The Solitary, and other poems With The Cavalier, a play. By Charles Whitehead |
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 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
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.
| The Solitary, and other poems | |