The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Plain. A Cottage.
The Monk (Vittorio Santo). Two Children (a Boy and Girl). Their Father and Mother (both young) sit at the cottage door. The Monk draws near.
The Monk
(aside).
This is the spot. From hence my eye unseen
Commands their cottage. Hither have I fared
Five times at this same hour, and five times learn'd
To love my nature better. Here I stood,
And felt, when passing gales in snatches bore me
Their evening talk, as if some wayward child
Had pelted me with flowers. She is a poet,
Or in or out of metre. Rome must have her.
A mother too, 'tis well; then there is one thing
The poet will serve. Ah! art thou forth to-day,
Thou little tyrant, that shalt rule for me?
My faith! a lovely boy! holy St. Mary!
Hark how he carols out his royalty,
And, born a sovereign, rules and knows it not.
The father must be mine too; he hath bone
And sinew, and—if the eye's gauge deceive not—
A soul as brawny. Heavy deeds demand

Such carriers. I will win or lose this night.
Let me draw near.

[The Children are sporting. The Girl hides among myrtles, and sings.
Girl.
Whither wingest thou, wingest thou, winny wind;
Where, winny wind, where, oh where?

Boy
(singing).
My sister, my sister, I flit forth to find,
My sister, my sister, the orange-flow'r fair!

Girl.
Since thy songs thy soft sister seek,
What wouldst with her? say, oh say.

Boy.
Oh, to pat her pearl-white cheek,
And court her with kisses all day!

[The Child bursts from her hiding place, and the Children chase each other over the plain.
The Mother.
Husband! the music in my soul would chord
Most sweetly with thy voice. Take down thy lute.

The Father.
Nay, Lila; bid me not do violence
To this calm sunset. List that golden laughter,
Hark to our children! There is music like
The hour. From each to each the heart can pass,
And know no change.

The Mother.
Sing me a song about them,
Kind husband. Sing that song I made for thee,
When once, on a sweet eve like this, we watch'd
As now our joyous babes—I blessing them,
Thou marvelling, with show of merry jest,

How they could be so fair.

The Father.
Even as thou wilt,
Dear Lila. If the spirit of these moments
Deem my voice sacrilege, let him forgive
The singer for the poet.

He sings.

Oh, Lila! round our early love,
What voices went—in days of old!
Some sleep, and some are heard above,
And some are here—but changed and cold!

What lights they were that lit the eyes
That never may again be bright!
Some shine where stars are dim; and some
Have gone like meteors down the night.

I marvell'd not to see them beam,
Or hear their music round our way;
A part of life they used to seem,
But these—oh whence are they?

Ear hath not heard the tones they bring,
Lip hath not named their name,
Like primroses around the spring,
Each after each they came.

I should not wonder, love, to see
In dreams of elder day,
The forms of things that used to be,
But these—oh whence are they?

Dost thou remember when the days
Were all too short for love and me,
And we roam'd forth at eve in rays
Of mingled light from heaven and thee?

One gentle sign so often beam'd
Upon us with such favouring eyes,
That every vow we plighted seem'd
A secret holden with the skies.

Now sometimes, in strange phantasy,
I think, if stars could leave their sphere,
And won by the dear love of thee,
Renew the constellation here,

And shine here with the tender light
That glinted through the olden trees,
They would come silently and bright,
And one by one, like these.

How can a joy so pure and free
Have sprung from tears and cares?
I have no beauty—and for thee,
Thou hast no mirth like theirs.

Yet with strange right each takes his rest,
Even when he will, on thy fair breast,

Nor doubts nor fears nor prays.
The daisy smiling on the lea
Comes not with kindlier trust to be
eloved of April days.

I look into their laughing eyes,
They cannot have more light than thine—
But treasured by ten thousand ties,
Mine own I know thee, Lila mine.

Wistful I gaze on them and say,—
Fond, checking with a doubtful sigh
The pride that swells, I know not why—
These, these, oh whence are they?

[The Monk draws near.
The Father.
Lila! the same pale priest we saw last eve!

The Mother.
Good husband, bid him here. The dust of travel
Tells that his way was weary. Holy Sir,
Will't please you sit with us? The herds are milk'd.
Our bread is brown, but honest.

The Monk.
Do not ask me.
Are you not happy?

The Wife.
Happy! reverend father?
We thank God, and say yes. This day five years
One whom I saw for the first time, through tears,

Came with the flowers. When they began to fade
How my heart sicken'd! But God call'd him not
With them. And though the snows of winter came
He stayed, and held enough of summer with him
To fill my house. Should I not be most happy?
Look on my boy, my merry one! Good father,
Which of the angels do they miss in heaven?
Ofttimes at mass I press him close, and tremble
To the sweet voices, lest at ‘in excelsis’;
He should remember, and go back.

The Monk.
Oh mother,
That art, and art not, kind! 'Tis a brave boy.

