Browning's England Part 23

_STRAFFORD sitting with his +Children+. They sing._

_O bell 'andare Per barca in mare, Verso la sera Di Primavera!_

_William._ The boat's in the broad moonlight all this while--

_Verso la sera Di Primavera!_

And the boat shoots from underneath the moon Into the shadowy distance; only still You hear the dipping oar--

_Verso la sera_,

And faint, and fainter, and then all's quite gone, Music and light and all, like a lost star.

_Anne._ But you should sleep, father; you were to sleep.

_Strafford._ I do sleep, Anne; or if not--you must know There's such a thing as....

_William._ You're too tired to sleep?

_Strafford._ It will come by-and-by and all day long, In that old quiet house I told you of: We sleep safe there.

_Anne._ Why not in Ireland?

_Strafford._ No!

Too many dreams!--That song's for Venice, William: You know how Venice looks upon the map-- Isles that the mainland hardly can let go?

_William._ You've been to Venice, father?

_Strafford._ I was young, then.

_William._ A city with no King; that's why I like Even a song that comes from Venice.

_Strafford._ William!

_William._ Oh, I know why! Anne, do you love the King?

But I'll see Venice for myself one day.

_Strafford._ See many lands, boy--England last of all,-- That way you'll love her best.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Tower, London]

_William._ Why do men say You sought to ruin her then?

_Strafford._ Ah,--they say that.

_William._ Why?

_Strafford._ I suppose they must have words to say, As you to sing.

_Anne._ But they make songs beside: Last night I heard one, in the street beneath, That called you.... Oh, the names!

_William._ Don't mind her, father!

They soon left off when I cried out to them.

_Strafford._ We shall so soon be out of it, my boy!

'Tis not worth while: who heeds a foolish song?

_William._ Why, not the King.

_Strafford._ Well: it has been the fate Of better; and yet,--wherefore not feel sure That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend All the fantastic day's caprice, consign To the low ground once more the ign.o.ble Term, And raise the Genius on his...o...b..again,-- That Time will do me right?

_Anne._ (Shall we sing, William?

He does not look thus when we sing.)

_Strafford._ For Ireland, Something is done: too little, but enough To show what might have been.

_William._ (I have no heart To sing now! Anne, how very sad he looks!

Oh, I so hate the King for all he says!)

_Strafford._ Forsook them! What, the common songs will run That I forsook the People? Nothing more?

Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt, Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves Noisy to be enrolled,--will register The curious glosses, subtle notices, Ingenious clearings-up one fain would see Beside that plain inscription of The Name-- The Patriot Pym, or the Apostate Strafford!

[_The +Children+ resume their song timidly, but break off._

_Enter HOLLIS and an +Attendant+._

_Strafford._ No,--Hollis? in good time!--Who is he?

_Hollis._ One That must be present.

_Strafford._ Ah--I understand.

They will not let me see poor Laud alone.

How politic! They'd use me by degrees To solitude: and, just as you came in, I was solicitous what life to lead When Strafford's "not so much as Constable In the King's service." Is there any means To keep oneself awake? What would you do After this bustle, Hollis, in my place?

_Hollis._ Strafford!

_Strafford._ Observe, not but that Pym and you Will find me news enough--news I shall hear Under a quince-tree by a fish-pond side At Wentworth. Garrard must be re-engaged My newsman. Or, a better project now-- What if when all's consummated, and the Saints Reign, and the Senate's work goes swimmingly,-- What if I venture up, some day, unseen, To saunter through the Town, notice how Pym, Your Tribune, likes Whitehall, drop quietly Into a tavern, hear a point discussed, As, whether Strafford's name were John or James-- And be myself appealed to--I, who shall Myself have near forgotten!

_Hollis._ I would speak....

_Strafford._ Then you shall speak,--not now. I want just now, To hear the sound of my own tongue. This place Is full of ghosts.

_Hollis._ Nay, you must hear me, Strafford!

_Strafford._ Oh, readily! Only, one rare thing more,-- The minister! Who will advise the King, Turn his Seja.n.u.s, Richelieu and what not, And yet have health--children, for aught I know-- My patient pair of traitors! Ah,--but, William-- Does not his cheek grow thin?

_William._ 'Tis you look thin, Father!

_Strafford._ A scamper o'er the breezy wolds Sets all to-rights.