University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Caerlaverock Wood. Night.
Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, alone.
Sir M.
Thou fair tall tree, may the sharp axe ne'er smite
Thy shapely stem; may birds of sweetest song
Among thy branches build: here first I met
My gentle love. Lo! now she comes. How blest
The greensward is that carpets her white foot!
Bless thee, fair lingerer, I have number'd nigh
The crowded stars that stud yon western heaven.

Enter Mary Douglas.
Mary D.
Say am I come to hear some curious tale
Of fairy raid and revel quaintly mix'd
With antique tales of love? Come, thou wilt tell me
Some soft and gentle story: thou wilt lay
Thy cheek to mine, and whisper thus, lest stars
Should hear thee, and turn tell-tales. Have I guess'd?

Sir M.
I've got a quaint and curious tale to tell
Of one who loved a maid, dear as the hope
Of heaven to human soul: but heaven smiled not
Upon their loves: there came a parting hour;
And with that hour came bitter dread, lest they
Should meet no more again.

Mary Douglas.
Thine eyes are grave.
Has some new woe come o'er them as a cloud?
Tell me what moves thee; else I'll rashly deem
Some blessed star my rival, and go forth
And rail against its radiance.

Sir Marmaduke.
My true love,
The ancient glory has gone from our house,
And we like beadsmen sit and quote sage saws,
While weeds have grown, and topp'd the noble cedars;
The clouted shoe has kick'd the golden round
From the bright brow of majesty; the axe
Supplants the sceptre; and the awful law
Devours as an unheeded fire, even those
It was but meant to warm. Some noble spirits
Are ripe for loyal deeds—so farewell, love;
Thou'lt make for me a garland or a shroud.

Mary D.
Is this the close then of the truest love?
It was too tender and too kind to last—
Alas! I dream'd not of ungentle war:
It is a fearful thing—war, where the odds
Will make gods of the winners, is a game
That charms the noble, but makes poor maids' eyes
Moist with perpetual tears. Go, my love, go—
Yet all my thoughts were still on gentle themes;
On twilight walks aside the shaded brooks;
Of songs by moonlight on the castle top;
Of merry-makings when the corn was ripe;
Of building sunny homes for hoary men;
And thou wert ever there with thy grave smile:
But thou wilt find some higher love, when fame
Has deck'd thy helmet, and the laughing eyes
Of noble dames are on thee.

Sir Marmaduke.
I shall be
True as these stars are to the cold clear sky;
True as that streamlet to its pebbly bed;
True as green Criffel to her stance; and true
As birds to song in summer. Smile, my love,
For I may yet return 'mid many a shout
And song of welcome.

Mary Douglas.
I'll go with thee, love—
'Tis sweet even in hot battle to be by
The side of one we love—to hear his voice,
Big as the martial trumpet, call “come on;”
To see his raised arm wither strong men's strength
Into the might of babes—see 'neath his steed
The helms of chieftain's lie, and his course be
Where steeds soon lack their riders.

Sir Marmaduke.
No—I swear
By one sweet kiss of thy pure, eloquent lips,
Thou must not go, but sit upon thy tower;
And, like a lily, look toward the west.—
Lo! who come here? all men of martial mien:
Nay, tarry, love; no harm can happen thee.

Enter Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, &c.
Dougan.
Now gentlest greeting to thee, gentle youth;
Lo! we are strangers, whom the stormy sea
Has cast upon your coast. In this land lives
The good Lord Maxwell—we would gladly be
The good lord's guests to-night.

Sir Marmaduke.
Well are we met—
And I will gladly guide you to his hall,
Where you'll find welcome large and princely cheer.

Com.
What lovely woodland maiden's this—she stands
With her dark eyes so downcast. Have I lived
So many summer suns 'mongst beauteous dames,
To fall in love by moonlight? Gentle one
Comest thou to gem thy curling locks with dew,
Or comest thou forth the homeward hind to charm;
He ceases song, and, gazing on thee, says,
Do angels visit here? Long have I sought
For beaming eyes, and glowing lips like thine,
That seem so ripe for pressing. Let me try.

Mary D.
I'm a poor dweller in this woodland, Sir,
And all uncustom'd to such fair free words,
And more to such frank action.

Sir Marmaduke.
Sir! free Sir;
Those who seek fruit on a forbidden tree
May break their neck i' the climbing.

Comyne.
This a churl?
This is no peasant trimm'd for the tryste hour.
(Aside.)
Now pardon, fair one—and for thee, proud youth,
If my free speech had an ungentle sound,
Forget it for the sake of those dark eyes
That made a soldier err.

Dougan.
Away—avaunt—
Thou painted mischief—for such sweet and trim
And rose and lily limmers, the bright swords
Of soldiers blush'd—for such a one as thee
I've seen sworn brothers ruby their sharp blades,
While the fair she-fiend plaited her long locks,
And smiled, and smiled. Come on now, gentle youth;
Come, grace us with thy guidance.

(Exeunt Dougan, &c.)
Halbert Comyne, alone.
Comyne.
This is a lady I should love alone
Aneath the gentle moon—some such sweet time
May yet o'ertake me; I'm not one that wooes
With harp in hand, and ballad on my tongue,
'Neath winter casements—nor love much to measure
Dark moors at midnight, nor cross drowning streams
On ice an inch thick, for a cold maid's smile;
No damsel doats on these romantic youths;
All their talk is o' the perilous attempt
Of dizzy casements—then they sit and tell
What shooting stars they saw—how the pale moon
Caught one large star between her crooked horns,
And they stood marvelling for a stricken hour.
How many moor flames burn'd upon the hills;
How frequent o'er their heads the night bird sung:
How many times their shadow seem'd a goblin,
And set their hair on end. Then they sigh deep,
And ask what time o' the night 'tis, and pray heaven
May warm the morning dew.

(Exit.)