The Solitary, and other poems With The Cavalier, a play. By Charles Whitehead |
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| II. |
| III. |
 | THE STORY OF JASPER BROOKE. |
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 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
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THE STORY OF JASPER BROOKE.
JASPER PROPOSES MARRIAGE TO HIS SON.
It was a dark and ancient room
In which old Jasper sat alone;
Within, the sun had never shone:
But Jasper was cheerful amid the gloom,
As a light that burneth in a tomb.
“Ha! ha!” he chuckled, and rubb'd his hands;
“The sunshine that the ripple bears
Casteth its colour on the sands,
As yellow as harvest ears;
And why are we young, or why are we old,
If we see not our sunshine turn to gold?”
There was an opening of the door:
“Timely thou comest, my son, in sooth”—
(He spake unto a fair-hair'd youth,
Whose years were scarce a score):—
“Come, sit thee down, and sit thee near;
I have that to whisper in thine ear
Which—or my hopes will do me wrong—
Shall not be a secret long.
Thou knowest Master Barton? Well;
That he is rich I need not tell;
That he hath honey in many a cell;
Such honey as the summer bees
Gather'd in the Hesperides.
But Philip, my son, thou hast been blind:
Of Master Barton's is there aught
Thou hast not seen, or hast not sought,
Which is for thee designed?”
In which old Jasper sat alone;
Within, the sun had never shone:
But Jasper was cheerful amid the gloom,
As a light that burneth in a tomb.
“Ha! ha!” he chuckled, and rubb'd his hands;
“The sunshine that the ripple bears
Casteth its colour on the sands,
As yellow as harvest ears;
And why are we young, or why are we old,
If we see not our sunshine turn to gold?”
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“Timely thou comest, my son, in sooth”—
(He spake unto a fair-hair'd youth,
Whose years were scarce a score):—
“Come, sit thee down, and sit thee near;
I have that to whisper in thine ear
Which—or my hopes will do me wrong—
Shall not be a secret long.
Thou knowest Master Barton? Well;
That he is rich I need not tell;
That he hath honey in many a cell;
Such honey as the summer bees
Gather'd in the Hesperides.
But Philip, my son, thou hast been blind:
Of Master Barton's is there aught
Thou hast not seen, or hast not sought,
Which is for thee designed?”
The young man took a moment's thought,
But it enter'd not his mind.
“Your pardon, Sir; aught sought or seen!
You are merry; I guess not what you mean.”
But it enter'd not his mind.
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You are merry; I guess not what you mean.”
“Pshaw!” cried old Jasper, peevishly,
“Thou canst not see a star in the sky,
If downward thou wilt bend thine eye.
Its shadow, that frolics in the water,
Is marvel enough for thee, I wot;
Say, Mistress Alice hast thou forgot,
And is she not his daughter?”
“Thou canst not see a star in the sky,
If downward thou wilt bend thine eye.
Its shadow, that frolics in the water,
Is marvel enough for thee, I wot;
Say, Mistress Alice hast thou forgot,
And is she not his daughter?”
There was a something in Philip's eyes;
It was not wonder or surprise;
And yet it made his brows to rise.
The old man gazes on the boy,
And well he sees it is not joy,
As slow his son replies:—
It was not wonder or surprise;
And yet it made his brows to rise.
The old man gazes on the boy,
And well he sees it is not joy,
As slow his son replies:—
“What words of my poor speech can raise
A fitting tribute to her praise?
She is indeed a lovely maid
As ever grew to womanhood;
But is more worthy to be woo'd
By one who, when against her weigh'd,
Is held as virtuous and good.
Be his the prize whom schools refine,
In whom all nobler virtues shine;
I dare not hope it may be mine.”
A fitting tribute to her praise?
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As ever grew to womanhood;
But is more worthy to be woo'd
By one who, when against her weigh'd,
Is held as virtuous and good.
Be his the prize whom schools refine,
In whom all nobler virtues shine;
I dare not hope it may be mine.”
“I see,” cried his father, “and well I see;
The tale has been often told;
There was a maiden of low degree,
And—but the story's old:—
'Twas a quaint play made out of a song.
I saw it presented, and it pass'd;
How love is deep, and the hill is steep;
How love is strong, and reason is wrong;
And the old man's outwitted at last.
But oh! false wretch! that would'st to me
Make thy humility thy plea!
Thou durst not hope! Well, then, refer
Thy fears, hope's counterparts, to her.
Thou durst not hope! thou mean'st, I ween,
Thou fearest lest thy hopes be seen.
Wherefore that face of blank dismay?
Have I not seen before to-day,
A traveller on a crooked way?
Hear me: Twelve years my memory dates,
Since the good ship, from Genoa's port,
(Would it had been the tempest's sport,
Wreck'd in the fell Gibraltar straits!)
Sail'd hither, bringing with her one,
By woe and bankruptcy undone.
Carlo Uberti was his name.
He sought me; urg'd a piteous claim
Of former merchandise consign'd;
(Weak fool! to think within his mind,
Who eats the fruit must love the rind.)
I was the fool. His story wrought
Upon my heart—his child he brought—
A little tender, touching thing,
A summer cheek, an eye of spring.
What more to move me could he bring?
My house receiv'd him and his child;
The father wept, the daughter smil'd;
Thus, like a fool, was I beguil'd.
He died. What more? The child remains;
The child whom I have foster'd still;
And how does she requite my pains,
My care repay, my hopes fulfil?
And thou, would'st thou, of simple wit,
Lure a poor sparrow to the sill,
And frame a cage, and cherish it,
As though its russet feathers vied
With birds, the sun's adopted pride,
Of scarlet plumage, golden-dyed?
Thou lov'st this Julia; spare the lie
That rises in thee to deny,
What thy cheek tells me, and thine eye.”
Philip stood mute, abash'd; nor durst
Meet Jasper's taunting glance at first;
For he was timid; had been nurs'd
Upon a mother's breast forlorn,
And rear'd at pious knees prayer-worn.
Oft blest with tears, in tones that spoke
Through sighs that more than language spoke;
And all the mother had been shed
Upon his young and thoughtful head:
He was in union with the dead.
Wherefore his gentle aspect took
(His nature being hers) her look,
Its patient softness, mild and sweet;
A home for sun-bright candour meet,
Too pure a dwelling for deceit.
The tale has been often told;
There was a maiden of low degree,
And—but the story's old:—
'Twas a quaint play made out of a song.
I saw it presented, and it pass'd;
How love is deep, and the hill is steep;
How love is strong, and reason is wrong;
And the old man's outwitted at last.
But oh! false wretch! that would'st to me
Make thy humility thy plea!
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Thy fears, hope's counterparts, to her.
Thou durst not hope! thou mean'st, I ween,
Thou fearest lest thy hopes be seen.
Wherefore that face of blank dismay?
Have I not seen before to-day,
A traveller on a crooked way?
Hear me: Twelve years my memory dates,
Since the good ship, from Genoa's port,
(Would it had been the tempest's sport,
Wreck'd in the fell Gibraltar straits!)
Sail'd hither, bringing with her one,
By woe and bankruptcy undone.
Carlo Uberti was his name.
He sought me; urg'd a piteous claim
Of former merchandise consign'd;
(Weak fool! to think within his mind,
Who eats the fruit must love the rind.)
I was the fool. His story wrought
Upon my heart—his child he brought—
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A summer cheek, an eye of spring.
What more to move me could he bring?
My house receiv'd him and his child;
The father wept, the daughter smil'd;
Thus, like a fool, was I beguil'd.
He died. What more? The child remains;
The child whom I have foster'd still;
And how does she requite my pains,
My care repay, my hopes fulfil?
And thou, would'st thou, of simple wit,
Lure a poor sparrow to the sill,
And frame a cage, and cherish it,
As though its russet feathers vied
With birds, the sun's adopted pride,
Of scarlet plumage, golden-dyed?
Thou lov'st this Julia; spare the lie
That rises in thee to deny,
What thy cheek tells me, and thine eye.”
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Meet Jasper's taunting glance at first;
For he was timid; had been nurs'd
Upon a mother's breast forlorn,
And rear'd at pious knees prayer-worn.
Oft blest with tears, in tones that spoke
Through sighs that more than language spoke;
And all the mother had been shed
Upon his young and thoughtful head:
He was in union with the dead.
Wherefore his gentle aspect took
(His nature being hers) her look,
Its patient softness, mild and sweet;
A home for sun-bright candour meet,
Too pure a dwelling for deceit.
And so upon his knees he fell
Entreatingly, hands clasp'd, and said,
“I have been rash, I know it well;
Yet blame on me alone be laid,—
On me alone: if we have lov'd—”
“Ye are two fools,” cried Jasper, mov'd
To laughter; “ye have both done wrong;
And now for pardon would ye sue?
