TO DANIEL MANIN
If that most noble soul, which, here on earth,
Was known as Manin, yet have consciousness
Of what is, and what is not, being not less
Than here he was, in courage and in worth,
Seeing the world whereon we sweat and strive;
Shall he not know his Italy, and bless,
And in his own heart praise the steadfastness
That held him to his purpose when alive?
Shall he not have reward for all his pain,
Who, dying with his incompleted aim,
Saw failure only, and the bitter toll
Of loved ones lost, and lost, it seemed, in vain?
Must not that heart still keep his country's name,
Though o'er him all death's waters heave and roll?
TO THE LEADERS OF BOTH PARTIES
January 1910
"A people's voice, we are a people yet."
—TENNYSON'S Ode on Death of the Duke of Wellington.
Think on your birthright, England! On that voice
Which sounded first the ringing clarion note
Of freedom, and the ears of mankind smote
With that brave speech, whose hearing does rejoice
The angels (in his starry sphere remote
Each sitting). Think upon your past, my land;
The heart to wish, the will to dare, the hand
To do the right, though round the senses float
The Protean shapes of evil. We have struck
To free the slave, against a world in doubt;
Have raised the grovelling from their muddy ruck
And made them men; our foes once put to rout
We give them justice; we have scorned to truck
In gold for blood, and fatten on such spoil—
To others be the gain, to us the toil.
Oh, once more, England, let that voice ring out!
Alas! thou now dost hide thy Titan self
In a drab's clothing, lies; whilst, false and shrill,
Thy people squabble for the dirty pelf
Of office, at the hustings; while they fill
Our streets with lies, that, from the naked walls,
Mouth blatantly upon us, open shame;
While throughout Europe goes thy honoured name,
Grimacing in a mask of Party brawls.
Bethink you, Leaders! How will history place
Your name beside her others, if you fight
With such-like weapons? Oh, be bold to face
The conflict, tell the truth, as in your sight
It does appear, with nothing false or base,
—The nation's heart will know to choose aright—
Be brave! Be true these days! Will you forget
You are our Leaders, we, a people yet?
CONSOLATION
"Is there a pain to match my pain
In all this world of woe;
When to and fro on a barren earth
My weary footsteps go?
When no day's sun shall give me mirth
And no stars blessed be;
Because my heart goes hungry and lone
For one who turns from me?"
Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith
From out the ages dim:
"As melt the snows your passion goes,
And as dew it vanisheth.
Take up, take up your burden of woe,
Unblenching on your journey go,
For man was born to reap and sow
That earth might fruitful be."
"Is there a pain to match my pain,
Who watch the small dead face,
With the folded lips, and the folded lids
And the cheek the dimples grace;
Where they will come no more, no more?—
Oh, small soft hands that hold
So quietly, in rosy palms,
My heart that's dead and cold."
Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith:
"Though still the little feet,
Though the hands are chill, and the sweet form chill,
And gone the childish breath;
Take up, take up your burden of woe,
For you were born to sorrow so,
To bear in anguish, and lose in pain,
That earth might be fulfilled."
"Is there a pain to match my pain
Who loved all men on earth,
Who saw the Godhead, through the shell
That burdened them at birth;
Who strove for right, who strove for good,
Since love must win at last?
—This hour they lead me out to die,
With cords they make me fast."
Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith:
"They lead you out to die;
For the love you gave they will dig your grave,
And their thanks to you is death.
Take up, take up your burden of woe,
And proudly to your scaffold go,
For men were born to suffer so,
That mankind might be great."
TAPESTRY
God the omnipotent wearied of space,
And the void of endless blue,
And the light of eternity in His face,
And eternity's emptiness round the place
That the presence of Godhead knew.
So He wove Him a piece of tapestry
O'er all infinity drawn,
And out of His brain and its subtlety
Were the suns that stand, and the comets that flee,
And the paths of the planets born.
No plan too great, no design too small,
For the fingers of God the Lord,
The joy of invention lived through all,
From the orbit curve of the earthly ball
To the shell where sound is stored.
And all continued as they were made,
Clean cast from Perfection's brain,
Not a beam of light from its circle strayed,
But the whole the heavenly laws obeyed,
—God looked, and wearied again.
