Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 183
Yol.
Madam, the main half of your ladies are
Gone forth to gaze upon this slaughter.
Ca.
Ay!
May she be there? Lord marshal, have you seen
These ladies that she talks of?
Tav.
Madam, I have;
They were about the windows next the street
Searching each side with large and curious eyes;
I saw some twenty with sweet laughing mouths
And hair wherein the flame of lights did make
New colours red as blood, gathered upon
A corpse I slew myself, with fleers and gibes
Abusing the blind thing; it made me merry
To hear how they did mock the make of it,
As blood were grown their game.
Ca.
The king is sad;
I have a word like mercy in my mind,
But it doth wound itself; I see no use
That sorrow fails not in, where things are done
That will not be wept out.
Tav.
’Tis a strange night;
But not to me displeasing; I esteem
Our service wholesome. I will not forth again,
For I have watched into a weariness.
Ca.
How does our son?
Ch.
I think some runagates be
Yet by this passage. Give me that again;
I’ll score them too. Nay, if one wet his knees,
Best over ears and all.
[Exit.
Ca.
They are too far to hit;
I’ll wager them safe out. What do you see?
Tav.
They have escaped the points o’ the guard; I doubt
He will not bear it so.
Yol.
O, that way — there —
Can you make out? a woman as I think —
Ca.
Some poor man’s wife; I would she might get safe.
Tav.
See, the king thrusts out far; ’tis a brave king;
Look how his bowing body crooks itself
After the aim.
Ca.
Ten pieces to a doit
The issue scars not her.
Tav.
I take you, madam.
The king comes back.
Re-Enter King.
Ca.
Have I waged wrong on you?
Ch.
I have slain seven. Mother, I could begin
To sicken of this way.
Ca.
What way, fair son?
Ch.
I did not think the blood should run so far.
There was a woman I saw lately slain,
And she was ript i’ the side; at point to die,
She threw her on her child and there came one
Who clove it by the throat. Then I grew sick
And my head seemed to change as if the stroke
Had dulled it through the bone; the sense of that
Still aches in me.
Ca.
Set your thought otherwise.
Ch.
Why so I do; and cannot choose but think
How many that rose fresh with wholesome thoughts
And with my credit washed their faiths in me
Do sleep now bloodily.
Ca.
You hurt yourself
To lay repentance on such deeds as are
Necessity’s mere proof. Put this away;
And tell yourself how many dead in war
Gave battle welcome and their time went out
Even in the wording of it; and but for this
(Though I confess the sense feels sick on it)
We should have had worse wars.
Ch.
I think we might.
Ca.
Bethink you too, what stings us in the seeing,
It is no new infection of the world
Corrupting all its usual office, or
The common blood of it, with some strange sore,
More gross being new; such things have chanced ere this,
Yea, many thousand times have men put hand
To a worse business, and given hire to death
To captain them i’ the field and play their man,
Used him with fellowship. Who knows, sweet son,
But here, and in this very Paris, where
Our work now smells abhorred, some such may come
To try more bloody issues, and break faith
More shamefully? make truth deny its face,
Kill honour with his lips, stab shame to death,
Unseat men’s thoughts, envenom all belief,
Yea, spit into the face and eyes of God
His forsworn promise? Such things may be; for time,
That is the patient ground of all men’s seed
And ripens either corn alike, may bring
Deeds forth which shall as far outreach our act
As this doth common things; and so they wear
The clothes and cover of prosperity,
Those tongues where blame of us yet sticks shall put
Applause on them.
Ch.
It may be you say true;
I would believe you with a perfect will.
Enter Renée, Anne, and others, with Denise.
Ca.
What is this business? quick —
Ch.
O now, now, now —
This is the very matter of my thought
That was a ghost before; this is the flesh,
The bone and blood of that my thin surmise,
Palpably shaping fear. I will not see her.
Ca.
How fell this out? you, speak.
Renée.
We found her so —
Wounded I think to death.
Anne.
She hath besought us
To bring her to this presence.
Ca.
Can she speak still?
Anne.
Yea, and speak straight; I would not pawn my word
This touch were deadly to her.
Renée.
I say it is;
She has a wound i’ the side.
