I would have had one day, one moment’s space,
Change man’s condition, push each slumbering claim
Of mastery o’er the elemental world
At once to full maturity, then roll
Oblivion o’er the work, and hide from man
What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child
Of after-days, wilt thou reject the past
Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure
By which thou hast the earth: for thee the present
Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen
Beside that past’s own shade when, in relief,
Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on thee
Shall burst the future, as successive zones
Of several wonder open on some spirit
Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven:
But thou shalt painfully attain to joy,
While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man!
All this was hid from me: as one by one
My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed,
As actual good within my reach decreased,
While obstacles sprung up this way and that
To keep me from effecting half the sum,
Small as it proved; as objects, mean within
The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least,
Itself a match for my concentred strength —
What wonder if I saw no way to shun
Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God’s.
In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die,
A strange adventure made me know, one sin
Had spotted my career from its uprise;
I saw Aprile — my Aprile there!
And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened
His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear,
I learned my own deep error; love’s undoing
Taught me the worth of love in man’s estate,
And what proportion love should hold with power
In his right constitution; love preceding
Power, and with much power, always much more love;
Love still too straitened in his present means,
And earnest for new power to set love free.
I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned:
And thus, when men received with stupid wonder
My first revealings, would have worshipped me,
And I despised and loathed their proffered praise —
When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge
For past credulity in casting shame
On my real knowledge, and I hated them —
It was not strange I saw no good in man,
To overbalance all the wear and waste
Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born
To prosper in some better sphere: and why?
In my own heart love had not been made wise
To trace love’s faint beginnings in mankind,
To know even hate is but a mask of love’s,
To see a good in evil, and a hope
In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud
Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim
Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies,
Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts;
All with a touch of nobleness, despite
Their error, upward tending all though weak,
Like plants in mines which never saw the sun,
But dream of him, and guess where he may be,
And do their best to climb and get to him.
All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men
Regard me, and the poet dead long ago
Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third
And better-tempered spirit, warned by both:
As from the over-radiant star too mad
To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself —
And the dark orb which borders the abyss,
Ingulfed in icy night, — might have its course
A temperate and equidistant world.
Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well.
As yet men cannot do without contempt;
‘T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile
That they reject the weak, and scorn the false,
Rather than praise the strong and true, in me:
But after, they will know me. If I stoop
Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,
It is but for a time; I press God’s lamp
Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late,
Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day.
You understand me? I have said enough?
Festus.
Now die, dear Aureole!
Paracelsus.
Festus, let my hand —
This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend!
Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile!
Festus.
And this was Paracelsus!
STRAFFORD
First published in 1837, this historical tragedy was written by Browning at the special request of his new friend William Macready, a well-established Shakespearean actor, who went on to become one of the leading tragedians of Victorian theatre. The play was modestly successful, being performed five times, inspiring Browning to write two more plays in a short time, though one of these was never performed and the other was a dismal failure. In the meantime, Browning had fallen out with Macready.
The great Victorian actor William Macready
CONTENTS
Preface
Dramatis Personæ
ACT I
Scene I. A HOUSE NEAR WHITEHALL.
Scene II. WHITEHALL.
ACT II
Scene I. A HOUSE NEAR WHITEHALL.
Scene II. WHITEHALL.
ACT III
Scene I. OPPOSITE WESTMINSTER HALL.
Scene II. WHITEHALL.
Scene III. THE ANTECHAMBER OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS.
ACT IV
Scene I. WHITEHALL.
Scene II. A PASSAGE ADJOINING WESTMINSTER HALL.
Scene III. WHITEHALL.
ACT V
Scene I. WHITEHALL.
Scene II. THE TOWER.
DEDICATED,
IN ALL AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION,
TO
WILLIAM C. MACREADY, ESQ.
BY
HIS MOST GRATEFUL AND
DEVOTED FRIEND,
R. B.
Preface
I had for some time been engaged in a Poem of a very different nature, when induced to make the present attempt; and am not without apprehension that my eagerness to freshen a jaded mind by diverting it to the healthy natures of a grand epoch, may have operated unfavourably on the represented play, which is one of Action in Character rather than Character in Action. To remedy this, in some degree, considerable curtailment will be necessary, and, in a few instances, the supplying details not required, I suppose, by the mere reader. While a trifling success would much gratify, failure will not wholly discourage me from another effort: experience is to come, and earnest endeavour may yet remove many disadvantages.
