THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 5 I
 
 THE QUEEN'S INNOCENT 
 
 WITH OTHER POEMS 
 
 UY 
 
 ELISE COOPER 
 
 • LONDON 
 DAVID STOTT, 370, OXFORD STREET, W 
 
 1886
 
 
 CONTEXTS 
 
 The Queen's Innocent 
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim 
 
 Ballad of the Moon 
 
 Fugitive Verses — 
 
 Spring 
 
 April 
 
 By the Sea 
 
 An Invitation in July 
 
 Leila ■•• ... 
 
 Four Songs — 
 
 Aubade ■•• ... 
 
 Cloud 
 
 Weeping in the Rain 
 
 Serenade ... 
 
 A Lullaby 
 
 Garth's Song 
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Song for Sir Tristram 
 
 Love and Hope 
 
 A Boy's Portrait 
 
 Who? 
 
 Stanzas ... 
 
 My Town 
 
 In Memory of G. S. ... ••• ... 
 
 Fast Friends 
 
 Lines for the First Anniversary op 
 
 Gordon's Death 
 
 To \V. C. and L. C. C 
 
 i 
 
 ... 167 
 ... 186 
 
 196 
 ... 198 
 ... 199 
 
 ... 200 
 ... 202 
 
 ... 204 
 
 ... 206 
 
 ... 207 
 
 ... 209 
 
 ... 210 
 
 ... 212 
 213 
 
 .. 214 
 
 ... 216 
 
 ... 217 
 
 ... 218 
 
 ... 219 
 
 220 
 
 222 
 
 224 
 
 General 
 
 226 
 
 22S 
 
 9419.
 
 THE QUEEN'S INNOCENT. 
 
 Dramatis Persona?. 
 
 Gladys, The Queen. 
 
 Aon, The Prince, husband of the Queen. 
 
 Cleodora, The Princess, sister of the Prince. 
 
 ?, IBYL I Ladies in attendance on the Princess. 
 
 Veronica ) 
 
 Pharamond, Count of Ghyl, Cousin of the Queen and 
 
 Pretender to the Throne. 
 
 WlTHOLD, Cousin of the Pretender. 
 
 Timothy, a Tinker. 
 
 Morra, a deformed girl, daughter of Timothy. 
 
 A Minister of State ; A Gentleman of the household ; 
 
 Courtiers ; Officers ; A Priest ; Village folk. 
 Ben Ephraim, The Queen's Physician. 
 NARDI, The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Scene : 
 
 Partly in and about a Country ralace among the hills, 
 and partly in the Fortress of Sars.
 
 THE QUEEN'S INNOCENT. 
 
 * 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter on one side the Queen and the Prince, dressed for 
 riding ; on the other a Minister of State. 
 
 Min. Good morning to my Sovereign and her spouse. 
 " How does your Majesty ? " I need not ask. 
 
 Your cheeks are ruddy with the rose of health, 
 
 And happy lights are dancing in your eyes. 
 Queen. And where, my Lord, should ruddier roses 
 bloom, 
 
 And where be seen to sparkle happier lights, 
 
 Than in the face of one who grew a wife 
 
 But three days since ? 
 Prince. His lordship's eye is grave. 
 
 I hope he brings us no chill news to nip 
 
 Your roses. 
 
 B
 
 2 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Min. Gravest looks may well reflect 
 
 The import of such tidings as I bear. 
 That insurrection, which we thought was quelled 
 Nine months ago, has broken forth afresh. 
 Madam, the base Pretender, with a force 
 Small but compact, has flung himself once more 
 Across the frontier, this time in the east ; 
 And, gathering augmentations by the way,— 
 For all the villages along his route 
 Declared for him at once — has marched to Sars, 
 Where, treachery having entered in advance, 
 After the merest semblance of a siege 
 The garrison has surrendered to him. 
 
 Queen. Sars ! 
 
 Why, one day's march, and he is quartered here, 
 Here in the Palace ! 
 
 MiN. He has done his worst 
 
 And utmost for the present. Not the less 
 It is to be desired the court should move 
 P>ack to the capital without delay. 
 The public mind will be disquieted 
 Unless the Royal safety is secure. 
 
 Queen. We fly before the face of Pharamond ?— 
 Not were he standing at our Palace gate ' 
 This is to be a genuine honeymoon.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 3 
 
 It's honey will not taste less sweet to me 
 
 For being gathered upon danger's brink. 
 
 Will it to you ? {turning to the Prince). 
 Prince. My queen-bee, no. Yet pause, 
 
 Were it not well to be advised? Reflect 
 
 Queen. You fear these rebels then ? 
 Prince. /fear them? No. 
 
 Queen. Then let our cousin menace as he may, 
 
 Here we abide. I like the neighbourhood 
 
 Of peril — not that this is truly such — 
 
 I will have up more troops, and make a wall 
 
 Of solid soldiery 'twixt Sars and us, 
 
 Behind whose cover we will walk and drive, 
 
 Hunt in the forest, paddle on the lake, 
 
 Enjoy our country pastimes just the same 
 
 As if Prince Pharamond were an honest man 
 
 And loyal subject. 
 Min. Madam, you are young. 
 
 Prince. But were there none their progress to oppose ? 
 
 How was this fortress garrisoned ? You spoke 
 
 Of treachery 
 
 Qceen. Yes, keep nothing back, my lord. 
 
 I thought that General Morios was at Sars ? 
 Min. He is there still. 
 Queen. A prisoner? 
 
 B 2
 
 4 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Min. No. 
 
 Queen. How then, 
 
 Traitor ? . . . 
 
 (To the Prince.) We owe a woman thanks for this. 
 Morios, grey-haired long since and past his prime. 
 Has taken to himself of late a wife, 
 Lovely, but of ignoble origin 
 And infamous repute. She, not content 
 With leading thus in lawful life-long chains 
 The greatest soldier of the state and time, 
 Aspired to flaunt her beauty at the Court ; 
 And he, presuming on his services, 
 Required (infatuate !) she should be received, 
 And chafed beneath my " No "—his first defeat. 
 
 Min. His single loss outweighs for us the entire 
 Defection of an army. 
 
 Queen. It was pricked — 
 
 His loyalty ; it would not else collapse 
 Thus at the first slight pressure. Let him go. 
 My lord, I think our council meets at three ; 
 Till then, adieu. (Exit Minister.) 
 
 Prince. How long is it ago 
 
 Since Pharamond sought your love ? 
 
 Queen. My hand, you mean. 
 
 You know that when the duke, my father, died,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Before his brother the unmarried king, 
 (The death of Dorion, my father's sole 
 Male issue, having anteceded his) — 
 Prince. Dorion, your little step-brother. 
 Queen. The same, — 
 
 The supreme council of the realm repealed 
 The law excluding females from the throne ; 
 Wherefore the crown's reversion fell to me, 
 ' Instead of Pharamond, the next heir male. 
 For many a sharp offence against the laws, 
 This Pharamond was then a banished man. 
 His term of exile ended, he returned, 
 (That was at my accession), saw me crowned, 
 And swore allegiance. When he deemed the way 
 Sufficiently prepared for such a step, 
 He asked my hand in marriage. Then it was, 
 Then, when despite the artful eloquence 
 With which 'twas urged he saw his suit declined, 
 Not without scorn, at once he dropped his mask, 
 That southern province where his mother's house 
 Had long upheld the old religion sought, 
 And there, among the partisans of both, 
 An army raised and had himself proclaimed 
 King by the ancient law and right divine. 
 Prince. A gambler, perjurer, and libertine ;
 
 6 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 False, subtle, shifty and unscrupulous ; — 
 
 What makes him popular with the multitude ? 
 Queen. Liberal of hand when aught he has to give, 
 
 Liberal of promise when his purse is void, 
 
 Is Pharamond — the princely attribute 
 
 Of an imposing presence does not lack, 
 
 Nor yet a fluent and persuasive tongue, 
 
 And winning although studied courtesy 
 
 Of manner. With the multitude at large 
 
 That he is popular is not the truth. 
 
 His chief adherents are his mother's kin, 
 
 The clergy of the superseded faith, 
 
 Together with the unlettered peasant flock 
 
 They shepherd, and a malcontent or two 
 
 Like Morios. — Let us talk of him no more. 
 
 I long to be in the saddle, and I think 
 
 Our horses must by now be waiting. Goes 
 
 Cleodora with us ? 
 Prince. No. I thought we two 
 
 Were company enough. 
 Queen. So failed to give 
 
 My message ? Will you think thus three years hence ? 
 
 \Exeunt.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 7 
 
 Scene II. — A lawn shaded by trees, with garden- 
 chairs AND A TABLE STREWN WITH BOOKS, NEEDLE- 
 WORK, a guitar, &c. Portion of the Palace, con- 
 taining the private apartments of the Princess, 
 
 WITH A FLIGHT OF STEPS IN THE BACKGROUND. THE 
 
 Princess, Sibyl, and Veronica descend the steps. 
 
 Princess. I wish to heaven the honeymoon were o'er, 
 And one could see, instead of those green glades, 
 The roofs and steeples of the capital. 
 I tire to death of this dull country life. 
 My brother is my brother now no more ; 
 The Queen is grown his world, his universe ; 
 All others, be they whom they may, are nought — 
 The unknown beings in the farthest star 
 Can scarce concern him less. While she is nigh 
 He has eluded death and is in heaven ; 
 Divorce him from her side a single hour — 
 He is an outcast angel, filled with gloom 
 And longing and disquietude, with eyes 
 Turned ever towards the gate of paradise, 
 Shut for the nonce. I hate a man in love ! 
 
 Veron. They say that marriage is love's antidote. 
 The potion here has failed in its effect. 
 
 Sibyl. Failed ! Why it has not yet had time to work.
 
 8 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 How long have they been wedded ? Just three days. 
 Oh, never fear but Hymen will restore 
 These victims whom the mischievous boy-god 
 Has bound and blinded. 
 
 Veron. Yes ; no Eden long 
 
 Remains impenetrable to the snake. 
 I wonder through what dense hedge, lush with May, 
 Or verdurous wall of matted undergrowth, 
 Where even suspicion would not see the need 
 To halt or set a guard, his sinuous shape 
 
 Will bore an ingress to this paradise ? 
 
 From underneath what bed of innocent flowers 
 His venom at this pair he first will dart ? 
 Oh, Sibyl, you and I will never wed ! 
 
 Princess. I should have scoffed had anyone foretold 
 My brother thus infatuate could become ! 
 
 Sibyl. Your Highness thinks the Prince's love mis- 
 placed ? 
 The Queen not worth such ardent worship ? 
 
 Princess. Worth ! 
 
 What lover looks at worth ? There needs a net 
 Of brighter thread and subtler mesh than that, 
 To catch the vagrant fancy of a man. 
 
 Veron. I wish I knew what sort of web to weave, 
 To snare so fine an insect — well-a-day !
 
 TJie Queen's Innocent. 9 
 
 A web spun out of thinnest star-beams, twined 
 
 With filaments of rose and sapphire mist ? 
 Sibyl. A less ethereal gossamer will trap 
 
 That butterfly. To keep it afterwards 
 
 Alive, and never tear its fragile wings, 
 
 Or rub away the many-coloured dust 
 
 Which makes their beauty — that's the hardest thing. 
 
 I know not how our Prince got first enmeshed, 
 
 But scarcely wonder that he likes the net, 
 
 Once in it. 
 Princess. You admire the Queen, no doubt. 
 
 Sibyl. I do. 
 
 Veron. Her face is plain, you must allow. 
 
 Sibyl. But was there ever so divine a smile ? 
 Veron. If its divinity would steal abroad 
 
 More often o'er her face, the smile might pass. 
 Sibyl. Why now, I like that gentle gravity 
 
 Which overcasts her features when at rest. 
 
 The high responsibilities of power 
 
 Weigh on her youth a little heavily. 
 
 And then her voice —strong, silvery, musical ; 
 
 Susceptible of an infinitude 
 
 Of delicate modulations. 
 Princess. Voice is nought. 
 
 Men by the eye and not the ear are caught.
 
 io The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Veron. Her figure is not good, you will admit. 
 Sibyl. Not statuesaue ; but then she bears herself 
 
 With such a grace and majesty as oft 
 
 The sculptor's model lacks. She has the gift 
 
 Of manners — innate dignity with sweet 
 
 And gracious condescension blent. In her 
 
 The queen and woman overlap, and melt 
 
 Into each other imperceptibly. 
 Princess. You look at objects through my brother's 
 glass. 
 
 You always did. One focus suits you both. 
 Veron. Sibyl has borrowed not the Prince's glass 
 
 Now, but his very eyes. 
 Princess. I think she has. 
 
 What is she going to pay him for the loan ? 
 
 I recollect that once 'twas common talk 
 
 Sibyl (quickly). Is it so strange that I admire the 
 Queen ? 
 
 Others, ere I, have recognized her charm, 
 
 Others have doted on her ere the Prince. 
 
 Pharamond, Count of Ghyl, as all the world 
 
 Well knows, once loved her, — 
 Princess {pale with anger). Sibyl, do you dare 
 
 Re-summon to my mind that episode ? 
 
 You know my vulnerable part, and there
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 1 1 
 
 You stab me. 
 Sibyl. Your forgiveness I entreat. 
 
 But — prick me with the poniard, and I use 
 
 The poniard in defence. 
 Princess. 'Twas policy, 
 
 Ambition — what you will, but never love. 
 
 His heart was faithful all the while to me. 
 
 I had not else forgiven him as I did. 
 
 Yet truly, as regards my brother's wife, 
 
 I like her not ; 'twixt her and me there lurks 
 
 Covert antagonism, some chymic law 
 
 Forbids our natures to amalgamate. 
 
 The smouldering fire nigh leapt into a blaze 
 
 But yesterevening, just because I shot 
 
 Some harmless pleasantries which had for aim 
 
 That simple youth they call "The Innocent." 
 Veron. Pity that so well-favoured a young man 
 
 Should lack the complement of all his wits. 
 Princess. He might be less amusing were he more 
 
 Astute. Much entertainment may be drawn 
 
 Out of his folly, I conceive. The fool 
 
 Shall be our consolation while we stay 
 
 In this dull spot. If but to spite the Queen, 
 
 With whom he seems a special favourite, 
 
 His witless head shall be our mark, whereat
 
 12 The Queen! s Innocent. 
 
 Full many a lively shaft we three will wing. 
 
 Sibyl. Yes, only let the points be venomless. 
 
 Fool though he be, I thought he winced with pain 
 
 While you were making sport of him last night. 
 
 I had some talk about him yesterday 
 
 With that shrewd-faced old Jew with grizzled brows, — ■ 
 
 Princess. The Queen's physician? 
 
 Sibyl. Yes. 
 
 Veron. He has, they say, 
 
 Much influence in a certain quarter. 
 
 Princess. Well ? 
 
 Has he been always foolish, this young man ? 
 
 Sibyl. He never has been quite as others are. 
 His fancy 's one of such a vivid sort, 
 He mixes with the phantasms of his sleep 
 The impressions of his waking hours, and this 
 The irrelevance his words and actions shew 
 In part, 'tis thought, accounts for. He was once 
 To fits of violence prone, but that 's long since, 
 His nature now is gentle,— though at worst 
 He wreaked no harm on any but himself — 
 And often you might talk to him for hours 
 And scarce his singularity perceive. 
 
 Veron. How came he to the court to be attached ? 
 
 Sibyl. He sang beneath the windows of an inn
 
 The Queeri 's Innocent. 13 
 
 In which the Queen once rested for a night 
 While making a state-progress through the realm, 
 Soon after her accession to the throne. 
 Struck with his voice she sent for him, and straight 
 Conceived so great a fancy for the child 
 That, learning he was orphaned and as good 
 As friendless, -she adopted him forthwith 
 Into her household, and — but see who comes — 
 Veron. Nardi himself, our target in the flesh ! 
 
 Enter the Queen's Innocent, richly dressed, with his 
 right hand full of flowers. He bows low to all three 
 ladies, and then approaches the Princess. 
 
 Nardi. This is the woodland flower of which I spoke, 
 
 The fairest that is native to these parts, 
 
 To which it seems, as far as I can learn, 
 
 Peculiar. 
 Princess. Yes, the blossoms, it is true, 
 
 Are pretty, but I do not greatly care 
 
 For wild flowers. 
 Nardi. And I like them best of all. 
 
 Look at these lovely bells — could culture make 
 
 Their form or hue more perfect ?
 
 14 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Princess. They exhale 
 
 A noisome odour — ph ! 
 Nardi. You find the scent 
 
 Ungrateful ? Why, to me it seems most sweet ! 
 
 Our peasants say it is medicinal. 
 Princess. Medicinal, perhaps — but 'tis not sweet. 
 
 It makes my head ache. Sibyl, take the flowers 
 
 And place them where their breath may not infect 
 
 The air about me. And, Veronica, 
 
 Give me my smelling-bottle. 
 
 (To Nardi, after a pause.) I perceive 
 
 Your eye has lighted on that instrument. 
 
 They tell me you are musical. 
 Nardi. Not so — 
 
 Except in a poetic sort of way. 
 
 Not truly musical. I lack all skill 
 
 That comes of intimate knowledge of the art ; 
 
 To that I never could attain. 
 Princkss. You play 
 
 And sing, however? 
 Nardi. To the Queen, sometimes — 
 
 Who is too partial to be critical — 
 
 And for my own poor pleasure when alone. 
 Princess. Will you vouchsafe • a sample of your 
 powers ?
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 15 
 
 (He takes the guitar and seats himself. Then, after a 
 short prelude, sings :) 
 
 Is it not wintry chill on high 
 In that huge garden of the sky ? 
 
 The roses said to the stars : 
 Why do you fold your petals bright — 
 Do you not love the glad daylight ? — 
 Until the sun has dropped from sight 
 
 Behind the West's gold bars ? 
 
 s v 
 
 Sweets do your lucent breasts immure 
 Which that small yellow epicure, 
 
 The robber bee, discovers ? 
 x\re beetles, burnished green, like those 
 That creep and in our hearts lie close, 
 Your nurslings? — winds your playfellows? — 
 
 And nightingales your lovers ? 
 
 Princess. Is that the end? What poet made those 
 
 words ? 
 Nardi. No poet, madam, saving I be one. 
 Sibyl. The song must surely have a sequel. What, 
 In answer to the roses, said the stars ?
 
 1 6 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Nardi. (Changing the measure). 
 
 Nor nurslings, nor playmates, nor lovers intrude 
 On our calm mid the vast of infinitude ; 
 
 The stars to the roses said : 
 Nought have we that on us bee or beetle should doat 
 But we shine with our splendour undimmed when 
 
 the note 
 Of your wooer, the nightingale, dies in his throat, 
 And you roses are one and all dead. 
 
 The colour, the glow, pomp, and perfume of June, 
 Which you are a part of, is ended full soon, 
 
 Summer, winter, autumnal and vernal 
 Each other succeed ; generations of roses 
 Bud, blossom and fade ; bloom decay presupposes : 
 While the summer with us neither varies nor closes, 
 
 The season of prime is eternal. 
 
 Veron. Sharp ears the stars and roses must have had, 
 
 To hear each other such a space apart. 
 Princess. I do not care for poetry that deals 
 
 Only with things inanimate. Can you sing 
 
 No human, passionate songs ? 
 Nardi. Your Highness means . . . ? 
 
 Sibyl. Her Highness means she likes Apollo best
 
 Tfye Queens Innocent. 17 
 
 In company with Eros. 
 Nardi. What is he ? 
 
 Veron. Hear him ! 
 Sibyl. Oh, rightly named "The Innocent"! 
 
 You never heard of Eros ? 
 Nardi. If I did, 
 
 I have forgot. Apollo, him I know. 
 Sibyl. If one must clothe it in the vulgar tongue — 
 
 Her Highness means, can you not sing of love ? 
 
 Nardi. How can I sing of love 
 
 Until its pangs I prove ? 
 A temple not yet hallowed — such is my mute heart ; 
 A vacant pedestal, 
 An empty shrine withal, — 
 How can I sing of love that know not love's sweet 
 smart ? 
 
 The temple which to erect, 
 Time, the still architect, 
 Has taken twice nine years, doth towards completion 
 haste ; 
 But yet no goddess blest 
 Makes herself manifest, 
 By vision or by voice, within the precincts chaste. 
 
 c
 
 1 8 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 The shrine is carved — inwrought 
 
 With many a jewel -thought, 
 And many a flower-like rich emotion, fair devised, 
 
 But she for whom the hours 
 
 In silence thus their powers 
 Have plied, the holy saint, is still uncanonized. 
 
 The pedestal doth want 
 
 Its marble occupant ; 
 Perchance some opal dawn, not distant, may discover 
 
 The statue in its place 
 
 Upon the breathing base, 
 Sculptured with imagery of passionate dreams all over. 
 
 Princess. Shrine — temple — of his bosom's sanctity 
 
 This youth a goodly notion entertains. 
 Sibyl. — A shrine 's a box, with gew-gaws overlaid, 
 
 That holds dry bones. 
 Veron. A temple is a place 
 
 Where strange gods meet and jostle. Sanctity ! 
 Sibyl. He calls his heart a sculptured pedestal ; 
 
 That is to say his heart is made of stone. 
 Veron. To boast himself thus hardened at eighteen ! 
 Nardi. Ladies, in future you shall sing yourselves. 
 
 You mock at my poor efforts.
 
 The Queens Innocent. 19 
 
 Princess. Be not vexed. 
 
 They mock at all things, these wild girls of mine, 
 
 'Tis often but lip-mockery all the while. 
 
 I liked your last song better than the first. 
 Nardi. Teach me what kind of music you prefer, 
 
 And I will sing no other. Will you try 
 
 One little ditty ? {Offers her the guitar.) 
 
 Princess. Hand the instrument 
 
 To Lady Sibyl. 
 
 Sibyl, you who led 
 
 The laugh against him, give him his revenge. 
 Sibyl. Which shall I sing of all the songs I know ? 
 Veron. " One little ditty ! " 
 Sibyl. Merry shall it be, 
 
 Or sad ? . . Alack, the youth looks critical ! 
 
 SIBYL'S SONG. 
 Give me back the kisses which you stole ; 
 
 The peace of mind you robbed me of restore ; 
 Make me heart-whole, 
 
 Heart-free once more. 
 
 Weapons have been known that, with a touch, 
 
 The wounds aforetime they bestowed could heal ; 
 My wound did such 
 
 A weapon deal. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Lay them back upon my lips again, 
 
 All those kisses that by fraud were reft 
 And then — why then 
 
 Repeat the theft ! 
 
 Princess. A Sibylline conclusion. Take this youth 
 
 For pupil ; he already knows the knack 
 
 Of stringing rhymes, now you can teach him style 
 
 And sentiment. 
 Sibyl. Oh, teaching's not my forte. 
 
 Besides, his eyes are asking terms elsewhere. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! I guess whose pupil he will be. 
 Veron (who has taken up some needlework). 
 
 Where have my scissors wandered ? 
 
 (To the Princess) Snip this thread, 
 
 Here, with your dagger. 
 Nardi. Tis a dagger, then, 
 
 Your Highness wears, and no mere ornament. 
 Princess. Both. 'Twas the fashion when I left my land 
 
 To wear such baubles. See, its edge is keen. 
 
 (Sheathes and hands it to him.) 
 Nardi (unsheathing and holding it up.) 
 
 Oh, how the bright steel flashes back the light ! 
 
 Just such another I should like to own.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 21 
 
 Princess. If you would like to keep it, it is yours. 
 Nardi. You mean it? But the hilt is jewelled. . . . No, 
 
 The gift is far too costly {tenders it back). 
 Princess. View its gems 
 
 As guerdon for your singing and your flowers. 
 Nardi. Your Highness's acceptance of the one, 
 
 Approval of the other — such was all 
 
 The guerdon I desired. 
 Sibyl. A pretty speaker ! 
 
 Veron. A very pretty ! 
 Princess. Well, receive it then 
 
 As a free gift, and wear it for my sake. 
 Nardi. I may not wear a weapon — that's the truth. 
 
 Her Majesty forbids — I know not why. 
 Princess. Wear it behind her royal back. 
 Nardi. But — but — 
 
 Princess. " But — but ! " Oh, take or leave it, as you 
 
 choose {rises). 
 Veron. It's ill-luck giving sharp-edged tools. I wager 
 
 He cuts his fingers playing with that toy, 
 
 And then his blood will rest upon your head. 
 Princess. Lightly, I think. 
 Re enters the Palace, followed by Sibyl and Veronica. 
 
 Nardi stands gazing after them for a few seconds, then 
 
 lifts the dagger reverentially to his lips.
 
 22 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Scene III. — A Corridor in the Palace. 
 Enter a Courtier and an Aide-de-Camp. 
 
 Court. How long do you suppose that it will take 
 To smoke these rebels out ? 
 
 Aide. Two months, at least. 
 
 Placed near the summit of a range of hills, 
 Sars occupies a site well-nigh unmatched 
 For natural strength. It is impregnable, 
 Moreover, on account of its deep ditch 
 And scarps in masonry, to all assaults 
 Save those conducted in a normal way — 
 By means of an elaborate scheme, to wit, 
 Of trenches, mines, and batteries, till, its walls 
 Crumbling, our storming columns can advance 
 Without more solid hindrance than the arms 
 And bodies of the men defending it. 
 The patient labour of the engineer, 
 The moving up and planting on the heights 
 Of heavy guns, asks time. The stronghold once 
 Retaken, the surrender of the town 
 It overlooks and lords ensues, of course, 
 With that of such entrenchments as remain. 
 
 Court. I query whether Pharamond and his friends 
 Will put your engineers to all this pains.
 
 Queens Innocent. 23 
 
 Aide. That hangs upon the course events may take 
 Elsewhere. His unexpected spurt of luck 
 The Prince Pretender doubtless thinks will tempt 
 Some larger towns, in one or two of which 
 His secret agents an enthusiasm 
 Factitious are already churning up, 
 In favour of his title to pronounce. 
 This hope will prove illusory, I believe ; 
 Sars in the end must either yield or fall ; 
 A desultory warfare he may then 
 Maintain among the hills, till by degrees 
 His following melts away from him 
 
 Court. Or else 
 
 Retreating, with his shavelings and his boors, 
 Into his own insurgent province, keep 
 That chronic sore from healing. 
 
 Aide. Be assured 
 
 The Government will never pause again 
 Till this revolt is finally stamped out. 
 
 Court. Who would have thought a tempest was to 
 plough 
 The halcyonian waters, when we moored 
 The royal nuptial barge in this smooth spot 
 So few days since ? Ah well, our country life 
 Is too much of one colour for my taste ;
 
 24 The Queen* s Innocent. 
 
 This influx of the brave, the trampling past 
 Of regiments, martial glitter and parade, 
 The bustle and excitement and suspense 
 Whose centre we are like to be erelong, 
 Will streak it with fresh dyes. 
 
 Aide. I thought the Court 
 
 Was going back to town. 
 
 Court. The Queen declares 
 
 She will at least stay out her honeymoon, 
 And would, were twenty Pharamonds in arms. 
 
 Aide. Brave lady. 
 
 Court. Venus' doves can bill and coo 
 
 Though Mars be present. 
 
 Aide. Venus' doves were never 
 
 The birds to startle at the god of fight. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Room in the Palace. 
 
 (Queen at work upon a piece of tapestry ; Nardi, on a 
 low stool near her feet, sings to his guitar :) 
 
 Were the lute of Orpheus mine, 
 I would haste where battle rages, 
 And, as host with host engages, 
 
 Play upon its strings divine
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 2$ 
 
 So sweetly, wildly — 
 
 Mid the fierce unholy jar 
 Steal they should, those sounds, and drown 
 
 The harsh music of dread war ; 
 Till the combatants laid down 
 Their arms, and mildly 
 
 Stood and gazed at one the other ; 
 And I would not cease from playing 
 Until each, instead of slaying, 
 
 Clasped his foeman like a brother, 
 And wept sweet holy tears, and then 
 Turned home to till his fields again. 
 
 Were the lute of Orpheus mine, 
 I the overhanging beak 
 Of some cape of storms would seek, 
 
 On its giddiest verge recline, 
 And there the dreaming 
 
 Chords to notes so loud and clear 
 Waken, that for leagues around 
 
 All the waves and winds should heor ; 
 And the sea-gulls at the sound 
 
 Would hush their screaming, 
 
 And the thunder faint would grow,
 
 2 6 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 And the billow tame its crest, 
 And the surge from beating rest, 
 
 And the tempest cease to blow • 
 And ships in peril on the deep 
 Rock safe as babes that cradled sleep. 
 
 Were the lute of Orpheus mine, 
 Playing always I would go 
 Through life's bye-ways to and fro, 
 
 Working a result benign 
 On whatsoever 
 
 Chanced to hear the music sweet ; 
 Turmoil should give place to quiet ; 
 
 Poverty's dry crust would eat 
 Equal to the daintiest diet ; 
 
 Hard hearts that never 
 
 Felt a thrill should melt with ruth ; 
 Misers, of their own accord, 
 With the needy share their hoard ; 
 
 Liars fall in love with truth ; 
 The sick and sad forget their pain, 
 And wrinkled age grow young again. 
 
 Nardi. Did Orpheus love Eurydice ?
 
 The Queens Innocent. 27 
 
 Queen. He had 
 
 A sort of kindness for her, I believe. 
 Nardi. I dreamt last night that I was Orpheus. 
 Queen, Yes ? 
 
 Did many beasts collect to hear you sing ? 
 Nardi. A panther came and crouched against my feet, 
 
 And as I sang it altered — guess to what ? 
 Queen. A wolf? 
 Nardi. A woman. 
 
 Queen. A more perilous shape 
 
 It could not take. I hope you ran away. 
 Nardi {crooning to himself.) 
 
