University of Virginia Library

A MOTHER'S BLESSING:

A Dramatic Poem.

PERSONS.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations for major characters are as follows:

• For Fr. Cl. read Friar Clement
• For Arth. read Arthur
• For Shep. read Shepherdess
• For Ed. read Edgar
• For Roth. read Rothmond
• For Orp. read Orpah

• ROTHMOND.
• EDGAR.
• ARTHUR.
• FRIAR CLEMENT.
• ORPAH.
• EDITH.
• A SHEPHERDESS.
• A MAD WOMAN.
• ROBBERS.

Scenes laid in Scotland, before the Reformation.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—Friar Clement's Cell.
Friar Clement.
If I were young; if thus I sought to train
My youth to duty, shielding it from cares,
And from their possible blight, 'twere all unwise;
For comes exposure, then the tender-reared
Is like the lithe dull sickly grass that grows
'Midst thorns, without the knots and the short joints
Of strength; its shelter reft, livid it curls
And dies if once the wrinkled east-wind blow.
But I am old: I owe the world alone
The example of a putting-off of cares.
Yet not austerely all, it may be done
With soothing foretastes, won from joy still mine
To feel the beauty of heaven-lighted earth.
Up in the sunny crystal air high hanging,
The mountain woods green glistening of the May;
The snowy cygnet by the borders dwelling
Of lucid waters; to the sight upheaving
Aye the fresh swelling sea; the pastoral hills
Dappled with shadows, as the cloudy heavens
Go bowing over them; day's dying glories,—
These all are mine; then hushed and decent eve,
Spirit-tempering stillness, or the sound of winds
Going among the high tops of the trees.
Then, with her moon forth comes the old solemn Night,
Or starry-studded in her dark apparel;
Then, blame unknown, and fear, stern soul-compellers,
Sweet is my sleep within unquestioned doors.
And thus the old man of God—such peace is won
From the dear healing of Christ's wounded side—
Keeping the eternal sabbath of the heart,
Creeps up the quiet unmolested hill
Of Contemplation to the high pure climes,
Where the cleansed creatures in white vestments walk,
With unimagined beauty on their faces.
[He advances to Arthur, lying asleep in a corner, and wipes his brow.
Christ ease the trouble which lies very heavy
On the distressed hinges of that heart!

Arthur
(awaking).
Thou man of God, where is she?

Fr. Cl.
Who?

Arth.
My sister.
Ha! dreams and mockery all! My poor drowned sister!

Fr. Cl.
Your wounds wax well: a little farther rest,
And you shall rise repaired.

Arth.
Ay; and cast off
The withered slough of my remembered being,
And forth come fresh and lubric as the spots
And slippery rings of the unsheathed tender serpent?
Shall sleep do this? Were I a thousand times
Dipped in the wholesome waters of the sea,
Could it do this? Or do you mean to give
The dull black wine of death, if that may do it?
Had I no sister had; were not my mother
A beggar going o'er the windy hills,
Fain for a piece of bread to stumble through
The sightless dark, or wandering by the stars,
I might be well perhaps. But—mock me not,
My soul is very sorrowful to death.

Fr. Cl.
My dear young stranger—

Arth.
Ha! that name upbraids me;
'Tis just that thou shouldst know me, and thou shalt.

[Arthur rises up and clothes himself with his mantle.
Fr. Cl.
Nay then, what do you mean? Sure, not to go?

Arth.
I'm well. I go. But hear me ere I go.
Rothmond perhaps you know: hard by he dwells
In the stern pride of his ancestral towers.
My father Edgar was his eldest son.
He wed my mother of a gentle line,
But now brought low. Fierce was my grandsire's wrath,
And forth he kept them from his house and love;
Adopting as his heir his second son,
Last of his issue, to uphold his name.
Be it so, then! My father was a man
To make a worthy house unto himself.
Steady and bold forth went he to achieve
His fortune on the seas, leaving his wife
With his twin children, Edith and myself.
We heard of him no more: we mourned him lost.
Scant grew our means. Now then for me to do!
The Western World was found: thither I'll go,
Gold and renown I'll win: thither I went.
We saw the boundless forests summer-swathed;
And the great rivers, call them issuing seas,
With painted people on their idle shores.
Our souls were up: we fought from land to land.
Renown I won, and gold—gold for my mother's house.
But now, ah me! in my wild whirl of life,
Caught by a love not wise, absorbed and blind,
My duties were forgot; mother and sister,
To these I sent no tidings and no help:
Nor—this I since have learned—had they received
What in my just days I had sent to them.
Loosened from love by a heart-wrenching shock,
I hastened home; our home was desolate:
My sister had been sick; my mother forth
Begs for her, breadless. Shew me, tragic night,
When things unholy walk, and monstrous fears
Lay siege to the soul of man, a wo to match
That gracious mother out, when the gray cloud
Of years has gathered on her stricken head,
Standing in narrow lanes to ask an alms,
Weeping for me, and driven from haughty gates,
Hungry yet grudging, for her hungry child,
The morsel trembling to her own thin lips!
But where that child? Down by the river brink
Edith is out for health. I sought her there.
Far through the woody glade I saw her met
By a dark youth: I knew him to be Hulin,
The kinsman, far removed, of Rothmond's house;
But who, since Rothmond's second son was dead,
And that son's son, had been by him adopted.
I saw him turn and walk by Edith's side—
Help, man of God! she's gone! the sudden fiend
Has pushed her o'er the near precipitous bank.
The interval was as a flashing dream,
Till down the river's rock-tormented gulfs
Whirling I wrestled with their strangling strength—
In vain; the flood had swept her to the sea,
Ne'er to be found by me, though day and night
I sought her body on the barren shore.

