Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  I had been out in search of a stray heifer;

  Returning late, I heard a moaning sound;

  Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me,

  I hurried on, when straight a second moan,

  A human voice distinct, struck on my ear,

  So guided, distant a few steps, I found

  An aged Man, and such as you describe.

  MAR. You heard!—he called you to him? Of all men

  The best and kindest!—but where is he? guide me,

  That I may see him.

  ELD. On a ridge of rocks

  A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now:

  The bell is left, which no one dares remove;

  And, when the stormy wind blows o’er the peak,

  It rings, as if a human hand were there

  To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it;

  And it had led him towards the precipice,

  To climb up to the spot whence the sound came;

  But he had failed through weakness. From his hand

  His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink

  Of a small pool of water he was laid,

  As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained

  Without the strength to rise.

  MAR. Well, well, he lives,

  And all is safe: what said he?

  ELD. But few words:

  He only spake to me of a dear Daughter,

  Who, so he feared, would never see him more;

  And of a Stranger to him, One by whom

  He had been sore misused, but he forgave

  The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled—

  Perhaps you are his son?

  MAR. The All-seeing knows,

  I did not think he had a living Child,—

  But whither did you carry him?

  ELD. He was torn,

  His head was bruised, and there was blood about him—

  MAR. That was no work of mine.

  ELD. Nor was it mine.

  MAR. But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him

  A thousand miles.

  ELD. I am in poverty,

  And know how busy are the tongues of men;

  My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one

  Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light;

  And, though it smote me more than words can tell,

  I left him.

  MAR. I believe that there are phantoms,

  That in the shape of man do cross our path

  On evil instigation, to make sport

  Of our distress—and thou art one of them!

  But things substantial have so pressed on me—

  ELD. My wife and children came into my mind.

  MAR. Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us,

  And we shall howl together.

  [After a pause and in a feeble voice.

  I am deserted

  At my worst need, my crimes have in a net

  (Pointing to ELDRED) Entangled this poor man.—Where was it?

  where?

  [Dragging him along.

  ELD. ‘Tis needless; spare your violence.

  His Daughter—

  MAR. Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge

  This old man ‘had’ a Daughter.

  ELD. To the spot

  I hurried back with her.—O save me, Sir,

  From such a journey!—there was a black tree,

  A single tree; she thought it was her Father.—

  Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again

  For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now—

  Nay; hear my tale, ‘tis fit that you should hear it—

  As we approached, a solitary crow

  Rose from the spot;—the Daughter clapped her hands,

  And then I heard a shriek so terrible

  [MARMADUKE shrinks back.

  The startled bird quivered upon the wing.

  MAR. Dead, dead!—

  ELD. (after a pause). A dismal matter, Sir, for me,

  And seems the like for you; if ‘tis your wish,

  I’ll lead you to his Daughter; but ‘twere best

  That she should be prepared; I’ll go before.

  MAR. There will be need of preparation.

  [ELDRED goes off.

  ELEA. (enters). Master!

  Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you?

  MAR. (taking her arm). Woman, I’ve lent my body to the service

  Which now thou tak’st upon thee. God forbid

  That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion

  With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was.

  ELEA. Oh, why have I to do with things like these?

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE changes to the door of ELDRED’S cottage—IDONEA seated—

  enter ELDRED.

  ELD. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand

  Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me,

  And you remember such was my report:

  From what has just befallen me I have cause

  To fear the very worst.

  IDON. My Father is dead;

  Why dost thou come to me with words like these?

  ELD. A wicked Man should answer for his crimes.

  IDON. Thou seest me what I am.

  ELD. It was most heinous,

  And doth call out for vengeance.

  IDON. Do not add,

  I prithee, to the harm thou’st done already.

  ELD. Hereafter you will thank me for this service.

  Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs

  Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt,

  Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were

  You should prepare to meet him.

  IDON. I have nothing

  To do with others; help me to my Father—

  [She turns and sees MARMADUKE leaning

  on ELEANOR—throws herself upon his

  neck, and after some time,

  In joy I met thee, but a few hours past;

  And thus we meet again; one human stay

  Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.

  MAR. In such a wilderness—to see no thing,

  No, not the pitying moon!

