 | Thomas À Becket |  |
SCENE III.
An Alcove at the Labyrinth.De Clifford, in a chair, sick. Rosamond attending him.
De Clifford.
No, no, there is no hope, fond child! for me:
The sun of my life's day is in the west,
And shortly will go down!
Rosamond.
Droop not, my father!
Let not the heavy spirit sink the flesh
To earth before its time!—This journey sure
Hath shaken you over-much?
De Clifford.
Not it! not it!
I follow'd at full easy pace: the change
Took me so far from the grave-side at home;
That's all!—for here's another at my feet.
Rosamond.
Think less on Death, and he 'll think less on thee,
Dear sir!—There's medicine that the mind may minister
To the afflicted clay, its partner frail,—
A hopeful spirit!—'tis the best restorative!
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Who taught me the whole little that I know,
As art's choice secret taught me this. Look up!
Look on thy Rosamond, thy bower-maiden,
Look in her brightening face and learn its smile!
De Clifford.
I do look on thee—as my Minist'ring Angel,
That soothes, but cannot save!—And I do smile
To see thy vain dissembling with thyself
Of the sad truth thou know'st at heart—Now, now
Put up thy wings to hide thine eyes, and weep!
Rosamond.
I'll not believe 't! It can—shall, not be true!—
The king's physician will be here anon,
A learned leech who studied with the Moors,
He is infallible!—Meanwhile this air
Which keeps the woods so green, the birds so gay,
The flowers so blooming-fresh, must revive thee:
Doth it not breathe most dulcet o'er thy brow?
Full of most cordial balm, warmer, and friendlier
Than at the Cliff which overhangs the Ford
Where our bleak Castle stands?
De Clifford.
Ah Girl! thou wert not
Born there, nor reared, as I; else thou hadst loved
Those barren rocks like one of their young eagles!—
Bred up at Godstowe Nunnery hard by,
Thou, like the hunted coney, fain return'st
To thy old covert here, howe'er so fatal!
Rosamond.
I thought it might preserve thee at the least,
If none else.—O dear father! call me not
Cold-hearted to the cradle of my sires!
'Twas but in thy health's cause that I dispraised it.
How oft I've ranged o'er those far-sighted peaks,
Gazing as full-eyed as the mountain-roe
On the great prospect, feeding but on its beauty,
Rude pasture though it be! How long stood mute,
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Down by the stream who swallows his own roar
In his deep gorge, dread moat! which Nature delved
With course irregular round our fortress-hill.
De Clifford.
My cloud-hung aerie!—blank for every storm,
And baffler of it!—Ocean bursts to spray
On the firm rock, and so to hurtless showers,
Heaven's deluge upon thee!—You draw the picture
Featly, my girl!
Rosamond.
'Tis graven trait for trait
Upon my heart.—I'm a De Clifford too,
Though last, least, lowest! Even to girlish me
Stern Nature hath her terrible charms sublime.
De Clifford.
Better than these slight bowers!
Rosamond.
O far other!
De Clifford.
It warms my veins like spiced wine to see thee
Swell thy young throat as a sweet bird, and praise
Thy dwelling in the wilderness!—Go on:
Thou 'rt full of it.
Rosamond.
I see it now before me,
Rearing its bulk precipitous from the strand.
From crag to steepy crag the eye mounts up,
Although the foot may not, those giant stairs
Listed with verdure, fathoms aloft!
De Clifford.
A bow-shot
Full—at the least!
Rosamond.
Those air-suspended eaglets
Soar, far beneath the summit, and like rooks
'Gainst abbey walls, scream hovering at their nests,
Within its rifted face: Pines on its ledges
Waver like plumes; and yon small patch of briars
Like blustry mosses, sway in the wild wind
You cannot hear sing through them.
De Clifford.
O but they do
Whistle most shrill!
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Heightening the Cliff's tall front
Sits our huge Castle, like a crown of towers;
Their rugged coigns, grey jewels! in the beam
Smooth glittering; whilst o'er those battlements
Darker than thunderclouds, the warder 's lance
Peeps like a rising star!
De Clifford.
Ay, and my pennon
Upon the Keep itself?—
Rosamond.
Blazons the sky
With flickering hues, broad Streamer of the North,
And blends them with the rainbow's!
De Clifford.
As brief-lived
Will now be all its bravery!—Yet it brings
Me back some youth to think of my past days,
And my loved birth-place!—But I'm better here,
I am, my child!—Ay, ay, proud Clifford Castle!
Thou like thy master nodd'st unto thy fall,
And soon like him wilt moulder down to dust!
