The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott :: :: University of Virginia Library

SCENE—Inside of a dungeon, in a fortress on the coast of Norway. Bothwell sleeping. Rhinvalt gazing through a barred window on the rocks, and stormy sea below.
Rhin.

Splendour in heaven, and horror on the main!
Sunshine and storm at once—a troubled day.
Clouds roll in brightness, and descend in rain.
How the waves rush into the rocky bay,
Shaking th' eternal barriers of the land!
And ocean's face is like a battle plain,
Where giant demons combat hand to hand;
While, as their voices sink and swell again,
Peace, listening on the rainbow, bends in pain.
Where is the voice, whose stillness man's heart hears,
Like dream'd-of music, wordless, soft, and low?
The voice, which dries on Sorrow's cheek her tears,
Or, lest she perish, bids the current flow?

That voice the whirlwind in his rage reveres;
It bids the blast a tranquil sabbath keep:
Lonely as death, harmonious as the spheres,
It whispers to the wildness of the deep,
'Till, calm as cradled babe, the billows sleep.
Oh, careless of the tempest in his ire,
Blush, ruby glow of western heav'n! Oh, cast
The hue of roses, steep'd in liquid fire,
On ocean in his conflict with the blast,
And quiver into darkness, and retire,
And let wild day to calmest night subside;
Let the tired sailor from his toil respire,
The drench'd flag hang, unmoving, o'er the tide,
And, pillow'd on still clouds, the whirlwind ride!
Then, Queen of Silence, robe thee, and arise,
And, through the barr'd loop of this dungeon old,
Visit, once more, its inmate's blasted eyes!
Let him again, though late, thy light behold!
Soulless, not sightless, have his eye-balls roll'd,
Alike, in light and darkness, desolate.
The storm beat on his heart—he felt no cold;
Summer look'd on him, from heaven's fiery gate—
Shivering, he scowl'd, and knew not that he scowl'd.
Unweeping, yet perturb'd; his bed a stone;
Bonds on his body—on his mind a spell;
Ten years in solitude, (yet not alone,)
And conscious only to the inward hell;
Here hath it been his hideous lot to dwell.

But heav'n can bid the spirit's gloom depart,
Can chase from his torn soul the demon fell,
And, whispering, find a listener in his heart.
O let him weep again! then, tearless dwell,
In his dark, narrow home, unrung by passing bell!

[A long pause. Loud thunder; and, after an interval, thunder heard remote.]

The storm hath ceased. The sun is set: the trees
Are fain to slumber; and, on ocean's breast,
How softly, yet how solemnly, the breeze,
With unperceived gradation, sinks to rest!
No voice, no sound is on the ear impress'd;
Twilight is weeping o'er the pensive rose;
The stoat slumbers, coil'd up in his nest;
The grosbeak on the owl's perch seeks repose;
And o'er the heights, behold! a pale light glows.
Waked by the bat, up springs the startled snake;
The cloud's edge brightens—lo, the moon! and grove,
And tree, and shrub, bathed in her beams, awake,
With tresses cluster'd like the locks of love.
Behold! the ocean's tremor! slowly move
The cloud-like sails; and, as their way they urge,
Fancy might almost deem she saw, above,
The streamer's chasten'd hues; bright sleeps the surge,
And dark the rocks, on ocean's glittering verge.

Now lovers meet, and labour's task is done.
Now stillness hears the breathing heifer. Now
Heav'n's azure deepens; and, where rock-rills run,
Rest on the shadowy mountain's airy brow
Clouds that have ta'en their farewell of the sun;
While calmness, reigning o'er that wintry clime,
Pauses and listens;—hark! the evening gun!
Oh, hark!—the sound expires! and silence is sublime.
Moonlight o'er ocean's stillness! on the crest
Of the poor maniac, moonlight!—He is calm;
Calmer he soon will be in endless rest:—
O, be thy coolness to his brow as balm,
And breathe, thou fresh breeze, on his burning breast!
For memory is returning to his brain;
The dreadful past, with worse than woe impress'd;
And torturing time's eternity of pain;
The curse of mind returns! O take it back again!

[A long pause, during which he bends anxiously over Bothwell.]

Alas! how flutteringly he draws his breath!

Both.
My blessed Mary!

Rhin.
Calmer he appears—
Sad, fatal symptom! swift approaches death.

Both.
Mary! a hand of fire my bosom sears.—
Oh do not leave me!—Heavenly Mary!—years,
Ages of torture pass'd, and thou cam'st not;
I waited still, and watch'd, but not in tears;

I could not weep; mine eyes are dry and hot,
And long, long since, to shed a tear forgot.
A word! though it condemn me!—stay! she's gone!
Gone! and to come no more!

