University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Solway Shore. Night.
Spirits unseen.
Sea Spirit.
Hail, spirit; cease thy pastime—hillock high
Thy multitude of waters, till the foam
Hang in the hollow heaven. I scent the course
Of a dread mortal, whom ten thousand fiends
Herald to deeds of darkness.

River Spirit.
Come, my streams
Of fairy Nith, of hermit Clouden clear,
And moorland Annan—come too, gentle Ae—
And meet the Solway; and be loosed, ye winds
Which mock the proudest cedars into dust—
Come, mar his sinful course.

Sea Spirit.
Lo! now he comes;
I see him shoot through green Arbigland bay;
The smiling sea-waves sing around his prow,
Wooed by the melody, flung sweet and far,
From merry flute and cymbal. Lo! he comes;
Say, shall he go unchasten'd through our floods?

River Spirit.
His helmet plume shall drink my mirkest surge.
I have no lack of waters, such as smack
Of the world's corruption. I have secret floods,
Embrown'd with cut-throats' dust; waves tumbling red
With the gore of one whose hands were never wash'd
From the blood of strangled babes.

Sea Spirit.
Of every crime
That cries from earth to heaven, I have a stain;
So rise, ye surges. Are ye slow to rise
Against the homeward sea-boy, when he sees
Lights in his mother's dwelling by the foot
Of lonely Criffel? Rise, ye surges, rise!
Leap from the oozy bottom, where the bones
Of murderers fester—from the deepest den,
Where he who perish'd, plotting murder, lies;
Come from the creek where, when the sun goes down,
The haunted vessel sends her phantom troops
Of fiery apparitions. Come, as I call;
And come, too, heaven's wild wind. Pour the deep sea
Prone on yon ship that bears five unbless'd mortals—
Spirit, let us work.

SCENE II.

Solway Shore.
Enter Mark Macgee.
Macgee.
(Storm—thunder and fire.)
(Storm continues—Cries of distress from the sea; and enter from the surge Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, Neal, Hogan, and Dingwall.)

Comyne.
Now, Solway, let thy rudest billows dash
Upon the shore five fathom deep abreast.
Lo! here I am, safe on the green grass sod.

Dougan.
One foot length of this good rough ground is worth
A world of waters when the wind is loosed.

Neal.
This cold and cursed water chills my blood:
Confound thee, ravenous ocean, thou hast drank
My precious liquor up.

Dougan.
Be wise and mute!
Didst thou not hear wild voices talk i' the blast?
Didst thou not see dread sights? see horrible shapes
Shake gleaming daggers at us? All the sails
Seem'd changed to shrouds; uncoffin'd corses stalk'd
Visibly on the deck.

Comyne.
Hush, Hubert Dougan: fear,
Like fancy, fashion'd forth those godless shapes;
And our eyes, so imagination will'd,
Fill'd the ship with shapes terrific, and a tongue
Fearful and ominous lent the sounding surge.

Macgee.
Lo! has the storm spared these? or have the fiends
Forged them i' the war of elements, and sent
Their spectral progeny to fright the world
With ghastly faces? Speak! May a poor man
Call you God's mortal workmanship, or forms
Sent here to stir the dead with doomsday looks?

Neal.
E'en reeking from the nethermost abyss
Of darkness, I assure you. Man, hast thou
Got any drink for devils? Spare one drop.

Mac.
'Faith, thou mayst pass with holier men than me
For a fierce whelp of Satan's rudest brood.
The roughest fiend that wallows in the lake
Would start at these wild features, and would yell
And boggle at thy shadow.

Dougan.
Peasant, peace:
Nor let the terrors of a rough rude heart
Thus wrong an honest eye.

Macgee.
Has that deep sea
Not raised its voice against you? But I will speak.—
The Solway is a gentle sea, good Sir,
To men of gentle mood; but, oh! 'tis rough,
And stern, and dark, and dangerous, to those
Who cherish thoughts unjust or murderous.

Comyne.
How sweet the west wind courts this clover bank,
And breathes on one as with a maiden's lips.

Dougan.
My lord talks courtship to this pleasant land;
And it indeed looks lovely. Now thy helm,
Dinted with sabre strokes, must be unplumed,
And made a milkmaid's bowl: thy sword, so famed
For cleaving steel caps, as the trumpet sung,
Will make a damsel's distaff: and we'll hang
Our pennon, soil'd in the grim surge of war,
To scare the crows from corn.

