I love: and day by day, as absent, pine…
July 5, 2023On Being Human
July 5, 2023Ernest: The Rule Of Right – Book XII
BOOK XII.
Union, if e’er thy name should mean a truth,
How happy were the nations in that name,
How free! I wonder much that in slave-lands
The censor’s pen should leave the word in print
Uncancell’d: raising by its utterance
Such threatening thoughts–for if in thy full strength
As men invoke thee, so thou wouldst stand up,
By Heaven, ere thou wert risen half thy height
Tyrants would fling them prostrate on their face
Before thee–scared into a most sage fear
At sight so startling. Monarchy ‘gainst thee
What is it but one straw standing aloof
Against the stack? Were I a king–nay, that
Is not all evil–but a wolf-king, as some,
Thy whisper’d name would fright me more than din
Of thunder in my ears; I should so shrink
To hear it, as at sight of a sudden knife
On upstart slumber gleaming at my throat.
But now thy name is all–a shadowy name,
No more–yet haply, while it lives, or seems–
That shadow may portend a substance too,
Idle portent unreal. Men play with words
As boys with bubbles; and so blowing out
A full round word, think it a glorious thing,
And are content with it: counters for coin:
But where those counters are, the coin is not;
And who wins most is the unluckiest;
Fool’s wages–Union, thou art a fair word,
And rife in many mouths; but thou fill’st not
The manly hunger that craves other food
Than wind–away with it–perish the phrase,
When that were perished a clear void would be,
And then would men haply bestir themselves
To fill it up with deeds.
Why! what strange dolts
Are we all, we busy bodies of this earth
Struggling, yet overlooking our only means
To make us mighty! We are as elements
Each by itself foredoomed to barrenness
Till all be blent together–Union in them
Is fruitful nature, and in us no less.
Clay, sand, chalk, mixed with mould. But oh thou Man!
Thou fool! That what we endure of general grief
Each of us all should mutter his sense of it
In his own breast! when fellow-utterance
Would swell the fellow-outbreak to a storm,
Such storm as they who will not bow to it
Must break before it. Oh most froward choice!
Choosing to sigh despairingly alone
Than shout triumphantly as patriots should
A bold conspiring shout. But we, ah no–
The might of such an Union was ne’er ours,
Else had misrule been blown away by it
As cobwebs from the trumpet, when its breath
Is louded blasted: thoro’ ’twas ne’er yet.
And till it come, our weal must wait for it,
Haply so long, till Manhood pine away
To that poor thing called Patience–a dull sheep
Sheared many times, and slaughter’d last of all
In silly sufferance.
Would they look round
The many might learn wisdom of the few
Truly to bind themselves for their own good
E’en as their rulers do; for ’tis that ring
Doth make these men within it drivers, and those
Without it burden-bearers: makes them so
And keeps them; when it fails, lordship fails too,
Signally. In such danger, then, were they
Those lordly leaders, there in Gilnau met,
How best boldly, yet wary, to win way
Out of their peril. Thither their best power
Was drawn together; and all little enough
If number were the only rate of worth
For such encounter–but the warrior-sword
Hath more decision than a score clown-scythes,
Cumbrous, tho’ big, and wielded cumbrously:
E’en in such surety they stood hitherto
‘Gainst their ungainly foes: no fear of the end
But only lest that end be far to seek
For lack of a clear issue, and fair field
To fight it out–but later tidings now
Weakened their trust. Seldorf and Falkenstein,
Arenberg, Altheim, Bruhl, and Geisingen
The chief ‘mong many others of less note
Met there to raise the mouldering standard up
Of lordly Law, and selfish wilfulness;
To crush Rebellion’s head, and drag in dust
Its senseless body at their cannon wheels;
And there they now held council. Not as late
With overweening wrath; but doubtfully,
In earnest doubt, for many flying clouds
Had gather’d to one body, thick and dark
O’ershadowing the late cheer of hopefulness
Most gloomily: and Fame’s latest report
Of ill was overlaid, ere an hour gone,
With something worse. Who rubbed their hands in glee
May wring them in grief. Behoved them all their strength
In such a strait as this, and all their skill
To make strength sure. Fearfully were they met,
And Distrust crept, a haggard mutterer,
Thro’ that old Justice Hall. Each man of them
Sought comfort from his neighbour’s countenance
And found but fear. “How now? thy brow is dark,
Thine, and all others here: haggard thy gaze;
Sure some unearthly mischievous portent.
