The Works of Sir Henry Taylor

“No arts, no letters, no society,—and, which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death, and the life of Man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.” Leviathan, Part I., c. 18.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Philip Van Artevelde, man of Ghent.
Peter Van den Bosch, A Leader of the White-Hoods, man of Ghent.
Sir Guy, Lord of Occo, A Leader of the White-Hoods, man of Ghent.
Peter Van Nuitre, A Leader of the White-Hoods, man of Ghent.
Frans Ackerman, A Leader of the White-Hoods, man of Ghent.
Van Aeswyn, Squire to Sir Guy of Occo, man of Ghent.
Henry Van Drongelen, Page to Van Artevelde, man of Ghent.
Father John of Heda, a Monk, formerly Preceptor to Van Artevelde, man of Ghent.
Van Ryk, Dean of one of the Crafts, man of Ghent.
Van Muck, Dean of one of the Crafts, man of Ghent.
Ukenheim, a Citizen of Ghent.
Sir Simon Bette, A Wealthy Citizen of Ghent.
Sir Guisebert Grutt, A Wealthy Citizen of Ghent.
Myk Steensel, A Wealthy Citizen of Ghent.
The Earl of Flanders, man of Bruges.
Sir Walter D'Arlon, man of Bruges.
Gilbert Matthew, man of Bruges.
Sir Robert Mareschault, man of Bruges and others.
Adriana Van Merestyn.
Clara Van Artevelde, Sister of Philip Van Artevelde.

The Scene is laid sometimes at Ghent, sometimes at Bruges or in its neighbourhood.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A Street in the Suburbs of Ghent.
The Lord of Occo, meeting Sir Simon Bette and Sir Guisebert Grutt.
Occo.
Sir Guisebert Grutt, and, by my faith, I think
Sir Simon Bette too! Pray you pardon me;
I thought that you were sped upon your mission
To treat for peace at Bruges?

Sir Simon.
Sir, in good time.
We'd have a word with you before we go.
You are a noble born, my Lord of Occo;
And let me tell you, many marvel much
To find a gentleman of so great worth
A flatterer of the Commons.

Sir Guisebert.
Yea, my Lord:
It looks not well when nobles fall away

One from another. That the small-crafts here
Should lift their hands against their natural Lord
Is but the plague and sorrow of the time,
Which we, that are of credit, must abide:
But ne'er till now a gentleman of name
Was found amongst their leaders.

Occo.
Oh, dear Sirs,
I could remind you how your sometime selves
Bore less goodwill towards the Earl's affairs
Than spurs your errand now; and if to you
Pardon be promised, I would fain be told
Why not to me as well.

Sir Guisebert.
Truly, why not?
To whoso merits it 'twill freely fall;
So give us leave to make a good report
Of how you stand affected.

Occo.
You are kind,
And I am nothing loth. So please you, say
That I am not of them that evermore
Cry out for war, and having not a hope
Of the Earl's mercy, act as desperate men;
For were I sure the many would be spared,
It should not then behove me to stand out
For my particular ransom,—though, to say truth,
The Earl should get himself but little gain
Were he to deal too hardly with us all.

Sir Simon.
'Tis fairly spoken, Sir. When we come back,

Bringing conditions with us as we trust,
We'll ask your aid amongst the Commons. Yea,
For truly there are here a sort of crafts
So factious still for war and obstinate,
That we shall be endanger'd. Suing for peace
Is ever treason to the White-Hoods. Well,
We'll look for your support.

Occo.
In me, be sure
A friendly overture shall find a friend.

[Exeunt Sir Simon Bette and Sir Guisebert Grutt. Van Aeswyn comes forward.
Aeswyn.
My Lord, were those that parted from you here
The worshipful negotiators?

Occo.
Ay!
Would they had pass'd the windmills—how they crawl!—
And met no babbling burghers on their way.

Aeswyn.
What! you have made an offer?

Occo.
No, not so;
I've flung my line, and yonder pair of hooks
Are aptly baited to ensure me one;
But I am not, nor mean I to be bound,
Till it be seen if yet my suit may thrive
With yon fair frozen dew-drop, all that's left
To represent Van Merestyn's hot blood.

Aeswyn.
'Tis said she is but backwardly inclined
To any of her swains.

Occo.
Such wealth as hers

Makes a maid whimsical and hard to please.
She that can have her will, be what it may,
Is much to seek to settle what it is.
The damsel must be tried; for if she yield,
The charier must I be, whilst times permit,
Of the good town's goodwill. Her lands lie all
Within the Franc of Ghent. Time presses now,
And I must press my suit. This very hour
I bade her to expect me. Forth we go.

Scene II.

—The House Van Merestyn.
Adriana Van Merestyn and Clara Van Artevelde.
Clara.
I do not bid you take him or refuse him;
I only say, think twice.

Adriana.
But once to think,
When the heart knows itself, is once too much.

Clara.
Well; answer what you will; no, yes—yes, no;
Either or both; I would the chance were mine;
I say no more; I would it were my lot
To have a lover.

Adriana.
Yours? why, there's Sir Walter.

Clara.
Sir Walter? very good; but he's at Bruges.
I want one here.

Adriana.
On days of truce he comes.

Clara.
I want one every day. Besides, the war
Ne'er slackens now; a truce to truces now;
And though on moonless, cloud-encompass'd nights

He will, in his discretion, truce or none,
Hazard a trip, yet should he be discover'd
Mild Van den Bosch would pat him on the head,
And then he'd come no more. But ponder well
What you shall say; for if it must be “no”
In substance, you shall hardly find that form
Which shall convey it pleasantly.

Adriana.
In truth,
To mould denial to a pleasing shape
In all things, and most specially in love,
Is a hard task; alas! I have not wit
From such a sharp and waspish word as “no”
To pluck the sting. What think you I should say?

Clara.
A colourable thing or two; as thus:
My Lord, we women steer not by our hearts,
Nor yet our judgments, but the world's loud voice;
And though I prize you dearly in my soul
And think you of all excellence made up,
Yet 'tis a serious and unhappy thing
To hear you spoken of; for men protest
That you are cruel, cowardly, and cold,
Boastful, malicious, envious, spiteful, false;
A bull in ire, an ape in jealousy,
A wolf in greediness for blood.

Adriana.
No more?
Am I to use no courtesies but these?

Clara.
No more? Yes, plentifully more! where was I?
This for your mind's repute. Then for your person,

(Which for my own particular I love,)
'Tis said that you are hideous to behold;
Your brow as bleak as winter, with a fringe
Of wither'd grass for hair; your nose oblique,
Pointing and slanting like a dial's hand;
They say the fish you had your eyes of laugh'd
To see how they were set, and that your mouth
Grows daily wider, bandying of big words:
All which imaginations, good my Lord,
Grossly as they may counterfeit defect
Where worth abounds, are yet so noised abroad
That in despite of that so high esteem
In which I hold you, I'm constrained to say
I'd sooner wed your scullion than yourself.

Adriana.
Thanks for your counsel; cunning is the maid
That can convert a lover to a friend,
And you have imp'd me with a new device.
But look! Is this—no, 'tis your brother's page.

Clara.
All hail to him! he is my daily sport;
Of all things under heaven that make me merry
It makes me merriest to see a boy
That wants to be a man.

Adriana.
His want fulfill'd
He will not be the worse; 'tis well for them
That have no faults but what they needs must leave.

Clara.
Are my faults of that grain? What faults are mine?

Adriana.
Perchance I err in thinking that I know;
But grant I know and err not, 'twere not wise
To tell you. Many will beseech their friends
To tell them of their faults, which being told,
They ne'er forgive the tellers. And besides
I've heard you oft confess them.

Clara.
Well, I own
There's a main difference betwixt faults confess'd
And faults arraign'd. We tell ourselves our faults,
And at ourselves ourselves take no offence,
For we are well assured we mean no harm;
But should my friend accuse me of the like,
Though I had charged him to be blunt and frank,
I seize him by the throat.
Enter the Page.
Sir Henry! Ah!
'Twas you I dreamt of; whither away, brave knight?

Page.
I'm coming but to pay my duty here;
The lady Adriana lets me come.

Clara.
I wish thy master knew it.

Page.
So he does;
He tells me to come too.

Clara.
Alas, poor man!
Has he no eyes?

Page.
I know not what you mean.

Clara.
Why, when our pages steal away our loves,
Tell gardeners to keep blackbirds. Look—look here!

See you this drooping melancholy maid;
What have you done?

Page.
Who, I? it was not I.

Clara.
Who was it, then? Well—“kissing goes by favour”—
So says the proverb; truly, more's the pity!
Yet I commend your prudence, Adriana,
For favouring in place of men and monsters
This pure and pretty child. I'll learn from you,
And if, when I have kissed my pug and parrot,
I have the matter of a mouthful left,
For fear of waste that's worse, I'll spend them here.

Page.
I would advise you to be more discreet.

Clara.
So-ho! and wherefore? Oh! so old you are!
Full fifteen summers older than your beard,
And that was born last week—before its time.
I told you, Adriana, did I not,
Of the untimely birth? O' Wednesday 'twas,
By reason of a fright he gave his chin,
Making its innocent down to stand on end
With brandishing of a most superfluous razor.

Adriana.
You told me no such tale; and if you had,
I should not have believed you; for your tongue
Was ever nimbler in the track of sport
Than fits for hunting in a leash with truth.
She is a slanderer, Henry, heed her not.

Clara.
Ay, no one marks me. I but jest and lie,

And so must go unheeded. Honest times!
Slanders and jests have lost the ear o' the world!
But do I slander him to say he's young?

Page.
I am almost as old as you.

Clara.
I grant you;
But we are women when boys are but boys;
God gives us grace to ripen and grow wise
Some six years earlier. Thank Heaven for that!
We grow upon the sunny side o' the wall.

Page.
Methinks your wisdom grows o' the windy side,
And bears but little fruit.

Clara.
What! malapert!
It bears more fruit than thou hast wit to steal
Or stomach to digest. Were I thy tutor
To teach thee wisdom, and beheld such store
Of goodly fruitage, I should say to thee,
“Rob me this orchard.” Then wouldst thou reply,
“Five feet three inches stand I in my shoes
And yet I cannot reach to pluck these plums,
So loftily they flourish!” God ha' mercy!
Here comes the Knight upon an ambling nag.
Now, Adriana!

Adriana.
I am sore perplex'd.
What shall I say?

Clara.
My counsel you have heard,
And partly slighted: wherefore seek to better;
Take we direction from our full-grown friend.
Henry, a Knight will presently be here

To ask our Adriana's hand in marriage:
What shall she answer?

Page.
Let her say—“My Lord,
You are the flower of Flemish chivalry,
But I have vow'd to live and die a maid.”

Clara.
A goodly vow! which grant her grace to make,
So it be not too troublesome to keep.
But he's no more the flower of Flemish Knights
Than you the pearl of pages. Adriana,
Bethink you of your answer; have it pat,
Lest he surprise you and you speak the truth.

Adriana.
Prithee, what truth? There's nothing I would hide.

Clara.
Except, except—yes, turn your face away
That so informs against you. Here he comes.

Enter the Lord of Occo.
Occo.
Fairest of ladies! an unworthy Knight
Does homage to your beauty.

Adriana.
Good my Lord,
If 'tis to beauty you pay homage, here
You see it less in me than in my friend,
A daughter of the House of Artevelde.

Occo.
Fair damsel, I am happy in the beams
Which shine upon me from two spheres at once.

Clara.
Fair Sir, I thank you; you're as true as brave,
And there is none in Ghent with ears to hear

Who has not heard recounted night and day
The exploits of Lord Occo.

Occo.
On my soul
I blush to hear it said; though true it is
I have perform'd what little in me lay
To bring renown to Flemish chivalry.
I give to God the glory, and, next Him,
To her whose charms would fire the faintest heart.

Clara.
Whoe'er inspired your valour, your exploits
Must give that lady high pre-eminence.
Three hundred men-at-arms, I think it was,
You freely fell upon with sword in hand,
After the storming of the fort at Sas,
And not a soul survived?

Occo.
Your pardon, no;
Some other trifle's in your thoughts; at Sas
There is no fort, and they who perish'd there
Were but three hundred peasants who were burn'd
By firing of a barn to which they'd fled.

Clara.
Ah, was it so? At Zeveren then, surely—

Occo.
What happen'd there, too, was of no account.

Clara.
Oh, pardon me; the modesty which still
Accompanies true valour, casts in shade
Your noble actions. I beseech you tell
What came to pass at Zeveren?

Occo.
The town
Was taken by surprise.

Clara.
Ay, true, and then

The garrison that made themselves so strong
Within the convent's walls—

Occo.
At Zeveren
There was no garrison.

Clara.
You say not so?
How false is fame! I'm certain I was told
Of a great onslaught in the convent there.

Occo.
Well; a proportion of the sisterhood
Met with mishap. But, Lady, by your leave
We'll treat of other things. Haply not knowing
The usages of war, you scarce approve
Proceedings which its hard necessities
Will oft-times force upon us warriors.
A softer theme were meeter, and there's one
On which I burn to speak.

Clara.
Alack, alack!
Then I am gone; soft speeches please mine ear,
As do soft pillows—when I fain would sleep.
But what's the time of day? Come, Henry, come;
We walk by high examples in this world;
Let's to the poultry-yard and win our spurs.
Give you good day, my Lord.

[Exeunt Clara and Page.
Occo.
A merry lady,
And swift of speech: but now that she is gone,
I must entreat your hearing for a word
Of graver import—grave, if aught imports
The life or death of this poor heart of mine.

A burning fiery furnace is this heart;
I waste like wax before a witch's fire
Whilst but one word from you would make earth heaven,
And I must soon be nothing or a god!
There's an unutterable want and void,
A gulf, a craving and a sucking in,
As when a mighty ship goes down at sea.
I roam about with hunger-bitten heart,
A famine in my bosom, a dry heat,
A desperate thirst, and I must glut it now,
Or like a dog by summer solstice parch'd
I shall go mad.

Adriana.
Your pardon, good my Lord,
You flatter me or else deceive yourself;
But, so far as I may, I yield you thanks,
And if no more than thanks, the poorer I,
That have not more to give.

Occo.
Nay, Lady, nay;
Deem that I've been tormented long enough
And let this coyness have a timely end.

Adriana.
I am not coy, and plainly now to speak,
When aught but plainness should be less than just,
I cannot be your wife.

Occo.
And wherefore so?
'Tis not that love is foreign to your breast;
You will not tell me that?

Adriana.
I've told you all
Which it can profit you to know.

Occo.
Ah! now
I see it clearly; there's some smooth-tongued rogue
Has been before me,—yea, some wheedling slave,
With song and dance and lute and lily hands,
Has wriggled into favour, I the while
Fighting hard battles to my neck in blood.
Tell me in honesty if this be sooth:
If it be not, in charity say No.

Adriana.
In charity I never will speak more
With you, Sir Guy of Occo:
Nor, till I see a sign of gentle blood
Or knightly courtesy in one so bold,
Will I again hold converse, or with him
Or any that abets him. This to me!

[Exit.
Occo.
Thanks, gentle Lady! Thanks, kind, loving soul!
I am instructed; there came out the truth;
Much more those eyes flash'd out than tongue could tell.
They are as plain to read as are the stars
To him who knows their signs. Would that I knew
The name of him who blocks the way; his name,
And what star rules him in the house of life.
Who hither rides and waves that long salute?
Philip Van Artevelde! 'Tis he, 'tis he,
And no more need I knowledge of the stars.

Scene III.

—The Stadt-House.
Enter Myk Steensel, followed by several Burghers.
Myk.
And who is Van den Bosch, resolve me that:
I say, Sirs, who is he, to lay on taxes?

1st Burgher.
Or Ackerman, or Launoy, who are they?

Myk.
I say, Sirs, if our goods be not our own,
Better our natural liege Lord should have them
Than thus to render them to John or Peter.

2nd Burgher.
Why, look you, Sirs, our case stands simply here:
The Earl of Flanders is a valiant Lord,
And was a gracious master, till the Devil,
Who never sleeps, awaken'd them of Bruges
To dig about the Lis to turn the water.
But what, Sirs,—we have fought enough for that.

Myk.
Why still the more we fight the more we lose;
For every battle that our White-Hoods win
But gives a warrant to this Van den Bosch
To spoil us of our substance.—Welcome, Sirs.

Enter two Deans of the Crafts.
1st Dean.
Friends, have ye heard the news?

Myk.
I know not, Sir;
If the news be, we owe the White-Hoods pay
For giving us a hosier for our liege,
'Tis old, Sir, old.

2nd Dean.
No, this is what you'll owe them;
A ready market for your rats and mice.
Corn is already risen cent. per cent.,
Though many question if the news be true.
Our John of Launoy's slain with all his men,
The Quatre-Metiers lost and much beside.

Myk.
No more supplies from Brabant then. But say,
How came it all about?

2nd Dean.
'Twas briefly thus:
Beside Nivelle the Earl and Launoy met;
Six thousand voices volley'd to the skies
“Ghent the good Town! Ghent and the White-Hoods! Ghent!”
But from that force thrice-told there came the cry
Of “Flanders with the Lion of the Bastard!”
So then the battle join'd, and they of Ghent
Gave back and open'd after three hours' fight,
And hardly flying had they gain'd Nivelle
When the Earl's vanguard came upon their rear
Ere the gate closed, and enter'd with them; then
They all were slain save Launoy and his guard,
Who, barricaded in the Minster tower,
Made desperate resistance, whereupon
The Earl wax'd wrothful and bade fire the church.

1st Burgher.
Say'st thou? O sacrilege accursed! Was't done?

2nd Dean.
'Twas done,—and presently was heard a yell,

And after that the rushing of the flames!
Then Launoy from the steeple cried aloud
“A ransom!” and held up his coat to sight
With florins fill'd; but they without but laugh'd
And mock'd him, saying, “Come amongst us, John,
And we will give thee welcome; make a leap;
Come out at window, John.”—With that the flames
Rose up and reach'd him, and he drew his sword,
Cast his rich coat behind him in the fire,
And shouting “Ghent, ye slaves!” leapt freely forth,
When they below received him on their spears.
And so died John of Launoy.

1st Burgher.
A brave end.
'Tis certain we must now make peace betimes;
The city will be starved else—Will be? nay!
Starvation is upon us; want and woe
Stand round about and stare us in the face.
And what will be the end?

Myk.
Believe me, Sirs,
So long as Van den Bosch bears rule in Ghent
You'll not have peace; for well wots he no terms
That spare his life will pacify the Earl.
Sirs, if we make no peace but with the will
Of them whose heads must answer it, woe to us!
For we must fight for ever; Sirs, I say,
We must put down this Van den Bosch, and up
The men that with the Earl stand fair and free,
Who shall take counsel for the city's weal.

Burghers.
Truly we must,

Myk.
Then, friends, stand fast by me,
And as we're all agreed to give no doit
Of this five hundred marks, a tongue have I
Will tell him so in words more just than nice.

Enter Van den Bosch, Frans Ackerman, and the Lord of Occo, with a retinue of White-Hoods.
Van Den Bosch.
Good morrow, worthy friends; good morrow, all!
'Tis a sweet sight to look on, in these times,
A score of true and trusty friends to Ghent
So fresh and hearty and so well provided.
Ah, Sirs, you know not, you, who lies afield
When nights are cold, with frogs for bed-fellows;
You know not, you, who fights and sheds his blood
And fasts and fills his belly with the east wind!
Poor souls and virtuous citizens they are!
'Tis they that keep the franchises of Ghent.
But, what! they must be fed; they must have meat!
Sirs, have ye brought me these five hundred marks
That they demanded?

Myk.
Master Van den Bosch,
Look round about; as many as stand here
Are of one mind, and this is what they think:
The company of White-Hoods, some time past,
Were, as thou say'st, brave citizens and true,

And they fought stoutly for our franchises;
But they were afterward as beasts of prey,
That, tasting blood, grow greedy and break loose
And turn upon their keepers: so at length
The city, like a camp in mutiny,
Saw nothing else to walk her streets unharm'd
But these your free companions. They at will
Enter'd our houses, lived upon our means
In riotry, made plunder of our goods,
Debauched our wives and daughters; and if once
Some hardy fool made bold to lift his hand
For safeguard of his own, he met his death.
Now this no longer will we suffer; no,
Nor will we give our substance so to feed
The lewd excesses of your crew.

Van den Bosch.
How now,
Myk Steensel! Truly thou art bold of tongue;
I marvel thou shouldst speak so traitor-like
In presence of such honest, virtuous men
As these thou seest about me. How can I,
Think you, give warranty that some good soul,
Inflamed with anger at thy foolish speech,
May not cut out thy tongue and slit thy nose
For uttering of such treasons?

Myk.
Van den Bosch,
Thou thinkst by this to hound thy pack upon me;
But dog and huntsman I alike defy.
Thy brother Launoy with his men-at-arms

Will never answer to thy bidding more:
And if thou dare do violence to me
Thou shalt be fain to take as long a leap
As his was at Nivelle.

Van den Bosch.
Oh, ho! good Sirs!
'Tis this then that emboldens you, this tale
Brought by Van Borselen, who ran away
Before the fight began, and calls it lost
That so his cowardice should stand excused;
For which his foul betrayal and false report
I have already had him gibbeted.
Bring not yourselves, I pray you, gentle Sirs,
With the like nimbleness to a grave i' the air.
I say, Sirs, bring me these five hundred marks,
And that or e'er to morrow's sun go down—
Five hundred marks—I'll bate you not a scute.
Ye slothful, hide-blown, gormandizing niggards!
What, all must starve but you, that lie a-bed
Paunch uppermost, and lack a day of fast
To purge your grossness. Know ye who I am?
Or are ye sleeping off the last night's wine,
And deeming this some tustle with your wives
For pulling of a blanket here or there?
Five hundred marks—begone and bring it!

Myk.
So;
Begone we will. Let's to our homes, my friends;
And what we'll bring thee thou shalt know betimes,
Nor wait the setting of to-morrow's sun.

Not gold, Sir, no, nor silver, be thou sure,
But what shall best befit a brave man's hand.

[Exeunt Myk and the Burghers; the retinue of White-Hoods follow. Manent Van den Bosch, Occo, and Frans Ackerman.
Van den Bosch.
You see, Sirs, how the rogues take heart and rail
On this mishap.

Occo.
I saw both that and more;
Our White-Hoods looked like recreants faint with fright,
As though they knew not which to fear the most,
Thy rod and gallows-tree, or the Earl's block.
Peter, we're crumbling.

Van den Bosch.
You have judged aright.
But what can I? Our chiefs drop one by one;
Launoy, too truly, perish'd at Nivelle;
Le Clerc lies leaning up against a hedge
(Till some one dare go bury him) at Chem;
Your cousin fell with Launoy. Now, Van Ranst
And Lichtenvelde are good for men-at-arms,
But want the wit to govern a great town.
And I am good at arms, and want not wit;
But then I'm sore suspected of the rich,
By reason of my rudeness, and the fruit
Which that same gallows-tree of mine has borne:
And to say truth, although my wit be good,
It has a fitter range without the gates,
In ordering of an enterprise, than here.

The city leans to peace for lack of brains,
And on its shoulders we must stick a head.

Occo.
Hast thou bethought thee of a man that's wise
And fit to bear this rule?

Van den Bosch.
Why such there be;
Though one that's wise would scarce be wise to take it.
What think'st thou, Frans? Canst pick me out a man
That, being wise, were willing?

Ackerman.
There's no game
So desperate that the wisest of the wise
Will not take freely up for love of power,
Or love of fame, or merely love of play.
These men are wise, and then reputed wise,
And so their great repute of wisdom grows,
Till for great wisdom a great price is bid,
And then their wisdom do they part withal:
Such men must still be tempted with high stakes.

Occo.
Tempt them and take them; true, there be such men;
Philip Van Artevelde is such a man.

Van den Bosch.
That is well thought of. Philip is the man.

Scene IV.

—The House Van Merestyn.
Adriana Van Merestyn and Clara Van Artevelde.
Clara.
So you have dismissed the Lord of Occo?

Adriana.
Yes.

Clara.
How many suitors have you discharged this morning?

Adriana.
How many?

Clara.
Yes. Was not Philip here?

Adriana.
He saw me through the lattice and stayed his horse an instant under the window.

Clara.
Was that all?

Adriana.
Yes—no—yes—I suppose so.

Clara.
Oh that maids would learn to speak the truth, or else to lie becomingly!

Adriana.
Do I not lie becomingly?—Well, 'tis from want of use. What should I say?

Clara.
What say? Had my sworn friend so questioned me,
And I been minded, maugre all our vows,
To coil my thoughts up in my secret self,
I with a brave and careless hardihood
Had graced the disavowal of my love.

Adriana.
But did I say I loved him not? Oh, God!
If I said that, I say since truth was truth
There never was a falsehood half so false.
I say I love him, and I say beside
That but to say I love him is as nought;
'Tis but a tithe and scantling of the truth;
And oh! how much I love him what can tell?
Not words—not tears—Heaven only knows how much,
And every evening when I say my prayers
I pray to be forgiven for the sin

Of loving aught on earth with such a love.

Clara.
Well, God forgive you! for you answer now
Like a true maid and honest, though a sinning.
But tell me, if that's mention'd in your prayers,
For how much love has he to be forgiven?

Adriana.
Alas! I know not.

Clara.
Nay, but you can guess.

Adriana.
Oh I have guessed a thousand times too oft;
And sometimes I am hopeful as the dawn,
And up my fluttering heart is borne aloft
As high and gladsome as the lark, and then,
As meeting in mid-flight the fowler's shaft,
It comes plumb down with such a dead, dead fall.