Fr. Cl.
Can this be real? or is it but a thing
Shaped from the surf of thy young brain o'erwrought?

Arth.
My eyes, and head, and heart grew cool and clear,
Sheer onward bent. The villain fled away
From swift instinctive terror of my quest;
But it was deadly, deadly! Not high hills
Dividing kingdoms, blistered worlds of sand,
Rivers, nor fens, nor ocean many-voiced
Betwixt us, shall divide us; through the pangs
Of earthquake, through the twilight of eclipse,
Wading through blood, through fire, shall I o'ertake him,
Throughout the spinning reek of the high storms!
Back to this region came he—I came back.
Glory at last! we met: you know the rest?

Fr. Cl.
Abroad one afternoon, I saw the winds
Fall on the vexèd forest of old pines,
Oft tearing up with all their cracking spurs
The enormous trees; the cloak-wrapped traveller,
Dismounting, scudded down the blowing steep
With his oft-rearing horse, and hasted on;
A tear rose in the wild wind's eye; rains fell
Flooding the world; I sought a sheltering tower
Shattered with years and ruin, there I sate
From its lorn windows looking far and wide.
I saw two enemies meet; their swords are crossed;
Starkly one falls; the other reels above him,
Staggering recovers, plants his foot, stoops, lifts
His fallen adversary, bears him on,
Stands on the rock that overhangs the river,
And from his breast dashes him over—down.
Ha! no, he has not followed; but he lies,
Where he has fainted, o'er the cliff half drawn.
Thence I recovered you.

Arth.
But not so him,
Destroyer of my sister! From these hands
Heaved, the great waters whelmed him, they devoured him.
His head, his feet, are away to the deep sea,
Rolling commingled: Ne'er his bones shall rest;
Just Nature ne'er will let his little bones
Repose in the sad clefts of the sea-caves:
Them shall the under eddies hunt about,
And bleach to nothing the mean relics!

Fr. Cl.
Nay,
This vengeful pride—

Arth.
My pride is at an end.
Yea, from this night, this hour, I swear to you,
In foul attire—my punishment and penance—
Laying upon me what my mother bore,
To wander forth in life's distressful ways,
As she has wandered, till I find her out
Living, or learn on what dull bed she died.
I owe thee this, my mother; I have been
Heedless of thee too long, avenging Edith.

Fr. Cl.
Fain would I bid thee fear not for thy mother,
Fain say it cannot be she begs her bread;
But since we dare not mark with bounds precise
The chastening discipline of Heavenly love,
I will but say I have at least a hope
Of good reserved for her, even in this world,
Whate'er her present lot—a hope derived
From the consummate beauty of her life,
But more especially from her filial youth,
Which won with such solemnities of awe,
So laid, so pressed, so sealed upon her head,
A Mother's Blessing.

Arth.
Did you know her then?

Fr. Cl.
Yes. In an eastern dale, where then I dwelt,
There did I see thy mother Orpah first.
'Twas on a summer eve: a shower had fallen;
Forth flushed the yellow sun; hedges and trees
Twinkled with drops of light; again abroad,
The noisy children waded in the gilt
And shallow pools; the birds sang in the leaves;
And cocks crowed lightly from the reeking farms.
Forth from her cottage came an old blind woman,
Whose hoary hair, smooth parted on her brow,
Was like the blossom of the almond-tree.
Her right hand leant upon a staff, her left
Was on a fair girl's shoulder: with slow steps
Measured, the damsel led her to a seat
Beside a small white dial on the green;
And there they sate in the illumined eve.
But aye the maiden rose, seeing some flower
Moist gleaming in the grass, simple but sweet,
And gathered it, and brought it to her mother
That she might smell it—for she was her mother.
The violet for its smell, the scentless wildings
She plucked them for their beauty, crimson-tipped,
Or dropped with gold; and, sitting by her mother,
With delicate freaks of fancy and of love,
Quaintly she put them in her dear white hair.
Trembled that blind old woman with the weight
Of a full heart, o'erburdened with its blessing;
She laid her hand upon her daughter's head,
And praying to the shining light of God,
Which lighted all her face:—“My own true child!
Orpah, my last! child of my blood and heart!
I'll bless thee now: Our good Lord Christ uphold thee
All thy dear life; and, past the grave's deep sleep,
Wake in His careful everlasting arms!”
Such was A Mother's Blessing on thy mother.

Arth.
That faithful child! dear fountain of my life!

