Enter LOCRINE.
LOCRINE.
The gods be good to thee! How farest thou?
GUENDOLEN.
Well.
Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and hell
No fire to fear. The world I dwelt in died
With my dead father. King, thy world is wide
Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust:
But mine is strait, and built by death of dust.
LOCRINE.
Thy sire, mine uncle, stood the sole man, then,
That held thy life up happy? Guendolen,
Hast thou nor child nor husband — or are we
Worth no remembrance more at all of thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy speech is sweet; thine eyes are flowers that shine:
If ever siren bare a son, Locrine,
To reign in some green island and bear sway
On shores more shining than the front of day
And cliffs whose brightness dulls the morning’s brow,
That son of sorceries and of seas art thou.
LOCRINE.
Nay, now thy tongue it is that plays on men;
And yet no siren’s honey, Guendolen,
Is this fair speech, though soft as breathes the south,
Which thus I kiss to silence on thy mouth.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul is softer than this boy’s of thine:
His heart is all toward battle. Was it mine
That put such fire in his? for none that heard
Thy flatteries — nay, I take not back the word -
A flattering lover lives my loving lord -
Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.
LOCRINE.
What have I done for thee to mock with praise
And make the boy’s eyes widen? All my days
Are worth not all a week, if war be all,
Of his that loved no bloodless festival -
Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was one
Who craved no more of comfort from the sun
But light to lighten him toward battle: I
Love no such life as bids men kill or die.
GUENDOLEN.
Wert thou not woman more in word than act,
Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact
Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine:
But he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine,
Strong as thy speech is gentle.
LOCRINE.
God assoil
The dead our friends and foes!
GUENDOLEN.
A goodly spoil
Was that thine hand made then by Humber’s banks
Of all who swelled the Scythian’s riotous ranks
With storm of inland surf and surge of steel:
None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel
The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath
More bitter than the bitterest edge of death.
LOCRINE.
None.
GUENDOLEN.
This was then a day of blood. I heard,
But know not whence I caught the wandering word,
Strange women were there of that outland crew,
Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew.
LOCRINE.
Nay, Scythians then had we been, worse than they.
GUENDOLEN.
These that were taken, then, thou didst not slay?
LOCRINE.
I did not say we spared them.
GUENDOLEN.
Slay nor spare?
LOCRINE.
How if they were not?
GUENDOLEN.
What albeit they were?
Small hurt, meseems, my husband, had it been
Though British hands had haled a Scythian queen -
If such were found — some woman foul and fierce -
To death — or aught we hold for shame’s sake worse.
LOCRINE.
For shame’s own sake the hand that should not fear
To take such monstrous work upon it here,
And did not wither from the wrist, should be
Hewn off ere hanging. Wolves or men are we,
That thou shouldst question this?
GUENDOLEN.
Not wolves, but men,
Surely: for beasts are loyal.
LOCRINE.
Guendolen,
What irks thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Nought save grief and love; Locrine,
A grievous love, a loving grief is mine.
Here stands my husband: there my father lies:
I know not if there live in either’s eyes
More love, more life of comfort. This our son
Loves me: but is there else left living one
That loves me back as I love?
LOCRINE.
Nay, but how
Has this wild question fired thine heart?
GUENDOLEN.
Not thou!
No part have I — nay, never had I part -
Our child that hears me knows it — in thine heart.
Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one
For love of mine, his brother: thou, his son,
Didst give not — no — but yield thy hand to mine,
To mine thy lips — not thee to me, Locrine.
Thy heart has dwelt far off me all these years;
Yet have I never sought with smiles or tears
To lure or melt it meward. I have borne -
I that have borne to thee this boy — thy scorn,
Thy gentleness, thy tender words that bite
More deep than shame would, shouldst thou spurn or smite
These limbs and lips made thine by contract — made
No wife’s, no queen’s — a servant’s — nay, thy shade.
The shadow am I, my lord and king, of thee,
Who art spirit and substance, body and soul to me.
And now, — nay, speak not — now my sire is dead
Thou think’st to cast me crownless from thy bed
Wherein I brought thee forth a son that now
Shall perish with me, if thou wilt — and thou
Shalt live and laugh to think of us — or yet
Play faith more foul — play falser, and forget.
