Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

Leads at her train the ancient golden world,
The world that Adam held in paradise,
Whose breath refineth all infectious airs,
And makes the meadows smile at her repair,-
She, she, my dearest Bethsabe,

Fair Peace, the goddess of our graces here,
Is fled the streets of fair Jerusalem,

The fields of Israel, and the heart of David,
Leading my comforts in her golden chains,
Link'd to the life and soul of Absalon.

Beth. Then is the pleasure of my sovereign's
heart

So wrapt within the bosom of that son,
That Salomon, whom Israel's God affects,
And gave the name unto him for his love,
Should be no salve to comfort David's soul?
Dav. Salomon, my love, is David's lord;'
Our God hath nam'd him lord of Israel:
In him (for that, and since he is thy son)
Must David needs be pleased at the heart;
And he shall surely sit upon my throne.
But Absalon, the beauty of my bones,
Fair Absalon, the counterfeit 2 of love,
Sweet Absalon, the image of content,
Must claim a portion in his father's care,
And be in life and death King David's son.
Nath. Yet, as my lord hath said, let Salomon
reign,

Whom God in naming hath anointed king.
Now is he apt to learn th' eternal laws,
Whose knowledge being rooted in his youth
Will beautify his age with glorious fruits;
While Absalon, incens'd with graceless pride,
Usurps and stains the kingdom with his sin:
Let Salomon be made thy staff of age,
Fair Israel's rest, and honour of thy race.
Dat. Tell me, my Salomon, wilt thou embrace
Thy father's precepts gravèd in thy heart,
And satisfy my zeal to thy renown
With practice of such sacred principles
As shall concern the state of Israel?

Sal. My royal father, if the heavenly zeal,
Which for my welfare feeds upon your soul,
Were not sustain'd with virtue of mine own;
If the sweet accents of your cheerful voice
Should not each hour beat upon mine ears
As sweetly as the breath of heaven to him
That gaspeth scorchèd with the summer's sun,
I should be guilty of unpardon'd sin,
Fearing the plague of heaven and shame of earth:
But since I vow myself to learn the skill
And holy secrets of his mighty hand
Whose cunning tunes the music of my soul,
It would content me, father, first to learn
How the Eternal fram'd the firmament;
Which bodies lend their influence by fire,
And which are fill'd with hoary winter's ice;
What sign is rainy, and what star is fair;
Why by the rules of true proportion
The year is still divided into months,
The months to days, the days to certain hours;
What fruitful race shall fill the future world;
Or for what time shall this round building stand;
What magistrates, what kings shall keep in awe
Men's minds with bridles of th' eternal law.

Dar. Wade not too far, my boy, in waves so
deep:

The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts
Behold things present, and record things past;
But things to come exceed our human reach,
And are not painted yet in angels' eyes:
For those, submit thy sense, and say, 'Thou
power,

1 Salomon, my love, is David's lord-corrupted.-DYCE. 2 counterfeit-portrait, likeness, image.

That now art framing of the future world, Know'st all to come, not by the course of heaven, By frail conjectures of inferior signs,

By monstrous floods, by flights and flocks of birds,
By bowels of a sacrificèd beast,

Or by the figures of some hidden art;
But by a true and natural presage,
Laying the ground and perfect architect1
Of all our actions now before thine eyes,
From Adam to the end of Adam's seed:
O Heaven, protect my weakness with thy strength!
So look on me that I may view thy face,
And see these secrets written in thy brows.
O sun, come dart thy rays upon my moon!
That now mine eyes, eclipsed to the earth,
May brightly be refin'd and shine to heaven;
Transform me from this flesh, that I may live,
Before my death, regenerate with thee.

O thou great God, ravish my earthly sprite! 2
That for the time a more than human skill
May feed the organons of all my sense;
That, when I think, thy thoughts may be my
guide,

And, when I speak, I may be made by choice
The perfect echo of thy heavenly voice.'
Thus say, my son, and thou shalt learn them all.
Sal. A secret fury ravisheth my soul,
Lifting my mind above her human bounds;
And, as the eagle, roused from her stand
With violent hunger, towering in the air,
Seizeth her feather'd prey, and thinks to feed,
But seeing then a cloud beneath her feet,
Lets fall the fowl, and is emboldened
With eyes intentive to bedare the sun,
And styeth close unto his stately sphere;
So Salomon, mounted on the burning wings
Of zeal divine, lets fall his mortal food
And cheers his senses with celestial air,
Treads in the golden starry labyrinth,
And holds his eyes fix'd on Jehovah's brows.
Good father, teach me further what to do.