Clara.
And all the while is he, I nothing doubt,
As wayward and as love-sick as yourself.

Adriana.
He love-sick! No—it may be that he loves,
But if he does, 'tis in no sickly sort.
His nerves are made of other cord than ours;
He strays as is his wont along the Lis,
A careless angler with his rod and line;
And when he told me he must come to-night,
And that he then would lay a burden down
Too long in silence borne, so calm and strong
His voice, I doubted if it could be love
He harboured in his thoughts.

Clara.
Oh! much the doubt!
But this I knew; I read it written large
When answering with your vacant No and Yes

You fed upon your thoughts.

Adriana.
But honestly,
What think you? Think you that it must be love
He comes to speak of?

Clara.
Well, 'tis either that
Or else to tell you of what fish he caught.

Adriana.
Oh, do not tease me, Sweet; I am not well;
I cannot frisk and gambol.

Clara.
As you please;
But if your love's so lamentable sick,
Nurse it yourself: I'll go.

Adriana.
With all my heart;
You're too light-headed for my company.

Clara.
Is it with all your heart? Then I'll not go,
Or else I'll take you with me. Come, I say;
Your garden has its troubles like yourself
And lacks your tendance; from the soft south-west
The winds have broken in, and many a flower
Looks ruffled and is hanging down its head
Since the bold kissing of those wild intruders.
Come then with me; the dew is on the grass,
Two snails are running races, and ere night
A frog that jumps and stares and stares and jumps,
A little frog, light-headed if you will,
But having eyes to see, will know which wins.

Scene V.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Philip Van Artevelde and Father John of Heda.
Artevelde.
I never look'd that he should live so long.
He was a man of that unsleeping spirit,
He seem'd to live by miracle: his food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind
And peril to his body. He was one
Of many thousand such that die betimes,
Whose story is a fragment known to few;
Then comes the man who has the luck to live
And he's a prodigy. Weigh chance with chance
And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times
Who wins the race of glory, but than him
A thousand men more gloriously endowed
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand more
Have had their fortunes by haphazard wreck'd
Whilst lighter barks push'd past them; to whom add
A smaller tally, of the singular few
Who, gifted with predominating powers,
Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.

Father John.
Had Launoy lived he might have passed for great,
But not by conquests in the Franc of Bruges.
The sphere, the scale of circumstance, is all
That makes the wonder of the many. Still

An ardent soul was Launoy's, and his deeds
Were such as dazzled many a Flemish dame.
There'll some bright eyes in Ghent be dimm'd for him.

Artevelde.
They will be dim and then be bright again.
All is in busy, stirring, stormy motion,
And many a cloud drifts by and none sojourns.
Lightly is life laid down amongst us now,
And lightly is death mourn'd: a dusk star blinks
As fleets the rack, but look again, and lo!
In a wide solitude of wintry sky
Twinkles the re-illuminated star,
And all is out of sight that smirch'd the ray.
We have not time to mourn.

Father John.
The worse for us!
He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turn'd out
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
Yet such the barrenness of busy life!
From shelf to shelf Ambition clambers up
To reach the naked'st pinnacle of all,
Whilst Magnanimity, absolved from toil,
Reposes self-included at the base.
But this you know.

Artevelde.
Else had I little learn'd
From my much learn'd preceptor.

Enter the Page.
Artevelde.
Whence art thou?
Hast thou been idling in the market-place?
Canst tell whose chattels have been sold to-day
For payment of the White-Hoods?

Page.
Sir, I cannot;
'Tis at the house Van Merestyn I've been
To see the Lady Adriana.

Artevelde.
Her!
Well, and what said the damsel?

Page.
Sir, not much;
For Mistress Clara was her visitor,
And she said everything; she said it all.

Artevelde.
What was it that they spake of?

Page.
When I came
The talk was all of chivalry and love;
And presently arrived the Lord of Occo.

Artevelde.
And what was talk'd of then?

Page.
Oh! still the same.
The ladies praised him mightily for deeds
The fame whereof, far-spreading, should eclipse
Sir Rowland's and Sir Oliver's.

Artevelde.
Mark you that,
Good Father, mark you that! Hearts soft as wax
These damsels would be thought to bear about,
Yet ever is the bloodiest Knight the best.

Father John.
Oh, it is true. Full many a dame I've known

Who'd faint and sicken at the sight of blood,
And shriek and wring her hands and rend her hair
To see her Lord brought wounded to the door—
Many to weep by day, at night lie down
The nightmare sole sad partner of their bed,
Rise up in horror to recount bad dreams
And seek to witches to interpret them,—
This oft I've known, but never knew I one
Who'd be content her Lord should live at home
In love and Christian charity and peace.

Artevelde.
And wherefore so? Because the women's heaven
Is vanity, and that is over all.
What's firiest still finds favour in their eyes;
What's noisiest keeps the entrance of their ears.
The noise and blaze of arms enchants them most:
Wit, too, and wisdom, that's admired of all,
They can admire—the glory, not the thing.
An unreflected light did never yet
Dazzle the vision feminine. For me,
Nor noise nor blaze attend my peaceful path;
Nor, were it otherwise, should I desire
That noise and blaze of mine won any heart.
Wherefore it is that I would fain possess,
If any, that which David wept,—a love
Passing the love of women.

Father John.
Deem you not
There may be one who so transcends her sex

In loving as to match the son of Saul?

Artevelde.
It may be I have deem'd or dream'd of such;
But what know I? We figure to ourselves
The thing we like, and then we build it up
As chance will have it, on the rock or sand:
For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world
And home-bound fancy runs her bark ashore.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
Sir, here is Master Van den Bosch below
Desires to speak with you.

Artevelde.
To speak with me!
I marvel on what errand Van den Bosch
Can seek Van Artevelde. I come. So say.
Will you not stay?

Father John.
No, no, my son; farewell!
The very name of men like Van den Bosch
Sends me to prayers.

Scene VI.

—The Market-place, at the entrance of the Clothiers' Hall.
The Provost of the Clothiers, with several Burghers and the Chaplain of that craft.
Provost.
Him! did ye say? choose him for Captain? So!

Then look about you in the morning, friends,
For ye shall find him stirring before noon;
The latest time o' the day is twelve o' the clock;
Then comes he forth his study with his book,
And looking off and on like parson preaching,
Delivers me his orders.

1st Burgher.
Nay, Provost, nay;
He is a worthy and a mild good man,
And we have need of such.

Chaplain.
He's what you say;
But 'tis not mildness of the man that rules
Makes the mild regimen.

Provost.
Who's to rule the fierce?
“I prithee, Van den Bosch, cut not that throat;
Roast not this man alive, or, for my sake,
If roast he must, not at so slow a fire;
Nor yet so hastily impale this other,
But give him time to ruminate and foretaste
So terrible an end.” Mild Philip thus
Shall read his lecture of humanity.

Chaplain.
Truly the tender mercies of the weak,
As of the wicked, are but cruel. Well;
Pass we within; the most of us are here,
And Heaven direct us to a just resolve!

[Exeunt all but two Burghers.
1st Burgher.
The scaffold, as I see, is newly wet.
Who was the last that suffer'd?

2nd Burgher.
What, to-day?

I know not; but the brave Van Borselen's blood
(God rest his soul!) can scarcely yet be dry
That suffer'd yesterday.

1st Burgher.
For treason was't?

2nd Burgher.
The treason of the times; the being rich;
His wealth was wanted.

1st Burgher.
Hath he not an heir?

2nd Burgher.
A bold one if he claim the inheritance.
Come, pass we in.

Scene VII.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
This is a mighty matter, Van den Bosch,
And much to be revolved ere it be answered.

Van den Bosch.
The people shall elect you with one voice.
I will ensure the White-Hoods, and the rest
Will eagerly accept your nomination,
So to be rid of some that they like less.
Your name is honour'd both of rich and poor;
For all are mindful of the glorious rule
Your father bore, when Flanders, prosperous then,
From end to end obey'd him as one town.

Artevelde.
They may remember it—and, Van den Bosch,
May I not too bethink me of the end

To which this people brought my father? Yes,
Of his good husbandry they gorged the fruits,
Till, drunk with long prosperity, and blind
With too much fatness, they tore up the root
From which their common weal had sprung and grown.

Van den Bosch.
Nay, Master Philip, let the past be past.

Artevelde.
Here on the doorstep of my father's house
The blood of his they spilt is seen no more;
But when I was a child I saw it there;
For so long as my widow-mother lived
Water might touch not that memorial stain.
She loved to show it me, and then with awe,
But hoarding still the purpose of revenge,
I heard the tale—which like a daily prayer
Repeated, to a rooted feeling grew—
How long he fought, how falsely came like friends
The villains Guisebert Grutt and Simon Bette,—
All the base murder of the one by many.
Even such a brutal multitude as they
Who slew my father, yea, who slew their own,
(For like one had he ruled them first and last)
Even such a multitude you'd have me sway.

Van den Bosch.
Why, what if Jacques Artevelde was killed?
He had his reign, and that for many a year,
And a great glory did he gain thereby.
And as for Guisebert Grutt and Simon Bette,

Their breath is in their nostrils as was his;
If you be as stout-hearted as your sire
And mindful of the villainous part they play'd,
Their hour of reckoning is well-nigh come.
Of that, and of this base false-hearted league
They're making with the Earl, these two to us
Shall give account.

Artevelde.
They cannot render back
The golden bowl that's broken at the fountain,
Or mend the wheel that's broken at the cistern,
Or twist again the silver cord that's loosed.
Yea, life for life, vile bankrupts as they are,
Their worthless lives for his of countless price,
Is their whole wherewithal to pay their debt.
Yet retribution is a child of grace,
And I could well baptize it in their blood.

Van den Bosch.
Then will I call the people to the Square
And speak for your election.

Artevelde.
Not so fast.
Your vessel, Van den Bosch, has felt the storm:
She rolls dismasted in an ugly swell,
And you would make a jury-mast of me
Whereon to spread the tatters of your sails.
And what am I?—I fain would be the oak
That, rooted in the vale of life apart,
Welcomes with equal breast each wind that blows,
Nor knows of fair and foul.

Van den Bosch.
Ho! what is this?
I pray you, speak it in the Burghers' tongue;
I lack the scholarship to talk in tropes.

Artevelde.
Then view the matter naked as it stands:
Shall I, who, chary of tranquillity,
Not busy in this factious city's broils,
Nor frequent in the market-place, eschew'd
The even battle,—shall I join the rout?

Van den Bosch.
Times are sore changed, I see; there's none in Ghent
That answers to the name of Artevelde.
Your father did not carp nor question thus
When Ghent besought his aid. The days have been
When not a citizen drew breath in Ghent
But freely would have died in freedom's cause.

Artevelde.
With a good name the cause you christen. True;
In choice of despots is some freedom found,
The only freedom for this turbulent town,
Rule her who may. And in my father's time
We still were independent, if not free;
And wealth from independence, and from wealth
Enfranchisement, will partially proceed.
The cause, I grant you, Van den Bosch, is good;
And were I link'd to earth no otherwise
But that my whole heart centred in myself,
I could have toss'd you this poor life to play with,
Taking no second thought. But as things are,

I will review the matter warily,
And send you word betimes of my resolve.

Van den Bosch.
Betimes it must be; for some two hours hence
I meet the Deans of crafts, and ere we part
Our course must be determined.

Artevelde.
In two hours,
If I be for you, I will send this ring
In token I'm so minded. Fare you well.

Van den Bosch.
Philip Van Artevelde, a greater man
Than ever Ghent beheld we'll make of you,
If you be bold enough to try this venture.
God give you heart to do so, and farewell.

[Exit Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
Is it vain-glory which thus whispers me
That 'tis ignoble to have led my life
In idle meditations—that the times
Demand me, echoing my father's name?
Oh! what a fiery heart was his! such souls
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages. Father! Yes,
Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades
Unto dominion than thy death deters;
For that reminds me of a debt of blood
Descended with my patrimony to me,
Whose paying off would clear my soul's estate.

Enter Clara.
Clara.
Was some one here? I thought I heard you speak.

Artevelde.
You heard me speak?

Clara.
I surely thought I heard you,
Just now, as I came in.

Artevelde.
It may be so.

Clara.
Was no one here then?

Artevelde.
No one, as you see.

Clara.
Why then I trust the orator your tongue
Found favour with the audience your ears;
But this poor orator of mine finds none,
For all at once I see they droop and flag.
Will you not listen? I've a tale to tell.

Artevelde.
My fairest, sweetest, best beloved girl!
Who in the whole world would protect thy youth
If I were gone?

Clara.
Gone! where? what ails you, Philip?

Artevelde.
Nowhere, my love. Well, what have you to tell?

Clara.
When I came home, on entering the hall
I stared to see the household all before me.
There was the steward sitting on the bench,
His head upon his hands between his knees;
In the oak chair old Ursel sate upright
Swaying her body—so—from side to side,
Whilst maids and varlets stood disconsolate round.

What cheer? quoth I. But not a soul replied.
Is Philip well? Yea, Madam, God be praised.
Then what dost look so gloomy for, my friend?
Alack a-day, the stork! then all chimed in,
The stork, the stork, the stork! What, he is sick?
No, Madam; sick!—he's gone—he's flown away!
Why then, quoth I, God speed him! speaking so
To raise their hearts, but they were all-too-heavy.
And, Philip, to say truth, I could have wish'd
This had not happen'd.

Artevelde.
I remember now,
I thought I miss'd his clatter all night long.

Clara.
Old Ursel says the sign proved never false
In all her time,—and she's so very old!
And then she says that Roger was esteem'd
The wisest stork in Ghent, and flew away
But twice before—the first time in the night
Before my father took that office up
Which proved so fatal in the end; and then
The second time, the night before he died.

Artevelde.
Sooner or later, something, it is certain,
Must bring men to their graves. Our every act
Is death's forerunner. It is but the date
That puzzles us to fix. My father lived
In that ill-omen'd office many a year,
And men had augur'd he must die at last
Without the stork to aid. If this be all
The wisest of his tribe can prophesy,

I am as wise as he. Enough of this.
You have been visiting your friend to-day,—
The Lady Adriana.

Clara.
I come thence:
She is impatiently expecting you.

Artevelde.
Can she with such impatience flatter one
So slothful and obscure as Artevelde?

Clara.
How mean you?

Artevelde.
Clara, know I not your sex?
Is she not one of you? Are you not all,
All from the shade averse? All prompt and prone
To make your idol of the million's idol?
Had I been one of these rash White-Hood chiefs
Who live by military larceny,
Then might I well believe that she would wait
Impatiently my coming.

Clara.
There you're wrong;
She never loved the White-Hoods.

Artevelde.
She were wise
In that unloving humour to abide;
To wed a White-Hood, other ills apart,
Would put in jeopardy her fair possessions.
Fatal perchance it might be to her wealth;
Fatal it surely would be to her weal.
Farewell her peace, if such a one she loved.

Clara.
Go ask her, Philip,—ask her whom she loves,
And she will tell you it is no such man.
Why go you not?

Artevelde.
My mind is not at ease.
Yet I am going—to my chamber now,
Where let me own an undisturb'd half hour
Of rumination;—afterward to her.

Scene VIII.

—The Market-place in front of the Stadt-House.
Enter two of Van den Bosch's Officers, dragging a Burgher between them, and followed by an Executioner with an axe and a crowd of Citizens. A scaffold is seen at a distance.
1st Officer.
Where hast thou put it?

Burgher.
What? Put what—put what?

2nd Officer.
A few last words—where is it?

Burgher.
Mercy! what?

1st Officer.
Oh, very well! Come, clap his thumb in a winch.

Burgher.
No need of that—what is it that ye seek?

1st Officer.
Van Borselen's head. 'Twas sticking on that spike
At nine last night. Who took it thence but thou?

Burgher.
I never touch'd it.

2nd Officer.
Thou art next of kin,
And rightfully shouldst fill his vacancy.

1st Officer.
Thy head to his stands in a just succession.
Besides, they are as like as are two cherries.

Bring him away!

2nd Officer.
Friend with the axe, come on!

[Exeunt all but two Citizens.
1st Citizen.
When will this end?

2nd Citizen.
When Van den Bosch . . .

1st Citizen.
Hush! Hush!

Scene IX.

—The Entrance-Hall of the House Van Merestyn.
Enter Artevelde with Attendants.
Artevelde.
Bear thou these letters to my steward; say
That messengers must straight proceed with them
To Grammont and elsewhere, as superscribed;
And should mishap occur to any one
Upon the road, which is not over free,
I charge me with ten masses for his soul. (To another)

The Lord of Occo's counsel I will weigh;
So tell him, with my service and my thanks. (To the rest)

I will return alone. If any come
To seek me at my house, entreat their stay.
They withdraw, and a Waiting-Woman enters.
This, if I err not, is the pretty wench
That waits upon my Lady. What, fair maid!
Thy mistress, having comeliness to spare,
Hath given thee of it. She's within, I think,
Or else wert thou a truant.

Waiting-Woman.
Sir, she is.

Artevelde.
Acquaint her then that I attend her here.
[Exit Waiting-Woman.
There is but one thing that still harks me back.
To bring a cloud upon the summer's day
Of one so made for happiness and peace,—
It is a hard condition. For myself,
I know not that the circumstance of life,
Change how it may, can so far work within
As makes it much worth while to look before.
But she is younger,—of a sex beside
Whose spirits are to ours as flame to fire,
More sudden and more perishable too;
So that the gust which vivifies the one
Extinguishes the other. Oh, she is fair!
As fair as Heaven to look upon! as fair
As ever vision of the Virgin blest
That weary pilgrim, resting by the fount
Beneath the palm and dreaming to the tune
Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal.
It was permitted in my pilgrimage
To rest beside the fount beneath the tree,
Beholding there no vision, but a maid
Whose form was light and graceful as the palm,
Whose heart was pure and springing as the fount,
And spread a freshness and a verdure round.
This was permitted in my pilgrimage,
And loth am I to take my staff again.

Say that I fall not in this enterprise,
Yet must my road be full of hazardous turns,
And they that walk with me must look to meet,
Not lions only in the path, but snakes.—
Danger from foes—a daylight danger that;
Danger from tyrants—that too is seen and known;
But jealous multitudes and envious friends—
In dusk to walk through endless ambuscades—
[A pause.
Still for myself, I fear not but that I,
Taking what comes, leaving what leave I must,
Could make a sturdy struggle through the world.
But for the maid, the choice were better far
To win her dear heart back again if lost,
And stake it upon some less dangerous throw.

Re-enter Waiting-Woman.
Waiting-Woman.
My Mistress, Sir, so please you, takes her walk
Along the garden terrace, and desires
That you'll go forth to meet her.

Artevelde.
For if Fate
Had done its best to single out a soul
Whose very birthright should ensure her—Ah!
The garden say you, and the terrace? So.

[Exit.
Waiting-Woman.

Now there's a man might make my Lady happy if he would but waken up. That's the

point. Comely we may grant him and gracious; but though a lover were never so goodly to behold, what is the use of him walking in his sleep like a bat or a dormouse?—Coming, coming, Steward, I hear you. Always shouting after me. Truly there is a whisper abroad that he cannot live without me.

Scene X.

—A Garden.
Artevelde and Adriana.
Artevelde.
I have some little overstayed my time.
First pardon me that trespass.

Adriana.
Yes, indeed;
I said to Clara when the sun went down,
Now if,—though truly 'tis impossible—
He come not ere yon blushing cloud grows gray,
His word itself is but a tinted cloud;
And look how gray it is!

Artevelde.
A hectic change.
The smiling dawn, the laughing blue-eyed day,
The graybeard eve incessantly pass on,
Fast fleeting generations, born of time
And buried in eternity—they pass,
And not a day resigns its little life
And enters into darkness, that can say,
“Lo! I was fair, and such as I have been
My issue shall be; Lo! I cast abroad

Such affluence of glory over earth,
That what had been but goodly to the sight
Was made magnificent, what had been bare
Show'd forth a naked beauty—in all this
Was I thus rich, and that which I possess'd
To-morrow shall inherit.” False as hope!
To-morrow's heritage is cloud and storm.

Adriana.
Oh! what a moody moralist you grow!
Yet in the even-down letter you are right;
For Gerard, who is weather-wise, says true,
That when the sun sets red with the wind south
The morrow shall be stormy. What of that?
Oh! now I know; the fish won't take the bait.
'Tis marvellous the delight you take in fishing!
Were I to hang upon a river's edge
So tediously, angling, angling still,
The fiend that watches our impatient fits
Would sometime tempt me to jump headlong in.
And you—you cannot quit it for a day!
Have I not read your sadness?

Artevelde.
Have you so?
Oh! you are cunning to divine men's thoughts.
But come what may to-morrow, we have now
A tranquil hour, which let us entertain
As though it were the latest of its kind.

Adriana.
Why should we think it so?

Artevelde.
My gentle friend,
I trust that many such may come to you;

But for myself, I feel as if life's stream
Were shooting o'er some verge, to make a short,
An angry and precipitate descent,
Thenceforward much tormented.

Adriana.
Why is this?
What can have fill'd you with such sad surmise?
You were not wont to speak despondently.

Artevelde.
Nor do I now despond. All my life long
I most have prized the man who knew himself,
And knew the ways before him, rough or smooth,
And from amongst them chose, not blindly brave,
But with considerate courage and calm will;
And, having chosen, with a steadfast mind
Pursued his purposes. I train'd myself
To take my place in high or low estate
As one of that scant order of mankind.
Wherefore, though I indulge no more the dream
Of living as I hoped I might have lived,
An inward life of temperate content,
Yet I repine not, and from this time forth
Will cast no look behind.

Adriana.
Oh, Artevelde!
What change has come since morning! Oh! how soon
The words and looks which spoke of joy and peace,
To me at least—how soon are they revoked!
But let them be—it matters not: I, too,
Will cast no look behind—Oh, if I should . . .

Artevelde.
Now see! ere aught is utter'd you run wild

In false conjecture; hear what I would say.
If hitherto we have not said we loved,
Yet hath the heart of each declared its love
By all the tokens wherein love delights.
We heretofore have trusted in each other,
Too wholly have we trusted to have need
Of word or vow or pledge or plighted faith.
Where is it gone, that trust?

Adriana.
I trusted not;
I hoped and feared, doubted and hoped again,
Till this day, when I first breathed freelier,
Daring to trust—and now—O God, my heart!
It was not made to bear this agony—
Tell me you love me or you love me not!

Artevelde.
I love thee, dearest, with as large a love
As e'er was compass'd in the breast of man.
Hide then those tears, beloved, where thou wilt,
And find a resting-place for that so tost
And troubled heart of thine; sustain it here,
And be its flood of passion wept away.

Adriana.
What was it that you said then? If you love,
Why do you terrify me thus?

Artevelde.
Be calm;
And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fix'd,
What fate thou mayst be wedded to with me.
Thou hast beheld me living heretofore
In staid tranquillity as one retired:
The dweller in the mountains, on whose ear

The accustom'd cataract thunders unobserved,
The seaman who sleeps sound upon the deck
Nor hears the loud lamenting of the blast
Nor heeds the weltering of the restless wave,—
These have not lived more undisturb'd than I:
But build not upon this; the swollen stream
May shake the cottage of the mountaineer
And drive him forth; the seaman roused at length
Leaps from his slumber on the wave-wash'd deck;
And now the time comes fast when here in Ghent
He who would live exempt from injuries
Of armed men, must be himself in arms.
This time is near for all,—nearer for me:
I will not wait upon necessity
And leave myself no choice of vantage ground,
But rather meet the times where best I may
And mould and fashion them as best I can.
Be warned then of the hazard and the cost,
The threatenings of the hour, the frowns of Fate,—
Yes, weigh them well, and in your own free choice
Take or reject me.

Adriana.
Say you my free choice?
Oh, Artevelde! my choice is free no more.
Be mine, all mine, let good or ill betide;
In war or peace, in sickness or in health,
In trouble and in danger and in distress,
Through time and through eternity, I'll love thee:
In youth and age, in life and death, I'll love thee,

Here and hereafter, with all my soul and strength;
So God accept me, as I never cease
From loving and adoring thee next Him;
And oh, may He pardon me if so betray'd
By mortal frailty as to love thee more.

Artevelde.
I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash
And passionate resolve that thou hast made:
But how should I admonish thee, myself
So great a winner by thy desperate play.
Heaven is o'er all, and unto Heaven I leave it;
That which has made me weak shall make me strong,
Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love;
And if some tax thou payest for that love,
Thou shalt receive it from Love's exchequer.
Farewell; I'm waited for ere this.

Adriana.
Farewell.
But take my signet-ring and give me thine,
That I may know when I have slept and waked
This was no false enchantment of a dream.

Artevelde.
My signet-ring? I have it not to-day:
But in its stead wear this around thy neck.
And now, my Adriana, my betroth'd,
Give Love a good night's rest within thy heart,
And bid him wake to-morrow calm and strong.

Scene XI.

—Bruges.—An Apartment in the Palace of the Earl of Flanders.
The Earl and Sir Walter D'Arlon.
D'Arlon.
I marvel, my good Lord, you take that knave
So freely to your counsels.

Earl.
Treason done
Against my enemies secures him mine.
Ghent never can forgive him what is past,
Which knowing, he will therefore cleave to me.
Besides, he learns the minds of men; how each,
Here and in Ghent, is leaning, off or on.
For this and other serviceable arts
I show him favour, not for better gifts.
Have you not seen a jackdaw take his stand
On a sheep's back, permitted there to perch
Less out of kindness to so foul a bird
Than for commodious uses of his beak?
As to the sheep the jackdaw, so to me
Is Gilbert Matthew; from my fleece he picks
The vermin that molest me.—Here he comes!
Enter Gilbert Matthew.
Well, honest Gilbert, are the Knights not gone?

