 | Francis Beaumont |  |
Scene III.
—The prison.[Francis alone.]
Francis.
The garden plot, the little casement window,
The holly bush, the rose-tree and the vine;
And those two angel forms, that up and down
The gravel-walk so oft with gentle tread
Moved arm in arm, or bent them o'er the flowers
To watch their growth or prune the wither'd leaves,
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With anxious looks awaiting my return!
Why could I not be happy? Oh, my mother!
My sister! Still your voices I can hear,
Exhorting, comforting, persuading me:
And I was harsh and peevish with you both,
And yet ye ne'er reproach'd me! Soft ye were
And gentle as the blossoms of the spring,
And I have kill'd ye both! Your tender love
To me forsaken by the rest o' th' world
Was like a bright spot in the wilderness,
And I shall never never see you more.
Clara, thou best, thou truest-hearted one,
Thou like the bee that carols at her toil
Didst labour for the weal of those about thee,
And over all thou didst there hung a blessing:
But I must change the blessing to a curse!
I came and scatter'd poison in the path,
Turn'd all the sweetness of thy life to bane,
Thy cheerfulness of heart to shame and sorrow!
[The Tempter appears.]
Francis.
Detested phantom, art thou here again?
The Tempter.
Yes: I am here to aid thee with my counsel.
Francis.
What have thy counsels brought me to already?
The Tempter.
Blame not another for thine own misdeeds.
Francis.
'Twas thou didst set me in the path to evil.
The Tempter.
I did but show the way at thy request;
But thou didst rashly miss the road of safety,
And, like all blunderers, desirest now
To cast the blame on any but thyself.
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And therefore art thou come to scoff at me.
The Tempter.
Nay: thou hast lost but little, as I see.
Francis.
Life, honour, and good name; these are not much.
The Tempter.
I found thee calling lustily on death,
And death has heard thy voice; doth it repent thee?
Francis.
'Twas not a felon's death that I invoked.
The Tempter.
And thou didst crave revenge, and hast enjoy'd it;
But now perchance thou deem'st the price too dear.
Francis.
I reck not of myself: it is the shame
That follows; that will break my sister's heart,
And bring my wretched mother to the grave;
This is more dreadful than a thousand deaths.
The Tempter.
Thou wilt be hooted by the brutal mob,
And at thy sister men will point and say,
“The girl whose brother died upon the scaffold.”
Francis.
O horror, horror! is there no escape?
The rack, the torture, anything but this!
The Tempter.
Thou must thyself deliver thee.
Francis.
But how?
The Tempter.
Anticipate the sentence of the law,
And bravely as an ancient Roman die.
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Where can the means and instruments be found?
The Tempter.
Thy term of respite furnishes the means,
If thou hast strength and constancy to use it.
Resist the cravings of thy mortal hunger;
And ere the dawning of a seventh sun
Makes visible the darkness of thy cell,
Thou shalt be stretched upon this dismal floor
A corpse, and cheat the hangman of his office.
[The Tempter vanishes.]
Francis
(after a pause).
It must be so: I owe it to their love,
To make the dreadful sacrifice.
[Enter Clara.]
Francis.
My sister, can you bear to look on me?
Can you forgive a wretch, whose crimes have brought
Destruction on the heads of all who loved him?
Clara.
Ask pardon from above; you need not mine.
Francis.
I know, you come not to reproach me, Clara,
But I have done you wrong unspeakable:
And this, oh, this inflicts a deeper pang
Upon my guilty soul than all besides.
Clara.
Good, so 'tis order'd, out of evil flows,
Where it is rightly used. Oh, think on this—
Think, brother, ere the precious moments pass,
While there is time on earth.
Francis.
One earthly task
Remains for me: and you shall say hereafter,
That the last act of your unhappy Francis
Was what became a brother and a son.
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So 'tis a holy deed, I'll ever bless you.
Francis.
Clara, the guilty from his righteous doom
You could not rescue, nor 'twas meet you should.
But he shall rescue two beloved beings
From the last brand of infamy.
Clara.
What mean you?
Francis.
Were it not dreadful that your mother's child
Should perish by the hand of public justice?
Clara.
Alas, 'tis far more dreadful to deserve it.
Francis.
Oh, but the shame! 'tis horrible to think of.
Clara.
There is no earthly future for the dead.
Francis.
The shame will fall upon—but no! it shall not!
Hark to my words! I wait not for the hour
That calls me hence, but find a speedier way.
Clara.
Is this for our sakes, Francis?
Francis.
'Tis for yours.
Clara.
For ours, to bid defiance to your Maker
And rush from hence a rebel to His presence!
And can it be you love us?
Francis.
Yes, a love
Surpassing speech and deep as my despair.
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Revoke that fearful word, and know there's hope
For all who die in penitence and peace.
Oh, if indeed you love me, if you love
Her who has cherish'd both of us so fondly,
You could not leave us and resign the hope
Of meeting us again, of meeting there
Where those who love shall never more be parted.
Remember you when we were little children,
And knelt together every night and morn
Lifting our hands in innocence to God,
And lisp'd the artless prayer our mother taught us,
That we might go to heaven and both be happy?
Let it be thus again, and let us join—
Francis.
Alas, it is too late.
Clara.
'Tis never so.
We are God's children still, and he will hear us.
O Francis, all the shame, scorn, ignominy,
Distress, affliction, penury and pain,
All I can meet, endure, forget, regard not.
But for the dear companion of my childhood,
The partner of so many griefs and joys,
To quit this earth soul-harden'd, unbelieving,
Outcast from hope and happiness eternal—
'Tis agony to think of! Spare me this.
Have mercy on your sister, and so doing
You shall find mercy.
Francis.
Clara, dearest Clara—
Clara.
You weep: now heaven be prais'd! for those are tears
Of a relenting heart. Oh, let them flow
Free and uncheck'd: mine own are coming fast.
The spirit of our childhood wakes within us:
The sweetest of our early sympathies
Unite our souls again: oh may it prove
An earnest of the love that never dies.
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Our parent—you have spoken not of her—
Tell me—I dare not ask—
Clara.
The Lord in mercy
Hath put a veil between her and her woe,
That she is spared the misery of knowing
What 'tis divides you.
Francis.
Gracious God! And I
Have quench'd the light of reason in her soul,
And cast her unprotected on the world.
My sin lies heavy on me.
Clara.
In this world
She will have all she needs, all things but one.
She asks, speaks, thinks of you, of none but you:
And still they promise you shall come again,
And nothing else will calm or comfort her.
O brother, may that promise be fulfill'd,
When you shall see her in a happier world!
Then will the cloud which dims her human sense
Have pass'd away: may you behold her then
With brightness and celestial glory crown'd,
Among the heirs of light, in that blest place,
Where the remembrance of sublunar ill
Disturbs no more, but spiritual beings
Purged from the dross of earth, from sin redeem'd,
Holy with holy mingling, pure with pure,
In fellowship of joy like angels dwell.
| Francis Beaumont | |