Three random poems from PoetryDB
So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood A while as mute, confounded what to say, What to reply, confuted and convinced Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift; At length, collecting all his serpent wiles, With soothing words renewed, him thus accosts:— "I see thou know'st what is of use to know, What best to say canst say, to do canst do; Thy actions to thy words accord; thy words To thy large heart give utterance due; thy heart Contains of good, wise, just, the perfet shape. Should kings and nations from thy mouth consult, Thy counsel would be as the oracle Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems On Aaron's breast, or tongue of Seers old Infallible; or, wert thou sought to deeds That might require the array of war, thy skill Of conduct would be such that all the world Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist In battle, though against thy few in arms. These godlike virtues wherefore dost thou hide? Affecting private life, or more obscure In savage wilderness, wherefore deprive All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself The fame and glory—glory, the reward That sole excites to high attempts the flame Of most erected spirits, most tempered pure AEthereal, who all pleasures else despise, All treasures and all gain esteem as dross, And dignities and powers, all but the highest? Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe. The son Of Macedonian Philip had ere these Won Asia, and the throne of Cyrus held At his dispose; young Scipio had brought down The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quelled The Pontic king, and in triumph had rode. Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature, Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment. Great Julius, whom now all the world admires, The more he grew in years, the more inflamed With glory, wept that he had lived so long Ingloroious. But thou yet art not too late." To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:— "Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth For empire's sake, nor empire to affect For glory's sake, by all thy argument. For what is glory but the blaze of fame, The people's praise, if always praise unmixed? And what the people but a herd confused, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise? They praise and they admire they know not what, And know not whom, but as one leads the other; And what delight to be by such extolled, To live upon their tongues, and be their talk? Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise— His lot who dares be singularly good. The intelligent among them and the wise Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised. This is true glory and renown—when God, Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks The just man, and divulges him through Heaven To all his Angels, who with true applause Recount his praises. Thus he did to Job, When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Earth, As thou to thy reproach may'st well remember, He asked thee, 'Hast thou seen my servant Job?' Famous he was in Heaven; on Earth less known, Where glory is false glory, attributed To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame. They err who count it glorious to subdue By conquest far and wide, to overrun Large countries, and in field great battles win, Great cities by assault. What do these worthies But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote, Made captive, yet deserving freedom more Than those their conquerors, who leave behind Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove, And all the flourishing works of peace destroy; Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods, Great benefactors of mankind, Deliverers, Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice? One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other; Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men, Rowling in brutish vices, and deformed, Violent or shameful death their due reward. But, if there be in glory aught of good; It may be means far different be attained, Without ambition, war, or violence— By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent, By patience, temperance. I mention still Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne, Made famous in a land and times obscure; Who names not now with honour patient Job? Poor Socrates, (who next more memorable?) By what he taught and suffered for so doing, For truth's sake suffering death unjust, lives now Equal in fame to proudest conquerors. Yet, if for fame and glory aught be done, Aught suffered—if young African for fame His wasted country freed from Punic rage— The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least, And loses, though but verbal, his reward. Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek, Oft not deserved? I seek not mine, but His Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am." To whom the Tempter, murmuring, thus replied:— "Think not so slight of glory, therein least Resembling thy great Father. He seeks glory, And for his glory all things made, all things Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven, By all his Angels glorified, requires Glory from men, from all men, good or bad, Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption. Above all sacrifice, or hallowed gift, Glory he requires, and glory he receives, Promiscuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek, Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declared; From us, his foes pronounced, glory he exacts." To whom our Saviour fervently replied: "And reason; since his Word all things produced, Though chiefly not for glory as prime end, But to shew forth his goodness, and impart His good communicable to every soul Freely; of whom what could He less expect Than glory and benediction—that is, thanks— The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense From them who could return him nothing else, And, not returning that, would likeliest render Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy? Hard recompense, unsuitable return For so much good, so much beneficience! But why should man seek glory, who of his own Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs But condemnation, ignominy, and shame— Who, for so many benefits received, Turned recreant to God, ingrate and false, And so of all true good himself despoiled; Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take That which to God alone of right belongs? Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace, That who advances his glory, not their own, Them he himself to glory will advance." So spake the Son of God; and here again Satan had not to answer, but stood struck With guilt of his own sin—for he himself, Insatiable of glory, had lost all; Yet of another plea bethought him soon:— "Of glory, as thou wilt," said he, "so deem; Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass. But to a Kingdom thou art born—ordained To sit upon thy father David's throne, By mother's side thy father, though thy right Be now in powerful hands, that will not part Easily from possession won with arms. Judaea now and all the Promised Land, Reduced a province under Roman yoke, Obeys Tiberius, nor is always ruled With temperate sway: oft have they violated The Temple, oft the Law, with foul affronts, Abominations rather, as did once Antiochus. And think'st thou to regain Thy right by sitting still, or thus retiring? So did not Machabeus. He indeed Retired unto the Desert, but with arms; And o'er a mighty king so oft prevailed That by strong hand his family obtained, Though priests, the crown, and David's throne usurped, With Modin and her suburbs once content. If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal And duty—zeal and duty are not slow, But on Occasion's forelock watchful wait: They themselves rather are occasion best— Zeal of thy Father's house, duty to free Thy country from her heathen servitude. So shalt thou best fulfil, best verify, The Prophets old, who sung thy endless reign— The happier reign the sooner it begins. Rein then; what canst thou better do the while?" To whom our Saviour answer thus returned:— "All things are best fulfilled in their due time; And time there is for all things, Truth hath said. If of my reign Prophetic Writ hath told That it shall never end, so, when begin The Father in his purpose hath decreed— He in whose hand all times and seasons rowl. What if he hath decreed that I shall first Be tried in humble state, and things adverse, By tribulations, injuries, insults, Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence, Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting Without distrust or doubt, that He may know What I can suffer, how obey? Who best Can suffer best can do, best reign who first Well hath obeyed—just trial ere I merit My exaltation without change or end. But what concerns it thee when I begin My everlasting Kingdom? Why art thou Solicitous? What moves thy inquisition? Know'st thou not that my rising is thy fall, And my promotion will be thy destruction?" To whom the Tempter, inly racked, replied:— "Let that come when it comes. All hope is lost Of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left is left no fear. If there be worse, the expectation more Of worse torments me than the feeling can. I would be at the worst; worst is my port, My harbour, and my ultimate repose, The end I would attain, my final good. My error was my error, and my crime My crime; whatever, for itself condemned, And will alike be punished, whether thou Reign or reign not—though to that gentle brow Willingly I could fly, and hope thy reign, From that placid aspect and meek regard, Rather than aggravate my evil state, Would stand between me and thy Father's ire (Whose ire I dread more than the fire of Hell) A shelter and a kind of shading cool Interposition, as a summer's cloud. If I, then, to the worst that can be haste, Why move thy feet so slow to what is best? Happiest, both to thyself and all the world, That thou, who worthiest art, shouldst be their King! Perhaps thou linger'st in deep thoughts detained Of the enterprise so hazardous and high! No wonder; for, though in thee be united What of perfection can in Man be found, Or human nature can receive, consider Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent At home, scarce viewed the Galilean towns, And once a year Jerusalem, few days' Short sojourn; and what thence couldst thou observe? The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory, Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts— Best school of best experience, quickest in sight In all things that to greatest actions lead. The wisest, unexperienced, will be ever Timorous, and loth, with novice modesty (As he who, seeking asses, found a kingdom) Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous. But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes The monarchies of the Earth, their pomp and state— Sufficient introduction to inform Thee, of thyself so apt, in regal arts, And regal mysteries; that thou may'st know How best their opposition to withstand." With that (such power was given him then), he took The Son of God up to a mountain high. It was a mountain at whose verdant feet A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed, The one winding, the other straight, and left between Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined, Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea. Fertil of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine; With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills; Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large The prospect was that here and there was room For barren desert, fountainless and dry. To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought Our Saviour, and new train of words began:— "Well have we speeded, and o'er hill and dale, Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers, Cut shorter many a league. Here thou behold'st Assyria, and her empire's ancient bounds, Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on As far as Indus east, Euphrates west, And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay, And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth: Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall Several days' journey, built by Ninus old, Of that first golden monarchy the seat, And seat of Salmanassar, whose success Israel in long captivity still mourns; There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues, As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice Judah and all thy father David's house Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste, Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis, His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there; Ecbatana her structure vast there shews, And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates; There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream, The drink of none