The Mother.
And then he is so gentle and so fond,
And prattles to me sometimes in strange wisdom,
And asks of me in such sweet ignorance,
That teaching him I weep; oft, oft, for joy,
But oft for very grief, that each task leaves
One tiny question less.

The Monk.
'Tis a sweet child.

The Father.
Sir Priest, thou knowest well how poor an image
A mother's love will idolize; but this
Dear boy hath put a woman's heart in me,
He is so good, so dutiful—

The Mother.
And yet
When he kneels by me at his innocent prayer,
Oft I look down and feel that I have need
To learn of him.

The Monk.
Let me bless him.

The Father.
My son,
The priest would bless thee on thy birth-day; boy,
Come bend thee at his knee.

The Monk.
Thou little child,
Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope—thou bright,
Pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep their gladness—
Thou little potentate of love, who comest
With solemn sweet dominion to the old,
Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged
With the grave embassage of that dear past,
When they were young like thee—thou vindication
Of God—thou living witness against all men
Who have been babes—thou everlasting promise
Which no man keeps—thou portrait of our nature,
Which in despair and pride we scorn and worship—
Thou household-god, whom no iconoclast
Hath broken,—if I knew a parent's joys,
If I were proud and full of great ambitions,
Had haughty limbs that chafed at ill-borne chains,
If I had known a tyrant's scorn and felt
That vengeance though bequeathed is still revenge,
I would pray God to give me such a son!
Therefore, thou little one, mayst thou sleep well
This night: and, for thy waking, may it be
Where there are neither kings nor slaves. Of all
Thy playmates, mayst thou be the first to die—

The Mother shrieks.
Ah! holy father!

The Monk.
Smitten in the bud
Mayst thou fade on the stalk that had no thorns
To save thee from the spoiler—mayst thou—

The Mother.
Mercy!

The Father.
Fiend! murderer!

The Monk.
Did you not bid me bless him?

The Mother.
My boy! my happy one! my brighteyed babe!

The Father.
Thou hooded demon! thou hell-priest!

The Monk.
Be patient.
I will take off the blessing; but hear me,
And you shall bid me pray for it again.

The Mother.
Blessing? 'Tis blessing to behold him smile
With his bright, innocent, unconscious eyes,
Which thou wouldst close for ever!

The Monk.
Is that blessing?
Too happy mother! how thou lov'st to weep!
Come hither, child. Nay, daughter, tremble not!
He is a Roman, and can fear no man—
A child, and dreads not death.

'Tis the purblind
Dim sense of after years that makes our monsters.
The earth hath none to children and to angels.
Eyes weak with vigil, sear'd with scalding tears,
Betray us, and we start at death and phantoms
Because they are pale. And the still-groping heart
Incredulous by over much believing—

Walking by sight dreads the unknown, and clings
Even to familiar sorrow, and loves more
The seen earth than the unseen God.

Ay, bright one,
Climb near the lips that speak of death. The word
Falls on the sunshine of thy face and casts
No shadow. Thou dost play among the flowers
Morning and even, and the selfsame wind
Fosters and scatters them. Why shouldst thou fear?
Twine thy young arms, thou little budding vine,
Round the old barren oak; 'tis sweet to love thee,
Too sweet. I look upon thy brow of promise,
And see it in the future like some cloud
Uprising from the distant hills, that seemeth
To bear up heaven. This may do more. Contain it.
Contain it and the things which heaven and earth
Cannot contain. In thine unsullied eyes,
Not made for tears; in thy bright looks, sweet boy,
Wherein the blush yet sleeps which sights of shame
Shall call there, till the weary veins refuse
Their office, and endurance sends the blood
Back from the blanch'd cheeks to the terrible heart
To heave and madden there—(let tyrants tremble
Who rule pale slaves)—yes, in thy brave proud mien,
Thou baby hero, that art born in vain,
I see why Roman mothers wept for glory
And we for shame. I see the ancient beauty
Sport on the plain where Brutus watch'd his children,

And given them no supremacy. I see
Iulus' self. Cornelia would have own'd
These jewels. Regulus saw nothing fairer
When from the sands of Carthage his great thought
Walk'd by the streams of his Italian hills,
And by the well-known grove beheld his children
Play round the homeside myrtles, where their mother
Sat and look'd eastward! Wherein art thou less
Than Roman? Oh thou hapless flower, that canst not
Fruit in this frozen land, how shall I bless thee?
Art thou not noble, gentle, beautiful?
Hast thou one aspiration to climb aught
Beside thy mother's knee? Do they not love thee,
Believe thee, trust thee, hope in thee, adore thee?
Dost thou not take their cares from morn till eve,
And in the radiant alchemy of thine eyes
Transmute them into joys? Runs not their fate
In that inherited blood that warms thy cheek?
Were they not things like thee, and are they not
Themselves? and do they murmur? What though, fair one,
Angels might envy—if they were not angels—
The stature that the fresh bright air of freedom
Should fan thee to? It passes the court fashion,
Breaks footstep in the Austrian ranks, and fits
No cell in Spielberg. It might even betide
That Roman arms work'd ill in chains; a voice
Like that which cheer'd the legions, might be guilty

Of old ancestral words which would sound strange
In German ears. Nay, there was once a Roman—
I saw him, and felt nobler! he was like thee!
Like thee as star to star! If you be parents,
Fall down and pray that he may die!