The portraits are, I think, faithful; and I am exceedingly fortunate in being able, in proof of this, to refer to the subtle and eloquent exposition of the characters of Eliot and Strafford, in the Lives of Eminent British Statesmen now in the course of publication in Lardner’s Cyclopædia, by a writer whom I am proud to call my friend; and whose biographies of Hampden, Pym, and Vane, will, I am sure, fitly illustrate the present year — the Second Centenary of the Trial concerning Ship-Money. My Carlisle, however, is purely imaginary: I at first sketched her singular likeness roughly in, as suggested by Matthew and the memoir-writers — but it was too artificial, and the substituted outline is exclusively from Voiture and Waller.
The Italian boat-song in the last scene is from Redi’s Bacco, long since naturalized in the joyous and delicate version of Leigh Hunt.
&
nbsp; Dramatis Personæ
(Theatre-Royal Covent Garden, May 1, 1837.)
Charles the First
MR.
DALE.
Earl of Holland
HUCKEL.
Lord Savile
TILBURY.
Sir Henry Vane
THOMPSON.
Wentworth, Viscount Wentworth, Earl of Strafford
MACREADY.
John Pym
VANDENHOFF.
John Hampden
HARRIS.
The younger Vane
J. WEBSTER.
Denzil Hollis
G. BENNET.
Benjamin Rudyard
PRITCHARD.
Nathaniel Fiennes
WORREL.
Earl of Loudon
BENDER.
Maxwell, Usher of the Black Rod
RANSFORD.
Balfour, Constable of the Tower
COLLETT.
A Puritan
WEBSTER.
Queen Henrietta
MISS
VINCENT.
Lucy Percy, Countess of Carlisle
HELEN FAUCIT.
Presbyterians, Scots Commissioners, Adherents of Strafford,
Secretaries, Officers of the Court &c. Two of Strafford’s Children.
ACT I
Scene I. A HOUSE NEAR WHITEHALL.
HAMPDEN, HOLLIS, the younger VANE, RUDYARD, FIENNES, and many of the
Presbyterian Party: LOUDON and other Scots Commissioners: some seated,
some standing beside a table strewn over with papers, &c.
VANE.
I say, if he be here . . .
RUDYARD.
And he is here!
HOLLIS.
For England’s sake let every man be still
Nor speak of him, so much as say his name,
Till Pym rejoin us! Rudyard — Vane — remember
One rash conclusion may decide our course
And with it England’s fate — think — England’s fate!
Hampden, for England’s sake they should be still!
VANE.
You say so, Hollis? well, I must be still!
It is indeed too bitter that one man —
Any one man . . .
RUDYARD.
You are his brother, Hollis!
HAMPDEN.
Shame on you, Rudyard! time to tell him that,
When he forgets the Mother of us all.
RUDYARD.
Do I forget her? . .
HAMPDEN.
— You talk idle hate
Against her foe: is that so strange a thing?
Is hating Wentworth all the help she needs?
A PURITAN.
The Philistine strode, cursing as he went:
But David — five smooth pebbles from the brook
Within his scrip . . .
RUDYARD.
— Be you as still as David!
FIENNES.
Here’s Rudyard not ashamed to wag a tongue
Stiff with ten years’ disuse of Parliaments;
Why, when the last sate, Wentworth sate with us!
RUDYARD.
Let’s hope for news of them now he returns:
— But I’ll abide Pym’s coming.
VANE.
Now by Heaven
They may be cool that can, silent that can,
Some have a gift that way: Wentworth is here —
Here — and the King’s safe closeted with him
Ere this! and when I think on all that’s past
Since that man left us — how his single arm
Roll’d back the good of England, roll’d it back
And set the woeful Past up in its place . . .
A PURITAN.
Exalting Dagon where the Ark should be!
VANE.
. . . How that man has made firm the fickle King
— Hampden, I will speak out! — in aught he feared
To venture on before; taught Tyranny
Her dismal trade, the use of all her tools,
To ply the scourge yet screw the gag so close
That strangled agony bleeds mute to death:
— How he turns Ireland to a private stage
For training infant villanies, new ways
Of wringing treasure out of tears and gore,
Unheard oppressions nourished in the dark
To try how much Man’s nature can endure
— If he dies under it, what harm? if not . . .
FIENNES.
Why, one more trick is added to the rest
Worth a King’s knowing —
RUDYARD.
— And what Ireland bears
England may learn to bear.
VANE.