First to do ill, and next to rue,
Is to tie knots in censure's thong,
Then beg exemption from its smart.
Rise, boy of an ignoble heart!
Groveller, against ambition proof,
Dreamer of visions weak and vain:
Content with straw will thatch his roof,
When Enterprise has seiz'd the grain:
Seek Mistress Alice, and transfer
Thy vows to Julia, unto her.”
Entreatingly, hands clasp'd, and said,
“I have been rash, I know it well;
Yet blame on me alone be laid,—
On me alone: if we have lov'd—”
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To laughter; “ye have both done wrong;
And now for pardon would ye sue?
First to do ill, and next to rue,
Is to tie knots in censure's thong,
Then beg exemption from its smart.
Rise, boy of an ignoble heart!
Groveller, against ambition proof,
Dreamer of visions weak and vain:
Content with straw will thatch his roof,
When Enterprise has seiz'd the grain:
Seek Mistress Alice, and transfer
Thy vows to Julia, unto her.”
“O, Sir, it cannot be undone;
Look not so sternly on your son;
The holy priest hath made us one.”
Look not so sternly on your son;
The holy priest hath made us one.”
Never was cheek so sudden blanch'd
As Jasper's; never withering curse
Restrain'd, throat-strangled ere 'twas launch'd,
As that which, bursting as it dies,
Throws up its fire into his eyes.
As Jasper's; never withering curse
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As that which, bursting as it dies,
Throws up its fire into his eyes.
“Thou liest, boy; those words recal:
Thy priest at the confessional,
If thou speak'st falsely, shall apply
His absolution to the lie;
If thou speak'st truly, priest nor Pope,
With dispensation seal'd and sign'd,
Can give thee joy, or peace, or hope,
Or cheer thy heart, or clear thy mind.”
Thy priest at the confessional,
If thou speak'st falsely, shall apply
His absolution to the lie;
If thou speak'st truly, priest nor Pope,
With dispensation seal'd and sign'd,
Can give thee joy, or peace, or hope,
Or cheer thy heart, or clear thy mind.”
He flung him from his feet—“Begone!
Leave me; I will—must be alone.”
Leave me; I will—must be alone.”
The youth confounded and dismay'd
By wrath to violence betray'd,
His father silently obey'd.
'Twas well; for Nature had been loth
To hear the deep and fearful oath,
With which, upon his impious knees,
The aged man his vengeance arms;
It was an oath the blood to freeze,
But Jasper's blood it warms.
By wrath to violence betray'd,
His father silently obey'd.
'Twas well; for Nature had been loth
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With which, upon his impious knees,
The aged man his vengeance arms;
It was an oath the blood to freeze,
But Jasper's blood it warms.
JASPER SEEKS VENGEANCE.
What noise, what uproar in the street?
What wide-diffusing rumour fleet,
Hath brought those thousand gather'd feet?
At Jasper's house the people stand,
Awaiting something yet unknown;
Anxiety on every hand,
In every gesture, look, and tone.
While one the other doth beseech
“What news?” “The matter?” and while each
Hates all inquisitiveness shown,
In neighbour's nudge, or twitch, or speech,
Because unsatisfied his own.
But if without this dizzying din,
There is sufficing cause within:
Sin working with imputed sin.
Behold! two men, alert, yet grim,
Of order'd face, and strong of limb,
And active deeds, not idle words,
Bind Philip's passive arms with cords;
And a young girl, poor, strenuous thing!
Clings to the youth, and still must cling;
And calls on every saint to save,
And man to hear, and Heaven to spare;
How vain, how bootless, though she rave!
Blessings are won by prayer.
“Good friends, in God's name list to me;
If you will set my husband free,
My life and all my soul is worth,
Thanks endless, and from this day forth,
Slave's service till my dying day,
Cannot—you must not say me nay—
The deed of graciousness repay.”
Then with sheer hopelessness possest,
By the two faces blank and dense,
Her heart ceas'd throbbing, and the sense
Of life went from her vacant breast,
And she was carried thence
Gently, by one of those rude men,
Who was not in his function then.
And whom doth yonder room contain?
Him whose cold heart and heated brain
Have wrought this wickedness amain—
Old Jasper; and, with trembling knees,
And rheumy eyes, and palsied hands,
One, whom fourscore hath curs'd with these,
Before old Jasper stands.
So old is he who speaks, 'tis well
That, having such a tale to tell,
He is so old, and weak, and here;
For even his voice too shrill and clear
Rings in the startled Jasper's ear.
“Master, I dare not do this thing;
'Tis poison added to the sting
Of Death, who soon will fold me round,
And leave my body in the ground.
Thoughts have come on me unaware,
Thoughts unsolicited by prayer.
The little lad; I see him now;
'Twas the first time his pretty brow
Was ever bent by sorrow's stress:
His blessed mother, as I guess,
Who was all grace and heavenliness,
Had told him I was like to die—”
What wide-diffusing rumour fleet,
Hath brought those thousand gather'd feet?
At Jasper's house the people stand,
Awaiting something yet unknown;
Anxiety on every hand,
In every gesture, look, and tone.
While one the other doth beseech
“What news?” “The matter?” and while each
Hates all inquisitiveness shown,
In neighbour's nudge, or twitch, or speech,
Because unsatisfied his own.
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There is sufficing cause within:
Sin working with imputed sin.
Behold! two men, alert, yet grim,
Of order'd face, and strong of limb,
And active deeds, not idle words,
Bind Philip's passive arms with cords;
And a young girl, poor, strenuous thing!
Clings to the youth, and still must cling;
And calls on every saint to save,
And man to hear, and Heaven to spare;
How vain, how bootless, though she rave!
Blessings are won by prayer.
“Good friends, in God's name list to me;
If you will set my husband free,
My life and all my soul is worth,
Thanks endless, and from this day forth,
Slave's service till my dying day,
Cannot—you must not say me nay—
The deed of graciousness repay.”
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By the two faces blank and dense,
Her heart ceas'd throbbing, and the sense
Of life went from her vacant breast,
And she was carried thence
Gently, by one of those rude men,
Who was not in his function then.
And whom doth yonder room contain?
Him whose cold heart and heated brain
Have wrought this wickedness amain—
Old Jasper; and, with trembling knees,
And rheumy eyes, and palsied hands,
One, whom fourscore hath curs'd with these,
Before old Jasper stands.
So old is he who speaks, 'tis well
That, having such a tale to tell,
He is so old, and weak, and here;
For even his voice too shrill and clear
Rings in the startled Jasper's ear.
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'Tis poison added to the sting
Of Death, who soon will fold me round,
And leave my body in the ground.
Thoughts have come on me unaware,
Thoughts unsolicited by prayer.
The little lad; I see him now;
'Twas the first time his pretty brow
Was ever bent by sorrow's stress:
His blessed mother, as I guess,
Who was all grace and heavenliness,
Had told him I was like to die—”
“Yet, Kirke, good Kirke,”—but Jasper's eye
And teeth tight-clench'd with malice fell,
Suit not with soft persuasion well;—
“Hast thou not promis'd? would'st begone
From what we have struck hands upon?”
And teeth tight-clench'd with malice fell,
Suit not with soft persuasion well;—
“Hast thou not promis'd? would'st begone
From what we have struck hands upon?”
But Kirke took up his former strain:
“The little lad; I see him now;
How did he tend me—soothe my pain,
And bring me cooling drink, and how
For hours and hours watch by my side—
Would 'twere God's pleasure I had died!
I have done sin for you, but this—”
“The little lad; I see him now;
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And bring me cooling drink, and how
For hours and hours watch by my side—
Would 'twere God's pleasure I had died!
I have done sin for you, but this—”
“The holy book hath had thy kiss,”
Urg'd Jasper; “and to be forsworn,
Better that thou had'st ne'er been born.
Thou 'rt outcast by thine own consent:
An oath when broken is not sprent;
But with a curse of Heaven re-knit;
For angels have attested it.
Dost thou forget; dost thou regard
What I have pledg'd—that rich reward
Which hath been, during fifty years,
The texture of thy hopes and fears,
Which makes thee lord of time, with power,
Blithe, sprightly as a paramour,
To turn to pleasure every hour?”
He had deem'd it strange, who had beheld:
Nature, which in Kirke's breast had swell'd,
At once his avarice expell'd;
And his eyes glimmer'd, and his face,
Expanding, put on hideous grace.
His palm in Jasper's coyly slid,
Told he would do as he was bid:
He sigh'd, and said, “I am content.”
Jasper knew well his implement,
And had him fast; and forth they went.
The senseless girl, as still as stone,
Is tended by a household crone,
And Philip to his fate is gone.
