University of Virginia Library

DRAMATIC SKETCHES.

ANTONIO MELIDORI.

SCENE I.

[A place not far from the summit of Mount Psiloriti, in the Isle of Candia. Philota discovered with a basket of grapes upon her head; she looks eagerly upward. Time, a little before sunset.]
PHILOTA.
Why comes he not? Here on this emerald sward,
Close to the cool shade of these ancient rocks,
We have met, and fondly lingered in the sunset,
Eve after eve, since first he said, “I love thee!”
Never, Antonio, hast thou been ere now
A loiterer! wherefore should my heart beat fast,
And my breath thicken, and the dew of fear
Stand chill upon my forehead? Is't an omen?

[At this moment Antonio is seen bounding quickly down the mountain; he reaches Philota and embraces her.]
ANTONIO.
Thou hast waited long, Philota, hast thou not?

PHILOTA.
'Tis true, Antonio! but thou know'st an hour,
Nay, a bare minute, drags the weariest length
When thou art from me!

ANTONIO.
Thanks, dearest, and, forgive me,
I did but dream upon the hill-top yonder
And, dreaming thus, forgot thee.

PHILOTA.
Forgot me!

ANTONIO.
Nay, nay, I mean not that! thy face, thy smiles,
Thy deep devotion, in my heart of hearts,
I keep them shrined forever, but my thoughts
Turned truant; who can hold his thoughts, Philota,
In a leash always? prithee reascend
The mountain with me, I would show the place
Which tempted my weak thoughts to wander thus.

[They reach the most elevated portion of the mountain, whence a wide circuit of land and sea becomes visible.]
PHILOTA.
How beautiful! how glorious! see, my love,
There's not a cloud, or shadow of cloud in heaven;
Even here, the winds breathe faintly, and afar
O'er the broad circuit of the watery calm,
Peace broods upon the ocean, rules the air,
And up the sunset's dazzling pathway walks
Like a saint entering Paradise.
'Twere sweet,
How sweet, Antonio, amid scenes like these,
To live and love forever!

ANTONIO
[absently].
Ay!—well—perhaps—

PHILOTA.
He heeds me not, his eye
Is cold and stern; what troubles thee, Antonio?

ANTONIO.
Trouble! I am not troubled.

PHILOTA.
But thou art,
I know thou art; would'st thou deceive Philota?

ANTONIO.
Now by the saints, not so; dismiss the fear
Which, like a tremulous shadow, breaks the calm
Of those soft eyes! [after a pause]

The matter, in brief, is this:
Tracking our mountain paths at early dawn,
Rousso—thou knowest him—hailed me from the rocks,
With words that sounded like the battle trumpets;
“It comes!” he cried; “the war-cloud rolls this way;
We too shall hear its thunders”—

PHILOTA.
Ay! and feel
Its bolts perchance,—there's lightning in such clouds!

ANTONIO.
What if there be! who would not brave them all,—
All, for a cause like ours? Believe me, Love,
We stand upon the brink of troublous times:
All shall be changed here: men,—brave Grecian men,—
The blood of heroes in them,—cannot pause,
Storing the honey, harvesting the olive,
Or humbly following the tame herdsman's trade,
Whilst Freedom calls to conflict.
Look, Philota!
Dost mark yon lurid flash across the bay?
Our soldiers test their cannon! hark, below,
The drums of Affendouli—how they ring!
Already thousands of bold mountaineers
Have formed beneath his banners; dost thou hear me?

PHILOTA.
And wouldst thou wish to join them? Ah! I see,
I see it all!—a trouble on thy brow,
Borne upward from the restless gloom within,
Hath clouded o'er thy peace. I,—a frail girl,
And gifted only with the wealth of love,
How can I satisfy the burning need
Of a strong man's ambition? Yes, tis so,
'Tis even so!—love is the woman's heaven,
Her hope, her god, her life-blood! yet to man,
What is it but a pastime?

ANTONIO.
Speak not thus
Oh, speak not thus, Philota! I have loved
Thee, only thee,—so help me, Virgin Mother!
But comrades from whose lips a taunt is bitter,
Have dared to hint—

PHILOTA.
What!

ANTONIO.
That I chose to stay,
Delving, like some base slave, our barren soil,
When not a Sphakiote that can carry arms
Has failed to seize them. Liars! pestilent liars,
I would have proved the falsehood were it not—

PHILOTA.
For me—Philota!—well! I love thee dearly,
Deeply,—God knows,—but I would have this love
To crown thee as a garland,—not as a chain
To bind and fetter—thou art free, Antonio!—

ANTONIO.
But hast thou thought of all which follows this?
Thou shalt be left alone, no bridal feast
Can cheer the olive harvest!

PHILOTA.
I have thought,
And am determined;—thou art free, Antonio!

ANTONIO.
Oh, thanks, thanks, thanks!—lift up thy hopes, Philota,
Up to the height of mine! our cause is just,
And a just Fate shall guard it; wheresoe'er
Free thought finds utterance, and the patriot-soul
Thrills at the deeds of heroes,—we may look
For a “God speed!” The prayers of noble men,
The tears of women,—the whole world's applause
Do wait upon us!
Methinks I see the end,
A free, grand Commonwealth of Grecian States,
Built upon chartered rights,—each sealed with blood!

PHILOTA.
Enough! enough! Antonio, thou shalt go!
Greece is thy mistress, now.

SCENE II.

[The cottage of Philota, at the foot of Mount Psiloriti. Philota discovered at the window, looking out upon the night, which is bleak and stormy.]
PHILOTA.
Hark! how those lusty trumpeters, the winds,
Urge on the black battalions of the clouds;
And see! the swollen rivulets rushing down
The sides of Psiloriti! Yesterday,
'Neath the clear calm of the serenest morn
Earth ever stole from Paradise, they swept,
Bright curves of laughing silver in the sunshine;
But now, an overmastering rush of floods,
They thunder to the heavens, that answer back
From the wild depths of gloom,—an awful tempest!

[Enter Antonio hastily.]
ANTONIO.
Where is the priest, Philota? where is Andreas?
Was he not here to-night?

PHILOTA.
Ay! but left some half hour since!

