University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Sir John Gourlay, Captains and Soldiers.
First C.
There are three beacons burning in the west;
Half heaven is ruddy—miekle do I wish
Our warlike leader here.

Second Captain.
For one full hour
Have signal horns kept sounding, sulphur lights
Shoot thick as stars—the long-hair'd cavaliers
Have got their feet in the stirrups; else this stir
Is past my groping out.

Third Captain.
'Tis rumour'd, Monck
Has pluck'd his standard up, and vow'd to wash
The dusty fetlocks of his jaded steeds
In the silver Tweed.

Sir John.
This war's a pleasant pastime.
A rich town's sack is worth the wishing for.
And cavaliers wear gold spurs on their heels—
Have broad domains to forfeit; current gold
Is plenty in their pockets, and their ladies
Wear far more jewels in their clust'ring locks
Than would buy a baron's land.

First Captain.
This southron Monck
Is of mean blood—a wart but newly grown
On the rough lip of war.

Second Captain.
We've wet our swords
In enemies' blood together. Surer hand
Ne'er cleft a helmet; and his courage is
A plaything to his craft.

Enter Halbert Comyne.
Sir John.
Hail, noble general!
We wait your will, for there are strange tales stirring.

Comyne.
I would have faced the eldest born of hell
Sooner than such a shadow. My knees shook:
I'll never trust them more; my right hand too
Pluck'd not my sword, for I was over-crow'd,
Rebuked into a boy, bearded i' the lists,
Which none that ever bore a sword dared do,
By a ballad singing beldame. I'll ne'er look
God's sun again i' the face.

Sir John.
My noble lord,
There is a reeking courier come with news,
And news of mighty note.

Comyne.
I stood stone still,
And heard her chaunting on no fabled theme,
And saw her sewing up my winding sheet;
Gay as a girl would hem her bridal sark.
Curse on her calling, and curse on her song!
There is more craft than charm and spell in this;
She'll hear from me if five whole hours flee past,
And I can draw my sword.—Now, noble soldiers,
In things of mighty moment was I wrapt;
Forgive this tardy welcome.

Sir John.
Beacons, my lord,
Have blazed this hour upon Terreagles' hills;
On tower and castle, and the desart sea,
Lights glimmer thick; the trumpets ceaseless sound;
Arm'd men continual troop it to and fro;
And there are tidings that deserve a tongue
Which can articulate thunder.

Comyne.
I know all.
My Lord Protector has resign'd his sword;
'Twas much too hot to handle. General Monck
Is marching on to England; pond'ring mute
Upon a King's crown, and Protector's sword;
And Lambert comes with ready blade to meet him:
They soon may spill some foolish blood about it.
The Stewarts' banner now flies on the sea;
And Sir Luke Langton has a few hot youths
Who wish to win their spurs—and that is all.

Sir John.
My lord, you've summ'd up ten long tales in little;
And you might add, the Praying Parliament
Pray for the aid of your decisive steel,
To chasten General Monck.

Comyne.
It is all well;
Pitch our pavilions on Caerlaverock lea;
Give lords their down beds, and their gilded roofs:
Give me the greenwood, and the lily lea;
The tented canvas rustling on strain'd strings;
The sea behind me chafing on its shores;
My foes before me, numerous as the leaves
Of this wide forest, and I would lay down
My helmed head upon that rough gray stone,
And sleep as fearless, 'till the trumpets sung,
As that blackbird on the bough.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A Tent on Caerlaverock Lea. Midnight.
Halbert Comyne, Sir John Gourlay, Captains, &c.
Com.
Before the sun-rise we commence our march,
And ford the gentle Nith by break of day,
Nor pass through old Dumfries.

Sir John.
Far in the west
The chief strength of the martial covenant lies,
And that way marches Monck.

First Captain.
Four regiments good
From Nithsdale, Annandale, and the green glens
Of mountain Galloway, march under Monck.

Second Captain.
I know each man by name; with them
I've stood
Knee deep in moats, and trenches; and we've wash'd
In England's brooks our bloody hands together.

