University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—NORTH OF THE HUMBER—INTERIOR OF A PALACE.
Enter Porreo and Enyon.
Porreo.
Thou art not his brother.

Enyon.
No—nor am I thine;
Yet I am more—thy friend: and if aught, short
The being born of the same parents, makes
A brother, the communion of our lives
Might authorize fraternal fellowship.
The rugged soil we trod from boyhood up—
The savage moors, the granite tors, the streams
That, from the vapoury mines, the surface trench,
Hills, dales, and rivers, with the barrier rocks
That coast the ocean, like to palaces,
Arches of triumph, columns of old temples,
The abodes of sea-gods, nymphs, and demon-powers—
These witness to our loves. By stone and circle,
Whether of sport or sepulture, and both,
I swear, and, by their memories, attest
The honour of my faith. A brother, quotha?
Would I have won from thee, while thou wert absent,
Thy heart o' the world?

Porreo.
Marcella! where art thou?

Enyon.
In Ferrex' arms—on Ferrex' nuptial couch;
Glad of the distance 'twixt the south and north—
They there, and Porreo here—a wifeless king.
Where else should be Marcella, who loved once
His brother, and now him? Days, weeks, and months,
Have passed—no tidings yet.—

Porreo.
Brother?—

Enyon.
Why, yes.
'Tis witnessed oft, our kindred are worst foes—
They have looked so closely and often on our faults,
All from the purest kindness to correct them,
At length they see them only, and thence see nothing
But what they should, and do, most heartily hate.

Porreo.
Ah, Enyon. We have not thus familiar been.

Enyon.
Then it is instinct in him. Ye were born
To show how brothers can abhor each other.
It is the fate of both—a charmèd sea,
Which ye would sin against the gods to stem,
And, if ye dare, will drown you.

Porreo.
Born such foes?
Videna's sons. Severe is she, not cruel.
Her tears might flow not—but her frowns would slay—

Enyon.
Thee;—not thy brother. Is it not avouched
He hath her love, her tenderness, and thou,
The majesty thou pratest of—the cold state—
The lip of scorn—the speech of apothegms.

Porreo.
Thou understandst her not. Like her, am I,
In many things—my fierceness and my pride—
Softened, in her, to matron dignity—
Hardened, in me, to man's austerity,
That will not be denied.

Enyon.
But love best loves
Dissimilars; and were it not so, justice,
Which thou hast said in her is paramount,
Votes for the eldest, and long household wont
Enforces equity, with sentiment
That preassures the verdict.

Porreo
(with deep emotion).
Out on it.
Alas! my feet are known not at their hearth;
My hands are strangers at their daily board.
There was no chamber set apart, no bed
For me was cherished in my father's house.
Evil grow on this evil.

Enyon.
Muse on this—
Partners, or rivals, now, in empire are ye?
Allies or powers opponent? Can ye trust
In one another? Can ye live in peace?
Be sure, that he already mans himself
'Gainst chance and peril, lest the half that's left
Follow the half that's gone—

Porreo.
Ha!—

Enyon.
And, perchance,
To win again the lost, which may be found
If vigorous search be made, and time should serve
The bridal of occasion, when the torch
Of Hymen shall show light.

Porreo.
It never shall.
Never shall he deprive me of my love—
I am resolved. Impetuous blood, boil on.
Throb, my big heart. Impatient brain, work—work—
And swell, my brows, to bursting agony.
Arms he? I'll arm. Occasion shall not wait—
Marcella shall be mine. She shall be mine;
I'll put the golden crown upon her head,
And make it all as glorious with her beauty,
As with its own. Then shall I reign—reign—reign.

Enyon.
Ay, now again I know thee.

