The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Volume I Part 55

[They step aside.]

[Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind.]

IDONEA Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled.

HERBERT Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine.

IDONEA That dismal Moor-- In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily _You_ paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!-- I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us: and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the gra.s.s, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods-- A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,-- That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength;--come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There--indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank.

[He sits down.]

HERBERT (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.

IDONEA Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, Those eyeb.a.l.l.s dark--dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give.

HERBERT Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate--my grave, And thee, my Child!

IDONEA Believe me, honoured Sire!

'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature--

HERBERT I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.

My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning.--The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone?

IDONEA Is he not strong?

Is he not valiant?

HERBERT Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings pa.s.sed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed-- This Marmaduke--

IDONEA O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.

HERBERT Unhappy Woman!

IDONEA Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forget-- Dear Father! how _could_ I forget and live-- You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.

HERBERT Thy Mother too!--scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face--a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.

IDONEA Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.

HERBERT Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time-- For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to Rossland,--there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home--and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.--For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion.

I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both.

IDONEA Oh, could you hear his voice!

I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.

[Enter a Peasant]

PEASANT Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you!

IDONEA My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome.

PEASANT Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel--shall I support you?

HERBERT I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you.

PEASANT G.o.d speed you both.

[Exit Peasant.]

HERBERT Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed-- 'Tis but for a few days--a thought has struck me.

IDONEA That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.

[Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA.]

[Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD]

MARMADUKE This instant will we stop him--