 | Eliduke, Count of Yveloc |  |
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ACT I
Scene I.
An anteroom in the court at Nantes.Enter Walter and a Gentleman of the Court.
Walt.
What! does my lord still hold his own,
handling his honours with so lofty a grace that the best
of them show but as underlings? Does he flaunt it still?
Gent.
Of whom speak you?
Walt.
Good! as if I spake to thee of an earthworm.
Thy envy furnishes thee with a very fitting
semblance of ignorance. It was but of the Seneschal I
spoke; of him whom Fame hath made her foster-child,
and placed so high on the rock of noble reputation,
that having no higher to climb, 'tis marvel he grows
not giddy and falls not;—of him whom thou saidst
thyself, the King was but his gilded speaking-trumpet;
—of my right honorable and much-loved lord, Count
Eliduke of Yveloc. Do you know the man?
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Eliduke?
Walt.
Even Eliduke.
Gent.
When camest thou to court?
Walt.
I came not—I come now, my spurs hot with
riding.
Gent.
Ha!
Walt.
Ha! and be hanged! art thou turned cliptongue?
Thou wast wont to gossip like a lad among
ladies, and now thou screwest out thy words and makest
marvellous faces like a monkey sick of the heartburn. I
would hear news of the court, and learn what changes
since last I marred the honesty of my behaviour by
showing my face among you, and thou hast only, ‘Ha!’
and ‘Who?’ and ‘How?’ I would I had thee on the
rack.
Gent.
These are my news; mark them. Count
Eliduke has suddenly fallen into the King's disfavour,
who has shown himself as little temperate in his present
anger as in his former favour. The Count is expelled
from his office, stripped of all the King's castles and
honours, and bidden to confine himself within the walls
of his castle at Yveloc until his majesty's further pleasure
be signified.
Walt.
Thou dost but jest with me.
Gent.
Not I. But the main wonder is, that no one
knows the cause of this sudden disaffection of the King,
save those perchance who have had a hand in bringing
it about. Count Eliduke declares himself most
especially ignorant, and would fain clear himself in
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King absolutely forbids him his presence, and protests
he will never see him again; and though he be not
commonly given to stand long by his word, it will need
more time than ordinary to allay the heat of his present
indignation.
Walt.
And Eliduke?—
Gent.
Swears he will be heard, though it cost him
his head.
Walt.
By my sword, he says right, and the King
does his honour an injury to disgrace so noble a gentleman
without a hearing. Does no man plead for him?
Gent.
You are newly come to court with a vengeance.
Do men help their proud friends grown poor?
Walt.
Ay, sir, men do; I see thou wouldst dress
thy tongue, like thy leg, in the fashion of the hour,
and follow the cant of the day that virtue is extinct
among men. For God's sake, man, put not thy heart
in stays, cramp not thy faith in a tight boot; but believe
that there shall be found honour and gratitude
even amongst courtiers. Thou wilt thyself speak for
him.
Gent.
I would gladly, sir, do him any slight service
I could; for he was in his prosperity ever courteous
and well inclined towards me; but speak for him in
open court I may not; I should but lose my own standing,
nor render him any service commensurate to my
own loss.
Walt.
Thou dost well to distrust men; I perceive
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was but a measuring of men by thine own beggarly
rule. Is Lord Roland here?
Gent.
Should he speak for Eliduke?
Walt.
Ay, sir.
Gent.
Ha! ha!
Walt.
Laugh, monkey.
Gent.
They are sworn enemies. They were suitors
both to the same lady, and Eliduke married her, and
worsted him in duel. Should he plead for him?
Walt.
Fitter deed for a noble foe than an envious
friend. I'll to the Audience-hall; if a better tongue
speak for him, good; if not, mine shall be heard. Spare
me your company.
[Exit Walter.
Gent.
What a pestiferous, ill-bred, honest ruffian is
this! I think he means to insult me. I would I had
quarrelled with him.
Scene II.
Audience-hall in the Court at Nantes, crowded with Courtiers awaiting the arrival of the King. A knot of them conversing in front.Sanscœur, Milieu, Walter, and Philip.
San.
This Count has caught the taste of fear at last,
He will not come to keep his vaunt to-day.
Mil.
He were unwise to do it, sir. Reflection
Has taught him that to front the King in's rage,
Were but to quench his nigh-extinguished favour,
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Like an o'er-healthy child, dies in his cradle;
Whilst puling Prudence, sickly after birth,
Strengthens from hour to hour.