Comyne.
Hush; keep thy blade
With a good edge on't. We may yet find work
Worth keeping a dirk to do.

Hogan.
Now, by the print
O' the bless'd foot of St. Patrick, I do swear
Peace is a pleasant thing: I quit acquaintance
With six inches of cold steel. Now I'll go seek
A special oak staff, and a good friend's head
To try its merits on. Friend, were this land
Nigh the green hills of Lurgan, it would have
A name worth asking after.

Macgee.
This land has
An ancient name—a proverb'd one for sweets
Of every hue: here at the brightening morn
A thousand homes all fill'd with happy ones
Send up their smoke to heaven. A thousand hinds
Furrow the fallow land. A thousand maids,
Fresh as unripen'd roses, comb white flax,
Press the warm snowy curd, or blythely turn
The fragrant hay-swathe to the western wind.
Here too ascends at morn, or dewy eve,
The melody of psalm and saintly prayer;
Nor lack we here song of impassion'd bard,
And saws of sacred sages. When thou paintest
A place where angels might repose their plumes
From heavenly journeyings, call it Caerlaverock,
So then the world may credit what thou sayest.

Comyne.
Ah, Hubert! well I know this ancient shore:
Barefooted 'mongst its shells and pebbles, far
I've chaced the lapwing. Fast too have I flown,
Nor fear'd the quicksand quivering 'neath my foot,
To match the rushing pellock with my speed:
No stone uplifts its mossy crown but brings
Of me some story with it; every hawthorn
Has got a tale to tell; and that pine grove
Could gossip things would glad the envious ear
Of wrinkled dames demure. Now twenty summers
Of burning suns, 'mid warfare's rough caress,
Have brown'd my temples since that soft breeze blew
That belly'd my parting sail.

Neal.
Look here, my lord;
Lo! here I stand, all dripping wet, and drench'd
In this same land of loveliness, and shed
The sea brine from me, like a tree on which
Rain has been newly shower'd.

Dougan.
Now, peasant, say,
Is there some rushy cot, or cavern, near—
Some hermitage, or vaulted castle old,
To whose hoar sides flame would strange lustre lend,
And save us from being frozen 'neath the moon
To winter icicles.

Macgee.
Yes, gentle Sir!
I know an old house—but it lacks the roof;
I know a cavern—but its mouth is shut
By an earthquake-loosen'd stone; a castle's near,
With vaults and arches vast, and grated walls—
But this rude river, by a sudden rush,
Has given a current to its marble floor
Where thou mayest float a barge. I know a cot,
A trim and neat one, with a fire that gilds
The polish'd rooftree; flagons too are there,
With precious aquavitæ: that cot is mine:
But, by yon moon, I see no aspect here
That's made to grace an honest man's abode.
To him who sent you, I commend you; a grim one;
Even him who hides his cloven foot i' the storm.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

Caerlaverock Wood.
Enter Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, Neal, Hogan, and Dingwall.
Dougan.
This seems some tower o' the fancy—its foundation
Flits 'fore us like a shadow.

Enter Mabel Moran.
Neal.
Who comes here?
A rude gray beldame come in cantraip time
To mount her ragwort chariot, and to quaff
Good wine with the pole star.

Dingwall.
My hoary dame,
I do beseech thee, keep thy foot on the sod;
There's forms to night i' the air, raging unloosed
From the flaming glen thou wot'st of, who might jolt
Thee from thine airy saddle, and would singe
Thy pike staff to a cinder.

Mabel.
Reaver Rob!
The wind that blaws thee here 's from a black airt;
Among my hen-roosts, thy two hands are worse
Than the teeth of twenty foumarts. Saul to gude!
His presence too be near us! Who art thou?

Comyne.
My good and reverend dame, we hapless ones
Have come from a far nook of foreign earth—
No midnight reavers we, but men whose swords
Were bared in God's high quarrel; we have felt
Rough weather on the deep, and seek i' the gloom
Lord Walter Maxwell's mansion. Wouldst thou trust
Thy foot i' the dew to show the path that winds,
Through planting, park and woodland, to the gate
Of thy lord's dwelling; I'll requite each drop
That gems thy hair, with a fair piece of silver.

