Dramatic chapters, poems and songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Scene—A sumptuous apartment in Kelford Castle; Kelford, attired in a loose flowing robe, lounging upon a sofa; around appear marble busts and statues from the antique; Indian curiosities, vases of flowers, books, and music, adorn the tables; the whole apartment exhibiting an air of extreme luxury and refinement: he speaks.
KELFORD.

This Clorio frets me—she's too loving far;
Her feelings overstep her boy's disguise:
She's ever on the latch of a discovery,
Which made, would bring love's bankrupt stock to sale!
Then for a catalogue of damaged vows—
Words of an hour, engraved on adamant;
And whisper'd nonsense, echoed thunder-loud!
Indeed she had outwearied me, and long,
But for her cheerful nature, which still smiles
'Mid falling tears, as moonlight 'midst the dew.
She is a riddle even to herself:
One moment pensive—next, as whimsical!
Would try temptation to the uttermost,

And still keep virtuous on the brink of vice.
She's one most like to choose some desperate act,
Were I not cautious; and this frets me. Frets?
They'd need have patience who live much with women.
Her tongue! 'tis too o'er-ripe a page's tongue;
That tongue which, like a silver bell, rings on
O'er much, methinks, on one particular note.
Marriage, forsooth! As though the Lord of Kelford
Should mate him with . . .

But here she comes.

CLORIO
sings without.

With the solitude of ages,
In the hoary woods sublime,
Hung two vast and glorious cages,
Which belonged to Time.
Songs from one came sweet and pleasant,
From the other hope seem'd cast.
The merry bird was called the Present,
The melancholy bird the Past.

[Enter Clorio, singing, with lute and flowers.]

Time, I saw, was feeding ever
His sweet favourite from his store;
But the Past he came to never,
Though she'd been his joy before!
Still the Past would give its warning,
“Not so long wilt thou be dear.”
Though the bird sang night and morning.
Never would the Present hear! [Repeats slowly and impressively.]

Never would the Present hear!

[Sighs, then suddenly changes to a light and lively air.]

From the fields, from the fields,
I have gather'd fresh flowers,
The sweetest and rarest
That grace summer hours:
I've roses, wild roses,
Which beam in their light,
Like the lips of a beauty,
All balmy and bright!

From the woods, from the woods,
Where the bird-songs are gay,
And where young lovers walk
In the clear moon ray:
I have flowers of all hues,
Like a rich sun-set sky,
Gold, purple, and crimson—
Oh, come, come and buy!

See here, my lord:
The flowers are Flora's library, and mine.
See here's the gorgeous poppy; did you know
This proud flower wears a crown? by bards untold.
But in its bloom the crown is at its heart—
In seed, upon its head. The crownèd poppy!
Come, offer homage at its coronation!
And here's that gem, the lily of the vale!
What strange disparity appears betwixt
The fairy flower and its gigantic leaf!
Like Love upon the lap of Hercules,
Hiding her beauty on his ample breast,

Content to be unseen by all save him!
Nature plays freaks in floral marriages
Almost as strange as man oft plays in his.
But you are weary?

KELFORD.
No; you make me think,
And thought is silent: listeners should be mute.

CLORIO.
I always fancy silence a rebuke.
Nothing to hear, leaves nothing to reply.
Say something, if 'tis only to find fault.
Now, here's a glass where Venus' self hath looked,
And left her beauty's image; and mark this,
The purple larkspur! Might not royalty
Rejoice to wear the robe this simple flower
So modestly assumes? Are these not books?
Look on the lily pure, and tremble, guilt!
I read their coloured pages, and grow wise.

KELFORD.
'Tis a girl's love;
Thou'lt change these thoughts with years;
For hath not nature nobler works than flowers?

CLORIO.
The trees—the village trees—I love them all;
The oak, whose firm heart breasts the haughty wave;
The pine, ambitious of the starry sky;
Willow, that weeping bends, like widowed woe—
The Niobe of Trees! And yet thou'lt smile

When I but name my favourite! Pray guess.

KELFORD.
The chesnut—'tis a grove within itself;
Yet 'twas Salvator's idol ere 'twas thine.

CLORIO.
My passion shines less lofty: 'tis the hawthorn,
Whose green arms twine my home! I shake with joy
Its leafy hand, and welcome its old face.
You laugh! [A pause.]