The Mother.
Good padre,
Pity us.

The Father.
Priest!

The Mother.
Be silent, he is moved,
Perchance he was a father.

[A long pause, the Monk covers his head with his mantle.
The Monk
(looking up).

Evening comes
Apace. The tried ox slackens in the furrow.
The shade that on your threshold paused but now,
Hath climb'd the vine where from the eaves the swallow
Sings early vespers. My full heart prescient
Heaves to the falling hour. Children, kneel down,
Let holy words spread evening in your souls,
Lest they be timeless when the far bell rings
Ave Maria.

[They kneel. The Monk reads.
The Monk.
And I heard a voice,
A voice from heaven, which said unto me, ‘Write,
Blessed are the dead.’;
[He pauses.
Rise up! I had forgotten!
Forgive me!

The Mother.
Reverend father!

The Father.
Friend, what say'st thou?

The Monk.
That if thou wert what that proud man should be
Who calls this child ‘my son,’; this land ‘my country,’;
Thou hadst cried out ‘Amen!’;

The Father.
Sir Priest, so please you
To speak in riddles—read them.

The Monk.

I will read them.
And mine enigma shall be such grim pastime
As fiends might play at.

Pity me, this anger
Wrongs you. I do forget that you are yet
But a few moments off from happiness,
And that the music of her shores is singing
Still in your ears. We dwellers in the dark
Forget the weakness of your daylight eyes.
I should remember that the twilight stands
'Twixt night and day. My fierce and tropical fancy,
Hot with swift pulses, saw the sun go down,
And look'd up for the stars. I had a brother—
I had? Oh heaven! there is no Lazarus
So poor as Dives fallen! You whose portion
In the abounding present is unspent—
You with whose friendships and familiar joys
Earth is still populous—you who have not
Learn'd yet, when stranger lips descant of love,
Unconsciously to look upon the turf—
You who are only of this upper world,
You know not what it costs to say ‘I had.’;

But there shall come a time when ye shall sit
Safe in this cabin, yet shall feel the rain
Falling upon you, though your limbs be dry,
And your hearth warm. And then you shall forgive me,
And feel that I have something to forgive!
Then you shall know how sickly and distract
Thoughts grow, that pass their days beneath the sod,
And sit whole nights by graves.

I had a brother,
We were twin shoots from one dead stem. He grew
Nearer the sun, and ripen'd into beauty;
And I within the shadow of my thoughts,
Pined at his side and loved him. He was brave,
Gallant and free. I was the silent slave
Of fancies; neither laugh'd, nor fought, nor play'd,
And loved not morn nor eve for very trembling
At their long wandering shades. In childhood's sports
He won for me, and I look'd on aloof;
And when perchance I heard him call'd my brother,
Was proud and happy. So we grew together,
Within our dwelling by the desert plain,
Where the roe leap'd,
And from his icy hills the frequent wolf
Gave chivalry to slaughter. Here and there
Rude heaps, that had been cities, clad the ground
With history. And far and near, where grass
Was greenest and the unconscious goat browsed free,
The teeming soil was sown with desolations,

As though Time—striding o'er the field he reap'd—
Warm'd with the spoil, rich droppings for the gleaners
Threw round his harvest way. Frieze, pedestal,
Pillars that bore through years the weight of glory,
And take their rest. Tombs, arches, monuments,
Vainly set up to save a name, as though
The eternal served the perishable; urns,
Which winds had emptied of their dust, but left
Full of their immortality. In shrouds
Of reverent leaves, rich works of wondrous beauty
Lay sleeping—like the children in the wood—
Fairer than they. Columns like fallen giants,
The victor on the vanquish'd, stretch'd so stern
In death, that not a flower might dare to do
Their obsequies. And some from sweet Ionia
With those Ionia bore to Roman skies
Lay mingled, like a goddess and her mother,
Who wear, with difference, the co-equal brightness
Of fadeless youth. The plain thus strew'd with ages
Flower'd in the sunshine of to-day, and bore me
The Present and the Past. But there were some
Proud changeless stones that stood up in the sun,
And with their shadowy finger on the plain
Drew the same mystic circle day by day,
And these I worshipp'd. Honouring them, because
It needs must be they knew the sense that sign
Bore in the language of Eternity;
And fearing them for that dark hand which ever—

When I drew near their awful face at noon,
And, spent with wondering, sank down unconscious,
And slept upon the turf—came back at even
And cast me shuddering out.

