Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock
Page 112
[Exeunt.
Enter FERDAN.
Ferdan. Confusion and disgrace! our ranks are broken!
A woman’s deeds have panic-struck their souls, And blasted all our hopes.
Enter CALMAR.
Calmar. The day is lost.
No sooner had those trembling villains fled Than all the rest, enfeebled and confounded, Became an easy prey.
Ferdan. What means that horn?
Calmar. ’Tis Cormac’s signal to recall his friends.
How deeply must he feel the shameful flight Of those who vow’d to perish ere to yield!
Ferdan. Their flight shall boot them little: on their rear The fierce Rindane, like a whirlwind, following, Spreads terror and destruction.
Calmar. May her sword Consume them, like a pestilential fire!
If they escape, may infamy and shame Pursue them through the earth! may ev’ry pang The world’s contempt, or fell disease can give, Attend them to the grave! may ev’ry punishment Th’ avenging spirits of the clouds can shower, Light on the traitors who forsake their king.
Ferdan. And such a king, so gen’rous, brave, and good, Who sits enthron’d within his people’s hearts, And lives but for his people’s happiness.
Calmar. The cause for which we arm’d might surely warm A coward’s blood, the king for whom we fight Demands the utmost that our love can give.
Ferdan. Where’er Rindane mov’d, despair and death Sate frowning on her helm: beneath her arm, Thick as autumnal leaves, our warriors fell; So fierce a spirit in a female breast I never met before.
Calmar. Perdition seize her!
Ferdan. The horn again.
Calmar. Then haste we to the king; And let us not, by murmuring at the fate Of this disastrous day, increase his grief.
The chance of war, uncertain as the skies, May bid the valiant fall, the guilty rise, But all the efforts of the world combin’d Can never shake th’ unconquerable mind.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV. — THE CIRCLE OF LODA.
Enter RINDANE.
Rindane. Ha! whither am I led? to Loda’s Circle, The sacred spot near which my father sleeps:
’Twas here, last night, I trac’d the Runic rhyme, And mutter’d spells of all-commanding power, To gain this magic weapon, though his ghost
Denounc’d destruction on me. — Ha! what means This sudden start of pain? Curse on my hand, That could not wield aright this dang’rous blade, Its point has pierc’d my arm. Oh, torture! torture! A burning poison shoots along my veins!
And have I broken all the laws of nature, And dar’d the pow’r of Hela, to obtain My own death’s instrument? Away! away!
Thou fatal sword! —
She throws the sword into the circle of Loda. A volume of flame bursts up. The stage is suddenly darkened. Thunder and lightning. The rocks in the back-scene open and discover the VALKYRIES, or fatal sisters, surrounded with clouds, weaving the web of destiny. RINDANE falls on the earth.
Song of the Valkyries.
Clashing swords no more resound;
War withdraws his crimson train;
Death no longer stalks around,
O’er the blood-empurpled plain.
She, who, with detested spell,
Wrapp’d in midnight’s fearful gloom,
Scorn’d the laws and pow’r of hell,
Broke the slumbers of the tomb;
She, whose bold and cruel hand
Heroes’ blood has basely spilt,
She no more shall curse the land —
Lo! we stamp the fate of guilt!
She, who late made thousands fly,
Soon a lifeless corse shall be:
E’en in triumph she shall die,
In the hour of victory!
(The back-scene closes.)
Enter AGNARR.
Agnarr. The storm of war, in which the brave delight, Has ceas’d, and joy attends on victory, Like the calm ev’ning of a troubled day, When the sun smiles between the parting clouds. Rindane here! extended on the earth!
Her eyes are clos’d, but life has not departed. Rindane! still the same! what may this mean?
Awake! awake!
Rindane. I hear thy summons, Hela!
And I obey it. The tremendous portals, That guard thy worlds of everlasting fire, Grate on their hinges to receive thy guest!
Agnarr. Rindane!
Rindane. Ha! who calls? I know thee not. Agnarr. Not know me! ’tis Agnarr, thy friend, Rindane!
Rindane. Agnarr! what brings thee hither? Do I live?
