, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 557 
 
 But if the old world with all the old 
 
 irons rent 
 Laugh and give thanks, shall we be 
 not content? 
 Nay, we shall rather live, we shall 
 not die, 
 Life being so little, and death so 
 good to give. 
 
 — And these men shall forget yoir. — 
 
 Yea, but we 
 Shall be a part of the earth and the 
 ancient sea, 
 And heaven-high air august, and 
 awful fire. 
 And all things good; and no man's 
 heart shall beat 
 But somewhat in it of our blood once 
 
 shed 
 Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us 
 the dead 
 Blood of men slain and the old same 
 life's desire 
 PJants in their fiery footprints our 
 fresh feet. 
 
 — But ye that might be clothed with 
 
 all things pleasant. 
 Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft 
 present, 
 That clothe yourselves with the cold 
 future air ; 
 When mother and fathef- and ten- 
 der sister and brother 
 And the old live love that was shall be 
 
 as ye. 
 Dust, and no fruit of loving life shall 
 be. 
 — She shall be yet who is more than 
 all these were, 
 Than sister or wife or father unto 
 us or mother. 
 
 — Is this worth life, is this, to win for 
 
 wages ? 
 Lo, the dead mouths of the awful gray- 
 grown ages, 
 The venerable, in the past that is 
 their prison, 
 In the outer darkness, in the un- 
 opening grave, 
 Laugh, knowing how many as ye now 
 say have said, 
 
 How many, and all are fallen, are fallen 
 and dead : 
 Shall ye dead rise, and these dead 
 have not risen? 
 — Not we but she, who is tender, 
 and swift to save. 
 
 — Are ye not weary and faint not by 
 
 the way. 
 Seeing night by night devoured of day 
 by day, 
 Seeing hour by hour consumed in 
 sleepless fire ? 
 Sleepless; and ye too, when shall 
 ye too sleep ? 
 
 — We are weary rn heart and head, in 
 
 hands and feet. 
 And surely more than all things sleep 
 were' sweet, — 
 Than all things save the inexorable 
 desire 
 Which whoso knoweth shall nei- 
 ther faint nor weep. 
 
 — Is this so sweet that one were fain 
 
 to follow? 
 Is this so sure where all men's hopes 
 are hollow. 
 Even this your dream, that by much 
 tribulation 
 Ye shall make whole flawed hearts, 
 and bowed necks straight ? 
 
 — Nay, though our life were blind, our 
 
 death were fruitless, 
 Not therefore were the whole world's 
 high hope rootless ; 
 But man to man, nation would turn 
 to nation. 
 And the old life live, and the old 
 great word be great. 
 
 — Pass on, then, and pass by us, and 
 
 let us be. 
 For what li^ht think ye after life to 
 see? 
 And if the world fare better will ye 
 know ? 
 And if man triumph who shall 
 seek you and say ? 
 
 — Enough of light is this for one life's 
 
 span. 
 That all men born are mortal, but not 
 man ; 
 
558 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 And we men bring death lives by 
 night to sow, 
 That man may reap and eat and 
 live by day. 
 
 THE LITANY OF NATIONS. 
 
 fia Fa, /aa Fa, ^oav 
 ^o/3cpbf d;r6rp67re. 
 
 /EscH. Supp. 890. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 If with voice of words or prayers thy 
 sons may reach thee, 
 We thy latter sons, the men thine 
 
 after-birth, 
 We the children of thy gray-grown 
 age, O Earth, 
 O our mother everlasting, we beseech 
 
 thee, 
 Hv the sealed and secret ages of thy 
 life; 
 By the darkness wherein grew thy 
 
 sacred forces ; 
 By the songs of stars thy sisters irf 
 their courses; 
 By thine own song hoarse and hollow 
 
 and shrill with strife; 
 By thy voice distuned and marred of 
 modulation ; 
 By the discord of thy measure's 
 
 march with theirs ; 
 By the beauties of thy bosom, and 
 the cares ; 
 By thv glory of growth, and splendor 
 
 of thy station ; 
 By the shame of men thy children, and 
 the pride ; 
 By the pale-cheeked hope that sleeps 
 
 and weeps and passes, 
 As the gray dew from the morning 
 mountain grasses ; 
 By the white-lipped sightless memories 
 
 that abide; 
 By the silence and the sound of many 
 sorrows ; 
 By the joys that leapt up living and 
 
 fell (lead; 
 By the veil that hides thy hands and 
 breasts and head, 
 Wrought of divers-colored days and 
 nights and morrows; 
 
 Isis, thou that knowest of God what 
 worlds are worth, 
 Thou the ghost of God, the mother 
 
 uncreated, 
 Soul for whom the floating forceless 
 ages waited 
 As our forceless fancies wait on thee, 
 
 O Earth; 
 Thou the body and soul, the father-god 
 and mother, 
 If at all it move thee, knowing of all 
 
 things done 
 Here where evil things and good 
 things are not one, 
 But their faces are as fire against each 
 
 other; 
 By thy morning and thine evening, night 
 and day ; 
 By the first white light that stirs and 
 
 strives and hovers 
 As a bird above the brood her bosom 
 covers. 
 By the sweet last star that takes the 
 
 westward way ; 
 By the night whose feet are shod with 
 snow or thunder. 
 Fledged with plumes of storm, or 
 
 soundless as the dew ; 
 By the vesture bound of many-folded 
 blue 
 Round her breathless breasts, and all 
 
 the woven wonder ; 
 By the golden-growing eastern stream 
 of sea; 
 By the sounds of sunrise moving in 
 
 the mountains ; 
 By the forces of the floods and un- 
 sealed fountains ; 
 Thou that badest man be born, bid 
 man be free. 
 
 GREECE. 
 
 I am she that made thee lovely with my 
 beauty 
 From north to south : 
 Mine, the fairest lips, took first the fire 
 of duty 
 From thine own mouth. 
 Mine, the fairest eyes, sought first thy 
 laws, and knew them 
 Truths undcfilcd; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 559 
 
 Mine, the fairest hands, took freedom 
 first into them, 
 A weanling child. 
 Hy my light, now he lies sleeping, seen 
 above him 
 Where none sees other; 
 Ky my dead that loved, and living men 
 that love him, — 
 {Cho.) Hear us, O mother! 
 
 I am she that was the light of thee 
 enkindled 
 When Greece grew dim ; 
 She. whose life grew up with man's free 
 life, and dwindled 
 With wane of him ; 
 She that once by sword and once by 
 word imperial 
 Struck bright thy gloom ; 
 And a third time, casting off these years 
 funereal, 
 Shall burst thy tomb. 
 By that bond 'twixt thee and me where- 
 at affrighted 
 Thy tyrants fear us ; 
 By that hope and this remembrance re- 
 united, — 
 {Cho.) O mother, hear us! 
 
 SPAIN. 
 
 I am she that set thy seal upon the 
 nameless 
 West worlds of seas ; 
 And my sons as brides took unto them, 
 the tameless 
 Hesperides; 
 Till my sins and sons through sinless 
 lands dispersed, 
 With red flame shod, 
 Made accurst the name of man, and 
 thrice accursed 
 The name of God. 
 Lest for those past fires the fires of my 
 repentance 
 Hell's fume yet smother, 
 Now my blood would buy remission of 
 my sentence, — 
 {Cho.) Hear us, O mother I 
 
 I am she that was thy sign and standard- 
 bearer. 
 Thy voice and cry; 
 She that washed thee with her blood, 
 and left thee fairer. 
 The same was I. 
 Were not these the hands that raised 
 thee fallen, and fed thee. 
 These hands defiled ? 
 Was not I thy tongue that spake, thine 
 eye that led thee, — 
 Not I thy child? 
 By the darkness on our dreams, and the' 
 dead errors 
 Of dead times near us ; 
 By the hopes that hang around thee, 
 and the terrors, — 
 {Clio.) O mother, hear us! 
 
 RUSSIA. 
 
 I am she whose hands are strong, and 
 her eyes blinded, 
 And lips athirst, 
 Till upon the night of nations many- 
 minded 
 One bright day burst ; 
 Till the myriad stars be molten into 
 one light, 
 And that light thine; 
 Till the soul of man be parcel of the 
 sunlight. 
 And thine of mine. 
 By the snows that blanch not him, nor 
 cleanse from slaughter, 
 Who slays his brother; 
 By the stains'and by the chains on me 
 thy daughter, — 
 {Cho.\ Hear us, O mother! 
 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 I am she that shows on mighty limbs 
 and maiden 
 Nor chain nor stain ; 
 For what blood can touch these hands 
 with gold unladen. 
 These feet what chain t 
 By the surf of spears one shiejdless 
 bosom breasted. 
 And was my shield, 
 
560 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Till the plume-plucked Austrian vul- 
 ture-heads twin-crested 
 Twice drenched the field. 
 Hy the snows and souls untrampled 
 and untroubled 
 That shine to cheer us, 
 Light of those to these responsive and 
 redoubled, — 
 {^Cho.) O mother, hear us I 
 
 GERMANY. 
 
 I am she beside whose forest-hidden 
 fountains 
 Slept freedom armed ; 
 By the magic born to music in my 
 mountains, 
 Heart-chained and charmed. 
 By those days, the very dream whereof 
 delivers 
 My soul from wrong ; 
 By the sounds that make of all my ring- 
 ing rivers 
 None knows what song ; 
 By the many tribes and names of my 
 division 
 One from another ; 
 By the single eye of sun-compelling 
 vision, — 
 {Cho.) Hear us, O mother 1 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 I am she that was and was not of thy 
 chosen, 
 Free, and not free ; 
 She that fed thy springs, till now her 
 springs are frozen ; 
 Yet I am she. 
 By the sea that clothed and sun that 
 saw me splendid 
 And fame that crowned, 
 By the song-fires and the sword-fires 
 mixed and blended 
 That robed me round ; 
 By the star that Milton's soul for Shel- 
 ley's lighted, 
 Whose rays insphcre us ; 
 By the beacon-bright Republic far-off 
 sighted, — 
 {Cho.) O mother, hear us I 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Turn away from us the cross-blown 
 blasts of error, 
 That drown each other; 
 Turn away the fearful cry, the loud- 
 tongued terror, 
 O Earth, O mother! 
 Turn away their eyes who track, their 
 hearts who follow, 
 The pathless past ; 
 Show the soul of man, as summer shows 
 the swallow. 
 The way at last. 
 By the sloth of men that all too long 
 endure men 
 On man to tread ; 
 By the cry of men, the bitter cry of 
 poor men 
 That faint for bread ; 
 By the blood-sweat of the people in the 
 garden 
 Inwalled of kings ; 
 By his passion interceding for their par- 
 don 
 Who do these things; 
 By the sightless souls and fleshles.s 
 limbs that labor 
 For not their fruit ; 
 By the foodless mouth with foodlcss 
 heart for neighbor, 
 That, mad, is mute ; 
 By the child that famine eats as worms 
 the blossom — 
 Ah God, the child! — 
 By the milkless lips that strain the 
 bloodless bosom 
 Till woe runs wild; 
 By the pastures that give grass to feed 
 the lamb in. 
 Where men lack meat ; 
 By the cities clad with gold and shame 
 and famine; 
 By field and street ; 
 By the people, by the poor man, by the 
 master 
 That men call slave ; 
 By the cross-winds of defeat and ol 
 disaster. 
 By wreck, by wave ; 
 By the helm that keeps us still to sun- 
 wards ilriving, 
 Still eastward bound, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 561 
 
 Till, as night-watch ends, day burn on 
 
 Where the pale souls wail, 
 
 eyes reviving, 
 
 Meld in bonds of death, 
 
 And land be found: 
 
 Where all spirits quail. 
 
 We thy children, that arraign not nor 
 
 Came thy Godhead pale 
 
 Impeach thee 
 
 Still from human breath, — 
 
 Though no star steer us, 
 
 
 By the waves that wash the morning 
 
 Pale from life and strife, 
 
 we beseech thee. 
 
 Wan with manhood, came 
 
 mother, hear us \ 
 
 Forth of mortal life, 
 
 
 Pierced as with a knife, 
 
 
 Scarred as with a fiame. 
 
 CHRISTMAS ANTIPHONES 
 
 Thou the Word and Lord 
 
 
 In all time and space. 
 
 I. 
 
 Heard, beheld, adored, 
 
 !N CHURCH. 
 
 With all ages poured 
 
 
 Forth before thy face, — 
 
 Thou whose birth on earth 
 
 Angels sang to men. 
 
 Lord, what worth in earth 
 
 While thy stars made mirth, 
 
 Drew thee down to die ? 
 
 Saviour, at thy birth. 
 
 What therein was worth, 
 
 This day born again . 
 
 Lord, thy death and birth? 
 
 
 What 'beneath thy sky,? 
 
 As this night was bright 
 
 
 With thy cradle-ray. 
 
 Light above all love 
 
 Very light of light, 
 
 By thy love was lit. 
 
 Turn the wild world's night 
 
 And brought down the Dove 
 
 To thy perfect day 
 
 Feathered from above 
 
 
 With the wings of it. 
 
 God whose feet made sweet 
 
 
 Those wild ways they trod. 
 From thy fragrant feet 
 Staining field and street 
 
 From the height of night, 
 
 Was not thme the star 
 
 That led forth with might 
 
 With the blood of God; 
 
 By no worldly light 
 
 
 Wise men from afar? 
 
 God whose breast is rest 
 
 
 In the time of strife. 
 In thy secret breast 
 
 Yet the wise men's eyes 
 Saw thee not more clear 
 
 Sheltering souls opprest 
 From the heat of life; 
 
 Than they saw thee rfse 
 Who in shepherds' guise 
 
 
 Drew as poor men near. 
 
 God whose eyes are skies 
 
 Yet thy poor endure. 
 
 Love-lit as with spheres 
 
 And are with us yet* 
 
 By the lights that rise 
 
 Be thy name a sure 
 Refuge for thy poor 
 
 To thy watching eyes, 
 
 Orbed lights of tears; 
 
 Whom meii's eyes forget. 
 
 God whose heart hath part 
 
 Thou whose ways we praise, 
 
 In all grief that is. 
 
 Clear alike and dark, 
 
 Was not man's the dart 
 
 Keep our works and ways 
 
 That went through thine heart, 
 
 This and all thy days 
 
 And the wound not his ? 
 
 Safe inside thine ark. 
 
56: 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Who shall keep thy sheep, 
 
 Lord, and lose not one ? 
 
 Who save one shall keep. 
 
 Lest the shepherds sleep > 
 
 Who beside the Son? 
 
 From the grave-deep wave, 
 
 From the sword and flame, 
 Thou, even thou, shalt save 
 Souls of king and slave 
 Only by thy Name. 
 
 Light not born with morn 
 
 Or her fires above, 
 Jesus virgin-born, 
 Held of men in scorn, 
 
 Turn their scorn to love. 
 
 Thou whose face gives grace 
 
 As the sun's doth heat. 
 Let thy sun-bright face 
 Lighten time and space 
 Here beneath thy feet. 
 
 Bid our peace increase, 
 Thou that madest morn; 
 
 Bid oppressions cease ; 
 
 Bid the night be peace; 
 Bid the day be born. 
 
 n. 
 
 OUTSIDE CHURCH. 
 We whose days and ways 
 
 All the night makes dark, — 
 What day shall we praise 
 Of these'weary days 
 
 That our life-dro'ps mark? 
 
 We whose mind is blind, 
 
 Fed with hope of naught ; 
 Wastes of worn mankind, 
 Without heart or mind, 
 Without meat or thought , 
 
 We with strife of life 
 
 Worn till all life cease, 
 Want, a whetted knife. 
 Sharpening strife on strife. 
 How should we love peace ? 
 
 Ye whose meat is sweet 
 
 And your wine-cnp red, 
 Us beneath your feet 
 Hunger grinds as wheat, — 
 Grinds to make you bread. 
 
 Ye whose night is bright 
 With soft rest and heat. 
 
 Clothed like day with light, 
 
 Us the naked night 
 
 Slays from street to street 
 
 Hath your God no rod, 
 
 Tha't ye tread so light? 
 Man on us as God, 
 God as man hath trod, — > 
 Trod us down with might 
 
 We that one by one 
 Bleed from cither's rod, 
 
 What for us hath done 
 
 Man beneath the sun. 
 What for us hath God? 
 
 We whose blood is food 
 
 Given your wealth to feed, 
 From the Christless rood 
 Red with no God's blood, 
 But with man's indeed; 
 
 How shall we that see 
 
 Night-long overhead 
 Lifc,"the flowerless tree, 
 Nailed whereon as we 
 
 Were our fathers dead,^ 
 
 We whose ear can hear, 
 
 Not whose tongue can name, 
 
 Famine, ignorance, fear, 
 
 Bleeding tear by tear 
 
 Year by year of shame,— 
 
 Till the drv life die 
 
 Out of bloodless breast 
 Out of beamlcss eye. 
 Out of mouths that cry 
 Till death feed with rest.— 
 
 How shall we as ye. 
 
 Though ve bid us, pray ? 
 
 Though yecall, can wc 
 
 Hearyou call, or see, 
 Though ye show us day r 
 
POEMS AND HALLADS. 
 
 ;63 
 
 We whose name is shame, 
 We whose souls walk bare, 
 
 Shall we call the same 
 
 God as ye by name. 
 Teach our lips your prayer ? 
 
 God, forgive and give, 
 
 For His sake who died? — 
 
 Nay, for ours who live, 
 
 How shall we forgive 
 Thee, then, on our side ? 
 
 We whose right to light 
 
 Heaven's high noon denies. 
 Whom the blind beams smite 
 That for you shine bright. 
 And but burn our eyes, — 
 
 With what dreams of beams 
 
 Shall we build up day. 
 At what sourceless streams 
 Seek to drink in dreams 
 Ere they pass away ? 
 
 In what street shall meet, 
 At what market-place, 
 Your feet and our feet. 
 With one goal to greet, 
 Having run one race ? 
 
 What one hope shall ope 
 
 For us all as one 
 One same horoscope. 
 Where the soul sees hope 
 
 That outburns the sun ? 
 
 At what shrine what wine, 
 
 At what board what bread, 
 Salt as blood or brine, 
 Shall we share in sign 
 How we poor were fed ? 
 
 In what hour what power 
 Shall we pray for morn, 
 If your perfect hour, 
 When all day bears flower, 
 Not for us is born ? 
 
 HI. 
 
 BEYOND CHURCH. 
 
 Ye that weep in sleep, 
 
 Souls and bodies bound. 
 Ye that all night "keep 
 Watch for change, and weep 
 That no change is found ; 
 
 Ye that cry and die, 
 And the world goes on 
 
 Without ear or eye, 
 
 And the days go by 
 Till all days are gone : 
 
 Man shall do for you, 
 Men the sons of man, 
 
 What no god would do 
 
 That they sought unto 
 While the blind years ran. 
 
 Brotherhood of good. 
 Equal laws and rights. 
 
 Freedom, whose sweet food 
 
 Feeds the multitude 
 
 All their days and nights 
 
 With the bread full-fed 
 
 Of her body blest 
 And the soul's wine shed 
 From her table spread 
 
 Where the world is guest,— 
 
 Mingling me and thee. 
 
 When like light of eyes 
 Flashed through thee and me 
 Truth shall make us free. 
 Liberty make wise : 
 
 These are they whom day 
 Follows and gives light 
 
 Whence they see to slay 
 
 Night, and burn away 
 All the seed of night. 
 
 What of thine and mine. 
 
 What of want and wealth, 
 When one faith is wine 
 For my heart and thine. 
 And one draught is health ? 
 
564 
 
 POEMS AiYD BALLADS, 
 
 For no sect elect 
 
 Is the soul's wine poured, 
 And her table decked : 
 Whom should man reject 
 
 From man's common board? 
 
 Gods refuse and choose, 
 Grudge and sell and spare : 
 
 None shall man refuse. 
 
 None of all men lose, 
 None leave out of care. 
 
 No man's might of sight 
 Knows that hour before ; 
 
 No man's hand hath might 
 
 To put back that light 
 For one hour the more. 
 
 Not though all men call, 
 Kneeling with void hands, 
 
 Shall they see light fall 
 
 Till it come for all 
 
 Tribes of men and lands. 
 
 No desire brings fire 
 
 Down from heaven by prayer, 
 Though man's vain desire 
 Hang faith's wind-struck lyre 
 
 Out in tuneless air. 
 
 One hath breath, and saith 
 What the tune shall be, — 
 
 Time, who puts his breath 
 
 Into life and death. 
 Into earth and sea. 
 
 To and fro years flow, 
 Fill their tides and ebb, 
 
 As his fingers go 
 
 Weaving to and fro 
 One unfinished web. 
 
 All the range of change 
 Hath its bounds therein, 
 
 All the lives that range 
 
 All the byways strange 
 Named of death or sin. 
 
 Star from far to star 
 
 Speaks, and white moons wake, 
 Watchful from afar 
 What the night's ways are 
 
 For the morning's sake. 
 
 Many names and flames 
 
 Pass and flash and fall, 
 Night-begotten names. 
 And the night reclaims, 
 As she bare them, all. 
 
 But the sun is one. 
 
 And the sun's name Right 
 And when light is none 
 Saving of the sun, 
 
 All men shall have light 
 
 All shall see and be > 
 Parcel of the morn : 
 Ay, though blind were we, 
 None shall choose but see 
 When that day is born. 
 
 MATER DOLOROSA. 
 
 Citoyen, lui dit Enjolras, ma m&re, c'est la Rrf- 
 publique. — Les Miserables. 
 
 Who is it that sits by the way, by the 
 
 wild wayside. 
 In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a 
 
 cast-off bride. 
 In the dust, in the rainfall sitting, with 
 
 soiled feet bare, 
 With the night for a garment upon her, 
 
 with torn wet hair } 
 She is fairer of face than the daughters 
 
 of men, and her eyes. 
 Worn through with her tears, are deep 
 
 as the depth of skies. 
 
 This is she for whose sake being fallen, 
 for whose abject sake, 
 
 Earth groans in the blackness of dark- 
 ness, and men's hearts bjreak. 
 
 This is she for whose love, having seen 
 her, the men that were 
 
 Poured life out as water, and shed their 
 souls upon air. 
 
 This is she for whose glory their years 
 were counted as foam ; 
 
 Whose face was a light upon Greece, 
 was a fire upon Rome. 
 
 Is it now not surely a vain thing, a fool- 
 ish and vain, 
 
 To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve 
 her, partake in the pain } 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 56s 
 
 She is gray with the dust of time on 
 his manifold ways, 
 
 Where her faint feet stumble and fal- 
 ter through yearlong days. 
 
 Shall she help us at all, O fools, give 
 fruit or give fame, 
 
 Who herself is a name despised, a 
 rejected name^? , 
 
 We have not seri'ed' her for guerdon. 
 If any do so, 
 
 That his mouth may be sweet with such 
 honey, we care not to know. 
 
 We have drunk from a wine-unsweet- 
 ened, a perilous cup, 
 
 A draught very bitter. The kings of 
 the earth stood up. 
 
 And the rulers took counsel together, 
 to smite her and slay; 
 
 And the blood of her wounds is given 
 us to drink to-day. 
 
 Can these bones live } or the leaves 
 
 that are dead leaves bud ? 
 Or the dead blood drawn from her 
 
 veins be in your veins blood ? 
 Will ye gather up water again that was 
 
 drawn and shed .'' 
 In the blood is the life of the veins, and 
 
 her veins aje dead. 
 For the lives that are over are over, and 
 
 past things past ; 
 She had her day, and it is not ; was first, 
 
 and is last. 
 
 Is it nothing unto you, then, all ye that 
 
 pass by. 
 If her breath be left in her lips, if she 
 
 live now or die .'' 
 Behold now, O people, and say if she 
 
 be not fair, 
 Whom your fathers followed to find 
 
 her, with praise and prayer. 
 And rejoiced, having found her, though 
 
 roof they had none, nor bread. 
 But ye care not : what is it to you if 
 
 her day be dead ? 
 
 It was well with our fathers ; their 
 sound was in all men's lands ; 
 
 There was fire in their hearts, and the 
 hunger of fight in their hands. 
 
 Naked and strong they went forth in 
 
 her strength like flame, 
 For her love's and her name's sake of 
 
 old, her republican name. 
 But their children, by kings made quiet, 
 
 by priests made wise, 
 Love better the heat of their hearths 
 
 than the light of her eyes. 
 
 Are they children of these thy children 
 
 indeed, who have sold, 
 O golden goddess, the light of thy face 
 
 for gold .^ 
 Are they sons indeed of the sons of thy 
 
 dayspring of hope. 
 Whose lives are in fief of an emperor, 
 
 whose souls of a Pope ? 
 Hide then thine head, O beloved ! thy 
 
 time is done ; 
 Thy kingdom is broken in heaven, and 
 
 blind thy sun. 
 
 What sleep is upon you, to dream she 
 
 indeed shall rise. 
 When the hopes are dead in her heart 
 
 as the tears in her eyes ? 
 If ye sing of her dead, will she stir? if 
 
 ye weep for her, weep ? 
 Come away now, leave her : what hath 
 
 she to do but sleep } 
 But ye that mourn are alive, and have 
 
 years to be ; 
 And life is good, and the world is wiser 
 
 than we. 
 
 Yea, wise is the world and mighty, with 
 
 years to give. 
 And years to promise ; but how long 
 
 now shall it live } 
 And foolish and poor is faith, and her 
 
 ways are bare. 
 Till she find the way of thestin,and the 
 
 morning air. 
 In that hour shall this dead face shine 
 
 as the face of the sun. 
 And the soul of man and her soul and 
 
 the world's be one. 
 
566 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 MATER TRIUMPIIALIS. 
 
 Mother of man's time-travelling gen- 
 erations, 
 Breath of his nostrils, heart-blood of 
 his heart, 
 God above all gods, worshipped of all 
 nations. 
 Light above light, law beyond law, 
 thou art. 
 
 Thy face is as a sword, smiting in sun- 
 der 
 Shadows and chains, and dreams and 
 iron things ; 
 The sea is dumb before thy face, the 
 thunder 
 Silent, the skies are narrower than 
 thy wings. I 
 
 Angels and gods, spirit and sense, thou 
 takest 
 In thy right hand as drops of dust or 
 dew ; 
 The temples and the towers of time 
 thou breakest, 
 His thoughts and words and works, 
 to make them new. 
 
 All we have wandered from thy ways, 
 have hidden 
 Eyes from thy glory and ears from 
 calls they heard; 
 Called of thy trumpets vainly, called 
 and chidden. 
 Scourged of thy speech, and wounded 
 of thy word. 
 
 We have known thee, and have not 
 known thee ; stood beside thee, 
 Felt thy lips breathe, set foot where 
 thy feet trod, 
 Loved and renounced, and worshipped 
 and denied thee. 
 As though thou wert but as another 
 god. 
 
 " One hour for sleep," we said, " and 
 yet one other ; 
 All day we served her, and who shall 
 serve by night .'' " 
 
 Not knowing of thee, thy face not knoM. 
 ing, O mother, 
 O light wherethrough the darkness is 
 as light. 
 
 Men that forsook thee hast thou not 
 forsaken, 
 Races of men that knew not hast thou 
 known ; 
 Nations that slept thou hast doubted 
 not to waken. 
 Worshippers of strange gods to make 
 thine own. 
 
 All old gray histories hiding thy clear 
 features, 
 O secret spirit and sovereign, all 
 men's tales, 
 Creeds woven of men, thy children and 
 thy creatures, 
 They have woven for vestures of thee 
 and for veils. 
 
 Thine hands, without election or exemp- 
 tion. 
 Feed all men fainting from false peace 
 or strife, 
 O thou, the resurrection and redemp- 
 tion, 
 The godhead and the manhood and 
 the life. 
 
 Thy wings shadow the waters; thine 
 eyes lighten 
 The horror of the hollows of the 
 night; 
 The depths of the earth and the dark 
 places brighten 
 Under thy feet, whiter than fire is 
 white. 
 
 Death is subdued to thee, and hell's 
 bands broken ; 
 Where thou art only is heaven : who 
 hears not thee, 
 Time shall not hear him ; when men's 
 names are spoken, 
 A nameless sign of death shall his 
 name be. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 567 
 
 Deathless shall be the death, the name 
 be nameless ; 
 Sterile of stars his twilight time of 
 breath ; 
 With fire of hell shall shame consume 
 him shameless, 
 And dying, all the night darken his 
 death. 
 
 The years are as thy garments, the 
 world's ages 
 As sandals bound and loosed from 
 thy swift feet ; 
 Time serves before thee, as one that 
 hath for wages 
 Praise or shame only, bitter words 
 or sweet. 
 
 Thou sayest "Well done," and all a 
 century kindles ; 
 Again, thou sayest, " Depart from 
 sight of me," 
 And ?.ll the light of face of all men 
 dwindles, 
 And the age is as the broken glass 
 of thee. 
 
 The night is as a seal set on men's 
 faces. 
 On faces fallen of men that take no 
 light, 
 Nor give light in the deeps of the dark 
 places, 
 Blind things, incorporate with the 
 body of night. 
 
 Their souls are serpents winter-bound 
 and frozen, 
 Their shame is as a tame beast, at 
 their feet 
 Couched ; their cold lips deride thee 
 and thy chosen. 
 Their lying lips made gray with dust 
 for meat. 
 
 The« when their time is full and days 
 run over, 
 The splendor of thy sudden brow 
 made bare 
 Darkens the morning ; thy bared hands 
 uncover 
 The veils of light and night and the 
 awful air. 
 
 And the world naked as a new-born 
 maiden 
 Stands virginal and splendid as at 
 birth, 
 With all thine heaven of all its light 
 unladen, 
 Of all its love unburdened all thine 
 earth. 1 
 
 For the utter earth and ihe utter air of 
 heaven, 
 And the extreme depth is thine, and 
 the extreme height; 
 Shadows of things and veils of ages 
 riven 
 Are as men's kings unkingdomed in 
 thy sight. 
 
