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Read Ebook: Lords and Lovers and Other Dramas by Dargan Olive Tilford
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Ebook has 138 lines and 121790 words, and 3 pages
Now let the world go on, I'll rest me here. Why should I keep my hand proud on the helm, War with the unsated surge, nor know the pause That is the spirit's silent growing time? Ah, Margaret, how little will content thee? No more nor less than love and poorest me?
Kent. My gentle love! ... 'Twere best she died, who now must drink the cup That makes death sweet in coming. I myself Almost could guide the knife unto her heart And cut off ruder visitors.
Glaia, now I'll look, Nor all thy grace shall hide the lines that mark Thy cruel mother. Can this be the face That breeds such misery? Fair heaven-case Of innocence!... My Hubert's niece, so mine. How lily-cold in sleep! And still ... so still. A kiss will not awake thee--one as light As my own heart. So cold? O, cold as death!
Blood! Blood! A dagger here! O Heaven, That this smooth coverlet should hide so much!
And Hubert thought she slept. "Rest well," he said, "Nor ever wake till angels call thee up." Nor wilt thou wake till then, poor Glaia. O, How can I call him here to look on this! Strange that the slayer left his dagger here. He in whose heart the thought of murder lives Has more of cunning in him. Hubert's! O!
I must act quickly. O, at once--at once! One pause may be the grave of resolution. "She does not move," he said ... and "ay, she sleeps," As though she slept eternally. His dagger. Oft has it pleased me to regard this hilt. Pearls winding like a milky way about A turquoise heaven. Even then my fate Lurked in the blade. Why do I talk, and beg A vile delay? Pain is sole merchant here, And with each moment amplifies his profit. ... I will not pray, for prayer is softening, And I must be too stern to pity self. I was a princess. I'll not think of that, For now I am a wife. And for my lord Must die. They'll find me here, and say the deed Was mine. My jealous hand avenged my wrong. ... O gentle Heaven, he is not worthy this! Nay, nor no man, and yet for every man There lives a woman who would die for him. I can not strike. I must ... ere I go mad And leave the event to chance.
Who comes?
'Tis mine. I'll wear my own. Now is the earl of Kent A murderer. How feels it with you, sir?
I laid a rose upon my heart, Ay me! Soon 'gan its beauty to depart, Ay, ay me! I nursed it with desire, Still did its beauty go. For O, my heart was fire, Cruel fire! Ay me, I did not know, I did not know.
Art thou a shadow come to say All men are shadows and naught living is?
Ah, kiss me, kiss me, Heaven's Margaret. Could I my life concentrate in one beat I'd dwarf it so and give it in this kiss.
ACT IV
Stay, Pembroke. You Have been too close his brother. 'Tis a pity To sever you in death, but for the sake Of your great father dead we're lenient And banish you the kingdom.
Now Kent may ask and have. What gift shall speak My great affection? What thy dearest wish?
THE SHEPHERD
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS
NOTE.--The song episode in Act II is adapted from "The Green Book," by Maurus Jokai.
ACT I
O, you have come! This way to the garden.
What have our neighbors at Petoff gained by striking back? Put out your hands and feel the ashes of their homes. And they have lost not only their homes, their children, and themselves, but an eternal triumph, a triumph for the spirit of peace in the world.
Orf. You see, my friend, your word won't pass in the army. And you can't blame Travinski for wanting to take things in time here after all his bother about Petoff. Peter Vetrova!
Orl. Till then--silence. Forward!
Years ago I gave myself to mankind. A poor gift, but the surrender was hard, for I loved myself and believed in giants, if not gods, who shoulder above the race. But the surrender was complete. And now shall I take another self in you? One that I could never give up?
Anna?
ACT II
Hark, brothers, hark! What do you here, Knocking in the cold? Red are your hands, Frozen are your feet, What do you here, Knocking in the cold?