 Which were crueller of the two, 
 
 The panther or the woman ? — 
 The beast's heart or the human ? 
 I could tell methinks — could you ? 
 Queen. Is that a question to be answered ? 
 Nardi (with a sudden vivacity). Madam, 
 
 How like you being wedded ? 
 Queen. Well enough. 
 
 The Prince and I have not been man and wife 
 
 So long we tire of one the other yet. 
 Nardi. I, too, would be beloved ! 
 Queen. Why, so you are. 
 
 They get no grace from me that love you not.
 
 28 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Nardi. But in the way you love the Prince I mean, 
 
 As Orpheus by Eurydice was loved. 
 (Ben Ephraim, the Queen's Physician, enters behind.) 
 Queen. What folly is fermenting in your brain ? 
 
 You think to love is to be blest ? — you err. 
 
 Two bitter drops to every one of sweet 
 
 Compose that draught. Each rapture veils some pang. 
 
 Fierce jealousies, wild angers, torturing doubls, 
 
 All interweave their dark or lurid threads 
 
 Amid the texture of the happiest love. 
 Nardi. Can this be true ? 
 Queen. If ever you should meet 
 
 Love in your wanderings, turn your back on him ; 
 
 Pause not to parley, do not give him time 
 
 To throw his bandage round your eyes, but turn 
 
 And resolutely flee. 
 Nardi. But, madam, you 
 
 Are happy ? You would not with love dispense ? 
 Queen. Once captive to that lord we hug our chains. 
 
 But you — keep free ! Love's fetters seem of flowers, 
 
 But 'neath his roses there are gyves of steel. 
 Nardi (rising.) I take my leave. 
 Queen. Where go you ? 
 
 Nardi. To the woods 
 
 To meditate. [Exit Nardi.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 29 
 
 Ben E. An aged bachelor, 
 
 It is so many decades since I paid 
 Incense of futile sighs at Venus' shrine, 
 I scarce remember what such worship means. 
 But that was only sophistry, I hope, 
 Which, falling from the lips of one on whom 
 "Wifehood so newly sits, I heard but now. 
 
 Queen. It was the truth. . . . Yet only half the truth. 
 
 Ben E. The other half? 
 
 Queen. Corrects it — qualifies, 
 
 And that shall Nardi never learn from me ; 
 Would there were none to teach it him beside. 
 I have observed with some disquietude 
 A change in him of late. His bearing shows 
 A manlier and more gallant grace. His locks, 
 That flowed untamed, are trimmed and curled with 
 
 care. 
 And he who gave so little thought to dress 
 Now rivals, nay, eclipses, in his garb 
 The foppishness of our court exquisites. 
 
 Ben E. Your Majesty, in dress, as other things, 
 Permits him too much license. For the rest — 
 All this is well ; the boy becomes a man. 
 
 Queen. A man indeed, and yet it is not well. 
 The advent of the Princess at our Court
 
 30 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Marks the commencement of this change. He aims 
 At finding favour in her lovely eyes. 
 
 Ben E. She and her ladies mock him openly ! 
 I ventured in their hearing to remark 
 But yesterevening that in generous minds 
 The youth's simplicity was wont to breed 
 Consideration rather than contempt, 
 And that your Majesty would not endure 
 To see him made a sport of. 
 
 Queen. Only note 
 
 His changeful cheek, the hunger in his eyes, 
 The while her smallest movement he observes, 
 Hangs breathless on her utterance. Just pronounce 
 " Cleodora " or " the Princess," suddenly, 
 And see the hot blood flame up in his face ! 
 By means of a profound and happy love 
 His wayward feet might find for good and all 
 The mother-level of humanity. 
 But this can never prove a happy love. 
 Think of the possibilities it implies, 
 The issues opens ! Why was he not smit 
 With some poor gentlewoman, whose estate 
 Might match with his? — some comely peasant even, 
 (Since he for persons owns not much respect), 
 Met in the woods ? But no, his heart for mate
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 31 
 
 Demands a princess — thus imperiously 
 ' Will blood assert itself. Ben Ephraim, mark — 
 He must be thwarted ere this goes too far. 
 Ben E. It is some fantasy. 'Twill pass away 
 
 As other fantasies have passed before. 
 Queen. For once your penetration is at fault. 
 
 This is no fantasy. 
 Ben E. Whate'er it be, 
 
 It cannot flourish in the shrewd bleak air 
 Of scorn like hers. 
 Queen. Be not too sure of that. 
 
 1 have a black foreboding she is meant 
 To work some evil upon me and mine. 
 Why can I not be friends with her ? Why shuts 
 My heart at her approach — so beautiful 
 A being, sister of my own beloved ? 
 Such beauty oft brings ruin, so they say. 
 You smile — old men forget they once were young. 
 Well, well— keep Nardi in your sight, that's all. 
 Ben E. I strive to do so always. 
 Queen. If he loves 
 
 He will grow subtle. Do not let him hoodwink 
 Your vigilance {rises to go). You ride this afternoon. 
 Far? 
 Ben E. To within a brace of miles of Sars.
 
 32 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 I go to see what change six months have wrought 
 
 Upon some forest patients. 
 Queen. Look you keep 
 
 Clear of the rebel outposts, and beware 
 
 Of scouts and sharp-shooters. Best take a guard. 
 Ben E. I thank your Majesty. My groom and I 
 
 Go both well armed. [Exeunt different ways. 
 
 Scene V. — Before an Ale-house on the village 
 Green. Timothy lies drunk on a bench with 
 
 HIS POTS AND PANS NEAR HIM. ENTER VILLAGE 
 BOYS HUSTLING Mort'd, A DEFORMED GIRL, WHO 
 CARRIES A LOAD OF FIREWOOD. 
 
 Boys. Crook-back ! Crook-back ! 
 Morra. You wicked boys ! You brutes ! 
 
 Timothy (sitting up). Why, that's my Morra ! Hullo ! 
 . . How now, boys ? 
 Hold hard there ! . . . (Relapses.) 
 
 (She struggles. They strike and push her dozen.) 
 
 A Boy. Oh, oh ! She has bit my hand ! 
 
 The young she-devil ! Duck her in the pond ! 
 Other Boys. Yes, duck her in the pond, the ugly witch ! 
 
 (They are dragging her away when Nardi ente/s. 
 Boys leave her and scamper off.)
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 33 
 
 Nardi. Why were they going to duck you in the pond ? 
 Morra. Because I am crook'd and ugly — cause enough. 
 Nardi. Where do you live ? 
 Morra {sullenly). What's that to you ? 
 
 Nardi. Not much. 
 
 Only you seem so wretched and so poor, 
 
 And I might help you if I knew the way. 
 
 What are your friends ? 
 Morra {still sullenly). Got none. That's father, there — 
 
 Drunk, as he most times is, along that bench. 
 
 And grandf'er's childish, and a bed-lier. 
 Nardi. But tell me, do you get enough to eat ? 
 
 You look half-starved. 
 Morra {with a short laugh). Why, often I could eat 
 
 More than I get, — most poor folks can, no doubt. 
 
 GrandPer, he's always craving after food, — 
 
 I go without, and let him have my share 
 
 Besides his own, to quiet him sometimes. 
 
 Father, he mostly lives upon the drink. 
 Nardi. What does he do then for a livelihood, 
 
 That father ? 
 Morra. Tinkers pots and such like. 
 
 {Shoulders her firewood.) 
 
 Nardi. Stay, 
 
 That load 's too heavy for your poor back to bear. 
 
 D
 
 34 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Let me take part. Well, I shall take the whole 
 Since you resist. Now you go on in front, 
 And show the way. I'll follow. 
 
 (Morra sulkily obeys. Exeunt?) 
 Timothy {rousing himself again). Gently, boys, 
 
 Morra 's a poor weak creature. Not too rough. 
 
 {Becomes aware that he is alone. Rises and with 
 difficulty shoulders his pots.) 
 
 Any pots to mend ! Any pots or pans to mend ! 
 
 {Reels off.) 
 
 Scene VI. — An Antechamber in the Palace. A 
 
 SOUND IS HEARD AS OF A KEY BEING TURNED IN A 
 LOCK. A DOOR OPENS AND A GENTLEMAN OF THE 
 HOUSEHOLD ENTERS CAUTIOUSLY, FOLLOWED BY THE 
 
 Pretender. 
 
 Gen. Her antechamber— this, 
 
 Behind yon door 's her private sitting-room. 
 That other opens on the corridor. 
 Now hide behind this curtain. Note — the key 
 Is in the lock. In case of accident 
 Be sure to turn it, and arrest pursuit, 
 Ere you fly down the staircase. Someone comes. 
 Heaven bless your Royal Highness and protect ! 
 
 [Exit Gentleman.
 
 The Queens Innocent. 35 
 
 Enter Sibyl and Veronica. 
 
 Sibyl. But what a curious bend of circumstance 
 That sets the man, to whom for four long years 
 The Princess has been secretly betrothed, 
 In opposition to her brother's wife. 
 
 Veron. He was in arms against the Queen before. 
 
 Sibyl. The Queen was not then married to our Prince. 
 Then with the Count flew all our hopes abreast ; 
 Now some will lag upon uncertain wing — 
 The lover's gain must be the brother's loss. 
 
 Veron. A brother counts for nought against a lover. 
 Besides, the Princess bears her sister-in-law, 
 And sometime rival, small good will, we know, 
 And would not greatly grieve to see the crown 
 Plucked from her brows. 'Tis true the Prince must 
 
 yield 
 His share in that same bauble, but to whom ? 
 Aon to Cleodora would give way, 
 Prince Consort to Queen Consort ; hence say I, 
 " Success attend the arms of Pharamond ! " 
 
 Pret. {aside.) Amen, Veronica ! 
 
 Sibyl. He makes no sign, — 
 
 A victor and so near, and yet to send 
 No line of greeting, no mute token even ! 
 
 d 2
 
 36 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 The Princess feels it, though she nothing says. 
 
 When 'thwart what seemed his pathway to this throne 
 
 His heart is set on, Love stood heretofore, 
 
 Without remorse he bade it stand aside. 
 
 He once proved false — he may prove false again. 
 Pret. (aside.) The little traitress ! I am like to meet 
 
 The common fate of listeners, I can see. 
 Veron. Oh, but their secret trothplight is not now 
 
 What then it was — a drag upon the wheel 
 
 Of his ambition. Present intercourse 
 
 Between them fraught with danger were to both. 
 
 Silence with him means prudence, nothing more. 
 Sibyl. What will not love adventure for the sake 
 
 Of one beloved ? I think if — 
 
 (Perceives the Pretender emerging from behind the 
 curtain, and stops abruptly. Veronica sees him 
 at the same moment and gives a faint shriek?) 
 Pret. Do not scream, 
 
 Or you betray me. Sibyl sweet, and dear 
 
 Veronica, my safety only lives 
 
 In your discretion. 
 Veron. Is it you yourself, 
 
 And not your ghostly second ? 
 Pret. Have no fear. 
 
 'Tis I, arrayed in honest flesh and blood. 
 Sibyl. How could your Highness run so great a risk ?
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 37 
 
 Pret. Ah, Sibyl, you forget — "What will not love 
 
 Adventure for the sake of one beloved ? " 
 
 Hark ! is not that a step without I hear ? 
 Veron. {who has run to the door to reconnoitre?) 
 
 It's only Nardi. 
 Sibyl. We will deal with him. 
 
 Conceal yourself behind the curtain — quick ! 
 The Queen's Innocent enters. 
 Nardi. Ladies, illustrious and dear, I deemed — 
 Sibyl. Oh, Nardi, speak to us in prose, it's all 
 
 Flat prose with us to-day. What is 't you want ? 
 
 You cannot see her Highness, she is sick. 
 Nardi. Sick ! She looked freshly as a new-blown rose 
 
 This noon. Not very sick, I trust ? 
 Sibyl. Why, no ; 
 
 A headache, — yet most violent while it lasts. 
 
 Her brow feels fit to burst. 
 Nardi. Is she in bed ? 
 
 Sibyl. No, but reclining. 
 Nardi. Let me go to her ! 
 
 The Queen, too, suffers thus, and always then 
 
 She has the chamber darkened, and I sit 
 
 And soothe her to repose with music soft. 
 Veron. Oh really, what a gentle anodyne ! 
 
 I warrant now she gets these headaches oft. 
 Sibyl. Ah, but the Princess differs from the Queen.
 
 38 The Qnecris Innocent. 
 
 She at such times unbroken silence needs. 
 
 Her chamber-woman scarce so much as dares 
 
 To cross — st ! Nardi ! Go not near that door, 
 
 Her ear is preternaturally acute. 
 Nardi. And so is mine. I heard a sound as if — 
 Sibyl. It is he Highness groaning. 
 Veron. Ay, to groan 
 
 She always says relieves her when she has 
 
 This toothache. 
 Nardi. Toothache ? 
 
 Veron. Well, and have we not 
 
 Been talking of the toothache all along ? 
 Sibyl. Poor lady, there — I hear her groan again. 
 
 This rheumatism is very hard to bear. 
 
 A sudden twinge will catch her in the side, — 
 Nardi {looking from one to the other). 
 
 My presence is inopportune, I see. 
 
 Why could you not have told me so at once ? 
 
 You two gay ladies always mock at me. [Exit. 
 
 {The Pretender, who from his hiding-place has been 
 regarding Nardi with a great deal of interest, 
 comes forward.) 
 Pret. Who is that stripling ? 
 
 Veron. The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Pret. What ?
 
 The Queens Innocent. 39 
 
 Sibyl. Tis a name they give a simple youth 
 
 Who dwells at Court protected by the Queen. 
 Veron. In other words her fool, and (save the mark !) 
 
 A rival of your Highness's. 
 Pret. My rival ? 
 
 Veron. That little wicked wanton, Venus' son, 
 
 Has set us playing at cross-purposes 
 
 Within these walls. Just now the game stands thus : 
 
 The Princess loves your royal and gracious self; 
 
 The Innocent the Princess. Then the Prince, 
 
 For all he 's married to her, loves the Queen ; 
 
 The Queen the Innocent. Our Sibyl, here, 
 
 Adores in secret — 
 Sibyl. Fie, Veronica ! 
 
 His Highness did not jeopardize his life 
 
 To listen to such folly. {To the Pretender.) Shall I 
 warn 
 
 The Princess you are here ? 
 Pret. Ay Sibyl, do. 
 
 I am on fire to see her. Bid her haste. [Exit Sibyl. 
 
 And so the Queen is partial to this youth ? 
 Veron. Yes ; if he were her spaniel or her ape, 
 
 She could not pet him more. I almost think 
 
 Her Majesty would nurse him on her lap 
 
 If he were not so big.
 
 40 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Pret. A handsome lad. 
 
 Is he of gentle birth ? 
 Veron. I cannot tell. 
 
 Her Majesty got hold of him by chance. 
 
 She heard him sing — or something — Sibyl knows. 
 
 The Queen's physician — 
 Pret. (starting) Ha ! and what of him ? 
 
 Veron. Nothing. 'Twas he told Sibyl, that is all. 
 
 {Re-enter, from ivithin, Sibyl with the Princess.) 
 Princess (with a cry). Pharamond ! 
 Pret. My Cleodora ! (they embrace.) 
 
 Princess. I began 
 
 To think that we were never more to meet ! 
 Pr et. I fear you learn to nurse hard thoughts of me. 
 
 The exigencies of the time compel — 
 Princess. Our love to walk by faith not sight, I know. 
 
 'Tis hard — though this mends all. But Pharamond, 
 
 How could you penetrate within these walls ? 
 
 Would .not your life be forfeit were you found ?— 
 
 I tremble. How were you disguised to pass 
 
 The sentries at the gates ? Oh, are you sure 
 
 You were not recognized ? 
 Pret. Suffice it, sweet, 
 
 Within these walls are some who wish me well. 
 
 Through their connivance am I able thus
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 41 
 
 To enter on love's errand. 
 Princess. Wonderful ! 
 
 Tis like a dream, this meeting. 
 Pret. Nay, to me 
 
 'Tis like the realization of a dream. 
 Princess. Oh, Pharamond, I have longed for you so 
 oft. . . . {they embrace again.) 
 
 Well, girls, what think you, has he altered much ? 
 
 Come to the light. I have not looked at you 
 
 For such a weary while ! . . . How bronzed you are. 
 
 Heavens ! is that grey amid your hair ? 
 Pret. No doubt. 
 
 Sibyl. Frost in September ! 
 Veron. No, July — the height 
 
 Of summer ! 
 Pret. Oh, but you forget my years 
 
 Are eight-and-thirty. Younger oft than I, 
 
 Do have to entertain these witnesses. 
 Veron. False witnesses I cal] them, when they come 
 
 So early. 
 Sibyl. I would rather pluck them out. 
 
 Were I his Highness, and go bald. 
 Prin. Oh dear ! — 
 
 Do I look older ? Am I changed at all ? 
 Pret. (holding her at amis' length) Changed as the year 
 is changed, when April yields
 
 42 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 To May — or as the opening lily-bud 
 
 When to the perfect blossom it expands. 
 
 My golden lily with the heart of fire ! 
 
 My May incarnate, with for face a flower ! 
 
 My full-grown, finished beauty ! Small surprise 
 
 If lovers haunt your antechamber — one 
 
 Has just reluctantly gone hence. 
 Prin. What, Nardi? 
 
 A very gentle and ingenuous youth. 
 
 'Tis true he loves me. Twenty times a day 
 
 The secret trembles to his lips, but shame 
 
 Hurries it, frightened, back into his heart. 
 
 In some unguarded moment out 'twill leap. 
 
 Ah ! you do well to feel a jealous pang. 
 
 But come, I have a thousand things to ask 
 
 Pret. Dear love, and I a thousand things to tell, 
 
 And all too brief a space to say them in. 
 Prin. Here from intrusion one is never safe. 
 
 Let us withdraw into my sitting-room. 
 
 Veronica and Sibyl, you remain, 
 
 And ward off all approach. Whoever comes, 
 
 Say I am sick, asleep, or what you will. 
 Sibyl. No pair of advocates could lie more glibly 
 
 Than we will for your Highness's behoof.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 43 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room in the Fortress of Sars. 
 
 (The Pretender seated at one end of a table, the Queen's 
 Physician standing at the other. A Soldier on guard 
 at the door. The "Pretender fo/ds and seats a despatch 
 he has been writing, and hands it to Withold, who is i?i 
 attendance, and who then withdraws, the $>oet>ier forc- 
 ing him.) 
 
 Pret. Doctor, the inconvenience we regret 
 To which, in consequence of having ridden 
 So near our outposts, you have been exposed. 
 We do not war with men of peace like you, 
 Even when they count themselves among our foes, 
 With either the physician or divine, — 
 Priest of men's bodies, doctor of men's souls, 
 We view them both as neutrals. Sit, I pray. 
 
 (Physician declines by a gesture.) 
 The hour is late. Refreshment and repose 
 You need before your journey you retrace. 
 As soon as morning lights anew the skies 
 You shall be safely through our lines convoyed.
 
 44 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Ben E. Your Highness is a courteous foe. 
 
 Pret. But yet, 
 
 The while your misadventure I deplore, 
 I gladly seize the chance which it presents 
 Of forming an acquaintance with a man 
 Of such repute. I dabbled, you must know, 
 In medicine a little when a lad .... 
 One of my whims . . . and I remember yet 
 A treatise from your pen which then I read, 
 And whence I drew much profit and delight 
 
 Ben E. Princes as well as parasites, I learn, 
 Can flatter. 
 
 Pret. In the art which you profess, 
 
 By study and experience, you have gained 
 Surprising skill and knowledge. They do say 
 That you can cause the dead to live once more. 
 
 Ben E. My poor pretensions never stretched so far. 
 
 Pret. My little kinsman for example, he 
 
 That should have filled the throne if he had lived, 
 Dorion, the brother of the Queen — 'tis said 
 A word from you could conjure him to life 
 Before our startled eyes. 
 
 Ben E. A pleasant jest. 
 
 Pret. You err. I speak in solemn seriousness. 
 You are my royal cousin's trusted friend . . .
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 45 
 
 For still our cousinship I warmly feel, 
 
 Though she I think would wipe it if she could 
 
 Out of her visage, where 'tis stamped by God, 
 
 And though the exigencies of the hour, 
 
 My right and their's who after me may come, 
 
 Compel me to oppose her thus in arms. 
 
 Events might otherwise have shaped themselves, 
 
 Had she so willed. ... I loved her — but that's 
 
 past; 
 She would not view me even as a friend — 
 Yet who so fit to be her friend as I, 
 Allied in blood and feature ? Many have marked 
 The likeness — which is nothing wonderful, 
 Sprung as we are from brothers like as twins, 
 And she so favouring as she does her sire. 
 
 Ben E. The features of her Majesty, indeed, 
 Proclaim her without doubt her father's child. 
 
 Pret. The little Prince inherited, I think, 
 His mother's loveliness ? 
 
 Ben E. I scarce can say. 
 
 Prince Dorion was a pretty boy enough, 
 Though small and pale and sickly from his birth. 
 
 Pret. There is a youth at Court, so gossip tells, 
 Whose countenance bears a close similitude 
 (Too close to be the mere result of chance),
 
 46 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 To her's who was the step-dame of the Queen, 
 
 The lovely Princess round whose end there hung 
 
 Such mystery. 
 Ben E. Truly ? Whom your Highness means 
 
 I cannot guess. 
 Pret. Complexioned as the lily ; 
 
 With eyes of solemn tender grey, which flash 
 
 Innocuous lightnings like a summer night ; 
 
 But all the gold of sunrise on his curls ; — 
 
 Know you none such, good Doctor ? 
 Ben E. None indeed. 
 
 I did not think our gracious Sovereign's court 
 
 Held such a beauty. 
 Pret. Who and what is he 
 
 They nickname " The Queen's Innocent " ? 
 Ben E. What, Nardi ? 
 
 Pret. Ay, Nardi. 
 Ben E. 'Tis at him your Highness points ? 
 
 And yet the lad is comely, it is true. 
 
 A poor half-witted youth, who when the Queen — 
 Pret. Doctor Ben Ephraim, mark me — there are secrets 
 
 The which it might advantage me to know 
 
 And you to tell. Full gladly would I sit 
 
 Of such a potent magus at the feet. 
 
 No premium you could ask I would not give,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 47 
 
 Twice o'er, to purchase such apprenticeship. 
 This matter of my little cousin's death, — 
 Ben E. Stay, Count of Ghyl, and once for all mark me. 
 I practise but I do not teach mine art. 
 My secrets, have I them, are not for sale. 
 Pret. Of such an one as you are have I dreamed, 
 As standing by my side, my trusty friend, 
 My chiefest counsellor, with cunning hand 
 Helping me to mine own. 
 Ben E. At seventy years, 
 
 It is too late allegiance to transfer. 
 I shall be satisfied to end my days 
 The servant of Queen Gladys. 
 Pret. My claim rests 
 
 On justice and on immemorial law ; 
 None other are the Caryatids strong 
 Which do my cause sustain. 
 Ben E. Your royal word 
 
 Is pledged that I am free to-morrow morn ? 
 Pret. {after a slight pause as of indecision.) 
 Our word is pledged and it shall be redeemed. 
 
 (B lotos a whistle. Soldier re-appears.) 
 Follow that soldier. To your pillow, peace. 
 One moment. Morning's thoughts do better oft 
 The night's —
 
 48 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Ben E. A deafness comes to me at times, 
 
 Born of old age. I hear your Highness not. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Pret. (alone). As water through the fingers slides, this 
 Jew 
 
 Escapes me. Now, my purpose has he probed ? . . 
 
 Should I revoke my word and mew him close 
 
 Until this enterprise is fairly launched, 
 
 Lest he attempt to thwart it — warn the Queen, 
 
 And get the boy removed beyond my reach ? 
 
 A clumsy mode, which might itself defeat. . . . 
 
 No, I must foil him by a nimbler use 
 
 Of his own weapons, subtlety and fraud. 
 Withold re-enters. 
 Withold. I hope that when your Highness wears the 
 crown 
 
 Of this fair realm, your own by right divine, — 
 Pret. Not if young Dorion lives. 
 Wit. Oh, "if!" The thought 
 
 Still haunts you that this stripling whom you saw 
 
 May be the brother of the Queen, deceased, 
 
 By all accounts, years since ? 
 Pret. It haunts me still. 
 
 My uncle's second wife I saw but once, 
 
 And yet her looks I perfectly recall.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 49 
 
 Her name was Alba, and she was indeed 
 
 Fair like the dawn. Conceive, then, my surprise, 
 
 During my stolen visit to my love, 
 
 When I beheld her breathing picture stand 
 
 Before me in the person of a lad — 
 
 A lad of eighteen years or thereabout, 
 
 The age her son would be if still alive. 
 
 But for the male attire I could have sworn 
 
 'Twas she herself ; the eyes' soft gravity, 
 
 Complexion's brilliance, shining hair, superb 
 
 Poise of the head, lip's sweet, disdainful curl — 
 
 All, all were there, and, as I looked, I thought 
 
 Upon the rumour that the child's demise 
 
 Was but a fraud. 
 
 Wit. There was such rumour, then ? 
 
 Pret. A whisper in the air from time to time, 
 Which came, one knew not whence, and died 
 
 away, 
 Scarce heeded, so improbable it seemed. 
 
 Wit. Strange. And the Queen is tender towards this 
 lad? 
 
 Pret. Those two wild girls that on the Princess wait 
 I questioned, and was led thus much to infer. 
 
 Wit. Should this leak out or ever be revealed 
 We must dispute the youth's identity.
 
 50 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Pret. Nay, we must prove the youth's identity, 
 Prove and make known, and that without delay. 
 
 Wit. Proved, it were fatal to your Highness' claim. 
 
 Pret. Listen. Of my position more and more 
 I see the difficulties every day. 
 My path lies over steep and dangerous ground. 
 Fast as I win one height another soars 
 Beyond it, and the goal is yet afar. 
 The Queen is young and sweet, a new-made wife, 
 And hence the generous sympathies commands 
 Of all who by self-interest are not warped ; 
 While such as join my standard by their own 
 Ambitions or necessities are spurred, 
 Far more than by the justice of my cause, 
 And nothing but continuous success 
 Will hold them faithful. Yet, could I but prove 
 That underneath the semblance of a page 
 This Queen of hearts conceals her father's son, 
 And wickedly usurps his birthright, love 
 To honest indignation I transform, 
 With ease displace her from her seat of pride. 
 So, through my means, the boy acquires his own ; 
 But, being simple, is incompetent 
 To govern — in the vehicle of state 
 He sits upon the driver's box, but one
 
 The Queeris Innocent. 51 
 
 Beside him holds the virtual reins of power, — 
 
 Is in perpetual nonage, as it were. 
 
 He wears of sovereignty the external weeds, 
 
 A regent rules. And who for that proud post 
 
 So fit as I, his kinsman, who restored 
 
 The lost one to a loving people's arms ; 
 
 Who might have won the sceptre for myself, 
 
 But so loved right and justice that I gained 
 
 Only to place it in the hand august, 
 
 Though feeble, of its true inheritor. 
 Wit. Then you and your descendants will be mayors 
 
 O' the Palace to a line of sluggard kings ? 
 Pret. The lad would never be allowed to wed, 
 
 And found a dynasty of imbeciles : 
 
 The world contains already fools enough. 
 Wit. How if he do but feign simplicity ? 
 Pret. I fear it not ; I watched him narrowly, 
 
 That know the human countenance to read. 
 
 His nickname designates him truly, mad — 
 
 No, nor yet vicious, only innocent. 
 
 Our cue will be to cause him to appear 
 
 Worse than he is, perchance judiciously 
 
 To irritate him into violence 
 
 Now and again, when such display will tell 
 
 Conveniently against him. I foresee 
 
 e 2
 
 52 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 That not for long will he demand our care. 
 
 Untimely death is written on his cheek. 
 
 A few short years, a very few, methinks, 
 
 And he will slumber in that sepulchre 
 
 In which so long ago we thought him laid. 
 
 And then, from standing on the topmost step 
 
 O' the throne, I slip into the vacant seat, 
 
 To which but few will dare dispute my claim. 
 
 Thus it is but a temporary change 
 
 Of programme, after all, we need to make. 
 Wit. How shall we get indisputable proof 
 
 Of this said stripling's sameness with the Prince 
 
 Supposititiously deceased ? 
 Pret. Ah, there's 
 
 The difficulty. Could I win that Jew .... 
 
 However, know that I have set on foot 
 
 Secret investigations, whence I look 
 
 For such an issue as shall justify 
 
 My project. 
 Wit. It is needful to obtain 
 
 Possession of the person of the youth. 
 Pret. Undoubtedly. 
 Wit. And how do you propose 
 
 To compass his abduction ? 
 Pret. How ? You know
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 53 
 
 I never have recourse to violence 
 Till stratagem has failed. 
 
 Wit. You nurse some scheme ? 
 
 Pret. The fairest princess in the world, who means 
 One day to share a certain throne with me, 
 To wile the tedium of monotonous days, 
 And keep her hand in at the game of games 
 While circumstance divides her from her chosen 
 Legitimate partner, idly plays at love 
 With Nardi, the Queen's Innocent. The boy 
 Is desperately in earnest, as becomes 
 His eighteen years. 
 
 Wit. In short, you mean to make 
 
 A cat's-paw of the Princess. 
 
 Pret. Harshly put. 
 
 I mean to make events assume a shape 
 Shall dove-tail with my purpose. \Exeuni. 
 
 Scene II. — The same as in Act i, Scene 2. 
 
 (Sibyl and Veronica. Enter the Princess, laughing 
 
 immoderately^) 
 
 Princess. Let me sit down. . . . Oh, I shall die 
 with mirth ! 
 The Innocent his passion has declared !
 
 54 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Veron. Would I had been in hiding somewhere near, 
 For once to witness how a fool makes love ! 
 
