Chapter I: Part 1

PSYCHOLOGIES

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

BOOKS OF VERSE

PHILOSOPHIES
THE SETTING SUN
FABLES

NEW NOVEL

REVELS OF ORSERA

P S Y C H O L O G I E S

BY RONALD ROSS

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1919

* * * * *

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

* * * * *

NOTE

These five studies are parts of a series of which I hope to publish more examples at a later date.

The first two originally appeared in _The Nation_ of September 27th and December 13th, 1913. The last piece contains passages from a drama called _Edgar_, published in Madras in 1883. _The Marsh_ was intended to be a melodrama, but the music for it has not yet been developed.

My thanks are due to Mr. John Masefield and Mr. Cloudesley Brereton for helping me in the correction of the proofs.

THE AUTHOR.

* * * * *

CONTENTS

PAGE

OTHO 9

THE TRIUMPH 14

EVIL 22

THE MARSH 36

THE BOY’S DREAM 52

=PSYCHOLOGIES=

=OTHO=

OTHO.
SOLDIERS.

[After Otho had been partially defeated by Vitellius, his
soldiers clamoured to be led again to battle. Otho refused in
the manner shown here in brief.]

_Soldiers._ Once more to battle, Otho!

_Otho._ No, not for Rome’s sake.

_Soldiers._ Cæsar, once more!

_Otho._ Is Rome forgotten then?

_Soldiers._ To battle, Cæsar!

_Big Soldier._ Hear us, little Cæsar!

_Bearded Soldier._ Are we, then, dogs that Cæsar will not lead us?

_Soldiers._ Ah!

_Bearded Soldier._ Did we fly? Are we mercenaries?

_Soldiers._ Ah!

_Young Soldier._ Blood, blood, blood!

_Big Soldier._ Listen, pretty one, listen!

_Soldiers._ Once more, Otho, once more!

_Centurion._ You mongrels, peace!

_Small Soldier._ I smoke for battle, Cæsar. I’ll fail thee no more.

_Soldiers._ God Cæsar, lead us!

_Young Soldier_(_beating his shield_). Blood, blood,
blood, blood, blood!

_Soldiers._ To battle, Cæsar!

_Bearded Soldier._ Are we Egyptians?

_Centurion._ Peace!

_Big Soldier._ Hear, pretty one, hear!

_Otho._ For this your love these thanks. For your great hearts my heart. My blood for yours As yours would flow for mine. This life for all, And for my country.

_Soldier._ Let us die for it then.

_Another._ These kisses for your feet.

_Young Soldier_(_gashing his arm_). This blood to wash them!

_Another_(_doing the same_). And this to keep you Cæsar.

_Otho._ I am that— And would not be it. For about the world The warlike pest is blown, and Cæsar stands Knee-deep in blood, or is not Cæsar. Cease! Keep me no more with Fortune. She and I Are wedded-weary of each other.

_Soldiers._ War! War!

_Centurion._ Dogs! Listen while great Cæsar speaks.

_Soldiers._ To war!

_Old Soldier._ See, Cæsar, how these wounds burst out once more
With blood that clamours to be shed for thee!

_Otho._ For this great love my thanks, brave hearts. My tears Do thank you. So my country’s bitter wounds Burst out with blood once more for me. O there! Too much already have those dreadful wounds Bled gouts and gushes of black blood for me— For nothing. What am I—no god, a man— To loose the life of myriads and to make Italy a charnel for a name? Enough. The battle was against us. Let it be. The gods have spoken, and love not to warn In vain. I am resolved. I’ll war no more.

_Soldiers._ Ah! Ah!

_Small Soldier._ We are not vanquisht!

_Otho._ But not victors. The omens are adverse. Vitellius wins. What matter if he win? So let him win. Shall Rome be river’d with her children’s blood That he or I should wear a purple rag? What is’t to Rome who should be Cæsar? Hear. We Cæsars rise, and rule, and rot—yet are But as the names of nothing for a time; The marks on foolish calendars of days For farmers’ fruit-trees and memorial stones— Notches on sticks, and gossip for winter nights; Add not a corngrain to the goodman’s store, A word to wisdom, nor a stave to song; Nor worth the delving of a ditch to hide Our bones in, less a dreadful sepulchre To hold the harvest of a continent. For which of us shall Italy be more fair? Will yonder sun more brightly beam for me Than for Vitellius? Or her labour’d fields More richly bear, her rivers run, her hills Brighten the more, for me than for Vitellius? Upon the sands the silvery waters play; The deep endellèd woods are rich with flowers; And all her maidens call. Laughing they call Amid the morning dew: but not the more For me than for Vitellius. Let him reign! I will contend with him in battle no more; I will contend with him in nobleness. So let him then give Rome a Cæsar. I Will give her peace.

_Soldiers._ Cæsar, Otho, Cæsar!

_Young Soldier._ Make way there, comrades; I’ve a word to move him. (_He
stabs himself._)
See, Cæsar, what we dare for thee. If thus
For nothing we die—how shall we die for thee? (_He dies._)

(_Otho covers his face. Silence._)

_Otho._ But ere I give it I must win that peace. Ah, thou hast taught me how to win it, friend. Give me his sword that I may kiss his blood. O Italy, O Rome, if thus for me Thy children die, how should I die for thee?

(_He stabs himself. The soldiers rage round him._)

_Soldier._ O noble Cæsar!

_Centurion._ Back! let him have more air.

_Soldier._ He is not dead.

_Centurion._ Fall back, you dogs!

_Soldier._ He dies.

_Otho_(_dying_). He gives thee Cæsar. I will give thee—peace.

_Soldier._ I’ll see him die at least.

_Soldiers._ Hack him to death
For breathing Cæsar’s air.

_Soldier._ Cæsar, I follow thee.

_Another._ And I.

_Another._ The sun is set with him.

_Another._ You cowards!
Because you ran in battle he dies.

_Another._ Who ran?

_Another._ You.

_Another_(_striking him_). Run then after that.

_Centurion._ Undisciplined dogs.
More air, you curs!

_Soldier._ He dies.

_Soldiers._ Cæsar! Cæsar!

(_Otho dies._)

=THE TRIUMPH=

THEODORA.
OSTYN.

_A Forest of Great Trees. Tempest._

_Enter_ THEODORA, _followed by_ OSTYN _waving a sword_.

_Theodora._ Triumph, my friend!

_Ostyn._ So perish all oppressors!

_Theodora._ So let them die!

_Ostyn._ So let them perish all!

_Theodora._ So let God help us ever!

_Ostyn._ And for ever!

_Theodora._ God has been with us.