Look round–what anxious strange alarm is this
That like the stern sway of a thunder-cloud
O’erawes us?” a dark dream–and the truth of it
Yet darker. Thus they felt–nor knew their doom
So feeling it: for the stern spirit o’erhead,
Watching his hour, the avenger of Man’s wrong,
They knew him not. Else, ‘stead of dumb dismay,
They had shrieked out at the sight–for look on him,
His arm is bared, and but one moment more
From darkness he bursts forth in a hurricane
And they, all thunderstricken by his bolt,
In wild tumultuous maddening agony,
Where shall we hide us?
At last, in the eager throng
Dismay composed itself to audience
And Arenberg rose up. Governor late
Of this same province, till War snatched from him
His peaceful rule, o’erbearing Law with its will,
Making its sword the sceptre. “Sirs, we are here,”
So said the calm and worshipful old man,
“Upholders of our lawful authority
Against this uproar. Whether to keep off
Rebellion, at sword’s length, till it be slain,
Or else vouchsafe them terms: now, what we would
If our wills wielded it offhand, none doubts
‘Tis nothing short of flat submission first
And then the headsman and the hangman’s work
To follow after. That is easy said,
And haply, many here will say no less
Many and brave men–I mistrust them not
But he’s yet braver who in the hot field
Will vouch the saying–’tis a dangerous proof
I say it steadfastly: most dangerous
As full of danger as the bravest here
Is full of daring to encounter it
This outbreak is no bubble–a week’s growth
And now already a giant. This, I trow
Is our third day abiding here on watch
And needs but such a fourth to end us all.
Tidings are traitors, and blow Treason abroad
Blasting us with each breath. Stolberg is kept
In rebel hold, despite our utmost strength
Shivered against it–our worst brunt they bore
And beat it back–six score men lost to us
Worse yet, the devil hath sown tares thro’ our best
Wheat, our own hands and arms against us turned
Young Linsingen, beshrew the silliness
That left him with such means of mischief there
Only to help his rebel brother’s ends
Ere the assault, he and a hundred more
Took Treason’s side–frankly went o’er to them
And fought so madly against us as they fight
Who from defeat to death have but one step,
And knowing that, are fain rather to die
In wilful proud defiance of the Law
Than by its doom. Then what ye’ve heard, how one
Half-crazy cobbler, weapon’d but with knife
And pistols, slew seven soldiers, ere they took
His hut, with his life too–and this for proof
As he harangued his fellows ere the feat
That householder o’er soldier hath the odds,
If will to use them.
Hideous this, but true,
And what seems safe, stands in scarce better plight
Than that clear loss–so spreads the black blood-drop
From the heart thro’. For I have tidings sure
That the more half of those who bide behind
Stay but on tip-toe; and those upbreakers
Have better right than we to call them theirs
Having the heart and soul of the whole bulk
Upon their side. Thus is our keystone gone
Dragging our main dependence after it
Ruining down on us; and all that’s left
A show, no surety. Now, Sirs what to do,
That must your wisdom settle and work out
But suddenly; for in such din, such crash
Thundering in our ears, a minute’s loss
May become everlasting death to us,
Then let each shortly speak his seeming out,
And mine is this. For war, we’re weaker far
Than warrants it. Our strength is rottenness,
Our army falling off from us like flesh
In a fever–to us hollow and hireling-like
But native in heart-yearning to our foes,
A wolf less true to its keeper than its kind
Wilder than safe: long reared and fed by us
But for a rank and idle outlay in peace
In war a deadly home-thrust treachery
Betrayed, by whose sworn faith we trusted most
This for our soldiery–a hope, by the wise
Long seen but for suspicion, and which now
The simplest is unfooled of it–what yet
Stands, tho’ ill-propped, our power, wealth, patronage
These were strong means when all things else were ours
Before these broils begun, this devil loosed
But now–they’re but the golden harvestage
Against the whirlwind flame; feeding its wild
Foe, whom withstand it cannot nor yet flee
My lords–this sudden onflash of rock-oil
How quell it? we must try, being so weak
Some other trial than War’s bloody work
Lest so our weakness fail before their strength
And then we stand forlorn–bare poles in the boat
Hands ugly, rigging lost.
