Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  He is a man, if it should come to his ears

  I never shall be heard of more.

  OSW. Lord Clifford?

  BEG. What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs,

  I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.

  OSW. Lord Clifford—did you see him talk with Herbert?

  BEG. Yes, to my sorrow—under the great oak

  At Herbert’s door—and when he stood beside

  The blind Man—at the silent Girl he looked

  With such a look—it makes me tremble, Sir,

  To think of it.

  OSW. Enough! you may depart.

  MAR. (to himself). Father!—to God himself we cannot give

  A holier name; and, under such a mask,

  To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed,

  To that abhorred den of brutish vice!—

  Oswald, the firm foundation of my life

  Is going from under me; these strange discoveries—

  Looked at from every point of fear or hope,

  Duty, or love—involve, I feel, my ruin.

  ACT II.

  SCENE—A Chamber in the Hostel—OSWALD alone, rising from a Table

  on which he had been writing.

  OSW. They chose ‘him’ for their Chief!—what covert part

  He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take,

  I neither know nor care. The insult bred

  More of contempt than hatred; both are flown;

  That either e’er existed is my shame:

  ‘Twas a dull spark—a most unnatural fire

  That died the moment the air breathed upon it.

  —These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter

  That haunt some barren island of the north,

  Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand,

  They think it is to feed them. I have left him

  To solitary meditation;—now

  For a few swelling phrases, and a flash

  Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind,

  And he is mine for ever—here he comes.

  Enter MARMADUKE.

  MAR. These ten years she has moved her lips all day

  And never speaks!

  OSW. Who is it?

  MAR. I have seen her.

  OSW. Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead,

  Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness.

  MAR. I met a peasant near the spot; he told me,

  These ten years she had sate all day alone

  Within those empty walls.

  OSW. I too have seen her;

  Chancing to pass this way some six months gone,

  At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard:

  The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still

  The trees were silent as the graves beneath them.

  Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round

  Upon the self-same spot, still round and round,

  Her lips for ever moving.

  MAR. At her door

  Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman,

  I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea.

  OSW. But the pretended Father—

  MAR. Earthly law

  Measures not crimes like his.

  OSW. ‘We’ rank not, happily,

  With those who take the spirit of their rule

  From that soft class of devotees who feel

  Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare

  The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare

  While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea

  Were present, to the end that we might hear

  What she can urge in his defence; she loves him.

  MAR. Yes, loves him; ‘tis a truth that multiplies

  His guilt a thousand-fold.

  OSW. ‘Tis most perplexing:

  What must be done?

  MAR. We will conduct her hither;

  These walls shall witness it—from first to last

  He shall reveal himself.

  OSW. Happy are we,

  Who live in these disputed tracts, that own

  No law but what each man makes for himself;

  Here justice has indeed a field of triumph.

  MAR. Let us be gone and bring her hither;—here

  The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved

  Before her face. The rest be left to me.

  OSW. You will be firm: but though we well may trust

  The issue to the justice of the cause,

  Caution must not be flung aside; remember,

  Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here

  Upon these savage confines, we have seen you

  Stand like an isthmus ‘twixt two stormy seas

  That oft have checked their fury at your bidding.

  ‘Mid the deep holds of Solway’s mossy waste,

  Your single virtue has transformed a Band

  Of fierce barbarians into Ministers

  Of peace and order. Aged men with tears

  Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire

  For shelter to their banners. But it is,

  As you must needs have deeply felt, it is

  In darkness and in tempest that we seek

  The majesty of Him who rules the world.

  Benevolence, that has not heart to use

  The wholesome ministry of pain and evil,

  Becomes at last weak and contemptible.

  Your generous qualities have won due praise,

  But vigorous Spirits look for something more

  Than Youth’s spontaneous products; and to-day

  You will not disappoint them; and hereafter—

  MAR. You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all:

  You are a Man—and therefore, if compassion,

  Which to our kind is natural as life,

  Be known unto you, you will love this Woman,

  Even as I do; but I should loathe the light,

  If I could think one weak or partial feeling—

  OSW. You will forgive me—

  MAR. If I ever knew

  My heart, could penetrate its inmost core,

  ‘Tis at this moment.—Oswald, I have loved

  To be the friend and father of the oppressed,

  A comforter of sorrow;—there is something

  Which looks like a transition in my soul,

  And yet it is not.—Let us lead him hither.

  OSW. Stoop for a moment; ‘tis an act of justice;

  And where’s the triumph if the delegate

  Must fall in the execution of his office?

  The deed is done—if you will have it so—

  Here where we stand—that tribe of vulgar wretches

  (You saw them gathering for the festival)

  Rush in—the villains seize us—

  MAR. Seize!

  OSW. Yes, they—

  Men who are little given to sift and weigh—

  Would wreak on us the passion of the moment.

  MAR. The cloud will soon disperse—farewell—but stay,

  Thou wilt relate the story.

  OSW. Am I neither

  To bear a part in this Man’s punishment,

  Nor be its witness?

  MAR. I had many hopes

  That were most dear to me, and some will bear

  To be transferred to thee.

  OSW. When I’m dishonoured!

  MAR. I would preserve thee. How may this be done?

  OSW. By showing that you look beyond the instant,

  A few leagues hence we shall have open ground,

  And nowhere upon earth is place so fit

  To look upon the deed. Before we enter

  The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock

  The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft

  Has held infernal orgies—with the gloom,

  And very superstition of the place,

  Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee

  Would there per
haps have gathered the first fruits

  Of this mock Father’s guilt.

  Enter Host conducting HERBERT.

  HOST. The Baron Herbert

  Attends your pleasure.

  OSW. (to Host). We are ready—

  (to HERBERT) Sir!