_Ostyn._ Let us kneel, dear friend, And thank Him. Aye, before this bleeding sword, As at an altar, let us kneel to Him.

_Theodora._ Whose justice, smiting in your hand, laid low
My children’s murderer!

(_They kneel before the sword, laid on the grass. The tempest pauses
for a moment. The sun gleams on the sword._)

From this dungeon’d world, Where death and madness fill the dark with shrieks, We thank Thee, uttermost God, for that Thy light Hath smitten one moment for us. From Thy throne The lightning came; the bright exceeding flash Came down and smote him; the lightning of Thy wrath Devour’d him.

_Ostyn._ Fearless he stood aloft, and strong; Fearless of death and lord of many crimes. Men crept beneath him. He was terrible And took them by the scruff and flung them down For pleasure.

_Theodora._ For he was fill’d with hate and love; And where his love fell, fell his hate also, Like thunder blasting that it kisses.

_Ostyn._ Mighty, His people groan’d beneath him; for he slew A pathway to his passions.

_Theodora._ My lord he slew,
Beloved; my children, for I scorn’d him.

_Ostyn._ Herself, Like that dark angel leaping down from heaven, He visited.

_Theodora._ Like that dark angel came.

_Ostyn._ But she made ready the hidden sword. O God, Hear! She made ready the sword. Hear, O God. The sword she laid in secret. God of Wrath, Be with us for our cause was just.

_Theodora._ He fell; Not like a tyrant in the poison’d night; Not like a victim of the shuddering dark; But front to front with anger in his eyes, And arm’d to smite again. Triumph!

(_Tempest. They raise their arms._)

_Ostyn._ He died!

_Theodora._ He perisht!

_Ostyn._ Let the world triumph!

_Theodora._ Let it shout!

_Ostyn._ Hear us, O God of Wrath!

_Theodora._ O God of Love,
Hear us, Thy children, and forgive!

(_They rise._)

_Ostyn._ My friend, You weep—altho’ we triumph. That must be, Alas! But wipe this horror from you now, Nor let it ache for ever, like some despair Whose secret hamper to the soul we feel But name not. Wipe it from you—like this blood, Which thus I purge from off th’ untarnisht steel Once and for all. Come, we must take the time, And move. The servants of that evil man Will seek him. Yonder too another storm, Ere yet the trees have shed their scope of tears, Stands muttering in the zenith. Come then, friend. I have an aged cousin living in the city, And she will shelter you. As for myself— If’t please you that I may remain with you, Your servant, I’d be glad indeed. That once I loved you ere you wedded (and do still), If such a poor humpt creature as myself Dare call his sighing love, will not disgust you Who know it—for I never have conceal’d it. You are the noblest woman in the world; But my poor love is such a thing to laugh at, You need not heed it. Now you are alone, I may indeed give up my life to you And be your servant.

(_The tempest pauses. Silence._)

_Theodora._ Your sword is clean, you say, But look upon those startled flowers there, Those innocent flowers—what smearèd stains of death Would make them seeming-guilty. What have they done? Not they have pierced a man’s heart, poor white things, That yet look unwasht murd’rers; while the sword Gleams icy pure, like some fire-eyèd angel New-born in Heaven.

_Ostyn._ What of it?

_Theodora._ I am the sword; You are the flowers. The load of guilt I had Is smear’d on you, who to your dying day Shall wear such stains no rain of mercy ever Can wash from off you.

_Ostyn._ What guilt?

_Theodora._ The guilt I had, But like the noblest woman of the world Have smear’d upon another.

_Ostyn._ I do not take you.

_Theodora._ My friend, I should have done the deed alone,
Or let him kill me!

_Ostyn._ That would have been clear murder.
Now, he being slain in combat, we are pure.

_Theodora._ Reason acquits me, but my heart is sour.

_Ostyn._ Except one thing, I laugh at it.

_Theodora._ What is that?

_Ostyn._ Oh nothing—no matter.

_Theodora._ Tell me, friend.

_Ostyn._ Oh leave it.
The thing is done—what matter.

_Theodora._ Except what thing?

_Ostyn._ This, that you toucht his arm. That was not wise, And lends some colour to peevish conscience. Tho’ huncht and small, believe it I am strong; And sober-blooded; tuned with exercise Which ever to ennoble this frail form I have used. Single, I knew myself his match. You needed not have toucht him.

_Theodora._ He was a soldier.

_Ostyn._ Rather for that I scorned him.

_Theodora._ I fear’d for you.

_Ostyn._ Did I not wound him ere you toucht his arm? I saw it in his eye he dreaded me— As venomous-narrow’d as a guilty moon Shrinking against the sunrise.

_Theodora._ Was that murder,
To touch his arm?

_Ostyn._ No, truly, I would have kill’d him
Anyway.

_Theodora._ Oh, oh!

_Ostyn._ You noble woman, cease! Let not your heart be weaker than your mind. It is a curse to have a heart that boils When reason bids be calm.

_Theodora._ Is reason in it?

_Ostyn._ Yes, yes.

_Theodora._ Where does the reason dwell then—here,
Or here?

_Ostyn._ Come, my dear mistress, this is vain.
You work yourself to it.

(_She looks around._)

_Theodora._ Where is the wind that blew? What is this silence?—Ah! I dare not speak! Each leaf here hangs its head at seeing me.

_Ostyn._’Tis but the hush before another storm.
Look there, how thund’rous black it comes upon us.

_Theodora._ Hush, hush, hush. O forever Henceforth to hush, to whisper in secret, lest All things may hear and hang their heads at me!

_Ostyn._ Now, now!

_Theodora._ O God, my children, my children!

_Ostyn._ There.
God is their Father now.

_Theodora._ Their father’s dead.

_Ostyn._ Come, come; give me your hands. You are atremble. Why do you stare about you so?—till now As tall and tearless as some Roman dame Who flincht not ever? He fell in fight I say— Full fair (would I had run him thro’ and thro’ A dozen times). Fear not. The town is close, And that dead tiger’s dogs will never dare To hunt you in it. This little storm will pass. Look how the dull face of the forest mere Whitens beneath th’ approaching rain. Come now; Here is a hollow-hearted tree will hide you. Best safety lies in hollow-heartedness— The full heart bursts the sooner. Presently There will be thunder, sure. You will not fear it? Come, keep your spirit firmer. I believe The thunder sets a sign twixt fools and wise, Since only fools do fear it. Come now, arise. Seek shelter here. You have no cloak with you.

_Theodora._ What feet are these I hear stealing around me?

(_Large raindrops fall._)

_Ostyn._ Feet!—raindrops sure; rain on the russet bracken.

_Theodora._ What spirits are those yonder that smite their brows
With horror?