but kings; of later fame, Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands, The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon, Turning with easy eye, thou may'st behold. All these the Parthian (now some ages past By great Arsaces led, who founded first That empire) under his dominion holds, From the luxurious kings of Antioch won. And just in time thou com'st to have a view Of his great power; for now the Parthian king In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid He marches now in haste. See, though from far, His thousands, in what martial equipage They issue forth, steel bows and shafts their arms, Of equal dread in flight or in pursuit— All horsemen, in which fight they most excel; See how in warlike muster they appear, In rhombs, and wedges, and half-moons, and wings." He looked, and saw what numbers numberless The city gates outpoured, light-armed troops In coats of mail and military pride. In mail their horses clad, yet fleet and strong, Prauncing their riders bore, the flower and choice Of many provinces from bound to bound— From Arachosia, from Candaor east, And Margiana, to the Hyrcanian cliffs Of Caucasus, and dark Iberian dales; From Atropatia, and the neighbouring plains Of Adiabene, Media, and the south Of Susiana, to Balsara's haven. He saw them in their forms of battle ranged, How quick they wheeled, and flying behind them shot Sharp sleet of arrowy showers against the face Of their pursuers, and overcame by flight; The field all iron cast a gleaming brown. Nor wanted clouds of foot, nor, on each horn, Cuirassiers all in steel for standing fight, Chariots, or elephants indorsed with towers Of archers; nor of labouring pioners A multitude, with spades and axes armed, To lay hills plain, fell woods, or valleys fill, Or where plain was raise hill, or overlay With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke: Mules after these, camels and dromedaries, And waggons fraught with utensils of war. Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican, with all his northern powers, Besieged Albracea, as romances tell, The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win The fairest of her sex, Angelica, His daughter, sought by many prowest knights, Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemane. Such and so numerous was their chivalry; At sight whereof the Fiend yet more presumed, And to our Saviour thus his words renewed:— "That thou may'st know I seek not to engage Thy virtue, and not every way secure On no slight grounds thy safety, hear and mark To what end I have brought thee hither, and shew All this fair sight. Thy kingdom, though foretold By Prophet or by Angel, unless thou Endeavour, as thy father David did, Thou never shalt obtain: prediction still In all things, and all men, supposes means; Without means used, what it predicts revokes. But say thou wert possessed of David's throne By free consent of all, none opposite, Samaritan or Jew; how couldst thou hope Long to enjoy it quiet and secure Between two such enclosing enemies, Roman and Parthian? Therefore one of these Thou must make sure thy own: the Parthian first, By my advice, as nearer, and of late Found able by invasion to annoy Thy country, and captive lead away her kings, Antigonus and old Hyrcanus, bound, Maugre the Roman. It shall be my task To render thee the Parthian at dispose, Choose which thou wilt, by conquest or by league. By him thou shalt regain, without him not, That which alone can truly reinstall thee In David's royal seat, his true successor— Deliverance of thy brethren, those Ten Tribes Whose offspring in his territory yet serve In Habor, and among the Medes dispersed: The sons of Jacob, two of Joseph, lost Thus long from Israel, serving, as of old Their fathers in the land of Egypt served, This offer sets before thee to deliver. These if from servitude thou shalt restore To their inheritance, then, nor till then, Thou on the throne of David in full glory, From Egypt to Euphrates and beyond, Shalt reign, and Rome or Caesar not need fear." To whom our Saviour answered thus, unmoved:— "Much ostentation vain of fleshly arm And fragile arms, much instrument of war, Long in preparing, soon to nothing brought, Before mine eyes thou hast set, and in my ear Vented much policy, and projects deep Of enemies, of aids, battles, and leagues, Plausible to the world, to me worth naught. Means I must use, thou say'st; prediction else Will unpredict, and fail me of the throne! My time, I told thee (and that time for thee Were better farthest off), is not yet come. When that comes, think not thou to find me slack On my part aught endeavouring, or to need Thy politic maxims, or that cumbersome Luggage of war there shewn me—argument Of human weakness rather than of strength. My brethren, as thou call'st them, those Ten Tribes, I must deliver, if I mean to reign David's true heir, and his full sceptre sway To just extent over all Israel's sons! But whence to thee this zeal? Where was it then For Israel, or for David, or his throne, When thou stood'st up his tempter to the pride Of numbering Israel—which cost the lives of threescore and ten thousand Israelites By three days' pestilence? Such was thy zeal To Israel then, the same that now to me. As for those captive tribes, themselves were they Who wrought their own captivity, fell off From God to worship calves, the deities Of Egypt, Baal next and Ashtaroth, And all the idolatries of heathen round, Besides their other worse than heathenish crimes; Nor in the land of their captivity Humbled themselves, or penitent besought The God of their forefathers, but so died Impenitent, and left a race behind Like to themselves, distinguishable scarce From Gentiles, but by circumcision vain, And God with idols in their worship joined. Should I of these the liberty regard, Who, freed, as to their ancient patrimony, Unhumbled, unrepentant, unreformed, Headlong would follow, and to their gods perhaps Of Bethel and of Dan? No; let them serve Their enemies who serve idols with God. Yet He at length, time to himself best known, Remembering Abraham, by some wondrous call May bring them back, repentant and sincere, And at their passing cleave the Assyrian flood, While to their native land with joy they haste, As the Red Sea and Jordan once he cleft, When to the Promised Land their fathers passed. To his due time and providence I leave them." So spake Israel's true King, and to the Fiend Made answer meet, that made void all his wiles. So fares it when with truth falsehood contends.