Now we’ve no means
But friendly composition and fair terms
To help us to that end. The world is gone
After them–old things past–all become new;
Therefore the proffered peace we flung from us
In scorn, when pride of power prompted us
As regret vails not to recover it
So neither will I now spite the old sore
Handling it o’er again: only mark this
If ye would treaty rather than sharp war,
Surety than utter downfal, then be warned:
Bid liberal and largely, gainliest so
Else cheapening and haggling ye but give
Time for the tide to o’erreach us, and betray
Alike our fears and niggard narrowness
Paltering them with shams–with a beggar’s dole
From the high-heaped wealth, which in plain truth ye hold
As by their toil, so at their mercy too
Poor and precarious–aye, ’tis salt truth
But we must swallow it: and I be sure
As loathingly as any of ye all
But what needs must, why, ’tis best gulped at once
Sour medicine we but embitter more
With our sour looks–therefore our polity
Boldly and without drawback–hear me ye shall
Be it the scapegoat of our property
And let the people freely take their turn
To rule us, as they must, despite of us
And so shall Allman’s will be Allman’s law
Better and safer, whatsoe’er befal
Than Allman’s violence. Our lordly sway
Of birthright, burdensome, but gainful, no
E’en as a mantle of state, we must fling off
And meet them hand with hand, and man with man
Lest if we strive to keep it, shirt and skin
Be torn away with it: and the harsh tax
Whereby we now dishearten toil’s hard bread
Frankly we must forego it. Church and State
Must be reformed to such a rule of Right
As squares with Reason: and in sacred things
No charge imposed, pain nor privation
‘Gainst conscious choice; but where each man approves
There let him pay. More I might show to ye
But this till then: and thus I see some hope
Foregoing much to save more that remains
Sleepening their fire with sunbeams–but let none
Mistake, that yielding thus, we yield to the axe
The handle, whence to smite us, root and branch,
Nay–my good friends–if they be minded so
They’ve means already to fulfil their mind
Being thousands to one. So, if they’re bent
To rob us, why, ’tis sure we must be robbed
But to hold parley with them in such wise
Makes them no stronger robbers than before,
And I have trustworthy intelligence
That there are many ‘mong them will fall off
For such fair promise: lessening their force
And swelling ours. Else if we stand for all
We hold, tho’ much of it, like a yule-log
In Midsummer, a clumsy stumbling-block
Useless to us, to them a sore offence,
Then were we swept sheer off.”
He ceased, for wrath
Ruffled his hearers, and unwilling spite
To hearken; as when Severn, eddying down
By towering Berkley, embrued with kingly blood
Suddenly, ‘gainst south western wind and tide
Dashes itself to foam, and high uprears
Its billowy crest–so his mild wisdom chafed
Their reckless will. This Ludwig saw–a shrill
Sharp, most shrewd lawyer. “Sir, the Governor
Says to us, gulp my physic–a dose perhaps
Of salts–well that were not so much–but no
He’d have us drink the whole salt sea–that’s hard
To do; were drowned downright, goods, lands, and all
Ere our first draught: but there are ways and means
We need not take the open broad high road
Nor show our game–far better throw some sham
Tub to the wallowing unwieldy whale
That tempests now our ocean–give ’em then
Their Universal Suffrage, the whole hog
Sow, pigs, and all: needs not much nicety
Men, women, children too: for all that can
Duly and solemnly prove the child’s ripe
Discretion, pick the plums from the bread cake
And from ‘mong marbles snatch the lollipop–
And give each workman too a double vote
One ‘gainst himself and fellows, one for us
Nay–never fear–we’ll give it, yet keep back,
Keep in our hands the ballot-box: receive
All votes with most religious reverence
And with full faith–in our judicious selves–
Report them, how we will: that’s pleasant and fair,
They the vote-dreamers, we the interpreters;
Then throw them that big tub; some others too
Smaller ones–but to hold all–hope it not.