Walt.
You little know him;
This Prudence is a slave or nothing to him,
So closely twined to his first purposes,
That in their acting she becomes auxiliary;
Or if some impulse should have played the forger
With his hard will, then hot and malleable
By the quick flash of Anger, so that Prudence
Had lost her part i' the moulding, he would rather
Mar all than bar his once-conceived resolve.
Phil.
Do you speak this for praise? These mad resolves
Show not the tempered firmness of a man.
There is in him—
Enter Roland.
Is it Lord Roland yonder?
San.
Did you not look he should be here to-day?
Quick rumour hath arrested his glad ear,
Whispering the downfall of his hated foe.
He comes to help us scorn him.
Phil.
Chain your tongue!
And range your thoughts more nobly when you speak
Of one who is clear honour's best adornment;
Your heart's too weakly poised and narrow a base
To pile opinions of Lord Roland on;
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Is shadowed with the sweeping hand of Care,
And from his downcast eye pale Pity leans.
He mourns his enemy unjustly fallen,
And cannot stoop his high nobility
To stand upon the carcass of dead power.
True honour is its own best pedestal,
And scorns the piecing of a broken shaft.
Enter Eliduke.
Mil.
Look!
San.
Let him come; we need not budge for him.
Eli.
Give place, there!
Rol.
Place! do you hear, sirs? place for Yveloc, here!
Eli.
Do you mock me, sir? Well!
Rol.
Sir, I mock you not.
Chamberlain.
The King!
Enter the King with train, and seats himself.
Eli.
My liege, I kneel a suppliant at your feet
Fall'n from estate—
King.
Are you come here to whine
Like a whipt dog,—to howl your paltry griefs,
Your wrongs? Give place! I have no ear for you.
Eli.
I am no dog, my liege. These are your dogs,
Base breed of hounds that with their slavish cry
Have halloed me to death; these are your dogs,
That know no virtue but your favourite vice,
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With whom your reflex is best excellence,
And blackest evil your most opposite,—
These are your dogs, my lord, but I am none.
You are a king whose—
King.
Will he draw to close?
His tongue sits close i' the saddle. Well, my lord,
On with your set speech till it comes to close,
And then we too will speak. On, on, my lord!
Eli.
Hear me; I ask not favour, sire; I come
To plead my just cause in a kingly ear,
And from the native eye of majesty
To wipe suspicion's dust; and this to do
Lacks but the allowance of the breath you stifle.
If I have wronged you, let me know in what.
Have I sold offices? for silver bribes
Weighted the scale of justice? more esteemed
The chink of gold than the pale orphan's cry?
Betrayed your counsels to your enemies?
Played coward in the field, or in the chamber
Advised you to your ruin? If of these
Any the least hath sullied my demeanour,
Or proved me ingrate for the gifts you lavished,
Let me know which, and either I will clear
My unstained honour from a slanderous blot,
Or if't be true, which I protest I fear not,
I will confess it freely. Royal my lord,
This is a right your meanest slave might urge
With unbent knee and an unquailing eye,
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Kneeling, I do entreat it as a grace.
O summon up your regal attributes
And be a king, not ugly Slander's thrall!
If I have lost your favour, my dear liege,
And your less liking deems it now more fit
To clothe another in the garbs once mine,
I am content; but, O my gracious lord,
Take not away that which was never thine,—
My honourable title and fair name.
Strip, if you will, these outward decorations,
And leave me naked; but sole Nature's garb,
The skin of honour, peel not that away.
Say that my ruin is your sovereign will;
But do not hint at a concealed dishonour,
Which makes my fall due justice for my faults,
And each man's changing fancy my accuser.
King
(who has been whispering with his courtiers during Eliduke's speech).
What says the pretty one? will she stand a siege?
Eli.
I do demean myself to stoop so low;
This your contempt is most unkingly, King.
O pardon me! I that was ever loyal
Will teach my tongue no less observance now;
I will believe you have some cause for this
That may not show i' the surface. But for these—
Was't thou, or thou, that worked this wrong upon me?
Dare ye not speak? Look how the craven blood
Pales on their brows, and tells the trembling truth
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Scorn is too scornful to be spent upon you;
Contempt disdains to mark you. But there stands
One I thought noble, though mine enemy;
He too—
Rol.
Turn not your angry eye on me, my lord;
You do me much dishonour to believe
That I am mingled in so base a throng.