So He wove Him a piece of tapestry
With fingers thrice refined,
And He mingled the threads with subtlety,
The threads of our human destiny,
And the light with the dark He twined.
For shadow and shine were mingled there,
And white was matched with red,
And the thread of the silver gleamed more fair
For the gloom that, surrounding, made it rare;
And God in His wisdom said:
"Of my handiwork but the human soul
Can suffer the laws of change,
That only errs from my set control,
And takes in pleasure, and pays in toll,
The whole of its passion's range.
"But who shall judge or who condemn
This work that my hands have made,
For the thread that here appears a gem,
—So have I mingled and twisted them—
Is there the gleam of a blade?
"Nor evil nor good exists for me,
As I mingle strand with strand;
The past is the visible tapestry,
The present I weave, and the destiny
Of the future is in my hand.
"And the past and the future both are met
In the present's history;
For the thread I hold is unbroken yet,
And the thing I weave is unguessed at yet,
In this human tapestry."
WISDOM AND YOUTH
In the depths of the forest Merlin dreamed;
The shuttle of noon wove light and shade
Over the moss and around the trees,
And a network among the branches made.
He sat with his back against a tree,
Grey as himself, and gnarled, and old;
The lichen was grey as the ragged beard
Over his friezen mantle's fold.
Still he sat, like an ancient stone
That time has forgotten to wear away—
While streamed the forest's green and gold,
Like banners on a windy day.
And Merlin watched, as watches a tree,
A sombre oak of antiquity,
The myriad life that seethes and hums,
Around its immobility.
Around himself, himself had made
A monstrous and a mystic spell,
Weblike, wherein he sat and dreamed;
—So in its mesh may spider dwell!
His silence heard the things that grow
In underwood of tangled green;
His vision penetrated deep,
Beneath the common surface screen;
The roots of things were plain to him,
He saw the crowded under-earth,
Where every life fought ceaselessly,
To bring a future life to birth;
For him the stirring of the leaves
Beneath a listless passing breeze,
Spoke with a manifolded tongue
From all the thickly growing trees;
For him the beetles and the mice
Made magic of desires and fears,
The bumble bee's slow rhythmic hum
Seemed like the passing of the years.
And where a curving bramble-branch
Lay half in shade and half in light,
The universe's giant curves
Were all discovered to his sight;
All things were all things' complement,
For what the oak left unexpressed
In line and hue, the silver birch
Continued, in completion's quest.
There was no moss, nor stone, nor leaf,
Nor lingering small drop of dew,
But he resolved to harmony,
And in the mystic mind-web drew.
So sat he, abstract as a god,
The greatest wisdom of the world,
While on his head the sunshine played,
And round his robe the shadows curled.
Till, through the forest's green and gold,
And through the magic afternoon,
—Strange, as moonlit waters are,
Sweet, as cowslip-fields in June:—
Oh, summer-footed Vivien came!
And through the web of dreaming broke;
And on her silver clarion note
Of laughter, the great Sage awoke.
She sat her down beneath the tree,
—Oh! fair her youth his age beside!—
She plucked the boughs to make her shade.
She pulled the flowers far and wide,
To deck her hair; and while the glades
Re-echoed to her laughter gay,
She leaned to Merlin, kissing him,
And stroked his beard, unkempt and grey.
And he forgot the voice of trees,
And of the silent undergrowth,
To hear her merry lilting song,
And watch, reposed in summer sloth,
Vivien dance upon the sward,
As children dance, alone, at ease;
Till breathlessly she cast her down
And laid her head upon his knees.
And with his hand among her hair
The magic of his mind was rent,
And captive to her shadowed eyes,
Behold! the Master-Thinker went.
A VILLA ON THE BAY OF NAPLES
The crescent's single line of white
Above the pointed cypress tree,
Was all there was of any light
Upon the earth and on the sea;
(Black was the bay of Naples.)
"And ah," she said, "why have you come
Unbidden on my balcony,
This midnight hour, close and dumb;
What is it you would have of me,
Here by the bay of Naples?"
"Now having knit, untie the knot,"
Said he; "you drew me from afar,
Or having willed or willed it not,
Your face shone on me like a star
Above the bay of Naples.
