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Adam Lindsay Gordon - Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric
Work rating: Medium

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Dramatis Personae:
HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar.
ERIC, a friend of Hugo`s.
THURSTON, 
EUSTACE,  
RALPH,     Followers of Hugo.
HENRY, a Page.
LUKE,   
HUBERT,  Monks living in a Norman Chapel.
BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine.
CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent.
OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair.
RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers.
DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances".
HAROLD, a Danish Knight.
ORION.
THORA,                                      
AGATHA,                                     
ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora`s,                
URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, 
NUNS, etc.                                   

Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits,


SCENE 1— A Castle in Normandy. 

A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts 
of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, 

     Enter HENRY, a Page. 

Hugo: 
Well, boy, what is it? 

Henry: The feast is spread. 

Hugo: 
 Why tarry the guests for me? 
Let Eric sit at the table`s head; 
 Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] 
What share have I at their festive board? 
 Their mirth I can only mar; 
To me no pleasure their cups afford, 
 Their songs on my silence jar. 
With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, 
 And yet with a hopeful heart, 
I must toil and strain with the planets again 
 When the rays of the sun depart; 
He who must needs with the topers tope, 
 And the feasters feast in the hall, 
How can he hope with a matter to cope 
 That is immaterial? 

Orion: 
He who his appetite stints and curbs, 
 Shut up in the northern wing, 
With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, 
 And his draught from the tasteless spring, 
Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. 
 There are some good things upon earth — 
Pleasure and power and fair renown, 
 And wisdom of worldly worth! 
There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, 
 In follies that light the eyes, 
But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence 
 Is alone by the fool termed wise. 

Hugo: 
Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; 
 Perchance, having jeer`d and scoff`d 
To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; 
 I wot thou hast served me oft. 
This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; 
 What errors canst thou detect? 

Orion: 
Nay, the constellations are misplaced, 
 And the satellites incorrect; 
Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek 
 An hour of needful rest, 
The night is young and the planets are weak; 
 See, the sun still reddens the west. 

Hugo: 
I fear I shall sleep too long. 

Orion: If you do 
 It matters not much; the sky 
Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; 
 Now, list to my lullaby. 
                    [Hugo reclines on a couch.] 
(Sings.) 
Still the darkling skies are red, 
 Though the day-god`s course is run; 
Heavenly night-lamps overhead 
 Flash and twinkle one by one. 
Idle dreamer — earth-born elf! 
 Vainly grasping heavenly things, 
Wherefore weariest thou thyself 
 With thy vain imaginings? 

From the tree of knowledge first, 
 Since his parents pluck`d the fruit, 
Man, with partial knowledge curs`d, 
 Of the tree still seeks the root; 
Musty volumes crowd thy shelf — 
 Which of these true knowledge brings? 
Wherefore weariest thou thyself 
 With thy vain imaginings? 

Will the stars from heaven descend? 
 Can the earth-worm soar and rise? 
Can the mortal comprehend 
 Heaven`s own hallow`d mysteries? 
Greed and glory, power and pelf — 
 These are won by clowns and kings; 
Wherefore weariest thou thyself 
 With thy vain imaginings? 

Sow and reap, and toil and spin; 
 Eat and drink, and dream and die; 
Man may strive, yet never win, 
 And I laugh the while and cry — 
Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! 
 Vainly grasping heavenly things, 
Wherefore weariest thou thyself 
 With thy vain imaginings? 

He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, 
 Whatever dreams it has brought him — 
                    [Looks at the plans.] 
If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, 
 He`s wiser than one who taught him. 
Why does he number the Pole-star thus? 
 Or the Pleiades why combine? 
And what is he doing with Sirius, 
 In the devil`s name or in mine? 
Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, 
 That the sins of his youth are slain, 
When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back 
 To his old pet sins again. 


SCENE 2— The Same. 

HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. 


Hugo: 
Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! 
 Oh, heavy and misty brain! 
Yon riddle that lies `twixt earth and skies, 
 Ye seek to explore in vain! 
See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, 
 And hide them far from my sight; 
I will toil and study no more by day, 
 I will watch no longer by night; 
I have labour`d and long`d, and now I seem 
 No nearer the mystic goal; 
Orion, I fain would devise some scheme 
 To quiet this restless soul; 
To distant climes I would fain depart — 
 I would travel by sea or land. 