 Sibyl. Oh, all men act the fool when making love. 
 You would have witnessed nothing singular. 
 
 Veron. And that is true. But did he perpetrate 
 Many absurdities ? Oh, tell us all ! 
 
 Princess. His body trembled, and his countenance 
 With tears and blushes much disordered grew 
 At first, but he became erelong more calm, 
 And urged his suit with natural eloquence, 
 Though without vehemence. He did not rave. 
 His speech was temperate even while his looks 
 Were full of fire — whereat I marvelled much, 
 That looked for some fantastical display. 
 
 Sibyl. Poor soul ; how much I should have pitied him. 
 
 Princess. 'Twas pitiful — and yet so laughable ! 
 
 [laughs again.) 
 
 Sibyl. Well, now the jest is done and I am glad. 
 Without undue severity you chid 
 This poor young man's presumption ? Did he seem 
 Much humbled ? 
 
 Princess. Done ? The jest is but begun. 
 
 Sibyl. You surely gave him no encouragement ? 
 
 Princess. Poor love would starve without some crumbs 
 of hope 
 To feed on.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 55 
 
 Sibyl. Better starve at once than live 
 
 Hereafter to be strangled by your scorn. 
 You never gave him leave to cherish hopes, 
 Hopes — hopes of what ? You disenchanted him ; 
 You brushed away the sparkling gossamers 
 Of this illusion from before his eyes, 
 With something of remorse for weaving them, 
 I know you did ! 
 
 Princess. And why so soon destroy 
 
 What I have been at trouble to create ? 
 Sententious Sibyl, full of sweet, wise saws, 
 You check and chide me so I sometimes feel 
 As if I were a small raw girl of ten, 
 And you my governess. Be comforted. 
 I but divert myself with this young man, 
 And, rest assured, shall know to pause in time. 
 Be not so jealous for my honour, dear. 
 
 Sibyl. It is not for your honour that I fear, 
 Madam, I only pity this poor youth, 
 Who wooes with so much blended dignity 
 And passion. 
 
 Princess. This is really excellent. 
 
 You were not present with us, I suppose, 
 When we agreed to make a sport of him ? 
 
 Sibyl. Sport which grows cruel gives me no more joy.
 
 56 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 My notion of a jest some limit owns, — 
 
 When that is overstepped it is a jest 
 
 No longer. I beseech you, have a care. 
 
 You trifle with a demi-lunatic. 
 
 The tottering balance of his mind one touch 
 
 From you may overturn. 
 Veron. Our Sibyl grows 
 
 So wondrous tender over this young man ! 
 Sibyl. He, like the rest, will stumble soon enough 
 
 Upon the thorns of life, and bleed, no doubt ; 
 
 Then why anticipate and prick his flesh 
 
 Out of pure wantonness ? The pangs of love 
 
 I wonder has your Highness ever felt ? 
 
 No, no, you would not thus so recklessly 
 
 Inflict them on another if you had. 
 
 Princess {after a minute's pause). 
 
 Which is the best, to love or be beloved ? 
 I know which keeps the soul most equable. 
 Love is at times my guest, at times my slave, 
 My master never. Oh, the pangs of love I 
 Our sapient Sibyl speaks from knowledge here. 
 What are they like, and do they cause the face 
 To redden and the lip to tremble so ? 
 That flush becomes her, eh, Veronica ? 
 The rose upon her cheek 's a thought too pale
 
 The Queen s Innocent. 57 
 
 At ordinary times. That's better still ! 
 
 Dear, would you cause those pangs of which you speak, 
 
 Look thus. I wish that Aon saw her now ! 
 
 Sibyl. You do not hurt me, madam. 
 
 Princess. You are wrath, 
 
 You know it. You may scold and vex and thwart, 
 And none to vent a murmur must presume ; 
 But let your fiat be opposed — oh, then 
 The blood mercurial to your visage flies, 
 The choler rises in your gorge, as now. 
 You will not deviate from your own straight course 
 For aught, but let a craft attempt to cross 
 Your bows — you run her down without remorse. 
 You are a little too imperious, yes, — 
 
 " Is Lady Sibyl tired? " The game must cease, 
 
 The toy be put away. I do not love 
 
 Obsequiousness, 'tis true, but there's a mean 
 
 Which you in future would do well to observe. 
 
 None but myself shall regulate my acts — 
 
 I need no monitress. 
 
 Veronica, 
 
 Let us go hence and saunter by the lake, 
 
 The air is stifling underneath these elms. 
 
 {Exeunt Princess and Veronica. They are hardly 
 
 gone when the Prince emerges from the Palace and 
 
 descends the steps.)
 
 58 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Prince. I thought to find my sister here. 
 Sibyl. They left 
 
 A minute since to go towards the lake, 
 
 She and Veronica. 
 Prince. I'll follow them. 
 
 (Is about to go, but pauses, and looks hard at Sibyl.) 
 
 In tears ? 
 Sibyl. Oh no ! 
 
 Prince. You have been weeping ? 
 
 Sibyl. No. 
 
 Prince. It is a clever simulation then. 
 
 Will you not tell an ancient playfellow 
 
 The cause of your distress ? 
 Sibyl. If know you must, 
 
 The Princess with the freedom of my speech 
 
 Was vexed, and winged to punish me a shaft 
 
 Which feathered she for such occasions keeps — 
 
 A shaft which always wounds. Then I in turn 
 
 Grew angry ; but I never can display 
 
 My wrath like others — tears will always come. 
 
 Your Highness now knows all. 
 Prince. What cause provoked 
 
 The duel, in the course of which you got 
 
 This thrust ? 
 Sibyl. What cause ? A very innocent.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 59 
 
 Nardi, the household favourite of the Queen. 
 
 We fought about a fool — a foolish strife. 
 Prince. A foolish strife indeed. I wonder much 
 
 What ladies see worth crossing swords about 
 
 In such a milksop. 
 Sibyl. You are jealous ; fie ! 
 
 Prince. An idle, insolent, presumptuous boy, 
 
 That should be whipped, and set to learn some trade. 
 Sibyl. Have you conceived a grudge against the lad ? 
 Prince. A shrill-tongued, baby- faced, effeminate 
 thing,— 
 
 You women would do just as well to pet 
 
 A slip of your own sex. His garments' cut 
 
 Is the sole part about him masculine. 
 
 I half believe he is a girl disguised. 
 Sibyl. Wait till he gets a beard, and you will see. 
 Prince. No chin of his will ever wear a beard. 
 Sibyl. Has he informed your Highness he intends 
 
 To go smooth-shaven always ? 
 Prince. You may laugh — ■ 
 
 But his contemptible bulk has come this day 
 
 Between the Queen and me, and caused eclipse. 
 Sibyl. Partial, of course. 
 
 Prince. Not total, you may guess. 
 
 Sibyl. But how ?
 
 60 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Prince. I found him with the Queen alone, 
 
 Seated upon a level with her feet. 
 He rose and moved aside, but did not leave 
 The presence as I entered ; so I said 
 He might withdraw. He looked me in the face, 
 But stood. I spoke again, peremptorily. 
 He stared, but never stirred. This insolence 
 So tried me, I was minded sore to take 
 The measure of his shoulders with my cane, 
 But only said that I would summon one 
 Who should by force remove him. Thereupon 
 He straightway, like a monkey in a pet, 
 With face convulsed and inarticulate cries, 
 Flew to the Queen. She chid him, it is true, 
 But in such soothing tones as robbed the words 
 Of all reproof. Then Master Malapert 
 Laid his scorched cheek a moment on her hand, 
 And darted from the room. 
 
 Sibyl. The wisest thing 
 
 That he could do. 
 
 Prince. But that which vexed me most 
 
 Was, that the Queen, the moment he was gone, 
 Should warmly take his part. He meant no harm, 
 She said, no rudeness, and was quite unused 
 To bear rebuke from any but herself.
 
 The Queen's Innocent, 61 
 
 Sibyl. I like her Majesty, I do indeed, 
 
 For championing her favourite. 
 Prince. Sibyl ! 
 
 Sibyl. Yes, 
 
 Had I been she I would have done the same. 
 
 Look yonder — they perceive and beckon you. 
 Prince {going). But would you not such championship 
 resent, 
 
 Were you the husband of her Majesty ? 
 Sibyl {looking round as she ascends the steps of the Palace) 
 
 The husband ? — Oh, a husband is a mute 
 
 Enduring thing, obedient to the rein. 
 
 It jibbs, and champs the bit a little at first, 
 
 But after it is fully broken in — 
 Prince. Oh, this is treason ! — I will hear no more. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A Room in the Palace. The Queen, 
 JVardi, and Ben Ephraim. 
 
 Nardi. But, madam, I maintain there should not be 
 Such splendour and such squalor side by side. 
 You say a human being has a soul, 
 And brutes have none ; yet here are human beings, 
 Within a stone's throw of the Palace gate, 
 Worse lodged and scantlier nourished than your hounds.
 
 62 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Queen. Why am I thus arraigned ? Can I abolish 
 Vice and improvidence ? If these are poor — 
 Good cause ; you say the father is a sot. 
 The children suffer for the parents' sins 
 In other ranks of life besides the lowest. 
 
 Nardi. I saw the sky in places through the roof; 
 The floor is nothing but the trodden earth — 
 Not even nagged. And she is — oh, so thin ! 
 She scarce gets nourishment enough to keep 
 Her body and soul from parting company. 
 And this is all within one little mile 
 Of where you sit beneath a painted ceiling, 
 And diet on the daintiest meats, served up 
 On golden dishes. And her bones are racked — 
 Her poor misshapen bones — with cruel pains, 
 Contracted through the damps. I only wish 
 Your Majesty both her and her abode 
 Could see. 
 
 Queen. I thank you — I would rather not. 
 
 Nardi. She is so young — a child — not yet fifteen. 
 They say that God is good, and we are all 
 His children, and He loves us all alike. 
 I cannot think it when I see His gifts 
 So partially distributed — that some 
 Have all and others none ; if I were He
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 63 
 
 Queen. I will not hear impiety. Leave God 
 
 Out of your talk. You lack religion, Nardi. 
 Nardi {passionately). Well, then, if I were king, as you 
 are queen, 
 
 I would not dress until the poor were clothed ! 
 
 I would not eat until the poor were fed ! 
 
 Why, I would sell the jewels in the crown 
 
 Queen. Stop ! There's my purse. [Throwing it on 
 the table). Relieve these people's wants. 
 
 And buy a bridle for your tongue, moreover, 
 
 It grows unruly. 
 
 Nardi. Madam, 
 
 Queen. No more words. 
 
 Too many are said already. You abuse 
 
 The license I allow you of free speech. 
 
 Begone, and do not meet my sight again 
 
 This day. 
 
 (Nardi snatches up the purse and vanishes.) 
 His tongue is sharper than a sword ! 
 
 Ben Ephraim, ascertain if all he says 
 
 Of their extreme necessity be true. 
 
 Now to return — he really bears such strong 
 
 Resemblance to his mother ? Time has blurred 
 
 Her picture in my mind. 
 Ben E. He has her hair,
 
 64 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 And her complexion, and his lip, I note, 
 
 Will curl like hers when something angers him 
 
 Or moves his scorn. But kin-resemblances 
 
 Are very fleeting and capricious. Oft 
 
 A stranger catches them, whenas they elude 
 
 The more familiar. 'Neath the stress at times 
 
 Of sudden strong emotion, forth they flash, 
 
 Are chiselled out by lengthened physical pain, 
 
 Or take possession of the face at death. 
 
 At times 'tis some hereditary quaint 
 
 Trick of expression that will call to mind 
 
 Another individual of the race. 
 
 Few are less like than you and he, yet once, 
 
 Entering his chamber while he slept, I saw 
 
 The strangest momentary similitude. 
 
 Queen. Would he had never seen the Court ! 
 
 Ben E. That wish 
 
 I echo. 
 
 Queen. And in echoing it imply 
 
 A sharp reproof. In placing him so near 
 Our royal person we did act, we know, 
 In opposition to your sage advice. 
 'Tis true you warned us, and we would not heed. 
 We now repent, and own ourselves to blame. 
 
 {Paces the stage in thought.) 
 The Count was very civil to you, then ?
 
 The Queen s Innocent. 65 
 
 Ben E. Most smooth and courteous, all the while he 
 sought 
 To fathom with his delicate plummet line 
 My depths. 
 Queen. Where undercurrents flowed, I hope, 
 
 So strong they bore his lead up like a cork. 
 What use of this discovery will he make ? 
 How if he hold the secret in reserve, 
 And, when he finds his own a hopeless cause, 
 Espouses that of Dorion ? I will fight 
 Against this rebel villain cousin of mine 
 While I've a soldier left, but raise no hand 
 Against my father's son ; should he demand 
 His birthright I would yield it him at once, 
 Yes, give him up the crown, and only pray 
 It prove less thorny to his brows than mine. 
 Oh, I have half a mind to call the peers, 
 Before them Nardi set, and all the truth 
 Reveal ; and thus the worst anticipate, 
 And cut the knot of my perplexities 
 Once and for ever ! 
 Ben E. Madam, such an act 
 
 Would tangle your perplexities the more. 
 Untie the burden from your neck, because 
 It chafes you somewhat and is hard to bear, 
 
 F
 
 66 The Queeiis Innocent. 
 
 And hang it upon Nardi's, which would sink 
 
 Beneath it in a day? Fie, madam, fie ! 
 
 A petulant girl spoke then and not the Queen. 
 Queen. You are outspoken and severe, and yet 
 
 So true a servant I must needs forgive. 
 
 What has your wisdom to suggest ? 
 Ken E. But this — 
 
 That Nardi to some distant secret place 
 
 Of safety should be sent without delay. 
 Queen. His sudden disappearance would beget 
 
 Surmises, which might easily become 
 
 Suspicions. 
 Ben E. If the tale we fabricate 
 
 To lend a natural colour to his going 
 
 Have likelihood, I see not why it need. 
 Queen. More fictions ? Well, arrange it as you please. 
 
 We hold you answerable for his life 
 
 And safety always. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. — A Village Street. 
 
 Enter, from opposite sides, Timothy clattering /lis pots 
 and pans, and Morra. 
 
 Morra. Folks say that grandf 'er can't live out the night.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 6j 
 
 Tim. I've done my duty by him, that is clear. 
 
 And I shall put the old man underground 
 
 With a clean conscience. Anybody else 
 
 Had sent him to the workhouse long ago. 
 
 Your mother's father — that was all he was. 
 
 Well, we must all die somewhen, I suppose. 
 
 What do you cry for ? Tis but an old man, 
 
 And childish. . . . Look you now, if it were me, 
 
 If it were me now — a good father, Morra, 
 
 Ay, though I say it. When your mother died 
 
 I was a comely man — ay, that I was ! 
 
 Many's the lass that would have had me then. 
 
 But no, says I, no, no, there's little Morra, 
 
 There's Morra and the old one now to work for, — 
 Morra. I'm most afeared to be alone with him, 
 
 His eyes do get to look so wild and strange. 
 Tim. Afeared !— his eyes can't do you any harm. 
 
 What is it you are hiding in your breast ? 
 
 Has that young gallant been to you again ? 
 
 Ah, and he gave you something, I'll be bound. 
 
 Hand it to me to keep for you, d'ye hear? 
 
 What do young lasses know of money's worth ? 
 
 A purse of gold, as I'm a Christian man ! 
 
 Let go, I say, ye disobedient minx ! 
 
 {Tears it out of her hand.) 
 
 F 2
 
 6S The Queeiis Innocent. 
 
 Morra. The money was to get the roof new thatched, 
 To keep the wet out — and to have the place 
 Boarded and made more decent — and to buy 
 Physic and food for grandf'er, and — and now — {sobs.) 
 
 Tim. There, leave off snivelling. I shall keep it safe. 
 (Jingles the money against his ear.) 
 
 Morra. Give me the money back. The money's 
 mine. 
 
 Tim. A likely story. Yours ! Who's found your keep 
 These fourteen years, I'd like to know, and held 
 A roof above your head ? you thankless toad ! 
 You crook-backed — 
 
 Morra. Don't I know that you will never 
 
 Be sober any more until it's gone ? — 
 The money that was meant to do us good, 
 That are so poor ! 
 
 Tim. There, you be off ! go home ! 
 
 I shall keep sober. 
 
 Morra. You ! the drunkenest man 
 
 In all the parish ! While the money lasts 
 You'll do no work, but drink and lie about. 
 They say, folks do, you ought to be ashamed — 
 
 Tim. You viper, you ! Take that — and that — 
 {beats her with his stick) and learn 
 What's owing to a parent. 
 
 (Morra runs off, screaming.)
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 69 
 
 Scene 5. — Lawn by the side of an artificial lake. 
 
 Moonlight. 
 
 Enter Nardi, with his giiita?-, and the Princess. 
 
 Nardi. I knew you years before we met. I thought 
 That death and you were one thing and the same. 
 
 Princess. How so ? 
 
 Nardi. As long as I can recollect, 
 
 A shadowy, shrouded shape has haunted me, 
 The vision of, as 'twere, a human form, 
 But draped from head to foot. None ever saw 
 This thing beside, though I beheld it oft 
 With others by. I used to think that death 
 Was underneath the veil, and if it once 
 Began to lift, my sand would soon be run. 
 At length one night while broad awake I lay, 
 A voice, that voice which tells me everything, 
 Said in my ear, " The veil is lifted — see ! " 
 I looked, and " Death is very fair," I thought, 
 " Death is an angel after all." Next day — 
 A wonder ! for I saw your face, and lo, 
 My vision in the flesh ! Strange pain, and joy 
 Still stranger seized me then. " But this is life, 
 Not death ! " I murmured, for indeed it seemed 
 I had not truly waked to life till then. 
 Slumber the following night my pillow shunned,
 
 yo The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 But when the sky was growing flushed with dawn 
 I rose, and knelt, and wildly clasped my hands, 
 And " Is it life or death ? " with streaming eyes 
 I cried. The voice of which I spoke before 
 Then answered, " Neither — yet the cause of both." 
 Princess. What meant the voice by that — " the cause 
 of both?" 
 I do not understand these parables. 
 You are too fine and spiritual for me. 
 Sing me a song that I can comprehend. 
 (Sits down on a garden-seat. Nardi places himself be- 
 side her and tunes his guitar.) 
 
 Nardi (sings). 
 
 A Brave of some Red Indian tribe were you— 
 Mohawk or Blackfoot, Blood, or Snake, or Sioux, — 
 And I a dusky maiden of the same ; 
 
 My father's weapons I should steal, beside 
 Some forest trail that you must follow hide, 
 And, as with stately step along you came, 
 An arrow tipped with death at your brown bosom aim. 
 
 Princess. Oh, what a savage song ! 'Who made it ? 
 Nardi. I, 
 
 When in a savage mood.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 71 
 
 Princess. But what know you 
 
 About Red Indians ? 
 Nardi. What I find in books. 
 
 There's one about them in the library — ■ 
 With pictures in it — which I often read. 
 I'll show it you some day. 
 
 (Continues his song, with a change of measure.) 
 My heart would feel as light as air 
 As soon as yours had ceased to beat, 
 
 And once again the heavens would smile, 
 And, for at least a little while, 
 The flowers smell sweet, 
 The stars look fair. 
 
 Your brother Braves would find you cold ; 
 x\nd all my jealous fears might cease, 
 And all the passion, pain, and strife 
 That you have brought into my life, — 
 With you at peace 
 Beneath the mould. 
 
 Princess {after a pause). Then you have loved 
 
 Before ? 
 Nardi. Oh, I have always loved, but you 
 
 Have been the single star of my desire, 
 
 Sole beacon of my hope.
 
 72 The Queeiis Innocent. 
 
 Princess. You strangest boy ! . . . 
 
 How hot the evening grows — let go my hand ! 
 {Rises abruptly and moves to the other side of the stage. 
 
 Nardi follows her half-way, then pauses and sings 
 
 the following.} 
 
 Sweet air, sweet rain, the glowing soft caress 
 Of June's rich sunshine — these the rose demands, 
 These, ere from bud to blossom it expands ; 
 
 My heart is such a rose, and asks no less, 
 • Before it can unfurl its petals frail, 
 And such poor perfume as they shroud exhale. 
 
 What sumptuous June is to the garden's queen, 
 That Love is to my heart, which 'neath your smile 
 Thrills, kindles, and uncloses, — this long while 
 
 Love but a plainer name for you has been, — 
 Your tears sweet rain, your kisses are sweet air ; 
 The flower you fostered take — ah, take and wear ! 
 
 {Approaches and possesses himself of her hand once more.) 
 
 Dear angel, we will marry without delay. 
 Though you are such a great and proud princess, 
 . And I am nothing in the world's esteem, 
 Love makes us equal. I shall go and kneel
 
 The Queens Innocent. 73 
 
 Low at the sovereign's feet, and tell her all. 
 The Queen is kind, and holds me somewhat dear, 
 And when she learns our hearts are wholly set 
 On one the other, she will not withhold 
 This coveted hand. 
 Princess. I never knew the Queen 
 
 Had power to give or to withhold my hand. 
 You must be patient and leave all to me. 
 And see you do not breathe a word of this 
 To any, if you do — that very hour 
 You forfeit my regard. Now go and tell 
 My ladies to rejoin me. 
 
 (Nardi departs reluctantly. The Princess looks after 
 him.) 
 
 This young man 
 Gets vehement. I grow afraid of him. 
 If he should go and babble to the Queen — ■ 
 Saints, what a coil there'd be ! The jest must end. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 74 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene i. — Curtain rises to music, and discovers a 
 richly decorated hall filled with dancers. 
 The music ceases and the dancers promenade. 
 Suddenly the throng divides, and the Queen, 
 
 CONVERSING WITH A MILITARY OFFICER OF RANK, AND 
 ATTENDED BY A BRILLIANT COMPANY, PASSES DOWN 
 THE MIDDLE OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Queen. I marvel much your losses should have been 
 So slight. 
 
 Officer. Your Majesty must understand 
 
 Our shrapnels, in the first place, had upon 
 The rebels told with terrible success, 
 Lessening their numbers and their courage both, 
 Before the storming actually began. 
 And in the second place the hill itself 
 Was too precipitous to let them fire 
 Over the earthworks with the best effect. 
 Most of their rifle shots were aimed too high. 
 The inside of the last redoubt, which all 
 The natural platform of the hill comprised, 
 Was ploughed by shells and with their fragments 
 strewn . 
 
 {The Prince enters.)
 
 The Queen's Innocent. y$ 
 
 Prince. My Gladys, you have danced but once to- 
 night. 
 Queen. I do not feel to-night in dancing mood. 
 To hear the storming of the three redoubts 
 Described in detail interests me more. 
 But do not you on that account refrain. 
 The Lady Sibyl lacks a partner. Go. 
 
 [Exit the Prince. 
 Officer. His Highness is a famous dancer. 
 Queen. Yes. 
 
 To dance affords him a most keen delight. 
 (Exeunt. The Princess and a Cavalier emerge from 
 the backgrotaid. Veronica and another at the same 
 time enter at the side. The couples meet, and Vero- 
 nica draws the Princess apaii.) 
 Veronica. Some hand in mine just now, as through 
 the crowd 
 Of pages and of servitors I passed, 
 This paper slipped. It's meant for you, I judge. 
 Princess. Pharamond's writing ! Shield me while I read. 
 
 (Reads.) 
 " I would have speech with you upon a thing 
 Of moment ; wherefore seek with all despatch, 
 Caution, and secrecy, the haunted grot." 
 The haunted grot ?
 
 j6 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Veron. I know. One afternoon 
 
 Sibyl and I, out walking by ourselves, 
 
 Took shelter in it from a shower of rain. 
 
 It is a curious hollow in the hill, 
 
 That hill whose dark green crest you sometimes chide, 
 
 When looking westward from our balcony, 
 
 Because it interposes to conceal 
 
 The point of sunset. Nardi afterwards 
 
 Told us its name. 
 Princess. And should you find the way ? 
 
 Veron. If we could slip out unperceived I might. 
 Princess. I wonder is the moon risen ? 
 Veron. Scarcely yet. 
 
 At all events, the sky is packed with clouds. 
 
 But seriously you do not meditate 
 
 Obeying this strange mandate ? 
 
 Princess. Wherefore not ? 
 
 Veron. 'Tis madness ! We shall catch our deaths of 
 cold ; 
 
 Though that's no matter. But the way is long 
 
 And lonesome — horribly, by daylight even, 
 
 By night — 
 Princess. This grot is haunted then, they say ? 
 Veron. Yes, and the ghost is palpable it seems. 
 
 {Cavaliers rejoin them. More dancing. The Prince 
 and Sibyl enter.)
 
 The Queen's Innocent. yy 
 
 Prince. The doctor rules her head, the fool her heart. 
 
 A precious pair. 
 Sibyl. Well, now the fool is gone. 
 
 Prince. Yes, gone ; and whither has he gone, and 
 
 where ? 
 Sibyl. Tis said that on a sudden, two days since, 
 
 He overpassed that shadowy border line, 
 
 Upon the hither side of which he seemed 
 
 So long to hover, — -that his wits and he 
 
 Have definitely parted company. 
 Prince. A fiction. He is spirited away, 
 
 Because she saw that he had grown to me 
 
 An object of suspicion and dislike, 
 
 To some retreat in which their mutual — 
 Sibyl. Sir — 
 
 Mutual? Well, there at least you are deceived. 
 
 You think that Nardi loves the Queen. His heart 
 
 Is fixed elsewhere. It is the Princess — 
 Prince. Ha ! — 
 
 He loves my sister ? Now I see it all ! 
 
 I see,- — the Queen has snatched him from the toils 
 
 Of her enchanting rival ! 
 Sibyl. Be it so. 
 
 I will not argue with a man so bent 
 
 On being jealous. If you like the rack,
 
 yS The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Pray lie on it. 'Twould serve you right to give 
 The engine a gratuitous turn or two. 
 
 Prince. Tis clear she does not love me. Who should 
 share 
 Her secret counsels if not I, her lord ? 
 And where should perfect confidence exist 
 If not 'twixt man and wife, who grew, I thought, 
 One soul as well as flesh ? — Yet we are twain, 
 And every day divides us more and more. 
 
 Sibyl. This ere the honeymoon be spent ? Poor 
 Prince ! 
 
 Prince. I seem but like a guest within the home 
 Which rightly I am head of; while the Jew 
 Is daily closeted alone with her, 
 And holds the key of that locked treasury, 
 Her bosom. Yet the greybeard I could brook. 
 It is the boy — the boy that maddens me ! 
 
 Sibyl. The reason of her partiality 
 For Nardi why not bluntly ask ? 
 
 Prince. I did. 
 
 I questioned her about his parentage, 
 And how he chanced to come to be at Court, 
 And why she chose to make so much of him. 
 The Princess joined us ere she could reply, 
 And so no more was said ; but since that hour
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 79 
 
 She ever seems to stand upon her guard, 
 
 And does not care to be alone with me 
 
 More than she well can help. And now the youth 
 
 Has vanished — whither is vouchsafed to none. 
 Sibyl (after a pause). 
 
 There's more in this than on the surface shows. 
 
 I think if I were in your Highness' place, 
 
 Husband to such a lady as the Queen, 
 
 I know what I would do. 
 Prince. What would you do ? 
 
 Sibyl. Shame her by having confidence in her; 
 
 Bear with her patiently, and think no ill. 
 
 This modest counsel will you deign to take 
 
 From one who dares to call herself your friend ? 
 Prince. Sibyl, I know not — 
 Sibyl. See, her Majesty 
 
 Approaches. It is supper, I expect. 
 Re-enter the Queen, attended. She smiles and holds 
 otd her hand to the Prince. 
 
 [Exeunt all. 
 
 Scene 2. Night. Broken ground at the foot of 
 a hill, well wooded round about. to the right, 
 partly concealed by a young tree which has 
 grown up athwart it, the mouth of a grotto, 
 from which emerge the Pretender and Withold.
 
 8o The Queeiis Innocent. 
 
 Wit. How if the Princess be incompetent 
 
 Your summons to obey ? 
 Pret. Tsh ! man — she'll come. 
 
 Wit. Or if, attending it, she yet refuse 
 
 This stripling to betray. 
 Pret. She'll not refuse. 
 
 The business is a ticklish one, I know. 
 But if this card is to be played at all, 
 'Tis certain I must hold it in my hand 
 Ere noon to-morrow. Hark ! was that a step ? 
 Begone. And have a care you do not miss 
 The path — the second to your left— the felled 
 Timber will be your guide. The men prepared 
 For any hazard or contingence keep. 
 {Exit Withold. The Pretender retires into the 
 grotto. Enter the Princess and Veronica, closely 
 wrapped.) 
 Princess. Not near it yet ? 
 
 Veron. It must be hereabout. 
 
 ( The Pretender is in the act of coming forth when 
 Nardi, suddenly darting into view round a spur of the 
 hill, leaps on to the stage in/mediately in front of the 
 two ladies.) 
 Veron. (clinging to the Princess). 
 
 Have mercy on us ! He has broken loose,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 81 
 
 And comes to murder us, as like as not. 
 Stark mad he is — I see it in his eye ! 
 Nardi. I did not mean to startle you so much. 
 I am as sane as you. Here, feel how calm 
 My pulses beat — 
 
 [Extends his wrist to Veronica, and presses the reluct- 
 ant hand of the Princess against his heart.) 
 
 although small marvel 'twere 
 If, after three long arctic-winter days 
 Unwarmed by any ray your presence sheds, 
 This meeting made them galop. 
 
 Princess. You were fallen 
 
 Into a dangerous frenzy which required 
 Your transfer to a madhouse, it was said. 
 
 Nardi. If I am mad, then all mankind is mad. 
 
 Princess. 'Twas falsehood, then, about your being 
 removed ? 
 But where have you been hidden these three days ? 
 
