University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

Caerlaverock hall.
Lord Walter Maxwell and Lady Maxwell.
Lady Maxwell.
Thou must not stand on earth like a carved saint
Which men do bow to, but which ne'er returns
Their gratulation.

Lord Maxwell.
Love, there is a voice
Still whispering, that all we love or hate—
All we admire, exalt, or hope to compass,
Till the stars wax dim amid our meditation,
Is but as words graved on the ocean sands,
Which the returning tide blots out for ever.
For I'm grown sick of the world's companionship,
Of camp and city, and life's pomp—the song
Of bards impassion'd who rank earth's gross dust
With things immortal—of the gladsome sound
Of dulcimer and flute—the corrupt tongue
O' the shrewd politician. O! for a rude den
In some vast desart—there I'd deem each star
That lumined me in loneliness was framed
To coronet my brows—that the bloom'd bough
On which the wild bees cluster'd, when its scent
Fill'd all the summer air, graced my hand more
Than a dread sceptre: and the little birds
Would know us, love; the gray and pleasant wren
Would hang her mansion for her golden young
Even in our woodland porch.

Lady Maxwell.
Thy country's woes
Have robb'd thee of thy peace—have pluck'd thy spirit
Down from its heaven, and made sweet sleep to thee
The bitterest bliss of life.

Lord Maxwell.
Is there a bosom
Full of a loyal heart?—Is there a knee
That seeks the dust at eve?—a holy tongue,
Whose orisons find heaven? a noble mind,
Whose pure blood has flow'd down through the pure veins
Of a thousand noble bosoms?—a brave man
Who loves his country's ancient name and law,
And the famed line of her anointed kings?
Oh heaven! give him swift wings: the sword, the rack,
The halter, and whet axe hold him in chace,
And make a den of Scotland, for the fiends
To howl and revel in.

Lady Maxwell.
But shall we sit,
Even as the dove does on the doom'd tree-top,
Until the axe strews to the weazel's tooth
Her young ones in their down:—shall we go cast
Life's heavenly jewel to the pit; and page,
With cap and cringing knee, him, match'd with whom
A murderer's hand is milkwhite, and the brow
Of a gross peasant smutch'd with hovel soot
The brow of an archangel?

Lord Maxwell.
Say no more:—
My Scotland, whilst one stone of thine is left
Unturn'd by ruin's plowshare—while one tree
Grows green untouch'd by the destroyer's axe—
While one foundation stone of palace or church,
Or shepherd's hovel, stands unmoved by
The rocking of artillery—while one stream
Though curdling with warm life's blood, can frequent
Its natural track—while thou hold'st holy dust
Of princes, heroes, sages, though their graves
Flood ankle-deep in gore; O, I will love thee,
And weep for thee;—and fight for thee, while heaven
Lends life, and thy worst foes are but of flesh,
And can feel temper'd steel.

Lady Maxwell.
Oh! had we here
Him thou so lovest, thy fiery cousin, he
Who would have heir'd thee had I not been blest
Above all hope in winning thee—he was
One bold in thought, and sudden in resolve;
In execution swifter:—Halbert Comyne,
Of thee our peasants love to talk, and draw
Thy martial aspect and thy merry glance
Among the maids at milking time. Yet they
Pause mid their rustic charactering, and cough,
And with a piece of proverb or old song
They close the tale, look grave, and shake the head,
And hope thou may'st be blest and bide abroad.—

Enter Mabel Moran.
Lord Maxwell.
Thou hast not come at this dark hour for nought:
What means thy hurried foot, and that sharp glance
That carries warning with it?

Mabel.
Bless thy kind heart—
This night as I stood on my threshold-stone,
Clear glow'd the moon, nought spake save the sweet tongue
Of one small rill—even as I stood and bless'd
Night's loveliness, a beauteous star was thrown
From heaven upon thy house, and as it fell
The moon was blotted out and darkness came,
Such as the hand might grope. What this might bode
Small space had I to ponder till the groan
Of one in mortal agony was borne
I' the rush o' the blast; with it there came a sound
Like Annan in its flood, and a dread fire
Ran on the ground. Amid the brightness came
Forms visible, their faces smear'd with blood—
And on their backs, a piteous sight, they bore
Thy form, Lord Walter Maxwell; from thy locks,
The locks that maidens loved, thick dropp'd the blood;
They bore thee to a visionary grave.
Ere thrice I bless'd myself, there came a wind
And swept the earth of this dread pageantry:
I stood rooted with fear.—Some mortal thing
I prayed that I might speak to, and straight came
Men through the wood—five stately men, who told
Of perils great they scaped from, and enquired
The footpath to thy hall. Now, Walter Maxwell,
Gird to thy side thy sword, and clasp the hand
Of those thou welcomest, with a glove of steel;
For two of these five mortals wore the looks
Of those dread ones i' the vision. Admonition
Comes as a dose i' the death-pang, if thou deem'st
I either dream or dote.