Ca.
Set her down gently;
She will do well; deal softly with her; good;
Be heedful of your hands. So; look to her.
Den.
I thank you, madam; let me sit a little.
Mar.
Give her some wine.
Den.
Sir, are not you the king?
He was grown kind; let them not slay me then,
I’ll swear you are no less. I think I am hurt;
Let me speak to you; my side hurts indeed.
Ch.
Nay, if hell come in sleep, then hell itself
Is like the face of a dream. Eh? this were quaint,
To find such hell at last.
Den.
I thank you too;
For I am well, so near the heart of quiet,
The most hushed inward of obscurèd peace,
I feel my spirit a light thing and sweet,
Evened with what it was.
Ca.
Hath she a hurt indeed?
Yol.
Yea, the right side; she holds her gown on it.
Ca.
I did believe this was the stab of fear.
Get her away. — My son, remove your arms.
Some one fetch help; but not too quickly, mark,
[Aside to Yolande, who goes out.
Lest speed undo itself. — Release her, sir.
Den.
No, let him hold me safe; your hand that side,
I shall breathe better. Do they still slay? Alas,
It is a night shall mark you red for ever
I’ the honest eyes of men.
Ca.
Will she talk now?
Ch.
> How came this hurt on you?
Ca.
Make that no question.
Ch.
Will you teach me? Here, sweet, this way; you know
I always loved you. — Give us room; she will
Get present breath.
Den.
It was a window-shot —
A side-shot striking by the wall; oh God!
It pains me sore; but ease me with your arm.
Ch.
Is God fallen old at once, that he is blind
And slays me not? I am beneath all hell,
Even past the limit and conceit of reach
Where fire might catch on me. Why, I have slain
The chiefest pearl o’the world, the perfect rule
To measure all sweet things; now even to unseat God
Were a slight work.
Den.
Was it your aim indeed?
Ch.
O no, no aim. Get me some help; all you
That gape and shiver on this act enstaged,
You are all parts of murder.
Ca.
Sir, be patient;
This cross is not your sin. — He heeds us not;
Do not speak to him.
Ch.
Is she yet warm? I’ll give
That man that will but put an hour in her
My better part of kingdom. Nay, look up;
This breath that I do speak to thee withal
Shall be the medicine to restore thine own
Though I spend all. Sweet, answer me; I’ll make thee
Queen of my present power and all that earth
Which hangs upon it.
Den.
Disquiet not yourself;
I do not chide you; nay I know too, sir,
You never hated me; nor did I ever
Make such a fault as should have plucked me thus
Into your hate or stroke. I am dead indeed;
And in this flesh hath God so scourged your act
As I now bleed for it; so I do think
That from this time his adverse hand will not
Push your loss further.
Mar.
This is a bitter sight.
Ca.
A pitiful; but come you not into’t;
You have no part.
Den.
I tax you not for it.
I have good hope that you have done herein
Mere blind man’s work, not put upon your hands
Murder’s own wear; which ministry of yours
God punishes in me. Too much of that.
Do not you yet for this my foolish sake
Make dull your better seasons; let remorse,
If such will bite, feed otherwise than here;
For me, indeed I leave no blur of it
To blot your love at all. For my grace given
Give me grace back; change mercy with me, for
I have wronged you too. In this large world, dear lord,
I have so little space I need use time
With most scant thrift; yet that my love holds out
Let me catch breath to say. No, stir not yet;
Be but two minutes patient of me; keep
Your arm more straight. Say I have slain myself
And the thought clears you; be not moved thereat;
For though I slew a something that you loved
I did it lovingly.
[Dies.
Ca.
Ay, there it breaks;
I am sorry for her, she was fair enough.
Doth she not breathe?
Ch.
No whit; the lips are dull.
Now could I rail God out of pity, change
The blessed heaven with words; yea, move sphered souls
Into a care of me; but I’ll say nothing;
No reason stands I should say anything,
Who have this red upon my soul. Yea, dead?
She is all white to the dead hair, who was
So full of gracious rose the air took colour,
Turned to a kiss against her face. Sirs, help;
I would fain have her hence; I am bound to you;
Sirs, hurt her not to touch her side; yea, so.
