Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem The Maid of Galloway; The Legend of Richard Faulder; and Twenty Scottish Songs: By Allan Cunningham |
 |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | SCENE VII. |
| V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
 | Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem |  |
101
SCENE VII.
A Wild Cave in a Wood.Lady Maxwell and Mabel Moran.
Mabel.
Lady, I tell thee that sword is not forged,
Nor is that man born yet in the wide world,
Shall harm a hair of his head. Now stand and tell me
What thou dost see and hear.
Lady Maxwell.
A stillness sits
On hill, and dale, and ocean; there is lustre
Unwonted in the heaven—but I hear nought,
Save the sweet waters of the Solway sea,
Sing 'mongst the shells and pebbles.
Mabel.
Lady, look;
What thinkst thou of that bright and little star?
See o'er Caerlaverock's turret top it stays,
And far its shining tresses shoot o'er heaven,
Even like a silver crown. Now, lady, this
Comes not in idle radiance forth; it comes
To tell thee that thy time of glory's coming.
Be valiant, and believe. For ere it comes,
Extremest peril shall compass thee and thine.
Lady Max.
Peril, again? Oh! I do dread thee still,
Thou high and wrathful heaven. My hope will fall,
Even as yon large and gloomy star is flung
From the mid sky to the earth.
Mabel.
Now, nerve your heart,
And fill that bosom, where thy babe has suck'd,
With courage that quails never. Thou canst do 't.
Hear'st thou the rush of horses? Hark! he comes,
102
Fear not—fear not; there is a hand, to which
A murderer's arm is rushes, guards thee, lady.
He comes to prove me, and to spurn me. Give
To me that garment; I must hem 't—it will
To-night be wanted, though the corse be quick
That 's doom'd this shroud to fill? 'Tis a fair sark.—
Now, lady, swathe thy silken robe around thee;
Hide here, and heed my song.
THE SONG OF DOOM.
Mabel
sings. Enter Halbert Comyne and Servant.
When the howlet has whoop'd three times i' the wood,
At the wan moon sinking behind the cloud;
When the stars have crept in the wintry drift,
Lest spells should pyke them out o' the lift;
When the hail and the whirlwind walk abroad,
Then comes the steed with its unbless'd load:
Alight—alight—and bow and come in,
For the sheet is shaping to wind thee in.
At the wan moon sinking behind the cloud;
When the stars have crept in the wintry drift,
Lest spells should pyke them out o' the lift;
When the hail and the whirlwind walk abroad,
Then comes the steed with its unbless'd load:
Alight—alight—and bow and come in,
For the sheet is shaping to wind thee in.
Comyne.
This lame hag whoops an ominous song—hush! hush!
For she doth sing again.
Song continued.
When didst thou measure 't, thou hoary heck?
When the sea-waves climb'd thy splintering deck,
When hell for thee yawn'd grim and yare,
And the fiends stood smiling on thy despair;
And I proved my measure, and found it good,
When thy right hand reek'd with noble blood:
Alight—alight—and bow and come in,
For the sheet is shaping to wind thee in.
When the sea-waves climb'd thy splintering deck,
When hell for thee yawn'd grim and yare,
And the fiends stood smiling on thy despair;
And I proved my measure, and found it good,
When thy right hand reek'd with noble blood:
Alight—alight—and bow and come in,
For the sheet is shaping to wind thee in.
103
Where didst thou learn this song, thou hag? What shroud
Do thy long, sharp, and shrivelled fingers sew?
Song continued.
The heart is whole that maun mense this sark,
And I have been tax'd with a thankless dark;
Fast maun I sew by the gleam of the moon,
For my work will be wanted, 'ere it be done;
But helms shall be cloven, and life's blood spilt,
And bright swords crimson'd frae point to hilt.
So say thine errand, thou man of sin;
For the shroud is sewing to wind thee in.
And I have been tax'd with a thankless dark;
Fast maun I sew by the gleam of the moon,
For my work will be wanted, 'ere it be done;
But helms shall be cloven, and life's blood spilt,
And bright swords crimson'd frae point to hilt.
So say thine errand, thou man of sin;
For the shroud is sewing to wind thee in.
Beware! lest one stroke of this good sharp sword
Should mar thy skill in shroud-sewing—beware!
Why dost thou bend those sooty brows on me,
And measure me o'er thus?