. . . How all this while
That man has set himself to one dear task,
The bringing Charles to relish more and more
Power . . .
RUDYARD.
Power without law . . .
FIENNES.
Power and blood too . .
VANE.
. . . Can I be still?
HAMPDEN.
For that you should be still.
VANE.
Oh, Hampden, then and now! The year he left us
The People by its Parliament could wrest
The Bill of Rights from the reluctant King:
And now, — he’ll find in an obscure small room
A stealthy gathering of great-hearted men
That take up England’s cause: England is — here!
HAMPDEN.
And who despairs of England?
RUDYARD.
That do I
If Wentworth is to rule her. I am sick
To think her wretched masters, Hamilton,
The muckworm Cottington, the maniac Laud,
May yet be longed for back again. I say
I do despair.
VANE.
And, Rudyard, I’ll say this —
And, (turning to the rest) all true men say after me! not loud —
But solemnly and as you’d say a prayer:
This Charles, who treads our England under foot,
Has just so much — it may be fear or craft —
As bids him pause at each fresh outrage; friends,
He needs some sterner hand to grasp his own,
Some voice to ask, “Why shrink? — am I not by?”
— A man that England loved for serving her,
Found in his heart to say, “I know where best
The iron heel shall bruise her, for she leans
Upon me when you trample.” Witness, you!
But inasmuch as life is hard to take
From England . . .
MANY VOICES.
Go on, Vane! ‘Tis well said, Vane!
VANE.
. . . Who has not so forgotten Runnymead . . .
VOICES.
‘Tis well and bravely spoken, Vane! Go on!
VANE.
. . There are some little signs of late she knows
The ground no place for her! no place for her!
When the King beckons — and beside him stands
The same bad man once more, with the same smile,
And the same savage gesture! Now let England
Make proof of us.
VOICES.
Strike him — the Renegade —
Haman — Ahithophel —
HAMPDEN.
(To the Scots.) Gentlemen of the North,
It was not thus the night your claims were urged,
And we pronounced the League and Covenant
Of Scotland to be England’s cause as well!
Vane, there, sate motionless the whole night through.
VANE.
Hampden . . .
FIENNES.
Stay Vane!
LOUDON.
Be patient, gallant Vane!
VANE.
Mind how you counsel patience, Loudon! yo
u
Have still a Parliament, and a brave League
To back it; you are free in Scotland still —
While we are brothers (as these hands are knit
So let our hearts be!) — hope’s for England yet!
But know you why this Wentworth comes? to quench
This faintest hope? that he brings war with him?
Know you this Wentworth? What he dares?
LOUDON.
Dear Vane,
We know — ’tis nothing new . . .
VANE.
And what’s new, then,
In calling for his life? Why Pym himself . . .
You must have heard — ere Wentworth left our cause
He would see Pym first; there were many more
Strong on the People’s side and friends of his, —
Eliot that’s dead, Rudyard and Hampden here,
But Wentworth cared not for them; only, Pym
He would see — Pym and he were sworn, they say,
To live and die together — so they met
At Greenwich: Wentworth, you are sure, was long,
Specious enough, the devil’s argument
Lost nothing in his lips; he’d have Pym own
A Patriot could not do a purer thing
Than follow in his track; they two combined
Could put down England. Well, Pym heard him out —
One glance — you know Pym’s eye — one word was all:
“You leave us, Wentworth: while your head is on
I’ll not leave you.”
HAMPDEN.
Has Pym left Wentworth, then?
Has England lost him? Will you let him speak,
Or put your crude surmises in his mouth?
Away with this! (To the rest.) Will you have Pym or Vane?
VOICES.
Wait Pym’s arrival! Pym shall speak!
HAMPDEN.
Meanwhile
Let Loudon read the Parliament’s report
From Edinburgh: our last hope, as Vane says,
Is in the stand it makes. Loudon!
VANE.
(As LOUDON is about to read) — No — no —
Silent I can be: not indifferent!
HAMPDEN.
Then each keep silence, praying God a space
That he will not cast England quite away
In this her visitation! (All assume a posture of reverence.)
A PURITAN.
Seven years long
The Midianite drove Israel into dens
And caves.
Till God sent forth a mighty man,
(PYM enters.)
Even Gideon! (All start up.)
PYM.
Wentworth’s come: he has not reached
Whitehall: they’ve hurried up a Council there
To lose no time and find him work enough.
Where’s Loudon? your Scots’ Parliament . . .
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 249