:\my m-^ ^AHVM MMGi ,OFCAiIFOE ^Awaan-^^ \ViE-UNIVIR% y^('"rniiii-_; oi-" ,Uy07ii>OL.L ^s>:lOSA\ ^^I-LIBRARY^/. ^^tilBRAIi ^Wiim-i^ %)jnvi-!o OfCALiFO% ^^ vr. ^^Awaan"' :AilFO! "ivaaiH^ ^^ifUNlVTRi/A mONV-f^Ol^^ /'VX^AIWi THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, AKD OTHER POEMS. BY JOHN WILSON^ AUTHOR OF THE ISLE OF PALMS. EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY GEORGE RAMSAY AND COMPANY, FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY, EDINBURGH } JOHN SMITH AND SON, GLASGOW ; AND LONGMAN, IIURST, UEES, ORMEj AND BUOAVN, LONDON. 3816. I J 5837 CONTENTS. The City of the Plague Page 3 Miscellaneous Poems. The Children's Dance ] 71 Address to a Wild Deer 158 The Voice of Departed Friendship 197 Lord Ronald's Child 200 The Widow 207 Solitude 213 Bessy Bell and Mary Gray 210 The Scholar's Funeral 223 The Convict 241 The Sisters .,. 292 The Farewell and Return 295 775'19? THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. fit TT ^ # THE CITY OF THE PLx\GUE. ACT I. SCENE I. Timef the Afternoon. Txm Naval Officers walking along the banks of the Thames. Thej/ sit dovin oii a stone seat fronting the river. Frankfort. My heart feels heavier every step I take Towards the city. Oh ! that I could drop Down like a bird upon its nest, at once Into my mother's house. There might my soul Find peace, even 'raid the silent emptiness That told miB she had perish'd. Wilmot. All around Appears so bright, so tranquil, and so calm, That happy omens rise on every side, To strengthen and support us in our fears. Frank. Oh Wilmot ! to my soul a field of graves,' A church-yard filled with marble monuments, 4 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act 1. Profoundly hush'd in death's own sanctity, Seems not more alien to the voice of Hope Than that wide wilderness of domes and spires, Hanging o'er t^e breathless city. Wil. See ! my friend, How bright the sunshine dances in its joy O'er the still flow of this majestic river. I know not how, but, gazing on that light So beautiful, all images of death - . Fade from my roused soul, and I believe That our journey here must end in happiness. Frank. Is it the hour of prayer ? Wil. The evening service, Methinks, must now be closed. Frank. There comes no sound Of organ-peal or choral symphony From yonder vast cathedral. How it stands Amid the silent houses, with a strange Deep silence of its own ! I could believe That many a Sabbath had pass'd prayerless on "Within its holy solitude. No knee This day, methinks, hath bent before its altar. Wil. It is a solemn pile ! yet to mine eye There rests above its massive sanctity The clear blue air of peace. Frank. A solemn pile ! Aye ! there it stands, like a majestic ruin. Mouldering in a desert j in whose silent heart Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. No sound hath leave to dwell. I knew it oncei When music in that chosen temple rais'd Th' adoring soul to Heaven. But one dread year Hath done the work of ages ; and the Plague Mocks in his fury the slow hand of time. Wtl. The sun smiles on its walls. Frank, htii *i Hii r Why does the finger, Yellow *mid the sunshine on the Minster-clock, Point at that hour ? It is most horrible. Speaking of midnight in the face of day. During the very dead of night it stopp'd. Even at the moment when a hundred hearts Paus'd with it suddenly, to beat no more. Yet, wherefore should it run its idle round ? There is no need that men should count the hour$ - Of time, thus standing on eternity. ' '-" It is a death-like image. TVil. I could smile At such fantastic terrors. Frank. How can I, When round me silent Nature speaks of death, Withstand such monitory impulses ? When yet far off I thought upon the plague. Sometimes my mother's image struck my soul In unchang'd meekness and serenity, And all my fears were gone. But these green banks', With an unwonted flush of flowers overgrown. Brown, when I left them last, with frequent feet, 6 THE CITY OF TBE PLAGUE. Act I. From morn till evening, hurrying to and fro, In mournful beauty seem encompassing A still forsaken city of the dead. Wil. It is the Sabbath-day the day of rest. ' Frank. O unrejoicing Sabbath ! not of yore ^ Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames Thus silently ! Now every sail is furl'd, The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand, 'f And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty, ' River of a desert lately filled with joy ! O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone The air is clear and cloudless as at sea Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead. And not one single wreath of smoke ascends Above the stillness of the towers and spires. How idly hangs that arch magnificent Across the idle river ! Not a speck Is seen to move along it. There it hangs, Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky. Wil. Methinks such words bespeak a soul at rest, And willing, in |;his universal calm, To abide, whate'er it be, the doom of Fate. Frank. I feel as if such solemn images Of desolation had recall'd my sold From its own individual wretchedness ; As if one moment I forgot my parent, And all the friends I love, in the sublime And overwhelming presence of mortality. Scene I; THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 7 Wil. Now, that your soul feels strong, let us proceed. With humble hope, towards your mother's house. Frank. No, friend ! here must we part 1 If e'er again We meet in this sad world, thou may'st behold A wretch bow'd down to the earth by misery, . oH Ghost -like 'mid living men ; but rest assur'd, d'i' gentlest friend ! that, though my soul be dead To all beside, at sight of thee 'twill burn As with the everlasting fires of joy. Bursting its bonds of mortal wretchedness. l^il. We must not will not part Frank. Now, and for evier. 1 walk into yon city as the tomb ! j >iw aii^ ux^fUAi A voice comes to me from its silent towers, ' " " Mortal, thy days are numbered !" Ere I go. Kiss me, and promise that my name shall live Sacred for ever in thy memory. ; Wih We must not will not part. Frank. What said my friend ? Wil. Here, by my father's soul (a fearless man. Who us'd to say he neVer lov'd his friends But in their combats with adversity,) I swear (and may we never meet in Heaven If that dread oath be broken) day and night, Long as thou sojourn'st on thy work of love Within this plague-struck city, at thy side To move for ever an attending shadow ; Amid the silence or the shrieks of death. S THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Scirene in unappalled confidence, That thou wilt walk unharm'd, wilt find the house Of thy parent, and her holy family Pass'd over by the angel of the Lord ! For the blessings of the poor have sanctified The widow's lowly porch life still is there. Frank. O friend ! most cruel from excess of love! In all the beauty of thy untam'd spirit Thou walkest to perdition. Do not I Look, as I feel, most like thy murderer ? Return unto our ship. Wil. Frankfort, remember When the wild cry, *' A man is overboard," Rung through our decks, till dumb and motionless Stood the whole crew, fear-stricken by the storm. Who at that moment leapt into the sea, And seiz'd the drowning screamer by the hair ? Who was that glorious being ? Who the wretch Then rescued from the waves ? I lov'd thee well Before I hung upon thy saving arm Above the angry waves. But, from that hour, I felt my soul call'd on by Providence To dedicate itself for aye to thee. And God's will must be done. Frank. Wilmot, dost think My mother can be living ? Wil. The soul oft feels Mysterious presence of realities Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 9 Coming we know not whence, yet banishing With power omnipotent all misgiving fears. So feel I at this moment she is living. Frank. O God forbid ! that I should place belief In these dim shadowings of futurity. Here, on this very spot where now we rest, ' Upon the morning I last sail'd from England, My mother put her arms around my neck, And in a solemn voice, unchok'd by tears. Said, " Son ! a last farewell !" That solemn voice, Amid the ocean's roaring solitude, Oft past across my soui, and I have heard it Steal in sad music from the sunny calm. Upon our homeward voyage, when we spake The ship that told us of the Plague, I knew That the trumpet's voice would send into our souls Some dismal tidings ; for I saw her sails iiJ iod Black in the distance, flinging off with scorn A shower of radiance from the blessed sun, A s if her crew would not be comforted. Wil. The weakness of affection, prone to fear ! Be coftiforted by me my very dreams Of late have all been joyous. Frank. Joyous dreams ! My hours of sleep are now but few indeed. Yet what have I still dreamt of ? healthful faces. Round a sweet firc'side, bright with gratitude ? The soft voice of domestic happiness ? 10 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Laughter disturbing with the stir of joy The reveries of the spirit? Oh ! my friend ! Far other sounds and sights have fill'd my dreams ! Still noiseless floors, untrod by human feet j Chairs standing rueful in their emptiness j An unswept hearth chok'd up by dust and ashes ; Beds with their curtains idly hanging down Unmov'd by the breath of life j wide open windows That the fresh air might purify the room From vapours of the noisome pestilence ; In a dark chamber, ice-cold like a tomb, A corpse laid out O God ! my mother's corpse Woefully altered by a dire decay ; "While my stunn'd spirit shudder'd at the toll, The long, slow, dreary, sullen, mortal toll Of a bell swinging to the hand of death. But this is idle raving hope is gone And fears and apprehensions, day and night, Drive where they will my unresisting soul. JVil. But that it is day-light, I could believe That yonder, moving by the river side. Came on a ghost Did ever eye behold A thing so death-like in the shape of man ? J[An old man of a miserable arid squalid appearance comes upi carrying an infant in his ar.] Frank. Gpd's blessing on thee ! wilt thou rest, old man, Upon this traveller's seat ? Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. U ' Old Man, God's blessing on thee ! What, dost thou mean to taunt with mockery An old man tottering to the grave ? What pleasure Can ye young wretches find in scoffing thus At the white head of hunger'd beggary ? Have ye no fathers ? Well it is for them That their dry hearts are spar'd the bitternesjs Of seeing, in the broad and open day, Their reckless children sporting with old age. Frank. Father, judge kindly of us. Old Man. Let me go Untroubled on my way. Do you pity me ? Then give me alms ; this thing upon my arm Is teasing me for food : I have it not Give me your alms. Frank. See ! here is breatJ, pjd man ! I ask your blessing come you from the city. And none to guide your steps along the brink Of this great river ? Old Man. Yea ! they all are dead Who once did walk with me most lovingly, Slowlier than these slow steps. This piece of wood, This staff, is all I have to lean on now, And this poor baby, whom its nurse would give For a short pastime to his grandsire's arms. No other nurse hath now, but wither'd age Sour, sullen, hopeless, God-forsaken age. Frank, Is the Plague raging ? 12 THE CITY OF THE PLAGtUE. Act I. - Old Man. Aye, and long will rage. The judgments of the prophets of old time Are now fulfilling. Young men turn and flee From the devoted city. Would ye hear What now is passing in yon monster's heart .? Frank. We listen to thy voice. Old Man. Three months aga Within my soul I heard a mighty sound As of a raging river, day and night Triumphing through the city : 'twas the voice Of London sleepless in magnificence. This morn I stood and listen'd. *< Art thou dead, Queen of the world !" I ask'd my awe-struck hearty * And not one breath of life amid the silence DisturbM the empire of mortality. Death's icy hand hath frozen, with a touch, The fountain of the river that made glad The City of the Isle! Frank. We hear thy voice. Old Man. Sin brought the judgment: it was terrible. Go read your Bible, young men j hark to him Who, in a vision, saw the Lion rage Amid the towers of Judah, while the people Fell on their faces, and the hearts of kings Perish'd, and prophets wonder'd in their fear. Then came the dry wind from the wilderness. Towards the hill of Sion, not to fan Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 13 Or cleanse, but, whirlwind-like, to sweep away The tents of princes and the men of war. Frank. Wilmot 1 methinks most like an ancient pro- phet, With those white locks and wild unearthly eyes. He comes forth from the desolated city, A man who cannot die. O may I ask,;''f ?yw Most reverend father, if Old Man. Hush ! hush ! lie still I Didst hear this infant cry ? So small a sound Ought not to startle thus a wretch who comes From a three- months' sojourn in a sepulchre. Here ! infant, eat this bread, and hold thy peace. Young men, disturb me not with foolish questions ; Your faces are towards the city : Will ye dare The monster in his den \ Then go and die ! Two little drops amid a shower of rain. Swallowed up in a moment by the heedless earth. Frank. I fain would ask one question j for, old man, My parent lived in London, and I go To seek her in that city of the tombs. Old Man. Think of her with the dead ! A ship at sea (Methinks I speak unto a mariner)fi^;>b ,*(f>m*fe j* : Goes to the bottom. Would yoii hope to find Your friend alone, of all the fated crew, Alive on a plank next day amid the waves ? Think of her with the dead ! and praise the Lord ! Wilmot. Let us begone, the day is wearing fast. 14, THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Old Man. Know ye what you will meet with in the city? Together will ye walk, through long, long streets, All standing silent as a midnight church. You will hear nothing but the brown red grass Rustling beneath your feet j the very beating Of your own hearts will awe you ; the small voice Of that vain bauble, idly counting time, Will speak a solemn language in the desert. Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight, As if the Spirit of the plague dwelt there. Darkening the city with the shadows of death. Know ye that hideous hubbub .'' Hark, far off A tumult like an echo ! on it comes, Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer ; And louder than all outrageous blasphemy. The passing storm hath left the silent streets. But are these houses near you tenantless ? Over your heads from a window, suddenly A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death With voice not human. Who is he that flies. As if a demon dogg'd him on bis path ? With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes, Raving, he rushes past you j till he falls, As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones. Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall, Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof. Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 15 And let the Pest's triumphal chariot ' - i Have open way advancing to the tomb. '" ^' See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry Of earthly kings ! A miserable caxt, >\ iji v. Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies ! And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch, Doom'd never to return from the foul pit, "Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror. Would you look in ? Grey hairs and golden tresses, Wan slirivell'd cheeks that have not smil'd for years ; And many a rosy visage smiling still ; Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt. With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone j And youthful frames, august and beautiful. In spite of mortal pangs, there lie they all Embrac'd in ghastUness ! But look not long, For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there, The well known cheek of some beloved friend Will meet thy gaze, or some sinall snow-white hand,' Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair. Let me sit down beside ycu. I am faint Talking of horrors that I look'd uponJl^ari or' At last witliout a shudder. . mn fiJi Frank, , irio yijn; Give me the child. Old Man. Let the wretch rest. 'Twas but a passing pang. And I feel strong again. Dost smile, poor babe ? l6 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Yes ! Thou art glad to see the full-orb'd eye, The placid cheek, and sparkling countenance Of ruddy health once more j and thou wouldst go With them thy young heart thinks so beautiful, Nor ever look behind at the old man Who brought thee from the grave ! Sweet thoughtless wretch, I cling to thee with a more desperate love Because of thy ingratitude. Frank. Old man. Is thy blood in his veins ? Old Man. All dead all dead ! Round the baptismal font with awe we knelt, My four sweet daughters and their loving husbands. I held my last-born grandchild in my arms, But as the hallow'd water touch'd her face, Even then she sicken'd, and a mortal paleness Froze every parent's cheek. " The Plague is here," The priest exclaim'd j and like so many ghosts. We parted in the church-yard. O my God ! I know that Thou in wrath art merciful, For Thou hast spar'd this babe for my old age ! But all who knelt round that baptismal font Last Sabbath morning one short week ago Are dead and buried save one little child. And a grey-headed man of fourscore years. Frank. I dare not comfort thee. Old Man. Why not, sweet youth I Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 17 Thy very voice is comfort ray dim eyes Look on thee like a vision of delight Coming back in beauty from th* abyss of years. Let me hear thy voice once more ! FranJc, Father ! that book With whose worn leaves the careless infant plays Must be the Bible. Therein thy dim eyes Will meet a cheering light, and silent words Of mercy breath'd from heaven, will be exhal'd From the blest page into thy wither'd heart. The grace of God go with thee. Old Man. Gentle youth ! Thy voice reminds me of a boy who died Thirty long years ago. Thou wilt pass on, And we must meet no more j yet could I think Thou wert my son returning from the grave, Or from some far-off' land where he had gone And left us to our tears. Frank. They are not lost Who leave their parents for the calm of heaven. Forgive a young man speaking thus to age, 'Tis done in love and reverence. Old Man. 'Tis the Bible ! I know and feel it is a blessed book, And I remember how it stopp'd my tears In days of former sorrows, like some herb Of sovereign virtue to a wound applied. But thou wilt pity me, when I confess B 18 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. That ofttimes more than mortal agony Shoots through my heart, when the most holy words Of Jesus shine before me. There I see Miracles of mercy and of saving love : The widow sings for joy, deliverance Comes to the madman howling in his chains, And life stirs in the tomb. I shut the book, And wonder where I am ; for all around me Looks as if God had left this woeful earth To ruin and despair, while his own word Doth seem delusion, or with fearful doubts My soul disturbs in sore perplexity. To the Hebrew prophecies my spirit turns, And feeds on wailing lamentations, And dim forebodings of Almighty wrath. Yea ! often do I see this very Plague By these wild seers foretold, and all their songs So doleful speak unto my ringing ear Of this dread visitation. Idle dreams Of my old crazed brain ! But aye they haunt me, And each plain phrase is cloth'd with mystic meaning In spite of reason j sad bewildering ! When still the soul keeps fighting with its fetters, Yet hugs them self-impos'd. Frank. Such dreams will vanish "When the sweet rural air, or breeze from the sea Sings round thee. Art thou going to a home Where wife or child expect thee ? Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 19 Old Man. Hush, sweet babe. There is a dwelling on the lone sea-shore Where I will carry thee. An Angel's voice Told me to leave the city. You will see her, The Angel of the poor ! Through every street The radiant Creature walks Wil. to Frank. Though dark his brain, It has, thou seest, a heavenly visitor, That comfort brings when reason's self is gone. Old Man. 'Tis no delusion. When you sea her face, Her pale face smiling on you suddenly. Pale almost as the raiment that she wears. And hear her voice, all one low mournful tone, Charming away despair, then will ye say " The Angel this of whom the old man spake j" Yet something lying far within her eyes Will tell that she is mortal. Fare ye well ! But list ! sweet youths ! where'er ye go, beware Of those dread dwellings all round A Idgate- church, For to me it seemeth that most dismal pile Is the black Palace of the Plague, and none May pass it by and live. God bless you both. l^The Old Man passes ok.] Frank. His words have sent a curse into my heart. The miserable spoke of misery Even with his parting farewell. Aldgate-church ! Wil. He passeth like a shadow from the city ! A solemn traveller to the world of spirits. 20 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Methought his hollow and unearthly voice Came from the desolation of his soiil Like the wind at midnight moaning past our ship, A ghastly sound once heard and never more. Frankfort speak to me. Frank. All round Aldgate-church ! Said he not so ^ Close to that church-yard wall My mother's dwelling stands : her bed-room window Looks o'er the grave- stones and the marble tombs. All hope is dead within me. Wil Shall I go And ask the old man if he knows your mother, Perhaps Frank. Oh ! ask him not, an hour will bring us In presence of the house where I was born. I wish he had staid with us yet a while, For his voice held me in captivity, Wild voice and haggard cheek. He heeded not Me or my sorrow in his misery Both blind and deaf, without the help of age. Methinks I see the cold wet tombstone lying Upon my father's grave another name, ** Mary his wife," iS graven Wil. All have not perish'd. Frank. What, hoping still ! Come, let us onwards walk With heads uncover'd, and with prostrate souls, Unto the humbled city of despair. Amid the roar of ocean-solitude Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 21 God hath been with us, and his saving hand Will be our anchor in this dreadful calm, This waveless silence of the sea of death. SCENE 11. A great square in the city, A multitude of miserable men and women crowding round a j^erson of a wild and savage appearance ^ dressed in a fantastical garby with an hour-glass in his hand. Astrologer. The sun is going down, and when he sets, Yoii know my accursed gift of prophecy Departeth from me, and I then become Blind as my wretched brethren. Then the Plague Riots in darkness 'mid his unknown victims, Nor can I read the names within his roll Now register'd in characters of blood- Come to me all ye wearied who would rest. Who would exchange the fever's burning pillow For the refreshing coolness of the grave ! Come hither all ye orphans of a day, And I will tell you when your heads shall rest Upon your parents' bosoms. Yearn ye not To clasp their shroudless bodies, and to lie In the dark pit by love made beautiful ! Where are ye veiled widows ? in the tomb The marriage-lamp doth burn unquenchably. Dry up your tears, fair virgins ! to the grave Betrothed in your pure simplicity ! 22 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Still is one countenance beautiful in death. And it will lean to-night upon a breast ; *? White with the snows of perfect innocence. '^'" I call upon the wicked ! let him shew His face among the crowd, and I will tell him His dreams of horror and his works of sin. \^A man of a fierce and ferocious aspect advancesfrom the crowdJ^ Stranger. I ask thee not, thou juggling driveller, Whether the Plague hath fix'd his eyes on me, Determin'd to destroy. Let them who fear '' *^'*^ Death and his pit, with pale beseeching hands Buy with their monies the awards of fate, And die in poverty. Thou speak' st of guilt, And know'st forsooth each secret deed of sin Done in the dark hour. Tell me, driveller ! Where I, who lay no claim to honesty, Came by this gold. I'll give thee half of it ' If thou speak'st truly. Was there robbery ? Astrologer. Flee murderer ! from my sight ! I touch thy gold ! 'Twould stain my fingers ! See the blood-gouts on it. Hither thou com'st in savage hardihood, Yet with a beating heart. I saw thee murder him j What were his silver hairs, his tremulous voice. His old blind eyes to thee ! Ha ! shrinking off, Aw'd by a driveller ! Seize the murderer ! Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 23 You will find the bloody knife [^The man rushes off^ and all make way for him.'X Astrologer. Mine eyes at once Did read the murderer's soul. Voice from the crcwd. Guilt nor disease Are hidden from his ken he knows them all. [7\uo ivomen advance eagerly J rom the cro'wd.'\ \st Woman. Listen to me before that woman speaks. I went this morning to my lover's house, Mine own betrothed husband, who had come From sea two days ago. The house was empty ; As the cold grave that longeth for its coffin 'Twas damp and empty ; and I shriek'd in vain On him who would not hear. Tell me his fate, Say that he lives, or say that he is dead But tell me, tell me, lest I curse my God, Some tidings of him j should'st thou see him lying Even in yon dreadful pit. Do you hear ? speak, speak ! O God ! no words can be so terrible As that mute face whose blackness murders hope. And freezes my sick soul. Heaven's curse light on thee, For that dumb mockery of a broken heart ! Astrologer. I see him not, some cloud envelopes him ! Woman. He hath left the city then, and gone on ship- board .'' Astrologer. I see him not, some cloud envelopes him 1 Woman, What ! hast thou not a wond'rous glass that shews 24 THE CITY OF I'HE PLAGUE. Act I. Things past, or yet to come ? give me one look, That I may see his face so beautiful. Where'er it be j or in that ghastly pit. Or smiling 'mid his comrades on the deck, While favouring breezes waft his blessed ship Far from the Plague, to regions of delight Where he may live for ever. Astrologer. Is your lover A tall thin youth, tvith thickly-clustering locks, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing ? Woman. Yes ! he is tall I think that he is tail, His hair it is dark-brown yes, almost black Many call it black you see him ? Does he live ? jJstrologcr. That pit containeth many beautiful : But thy sailor in his warlike garb doth lie Distinguish'd o'er the multitude of dead ! And all the crowd, when the sad cart was emptied, Did weep and sob for that young mariner ; Such corpse, they thought, should have been buried Deep in the ocean's heart, and a proud peal Of thunder roli'd above his sinking coffin. Woman^ (distractedly.) Must I believe him ? off, off to the pit ! One look into that ghastliness, one plunge : None ever lov'd me but my gentle sailor, And bis sweet lips are cold I will leap down. {Slfe rushes madly axcay.'] Scene If. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 25 Voice from the ao'wd. Aye, she intends to look before she leaps ; Well life is life I would not part with it For all the girls in Christendom. Forsooth ! 2d Woman. Say! will my child recover from the Plague .'* Astrologer. Child ! foolish woman ! now thou hast no child. Hast thou not been from home these two long hours, Here listening unto that which touch'd thee not, And left'st thou not thy little dying child, Sitting by the fire, upon a madman's knee ? Go home ! and ask thy husband for thy child I The fire was burning fierce and wrathfully, Its father knew not that the thing he held Upon his knee had life and when it shriek'd, Amid the flames, he sat and look'd at it, With fixed eyeballs, and a stony heart. Unnatural mother ! worse than idiotcy To leave a baby in a madman's lap, And yet no fetters frqrti infanticide To save his murderous hands. Womarii (rushing away.) O God ! O God ! Astrologer. Come forward thou with that most ghost- like face, Fit for a winding-sheet ! and if those lips So blue and quivering still can utter sounds, What would't thou say ? The motions of thine eyes 26 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Betoken some wild wish within thy heart. [^A man comes forward^ and lays down money be- fore the Astrologer. "] Man. I trust my hour is near. I am alone In this dark world, and I desire to die. Astrologer. Thou shalt be kept alive by misery. A tree doth live, long after rottenness Hath eat away its heart : the sap of life Moves through its wither'd rind, and it lives on; 'Mid the green woods a rueful spectacle Of mockery and decay. Man. I feel 'tis so. Thus have I been since first the Plague burst out, A term methinks of many hundred years ! As if this world were hell, and I condemn'd To walk through woe to all eternity. I will do suicide. Astrologer. Thou can'st not fool ! Thou lovest life with all its agonies : Buy poison, and 'twill lie for years untouch'd Beneath thy pillow, when thy midnight horrors Are at their worst. Coward ! thou can'st not die I Man. He sees my soul j a blast as if from hell Drives roe back from the grave I dare not die. \^He disappears among the crowd, and a young and beautiful lady approaches the Astrologer. ~\ Lady. O man of fate ! my lovely babes are dead ! My sweet twin-babes 1 and at the very hour Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 27 Thy voice predicted, did my infants die. My husband saw them both die in my arms, And never shed a tear. Yet did he love them Even as the wretch who bore them in her womb. He will not speak to me, but ever sits In horrid silence, with his glazed eyes Full on my face, as if he lov'd me not O Crod ! as if he hated me ! 