University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Cumlongan Castle. Morning.
Mary Douglas and May Morison.
Mary Douglas.
Come hither, maiden;—dost thou know a tree,
A high green tree, upon whose leafy top
The birds do build in spring? This tree doth grow
By the clear fountain, on whose virgin breast
The water lily lies. There the pale youth,
Sick in his summer beauty, stoops and drinks:
Grave matrons say, the waters have strange virtues,
Which this green tree drinks through his veins, and wide
To the joyous air he spreads his balsam'd bough.
Thou know'st it not.

May Morison.
Lady, I know it rarely;
Far up the straight stem of this lovely tree
The honeysuckle climbs, and from its boughs
Flings down its clusters, till the blossoms wreathe
The passers' foreheads. 'Tis the self-same tree
True lovers swear by. I have three of its leaves
Sew'd i' the hem o' my kirtle. 'Neath its bough
Thou left'st thy snood, to greet Lord Walter Maxwell,
When his fair son off-cap'd thee like a goddess.

Mary Douglas.
Cease, cease, thou know'st it; now be swift, and haste
Unto this tree. Fly like a bird that leaves
No stamp of its wing upon the yielding air;
Its centre stem shoots as 't would say, Ye stars,
I'll stop when I'm among you.—See if this
Be shorn in twain by fire; and if two names,
Carved curious i' the bark, are razed out
By the lightning's fiery bolt.

May Morison.
Lady, I'll go,
And come as the Scripture-dove did, when she bore
Tidings of happy sort.

(Exit.)
Mary Douglas.
Can there be truth
In the dreams of night? To the airy semblances
Of possible things can I glew on belief
Firm as my creed? for the night visions oft
Take their complexion from our troubled thoughts;
And yet wise ones have said, to favour'd men
The future woes are vision'd forth and shaped
By heavenly hand and gentle. Thus sad things
Come softly on the mind, as the dove's down
Drops on the tender grass. Though my mind 's not
Hoodwink'd with rustic marvels, I do think
There are more things i' the grove, the air, the flood,
Yea, and the charnel'd earth, than what wise man,
Who walks so proud as if his form alone
Fill'd the wide temple of the universe,
Will let a frail maid say. I'd write i' the creed
Of the hoariest man alive, that fearful forms.
Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels;
That shapes too horrid for our gaze stand o'er
The murder'd dust, and for revenge glare up,
Until the stars weep fire for very pity.
If it be so, then this sad dream, that shook
My limbs last night, and made my tresses creep
As crested adders, is a warning tongue,
Whose words deep woes will follow.

Re-enter May Morison.
May Morison.
Hearken, lady:
On the tree top two cushat doves are cooing;
At its green foot two wanton hares are sporting;
A swarm of brown bees cluster on its stem,
And loud 's their swarming song. No leaf is touch'd.
The tree looks green and lovely.

Mary Douglas.
Thou deservest
A silken snood for this. Now tell me, maiden,
Hast thou e'er dream'd sweet dreams that came to pass,
And hast thou faith in them, as in the vows
Which youths of seventeen breathe?

Mary Morison.
Dreams! I have dream'd
Such things would win a gentle lady's ear,
Wrought in a tender ballad. Faith in them
I venture little. For of empty shrouds,
And coffins too, I've dream'd, and graves that gaped
For the neat length of my little body, lady.

Mary Douglas.
But hast thou ne'er dream'd that at evening, which
The morrow's sun reveal'd before it set?

May Morison.
Since I was sixteen, I have dream'd such dreams,
'T would take no slender wisdom to expound them.
I've dream'd of gentle kisses—kisses ne'er
Have touch'd my lips, except perchance i' the dark,
A twilight smack or two; but these none saw,
And are not worth the counting. I've dream'd too,
Of trooping 'midst bride-favours, to the sound
Of dulcimer and flute; on my head, too,
I've dream'd the bride's hose fell; yet, I am here,
As single as a neighbourless stocking. None
Ask the kind question which all maidens long for.

Mary D.
I ask for dreams, and thou givest me a history.

May Morison.
The best o' my dreams is coming. Late last night,
I dream'd I met with the dear lad o' my heart
By a green bank, where the rich violets blush'd,
Expecting to be press'd. I 'woke with joy; then fell
In pleasant sleep again, and straight I dream'd
I heard my name call'd i' the kirk, and loud
Rose the crowds' shouting, as I swept along
Beside my gallant bridegroom. I had on
Your gown of satin, with the golden flounce,
The bonnet, too, you promised me, all deck'd
With pearls, at least; and proud I look'd; and so
The bridal bed was made, and I was laid
Atween the lily sheets.

Mary Douglas.
Come, come, no more—
The gown I'll give thee, and the bonnet too,
Sown all with Solway pearl. To these I'll add,
When this dream proves no mockery, snowy sheets,
As white as those which visited thy sleep.
Lo! who come here? men who have urged their way
Through flood and forest; at their bosoms hang
Leaves, rent from boughs in passing. Simon Graeme,
Why all this show of steel?—Haste, fearful haste,
Seems in thy steps, and sad news on thy tongue.

Enter Halbert Comyne, Simon Graeme, Mark Macgee, Servants and Shepherds.
Graeme.
News, gentle lady! news of that sad sort,
To turn thy cheek-rose pale, and make the tears
Course down the snow o' thy bosom.

Mary Douglas.
Tell, oh, tell me!

Graeme.
Ask Halbert Comyne, beauteous lady; he
Can picture forth this tragedy in words
That may make murder look less hideous, and
Blanch it like boulted snow. For he is versed
In those soft soothing words, that take the taint
From deeds that smell to the moon.

Comyne.
Peace, peasant, pe ace
Weep, gentle lady, there is done a deed
That renders day-light hideous; makes the mother
Her baby dash i' the dust, lest its soft hand
Should fumble with a dagger; that doth call
From the creation's centre to high heaven,
With a voice more audible than thunder. Our castle
Is sack'd. Our good lord, and fair lady, with
Their only son, and all that could bear brand,—
Yea, even my men, whose nerves were nerves of steel,
Are swept from 'neath the sky, and I alone,—
Though I sought death, and with my broad sword bared
Follow'd them to the wood, and strove to smite
Some of the boldest,—I alone am left
To tell the tale and weep.

(Mary Douglas faints.)
Macgee.
Life's roses fade;
And see, the lily o' death grows i' the place.—
Water! bring me water.

Graeme.
Low thou liest,
My beauteous fair one; my keen plowshare ne'er
Shared violet half so lovely. Take these drops,
Pure from the spring, they are not half so pure
As thy most lovely self.

Macgee.
The rose, whose lips
The dew hath never tasted—the chaste lily
That hid its bashful bosom from the sun,
But look'd sedate unto the modest star,
Seem'd ne'er to me so beautiful and spotless.

Graeme.
Now all hear this—if this sweet lady dies,
Then I wait not for sign of heaven, or word,
To draw the sword of vengeance. My right hand
Shall swiftly smite and sure. Oh! gaze again;
Thou piece of chaste perfection, gaze again.

Comyne.
Peace, varlet, peace! Deem'st thou this lady is
Some slippery dame, whose tardy sense swift cups
Have newly overtaken?

Graeme.
Halbert Comyne;
An hour of sin—an age of deep repentance—
If such be heaven's will; but make not now,
From this maid's sorrow, matter for thy mirth.

Mary Douglas.
Where is my love, that I may stretch myself
By him, and call for swords of cherubim?
Oh! is he slain, or lost in the wild sea,
The ruthless sea, where shrieking pity's tongue
May reach not? Stand ye there—and are ye men,
And nursed at women's breasts, while my true love
Is torn away by traitors? There's a time—
So lay it to your hearts, and think of it—
When for each hair torn from his precious locks,
For every drop shed from his bleeding body,
For every sigh he utter'd—for each pang
That he endured, and for each tear shed for him
By maids' or matrons' eyes, a strict account
Will be demanded. But I speak to men
With eyes of marble, and with hearts of flint.

Comyne.
Of whom speak'st thou, my fair one? In the strife
I saw Lord Maxwell's life-blood on the floor:
His son smote sore and carried swift away;
Bound with his weeping mother. They are now
Beyond the sight of mercy's weeping eyes.

Graeme.
O'er this dread night a woeful mystery hangs,
Which God will take away. for we have sought them
By the wide fathomless sea—by the green wood
Upon the sea sand, and the lily lea;
Nor step, nor trace of man may we espy:
O'er this dread night an awful mystery hangs,
Which god will in his own time take away.

Comyne.
Farewell! fair lady; may I hope a time,
When for my kinsmen I've sung dool—and ta'en
Some of their state on mine unworthy shoulders—
To kneel and offer my poor service to thee;
For tears will dry up like last morning's dew,
And grief itself grow gentler; and the sobs,
Which give such awful grace to beauty's woe,
Will stop no more the current of free speech.

Mary Douglas.
Oh! Halbert Comyne—tarry, Halbert Comyne;
Now let mine arms come never from thy neck:
Turn me, turn him, into the desolate world.
Take, lord, the rich earth from the east to west,
And own all that the sun doth look upon;
Take tower and turret, and the sodded sheal;
Take all mine unsumm'd treasures—all that kings
Have given in honour of the Douglas name;
And we shall sojourn in the uttermost earth,
And never think of thee, save when we pray
For thine increase of glory. Halbert Comyne,
Give my true love to me.

Comyne.
Thy speech errs much,
Thou gentle one. I do forgive thee, lady:
Thy brain is rapt and wandering, and thou dream'st
Of foes in firmest friends.

Graeme.
(Aside.)
My sword be swift:
For I shall sure hear thunder. God's fierce wrath
Might find an object here. In heaven above,
In earth beneath—the spacious air—the sea,
God gives my sword no signal. Shall I cease
My faith in the sign'd promise—things reveal'd;
And smite thee as a heathen smites, nor wait
For fire to aid my vengeance?

Com.
Let's home from vain pursuit. Whoever found
The mark of the eagle's wing on the soft air
He soar'd through, when he left the ravish'd dam
Running on the hill-top bleating? Lady, adieu!
Now let your steeds taste the sharp whip and rowel,
Till the flinty roads yield fire. Tardy rustic!
By heaven, the boor wears disobedient looks.

Graeme.
I am a plain blunt man, good sir, and lack
Those honey'd words which make the sour taste sweet:
I love not sleeping in the dark, where dirks
Forget to keep their sheaths; or where the feet
Of the murderer wear strong wings, which waft him o'er
Moat and portcullis. I'm too small a bird
To peck with the gore-hawk.

Macgee.
Can a man sleep safe
When the very air drops daggers? or close his lids
Beneath a roof doom'd to prove heaven's hot fire
Is an avenger yet?

Comyne.
Rude churls, remain.
I lack not such thick-blooded spirits as you:
Yet lay my words to heart. Do not be found
Shedding tongue-venom in our peasants' ears;
Else yon grim raven, which now croaking flies
From us toward Caerlaverock, he shall share
Your quarters with the hounds.

(Exit.)
Graeme.
Go! Halbert Comyne!
Lord of the gentle deed, and gentle look;
Thou hatest blood as yon black raven doth
Now croaking after thee.

Mary Douglas.
(To Graeme.)
Farewell! farewell!
I thank you for your pity: you have wound
Around my heart. I fain would call you friend:
For there be few friends in this ruthless world.

(Exit.)
Shepherd.
'Tis pitiful we've lost our own good lord.
But Halbert Comyne has the looks win hearts:
And he is gentle as the sleeping sea,
Meek as a May-morn 'fore the lark is up;
He'll make a right good master. How do sheep
Sell in Lochmaben market? does the black
And brocket breed excel the silk-fleeced brood
Of the auld stock o' Tinwald?

Graeme.
The auld stock
Of Tinwald-top for me. But, Halbert Comyne—
Why he's a thing worth worshipping, old man;
It breaks his heart to heir his kinsman's land:
He'd rather heir a dukedom. How he sighs,
Curses all sharp-edged swords, and vows henceforth
To deal in nought but daggers.

Shepherd.
'Faith! we're blest,
For he's a rare sweet gentleman. How now
Goes on the surgery of sheep, with tar
Instead of spell and charm, and watching them
With a peel'd wand of witch-tree. De'il have me,
If I like trusting to the wit of man.

Graeme.
Why, Cromwell and the troops of the covenant
Are coming soon to empty your sheep-folds?
What charms can save your sheep from soldiers' teeth
I'd have you put in practice. Touching now
Sir Marmaduke, the peevish stripling—he
Play'd on the lute: 'twas deadly sin! and sang
Songs praising black-eyed girls—'twas treasonable!
And our good lord—I'll paint no farther—soon
May the Eternal loose my sword, and set
Free my right hand. This secret, on my soul
Sinks like a mill-stone; my heart says to me,
“Go, shout out the stern truth.”

Macgee.
Farewell, farewell,
My well-going plough I sang so oft beside;
My bonnie grays which drew so fair a furrow;
The joy to see the green corn blade arise
Which I had sown—the gray lark sang to see it;—
The holy joy that silent Sabbath brings,
When nought is heard, save the far-sounding psalm,
And sweet bells knelling kirkward. Oh! my lord.

Graeme.
Let not thy wrath draw an unfated sword—
The hour is coming, and the right hand's ready
That shall avenge this deed. Make it a warning;
Even from Caerlaverock to the uttermost earth—
We'll spill his guilt-cup when it tops the brim,
And give him to perdition.

Macgee.
Be it soon!
For, Simon Graeme, why should we stand and see
The murderer wipe his bloody sword, and smile,
Nor smite him to the dust,—in hope that heaven
Will call in thunder “Strike!” Oh! Simon Graeme,
Men may mistake the stars—the signs above
Are hard to understand, and all men read them
Even as their own wills list.

Graeme.
Thou say'st the truth;
Yet thou but echoest me. Go, seek to stay
The rushing of that river; keep the sea
From leaping on the land—curb in yon sun
From his bright journey; and say to the wind,
Awake thou when I list. Lo! they run all
Their destined courses; and, they stay, but not
For mortal bidding—all the might of man:
Man, glorious man, who wears gold on his brow,
And steel in his right hand, can mock at them,
Not stay them—What is will'd will surely be;
God walks his way in silence, till his hour,
And then men hearken thunder. So, my friend,
Keep thy voice silent, and thy good sword ready—
Ere three days pass, such tidings will be heard
As ne'er were heard in Nithsdale.

(Exeunt.)