"Oh, know you not, fair star of love,
The thought of you is like new wine,
Or strong sweet air on heights above,
For mortal senses too divine——"
(Black was the bay of Naples.)
Her lamp beside the window set
The woman, and the light shone out
A yellow glimmer in the jet
Of darkness, that lay all about
The outstretched bay of Naples.
But "Nay" she said, and laughed with scorn.
And also with a little pride;
"My lover comes before the morn,
And, if he find you, woe betide
Beside the bay of Naples.
"Now get you gone in very deed,
While time is yet for you to go,
Behold, I beg you at my need;
How black the chilly waters flow
Around the bay of Naples!"
"Ah, do you think I am afraid,"
Said he, "of man that sees the light?
If God himself command had laid
To leave you, I should stay to-night."
(Black was the bay of Naples).
The trouble grew within her eyes,
She seemed to feel, as in a dream,
The ruling force in love that lies;
She veiled the lamplight's yellow gleam
From the black bay of Naples.
"Ah me," she said, "you tarry yet,
And late and chilly grows the night,
To-morrow shall my lamp be set
To guide you hither with its light,"
Across the bay of Naples.
"To-morrow then, to-morrow's years.
I will be yours, but go to-night."
And dimly through the mist of tears
She saw the crescent's line of white,
High o'er the bay of Naples.
"To-morrow for to-morrow be!
To-night is all I ask and need,
I cannot loose love's core," said he,
"Once to my hand it has been freed"
(Black was the bay of Naples).
"Nay, death may follow love! 'Tis fit
That life being empty, should be cast
Carelessly into darkness' pit,
Be one with all the life that's past"
(Black was the bay of Naples).
"Only compress the joy of years,
Summers and seasons, nights and noons,
To these short hours, where there appears,
As of a mighty god that swoons,
The sea's black arm round Naples.
"Oh, black beneath us are the trees,
And black the weary line of hills,
With all life's joy, and light, and ease,
This room your radiant presence fills"
(Black was the bay of Naples).
"And ah," said he, "I'll give my soul
To lie beneath your foot in hell,
That you may walk unscorched and whole—
Can other lovers love so well?"
(Black was the bay of Naples).
She took his hand and drew him in.
She quenched the lamplight's yellow gleam;
The moon was like a sabre thin,
The one white thing in all that dream
Of black that lay on Naples.
A SONG
What if the rose should bloom,
And the sunset deepen and fade,
If we are penned in the gloom
By close-barred shutters made?
What of the birds and the sun,
And the moon-rise behind the trees,
To the eyes and ears of one
Who neither hears nor sees?
What of the world of love,
Its fragrance, and light, and bloom,
To the soul that cannot move
Out of a loveless room?
Were it better the rose were dead
In a black December frost,
That no more skies were red,
That lovers' ways were lost?
Ah no! The wood must shrink,
Bar closely as you may,
And between the shutters' chink
Slips in the sunlight's ray.
So that the prisoner knows
It is June in the world outside,
And his heart is glad for the rose,
Though to him it is denied.
For the love of lovely things
Must quench all bitterness,
And whilst the robin sings
No heart is comfortless.
THE BALLAD OF A SEA-NYMPH
Where the water meets the sands
All alone sat she,
Wrung her hair with chilly hands
That glimmered mistily.
Phosphorescent were the drips
From her hair she wrung,
And like moonlight on her lips
Were the words she sung.
White she was, as white as foam
'Neath a moonlit sky,
And the treasures of her home
On her brow did lie.
There he found her, he, a man,
Wandering by the sea,
And desire through him ran—
Misty-white was she.
There he wooed her, wooed her long,
Till, within her eyes,
Where were erst moonshine and song,
Dawned in slow surprise
Mortal pain and mortal doubt,
Shades of misery,
And she turned her round about,
Facing from the sea.
In his hand her hand she laid,
As to land they turned,
And her hand of sea-foam made
'Neath his fingers burned.
On they went then, he and she,
Walking toward the East;
And her sisters of the sea
Their bewailing ceased
As it paled towards the dawn,
From the light they fled;
But she laughed with joy new-born.
"Is this life?" she said.