ANTONIO.
What say you?
Oh, the poor father!—then 'twas him I saw
Pent 'twixt the mountain torrents; he is lost!
The good old man!—and yet, not so, not so!
Give me yon oaken staff,—and, hold; a flask
Of the best vintage; I'll be back anon,
And the dear father with me:—

[Exit Antonio. Philota kneels before an image of the Virgin, and prays for the safety of her lover. After the lapse of some minutes, enter Rousso stealthily, wrapped in a cloak, which partly conceals his features.]
ROUSSO
[aside].
Faith! a pretty picture!
Now, were I what fools call poetical,
I'd worship her, whilst she adores the saint,—
A lovelier saint herself, and nearer truly
To the just standard of divinity
Than yonder painted image; there's the curve,
The old Greek curve, in the voluptuous swell
Of those full lips; the passion in her eyes
Is shadowed off to melancholy meaning,
Only to waken to meridian life,
When a like passion touches it to flame.

PHILOTA
[praying].
Oh, merciful Mother! save him,—save Antonio!

ROUSSO
[aside].
Oh, potent Devil! claim him,—claim Antonio!
What! shall this malapert boy dispute my love?

[Philota, rising, discovers Rousso, towards whom (mistaking him for Antonio), she rushes, as if about to cast herself into his arms, but discovering her error, she shrinks back.]
PHILOTA.
You here!

ROUSSO
[advancing].
I crave protection, shelter,—may I stay?

PHILOTA.
At a safe distance, Sir!

ROUSSO.
Why, what means this?
I looked for kindlier welcome!

PHILOTA.
Wherefore, Rousso?
What thou hast asked, I grant,—protection, shelter;
Durst thou claim more than these?

ROUSSO.
I' faith thy temper is most strange and wayward!
Because, some months agone, not quite myself,
I ventured at the harvest of the olive,
Upon one innocent liberty—

PHILOTA.
No liberty,
With me, at least, bold man! is rated thus!

ROUSSO.
I do repeat, that I was not myself;
Blame the hot wine of Cyprus; spare your slave! [Kneeling.]


PHILOTA.
A slave, indeed!—

ROUSSO.
But one who stoops to conquer, fair Philota;
If I have knelt, 'tis only that I may
Rise thus, and clasp thee! Hold, no foolish cries,
No weak, vain strugglings! Think'st thou that the storm
Pealing adown the mountain's rugged steeps
Can bear these feeble wailings to thy friends?
Come, come, Philota!—if thou could'st believe it,
I am the very worthiest of thy vassals;
List for an instant, while I paint the beauty
Of a far Eden waiting for the light,
The sundawn of thine eyes:—
Amid the waves
Of the Ægean, bosomed in the calm
Of ever-during summer, sleeps an isle
Whereon the ocean ripples into music;
Through whose luxuriant wilderness of blooms,
The soft winds sigh their breath away in dreams,
Where—(the deuce take me! I forget my part)—
Where—where—where—i' sooth, a place
To live, to love, to die in, and revisit
From the sad vale of shadows, with a touch
Of mortal fondness, overmastering death.
Wilt thou go thither with me? Nay, thou must!

[As Rousso attempts to carry Philota from the apartment, she recovers, and, by a sudden effort, releases herself from his arms.]
ROUSSO.
Pardon, Philota! 'tis my eager love
Which thus hath urged me on; thou tremblest! what?
I would not make thee fear me.

PHILOTA.
Fear! fear!
If my cheek pales, it is not cowardice
That plays the tyrant to the exiled blood;
If my frame trembles, there are other moods
Than that thou speak'st of, to unstring its firmness;
Thy presence brings no terrors; dost thou talk
Of fear to a Greek woman?

ROUSSO.
No! no! not fear, but love!

PHILOTA.
Man, man! I pray thee
Blaspheme not thus! what canst thou know of love?
'Tis true thou speak'st it boldly; from thy lips
The word falls with a rounded fullness off,
And yet, believe me, thou hast used a phrase,
(A sacred phrase, and wretchedly profaned),
Which, were thy years thrice lengthened out beyond
The general limit of our mortal lives,
And thou be made to pass through all extremes
Of multiform experience, it could never
Enter thy sordid soul to comprehend!

ROUSSO.
Bravely delivered! by my soul, I think
We both make good declaimers! Where did'st learn
That pretty speech, Philota?

PHILOTA.
Wilt thou leave me?

ROUSSO.
Pshaw! thou art less than courteous. Leave thee! no!
I will not leave thee! Hark ye, my proud damsel,
I am not one with whom 'tis safe to trifle,
Thou knowest, or shalt know this; so, mark my words,
Long have I wooed thee fairly, would have won thee,
Yea, and endowed thee with both wealth and station;
Twice hast thou heard my proffer, twice with loathing
Spurned it, and me; I shall not woo thee thrice
With honeyed words; no, 'tis the strong arm now.
I am prepared for all; come on!

[He seizes Philota a second time, but enter on the instant Antonio, with the Monk Andreas leaning upon him.]
PHILOTA
[faintly].
Saved! saved!

ANTONIO.
Ha, Rousso, I have heard it whispered oft
Amongst thy watchful brethren in this isle,
That underneath that smooth and flattering front
There lurked a mine of blackest villany!
Faith! I denied it once; what shall I say
When next the public voice decries you, sir?

ROUSSO.
A jest! I do assure you but a jest!
This cloak, which in your self-devoted flight
To rescue the dear father, Andreas
(How glad I am to see his saintship safe),
You dropped some furlongs from the mountain's base,
I cast, in sportive fashion, on my person,
And deeming that Philota would rejoice
To hear that thou had'st so far braved the force
O' th' treacherous elements, I called upon her;
She did me the vast honor to confound
Your humble servant with Antonio,
And 'ere I was aware, sprang to my arms,
With such a blinded ecstasy of rapture,
That I had wellnigh sunk into the earth,
From the mere stress of native modesty!
A jest, a jest, and nothing but a jest.

ANTONIO.
Such jesting may be dangerous,—beware!

SCENE III.

[A year is supposed to have elapsed. The town of Sphakia after nightfall. Enter confusedly a band of Sphakiote soldiers, with Rousso amongst them. The streets are crowded with women, many of whom are heard lamenting the death of Antonio Melidori.]
ROUSSO
[in a disguised voice].
Why will ye clamor thus, ye foolish jades?
Your handsome favorite, your renowned commander,
Is no more dead than I am!

A WOMAN.
Say'st thou so?
Where then is Melidori?