_Ostyn._ Spirits?

_Theodora._ Where he lieth dead.

_Ostyn._ Ah, trees on th’ other shore of this most wild And desolate mere. Mark you the coming storm Has not yet reacht us quite; but there he rages. The shrieking trees grow ashen in their fear, Like spirits—yes. But now enough of this. You must be still. (Great God! She’s woman again!) Here is my cloak. Come, let us move. (Great God! What if it thunders?) There, I’ll hold your hands. I think the thunder comes; but what of that? Poor rumbling thunder, threats of empty clouds! I love it, foolish thunder. (She is wild!)

(_Thunder._)

_Theodora._ Away! Help, help! Smite me not black, O Heaven! Hide in the wood—it is too open here! Murder!

_Ostyn._ ’Tis only I who hold you, dear!

_Theodora._ They murder me—Heaven murders me!
Away!

_Ostyn._ You’ll fall!

_Theodora._ God’s thunder smites me black!
Oh, oh!

_Ostyn._ The water draws her.

_Theodora._ He walks upon the water. There is a cavern in his breast—there, there! A crimson cavern in his breast he points at. It is my husband. Let me go. My husband. No, no, no. It is _he_.

_Ostyn._ Alas!

_Theodora._ My children, my children.

_Ostyn._ Heaven, she is dying.
The heart breaks. Look, how pale.

(_She dies in his arms._)

(_The storm ceases._)

Thou wert too noble for the world, sweet woman, In thinking thyself too base. No more for me My wakeful watches for her holy sake, And vision’d vigils under sleepless stars Against the world. I conquer’d—yet she died. The goings of my life are barr’d by this, And this pale body at my threshold lies For ever; therefore I must close the door And end. Would it be too much sacrilege, Once ere I die, to open this white throat And kiss it where the shapely column springs? Or these dead hands? Or this death-smoothèd brow, Where sat thy soul serene? O, in that fashion The boy dream’d to have held thee, the man holds And dies. Enough to’ve held thee dead, and die.

(_He gathers the body in his arms._)

Thou sawest thy lord walk on the waters there. Come, I will take thee to him.

(_He wades into the mere._)

Spirit, hear!
I bring thee to thy children and thy lord.

(_They sink under the water._)

(_The rain falls._)

=EVIL=

DANSBERG.
ICELIN.
GORM.

_A Forest._

_Enter_ COUNT DANSBERG, _led in by his granddaughter_,
ICELIN.

_Dansberg._ It was a very merry story. Ha, ha, ha!

_Icelin_(_looking back_). He comes not.

_Dansberg._ “Be wed,” says he, “but give me dinner. Be wed and hang’d then”—so the old man said When we had bound him in his chair with kerchiefs, And starved him for some two days. Icelin!

_Icelin._ Well?

_Dansberg._ You do not listen. “Go marry and be hang’d,” He shouted. Ha, ha, ha! He could not move. You are not listening.

_Icelin._ Could he not call the servants?

_Dansberg._ High in the wind-rockt turret we had bound him. The careless servants thought him sick, and she His nurse. And so we wrung the writing from him And got us married. Oh the merry jest! Ha, ha, ha. Hough, hough, hough.

_Icelin._ A devil’s trick.

_Dansberg._ Yes, was it not a very clever trick?

_Icelin._ I say, an evil trick.

_Dansberg._ Why, so say I— A very able trick. When we were wed The old man curst us till he laugh’d himself, And then he blest us. She was beautiful, Your grandmother.

_Icelin._ I am like her.

_Dansberg._ Yes, yes, yes. She was a crimson-mouthèd piece of snow. Her lips would often bleed, so red they were— Altho’ her skin so white.

_Icelin._ You say so?—Why,
My lips are bleeding.

_Dansberg._ Then you’re thinking evil. Her lips would bleed when she had evil thoughts. Hough, hough.

_Icelin._ Were you a page, then, when you wedded?

_Dansberg._ My age?

_Icelin._ A page.

_Dansberg._ Yes, yes. So I became
Lord of these valleys.

_Icelin._ Had you been more noble
My blood had been the richer.

_Dansberg._ Who is richer?

_Icelin._ Was it because you were not nobler born
The old man would not let you wed her?

_Dansberg._ Hough.
My birth was good enough.

_Icelin._ Yet Gorm is noble.

_Dansberg._ What, what! An evil child—a cunning child!

_Icelin._ I am a woman.

_Dansberg._ You are not sixteen.

_Icelin._ But that is woman.

_Dansberg._ Hough, hough, a wicked child! Gorm is a scheming knave and you a child. I say a child, a child, a child. Look you, You first shall murder me ere you marry Gorm. Do you not see I tremble? When I tremble I’m angry. Hough hough, hough.

_Icelin._ What would you say then
If we should play a trick on you?

_Dansberg._ A trick!
What Jansen there!—Where’s Jansen?

_Icelin._ Lagging after.

_Dansberg._ Then I will wait for him.

(_He sits down on a log._)

Tell me, where are we? We should be near the castle gate; and yet I feel too many dead leaves on the sward.

_Icelin._ The storm that blew last night has blown them here.

_Dansberg._ There should be wind upon this vision’d height.

_Icelin._ There is no wind.

_Dansberg._ Yes, yes, there is no wind.
What is the rustling that I hear?

_Icelin._ The trees.

_Dansberg._ There are not many near the castle gate.

_Icelin._ There are not many, but they make the sound.

_Dansberg._ Is it the oak-tree or the fir?

_Icelin._ The fir.

_Dansberg._ I think I feel a something over my head.

_Icelin._ Great clouds have come and settled in the sky.

_Dansberg._ Is’t rain or tempest, think you?

_Icelin._ Storm, I think.

_Dansberg._ Between the greater clouds what do you see?

_Icelin._ Patches of blue. (_She smiles._)

_Dansberg._ And in the patches, what?

_Icelin._ Enamels of pale pearl.

_Dansberg._ Beneath the clouds,
What is there?

_Icelin._ Nothing.

_Dansberg._ Tut, you are a woman, And note not anything. Under those great clouds, Are there no ragged runners on the wind?

_Icelin._ I think I see them.

_Dansberg._ Being sunset now,
What colour’d splendours are there? What great shades?

_Icelin._ The clouds are rosy.

_Dansberg._ Faugh, you’re blind. Look, look. Do not the curling thunders heap the sun?— Or does he rip them and stare out with rage Upon the east?

_Icelin._ The sun is sinking.

_Dansberg._ But say; Beneath the clouds the wild swans trail along, And kestrels, soaring to the vantage point, Slide down upon the storm-wind—do they not?