 Nardi. It is a fact that I was forced away, 
 Though what my destination was to be 
 I know not. Happily I 'scaped my guards. 
 
 Veron. You hear — he is a lunatic at large. 
 
 I knew he was, — I said so, — 
 Princess. Peace, you fool ! 
 
 G
 
 S2 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Run to the thicket and keep watch, that none 
 
 Surprise us. 
 
 [Exit Veronica with reluctance. 
 
 (To Nardi.) Now this mystery explain. 
 
 The whole that has befallen you relate. 
 
 Nardi. A prisoner in my chamber I was kept 
 
 For two whole days ; the third (to-day), at dawn, 
 
 Doctor Ben Ephraim stood beside my bed, 
 
 And bade me rise and preparation make 
 
 To go upon a journey which the Queen 
 
 Willed I should undertake. I, wondering, asked, 
 
 " Whither ? " He answered, " Later you shall learn." 
 
 " Shall I return to-day ? " " No, not to-day." 
 
 " To-morrow ? " " Nor to-morrow." In dismay, 
 
 " This journey then means banishment," I cried. 
 
 " For what offence must I be exiled thus ? " 
 
 " For none." " Why go, then ? " " 'Tis the Queen's 
 
 command." 
 
 Then seeing I began my hands to wring, 
 
 " Have you' not ever found the Queen," he said, 
 
 " A gentle mistress ? " I agreed. " Then yield 
 
 Unquestioning obedience to her now. 
 
 Here is a parting gift she sends you — read 
 
 The motto." And, with that, an antique ring 
 
 He handed to me which I oft have marked
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 83 
 
 Upon the finger of the Queen, inscribed 
 With " Trust me and be patient." Here it is. 
 I dressed myself with such a heavy heart ! 
 Six months ago I had not cared a bit, 
 One place was like another then, but now 
 Exile from Court meant banishment from you. 
 The Queen had learnt the secret of our love, 
 And meant to part us, that I plainly saw. 
 
 Princess. You really think this journey was designed 
 For such an end ? 
 
 Nardi. I rack my mind in vain 
 
 To hit on any other it could have. 
 
 Princess. You think you — we have been discovered, 
 then? 
 
 That our — that your — ■ — continue with your tale. 
 
 Nardi. When every pretext for delay was spent, 
 
 I bade my chamber silent, sad farewell, 
 
 And traversed, by that old physician's side, 
 
 The quiet palace. At the postern gate 
 
 There stood a coach, and near it two strange men, 
 
 On seeing whom I straight drew back and cried, 
 
 " These two are jailers — no, I will not go ! " 
 
 Then, at a sign, that pair laid hold on me 
 
 And forced me in, and off at once we drove. 
 
 I soon was lost in sorrowful thought, and took 
 
 G 2
 
 84 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Small note of time or of the way we went ; 
 
 But suddenly I woke to a confused 
 
 Sensation of alarm. We then had just 
 
 Rounded the shoulder of a hill, the air 
 
 Felt dense and sultry, and a gloom as deep 
 
 Almost as that of night o'erhung the scene. 
 
 A minute more, however, and a flash 
 
 The vividest I ever witnessed clove 
 
 The darkness, followed instantly by one 
 
 Long, solitary, deafening thunder peal. 
 
 The men inside the coach with me looked pale ; 
 
 I laughed hysterically and clapped my hands. 
 
 The horses at the same time reared with fright, 
 
 Then started off and, at a furious pace, 
 
 Went tearing madly down the steep incline. 
 
 Before my guards could know of my intent, 
 
 I oped the carriage door and out I leapt. 
 
 The tumble stunned me, but the splashing rain 
 
 That poured upon my face revived me soon, 
 
 And up from off the ground I rose unhurt, 
 
 Barring some bruises and a shoulder sprain. 
 
 One of my guards lay sprawling on his back 
 
 Upon the turf some few yards off, stone dead. 
 
 Of coach, or driver, or the other guard — 
 
 No sign. I laid the dead man straight, and crossed
 
 The Queen 's Innocent. 85 
 
 His wrists, and spread a kerchief on his face. 
 I then walked back along the road we came. 
 Sunshine succeeded storm. I walked for hours, 
 Or so it seemed, and never met a soul. 
 At length I reached the outskirts of the woods, 
 And soon sharp strokes, as of a woodman's axe, 
 Smote on my ear. I hastened towards the noise, 
 And found a friendly peasant whom I knew, 
 "Who took me to his hut, and gave me food, 
 And dried my clothes ; and there I lay concealed 
 Till evening cast her mantle on the land. 
 
 Princess. What next do you propose to do ? Ere 
 now, 
 News must have reached the Queen of your escape, 
 And searchers, it is likeliest, are abroad. 
 
 Nardi. You are a timely riser, walking forth 
 Most mornings with your ladies, — one of those 
 To whom the beauty of the matin star 
 Is not a thing unknown, nor how divine 
 The savour is of lichen-traceried pines, 
 When winds at dawning sough amid their tops. 
 
 Princess. And what of that ? 
 
 Nardi. At dawn to-morrow rise, 
 
 And seek that triad of gigantic elms
 
 86 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Which marks the limit of the forest free — 
 
 "The Sisters," it is called — you know the spot. 
 
 There shall you meet a peasant girl deformed, 
 
 A little witch-like figure, follow her, 
 
 And she will guide you to a chapel small, 
 
 Veiled in thick woodland shades. Within its walls 
 
 I, with a priest, your coming will await. 
 
 The nuptial blessing fast pronounced, we two 
 
 Will walk into the presence of the Queen, 
 
 And tell her what irrevocable thing 
 
 Has taken place between us, and abide 
 
 Her pleasure. 
 
 {The Princess, having recovered from her first astonish- 
 ment, has a strong inclination to laugh, but checks it.) 
 Princess. Oh !— you take me by surprise. 
 
 Where is the need of such precipitate haste ? 
 Nardi. The wild-horse, opportunity, is caught 
 
 Seldom a second time ; for these few hours, 
 
 Only these few, he stands at our command, 
 
 And, if we boldly leap upon his back, 
 
 Will bear us to the goal of our desire. 
 
 You hesitate ... I fear then, after all, 
 
 You do not care for me. 
 Princess. 'Twould ill become 
 
 A woman other than to hesitate
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 87 
 
 At such a crisis ; ere I can decide 
 
 I must have leisure to deliberate. 
 Nardi. At stroke of midnight one whom I can trust 
 
 Shall underneath your chamber-window stand. 
 
 Indite the " yea" or " nay " which is to bless 
 
 Or damn me, and despatch it through the air. 
 Princess. Midnight — 'tis ten o'clock already — well, 
 
 It shall be done. 
 Nardi. You love me ? 
 
 Princess. Doubt it not. 
 
 Nardi. Then why not say at once that you agree 
 
 To my proposal ? 
 Princess. Hush ! I hear a sound. 
 
 Nardi. It is the wind. 
 Princess. There's not a breath astir. 
 
 Nardi. It is a bird that roosts among the boughs. 
 You are not paltering with me, are you ? Come — 
 Before we separate I'll seal my fate. 
 
 {Grasps both her hands in his.) 
 Swear you will meet and wed with me at morn ! 
 
 Princess. Leave go ! 
 
 (Stmggles to free herself. Screams. The Pretender 
 springs out of his place of concealment on one side, 
 Veronica rushes in on the other.)
 
 88 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Veron. What is it ? Nardi, come away ! 
 
 Someone approaches — quick ! 
 
 Nardi (as he is being dragged off by Veronica). 
 
 At midnight, then ! 
 (The Pretender regards the Princess sternly for 
 some seconds; then lifts and scans successively her 
 hands.) 
 Princess. What are you looking for? 
 Pret. My mother's ring. 
 
 I placed it on your finger on that day 
 Which saw us secretly betrothed. 
 
 Prin. 'Tis here, — 
 
 Warm at my heart. 
 
 (Drawing a riband from her neck.) 
 Pret. I want it. Give it me . . . 
 
 A bond that binds so slackly may as well 
 
 Be loosened altogether. You are free. 
 Prin. Are you so angry ? 
 
 Pret. Have I cause or no ? . . . 
 
 To-morrow is it? Well, I wish him joy. 
 The Queen will bless and pardon both, no doubt. 
 
 Princess. The Queen, right well you know, will have 
 no cause 
 To bless or pardon either.
 
 The Queciis Innocent. 89 
 
 Pret. Oh, for shame ! — 
 
 Where is the dignity, the high reserve, 
 That like a garment should a princess wrap, — 
 Should 'twixt the meaner sort and her erect 
 A barrier viewless but impassable, 
 Which paralyses every foot not royal 
 That tries its line to cross ? It makes me blush, 
 Thus from yourself to see you derogate — 
 Forget your royalty. 
 
 Princess. When next I hear 
 
 The term unblushing mated with your name, 
 I shall feel glad to know it undeserved. 
 
 Pret. A youth like that to dare lay hands on you, 
 And talk of love and marriage — 'tis too much ! 
 Yet there's a modest look about his face . . . 
 It needed warm encouragement from you 
 To breed such boldness in him, I'll be sworn. 
 
 Princess. How if I were to call you to account 
 For every trifling act of gallantry ? 
 Oh, there come whispers floating in the air, 
 Which often, were my ear unwise enough 
 To harbour them, might cause me jealous throes ! 
 
 Pret. Throes groundless then . . . 
 
 But come, 'tis best we part.
 
 9° The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 I wish him joy who weds a light coquette, 
 That will not I. 
 
 (He turns to go.) 
 Princess (catching him by the sleeve). 
 
 Shall one so mean create 
 Dissension between princes ? You might feel 
 As reasonably jealous of the dog 
 That gambols round me and my foot impedes, 
 The kitten that I nurse, the instrument 
 From which I draw sweet sounds in idle hours. 
 What is he after all ? A brain-sick boy, 
 Not yet nineteen, and younger than his years. 
 I let him sing to me, and hold my fan, 
 And walk beside me whilst I took the air ; 
 And when the fool conceived himself in love, 
 just for pure sport forebore to check his flame. 
 We owe our lives to him, my girls and I — 
 We three must here have yawned ourselves to death 
 But for this Nardi, whose ingenuousness 
 Yielded us food for mirth. That now the joke 
 Becomes a little serious I admit, 
 But here, I vow, it ends. I never dreamed 
 That you would view it in so grave a light. 
 
 Pret. You never dreamed I should discover it.
 
 The Queens Innocent. 91 
 
 Princess. That I so deeply have offended you, 
 I grieve most truly. Do you pardon me? 
 
 Pret. Give me a kiss. 
 
 Princess. Now hand me back my ring. 
 
 Pret. Inform me first, with reference to this youth, 
 How you propose to act, to be exempt 
 From further importunities ? 
 
 Princess. How act ? — 
 
 Oh, make the Queen aware her truant dove 
 Is hovering hereabout. Instruct her how . 
 Her birdcatchers may lime him in the woods 
 To-morrow morn, perhaps. His Innocence 
 Shall rue, I warrant him, my recent fright. 
 See the red mark his sacrilegious grasp 
 Has left upon my wrist ... it tingles still. 
 
 Pret. Will you be ruled in this affair by me ? 
 
 Princess. Yea, if your rule be wiser than mine own. 
 
 Pret. Then send him notice, by the appointed means, 
 Your coy reluctance to his ardour yields, 
 And, two hours after dawn, you will not fail 
 To meet him at the sacred spot he named. 
 
 Princess (with a soft laugh of approval) . 
 Oh, yes — what else ? 
 
 Pret. I undertake the rest. 
 
 Princess. Be more explicit.
 
 92 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Pret. Say there is a child, 
 
 The soundness of whose limbs to me is dear. 
 One day I find it playing with a knife, 
 And, trembling for its fingers, I demand 
 The dangerous implement. The little one, 
 If good, will yield it up to me at once. 
 You see the drift of my small parable ? 
 
 Princess. What will you do with this sharp in- 
 strument ? 
 
 Pret. Encase it with a purple velvet sheath, 
 And make it impotent henceforth to harm. 
 
 Princess. What does that mean — a purple velvet 
 sheath ? 
 To sheathe must signify to imprison. 
 
 Pret. No ; 
 
 I take a genuine interest in the boy, 
 And shall promote his welfare in a way 
 That will surprise you. 
 
 Princess. Must I really, then, 
 
 Into your hands " The Innocent " betray ? 
 
 Pret. Would you this bauble which I hold in pledge, 
 And what it is a symbol of, redeem. 
 'Tis after all but yielding me, you know, 
 Your kitten or your terrier.
 
 The Queens Innocent. 93 
 
 Princess. You are not 
 
 Bloody or vengeful that I know of, yet — 
 
 Did I suspect you meant to kill or hurt 
 
 My kitten or my terrier, I might pause 
 
 Before I placed it thus within your power. 
 
 Give me your word that Nardi shall remain 
 
 Unscathed in life and limb. 
 Pret. Most willingly. 
 
 Upon my honour he shall not be harmed. 
 Princess. They say that you are perjured, and have 
 none 
 
 To swear by. 
 Pret. Well, then, by our love — 
 
 Princess. They say 
 
 That love and policy with you are one ! 
 Pret. Then by your heavenly beauty, which should be 
 
 A warrant for my love, — 
 Princess. They say that none 
 
 Can flatter women like the Count of Ghyl ! 
 Pret. Enough of what they say. The question is, 
 
 Will my Cleodora do the thing I ask ? 
 Princess. Well, I shall let you take him off my hands. 
 Pret. You promise ? 
 Princess. Yes, I promise. Now, my ring. 
 
 But, Pharamond, to think that you should thus 
 
 Be jealous ! —
 
 94 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Veronica re-enters. 
 
 Veron. Will your Highness now return? 
 
 The clouds are breaking, we shall not go back 
 Shadowless as we came, but mid a glare 
 Of tell-tale moonlight, if we longer stay. 
 
 Princess. What sound is that ? 
 
 Veron. The barking of a dog. 
 
 It grows more near. . . The rangers are abroad. 
 Pret. No soul will venture here at such an hour, 
 
 The grot too sick a reputation bears. 
 
 Nevertheless, Veronica is right, 
 
 You two had best return. 
 
 Princess. And all this while 
 
 You have not told me why you sent for me ! 
 Pret. 'Tis very true. And there is now no time 
 
 To remedy the omission. See ! the moon. 
 
 Hie back with caution and your nimblest speed. 
 
 We must contrive, ere long, to meet again. 
 
 {They hurriedly salute and J>art.) 
 
 Pret. {alone). My plan was nebulous an hour ago, 
 Now it is definite, resolved, and clear. 
 'Tis ever best when things arrange themselves. 
 
 {Exit.)
 
 The Queens Innocent. 95 
 
 Scene 3. — Interior of a squalid hut. 
 The Innocent and Morra. 
 
 Morra. But are there not more gods than one in 
 
 heaven ? 
 Nardi. Eh ? — only God the Father and His Son. 
 
 There is the devil — but he lives in hell. 
 Morra. Does he make boys and girls, as well as God? 
 Nardi. No, only God — He makes, and the devil mars. 
 Morra. Perhaps He made me straight and white like 
 you; 
 
 And then the devil bent me out of shape, 
 
 And scorched me brown, and spoiled me. I would 
 kill 
 
 The devil if I were God ! 
 Nardi. Perhaps He can't. 
 
 Life and the world is all a mystery. 
 
 It crushes me to think of it at times ! 
 
 Some say 'tis all a phantasm. 
 Morra. What is that ? 
 
 Nardi. A thing unreal, a show. When I hear sounds 
 That others do not hear, and gaze on shapes 
 Lovely or terrible where others see 
 Nothing but empty space, they say that these
 
 g6 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Are phantasms — hollow semblances that only 
 Live in the mind by which they are perceived, 
 
 Morra (after a pause). 
 
 The wrinkles all went out of grandPer's face 
 When he was dead. 
 Nardi. No doubt. 
 
 (Sings in a dreamy sort of chant.) 
 Death's damp touch at once effaces 
 What life's busy hand has written ; 
 Where the soul was speared or smitten, 
 Now of wound or bruise no traces ; 
 Fold and wrinkle disappear, 
 All is once more smooth and clear. 
 
 Morra. I always cry 
 
 To hear you sing, and yet it makes me feel 
 
 So happy ! 
 Nardi. Little Morra, I shall tell 
 
 The Princess to befriend you for my sake. 
 
 And you shall have good clothes, and proper food, 
 
 And medicines to ease your bones of pain ; 
 
 And wheresoever we may chance to dwell, 
 
 There shall your home be. 
 Morra. How am I to know 
 
 The Princess from her maids ?
 
 The Queen's Innocetit. 97 
 
 Nardi. You will not see 
 
 Her maids when she is by. The eye takes in 
 Nothing but her. 
 Morra. I do so long, yet fear 
 
 To see her. Is her hair all gold like yours ? 
 Nardi. Yes, gold, but warmer, ruddier — oh, such hair ! 
 It seems to weigh her head back when she walks, — 
 Dark if she sits in shade, but in the sun 
 A thousand flames seem flickering in and out 
 Among its little billows. 
 
 (He goes to the windoiv. ) 
 Morra, look ! 
 There's the first streak of dawn— oh, joy ! — and there 
 The morning star — how silver-fair it shines ! 
 The sky grows red. My bridal morn, all hail ! 
 
 {He moves towards the door.) 
 Morra. Where are you going ? — to the chapel ? 
 Nardi. Yes. 
 
 Morra. Why do you go so soon ? 
 Nardi. I want to deck 
 
 The altar, before which we are to kneel, 
 With boughs and wild flowers. You will not mistake, 
 Morra, the time at which you are to meet 
 The Princess ? 
 Morra. No, oh no, I'll not mistake. 
 
 H
 
 9$ The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Nardi {singing as he goes out into the dawn). 
 
 Hail to my bridal morning ! 
 
 Hail, planet fair, adorning 
 The rosy brow of day — ah, day divine for me ! 
 
 The music's jar is ended, 
 
 The discord long suspended 
 Resolves — my life grows one victorious harmony ! 
 
 Rise, sun, and star, wax pale, 
 
 My spousal morning, hail ! 
 
 Hail to my bridal morning ! 
 
 Hail, beam that gives me warning 
 'T is near — the hour for which I pant with fond desire ! 
 
 I feel my stature growing • 
 
 I feel my breast o'erflowing ; 
 My pulses bound, my blood is changed to liquid fire ! 
 
 Rise, sun, and star, wax pale, 
 
 My spousal morning, hail ! 
 
 Scene 4. — An Apartment in the Palace. 
 (Enter the Princess, Sibyl, and Veronica.) 
 
 Veron. No one here ? 
 
 Do you not wonder, Princess, why the Queen 
 Has summoned us ?
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 99 
 
 Princess. I never wonder. 
 
 {Sinks indolently into a chair.) 
 Oh! 
 Sibyl. Your shoulder pains you ? 
 
 Princess. Every time I move. 
 
 I must have taken cold in it last night. 
 Veron. How does the would-be bridegroom feel by 
 now ? 
 To think you might this day have been a wife ! 
 {Sings.) 
 Oh, if I had only said "yea," 
 Instead of that foolish word " nay," 
 I might have been married to-day ! 
 
 The youth who was eager to wed me, 
 This morn to the altar had led me — 
 Princess. For heaven's sake, hush ! 
 Sibyl. Her Highness did say " yea." 
 
 {The door of an inner room opens, and the Queen's 
 Physician appears.) 
 Princess. Ah, Doctor — you ? How fares the Queen ? 
 Last night 
 Her cheek was bridal white to match her robe. 
 Ben E. The Queen is well, but anxious. Nothing 
 blights 
 The rose upon the cheek so soon as care. 
 
 H 2
 
 IOO The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Princess. That is most true. Ah me, these cares of 
 state ! (yawtis). 
 I would not wear a crown for all the world. 
 
 Ben E. Nardi's escape is what most largely now 
 Contributes to the Queen's disquietude. 
 
 Princess. Nardi's escape ? 
 
 Ben E. Your Highness must have heard 
 
 How that a sudden fit of madness made 
 Expedient his removal. 
 
 Princess. Yes, we heard. 
 
 And so he has escaped. 
 
 Pen E. The coach wherein, 
 
 Attended by his keepers, to a place 
 Of safe detention he was being conveyed, 
 Was, ere it had proceeded many miles, 
 O'ertaken by a storm among the hills, 
 At which the horses, it would seem, took fright, 
 And bolted with it down a steep incline, 
 Against the granite boulders at whose base 
 'Twas dashed to pieces. One of Nardi's guards 
 Escaped with bruises and a fractured limb ; 
 The other, who, together with his charge, 
 Leapt out when first the horses ran away, 
 Lay stretched, when found, beside the roadway, dead. 
 But Nardi's self was nowhere to be seen,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 101 
 
 Nor have we tidings gained of him as yet. 
 
 The Queen conceived your Highness might afford 
 
 Some clue that should conduct to his arrest. 
 Princess. Who ? — I ? 
 Ben E. You, madam, who have deigned of late 
 
 To lavish on him favours manifold. 
 
 You, to whose presence he has been allowed 
 
 Access at will, and who have won his trust 
 
 As none before. 'Tis thought he may have held 
 
 Speech with your Highness since his late escape. 
 Princess. Intelligencer to a lunatic 
 
 That with his keepers plays at hide and seek ! 
 
 Truly the Queen and you, sir, honour me. 
 
 Perhaps she thinks I give him secret shelter 
 
 Within these walls — I do believe she does ! 
 
 Will you be pleased yourself to search my rooms? 
 Ben E. My royal mistress harbours no such thought. 
 
 To violate your privacy I bear 
 
 No warrant, madam. 
 Princess (seeming somewhat mollified). I am glad of 
 that. 
 
 Tis true that he was with us oft of late, 
 
 Diverting with his prattle and his songs 
 
 These ladies and myself. We saw him last — 
 
 When was it, Sibyl, do you recollect ?
 
 102 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 Sibyl. I saw him, madam, in your company 
 
 On Monday last. I have not seen him since. 
 
 That I can say with truth. 
 Veron. Yes, Monday 't was. 
 
 Princess. You hear, sir. Of his present whereabouts 
 
 We are as ignorant as you yourself. 
 Ben E. One who could doubt your royal word must be 
 
 An infidel indeed ; and yet, and yet — 
 
 [The door of the inner apartment is flung open with 
 violence, and the Prince appears, looking disturbed 
 and angry.) 
 Prince. Cleodora, if you know the hiding-place 
 
 Of this young man, reveal it, in God's name ! 
 Princess. Why, brother, what's the matter ? You seem 
 moved. 
 
 Her vanished darling should the Queen deplore. 
 
 No one need wonder ; 'twere in nature, that. 
 
 But you, my Aon, might contrive, I think, 
 
 To bear his loss with equanimity. 
 Prince. Why are you always seeking to infect 
 
 My mind with jealousy ? 
 Princess. With jealousy ? 
 
 Prince. To sow before our bridal moon is old 
 
 The seeds of strife between my wife and me ? 
 
 Yes, you may smile and curl your scornful lip, —
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 103 
 
 Your scandalous suggestions I retort 
 
 Upon yourself. Tis not the Queen,. but you, 
 
 Twixt whom and this young runaway have been 
 
 Enacted scenes of folly. 
 Princess {aside, and laughing to herself). 
 
 How it works ! 
 
 Spite of your protestations, brother mine, 
 
 You are as jealous of the Innocent 
 
 This hour as I could wish. 
 
 {Enter, from within, the Queen.) 
 My dearest Gladys ! 
 
 Why, you are pale .... You are not well, I fear. 
 
 You take the agitations of the time 
 
 Too much to heart. 
 Queen. The care that carks me most 
 
 Is not imperial, but domestic. Princess, 
 
 Tell me where Nardi is. 
 Princess. I do not know. 
 
 How should I ? Nardi, Nardi, nothing else 
 
 But Nardi — I am weary of the name ! 
 
 Why do you all three come to me ? Am I 
 
 His keeper ? 
 Queen. If you know his place of refuge, 
 
 And hold it from his truest friends a secret, 
 
 You do him injury instead of service.
 
 104 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 To fugitives the country is unsafe, 
 
 And I would rather sacrifice a province 
 
 Than any harm should light upon his head, 
 
 {The Princess here casts a sidelong significant look at 
 her brother.) 
 
 Since 'tis a good and gentle youth though wayward. 
 
 Why come to you for news of him, you ask ? 
 
 Near where the heart is fixed the feet will loiter. 
 
 Thanks to the subtle teaching of your eyes, 
 
 Nardi has compassed all love's mystery. 
 
 You saw what lore his soul was set to learn, 
 
 And made the lesson easier by your help. 
 Princess. I am a sort of primer, it would seem, 
 
 From which young lovers spell the rudiments. 
 
 (Ben Ephraim, who had left the apartment, re-enters.) 
 Pen E. There is a priest, your Majesty, who craves 
 
 Speech with the Princess ; having, so he states, 
 
 Something of moment to impart. 
 Queen. A priest ? 
 
 Where is he ? 
 Ben E. In the guardroom. 
 
 Queen. Fetch him hither. 
 
 We '11 hear this thing of moment. It may chance 
 
 Concern the matter which we have in hand. 
 
 \Exit Ben Ephraim.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 105 
 
 Prince. Cleodora, why last night did you withdraw 
 Your presence from the dance ? and wherefore stood 
 Your chair at supper vacant ? 
 
 Princess. I was seized 
 
 With faintness which compelled me to retire. 
 
 Veron. Tis true. I helped her Highness to her 
 chamber. 
 
 Prince. And saw her Highness safe in bed, no doubt. 
 Mendacious, both of you ! Not unobserved, 
 Out in the dark you stole. This morning marks 
 Were found of footsteps near the haunted grot. 
 That one or both within the last few hours 
 Have verbal intercourse with Nardi held 
 There is sufficient reason to believe. 
 
 {Re-enter the Queen's Physician with a Priest.) 
 
 Priest. Which is the royal lady whom I seek, — ■ 
 Cleodora, sister of the Consort Prince ? 
 
 Prince. Yonder she stands, good priest. Your will 
 
 with her ? 
 Priest {looking towards the Queen). 
 
 Mine eyes are dazzled. If I do not err, 
 
 A royal presence more majestical 
 
 Than that of even the Princess or the Prince 
 
 Impregns this chamber.
 
 106 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Queen. Here, as everywhere, 
 
 A presence more majestical abides 
 
 Than that of prince or princess whatsoe'er. 
 
 (This priest's a courtier). Speak your errand briefly, 
 
 And, if its end be honest, have no fear. 
 Priest. Unfit were I God's minister to be, 
 
 If aught but honest, gracious Queen, it were, 
 
 And would her Highness lend me private ear, — 
 Prince. The Princess has no secrets from her kin. 
 
 You can discharge yourself of anything 
 
 That you may chance to have to say to her 
 
 With freedom in this presence. 
 
 (Priest appears to hesitate. Veronica suddenly steps 
 forivard. ) 
 Veron. I divine 
 
 This good man's errand. 'T is a small affair, 
 
 Far, far beneath her Majesty's regard. 
 
 Might I upon the Princess's behalf, — 
 Prince. Your mediation, kind Veronica, 
 
 Will be invited when it is required. 
 
 (To the Priest.) 
 
 Resolve your business into words at once. 
 Priest. Then, madam, know, the youth on whom you 
 meant 
 
 Your hand this day in marriage to confer,
 
 The Queens Innocent. 107 
 
 By soldiers of the enemy is seized, 
 And carried prisoner hence. 
 
 ( The Queen, who has started excitedly from her seat, 
 resumes it, and whispers eagerly with the Physician, 
 who stands behind her chair.) 
 
 Prince. What stuff is this ? 
 
 The man's some mad fantastic ! 
 
 Veron. Mad indeed ! 
 
 Ben E. Who is the youth you speak of? 
 
 Priest. A young lord 
 
 Belonging to the Court, fair-haired and tall. 
 
 Ben E. The Princess meant to marry him, you said ? 
 Explain more fully. You will best secure 
 Your private interest and content the Queen 
 By telling all you know without reserve. 
 
 Priest. I see no reason why I need withhold 
 Aught that the Queen desires me to disclose. 
 An honest woodman, whom I long have known, 
 Roused me from rest this morn while yet 't was dark, 
 And urgently besought me to pronounce 
 The nuptial blessing o'er a youthful pair 
 Who, two hours after daybreak, would be found 
 Before the altar of St. Winifred. 
 Suspecting something strange ; for when anent 
 These two in such untimely haste to wed
 
 io8 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 I questioned him, he suddenly relapsed 
 
 Into his native stolidness, I gave 
 
 A qualified consent, and sought betimes 
 
 The little forest chapel which, disused 
 
 For purposes of worship, has become 
 
 A lovers' trysting-place — I seldom pass 
 
 The small dim ivied porch but I descry 
 
 Some blushing couple on the bench beneath — 
 
 From time to time a stolen peasant match, 
 
 Moreover, such as I will swear I deemed 
 
 The one in question, secretly within 
 
 Its walls the Church's sanction has received. 
 
 Arrived, I found the groom, with countenance 
 
 As young and radiant as the morn without, 
 
 (No peasant he, I saw it at a glance,) 
 
 Alone, expectant, pacing to and fro 
 
 The small flagged aisle with quick, impatient stride. 
 
 He hailed me joyfully, but ere a word 
 
 Could be exchanged between us, stealthy steps 
 
 Were heard without. The stripling, as I guess, 
 
 Deeming the bride and witnesses were come, 
 
 Rushed to the door, but quickly started back 
 
 And gave a low, sharp cry, at meeting there 
 
 Some half-a-dozen soldiers on the point 
 
 Of entering.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 109 
 
 Ben E. Rebel soldiers ? 
 
 Priest. Why, they wore 
 
 The colours of the rebel Count, and two 
 I recognized as men of Sars who joined 
 His cause, I know, not four weeks since. 
 
 Ben E. Proceed. 
 
