University of Virginia Library

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.