Here is my open hand, that holds my heart;
If you will clasp it, well; if not, content:
I do not sue to be your friend or foe;
But whether friend or foe, being wronged and foully,
As I believe you are, I dare well venture
To speak, though not for you, yet in behalf
Of injured Justice, whose bright properties
Are so essential to the hearts of men
We may as well endure to balk our sight
Of the bright sunbeams, and solicit dark,
As lose our part in her, and, unregarding,
Let tyranny seal up her fostering eyes.
I have no smoother title for this act
Than tyranny, nor do I care to find one.
I came to sue a gift upon my knee;
Now, standing on my feet, I claim a right,—
To me—to all, no less than Eliduke.
Favours are worthless, if I find I hold
My dearest honour only by the thread
Of a king's changing will. Either, my lord,
Front the fall'n count with his imputed failings,
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And take the name of tyrant.
King.
Sword of God! is there no fury in the face of kings
That may with its insufferable blaze
Burn up these mouthing traitors? do we sit
To be their block of scorn, to cower and bend
Beneath the ratings of their unreined tongues?
Hear, Count of Yveloc! If another week
Shall find you circled in our widest bounds,
Your head shall roll i' the dust for 't, and your blood
May cry to Heaven for justice; for, by God,
You shall get none of me. For you, my lord,
That stand upon punctilio of crime,
Leave your friend's faults and learn your own is this,—
You have a tongue that wags too saucily;
Till you have taught it measure, do not venture
To show your face i' the court, or you shall bear
Your new-made comrade exile's company.
Death! I am choked with passion. Lead away!
[Exit King and train.
Eli.
(to Roland).
My lord, I wronged you; will you pardon me?
You proffered me your hand, which I will take,
And dare affirm I ne'er touched one more honest.
Were I less deeply in your debt, fair sir,
I could make longer protestations.
But in my fallen hour your generous aid
Has more than emptied all my store of thanks;
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Entreating that we may be friends, my lord.
Rol.
I do at heart desire it. Let us not
Excuse the differences of former times,
But wholly sponge them from our memories;
And live from this day only.
Eli.
Nobly granted.
[They pass up conversing.
Re-enter Milieu, Sanscœur, and others of the King's train.
First Lord.
This traitor lords it yet.
Second Lord.
What infinite terrible scorn
Weighed down his eyelids when he chid thee, Sanscœur!
San.
Pooh! my good lord, such looks are little hurtful;
My sword had sent sharper glances to his breast,
And spoiled his boastful bearing, but my reverence
For the king's presence tied my eager hand.
First Lord.
Ay, and mine too. I was at point to tell him
I had a share in his well-earned dishonour,
And gloried in it; but 'twas better not.
Walt.
(passing through).
Ay, better not; for had you done so, sir,
You might have paid for 't dearly; better not.
San.
Why better not, save for our fear of the king?
Marked you how Eliduke withdrew just now?
There rode a sort of challenge in my eye,
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Walt.
I'll accept it.
[Eliduke and Roland come up.
Eli.
Walter, put up; he is not worth your arm.
Why, if you love me, tell me that your sword
Hangs on an exile's hip. Will you abroad?
I must have twelve of you.
Walt.
Let me be one.
Eli.
No service is more welcome. Fare you well!
Walt.
And none more gladly rendered, my dear lord.
Eli.
At Yveloc ere the week's out. Fare you well!
[Exit Walter.
Away! we would be private. Do you stand?
[Exeunt Sanscœur and Lords.
Rol.
You treat them shortly.
Eli.
Oh, they earn no better;
They are but sickly lichens that o'ergrow
The trunk of the court. You will accept this charge?
How heavily I lean upon your friendship!
I have heard say that generosity
Shows more in the acceptance than in the giving;
By this I am a better man than you,
Being such an adept in the begging art.
Rol.
But dare you trust me?
Eli.
Ay, indeed, I dare.
Rol.
I was your rival in your wife's affections.
We have crossed bloody swords upon that theme;
And though her nice-tuned judgment did detect
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O priceless jewel!—yet my steady heart
Wears yet her stamp, and till the wax itself
Crack in Death's fingers, will not be defaced.
Dare you hear this, and trust me?
Eli.
Yes, indeed.
Rol.
Then I'll be worthy your dear confidence,
Which daring to believe me true and noble,
Shall make me not the less so. I'll renounce
My former love, and teach my stormy blood
A steadier tide, which once was wont to choke me,
If I but brushed her garments. Now shall she
No longer be my mistress, but my saint,—
And thereto sits a sanctity divine
On her chaste brow, whose constant contemplation
Shall lead my soul to heaven. Castabel!
