University of Virginia Library

ACT FIFTH.

SCENE I.

A Room in a Country House.
Enter Isabel.
Isa.
Oh! all the troubles I have had through life
Are well requited, now that I have seen
My Gelon raised to such high dignity!
I never saw a morning sun so fair
As this day's sun peep'd through the feathery hoar
That floated on the air, in myriads borne,
Like shreds of silver.—Never did the noon
Of summer tide in all its richest hues,
With blossoms braided, and with odours fraught,
Kythe to my eyes so sweet as this short day,
Spangled with mountain shade and wreathy rime.
So exquisite my bliss, I have a dread
That short will be its durance.—Her young lord
I cannot throughly read, nor comprehend.
A mystic madness tampers with his brain;
But then his heart's so kind, I fain would hope
'Tis casual—an intemperance of the blood
That soon may be o'ercome.—Welcome to me,
My comely pair!—How thrives the marriage state?

Enter Lord Hindlee and Gelon.
Hind.
O, dame, I have no tongue to speak the half
Of that delight that thrills around my heart
From this uncensured and most joyful union.
My feelings all are subtilized and new;
I tread on a new world, and seem to move
In new existence.

Isa.
Long may it hold.—O, I foresaw this change!
My daughter, how say'st thou?—There seems a look
Of sadness mingled with thy bridal joy.

Gel.
I feel as one through darkness wandering,
Because she needs must go, or following forth
A dazzling meteor whither she knows not.
I know it will not—cannot come to good.

Hind.
Down with forebodings! they have rack'd my soul,
And so bewilder'd me, I scarcely know
The right from wrong, the real from the false.

Enter Ben.
Ben.
I give you joy, my lord—and you—and you—
Great joy unto you all!

Gel.
Is that a face
Bespeaking joy? You rather seem to come
On funeral errand.

Ben.
Pardon me, dame Gelon—
Lady I meant,—my news are heavy news,
Heavy to me, and should be so to you.
A time so flagrant and atrocious
I have not witnessed—My only friend—
My dearest Gemel—

Gel.
What?—What of Gemel?

Ben.
Is—is—he is—

Gel.
Thou weep'st.—What hast thou to unfold?
Say what of Gemel?

Ben.
He is gone and left us.

Gel.
Gone! Whither gone?

Ben.
Gone to that place where he shall never more
Have his kind heart broke by a selfish woman.
False, faithless, perjured woman! he is dead.

Omnes.
Dead!—Gemel dead?

Ben.
Yes, betwixt midnight hour and the cock-crow,
This morn he breathed his last.

Gel.
Oh, there is nought in this unstable world
But error and confusion!—Oh, my head!

Hind.
Be comforted, my Gelon.

Gel.
Never, never!
I fear that I have sinn'd against high Heaven,
And yet not known it.—Tell me how he died,
His ailment, and his dying words—say all,
That my distemper'd mind may have one draught
Of sorrow's bitterest cup.

Ben.
A strange mysterious sickness fell on him,
Which did betoken death, for from that hour
He boded it.—Ofttimes he talk'd of you,
For whom alone, he said, he wish'd to live,
And all his wealth bequeath'd to you and yours.
But when I told him you were wedded, that
Gave the last stab into his bursting heart.
He looked me in the face, and bade me not
Thus trifle with his reason.—When he saw
That I look'd sad, the truth burst on his mind,
Like some o'erpowering flash; deeply he sobb'd,
Turn'd his sad face away, and never more
Did he address a word to human ear;
But the last whisper hung upon his tongue,
Breathed forth a prayer for thy forgiveness.—

Gel.
Oh! lost for ever!—most unhappy bride!
How grossly have I err'd!—How grievously!—
How could I deem it was the will of Heaven?
Did Heaven e'er will a falsehood, or reveal
The will divine to enemies avow'd?
O, woe is me!—But I'll do more for him,
And his dear memory, than ever bride
Did for her lord.—Who ever loved as I did?
I ne'er loved man, and never will love man
But only Gemel.