Orion: 
Nay, I warn`d you of this, "Short life, long art", 
 The proverb, though stale, will stand; 
Full many a sage from youth to age 
 Has toil`d to obtain what you 
Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, 
 Forsooth, there is nothing new; 
Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, 
 And vigour in change of air, 
Will always be, and has always been, 
 And travel is a tonic rare. 
Still, the restless, discontented mood 
 For the time alone is eased; 
It will soon return with hunger renew`d, 
 And appetite unappeased. 
Nathless I could teach a shorter plan 
 To win that wisdom you crave, 
That lore that is seldom attain`d by man 
 From the cradle down to the grave. 

Hugo: 
Such lore I had rather do without, 
 It hath nothing mystic nor awful 
In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt 
 The arts that are term`d unlawful; 
`Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, 
 I shall never wittingly pass it; 
There is now no compact between us twain. 

Orion: But an understanding tacit. 
You have prospered much since the day we met; 
 You were then a landless knight; 
You now have honour and wealth, and yet 
 I never can serve you right. 

Hugo: 
Enough; we will start this very day, 
 Thurston, Eric, and I, 
And the baffled visions will pass away, 
 And the restless fires will die. 

Orion: 
Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires 
 They smoulder and live unspent; 
Give a mortal all that his heart desires, 
 He is less than ever content. 


SCENE 3— A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. 

HUGO. 


Hugo: 
Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming 
 They burst — raging waves of the sea, 
Foaming out their own shame — ever foaming 
 Their leprosy up with fierce glee; 
Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains 
 Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag 
Where, shock after shock, the green mountains 
 Explode on the iron-grey crag. 

The salt spray with ceaseless commotion 
 Leaps round me. I sit on the verge 
Of the cliff — `twixt the earth and the ocean — 
 With feet overhanging the surge. 
In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, 
 In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, 
Hidden truths that are taught in no college, 
 Hidden songs that no parchments express. 

Were they wise in their own generations, 
 Those sages and sagas of old? 
They have pass`d; o`er their names and their nations 
 Time`s billows have silently roll`d; 
They have pass`d, leaving little to their children, 
 Save histories of a truth far from strict; 
Or theories more vague and bewildering, 
 Since three out of four contradict. 

Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in 
 The halls of dull pedants who teach 
Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, 
 The scroll that is god-like and Greek: 
Have wasted life`s springtide in learning 
 Things long ago learnt all in vain; 
They are slow, very slow, in discerning 
 That book lore and wisdom are twain. 

Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, 
 By time or by truth overcome, 
Your Delphian temples and Pythic 
 Are ruins deserted and dumb; 
Your Muses are hush`d, and your Graces 
 Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, 
Enshrin`d and enthron`d in high places 
 No longer, are powerless as clods; 

By forest and streamlet, where glisten`d 
 Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm`d 
The shallows; where the Oreads listen`d, 
 Rose-lipp`d, amber-hair`d, marble-limb`d, 
No lithe forms disport in the river, 
 No sweet faces peer through the boughs, 
Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, 
 Ever silent the bright water flows. 

(Were they duller or wiser than we are, 
 Those heathens of old? Who shall say? 
Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea 
 Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; 
And the false gods alluring to evil, 
 That sway`d reckless votaries then, 
Were slain to no purpose; they revel 
 Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) 

Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, 
 And Apis! that mystical lore, 
Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis 
 Of fever, is studied no more; 
Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles 
 The arch of yon firmament vast 
Looks calm, like a host of white angels, 
 On dry dust of votaries past. 

On seas unexplored can the ship shun 
 Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life`s links, 
Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian 
 Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? 
The riddle remains still unravell`d 
 By students consuming night oil. 
Oh, earth! we have toil`d, we have travail`d, 
 How long shall we travail and toil? 

How long? The short life that fools reckon 
 So sweet, by how much is it higher 
Than brute life? — the false gods still beckon, 
 And man, through the dust and the mire, 
Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, 
 Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, 
With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch 
 In front, and Alecto behind. 

The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, 
 Serves folly in wisdom`s disguise; 
And the sensual Epicurean, 
 Though grosser, is hardly less wise; 
`Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, 
 And the latter, half sow and half sloth, 
We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, 
 Or sacrifice freely to both. 

With our reason that seeks to disparage, 
 Brute instinct it fails to subdue; 
With our false illegitimate courage, 
 Our sophistry, vain and untrue; 
Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, 
 Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, 
We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also) — 
 Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. 

Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, 
 Come rarely with rushing of wings; 
We are conscious at times we have striven, 
 Though seldom, to grasp better things; 
These pass, leaving hearts that have falter`d, 
 Good angels with faces estranged, 
And the skin of the Ethiop unalter`d, 
 And the spots of the leopard unchanged. 

Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker`d 
 To gather thy flowers and thy fruits? 
The roses are wither`d, and canker`d 
 The lilies, and barren the roots 
Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, 
 Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield 
Fierce harvest — so WE live, and SO live 
 The perishing beasts of the field. 

And withal we are conscious of evil 
 And good — of the spirit and the clod, 
Of the power in our hearts of a devil, 
 Of the power in our souls of a God, 
Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, 
 But clear as His sun — from our youth 
One at least we have cherished — "An eye for 
 An eye, and a tooth for a tooth." 

Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; 
 To passion, to pride, or to wealth, 
Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, 
 Thy portion the fire or the filth, 
Dross seeking, dead pleasure`s death rattle 
 Thy memories` happiest song, 
And thy highest hope — scarce a drawn battle 
 With dark desperation. How long? 

     

Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, 
 And sprinkle your foam on the furze; 
Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, 
 To camps of our long ago years, 
With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, 
 With the tossing of banners and spears, 
With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, 
 With the mingling of trumpets and cheers. 

The gale has gone down; yet outlasting 
 The gale, raging waves of the sea, 
Casting up their own foam, ever casting 
 Their leprosy up with wild glee, 
Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness 
 Man storms through the days of his grace; 
Yet man cannot fathom God`s goodness, 
 Exceeding God`s infinite space. 

And coldly and calmly and purely 
 Grey rock and green hillock lie white 
In star-shine dream-laden — so surely 
 Night cometh — so cometh the night 
When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, 
 May sleep where God`s hillocks are piled, 
Thanking HIM for a rest from day`s labour, 
 And a sleep like the sleep of a child! 


SCENE 4— The Castle in Normandy. 

THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning. 


Thora (sings): 
We severed in autumn early, 
 Ere the earth was torn by the plough; 
The wheat and the oats and the barley 
 Are ripe for the harvest now. 
We sunder`d one misty morning, 
 Ere the hills were dimm`d by the rain, 
Through the flowers those hills adorning — 
 Thou comest not back again. 

My heart is heavy and weary 
 With the weight of a weary soul; 
The mid-day glare grows dreary, 
 And dreary the midnight scroll. 
The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 
 `Neath the load of the golden grain; 
I sigh for a mate more fickle — 
 Thou comest not back again. 

The warm sun riseth and setteth, 
 The night bringeth moistening dew, 
But the soul that longeth forgetteth 
 The warmth and the moisture too; 
In the hot sun rising and setting 
 There is naught save feverish pain; 
There are tears in the night-dews wetting — 
 Thou comest not back again. 

Thy voice in mine ear still mingles 
 With the voices of whisp`ring trees; 
Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles 
 At each kiss of the summer breeze; 
While dreams of the past are thronging 
 For substance of shades in vain, 
I am waiting, watching, and longing — 
 Thou comest not back again. 

Waiting and watching ever, 
 Longing and lingering yet, 
Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, 
 Winds murmur and waters fret; 
No answer they bring, no greeting, 
 No speech save that sad refrain, 
Nor voice, save an echo repeating — 
 He cometh not back again. 

Elspeth: 
Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; 
 With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot. 
If the husbands vanish`d, and left no tracks, 
 Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? 