Fr. Cl.
How could I fail to mark her from that hour?
The light step, the meek grace, the watchful love
With which she went about her mother's house,
Feeding, sustaining, cheering that old parent,
Reft of her husband, and twelve other children,
And having only this ewe lamb of love
To lie in her bosom, were to me divine.
Up lightly rose she, ere the lark arose
O'er the wide frosty meadows of the spring,
To do her careful work. The summer eve
Shone sweetly on her, as she sate and knit
By her old mother on the lowly bed
Of chamomile, or neighbouring woodland seat,
Loving the green society of trees.
Still was the autumn day: that mother lone
Sate in her house, which now was dark to her;
But in her busy fancy aye she heard
The laughing voices and the running feet
Of children, filling all the house with life,
As in the days gone by, till came anew
The aching sense of present desolation,
And up she rose and felt with trembling hands
The old familiar things, to be assured
She still was dwelling in her early home;
Then, groping forth upon her staff she stood
Long hours beneath the humming sycamore,
Listening the far-off shouts of happy children,
Gleaning by fits, but oftener idly climbing
The mountain-ashes round the harvest field,
Gathering wild hips, and running here and there
To drink from shaded wells with pipes of straw.
Alas! she saw them not, but there she listened,
Till came her little gleaner home at eve,
Orpah, still working for her mother's bread.
Nor less when winter came that daughter wrought,
Spinning into the watches of the night,
So dutiful, that I have often deemed
Light Fairy hands took up the weary thread
From her still fingers, overta'en by sleep,
After the careful day and busy eve,
And spun for her who spun for her old mother.
Thus dignified by duty she upgrew
A stately, beautiful, and deep-souled woman.
But mark again The Blessing:—
Forth as I walked one sultry summer noon,
A cloud came sailing up against the wind,
Smothering the day; a grim and breathless silence
Sunk on the moors; creatures of earth and air
Seemed all withdrawn, save where the shifting wings
Of stormy sea-birds in the dun light, seen
Close coming o'er the mountains in their gloom,
Relieved the startled cloud with twinkling glimpses;
Moaned the wild caves; down all at once a wind
Came whewing from the hollow of the hill,
Lashing as with a whip the dreary rushes;
Big drops of rain fell scattered; forthwith burst
The flagrant lightnings and deep-bellied thunder.
But Orpah's cot was near, and gave me shelter,
There sate the virgin in her darkened house
Scarce seen, and sewed with many solemn tears
Her dying mother's shroud. The aged Christian
Sate up within her bed, and called her daughter;
And o'er her bowing low, “God's storms,” she said,
“Are in the wide heavens, but His peace is here.
Bless thee, my child! thy love to me has been
Above the love of women, very great.
I go from thee, my lamb; but grieve not, fear not,
I leave thee on the fatherhood of God:
Through thunders loud, and many mighty waters,
He'll bear thee up: Our good Lord Christ uphold thee
All thy dear life; and, past the grave's deep sleep,
Wake in His careful everlasting arms!”
She said, and died. That moment from the cloud,
Wide rifted, came a glory of the sun,
Filling with sudden light that saintly bed,
Illumining that head serene in death,
And that young mourner, and her glistening tears,
As with a radiance from the face of God,
Bearing the assurance of His love divine.

Arth.
Go on: Oh tell me all her precious life.

Fr. Cl.
Thy father, hunting in those eastern dales,
Saw her, and, learning all her virtues, loved her,
And wed her in his passion, calm but deep.
I joyed to make them one. Long years passed by,
And we were far apart. Back then I came
To end my days here in my native dale.
Straightway I sought their dwelling: Near it sate
A damsel, on the cold autumnal eve,
By a small fountain in its rocky shell,
Fed from the crystal veins of a huge cliff
All moist and black above; a ruffled redbreast,
His jetty eye turned to the yellow west,
Trilled on the bare top of a small near tree,
By her unheard; nor when her urn o'erbubbled
With sweet clear water did she go away,
But sat looking afar to the wide west,
While many a tear fell from her glazèd eyes,
Aye mingling with the cold blue drops that, slipping
From the green fringes of the rock, were blown
Against her cheek by the wind, as steadfastly
She looked for one that came not—Will he come?
Nay, will they come? for thou wert also gone:
This was thy sister Edith, looking far
For thee and for thy father—so I learned
As on she took me to her mother's house.
I saw them oft. Your father and yourself
They mourned as lost, all else seemed well with them.
Some months ago grief-stricken Edith pined.
I too was sick, and failed a while to see them;
Nor have I seen them since. Woe's me for Edith!
As for your mother, fear not, her we'll find.

Arth.
For this I go: farewell. But I'll be back,
Lest blame be thine to have helped the homicide.

[Exit Arthur.
Friar Clement stands a while looking out of his door.
Fr. Cl.
Would he were back! we'll have a night of storms,
Worse than the watery day, so warm and heavy,
Closing now down on the fat oozing earth.
Up the low channels of the rivers lie
Rank mists, or creep into the shuddering woods.
From his dull cot the peasant looking forth,
Starts as the rushing of sonorous rain
Comes o'er the border fells; the thunder growls
Far in the south, and rolls its burden round
On the black heavy chambers of the west:
Blind smothering fears come o'er him; shrinking half,
Half looking still throughout the struggling twilight,
He sees, or fancies in the low-hung clouds,
A thousand shapes that blast the unwholesome night
By cave, blue forest, or wide moorish fen;
And hastes to bolt his door, and bless his peaceful bed.