Hind.
Hold, Gelon, hold!—No more!
I have heard too much.—Say'st thou this to my face?

Gel.
I think not of thee, nor of aught on earth
Save him that I have lost.—Woe to the time
When first I saw thy face!

Hind.
Is it then so?
That was a pang I wist not of!—Beware
Of its renewal!—I possess a heart
To kindness prone, but it has vehemencies
For which I'm not accountable.

Gel.
Fool! Blindfold and ungracious that I was!
Said'st thou he died uttering prayers for me?

Ben.
Yes, lady; I could hear him weep and sigh
So deep, that every throb seem'd to uproot
The tendrils of the heart. I heard him say,
“There is no truth on earth since Gelon's false!
“My Gelon perjured!—All her holy vows
“Cast in the face of Heaven for sordid wealth!
“Forgive her, father, I implore of thee!—
“My Gelon!—O, my Gelon! is there aught
“On earth I can deem pure when thou art false!”
Then did he turn his eye to the hour-glass
That nearly had run out, utter'd a groan,
And hiding in the coverlet his face,
He yielded up his soul—the kindest soul
That ever animated mould of clay.

Hind.
(Aside, much agitated.)
Perjured too!—
Perjured for wealth!—Oh, what a beast was I
To buy a venal carcass!—Peace! peace here!—

Gel.
Praying for me!—He died praying for me!
(Clasps her Mother.)
I'll clasp him to my bosom for't, and kiss
His pale cold lips!—My blood chills at my heart,
And darkness settles round me.—Oh!

(Faints.)
Isa.
My child, my child! O help!—Help me, my lord.

Hind.
Ah! what is this?—What can I do to help?

Isa.
Open these chests, and give me cordials forth
Before the vital spark for ever fly.

(Hindlee and Ben open one with a Key.)
Hind.
Here there is no such thing.

Isa.
'Tis in the next,—
Haste, break it open—break it all in pieces—
The cordials must be come at.—Oh, my child!

(They force open the next. Hindlee starts back and stands in fixed astonishment.)
Ben.
What is it that alarms you thus, my lord?
Here are the vials; haste, apply them, dame.

(They bathe Gelon's temples, &c. who recovers, but speaks the first sentence wildly in delirium.)
Gel.
Touch me not, Grimald!—
Avaunt, thou witch!—thou hag! thou lied'st to me!
May all the spirits that attend thy call
Tear thee in pieces!—Prostituted wretch!
Thy body his, thy heart can never be!—
Curse on thee, rank impostor!—
Pardon me—
I knew not what I said—Make me my bed;
And do it hastily, I pray thee, mother.

Ben.
My lord, you are not well.
Why look you thus?—What saw you in the chest
That troubles you? For if the pestilence
Had issued thence in blue sulphureous smoke
And seized your vitals, scarcely could your frame
Have been perturbed so.

Hind.
I'll have it all!
Yes, by the rood, I'll have the secret forth,
If this should open up a vent for it.
(Takes his Sword out of the Chest; Gelon starts and utters a cry.)
Ha! it affrights thee, does it? List to me,—
Here, as thy lord and lover, I entreat thee
To tell me truly how thou camest by this.
If thou refusest, by the Virgin's truth—

Isa.
Swear not, my lord; she is in duty bound—
She must, and shall obey you.

Gel.
Your threats I value not, nor yours, nor aught
That either can inflict.—But as it is—
I'm sick of life—Oh me, but this is strange!
Now I remember the eventful words:—
“Never, while life and breath remain,
“This sword and scarf must meet again;
“The hour thou givest this secret birth,
“It is thy last upon the earth.”
Lies, like the rest!—In this despairing mood
I'll make experiment.—Dost thou command?

Hind.
First, I entreat.

Gel.
'Tis only on command I can obey,
Then be the sequel thine.

Hind.
I do command then.