So days wore on,
And childhood. And the shade of all these ruins
Fell on my soul. And he, my pride, grew up,
With, and without me. And we were such brothers
As day and night. We met at morn and eve.
Each sun uprose to find us hand in hand,
And see a tender parting. Each first star
Led back the shades and us. He flush'd with conquest,
Rich in the well slain antelope, and all
That feathery wage youth loves to take for labour;
I laden with new thoughts. Pale, travel-worn,
Spent with fierce exercise and faint with toil,
I, who—the shepherd of the plain would tell you—
Since sunbreak upon one same broken column
Sat like a Caryatid. So youth was mine,
And seasons crown'd it manhood.

Manhood came,
And with it those fierce instincts of strange combat,
That hurtle in the heart when the new powers,
Like eager vassals on Ascension-day,
Crowd round the throned will. Childhood and youth
May own unwritten law, and kiss the rod
That strikes, but parleys not. But man must be
A subject, not a slave. And manhood stood

Before the shadows that had awed the child,
And bade them answer. And they spoke. My heart
Stood up. A thousand senses ran to arms,
To guard the revelation; but it came not.
Like a mask'd guest, the voice went through my soul,
And wandering there long days and nights, made all
My hours alarums. So the phantom knight,
In awful legend of the old Romaunt,
By a proud castle winds his ghostly horn,
And blows his challenge in at every gate,
And through the chafed halls stalks the unearthly sound,
And fills with strange ubiquitous defiance
Turret and dungeon, battlement and keep,
Which groan back answering War. While at the blast
Grim sudden furies fill the martial place,
Helm rings with hauberk, scutcheon'd gonfalons
Wave in no wind. Shields rattle. Chargers neigh
To unblown clarions. Weapons clash unbid
On the vex'd walls, and men, with swords half-drawn,
Start up and stare into the troublous air.
Not otherwise the voice disturb'd my soul,
Till spectral nights and strange unnatural days
Beckon'd their neighbour, Death. I felt him chill
The sunshine round me. But I only look'd
More fondly for my brother.

When day went,
And we met by the well-known spot at even,
And by the kindred moon, he saw the pale

Faint life that lean'd upon his stalwart beauty,
I was a dearer burden than the spoils
Of his best hunting field. With tender pain
He led me forth at sunrise, and came back
Before the dews. And, with moist eyes, I mark'd
Daily he brought home less and less at even,
With forethought of the day's sad robbery,
Keeping in fond economy more strength
To lend mine indigence. And thus I measur'd
My life's receding tide. 'Twas beautiful
To see, as each wave ebb'd from earth, the sands
Purple with flowers from heaven. He gave me cares,
I paid him from the alms the hills, and vales,
Plains, ruins, waters, fields, and skies had thrown me
Through my long hours of waiting. I beheld him—
And so you shall behold your child one day—
Sublime as if a god of old had stepp'd
Warm from his marble pedestal. I gave him
Nectar for gods. I saw his eyes light up,
And into his heroic hand I put
The weapon of my thoughts. And he smote with it—
Look to your boy, he will smite so—he smote
And struck such flashes from a despot's helm
As might set thrones on fire. And some who winced
Complain'd. When the lamb bleats in the Abruzzi,
The wolf is silent—'tis the tyrant's music;
But let one miscreant yelper howl, and mark
How all the pack gives tongue. An outraged people

Cries out for ages, and the sacred sound
Broods o'er our land, and finds no wind to bear
The thankless burden hence. A tyrant yells,—
Though but the very meanest starveling hound,
The most distemper'd cur that feeds upon
The garbage thrown from palaces—no matter—
A thousand echoes tell it in Vienna,
And fill the air with German. Oh my brother,
Would I had been content to be thy debtor,
Nor paid thee in a coin that bore the stamp
Of freedom in a captive land! They seized him,
They seized! Who seized? Some Roman lictor—one
Beneath whose reverend hand it would be glory
To think that heroes suffer'd so, and counted
The touch no shame? Goths, whose barbarian sires
Made holiday for ours. Vandals and Huns,
The cubs of dams more savage than our mothers
Deign'd to enslave; all that rank Northern growth,
By whose rude hands the might of bones and thews
Bearded our conscript fathers in the forum,
And beards their children here,—who sit like them,
Silent, but not like them sublime. Camillus!
What! can we lounge upon our curule chairs,
And play the Roman only in endurance?
Earth! what hast thou of vigour less than Greece,
That in that genial soil the serpent's teeth
Sprang up arm'd men;—and here we have sown heroes
And reap—grass! Yes. He fell. Behold your son:

