Locrine - A Tragedy | Page 4

And bid the lips of silence breathe and speak. Nor power nor will has love to find or seek Words indiscoverable, ampler strains of song Than ever hailed him fair or shewed him strong: And less than these should do him worse than wrong.
IV.
We who remember not a day wherein We have not loved each other,--who can see No time, since time bade first our days begin, Within the sweep of memory's wings, when we Have known not what each other's love must be, - We are well content to know it, and rest on this, And call not words to witness that it is. To love aloud is oft to love amiss.
V.
But if the gracious witness borne of words Take not from speechless love the secret grace That binds it round with silence, and engirds Its heart with memories fair as heaven's own face, Let love take courage for a little space To speak and be rebuked not of the soul, Whose utterance, ere the unwitting speech be whole, Rebukes itself, and craves again control.
VI.
A ninefold garland wrought of song-flowers nine Wound each with each in chance-inwoven accord Here at your feet I lay as on a shrine Whereof the holiest love that lives is lord. With faint strange hues their leaves are freaked and scored: The fable-flowering land wherein they grew Hath dreams for stars, and grey romance for dew: Perchance no flower thence plucked may flower anew.
VII.
No part have these wan legends in the sun Whose glory lightens Greece and gleams on Rome. Their elders live: but these--their day is done, Their records written of the wind in foam Fly down the wind, and darkness takes them home. What Homer saw, what Virgil dreamed, was truth, And dies not, being divine: but whence, in sooth, Might shades that never lived win deathless youth?
VIII.
The fields of fable, by the feet of faith Untrodden, bloom not where such deep mist drives. Dead fancy's ghost, not living fancy's wraith, Is now the storied sorrow that survives Faith in the record of these lifeless lives. Yet Milton's sacred feet have lingered there, His lips have made august the fabulous air, His hands have touched and left the wild weeds fair.
IX.
So, in some void and thought-untrammelled hour, Let these find grace, my sister, in your sight, Whose glance but cast on casual things hath power To do the sun's work, bidding all be bright With comfort given of love: for love is light. Were all the world of song made mine to give, The best were yours of all its flowers that live: Though least of all be this my gift, forgive.
July 1887.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

LOCRINE, King of Britain. CAMBER, King of Wales, brother to LOCRINE. MADAN, son to LOCRINE and GUENDOLEN. DEBON, Lord Chamberlain.
GUENDOLEN, Queen of Britain, cousin and wife to LOCRINE. ESTRILD, a German princess, widow of the Scythian king HUMBER. SABRINA, daughter to LOCRINE and ESTRILD.
Scene, BRITAIN.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--Troynovant. A Room in the Palace.

Enter GUENDOLEN and MADAN.
GUENDOLEN.
Child, hast thou looked upon thy grandsire dead?
MADAN.
Ay.
GUENDOLEN.
Then thou sawest our Britain's heart and head Death-stricken. Seemed not there my sire to thee More great than thine, or all men living? We Stand shadows of the fathers we survive: Earth bears no more nor sees such births alive.
MADAN.
Why, he was great of thews--and wise, thou say'st: Yet seems my sire to me the fairer-faced - The kinglier and the kindlier.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea, his eyes Are liker seas that feel the summering skies In concord of sweet colour--and his brow Shines gentler than my father's ever: thou, So seeing, dost well to hold thy sire so dear.
MADAN.
I said not that his love sat yet so near My heart as thine doth: rather am I thine, Thou knowest, than his.
GUENDOLEN.
Nay--rather seems Locrine Thy sire than I thy mother.
MADAN.
Wherefore?
GUENDOLEN.
Boy, Because of all our sires who fought for Troy Most like thy father and my lord Locrine, I think, was Paris.
MADAN.
How may man divine Thy meaning? Blunt am I, thou knowest, of wit; And scarce yet man--men tell me.
GUENDOLEN.
Ask not it. I meant not thou shouldst understand--I spake As one that sighs, to ease her heart of ache, And would not clothe in words her cause for sighs - Her naked cause of sorrow.
MADAN.
Wert thou wise, Mother, thy tongue had chosen of two things one - Silence, or speech.
GUENDOLEN.
Speech had I chosen, my son, I had wronged thee--yea, perchance I have wronged thine ears Too far, to say so much.
MADAN.
Nay, these are tears That gather toward thine eyelids now. Thou hast broken Silence--if now thy speech die down unspoken, Thou dost me wrong indeed--but more than mine The wrong thou dost thyself is.
GUENDOLEN.
And Locrine - Were not thy sire wronged likewise of me?
MADAN.
Yea.
GUENDOLEN.
Yet--I may choose yet--nothing will I say More.
MADAN.
Choose, and have thy choice; it galls not me.
GUENDOLEN.
Son, son! thy speech