Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  But for my frowardness and rancorous mind;

  Let all this even be so; as he shall say

  Who will say nought but with your queenly will,

  Why, so will I. Yet ere I am gone, my lord -

  O, not my lord, but hers whose thrall am I -

  My sometime friend and yet not enemy,

  If this thing not offend you, that I crave

  So much breath of you as may do me right,

  I pray you witness for me how far forth

  And for what love’s sake I took part with you

  Or gave consent to our devised divorce,

  And if this were for hate; for you should know

  How much of old time I have hated you,

  How bitter made my heart, what jealous edge

  Set on mine envy toward you; spare not then

  To say if out of cold or cankered heart

  I sought, or yielded shamefully for spite,

  To be divided from you. Nay, forbear;

  Speak not, nor frown on me; you cannot say

  I was your loveless or disloyal wife,

  Or in my void bed on disconsolate nights

  Sought comfort but of tears: nor that I held

  Mine honour hurt of that which bruised my heart,

  And grudged to help you to mine own most wrong

  And lend you mine own hand to smite myself

  And make you by mine own mouth quit of me.

  This that I did, and wherefore I did this,

  And if for love’s or hate’s sake, verily

  You shall not say you know not, and the queen

  Shall blame me not to put you yet in mind,

  Nor think it much that I make record here

  Of this that was between us: wherefore now

  I take no shame at this my leave-taking

  To part as one that has not erred herein,

  To love too little; this shall not be said

  When one bethinks him such a woman was,

  That with poor spirit or with contracted heart

  I gave myself to love you, or was found

  Too mean of mind or sparing of my soul

  To cast for love the crown of love away,

  And when you bade refuse you for my lord,

  Whom, had you bidden, with my whole heart’s blood

  I had thought not much to purchase for my love:

  But seeing nor blood nor all my body’s tears

  Might buy you back to love me, I was fain

  That you should take them and my very life

  To buy new love and life with. Sir, and now

  Ere we twain part -

  QUEEN.

  What, are ye parted not?

  Between his lover and my lord I stand

  And see them weep and wrangle ere they part,

  And hold my peace for pity!

  JANE GORDON.

  God shall judge

  If with pure heart and patience, or with soul

  That burns and pines, I would have said farewell;

  I crave but this much of your grace and God’s,

  Make me at last not angry.

  QUEEN.

  Have you held

  No counsel or communion with my lord

  Since — I am shamed that take upon my lips

  Such inquisition. If you have aught yet, speak;

  I bid not nor forbid you.

  JANE GORDON.

  Nought but this;

  To unpledge my faith, unplight my love, and so

  Set on his hand the seal by touch of mine

  That sunders us.

  QUEEN.

  You shall not take his hand.

  JANE GORDON.

  I think not ever then to touch it more,

  Nor now desire, who have seen with eyes more sad

  More than I thought with sorrowing eyes to see

  When I came hither; so this long last time

  Farewell, my lord; and you, his queen, farewell.

  Exit.

  QUEEN.

  Hath she made end? While I have part in you,

  None shall have part with me; was this my lord,

  Was this not you that said so?

  BOTHWELL.

  Come, enough;

  I am bound not to be baited of your tongues.

  QUEEN.

  Bid her come back.

  BOTHWELL.

  What, are you foolish? think

  You twain shall look in either’s eyes no more.

  QUEEN.

  Why should I look in yours to find her there?

  For there she sits as in a mirror shown

  By the love’s light enkindled from your heart,

  That flashed but on me like a fen-fire lit

  To lure me to my grave’s edge, whence I fall

  Deep as the pit of hell; but yet for shame

  Deny not her to me as me to her,

  Me that have known this ever, but lacked heart

  To put the thing to use I knew; and now

  For both our sakes who have loved you, play not false

  But with one love at once; take up your love

  And wear it as a garland in men’s sight,

  For it becomes you; if you love me not,

  You have lied by this enough; speak truth, shake hands,

  Loose hearts and leave me.

  BOTHWELL.