LOCRINE.
Sharp grief has crazed thy brain. Thou knowest of me -
GUENDOLEN.
I know that nought I know, Locrine, of thee.
LOCRINE.
What bids thee then revile me, knowing no cause?
GUENDOLEN.
Strong sorrow knows but sorrow’s lawless laws.
LOCRINE.
Yet these should turn not grief to raging fire.
GUENDOLEN.
They should not, had my heart my heart’s desire.
LOCRINE.
Would God that love, my queen, could give thee this!
GUENDOLEN.
Thou dost not call me wife — nor call’st amiss.
LOCRINE.
What name should serve to stay this fitful strife?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou dost not ill to call me not thy wife.
LOCRINE.
My sister wellnigh wast thou once: and now -
GUENDOLEN.
Thy sister never I: my brother thou.
LOCRINE.
How shall man sound this riddle? Read it me.
GUENDOLEN.
As loves a sister, never loved I thee.
LOCRINE.
Not when we played as twinborn child with child?
GUENDOLEN.
If then thou thought’st it, both were sore beguiled.
LOCRINE.
I thought thee sweeter then than summer doves.
GUENDOLEN.
Yet not like theirs — woe worth it! — were our loves.
LOCRINE.
No — for they meet and flit again apart.
GUENDOLEN.
&n
bsp; And we live linked, inseparate — heart in heart.
LOCRINE.
Is this the grief that wrings and vexes thine?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy mother laughed when thou wast born, Locrine.
LOCRINE.
Did she not well? sweet laughter speaks not scorn.
GUENDOLEN.
And thou didst laugh, and wept’st not, to be born.
LOCRINE.
Did I then ill? didst thou, then, weep to be?
GUENDOLEN.
The same star lit not thee to birth and me.
LOCRINE.
Thine eyes took light, then, from the fairer star.
GUENDOLEN.
Nay; thine was nigh the sun, and mine afar.
LOCRINE.
Too bright was thine to need the neighbouring sun.
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, all its life of light was wellnigh done.
LOCRINE.
If all on thee its light and life were shed
And darkness on thy birthday struck it dead,
It died most happy, leaving life and light
More fair and full in loves more thankful sight.
GUENDOLEN.
Art thou so thankful, king, for love’s kind sake?
Would I were worthier thanks like these I take!
For thanks I cannot render thee again.
LOCRINE.
Too heavy sits thy sorrow, Guendolen,
Upon thy spirit of life: I bid thee not
Take comfort while the fire of grief is hot
Still at thine heart, and scarce thy last keen tear
Dried: yet the gods have left thee comfort here.
GUENDOLEN.
Comfort? In thee, fair cousin — or my son?
LOCRINE.
What hast thou done, Madan, or left undone?
Toward thee and me thy mother’s mood to-day
Seems less than loving.
MADAN.
Sire, I cannot say.
LOCRINE.
Enough: an hour or half an hour is more
Than wrangling words should stuff with barren store.
Comfort may’st thou bring to her, if I may none,
When all her father quickens in her son.
In Cornish warfare if thou win thee praise,
Thine shall men liken to thy grandsire’s days.
GUENDOLEN.
To Cornwall must he fare and fight for thee?
LOCRINE.
If heart be his — and if thy will it be.
GUENDOLEN.
What is my will worth more than wind or foam?
LOCRINE.
Why, leave is thine to hold him here at home.
GUENDOLEN.
What power is mine to speed him or to stay?
LOCRINE.
None — should thy child cast love and shame away.
GUENDOLEN.
Most duteous wast thou to thy sire — and mine.
LOCRINE.
Yea, truly — when their bidding sealed me thine.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy smile is as a flame that plays and flits.
LOCRINE.
Yet at my heart thou knowest what fire there sits.
GUENDOLEN.
Not love’s — not love’s — toward me love burns not there.
LOCRINE.
What wouldst thou have me search therein and swear?
GUENDOLEN.
Swear by the faith none seeking there may find -
LOCRINE.
Then — by the faith that lives not in thy kind -
GUENDOLEN.
Ay — women’s faith is water. Then, by men’s -
LOCRINE.
