University of Virginia Library

SCENE I

.—Evening. The tents of Aran. Noema and Irad in front of the chief tent.
NOEMA
Come, Irad, come, the hour for rest is here;
The sun is no more with us; see, the west,
Through the moist air, glows like thy cheeks bedewed
With the sweet sweat of pastime's unpaid toils,
And the first star peers o'er the mountain-top.
The very birds are sleeping: why not thou?
Thou must to rest.

IRAD
I am not tired, mother.
One little moment more, just one, I beg,
Then will I come. I should not sleep; indeed
I never was more wakeful. And then see,
I have not finished building up my tower,
Which wants its roof. One second more, just one.

NOEMA.
Well, just a second, Irad. . . . Strange! how strange!
Childhood should chafe 'gainst manhood's kindest friend,
And sleep, which comes to carelessness, should be
By carelessness pushed off! whilst care, rich care,
Would give its flocks and herds, ay all its store,
So it might drop its leaden plummet down,
For one brief night, into the depths of slumber.
Oh, may the eve ne'er come to thee, my child,
When thou shalt call on sleep, and find it deaf
Even as the ear of one thou pinest for,
And canst not move: deaf as that stony Fate
'Gainst whose closed doors our hearts still thump in vain!
Now, come, sweet boy, until to-morrow leave
Thy toys and sports, and pray at mother's knee
And she will smooth the pillows of thy crib,
And sing thine eyelids into drowsiness.

IRAD.
But father said that I might wait for him:
He will be coming soon.

NOEMA.
He will be late,—
Too late, to-night, for thee to bide his coming;
But he shall visit thy repose, and breathe
A father's blessing on thine innocent dreams.
Hearken, dear Irad, to thy mother's voice,
And do her bidding.

IRAD.
O yes, mother dear!
I was not fretful, disobedient,
But only thought you had not heard perhaps
What father said,—that I might wait for him.
Why should he be so late to-night? You know
That all our pretty lambs are big and strong,
Frisk, leap, and run, yes faster than can I,
And have to kneel to tup their mother's dugs,
Whilst we as yet are far from harvest-time,
And the young corn-fields wear a brighter green
E'en than the meadows ere the kingcups come.
It is the season he is home betimes;
What keeps him, mother?

NOEMA
(aside).
Oh, he must not know!
Nor must the dew of his young life be spilt
By shaking doubt! How shall I answer him?
What keeps thy father, didst thou ask? Why, boy,
A thousand things, as thou wilt know some day,
When life no longer splits in equal halves
Of bed and holiday: a world of thought,
For thee, and me, and distant progeny;
Of ever-shifting suits of homely care,
More frequent than the gorgeous liveries
Even of restless pomp. . . . Now, to thy prayer.

IRAD.
Yes, mother, straight. But I must show you first
My tower,—the tower which I myself have made
With my own hands. Look here!

[Irad holds up a miniature tower in fresh clay.
NOEMA.
Why, what is this?
Why hast thou made so trivial a gaud,
When thou hast scores of playthings, fairer far?

IRAD.
It is for use, not beauty, mother. This,
This is the tower that is to scale the skies,
And bring us riches without stint or toil.

NOEMA.
Oh, he hath told thee, then! Is't possible
He from thy budding spirit should have torn
The tender hull, making an entrance there
For cankering thought and blight rebellious!
With unpaternal hands, man's poison poured
Into the sweet pure wine of Infancy,
And dropped infection in the very veins
He should have saved from all contagion!
Oh! impious!

[She lets the tower fall, which breaks into fragments.
IRAD.
O mother! see! you have destroyed my tower.

NOEMA.
Yes! as the high God will that Tower destroy
With which they think to pierce the firmament
And wrench the enclosed lightnings from his grasp!
Oh, it is madness! Men are mad sometimes,
And from the heights of strength they topple o'er
Into insanity! No more of it!
Thy father did not mean to tell thee, child,
And he has changed his purpose since the morn:
Be sure of that. . . . And, Irad, ne'er again
Defile thy little hands with such gross work,
That were but given thee to be clasped in prayer.
Now kneel, and clasp them, and repeat with awe
The words I taught thee ere thy lips had ceased
To do their double duty at my breast,
Of feeding thee with life and me with joy.
Begin.

IRAD
(kneels at her feet and prays aloud).

NOEMA
(kissing Irad tenderly).
Good child! 'twas sweetly said. O Irad! ne'er
Be these petitions from thy lips divorced,
So thou dost love me.

IRAD.
Never shall they, mother!

NOEMA.
Then come, and I will lay thee in thy nest;
And the still Night shall be thy canopy,
Like a broad branch which hangs, but never moves,
Over some absent song-bird's unfledged brood.

[Mother and Child go into the tent. The last streaks of sunset disappear, and an intense twilight follows, which infuses into the air and sky a deeper radiance. noema returns alone, and gazes out with an air of melancholy.