 | Faustus, A Dramatic Mystery ; The Bride of Corinth ; The First Walpurgis Night |  |
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STREET BEFORE MARGARET'S DOOR.
Valentine
(a soldier—Madge's brother).
Till now, as round the canteen hearth,
My comrades, in their drunken mirth,
Would of their favourites gaily boast,
And pledge with soldier's glee the toast;
How on my elbow I would rest,
Smile as each swore his own the best,
And stroke my beard, and raise my glass,
And when my turn to name the lass
Came round, would say, “Each to his taste;
In my own home my heart is placed.
Where is the maiden, any where,
That with my Margaret can compare?
Is there than Madge's in the land
A truer heart or fairer hand?”
Oh, then, how cups and goblets rang,
While voices rose with joyous clang:
“Right, right,” in chorus, hundreds cried,
“First of them all—the country's pride—
His sister is”—and dumb and tame
The boasters suddenly became.
And now—oh, I could rend my hair,
Could dash my brains out in despair;—
Now must I feel my bosom gored
By daggers in each casual word,
And every ruffian's sneering eye
And scornful taunt my patience try;
Gnawing my wrath must I remain,
And suffer and suppress my pain,
Nor dare say any word again;
As hears the debtor gibe and curse,
Who meets a claim with empty purse.
Avenge it—what can vengeance do?
Must I not feel the taunt is true?
My comrades, in their drunken mirth,
Would of their favourites gaily boast,
And pledge with soldier's glee the toast;
How on my elbow I would rest,
Smile as each swore his own the best,
And stroke my beard, and raise my glass,
And when my turn to name the lass
Came round, would say, “Each to his taste;
In my own home my heart is placed.
Where is the maiden, any where,
That with my Margaret can compare?
Is there than Madge's in the land
A truer heart or fairer hand?”
Oh, then, how cups and goblets rang,
While voices rose with joyous clang:
“Right, right,” in chorus, hundreds cried,
“First of them all—the country's pride—
His sister is”—and dumb and tame
The boasters suddenly became.
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Could dash my brains out in despair;—
Now must I feel my bosom gored
By daggers in each casual word,
And every ruffian's sneering eye
And scornful taunt my patience try;
Gnawing my wrath must I remain,
And suffer and suppress my pain,
Nor dare say any word again;
As hears the debtor gibe and curse,
Who meets a claim with empty purse.
Avenge it—what can vengeance do?
Must I not feel the taunt is true?
See yonder! sneaking out of sight,
Two skulking scoundrels.—Am I right?
—'Tis he—would Heaven that it were he—
He scarce shall 'scape me if it be.
Two skulking scoundrels.—Am I right?
—'Tis he—would Heaven that it were he—
He scarce shall 'scape me if it be.
Faustus—Mephistopheles.
Faustus.
See, in the window of yon sacristy,
How from its little lamp the constant light
Streams up—while, at the sides, less and less bright,
'Tis fading—till it dies in the thick night
That deepens round—and thus is it with me—
Darkness on every side around me spreads.
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And I—I am the thievish cat, that treads,
With stealthy and suspicious pace,
Up ladders and down leads,
Culprit-like creeping to the guilty place.
Already do I feel the power,
The fun and frolic of the hour;
The advent of Walpurgis night
Bids every limb thrill with delight:
Another night—another day,
And then the glorious first of May;
Then to the Brocken fare we forth,
Then learn that life is something worth.
Faustus.
Behold yon blue light glimmering!
Is that the treasure? Lurks it there?
And will it from the dark earth spring?
Mephistopheles.
Be patient—you shall shortly bring
The casket into open air:
I peeped into the secret hoard,
And saw the lion-dollars stored.
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What! merely money? who would think it?
What good is this? no ring—no trinket?
No ornament for the dear girl?
Mephistopheles.
Oh yes; there are some beads of pearl.
Faustus.
I am glad of it,—it is not pleasant
To go to her without some present.
Mephistopheles.
Is there then no such thing as pleasure,
But what you may by payment measure?
I differ there with you—but see,
The heaven is hushed, and full of stars:
Now for a moment favour me
With silence—while I sing some bars
Of an old song—a sweet old air,
Touched with true skill—a moral song
That lures the heart and will along.
(Sings to the guitar.)
Why, Catherine, stay
At dawn of day,
At dawning gray,
Before the younker's door?
The merry blade
Lets in the maid,
That out a maid
Never departeth more!
Beware—beware,
And guard, ye fair,
Your hearts with care.
Poor things, beware of men—
Oh, listen not to any thing
They may say, or swear, or sing,
Till in the finger is the ring—
Beware, say I again.
At dawn of day,
At dawning gray,
Before the younker's door?
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Lets in the maid,
That out a maid
Never departeth more!
Beware—beware,
And guard, ye fair,
Your hearts with care.
