Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  Sir Harry. My sweet Ophelia! I am bound to obey you.

  Enter METAPHOR and SHADOW.

  Metaphor. Shadow, you shall not yield to despondency. Show yourself a man, and bear up against calamity as I do.

  Shadow. I will endeavour: philosophy may do much.

  Enter Miss CADENCE and CHROMATIC.

  Miss Cadence. Here is a stray sheep, whom I have fortunately recovered from the cave of despair, to which, by his looks, I believe he was hastening.

  Shadow. Do I behold you again, basilisk?

  Chromatic. Dare you brave my vengeance, Hottentot?

  Mrs. Comfit. How now, gentlemen! — what is the matter?

  Shadow. My rage is desperate.

  Chromatic. My fury is implacable.

  Enter Miss COMFIT and EMMA.

  Mrs. Comfit. Let me entreat you, gentlemen.

  Miss Cadence. Let me entreat you, gentlemen.

  Miss Comfit. And let me entreat you, gentlemen.

  Chromatic. The powers of harmony must not plead in vain.

  Shadow. The three graces may command their humble slave.

  Chromatic. Mr. Shadow, I sincerely lament the destruction of your divine Rhodomont.

  Shadow. Mr. Chromatic, I deeply deplore the loss of your exquisite Cremona.

  Enter COMFIT, TACTIC, and O’PROMPT.

  Omnes. Mr. Comfit returned!

  Mrs. Comfit. My dear husband!

  Comfit. My lamb! Ladies and gentlemen, welcome all. Sir Harry, I ask your pardon. My conduct this morning was occasioned by a misapprehension.

  Sir Harry. It is forgotten, sir.

  Comfit. Allow me to introduce to you my intended nephew, Mr. Tactic. Come hither, Emma; don’t blush, girl! There; bless you both (joining their hands). Mr. Metaphor, I believe you love my daughter.

  Metaphor. I do, sir, most fervently; and I believe Miss Comfit has a little penchant for me.

  O’Prompt (aside). A penchant! I suppose that’s the dilettante word for sneaking kindness.

  Comfit. Take her, then, and be happy. And now permit me to ask your forgiveness for my Irish friend here.

  Metaphor. I cannot refuse you, sir.

  O’Prompt. Sir, I am very sorry I did not use you like a gentleman.

  Sir Harry. I shall not be appeased so readily.

  Miss Melpomene. Nay, Sir Harry, at my intercession —

  O’Prompt. Oh, bless your sweet tragedy face!

  Sir Harry. That appeal is irresistible. And as there are so many votaries on their way to the temple of Hymen, I shall not like to be left behind. If my sweet Ophelia would accompany me thither —

  Miss Melpomene. Oh, Sir Harry! You have long been the Hamlet of my thoughts.

  Sir Harry. What think you, Chromatic?

  Chromatic. I can think of nothing, Sir Harry, but my unfortunate Cremona.

  Shadow. And I shall never cease to lament the demolition of my Rhodomont.

  Sir Harry. Then you are the only discontented persons in the company. And it is a delightful circumstance when so many happy beings meet under one roof:

  And yet our share of joy will be but scanty, Unless your plaudits crown the Dilettanti.

  THE END

  The Circle of Loda

  A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS

  CONTENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  CORMAC.

  CALMAR.

  FERDAN.

  HIDALVAR.

  AGNARR.

  HANRI.

  EGILL.

  Spirits, Bards, Warriors, &c.

  RINDANE.

  MENGALA.

  The twelve Valkyries, or Fatal Sisters.

  SCENE: Sora, a country of Scandinavia.

  TIME: About the beginning of the fifth century.

  The Circle of Loda was a rude circle of stones, used as a place of worship among the Scandinavians.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. — THE COAST OF SORA. NIGHT. Enter CORMAC, CALMAR, FERDAN, BARDS and WARRIORS.

  Chorus of Bards.

  Hark! the northern blasts arise!

  Night o’erhangs these stormy climes!

  Dimly seen, from darken’d skies,

  Bend the forms of other times.

  Mighty shades of days of old,

  Shades of chiefs renown’d in story,

  From their clouds with joy behold

  How their children rush to glory.

  ‘ Haste, haste away! ‘they seem to say,

  ‘Guilt soon shall meet its destiny!

  In glorious death resign your breath,

  Or crown your arms with victory!’