Nath. See, David, how his haughty spirit
mounts,

Even now of height to wield a diadem:
Then make him promise that he may succeed,
And rest old Israel's bones from broils of war.
Dav. Nathan, thou prophet, sprung from Jesse's
root,

I promise thee and lovely Bethsabe,
My Salomon shall govern after me.

Beth. He that hath touch'd thee with this
righteous thought

Preserve the harbour of thy thoughts in peace!

[blocks in formation]

Dav. Tell me, Ahimaas, lives my Absalon ? Ahi. I saw a troop of soldiers gathered, But know not what the tumult might import.

Dav. Stand by, until some other may inform The heart of David with a happy truth.

Enter CUSAY.

Cu. Happiness and honour live with David's
soul,

Whom God hath bless'd with conquest of his foes.
Dav. But, Cusay, lives the young man Absalon?
Cu. The stubborn enemies to David's peace,
And all that cast their darts against his crown,
Fare ever like the young man Absalon!
For as he rid the woods of Ephraim,
Which fought for thee as much as all thy men,
His hair was tangled in a shady oak;
And hanging there, by Joab and his men,
Sustain'd the stroke of well-deservèd death.

Dav. Hath Absalon sustain'd the stroke of death?
Die, David, for the death of Absalon,
And make these cursèd news the bloody darts
That through his bowels rip thy wretched breast.
Hence, David, walk the solitary woods,
And in some cedar's shade the thunder slew,
And fire from heaven hath made his branches black,
Sit mourning the decease of Absalon :
Against the body of that blasted plant
In thousand shivers break thy ivory lute,
Hanging thy stringless harp upon his boughs;
And through the hollow sapless sounding trunk
Bellow the torments that perplex thy soul.
There let the winds sit sighing till they burst;
Let tempest, muffled with a cloud of pitch,
Threaten the forests with her hellish face.
And, mounted fiercely on her iron wings,
Rend up the wretched engine by the roots
That held my dearest Absalon to death.
Then let them toss my broken lute to heaven,
Even to his hands that beats me with the strings,
To show how sadly his poor shepherd sings.

[Goes to his pavilion and sits close a while. Beth. Die, Bethsabe, to see thy David mourn, To hear his tunes of anguish and of hell. Oh, help, my David, help thy Bethsabe, Whose heart is pierced with thy breathy swords,? And bursts with burden of ten thousand griefs! [Lies down.

Now sit thy sorrows sucking of my blood:
Oh that it might be poison to their powers,
And that their lips might draw my bosom dry,
So David's love might ease him, though she die!
Nath. These violent passions come not from
above;

David and Bethsabe offend the Highest,
To mourn in this immeasurable sort.

Dav. [looking forth.] O Absalon, Absalon! O
my son, my son!

Would God that I had died for Absalon!
But he is dead; ah! dead; Absalon is dead:
And David lives to die for Absalon.

[Sits close again. Enter JOAB, ABISAI, ITHAY, and their train.

Joab. Why lies the queen so prostrate on the
ground?

Why is this company so tragic-hu'd?
Why is the king now absent from his men,

[blocks in formation]

And marcheth not in triumph through the gates?
[Unfolds the pavilion.
David, awake! if sleep have shut thine eyes,
Sleep of affection, that thou canst not see
The honour offer'd to the victor's head:
Joab brings conquest piercèd on his spear,
And joy from all the tribes of Israel.

Dav. Thou man of blood, thou sepulchre of death,

Whose marble breast intombs my bowels quick,'
Did I not charge thee, nay, entreat thy hand,
Even for my sake, to spare my Absalon?
And hast thou now, in spite of David's health,
And scorn to do my heart some happiness,
Given him the sword and spilt his purple soul?
Joab. What, irks it David, that he victor
breathes,

That Juda and the fields of Israel

Should cleanse their faces from their children's blood?