Poor things, beware of men—
Oh, listen not to any thing
They may say, or swear, or sing,
Till in the finger is the ring—
Beware, say I again.
Valentine
(comes forward).
What brings ye here? whom come ye to destroy,
Cursed rat-catchers?—to the devil with the lure—
To the devil with the scoundrels.
Mephistopheles.
Well done, boy,
The poor guitar is cracked beyond all cure.
Valentine.
Now for his skull.
Mephistopheles.
Now, Doctor, now's your time.
Courage—stick close—that's a brave fellow:
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Out with your duster—thrust away—
I'll parry.
Valentine.
Parry that.
Mephistopheles.
Child's play!
Easily done.
Valentine.
And that.
Mephistopheles.
As easy quite.
Valentine.
The devil assists him in the fight—
My hand is wounded.
Mephistopheles.
Now thrust home.
Valentine.
Oh, torture!
Mephistopheles.
The clown's done for—come,
We'd best be off—have not a minute
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Of murder raised—and although I
Know the police, and have friends in it,
This is a very ugly scrape.
To manage it in any shape
Perplexes me.
Martha
(at the window).
Up!—up!—
Margaret
(at her window).
A light!
Martha.
Railing and scuffling—how they fight!
People
(in the street).
One of them is already dead.
Martha.
Seize on the murderers—are they fled?
Margaret
(coming out).
Who is it—who?
People.
Thy mother's son.
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Oh God!
Valentine.
I die—said soon—soon done!
Women, why stand you wailing, crying?
Will you not listen? I am dying.
Margaret, take counsel, you are still
Young, and conduct your business ill;
I speak in confidence—you are
A strumpet—throw away pretence—
Be one in earnest—there were sense
In this—be one thing or the other.
Margaret.
My God! what can you mean, my brother?
Valentine.
Best let the name of God alone!
That which is done, alas! is done.
The past is past—the wretched game
You play is every where the same,
Begins in folly—ends in shame.
First one man visits—then, less private,
Another; soon the coy beginner
Will welcome all, till she arrive at
The streets, and is a common sinner.
That which is done, alas! is done.
The past is past—the wretched game
You play is every where the same,
Begins in folly—ends in shame.
First one man visits—then, less private,
Another; soon the coy beginner
Will welcome all, till she arrive at
The streets, and is a common sinner.
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When Shame is born, she shrinks from sight,
Draws over her the veil of night,
Trembles at every stir, and tries
Of hood and cloak the mean disguise,
Yea—unfamiliar yet with sin—
Would hush the warning voice within.
On moves she unobserved, unknown;
But bigger soon, and bolder grown,
Walks, hand in hand, the broad highway,
With Slander, in the eye of day,
And as her features, marred and coarse,
From hour to hour look worse and worse,
While men behold her with affright,
She stalks affronting the daylight.
Draws over her the veil of night,
Trembles at every stir, and tries
Of hood and cloak the mean disguise,
Yea—unfamiliar yet with sin—
Would hush the warning voice within.
On moves she unobserved, unknown;
But bigger soon, and bolder grown,
Walks, hand in hand, the broad highway,
With Slander, in the eye of day,
And as her features, marred and coarse,
From hour to hour look worse and worse,
While men behold her with affright,
She stalks affronting the daylight.
Already do I see the day,
When all, with loathing, turn away
From thee, as from a plague-struck corse,
I see the gnawings of remorse:
—Abandoned outcast of the street,
How wilt thou bear their eyes to meet?
Never, as once, the golden chain
To wear in pride—never again!
Never again, that fairest face,
To shine at church, in the high place,
And never more the dance to grace;—
No more in modest pride to deck
With frills of snowy lace thy neck;
But in some filthy nook to lie,
'Mong strumpets live—'mong beggars die;
And find, for thee, heart-broken one,
Though God has mercy, Man has none.
When all, with loathing, turn away
From thee, as from a plague-struck corse,
I see the gnawings of remorse:
—Abandoned outcast of the street,
How wilt thou bear their eyes to meet?
Never, as once, the golden chain
To wear in pride—never again!
Never again, that fairest face,
To shine at church, in the high place,
And never more the dance to grace;—
No more in modest pride to deck
With frills of snowy lace thy neck;
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'Mong strumpets live—'mong beggars die;
And find, for thee, heart-broken one,
Though God has mercy, Man has none.
Martha.
Pray, dying man, for mercy; dread
To heap God's curses on thy head!
Valentine.
Fiend, could I tear thy leprous skin!
Procuress! sordid slave of sin!
Then might I rest, my conscience freed
From every weight by that one deed.
Margaret.
My—brother—oh, what agony—
Brother, forgive—I grieve for thee.
Valentine.
Cease weeping thus for me: thy fall—
That was the sharpest wound of all.
Fearless I go—as fits the brave—
To God and to a soldier's grave.
| Faustus, A Dramatic Mystery ; The Bride of Corinth ; The First Walpurgis Night | |