Now my fond love-words shall be turned to prayers;
Trembling love-glances shall be upturned eyes
Heavy with pale devotion; those thrilling touches
Of her white hand, turning the startled blood,
Be claspings of my own; and my hot passion,
Like turbid streams drawn by the sun's hot rays,
Exhale to clouds of reverence.
Eli.
Good my lord!
Rol.
She that from boyhood held my heart's deep chambers
I must at last surrender. Oh, be still!
Look! with a trembling action I uplift
The torch of passion—hold, my heart! and now
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In the cold stream of duty. It is over.
Now I am dedicate to Honour's train,
And Love has lost his sceptre. Shall we go?
It were but poor to say I'll keep her safely.
Eli.
You oversway me with your nobleness.
I thought you once unworthy Castabel,
But now perceive in you a deeper fervour
Than even I can boast of.
Rol.
Say not so.
[Exeunt.
Scene III.
A Hall in Eliduke's Castle at Yveloc.Blancaflor and Blanchespee.
Blanc.
What shall I do with thee, thou idle boy?
Blanch.
I care not; when will there be wars again?
Blanc.
What's that to thee? wilt thou turn man-at-arms?
Blanch.
No; but I'll fight o' horseback by my brother;
Eliduke promised I should ride with him
When next he went to fight.
Blanc.
And when will that be?
Never, I hope.
Blanch.
Never, indeed! Why, silly Blancaflor,
What should we men do if there were no wars?
Blanc.
Talk not of wars. Tell me a tale, good Harry,—
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Or Launcelot and gay Queen Guinevere,
False fair-haired Ysolde and true-hearted Tristan,—
Such tales as you would tell me in old times,
When we would sit half a long summer's day
In the old fir-wood, for our twisted fingers
Weaving each other rings of the long grass,
Which we would set with flowers for jewelry:
Daisies were diamonds; blue violets
Served for our amethysts, full fairly set;
For pearls, white may-buds; and for yellow topaz,
Most prized of all, the golden tormentil.
Do you remember those old happy days,
When you told tales, and both of us sang songs,
Our merry voices and quick-ringing laughs
Startling the stillness of the noon-tide air?
Blanch.
Oh, those were childish days. Well, here's a tale:
Once on a time, two mighty kings fell out;—
Why did my brother quarrel with Lord Roland?
Was it for Castabel?
Blanc.
I do not know.
Blanch.
Now you look sad, and so you always do
When I speak of Lord Roland. Yet I think,
Except my brother, he's the bravest man
Stands in all Brittany.
Blanc.
There's no man braver.
Blanch.
Then, why d'ye hate him? Why does Eliduke?
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I do not hate him.
Blanch.
Why do you look sad, then?
Blanc.
I do not know.—Come, this is foolish talk;
Tell me your tale.
Blanch.
Well, as I said before—
Ha! who comes here? a soldier, by his gait.
Enter Walter.
Sir Walter, as I live!—Welcome, good Walter!
Walt.
What, my young gallant, are you idling here?
Sitting in-doors when all the world's in arms?
Blanch.
In arms!
Walt.
O ignorance! our boats are manned,
Our armour's buckled, and our eager swords
Leap in their scabbards with the thoughts of war.
Blanch.
Whither away? Oh, I'll go with you too.
Walt.
To Cornwall, boy, to try a soldier's fortune.
Blanc.
He's jesting, Harry. Do we not know Sir Walter?
Walt.
Nay; it is true.
Blanc.
But Harry must not go.
Blanch.
Must not! I will!
Walt.
Had I a voice, thou shouldst.
Lord Eliduke comes close upon my heels;
Let's put it to him.
Blanch.
Ay!—look where he comes!
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Eliduke home again? where's Castabel?
I'll fetch her here.—Harry, thou shalt not go.
[Exit Blancaflor.
Walt.
To him, boy! thou shalt go.
Enter Eliduke.
Blanch.
O my dear brother,
Let me go with you!
Eli.
What! wilt thou go too?
Blanch.
O good my brother, leave me not behind!
Why, I can fight, believe me, I can fight,—
Can I not, Walter? and in all your toils,
As well I know we soldiers suffer many,—
Hunger and thirst, sharp frost, and beating rain,—
If ever I so much as say “'Tis cold,”
Or “I'm a hungered;” if I do but sigh,
Or seek compassion with a piteous look,
Whip me and send me home. Come, let me go!