_Icelin._ I see some things like sparrows in the sky.

_Dansberg._ What do you see then?

_Icelin._ The winding of the river,
And the blue mountains on the verge.

_Dansberg._ At this hour
Hills are not blue. Say, is there light?

_Icelin._ ’Tis light.

_Dansberg._ I feel that it is dark. Is it not cold?

_Icelin._ Not very cold.

_Dansberg._ I feel that it is cold. I feel as if we were in some great forest, And that you do not see the things you say. The ground is soft and all the dead leaves crack Beneath the feet. Where are we?

_Icelin._ Just at the gate.

_Dansberg._ Roars not the river at his hundred eyots? What colour is the foam?

_Icelin._ As white as snow.

_Dansberg._ You lie, you lie; you see it not, you lie! The storm-flood sweeps the river, and its foam Runs tawny as the sand.

_Icelin._ I do not lie.

_Dansberg._ Come, lead me home. These two hours I have walkt, And all my blood is water. I am old— So old and blind. I wonder, is the fire lit, This autumn evening, and my supper ready? Hough, hough. Where is my stick—my stick?

(_She takes the stick from beside him._)

_Icelin._ Say, then,
When shall I marry Gorm?

_Dansberg._ Hough, hough, hough, hough.
Let us go in and think o’t.

_Icelin._ Tell me now.

_Dansberg._ Then give me first your arm to help me rise. (_Rises._) A good girl—so. Your arm is thin but firm— Thinner but firmer than your mother’s. Tut! Poor daughter, daughter. Dead, dead, dead, so long! When that my blindness first did seize upon me, How she would run to me to help me on, And kiss me oft that saw her not—until I felt the hot tears on my hand. I chid her; Telling her not to weep that was not blind, As I that had no eyes could have no tears: And thus I cheer’d her. But at last she died. And my old falcon died, and my old horse; And last of all the dog. But Jansen lives. Jansen, Jansen!—where is he?

_Icelin._ He is coming.

_Dansberg._ I do not hear him. It is bitter chill. We should be at the gate, but that I feel As walking in a wood. I think I smell The ground-ferns and damp mosses, and the scent Of puff-balls on the rotting trees. Hark there! I hear the bull-frogs croaking.

_Icelin._ I don’t hear them.

_Dansberg._ You’re deaf. There are no bull-frogs near the castle.

_Icelin._ Ah, yes. It is two silly ravens croaking.

_Dansberg._ Raymond, you say?

_Icelin._ Ravens.

_Dansberg._ Ravens! ravens! O God! The ravens of my house! O God! Give me a stone—my stick—they visit us— When we must die.

(_He falls sitting on a log._)

Jansen, Jansen, I say.

_Icelin._ See, there he comes.

_Dansberg._ You lazy rascal,
How dare you lag so?

(_Enter_ GORM.)

His gait is strange. Look, child, What ails him? Is he drunk? Oh, oh, ’tis Gorm. I know him by his breathing.

(ICELIN _leaves_ DANSBERG _and goes to_ GORM. _They whisper
together._ DANSBERG _sits trembling_.)

_Icelin._ You’re late.

_Gorm._ I have run.

_Icelin._ We shall be miss’d.

_Gorm._ It is not done?

_Icelin._ Not done!
No; but to be done.

_Gorm._ I hoped to find it done.

_Icelin._ Ye gods! what I alone?

_Gorm._ Why not? ’tis easy.

_Icelin._ Are you so pale?

_Gorm._ Pale? me!

_Icelin._ A man like you!

_Gorm._ Like who?

_Icelin._ Are you a man and pale?

_Gorm._ I’m not.
It is the twilight.

_Icelin._ Do you stagger too?
Are you afraid?

_Gorm._ I, Gorm, afraid! A soldier!

_Icelin._ A soldier and my love.

_Gorm._ Your love indeed!

_Icelin._ You think I am too young to be your love?

_Gorm._ You are divine!

_Icelin._ What shall we do with him?

_Gorm._ Aye, what?

_Icelin._ The thing I told you—tie him here.

_Gorm._ What, all night long?

_Icelin._ No matter.

_Gorm._ He will die.

_Icelin._ I’m sick of walking with him. And besides He will not let me wear my mother’s clothes That are in lavender.

_Gorm._ Tush!

_Icelin._ Her jewels, too.

_Gorm._ I thought that you’d have done it; and I came
To end the jest and win his thanks—and you.

_Icelin._ I want his wealth for you.

_Gorm._ He will die soon.

_Icelin._ He lives for ever.

_Gorm._ That is true.

_Icelin._ I want it—
Now.

_Gorm._ No, no. no. Hush, he will hear us.

_Icelin._ Never.
And he is maudlin too.

_Gorm._ I madden for you.
Fie, what is this upon my lips? Not blood?

_Icelin._ And on your face. My lips bleed often thus.

_Gorm._ Oh, oh.

_Icelin._ You know the way home after this?

_Gorm._ Oh, yes.

_Icelin._ That’s right then. We have nought to do
But wait and watch him.

(_Dansberg rises._)

_Dansberg._ How their whisperings run Like hissing of live snakes. Where am I then? I must be cunning. If I could find my stick I could escape. I think they look not this way.

_Icelin._ Nay, let him be. You need not fear my lips—
’Tis but a little bleeding.

_Dansberg._ Now is the time.
Quick now! Sneak off!

(_He knocks against a tree._)

A tree. Pest on these leaves,
They crackle so. Again.

(_He knocks against another tree._)

A wood, a wood!
O this means murder!

_Gorm._ Poor old man!

_Icelin._ The fool!—Stand still there!

_Dansberg._ Yes, good daughter, yes. Hough, hough. I would but stroll—hough, hough, hough— But stroll a little.

_Icelin._ Stroll then very little—
There is a pit there.

_Dansberg._ Then I’ll not stroll far,
Believe me. Hough, hough, hough.

_Icelin_(_to_ GORM). I brought him here Because I know the pit. Let’s wait a little. I’ll hear him shriek first.

(_She goes to_ DANSBERG.)

When shall I marry Gorm?

_Dansberg._ I am too old to set myself against you. Yet your young life I would not give to him— My daughter’s daughter. Hough. But lead me home. Enough the jest. To-morrow I will grant it. I am too old, too old to struggle with you. The cold is bitter in this mildewy wood, And my feet numb. Why will you linger still? Am I not blind?

_Icelin._ Then I may marry him?

_Dansberg._ Yes.

_Icelin._ And may I have my mother’s silks you keep
In lavender?

_Dansberg._ Hough, hough, hough. You wicked girl! She was an angel, and you shall not have them— Hough, hough—at least until I’ve sorted them.