[Friar Clement retires into an inner cell.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—A Moor, with Sheep feeding on it.
Enter Arthur and a Shepherdess, meeting.
Arth.
Happy are you, my pretty Shepherdess,
So far and clear came your song o'er the wild.
Blush of young blood! come tell me now how you
Can be so happy in these listless places,
Where nought is to be seen the livelong day,
But peevish stone-chats bobbing on the stone,
And solitary men in far-off mosses.

Shep.
Ay, but these thriving sheep, and lambs at play,
Are not these something? And glad summer days?

Arth.
And health? And innocence? And those young eyes,
With going through the light and through the air,
As ether pure that feeds the vivid stars,
So beautifully sharp? And peace and love
Found in the wilderness? I stand reproved.
Forth come you singing through the morning gleam,
Over the purple acres of the moorland.
Nor know you grief, save when a lost lamb makes
Pity's sweet drops slide from your crystal eyes.
Nor fear is yours save when, at lurid noon,
Bursting the thunder rattles on the hills,—
Short-lived, for you are innocent: Up you spring,
Your mind serenely brightening as the day.
If slow to you lingers the golden eve,
You sit you down and watch your desert clock,
Counting the clear beads of the glassy wells,
Peace still producing peace; until what time,
Their glittering breasts suffused with rosy air,
The high doves homeward to their windows shoot,
You seek your cottage by some flowery shaw,
And night's deep sleep receives you from the day.
Thrice fortunate Shepherdess! did you but know
What he before you is; how desolate she,
He wanders seeking! What's yon form? A woman?

Shep.
A poor lorn creature, somewhat crazed in mind,
Who all the day follows the silly sheep
Over the quiet fells, gathering the locks
Of wool, to work in the low winter nights.

Arth.
God keep her! I must see her: has she been
Beautiful in her youth?—but that's long past!

Shep.
Never even comely, but she can't help that.

Arth.
'Tis not my mother. Maiden, I seek my mother.
Cities I've searched for her, the wild sea-shores,
Rough quarries idle, dreary fens of rushes,
Forests, and wide unprofitable moors;
Oft looking for her into pools of rivers.
But last night, when the rains fell heavily,
I saw a form on the dun plashy wild
Wearily, wearily going; fast I ran,
But in a moment she had disappeared,
And there was nothing on the wide flat waste.
My senses are bewildered! Yet I'll seek her,
Though I should light a candle and go search.
Damsel, her name is Orpah; if you find her
Wandering this way, tell her I seek her thus,
And Father Clement's is my resting-place.
I've bid the people of a thousand hills
Do this for me; travellers before the sun,
Wayfaring men that in the twilight haste,
Unquestioned pass not: surely at last we'll find her.
I'll be back soon; keep watch, and I will bless you.

Shep.
Trust me for that.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene II.

—A Pathway through the Corn-fields, by a River's side.
Friar Clement.
Fr. Cl.
How each division of the plastic soil
Wears the true livery of its master's nature!
Were then the lords of earth but wise and gentle,
Our land might be a watered garden, full
Of blameless people and of all good fruits,
As in the glad days of the Golden Age.
Here dwells the owner of a wide domain,
'Mong his own people, as his fathers dwelt,
Remote from strife, in patriarchal ease,
Living and letting live; and so his farms,
Lusty and rough with bearded crops of bread,
As in earth's virgin and spontaneous years,
Swarm with free life, and health, and happiness.
For, look and see it; ay, and bless the sight!
Now are the days of wheat and barley harvest:
The reapers' hooks glint on the yellow uplands;
Whoop little gleaners; many barking dogs,
And the rough jingling of the farmer's wain
Hurrying afield adown the loosened slope,
Or homeward creaking through the sandy lane
Of dwarf elms feathered to the very heels,
Make up the cheerful din; nor wants the hum
Of mealy beggar eating by the hedge.
The stack-yard rises. Here the sturdy swain,
His pitchfork o'er his shoulder, with his sleeve
Wipes from his brow the honourable sweat,
As burns the glistering sun, rather than shines,
Through a white gummy veil, say of thick air,
Rather than clouds, filling with sweltering heat
The day, as from an oven. There his boys,
Fair-haired and flushed, shake the meek orchard, down
Showering the pattering apples on the ground;
Wild laughing girls gather them up in baskets.
But look across that narrow-running river,
And see another and contrasted scene:—
The grange, untenanted, sinks to decay.
Low comes the swallow through the shattered pane,
Where not of wood, or stuffed with an old hat.
The sheds are littered with the mingled straw
And rags of haunting gipsies: on the handle
Of the dismantled pump-well fluttering stripes
Of blankets hang. Yon cowering sheep diseased
In its dull corner, rank with nettle-wands
And seeded docks, has barked with tooth unwholesome
The scurfy stunted fruit-trees in the place
That was an orchard once, leaving its tufts
Of cankering wool upon the red peeled stumps.
O'er the wide thistly lands no form of life
Is seen, save where some solitary man,
Feeble and old, goes sauntering, filling up
With stakes the gaps of the unthriving hedges.
They show an owner harsh or ill at ease,
These lands unsightly: they are Rothmond's lands.