1 lean My* head upon his knees and say my prayers, But no kind word, or look, or touch is mine. Then will he rise and pace through all the rooms, Like to a troubled ghost, or pale-fac'd man Walking in his sleep. O tell me ! hath the Plague E'er these wild symptoms .<* Must my husband perish Without the sense of his immortal soul .'' Or, bless me for ever with the heavenly words, Say he will yet recover, and behold His loving wife with answering looks of love. Astrologer. Where are the gold, the diamonds and the pearls. That erewhile, in thy days of vanity. Did sparkle, star-like, through the hanging clouds That shaded thy bright neck, that raven hair .'* Give them to me ; for many are the poor. Nor shalt thou, Lady ! ever need again This mortal being's frivolous ornaments. Give me the gold you promis'd ; holiest alms Add not a moment to our number'd days, 2 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. But the death of open-handed charity Is on a bed of down. Hast thou the gold ? T^ady. All that I have is here. My husband gave me This simple necklace on my marriage-day. Take it ! Here is a picture ^t in gold. The picture I may keep. O ! that his face Were smiling so serenely beautiful, So like an angel's now ! O sacred ring 1 Which I did hope to wear within the tomb, I give thee to the poor. So may their prayers Save him from death for whose delightful sake With bliss I wore it, and with hope resign. Here, take them all, thou steward of the poor ; Stem as thou art, thou art a holy man ! I do believe thou art a holy man. Astrologer. Lady, thou need'st this wedding-ring no more ! Death with his lean and bony hand hath loosen'd The bauble from thy finger, and even now Thy husband is a corpse. O ! might I say Thy beauty were immortal ! But a ghost. In all the loveliness on earth it wore. Walks through the moonlight of the cemetery. And I know the shadow of the mortal creature Now weeping at my side. Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 5 Enter Frankfort and Wilmot close to the Astrologer, Frank. Amelia ! Lady. Ah me ! whose soft kind voice is that I hear ? Frank. Frankfort ! the playmate of thy infancy^ The brother of thy womanhood, the friend Of thy dear husband, and the godfather Of thy sweet twins, heaven shield their innocence ! Lady. My babes are with their Saviour, and my hud- band Has gone with them to heaven. Lead, lead me hence ! For the seer's stern and scowling countenance Is more than I can bear. Frank. O grief \ to think That one so dear to heaven, by Christ belov'd For a still life of perfect sinlessness. Should, in such sad delusion, court the ban Of this most savage liar, sporting thus With the broken spirit of humanity. Astrologer. Welcome to London, storm-beat mariners \ The city is in masquerade to-day. And, in good truth, the Plague doth celebrate A daily festival, with many a dance Fantastic, and unusual melody. That may not suit your ears accustom'd long To the glad sea-breeze, and the rousing airs Of martial music on your armed decks. 30 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Frank, to Wil. Is this some wild enthusiast whom the times Have sent unto the light, deluding others By his own strong delusions, or some fiend Thirsting for gold even in the very grave ? Wil. With what a cruel face he looks at us ! Frank. If an impostor in the shadow of death Endangering thus thy soul, vile wretch ! come down From thy tribunal built upon the fears Of agony, lest in thy seat of guile The Pest may smite thee ! Lean on me, Amelia ! Astrologer. Scoff not at God's own delegate, Harry Frankfort ! What though the burning fever of the west Hath spar'd thy bronzed face and stately form, A mightier Power is here ; and he may smile. Ere the sun go down, upon thy bloated corpse. Not thus the maiden whom her sailor loves Despis'd me and my prophecies. Magdalene In snow-white raiment, like a maid that walk'd At the funeral of a maiden, she stood there, Even on the very stones beneath your feet. And ask'd of me her doom ; but on this earth Thy Magdalene's beauty must be seen no more. Frank, to Wil. The maid of whom he speaks lives far remote. In her father's cottage, near a silent lake Among the hills of Westmoreland, she breathes, Scene 11. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 31 Happy and weU, her own sweet mountain air. Methinks 1 know bis face. That harden'd eye Gleams through the dimness of my memory, I know not when nor where. Amelia, come And I will lead thee home. I hear the crowd Saying that thy husband is alive : may heaven For many a year preserve you to each other. Say, is my mother living ? Lady. God forgive me. As I hope for my friend's forgiveness ! I know not if she lives ; for, oh ! this Plague Hath spread an universal selfishness, And each house in its own calamity Stands single, shut from human fellowship By sullen misery and heart-withering fear. Voice from the croiiod. Look at the sorcerer ! how his countenance Is fallen I 'tis distorted horribly ! A shadow comes across it, like a squall Dark'ning the sea. Another voice. Even thus I saw a man This very morning stricken by the Plague, And in three hours he was a ghost. Disperse All ye who prize your lives ! soon will the air Be foul with his dead body. Let us away ! [The ciouod disperse.'} Astrologer. God's hand is on me. In my cruel guilt I perish. Frankfort, I have never seen 32 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act f . Magdalene, the maid thou lovest. Look at me } Dost not remember Francis Bannerman On board the Thunderer ? Frank. Pardon to thy soul ! Thou mad abuser of" the gifts of heaven. Astrologer. Oh ! I am sick to death : my soul hath sunk At once into despair. Wil. What dreadful groans ! O fatal is the" blast of misery, When it hath forc'd its way into the soul Of harden'd cruelty 1 As when a storm Hath burst the gates of a thick-ribbed hold, And all its gloomy dungeons, in one moment. Are roaring like a hundred cataracts. Astrologer. I have shed blood. Roll, roll ye moun-> tain waves. Above that merciless ghost that walks the sea After our ship for ever I Shut thine eyes, Those glaring, bloodshot, those avenging eyes. And I will bear to feel thy skeleton-arms Twin'd round my heart, so that those eyes be shut ! A ghost's wild eyes, that nothing can behold But the frighten'd aspect of its murderer ! Unconscious they of ocean, air, and Heaven, But fix'd eternally, like hideous stars. On a shrieking soul whom guilt hath doom'd to Hell ! Frank, to Wil. The mutineer is raving of his crime. Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 33 Astrologer. Ha ! ha ! 'tis set within the ebb of flood Fifty feet high ; and the iron'd criminal With a frantic face stands dumb upon the scaffold. The priest is singing psalms ! Curst be the eyes That see such idle shew 'tis all gone by I I fear not Hell, if that eternal Shape Meet me not there ! Pravj pray not for me Frankfort, For I am deliver'd over to despair, And holy words are nought but mockery To him who knows that he must dwell for ever In regions darken'd by the wrath of God. Lady. Let us leave this horrid scene ! Astrologer. O might I hear That sweet voice breathing of forgiveness ! Hush ! hush ! a voice once breath'd upon this earth That would have pleaded not in vain to Heaven, Even for a fiend like me. Thou art in Heaven, And knowest all thy husband's wickedness j So hide thy pitying eyes, and let me sink Without thy intercession to the depths Of unimagin'd woe ! O Christ ! 1 die. Frank. Most miserable end ! an evil man Prostrating by a savage eloquence The spirits of the wretched so that he Might riot on the bare necessities Of man's expiring nature on the spoil Of the unburied dead ! Most atheist-like I I know not how I can implore the grace Of God unto thy soul I C 34 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Astrologer. Eternal doom ! The realms of Hell are gleaming fiery bright. What ghastly faces ! ^ Christ, have mercy on me ! Ladi/, Wilt thou not lead me away, for I am blind ! O Frankfort come with me the Plague hath struck My husband into madness and I fear him ! O God ! I fear the man whom I do love ! Frank. All all are wretched guilty dead or dying ; And all the wild and direful images That crowd, and wail, and blacken round my soul Have reconcil'd me to the misery Sent from my mother's grave. An hour of respite Is granted me while I conduct thee home : Then will I seek that grave, and 'mid the tumult Of this perturbed city sit and listen To a voice that in my noiseless memory Sings like an angel. Lady. She is yet alive I Frank. Thy voice is like the voice of Hope Sweet friend, Be cheer'd, nor tremble so for God is with us. SCENE III. A Church-yard. Tisoo Females in mourning dresses sitting on a Tombstone. \st Lady. The door of the Cathedral is left open. Perhaps some one within is at the altar Oflfering up thanks, or supplicating heaven To save a hasband dying of the Plague. Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 33 If so, I join a widow's prayer to hers, Sitting on my husband's grave. 2d Lady. One moment hush ! Methought I heard a footstep in the church As of one walking softly up the chancel. List list ! I am not dreaming of a strain Of heav'nly music ? 