Eli.
What say'st thou, Walter? must we take the child?
Walt.
I'd rather leave any two men of them
Than miss this boy.
Eli.
Well, Harry, thou shalt go;
But fetch your sword, and get you to the ships,
Or we shall have your sister's tender fears
Tying you fast at home. Away, good Harry!
Blanch.
O my good brother, I am bound for ever!
Alas, poor Flora! she will weep to find
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We shall come back again; shall we not, brother?
Eli.
Ay, if we be not killed.
Blanch.
And then she'll be
More glad to welcome an approved soldier
Than sorry now to lose an idle boy.
Ho! for the ships, good Walter! come,—away!
Eli.
Expect me, Walter, in some two hours' time;
Heave up your anchors, and have all prepared
To push from shore when I set foot on board.
Walt.
I will, my lord.—Away, thou prince of boys!
[Exeunt Walter and Blanchespee.
Eli.
Look, how the rolling world turns round and round,
And circumstance, life's busy scene-shifter,
Alters our aspects with a magic hand!
I, that was late the moving-spring of power,
Am now an exile; powerless, here I stand
Unpropped by state, and now am first a man.
Now has my soul stripped off her cumbrances,
And naked stands to try a fall with Fate;
Whom I contemn, because she cannot move me
To war against myself and lose my virtue,
The sole true loss.
Enter Blancaflor.
Blanc.
Welcome, good Eliduke.
Where's Harry gone?
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I greet you, gentle sister!
He is not here.
Blanc.
But was a moment since;
Walter hath taken him. Harry! good Harry!
[Exit, calling.
Eli.
Here's the true end of man,—to light within him
A clearer soul; and purging the dim vapours,
The clinging smoke that hangs about that fire,
To feed it with keen fuel,—contemplation,
High aspirations, piety, devotion,—
Till it becomes an offering fit for Death
To pluck and lay before the feet of God.
I am dismissed from fortune, that I may
Prove myself fit to cope necessity.
Vicissitude's the hammer with which Heaven
Tries its best-fashioned souls: like diamonds,
Being without a flaw, they'll stand the shock;
Being worthless, fly to pieces. I contemn it.
Rather like iron I'll become more tough
Under the doubling strokes.
Enter Castabel.
Why, sweet, in tears?
This is poor welcome.
Cas.
Oh, they are idle drops;
The sunshine of your presence dries them up.
Will you see Ned? he sleeps; his little brain,
That all day long has painted shapes of you,
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And little Mary,—oh, you must hush for that,
And you shall see her tiny crimson cheek
Set with a smile under her yellow hair,
That hangs over her dimpled arm outspread
On the white coverlet. But you'll be still?
Eli.
Oh, I'll be still. But do you know, indeed,
I am an exile?
Cas.
Why, there's not much in that,
Since in your presence, love, there's more delight
Than pangs in twenty exiles;—not much to me.
In exile I shall see you every hour,
Attend you, taste your accents, not as now,
By your most frequent absence at the court,
Live less like wife than widow. Oh, to me
Exile is precious.
Eli.
Sweet, this cannot be.
Cas.
How, dearest?
Eli.
O love, be calm; you cannot share
My exiled fortunes—must not go with me.
Cas.
Not go with you! Oh, here's a grief indeed.
Eli.
Indeed, indeed, love, no. Nay, do but think
How this your show of sorrow wounds my soul,
And you will check the flow. We have no means,
In our most hasty soldier-passages,
That could make life endurable to you
Who only know its comforts. Why, one night
Under the battering rain of stormy heaven
Would freeze the spirit in your tender frame.
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Arms, our best tools, with their sharp aid to win
Lodging and food; and failing oft in these,
Wander sad outcasts, fronting the keen wind.
It were to murder you to let you go.
Besides, even granting that you could sustain
Life in these toils (though so to grant were madness),
The scanty time admits no preparation:
I must away to-night; to-morrow's sun
Shines death upon me with his waking eye;—
And, heart, your children!
Cas.
O my little ones!
Eli.
Could they endure these toils, or could you leave them
In the cold hands of strangers, all alone;
Their pretty cheeks dabbled with rolling tears,
And for the sweet voice of your lullaby
Sobbing themselves to sleep the weary night?
Oh, no, indeed. Come, you shall stay with them,
And breed my Ned a soldier. Will you not?