Rosamond.
Alas! alas! both may live long!—
De Clifford.
Proud fortress!
I have no son, no heir who can uphold
Thy feudal strength and grandeur with his own.
Thou 'rt but the changeful birthright of the winds
From henceforth, or their reckless tenancy!
Foul ravens will thy ruins hoar inherit,
The wildcat litter there, the Moon alone
With vacant gleam light up thy roofless hall,
Or smile, pale Lady! through thy lattices:
Along thy festive floors will reptiles creep
With slimy trails, and make vile sport in corners,
Sole revellers here! whilst the more brutish kind
Graze thy rank courts, or use thy stalls, which echoed
The war-horse neighing 'mid his amber corn,
As mangers bone-bestrewn and dens to rot in!
Rosamond.
Let's home, my father! let us once more home!
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De Clifford.
Noble Sir Warder!—
Fier-à-bras.
Greeting from the King;
Who promises, if business hold him not,
To sup at Woodstock Palace, and to-morrow
Visit De Clifford with his noble Daughter.
De Clifford.
We thank his Majesty. Save you, Sir Mottram!
[Exit Fier-à-bras.
No, thou soft-passion'd creature! thou self-sacrifice,
Still offering up thy life for those thou lovest,
We will not home again, because my follies
Forsooth talk louder than thy gentle wisdom.
The she-wolf shall not ravin my poor lamb
That would, too fondly, follow me to the wilds
From its warm fold,—and I o'er-weak to save it!
Thou camest here for my cause, dreading thyself
The insidious wiles of love more than of hate,
Henry than Eleanor: but listen, dear-one!
Whether I live,—as juggling hope suggests
To thy most cheatable affection,—
Some little time, or die—Nay, cease thy tears,
And listen: thou wilt have defender none
Against thy willing blood-quaffer the Queen,
Except his Majesty. Besides, me dead,
Thou 'lt be his Ward, and he can then enjoy
His will of all thou hast, in thy despite,
Thy lands, thy tenements, thy gold, thy jewels,
The virgin treasure of thy beauty,—all!
Such is the royal licence of these times,
At least if might makes not the right, it takes it,
Fatal no less to thee!—
Rosamond.
Then I 'll return
To Godstowe Convent, and give up at once
All, with the world,—except what I prize more.
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Receive their filial Novice back again.
De Clifford.
Novice in sooth thou art!—Each Convent, girl!
Is but a home-preserve of game for kings,
A coop where liquorish Barons fat betimes
Their fowls of whiter meat; and ruffian losels
Poach—when the glutted lord o' the manor sleeps!
Go not thou back to Godstowe: 'tis in vain!
The grating is no bar, the shrine no sanctum,
The veil itself to dead-cold Chastity
No shroud from violating eyes, no cyprus
Wherein her pure composèd limbs may keep
Their icy form and bloodless tint, untouch'd,
Unstain'd by sacrilegious hands! They would
Rifle a heaven-descended Saint, if tangible,
Who stood for adoration on the altar!
Rosamond.
I know the times are fearful.
De Clifford.
Better far
Than trust their lawlessness, trust to his love
Who has oft sworn thee his next Queen. Dame Eleanor,—
Besides that she might mother thee in years,—
Drinks a slow poison daily—enviousness!
Rosamond.
His Majesty, though generous, most sincere
Of purpose—
De Clifford.
Move not then, I say, his pride
By seeming doubt; nor stir and thwart at once
His hot desires by over-coyness. Be
Trustful, and thou wilt make him more trust-worthy.
Mine own ambition prompted me before
To weave the bond between ye, as a cord
Whereby to climb up silkily myself
Unto dame Fortune's chamber of intrigue:
But now my love for thee—my fears—my hopes—
Ambitious hopes for thee alone, my child!—
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'Twill be a cable to thy safest mooring
In the fierce storm which shall take up my dirge
And fill the land with sighs.
Rosamond.
What mean you, Sir?
De Clifford.
I am already half i' the other world
And catch a glimpse of fate!—It shall be so!
England will soon be rent from sea to sea,
And throne and altar slide to the abyss!—
Now lead me in, for I am faint and chill.
Rosamond.
O for this sluggard leech!—he crawls, though life
Is in his lips!
De Clifford.
And death too!—It will come
Quickly enough without him!
Rosamond.
He will give you
Wormwood, if you're so bitter. Come, you jest—
That 's well! There 's hope when the heart laughs,
Even though the brow be grave.—Lean on me, Sir!
[Exeunt.
| Thomas À Becket | |