  Vex not me too long,

  Vexing your own heart thus with vanity;

  Take up your wisdom that you have at will,

  And wear it as a sword in danger’s sight

  That now looks hard upon us. Mine you are,

  Love me or love not, trust me not or trust,

  As yours am I; and even as I in you,

  Have faith in me, no less nor further; then

  We shall have trust enough on either part

  To build a wall about us at whose foot

  That sea of iron swayed by winds of war

  Shall break in foam like blood; and hurled once back,

  The hearts and swords of all our enemies fallen

  Lie where they fell for ever. Know but this,

  And care not what is unknown else; we twain

  Have wrought not out this fortune that we have

  Nor made us way to such an hour and power

  To let men take and break it, while as fools

  We kiss and brawl and cry and kiss again,

  And wot not when they smite. For these next days,

  We will behold the triumph held at Leith

  And pageant of a sea-fight as set forth

  With open face and spirit of joyousness

  To fix this faith in all men’s eyes and minds,

  That while life lives we stand indissoluble:

  Then shall you send out for your child again

  Forth of Lord Mar’s good keeping, that your heart

  May here have comfort in his present sight;

  So shall all these who make his name their sword

  Lie weaponless within our hand and hold,

  Who are drawn in one against us, or prepare,

  While we delay, for Stirling; where by this,

  I am certified on faith of trusty men,

  Argyle is met with Morton, our good friends

  That served us for their turn, with some that helped

  To make our match and some that would have marred,

  Once several-souled, now in their envies one,

  As Lindsay, Athol, Herries; and to these

  Maitland is fled, your friend that must not bleed,

  Your counsellor is stolen away and lives

  To whet his wit against you; but myself,

  When we have shown us to the people, and seen

  What eye they turn upon our marriage feast,

  Will ride to Melrose, and raise up from sleep

  Their hardy hearts whom now mine unfriends there

  Hold in subjection; Herries nor Lord Hume

  Nor Maxwell shall have power to tie them up

&n
bsp; When I shall bid them forth, and all the march

  Shall rise beneath us as with swell o’ the sea

  And wash of thickening waters when the wind

  Makes the sea’s heart leap with such might of joy

  As hurls its waves together; there shall we

  Ride on their backs as warriors, and our ship

  Dance high toward harbour. Put but on the spirit

  You had in all times that beset your peace,

  Since you came home, with danger; in those wars

  That made the first years clamorous of your reign,

  And in this past and perilous year of ours

  Where you lacked never heart. Be seen again

  The royal thing men saw you; these your friends

  Shall look more friendly on our wedded faith

  Seeing no more discord of our days to be,

  And our bold borderers with one heart on fire

  Burn in your warlike safeguard, once to strike

  And end all enemies’ quarrel. When we part,

  At Borthwick Castle shall you look for me,

  Where I will gather friends more fain of fight

  Than all our foes may muster.

  QUEEN.

  Sir, so be it;

  But now my heart is lower than once it was,

  And will not sit I think again so high

  Though my days turn more prosperous than I deem.

  But let that be. Come, friends, and look not sad

  Though I look sadder; make what cheer we may,

  For festival or fight, or shine or shower,

  I will not fail you yet. God give me heart,

  That never so much lacked it; yea, he shall,

  Or I will make it out of mine own fears

  And with my feebleness increase my force

  And build my hope the higher that joy lies low

  Till all be lost and won. Lead you, my lord,

  And fear not but I follow; I have wept

  When I should laugh, and laughed when I should weep,

  And now live humbler than I thought to be;

  I ask not of your love, but of mine own

  I have yet left to give. Come, we will see

  These pageants or these enemies; my heart

  Shall look alike on either. Be not wroth;

  I will be merry while I live, and die

  When I have leave. My spirit is sick; would God

  We were now met at Borthwick, with men’s spears

  And noise of friends about us; friend or foe,

  I care not whether; here I am sore at heart,

  As one that cannot wholly wake nor sleep

  Till death receive or life reprieve me. Come;

  We should be glad now; let the world take note

  We are glad in spite and sight of enmities

  That are but worth the hour they take to quell.

  Scene XII. Stirling Castle

  Maitland and Lindsay

  LINDSAY.

  Is there such breach between them? why, men said,

  When they would ride through Edinburgh and he

  Bare-headed at her bridle, she would take

  By force and thrust his cap upon his head

  With loving might and laughing; and at Leith

  They saw the false fight on the waters join

  And mid-May pageants that shone down the sun,

  As with glad eyes of lovers newly wed

  Whose hearts were of the revel; and so soon

  Are hearts and eyes divided?

  MAITLAND.

  Not an hour

  May she draw breath but in his eye, nor see

  But whom he shall give entrance: in her sight

  He thought to have slain me, but she came between

  And set for shield her bosom to his sword

  In her own chamber; so each day and night

  By violent act or viler word than deed

  He turns her eyes to water-springs of tears,

  Who leaves not yet to love him; such strong hold

  By flesh or spirit or either made one fire

  Hath such men’s love on women made as she,

  For no foul speech I think nor strokes nor shame

  Would she go from him, but to keep him fast

  Would burn the world with fire; and no force less

  Shall burn their bonds in sunder.

  LINDSAY.