Cas.
I will obey you. I will be calm. O me!
Eli.
That's my brave wife. Come; it will not be long.
This king can little spare me. While fresh Peace
Dandles him like a baby on his throne,
He can play insolent and cast me off;
But when red War rattles his iron teeth
And shakes his flag over the land again,
He cannot spare my arm,—I know it well,—
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Which I receiving with his pleading summons,
Swift as the swallow hung on autumn wing
Taking a homeward flight, will back return
Into thy arms, O darling! dearer to me
Than all the world beside. Come, love, smile;
Let us have soldiers' parting,—sweet and hasty,—
For I must straight away. Gallant companions,
Clustering the shore, blame this my slow delay;
The low-benched rowers bend; the ready sailors
Hold back their unreefed sails, like dogs i' the leash,
That ruffling in the wind do chide and growl,
Eager to chase the ocean. The keen steersman
Twirls with impatient hand the rattling helm;
And eager Haste hangs on the dipping prow,
Shaking her wings for flight. All but await
My coming, who do waste the busy moments
In lingering talk, and know not how to leave thee.
Cas.
So short a time! our meeting and our parting
Wrapped in the little space of half an hour,—
Great circumstance to be so closely packed;
A grief and joy, that in the common count
Might last through all the year, so quickly gone!
Eli.
You are not left unguarded. Lord Roland
Will in my absence hold you free from fear,
And with your best assistance keep my lands—
Manage and minister in my affairs.
Make him an honoured guest, and pay him all
Observance that becomes my dearest friend.
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Do you mean Roland that was once my lover?
Eli.
Is he not honourable?
Cas.
Oh, most truly!
But sure, no friend of yours.
Eli.
Tush! that's gone by.
We're closely knit in love. He'll tell you all.
Cas.
I am most glad to hear't. In such good hands
I better shall sustain the heavy weight
Of your long absence.
Eli.
I am well pleased to learn
You find such comfort in it. Sweet, farewell!
Cas.
Not yet, not yet! I cannot say farewell.
Clip not farewell so close. How long will't be
Ere I claim back this kiss? alas, perhaps never.
O dearest love, in your long wanderings
Do not forget your home-enthralled wife,
That, lost to comfort, counts the weary hours,
Clogging their flight with tears. O love, be true!
Eli.
Why should you doubt me? I must chide your fears.
Do I bid thee keep wedded faith unblemished?
Cas.
Bid me be faithful! Yet why should you not,
Since I enjoin it you? Faith, I'll believe
You are as strong in truth as I myself,
And then I need not doubt you. Oh, but I
Can feed my heart with thought and memory
Of your high excellence. You have no such theme.
You'll see new scenes, and light on fairer faces
Than that which pales at home; but none so true.
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Bred of a fickle heart, shall never thrust
His smoky glass between our constant loves,
By it's transmitted dark blackening all thoughts,
Turning all fair to foul, and trust to doubt.
Shaming mistrust, I will believe your love
Rooted in constancy and never fading.
Eli.
Build, love, on this,—that to forego the claim
I have in you, the priceless property.
Were like a child to fling a gem away
That I can never match. And now, away!
See, Night unrolls his banner, and ere morn
Break in the east I must be far from shore.
Would I might breathe in this your air for ever!
Cas.
Oh, linger not when an impatient death
Lurks on your trail so close. Haste, love, away!
Hang but another kiss upon my lips
For a most dear memento. God be with you!
Eli.
Kiss me the little ones; in your constant prayers
Remember me to Heaven. Fare you well!
[Exit.
Cas.
O scanty parting for so long a stay!
Oh, gone, and perhaps for ever! This dear hour,
That hung i' the future like a golden star,
Has burst in grief, and fallen darkling down;
The hour of welcome in the parting hour
Merged, and all joy in ugly absence whelmed.
My soul breeds sad presentiments of woe;
But it were weak to trust them. Thoughts to Heaven!
129
Teaches the tides their course,—Thou who dost train
The eager-footed storms, oh, chain them now!
Thou through the weary nights dost light the sea,
Tending the safety of the lonely sailor,
Sad waggoner of Ocean, who does drive
His winged team over the furrowed deep,
Safe in thy guidance,—oh, this night, if ever,
Spread out thy fostering hand and calm the sea,
Carry my husband to the distant shore,
And in time's circling flight bring him again
Unchanged from what he was! O heavy heart!
| Eliduke, Count of Yveloc | |