Gel.
'Twas in the linn, in the wierd womens' cot,
That I possess'd that sword.—I'll tell thee all:
I went, though half in frolic, yet with mind
Itching to pry into futurity.
But ah! the horrid rites I witness'd there,
And join'd in, were, I fear, most impious!
When these were at the full, just when I ween'd
Each moment that some beauteous fay would come
In human shape, into the cot you rush'd
In furious guise, and through an image there,
That, in my likeness, and in this array,
Stood roasting at the fire, you run this sword.
Then uttering words of most unhallow'd breath,
Forthwith you fled.—Here is the very gap
Thy sword made in this scarf which now I wear.

Hind.
So 'tis to thee and hell I owe the pangs
Of mind and body which I have endured?
Oh, such a night as that I would not pass
For bliss immortal!—Can I cherish then
The fiend that can inflict it at her will!
Thou impious wretch! so thou applied'st to hell
To gain this most unnatural aggrandizement?
But hell has cheated thee! Oh, tame would be
The soul would stoop to bondage such as this!
Throughout the very rent this sword once made
Again I thrust it—thus it is decreed!
Down with the sorceress! this for truth and heaven!
There—Go to him thou trusted'st.

(He stabs her—She falls.)
Isa.
O, rash unhappy man! what hast thou done?
My Gelon! Oh, my child!—Assist me God,
For this is more than human heart can bear!—
Thou maniac! O, thou most inhuman wretch,
What wilt thou next?—For pity's sake again
Strike here, and lay me with my only child.

(He heaves the weapon madly.)
Ben.
Hold, madman, hold! what dreadful mood is this?

(Ben disarms him—he makes no resistance, but stands in stupid apathy.)
Isa.
My hapless child! speak, is thy wound to death,
Or may the hand of skill avail thee aught?

Gelon.
Few moments I shall live—a very few.
The tide of life recedes, and soon must mix
With the dark billows of eternity.
Give me one kiss, my mother, ere we part,
And with it give thy blessing—We may meet
In other lands of calm beatitude.
Bless me, my parent, and I'll hope that yet
There may be grace for me—Though I have err'd,
It was in judgment—never from the heart.

Isa.
Bless thee, my child!—Could my weak vows and prayers
Or life-blood win one boon of heaven for thee,
They all are thine!—May he who framed thy spirit,
So soft, so gentle, that the summer breeze,
Even in its morning eddies, never was
More playful and more sweet, receive it back
Into his bosom!
(Gelon holds out her hand to Hindlee.)
Monster, see'st thou this?
Wilt thou not take that hand, and say farewell?

Ben.
Recal thy senses, sir; thou can'st not chuse
But take the hand thy victim offers thee.

Hind.
How can I?—See, thy frame is nought to it.
I take a hand in this!

(He looks unsteadily at his hand.)
Ben.
What, my lord?

Hind.
Note that same single finger,
See how it rounds and swells—there is no bound
To corporal magnitude.—A mast!—A pillar!
(Staring at his Sword.)
And thou art burning too, thou monstrous beam,
Thou goad of red-hot steel; the very blood
Is by thy fervency seared to a scurf.—
Oh, minister of vengeance, art thou come!
(Starts away.)
(To Ben.)
Peter, thou did'st not know that I was sent—
Sent!—Sent!—Yes, sent.—And over sea and land
I go rejoicing, knowing I am sent.
O what a glory to be sent abroad,
A mighty minister, to do, do, do!
And never to do wrong!—Though I take root
And grow up to a mountain, there would be
An energy remaining, still to do,
To work, work onward; move, move, move!
A living, an immortal agency!
O, it is consonant to being's end!

Ben.
I comprehend not this—Turn there thine eyes,
And if thy soul is human, shed a tear
O'er that mild form—Oh, can'st thou brook that sight?

Hind.
Oft have I witnessed that dismal sight!
It is not new to me!—for years and days
That scene has been familiar to mine eye!
That wound, that garb, these faces, and these looks!
Yea, this whole scene I've seen a thousand times.
Now it is done—What more!—Oh!
(Groans, and forces a hollow laugh—after a pause, he starts, and fixes his eyes on vacancy.)
Ha! thou too there!—poor hapless shade!—Go—go
Back to thy grave, the day-light will dissolve thee.
See it is done—What more hast thou to tell?
If more, say on—Perhaps thou too art sent—
There's two of them!—There's two of them!
There's two! there's two!