[Exit, with some bearing out the body.
Ca. (To Tav.)
Come hither, sir; as you respect my grace,
Lay your good care on him, that in waste words
His mood gall not himself. For this girl slain,
Her funeral privacy of rite shall be
Our personal care; though her deserts were such
As crave no large observance, yet our pity
Shall almost cover the default in them
With all smooth grace that grace may do to her.
You to my son, and you this way with me;
The weight of this harsh dawn doth bruise my sense,
That I am sick for sleep. Have care of him.
ROSAMOND
CONTENTS
I.The Maze at Woodstock.
II. The Palace at Shene.
III. At Woodstock.
IV. Ante-Chapel at Shene.
V. At Woodstock.
I.The Maze at Woodstock.
Rosamond, Constance.
Constance.
Take not such thought of it.
Ros.
Nay, I take none;
They cannot put me out of love so much
As to take thought for them; yet I am hurt
And my sense wrung at this a little. See,
If six leaves make a rose, I stay red yet
And the wind nothing ruins me; who says
I am at waste? — Look, since last night! — for me,
I care not though you get through all they said.
All this side dashed with fits of weeping time,
See you, the red struck out; an evil year.
If such times vex me till no sleep feels good,
It is not that I think of such lewd words
With wine still hot in them. Who calls it spring?
Simply this winter plays at red and green.
Clean white no colour for me, did they say?
I never loved white roses much; but see
How the wind drenches the low lime-branches
With shaken silver in the rainiest leaves.
Mere winter, winter. I will love you well,
Sweet Constance, do but say I am not fair;
No need for patience if I be not fair,
For if men really lie to call me fair
He need not come; I pray God keep him close
For fear he come and see I am not fair.
Can you not speak, not say if this be true,
That I may cease? come, am I fair or no?
Speak your pure mind.
Const.
Nay, madam, for you know
Doubtless it was delight to make your face
And rippled soft miraculous gold hair
Over the touched veins of most tender brows
Meant for men’s lips to make them glad of God
Who gives them such to kiss.
Ros.
Leave off my praise,
It frets me flesh and all as sickness doth
Till the blood wanes; yea, and quaint news to hear,
That I am fair, have hair strung through with gold,
Smooth feet, smooth hands, and eyes worth pain to see!
Why once the king spake of my hair like this,
“As though rain filled and stained a tress of corn
Loose i’the last sheaf of many slackened sheaves;
Or if” (ay, thus) “one blew the yellow dust
That speckles a red lily off both cheeks
Held in the sun, so if in kissing her
I let the wind into her hair, it blows
Thin gold back, shows the redder thread of it,
Burnt saffron-scented;” some faint rhyme of his
Tuned round and coloured after his French wise.
&nbs
p; Const.
You learnt such sonnets of him? — A man’s step —
Ah, that girl’s binding the wet tendrils there
Last night blew over.
Ros.
See, at my hand’s end,
Those apple-flowers beaten on a heap,
So has the heavy weather trod on them.
There are my rhymes all spoilt and blown with wind,
Broken like birds’ wings blown against a wall.
Girl, do you know I lived so quiet once,
Leaning whole days in a warmed side-window
With the chin cushioned up and soft vague feet
Thrust out to sleep, and warm sides couched for ease
Full of soft blood, pulsed slow with happiness
Such fair green seasons through, with dreams that lay
Most blossom-soft between the lids — and love
A little way I thought above my brows,
His finger touching them; yea, for whole months
I was so patient to serve time and have
Love’s mouth at last set suddenly on mine;
Abode and heard the blood that grew in me
More sweet, and the days’ motion in my ears
Touched audibly.
Const.
This was a gracious time.
Ros.
One song you have, I pray but sing me that,
I taught it you; and yet I like it not;
Trouveres have sweet lips with a bitter heart,
And such a gracious liar, I doubt, wrote this;
But sing it; it shall do no harm to hear.
Const.
Sweet, for God’s love I bid you kiss right close
On mouth and cheek, because you see my rose
Has died that got no kisses of the rain;
So will I sing to sweeten my sweet mouth,
So will I braid my thickest hair to smooth,
And then — I need not call you love again.
I like it well enough.