'Tis a hymn of praise. \_A voice is heard singing in the Cathedral^ 1st lattdy. A voice so heavenly sweet I once did hear Singing at night close to my bed, when I Was beyond hope recovering from the Plague. That voice hymn'd in my sleep and was a dream Framed by my soul returning unto life, A strain that murmur'd from another world. But this is earthly music : she must have An angel's face who through the echoing aisle So like an angel sings. 2d Lady. I know that voice 1 Last Sabbath evening, sitting on this stone. And thinking who it was that lay below it, I heard that very music faint and far, Deaden'd almost into silence by the weight Of those thick walls. I listen'd with my heart That I might hear the dirge-like air again. But it did rise no more, and I believ'd 'Twas some sweet fancy of my sorrowful soul, Or wandering breath of evening through the pillars Of the Cathedral sighing wildly by. 56 THE Cl'n^ OF THE PLAGUK. Act T. 1st Lady. And sawest thou no one ? Id Lady, Yes ; I gently stole Into the solemn twilicjht of the church. And looking towards the altar, there I saw A white-rob'd Being on her knees. At first I felt such awe as I had seen a spirit, When, rising from the attitude of prayer The vision softly glided down the steps, And then her eyes met mine. But such sweet eyes, So fill'd with human sadness, yet so bright Even through their tears with a celestial joy Ne'er shone before on earth. Even such methought The Virgin- Mother's holy countenance, When, turning from her Son upon the cross, A gleam of heavenly comfort cheerM the darkness Of her disconsolate soul ! At once 1 knew That I was looking on the Maid divine Whom the sad city bless'd whose form arises Beside the bed of death by all deserted, And to the dim eyes of the dying man Appears an angel sent from pitying heaven To bid him part in peace. I could have dropt Down on my knees and worshipp'd her, but silent As a gleam of light the creature glided by me, And e'er my soul recover'd she was gone. \st Lady. How weak and low does virtue such as hers Make us poor beings feel. 2d Lady. Yet she is one Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 37 Of frail and erring mortals, and she knew not In other days, to what a lofty pitch Her gentle soul could soar. For I have heard She was an only child, and in the light Of her fond parents' love was fostered, Like a flower that blooms best shelter'd in the house, And only plac'd beneath the open air In hours ofsunshine. 1st Lady. Could we now behold The glorious Being ? 2d Lady. No : this hour is sacred ; We must not interrupt her. The dew falls Heavy and chill, and thou art scarce recover'd From that long sickness. Let me kiss thee thus, Thou cold wet stone, thou loveliest, saddest name, Ever engraven on a monument, {The scene changes to the interior of the Cathedral. Mag- dalene discovered on her knees at the altar.'] Magdalene. Father of mercies ! may I lift mine eyes From the holy ground that I have wet with tears, Unto the silence of the moonlight heavens That shine above me with a smile of love, Forgiveness, and compassion. There Thou art ! Enthron'd in glory and omnipotence ! Yet from thy dwelling 'mid the eternal stars. Encircled by the hymning seraphim, Thou dost look down upon our mortal earth. And seest this weeping creature on her knees, 38 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. And hear'st the beatings of her lonely heart. If, in my days of sinless infancy, My innocence found favour in thy sight ; If in my youth, and yet I am but young, *s*. t;// nm^, I strove to walk according to thy will, And reverenc'd my Bible, and did weep. Thinking of him who died upon the cross ; Iff in their old age, I did strive to make My parents happy, and receiv'd at last Their benediction on the bed of death Oh ! let me walk the waves of this wild world Through faith unsinking j stretch thy saving hand To a lone castaway upon the sea, "Who hopes no resting-place except in heaven. And oh ! this holy calm, this peace profound, -*- That sky so glorious in infinitude, That countless host of softly^burning stars. And all that floating universe of light, Lift up my spirit far above the grave, And tell me that my pray'rs are heard in Heaven I feel th' Omnipotent is Merciful ! [^A voice exclaims ^om an unseen person f"] O were my name remember'd in thy pray'rs ! Magd. {rising from her knees.) Did some one speak ? Voice. A sinful wretch implores That thou wilt stand between him and the wrath Of an offended God. Magd. Come to the altar. Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 39 [^ man advances from behind a pillar , and Jcneels down at the altar.'] Stranger. I fear I cannot pray. My wicked heart, Long unaccustom'd to these bended knees, ""^ Feels not the worship that my Hmbs would offer j My lot is cast in heD, Magd. Repentance finds The blackest gulf in the wild soul of sin. And calms the tumult there, even as our Lord With holy hand did hush the howling sea. Stranger. Lady ! I am too near thy blessed side ; The breath of such a saint ought not to fall Into the hard heart of a murderer. Magd. Hast thou come here to murder me ? Stranger. Behold This cruel knife. Magd. The will of God be done ! Stranger. Rather than hurt one of those loveliest hairs That braided round thy pale, thy fearless brow, Do make thee seem an Angel or a Spirit At night come down from heaven, would I for ever Live in the dark corruption of the grave. Magd. My heart is beating but I fear thee not ^ Thou wilt not murder me ? , Stranger, What need'st thou fear ? Kneeling in those white robes, so like a Spirit, With face too beautiful for tears to stain. Eyes meekly raised to heaven, and snow-white hand^ 40 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act J. Devoutly folded o'er a breast that moves In silent adoration what hast thou To fear from man or fiend ? O rise not up ! So Angel-like thou seem'st upon thy knees, Even I can hope, while thou art at thy prayers. Magd. If thou cam'st hither to unload thy soul, Kneel down. Stranger. Sweet one ! I came to murder thee. With silent foot I traced thee to this church, And there, beyond that pillar, took ray stand, That I might rush upon thee at the altar And kill thee at thy prayers. I grasp'd the knife When suddenly thy melancholy voice Began that low wild hymn ! I could not move ; The holy music made thee seem immortal I And when I dared to look towards thy face. The moonlight fell upon it, and I saw A smile of such majestic innocence That long- lost pity to my soul return 'd, And I knelt down and wept, Magd. What made Uiee think Of killing one who never injured thee ? Stranger. Th' accursed love of gold. Magd, Hath Poverty Blinded thy soul, and driven thee forth a prey To Sin who loves the gaunt and hollow cheeks Of miserable men ? Perhaps a cell Holds thy sick wife Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 41 Stranger, -'if'- No ! I have sold my fioul Unto the Evil One, nor even can'st Thou ot I ?'^ii! With all the music of that heavenly voice. Charm the stern ear of hell. ';a oixsiofjp^rufi ui. Magd. Alas, pool* wretch f " What shak.iheeio ? Stranger.^ r-'^,"''v Mid all the ghastly shrieking, Black sullen dumbness, and wild- staring frenzy, Pain madly leaping out of life, or fetter'd By burning irons to its house of clay, W^here think you Satan drove me ? To the haunts Of riot, lust, and reckless blasphemy. In spite of that eternal passing-bell, And all the ghosts that hourly flock'd in troops Unto the satiated grave, insane With drunken guilt, I mock'd my Saviour's name With hideous mummery, and the holy book In scornful fury trampled, rent, and burn'd. Oh ! ours were dreadful orgies ! At still midnight We sallied out, in mimic grave-clothes clad, Aping the dead, and in some church-yard danc'd A dance that ofttimes had a mortal close. Then would we lay a living Body out. As it had been a corpse, and bear it slowly, With what at distance seem'd a holy dirge, Through silent streets and squares unto its rest. One quamtly apparell'd like a surplic'd priest Led the procession, joining in the song j 42 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. A jestful song, most brutal and obscene, Shameful to man, his Saviour, and his God. Or in a hear^ we sat, which one did drive In masquerade habiliments of death ; And in that ghastly chariot whirl'd along, With oaths, and songs, and shouts, and peals of laughter, Till sometimes that most devilish merriment Chill'd our own souls with horror, and we stared Upon each other all at once struck dumb. Magd. Madness ! 'twas madness all. Stranger. Oh ! that it were ! But, lady ! were we mad when we partook . Of what we called a sacrament ? Magd. Hush ! hush ! Stranger. Yes I will utter it we brake the bread. And wine pour'd out, and jesting ate and drank Perdition to our souls. Magd. And women too. Did they blaspheme their Saviour ? Stranger. Aye ! there sat Round that unhallow'd table beautiful Creatures, Who seem'd to feel a fiend-like happiness In tempting us wild wretches to blaspheme. Sweet voices had they, though of broken tones ; Their faces fair, though waxing suddenly Whiter than ashes ; smiles were in their eyes. Though often in their mirth they upwards look'd, And wept J nor, when they tore distractedly Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 4S The garments from their bosoms, could our souls Sustain the beauty heaving in our sight "With grief, remorse, despair, and agony. ' We knew that we were lost, yet would we pluck The flowers that bloom'd upon the crater's edge^-i^ *. Nor fear'd the yawning gulf. Magd. Why art thou here ? Stranger. Riot hath made us miserably poor. And gold we needs must have. I heard a whisper Tempting me to murder, and thy very name Distinctly syllabled. In vain I strove Against the Tempter bent was I on blood ! But here I stand in hopeless penitence, Nor even implore thy prayers my doom is seal'd. \_HeJiings himself down before the altar."] Magd. Poor wretch ! I leave thee to the grace of God. Ah me ! how calmly and serenely smile Those pictured saints upon the holy wall. Tinged by that sudden moonlight ! That meek face How like my mother's ! So she wore her veil j Even so her braided hair ! Ye blessed spirits, Look down upon your daughter in her trouble, ^"T For I am sick at heart. The moonlight dies I feel afraid of darkness. Wretched man. Hast thou found comfort ? Groans his sole reply.