Gilbert.
Not yet, my Lord: they urge in lieu of lives

The forfeiture of sundry burgages
To fill your coffers. I denied them.

Earl.
Why?
I bade thee not!

Gilbert.
Lives, lives, my Lord, take freely,
But spare the lands and burgages and moneys.
The father dead, shall sleep and be forgotten;
The patrimony gone,—that makes a wound
That's slow to heal; heirs are above-ground ever.

Earl.
Well, be it so.

Gilbert.
The Knights wait here without.
They ask an audience of leave, and more,
They bring a new adherent.

Earl.
Bid them come.

Gilbert Matthew goes out, and returns with Sir Simon Bette and Sir Guisebert Grutt.
Sir Simon.
This audience we made bold to crave, my Lord,
To notify your Highness that our friend
The Lord of Occo, hazarding his life,
Hath ventured hither in disguise, to tell
How matters stand in Ghent.

Earl.
And does he wait?

Sir Simon.
He does; and with your leave I'll call him in

[Exit.
Earl.
But is he worth his pardon?

Gilbert.
Past a doubt
He has his hand upon the balance now;
And free forgiveness for all past misdeeds
Will make him wholly yours.

Earl.
Well, we shall see.
'Tis no such urgent need we have of him;
But if he be so contrite, it is well. Re-enter Sir Simon Bette with Occo.

You're a bold man, my Lord of Occo, you
That have so long borne arms against your Liege,
Without safe-conduct to come hither.

Occo.
Sir,
My sole safe-conduct is the good intent
I bear to your affairs; nought else prevailed
To start me hither, and nought else, I trust,
Is needed for my safe return.

Earl.
Enough;
Thou shalt return in safety. Say, what news
Bring'st thou from Ghent?

Occo.
My Lord, peace, peace! is there
The only cry, except with desperate chiefs,
Who are so weak, that fair conditions now
Would draw their followers from them to a man.

Earl.
Our proffer of conditions is made known
Already to our good Sir Simon Bette
And Guisebert Grutt.

Sir Guisebert.
Indemnity to all

Save some three hundred souls; and who be these
He names not now, but will hereafter.

Occo.
Well!
These terms are just and merciful indeed!
But then they must be promptly proffer'd; yes,
You know, my Lord, the humour we of Ghent
Have still indulged—we never cry for peace
But when we're out of breath; give breathing-time,
And ere the echo of our cry for peace
Have died away, we drown it with War! War!
Ev'n now the faction hopes to be redeem'd
By a new leader.

Earl.
What may be his name?

Occo.
Philip Van Artevelde.

Earl.
Thou say'st not so!
That is a name I like not; it means much.
Whenever sunshine has come near my house
An Artevelde has cast his shadow there.
I have not heard the name of Artevelde
Since that usurper Jacques died the death.
This Philip then, I think, was but a child.
What is he made of? Of his father's metal?
A dangerous man, in truth, Sirs, if he be.

Gilbert.
Oh, fear him not, my Lord; his father's name
Is all that from his father he derives.
He is a man of singular address
In catching river-fish. His life has been,
Till now, more like a peasant's or a monk's

Than like the issue of his father.

Occo.
True;
Yet is his name so worshipp'd of the crafts,
That were the time permitted and the scope
To grow expert, some danger might ensue.
Wherefore 'twere well to note him on the list
Of those three hundred doomed.

Earl.
No doubt, no doubt.
Let him be noted. Think you, then, Sir Guy,
That they'll accept our terms, or still hold out?

Occo.
Let these good Knights make instant speed to Ghent
And call the burghers to the market-place;
Then let to-morrow at their bidding wear
The aspect of to-day, and all will thrive.
Take them whilst yet Nivelle is in their thoughts.

Earl.
You counsel well. Prepare, Sirs, to depart;
We'll have the terms engross'd and send them you.
Farewell, my Lord; farewell, Sir Simon Bette!
Sir Guisebert Grutt, farewell!

[Exeunt the Earl, Gilbert Matthew, Occo, and Sir Simon Bette. As Sir Guisebert Grutt is following he is detained by D'Arlon.
D'Arlon.
One word, fair Sir.

Sir Guisebert.
My good Lord, at your pleasure.

D'Arlon.
Only this:
I have a foolish errand in your town;

There is a damsel . . . . . . but your head is white;
You will not heed me.

Sir Guisebert.
Pray proceed, my Lord;
I have not yet forgotten how in youth
A damsel's love, amongst the amorous,
Was more than bed of down or morning posset.

D'Arlon.
In brief, kind Sir, conveyance hence to Ghent
Is what I crave. Methinks amongst your train,
And habited like them, I well could pass
And no one mark me.

Sir Guisebert.
Sir, you're free to try;
And if our friends should still be uppermost
You will risk nothing. Should the faction reign,
You shall do well to keep your secret close
And make your best speed back.

D'Arlon.
Leave that to me.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—Ghent.—The House Van Artevelde.
Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Van den Bosch.
When they were brought together in the square,
I spake. I told them that they lack'd a chief;
For though they saw that dangers clipped them round,
Amongst their captains there was none could win
The love of all, but still some guild or craft
Would stone him if they might. I bade them think
How Jacques Artevelde from humblest state
Had borne this city up to sovereign sway,
And how his son had lived aloof from strife,
To none bore malice, and wish'd well to all.
With that they caught thy name and shouted much;
And some old men swore they remember'd well
In the good times of Jacques Artevelde,
When they were young, that all the world went right,
And after he was dead that they grew old;
And wenches who were there, said Artevelde
Was a sweet name and musical to hear.
In brief, for these and other grave regards
They were resolved to choose thee for their chief.

But “Soft! my friends,” quoth I; “ye know not yet
How he inclines to that you'd put upon him;
He hath no friends and favourites to reward;
He hath no adverse faction to repress;
Of what avail to him were power and place?
But nathless we'll entreat him.” “Bring him here!”
Was then the cry. “More meet it were, my friends,”
Quoth I, “that we go seek this noble youth;
On such high worth we humbly should attend,
And not expect such worth should wait on us.”
To this they gave assent, and they'll be here
So soon as all are muster'd.

Artevelde.
When they come
I'll tell them something of my mind.

Van den Bosch.
'Twere well.
Thou canst not miss to please them in this mood.
The trial will be after, when they flag
And want a long spur-rowel in their bellies.
Thou lack'st experience to deal with men;
Thou must take counsel.

Artevelde.
I will hear it. True;
It may be I have much to learn.

Van den Bosch.
Canst learn
To bear thee high amongst the Commons? Yea,
Canst thou be cruel? To be esteem'd of them,
Thou must not set more store by lives of men
Than lives of larks in season.

Artevelde.
Be it so.

What's needful I can do. I pray you, where
Abide the messengers from Bruges?

Van den Bosch.
Last night
'Twas in the Clothiers' Square they lodged. Belike
They thought their houses not so safe.

Artevelde.
Why so?

Van den Bosch.
They enter'd by that side, and as they reach'd
Sir Simon's, a few sturdy knaves with pikes,
Whom I had planted there, with hasty zeal
Brake out before their time, and that with howls
That Bruges itself might hear.

Artevelde.
So they were warned.

Van den Bosch.
They gallop'd to the Square, the while their train
Stood fast and fought it out; and mark you this,—
One that was of them shouted in the fray
The D'Arlon's war-cry, whence he may be known
Of that Lord's following, and wherefore here
We well may guess.

Artevelde.
Had he been slain 'twere well;
Had others been 'twere not. If I rule Ghent,
No man shall charge me that his life or goods
Are less secure than mine, so he but keep
The laws that I have made. Believe me, friend,
Thy scheme of rule works wastefully, self-sapped.
To make the needy and the desperate thine
Thou gav'st them up the plunder of the rich;

Now these, grown desperate and needy too,
Raise up a host against thee, whereupon,
No spoil remaining, thy good friends depart.

Van den Bosch.
God's curse go with them!

Artevelde.
Like enough it may;
They've carried it about these five long years;
They took it with them to the peasant's hut,
They took it with them to the burgher's stall;
A roving curse, it followed at their heels,
And with them it will like enough abide.

Van den Bosch.
Hark! here they come.
[Shouts of “Artevelde!” are heard from without.
Out, show thyself! Out, out!

Scene II.

—The Street in front of Artevelde's House.
Enter a multitude, led by Frans Ackerman, and the Deans of sundry Crafts.
1st Dean.

Well said, Sirs! Shout again.

Frans Ackerman.

Silence! Enough. There is a time for shouting and bellowing, and there is a time for speaking with our tongues like men and Christians. He will be here anon; and know ye what ye shall say to him? Know ye what ye would have? Know ye your own minds?

A Burgher.

We know our own minds, Sir, indifferently; but you know them better.

2nd Burgher.

We would have a man to rule us, and not to rob us.

3rd Burgher.

Right, right!

4th Burgher.

Rob thee, truly! Rob a scarecrow! What should he get by robbing thee?

2nd Burgher.

What thou shalt get in a minute, this dirk betwixt his ribs.

Frans Ackerman.

Silence! He's here.

Enter Van Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
Well met, good Sirs: what brings you here? If aught
Wherein I can befriend you, speak your minds,
Or let one speak, and should he speak aright
Hold up your hands, that so I may receive
His words as yours.

Several Voices.
Frans Ackerman shall speak.

Frans Ackerman.
Sir, they are pleased to make a mouth of me;
And it behoves me first to bid you know
What manner of men they are. Sir, to say truth,
These men are honest; yea, and wise as honest;
And more, they're men of substance, pay their debts,
Live peaceably with all men, in good will
Like brothers. But this town is full of strife;
All men are not like these, who find it hard,
Though turning t'other cheek as is their wont,

To walk as they would wish. Now they are told,
And some of them remember, in time past,
When that your glorious father ruled the town,
The streets were like a church: no quarrels, brawls,
Nor no man dared so much as lay his hand
Upon his weapon. As the father is,
So is the son. They say that would you deign
To rule supreme in Ghent, the strife within
Would cease, and all our roisterers be thrown
Upon the foe without. If this their suit
You should be pleased to grant, most proud were they
To serve a chief so gracious and so good.

Artevelde.
If this be your desire, hold up your hands.
[They hold up their hands.
So—if my sight deceive me not, all hands
Are held aloft. To all, then, this reply:
I thank you for the trust and good respect
In which you hold me; Sirs, I thank you all.
You say that for the love my father bore
To you, and you to him, you'd fain have me
What he was once—your Captain. Verily,
I think ye do not well remember, Sirs,
The end of all the love 'twixt you and him.
He was the noblest and the wisest man
That ever ruled in Ghent; yet, Sirs, ye slew him;
By his own door, here where I stand, ye slew him.
What then am I to look for from your loves?
If the like trust ye should repose in me,

And then in like wise cancel it,—my friends,
That were an ill reward.

Several Burgesses.
Nay, Master Philip!

Artevelde.
Oh, Sirs, ye look not to such end, I know;
Nor may it be yourselves that bring it round:
But he who rules must needs be grudged of some,
And safeguard from the many should he find
So long as he shall serve the many well.
Sirs, to that end his power must be maintain'd;
The power of peace and war, of life and death,
He must have absolute. How say ye, Sirs?
Will ye bestow this power on me? if so,
Shout “Artevelde!” and ye may add to that,
“Captain of Ghent!”—if not, go straightway home.

[All shout “Artevelde, Captain of Ghent!”
Artevelde.
So be it.
Now listen to your Captain's first command.
It has been heretofore the use of some
On each cross accident, within, without,
To cry aloud for peace. This may not be;
It much unsettles brave men's minds, disturbs
The counsels of the wise, and daunts the weak.
Wherefore my pleasure is, and I decree,
That whoso shall but talk of terms of peace
From this time forth, save in my private ear,
Be deem'd a traitor to the town of Ghent
And me its Captain; and a traitor's death
Shall that man die.

Burgesses.
He shall, he shall, he shall!
We'll kill the slave outright.

Artevelde.
At my command,
Not otherwise; for mark me further thus:
If any citizen shall slay another
Without my warranty by word or sign,
Although that slayer be as true as steel,
This other treacherous as Iscariot's self,
The punishment is death.
[A pause.
Ye speak no word.
What do we fight for, friends? for liberty?
What is that liberty for which we fight?
Is it the liberty to slay each other?
Then better were it we had back again
Roger d'Auterne, the bailiff. No, my friends,
It is the liberty to choose our chief
And bow to none beside. Now ye choose me,
And in that choice let each man rest assured
That none but I shall dare to judge him: yes,
Whoso spills blood without my warranty,
High man or low, rich man or poor, shall die.

Burgesses.
The man shall die; he shall deserve to die!
We'll kill him on the spot, and that is law.

Artevelde.
Hold, hold, my friends! ye are too hasty here,
You shall not kill him; 'tis the headsman's part,
Who first must have my warrant for his death.

Burgesses.
Kill him who likes, the man shall die; that's law.

Artevelde.
What further knowledge of my rules ye need
Ye peradventure may obtain, my friends,
More aptly from my practice than my speech.
Now to the Stadt-house—bring the litter—There
The deans of crafts shall do me homage.

Van den Bosch.
Ho!
Bring ye the litter. Stand apart, good Sirs!
And now, let's hear your voices as ye go.

Scene III.

The House Van Merestyn.
Sir Walter D'Arlon and Clara Van Artevelde, she binding up his arm, which is wounded.
Clara.
Rude Knight, you come to see your ladye love,
And cannot stay your stomach for an hour
But you must fight i' the street. Your hungry sword—
Could it keep Lent no longer? By my faith,
You shall do penance at your lady's feet
The live-long night for this.

D'Arlon.
Nay, cry you mercy!
'Twere a sharp trial, one man to keep Lent
Whilst all around kept carnival; the sin
Was in the stomachs of your citizens:
But I will do the penance not the less.

Clara.
Come, come! confess yourself; make a clean breast;

You'd vow'd a vow to some fair dame at Bruges
To kill for her dear love a score of burghers.
Nay,—never cross yourself—'tis Gospel truth.
Hold up this arm—alas! there was a time
When Knights were true and constant to their loves
And had but one a-piece—an honest time;
Knights were Knights then: God mend the age, say I!
True as the steel upon their backs were they,
And their one lady's word was law. Ah, well!
Would I had lived a hundred years ago!

D'Arlon.
Could you live backward for a hundred years,
And then live on a hundred years to come,
You'd not find one to love you in more truth
Than I have loved.

Clara.
What, what! no truer Knight?
A seemly word, forsooth! Hast many more?
No truer knight!—'Tis thus you great Lords live
With flatterers round you all your golden youth,
And know yourselves as much as I know Puck—
Your heads so many bee-hives; honey'd words
Swarm in your ears, and others from your mouth
Go buzzing out to ply for sweets abroad;
And so your summer wastes, till some cold night
The cunning husbandman comes stealthily
And there is fire and brimstone for my Lords!
Hold up this arm—let go my hand, I say!
Am I to tie your bandage with my teeth?

Enter Adriana.
Adriana.
My Lord—good heaven! Your arm—I fear you're hurt.

Clara.
Hold, hush! I'll answer for you. Just a scratch;
A scratch, fair lady,—that and nothing more.
It gives us no concern; we got it thus:
Riding along the streets of this good town,
A score of burghers met us, peaceful drones—
Saying their prayers, belike; howe'er that be,
The senseless sinners were so rapt and lost,
They heeded not our Lordship: whereat we,
Unused to such demeanour, shook ourselves,
And prick'd them with our lance; a fray ensued,
And lo! as we were slaying some fourteen
That stayed our passage, it pleased Providence,
Of whom the meanest may be instruments,
Thus gently to chastise us on the arm,
Doubtless for some good cause, tho' Heaven knows what.

Adriana.
My Lord, you know her; she is ever thus,—
Still driving things against you to your face,
And when you're gone, if I should chance let fall
A word, or but a hint of censure, as—
My Lord of Arlon is too rash, too hot,
Too anything—

Clara.
She sighs and says, too true.

Adriana.
No, verily. But why, my Lord, come here
At nothing less than peril of your life,
Only to hear her rail?

Clara.
Yes, tell us why.

D'Arlon.
Not only that to-day, though till to-day
That was enough. But here is one whose weal
Has charged me with an errand of less love
But graver import. Is't not? Yes, 'tis he!

Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde
(as he enters).
Let my guard wait without.

Clara.
His guard! What's this?

Artevelde.
My Lord of Arlon, God be with you ever,
And guide you upon less adventurous tracks
Than this you tread. I'll speak with you anon.
My Adriana! victim that thou art!
Thy lover should have been some gentle youth
In gay attire, with laughter on his lips,
Who'd nestle in thy bosom all night long,
And ne'er let harness clink upon thine ears
Save only in romaunt and roundelay.
Such is what should be, and behold what is!
A man of many cares new taken up,
To whom there's nothing more can come in life
But what is serious and solicitous:
One who betakes him to his nuptial bed,
His thoughts still busy with the watch and ward,

And if his love breathe louder than her wont
Starts and believes the bells ring backwards: yes,
A man begirt with eighty thousand swords,
Scarce knowing which are in the hands of friends
And which against him; such a sort of man
Thy lover is, his fate for life or death
Link'd to a cause which some deem doomed and lost.
Such is Van Artevelde, for he is now
Chief Captain of the White-Hoods and of Ghent.

Clara.
Nay! is it even so?

Artevelde.
Even so it is.

Adriana.
And you are Captain of these savages!
And you will trample with them through the blood
Of fellow-men,—alas it may be, too,
Of fellow-citizens—for what care they?
And you, the gentle-hearted and the good,
Must lead these monsters where they will!

Artevelde.
Not so;
I purpose but to lead them where I will.

Adriana.
Then they will turn upon you; never yet
Would they endure a Chief that cross'd their mood.

Artevelde.
That is the patience they've to learn from me.
The times have tamed them, and mischance of late
Has forced an iron bit between their teeth
By help whereof I hope to rein them round.

Clara.
Oh, they will murder you!

Artevelde.
It may be so,

But I hope better things. Yet this is sure,
That they shall murder me ere make me go
The way that is not my way for an inch.

Adriana.
Alas! and is it come to this!—Oh God!

Artevelde.
This I foresaw, and things have fallen out
No worse than I forewarn'd you that they might.
The course I follow is a course ordained;
For I feel that within me which accords
With what I have to do. The field is fair,
And I have no perplexity or cloud
Upon my vision. Everything is clear.
And take this with you for your comfort too—
That man is not the most in tribulation
Who, resolute of mind, walks his own way,
With answerable skill to plant his steps.
Men in their places are the men that stand,
And I am strong and stable on my legs;
For though full many a care from this time forth
Must harbour in my head, my heart is fresh,
And there is but one trouble touches it,
The fate foreshown for you.

Adriana.
For me? What fate
Could e'er be nobler? Vex not your heart for that,
Nor think of me so all unworthily,
Nor fancy for me fears I have not: no,
In either fortune to be with you still,
Still to be with you is the single joy
Can find henceforth a corner in my heart;

My glory to be ever by your side
In weal or woe or danger or distress,
In all mishaps or mischiefs that befall you,
In all temptations when bad men beset you,
In all the tempests that must now rave round you,
And, should they wreck you, in the hour of death.
If your ambition, late aroused, was that
Which push'd you on this perilous attempt,
Then I will be ambitious too; if not,
And 'twas but your ill-fortune, be it so;
Then I will be unfortunate no less.
In that will I be like you, and all else
Wherein a woman may; what once I prized,
Serenity, contentment, heavenly peace,
God's blessings on my earlier years bestow'd
I fling them to the winds nor heed their loss,
So that your love outlast them.

Artevelde.
Bride in life,
And bride in death, if bridals then may be,
The last of love for thee were last of all
That through this passage of mortality
Lights on my soul to Heaven. All will be well;
Much happiness shall be thy portion yet;
Love will be with thee, breathing his native air,
And peace around thee through the power of love.
Bring me but through the business of this day—
My Lord, your pardon; we consume your time,
Which, I'm constrained to say, is short in Ghent.

I hitherto have welcomed you amongst us
And kept the secret of your sojourns here;
So doing, partly for respect to you,
And partly for her sake, this foolish girl's,
My pretty Clara's, who will let me say
I had not pleased her else; but now, my Lord,
As you have heard, I hold an office here
With duties appertaining, and must needs
(With sorrow for your sudden going hence)
Proffer my passport,—good till set of sun.

D'Arlon.
If no discourtesy is meant by this
I have but to depart.

Clara.
Depart! and why?

Artevelde.
There's nothing meant but honour, nothing else,
Howe'er to rude appearances enforced.
When there is peace between the Earl and Ghent
'Twill be a joy to me to see again
The gallant Lord of Arlon; till that time
We meet not, save in hostile ranks opposed,
Or captive, I in Bruges or he in Ghent.

D'Arlon.
Sir, it is not for me to say you nay
In a strange town, and all the town your own;
Nor would I willingly distrust your word
That all is honourably meant; for else
I scarce should miss to find a future time
For fair requital.

Artevelde.
On my faith, my Lord,

I love you and respect you.

D'Arlon.
'Tis enough.
Then I depart in peace.

Clara.
Depart! what's this?
What's all the coil about? Say you, depart?
That's when I bid him, not an hour before.
Dismiss him thus, and ne'er to come again!
Then what becomes of me? Oh, I'm a child!
I'm to be whipp'd for crying after him?
But let me tell you, Philip, I'm the child
Of Jacques Artevelde—So look well to it.
An injury to myself I might forgive,
But one to D'Arlon—
[Bursting into tears.
Sir, think twice of that,
Lest you should lose a sister unawares.

D'Arlon.
Nay, Clara, nay, be not so troubled.

Artevelde.
There—
You see the humour she is of, my Lord;
But be my sins confess'd, the fault is mine.
An orphan sister and an only one,
What could I less but let her have her will
In all things possible? An easy man
She still has found me, and knows nothing yet
Of opposition to her high commands.
You, if you e'er should take her to yourself,
May teach her better doctrine. Dry these tears,
Clara, my love; nor let this Knight discern
His future trials thus presignified

In rain and lightning; let him not, my love.

Clara
(weeping).
When will he come again?

Artevelde.
When peace comes; yes,
We'll make him welcome then to bower and hall,
And thou shalt twine a garland for his brow
Of olive and of laurels won from me.

D'Arlon.
Be pacified, sweet Clara; dry your tears.
He but deals with me as he has the right
And deems himself in duty bound; such things
Shall jar no string between us.

Artevelde.
Nobly said.
I leave her in your hands, and hope your aid
For bringing her to reason.

D'Arlon.
I entreat
One word in private with you ere we part.

Artevelde.
Take in my sister, Adriana—go,
Impart to her a portion of that strength
Whereby your spirit, ruler of itself,
Rules what betides it: teach her to subdue
Her woman's wifulness.

[Exeunt Adriana and Clara.
D'Arlon.
My errand here
Is not so wholly idle as no doubt
You deem it. I would first have warned you off
The office which, with most unhappy haste,
Already you have clutch'd. Since that is vain
I next would bid you to beware false friends;
Look that there be no treason in your camp;

I may not now say more; but be assured
'Twill be your life you fight for.

Artevelde.
Gallant friend,
It is a grief to me that we should meet
In opposition thus. I'll look around
And profit by your warning if I may.
Trust me, 'twould irk my heart no less than yours
(And may this show in all my acts henceforth!)
To enter in alliance with foul play
For any earthly meed. Sir, fare you well.

D'Arlon.
Whenso' the choice and noblest of my friends
Are bid to memory's feast, then, Artevelde,
The place of honour shall be yours. Farewell.

[Exit.
Enter the Captain of Artevelde's Guard.
Captain.
Sir, there's a messenger from Van den Bosch
Who craves to see you instantly: another
Says the Lord Occo waits your leisure.

Artevelde
(after a pause).
Ha!
Lord Occo, saidst thou? Tell me, what of him?

Captain.
He waits your leisure, Sir.

Artevelde.
And when comes that?
He shall not wait my leisure. And what more?

Captain.
Sir, Van den Bosch would see you.

Artevelde.
So he shall:
I will attend the Lord of Occo first,
And Van den Bosch shall find me at my house

Some half hour hence. How look we, Sir, abroad?

Captain.
The citizens are trooping to the Square.
'Tis said Sir Simon and Sir Guisebert pass
From door to door incessantly.

Artevelde.
To beg?

Captain.
To gain a strong attendance.

Artevelde.
Woe the while!
A bear, a fiddle, and a pair of apes
Had sped the service better. Well; what else?

Captain.
Both mean and notable and rich and poor
Have they solicited, assuring all
That when it shall be heard what terms of peace
Are offer'd, they will hug the messengers
That after painful travail for their love
Have brought them such good tidings.

Artevelde.
Hug them? Ay,
With such a hugging as shall stop their breath.
But what! Thou look'st not over cheerily;
Think'st thou the Knights have made some way then, ha?

Captain.
The deacons of eight crafts have ta'en their part,
And many of the aldermen.

Artevelde.
Is't so?

Captain.
And all the men of lineage.

Artevelde.
As thou hearest.

Captain.
The citizens pass'd by me in the street
By scores and hundreds, and of them I saw
The most were plainly not for us.

Artevelde.
Build up,
And then pull down, and then again build up,—
And always in the ruins some are—Well?

Captain.
And I'm afeared, though loth to think it, some
Amongst your guard have fallen from their faith
At seeing us outnumbered thus.

Artevelde.
Is't so?
Why, wherefore should I wish that it were not?
The more faint hearts fall off the better; so
Sick fear shall purge us to a sounder health.
Now to the Lord of Occo. Follow thou
With such as follow me; the rest discard.

Scene IV.

