Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

SCENE XVI.

A small, dark cell in a prison—Albert heavily ironed, is seated upon straw; he is haggard and wild in appearance, with his eyes cast down as if stupified. The door slowly opens, and Constance, in deep mourning, enters; she seats herself on a bench near him, looks on him in silence and weeps; Albert slowly raises his head, and gazes at her for some time before he appears to recognise her.

Glad, innocent spirits; when from the same prayer

book

We made the same responses, and our eyes
Traversed the page together, save when mine
Glanced from the book upon thy gentle cheek,
And watched it crimson, conscious of my gaze!
Ah, I was guiltless then! and then my mother
Gave me the holy book to read to her,
Eve after eve. - Oh then I loved that book,
And holy things-then heaven seemed just before me,
Death an immeasurable distance off!

Now death, stares in my face-a horrid death!

Albert. I dare not speak the name, but is it thou? And heaven-oh, I am damned! I have no hope! Cons. Oh Albert, Albert!

Albert.

Canst thou speak my name?

Do ye not curse me, thou and my poor mother? [He bows his head to his knees, and weeps bitterly.

Cons. [kneeling beside him.] Oh God! who art a father to the afflicted,

Who art a fount of mercy-look on him!
Pity and pardon him, and give him peace.
Oh Christ! who in thine hour of mighty woe,
Didst comfort the poor thief upon the cross,
Bless the bowed sinner in his prison-house!
Albert. Thou angel of sweet mercy! woe is me!
Sorrow hath left its trace upon thy cheek-
I am a cursed spoiler, who was born
To wring the hearts that loved me!-oh my mother!
My gracious mother! is she changed as thou?

Cons. Thy mother! ask not, Albert, of thy mother.
Albert. Ah, she does not forgive me! nor will
God!

Cons. Albert, thy mother's dead and her last words

Were prayers for thee!

Albert. Then I have killed my mother! Oh blood! blood, blood! will my poor soul be never Freed from the curse of blood!

Cons. [taking his hand.] Albert, be calm, "T was by the will of God, that that dear saint Went to her blessed rest-I mourn her notI do rejoice in her eternal peace!

Cons. Say not, dear Albert, that thou hast no

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

And may Almighty God look down and bless thee! Albert. [wildly] Farewell, farewell! we shall meet never more!

Albert. [looking on the hand of Constance.] I dare It is a farewell for eternity!

not press it to my longing lips

There is pollution on them—they have sworn
False oaths-they have by cruel, flattering lies,
Lured to destruction one as true as thou!
There is a gentle, a meek-hearted maiden
Burning her nightly beacon of sweet woods
Upon the peak of a fair, palmy isle,

To guide me o'er the waters! long ere this
She must have pined, and pined and she will die
Heart-broken! Constance, do not look on me—
For thou wilt curse me, hate me, spurn me from thee.
I am a monster, dost thou fear me not?
Have they not told thee of my cruel sins?

Cons. Albert, I fear thee not—I mourn for thee. I knew that thou hadst sinned, but I forgave thee! May God forgive thee, and support that maiden!

Albert. Thou art not woman, Constance, thou art angel!

Ah, there were days when we two sate together,

[Constance, overcome by her feelings, is supported out by the chaplain.

Achzib made his escape from the pirate-ship in some way which eluded all detection. He did not, however, think it expedient to enter again the seaport; and as all places were alike to him, with this exception, he resigned himself to chance, and took up his abode in the first considerable city he came to. He was so extravagantly elated with his success, that he carried himself with so self-satisfied an air as to attract the notice of every one. Some said he was newly come into possession of a great fortune, and that money, and the importance it gained for him, were so novel as to have turned his head; some said he was the little-great man of a small town, where his consequential airs were mistaken for marks

life."

of real greatness;-others said he was a travelling effectually as the higher motives of more vigorous doctor, who had just taken out a new patent :-while others took him for a marvellously wise philosopher, who, thinking of anything rather than himself, had acquired this ridiculous carriage in sheer absence of mind; and others again, supposed him to be a poet, inflated with the success of a new poem.

Achzib, in the meantime, thinking he had done enough for the present, determined to have an interval of rest. He accordingly took a large house, furnished it sumptuously, and began in reality to be looked upon as somebody. He did not, it is true, hold much intercourse with the citizens, though he was a most munificent patron of boxers, wrestlers, and all kind of prize-fighters and gamblers. He occasionally went on 'Change too, and circulated now and then some spurious lie or other; which, deranging all money business, while it made the fortunes of a few, was the ruin of many. He had considerable dealings also with the usurers; and keeping a pack of hounds and a noble stud of horses, found occupation enough both for day and night. To diversify his employments he dabbled in judicial astrology, and the favourite pursuits of the old alchemists. He repeatedly asserted that he had mixed the Elixir Vitæ, and also that he could compound the Philosopher's-stone. They who heard this, had an easy way of accounting for the money that he appeared always to have at command; but he himself well knew that every stiver was drawn from the bags of the usurer, though never destined to find their way back again. The life Achzib led, was much to his mind; he told lies with the most truthful face in the world, and cheated in so gentlemanly a style, that he might perhaps have maintained this life much longer, had he not been accidentally tempted to his fourth trial.