What! art thou weary of thy royal rule?
Is Israel's throne a serpent in thine eyes,
And He that set thee there so far from thanks,
That thou must curse his servant for his sake?
Hast thou not said that, as the morning light,
The cloudless morning, so should be thine house,
And not as flowers by the brightest rain
Which grow up quickly and as quickly fade?
Hast thou not said, the wicked are as thorns,
That cannot be preservèd 2 with the hand,
And that the man shall touch them must be arm'd
With coats of iron and garments made of steel,
Or with the shaft of a defenced spear?
And art thou angry he is now cut off
That led the guiltless swarming to their deaths,
And was more wicked than an host of men?
Advance thee from thy melancholy den,
And deck thy body with thy blissful robes,
Or, by the Lord that sways the heaven I swear,
I'll lead thine armies to another king
Shall cheer them for their princely chivalry,
And not sit daunted, frowning in the dark,
When his fair looks, with oil and wine refresh'd,
Should dart into their bosoms gladsome beams,
And fill their stomachs with triumphant feasts;
That when elsewhere stern war shall sound his
trump,

And call another battle to the field,

Fame still may bring thy valiant soldiers home, And for their service happily confess

She wanted worthy trumps to sound their

prowess:

Take thou this course and live; refuse and die. Abis. Come, brother, let him sit there till he sink;

Some other shall advance the name of Joab. [Offers to go out with JOAB. Beth. [rising.] Oh, stay, my lords, stay! David mourns no more,

1 quick-alive.

2 preservèd-held, taken, grasped. The passage of Scripture to which our author here alludes is as follows: And he shall be as the light of the morning when the sun riseth, even a morning without clouds; as the tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining after rain.

'Although my house be not so with God; yet he hath made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things, and sure: for this is all my salvation, and all my desire, although he make it not to grow.

But the sons of Belial shall be all of them as thorns thrust away, because they cannot be taken with hands [The Vulgate quæ non tolluntur manibus']:

But the man that shall touch them must be fenced with iron and the staff of a spear,' &c.

3 swarming-swarm, crowd.

4 battle-army.

2 SAM. xxiii. 4 sqq.

But riseth to give honour to your acts.
Dav. [rising, and coming from his pavilion.] Then
happy art thou, David's fairest son,
That, freed from the yoke of earthly toils,
And séquester'd1 from sense of human sins,
Thy soul shall joy2 the sacred cabinet,
Of those divine ideas that present
Thy changed spirit with a heaven of bliss.
Then thou art gone; ah, thou art gone, my son!
To heaven, I hope, my Absalon is gone:
Thy soul there plac'd in honour of the saints,
Or angels clad with immortality,

1 sequester'd-separated, withdrawn. joy-enjoy.

Shall reap a sevenfold grace for all thy griefs;
Thy eyes, now no more eyes but shining stars,
Shall deck the flaming heavens with novel lamps;
There shalt thou taste the drink of seraphins,
And cheer thy feelings with archangels' food;
Thy day of rest, thy holy Sabbath-day,
Shall be eternal; and, the curtain drawn,
Thou shalt behold thy sovereign face to face,
With wonder, knit in triple unity-
Unity infinite and innumerable.-

Courage, brave captains! Joab's tale hath stirr'd,
And made the suit of Israel preferr'd.

Joab. Bravely resolv'd, and spoken like a king: Now may old Israel and his daughters sing.

[Exeunt omnes.

ROBERT GREENE.

[ROBERT GREENE, the contemporary and friend of Peele, and one of the most profligate and unfortunate of the Elizabethan dramatists, was born in Norwich, probably about 1560; Dyce, however, dating his birth ten years earlier. He was educated at Cambridge, where he took the degree of B.A. in 1578, and that of M.A. in 1583. He was also connected in some way with Oxford, -he himself vaunting that he was a Master of Arts of both Universities. The interval between 1578 and 1583 he spent in travelling through Spain, Italy, and other parts of the continent. The following extract from his work, The Repentance of Robert Greene (1592), will give the reader an idea of the life he led while there, and after he returned home ::