 Through the iron years, the centuries 
 brazen-gated, 
 By the ages' barred, impenetrable 
 doors, 
 From the evening to the morning have 
 we waited, 
 Should thy foot haply sound on the 
 awful floors. 
 
 The floors untrodden of the sun's feet 
 glimn^er, 
 The star-unstricken pavements of the 
 night ; 
 Do the lights burn inside .-' the lights 
 wax dimmer 
 On festal faces withering out of sight. 
 
 The crowned heads lose the light on 
 them ; it may be 
 Dawn is at hand to smite the loud 
 feast dumb ; 
 To bind the torch-lit centuries till the 
 day be, 
 The feasting kingdoms till thy king- 
 dome come. 
 
 Shall it not come ? deny they or dis- 
 semble, 
 Is it not even as lightning from on 
 high 
 Now ? and though many a soul close 
 eyes, and treinble. 
 How should ihey tremble at all who 
 love thee as 1 ? 
 
c6« 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 I am thine harp between thine hands, 
 O mother ! 
 All my strong chords are strained 
 with love of thee. 
 We grapple in love and wrestle, as each 
 with other 
 Wrestle the wind and the unreluctant 
 sea. 
 
 I am no courtier ot thee sober-suited, 
 
 Who loves a little tor a little pay 
 Me not thy winds and storms, nor 
 thrones disrooted. 
 Nor molten crowns, nor thine own 
 sins, dismay. 
 
 Sinned hast thou sometime, therefore 
 art thou sinless ; 
 Stained hast thou been, who art 
 therefore without stain ; 
 Even as man's soul is kin to thee, but 
 kinless 
 Thou, in whose womb Time sows the 
 all-various grain. 
 
 I do hot bid thee spare me, O dreadful 
 mother ! 
 I pray thee that thou spare not, of 
 thy grace. 
 How were it with me then, it ever 
 another 
 Should come to stand before thee m 
 this my place .'' 
 
 I am the trumpet at thy lips, thy 
 clarion, 
 Full of thy cry, sonorous with thy 
 breath ; 
 The graves of souls born worms, and 
 creeds grown carrion 
 Thy blast of judgment fills with fires 
 of death. 
 
 Thou. art the player whose organ-keys 
 are thunders. 
 And I, beneath thy foot, the pedal 
 prest ; 
 Thou art the ray whereat the rent night 
 sunders, 
 And I the cloudlet borne upon thy 
 breast. 
 
 I shall burn up before thee, pass and 
 perish, 
 As haze in sunrise on the red sea- 
 line ; 
 Hut thou from dawn to sunsetting shalt 
 cherish 
 The thoughts that led and souls that 
 lighted mine. 
 
 Reared between night and noon and 
 truth and error. 
 Each twilight-travelling bird that 
 trills and screams 
 Sickens at midday, nor can face foi 
 terror 
 The imperious heaven's inevitable 
 extremes. 
 
 I have no spirit of skill with equal 
 fingers 
 At sign to sharpen or to slacken 
 strings; 
 I keep no time of song with gold- 
 perched singers 
 And chirp of linnets on the wrists of 
 kings. 
 
 I am thy storm-thrush of the days that 
 darken. 
 Thy petrel in the foam that bears thy 
 bark 
 To port through night and tempest : if 
 thou hearken, 
 My voice is in thy heaven before the 
 lark. 
 
 My song is in the mist that hides thy 
 morning, 
 My cry is up before the day for 
 thee , 
 I have heard thee and beheld thee and 
 give warning, 
 Before thy wheels divide the sky and 
 sea. 
 
 Birds shall wake with ihce voiced and 
 feathered fairer, 
 To see in summer what I see in 
 spring: 
 I have eyes and heart to endure thee, 
 () thunder-bearer, 
 And they shall be who shall have 
 tongues to sing. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 569 
 
 1 have love at least, and have not fear, 
 and part not 
 From thine unnavigablc and wingless 
 way; 
 Thou tarriest, and I have not said thou 
 art not. 
 Nor all thy night long, have denied 
 thy day. 
 
 Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy 
 paean, 
 Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to 
 vale, 
 With wind-notes as of eagles y^schy- 
 lean, 
 And Sappho singing in the nightin- 
 gale. 
 
 Sung to by mighty sons of dawn and 
 daughters. 
 Of this night's songs thine ear shall 
 keep but one, — 
 That supreme song which shook the 
 channelled waters, 
 And called thee skyward as God calls 
 the sun. 
 
 Come, though all heaven again be fire 
 above thee ; 
 Though death before thee come to 
 clear thy sky ; 
 Let us but see' in his thy face who love 
 thee ; 
 Yea, though thou slay us, arise, and 
 let us die. 
 
 SIENA. 
 
 Inside this northern summer's fold 
 The fields are full of naked gold. 
 Broadcast from heaven on lands it 
 
 loves ; 
 The green veiled air is full of doves; 
 Soft teaves that sift the sunbeams let 
 Light on the small warm grasses wet 
 Fall in short broken kisses sweet. 
 And break again like waves that beat 
 Round the sun's feet. 
 
 But L for all this English mirth 
 Of golden-shod and dancing days, 
 
 And the old green-girt sweet-hearted 
 earth, 
 Desire what here no spells can raise. 
 Far hence, with holier heavens above. 
 The lovely city of my love 
 Bathes deep \u the sun-satiate air 
 That flows round no fair thing more, 
 fair, 
 Her beauty bare. 
 
 There the utter sky is holier, there 
 More pure the intense white height ot 
 
 air, 
 More clear men's eyes that jnine would 
 
 meet, 
 And the sweet springs of things more 
 
 sweet. 
 There, for this one warm note of doves 
 A clamor of a thousand loves 
 Storms the night's ear, the day's assails, 
 From the tempestuous nightingales, 
 And fills, and fails. 
 
 O gracious city well-beloved! 
 
 Italian, and a maiden crowned. 
 Siena, my feet are no more moved 
 
 Toward thy strange shapen moun- 
 tain-bound; 
 But my heart in me turns and moves, 
 O lady loveliest of my loves, 
 Toward thee, to lie before thy feet, 
 And gaze from thy fair fountain-seat 
 Up the sheer street; 
 
 And the house midway hanging see 
 That saw Saint Catherine bodily. 
 Felt on its floors her sweet feet move, 
 And the live light of fiery love 
 Burn from her beautiful strange face. 
 As in the sanguine sacred place 
 Where in pure hands she took the head 
 Severed, and with pure lips still red 
 Kissed the lips dead. 
 
 For years through, sweetest of the 
 saints. 
 In quiet without cease she wrought, 
 Till cries of men and fierce complaints 
 From outward moved her maiden 
 thought ; 
 And prayers she heard and sighs toward 
 
 France, — 
 '• God, send us back deliverance, 
 
570 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Send back thy servant, lest we die I 
 With an exceeding bitter cry 
 They smote the sky. 
 
 Then in her sacred saving hands 
 She took the sorrows of the lands, 
 With maiden palms she lifted up 
 The sick time's blood-imbittered cup, 
 And in her virgin garment furled 
 The faint limbs of a wounded world. 
 Clothed with calm love and clear desire, 
 She went forth in her soul's attire, 
 A missive fire. 
 
 Across the might of men that strove 
 It shone, and over heads of kings; 
 And molten in red flames of love 
 Were swords and many monstrous 
 things ; 
 And shields were lowered, and snapt 
 
 were spears, 
 And sweeter tuned the clamorous years ; 
 And faith came back, and peace, that 
 
 were 
 Fled ; for she bade, saying, " Thou, 
 God's heir, 
 Hast thou no care ? 
 
 •* Lo, men lay waste thine heritage 
 Still, and much heathen people rage 
 Against thee, and devise vain things. 
 What comfort in the face of kings, 
 What counsel is there ? Turn thine 
 
 eyes 
 And thine heart from them in like wise; 
 'i'urn thee unto thine holy place 
 To help us that of God for grace 
 Require thy face. 
 
 *• For who shall hear us if not thou 
 In a strange land? what doest thou 
 there .<* 
 Thy sheep are spoiled, and the plough- 
 crs plough 
 Upon us: whv hast thou no care 
 For all this, and beyond strange hills 
 Licst unrcgardful what snow chills 
 Thy foldlcss Hock, or what rains beat? 
 Lo, in thine ears, before thy feet. 
 Thy lost bhecp bleat. 
 
 "And strange men feed on faultless 
 
 lives, 
 And there is blood, and men pur knives, 
 Shepherd, unto the young laiiib's throat; 
 And one hath eaten, and one smote, 
 And one had hunger and is fed 
 Full of the flesh of these, and red 
 With blood of these as who drinks 
 
 wine. 
 And God knoweth, who hath sent thee 
 
 a sign, 
 If these were thine." 
 
 But the Pope's heart within him burned, 
 
 So that he rose up, seeing the sign 
 And came among them ; but she turned 
 
 Back to her daily way divine, 
 And fed her faith with silent things. 
 And lived her life with curbed white 
 
 wings, 
 And mixed herself with heaven, and 
 
 died; 
 And now on the sheer city-side 
 Smiles like a bride. 
 
 You see her in the fresh clear gloom. 
 Where walls shut out the flame and 
 
 bloom 
 Of full-breathed summer, and the roof 
 Keeps the keen ardent air aloof 
 And sweet weight of the violent sky: 
 There bodily beheld on high, 
 She- seems as one hearing in tune 
 Heaven within heaven, at heaven's full 
 
 noon. 
 In sacred swoon, — 
 
 A solemn swoon of sense that aches 
 
 With imminent blind heat of heaven. 
 While all the wide-eyed spirit wakes. 
 
 Vigilant of the supreme Seven, 
 Whose choral flames in God's sight 
 
 move. 
 Made unendurable with love. 
 That without wind or blast of breath 
 Conii-)els all things, through life and 
 death, 
 Whither (iod sailh. 
 
 There on the dim side-chapel wall 
 Thy mighty touch memorial, 
 Ka/./i, raised up, for ages dead, 
 And fixed for us her heavenly head ; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 571 
 
 And, rent with plaited thorn and rod, 
 Bared the live likeness of her God 
 To men's eyes turning from strange 
 
 lands, 
 Where, pale from thine immortal hands, 
 Christ wounded stands; 
 
 And the blood blots his holy hair 
 
 And white brows over hungering eyes 
 That plead against us, and the fair 
 
 Mute lips forlorn of words or sighs 
 In the great torment that bends down 
 His bruised head with the bloomless 
 
 crown, 
 White as the unfruitful thorn-flower, — 
 A God beheld in dreams that were 
 Beheld of her. 
 
 In vain on all these sins and years 
 Falls the sad blood, fall the slow tears, — 
 In vain poured forth as water-springs, 
 Priests, on your altars, and ye, kings, 
 About your seats of sanguine gold: 
 Still your God, spat upon and sold. 
 Bleeds at your hands ; but now is gone 
 All his flock from him saving one, — 
 Judas alone. 
 
 Surely your race it was that he, 
 
 O men signed backward with his 
 name ! 
 Beholding in Gethsemane, 
 
 Bled the red bitter sweat of shame, 
 Knowing how the word of Christian 
 
 should 
 Mean to men evil and not good. 
 Seem to men shameful for your sake. 
 Whose lips, for all the prayers they 
 make, 
 Man's blood must slake. 
 
 But blood nor tears ye love not, you 
 That my love leads my longing to. 
 Fair as the world's old faith of flowers, 
 O golden goddesses of ours ! 
 From what Idalian rose-pleasance 
 Hath Aphrodite bidden glance 
 The lovelier lightnings of your feet } 
 From what sweet Paphian sward or 
 seat 
 Led you more sweet ? 
 
 O white three sisters, three as one- 
 With flower-like arms for flowery 
 bands, 
 Your linked limbs glitter like the sun. 
 And time lies beaten at your hands. 
 Time and wild years and wars and men 
 Pass, and ye care not whence or when ; 
 With calm lips over-sweet for scorn, 
 Ye watch night pass, O children born 
 Of the old-world morn ! 
 
 Ah ! in this strange and shrineless place, 
 What doth a goddess, what a Grace, 
 Where no Greek worships her shrined 
 
 limbs 
 With wreaths and Cytherean hymns? 
 Wherp no lute makes luxurious 
 The adoring airs in Amathus, 
 Till the maid, knowing her mother near. 
 Sobs with love, aching with sweet fear t 
 What do ye here t 
 
 For the outer land is sad, and wears 
 
 A raiment of a flaming fire; 
 
 And the fierce fruitless mountain stairs 
 
 Climb, yet seem wroth and loath to 
 
 aspire, — 
 
 Climb, and break-, and are broken down, 
 
 And through- their clefts and crests the 
 
 town 
 Looks west, and sees the dead sun lie, 
 In sanguine death that stains the sky 
 WMth angry dye. 
 
 And from the war-worn wastes without 
 In twilight, in the time of doubt. 
 One sound comes of one whisper, where 
 Moved with low motions of slow air 
 The great trees nigh the castle swing 
 In the sad-colored evening : 
 " Ricorditi di me, che son 
 La Pia,'' — that small sweet word alon» 
 Is not yet gone. 
 
 " Ricorditi di me," — the sound 
 
 Sole out of deep dumb days remote. 
 Across the fiery and fatal pround 
 
 Comes tender as a hurt bird's note 
 To where, a ghost with empty hands, 
 A woe-worn ghost, her palace stands 
 In the mid city, where the strong 
 Bells turn the'sunset air to song, 
 • And the towers throng. 
 
57^ 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 With other face, with speech the same, 
 A mightier maiden's likeness came 
 Late among mourning men that slept, 
 A sacred ghost that went and wept. 
 White as the passion-wounded Lamb, 
 Saying, " Ah, remember me, that am 
 Italia." (From deep sea to ■^ea 
 Jiarth heard, earth knew her, that this 
 was she.) 
 ♦' Ricorditi. 
 
 *• Love made me of all things fairest 
 thing. 
 And Hate unmade me ; this knows 
 he 
 Who with God's sacerdotal ring 
 
 Enringed mine hand, espousing me." 
 Yea, in thy myriad-mooded woe, 
 Yea, Mother, hast thou not said so? 
 Have not our hearts within us stirred, 
 ""^ ihou most holiest, at thy word.'' 
 Have we not heard ? 
 
 Afl this dead tragic land that she 
 Found deadly, such was time to thee ; . 
 Years passed thee withering in the red 
 Maremma, — years that deemed thee 
 
 dead. 
 Ages thai sorrowed or that scorned ; 
 And all this while, though all they 
 
 mourned, 
 Thou sawest the end of things unclean, 
 And the unborn that should see thee a 
 
 queen. 
 Have we not seen ? 
 
 The weary poet, thy sad son. 
 
 Upon thy soil, under thy skies, 
 Saw all Italian things save one, — 
 
 Italia: this thing missed his eyes; 
 The old mother-might, the breast, the 
 
 face. 
 That reared, that lit the Roman race, — 
 This not Leopardi saw ; but we. 
 What is it, Mother, that wc see, — 
 What, if not thee.? 
 
 Look thou from Siena southward home, 
 
 Where the priest's pall hangs rent on 
 Rome, 
 
 And through the red rent swaddling- 
 bands 
 
 Toward thine she strains her labouring 
 hands. 
 
 Look thou and listen, and let be 
 All the dead quick, all the bond free; 
 In the blind eyes let there be sight; 
 In the eighteen centuries of the night 
 Let there be light. 
 
 Bow down the beauty of thine head, 
 
 Sweet, and with lips of living breath 
 Kiss thy sons sleeping and thy dead. 
 That there be no more sleep or 
 death. 
 Give us thy light, thy might, thy love. 
 Whom thy face seen afar above 
 Drew to thy feet ; and when, being free, 
 Thou hast blest thy children born to 
 thee, 
 131ess also me, — 
 
 Me, that when others played or slept, 
 Sat still under thy cross, and wept; 
 Me, who so early and unaware 
 Felt fall on bent bared brows and haii 
 (Thin drops of the overflowing flood! ) 
 The bitter blessing of thy blood. 
 The sacred shadow of thy pain, 
 Thine, the true maiden-mother, slain 
 And raised again; 
 
 Me, consecrated, if I might, 
 
 To praise thee, or to love kt least, 
 O mother of all men's dear delight. 
 Thou madest a choral-souled boy- 
 priest, 
 Before my lips had leave to sing. 
 Or my hands hardlv strength to cling 
 About the intolerable tree 
 Whereto they had nailed my heart and 
 thee. 
 And said, " Let be." 
 
 For to thee too, the high Fates gave 
 Grace to be sacrificed and save, 
 That being arisen, in the equal sun, 
 God and the People should be one ; 
 V>\ those red roads thy footprints trod, 
 Nian more divine, more human God, 
 Saviour ; that where no light was 
 
 known 
 But darkness, and a daytime flown, 
 Light should be shown. 
 
POEMS AND HALL ADS. 
 
 573 
 
 Let there be light, O Italy ! 
 
 For our feet falter in the night. 
 O lamp of living years to he, 
 
 O light of God, let there be light ! 
 P'ill with a love keener than tlame 
 Men sealed in spirit with thy name, 
 The cities and tlie Roman skies, 
 Where men with other than man's eyes 
 Saw thy sun rise. 
 
 For theirs thou wast, and thine were 
 
 they, 
 Whose names outshine thy very day : 
 For. they are thine, and theirs thou art. 
 Whose blood beats living in man's 
 
 heart. 
 Remembering ages fled and dead 
 Wherein for thy sake these men bled; 
 They that saw Trebia, they that see 
 Mentana, they in years to be 
 That shall see thee. 
 
 For thine are all of us, and ours 
 
 Thou ; till the seasons bring to birth 
 
 A perfect people, and all the powers 
 Be with them that bear fruit on 
 earth : 
 
 Till the inner heart of man be one 
 
 With freedom, and the sovereign sun ; 
 
 And Time, in likeness of a guide, 
 
 Lead the Republic as a bride 
 Up to God's side. 
 
 COR CORDIUM. 
 
 O HEART of hearts, the chalice of 
 love's fire. 
 Hid round with flowers and all the 
 
 bounty of bloom; 
 O wonderful and perfect heart, for 
 whom 
 The lyrist liberty made life a lyre ; 
 O heavenly heart, at whose most dear 
 desire 
 Dead Love, living and singing, cleft 
 
 his tomb, 
 And with him risen and regent in 
 death's room 
 All day thy choral pulses rang full 
 «boir ; 
 
 O hearts whose beating blood was run- 
 ning song, 
 O sole thing sweeter than thine own 
 songs were. 
 Help us for thy free love's sake to 
 be free, 
 True for thy truth's sake, for thy 
 strength's sake strong. 
 Till very liberty make clean and fair 
 The nursing earth as the sepul- 
 chral sea. 
 
 TIRESIAS. 
 
 PART r. 
 It is an hour before the hour of dawn. 
 Set in mine hand my staff, and leave 
 
 me here 
 Outside the hollow house that blind 
 men fear, 
 More blind than I who live on life 
 withdrawn, 
 And feel on eyes that see not but 
 
 foresee 
 The shadow of death which clothes 
 Antigone. 
 
 Here lay her living body that here lies 
 Dead, if man living know what thing 
 
 is death. 
 If life be all made up of blood and 
 breath. 
 And no sense be save as of ears and 
 eyes. 
 But heart there is not, tongue there 
 
 is not found. 
 To think or sing what verge hath life^ 
 or bound. 
 
 In the beginning when the powers that 
 
 made 
 The young child man a little loved 
 
 him, seeing 
 His joy of life and fair face of his 
 
 being. 
 And bland and laughing with the man. 
 
 child played, 
 As friends they saw on our divine 
 
 one day, 
 King Cadmus take to c^ueen Ilarmo- 
 
 in'a. 
 
574 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 The strength of soul that builds up as 
 
 with hands, 
 Walls spiritual and towers and towns 
 
 of thought 
 Which only fate, not force, can bring 
 
 to naught. 
 Took then to wife the 'light of all men's 
 
 lands, 
 War's child, and love's, most sweet 
 
 and wise and strong. 
 Order of things and rule and guiding 
 
 song. 
 
 It was long since; yea, even the sun 
 
 that saw 
 Remembers hardly what was, nor 
 
 how long; 
 And now the wise heart of the 
 
 worldly song 
 Is perished, and the holy hand of law 
 Can set no tune on time, nor help 
 
 again 
 The power of thought to build up life 
 
 for men. 
 
 \'ea, surely are they now transformed 
 
 or dead, 
 And sleep below this world, where 
 
 no sun warms. 
 Or move about it now in formless 
 
 forms 
 Incognizable, and all their lordship 
 
 fled; 
 And where they stood up singing, 
 
 crawl and hiss 
 With fangs that kill behind their lips 
 
 that kiss. 
 
 Yet though her marriage-garment, seem- 
 ing fair. 
 Was dyed in sin and woven of jeal- 
 ousy 
 To turn their seed to poison, time 
 shall see 
 The gods reissue from them, and repair 
 Their broken stamp of godhead, and 
 
 again 
 Thought and wise love sing words of 
 law to men. 
 
 1, Tiresias the prophet, seeing in Thebes 
 Much evil, and the misery of men's 
 hands 
 
 Who sow with fruitless wheat the 
 stones and sands. 
 With fruitful thorns the fallows and 
 warm glebes, 
 
 Bade their hands hold lest worse hap 
 come to pass. 
 
 But which of you had heed of Tire- 
 sias ? 
 
 I am as Time's self in mine own wea- 
 ried mind, 
 
 Whom the strong heavy-footed years 
 have led 
 
 From night to night and dead men 
 unto dead. 
 And from the blind hope to the mem- 
 ory blind ; 
 
 For each man's life is woven, as 
 Time's life is, 
 
 Of blind young hopes and old blind 
 memories. 
 
 I am a soul outside of death and birth. 
 
 I see before me and afterward I see, 
 
 O child, O corpse, the live dead face 
 
 of thee. 
 
 Whose life and death are one thing 
 
 upon earth 
 
 Where day kills night and night again 
 
 kills day 
 And dies ; but where is that Harma 
 
 O all-beholden light not seen of me I 
 Air, and warm winds that under the 
 
 sun's eye 
 Stretch your strong wings at morn 
 ing ; and thou, sky, 
 Whose hollow circle engirdling earth 
 and sea 
 All night the set stars limit, and all 
 
 day 
 The moving sun remeasures ; ye, 
 I say, — 
 
 Ye heights of hills, and thou Dircean 
 spring 
 Inviolable, and ye towers that sa« 
 
 cast down 
 Seven kings keen-sighted toward youi 
 seven-faced town, 
 .■\.nd quenched the red seed of one sight 
 less king; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 575 
 
 And thou, for deatli less dreadful 
 
 than Tor birth, 
 Whose wild leaves hide the horror of 
 
 the earth, — 
 
 O mountain whereon gods made chase 
 of kings, 
 
 Cithacon, thou that sawest on Pen- 
 theus dead 
 
 Fangs of a mother fasten, and wax 
 red, 
 And satiate with a son thy swollen 
 springs. 
 
 And heardst her cry fright all thine 
 eyries' nests 
 
 "Who gave death suck at sanguine- 
 suckling breasts ; 
 
 Yea, and a grief more grievous, without 
 
 name, 
 A curse too grievous for the name of 
 
 grief, 
 Thou sawest, and heardst the rumor 
 
 scare belief 
 Even unto death and madness, when 
 
 the flame 
 Was lit whose ashes dropped about 
 
 the pyre 
 That of two brethren made one sun,- 
 
 dering fire ; 
 
 bitter nurse, that on thine bard bare 
 
 knees 
 
 Rear'dst for his fate the bloody-footed 
 child 
 
 Whose hands should be more blood- 
 ily defiled 
 And the old blind feet walk wearier 
 ways than these, 
 
 Whose seed, brought forth in dark- 
 ness unto doom, 
 
 Should break as fire out of his moth- 
 er's womb ; 
 
 1 bear you witness as ye bear to me, 
 Time, day, night,' sun, stars, life, 
 
 death, air, sea, earth. 
 And ye that round the human house 
 of birth 
 Watch with veiled heads and weaponcd 
 hands, and see 
 
 Good things and evil, strengthlcss yet 
 
 and dumb, 
 Sit in the clouds with cloudlike hours 
 
 to come ; 
 
 Ye forces without form and viewless 
 
 powers 
 That have the keys of all our years 
 
 in hold. 
 That prophesy too late with tongues 
 
 of gold, 
 In a strange speech whose words are 
 
 perished hours, 
 I witness to you what good things ve 
 
 give 
 As ye to ijie what evil while I live. 
 
 What should I do to blame you, what 
 
 to praise, 
 For floral hours and hours funereal ? 
 What should I do to curse or bless 
 
 at all 
 For winter-woven or summer-colored 
 
 days ? 
 Curse he that will, and bless you 
 
 whoso can : 
 I have no common part in you with 
 
 man. 
 
 I hear a springing water, whose quick 
 
 sound 
 Makes softer the soft, sunless, patient 
 
 air, 
 And the wind's hand is laid on my 
 
 thin hair 
 Light as a lover's, and the grasses round 
 Have odors in them of green bloom 
 
 and rain, 
 Sweet as the kiss wherewith sleep 
 
 kisses pain, 
 
 I hear the low sound of the spring of 
 
 time 
 Still beating as the low live throb of 
 
 blood. 
 And where its waters gather head and 
 
 flood 
 I hear change moving on them, and the 
 
 chime 
 Across them of reverberate wings of 
 
 hours 
 Sounding, and feel the future air of 
 
 flowers. 
 
576 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The wind of change is soft as snow, 
 and sweet 
 The sense thereof as roses in the sun, 
 The faint wind springing with the 
 springs that run. 
 The dim sweet smell of flowering hopes, 
 and heat 
 Of unbcholden sunrise ; yet how long 
 1 know not, till the morning put forth 
 song. 
 
 I prophesy of life, who live with death ; 
 Of joy, being sad; of sunlight, who 
 
 am blind ; 
 Of man, whose ways are alien from 
 
 mankind 
 And his lips are not parted with man's 
 
 breath : 
 I am a word out of the speechless 
 
 years, 
 The tongue of time, that no man 
 
 sleeps who hears. 
 
 I stand a shadow across the door of doom 
 Athwart the lintel of death's house, 
 
 and wait ; 
 Nor quick nor dead, nor flexible by 
 
 fate. 
 Nor quite of earth nor wholly of the 
 
 tomb ; 
 A voice, a vision, light as fire or air, 
 Driven between days that shall be 
 
 and that were. 
 
 I prophesy, with feet upon a grave, 
 
 Of death cast out, and life devouring 
 death 
 
 As flame doth wood and stubble with 
 a breath ; 
 Of freedom, though all manhood were 
 one slave ; 
 
 Of truth, though all the world were 
 liar ; of love, 
 
 That time nor hate can raze the wit- 
 ness of. 
 
 Life that was given for love's sake and 
 his law's, 
 Their powers hnve no more power 
 
 on : they divide 
 Spoils wrung from lust or wrath of 
 man or pride, 
 And keen oblivion without pity or pause 
 
 Sets them on fire, and scatters them 
 
 on air 
 Like ashes shaken from a suppliant's 
 
 hair. 
 
 But life they lay no hand on ; life once 
 
 given 
 No force of theirs hath competence 
 
 to take ; 
 Life that was given for some divine 
 
 thing's sake, 
 To mix the bitterness of earth with 
 
 heaven. 
 Light with man's night, and music 
 
 with his breath, 
 Dies not, but makes its living food 
 
 of death. 
 
 I have seen this, who live where men 
 
 are not, 
 In the high starless air of fruitful 
 
 night. 
 On that serenest and obscurest height 
 Where dead and unborn things are one 
 
 in thought. 
 And whence the live unconquerable 
 
 springs 
 Feed full of force the torrents of new 
 
 things. 
 
 I have seen this, who saw long since, 
 being man. 
 As now I know not if indeed I be. 
 The fair bare tody of Wisdom, good 
 to see 
 And evil, whence my light and night 
 began : 
 Light on the goal and darkness on the 
 
 way, 
 Light all through night and darkness 
 all through day. 
 
 Mother, that by that Pegasean spring, 
 Didst fold found in thine arms thy 
 
 blinded son. 
 Weeping, **0 holiest, what thing hast 
 
 thou done, 
 What, to my child ? woe's me that see 
 
 the thing I 
 Is this thy love to me-ward, and 
 
 hereof 
 Must I take sample how the gods can 
 
 love ? 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 S77 
 
 " O child, thou hast seen indeed, poor 
 child of mine, 
 
 The breasts and flanks of Pallas bare 
 in sight, 
 
 But never shalt see more the dear 
 sun's light ; 
 O Helicon, how great a pay is thine 
 
 For some poor antelopes and wild- 
 deer dead ! 
 
 My child's eyes hast thou taken in 
 their stead" — 
 
 Mother, thou knewest not what she had 
 
 to give, 
 Thy goddess, though then angered, 
 
 for mine eyes ; 
 Fame and foreknowledge, and to be 
 
 most wise. 
 And centuries of high-thoughted life to 
 
 live, 
 And in mine hand this guiding staff 
 
 to be 
 As eyesight to the feet of men that 
 
 see. 
 
 Perchance I shall not die at all, nor 
 
 pass 
 The general door and lintel of men 
 
 dead; 
 Yet even the very tongue of wisdom 
 
 said 
 What grace should come with death to 
 
 Tiresias, 
 What special honor that god's hand 
 
 accord 
 Who gathers all men's nations as 
 
 their lord. 
 
 And sometimes when the secret eye of 
 thought 
 
 Is changed with obscuration, and the 
 sense 
 
 Aches with long pain of hollow pre- 
 science. 
 And fiery foresight with fore-suffering 
 bought 
 
 Seems even to infect my spirit and 
 consume. 
 
 Hunger and thirst come on me for 
 the tomb. 
 