Picture him nobler than the noblest vision
Of thy day-dreams, poor mother! See, the bloodhounds
Have track'd him to your cot. A faded face
Lies with dark uprais'd eyes of love before
The fond heroic brother. Heavenly calm
Warders the room, and of the sweet emotions
Of the rejoicing world without, lets in
Only the silent sunshine. The door bursts!
A shriek! a shout! they seize him! The pale form
Springs at the first and falls. Now see your hero
Like an inspired colossus striding o'er him.
With either hand he hurls a savage hence,
Foots each bare neck, with twice another twain
Acquaints the sounding walls. Falls by some blow
From unseen hand. Sinks by the yelling weight
Of crowds. A moment more, and like dead game
Slung by some trooper's side, mother, he greets thee,
And leaves thee baptized in his sprinkled gore,
To faiths kings dream not of. Oh brother, brother,
On memory! that canst bring me back such woes
And break not! Thus they tore him from me. Ah,
Poor tender child, why doth thy baby heart
Look up through saddening eyes? What! little one,
And canst thou read the future? Dost thou know
That he was like thee? Ay, poor mother, clasp him,
Clasp him while yet thou mayst! Secure as thou
That morn I clasp'd my brother! Dost thou ask
What tidings fell upon the failing ear

Of him who in the cottage by the plain
Lay weeping? Be it as thou wilt, poor mother,
It concerns thee;—what if of all thy tears—
Thy fated tears—a few are shed too soon?
For me I am a rock which, long years hence,
The storms stripp'd rudely, and with my few flowers
Took all that nursed them, and to after tempests
Left but the cold bare stone. In earth or heaven
I have no more to fear. But for thee, mother,
I will read out this story, and perchance
Teach thee to strike the fire that yet may burn
The page ere it be thine.

The Mother.
Oh that thou wouldst!

The Monk.

Not of the dungeons, those dark catacombs
Where our oppressors heap'd their sins for ages,
Wrong after wrong, till the o'er-surfeited rock
At the great day of reckoning shall belch up
A thousand years to cry for vengeance. No,
Those Roman limbs were purchased far too dearly
To rot in Spielberg. He was tall of stature,
And fair to look upon. So shall your son
Be tall and fair. It pleasured some small tyrant
To see such goodly slaves. The shameful trappings
Of a detested loyalty, the fillets
That deck the sacrifice, the fearful gewgaws
That ratify the compact, when the body
Serves what the soul abhors, and with the bribe

Tricks out the whoredom, these worse chains replaced
The felon's fetters, and the outraged Roman
Rose up an Austrian soldier! The plot thickens—
The shadow of the end is on my soul—
Count tears for words—nay, you are parents—I
Was but a brother—wherefore should I speak?
Poor mother! in this Jordan I have need
To be baptized of you. My soul is wise
In grief. Yet a few years and you shall smile—
If you can smile—to think I taught ye. Tell me,
What would your gallant boy, if tyrants bade him
Shed Roman blood like rain? Look on your Roman!
Mine was no less!—Was—Oh my heart! He hurl'd—
His proud looks prouder than his words of pride,—
With desperate hand the execrated sword
Flagrant before the despot and defied him!
Rent from his breast the gilt dishonour, spurn'd it
Into Italian dust. Erect, defiant,
Before the host cried Freedom! and was doom'd,
Doom'd to a coward's death. They led him forth,
They led him forth a pace upon the Lea,
Scourged, buffeted, reviled, and only asking
To die unbound, with his unconquer'd face
Turn'd to the south and home. And they denied him.
By a rude trench wher fresh-turn'd earth lay dark,
He stood a passing moment, and since then
I say ‘I had a brother.’;

If I weep

To see your child, forgive me, and remember
When I drew near his sport this eve, and you
Look'd on with smiles, and I with sighs, you marvell'd.
Why marvel, when we saw not the same scene?
Before you lay the happy evening world,
O'er-joyous in the promise of more joy,
And there he sported like a merry voice
Singing of morrows. Mine eyes sought the same
Point of the compass, but for me the shades
In my dark soul went forth to meet the night,
The night that look'd from grove and thicket, calling
By missionary winds and twilight birds
All earth to that meek face wherein she payeth
Her duties to the moon. He sported, too,
In my world, and 'twas sweet to look on him.
But to my eyes, in ambient atmospheres
Of tints and hues that brighten'd other days,
Floated round smiling—like a choir of angels
About a cherub—that old dreamy past,
In which he plays my brother. Near his feet
There was a long sad mound, and by the mound
Dark drops of blood. And when he prattled out
His childish joy, my heart heard distant muskets,
And to my ear the heavy earth fell dead
Into a coffinless grave.

[The vesper bell sounds from the distant convent.
Ave Maria!

The Mother
(throwing herself passionately to the ground).
Ave Maria! Happy evermore,
Oh Mater Unigeniti—save, save,
Oh save my child!

The Father.
Ave Maria! Queen
Of judgment that went forth to victory!
Remember desolation blights the hills
That slew the Crucified! Mother avenged!
If my first-born must be like thine, grant vengeance
Like thine!

The Mother.
If it must be—

The Monk.
Ave Maria! say
It shall not be! Thou who didst bear salvation!
Oh Virgin! thou who in thy breast didst carry
The fate of worlds unfainting—give, give stength
To these!

The Father and Mother.
Oh Mother, pity us!—

The Monk.
Oh Mother,
Pity our country! Mater benedicta!
Thou who three days didst watch a tomb in tears,
Pity our vigil of a thousand years,
And bid the dead arise!