  Cormac. At length, my friends, on these devoted shores Our long-victorious banners proudly stream, To mark our course to vengeance. Ere the sun Again shall sink beneath the western waves, Shall Erin’s sons, with growing shouts of joy, Proclaim the fall of Sora’s treach’rous chief.

  Calmar. On yonder hill the tyrant’s dwelling stands, Where the large oak is flaming to the wind; And there the voice, of joy, the songs of bards, Declare Hidalvar spreads the nightly feasts, Nor thinks of coming danger.

  Ferdan. Let us seize Th’ auspicious hour, and whilst, in fancied safety, He fills che shell, and listens to the song, Rush on at once, in all our rattling arms, And hurl destruction on the miscreant’s head. Cormac. No, Ferdan, no: though vengeance be our aim, Let honour be our guide. I came not here To spring in darkness on a helpless prey. From earliest years I shook the sounding spear, And drew the sword amid the strife of kings; Victory and fame still follow’d in my steps, Till age, that universal conqueror, Checked my full course, and bade me hang my shield High in my ancient hall, and wait the hour When I should join my fathers in the clouds, And ride upon the storm. But now, once more, My only child, my darling daughter’s wrongs, Have giv’n new sinews to my aged limbs, And warm’d my frozen blood. Again the sword Gleams in my hand, again I rise to war; And shall I, in this last of all my battles, Lead on my friends to midnight deeds of slaughter, And tarnish all the glories of my life?

  Ferdan. Forgive, my noble king, the dark suggestion, Which now I blush to own. My ardent soul Impatient of delay, and all on fire To crush the fair Mengala’s base oppressor, Had made me think the honourable meed Of open war too good for such a villain; And thence I wish’d, in my unthinking zeal, To punish thus his ruffian treachery.

  Cormac. Ferdan, a fault repented and acknowledg’d Dwells not remember’d in the gen’rous mind, And hence I banish all ungrateful thoughts Which thy dishonourable wish at first Had given birth to.

  Calmar. Soft! Methought I heard A coming tread, but the wild wind has drown’d it.

  Enter EGILL.

  Ferdan. Ho! Who goes there?

  Egill. From fam’d Hidalvar’s halls I come to bid ye, strangers, to the feast:

  Our watchful scouts have mark’d your landing here Beneath the shades of night, and I am sent To ask if here as friends or foes you come, And bring you to his dwelling.

  Cormac. Know then, bard, That Erin’s king has hither led a band Of the most valiant spirits of his isle, To wash away, in false Hidalvar’s blood, His dearest daughter’s matchless injuries.

  Egill. What injuries, great king?

  Cormac. What injuries!

  Thou art not ignorant that, two years since, The King of Sora sought my festive halls, And gain’d my daughter’s love, and my consent To bear her with him to his native land.

  Egill. ’Tis true, oh Cormac, but that lovely maid Has sunk an early victim to the grave.

  Cormac. Bard! bard! ’tis false!

  Egill. Oh, mighty chief of Erin!

  Ne’er till this hour was Egill tax’d with falsehood. Once more, I here repeat thy child is dead, For sad Hidalvar led me to her tomb, And there I sung her funeral song of praise.

  Cormac. Old man, thou either art deceived thyself Or anxious to deceive. My daughter lives; —

  Nay, answer not, but hasten to thy king, And tell him, Cormac
knows his villainy.

  Tell him, I know he lov’d my daughter once, But, more inconstant than autumnal winds, Abandon’d her for one as black in soul As she is fair in form. Till he knew her, His heart was pure and noble. She, most vile!

  She urg’d him to expose my hapless child, In a weak boat, on these tempestuous seas, And doubtless thinks she perish’d in the waves; But valiant Calmar, in his dark-ribb’d ship, Returning, crown’d with fame, from distant lands, Discover’d and preserv’d her. Oh! what words Can speak my rage, astonishment, and grief, When in my arms I clasp’d my dear Mengala, And heard her sad, sad tale? My feeble arms, Unnerv’d by age, resum’d their former vigour, And as again I drew my trusty sword, Which long disuse had rusted in its scabbard, A thousand heroes flock’d around their king And rais’d a gen’ral cry of ‘War and vengeance!’ Egill. Thy story, chief, has fill’d my anxious mind With horror and surprise; but, as I hope When icy death shall snatch me from the world In Odin’s hall to strike the shadowy harp, Amid departed warriors — trust me, Cormac, I knew not Hidalvar’s guilt and baseness To thy most beauteous daughter.