(_She slaps him._)

_Icelin._ Sort that then!

_Dansberg._ Someone strikes me.

_Icelin._ That, again!

_Dansberg._ Someone has struck me! Shame!—a poor old man!

_Icelin._ Let your cheeks burn for it then.

_Dansberg._ You struck me, sir.
You cowardly dog.

_Gorm._ Hold, Icelin.

_Icelin._ I am sick
At sight of him. It was I who struck you.

_Dansberg._ Yes.
’Twas she who struck me.

_Icelin._ And I will again.

_Dansberg._ Then I will turn to you my other cheek,
You have not struck yet.

_Icelin._ There, then!

_Dansberg._ See, O God!

_Gorm._ She is a wolf.

_Dansberg._ God is not blind as I am.

(_A pause._)

My daughter’s daughter struck me. Therefore I know That she would kill me. Kill me, then, and quickly, That I may go to God with branded cheeks To plead compassion for me—for I’ve done Sins in this world. But who would punish me— More—after this? Now let me die. I wait.

(_Silence. A gust of wind blows through the forest._)

Come, kill me then. I am no coward. Hush! No answer. What if they have left me here To die in th’ wood? And yet I dare not move. She said there is a pit beside me close, Where I might fall. If I could find my stick, I could escape, perhaps, and follow them.

(_He gropes for his stick._)

(_A second gust of wind blows through the forest._)

Oh, evil, evil! She has hid it—O!— I hear a sigh that shudders thro’ the air. ’Tis night. I have no eyes and yet can see The night. Oh, it is night for me for ever. Night, night and age, and endless weight of silence, Save but for far low voices faintly heard. Great age, great age! and bright scenes long ago, Seen like the sunshine at a cavern’s mouth To one endungeon’d there for ever. Ah! That vision too must end.

(_A third gust of wind._)

Sigh, shuddering Wind Sigh for the old man sightless. Sigh, O Wind, Sigh for the old man sightless. Sink and die, And pass away.

_Icelin._ Let’s push him now.

_Gorm._ Enough!
Have you no heart?

_Icelin._ A heart? What is a heart? I have a lump of ice here in my breast That freezes me. Except for you—for you.

(_She kisses_ GORM.)

You tremble! Do you tremble?

_Gorm._ Yes, I tremble.

_Icelin._ Are you a coward?

_Gorm._ Yes, a coward. See!

_Dansberg._ Help! Jansen there! They murder me! Hough, hough. I cannot shout, for when I shout I cough. Help, help! Hough, hough.

(_He staggers to and fro._)

_Icelin._ Come, father, here’s my arm.
Why do you shout?

_Dansberg._ I shout because I die.

_Icelin._ I am your daughter.

_Dansberg._ Are you my daughter, ’Linde?
My daughter’s spirit?

_Icelin._ Yes.

_Dansberg._ I know your voice!

(_She leads him toward the pit._)

No! You are not my daughter. Your arm’s too thin! Help, God! Make me a miracle now to save me, Since man will not; or I will cry aloud There is no God in all this black, black world. Send me a flash to light me out of this, Here where I stagger thus in solid night, Like some dumb creature in the huntsman’s pit. Send fiery-urgent lightnings to mine aid, Revealing Heaven, until this forest stands, Each tree a flaming angel for a torch. Oh! oh! the air is full of murder!—Not yet, O Death, not yet! I am too young to die! See, Heaven, my heart is beating still with blood. When that the heart is bloodless, ’twill be time To die!

_Icelin._ Come, father, come; why do you shriek
So much?

_Dansberg._ I shriek because I die.

_Gorm._ Beware!
There is a pit there!

_Dansberg._ Oh, He answers not! In my youth’s days I did forget Him; now In this mine age He hath forgotten me.

(_A pause._)

Away! God or no God, I’ll save myself!

(_He runs forward wildly and falls into the pit._)

(_Silence._)

_Icelin._ Down there. Down. Down. Mark now, I pushed him not. He ran from me and fell. You saw it. I knew That he would die like this. You called me child. Am I so young then? I am no child—a woman! See with what skill I’ve brought you to your fortune. Now I shall wear those silks and damascenes, And all these lands be yours. Thus, with this kiss I seal it.

_Gorm._ Away!

_Icelin._ What?

_Gorm._ Wolf!

_Icelin._ What?

_Gorm._ Wolf, wolf, wolf! Your teeth are white but pointed like a wolf’s. Your face is white but both your lips are red— So bleeding red! I have my sword—away! Or I will stab you! Even by this light There’s blood upon your lips—and some of it Burns on me now. Your race’s blood is poison— His, yours, and all your race’s. You’re a witch; A wolf, a witch, a witch! I have my sword— So follow not! A witch, a witch, a witch! Your blood is poison and your heart is ice!

(_He flies into the forest._)

(ICELIN _remains standing. The ravens perch on the boughs above her
head._)

(_She shrieks._)

_Icelin._ My blood is poison and my heart is ice! A witch, a wolf, a witch, a wolf, a witch! My teeth are pointed like a wolf’s. A witch! My face is white, my lips are bleeding red, My blood is poison, and my heart is ice. A witch, a wolf, a witch, a wolf, a witch, A wolf! I follow then! I will devour you! I’ll follow you about the world—and eat you!

(_She bounds into the forest after_ GORM. _The ravens follow her._)

=THE MARSH=

MELFORT.
EVAÏD.

THE CHORUS OF THE MARSH.

_A Marsh. Midnight and the setting moon._
_Enter_ MELFORT, _plunging about in water_.
(_A cry is heard._)

_Melfort._ Who cries! In the night and the silence—who cries!

_Chorus._ Súmph, súmph, súmph, súmph.

_Melfort._ What was it?
I hear but the whine of the wind
And the croak of the frogs in the grass. No more?

_Chorus._ Súmph, súmph, súmph, súmph.

_Melfort._ It was a sound of the pestilent fen; The cry of a leveret lost from his lair, Or scream of an adder-stung toad. But soft. The moon dies, and I sink each step More deeply, and have missed my way. The temperate candles of the town Are lost, and I but see around me The hectic fen-fires dancing. Ho! What ho!

_Chorus._ Súmph, súmph, súmph,
Súmph.

_Melfort._ No answer; no one comes. It is the marsh, and I am in it Right to the knees. This pays me well For thinking of the bonny bride And all her train of rosy maids, When I should mark the way. But on— Though my poor wedding shoes be done for Ah, pah!—my brain is full of wine, And all my being ripe for love. Wine, wine, and marriage, and I best-man; And liquor goes badly under the stars. Young; rich for a farmer—well, who knows But I too, myself, may be wedded soon.