  IDON. And perish so.

  MAR. Without a dog to moan for him.

  IDON. Think not of it,

  But enter there and see him how he sleeps,

  Tranquil as he had died in his own bed.

  MAR. Tranquil—why not?

  IDON. Oh, peace!

  MAR. He is at peace;

  His body is at rest: there was a plot,

  A hideous plot, against the soul of man:

  It took effect—and yet I baffled it,

  In ‘some’ degree.

  IDON. Between us stood, I thought,

  A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven

  For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence,

  Alone partake of it?—Beloved Marmaduke!

  MAR. Give me a reason why the wisest thing

  That the earth owns shall never choose to die,

  But some one must be near to count his groans.

  The wounded deer retires to solitude,

  And dies in solitude: all things but man,

  All die in solitude.

  [Moving towards the cottage door. Mysterious God,

  If she had never lived I had not done it!—

  IDON. Alas, the thought of such a cruel death

  Has overwhelmed him.—I must follow.

  ELD. Lady!

  You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may

  Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering,

  The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side

  Uplift his hand—that would be evidence.

  ELEA. Shame! Eldred, shame!

  MAR. (both returning). The dead have but one face (to himself).

  And such a Man—so meek and unoffending—

  Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man,


  By obvious signal to the world’s protection,

  Solemnly dedicated—to decoy him!—

  IDON. Oh, had you seen him living!—

  MAR. I (so filled

  With horror is this world) am unto thee

  The thing most precious, that it now contains:

  Therefore through me alone must be revealed

  By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea!

  I have the proofs!—

  IDON. O miserable Father!

  Thou didst command me to bless all mankind;

  Nor to this moment, have I ever wished

  Evil to any living thing; but hear me,

  Hear me, ye Heavens!—(kneeling)—may vengeance haunt the fiend

  For this most cruel murder: let him live

  And move in terror of the elements;

  The thunder send him on his knees to prayer

  In the open streets, and let him think he sees,

  If e’er he entereth the house of God,

  The roof, self-moved, unsettling o’er his head;

  And let him, when he would lie down at night,

  Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!

  MAR. My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee.

  IDON. (leaning on MARMADUKE). Left to the mercy of that savage

  Man!

  How could he call upon his Child!—O Friend!

  [Turns to MARMADUKE.

  My faithful true and only Comforter.

  MAR. Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.) (To ELDRED.) Yes,

  Varlet, look,

  The devils at such sights do clap their hands.

  [ELDRED retires alarmed.

  IDON. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale;

  Hast thou pursued the monster?

  MAR. I have found him.—

  Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames!

  IDON. Here art thou, then can I be desolate?—

  MAR. There was a time, when this protecting hand

  Availed against the mighty; never more

  Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine.

  IDON. Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan

  Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven;

  And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope,

  In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine

  For closer care;—here, is no malady.

  [Taking his arm.

  MAR. There, ‘is’ a malady—

  (Striking his heart and forehead). And here, and here,

  A mortal malady.—I am accurst:

  All nature curses me, and in my heart

  ‘Thy’ curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare.

  It must be told, and borne. I am the man,

  (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not)

  Presumptuous above all that ever breathed,

  Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person

  Upon Heaven’s righteous judgment, did become

  An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me

  Thy Father perished.

  IDON. Perished—by what mischance?

  MAR. Beloved!—if I dared, so would I call thee—

  Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart,

  The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace.

  [He gives her a letter.

  IDON. (reads). “Be not surprised if you

  hear that some signal judgment has befallen

  the man who calls himself your father; he

  is now with me, as his signature will shew:

  abstain from conjecture till you see me.

  “HERBERT.

  “MARMADUKE.”

  The writing Oswald’s; the signature my Father’s:

  (Looks steadily at the paper). And here is yours,—or do my eyes

  deceive me?

  You have then seen my Father?

  MAR. He has leaned

  Upon this arm.

  IDON. You led him towards the Convent?

  MAR. That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither

  We were his guides. I on that night resolved

  That he should wait thy coming till the day

  Of resurrection.

  IDON. Miserable Woman,

  Too quickly moved, too easily giving way,

  I put denial on thy suit, and hence,

  With the disastrous issue of last night,

  Thy perturbation, and these frantic words.