At Loda’s Circle still! — How goes the day?
Oh triumph! triumph! Erin is defeated!
To me, to me, you owe your victory, And dearly have I gain’d it [— ’Tis no matter: — Where is Hidalvar?
Agnarr. He will soon be here; He bends this way — and with him —
Rindane. With him! who?
Say who is with him?
Agnarr. Cormac and Mengala.
Rindane. Hence! hence! ’tis false! ’tis false! I’ll not believe thee.
Agnarr. ’Tis true, by Odin! he has made his peace With them and Erin.
Rindane. Villain! villain! villain!
Then I have sacrificed my life for one Who leaves me, in my dying hour, to join In peace and friendship with my enemies! Agnarr! thou know’st how well I lov’d Hidalvar, But this last deed of his has chang’d that love To bitt’rest detestation. Hear me, Odin!
In high Valhalla register my curse!
Hear me, thus prostrate at thy sacred altar, Call down thy vengeance on the false Hidalvar! May she, for whom he now abandons me, Prove faithless as himself! may those whom now He calls his friends, conspire against his state, And drive him naked from his native land, A famish’d wanderer! May all his days Be pass’d in want, despair, and infamy!
And may he die unpitied and neglected, Without one friend to close his eyes, or sooth His parting ghost! May those who find his corse Refuse him sepulture! And on the spot, Where his most loath’d and putrefying carcase Infects the passing gale, may desolation Reign, undisturb’d, sole monarch of the scene! May no fair flow’r, or shrub, or tempting fruit Spring from the tainted earth, but clust’ring poisons, And deadly weeds, fit emblems of himself!
Agnarr. Her dreadful imprecations awe my soul, And freeze my utterance.
Rindane. How my blood boils!
The fiery poison rages at my heart, The mists of death already dim my eyes.
Hark! Hela calls! I hear the dreadful voice; I come! I come! oh, torture! mercy! mercy!
[Dies.
Agnarr. That was the groan of death; she breathes no more:
A mind like hers, had virtue been her guide, Had been the joy and wonder of mankind; But who will now regret her dreadful fate, Or shed one tear of pity on her tomb?
Enter CORMAC, HIDALVAR, MENGALA, CALMAR, FERDAN, Bards, and Warriors of both forties.
Hidalvar. Again then, king of Erin, we are friends, And never more may discord cut the knot Which now unites us.
Calmar. Little did I think, When Sora’s warriors triumph’d in the field, The then disastrous day would close in peace. Hidalvar. Had Erin conquer’d, this had never been, For I had then disdain’d to make submissions Which fear and falsehood might be thought to prompt.
Mengala. For once, my dearest father, I rejoice In thy defeat, since I have thus regain’d Hidalvar’s love — yet still I fear Rindane.
Agnarr. That fear is groundless; she has lost alike The will and pow’r to harm. That haughty spirit, Which scorn’d the feeble limits of mortality, Has burst its earthly bonds, and flown for ever. Hidalvar. Farewell, Rindane! Pardon, my Mengala, This last sad tribute to her memory.
I must be something more or less than man To hear unmov’d the wretched end of one Whom once I lov’d so well. Bear her away, And give her honourable burial.
Cormac. My soul, Hidalvar, when contrition pleads, No longer cherishes revenge or enmity:
Nor can I mourn my unsuccessful arms,
Since
thus assur’d of thy returning virtue.
Hidalvar. Then here, at Odin’s altar, I renew My wows of everlasting truth and love, To thy unequall’d daughter.
Mengala. Oh, Hidalvar!
Most amply does my present bliss repay me For all my suff’rings past.
Hidalvar. Come then, Mengala, And live for ever in Hidalvar’s heart.
And no dark clouds may envious fortune raise To blast the sunshine of our future days, Whilst my fond care shall all thy griefs remove, And lead thee back to happiness and love.
Finale.
Strike the harp’s responsive strings!
Let the song of pleasure rise!
Peace again unites our kings,
Love returns and discord flies.
