Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem The Maid of Galloway; The Legend of Richard Faulder; and Twenty Scottish Songs: By Allan Cunningham |
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 | Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem |  |
99
SCENE VI.
Caerlaverock Castle.Halbert Comyne, alone.
Comync.
The bold conceivement of a mighty deed
Is all a pageant; for the hand of man
Is but a tardy servant of the brain,
And follows with its leaden diligence
The fiery steps of fancy. I do hate
The man who still goes choosing out his steps
I' the smoothest road to fame—he'll never do
For days like these, when daring doings must
Pace with the resolution.—
Enter Sir John Gourlay.
Is all a pageant; for the hand of man
Is but a tardy servant of the brain,
And follows with its leaden diligence
The fiery steps of fancy. I do hate
The man who still goes choosing out his steps
I' the smoothest road to fame—he'll never do
For days like these, when daring doings must
Pace with the resolution.—
How now, sir?
By heaven, this maid has brain'd thee with her distaff.
By heaven, this maid has brain'd thee with her distaff.
Sir John.
I saw no lady; but in the greenwood
I found one of her slender sun-burnt pages;
And, as I parley'd with him, came a youth,
A simple shepherd-seeming youth, and tall;
Who dropt upon me as the lightning would;
Foil'd me, and won my sword. Ere I could rise,
Forth from the castle there came such a sweep
Of ancient men, with heads more white than snow,
Of youths with tresses like the raven's back,
Of matrons, shrewd old dames, on whose tongues live
The wanton deeds o' the parish, and sweet maids
Ripe in their teens, and rosy—seeking her
Whom I was sent to find!—
100
Sir John! Sir John!
This is the strangest dream thou ever hadst.
Sir John.
Aye! and the truest too. But I would lay
A golden basnet to a milkmaid's bowl,
That page was no true page; but a sweet maid
Hid in her mantle, like the summer moon
Shrouded in dewy mist. And that bold youth
Who seem'd a shepherd rude, conversant with
Flocks ring-straked, speckled and spotted, wore on his heels
Spurs of pure silver.
Comyne.
By the fiends, I think
That murder has not done sure work, and those
Do walk the world whom the deep hungry sea
Hath grown sick with, and given the world again;
Or hath not dared, for fear of heaven, to swallow.
This page—a lady in her mantle shrouded;
This youth—who wears proud knighthood's silver spurs;
This prophetess—that dooms me to the sword,
And gives this soldier to Caerlaverock ravens;
And, thy fate too, my head and right hand, Hubert!
Macubin, ho! go saddle our steeds straight;
I'll seek the woodland lair of this famed witch,
This hag who deals in destinies of men,
And dooms unto the drugg'd cup, or the dirk,
All those she hates; and hood-wink'd peasants, then,
With sharp sword, or swift poison, make her sayings
Come suddenly to pass.
(Exeunt.)
| Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem | |