Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,
Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer
He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour heremained
Beneath their roof, but to the open air
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,
He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.
LXXIII
Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared
For act and suffering, to the city straight
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:
“And from your doom,” he added, “now I wait,
Nor let it linger long, the murderer’s fate.”
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:
“O welcome sentence which will end though late,”
He said, “the pangs that to my conscience came
Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!”
LXXIV
His fate was pitied. Him in iron case
(Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)
They hung not:—no one on ‘his’ form or face
Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
By lawless curiosity or chance,
When into storm the evening sky is wrought,
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.
LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE
WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
— — Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember.—He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
A favoured Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; ‘gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn,—against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper:
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o’er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,—how lovely ‘tis
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and human life, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,—this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature’s works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself
In lowliness of heart.
THE BORDERERS
A TRAGEDY
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MARMADUKE. |
OSWALD. |
WALLACE. |- Of the Band of Borderers.
LACY. |
LENNOX. |
HERBERT.
WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE.
Host.
Forester.
ELDRED, a Peasant.
Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.
IDONEA.
Female Beggar.
ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.
SCENE—Borders of England and Scotland.
TIME—The Reign of Henry III.
Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper, however, to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.
February 28, 1842.
ACT I.
SCENE—Road in a Wood.
WALLACE and LACY.
LACY. The troop will be impatient; let us hie
Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray
Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border.
—Pity that our young Chief will have no part
In this good service.
WAL. Rather let us grieve
That, in the undertaking which has caused
His absence, he hath sought, whate’er his aim,
Companionship with One of crooked ways,
From whose perverted soul can come no good
To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.
LACY. True; and, remembering how the Band have proved
That Oswald finds small favour in our sight,
Well may we wonder he has gained such power
Over our much-loved Captain.
WAL. I have heard
Of some dark deed to which in early life
His passion drove him—then a Voyager
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing
In Palestine?
LACY. Where he despised alike
Mahommedan and Christian. But enough;
Let us begone—the Band may else be foiled. [Exeunt.
Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED.
WIL. Be cautious, my dear Master!
MAR. I perceive
That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle
About their love, as if to keep it warm.
WIL. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger,
For such he is—
MAR. Your busy fancies, Wilfred,
Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?
WIL. You know that you have saved his life.
MAR. I know it.
WIL. And that he hates you!—Pardon
me, perhaps
That word was hasty.
MAR. Fy! no more of it.
WIL. Dear Master! gratitude’s a heavy burden
To a proud Soul.—Nobody loves this Oswald—
Yourself, you do not love him.
MAR. I do more,
I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart
Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
More of man’s thoughts and ways than his experience
Has given him power to teach: and then for courage
And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned?
What obstacles hath he failed to overcome?
Answer these questions, from our common knowledge,
And be at rest.
WIL. Oh, Sir!
MAR. Peace, my good Wilfred;
Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band
I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.
WIL. May He whose eye is over all protect you! [Exit.
Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand).
OSW. This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.
MAR. (looking at them). The wild rose, and the poppy, and the
nightshade:
Which is your favourite, Oswald?
OSW. That which, while it is
Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal—
[Looking forward.
Not yet in sight!—We’ll saunter here awhile;
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.
MAR. (a letter in his hand). It is no common thing when one like
you
Performs these delicate services, and therefore
I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald;
‘Tis a strange letter this!—You saw her write it?
OSW. And saw the tears with which she blotted it.
MAR. And nothing less would satisfy him?
OSW. No less;
For that another in his Child’s affection
Should hold a place, as if ‘twere robbery,
He seemed to quarrel with the very thought.
Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
Which you’ve collected for the noblest ends,
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
To guard the Innocent—he calls us “Outlaws”;
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
This garb was taken up that indolence
Might want no cover, and rapacity
Be better fed.
MAR. Ne’er may I own the heart
That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.
OSW. Thou know’st me for a Man not easily moved,
Yet was I grievously provoked to think
Of what I witnessed.
MAR. This day will suffice
To end her wrongs.
OSW. But if the blind Man’s tale
Should ‘yet’ be true?
MAR. Would it were possible!
Did not the soldier tell thee that himself,
And others who survived the wreck, beheld
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves
Upon the coast of Cyprus?
OSW. Yes, even so,
And I had heard the like before: in sooth
The tale of this his quondam Barony
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail
To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;
We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: ‘tis much
The Arch-Impostor—
MAR. Treat him gently, Oswald;
Though I have never seen his face, methinks,
There cannot come a day when I shall cease
To love him. I remember, when a Boy
Of scarcely seven years’ growth, beneath the Elm
That casts its shade over our village school,
‘Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea
Repeat her Father’s terrible adventures,
Till all the band of playmates wept together;
And that was the beginning of my love.
And, through all converse of our later years,
An image of this old Man still was present,
When I had been most happy. Pardon me
If this be idly spoken.
OSW. See, they come,
Two Travellers!
MAR. (points). The woman is Idonea.
OSW. And leading Herbert.
MAR. We must let them pass—
This thicket will conceal us.
[They step aside.
Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind.
IDON. Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since
We left the willow shade by the brook-side,
Your natural breathing has been troubled.
HER. Nay,
You are too fearful; yet must I confess,
Our march of yesterday had better suited
A firmer step than mine.
IDON. That dismal Moor—
In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
I never can forgive it: but how steadily
‘You’ paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!—
I thought the Convent never would appear;
It seemed to move away from us: and yet,
That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods—
A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
And thankfully there rested side by side
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,—
That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
To fling’t away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength;—come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There—indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
On this green bank. [He sits down.
HER. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent,
And I divine the cause.
IDON. Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,
Those eyeballs dark—dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
HER. Nay, be composed:
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne’er had heart to separate—my grave,
And thee, my Child!
IDON. Believe me, honoured Sire!
‘Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music, could you see the sun,
And look upon the pleasant face of Nature—
HER. I comprehend thee—I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning.—The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
&nb
sp; We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?
IDON. Is he not strong?
Is he not valiant?
HER. Am I then so soon
Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child;
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broker reed—
This Marmaduke—
IDON. O could you hear his voice:
Alas! you do not know him. He is one
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you)
All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks
A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul,
Which with the motion of a virtuous act
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,
Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.
HER. Unhappy Woman!
IDON. Nay, it was my duty
Thus much to speak; but think not I forget—
Dear Father! how ‘could’ I forget and live—
You and the story of that doleful night
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers,
You rushed into the murderous flames, returned
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me,
Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.
HER. Thy Mother too!—scarce had I gained the door,
I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
I felt thy infant brother in her arms;
She saw my blasted face—a tide of soldiers
That instant rushed between us, and I heard
Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.
IDON. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.
HER. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time—
For my old age, it doth remain with thee
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told,
That when, on our return from Palestine,
I found how my domains had been usurped,
I took thee in my arms, and we began
Our wanderings together. Providence
At length conducted us to Rossland,—there,
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger
To take thee to her home—and for myself
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert’s
Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,
And, as thou know’st, gave me that humble Cot
Where now we dwell.—For many years I bore
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities
Exacted thy return, and our reunion.
I did not think that, during that long absence,
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter,
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 6