ROUSSO
[still disguising his voice].
Would'st thou learn?
Women of Sphakia, your immaculate captain,
He for whose welfare, upon bended knees,
Ye nightly pray to heaven, whose name your infants
Lisp in their very slumbers, hath betrayed us!
Hold! hear me out! I am no dubious witness;
Thrice, whilst the battle raged along our front,
Is saw the traitor creeping like a dog
Between the Turkish outposts!

[Antonio appears in the rear, with a child in his arms.]
ANTONIO.
It is false!
Here is your leader, Sphakiotes; what base slanderer
Dares to pronounce me traitor? I but paused
To save this weeping innocent, whose mother
Fell by some coward's sword!

ROUSSO.
Ha, Sphakiotes, see,
The noble Melidori waxes tender,
Soft as a woman! he must love the Moslem,
Who fosters thus their offspring! by the saints
A lusty brat! He'll thrive, good friends, believe me,
And grow betimes, to cut our infants' throats!

ANTONIO.
Let him who speaks stand forth; I would confront
My bold accuser. What! he clings to the dark!
Fit place for lies and liars!
Friends, I scorn
To parley with this viper; there's a way,
One only way, to deal with reptiles, crush them,
Thus, thus, and thus,
When they have crawled too near us;
[Stamping violently upon the earth.]
Till then, why let the ugly beasts hiss on,
And spit their harmless venom.
[Turning to the women.]
Mothers, wives,
Maidens of Sphakia, are there none amongst ye
Ready to take this poor unfortunate?
Just for my sake, fair countrywomen, list,
List to the blessèd word:—“The merciful
Shall obtain mercy!”

ROUSSO.
Heed him not, I say,
But seize the infidel whelp, and let him rock
On a steel bayonet! What! have we repelled
The invading foe, exterminated wholly
His forces and his empire, that we dare
Cherish his cubs among us?—and for what?
“Just for his sake, fair countrywomen,—his,
And mercy's!” Who showed mercy to our children,
When the Turk ravaged Scio? The young devil,—
Hear how he shrieks! ho! send him down to hell!
Down to his father! he's a grateful spirit,
And thankful for small favors!

[The crowd begin to murmur, and move threateningly towards ANTONIO.]
ANTONIO.
Shame upon you!
Though the poor boy were fifty times a Moslem,
I'll rear him as my own; he shall not perish;
Perchance, who knows, when I have died for you,
For you, and Grecian liberty, this babe,
Reared as a Greek, may yet avenge my death,
As none of you, false brethren, dare avenge it!
Once more I say,—Mothers, wives, maids of Sphakia,
Is there not one amongst ye to whose tendance
I may commit this trembling castaway?

PHILOTA
[veiled].
Give me the child,—I'll nurture him with love,
And gentlest usage.

ANTONIO
[starting].
Heavens! what voice is that?
You here, Philota? I had hoped you dwelt
Safely within the close heart of the mountains!

PHILOTA.
The mountains are not safe.

ANTONIO.
Why then did'st thou
Keep such strict silence? Answer me, Philota,
How hast thou lived. This peasant's dress—

PHILOTA.
Is fittest
For me, Antonio,—by my handiwork,
And daily labor, I now earn my bread,—
For was it meet an unknown peasant girl
Should claim, as her betrothed, great Melidori,
Captain of Sphakia?

ANTONIO.
O, thou generous heart!
But stay,—the rabble must not catch our words;
Take thou the babe,—under the citywalls
I'll meet thee in the gloaming,

SCENE IV.

[A place under the city walls,—time, an hour after sunset.]
ANTONIO,
[embracing PHILOTA constrainedly].
How kind thou art!

PHILOTA.
I but obeyed your mandate!

ANTONIO.
Nay, why so cold? my troth is thine, Philota,—
Dost thou remember?

PHILOTA.
Would'st thou have me do so?
Methought that dream was over,—by thy wish.

ANTONIO.
By heaven! I never said so!

PHILOTA.
Yet thy heart,
Thy heart, Antonio, spake the keen desire,
Although thy lips kept silence;—I have learned
To read thy spirit like an open book,
And cannot be deceived;—all's changed with us;
Never again, as in the time that's past,
Shall we, hand linked in hand, explore the vales,
Or walk the shining hill-tops; thou hast risen
Far, far above my level; a great man,
Among the greatest,—thou wert mad t' espouse
A humble girl like me; I ask it not;
My love but burdens thy aspiring hopes,
So, I beseech thee, dwell no more upon it:
Antonio, for thy welfare I would give
My soul's life; shall I then refuse to yield
A personal joy, that thou may'st win and wed
The immortal virgin—Glory? Dream it not!
Oh! dream it not!

ANTONIO.
Now, gracious God, forgive me!
It were presumption, should I kiss thy feet,
Thou pure, unselfish woman! yet thy words
Are true, too true, and I dare not gainsay them.
One thing believe, Philota, I am wretched,
Yes, far more so than thou art:
[After a pause.]
—Did'st thou know
The terrible life I lead in this dread warfare,
Through what an atmosphere of blood and carnage
It is my doom to move, as through the air
Of some plague-stricken city, thick with curses;
Did'st know the numberless dangers, that like demons
(Many unseen,—and therefore doubly fearful),
Which hover 'round the soldier, hour by hour
O'ershadowing life with the black gloom of death;
Did'st know the coarse companions, the rude manners
Of vile extortioners, bent alone on prey,
And personal profit, and the thousand evils
Gendered of strife, and strife's unhallowed passions,
O, thou would'st shrink from following such base courses,
Even as an angel from the brink of hell!

PHILOTA.
Thou wrong'st my love, and hast deceived thyself;
Where'er thou art, to me that place is heaven;
Antonio, God alone, God and my soul
Know what I might, and would have been to thee!
I would have shared thy fortunes, joined my fate
For weal or woe, for honor or disgrace,
For life or death to thine; have tracked thy steps,
(If need it were,) through seas of blood and carnage,
Strengthened thy weakness, buoyed thy sinking hopes,
Nor, at the worst, have shed one woman's tear
To shake thy manhood. Had heaven blessed thy cause,
I would have striven to make my spirit worthy
To mount with thee; so, when the orbèd glory
Shone like the fire of sunrise round thy brow,
No man dare say that with that lustre mingled
One blush of shame for Melidori's wife!
This might have been, and this shall never be.
[Wildly.]
I' th' name of mercy, by thy mother's soul,
And the dear past, I pray thee leave me now,
While still thou lov'st me (dost thou not?) a little.