- I must away to that sad Fimeral. d diJiH 44 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. SCENE IV. The street. A long table covered mth glasses.-^ A parti/ of young men and women carousing. Young Man. I rise to give, most noble President, ^ The memory of a man well known to all, Who by keen jest, and merry anecdote. Sharp repartee, and humorous remark Most biting in its solemn gravity, Much cheer'd our out-door table, and dispell'd ""^ The fogs which this rude visitor the Plague Oft breathed across the brightest intellect. A. But two days past, our ready laughter chaced ^ His various stories j and it cannot be That we have in our gamesome revelries Forgotten Harry Wentworth. His chair stands Empty at your right hand as if expecting That jovial wassailer but he is gone Into cold narrow quarters. Well, I deem The grave did never silence with its dust A tongue more eloquent j but since 'tis so, And store of boon companions yet survive, There is no reason to be sorrowful ; Therefore let us drink unto his memory With acclamation, and a merry peal Such as in life he loved. Master of Revels. 'Tis the first deaih Hath been amongst us, therefore let us drink His memory in silence. Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 45 Young Man, Be it so. [They all rise, and drink their glasses in silence."] Master of Revels. Sweet Mary Gray ! Thou hast a silver voice, And wildly to thy native melodies Can tune it's flute-like breath sing us a song, And let it be, even 'raid our merriment, Most sad, most slow, that when its music dies, We may address ourselves to revelry, More passionate from the calm, as men leap up To this world's business from some heavenly dream. MARY gray's song. I vvalk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was drest ; But the sang o' the bonny burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a last simmer's nest. 1 look'd thro' the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never ae wee cloud o' mist could I see On its way up to heaven the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' it's sheltering tree. By the outside I ken'd that the in was forsaken, That nae tread o* footsteps was heard on the floor ; O loud craw'd the cock whare was nana to awaken, And the wild-raven croak'd on the seat by the door t Sic silence sic lonesomeness, oh ! were bewildering J I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep j 45 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. I met nae bright garlands o* wee rosy children Dancing on to the school-house just wakened frae sleep. I past by the school-house when strangers were coming, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive ; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the Hive. I past by the pool whare the lasses at daw'ing Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din ; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud thro' the roar o' the linn. . I gaed into a small town when sick o* my roaming Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor and flute; 'Twas the hour lov'd by Labour, the saft-smiling gloaming, Yet the Green round the Cross-stane was empty and mute. To the yellow-flower'd meadow and scant rigs o* tillage The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen ; The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men! Sweet Denholm ! not thus, when I lived in thy bosom. Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week ; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek. Sic thoughts wet my eyne-^as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white ; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming. But the still finger tauld not the hour o' the night. Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 47 The mirk-time past slowly in siching and weeping, rft '^^ I waken'd and nature lay silent in mirth ; Owr'e a* holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And heaven in beauty came down on the earth. . The morning smiled on but nae kirk-bell was ringing, Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill ; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm-tune was singings And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill. , - I look'd owr'e the quiet o* Death's empty dwelling, The lav'rock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, ' * And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling ' ' Owre the kirk-yard o' Denholm last simmer sae green. The infant had died at the breast o' its raither ; . nj^ The cradle stood still near the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shfepherd lay dead.'-*^* :k>iii 'j'jiov aiiT Oh ! in spring time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, yi[$ j^J, jj And birds should be glinting ow're forest and lea,' , , When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, , And nae blackbird sings loud frae the lap o' his tree/ But eerier far when the spring-land rejoices '*' And laughs back to heaVen with gratitude bright. So To hearken 1 and nae whare hear sweet human voices! ,[ When man's soul is dark in the season o' light ! Master of Revels. We thank ,thee, sweet one ! for thy mournful song. 48 . THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. It seems, in the olden time, this very Plague Visited thy hills and rallies, and the voice Of lamentation wail'd along the streams That now flow on through their wild paradise. Murmuring their songs of joy. All that survive In memory of that melancholy year When died so many brave and beautiful. Are some sweet mournful airs, some shepherd's lay Most touching in simplicity, and none Fitter to make one sad amid his mirth Than the tune yet faintly singing through our souls. Mary Gray. O ! that I ne'er had sung it but at home Unto my aged parents ! to whose ear Their Mary's tones were always musical. I hear my own self singing o'er the moor, Beside my native cottage, most unliiie The voice which Edward Walsingham has prais'd, It is the angel- voice of innocence. 2i Woman. I thought this cant were out of fashion now. But it is well ; there are some simple souls, Even yet, who melt at a frail maiden's tears. And give her credit for sincerity. She thinks her eyes quite killing while she weeps. Thought she as well of smiles, her lips would pout With a pei^ietual simper. Walsingham Hath prais'd these crying beauties of the north, So whimpering is the fashion. How I hate The dim dull yellow of that Scotish hair ! Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 49 Master of Revels. Hush ! hush ! is that the sound of wheels I hear ? \Tke Dead-cart passes by^ driven by a 'Negro.'\ Ha \ dost thou faint, Louisa ! one had thought That railing tongue bespoke a mannish heart. But so it ever is. The violent Are weaker than the mild, and abject fear Dwells in the heart of passion. Mary Gray, Throw water on her face. She now revives. Mary Gray. O sister of my sorrow and my shame ! Lean on my bosom. Sick must be your heart After a fainting-fit so like to death. Louisa, (recovering.) I saw a horrid demon in my dream ! With sable visage and white- glaringf eyes, He beckon'd on me to ascend a cart Fill'd with dead bodies, muttering all the while An unknown language of most dreadful sounds. What matters it .'' I see it was a dream. Pray did the dead-cart pass ? Young Mail. Come, brighten up Louisa ! Though this street be all our own, A silent street that we from death have rented. Where we may hold our orgies undisturb'd. You know those rumbling wheels are privileged, And we must bide the nuisance. Walsingham, To put an end to bickering, and these fits 50 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Of fainting that proceed from female vapours, Give us a song ; a free and gladsome song ; None of those Scottish ditties fram'd of sighs, But a true English Bacchanalian song, By toper chaunted o'er the flowing bowl. Master of Revels, I have none such j but I will sipg a song Upon the Plague. I made the words last night, After we parted : a strange rhyming-fit Fell on me ; 'twas the first time in my life. But you shall have it, though my vile crack'd voice Wo'nt mend the matter much. Many voices. A song on the Plague ! A song on the Plague ! Let's have it ! bravo ! bravo 1 Song. Two liavies meet upon the waves That round them yawn like op'ning graves ; The battle rages ; seamen fall, And overboard go one and all ! The wounded with the dead are gone ; But Ocean drowns each frantic groan, And, at each plunge into the flood, Grimly the billow laughs with blood. Then, what although our Plague destroy Seaman and landman, woman, boy ? When the pillow rests beneath the head. Like sleep he comes, and strikes us dead. What though into yon Pit we go, Descending fast, as flakes of snow ? Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 51 What matters body without breath ? No groan disturbs that hold of death. Chorus, Then, leaning on this snow-white breast^ I sing the praises of the Pest / If me thou would' st this night destroy, Come, smite me in the arms of Joy. Two armies meet upon the hill ;' They part, and all again is still. No ! thrice ten thousand men are lying Of cold, and thirst, and hunger dying. While the wounded soldier rests his head. About to die upon the dead, What shrieks salute yon dawning light ? 'Tis Fire that comes to aid the Fight ! All whom our Plague destroys by day, His chariot drives by night away. And sometimes o'er a church.yard wall His banner hangs, a sable pall ! Where in the light by Hecate shed With grisly smile he counts the dead, And piles them up a trophy high In honour of his victory. Then leaning, 8j-c. King of the aisle ! and church-yard cell ! Thy regal robes become thee well. With yellow spots, like lurid stars Prophetic of throne-shattering wars, Bespangled is its night-like gloom, As it sweeps the cold damp from the tomb. h^ THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Thy hand doth grasp no needless dart, One finger touch benumbs the heart. If thy stubborn victim will not die, Thou roU'st around thy bloodshot eye, And Madness leaping in his chain With giant buffet smites the brain, Or Idiocy with drivelling laugh Holds out her strong-drugg'd bowl to quaff, And down the drunken wretch doth lie Unsheeted in the cemetery. Then leaning, Sfv, Thou ! Spirit of the burning breath Alone deserv'st the name of Death ! Hide Fever ! hide thy scarlet brow ; Nine days thou linger'st o'er thy blow. Till the leach bring water from the spring, And scare thee off on drenched wing. . Consumption ! waste away at will ! In warmer climes thou fail'st to kill, And rosy Health is laughing loud As off thou steal'st with empty shroud ! Ha ! blundering Palsy ! thou art chill ! But half the man is living still ; One arm, one leg, one cheek, one side In antic guise thy wrath deride. But who may 'gainst thy power rebel. King of the aisle ! and church-yard cell. TAen leaning, ^'C. To Thee O Plague ! I pour my song. Since thou art come I wish thee long ! Scene IV. THE dTY OF THE PLAGUE. 53 Thou strik'st the lawyer 'mid his lies, The priest 'njid his hypocrisies. The raiser sickens at his hoard, And the gold leaps to its rightful lord. The husband, now no longer tied, May wed a new and blushing bride, And many a widow slyly weeps O'er the grave where her old dotard sleeps, While love shines through her moisten'd eye On yon tall stripling gliding by. 'Tis ours who bloom in vernal years To dry the love-sick maiden's tears, Who turning from the relics cold, In a new swain forgets the old. Then leaning, Src^ -t Enter an old grey-headed Priest. Priest. O impious table ! spread by, impious hands I Mocking with feast and song and revelry The silent air of death that hangs above it, A canopy more dismal than the Pall ! Amid the church-yard darkness as I stood Beside a dire interment, circled round By the white ghastly faces of despair. That hideous merriment disturb'd the grave. And with a sacrilegious violence Shook down the crumbling earth upon the bodies Of the unsheeted dead. But that the prayers Of holy age and female piety Did sanctify that wide and common grave, #P'' 54 TIIE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. I could have thought that hell's exulting fiends With shouts of devilish laughter dragg'd away Some hardened atheist's soul unto perdition. Several voices. How well he talks of hell ! Go on, old boy! The devil pays his tithes yet he abuses him. Friest. Cease, I conjure you, by the blessed blood Of Him who died for us upon the Cross, These most unnatural orgies. As ye hope To meet in heaven the souls of them ye lov'd, Destroy'd so mournfully before your eyes. Unto your homes depart. Master of Revels. Our homes are dull And youth loves mirth. Priest, O Edward Walsingham I Art thou that groaning pale-fac'd man of tears Who three weeks since knelt by thy mother's corpse, '^ And kiss'd the solder'd coffin, and leapt down With rage-like grief into the burial vault. Crying upon it's stone to cover thee From this dim darken'd world .'* Would she not weep, Weep even in heaven, could she behold her son " Presiding o'er unholy revellers. And tuning that sweet voice to frantic songs That should ascend unto the throne of grace 'Mid sob-broken words of prayer ! Young Man. Why ! we can pray Without a priest pray long and fervently Over the brimming bowl. Hand him a glass. Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 55 Master of Revels. Treat his grey hairs with reve- rence. Priest. Wretched boy ! This white head must not sue to thee in vain ! Come with the guardian of thy infancy, And by the hymns and psalms of holy men Lamenting for their sins, we will assuage This fearful mirth akin to agony, And in its stead, serene as the hush'd face Of thy dear sainted parent, kindle hope And heavenly resignation. Come with me. . Young Alan. They have a design against the hundredth Psalm. Oh ! Walsingham will murder cruelly ** All people that on earth do dwell." Suppose we sing it here I know the drawl. Master of Revels, {silencing him, and addressing the Priest. J Why cam'st thou hither to disturb me thus ? I may not, must not go ! Here am I held , _ ^, By hopelessness in dark futurity, i> ,^p 7 By dire remembrance of the past, by hatred And deep contempt of my own worthless self,Trr^j^,^,^ By fear and horror of the lifelessness That reigns throughout my dwelling, by the new And frantic love of loud-tongued revelry, By the blest poison mantling in this bowl, And, help me Heaven ! by the soft balmy kisses Of this lost creature, lost, but beautiful W^- 66 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. Even in her sin j nor could my mother's ghost Frighten me from this fair bosom. 'Tis too late ! I hear thy warning voice I know it strives To save me from perdition, body and soul. Beloved old man, go thy way in peace. But curst be these feet if they do follow thee. Several Voices. Bravo ! bravissimo I Our noble presi- dent ! Done with that sermonizing off off off. " ' Priest. Matilda's sainted spirit calls on thee ! Master of Revels, (starting distractedly from his seat J Didst thou not swear, with thy pale withered hands Lifted to Heaven, to let that doleful name Lie silent in the tomb for evermore ? that a wall of darkness hid this sight From her immortal eyes ! She my betrothed Once thought my spirit lofty, pure, and free, And on my bosom felt herself in Heaven. What am I now ? (looking up) O holy child of light, 1 see thee sitting where my fallen nature Can never hope to soar ! Female Voice. The fit is on him. Fool ! thus to rave about a buried wife ! See ! how his eyes are fix'd. Master of Revels. Most glorious star! Thou art the spirit of that bright Innocent ! And there thou shinest with upbraiding beauty Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 57 On him whose soul hath thrown at last away Not the hope cmly, but the wish of Heaven. Priest. Come, Walsingham I Master of Revels. O holy father ! go. For mercy's sake, leave me to ray despair. Priest. Heaven pity my dear son. Farewell ! fare- well ! \^Vhe Priest 'walks mournfully aiioay.'\ Young Man. Sing him another song. See how he turns His eyes from yon far Heaven to Mary's bosom ! The man's in love. Ho I Walsingham ! what cheer ? Master of Revels f (angrily,) I hate that Irish slang it grates my soul. Mary Gray. O Walsingham ! I fear to touch the breast Where one so pure has lain ! Yet turn thine eyes Towards me, a sinful creature, that thy soul May lose the sight of that celestial phantom Whose beauty is a torment. List to me. Master of Revels. Here, Mary ! with a calm delibe- rate soul I swear to love thee ! with such love, sweet girl ! As a man sunk in utter wretchedness May cherish for a daughter of despair. O maudlin fools ! who preach of Chastity, And call her Queen of Virtues ! In the breast Even of this prostitute (why should I fear 5,8 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. That word of three unmeaning syllables?) In spite of all that's whisper'd from the grave, I now will seek, and seeking I will find The open-ey'd sleep of troubled happiness. Mary Gray. All names are one to me. 1 often love The imprecations of brutality. Because, with vain contrition for my sins, I feel that I deserve them all. But thou Killest me with thy pitying gentleness. Wasting sweet looks, and words of amity, On a polluted creature drench'd in shame. Young Man. Had yon old dotard, with his surplice on. Emblem of his pretended sanctity. And sanctimonious visage common to all The hypocritic brotherhood of priests, Staid but a little longer, I had read him A lecture on the Christian's outworn creed. This is rare season for the jugglery Of these church-mountebanks ! Master of Revels. Fool ! hold thy peace \ Thou in thy heart hast said there is no God, Yet knowest thyself a liar. Young Man, (^starting up furiously . ) On his knee$. Upon his knees must Edward Walsingham Implore forgiveness for these villanous words. Or through his heart this sword will find a passage. Even swifter than the Plague. Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 59, Master of Revels. Upon my knees J Fierce gladiator ! dost thou think to daunt me By that red rapier reeking with the blood Of nerveless, hot-brain'd, inexperienced boys Whom thou hast murder'd ? Stand upon thy guard, And see if all the skill of fencing France, Or thy Italian practice, cowardly bravo ! Can ward this flash of lightning from thine eyes. E?iter Frankfort and Wilmot, who rush beiween them. Frank. Madmen I put up your swords. What, Wal- singham ! . 'T-arfJoM vm eevy ' The captain of the Ocean Queen, engag'd In brawls on shore. Master of Revels. Aye ! 