(Looks slowly at the Corpse and the imaginary Figures alternately.)
Enter Father Lawrence.
Isa.
O, Father Lawrence, thou art sent by Heaven;
We have much need of thee, for here hath been
Most grievous work—most foul, unnatural murder.

Hind.
Ah!—Who talks of murder?

F. Law.
What do I see!
O hapless wretch!—hath man's great enemy
Thus far got mastery of thee at the last,
As guide thy hand to perpetrate this deed?

Hind.
Deed!—what?—what deed, good father?

F. Law.
Whose is this victim? Hast thou slain thy wife?

Hind.
Wife! wife!—slain my wife!—
Must earth, and heaven, and hell, blab out that sentence?
Still that, and nothing else?
Why then 'tis well!—But see'st thou these, good father?
Speak to them—they too are sent.

F. Law.
Whom dost thou mean?

Hind.
Dost thou not see these pale and rueful forms,
How wistfully they fix their eyes on me?
There's pity in their looks!—O, speak to them,
And they will tell you the decrees of Heaven,
Which I am sent to execute—sent!—sent!
O, such a horoscope shall never more
Mark out a finite track!—It is the essence,
The spirit of existence!—Speak to them—
That pale and silvery cloud through which they look
Makes them appear more fair!
Go near to them, and speak, good father.

F. Law.
He is possess'd!—Mad as the raving storm,
Or chafed flood! Some demon is within.

Isa.
O, father, turn thee here!
Thy utmost influence with heaven we need!
Oh, would that memory and sense with me
Were steep'd in dark forgetfulness!—My child!
My loved, my only child! was it for this
That all my vows and prayers to heaven were breathed
For twenty happy years?—Was it for this
I nursed and rear'd thee with such anxious care?
For this I loved thee, kiss'd thy ripening lips?
And I must kiss them still, though now, alas!
They meet not mine as they were wont!
Yet to thy dust I'll cling, for it is all
I love beneath the heaven!

F. Law.
Bear hence the body.
We must go pray, for hell has been at work,
And hell, I fear, has agents nigher us
Than we divine. Let all the vale be warn'd—
This night we make our great appeal to God,
And leave the event to him.
(They bear in the Body—Father Lawrence returns.)
Come thou with me,
Thou hapless, hopeless criminal—Thy race
Of happiness on earth too soon is run!

Hind.
Run, did'st thou say?—Yes, I must run!
It suits not God's commissioner to stand
Till others come to chide him!—Peace be with thee,
For I have far to go to-night!—Think'st thou
That ever mortal was so highly blest,
So honour'd, so distinguish'd, to be sent?
Oh, how I'll bound like panther through the desert!
The flood shall part before me and the flame;
The sun of heaven shed coolness on my head;
The stars direct, the green wave bear me up—
Post, post to the eternal goal!—Who calls?
Here! here I am, the messenger of God!
Have with thee, spirit of motion!

F. Law.
(Holding him.)
Nay, stay with me—thou hast some work to do
Ere you wend forth abroad. Keep guard on him.

(To Hutchon.)
Enter Martha, Isabel, and Ben.
Mar.
O, holy father, hast thou no controul
O'er hell's insatiate emissaries here?
If thou hast not, our country we must leave,
For all is at their steps; and higher still
Their rancour grows. I have lost my only son!

Isa.
And I my daughter!

Ben.
And I the maiden of my heart, whom they
Have sore misled.

F. Law.
The fault is in yourselves;
The power they have is depute of your folly.

Ben.
Say thou not so: I have heard voices speak,
And seen the forms of men rise from the earth;
Nay, my own self in every lineament.
And from the wasteful robberies that have been
For years and days, I buy their firm assurance;
And though my flocks lie wide, my doors stand open,
And all my chests unlock'd, I never yet
Have lost the smallest item—think of that!
I sin in telling it, for I was sworn—
But none who pay to them are ever plunder'd.