ANTONIO.
And thou—and thou, Philota?—

PHILOTA.
I shall dwell
In peace; [aside]
ay! broken hearts are peaceful!

ANTONIO.
But where?—

PHILOTA.
What matter where, so that I live in peace?
Grieve not, Antonio. In my humble station
One thought shall bring content;—“he was not false,”
No mortal maiden stole Antonio's heart!

ANTONIO.
Blessèd words!
'Tis true I love but thee!

PHILOTA.
Then do not sorrow.
Love, I forgive thee; thou hast wronged me not.
And for the child—ah, I shall dream it thine;
Tend it as thine, and when the years have ripened
That infant soul, 'tis mine to lead to virtue,
I'll teach the boy how noble was the act
Whereby Antonio saved him; I'll be happy,
Oh, trust me, Love! so very, very happy!

ANTONIO.
Then be it so, Philota. I would bless thee,
But am not worthy; still, thou shalt be blessed.

PHILOTA.
And thou, too, if the Virgin hear my prayers;
And now that we are friends, but friends, though firm ones,
Beseech thee, list my tidings. There's a foe,
A deadly, treacherous foe in thine own camp,
And one who vows thy ruin; it is Rousso;
Thou knowest how first his envious, bitter temper
Was stung to hatred; since that time, thy will
Hath often clashed with his; besides, thy fame
In these fierce wars hath far o'ertopped his credit;
So he has sworn thy death; the voice was his,
That goaded on thy soldiers to rebellion;
And, as I threaded my uncertain pathway,
A short hour since, through the dark streets of Sphakia,
I heard thy name in whispers; two dim forms
(Men, as I knew by their hoarse tones,) conferred
With hurried, stealthy gestures, and one sentence
Startled me like a knell:—“His tomb is open,”
A deep voice said; “Antonio's tomb is open!”
Oh, then, beware. As lowly as thou deem'st me,
I'll watch above thy safety; the soft dove
May warn the eagle of the midnight spoiler!

ANTONIO.
And thy own life and safety—

PHILOTA.
I am here
To spend them both for thee. But hark! thy name
Is shouted by thy comrades in the valley.
The hour has come that parts us. Fare thee well!

[She gives him her hand.]
ANTONIO.
'Twas not our wont to part in this cold fashion;
Come, one more kiss, Philota! let me feel
We were indeed betrothed; one last, last kiss!

[They embrace and part.]

SCENE V.

[An apartment in the house of Affendouli, the Governor-General of Candia. Enter Antonio, and Affendouli, conversing.]
AFFENDOULI.
These private bickerings are the fruitful cause
Of all disgrace and failure; let us end them!

ANTONIO.
Most willingly! I have no feud with any,
Saving one quarrel, forced upon me, chief!

AFFENDOULI.
True, true! but even now a courier waits,
Charged with a special message of good will,
From Rousso, and his brother, Anagnosti;
They say, “We plead for peace! all personal hate
Henceforth be quelled between us; we would join
Our troop to Melidori's, and our banners
Wave side by side with his.” Accept their proffer!

ANTONIO.
I will!

AFFENDOULI.
To show thou art sincere, fail not to test
Their hospitality.

ANTONIO.
As how?

AFFENDOULI.
They give
A solemn feast of unity and friendship,
To which thou art invited. Go, I charge thee.

ANTONIO.
Trust me, I shall be there, what day's appointed
Whereon to hold this festival of love?

AFFENDOULI.
This very day; thou knowest the camp of Rousso?

ANTONIO.
Ay! I'll be there anon!

[Exit Antonio. Enter, after a brief interval, Philota, with a hurried and anxious mien.]
PHILOTA.
Oh, pardon, pardon!
Most gracious Governor! but I come to seek
Ant—Ant—, that is, the Captain Melidori,
With tidings of grave import.

AFFENDOULI.
Ha!
Thou luckless messenger! he has departed.
Gone—

PHILOTA
[wildly].
Where, where?

AFFENDOULI.
To feast with Rousso.

PHILOTA
[rushing out].
Then is he lost! O merciful God, protects us!

SCENE VI.

[An open space in a wood,—tables arranged for a banquet,—Rousso, Anagnosti, Antonio Melidori, and their followers, discovered feasting.]
ANAGNOSTI.
A soldier's life forever! free to pass
In feast or fray! how glorious this wild banquet
Compared to those dull, formal feasts of old,
Held at the olive harvest! Speak, Antonio,
Give us thy thought upon it: what! art silent?

ROUSSO.
Urge him no more; perchance Antonio pines
For the sweet quiet of that mountain life,
Which thou hast called so dull; its days of dream,
Its nights of warm voluptuous dalliance!

ANTONIO.
No, no, by heaven! those times are dead to me;
They had their pleasures, but not one to match
The keen delights of glory, the true honor
Which follows patriot service.

ROUSSO.
Gallant words,
Brave, and high-sounding; but for me and mine,
We do not fight for shadows!

ANTONIO
[coldly].
I'm at fault,
Not clearly comprehending, sir, your meaning.

ROUSSO.
Oh! thou dost well to speak of glory, honors,
We know what rich rewards await thee, chief,
When the war's ended; spoils, and wealth and beauty.
But yestermorn, I saw thy winsome lady.
The bride to be, old Affendouli's daughter.
Nay, shrink not, man, she is a lovely maid,
Fair as her father's generous; what an eye!
Half arch, half languishing; and what a breast!
That heaves as 'twould burst outward to the day,
And strike men mad with its white panting passion!
No lovelier woman lives, unless, unless—
It be that poor young thing who doted on thee,
Before the war,—what was her name? Philota?

ANTONIO.
Thy thoughts run on fair damsels; let us talk
Like soldiers, not like brain-sick boys in love.

ROUSSO.
With all my heart; only, one pledge to thee,
And Affendouli's daughter!

ANTONIO.
I have borne
This jesting with the patience of a saint,
But now 'tis stretched to license. Prithee, cease!

ROUSSO.
God, how he winces! if Philota—

ANTONIO.
Villain!
Utter that sacred name again—

ROUSSO
[rising suddenly and drawing his dagger].
Oh, ho!
Wilt fight, wilt fight! I'm ready for thee; come.

ANTONIO
[aside].
(He shall not trap me thus.) Thou art my host;
'Twere shame, yea, bitter shame, this brawl should end
In blows and bloodshed! when the time befits,
[To Rousso].
Doubt not that I shall call thee to account
For this day's work; meanwhile I leave a board
Where clownish insult poisons all your cups!