Ye know the boy’s tale of some twenty men
Wrecked on a desert isle: two lords, the rest
Workmen. At break of day, ‘work, said the two,
We cannot, ought not, will not. Now, as then,
You must work for us.’ So they did–fed, lodged,
Clothed ’em–but needful livelihood thus foreseen,
Then all took council for the general rule.
But no–you workmen are no councillors:
‘Tis ours to rule, yours to obey: so spake
The lordlings; but the craftsmen? no–and thence
So severed, the whole rope ran back–must start
All from one level line, each for himself,
Win bread or starve–they grasped o’ermuch, those two,
So will not we, if wise.”
True–but these men
Are but self-wise–upstarted Falkenstein
Hasty and moody, in scornful lordliness;
Haughty of behaviour even as of soul;
Noble, yet abler than nobility’s wont;
And deeming of that fond o’erweening dream
As of some high and holy mystery
Faithfully to be worshipped, and no word
Of whence or wherefore. Outwardly withal
Bounteous; scattering largess with free hand;
As feeling, that the giver is glorified
And he who takes beholden unto him
In bounden duty: and so all he gave
It was brought back and laid before his feet
In such a shape as truly his pride loved
More than its pelfish one: worshipful words,
And lowliness and whispered deference:
For gold to him was dirt; trade-stamped; shop-trash;
He scorned and therefore gave it. Long had he marked
And with high-towering fierce disdainfulness,
How sturdily the craftsmen challenged him
And his compeers to prove their privilege
In rightful warrant: setting the Truth up
Against fantastic old Idolatry;
Thronging in lewdly and with prying points
Proving the stately fabrication’s self,
That none ahould search too close, but fall flat down
And worship it. A wrathful man was he
To hear their hopes, much more see their success
Upstarting.
“Gentlemen,” thus fiercely he spake,
“If yet distinction be ‘tween gentle and churl,
Which some would seem to doubt: and in all faith
As they doubt us, frankly, I doubt them too
That they are bastard–for sure, noble blood
Would ne’er so shame itself–nobles in name,
Addelheads only. We have heard what I
Had sooner torn my tongue up by the roots
Than uttered it: and so I trust would ye
Whoe’er is not a traitor. Here’s a flood
Of mire, of filthy muck scouring this land;
And we are asked, will we bestir ourselves
To keep it out, or must we give it room
To smother field and home, all that is ours,
E’en to our halls, our hearths, our very beds,
With swinish sewerage–yet more–shall we along
To swell its stream–we nobles! to float down
Upon it, lazy as scum, foul as dead dogs,
Till sunk low under it at last! Why, when
Did insolence, howe’er bloated of late,
Did it e’er dream foreafterly like this,
Which statemanship, oh shame to call it so,
Would now uphold for Truth. Oh yes–for Truth
Herself, once rabbled, becomes rabble-like,
Fouled with her handler’s filth. To reason it
I will not: but would fling all reason away
Sooner than give the thought room in my mind,
Tho’ but to prove it wicked as ’tis false,
Wilder, than needs wisdom to argue it.
What, shall we do any the dirtiest deed
That e’er polluted earth? Eat our own sires
Rather than bury them? give to the arms
Of some strong hilding churl for his strength’s sake
Our dainty daughters? These and the like things
Doubtless keen wits, scornful of the wiser world
Might quibble us why: for waive Nature away,
Nature by knaves and dolts called prejudice,
With pale Philosophy outwrangling her,
They may be holden useful–yet the man
Were a cur, an ape, to trust them–for all talk
Where inborn feeling loathes and starts from it
Is shame confess’d. Therefore to argue this
Were baser than to measure swords with a thief
In question of our honour.
What! is here
Any so craven of heart, but his blood boils,
Tho’ but to think such terms? for my own, Sirs,
I’ll spill it on the dust to the last drop
Ere I will hearken them. Rather a dog
Than such a nobleman. Then what needs more?
