University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

Discovers the inside of a Cottage; on one side, at the farther end, part of a Bed in a Recess. A Woman is seen kneeling, as in devotion.—She rises slowly, looks with horror to the Bed, and then to Heaven. —Coming forward.
Wom.
Confusion is abroad! The world's last day,
The awful day that terminates our race,
Draws on apace!—Now is the change begun!
Had not the Eternal strengthen'd my weak heart,
That heart had sunk beneath th'united horrors
Of this dire night!—There lies my good old man:
This moment well, the next a ghastly corse!
And none but I, no living creature near me,
To close his eyes, or lay his lifeless form.
Here have we lived these many fleeting years:
We knew we had to part—we talk'd of it—
It came familiar, and we were resign'd,
And loved each other better.—But the time,
And horror of the scene, what heart could brook!
The wandering rack of the night-heaven wheel'd back
To one great vortex o'er my lonely cot;
The thunders pour'd their moddering voices forth,
Till the earth totter'd, and the liquid flame
Hiss'd fluttering o'er the floor!—All this I stood.
Yet, desperately resolute as I was,
Methinks my head grew crazed, and my mind wandered;
For I remember, and the thought distracts,—
'Tis like a cold spear trembling in my breast,—
Methinks I saw the corpse rise from the bed,
And shake its head, and point with sightless gaze.
(Looking at the bed with horror.)
It cannot be! my senses are benumb'd!
But O, that book! that awful book!—It was
No mortal man who left it in such horror.
(Her eye turns to the bed; she starts, stands fixed in terror for some time, then slowly lifts her eyes to heaven.)
O, everlasting Father, what is this?
Is nature all reversed? And shall the dead
Thus rise and motion for their soul's return?—
I will be calm—what's life or death to me?
'Tis nature's last convulsion!
(She kneels. Thunder and lightning. She appears for some time in silent devotion, with her hands and eyes turned towards heaven.—A loud knock at the door.)
If you are beings of this world, approach,—
Uplift the latch, and enter;—All is one!
Or be you summoning angels, you are welcome;
Come in! come in!—All's one! All's one!
Enter Merlin, followed by Crawford.
No, no!—No human being walks to-night!
Whence art thou, grizly form?—Deliver straight
Thy dread commission; I am ready.

Mer.
My name is Merlin—this a friendly knight:
Be not alarm'd.

Wom.
Art thou the old mysterious sage, who dwell'st
Deep cavern'd in the wild, and walk'st the night,
To read the heavens, hold converse with the stars,
And to the dumb and bodiless creation
Give earthly voice and semblancy of frame!
I fear thee not!—All is confusion here.

Mer.
Woman, thy speech is born of agony;
What so distracts thee?

Wom.
There my husband lies,
Struck lifeless in a moment!—That's not all—
Once and again that pallid form arose,
Shook its grey locks, and wagg'd its head at me.

Mer.
O hapless, hapless man!—Saw you a book?

Wom.
Yes; sure I did:—know'st thou aught of that book?

(As she mentions the book, they all start, and look at the bed with horror.)
Mer.
Look there and tremble, knight.—In that same state
Was I for days and nights.—Woman, bring me the book;—
All shall be well.

(As she brings the book, a dressed Corpse is seen to stalk across the farther end of the stage; it goes off a few seconds, then returns to the bed. They seem terrified, and cling to Merlin.)
Cra.
Great sire, can that form live again?

Mer.
Ah, no!—not till the awful day of retribution.
The human soul is from that body fled,
Mix'd with the pure celestial flame that burns
In other worlds, fed by the vital sparks
Which human beings nurse;—from that beatitude
'Tis now inseparable. That walking corse
Breathes not the air, nor hath it soul or sense;
Death moves't in mockery. Should other spirit,
Commission'd, come to animate his frame,
Unhappy he! I would not undergo
That I have done, for empire of the earth.
I've been estranged from this world where I dwell,
Holding communion with another, where
I was not habitant, and with its dwellers,
Of whom I was not one.

Wom.
Hast thou no charm, no power to lay the dead,
And make cold dust lie still?

Mer.
Yes: would to heaven I could as easily
Lay this old form to rest as I can his!
(He takes a cross from under his frock, goes to the bed, and is heard repeating these words:)
Cœli fulgentes domus nondum reclusæ sunt: quiesce,
—dormi, donec te redemptor e tenebris experget.
Peace to his soul!—Now he's at peace for ever.
Good woman, say, how camest thou by that book?

Wom.
Just as the darkness fell, there came one in,
A knight he seem'd, with shuddering horror pale;
No word he spake, but left the book and fled.
The storm was on.—My husband oped the book,
For he could read;—And aye the thunder roar'd—
And aye he read and read. His looks were changed,
And seem'd unearthly;—nigher, nigher still
The storm approach'd; but he regarded not,
But read, and read; till with a cry that spoke
Unbrookable amaze, backward he fell,
And grasping with his hands, as if to hold
Something that would not stay, that instant died.