Lord Maxwell.
My sage good dame,
A cot I'll build thee neath my castle wall;
For that wild glen thou livest in yields ripe things
About the full of the moon.

(A horn is blown.)
Mabel.
There sounds thy doom—
Woe to thy house! And now, let the hoar head
Of him whose tongue was reverenced for sage saws
When I was but a baby,—the green youth,—
Like corn i' the shot-blade, when the staff of life
Is yet as milk i' the ear,—on whose soft chin
The beard's unbudded,—the matron in whose ear
Grandmother has been music,—the sweet babe
Whose tender lips hold yet the mother's milk
Uncurdled—haste! All, fly this doomed house—
I hear the death groans—lo! I see the dirks
Reek warm with murder's work—see! the blood drops
Thick dappling all thy walls—along the floor
Men stride in blood to the buckles, and grim throngs
Of fiery spectres welcome those whose veins
Are yet unsluiced with steel. I'll see no more,
But fly thy dwelling, though my footsteps lay
O'er acres of dead men—and I were paged
By all the fiends o' the pit. (Exit.)
(Horn blows louder.)


Lord Maxwell.
(Exit Servant.)

Enter Servant.
Servant.
My lord, a chief
Of martial mien, with followers four, scarce scaped
The raging Solway, seeks to be thy guest.

Lord Maxwell.
Give them my castle's welcome; bring them hither.

(Exit Servant.)
Penpont.
(Aside.)
Where's the dame flown to, whom the foul fiend loves?
Far famed is she for giving a rough guess
How the world will wag. Lord Maxwell speaks her fair,
'Tis well his part—the boy-lord ne'er had come
Wi' a scream to the world, except for her two hands—
She loosed five witch knots, and the sweet bairn came.
Aye, by my sooth, we'll see what comes of this;
Who deal wi' hags may dread a kittle cast.

Enter Halbert Comyne and his Companions.
Lord Maxwell.
Stranger, I give thee welcome, though thy visit
Should strike my castle's cope-stone to the moat.

Com.
'Tis spoke with noble heart. Could I cast off
The marks of many years of warfare rough
On persecutor's crests, the scars i' the front,
Won in the edge of peril—bid the sun
Wooe off his burning courtship from my cheek,—
Then wouldst thou clasp me, though my linked mail
Were wreath'd with crested snakes. Not know me yet?
Look on this good sword, 'twas a good man's gift,
I've proved its edge on plates of Milan steel.

Lord Maxwell.
My Halbert Comyne? mine own gallant cousin?
And this is thou? thrice bless thee, my brave Halbert:
And thou art safe? wounds on the cheek and brow,
No more—they say they were found in glory's walk.
Not know thee? thee I dream about, even thee
Whom I have borne so often on my back
Through the mirk pools of Nith:—thou'rt changed indeed,
From May's sweet blossom to September's brown;
And hast a voice for that of soft nineteen
Like to the martial trumpet. Welcome him,
My fair one; forth with the white hand that made
Me blessed: call my son; bring him, though he
Had won the love of some particular star
To his harp and poet song.

Lady Maxwell.
Welcome, thrice welcome:
The tongue of the land 's familiar with thy fame.
Thy name I might have learn'd to love, though it
Had ne'er pass'd waking lips. In deepest sleep
On thee my lord oft calls; and, with a tongue
That warns mid commendation, urges thee
From the chace of desperate steel—But now, more meet
Soft couch and cheer, than welcoming of lips.

Comyne.
(Aside.)
A wife and son! these are new sounds to me;
They choke my proud hopes in life's porch, and fill
My hand with my keen sword. I hoped to come
To heir this Nithsdale princedom; and I brought
Some chosen spirits from the wars to share
My fortune, and the fortune of the times.—
Fair lady, I have urged remembrance far,
(To Lady M.)
Yet nought so fair or noble can I charm
As thee from my mute memory. I sail'd,
Forsaking some proud beauties; but none fill'd
Like thee men's bosoms brimful of sweet love,
Nor charm'd the lads who wear gold on their brows,
To sue with cap in hand.

Lord Maxwell.
She was the pride,
The grace of Galloway; and she is mine.
But, gentle cousin, now refresh, repose thee;
And I will wooe thy ear to all the woes
That press now on poor Scotland.

(Exeunt.)