F. Law.
But art thou sure of this?

Ben.
Most sure.

F. Law.
A new light breaks upon me!—I'll unmask
This scene of guilt and infamy ere long.
How many peasants have arrived for prayers?

Ben.
Ten goodly youths are here.

F. Law.
Let them be arm'd and watch around the cot;
If they should hear this call— (whistles)
—one half of them
Rush to our aid, the others guard the linn.—
Shepherd, go thou with me—we will salute them
In friendly guise, as if to gain some knowledge
Of these inscrutable marauders—This
May throw some farther light on our mishaps.

Ben.
Urge them to show their power—it is their pride;
And be thou witness what they can effect.

F. Law.
I take thy counsel—we must deal with them
In their own way—come thou and testify.

SCENE II.

The Witches' Cot.
Grimald, Nora, Maldie.
Grim.
Here is the blood from thy right arm,
Sign, seal, and rivet the charm.

Mal.
I would, but dare not, for I dread
In doing so, I do a deed
Not to be cancell'd or forgiven—
May I do this, and yet win heaven?

Grim.
Certes; think'st thou that we conspire
With spirits damn'd from home of fire?—
No, we consort with spirits free
From every bond, as thou shalt be.

Mal.
First I desire that thou wilt show
Thy power, what thou hast pledged to do.

Grim.
It shall be done—name thy request.
Whom would'st thou see?

Mal.
Call up the priest,
Whom most I dread and most detest—
If he is thine thou hast the rest.

Grim.
(Aloud, waving her rod.)

(A whistle without.)
Nora.
Hush!—Stop the rites—Whom have we hear?
Haply 'tis my familiar—Move not limb,
Nor tongue, nor finger, till I hearken him.

(She opens the door and screams.)
Enter Father Lawrence and Ben.
Grim.
Oh!—Oh!—Oh!
(Howls in ecstacy.)
We have won! We have won!
He is ours! he is ours!
The earth is our own.
(Changes her voice from an eldritch howl to a deep hollow tone.)
Spirit, we kneel to thee!
Sign, set, and seal to thee!
Laud to thy might,
Thy honour and right,
For the power is thine own
By the day or the night.

F. Law.
Art thou distraught, dame Grimald? prithee rise,
And let thy 'haviour similate to us,
Conversant only with humanity.

Grim.
I have thee! I have thee!
The world cannot save thee!
Nay—nothing alarm thee,
Here nothing shall harm thee;
But ah! should'st thou kick,
Thy heart how I'll nick,
And the arteries out of thy black bosom pick,
Till the core in its cover
My talons shall reach,
And the drivelling soul grin out of the breach!
Ha, ha, ha! ooh!

(Howls.)
F. Law.
Cease, cease—I take the risk. Thou art aware
That I deny your most redoubted power.
I come to be resolved of it, and then
I'll bow to you, and ask your aid and counsel
As others do—Can'st thou, by voice, or sign,
Or form of aught on earth or hell, advise
Who or from whence these nightly robbers are
Who harry us in every shape of man,
Yet never can be found?

Grim.
Priest—animal!—(for that's a name
Suiting the brotherhood you claim,)
Behind that hallan cast thine eye,
And note if living thing you spy.

(Father Lawrence and Ben, with lights, go behind the arras and return.)
F. Law.
No, nothing—Not a mouse is stirring here,
Nor room I see for one to enter it.

Nora.
(Drawing a Circle round them.)
Now stand you there.
I would not aught befel you in this place:
Swear therefore to me, not to move a foot,
Nor once attempt to stir out of this circle,
Whatever you hear or see, and you shall learn
That you desire.

F. Law.
I do—I swear.

Ben.
And I.

Nora.
Sister, call.