[As he is about to depart, Anagnosti approaches, with an air of conciliation.]
ANAGNOSTI.
Well spoken, noble captain, thou wert wronged;
But Rousso is so hasty! He repents;
Let not this solemn feast of unity
Break up in discord.

ROUSSO.
No, no, no, Antonio!
I do repent! Prithee embrace me, friend,
In sign of reconcilement.

[Rousso approaches Melidori with an unsteady step; while in the act of embracing, he stabs him in the side. Philota rushes upon the scene, with a cry of agony, and throws herself beside Antonio, whose head she supports.]
PHILOTA.
Too late! O God, too late! He faints, he dies!
Why stare ye thus upon us, cruel men?
Wine, wine, another cup, how slow ye move!
My scarf is drenched with blood,—ye pitiless fools!
Will not a creature loan me wherewithal
To bind his wretched wound up? There, 'tis stanched,
And he revives! Antonio, speak to me,
I am Philota!

ANTONIO
[his mind wandering].
Where hast thou been, my love, this weary time?
Am I not true? I charge thee, heed them not!
The girl is nothing to me; Rousso's tongue,
His sharp false tongue first joined our names together;
She loves another, and I love but thee;
Draw nearer, let me whisper. I have dreamed,
Oh, such a dream! the valleys flowed with blood,
And ruin compassed all our island round,
And every town was sacked, and, hark ye, nearer!
I saw a mother murdered by a knave,
A coward knave, because she would not yield
Her body to him; but I saved her child,
And here he is, a pretty, pretty boy!
Take him, Philota. Ah, my heart, my heart!
It pains me sorely; 'twas a terrible dream,
But now, thank Heaven, 'tis over! Thou art pale;
What makes thee pale? Bear up, my dearest love!
This morn we shall be wedded, and I think
We will not part again. I had a foe,
His name is Rousso; but we are so happy,
Let us forgive all foes; invite him thither,

PHILOTA
[weeping].
He breaks my heart—

ANTONIO.
How keen the wind is!
Keen, keen, and chill; it was not wont to blow
So coldly at this season: I am sick,
Yea, sick of very joy; but joy kills not;
My lids are heavy; I would sleep, Philota.
Wake me at early dawn; I told my mother,
That I would bring thee home, to-morrow morn.

[He dies.]

ALLAN HERBERT.

SCENE I.

[The hall of a country house in Westmoreland, surrounded with portraits of the M. ... family. Allan Herbert, and Jocelyn, an old domestic, are seen standing before the likeness of a lady, young, and wonderfully fair.]
HERBERT.
The canvas speaks!

JOCELYN.
Ay, sir, 'tis very like;
Was she not beautiful?

HERBERT.
Was; yes, and is;
She had not lost one bloom when late I saw her.

JOCELYN.
Sir, she is dead!

HERBERT.
Ay, so they say, old man;
And yet I see her nightly,—in my dreams;
I tell you that her cheek is round and fair
As summer's fulness, that her eyes are lustrous,
And she, a perfect presence clasped in light!
Thus will she look, on resurrection morning.

JOCELYN
[aside].
Alas, poor gentleman! how many loved her,
And loved her vainly! Pardon, sir, your name?

HERBERT.
My name is Allan Herbert.

JOCELYN.
Herbert, Herbert!
Where have I heard that dainty name before? (musing)

Oh, now I have it; my young mistress, sir,
She who is dead, was wont to read a book
A delicate gold-edged volume, that I'm sure
Bore some such name within it; she would sit
Beneath yon grape vine trellis toward the south
(This window, sir, commands it), and for hours,
Nay, days, bend o'er her favorite pages; once
She left the book behind her, and I saw
Its leaves were touched with tears.

HERBERT.
Where is it now?
That book your mistress loved? Let me behold it!

JOCELYN.
In sooth, sir, I have never seen it since,
Or, if I have [hesitating]
, it lies beyond our reach.

HERBERT.
What meanest thou?

JOCELYN.
I mean that while she lay
Decked for her burial, whilst I stood beside her,
Looking my last upon her tranquil features,
The robe of death was fluttered by the wind,
A low sad wailing wind, that swept aside
The drapery for a moment, and I marked
The glimmer of the gold-edged pages placed
Right on her bosom! Master, you are pale,
You tremble; I have rudely touched the spring
Of some deep-seated sorrow!

HERBERT.
Yes, old man;
A sorrow most unlike to common griefs,
That pass like clouds or shadows; mine is mingled
With the dark hues of treachery and remorse;
A rayless, blank eclipse, through which I wander,
Accursed and hopeless; sometimes in a vision
Comes the sweet face of her I foully wronged,
And stabs me with a smile!

JOCELYN.
Did'st wrong her, Sir?
Did'st wrong my lady?

HERBERT.
Lead me to the grave;
I know 'tis near at hand.

JOCELYN.
The grave! what grave?
Moreover,—if you wronged her—

HERBERT.
If I wronged her!
Why dost thou taunt me with it? thou on earth
With Mercy still beside thee,—I—in Hell?

JOCELYN.
Madman!

HERBERT.
I am not mad, my friend, but only wretched;
Once more, I pray thee, show me where she sleeps.

JOCELYN.
I must obey him; this way,—follow me.

SCENE II.

[A forest.—Deep in the shade a single monument appears, covered with wild-flowers and roses.]
HERBERT
[alone].
'Tis fit she should be buried in this place
So fragrant and so peaceful; O, my love!
Thou hast grown dull of hearing! I may call
'Till the lone echoes shiver with thy name,
Thou wilt not heed me; dust, dust, dust indeed!
And thou—more glorious than the morning star;
More tender than the love-light of the eve!
They tell me thou shalt rise again, Christ's bride,
Not mine, most beautiful, yet changed;
Perchance I shall not know thee, or perchance,
The human love which made thine eyes like heaven—
My heaven of hope and worship—shall be lost
In some diviner splendor! all is hushed,
No smallest whisper trembles gently up
From the deep grave to soothe me; 'tis in vain
I agonize in thought. Eternal Nature!
She whom I once called “mother,” wears an aspect
Callous and pitiless. I fain would solve
This terrible mystery that weighs down my soul
With nightmare fancies. Let me die in peace,
O God! and if I may not see her more
Through all the long eternities, nor hear
Her voice of tender pardon, let me rest
Next to some stream of Lethe, and repose
In everlasting slumbers!—

[Enter Jocelyn.]
JOCELYN.
Come, let us hence! the darkness creeps upon us;
See, Sir! there's not a spark of sunset left
In all the waning West.