 I could be fain to drink my death, and 
 
 sleep. 
 And no more wrapped about with 
 
 bitter dreams 
 Talk with the stars and with the 
 
 winds and streams 
 And with the inevitable years, and weep ; 
 For how should he who communes 
 
 with the years 
 Be sometime not a living spring of 
 
 tears ? 
 
 O child, that guided of thine only will 
 Didst set thy maiden foot against the 
 
 gate 
 To strike it open ere thine hour of 
 fate, 
 Antigone, men say not thou didst ill. 
 For love's sake and the reverence of 
 
 his awe 
 Divinely dying, slain by mortal law; 
 
 For love is awful as immortal death. 
 And through thee surely hath thv 
 
 brother won 
 Rest, out of sight of our world-weary 
 
 sun. 
 And in the dead land where ye ghosts 
 
 draw breath 
 A royal place and honor ; so wast 
 
 thou 
 Happy, though earth have hold of 
 
 thee too now 
 
 So hast thou life and name inviolable. 
 And joy it may be, sacred and severe, 
 Joy secret-souled beyond ;ill hope or 
 fear, 
 
 A monumental joy wherein to dwell 
 Secluse and silent, a selected state. 
 Serene possession of thy proper fate. 
 
 Thou art not dead as these are dead 
 
 who live 
 Full of blind years, a sorrow-shaken 
 
 kind. 
 Nor as these are am I the prophet 
 
 blind ; 
 They have not life that have not heart 
 
 to give 
 Life, nor have eyesight who lack 
 
 heart to see 
 When to be not is better than to be. 
 
57S 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 O ye whom time but bears with for a 
 
 span, 
 How long will ye be blind and dead, 
 
 how long 
 Make your own souls part of your 
 
 owii soul's wrong? 
 Son of the word of the most high gods, 
 
 man, 
 Why wilt thou make thine hour of 
 
 light and breath 
 Emptier of all but shame than very 
 
 death ? 
 
 Fool, wilt thou live for ever? though 
 
 thou care 
 With all thine heart for life to keep 
 
 It fast, 
 Shall not thine hand forego it at the 
 
 last ? 
 Lo, thy sure hour shall take thee by the 
 
 hair 
 Sleeping, or when thou knowest not, 
 
 or wouldst fly ; 
 And as men died much mightier, shalt 
 
 thou die. 
 
 Yea, they are dead, men much more 
 worth than thou , 
 The savor of heroic lives that were. 
 Is it not mixed into thy common air ? 
 The sense of them is sh^d about thee 
 now • 
 Feel not thy brows a wind blowing 
 
 from far? 
 Aches not thy forehead with a future 
 star ? 
 
 The light that thou may'stonakc out of 
 
 thy name 
 Is in the wind of this same hour that 
 
 drives, 
 lilown within reach but once of all 
 
 men's lives ; 
 And he that puts forth hand upon the 
 
 flame 
 Shall have it for a garland on his head 
 To sign him for a king among the 
 
 dead. 
 
 But these men that the lessening years 
 behold. 
 Who sit the most part without fl.ime 
 or crown, 
 
 And brawl and sleep, and wear theii 
 
 life-days down 
 With joys and griefs ignobler than ol 
 
 old, 
 And care not if the better day shal 
 
 be,- 
 Are these or art thou dead, Antigone : 
 
 PART II. 
 
 As when one wakes out of a waning 
 
 dream, 
 And sees with instant eyes the nakec 
 
 thought 
 Whereof the vision as a web wai 
 
 wrought, 
 I saw beneath a heaven of cloud .anc 
 
 gleam, 
 Ere yet the heart of the young sui 
 
 waxed brave. 
 One like a prophet standing by ; 
 
 grave. 
 
 In the hoar heaven was hardly beam o 
 
 breath. 
 And all the colored hills and field 
 
 were gray, 
 And the wind wandered seeking fo 
 
 the day. 
 And wailed as though he had found he 
 
 done to death, 
 And this gray hour had built to bur; 
 
 her 
 The hollow twilight for a sepulchre. 
 
 But in my soul I saw as in a glass 
 A pale and living body full of grace 
 There lying, and over it the prophet' 
 face 
 Fixed ; and the face was not of Tiresias 
 For such a starry fire was In his eye 
 As though their light it was that mad' 
 the skies. 
 
 Such eyes should God's have been whei 
 very love 
 Looked forth of them and set the sui 
 
 allanu'. 
 And such his lips that called the ligh 
 bv name 
 And bade the iworning forth at soun( 
 thereof; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 579 
 
 His face was sad and masterful as 
 fate, 
 
 And like a star's his look compas- 
 sionate. 
 
 r.ike a star's gazed on of sad eyes so 
 
 long 
 It seems to yearn with pity, and all 
 
 its fire 
 As a man's heart to tremble with 
 
 desire 
 And heave as though the light would 
 
 bring forth song; 
 Yet from his face flashed lightning on 
 
 the land. 
 And like the thunder-bearer's was his 
 
 hand. 
 
 The steepness of strange stairs had 
 
 tired his feet. 
 And his lips yet seemed sick of that 
 
 salt bread 
 Wherewith the lips of banishment 
 
 are fed ; 
 But nothing was there in the world so 
 
 sweet 
 As the most bitter love, like God's 
 
 own grace, 
 Wherewith he gazed on that fair 
 
 buried face. 
 
 Grief and glad pride and passion and 
 sharp shame, 
 Wrath and remembrance, faith and 
 
 hope and hate, 
 And pitiless pity of days degenerate, 
 Were in his eyes as an incorporate 
 flame 
 That burned about her, and the heart 
 
 thereof 
 And central flower was very fire of 
 love. 
 
 But all about her grave wherein she 
 slept 
 Were noises of the wild wund-footed 
 
 years 
 Whose footprints flying were full of 
 blood and tears, 
 Shrieks as of Maenads on their hills 
 that leapt 
 
 And yelled as beasts of ravin, and 
 
 their meat 
 Was the rent flesh of their own sons 
 
 to eat 
 
 And fiery shadows passing with strange 
 cries. 
 And sphinx-like shapes about the 
 
 ruined lands, 
 And the red reek of parricidal hands 
 And intermixture of incestuous eyes. 
 And light as of that self-divided flame 
 Which made an end of the Cadmean 
 name. 
 
 And I beheld again, and lo the grave. 
 
 And the bright body laid therein aS 
 dead, 
 
 And the same shadow across another 
 head 
 That bowed down silent on that sleep- 
 ing slave 
 
 Who was the lady of empire from 
 her birth 
 
 And light of all the kingdoms of the 
 earth. 
 
 Within the compass of the watcher's 
 
 hand 
 All strengths of other men and divers 
 
 powers 
 Were held at ease and gathered up 
 
 as flowers ; 
 His heart was as the heart of his whole 
 
 land. 
 And at his feet as natural servants 
 
 lay 
 Twilight and dawn and night and 
 
 laboring day 
 
 He was most awful of the sons of God. 
 Even now men seeing seemed at his 
 
 lips to see 
 The trum])et of the judgment that 
 should be, 
 And in his right hand terror for a rod. 
 And in the breath that made the 
 
 mountains bow 
 The horned fire of Moses on his 
 brow. 
 
580 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The strong wind of the coming of the 
 
 Lord 
 Had blown as flame upon, him, and 
 
 brought down 
 On his bare head from heaven fire 
 
 for a crown, 
 And fire was girt upon him as a sword 
 To smite and lighten, and on what 
 
 ways he trod 
 There fell from him the shadow of a 
 
 god. 
 
 Pale, with the whole world's judgment 
 
 in his eyes, 
 He stood and saw the grief and shame 
 
 endure 
 That he, though highest of angels, 
 
 might not cure. 
 And the same sins done under the same 
 
 skies, 
 And the same slaves to the same 
 
 tyrants thrown. 
 And fain he would have slept, and 
 
 fain been stone. 
 
 But with unslumbering eyes he watched 
 
 the sleep 
 That sealed her sense whose eyes 
 
 were suns of old ; 
 And the night shut and opened, and 
 
 behold. 
 The same grave where those prophets 
 
 came to weep. 
 But she that lay therein had moved 
 
 and stirred, 
 And where those twain had watched 
 
 her stood a third. 
 
 The tripled rhyme that closed in Para- 
 dise 
 With Love's name sealing up its 
 
 starry speech ; 
 The tripled might of hand that found 
 in reach 
 All crowns beheld far off of all men's 
 eyes, 
 Song, color, carven wonders of live 
 
 stone, — 
 These were not, but the very soul 
 alone. 
 
 The living spirit, the good gift of grace, 
 The faith which takes of its own 
 
 blood to give 
 That the dead veins of buried hope 
 
 may live, 
 Came on her sleeping, face to naked 
 
 face. 
 And from a soul more sweet than all 
 
 the south 
 Breathed love upon her sealed and 
 
 breathless mouth. 
 
 Between her lips the breath was blown 
 as fire. 
 And through her flushed veins leapt 
 
 the liquid life. 
 And with sore passion and ambigu- 
 ous strife 
 The new birth rent her and the new 
 desire, 
 The will to live, the competence to 
 
 be, 
 The sense to hearken, and the soul 
 to see 
 
 And the third prophet standing by her 
 
 grave 
 Stretched forth his hand, and touched 
 
 her ; and her eyes 
 Opened as sudden suns in heaven 
 
 might rise. 
 And her soul caught from his the faith 
 
 to save ; 
 Faith above creeds, faith beyond 
 
 records, born 
 Of the pure, naked, fruitful, awful 
 
 morn. 
 
 For in the daybreak now that night was 
 
 dead 
 The light, the shadow, the delight, 
 
 the pain. 
 The purpose and the passion of those 
 
 twain, 
 .Seemed gathered on that third prophetic 
 
 head ; 
 And all their crowns were as one 
 
 crown, and one 
 His face with her face in the living 
 
 sun. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 S8i 
 
 For even with that communion of their 
 
 eyes 
 His whole soul passed into her, and 
 
 made her strong ; 
 And all the sounds and shows of 
 
 shame and wrong, 
 The hand that slays, the lip that mocks 
 
 and lies, 
 Temples and thrones that yet men 
 
 seem to see, — 
 Are these dead, or art thou dead, 
 
 Italy ? 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 T. 
 
 Art thou indeed among these, 
 Thou of the tyrannous crew. 
 The kingdoms fed upon blood, 
 O queen from of old of the seas, 
 England, — art thou of them too 
 That drink of the poisonous flood. 
 That hide under poisonous trees ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Nay, thy name from of old. 
 Mother, was pure, or we dreamed ; 
 Purer we held thee than this. 
 Purer fain would we hold; 
 So goodly a glory it seemed, 
 A fame so bounteous of bliss, 
 So more precious than gold. 
 
 HI. 
 A praise so sweet in our ears, 
 That thou in the tempest of things 
 As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand, 
 In the blood-red river of tears 
 Poured forth for the triumph of kings 
 A safeguard, a sheltering land. 
 In the thunder and torrent of years. 
 
 Strangers came gladly to thee, 
 
 Exiles, chosen of men, 
 
 Safe for thy sake in thy shade. 
 
 Sat down at thy feet and were free. 
 
 So men spake of thee then : 
 
 Now shall their speaking be stayed ? 
 
 Ah, so let it not be ! 
 
 Not for revenge or affright. 
 
 Pride, or a tyrannous lust, 
 
 Cast from thee the crown of thy praise. 
 
 Mercy was thine in thy might;' 
 
 Strong when thou wert, thou wert just; 
 
 Now, in the wrong-doing days. 
 
 Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How should one charge thee, how 
 
 sway, 
 Save by the memories that were t 
 Not thy gold, nor the strength of thy 
 
 ships. 
 Nor the might of thine armies at bay. 
 Made thee, mother, most fair; 
 But a word from republican lips 
 Said in thy name, in thy day. 
 
 Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot ? 
 Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff ? 
 Blood of men guiltless was shed. 
 Children, and souls without spot. 
 Shed, but in places far off : 
 Let slaughter no more be, said 
 Milton; and slaughter was not. 
 
 VIII. 
 Was it not said of thee too, 
 Now, but now, by thy foes, 
 By the slaves that had slain their 
 
 France, 
 And thee would slay as they slew — 
 "Down with her walls that enclose 
 Freemen that eye us askance, 
 Fugitives, men that are true I " 
 
 IX. 
 
 This was thy praise or thy blame, 
 From bondsman or freeman, — to be 
 Pure from pollution of slaves. 
 Clean of their sins, and thy name 
 Bloodless, innocent, free : 
 Now if thou be not, thy waves 
 Wash not from off thee thy shame. 
 
582 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Freeman he is not, but slave, 
 Whoso in fear for the state 
 Cries for surety of blood, 
 Help of gibbet and grave; 
 Neither is any land great 
 Whom, in her fear-stricken mood, 
 These things only can save. 
 
 XI. 
 Lo ! how fair from afar, 
 Taintless 6f tyranny, stands 
 Thy mighty daughter, for years 
 Who trod the winepress of war, — 
 Shines with immaculate hands ; 
 Slays not a foe, neither fears ; 
 Stains not peace with a scar. 
 
 XII. 
 Be not as tyrant or slave, 
 England ; be not as these. 
 Thou that wert other than they. 
 Stretch out thine hand, but to save ; 
 Put forth thy strength, and release : 
 Lest there arise, if thou slay, 
 Thy shame as a ghost from the grave. 
 Nov. 20, 1867. 
 
 PERINDE AC CADAVER. 
 
 In a vision Liberty stood 
 
 By the childless charm-stricken bed 
 Where, barren of glory and good, 
 Knowing naught if she would not or 
 would, 
 
 England slept with her dead. 
 
 Her face that the foam had whitened. 
 
 Her hands that were strong to strive. 
 Her eyes whence battle had lightened. 
 Over all was a drawn shroud tightened 
 To bind her asleep antl alive. 
 
 She turned and laughed in her dream. 
 
 With gray lips arid and cold: 
 She saw not the face as a beam 
 Burn on her, but only a gleam 
 Tlirouj'Ji her sleep as of new-stamped 
 gold. 
 
 But the goddess, with terrible tears 
 
 In the light of her down-drawn eyes. 
 Spake fire in the dull sealed ears : 
 "Thou, sick with slumbers and fears, 
 Wilt thou sleep now indeed, or arise } 
 
 " With dreams, and with words, and 
 with light 
 Memories and empty desires, 
 Thou hast wrapped thyself round all 
 
 night : 
 Thou hast shut up thine heart from the 
 right, 
 And warmed thee at burnt-out fires. 
 
 '* Yet once, if I smote at thy gate. 
 
 Thy sons would sleep not, but heard : 
 O thou that wast found so great. 
 Art thou smitten with folly or fate. 
 That thy sons have forgotten my 
 word .'' 
 
 "O Cromwell's mother, O breast 
 That suckled Milton ! thy name 
 That was beautiful then, that was blest, 
 Is it wholly discrowned and deprest. 
 Trodden under by sloth into shame? 
 
 *' Why wilt thou hate me and die t 
 For none can hate me and live. 
 What ill have I done to thee "i why 
 Wilt thou turn from me fighting, and 
 
 fly. 
 
 Who would follow thy feet and for- 
 
 " Thou hast seen mc stricken, and said, 
 
 What is it to me ? I am strong : 
 Thou hast seen me bowed down on my 
 
 dead. 
 And laughed, and lifted thine head. 
 And washed thine hands of my 
 wrong. 
 
 " Thou has put out the soul of thy 
 sight : 
 Thou hast sought to my foemen as 
 friend. 
 To my traitors that kiss me and smite, 
 To the kingdoms and empires of 
 night 
 That begin with the darkness, and 
 end. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 583 
 
 ♦* Tnm thee, awaken, arise, 
 
 With the light that is risen on the 
 lands, 
 With the change of the fresh-colored 
 
 skies : 
 Set thine eyes on mine eyes, 
 Lay thy hands in my hands." 
 
 She moved and mourned as she heard, 
 Sighed, and shifted her place, 
 
 As the wells of her slumber were 
 stirred 
 
 "By the music and wind of the word, 
 Then turned, and covered her face. 
 
 " Ah ! " she said in her sleep, 
 
 " Is my work not done with, and 
 done ? 
 Is there corn for my sickle to reap ? 
 And strange is the "pathway, and steep, 
 
 And sharp overhead is the sun. 
 
 '' I have done thee service enough, 
 
 Loved thee enough in my day : 
 Now nor hatred nor love 
 Nor hardly remembrance thereof 
 Lives in me to lighten my way. 
 
 " And is it not well with us here ? 
 
 Is change as good as is re^t ? 
 What hope should move me, or fear 
 That eye should open or ear, 
 
 Who have long since won what is 
 best ? 
 
 " Where among us are such things 
 
 As turn men's hearts into hell ? 
 Have we not queens without stings, 
 Scotched princes, and fangless kings ? 
 Yea," she said, " we are well. 
 
 " We have filed the teeth of the snake 
 Monarchy : how should it bile ? 
 
 Should the slippery slow thing wake. 
 
 It will not sting for my sake ; 
 Yea," she said, " I do right." 
 
 So spake she, drunken with dreams. 
 
 Mad; but again in her ears 
 A voice as of storm-swelled streams 
 Spake : " No brave shame ther redeems 
 Thy lusts o£ sloth and thy fears ? 
 
 "Thy poor lie slain of thine hands, 
 
 Their starved limbs rot in thy sight 
 As a shadow the ghost of thee stands 
 Among men living and lands, 
 And stirs not leftward or right. 
 
 " Freeman he is not, but slave, 
 
 Who stands not out on my side ; 
 His own hand hollows his grave, 
 Nor strength is in me to save 
 Where strength is none to abide. 
 
 " Time shall tread on his name 
 
 That was written for honor of old. 
 
 Who hath taken in change for fame 
 
 Dust, and silver, and shame. 
 Ashes, and iron, and gold." 
 
 THE OBLATION. 
 
 Ask nothing more of me, sweet : 
 All I can give you, I give. 
 
 Heart of my heart, were it more, 
 More would be laid at your feet ; 
 Love that should help you to live; 
 Song that should spur you to soar. 
 
 All things were nothing to give, 
 Once to have sense of you more, 
 Touch you and taste of you sweet, 
 Think you and breathe you, and live, 
 Swept of your wings as they soar. 
 Trodden by chance of your feet. 
 
 I that have love and no more 
 
 Give you but love of you, sweet : 
 He that hath more, let him give ; 
 He that hath wings, let him soar ; 
 Mine is the heart at your feet 
 Here, that must love you to live. 
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Upon a windy night of stars that fell 
 
 At the wind's spoken spell, 
 Swept with sharp strokes of agonizing 
 light 
 From the clear gulf of night, 
 IJctween the fixed and fallen glories 
 one 
 Against my vision shone, 
 
584 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 More fair and fearful and divine than 
 they 
 That measure night and day, 
 And worthier worship; and within mine 
 eyes 
 The formless folded skies 
 Took shape and were unfolded like as 
 flowers. 
 And I beheld the hours 
 As maidens, and the days as laboring 
 men, 
 And the soft nights again 
 As wearied women' to their own souls 
 wed. 
 And ages as the dead. 
 And over these living, and them that 
 died, 
 From one to the other side 
 A lordlier light than comes of earth or 
 air 
 Made the world's future fair. 
 A woman like to love in face, but not 
 
 A thing of transient lot; 
 And like to hope, but having hold on 
 truth ; 
 And like to joy or youth, 
 Save that upon the rock her feet were 
 set; 
 And like what men forget. 
 Faith, innocence, high thought, labo- 
 rious peace, — 
 And yet like none of these, 
 Being not as these are mortal, but with 
 eyes 
 That sounded the deep skies, 
 And clove like wings or arrows their 
 clear way 
 Through night and dawn and day, — 
 So fair a presence over star and sun 
 
 Stood, making these as one. 
 Yox in the shadow of her shape were all 
 
 Darkened and held in thrall, 
 So mightier rose she past them; and 
 I felt 
 Whose form, whose likeness knelt 
 With covered hair and face, and clasped 
 her knees; 
 And knew the first of these 
 Was Freedom, and the second Italy 
 
 And what sad words said she 
 For mine own grief I knew not, nor had 
 heart 
 Therewith to bear my part 
 
 And set my songs to sorrow ; nor to 
 hear 
 How tear by sacred tear 
 Fell from her eyes as flowers or notes 
 that fall 
 In some slain feaster's hall 
 Where in mid music and melodious 
 breath 
 Men singing have seen death. 
 So fair, so lost, so sweet, she knelt ; oi 
 so 
 In our lost eyes below 
 Seemed to us sorrowing ; and her speech 
 being said, 
 Fell, as one who falls dead. 
 And for a little she too wept, who stood 
 
 Above the dust and blood 
 And thrones and troubles of the world; 
 then spake. 
 As who bids dead men wake : — 
 
 " Because the years were heavy on thj 
 head; 
 Because dead things are dead ; 
 Because thy chosen on hillside, city and 
 plain 
 Are shed as drops of rain; 
 Because all earth, was black, all heaver 
 was blind, 
 And we cast out of mind; 
 Because men wept, saying Freedom^ 
 knowing of thee, 
 Child, that thou wast not free : 
 Because wherever blood was not shame 
 was 
 Where thy pure foot did pass; 
 Because on Promethean rocks distent 
 
 Thee fouler eagles rent ; 
 Because a serpent stains with slime and 
 foam 
 This that is not thy Rome; 
 Child of my womb, whose limbs were 
 made in me, 
 Have I forgotten thee ? 
 In all thy dreams through all these years 
 on wing. 
 Hast thou dreamed such a thing? 
 The mortal mother-bird out-soars her 
 nest, 
 The child outgrows the breast ; 
 But suns as stars shall fall from heaven 
 and cease, 
 Ere we twain be as these; 
 
Poems a:vd ballads. 
 
 585 
 
 Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost 
 sun, 
 Ere we twain be not one. 
 My lesser jewels sewn on skirt and hem, 
 
 I have no heed of them 
 Obscured and flawed by sloth or craft 
 or power; 
 But thou, that wast my flower, 
 The blossom bound between my brows, 
 and worn 
 In sight of even and morn 
 From the last ember of the flameless 
 west 
 To the dawn's baring breast — 
 I were not Freedom if thou wert not 
 free. 
 Nor thou wert Italy. 
 O mystic rose ingrained with blood, 
 impearled 
 With tears of all the world ! 
 The torpor of their blind brute-ridden 
 trance 
 Kills England and chills France ; 
 And Spain sobs hard through stran- 
 gling blood; and snows 
 Hide the huge eastern woes. 
 But thou, twin-born with morning, 
 nursed of noon. 
 And blessed of star and moon ! 
 What shall avail to assail thee any more, 
 
 From sacred shore to shore "> 
 Have Time and Love not knelt down 
 at thy feet, 
 Thy sore, thy soiled, thy sweet, 
 P'resh from the flints and mire of mur- 
 derous ways 
 And dust of travelling days.^ 
 Hath Time not kissed them. Love not 
 washed them fair. 
 And wiped with tears and hair.? 
 Though God forget thee, I will not for- 
 get ; 
 Though heaven and earth be set 
 Against thee, O unconquerable child, 
 
 Abused, abased, reviled. 
 Lift thou not less from no funereal bed 
 
 Thine undishonored head ; 
 Love thou not less, by lips of thine once 
 prest, 
 This my now barren breast ; 
 Seek thou not less, being well assured 
 thereof, 
 O child, my latest love. 
 
 For now the barren bosom shall bear 
 fruit. 
 Songs leap from lips long mute, 
 And with my milk the mouths of nations 
 fed 
 Again be glad and red 
 That were worn white with hunger and 
 sorrow and thirst ; 
 And thou, most fair and first. 
 Thou whose warm hands and sweet live' 
 lips I feel 
 Upon me for a seal, 
 Thou whose least looks, whose smiles 
 and little sighs. 
 Whose passionate pure eyes. 
 Whose dear fair limbs that neither 
 bonds could bruise 
 Nor hate of men misuse, 
 Whose flower-like breath and bosom, 
 O my child, 
 
 mine and unclefiled. 
 
 Fill with such tears as burn like bitter 
 wine 
 These mother's eyes of mine, 
 Thrill with huge passions and primeval 
 pains 
 The fulness of my veins. 
 
 sweetest head seen higher than any 
 
 stands, 
 
 1 touch thee wi.th mine hands, 
 
 1 lay my lips upon thee, O thou most 
 
 sweet. 
 To lift thee on thy feet. 
 And with the fire of mine to fill thine 
 
 eyes; 
 I say unto thee. Arise." 
 
 She ceased, and heaven was full of flame 
 and sound, 
 And earth's old limbs unbound 
 Shone and waxed warm with fiery dew 
 and seed 
 Shed through her at this her need : 
 And highest in heaven, a mother and 
 full of grace, 
 With no more covered face, 
 With no more ^ifted hands and bcnckd 
 knees. 
 Rose, as from sacred seas 
 Love, when old time was full of plente 
 ous springs, 
 That fairest-born of things, 
 
586 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The land that holds the rest in tender 
 thrall 
 For love's sake in them all, 
 That binds with words and holds with 
 eves and hands 
 All hearts in all men's lands. 
 So died the dream whence rose the live 
 desire 
 That here takes form and fire, 
 A spirit from the splendid grave of sleep 
 
 Risen, that ye should not weep, — 
 Should not weep more nor ever, O ye 
 that hear, 
 And ever have held her dear. 
 Seeing now indeed she weeps not who 
 wept sore. 
 And sleeps not any more. 
 Hearken ye towards her, O people, 
 exalt your eyes ; 
 Is this a thing that dies ? 
 
 Italia! by the passion of the pain 
 
 That bent and rent thy chain; 
 Italia! by the breaking of the bands. 
 
 The shaking of the lands; 
 Beloved, O men's mother, O men's 
 queen. 
 Arise, appear, be seen ! 
 Arise, array thyself in manifold 
 
 Queen's raiment of wrought gold; 
 With girdles of green freedom, and 
 with red 
 Roses, and white snow shed 
 Above the flush and frondage of the 
 hills 
 That all thy deep dawn fills 
 And all thy clear night veils and warms 
 with wings 
 Spread till the morning sings; 
 The rose of resurrection, and the bright 
 
 Breast lavish of the light. 
 The lady lily like the snowy sky 
 
 Ere the stars wholly die ; 
 As red as blood, and whiter than a 
 wave, 
 Flowers grown as from thy grave, 
 From the green fruitful grass in May- 
 *,ime hot, 
 'I'hy grave, where thou art not. 
 Gather the grass and weave, in sacred 
 sign 
 Of the ancient earth divine, 
 
 The holy heart of things, the seed of 
 birth. 
 The mystical warm earth. 
 O thou her flower of fiowers, with treble 
 braid 
 Be thy sweet head afrayed, 
 In witness of her mighty motherhood 
 Who bore thee and found thee 
 good. 
 Her fairest-born of children, on whose 
 head 
 Her green and white and red 
 Are hope and light and life, inviolate 
 
 Of any latter fate. 
 Fly, O our flag, through deep Italian 
 air. 
 Above the flags that were, 
 The dusty shreds of shameful battle- 
 flags 
 Trampled and rent in rags. 
 As withering woods in autumn's bitter- 
 est breath 
 Yellow, and black as death; 
 Black as crushed worm.s that sicken in 
 the sense, 
 And yellow as pestilence. 
 Fly, green as summer and red as dawn 
 and white 
 As the live heart of light. 
 The blind bright womb of color unborn, 
 that brings 
 Forth all fair forms of things. 
 As freedom all fair forms of nations 
 dyed 
 In divers-colored pride. 
 Fly fleet as wind on every wind that 
 blows 
 Between her seas and snows, 
 From Alpine white, from Tuscan green, 
 and where 
 Vesuvius reddens air. 
 Fly ! and let all men see it, and all kings 
 wail. 
 And priests wax faint and pale, 
 And the cold hordes that moan in misty 
 places 
 And the funereal races 
 And the sick serfs of lands that wait 
 and wane 
 See thee and hate thee in vain. 
 In the clear laughter of all winds and 
 waves, 
 In the blown grass of graves, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 587 
 
 In the long sound of fluctuant boughs 
 of trees, 
 In the broad breath of seas, 
 Bid the sound of thy flying folds be 
 heard ; 
 And as a spoken word 
 Full of that fair god and that merciless 
 
 Who rends the Pythoness, 
 So be the sound and so the fire that 
 saith 
 She feels her ancient breath 
 And the old blood move in her im- 
 mortal veins. 
 
 Strange travail and strong pains, 
 Our mother, hast thou borne these many 
 years 
 While thy pure blood and tears 
 Mixed with the Tyrrhene and the Adrian 
 sea. 
 Light things were said of thee, 
 As of one buried deep among the dead ; 
 
 Yea, she hath been, they said, 
 She was when time was younger, and is 
 not; 
 The very cerecloths rot 
 That flutter in the dusty wind of death, 
 
 Not moving with her breath ; 
 Far seasons and forgotten years enfold 
 
 Her dead corpse old and cold 
 With many windy winters and pale 
 springs: 
 She is none of this world's things. 
 Though her dead head like a live gar- 
 land wear 
 The golden-growing hair 
 That flows over her breast down to her 
 feet, 
 Dead queens, whose life was sweet 
 In sight of all men living, have been 
 found 
 So cold, so clad, so crowned. 
 With all things faded and with one 
 thing fair. 
 Their old immortal hair, 
 When flesh and bone turned dust at 
 touch of day : 
 And she is dead as they. 
 
 So men said sadly, mocking; so the 
 slave, 
 Whose life was his soul's grave ; 
 
 So, pale or red with change of fast and 
 feast. 
 The sanguine-sandalled priest ; 
 So the Austrian, when his fortune came 
 to flood. 
 And the warm wave was blood ; 
 With wings that widened and with beak 
 that smote. 
 So shrieked through either throat 
 From the hot horror of its northern 
 nest 
 That double-headed pest ; 
 So, triple-crowned with fear and fraud 
 and shame. 
 He of whom treason came. 
 The herdsman of the Gadarean swine ; 
 
 So all his ravening kine. 
 Made fat with poisonous pasture : so 
 not we. 
 Mother, beholding thee. 
 Make answer, O the crown of all our 
 slain. 
 Ye that were one, being twain. 
 Twain brethren, twin-born to the sec- 
 ond birth. 
 Chosen out of all our earth 
 To be the prophesying stars that 
 say 
 How hard is night on day. 
 Stars in serene and sudden heaven re- 
 risen 
 Before the sun break prison 
 .A.nd ere the moon be wasted ; fair first 
 flowers 
 In that red wreath of ours 
 Woven with the lives of all whose lives 
 were shed 
 To crown their mother's head 
 With leaves of civic cypress and thick 
 yew, 
 Till the olive bind it too, 
 Olive and laurel and all loftier leaves 
 
 That victory wears or weaves 
 At her fair feet for her beloved brow ; 
 
 Hear, for she too hears now, 
 O Pisacane, from Calabrian sands ; 
 
 O all heroic hands 
 Close on the sword-hilt, hands of all 
 her dead ; 
 O many a holy head, 
 Bowed for her sake even to her redden- 
 ing dust ; 
 O chosen, O pure and just. 
 
588 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 "Who counted for a small thing life's 
 estate, 
 And died, and made it great; 
 Ye whose names mix with all her 
 memories; ye 
 Who rather chose to see 
 Death, than our more intolerable things ; 
 
 Thou whose name withers kings, 
 Agesilao ; thou too, O chiefliest thou, 
 
 The slayer of splendid brow. 
 Laid where the lying lips of fear deride 
 
 The foiled tyrannicide, 
 Foiled, fallen, slain, scorned, and happy ; 
 being in fame, 
 Felice, like thy name, 
 Not like thy fortune ; father of the fight, 
 
 Having in hand our light. 
 Ah, happy! for that sudden-swerving 
 hand 
 Flung light on all thy land, 
 Yea, lit blind France with compulsory 
 ray. 
 Driven down a righteous way; 
 Ah, happiest ! for from thee the wars 
 began, 
 From thee the fresh springs ran ; 
 From thee the lady land that queens 
 the earth 
 Gat as she gave new birth. 
 O sweet mute mouths, O all fair dead 
 of ours. 
 Fair in her eyes as flowers. 
 Fair without feature, vocal without 
 voice, 
 Strong without strength, rejoice ! 
 Hear it with ears that hear not, and on 
 eyes 
 That see not let it rise, 
 Rise as a sundawn; be it as dew that 
 drips 
 On dumb and dusty lips ; 
 Kyes have ye not, and see it ; neither 
 ears, 
 And there is none but hears. 
 This is the same for whom yc bled and 
 wept ; 
 She was not dead, but slept. 
 This is that very Italy which was 
 And is and shall not pass. 
 
 But thou, though all were not well done, 
 O chief. 
 Must thuu take shame or grief? 
 
 Because one man is not as thou or ten. 
 
 Must thou take shame for men .^ 
 Because the supreme sunrise is not yet, 
 
 Is the young dew not wet .-* 
 Wilt thou not yet abide a little while. 
 
 Soul without fear or guile, 
 Mazzini, — O our prophet, O our priest, 
 
 A little while at least .^ 
 A little hour of doubt and of control, 
 
 Sustain thy sacred soul ; 
 Withhold thine heart, our father, but 
 an hour ; 
 Is it not here, the flower. 
 Is it not blown and fragrant from the 
 root. 
 And shall not be the fruit ,' 
 Thy children, even thy people thou hast 
 made, 
 Thine, with thy words arrayed, 
 Clothed with thy thoughts and girt with 
 thy desires. 
 Yearn up toward thee as fires. 
 Art thou not father, O father, of all 
 these .^ 
 From thine own Genoese 
 To where of nights the lower extreme 
 lagune 
 Feels its Venetian moon, 
 Nor suckling's mouth nor mother's 
 breast set free 
 But hath that grace through thee. 
 The milk of life on death's unnatural 
 brink 
 Thou gavest them to drink. 
 The natural milk of freedom ; and again 
 
 They drank, and they were men. 
 The wine and honey of freedom and of 
 faith 
 They drank, and cast off death. 
 Bear with them now; thou art holier, 
 yet endure, 
 Till they as thou be pure. 
 Their swords at least that stemmed half 
 Austria's tide 
 Bade all its bulk divide; 
 Else, though fate bade them for a 
 breath's space fall, 
 She had not fallen at all. 
 Not by their hands they made time's 
 l)romise true ; 
 Not by their hands, but through. 
 Nor on Ciisto/.a ran tluir blood to waste. 
 Nor fell their fame defaced 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 589 
 
 "Whom stormiest Adriawith tumultuous 
 tides 
 Whirles undersea and hides. 
 Not his, who from the sudden-setth'ng 
 deck 
 Looked over death and wreck 
 To where the mother's bosom shone, 
 who smiled 
 As he, so dying, her child ; 
 For he smiled surely, dying, to mix his 
 death 
 With her memorial breath; 
 Smiled, being most sure of her, that in 
 no wise, 
 Die whoso will, she dies : 
 And she smiled surely, fair and far 
 aoove, 
 Wept-not, but smiled for fove. 
 Thou too, O splendour of the sudden 
 sword 
 That drove the crews abhorred 
 From Naples and the siren-footed 
 strand, 
 Flash from thy master's hand, 
 Shine from the middle summer of the 
 seas 
 To the old bolides, 
 Outshine their fiery fumes of burning 
 night, 
 Sword, with thy midday light ; 
 Flame as a beacon from the Tyrrhene 
 foam 
 To the rent heart of Rome, 
 From the island of her lover and thy 
 lord, 
 Her savior and her sword. 
 In the fierce year of failure and of fame. 
 
 Art thou not yet the same 
 That wast as lightning swifter than all 
 wings 
 In the blind face of kings? 
 When priests took counsel to devise 
 despair. 
 And princes to forswear, 
 She clasped thee, O her sword and flag- 
 bearer 
 And staff and shield to her, 
 O Garibaldi ! need was hers and grief. 
 
 Of thee and of the chief, 
 And of another girt in arms to stand 
 
 As good of hope and hand, 
 As high of soul and happy, albeit indeed 
 The heart should burn and bleed, 
 
 So but the spirit shake not nor the 
 breast 
 Swerve, but abide its rest, 
 As theirs did and as thine, though ruin 
 clomb 
 The highest wall of Rome, 
 Though treason stained and spilt her 
 lustral water. 
 And slaves led slaves to slaughter. 
 And priests, praymg and slaying, 
 watched them pass 
 From a strange France, alas I 
 That was not freedom ; yet when these 
 were past 
 Thy sword and thou stood fast, 
 Till new men seeing thee where Sicilian 
 waves 
 Hear now no sound of slaves. 
 And where thy sacred blood is fragrant 
 - still 
 Upoii the Bitter Hill, 
 Seeing by that blood one country saved 
 and stained, 
 Less loved thee crowned than chained. 
 And less now only than the chief : tor 
 he. 
 Father of Italy, 
 Upbore in holy hands the babe new- 
 born 
 Through loss and sorrow and scorn, 
 Of no man led, of many men reviled ; 
 
 Till, lo ! the iiew-born child 
 Gone from between his hands, and in its 
 place, 
 Lo,* the fair mother's face. 
 Blessed is he of all men, being in one 
 
 As father to her and son. 
 Blessed of all men Uving, that he found 
 
 Her weak limbs bared and bound, 
 And in his arms and in his bosom bore. 
 
 And as a garment wore 
 Her weight of want, and as a royal 
 dress 
 Put on her weariness. 
 As in faith's hoariest histories men 
 read, 
 The strong man bore at need 
 Through roaring rapids when all heaven 
 was wild 
 The likeness of a child 
 That still waxed greater and heavier as 
 he trod, 
 And altered, and was God. 
 
590 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Praise him, O winds that move the 
 molten air, 
 O li^ht of days that were. 
 And hght of days that shall be ; land 
 and sea, 
 And heaven and Italy: 
 Praise him, O storm and summer, shore 
 and wave, 
 O skies and every grave ; 
 O weeping hopes, O memories beyond 
 tears, 
 O many and murmuring years, 
 O sounds far off in time and visions 
 far, 
 O sorrow with thy star, 
 And joy with all thy beacons; ye that 
 mourn. 
 And ye whose light is born; 
 O fallen faces, and O souls arisen. 
 
 Praise him from tomb and prison, 
 Praise him from heaven and sunlight; 
 and ye floods. 
 And windy waves of woods ; 
 Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit 
 lakes 
 And happier hillside brakes, 
 Untrampled by the accursed feet that 
 trod 
 Fields golden from their god, 
 Fields or their god forsaken, whereof 
 none 
 Sees his face in the sun. 
 Hears his voice from the floweriest 
 wildernesses; 
 And, barren of bis tresses. 
 Ye bays unplucked and laurels unin- 
 twined, 
 That no men break or bind. 
 And myrtles long forgetful of the 
 sword. 
 And olives unadored. 
 Wisdom and love, white hands that save 
 and slay. 
 Praise him ; and ye as they, 
 Praise him, O gracious might of dews 
 and rains 
 That feed the purple plains, 
 O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel 
 drawn, 
 O cloud and fire and dawn ; 
 Red hills of flame, white Alps, green 
 Apennines, 
 Banners of blowing pines. 
 
 Standards of stormy snows, flags of lighl 
 leaves, 
 Three wherewith Freedom weaves 
 One ensign that once woven and once 
 unfurled 
 Makes day of all a world. 
 Makes blind their eyes who knew not 
 and outbraves 
 The waste of iron waves; 
 Ye fields of yellow fulness, ye fresl 
 fountains. 
 And mists oi many mountains; 
 Ye moons and seasons, and ye day; 
 and nights ; 
 Ye starry-headed heights, 
 And gorges melting sunward /rom th( 
 snow. 
 And all strong streams that flow. 
 Tender as tears, and fair as faith, anc 
 pure 
 As hearts made sad and sure 
 At once by many sufferings and one love 
 
 O mystic deathless dove 
 Held to the heart of earth and in he: 
 hands 
 Cherished, O lily of lands. 
 White rose of time, dear dream o 
 praises past, — 
 For such as these thou wast. 
 That art as eagles setting to the sun, 
 
 As fawns that leap and run. 
 As a sword carven with keen floral gold 
 
 Sword for an armed god's hold. 
 Flower for a crowned god's forehead, — 
 O our land. 
 Reach forth thine holiest hand, 
 O mother of many sons and memories, 
 
 Stretch out thine hand to his 
 That raised and gave thee life to ruj 
 and leap 
 When thou wast full of sleep. 
 That touched and stung thee with younj 
 blood and breath 
 When thou wast hard on death. 
 Praise him, O all her cities and he 
 crowns. 
 Her towers and thrones of towns ; 
 O noblest Brescia, scarred from foot K 
 head 
 And brcast-decp in the dead, 
 Praise him from all the glories o£ th; 
 graves 
 That yellow Mela laves 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 59i 
 
 With gentle and golden water, whose 
 fair flood 
 Ran wider with thy blood : 
 Praise him, O born oi that heroic breast, 
 
 O nursed thereat and blest, 
 Verona, fairer than thy mother fair, 
 
 Kut not more brave to bear : 
 Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial 
 tread 
 Bruised once the German head ; 
 Whose might, by northern swords left 
 desolate, 
 Set foot on fear and fate : 
 Praise him, O long mute mouth of 
 melodies, 
 Mantua, with louder keys. 
 With mightier chords of music even 
 than rolled 
 From the large harps of old. 
 When thy sweet singer of golden throat 
 and tongue. 
 Praising his tyrant, sung ; 
 Though now thou sing not as of other 
 days. 
 Learn late a better praise. 
 Not with the sick sweet lips of slaves 
 that sing, 
 Praise thou no priest or king, 
 No brow-bound laurel of discolored leaf, 
 
 liut him, the crownless chief. 
 Praise him, O star of sun-forgotten 
 times. 
 Among their creeds and crimes 
 That wast a fire of witness in the night, 
 
 Padua, the wise men's light : 
 Praise him, O sacred Venice, and the 
 sea 
 That now exults through thee. 
 Full of the mighty morning and the 
 sun, 
 Free of things dead and done ; 
 Praise him from all the years of thy 
 great grief. 
 That shook thee like a leaf 
 With winds and snows of torment, rain 
 that fell 
 Red as the rains of hell, 
 Storms of black thunder and of yellow 
 flame, 
 And all ill things but shame ; 
 Praise him with all thy holy heart and 
 strength ; 
 Through thy walls* breadth and length 
 
 Praise him with all thy people, that their 
 voice 
 Bid the strong soul rejoice. 
 The fair clear supreme spirit beyond 
 stain. 
 Pure as the depth of pain. 
 High as the head of suffering, and se- 
 cure 
 As all things that endure. 
 More than thy blind lord of an hundred 
 years 
 Whose name our memory hears, 
 Home-bound from harbors of the By. 
 zantine 
 Made tributary of thine, 
 Praise him who gave no gifts from over- 
 sea. 
 But gave thyself to thee. 
 O mother Genoa, through all years that 
 run, 
 More than that other son. 
 Who first beyond the seals of sunset 
 prest 
 Even to the unfooted west. 
 Whose back-blown flag scared from 
 their sheltering seas 
 The unknown Atlantides, 
 And as flame climbs through cloud and 
 vapor clomb 
 Through streams of storm and foam, 
 Till half in sight they saw land heave 
 and swim, — 
 More than this man praise him. 
 One found a world new-born from virgin 
 sea; 
 And one found Italy. 
 O heavenliest Florence, from the mouths 
 of flowers 
 Fed by melodious hours, 
 From each sweet mouth that kisses 
 light and air, 
 Thou whom thy fate made fair, 
 As a bound vine or any flowering tree. 
 
 Praise him who made thee free. 
 For no grape-gatherers trampling out 
 the wine 
 Tread thee, the fairest vine ; 
 For no man binds thee, no man bruises, 
 none 
 Does with thee as these have done. 
 From where spring hears loud through 
 her long lit vales 
 Triumphant nightingales^ 
 
592 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 In many a fold of fiery foliage hid 
 den, 
 Withheld as things forbidden, 
 But clamorous with innumerable de- 
 light 
 In May's red, green, and white, 
 In the far-floated standard of the spring. 
 
 That bids men also sing, 
 Our. flower of flags, our witness that "we 
 are free, 
 Our lamp for land and sea; 
 From where Majano feels through corn 
 and vine. 
 Spring anove and melt as wine, 
 And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose 
 
 The immeasurable rose ; 
 From hillsides plumed with pine, and 
 heights wind-worn 
 That feel the refluent morn. 
 Or where the moon's face warm and 
 passionate 
 Burns, and men's hearts grow great, 
 And the swoln eyelids labor with sweet 
 tears. 
 And in their burning ears 
 Sound throbs like flame, and in their 
 eyes new light 
 Kindles the trembling night; 
 From faint illumined fields and starry 
 valleys 
 W herefrom the hill-wind sallies. 
 From Vallombrosa, from Valdarno raise 
 One Tuscan tune of praise. 
 
 lordly city of the field of death, 
 Praise him with equal breath. 
 
 From sleeping streets and gardens, and 
 the stream 
 That threads them as a dream 
 Threads without light the untravelled 
 ways of sleep 
 With eyes that smile or weep; 
 From the sweet sombre beauty of wave 
 and wall 
 That fades and does not fall ; 
 From colored domes and cloisters fair 
 with fame. 
 Praise thou and thine his name. 
 
 1 hou too, O little laurelled town of 
 
 towers. 
 Clothed with the flame of flowers, 
 From windy ramparts girdled with 
 young gold, 
 From thy sweet hillside fold 
 
 Of wallflowers and the acacia's belte( 
 bloom 
 And every blowing plume. 
 Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapel 
 fair 
 As the outer hills and air. 
 Praise him who feeds the fire that Danl( 
 fed. 
 Our highest heroic head, 
 Whose eyes behold through i1oate< 
 cloud and flame 
 The maiden face of fame 
 Like April's in Valdelsa ; fair as flowers 
 
 And patient as the hours ; 
 Sad with slow sense of time, and brigh 
 with faith 
 That levels life and death; 
 The final fame, that with a foot sut 
 lime 
 Treads down reluctant time ; 
 The fame that waits and watches and i 
 wise, 
 A virgin with chaste eyes, 
 A goddess who takes hands with grea 
 men's grief; 
 Praise her, and him, our chief. 
 Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deej 
 green spring, 
 O Fonte Branda, sing : 
 Shout from the red clefts of thy fien 
 crags. 
 Shake out thy flying flags 
 In the long wind that streams from hil 
 to hill; 
 Bid thy full music fill 
 The desolate red waste of sunset air 
 
 And fields the old lime saw fair, 
 But now the hours ring void through 
 ruined lands. 
 Wild work of mortal hands; 
 Yet through thy dead Maremma let hii 
 name 
 Take flight and pass in flame, 
 And the red ruin of disastrous hours 
 
 Shall quicken into flowers. 
 Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea 
 
 Naples, who bade thee be ; 
 For till he sent the swords that scourgt 
 and save. 
 Thou wast not, but thy grave. 
 But more than all these praise him and 
 give thanks. 
 Thou, from thy Tiber's banks. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 593 
 
 From all thine hills and from thy su- 
 preme dome, — 
 Praise him, O risen Rome ! 
 Let all thy children cities at thy knee 
 
 Lift up their voice with thee, 
 Saying, " For thy love's sake and our 
 perished grief 
 We laud thee, O our chief! " 
 Saying, " For thine hand and help when 
 hope was dead 
 We thank thee, U our head ! " 
 Saying, " For thy voice and face within 
 our sight 
 We bless thee, O our light ; 
 For waters cleansing us from days de- 
 filed 
 We praise thee, O our child ! " 
 
 So with an hundred cities' mouths in 
 one 
 Praising thy supreme son, 
 Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid 
 and mother. 
 Our 'queen, who serve none other, 
 Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of 
 grace. 
 Turn otherwhere thy face, 
 Turn for a little and look what things 
 arc these 
 Now fallen before thy knees ; 
 Turn upon them thine eyes who hated 
 thee. 
 Behold what things they be, 
 Italia : these are stubble that were 
 steel, 
 Dust, or a turning wheel ; 
 As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were 
 so strong ; 
 And howl, for all their song, 
 .And wail, for all their wisdom; they 
 that were 
 So great, they are all stript bare ; 
 They arc all made empty of beauty, and 
 all al)horred , 
 They are shivered, and 'heir sword; 
 They are slain who slew, they are heart- 
 less who were wise , 
 Yea, turn on these thnie eyes, 
 O thou, sdliciting with soul subbme 
 
 The obscure soul of time. 
 Thou, with the wounds thy holy body 
 bears 
 From broken swords of theirs, 
 
 Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that 
 have bled 
 Tears for thy thousands dead. 
 And upon these, whose swords drank 
 up like dew 
 The sons of thine they slew, 
 These, whose each gun blasted with 
 murdering mouth 
 Live flowers of thy fair south, 
 These, whose least evil told in alien ears 
 
 Turned men's whole blood to tears, 
 These, whose least sin remembered for 
 pure shame 
 Turned all those tears to flame, 
 Even upon these, when breaks the ex- 
 treme blow 
 And all the world cries woe. 
 When heaven reluctant rains long-suf- 
 fering fire 
 On these and their desire. 
 When his wind shakes them and his 
 waters whelm 
 Who rent thy robe and realm. 
 When they that poured thy dear blood 
 iorth as wine 
 Pour forth their own for thine, 
 On these, on these have mercy ; not in 
 hate. 
 But full of sacred fate. 
 Strong from the shrine and splendid 
 from the god. 
 Smite, with no second rod. 
 Because they spared not, do thou rather 
 spare ; 
 Be not one thing they were. 
 Let not one tongue of theirs who hate 
 thee say 
 That thou wast even as they. 
 Because their hands were bloody, be 
 thine white ; 
 Show light where they shed night : 
 Because they are foul, be thou the rather 
 pure ; 
 Because they are feeble, endure; 
 Because they had no pity, have thou pity. 
 
 And thou, O supreme city, 
 C) priestless Rome that shalt be, take in 
 trust 
 Their names, their deeds, their dust, 
 Who held life less than thou wert; be 
 the least 
 To thee indeed a priest, 
 
594 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 Priest and buriUuffering and blood- 
 sacrifice 
 Given without prayer or price, 
 A holier immolation than men wist, 
 
 A costlier eucharist, 
 A sacrament more saving ; bend thine 
 head 
 Above these many dead 
 Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes 
 
 Their lowest head that lies. 
 Speak from thy lips of immemorial 
 speech 
 If but one word for each. 
 Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead son's 
 mouth 
 Fallen dumb or north or south ; 
 And laying but once thine hand on brow 
 and breast, 
 Bless them, through whom thou art 
 blest. 
 And saying in ears of these thy dead 
 " Well done," 
 Shall they not hear, " O son ? " 
 And bowing thy face to theirs made 
 pale for thee. 
 Shall the shut eyes not see .^ 
 Yea, through the hollow-hearted world 
 of death, 
 As light, as blood, as breath. 
 Shall there not flash and flow the fiery 
 sense, 
 The pulse of prescience ? 
 Shall not these know as in times over- 
 past 
 Thee loftiest to the last? 
 For times and wars shall change, king- 
 doms and creeds. 
 And dreams of men, and deeds; 
 Earth shall grow gray with all her golden 
 things, 
 Pale peoples and hoar kings ; 
 But though her thrones and towers of 
 nations fall, 
 Death has no part in all ; 
 In the air, nor in the imperishable sea, 
 
 Nor heaven, nor truth, nor thee. 
 Yea, let all sceptre-stricken natiojis lie, 
 
 But live thou though they die ; 
 Let their flags fade as flowers that storm 
 can mar. 
 But thine be like a star; 
 Let England's, if it float not for men free, 
 Fall, and forget the sea ; 
 
 Let France's, if it shadow a hateful 
 head, 
 Drop as a leaf drops dead; 
 Thine let what storm soever smite the 
 rest 
 Smite as it seems him best; 
 Thine let the wind that can, by sea or 
 land, 
 Wrest from thy banner-hand. 
 Die they in whom dies freedom, die and 
 cease. 
 Though the world weep for these ; 
 Live thou, and love and lift when these 
 lie dead 
 The green and white and red. 
 
 O our Republic that shalt bind in bands 
 
 The kingdomless far lands, 
 And hnk the chainless ages; thou that 
 wast 
 With England ere she past 
 Among the faded nations, and shalt be 
 
 Again, when sea to sea 
 Calls through the wind and light of 
 morning time. 
 And throneless clime to clime 
 Makes antiphonal answer; thou that art 
 
 Where one man's perfect heart 
 Burns, one man's brow is brightened for 
 thy sake, 
 Thine, strong to make or break ; 
 O fair Republic hallowing with stretched 
 hands 
 The limitless free lands, 
 When all men's heads for love, not fear, 
 bow down 
 To thy sole royal crown. 
 As thou to freedom ; when man's life 
 smells sweet, 
 And at thy bright swift feet 
 A bloodless and a bondless world is 
 laid; 
 Then, when thy men are made. 
 Let these indeea as we in dreaiiis be- 
 hold 
 One chosen of all thy fold, 
 One of all fair things fairest, one exalt 
 
 Above all fear or fault. 
 One unforgctful of unhappier men 
 
 And us who loved her then; 
 With eyes that outlook suns and dream, 
 on graves ; 
 With voice like quiring waves; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 595 
 
 With heart the holier for their memo- 
 ries' sake 
 Who slept that she might wake ; 
 With breast the sweeter for that sweet 
 blood lost, 
 And all the milkless cost ; 
 Lady of earth, whose large equality 
 
 Bends but to her and thee ; 
 Equal with heaven, and infinite of years, 
 
 And splendid from quenched tears; 
 Strong with old strength of great things 
 fallen and fled, 
 Diviner for her dead ; 
 Chaste of all stains and perfect from all 
 scars, 
 Above all storms and stars. 
 All winds that blow through time, all 
 waves that foam, — 
 Our Capitolian Rome. 
 
 THALASSIUS. 
 
 Upon the flowery forefront of the 
 year, ^ 
 
 One wandering by the gray-green April 
 sea 
 
 Found on a reach of shingle and shal- 
 lower sand. 
 
 Inlaid with starrier glimmering jewel- 
 lery 
 
 Left for the sun's love and the light 
 wind's cheer 
 
 Along the foam-flowered strand, 
 
 Breeze-brightened, something nearer 
 sea than land 
 
 Though the last shoreward blossom- 
 fringe was near, 
 
 A babe asleep, with flower-soft face that 
 gleamed 
 
 To sun and seaward as it laughed and 
 dreamed, 
 
 Too sure of either love for cither's 
 fear, 
 
 Albeit so birdlike slight and light, it 
 seemed 
 
 Nor man, nor mortal child of man, but 
 fair 
 
 As even its twin-born tenderer spray- 
 flowers were, 
 
 That the wind scatters like an Oread's 
 hair. 
 
 For when July strewed fire on earth 
 
 and sea 
 The last time ere that year. 
 Out of the flame of morn Cymothoe 
 Beheld one brighter than the sun-bright 
 
 sphere 
 Move toward her from its fieriest heart, 
 
 whence trod 
 The live sun's very god, 
 Across the foam-bright water-ways that 
 
 are 
 As heavenlier heavens, with star for 
 
 answering star ; 
 And on her eyes and hair and maiden 
 
 mouth 
 Felt a kiss falling fierier than the South, 
 And heard above afar 
 A noise of songs and wind-enamoured 
 
 wings, 
 And lutes and lyres of milder and 
 
 mightier strings. 
 And round the resonant radiance of his 
 
 car 
 Where depth is one with height. 
 Light heard as music, music seen as 
 
 light; 
 And with that second moondawn of the 
 
 spring's 
 That fosters the first rose, 
 A sun-child whiter than the sunlit 
 
 snows 
 Was born out of the world of sunless 
 
 things 
 That round the round earth flows and 
 
 ebbs and flows. 
 
 But he that found the sea-flower by 
 
 the sea. 
 And took to foster like a graft of earth, 
 Was born of man's most highest and 
 
 heavenliest birth, 
 Free-born as winds and stars and waves 
 
 are free ; 
 A warrior gray with glories more than 
 
 years, 
 Though more of years than change the 
 
 quick to dead 
 Had rained their light and darkness on 
 
 his head ; 
 A sihgcr that in time's and memory's' 
 
 ears 
 Should leave such words to sing as all 
 
 his peers 
 
596 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Might praise with hallowing heat of 
 
 rapturous tears, 
 Till all the days of human flight were 
 
 fled. 
 And at his knees his fosterling was fed, 
 Not with man's wine and bread, 
 Nor mortal mother-milk of hopes and 
 
 fears. 
 Hut food of deep memorial days long 
 
 sped ; 
 For bread with wisdom, and with song 
 
 for wine, 
 Clear as the full calm's emerald hyaline. 
 And from his grave glad lips the boy 
 
 would gather 
 Fine honey of song-notes, goldener than 
 
 gold, 
 More sweet than bees make of the 
 
 breathing heather, 
 That he, as glad and bold. 
 Might drink as they, and keep his spirit 
 
 from cold. 
 And the boy loved his laurel-laden hair 
 As his own father's risen on the eastern 
 
 And that less white brow-binding bay- 
 leaf bloom. 
 More than all flowers his father's eyes 
 
 relume ; 
 And those high songs he heard, 
 More than all notes of -iny landward 
 
 bird, 
 More than all sounds less free 
 Than the wind's quiring to the choral 
 sea. 
 
 High things the high song taught 
 
 him : how the breath, 
 Too frail for life, may be more strong 
 
 than death ; 
 And this poor flash of sense in life, that 
 
 gleams 
 As a ghost's glory in dreams. 
 More stabile than the world's owa 
 
 heart's root seems. 
 By that Ktrong faith of lordliest love, 
 
 which gives 
 To death's own sightless-seeming eyes 
 
 a light 
 Clearer, to death's bate bones a verier 
 
 might, 
 Than shines or strikes from any man 
 
 that lives; 
 
 How he that loves life overmuch shall 
 
 die 
 The dog's death, utterly; 
 And he that much less loves it than he 
 
 hates 
 All wrong-doing that is done, 
 Anywhere always underneath the sun, 
 Shall live a mightier life than time's or 
 
 fate's. 
 One fairer thing he showed him, and 
 
 in might 
 More strong than day and night,. 
 Whose strengths build up time's tower- 
 ing period ; 
 Yea, one thing stronger and more high 
 
 than God, 
 Which, if man had not, then should God 
 
 not be : 
 And that was Liberty. 
 And gladly should man die to gain, he 
 
 said. 
 Freedom; and gladlier, having lost, lie 
 
 dead. 
 For man's earth was not, nor the sweet 
 
 sea-waves 
 His, nor his own land, nor its very 
 
 graves. 
 Except they bred not, bore not, hid not 
 
 slaves : 
 But all of all that is, 
 Were one man free in body and soul, 
 
 were his. 
 
 And the song softened, even as 
 
 heaven by night 
 Softens, from sunnier down to starrier 
 
 light. 
 And with its moon-bright breath 
 Blessed life for death s sake, and for 
 
 life's sake death ; 
 Till as the moon's own beam and breath 
 
 confuse, 
 In one clear hueless haze of glimmering 
 
 hues, 
 The sea's line, and the land's line, and 
 
 the sky's, 
 And light for love of darkness almost 
 
 dies, 
 As darkness only lives for light's <kar 
 
 love, 
 Whose hands the robe of night is woven 
 
 of: 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 597 
 
 So in that heaven of wondrous words 
 were life 
 
 And death brought out of strife; 
 
 Yea, by that srrong spell of serene in- 
 crease, 
 
 brought out of strife to peace. 
 