Fast bound, 'twixt the two keepers led,
None see upon him guilt or dread,
For on his breast his face is bow'd,
Passing through the fissur'd crowd;
Whose eyes the following twain engage:
Never were seen such types of age;
Jasper collected, cold, severe,
Kirke past the consciousness of fear,
His hearing numb'd, his eye-sight blear—
Fill'd, as it seem'd, with many woes;
The people bless him as he goes.
Yet ne'er was bosom vainly cross'd;
Mistaken blessings are not lost:
Pious intention sanctifies
What to its object Heaven denies.
Urg'd Jasper; “and to be forsworn,
Better that thou had'st ne'er been born.
Thou 'rt outcast by thine own consent:
An oath when broken is not sprent;
But with a curse of Heaven re-knit;
For angels have attested it.
Dost thou forget; dost thou regard
What I have pledg'd—that rich reward
Which hath been, during fifty years,
The texture of thy hopes and fears,
Which makes thee lord of time, with power,
Blithe, sprightly as a paramour,
To turn to pleasure every hour?”
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Nature, which in Kirke's breast had swell'd,
At once his avarice expell'd;
And his eyes glimmer'd, and his face,
Expanding, put on hideous grace.
His palm in Jasper's coyly slid,
Told he would do as he was bid:
He sigh'd, and said, “I am content.”
Jasper knew well his implement,
And had him fast; and forth they went.
The senseless girl, as still as stone,
Is tended by a household crone,
And Philip to his fate is gone.
Fast bound, 'twixt the two keepers led,
None see upon him guilt or dread,
For on his breast his face is bow'd,
Passing through the fissur'd crowd;
Whose eyes the following twain engage:
Never were seen such types of age;
Jasper collected, cold, severe,
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His hearing numb'd, his eye-sight blear—
Fill'd, as it seem'd, with many woes;
The people bless him as he goes.
Yet ne'er was bosom vainly cross'd;
Mistaken blessings are not lost:
Pious intention sanctifies
What to its object Heaven denies.
But how is this? Old Brooke abroad!
Like to a drover with a goad,
Who pricks a beast along the road,
Following his son, the gentle youth
Whom they have bound in felon guise!
Why this is wonder, shame and ruth,
Here is a sight for eyes!
Who can explain what this should mean?
Sight like to this was never seen:
Each asks, but none replies.
So all drive onward; all are bent
To know the cause and its event;
All press along the sultry way,
As each for his own welfare strove;
While casements fraught with life above
Give it a look of holiday.
The multitude with heaving sway,
The sun-motes dallying with the dust,
Which is as full of warmth as they;
Who would not take the scene on trust?
Had Philip's face been rais'd, I ween,
It had not look'd so gay a scene.
Like to a drover with a goad,
Who pricks a beast along the road,
Following his son, the gentle youth
Whom they have bound in felon guise!
Why this is wonder, shame and ruth,
Here is a sight for eyes!
Who can explain what this should mean?
Sight like to this was never seen:
Each asks, but none replies.
So all drive onward; all are bent
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All press along the sultry way,
As each for his own welfare strove;
While casements fraught with life above
Give it a look of holiday.
The multitude with heaving sway,
The sun-motes dallying with the dust,
Which is as full of warmth as they;
Who would not take the scene on trust?
Had Philip's face been rais'd, I ween,
It had not look'd so gay a scene.
And they are come to the Guildhall,
And silence on the crowd doth fall,
Silence as at a funeral
For a moment. Cancell'd is the hush,
And rude the clamour and the crush,
When they behold a narrow slit,
Which sideways only will admit
One singly; and the cautious door,
Having received its destin'd five,
Sharp closes, and will have no more.
How with the porters do they strive,
Face-flush'd, whose crown-surmounted staves,
Held transverse, he is bold who braves!
“Back! turbulent, disloyal knaves!”
Cries the head door-keeper in heat;
“Seek ye committal to the Fleet?”
And silence on the crowd doth fall,
Silence as at a funeral
For a moment. Cancell'd is the hush,
And rude the clamour and the crush,
When they behold a narrow slit,
Which sideways only will admit
One singly; and the cautious door,
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Sharp closes, and will have no more.
How with the porters do they strive,
Face-flush'd, whose crown-surmounted staves,
Held transverse, he is bold who braves!
“Back! turbulent, disloyal knaves!”
Cries the head door-keeper in heat;
“Seek ye committal to the Fleet?”
JASPER FINDS VENGEANCE.
And now before his Worship stands
Philip; and they unloose his bands.
Aloft, of sage head, slow to err,
The Justice sits in gown of fur;
Beneath, a solemn officer,
Who lifts his sudden lids, and then
Again to his assiduous pen.
“How, Master Brooke,” the Justice cries,
At first distrustful of his eyes,
“You here! Your son, too, in this wise!
What should this mean? How should this be?”
Philip; and they unloose his bands.
Aloft, of sage head, slow to err,
The Justice sits in gown of fur;
Beneath, a solemn officer,
Who lifts his sudden lids, and then
Again to his assiduous pen.
“How, Master Brooke,” the Justice cries,
At first distrustful of his eyes,
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What should this mean? How should this be?”
“May't please your Worship, ask not me;
My faithful servant, standing by,
He will depose”—An usher straight
Hands Kirke the sacred book to kiss;
While, with a bitter emphasis,
Sighs Jasper, “Blest had been my fate
To die; too long I live, and late,
Since it hath come to this!”
And staying speech, as though perforce,
Folds hands. “Let justice take its course.”
My faithful servant, standing by,
He will depose”—An usher straight
Hands Kirke the sacred book to kiss;
While, with a bitter emphasis,
Sighs Jasper, “Blest had been my fate
To die; too long I live, and late,
Since it hath come to this!”
And staying speech, as though perforce,
Folds hands. “Let justice take its course.”
Then Kirke heaves up his voice to tell
A tale which he had conn'd too well;
No lesson had he wont to spell,
Which, when 'twas learn'd, and turned to deed,
Gain'd brave broad pieces for its meed.
“May't please you, my good master here,
Whom I have serv'd this fifty year,
Had lost—mislaid at first he thought—
Treasures from foreign countries brought.
He ask'd me knew I of them aught?
God's mercy! I! I do protest
Methought my master spoke in jest.
A rope of pearls; a Venice chain,
Which on a King's breast might have lain;
A golden cup a King might drain.
He question'd me of these—alack!
No wish of mine could fetch them back,
Unless I owned a magic ring,
The lost, or like the lost, to bring
Safe, by a genie, as they sing.
I watch'd, as Master Brooke beseech'd;
My honesty in part impeach'd,
My duty, my fidelity,
Quicken'd my sense, sharpen'd my eye;
And what at length did it descry?
That I should live to see so clear!
That I should live to tell it here!
Heaven aid me as I hope to thrive!
Young Master Philip, as I live,
Have I not sworn it? and 'tis truth—
True as the creed—I saw the youth,
Myself behind the arras hid,
Saw him creep past me where I stood,
And softly raise the casket-lid,
Wherein lay, by the Holy Rood!
A ruby, red as fairies' blood,
Telling whose worth, belief would fail,
Pric'd at its carats by the tale,
Committed to the goldsmith's scale.
This did I see him filch; he fled,
I following, fill'd with grief and dread.
And to his chamber did he go,
And in his trunk the gem bestow.
Now, when I told this work of woe
To Master Brooke, as duty bade,
Beshrew me, he was well nigh mad;
Call'd me opprobrious names, and swore
I did belie the youth, traduce
The virtuous mother who him bore;
Curs'd me, and the pernicious use
He had put me to; in fine, we clomb,
Like wretches to a midnight tomb,
Trembling, to Master Philip's room;
And there the wrench'd trunk render'd up
The ruby, chain, and pearls, and cup.”
A tale which he had conn'd too well;
No lesson had he wont to spell,
Which, when 'twas learn'd, and turned to deed,
Gain'd brave broad pieces for its meed.
“May't please you, my good master here,
102
Had lost—mislaid at first he thought—
Treasures from foreign countries brought.
He ask'd me knew I of them aught?
God's mercy! I! I do protest
Methought my master spoke in jest.
A rope of pearls; a Venice chain,
Which on a King's breast might have lain;
A golden cup a King might drain.
He question'd me of these—alack!
No wish of mine could fetch them back,
Unless I owned a magic ring,
The lost, or like the lost, to bring
Safe, by a genie, as they sing.
I watch'd, as Master Brooke beseech'd;
My honesty in part impeach'd,
My duty, my fidelity,
Quicken'd my sense, sharpen'd my eye;
And what at length did it descry?
That I should live to see so clear!
103
Heaven aid me as I hope to thrive!
