He shall be
Richer than we are; he shall mount his horse
A feat above his father; and be one
Of the duke's spearmen.
Marg.
God forbid they lead
Unrighteous lives, and often fall untimely.
John. A lion-hearted lad shall Martin be.
Marg. God willing; if his servant; but not
else.
I have such hopes, full hopes, hopes overflowing.
John. A grave grand man, half collar and half
With chain enough to hold our mastiff by,
Yes; no fire was in the house,
No splinter, not a spark. The Virgin's chin
Shone not with rushlight under it; 'twas out.
For night was almost over, if not past,
And the Count's chapel has not half that blaze
On the Count's birth-day, nor the hall at night.
Ah surely, surely fare like ours sends up
No idle fumes; nor wish nor hope of mine
Fashion'd so bright a substance to a form
So beautiful. There must be truth in it.
John. There shall be then. Your uncle's
sacristy
Shall hold the armour quite invisible,
Thou fain wouldst have him. Out of dirt so stiff Until our little Martin some fine day
Old Satan fashioneth his idol, Pride.
Marg. If proud and cruel to the weak, and bent
To turn all blessings from their even course
To his own kind and company, may he
Never be great, with collar, cross, and chain;
No, nor be ever angel, if, O God!
He be a fallen angel at the last. [After a pause.
Uncle, you know, is sacristan; and uncle
Had once an uncle who was parish priest.
John. He was the man who sung so merrily
Those verses which few scholars understand,
Yet which they can not hide away, nor drive
The man from memory after forty years.
Marg. (sings). "Our brightest pleasures are
reflected pleasures.
And they shine sweetest from the cottage-wall."
John. The very same.
We understand them, John! John. An inkling. But your uncle sacristan Hath neither sword nor spur.
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Bursts the door open, spurr'd, caparison'd,
Dukes lead his bridle, princes tramp behind.
He may be pope. . who knows?
Marg.
Are you in earnest ?
But if he should be pope, will he love us?
Or let us (0 yes, sure he would !) love him?
Nor slink away, ashamed? Pope, no; not pope,
But bishop (ay?) he may be? There are few
Powerfuller folks than uncle Grimmermann.
Promise he scarce would give us, but a wink
Of hope he gave, to make a chorister.
John. "If thou wilt find materials," were his
words.
Marg. I did not mark the words; they were too light:
And yet he never breaks his troth.
John.
Not he:
No, he would rather break his fast ten times.
Do not look seriously. . when church allows,
I mean; no more; six days a week; not seven.
I have seen houses where the Friday cheese
Was not (in my mind) cut with Thursday knife.
Marg. O now for shame! such houses can not
stand.
Pr'ythee talk reason. As the furnace-mouth
Shows only fire, so yours shows laughter only.
Choristers have been friars; ours may be ;
And then a father abbot.
John.
As salmon up Schaffhausen.
Marg.
John. Ring the bells! Martin is Pope, by Jove!
HENRY THE EIGHTH AND ANNE BOLEYN.
SCENE IN THE TOWER.
ANNE BOLEYN and a CONSTABLE of the TOWER. Anne Boleyn. Is your liege ill, sir, that you look so anxious?
Constable of the Tower. Madam!
Anne. I would not ask what you may wish To keep a secret from me; but indeed
Anne. I have now my secret.
Constable. I must report all questions, sayings,
doings,
Movements, and looks of yours. His Highness may
Be ruffled at this eagerness to ask
Anne. I am used to ask about it.
Beside, he may remember.
For your Highness Gladly will I remind our sovran Lord
This right, I think, is left me; I would know
If my poor husband is quite well to-day.
Constable. Pardon me, gracious lady! what can Of any promise.
prompt
Oh no! do not that!
It would incense him: he made only one,
And Heaven alone that heard him must remind | Fold up the paper; put it quite aside;
Last night I do suspect, but am not sure,
He scarcely was what kings and husbands should be.
A little wine has great effect upon
Warm hearts (and Henry's heart was very warm)
And upon strong resentments: I do fear
I am no queen; I have no almoner.
Ah, now I weep indeed! Put, put it by.
Many.. I grieve (yet, should I grieve?) to think it,
Many will often say, when I am gone,
They once had a young queen to pity them.
Nay, though I mention'd I had nought to give,
He has those too. But all his friends must love Yet dash not on your head, nor grapple so
him.