  We will bring

  And kindle it in their sight. They are southward fled

  To meet at Borthwick; thither we design,

  To raise the Merse with Hume, and with Lord Mar

  And with the Douglas’ following bind them round

  And take them in one snare, whence one of these

  Shall creep not forth with life or limb that feels

  No hound’s fang fasten on it; and his mate

  Shall see their feet smoke with his slaughtered blood.

  Scene XIII. Borthwick Castle

  The Queen and Bothwell; Mary Beaton in attendance

  QUEEN.

  You should be hence again; since you came in

  From Melrose with no levies at your back,

  We have heard no news of friends, and hear but now

  That we are ringed with Morton’s folk about;

  How shall he not have laid unhappy hand

  Upon your messenger that bare our word

  Of summons to the archbishop and your friend

  Balfour to be with Huntley at our side?

  BOTHWELL.

  Ay, he is trapped that bore my letters hence,

  I doubt not; none have feet to run aright,

  Eyes to see true, hands to bring help, but they

  That move them to our ruin. This Balfour,

  Whom I laid trust on since our fiery night

  As on a true man bound of force to me,

  Has fallen in conference and device of plots,

  I hear, with that lean limb of policy

  That loves me not, James Melville, by whose mouth

  Being warned I meant to take out of his hand

  The castle-keys of Edinburgh and give

  To one my closer kinsman for more trust,

  He has made him friends of ancient foes, and seeks,

  By no less service than pursuit of them

  Who slew the king your husband, to deserve

  Their favour who are risen of honest heart

  But to chastise these slayers, of whom God wot

  Themselves were none, nor he that hunts with them

  Upon the trail of treason. O, your lords

  Are worthy friends and enemies, and their tongues

  As trusty as their hands are innocent,

  When they see time to turn.

  QUEEN.

  I would their lives

  Lay all between my lips, and with one breath

  I might cut all theirs off! nor tongue nor hand

  Should rise of them against us, to deny

  Their work disclaimed when done. What slaves are these

  That make their hands red with men’s secret blood

  And with their tongues would lick them white, and wash

  The sanguine grain out with false froth of words

  From lying lips that kissed the dead to death

  And now cry vengeance for him? But, my lord,

  Make you haste hence to-night ere they be here

  That if we tarry will beset us; I

  Should hang but as a fetter on your foot,

  Which should pass free forth to Dunbar, and raise

  With sound even of its tread and forward speed

  The force of all the border.

  BOTHWELL.

  Where I go,

  There shall you not be far to find; to-night

  I will sleep here.

  QUEEN.

  God give you rest and strength,

  To make that heart which is the lord of mine

  Fresh as the spirit of sunrise! for last night

  You slept not w
ell.

  BOTHWELL.

  No; I had dreams, that am

  No natural dreamer; I will sleep apart,

  With Cranston’s son to lie at hand, or wait

  If I lack service.

  QUEEN.

  Nay, let me be there;

  I will not weary you with speech, nor break

  Your sleep with servile and officious watch,

  But sit and keep it as a jewel is kept

  That is more dear than eyesight to its lord,

  Or as mine eyes can keep not now their own,

  Now slumber sits far from them. Let me wake.

  BOTHWELL.

  No, not with me.

  QUEEN.

  What, lest I trouble you?

  Should my being there put dreams in you again,

  To cross your sleep with me?

  BOTHWELL.

  Belike it might.

  QUEEN.

  Nay, I was no part of your dreams, I think;

  You dream not on me waking nor asleep,

  But if you dream on no face else nor mine,

  I will be yet content.

  BOTHWELL.

  Well, so it was,

  I dreamt at once of either; yet I know not

  Why I should tell my dream; your lord that was,

  They say, would prattle of his fears by night

  And faces of false peril; I was never

  So loth by day to face what fear I might

  As to be sick in darkness; but this dream

  I would not see again. Yet was it nought;

  I seemed to stand between two gulfs of sea

  On a dark strait of rock, and at my foot

  The ship that bore me broken; and there came

  Out of the waves’ breach crying of broken men

  And sound of splintering planks, and all the hull

  Shattered and strewn in pieces; and my head

  Was as my feet and hands, bare, and the storm

  Blew hard with all its heart upon me; then

  Came you, a face with weeping eyes, and hair

  Half glimmering with a broken crown that shone

  Red as of molten iron; but your limbs

  Were swathed about and shrouded out of sight,

  Or shown but as things shapeless that the bier

  Shows ready for the grave; only the head

  Floated, with eyes fast on me, and beneath

  A bloodlike thread dividing the bare throat

  As with a needle’s breadth, but all below

  Was muffled as with cerecloths; and the eyes