Right well I know the tree can see me not,
But He who made both tree and girl doth look
In angel silence down, and blesses both!

KELFORD.
I'm schooled; my young enthusiast, speak on.
'Tis pity love like thine should e'er know change.

CLORIO.
But some I hate; they look like evil things.
The wrinkled elder, the sepulchral yew,
The rank and haggard fir, witch of the woods!
The gulf-betraying tree, that spreads a net
To snare the hunter's foot; and many more.

KELFORD.
Of these anon. Thy hand is on thy lute:
What hast thou new to offer—tune or song?

CLORIO.
If will were skill, then would I sing indeed.

KELFORD.
When skill is wilful, there's more prate than speed.

CLORIO
sings.

What is richer far than gold?
Sweeter than the lips of morn?
Brighter than those hopes untold,
Dying fast as they are born?
Say for what kings bend the knee,
Deeming it beyond a throne.
Know'st thou not? Oh, 'tis to be
Loved but for one's self alone!

Loved as hearts may love and live,
With no sordid view beyond!
All I ask the world to give
Is a constant heart and fond!
Were I monarch of the sea,
Gold and priceless gems my own,
I'd resign them all to be
Loved but for myself alone!

KELFORD,
gazing upon her admiringly.

My nightingale! my ever beautiful!
Thy voice hath borrowed sweetness from thy love.
'Tis worth Love's hearing when the heart's the lute
The feelings play upon!

Love's the true master!
He lends a sunlight unto song, which wanting,
Leaves all expression cold and spiritless.
There's nought so sweet as love.

Think'st thou not thus?

CLORIO.
Nought so sweet as love of thine;
If still thou lov'st me?

KELFORD.
Love thee! Shall I swear?
By Cupid's self . . . . . . .

CLORIO,
interrupting him archly, and with sudden animation.
Nay, swear not!—least by him, the Proteus god!
The boy hath grown a man—his curly locks
Shorn of their golden beauty—and his wings,
His odorous plumes, alack! are stripp'd for quills.
Each day at Doctors' Commons, wigg'd and gown'd,
He greets the bench, and wins the applauding court
With knowledge of estates, green parks, and grounds.
Shews curious skill in searching musty wills;
Finds figure in a fortune, be she humped!
Nay, e'en a limp may seem a graceful glide,
A charming eccentricity of gait!
Wealth is your only multiplier: it makes one
So much like two, you'd scarcely note the loss!
Two eyes? 'tis an extravagance of sight!
Gold is the rouge which makes a wan cheek bloom.
Protest by Cupid? 'Tis a sorry oath!
No; swear upon the altar of these flowers:
And prove thou false, each leaf shall find a tongue
To bid incautious love beware man's vows;
For, like the leaves, they'll fall and be no more,
And leave an autumn in the heart, perchance,
Whose hopes shall droop, shall die, like wither'd leaves.

Alas, for love!

[Clorio sighs, and pulls the flowers, scattering their bloom sorrowfully.]
KELFORD,
aside.

What a creature it is!
How brilliant, how romantic, how capricious!
Now will she pout for a week, unless I coax
And soothe her humour.

[Aloud.]

So gay, and now so grave!
Thus joy is ever timid of its power,
Whilst grief is all too bold. Resume thy smiles;
Joy is the sunlight of the heart. Thou know'st
We count a myriad clouds for but one sun.
Be, then, Affection our security.
We'll marry truth to joy; and Truth's eternal,
So Joy may prove immortal, married thus.
Nay, one smile!
One, like the red seal on love's perfumed note!
Ay, now thou look'st thyself! As beauteous
As that hour I saw thee first, and worshipped! [Enter Beauford.]

I'm busy!
What, Beauford, is it thou?
I'll hear thy song anon, my pretty page. [Exit Clorio poutingly, but returns unseen, and conceals herself behind a marble group, listening.]

Now what of Bertha? Will she list my suit?
Accepted she my note? Speak, what said she?
How looked she? Come, thy news and quickly.

BEAUFORD.
Thou'rt a strange, changeful being. Fresh from vows
To one who loves thee to idolatry,
As saints love some pure shrine and passionless.
Is't well, my lord? If this same ardour hold
For Lady Bertha, what is Clorio's fate?
Or 'tis not worth, perchance, your lordship's question.