[He faints.]
Rhin.
Ah, is it so?
His pilgrimage is o'er, his task is done;
How grimly still he lies! yet his eyes glow,
As with strange meaning. Troubled spirit, go!
How threateningly his teeth are clench'd! how fast
He clutches his grasp'd hair!—hush!—breathless? No!
Life still is here, though withering hope be past;
Come, bridegroom of despair! and be this sigh his last.

Both.
Where am I? What art thou?

Rhin.
Call me a friend,
And this a prison.

Both.
Voice of torture, cease!—
Oh, it returns!—terrific vision, end!—
When was it? Yesterday? no matter—peace!
I do remember, and too well, too well!

Rhin.
How is it with thee?

Both.
Why wilt thou offend?—
Ha! all ye fiends of earth, and ye of hell,
I surely am awake! Thine angel send,
Thou, King of Terrors call'd, and break this hideous spell!

Rhin.
A tear? and shed by thee?

Both.
I breathed in flame;
The sleepless worm of wrath was busy here;
When—ah, it was a dream!—my lady came,
Lovely and wan in woe, with the big tear
To cool my fever'd soul. In love and fear,
O'er me she bent, as at the Hermitage,
When (maim'd in conflict with the mountaineer)
She kiss'd my wounds, while Darnley swell'd with rage;
Tears only! not a word! she fled!—and I am here.
She fled; and then, within a sable room,
Methought I saw the headsman and the axe;
And men stood round the block, with brows of gloom,
Gazing, yet mute, as images of wax;
And, while the victim moved to meet her doom,
All wept for Mary Stuart. Pale, she bent,
As when we parted last; yet towards the tomb
Calmly she look'd, and, smiling, prayers up sent
To pitying heav'n. A deep and fearful boom
Of mutter'd accents rose, when to the ground
The sever'd head fell bleeding! and, aghast,
Horror on horror stared. And then a sound
Swell'd, hoarsely yelling, on the sudden blast,
As of a female voice that mimick'd woe;
But, as above that hall of death it pass'd,
'Twas changed into a laugh, wild, sullen, low,
Like a fiend's growl, who, from heav'n's splendour cast,
Quaffs fire and wrath, where pain's red embers glow.

Do I not know thee? I'm forgetful grown:
Where did I see thee first?

Rhin.
Here, even here;
Thy ten years' comrade—still to thee unknown.
In all that time thou didst not shed a tear
Until this hour. Raving, with groan on groan,
Thou spak'st of more than horror, and thy moan
Was torture's music. O'er thy forehead hot
Thine hands were clasp'd; and still wast thou alone,
Brooding o'er things that have been, and are not,
Though I was with thee, almost turn'd to stone,
Here, where I pined for twenty years before
Thy coming.

Both.
Thirty years a prisoner!
Here, didst thou say?

Rhin.
Ay, thirty years and more.
My wife!—O never may I look on her!
My children!

Both.
Didst thou spill man's blood; or why?

Rhin.
I spilt man's blood in battle. Oh, no more,
Liberty, shall I breath thy air on high
Where the cloud travels, or along the shore
Where the waves frown, like patriots sworn to die!
I met th' oppressors of my native land,
(Wide waved their plumes o'er Norway's wilds afar,)
I met them, breast to breast, and hand to hand,
O'ercome, not vanquish'd, in the unequal war:
And this is Freedom's grave.

Both.
Freedom? Thou fool,
Deserving chains! Freedom?—a word to scare
The sceptred babe. Of thy own dream thou tool
And champion, white in folly! From me far
Be rant like thine—of sound a senseless jar.

Rhin.
Say, who art thou that rav'st of murder'd kings,
And dar'st, before her champion vow'd, profane
The name of Freedom? Long forgotten things
To my soul beckon; and my hand would fain
(Stung by thy venom) grasp a sword again,
In battle with these tyrants! Gone?—alas!
'Tis the death-rattle in the throat—his pain
Draws to a close. Again? Dark spirit, pass!

Both.
Lift, lift me up! that on my burning brain
The pallid light may shine! and let me see
Once more the ocean. Thanks! Hail, placid deep!
Oh, the cold light is comfort! and to me
The freshness of the breeze comes like sweet sleep
To him whose tears his painful pillow steep!
When last I saw those billows they were red.
Mate of my dungeon! know'st thou why I weep?
My chariot, and my war-horse, and my bed,
Ocean, before me swells, in all its glory spread.
Lovely! still lovely Nature! and a line
Of quivering beams, athwart the wavy space,
Runs like a beauteous road to realms divine,
Ending where sea and stooping heav'n embrace.