—The Dwelling-house of the Lord of Occo.
Occo and Van Aeswyn.
Occo.
The mariners, then, are for us?

Aeswyn.
They are ours.

Occo.
And these are of the curriers that thou bring'st?

Aeswyn.
The deacons of that craft—they're backward still:
They're ever harping upon Artevelde,
Who told their worships when they took the oath
If his poor humour govern'd, nothing else
But leathern jerkins should be worn in Ghent.

Occo.
We'll deal with them as with the fullers; go
And bring them in.
[Exit Van Aeswyn.

Well done, Sir Curriers!
These precious moments must be given to you!
The Devil curry you for senseless boors!
Re-enter Van Aeswyn with the two Craftsmen.
Good morrow, Masters—Ha! my valued friend,
Jacob Van Ryk; and if mine eyes see true,
Master—

Aeswyn.
Van Muck.

Occo.
Tush, tush, Sir! tell not me;
Have I forgotten my old friend Van Muck,
Or any of my friends?—though time is short
And we must scant our greetings. Worthy Sirs,
We're in a perilous predicament,
And I should take no step without advice.
Rash were it, and a tempting Providence,
Should I proceed without consulting you.
We see, Sirs, we must see, we can't but own,
That we have no choice left us but of peace
Or else destruction. It is come to that.
Then if we must be subject to the Earl,
I will confess I'm not so subtle-witted
To see much difference 'twixt this hour and that,
The going over to him now at once
With flesh upon our bones, or holding back
Till famine wastes it or steel hacks it off:
I see no difference.

Van Muck.
Truly, Sir, nor I.

Occo.
Ay, but there is a difference, my friends,
Which I forgot. For, hark you in your ear!
Those who go over but when all go over,
If they escape from pains and penalties,
Can scarcely claim much merit with the Earl;
But they who find a guidance for themselves,
Who take a step or two before the herd,
Whilst the will's free. who lead, not follow,—these
Have rightful claims; yes, boldly these may say
Reward us, for the first and foremost we;
Nor will they be unanswer'd, that I know:
“First serve the first,” is what they say at Bruges.

Van Ryk.
'Tis a good proverb, Sir, for early men;
And we have ne'er been slack in things of credit;
But we have scruples here. We see it thus:
If we should but shout peace with half the town
The Earl would scarce take count of us; again,
Should we make haste in raising of our hands
Against our friends, they'd call us renegades,
And blacken us for false and treacherous knaves.

Occo.
Why, look ye now; too surely, should ye shout,
And fail in action, 'twere no singular service;
There's no great guerdon were deserved by that;
The clerkships of the wards (which after peace
Must be new fill'd) would not be won by shouts:
But where's the treachery? My worthy friends,
Look at the matter simply as it is:
Here is a town beleaguer'd in such wise

That it must needs surrender upon terms:
Then come a lot of desperate-minded men,
Who, deeming the rendition gives up them
To punishment, make head against the rest:
These think no shame to say that all must die
To save their one—two—three—half-dozen heads
From certain hazards. Why if fall they must,
And they would rather 'twere by steel than cord,
Let them assail us and let us be men!
Are we not free to choose 'twixt peace and war?
They—they it is that are so treacherous—they,
Who would betray a city to its doom
For private and particular ends of theirs.
Then let us rally round the public weal
And link our names with that.

Van Ryk.
The city's weal
Doth one way beckon us, it must be own'd;
But some of us there are that but last night
Swore fealty to Artevelde.

Occo.
What then?
That was but for the war—not knowing then
That it was ended by your deputies
And peace concluded: answer not so idly.
Swore ye not fealty to the Earl before?
Come, come, my friends—we're all as one, I see;
And let me tell you that the whole of Ghent,
Almost the whole, is minded like yourselves.
Strange is it men shall meditate and muse

In secret all alike, and show no sign
Till a blow's struck, and then they speak it out,
And each man finds in each his counterpart,
And, as a sluice were opened, all shall rush
To find the self-same level and pour on
To the same end. But I forgot, my friends;
We have to think of what particular mark
Should first be aim'd at when the blow is struck.

Van Ryk.
So please you, Sir, a cast at Van den Bosch
Were not amiss, methinks.

Occo.
Well shot, Van Ryk;
But yet not quite the bull's eye.

Van Muck.
By the mass,
He's shot the bull he had his horns of—Ha!
What will Dame Oda say to thee?

Van Ryk.
Come, come!
If that's our archery, Frans Fleisch for thee.

Occo.
My friends, we'll settle all such scores at will.
But is not Ghent more precious than our wives?
And who debauches her? When she was fain
To creep into her long-left Lord's embrace,
Who came at night and whistled her away?
This is the aggravation that most stirs
The choler of the Earl. The other Chiefs,
Men that by accidents and long degrees
Became entangled in rebellion,—them
He can forgive; but he that plunged plump in
And so new troubled what was settling down,

This is the man that he has mark'd for death.
Whoso brings down that head has hit a mark
That's worth five hundred crowns. What say you, friends?
Who strikes a good stroke with his sword for this?
[A pause.
To speak it with no mincing of the sense,
Van Artevelde, you understand, must die;
His life the Earl must have. Who hath the guerdon
Is not of moment save to them that get it;
But truly were the money on my head,
And I as sure to die as Artevelde,
I'd rather men like you should win the prize
Than see it snatch'd by luck; when die we must,
'Tis better that thereby good men should thrive
Than snatchers.

Van Ryk.
Saving your displeasure, Sir,
'Tis said good men ne'er thrive but by good deeds.
Now, were it but the slaying Van den Bosch,
Or Peter Nuitre, or Frans Ackerman,
There's husbands, widows, orphans, all through Ghent
Would say the deed was good: but Artevelde
Has, as it were, a creditable name,
And men would say we struck not for revenge
But only lucre, which were scandalous;
And also, Sir—

Occo
(to a Serving-man who enters).
What, sirrah?—Speak—what now?
[The Serving-man whispers him.

Van Artevelde! what say'st thou?—coming here?
Not now—not now?

Serving-man.
Now, instantly, my Lord.

Occo.
Masters, I wish you both good-day—good-day,
God prosper thee, Van Ryk—Van Muck, farewell.
Why op'st thou not the door, thou villain groom?
Think'st thou the burgesses have time to lose?
Farewell at once, Sirs—not to keep you here
When things are all so stirring in the town;
You're needed at your posts, I know; farewell.

Van Ryk.
My Lord, as touching these five hundred crowns—

Occo.
Just as ye will, Sirs—any way ye please;
I bid God speed you, and so fare ye well.

Van Ryk.
If you would take four hundred from the five,
And set the residue on Van den Bosch,
His head I'd bring you in for that much coin,
And Ackerman's for love and pure good-will.

Van Muck.
And Sir, as touching Artevelde—

Occo.
Nay, nay,
I will not press it further.

Van Muck.
If the crowns—

Occo.
Peace, on your lives, he's here!

Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde.
My Lord of Occo, at your pleasure. Ha!
Attended, too, as I could wish. God's love!

I'd not desire to see a friend of mine
Better accompanied,—no, nor a foe
Better encounter'd, than by men like these.
Jacob Van Ryk, my father loved you much;
No man knew better, Jacob, none than he,
Who were the worthiest of his love and trust,
And I, thou seest, have mounted to his seat.
How the old times come back upon me now!
I was a very little prating child
When thou wert of his escort to and fro
From post to pillar: it was always thou
Whom he would choose from them that brought him home
To ask thy company; and in thine arms
He oft would put me for his more repose,
For I was stillest there. Times change, Van Ryk;
Years shift us up and down; but something sticks;
And for myself, there's nothing as a man
That I love more than what my childhood loved.
Honest Van Muck, thy hand—thou look'st abash'd—
Ah, thou bethink'st thee of thy little debt,
The money that I lent thee for the close.
Why, what of that, man? Didst thou ever hear
An Artevelde would hurt his friend for gold?
Thy debt is cancell'd—think of it no more;
Thou shalt look boldly upward in the world
And care for no man. I will settle that
This instant with a writing.

Occo.
By your leave,

The burgesses are tarried for elsewhere;
They are incontinently going hence;
You will forgive their haste, they cannot stay;
Open the doors. Good-day, Sirs, once again.

Van Muck.
Master Van Artevelde, I'm your debtor more
Than ever I was yet. God guard you, Sir,
And specially in your perils near at hand!

Van Ryk.
Master Van Artevelde, God grant you grace
To read men's hearts,—the gift your father had.
Look for your friends amongst the Commons ever;
An 'twere not for Lord Occo standing here,
I'd bid you trust in ne'er a Lord of Ghent.

[Exeunt the Craftsmen.
Artevelde
(after a pause).
These are ambiguous knaves.

Occo.
True craftsmen both!
Ever suspicious of nobility.

Artevelde.
That am not I. You had some news to tell,
So your Lieutenant said.

Occo.
Intelligence
Has reach'd me of the terms the Earl will grant;
A guarantee of franchises and rights
Conditional on some three hundred souls
Being surrender'd to his mercy.

Artevelde.
Ay;
Of whom then is this number?

Occo.
Whom the Earl
May please to name hereafter; but meanwhile

The lists are written out, though not divulged;
And what is worthiest note, upon the file
Your name appears not.

Artevelde.
By my faith, that's strange!
But are the tidings sure?

Occo.
Beyond all doubt.

Artevelde.
How came you by them, if they be so sure?

Occo.
They're rumour'd—confidently rumour'd—Nay,
I had them also from my spies at Bruges;
A most sagacious spy—he saw the lists;
He never vet deceived me—there's no doubt.

Artevelde.
And what do you advise, if this be truth?

Occo.
Why, if the town be obstinately bent
On making peace, my counsel to yourself,
Whose life peace places not in jeopardy,
Would be to leave the forward part to us
Whose only safety lies in holding out;
So that, if we should fall, you still may stand,
Whatever turn things take. And bear in mind,
If there be danger and the crafts revolt,
To throw yourself among the mariners:
There's none of all the crafts so wholly with us?

Artevelde.
With which of us, my Lord?

Occo.
With one and all.

Artevelde.
Ay, say you so? And my part, as you think,
Is to stand back and see you play the game.
I have a notion of a leader's part
That looks another way. Your counsel asked

Not wholly without profit have I heard:
Now I will give you mine; and be you pleased
To profit in like sort lest worse befall you
I too have had my spies upon the watch,
And what they brought me sounded in my ears
A note of warning link'd with names well known,
Now known for traitors' names. I hereupon
Took order for a numerous company
Selected for their hardihood and faith
To be for ever close upon the heels
Of these same traitors at all guild-assemblies,
And use their weapons on a sign from me.
Which matters recommending to your care
I counsel you to stay at home. Farewell.

[Exit.
Enter Van Aeswyn.
Aeswyn.
My Lord, Sir Guisebert is impatient much,
And sends one message on another's heels
To ask why tarry you?

Occo.
I am not well.

Aeswyn.
But they must needs set forth at once; ere this
The market-place is full; they cannot wait.

Occo.
Hark you! he knows it all.

Aeswyn.
Van Artevelde?

Occo.
Knows everything.

Aeswyn.
And what is to be done?

Occo.
I'm ill at ease; I know not; what think'st thou?

Aeswyn.
If he but knew it half-an-hour too soon,
His knowledge is of small account.

Occo.
God's death!
But who can tell how long he's known it—nay,
How many he have practised with and gain'd—
How many may have falsely seem'd to swerve
By his direction, only to delude
And so embolden me to my defeat.
I would this hour were over!

Aeswyn.
Choose your course;
Take one part or the other, lest it pass,
And leave you ruined both ways.

Occo.
Ruin'd! Ruin'd!
He told me if I ventured to the Square
His followers should slay me.

Aeswyn.
Yours may him;
'Tis a fair challenge, let us fight it out.

Occo.
Why, that is bravely said. Then be it so;
Thou shalt have warranty to fight it out;
And if we're beaten, I shall stand prepared
To fly to Bruges with any that way bent.
And hark you, friend! not empty-handed, no,
We'll take what's worth our ransom ten times told,—
A damsel whom thou wot'st of. Pick me out
Ten of the sturdiest of my body-guard,
Van Truckler and Van Linden at their head;
Bid them have horses and a litter near.
Shouldst thou be worsted in the market-place

I will be nigh thee to protect thy flight
Till thou mayst reach the gates. God speed thee well!

[Exit.
Aeswyn.
The dastard! when the service touches life
The follower must lead, and venture all
For him that ventures nothing. Are we fools?

Scene V.

—The House Van Artevelde.—Artevelde and the Page.
Artevelde.
Not to be fear'd—Give me my sword! Go forth,
And see what folk be these that throng the street.
[Exit Page.
Not to be fear'd is to be nothing here:
And wherefore have I taken up this charge
If I be nothing in it? There they go.
[Shouts are heard.
Of them that pass my house some shout my name,
But the most part pass silently; and once
I heard the cry of “Flanders and the Lion.”

Re-enter Page.
Page.
The Knights that newly have arrived from Bruges
Pass down the street, my Lord, with many more.

Artevelde.
Give me my cloak and dagger! There, enough—
Thy service is perform'd. Go to thy sports,
But come not near the market-place to-day.
[Exit Page.
To be the chief of honourable men

Is honour; and if dangerous, yet faith
Still binds them faster as the danger grows.
To be the head of villains,—what is that
But to be mind to an unwholesome body—
To render up God's gift a human soul
In sad metempsychosis to the brutes,
Whose carrion, else exanimate, but gains
A moment's life from this, then so infects
That all together die the death of beasts.
[A pause.
These hands are spotless yet—
Yea, white as when in infancy they strayed
Unconscious o'er my mother's face, or closed
With that small grasp which mothers love to feel.
No stain has come upon them since that time—
They have done nothing violent—first and last
Of a calm will untroubled servants they,
And went about their offices, if here
I must not say in purity, in peace.
But he they served,—he is not what he was.
[A party pass the window, and a voice cries, “The Lion for Flanders!”
That cry again! Then be it as ye will!
Sir Knights, ye drive me close upon the rocks,
And of my cargo you're the vilest bales,
So overboard with you! What, men of blood!
Can the son better auspicate his arms
Than by the slaying of who slew the father?

Some blood may flow because that it needs must,
But yours by choice—I'll slay you and thank God.

Enter Van den Bosch.
Van den Bosch.
The common bell hath rung! the Knights are there;
Thou must come instantly.

Artevelde.
I come—I come.

Van den Bosch.
Now, Master Philip, if thou miss thy way
Through this affair, we're lost. 'Tis blood for blood—
Be counsell'd now by me; have thou in mind—

Artevelde.
Enough; I need not counsel; I'm resolved.
Take thou thy stand beside Sir Simon Bette,
As I by Grutt! take note of all I do,
And do thyself accordingly. All's said.

Scene VI

—The exterior of the Stadt-House. Two external flights of stone stairs meet in a landing-place or platform midway in the front of the building. On this platform appear Sir Guisebert Grutt, with the aldermen of sundry guilds and the deans of the several crafts of butchers, fishermen, glaziers, and cordwainers. Also Frans Ackerman, Van Nuitre, and others of the White-Hood party.
A Weaver.
Speak up, Sir Guisebert; speak, Sir Guisebert Grutt.

A Fuller.
Sir Simon Bette,—we'll hear Sir Simon first.

A White-Hood.
Not to waste time, let's hear them both at once;
For bawling as we do, one word in ten
Were much to reach us.

A Glazier.
It is you that bawl,
You villain White-Hoods—And there come the men
That teach it you; but we've a muster here
Shall choke your bawling with a churchyard sod.

Enter Van Artevelde and Van Den Bosch.
Artevelde.
Well met, my friends, if friends you be; if not,
Why then, well met, my foes.

Sir Guisebert
(descending some steps to meet Sir Simon Bette, who comes up from the street).
I' the name of God! Where is the Lord of Occo?

Sir Simon.
Sick, Sir, sick.
He has sent word he's sick and cannot come.

Sir Guisebert.
Pray God his sickness be his death!

Sir Simon.
Amen!
But his Lieutenant and his troop are here.

Van den Bosch
(aside to Artevelde)
There's something that has staggered them: Up, up,
And push them to the point. [Aloud.]
Make way there, Ho!

Artevelde
(coming forward).
Some citizen hath brought this concourse here;
Who is the man, and what hath he to say?

Sir Guisebert.
The noble Earl of Flanders of his grace
Commisions me to speak.

[Some White-Hoods interrupt him with cries of “Ghent!” which are presently lost in the cry of “Flanders!”
Artevelde.
What, silence! peace!
Silence, and hear this noble Earl's behests,
Deliver'd by this thrice puissant Knight.

Sir Guisebert.
First will I speak—not what I'm bid to say,
But what it most imports yourselves to hear.
For though ye cannot choose but know it well,
Yet by these cries I deem that some there are
Would, much like madmen, cast their knowledge off,
And both of that and of their reason reft
Run naked on the sword—which to forefend,
Let me remind you of the things ye know.
Sirs, when this month began ye had four Chiefs
Of great renown and valour,—Jan de Bol,
Arnoul le Clerc, and Launoy and Van Ranst:
Where are they now? and what be ye without them?
Sirs, when the month began ye had good aid
From Brabant, Liege, Dinant, St. Tron, and Huy:
How shall they serve you now? The Earl sits fast
Upon the Quatre-metiers and the Bridge:
What aid of theirs can reach you? What supplies?
I tell you, Sirs, that thirty thousand men
Could barely bring a bullock to your gates.

If thus without, how stand ye then within?
Ask of your Chatelain, the Lord of Occo;
Which worthy Knight will tell you—

Artevelde.
(aside to Van den Bosch)
Mark you that? [Then aloud to Sir Guisebert.]

Where is this sponsor of your speech—where is he?

Sir Guisebert.
He's sick in bed; but were he here, he'd say,
There's not provision in the public stores
To keep you for a week. Such is your plight.
Now hear the offer of your natural Liege.
Moved to compassion by our prayers and tears,
By good Duke Aubert aided, and with him
My Lady of Brabant and Lord Compelant—
To whom our thanks are due,—the Earl says thus:
He will have peace, and take you to his love,
And be your good Lord as in former days;
And all the injuries, hatreds, and ill-will
He had against you he will now forget,
And he will pardon you your past misdeeds,
And he will keep you in your ancient rights;
And for his love and graces thus vouchsafed
He doth demand of you three hundred men,
Such citizens of Ghent as he shall name,
To be surrendered and abide his will.

Van den Bosch.
Three hundred citizens!

Artevelde.
Peace, Van den Bosch.
Hear we this other Knight. Well, worthy Sir,

Hast aught to say, or hast not got thy priming,
That thus thou gaspest like a droughty pump?

Van den Bosch.
Nay, 'tis black bile that chokes him.
Come, up with it!
Be it but a gallon it shall ease thy stomach.

Several Citizens.
Silence! Sir Simon Bette's about to speak.

Sir Simon.
Right worthy Burgesses, good men and rich!
Much trouble ye may guess, and strife had we
To win his Highness to this loving humour;
For if ye rightly think, Sirs, and remember,
You've done him much offence—not of yourselves,
But through ill guidance of ungracious men.
For first ye slew his Bailiff at the cross,
And with the Earl's own banner in his hand,
Which falling down was trampled under foot
Through heedlessness of them that stood about.
Also ye burn'd the castle he loved best
And ravaged all his parks at Andrehen,
All those delightful gardens on the plain:
And ye beat down two gates at Oudenarde
And in the dike ye cast them upside down:
Also ye slew five Knights of his, and worse
Ye brake the font wherein he was baptized.
Wherefore it must be own'd, Sirs, that much cause
He had of quarrel with the town of Ghent.
For what, Sirs, had ye suffered from the Earl

That ye should thus dishonour him? 'Tis true
At Erclo once a Burgess was detain'd
Through misbehaviour of the Bailiff; still
He hath deliver'd many a time and oft
Out of his prisons Burgesses of yours
Only to do you pleasure; and when late
By kinsmen of the Bailiff whom ye slew
Some mariners of yours were sorely maim'd,
(Which was an inconvenience to this town,)
What did the Earl? To prove it not his act
He banish'd out of Flanders them that did it.
Moreover, Sirs, the taxes of the Earl
Were not so heavy, but that, being rich,
Ye might have borne them; they were not the half
Of what ye since have paid to wage this war;
And yet had these been double that were half,
The double would have grieved you less in peace
Than but the half in war. Bethink ye, Sirs,
What were the fowage and the subsidies
When bread was but four mites that's now a groat?
All which consider'd, Sirs, I counsel you
That ye accept this honourable peace,
For mercifully is the Earl inclined,
And ye may surely deem of them he takes
A large and liberal number will be spared,
And many here who least expect his love
May find him-free and gracious. Sirs, what say ye?

Artevelde.
First, if it be your pleasure, hear me speak.
[Great tumult and cries of “Flanders!”

What, Sirs, not hear me? was it then for this
Ye made me your chief Captain yesternight,—
To snare me in a trust, whereof I bear
The name aud danger only, not the power?
[The tumult increases.
Sirs, if we needs must come to blows, so be it;
For I have friends can deal them.

Sir Simon
(aside to Sir Guisebert).
Mercy! No—
Had Occo now been here! but lacking him
It must not come to that.

Sir Guisebert.
My loving friends,
Let us behave like brethren as we are,
And not like listed combatants. Ho, peace!
Hear this young bachelor of high renown,
Who writes himself your Captain since last night,
When a few score of varlets, being drunk,
In mirth and sport so dubbed him. Peace, Sirs, peace!

Artevelde.
Peace let it be, if so ye will; if not,
We are as ready as yourselves for blows.

One of the Citizens.
Speak, Master Philip, speak, and you'll be heard.

Artevelde.
I thank you, Sirs; I knew it could not be
But men like you must listen to the truth.
Sirs, ye have heard these Knights discourse to you
Of your ill fortunes, numbering in their glee
The worthy leaders ye have lately lost:
True, they were worthy men, most gallant chiefs,
And ill would it become us to make light

Of the great loss we suffer by their fall:
They died like heroes; for no recreant step
Had e'er dishonour'd them,—no stain of fear,
No base despair, no cowardly recoil:
They had the hearts of freemen to the last,
And the free blood that bounded in their veins
Was shed for freedom with a liberal joy.
But had they guess'd, or could they but have dream'd,
The great examples which they died to show
Should fall so flat, should shine so fruitless here,
That men should say, “For liberty these died,
Wherefore let us be slaves,”—had they thought this,
Oh then with what an agony of shame
Their blushing faces buried in the dust
Had their great spirits parted hence for heaven!
What! shall we teach our chroniclers henceforth
To write that in five bodies were contain'd
The sole brave hearts of Ghent! which five defunct,
The heartless town by brainless counsel led
Deliver'd up her keys, stript off her robes,
And so with all humility besought
Her haughty Lord to scourge her lightly! No,
It shall not be—no verily! for now,
Thus looking on you as ye gather round,
Mine eye can single out full many a man
Who lacks but opportunity to shine
As great and glorious as the chiefs that fell.
But lo! the Earl is mercifully moved!

And surely if we, rather than revenge
The slaughter of our bravest, cry them shame,
And fall upon our knees, and say we've sinn'd,
Then will the Earl take pity on his thralls
And pardon us our letch for liberty!
What pardon it shall be, if we know not,
Yet Ypres, Courtray, Grammont, Bruges, they know;
For never can those towns forget the day
When by the hangman's hands five hundred men,
The bravest of each guild, were done to death
In those base butcheries that he call'd pardons.
And did it seal their pardons, all this blood?
Had they the Earl's good love from that time forth?
Oh, Sirs! look round you lest ye be deceived;
Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,
Forgiveness may be written with the pen,
But think not that the parchment and mouth pardon
Will e'er eject old hatreds from the heart.
There's that betwixt you been men ne'er forget
Till they forget themselves, till all's forgot,
Till the deep sleep falls on them in that bed
From which no morrow's mischief knocks them up.
There's that betwixt you been which you yourselves,
Should ye forget, would then not be yourselves;
For must it not be thought some base men's souls
Have ta'en the seats of yours and turn'd you out
If in the coldness of a craven heart
Ye should forgive this bloody-minded man

For all his black and murderous monstrous crimes?
Think of your mariners, three hundred men,
After long absence in the Indian seas,
Upon their peaceful homeward voyage bound,
And now, all dangers conquer'd as they thought,
Warping the vessels up their native stream,
Their wives and children waiting them at home
In joy, with festal preparation made,—
Think of these mariners, their eyes torn out,
Their hands chopp'd off, turn'd staggering into Ghent
To meet the blasted eye-sight of their friends!
And was not this the Earl? 'Twas none but he!
No Hauterive of them all had dared to do it
Save at the express instance of the Earl.
And now what asks he? Pardon me, Sir Knights,
[To Grutt and Bette.
I had forgotten, looking back and back
From felony to felony foregoing,
This present civil message which ye bring:
Three hundred citizens to be surrender'd
Up to that mercy which I tell you of—
That mercy which your mariners proved—which steep'd
Courtray and Ypres, Grammont, Bruges, in blood!
Three hundred citizens,—a secret list—
No man knows who—not one can say he's safe—
Not one of you so humble but that still
The malice of some secret enemy
May whisper him to death—and hark—look to it!

100

Have some of you seem'd braver than their peers,
Their courage is their surest condemnation;
They are marked men—and not a man stands here
But may be so.—Your pardon, Sirs, again!
[To Grutt and Bette.
You are the pickers and the choosers here,
And doubtless you're all safe, ye think—ha! ha!
But we have pick'd and chosen, too, Sir Knights—
What was the law for I made yesterday—
What! is it you that would deliver up
Three hundred citizens to certain death?
Ho! Van den Bosch! have at these traitors—there—

[Stabs Grutt, who falls.
Van den Bosch.
Die, treasonable dog—is that enough?
Down, felon, and plot treacheries in Hell.