Without a stone to mark the spot, And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot, Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea Divided, yet beloved in vain; The Past, the Future fled to thee, To bid us meet--no--ne'er again! Could this have been--a word, a look, That softly said, "We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook, With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watched thee here? Or sadly marked thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere Death appear, When silent Sorrow fears to sigh, Till all was past? But when no more 'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, Had flowed as fast--as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day In these, to me, deserted towers, Ere called but for a time away, Affection's mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside; The smile none else might understand; The whispered thought of hearts allied, The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss, so guiltless and refined, That Love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind, Ev'n Passion blushed to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice, But sweet to me from none but thine; The pledge we wore--_I_ wear it still, But where is thine?--Ah! where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill, But never bent beneath till now! Well hast thou left in Life's best bloom The cup of Woe for me to drain. If rest alone be in the tomb, I would not wish thee here again: But if in worlds more blest than this Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss, To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me--too early taught by thee! To bear, forgiving and forgiven: On earth thy love was such to me; It fain would form my hope in Heaven!
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_A ruinous chateau on the Silesian frontier of Bohemia_.
_Josepha_. THE storm is at it's height--how the wind howls,
Like an unearthly voice, through these lone chambers!
And the rain patters on the flapping casement
Which quivers in it's frame--the night is starless--
Yet cheerly Werner! still our hearts are warm:
The tempest is without, or should be so--
For we are sheltered here where Fortune's clouds
May roll all harmless o'er us as the wrath
Of these wild elements that menace now,
Yet do not reach us.
_Werner_ (_without attending, and walking disturbedly,
speaking to himself_). No--'Tis past--'tis blighted,
The last faint hope to which my withered fortune
Clung with a feeble and a fluttering grasp,
Yet clung convulsively--for twas the _last_--
Is broken with the rest: would that my heart were!
But there is pride, and passion's war within,
Which give my breast vitality to suffer,
As it hath suffered through long years till now.
My father's wrath extends beyond the grave,
And haunts me in the shape of Stralenheim!
He revels in my fathers palace--I--
Exiled--disherited--a nameless outcast!
[_Werner pauses_.
My boy, too, where and what is he?--my father
Might well have limited his curse to me.
If that my heritage had passed to Ulric,
I had not mourned my own less happy lot.
No--No--all's past--all torn away.
_Josepha_. Dear Werner,
Oh banish these discomfortable thoughts
That thus contend within you: we are poor,
So we have ever been--but I remember
The time when thy Josepha's smile could turn
Thy heart to hers--despite of every ill.
So let it now--alas! you hear me not.
_Werner_. What said you?--let it pass--no matter what--
Think me not churlish, Sweet, I am not well.
My brain is hot and busy--long fatigue
And last night's watching have oppressed me much.
_Josepha_. Then get thee to thy couch. I do perceive
In thy pale cheek and in thy bloodshot eye
A strange distemperature--nay, as a boon,
I do entreat thee to thy rest.
_Werner_. My _rest!_
Well--be it so--Good Night!
_Josepha_. Thy hand is burning;
I will prepare a potion:--peace be with thee--
Tomorrow's dawn I trust will find thee healthful;
And, then, our Ulric may perchance--
_Werner_. _Our_ Ulric--thine and mine--our only boy--
Curse on his father and his father's Sire!
(For, if it is so, I will render back
A curse that Heaven will hear as well as his),
Our Ulric by his father's fault or folly,
And by my father's unrelenting pride,
Is at this hour, perchance, undone. This night
That shelters us may shower it's wrath on him--
A homeless beggar for his parent's sin--
Thy sin and mine--Thy child and mine atones--
Our Ulric--Woman!--I'll to no bed to-night--
There is no pillow for my thoughts.
_Josepha_. What words,
What fearful words are these! what may they mean?
_Werner_. Look on me--thou hast known me, hitherto,
As an oppressed, but yet a humble creature;
By birth predestined to the yoke I've borne.
Till now I've borne it patiently, at least,
In bitter silence--but the hour is come,
That should and shall behold me as I was,
And ought again to be--
_Josepha_. I know not what
Thy mystery may tend to, but my fate--
My heart--my will--my love are linked with thine,
And I would share thy sorrow: lay it open.