Grim.
Spirit—Spirit—Hitherward hie thee.
Where shall I turn me?—where shall I spy thee?
Come by the wind-hole like miasm swarth,
Rise like a fire-fly up from the hearth,
Or bore like a mould-warp out of the earth.
Come not like shepherd, nor come thou like shade,
Come not like elfin king, come not like maid,
But come like a hypocrite stately and slow,
Come like Priest Lawrence and tell what you know.
Mouly, Gil-Mouly, sly mouse of the mill,
Here-away, there-away, come when you will.
(A soft cadence of Music within.)
Oh! thou art come in music, art thou, spirit?
Then thou art but a voice to-night—a sound
Without the semblancy of frame or being.
Thou ever-changing modalist, can'st thou,
In this earth-born unelemental state,
Shape the thin air to words, or cadency,
That nature may expound? Or sing, or say,
Or mince in melody all that thou know'st
Of the mysterious plunderers of the vale.

SONG within.

F. Law.
Grace be my shield, but this is wonderful!
I have had proofs of secret conference,
Of most mysterious kind, held with a maiden,
Who shall be nameless here.

Grim.
Step forth, I say, thou freakish thing;
Why fear a face so grovelling?
Seest thou this priest of reverend fame?—
Step forth in garb and form the same.
See, I wave my magic wand—
Come, come, I thee command.

Enter one habited like Father Lawrence.
Spirit.
Why am I called?—Beware of me!
Of night and day count three times three,
And that thou hast shall pass away.
The word is given; note what I say.

F. Law.
Yes, I will note thee well.—Are we released?

Nora.
For one short moment stay, until we hear
The sound that speaks his flight.—
(Soft tones of Music within.)
Now go thy way.

F. Law.
Suffer me once again to look within,
That all my doubts may fade.

Grim.
Thou foolish wight!
Search for a spirit, sooth!—Search as thou wilt.

(Scene changes to a dark Closet.—Enter Father Lawrence and Ben, with lights.— They search. As they are about to retire, Father Lawrence observes a line on the floor. He kneels down and examines it, tracing a square with his finger. He makes a sign to Ben, who likewise examines it. Father Lawrence blows the Call.—Enter five or six armed Peasants.)
F. Law.
One guard the door—the rest force entrance here.—
Is the linn path belaid?

Peas.
Most closely guarded, sire.

(They force up a trap-door, and descend—Pause. —Cries and firing without.—Scene changes as before.—Enter Peasants, with two Robbers, guarded, one in the habit of Father Lawrence. —Father Lawrence and other re-enter from behind.
F. Law.
Now all the mystery is at once disclosed.
Within this cavern are deposited
The spoils of years—a motley countless spoil,—
Robes of the dead and living without end;
Coffins and cabinets—O, what a scene
Of guilt and imposition hath been here!
In these two thieves I trace the remainder
Of that cursed gang, that bold Egyptian race
Late banish'd from our land, and dear the forfeiture
To them shall prove.—How camest thou leagued with them?

Grim.
I leagued with them!—No! nor with aught
That e'er with sense, or sordid flesh and blood
Fester'd the face of nature.—I leagued with them!
Poh! morbid wart!

F. Law.
Declare if this be true. Is she not leagued
In your infernal policy and fraud?

Nora.
With us she is not leagued.—These three long years
That crazed unnatural thing hath been to us
A source of wealth.—Full oft have these my sons
Arisen from out that cave, in garb and guise
By her called up, till she believed that all
The spirits of the air and nether world
Came at her bidding: Yet I needs must own,
That human beings at her call have come;
Some strange events by her have been forespoke;
And, poor, deranged, and hagard as she is,
She hath seen better days; for sore mishap
Hath made of her a prey, therefore I deem
Her sold to Satan, and her witching powers
Unknown even to herself—This is the truth.
Let us go free, and we these haunts beloved
Will leave, and never more revisit them;
But should you give us up to justice, I
Have sons and true associates who will wreak
Vengeance upon you, even to fire and blood.

F. Law.
That be our care to avert—Lead them away
To justice—And for thee, wild hellish crone,
Though duped, thou hast a most malignant heart,
And hatred of all good—Thy curses now
Return upon thyself, for thou shalt see
A Cross of Leader such a sacrifice
Of human nature in depravity,
As Scotland hath not seen.