Enter Arthur.
Arth.
If blame there be, I'm here.

Fr. Cl.
No man has brought
A charge against you: be at ease for this.

Arth.
At ease! O hermit, coming through last eve,
I saw the lovely daughters of the land
Walking on terraces and on balconies
In the rich light, with stringèd instruments,
Oft looking o'er the meads delectable,
At the fair children wading in the grass,
Pulling the wild flowers' spotted bells. Down fluttered
The airy creatures through the mellow orchards,
Gathering the golden apples in the sunset,
Beautiful, walking in the prosperous trees.
How I wept for my sister and my mother!
Why were they not in this glad light of day
All-happy too? That dear young sister lies
Whelmed in sad waters, wo is unto me!
And where's my mother? I have found her not,
Though I have sought her from the simple hills
Down to the city dens where huddled lie
Age, Vice, and Guilt, babes in their milkless wail,
And all the crooked family of Pain.
The very lazar-house I have not missed;
Nor the strait mad-house, searching it throughout
The groans and blasphemies of disjointed spirits,
Laughter unbounded, strokes, and many cries.
Shade of my mother, if thou'rt dead, hear this!
If living, weary creature, where art thou?
Oh! all the hoards of thy exhaustless heart,
Heaped on my boyhood, turned to fruitless ashes!
Thou livedst to think thy one son did forsake thee!
O'er melancholy hills, by moonlight hedges
Wandering, the thought filled thy astonished heart;
And tears for this did moisten thy frail bread.
Then lying low on thy strange bed of death,
Oft didst thou raise thy head—it ne'er was I;
Day or night never came I unto thee.
Wild world of man! what next? what have we here?

[Mad Martha runs shrieking down the river's side, looking into it.
Fr. Cl.
The Woman of the River, poor mad Martha.
Forth from the outcast chambers of the rocks,
Where windy mists whistle through their forced rifts,
Issues the haggard creature with a scream,
Wringing her hands, down to the river's brink.
Her eyes intently fixed upon its flow,
Fast she outruns the current, bending oft
To scan the black depths of the wheeling pool;
Nor seldom plunging in she wades the stream.
What looks she for? Some years ago, she nursed
An orphan, Rothmond's grandson and sole heir:
Too near that river on a sultry day
Heedless she slept; awakened by a cry,
There was her young charge rolling down the wave!
She shrieked, she sprung, she plunged, she snatched at him,
In vain; he perished, and she scarce was saved
From death, to be the maniac that you see.
Vain was forgiveness, pity, care; by day
Resting, nor yet by night, with piercing prayers
She sought her nursling from the fatal flood.
Nor when the love of friends removed her far,
That she might rest from the forgotten scene,
Was she at peace; back to her yearning haunt
O'er moors she ran, and solitary hills,
As with the instinct of a thing bereaved.
Hers the wild benefit of the cave, she sleeps
Her fitful sleep, then hurries to that bank
Through all the seasons of the changeful year.
If down the current pass a floating rag,
Her heart absorbed o'erfills her dazzled eyes,
Blind from their very eagerness of gaze;
Stumbling she runs down the unequal shore,
Screaming:—“'Tis he! 'tis he!” God pity her!
She would not give his bleachèd little cheek
For all the living things of this great world.

Arth.
Poor faithful one! But take me to thy place;
There where clear thoughts and holy quiet be,
I'll rest one night, and rise unto my quest.

Fr. Cl.
Come then, my son.

Arth.
Would I, like thee, were anchored
At peace within some little hermitage.
Oh blessed they who wisely musing turn
To sweetest uses all the forms of nature;
Whether young Spring, the leafy architect,
Is in the woods and builds her green device;
Or genial Summer melts her gracious cloud,
Dropping down fatness on the earth's glad furrows,
Swelling the young wheat with the milk of bread,
With sweet warm liquor cleaving the moist hoods
Of bursting flowers that live i' the purfled meadows;
Or costly Autumn shears her yellow crofts;
Or Winter, slinging his fierce hail about,
Thrashes as with a flail the forests bare!
War, Famine, Pestilence, tell them their design;
The Earthquake shows the secret of her mine;
To them the Comet his wan hair unbinds;
They know the errands of the mighty winds;
The thunder-stone; and meteors of the storms,
That plough the dark night with their fiery forms.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—Friar Clement's Cell.
Friar Clement is discovered reading by the light of his lamp.
Arth.
(awaking from his bed in a corner).
What hour is't, holy Sir?

Fr. Cl.
The faintest gray
Is in the east. Rest thee. Sleep is for Youth,
While Age is up with the bird. I'll waken thee
When the day comes upon the mountain-tops.