Crisp'd with glad smiles in ocean's aged face;
Gemm'd are the fingers of his wrinkled hand.
Like glittering fishes, in the wanton race,
The little waves leap laughing to the land,
Light following light—an everlasting chase.
Lovely, still lovely! chaste moon, is thy beam
Now laid on Jedburgh's mossy walls asleep,
Where Mary pined for me; or dost thou gleam
O'er Stirling, where I first, in transport deep,
Kiss'd her bless'd hand, when Darnley bade her weep;
Or o'er Linlithgow and the billows blue,
Where (captured on the forest-waving steep)
She almost fear'd my love, so dear and true;
Or on that sad field, where she could but look adieu?

Rhin.
Weep on! if thou, indeed, art he whose fame
Hath pierced th' oblivion even of this tomb,
Where life is buried, and whose fearful name
Amazement loves to speak, while o'er thy doom,
Trembling, he weeps. Did she, whose charms make tame
All other beauty, Scotland's matchless Queen,
Creation's wonder, on that wither'd frame,
Enamour'd smile? Sweet tears there are, I ween;
Speak then of her, where tears are shed more oft than seen.

Both.

Perhaps the artist might, with cunning hand,
Mimic the morn on Mary's lip of love;

And fancy might before the canvas stand,
And deem he saw th' unreal bosom move.
But who could paint her heav'nly soul, which glows
With more than kindness—the soft thoughts that rove
Over the moonlight of her heart's repose—
The wish to hood the falcon, spare the dove,
Destroy the thorn, and multiply the rose?
Oh, hadst thou words of fire, thou couldst not paint
My Mary in her majesty of mind,
Expressing half the queen and half the saint!
Her fancy, wild as pinions of the wind,
Or sky-ascending eagle, that looks down,
Calm, on the homeless cloud he leaves behind;
Yet beautiful as freshest flower full blown,
That bends beneath the midnight dews reclined;
Or yon resplendent path, o'er ocean's slumber thrown.
'Twas such a night—O ne'er, bless'd thought, depart!—
When Mary utter'd first, in words of flame,
The love, the guilt, the madness of her heart,
While on my bosom burn'd her cheek of shame.
Thy blood is ice, and, therefore, thou wilt blame
The queen, the woman, the adulterous wife,
The hapless, and the fair!—Oh, but her name
Needs not thy mangling! Her disastrous life
Needs not thy curse! Spare, slanderer, spare her fame!
Then wore the heav'ns, as now, the clouded veil;

Yet mark'd I well her tears, and that wan smile
So tender, so confiding, whose sweet tale,
By memory told, can even now beguile
My spirit of its gloom! for then the pale
Sultana of the night her form display'd,
Pavilion'd in the pearly clouds afar,
Like brightness sleeping, or a naked maid,
In virgin charms unrivall'd; while each star,
Astonish'd at her beauty, seem'd to fade—
Each planet, envy-stung, to turn aside—
Veiling their blushes with their golden hair.
Oh! moment rich in transport, love, and pride!
Big, too, with woe, with terror, with despair!

The quivering flesh, though torture-torn, may live;
But souls, once deeply wounded, heal no more:
And deem'st thou that scorn'd woman can forgive?
Darnley, thou dream'st, but not as heretofore!

Yet Mary wept for Darnley, while she kiss'd
His murderer's cheek at midnight. Sad was she;
And he, who then had seen her, would have miss'd
The rose that was not where it wont to be,
Or marvell'd at its paleness. None might see
The heart, but on the features there was woe.
Then put she on a mask, and gloomily—
For dance and ball prepared—arose to go:
“Spare, spare my Darnley's life!” she said—but mean'd she so?

Now bends the murderer—Mark his forehead fell!
What says the dark deliberation there?—
Now bends the murderer—Hark!—it is a knell!—
Hark!—sound or motion? 'Twas his cringing hair.
Now bends the murderer—wherefore doth he start?
'Tis silence—silence that is terrible!
When he hath business, silence should depart,
And maniac darkness, borrowing sounds from hell,
Suffer him not to hear his throbbing heart?—
Now bends the murderer o'er the dozing King,
Who, like an o'er-gorged serpent, motionless,
Lies drunk with wine, a seeming-senseless thing;
Yet his eyes roll with dreadful consciousness,
Thickens his throat in impotent distress,
And his voice strives for utterance, while that wretch
Doth on his royal victim's bosom press
His knee, preparing round his neck to stretch
The horrible cord. Lo! dark as th' alpine vetch,
Stares his wide-open, blood-shot, bursting eye,
And on the murderer flashes vengeful fire;
While the black visage, in dire agony,
Swells, like a bloated toad that dies in ire,
And quivers into fixedness!—On high
Raising the corpse, forth into th' moonlight air
The staggering murderer bears it silently,
Lays it on earth, sees the fix'd eye-ball glare,
And turns, affrighted, from the lifeless stare.
Ho! fire the mine! and let the house be rent