Yea — by Locrine’s, and not by Guendolen’s -
GUENDOLEN.
Swear thou didst never love me more than now.
LOCRINE.
I swear it — not when first we kissed. And thou?
GUENDOLEN.
I cannot give thee back thine oath again.
LOCRINE.
If now love wane within thee, lived it then?
GUENDOLEN.
I said not that it waned. I would not swear -
LOCRINE.
That it was ever more than shadows were?
GUENDOLEN.
- Thy faith and heart were aught but shadow and fire.
LOCRINE.
But thou, meseems, hast loved — thy son and sire.
GUENDOLEN.
And not my lord: I cross and thwart him still.
LOCRINE.
Thy grief it is that wounds me — not thy will.
GUENDOLEN.
Wound? if I would, could I forsooth wound thee?
LOCRINE.
I think thou wouldst not, though thine hands were free.
GUENDOLEN.
These hands, now bound in wedlock fast to thine?
LOCRINE.
Yet were thine heart not then dislinked from mine.
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, life nor death, nor love whose child is hate,
May sunder hearts made one but once by fate.
Wrath may come down as fire between them — life
May bid them yearn for death as man for wife -
Grief bid them stoop as son to father — shame
Brand them, and memory turn their pulse to flame -
Or falsehood change their blood to poisoned wine -
Yet all shall rend them not in twain, Locrine.
LOCRINE.
Who knows not this? but rather would I know
What thought distempers and distunes thy woe.
I came to wed my grief awhile to thine
For love’s sake and for comfort’s -
GUENDOLEN.
Thou, Locrine?
Today thou knowest not, nor wilt learn tomorrow,
The secret sense of such a word as sorrow.
Thy spirit is soft and sweet: I well believe
Thou wouldst, but well I know thou canst not grieve.
The tears like fire, the fire that burns up tears,
The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears,
The sound of raging silence in the brain
That utters things unutterable for pain,
The thirst at heart that cries on death for ease,
What knows thy soul’s live sense of pangs like these?
LOCRINE.
Is no love left thee then for comfort?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine?
LOCRINE.
Thy son’s may serve thee, though thou mock at mine.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay — when he comes again from Cornwall.
LOCRINE.
Nay;
If now his absence irk thee, bid him stay.
GUENDOLEN. -
I will not — yea, I would not, though I might.
Go, child: God guard and grace thine hand in fight!
MADAN.
My heart shall give it grace to guard my head.
LOCRINE.
Well thought, my son: but scarce of thee well said.
MADAN.
No skill of speech have I: words said or sung
Help me no more than hand is helped of tongue:
Yet, would some better wit than mine, I wis,
Help mine, I fain would render thanks for this.
GUENDOLEN.
Think not the boy I bare thee too much mine,
Though slack of speech and halting: I divine
Thou shalt not find him faint of heart or hand,
Come what may come against him.
LOCRINE.
Nay, this land
Bears not alive, nor bare it ere we came,
Such bloodless hearts as know not fame from shame,
Or quail for hope’s sake, or more faithless fear,
From truth of single-sighted manhood, here
Born and bred up to read the word aright
That sunders man from beast as day from night.
That red rank I
reland where men burn and slay
Girls, old men, children, mothers, sires, and say
These wolves and swine that skulk and strike do well,
As soon might know sweet heaven from ravenous hell.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay: no such coward as crawls and licks the dust
Till blood thence licked may slake his murderous lust
And leave his tongue the suppler shall be bred,
I think, in Britain ever — if the dead
May witness for the living. Though my son
Go forth among strange tribes to battle, none
Here shall he meet within our circling seas
So much more vile than vilest men as these.
And though the folk be fierce that harbour there
As once the Scythians driven before thee were,
And though some Cornish water change its name
As Humber then for furtherance of thy fame,
And take some dead man’s on it — some dead king’s
Slain of our son’s hand — and its watersprings
Wax red and radiant from such fire of fight
And swell as high with blood of hosts in flight -
No fiercer foe nor worthier shall he meet
Than then fell grovelling at his father’s feet.
Nor, though the day run red with blood of men
As that whose hours rang round thy praises then,
Shall thy son’s hand be deeper dipped therein
Than his that gat him — and that held it sin
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 273