'tis a foolish quarrel, And may have foolish ending : But he spake With rude licentious tongue irreverently Of a white head that since my mother's death Hath been to me the holiest thing on earth j And woe ! to its blasphemer. Young Man whispers. St Martin's Fields, At twelve o'clock. There is good moonlight for us. Master of Revels. 'Tis a right hour. I'll meet thee at the elm-tree Nam'd from the royal deer. At twelve o'clock ! \The partt/ breaks tip.'\ What news from sea ? 60 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act L Frank. All well. Master of Revels. Why look so pale ? Before an action fearless men look pale, And fling away their smiles ; but, once engag'd. They scoff at death with gleesome mockery. No deck was e'er so strew'd with hideous slaughter, As the wide floor of this Plague-conquer'd city. Therefore look up our colours still are flying Will Frankfort strike them ? Frank. Yes ! I am a coward I I have for hours been wandering through this city. And now I stand within a little furlong Of the house that was my mother's. I have lingered In places quite remote have travers'd streets That led not thither yea ! have turn'd my face Away from the iraag'd dwelling of my parent. Glad to put off" the moment that might tell me That which with agony I long to know. // Besides, mayhap, I am intruding here. Good evening Walsingham to you fair dames Farewell. Come, Wilmot, o'er yon roof I see The vane upon the house-top, where Walsingham. Your mother On Thursday was alive. Frank. God bless thee, Walsingham \ On Thursday and 'tis yet but Sabbath-night. She must be living still ! Said they the Plague Destroys so suddenly ? In three small hours ? Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 6 1 Three days and nights contayi a frightful sum Of fatal hours. The Plague doth ask but three- She may be sick dead buried and forgotten. END OF THE FIRST ACT. CITY OF THE PLAGUE. ACT II. SCENE I. The street opposite a house adjoining Aldgate church-yard. Frank. Hush, Wilmot ! while I say one little pray'r. There stands the house I see it in my soul. Though yet mine eyes dare not to look on it. .^Let me lean on thee hear'st thou aught within ? Wil. It is the hour of rest : I nothing hear ; But the house methinks is slumb'ring happily In the clear moon-light. 'Tis a lovely night. Beauty without these walls, and peace within. Frank. Wears it the look of a deserted dwelling ? Wil. Its silence seems of sleep and not of death. Frank. O Wilmot ! sure the moon shines ruefully, On these black windows faintly ting'd with light ! I see no difference between these dark walls, And yonder tomb-stones they both speak of death, Wil. Be comforted. 64, THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act 11. Frank. List ! Wilmot ! hear'st thou aught ? Methinks it was my mother's voice within Singing a dirge-like hymn. Hear'st thou a voice .? Iil. Grief mocks itself with fancied sounds like these ; There was no voice. Frank. O let it breathe again, And all the world will seem alive to me. O God ! the silence of this lifeless street, Where all the human dwellings stand like tombs Empty or fill'd with corpses, seems collected Round this one house, whose shadowy glimmering walls Bear down my soul in utter hopelessness. Oh ! 'tis a sad, sad wreck. Mark how the dust Lies on th' untrodden steps ! and yet I see Footprints of one ascending. As I live, I hear a footstep in my mother's chamber. A light ! a light ! see where a light is moving As from an apparition through the house. [^Tke door opens^ and the Priest 'who appeared in the jirst Act comes into the street.'} Frank. Pale death is in his troubled countenance. The house is falling from me, and the street Is sinking down down down. I faint Support me. The Priest. \_To WiL. txihile they support Frank.] At a sad hour the sailor hath return'd. Would he were yet at sea. Frank. I hear thy voice, And know that I indeed am motherless. Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 65 Priest. Blessed are they who lived in the Lord, And in the Lord did die. Frank. Amen amen ! Hath little William gone with her to Heaven ? Priest. They died few hours apart. Methought I saw The angelical mother smiling up the sky With that delightful infant on her breast. More like a spirit that had come from Heaven To waft away the child to Paradise, Than a human soul departing from this earth. Frank. Soaring in beauty to immortal bliss ! But away from him who held them in his heart, An everlasting presence of delight 'Mid the dim dreary sea. Priest. Weep, weep my son, I wish to see thee weep. Frank. O why should tears Be shed unto the blest and beautiful By us poor dwellers in the woeful shades Of mortal being ? Wil. Thou art deadly pale ! Be not asham'd to weep upon my breast. I have seen thee weeping for that sweet child's sake When haply he was dancing in his mirth Frank. Dancing in his mirth ! The lovely child is dead. All all his innocent thoughts like rose-leaves scattered, E 66 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act H. And his glad childhood nothing but a dream ! I feel his last kiss yet (lueeping.) Wil. I also weep For I too am his brother, though his face Was only vision'd sweetly in my soul With its small features Frank. Sudden happiness Comes o'er my grief i Time and this world appear Mere' shadows, and I feel as if I stood Close to my mother's side ! O mournful weakness ! The realms of Heaven are stretching far away ; My soul is fetter'd to the earth ; the grave Cries with a voice that may not be gainsay'd, And mortal life appears eternity, Since she I lov'd has perish'd. Priest, Some, my son. Would bid thee trust in time, the friend of sorrow j But thou Jiast nobler comforters j nor would I Bid thee place hope in blind forgetfulness. I know that there is taken from thy soul Something that must return no more a joy That from the shore breath'd on thee far at sea, Filling thy heart with home j and sweeter far Arose that feeling o'er the ocean-calm Than airs balsamic breathing through the ship From odorous island unseen 'mid the waves. Frank. O kind old man ! Thy sweet and solemn voice, Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 67 Fit organ for such peaceful images, Breathes a calm reconcilement through my soul. These silvery locks made white by time and sorrow, Yet in their reverend beauty meekly smiling At what hath made them so, most silently Inspire my heart although yet young in grief, With resignation almost like thine own. Priest. Son ! hast thou strength to look upon that sight , Where human loveliness seems perfected By the last smile that will not pass away ? Fra?i/c. They yet then are unburied ? Priest. Even this day. At the hour when yonder bell would have been tolling. In other times than these, for morning-service. Her spirit went to heaven your brother died Some Uttle hours before. Frank. And in that house My mother and her little son lie dead ! Yes ! I have strength to look on them, to kiss Their cold white faces to embrace their bodies Though soul be gone still tenderly beloved, To gaze upon their eyelids, though the light Must never break in beauty from below them. And, with the words of fondest agony. Softly to whisper love unto the ear That in its frozen silence hears me not. Priest. I will conduct thee to them. 68 -THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. Frank. At the hour "When she was dying, in our vessel's barge Was I approaching to the shore, the oars Sounded as they were muflfled on the black And sluggish water ! 'Twas a gloomy hour, Yet, dark as it was, I ne'er expected this. One visit will I pay them e'er I go. Oh ! I have many a heavy thought to utter "Which God alone must hear. Priest. We will pray for thee^ Standing uncover'd in this silent street. And when we think thy soul is satisfied With the awful converse holden with the dead, We will come to thee for a little while, And sit with thee beside their bodies. God Will not forsake thee in this last distress. Frank. I dare not enter, though I yearn to lie For ever by their side. The very beauty Which in their sleeping faces I shall see With its fair image holds me motionless. A gulf of darkness lies beyond that door ! O tell me, reverend father ! how they died, And haply then I may have strength to go And see them dead : Now 'tis impossible. Wilmot ! why do you weep be comforted. Priest. Though from the awful suddenness of their death The Plague hath surely stricken them, yet they lie 11 Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 69 Unlike the other victims of that pest In more than mortal beauty. Their still faces, When last I saw them, in the moonlight lay, Like innocence sleeping in the love of heaven. Love mix'd with pity. Though a smile was there, It seem'd a smile ne'er meant for human eye. Nor seem'd regarding me ; but there it shone, A mournful lustre filling all the room With the silence of its placid holiness. Frank. Lovelier than when alive they might not be. Tell how they died. Priest. Last night I sat with her And talk'd of thee j two tranquil hours we talk'd Of thee and none beside, while little William Sat in his sweet and timid silent way Upon his stool beside his mother's knees. And, sometimes looking upwards to her face, Seem'd listening of his brother far at sea. This morning early I look'd in upon them Almost by chance. There little William lay With his bright hair and rosy countenance Dead 1 though at first I thought he only slept. " You think," his mother said, " that William sleeps ? " But he is dead ! He sicken'd during the night, *' And while I pray'd he drew a long deep sigh, " And breath'd no more !" Frank. . O sweet and sinless child I Go on go on I 70 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. Priest. I look'd