Third C.
And did our general wave his bonnet feather,
They'd cast their banners in the Tweed, and hang
Monck up to feed the hawks.

Sir John.
Or sell his head
For thrice its weight in beaten gold—each eye,
In the pressing peril of the times, is worth
A kingdom wide; and his right hand would bring—

Com.
Now keep some converse for the morning's march.
How now? What say the peasants? Where are they?

Enter Soldier.
Soldier.
My lord, each peasant in this vale's become
Thine enemy on the sudden. I explain'd
Your order for their armed muster: they
Laugh'd loud, and one show'd me the hilt of his sword,
And said, “I draw it at no villain's bidding,”
And clang'd it in the sheath; another cried,
“Tell Halbert Comyne, when he finds a stream
That can make milkwhite murder's spotted hand,
Wash—wash; I'll be his soldier;” straight a third
Said, “Say one saw on Solway yesternight
A lovely lady, and her sweet son, sailing
In a bottomless boat.” And one stern man,
Whom they call'd Simon Graeme, took me aside,
And talk'd of destiny, and drew his sword;
Said, “Soldier, seest thou this? the blood thou seest
(And it was red with late spilt blood, my lord)
Is Hubert Dougan's.”

Comyne.
Take six armed men,
And bring this rustic—keep him mute—or slay him,
Should he breathe but a word.

Soldier.
My lord, I heard
These tidings as a soldier should; I drew
My sword—so did my comrades. This man is
A thing not to be taken. He slew two;
And though I grappled with him, he did shake
Me like a baby from him; and, unharm'd,
Leap'd in the dashing river.

Comyne.
For his head
A score of bonnet pieces! twenty more
To hear him speak ten words upon the rack!
For he 's a proven traitor to the state,
And no rude peasant he.

Sir John.
Lord, how much gold!
And pure gold, too! I've fought for seven long years,
And never made so much. I go, my lord;
This is a glorious ransom. I will have him,
If he tarries above ground. All current gold!

(Exeunt Sir John Gourlay, and soldiers.)
Com.
What kind of night is this? A sick'ning weight
Hangs in the air; the moon is down, and yet
Her light is left behind her. I can see
'Tis past midnight upon the chapel clock.

First Captain.
'Tis on the stroke of twelve—'tis a wild night,
A fearful looking night—ranks of grim clouds
Stand all around us on the woodland tops;
At times, behind them, flashes of live fire
Brighten, but burst not through.

Second Captain.
As I unfurl'd
Lord Maxwell's banner o'er this tent to-night,
A thing even like a flying banner came
And pitch'd itself aside it. I straight strook
The spectre banner with my lance; and, lo!
Forth gush'd red fire, even as blood gushes from
The thrusting of a spear—and it evanish'd.

Comyne.
Enter a Soldier.

Soldier.
My lord, as I stood on the watch to-night,
Down where the pinewood stretches to the sea,
An armed phantom came and march'd aside me,
And measured step and step.

Comyne.
I'll hear no more;
Go out, and learn to look on thine own shadow.
Now let no one come in my tent to-night;
Wait, four of you, and sleep, or walk, or watch,
Even as it feels most pleasant. As you love me,
And as you fear me, see for me no visions;
Call me up with the first cock crow. Good night.

First C.
My lord, we beg to stretch us on the ground,
To wooe an hour of slumber.

Comyne.
Court and find it.
(Captains stretch themselves on the floor, and sleep.)
Now golden slumber has found out these men,
But I can find no rest. Though in my path
Fame sows her ripest honours—'tis not that
Can give me pleasant slumber, can call back
The colour to my cheek. Although I know
Four of this Monck's six thousand men are mine,
That this famed kingdom's crown hangs in the air
And waits for my bared brow, I'm troubled—troubled:
Thou cursed woman, thy song fills my veins
With thrice 'gealed ice, and in mine ear thy strain
Begins to talk of doomsday. What light's that?
Has fire from heaven fallen in my camp? Ho! ho!—
Rise! hosts of heaven, lend me your safeguard now;
Arise—awake—nay then, sleep on till doomsday;
'Tis I alone that must face all the fiends!

