 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
I.
(The garret of a house on the outskirts of London: a boxbed in one corner. A table, heaped with papers, is drawn near the fire. Night.)Michael Lambourne.
All the hot fancies of a fervid brain,
All the great efforts of a youthful hope,
All that I thought to render to the world,
All that I hoped would blazon forth my name
And make me one for all posterity—
Let it all go!—I have no further hope.
I give my life to buy the further shame,
To render sure the further sin of one,
The only one I love. What need of these?
Why leave a turgid, undigested mass
Of crude materials and half-grown thoughts?
How could they add a lustre to my name?
They could not: had I lived another year,
I might have done what would have made me great;
But now I go to die. Into the flame,
Into the flame with all my boyish hopes!
(A pause.)All the great efforts of a youthful hope,
All that I thought to render to the world,
All that I hoped would blazon forth my name
And make me one for all posterity—
Let it all go!—I have no further hope.
I give my life to buy the further shame,
To render sure the further sin of one,
The only one I love. What need of these?
Why leave a turgid, undigested mass
Of crude materials and half-grown thoughts?
How could they add a lustre to my name?
They could not: had I lived another year,
I might have done what would have made me great;
21
Into the flame with all my boyish hopes!
Did Jephtha's daughter, on the Gilead hills,
Think, as with ring of feet and full voiced chant
She and her maidens spent the waiting month,
How lowland reapers in their toil would pause
And hear her voice and marvel at her strength?
Or how the maiden in love with upland farm,
Hearing the death-song cleave the spectral night,
Would creep to open lattice and behold,
With love and stealing of her youthful heart,
The long white garments flashing in the moon
Across the bold and rugged Gilead heights?
Did Curtius, ere he took the misty leap,
Glow in his heart, with sudden rush of blood,
To think how Rome looked on him wondering,
To recollect that one, white-armèd girl,
Breathless and panting, watched him from the crowd,
Her whole soul bound in his? The martyrs, too,
Beside keen flickers of destroying fire,
Or looking on the wan, worn axe, perhaps
Thought just a little how posterity
Would love and honour and embalm their names.
Think, as with ring of feet and full voiced chant
She and her maidens spent the waiting month,
How lowland reapers in their toil would pause
And hear her voice and marvel at her strength?
Or how the maiden in love with upland farm,
Hearing the death-song cleave the spectral night,
Would creep to open lattice and behold,
With love and stealing of her youthful heart,
The long white garments flashing in the moon
Across the bold and rugged Gilead heights?
Did Curtius, ere he took the misty leap,
Glow in his heart, with sudden rush of blood,
To think how Rome looked on him wondering,
To recollect that one, white-armèd girl,
Breathless and panting, watched him from the crowd,
Her whole soul bound in his? The martyrs, too,
Beside keen flickers of destroying fire,
Or looking on the wan, worn axe, perhaps
Thought just a little how posterity
22
I feel it so, at least: I could not die,
If Henrietta did not know of it
And thank me even with a single tear.
O! I shall make her think of me at last
And know I loved and gave a life for her!
And yet 'twere nobler—aye, an hundredfold—
To die in silence, to defy two deaths:
Death of the body, death of earthly fame.
Why should I mar the pureness of my gift
By culling roses ready for my crown?
Why should I let her know at what expense
Her love was bought for her? Ah! she would weep!
And yet if I am giving up my life,
Why should I get no recompense of hope?
What less do I deserve to gild my death
Than certain hope that she will hear my deed?
I could not die unheard: I could not die,
Her thinking me a lackey over-rude;
For sure she must have noticed how I spoke
And dared not leave her presence, take my eyes
For the last time, from off her glorious face;
And then the glove—she must have missed the glove.
If Henrietta did not know of it
And thank me even with a single tear.
O! I shall make her think of me at last
And know I loved and gave a life for her!
And yet 'twere nobler—aye, an hundredfold—
To die in silence, to defy two deaths:
Death of the body, death of earthly fame.
Why should I mar the pureness of my gift
By culling roses ready for my crown?
Why should I let her know at what expense
Her love was bought for her? Ah! she would weep!
And yet if I am giving up my life,
Why should I get no recompense of hope?
What less do I deserve to gild my death
Than certain hope that she will hear my deed?
I could not die unheard: I could not die,
Her thinking me a lackey over-rude;
For sure she must have noticed how I spoke
And dared not leave her presence, take my eyes
For the last time, from off her glorious face;
And then the glove—she must have missed the glove.
23
Argue no more: I cannot die unheard.
I must write something to my lady once
That she may think of me when I am gone.
I'll tell her how I loved her, how I longed,
The last time I should see her living face,
To bare my burning breastful to her heart
And own my love that she might pardon it.
I'll tell her that I die for her, not him:
That I consider me the better man
And one more fitted to bring on the birth
Of what there may be—if aught worth there is—
Still hidden in the stormy womb of time.
I'll ask her too to pardon me the lie
With which I cheated her to write to him,
And pray her solemnly to see that nought
Be wanting to my mother's waning age.
(A pause: he writes.)I must write something to my lady once
That she may think of me when I am gone.
I'll tell her how I loved her, how I longed,
The last time I should see her living face,
To bare my burning breastful to her heart
And own my love that she might pardon it.
I'll tell her that I die for her, not him:
That I consider me the better man
And one more fitted to bring on the birth
Of what there may be—if aught worth there is—
Still hidden in the stormy womb of time.