Young Master Philip, as I live,
Have I not sworn it? and 'tis truth—
True as the creed—I saw the youth,
Myself behind the arras hid,
Saw him creep past me where I stood,
And softly raise the casket-lid,
Wherein lay, by the Holy Rood!
A ruby, red as fairies' blood,
Telling whose worth, belief would fail,
Pric'd at its carats by the tale,
Committed to the goldsmith's scale.
This did I see him filch; he fled,
I following, fill'd with grief and dread.
And to his chamber did he go,
And in his trunk the gem bestow.
Now, when I told this work of woe
To Master Brooke, as duty bade,
Beshrew me, he was well nigh mad;
104
I did belie the youth, traduce
The virtuous mother who him bore;
Curs'd me, and the pernicious use
He had put me to; in fine, we clomb,
Like wretches to a midnight tomb,
Trembling, to Master Philip's room;
And there the wrench'd trunk render'd up
The ruby, chain, and pearls, and cup.”
Old Kirke has told his tale at large:
What thinks the Justice of the charge?
He knows not what to think, perplext;
What comment fits so wild a text?
His inmost soul is sorely vex'd.
“Bethink you, Master Brooke,” he said,
“You stand in awful case herein;
Yourself against your son array'd,
Makes justice look as black as sin.
This boy should be your age's staff,
Should grave and gild your epitaph;
Yours—but his mother claims him half.
Let me adjure you in her name,
Strive to awake him, and reclaim.
Justice by mercy is enhanc'd;
The sore of sin by mercy lanc'd,
Knows a blest healing; angels bent
Out of the skies watch the event,
And weeping, teach the penitent.
Think twice, I say.”
What thinks the Justice of the charge?
He knows not what to think, perplext;
What comment fits so wild a text?
His inmost soul is sorely vex'd.
“Bethink you, Master Brooke,” he said,
“You stand in awful case herein;
Yourself against your son array'd,
Makes justice look as black as sin.
This boy should be your age's staff,
105
Yours—but his mother claims him half.
Let me adjure you in her name,
Strive to awake him, and reclaim.
Justice by mercy is enhanc'd;
The sore of sin by mercy lanc'd,
Knows a blest healing; angels bent
Out of the skies watch the event,
And weeping, teach the penitent.
Think twice, I say.”
“Your worship speaks,”
Said Jasper, “to draw tears down cheeks,
As witness Kirke; but, for my part,
I lack that impulse, or that art.
Think! say'st thou? think! think twice or thrice!
I have thought enough; let that suffice.
Justice must not be nipp'd, or nice,
But irrespective, like to Him
Who arms the glowing cherubim.
Breath must not stain its sword, or dim.
Thou know'st this well, and know'st it true.
What did the rigid Roman do?
And do we call him beast, or rather,
From his illustrious bearing gather
How justice best becomes a father?
I have thought my thought, and said my say;
Bear I this shame as best I may.”
Said Jasper, “to draw tears down cheeks,
As witness Kirke; but, for my part,
I lack that impulse, or that art.
Think! say'st thou? think! think twice or thrice!
I have thought enough; let that suffice.
Justice must not be nipp'd, or nice,
But irrespective, like to Him
Who arms the glowing cherubim.
106
Thou know'st this well, and know'st it true.
What did the rigid Roman do?
And do we call him beast, or rather,
From his illustrious bearing gather
How justice best becomes a father?
I have thought my thought, and said my say;
Bear I this shame as best I may.”
Now, when the worthy Justice heard
This speech of Jasper's, he was stirr'd;
And pluck'd his gown, and well nigh rent,
To know his reason gave consent,
To what his gentle heart abhorr'd;
And each unanswerable word
He hates; but self-rebuk'd, anon—
“What says the boy?”
This speech of Jasper's, he was stirr'd;
And pluck'd his gown, and well nigh rent,
To know his reason gave consent,
To what his gentle heart abhorr'd;
And each unanswerable word
He hates; but self-rebuk'd, anon—
“What says the boy?”
He asks a stone.
Nothing. How oft is dear blood spilt!
Preach, prying casuist, as thou wilt,
How oft looks innocence like guilt!
When Philip had awak'd to sense,
So that he heard Kirke's evidence,
He was so wrapt with wonder round,
So scar'd by that, ne'er sought but found,
Hell's doing on Heaven-ransom'd ground,
That his own hearing he denied;
'Twas that, not his accuser, lied.
The tender Justice's appeal
To Jasper, what did it import?
To shriek “Not guilty!” through the court,
And with an oath the assertion seal,
Was his first motion; but the steel
Drove home, when Jasper speaks: accus'd—
Nature, humanity, abus'd—
Truth outrag'd, Heaven renounc'd, defied—
The warm blood, in a gushing tide,
Was from the poor boy's heart effus'd;
And to his mind doth glide
The hellish practice, plain and clear,
As though himself were standing near,
When each into each whisper'd ear,
Fashion'd the plan, and shap'd the plot,
As round and sable as a blot.
Nothing. How oft is dear blood spilt!
107
How oft looks innocence like guilt!
When Philip had awak'd to sense,
So that he heard Kirke's evidence,
He was so wrapt with wonder round,
So scar'd by that, ne'er sought but found,
Hell's doing on Heaven-ransom'd ground,
That his own hearing he denied;
'Twas that, not his accuser, lied.
The tender Justice's appeal
To Jasper, what did it import?
To shriek “Not guilty!” through the court,
And with an oath the assertion seal,
Was his first motion; but the steel
Drove home, when Jasper speaks: accus'd—
Nature, humanity, abus'd—
Truth outrag'd, Heaven renounc'd, defied—
The warm blood, in a gushing tide,
Was from the poor boy's heart effus'd;
And to his mind doth glide
108
As though himself were standing near,
When each into each whisper'd ear,
Fashion'd the plan, and shap'd the plot,
As round and sable as a blot.
And now (O! holy weakness!) came
A feeling of reflected shame.
Here was his father: must he take,
Even for his life and honour's sake,
The measure of his acts, and make
Such replication as, allow'd,
Sends his own sire, a monster bow'd
With shame, through a remorseless crowd?
Then, detestation in his breast,
Then, fear lest, impious, he detest
Him whom his mother once lov'd best.
Then, desolation in his mind,
Nature, and woe, and mercy, join'd
With thought of her he left behind.
So he said nothing; but sank down
A leaden grief from sole to crown,
Into the anguish of a swoon.
A feeling of reflected shame.
Here was his father: must he take,
Even for his life and honour's sake,
The measure of his acts, and make
Such replication as, allow'd,
Sends his own sire, a monster bow'd
With shame, through a remorseless crowd?
Then, detestation in his breast,
Then, fear lest, impious, he detest
Him whom his mother once lov'd best.
Then, desolation in his mind,
Nature, and woe, and mercy, join'd
With thought of her he left behind.
109
A leaden grief from sole to crown,
Into the anguish of a swoon.
“He stands committed!” This—no more,
The Justice said, and to a door
Points Kirke and Jasper, and—'tis o'er.
And thence the two old men depart
By a by-passage, light of heart;
One, that revenge is on its way,
And one, that he hath earn'd his pay.
Of the two hideous passions, say,
Thou who canst human hearts unfold,
Which sooner will itself allay,
The thirst of blood, or thirst of gold?
Neither is quench'd as men grow old.
The Justice said, and to a door
Points Kirke and Jasper, and—'tis o'er.
And thence the two old men depart
By a by-passage, light of heart;
One, that revenge is on its way,
And one, that he hath earn'd his pay.
Of the two hideous passions, say,
Thou who canst human hearts unfold,
Which sooner will itself allay,
The thirst of blood, or thirst of gold?
Neither is quench'd as men grow old.
110
PHILIP AND JULIA IN THE PRISON.
Every to-morrow has its birth
Of joy or sorrow, tears or mirth;
To Philip's morrow it is given,
To see guilt triumph on the earth,
And innocence in Heaven.
He hath been judg'd: another day
Shall not, from dawn to twilight grey,
In soft transition melt away,
Ere, in submissive straightness laid,
He sleep, his breathing cost defray'd,
A commoner with clay.
His hand's-turn done, his office ended;
Nought further to be made or mended,
Nought further to be sav'd or spent;
His arrows prone, his bow unbent;
Gone down to that old element,
Which claims its own, has, and will have,
For the fast feaster in the grave.
Of joy or sorrow, tears or mirth;
To Philip's morrow it is given,
To see guilt triumph on the earth,
And innocence in Heaven.
He hath been judg'd: another day
Shall not, from dawn to twilight grey,
In soft transition melt away,
Ere, in submissive straightness laid,
He sleep, his breathing cost defray'd,
A commoner with clay.