(Storm, thunder, and fire.)
Enter Spirit of Hogan.
Spirit.
Come, Halbert Comyne; we are waiting for you.

Comyne.
Go, senseless semblance of a shallow villain,
Thou creature cursed for cowardice—from me
Expect brief speech—begone. (Spirit passes on.)
(Storm, thunder, and fire.)


Enter Spirit of Dingwall.
Spirit.
Come, Halbert Comyne; Hell is ready for thee.

Comyne.
Shadow, away; the unsumm'd sins of nature,
Grovelling and gross, so swarm'd in thee when living;
Hope not I'll heed thy summons—to be saved
With such as thee would be a curse indeed;
So cumber not the night air with thy presence:
Away. (Spirit passes on.)
(Storm, thunder, and fire.)


Enter Spirit of Neal.
Spirit.
Come, Halbert Comyne; there are fires prepared.

Comyne.
I will not speak to this thing, of all forms
That merit reprobation the most abject.
If this be thy chief pageant, hell, thou 'rt poor
In shapes to shake men's souls. (Spirit passes on.)
(Storm, thunder, and fire.)


Enter Spirit of Hubert Dougan.
Spirit.
Comyne, this night prepare to dwell with me;
And by the light of hell's unquenched fire,
We'll talk of what has passed.

Comyne.
(Spirit passes on.)

First Captain.
(Wakes.)
Touch him not, villain—my good lord—my lord,
God keep thee safe, for I did dream I saw
A fearful figure, with a bared sword
About to pierce thy bosom.

Second Captain.
(Wakes.)
Help, oh! help;
Did you cry help? I heard a voice cry help,
With the tongue of a wounded man.

Third Captain.
My lord, my lord,
The round big drops have started on your brow!
Has some dread thing alarm'd you?

Enter a Soldier.
Soldier.
A dread storm,
With hail and whirlwind, has fallen on our camp,
And blown thy banner into the deep sea;
The crooked fires were running on the ground,
And 'mid the fires—My lord, John Jardine saw
This sight as well as me; and 'mid the fires—

Comyne.
Well! well! amid the fire ye felt some fear,
And I do well believe you. Haste, pluck down
All our pavilions, let my chosen spears
March in the front, and let our rear guard be
Our proof-coat cuirassiers. We pass the Nith
Within one stricken hour—begone.

SCENE III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gra.
Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell.

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

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

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

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

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

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

Caerlaverock Wood, by the River side.
Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, Simon Graeme, Mark Macgee, and armed men.
Graeme.
Here let us stand beneath the greenwood tree,
For he must pass down this way. Now be firm;
Strike fierce and spare not; but leave him to me.
These are the tokens you shall know him by:—
He rideth ever on a coal black steed,
Whose long tail sweeps the ground. His black helm has
A snowy crest that never has been soiled
By blood or dust, but God shall smite it down
Among men's feet. High is his warlike brow,
And close and clustering curls his raven hair,
And keen the glancing of his swarthy eye;
When he sees us, he'll wave his right hand thus,
And say, “keep back rude churls”—leave him to me.

Sir Marmaduke.
I have some friends, all firm, assured soldiers,
Derned in the greenwood. Yet have we to fight
Against a woeful odds.

Macgee.
Yes, he has with him
Twelve score of chosen lances, and four hundred
Of horsemen sheathed in steel; we are in all
Eight score and twelve: hearken! I hear, ev'n now,
His horsemen prancing up the river side.

Graeme.
Lo! heaven gives not the battle to the strong;
The race to the swift foot. His hour is come;
And though he had a thousand for each one,
Though his steel coat were triple proof, and though
He were enclosed with lances as a grove,
The avenger's hand would reach him. When man's time
Is come that he must die, a pin would slay,
One drop of water drown him.

Sir Marmaduke.
My sure friend,
Thy words refresh me: I do not dread death,
For I have dared it in its sternest shape;
But oh! if heaven smile not upon our cause,
I dread the weeping of your little ones,
The wailing of their mothers; that aged men
Should tell our tale, shake their grey heads, and say,
“They were valiant but not wise.”