Say this king Lud and his brutish followers
Have Reason–well–their own is good for them:
Like their mud-huts–may dabble both alike
With dirty craft. But we–we’ll keep to ours,
In theirs we enter not. Pride, say ye so?
Well then–we’ll show cause: that stiff underclay
You’d turn it uppermost. No–as subsoil,
It gives our tillage a strong wholesome stand.
But the land’s life and growth you stifle at once,
Bringing it on the surface. Howe’er, for us,
Gentlemen, all we would is hold our own:
And that we can and will. When I must yield
My castle and broad lands, my ancestral
Vessels, silver and gold, my shield, my coat,
The very shirt I wear for boorish backs,
To prank them just so sagely as the ape
Its pilfer’d garment; then, too, will I bate
The slightest tittle of my privilege.
No bugbear till such time shall fright me so
But I will hold them fast as my soul’s faith;
And they who’d take them must fight hard for them,
To outfight me. Why, Sirs, our forefathers
Had scorned to back a foot, tho’ for their lives,
From such a rabble; at the first onset
Had broken them, and then bruised them to bits,
For rotten stuff; and all they doubted of
Had been but this; the lustre of our swords,
Shall we so stoop to dim it with base blood
Instead of rope and cudgel? Oh let us
But dare so much as manfully do that
Which they did scornfully–to arm and fight,
Unless they flee us first, as like they will
Halfway; however, down with them I say,
Down with the bristling upstarts: as I rend,
Scatter and trample in dust this their broadsheet
So will we them as surely.”
Boldly he spoke,
A boldness that caught many hearts beside,
Doubtful and cold before: and their new warmth
Grew next to fiery heat; for, while he spoke
All travel-toiled a messenger came in
Bearing glad news. Rebellion had been checked:
The tower of Mittenwald with arms full stored,
Had Weyer, hottest head of the rebel host,
And bloodiest hand, with a band tumultuous
Stirred by himself to the feat, attacked and won;
Won and then lost it with his own life too,
Slain there outright: and other men of mark
His fellows in that plot had rued it alike,
Sharing his death. Needs but a child’s hand-shove
To shift the floating vessel; and their minds
Erewhile reeling unsteady to and fro
Caught that light breath and spread all sail to it,
So by the fickle favour of its hope
Steering amain further than eye could see
Across the unfathom’d ocean. Strong emprize,
Feeble assurance! but Hope soars or sinks
Bursting into a blaze, or dying away
From slightest kindling cause, if fuel it find:
And they from any catchword would take fire
As straws from a spark. Then hurried eagerness
Was rife, and greetings glad, and hasty scorn
Foresnatching the main upshot of the wheel
From one slight turn. Swiftly the word went forth
To strike at once home to Rebellion’s heart,
Stunned, as likely it would, or much dismayed
By such strong blow. With trumpet then and drum
Was Peace noised off, from pleading her mild prayer;
Then loud and ceaseless stirring was the din
Of bloody preparation: revelry
Swilling the streets–banners aflaunt in air,
All scamps, shacks, blackguards, noble warriors now,
Outrageous license beckoned to come in,
And fill with uproar the scant time between,
Lest Conscience should grow cool, and thoughtfulness
E’en in those reckless souls turn into doubt
Which side were better, challenging free choice
Instead of helpless blindfold slavery.
Then all was soldiership, e’en to the games
Of aping children–and the heavy huge
Unwieldy bulk of war framed in array,
To move at instant need: nor only here
Did the hurtling Giant rise, and blow his blast
And bare his murderous arm. Treason and War
Are many-handed monsters, and their works
Manifold–striking with their thunder-stroke
Countries, and seas, and cities far between,
And all at once.