His hand's-turn done, his office ended;
Nought further to be made or mended,
Nought further to be sav'd or spent;
His arrows prone, his bow unbent;
Gone down to that old element,
111
For the fast feaster in the grave.
He hath been judg'd; his sentence just,
As human reason's blind award;
For who could Jasper's oath distrust,
Or Kirke's concurring proof discard?
Though they with hate and horror view'd
The wretch who his own son pursued,
And deem'd his hands in blood imbrued;
Yet were the hate and horror built
On the belief of Philip's guilt.
An infamy that would exceed
All that, since Cain, the world could show—
That nature could beget and breed,
And clothe with years and reverence, two
In the same age, in the same clime,
Both brought together at a time,
One to conceive, and one assist
An act so impious, and enlist
The word of God to do it by—
Who had not sworn it were a lie?
As human reason's blind award;
For who could Jasper's oath distrust,
Or Kirke's concurring proof discard?
Though they with hate and horror view'd
The wretch who his own son pursued,
And deem'd his hands in blood imbrued;
Yet were the hate and horror built
On the belief of Philip's guilt.
An infamy that would exceed
All that, since Cain, the world could show—
That nature could beget and breed,
And clothe with years and reverence, two
In the same age, in the same clime,
Both brought together at a time,
One to conceive, and one assist
An act so impious, and enlist
112
Who had not sworn it were a lie?
Yet, had they seen, when all was past,—
All but the intolerable last—
The victim in his dungeon cast;—
Had they beheld with steadfast eye,
The poor youth in his agony
Of holy, not of mortal fear,—
Not of what must befal him here,
But how he shall, dismiss'd, appear
At Heaven's tribunal manifest—
Yet, ever and anon, his breast
By the dear charmer Hope possest—
His heart, now dry, bereav'd of peace,
Now fresh with dew, like Gideon's fleece,
Yet whether calm or anguish-torn,
Meek as the lamb from which 'twas shorn:—
Had they seen this—those twelve good men—
Had they, unseen, stood by him then;
Nor evidence, nor oaths, nor lies,
Nor justice's trim-balanc'd scale,
Charg'd with the weight of perjuries,
Nor reason's self might then avail.
They had turn'd away with pious dread,
And in each other's faces read,
“We shall do murder!” and had fled
To annul their verdict, or disown,
Kneeling before King Henry's throne.
All but the intolerable last—
The victim in his dungeon cast;—
Had they beheld with steadfast eye,
The poor youth in his agony
Of holy, not of mortal fear,—
Not of what must befal him here,
But how he shall, dismiss'd, appear
At Heaven's tribunal manifest—
Yet, ever and anon, his breast
By the dear charmer Hope possest—
His heart, now dry, bereav'd of peace,
Now fresh with dew, like Gideon's fleece,
Yet whether calm or anguish-torn,
Meek as the lamb from which 'twas shorn:—
Had they seen this—those twelve good men—
Had they, unseen, stood by him then;
113
Nor justice's trim-balanc'd scale,
Charg'd with the weight of perjuries,
Nor reason's self might then avail.
They had turn'd away with pious dread,
And in each other's faces read,
“We shall do murder!” and had fled
To annul their verdict, or disown,
Kneeling before King Henry's throne.
And his young wife his prison shares;
Now, stilly lying where he lies,
Her own soft-mingling with his prayers;
Now, hearing in her voice Despair's,
Whom she awakens with her cries.
She will go somewhere; she will raise—
It hath been done so many ways,
So many times,—friends who shall speak
Truth in such cadence, as shall wreak
Remorse on sin; dread as the sound
Of trumpets when the angels blow,
Who dash the guilty to the ground,
Plant triumph on the guiltless brow,
And make earth just again: but how?
Ah! dreams dissolving into pain!
Thrust back to consciousness again,
How wild her projects, and how vain!
A huddled creature on his breast,
With a strange quietude of brain,
Which, seeming to solicit rest,
Is torpid madness at the best—
She lies, and murmurs, as she lies,
Words of inquiry and surmise;
Consoling flatteries soft and low,
Then piteous sentences of woe,
In loose uncertain ebb and flow.
Yet, be they words of joy or grief,
Love speaks them well doth Philip know.
'Tis to his spirit a relief
On his last day, now waxing brief,
As a warm bird in a lorn nest,
To hold his widow in his breast.
Now, stilly lying where he lies,
Her own soft-mingling with his prayers;
Now, hearing in her voice Despair's,
Whom she awakens with her cries.
She will go somewhere; she will raise—
It hath been done so many ways,
So many times,—friends who shall speak
Truth in such cadence, as shall wreak
Remorse on sin; dread as the sound
114
Who dash the guilty to the ground,
Plant triumph on the guiltless brow,
And make earth just again: but how?
Ah! dreams dissolving into pain!
Thrust back to consciousness again,
How wild her projects, and how vain!
A huddled creature on his breast,
With a strange quietude of brain,
Which, seeming to solicit rest,
Is torpid madness at the best—
She lies, and murmurs, as she lies,
Words of inquiry and surmise;
Consoling flatteries soft and low,
Then piteous sentences of woe,
In loose uncertain ebb and flow.
Yet, be they words of joy or grief,
Love speaks them well doth Philip know.
'Tis to his spirit a relief
On his last day, now waxing brief,
115
To hold his widow in his breast.
Now, when the gaoler comes full late
To bid the young girl to the gate—
(He could not bring it to his mind
To come so soon as he design'd)
It is far gone into the night,
And he hath enter'd with a light.
But not the grinding key, or stream
Of flame awakes them from a dream;
One dream, in which they seem to lie,
Fallen on them from the gracious sky:
So like they look'd, so clasp'd as one,
Resting against the wall of stone.
To bid the young girl to the gate—
(He could not bring it to his mind
To come so soon as he design'd)
It is far gone into the night,
And he hath enter'd with a light.
But not the grinding key, or stream
Of flame awakes them from a dream;
One dream, in which they seem to lie,
Fallen on them from the gracious sky:
So like they look'd, so clasp'd as one,
Resting against the wall of stone.
“What sight is here?” the gaoler frown'd,
Then smote his torch upon the ground,
To thwart their faces with the flame;—
“Ave Maria! is it shame,
Or weakness, that this heart of mine
Bows down to them, as to a shrine?
Full many a doom'd wretch have I seen,
His last eve and his death between;
Bold, brawling men, who scoff'd at fear,
At this same hour have I seen here;
Some on the floor, a grovelling heap,
Some master'd by the strength of sleep;
Yet of the many, none till now,
Of such a calm and placid brow
As this young man: 'tis prayer, I wis,
From a pure heart which hath done this.
They stir not; shall I wake them?—why?
The bell shall do that work, not I”—
And so he leaves them silently;
In earth-renouncing slumber blest,
Till morning stare upon the west,
When Death shall come to bid the guest.
Then smote his torch upon the ground,
To thwart their faces with the flame;—
“Ave Maria! is it shame,
116
Bows down to them, as to a shrine?
Full many a doom'd wretch have I seen,
His last eve and his death between;
Bold, brawling men, who scoff'd at fear,
At this same hour have I seen here;
Some on the floor, a grovelling heap,
Some master'd by the strength of sleep;
Yet of the many, none till now,
Of such a calm and placid brow
As this young man: 'tis prayer, I wis,
From a pure heart which hath done this.
They stir not; shall I wake them?—why?
The bell shall do that work, not I”—
And so he leaves them silently;
In earth-renouncing slumber blest,
Till morning stare upon the west,
When Death shall come to bid the guest.
117
JASPER AND KIRKE MAKE MERRY.
Meanwhile, how fare the wicked twainWho have not done their work in vain,
And deem gold got, blood spilt, is gain?
Though what is got, and spilt, hath strook
Their names sheer out of Heaven's book;
Their souls, the fiend's unquestion'd claim,
Doom'd to that somewhere, fill'd with flame,
Which scalding tears shall ne'er abate,
And breathing sighs shall aggravate;
Which, never early, never late,
Knows night nor day, pause nor endeavour,
But a blind brightness burns for ever.
To-morrow, Kirke is to be gone,
His fifty years of service done;
A nag bears him to Huntingdon,
118
Over a cup, not drawn for thirst,
He talk'd his bargain o'er again
With the stout owner of a wain,
Of whom the beast was hir'd, his mind
Was to his rearing-place inclin'd:
He felt as one of humankind
Who hath near glimpses, and hath come,
The world's wide circuit, unto home.
But now he sits the live-long day,
And counts his money every way,
And thinks, and groans, and fain would stay.
His wish, grown stronger while postpon'd,
Now feasible, his will disown'd.
To hie him home, his life's long dream;
Wherefore? his now awaken'd theme.