 Priest. The leader of the band advancing bade 
 The youth surrender. He shook back his locks, 
 Folded his arms, and planted his right foot 
 More firmly on the ground for sole reply. 
 But when a hand was on his shoulder laid, 
 He darted forwards through their very midst, 
 Thrusting the men away on either side, 
 With such a suddenness he would have won 
 The open air, and possibly escaped, 
 But that the hindmost soldier aimed a blow 
 Which made him pause and stagger, when the rest 
 Secured him and his arms with cords confined. 
 And then they led him forth, with sullen scorn 
 He yielding since resistance nought availed, 
 And only turning once to cry to me, 
 " Acquaint the Princess " — as beneath the low 
 Green-mantled archway of the porch he passed. 
 From what I since have from that peasant gleaned, 
 And otherwhere, my duty, as I thought,
 
 1 10 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 Couched in the young man's bidding I perceived, 
 " Acquaint the Princess." 
 
 Ben E. It 's a curious tale, 
 
 Yet one that may be easily explained. 
 Nardi, good youth, is weak and credulous, 
 We call him here at Court "The Innocent." 
 Your peasant friend, yourself, and he, 'tis clear, 
 Have been the victims of some cruel hoax, 
 In which the Princess all complicity 
 With emphasis, be sure, will disavow. 
 Nardi's unbacked assertion, I presume, 
 Alone connects her Highness with the plot ? 
 (Priest looks confused and is silent for a moment. A 
 thought then seems to strike him, and he produces from 
 his pocket after some searching a crumpled piece of 
 paper. ) 
 
 Priest. This slip of paper was at midnight last 
 From out a window of the Palace dropped 
 To one who, by appointment of the youth, 
 (That woodman,) to receive it stood beneath. 
 I found it in the chapel, on the spot 
 On which the young man with the soldiers strove. 
 
 Ben E. (takes and reads it aloud). 
 
 " As snow 'neath sunshine, wax in front of fire, 
 I melt before the warmth of your desire ;
 
 The Queens Innocent. 1 1 1 
 
 When morn is two hours old, steal, unespied, 
 
 And in the woodland chapel greet your bride— 
 
 " Cleodora." 
 {Hands paper to Queen and Prince.) 
 Queen. Infamous ! 
 
 Prince. I know that hand. 
 
 Lady Veronica, these lines are yours. 
 Queen. Another hand has signed them. 
 Prince. Yes, by heaven ! 
 
 This shameful missive you, Cleodora, signed 
 
 And sanctioned ? 
 Veron. (eager/y). No, I wrote the whole ; I feigned — 
 Princess (with coolness). 
 
 My back is strong enough to bear the brunt 
 
 Of mine own follies, good Veronica. 
 
 The signature is mine ; the rest was writ 
 
 At my dictation. 
 Queen (to Ben E.). We have heard enough. 
 
 Remove the priest, but let him be detained. 
 
 You and your women, Princess, to your own 
 
 Apartments will confine yourselves henceforth 
 
 During our sovereign pleasure. 
 Princess. We shall yield 
 
 Compliance with your Majesty's desire. 
 Queen. We mean that you shall have no choice but 
 yield.
 
 1 1 2 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 Princess. Am I to deem myself a prisoner, then ? 
 
 Aon, do you intend to suffer this ? 
 Prince. For my sake let her not endure this shame, 
 
 Whatever for her reckless levity 
 
 She merits. To be shut awhile in Sars 
 
 Can do your truant favourite little harm. 
 
 'Twill damp the ardour of his soaring flame, 
 
 And give his forwardness a wholesome check. 
 Queen. Princess ! Your further presence we excuse. 
 Princess. This usage of your sister and your guest 
 
 May meet requital sooner than you think. 
 
 {Sweeps superbly out of the apartment, follotved by her 
 ladies. The Prince stands irresolute for a few 
 seconds, and then goes out after them. Ben Ephraim 
 at the same moment re-enters.) 
 
 Queen. Said I not love so placed could bring but ill ? 
 Your cunning and your prescience where were they, 
 When to foresee and hinder this you failed ? 
 
 Ben E. Your youth is wiser, madam, than my age. 
 I guessed not matters of such weight might hang 
 Upon a young man's fancy for a maid. 
 
 Queen {after a pause, sighing). 
 
 My brown hairs notwithstanding to your grey 
 Must come for counsel. What is to be done ?
 
 The Queens Innocent. 1 1 3 
 
 Ben E. First with your royal warrant I will search 
 Her Highness's apartments, and each scrap 
 Of writing and suspicious token seize. 
 Next I must to the camp, and thence to Sars. 
 
 Queen. And based on air should your suspicions 
 prove, 
 How to our consort shall we justify 
 Measures so harsh and arbitrary as these ? 
 
 Ben E. It was a preconcerted thing — no chance — 
 This seizure in the chapel. There has been 
 Collusion 'twixt the Princess, or her maids, 
 And someone yonder in the rebel host. 
 The unknown quantity which thus confounds 
 Our reckoning 't is essential we should know. 
 
 Queen. At this unlooked-for juncture it were wise 
 Into our counsels to admit the Prince. 
 
 Ben E. No, no. 
 
 Queen. Why not ? — his Highness is a thought 
 
 Begrudgeful of our manifest concern 
 For Nardi, and — in short we deem it fit 
 The burthen of this secret he should share. 
 
 Ben E. Nardi were then a mark for jealousy 
 Upon the Prince's part more perilous far. 
 
 I
 
 1 1 4 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Queen. How so ? . . . Then, if this secret is to lie 
 Like a drawn sword between our spouse and us, 
 'Twere better far to have remained unwed. 
 Ben E. I wish the woman in your Majesty 
 Were oftener in subjection to the Queen. 
 Queen. All natural feeling in me you would crush — 
 Still every human throb. A queen of wood 
 Or stone would serve your turn as well as I. 
 The crown ! it weighs like lead upon my brow. 
 A stool of penance rather than a throne 
 Is that whereon — for sins not mine — I sit. 
 Oh, I did wrong to wed the man I loved ! 
 Ben E. To give your high self unreservedly 
 To bliss connubial, madam, what forbids ? 
 Do so, and let the kingdom's turmoil cease. 
 There's one will ease you of the leaden load- — 
 Yield it to the Pretender, Pharamond ! 
 Queen. That will I never, by my father's soul ! 
 Oh, why do I stand wrangling with you here 
 When such important issues are at stake ? 
 Go, comb out this entanglement, and then — 
 Commands, directions, have I none to give. 
 Act as your own sagacity dictates 
 For our and Nardi's safety, and the State's. 
 
 {Exit Ben Ephraim. Queen retires within.
 
 The Queens Innocent. 115 
 
 Scene 5. — A room in the Fortress of Sars, the 
 same as in Act 2, Scene i. 
 
 The Pretender and Withold. 
 
 Wit. It 's most distinct. 
 
 Pret. Between his shoulders ? 
 
 Wit. Yes. 
 
 Pret. Withold, my mother's brother's son, that sign 
 
 Emblems the difference 'twixt your blood and mine. 
 
 It is the hall-mark with which Nature stamps 
 
 Men-children of the royal race. This link 
 
 Completes of his identity the chain. 
 
 The lad seems docile ? 
 Wit. Fairly so ; keeps up 
 
 A rippling flow of converse with himself 
 
 When none is by, or weeps and wrings his hands. 
 
 But speak to him, he answers you as haught 
 
 As if already he were crowned the King. 
 
 Hark ! footsteps — they are bringing him along. 
 
 {Exit Withold.) 
 Nardi enters. 
 Pret. (advancing towards him). 
 
 I trust your slumber has been sound and sweet, 
 
 And blest with golden dreams, as youth's should be. 
 
 The needs that press upon the time must plead 
 
 I 2
 
 n6 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Excuse for any lack of courtesy, 
 
 The violence, to wit, of yesterday, 
 
 The soldier's fare and lodging. We intend 
 
 To better your accommodation soon, 
 
 If fortune still is gracious to us. Sit. 
 
 (Takes his hand and draws him towards a seat, 
 which Nardi, however, declines?) 
 
 You know who speaks to you ? 
 Nardi {surveying him carefully from head to foot). The 
 
 rebel Count ? 
 Pret. If any tongue but yours had been so bold — 
 
 And yet the tongue that least of all has cause 
 
 To adjective my title thus is yours. 
 Nardi. The Count of Ghyl was labouring to deprive 
 
 His lawful sovereign of the crown, I thought. 
 Pret. The Count no lawful sovereign owns save one, — 
 (Looks at him keenly and makes the slightest possible 
 inclination.) 
 
 And that one does not wear the crown as yet. 
 Nardi. I know but little about politics, 
 
 And care still less. I — Nardi — am a poor 
 
 Dependent on the bounty of the Queen, 
 
 Who will not ever think it worth her while 
 
 To ransom one of such minute account. 
 
 Be generous, good my lord, and let me go.
 
 The Queens Innocent. \\y 
 
 I never wish to see the Court again. 
 
 I only want my liberty, and leave 
 
 To wander where I will. I have some friends, 
 
 Poor friends of my own making, humble friends ; 
 
 And — and a woman cares for me and — 
 
 Pret. Ah ! 
 
 The niece or daughter of these humble friends, 
 Some village beauty — do I guess aright ? 
 
 Nardi (after a moment's pause). 
 She is of rank as lofty as your own. 
 
 Pret. Would one thus lofty stoop to love a mean 
 Dependent ? 
 
 Nardi. Strange though it must seem, 'tis true. 
 
 Yesterday was to be our wedding-day. 
 Your soldiers seized me in the chapel aisle, 
 Awaiting her arrival as I stood. 
 The priest was by the altar, book in hand. 
 
 Pret. Forget her. Marriage is for men, not boys. 
 Few wed the object of their first desire. 
 'T is not because we chance to fall in love, 
 That we must forthwith marry. I had loved 
 Before my years had numbered even the few 
 That yours do now, and am not married yet. 
 
 Nardi. Forget ! — you never loved.
 
 1 1 8 The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 Pret. Ah, thus eighteen 
 
 Looks down on eight-and-thirty. Very sad, 
 To leave the summits rosy with the dawn, 
 And on the plain of middle life descend 
 Mid disenchanting daylight. 
 
 Nardi. What she felt, 
 
 When coming to the church she found me not, 
 It tortures me to think ! 
 
 Pret. Oh, be consoled. 
 She did not come, and did not mean to come. 
 She only played with you — nay, be not vexed, 
 Her charms have turned maturer heads than yours. 
 She was not meant for you nor you for her. 
 Proceed we now to weightier topics. Sit, — 
 For some few moments I may yet command 
 
 Nardi. I do not choose to sit. It is a lie ! 
 You are a devil who would tempt me thus 
 To doubt her love and faith ! She sent me word, 
 Signed by her hand and with her seal impressed 
 
 Pret. That missive's only object was to place 
 Your person in my power, for reasons high 
 Which — will you but be patient — you shall hear. 
 When two nights since the Princess you waylaid, 
 It was to meet with me that she had thus 
 Into the starless night crept forth by stealth.
 
 The Queens Innocent. 119 
 
 Our trysting-place was nigh — the haunted grot. 
 
 There, ambushed as I stood, I overheard 
 
 Your wild appeal, and saw at once the means 
 
 Whereby a project might be realized, 
 
 Of which my mind was full. This project was ■ 
 
 Nardi. You are her lover then ? 
 
 Pret. I will not hide 
 
 The fact that I do one day hope to call 
 
 The fair Cleodora " wife." Yourself will grace 
 
 With an auspicious presence, so I trust, 
 
 Our nuptials, and will smile as through your mind 
 
 The memory of this hour's vexation flits. 
 
 Now yield me close and undivided heed, 
 
 For I have that to tell will wholly change 
 
 The aspect of your life. 
 Nardi. The Princess, then, 
 
 Betrayed me ? 
 Pret. Give it not so harsh a name. 
 
 The Princess lent herself to my design 
 
 Wit. (re-entering) From General Morios — a despatch 
 which claims 
 
 Instant attention from your Highness. 
 Pret. Ah ! . . . (glances over it). 
 
 Where is the messenger ?
 
 1.20 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Wit. He waits without. 
 
 Pret. Admit him. 
 
 {Looks at Nardi, who has sunk into a chair with his 
 elbows resting on the table and his face buried i?i his 
 hands.) 
 
 Stay — not here. I'll come outside. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 Nardi (alone). 
 
 I seem as if I had been crushed and stunned 
 By falling headlong off some giddy height, 
 And slowly were awaking to a sense 
 Of mortal injury and pain. Do hearts 
 Feel thus when broken ? . . . 
 
 Not for boys, he said. 
 At what age does the heart, I wonder, reach 
 Maturity ? and when do we become 
 Worthy that women should keep faith with us ? . . . 
 Do people linger long with broken hearts ? 
 If I could die at once ! — and wherefore not ? 
 We kill a dog to put it out of pain. . . . 
 
 (Draws the Princess's dagger from his bosom.) 
 Here is the coveted weapon she bestowed 
 That first time that I sang to her. The point 
 Is sharp. My heart, however, cannot bleed 
 More than it does already, thanks to her.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 12 1 
 
 Did she foresee and give it me for this ? . . . 
 
 Kind blade, one kiss is for the fair white hand 
 
 From whence I had you — one is for yourself, 
 
 That in a trice will cure my grief. 
 
 ( Uncovers his breast) Now quick, 
 
 Quick to your goal ! 
 
 The Pretender re-enters. 
 Pret. What's this ?— Hi ! Withold ! here ! 
 
 The boy has fainted. See to him. 
 Wit. Here's blood. 
 
 Pret. My God, he has stabbed himself ! . . .
 
 122 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 Scene. — A Room in the Palace. 
 The Queen and Sibyl, the latter in tears. 
 Queen. I have a man's dislike to witness tears. 
 
 Weeping will not reverse your mistress' flight. 
 
 With you light-hearted ladies it is all 
 
 Sunshine or floods, like tropic-island weather. 
 Sibyl. My head is light more often than my heart, 
 
 God knows ! 
 Queen. Our royal Consort, you are sure, 
 
 Of this engagement cognizance had none ? 
 Sibyl. Oh none, I swear ! 
 Queen. You need not swear. How long 
 
 Have Pharamond and the Princess been engaged ? 
 Sibyl. Four years. That spring she travelled for her 
 health — ■ 
 
 Now five years since — 'twas then she met him first. 
 
 He liked her for her beauty and her wealth. 
 
 She ever loved to play with sharp-edged tools, 
 
 Touch pitch and shew she rested undefiled, 
 
 And so, what first attracted her to him — 
 
 It was I think his sinister renown. 
 
 Well, then he followed us from place to place,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 123 
 
 Haunted us everywhere, and pressed his suit. 
 
 She held out long but yielded in the end. 
 
 A roving schemer like Prince Pharamond, 
 
 Bankrupt in purse and reputation both, 
 
 Bold as she is, her Highness did not dare 
 
 Own as her favoured suitor to her kin. 
 
 She therefore stipulated that their love 
 
 Should rest a secret till she came of age. 
 
 The day that rounded her minority 
 
 Brought these twin pieces of intelligence — 
 
 Her brother was your Majesty's betrothed ; 
 
 Her lover was in arms against your throne. 
 
 Hence has their love been hidden till this hour, 
 
 And never have they met except by stealth. 
 Queen. Yet, less than four years since, the Count of Ghyl 
 
 Was suitor for another hand than hers. 
 Sibyl. She overlooked that treachery, but will ne'er 
 
 Forgive your Majesty for being its cause. 
 
 For that she hates you in her secret heart ; 
 
 For that the spark which Nardi from her eyes' 
 
 Contagious lovelight — Nardi, whom she deemed 
 
 Your darling — caught, she kindled into flame ; 
 
 The while with jealousy, which had this youth 
 
 For object, simultaneously she sought 
 
 To infect the Prince your spouse, so lately wed.
 
 124 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Queen. A very pretty tissue of intrigue. 
 The Prince enters. 
 
 Prince. The circle of investment is complete. 
 
 The batteries on the south-west ridge are ready 
 
 To vomit forth their thunder — the last gun 
 
 Is in position placed. To-day we hold 
 
 Sars in our grip. 
 Queen. Is that the latest news ? 
 
 Prince. The very latest. 
 Queen. No ; there's later still. 
 
 Aon, your sister's gone. 
 Prince. Gone ? What ? Gone where ? 
 
 Queen. Spurning behind them with their horses' hoofs 
 
 The highway dust, their faces turned towards Sars, 
 
 She and Veronica this morn were seen. 
 Prince. Cleodora and Veronica — towards Sars ? 
 
 Queen. Yes ; galled at what of late transpired, despite 
 Her impudent composure at the time, 
 And finding her position hourly grow 
 Less tenable, no sooner was she freed, 
 (At whose remonstrance you may recollect, 
 " I am my sister's surety," someone said,) 
 No sooner was she freed from that restraint, 
 To which for reasons adequate 't was deemed
 
 The Queens Innocent. 125 
 
 Expedient to subject her, than to join 
 
 Her lover the Pretender, who for years 
 
 Contracted to her secretly has been, 
 
 She fled. With him, with Pharamond himself, 
 
 When three nights since we missed her from the 
 dance, 
 
 She tryst was keeping in the haunted grot, 
 
 And Nardi to his power she then betrayed. 
 
 The Lady Sibyl will relate you these 
 
 And other things in detail when her mind 
 
 Is more composed. 
 Prince (to Sibyl). I live in the dark, it seems. 
 
 Why did you not reveal these things before ? 
 Sibyl. 'Twas not my part her Highness to betray. 
 Prince. Yet it appears that you betray her now. 
 Sibyl. The truth can now no longer be concealed. 
 Prince. Why did you not our sister's flight partake ? 
 Sibyl. Her Highness having honoured me of late 
 
 With but a maimed and partial confidence, 
 
 I knew not that she meditated flight. 
 Prince. Have you and she, then, quarrelled ? 
 Sibyl. Yes and no. 
 
 'Twas brokerage of a cruel kind, I thought, 
 
 And dangerous, Nardi to his rival thus 
 
 To give in pawn — the favourite of the Queen
 
 126 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 To the Queen's foe, and clothed my thought in speech ; 
 The breath too bold on which my words were borne 
 Her friendship for me into coolness fanned, 
 And blew me out of favour. 
 Prince. You shall wind 
 
 More of this tangled skein for me anon ; 
 At present with the Queen I must confer. 
 
 (Exit Sibyl.) 
 
 Prince. What shall we do ? 
 
 Queen (who has been pacing the chamber in deep thought, 
 
 with sudden vivacity). To rescue Nardi ? 
 Prince (with a gesture of impatience). No, 
 
 Cleodora to recall. 
 Queen. To counteract 
 
 The mischief she achieved before she went 
 
 Is all my travail, not to woo her back. 
 
 Nardi's abduction — (Page enters with a tetter.) 
 
 Sars ! Ben Ephraim's hand ! 
 (Tears it open and glances over it.) 
 
 You read — the writing swims before my eyes. 
 Prince (reading). " Nardi, on being made to understand 
 
 The treachery of the Princess, stabbed himself. 
 
 He lives, and, such the nature of his hurt, 
 
 May live some days, but hope beyond is none. 
 
 The Count, convinced the wound was one past cure,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 127 
 
 Surrendered him to your poor servant's charge. 
 
 Thus much am I permitted to disclose." 
 
 How ? are you ill ? 
 Queen. A little faint — that's all. . . . 
 
 Prince. I claim a husband's jealous right to know 
 
 What tie exists between this youth and you, 
 
 That thus affected at his fate you seem ? 
 
 Queen. A jealous husband's right I think you mean. 
 
 But your demand is just and natural both. 
 
 I always said you ought to have been told. 
 
 {After a pause) A hard and bitter lot for one so young 
 
 And gentle and ingenuous ! He that paled 
 
 At sight of blood, and when an insect's wing 
 
 By accident he tore cried out with pain, 
 
 To lift a desperate hand against himself ! . . . 
 
 Forgive me, friend, if I, that seldom weep, 
 
 Do weep a little now — when nature wrings me. . . . 
 
 Your sister has bereft me of a brother. 
 Prince. A brother ! You amaze me ! 
 Queen. Do I so ? 
 
 'Twere more amazing had he been a lover. 
 Prince. I am rebuked. . . . Much pain had I been 
 saved. 
 
 If earlier of this consanguineal bond 
 
 I had been made aware.
 
 128 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Queen. If you but knew 
 
 How often in your ear these last few days 
 I longed to pour the truth ! and thus our love, 
 Made turbid by suspicion, to its own 
 Crystalline purity at once restore ; 
 And into pity and forbearance change 
 Your nascent enmity towards Nardi, wronged 
 Too much already ! — 
 
 Prince. Wronged? 
 
 Queen. Of birthright robbed, 
 
 And name, a victim and a scapegoat — wronged! — 
 Does not his kingly ermine clothe my limbs, 
 His crown my temples gird ? The holy oil 
 Anointed an usurper. 
 
 Prince. Is this true ? 
 
 I thought that when you said he was your brother, 
 You meant by nature not by law. A day 
 Of strange discoveries is this for me ! 
 How did it come to pass that he was thus 
 Excluded from hereditary right ? 
 
 Queen. The tale is somewhat tragical and long. 
 Know that three stalwart sons my grandsire left. 
 The first, although a king, was crossed in love, 
 And ne'er would wed. The third, while yet a youth, 
 Espoused a lady noble but not royal,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 129 
 
 One only son who gave him — Pharamond. 
 
 The second, marrying later on in life, 
 
 Parent (of me) and widower both became 
 
 Within the year. The Duke my father's ways 
 
 Were such that he was always deep in debt. 
 
 At length he grew so hopelessly involved, 
 
 It seemed the only lever that could lift 
 
 And extricate him was a wealthy wife. 
 
 The Princess Alba had the richest dower 
 
 Of any royal maiden of her time. 
 
 And though his years outnumbered hers twice o'er, 
 
 And though he wooed for pelf, her guardians looked 
 
 With favour on his suit, for he was heir 
 
 Presumptive to a throne and had no son. 
 
 Not so the orphan Princess, she, whose heart 
 
 Already on another was bestowed, 
 
 With horror the projected union viewed ; 
 
 But yet, by importunities and threats 
 
 Worn out at last, she yielded in despair, 
 
 And bade them give her hand to whom they would. 
 Prince. Poor maid ! 
 Queen; The nuptial rite was solemnized 
 
 With gay and splendid pomp, and on these shores 
 
 The pair a little later disembarked. 
 
 The old monastic palace of St. Just 
 
 K
 
 13° The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Received them, for the fairy gardens famed 
 
 Which laugh around its sombre, frowning walls. 
 
 My father was at variance with the King, 
 
 Hence the new Duchess was not seen at Court ; 
 
 Nor much nor often was she seen elsewhere ; — 
 
 Her aspect wore the trace of frequent tears ; 
 
 In close seclusion, at her own demand, 
 
 She lived and nursed her sorrow and discontent. 
 
 The Duchess's demeanour towards her spouse 
 
 Was sullen and disdainful from the first. 
 
 Small pains took she to conquer or to hide 
 
 Her deep repugnance ; if he ever made 
 
 An effort to conciliate her regard 
 
 I know not, — the unhappy one was young, 
 
 And youth excites compassion ; she was fair — 
 
 And beauty is a challenge unto love. 
 
 This, the sole portrait of her that exists, 
 
 I found but few days since : — see Nardi's face, 
 
 With just a riper and more sensuous look ; 
 
 Nardi's gold locks in unimpeded growth, 
 
 Which reached, all natural wave and curl, her knees. 
 
 Prince (examining the miniature). 
 A lovely woman — none may that deny. 
 
 Queen. And yet in him she never woke the least 
 Emotion, it would seem, of tenderness.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 131 
 
 But, notwithstanding, being a man, he chafed 
 
 To find himself the object of such scorn. 
 
 Gloom on his brow, resentment in his heart, 
 
 He stalked about the place from day to day. 
 
 At length, in weariness and high disgust, 
 
 Pleading affairs, he bade a cold adieu, 
 
 Betook him to the capital, and there 
 
 His ante-nuptial habits soon resumed. 
 
 He had not long been gone when something caused 
 
 The spirits of the Duchess to revive ; 
 
 Her hitherto so mournful mien grew blithe. 
 
 Instead of pining within doors all day, 
 
 She rode, walked, drove, explored the country round, 
 
 Paid visits to the village sick and poor, 
 
 And long and lonesome woodland rambles made, 
 A favourite lady, one who with her came 
 Across the ocean from her native land, 
 Alone attending her ; and these, it seemed, 
 She grew to take delight in most of all. 
 One day my father suddenly returned ; 
 The presence of the Duchess, unannounced, 
 All soiled with travel as he was, he sought, 
 And thereupon high words between the two, 
 And scornful laughter on the part of one — 
 The lady — rose. Henceforth her haunts were watched, 
 
 K 2
 
 132 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Her steps were followed, though without result. 
 The Duchess had a sharp and rancorous tongue ; 
 The Duke was slow and sparing in his speech, 
 And when he writhed the most could least retort ; 
 Hence, as she barbed her shafts and winged them 
 
 home, 
 Blanched, quivering lips and looks of deadly hate 
 Were wont how sore they rankled to betray — 
 And these alone, till once she so beyond 
 Endurance stung him with envenomed words, 
 An impulse of ungovernable rage 
 Moved him to lift the riding-whip he held 
 And smite her heavily across the mouth. 
 Many and flagrant were my father's faults, 
 But coarse brutality was hardly one ; 
 And when the Duchess from her swoon revived, 
 Heartfelt remorse he hastened to express. 
 She heard him silently, and, as he ceased, 
 Rose pale, and, lifting slow her bare white arm, 
 That flashed with gems, towards heaven, invoked 
 
 God's curse 
 On him and on his child. 
 
 Prince. How horrible ! 
 
 Queen. Neither to other ever spoke again 
 During the months that intervened before
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 133 
 
 Their union's tragic ending. In due course 
 
 The Duchess was delivered of a son ; 
 
 And six weeks later, spurning babe and home, 
 
 Fled to the one she loved. The Duke pursued ; 
 
 But what occurred was never fully known. 
 
 A curtained litter in his train was borne 
 
 When he returned, from which was lifted forth 
 
 The truant consort, who the well-known walls 
 
 And faces greeted with a haggard stare. 
 
 Blood on the sleeve and bosom of her gown, 
 
 Blood on her long, bright hair, her women found — 
 
 Blood unaccounted for by any wound. 
 
 No word or sigh or moan escaped her lips, 
 
 No light of recognition ever dawned 
 
 For even a single moment in her looks ; 
 
 Strong shudderings shook her frame from time to 
 
 time, 
 And then she spread her hands before her eyes, 
 As if to shield them from some dreadful sight ; 
 Poor wild, scared eyes, whose lids the angel sleep 
 Seemed impotent to close, whose dry, hot light 
 The kindly tears came never to bedew ! 
 At last one morn my father woke to learn 
 That he was widowed for the second time. 
 Prince. Poor soul ! A tragic story. And the babe ?
 
 134 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Queen. Whose advent through the perilous gates of 
 birth 
 No laureate's hymn, no parent's welcome hailed — 
 The babe, a puny, feeble creature, lived, 
 But would not thrive, and cried incessantly. 
 At length it made a start, grew fat and strong, 
 But still continued backward for its age, 
 Tardy upon its feet and with its tongue. 
 And ever as it grew in size and strength 
 It grew in frowardness. Strange frenzy-fits 
 Seized it from time to time, and then it dealt 
 Ruin on everything within its reach, 
 And fought and strove with whosoever tried 
 To hold it or restrain, and in the end 
 Would dash itself with fury on the ground, 
 And lie there, livid, foaming, and convulsed. 
 At ordinary times the child was dull, 
 Peevish, or sullen. It would shrink and cower 
 And tremble if it met its father's eye, 
 Moved by congenital antipathy. 
 The parent viewed it with dislike and fear. 
 
 Prince. You were your father's favourite, I have heard. 
 
 Queen. On me, whose features like his own preserved 
 The ancestral type on many a coin displayed, 
 The offspring of his earlier union, — me —
 
 The Queen s Innocent. i 
 
 His love was lavished. I remember yet 
 
 How he would sit and draw me to his knee, 
 
 Smooth from my brow the swart, low-growing hair, 
 
 And sigh to think that I was not a boy. 
 
 When I was ten years old, or thereabout, 
 
 My father with the King grew reconciled, 
 
 And then we used to stay at Court, and soon 
 
 The King grew fond and made a pet of me. 
 
 Once, on the terrace yonder, as I walked, 
 
 I saw together sauntering, not remote, 
 
 Among the trees my father and the King ; 
 
 And, breaking from my governess, I ran 
 
 And joined them. Uncle caught me by the hand, 
 
 And smiled, and speaking to his brother said, 
 
 "If God were pleased to take your sickly son, 
 This maid of ours would make a winsome queen 
 Hereafter, you and I being gone to rest." 
 
 " Queen ! " said my father, " you forget the law — 
 No female mounts our throne," and sudden gloom 
 Gathered upon his brow. " And is the law 
 Immutable ? It alters with the changed 
 Requirements of the times," rejoined the King. 
 " In case of such an issue", we would get 
 The sanction of the council of the realm 
 To set aside that antique feudal rule 
 
 :o
 
 136 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Which bars a woman from succession — rule 
 
 In which all marrow of meaning now is dry, 
 
 And rivet the reversion of the crown 
 
 On this fresh brow." (My father's swarthy face 
 
 Glowed a dark red.) " Our nephew Pharamond, 
 
 AVho next your Dorion now in heirship stands, 
 
 Is only royal on his father's side, 
 
 Whereas the unadulterate blood of kings 
 
 Plows in the veins of little Gladys here." 
 
 Next day the Duke went home, and, since with me 
 
 The King refused to part, he went alone. 
 