(Offers money.)
Mabel.
Put up your gold, man—for the dark deep sea's
Too dread a place wherein to gather gold,
To scatter it in moonlight. So ye swam
For your sweet lives? And, by my sooth, that's true;
Ye 're dripping like the wing o' the water hen.
The Solway is a sinful flood, sweet Sir;
On many a fair face has it feasted: it
Has muckle dool to answer for.

Dougan.
I've heard
In foreign lands men call 't the bloody water.
Is yon Lord Maxwell's castle, 'mongst the groves
On which the moon is gleaming?

Mabel.
Three lang miles,
Weary and dark, through mire, and moss, and wood,
Have you to wend, and find no bigged wall
Save this poor sheal. But in the Solway flow
Ye'd better be to the neck, wi' Will o' the wisp
Shining aside you, than at my hearth stone
Sit till the morning. Ye'll have heard from the Turks
How Mabel's house is haunted. There came once
A gifted man—a soul's well wisher—one
Whom men call'd Shadrach Peden. In he came,
Wi' “peace be here;” and, “Dame, thou'rt sore beset
Wi' sprites of the sinful and permitted fiends.”
“Aye, well I wot that's true,” quoth I. He drew
A circle and a cross, and syne began
Stark controversy for a stricken hour.
But, Sirs, the fiends wax'd strong and fearful, and
The saint grew faint and frail. “Mabel,” quo' he,
“There's no perfection in flesh.”

Dougan.
Truce, holy dame:
Lift thy door latch, and let us have one hour
Of fellowship with thy fiends—feel the warm glow
So ruddy at thy window: I dread more
Pit-falls and darkness, than the pranks of spirits:
I'd liefer sleep wi' the arch fiend at mine elbow,
Than grope my way through moss, and mire, and flood.

Hogan.
I've had enough of dismal forms and faces;
For cursed shapes paced on the splintering deck;
And 'tween Arbigland and Caerlaverock bay,
Each wave seem'd rife with moans of dying men;
My sword caught drops of reeking blood upon it;
My hands smelt horribly warm with murder's work;
And I'll brave hell no more.

Dingwall.
Faith, I'm not one
To sit and sigh out prayers, and mournful psalms,
Aside this beldame's hearth, with a charm'd ring
Of wiseman's chalk to bound one from the fiends.

Neal.
Witch, hast thou got one cup of barley dew?
Or most unrighteous brandy? or one drop
Of meek and saintly sack? That cursed sea
Has turn'd my weazon to a thoroughfare
For its unblessed water.

Mabel.
What sayest thou
To a cup o' the rarest juice of bloomed ragwort?
Or bonnie hollow hemlock, stark and brown?

Neal.
Carlin! cursed carlin! keep such drink to cheer
Thy Hallowmass gossips.

Dougan.
Now, my sage good dame,
We leave thy gleaming hearth to trooping spectres;
We love not to carouse with such companions,
Nor shake hands with visionary fingers. So
This is the way, thou sayest?

Mabel.
(Exeunt Halbert Comyne, &c.)
Mabel Moran, alone.
(Exit.)

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.)

SCENE V.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Mark Macgee, Penpont, and Servants.
Pen.
Say'st thou, I love red wine better than water;
A rosy lass in hawslock gray, before
A hoary dame in satin and soft silk?
Thou skilful man in tarry fleeces—rot—
Murrain—leaping-illness, and red water;
Comrade to Tweed, to yarrow, Ringwood Whitefoot,
What sayest thou against the pastime sweet
Of lasses' lips.—Thou supperer on sorrow,
And diner on mortification—Scatterer
O' the bleeding members torn from scripture parable,
What sayest thou to wine and maidens' lips?

Macgee.
Now I must measure this fool-man his corn
With his own bushel (aside)
—I have much to say:
Thou turn'st thy back on the milk and honey vale
For the flesh-pots o' the heathen. Thou dost sleep
Where Satan spreads thy pillow;—thy salvation
Is in the larder and the vintage press,
And thy redemption in warm drink. Fear not;
The day will come when thou wilt have hot drink,
Hotter than lips can cool't; companions too,
Grim ones; rosie dames thou'lt lack not, nor
The fauns with cloven heel. There thou'lt carouse
With the plump and willing lady, who doth sit
O' the top of the seven hills.