Porreo.
Dost thou, Enyon?
And thou shalt know me better. In my soul
The sacred thirst of power hath appetite,
Capacitied at once. 'Tis as a gorge
In a ravine approached too suddenly—
I start in fear and wonder—but not long—
For there it is, and must be fed with horror.
Surprise and death brood laughing o'er the gulf;
It yawns—it shall be satisfied—though it swallow
Not my foes only, but myself. Come, death;
Come, hell and ruin; let but vengeance come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—OUTSIDE THE PALACE, as in Scene I., Act. I.
Enter Dordan and Philander.
Dordan.
I'll play the fool no more.

Philander.
The fool has lost
His lady-love, and so would lose himself,—
Become a monument on Beauty's grave.
The smith, her father, made of sterner stuff,
Grieves not like thee.

Dordan.
He has a task—I've none.
Jove, when he gave to every mortal man
His occupation, left the poet idle,
That leisure might bring wisdom. Shall he sigh?
Grave muses win no largess. Shall he turn
The laughing sage, or look more grave than sage,
That they who be no sages may laugh more?
They think him that same fool they make themselves.
It boots not—thriftless boon.

Philander.
Methinks this jest
Is far too serious.

Dordan.
Pupil mine, it is
No jest.

Philander.
Not meant a jest?

Dordan.
No, by my troth.
What said I? That the smith, my maiden's sire,
Hath occupation, still denied to me?
Yea, honour also. Even to-day the King
Will consecrate the golden crown he made,
And now will bear aloft, partaker in
The proud solemnity. I may not share it;
Excluded, as profane, from the dread temple
Even of the god who made me what I am—
Divine Apollo. But they know me not;
Know not the man within, that he without
Doth hide.

Philander.
Nay, take not on so.

Dordan.
What, and if
They knew him, 'twould be still the same. Yes, if
The poet in his loftiest attributes
Appeared, in small regard would he be held.
Shut from the temple? A time comes, when the poet,
Free-born of soul, the zealot shall prohibit
A niche i' the national temple for his statue.
An evil day for both.

Philander.
Grief for thy maiden
Hath changed to sorrow for thyself alone.

Dordan.
One grief has taken both, myself and her.
From court excluded first, and now from sanctuary,
No business for me in the world is left.
This second grief is parcel of the first,
Which first slew her. Though lowly was my place,
Still 'twas a courtly office, and, poor girl,
She prided on the courtier in the jester,
And pined herself away in the disgrace
Of his dismissal, fading day by day,
Until no bloom was left upon her cheek,
And the pale rose was withered with the red.

Philander.
She died of melancholy—so wilt thou?

Dordan.
Nay, I have made me business. Seest thou not
My travelling cloak is on? I've been a journeying—
I love my King, my country, and my God,
Howbeit neglected, or however wronged.
I've news—sad news for Britain. Now, my boy,
A bargain with you. Soon the palace gates
Will ope and let the long procession forth
That shall attend this day's solemnity,
The consecration of the golden Crown.

Philander.
What then?

Dordan.
I'll follow thee to the temple, though
Forbid myself to enter. Sooth to tell,
I'd rather wait without. Attend, Philander,
My motions at the gate. Be at the porch;
Should I absent me for a time, fear not,
But watch my coming back. What I've to tell,
Mayhap, shall much import.

Philander.
I shall obey.

Dordan.
Retire. The train come forth. The King, the Queen,
And all the court, adore the golden crown,
Though worth but half of what the iron swayed.

[Music. Enter, in procession, Smith bearing the golden crown, &c., as in the next scene, and then exeunt. Dordan and Philander follow. Loud music.]

SCENE III.

—THE TEMPLE OF APOLLO—the veil down over the statue and altar. Loud and triumphant music.
Enter, in procession, Smith bearing the golden crown, Dunwarro, Marcella, Ferrex, Hermon, King Gorbudoc, Queen Videna, and many others, with Philander. Enter a Priest to them.
Priest.
Here pause awhile, until it please the god
Withdraw the veil from his mysterious shrine.

King.
Priest, willingly within the antefane
Our progress stays. In reverence we wait
The leisure of the gods.