HERBERT.
Well, what of that!
I live in darkness,—the light burns my spirit,
It mocks and tortures me! Begone, I say,
And leave me to the dismal shade thou fearest!

JOCELYN.
Good Sir, be counselled—stay not in the wood;
Thine eye is troubled, and thy visage weary;—
'Tis a rash venture!

HERBERT.
Sooth to say, I thank thee;
Thou could'st not serve long in the household blessed
By her most merciful presence, and not catch
Some tenderness of temper;—take my thanks!
Yet will I stay in this same dreary wood,
And watch until the night is overpast.

JOCELYN.
Thou'lt find it lonely.

HERBERT.
Oh, I have my thoughts,
A stirring company, that never slumber.

JOCELYN.
Why, worse and worse! I've heard, such restless thoughts
Engender a sore sickness—

HERBERT.
Of the mind;
Yet is my case already desperate,
Past healing, and past comfort. Go thy way.
Thou kind old man, thou canst not shake my purpose,
But when the last star wanes before the dawn,
Come back; my night will then be overpast,
And my watch ended; till that hour, farewell!

FROM THE CONSPIRATOR,

AN UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY.

SCENE.
[A garden: Arnold De Malpas and Catharine discovered walking slowly towards a summerhouse in the distance].
CATHARINE.
Art thou prepared to risk all this, De Malpas?

DE MALPAS.
Ay! this, and more, if I but thought—

[Hesitating].
CATHARINE.
What, Arnold?

DE MALPAS.
If I but thought that when the strife was over,
The feeble prince hurled down, the throne secured,
She, for whose love I braved the people's hate,
Malice of rulers, and the headsman's axe,
Would deign to share with me that perilous height.

CATHARINE.
She! Oh, thou hast a lady-love!

DE MALPAS.
Cruel! Wouldst thou put by my passion thus,
With a feigned jest? Catharine, I stake my all,
Manhood's strong hopes and purpose, the heart's wealth,
And the mind's store of hard-bought lore, my peace
Of conscience, and my soul's immortal life,
To lift thee to the summit of thy wish;
(Oh! I have proved thee, and I know thy thoughts),
And yet, thou feignest ignorance!

CATHARINE.
Dear De Malpas,
Forgive me! let us both throw by the mask!
I hate the queen; even in our girlish days,
She was my rival; her mild-mannered arts
Stole suitors from me; the old priest, our teacher,
Though I eclipsed her ever in the school,
And shamed her dullness with keenwitted words
And quicker apprehension, shone on her
With sunny aspect, sleeked her golden hair,
Fondled and soothed and petted, whilst for me,
The apter scholar, he reserved harsh looks,
And harsher tones; (well, the old fool is dead!
In after time, some friend of holy church,
Some zealous friend, proved that his saintship taught
Schism and heresy, and so—he perished)!
But for this queen, this Eleanor! our souls
Nursed yearly a more fixed hostility;
We sat together at the knightly jousts,
And watched the conflict with high beating hearts,
Flushed cheeks, and fluttering pulses; she from fear,
I with the mounting heat of martial blood,
Thrilled with the music of the battle's roar,
The ring of mighty lances on steel helms,
Clangor of shields, and neighing of wild steeds:
One morn my knight was victor; as he placed
The crown of gems and laurel on my brow,
Methought that I was born to be a queen,
Not the brief ruler of a festal throng,
But 'stablished kingdoms, and a host of men
Bound to my sway forever!

DE MALPAS.
A true thought!
O, noble Catharine! thy aspiring spirit
Fires my purpose, and gives wings to action;
Thy rival hath sped past thee in the race,
But she shall fall midway; the blinded monarch
Walks on the brink of an abysmal deep,
And soon shall topple over; then, a victor,
(Not from the conflict with half-blunted spears,
In friendly tournament), but the tumult fierce
Of revolution, and the crash of states,
Shall set a weightier crown about thy brows,
And hail thee ruler,—not of festal throngs,
But 'stablished kingdoms, and a host of men
Bound to thy sway forever!

DE MALPAS.
Speak, Bolton! what say these, my faithful friends,
Touching my present life?

BOLTON.
Why, Master Arnold,
I' sooth they're much divided; some assert,
That thou art moonstruck; that some morbid fancy,
Whether of love or pride, hath seized upon thee;
Others, that thou hast simply lost thy trust
In man and in thyself; and others still,
That thou hast sunk to base, inglorious ease,
Urging the languid currents of the blood
With fiery spurs of sense; a few there are,
Few, but most faithful, who at dead of night
In secret conclave, with low-whispered words
And pallid faces glancing back aghast,
Speak of a monstrous wrong, which thou—

DE MALPAS.
[Starting up, and seizing Bolton.]
Unhappy wretch! therein thou speak'st thy doom!
That prying, curious spirit is thy fate.
[Stabs him suddenly.]
Did I not warn thee of it?

BOLTON.
Oh! I die!
Yet my soul swells and lightens; all the future
Flashes before me like a revelation.
Arnold De Malpas! thou shalt gain thine end!
The aged king shall fall, the throne be thine!
But, as thou goest to claim it, as thy foot
Presses the royal dais (mark my words)!
A bolt shall fall from heaven, sudden, swift,
Even as thy blow on me, thou'lt writhe i' the dust,
Down-trodden by the hostile heel of thousands,
Whilst she, for whom thou'st turned conspirator,
Smiling, shall gaze from out her palace doors,
And wave her broidered scarf, and join the music
Of her low witching laughter to the sneers
Of courtly parasites; “De Malpas bore
His honors bravely, did he not, my lords?
Now, by our lady, 'tis a grievous fall!”
“Yet pride, thou know'st, sweet Catharine,”—
“Ay, ay, ay!
“Prithee, Francisco, wilt thou dance tonight?”

DE MALPAS.
What, fool! wilt prate forever? Hence, I say,
And entertain the devil with thy dreamings!

[Stabs him again.]
DE MALPAS.
Thou hast been to court, Bernaldi, hast thou not?

BERNALDI.
Ay! all the forenoon!

DE MALPAS.
Didst thou see the lady,
Catharine of Savoy, whose miraculous beauty
Hath set all Spain aflame?