While here hurry was rife,
And Hermann afar off, on the wild coast
Stirred up the dwellers there, desperate men,
To a venture yet more desperate than their wont;
While so he fared, his father sate the while
In depth of a dark night; fearfully sate,
Brow bent toward brow, with Seldorf, that proud Count:
Of all the country around, and of that huge
Grey abbey-pile wherein they met, the lord
And landowner. ‘Twas a confessional,
Where they held conclave; or had been–now books
Did the priest’s duty and fulfilled his room,
Shelved round the walls, dark wainscoted and carved
With quaintest skill: and the huge oaken-door
Slow creaking, opened thence into a high
Arched hall; the Abbey Chapel aforetime
For the old Faith. They had outwatched the stars:
And the dark low-toned danger of their talk
With shadow of the doom awaiting them
Deepened the midnight gloom. Sure, such a cause,
Whether to stand or fall, and by what means,
Is deep deliberation: and the old man
Being a traitor, would seem something else,
And therefore needed many a round of words
To cloak his purposes: fold upon fold
As on a deep-coiled mummy, and nought at last
But filth and stench within. Long glozing he spake
Ere thus he ended. “Sir, what I have said
Be sure of it; much mischief hath he wrought;
And will much more; ‘less he be timely stopp’d,
Nay, clean cut off: ‘Twas he in Salfeld there
Having by night thither adventured him,
Stirred up his brother to take traitor arms
Himself, and his men with him, one and all,
Whence Stolberg, you well know, was lost. Now, Sir,
To rid him off outright, him your worst fear,
Hearken me how. The bridal is this morn,
This very morn; for look, by yonder clock
We are past midnight, and the way he comes
Is alike sure as his coming certainty.
But for myself, my tidings too, tho’ high
Their worth, I ask no hire–only thus much–
The game I start, to see ye hunt it thro’.
So shall Rebellion stagger, and one stroke
Smiting it as it reels, shall smite it down:
And the State, shaken by this wild earthquake,
Shall stand thence steadfast–for me, Conscience alone
Is here concerned. If so atone I may
Truly and well, what I’ve been ill beguiled
That is my richest hope. For the rest, Sir,
E’en to your hands I do commit myself
To weigh my present worth against my past,
And then–if this my zeal seem worthy of thanks
Or free forgiveness, or yet further grace,
To give it.” So he spake, and parted so
Homeward; in tremulous hurry traversing
The night: as who hopes to escape his cares
Out-speeding them–fond hope–for the hell-hounds
Track not their game behind, but ravin the heart
Within. He hasted on–still on–vain haste!
Then stopp’d. That moment from his brooding thoughts
Upgrew a monstrous horror, awful, huge–
Beyond the boldest Manhood its huge awe.
His Conscience–in fiend-shape confess’d to him,
Leering and jeering–harrowing his soul
Hellishly–front to front, as at doomsday
Bodily. To dissemble then was not:
But in the shade of its dark presence, down
He fell, bowed down, a deadly agony,
Speechless confession: such as Sin needs must
Arraigned to final doom. Oh! then all worlds
Millions and millions he would give them all,
Unhappy man, of his remorse late rued!
For when did ever the fiend quit his prey
Once seized?–sudden he fell–for the evil ghost
So with the thundering terror of his voice
Smote him, that all his senses darkly reeled,
Whirled his wild eye-balls–then, with lightning stroke
Branded him thro’ the forehead to the brain
Deep blasted. He shrieked out and started away
Wringing his hands, and laughing as he ran
Yet crazier than his shrieks–hedge o’er, ditch thro’
Straight to his door. His daughter open’d it
And saw a maniac gnashing his teeth.
“Father, is’t thou? what’s this?” Nay, ask not him:
‘Tis vain.