Thora: 
How well I remember that dreary ride; 
 How I sigh`d for the lands of ice and snow, 
In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, 
 With the sun o`erhead and the sand below; 
`Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, 
 How I sigh`d for the forest of sheltering firs, 
Whose shadows environ`d the Danish farms, 
 Where I sang and sported in childish years. 
On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage 
 We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; 
Our fever`d thirst we could scarce assuage 
 At the brackish well that was nearly dry, 

And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, 
 And we rode all the day through a desert land, 
And we camp`d where the lake and the river met, 
 On sedge and shingle and shining sand: 
Enfolded in Hugo`s cloak I slept, 
 Or watch`d the stars while I lay awake; 
And close to our feet the staghound crept, 
 And the horses were grazing beside the lake; 
Now we own castles and serving men, 
 Lands and revenues. What of that? 
Hugo the Norman was kinder then, 
 And happier was Thora of Armorat. 

Elspeth: 
Nay, I warn`d thee, with Norman sails unfurl`d 
 Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, 
That men are the same all over the world, 
 They will worship only the newest toy; 
Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, 
 Though somewhat given to studies of late; 
Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, 
 And worse than thine is thy sisters` fate. 
But a shadow darkens the chamber door. 

     Enter THURSTON. 

Thurston: 
 `Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near. 
My horse being fresher, I rode before; 
 Both he and Eric will soon be here. 

Thora: 
Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are 
 Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? 

Thurston: 
Both by sea and land we have travell`d far, 
 Yet little of note has happened to us — 
We were wreck`d on the shores of Brittany, 
 Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; 
The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, 
 Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown`d. 
By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, 
 Who took us for corsairs; then released 
By a Breton count, whose name I forget. 
 Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. 
                    [He goes out.] 

Elspeth: 
That man is rude and froward of speech: 
 My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. 

Thora: 
Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach 
 Courtly nor servile manners to him. 


SCENE 5— The Castle Hall. 

THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, 
seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart. 


Thurston: 
Who is that stranger, dark and tall, 
On the wooden settle next to the wall — 
Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard? 

Eustace: 
To define his calling is somewhat hard; 
Lady Thora has taken him by the hand 
Because he has come from the Holy Land. 
Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage 
With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage 
With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, 
And would have gone on, but she bade him stay. 
Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue 
The songs she has heard in her childhood sung. 
That`s all I know of him, good or bad; 
In my own opinion he`s somewhat mad. 
You must raise your voice if you speak with him, 
And he answers as though his senses were dim. 

Thurston (to Harold): 
Good-morrow, sir stranger. 

Harold: Good-morrow, friend. 

Thurston: 
Where do you come from? and whither wend? 

Harold: 
I have travelled of late with the setting sun 
At my back; and as soon as my task is done 
I purpose to turn my face to the north — 
Yet we know not what a day may bring forth. 

Thurston: 
Indeed we don`t. 

(To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now 
By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; 
And the less we say to him the better. 
Your judgment is right to the very letter — 
The man is mad. 

Eustace: But harmless, I think; 
He eats but little, eschews strong drink, 
And only speaks when spoken to first. 

Thurston: 
Harmless or not, he was once the worst 
And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; 
And yet his story is somewhat sad. 

Eustace: 
May I hear it? 

Thurston: Nay, I never reveal 
What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal 
Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs, — 
Not even his comrade Eric shares 
His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, 
Which is more than I do, for I despise 
That foolish science he learnt in Rome. 
He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, 
And now he`s not much better abroad; 
`Tis hard to follow so tame a lord. 
`Twixt us two, he won`t be worth a rush 
If he will persist in his studies —— 

Eustace: Hush! 
Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. 

Thurston: 
I have known the day when his voice would ring 
Till the rafters echoed. 

Eustace: `Tis pleasant still, 
Though far too feeble this hall to fill. 

Harold (sings): 
On the current, where the wide 
    Windings of the river 
Eddy to the North Sea tide, 
Shall I in my shallop glide, 
As I have done at her side? 
    Never! never! never! 

In the forest, where the firs, 
    Pines, and larches quiver 
To the northern breeze that stirs, 
Shall my lips be press`d to hers, 
As they were in by-gone years? 
    Never! never! never! 

In the battle on the plain, 
    Where the lance-shafts shiver, 
And the sword-strokes fall like rain, 
Shall I bear her scarf again 
As I have done — not in vain? 
    Never! never! never! 

In a fairer, brighter land, 
    Where the saints rest ever, 
Shall I once more see her stand, 
White, amidst a white-robed band, 
Harp and palm-branch in her hand? 
    Never! never! never! 


SCENE — 6The Same. 

EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. 


     Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. 