Grim.
Ay, lead me there, and prove your impotence
To scathe one single hair of these grey locks.
Cart me to hall of justice—to the stake—
Load me with fetters, chain this faded frame
To rock of adamant—Your faggots pile
High as the Eldon—Squeeze the heaven and earth
Together for a bellows to the flame—
O, I'll raise those from out the spider's nest,
Or from the bluart's eye, will scatter you,
And set the prisoner free!—I duped by you!
Ha! ha! The arbitress of angels duped!
Fardels of rank corruption!—Oh, to move
The overthrow of nature, the support
Of such incarnate dross!—I'll call on it.—
I'll order't to be done.—Tremble, ye weeds!
Ye garbage of existence!—for your hour
Draws on apace—I saw it blazon'd red
Upon the dial of heaven, and the hand,
The pointer throwing hell's infernal shade,
Near'd to its limb.

F. Law.
Cease thy wild blasphemy—Lead her away.
Why do you tremble? Take them to their doom,
Which none so well have earn'd.—God grant me strength,
For there is need of comfort and rebuke.
(To Maldie.)
Thou wicked minx, what brought thee to this place?
Cam'st thou again a conjuring for men?

Ben.
No names, so please you, sire—Weak, but not wicked.
We have been all abused—Look up, my girl,
And do not weep—There's something here thy friend;
And if I can, I will forgive thee all.

F. Law.
Forgiveness is the doctrine which I teach,
And peace and charity the themes I love.

Enter Hutchon.
Hut.
O, sire, I come with more unwelcome tidings;
Lord Hindlee is no more!

F. Law.
Father of Mercies,
Do not destroy our trust!—Thou messenger
Of woe, say how it hap'd; for surely thou
Art blameable in this?

Hut.
He 'scaped from me,
And bounded like a wild deer to the waste,
Crying aloud that he was sent afar
On glorious mission. More than mortal speed
Mark'd his career—The shepherd fled aside,
The passenger to silent covert slid
Till he pass'd by—Loudly he pray'd to Heaven,
And then by turns he laugh'd—boasting amain
Of that he would fulfil—“I'll reach the bourn,”
He cried, “I will! I will! and then I'll do it.
O God! let me but on to do thy work,
For I am burning for the high employ
Of everlasting moment!—Laggard, on!
On, Gabriel, on! thou messenger of doom!
Fly! fly! Dost thou not see how I would fly,
And then the wind would cool me? Oh, were I
Dissolved into a wind, that I might sweep
Light over hill, and plain, and yielding wave,
Never to shift or change!—Or to a stream,
For it is sent, and runs on—on—for ever.
I'll be a stream!—No, no, I'll be the wind,
And then there's no bar nor impediment
On nature's face between me and the East.
The wild-fowl of the heath will cower him down
Till I pass over—swans will ope their ranks—
The solan swim aside—the rolling clouds
Fling wide their downy windows far before
The eye of God's eternal messenger!
I cannot! Oh, I cannot!—On! On! On!”
These were his words, while I his words could hear.
His rout was traced with blood, for his bare feet
Were lacerated by the shivering ice.
That track I follow'd, forth, around, and back,
For redder still it grew—At length, hard by
Beside the church-yard wall I found him stretch'd,
A ghastly corse!—Ah! such a woful sight
Ne'er blench'd the human cheek! for in his hands
Was squeez'd the snow-ball leaven'd with his blood.
All clothing and encumbrance he had thrown,
Yet kept the sacred book, which in the last
Wild agonies of dying he had gnaw'd;
And still within the grin of madness lock'd,
The remnant of that holy book remains.

F. Law.
For mercy's sake, no more!

Ben.
Father, wilt thou not lay eternal curse
Upon the authors of these miseries?

F. Law.
O no, I leave them to the just award
Of Him, whose hand unerring sent this scourge
By these his ministers, for grievous sin,
Or others' welfare.—Hence let never man
Pry for a crevice to futurity,
For all are wisely closed. O let it lie
In its primeval darkness! Short the while
That the dull twilight of this life can last,
And then the dawning of Eternity
Will pierce the veil, and all our longings end.