That night pass’d off, and the sun rose
Early, to climb his high midsummer hill;
But Linsingen in loving earnestness
Made him a laggard–springing up himself
The brighter and more gladsome of the two:
Ere yet that fiery eyeball overpeered
Above the sky-line. Whither he would go
He told to none, lest some should construe him
More softly than befitted that stern time:
Mistrusting him, lest his red warlike star
Should fade in Love’s faint lustre. As he rose,
Loud howled the warning wind. “Aye, howl away
And drive the cowering sheep for shelter there
Beneath yon ridge. I like the augury:
To those who now are drooping, our dear foes,
Foreboding dread; to us, the Conquerors,
A glad heart-glow: for we will sweep this land
With a strength mighty as thine.” So he went on,
Stout in self-will, a bridegroom, hopeful and bright,
Saying no word, taking no friendly leave,
As minding to return thither that day
A faithful husband–so insuring her
Ere he outrisked himself. ‘Twas a weary length
Of walk, twelve mountain miles over the moors
That lay before him: but his heart was there
Earlier than himself, and drew him on,
By threads unseen, yet strong as adamant,
No sense of toil. But foemen were abroad:
And tho’ his blood were hot, and his spirit high,
He deemed them, that day, better left aside
Than to confront them. In that thought he left
The beaten road, and o’er the hills away
To others all unwonted, but to him
Ranging for game, tho’ trackless, often tried:
No fear of ambush there, but open and clear
As ocean. In that trust forward he went
Like a brave boat in storm, up the ascent
Down the steep fall–forward so far, until
From a lone crag, oh, welcome! ’tis the Church,
Where he should be a bridegroom that same morn,
And Lucy a bride. He stood and gazed on it
As on Heaven’s gates: rested refreshfully,
Still gazing–then arose, and looking round,
“By Heaven, that very moor I tried for game
Some three years since: and but for walking it
And shooting one poor hare, they robbed me at Law,
More than the land’s worth: but now times are changed:
And there I’ll range, and none shall hinder me.
The Freedom that I fight for, its first fruits
I challenge–can thence take the road–no fear
For that short distance.” Hold, thou rashness, hold,
Act not thy deadly words.
Meanwhile that house
In bridal hope, yet not quite fearlessly,
Awaited him, and filled the growing gap
With dismal pale forebodings–felt the more
At the heart, since driven thither from the face
Which, with semblance of ease and gladsome show
Would fain belie it. Still as the hours waned
So waxed their gloom within; till doubt on doubt
Grew unto darkness: then a flash of light
Showing that darkness deeper than before,
And dreader. Hurried in their trusty old
Walter, would draw his master thence aside:
But as he entered, and each eager eye
Inquired of him, his faculty fell short
To answer falsely what too truly he knew:
And so, missing his purpose he looked round
Wildly, till e’en that wildness lost itself
Confounded wholly in tears. “Why, what is this?
Walter, how now? something befallen ill?
But hither, come this way.” So the sire spake,
But she, his earnest daughter, undismay’d
Whate’er it be, speak out, evil or good,
I will know all.
“Aye, truly, so you must:
For such a mischief, hide it we can not
As one would smother a spark–yes, you must know,
But not from me–so kind as thou hast been–
Would sooner die than tell thee. And Sir, indeed,”
Thus he half said, half sobbed in her father’s ear,
“‘Tis death–they’ve taken him–there’s one killed dead,
But the rest took him there by the moor-side,
And so away with him. Hans saw it all.
But we–how yet to help him?”
To the tongue
Wormwood, and evil tidings to the ear
Are of sharp proof; swift striking on the sense
And biding there. Lucy heard all, tho’ meant
Aloof from her. She heard and swooned away,
A deadly swoon: for she had nerved herself
To encounter all of Fate she could foresee
Standing abreast against her; but this chance
Befel her so, with onset so athwart,
It shocked her from her stand. When thence again
Being raised, and in her chamber sadly laid,
She gathered up her soul from that surprise;
Then all her mourning friends, mother and all,
She prayed them to go forth, and leave her awhile
Alone in sorrow: they, tho’ doubtfully,
Their bidding did: speechless and shadowy
Passing away from her: then in their place
Her thoughts thronged in, a visionary train.
“Yes, the blow is stricken–the death-blow–
Noble lovers ye are both laid low:
No hope for ye.
I alone, the traitress, yes e’en I,
Who suborned ye most unwomanly,
Why spare they me?
Thou art powerful, but just, oh no
Thou high Providence that orderest so!
Nay–peace, vain fool–
Worse than thousand deaths from headsman’s steel
Is the lifelong anguish I shall feel,
And righteous is God’s rule.
I shall rue it in sore penitence,
Yet ’twas done in truthful innocence
And holiness.
Work more pure was never wrought by men,
So I thought and felt and knew it then
And n