Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  OSW. Is it possible?

  MAR. One thing you noticed not:

  Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder

  Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force.

  This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder;

  But there’s a Providence for them who walk

  In helplessness, when innocence is with them.

  At this audacious blasphemy, I thought

  The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air.

  OSW. Why are you not the man you were that moment?

  [He draws MARMADUKE to the dungeon.

  MAR. You say he was asleep,—look at this arm,

  And tell me if ‘tis fit for such a work.

  Oswald, Oswald!

  [Leans upon OSWALD.

  OSW. This is some sudden seizure!

  MAR. A most strange faintness,—will you hunt me out

  A draught of water?

  OSW. Nay, to see you thus

  Moves me beyond my bearing.—I will try

  To gain the torrent’s brink.

  [Exit OSWALD.

  MAR. (after a pause). It seems an age

  Since that Man left me.—No, I am not lost.

  HER. (at the mouth of the dungeon). Give me your hand; where are

  you, Friends? and tell me

  How goes the night.

  MAR. ‘Tis hard to measure time,

  In such a weary night, and such a place.

  HER. I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald.

  MAR. A minute past, he went to fetch a draught

  Of water from the torrent. ‘Tis, you’ll say,

  A cheerless beverage.

  HER. How good it was in you

  To stay behind!—Hearing at first no answer,

  I was alarmed.

  MAR. No wonder; this is a place

  That well may put some fears into ‘your’ heart.

  HER. Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort,

  Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were;

  And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks

  To make a bed for me!—My Girl will weep

  When she is told of it.

  MAR. This Daughter of yours

  Is very dear to you.

  HER. Oh! but you are young;

  Over your head twice twenty years must roll,

  With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain,

  Ere can be known to you how much a Father

  May love his Child.

  MAR. Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.

  HER. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man;

  Kindly have you protected me to-night,

  And no return have I to make but prayers;

  May you in age be blest with such a daughter!—

  When from the Holy Land I had returned

  Sightless, and from my heritage was driven,

  A wretched Outcast—but this strain of thought

  Would lead me to talk fondly.

  MAR. Do not fear;

  Your words are precious to my ears; go on.

  HER. You will forgive me, but my heart runs over.

  When my old Leader slipped into the flood

  And perished, what a piercing outcry you

  Sent after him. I have loved you ever since.

  You start—where are we?

  MAR. Oh, there is no danger;

  The cold blast struck me.

  HER. ‘Twas a foolish question.

  MAR. But when you were an Outcast?—Heaven is just;

  Your piety would not miss its due reward;

  The little Orphan then would be your succour,

  And do good service, though she knew it not.

  HER. I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers,

  Where none but those who trampled on my rights

  Seemed to remember me. To the wide world

  I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity;

  She was my Raven in the wilderness,

  And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her?

  MAR. Yes.

  HER. More than ever Parent loved a Child?

  MAR. Yes, yes.

  HER. I will not murmur, merciful God!

  I will not murmur; blasted as I have been,

  Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter’s voice,

  And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively

  Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith.

  Enter OSWALD.

  OSW. Herbert!—confusion! (aside). Here it is, my Friend,

  [Presents the Horn.

  A charming beverage for you to carouse,

  This bitter night.

  HER. Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses

  I would have given, not many minutes gone,

  To have heard your voice.

  OSW. Your couch, I fear, good Baron,

  Has been but comfortless; and yet that place,

  When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither,

  Felt warm as a wren’s nest. You’d better turn

  And under covert rest till break of day,

  Or till the storm abate.

  (To MARMADUKE aside). He has restored you.

  No doubt you have been nobly entertained?

  But soft!—how came he forth? The Night-mare Conscience

  Has driven him out of harbour?

  MAR. I believe

  You have guessed right.

  HER. The trees renew their murmur:

  Come, let us house together.

  [OSWALD conducts him to the dungeon.

  OSW. (returns). Had I not

  Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair

  To its most fit conclusion, do you think

  I would so long have struggled with my Nature,

  And smothered all that’s man in me?—away!—

  [Looking towards the dungeon.

  This man’s the property of him who best

  Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege;

  It now becomes my duty to resume it.

  MAR. Touch not a finger—

  OSW. What then must be done?

  MAR. Which way soe’er I turn, I am perplexed.