To atoms!—that dark guile may say to fear,
“Ah, dire mischance! mysterious accident!
Ah, would it were explain'd! ah, would it were!”
Up, up, the rushing, red volcano went,
And wide o'er earth, and heav'n, and ocean flash'd
A torrent of earth-lightning sky-ward sent;
O'er heav'n, earth, sea, the dread explosion crash'd;
Then, clattering far, the downward fragments dash'd.
Roar'd the rude sailor o'er th' illumined sea,
“Hell is in Scotland!” Shudder'd Roslin's hall,
Low'd the scar'd heifer on the distant lea,
Trembled the city, shriek'd the festival,
Paused the pale dance from his delighted task,
Quaked every masker of the splendid ball;
Raised hands, unanswer'd questions seem'd to ask;
And there was one who lean'd against the wall,
Close pressing to her face, with hands convulsed, her mask.
And night was after that, but blessed night
Was never more! for thrilling voices cried
To th' dreaming sleep, on th' watcher's pale affright,
“Who murder'd Darnley? Who the match applied?
Did Hepburn murder Darnley?”—“Fool!” replied
Accents responsive, fang'd with scorpion sting,
In whispers faint, while all was mute beside,
“'Twas the Queen's husband that did kill the King!”
And o'er the murderer's soul swept horror's freezing wing.

Rhin.
Terrific, but untrue!—Have such things been?
Thy looks say ay! and dire are they to me.
Unhappy King! and more unhappy Queen!
But who the murderer?

Both.
What is that to thee?
Think'st thou I kill'd him? Come but near my chain,
Thou base suspector of scathed misery!
And I will dash the links into thy brain,
And lay thee (champion of the can't-be-free!)
There, for thine insolence—never to rise again.

[He faints.]
Rhin.
Alas! how far'st thou now? Darkness hath chased
The dreadful paleness from thy face; thine eye,
Upturn'd, displays its white; thy cheek is laced
With quivering tortuous folds; thy lip, awry,
Snarls, as thou tear'st the straw; the speechless storm
Frowns on thy brow, where drops of agony
Stand thick and beadlike; and, while all thy form
Is crumpled with convulsion, threat'ningly
Thou breathest, smiting th' air, and writhing like a worm.

Both.

Treason in arms!—Sirs, ye are envious all.
To Mary's marriage did ye not consent?
Do you deny your signatures—this scrawl
Of your vile names? True, I do not repent

That I divorced my wife to wed the Queen;
True, I hate Mar; true, I scorn Huntley's bawl;
True, I am higher now than I have been—
And will remain so, though your heads should fall.
Craig, of the nasal twang, who pray'st so well!
Glencairn, of th' icy eye, and tawny hide!
If I am prouder than the Prince of Hell,
Are ye all meanness that ye have no pride?
My merit is my crime. I love my sword,
And that high sin for which the angels fell;
But still agrees my action with my word;
That yours does not so, let rebellion tell.
Submit! or perish here! or elsewhere—by the cord.

My comrades, whose brave deeds my heart attests,
Be jocund!—But, ah, see their trembling knees!
Their eyes are vanquish'd—not by th' tossing crests,
But by yon rag, the pestilence of the breeze,
Painted with villanous horror! In their breasts
Ardour and manliness make now with fear
A shameful treaty, casting all behests
That honour loves, into th' inglorious rear.
By heav'n, their cowardice hath sold us here!
Ha! dastards, terror-quell'd as by a charm,
What! steal ye from the field?—My sword for thee,
Mary! and courage for his cause! this arm
Shall now decide the contest!—Can it be?
Did Lindsay claim the fight?—and still lives he?

He lives, and I to say it. Hell's black night
Lower'd o'er my soul, and Darnley scowl'd on me,
And Mary would not let her coward fight,
But bade him barter all for infamy!
Dishonour'd, yet unburied! Morton's face
Wrinkled with insult; while, with cover'd brow,
Bravest Kirkaldy mourn'd a foe's disgrace;
And Murray's mean content was mutter'd low.
Pale, speechless Mary wept, almost ashamed
Of him she mourn'd. Flash'd o'er my cheek the glow
Of rage against myself; and undefamed,
Worse than my reputation, and not slow,
I left my soul behind, and fled in wordless woe.