 And the song lightened, as the wind 
 
 at morn 
 Flashes, and even with lightning of the 
 
 wind 
 Night's thick-spun web is thinned, 
 And all its weft unwoven and over- 
 worn 
 Shrinks, as might love from scorn. 
 And as when wind and light, on water 
 
 and land, 
 Leap as twin gods from heavenward 
 
 hand in hand. 
 And with the sound and splendor of 
 
 their leap 
 Strike darkness dead, and daunt the 
 
 spirit of sleep, 
 And burn it up with fire ; 
 So with the light that lightened from 
 
 the lyre, 
 Was all the bright heat in the child's 
 
 heart stirred, 
 And blown with blasts of music into 
 
 flame, 
 Till even his sense became 
 Fire, as the sense that fires the singing 
 
 bird. 
 Whose song calls night by name. 
 And in the soul within the sense began 
 The manlike passion of a godlike man, 
 And in the sense within the soul again 
 Thoughts that make men of gods, and 
 
 gods of men. 
 
 For love the high song taught him, — 
 love that turns 
 
 God's heart toward man as man's to 
 Godward ; love 
 
 That life and death and life are fash- 
 ioned of. 
 
 From the first breath that burns 
 
 Half-kindled on the flower-like yean- 
 ling's li]) 
 
 S« light and faint that life seems like 
 to slip, 
 
 To that yet weaklier drawn 
 
 When sunset dies of night's devouring 
 
 dawn ; 
 But the man dying not wholly as all 
 
 men dies 
 If aught be left of his in live men's eyes 
 Out of the dawnless dark of death to 
 
 rise; 
 If aught of deed or word 
 Be seen for all time, or of all time 
 
 heard. 
 Love, that though body and soul were 
 
 overthrown. 
 Should live for love's sake of itself 
 
 alone. 
 Though spirit and fiesh were one thing 
 
 doomed and dead. 
 Not wholly annihilated. 
 Seeing even the hoariest ash-flake that 
 
 the pyre 
 Drops, and forgets the thing was once 
 
 afire. 
 And gave its heart to feed the pile's full 
 
 flame 
 Till its own heart its own heat over- 
 came, 
 Outlives its own life, though by scarce 
 
 a span. 
 As such men dying outlive themselves 
 
 in man, 
 Outlive themselves forever ; if the heat 
 Outburn the heart that kindled it, the 
 
 sweet 
 Outlast the flower whose soul it was, 
 
 and flit 
 Forth of the body of it 
 Into some new shape of a strange per- 
 fume 
 More potent than its light live spirit of 
 
 bloom, — 
 How shall not something of that soul 
 
 re-live. 
 That only soul that had such gifts to 
 
 give 
 As lighten something even of all men s 
 
 doom. 
 Even from the laboring womb. 
 Even to the seal set on the unopening 
 
 tomb .•* 
 And these the loving light of song and 
 
 love 
 Shall wrap and lap round, and impend 
 
 above, 
 
59^ 
 
 POEMS AA'D BALLADS. 
 
 Imperishable; and all springs born il- 
 lume 
 
 Their sleep with brighter thoughts than 
 wake the dove 
 
 To music, when the hillside winds re- 
 sume 
 
 The marriage-song of heather-flower 
 and broom 
 
 And all the joy thereof. 
 
 And hate the song, too, taught him, — 
 
 hate of all 
 That brings or holds in thrall 
 Cf spirit or flesh, free-born ere God be- 
 gan, 
 The holy body and sacred soul of man. 
 And wheresoever a curse was, or a 
 
 chain, 
 A throne for torment or a crown for 
 
 bane 
 Rose, moulded out of poor men's molten 
 
 pain, 
 There, said he, should man's heaviest 
 
 hate be set 
 Inexorably, to faint not or forget 
 Till the last warmth bled forth of the 
 
 last vein 
 In flesh that none should call a king's 
 
 again, 
 Seeing wolves and dogs and birds that 
 
 plague-strike air 
 Leave the last bone of ?11 the carrion 
 
 bare. 
 
 And hope the high song taught him, 
 
 — hope whose eyes 
 Can sound the seas unsoundable, the 
 
 skies 
 Inaccessible of eyesight ; that can see 
 What earth beholds not, hear what wind 
 
 and sea 
 Hear not, and speak what all these cry- 
 ing in one 
 Can speak not to the sun. 
 For in her sovereign cyelight all things 
 
 are 
 Clear as the closest seen and kindlier 
 
 star 
 That marries morn and even and win 
 
 ter and spring 
 With one love's golden ring. 
 
 For she can see the days of man, the 
 birth 
 
 Of good, and death of evil things on 
 earth 
 
 Inevitable and infinite, and sure 
 
 As present pain is, or herself is pure. 
 
 Yea, she can hear and see, beyond all 
 things 
 
 That lighten from before Time's thun- 
 derous wings 
 
 Through the awful circle of wheel- 
 winged periods. 
 
 The tempest of the twilight of all 
 gods; 
 
 And, higher than all the circling course 
 they ran. 
 
 The sundawn of the spirit that was 
 man. 
 
 And fear the song, too, taught him, — 
 
 fear to be 
 Worthless the dear love of the wind 
 
 and sea 
 That bred him fearless, like a sea-mew 
 
 reared 
 In rocks of man's foot feared. 
 Where naught of wingless life may sing 
 
 or shine. 
 Fear to wax worthless of that heaven 
 
 he had 
 When all the life in all his limbs was 
 
 glad. 
 And all the drops in all his veins were 
 
 wine, 
 And all the pulses music; when his 
 
 heart. 
 Singing, bade heaven and wind and sea 
 
 bear part 
 In one live song's reiterance, and they 
 
 bore : 
 Fear to go crownless of the flower he 
 
 wore 
 When the winds loved him, and the 
 
 waters knew 
 The blithest life that clove their blithe 
 
 life through 
 With living limbs exultant, or held 
 
 strife 
 More amorous than all dalliance aye 
 
 anew 
 With the bright breath and strength of. 
 
 their large life, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 599 
 
 With all strong wrath of all sheer 
 
 winds that blew, 
 All glories of all storms of the air that 
 
 fell 
 Prone, ineluctable, 
 With roar from heaven of revel, and 
 
 with hue 
 As of a heaven turned hell. 
 For when the red blast of their breath 
 
 had made 
 All heaven aflush with light more dire 
 
 than shade. 
 He felt it in his blood and eyes and 
 
 hair 
 Burn as if all the fires of the earth and 
 
 air 
 Had laid strong hold upon his flesh, 
 
 and stung 
 The soul behind it as with serpent's 
 
 tongue, 
 Forked like the loveliest lightnings: 
 
 nor could bear 
 But hardly, half distraught with strong 
 
 delight, 
 The joy that like a garment wrapped 
 
 him round, 
 And lapped him over and under 
 With raiment of great light, 
 And rapture of great sound 
 At every loud leap earthward of the 
 
 thunder 
 From heaven's most furthest bound : 
 So seemed all heaven in hearing and in 
 
 sight, 
 Alive and mad with glory and angry 
 
 joy. 
 
 That something of its marvellous mirth 
 
 and might 
 Moved even to madness, fledged as even 
 
 for flight. 
 The blood and spirit of one but mortal 
 
 boy. 
 
 So, clothed with love, and fear that 
 love makes great, 
 
 And armed with hope and hate. 
 
 He set. first foot upon the spring-flow- 
 ered ways 
 
 That all feet pass and praise. 
 
 And one dim dawn between the winter 
 and spring, 
 
 In the sharp harsh wind harrying heaven 
 and earth 
 
 To put back April that had borne his 
 
 birth 
 From sunward on her sunniest shower- 
 struck wing. 
 With tears and laughter for the dew- 
 
 dropt thing. 
 Slight as indeed a dewdrop, by the sea 
 One met him lovelier than all men may 
 
 be, 
 God-featured, with god's eyes; and in 
 
 their might 
 •Somewhat that drew men'j> own to mar 
 
 their sight, 
 Even of all eyes drawn toward hihi ; 
 
 and his mouth 
 Was as the very rose of all men's youth, 
 Oneroseof all the rose-beds in the world; 
 But round his brows the curls were 
 
 snakes that curled, 
 And like his tongue a serpent's; and his 
 
 voice 
 Speaks death, and bids rejoice. 
 Yet then he spake no word, seeming as 
 
 dumb, 
 A dumb thing mild and hurtless; nor 
 
 at first 
 From his bowed eyes seemed any light 
 
 to come. 
 Nor his meek lips for blood or tears to 
 
 thirst: 
 But as one blind and mute in mild, 
 
 sweet wise. 
 Pleading for pity of piteous lips and 
 
 eyes. 
 He strayed with faint, bare, lily-lovely 
 
 feet. 
 Helpless, and flower-like sweet : 
 Nor might man see, not having wor4 
 
 hereof. 
 That this of all gods was the great god 
 
 Love. 
 
 And seeing him lovely and like a 
 
 little child 
 That well-nigh wept for wonder that it 
 
 smiled, 
 And was so feeble and fearful, with soft 
 
 speech 
 The youth bespake him softly; but 
 
 there fell 
 From the aweet lips no sweet word 
 
 audible 
 That ear or thought might reach j 
 
eoo 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 No sound to make the dim cold silence 
 
 glad, 
 No breath to thaw the hard harsh air 
 
 with heat; 
 Only the saddest smile of all things 
 
 sweet, 
 Only the sweetest smile of all things 
 
 sad. 
 
 And so they went together one green 
 way 
 Till April dying made free the world 
 
 for May; 
 And on his guide suddenly Love's face 
 
 turned, 
 And in his blind eyes burned 
 Hard light and heat of laughter; and 
 
 like flame 
 That opens in a mountain's ravening 
 
 mouth 
 To blear and sear the sunlight from the 
 
 south, 
 I lis mute mouth opened, and his first 
 
 word came : 
 " Knowest thou me now by name ? " 
 And all his stature waxed immeasur- 
 able. 
 As of one shadowing heaven and light- 
 ening hell ; 
 And statelier stood he than a tower that 
 
 stands 
 And darkens with its darkness far-off 
 
 sands 
 WTicreon the sky leans red ; 
 And with a voice that stilled the winds 
 
 he said, — 
 " I am he that was thy lord before thy 
 
 birth, 
 I am he that is thy lord till thou turn 
 
 earth : 
 I make the night more dark, and all the 
 
 morrow 
 Dark as the night whose darkness was 
 
 my breath : 
 O fool, my name is Sorrow : 
 Thou fool, my name is Death." 
 
 And he that heard spake not, and 
 looked right on 
 Again, and Love was gone. 
 
 Through many a night, toward many 
 a wearier day, 
 
 His spirit bore his body down its way. 
 Through many a day, toward many a 
 
 wearier night. 
 His soul sustained his sorrows in her 
 
 sight. 
 And earth was bitter, and heaven, and 
 
 even the sea. 
 Sorrowful even as he. 
 And the wind helped not, and the sun 
 
 was dumb ; 
 And with too long strong stress of grief 
 
 to be. 
 His heart grew sear and numb. 
 
 And one bright eve ere summer in 
 autumn sank, 
 At star-dawn standing on a gray sea- 
 bank 
 He felt the wind fitfully shift and 
 
 heave 
 As toward a stormier eve ; 
 And all the wan wide sea shuddered ; 
 
 and earth 
 Shook underfoot, as toward some time- 
 less birth, 
 Intolerable and inevitable ; and all 
 Heaven, darkling, trembled like a 
 
 stricken thrall ; 
 And far out of the quivering east, and 
 
 far 
 From past the moonrise and its guiding 
 
 star, 
 Began a noise of tempest, and a light 
 That was not of the lightning; and a 
 
 sound 
 Rang with it round and round, 
 That was not of the thunder ; and a 
 
 flight 
 As of blown clouds by night. 
 That was not of them ; and with songs 
 
 and cries 
 That sang and shrieked their soul out 
 
 at the skies, 
 A shapeless earthly storm of shapes 
 
 began 
 From all ways round to move in on the 
 
 man. 
 Clamorous against him silent ; and their 
 
 feet 
 Were as the winds are fleet, 
 And their shrill songs were as wild 
 
 birds' are sweet. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 6oi 
 
 And as when all the world of earth 
 
 was wronged, 
 And all the host of all men driven 
 
 afoam 
 By the red hand of Rome, 
 Round some fierce amphitheatre over 
 
 thronged 
 With fair clear faces full of bloodier 
 
 lust 
 Than swells and stings the tiger when 
 
 his mood 
 Is fieriest after blood, 
 And drunk with trampling of the mur 
 
 derous must 
 That soaks and stains the tortuous 
 
 close-coiled wood 
 Made monstrous with its myriad-mus- 
 tering brood. 
 Face by fair face panted and gleamed 
 
 and ])ressed, 
 And breast by passionate breast 
 Heaved hot with ravenous rapture, as 
 
 they quaffed 
 The red ripe full fume of the deep live 
 
 draught. 
 The sharp quick reek of keen fresh 
 
 bloodshed, blown 
 Through the dense deep drift up to the 
 
 emperor's throne 
 From the under steaming sands, 
 With clamor of all-applausive throats 
 
 and hands. 
 Mingling in mirthful time 
 With shrill, blithe mockeries of the 
 
 lithe-limbed mime ; 
 So from somewhence far forth of the 
 
 unbeholden, 
 Dreadfujly driven from over and after 
 
 and under, 
 Fierce, blown through fifes of brazen 
 
 blast and golden. 
 With sound of chiming waves that 
 
 drown the thunder, 
 Or thunder that strikes dumb the sea's 
 
 own chimes. 
 Began the bellowing of the bull-voiced 
 
 mimes, 
 Terrible ; firs bowed down as briers or 
 
 l^alms 
 Even at the breathless blast as of a 
 
 breeze 
 .Fulfilled with clamor and clangor and 
 
 storms of psalms; 
 
 Red hands rent up the roots of old 
 
 world trees. 
 Thick flames of torches tossed as 
 
 tumbling seas 
 Made mad the moonless and infuriate 
 
 air 
 That, ravening, revelled in the riotous 
 
 hair 
 And raiment of the furred Bassarides. 
 
 So came all those in on him ; and his 
 
 heart. 
 As out of sleep suddenly struck a-start, 
 Danced, and his flesh took fire of theirs, 
 
 and grief 
 Was as a last year's leaf 
 Blown dead far down the wind's way; 
 
 and he set 
 His pale mouth to the brightest mouth 
 
 it met 
 That laughed for love against his lips, 
 
 and bade 
 Follow; and in following, all his blood 
 
 grew glad 
 And as again a seabird's ; for the wind 
 Took him to bathe him deep round 
 
 breast and brow ; 
 Not as it takes a dead leaf drained and 
 
 thinned. 
 But as the brightest bay-flower blown 
 
 on bough, 
 Set springing toward it singing : and 
 
 they rode 
 By many a vine-leafed, many a rose- 
 hung road, 
 Exalt with exaltation ; many a night 
 Set all its stars upon them as for spies 
 On many a moon-bewildering mountain 
 
 height 
 Where he rode only by the fierier light 
 Of his dread lady's hot, sweet hunger- 
 ing eyes. 
 For the moon wandered witless of her 
 
 way. 
 Spell-stricken by strong magic in such 
 
 wise 
 As wizards use to set the stars astray. 
 And in his ears the music that makes 
 
 mad 
 Beat always ; and what way them usic 
 
 bade. 
 That alway rode he ; nor was any sleep 
 His, nor from height nor deep. 
 
6o2 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 But heaven was as red iron, slumber- 
 less, 
 
 And had no heart to bless ; 
 
 And earth lay sear and darkling as dis- 
 traught, 
 
 And help in her was naught. 
 
 Then many a midnight, many a morn 
 
 and even, 
 His mother, passing forth of her fair 
 
 heaven, 
 With goodlier gifts than all save gods 
 
 can give 
 From earth or from the heaven where 
 
 sea-things live, 
 With shine of sea-flowers through the 
 
 bay-leaf braid 
 Woven for a crown her foam-white 
 
 kands had made 
 To crown him with land's laurel and 
 
 sea-dew, 
 Sought the sea-bird that was her boy : 
 
 but he 
 Sat panther-throned beside Erigone, 
 Riding the red ways of the revel 
 
 through 
 Midmost of pale-mouthed passion's 
 
 crownless crew. 
 Till on some winter's dawn of some 
 
 dim year 
 He let the vine-bit on the panther's lip 
 Slide, and the green rein slip, 
 And set his eyes to seaward, nor gave 
 
 ear 
 If sound from landward hailed him, 
 
 dire or dear; 
 And passing forth of all those fair 
 
 fierce ranks 
 Back to the gray sea banks, 
 Against a sea-rock lying, aslant the 
 
 steep, 
 Fell after many sleepless dreams on 
 
 sleep. 
 
 And in his sleep the dun green light 
 was shed 
 
 Heavily round his head 
 
 That through the vale of sea falls fath- 
 om-deep, 
 
 Blurred like a lamp's that when the 
 night drops dead 
 
 Dies; and his eyes gat grace of sleep 
 to sec 
 
 The deep divine dark day-shiive of the 
 sea. 
 
 Dense water-walls and clear dusk water- 
 ways. 
 
 Broad-based, or branching as a sea- 
 flower sprays 
 
 That side or this dividing; and anew 
 
 The glory of all her glories that he 
 knew. 
 
 And in sharp rapture of recovering 
 tears 
 
 He woke on fire with yearnings of old 
 years, 
 
 Pure as one purged of pain that pas- 
 sion bore, 
 
 111 child of bitter mother; for his own 
 
 Looked laughing toward him from her 
 mid-sea throne. 
 
 Up toward him there ashore. 
 
 Thence in his heart the great same 
 
 joy began, 
 Of child that made him man 
 And, turned again from all hearts else 
 
 on quest. 
 He communed with his own heart, and 
 
 had rest. 
 And like the sea-winds upon loud 
 
 waters ran 
 His days and dreams together, till the 
 
 joy 
 ;d 
 
 Burned in him of the boy ; 
 
 Till the earth's great comfort and the 
 
 sweet sea's breath 
 Breathed and blew life in where was 
 
 heartless death, — 
 Death spirit-stricken of soul-sick days, 
 
 where strife 
 Of thought and flesh made mock of 
 
 death and life. 
 And grace returned upon him of his 
 
 birth 
 Where heaven was mixed with heavea- 
 
 like sea and earth ; 
 And song shot forth strong wings that 
 
 took the sun 
 From nnvard, fledged with might of 
 
 sorrow and mirth, 
 And father's fire made mortal in his son. 
 Nor was not spirit of strength in blast 
 
 and breeze 
 To exalt again the sun's child and the 
 
 sea's : 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 60 ■ 
 
 For, as wild mares in Thessaly grow 
 great 
 
 With child of ravishing winds, that vio- 
 late 
 
 Their leaping length of limb with 
 manes like fire. 
 
 And eyes outburning heaven's 
 
 With fires more violent than the light- 
 ning levin's, 
 
 And breath drained out and desperate 
 of desire, 
 
 Even so the spirit in him, when winds 
 grew strong, 
 
 Grew great with child of song. 
 
 Nor less than when his veins first leapt 
 for joy 
 
 To draw delight in such as burns a boy. 
 
 Now, too, the soul of all his senses felt 
 
 The passionate pride of deep sea-pulses 
 dealt 
 
 Through nerve and jubilant vein 
 
 As from the love and largess of old 
 time ; 
 
 And with his heart again 
 
 The tidal throb of all the tides keep 
 rhyme, 
 
 And charm him from his own soul's 
 separate sense 
 
 With infinite and invasive influence. 
 
 That made strength sweet in him, and 
 sweetness strong. 
 
 Being now no more a singer, but a song. 
 
 Till one clear day, when brighter sea- 
 wind blew. 
 
 And louder sea-shine lightened, for the 
 waves 
 
 Were full of godhead and the light that 
 saves. 
 
 His father's and their spirit had pierced 
 him through, 
 
 He felt strange breath and light all 
 round him shed 
 
 That bowed him down with rapture ; 
 and he knew 
 
 His father's hand, hallowing his hum- 
 bled head, 
 
 And the old great voice of the old good 
 time, that said : 
 
 "Child of my sunlight, and the sea, 
 from birth 
 A fosterling and fugitive on earth ; 
 
 Sleepless of soul as wind or wave or 
 fire, 
 
 A man-child with an ungrown god's 
 desire ; 
 
 Because thou hast loved not mortal 
 more than me. 
 
 Thy father, and thy mother-hearted 
 sea; 
 
 Because thou hast set thine heart to 
 sing, and sold 
 
 Life and life's love for song, God's liv- 
 ing gold ; 
 
 Because thou hast given thy flower and 
 fire of youth 
 
 To feed men's hearts with visions truer 
 than truth ; 
 
 Because thou hast kept in those world- 
 wandering eyes 
 
 The light that makes me music of the 
 skies ; 
 
 Because thou hast heard, with world- 
 unwearied ears. 
 
 The music that puts light into the 
 spheres, — 
 
 Have therefore in thine heart and in 
 thy mouth 
 
 The sound of song that mingles north 
 and south. 
 
 The song of all the winds that sing of 
 me. 
 
 And in thy soul the sense of all the 
 sea." 
 
 HERSE. 
 
 W^HEN grace is given us ever to behold 
 
 A child some sweet months old, 
 Love, laying across our lips his finger, 
 saith, 
 Smiling, with bated breath. 
 Hush ! for the holiest thing that lives is 
 here. 
 And heaven's own heart how near ! 
 How dare we, that may gaze not on the 
 sun. 
 Gaze on this verier one ? 
 Heart, hold thy peace ; eyes, be cast 
 down for shame ; 
 Lips, breathe not yet its name. 
 In heaven they knovv' what name to call 
 it : we, 
 How should we know ? For, see 1 
 
604 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The adorable sweet living marvel- 
 lous 
 Strange light that lightens us 
 Who gaze, dcsertless of such glorious 
 grace, 
 Full in a babe's warm face ! 
 A.11 roses that the morning rears are 
 naught, 
 All stars not worth a thought. 
 Set thi« one star against them, or sup- 
 pose 
 As rival this one rose. 
 What price could pay with earth's 
 whole weight of gold 
 One least flushed roseleaf's fold 
 Of all this dimpling store of smiles that 
 shine 
 From each warm curve and line, 
 Each charm of flower-sweet flesh, to 
 re-illume 
 The dappled rose-red bloom 
 Of all its dainty body, honey-sweet 
 
 Clenched hands and curled-up feet, 
 That on the roses of the dawn have 
 trod 
 As they came down from God, 
 And keep the flush and colour that the 
 sky 
 Takes when the sun comes nigh. 
 And keep the likeness of the smile their 
 grace 
 Evoked on God's own face 
 When, seeing this work of his most 
 heavenly mood. 
 He saw that it was good ? 
 For all its warm sweet body seems one 
 smile, 
 And mere men's love too vile 
 To meet it, or with eyes that worship 
 dims 
 Read o'er the little limbs, 
 Read all the book of all their beauties 
 o'er, 
 Rejoice, revere, adore, 
 Bow down and worship each delight in 
 turn. 
 Laugh, wonder, vield, and yearn, 
 but when our trembling kisses dare, yet 
 dread, 
 Even to draw nigh its head, 
 And touch, and scarce with touch or 
 breath surjirise 
 Its mild miraculous eyes 
 
 Out of their viewless vision — O, what 
 then. 
 What may be said of men ? 
 What speech may name a new-born 
 child ? what word 
 Earth ever spake or heard ? 
 The best men's tongue that ever g(0!y 
 knew 
 Called that a drop of dew 
 Which from the breathing creature's 
 kindly womb 
 Came forth in blameless bloom. 
 We have no word, as had those men 
 most high, 
 To call a baby by. 
 Rose, ruby, lily, pearl of stormless 
 seas — 
 A better word than these, 
 A better sign it was than flower or 
 gem 
 That love revealed to them . 
 They knew that whence comes light oi 
 quickening flame, 
 Thence only this thing came, 
 And only might be likened of our love 
 
 To somewhat born above, 
 Not even to sweetest things dropped 
 else on earth. 
 Only to dew's own birth. 
 Nor doubt we but their sense was 
 heavenly true. 
 Babe, when we gaze on you, 
 A dew-drop out of heaven, whose colors 
 are 
 More bright than sun or star. 
 As now, ere watching love dare fear or 
 hope. 
 Lips, hands, and eyelids ope, 
 And all your life is mixed with earthh 
 leaven. 
 O child, what news from heaven.-* 
 
 EIGHT VKARS OLD. 
 
 Sun, whom the faltering snow-cloud 
 fears, 
 
 Rise, let the time of year be May, 
 Speak now the- word th.it .April hears. 
 
 Let .\Lirch have all his ruval way; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 605 
 
 Bid an spring raise in winter's ears 
 All tunes her children hear or play, 
 
 Because the crown of eight glad years 
 On one bright head is set to-day. 
 
 What matters cloud or sun to-day 
 To him who wears the wreath of 
 years 
 So many, and all like flowers at play 
 With wind and sunshine, while his 
 ears 
 Hear only song on every way ? 
 
 More sweet than spring triumphant 
 hears 
 Ring through the revel-rout of May 
 Are these, the notes that winter fears. 
 
 III. 
 Strong-hearted winter knows and fears 
 
 The music made of love at play, 
 Or haply loves the tune he hears 
 
 From hearts fulfilled with flowering 
 May, 
 Whose molten music thaws his ears 
 
 Late frozen, deaf but yesterday 
 To sounds of dying and dawning years. 
 
 Now quickened on hisdeathward way. 
 
 For death ward now lies winter's way 
 
 Down the green vestibule of years 
 That each year brightens day by day 
 
 With flower and shower till hope 
 scarce fears, 
 And fear grows wholly hope of May. 
 
 But we — the music in our ears 
 Made of love's pulses as they play. 
 
 The heart alone that makes it hears. 
 
 The heart it is that plays and hears 
 
 High salutation of to-day. 
 Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song 
 fears 
 Its own unworthiness to play 
 Fit music for those eight sweet years, 
 Or sing their blithe accomplished 
 way. 
 No song quite worth a young child's 
 ears 
 Broke ever even from birds in May. 
 
 There beats not in the heart of May, 
 
 When summer hopes and springtide 
 fears. 
 There falls not from the height of day, 
 
 When sunlight speaks and silence 
 hears. 
 So sweet a psalm as children play 
 
 And sing, each hour of all their years, 
 Each moment of their lovely way. 
 
 And know not how it thrills our ears. 
 
 Ah ! child, what are we, that our ears 
 Should hear you singing on your 
 way. 
 Should have this happiness } The 
 years 
 Whose hurrying wings about us play 
 Are not like yours, whose flower-time 
 fears 
 Naught worse than sunlit showers in 
 May, 
 Being sinless as the spring, that hears 
 Her own heart praise her every day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet we, too, triumph in the day 
 
 That bare, to entrance our eyes and 
 ears. 
 To lighten daylight, and to play 
 
 Such notes as darkness knows and 
 fears. 
 The child whose face illumes our way. 
 Whose voice lifts up the heart that 
 hears. 
 Whose hand is as the hand of May 
 To bring us flowers from eight full 
 years. 
 Feb. 4, 1882. 
 
 "NON DOLET'' 
 
 It does not hurt. She lookeci mong the 
 
 knife 
 Smiling, and watched the thick drops 
 
 mix and run 
 Down the sheer blade : not that which 
 
 had been done 
 Could hurt the sweet sense of the 
 
 Roman wife. 
 
6o6 
 
 POEMS /IND BALI.ADK 
 
 But that which was to do yet ere the 
 strife 
 Could end for each forever, and the 
 
 sun : 
 Nor was the pahn yet nor was peace 
 yet won 
 While pain had power upon her hus- 
 band's life. 
 
 It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art more 
 Than bride to bridegroom : how shalt 
 
 thou not take 
 The gift love's blood has reddened 
 for thy sake .'' 
 Was not thy life-blood given for us 
 before .'* 
 And if love's heart-blood can avail 
 thy need. 
 And thou not die, how should it hurt 
 indeed .'' 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF 
 EDWARD JOHN TRELAWNY. 
 
 Last high star of the years whose 
 thunder 
 Still men's listening remembrance 
 
 hears, 
 Last light left of our fathers' years, 
 Watched with honour and hailed with 
 
 wonder. 
 Thee too, then, have the years borne 
 under. 
 Thou too, then, hast regained ihy 
 peers. 
 Wings that warred with the winds of 
 morning. 
 Storm-winds rocking the red great 
 
 dawn, 
 Close at last, and a film is drawn 
 Over the eyes of the storm-bird, scorn- 
 ing 
 Now no longer the loud wind's warn- 
 
 Waves that threaten or waves that 
 fawn. 
 
 Peers were none of thee left us living. 
 Peers of theirs we shall sec no more. 
 Eight years over the full fourscore 
 
 Knew thee: now shalt thou sleep, for 
 giving 
 
 All griefs past of the wild world's giv- 
 ing. 
 Moored aX last on the stormless 
 shore. 
 
 World-wide liberty's lifelong lover, 
 Lover no less of the strength of 
 
 song. 
 Sea-king, swordsman, hater of wrong, 
 Over thy dust that the dust shall cover 
 Comes my song as a bird to hover. 
 Borne of its will as of wings along. 
 
 Cherished of ihee were this brief song's 
 brothers 
 Now that follows them, cherishing 
 
 thee. 
 Over the tides and the tideless sea. 
 Soft as a smile of the earth onr 
 
 mother's. 
 Flies it faster than all those others. 
 First of the troop at thy tomb to 
 be. 
 
 Memories of Greece, and the mountain's 
 hollow 
 Guarded alone of thy loyal sword, 
 Hold thy name for our hearts in 
 ward : 
 Yet more fain are our hearts to fol- 
 low 
 One way now with the southward swal- 
 low 
 Back to the grave of the man their 
 lord. 
 