BERNALDI.
I did, my cousin,
But, I am bold to speak it, liked her not;
Her beauty is the beauty of the serpent,
Masking a poisonous spirit; there's no depth
Of womanly nature in her gleaming eyes,
Falsest when most they flatter; men have said
She owns the Borgia's blood; I know not that,
But, by St. Mark! she owns their temper, cousin!

EXPERIENCE IN POVERTY.

A.
How bitterly you speak!

B.
I have good warrant.

A.
Well, for my part, I hold your creed is false,
Uncharitable, monstrous! I have seen
The world, sir; studied men and manners in it;
And though no doubt some selfishness and craft
May evermore be found by those who seek them,
Peering too closely underneath the mask
Of multiform conventions, yet, by heaven,
The world's a fair, good, reasonable world
To all who follow reason! Your high fancies,
Whose goal is vague impossibility,
Of course must miss their mark! We live not, sir,
In Eden, or the golden age.

B.
Right! right!
You talk as is most natural in one
To whom all life hath been a gay parade,
A frolic pastime!—to whom subtle fortune
Hath never turned her dark and lowering front,
But round whose footsteps sowed with golden showers
Obsequious knaves and sweet-tongued servitors
Have fawned and lied and flattered, till your days
Borne bravely onward over perfumed tides
Passed like a steady bark 'twixt shores of flowers,
You know the world! its men and modes forsooth!
Wait, sir, until your purse grows lean as mine,
And fate within the compass of one evil
(A gaunt and loathsome poverty), includes
All ills that flesh is heir to! disrespect
From insolent curs that now you'd hardly stoop
To soil your lordly boot with! studied coldness
Of ancient friends whose easy faith declines
With your decreasing wine-butts! covert sneers,
Or open insult from the gaudy throng
Of parasites, who breathe alone in sunshine!
Grief without balm, and pain that knows not pity;
Dark days, and maddening midnights, and the pang
Of outraged feeling, and the soul's despair:
Ay! wait, I say, until from depths like these,
The lonely thunder growling overhead,
And misery like a cataract raging round
Your path of ruin, wild and desperate eyes
Are lifted to the summits of past hope,
Receding ever with their shows of joy,
Less real than the mirage, or the domes
Which sunset builds on clouds of phantasy!
Wait till the fiend that's born of famished hours
Shall grasp your hand in bony fellowship,
And lead you through the mist of ghastly dreams,
Helpless and tottering, to the brink of death!
Ha! ha! you shrink! the picture does not please
Your dainty fancy! Well, soft optimist,
Confess there's somewhat you have still to learn
Of this same fair, good, reasonable world!

THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY.

I'd have you use a wise philosophy,
In this, as in all matters, whereupon
Judgment may freely act; truth ever lies
Between extremes; avoid the spendthrift's folly
As you'd avoid the road of utter ruin;
For wealth, or at the least, fair competence,
Is honor, comfort, hope, and self-respect;
All, in a word, that makes our human life
Endurable, if not happy: scorn the cant
Of sentimental Dives, wrapped in purple,
Who over jewelled wine-cups and rich fare,
Affects to flout his gold, and prattles loosely
Of sweet content that's found in poverty:
As for the miser, he's a madman simply,
One who the means of all enjoyment holds,
Yet never dares enjoy: no, no, Anselmo,
Use with a prudent, but still liberal hand
That store the gods have given you; thus, my friend,
'Twixt the Charybdis of a churlish meanness,
And the swift Scylla of improvident waste,
You'll steer your bark o'er smooth, innocuous seas,
And reach at last a peaceful anchorage.

LOVE'S CAPRICES.

CREEDS.

Friend, 'mid the complex and unnumbered creeds
Which meet and jostle on this mortal scene,
And sometimes fight à l'outrance, I perceive
Some precious seed of truth ennobling all:
Encased, it may be, like the mummy's wheat,
Locked in dead forms, yet waiting but a breath
Of honest air, an inch of wholesome soil,
To bloom and flourish heavenward; therefore, friend,
Walk hand in hand with clear-eyed Charity,
And Faith sublime, though simple, like a child's,
Who feels through densest midnight, next his own,
The loving throb of a kind father's heart.

THE UNIVERSALITY OF GRIEF.

I grant you that our fate is terrible,
Bitter as gall. What then? Will lamentation,
Childish complaint, everlasting wailings,
Grief, groans, despair, help to amend our doom?
Glance o'er the world—the world is full of pain
Akin to ours. If some dark spirit touched
Our vision to miraculous clearness, sights
Would meet our eyes, at which the coldest heart
Might weep blood-tears; there's not a moment passes
Which doth not bear its load of agonies
Out to the dim Eternity beyond;
The primal curse of earth, with heavier weight,
Descends on special victims; yet, bethink you,
All sorrow hath its bounds, o'er which there stands
That friend of misery, gentle-hearted Death.
Balms of oblivion holds he, and the realm
Wherein he rules hath murmurous caves of sleep.

THE PENITENT.

Thou see'st yon woman with the grave pelisse
Lined with dark sables? Is she not devout?
Her soul is in the service, and her eyes
Are dim with weeping,—weeping for the follies
Of a misguided youth; thus saith the world,
But I, who know her ladyship, know this:
She weeps that youth itself, and the lost triumphs
Which followed in its train; the scores of lovers
Dead now, or married off; the rout, the joust,
The sweet flirtations, merry carnivals,
And—(oh! supremest memory of all!)—
The banded serenaders 'neath the lattice,
Lifting the voice of passion in the night:
And one among the minstrels loved her well.
But him she laughed to scorn, his heart was riven;
She trampled on the purest pearl of love,
And cast it to the dogs; well, God is just!
She scorned his sacred gift, and so must walk,
Henceforth a lonely woman on the earth!

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

We might have been! ah, yes! we might have been
Among the laurelled noblemen of thought,
Who lift their species with them as they climb
To deathless empire in the realm of gods;
But some dark power—we will not call it Fate—
We dare not call it Providence—hath seized
The helm of our strange destinies, and steered
Right onward to the breakers. All is lost!
Hope's siren song of promise faints in sighs,
And joy—(but she ne'er charmed us, save in days
Of dim-remembered childhood);—let it pass!
Our lot's the lot of millions; for on life
A blight is preying, and a mystic wrong
Hath set our heartstrings to the tune of grief!

REWARD OF FICKLENESS.