Then ocean was my home, and I became
Outcast of human kind, making my prey
The pallid merchant; and my wither'd name
Was leagued with spoil, and havock, and dismay;
Fear'd, as the lightning fiend, on steed of flame—
The Arab of the sky. And from that day
Mary I saw no more. Sleepless desire
Wept; but she came not, even in dreams, to say,
(Until this hour,) “All hopeless wretch, expire!”

Rhin.
A troubled dream thy changeful life hath been
Of storm and splendour. Girt with awe and power,
A Thane illustrious; married to a queen;

Obey'd, loved, flatter'd; blasted in an hour;
A homicide; a homeless fugitive
O'er earth, to thee a waste without a flower;
A pirate on the ocean, doom'd to live
Like the dark osprey! Could Fate sink thee lower?
Defeated, captured, dungeon'd, in this tower
A raving maniac!

Both.

Ah, what next? the gloom
Of rayless fire eternal, o'er the foam
Of torment-uttering curses, and the boom
That moans through horror's everlasting home!
Woe, without hope—immortal wakefulness—
The brow of tossing agony—the gloam
Of flitting fiends, who, with taunts pitiless,
Talk of lost honour, rancorous, as they roam
Through night, whose vales no dawn shall ever bless!—
Accursèd who outlives his fame!—Thou scene
Of my last conflict, where the captive's chain
Made me acquainted with despair! serene
Ocean, thou mock'st my bitterness of pain,
For thou, too, saw'st me vanquish'd, yet not slain!
O, that my heart's-blood had but stain'd the wave,
That I had plunged never to rise again,
And sought in thy profoundest depths a grave!

White billow! know'st thou Scotland? did thy wet
Foot ever spurn the shell on her loved strand?

There hast thou stoop'd, the sea-weed grey to fret—
Or glaze the pebble with thy crystal hand?
I am of Scotland. Dear to me the sand
That sparkles where my infant days were nursed!
Dear is the vilest weed of that wild land
Where I have been so happy, so accursed!
Oh, tell me, hast thou seen my lady stand
Upon the moonlight shore, with troubled eye,
Looking t'wards Norway? did'st thou gaze on her?
And did she speak of one far thence, and sigh?
O, that I were with thee a passenger
To Scotland, the bless'd Thule, with a sky
Changeful, like woman! would, oh, would I were!
But vainly hence my frantic wishes fly.
Who reigns at Holyrood? Is Mary there?
And does she sometimes shed, for him once loved, a tear?

Farewell, my heart's divinity! To kiss
Thy sad lip into smiles of tenderness;
To worship at that stainless shrine of bliss;
To meet th' elysium of thy warm caress;
To be the prisoner of thy tears; to bless
Thy dark eye's weeping passion; and to hear
The word, or sigh, soul-toned, or accentless,
Murmur for one so vile, and yet so dear—
Alas! 'tis mine no more!—Thou hast undone me, Fear!

Champion of Freedom, pray thee, pardon me
My laughter, if I now can laugh!—(in hell
They laugh not)—he who doth now address thee
Is Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. Hark! my knell!
The death-owl shrieks it. Ere I cease to fetch
These pantings for the shroud, tell me, O tell!
Believ'st thou God?—Blow on a dying wretch,
Blow, wind that com'st from Scotland!—Fare-thee-well!
The owl shrieks—I shall have no other passingbell.

Rhin.
As from the chill, bright ice the sunbeam flies,
So (but reluctant) life's last light retires
From the cold mirror of his closing eyes:
He bids the surge adieu!—falls back—expires!
No passing bell? Yea, I that bell will be;
Pale night shall hear the requiem of my sighs;
My woe-worn heart hath still some tears for thee;
Nor will thy shade the tribute sad despise.
Brother, farewell!—Ah, yes!—no voice replies:
But my tears flow—albeit in vain they flow—
For him who at my feet so darkly sleeps;
And Freedom's champion, with the locks of snow,
Now fears the form o'er which he sternly weeps.
An awful gloom upon my spirit creeps.
My ten years' comrade! whither art thou fled?
Thou art not here! Thy lifeless picture keeps

Its place before me, while, almost in dread,
I shrink, yet gaze, and long to share thy bed.

[He retires to a corner of the dungeon farthest from the corpse, and there continues to gaze upon it in silence.]