He was on the Prada, or place of public resort, and seeing two grave persons in deep discourse together, and who seemed unconscious of all that surrounded them, he took a seat near, hoping to hear some secret worth knowing or telling. Their conversation, however, was entirely of a moral or religious nature; and Achzib would soon have been weary of it, had they not branched off to the subject of temptation, and the habits of mind which render a man peculiarly assailable by it.

"For instance," said the one, "old age, if beset by temptation, could but inadequately resist it, for the mind becomes enfeebled with the body. Youth may be inexperienced and volatile; middle age engrossed by the world and its pursuits; but is it not the noble enthusiasm of the one, and the severe uprightness of the other which makes them often superior to their trials; and which of these does the weakness and despondency of old age possess?"

"But," rejoined the other, "the passions have ceased to stimulate in old age. Ambition, love, and avarice, are the temptations of earlier life. Men do not become suddenly vicious in old age, for the habits of mind and body in men become part and parcel of themselves; and, if through life these have been regulated by principle, I say not religion, they will preserve age, if it were assailed by temptation, as

"True," replied the first speaker, “if the trial came only through the medium of the passions; but though a man may have arrived at old age unpolluted by outward sins, yet the temper of his mind may be the very opposite of virtue. He may doubt the goodness of God, though his life has been one series of mercies; he may be obstinately uncheered by his love, and unawakened by his daily Providence. A murmuring, morbid doubting of God's goodness is the peculiar weakness of such a mind — and the human being who can have passed through life, and at last retains such a spirit, is neither guiltless of sin, nor unassailable by temptation."

"But such a case," replied the other, "is extremely rare. Old age finds a natural aliment in religion; and as its ties to the earth are sundered, the very necessities of its nature unite it more closely with heaven."

"Such a case," persisted his friend, "may be rare, but alas, is not beyond the range of human experience; and the peculiar prayer of such a spirit should be, lead me not into temptation!"

"Oh, but," exclaimed the other, with holy enthu siasm, "God, who is boundless and long-suffering in mercy, and who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will keep such feeble spirit from trial beyond his strength; or in his loving-kindness will extend the hand of his mercy to save him, even as the sinking apostle was sustained when his faith failed him upon the waters!"

Achzib rose up before the conclusion of this last observation; taking great praise to himself that wise men, such as he, gathered up their advantage from even the casual conversation of two strangers.

[blocks in formation]

Oh, nature never groweth old,

The Eternal arm doth her uphold!
She droopeth not, doth not decay;
Is beautiful as on the day

When the strong morning-stars poured out
Their hymn of triumph at the birth,
Of the young, undeclining earth,
And all the sons of God did shout
In their immortal joy to see
It bound into immensity!

But man, for whom the earth was made,
A feeble worm, doth droop and fade!
Those fleecy clouds, like hills of heaven,
To them is constant beauty given;
This little flower which at my feet
Springs up, is beautiful and sweet-
A thousand years, and this poor flower
Will be the same as at this hour!
But man, who as a lord is placed
Amid creation, what is he?
A thing whose beauty is defaced
By age, by toil, by misery!
Wherefore that proud intelligence;
That discontented, reasoning sense
Which keeps him restless, and doth send

His struggling thought through depth and height; Which makes him strive to comprehend

The Eternal and the Infinite?
Wherefore this immaterial being
Which with the body is at strife;
This powerful pulse of inward life,
Which ever feeling, hearing, seeing,

Finds nothing that can satisfy?
Better methinks, the eagle's wing,
Which bears it where its soul would spring,
Up to the illimitable sky!
Better the desert-creature's might,
That makes its life a strong delight,
Than this unquiet bosom-guest
That fills man's being with unrest!
Time was, my life was bright as theirs;
Time was, my spirit had no cloud-
But age the buoyant frame has bowed,
And gloomed my soul with many cares!
Oh youth, how I look back to thee,

As to an Eden I have lost;
Thy beauty ever haunteth me
As an unquiet, lovely ghost,
Which in my arms I would enfold,
But thou elud'st my feeble hold!
But hark! my daughter singeth now!
Sweet words are ever on her tongue,
And a glad kindness lights her brow:
No wonder is it, she is young!

[The sound of a wheel is heard within,
and a voice singing:

There is a land where beauty cannot fade,

Nor sorrow dim the eye;

Where true-love shall not droop nor be dismayed,

And none shall ever die!