Graeme.
This river side
Is a right lovely spot; here the spring sun
Aneath the grey trunk of that ancient tree
First gets his balmy cowslips. I've pulled here
Crowtoes, and violets, and the honey-suckle,
The brown ripe nuts, and sought the song bird's nest;
Each one is lovely in its own sweet season;
And all beneath this beauteous holly bough
I've said some soft words in a fair dame's ear.
(Trumpet sounds.)
He is night now. Lo! here the murderer comes.
Eternal one, make the keen edged sword
Fall sevenfold sharp.

Enter Halbert Comyne, Sir John Gourlay, Captains and Soldiers.
Sir John.
I had, indeed, a bootless chace, my lord;
I sought for Simon Graeme; but he was gone,
And gone arm'd, too. Upon his cottage roof
I threw the flame; his wife and children wail'd,
And old men cursed me: I shall find him yet;
That head of his is worth more gold to me
Than the sack of a rich city.

Graeme.
(Aside.)
Soulless villain!
So thou hast burn'd my little bonnie home.
Oh! where are ye, my children!—On my head
A price set, too! There doth the raven sit,
Shall have her fill of thee.

(Draws his sword.)
Sir Marmaduke.
Stay, stay, my friend;
I charge thee, stay; thy hot wrath will mar all.

Graeme.
My dwelling burn'd above my little ones!
He who hears this with a cool heart, may he
Howl in the hottest hell!—Lo! I am here.

Sir John.
Here, peasant, listen—canst thou tell me where
I may find Simon Graeme.

Graeme.
I'm Simon Graeme;
And thou art ravens' meat.

(Fight, and Exeunt.)
Comyne.
Here with your levell'd lances! strike me down
These clouted clowns, assail them on all sides;
Shall chaff like this uncharm me of my life?

(Fight, and Exeunt.)
Re-enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell and Captain.
Captain.
Home to thy plowshare, home!

Sir Marmaduke.
I seek thy lord;
See thou pluck not his peril on thyself.
(Fight, the Captain falls.)
My men are slain or scatter'd: I sought death,
But found it not. This murderer's life is charm'd,
For twice I strove to strike him with my sword.

Enter Another Captain.
Captain.
Yield thee, or die, for thou hast slain my kinsman.

Sir Marmaduke.
Twice hast thou come between thy chief and me;
Thou'lt never do it again.

(Fight, the Captain falls.)
Enter Mary Douglas.
Sir Marmaduke.
Alas! my love,
My star of glory is for ever set;
What can I do for thee.

Mary Douglas.
Fly! fly! Oh, fly!
Down in the greenwood, by the river side,
There is a wild path shaped by lovers' feet;
We know it well, my love. Thy mother there
Waits in the cavern for thee; haste then, haste,
For morning light will soon be on the hill,
And thy foes hunt for thee on every side.

(Exeunt.)
Re-Enter Simon Graeme.
Graeme.
I've hung his head for hawk's meat. Where, oh where
Art thou, sir Marmaduke? Heaven! have I chaced
The fox to death, and let the tiger range?
There are more signs, oh God, on earth than thine:
Hell has assumed thy sceptre: I've believed
A meteor pageant of the pit, and fought
Even for mine own perdition.

(Exit.)

SCENE V.

Caerlaverock Wood.
Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell and Mary Douglas, disguised as peasants.
Sir Marmaduke.
Now weep not, soft and gentle one, weep not;
These drops yon frozen heavens will not melt,
Nor will these sweet sobs blunt the chacer's sword,
Nor soothe that wild and agitated sea
Where we must soon seek shelter.

Mary Douglas.
I did hope
The hour was come when fortune's icy breath
Would cease to chill us; yet, my love, oh! yet
The wing'd destroyer's shadow 'nights our path,
On which no morn shall rise.