[stabs Bette.
[The White-Hoods draw their swords, with loud cries of “Treason!” “Artevelde!” and “Ghent!” A citizen of the other party, who in the former part of the scene had unfurled the Earl's banner, now throws it down and flies; several others are following him, and the Aldermen and Deans, some of whom had been dropping off towards the end of Artevelde's speech, now quit the platform in haste. Van Aeswyn is crossed by Van Den Bosch.
Van den Bosch.
Die, thou, too, traitor.

[Aiming a blow at him.

101

Artevelde
(warding it off).
Van den Bosch, forbear.
Up with your weapons, White-Hoods; no more blood.
These only are the guilty who lie here.
Let no more blood be spilt on pain of death.
Sirs, ye have nought to fear; I say, stand fast;
No man shall harm you; if he does, he dies.
Stand fast, or if ye go, take with you this,—
Philip Van Artevelde is friend with all;
There's no man lives within the walls of Ghent
But Artevelde will look to him and his
And suffer none to touch his goods or him.
Haste, Van den Bosch! by Heav'n they run like hares!
Take they not heart the sooner, by St. Paul
They'll fly the city, and that cripples us.
Haste with thy company to the west wards
And see thou that no violence be done
Amongst the weavers and the fullers—stay—
And any that betake themselves to spoil
Hang without stint—and hark—begone—yet stay;
Shut the west gate, postern and wicket too,
And catch my Lord of Occo where thou canst,—
Stay—on thy life let no man's house be forced.

Van den Bosch.
That is not to my mind; but have thy way.
Thou'st play'd the game right boldly, and for me,
I've sworn to stead thee,—and what's more, I will.

Artevelde.
Thou to thine errand, then, and I myself
Will go from street to street through all the town

102

To reassure the citizens; that done,
I'll meet thee here again. Form, White-Hoods, form:
Range ten abreast; I'm coming down; but stay—
You Floris, Leefdale, Spanghen, mount ye here,
And bear me down these bodies. Now, set forth.

103

ACT III.

Scene I.

—Night. A Wood near Bruges.
The Lord of Occo and Followers.
Occo.
No more than half a league to Bruges? then halt,
And let the men-at-arms be drawn together
Where the ground's open. Berckel, ride thou on
And hail the warders on the walls; make known
That for the love which we have shown the Earl
We're driven forth of Ghent, and humbly crave
His hospitality.
[To Van Aeswyn, who enters.
Van Aeswyn! What?
Where is the litter?

Van Aeswyn.
Dropped some mile behind
To rest the bearers.

Occo.
Lazy, loitering rogues!
What of the Lady?

Van Aeswyn.
Still much moved.

Occo.
Go back;
Keep thou beside her, lest she should prevail
To make the varlets speak. Let none approach
After we pass the gates but men of mine,
Nor ever let the litter be unclosed.
Now, if we're all in order, march we on.

104

Scene II.

—A Banqueting Hall in the Stadt-House at Bruges. Tables are spread, and the Earl of Flanders, the Hase of Flanders, with several Lords, Knights, and followers of the Earl, are entertained by the Mayor of Bruges and the Aldermen.
Earl.
Sir Mayor, we thank you; 'tis a royal feast.

Mayor.
My gracious Lord, the supper is but poor;
Very exceeding poor the supper is;
And yet the most we can; your humble hosts,
Being but meagre citizens God wot,
Can but purvey your Highness what they have,
A very sorry supper.

Alderman.
True indeed.
Yet if your Highness please to cast it up,
A hundred florins—

Mayor.
Hold thy peace, Van Holst;
The minstrels twang their cat-gut.

Earl .
(aside to the Hase)
In good time;
If aught could make me cast my supper up
'Twere to taste further of their courtesies.
Soho, Sir Minstrel! what hast got to sing?

Van Holst.
That has been cared for, please your Highness; yes,
We knew your Highness had a skilful ear,
And 'twas not every poesy would please.
This is a ditty craftily conceited,

105

Trump'd up as 'twere extempore for the nonce!
He was no tavern cantabank that made it,
But a Squire Minstrel of your Highness's court.
So—sing, Sir Minstrel—there you have it—ah!
Fal-lal—the very thing—the tune's “Green Sleeves.”

THE MINSTREL SINGS.

The little bird sat on the greenwood tree,
And the sun was as bright as bright could be;
The leaf was broad, the shade was deep,
The Lion of Flanders lay fast asleep.

The little bird sang, “Sir Lion, arise,
For I hear with my ears and I see with my eyes,
And I know what I know, and I tell thee this,
That the men of Ghent have done something amiss.”

From his lair the Lion of Flanders rose,
And he shook his mane and toss'd up his nose;
“Ere a leaf be fallen or summer be spent,”
Quoth he, “if God spare me, I'll go to Ghent.

“For a little bird sang and I dream'd beside
That the people of Ghent were puff'd up with pride;
And I had been far over hill and dale
And was fast asleep, and they trod on my tail.”

Ere a leaf was fallen the Lion he went
And growl'd a growl at the gates of Ghent:
But they bended low when they saw him awake,
And said that they trod on his tail by mistake.

The little bird sat on the bush so bare
And the leaf fell brown on the Lion's lair;
The little bird pick'd a berry so red
And dropp'd it down on the Lion's head.

106

“Sir Lion, awake, and put out your claws,
And lift your chin from your tawny paws;
My ears are smaller than yours, but more
I hear than you, and worse than before.”

The Lion stirr'd and awoke with a snort,
And swelled with rage till his breath came short;
“Ere the brown leaf meet with the flake of snow
On the roundabout stair, to Ghent I'll go.

“For a little bird sang, and I dream'd as well,
That the people of Ghent were as false as Hell;
Coming by stealth when nought I fear'd,
They trod on my corns and pull'd my beard.”

Ere a snow-flake fell the Lion he went
And roar'd a roar at the gates of Ghent;
The gates they shook though they were fast barr'd,
And the warders heard it at Oudenarde.

At the first roar ten thousand men
Fell sick to death—he roar'd again,
And the blood of twenty thousand flow'd
On the bridge of Roone, as broad as the road.

Woe worth thee, Ghent! if, having heard
The first and second, thou bidest the third!
Flat stones and awry, grass, potsherd and shard,
Thy place shall be like an old churchyard.

Earl.

A singular good song and daintily accompanied with the music. Give him three florins and a denier for the lad withal.

Van Holst.

Your Highness is too bountiful. He made it not himself. 'Twas your Highness's Serjeant-Minstrel that made it. The making and mending of it together

107

was seven days and nights, bating twelve hours for sleeping, and four hours for eating, and five minutes for saying his prayers. Drinking never stopped him, for still the more he drank the more he made of it. And he ranted and sang, an' it like your Highness, that it would have pleased you to hear him; for being that the song was made in honour of your Highness, he said he could sing it a thousand times over and think better of it every time.

Earl.

It is good poesy—marry and good prophecy too. Hark you, Master Mayor; I have somewhat repented me that I was wrought upon by those old Knights of Ghent to proffer terms of such easy acquittance.

Mayor.

When your Highness is graciously pleased to give away your advantages, it is not for such as I to say you do wrong; but every man in Bruges that is well affected to your Highness said that three hundred heads was too little.

Earl.

By my faith they said true; and Gilbert Matthew told me no less; but I was persuaded by the old Knights; I was too easy with them. Where is Gilbert Matthew?

Gilbert.
Here, my Lord.

Earl.
Come hither, Gilbert. I have bethought me, Gilbert,
I almost sinn'd against true chivalry
To let yon rabble off.

Gilbert.
Your Highness says it.

Earl.
Thou'dst tell me 'twas not by thy counsels.

108

Gilbert.
Sir,
As many heads of each insurgent craft
Would not have been denied. A hundred nail'd
Like weasels to the gates of each wall'd town
Thorough the States of Flanders—that had been
A warning wholesome and significant
To the good towns.

Earl.
A salutary sign.
I would the bargain were to make again.
Why so now! who comes here? Sir Walter? Yes.
Enter Sir Walter D'Arlon.
D'Arlon, I never see thee but with joy.
What new adventure hast thou been upon?
We miss thee oft at Court, but thy return
Is ever with new honours at thy heels.
What captives follow thee to Bruges to-night?
Or hast thou turn'd base metal into gold
And bring'st their ransoms?—either way is well.

D'Arlon.
My Lord, I come alone.

Earl.
Why, welcome still!

D'Arlon.
Yet there is something following at my heels
Which hardly shall your Highness in like sort
Make welcome here.

Earl.
Why, say'st thou? what is that?

D'Arlon.
Ill rumours, my good Lord.

Earl.
Ill rumours? how?

109

D'Arlon.
The rebels are alive again and fresh.
The messengers of peace lie stabb'd to death
Upon the steps i' the market-place.

Earl.
Not so!
It cannot be;—D'Arlon, it must be false.

D'Arlon.
I fear, my Lord, it will not so be found.

Earl.
Nay, nay,—so stripp'd of everything—so bare
As we had made them—scarce a leader left,
And those that were, so wild and scant of skill!

D'Arlon.
That were an ugly breach if not repair'd.
They've made young Artevelde their chief.

Earl.
God help them!
A man that as much knowledge has of war
As I of brewing mead! God help their souls!
A bookish nursling of the monks—a meacock!

D'Arlon.
My Lord, I'm fearful you mistake the man.
If my accounts be true, the life he's led
Served rather in its transit to eclipse
Than to show forth his nature; and, that pass'd,
You'll now behold him as he truly is,
One of a cold and of a constant mind,
Not quicken'd into ardent action soon,
Nor prompt for petty enterprise, yet bold,
Fierce when need is, and capable.

Earl.
Thou sayst?
And hath he slain the Knights!

D'Arlon.
With his own hand.

Earl.
I tell thee it is false; it cannot be.

110

Thou, Gilbert Matthew, what think'st thou?

Gilbert.
My Lord,
It may be there's some skirmishing at Ghent,
Which rumour, floating like a mist before,
Augments to this.

Earl.
Thou deem'st there's nought to fear?

Gilbert.
I deem of Ghent as of a winter fly
That in a gleam of sunshine creeping forth
Kicks with stiff legs a feeble stroke or two
And falls upon its back.

Earl.
Then all is well.
Gilbert, thy wisdom never was at fault.
A comfortable councillor art thou.
Sirrah, what news?

[To an Attendant who enters.
Attendant.
The Lord of Occo, Sir,
Came with his men-at-arms before the walls,
And being that he was driven forth of Ghent,
The warders have admitted him, and here
He waits your pleasure.

Earl.
Bid him in at once.
He comes like confirmation. Oh Ghent! Ghent!
Oh ye ungracious people!
Enter the Lord of Occo.
Speak, Sir Guy;
Out with the worst, for I have guessed it all.
Fame was here first as breathless as you are.

111

Occo.
'Tis the worst fortune e'er befell me yet
To be the bearer of this heavy news.
Our friends are slain, the White-Hoods hold the town,
And he, the homicide whose bloody hand
Despatch'd the peaceful Knights, is Lord of all.

Earl.
Oh that unhappy people! hear me, God!
Hear me, ye Host of Heaven and all good men!
If e'er I lift the wine-cup to my lips,
If ever other than a soldier's bed
Contain me, or if any pleasant sport
Inveigle off my heart while that town stands,
May I be driven from my royalties
To dwell with beasts like him that sinn'd of old!
Rise, Sirs; no more of feasting here. Sir Guy,
Such entertainment as such times afford
We'll give you. Bid my chamberlain see to it.
Adieu, Sirs; when the walls of Ghent lie flat
Our revel we resume.

D'Arlon.
Leave me, my Lord,
The entertainment of your friends from Ghent;
My house will hold them.— [Aside.]
Grant me this, my Lord;
They need a supervisor.

Earl.
Good;—Sir Guy,
Sir Walter D'Arlon is your host at Bruges.
At noon to-morrow come to Council, Sirs,
You that are of it. Minstrel, stand aside—
What! are you blind? Good night, good night, adieu.

112

Scene III.

—A Chamber in the Lord of Arlon's House. Adriana Van Merestyn and three Attendants in the Lord of Occo's livery.
Adriana.
Whither have you brought me, Sirs? What house is this?
Nay, must I ask for ever? Wilt not speak?
Nor thou, nor thou? If ye are bid be dumb,
But say ye are so, and I'll ask no more.

First Attendant.
Madam, we are.

Adriana.
Who bid you?—not a word?
If you're afraid to tell me, make a sign.
Was it the Lord of Occo? 'Twas not he?
Then whosoe'er enjoin'd it, send him here.
Entreat him were it but for courtesy
To come to me. He that hath tied your tongues
May loose them or be free to use his own.
I pray thee send him; thou art not so rude,
To guess thee by thy mien, as this so slight,
So slender service to deny me—no—
Or else thou wear'st a mask.
[The first Attendant goes out. She turns aside from the others.
Befriend me now,
Heart, head, and tongue, if life is left them still.
Oh for some potion that for one hour's space
Should make me twice myself!

113

Enter Van Aeswyn.
Aeswyn
(to the Attendants.)
Depart the chamber.

[Exeunt Attendants.
Adriana.
Master Van Aeswyn!

Aeswyn.
Madam!

Adriana.
It is thou
That thus abusest me!

Aeswyn.
I, Madam! No;
I have done nothing; if a wrong there be,
It lies with others; I have but obey'd
Whom I am bound to serve.

Adriana.
Alas! thy guilt
Is but more abject, being ministrant
Unto another's, and thyself no less
Accountable to Heaven. His lust and greed
Whom thou abettest thou dost make thine own
And nothing gett'st but wages of thy work
To pay thy sin. What! is't not shame on shame?
Thou puttest thine immortal soul to sale
For profit of another, thy reward
Being the sorry guerdon of a Squire
With blot and stain of such addition vile
Of countenance and favour, bred of guilt,
As he that uses thee may please to show thee.
Oh soil of bad men's service! Thou to stamp
A gentle name with stigma of such deeds!

114

Oh curse of bad men's hire!

Aeswyn.
Nay, Madam, nay,
'Tis not for countenance, still less for hire:
But I have taken service with this Lord,
And by the law of arms—

Adriana.
What law is that?
'Tis not the law of God, nor yet above it.

Aeswyn.
An honest Squire is bound by plighted faith
And by the law of arms, to execute
His Lord's behests.

Adriana.
Though they be base and foul
And cowardly and craven? Law of arms!
Grant 'twere that law supernal it is not,
Yet dost thou break it, for all wrongs to women
Stand in its code denounced.

Aeswyn.
By all that's just
The deed misliked me from the first; three times
I pray'd his Lordship to bethink himself
What quittance he should hazard and what blame
In wronging of so rich and good a lady;
But still he said the Earl should bring him through
Let come what might; insisting that by law
You were in wardship, and his Grace might grant
Your hand to whom was fittest.

Adriana.
Oh blind craft
And ignorance of covetous knaves! They err.
Me shall no earthly Prince nor Potentate
Toss like a morsel of his broken meat

115

To any supplicant. Be they advised
I am in wardship to the King of Kings;
God and my heart alone dispose of me.

Aeswyn.
Madam, I would it were so.

Adriana.
Say besides
The Earl should cast the mantle of his power
Over thy master, what shall cover thee,
That canst not borrow greatness for the cloak
Of evil deeds, from naked, manifest shame?
Lo, here I stand in jeopardy and fear,
Weak, trembling, sick at heart, and wearied so
With perturbation and with pain so rack'd
That I have lost my patience and for hours
Have pray'd for God's deliverance through death;
Yet rather would I, yea, far rather, live
A dateless life of anguish such as this,
Rather live out my reason thus and twist
For restless years upon a bed-rid couch
With the sole sense of dotage and distress,
Than change with thee and take upon my soul
Thy forfeiture and lodge within my breast
That worm of memory which to-day shall breed.
And which upon thy death-bed shall not die,
But being of the soul shall be immortal.
Go—God forgive thee! for not mine the heart
That would invoke a curse.

Aeswyn.
Lady, I swear
I bore a part not willingly in this;

116

And could I without ruin of my fortunes
Do aught that should redeem it—

Adriana.
For thy fortunes,
Trust them to me.

Enter one of the Attendants.
Attendant.
My Lord is at the gate
And asks for you.

[Exit.
Adriana.
I say, trust them to me.
Do to thyself the justice to renounce
This false Knight's service, and to me one act
Of loyalty: seek out with instant haste
The Lord of Arlon; tell him I am here
In tribulation and beseech his aid,
And bid him by the love he bears his lady
To grant it me with speed. Wilt thou do this?

Aeswyn.
Madam, I will.

Adriana.
Go now then to thy Lord,
Lest he suspect thy tarriance. I within
Will wait the issue. Make all speed thou canst.

Scene IV.

—An Ante-chamber in the Earl's Palace.
Sir Walter D'Arlon and Gilbert Matthew.
Gilbert.
No sooner had his Highness reach'd his door
Than he sends back for me.

D'Arlon.
And me the same.

117

Gilbert.
His Highness is not happy.

D'Arlon.
That may be;
But have you private cause to think it?

Gilbert.
Well,
I've taken note that when he is not happy
He sends for me.

D'Arlon.
And do you mend his mood?

Gilbert.
Nay, what I can. His Highness at such times
Would fain be counsell'd to shed blood.

D'Arlon.
To that
'Tis said that he is counsell'd oft.

Gilbert.
Oh, ho!
I tender my advice as duty bids
With neither fear nor favour. As I came
The bodies of three citizens lay stretch'd
Upon the causeway.

D'Arlon.
How had they been kill'd?

Gilbert.
By knocking on the head.

D'Arlon.
Yes; and by whom?

Gilbert.
The officers that walk'd before the Earl
To make him room to pass. The streets were full,
And many of the mean-crafts roam'd about
Discoursing of the news they heard from Ghent;
And as his Highness pass'd they misbehaved
And three were knock'd upon the head with staves.
I knew by that his Highness was not happy;
I knew I should be sent for.

118

Enter an Usher from an inner chamber.

Usher.
Ho! Master Gilbert Matthew, pass within.

[Re-enters the chamber, followed by Gilbert Matthew.
D'Arlon.
There's some men of their bloody counsels boast,
As though it were heroic to be hard.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord, there's some one of the flight from Ghent
Who seeks you. I inform'd him you were here
In waiting on his Highness, but he still
Insisted you would see him, did you know
The matter and its urgency.

D' Arlon.
His name?

Attendant.
Van Aeswyn.

D' Arlon.
What! Sir Guy of Occo's Squire?

Attendant.
The same, my Lord.

D'Arlon.
Yes, yes, the man I know,
But not the matter that he hath with me;—
Unless it be some difference with my steward
About his quarters. Bring me where he waits.

119

Scene V.

—A Chamber in the Earl's Palace.
The Earl and Gilbert Matthew.
Earl.
And thus, if all that we have heard be true,
Last night's ill news this morning somewhat mends.
There's reason to surmise these granaries
Were not destroy'd by chance, and that the hand
Which did us this good service may do more.
Meantime we'll pray the Bishop and the Duke
To let no victuals pass their lands.

Gilbert.
In that
You shall do well, my Lord. I know that folk;
No poison works so wastingly amongst them
As a low diet—yea, it brings them down.
There'll be a hundred thousand mouths in Ghent
Gaping like callow jackdaws. Ah! I know them;
The men of battle are full feeders all;
By the strong hand they live and help themselves
With griping of the rest; when famine comes,
'Tis worse to those, seeing that theretofore
They were too gross of body; worse to these,
For they were pinched already.

Earl.
That is true.

Gilbert.
Yea, Sir, I know the White-Hoods. Wait awhile,
And when they feel the vulture in their gut
They shall be busy whetting of their beaks.

120

Wait till they hunger, and not two in Ghent
Shall be of one opinion.

Earl.
In God's time
Distress shall breed dissensions as thou say'st.
We'll trust to that, and therefore have great heed
To block them out from access of provision.
The country is well wasted thereabouts
And what they get must travel far: ere long
We'll cut them off from Brabant and from Liege.

Enter the Lord of Arlon.
D'Arlon.
My Lord, I do beseech you make me quit
Of Occo for my guest, and give us leave
For instant combat.

Earl.
Walter, art thou mad?
The Lord of Occo! What's thy breach with him?
He is since yesterday, with thy good leave,
Our very worthy friend.

D'Arlon.
My Lord, my Lord,
He is since yesterday, if not before,
The very lewdest villain that was e'er
A blur and stain to knighthood.

Earl.
Say'st thou so?
What are thy reasons?

D'Arlon.
With a violent hand
And treacherous he carried off from Ghent
The noblest of her ladies and the best,

121

Whose honour he attempted yesternight
Beneath my roof: and here on her behalf
And on my own, your Highness I entreat
That you give order to have lists prepared
Where I may meet the miscreant spear to spear
And do God's will upon him.

Earl.
Soft, my son;
I'll have no fighting for a private cause
Till Ghent be down. I cannot spare a spear;
And this were but a childish cause at best
For breaking one. The honest dames of Ghent
Have scarce deserved protection at our hands;
And when the time shall come, as come it will,
That Ghent is storm'd and sack'd, they'll have no more
Than their deserts: free quarters shall they give
To lusty knight, hot squire, and man-at-arms.
Shall they not, Gilbert?

Gilbert.
Sir, the dames of Ghent
Must take what comes.

Earl.
Then Occo sinn'd not much
To seize occasion by the forelock,—ha?

Gilbert.
My Lord, he did but what was just and right.

D'Arlon.
Peace, Master Gilbert Matthew—stand apart;
I seek an audience direct and free,
No craft of juggling renegade betwixt
To interpose and toss me to and fro
The words that please him or that please him not.
My Lord, you know what service I have done,

122

And with what voluntary heart, not bound
By duty or allegiance to bear arms,
For in my native land the while was peace.
I scarce am call'd a man, and service yet
I count by years, nor leave a winter out.
I was the nursling of your camp, my Lord,
And played with weapons ere my hands had strength
To lift an iron basnet to my head;
The war-horse neigh'd to see me when my legs
His breadth of back bestrided scarce aslope,
And rarely hath it been from that time forth
That I have housed when men-at-arms took horse.
This it befits not me to say, my Lord,
Save for the just conclusion: I entreat
That if it square not with your ways and will
To grant the combat I am bound to claim,
I then have leave to fold my banner up
And quit your camp.

Earl.
Come, Walter, come, you're idle;
When cause and opportunity are rife
For reasonable fighting, we might well
Dispense with all knight-errantry. Enough;
See the moon out, and if thy humour hold
It shall have way; the next that shines, I trust,
Shall cast upon the battered walls of Ghent
A thorough light.

D'Arlon.
Which if I live to see
I'll claim the combat. Fare you well, my Lord.

[Exit.

123

Earl.
Was ever man, with denizens for foes
And foreigners for friends, so plagued as I!
My bravest Knight would cast away his life
To do me a disservice, with more zeal
Than he was used to serve me with: denied,
Straight he shall tell me he was born elsewhere
And owes me no allegiance.

Gilbert.
By your leave,
I could not wish your Highness better luck
Than that the fools you count amongst your friends
Were number'd with your foes,—or with the dead.

Enter Attendant.
Attendant.
According to the summons, please your Grace,
The Lords are met in Council.

Earl.
I shall come.
Attend me, Gilbert, when the board breaks up,
And thou shalt know the issue. Come to dine.
And Sirrah, tell the butler that to-day
I shall drink brandy. From all use of wine
I'm interdicted by a sacred vow
Till Ghent's submission free me. Be it soon!

124

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Ghent.—The platform at the top of the steeple of St. Nicholas' Church.—Time daybreak.
Artevelde.
There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams!
What an unreal and fantastic world
Is going on below!
Within the sweep of yon encircling wall
How many a large creation of the night,
Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,
Peopled with busy transitory groups,
Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!
If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes
They should float upward visibly to mine,
How thick with apparitions were that void!
But now the blank and blind profundity
Turns my brain giddy with a sick recoil.
—I have not slept. I am to blame for that.
Long vigils join'd with scant and meagre food
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind
And cheerfulness of spirit which, in him
Who leads a multitude, is past all price.
I think I could redeem an hour's repose
Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet.

125

The breezes on their early voyage launched
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face.
Lie there, my cloak, not seldom now my bed,
And lying on thee I shall front them—so—
[He lies down.
If this were over—blessed be the calm
That comes to me at last! A friend in need
Is Nature to us, that when all is spent,
Brings slumber—bountifully—whereupon
We give her sleepy welcome—if all this
Were honourably over—Adriana—
[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly.
I heard a hoof—I hear it now, I swear,
Upon the road from Bruges,—or did I dream?
No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed.

Van den Bosch
(without).
What ho! Van Artevelde!

Artevelde.
Who calls?

Van den Bosch.
(entering)
'Tis I.
Thou art an early riser like myself;
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed?

Artevelde.
What are thy tidings?

Van den Bosch.
Nay, what can they be?
A page from pestilence and famine's day-book;
So many to the pest-house carried in,
So many to the dead-house carried out.
The same dull, dismal, damnable old story.

Artevelde.
Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind,
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new.

126

Van den Bosch.
Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog
That hears the house is stirring—nothing else.

Artevelde.
No,—now—I hear it not myself—no—nothing.
The city's hum is up—but ere you came
'Twas audible enough.

Van den Bosch.
In God's name, what?

Artevelde.
A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges.

Van den Bosch.
Why then be certain 'tis a flag of truce!
If once he reach the city we are lost.
Nay, if he be but seen our danger's great.
What terms so bad but they would gulp them now?
Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once
To cross his way.