Penpont.
Thou gifted lecturer
On the discipline of flesh, far hast thou chased
Mirth from the land; the twang of a harp-string
Has not been heard since holy Ramoth Gilead
Lift up his voice against the burning shame
Of satin slippers, and the soot-black sin
Of silken snoods. Now Mark, the wiseman, what
Sayest thou to this?

Macgee.
Aye, aye! thou lovest the pride
And vanity of flesh, and proud apparel,
Perfumed locks, bared bosoms, and the hour
For climbing to maids' casements, chambering,
And wantonness. All have not mired them so
In the lusts of life. Aye, aye! I mind her well;
Jane Proudfoot was her name; proud by the name
Indeed was she, and proud by nature, and
Own'd a rich voice that made a psalm note sound
Sweet as a sinful song. Aye, sore she tried
To catch me in the meshes of the flesh;
'Twas at a Quarrelwood-preaching, many a glance
Threw she on me; shook all her fine apparel,
Like a proud steed rein'd up both neck and eye;
Spread forth her painted plumage, and swam past
Wi' her beauty and her bravery. I sigh'd,
And read my Bible.

Penpont.
Seest thou this pikestaff?
Some thirty years ago it grew i' the wood,
A braw brown hazel, and has borne my weight
Since then to kirk and market—I would dibble it
Deep in the earth, and water it with the hope
Of cracking its brown nuts, had this fair dame,
Jane Proudfoot, thaw'd an icicle like thee.

Enter Mabel Moran.
Mabel.
Now, peace be here; Saint Allan be your watch;
Say, where is Walter Maxwell?

Penpont.
Conscience, carlin!
Hast thou been casting cantraips and witch-pranks
Neath the cold moon till a water-spout fell on thee?
Or hast thou sought the black-bear's dugs, beyond
The polar star, to lythe thy cauldron sauce;
Or pluck'd a drowned sailor from the bottom
Of Solway, for the tar beneath his nail?

Mabel.
Take thou this good brass bodle; hold thy tongue;
Did e'er thy wisdom bring thee so much gain?
Wilt thou prate still? do, if thy weazon 's steel,
And cares for no sharp knife. For they are near
Whose hands would choke thee, teaching men the charm,
To save the world from sinking. Let me go;
Else I shall freeze thee to a drop of ice,
And hang thee 'neath the moon.

Penpont.
Lo! woman, woman,
I care not for thee; in my bonnet stem
I wear a plant can make thy cauldron sauce
As harmless as new milk. For it was thou
Who sunk the boat, with many a precious soul,
Crossing the river for a cast of grace
At godly Quarrelwood. I know thee well.
Thou in the form of a fair youth beset
That saintly damsel, May Macrone, among
The green broom of Dalswinton, and made tight
The string o' her apron. And thou shook'st the Kirk
O' Kirkmabreek aboon sweet Shadrach Peden,
When, to the Galloway heathen, he cried, Clap
The fire o' hell to their tails.

Mabel.
Peace—hold thy peace—
And hold my staff till I seek Walter Maxwell.

Pen.
Thy staff! I'd sooner touch the brazen serpent
That drew the saints to sin. Go cast it down
Into that hot-pit o'er which thou'lt be hung
Till the buckles melt in thy shoon.

Mabel.
Hold my witch staff,
Else I shall turn it to a fisher rod,
And thee into a fiend, and make thee angle
Till doom i' the dub o' darkness.

(Exit.)
Penpont.
Fearful woman!
This staff of hers was cut what time the moon
Was i' the wane, and she works cantraips with it,
There's devilish virtue in it, that from the wisest
Can win their best resolves; can make gray hairs
Grow wanton; make a peasant beldame, clad
In hodan, seem a lady robed in silk
Wi' a sark of sneap-white holland. It should burn,
But tis no earthly fire that may consume it;
And it might turn me, by some cursed prank,
Into a wonder for the world to gaze at.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VI.

Caerlaverock hall.
Lord Walter Maxwell and Lady Maxwell.
Lady Maxwell.
Thou must not stand on earth like a carved saint
Which men do bow to, but which ne'er returns
Their gratulation.