Arth.
Say rather that this mortal state of ours
Has nothing better than this soothing rest,
And I'll believe thee, and lie still. O life!
Even there where dwell the old simplicities
In country places, heaviness of heart
Dwells with them. Try we boyhood: is it happy?
Over the tufted common yonder comes
A rural thing, and as he comes he sings.
Springing upon his staff, he overleaps
The blossomed whins, light as the morning lark.
Along the glistening herbage audibly eat
His cows, nor wander yet; so with his dog
Wide running he can leave them at their will.
The grasshoppers that from his brushing shoon
Start all around away like jointed sparks,
He heeds not; climbing to the hermit well,
That with its clear eye and green floating beard
Looks from the eastern-sided hill, and sees
The early sun: slipping in crystal drops,
The beautiful water trickles sliding down
The polished rushes, freshening with cold bubbles
The vivid grass below. Down on his knee,
That feels the chillness of the oozing moisture,
Bending he drinks; then to the velvet turf
Of Sabbath pathway leading o'er the hills
Hastes; sitting there he carves the lettered sod,
Till fancy has her fill. But now o'ercast,
The changeful Autumn day brings o'er his heart
An equal gloom, so vacant are his hours,
His task so slight to turn the wandering kine,
Running behind his dog that barks against
The blowing wind. What time the shepherd comes
Down from the hill, he sucks his gurgling bottle,
Draining the milk. What next shall be his sport?
The wild bees, flying high and straight away,
Alight not to be caught on the dry moor;
The year's last butterflies sit dull and tarnished
On dewless flowers, not worthy to be ta'en;
Oft has he made the urchin swim the pool,
But now before him laid the prickly clew
Unheeded stirs, and shows his cautious nose;
The rushes white and green are pulled and platted;
His knife lies idle by the listless branch;
His crammed dog gambols not; there are no more
Rabbits to snare; and he is tired of hunting
The slender weasels in the mossy dikes.
Then is he wretched: to the distant road
He runs to ask the traveller what's the hour;
He sees the far-off children, from the tree
He shouts to them—they hear or heed him not.
Long hours till evening! then he loses heart;
The tears are in his eyes; he lays him down
Wrapped in his plaid, and sobs beneath the hedge
To the cold shuddering sough that creeps through it,
And the shrill shrew-mouse running through the grass.
So much for boyhood.
Try we next the swain,
Whose life be-praised palls through each rhyming ballad:—
If dry the summer, heaven is bound with brass,
Ne'er to be loosened by the slipping rains;
His pastures languish; crops! you might as well
Upbind a torch in every harvest sheaf.
Fat showers have fallen: he on his upland crofts
With knowing stride steps through his bearded rye,
His silky barley waving whitely green,
His wheaten hollows with their blessed spikes,
His beans, his vetches, his pea-blossomed leas;
Yet, standing in a sea of corn, he talks
Of darnel, thistles, poppies, corn-rose, charlock,
With rueful stories of the slavering Spring
Rotting his seed—is thankless and unpleased.
Canker and care! vanity all! Let's sleep!
Father, 'twere best to sleep!

Fr. Cl.
'Twill draw from sleep
A fresher dew, to bear upon thy heart
The picture, counter to thy peevish swain,
Of happy labour in the moonlit yard,
We saw last night—a rustling harvest night.
The wain, subduedly creaking, prest with sheaves,
Shadowy came on along the glittering road,
Whose ruts with sable silver were all polished.
The low-hung moon upon the southern fell,
Skirting the doddered trees, poured her wide light.
The shepherd lad home coming from the hill,
With his clear whistle, overleapt the dike,
And tumbling, rose laughing from the crushed ferns
Through the pure bracing night, to join the maidens
That with their gleesome laughter at his cost
Made all the barn-yard echo. Round his stack
Half-built, with keen eye went the husbandman,
And with his pitchfork nicely fashioned it.
Forth from it came he, and stood widely off
As came his crushing wain: heavily swayed,
Turning it cast a sheaf; this, from the door
His chubby boy forth sallying seized and raised
With toil unfeigned, and mimic pantings loud;
Half bearing it, half trailing it, he drew
The wheaten burden, bigger than himself,
And fell upon it at his father's feet.
No lot of man but has its side of light.

Arth.
Come now, the beggar, can you speak for him,
Or rather her? Nay, let us draw a veil
Over poor outcast mothers—we'll say him.
Yon gray scarred man, he fought his country's battles;
And his reward is—leave to beg his bread
Throughout the thankless land he helped to save.
The cross winds vex his head; the sulphurous gloom,
Riven by the flaming wedges of the thunder,
Bursts on his blinded face. O'er hungry heaths,
By moorland farms, wandering, and lonely mills,
He finds his shelter, and his dole of food,
In some permitted nook. There now he sits,
With many a stealthy glance at the big dame
Who ranges through the house, and scolds her maids
The louder for her hospitality:
This feels the old man, as demure he sits,
Eating his little portion noiselessly.
Nor loses he the chance when, thanks repaid,
Her mitigated voice comes from the pantry;
Forth steals he modestly, still further glad
To pass unroused the mastiff's half-shut eye;
The gate behind him clanks not; nor he stops,
Nor turns to look till he has gained the road.
This is the best the beggar's life can boast of,
The very best; for we have given him bread,
Where many starve: Ah, wo is me for them!
And thou, the mother of my blood and being,
Forgive this sorry idleness of speech!
Why am I here? There goes the gleam of morn,
And I must work.