The Father and Mother.
Oh Queen of sighs,
Look down on us from thy fair heaven with eyes
Softer than evening!

The Mother.
Mater casta, pia,
Quondam afflicta—take him to thy skies!
Even what thou wilt for me, but oh, for him

Hast thou no place among thy seraphim?
Is he not thine? Thou gavest him. Take, oh take
The bright gift back, for a sad mother's sake,
Oh Mother!

The Monk.
Ah?

The Father.
Amen!

The Monk.
Ave Maria!

[They rise.
The Father.
Priest, hast thou no Amen?

The Monk.
Did I not tell you
That you should crave my blessing, though it fell
Black as a curse?

The Mother.
Alas!

The Monk.
Says the priest ill
Who prays the mother's prayer?

The Mother.
Be merciful!

The Monk.
Nay, be you merciful. I look upon
This gentle boy, and every blushing feature
Of his young beauty cries for mercy—

The Mother.
Priest,
If thou art false in all things as in this,
God help thee. I have been a tender mother!

The Monk.
Thou filiocide! Why should he die? This land,
Hath it no place for him? This Roman sunshine,
Doth it fall strangely on his cheek?

These flowers,
Twine they not kindly with his hair, and peep
With fondness in his brighter face?

The Boy.
Oh, mother,
Tell him they love me.

The Mother.
Hush! my beautiful;
What is there loves thee not?

The Monk.

Why should he die,
Whom the whole world surrounds, and with chaste voices
Woos to sweet life? You craven hearts! Who slew
My brother, and shall slay your son? These hills?
These woods that frown on you? The sun and moon,
That look down on their ancient shrines, and smile
That you adore their God? Tell me, what lot
Is desperate which the heaven and earth condemn not?
Did this land, which bore gods, spend all its strength
In the sublime conception, and birth-worn
Bring pigmies forth in these last days? What fate
Made only Romans mortal? Is it written
That when the oppressor meets the oppress'd, and one
Dies, it must be the slave? You Romans!—stay,
I have o'ershot myself. You will betray me.
You have look'd on this child for five long years,
Five long fond loving years, and never wish'd
To save him—why should I—

The Mother.
Oh father, save him!
Bid me die—on my knees—

The Father.
Peace. Priest, the cloud
Is silent till it lightens; dost thou take me?

The Monk.
Thou hast a fearless eye.

The Father.
Priest, try my heart!

The Monk.
Ah, traitor! what? 'tis well. Yes, he for whom
That fair boy prattles hath a lifelong preacher
No father yet sat under unconverted.
We men are calm or hurricane. The heart
Fills silently, and at the last wrong bursts.
He laughs his merry creed out at all hours,
And day and night looks treason.

The Father.
Come the day
When deeds shall back his looks!

The Monk.
Well said, brave Roman!
Thy hand! and we are brothers. Shall we brook
To see this Italy our fathers left us
Held for an Austrian garden?

The Father.
Noble priest,
Some say the garden bears strange fruit ere long,
But the old soil is crop-sore, and craves fatting
With German blood.

The Monk.
Ah?

The Father.
Hast thou heard some whispers
The wind brings from Sardinia? Is it well?

The Monk.
All things are well, but silence and endurance.

The Father.
Bend here! the very spider on the wall
Must not hear this—

The Monk.
(Ay, what so pitiful,
So loathsome, but it may connive with kings?)

100

The Father.
Hark in thine ear. The jolly lords of Naples,
Florence, Turin, Verona, ay, Modena,
And some too near to name, ride bravely,—eh?
What if the horse kick?

The Monk.
Ah?

The Father.
This is fair weather;
Worse grubs have grown to butterflies. How now,
If these same Duchies spread their wings Republics?
What then, my Carbonaro? Is it well?

The Monk.
'Tis well. The poorest living face hath grace
Beside a death's-head. That fierce king did well
Who slew the priests of Baal, hew'd down his groves,
And spoil'd his altars. But that king did better
Who crown'd Moriah. 'Tis a zealot's faith
That blasts the shrines of the false god, but builds
No temple to the true.

The Father.
Ay, what is Truth?
Pilate lacks answer.

The Monk.
The bold man like thee,
Who lays his life in a strange hand——

The Father
(starting).
Ah, Priest!
His life—how now?

The Monk.
Jestest, my gentle Roman?
Wronged men like us, sworn to such deeds as ours,
Leave courtly phrases when they speak of treason.
Alas, poor Italy! to tell his fortune

101

To whom a priest's lips can bring home rebellion,
Merits no sorcerer's fee. A truce to trifling.
What wasted words are these! Thou art a father,
Have I not said to thee this boy that is
To die, may live—what more?

The Father.
No more. Sir Priest,
Thou takest me ill. There is no wild rebellion
So fierce I have not fire enough to light it.
If I had rather chosen to be free,
Of all men—so. Thou hast my faith, who holdest
My halter.