Sir Marmaduke.
My gentle one,
My stedfast love, what have we lost? here still
Is thy true love and thee; yon is the heaven,
And this the good green earth: come, smile again,
We yet shall find a home—a humble home,
Clad o'er with long marsh rushes; thou shalt sing
Songs of thine own love's making, and thy boys
Shall plait rush swords and sceptres at thy knee.

Mary Douglas.
This is a bright spot mid the darkness. Hark!
I hear the thunder muttering, and, lo!
The lightning shoots from Criffel to Caerlaverock:
Dost thou not hear a steed prance? Hark again!
Mercy in heaven, here comes an armed man!

Enter Halbert Comyne.
Sir M.
Look on that man, my lovely one; now look
Upon him well; he hastens on God's errand.

Mary Douglas.
'Tis Halbert Comyne; does not the ground gape?
And is the lightning idle when a fiend
Insults the heaven by cumbering the green earth?

Comyne.
Now I will seek that hoary hag; her lair
Lies not far distant: she doth seem to know
More of my fortune than mute stars may teach.
My soldiers rest them by the river side,
And wait the coming of the kindly sun.
Now I hold fortune's clay between my palms,
To mould it as I list. In my hand lately
Was my sword hilt alone: swift hath it hewn
My pathway unto fame; and its sharp edge
Some little princedom shall shape for me yet;
For civil war works wonders, and casts down
The meek and timid, and exalts the bold.—
But I am haunted by a fearful Shape,
A hated thing, which sharp fear forms of shadows;
Something that takes no known form, yet alarms
Me more than my worst enemy arm'd in proof;
A thing which haunts my slumbers; finds me out
In my deep dreams; in fiercest strife where blood
Is rife as rivulet water; in quiet peace
When rustic songs abound; in silent prayer—
For prayer, too, have I tried—still is it there!
Now, now, the dismal shadow glides before me,
More visible than ever. Phantom, stay!
I'll know thy errand: dark and doubtful thing
That hoverest round me as a cloud, darest thou
No nobler semblance take? By heaven and hell,
What fearful change! and yet I know thee not;
Thou nobler seem'st than him, and brighter lookest.
Fly from me, spirit, trouble not the earth;
Fly from the gleaming of this crossed steel:
And yet it flies not. If thou blessed art,
Why dost thou page the heels of wickedness,
And seek to herald hell? Away! begone!

Sir M.
O, thoughtless lassie, thou hast lost a dog
Worth half the dames o' the parish; he was fleet
As wind o' the mountain; faithful as yon star
Is to the grey o' the morn. Pleased I'll ne'er sip
My curdled whey again, nor breathe my pipe
To charm the corncrakes when the grain is green.

Com.
Cease thy wail, shepherd, and show me the way
To Mabel Moran's home,—a dame who lives
On shepherd's bounty, and repays their alms
By charming their hirsels from the fox's tooth.

Sir M.
I know the cummer, and her house is near.—
I'm but a plain poor man; I watch my sheep
An' play on the pipe,—full blythely can I dance;
And read the plowmen's riddles. Maidens smile
As I go by, and ask how many lovers
Yon horned moon shall bring them? When the wind
Shakes out o' the husk the yellow corn, I cry,
“Faith, I foretold you this.”—

Comyne.
Peace! peasant, peace!
Show me the way, and silence thy rude tongue.

Sir M.
Sir, I must talk, for I have other gifts
Which I will gladly teach thee. Pray, sir, pray:
You have a river deep and dark to cross;
No peasant passes it without a prayer;
So pray, my lord, I counsel thee to pray.

Comyne.
Who! what art thou? this alter'd voice—stand back!
I like not much thy words.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Throws off his plaid and bonnet.)

Com.
Since thou art stuff that can be tamed by steel,
Then, by my soul, thou art most dearly welcome:
I thank the fiends that placed thee in a peril
From which there's no escape.

Sir Marmaduke.
No more; no more;
If my sword spare thee, may my father's spirit
Spurn me from heaven, and may my soul be doom'd
To howl for all thy sins.

(Fight.)
Mary Douglas.
(Kneels.)
ye blessed spirits
Of holy men be present, save him! save him!
And make his sword for your avengement smite.