[Arthur springs up, prepared to set out.
Fr. Cl.
Nay, then, here be our apples,
Honey, and cakes; we'll eat in the sweet air,
And I'll go on with you a little way.

[Exit Arthur, followed by Friar Clement with a small basket.

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The Outskirts of a Forest.
Enter Arthur.
Arth.
Boreas, bleak chamberlain, that mak'st my bed,
Robbing the elms, thou art the kindest fellow
In all the north.

[He lies down, and sleeps among leaves at the root of a tree.
Enter Edgar.
Ed.
Orpah, and ye twin children of my heart,
Am I not near you now? Oh, are they living,
Or are they dead? (Discovering Arthur.)
A man among the leaves?
Asleep unsheltered on an eve like this?
Up, friend. Why thus? What are you?

Arth.
(starting up).
One self-doomed;
In festering cities, burrowing down through all
The spawn of Sin that quickens in the night;
Making me fellow with the freckled children,
Brood o' the wild hedge-nurse; with swarming beggars;
Strollers; infesting gipsies; roaring sailors;
With blind, gnarled, sun-bronzed minstrels; sly, lame creatures,
Tender of foot as is the borrowed horse,
But swift before the beggar-compelling baton;
With remnant soldiers of old wars; with jugglers;
Lunatics; wandering boys; all homeless things;
All furious outcasts; all degraded bastards;—
With these oft sheltered 'neath the howling bridge,
In barns wind-visited, or in dull vaults,
Where drop upon your sleepless eyes rank sweats
From leathern wings of filthy flitter-mice,
Half-formed, and clustering in a blistered stew
About the roof.

Ed.
Your words are all too wild,
Wild as your bed.

Arth.
This bed! I'll sleep no more
In such dry luxury: I'm on my way
Down to the low damp forest, where the peeled,
Fat, clammy ground for ever reeks; the rill
Scarce soaks its way through the dead choking leaves;
Where the toad, gross and lazy, squatted sits
Amidst the soapy fungi, and distends
The spotted leather of his wrinkled throat
With minute puffs from his asthmatic lungs.
There let me sleep, or in the marish-pool!
What right have I to all these good dry leaves,
When those I love, my manly father first,
Are lying in the bottom of the seas,
And in the rivers, and—I know not where!
Where, mother, where? The flickering west's blown out;
Day's gone to bed: Where wanders, or where lies
That good gray head? Come to me, good gray head!
Grave stranger, fare thee well.

[Exit Arthur.
Ed.
There is a savage riot in his words,
From some great stress of mind. Bear must we all.

[Exit.

Scene II.

—Friar Clement's Cell.
Friar Clement—Enter Rothmond.
Roth.
Peace! Man of God, I come
With other thoughts than in my days of pride.
Rumours have reached me that my grandson Arthur
Is in these parts, and that you know of him.
Would I could find him!

Fr. Cl.
Wandering round, he seeks
His mother still in filial hope, in penance,
In the wild luxury of self-abasement.

Roth.
She dwells with me. You wonder. Palsy-struck,
Down by the wood I fell; she found me there,
As forth she wandered begging; help she brought;
She held my head herself, as home they bore me:
And unto me she ministered as a daughter.
Restored to consciousness, and humbler now,
My heart grew as a father's, and I prayed her
To leave me not, but live with me for aye.
Her decent pride, for outcast Edgar's sake,
Could ill endure the place denied to him;
But Edith came, and ere the maid and I,
Sore-smitten both, could be restored to strength,
Allowing her to go, my prayers had won
Pardon for all the past, and filial love:
And now they dwell with me, my own dear children.

Fr. Cl.
Did you say Edith? This is passing strange!
But know you aught of Hulin?

Roth.
Whither gone,
And why, unless he thought a certain crime
Discovered, I can't guess.

Fr. Cl.
He's in the waters.
Thy grandson saw his deed, and with fell quest
Hunted and smote him down, and to the river
Gave his dead body.

Roth.
Let him perish so,
And those who loved him seek him and avenge him!
Edith has told me all. You know it too?

Fr. Cl.
But how was Edith saved?

Roth.
The o'erboiling flood
Bore her light-whirled into a sandy creek,
And laid her high and clear behind a rock.
There poor mad Martha, whom no doubt you know,
Found her that night I rallied from my shock.
Whether the maniac-creature saw in her
Some kindred features of her long-lost charge,
Or from whatever instinct wild but true,
Bearing the half-drowned damsel in her arms,
With desperate might she dashed into my chamber,
And madly laughing laid her at my feet.
“Is she not thine? God help me, I can find
No other child!” she cried, and burst away.
Sore bruised was Edith, but she soon recovered.

Fr. Cl.
Hulin, dark villain, I can guess his motive.