He may have past (poor Henry !) a bad night,
Thinking upon his hasty resolution.
With those ungentle hands, while I am here,
A helpless widow's innocent petition.
Smoothe it; return it with all courtesy:
Constable. Lady! I grieve to tell you, worse Smoothe it, I say again: frame some kind words than that;
And see they find their place, then tender it.
What! in this manner gentlemen of birth
Putting their palms between their eyes and us?
Sir! I was queen . . and you were kind unto
Anne. Oh, mercy, then! the child! the child! Present us papers? turn they thus away,
Why not have told me of all this before?
What boots it to have been a guiltless wife,
When I, who should have thought the first about it,
Am an ill mother? Not to think of thee,
My darling! my Elizabeth! whose cradle
Rocks in my ear and almost crazes me.
Is she safe? Tell me, tell me, is she living?
Constable. Safe, lady, and asleep in rosy health,
And radiant (if there yet be light enough
To show it on her face) with pleasant dreams,
Such as young angels come on earth to play with.
Anne. Were I but sure that I could dream of her
As I, until last autumn, oft have done,
Joyously, blithely, only waking up
Afraid of having hurt her by my arms
Too wildly in my rapture thrown around her,
I would lay down my weary head, and sleep,
Although the pillow be a little strange,
Nor like a bridal or a childbed pillow.
Constable. O lady! spare those words!
Anne. Why spare them? when
Departure from this world would never be
Departure from its joys: the joys of heaven
Would mingle with them scarcely with fresh
sweetness.
Constable (falling on his knees.) My queen!
Anne.
Arise, sir constable !
Constable.
My queen!
Heaven's joys lie close before you.
And you weep!
Anne.
Few days, I know, are left me; they will melt
All into one, all pure, all peaceable;
No starts from slumber into bitter tears,
No struggles with sick hopes and wild desires,
No cruel father cutting down the tree
To crush the child that sits upon its bough
And looks abroad, too tender for suspicion,
Too happy even for hope, maker of happiness.
I could weep too, nor sinfully, at this.
Thou knowest, O my God! thou surely knowest
'Tis no repining at thy call or will.
[Constable, on his knees presents the Writ
of Execution.
I can do nothing now. Take back that writing,
And tell them so, poor souls! Say to the widow,
I grieve, and can but grieve for her; persuade her
That children, although fatherless, are blessings;
And teach those little ones, if e'er you see them,
They are not half so badly off as some.
When I was queen no longer : why so changed?
Give it.. but what is now my signature?
Ignorant are you, or incredulous,
That not a clasp is left me? not a stone,
The vilest; not chalcedony, not agate.
Promise her all my dresses, when . . no, no..
I am grown superstitious; they might bring
Misfortune on her, having been Anne Boleyn's
Constable. Lady! I wish this scroll could
suffocate
My voice. One order I must disobey,
To place it in your hand and mark you read it.
I lay it at your feet, craving your pardon
And God's, my lady!
Rise up; give it me ;
I know it ere I read it, but I read it
Because it is the king's, whom I have sworn
To love and to obey.
Constable (aside). Her mind 's distraught!
Alas, she smiles!
Anne.
The worst hath long been over;
Henry loves courage; he will love my child
For this; although I want more than I have;
And yet how merciful at last is Heaven
To give me but thus much for her sweet sake!
Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook
Each breezy path and ferny nook.
Come Laughter, though the Sage hath said
Thou favourest most the thoughtless head:
I blame thee not, howe'er inclin'd
To love the vacant easy mind,
But now am ready, may it please,
That mine be vacant and at ease.
Sweet children of celestial breed,
Be ruled by me; repress your speed.
Laughter! though Momus gave thee birth,
And said, My darling, stay on earth!
Smiles! though from Venus you arise,
And live for ever in the skies,
Softly! and let not one descend
But first alights upon my friend.
When one upon her cheek appears,
A thousand spring to life from hers;
Death smites his disappointed urn,
And spirit, pleasure, wit, return.
WITH PETRARCA'S SONNETS. Behold what homage to his idol paid The tuneful suppliant of Valclusa's shade. His verses still the tender heart engage, They charm'd a rude, and please a polisht age: Some are to nature and to passion true, And all had been so, had he lived for you.