[Exit Priest.
Dunwarro.
'Tis wisdom's part,
O King, to cherish prudence. Wherefore this Delay?

Videna.
'Tis but a solemn ceremonial
To make the consecration seem more sacred.

King.
Videna, seem?

Dunwarro.
Your majesty says well—
Why aught that only seems? Gods, to my soul
All fraud is adverse, even pious fraud;
Though in the undisciplined, unsuspecting youth
Of the yet schooling world, advisedly
Promoted—but with years increases caution;
And manhood scorns deception as unuseful,
And insolent withal.

King.
Wise saws are these,
Dunwarro; whereto tend the same? for, sure,
There are no pointless epigrams from thee.

Dunwarro.
I hope not, good my liege. Time well I deem
Most sacred of all powers, nor would profane
Or idly waste his gifts.

King.
Speak thy conceit.

Dunwarro.
The oracle, my Lord?

King.
I would inquire,
As I have cause for doubt, if the division
Of empire be decreed as happily
To prosper, as 'twas honestly designed.

Dunwarro.
And they may fit ambiguous responses,
Not of the god, but pleasing to the King.
Such practice hath been witnessed.

King.
Hath it so?
And are there, Heaven, who minister thy temples,
Hirelings, in thine all-hallowed name, who trade
In falsehood? Sleep thy thunders? Have the clouds
Quenched the red lightnings in their treacherous folds?
Or sits a lie on the transcendent throne?

Dunwarro.
Truth sitteth there, whereto this knee doth bend
In lowliest adoration, as beseems.
But priests are men, and men are sometimes weak,
In virtue or in courage.

King.
In this strait
What counsel wouldst thou give?

Dunwarro.
Recall the priest,
And, with such questions as the god inspires,
In his own temple, test his honesty.

King.
Page, bid the priest return into our presence.

[Exit Philander.
Videna.
With pious trust I hold this caution needless;
Yet will await the trial, calmly sure
The god will vindicate his minister.

Re-enter Priest.
King.
Priest of Apollo, weighing well thy office,
As thou wouldst answer to the god himself,
Resolve me, whether, here, we rightly seek
What anxiously we pray for?

Priest.
Rightly—if
The truth ye would inquire—not flattery.

King.
How will the god reply to our demand?

Priest.
Even from the tripod which yon veil conceals,
With his great altar and divinest image.
—We but await a vestal to ascend
The sacred seat, then in her soul the god
Will enter and reveal the will of fate.

Dunwarro.
My daughter's even as such.

King.
Most true, Dunwarro.
White as the winter's is her maiden wreath—
As free from stain, as pure from evil touch—
Nay, as the tresses of the sun-god's hair,
Or as the very essence of his eye,
In radiance unpolluted, unapproached.

Videna.
And let the Queen speak in her favour too.
Chaste as the violet in the early spring,
Yet not I hope too early, though the earliest
Be aye the chastest . . . . chaste as they are young,
The sisters of the snow-drop lately dead.

King.
The god himself shall render proof of this.
Priest of Apollo, may she serve the shrine?

Priest.
Most surely, gracious King; while, on the altar,
The crown is consecrating, there she'll sit,
Awaiting inspiration; and that done,
She'll feel the god within her, and so speak.

King.
Fairly consented. Sweet Marcella, thou
Hast heard.

Marcella.
With trembling heart, yet innocent,
But awed with this great duty, I submit—
Both to my king's appointment, and my sire's.

Videna.
Heroic maiden, blessings tend on thee.

King.
Go bravely, with thy monarch's benizon
On thy young duteous head.

Dunwarro.
Thy father's, too.
Take her, right-worthy priest, and fit her, instant,
For this religious office. Now, if ever,
A guileless prophetess may challenge faith.

[Exeunt Marcella and Priest.
Videna.
Ferrex, my son, why standest thou so rapt?
Why gazest thus on her departing form?