(Spirit of Lord Maxwell appears.)
Comyne.
Thou fearful phantom, art thou come again?
In hell there howls no shape could shake me thus;
So thou must be from heaven. What dost thou want,
Thou awful semblance of the unrotted dead?
Thy glorious presence robs me of my might.—
Sheathe thy sword, stripling, else I'll make thee mate
To this infernal shadow.

Sir Marmaduke.
Use thy sword;
I will not touch thee while thy point is turn'd
From me, and seeks to wound the silent air.

(Spirit vanishes.)
Comyne.
Then feed the worms; shall I be shamed with shadows?

Enter Lady Maxwell.
Lady Maxwell.
Mercy in heaven! I hear the sound of swords!

Comyne.
(Fights.)

Enter Simon Graeme.
Graeme.
Eternal villain, turn to me: God's cause
Requires but a brief speech.

(Draws his sword.)
Sir Marmaduke.
This cause is mine;
My arm shall work mine own revenge; I feel
My father's hand upon my weapon's hilt.

Comyne.
Rude churl, thou comest too late. That hand has stopt
My sea of greatness with a spade of earth.
Thou cursed fiend that trim'st men for destruction;
Thou caster down of noble spirits, that paintest
Their dreams with robes and sceptres; pluck me swift,
Before the hand of vengeance shakes me down
From mine exalted bough. Come not when gored
And spit upon I lie, the rabble's marvel;
Come, ere grey men their old heads shake and say,
“Behold what murder comes to.”

(Falls.)
Mary Douglas.
Oh! my love,
The shepherd's grey plaid and the rushy sheal,—
Earth has room for us yet.

Lady Maxwell.
O, my fair son!
Thrice blessed be that heavenly hand, that kept
That tender bosom from the murderer's sword.

Sir Marmaduke.
My honour'd mother! may the plotter never
Sunder us more. Bless thee, my fair, my loved one;
God's hand was visible here: Oh! my firm friend,
God walks his way in silence till his hour—
And then men hearken thunder.

Comyne.
Stand away,
And let me see them; gentle youth, come near,
Thou and that maiden. Woe be to thy bed,
May it be barren as the desart sea;
And should a baby bless thee, may this earth
To which my body's doom'd to add its dust,
Swallow thy darling up. O'er thy famed name
May dark dishonour come, as comes a cloud;
Dread of the dagger and the drugged cup
Frequent thy dreams; and may the sharp sword find thee
When thy joy's fullest, and thy loved one smiles.

(Starts up and strikes at them with his sword, and dies.)
Sir M.
All merciless and remorseless as thou lived'st,
So hast thou died. Let men no more put trust
In gentle carriage or in noble looks;
Trust kindred blood no more: let sharp suspicion
Haunt in the steps of princes.

Graeme.
Trust a spark
Of fire among swift powder; trust the dove
With the fledged hawk; the dog in the deer's den.
Shall we the pure earth poison with his bones,
Pollute the kindly sea, or hand him high,
To taint the wind and feed the birds of heaven?
Thou didst the proverb pluck from the horn'd fiend;
What art thou now?—a morsel for the crows.

Sir M.
He was a bad man, but he was a brave one;
Let him be buried as a brave man should:
We war not with his dust. My knee to thee,
Thou noblest pattern of connubial love.—
And wilt thou promise me, thou gentle one,
The gift of this white hand?

Mary Douglas.
Take hand and heart.

Graeme.
Now hang your bonnets on the horns o' the moon;
Make bridal fires, the fair dames of Dumfries
May braid their tresses by; the hour is come
The dumb shall sing, and crippled limbs shall leap.
With gallant horse-hair we will string our swords
And make our targets fiddles—the sweet voice
O' the pipe shall no more cease.

Sir Marmaduke.
My friend, my friend;
Let us not mock our sorrow in our mirth:
Woe is a wise man's livery. Our torn land
Even of its noblest and its best bereft;
My father's blood undry'd yet in his halls;
Ourselves scarce from extremest perils escaped;—
This is no time for mirth.