The Mother.
And, by Heaven, thou hast it, Priest,
Though we were freer than a thousand winds!
Ay, and our lives a million million times
Lived and died over, so thou wilt but save
My child.

The Monk.
Have I not said it? Wherefore, friends,
Is this unseemly turbulence of passion?
Did you not call me to your solemn council?
Had I not told you how my brother died?
Had you not wept with vision of those pangs,
Which in that boy's face yet shall rack your eyes?——

The Mother.
Shall? Oh, my father! Oh, my father!

The Monk.
Shall.
He who would conquer kings, himself must be
The first king conquer'd. Shall a rebel start
To hear rebellion? Shall I have my counsel

102

Cried up and down the earth, like the small will
Of vulgar majesty? He who would creep
To sleeping game is silent. Will they stand
Firm, think you, at the judgment and the scaffold,
Who start beneath the lintel of their homes,
And rave at evening chat? No. He must die.

[The mother starts up, seizing a knife that lies near
The Mother.
Priest! I am but a woman, and a weak one!
I think thee faithful, and in that thought bless thee.
I am a wife, a wife, Priest, and a true one;
I think him brave, and in that thought revere him;
But let me doubt ye—only let me doubt ye—
And I would wash that hearthstone in your blood,
If but the poorest spatter on the wall
Would save my child!

The Monk
(aside).
Then by that chain I lead thee,
Wild lioness.
(Aloud.)
There heaves a bosom meet
To suckle Freedom. Calm thee, Roman mother,
That yet shalt smile in Rome. The day may come
To strike; till then seal up thine own hot lips,
As thou wouldst seal thy foe's. Be true, a hero
Shall call thee ‘mother!’ Fail but in thy fealty
To the least word of mine, my heaviest grief
Is bliss beside thy lightest. Peace. This seal
Makes the bond perfect. Now to calmer counsel.
Thou say'st, brave Roman, that our lords ride fiercely,

103

That the steed chafes already—see! he throws them.
Who vaults into the saddle? Every flock
Has slain its pigmy swain—salvete greges!
But, patriot, who shall lead the sheep to pasture,
And keep the wolf at bay?

The Father.
Each separate state
Must crown the sovereign people.

The Monk.
By what name
Will men speak, think ye, of that seven-hill'd city,
Within whose catacombs dominion sleeps,
And in whose ruins Time himself walks lightly,
Lest she should stir below?

The Father.
Rome.

The Monk.
And the rest,
How do you name them?

The Father.
By the names they found
Noble enough to strike in; thus, Milan.

The Monk.
And why? Is the sky bluer at Milan
Than where we stand? Are the clouds red at noon?
Or by what mystic omen doth the world
Call for this christening? Doth Dame Nature, old,
And yearning to be fruitful in her dotage,
Breed names, and call them children?

When you dream
Of our Italian fatherland, it glitters
With half a hecatomb of palaces,
Each royal. Your free heart is sad. You frown.
Strike off their crowns. Salute them commonweals,

104

And wake up shouting ‘Glory!’ How now, Roman,
If some strong arm stretching from sea to sea
Sweep all your pasteboard kickshaws to the ocean,
And leave us the broad field of Italy
To build up Rome?
Marvel not, gentle friends,
Sprung out of yesterday, poor hearts, and growing
Like creeping plants, even to the size and fashion
Of what ye lean on—marvel not that we
Who worship Freedom with one soul, adore her
In different deity. As I have told you,
Dark fanes and reverend trophies, stones that might
Be portals to the world; the fossil limbs
By which we build the giants of old time;
Grey wonders stranger for decay; strange fragments
Of forms once held divine, and still, like angels,
Immortal everywhere; lone hermit columns,
Whereto the ideal hath no space to add
The pile they bore; stern pediments that look'd
On altars where antipodes burnt incense,
And the three arms of the great globe piled up
Their several tribute; all the sacred shades
Which the great Past receding from the world
Casts out of heaven on earth;—these and like these,
The high, the deep, the eternal, the unbounded,
Were sponsors to my soul: and if my thought,
Where your more nice and neoteric fancy
Labours with townships, deals out continents,

105

Think it no marvel. Listen.
The sunrise
Of that dread day which found me brotherless,
Saw a pale face on a low bed. Despair
Gave life by taking it. That evening's sun
Fell on the empty pallet, and beside it
An arm'd man, flush'd to wildness.
Lost, alone,
Every sweet structure of my heart in heaps,
With the one terrible shock; mazed, ignorant
Of all things but the one which cast them forth,
The desolation in my soul cried out,
And rushing to the ruins I fell down,
The darkest ruin of all. I knelt and wept,
And was a child before them, with the madness
Of a man's heart. I fell upon my face.
Strange sleep possess'd me. Through the hot short night,
Across the hotter desert of my brain
My life went past. All seasons new and old,
All hours of day and night, all thoughts, fears, fancies,
Born on this spot, met as in after-death
About me; and of each my tatter'd heart
Begg'd healing and found none. At each new face
I look'd up wild with hope, and look'd down fierce
With chafed expectance. Then I rose and cursed
All hope, all thought, all knowledge, all belief,
And fell down still believing. With each hour

