That were above my cradle at my birth,
And rang when I was christened, to the carouse
Of that glad father and his loyal friends!
Rufus. He kept good cheer, they tell me.
Tyrrel.

Covers the worn-out woman at whose breast
I hung, an infant.

150

Yonder thatch

Rufus.

Ay! and none beside?

Tyrrel.

Grace! pity! mercy on her!

Rufus. I will not have hot scents about my chase. Tyrrel. A virtuous daughter of a virtuous mother Deserves not this, my liege!

Rufus.

Am I to learn

What any subject at my hand deserves?

Tyrrel. Happy, who dares to teach it, and who can!
Rufus. And thou, forsooth!

I have done my duty, sire!

Tyrrel.
Rufus. Not half: perform the rest, or bide my wrath.
Tyrrel. What, break athwart my knee the staff of age?
Rufus. Question me, villain!

Tyrrel.

Villain I am none.

170

Rufus. Retort my words! By all the saints! thou diest, False traitor!

Tyrrel. Sire, no private wrong, no word

Spoken in angriness, no threat against

My life or honour, urge me

Rufus.

Dismountest?

Urge to what?

180

Tyrrel. On my knees, as best beseems,

I ask

not pardon, sire! but spare, oh The child devoted, the deserted mother! Rufus. Take her; take both.

spare

Tyrrel.
She loves her home; her limbs
Fail her; her husband sleeps in that churchyard;
Her youngest child, born many years the last,
Lies (not half-length) along the father's coffin.
Such separate love grows stronger in the stem
(I have heard say) than others close together,
And that, where pass these funerals, all life's spring
Vanishes from behind them, all the fruits
Of riper age are shrivel'd, every sheaf

Husky; no gleaning left. She would die here,
Where from her bed she looks on his; no more
Able to rise, poor little soul! than he.

190

Rufus. Who would disturb them, child or father? where Is the churchyard thou speakest of? Tyrrel. Yon nettles: we have level'd all the graves.

Among

200

Rufus. Right: or our horses might have stumbled on

them.

Tyrrel. Your grace oft spares the guilty; spare the innocent!

Rufus. Up from the dew! thy voice is hoarse already. Tyrrel. Yet God hath heard it. It entreats again, Once more, once only; spare this wretched house. Rufus. No, nor thee neither.

Tyrrel.

Speed me, God! and judge

O thou! between the oppressor and opprest!

[He pierces RUFUS with an arrow.

THE PARENTS OF LUTHER.

John Luther. I left thee, Margaretta, fast asleep,
Thou, who wert always earlier than myself,
Yet hast no mine to trudge to, hast no wedge
To sharpen at the forge, no pickaxe loose
In handle.

Come, blush not again: thy cheeks
May now shake off those blossoms which they bore
So thick this morning that last night's avowal
Nestles among them still.

So, in few months

A noisier bird partakes our whispering bower?
Say it again.

Margaretta. And, in my dream, I blush'd!
John. Idler! wert dreaming too? and after dawn?
Marg. In truth was I.

John.

Marg.

Of me?

No, not of

you.

John. No matter; for methinks some Seraph's wing

Fann'd that bright countenance.

Marg.

And stir'd my soul within.

Methinks it did.

How could you go

And never say good-bye, and give no kiss?

John. It might have waken'd thee. I can give more Kisses than sleep: so thinking, I heav'd up

Slowly my elbow from above the pillow,

And, when I saw it woke thee not, went forth.
Marg. I would have been awaken'd for a kiss,

And a good-bye, or either, if not both.

VOL. I.

G

10

20

John. Thy dreams were not worth much then.
Marg.
But.

Few dreams are ;

30

John. By my troth! I will intrench upon
The woman's dowry, and will contradict,
Tho' I should never contradict again.

I have got more from dreams a hundred-fold
Than all the solid earth, than field, than town,
Than (the close niggard purse that cramps my fist)
The mine will ever bring me.

Marg.

So have I,

And so shall each indeed, if this be true.

John. What was it then? for when good dreams befall The true of heart, 'tis likely they come true.

A vein of gold? ay? silver? copper? iron?
Lead? sulphur? alum? alabaster? coal?

Shake not those ringlets nor let down those eyes,
Tho' they look prettier for it, but speak out.
True, these are not thy dainties.

Marg.

Guess again.

John. Crystalline kitchens, amber-basted spits,
Whizzing with frothy savory salamanders,

And swans that might (so plump and pleasant-looking)
Swim in the water from the mouths of knights;
And ostrich-eggs off coral woods (the nests
Outside of cinnamon, inside of saffron,

And mortar'd well, for safety-sake with myrrh),
Serv'd up in fern-leaves green before the Flood?
Marg. Stuff! you will never guess it, I am sure.
John. No? and yet these are well worth dreaming of.
Marg. Try once again.

John.
Faith! it is kind to let me.
Under-ground beer-cascades from Nuremberg ?
Rhine vintage stealing from Electoral cellars,
And, broader than sea-baths for mermaid brides,
With fluits upon the surface strides across,
Pink conchs, to catch it and to light it down;
And music from basaltic organ-pipes

For dancing; and five fairies to one man.

40

50

60

Marg. Oh his wild fancies! . . Are they innocent ?
John. I think I must be near it by that shrug.
Spicy sack-posset, roaring from hot springs
And running off like mad thro' candied cliffs,
But catching now and then some fruit that drops
Shake thy head yet? why then thou hast the palsy.
Zooks! I have thought of all things probable
And come to my wits' end. What canst thou mean?
Marg. Nay, I have half a mind now not to tell.

70

John. Then it is out. . Thy whole one ill could hold it. A woman's mind hates pitch upon its seams.

Marg. Hush! one word more, and then my lips are closed.

John. Pish! one more word, and then my lips
Marg.

Impudent man! . . and such discourse from you !
I dreamt we had a boy

John.

A wench, a wench

I said a boy.

John. Well, let us have him, if we miss the girl.
Marg. My father told me he must have a boy,
And call him Martin (his own name) because
Saint Martin both was brave and cloth'd the poor.

[80

O rare

John. Hurrah then for Saint Martin! he shall have

Enough to work on in this house of ours.

90

Marg. Now do not laugh, dear husband! but this dream Seem'd somewhat more.

Marg.
John. And that one tap upon the cheek to boot.
Marg. I do believe, if you were call'd to Heaven
You would stay toying here.

That one thought should make you now.

John.

I doubt I should.