Artevelde.
And send him back to Bruges?

Van den Bosch.
Send him to Hell—and that's a better place.

Artevelde.
Nay, softly, Van den Bosch; let war be war,
But let us keep its ordinances.

Van den Bosch.
Tush!
I say, but let them see him from afar
And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot,
Be on our way to Bruges.

Artevelde.
Not so, not so.
My rule of governance hath not been such

127

As e'er to end so foully.

Van den Bosch.
Cockadoodle!
Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens
Shall stay the fury of their empty maws
Because thou'st ruled them justly?

Artevelde.
It may be
That such a hope is mine.

Van den Bosch.
(going).
Then thou art mad,
And I must take this matter on myself.

Artevelde.
Hold, Van den Bosch! I say this shall not be.
I must be madder than I think I am
Ere I shall yield up my authority,
Which I abuse not to be used by thee.

Van den Bosch.
This comes of lifting dreamers into power.
I tell thee, in this strait and stress of dearth,
The people, but to pave the way for peace,
Would send our noddles in a bag to Bruges.
Once and again I warn thee that thy life
Hangs by a thread.

Artevedle.
Why, know I not it does?
What hath it hung by else since Utas'eve?
Did I not by mine own advised choice
Place it in jeopardy for certain ends?
And what think'st thou were these? To prop thy state?
To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed,
See to our joint security? Indeed?

128

No verily, not such my towering aim.
I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal;
I look'd to give it victory and freedom;
And working to that end, by consequence
From one great peril did deliver thee—
Not for the love of thee or of thy life,
Which I regard not, but the city's service;
And if for that same service it seem good,
I will expose thy life to equal hazard.

Van den Bosch.
Thou wilt?

Artevelde.
I will.

Van den Bosch.
Oh, Lord! to hear him talk!
What a most mighty emperor of puppets
Is this that I have brought upon the board!
But how if he that made it should unmake?

Artevelde.
Unto His sovereignty who truly made me
With infinite humility I bow.
Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch;
Part of the curious clock-work of this world
We scold and squeak and crack each other's crowns,
And if by twitches moved from wires not seen
I were to toss thee from this steeple's top,
I should be but the instrument, no more,
The tool of that chastising Power above
Which still exalts the lowly to abase
The violent and proud. But let me hope
There's no such task appointed me to-day.

129

Thou passest in the world for worldly wise:
Then, seeing each with each must sink or swim,
What can it profit thee in this extreme
Of our distress to wrangle with me thus
For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate,
As of necessity bound up with mine,
Must needs partake my cares: let that suffice
To put thy pride to rest till better days:
Contest—more reasonably wrong—a prize
More precious than the ordering of a wreck.

Van den Bosch.
Tush, tush! Van Artevelde, thou talk'st and talk'st,
And honest burghers think it wondrous fine;
But thou might'st easilier with that tongue of thine
Persuade yon smoke to fly i' the face o' the wind
Than talk away my wit and understanding.
I say, yon herald shall not enter here.

Artevelde.
I know, Sir, no man better, where my talk
Is serviceable singly, where it needs
To be by acts enforced. I say, beware,
And brave not mine authority too far.

Van den Bosch.
Hast thou authority to take my life?
What is it else to let yon herald in
To bargain for our blood?

Artevelde.
Thy life again!
Why, what a very slave of life art thou!
Look round about on this once populous town;
Not one of these innumerous house-tops

130

But hides some spectral form of want and woe,
Some peevish pining child and moaning mother,
Some aged man that in his do tage scolds
Not knowing why he hungers, some cold corse
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it.
Look round and answer what thy life can be
To tell for more than dust upon the scales.
I too would live—I have a love for life—
But rather than to live to charge my soul
With one hour's lengthening out of ills like these,
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound
As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall.

Van den Bosch.
I'd like to see thee do it.

Artevelde.
I know thou would'st;
But for the present be content to see
My less precipitate descent; for lo!
[Exit.
There comes the herald o'er the hill.

Van den Bosch.
Beshrew thee!
Thou shalt not have the start of me in this.

Scene II.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Ursel, Van Ryk, and Van Muck.
Ursel.

He will be here for his breakfast anon.

Van Ryk.

And call you this his breakfast?

Ursel.

An ounce of horseflesh and half an oaten cake. It is his only meal; and if I were to make it larger he would ne'er look at it.

131

Van Muck.

Why we ourselves fare better.

Van Ryk.

I fare somewhat better, and for thee, thou wouldst make a famine where there was none. No more than this morsel of meat in four-and-twenty hours.

Ursel.

No more; and if he has been abroad 'tis more than likely that he shall bring home some little child or some sick woman to share it with him.

Van Ryk.

It is wonderful how stout he is withal. Some men shall but bite their nails and their belly 's full.

Van Muck.

There is a difference in men; I might eat the four hoofs of an ox and my stomach should droop you look you and flap you look you, like an empty sail.

Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde.
A herald, Sirs, is coming here from Bruges.
To horse, Van Muck, to horse with Swink and Kloos
And any other of thy readiest men,
And bring him safely in. What ails thee, man?

Van Muck.
Sir, saving your displeasure, Swink and Kloos,
Against your express orders and despite
Of much I said myself, have ate their horses.

Artevelde.
Thou say'st not so? God's vengeance on their maws!
Next horse they kill, my cook shall serve it up,
And melt the shoes for sauce. Why, then, to horse
With any that are mounted; and beware!

132

Some there may be of evil-minded men
Who would do outrage to the city's honour
And harm the herald. Look thou keep him safe.

Van Muck.
Sir, safe he shall be, let who will gainsay.

[Exit.
Clara enters, but remains behind.
Artevelde.
And now, Van Ryk, I have a charge for thee.
Thou in the porch of Old St. Nicholas' Church
Art to mount guard beside the postern-gate
Which leads upon the stair that climbs the tower.
Betake thee thither, and until I come,
Inward or outward let none pass. What cheer? [Turning to Clara.]

Come hither, Clara.

Clara.
Philip, not too close.

Artevelde.
What, com'st thou from the hospital?

Clara.
Straight thence,
Breathing infection with my every breath.
God help me for a pestilent little fool!
I tend the sick from weary day to day,
Though Heaven has set its face against a cure,
And they that should have thank'd me for my pains
Will never more speak word.

Artevelde.
Thou heed'st not that;
No, I am certain 'tis for no man's thanks
That thou hast toil'd; and let them live or die,
Thou hast thine own reward. Much hath thy soul
Enriched her chambers with the spoils of war

133

Since life became a warfare, not a sport.
In easier hours it may be I had cause,
This time or that, to wish thy boldness less,
Though trusting still that time, which tempers all,
Would bring thee soberer thoughts and tame thy heart.
What time to tardy consummation brings,
Calamity, like to a frosty night
That ripeneth the grain, completes at once.
But now that we're alone,—not gone, Van Ryk?

Van Ryk.
Sir, to speak freely, had it been your will
To put me to a service of more action
I had not shamed the choice; for though I'm old,—

Artevelde.
Tut, tut, Van Ryk! 'twill come—the time will come,
And action to thy heart's content thou'lt have.
This service is of special trust. Begone!
[Exit Van Ryk.
Now render me account of what befell
Where thou hast been to-day.

Clara.
Not much is that.
I paid a visit first to Ukenheim,
The man who whilome saved our father's life
When certain Clementists and ribald folk
Assail'd him at Malines. He came last night,
And said he knew not if we owed him aught,
But if we did, a peck of oatmeal now
Would pay the debt and save more lives than one.
I went. It seem'd a wealthy man's abode;

134

The costly drapery and good house-gear
Had, in an ordinary time, made known
'That with the occupant the world went well.
By a low couch, curtain'd with cloth of frieze,
Sat Ukenheim, a famine-stricken man,
With either bony fist upon his knees
And his long back upright. His eyes were fix'd
And moved not, though some gentle words I spake:
Until a little urchin of a child
That call'd him father, crept to where he sat
And pluck'd him by the sleeve, and with its small
And skinny finger pointed: then he rose
And with a low obeisance, and a smile
That look'd like watery moonlight on his face,
So pale and weak a smile, he bade me welcome.
I told him that a lading of wheat-flour
Was on its way, whereat, to my surprise,
His countenance fell and he had almost wept.

Artevelde.
Poor soul! and wherefore?

Clara.
That I saw too soon.
He pluck'd aside the curtain of the couch,
And there two children's bodies lay composed.
They seem'd like twins of some ten years of age,
And they had died so nearly both at once
He scarce could say which first: and being dead,
He put them, for some fanciful affection,
Each with its arm about the other's neck,
So that a fairer sight I had not seen

135

Than those two children with their little faces
So thin and wan, so calm and sad and sweet.
I look'd upon them long, and for a while
I wished myself their sister, and to lie
With them in death as with each other they;
I thought that there was nothing in the world
I could have loved so much; and then I wept;
And when he saw I wept, his own tears fell,
And he was sorely shaken and convulsed
Through weakness of his frame and his great grief.

Artevelde.
Much pity was it he so long deferred
To come to us for aid.

Clara.
It was indeed;
But whatsoe'er had been his former pride,
He seem'd a humbled and heart-broken man.
He thank'd me much for what I said was sent,
But I knew well his thanks were for my tears.
He look'd again upon the children's couch,
And said, low down, they wanted nothing now.
So, to turn off his eyes and change his mood,
I drew the small survivor of the three
Before him, and he snatch'd it up, and soon
Seem'd lost and quite forgetful; and with that
I stole away.

Artevelde.
There is a man by fate
Fitted for any enterprise. Alas!
Alas! Of many such I have the choice. And next,
The hospital?

136

Clara.
I paid my visit there
With Father John. But here he comes himself.

Enter Father John of Heda.
Artevelde.
What cheer, good Father?

Father John.
Heavy is my cheer;
What else but heavy, when from day to day
I see still more of suffering sinking men
Pass to the choked churchyard?

Artevelde.
Truly, the sight
Must needs bring on a heaviness of cheer.
How came I not to think of that before!
Who waits? Too many things conspire—who waits? Enter Steward.

Repair thee to the captains of the guards,
And give my orders that from this time forth
No funerals be allow'd till after dark.
[Exit Steward.
And so the sickness spreads?

Father John.
It spreads apace.
Since Egypt's plagues did never rage disease
So sore and so invincible by art,
So varied in its forms, and in its signs
So unintelligibly strange: in some
The fever keeps its course from first to last;
In others intermits: here suddenly

137

The patient's head is seized with racking pains;
Then shift they to his chest with change as quick,
Then to his loins, and strangury succeeds,
With clammy sweat, hard breathing and hot thirst.
The intervals of pain, if such there be,
Afford him no repose, but he is still
Dejected, restless, of a hopeless mind,
Indifferent to all incidents and objects,
Or in his understanding too confused
To see or apprehend them: first the face
Is red and flush'd, with large and fiery eyes;
Then is it dropsical and deadly pale:
Sometimes such shudderings seize upon the frame
That the bed shakes beneath it, and with that
The breath is check'd with sobbings as from cold;
Then comes a thick dark crust upon the lips
And tongue and teeth; the fatal hiccough next.
Some die in struggles and strong agonies;
Some in a lethargy; whilst others wake
As from a dream, shake off the fit, look round,
And with collected senses and calm speech
Tell the by-standers that their hour is come.

Artevelde.
It is a dismal malady, and this,
Like all our thousand miseries beside,
Demands a remedy that kills or cures.
What wild beasts' yells are these?
[Tumult and shouting without. The Page enters.
Henry, what news?

138

Page.
The man from Bruges, escorted by Van Muck,
Is coming here, with crowds of people, wild
To hear what message he may bring. Van Muck
Forbids that any words should pass his lips
Till he have speech of you.

Artevelde.
Van Muck is right.

Page.
But oh! you never saw such wrathful men!
They'll tear them both to pieces.

Artevelde.
Have no fear;
Van Muck will make his way. Ay, here they come. Enter Van Muck and Van Aeswyn.

What! this the messenger? Death of my soul!
Either mine eyes are treacherous as himself
Or else I see a follower of that false
Dishonour'd knight and perjured knave Van Occo.
How is it, if he dares to send thee here,
That thou hast dared to come?

Aeswyn.
So please you, Sir,
The Lord of Occo—

Artevelde.
Grant me but a day
After the siege—Furies and Fates!—one day,—
One day to hunt that reptile to his hole
And stamp my heel upon his recreant neck!
What dost thou here?

Aeswyn.
I come not here from him,
For since he made his war upon a maid,
I have renounced his service; more than that,

139

I to the Lord of Arlon did that errand
Which wrought to her deliverance.

Artevelde.
Aha!
I crave thy pardon. I had heard 'twas thou,
Though it escaped me. Tell thy tale; but first,
What tidings of that lady?

Aeswyn.
She remains,
By her own will, Sir, in the knightly hands
Of my good Lord of Arlon.

Artevelde.
Say no more:
Elsewhere I would not wish her.
[The tumult increases without and Artevelde's name is called repeatedly.
Let me now
Dismiss this noisy and impatient herd
That throng my doors, and then—ho! hark you, Steward,
Conduct Van Aeswyn to my cabinet.
[Exeunt all but Artevelde and Clara.
My Clara, we have here a bustling day;
Perhaps I shall not see thee, love, again
Till after night-fall; but I will not lose
Thy good-night kiss, so give it to me now.

Clara.
Philip, there's something in your thoughts—but no—
I will not tease you—there—good-night—Adieu!

[Exit Clara. More clamour without. Artevelde passes into an external gallery which overlooks the street and is heard addressing the people.

140

Artevelde.
Hence to the Stadt-house, friends! I'll meet you there,
And either bring the messenger himself
Or tell you of his tidings: hence—begone!
[The people disperse.
Van Occo, thou art in thine own despite
The mainstay of my hope. I have within
Assurance strong as destiny, that I,
And I alone, a mission have from Heaven
To execute God's justice upon thee.
'Tis strange! there's here a city to be saved,
And there (what none but I take thought upon)
A maid to be recovered and revenged,
And which in this tough heart is uppermost
I would not that my subject-citizens knew.

Scene III.

—Before the Stadt-House, as in the last Scene of the Second Act.
—The people assemble. Frans Ackerman and Peter Van Nuitre in front.
Ackerman.
'Tis certain something has befallen him.

Van Nuitre.
But where? He might be found, if so it were.

Ackerman.
Hast sought him at Jozyne's estaminet?

Van Nuitre.
There and at every lodgment in the town.
Old mother Van den Bosch will take her oath
He went forth early to Van Artevelde's.

141

Ackerman.
Sure nothing can have happen'd to him there.

Van Nuitre.
That's what I doubt. The best will sometimes trip.
They were not in such unison of mind
As we could wish.

Ackerman.
I cannot think it—No—
But this day's business shall no farther fare
Until the truth appear. Soft! now he comes.

Artevelde enters. There is dead silence. He walks slowly up the steps of the platform.
Artevelde.
Are we all here?

One from the Crowd.
What's left of us is here,
Our bones.

Artevelde.
We're wasted in the flesh, 'tis true;
But we have spirits left. We all are here.

Ackerman.
I will say nay to that. Where's Van den Bosch?

Artevelde.
Silence, Frans Ackerman! we want not him.

Ackerman.
Then I demand if he be dead or living?

Artevelde.
He lives.

Ackerman.
Where is he, then?

Artevelde.
Where all shall be
Who seek, by mutiny against their Chief,
To do unlawful deeds. What ask ye more?
He is arrested and confined.

142

Ackerman.
What cause
For this proceeding hath that brave man given?

Artevelde.
If, as his friend, thou ask wherein he err'd,
I'll tell it to this people and to thee,—
Not, mark you me, as rendering account,
For that were needless,—but of free good-will.
Sirs, Van den Bosch insisted, in despite
Of all dissuasion, all authority,
The messenger from Bruges should be waylaid
And put to death—yea, nothing less would serve,—
That so the tidings which I'm here to tell
Might never reach your ears. To place restraint
Upon this obstinate humour and give scope
To your deliberations, for a while
He is in duress. Are ye well content?

Many Voices.
Content, content! The tidings, what are They?

Artevelde.
Frans Ackerman, thou hear'st what cause constrain'd
Me, much reluctant, thus to use thy friend.
Art thou content?

Ackerman.
I am.

Artevelde.
So far is well;
And we set forth unanimous, to end
I trust no otherwise. Fair Sirs of Ghent!
Van Aeswyn, the Ambassador from Bruges,
Comes with credentials from the Earl, to show
What mind he bears toward you. Bitterer words

143

Did never Christian man to Christians send.
But we are fallen, my friends, and vain it were
For us to quarrel with the proud man's scorn.
Then to the matter take ye heed alone
And trouble not your hearts for aught beside.
He will admit you to no terms but these,—
That every man and woman born in Ghent
Shall meet him on the road, half way to Bruges,
Bare-footed and bare-headed, in their shirts,
With halters on their necks, and there kneel down
And put their lives and chattels at his feet.
This if ye do not now, he's sworn an oath
That he will never hearken to you more,
But famine shall consume you utterly,
And in your desolate town he'll light a flame
That shall not be extinguish'd. Speak your minds.
Will ye accept the proffer'd terms or no?

Burghers.
Give us your counsel. Tell us what is best.

Artevelde.
What can I say? Ye know that as ye are
Ye cannot live. Death opens every door
And sits in every chamber by himself.
If what might feed a sparrow should suffice
For soldiers' meals, ye have not wherewithal
To linger out three days. For corn, there's none;
A mouse imprison'd in your granaries
Were starved to death. And what then should I say?
Why truly this: that whatsoe'er men's plight,
There is a better choosing and a worse,

144

If their discretion be not overthrown
By force of their calamities. Three things
Ye have to choose of. Ye may take his terms
And go with halters round your necks to Loo.
Ye will be then his servants and his wealth,
The labourers of his vineyard; and I deem,
Although a haughty Lord he be and cruel,
That he will have the sense to spare his own
When vengeance hath been fed. I say I deem
That when the blood of those that led you on
And of their foremost followers hath flow'd,
He will be satiate and stay his hand.
If this to try be your deliberate choice,
I will not say that ye be ill-advised.
How are ye minded? Let your Deacons speak.

[The people speak in consultation with each other and with the Deacons.
Deacon of the Mariners.
We of the mariners deem that this were best.

Deacon of the Cordwainers.
There's nothing better can be done.

Deacon of the Fullers.
Agreed.
Our craft was never forward in the war.

Deacon of the Weavers.
But, Master Philip, said you not three ways
There were to choose of? Tell us what remains.

Artevelde.
Ye may have patience and expect the close
If nothing else seem fit, betake yourselves

145

Unto your churches; at the altar's foot
Kneel down and pray and make a Christian end,
And God will then have mercy on your souls.
This is the second way.

Deacon of the Weavers.
And what the third?

Artevelde.
If there be found amongst you men whose blood
Runs not so chilly yet as thus to die,
Then there's this third way open—but not else:—
That they whose plight is best and hearts are stout
Be muster'd suddenly, equipp'd and arm'd;
That with our little left of food and wine
The sumpter beasts be laden for their use;
That then they follow me: to-morrow's eve
Should find us knocking at the gates of Bruges,
And then we'd strike a stroke for life or death.
This is the third and sole remaining course.
Choose of the three.

Many voices.
Choose for us, Master Philip:
You are more wise than we.

Artevelde.
If by my choice
Ye will abide, a soldier's death for me.

Many voices.
To Bruges! to Bruges! a venture forth to Bruges!

Artevelde.
Why yet, then, in our embers there is life.
Let whosoe'er would follow me, repair
To the West Port. From them that come I'll choose
Five thousand, if so many there should be,

146

And when night falls, we'll sally from the gates.

Many citizens again.
For Bruges! for Bruges! 'tis gallantly resolved.

Artevelde.
Then fare ye well, ye citizens of Ghent!
This is the last time ye will see me here
Unless God prosper me past human hope.
I thank you for the dutiful demeanour
Which never—never—verily no, not once,
Have I found wanting, though severely tried
When discipline might seem without reward.
Fortune has not been kind to me, good friends;
But let not that deprive me of your loves,
Or of your good report. Be this the word:
“His rule was brief, calamitous—but just.”
No glory which a prosperous fortune gilds,
If shorn of this addition, could suffice
To lift my heart so high as it is now.
This is that joy in which my soul is strong,
That there is not a man amongst you all
Who can reproach me that I used my power
To do him an injustice. If there be,
It is not to my knowledge; yet I pray
That he will now forgive me, taking note
That I had not to deal with easy times.

First citizen.
Oh, Master Philip, there is none-not one.

Second citizen.
Most justly and most wisely you have ruled.

147

Artevelde.
I thank you, Sirs; farewell to you once more;
Once more, farewell. If I return to Ghent
A glory and dominion will be yours
Such as no city since the olden time
Hath been so bold to conquer or to claim.
If I return no more, God's will be done!
To Him and to His providence I leave you.
[He descends. The people come round him, seizing his hands and crying confusedly, “God bless you, Master Philip! God be with you!”
Nay, press not on me, friends; I see ye weep,
Which ye did never for your past mishaps.
But ye shall be disburthen'd of your griefs
The rather than dishearten'd by these tears,
Or else should I reprove them—so—farewell!

Scene IV.

—The Vestibule of the Church of St. Nicholas. —At the further end of it Van Ryk is seen keeping guard over the door which gives access to the church tower.—In front, Clara appears, followed at a little distance by Van Aeswyn.
Clara.
Still he pursues me; but this must not be.
How now, good Sir? whom seek you?

Aeswyn.
With your leave,
I have an errand for your private ear.

Clara.
My private ear! I have no private ear.
My ears will not be private.

148

Aeswyn.
I beseech you
To pardon my presumption.

Clara.
Well, what then?
It is not past forgiveness; no, no, no;
I freely pardon you.

Aeswyn.
I thank you, madam;
And were I but permitted to speak out
All that he bade me say—

Clara.
That he!—what he?

Aeswyn.
The Lord of Arlon, madam.

Clara.
Lord of what?

Aeswyn.
Sir Walter, Lord of Arlon.

Clara.
Oh! Sir Walter,—
Sir Walter D'Arlon—a good Knight, they say:
He sent his service, did he?—a good Knight.
I knew him once—he came to Ghent—O God!
I'm sick—the air is hot, I think—yes, hot!
I pray you pardon me—we get no rest
In this beleaguer'd town—no anything—
This is the time of day I use to faint;
But I shall miss to do it for this once;
So please you to proceed.

Aeswyn.
There's here a bench;
If you'll be seated: for you look so pale. . . .

Clara.
No, I can stand—I think—Well then, I'll sit.
So now, your errand?

Aeswyn.
The Lord of Arlon, madam,
Imparted to me that of all the griefs

149

That Fortune had dealt out to him, was none
So broke his spirit as the cruel thought
That you in some sort must partake the woes
Of this so suffering city: he could ne'er
Lay lance in rest or do a feat of arms
But thoughts arose that stung him to the heart,
And each success that should have brought him joy
Was turn'd to bitterness, seeming nought else
But injury to his love. Thus is he now
A man whose heart resents his handiwork,
And all his pleasure in the war is poison'd.

Clara.
Poor D'Arlon! but I cannot help him.

Aeswyn.
Well,
Himself thinks otherwise; he bade me say
That he implores you to fly hence to him.

Clara.
No; never, never!

Aeswyn.
And his aunt at Bruges,
The Prioress, will have you in her care
Till it shall please you to permit his suit.

Clara.
I tell thee, never! I a fugitive! No;
Whilst Philip lives and holds the city out,
Nor pestilence nor famine, fire nor sword,
Shall part us, though an Angel called me hence.
Much may he lose, and much that's far more worth,
But never this reliance.

Aeswyn.
With your leave,
I would make bold to ask you if your flight
In these extremities might not rejoice

150

Rather than grieve him?

Clara.
No, Sir, you mistake,
Knowing nor him nor me: we two have grown
From birth on my side, boyhood upon his,
Inseparably together, as two grafts
Out of the self-same stock; we've shared alike
The sun and shower and all that Heaven has sent;
I've loved him much and quarrell'd with him oft,
And all our loves and quarrels past are links
No adverse Fates can sever. We are one.
And I am useful, too; he'll tell you that;
We Arteveldes were made for times like these;
The Deacon of the Mariners said well
That we are of such canvas as they use
To make storm-stay-sails. I have much in charge,
And here I stay.

Aeswyn.
Then must I say you never—

Clara.
Alas, poor D'Arlon! said I never? No;
That is a sharp, unkindly-sounding word.
Tell him to ask me when the siege is raised.
But then he shall not need: he can come hither;
But tell him—of your knowledge—not from me—
The woman could not be of Nature's making
Whom, being kind, her misery made not kinder.

Aeswyn.
The thought of that may solace him. Farewell.

Clara.
Farewell. I mount the tower to look abroad.
After your conference at noon, they say,

151

My brother arm'd himself and bade his horse
Be ready harness'd in his mail complete;
And though you keep his secret, I surmise
That were I mounted on the church-tower top,
There's something I might see.

Aeswyn.
To come from Bruges?
No, nothing, Lady, thence.

Clara.
But yet I'll look.

[She approaches the door of the Tower and meets Van Ryk, who plants himself before her.
Van Ryk.
You cannot pass, my Lady.

Clara.
How! not pass?

Van Ryk.
The door is lock'd; your brother keeps the key.
My orders are of rigour, come what may,
To suffer none to pass.

Clara.
How could they pass,
If what thou say'st be true? Thou hast the key.

Van Ryk.
Upon my faith I have it not.

Clara.
So, so!
A courteous usage for a lady this!
But hither comes my prince of spies, the Page,
To tell what's doing.