_Werner_. Thou see'st the son of Count--but let it pass--
I forfeited the name in wedding thee:
That fault of many faults a father's pride
Proclaimed the last and worst--and, from that hour,
He disavowed, disherited, debased
A wayward son----tis a long tale--too long--
And I am heartsick of the heavy thought.
_Josepha_. Oh, I could weep--but that were little solace:
Yet tell the rest--or, if thou wilt not, say--
Yet say--why, through long years, from me withheld,
This fearful secret that hath gnawed thy soul?
_Werner_. Why? had it not been base to call on thee
For patience and for pity--to awake
The thirst of grandeur in thy gentle spirit--
To tell thee what thou shouldst have been--the wife
Of one, in power--birth--wealth, preeminent--
Then, sudden quailing in that lofty tone,
To bid thee soothe thy husband--peasant Werner?
_Josepha_. I would thou wert, indeed, the peasant Werner;
For then thy soul had been of calmer mould,
And suited to thy lot----
_Werner_. Was it not so?
Beneath a humble name and garb--the which
My youthful riot and a father's frown,
Too justly fixed upon me, had compelled
My bowed down spirit to assume too well--
Since it deceived the world, myself, and thee:
I linked my lot irrevocably with thine--
And I have loved thee deeply--long and dearly--
Even as I love thee still--but these late crosses,
And most of all the last,--have maddened me;
And I am wild and wayward as in youth,
Ere I beheld thee--
_Josepha_. Would thou never hadst!
Since I have been a blight upon thy hope,
And marred alike the present and the future.
_Werner_. Yet say not so--for all that I have known
Of true and calm content--of love--of peace--
Has been with thee and from thee: wert thou not,
I were a lonely and self-loathing thing.
Ulric has left us! all, save thou, have left me!
Father and son--Fortune--Fame--Power--Ambition--
The ties of being--the high soul of man--
All save the long remorse--the consciousness,
The curse of living on, regretting life
Mispent in miserably gazing upward,
While others soared--Away, I'll think no more.
_Josepha_. But Ulric--wherefore didst thou let him leave
His home and us? tis now three weary years.
_Werner_ (_interrupting her quickly_).
Since my hard father, half-relenting, sent
The offer of a scanty stipend which
I needs must earn by rendering up my son--
Fool that I was--I thought this quick compliance,
And never more assuming in myself
The haught name of my house would soften him--
And for our child secure the heritage
Forfeit in me forever. Since that hour,
Till the last year, the wretched pittance came--
Then ceased with every tidings of my son
And Sire--till late I heard the last had ceased
To live--and unforgiving died--Oh God!
_Josepha_. Was it for this our Ulric left us so?
Thou dids't deceive me then--he went not forth
To join the legions of Count Tilly's war?
_Werner_. I know not--he had left my father's castle,
Some months before his death--but why?--but why?
Left it as I did ere his birth, perchance,
Like me an outcast. Old age had not made
My father meeker--and my son, Alas!
Too much his Sire resembled----
_Josepha_. Yet there's comfort.
Restrain thy wandering Spirit--Ulric cannot
Have left his native land--thou dost not know,
Though it looks strangely, thy Sire and he
In anger parted--Hope is left us still.
_Werner_. The best hope that I ever held in youth,
When every pulse was life, each thought a joy,
(Yet not irrationally sanguine, since
My birth bespoke high thoughts,) hath lured and left me.
I will not be a dreamer in mine age--
The hunter of a shadow--let _boys hope_:
Of Hope I now know nothing but the name--
And that's a sound which jars upon my heart.
I've wearied thee--Good night--my patient Love!
_Josepha_. I must not leave thee thus--my husband--friend--
My heart is rent in twain for thee--I scarce
Dare greet thee as I would, lest that my love
Should seem officious and ill timed:--'tis early--
Yet rest were as a healing balm to thee--
Then once again--Good night!
_Voice Without_. What Ho--lights ho!
SCENE II.
_Josepha_. What noise is that? 'tis nearer--hush! they knock.
[_A knocking heard at the gate_--WERNER _starts_.
_Werner_ (_aside_). It may be that the bloodhounds of the villain,
Who long has tracked me, have approached at last:
I'll not be taken tamely.
_Josepha_. 'Twas the voice,
The single voice of some lone traveller.
I'll to the door.
_Werner_. No--stay thou here--again!
[_Knocking repeated. Opens the door_.
Well--Sir--your pleasure?
_Enter_ CARL _the Bavarian_.
_Carl_. Thanks most worthy Sir!
My pleasure, for to-night, depends on yours--
I'm weary, wet, and wayworn--without shelter,
Unless you please to grant it.