A prison we build, Here the Czar knelt, Blessing the stones; But when it is finished The gates will unfold And swallow the builders. They who labor not, The rich and the idle, Will imprison the workers Who make the babe's bread. Despair drives our hammer, The hearts of the toilers Lie under the blow; We will throw down the hammer, We will labor no more.
No, brothers, no! Build ye the prison, Be willing of heart; And when it is finished, Your heavy oppressors Through the dark gates In terror shall pass. Weeping to dungeon The rich and the idle Then shall descend, While above ye shall sing, Swinging your hammers In the broad light. Knock, brothers, knock!
Come out, come out with me To meet the summer maid! A queen, a queen is she, Whose love is as the sea That would all lands caress, Whose loves are many as the sands, And each a sovereign is, For whom her arms enring Is royal by her kiss, Forevermore a king, a king, a king!
Come, dance, dance, dance, and welcome the summer maid! Who has looked into her eyes is nevermore afraid! We will gather our hearts together, we will mingle our feet on the grass, We will hold her with kisses, nor ever, nor ever let her pass!
Ye mothers, come, forsake Dead fire and frozen hearth; The bones ye call your babes, awake, For in her lap she bears Sweet grain and golden ears That warming in their veins shall make The ruddy might of men; Your daughters that now lie Blanched, broken, still, shall then Lift up rose faces and forget to die.
Old Winter in his snows Is covered, covered deep, For all above him lie his slain, And not until his breath Has warmed them out of death May he arise from his cold sleep. Good-by, good-by, good-by, Old Winter dead and white, No more meet you and I, A last and long, a long and last good-night!
O, Vera! Vera! Vera!
We are deep, we are deep Beneath your swift feet That pass and yet pass With unfaltering beat; But life has no sound That can deaden our moans, And no measure of ground Can bury our bones, Can bury our bones.
We have given ye all But our lingering breath,-- The light from our eyes, The prayer at our death. The wine of the days, Drink it up, drink it up! But our hearts, as the grape, We pressed for the cup, We pressed for the cup.
Through the measureless sun Your seasons shall sway. Pluck the fruit as your own, Ye have nothing to pay; For your summers of bloom Are the summers we've lost, And we in our tomb, We pay the red cost, We pay the red cost.
Your youths shall be wed And the maids shall be fair, But the tears we have shed Are the pearls they shall wear; Your bride ye shall seek As never we could, But the rose on her cheek, It is dyed with our blood, It is dyed with our blood.
The lips of your child Shall be warm on your own, But 'tis cold, it is cold, Where our babes lie alone. The hand of your friend In yours ye shall take, But look ye!--the scar Ours wear for his sake, Ours wear for his sake.
The feast shall be spread And the world shall be there, But set at the head Our invisible chair. Ay, the banquet is ours, For our dishes make room! Each baked by the fires Of a smouldering home, Of a smouldering home.
We are deep, we are deep Beneath your swift feet That pass and yet pass With unfaltering beat; But life has no sound That can deaden our moans, And no measure of ground Can bury our bones, Can bury our bones.
THE SIEGE
A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY
ACT I
Well?
Bring cedar dark, And ruby-wood, Bring honeyed-bark, The Naiad's food, Till altar flame And incense rise In friendship's name To seek the skies.
Myrtle leave on Venus' tree, Nor the Bacchic ivy see; Olive bring, and laurel bough. And may hours that gather now Of his years fair token be!
ACT II
Heigh-ho, my star of love Has left its heaven high, And all the beauteous court above, To dwell in fair Methone's eye. And now, alas, unlucky bliss, It finds a home so bright That all its beauty buried is Within that fairer, cruel light.
He's coming! No, he stops To talk with Brentio. How close they whisper! What is 't he gives the slave? For shame, bold eyes, To spy upon a lord so true! What was 't Phillistus said? No matter. It was false.
I know you talk of Dion, and one who loves him Brings no intrusive ear,--or if it is, 'Tis deaf with weariness.
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