  Be calm, I pray thee!

  MAR. Oswald—

  IDON. Name him not.

  Enter female Beggar.

  BEG. And he is dead!—that Moor—how shall I cross it?

  By night, by day, never shall I be able

  To travel half a mile alone.—Good Lady!

  Forgive me!—Saints forgive me. Had I thought

  It would have come to this!—

  IDON. What brings you hither? speak!

  BEG. (pointing to MARMADUKE). This innocent Gentleman. Sweet

  heavens! I told him

  Such tales of your dead Father!—God is my judge,

  I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man,

  He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce.

  Mercy! I said I know not what—oh pity me—

  I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter—

  Pity me, I am haunted;—thrice this day

  My conscience made me wish to be struck blind;

  And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.

  IDON. (to MARMADUKE). Was it my Father?—no, no, no, for he

  Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind,

  Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life.

  —But hear me. For ‘one’ question, I have a heart

  That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

  MAR. No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process:

  Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt

  Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt,

  Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth

  And innocence, embodied in his looks,

  His words and tones and gestures, did but serve

  With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped

  Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded.

  Then pity crossed the path of my resolve:

  Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast,

  Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal

  Of the bleak Waste—left him—and so he died!—

  [IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar,

  ELEANOR, etc., crowd round, and bear her off.

  Why may we speak these things, and do no more;

  Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power,

  And words that tell these things be heard in vain?

  ‘She’ is not dead. Why!—if I loved this Woman,

  I would take care she never woke again;

  But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me,

  And say, no blame was mine—and so, poor fool,

  Will waste her curses on another name.

  [He walks about distractedly.

  Enter OSWALD.

  OSW. (to himself). Strong to o’erturn, strong also to build up.

  [To MARMADUKE.

  The starts and sallies of our last encounter

  Were natural enough; but that, I trust,

  Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains

  That fettered your nobility of mind—

  Delivered heart and head!

  Let us to Palestine;

  This is a paltry field for enterprise.

  MAR. Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue—

  ‘Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness,

  And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!—

  Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. (ironically.)

  Start not!—Here is another face hard by;

  Come, let us take a peep at both together,

  And, with a voice at which the d
ead will quake,

  Resound the praise of your morality—

  Of this too much.

  [Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottage—stops short at the door.

  Men are there, millions, Oswald,

  Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart

  And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised

  Above, or sunk below, all further sense

  Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight

  Of that old Man’s forgiveness on thy heart,

  Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine.

  Coward I have been; know, there lies not now

  Within the compass of a mortal thought,

  A deed that I would shrink from;—but to endure,

  That is my destiny. May it be thine:

  Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth

  To feed remorse, to welcome every sting

  Of penitential anguish, yea with tears.

  When seas and continents shall lie between us—

  The wider space the better—we may find

  In such a course fit links of sympathy,

  An incommunicable rivalship

  Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view.

  [Confused voices—several of the band enter

  —rush upon OSWALD, and seize him.

  ONE OF THEM. I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell—

  OSW. Ha! is it so!—That vagrant Hag!—this comes

  Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.

  SEVERAL VOICES. Despatch him!

  OSW. If I pass beneath a rock

  And shout, and, with the echo of my voice,

  Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me,

  I die without dishonour. Famished, starved,

  A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!

  [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.

  WAL. ‘Tis done! (Stabs him).

  ANOTHER OF THE BAND. The ruthless Traitor!

  MAR. A rash deed!—

  With that reproof I do resign a station

  Of which I have been proud.

  WIL. (approaching MARMADUKE). O my poor Master!

  MAR. Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred,

  Why art thou here? [Turning to WALLACE.

  Wallace, upon these Borders,

  Many there be whose eyes will not want cause

  To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms!

  Raise on that dreary Waste a monument

  That may record my story: nor let words—

  Few must they be, and delicate in their touch

  As light itself—be there withheld from Her

  Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan

  By One who would have died a thousand times,

  To shield her from a moment’s harm. To you,

  Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,

  By lowly nature reared, as if to make her

  In all things worthier of that noble birth,

  Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve

  Of restoration: with your tenderest care