Mer.
I'm much to blame! But nature must decay.
Woman, the storm is past, and soon will come
Thy inmates, and thy friends, now on their way;
And thou shalt live to see a son arise,
Montgomery named, that all these bounds shall rule.
Knight, thou hast holpen me—Say what thou would'st;
By help of this, three times I'll answer thee—
But look not hitherward.
(Crawford turns round; the Woman retires to the side of the bed, and sits down in sorrow and fear; and Merlin bends over the book.)
Now, art thou ready? ask.

Cra.
Is my Matilda false?

Mer.
(Laying his right hand on the book, and looking up.)
O, thou great guardian of the book of fate,
Give answer just! Is this knight's lady false?
(The book flies open of itself, and Merlin reads.)
“Pure and impure, both in kind;
What boots the body without the mind?
Blind fool! could not ye see,
In the hive of the wasp ye sought for the bee;
The scaithe to her, and the sting to thee.”

(The book shuts with a loud clap—thunder.)
Cra.
'Tis true! 'tis true! Mad is that man, indeed,
Who looks for virtue nourish'd in a court;
And such a court as ours!—
O, I have much to ask; but still my heart
Hankers on that—How shall I be confirm'd?

Mer.
How shall the knight full confirmation gain?
Give answer, spirit, such as man may compass;
For thou in power art perverse.
(The book flies open, Merlin reads.
“The friar he saw, and the friar he knew,
He doff'd the cowl, and the brand he drew,
And the man in weeds the warrior slew;
For a chief may be false though a dame be true.”

Cra.
I understand thee well,—'tis a good hint.
Thanks, thou ingenious sprite.—Shall I o'ercome
The traitor finally?—

(Pause.)
Mer.
I dread the event!—Ask him no more; he's sullen.

Cra.
Shall I o'ercome? Give answer, spirit.
(The book opens, Merlin reads.)
“Thy foes are high, and danger near;
But the ostrich shall perch on the horn of the deer,
And the rampant horse shall quake for fear.”

Cra.
'Tis my own crest! Earl Bute's, and Carrick's too!
I'll find all out but this. O, Merlin, grant me this
One question more!

Mer.
Tempt him no more, good earl;
The book of fate is best unseal'd to man.

Cra.
One, and no more, I earnestly conjure thee.

Mer.
With reverence put thy question.

Cra.
Shall my house long remain, and rule in Crawford?

Mer.
Give answer, spirit.
(The book flies open, Merlin reads.)
“When three times threescore years have been,
That neither a king, nor yet a queen,
Has grass or corn in Scotland seen,
Thy house shall be as it never had been.”

Cra.
'Tis dark; but time may yet unriddle it.
Farewell, old Merlin: I am well resolved
How I shall act by thy familiar's words.

Mer.
Send the old friar of Bield to this good dame
To watch with her the dead.—I must be gone
To my dark home, and wait my welcome change.

Voice.
Merlin, that holy relic thou must yield
To him that gave it: Nature must not be
Again subjected to such dire confusion
By thy neglect.

Mer.
Then I am blest indeed,
And all my woes are past!

Voice.
Before thou yield'st that book, which all commands,
Say, is there aught that we may work for thee?

Mer.
Yes; heave up all the grey mis-shapen rocks
That garnish old Carleven;—bear them high
As the thin cloud that settles o'er the wind,
Then toss them thundering from the verge of heaven
Into yon cavern, till its dew-webb'd roof
And adamantine piles are jamm'd in atoms,
That mortal ne'er may know what it contains:—
Then shall futurity, in dread repose,
Lie undisturb'd, till the slow foot of time
Steal on it, and with heaven-enkindled lamp
Uplight it by degrees.

Voice.
It shall be done.

Mer.
And when this frame is laid in sweet repose
Where I have mark'd, in green Drumelzier vale,
Which thou must do, for man may not behold
The exit, or the lifeless eye of Merlin:
When white and yellow flowrets o'er me bloom,
Come thou on summer eve, and with thee bring
Thy gleesome elves, that carol on the steep,
And fays that love the wan light of the moon;
Tread one slow solemn measure on the sward,
And sing a requiem to the soul of Merlin.

Voice.
It shall be done. Prepare,—thy change is nigh.

(Merlin closes the book, kisses it, and stands bent over.)
Mer.
Farewell, thou dreadful, sacred mystery!
Thou art a charge too high for men to bear:
Without thee I am nought.

(The Book is taken up to Heaven in a flame of fire; voices are heard at a distance, crying, “Farewell, Merlin!”)
Mer.
Farewell!—Now it is o'er!—Come!—O, early, early come!

(He retires to the farther end of the stage, stretches forth his hands in the attitude of supplication, and vanishes.—Scene closes.)