University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Farm House. Night.
Simon Graeme and Mark Macgee.
Graeme.
Awake! awake! no time for slumber now;
The hour of doom is come; so gird thee on
Thy sword, and follow me.

Macgee.
Thou hast awaked me
From a sweet dream! And is it morn, that thou
Comest forth to let thy grey locks gather rime,
Or chide with men whose sweaty cheeks repose
In slumber on their pillows.

Graeme.
Mark Macgee,
This is, indeed, a night, when limbs like mine
Come not abroad for pastime. O! what eyes,
Sleep-shut on the soft pillow, could endure
The tumults of this dread tempestuous night,
Without unclosing. My old grandsire said,
There was a night so rough, so terrible,
So fill'd with elemental moans, and throng'd,
From heaven's dread concave to earth's trembling floor,
With grim and ghastly faces, that sad time
When fatal Langside's hapless field was struck:
Old men yet talk of it; and ancient dames
To their grand children tell it with a changed look.

Mac.
And dost thou think that some such fearful day
Will follow this, and teach young maids to moan?

Gra.
What human tongue less than inspired, or fill'd
With the gift of prophecy, may dare to blab
About God's meaning, when he sits enthroned
Amid majestic darkness, filling the heaven
With dismal signs and portents, that defy
All mortal calculation. 'Tis enough
For us to know, sad meaning and dread wrath
Were in those signs that round Caerlaverock hall
Were visible yesternight.

Macgee.
I heard alone
The roar of waters, the loud war of winds,
And shaking of the cedars. A sweet sleep
Fell on me, and dread portents saw I none.

Graeme.
And now let murder-meditators moan;
Let hands unwashen from spilt blood beware:
And let the dweller in Caerlaverock towers,
Even thou, Lord Halbert Comyne, kneel thee down,
Among dust grovel, supplicate, and groan!
For, oh! Lord Maxwell's piteous moan, even now
Makes moist the eyes in heaven, nor can the dew
Of life-time's golden summers blanch the stains
Of blood which flooded all his marble floor.

Macgee.
Some fearful thing, my friend, has moved thee thus.

Graeme.
A thing shall move thee too. I rose and left
The embers glowing on my lonely hearth,
And all my children sleeping. All was mute;
The homely cricket's song was loudest heard.
Forth as I walk'd, the brook began to moan;
The wind woke with a dismal sigh, and spoke
As with a human tongue; the Solway flood
Flash'd on the shore, five fathom deep abreast;
And I heard tongues that made my flesh to quake.
I stood and gazed upon the earth and heaven,
And, lo! I saw grim forms, perdition-doom'd,
Fill all the land—earth shudder'd to the throng
Of horrible phantoms, issuing o'er the bourn
Of mortal pilgrimage. Corses unloosed
From hearsing sheets were there, nor sweeping shrouds
Might hold their occupants. The halter-doom'd,
The treason-hatcher—he who fearless digs
The grave for a quick corse—with him who drops
The hemlock juice i' the entertainer's cup,
Flock'd toward Caerlaverock, like a festal throng
Unto a nuptial banquet. There I saw,
Trooping i' the rear of this infernal file,
A countenance horribly foul, and plaster'd thick
With new spilt blood—the phantom glared on me;
And, summoning all hell into one frown,
Pass'd surly by. I named him, and he stood;
And stern the grizly spectre glared on me
A moment's space, and vanished.

Macgee.
Simon Graeme,
This is a winter's mirth. What curious pains
A man devout and hoary-hair'd may take
To fashion the moan o' the elements into
God's indignation, when no woe was meant,
And only the pleasant sound of the voice was heard,
O' the commonest occurrence! Gifted men,
Who can divine all this, may be allow'd
To see hearsed corses trooping, and high heaven
With hellish faces fill'd; nay, even to hear
The dying moaning on an unfought field.
Why, what in the name o' the Lord can palsy thus
A mind, that all his sovereign wonders fill
With most sublime emotion? In the coil
O' the world's employment, and sweet whisperings
Of nature o'er her wonders, we may make
Phantoms, like those which haunt the murderer's sleep.
When the pert magpye chatters on the roof
Of my aunt's dwelling, she doth presently
Fancy her body winding-sheet enwrapt,
And drops into devotion. My wife too,
Than whom a dame more duteous is not found,
Nor one who makes such lily-looking linen,
When the south wind sighs in the chimney top
Her thrift she ceases, shakes her head, and says,
Thou whistlest for no good; looks me i' the face,
And thinks on widowhood, and wipes her cheek.