 Ere many weeks elapsed there reached us news 
 
 That Dorion, my young stepbrother, was sick ; 
 
 Later the tidings came that he was dead. 
 
 A few months after this my father's horse 
 
 Stumbled one day and threw him. As he lay 
 
 Conscious but speechless on his bed of death, 
 
 He pointed at me feebly with his hand, 
 
 And turned his fading eyes upon the King, 
 
 Who spoke some words I did not understand, 
 
 And kissed me on the brow. Erelong was moved 
 
 The abrogation of the ancient law, 
 
 Which (Pharamond's partisans as yet were few) 
 
 With little serious opposition met ; 
 
 And I became the heiress to the throne,
 
 The Queois Innocent. 137 
 
 The which I mounted at the King's decease, 
 Mid universal popular acclaim. 
 
 Prince. Yet Dorion all this while was still alive ? 
 
 Queen. Not dead, but only severed from its stock, 
 The royal branch struck root in alien soil. 
 Within a hamlet by the sea remote 
 The little Dorion, rightful sovereign lord 
 Of this wide kingdom, dwelt. The minster vault 
 That holds our house's immemorial dust 
 Contains a child's sarcophagus, 'tis true, 
 Whereon emblazoned, by the fitful flare 
 Of taper held by monkish cicerone, 
 Is read his name and legend, but the form 
 Enclosed is other than my father's son's. 
 Yet, though his death was feigned, the malady 
 Was not to which 'twas feigned his death was due. 
 Those frenzy fits, to seize him which were wont, 
 Increased in frequency and force, and bred 
 At length a raging fever of the brain. 
 The case was one in which no human skill 
 Could aught avail, the doctors told the Duke. 
 To him, who yearned for nothing half so much 
 As quit to be of his obnoxious heir, 
 This hopelessness meant hope. Each day he longed 
 To learn that that faint, flickering, vital flame,
 
 138 TJie Queens Innocent. 
 
 Lit from his own, was out. But lo ! one eve 
 In sleep profound the little patient sank, 
 And, when he woke, Ben Ephraim — him you know, 
 The Duke's physician then as now the Queen's — 
 His patron sought and gravely wished him joy, 
 Nature was victor, and the child would live. 
 Then a temptation to my father came 
 Which oft had whispered at his ear before, 
 But, since the conversation with the King, 
 Had taken tangible shape before his eyes. 
 That night the Duke unbosomed to the Jew. 
 Long hours, close-closeted, the two conferred, 
 And ere the Jew came forth his subtle brain 
 A scheme for compassing the Duke's desire 
 Had planned. 
 Prince. Ah, now at length I comprehend. 
 
 Queen. By strangers in a village far away 
 The convalescence of the child was watched. 
 Uneasiness or wonder in his mind 
 The change in his surroundings none evoked. 
 That fever burnt the recollection out 
 Of all connected with his previous state, 
 Leaving the tables of his memory 
 Characterless and clean ; and, what was best, 
 It also cooled and quieted his brain,
 
 The Q?ieen's Innocent. 139 
 
 And changed his nature ; — those strange frenzy-fits 
 
 Racked and convulsed his frame no longer, health 
 
 Freshened his cheek and sparkled in his eye. 
 
 Still he was not as other children are. 
 
 He owned no laws save such as he himself 
 
 Imposed upon himself. And then, asleep 
 
 Or waking, he was always dreaming dreams 
 
 And seeing visions, which he oft mistook 
 
 For actual scenes and things, so palpable 
 
 These phantasms of imagination seemed ; 
 
 Irrational and wandering hence at times 
 
 His words appeared. Nor toys nor books loved 
 
 he; 
 And could not learn like other children, nought 
 Of pains availed to teach him, yet he did 
 By nature things that most achieve by art. 
 Thus, every nerve and fibre of his frame 
 Would thrill to music, and he played by ear 
 On any instrument that came to hand, 
 But could not learn the simplest tune by rote. 
 Mysterious songs about the winds and stars 
 And flowers he used to make, and in his clear 
 Child's treble sing them for his own delight 
 In soft recitative, which now and then 
 Wild sobbing gusts of melody would break.
 
 14° The Queen s Innocent. 
 
 Prince. In such an union's issue one would look 
 For something of abnormal and unique. 
 Nature compounded him of elements 
 Discordant. How became he, under veiled 
 Conditions, retransplanted to the Court ? 
 
 Queen. I was a three year's queen, and just seventeen, 
 When by strange chance I learnt my brother lived. 
 I then would gladly of the dignity 
 Have stripped myself, in innocence usurped, 
 But I was overruled, — and he was mad, 
 They said, moreover, and unfit to reign. 
 Next year I made a progress through the realm, 
 And once, being nigh to where I knew he dwelt, 
 I longed to see him ; and Ben Ephraim, much 
 Against his will and judgment, brought and placed 
 The boy before me, then some twelve years old. 
 My heart upleapt to meet my father's son ; 
 I loved him when I looked upon his face ; 
 And, loving him, refused to part with him. 
 Ben Ephraim warned me, but I would not heed, 
 For I was wilful and — I see it now, 
 I see it now, when all too late— unwise. 
 A member of the household thus he grew, 
 And soon a household favourite — -while the men 
 Amused themselves with his simplicity,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 141 
 
 The women liked him for his beauty's sake. 
 That is his story. Pharamond, who learnt 
 The secret, how we know not, thought, no doubt, 
 By means of it to crutch his limping cause. 
 But Nardi, in his subtle innocence, 
 Outwits him — turns his back in high disdain 
 On all of us, and stretches out his arms 
 Boldly to God. 
 
 Prince. For us and all — so best, 
 
 If you will hear me say it. While he lived, 
 The crown sat never firmly on your brows. 
 
 Queen. That's true. And yet I cannot say, " so 
 best." 
 He was a gracious creature. Had he died 
 A natural death — of fever or disease, 
 Before my eyes — I had not grieved so much. 
 But oh ! to make a bloody ending thus, 
 By his own hand, so wantonly provoked ! — 
 Your sister — well, we'll speak of it no more ; 
 We look from different standpoints . . . 
 
 Dearest Aon, 
 I'll seek my pillow and lie down awhile, 
 My head aches. 
 
 Prince. I will bring you to your women. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 142 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i. — Gardens of the Palace. 
 Enter the Queen and Sibyl. 
 Queen. With any lady whom I so desired 
 
 To make my friend as you I never met. 
 Sibyl. Nor I with one I would with greater joy 
 
 Serve and companion than your Majesty. 
 Queen. If thus reciprocal our liking be, 
 Why to your native land will you return ? 
 It is the Prince's wish as well as mine 
 That you should make this Court henceforth your 
 home. 
 Sibyl. Forbear to urge me, madam. 
 Queen. We must try 
 
 Whether our Consort's eloquence can sap 
 Your resolution. 
 Sibyl. I entreat you — no, 
 
 Let not his Highness press me — I might yield ! . . . 
 I will confess a secret which, though some 
 Have guessed it, ne'er was put in words till now. 
 I loved — I dare not say I love — the Prince. 
 Queen. My husband ! . . . Was the feeling mutual, 
 pray ?
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 143 
 
 Sibyl. Ah no ! the worse — or better — hap for me. 
 I've nought wherewith his Highness to reproach. 
 From infancy Veronica and I 
 Were brought up with the Princess, as you know. 
 And, while together we were children all, 
 The Prince would share our pastimes. As we grew, 
 His studies put divorce 'twixt him and us ; 
 But when he quitted college, and before 
 His culture was by foreign travel orbed 
 Into completeness, while the glowing months 
 Of one too brief, delightful summer flew, 
 We had him almost wholly to ourselves. 
 And — how it came to pass I scarcely know, 
 But he and I ere long grew friends, close friends. 
 No friendship 'twixt a woman and a man, 
 However wise and innocent, but has 
 A vulnerable heel for love's sly shaft, 
 I am sure of that — unless they are saints, or old. 
 He lent me books and showed me all his mind. 
 Together oft we strolled beside the sea 
 When none were witnesses except the stars, 
 Or when the small waves danced beneath the moon 
 And threw up silver foam, and converse held 
 Serious and sweet, and interchanged our thoughts 
 About all things in heaven and earth — save one.
 
 144 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 I never thought he was in love with me. 
 Too gay he seemed, too unreserved, too kind. 
 This hope alone was mine — that I should grow 
 Dear to him unawares, should wind myself 
 Into his heart unconsciously, and he, 
 Finding me one day in possession there, 
 Be powerless to dislodge me — hope how vain ! 
 At length to wander over distant lands 
 He left us. His adieu was kind and warm, 
 But not a word my thirsting ear could drink 
 That other species of regard implied 
 Than brother upon sister might bestow. 
 When after two years' absence he returned,— 
 Queen. Well? then? 
 
 Sibyl. Your Majesty and he had met. 
 
 Queen (after a slight pause). 
 
 To love and not to be beloved again — 
 Few but endure the sharpness of that pang 
 Some time or other in their lives. Poor Sibyl ! 
 Sibyl. Your Majesty is spared it. 
 Queen. Why now, look— 
 
 The best medicament to cure your wound 
 Is marriage. You will wed if you are wise. 
 Sibyl. The wound is cicatrized. It only aches 
 A little with the weather now and then.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 145 
 
 My heart 's of other than the brittle sort, 
 
 'Twill take a mighty blow to crack it. 
 Queen. Nay, 
 
 Hearts seldom break that much are worth. But hark, 
 
 The best thing is to marry one you love ; 
 
 The next to marry someone that loves you. 
 
 Holds the world such ? 
 Sibyl. I know not. Like enough. 
 
 I've had suspicions in my time. And yet . . . 
 
 No doubt the worst of being a woman is 
 
 One must not take the initiative in love. 
 Queen. Within three months I mate you, Lady Sibyl, 
 
 If you but give me leave. 
 Sibyl. Oh, I'd trust none, 
 
 Not even your Majesty, to choose my mate. 
 Queen. Will you do better — choose your mate yourself? 
 Sibyl (demurely). Nay, madam, when I reach my native- 
 land 
 
 I mean to take the veil. 
 Queen. The bridal veil, 
 
 Dear Sibyl. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Courtiers and an Officer. 
 
 Court, i . The bombardment has begun 
 
 In earnest then. 
 
 I.
 
 146 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Officer. We captured yesterday 
 
 The second outwork, and commence to-day 
 The grand assault upon the citadel. 
 Our batteries were already opening fire 
 When I left camp this morning. 
 
 Court. 2. Did you see 
 
 The Princess on her way to Sars ? 
 
 Officer. I did. 
 
 I saw her as with hair adrift and cheeks 
 Flushed with her headlong galop 'gainst the wind, 
 Sweet lips compressed, and dark eyes filled with light, 
 Slow through our lines she rode her smoking steed. 
 
 Court, i. A hare-brained lady. Did she greatly chafe 
 At being stopped ? 
 
 Officer. I think so, though she feigned 
 
 Indifference, and her young companion chid 
 Because she shed a perfect shower of tears 
 When, having vainly urged them to return, 
 The General said the pair must not proceed 
 Until the pleasure of the Queen was known 
 Concerning them. 
 
 Court. 2. Her Majesty sent word 
 
 The Princess should be suffered to fulfil 
 Her purpose unopposed. Is that correct ?
 
 The Queen 's Innocent. 147 
 
 Officer. No doubt ; for when the messenger returned, 
 
 A cavalcade of honour, to conduct 
 
 The lovely fugitive and her damozel, 
 
 Under protection of a flag of truce, 
 
 Up to the gate of Sars, was straightway formed. 
 
 Court, i. An episode. Well, joy attend the bride, 
 
 Whatever one may wish the bridegroom. 
 
 Officer. Bride? 
 
 Court. 2. Yes ; don't you know the sequel? — then the 
 
 Court 
 
 Has news to tell the Camp. T is said that when 
 
 The Princess and her lover met, his face 
 
 Showed more perplexity than joy. But love 
 
 And policy with him go hand in hand. 
 
 Wealth — of which Pharamond has chronic need, 
 
 And powerful friends — which he may want ere long, 
 
 Are hers ; and so he settled to accept 
 
 The gift the gods had sent. A priest was fetched, 
 
 Who, scampering through the irrevocable words, 
 
 Made Pharamond and Cleodora one. 
 
 The cannon thundering from the outlying forts 
 
 A distant trumpet-call from time to time 
 
 Borne on the wind, the desultory fire 
 
 Of musketry beyond the walls — such sounds 
 
 Composed their wedding voluntary. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 Officer. How 
 
 Came you to learn all this ? 
 Court. 2. Why, you shall hear. 
 
 But let's withdraw — the Queen returns this way. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. — A Room in the Palace. 
 
 The Queen and a Minister of State. 
 
 Min. {reading from a despatch). 
 
 " . . . . The outworks and fortifications of Sars, the 
 camp formerly occupied by the revolted troops, and 
 the citadel, lie once more at the feet of her Majesty. 
 . . . . Between three and six o'clock in the after- 
 noon the admirable fire of our artillery made a breach 
 in the walls of the place. At six our forces were 
 advancing to the assault, when the garrison offered to 
 capitulate. I said no quarter could be granted to 
 rebels, and demanded unconditional surrender and 
 the immediate yielding up of the person of the 
 Pretender. This after a short delay was agreed to. 
 At nine o'clock our troops traversed the whole town as 
 well as the fortifications, while the bands played the 
 National Anthem. Our losses are not yet precisely 
 known. The troops are full of enthusiasm, and I can- 
 not find words of sufficient praise for the courage and
 
 The Queens Innocent. 149 
 
 coolness displayed by our young soldiers, or for the 
 good dispositions made by the officers." 
 Queen. So ends this internecine strife. Henceforth 
 Five letters spell the history of my reign, 
 And let it form an anagram of peace. 
 
 Min. Hither his Highness the Prince Consort comes, 
 Hot from the scene of action. 
 
 Queen. In good time. 
 
 The Prince enters. 
 
 Prince. The necks of your rebellious subjects lie 
 Beneath your foot, my Queen. The siege is o'er. 
 I saw the breach made ; entered Sars ; beheld 
 The Count of Ghyl deliver up his sword, — 
 He did it with an air of easy grace, 
 Like one who less surrenders than bestows. 
 
 Queen. The traitor Morios ? 
 
 Prince. He is dead. A shell, 
 
 Which during the bombardment near him burst, 
 
 So shattered both his legs the surgeon's knife 
 
 Was needed. He the remedy endured 
 
 With philosophic fortitude ; it proved 
 
 Of small avail, however, for his death 
 
 Ensued within an hour. He thus is spared 
 
 The traitor's fitting doom.
 
 150 The Queen's Lino cent. 
 
 Queen. Best so. My lord, 
 
 Let, at the Church of Saint Eustachius, Sars, 
 A solemn service be to-morrow held ; 
 Ourselves and royal household will attend, 
 And give to God, for strengthening our weak hands 
 To crush this insurrection, grateful praise. 
 
 Minister. Your Majesty's command shall be obeyed. 
 
 [Exit Minister. 
 
 Prince. Cleodora, hearing of my presence, begged 
 An interview, which I refused to grant. 
 It is a fact that Pharamond and she 
 Are married. 
 
 Queen. Could you aught of Nardi learn ? 
 
 Prince. 'Twas one of my first thoughts. He lingers 
 yet. 
 I saw Ben Ephraim — " Let the Queen," he said, 
 " If she would look upon his face once more, 
 Ere its soft lines grow rigid, come at once." 
 Queen. I am for Sars then. 
 
 Prince. Yes, to-morrow. 
 
 Queen. No, 
 
 To-night.
 
 The Queens Innocent 1 5 1 
 
 Scene 3. — Timothy's hut as in Act III., Scene 3. 
 Timothy asleep on the floor with an empty bottle in 
 his outstretched hand. Someone without knocks at the 
 door. 
 
 Tim. (wakes and calls out) Morra ! . . . 
 Morra, I say ! — get up, you lie-a-bed ! 
 
 (Sits up and rubs his eyes. Knocking repeated.) 
 Who's there ? Unbolt the door, you jade, d'ye hear ? 
 Curse her — where is she ? . . . 
 
 (Rises with difficulty. Knocking repeated more loudly.) 
 (Sings as he staggers to the door.) 
 
 " The bottle it is my only love, 
 
 The bottle it is my dear " 
 
 . . . Shaking a man's house 
 About his ears. . . Come in, in the devil's name ! 
 
 ( Withdraws the bolt. Priest and some people of 
 the village enter.) 
 A Woman. Tim, Morra's dead ! 
 
 Priest. It 's true, your daughter 's dead. 
 
 'T would seem as if, on learning that the youth 
 Who so befriended her was shut in Sars, 
 She must as far have followed as the camp, 
 Where several testify to having seen 
 And spoken with her. Gone a week, what time
 
 1 5 2 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 The soldiers cooked their supper, up she came, 
 And begged for food, and ate like one that starved. 
 Then, stretching towards the fort her long, lean arms, 
 She asked when Sars would be the Queen's again, 
 And if all prisoners then would be released ; 
 And said she had a friend within the walls. 
 Her eyes were wild, and, as she moved away, 
 Laughing a foolish laugh, they deemed her crazed. 
 That night much rain fell and the air was chill. 
 When the patrols next morning made their rounds 
 They found her dead behind an old stone wall, 
 Where, without doubt, for shelter she had crept. 
 Want and exposure caused her death, 't is thought — - 
 A dreary finish. 
 
 Tim. {straightening himself). Friends, you see a man 
 Unchilded. Friends, — (begins to blubber,) my only 
 comfort's gone ! 
 
 A Man. Poor Tim ! — a kindly man with all his faults. 
 
 A Woman. Lord love him ! ay, it 's nothing but the 
 drink 
 That spoils him. 
 
 Another Man. Mate, cheer up ! — Where go'st thou, 
 Tim ? 
 
 Tim. Into the blessed air ! 
 
 (Staggers out through the doorivay.)
 
 The Queer? s Innocent. 153 
 
 Another Woman. God comfort him ! 
 
 What with the bad news and the drink together 
 He's dazed. 
 
 [Exeunt all, following Timothy. 
 
 Scene 4. — Night. A vaulted chamber in the for- 
 tress of Sars, lighted by a single suspended 
 lamp. Nardi in bed and lying motionless, and Ben 
 Ephraim. 
 
 Enter the Queen and the Prince. 
 
 Queen. How changed ! 
 
 Prince. He seems unconscious. 
 
 Ben E. No, oh no ! 
 
 His mind was clear not many minutes since. 
 Let the Queen speak to him, her voice may rouse him. 
 
 Queen. Nardi ! 
 
 Nardi (stirs and murmurs'). The Princess will not scorn 
 you, nay. 
 Poor little Morra ! . . . Ah, you think too much 
 About your plainness and deformity. 
 Some have straight bodies and the soul deformed, 
 That is the worst by far.
 
 154 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Queen. He knows me not ! 
 
 (Ben Ephraim adjusts the pillows so as to raise him 
 almost into a sitting posture, whereupon he opens 
 his eyes, and his gaze wanders round the apartment 
 — suddenly it is arrested, as if by some object amid 
 the gloom.) 
 
 Nardi. I say I do not like that dark, stern man, — 
 Send him away, he always frowns on me. . . 
 Who is the woman with the long bright hair 
 Bedaubed with blood, and blood upon her breast ? 
 
 Queen. He sees the spectral dead ! 
 
 Ben E. Nardi, you dream. 
 
 See you not who is present ? Look — the Queen ! 
 
 You know that you were asking for the Queen. 
 
 Nardi. The Queen ? — I recollect. I think my mind 
 Wanders a little. . . Madam, let me speak 
 A word with you in private. 
 
 (The Prince and Ben Ephraim at a sign from the Queen 
 
 withdraw.) 
 Queen. They have gone. 
 
 We are alone. What is it you would say ? 
 Nardi (speaking in a weak and laboured manner at first, 
 but gaining strength and fluency as he proceeds). 
 I would remind you of the hour when first,
 
 The Queens Innocent. 155 
 
 A child, I stood before you six years back. 
 Your Majesty was near about the age 
 That I am now, I think. You sat alone 
 (Do you remember ?) in a chamber small, 
 Whose casement opened on the stormy sea, 
 Then darkly flushed with sunset, while the sky 
 (I see it now) was filled with drifting clouds 
 That looked like wind-borne petals of a rose, 
 When Doctor Ephraim led me by the hand 
 Into your presence ; and you left your seat 
 And stood and gazed at me with lips apart, 
 And suddenly you came and threw your arms 
 About my neck and kissed me, and I heard, 
 Despite the surging of the sea without, 
 The beating of your heart. Then something said 
 By Doctor Ephraim in a chiding tone 
 Made you draw back, but on my cheek a tear 
 Of which mine eyes were innocent remained. 
 
 Queen. Something of this I own I recollect. 
 
 Nardi. And in the sunlight of your favour since, 
 Which has not once been clouded, have I lived. 
 Like a strong shield your love has interposed 
 Between the world and me, and few have dared 
 To slight or scorn me with impunity. 
 And now and then an indescribable
 
 156 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Proud sense of isolation I have felt, 
 
 An impulse to command, as if I had 
 
 Kings' blood in me. And I have pondered much 
 
 From time to time, and, putting this and that 
 
 Together, guessed some secret natural bond 
 
 Unites me to your Majesty. The Duke, 
 
 Your father, was he also mine ? 
 Queen (in a low voice). He was. 
 
 Nardi. Who was my mother ? 
 
 (Queen seems to hesitate.) Ah ! I see, I know — 
 
 Pardon ! — it is not right to speak of her. 
 Queen. Your mother was our father's second wife, 
 
 The Duchess Alba. 
 Nardi. Duchess Alba ! . . then— 
 
 (In a wondering awe-struck whisper.) 
 
 Was I the little boy that died ? 
 Queen. The Duke's 
 
 Sole son, Prince Dorion, the kingdom's heir. 
 Nardi. But was I put aside then ? Why ? Because- 
 
 Ah ! " the Queen's Innocent " ! 
 Queen. No, not for that, 
 
 Not wholly, (ah, my God, what can I say ?) 
 
 Nardi, my angel, oh forgive the dead ! 
 Nardi. Is that our father yonder ?— look ! — 
 Queen. Where, where ?
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 157 
 
 Nardi. Why does he always frown ? I hate him ! 
 Queen. Hush ! 
 
 Oh hush ! there's no one here but you and I. 
 Speak not of hate ! 
 
 {He sinks back as if exhausted, and shuts his eyes.) 
 Nardi (after a pause). You kissed me that first day. 
 
 Will you not kiss me now ? 
 Queen (kissing him tenderly). 
 
 My own dear brother ! . . . 
 Are you in any pain ? 
 Nardi. No pain ... no pain . . . 
 
 My wound is nearly well ... I seem to sink 
 So low among the pillows ! 
 (Queen raises his head and supports it against her 
 shoulder.) 
 
 One more kiss . . . 
 Is it not almost time to send for lights ? 
 (Enter, after a few minutes, the Prince and Ben 
 Ephraim.) 
 Queen. Ben Ephraim, is this sleep or — ? 
 Ben E. It is sleep 
 
 Sounder than he has slept for eighteen years. 
 Prince. At length then you are Queen without a rival. 
 Queen (laying Nardi's head back upon the pillow). 
 Seldom does parting with a rival give
 
 158 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 So sharp a pang as I experience now. 
 Thus young ! 
 
 Ben E. His life, though brief, has been intense. 
 
 What could the years do more for him ? He lived 
 And loved and wept and sung, he tasted life — 
 Its bitter and its sweet — right through to the core, 
 Crowding enough emotions in eighteen 
 To furnish forth threescore. To such as he, 
 Death's not untimely, though it comes betimes. 
 
 Prince. Bid him a long farewell and come away. 
 
 {Leads her off as Ben Ephraim draws the sheet over 
 Nardi's _/##?.) 
 
 Scene 5. — A Room in the Fortress. 
 
 The Princess and Veronica. 
 
 Veron. As she forgives she hopes to be forgiven. 
 She thought we used her ill, and thinks so yet ; 
 And, after we had fled without a word, 
 She owns that she denounced you to the Queen, 
 With whom a league of friendship she has formed. 
 She wished, and had prepared, to start for home 
 But now, at this disastrous juncture, feels 
 Her place is by your side. She recollects 
 The joyous years we three have spent together,
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 159 
 
 And in your sorrows also claims her share. 
 Ah, madam, will you render incomplete 
 The dear harmonious triad ? Do you still 
 Refuse to see our Sibyl ? 
 Princess. Her allegiance 
 
 Is full of limitations and conditions. 
 Sibyl, instead of drifting with my mood 
 As you do, loves to pull against the stream. 
 Her will is too stiff-necked and combative. 
 You suit me best, and yet — I want her too. 
 To be without her is like leaving off 
 A garment one is used to. Fetch her hither. 
 
 {Exit Veronica, who comes back, after a few seconds, 
 with Sibyl.) 
 Ah, Sibyl, you return to me ! 
 Sibyl. Dear Princess, 
 
 I never left you, that you know right well. 
 
 {They embrace.) 
 Princess. Oh, Sibyl, does the trial still proceed ? 
 Sibyl. I am not sure if yet the Court have risen. 
 
 'Twas thought that sentence would be given to-day. 
 Princess. I think 'tis given already, and you know 
 
 More than you have the courage to impart. 
 Sibyl. Your Highness should prepare your royal mind 
 To hear the worst. I know no more than this.
 
 160 The Qucciis Innocent. 
 
 Princess {impatiently). 
 
 ■\Yill no one cheer me with a little hope, 
 
 Even if it prove a false one in the end ? 
 Sibvl. That, madam, were the act of a false friend. 
 Princess. Against us is our brother much incensed ? 
 Sibvl. The Queen and he are one in all their thoughts. 
 Princess. Ah, when a man so doats on — what is that ? 
 Sibvl. Something that I must hand you from the 
 Queen. 
 
 (Presents a packet. Princess opens and drops its 
 contents upon the floor.) 
 Veron. Your dagger which you gave "The Inno- 
 cent"! . . . 
 
 (Picks it up.) 
 
 They say it was with this he stabbed himself. 
 Princess. Is that wet blood on it? 
 Veron. No, only rust- 
 
 How foolish ! 
 Princess. But it may have been his blood 
 
 That rusted it . . . You— Sibyl — did you know 
 
 What ghastly token you were to deliver ? 
 Sibvl. No, or I would have humbly begged the Queen 
 
 To choose some other bearer, that I vow. 
 
 She said it was a trinket she desired 
 
 That you should re-possess.
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 161 
 
 Princess {with a shudder of disgust). 
 
 A trinket — pah ! 
 
 Now I shall dream of him to-night, I know, 
 
 Dream that I see him with his breast all bare 
 
 And bleeding, as I did but two nights since. 
 (Door opens, a glitter of bayonets is seen for a moment, and 
 
 the Pretender enters.) 
 Pret. Cleodora, I am come to say farewell. 
 Princess. Farewell! — Oh heavens, the sentence then is 
 
 death ! 
 Pret. No, though for your sake it were well it were, — 
 
 For then you would be free. Yet death it was ; 
 
 But, exercising her prerogative, 
 
 Queen Gladys has the sentence overruled, — 
 
 Wherefore commuted to imprisonment 
 
 Lifelong within some fortress now it stands. 
 
 This very evening forth I fare, though what 
 
 May be my destination know not yet. 
 Veron. And this for seeking to regain your just 
 
 And natural rights ! 
 Princess. Oh, why did you not fly, 
 
 When flight I urged ? 
 Pret. You urged the impossible. 
 
 Flight ! Why I could not if I would have fled. 
 
 It may be that I would not if I could. 
 
 M
 
 1 62 The Queen's Innocent. 
 
 It is not in the moment of defeat 
 
 That I forget the blood of which I come, 
 
 Or that I am a soldier. When we stake 
 
 And lose, there's nothing for it but to pay. 
 Princess. And what of me ? Must I your prison share? 
 Pret. Nay, not so cruel-kind, so bitter-sweet 
 
 As that, my sentence. Dear, without reproach, 
 
 You do not love me well enough, I think, 
 
 To care to suffer with me. 
 Princess. Pharamond ! 
 
 Surely my constancy has stood some test ! 
 Pret. 'Twas depth, I thought of, more than constancy. 
 
 Not those who most inspire love, love the most. 
 
 Perchance the greatlier blest are those who love. 
 
 The boy who bled for you was nearer God 
 
 Than you whose beauty lit him to his death. 
 
 Put still, to be the star of men's desire 
 
 Is something. 
 Princess {weeping). I do love you — yes, as much 
 
 As I to love am able. 
 Pret. I believe it. 
 
 I almost wish, as things have fallen out, 
 
 We had not married. 
 Princess. Do not say so ! Yet — 
 
 And yet it had been best, no doubt. What use
 
 The Queen's Innocent. 163 
 
 In being man and wife, if granite walls 
 Must frown between us ever ? 
 
 Pret {with a sigh). What, indeed ! . . . 
 
 Now of your future let us talk a little. 
 The Queen will never pardon you your share 
 In Nardi's death ; but with the Prince, your brother, 
 Sooner or later you will make your peace. 
 
 Princess. My share ! Now Pharamond, you are like the 
 rest. 
 Could I foresee that he would kill himself? 
 
 Pret. No, no, of course not. . . . Listen ; you will 
 
 take 
 
 The initiative, and sue to be allowed 
 
 To go, with escort such as fits your rank, 
 
 Home to your native land and to the King 
 
 Your uncle. I must needs say something now 
 
 The saying of which dispense with I would fain. 
 
 'Twere hard a woman beautiful and young, 
 
 And rich and royal — one for love of whom 
 
 Youths dash their life-lamps out — to widowhood 
 
 Perpetual should be sealed — so mark me well. 
 
 If you can get advised of any means 
 
 Whereby our nuptial knot may be untied, 
 
 Of any legal informality 
 
 M 2
 
 164 The Queens Innocent. 
 
 Which, urged, might make the marriage void, 
 
 employ — 
 Plead it without remorse or ruth for me. 
 Dissolve our hasty union ; slip your neck 
 From out this ill-adjusted yoke ; from me, 
 Dismasted, cut your gilded pleasure-craft 
 Adrift — you understand ? 
 
 Sibyl. For this I'd rest 
 
 His widow all my days ! — Ah, tell him, madam — 
 
 Veron. {plucking her by the sleeve). 
 
 Sibyl ! you foolish Sibyl ! hold your tongue ! 
 
 Princess {weeping). 
 
 No, I shall wed no other while you live ! 
 
 Pret. Hereafter this resolve. One last embrace. . . . 
 Sibyl — Veronica — a hand of each. 
 Be happy, ladies. To your love and care 
 The Princess I bequeath. 
 
 Farewell! . . . Farewell! 
 
 [The Princess sobs and clings to him. He forcibly 
 disengages himself and goes out. The bayonets 
 glitter for an instant, then the door closes.
 
 OTHER POEMS.
 
 \6y 
 
 THE ETHEREAL PILGRIM. 
 
 Seed of the Eternal, destined to be blown 
 Bit her and thither, till upon the right 
 Congenial soil it happen to alight ; 
 
 Voyager from the land of the Unknown, 
 Drifting ncnu here now there, until some fit 
 And kindly port receive and harbour it. 
 
 God sent a Thought among the minds of men. 
 Some thoughts repair to us as birds do, when 
 They come and beat against the window-pane 
 Their wings a moment and are gone again ; 
 Or like the vision of a ghostly face, 
 Which has evanished into empty space 
 Ere one can seize its traits : but there are some 
 That willingly would make our minds their home, 
 That stand upon the thresholds of the same 
 And seem our hospitality to claim ; 
 But whom too oft, instead of welcoming, 
 With cold contempt away from us we fling, 
 Or while they stand, mute suppliants, let some mean 
 Familiar fancy thrust itself between 
 And take possession of our whole regard. 
 Yet, if they come across us afterward,
 
 1 68 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 
 
 <b 
 
 By holiest art with patient hand portrayed 
 
 In painting's hues, or marble ; or arrayed 
 
 In harmonies sublime, or in the glory 
 
 Of deathless numbers, or in oratory ; 
 
 Embodied in some high utility — 
 
 Discovery or invention it may be — ■ 
 
 Which makes the springs of life more smoothly act : 
 
 Or realized in some great historic fact ; — 
 
 If those same thoughts which came to us of yore 
 
 Naked from God, should visit us once more 
 
 Thus clothed, they meet with no such rude rebuff, 
 
 We entertain them courteously enough. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 God sent among men's minds a pilgrim Thought. 
 It came athwart a merchant first, who sought 
 His counting-house with many a hurried stride, 
 Whose brow was knit, and who was haggard-eyed, 
 Along the city's teeming thoroughfares. 
 A multitude of hungry clamorous cares 
 The audience-chamber of his mind invaded ; 
 Amid the sordid throng to thread its way did 
 That meek immortal strive, though shrinking ever 
 From soil of such base contact — vain endeavour ! 
 Jostled and buffeted and overborne, 
 'T was forced erelong, with tarnished wings and torn,
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 169 
 
 Back through the portal, out into that same 
 Dim fathomless Inane from whence it came. 
 
 One who had ceased to deem herself a child, 
 Though, by her infantile sweet looks beguil'd, 
 It seemed to others that she scarcely stood 
 Upon the threshold yet of womanhood, 
 Adown a road 'twixt English hedgerows stroll'd, 
 Before the lustrous morn was three hours old ; 
 Humming the air of some familiar song, 
 And gathering wild-flowers as she went along. 
 Monk's-hood, and swallow-wort, the speedwell blue, 
 And honeysuckle from which she shook the dew, 
 Vagrant convolvuli that, trailing down, 
 O'erfell her fresh and dainty morning gown, 
 The wild-briar rose and the forget-me-not, 
 With bracken and the hart's-tongue, she had got 
 Almost as many as her hand could hold. 
 Her hat hung on her arm, the breeze made bold 
 To lift the tendrils of her silk-soft hair. 
 O'erhead the dazzling heavens were everywhere 
 Without a cloud, a morn divine it was ; 
 The foot-worn patch of common road-side grass, 
 Dew-drenched, and with the early sunlight on it — 
 No costliest jewel-work could have outshone it.
 
 170 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 
 
 Sudden a skylark from his nest, low hid 
 
 The other side the hedge the corn amid, 
 
 Uprose, the girl stood still and watched him soaring 
 
 Into the blue, his joyous soul outpouring ; 
 
 Our pilgrim seized the moment fortunate, 
 
 Embarked upon that stream of song, and straight 
 
 Was carried through her ears into her mind ; — 
 
 A beautiful sweet-smelling place, a kind 
 
 Of bower, with wilding fancies clambering 
 
 And running riot over everything ; 
 
 Where late — its petals only half dispread, 
 
 Although its subtle scent impregnated 
 
 Even her remotest musings — had upsprung, 
 
 That bloomy tangled overgrowth among, 
 
 A crimson flower, yshaped like a star, 
 
 " Love " it is called in our vernacular. 
 
 Upon the uninvited guest she bent 
 
 A look of gentle, wistful wonderment, 
 
 This girl, and fell forthwith into a fit 
 
 Of mild abstraction contemplating it, 
 
 So that the sound of footsteps drawing near 
 
 Behind her struck unheeded on her ear, 
 
 And when a voice pronounced her name close by, 
 
 She gave a start and turned confusedly. 
 
 That flower's own tell-tale hue flamed up and spread
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. iji 
 
 O'er cheek and throat and brow its lovely red j 
 
 The pilgrim Thought was banished from her ken, 
 
 And flitted forth into the void again. 
 
 * * * * *■ 
 
 It came across a far-descended prince, 
 A man of taste and culture, prone to evince 
 When any lovely thing soe'er, revealed 
 By earth or heaven, to his regard appealed, 
 Delighted recognitions. Italy 
 His country was, and none more prized than he 
 The arts called fine ; the sculptor's, so it seemed, 
 And poet's being those he most esteemed. 
 Himself a studio had — whence many a chaste 
 Y-carven bust that in his palace graced 
 Staircase or library or corridor ; 
 Himself a sonnet could indite of more 
 Than mediocre merit, did he choose, 
 As sometimes chanced, to trifle with the muse. 
 His highness sought one day the sculpture room, 
 To view the latest work, of one to whom 
 Art had, through many a dedicated year, 
 No pliant mistress proved, but an austere 
 Divinity, whose favour at the price 
 Was bought of vigil,, fast, and sacrifice ; 
 Although he in her service won the crown
 
 17 2 The EtJiereal Pilgrim. 
 
 At last and guerdon of a great renown. 
 
 Few could unmoved that sculptured piece regard ; 
 
 The passionate story of the pair ill-starr'd, 
 
 Whose love burned clear and steadfast mid the hell 
 
 It gained for them, as that unquenchable, 
 
 Of Paolo and Francesca — handled much 
 
 By art, yet aye unworn beneath its touch, 
 
 Like love itself — the subject had suggested. 
 
 Upon the folio, on their knees which rested, 
 
 He held her right hand prisoned close in his, 
 
 And clasped her waist with his left arm, that kiss 
 
 So fatal-exquisite, of all their woe 
 
 The harbinger, while bending to bestow. 
 
 Passive accomplice in the sweet transgression, 
 
 Her gentle features wore a mixed expression, 
 
 In which confusion, rapture, tears partook ; 
 
 New-kindled passion trembled in his look. 
 
 The whole was admirably executed. 
 
 The princely dilettante, a reputed 
 
 Critic, began to cross his arms and knit 
 
 His brows, in silence contemplating it, 
 
 When what appeared an unconnected thought 
 
 Struck him, and hold of his attention caught 
 
 Distractingly. . . . The sculptor, with an eye 
 
 Of still enthusiasm, though modestly,
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 173 
 
 Viewing the product of his hand and brain, 
 
 Who stood not far removed, began to explain 
 
 Some detail ; gently starting, as he spoke, 
 
 His Highness from his reverie awoke, 
 
 And simultaneously dismissed, with scant 
 
 Politeness, that celestial visitant. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 There was a University Professor, 
 A man of vast attainments, the possessor 
 Of an enormous stock of erudition. 
 Indisputably held the first position 
 Among the scholars of his period, he. 
 A man of inconceivable industry, 
 Moreover. He had edited Catullus, 
 Lucretius, Horace, Virgil, and Tibullus, 
 And Homer, all with copious annotations ; 
 And published half a cartload of translations, 
 Pamphlets, lay sermons, essays critical, 
 Reviews of books — the catalogue of all 
 His labours is too long for me to quote. 
 The learned languages he spoke and wrote 
 More purely than his mother tongue, men said ; 
 And he could, like De Quincey, as he read 
 The morning journal turn it into Greek. 
 One eve this mighty Don stepped forth to seek
 
 174 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 
 
 Repose and recreation for his powers, 
 
 High-tasked, at dew-fall mid his garden flowers. 
 
 Flowers were, I think, the sole things other than 
 
 His books he loved ; a childless, spouseless man, 
 
 He lavished all his wealth of tenderness, 
 
 No vast amount, yet many a one has less, 
 
 On these. Their gradual development 
 
 It yielded him an exquisite content 
 
 To watch from day to day. He did not care 
 
 To deck his rooms with them, — he could not bear 
 
 To see them plucked — but used to like to stand, 
 
 Fondling them at the same time with his hand, 
 
 And drink their breath as o'er them lover-wise 
 
 He leaned, and on their colours feast his eyes, 
 
 While on their stems they grew. And when they died, 
 
 Or by the storm were scattered far and wide, 
 
 Or fell to pieces overblown, with pains 
 
 Religious he collected their remains, 
 
 And sepulchred them in a vase antique 
 
 O'erwrought with lovely fancies of the Greek. 
 
 This evening as the pathway up and down 
 
 He paced, his hands behind him 'neath his gown, 
 
 And on some lines of Virgil meditated, 
 
 That fugitive divine, who only waited 
 
 A kindly moment — that empyreal one —
 
 The EtJiereal Pilgrim. 175 
 
 Stood suddenly before him ; whereupon 
 
 He viewed it for some seconds with a hard, 
 
 A cold, inquisitorial regard ; 
 
 Dragged it towards the light and turned it round, 
 
 Surveyed it from all points, and when he found 
 
 That nothing of it he could make, for under 
 
 Such harsh, unfriendly usage (and no wonder !) 
 
 All pale and wan and lustreless it grew, 
 
 And shrank and trembled as a flame will do 
 
 In an unsympathetic atmosphere, 
 
 He bade it vanish in a tone severe. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Along a mighty stream whose banks rose sheer, 
 Their tropic garniture the water clear 
 Sweeping, the trees which overhung their heights 
 Festooned with scarlet-flowered parasites, 
 Forms of heroic mould and dusky hue, 
 Grass-cinctured, each propelling a canoe 
 Laden with spoils and weapons of the chase — 
 Some seven — did with the racing current race. 
 Upon a hunting expedition in 
 The interior of the island they had been, 
 And now to reach their tribal station, neighbouring 
 Upon the coast, ere fall of night were labouring. 
 The river by-and-by described its last
 
 176 The Ethereal Pilgrim 
 
 <i> ' 
 
 Curve, and behold ! the estuary, which fast 
 
 They were approaching, and, beyond, that ocean 
 
 (The low, hoarse, rhythmic murmur of whose motion 
 
 Might now be heard) which we " Pacific " call, 
 
 Far stretching to th e western heavens, then all 
 
 Ablaze with sunset. The canoes shot on 
 
 With unabated speed excepting one, 
 
 The seventh, which lagged, and in another minute 
 
 Moved with the stream alone. The savage in it 
 
 Had ceased to paddle, and was leaning slightly 
 
 Forwards with outstretched chin, his elbows lightly 
 
 Resting upon his thighs, his gaze intent 
 
 On that sky-spectacle magnificent ; 
 
 Aiming weak shafts of childish speculation, 
 
 The while with open-mouthed expectation, 
 
 The sun its ocean-reflex he did wait 
 
 To see first kiss and then annihilate. 
 
 A sunset fiercely beautiful ! — the air 
 
 Dry-clear — no intimation anywhere 
 
 Of aught to interrupt or to absorb 
 
 The intense, far-spreading radiance. But the orb 
 
 Majestic borders on the horizon's rim, 
 
 Another moment and its lower limb 
 
 Will touch, and see ! it does, and more than touch ; 
 
 And now above the same a segment much
 
 The EtJiereal Pilgrim. \yj 
 
 Diminished — now the smallest possible arc 
 
 Of its circumference — now the merest spark 
 
 Or point of living light remains alone ; 
 
 You hold your breath an instant — it is gone ! 
 
 The hollow cloudless hemisphere is left 
 
 Suddenly vacant, desolate, bereft ; 
 
 And night is stealing swiftly on her way 
 
 To shroud the lifeless relics of the day. 
 
 His deep-set eyes the Uncivilized had got 
 
 Riveted motionlessly on the spot 
 
 From whence he watched that last spark disappear, 
 
 And, as he still kept gazing, one large tear 
 
 Down either cheek of dusky grain did roll. 
 
 All avenues and inlets to his soul 
 
 At this high moment were unsentinell'd — 
 
 That heavenly vagrant entered, and beheld 
 
 A dim-lit region peopled by a few 
 
 Barbaric virtues ; vices one or two 
 
 Which had not learnt to put on virtue's dress, 
 
 But in their own rude native nakedness 
 
 Exposed themselves without reproach or shame, 
 
 And superstitions — children of that same 
 
 Impenetrable mystery which surrounds, 
 
 Baffles, bewilders, awes, disturbs, confounds 
 
 Our wisest — common to his tribe and race, 
 
 N
 
 178 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 
 
 Dwelt also in that primitive strange place. 
 
 Erelong a little gentle tremor shook 
 
 The wild man's frame, and straightway he betook 
 
 Himself to paddling his canoe once more. 
 
 Within a beached cove he leapt ashore 
 
 At length, and dragged his bark from out the tide, 
 
 The other six, drawn high and dry, 'longside, 
 
 And of its spoils to empty it was stooping, 
 
 When savage figures like himself came trooping 
 
 Out from behind the rocks and towards him ran, 
 
 And formed a group about him, and began 
 
 To enter into voluble narration, 
 
 With wild grimacing and gesticulation 
 
 Accompanied. 'Twould seem at dawn that day 
 
 A ship with sails had anchored in the bay, 
 
 And nearly half the tribe, thereof informed, 
 
 Went out and in canoes around it swarmed. 
 
 A certain number were allowed to climb 
 
 The vessel's side, and wander for a time 
 
 Freely about the deck, but by-and-by 
 
 The pale-faced men enticed them treach'rously 
 
 By twos and threes below, where, being arrived, 
 
 By those white demons they were gagged and gyved 
 
 And thrust with blows and oaths into the hold. 
 
 (This was the substance of the tale they told
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 179 
 
 To him who, with his hunting-spear in hand, 
 
 Motionless as some statued bronze did stand.) 
 
 When, two excepted — from their captors they 
 
 By dint of fierce resistance broke away, 
 
 And swam to shore though wounded — all were made 
 
 Secure and safely stowed, the vessel weighed 
 
 Anchor and straightway flew the gale before. 
 
 One of those speakers violently tore 
 
 A bandage off of healing leaves and showed 
 
 A cutlass wound from which the blood still flowed ; 
 
 Another who had climbed — his two young sons 
 
 Chancing to be among the outraged ones — 
 
 The vessel's side and to the bulwarks clung, 
 
 And when she started on her way still hung 
 
 Thereto, nor till they maimed him would desist, 
 
 Held up his hand nigh severed from the wrist. 
 
 Our hero of the sunset, as he heard 
 
 The story, hardly interposed a word, 
 
 But a wild sense of wrong, a passionate 
 
 Fierce thirst for vengeance, an immortal hate, 
 
 Seized him, and swept out every milder kind 
 
 Of thought which had been lingering in his mind. 
 
 There was a poet, on his cloak outspread 
 Who lay, his bent arm pillowing his head, 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o The Ethereal Pilzri 
 
 ^ 
 
 m. 
 
 Mid the cool twilight of a forest nook, 
 
 One sultry August afternoon. A book, 
 
 Open face downwards, did his breast encumber, 
 
 For he was reading when a gentle slumber 
 
 Stole in upon his senses unawares. 
 
 A young man quite he seemed, although grey hairs 
 
 In plenty mid his brown you could descry, 
 
 And though a tired worn look, which might imply 
 
 That he was one who had been introduced 
 
 Betimes to care, or else that he was used 
 
 To suffering of some kind, was on his face. 
 
 While thus, in this most choice, secluded place, 
 
 Far from the city's din, full length among 
 
 Green lights and glooms and overshadowings flung, 
 
 He lay, that houseless child of God did wend her 
 
 Towards his mind, and flashed a sudden splendour 
 
 The tranquil twilight of his dream athwart. 
 
 A playful breeze did all at once upstart, 
 
 And cause among the leaves a stir and bustle, 
 
 Then, sweeping o'er the grass with gentle rustle, 
 
 Deliciously upon his temples blew ; 
 
 Whereat the slumberer's eyelashes upflew. 
 
 Soon, on his hand uplifting half his weight, 
 
 Upon the shifting shapes with which his late 
 
 Siesta teemed, that hardly yet were faded,
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 181 
 
 He fell a-musing ; something which evaded 
 His memory's grasp there seemed — he racked his 
 brain — 
 
 And presently it broke on him again. 
 
 Though but a naked thought, and not attended 
 
 This time by aught of luminous or splendid, 
 
 He recognized the immortal in its looks, 
 
 Just (so we read in the old story books) 
 
 As in the beggar-maiden at a glance 
 
 Cophetua knew his queen-to-be. Oh chance ! — 
 
 He hailed, he welcomed it, he seized, he stayed it ; 
 
 Without a moment of delay he made it 
 
 Eternally his own, and in the heat 
 
 Of inspiration leaping to his feet, 
 
 (For what is it to be inspired but thus 
 
 To know great thoughts when they do come to us 
 
 And boldly grasp them ?) he began to pace 
 
 Backwards and forwards with a flushen face, 
 
 And quick'ning pulse, and eager lips and parted, 
 
 And eyes that through their moisture lightnings darted. 
 
 And like a seed that lies within the earth ; 
 
 Or like an infant previous to its birth • 
 
 Or like a beauteous lady jealously 
 
 Guarded from every save her lover's eye 
 
 In some rich lonely mansion ; or inspired
 
 1 82 The Etliereal Pilgrim 
 
 ci ' 
 
 Fanatic of the orient, world-retired 
 
 Within a desert-mountain cave, from whence 
 
 Issue he will to kindle an intense 
 
 Enthusiasm some time among mankind — 
 
 That thought henceforth abode within his mind. 
 
 Amid the day's distractions never quite 
 
 Forgot, and mingling with his dreams at night. 
 
 Changes from time to time it underwent, 
 
 And slow mysterious development. 
 
 And if he looked on any lovely sight, 
 
 Sunset or work of art, or felt the might 
 
 Of a fair face, or moving music heard, 
 
 This thing with which his brain was quick appear'd 
 
 To throb within it. Yearnings vague would rise, 
 
 And silent spasms convulse him, and his eyes 
 
 By reason of uncalled-for tears grow blind, 
 
 At other times when mingling with mankind. 
 
 The pleasure never palled upon his soul 
 
 Of its society, which oft he stole 
 
 To solitary places to enjoy, 
 
 And hours on hours would spend without employ 
 
 Save that of contemplating it, — content. 
 
 A lover, he, who as the seasons went, 
 
 Instead of wearying with possession grew 
 
 Enamoured more and more, till nought would do
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 183 
 
 But he and this beloved one must unite 
 
 Before the world. He set it in the light 
 
 Of his imagination, which invested 
 
 With charm resistless all whereon it rested. 
 
 To deck the naked body of the thought 
 
 That subtle artificer, his fancy, wrought 
 
 Moreover many a sparkling ornament. 
 
 And after months — nay, after years — were spent, 
 
 He clothed it in a nuptial garb of verse ; 
 
 And thus arrayed, for better or for worse, 
 
 Tricked like a bride with gem and flower, he lent it 
 
 His name, and forth into the wide world sent it. 
 * * * # * 
 
 Some lyric stanzas from it by a young 
 Composer set to music were, and sung 
 In almost every land from north to south ; 
 The merchant heard them from his daughter's mouth : 
 The little morning saunterer, now a wife, 
 Sang them to that beloved one whose life 
 Was interwoven for evermore with hers. 
 With other volumes from the publisher's 
 The poem to the scholar went one day ; 
 Beside his desk with leaves uncut it lay 
 Whole weeks, for he professed to entertain 
 For modern poesy a high disdain ;
 
 184 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 
 
 One night though, being in a listless fit, 
 
 The book he opened and dipped into it, 
 
 Thinking to read perhaps a page or two, 
 
 But ere he laid it down he read it through 
 
 To the last line, and from his pompous pen 
 
 Appeared a lengthy notice of it when 
 
 Next month the quarterly reviews came out. 
 
 The savage of the great South Sea — I doubt 
 
 If that Immortal visited his brain 
 
 Ever, in any shape or guise, again. 
 
 But when a few years later, worn and weak, 
 
 With an autumnal hectic on his cheek, 
 
 A glazed and fitful brilliance in his eyes, 
 
 To wile the winter 'neath more genial skies, 
 
 To Italy in fact, to which his fame 
 
 Had travelled long before, the poet came ; 
 
 No one evinced towards the invalid 
 
 Such kindness, none so welcomed him as did 
 
 That dilettante prince. And as they sat 
 
 And talked one day, these two, grown friends, of that 
 
 Which was the joy of both and life-vocation 
 
 Of one, the prince, to give an illustration 
 
 And proof of something he had lately said, 
 
 Smilingly took a volume down and read 
 
 With faultless English accent, and a voice
 
 The Ethereal Pilgrim. 185 
 
 The most melodious ever heard, and choice 
 
 Appropriate gesture certain passages, 
 
 The ones he most delighted in, from — yes, 
 
 That work — the structured outgrowth and the flower 
 
 Of that sweet living germ which in an hour- 
 
 Forgotten was rejected by the blind 
 
 And unreceptive soil of his own mind.
 
 1 86 
 
 BALLAD OF THE MOON. 
 
 i. 
 
 I am the lady of the sky, 
 The maiden moon so pure and cold ; 
 
 The same of whom in days gone by 
 Such tales the idle poets told ; 
 
 Tales which had not one word of truth ; 
 A friend to lovers from of old, 
 
 I needs must love, myself, forsooth ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Oh, things more wild and strange are done, 
 More thrilling far, within my view, 
 
 Than e'er take place beneath the sun ; 
 One half what I am witness to 
 
 Twixt dusk and dawn, in one brief night, 
 If any poet only knew, 
 
 What moving poems he might write ! 
 
 I cross that range of mountains men 
 Have christened after me ; down deep 
 
 Ravine and into savage glen 
 Take many a sly and slanting peep ; 
 
 And into caverns fling my light 
 To glisten, quiver, shoot, and leap 
 
 Like white flame mid the stalactite.
 
 Ballad of the Moon. 187 
 
 4- 
 Of many another mountain chain 
 
 I make the snowy scalps more white ; 
 
 I steal, where some lone Memphian fane 
 Lies open to the ambrosial night, 
 
 Along the hushed sphinx-guarded aisle ; 
 I laugh, down-gazing from my height, 
 
 Where foam the cataracts of the Nile. 
 
 5- 
 I linger tenderly on shores 
 
 Of lovely warm East Indian isles ; — 
 
 The fierce white surf for ever roars 
 And thunders, and the crocodiles 
 
 Come down from the lagunes inland 
 To bask, and cocoa-palms for miles 
 
 Lattice my light upon the sand. 
 
 6. 
 
 My face, which makes the stars burn dim. 
 In many a watery glass I view ; 
 
 O'er one — so fair ! its crater-rim 
 All clothed with tree-fern and bamboo — 
 
 I hung last night in ravishment ; 
 A sweet, still lake of deepest blue 
 
 Filling an old volcano-vent.
 
 1 88 Ballad of the Moon. 
 
 7- 
 
 O'er lone savannahs I have pass'd, 
 And on their sea-like broad gray-green 
 
 The mantle of my glory cast ; 
 Have strewn the splendour of my sheen 
 
 On tops of forests whose deep heart 
 I pierce whene'er my shaft so keen 
 
 Can find a vulnerable part. 
 
 8. 
 
 And sometimes, as the merry earth 
 Goes reeling round, I steal a glance 
 
 At scenes of revelry and mirth ; 
 Peep into courtly halls perchance, 
 
 Where, midst some glittering concourse, trace 
 The intricacies of the dance 
 
 With rhythmic movement forms of grace. 
 
 9- 
 
 Rich marbles, paintings ; heaped with rare 
 
 Exotics every space recess'd, 
 
 Which human flowers brush past, more fair — 
 Youth, maid, when clinging breast to breast 
 
 In giddy whirl ; light laughter's chime, 
 And hum of tongues, by clash suppress'd 
 
 Of instruments from time to time ; —
 
 Ballad of the Moon. 189 
 
 10. 
 
 Young faces flushed with pleasure's glow ; 
 The flash of gems on many a throat 
 
 And bosom stainless as the snow ; 
 Stars, ribbons which the brave denote ; 
 
 The shifting of a thousand hues ; 
 Gay robes, bright glances, locks afloat ; 
 
 The light a thousand lamps diffuse :— 
 
 n. 
 
 Oh, radiant scene ! — They shut me out 
 With jealous care, because they think 
 
 At touch of my pure sheen, no doubt, 
 Their mimic day would wane and shrink. 
 
 In vain ! a curtain pulled aslant, 
 Or some unnoticed shutter-chink, 
 
 Affords me just the glimpse I want. 
 
 12. 
 
 I crossed but late a land which war 
 Was scourging, and beheld the spot 
 
 Where two hosts met the day before ; 
 Dark heaps of dead the plain did dot, 
 
 Horses and men ; I flung a pall 
 Snow-white, my frosty beam, o'er what 
 
 Was their last bivouac of all.
 
 190 Ballad of the Moon. 
 
 13- 
 
 A ship on fire at dead of night 
 
 I saw in ocean's midst, a dread 
 And woeful yet a splendid sight. 
 
 Miles round upon the sea was shed 
 A bloody glare. What men could do 
 
 To stanch the flames or stay their spread, 
 That did, in vain, her gallant crew. 
 
 14. 
 
 I heard the shrieks, and saw the crush 
 And frantic struggle, as the poor 
 
 Doomed, desperate creatures made a rush 
 To gain the boats ; in one no fewer 
 
 Than thirty crowded, such a host 
 Swamping it straight, you may be sure ; 
 
 The next turned bottom-uppermost. 
 
 The mizen-mast, that giving way, 
 Though unperceived, some time had been, 
 
 Fell on another just as they 
 Had launched her, braining those within. 
 
 Two, made clear off; what these befell, 
 And if 'twas e'er their fate to win 
 
 Some shore in safety, who can tell ?
 
 Ballad of the Moon. 191 
 
 16. 
 
 Those who upon the burning deck 
 Remained might choose their mode of death, 
 
 And as the flames, which nought could check, 
 Advancing scorched them with their breath, 
 
 Or bursting forth in some fresh spot 
 Menaced their foot-hold underneath, 
 
 They one by one the billows sought. 
 
 17- 
 
 With baby clasped to breast a mother 
 Over the burning bulwarks sprung ; 
 
 Six children, one after the other, 
 Into the waves a father flung, 
 
 Then plunged himself; the captain cast 
 His arms about the wife who hung 
 
 Upon his neck and leapt in last. 
 
 18. 
 
 I saw afloat amid the seas 
 A raft two shipwrecked men which bore ; 
 
 The brine immersed them to the knees ; 
 At times they'd doze, anon explore 
 
 The distance ; either hugged the other 
 For warmth, and still the slow hours wore, 
 
 And still each hour proved like its brother.
 
 192 Ballad of the Moon. 
 
 19. 
 
 Joy, joy ! a vessel looms in sight ! 
 They hoist a coat upon an oar, 
 
 And shout for help with all their might ; 
 It seemed as if the big ship bore 
 
 Full down on them ; she grew so near, 
 Her paddles' stroke and engines' roar 
 
 Amid the stillness they could hear. 
 
 20. 
 
 Poor signal, flaunting unobserved ! 
 Poor voices, all in vain uplifted ! 
 
 And now it seemed her course had swerved, 
 Or was it they themselves had shifted ? 
 
 Within a league of them at last — 
 Their fierce eyes saw from where they drifted 
 
 Her glimmering cabin-lights — she pass'd ! 
 
 21. 
 
 Within an attic, in a street 
 Obscure, a genius wrote for bread ; 
 
 He dropped his pen and left his seat, 
 And tottering round his wretched bed 
 
 Stood leaning on the window-sill, 
 For me to kiss and bathe his head ; 
 
 Haggard he looked, poor youth, and ill,
 
 Ballad of the Moon. 193 
 
 22. 
 
 With flushen cheek and flaming eye ; 
 In my cold way to comfort him 
 
 I tried, but only made him sigh, 
 And caused his poor wild eyes to swim, 
 
 By conjuring some home-scene to mind ; 
 So straightway left the garret dim, 
 
 And hid again a cloud behind. 
 
 2 3- 
 
 Two gentle worshippers of mine 
 The sea marge sought, to watch me rise 
 
 And on the tranquil waters shine ; 
 And both at meeting feigned surprise, 
 
 Just as though each had been the one 
 Whom least of all the other's eyes 
 
 Expected to have lighted on. 
 
 24. 
 The girl blushed rosy-red, no less 
 Confused the youth appeared than she did ; 
 
 And both betrayed more nervousness 
 Than, as it seemed, the occasion needed ; 
 
 They paced together to and fro 
 In converse soft, and never heeded 
 Whether the moon was up or no ! 
 
 O
 
 194 Ballad of the Moon. 
 
 25- 
 In many a fateful assignation 
 
 • I make a third. Last night was one. 
 
 Two voices in fierce altercation 
 Adown a lonely lane. Anon 
 
 A blade's outflash ; a freezing cry ; 
 A thud — a moan — a gurgle ; on 
 
 The furious deed none looked but I. 
 
 26. 
 
 I saw it as I peered athwart 
 The inky clouds that by me sped, 
 
 Myself unseen. The rack did part 
 At length and pass, storm-piloted. 
 
 He knew himself the child of hell 
 He was — that murderer, on his dead 
 
 When my accusing splendour fell. 
 
 27- 
 Th e shadow of the hedge-row, thrown 
 
 Sharply along the narrow road, 
 
 The patches where the grass had grown, 
 
 The cart-wheel's furrow — all I showed j 
 The hurrying clouds ; the rill that sweet 
 
 And clear beside the pathway flowed ; 
 The bloody thing against his feet.
 
 Ballad of the Moon. 195 
 
 28. 
 
 Chill sweat-beads to his forehead came ; 
 He viewed his hands, all smeared with red ; • 
 
 He called his victim by her name ; 
 Then started off with dizzy head ; 
 
 He gained the fields, a moment stood 
 Uncertain, then across them fled 
 
 As if a pack of fiends pursued. 
 
 29. 
 
 If I could only tell one half 
 Of what I see in one short night, 
 
 The world would wonder, weep, and laugh 
 As never yet, and well it might ; 
 
 Did any subtle poet ken 
 All earth discloses to my sight, 
 
 How he might thrill the hearts of men ! 
 
 O 2
 
 196 
 
 FUGITIVE VERSES. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 After a spell of cold gray cloudy weather, 
 What can be pleasanter than when at last 
 One day the Winter ceases altogether, 
 And Spring, with bursting buds, and genial skies, 
 Warm Spring, breaks on us like a sweet surprise ;- 
 To watch the lambs in meadows frisk, to hear 
 The song o'erhead of sky-lark, joyous-clear, 
 
 And note flit lightly past 
 The first pale yellow butterfly of the year. 
 
 Season of birth and resurrection ! — waking 
 The earth out of her Winter trance, and making 
 Her dormant energies begin to stir ; 
 
 Teaching the sap to feel its silent way 
 Into the topmost twig, 
 The embryo plant to break its sepulchre, 
 And pierce the mould sweet air and light to gain. 
 Season of hope and happy promise ! — big 
 
 With golden possibilities ; the gay 
 
 And lavish Flora dancing in thy train.
 
 Spring. 197 
 
 The crisped and sparkling surface of the deep 
 
 With swift weird wing the new-come swallow skims ; 
 Out of their winter hiding-places creep 
 The tortoise — dormouse — not a living thing 
 But feels thy quick'ning influence, O Spring ! 
 There is melodious contest going on 
 In every wood, and, when some prize is won, 
 
 Chanting of marriage hymns : 
 The songless birds their wedding plumage don. 
 
 The blazing noon-tide Summer is more splendid ; 
 
 A deeper and diviner tone is blended 
 
 With Autumn's harmony ; but thou art best — 
 When happy creatures link them to their kind, 
 Youth, morning of the year ! 
 
 Thou of all seasons art the welcomest — 
 
 Lovely and tender as the infant green 
 
 Of thine own buds ! — for Love doth use to appear, 
 His hand — thou leading him — with thine entwin'd ; 
 
 And Death, a distant shade, is hardly seen.
 
 198 Fugitive Verses. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 Green buds and snowy orchard blooms appear,— 
 
 The Spring is near ; 
 But my heart keeps its winter all the year. 
 
 The scent of hidden violets comes and goes ; 
 
 The sweet primrose 
 And daffodil that hangs its head, unclose ; — 
 
 Now in dim woodland dells may these be found, 
 
 Lighting the ground 
 With pallid beauty everywhere around. 
 
 The trees their vernal garb once more assume ; 
 
 The yellow broom 
 By lone waysides is breaking into bloom ; 
 
 The lilac is in bud ; larks soar and sing • 
 
 Next month will bring 
 The swallow, without whom 'tis scarcely Spring. 
 
 Again to life and song the woods awake ; 
 
 The birds forsake 
 Their Winter haunts, and build in bush and brake. 
 
 Ah, happy birds ! that know no wild regret — 
 
 That love, and yet 
 That, having loved, are able to forget !
 
 199 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 On either hand 
 
 A sweep of tawny sand 
 With gentle curve extending, smooth and wide, 
 
 On which bold rocks look down 
 
 With dark and sullen frown, 
 Slopes out to meet the fast incoming tide. 
 
 The sunbeams leap 
 
 And frolic o'er the deep, 
 And, where their light is most intensely pour'd, 
 
 Strike from its surface keen 
 
 Flashes of diamond sheen, 
 Dazzling the eyes that gaze out thitherward. 
 
 A cloud or two 
 
 Drifts lightly 'mid the blue ; 
 And, like a faint white blot upon the sky, 
 
 Up yonder you can trace 
 
 The day moon's dim drowned face, 
 Whose light will flood all heaven by-and-by. 
 
 The rhythmical 
 
 Hoarse sounds that rise and fall, 
 Thund'rous, upon the ear from out at sea, 
 
 The tumult nearer land, 
 
 And splash upon the sand 
 Of breaking waves, compose one harmony.
 
 200 Fugitive Verses. 
 
 AN INVITATION IN JULY. 
 
 Come out with me, come out with me, 
 
 And watch the sunset from the sea. 
 
 Where is the boat, you wish to know ? 
 The boat is sleeping on its side, 
 On the tawny sand up which the tide 
 
 Is crawling in the cove below. 
 
 Come out with me, come out— the moon, 
 That all the sultry afternoon 
 
 Looked like the ghost of herself as she lay 
 Whelmed in the blue, will be stealing soon 
 
 Pale fire from the dying torch of day, 
 
 And paving with her light the way 
 For those who wander o'er the deep ; 
 
 And the silver stars by twos and threes 
 Out of the gathering shades will peep 
 To view themselves in the waters fair ; 
 
 And what is more, a gentle breeze 
 
 Begins to blow delightfully — 
 
 You can see it yonder sweeping o'er 
 The liquid golden floor
 
 An Invitation in July. 201 
 
 Of the dying sun's superb pavilion, 
 Breaking its smoothness up into a million 
 Small diamond sparkles — come with me, 
 Come out and taste the fresh'ning air. 
 
 One shall steer and one shall row, 
 (Then we'll be face to face, you know,) 
 And o'er the water we will go, 
 And have such talk the while ! — I trow 
 About all things in earth and heaven : 
 
 Sometimes we'll pause, and for a spell 
 Sit watching the mild face of even, 
 Gleaning such lore from her sweet looks 
 As is not to be found in books, 
 
 Which some we know love all too well ; 
 Or listening to the curlew's cry, 
 
 Piercing the stillness near at hand, 
 As silently we drift hard by 
 
 The reedy margin of the land.
 
 202 Fugitive Verses, 
 
 LEILA. 
 
 Where is Leila fled ? 
 
 Ask the wind that overhead 
 
 Stirred the branches of the thorn, 
 While was planned in whispers low 
 Her stealthy flight three nights ago : 
 
 This should be Leila's marriage morn ; 
 But Leila fled away 
 Ere the first golden ray 
 Over the hill-tops ushered in the day. 
 
 Where is Leila fled ? 
 
 Ask the eastern star that shed 
 
 From out a heaven all flushed with rose, 
 Dappled with clouds of pearl, its light 
 Silvern and mild, on Leila's flight ; 
 
 Ask that bright witness if it knows 
 Her haven of retreat, 
 Who should step forth to meet 
 A bridegroom on this young May morning sweet. 
 
 Why had Leila flown ? 
 And flew the fugitive alone ? 
 
 The bridegroom he was gray and old,
 
 Leila. 
 
 203 
 
 Leila was young, and I suspect 
 She fled away with her heart's elect ; 
 
 Leila cared more for love than gold, 
 Hence, without word of warning, 
 To sell her high heart scorning, 
 She fled away upon her bridal morning.
 
 204 
 
 FOUR SONGS. 
 
 :o:- 
 
 AUBADE. 
 
 That silver star, so fair, that shone 
 Among the opal clouds of dawn, 
 
 It disappeared three hours agone ; 
 The dew is glistening on the lawn ; 
 
 And one you love is loitering here 
 
 Beneath your window, dear. 
 
 The flowers uphold their heads, each one 
 Heavy with night's crystalline wine, 
 
 For morning kisses of the sun, 
 As you will hold up yours for mine 
 
 When you descend, and find me here 
 
 Beneath your window, dear. 
 
 • 
 
 Each time it blows this way the gale 
 Outshakes the jasmine's breath so sweet, 
 
 And strews its blossoms fair and frail 
 Upon the ground against my feet, 
 
 My idle feet, that loiter here, 
 
 Beneath your window, dear.
 
 A ubade. 205 
 
 I hear the lark's impulsive lay 
 From sunny regions overhead, 
 
 The rivulet at baby-play 
 Among the pebbles in its bed ; 
 
 The bees hum past me — loitering here 
 
 Beneath your window, dear. 
 
 Come forth ! the morn is young like you, 
 And youth, ah youth so swiftly flies ! — 
 
 The breeze is fresh, the sky is blue, 
 Only less blue than are the eyes 
 
 For whose sweet sake I loiter here, 
 
 Beneath your window, dear.
 
 206 Four Songs. 
 
 CLOUD. 
 
 A cloud the sky has overspread, 
 The brightness of the landscape fled, 
 
 A chill is in the air; 
 The sea has turned a wannish gray, 
 That flashing in the distance lay, 
 
 One sapphire everywhere. 
 
 Oh, love ! our heaven is darkened o'er ; 
 We wander hand in hand no more 
 
 While each to each imparts 
 The rising thought : we interchange 
 Words cold and few ; our looks are strange 
 
 And troubled like our hearts. 
 
 But though our sky be overcast, 
 I know this weather cannot last ; 
 
 I know the unruffled blue 
 Exists behind it all the while, 
 I know that, with relenting smile, 
 
 The sun will struggle through.
 
 207 
 
 WEEPING IN THE RAIN. 
 
 You stand there weeping in the rain ! 
 Upbraid me, taunt me, if you choose, 
 Your cheek avert, your hand refuse, 
 
 But, I implore, your tears restrain ; 
 Indulge your anger, exercise 
 Your scornful wit, but dry your eyes ! 
 
 You stand there weeping in the rain ! 
 Although your tears, you know full well, 
 Distress me more than words can tell ; 
 
 To see them rives my heart in twain ! 
 You love me not, or you would ne'er 
 Resort to weapons so unfair. 
 
 I own 't was I that was to blame ; 
 The jealous thought that barbed my tongue 
 To wound you, and from yours which wrung 
 
 Such sharp retort, I here disclaim ; 
 For Love's sweet sake forgive me, see ! — 
 I ask it upon bended knee.
 
 208 Four Songs. 
 
 £,- 
 
 The hedge-row glistens with the sheen 
 Of myriad rain-drops — lo, once more 
 The sun shines, though the shower's scarce o'er ; 
 
 The meadow wears its liveliest green ; 
 Must the returning sunshine view 
 Dissension between me and you ? 
 
 The birds all round are singing loud 
 For joy that heaven again has smiled ; 
 All things save we are reconciled ; 
 
 Observe the bow in yon dark cloud, — 
 Methinks that bow is meant to be 
 A sign of peace 'twixt you and me. 
 
 T were sure, this music of our life, 
 Without some discords incomplete ; 
 But be that as it may, so sweet 
 
 Is reconcilement after strife, 
 You will remember without pain 
 How you stood weeping in the rain.
 
 209 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 The day looks flushed and weeps a little shower 
 
 At parting, as if parting made it grieve ; 
 Love, you and I within this transient hour 
 
 Of one the other must be taking leave, — 
 Your cheek yon cloud's contagious rose has caught, 
 Your gentle eyes brim over at the thought. 
 
 Day of my life ! no sorrow, — 
 
 We meet again to-morrow. 
 
 There is an end to every lovely thing, 
 
 And so this sweetest day is gone for ever ; 
 Life is all cadenced, throbbing to the swing 
 
 Of some mysterious rhythm — hands clasp, to sever 
 Lips cling, to part ; the tide that buoys the bark 
 Ebbs and then flows ; the dawn succeeds the dark : 
 
 We yet shall live beholden 
 
 For other days as golden.
 
 2IO 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 
 Lullaby! 
 What the wind says to the flower 
 As it rocks it on its stem : 
 " Loth day weeps a farewell shower ; 
 Haggard clouds the sunset hem, 
 Afterflushed with angry rose ; 
 Furl your petals, furl them close. 
 Lullaby ! 
 Eve is nigh ! " 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 What the bird sings to its nestlings, 
 Cradled in the fir-tree's fork : 
 " Half-fledged pinions, cease your wrestlings, 
 Soon the winds will give you work ; 
 Struggling throats be mute, ere long 
 You shall wake the woods with song. 
 Lullaby ! 
 Dusk is nigh ! "
 
 A Lullaby. 211 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 Sings the mother to the baby 
 Pillowed softly on her breast : 
 " Slumber, dear ; till risen the day be 
 Nought disturb your tranquil rest ; 
 Veil those stars of morn, your eyes, 
 Till morn's star is in the skies. 
 Lullaby ! 
 Night is nigh ! " 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 What my heart, dejected, hears 
 Love in gentlest accents utter : 
 " Sleep, babe, tired 'twixt play and tears ; 
 Wild bird, cease your wings to flutter ; 
 Flower that looked upon the sun, 
 Fold your leaves, the day is done. 
 Lullaby ; 
 Death is nigh !" 
 
 P 2
 
 212 
 
 GARTH'S SONG. 
 
 When dawn's opal tints have fled, 
 With the glamour that they shed, 
 And, as we fare on together, 
 Clouds obscure the golden weather ; 
 When the wind blows cold and rude, 
 And the storm must be withstood, — 
 Darling, if our lips then meet, 
 Will my kisses seem as sweet ? 
 
 When the brow is creased with care ; 
 When the frost invades the hair ; 
 When the cheek's rose-bloom is vanished, 
 And the lovelight has been banished 
 From the eyes by time and tears ; 
 In those late, unlovely years, 
 Darling, if our lips should meet, 
 Will my kisses seem as sweet ? 
 
 When high hope, which lured from far, 
 Proves a meteor, not a star ; 
 When ambitions have miscarried ; 
 When the flesh to pain is married, 
 And a sword has pierced the soul ; 
 When we near life's dim, dread goal, — 
 Darling, if our lips then meet, 
 Will my kisses seem as sweet ?
 
 213 
 
 BONNIE MAY. 
 
 Bonnie May, bonnie May, 
 Why are you in tears to-day, 
 Who are wont to be so gay ? 
 
 There are tears than smiles more sweet ; 
 There are sorrows which to meet 
 Maidens go with willing feet. 
 
 There are wounds which will not heal 
 Till a second time they feel 
 Touch them the remorseful steel. 
 
 Lips that wounded you before, 
 Will you let them now restore — 
 Touch you into health once more ? 
 
 Lips know best wherewith to atone 
 
 For offences of their own — 
 
 Lips themselves when contrite grown. 
 
 Mine that chid now fain would kiss ; 
 
 Lo, the sorrow I dismiss 
 
 From your eyes with this — and this. 
 
 After shower the sunshine's ray ; 
 Tears to joyous smiles give way ; 
 Bonnie May, bonnie May !
 
 214 
 
 SONG FOR SIR TRISTRAM. 
 
 Fellow exile, you with me are interdicted Love's 
 
 dominions ; 
 Is there nowhere priest or potentate can take away the 
 
 ban ? 
 Ah, re-enter might we, shielded by some pitying angel's 
 
 pinions 
 Just for one brief day — hour — moment ! — from the frown 
 
 of God and man ! 
 Must I never in your eyes behold the lovelight sparkle, 
 
 never ? 
 Must I never seek your lips with mine again throughout 
 
 all time ? 
 Within all the earth's green confines is there no place, 
 
 none whatever, 
 Where as lovers you and I may meet and greet without a 
 
 crime ? 
 
 There is one place, — but I fear, sweet, the blue daylight 
 
 will be wanting, 
 And the brook's song, and the garden's honeyed scents 
 
 and glowing dyes ; 
 No bird's warble, no young sunbeam through a latticed 
 
 window slanting,
 
 Song for Sir Tristram. 215 
 
 Will awake us from our slumber when the morn is in the 
 
 skies. 
 There is one great angel — he puts wide divorce 'twixt 
 
 other lovers, 
 But he brings us two together — he alone, and lets us 
 
 blend, 
 While his broad wings' brooding darkness overshadows 
 
 us and covers, 
 In one silent, unforbidden, close embrace that knows no 
 
 end.
 
 2l6 
 
 LOVE AND HOPE. 
 
 I saw Love seated on a rock, with Hope 
 
 Dead at his feet. A uniform gray screen 
 Of cloud concealed the young day's azure cope ; 
 
 No wind-sown flower, no leaf, no blade of green 
 Grew near ; the naked rocks, the leaden sky, 
 And those two shapes alone composed the scene. 
 
 Tears on his cheek, but none within his eye, — 
 
 Whose lightnings now all spent or smothered were, — 
 For he had wept until their source was dry, 
 
 With drooping pinion, drooping head, an air 
 Of utter desolation in his mien, 
 
 Grief for the moment yielding to despair, 
 
 And hands loose-clasped that hung his knees between — 
 
 He sat, his form appearing to exhale 
 A wan and wavering splendour, which was seen 
 
 To clothe his round smooth limbs with lustre pale, 
 And flicker mid his bright and clustering hair, 
 Quick'ning its gold to flame, but which did fail 
 
 To pierce the shadow that enshrouded there 
 
 Where outstretched at his feet it lay, ay me ! — 
 That other figure, feminine and fair, 
 
 Whose cruel death caused all his misery. 
 Alas for Love, when Hope has ceased to be !
 
 217 
 
 A BOY'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 A boy of twelve years old or thereabout, 
 Tall for his age, with womanly-white hands, 
 And one of those rare faces which recall 
 Some Phidian fragment in their modelling, 
 So cleanly chiselled that they never change 
 Materially, and are beautiful 
 
 From birth till death. Brown hair just tinged with gold, 
 Clust'ring in natural curls round temples pale ; 
 Broad level brows with shadows under them ; 
 A look of sweet and innocent gravity 
 In his gray eyes — a listening eagerness 
 About his lips. 
 
 A quiet, thoughtful lad, 
 Less pleased to mingle in the playground sports 
 Than sit apart and pore on some old book, 
 And weave the dreams that wrapped him from the 
 
 world ; 
 Who, notwithstanding such unsocial ways, 
 Was half a favourite with his wild compeers, 
 For he was gentle, frank, and knew not fear. 
 A sweet recluse amid the schoolboy throng ; 
 A hermit-child whose cave was his own mind.
 
 218 
 
 WHO ? 
 
 Who likes his name, his features, or his lot ? 
 
 Who values his own gifts, howe'er endow'd, 
 And oft with vain repining envies not 
 
 Now this now that one singled from the crowd ? 
 
 Who that has thirsted for renown achieves it 
 While most worth having— early in life's day ? 
 
 The laurel having nobly earned, receives it 
 
 On locks whose gold is yet unflecked with gray ? 
 
 Who, patient seeker after fame eternal, 
 
 Wielding the brush, the chisel, or the pen, 
 
 Walks while his years (ah, happy !) still are vernal, 
 Crowned with high recognition among men ? 
 
 Who weds, and though he wed through fortune's kind- 
 ness 
 
 The one beloved, ne'er feels his chain a weight, 
 And never sheds the scales of happy blindness ? 
 
 Who meets and marries with his soul's true mate ? 
 
 -\Vho- why continue ? Such how rare ! men wed 
 The earthly Venus ; fame its tardy praise 
 
 Blares o'er the hero's bloody grave ; the head 
 Is bald or silvered when it wears the bays.
 
 219 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 What do I care for lark or nightingale, — 
 
 Babble of unseen waters, hum of bees 
 That stagger in and out the lilies pale 
 
 On drowsy afternoons, or symphonies 
 Heroical, or airs the most divine 
 
 Of Gluck or Mozart, what care I for these, 
 When I can hear discourse that voice of thine ? 
 
 What do I reck of moon or star ? The skies 
 
 Of midnight, when high winds have swept them bare, 
 
 Mirrored within some tarn that sheltered lies 
 Among its mountains, dark and still, are fair ; 
 
 And fine it is to watch the moon arise, 
 
 And sweet — but all things lovely whatsoe'er 
 
 Fade into nought when I behold thine eyes. 
 
 What is the beauty of the world to me — ■ 
 
 Splendour of sunsets ; opalescent tints 
 Of gracious dawns ; in storm or calm the sea ; 
 
 The hectic hues of Autumn ; softest glints 
 And pencils, shed through boughs that interlace, 
 
 Of gold-green light ; the earliest day that hints 
 Of Spring — if thou but turn to me thy face ?
 
 220 
 
 MY TOWN. 
 
 My town, beside its own fair waters seated, 
 
 Whose wharves and sun-tipped spires and shining bay 
 
 The wanderer, sick for sight of home, has greeted 
 With joyful tears of welcome many a day. 
 
 The port of sad farewells and happy meetings ; 
 
 Each street, and church, and shop, how well I know — 
 Its docks where, punctual as the pulse's beatings, 
 
 The monster ocean mail-ships come and go. 
 
 Its breeze-swept common — where is gorse so golden, 
 Or May so fragrant ? — with whose sod, our pain 
 
 All o'er, we blend at last ; its gateways olden, 
 And hoary walls that recollect the Dane. 
 
 My birthplace, like a living thing extended 
 
 Along the margin of its waters, where 
 The glow of Autumn sunsets is so splendid, 
 
 The sheen of Summer moonlight is so fair! 
 
 J s>' 
 
 Each week the tranquil street, so long the centre 
 On which my world revolved, once more I pace, 
 
 And pass the house I dare no longer enter — 
 Ghosts haunt it which I cannot bear to face.
 
 My Town. 221 
 
 Yet fancy oft reverts and round it hovers ; 
 
 I dwell there still and all things seem the same ; 
 I hear the tread of feet the clay now covers, 
 
 And voices, hushed for ever, call my name. 
 
 I pitch a tent elsewhere since Time, the Vandal, 
 Destroyed my household hearth ; yet still I own, 
 
 With all its social gossip, sin, and scandal, 
 I love it — home the first, and last — my town. 
 
 August, 1884.
 
 222 
 
 IN MEMORY OF G. S. 
 Died at Port sea, December ipt/i, 1881. Aged 16 years. 
 
 Bring blossoms fresh and virginal and sweet, 
 
 And buds half-blown — such best the occasion meet, 
 And strew them 
 
 Lightly upon this new-made grave, and let 
 
 Tears of the warmest, tenderest regret 
 Bedew them ; 
 
 And holly too, the season to betoken : 
 For she was fresh and sweet and virginal, 
 And she was plucked in her young bloom withal, 
 
 Who sleeps beneath these sods so lately broken. 
 
 The poor young voice is mute, but yet its clear 
 
 Last notes seem still to vibrate on my ear 
 And linger ; 
 
 No praise of mine or others where she dwells 
 
 Can overtake her now, and no farewells, 
 My singer ! 
 
 Flowers were her latest gifts to me, unfaded 
 
 When she too drooped ; so scant the leave she stay'd 
 To take, so brief the parting that she made — 
 
 Flower-like herself — she died as soon as they did.
 
 In Memory of G. S. 223 
 
 Had any one forewarned us there was hid 
 
 That cypress-bud this Christmas-tide amid 
 Our holly, — 
 
 Had any short while since predicted thus, 
 
 We must have smiled and cried, incredulous, 
 " What folly ! " 
 
 Dead with the dying year ; the shades that thicken 
 Are stabbed with shafts of dawn around its close, 
 And not of death but birth are half its throes ; 
 
 But her — ah, her no April skies re-quicken !
 
 224 
 
 FAST FRIENDS. 
 (Soudan. Ja7iuary, 1885.) 
 
 The same towers sheltered them in infancy ; 
 They learnt to say their prayers at the same knee. 
 
 From sources close akin their blood they drew ; 
 Had toys, games, books in common as they grew. 
 
 In boyish sports with equal ardour blended ; 
 Later in loving rivalry contended 
 
 For honours of the schools. But, youth just past, 
 A feeling shared in common came at last 
 
 Their friendship's current smooth to cross and stem ;— 
 Both loved one woman, and that sundered them. 
 
 They joined opposing factions in the state ; 
 And party rancour sharpened private hate. 
 
 Years sped ; and then their enmity made pause 
 Beneath the standard of a gallant cause. 
 
 They melted — each to each did kind amends, 
 
 Hand wringing hand — and grew once more fast friends.
 
 Fast Friends. 225 
 
 Fast friends. One ship conveyed them to the shore 
 Of that dread continent they left no more. 
 
 They marched in the same column, through the wide 
 Parched land forlorn, to battle side by side. 
 
 They met the furious onslaught of the foe 
 Shoulder to shoulder, their two breasts aglow 
 
 With one high hope ; and where they fell, athirst 
 The desert sand of that black clime accurst 
 
 Drank their commingling blood. Among the slain, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, on the battle-plain 
 
 That night they lay, — wide eyes, with cold blind stare, 
 Turned to the alien stars. 
 
 Fast friends elsewhere ?
 
 226 
 
 LINES 
 
 For the first anniversary of General Gordon's death. 
 January 26th, 1886. 
 
 One year this dawn, at dawn's red signal ray, 
 The dusk fanatics of the desert poured 
 Into the fallen city — that fierce horde 
 
 Held all those painful strenuous months at bay ; 
 And failure and defeat, unique in story, 
 Crowned one dead brow with such undying glory 
 
 As laurelled Caesars miss. A year to-day. 
 
 The wearer of the charmed life struck down 
 By bloody death ! What tempest, past belief, 
 Then swept the land, of rage, remorse, and grief ! 
 
 And still, west, east, where'er its fame has flown, 
 From far Cathay unto the Golden Gate, 
 At that proud sacrifice men's hearts vibrate, 
 
 Glow at its splendour o'er its shame to groan. 
 
 On this your birthday morn among the dead — 
 
 Greeting. (The dead ? the dead are we, not they.) 
 Your birthday in some realm of ampler day,
 
 Lilies. 227 
 
 Where haply new and clearer paths you tread 
 
 Of high heroical experience ; 
 
 From us, who yearned to save, to you, snatched hence 
 In scorn by force less laggard and more dread. — 
 
 To you beyond the gulf, behind the veil — 
 
 So black, impervious, yet perchance so thin. 
 
 Your place lies void among your buried kin. 
 Your nation cannot claim your dust. The tale 
 
 Is all perplexed of how you passed from men. 
 
 But splendid, flawless is your fame. Again — 
 Greeting, great Pacha ! birthday greeting. Hail !
 
 228 
 
 To W. C. and L. C. C. 
 
 To you, in memory of the vanished days, 
 This volume I devote, to both and each ; 
 You whom no echo of my songs may reach ; 
 
 You too remote to blame them or to praise. 
 
 For all the tender toil wherewith you strove 
 To pave for me the world's uneven way : 
 The halcyon years my dreaming shallop lay 
 
 Moored in the shining haven of your love. 
 
 The joy with which you watched my mind unfold, 
 And shaped its inchoate thought ; the gracious lore 
 Whose fountains you unsealed ; for all you bore 
 
 And forbore, all the vigilant cares untold 
 
 And pains profuse you lavished, matchless friends ! — 
 In nurturing that one fledgeling of the nest ; 
 This book is yours, imperfect thanks at best, 
 
 And with the letters of your names it ends. 
 
 Henderson, Rait, & Spalding, Printers, 3 & 5, Marylebone Lane, London, W. 

 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 Los Angeles 
 
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 n "n ocq g21 
 by Elise 
 
 The Queen's Innocent, and other Poems," , 
 per (David Stott, Oxford-street), is a volume of smoothly 
 rned and unenergetic verses. The title-piece, which occupies 
 more than two-thirds of the book, is dramatic in form, and 
 contains some good things neatly put, but it is greatly want- 
 ing in pith and moment. The small pieces completing the 
 volume have the same general character. The lines of 
 dedication on the last page seem to us superior to anythin- 
 else m the book. Let us take a single scene, byway of 
 specimen, from the " Ballad of the Moon " :— 
 Two gentle worshippers of mine 
 I lie sea marge sought, to watch me rise 
 
 And on. the tranquil waters shine • 
 And both at meeting feigned surprise. 
 
 Just as though each had been the one 
 V\ horn least of all the other's eyes 
 Expected to have lighted .on. 
 The girl blushed rosy-red ; no less 
 Confused the youth appeared than she dia , 
 
 And both betrayed more nervousness 
 ifian, as it seemed, the occasion needed- 
 
 They paced together to and fro 
 In converse soft ; and never heeded 
 W nether the moon was up or no ! 
 
 jNot very respectful to the moon, surely ; nor to their own 
 consistency either for had they not « The sea marge sough 
 to watch me rise,' and so forth? Still, they had in the 
 
 ™T-M G ? aSSe i thr ° Ugh a tr °«W°us period, which £ le 
 sponsible for the poetical rhyme of « she did " with 
 needed," and the no less poetical diction, "both betmyd 
 more nervousness than, as it seemed, the occasion needed " 
 ^pJSEffittES ° H ^ ratitude f - ^eping the rest of