Where is that land, oh where?
For I would hasten there!

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Must bear in meekness as he meekly bore
Sorrow, and pain, and strife!
Think how the son of God
These thorny paths hath trod ;
Think how he longed to go,

Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe:
Think of his weariness in places dim,
When no man comforted nor cared for him!
Think of the blood-like sweat,

With which his brow was wet,

Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone,
In that great agony, "Thy will be done!"

Friend, do not thou despair,

Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear thy

prayer!

Old Man. My daughter, thou hast brought me

back,

For I have erred; my soul is weak,
It ever leaves the righteous track,
Some dangerous, darker path to seek!
God pardon me if I have sinned!

But my impatient soul doth long
To leave this weary flesh behind,
And be once more the young, the strong!
And when I see, untired, unspent,
How nature keeps her loveliness,
Like some strong life omnipotent,
I do abhor my feebleness;

And marvel whence it is man's frame,
That shrines a spirit strong and bold,
Which hath a proud, immortal aim,
Becomes so bowed and feebly old;
Why he keeps not his manhood's strength
Maturely stately, filled with grace,
And rich in knowledge, till at length
He goes to his appointed place;
Can God delight or beauty see

In age's dark infirmity?

Take, take me hence! I am grown-weary!
Life is a prison, dark and dreary!
Oh that my soul could soar away
Up to the imperishable day,

And drink at ever-living rills,
And cast behind this weary clay,
This life of never-ending ills!

But who comes here? I know him not, Or if I did, I have forgot;

My senses are so feeble grown,

I know not now whom I have known!

Enter a STRANGER.

Strang. Friend, I would take a seat by you awhile, I'm weary with the travel of to-day.

Shall have put on its immortality!

Lord, I believe-help thou mine unbelief!

Strang. Why, what an inconsistency is man! This moment you were murmuring-now you take

Old Man. What, are you weary with the jour- Another kind of language, altogether!

neying

Of one short day? Are you not hale and strong?
Methinks you scarcely are past middle life-
When I was your age, I was never weary!

Old Man. I told you I was weak! I do abhor
Old age, which so enfeebles and chains down
My spirit to this miserable matter.

But I doubt not that God is strong to save;

Strang. I do believe you, friend: I can see traces And if I keep my trust in him unbroken, Of vigour that has been; and I have heard

Of your herculean strength, long years ago.

He, after death, will crown me as a star,
With an imperishable youth and glory!

Old Man. Ay sir, I have been young, but now But I am weak, and age doth wake in me am old!

Strang.

There was no wrestler like you, no
strong swimmer

Could breast the billows with you; you could run
Up to the mountain summit like the goat,
Bounding from crag to crag-you followed then
The shepherd's healthful calling, and were known
Both near and far, as a bold mountaineer.

A spirit of impatience which is sin!
Strang. This fearful spirit of despondency
Which whispers "this is sin, and this—and this!"

Is part of the infirmity of age;
Does not the young man, vigorous in his body,
Think, speak, and act without such qualms of fear?
You, in the free exuberance of youth
Went on rejoicing, like a creature filled

Old Man. You had not knowledge of me in my With immortality of strength and beauty;

youth?

Strang. No, but I oft have heard you spoken of,

As so excelling in athletic sports,
Men made a proverb of you; afterward,
You served your country in its bloody wars,
And seconding your valour by your arm,
Did miracles of bravery.

Old Man.

Old age has crippled me.

All is over!

I am sunk down

[merged small][ocr errors]

But as the body, so the spirit weakens,
And thus becomes a feeble, timid thing!

Old Man. I know it!-I have known it all too

long!

Strang. Seven years you've been in this most sad

condition

Old Man. I have-and I was threescore years and ten

When this infirmity first fell upon me.

Strang. It is a great age, seventy years and seven; And seven years more you may remain on earth! Old Man. Oh, Heaven forbid, that I for seven years more

Strang. Age, my good friend, is dark, dark and Should drag on this poor body!-yet my life

unlovely:

'Tis no new truth discovered yesterday!

Is crowned with mercies still!
Strang.

How so, my friend?

Old Man. I see the young men glorying in their I did suppose you had no mercies left,

strength;

I see the maidens in their graceful beauty,
And my soul dies within me at the thought
That they must fade, and wither, and bow down,
Like me, beneath the burthen of old age!

Strang. It is a gloomy lot that man is born to!
God deals not kindly in afflicting thus ;
There can be no equivalent for age;
Would not the monarch, stricken by the weight
Of fourscore years and their infirmities,
Buy youth from the poor peasant at the price

Of twenty kingdoms? Life should have been given
Methinks, exempt from miserable decay;
Enough that we must lay it down at last. -
But you are silent, friend! Have I not struck

Into the very current of your thoughts?

