Locrine - A Tragedy [19]
GUENDOLEN.
Locrine,
Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow.
LOCRINE.
But hardly would they hail the sun whose face
Dissolves them deathward. Was thy meaning so?
GUENDOLEN.
Make answer for me, Madan.
LOCRINE.
In thy place?
The boy's is not beside thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Speak, I say.
MADAN.
God guard my lord and father with his grace!
LOCRINE.
Well prayed, my child.
GUENDOLEN.
Children--who can but pray -
Pray better, if my sense not err, than we.
The God whom all the gods of heaven obey
Should hear them rather, seeing--as gods may see -
How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer.
LOCRINE.
I think not else--the better then for me.
But ours--what manner of child is this? the hair
Buds flowerwise round his darkening lips and chin,
This hand's young hardening palm knows how to bear
The sword-hilt's poise that late I laid therein -
Ha? doth not it?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine enemies know that well.
MADAN.
I make no boast of battles that have been;
But, so God help me, days unborn shall tell
What manner of heart my father gave me.
LOCRINE.
Good.
I doubt thee not.
GUENDOLEN.
In Cornwall they that fell
So found it, that of all their large-limbed brood
No bulk is left to brave thee.
LOCRINE.
Yea, I know
Our son hath given the wolf our foes for food
And won him worthy praise from friend or foe;
And heartier praise and trustier thanks from none,
Boy, than thy father pays thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Wouldst thou show
Thy love, thy thanks, thy fatherhood in one,
Thy perfect honour--yea, thy right to stand
Crowned, and lift up thine eyes against the sun
As one so pure in heart, so clean of hand,
So loyal and so royal, none might cast
A word against thee burning like a brand,
A sound that withers honour, and makes fast
The bondage of a recreant soul to shame -
Thou shouldst, or ever an hour be overpast,
Slay him.
LOCRINE.
Thou art mad.
GUENDOLEN.
What, is not then thy name
Locrine? and hath this boy done ill to thee?
Hath he not won him for thy love's sake fame?
Hath he not served thee loyally? is he
So much thy son, so little son of mine,
That men might call him traitor? May they see
The brand across his brow that reddens thine?
How shouldst thou dare--how dream--to let him live?
Is he not loyal? art not thou Locrine?
What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou give
My son who hath done thee service? Me thou hast given -
Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive -
Shame for my guerdon: yea, my heart is riven
With shame that once I loved thee.
LOCRINE.
Guendolen,
A woman's wrath should rest not unforgiven
Save of the slightest of the sons of men:
And no such slight and shameful thing am I
As would not yield thee pardon.
GUENDOLEN.
Slay me then.
LOCRINE.
Thee, or thy son? but now thou bad'st him die.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou liest: I bade thee slay him.
LOCRINE.
Art thou mad
Indeed?
GUENDOLEN.
O liar, is all the world a lie?
I bade thee, knowing thee what thou art--I bade
My lord and king and traitor slay my son -
A heartless hand that lacks the power it had
Smite one whose stroke shall leave it strengthless--one
Whose loyal loathing of his shame in thee
Shall cast it out of eyeshot of the sun.
LOCRINE.
Thou bad'st me slay him that he might--he, slay me?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou hast said--and yet thou hast lied not.
LOCRINE.
Hell's own hate
Brought never forth such fruit as thine.
GUENDOLEN.
But he
Is the issue of thy love and mine, by fate
Made one to no good issue. Didst thou trust
That grief should give to men disconsolate
Comfort, and treason bring forth truth, and dust
Blossom? What love, what reverence, what regard,
Shouldst thou desire, if God or man be just,
Of this thy son, or me more evil-starred,
Whom scorn salutes his mother?
LOCRINE.
How should scorn
Draw near thee, girt about with power for guard,
Power and good fame? unless reproach be born
Of these thy violent vanities of mood
That fight against thine honour.