Many his pains, his pleasures few,
Since the old city first he knew,
Much done in it to reck and rue;
119
So linked by long, long habitude,
That now, when he must needs begone,
His sorry scapes of leisure rise
Into his memory, one by one,
Indulgences of Paradise.
And can the old home yield them? No—
And yet, broad pieces paid! 'twere woe
To forfeit these:—he needs must go.
Neither is Jasper well at ease:
Hearts may be cold, but do not freeze
Quiet to the core; the basest lees
Smack of the wine, and the worst sin
Hath a good spirit pent within,
That with unutterable plea,
Shrieks day and night to be set free;
But that, O misery! must not be;
Lest, ere Heaven's mercy can be sought,
Madness arise, and strangle thought,
120
Leave fools alone who purchase hell:
How craftily, how close and well,
They guard their purchase, who can tell?
Yet Jasper plays his part; can smile,
And looks with language reconcile;
Can hear the under-breathed curse
Behind his back, upon the Bourse,
Hear it, and laugh, nor seem the worse.
Can wring a pleasure out of pain,
Compress'd in his elastic brain;
Nay, can despise the good and just,
Proud of the parry and the thrust
With which his quick wit foils the sense
Of righteousness, and drives it thence.
So he goes home, gay to the view,
Stung in the brain and bosom, too.
And “where is Kirke?”
Stung in the brain and bosom, too.
And “where is Kirke?”
“O, Sir! is 't you?
I was in thought”—
121
“In tears, my boy!
Tears have two sources, grief and joy.
Thou supp'st with me to-night, good friend:
An hour or two of mirth to mend
The past, and with the future blend.
Is it not well?”
Tears have two sources, grief and joy.
Thou supp'st with me to-night, good friend:
An hour or two of mirth to mend
The past, and with the future blend.
Is it not well?”
“Ay, Sir, 'tis best:
Well match'd, the giver and the guest.”
Jasper was gone, whom he address'd.
“What a brave wretch,” quoth Kirke, “is this!
I would I had that heart of his!”
The hour is come, the feast is set,
Well match'd, the giver and the guest.”
Jasper was gone, whom he address'd.
“What a brave wretch,” quoth Kirke, “is this!
I would I had that heart of his!”
Kirke enters with his eyelids wet:
But Jasper doth not see him yet.
So nicely pacing round the board,
Lord of bright wealth to sight restor'd;
Goblets and ewers, great and small,
Of gold that never pass'd the hall,
122
To look on them, you would have thought
Such work the Florentine's alone,
Or that Cellini was outdone.
So, thus admiring, placing, peering,
He knows not Kirke stands within hearing,
Nor knowing would have car'd, but cries,
Mocking their brightness with his eyes,
Now, by Saint Paul, the Genoese
Did well when he sail'd thence with these.”
Kirke twitch'd him by the sleeve:—“Old lad,
Thou com'st in time to be made glad;
Sit down; art hungry?—and prepare
To let thy spirit dance in air.
I have wine here, so ripe and rare,
That in a trice the leaden soul,
Groping in darkness like a mole,
Touch'd by the blessing, springs to light,
And mounts to heaven, as of right:—
Down—we will have a merry night.”
They sit: but Kirke, though press'd to eat,
Tastes sparingly the luscious meat,
And kneaded bread of whitest wheat;
But lifts his cup full oft, and drinks
Till his eyes sparkle through his winks.
“'Tis good: I trace is as it sinks,
And note it prancing through my veins,
Like a gay troop through narrow lanes.
Ha! ha!”
Thou com'st in time to be made glad;
Sit down; art hungry?—and prepare
To let thy spirit dance in air.
I have wine here, so ripe and rare,
That in a trice the leaden soul,
Groping in darkness like a mole,
Touch'd by the blessing, springs to light,
And mounts to heaven, as of right:—
Down—we will have a merry night.”
123
Tastes sparingly the luscious meat,
And kneaded bread of whitest wheat;
But lifts his cup full oft, and drinks
Till his eyes sparkle through his winks.
“'Tis good: I trace is as it sinks,
And note it prancing through my veins,
Like a gay troop through narrow lanes.
Ha! ha!”
“Yet, eat, good Kirke.”
“I can't;
This is the minister I want,
Heart-cheering wine: my throat is tight,
As though bound by a silken cord,
The self-same cord which, on that night,
Sent old Uberti to the Lord.
Did he die rich? was this his gear?
These goblets that do service here?”
This is the minister I want,
Heart-cheering wine: my throat is tight,
As though bound by a silken cord,
The self-same cord which, on that night,
Sent old Uberti to the Lord.
Did he die rich? was this his gear?
These goblets that do service here?”
“Peace, fool!” cried Jasper, “take thy cheer,
And stint thy prate: the past retriev'd,
Is a new missal interleav'd
With an old sermon:—let it pass.
Why is flesh liken'd unto grass,
But that it is cut down?”
124
Is a new missal interleav'd
With an old sermon:—let it pass.
Why is flesh liken'd unto grass,
But that it is cut down?”
—“Aye, true,
And turn'd into beasts' profit, too.”
“How say'st thou?”—the white anger came
And turn'd into beasts' profit, too.”
On Jasper's cheek, quenching the flame;—
A moment—and the wolf is tame.
“A song! why, I have heard thee sing,
When thou wert summer, I was spring,
Such songs, and in a voice so clear,
As, like a bell, thrill'd in the ear.
Thou had'st the trick once, and the tone”—
“But that is forty years agone:
And songs and light hearts go together,
Like June, and flowers, and fair weather.”
125
“And what though forty years be gone?
I know a thing, an old, old thing,
Which my good grandam wont to sing
The while she spun, and taught to me,
Standing no higher than her knee.
Could I recal it!—aye, 'tis so.”
With this, Kirke heaves a painful throe,
And from his long-drawn, crowing throat,
Sets his strange melody afloat,
Words link'd to it by stubborn rote:—
An infant lay in its cradle asleep,
When a stranger came to the door;
“Come in,” cried the host, “open house we keep,
And we drive not away the poor.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
When a stranger came to the door;
“Come in,” cried the host, “open house we keep,
And we drive not away the poor.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
The stranger was weary, and needed rest,
And the good man brought him a chair,
And his dame bestirr'd her to wait on her guest,
And brought him her homely fare.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
And the good man brought him a chair,
And his dame bestirr'd her to wait on her guest,
And brought him her homely fare.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
126
And when the stranger had broken his fast,
He arose, and in silence stept
To the corner where the cradle was plac'd,
To see if the infant slept.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
He arose, and in silence stept
To the corner where the cradle was plac'd,
To see if the infant slept.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
“A brave child this,” and the stranger sigh'd,
(The infant was sleeping the while)
“You love him?” “I do,” the dame replied,
And she smil'd with a mother's smile.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
(The infant was sleeping the while)
“You love him?” “I do,” the dame replied,
And she smil'd with a mother's smile.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
“You love him too?” and he turn'd to his host,
“Ay, that I do,” said the man,
“The boy is my pride, and shall be my boast,
Should I live beyond mortal span.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
“Ay, that I do,” said the man,
“The boy is my pride, and shall be my boast,
Should I live beyond mortal span.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
“Now, list,” cried the stranger, “nor deem me mad,
The day thou wilt surely rue,
When thy life for his shall be ask'd and be had,
And thy dame shall prove it true.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
The day thou wilt surely rue,
When thy life for his shall be ask'd and be had,
And thy dame shall prove it true.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
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Loud laugh'd the man: full years a score
Had pass'd away, and were gone,
When a stranger came again to the door,
Within sat a woman—alone.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
Had pass'd away, and were gone,
When a stranger came again to the door,
Within sat a woman—alone.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
She shriek'd, as the threshold the stranger cross'd,
“Thou, cursed wizard! begone,
Thou hast spoken sooth, and my husband is lost,
For the father hath murder'd his son.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
“Thou, cursed wizard! begone,
Thou hast spoken sooth, and my husband is lost,
For the father hath murder'd his son.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.
Kirke's song is ended; at its end
The fumes from his weak brain descend.
Gramercy! should the lay offend!
He opes his fearful eyes, and sees
Jasper, and all his functions freeze.
A face so hideous, so streak'd o'er
With a black choler, ne'er before
Gloom'd wrath, ere it began to pour.
And still so touch'd—or, yet more nigh
The truth—tortur'd with agony,
That even Kirke is mov'd, and falls
Down on his knees with a sharp yell,
Grasping the figure that appals,
And gazing on that aspect fell.
“Oh! do not kill me!”—
The fumes from his weak brain descend.
Gramercy! should the lay offend!
He opes his fearful eyes, and sees
Jasper, and all his functions freeze.
