University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

Another part of the Glen.
Enter Shepherd.
Shep.
O my heart's heavy for that beauteous dame!
Her case is most unmeet!—All hopeless here;
Lost in the very outset of her journey,
Ere she had learn'd to note the onward path
From those that lead aside, the shift of winds,
And all the marks experienced travellers know.
Is't not unmeet, that one should thus be marr'd,
Storm-staid in life, ere yet the summer months
Are well begun?—It is.—We are unjust;
Man's most unjust; and I will prove it on him
From every law of nature.—In his progress
Man loses oft his path; alas, how oft!
But then he may regain it;—he's at freedom,
Nor one gainsays.—But lovely, tender woman,
Making one step aside; but one false step!
Is jostled off for ever.—O, 'tis unjust!
Man first decoys her easy heart astray,
And then laughs at the helpless wanderer!—
Those little flowers along the forest sward,
And all those blossoms nodding on the trees,
Will soon fall down dishonour'd in the dust;
Yet these the year will timeously renew.
But once the flower of all the world is cropp'd,
Where lives the principle that can renew it?
There is no southland breeze can ever blow
Again to bid the blemish'd stem revive;
Nor shower, that rainbow beckons from the west,
Fall on its opening blossom evermore!—
(Weeps.)
But there's another world to sojourn in,
Where lovely woman will not thus be treated!
(Enraged.)
O, what a heart that high-born lord must have!
I count him fiend whom honour does not bind;
He has less feeling than the savage hind
That roams the desart, thus to treat such beauty!
(Piteously.)
When she had given him all that she could give,
Trusted his honour with her fame and heart,
Her little all!—to make her serve him thus,
Disguised as a page, run by his side,
And wade the cold deep waters, while the lords
That him consort, took each his real page
Up him behind.—
(Weeps—then enraged.)
O, I could find, here, so
To maul that cruel knight, as not to leave
Inch of his frame unskathed.—Yes, I will go,
And face the injurious craven this same night.
How my brain maddens at him!—By yon heaven!
I will so wrong him, his repentance shall
Grow to a parallel with his misdeeds:
I'll strike his sword to pieces, thus;—
(Strikes furiously in the Air.)
Enter March.
And then
I'll fly at him, and seize him thus!—

(Seizes March.)
Mar.
Madman, forbear!—Unhand me, maniac.

(They part suddenly, and look long at each other.)
Shep.
I fear I have committed grievous error.
Sir, I was raving, and I crave forgiveness:
Frenzied with rage, my reason, for a moment,
Was overcome.—It was not rage at you,
But at those hunters:—Pardon me, good knight.

Mar.
So, then, you are not mad?

Shep.
Sometimes a little; when I think of those
Who feel but for themselves, it maddens me;
But I grow well anon.—I'm not quite safe
As yet, for I bethink me of some hunters,
That have done deeds of such vile character
That nature blushes for them, and directs
Each child of hers to shun, or chasten them;
And I do shrewdly guess, that you are one
Of that cursed gang.

Mar.
'Tis absolute misprision.
But say, good youth, what quarrel have you there?

Shep.
What quarrel, sir?—take care how you assay
To blow the trembling spark; it lies on tinder.
Are you not one of them?—Be sure; for if
You are, I would not now be in your place,
No, not for—

(Puts himself in the attitude of striking March.)
Mar.
Have I not told you? let your eyes inquire;
Hold consult with your memory, if I,
In mien or habit, aught resemble them.

Shep.
You are not clothed in green, 'tis true, as they;
But then you're some great man,—haply you seek them;
If so, 'tis for no good.—What quarrel, said you?
Mark me, sir knight, and give me serious answer.
If you had flocks, and were those flocks your all,
How would you list to see them driven astray;
Maim'd, scatter'd, and destroy'd?

Mar.
Not well, I do confess.

Shep.
If you had loved a wife, to you more dear
Than is your own existence, would you list
To see her very virtues, by the power
Of studied, deep deceit, turn'd to her bane,
And point to paths of ill? To see her love
Estranged from you, and her unweeting heart
Lured into slumbers of depravity?
Or say you had a daughter, knight; the child
Of your breathed vows; one bred beside your knee,
Who wont to sit thereon, and clasp your arm
In her young bosom, climb your chair, and throw
Her little arms around your neck, and kiss you!
Nay, say that daughter were your only hope,
The sole remaining comfort of your age—
You tremble! had you ever a daughter, sir?

Mar.
Yes, yes, O yes!—I had a daughter.

Shep.
Then you can judge.—But did you love that daughter?

Mar.
Love her?—O yes; he who perceives the heart
Knows how I loved her.— (Aside.)
O eternal heaven,
What bears he on? my soul's in agony.

Shep.
Could you endure to see that innocent
Vilely betray'd, disgraced, and then thrown out
Derisive on a cold injurious world?
Could you bear this, sir?—For my part I cannot;
No, and I will not bear it. I will go,
And dare such things! What, are you weeping too?
Then you are good, and God will bless you for it.

Mar.
Shepherd, I do much long to meet those men.

Shep.
Then so do I.—Come, we'll go seek them straight.

Mar.
I fain would baulk discovery.—If thou
Wilt lend me thy attire, then will we go
And meet them forthwith.

Shep.
Thou shalt have suit of mine.—Come home with me.

(Exeunt.)