Ferrex.
Half of my kingdom were well lost for her.
If thus the gods decree my recompense,
I grant their equity they vindicate,
In ample retribution.

Videna.
Hush, my son,
The place is holy; be it thine to wish
Thy brother had been present at this trial,
That heaven's own fire might cleanse his jealous breast,
When all the god glows in her.
—But lo, where
The veil unfolds.

[The veil draws up, and presents the altar and image of Apollo, with Marcella seated on the tripod. All kneel.]
King
(taking the crown and approaching the altar).
O fourfold sacred power—and yet most one.
Sole source of harmony, and (being one)
Prophet divine of truth, whose freedom is
The health of all the worlds, the light, the life
Of all the suns—far-shooting, arrowy god.
Thy fourfold holy benizon we pray
Upon the golden type of royal power;
And since of nobler metal than of yore
The mystic circlet shows, be that great thing
It represents more procreant of true glory—
The truth, the peace, the plenty, of the land.

[Disposes the crown on the altar—the Priest sheds incense upon it from a censer, saying—
With fourfold blessing be this crown
Enriched. God, shed thy blessing down.
Fear let it dart, to quench all strife,
Comfort to them, who love its life—
Truth in its beams most clearly shine,
And peace dwell in it, as in thine.
Marcella (rising, as if inspired).
The gods are wroth. Be this the token—
The iron crown shall all be broken.
They keep the golden for their own,
Till peaceful it shall reign alone.

[The veil drops before the altar and crown—the image and the Prophetess. All rise in alarm.]
King
(after a pause).
Doth no one speak?

Videna.
The gods—in yon pale missive,
Who enters now.

Enter Philander.
King.
Philander,—why so wan?

Philander.
The priest did bid me watch the temple gates;
When Dordan, all in haste, and casting from him
Impertinent speech, as 'twere a slough he tired of,
Or which the time tore from him, bade me in
With sorry news, ill-fitted for a jibe.

Ferrex.
With sorry news.

Philander.
Thy brother is in arms.

King.
Porreo in arms? 'gainst whom?

Ferrex.
Against his brother.
I knew it would be so. Return, and tell him
We are prepared.

King.
Prepared? The gods, indeed,
Are wroth, are very wroth. O Ferrex! Porreo!
Lift not your stubborn hands 'gainst one another.
Ferrex, behold thy father; pity him.

Ferrex.
I MUST defend myself.
(Crossing to Smith).
Smith—mark me, sirrah;
Thy sturdy hand must change its craft once more,
And work in iron—steel—the glorious steel
That flashes, like the sun-light, vividly
In the proud hero's eye. The bright sword, smith,
Thou must make sharp; the spear-head must be keen;
The helmet and the hauberk must be true—
For war hath put the clarion to his mouth,
And blows ere long the blast.
(To Hermon)
Now, Hermon, I design to profit well
By the gods' teaching.

Hermon.
Thou wilt trust to something
More stable than thy former good intentions.

Ferrex.
I'll take the means that worldly men like thee
Give warrant for. No more I'll walk in air,
But on firm earth. Be thou assured of this,
My faithless brother—that no more I lose
Kingdom or mistress, even unto thee.

[Exeunt Ferrex, Hermon and Smith.
King.
Must? It is true. What have I done amiss?
The horses of the sun have gone stark mad,
And reel along the heavens. Old earth reels too,
And all is out of balance. Have I drunken
The cup of madness in my lusty youth,
And with a grinding rule my people swayed?
The poor have I oppressed? Or thou, dread Queen—
Hast thou been false, and brought me for thy brood
The seed of wolves? O fool; it cannot be.
I read the proud reproaches of thine eye—
Videna, pardon. No, I am royal yet,
One of the line whose privilege it is
To be more wretched than the rest of men—
A crownèd misery.

[Falls into Videna's arms, supported by Dunwarro.]