King. Oh no! He is but Occasion's pupil. Partly 'tis Or coals of the winter fire, idlers find The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts; Are sown by wandering Rumour in all spirits, Be seen the current of the coming wind. Queen. Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts. Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy; and, as we pass The gallery, we 'll decide where that Correggio Shall hang-the Virgin Mother With her child, born the King of heaven and earth, Whose reign is men's salvation. And you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamped on the heart by never-erring love ; A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times,-and now should weep for sorrow, Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow. King. Dear Henrietta! SCENE III.-The Star Chamber. LAUD, JUXON, STRAFFORD, and others, as Judges. PRYNNE as a Prisoner, and then BASTWICK. Laud. Bring forth the prisoner Bastwick: let the clerk Recite his sentence. Clerk. "That he pay five thousand Pounds to the king, lose both his ears, be branded And be imprisoned within Lancaster Castle During the pleasure of the Court." Laud. Prisoner, If you have aught to say wherefore this sentence Juxon. If you have aught to plead in mitigation, Bastwick. Thus, my lords. If, like the prelates, I A public scorner of the word of God, Were I an enemy of my God and King And of good men, as ye are ;—I should merit Your fearful state and gilt prosperity, Which, when ye wake from the last sleep, shall turn To cowls and robes of everlasting fire. But, as I am, I bid ye grudge me not The only earthly favour ye can yield, Or I think worth acceptance at your hands, Scorn, mutilation, and imprisonment. Even as my Master did, Until Heaven's kingdom shall descend on earth, Of Heaven absorbed. Some few tumultuous years Will pass, and leave no wreck of what opposes Laud. Officer, take the prisoner from the bar, Forbear, my lord! The tongue, which now can speak No terror, would interpret, being dumb, Heaven's thunder to our harm; . . . . .... And hands, which now write only their own shame, With bleeding stumps might sign our blood away. Laud. Much more such "mercy" among men would be, Did all the ministers of Heaven's revenge Flinch thus from earthly retribution. I Could suffer what I would inflict. [Exit Bastwick The Lord Bishop of Lincoln.-[ To Strafford] Know you not That, in distraining for ten thousand pounds Upon his books and furniture at Lincoln, Were found these scandalous and seditious letters I speak it not as touching this poor person; But of the office which should make it holy, Mark too, my lord, that this expression strikes His Majesty, if I misinterpret not. Enter BISHOP WILLIAMS guarded. Strafford. 'Twere politic and just that Williams taste The bitter fruit of his connexion with The schismatics. But you, my Lord Archbishop, Who owed your first promotion to his favour, Laud. Would therefore beg The office of his judge from this High Court,- All thoughts but of the service of the Church.- Williams. Peace, proud hierarch! I know my sentence, and I own it just. Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve, In stretching to the utmost SCENE IV. HAMPDEN, PYM, CROMWELL, his Daughter, and young SIR HARRY VANE. Hampden. England, farewell! Thou, who hast been my cradle, Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave! I held what I inherited in thee As pawn for that inheritance of freedom Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile: How can I call thee England, or my country?— Does the wind hold? Vane. The vanes sit steady Upon the Abbey-towers. The silver lightnings Hampden. Hail, fleet herald Of tempest! that rude pilot who shall guide Beyond the webs of that swoln spider. Beyond the curses, calumnies, and lies (?) Of atheist priests! . . And thou Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, Oh light us to the isles of the evening land! With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites Wrest man's free worship, from the God who loves, These exiles from the old and sinful world! This glorious clime; this firmament, whose lights Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, A low dark roof, a damp and narrow wall. Becomes a cell too narrow for the soul That owns a master; while the loathliest ward Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradling peace built on the mountain tops,— To which the eagle spirits of the free, Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn the storm Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth, Return to brood on thoughts that cannot die And cannot be repelled. Like eaglets floating in the heaven of time, They soar above their quarry, and shall stoop SCENE V. Archy. I'll go live under the ivy that overgrows the terrace, and court the tears shed on its old roots (?), as the [wind?] plays the song of "A widow bird sate mourning Upon a wintry bough." [Sings] Heigho! the lark and the owl! One flies the morning, and one lulls the night : Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, Sings like the fool through darkness and light. "A widow bird sate mourning for her love The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, And little motion in the air 1822. Except the mill-wheel's sound." |