'For, being at the University of Cambridge, I lit amongst wags as lewd as myself, with whom I consumed the flower of my youth; who drew me to travel into Italy and Spain, in which places I saw and practised such villany as is abominable to declare. Thus, by their counsel, I sought to furnish myself with coin, which I procured by cunning sleights from my father and my friends; and my mother pampered me so long, and secretly helped me to the oil of angels, that I grew thereby prone to all mischief: so that, being then conversant with notable braggarts, boon companions, and ordinary spendthrifts, that practised sundry superficial studies, I became as a scion grafted into the same stock, whereby I did absolutely participate of their nature and qualities. At my return into England, I ruffled out in my silks in the habit of malcontent, and seemed so discontent, that no place would please me to abide in, nor no vocation cause me to stay myself in; but, after I had by degrees proceeded Master of Arts, I left the University and away to London, where, after I had continued some short time, and driven myself out of credit with sundry of my friends, I became an author of plays, and a penner of line-pamphlets, so that I soon grew famous in that quality, that who, for that trade, known so ordinary about London as Robin Greene? Young yet in years, though old in wickedness, I began to resolve that there was nothing bad that was profitable; whereupon I grew so rooted in all mischief, that I had as great a delight in wickedness as sundry have in godliness, and as much felicity I took in villany as others had in honesty.'

It is doubtful whether our author was the 'Robert Greene' mentioned as being one of the Queen's chaplains in 1576, although there is good reason for believing that he did enter the Church, and was presented to the vicarage of Lollesbury in Essex in 1584, resigning it, however, next year, probably because he found the clerical profession and a country life incompatible with his unholy tastes. That Greene was married is certain,-Dyce thinks in 1586,-and it is as certain, that although on his own authority his wife was a most amiable and loving woman, he ere long forsook her to indulge without restraint his passion for debauchery and every species of self-indulgence. After leaving his wife, he lived with a woman, the sister of an infamous character, well known then under the name of 'Cutting Ball,' and by her he had a son who died the year after his father. After leading one of the maddest lives on record, he died a miserable death on the 3d of September 1592, his last illness being caused by a surfeit of Rhenish wine and pickled herrings. On his deathbed he was deserted by all his former boon companions except his mistress, and was indebted to the wife of a poor shoemaker for the last bed on which he laid his miserable body-his dying injunction to his compassionate and admiring hostess being to crown his vain head after

death with a garland of bays. This request, it seems, the poor woman attended to. On his deathbed he wrote his Repentance, in which he expresses the greatest contrition for his misspent life, and beseeches all his old companions to take warning by his sad fate and repent ere it be too late. Appended to his Groat's Worth of Wit, which is to a great extent autobiographical, and which he finished on his deathbed, is a sad and tender letter to his wife, expressing great sorrow for his treatment of her, and imploring her forgiveness. He also left a note to her, beseeching her, 'by the love of our youth and my soul's rest,' to reimburse the shoemaker, whose wife had befriended him in his last and friendless days. Although Greene's character may have been made blacker than it really was by the enmity of Gabriel Harvey, the friend of Spenser, still there is no room for doubt that a sadder life and death could not possibly be imagined.

Greene wrote many prose stories, and pamphlets of various kinds, many of which are interesting, and all were highly popular and extensively read; but it is only with his dramatic works we are concerned here. Five dramas are still extant which were undoubtedly written by Greene: The History of Orlando Furioso, one of the Twelve Peers of France, not printed till 1594, but probably one of his earliest plays; The Honourable History of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, first published in 1594, but written much earlier; The Scottish History of James the Fourth, slain at Flodden (1598); The Comical History of Alphonsus, King of Arragon (1599); and, along with Lodge, A Looking-Glass for London and England (1594). Another play, superior to any of the above, is by some authorities attributed to Greene, but the testimony as to its authorship is very slender; it is entitled George-a-Green, the Pinner of Wakefield (1599). As a dramatist, Greene occupies about the same rank as Peele, and was one of the first to introduce blank verse on the stage. His versification is not so smooth as that of Peele; but as it is more broken, it is less tedious. His dramas possess no very striking merit, although there is an occasional vigour of language, richness of fancy, originality of thought, and a distinctness and consistency in the portrayal of character. They are, however, much disfigured by bombast, affectation, and pedantry, his lowest boors and most ignorant dairy-maids being made to interlard their talk with classical allusions that would be pedantic even in an Oxford Don. The drama we have selected as a specimen is by many considered his best, and in it he has followed the wellknown prose tract, entitled The Famous History of Friar Bacon. The character of Margaret, the fair maid of Fressingfield, is, however, original; the humour of Miles is often genuine and pleasing.]

« ZurückWeiter »