Lord Maxwell.
Love, there is a voice
Still whispering, that all we love or hate—
All we admire, exalt, or hope to compass,
Till the stars wax dim amid our meditation,
Is but as words graved on the ocean sands,
Which the returning tide blots out for ever.
For I'm grown sick of the world's companionship,
Of camp and city, and life's pomp—the song
Of bards impassion'd who rank earth's gross dust
With things immortal—of the gladsome sound
Of dulcimer and flute—the corrupt tongue
O' the shrewd politician. O! for a rude den
In some vast desart—there I'd deem each star
That lumined me in loneliness was framed
To coronet my brows—that the bloom'd bough
On which the wild bees cluster'd, when its scent
Fill'd all the summer air, graced my hand more
Than a dread sceptre: and the little birds
Would know us, love; the gray and pleasant wren
Would hang her mansion for her golden young
Even in our woodland porch.

Lady Maxwell.
Thy country's woes
Have robb'd thee of thy peace—have pluck'd thy spirit
Down from its heaven, and made sweet sleep to thee
The bitterest bliss of life.

Lord Maxwell.
Is there a bosom
Full of a loyal heart?—Is there a knee
That seeks the dust at eve?—a holy tongue,
Whose orisons find heaven? a noble mind,
Whose pure blood has flow'd down through the pure veins
Of a thousand noble bosoms?—a brave man
Who loves his country's ancient name and law,
And the famed line of her anointed kings?
Oh heaven! give him swift wings: the sword, the rack,
The halter, and whet axe hold him in chace,
And make a den of Scotland, for the fiends
To howl and revel in.

Lady Maxwell.
But shall we sit,
Even as the dove does on the doom'd tree-top,
Until the axe strews to the weazel's tooth
Her young ones in their down:—shall we go cast
Life's heavenly jewel to the pit; and page,
With cap and cringing knee, him, match'd with whom
A murderer's hand is milkwhite, and the brow
Of a gross peasant smutch'd with hovel soot
The brow of an archangel?

Lord Maxwell.
Say no more:—
My Scotland, whilst one stone of thine is left
Unturn'd by ruin's plowshare—while one tree
Grows green untouch'd by the destroyer's axe—
While one foundation stone of palace or church,
Or shepherd's hovel, stands unmoved by
The rocking of artillery—while one stream
Though curdling with warm life's blood, can frequent
Its natural track—while thou hold'st holy dust
Of princes, heroes, sages, though their graves
Flood ankle-deep in gore; O, I will love thee,
And weep for thee;—and fight for thee, while heaven
Lends life, and thy worst foes are but of flesh,
And can feel temper'd steel.

Lady Maxwell.
Oh! had we here
Him thou so lovest, thy fiery cousin, he
Who would have heir'd thee had I not been blest
Above all hope in winning thee—he was
One bold in thought, and sudden in resolve;
In execution swifter:—Halbert Comyne,
Of thee our peasants love to talk, and draw
Thy martial aspect and thy merry glance
Among the maids at milking time. Yet they
Pause mid their rustic charactering, and cough,
And with a piece of proverb or old song
They close the tale, look grave, and shake the head,
And hope thou may'st be blest and bide abroad.—

Enter Mabel Moran.
Lord Maxwell.
Thou hast not come at this dark hour for nought:
What means thy hurried foot, and that sharp glance
That carries warning with it?

Mabel.
Bless thy kind heart—
This night as I stood on my threshold-stone,
Clear glow'd the moon, nought spake save the sweet tongue
Of one small rill—even as I stood and bless'd
Night's loveliness, a beauteous star was thrown
From heaven upon thy house, and as it fell
The moon was blotted out and darkness came,
Such as the hand might grope. What this might bode
Small space had I to ponder till the groan
Of one in mortal agony was borne
I' the rush o' the blast; with it there came a sound
Like Annan in its flood, and a dread fire
Ran on the ground. Amid the brightness came
Forms visible, their faces smear'd with blood—
And on their backs, a piteous sight, they bore
Thy form, Lord Walter Maxwell; from thy locks,
The locks that maidens loved, thick dropp'd the blood;
They bore thee to a visionary grave.
Ere thrice I bless'd myself, there came a wind
And swept the earth of this dread pageantry:
I stood rooted with fear.—Some mortal thing
I prayed that I might speak to, and straight came
Men through the wood—five stately men, who told
Of perils great they scaped from, and enquired
The footpath to thy hall. Now, Walter Maxwell,
Gird to thy side thy sword, and clasp the hand
Of those thou welcomest, with a glove of steel;
For two of these five mortals wore the looks
Of those dread ones i' the vision. Admonition
Comes as a dose i' the death-pang, if thou deem'st
I either dream or dote.

