Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem :: :: University of Virginia Library

Even now the moon rode bright in heaven, the stars
Gleam'd numerous, and in the cold blue north
The lights went starting; nor a breath of wind
Disturb'd the gentle waters. Grim as the pit,

Glooms now the space between the heaven and earth;
The stars are blotted out; and the mute surge,
That wooed so sweet the pebbles on the beach,
Gives its wreathed foam to dark Caerlaverock pines,
And to the darkness seems, as if a tongue
To speak of woe were given.

(Storm—thunder and fire.)

Dread heaven, I bow
To thy behest. Comes this storm but to fright
The desert air of midnight? or hast thou
Some fearful purpose in it? Hark! a cry!

(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.)