I thought that they and youth all went together.
Old Man. I have a child,—the child of my old age.
My sons went to the dust in their bright youth—
Daughters I had- but they too were, and are not!
But God was pleased to spare unto my age
This youngest born - this dutiful, dear child,
Who doth so tend my miserable decay,
Winning a decent livelihood by toil!

Strang. I've seen her, she is fair to look upon:
'Tis much she hath not left you for a husband!
Old Man. Oh, you know not my daughter, to
speak thus!

Is she not dutiful?-She hath put off
Year after year, the day of her espousals,
That she might tend on my decrepitude!
Strang. I do bethink me now

she is betrothed

Old Man. I know not if such thoughts be wise To the young pastor of a mountain people;

and good;

My flesh is weak, and doth so warp my spirit,
That I have murmured thus;- but God is wise!
I know that he afflicts us for our good.
And this I know, that my Redeemer liveth;
And though the worm this body shall devour,
Mine eyes shall yet behold Him when this mortal

I've heard it spoken of—I've seen him too;
He is a pale and melancholy man,

Who reads his Bible, and makes gloomy hymns-
Your daughter often sings them to her wheel.

Old Man. Ah, me! his crossed affection clouds
his spirit,

And doth impair his health, not over strong!

And thus I know that while my life endures
I must divide two loving, tender hearts!

But if you heard him pouring forth his faith,
His happy, Christian faith, in burning words,
And saw his cheerful life, you would not say
He was a melancholy man!

Strang.

Well, well,

Thou 'rt young-thou 'lt live to feel it many years—
Sit down beside me, child!

Marg.
Thou hadst a guest
Holding long converse with thee. I was glad,
For there is little to divert thy thoughts
In this dull place-no horsemen pass this way;
And since the road was cut beneath the mountain,
But rarely a foot-traveller. Whence came he?
Was he some scholar travelling in these parts-
Or came he from the city?
Old Man.

I do not doubt the man is good and kind,
And in your presence wears a happy face.
But I have seen him in his mountain-valley,
When the dark fit is on him, sad enough!
I scarce know;
Old Man. God help me! I have sundered them Something he said of dwelling in the city,
But what, I have forgot; my memory fails me,

too long!
Strang. True, it must ever wound a generous I am a weak old man! But sing to me

nature

[blocks in formation]

[He goes.

Old Man. A proper cordial spirit! a prime spirit!
He must have aged parents whom he serves
With dutiful respect, and my grey hairs

Are reverenced for their sakes! So was youth taught
When I was young; we scoffed not at the old,
Nor held them drivellers, as youth does now;
This generation is corrupt, and lax
In good morality;-saving my daughter
And Ugolin, none reverence my years.
Alas, the thought of them brings bitter pangs
Across my soul!-- This man knows Ugolin,
And saith he has his melancholy hours-
Perchance my cheerful daughter has hers too!-
Too long I've sundered them, for that they mourn:
What do I know but 'neath this show of duty
They wish me dead! Ah, no! it is not so;
Shame on myself for harbouring such a thought!

MARGARET comes out.

Marg. Father, the sun is sinking 'neath the boughs
Of yonder lime- and see, the gilded dome
Within the city now is lighted up;

"T is late, my father, and the evening air

Some comfortable hymn - I ever loved
Music at sunset in my better days.

Margaret sings

Oh Lord! before thy glorious face
My human soul I will abase;

Nor pride myself because I know
The wonders of the earth and skies!
When the stars set, and when they rise;
And when the little flower doth blow,
And seasons come and go!

Oh, how can man himself present
Before thee, the Omnipotent,

The Omnipresent Deity,

And not abhor the daring pride
Which his poor soul had magnified;

And not shrink back, appalled to see
How far he is from thee!

Yet, Source of love, and life and light,
The one existence - Infinite!

Thou dost regard thy creature man;
With mercies dost enrich his lot!
Hast blessed him though he knew it not
From the first hour his life began,
To its remotest span!

Oh God! I will not praise thee most
For that which makes man's proudest boast -
Power, grandeur, or unshackled will-
But to thy goodness will I raise
My most triumphant song of praise,
And cast myself in every ill
Upon thy mercy still!

Old Man. "T is a sweet hymn, a comfortable

hymn!

My daughter, God is good, though man is weak,
And doubteth of his providence!

Marg.
He is -
He is a god of mercy more than judgment !·
But hark! those are the sounds of eventide;
The booming of the beetle, and the cry,

Will chill thy frame!-Give me thy hand, dear Shrill as a reed-pipe, of the little bat;

father,

And lean on me, I will support thee in.

And the low city-hum, like swarming bees;
And the small water-fall, I hear them now:

1

Old Man. Nay, 't is not chill! these summer eves These mark the closing eve: now come within,

are warm;

Let me enjoy the sun while yet I can.

I have your supper ready, and will read
To you awhile in some religious book.

« ZurückWeiter »