Lord Maxwell.
My sage good dame,
A cot I'll build thee neath my castle wall;
For that wild glen thou livest in yields ripe things
About the full of the moon.

(A horn is blown.)
Mabel.
There sounds thy doom—
Woe to thy house! And now, let the hoar head
Of him whose tongue was reverenced for sage saws
When I was but a baby,—the green youth,—
Like corn i' the shot-blade, when the staff of life
Is yet as milk i' the ear,—on whose soft chin
The beard's unbudded,—the matron in whose ear
Grandmother has been music,—the sweet babe
Whose tender lips hold yet the mother's milk
Uncurdled—haste! All, fly this doomed house—
I hear the death groans—lo! I see the dirks
Reek warm with murder's work—see! the blood drops
Thick dappling all thy walls—along the floor
Men stride in blood to the buckles, and grim throngs
Of fiery spectres welcome those whose veins
Are yet unsluiced with steel. I'll see no more,
But fly thy dwelling, though my footsteps lay
O'er acres of dead men—and I were paged
By all the fiends o' the pit. (Exit.)
(Horn blows louder.)


Lord Maxwell.
(Exit Servant.)

Enter Servant.
Servant.
My lord, a chief
Of martial mien, with followers four, scarce scaped
The raging Solway, seeks to be thy guest.

Lord Maxwell.
Give them my castle's welcome; bring them hither.

(Exit Servant.)
Penpont.
(Aside.)
Where's the dame flown to, whom the foul fiend loves?
Far famed is she for giving a rough guess
How the world will wag. Lord Maxwell speaks her fair,
'Tis well his part—the boy-lord ne'er had come
Wi' a scream to the world, except for her two hands—
She loosed five witch knots, and the sweet bairn came.
Aye, by my sooth, we'll see what comes of this;
Who deal wi' hags may dread a kittle cast.

Enter Halbert Comyne and his Companions.
Lord Maxwell.
Stranger, I give thee welcome, though thy visit
Should strike my castle's cope-stone to the moat.

Com.
'Tis spoke with noble heart. Could I cast off
The marks of many years of warfare rough
On persecutor's crests, the scars i' the front,
Won in the edge of peril—bid the sun
Wooe off his burning courtship from my cheek,—
Then wouldst thou clasp me, though my linked mail
Were wreath'd with crested snakes. Not know me yet?
Look on this good sword, 'twas a good man's gift,
I've proved its edge on plates of Milan steel.

Lord Maxwell.
My Halbert Comyne? mine own gallant cousin?
And this is thou? thrice bless thee, my brave Halbert:
And thou art safe? wounds on the cheek and brow,
No more—they say they were found in glory's walk.
Not know thee? thee I dream about, even thee
Whom I have borne so often on my back
Through the mirk pools of Nith:—thou'rt changed indeed,
From May's sweet blossom to September's brown;
And hast a voice for that of soft nineteen
Like to the martial trumpet. Welcome him,
My fair one; forth with the white hand that made
Me blessed: call my son; bring him, though he
Had won the love of some particular star
To his harp and poet song.

Lady Maxwell.
Welcome, thrice welcome:
The tongue of the land 's familiar with thy fame.
Thy name I might have learn'd to love, though it
Had ne'er pass'd waking lips. In deepest sleep
On thee my lord oft calls; and, with a tongue
That warns mid commendation, urges thee
From the chace of desperate steel—But now, more meet
Soft couch and cheer, than welcoming of lips.

Comyne.
(Aside.)
A wife and son! these are new sounds to me;
They choke my proud hopes in life's porch, and fill
My hand with my keen sword. I hoped to come
To heir this Nithsdale princedom; and I brought
Some chosen spirits from the wars to share
My fortune, and the fortune of the times.—
Fair lady, I have urged remembrance far,
(To Lady M.)
Yet nought so fair or noble can I charm
As thee from my mute memory. I sail'd,
Forsaking some proud beauties; but none fill'd
Like thee men's bosoms brimful of sweet love,
Nor charm'd the lads who wear gold on their brows,
To sue with cap in hand.

Lord Maxwell.
She was the pride,
The grace of Galloway; and she is mine.
But, gentle cousin, now refresh, repose thee;
And I will wooe thy ear to all the woes
That press now on poor Scotland.

(Exeunt.)