 Heart of hearts, art thou moved not, 
 hearing 
 Surely, if hearts of the dead may 
 
 hear. 
 Whose true heart it is now draws 
 near ? 
 Surely the sense of it thrills tlvse, cheer- 
 ing 
 Darkness anil death with the news now 
 ncaring, — 
 Shelley, Trelawny rejoins thee here. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 607 
 
 OFF SHORE. 
 
 When the might of the summer 
 
 Is most on the sea; 
 When the days overcome her 
 With joy but to be, 
 With rapture of royal enchantment, and 
 sorcery that sets her not free, — 
 
 But for hours upon hours 
 As a thrall she remains 
 Spell-bound as with flowers, 
 And content in their chains. 
 And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not 
 a lock of their deep white manes ; 
 
 Then only, far under 
 
 In the depths of her hold, 
 Some gleam of its wonder 
 Man's eye may behold. 
 Its wild weed forests of crimson and 
 russet and olive and gold. 
 
 Still deeper and dimmer 
 
 And goodlier they glow 
 For the eyes of the swimmer 
 Who scans them below 
 As he crosses the zone of their flower- 
 age that knows not of sunshine 
 and snow. 
 
 Soft blossomless frondage 
 And foliage that gleams 
 As to prisoners in bondage 
 The light of their dreams, 
 The desire of a dawn unbeholden, with 
 hope on the wings of its beams. 
 
 Not as prisoners entombed, 
 
 Waxen haggard and wizen. 
 But consoled and illumed 
 In the depths of their prison 
 With delight of the light everlasting, 
 and vision of dawn on them 
 risen, ■ — 
 
 From the banks and the beds 
 
 Of the waters divine. 
 They lift up their heads, 
 
 And the flowers of them shine 
 Through the splendor of darkness that 
 clothes them, of water that glim- 
 mers like wine. 
 
 Bright bank over bank 
 
 Making glorious the gloom, 
 Soft rank upon rank. 
 
 Strange bloom after bloom. 
 They kindle the liquid low twilight, the 
 dusk of the dim sea's womb. 
 
 Through the subtile and tangible 
 
 Gloom without form. 
 Their branches, infrangible 
 Even of storm. 
 Spread softer their sprays than the 
 shoots of the woodland when 
 April is warm. 
 
 As the flight of the thunder, full 
 
 Charged with its word. 
 Dividing the wonderful 
 Depths like a bird, 
 Speaks wrath and delight to the heart 
 of the night that exults to have 
 heard, — 
 
 So swiftly, though soundless 
 
 In silence's ear. 
 Light, winged from the boundless 
 Blue depths full of cheer. 
 Speaks joy to the heart of the waters 
 that part not before him, but hear. 
 
 Light perfect and visible. 
 
 Godhead of God, 
 God indivisible. 
 Lifts but his rod. 
 And the shadows are scattered in sun- 
 der, and darkness is light at his 
 nod. 
 
 At the touch of his wand. 
 At the nod of his head 
 From the spaces beyond 
 
 Where the dawn hath her bed. 
 Earth, water, and air are transfigured, 
 and rise as one risen from the 
 dead. 
 
 He puts forth his hand, 
 
 And the mountains are thrilled 
 To the heart, as they stand 
 In his presence, fulfilled 
 With his glory that utters his grace 
 upon earth, and her sorrows arc 
 stilled. 
 
6o8 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The moan of her travail 
 
 That groans for the light 
 Till dayspring unravel 
 The weft of the night, 
 \t the sound of the strings of the 
 music of morning, falls dumb 
 with delight. 
 
 He gives forth his word, 
 
 And the word that he saith, 
 Ere well it be heard, 
 
 Strikes darkness to death; 
 For the thought of his heart is the sun- 
 rise, and dawn as the sound of 
 his breath. 
 
 And the strength of its pulses, 
 
 That passion makes proud. 
 Confounds and convulses 
 The depths of the cloud 
 Of the darkness that heaven was ingirt 
 with, divided and rent as a 
 shroud, — 
 
 As the veil of the shrine 
 Of the temple of old. 
 When darkness divine 
 Over noondav was rolled ; 
 So the heart of the night by the pulse 
 of the light is convulsed and 
 controlled. 
 
 And the sea's heart, groaning 
 
 For glories withdrawn. 
 And the waves' mouths, moaning 
 All night for the dawn. 
 Are uplift as the hearts and the mouths 
 of thesingers onlea-side and lawn. 
 
 And the sound of the quiring 
 
 Of all these as one. 
 Desired and desiring 
 
 'I'ill dawn's will be done, 
 Fills full with dclii^ht of them heaven 
 till it burns as the heart of the 
 sun ; 
 
 Till the waves, too, inherit. 
 
 And waters take part 
 In the sense of the spirit 
 
 That breathes from his heart. 
 And are kindled with music, as fire when 
 fhc lips of the morning part, — 
 
 With music unheard 
 
 In the light of her lips, 
 In the life-giving word 
 Of the dewfall that drips 
 On the grasses of earth, and the wind 
 that enkindles the wings of the 
 ships. 
 
 White glories of wings 
 As of seafaring birds. 
 That flock from the springs 
 Of the sunrise in herds. 
 With the wind for a he.dsman, ana 
 hasten or halt at the change of 
 his words ; 
 
 As the watchwords change. 
 
 When the wind's note shifts, 
 And the skies grow strange. 
 And the white squall drifts 
 Up sharp from the sea-line, vexing the 
 sea till the low cloud lifts. 
 
 At the charge of his word 
 
 Bidding pause, bidding haste, 
 When the ranks are stirred 
 And the lines displaced, 
 They scatter as wild swans, parting 
 adrift on the wan green waste. 
 
 At the hush of his word. 
 
 In a pause of his breath 
 When the waters have heard 
 His will thaohe saith. 
 They stand as a flock jjenned close in 
 its fold for division of death. 
 
 As a flock by division 
 
 Of death to be thinned, 
 As the shades in a vision 
 Of sjjirils that sinned; 
 So glimmer their shrouds and th^ir 
 sheetings as clouds on th? '=t'-;am 
 of the wind. 
 
 But the sun stands fast. 
 
 And the sea burns bright, 
 .\nd the flight of them past 
 Is no more than the flight 
 (Jf the snow-soft swarm of serene wings 
 poised and afloat in the light. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 609 
 
 Like flowers upon flowers, 
 
 In a festival way, 
 When hours after hours 
 Shed grace on the day, 
 White blossom-like butterflies hover 
 and gleani through the snows of 
 the spray. 
 
 Like snow-colored petals 
 
 Of blossoms that flee 
 From storm that unsettles 
 The flowers as the tree, 
 They flutter, a legion of flowers on the 
 wing, through the field of the sea. 
 
 Through the furrowless field 
 
 Where the foam-blossoms blow, 
 And the secrets are sealed 
 Of their harvest below, 
 They float in the path of the sunbeams, 
 as flakes or as blossoms of snow. 
 
 Till the sea's ways darken. 
 And the god, withdrawn, 
 Give ear not, or hearken 
 If prayer on him fawn. 
 And the sun's self seem but a shadow, 
 the noon as a ghost of the dawn. 
 
 No shadow, but rather, 
 God, father of song, 
 Shew grace to me, Father 
 God, loved of me long, 
 That I lose not the light of thy face, 
 that my trust in thee work me 
 not wrong, — 
 
 While yet I make forward 
 
 With face toward thee, 
 Not turned yet in shoreward, 
 Be thine upon me ; 
 Be thy light on my forehead, or ever I 
 turn it again from the sea. 
 
 As a kiss on my brow 
 
 Be the light of thy grace. 
 Be thy glance on me now 
 From the pride of thy place : 
 As the sign of a sire to a son, be the 
 light on my face of thy face. 
 
 Thou wast father of olden 
 Times hailed and adored. 
 
 And the sense of thy golden 
 Great harp's monochord 
 Was the joy in the soul of the singers 
 that hailed thee for master and 
 lord. 
 
 Fair father of all 
 
 In thy ways that have trod, 
 That have risen at thy call, 
 That have thrilled at thy nod. 
 Arise, shine, lighten upon me, O suni 
 that we see to be God. 
 
 As my soul has been dutiful 
 
 Only to thee, 
 O God ! most Ijeautiful, 
 Lighten thou me. 
 As I swim through the dim long rollers, 
 with eyelids uplift from the sea. 
 
 Be praised and adored of us. 
 
 All in accord, 
 Father and lord of us 
 Always adored. 
 The slayer, and the stayer, and the 
 harper, the light of us all, and 
 our lord. 
 
 At the sound of thy lyre. 
 
 At the touch of thy rod. 
 Air quickens to fire 
 
 By the foot of thee trod. 
 The savior, and healer, and singer, 
 the living and visible God. 
 
 The years are before thee 
 
 As shadows of thee, 
 As men that adore thee. 
 As cloudlets that flee: 
 But thou art the God, and thy kingdom is 
 heaven, and thy shrine is the sea. 
 
 EVENING ON THE BROADS. 
 
 Over two shadowless waters, adrift as 
 a pinnace in peril, 
 Hangs as in heavy suspense, charged 
 with irresolute light, 
 Softly the soul of the sunset upholden 
 awhile on the sterile 
 Waves and wastes of the land, half 
 repossessed by the night. 
 
6io 
 
 POEMS AA^D BALLADS. 
 
 Inland glimmer the shallows asleep, 
 and afar in the breathless 
 Twilight : yonder the depths darken 
 afar and asleep. 
 Slowly the semblance of death out of 
 heaven descends on the death- 
 less 
 Waters: hardly the light lives on the 
 face of the deep, — 
 Hardly, but here for a while. All 
 over the gray soft shallow 
 Hover the colors and clouds of the 
 twilight, void of a star. 
 As -a bird unfledged is the broad-winged 
 night, whose winglets are cal- 
 low 
 Yet, but soon with their plumes will 
 she cover her brood from afar, — 
 Cover the brood of her worlds that cum- 
 ber the skies with their blossom. 
 Thick as the darkness of leaf-shad- 
 owed spring is encumbered with 
 flowers. 
 World upon world is enwound in the 
 bountiful girth of her bosom, 
 Warm and lustrous with life lovely 
 to lock on as ours. 
 Still is the sunset adrift as a spirit in 
 doubt that dissembles 
 Still with itself, being sick of division, 
 and dimmed by d'smay — 
 Nay, not so; but with love and delight 
 beyond passion it trembles, 
 Fearful and fain of the night, lovely 
 with love of the day: 
 Fain and fearful of rest that is like unto 
 death, and begotten 
 Out of the womb of the tomb, born 
 of the seed of the grave : 
 Lovely with shadows of loves that are 
 only not wholly forgotten, 
 Only not wholly suppressed bv the 
 dark, as a wreck by the wave. 
 Still there linger the loves of the morn- 
 ing and noon, in a vision 
 P.lindly beheld, but in vain ; ghosts 
 that are tired, and would rest. 
 But the glories beloved of the night 
 rise all too dense for division. 
 Deep in the depth of her breast shel- 
 tered as doves in a nest. 
 Fainter the beams of the loves of the 
 daylight season enkindled 
 
 Wane, and the memories of hours 
 that were fair with the love ol 
 them fade ; 
 Loftier, aloft of the lights of the sunsel 
 stricken and dwindled. 
 Gather the signs of the love at the 
 heart of the night new-made. 
 New-made night, new-born of the sun 
 set, immeasurable, endless. 
 Opens the secret of love hid f-cm d 
 old in her heart, — 
 In the deep sweet heart fuU-c.iargec 
 with faultless love of the friend 
 less 
 Spirits of men that are eased whet 
 the wheels of the sun depart. 
 Still is the sunset afloat as a ship oi 
 the waters upholden 
 Full-sailed, wide-winged, poised softl; 
 forever a-sway — 
 Nay, not so, but at least for a little 
 a while at the golden 
 Limit of arching air fain for an hoi 
 to delay. 
 Here on the bar of the sand-bank 
 steep yet aslope to the gieaminj 
 Waste of the water without, wast( 
 of the water within, 
 Lights overhead and lights underneatl 
 seen doubtfully dreaming 
 Whether the day be done, whethe 
 the night may begin. 
 Far and afar and farther again, the 
 falter and hover, 
 Warm on the water, and deep in th 
 skv, and pale on the cloud: 
 Colder again, and slowly remoter, afraid 
 to recover 
 Breath, vet fain to revive, as it scem< 
 from the skirt of the shroud. 
 Faintlv the heart- beats shorten an 
 "pause of the light in the wesi 
 ward 
 Heaven, as eastward (|uickcn th 
 ])aces of star ujion star 
 Hurried and eager of life as a chil 
 that strains to the breast-ward 
 Eagcrlv, yearning forth of the deep 
 where the wavs of them are, 
 Glad of the gh.rv of the gift of the; 
 life ami the wealth of its wonde 
 Fain of the night, and the sea, an 
 the sweet wan face of the eartn 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 6ii 
 
 Orer them air grows deeper, intense 
 with deliglit in them : under 
 Things are thrilled in their sleep, as 
 with sense of a sure new birth. 
 But here by the sand-bank watching, 
 with eyes on the sea-line, stranger 
 Grows to me also the weight of the 
 sea-ridge gazed on of me, 
 Heavily heaped up, changcfully change- 
 less, void though of danger, 
 Void not of menace, but full of the 
 might of the dense dull sea. 
 Like as the wave is before me, behind 
 is the bank deep-drifted ; 
 Yellow and thick as the bank is be- 
 hind me, in front is the wave. 
 As the wall of a prison imprisoning the 
 mere, is the girth of it lifted ; 
 But the rampire of water in front is 
 erect as the wall of a grave. 
 And the crests of it crumble and topple 
 and change, but the wall is not 
 broken : 
 Standing still dry-shod, I see it as 
 higher than my head. 
 Moving inland alvvay again, reared up 
 as in token 
 Still of impending wrath still in the 
 foam of it shed. 
 And even in the pauses between them, 
 dividing the rollers in sunder. 
 High overhead seems ever the sea- 
 line fixed as a mark; 
 And the shore where I stand, as a val- 
 ley beholden of hills whence 
 thunder 
 Cloud and torrent and storm, dark- 
 ening the depths of the dark. 
 Up to the sea, not upon it or over it, 
 upward from under 
 Seems he to gaze, whose eyes yearn 
 after it here from the shore ; 
 A wall of turbid water, a-slope to the 
 wide sky's wonder 
 Of color and cloud, it climbs, or 
 spreads as a slanted floor. 
 And the large lights change on the face 
 of the mere, like things that were 
 living. 
 Winged and wonderful, beams like 
 as birds are that pass and are free ; 
 But the light is dense as darkness, a 
 gift withheld in the giving, 
 
 That lies as dead on the fierce dull 
 face of the landward sea. 
 Stained and stifled and soiled, made 
 earthlier than earth is and duller, 
 Grimly she puts back light as re- 
 jected, a thing put away: 
 No transparent rapture, a molten music 
 cf color; 
 No translucent love taken and given 
 of the day. 
 Fettered and marred and begrimed, is 
 the light's live self on her falling. 
 As the light of a man's life lighted 
 the fume of a dungeon mars : 
 Only she knows of the wind, when her 
 wrath gives ear to him calling, 
 The delight of the light she knows 
 not, nor answers the sun or the 
 stars. 
 Love she hath none to return for the 
 luminous love of their giving: 
 None to reflect from the bitter and 
 shallow response of her heart. 
 Yearly she feeds on her dead, yet her* 
 self seems dead and not living. 
 Or confused as a soul heavy-laden 
 with trouble that will not depart. 
 In the sound of her speech to the dark- 
 ness the moan of her evil remorse 
 is, 
 Haply, for strong ships gnawed by 
 the dog-toothed sea-bank's fang, 
 And trampled to death by the rage of 
 the feet of her foam-lipped horses, 
 Whose manes are yellow as plague, 
 and as ensigns of pestilence hang. 
 That wave in the foul faint air of the 
 breath of a death-stricken city ; 
 So menacing heaves she the manes of 
 her rollers knotted with sand. 
 Discolored, opaque, suspended in sign 
 as of strength without pity. 
 That shake with flameless thunder 
 the low long length of the strand. 
 Here, far off in the farther extreme of 
 the shore as it lengthens 
 Northward, lonely for miles, ere ever 
 a village begin, 
 On the lapsing land that recedes as 
 the growth of the strong sea 
 strengthens 
 Shoreward, thrusting further and fur 
 ther its outworks in. 
 
6l2 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Here in Shakespeare's vision, a flower 
 of her kin forsaken, 
 Lay in her golden raiment alone on 
 the wild wave's edge. 
 Surely by no shore else, but here on 
 the bank storm-shaken, 
 Perdita, bright as a dewdrop engilt 
 of the sun on the sedge. 
 Here on a shore unbeheld of his eyes, 
 in a dream, he beheld her 
 Outcast, fair as a fairy, the child of a 
 far-olf king ; 
 And over the babe-flower gently the 
 head of a pastoral elder 
 Bowed, compassionate, hoar as the 
 hawthorn-blossom in spring, 
 A.id kind as harvest in autumn: a 
 shelter of shade on the lonely 
 Shelterless unknown shore, scourged 
 of implacable waves: 
 Here, where the wind walks royal, 
 alone in his kingdom, and only 
 Sounds to the sedges a wail as of 
 triumph that conquers and 
 craves. 
 All these waters and wastes are his 
 empire of old, and awaken 
 From barren and stagnant slumber 
 at only the sound of his breath : 
 Vet the hunger is eased not that aches 
 in his heart, nor the goal over- 
 taken 
 That his wide wings yearn for, and 
 labor as hearts that yearn after 
 death. 
 All the solitude sighs and expects with 
 a blind exjicctation 
 Somewhat unknown of its own sad 
 heart, grown heart-sick of strife : 
 Till sometime its wild heart maddens, 
 and moans, and the vast ulula- 
 tion 
 Takes wing with the clouds on the 
 waters, and wails to be quit of 
 its life. 
 1- (jr the s]iirit and soul of the waste is 
 the wind, and his wings with 
 their waving 
 Darken and lighten the darkness and 
 light <■/ it thickened or thinned, 
 But the heart that impels them is even 
 as a conqueror's insatiably crav- 
 ing 
 
 That victory can fill not, as power can 
 not satiate the want of the wind 
 .All these moorlands and marshes ar( 
 full of his might, and oppose no 
 Aught of defence nor of barrier, o 
 forest or jjrecipice piled; 
 But the will of the wind works ever a; 
 his that desires what he know: 
 not. 
 And the wail of his want unfulfilled i; 
 as one making moan for her child 
 And the cry of his triumph is even a: 
 the crying of hunger that mad 
 dens 
 The heart of a strong man, aching ir 
 vain as the wind's heart aches ; 
 And the sadness itself of the land foi 
 its infinite solitude saddens 
 More for the sound than the silenc( 
 athirst for the sound that slakes 
 And the sunset at last, and the twihghi 
 are dead ; and the darkness ii 
 breathless 
 With fear of the wind's breath ris 
 ing that seems and seems not tc 
 sleep ; 
 But a sense of the sound of it alwav, 2 
 spirit unsleeping and deathless. 
 Ghost or god, evermore moves or 
 the face of the deep. 
 
 THE EMPEROR'S PROGRESS. 
 
 A STUDY IN THREE STAGES. 
 
 (On the Busts of Nero in the Uffizj.) 
 
 A CHILD of brighter than the morning'* 
 birth. 
 And lovelier than all smiles that ma> 
 
 be smiled 
 Save only of little children undefilcd 
 Sweet, perfect, witless of their own 
 
 dear worth. 
 Live rose of love, mute melody ol 
 mirth, 
 Glad as a bird is when the woods are 
 
 mild, 
 Adorable as is nothing save a child. 
 Hails with wide eyes and lips his life 
 on earth, 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 613 
 
 His lovely life with all its keayen to be. 
 And whoso reads the name inscribed, 
 
 or hears, 
 Feels his own heart a frozen well of 
 tears, 
 Child, for deep dread and fearful pity 
 
 of thee 
 Whom God would not let rather die 
 than see 
 The incumbent horror of impending 
 vears. 
 
 II. 
 
 Man, that wast godlike being a child, 
 and now, 
 No less than kinglike, art no more in 
 
 sooth 
 For all thy grace and lordliness of 
 youth. 
 The crown that bids men's branded 
 
 foreheads bow, 
 Much more has branded and bowed 
 down thy brow. 
 And gnawn upon it as with fire or 
 
 tooth 
 Of steel or snake so sorely, that the 
 truth 
 Seems here to bear false witness. Is it 
 
 thou. 
 Child .^ and is all the summer of all thy 
 spring 
 This ? are the smiles that drew men's 
 
 kisses down 
 All faded and transfigured to the 
 frown 
 That grieves thy face } Art thou this 
 weary thing .' 
 Then is no slave's load heavier than 
 a crown, 
 And such a thrall no bondman as a 
 king. 
 
 III. 
 
 Misery beyond all men's most miser- 
 able. 
 Absolute, whole, defiant of defence, 
 Inevitable, ine.xplacable, intense. 
 More vast than heaven is high, more 
 
 deep than hell. 
 Past cure or charm of solace or of 
 spell, 
 
 Possesses and pervades the spirit 
 
 and sense 
 Whereto the expanse of the earth 
 pays tribute ; whence 
 Breeds evil only, and broods on fumes 
 
 that swell 
 Rank from the blood of brother and 
 mother and wife. 
 "Misery of miseries, all is misery," 
 saith 
 The heavy fair-faced hateful head, at 
 strife 
 With its own lusts that burn with 
 feverous breath. 
 Lips which the loathsome bitterness of 
 life 
 Leaves fearful of the bitterness of 
 death. 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 To H. W\ M. 
 
 Between the springs of six and seven, 
 Two fresh years' fountains, clear 
 
 Of all but golden sand tor leaven. 
 Child, midway passing here. 
 
 As earth for love's sake dares bless 
 heaven. 
 So dare I bless you, dear. 
 
 Between two bright well-heads, that 
 brighten 
 With every breath that blows 
 Too loud to lull, too low to frighten. 
 
 But fain to rock, the rose. 
 Your feet stand fast, your lit smiles 
 lighten, 
 That might rear flowers from snows. 
 
 You came when winds unleashed were 
 snarling 
 Behind the frost-bound hours, 
 A snow-bird sturdier than the star- 
 ling. 
 A storm -bird fledged for showers, 
 That spring might smile to find you, 
 darling. 
 First-born of all the flowers. 
 
614 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Could love make vrorthy things of 
 worthless, 
 My song were worth an ear : 
 Its note should make the days m )st 
 mirthless 
 The merriest of the year, 
 And wake to birth all buds yet birth- 
 less. 
 To keep your birthday, dear. 
 
 But where your birthday brightens 
 heaven 
 
 No need has earth, God knows. 
 Of light or warmth to melt or leaven 
 
 The frost or fog that glows 
 With sevenfold heavenly lights of seven 
 
 Sweet springs that cleave the snows. 
 
 Could love make worthy music of you, 
 
 And match my Master's powers, 
 Had even my love less heart to love 
 you, 
 A better song were ours ; 
 With all the rhymes like stars above 
 you, 
 And all the words like flowers. 
 Sept. 30, 1880. 
 
 A PARTING SONG. 
 
 (To a friend leaving England for a year's 
 residence in Australia.) 
 
 These winds and suns of spring. 
 That warm with breath and wing 
 The trembling sleep of earth, till half 
 
 awake 
 She laughes and blushes ere her slum- 
 ber break. 
 For all good gifts they bring 
 Recpiire one better thing, 
 For all the loans of joy they lend us, 
 
 borrow 
 One sharper dole of sorrow. 
 To sunder soon by half a world of sea 
 Her son from England, and my friend 
 from me. 
 
 Nor hope nor love nor fear 
 May speed or stay one year, 
 
 Nor song nor prayer may bid, as min« 
 
 would fain. 
 The seasons perish and be born again, 
 Restoring all we lend. 
 Reluctant, of a friend, — 
 The voice, the hand, the presence, and 
 
 the sight. 
 That lend their life and light 
 To present gladness and heart-strength 
 
 ening cheer, 
 Now lent again for one reluctant year. 
 
 So much we lend indeed, 
 Perforce, by force of need, 
 So much we must ; even these things 
 
 and no more, 
 The far sea sundering and the sundered 
 shore 
 A world apart from ours, 
 So much the imperious hours ; 
 Exact, and spare not ; but no more 
 
 than these 
 All earth and all her seas 
 From thought and faith of trust and 
 
 truth can borrow, 
 Not memory from desire, nor hope 
 from sorrow. 
 
 Through bright and dark and bright 
 Returns of day and night 
 I bid the swift year speed, and change 
 
 and give 
 His breath of life to make the nexl 
 year live 
 With sunnier suns for us, 
 A life more prosperous, 
 And laugh with flowers more fragrant 
 
 that ^hall see 
 A merrier March for me, 
 A rosier-girdled race of night will 
 
 day, 
 A goodlier April, and a tenderer May. 
 
 For him the inverted year 
 Shall mark our seasons here 
 
 With alien alternation, and revive 
 
 This withered winter, slaying the spring 
 alive 
 With darts more sharply drawn 
 As nearer draws the dawn, 
 
 In heaven transfigured over earth trans 
 formed, 
 
 And with our winters warmed 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 6.5 
 
 And wasted with our summers, till the 
 
 So back to spring from summer may 
 
 beams 
 
 next year 
 
 Rise on his face that rose on Dante's 
 
 Restore him, and our hearts receive 
 
 dreams. 
 
 him here, — 
 
 
 The best good gift that spring 
 
 Till fourfold morning rise 
 
 ILid ever grace to bring 
 
 Of star-shine on his eyes, 
 
 At fortune's happiest hour of star-blest 
 
 Dawn of the spheres that brand steep 
 
 birth. 
 
 heaven across 
 
 Back to love's home-bright earth. 
 
 At height of night with semblance of a 
 
 To eyes with eyes that commune, hand 
 
 cross 
 
 with hand, 
 
 Whose grace and ghostly glory 
 
 And the old warm bosom of all our 
 
 Poured heaven on purgatory, 
 
 mother-land. 
 
 Seeing with their flamelets risen all 
 
 
 heaven grow glad 
 
 
 For love thereof it had 
 
 Earth and sea-wind and sea 
 
 And lovely joy of loving; so may 
 
 And stars and sunlight be 
 
 these 
 
 Alike all prosperous for him, and all 
 
 Make bright with welcome now their 
 
 hours 
 
 southern seas. 
 
 Have all one heart, and all that heart 
 
 
 as ours. 
 
 happy stars, whose mirth 
 
 All things as good as strange, 
 
 The saddest soul on earth 
 
 Crown all the seasons' change 
 
 That ever soared and sang, found 
 
 With changing flower and compensat- 
 
 strong to bless, 
 
 ing fruit 
 
 Lightening his life's harsh load of heavi- 
 
 From one year's ripening root ; 
 
 ness 
 
 Till next year bring us, roused at 
 
 With comfort sown like seed 
 
 spring's recall. 
 
 In dreams though not in deed. 
 
 A heartier flower and goodlier fruit 
 
 On sprinkled wastes of darkling thought 
 
 than all 
 
 divine ! 
 
 March 26, 1880. 
 
 Let all your lights now shine 
 
 
 With ail as glorious gladness on his 
 
 
 eyes 
 For whom indeed, and not in dream, 
 
 BY THE NORTH SEA. 
 
 they rise. 
 
 
 As those great twins of air 
 
 I. 
 
 Hailed once with old-world prayer 
 
 
 Of all folk alway faring forth by sea. 
 
 !• 
 
 So now may these for grace and guid- 
 
 A LAND that is lonelier than ruin ; 
 
 ance be, 
 
 A sea that is stranger than death ; 
 
 To guard his sail, and bring 
 
 Far fields that a rose never blew 
 
 Again to brighten spring 
 
 in, 
 
 The face we look for, and the hand we 
 
 Wan waste where the winds lack 
 
 lack 
 
 breath ; 
 
 Still, till they light him back, 
 
 Waste endless and boundless, and 
 
 As welcome as to first discovering eyes 
 
 flowerless 
 
 Their light rose ever, soon on his to 
 
 But of marsh-blossoms fruitless as 
 
 rise. 
 
 free; 
 
 
 Where earth lies exhausted, as power- 
 
 As parting now he goes 
 
 less 
 
 From snow-time back to snows, 
 
 To strive with the sea. 
 
6i6 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Far flickers the flight of the swallows, 
 
 Far flutters the weft of the grass 
 Spun dense over desolate hollows, 
 More pale than the clouds as they 
 pass ; 
 Thick woven as the web of a witch is 
 Round the heart of a thrall that hath 
 sinned, 
 Whose youth and the wrecks of its 
 riches 
 Are waifs on the wind. 
 
 The pastures are herdless and sheep- 
 less, 
 No pasture or shelter for herds • 
 The wind is relentless and sleepless, 
 
 And restless and songless the birds ; 
 Their cries from afar fall breathless. 
 Their wings are as lightnings that 
 flee; 
 For the land has two lords that are 
 deathless, — 
 Death's self, and the sea. 
 
 These tv.-ain, as a king with his fellow, 
 Hold converse of desolate speech; 
 
 And her waters are haggard and yellow 
 And crass with the scurf of the beach ; 
 
 And his garments are gray as the hoary 
 Wan sky where the day lies dim; 
 
 And his power is to her, and his glory. 
 As hers unto him. 
 
 5- 
 In the pride of his power she rejoices. 
 
 In her glory he gUnvs and is glad : 
 In her darkness the sound of his voice 
 is, 
 With his breath she dilates, and is 
 mad : 
 '* If thou slay me, O death, and outlive 
 me, 
 Yet thy love hath fulfilled me of 
 thee." 
 " Shall I give thee not back if thou give 
 me, 
 O sister, O sea > " 
 
 And year upon year dawns living. 
 And age upon age drops dead : 
 And his hand is not weary of giving. 
 And the thirst of her heart is not 
 fed : 
 And the hunger that moans in her pas- 
 sion. 
 And the rage in her hunger that 
 roars. 
 As a wolf's that the winter lays lash on. 
 Still calls and implores. 
 