(_A shriek is heard._)

Who shrieks?

_Chorus._ Súmph, súmph, súmph,
Súmph.

_Melfort._ My God, it was behind me! That sobers me!—Ho there, who shrieks?— It is too near. What, am I drunk? Am I sick? Do I reel?—The acid cry Ran like a curdle through the blood. Soft, soft, I must enquire here more. A murder!—There, I am afraid And wither where I stand; unarm’d— But yet I’ll venture further. So! A woman’s cry, touching the quick. A friend! I come!

_Frogs._ Kilkillutty cluck, Clickutty cluck, clickutty cluck, Click, cluck.

_Melfort._ No answer.
Ho!
A friend! Give answer. Let me hear you
That I may find you.

_Frogs._ Hiccutty hac, Hiccutty, huccutty, hiccutty hac. Hicutty.

_Melfort._ Strange; nothing replies. I plunge here like a dog at loss; And all the sleeping startled pools Exclaim against me, and the flowers— Deep-drowsèd water-lilies—wake In nodding wonder. A friend! I come! Give answer! Ho!

_Efts._ Tiu, Tiu,
Tiu, Tiu.

_Melfort._ No one replies. Pools, pools, and water everywhere, And midnight and the dying moon! I am afraid, and my knees tremble. No answer. Hush. There’s nothing stirs, Save only the frogs in bubbled mire And yonder swaying bulrushes That by battalions beckon each other In the murky moon. Look how—look how The ghostly globes of fairy fire Ooze from the marsh-mire and creep up Their callow stems and leap in air, Becoming fen-fires. Listen! Hark! The croaking chorus of the fen.

_Toads._ Glick, gluck, glickutty gluck,
Glickutty, glickutty, glickutty gluck.

_Melfort._ See, see, my soul! O what is this? A snake?—A steel that gleaming lies! O my unerring ears—a dagger!

_Frogs._ Kil, kul, kil, kul,
Killutty, kul.

_Melfort._ The dagger is bloody! The villain has stolen away his victim! Stay, murderer, villain!

_Frogs._ Hic, huc,
Hiccutty huc.

_Melfort._ Here’s a deed! But look you now upon this thing Here by the livid moonlight seen. Strange that this dagger so should drip With blood yet be as bloody still As ’twas before! It runs for ever. See from the point a bloody stream Runs on for ever, soaking earth! I am enchanted! Ha, I gasp! Are these but frogs that cry around— Ten myriad frogs and toads that cry— “Kill kill, kill, kill”?—Whom should I kill?

_Frogs._ Kil, kul, killutty kul,
Kil kil kil, kil kil kul.

_Melfort._ See, see in the moonlight—there on the bank— A horror that lies! O pitiful God! Look here! O pitiful sight!—dead, dead! A maiden; and murdered and so pale! What, here in the marsh!—A maiden—dead!

_Chorus._ Súmph, súmph, súmph, súmph.

_Melfort._ So beautiful, young, and yet so dead? They have robbed her—the villains—and gone! See here, A pitiful wound in the lovely breast; And under the wound, among the grass, A little glow-worm—as if it were Her soul dropt out among the flowers— Her soul dropt out of the wound!

_Frogs._ Quuck,
Kilutty kullutty quickutty quuck.

_Melfort._ The marsh flowers that spring about her Are busy to hide her in their arms, With open mouths kissing her delicate flesh!

_Toads._ Huncutty hincutty huncutty hic,
Killutty quickutty kill, quick.

_Evaïd._ Ah me!

_Melfort._ She is alive, and lifts
Her loaded lids!

_Evaïd._ Ah me, I die.

_Melfort._ A witch! a fairy thing!—See here A chaplet of flowers upon her brow— Of lilies and daisies on her brow!

_Evaïd._ Ah me, alas!

_Melfort._ She looks at me— And O the swooning light of her eyes! If you will die thus beautifully, Die thus for ever!

_Evaïd._ O the pain!

_Melfort._ Am I a fool, a senseless stock, To haver thus the while she dies! Come, I will hide you in my coat, Enwrap you here and hide you thus; And press my kerchief to your wound. (O beautiful breast; O bitter wound; O cruel, carvèd, bitter wound.) Come, courage, come. Come lay your head Here. Do not moan, for I will go And fetch you succour from the town. (She is not cold, but burns like fire— For all her ebbing blood doth flow In guilty oozing from her breast. What, wounded in water, yet so warm!)

_Evaïd._ I am dying. Let me be.
Let me perish, let me be.

_Melfort._ No, no, you shall not perish, dear, For I will bring you succour soon. So courage, my child—I will return.

_Evaïd._ Do not leave me, do not grieve me, Do not leave me ere I die; If you leave me I shall perish; Linger by me while I die.

_Melfort._ I must go and bring some aid for you, Or you will die here in the marsh. (Heavens, how she clings upon my arm; Heavens, how her fingers cling upon me; And O the swooning light of her eyes!) What, shall I take you in my arms, then, And bear you to the town? I dare not. What, do you clasp your arms about me, Who should be dead by now! (Alas! The languid head, the dying eyes!— Yet she is warm; not chill, not cold, Not like a corpse!) Hold up your head. Why do you cling upon me? (God, The slender, beautiful, long arms!)

_Evaïd._ If you leave me, I shall perish; If you grieve me, I shall die. O the trembling and the torment, O the trembling and the cold! O the paining, O the pining, O the paining in my wound!

_Melfort._ Come then, I’ll bear you. No, I will not. What is it I hear?—the accursed frogs That cry! I will not carry you— Not take you in my arms. I see Some magic here. Maids crown’d with flowers But dying wounded are not found. See now I stand away. For listen! They cry, “kill, kill.” The squatting toads And gulping frogs do croak it forth, And the lip-licking efts of the pool, And worms, come out of the earth to cry it— “Kill, kill; kill, kill.”—Whom should I kill? The misty glamours of the moon Amaze me; and you die not yet, Who with that wounding should be dead. There is some dire enchantment on me. Why do you die not, being wounded— And in the heart? When you are dead I’ll carry you. Till then, lie there.

_Evaïd._ Will you leave the poor one dying, Lying dying, lying dying, Lying in the cold cold water, Sighing, dying all alone?

_Melfort._ Nay, then, I’ll take you—though I die. The moon is magical and the marsh Peopled with voices. So—your head Upon my shoulder: thus. So, so; And put your arms about me—so. You may have trust in me—I’m honest, And have a sister lives with me, And she shall tend you. All the land Shall follow to-morrow your murderer . . . So there . . . your weight is but a child’s . . . But stay, I have forgot the dagger— The dagger that gleams on the glistening grass.