ALTON.
You see that man with the quick eyes and brow,
Too ponderous almost for his slender frame,
His dark locks tinged with gray; you'd hardly think it,
But he's a moral dandy, dilettante
(As your Italians say), whose fickle taste
Leads him, like some fastidious bee, from flower
To flower of social pastime! A fair girl,
Pretty and piquante, fills his heart today;
On airy wings of sentiment he hovers
Lovingly round her, feeds the beauteous creature
On honeyed nothings in a tone so sweet,
They seem the genuine fruit of a strong soul
Nurtured by passion, and true adoration;
Then on the morrow when he meets once more
“That Cynthia of the minute,” a cold crust
Of iciest form and etiquette o'erspreads
His words, look, bearing; the whole man is changed—
As if a Tropic landscape, bright with sunlight,
Had grown to frozen hardness in an hour:—
A demon, fickle, trifling, and capricious
O'errules his spirit always! with men likewise,
It is his pride to play the same vile game!
Why, sir, your patience would be taxed to count
His dupes within the year! he'll take a youth,
Bright-minded, trusting, whom perchance he meets
In casual fashion on the public square,
Caress, solicit, flatter him—at length
Bear the poor fool, elate and jubilant,
To banquet at his own well-ordered board,
Ply him with curious questions, draw him out
To make display of all his raciest wit,
And when, like a squeezed orange, all his sap's
Exhausted,—faith! Sir Dainty down the wind
Whistles his victim with a cool assurance,
Which is the calm sublime of impudence!
In fine, the man's a worn-out Epicurean,
A ceaseless hunter after new sensations,
To whom the world's a storehouse crammed with hearts
And minds for his amusement! as for hearts,
He'll toss 'em up, as jugglers toss their balls,
Proud of his sleight of hand, his impish cunning,
His matchless turns of quick dexterity!
And if the baubles break, he's sore amazed
That aught should be so brittle! yet thanks God
The earth is full of these same delicate toys;
And so he hurls the shattered plaything by,
To re-assume his honest, juggling tricks,
And charm his weary leisure-time with lies;
A silken, soft, fair-spoken, dangerous knave.

MARCUS.
Some day he'll find his match!

ALTON.
Ay! you may swear to that;
Some woman versed in every social art,
Some rare, majestic creature, whose rich beauty
Will set his amorous senses in a blaze;
Slowly around him she will draw the net
Of fascinations, multiform and strange;
Enchant his fancy with her regal wit,
His taste with every charm of female guile,
Inflame him with voluptuous blandishments,
By turns, sooth, flatter, madden, vow she loves
At one delicious moment, then the next
As warmly swear she loathes him! by a spell
Invisible, but potent as the sun,
She'll lead him, fawning, quivering to her feet,
And at the last, O! consummation just!
When on the very brink of blest fruition,
He hovers, arms outstretched, and soul aglow,
She'll freeze to sudden marble, wave him off
With such calm haughtiness of queenly scorn,
Imperious, crushing, fatal, that, by heaven,
I should not wonder if the terrible sting
Of disappointment and deceived desires,
Of battled passion, wounded self-conceit,
And hope so swiftly murdered by despair,
Struck to the core of being, and this man
Falser than hell to others, perished wholly,
By his own pestilent trickery done to death!

A CHARACTER.

A.
He is a man whose complex character
Few can decipher rightly; but for me
I have found the key at last!

B.
What make you of it?

A.

B.
What more?

A.
What more? Why, truly, sir, the tale is done.
'Twas a sharp close, I grant you, to a dream
Which rose so fairly; yet there's comfort in't!

B.
Comfort!

A.
Ay, ay! rare comfort in the thought
That tho' my years should reach the utmost verge
Of mortal life, I shall not dream again!
But pshaw! push on the bottle, 'tis the last
Of a full bin that constant friend of mine,
That loyal, noble, pure Samaritan,
Gave me, with vows of everduring love,
Three months ago at Christmas! Stay, a toast:
“Fair health, long life, immortal honor crown
The man who's constant only to—himself!”

MORALS OF DESPERATION.

The man who's wholly ruined, sir, fears nothing;
How can he when all's lost to him already?
There is a desperate gayety which comes
To buoy one up in such a strait as this;
Under whose spell, it is a sort of witchcraft,
Men lose all sense of wrong, or rather take
Wrong for their right, rejoicing even in crime.
Faith, now, I'd hardly answer for myself,
If in some garden solitude, like this, sir,
At the hour of midnight (hark! the deep church tower
Is tolling twelve), haply I chanced to meet
A pompous millionaire, a man who staggers
Under his golden burden, like a ship
Reeling 'neath too much canvass; I should ease
My laboring comrade, thus and thus, of all
His glittering superfluities; this ring
Is a brave diamond, and will serve me bravely;
And ha! by Pluto! what a massive chain
Meanders like a miniature Pactolus
Across your worship's vest; my lord, no wonder
You grow asthmatic with a weight like that
Pressed on your gasping lungs; I'll free you from it;
And blessed saints! but here's a fair-knit purse,
And fairly filled, too! Shame it were in sooth
To keep this gift of your sweet paramour,
Therefore, behold me! I pour out this coin;
O Jesu! what rich music! but the purse
Duly return you! haste, your worship, haste,
Or else these itching palms will find fresh work
About your silken doublet, and bright hose,
Or those trussed points you needs must clasp with jewels;
Ay, haste, and take you comfort in the text
Which the wise Messer Salvatore Duomo
Dins in our ears each sacred Sabbath morning,
That “blessed, three times blessed, are the poor!”

THE CONDEMNED.

ANTIPATHIES.

Love is no product of the obedient will,
It hath its root in those deep sympathies,
Mere ties of blood are powerless to control;
I love thee not because around thy heart
An Arctic nature hath built up the ice
Of thawless winter: vain it is to strive
Against the law of just antipathies:
The Tropic sunlight burns not at the Poles,
Nor blooms the lustrous foliage of the East
Among the rocky, storm-bound Hebrides;
To all my gods thou art antipodal,
Therefore, again, good sir! I love thee not.

MISCONSTRUCTION.

How man misjudges man! the outward seeming,
Gesture, or glance, or utterance that may jar
Against some petty, pampered, poor conceit,
Unworthy, undefined, is straightway made
To prove a vast obliquity of soul,
And shallow disputants, with ponderous show
Of judgment that provokes the wise to scorn,
Exhort the virtuous by the foul abuse
Which damns them to the level of their speech.