  I hope you are refreshed.—I have just written

  A notice for your Daughter, that she may know

  What is become of you.—You’ll sit down and sign it;

  ‘Twill glad her heart to see her father’s signature.

  [Gives the letter he had written.

  HER. Thanks for your care.

  [Sits down and writes. Exit Host.

  OSW. (aside to MARMADUKE). Perhaps it would be useful

  That you too should subscribe your name.

  [MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT—

  then writes—examines the letter

  eagerly.

  MAR. I cannot leave this paper. [He puts it up, agitated.

  OSW. (aside). Dastard! Come.

  [MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT

  and supports him—MARMADUKE

  tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place.

  MAR. (as he quits HERBERT). There is a palsy in his limbs—he

  shakes. [Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT—MARMADUKE following.

  SCENE changes to a Wood—a Group of Pilgrims and IDONEA with them.

  FIRST PIL. A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw.

  SEC. PIL. The music of the birds

  Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves.

  OLD PIL. This news! It made my heart leap up with joy.

  IDON. I scarcely can believe it.

  OLD PIL. Myself, I heard

  The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter

  Which purported it was the royal pleasure

  The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed,

  Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood,

  Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady,

  Filled my dim eyes with tears.—When I returned

  From Palestine, and brought with me a heart,

  Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort,

  I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast:

  He had a Guide, a Shepherd’s boy; but grieved

  He was that One so young should pass his youth

  In such sad service; and he parted with him.

  We joined our tales of wretchedness together,

  And begged our daily bread from door to door.

  I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady!

  For once you loved me.

  IDON. You shall back with me

  And see your Friend again. The good old Man

  Will be rejoiced to greet you.

  OLD PIL. It seems but yesterday

  That a fierce storm o’ertook us, worn with travel,

  In a deep wood remote from any town.

  A cave that opened to the road presented

  A friendly shelter, and we entered in.

  IDON. And I was with you?

  OLD PIL. If indeed ‘twas you—

  But you were then a tottering Little-one—

  We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker:

  I struck my flint, and built up a small fire

  With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds

  Of many autumns in the cave had piled.

  Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods;

  Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth

  And we were comforted, and talked of comfort;

  But ‘twas an angry night, and o’er our heads

  The thunder rolled in peals that would have made

  A sleeping man uneasy in his bed.

  O Lady, you have need to love your Father.

  His voice—methinks I hear it now, his voice

  When, after a broad flash that filled the cave,

  He said to me, that he had seen his Child,

  A face (no cherub’s face more beautiful)

  Revealed by lustre brought with it from Heaven;

  And it was you, dear Lady!

  IDON. God be praised,

  That I have been his comforter till now!

  And will be so through every change of fortune

  And every sacrifice his peace requires.—

  Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear

  These joyful tidings from no lips but mine.

  [Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.

  SCENE,—The Area of a half-ruined Castle—on one side the entrance

  to a dungeon—OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and

  forwards.

  MAR. ‘Tis a wild night.

  OSW. I’d give my cloak and bonnet

  For sight of a warm fire.

  MAR. The wind blows keen;

  My hands are numb.

  OSW. Ha! ha! ‘tis nipping cold.

  [Blowing his fingers.

  I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy

  Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens

  If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed.

  MAR. I think I see a second range of Towers;

  This castle has another Area—come,

  Let us examine it.

  OSW. ‘Tis a bitter night;

  I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman,

  Who at full speed swept by us where the wood

  Roared in the tempest, was within an ace

  Of sending to his grave our precious Charge:

  That would have been a vile mischance.

  MAR. It would.

  OSW. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.

  MAR. Most cruelly.

  OSW. As up the steep we clomb,

  I saw a distant fire in the north-east;

  I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon:

  With proper speed our quarters may be gained

  To-morrow evening.

  [Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.

  MAR. When, upon the plank,

  I had led him ‘cross the torrent, his voice blessed me:

  You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks

  With deafening noise,—the benediction fell

  Back on himself; but changed into a curse.

  OSW. As well indeed it might.

  MAR. And this you deem

  The fittest place?

  OSW. (aside). He is growing pitiful.

  MAR. (listening). What an odd moaning that is!—

  OSW. Mighty odd

  The wind should pipe a little, while we stand

  Cooling our heels in this way!—I’ll begin

  And count the stars.

  MAR. (still listening). That dog of his, you are sure,

  Could not come after us—he ‘must’ have perished;

  The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters.

  You said you did not like his looks—that he

  Would trouble us; if he were here again,

  I swear the sight of him would quail me more

  Than twenty armies.

  OSW. How?

  MAR. The old blind Man,

  When you had told him the mischance, was troubled

  Even to the shedding of some natural tears

  Into the torrent over which he hung,

  Listening in vain.

  OSW. He has a tender heart!

  [OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon.

  MAR. How now, what mean you?

  OSW. Truly, I was going

  To waken our stray Baron. Were there not

  A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues,

  We should deserve to wear a cap and bells,

  Three good round years, for playing the fool here

  In such a night as this.

  MAR. Stop, stop.

  OSW. Perhaps,

  You’d better like we should descend together,

  And lie down by his side—what say you to it?

  Three of us—we should keep each other warm:<
br />
  I’ll answer for it that our four-legged friend

  Shall not disturb us; further I’ll not engage;

  Come, come, for manhood’s sake!

  MAR. These drowsy shiverings,

  This mortal stupor which is creeping over me,

  What do they mean? were this my single body

  Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble:

  Why do I tremble now?—Is not the depth

  Of this Man’s crimes beyond the reach of thought?

  And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment,

  Something I strike upon which turns my mind

  Back on herself, I think, again—my breast

  Concentres all the terrors of the Universe:

  I look at him and tremble like a child.

  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,