Locrine - A Tragedy | Page 9

and sour. I think thou wouldst not.
DEBON.
Wales In such a lord lives happy: young and bold And yet not mindless of thy sire King Brute, Who loved his loyal servants even as they Loved him. Yea, surely, bitter were the fruit, Prince Camber, and the tree rotten at root That bare it, whence my tongue should take today For thee the taste of poisonous treason.
CAMBER.
Nay, What boots it though thou plight thy word to boot? True servant wast thou to my sire King Brute, And Brute thy king true master to thee.
DEBON.
Yea. Troy, ere her towers dropped hurtling down in flame, Bare not a son more noble than the sire Whose son begat thy father. Shame it were Beyond all record in the world of shame, If they that hither bore in heart that fire Which none save men of heavenly heart may bear Had left no sign, though Troy were spoiled and sacked, That heavenly was the seed they saved.
CAMBER.
No sign? Though nought my fame be,--though no praise of mine Be worth men's tongues for word or thought or act - Shall fame forget my brother Albanact, Or how those Huns who drank his blood for wine Poured forth their own for offering to Locrine? Though all the soundless maze of time were tracked, No men should man find nobler.
DEBON.
Surely none. No man loved ever more than I thy brothers, Prince.
CAMBER.
Ay--for them thy love is bright like spring, And colder toward me than the wintering sun. What am I less--what less am I than others, That thus thy tongue discrowns my name of king, Dethrones my title, disanoints my state, And pricks me down but petty prince?
DEBON.
My lord -
CAMBER.
Ay? must my name among their names stand scored Who keep my brother's door or guard his gate? A lordling--princeling--one that stands to wait - That lights him back to bed or serves at board. Old man, if yet thy foundering brain record Aught--if thou know that once my sire was great, Then must thou know he left no less to me, His youngest, than to those my brethren born, Kingship.
DEBON.
I know it. Your servant, sire, am I, Who lived so long your sire's.
CAMBER.
And how had he Endured thy silence or sustained thy scorn? Why must I know not what thou knowest of?
DEBON.
Why? Hast thou not heard, king, that a true man's trust Is king for him of life and death? Locrine Hath sealed with trust my lips--nay, prince, not mine - His are they now.
CAMBER.
Thou art wise as he, and just, And secret. God requite thee! yea, he must, For man shall never. If my sword here shine Sunward--God guard that reverend head of thine!
DEBON.
My blood should make thy sword the sooner rust, And rot thy fame for ever. Strike.
CAMBER.
Thou knowest I will not. Am I Scythian born, or Greek, That I should take thy bloodshed on my hand?
DEBON.
Nay--if thou seest me soul to soul, and showest Mercy -
CAMBER.
Thou think'st I would have slain thee? Speak.
DEBON.
Nay, then I will, for love of all this land: Lest, if suspicion bring forth strife, and fear Hatred, its face be withered with a curse; Lest the eyeless doubt of unseen ill be worse Than very truth of evil. Thou shalt hear Such truth as falling in a base man's ear Should bring forth evil indeed in hearts perverse; But forth of thine shall truth, once known, disperse Doubt: and dispersed, the cloud shall leave thee clear In judgment--nor, being young, more merciless, I think, than I toward hearts that erred and yearned, Struck through with love and blind with fire of life Enkindled. When the sharp and stormy stress Of Scythian ravin round our borders burned Eastward, and he that faced it first in strife, King Albanact, thy brother, fought and fell, Locrine our lord, and lordliest born of you, - Thy chief, my prince, and mine--against them drew With all the force our southern strengths might tell, And by the strong mid water's seaward swell That sunders half our Britain met and slew The prince whose blood baptized its fame anew And left no record of the name to dwell Whereby men called it ere it wore his name, Humber; and wide on wing the carnage went Along the drenched red fields that felt the tramp At once of fliers and slayers with feet like flame: But the king halted, seeing a royal tent Reared, with its ensign crowning all the camp, And entered--where no Scythian spoil he found, But one fair face, the Scythian's sometime prey, A lady's whom their ships had borne away By force of warlike hand from German ground, A bride and queen by violent power fast bound To the errant helmsman of their fierce array. And her, left lordless by that ended fray, Our lord beholding loved,