A face so hideous, so streak'd o'er
With a black choler, ne'er before
Gloom'd wrath, ere it began to pour.
And still so touch'd—or, yet more nigh
The truth—tortur'd with agony,
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Down on his knees with a sharp yell,
Grasping the figure that appals,
And gazing on that aspect fell.
“Oh! do not kill me!”—
“Fool! rise up!
Thou hast been hovering o'er the cup,
And hast fallen in: thou winter fly!
What! take thine old blind buzz awry!
No, by my love for thee, not I.
Yet, Kirke—sly jester, skill'd to fleer,
And pass the inferential jeer,
What if, while kneeling at my foot,
I wrung thy weasand? I could do't;
Or tore thy heart out by the root?
But I'll not do such things; I jest:
Thou, my old chirping, mocking guest!
Arise, my boy, and go thy ways”—
Thou hast been hovering o'er the cup,
And hast fallen in: thou winter fly!
What! take thine old blind buzz awry!
No, by my love for thee, not I.
Yet, Kirke—sly jester, skill'd to fleer,
And pass the inferential jeer,
What if, while kneeling at my foot,
I wrung thy weasand? I could do't;
Or tore thy heart out by the root?
But I'll not do such things; I jest:
Thou, my old chirping, mocking guest!
Arise, my boy, and go thy ways”—
How easily doth Jasper raise
The mute old trembler from the floor,
And fling him headlong to the door;
Then following, whispers in his ear,
“Go to thy bed; but why thy fear?
Once, I had slain thee for this flout,
But now thou'rt safe:”—he thrusts him out.
129
And fling him headlong to the door;
Then following, whispers in his ear,
“Go to thy bed; but why thy fear?
Once, I had slain thee for this flout,
But now thou'rt safe:”—he thrusts him out.
And now, with what heart-sinking doubt,
Doth Kirke lie on his truckle-bed,
To which by instinct he had fled—
And listen! Jasper, far below,
He hears, quick-striding to and fro;
And then loud words; then doors that close
Like thunder, soon as open'd; then
Sounds fainter, like subsiding woes;
Then silence 'twixt the two old men,
And a dark space between; and yet
Kirke, taught by terror, will not let
His eyelids drop; in drear affright
Shaking—wide-staring all the night.
Doth Kirke lie on his truckle-bed,
To which by instinct he had fled—
And listen! Jasper, far below,
He hears, quick-striding to and fro;
And then loud words; then doors that close
Like thunder, soon as open'd; then
Sounds fainter, like subsiding woes;
Then silence 'twixt the two old men,
And a dark space between; and yet
Kirke, taught by terror, will not let
His eyelids drop; in drear affright
Shaking—wide-staring all the night.
130
JASPER'S DREAM.
Sleep! gracious guardian of the earth,
Who blessest the new nightly birth
Of Nature's kindlier children, bath'd
In darkness, and with silence swath'd;
Hast thou stretch'd Jasper on the sea
Of dreams, and doth that practis'd brain,
Controll'd by fancy and by thee,
Work warpedly with strenuous strain?
Yes—in the mind's mad world is he,
Of shapes and shapeless creatures huge,
Gliding in dreary long array:
He hath at hand no febrifuge
The curst succession to allay.
Onward they come, but do not stay,
Through a gross blackness, murmuring low;
Whirling along in endless row.
Yet, is it endless? No.
Sudden gone; and, ere thought can pass,
He lays down sixty years, and plays
A boy again in fields of grass
Flush of the cowslip; idly strays
Through rutted lanes; sees through the hedge
The serried wheat; and feels once more
Bird-like within, dear privilege
Of youth—on, dream, and ne'er give o'er!
The lark heaves straight up to the sky,
Taking the ear, trancing the eye,
Carrying aloft his melody;
A speck, now seen, now vanish'd—where?
A sound incorporate with air.
Unlabouring memory retrieves
Close wealthy stacks, and farm-house eaves
Behind, and solemn barns, with doors
As wide as Paul's, and threshing-floors,
And the old grey-green church—and home:
And who doth o'er the threshold come?
His father, at a cripple's pace,
With his sun-stricken umber face,
And straight-laid hair of iron grey;
Even as he saw him on the day,
When from his home he fled away;
By whom so long he had been mourn'd,
To whom, ere death, he ne'er return'd,
Whose day of death he never learn'd.
A sight for anguish; but it shifts:
This is but one of memory's gifts;
She hath good store, with which this night,
The sinner's heart she will requite.
Who blessest the new nightly birth
Of Nature's kindlier children, bath'd
In darkness, and with silence swath'd;
Hast thou stretch'd Jasper on the sea
Of dreams, and doth that practis'd brain,
Controll'd by fancy and by thee,
Work warpedly with strenuous strain?
Yes—in the mind's mad world is he,
Of shapes and shapeless creatures huge,
Gliding in dreary long array:
He hath at hand no febrifuge
The curst succession to allay.
Onward they come, but do not stay,
Through a gross blackness, murmuring low;
Whirling along in endless row.
131
Sudden gone; and, ere thought can pass,
He lays down sixty years, and plays
A boy again in fields of grass
Flush of the cowslip; idly strays
Through rutted lanes; sees through the hedge
The serried wheat; and feels once more
Bird-like within, dear privilege
Of youth—on, dream, and ne'er give o'er!
The lark heaves straight up to the sky,
Taking the ear, trancing the eye,
Carrying aloft his melody;
A speck, now seen, now vanish'd—where?
A sound incorporate with air.
Unlabouring memory retrieves
Close wealthy stacks, and farm-house eaves
Behind, and solemn barns, with doors
As wide as Paul's, and threshing-floors,
And the old grey-green church—and home:
And who doth o'er the threshold come?
132
With his sun-stricken umber face,
And straight-laid hair of iron grey;
Even as he saw him on the day,
When from his home he fled away;
By whom so long he had been mourn'd,
To whom, ere death, he ne'er return'd,
Whose day of death he never learn'd.
A sight for anguish; but it shifts:
This is but one of memory's gifts;
She hath good store, with which this night,
The sinner's heart she will requite.
Lo! 'tis his marriage morn: his bride,
His other life, sits by his side,
A joy, a comfort, and a pride;
Relinquish'd to his love, and blest
To think her heart by one possest,
Who is her synonyme of best.
Again that sacred feeling fills
His soul, and through his being thrills,
Of tenderness that would secure
The bliss of one so good and pure,
That feeling which would not endure.
And now he sees her, still as good,
A fading form of womanhood;
A casket fill'd with holy grief,
A frost-wrung flower that leaf by leaf
Tends to the ground; a pious shrine,
Wrought by a sinner, yet, divine.
Sees her he had made worthy heaven,
And to the heavenly gate had driven.
Upon her dying bed, and hears
Her parting voice, and sees her tears,
And joins her last, low, lingering prayer—
How!—'tis Uberti he sees there,
Pleading for mercy in such tones
As freeze the marrow in the bones;
Yet own no potency, to work
In him, or his accomplice Kirke,
Who clings about the dying man,
And does what share of death he can.
His other life, sits by his side,
A joy, a comfort, and a pride;
Relinquish'd to his love, and blest
To think her heart by one possest,
Who is her synonyme of best.
133
His soul, and through his being thrills,
Of tenderness that would secure
The bliss of one so good and pure,
That feeling which would not endure.
And now he sees her, still as good,
A fading form of womanhood;
A casket fill'd with holy grief,
A frost-wrung flower that leaf by leaf
Tends to the ground; a pious shrine,
Wrought by a sinner, yet, divine.
Sees her he had made worthy heaven,
And to the heavenly gate had driven.
Upon her dying bed, and hears
Her parting voice, and sees her tears,
And joins her last, low, lingering prayer—
How!—'tis Uberti he sees there,
Pleading for mercy in such tones
As freeze the marrow in the bones;
Yet own no potency, to work
134
Who clings about the dying man,
And does what share of death he can.
Horror! o'erlaid by the strong dream,
Old Jasper gasps, but cannot scream:
The past is on; writhe as thou wilt,
Thou can'st not loose the serpent—guilt.
Old Jasper gasps, but cannot scream:
The past is on; writhe as thou wilt,
Thou can'st not loose the serpent—guilt.
Whence brought, he knows not, but the shade
Of the Italian lean and pale,
Fronts him, and, at a signal bade,
Two phantoms with a gibbering wail,
Float in, and o'er his sense prevail,
That he must swoon and die. Alas!