  Cormac. I believe thee.

  Calmar. Then haste thee back, thou venerable bard, And tell thy king that Erin’s warlike sons Impatient here await the rising light, To hurl the thunders of avenging war On a proud, treach’rous coward.

  Egill. Valiant chief, How great soe’er may be his other crimes, Hidalvar is no coward.

  Calmar. Bard, I tell thee, The wretch who flies, on heels of lightning speed, From battle’s echoing dangers, is a hero Compar’d to him whose hollow, dastard soul Can harm the woman who, in confident love, Looks up to him for safety.

  Egill. King of Erin, I go to bear thy message to Hidalvar.

  Farewell, brave chiefs.

  Cormac. Farewell, thou good old bard.

  [Exit EGILL.

  As yet the tedious night is not half worn; Here let us rest beneath these aged oaks, Till morning call to battle. Bards of Erin, Awake your harps to songs of love and war; And Calmar, when our host shall sink in sleep, Do thou watch o’er them with a chosen few, To guard their slumbers from a treach’rous foe.

  Duet and Chorus.

  First Bard. On ancient Cromla’s dark brown steeps, Alone Fiona sits, and weeps, When shall she joy recover?

  She sighs for Ardan distant far, She thinks upon the dang’rous war, And trembles for her lover.

  But soon, lovely maiden, thy grief shall subside As sinks to its level the tempest-swell’d tide Of the stream some sweet valley adorning; When the clouds are dispers’d, and the night-vapour flies, And the lark carols blithely her song in the skies, ‘Beneath the pale light of the morning.’

  Second Bard. At length with fame her love appears; No more her eyes, suffus’d with tears, Lament her absent treasure; And Ardan, for his glorious pains, A rich and sweet reward obtains, In beauty’s smiles of pleasure.

  The warrior of Erin thus hastes to the strife, Well pleas’d for his country to hazard his life, His bosom to fear is a stranger; His breast beats with joy as he cuts the white wave, For the smiles of the fair are the meed of the brave, Who scorn the approaches of danger.

  Chorus: The warrior of Erin, &c.

  [The scene closes.

  SCENE II — A WOOD.

  Enter MENGALA, disguised in armour.

  Mengala. The tribes of Erin sleep, all save a few, A watchful few, who guard their slumb’ring friends, And I, the wretched victim of a passion Most true and most unhappy. Little thinks My too fond father, whom his daughter’s wrongs Have led to case his aged limbs in steel, That, thus disguis’d, that lost, ill-fated daughter Accompanies his course. What brought me hither? I scarcely dare confess it to myself, The love I bear Hidalvar — love for him Whose cruelty and falsehood should have kindled The fiercest flames of hatred and revenge In this too constant heart. I love him still: And long I strove, with tears and with entreaties, To banish vengeance from my father’s breast, But finding him inexorable still To sighs and supplications, thus attir’d I mingled with the crowd of Erin’s youth, And hither came to perish with my love.

  Why was I snatch’d from death? Oh! would the bark, The wretched bark, in which Hidalvar plac’d me, Had been o’erwhelm’d in GormaFs stormy seas! Then had my father never known my fate, Nor Erin’s warriors sought Hidalvar’s ruin.

  My doom is fix’d: the sword that strikes his heart Will draw my life-blood too. I could die happy, Methinks, could I but see him once again And whisper my forgiveness. With the first Faint beams of morn, ere yet the hostile tribes Shall join in war, I’ll wander tow’rds his dwelling. Kind chance, perhaps, will throw him in my way; Then, if his nature be susceptible Of shame, remorse, or sorrow, if his bosom Be not quite dead to pity, ere we part, Mengala’s woes shall touch Hidalvar’s heart.

  Song: MENGALA.

  The night is long, the skies o’ercast,

  And coldly blows th’ autumnal blast;

  Unfriended, on a dreary shore,

  I rove, whilst foaming billows roar

  Around in wild commotion.

  But darker is my fate unbless’d,

  And colder is my hopeless breast,

  And stronger tumults rend my soul

  Than those which thy loud waves control,

  Thou ever restless ocean!

  Hidalvar! dear inconstant youth!

  I thought thy heart the seat of truth:

  How swiftly flew the time away!

  With thee I led each happy day,

  Unthinking of the morrow.

  What love was e’er more true than mine?

  False as thou art, it still is thine;

  Yet thou could’st mock my frantic cry,

  And coldly cast me oft to die,

  Or live in ceaseless sorrow!