Roth.
He saw that I relented, for I deemed
Edgar and Arthur lost, and wished to take
Orpah and Edith to my house and heart;
So, to maintain himself my heir, he strove
To keep them still shut out. How he cut off
The means of Orpah's life, to drive her far,
Beggared and hopeless, from the neighbourhood,
I've traced it all. Edith he met by chance,
And, doubtless by compendious guilt at once
To reach his purpose, pushed her o'er the cliff.
But now she's safe; her mother too: all's well.
I joy to tell thee all, for thou hast been
Their friend unchanging through the change of days:
But for our sickness we had told thee sooner.
I said, All's well; 'tis not so till we find
Our Arthur. Gallant has his bearing been
In the far West: I've heard of it with joy.

Fr. Cl.
Pangs for a loss of love, wo for his mother,
Anguish for what he deems his sister's fate,
Work in his brain like madness; but his soul
Is honour's mould ethereal. I do hope
He'll soon be here; gladly, how gladly then
I'll bring him to his own true home at last.

Roth.
Oh yes. Farewell.

[Exit Rothmond. Friar Clement retires into his inner cell.

Scene III.

—An open place in the Forest: Rocky dells on each side.
Enter Arthur.
Arth.
High overhead the moon, crags with their jags
Of splintered silver, slants of falling light
Down the blue glooms, streams with their sudden flash
From darksome nooks, the same as when of old
I joyed to wander in these glimpsing woods!
On such a night might Oberon and his train,
Seeking or shunning Queen Titania,
On the green parks or solitary sands
Glance trippingly; or from these shadowy rifts
Of tusky-rooted trees peep quaintly forth.
Ay, ay, all this is beautiful; and yet
Who, knowing man, knows not this lovely hour
Is stained by him? Forth come the things of guilt
To affront the holy beauty of the moon:
There hangs Despair, and gasps away his life;
Here glaring Murder hides his dropping knife;
To Theft, to Lust, the shadowy hour is dear;
And Treason's eyes throughout the night are clear.

[Cries for help are heard. Arthur runs out.

Scene IV.

—Another part of the Forest.
Rothmond is seen attacked by two Robbers—Arthur comes in armed with a stick.
Arth.
Two upon one! Foul play, I fear me, then.
Masters, stand back! Come now, sweet Sirs, be off!
You won't? Nay then, take that! and that! and that!

[The Robbers are driven back by Arthur's vigorous strokes, and at last make off.
Roth.
(advancing to Arthur).
My brave deliverer, art thou hurt for me?

Arth.
Ha! Rothmond? Well, my hand at least has been
Nature's just instrument: be it so, then!
No, Sir, I'm safe: I trust you are so too?

Roth.
Can it be he? Are you my grandson Arthur?

Arth.
I am the son of Edgar: for his sake
I'll guard you to your gates, and leave you there.

Roth.
Come then, my son. But, ere we reach our gates,
I humbly hope to win thee to go in.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

—An Apartment in Rothmond's Castle.
Orpah is seen seated on a couch, and Edith near a window.
Orp.
The moon shines clear. Look out. Blest day, we've heard
Our dear boy's still alive! So near us too!
Would Rothmond were but come! He scarce can fail
To bring us news of Arthur. You see something?

Edith.
Two men are coming from the moonlit wood.
Rothmond's the one: he leans upon the other.
Can it be he? No—yes. But here they are.

Enter Rothmond and Arthur.
Arth.
My honoured mother! I have sought thee long.

[Embracing her.
Orp.
My lost! my gladly found!

Arth.
My own twin-half!

[Embracing Edith.
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
The Friar, my Lord, craves entrance with a stranger.

Roth.
Welcome his blessed feet! Let him come in.

Enter Friar Clement and Edgar.
Fr. Cl.
I come thus late to bring you one friend more,
Won from the far lands of lost men to you.

Roth.
Is this a vision? Am I sick again?
Orpah, is this not he?

Orp.
Lord of my life!
O wondrous night! my husband!

[She falls into his arms. When she recovers, he leads her, almost fainting, to the couch.
Ed.
Fear not, my wife, I'll never leave thee more!
Ta'en by the Moors, what long long weary years
I wore away! Patience! I'm free at last!
Now then for home! 'Tis desolate! But I found
This Friar, old friend and true: He made me come
With filial confidence within these gates.
My honoured father, let me kneel to thee
And crave thy blessing!

[Kneels to Rothmond.
Roth.
Be it on thy head!
Rise up, my son: all's well: dear children all!
My house is now complete, and whole, and round.

Ed.
These are my twins? My Arthur, dear! my Edith!
Come to your father's heart! (He embraces them.)
I cannot tell
How much I love you both! Ha! but I've lost
My pair of little ones I left behind;
Yet who have lived in my remembering heart
All these long years, and never grown an inch.
Well, well, I let them go, and take you for them;
Though I have missed the joys of your sweet springing,
A much-defrauded father: O my children!

Fr. Cl.
I go, but ere I go, let me remind thee,
My daughter Orpah, of thy Mother's Blessing,
Which still is mighty, fighting on thy side.
Nay, I do bless this house with that good blessing:
I bless you all:—“Our good Lord Christ uphold you
All your dear lives; and, past the grave's deep sleep,
Wake in His careful everlasting arms!”

[Exit Friar Clement, and the Scene closes.