_Evaïd._ No, no, leave it there; Leave the dagger where it fell; Leave the dagger burning bright; Leave the bitter biting steel.

_Melfort._ No . . . I’ll take it. Now come on.

*

(_He lifts her._)

_Chorus._ Sumph, sumph, sumph, sumph;
Sumphity, sumphity, sumphity sumph.

_Melfort._ So, so, sure and slow;
Where’s the way, I do not know.

_Chorus._ Sumph, sumph, sumph, sumph;
Glumphutty, glumphutty, glumphutty glumph.

_Melfort._ So, so, slow and sure;
Set the teeth hard, dumb and dour.

_Frogs._ Click, cluck, clickutty cluck.

_Melfort._ Now I’m stumbling, now I’m stuck.

_Toads._ Glick, gluck, glickutty gluck.

_Melfort._ Glory to mud and glory to muck.

_Chorus._ Ho, ho, hinkutty hong.

_Melfort._ No, no, not for long;
I am steadfast, I am strong.

_Chorus._ Ho, ho, hinkutty hong.

_Melfort._ Nothing can let me—not for long. Now I’m free—we’ll go along. See the pollards growing there Like a row of dancing dwarfs; How they listen, how they peer, Look and listen, laugh and leer, Black against the shrunken moon, That will now be sinking soon, Sinking in the sucking mud, Yellow as evil, yellow as sin, Like a murderer drown’d in blood. See, see, see, see, See the water-weeds that are Frosted all with phantom fire Oozing from the bubbling mire; And on every reed a star, Blue, blue, blue, and blear Like a devil seated there.

_Chorus._ Ho, ha, hinkutty hong,
Sinkutty sonkutty sinkutty song.

_Melfort._ Damnèd, damnèd, damnèd be
The fingers that hold me, foot and knee.

_Chorus._ Hing, ho, hinkutty hong,
Sing, song, sinkutty song.

_Melfort._ Damnèd, damnèd, damnèd be The time of the rhyme of the frogs of the marsh; Damnable diapason of frogs . . . Tune of the croon of the frogs of the fen . . . Drumming and droning of the fen . . . Beating and booming in my blood . . .

_Evaïd._ Hear me, hear me, hear me, hear; Shall I whisper in your ear? Hush, hush, hush, hush; Do not listen, do not hear.

_Chorus._ Sumph, sumph, sumph, sumph;
Sumphity, sumphity, sumphity sumph.

_Evaïd._ Hear me, hear me, hear me, hear; Shall I say it in your ear? If I tell you do not hear, Do not listen, do not hear. Sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh, Weep for the poor one who will die. Dew-drops glisten so and die . . . Die, die, die, die . . . Do not listen, don’t reply.

_Little Frog._ Hi, ho, hinkutty han,
Here’s a foolish floundering man.

_Bull-Frog._ Hing, hong, strike up a song,
Strike up a chorus, strike up a song.

_Evaïd._ If I tell you that I’m dying, You will kiss me, softly sighing— Kiss the poor one who is dying, Dying, dying, dying, dying. Shall I whisper, shall I tell you? No, the sparkling stars will hear me— Cold, keen, cruel stars— They will hear me, hear me, hear me, Hear me sighing, crying, dying. O the paining, O the sorrow; You’ll be sad for me to-morrow.

_Melfort._ Yes, tell me.

_Evaïd._ Tell me, tell me, tell me.

_Melfort._ Tell me, I say.

_Evaïd._ No, no; You will die, O you will perish If I tell you that I love you. I’ll not tell you that I love you. Me though chillèd none shall cherish, None would save me though I perish. O the paining, O the sorrow; None shall weep for me to-morrow, Morrow, morrow, morrow . . .

_Melfort._ Speak not!— Or speak more harshly—for my heart Swoons at the sweetness of your tongue.

_Chorus._ Hinkutty, hunkutty, hinkutty hunkutty, Hing, ho, hing, ho. This is the rhyme that goes in time, Sing, ho, sing, ho— The bold uproarious gladdening glorious Jinketting, junketting, maddening rhyme.

_Melfort._ Are you dying so, yet singing? Dying, dead, yet sing of love? See your tender fingers clinging, See your long locks lying gleaming, Over all your beauty streaming, In the moonlight, faint and low, Let me leave you, let me go; For you have enchanted me With a moonlight-mystery, And a dew-fire’s on your head; But your weight is weight of lead; And I cannot see your eyes, Cannot see your faery eyes . . . Let me linger, let me ken, Let me view thee, peerless one— Queen of the Marsh, Queen of the Fen— Gaze my fill by the mystic moon, Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful one.

_Evaïd._ Lover, lover, lover dear, Shall I whisper in your ear? Hush, hush, hush, hush; Do not listen, do not hear.

_Melfort._ On your brow the dangling flowers Die; but I will gather you more, Gather you more, gather you more . . . See your blood and burning gore Soaks and scalds me to the core . . . See I struggle, see I sink, See I settle more and more. There’s no solid ground that’s meet Here to rest my aching feet— Only isles of mocking reeds, And the tendrils of the weeds, Dragging me down, dragging me down; And your weight is weight of lead . . . But I love you madly now, Love and kiss your magic brow, Suck the sweetness from your lips As the bee his honey sips . . . Yet I know my day is done, Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful one.

_Little Frog._ Who slew the Wandering Jew?

_Bull-Frogs._ Mighty King Mud, mighty King Mud.

_Melfort._ Sadly, badly, madly I go, Stumbling, tumbling, grumbling go, Wearily wander, wearily go. All my blood is weak and slow; Heavily beats my heart below; And it will be darkness soon, For the night devours the moon.

_Chorus._ Down, down, down, down,
See the red moon drop and drown.

_Bull-Frogs._ Ho, ha, hinkutty hong,
Keep up the chorus, boys, keep up the song.

_Frogs._ Now for the jolly tune, now for the joy;
There’s no moonlight to annoy.

_Crayfish._ Hunch, munch, crickutty crunch,
Here’s a dead man for our lunch.

_Snails._ Hurry up, mate, or you’ll be late;
Things that are pleasant are soon out of date.

_Efts._ With our noses out of the flood, We can sniff the delicate mud.

_Mice._ Creak, creak, creak, creak,
Some can sing and some can squeak.

_Insects._ Sum, sum, sum, sum,
We can make the marish hum.

_Worms._ In the day we creep along, Trampled, weak, and suffering wrong; But at midnight, in the mire, Glow with phosphorescent fire.

_Adders._ For at night, night is light,
Bright is dark and dark is bright.

*

_Melfort._ Ah! See, see, see, see. See the silver stars above me; Now the magic moon is sunken, See them flash their flaming fires.