_Josepha_. You shall have it,
Such as this ruinous mansion may afford:
Tis spacious, but too cold and crazy now
For Hospitality's more cordial welcome:
But as it is 'tis yours.
_Werner_ (_to his wife_). Why say ye so?
At once such hearty greeting to a stranger?
At such a lonely hour, too--
_Josepha_ (_in reply to Werner_). Nay--he's honest.
There is trust-worthiness in his blunt looks.
_Werner_ (_to Josepha_).
"Trustworthiness in looks!" I'll trust no looks!
I look into men's faces for their age,
Not for their actions--had he Adam's brow,
Open and goodly as before the fall,
I've lived too long to trust the frankest aspect.
(_To Carl_) Whence come you Sir?
_Carl_. From Frankfort, on my way
To my own country--I've a companion too--
He tarries now behind:--an hour ago,
On reaching that same river on your frontier,
We found it swoln by storms--a stranger's carriage,
Despite the current, drawn by sturdy mules,
Essayed to pass, and nearly reached the middle
Of that which was the _ford_ in gentler weather,
When down came driver, carriage, mules, and all--
You may suppose the worthy Lord within
Fared ill enough:--worse still he might have suffered,
But that my comrade and myself rushed in,
And with main strength and some good luck beside,
Dislodged and saved him: he'll be here anon.
His equipage by this time is at Dresden--
I left it floating that way.
_Werner_. Where is he?
_Carl_. Hitherward on his way, even like myself--
We saw the light and made for the nearest shelter:
You'll not deny us for a single night?
You've room enough, methinks--and this vast ruin
Will not be worse for three more guests.
_Werner_. Two more:
And thou?--well--be it so--(_aside_) (tonight will soon
Be overpast: they shall not stay tomorrow)--
Know you the name of him you saved?
_Carl_. Not I!
I think I heard him called a Baron Something--
But was too chill to stay and hear his titles:
You know they are sometimes tedious in the reckoning,
If counted over by the noble wearer.
Has't any wine? I'm wet, stung to the marrow--
My comrade waited to escort the Baron:
They will be here, anon--they, too, want cheering:
I'll taste for them, if it please you, courteous host!
_Josepha_. Such as our vintage is shall give you welcome:
I'll bring you some anon. [_goes out_.
_Carl_ (_looking round_). A goodly mansion!
And has been nobly tenanted, I doubt not.
This worn magnificence some day has shone
On light hearts and long revels--those torn banners
Have waved o'er courtly guests--and yon huge lamp
High blazed through many a midnight--I could wish
My lot had led me here in those gay times!
Your days, my host, must pass but heavily.
Are you the vassal of these antient chiefs,
Whose heir wastes elsewhere their fast melting hoards,
And placed to keep their cobwebs company?
_Werner_ (_who has been absorbed in thought till the latter
part of his speech_). A Vassal!--I a vassal!--_who_ accosts me
With such familiar question?--(_checks himself and says
aside_)--Down startled pride!
Have not long years of wretchedness yet quenched thee,
And, suffering evil, wilt thou start at scorn?
(_To Carl_.) Sir! if I boast no birth--and, as you see,
My state bespeaks none--still, no being breathes
Who calls me slave or servant.--Like yourself
I am a stranger here--a lonely guest--
But, for a time, on sufferance. On my way,
From--a far distant city--Sickness seized,
And long detained me in the neighbouring hamlet.
The Intendant of the owner of this castle,
Then uninhabited, with kind intent,
Permitted me to wait returning health
Within these walls--more sheltered than the cot
Of humble peasants.
_Carl_. Worthy Sir, your mercy!
I meant not to offend you--plain of speech,
And blunt in apprehension, I do judge
Men's station from their seeming--but themselves
From acts alone. You bid me share your shelter,
And I am bound to you; and had you been
The lowliest vassal had not thanked you less,
Than I do now, believing you his better,
Perhaps my own superior--
_Werner_. What imports it?
What--who I am--or whence--you are welcome--sit--
You shall have cheer anon. (_walks disturbedly aside_)
_Carl_ (_to himself_). Here's a strange fellow!
Wild, churlish, angry--_why_, I know not, seek not.
Would that the wine were come! my doublet's wet,
But my throat dry as Summer's drought in desarts.
Ah--here it sparkles!
_Enter_ JOSEPHA _with wine in flask--and a cup. As she pours
it out a Voice is heard without calling at a distance_.
WERNER _starts_--JOSEPHA _listens tremulously_.
_Werner_. That voice--that voice--Hark!
No--no--tis silent--Sir--I say--that voice--
Whose is it--speak--
_Carl_ (_drinking unconcernedly_).
