Imaginary Conversations and Poems | Page 3

in thy
prosperity (Heaven grant it may shine upon thee in some other country!)
it will rejoice thee to protect them. We feel ourselves the most exempt
from affliction when we relieve it, although we are then the most
conscious that it may befall us.
There is one thing here which is not at the disposal of either.
_Hannibal._ What?
_Marcellus._ This body.
_Hannibal._ Whither would you be lifted? Men are ready.
_Marcellus._ I meant not so. My strength is failing. I seem to hear
rather what is within than what is without. My sight and my other
senses are in confusion. I would have said--this body, when a few
bubbles of air shall have left it, is no more worthy of thy notice than of
mine; but thy glory will not let thee refuse it to the piety of my family.
_Hannibal._ You would ask something else. I perceive an inquietude
not visible till now.
_Marcellus._ Duty and Death make us think of home sometimes.
_Hannibal._ Thitherward the thoughts of the conqueror and of the
conquered fly together.
_Marcellus._ Hast thou any prisoners from my escort?
_Hannibal._ A few dying lie about--and let them lie--they are Tuscans.
The remainder I saw at a distance, flying, and but one brave man
among them--he appeared a Roman--a youth who turned back, though
wounded. They surrounded and dragged him away, spurring his horse

with their swords. These Etrurians measure their courage carefully, and
tack it well together before they put it on, but throw it off again with
lordly ease.
Marcellus, why think about them? or does aught else disquiet your
thoughts?
_Marcellus._ I have suppressed it long enough. My son--my beloved
son!
_Hannibal._ Where is he? Can it be? Was he with you?
_Marcellus._ He would have shared my fate--and has not. Gods of my
country! beneficent throughout life to me, in death surpassingly
beneficent: I render you, for the last time, thanks.
QUEEN ELIZABETH AND CECIL
_Elizabeth._ I advise thee again, churlish Cecil, how that our Edmund
Spenser, whom thou callest most uncourteously a whining whelp, hath
good and solid reason for his complaint. God's blood! shall the lady
that tieth my garter and shuffles the smock over my head, or the lord
that steadieth my chair's back while I eat, or the other that looketh to
my buck-hounds lest they be mangy, be holden by me in higher esteem
and estate than he who hath placed me among the bravest of past times,
and will as safely and surely set me down among the loveliest in the
future?
_Cecil._ Your Highness must remember he carouseth fully for such
deserts: fifty pounds a year of unclipped moneys, and a butt of canary
wine; not to mention three thousand acres in Ireland, worth fairly
another fifty and another butt, in seasonable and quiet years.
_Elizabeth._ The moneys are not enough to sustain a pair of grooms
and a pair of palfreys, and more wine hath been drunken in my
presence at a feast. The moneys are given to such men, that they may
not incline nor be obligated to any vile or lowly occupation; and the
canary, that they may entertain such promising wits as court their

company and converse; and that in such manner there may be alway in
our land a succession of these heirs unto fame. He hath written, not
indeed with his wonted fancifulness, nor in learned and majestical
language, but in homely and rustic wise, some verses which have
moved me, and haply the more inasmuch as they demonstrate to me
that his genius hath been dampened by his adversities. Read them.
_Cecil._
How much is lost when neither heart nor eye
Rosewinged Desire or
fabling Hope deceives;
When boyhood with quick throb hath ceased
to spy
The dubious apple in the yellow leaves;
When, rising from the turf where youth reposed,
We find but deserts
in the far-sought shore;
When the huge book of Faery-land lies closed,

And those strong brazen clasps will yield no more.
_Elizabeth._ The said Edmund hath also furnished unto the weaver at
Arras, John Blanquieres, on my account, a description for some of his
cunningest wenches to work at, supplied by mine own self, indeed, as
far as the subject-matter goes, but set forth by him with figures and
fancies, and daintily enough bedecked. I could have wished he had
thereunto joined a fair comparison between Dian--no matter--he might
perhaps have fared the better for it; but poets' wits--God help
them!--when did they ever sit close about them? Read the poesy, not
over-rich, and concluding very awkwardly and meanly.
_Cecil._
Where forms the lotus, with its level leaves
And solid blossoms,
many floating isles,
What heavenly radiance swift descending cleaves

The darksome wave! Unwonted beauty smiles
On its pure bosom, on each bright-eyed flower,
On every nymph, and
twenty sate around,
Lo! 'twas