I'll ask her too to pardon me the lie
With which I cheated her to write to him,
And pray her solemnly to see that nought
Be wanting to my mother's waning age.
Lo: it is done—my first one and my last—
My earliest love-confession, yet my will.
To think she can not read it ere the end,
Till body and soul are severed and undone
And all the purpled saw-dust oozes through
With what now pulses at my heart and brow.
I am not cheated: it is hard to die.
God welded soul and body into one,
Which, not without some trouble, men divide.
(A pause.)My earliest love-confession, yet my will.
To think she can not read it ere the end,
Till body and soul are severed and undone
And all the purpled saw-dust oozes through
With what now pulses at my heart and brow.
24
God welded soul and body into one,
Which, not without some trouble, men divide.
O God! am I aright in doing this?
Is life one's own that one may fling it down?
And do I not deceive myself to death?
There is a glamour in uncommon deeds,
A spurious halo of heroic buff,
That cheats one into things he would repent.
What claim has she, with all her glorious face,
To take my mother's place in all my thoughts?
Poor mother! Am I right to leave you thus?—
You who have borne me, loved me, love me still,
To leave you lonely in this bitter world
Gnawing the crust of arid beggary,
Because this haughty demozel is fair
And rustled down a darkened corridor,
With greenish glimmers playing here and there
Upon the changeful texture of her dress?
Is life one's own that one may fling it down?
And do I not deceive myself to death?
There is a glamour in uncommon deeds,
A spurious halo of heroic buff,
That cheats one into things he would repent.
What claim has she, with all her glorious face,
To take my mother's place in all my thoughts?
Poor mother! Am I right to leave you thus?—
You who have borne me, loved me, love me still,
To leave you lonely in this bitter world
Gnawing the crust of arid beggary,
Because this haughty demozel is fair
And rustled down a darkened corridor,
With greenish glimmers playing here and there
Upon the changeful texture of her dress?
I wonder, had she worne a diffr'ent silk
And not shone so to me on that first day
Should I have loved—should I be set for death?
And is it thus, O mother, I depart?
Because the painted dame donned lucent silks,
That glimmered still from oriental suns
And still breathed foreign perfumes, wierd and strange—
Is it for this I leave you, mother dear?
Can this be right? and yet can this be wrong?
Is it not strange? Now Justice tells one: ‘live’;
And it is interest bids me answer: ‘die’.
Is it the case I die to please myself,
To throw a larger shadow on her mind.
As further objects do, between the light;
And do not offer up my life and heart
And all I wish for, all I hoped to be,
Upon the thorny altar of my love?
If we could but believe our hearts!
(A pause.)And not shone so to me on that first day
Should I have loved—should I be set for death?
25
Because the painted dame donned lucent silks,
That glimmered still from oriental suns
And still breathed foreign perfumes, wierd and strange—
Is it for this I leave you, mother dear?
Can this be right? and yet can this be wrong?
Is it not strange? Now Justice tells one: ‘live’;
And it is interest bids me answer: ‘die’.
Is it the case I die to please myself,
To throw a larger shadow on her mind.
As further objects do, between the light;
And do not offer up my life and heart
And all I wish for, all I hoped to be,
Upon the thorny altar of my love?
If we could but believe our hearts!
In vain!
I write the letter telling her of this.
(A pause: he writes.)I write the letter telling her of this.
The weary night is surely over now.
(Draws aside the blind.
Yes, in the east the faint new day is born
And broadens on the sky. Already, see,
The light must be approaching our old house
Upon the purple hill, above the firth;
And he, that lives in't now, will see
The new day walking on the morning waves,
With wandering squalls and tags of rugged mist
And streaks of wind-blown rain beside the west,
Chased back before the white-heat line of dawn.
To wake my mother or to let her sleep?
One thing is sure: I must be going soon,
Lest people mark my bearing on the street.
Ha! see how we impute our thoughts to all!
Since all the world seems changed to me, I think
I must seem changed to all the world in turn.
Am I not taller? Yesternight I stooped,
And now I belly forth a martial chest,
And look the liker him I have to act.
O! O! my mother! must I leave you thus?
My darling mother—thus—without a word?
Ah Henrietta, know you what you do?
My God, my God I fear my strength will fail!
What? weeping? Ah I must begone at once.
Adieu my mother! God preserve you, dear,
Since I am base enough to fail my trust!
—Stay! I would look upon her once again—
Or hear her breathing even!
(Draws aside the blind.
Yes, in the east the faint new day is born
And broadens on the sky. Already, see,
26
Upon the purple hill, above the firth;
And he, that lives in't now, will see
The new day walking on the morning waves,
With wandering squalls and tags of rugged mist
And streaks of wind-blown rain beside the west,
Chased back before the white-heat line of dawn.
To wake my mother or to let her sleep?
One thing is sure: I must be going soon,
Lest people mark my bearing on the street.
Ha! see how we impute our thoughts to all!
Since all the world seems changed to me, I think
I must seem changed to all the world in turn.
Am I not taller? Yesternight I stooped,
And now I belly forth a martial chest,
And look the liker him I have to act.
O! O! my mother! must I leave you thus?
My darling mother—thus—without a word?
Ah Henrietta, know you what you do?
My God, my God I fear my strength will fail!
What? weeping? Ah I must begone at once.
Adieu my mother! God preserve you, dear,
Since I am base enough to fail my trust!
27
Or hear her breathing even!
Hark! she stirs.
God bless you mother, and forgive your son.
God bless you mother, and forgive your son.
| Monmouth A Tragedy | |