 Her walls have no granite for girder, 
 
 No fortalice fronting her stands ; 
 But reefs the bloodguiltiest of murder 
 Are less than the banks of her sands 
 These number their slain by the thou- 
 sand ; 
 For the ship hath no surety to be. 
 When the bank is abreast of her bows, 
 and 
 Aflush with the sea. 
 
 No surety to stand, and no shelter 
 
 To dawn out of darkness but one, 
 Out of waters that hurtle and welter. 
 
 No succor to dawn with the sun 
 But a rest from the wind as it i^asses. 
 Where, hardly redeemed from the 
 waves. 
 Lie thick as the blades of the grasses 
 The dead in their graves. 
 
 A multitude noteless of numbers, 
 As wild weeds cast on an heap- 
 
 And sounder than sleep are their slum- 
 bers. 
 And softer than song is their s'eep; 
 
 And sweeter than all things, and stran 
 
 The sense, if perchance it may be. 
 That the wind is divested of danger, 
 And scatheless the sea; 
 
 lO. 
 
 That the roar of the banks they brcastcc 
 Is hurlless as bellowing of herds. 
 
POEMS AA'D BALLADS. 
 
 6\y 
 
 And the strength of his wings that in- 
 vested 
 The wind, as the strength of a bird's : 
 As the sea-mew's might or the swal- 
 low's 
 That cry to him back if he cries, 
 As over the graves and their hollows 
 Days darken and rise. 
 
 As the souls of the dead men disbur- 
 dened 
 And clean of the sins that they 
 sinned, 
 With a lovelier than man's life guer- 
 doned, 
 And delight as a wave's in the wind. 
 And delight as the wind's in the billow, 
 liirds pass, and deride with their glee 
 The tlesh that has dust for its pillow 
 As wrecks have the sea. 
 
 When the ways of the sun wax dim- 
 mer. 
 Wings flash through the dusk like 
 beams ; 
 As the clouds in the lit sky glimmer. 
 The bird in the graveyard gleams; 
 As the cloud at its wing's edge whitens 
 When the clarions of sunrise are 
 heard, 
 The graves that the bird's note bright- 
 ens 
 Grow bright for the bird. 
 
 13- 
 
 As the waves of the numberless waters 
 That the wind cannot number who 
 guides, 
 Are the sons of the shore and the daugh- 
 ters 
 Here lulled by the chime of the 
 tides ; 
 And here in the press of them standing 
 
 We know not if these or if we 
 Live truliesl, — or anchored to landing, 
 Or drifted to sea. 
 
 14. 
 
 In the valley he named of decision. 
 No denser were multitudes met 
 
 When the soul of the seer in her visi(^n 
 
 Saw nations for doom of them set ; 
 Saw darkness in dawn, and the sjjlcn- 
 dor 
 Of judgment, the sword and the rod. 
 l)Ut the doom here of death is more 
 tender. 
 And gentler the god. 
 
 15- 
 And gentler the wind from the dreary 
 Sea-banks by the waves overlapped. 
 Being weary, speaks j^eace to the weary. 
 From slopes that the tide-stream hath 
 sapped ; 
 And sweeter than all that we call so 
 The seal of their slumber shall be 
 Till the graves that embosom them also 
 Be sapped of the sea. 
 
 II. 
 
 For the heart of the waters is cruel, 
 And the kisses are dire of their lips, 
 
 And their waves are as fire is to fuel 
 To the strength of the seafaring 
 ships. 
 
 Though the sea's eye gleam as a jewel 
 To the sun's eye back as he dips. 
 
 Though the sun's eye flash to the sea's 
 Live light of delight and of laughter. 
 
 And her lips breathe back to the breeze 
 The kiss that the wind's lips waft 
 her 
 
 From the sun that subsides, and sees 
 No gleam of the storm's dawn after 
 
 3- 
 And the wastes of the wild sea-marches 
 Where the borderers are matched in 
 their might — 
 Bleak fens that'the sun's weight parches. 
 
 Dense waves that reject his light — 
 Change under the change-colored 
 arches 
 Of changeless morning and night. 
 
6i8 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The waves are as ranks enrolled 
 Too close for the storm to sever: 
 
 The fens lie naked and cold, 
 
 Hut their heart fails utterly never; 
 
 I'he lists are set from of old, 
 And the warfare endureth forever. 
 
 III. 
 
 Miles and miles and miles of desola- 
 tion ! 
 Leagues on leagues on leagues with- 
 out a change ! 
 Sign or token of some eldest nation 
 Here would make the strange land 
 not so strange. 
 Time-forgotten, yea since time's crea- 
 tion. 
 Seem these borders where the sea- 
 birds range. 
 
 Slowly, gladly, full of peace and won- 
 der 
 Grows his heart who journeys here 
 alone : 
 Earth and all its thoughts of earth 
 sink under 
 Deep as deep in water sinks a stone ; 
 Hardly knows it if the rollers thunder. 
 Hardly whence the lonely wind is 
 blown. 
 
 Tall the plumage of the rush-llowcr 
 tosses ^ 
 Sharp and soft in many a curve and 
 line, 
 (}leam and glow the sea-colored marsh- 
 mosses. 
 Salt and splendid from the circling 
 brine ; 
 Streak on streak of glimmering sea- 
 shine crosses 
 All the land sea-saturate as with 
 wine. 
 
 P'ar, and far between, in divers orders. 
 Clear gray steeples cleave the low 
 gray sky ; 
 Fast and firm as time-unshaken ward 
 ers. 
 Hearts made sure by faith, by hope 
 made high. 
 These alone in all the wild sea-borders 
 Fear no blast of days and nights that 
 die. 
 
 5- 
 All the land is like as one man's face 
 is. 
 Pale and troubled still with change 
 of cares. 
 Doubt and death pervade her clouded 
 spaces ; 
 Strength and length of life and peace 
 are theirs, — 
 Theirs alone amid these weary places, 
 Seeing not how the wild world frets 
 and fares. 
 
 Firm and fast where all is cloud that 
 changes. 
 Cloud-clogged sunlight, cloud by sun- 
 light thinned, 
 intern and sweet, above the sand-hill 
 ranges 
 Watch the towers and tombs of men 
 that sinned 
 Once, now calm as earth, whose onl\ 
 change is 
 Wind, and light, and wind, and cloud, 
 and wind. 
 
 Out and in and out the sharp straits 
 wander. 
 In and out and in the wild wav 
 strives, 
 Starred and paved and lined with 
 flowers that scpiandcr 
 Gold as golden as the gold of hives. 
 Salt and moist and multiform ; but 
 voniler, 
 Sec, what sign of life or death sur- 
 vives ? 
 
POEMS AXD BALLADS. 
 
 6lQ 
 
 8. 
 Seen then only when the songs of olden 
 Harps were young, whose echoes yet 
 endure, 
 Hymned of Homer when his years 
 were golden. 
 Known of only when the world was 
 pure. 
 Here is Hades, manifest, beholden, 
 Surely, surely here, if aught be sure ! 
 
 9- 
 Where the border-line was crossed, 
 that, sundering 
 Death from life, keeps weariness from 
 rest, 
 None can tell, who fares here forward 
 wondering ; 
 None may doubt but here might end 
 his quest. 
 Here life's lightning joys and woes 
 once thundering 
 Sea-like round him cease like storm 
 suppressed. 
 
 Here the wise wave-wandering stead- 
 fast-hearted 
 Guest of many a lord, of many a 
 land, 
 Saw the shape or shade of years de- 
 parted, 
 Saw the semblance risen and hard at 
 hand, 
 Saw the mother long from love's reach 
 parted, 
 Anticleia, like a statue stand. 
 
 Statue ? nay, nor tissued image woven 
 
 Fair on hangings in his father's hall ; 
 Nay, too fast her faith of heart was 
 proven. 
 Far too firm her loveliest love of all; 
 Love wherethrough the loving heart 
 was cloven. 
 Love that hears not when the loud 
 Fates call. 
 
 Love that lives and stands up re-created 
 Then when life has ebbed and an- 
 guish fled ; 
 Love more strong than death or all 
 things fated, 
 Child's and mother's, lit by love and 
 led; 
 Love that found \yhat life so long 
 awaited 
 Here, when life came down among 
 the dead. 
 
 13- 
 Here, where never came alive another, 
 Came her son across the sundering 
 tide 
 Crossed before by many a warrior 
 brother 
 Once that warred on Ilion at his side ; 
 Here spread forth vain hands to clasp 
 the mother 
 Dead, that sorrowing '^^r his love'<- 
 sake died. 
 
 14. 
 Parted, though by narrowest of divis- 
 ions. 
 Clasp he might not, only might im- 
 plore. 
 Sundered yet by bitterest of derisions. 
 Son, and mother from the son she 
 bore — 
 Here.^ But all dispeopled here of vis- 
 ions 
 Lies, forlorn of shadows even, the 
 shore. 
 
 All too sweet such men's Hellenic 
 speech is, 
 All too fain they lived of light to see, 
 Once to see the darkness of these 
 beaches, 
 Once to sing this Hades found of 
 me, 
 Ghostless, all its gulfs and creeks and 
 reaches, 
 Sky, and shore, and cloud, and waste, 
 and sea. 
 
620 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hut aloft and afront of me faring 
 Far forward as folk in a dream 
 That strive, between doubting and dar- 
 ing. 
 Right on till the goal for them gleam, 
 Full forth till their goal on them 
 lighten, 
 The harbor where fain they would 
 be, 
 What headlands there darken and 
 brighten ? 
 What change m the sea? 
 
 What houses and woodlands that nes- 
 tle 
 Safe inland to lee of the hill 
 As it slopes from the headlands that 
 wrestle 
 And succumb to the strong sea's 
 will ? 
 Truce is not, nor respite, nor pity; 
 
 For the battle is waged not of hands, 
 Where over the grave of a city 
 The ghost of it stands. 
 
 Where the wings of the sea-wind 
 slacken, 
 Green lawns to the landward thrive, 
 l<'ields brighten and pine-woods black- 
 en, 
 And the heat in their heart is alive ; 
 They blossom and warble and mur- 
 mur, 
 For the sense of their spirit is free : 
 But harder to shoreward and firmer 
 'Ihc grasp of the sea. 
 
 Like ashes the low cliffs crumble, 
 
 'I'hc banks drop down into dust, 
 The heights of the hills are made hum- 
 ble, 
 As a reed's is the strength of their 
 trust; 
 
 As a city's that armies environ. 
 
 The strength of their stay is of sand; 
 But the grasp of the sea is as iron. 
 Laid hard on the land. 
 
 5- 
 A land that is thirstier than ruin ; 
 
 A sea that is hungrier than death ; 
 Heaped hills that a tree never grew in; 
 W'ide sands where the wave draws 
 breath ; 
 All solace is here for the spirit 
 
 That ever forever may be 
 For the soul of thy son to inherit, 
 My mother, my sea. 
 
 O delight of the headlands and beaches 1 
 
 O desire of the wind on the wold. 
 More glad than a man's when it reaches 
 That end which it sought from of 
 old. 
 And the palm of possession is dreary 
 To the sense that in search of it 
 sinned ; 
 But nor satisfied ever nor weary 
 Is ever the wind. 
 
 The delight that he takes but in living 
 Is more than of all things that live; 
 For the world that has all things fo' 
 giving 
 Has nothing so goodly to give: 
 But more than delight his desire is. 
 For the goal where his pinions would 
 be 
 Is immortal as air or as fire is, 
 Immense as the sea. 
 
 Though hence come the moan that he 
 borrows 
 From darkness and depths of the 
 night. 
 Though hence be the spring of hi? 
 sorrows, 
 Hence too is the joy of his might,— 
 The delight that his doom is forever 
 
 To seek, and desire, and rejoice. 
 And the sense that eternity never 
 Shall silence his voice; 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 621 
 
 That satiety never may stifle, 
 Nor weariness ever estrange, 
 
 Nor time be so strong as to rifle, 
 Nor change be so great as to change 
 
 liis gift that renews in the giving, 
 The joy that exalts him to be 
 
 Alone of all elements living 
 The lord of the sea. 
 
 What is fire, that its flame should con- 
 sume her ? 
 More fierce than all fires are her 
 waves. 
 What is earth, that its gulfs should en- 
 tomb her ? 
 More deep are her own than their 
 graves. 
 Life shrinks from his pinions that cover 
 The darkness by thunders bedinned; 
 But she knows him, her lord and her 
 lover. 
 The godhead of wind. 
 
 II. 
 
 For a season his wings are about her, 
 His breath on her lips for a space ; 
 Such rapture he wins not without her 
 In the width of his world-wide race. 
 Though the forests bow down, and the 
 mountains 
 Wax dark, and the tribes of them 
 flee. 
 His delight is more deep in the foun- 
 tains 
 And springs of the sea. 
 
 There are those too of mortals that 
 love him. 
 There are souls that desire and re- 
 quire, 
 Be the glories of midnight above him, 
 Or beneath him the daysprings of 
 fire ; 
 And their hearts are as harps that ap- 
 prove him 
 And praise him as chords of a lyre 
 That were fain with their music to 
 move him 
 To meet their desire. 
 
 '3- 
 To descend through the darkness to 
 grace them. 
 Till darkness were lovelier than 
 light: 
 To encompass and grasp and embrace 
 them, 
 Till their weakness were one with his 
 might; 
 With the strength of his wings to caress 
 them. 
 With the blast of his breath to set 
 free; 
 With the mouths of his thunders to 
 bless them 
 For sons of the sea. 
 
 14. 
 For these have the toil and the guerdon 
 
 That the wind has eternally : these 
 Have part in the boon and the burden 
 Of the sleepless, unsatisfied breeze. 
 That finds not, but seeking rejoices 
 That possession can work him no 
 wrong ; 
 And the voice at the heart of their 
 voice is 
 The sense of his song. 
 
 15- 
 
 For the wind's is their doom and their 
 
 blessing; 
 
 To desire, and have always above 
 
 A possession beyond their possessing, 
 
 A love beyond reach of their love. 
 Green earth has her sons and her 
 daughters. 
 And these have their guerdons ; but 
 we 
 Are the wind's, and the sun's, and the 
 water's. 
 Elect of the sea. 
 
 V. 
 
 For the sea too seeks and rejoices, 
 
 Gains and loses and gains. 
 And the joy of her heart's own choice 
 is 
 
 As ours, and as ours are her pains: 
 
622 
 
 ^OEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 \% the thoughts of our hearts are her 
 voices, 
 And as hers is the pulse of our 
 veins. 
 
 Her fields that know not of dearth, 
 Nor lie for their fruit's sake fallow, 
 
 Laugh large in the depth of their mirth ; 
 Hut inshore here in the shallow, 
 
 Kmbroiled with encumbrance of earth, 
 Their skirts are turbid and yellow. 
 
 The grime of her greed is upon her. 
 
 The sign of her deed is her soil; 
 As the earth's is her own dishonor, 
 And corruption the crown of her 
 toil: 
 She hath spoiled and devoured, and 
 her honour 
 Is this, to be shamed by her spoil. 
 
 l>ut afar where pollution is none. 
 Nor ensign of strife nor endeavor. 
 
 Where her heart and the sun's are one. 
 And the soil of her sin comes never, 
 
 She is pure as the wind and the sun. 
 And her sweetness endureth forever. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Death, and change, and darkness ever- 
 lasting, 
 Deaf that hears not what the day- 
 star saith, 
 Wind past all remembrance and fore- 
 casting. 
 Dead past memory that it once drew 
 breath, — 
 These, above the washing tides anil 
 wasting. 
 Reign, aiul rule this land of utter 
 death 
 
 Change of change, darkness of dark- 
 ness, hidden. 
 Very death of very death, begun 
 
 When none knows, — the knowledge is 
 forbidden, — 
 Self-begotten, self-jjroceeding, one 
 Born, not made — abhorred, unchained, 
 unchidden, 
 Ni<rht stands here defiant of the suu- 
 
 Change of change, and death of dea.li 
 begotten. 
 Darkness born of darkness, one and 
 three. 
 Ghostly godhead of a world forgotten, 
 Crowned with heaven, enthroned on 
 land and sea. 
 Here, where earth with dead men's 
 bones is rotten, 
 God of Time, thy likeness worships 
 thee. 
 
 4- 
 Lo! thy likeness of thy desolation. 
 Shape and figure of thy might, O 
 Lord, 
 Formless form, incarnate miscreation. 
 Served of all things living, and al> 
 horred ; 
 Earth herself is here thine incarnation, 
 Time, of all things born on earth 
 adored. 
 
 5- 
 All that worship thee are fearful of 
 thee ; 
 No man may not worship thee for 
 fear r 
 Prayers nor curses prove not nor dis- 
 prove thee. 
 Move nor change thee with our 
 change of cheer ; 
 All at last, though all abhorred thee, 
 love thee, 
 God, the sceptre of whose throne is 
 here. 
 
 6 
 Here thy throne and sceptre of thy 
 station. 
 Here the palace pavcn for thy feet; 
 Here thy sign from nation unto nation 
 I'assed as watchword for thy guards 
 to greet, — 
 Guards that go before thine exaltation. 
 Ages, clothed with bitter years and 
 sweet. 
 
POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 623 
 
 7- 
 
 1 1. 
 
 Here, where sharp the sea-bird shrills 
 
 Low and loud and long, a voice for- 
 
 his ditty, 
 
 ever. 
 
 Flickering flame-wise through the 
 
 Sounds the wind's clear story like a 
 
 clear live calm, 
 
 song. 
 
 Rose triumphal, crowning all a city, 
 
 Tomb from tomb the waves devouring 
 
 Roofs exalted once with prayer and 
 
 sever, 
 
 psalm, 
 
 Dust from dust as years relapse 
 
 Built of holy hands for holy pity, 
 
 along ; 
 
 F'rank and fruitful as a sheltering 
 
 Graves where men made sure to rest. 
 
 palm. 
 
 and never 
 
 8. 
 Church and hospice wrought in fault- 
 
 Lie dismantled by the seasons' wrong. 
 
 12. 
 
 less fashion, 
 
 Now displaced, devoured and dese- 
 
 Hall and chancel bounteous and sub- 
 
 crated. 
 
 lime. 
 
 Now by Time's hands darkly dis- 
 
 Wide and sweet and glorious as com 
 
 interred. 
 
 passion, 
 
 These poor dead that sleeping here 
 
 Filled and thrilled with force of 
 
 awaited 
 
 choral chime. 
 
 Long the archangel's re-creating 
 
 Filled with spirit of prayer and thrilled 
 
 word, 
 
 with passion. 
 
 Closed about with roofs and walls 
 
 Hailed a god more merciful than 
 
 high-gated 
 
 Time. 
 
 Till the blast of judgment should be 
 
 9- 
 
 Ah ! less mighty, less than Time pre- 
 
 heard. 
 
 13- 
 
 vailing. 
 
 Naked, shamed, cast out of consecra- 
 
 Shrunk, expelled, made nothing at 
 
 tion. 
 
 his nod, 
 
 Corpse and cotifin, yea, the very 
 
 Less than clouds across the sea-line 
 
 graves. 
 
 sailing, 
 
 Scoffed at, scattered, shaken from 
 
 Lies he, stricken by his master's rod. 
 
 their station. 
 
 " Where is man } " the cloister mur 
 
 Spurned and scourged of wind and 
 
 murs wailing; 
 
 sea like slaves. 
 
 Back the mute shrine thunders — 
 
 Desolate beyond man's desolation, 
 
 "Where is God?" 
 
 Shrink and sink into the waste of 
 
 
 waves. 
 
 14. 
 
 10. 
 
 Tombs, with bare white piteous bones 
 
 Here is all the end of all his glory, — 
 
 protruded. 
 
 Dust, and grass, and barren silent 
 
 Shroudless, down the loose collaps- 
 
 stones. 
 
 ing banks. 
 
 Dead, like him, one hollow tower and 
 
 Crumble, from their constant place 
 
 hoary 
 
 detruded, 
 
 Naked in the sea-wind stands and 
 
 That the sea devours and gives not 
 
 moans, 
 
 thanks. 
 
 Filled and thrilled with its perpetual 
 
 Graves where hope and prayer and 
 
 story • 
 
 sorrow brooded 
 
 Here, where earth is dense with dead 
 
 Gape and slide and perish, ranks on 
 
 men's bones. 
 
 ranks. 
 
624 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 ^5- 
 Rows on rows, and line by line they 
 crumble, — 
 They that thought for all time 
 through to be. 
 Scarce a stone whereon a child might 
 stumble. 
 Breaks the grim field paced alone of 
 me. 
 Earth, and man, and all their gods wax 
 humble, 
 Here, where Time brings pasture to 
 the sea. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But afar on the headland exalted, 
 
 But beyond in the curl of the bay, 
 From the depth of his dome deep-vault- 
 ed, 
 Our father is lord of the day. 
 Our father and lord that we follow, 
 For deathless and ageless is he ; 
 And his robe is the whole sky's hol- 
 low. 
 His sandal the sea. 
 
 Where the horn of the headland is 
 sharper, 
 And her green floor glitters with fire, 
 The sea has the sun for a harper. 
 The sun has the sea for a lyre. 
 The waves arc a pavement of amber, 
 
 By the feet of the sea-winds trod, 
 To receive in a god's presence-chamber 
 Our father, the god. 
 
 3- 
 Time, haggard and changeful and 
 hoary. 
 Is master and god of the land: 
 I'ut the air is fulfilled of the glory 
 That is shed from our lord's right 
 hand, 
 u father of all of us ever, 
 All glory be only to thee 
 
 From heaven, that is void of thee 
 never, 
 And earth, and the sea. 
 
 O Sun ! whereof all is beholden. 
 
 Behold now the shadow of this death 
 
 This place of the sepulchres, olden 
 And emptied and vain as a breath. 
 
 The bloom of the bountiful headier 
 Laughs broadly beyond in thy light, 
 
 As dawn, with her glories to gather. 
 At darkness and night. 
 
 5- 
 Though the gods of the night lie rot- 
 ten, 
 And their honor be taken away. 
 And the noise of their names forgotten, 
 
 Thou, Lord, art god of the day. 
 Thou art father, and saviour, and spirit, 
 
 O Sun, of the soul that is free, 
 And hath grace of thy grace to inh<;rit 
 Thine earth and thy sea. 
 
 The hills and the sands and the beaches. 
 
 The waters adrift and afar. 
 The banks and the creeks and the 
 reaches. 
 How glad of thee all these are ! 
 The flowers, overflowing, overcrowded. 
 Are drunk with the mad wind's 
 mirth : 
 The delight of thy coming unclouded 
 Makes music of earth. 
 
 I, last least voice of her voices. 
 
 Give thanks that were mute in me 
 long 
 To the soul in my soul that rejoices 
 
 For the song that is over my song. 
 Time gives what he gains for the giv 
 ing. 
 Or takes for his tribute of me; 
 My dreams to the wind ever-living, 
 My song to the sea. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 TO WILLIAM. BELL SCOTT. 
 
 The larks are loud above our leagues 
 of whin, 
 Now the sun's perfume fills their glo- 
 rious gold 
 With odor like the color • all the wold 
 Is only light and song and wind wherein 
 These twain are blent in one with shin- 
 ing din. 
 And now your gift, a giver's kingly- 
 
 souled, 
 Dear old fast friend whose honors 
 grow not old, 
 Bids memory's note as loud and sweet 
 
 begin. 
 Though all but we from life be now 
 
 gone forth 
 Of that bright household in our joyous 
 
 north 
 Where I, scarce clear of boyhood just 
 at end, 
 First met your hand ; yet under life's 
 clear dome 
 Now seventy strenuous years have 
 crowned my friend. 
 Shines no less bright his full-sheaved 
 harvest-home. 
 April 20, 1882. 
 
 ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS 
 
 CARLYLE AND GEORGE 
 
 ELIOT. 
 
 Two souls diverse out of our human 
 sight 
 Pass, followed one with love and each 
 
 with wonder : 
 The stormy sophist with his mouth 
 of thunder. 
 Clothed with loud words and mantled 
 in the might 
 
 Of darkness and magnificence of night; 
 And one whose eye could smite the 
 
 night in sunder. 
 Searching if light or no light were 
 thereunder. 
 And found in love of loving-kindness 
 
 light. 
 Duty divine and Thought with eyes of 
 
 fire 
 Still following Righteousness with deep 
 desire 
 Shone sole and stern before her and 
 above 
 Sure stars and sole to steer by ; but 
 
 more sweet 
 Shone lower the loveliest lamp for 
 earthly feet, — 
 The light of little children, and their 
 love. 
 
 AFTER LOOKING INTO CAR- 
 LYLE'S REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Three men lived yet when this dead 
 man was young. 
 Whose names and words endure for- 
 ever : one 
 Whose eyes grew dim with straining 
 toward the sun, 
 And his wings weakened, and his 
 
 angel's tongue 
 Lost half the sweetest song was ever 
 sung. 
 But like the strain half uttered, earth 
 
 hears none, 
 Nor shall man hear till all men's 
 songs are done ; 
 One whose clear spirit like an eagle 
 hung 
 
 ^25 
 
626 
 
 SOAWETS. 
 
 Between the mountains hallowed by his 
 his love 
 
 And the sky stainless as his soul above ; 
 And one, the sweetest heart that ever 
 spake 
 
 The brightest words wherein sweet wis- 
 dom smiled. 
 
 These deathless names by this dead 
 snake defiled 
 Bid memory spit upon him for their 
 sake. 
 
 Sweet heart, forgive me for thine own 
 sweet sake. 
 Whose kind blithe soul such seas of 
 
 sorrow swam. 
 And for my love's sake, powerless as 
 I am 
 For love to praise thee, or like thee to 
 
 make 
 Music of mirth where hearts less pure 
 would break, 
 Less pure than thine, our life-un- 
 spotted Lamb. 
 Things hatefullest thou hadst not 
 heart to damn. 
 Nor wouldst have set thine heel on this 
 
 dead snake. 
 Let worms consume its memory with 
 
 its tongue. 
 The fang that stabbed fair Truth, the 
 lip that stung 
 Men's memories uncorroded with its 
 breath. 
 Forgive me, that with bitter words like 
 
 his 
 I mix the gentlest English name that is. 
 The tendercst held of all that know 
 not death. 
 
 A LAST LOOK. 
 
 Sick of self-love, Malvolio, like an 
 owl 
 That hoots the sun re-risen where 
 
 starlight sank, 
 With (Jcrman garters crossed athwart 
 thy frank 
 Stout Scottish legs, men watched thcc 
 snarl and scowl, 
 
 And boys rcsponsi\e with reverberate 
 howl 
 Shrilled, hearing how to thee the 
 
 springtime stank. 
 And as thine own soul all the world 
 smelt rank, 
 And as thine own thoughts Liberty 
 
 seemed foul. 
 Now, for ail ill thoughts nursed and ill 
 
 words given 
 Not all condemned, not utterly for 
 given, 
 Son of the storm and darkness, pass 
 in peace. 
 Peace upon earth thou knewest not • 
 
 now, being dead. 
 Rest, with nor curse nor blessing on 
 thine head, 
 Where high-strung hate and strenu 
 ous envy cease. 
 
 DICKENS. 
 
 Chief in thy generation born of men 
 Whom English praise acclaimed as 
 
 English born. 
 With eyes that matched the world 
 wide eyes of morn 
 For gleam of tears or laughter, tcnder- 
 
 est then 
 When thoughts of Jiildrcn warmed 
 their light, or when 
 Reverence of age with love and 
 
 labour worn. 
 Or godlike pity fired with godlike An 
 scorn. 
 Shot through them flame that winged 
 
 thy swift live pen : 
 Where stars and suns that we behold 
 not burn, 
 Higher even than here, though high 
 est was here thy place. 
 Love sees thy spirit laugh am] 
 speak and shine 
 With .Shakes|ieare, and the soft brigh 
 soul of Sterne, 
 And Fielding's kindliest might, antf 
 Cioldsniith's grace ; 
 Scarce one more loved or worlhie 
 love than thine. 
 
SOA^A'E TS. 
 
 627 
 
 JN LAMirS SPECIMENS OF 
 DRAMATIC POETS. 
 
 r. 
 If all the flowers of all the fields on 
 earth 
 By wonder-working summer were 
 
 made one, 
 Its fragrance were not sweeter in the 
 sun, 
 Its treasure house of leaves were not 
 
 more worth 
 Than those wherefrom thy light of mus- 
 ing mirth 
 Shone, till each leaf whereon thy pen 
 
 would run 
 Breathed life, and all its breath was 
 benison. 
 Beloved beyond all names of English 
 
 birth. 
 More dear than mightier memories ! 
 
 gentlest name 
 That ever clothed itself with flower 
 
 sweet fame, 
 Or linked itself with loftiest names of 
 old 
 By right and might of loving ; I, that 
 am 
 Less than the least of those within thy 
 fold. 
 Give only thanks for them to thee, 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 II. 
 So many a year had borne its own bright 
 bees 
 And slain them since thy honey-bees 
 
 were hived, 
 John Day, in cells of flower-sweet 
 verse contrived 
 So well with craft of moulding melo- 
 dies, 
 Thy soul perchance in amaranth fields 
 at ease 
 Thought not to hear the sound on 
 
 earth revived 
 Of summer music from the spring 
 derived 
 When thy song sucked the flower of 
 
 flowering trees. 
 But thine was not the chance of every 
 day: 
 
 Time, after many a darkling houi 
 grew sunny. 
 And light between the clouds ere 
 sunset swam. 
 Laughing, and kissed their darkness all 
 away. 
 When, touched and tasted and ai> 
 proved, thy honey 
 Took subtler sweetness from the 
 lips of Lamb. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Crowned, girdled, garbed, and shod 
 with light and fire. 
 Son first-born of the morning, sov- 
 
 eign star! 
 Soul nearest ours of all, that wert 
 most far. 
 Most far off in the abysm of time, thy 
 
 lyre 
 Hung highest above the dawn-enkin- 
 dled quire 
 Where all ye sang together, all that 
 
 are. 
 And all the starry songs behind thy 
 car 
 Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim 
 thee sire. 
 