Ne’er may fate, with hostile power,
Our propitious bonds destroy,
Ne’er may sorrow’s tempests lower
On our promis’d scenes of joy!
THE END
The Three Doctors
A MUSICAL FARCE IN TWO ACTS
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT I.
ACT II.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Hippy
Narcotic
Windgall
Barbet
Milestone
O’Fir
Shenkin
Caroline
Lucy
Servants, &c.
ACT I.
SCENE I. — A Spacious Apartment: the Furniture in great Confusion: Servants putting it to rights.
CHORUS.
Work harder and faster:
Be rubbing and scrubbing:
For fear our new master
Should give us a drubbing.
SHENKIN.
But when we’ve done working,
Old ale we shall stow in.
SECOND SERVANT.
Good news for the jerkin
Of Owen Ap-Owen.
CHORUS.
Work harder and faster:
Be rubbing and scrubbing:
For fear our new master
Should give us a drubbing.
SHENKIN.
Pless me! pless me! here’s pustle and uproar! I’ll ask Squire Hippy for half an hour’s holiday, that I may just sit under a tree, and think whether I’m tead or alive; for I’m pothered out of my senses and intellects.
SECOND SERVANT.
A creat change, Master Shenkin, since the teath of Sir Peter.
SHENKIN.
Our new master, look you, turns the house out of window; and here’s all sorts of toctors coming town from London. There’s a man-toctor, and a horse-toctor, and a tog-toctor — and —
[Enter HIPPY.]
HIPPY.
Shenkin — Shenkin — will this confounded house never be put in order?
SHENKIN.
Inteed, your honour, look you, I hope in two or three tays we’ll pring it apout.
HIPPY.
Two or three centuries. That old sot, Sir Peter Paxarett, thought of nothing but liquor and pipes; and here’s every thing in such infernal confusion. Why don’t those rascals make more haste?
SHENKIN.
Make more haste, you fillains — you lazy ruffians — you sots — you —
HIPPY.
Oh! that twinge! And I have not a sofa fit to lie down on. Ah! I shall die before Dr. Narcotic comes. Shenkin — I think a ride would do me good.
SHENKIN.
A creat teal of coot, I tare pe sworn, your honour. — Cot send him out for half an hour! [Aside.]
HIPPY.
But there is not a horse fit to ride, though there are ten in the stable. That old booby, Sir Peter, left them to his drunken knave of a groom, and now they are all, to a beast, in the last stage of the glanders. They’ll not live till Mr. Windgall comes. And the kennel, too — every dog mangy — : such management! And the park — a mere wilderness — a nursery of briars — a plantation of nettles — without any live stock but goats, that have eaten up all the bark of the trees. There won’t be a tree alive when Mr. Milestone comes.
SHENKIN.
Please, your honour, how many peoples is coming, to cure the house, and the stable, and the togs, and the cardens?
HIPPY.
What’s that to you — you — sirrah! Dr. Narcotic is coming to cure me, and Dr. Windgall is coming to cure the horses, and Dr. Barbet is coming to cure the dogs; and the great Marmaduke Milestone, Esq., is coming to trim my grounds, and marry my daughter; and I’ve ordered an upholsterer, and an architect, and —
SHENKIN.
Pless me! pless me!
HIPPY.
Why don’t those fellows finish their work here, and put the dining-room in order? Get about your business, you lazy — idle — loitering — creeping — dreaming — dawdling — lingering — [drives them off]. And you too, you two-legged goat — you walking cheese — you animated onion — you ale-barrel — you tobacco-pipe! [Drives off SHENKIN.]
Song
HIPPY.
Couldn’t that old sot, Sir Peter,
Keep his house a little neater
Not a sofa to recline on;
Not a table fit to dine on;
Dogs and horses all past healing;
Every servant drunk and reeling: —
Flames of scorching anger burn me:
I’m so hurried,
Vexed and flurried,
Teased and worried,
Zounds! I know not where to turn me!
Piled in heaps the pans and kettles:
All the garden full of nettles:
In the arbours sheep are housing:
In the greenhouse goats are browsing:
Forced to scramble, when I ramble,
Through a copse of furze and bramble,
I’m with endless plagues surrounded:
Rage — vexation —
Tribulation —
Botheration —
And confusion thrice confounded.
[Exit.]
[Enter CAROLINE and LUCY.]
CAROLINE.
Well, Lucy, how do you like the mountains of Wales?
LUCY.
Indeed, Miss Caroline, there is so much confusion and bustle in this house that I could almost fancy myself in Kensington again. I am afraid the death of Sir Peter has not done much good to Mr. Hippy — for he seems more fidgety and discontented than ever.
CAROLINE.
You know, Lucy, my father has been long an invalid, and thinks himself but half alive without a physician.
LUCY.
And I am afraid, ma’am, now he’s come to this great fortune, he means to discard your poor lover, Mr. O’Fir. He’ll certainly die if you prove false-hearted.
CAROLINE.
No, Lucy. He was faithful to me when in an obscure and humble station, and I should despise myself if I could forget him, now that the unexpected death of a distant relation has raised my father to affluence.
Duet
CAROLINE.
To him, my dear, my wandering youth,
Who first received my plighted truth,
I’ll ever constant prove:
Life’s rugged path has not a charm,
The stings of fortune to disarm,
Like constancy in love.
LUCY.
The varying scenes through which we stray
With magic wiles in vain essay
The constant mind to move:
The faithless train, that rove and range,
Will find no charm in endless change,
Like constancy in love.
BOTH.
The breast of truth no fears confound,
Though darkness close our hopes around,
And tempests scowl above:
The ills, at which the crowd repine
Can never reach the sacred shrine
Of constancy in love.
LUCY.
Indeed, ma’am, Mr. O’Fir was a good, kind-hearted gentleman, though he was always running about t
he country; but that’s not to be wondered at, because, they say, the Irishmen are always caught wild.
CAROLINE.
Bless your simplicity, girl. Mr. O’Fir was a picturesque tourist.
[Enter HIPPY.]
HIPPY.
What’s that about a picturesque tourist? I’ll be sworn you’re talking of that fellow O’Fir, that used to pass all the summer in posting over the country, and the winter in making love to you, and scribbling quarto volumes of tours. It was all very well when we lived at Kensington, but it won’t do now. I intend to adorn my family by having the great Marmaduke Milestone, Esquire, for a son-inlaw.
CAROLINE.
Dear sir! how can I possibly like a man I have never seen?
HIPPY.
And how can you possibly dislike a man you have never seen?
CAROLINE.
When we lived at Kensington, I promised in your presence to marry Mr. O’Fir; and I am too dutiful, and too fond of truth, to think of breaking my word.
HIPPY.
You are a disobedient minx, and I say again you shall marry Mr. Milestone. — Eh! what the devil do you want?
[Enter SHENKIN.]
SHENKIN.
Sir, there’s a shentleman in the hall. [Presenting a card.]
HIPPY.
Nicholas Narcotic, M.D. — Shew the shentleman in — and bring sandwiches and Madeira. [Exit SHENKIN.]
[Enter NARCOTIC.]
HIPPY.
Dr. Narcotic — your most obedient. My daughter, Miss Caroline Hippy.
NARCOTIC.
Sir — mem — proud of the honour — came post — own chariot — four hacks — two hundred and twenty-nine miles in thirty-three hours fifteen minutes.
CAROLINE.
Were you ever in Wales before, Dr. Narcotic?
NARCOTIC.
Never, mem. Bad country for a physician. Climate remarkably salubrious: people remarkably poor.
CAROLINE.
For botanical pursuits, I should think, sir —
NARCOTIC.
Botany, mem — true. Simples here in abundance. Botanise yourself, perhaps. Extremely happy, mem, to assist your pursuits. Fine science, mem: the flowery vestibule of the laboratory of nature.
HIPPY.
Dr. Narcotic.
NARCOTIC.
Sir —
HIPPY.
Did you come here post to cure my complaints, or to talk nonsense to my daughter?
NARCOTIC.
Nonsense, sir! Brimstone and nitre!