Eustace (and others standing up): 
Welcome, Lord Hugo! 

Hugo: Welcome or not, 
 Thanks for your greeting all. 
Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? 
 What grievances to recall? 

Eustace: 
Count William came with a numerous band, 
 Ere the snows began to fall, 
And slew a buck on your lordship`s land, 
 Within a league of the wall. 

Hugo: 
Count William has done to us no more 
 Than we to him. In his vineyard 
Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar 
 Was slaughter`d by Thurston`s whinyard. 

Thurston: 
Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, 
 I will wager marks a score, 
Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, 
 You made me give back the boar. 

Harold (advancing): 
Lord Hugo! 

Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? 
 I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! 
And `tis not so very long since we met. 

Harold: 
 `Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) 
This letter was traced by one now dead 
 In the Holy Land; and I 
Must wait till his dying request is read, 
 And in his name ask the reply. 

Thora (aside): 
Who is that stranger, Hugo? 

Hugo: By birth 
 He is a countryman of thine, 
Thora. What writing is this on earth? 
 I can scarce decipher a line. 

Harold: 
The pen in the clutch of death works ill. 

Hugo: 
 Nay, I read now; the letters run 
More clearly. 

Harold: Wilt grant the request? 

Hugo: I will. 

Harold: 
 Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) 
Hugo, I go to a far-off land, 
 Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? 

Hugo: 
Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, 
 Because of my ancient vow. 

Harold: 
Farewell, then. 

Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. 
 On so wild a night as this 
Thou shalt not go from my husband`s gate; 
 The path thou wilt surely miss. 

Harold: 
I go. Kind lady, some future day 
 Thy care will requited be. 

Thora: 
Speak, Hugo, speak. 

Hugo: He may go or stay, 
 It matters little to me. 
                    [Harold goes out.] 

Thora: 
Husband, that man is ill and weak; 
 On foot he goes and alone 
Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. 

Eric: 
 Now I wonder where he has gone! 

Hugo: 
Indeed, I have not the least idea; 
 The man is certainly mad. 
He wedded my sister, Dorothea, 
 And used her cruelly bad. 
He was once my firmest and surest friend, 
 And once my deadliest foe; 
But hate and friendship both find their end — 
 Now I heed not where he may go. 


SCENE — A Chamber in the Castle. 

HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. 


Hugo: 
That letter that came from Palestine, 
 By the hands of yon wandering Dane, 
Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. 

Thora: 
 Wilt thou travel so soon again? 

Hugo: 
I can scarce refuse the dying request 
 Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; 
His bones are dust. May his soul find rest 
 He once made a foolish vow, 
That at Englemehr, `neath the watchful care 
 Of the Abbess, his child should stay, 
For a season at least. To escort her there 
 I must start at the break of day. 

Thora: 
Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? 

Hugo: 
 Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain 
With her spouse. 

Thora: `Tis Agatha. She is fair, 
 I am told; but giddy and vain. 

Eric: 
Some musty tales on my memory grow 
 Concerning Count Baldwin`s vow; 
Thou knew`st his daughter? 

Hugo: Aye, years ago. 
 I should scarcely know her now. 
It seems, when her father`s vow was made, 
 She was taken sorely ill; 
Then he travell`d, and on his return was stay`d; 
 He could never his oath fulfil. 

Eric: 
If rightly I`ve heard, `twas Agatha 
 That fled with some Danish knight — 
I forget the name. 

Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; 
 She returned again that night. 

Thora: 
For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. 

Hugo: 
 That is no affair of mine. 
My task is over, my word fulfilled, 
 Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. 
Come, Thora, sing. 

Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, 
 Nor would I now if I could. 
Sing thou. 

Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring 
 No sound save a discord rude. 
(Sings.) 
Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, 
 The pine lies low in the dust; 
And the corn is withered and blighted, 
 Where the fields are red with the rust; 
Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, 
 Where its petals the violet rears, 
And the wind, though tempered, is chilling 
 To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 

The strong in their strength are shaken, 
 The wise in their wisdom fall; 
And the bloom of beauty is taken — 
 Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, 
They vanish, their lot fulfilling, 
 Their doom approaches and nears, 
But the wind, though tempered, is chilling 
 To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 

`Tis the will of a Great Creator, 
 He is wise, His will must be done, 
And it cometh sooner or later; 
 And one shall be taken, and one 
Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, 
 In this vale of sorrows and tears, 
Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling 
 To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 

Tell me, mine own one, tell me, 
 The shadows of life and the fears 
Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, 
 While I can avert thy tears: 
Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling 
 To realise lonely years? 
Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling 
 To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 

     Enter HENRY. 