Graeme.
It may be wit—but it is wicked wit
Which shapes God's high and terrible purposes
Into a meaning, for to shake men's sides
When 'tis no time for mirth. 'Tis well, when hearts
Are all so reckless of this tainted world;
They clamour not at those tremendous signs
Of God's remembrance. I do know a heart,
That to the lips starts, if a mouse but stir,
Or a leaf rustle; but I thank my God
It beats in a far loftier breast than mine.

Macgee.
I thank God too—yet that's no proof of grace;
The thief who prowls at midnight by the fold
Thanks God who doth unmuffle the full moon,
To let him choose the fairest of the flock.
The knight, who wins his silver spurs, thanks God,
And from his sword-blade wipes his brother's blood.
The churl who sickens at men's prosperousness
Thanks God, when tempests thrash their ripen'd fields,
Or some foul murrain thins their fairest flocks.
So, thank God, then, not for the deeds thou doest,
Nor for the height thou 'rt raised o'er prouder men
In purity and wisdom; nor for the gift
Thou hast of fashioning heaven's familiar things
To signs denoting wrath; but, thank God for
Fresh air to fan thee when the sun shines hot;
The rain that nourishes thy new-sown fields;
Thy rosy daughters, and thy comely sons,
His noblest present in this world to man.

Gra.
There spoke the son of good old John Macgee,
Than whom a better ne'er a sickle sway'd;
Nor held the plow along the fallow land;
Nor hied to market on a Wednesday;
Nor welcomed a neighbour by a shake of the hand;
Nor sung a psalm, nor read the gospel book;
Nor pray'd to God for his dear children's weal:
Yet he was stiff-opinion'd, and self-will'd,
And he would walk fifteen rough miles about,
Rather than ride along the nearer way
His neighbour recommended. Now, on his son,
Thee, Mark Macgee, I call—the hour is come.

Mac.
Heaven bless thee, Simon, for that old man's sake!
Speak! I can now be silent as the grave;
Close, as cold lips of marble; still, as the deep
In the unvoyaged, fathomless profound
Of the untillable ocean.

Graeme.
'Tis no secret
Now, for the heaven has told it o'er the earth;
The troubled earth has echoed back the heaven,
And children's lips ev'n lisp it. Take thy sword,
My friend, and follow me. His doom is sign'd;
He'll fall ere the sun shines.

Macgee.
Come, Simon Graeme;
Our swords are now both seated on our sides;
This is the gladdest hour of my whole life,
For these three days I've lived in troubled thoughts;
The nights had fearful dreams. 'Twas but last night
I lay in sweet sleep stretch'd—sudden I sprung,
My right hand clutching at an unseen throat,
And call'd with a voice that made my young babes quake,
“There, murderous villain, fill the grave thou madest”—
My wife her white arms flung around my neck,
And I awoke, and said it was a dream;
Only a dream; kiss'd her, and smiled, to smoothe
Unutterable anguish. What's thy wish?

Gra.
That we shall place us in the murderer's path:—
This night he passes through the fords of Nith,
Where death shall find him though he were in steel
Lapt sevenfold proof; three score of hearts, and true,
Have at my summons bared their blades, and watch
Aside the winding river. We will strike
Him with no secret, but an open blow.

Macgee.
Stay till my sweet wife and my little ones
Get one sweet kiss—I shall not fight the worse for 't.

Gra.
Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell.

Macgee.
My young lord,
One kind glance of thy gallant eye is worth
Ten thousand thousand visions. Bless thy face.

Sir Marmaduke.
Friends of my father, why do you keep watch
At this dark hour, and watch with weapons too?

Graeme.
A few nights since heaven wet these swords of ours
In the blood of hired murderers: we sheathed
Our weapons, and night after night kept watch
For God's assurance by most fearful signs,
That we might smite the master murderer. We
To night have seen dread tokens, and his hour
Is surely come; he will not see sunrise:
Sir Marmaduke, go with us on God's errand,
And strike with us the slayer of thy father,
If thou dost know the man.

Sir Marmaduke.
Oh! name him not;
His name shall ever be an evil omen,
Even to the holiest lips; so name him not.

Graeme.
To tell thee how we found this murderer out
Will be the unfolding of a tragic story:
I heard of thine own perilous escape,
From a sure hand, one whose keen eye can pierce
Far into future woe, even one whose tongue
Has counsel'd me to keep my good sword sharp:—
But this we'll talk of as we walk along.

(Exeunt.)