Song continued.
Thy right hand shall lose its cunning, my lord;
And blood shall no more dye the point of thy sword;
The raven is ready, and singing hoarse,
To dart with a croak on thy comely corse;
And looks all hollow mine eyes must give
On him who has got but some hours to live:
So say thine errand, thou man of sin;
The shroud is sewing to wind thee in.
And blood shall no more dye the point of thy sword;
The raven is ready, and singing hoarse,
To dart with a croak on thy comely corse;
And looks all hollow mine eyes must give
On him who has got but some hours to live:
So say thine errand, thou man of sin;
The shroud is sewing to wind thee in.
Name me the man of whom thou warblest thus.
Beldame, dost thou mean me?
Song continued.
I name not his name, let him think on my strain;
There 's a curse on them that shall name him again.
I mean the man—even he who gave
A noble corse to a midnight grave;
I mean the man—name thou his name,
Who drown'd a sweet youth, and a comely dame.
So say thine errand, thou man of sin;
For the shroud is sewing to wind thee in.
There 's a curse on them that shall name him again.
104
A noble corse to a midnight grave;
I mean the man—name thou his name,
Who drown'd a sweet youth, and a comely dame.
So say thine errand, thou man of sin;
For the shroud is sewing to wind thee in.
There seems a dooms-note sounding in this song!
Old dame, who taught thee these wild words, and gave
Thee this cursed shroud to sew?
Song continued.
I learn'd my skill from those who will sever
Thy soul from grace, for ever and ever;
The moon has to shine but a stricken hour,
And I maun work while the spell has power.
They are nigh who gave me this dark to do,
This shroud to shape, and this shroud to sew;
They are nigh who taught this song to me.
Look north, look south; say what dost thou see.
Thy soul from grace, for ever and ever;
The moon has to shine but a stricken hour,
And I maun work while the spell has power.
They are nigh who gave me this dark to do,
This shroud to shape, and this shroud to sew;
They are nigh who taught this song to me.
Look north, look south; say what dost thou see.
From me wild words alone no credence gain,
And I see nothing, save this dreary cave,
And thine accursed self.
Song continued.
To the heaven above—down to the earth dark,
Now look and tell me what dost thou mark.—
Appear, from the deep and darksome wave;
Appear, from the dark and the dreary grave;
Appear! from your presence the sinful shall soon
Pass away, as yon cloud passes now from the moon.
The time is come now, else it never shall be.
Look east, and look west; say, what dost thou see?
Now look and tell me what dost thou mark.—
Appear, from the deep and darksome wave;
Appear, from the dark and the dreary grave;
Appear! from your presence the sinful shall soon
Pass away, as yon cloud passes now from the moon.
The time is come now, else it never shall be.
Look east, and look west; say, what dost thou see?
Come, come, thou dotard beldame—thy strange words
105
(Sees Lady Maxwell.)
Eternal God! what form is this? does fancy
Hoodwink my reason with a dreamer's marvel?
Art thou a figure painted out of air?
Pale and majestic form, I've sinn'd against thee,
Beyond repentance' power. Is there another?
(Sees the spirit of Lord Maxwell.)
What terrible shape is that? Art thou a thing
Permitted thus to blast my sight—or but
The horrible fashioning of the guilty eye?
This bears the stamp of flesh and blood—but thou,
Thou undefined and fearful, thou dost make
A baby's heart-strings of my martial nerves;
I'll look on thee no longer—mine eyes ache
As if they gazed upon a fiery furnace.
Give me some drink, Macubin.
Servant.
Oh! my lord,
What moves you thus?
Comyne.
Dost thou see nought, Macubin?
Nought that doth make your firm knees knock like mine,
And make your heart against your bosom leap,
And make you think upon the blood you've spilt,
And make you think on heaven's eternal wrath?
Servant.
I see this old dame, and thine honour'd self;
What should I see, my lord?
Comyne.
O! nothing—shadows:
Such as the eye shapes to alarm the heart.
Nay, nothing—nothing. Ancient dame, I've been
Ungentle in my speech; I've wrong'd thee much.
106
With a fair cot and garden—they are gone—
Perchance were never here, for the eye works
Unto the timid thought, and the thought paints
Forms from the mire of conscience, will-o' wisps
To dazzle sober reason.
(Exeunt.)
| Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem | |