Prior. Mine eyes are dim with age-but many thoughts Do stir within me at thy voice. Str. List to me, monk; it is thy trade to talk, As reverend men do use in saintly wise, Of life's vicissitudes and vanities. Hear one plain tale that doth surpass all saws- tram! The darling of his liege and of his land, The army's idol, and the council's head Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was law— Doth bow him to the Prior of St. Anselm For water to refresh his parched lip, And this hard-matted couch to fling his limbs on. Bertram. Wilt thou betray me? Prior. Lives there the wretch beneath these walls to do it? Sorrow enough hath bowed thy head already, Thou man of many woes. Far more I fear lest thou betray thyself. Hard by do stand the halls of Aldobrand, (Thy mortal enemy and cause of fall,) Where ancient custom doth invite each stranger, Some desperate burst of passion will betray thee, (A pause.) Why dost thou gaze on with such fixed eyes? I dreamed I stood before Lord Aldobrand Impenetrable to his searching eyes— And I did feel the horrid joy men feel Measuring the serpent's coil, whose fangs have stung them; Scanning with giddy eye the air-hung rock, From which they leapt and live by miracle ;- To mark the living lineaments of hatred, And say, this is the man whose sight should blast me; Yet in calm dreadful triumph still gaze on :— It is a horrid joy. (Crosses to L.) Prior. Nay, rave not thus, Thou wilt not meet him; many a day must pass Few are the followers in his lonely halls Why dost thou smile in that most horrid guise? Oh! no, no, no! it was a damned thought. (Crosses to R.) With but one plank between us and destruction, Ha ha!-I see him struggling!— I see him!-ha! ha! ha! (A frantic laugh.) Help!-Help to hold him, for my strength doth fail. Enter MONK, L. Monk. The lady of St. Aldobrand sends greetingPrior. Oh, art thou come; this is no time for greeting Help-bear him off-thou see'st his fearful state. [Exeunt, bearing off BERTRAM, R. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, Q.C., M.R.I.A. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged-'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased-tho' on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe: It rises, roars, rends all outright-Oh, Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent earth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe. As, quivering thro' his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow, "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out!" bang, bang the sledges go: Hurrah!" the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low— A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow, The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!" Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor-a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road— The low reef roaring on her lee-the roll of ocean pour'd From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners-the bower yet re mains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as tho' he said, "Fear nothing— here am I!" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But, while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go-far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea! O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sword-fish of bony blade forlorn; And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles; 'Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undiné's love, |