Enter Page.
Page.
Here's a feat indeed!
A glorious enterprise afoot!

152

Clara.
Nay; what?
What is it? tell us true.

Page.
Illustrious Lady!
The name of Artevelde shall live for ever!
For Master Philip leads five thousand men
This very night to storm the gates of Bruges.

Clara.
Thou dost not say it?

Page.
True as written book.

Clara.
There's that then shall make Flanders hold her breath,
There's that shall startle Ghent with fearful hope,
And though 'tis shame in such an hour as this
To think of aught so idle, yet 'tis true
There's liberty for me: if Philip goes,
What bondage bids me stay?

Aeswyn.
Most surely none;
And therefore hence to Bruges whilst yet time serves.

Clara.
Nay, nay, Sir, not so fast; gain Philip first,
And then come back to me and take your chance.

[Exeunt Clara, Van Aeswyn, and Page.
Enter Artevelde,who advances to the door of the Tower where Van Ryk is stationed.
Artevelde.
How fares our friend within? set ope the door.

Van Ryk.
Oh, Sir! you must not enter; he is mad.
I would not give a denier for the life
Of any that should enter now; he's arm'd,

153

And storms and rages like a man possess'd.

Artevelde.
Whence tak'st thou that conclusion?

Van Ryk.
For three hours
He strove and shouted as though fifty fiends
Did battle on the narrow stair; and once
He flung his body with such desperate force
Against the door, that I was much in doubt
Whether the triple bars could hold their own.
Then—God be merciful! the oaths and curses!
Faster they came than I could tell my beads.

Artevelde.
But all is silent now.

Van Ryk.
The last half-hour
I have not heard him.

Artevelde.
Open me the door.

Van Ryk.
Surely you will not enter?

Artevelde.
Nay, I must.
We must be friends again. I want his aid.

Van Ryk.
He will assault you ere a word be said.

Artevelde.
He is a hasty man; but we must meet.

Van. Ryk.
Then I will enter with you.

Artevelde.
No, Van Ryk;
I seek his confidence; a show of force
Were sure to baffle me. I go alone.

Van Ryk.
For mercy's sake, forbear. Should you go in,
Or you or he will ne'er come out alive.

Artevelde.
Nay, nay, thou know'st not with what winning ways

154

I can sleek down his wrath. Stand fast below,
I charge thee, and let no intrusive step
Trouble my conference with Van den Bosch.

[Exit.
Van Ryk.
It shall not trouble him to creep up behind
And hearken on the stair. No sin in that.

Scene V.

—The Platform at the top of the Steeple—as in the First Scene in this Act.
Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
He has been drunk with anger and he sleeps.
Lest he be not the soberer for his doze
'Twere well to strip him of his weapons. Come,
Come, courtier, from thy house—come from thy case,
Thou smooth and shining dangler by the side
Of them that put thee to a deadly use:
Thou art dismiss'd.
[He lays aside the dagger.
And come thou likewise forth,
Thou flashing flourisher in the battle-field;
Gaudy and senseless tool of sovereignty,
Up to thy shoulders thou shalt reek in blood,
And 'tis but wiping thee to make thee clean,
So poor a thing art thou!—there—get thee gone—
[He lays aside the sword.
Now that he's stingless I may stir him up.
Ho! Van den Bosch! arouse thee. What, thou sleep'st!

155

Why here's a sluggard! Up! thou lubberly sot!
Get thee afoot; is this a time to sleep?
Up, ere I prod thee with my sword—up, slug!
Up, drowsy clod—why, now I think thou wak'st.

Van den Bosch.
What noisy villain's this?—Van Artevelde!

Artevelde.
Nay, never grope and fumble for thy weapons;
They are conveyed away.

Van den Bosch.
Oh! villain! slave!
And wilt thou murder me unarm'd?

Artevelde.
Out! out!
More like to whip thee for thy fond conceit.
I tell thee, man, a better friend than I
Thou'st not been bless'd with for this many a year;
When all is known to thee, thyself shalt say
That a more friendly deed was never done
That this of mine—the shutting of thee up.

Van den Bosch.
Philip Van Artevelde, I say thou liest—
Give me my sword again. I say thou liest—
Give me my dagger and my sword—thou liest—
Thou art a caitiff and a lying knave
And thou hast stolen my dagger and my sword.

Artevelde.
Nay, softly, friend.

Van den Bosch.
I'm plunder'd, plunder'd, robb'd—
I'm plunder'd of my weapons—of my sword.
Give me my sword again, thou liar thou!

156

I'm plunder'd of my dagger and my sword.
My sword, thou robber, or I'll kill thee.

Artevelde.
Nay,
Do that and thou no longer needst thy sword.

Van den Bosch.
Thou coward, wilt thou give me back my sword?

Artevelde.
There—take it, and the Devil give thee good on't!
Now that thou hast it, mayhap thou'lt be brought
To leave thy bellowing and listen. Hark!

Van den Bosch.
I have thee now, Van Artevelde, I have thee.
Ha, ha! I have my sword—I have thee now!

Artevelde.
And if thou had'st thy senses and thine ears
It were a better having for thy weal.
Wilt thou be still and listen to me?

Van den Bosch.
No.
Thou art a liar. Draw thy sword and fight.

Artevelde.
I give thee back thy lie and take thy challenge;
To mortal proof we'll put it, if thou wilt,
But not by instant combat. Three days hence
I pledge my word to answer thy demand,
And I will show thee reasons why not now.

Van den Bosch.
To the pit of Hell with reasons! draw thy sword.

Artevelde.
(draws his sword and flings it from him).—
I'll fight thee when I please and not before.

157

Van den Bosch.
Art thou a coward? wherefore wilt not fight?

Artevelde.
There is a time for all things. Here I stand
Unarm'd before thee, and I will be heard.
That which so much thou tak'st to heart, was done
Purely to save thy credit, much indeed
Endanger'd by thy wilfulness and haste.
I would have done myself no less offence
To do thee so much service. Say thine arm
Had cut me off the messenger from Bruges;
Ghent hears the rumour—magnifies at once
The untold terms to unconditional peace,
And mad with rage for comfort thus repell'd
Had turn'd upon thee to thine overthrow.
But list to what instead I've brought to pass:
The terms were told,—such sanguinary terms
As we had cause to look for; on that ground
I moved the people to a last attempt
Of desperate daring, and we go to-night,
Five thousand men, to seek the Earl at Bruges.
Now, Peter Van den Bosch, give ear to me:
Thy mouth has been this many a day stuff'd full
Of vengeance dire denounced against this Earl.
The blood of Heins, of Launoy and Van Ranst,
(True friends of thine if truth and friendship be!)
Sinks in the ground, nor honour'd nor avenged
Save by the mouthing of an idle threat.

158

Dead men and living, vows after vows sent up
In hot succession to the throne of Heaven,
Deep ravage done amongst thy native fields,
Strange tortures suffer'd by thy countrymen,
Call thee with common voice to turn thy wrath
To just account;—and is it come to this,
That for the matter of but one day's feud
With one tried friend that never did thee hurt,
Thou canst forget all else and put thy cause
To imminent hazard at the utmost verge
Of all its fortunes and its ultimate hope!
If so, I cry thee mercy; I mistook;
For I had counted on thine aid to-day
To do the thing that thou so oft hast threaten'd.

Van den Bosch.
Van Artevelde, I never yet forgave
So deep an injury as thou hast done me;
But seeing how things bear, I'll pass it by
Until this last adventure have an end.
Then shalt thou reckon with me for the past.

Artevelde.
For that I stand prepared. Meanwhile I pray,
Let needful concord join us in one yoke,
Nor let the common welfare feel this feud.
Take thou thy charge in this day's work; come down
And I will give it thee. From me thou'lt find
All fit observance.

Van den Bosch.
I will take my charge.

159

ACT V.

Scene I.

—The field of Merle, in the environs of Bruges.
Artevelde, Van den Bosch, Van Ryk, Van Muck, and others.
Artevelde.
Not a step farther; give the word to halt,
And bring the waggons up; we can't be better.
God grant that they come hither in their haste!
Here is the fighting-ground, and there the slough
In which they needs must perish should they yield.
We can't be better.

Van den Bosch.
Let it then be here.
I've probed the slough.

Artevelde.
That I did too; 'tis deep.

Van den Bosch.
He is a taller man than you or I
That finds the bottom with his head above.

Artevelde.
It is an hour to sunset.

Van Ryk.
Nay, 'tis more.

Artevelde.
A little more, Van Ryk. I would to God
The sun might not go down upon us here
Without a battle fought!

Van den Bosch.
If so it should
We pass a perilous night.

160

Artevelde.
A nipping night,
And wake a wasted few the morrow morn.

Van Muck.
We have a supper left.

Artevelde.
My Lady's page
If he got ne'er a better should be wroth
And burn in effigy my Lady's steward.
For us and for one supper 'twill suffice;
But he's a skilful man at splitting hairs
That can make two on't.

Van Ryk.
Ay, or leave behind
A breakfast in his dish.

Artevelde.
We break our fast
Elsewhere to-morrow. I pray God the Saint
Whose feast they celebrate to-night at Bruges
May steep them well in wine. If Ukenheim
Get undiscover'd in, we shall not miss
To profit by his skill.

Van den Bosch.
We'll hope the best;
But if there be a knave in power unhang'd,
And in his head a grain of sense undrown'd,
He'll be their caution not to—

Artevelde.
Van den Bosch,
Talk we of battle and survey the field,
For I will fight. Let stakes be driven in
Amongst the rushes at the nether end
Of this morass. Van Ryk, look thou to that.
And thou, Van Muck, unload the victual here;
Then tilt the waggons up behind the stakes

161

And pierce them for cross-bows. A horse for me,
That I may know the ground. And now, friends all,
Let's to our charges. Ere the red sun sink
Beyond yon city, Ghent is lost or saved!

Scene II.

—An open Tent erected for public entertainment in the Market-place of Bruges.—Boisterous songs and other sounds of riot and jollity are heard on all sides. Within the tent a miscellaneous company are drinking, and amongst them is Ukenheim in the dress of a Mariner of Bruges.
Ukenheim.

I pray you pledge me in this, to our better acquaintance.

Lunyz.

At your service, Sir. What say'st thou, Jan Trickle? Is not this the right way? Is not this the narrow road? Knew'st thou ever a Saint's day more seemly celebrated? Dost see what a devotion there is to it?

Trickle.

I see very many righteous gentlemen very drunk. But my wife says, were they at church it should be more seemly.

Kroolkhuys.

Bah! didst ever know a man's wife that liked him to be drinking without her to help?

Gulpus.

Mine is a rare helpmate.

Lunyz.

Let the Church speak. Father Swillen, is not this as it should be?

Father Swillen.

My son, and worthy burgesses, and beloved brethren! Of the present solemnity I will

162

deliver my opinion according to the canons. Wine is to be used cum abstinentiâ et temperantiâ, for the recovery of the sick, the consolation of the dying, and the healing of a wounded spirit. It is also to be used in honour of our Lady of Bolayne on this the day of her festival. But the presence of a priest is needful herein, for the preventing of abuses and the showing of a proper example.

[Drinks.
Tackenham
(advancing from the farther end of the tent.)

Father Swillen—friend, if I knocked you down I ask your pardon—Father Swillen—Sirs, give me place, for I must see the Father—Father Swillen, I look upon you to be one man of a thousand—I will go on my knees to you—I look upon you to be the oracle of God—I look upon you to be the invisible oracle of God—for there you are and I see you not.—I can stand,—I say I can stand—but here I kneel down, and I will not rise unless you stretch forth your hand to me and raise me up— and this is the view I take of our duties as Christian men —all which is submitted to your better judgment, and I would that all men paid their dues to the Church.

Father Swillen.

God requite you, my son! For their salvation—for their salvation—nothing else.

Lunyz
(looking out into the Market-place).

Here is a minstrel twiddles with the strings of his cithern. Now we shall hear a song.

163

THE FOLLOWING SONG IS SUNG TO A VULGAR TUNE.

Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and who be ye
That would mount the merry-go-round?

A blacksmith I,—spearheads as good
As e'er from Bordeaux came
I've made, and would in Ghentsmen's blood
Be bold to dip the same.

Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and who may'st be
That would mount the merry-go-round?

A cutler I,—as true a blade
As ever Ebro steel'd
Is this I've made, nor will't be stayed
By any Ghentsman's shield.

Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and now let us see
Who mounts the merry-go-round.

A barber I,—and well appear'd
My handicraft, for when
A Ghentsman's beard I shortly shear'd
It never grew again.

Who mounts the merry-go-round with me,
Who mounts the merry-go-round?
'Tis I, I, I,—and a priest was he
That would mount the merry-go-round.

164

A Ghentsman of his wounds lay sick,
And shall I be saved? he cried;
I gave him a kick, bade him ask Old Nick
And he should be satisfied.

Kroolkhuys.

I' faith he sings like a nightingale. No more, thank you,—I cannot—cannot . . . well, if I must . . . [drinks.]
'Tis a charming lullaby, and the sentiment very tender and soothing. Let us all do as we would be done by, God bless us!

[Falls asleep.
[Suddenly is heard from the Market-place a loud cry of “To arms! To arms!”
Ukenheim
(starting up and drawing his sword.)

To arms? What! the men of Ghent come to us? What! the scarecrows from Ghent! To arms! to arms! Out and down with them! To arms! to arms!

Kroolkhuys
(waking).

Why how is this? the men of Ghent! What ho! give me my coat of proof!

Ukenheim.

Let cowards stay behind. To arms! to arms!

[They rush out confusedly. Tackenham creeps from under the table where he had remained in a reclining posture.
Takenham.

To arms! I look upon Father Swillen to be an oracle, and it were to be wished that all men paid the Church her dues.

165

Scene III.

—The Palace.
The Lord of Occo and Gilbert Matthew.
Gilbert.
His Highness will be here anon. Sir Guy,
Freely accept the combat for the morrow.
Count on my speed. There's not a man in Bruges
Who has outlived the day I wish'd him dead.
The threads of many destinies I hold
Unknown to them they bind for life or death,
And I am punctual as the planet stars.
A winter's night, as long as nights are now,
Is worth an age.

Occo.
One doubt detains me still.
The Earl, if ever it were known, would—

Gilbert.
Hark!
'Tis over, that. He loves him now no more.
For every philtre that can make men love
I know the secret of an antidote.
I've warn'd him of those private ties in Ghent.
Enough. I've dosed him.

Occo.
Well, it shall be done.

Gilbert.
I will provide the hands.

Occo.
You shall not need.
I have already sent for two tried men,—
Italians; they are practised hands and fit.

Gilbert.
I have you then; 'tis Erclo and Romero.

Occo.
The same.

166

Enter the Earl.
Earl.
What shouting's this I hear abroad?

Occo.
The revellers, my good Lord; they pitch the bar,
And shoot with cross-bows for a prize. My Lord,
At noon to-morrow, if his heart but hold,
I'll meet Sir Walter D'Arlon.

Gilbert.
In good truth
But are these shouts of revel? Hark, again!
They cry “To arms!”

Earl.
By Heaven! I think 'tis that!
And hear ye not the bells? They're ringing backwards.

Occo.
'Tis an alarm.

Enter the Lord of Arlon, Sir Robert Mareschault, and others.
Earl.
Well, D'Arlon, what is this?

D'Arlon.
The men of Ghent, my Lord, the men of Ghent.

Earl.
What, here?

D'Arlon.
Two miles aloof they make a stand.

Earl.
What, are they mad?

D'Arlon.
I think not mad, my Lord,
But desperate.

Earl.
My friends, 'tis all as one.
Now shall this war be gloriously closed,
And famine, that was tedious, be o'erta'en.
Bring out my banner, summon all to arms,

167

Then forth and fight them.

Gilbert.
Please you, Sir, to say
How many they may number.

Sir Robert.
At a guess,
About five thousand.

Gilbert.
May they move or stand?

Sir Robert.
Since they were first descried they have not stirr'd.

Earl.
Forth with my banner; out with horse and foot.
Sir Knights, we muster in the Market-place.
Bring me my armour, ho!

Gilbert.
My Lord, one word,
Ere yet the Knights depart. These men are few,
But they are desperate; famine-bitten are they,
But alway are the leanest wolves most brave
To break the fold. Sir, let us not be rash;
Our men at-arms are somewhat flush'd with drink
And may be ill to guide. Sir, think upon it.
Fight them to-morrow. Let them sleep to-night
In winter's lap, beneath the ragged tent
Of a December's sky. When morning breaks
You'll see them lying upon yon hill-side
As dead and sapless as the last month's leaves.
Give them this night.

The Hase of Flanders.
They'll think we stay through fear.

Gilbert.
Think they their will; whate'er they think of that

168

They shall unthink to-morrow.

Earl.
By my faith,
I know not, Gilbert, but thou mayst be right.
The winter's night is sure to thin their ranks
Of fighting men; and if they're scantly stored
With victual, which is probable to think,
They shall endure it worse.

Enter the Mayor in haste.
Mayor.
My Lord, my Lord,
The crafts fly forth by thousands from the gates
Unorder'd and unled.

Earl.
Who kept the gates?
How came they open? Walter, haste thee, haste!
And bring the madmen back.
[Exit D'Arlon.
How came they so?

Mayor.
A simple mariner avouch'd, my Lord,
That he had heard your Highness's own mouth
Give out the order.

Earl.
Hang the slave! 'twas false.

Mayor.
So thought the warders; nor had they complied
But that the people, being much inflamed,
Menaced their lives.

Enter a Squire.
Squire.
Sir Walter, Sir, sends word
The town is almost emptied. He entreats

169

Your Highness will not look to bring them back,
Which is past hope, but sound at once to arms
And send them leaders.

Earl.
Gilbert, we must forth.

Gilbert.
Ay, go we forth, and fear not for the end.
Fifty to five, we surely must do well,
Though peradventure for the sparing lives
We might have done more wisely.

Earl.
Sirs, be sudden;
And when you're mounted in the Market-place,
I'll give you there your charges. Sound to horse.

Scene IV.

—The Field of Merle, as in the First Scene. Artevelde, Van Ryk, Van Muck, and others.
Artevelde.
See'st thou yon sweeping section of the road
That leads by Ecdorf to the eastern gate?
My eyes are strain'd, but yet I thought I saw
A moving mass of men.

Van Ryk.
I thought so too.
When I had held mine eyes a minute fix'd
As in a morsel of dry moulder'd cheese
I thought I could descry a tumbling movement.

Artevelde.
Who hath the longest and the clearest sight
Of all our men? go bring him. Nay, stop, stop!
I think we shall not need him: now, look there.
By Heaven, they come! they come! Ha! Van den Bosch!

170

Enter Van Den Bosch.
I give you joy! by Heaven we have our wish.

Van den Bosch.
Yea, Sir, they come, and now, betide what may,
We'll mix the Evil One a mess for supper
In yonder darksome pool.

Artevelde.
A ruddier tinge
Than ever evening cast shall warm its waters
Ere evening colours fade. What ho! Van Serl,
Serve out the victual all. But first, to prayers;
We will be shriven first, and then we'll sup,
And after that we'll cut a road to bed,
Be it in Bruges or in a better place.
Van Ryk, abide thou here and bring me word
If any shall approach by other ways;
And when the foremost of the troop we see
Have past yon broken wall, then sound thy horn,
And I will send thee forces wherewithal
To keep thy post. There's food behind the carts,
Whereof partake with them I'll send thee.

Van Ryk.
Nay,
I shall want nothing, Sir,

Artevelde.
I tell thee eat,
Eat and be fresh. Anon I'll send a Priest.
Van Muck, thou tak'st small comfort in thy prayers;
Put thou thy muzzle in yon tub of wine.
Now, Van den Bosch, or ere the sun go down

171

We'll know Heaven's will.

Van den Bosch.
Have with thee, Artevelde!
Thou art a man of mettle and my friend,
And I would have thee know that should we fall,
Either or both, I bear thee now no grudge;
And so may Heaven forgive my many sins
As I do thee.

Artevelde.
Why, thou art now thyself.
With heart and hand we'll fall upon the foe,
And do the work like brothers. Come thy ways.

[Exeunt all but Van Ryk and Van Muck.
Van Ryk.
Van Muck, I prithee step along the path
That rounds the hill, and mark if on that side
Aught may be stirring.

Van Muck.
Ay, and if there be
I'll shout and hail thee.

[Exit.
Enter Artevelde's Page.
Van Ryk.
Why, my little man,
How cam'st thou hither? 'tis no place for thee.
What, cam'st thou with the army?

Page.
No, from Bruges.

Van Ryk.
What took thee there?

Page.
'Twas I that took myself.
But Mistress Clara wished that I should go.
She sojourns with the Prioress of St. Anne
Till all be over.

172

Van Ryk.
And with her, my boy,
Thou shouldst have stay'd.

Page.
What! in a convent? No,
I think not when a battle is toward.
Besides, the Prioress was all on edge
To hear of what befalls, her sister's son,
Sir Walter D'Arlon, being forth; so me
They charged to keep good watch and bring them word
How he shall fare; but by my halidom
I will not run of errands now; I'll fight.

Van Ryk.
God's mercy on the Knight thou fall'st upon!
Nay, nay, content thee; couch thee by yon carts,
And dream not thou of fighting.

Page.
Is it true
That some half-hour will bring the battle on?

Van Ryk.
Less time than that. Thou see'st how fast they come.
But now we scarce distinguish'd if they moved,
And see,—upon the skirts of yonder mass
We may discern them, single man by man.

Page.
Can you descry the pennons of the Knights
That lead them?

Van Ryk.
Truly, I perceive not one;
A multitude—a mass of heads—nought else—
No banner, pennon, nor a mounted man.
If any Knight be there he comes afoot.

Page.
The Lord of Arlon surely must be there;
He's always with the foremost.

173

Van Ryk.
If he be
His pennon is not.

Page.
Nay, but look again;
I see some Knights that gallop up behind,
And pennons now come streaming on the road
Betwixt the town and them.

Van Ryk.
Good faith, 'tis true.
Thou hast sharp eyes.

Page.
And there—upon the bridge—
Whose is that pennon?

Van Ryk.
I shall know anon,
If but yon clump will let me. Come this way
And we shall see them better. Through the gap.

Scene V.

—Another part of the Field.
Artevelde and others.
Artevelde.
Their cross-bow shafts have touch'd us on that side,
And ours fly large. We're dazzled by the sun.
Bid Van den Bosch give gently back and back
And wind them round the slough; I'll hover here;
And soon as he have turn'd his back o' the sun
Let him stand fast and shoot. Thou hast thine errand;
Let it not cool. And you, Sirs, follow me.

174

Scene VI.

—Another part of the Field.
The Lord of Arlon and Gilbert Matthew.
Gilbert.
How came they thus? My Lord, I needs must say
A soldier's courage, not a leader's skill,
Has placed them here.

D'Arlon.
Skill! what can skill avail?
Could skill have made men sober that were drunk?
The meanest archer with his senses whole
Would not have rush'd to stare the sun i' the face
As these have done; nothing could stop them, sots!

Gilbert.
They will not long hold out.

D'Arlon.
I prithee fly,
And tell the Earl to send us succours up.
I'll keep them steady, if I can, till then.

Scene VII.

—Another part of the Field.
Artevelde's Page following an Archer.
Page.
Stay, hearken.

Archer.
Od's my body! what is here?
A mannikin at arms? Why clutch me, friend?
Art thou afraid?

Page.
Take that for asking.

175

Archer.
Slain
With buffet of a mighty man of war!
Well, thou hast mettle; what's hy will with me?

Page.
I am thy Captain's page; he sends to know
Where D'Arlon fights.

Archer.
So; stop, then; with thine eye
If thou canst follow forth yon grey stone wall
Down to the hollow, and where farther on
Again it rises, thou shalt see a crowd
Of fighting men, and in their thickest front
The pennon of the Lord of Arlon flies—
By Heaven! But I think no—a minute since
It there was flying, but I think 'tis down.

[Exit Page.
Enter Artevelde, with Followers from the one side, and Van Ryk with Followers from the other.
Artevelde.
How is't with you? On our side all is well.
One half their host is founder'd in the swamp,
The other full in flight.

Van Ryk.
On our side too
They all have fled; but farther down the field
The D'Arlon still stands fast.

Artevelde.
Set on,—set on—
Make for the spot. But hurt ye not that Knight.

176

Scene VIII.

—A Street in Bruges.—It is Night.—The Earl of Flanders and Sir Robert Mareschault enter, preceded by Attendants bearing torches.
Earl.
What succours we can find I'll lead myself.
Was ever such disaster! Madmen first,
And cowards after!

Enter a Soldier in haste.
Soldier.
Fly, my Lord! fly, fly!
The gates are lost; they're now within the walls.

Earl.
Why say they are, and must I therefore fly?
Make for the Market-place; we'll rally there
Whoever will be rallied.—Pass we on—
Lights to the Market-place.

Enter another Soldier.
Soldier.
Is't you, my Lord?
Oh! not that way! the men of Ghent are there.
Fly, fly, my Lord!

Earl.
The men of Ghent are where?

Soldier.
I' the Market-place, my Lord.

Earl.
Already there!

Sir Robert.
Put out your lights.

Earl.
Ay, truly, now all's lost.
Put out your lights, good fellows all, and fly.
Save me ye cannot, and ye may yourselves.
[The lights are extinguished.

177

Which way to turn I know not.

Sir Robert.
Down the street
I see the flash of cressets that come hither;
Hence, in God's name! Here, varlet, doff thy cloak,
And give it to my Lord.

Earl.
Throw mine away,
Or it might else betray thy life; get hence;
But if thou fallest in the enemy's hands,
Have a good tongue; say not thou saw'st me here.
Adieu, Sir Robert; each the other hazards
By holding thus together.