_Evaïd._ O, O, O, O, Hide me from them, hide me from them, Hide me from their hateful eyes.

_Melfort._ See the dagger, silver bright.
Glitter in the starlight white.

_Evaïd._ No, no, no, no;
Drop the dagger, drop the steel.

_Melfort._ See the dagger, clean and bright.
Gleaming in the starlight white.

_Chorus._ Hinkutty, honkutty, hinkutty han,
Kill her, kill her—if you can.

_Bull-frogs._ Ho, ha, yes—if you can.

_Chorus._ Yah, ho, yes—if you can;
Kill if you dare to, kill if you can.

_Evaïd._ I was wounded, I was dying, Like a broken lily lying, Sighing, dying, I was lying . . .

_Chorus._ Kill, kill, kill, kill,
Kill if you dare to, kill if you can.

_Evaïd._“Put your head upon my breast; I will bear you; be at rest; I will bear you; I’m a man, Man, man, man, man . . .”

_Chorus._ Hinkutty hoy, hinkutty han,
Kill her, kill her—if you can.

_Evaïd._“I will save you, never leave you,
I will heal you, never grieve you . . .”

_Melfort._ Now I see it, now I know it, Know the meaning of the chorus, Of the cursèd croaking frogs.

_Evaïd._ Press, press, press, press. Press to your bosom, press to your heart; Kiss and cure the cruel smart. Or, if you’ll not kisses give, I will kiss you, so, and live. They who kisses ne’er receive, Kisses give, kisses give.

_Melfort._ I must slay you, kill you, slay you. Plunge the dagger in your heart, Or you’ll drown me in the darkness, Madden’d with your magic kisses; For I know you now, my darling, Haunter of the horrible fen. O my Beauty, O my Darling, I am drunk with love of you; But I’ll stab you with this dagger; I must kill you or I perish. Do not shudder, do not shriek, Do not shudder when I stab you, For you are a faery thing.

_Evaïd._ O no, no, no! Do not kill me, do not stab me— O, O, the burning steel. See I love you, see I kiss you, See I bind my arms about you. Take the sharp point from my breast.

_Melfort._ Thus, thus, thus I stab you, Kiss you, stab you, give you death; Give you kisses, give you death; Kiss your dying lips delicious, Stab you in your tender breast.

_Evaïd._ O, O, O, O, Take away the steel tormenting! Will you slay the poor thing dying? She has kissed you, never harm’d you, O the poor, poor dying thing . . . Kiss her then and kill her so . . . Lover, lover, lover dear, Let me whisper in your ear— Now I’m dying you may hear— How I love you. Hush, hush, Hush, hush, hush, hush; Now I’m dying, I am dying. O the paining, O the torment. You’ll to-morrow hear the birds sing: I shall never, I shall never.

_Melfort._ She is fading, melting, dying,
Melting, turning into water.

_Evaïd._ Hush, hush, hush, hush;
I am dying, I am dead.

*

_The Dawn-Wind._ Sisters of the field awake, Sweet children of the meads and rills And of the wind-blown hills, Flowers, little flowers! O you that sleep in slumber deep, Kissing and turn’d together Between the sheltering heather, Awake! For the day-break.

_Stars._ Behold, the silver dawn is here, Pearling the east with a light clear. Our watch is ended; let’s begone; The sun will follow soon anon. Say, brothers, went your watching well? . . . All’s well, all’s well.

_Melfort._ I wake! why, have I slept?—I hear The fine shrill clarion of the cock. I am alive then. O sweet Dawn, Pearl of the sky, that makest clear The old grey steeple in the east, Wash from my soul this terrible night. I breathe, I live; the air is pure.

=THE BOY’S DREAM=

OBERON
TITANIA,
_and_ PUCK

_A boy sleeps on the wooded bank of a small river running_
_out upon the seashore. A night in spring._

_Oberon._ Well met by starlight, my Titania.

_Titania._ For thrice a hundred years we have not met!

_Oberon._ But drug’d by some mad magic have drowsed away
Three centuries in a night.

_Titania._ The charm is broken.

_Oberon._ Thee in a crystal-cavern’d isle that weeps Embargo’d on the bosom of a lake, It caught in slumber mid thy maiden fays; And in a blasted, bent, and strippen willow, Pleading his bleach’d bones over a festering pool In a black forest, me; and all our train, So wont to win the air on wanton wings, Imprison’d in the caves of bears or boles Of mouldy oaks, in age-long lethargy— Half dead, but for their beating hearts, that fright The furry denizens dwelling there.

_Titania._ And so The stars have spill’d their silvery beams in vain, Teeming the flowers’ chalices with light, But not for us; nor have we ever heard The tree-top throstle clarioning the Spring.

_Oberon._ But million’d men, rid of our sooth control, Like chattering magpies in a frozen field, Or eyeless emmets pestering in the mire, Have fought for foolish gods, and furrow’d earth, And fed the sea, or sop’d the soil with blood, All about nothing.

_Titania._ Who strew’d the spell? Some Sage?

_Oberon._ Rather some fool! For fools, ’tis writ, have power To clamp the whole world in inviolate chains Whene’er they wish!

_Titania._ O dreadful law! But say, My love and king, what curst particular fool So persecutes us?

_Oberon._ First the fool who made God in his own image, and pent us up A hundred years; and then a lower lown Who taught us, all are equal; and a third, That every raff should have his rights. Between them Two centuries more they thrall’d us. Such the woe When meddling men made Heaven so and so, And Folly like a fitful gale essay’d To blow predestined ocean from his bed.

_Titania._ But so think I.

_Oberon._ Why then your creed prevails! But it is scathless: fools are always males!— So now that every sot has said his say, Wisdom and we may get again our day, To tell men if they live with love and mirth, The earth is Heav’n indeed, and Heaven earth. So, Fairies, come; and keep our old-time revel; And let those ghosts go die to haunt the devil!

_Puck._ Hush, master! See a mortal lying near. If he’s a fool, perchance he’ll overhear And lock us up another hundred year.

_Oberon._ Go, then, my gentle Puck, and see
Who sleepeth there on yonder lea.

_Puck._ I vow, a truant boy from school,
And therefore not at all a fool.

_Oberon._ Be careful, friend, and do not err:
He may be a philosopher.

_Puck._ O, scarcely such a thing abhorrèd:
I see indeed he has a forehead.

_Oberon._ Perchance he is—’tis my suspicion—
A prophet or a politician.

_Puck._ I gather neither: for he’s young,
And has not yet full-grown his tongue.

_Oberon._ A boy at midnight not abed,
Is either fairy-fain or dead.