  [Exit.

  SCENE III. — THE HALL OF HIDALVAR.

  HIDALVAR, RINDANE, AGNARR, HANRI, CHIEFS, and BARDS discovered.

  Hidalvar. Now, Egill, say, who are these stranger chiefs That, under favour of the shelt’ring night, Have landed on our shores?

  Egill. A princely band, Equipp’d for war, whose bosoms burn with hatred To thee and to thy people, who but wait ‘The coming morn, to scatter o’er thy land The tenfold thunders of collected vengeance.

  Hidalvar. What is the cause of their vindictive fury?

  And what their names, their country, and their force?

  Egill. Their force is mighty, more, I fear, than we, Thus unprepar’d, can venture to resist, With any hope of victory.

  Hidalvar. That I fear not:

  I never yielded yet to mortal man, Nor will I, whilst my bosom throbs with life.

  Their names and country?

  Egill. Cormac, King of Erin, Rous’d, as he says, by strongest provocation, Leads on the choicest warriors of his isle Against your life and state.

  Hidalvar. Ha! is it so?

  Then doubtless he has learn’d. Enough, old bard; It matters not what cause has brought him hither, Let it suffice us that we know our danger, And must prepare to meet it.

  Rindane. Let it come.

  ‘Twill yet be long ere ruddy morning break; Meanwhile, let ev’ry chief of Sora’s land Arouse his slumb’ring tribes, and doubt we not But warlike souls enough shall flock around us To lash invasion howling from our shores.

  Hidalvar. Haste, haste, my chiefs! and Egill, hie thee hence, And strike the shield which hangs without the gates; It never rings in peace: my friends shall hear, And hasten to its summons — fly — dispatch.

  [Exeunt all but HIDALVAR and RINDANE. Rindane. See what thy childish clemency has gain’d us, If clemency it were: I had not pow’r, To sway thy mind to touch Mengala’s life.

  Had she been slain at once, as I advis’d, The story of her fate had still been lock’d From mortal knowledge; but to screen, forsooth, Thy spotless soul from absolute guilt of blood, Thou, in despite of my remonstrances, Must send her forth to sea, and trust to chance To save or to destroy her. Mark the consequence. Hidalvar. When angry war is threat’ni
ng at our gates, Why waste the precious time in vain reproaches? Occasion calls for action, not for words.

  Rindane. For action, true; but how are we prepar’d?

  A few raw, drowsy troops, in haste collected, Oppos’d to all the pride and flow’r of Erin!

  Hidalvar. ’Tis true, ’tis true; yet what alternative?

  For well I know that Cormac’s ardent soul, When once enkindled to revenge, would spurn All terms of peace.

  Rindane. Peace! I despise the thought!

  Mark me, Hidalvar; thou hast often heard My father’s fame.

  Hidalvar. I have: he fell in battle, With glory crown’d, ere yet thy infant tongue Had learn’d to lisp his name; yet still he lives Recorded in the song; the aged bard Feels second youth whene’er he sings his deeds, The blushing virgin to her list’ning lover Relates the wondrous tale, and bids him follow The steps of Herromar.

  Rindane. ’Tis also sung That victory follow’d wheresoe’er he led, That trembling nations fled before his sword, Like mist before the sun.

  Hidalvar. So runs the tale:

  But, dear Rindane, this is not the time To listen to the deeds of former days, The present danger ev’ry thought demands, And calls for prompt exertion.

  Rindane. Chief of Sora, Not through an idle motive have I brought My father to thy mind. Dreadful in war Was Herromar; his never shaken soul, Firm as his native rocks, beheld, unmov’d, The fiercest forms of horror and of death; Yet little had avail’d his matchless valour, His giant strength, and stern contempt of perils, But that he bore, the gift of mighty Thor, A sword of magic pow’r.

  Hidalvar. Of magic pow’r!

  Rindane. The all-knowing dwarfs, who dread the light of day, And hold their dwelling deep in central caverns, In seven successive midnights form’d the blade, And from the vapours, gather’d and condens’d, Of earth, and air, and ocean, rais’d the flame With which they temper’d it. The polish’d steel Flash’d the meridian brightness of the sun; Its slightest touch was death.

  Hidalvar. And when he died, To whom devolv’d this dreadful, glorious gift? Rindane. Near Loda’s Circle dwelt an aged man, With whom my father lov’d to sit, and talk Of things beyond the reach of vulgar minds.