 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
Scene III.
—Another part of Falkland Castle. Enter Emmeline.Emmeline
[sings].
Death hath ta'en my child to nurse,
Yet he keeps his shrill small cry;
Death would choke him in his hearse,
Pat of earth his lullaby;
But my baby cannot rest
While the milk leaps in my breast.
Yet he keeps his shrill small cry;
Death would choke him in his hearse,
Pat of earth his lullaby;
79
While the milk leaps in my breast.
Death must come with famish'd mouth,
Draw the bubbling draughts away,
Ere he still the baby's drouth,
Turn the pucker'd lips to clay;
While the white drops trickle down,
Death will ne'er uncrease his frown.
Draw the bubbling draughts away,
Ere he still the baby's drouth,
Turn the pucker'd lips to clay;
While the white drops trickle down,
Death will ne'er uncrease his frown.
Come, then, Death, and dig a grave
At my heart's spring, ere it burst
Its twin-brimming fountains brave
At the wailing of his thirst;
Quiet in your arms he'll stay,
If you drain his life away.
At my heart's spring, ere it burst
Its twin-brimming fountains brave
At the wailing of his thirst;
Quiet in your arms he'll stay,
If you drain his life away.
[Enter Country Woman.
Woman.
Now sweet good soul ...
Emmeline.
I must not speak with you.
Woman.
'Tis pert for such as I to say a word;
But answer me one thing, good mistress, one,—
Have you not heard strange cries?
Emmeline.
I thought the birds
Were noisy; but 'tis clearer and distressed.
I've heard it many times.
Woman.
'Tis not the birds,
But a poor soul that's caged.
Emmeline.
A prisoner?
Woman.
Ay, mistress, an' they're clemming him to death.
If you could see him, mistress, look on him!
His hair is tattered like the yellow fern
On our December wolds; his cheeks—nay, hear!—
As snows in thaw are dwindled, an' he weeps.
He's but a youth, and, mistress, he's our prince.
Emmeline.
Then let us help him.
Woman.
I have ta'en him cakes—
You know how fine we make 'em, an' 'twas well
The prison-bars are close. I fairly quaked
To see his greed. But he is thirsty still.
Emmeline.
We'll take him drink.
80
Alas, the bars are close
Beyond all hope, poor soul!
Emmeline.
Can we do naught?
Woman.
I cannot, mistress ... but—
Emmeline.
You think I can.
I'm ready.
Woman.
But you never will forgive
That I should tell you—
Emmeline.
Do not frighten me,
Or say to me aught I must never hear.
What can I do?
Woman.
Give what you gave the child ...
I speak it not in lewdness ... but your milk
Is all the charity that God will grant.—
I'll go away.
If you should wave your handkerchief, I'll come
An' take you to the place.
[Exit.
Emmeline.
He is not pure.
None mention him with honour, and the woman
Who pleads for him hath lost her holy fame.
It may be she'd beguile my innocence,
And draw me into sin with pity's net.
But still it was not in her look or words;
For falsehood leaps not thus within the eyes,
Nor from the mouth springs forth; it ever comes
With tardiness and caution. She is true,
And then ... O woman's shrine on which God lays
A husband's faith and a babe's confidence,
White altar for Love's consecrated gifts,
Could Pity desecrate the pale retreat
Of modest wedded peace and motherhood?—
The milk is throbbing in my breast, to stay
The grief of hunger. Oh, I must not close
The fountain of God's mercy with rough pride,
For He will keep it holy, and the eyes
Of misery are pure. In our dread times
Of war and woe, too many are the veils
81
To stir my clinging wimple. I will go.
He had a mother once, and as her child
I'll think of him and go.—My handkerchief.
[Re-enter Woman.]
Woman.
The saints be with you!
Emmeline.
Take me where I go.
[Exeunt.
| The Father's Tragedy | |