Philip more gentle than he was,
But, as a disembodied soul,
Or, as a soul which hath seen death,
Forc'd by some horrible control,
To re-assume its house of breath:
And Julia, like some creature wan,
Moon-struck, who slyly doth emerge
Thence, where wild fantasies they fan,
Escap'd the manacles and scourge,
And that unknown incessant man,
Who watches her with sleepless lids:—
Thus seeming, as Uberti bids,
The phantoms float to Jasper's sight;
While, something standing at his right—
He knows that it is clad in white—
In measur'd cadence, dread and drear,
Utters these words into his ear:—
“The last day comes, the final session,
O misery! misery, past expression!
These three even now, even now, prepare
To meet thee, and defeat thee there.
Thou art judg'd, but thou must not despair.
Hope is one element of woe,
In that, to which thou art doom'd to go:
Hope which within shall ever ply,
And fool thee everlastingly.
Behold!”—
Of the Italian lean and pale,
Fronts him, and, at a signal bade,
Two phantoms with a gibbering wail,
Float in, and o'er his sense prevail,
That he must swoon and die. Alas!
Philip more gentle than he was,
But, as a disembodied soul,
Or, as a soul which hath seen death,
Forc'd by some horrible control,
To re-assume its house of breath:
135
Moon-struck, who slyly doth emerge
Thence, where wild fantasies they fan,
Escap'd the manacles and scourge,
And that unknown incessant man,
Who watches her with sleepless lids:—
Thus seeming, as Uberti bids,
The phantoms float to Jasper's sight;
While, something standing at his right—
He knows that it is clad in white—
In measur'd cadence, dread and drear,
Utters these words into his ear:—
“The last day comes, the final session,
O misery! misery, past expression!
These three even now, even now, prepare
To meet thee, and defeat thee there.
Thou art judg'd, but thou must not despair.
Hope is one element of woe,
In that, to which thou art doom'd to go:
Hope which within shall ever ply,
136
Behold!”—
And now succeeds a calm;
Then brightness, splendour heavenly bright;
Then a soft, gradual, growing psalm
Goes up, and from the eye-baffling height,
A loud dispersing fugue constrains
Thunder to music: as it wanes,
Thick gloom, which is a fiend, that brings
Its nameless self between its wings,
And clasps him—
Then brightness, splendour heavenly bright;
Then a soft, gradual, growing psalm
Goes up, and from the eye-baffling height,
A loud dispersing fugue constrains
Thunder to music: as it wanes,
Thick gloom, which is a fiend, that brings
Its nameless self between its wings,
And clasps him—
Lo! the first faint streak
Of light the morning doth bespeak:
Unconscious of his piercing shriek,
Or how he came there, Jasper kneels
In the next chamber, and appeals
Before a crucifix:—the vision
Hath waken'd dread, but not contrition;
And the strong brain asunder rent,
Hath done its utmost, and is spent:
Dreams cannot make old sin repent.
Of light the morning doth bespeak:
Unconscious of his piercing shriek,
Or how he came there, Jasper kneels
In the next chamber, and appeals
Before a crucifix:—the vision
Hath waken'd dread, but not contrition;
137
Hath done its utmost, and is spent:
Dreams cannot make old sin repent.
JASPER'S EXPIATION.
The aged crone hath heard her master,
And, fearful of some wild disaster,
Calls Kirke, and hastens down the stair;
Old Jasper on his knees in prayer!
With white eyes and disorder'd hair!
“Lady of heaven!” with this, she cries
Loudly on Kirke, stamps with her feet,
Adjures her master to arise,
And strives to hale him to a seat.
Now Kirke is come, and with joint strength,
They lift him to his feet at length,
And thrust him in a chair:—“Go thou,”
Quoth Kirke, “fetch water for his brow;
I'll wring him by the nose, and strike
Upon his hands the while.”
And, fearful of some wild disaster,
Calls Kirke, and hastens down the stair;
Old Jasper on his knees in prayer!
With white eyes and disorder'd hair!
“Lady of heaven!” with this, she cries
Loudly on Kirke, stamps with her feet,
Adjures her master to arise,
And strives to hale him to a seat.
Now Kirke is come, and with joint strength,
They lift him to his feet at length,
And thrust him in a chair:—“Go thou,”
Quoth Kirke, “fetch water for his brow;
I'll wring him by the nose, and strike
138
“Belike
'Tis his death swoon,” says the old crone.
“I would it were,” quoth Kirke—“begone.”
“O thou vile wretch! is this thy plight,
Is this thy change since yesternight?
Thou hast been curs'd, as well as I.”
But Jasper's eyes unclose; a sigh
Comes forth, and stays Kirke's angry speech,
And each a moment stares on each.
“Kirke, is it thou, even as it seems;
Is 't thou, indeed? Hast thou had dreams?”
“No dream hath come to me this night,
'Tis his death swoon,” says the old crone.
“I would it were,” quoth Kirke—“begone.”
“O thou vile wretch! is this thy plight,
Is this thy change since yesternight?
Thou hast been curs'd, as well as I.”
But Jasper's eyes unclose; a sigh
Comes forth, and stays Kirke's angry speech,
And each a moment stares on each.
“Kirke, is it thou, even as it seems;
Is 't thou, indeed? Hast thou had dreams?”
Through the long darkness to the light,
Which rose at last in Hell's despite.
Thoughts have been things; strange life has crept
About me; through my pulses leapt:
Loud knockings at my heart and brain,
Quick worms meandering through each vein.
139
Thou got'st by murder or by stealth,
A thousand years of youth and health,
I'd scorn, ay, if quadrupled thrice,
Were such another night the price.
Thou hast done this; 'tis thou hast made
A terror of the sexton's spade;
Thou hast made death than living worse,
And thou who hast made life a curse.
And so I curse thee; from my soul,
Lost as it is, on thee I thrust
A curse, which down thy earthy hole
Shall go with thee, and rack thy dust;
And be a life within thy clay,
A horror, till the Judgment day!”
“Away,” cried Jasper, “hence—away;
'Tis vain for thee to talk, thy words
Are human, and thy voice affords
A comfort; yet speed hence, and stay
140
Proclaim all we have sworn, a lie.”
“And shall we save our lives thereby?”
Cried Kirke. “I saw both you and me,
Hanging upon the gallows tree;
This, in the darkness, did I see.
Shall we escape?”
“Thou may'st be sav'd;
My stone waits but to be engrav'd;
'Tis hewn and shap'd: my life is nought:
Stay! let a scrivener be brought:
Thou dost my bidding? be but true;
My will shall leave no cause to rue.”
Kirke did not hasten thence—he flew.
But he returns a different man;
Never was wretch so wild and wan.
The scrivener who first doth scan
141
Than when, remov'd unto his bed,
Jasper confess'd his guilt, and bade
His deposition quick be made.
But Kirke comes not alone; he brings
A wayward thing, who mows and sings,
Peers through her fingers, and is pleas'd,
Then pouts, and will not be appeas'd.
Jasper beholds and swoons—I wis,
His dream was not more dread than this.
Soft! he revives. “Now hear me, Brooke,”
Said Kirke, and on his bosom strook,
“I saw him, and the sight hath dried
My blood, and now what may betide
I care not:—he is dead and gone;
Be this engraven on thy stone.
Poor knave! he died before his hour;
I bring his wife for a fresh dower.
142
The dogs are nigh, and hear their yell;
I go my journey—so farewell!”
He goes, and the poor witless girl
Draws up her lip in a proud curl,
And says, “Well done!” and with mock ire,
Commands the scrivener to admire,
Then pours such tales into his ear,
As almost craze the listener.
“All—all—in masses for my soul;
Dost hear me, Graves? I say the whole:
Straight pen it down, let it be sign'd:
O! what a weight is on my mind!”
Then Graves draws nigh—“Good Sir, my speech
A moment would your ear beseech—
The girl”—here Julia nodding smil'd—
“Spoke of the father of her child.”
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O God! what way to lessen guilt!
I tell thee, man, I must not die;
It is my flesh that fails, not I.”
The leech is come, but strives in vain
To soothe the fever of the brain.
Jasper dies raving:—close the scene—
'Tis fearful to behold, I ween,
But now he lies, as calm, as mild,
As silent as a sleeping child.
Now, when the scrivener and the leech,
Awe-stricken, leave the place of death,
What is the hideous thing that each
Beholds, down-looking far beneath?
The two descend, holding their breath,
Fearing, from death above they go,
To meet him once again below.
Nor are they wrong; 'tis even so.
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Hangs from the lowest balustrade:—
His journey had not been delay'd.
There was a merchant, on whose face
A gravity of solemn grace
Dwelt ever; he was widely known,
Nor by the sons of wealth alone;
For the poor bless'd him, and the sad
Of heart were at his words made glad;
Such power o'er others' griefs he had.
And oft his pensive steps he bent
Towards a marble monument,
Whereat, when none were standing nigh,
He would oft pray, and with a sigh
Depart, and with a lingering look:—
The merchant's name was Philip Brooke.
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