Whose is it? faith, I know not--
And, yet, 'tis my companion's: he's like you,
And does not care to tell his name and station.
[_The voice again and nearer_.
_Josepha_. 'Tis his--I knew it--Ulric!--Ulric!--Ulric!
[_She drops the wine and rushes out_.
_Carl_. The flask's unhurt--but every drop is spilt.
Confound the voice! I say--would he were dumb!
And faith! to me, he has been nearly so--
A silent and unsocial travelling mate.
_Werner_ (_stands in agitation gazing towards the door_).
If it be he--I cannot move to meet him.
Yes--it must be so--there is no such voice
That so could sound and shake me: he is here,
And I am--
_Enter_ STRALENHEIM.
_Werner_ (_turns and sees him_). A curse upon thee, stranger!
Where dids't thou learn a tone so like my boy's?
Thou mock bird of my hopes--a curse upon thee!
Out! Out! I say. Thou shalt not harbour here.
_Stralenheim_. What means the peasant? knows he unto whom
He dares address this language?
_Carl_. Noble Sir!
Pray heed him not--he's Phrenzy's next door neighbour,
And full of these strange starts and causeless jarrings.
_Werner_. Oh, that long wished for voice!--I dreamed of it--
And then it did elude me--then--and now.
_Enter_ ULRIC _and_ JOSEPHA. WERNER _falls on his neck_.
Oh God! forgive, for thou dids't not forget me.
Although I murmured--tis--it is my Son!
_Josepha_. Aye, 'tis dear Ulric--yet, methinks, he's changed, too:
His cheek is tanned, his frame more firmly knit!
That scar, too, dearest Ulric--I do fear me--
Thou hast been battling with these heretics,
And that's a Swedish token on thy brow.
_Ulric_. My heart is glad with yours--we meet like those
Who never would have parted:--of the past
You shall know more anon--but, here's a guest
That asks a gentle welcome. Noble Baron,
My father's silence looks discourtesy:
Yet must I plead his pardon--'tis his love
Of a long truant that has rapt him, thus,
From hospitable greeting--you'll be seated--
And, Father, we will sup like famished hunters.
JOSEPHA _goes out here_.
_Stralenheim_. I have much need of rest: no more refreshment!
Were all my people housed within the hamlet,
Or can they follow?
_Ulric_. Not to night I fear.
They staid in hope the damaged Cabriole
Might, with the dawn of day, have such repairs,
As circumstance admits of.
_Carl_. Nay--that's hopeless.
They must not only mend but draw it too.
The mules are drowned--a murrain on them both!
One kicked me as I would have helped him on.
_Stralenheim_. It is most irksome to me--this delay.
I was for Prague on business of great moment.
_Werner_. For Prague--Sir--Say you?--
_Stralenheim_. Yes, my host! for Prague.
And these vile floods and villainous cross roads
Steal my time from it's uses--but--my people?
Where do they shelter?
_Ulric_. In the boatman's shed,
Near to the ferry: you mistook the ford--
Tis higher to the right:--their entertainment
Will be but rough--but 'tis a single night,
And they had best be guardians of the baggage.
The shed will hold the weather from their sleep,
The woodfire warm them--and, for beds, a cloak
Is swansdown to a seasoned traveller:
It has been mine for many a moon, and may
Tonight, for aught it recks me.
_Stralenheim_. And tomorrow
I must be on my journey--and betimes.
It is not more than three days travel, hence,
To Mansfeldt Castle.
_Werner and Ulric_. Mansfeldt Castle!--
_Stralenheim_. Aye!
For thither tends my progress--so, betimes,
Mine host I would be stirring--think of that!
And let me find my couch of rest at present.
_Werner_. You shall Sir--but--to Mansfeldt!--
[ULRIC _stops his father and says aside to him_,
_Silence--father--_
Whate'er it be that shakes you thus--_tread down_--
(_To Stralenheim_) My father, Sir, was born not far from Prague,
And knows it's environs--and, when he hears,
The name endeared to him by native thoughts,
He would ask of it, and it's habitants--
You will excuse his plain blunt mode of question.
_Stralenheim_. Indeed, perchance, then, he may aid my search.
Pray, know you aught of one named Werner? who
(But he no doubt has passed through many names),
Lived long in Hamburgh--and has thence been traced
Into Silesia--and not far from hence--
But there we lost him; he who can disclose
Aught of him, or his hiding-place, will find
Advantage in revealing it.
_Ulric_. Why so--Sir?
_Stralenheim_. There are strong reasons to suspect this man
Of crimes against the State--league with Swedes--
And other evil acts of moment:--he
Who shall deliver him, bound hand and foot,
Will benefit his country and himself:
I will reward him doubly too.