 " If all the pens that ever poets held 
 
 Had fed the feeling of their masters' 
 thoughts," 
 
 And as with rush of hurtling chariots 
 The flight of all their spirits were im- 
 pelled 
 
 Toward one great end, thy glory — 
 Nay, not then. 
 
 Not yet mightst thou be praised 
 enough of men. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Not if men's tongues and angels' all in 
 one 
 Spake, might the word be said that 
 
 might speak Thee. 
 Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, 
 mountains, yea, the sea. 
 What power is in them all to praise the 
 
628 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 His praise is this, — he can be praised 
 
 of none. 
 Man, woman, child, praise God for 
 
 him; but he 
 Exults not to be worshipped, but to 
 
 .be. 
 He is; and, being, beholds his work 
 
 well done. 
 All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, 
 
 all mirth, 
 Are his : without him, day were night 
 
 on earth. 
 Time knows not his from time's own 
 
 period. 
 All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, 
 
 all lyres, 
 Fall dumb before him ere one string 
 
 suspires. 
 All stars are angels ; but the sun is 
 
 God. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounte- 
 ous, multiform, 
 With many a valley impleached with 
 
 ivy and vine. 
 Wherein the springs of all the streams 
 run wine. 
 And many a crag full-faced against the 
 
 storm. 
 The mountain where thy Muse's feet 
 made warm 
 Those lawns that revelled with her 
 
 dance divine, 
 Shines yet with fire as it was wont 
 to shine 
 From tossing torches round the dance 
 a-swarm. 
 
 Nor less, high-stationed on the gray 
 
 grave heights, 
 High-thoughtcd sccrs with heaven's 
 
 heart-kindling lights 
 Hold converse : antl the herd of 
 
 meaner things 
 Knows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaft 
 When wrath on thy brtjad brows has 
 
 risen, and laughed, 
 Darkening thy soul with shadow of 
 
 thunderous wings. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 An hour ere sudden sunset fired the 
 
 west, 
 
 Arose two stars upon the pale deep 
 
 east. 
 
 The hall of heaven was clear fot 
 
 night's high feast, 
 
 Yet was not yet day's fiery heart at rest 
 
 Love leapt up from his mother's burn 
 
 ing breast 
 
 To see those warm twin lights, ae 
 
 day decreased, 
 Wax wider, till, when all the sur 
 had ceased. 
 As suns they shone from evening 
 
 kindled crest. 
 Across them and between, a quicken 
 
 ing fire. 
 
 Flamed Venus, laughing with appeasec 
 desire. 
 Their dawn, scarce lovelier for th 
 gleam of tears. 
 Filled half the hollow shell 'twix 
 
 heaven and earth 
 With sound like moonlight, mingling 
 moan and mirth. 
 Which rings and glitters down th 
 darkling years. 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 Clouds here and there arisen an hou 
 
 past noon 
 Checkered our English heaven wit 
 
 lengthening bars 
 And shadow and sound of whcc 
 
 winged thunder-cars 
 Assembling strength to put forth ten 
 
 pest soon. 
 When the clear still warm concord c 
 
 thy tune 
 Rose under skies unscarcd by reddei 
 
 ing Mars, 
 Vet, like a sound of silver speech c 
 
 stars, 
 With full mild tl.ime as of the mellov 
 
 ing moon. 
 Grave and great-hearted Massmger, th 
 
 face 
 High melancholy lights with loftit 
 
 grace 
 
SONNE Tl 
 
 629 
 
 Than gilds the brows of revel : sad 
 and wise, 
 The spirit of thought that moved thy 
 
 deeper song, 
 SDrrow serene in soft calm scorn of 
 wrong, 
 Speaks patience yet ixoxw thy majes- 
 tic eyes. 
 
 JOHN FORD. 
 
 Hew hard the marble from the moun 
 tain's heart 
 Where hardest night holds fast in 
 
 iron gloom 
 Gems brighter than an April dawn 
 in bloom. 
 That his Memnonian likeness thence 
 
 may start 
 Revealed, whose hand with high fune- 
 real art 
 Carved night, and chiselled shadow. 
 
 be the tomb 
 That speaks him famous graven with 
 signs of doom, 
 Intrenched inevitably in lines athwart. 
 As on some thunder- blasted Titan's 
 brow 
 His record of rebellion. Not the 
 day 
 Shall strike forth music from so 
 stern a chord. 
 Touching this marble : darkness, none 
 knows how. 
 And stars impenetrable of midnight, 
 may. 
 So looms the likeness of thy soul, 
 John Ford. 
 
 JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 Thunder: the flesh quails, and the 
 soul bows down. 
 Night : east, west, south, and north- 
 ward, very night. 
 Star ui)on struggling star strives into 
 sight, 
 Star after shuddering star the deep 
 storms drown. 
 
 The very throne of night, her very 
 crown, 
 A man lays hand on, and usurps 
 
 her right. 
 Song from the highest of heaven's 
 imperious height 
 Shoots, as a fire to smite some tower- 
 ing town. 
 Rage, anguish, harrowing fear, heart- 
 crazing crime, 
 Make monstrous all the murderous face 
 of Time 
 Shown in the spheral orbit of a glass 
 Revolving. Earth cries out from all 
 
 her graves. 
 Frail, on frail rafts, across wide-wallow- 
 ing waves, 
 Shapes here and there of child and 
 mother pass. 
 
 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 Out of the depths of darkling life, 
 where sin 
 Laughs piteously that sorrow should 
 
 not know 
 Her own ill name, nor woe be count- 
 ed woe ; 
 Where hate and craft and lust make 
 
 drearier din 
 Than sounds through dreams that grief 
 holds revel in, — 
 What charm of joy-bells ringing, 
 
 streams that flow, 
 Winds that blow healing in each note 
 they blow. 
 Is this that the outer darkness hears 
 begin } 
 
 O sweetest heart of all thy time save 
 one, 
 
 Star seen for love's sake nearest to the 
 sun, 
 Hung lamplike o'er a dense and dole- 
 ful city. 
 
 Not Shakespeare's very spirit, howe'er 
 more great, 
 
 Than thine toward man was more com- 
 passionate. 
 Nor gave Christ praise from lips 
 more sweet with pity. 
 
<530 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 THOMAS xMIDDLETON. 
 
 A WILD moon riding high from cloud 
 to cloud, 
 That sees and sees not, glimmering 
 
 far beneath. 
 Hell's children revel along the shud- 
 dering heath 
 With dirge-like mirth and raiment like 
 
 a shroud ; 
 A worse fair face than witchcraft's, pas- 
 sion-proud, 
 With brows blood-flecked behind 
 
 their bridal wreath, 
 And lips that bade the assassin's 
 sword find sheath 
 Deep in the heart whereto love's heart 
 
 was vowed ; 
 A game of close contentious crafts and 
 creeds 
 Played till white England bring black 
 Spain to shame ; 
 A son's bright sword and brighter soul, 
 whose deeds 
 High conscience lights for mother's 
 love and fame ; 
 Pure gypsy flowers, and poisonous 
 courtly weeds : 
 Such tokens and such trophies crown 
 thy name. 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Tom, if they loved thee best who called 
 thee Tom, 
 What else may all men call thee, see- 
 ing thus bright 
 Even yet the laughing and the weep- 
 ing light 
 That still thy kind old eyes are kindled 
 
 from ? 
 Small care was thine to assail and 
 overcome 
 Time and his child Oblivion : yet of 
 
 right 
 Thy name has part with names of 
 lordlier might 
 ?'or English love ami homely sense of 
 
 home, 
 Whose fragrance keeps thy small sweet 
 bay-leaf young, 
 
 And gives it place aloft among thv 
 l^eers, 
 Whence many a wreath once 
 higher strong Time has hx'.rled ; 
 And this thy praise is sweet on Shake- 
 speare's tongue, — 
 " O good old man ! how wel' '.n thee 
 appears 
 The constant service of tht mtique 
 world ! " 
 
 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 The bitterness of death and bitterer 
 scorn 
 Breathes from the broad-leat-*u aloe- 
 plant whence thou 
 W^ast fain to gather for thy bended 
 brow 
 A chaplet by no gentler forehea I worn- 
 Grief deep as hell, wrath hardl/ to be 
 borne, 
 Ploughed up thy soul till rou ul the 
 
 furrowmg plough 
 The strange black soil foame 1, as a 
 black-beaked prow 
 Bids night-black waves foam wlvre its 
 
 track has torn. 
 Too faint the phrase for thee thax only 
 
 saith 
 Scorn bitterer than the bitterness of 
 death 
 Pervades the sullen splendov of thy 
 soul. 
 Where hate and pain make war on 
 
 force and fraud. 
 And all the strengths of tyrants -• whence 
 unriawcd 
 It keeps tnis noble heart of hatred 
 whole. 
 
 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 High priest of Homer, not elect in 
 vain, 
 Deep trumpets blow before thee, 
 
 shawms behind 
 Mix music witU the rolling wheels 
 that wind 
 Slow lhr(jugh the laboring triumph of 
 thy train : 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 63 < 
 
 I^ierce history, molten in thy forging 
 
 brain, 
 Takes form and fire and fashion from 
 
 thy mind. 
 Tormented and transmuted out of 
 
 kind: 
 But howsoe'er thou shift thy strenuous 
 
 strain, 
 Like Tailor^ smooth, like Fisher^ 
 
 swollen, and now 
 Grim Yarrington ^ scarce bloodier 
 
 marked than thou, 
 Then bluff as Mayne's'* or broad- 
 mouthed Barry's ^ glee, 
 Proud still with hoar predominance of 
 
 brow 
 And beard like foam swept off the 
 
 broad blown sea, 
 Where'er thou go, men's reverence 
 
 goes with thee. 
 
 JOHN DAY. 
 
 Day was a full-blown flower in heaven, 
 alive 
 With murmuring joy of bees and 
 
 birds a-swarm. 
 When in the skies of song yet flushed 
 and warm 
 With music where all passion seems to 
 
 strive 
 For utterance, all things bright and 
 fierce to drive 
 Struggling along the splendor of the 
 
 storm, 
 Day for an hour put off his fiery 
 form, 
 And golden murmurs from a golden 
 
 hive 
 Across the strong bright summer wind 
 were heard. 
 And laughter soft as smiles from 
 
 girls at play, 
 And loud from lips of boys brow- 
 bound with May. 
 
 » Author of The Hog hath lost his Pearl. 
 
 2 Author of Fuimus Troes, or the True Tro- 
 jans. 
 
 3 Author of Two Tragedies in One. 
 ■♦ Author of The City Match. 
 
 5 Author of Ram-Alley, or Merry Iricks. 
 
 Our mightiest age let fall its gentlest 
 
 word, 
 When Song, in semblance of a sweet 
 
 small bird. 
 Lit fluttering on the light swift hand 
 
 of Day. 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 The dusk of day's decline was hard on 
 dark 
 When evening trembled round thy 
 
 glowworm lamp 
 That shone across her shades and 
 dewy damp, 
 A small clear beacon whose benignant 
 
 spark 
 Was gracious yet for loiterers' eyes to 
 mark. 
 Though changed the watchword of 
 
 our English camp 
 Since the outposts rang round Mar- 
 lowe's lion ramp. 
 When thy steed's pace went ambling 
 round Hyde Park. 
 
 And in the thickening twilight under 
 
 thee 
 Walks Davenant, pensive in the paths 
 
 where he, 
 The blithest throat that ever carolled 
 
 love 
 In music made of morning's merriest 
 
 heart. 
 Glad Suckling, stumbled from his seat 
 
 above. 
 And reeled on slippery roads of alien 
 
 art. 
 
 THE TRIBE OF BENJAMIN. 
 
 Sons born of many a loyal Muse to 
 Ben, 
 All true-begotten, warm with wine or 
 
 ale. 
 Bright from the broad light of his 
 ])resence, hail ! 
 Prince Randolph, nighest his throne of 
 all his men, 
 
632 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Being highest in spirit and heart who 
 hailed him then 
 King, nor might other spread so 
 
 blithe a sail : 
 Cartwright, a soul pent in with nar- 
 rower pale, 
 Praised of thy sire for manful might of 
 
 pen : 
 Marmion, whose verse keeps alway 
 
 keen and fine 
 The perfume of their Apollonian wine, 
 Who shared with that stout sire of 
 all and thee 
 The exuberant chalice of his echoing 
 shrine : 
 Is not your praise writ broad in gold 
 
 which he 
 Inscribed, that all who praise his 
 name should see ? 
 
 ANONYMOUS PLAYS: " AR- 
 DEN OF FEVERSHAM." 
 
 Mother whose womb brought forth 
 our man of men, 
 Mother of Shakespeare, whom all 
 
 time acclaims 
 Queen therefore, sovereign queen of 
 English dames, 
 Throned higher than sat thy sonless 
 
 empress then, 
 Was it thy son's young passion-guided 
 pen 
 Which drew, reflected from encir- 
 cling flames, 
 A figure marked by the earlier of thy 
 names 
 Wife, and from all her wedded kins- 
 women 
 Marked by the sign of murderess ? 
 Pale and great, 
 Great in her grief and sin, but in her 
 
 death 
 And anguish of her penitential breath 
 Greater than all her sin or sin-born 
 fate. 
 She stands, the holocaust of dark 
 
 desire. 
 Clothed round with song forever as 
 with fire. 
 
 ANONYMOUS PLAYS. 
 
 Yk too, dim watchfires of some dark- 
 ling hour. 
 Whose fame forlorn time saves not 
 
 nor proclaims 
 Forever, but forgetful ness defames, 
 And darkness and the shadow of death 
 
 devour. 
 Lift up ye too your light, put forth your 
 power, 
 Let the far twilight feel your soft 
 
 small flames, 
 And smile, albeit night name not 
 even their names, 
 Ghost by ghost passing, flower blown 
 
 down on flower ; 
 That sweet-tongued shadow, like a star's 
 
 that passed 
 Singing, and light was from its dark- 
 ness cast 
 To paint the face of Painting fair 
 w ith praise : ' 
 And that wherein forefigured smiles 
 
 the pure 
 Fraternal face of Wordsworth's Eli- 
 dure 
 Between two child-faced masks of 
 merrier days.^ 
 
 ANONYMOUS PLAYS. 
 
 More yet and more, and yet we mark 
 not all : 
 The Warning fain to bid fair women 
 
 heed 
 
 Its hard brief note of deadly doom 
 
 and deed ; ' 
 
 The verse that strewed too thick with 
 
 flowers the hall 
 WHience Nero watched his fiery festi 
 val ; * 
 That iron page wherein men's eyes 
 
 who reail 
 See, bruised and marred between two 
 babes that bleed, 
 
 » Doctor Dodypol. 
 
 2 Nobody .ind Soniclx>dy. 
 
 3 A Warning for Fair W ome«. 
 * The Tr.ngcdy of Nero. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 633 
 
 A mad red-handed husl^and's martyr 
 
 fall ; ^ 
 The scene which crossed and streaked 
 
 with mirth the strife 
 Of Henry with his sons and witchlike 
 
 wife ; ^ 
 And that sweet pageant of the kindly 
 
 fiend, 
 Who, seeing three friends in spirit 
 
 and heart made one, 
 Crowned with good hap the true-love 
 
 wiles he screened 
 In the pleached lanes of pleasant 
 
 Edmonton.^ 
 
 THE MANY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Greene, garlanded with February's 
 few tlowers, 
 Ere March came in with Marlowe's 
 
 rapturous rage ; 
 Peele, from whose hand the sweet 
 white locks of age 
 Took the mild chaplet woven of hon- 
 ored hours ; 
 Nash, laughing hard; Lodge, flushed 
 from lyric bowers ; 
 And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted 
 
 cage. 
 Fed by some gay great lady's pettish 
 page 
 Till short sweet songs gush clear like 
 
 short spring showers ; 
 Kid, whose grim sport still gambolled 
 over graves ; 
 And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal 
 
 verse 
 Weeps Marian yet on Robin's wild- 
 wood hearse; 
 Cooke, whose light boat of song one 
 soft breath saves, 
 Sighed from a maiden's amorous 
 mouth averse : 
 Live likewise ye : Time takes not you 
 for slaves. 
 
 * A Yorkshire Tragedy. 
 
 2 Look about you. 
 
 3 The Merry Devil of Edmonton, 
 
 THE MANY. 
 
 H. 
 
 Haughton, whose mirth gave woman 
 all her will ; 
 Field, bright and loud with laughing 
 
 flower and bird, 
 And keen alternate notes of laud 
 and gird ; 
 Barnes, darkening once with Borgia'B 
 
 deeds the quill 
 Which tuned the passion of Partheno- 
 phil ; 
 Blithe burly Porter, broad and bold 
 
 of word ; 
 Wilkins, a voice with strenuous pity 
 stirred : 
 Turk Mason; Brewer, whose tongue 
 
 drops honey still ; 
 Rough Rowley, handling song with 
 Esau's hand ; 
 Light Nabbes ; lean Sharpham, rank 
 
 and raw by turns. 
 But fragrant with a forethought once 
 of Burns ; 
 Soft Davenport, sad-robed, but blithe 
 and bland; 
 Brome, gvpsy-led across the wood 
 land ferns : 
 Praise be with all, and place among 
 our band. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Our mother, which wast twice, as his 
 tory saith, 
 Found first among the nations : once, 
 
 when she 
 Who bore thine ensign saw the God 
 in thee 
 Smite Spain, and bring forth Shake- 
 speare ; once, when death 
 Shrank, and Rome's bloodhounds cow- 
 ered, at Milton's breath: 
 More than thy place, then first 
 
 among the free ; 
 More than that sovereign lordship of 
 the sea 
 Bequeathed to Cromwell from Eliza- 
 beth; 
 
^34 
 
 SONIVETS. 
 
 More than thy fiery guiding-star, which This praise keeps most thy fame's 
 
 Drake 
 
 Hailed, and the deep saw lit again for 
 Blake; 
 More than all deeds wrought of thy 
 strong right hand, — 
 
 memorial strong. 
 
 That thou wast head of all these 
 
 streams of song, 
 
 And time bows down to thee a* 
 
 Shakespeare's land 
 
GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 
 
 (Titles are set in roman; first lines in italics) 
 
 A child of brighter than the morning's birth, 612 
 
 After LxDoking Into Carlyle's Reminiscences, 625-626 
 
 Age and Song, 547 
 
 Aholibah, 515-517 
 
 A land that is lonelier than ruin, 615 
 
 A little marsh-plant, yellow green, 486 
 
 All the bright lights of heaven, 470 
 
 All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, 488 
 
 A month or tivain to live on honey-comb, 486 
 
 An hour ere sudden sunset fired the west, 628 
 
 Anima Anceps, 473 
 
 Anonymous Plays, 6i2-6Zi 
 
 Appeal, An, 581-582 
 
 April, 485 
 
 "Arden of Feversham," 6Z2 
 
 Art thou indeed among these, 581 
 
 Ask nothing more of me, sweet, 583 
 
 Atalanta in Calydon, 5-43 
 
 At Eleusis, 490-493 
 
 At Parting, 554 
 
 August, 493-494 
 
 AveAtque Vale, 539-543 
 
 A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud, 630 
 
 Back to the flozver-town, side by side, A77 
 
 Ballad of Burdens, A, 475-476 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, 628 
 
 Before Dawn, 482-483 
 
 Before Parting, 486 
 
 Before Sunset, 552 
 
 Before the Mirror, 476-477 
 
 Betzveen the springs of six and seven, 613 
 
 Beyond the hollozv sunset, ere a star, 525 
 
 Birth Song, A, 549-550 
 
 Bloody Son, The, 520-521 
 
 Bothwell : A Tragedy, 130-377 
 
 Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, multiform-, 628 
 
 But you zi'iU not believe me though you hear, 131 
 
 By the North Sea, 615-624 
 
 635 
 
636 GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, On the Deaths of George Eliot and, 625 
 
 Chapman, George, 630-631 
 
 Chastelard : A Tragedy, 77-129 
 
 Chief in thy generation born of men, 626 
 
 Qiristmas Antiphones, 561-564 
 
 Christmas Carol, A, 494-495 
 
 Clouds here and there arisen an hour past noon, 628 
 
 Complaint of Lisa, The, 535-538 
 
 Cor Cordium, 573 
 
 Cornwall, Barry, In Memory of, 547-548 
 
 Couldst thou not watch zvith me one hour? 534 
 
 Croivned, girdled, garbed, and shod with light and fire, 627 
 
 Day, John, 631 
 
 Day was a full-blown flower in heaven alive, 631 
 
 Death, what hast thou to do with me? 543 
 
 Decker, Thomas, 629 
 
 Dickens, 626 
 
 Eight Years Old, 604-605 
 
 Eliot, George, On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and, 625 
 
 Emperor's Progress, The, 612-613 
 
 Epicede, 548 
 
 Epilogue, 633-634 
 
 Erechtheus : A Tragedy, 44-76 
 
 Evening on the Broads, 609-612 
 
 Ex-Voto, 550-552 
 
 Fletcher, Beaumont and, 628 
 
 For a day and night Love sang to us, played zvith us, 554 
 
 Ford, John, 629 
 
 Forsaken Garden, A, 530-532 
 
 For the Feast of Giordano Bruno, 538-539 
 
 Garden of Proserpine, The, 483-484 
 Gautier, Theophile, On the Death of, 543-547 
 Gehaci by the hue that chills thy cheek. 555 
 Greene, garlanded unth February's few fiozven^, 633 
 
 IJ aught on. whose mirth gave zvonian all her zvill, 633 
 
 Hendccasyllabics, 488 
 
 Here, zvhere the world is quiet, 483 
 
 Hcrsc, 603-604 
 
 Ifezc hard the marble from the mountain's heart, 629 
 
 Hcywood, Thomas. 630 
 
 High priest of Ilonier, not elect in z'aiu. 630 
 
 Hozv many sons, hozv manv qenerations, 555 
 
 Hugo, Victor, To, 480-482 
 
GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 63/ 
 
 // all the flowers of all the fields on earth, 627 
 
 If with voice of words or prayers thy sons may reach thee, 558 
 
 /» o coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, 530 
 
 In a vision Liberty stood, 582 
 
 Inferiae, 549 
 
 In Memory of Barry Cornwall, 547-548 
 
 In Memory of Walter Savage Landor, 477-478 
 
 Inside this northern summer's fold, 569 
 
 Interlude, An, 487 
 
 In the Bay, 525-530 
 
 In the beginning God made thee, 515 
 
 In the fair days when god, 480 
 
 In the garden of death, zvhere the singers whose names are deathless, 547 
 
 In the greenest growth of the Maytime, 487 
 
 In the loiver lands of day, 552 
 
 In the month of the long decline of roses, 488 
 
 In vain men tell us time can alter, SA7 
 
 I saw my soul at rest upon a day, 533 
 
 It does not hurt. She looked along the knife, 605 
 
 It hath been seen, and yet it shall be seen, 500 
 
 It is an hour before the hour of dawn, 573 
 
 Itylus, 469 
 
 / ivill that if I say a heavy thing, 508 
 
 Jonson, Ben, 628 
 
 King's Daughter, The, 518-519 
 Knights mine, all that be in hall, 495 
 Kossuth, Louis, To, 556 
 
 Lamentation, A, 472-473 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage, In Memory of. 477-478 
 
 Last high star of the years whose thunder, 606 
 
 Last Look, A, 626 
 
 Last Oracle, The, 523-525 
 
 Leave-Taking, A, 468 
 
 Let us go hence, my songs: she will not hear, 468 
 
 Life may give for love to death, 548 
 
 Light of our fathers' eyes, and in our ozvn, 556 
 
 Lines on the Death of Edward John Trelawny, 606 
 
 Litanv, A, 470-471 
 
 Litany of Nations, The, 558-561 
 
 Love at Sea, 484-485 
 
 Love laid his sleepless head, 552 
 
 Madonna Mia, 518-519 
 
 Maiden, and mistress of the months and stars, 5 
 
 Many, The, 633 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher, 627 
 
 Marston, John, 630 
 
638 
 
 GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 
 
 Mary Stuart: A Tragedy, 378-467 
 
 Masque of Queen Bersable, The, 495-500 
 
 Massinger, Philip, 628-629 
 
 Mater Dolorosa, 564-565 
 
 Mater Triumphalis, 566-569 
 
 May Janet, 519-520 
 
 Memorial Verses, 543-547 
 
 Men of Elcusis, yc that zmth hug staves, 490 
 
 Middleton, Thomas, 630 
 
 More yet and more, and yet ive mark not all, 632 
 
 Mother of life and death and all men's days, 44 
 
 Mother of man's time-travelling generations, 566 
 
 Mother whose womb brought forth our man of men, 632 
 
 ^'Non Dolet," 605-606 
 
 Not if men's tongues and angels' all in one, 627 
 
 A^ow the days are all gone over, 552 
 
 Oblation, The, 583 
 
 Off Shore, 607-609 
 
 O heart of hearts, the chalice of love's fire, 573 
 
 On Lamb's 'Specimens of Dramatic Poets, 627 
 
 On the Death of Theophile Gautier, 543-547 
 
 On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot, 625 
 
 O tender time that love thinks long to see, 552 
 
 Our mother, zvhich zvast tzvice, as Jiistory saith, 633 
 
 Out of the dark szvcet sleep, 549 
 
 Out of the depths of darkling life, zvherc sin, 629 
 
 Over two shadowless zvaters, adrift as a pinnace in peril, 609 
 
 "O zvhere have ye been the morn sae late" 520 
 
 Parting Song, A, 614-615 
 
 Pastiche, 552 
 
 Perinde ac Cadaver, 582-583 
 
 Pilgrims, The, 556-558 
 
 Push hard across the sand, 478 
 
 Relics, 532-533 
 ivizpah, 555 
 I\fx:f)Co, 474-475 
 Rondel, 470 
 
 St. Dorothv. 500-508 
 Sapphics, 488-490 
 Scott. William Ik'll, To, 625 
 Sea-Swallows. The, 521-522 
 Sestima, 533-534 
 
GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 639 
 
 Shakespeare, William, 627-628 
 
 Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 539 
 
 Shirley, James, 631 
 
 Sick of self-love, Malvolio, like an owl, 626 
 
 Siena, 569-573 
 
 Six Years Old, 613-614 
 
 Song, 552 
 
 Song Before Death, 474 
 
 Song in Time of Order— 1852, A, 478 
 
 Song in Time of Revolution— 1®60, A, 478-4^ 
 
 Song of Italy, A, 583-595 
 
 Sonnets, 625-634 
 
 Son of the lightning and the light that glows, 538 
 
 Sons born of many a loyal Muse to Ben, 631 
 
 Spring, and the light and sound of things on earth, 549 
 
 "Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet," 519 
 
 Sun, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears, 604 
 
 Sundew, The, 486-487 
 
 Swallow, my sister, O sister swallozv, 469 
 
 Sweet life, if life were stronger, 482 
 
 Sweet mother, in a minute's span, 474 
 
 Take hands, and part with laughter, 474 
 
 Thalassius, 595-603 
 
 The bitterness of death and bitterer scorn, 630 
 
 The burden of fair women. Vain delight, 475 
 
 The dusk of day's decline was hard on dark, 631 
 
 The heart of the rulers is sick, 478 
 
 The larks are loud above our leagues of whin, 625 
 
 There is no woman living that draivs breath, 535 
 
 There were four apples on the bough, 493 
 
 There were four loves that one by one, 522 
 
 These many years since we began to be, 470 
 
 These winds and suns of spring, 614 
 
 This fell zvhen Christmas lights were done, 521 
 
 This flozver that smells of honey and the sea, 532 
 
 Thou whose birth on earth, 561 
 
 Three damsels in the queen's chamber, 494 
 
 Three men lived yet when this dead man zvas young. 625 
 
 Thunder: the flesh quails, and the soul bows dozvn, 629 
 
 Till death have broken, 473 
 
 Tiresias, 573-581 
 
 To Louis Kossuth, 556 
 
 Tom, if thev loved thee best who called thee Tom, 630 
 
 To Victor Hugo, 480-482 
 
 To William Bell Scott, 625 
 
 Trelawny, Edward John, Lines on the Death of, 606 
 
 Tribe of Benjamin, The. 631-632 
 
 Two Dreams, The, 508-515 
 
 Tzuo souls diverse out of our humatt sight, 625 
 
640 GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 
 
 Under green apt^lc-boughs, 518 
 
 Upon a zmndy night of stars that fell, 583 
 
 Upon the flowery forefront of the year, 595 
 
 Vision of Spring in Winter, A, 552-554 
 
 Wasted Vigil, A, 534-535 
 
 We are in love's land to-day, 484 
 
 Webster, John, 629 . ^ ^ -,70 
 
 Welcome, good friends, and welcome this good day, 378 
 
 IV e zvere ten maidens in the green corn, 518 
 
 iVe whose days and ways, 562 
 
 When grace is given us ever to behold, 603 
 
 When the fields catch flozver,^ 485 
 
 When their last hour shall rise, 550 
 
 JVhen the might of the summer, 607 
 
 White Czar, The, 555 
 
 White rose in red rose-garden, 476 
 
 Who hath knozvn the zvays of time, 472 
 
 Who is it that sits bv the zvay. by the zmld wayside, 564 
 
 IVho is your lady of love, O ye that pass, 556 
 
 Years have risen and fallen in darkness or in twilight, 523 
 
 Year of Love, The, 522-523 
 
 Ye that zveep in sleep, 563 
 
 Ye too, dim zvatchfires of some darkling hour, 03Z 
 
 You never sing now but it makes you sad, 77 
 
TC 
 
 JW. 
 
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