KELFORD.
Preach not, but speed thy news. Thou saw'st her not?
I read it in thy look; thy pale, vexed lip,
Not liking the cramp tidings it must yield,
Delays its office with this senseless chat
Of Clorio. Clorio! Where's the use of it?
I must have some one to amuse dull hours.
I'd think the night but dark with all its stars,
If wanting that best light of human life,
The light of woman's eyes. For Clorio here,
She makes a better page and pleasanter
That she loves well her master; nothing more.

BEAUFORD.
Nothing more?
Why this disguise is fatal to her fame.
Who looks for virtue 'neath the roof of vice?

KELFORD.
Disguise? tut man, the world is full of it!
It hourly walks the street—a public speaker—
The busiest meddler known within the city!
Disguise?
Why, what a paradox is human life!

For ever seeming other than it is.
Ambitious of a straw, and casting down
The wealth of years to grasp it; eager still
The substance for the shadow to exchange!
Men of deep mind assuming coxcomb airs,
Whilst fops discourse like learned philosophers.
The maiden prates of battles, sieges, broils—
Changes her gumpowder for gunpowder—
Her beads for bullets—caps for cannon-balls,
And deems her chamber door but half secure
Unless she sleep with sword beneath her pillow!
The warrior, with a lassitude of limb,
Lets not the whitest hand allure his feet
Into the fascinations of the waltz;
Whilst the worn veteran, old and gouty-toed,
Smirks at the fairest, and with hobbling gait
Seeks the distraction of his toes, and dances!
The tall man hooks his shoulders to look less;
The little stretch to cracking to seem tall!
The groom affects to be a gentleman—
The peer assumes the habits of a groom!
And thus in the strange farce of human life,
The old and young—lean, fat, and short, and tall—
The grave, the gay, the trivial and profound,
Are handy-pandy which is which? and guess—
But farthest from the point: 'tis odds your right!
Some read the book the best the wrong side up,
And such should solve, or still with me exclaim,
Zounds! what a paradox is human life!
Disguise? quotha: why 'tis the very thing
Thou art about! Disguise, which suits thee not:
Let's have it; come my note's refused?
Thy steps forbade her door?

BEAUFORD.
'Tis even so, with much more contumely.

KELFORD.

The Graces curse her with their absence, then!
Love never cross the threshold of her house!
Now could I hate—if it were in my nature
To hate the Beautiful!

[A pause.]

I have a scheme
May reach her yet: this scorn is something new
In the sweet history of my gallantries;
'Tis a fresh movement in the game, and spurs
My science in love's mysteries; come,
We'll speak of this still farther: woman yet
Hath rarely proved an overmatch for Kelford.

[Exeunt.]
CLORIO
alarmed and agitated, steps forward.
Heard I aright? And I have loved this man,
This cold and systematic libertine,
Who feeds his vanity on love betrayed,
Makes women's tears a daily sacrifice!
O man, ungrateful, false, unfeeling man,
That tramplest on the sweetest boon God gave—
A woman's heart! say in thy sickness who
Makes her fond arms a pillow for thy head?
Who, when that high and haughty bearing droops,
Sits like a ministering angel by thy side
To whisper hope, and comfort, and affection?
Woman!
Hear it, O Truth, and register her name!
Say, when misfortune treads on enterprise,
When storms commercial cast thee on the shore
All wrecked and bankrupt of thy golden freight,

Who, when the herd forsake thee, yet clings true?
And still thy harsh and altered temper bears
With wise forgiveness, serving thee the more
That other friends should have forsaken thee;
Coining affections to make rich thy home,
And prove to thee, whilst God still left thee her,
Thou never—oh, thou never couldst be poor!
Who suffering half so much is so forgiving?
Who counselling so well is heard so ill?
Who loving so entirely, so devotedly,
Hath her love wounded half so cruelly?
The rose of her affections, leaf by leaf,
Oft scattered on the harsh and cruel winds,
Unheeded where it falls, how soon it dies!
And tell me, man, remorseless, reckless man,
Who, when the very softness of her nature,
Her tenderness, her weakness bids her fall
To thy relentless arts and perfidy—who,
Who abandons her to the sharp pelting
Of a pitiless world? shorn to the quick,
Outcast and desolate, to mate with shame,
Or find her only pillow in the grave?
Who?
God hides His face, and angels mourn—'tis Man.

[Exit.]