Sir Robert
Sir, Farewell. [Exit.
[The Earl, left alone, knocks at the door of a house; a window is opened above and a woman looks out.

Woman.
Who's he that knocks?

Earl.
A much endanger'd man.

Woman.
We're all endanger'd on such nights as these.
I cannot let thee in.

Earl.
I pray thee, do.

Woman.
Art thou a man-at-arms?

Earl.
Yea, truly.

Woman.
Ah!
Then get thee gone; they'll ransack every house
To hunt out men-at-arms. Go, get thee gone.

Earl.
I have no arms upon me.

Woman.
Get thee gone!

Earl.
I am the Earl of Flanders.

178

Woman.
Good my Lord!
O mercy! my good Lord, and is it you?
Woe's me! I'll ope the door. The many times
That alms were given me at your Lordship's gate
And I to hold you haggling here! Woe's me!
[She descends and opens the door.
Come in, my gracious Lord; up yonder steps
You'll find a cock-loft and a couch of straw;
Betwixt the mattress and the boards lie flat,
And you may well be hidden. Here are lights!
Come in, come in.

[They enter the house.
Enter Van Muck, followed by several Men of Ghent.
He knocks at the door.
Van Muck.
No answer? Nay then, knock me in this door.

[The woman opens it.
Woman.
Why, valiant Sirs, you would not sure molest
A widow and her children.

Van Muck.
Who's within?

Woman.
Three helpless orphans; as I hope for grace;
No soul beside.

Van Muck.
Wilt take thy oath of that?

Woman.
I pray God strike me dead upon the threshold
If any be within but my three babes,
Myk, Lodowyk, and Jan.

Van Muck.
Why, as we came
We saw a man go in.

179

Woman.
Good Sir, good Sir,
You are deceived; there was no man at all;
'Twas I look'd out and emptied down a bucket!
A man! God help us; no.

Van Muck.
Go in and see.

[Some of the men enter the house.
Woman.
Walk in, your worships; pray walk in—walk in.
You see my humble house: one room below,
And one above. Sir, will you not walk in?

Van Muck.
No, no; I'll keep the door.

Woman.
These times, sweet Sir,
Are hard for widow'd women and their babes.

[The men come out again.
One of the Men.
'Tis as she says: three children are asleep;
Three in the cock-loft; there is none beside.

Van Muck.
Good even to you, Dame. Friends, follow me.

[Exeunt Van Muck and his Men.
Woman.
Beshrew your hearts, ye filthy dogs of Ghent!
The Devil catch you by the throat! for once
You've miss'd your game. Ah, gracious Lord, away!

180

Scene IX.

—The Market-place of Bruges.—In front, Artevelde with Clara and D'Arlon. Next, Ukenheim, Frans Ackerman, Van Nuitre,and other Leaders. Behind them are crowds of armed Followers and Attendants bearing torches, of whom some companies march off from time to time under orders from their Captains and others remain keeping guard over prisoners and spoil.
Artevelde.
War hath dealt hardly with the noble D'Arlon;
Him gold not ransoms, and to stricter bonds
A captive Knight was never yet consign'd.
[Turning to his Followers.
Van Muck returns not. Who amongst you all
Hath eye of lynx and leveret's foot to speed
Through all the town with inquisition sure
And leave no corner of a house unsearch'd?
Where is Van Ryk?

Ukenheim.
He left us at the gates.

Artevelde.
True, true, upon a mission sent by me.
He will be here anon. Then Ukenheim,
Go thou, with such assistance as thou wilt,
Upon the quest, through every lane and street.
Take him, if possibly ye can, alive.
Evil and folly hath he wrought against us,
But never treason; he had wrong'd us less

181

But for the renegades that gave him counsel.
Bring forth the Lord of Occo.
[Occo is brought forward bound.
So, my Lord!
Enter Van Muck and his party.
Another?

Van Muck.
Gilbert Matthew, Sir, we bring.

Artevelde.
And not the Earl?

Van Muck.
No; he, they say, escaped,
And took the road to Lisle. He lay some space
Hid in a hovel till the search went by,
And then he slunk away.

Artevelde.
Long must thou wait,
Earl, ere thou see thy heritage again!
Bring Gilbert Matthew forth.
[He is brought in bound.
So, Gilbert Matthew!

Gilbert.
Young upstart, what wouldst thou with Gilbert Matthew?

Artevelde.
Be patient, Sir; you'll know it. Where art thou,
Frans Ackerman? Despatch ere break of day
A hundred waggons on the road to Ghent
Laden with corn and wine. That done, send forth
To Damme and Sluys and empty out their stores
For a fresh convoy. Have me men prepared
To ride to Ypres, Courtray, Cassel, Bergues,

182

To Poperinguen and to Roussaelere,
And bid the Mayor and Burghers of each town
Send me its keys. Well met, bold Van den Bosch!

Enter Van den Bosch, with Followers.
Well met at Bruges, my brethren in arms!
As ye were brave, so be ye temperate now.
Let not the small-crafts suffer. Spare their blood,
For they but follow'd in the train of power
And many wished us in their hearts no ill.
To all shall plunder plentifully flow
Out of the coffers of the rich; but him
That spills a foreigner's or craftsman's blood
I mulct of all his share, and, this night past,
The price (not willingly so long postponed,
But needfully for this tumultuous night)
Of all blood-guiltiness is paid in blood.
Take heed of what I say; ye ought to know
For good or ill my promises are kept.
The debt of vengeance justly due to Ghent
Ye shall behold acquitted where ye stand.
[Turning to Occo and Gilbert Matthew.
Look, Van den Bosch, upon your former friends,
And say what they deserve.
Van den Bosch.
In this world death,
And after that let Satan tend his own.
I should commend their bodies to the rack
But that I'm loth so long to keep their souls

183

Out of hell-fire.

Occo.
Thy heart was ever hard;
But, Artevelde, thou wilt not stain thy hands
By killing in cold blood two helpless men!
If thou'rt a soldier, do not such a deed.
Soldiers by soldiers in the field are slain,
Not murder'd in the market-place.

Artevelde.
Agreed;
And if the name of soldier can be claim'd
By both or one of you, ye shall not die.
Bring forth the Friar.
[A Friar is brought forward.
Save you, holy Sir!
Say in the face of these two that stand here
That which thou said'st to me.

Friar.
Sir, it was this:
Here in the hospital expired but now
Of many wounds a Florentine, by name
Romero, who, repentant ere his death,
Confessed an impious contract, for a bribe
From Gilbert Matthew and Sir Guy of Occo,
To kill the Lord of Arlon, for some spite
That each had to him.

Occo.
Miscreant, he lied!
Whoe'er procured him, it was never I.
Master Van Artevelde, and you, my Lord,
Believe not I would sin in such a sort.
Have mercy on a miserable man!
[Falls on his knees.
Oh God! there's some mistake, or else he lied.

184

Gilbert.
How say'st thou that he lied? Sirs, it is true,
I with this craven beggarly companion—
Of whose accompliceship to do the deed
And not the deed itself I speak with shame—
I with this caitiff truly did conspire
For good and ample reasons to remove
Sir Walter D'Arlon from this troublesome world.
Such chances as no prudence could forefend
Have baulk'd my purpose and I go myself.
Wherefore, Sirs, God be with you! To the block!
What are ye dreaming of, ye sluggish hinds?

Artevelde
(signing to the men-at-arms who lead out Gilbert Matthew).
Ay, Gilbert, God forgive thee for thy sins!
Thou steppest statelily the only walk
Thou hast to take on earth. Full many a man
That lives a godlier life less bravely dies.
Take forth Sir Guy of Occo.

Occo.
Hear me yet.
If through pretext of justice I am doomed,
What justice is it that believes not me
And yet believes such villains as Romero
And Gilbert Matthew? Find a credible tongue
To testify against me ere you strike.

Enter Van Ryk, conducting Adriana.
Artevelde.
Behold the witness! Look upon this face
And bid death welcome. Lead him to the block.

185

Adriana.
Oh, spare him; speak not now of shedding blood,
Now, in the hour that Heaven has rescued us;
Vengeance is God's, whose function take not thou;
Spare him, Van Artevelde, oh! spare his life!

Artevelde.
Not though an Angel plead. Vengeance is God's;
But God doth oftentimes dispense it here
By human ministration. To my hands
He render'd victory this eventful day
For uses of His own, and this is one.
Let Flanders judge me from my deeds to-night,
That I from this time forth will do His will;
Justice with mercy tempering where I may,
But executing always. Take him hence.
[Occo is led out.
Now, Adriana, I am wholly thine.

The curtain falls upon the fancied stage,
The tale half told: here rest thee, reader sage;
Pause here and trim thine intellectual light,
Which, more than mine, shall make my meanings bright.

186

That ancient writer whose romantic heart
Loved war in every shape,—its pride, its art,
Its shows, appurtenance,—whose page is still
The theatre of war turn where we will,—
That old historian of whose truthful text
I dog the heels,—me whither leads he next?
To dark descents he guides me; sad and stern,
Him following forth, the lesson that I learn:
That in the shocks of powers so wild and rude
Success but signifies vicissitude;
That of that man who seeks a sovran sphere
The triumph is the trial most severe.
And yet in times so stormy, in a land
Where Virtue's self held forth a bloody hand
To greet arm'd Justice,—in such times as these
Still woman's love could find the way to please.
Thus in the tissue of my tale, herein
By records not unvouch'd, again I spin,
As heretofore, an interwoven thread
Of feminine affection fancy-fed.

—Rest thee a space: or if thou lov'st to hear
A soft pulsation in thine easy ear,
Turn thou the page and let thy senses drink
A lay that shall not trouble thee to think.
Quitting the heroine of the past, thou'lt see
In this prefigured her that is to be,
And find what life was hers before the date
That with the Fleming's fortunes link'd her fate.
This sang she to herself one summer's eve
A recreant from festivities that grieve
The heart not festive; stealing to her bower
With this she wiled away the lonely evening hour.

187

THE LAY OF ELENA.

He ask'd me had I yet forgot
The mountains of my native land?
I sought an answer, but had not
The words at my command.
They would not come, and it was better so,
For had I utter'd aught, my tears I know
Had started at the word as free to flow.

But I can answer when there's none that hears;
And now if I should weep, none sees my tears;
And in my soul the voice is rising strong
That speaks in solitude,—the voice of song.

Yes, I remember well
The land of many hues,
Whose charms what praise can tell,
Whose praise what heart refuse?
Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare
Nor misty, are the mountains there,—
Softly sublime, profusely fair!

188

Up to their summits clothed in green
And fruitful as the vales between
They lightly rise
And scale the skies,
And groves and gardens still abound,
For where no shoot
Could else take root
The peaks are shelved and terraced round;
Earthward appear in mingled growth
The mulberry and maize,—above,
The trellised vine extends to both
The leafy shade they love.
Looks out the white-wall'd cottage here;
The lowly chapel rises near;
Far down the foot must roam to reach
The lovely lake and bending beach;
Whilst chestnut green and olive gray
Chequer the steep and winding way.

A bark is launch'd on Como's lake,
A maiden sits abaft;
A little sail is loosed to take
The night wind's breath and waft
The maiden and her bark away
Across the lake and up the bay.
And what doth there that lady fair
Upon the wavelet toss'd?
Before her shines the evening star,

189

Behind her in the woods afar
The castle lights are lost.
What doth she there? The evening air
Lifts her locks and her neck is bare,
And the dews that now are falling fast
May work her harm, or a rougher blast
May come from yonder cloud,
And that her bark might scarce sustain,
So slightly built, and why remain,
And would she be allow'd
To brave the wind and sit in the dew
At night on the lake if her mother knew?

Her mother sixteen years before
The burthen of the baby bore;
And though brought forth in joy, the day
So joyful, she was wont to say,
In taking count of after years,
Gave birth to fewer hopes than fears.
For seldom smiled
The serious child,
And as she pass'd from childhood, grew
More far-between those smiles and few,
More sad and wild.
And though she loved her father well
And though she loved her mother more,
Upon her heart a sorrow fell
And sapp'd it to the core.

190

And in her father's castle nought
She ever found of what she sought,
And all her pleasure was to roam
Among the mountains far from home,
And through thick woods, and wheresoe'er
She saddest felt to sojourn there;
And much she loved to linger afloat
On the lonely lake in the little boat.

It was not for the forms,—though fair,
Though grand they were beyond compare,—
It was not only for the forms
Of hills in sunshine or in storms,
Or only unrestrain'd to look
On wood and lake, that she forsook
By day or night
Her home, and far
Wander'd by light
Of sun or star.
It was to feel her fancy free,
Free in a world without an end,
With ears to hear and eyes to see
And heart to apprehend.
It was to leave the earth behind
And rove with liberated mind,
As fancy led or choice or chance,
Through wildered regions of romance.
And many a castle would she build

191

And all around the woods were fill'd
With Knights and Squires that rode amain,
With ladies saved and giants slain;
And as some contest waver'd, came,
With eye of fire and breath of flame,
A dragon that in cave profound
Had had his dwelling under-ground;
And he had closed the dubious fight,
But that, behold! there came in sight
A hippogriff, that wheel'd his flight
Far in the sky, then swooping low
Brings to the field a fresher foe;
Dismay'd by this diversion, fly
The dragon and his dear ally;
And now the victor Knight unties
The prisoner, his unhoped-for prize,
And lo! a beauteous maid is she,
Whom they, in their unrighteous guise,
Had fasten'd naked to a tree!

Much dreaming these, yet was she much awake
To portions of things earthly, for the sake
Whereof, as with a charm, away would flit
The phantoms, and the fever intermit.
Whatso' of earthly things presents a face
Of outward beauty or a form of grace
Might not escape her, hidden though it were
From courtly recognition; for with her

192

Nature's high heraldry in a peasant's face
Awarded him pre-eminence of place;
Give but a handmaid majesty of mien,
The handmaid rose in station to a Queen.
Devoted thus to what was fair to sight
She loved too little else, nor this aright;
And many disappointments could not cure
This born obliquity, or break the lure
Which this strong passion spread: she grew not wise,
Nor grows: experience with a world of sighs
Purchased, and tears and heart-break, have been hers,
And taught her nothing: where she err'd she errs.

Be it avow'd, when all is said,
She trod the path the many tread;—
She loved too soon in life; her dawn
Was bright with sunbeams, whence is drawn
A sure prognostic that the day
Will not unclouded pass away.
Too young she loved, and he on whom
Her first love lighted, in the bloom
Of boyhood was, and so was graced
With all that earliest runs to waste.
Intelligent, loquacious, mild,
Yet gay and sportive as a child,
With feelings light and quick, that came
And went, like flickerings of flame;
A soft demeanour, and a mind

193

Bright and abundant in its kind,
That, playing on the surface, made
A rapid change of light and shade,
Or if a darker hour perforce
At times o'ertook him in his course,
Still sparkling thick like glow-worms, show'd
Life was to him a summer's road;—
Such was the youth to whom a love
For grace and beauty far above
Their due deserts, betray'd a heart
Which might have else perform'd a loftier part.

First love the world is wont to call
The passion which was now her all.
So be it call'd; but be it known
The feeling which possess'd her now
Was novel in degree alone;
Love early mark'd her for his own;
Soon as the winds of heaven had blown
Upon her, had the seed been sown
In soil which needed not the plough;
And passion with her growth had grown
And strengthen'd with her strength, and how
Could love be new, unless in name,
Degree, and singleness of aim?
A tenderness had fill'd her mind
Pervasive, viewless, undefined;—
As keeps the subtle fluid oft

194

Its secret, gathering in the soft
And sultry air, till felt at length
In all its desolating strength,
So silent, so devoid of dread,
Her objectless affections spread:
Not wholly unemploy'd, but squander'd
At large where'er her fancy wander'd;
Till one attraction, one desire
Concentred all the scatter'd fire;
It broke, it burst, it blazed amain,
It flash'd its light o'er hill and plain,
O'er earth below and heaven above,—
And then it took the name of love.

How fared that love? the tale so old,
So common, needs it to be told?
Bellagio's woods, ye saw it through
From first accost to last adieu;
Its changes, seasons, you can tell,—
At least you typify them well.
First came the genial, hopeful spring,
With bursting buds and birds that sing,
And fast though fitful progress made
To brighter suns and broader shade;
Those brighter suns, that broader shade,
They came, and richly then array'd
Was bough and sward, and all below
Gladden'd by summer's equal glow.

195

What next? a change is slowly seen,
And deepeneth day by day
The darker, soberer, sadder green
Prevenient to decay.
Yet still at times through that green gloom,
As sudden gusts might make them room
And lift the spray so light,
The berries of the mountain-ash,
Arching the torrent's foam and flash,
Waved gladly into sight.
But rare those short-lived gleamings grew
And wore the woods a sicklier hue;
Destruction now his phalanx forms
'Mid wailing winds and gathering storms;
And last comes Winter's withering breath,
Keen as desertion, cold-cold as the hand of death!

Is the tale told? Too well, alas!
Is pictured here what came to pass.
So long as light affections play'd
Around their path, he loved the maid;
Loved in half gay, half tender mood,
By passion touch'd but not subdued;
Laugh'd at the flame he felt or lit;
Replied to tenderness with wit;
Sometimes when passion brightlier burned
Its tokens eagerly return'd;
Then calm, supine, but pleased no less,

196

Softly sustain'd each soft caress.
She, watching with delight the while
His half-closed eyes and gradual smile,
(Slow pleasure's smile, how far more worth,
More beautiful than smiles of mirth!)
Seemed to herself when back she cast
A hurried glance upon the past,
As changed from what she then had been,
As was the moon, who, having run
Her orbit through since this begun,
Now shone apparent Queen.
How dim a world, how blank a waste,
A shadowy orb how faintly traced,
Her crescent fancy first embraced!
How fair an orb, a world how bright,
How fill'd with glory and with light,
Had now reveal'd itself to sight,—
A glory of her essence grown,
A light incorporate with her own!

Forth from such paradise of bliss
Open the way and easy is,
Like that renown'd of old;
And easier than the most was this,
For they were sorted more amiss
Than outwards things foretold.
The Goddess that with cruel mirth
The daughters and the sons of earth

197

Mismatches, hath a cunning eye
In twisting of a treacherous tie;
Nor is she backward to perceive
That loftier minds to lower cleave
With ampler love (as that which flows
From a rich source) than these to those;
For still the source, not object, gives
The daily food whereon love lives.
The well-spring of his love was poor
Compared to hers: his gifts were fewer;
The total light that was in him
Before a spark of hers grew dim;
Too high, too grave, too large, too deep,
Her love could neither laugh nor sleep—
And thus it tired him; his desire
Was for a less consuming fire:
He wish'd that she should love him well,
Not wildly; wish'd her passion's spell
To charm her heart but leave her fancy free;
To quicken converse, not to quell;
He granted her to sigh, for so could he;
But when she wept, why should it be?
'Twas irksome, for it stole away
The joy of his love-holiday.
Bred of such uncongenial mood
At length would some dim doubt intrude
If what he felt, so far below
Her passion's pitch, were love or no.

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With that the common daylight's beam
Broke in upon his morning dream,
And as that common day advanced
His heart was wholly unentranced.

What follow'd was not good to do,
Nor is it good to tell;
The anguish of that worst adieu
Which parts with love and honour too
Abides not,—so far well.
The human heart can not sustain
Prolong'd inalterable pain,
And not till reason cease to reign
Will nature want some moments brief
Of other moods to mix with grief;
Such and so hard to be destroyed
That vigour which abhors a void,
And in the midst of all distress,
Such nature's need for happiness!
And when she rallied thus, more high
Her spirits ran, she knew not why,
Than was their wont in times than these
Less troubled, with a heart at ease.
So meet extremes; so joy's rebound
Is highest from the hollowest ground;
So vessels with the storm that strive
Pitch higher as they deeplier dive.

199

Well had it been if she had curb'd
These transports of a mind disturb'd;
For grief is then the worst of foes
When, all intolerant of repose,
It sends the heart abroad to seek
From weak recoils exemptions weak;
After false gods to go astray,
Deck altars vile with garlands gay,
And place a painted form of stone
On Passion's abdicated throne.

Till then her heart was as a mound
Or simple plot of garden-ground
Far in a forest wild,
Where many a seedling had been sown
And many a bright-eyed floweret grown
To please a favourite child.
Delighted was the child to call
The plot of garden-ground her own;
Delighted was she at the fall
Of evening mild, when shadows tall
Cross-barr'd the mound and cottage wall,
To linger there alone.
Nor seem'd the garden flowers less fair,
Nor loved she less to linger there,
When glisten'd in the morning dew
Each lip of red and eye of blue;
And when the sun too brightly burn'd

200

Towards the forest's verge she turn'd
Where stretch'd away from glade to glade
A green interminable shade;
And in the skirts thereof a bower
Was built with many a creeping flower
For shelter at the noon-tide hour;
And from the forest walks was heard
The voice of many a singing-bird,
With murmurs of the cushat-dove
That tell the secret of her love:
And pleasant therefore all day long
From earliest dawn to even-song,
Supremely pleasant was this wild
Sweet garden to the woodsman's child.

The whirlwind came with fire and flood
And smote the garden in the wood;
All that was formed to give delight
Destruction levell'd in a night;
The morning broke, the child awoke,
And when she saw what sudden stroke
The garden which she loved had swept
To ruin, she sat down and wept.
Her grief was great, but it had vent;
Its force, not spared, was sooner spent;
And she bethought her to repair
The garden which had been so fair.
Then roam'd she through the forest walks

201

Cropping the wild-flowers by their stalks,
And divers full-blown blossoms gay
She gather'd, and in fair array
Disposed, and stuck them in the mound
Which once had been her garden-ground.
They seem'd to flourish for a while,
A moment's space she seem'd to smile;
But brief the bloom and vain the toil,
They were not native to the soil.
That other child, beneath whose zone
Were passions fearfully full-grown,—
She too essay'd to deck the waste
Where love had grown, which love had graced,
With false adornments, flowers not fruit,
Fast-fading flowers that strike not root,
With pleasures alien to her breast
That bloom but briefly at the best,
The world's sad substitutes for joys
To minds that lose their equipoise.

On Como's lake the evening star
Is trembling as before;
An azure flood, a golden bar,
There as before they were they are,
But she that loved them—she is far,
Far from her native shore.
No more is seen her slender boat
Upon the star-lit lake afloat,

202

With oar or sail at large to rove,
Or tether'd in its wooded cove
'Mid gentle waves that sport around
And rock it with a gurgling sound.
Keel up, it rots upon the strand,
Its gunwale sunken in the sand,
Where suns and tempests warp'd and shrank
Each shatter'd rib and riven plank.
Never again that land-wreck'd craft
Shall feel the billow boom abaft;
Never when springs the freshening gale,
Take life again from oar or sail:
Nor shall the freight that once it bore
Again be seen on lake or shore.

A foreign land is now her choice,
A foreign sky above her,
And unfamiliar is each voice
Of those that say they love her.
A Prince's palace is her home,
And marble floor and gilded dome,
Where festive myriads nightly meet
Quick echoes of her steps repeat.
And she is gay at times, and light
From her makes many faces bright;
And circling flatterers hem her in,
Assiduous each a word to win,
And smooth as mirrors each the while

203

Reflects and multiplies her smile.
But fitful were her smiles, nor long
She cast them to that courtly throng;
And should the sound of music fall
Upon her ear in that high hall,
The smile was gone, the eye that shone
So brightly would be dimm'd anon,
And objectless would then appear
As stretched to check the starting tear;
The chords within responsive rung,
For music spoke her native tongue.
And then the gay and glittering crowd
Is heard not, laugh they ne'er so loud;
Nor then is seen the simpering row
Of flatterers, bend they ne'er so low;
For there before her where she stands
The mountains rise, the lake expands;
Around the terraced summit twines
The leafy coronal of vines;
Within the watery mirror deep
Nature's calm converse lies asleep;
Above she sees the sky's blue glow,
The forest's varied green below,
And far its vaulted vistas through
A distant grove of darker hue,
Where mounting high from clumps of oak
Curls lightly up the thin gray smoke;
And o'er the boughs that over-bower

204

The crag, a castle's turrets tower—
An eastern casement mantled o'er
With ivy, flashes back the gleam
Of sunrise—it was there of yore
She sate to see that sunrise pour
Its splendour round—she sees no more,
For tears disperse the dream.

Thus seized and speechless had she stood,
Surveying mountain, lake, and wood,
When to her ear came that demand
Did she forget her native land?
'Twas but a voice within replied
She had forgotten all beside.
For words are weak and most to seek
When wanted fifty-fold,
And then if silence will not speak
Or trembling lip and changing cheek,
There's nothing told.
But could she have reveal'd to him
Who question'd thus, the vision bright
That ere his words were said grew dim
And vanish'd from her sight,
Easy the answer were to know
And plain to understand,—
That mind and memory both must fail,
And life itself must slacken sail,
And thought its functions must forego,

205

And fancy lose its latest glow,
Or ere that land
Could pictured be less bright and fair
To her whose home and heart are there!
That land, the loveliest that eye can see,
The stranger ne'er forgets, then how should she?

—Cease the soft sounds, the mellow voice is mute,
And quivers to a close that plaintive lady's lute.—
Pass we to matters masculine; to strains
Where weightier themes may pay the reader's pains.
Again disclose we counsels of the wise,
Deeds of the warlike: let the curtain rise.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

University of Virginia Library

I. PART THE FIRST.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI.

Scene VII.

Scene VIII.

Scene IX.

Scene X.

Scene XI.

ACT II.

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI

ACT III.

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

ACT V.

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI.

Scene VII.

Scene VIII.

Scene IX.

THE LAY OF ELENA.