Henry: 
My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, 
 He has come on foot from the chapel; 
Some stranger perished beside his gate 
 When the dawn began to dapple. 


SCENE — A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo`s Castle. 

HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. 


Luke: 
    When the dawn was breaking, 
    Came a faint sound, waking 
Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, 
    Found the stranger lying 
    At the threshold, dying. 
Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. 

Hugo: 
    Harold he is hight. 
    Only yester-night 
From our gates he wander`d, in the driving hail; 
    Well his face I know, 
    Both as friend and foe; 
Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. 

Luke: 
    Few the words he said, 
    Faint the signs he made, 
Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn`d. 
    This is retribution, 
    Seek for absolution; 
Answer me — then cast thy sorrows to the wind. 
    Do their voices reach thee, 
    Friends who failed to teach thee, 
In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? 
    Charges `gainst thee cited, 
    Cares all unrequited, 
Counsels spurned and slighted — do they press and throng?" 
    But he shook his head. 
    "`Tis not so," he said; 
"They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. 
    If their counsels good, 
    Rashly I withstood; 
Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." 

    "Do their curses stun thee? 
    Foes who failed to shun thee, 
Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, 
    As the barbed arrow 
    Cleaveth bone and marrow, 
From those chambers narrow — do they pierce thine ear?" 
    And he made reply, 
    Laughing bitterly, 
"Did I fear them living — shall I fear them dead? 
    Blood that I have spilt 
    Leaveth little guilt; 
On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." 

    "Is there one whom thou 
    May`st have wronged ere now, 
Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? 
    By some saint in heaven, 
    Sanctified and shriven, 
Would`st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" 
    Not a word he said, 
    But he bowed his head 
Till his temples rested on the chilly sods 
    And we heard him groan — 
    "Ah! mine own, mine own! 
If I had thy pardon I might ask for God`s." 

    Hubert raised him slowly, 
    Sunrise, faint and holy, 
Lit the dead face, placid as a child`s might be. 
    May the troubled spirit, 
    Through Christ`s saving merit, 
Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. 

Hugo: 
    God o`erruleth fate. 
    I had cause for hate; 
In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, 
    Joined by priestly vows, 
    He became the spouse 
Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. 
    And he wrought her woe, 
    Making me his foe; 
Not alone unfaithful — brutal, too, was he. 
    She had scarce been dead 
    Three months, ere he fled 
With Count Baldwin`s daughter, then betrothed to me. 
    Fortune straight forsook him, 
    Vengeance overtook him; 
Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. 
    All his strength was shatter`d, 
    Even his wits were scatter`d, 
Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. 
    We are unforgiving 
    While our foes are living; 
Yet his retribution weigh`d so heavily 
    That I feel remorse, 
    Gazing on his corpse, 
For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. 
    And his grave shall be 
    `Neath the chestnut tree, 
Where he met my sister many years ago; 
    Leave that tress of hair 
    On his bosom there — 
Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. 


SCENE — A Room in the Castle. 

HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. 


Hugo: 
The morn is fair, the weary miles 
Will shorten `neath the summer`s wiles; 
Pomona in the orchard smiles, 
 And in the meadow, Flora! 
And I have roused a chosen band 
For escort through the troubled land; 
And shaken Elspeth by the hand, 
 And said farewell to Thora. 
Comrade and kinsman — for thou art 
Comrade and kin to me — we part 
Ere nightfall, if at once we start, 
 We gain the dead Count`s castle. 
The roads are fair, the days are fine, 
Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. 
Forsooth, no friend to me or mine 
 Is that same Abbot Basil; 
I thought he wronged us by his greed. 
My father sign`d a foolish deed 
For lack of gold in time of need, 
 And thus our lands went by us; 
Yet wrong on our side may have been: 
As far as my will goes, I ween, 
`Tis past, the grudge that lay between 
 Us twain. Men call him pious — 
And I have prosper`d much since then, 
Source
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