106

In my spent soul some lingering faith went out,
Woes that began in fire had burnt to blackness,
The very good within me had grown grim,
The frenzy of my shipwreck'd heart had thrown
Its last crust overboard—then, then, oh God!
Then in the midnight darkness of my passion,
The veil was rent which hid the holy of holies,
And I beheld and worshipp'd. Mad despair
Rung out the desperate challenge—‘What art thou,
Unpitying presence! which for years beside
These stones hast stood before me, pass'd me, touch'd me,
Shook my blind sense, and seal'd my eyes from seeing?
Tell me, that I may curse thee!’
The sun rose.
Forth towards me as in awful adjuration
Each ruin stretch'd appealing shades. There came
Soft lightning on my soul, and by a voice
Ineffable, and heard not with the ears,
‘Rome.’ At that sound a thousand thousand voices
Spread it through all things. Each imperial column,
Each prone grey stone, touch'd by the eloquent winds,
Heard it and gave it back. Trees, woods and fountains
In musical confusion, leaves, buds, blossoms—
Even to small flowers unseen, with voices smaller
Than treble of a fay—atoms of sound
Whereof a thousand falling on one ear,
The unwitting sense should count them troubled silence—
Birds, brooks, and waterfalls,—all tongues of dawn,

107

The very morning hum of summer time,
Swell'd the sweet tumult; early mists that lay
Silent on hill-tops, vocal in the sun
Roll'd off like waves of voices, the stirr'd air
Sung with bright ecstasy. Down came the thunder,
Like a vast hull cleaving the sea of sound,
That lash'd up louder; then the hills cried out,
And emulous the valleys; all the earth
Shook with the sounding ardour, and methought
My flush'd soul, drunk with zeal, leap'd high and shouted,
Rome! With that name, incomprehensible beauty
Fill'd the still gratulate air from earth to heaven,
And knowing I knew not. Even as one dead
I fell. As though that one great sight accomplish'd
All consciousness, and the progressive sense
Reaching the goal stood still.
Ere I awoke,
The sun had mounted the proud throne of noon,
Received the homage of the world, and stept
From his high-place well-pleased.
Calm, brave, serene,
Refresh'd as from a sleep of ages, weak
As a birth-weary mother, but yet strong
In cast-out sorrows, I stood up and gazed
With long looks of sweet wonder. The fierce craving
In my lank hungry soul had ceased. The thirst
That burn'd my heart was quench'd. The mystic yearning

108

For something ever near, and ever far,
That made my life one dream of wasting fever,
Was over. All those indistinct strange voices
Wherein, like waters underground, great truths
Were heaving in my heart, and lash'd its sides
To bursting; those dim tones wherein, like fragrance
From troubled flowers at midnight, unseen balm
Went up in my dark soul, all the forerunners,
The thousand messengers by which this night
Had told me it would come,—all partial knowledge
Before the consummation fell away
As things that had no office; wither'd up
Like blossom on the fruit. Thus it must be
That noble man who deems his nature born
As vast as truth, must sweat, and toil, and suffer,
And overcome—enduring. When the heart
Adds a new planet to its heaven, great portents
Clash the celestial influence; strange signs
Of coming dread, mysterious agencies,
And omens inconceivable convulse
The expectant system, while the stranger sails
Still out of sight in space. Dim echoings
Not of the truth, but witnessing the truth—
Like the resounding thunder of the rock
Which the sea passes—rushing thoughts like heralds,
Voices which seem to clear the way for greatness,
Cry advent in the soul, like the far shoutings
That say a monarch comes. These must go by,

109

And then the man who can outwatch this vigil
Sees the apocalypse. Oh that first hour
Within the Eden of a quiet soul!
Oh for that bounteous hour, to him whose youth,
Bred up in grief's sad penury, hath found
Joy's daily pittance all too poor to lay
One pleasance by; oh that Pierian hour
When first the plenteous life o'erwelling sends
Its irrigating streams before the face
Of the young hope, and decks, in frondent distance,
To-morrow with the verdure of to-day.
That hour when first the slipping foot grows firm
Upon some plot of present, and we gaze
From the sufficient rock with softening eyes
Across the green sweet pastures of the future,
And for the first time dare to look on them
As heritage. How the exulting thoughts,
Like children on a holiday, rush forth
And shout, and call to every humming bee,
And bless the birds for angels! Oh that hour!
In the reflected sunshine of remembrance
My heart is melting. Twilight and the dews
Proclaim me parlous. 'Tis a sorry string
That, being struck, is silent. Farewell Romans.
Meet me to-morrow here. This is no mood
To plan stern deeds. Farewell. Remember, courage,
Truth, silence. If you fail in either, look
Upon your boy.