  OSW. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery

  Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts

  Did not admit of stronger evidence;

  Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right;

  Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples.

  MAR. Weak! I am weak—there does my torment lie,

  Feeding itself.

  OSW. Verily, when he said

  How his old heart would leap to hear her steps,

  You thought his voice the echo of Idonea’s.

  MAR. And never heard a sound so terrible.

  OSW. Perchance you think so now?

  MAR. I cannot do it:

  Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat,

  When such a sudden weakness fell upon me,

  I could have dropped asleep upon his breast.

  OSW. Justice—is there not thunder in the word?

  Shall it be law to stab the petty robber

  Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide—

  Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour

  Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature

  Whom he to more than filial love and duty

  Hath falsely trained—shall he fulfil his purpose?

  But you are fallen.

  MAR. Fallen should I be indeed—

  Murder—perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone,

  Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow—

  Away! away!—

  [Flings away his sword.

  OSW. Nay, I have done with you:

  We’ll lead him to the Convent. He shall live,

  And she shall love him. With unquestioned title

  He shall be seated in his Barony,

  And we too chant the praise of his good deeds.

  I now perceive we do mis
take our masters,

  And most despise the men who best can teach us:

  Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only

  Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man

  Is brave.

  [Taking MARMADUKE’S sword and giving it to him.

  To Clifford’s arms he would have led

  His Victim—haply to this desolate house.

  MAR. (advancing to the dungeon). It must be ended!—

  OSW. Softly; do not rouse him;

  He will deny it to the last. He lies

  Within the Vault, a spear’s length to the left.

  [MARMADUKE descends to the dungeon.

  (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me;

  I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling

  Must needs step in, and save my life. The look

  With which he gave the boon—I see it now!

  The same that tempted me to loathe the gift.—

  For this old venerable Greybeard—faith

  ‘Tis his own fault if he hath got a face

  Which doth play tricks with them that look on it:

  ‘Twas this that put it in my thoughts—that countenance—

  His staff—his figure—Murder!—what, of whom?

  We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women

  Sigh at the deed? Hew down a withered tree,

  And none look grave but dotards. He may live

  To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches,

  Highways of dreaming passion, have too long,

  Young as he is, diverted wish and hope

  From the unpretending ground we mortals tread;—

  Then shatter the delusion, break it up

  And set him free. What follows? I have learned

  That things will work to ends the slaves o’ the world

  Do never dream of. I ‘have’ been what he—

  This Boy—when he comes forth with bloody hands—

  Might envy, and am now,—but he shall know

  What I am now—

  [Goes and listens at the dungeon.

  Praying or parleying?—tut!

  Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead

  These fifteen years—

  Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.

  (Turning abruptly) ‘Ha! speak’—what Thing art thou?

  (Recognises her.) Heavens! my good Friend! [To her.

  BEG. Forgive me, gracious Sir!—

  OSW. (to her companions). Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a

  whirlwind

  And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves.

  [They retire affrighted.

  BEG. Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes

  In this deserted Castle—’I repent me.’

  [OSWALD goes to the dungeon—listens—returns to the Beggar.

  OSW. Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant—keep

  Thy secret for its sake, or verily

  That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit.

  BEG. I ‘do’ repent me, Sir; I fear the curse

  Of that blind Man. ‘Twas not your money, sir—

  OSW. Begone!

  BEG. (going). There is some wicked deed in hand: [Aside.

  Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter.

  [Exit Beggar.

  MARMADUKE: re-enters from the dungeon.

  OSW. It is all over then;—your foolish fears

  Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed,

  Made quiet as he is.

  MAR. Why came you down?

  And when I felt your hand upon my arm

  And spake to you, why did you give no answer?

  Feared you to waken him? he must have been

  In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice.

  There are the strangest echoes in that place!

  OSW. Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom.

  MAR. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot,

  When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight,

  As if the blind Man’s dog were pulling at it.

  OSW. But after that?

  MAR. The features of Idonea

  Lurked in his face—

  OSW. Psha! Never to these eyes

  Will retribution show itself again

  With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me

  To share your triumph?

  MAR. Yes, her very look,

  Smiling in sleep—

  OSW. A pretty feat of Fancy!

  MAR. Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers.

  OSW. Is he alive?

  MAR. What mean you? who alive?