_Ulric_. You know him?
_Stralenheim_. He never met my eyes--but Circumstance
Has led me to near knowledge of the man.
He is a villain--and an enemy
To all men--most to me! If earth contain him,
He shall be found and fettered: I have hopes,
By traces which tomorrow will unravel,
A fresh clue to his lurking spot is nigh.
_Carl_. And, if I find it, I will break the thread.
What, all the world against one luckless wight!
And he a fugitive--I would I knew him!
_Ulric_. You'd help him to escape--is it not so?
_Carl_. I would, indeed!
_Ulric_. The greater greenhorn you!
I would secure him--nay--I will do so.
_Stralenheim_. If it be so--my gratitude for aid,
And rescue of my life from the wild waters,
Will double in it's strength and it's requital.
Your father, too, perhaps can help our search?
_Werner_. _I_ turn a spy--no--not for _Mansfeldt Castle_,
And all the broad domain it frowns upon.
_Stralenheim_. Mansfeldt again!--you know it then? perchance,
You also know the story of it's lords?
_Werner_. Whate'er I know, there is no bribe of thine
Can swerve me to the crooked path thou pointest.
The chamber's ready, which your rest demands.
_Stralenheim_ (_aside_).
'Tis strange--this peasant's tone is wondrous high,
His air imperious--and his eye shines out
As wont to look command with a quick glance--
His garb befits him not--why, he may be
The man I look for! now, I look again,
There is the very lip--short curling lip--
And the oerjutting eye-brow dark and large,
And the peculiar wild variety
Of feature, even unto the Viper's eye,
Of that detested race, and it's descendant
Who stands alone between me and a power,
Which Princes gaze at with unquiet eyes!
This is no peasant--but, whate'er he be,
Tomorrow shall secure him and unfold.
_Ulric_. It will not please you, Sir, then to remain
With us beyond tomorrow?
_Stralenheim_. Nay--I do not say so--there is no haste.
And now I think again--I'll tarry here--
Perhaps until the floods abate--we'll see--
In the mean time--to my chamber--so--Good Night!
[_Exit with_ WERNER.
_Werner_. This way, Sir.
_Carl_. And I to mine: pray, where are we to rest?
We'll sup within--
_Ulric_. What matter where--there's room.
_Carl_. I would fain see my way through this vast ruin;
Come take the lamp, and we'll explore together.
_Josepha_ (_meeting them_). And I will with my son.
_Ulric_. Nay--stay--dear mother!
These chilly damps and the cold rush of winds
Fling a rough paleness o'er thy delicate cheek--
And thou seem'st lovely in thy sickliness
Of most transparent beauty:--but it grieves me.
Nay! tarry here by the blaze of the bright hearth:--
I will return anon--and we have much
To listen and impart. Come, Carl, we'll find
Some gorgeous canopy, and, thence, unroost
It's present bedfellows the bats--and thou
Shalt slumber underneath a velvet cloud
That mantles o'er the couch of some dead Countess.
[_Exit_ CARL _and_ ULRIC.
_Josepha_ (_sola_). It was my joy to see him--nothing more
I should have said--which sent my gush of blood
Back on my full heart with a dancing tide:
It was my weary hope's unthought fulfilment,
My agony of mother-feelings curdled
At once in gathered rapture--which did change
My cheek into the hue of fainting Nature.
I should have answered thus--and yet I could not:
For though 'twas true--it was not all the truth.
I have much suffered in the thought of Werner's
Late deep distemperature of mind and fortunes,
Which since have almost driven him into phrenzy:--
And though that I would soothe, not share, such passions,
And show not how they shake me:--when alone,
I feel them prey upon me by reflection,
And want the very solace I bestowed;
And which, it seems, I cannot give and have.
Ulric must be my comforter--his father's
Hath long been the most melancholy soul
That ever hovered o'er the verge of Madness:
And, better, had he leapt into it's gulph:
Though to the Mad thoughts are realities,
Yet they can play with sorrow--and live on.
But with the mind of consciousness and care
The body wears to ruin, and the struggle,
However long, is deadly----He is lost,
And all around him tasteless:--in his mirth
His very laughter moves me oft to tears,
And I have turned to hide them--for, in him,
As Sunshine glittering o'er unburied bones----
Soft--he is here.----
_Werner_. Josepha--where is Ulric?
_Josepha_. Gone with the other stranger to gaze o'er
These shattered corridors, and spread themselves
A pillow with their mantles, in the least ruinous:
I must replenish the diminished hearth
In the inner chamber--the repast is ready,
And Ulric will be here again.--
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