The touch of Love dispels the gloom
Of life, and animates the tomb;
But never let it idly flare
On gazers in the open air,
Nor turn it quite away from one
To whom it serves for moon and sun,
And who alike in night or day
Without it could not find his way.
I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot;
Yet where are Fortune's frowns if she frown not
From whom I hope, from whom I fear, the kiss?
O gentle Love! if there be aught beyond
That makes the bosom calm, but leaves it fond,
O let her give me that, and take back this!
She I love (alas in vain !)
Floats before my slumbering eyes: When she comes she lulls my pain,
When she goes what pangs arise ! Thou whom love, whom memory flies, Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign! If even thus she soothe my sighs, Never let me wake again!
Thou hast not rais'd, Ianthe, such desire
In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine.
No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire,
Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine:
And, if thou chillest me, as chill thou dost
When I approach too near, too boldly gaze,
So chills the blushing morn, so chills the host
Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than
day's.
Darling shell, where hast thou been,
West or East? or heard or seen?
From what pastimes art thou come?
Can we make amends at home?
Whether thou hast tuned the dance
To the maids of ocean
Know I not; but Ignorance
Never hurts Devotion.
This I know, Ianthe's shell,
I must ever love thee well,
Tho' too little to resound
While the Nereids dance around;
For, of all the shells that are,
Thou art sure the brightest;
Thou, Ianthe's infant care,
Most these eyes delightest.
To thy early aid she owes
Teeth like budding snowdrop rows:
And what other shell can say
On her bosom once it lay?
That which into Cyprus bore
Venus from her native sea,
(Pride of shells!) was never more
Dear to her than thou to me.
Away my verse; and never fear,
As men before such beauty do; On you she will not look severe,
She will not turn her eyes from you.
Some happier graces could I lend
That in her memory you should live, Some little blemishes might blend, For it would please her to forgive.
Pleasure! why thus desert the heart In its spring-tide?
I could have seen her, I could part,
And but have sigh'd!
O'er every youthful charm to stray,
To gaze, to touch..
Pleasure! why take so much away,
Or give so much!
My hopes retire; my wishes as before Struggle to find their resting-place in vain : The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore; The shore repels it; it returns again.
Lie, my fond heart at rest,
She never can be ours. Why strike upon my breast
The slowly passing hours? Ah! breathe not out the name! That fatal folly stay! Conceal the eternal flame,
And tortured ne'er betray.
The heart you cherish can not change;
The fancy, faint and fond,
Has never more the wish to range
Nor power to rise beyond.
Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite,
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy hight;
The sheep that, starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant church's mellow chime,
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shakes above our heads the craggy steeps.
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar,
The frolic Naiads drawing from below
A net of silver round the black canoe.
Now the last lonely solace must it be
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea,
Then join my friends and let those friends believe
My cheeks are moisten'd by the dews of eve.
Ask me not, a voice severe
Tells me, for it gives me pain. Peace! the hour, too sure, is near When I can not ask again.
O thou whose happy pencil strays Where I am call'd, nor dare to gaze,
But I am far from sure we do. O that it were so! then my rest Would be indeed among the blest; I should for ever dream of you.
I can not tell, not I, why she
Awhile so gracious, now should be
So grave: I can not tell you why
The violet hangs its head awry.
It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn,
In spite of every sign of scorn,
Dark look, and overhanging thorn.
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
While you, my love, are by,
How fast the moments fly!
Yet who could wish them slower ? Alas! to think ere long
Your converse and your song
Can reach my ear no more.
O let the thought too rest
Upon your gentle breast,
Where many kind ones dwell;
And then perhaps at least
I may partake a feast
None e'er enjoy'd so well.
Why runs in waste away
Such music, day by day,
When every little wave
Of its melodious rill
Would slake my thirst, until
I quench it in the grave.
Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea!
A path forbidden me!
Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds
Upon the mountain-heads,
How often we have watcht him laying down
His brow, and dropt our own
Against each other's, and how faint and short
And sliding the support!
What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest,
Ianthe! nor will rest
But on the very thought that swells with pain.
O bid me hope again!
O give me back what Earth, what (without you)
Not Heaven itself can do,
One of the golden days that we have past;
And let it be my last!
Or else the gift would be, however sweet,
Fragile and incomplete.
These are the sights I love to see :
I love to see around
Youths breathing hard on bended knee, Upon that holy ground
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