  OSW. Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert;

  He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea

  Hath become Clifford’s harlot—is ‘he’ living?

  MAR. The old Man in that dungeon ‘is’ alive.

  OSW. Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field

  Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band,

  Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it.

  You a protector of humanity!

  Avenger you of outraged innocence!

  MAR. ‘Twas dark—dark as the grave; yet did I see,

  Saw him—his face turned toward me; and I tell thee

  Idonea’s filial countenance was there

  To baffle me—it put me to my prayers.

  Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice,

  Beheld a star twinkling above my head,

  And, by the living God, I could not do it.

  [Sinks exhasted.

  OSW. (to himself). Now may I perish if this turn do more

  Than make me change my course.

  (To MARMADUKE.) Dear Marmaduke,

  My words were rashly spoken; I recall them:

  I feel my error; shedding human blood

  Is a most serious thing.

  MAR. Not I alone,

  Thou too art deep in guilt.

  OSW. We have indeed

  Been most presumptuous. There ‘is’ guilt in this,

  Else could so strong a mind have ever known

  These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven

  Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose crimes

  Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat,

  Or be chastised by mortal instruments.

  MAR. A thought that’s worth a thousand worlds!

  [Goes towards the dungeon.

  OSW. I grieve

  That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain.

  MAR. Think not of that! ‘tis over—we are safe.

  OSW. (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud). The truth is

  hideous, but how stifle it?

  [Turning to MARMADUKE.

  Give me your sword—nay, here are stones and fragments,

  The least of which would beat out a man’s brains;

  Or you might drive your head against that wall.

  No! this is not the place to hear the tale:

  It should be told you pinioned in your bed,

  Or on some vast and solitary plain

  Blown to you from a trumpet.

  MAR. Why talk thus?

  Whate’er the monster brooding in your breast

  I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear—

  [The sound of a horn is heard.

  That horn again—’Tis some one of our Troop;

  What do they here? Listen!

  OSW. What! dogged like thieves!

  Enter WALLACE and LACY, etc.

  LACY. You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop

  For not misleading us.

  OSW. (looking at WALLACE). That subtle Greybeard—

  I’d rather see my father’s ghost.

  LACY. (to MARMADUKE). My Captain,

  We come by order of the Band. Belike

  You have not heard that Henry has at last

  Dissolved the Barons’ League, and sent abroad

  His Sheriffs
with fit force to reinstate

  The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies

  As, in these long commotions, have been seized.

  His Power is this way tending. It befits us

  To stand upon our guard, and with our swords

  Defend the innocent.

  MAR. Lacy! we look

  But at the surfaces of things; we hear

  Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old

  Driven out in troops to want and nakedness;

  Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure

  That flatters us, because it asks not thought:

  The deeper malady is better hid;

  The world is poisoned at the heart.

  LACY. What mean you?

  WAL. (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon OSWALD). Ay,

  what is it you mean?

  MAR. Hark’e, my Friends;—

  [Appearing gay.

  Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless

  And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed

  By penury, to yield him up her Daughter,

  A little Infant, and instruct the Babe,

  Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father—

  LACY. Why, if his heart be tender, that offence

  I could forgive him.

  MAR. (going on). And should he make the Child

  An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her

  To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light

  Of infant playfulness with piteous looks

  Of misery that was not—

  LACY. Troth, ‘tis hard—

  But in a world like ours—

  MAR. (changing his tone). This self-same Man—

  Even while he printed kisses on the cheek

  Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue

  To lisp the name of Father—could he look

  To the unnatural harvest of that time

  When he should give her up, a Woman grown,

  To him who bid the highest in the market

  Of foul pollution—

  LACY. The whole visible world

  Contains not such a Monster!

  MAR. For this purpose

  Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means

  Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them;

  Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron,

  Work on her nature, and so turn compassion

  And gratitude to ministers of vice,

  And make the spotless spirit of filial love

  Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim

  Both soul and body—

  WAL. ‘Tis too horrible;

  Oswald, what say you to it?

  LACY. Hew him down,

  And fling him to the ravens.

  MAR. But his aspect

  It is so meek, his countenance so venerable.

  WAL. (with an appearance of mistrust). But how, what say you,

  Oswald?

  LACY. (at the same moment). Stab him, were it

  Before the Altar.