There was labour of the day,
Dust upon her feet,
Scorching of the shadeless way,
Clamour of the street;
All a human want and pain,
Laughter fraught with tears,
Toil, when toil we know is vain,
Hope, when hopes are fears;
Till this creature of the sea
At the last became
Human, in her misery,
Joy, and pride, and shame.
With a word he left her then
"Woman that you are,
Mystery attracts us men
Draws us from afar.
"Sea-nymph as you were, a thing
Intangible, unknown,
Like the light the sunbeams fling,
Where the spray is blown,
"Sea-nymph have you ceased to be,
Forfeited the whole
Of that moonlight poetry,
Cherished by man's soul;
"Still we seek the dim Ideal
As the moth the star,
How for women can we feel
That our seekings bar?"
Where the water meets the sands,
All alone sat she,
With her head between her hands,
Facing from the sea;
From her forehead pushed her hair
Drooping wearily,
Shivered by the water there:
"Oh, soul's a curse," said she.
CHRYSANTHEMUMS
Oh, what a dainty negligence you show
Outspreading all your petals' coquetry,
As careless of restraint as poetry,
Although, like poetry, you surely know
That by the laws of beauty you must grow.
There is a pure and virgin fantasy
In your curled petals, white as driven snow,
And wayward as the unbound locks that blow
Around a maiden's head, when, mad with glee,
With outstretched arms she dances by the sea.
Yet in your glad abandon still you show
The wildest beauty sorrow-touched must be,
To give it worth; your leaves curve tenderly
In subtle arches; so the heart may know
Within the dancing maid the roots of woe.
A COURTLY MADRIGAL
Between the eyebrow and the eye
Such uncounted beauties lie,
Plain it is 'tis Cupid's pleasaunce only.
There he makes his court and seat,
There lets all his graces meet,
Leaves a loveless world, bereft and lonely.
Oh, fair straight brows that brood above
The eyelid, as the nesting dove
Broods upon her treasured young;
In rosy flesh the veins of blue
Do softly, dimly glimmer through,
To lose themselves the eyelashes among.
Such eyelashes! More darkly sweet
Than where the serried treetops meet
Above the forest's undiscovered waters;
Where scarce the stars peep o'er the edge,
(Fringed round about with darkling sedge,
And thickly-growing reeds, fair Syrinx' daughters).
IN ARCADIA
See how Pan through the forest goes,
The forest of Arcadia,
Giving a sidelong leer at the rose,
Trampling the daisies with hairy toes,
And wrinkling his ugly gnarled old nose,
In the forest of Arcadia.
Evil and ugly, Pan is bored,
In the forest of Arcadia;
Tired of hours with honey stored,
What diversion can it afford
The whole green forest of which he's lord,
The forest of Arcadia?
Till suddenly, the glimpse of a face
In the forest of Arcadia!
In the verdant depths where leaves enlace,
And dapple with shadow the body's grace—
And Pan, with a snort, gives the Dryad chase,
In the forest of Arcadia.
She is off, on the nimblest of little feet,
In the forest of Arcadia;
Light as a bird where the treetops meet,
For with sudden terror her pulses beat,
And desire has made the old god fleet,
In the forest of Arcadia.
Milk-white down the long green avenues,
In the forest of Arcadia,
Like a dove she flies, and he pursues,
Like a hungry hawk when its prey it views—
—And Zeus, on Olympus, prepares a ruse
For the forest of Arcadia.
Nearer draws Pan, with outstretched hand,
In the forest of Arcadia,
To grasp her long hair's floating strand;
—But Zeus, with Olympian wink, had planned
That another form for the girl's should stand
In the forest of Arcadia.
And the poor old sinner who thought to seize,
In the forest of Arcadia,
The daintiest thing that sense could tease,
Found only a satyr if you please,
As like himself as peas to peas,
In the forest of Arcadia.
A BALLAD OF KING RICHARD
1. The Banner
King Richard wiped the wine from his lips
And laughed full scornfully;
"Oh, I care not a bit for King Philip's wit,
Nor the honour of France," quoth he;
"And I care not a straw for Austria's wrath,
And little of Templars reck;
If I lead not this host, by the Holy Ghost,
May my head be struck from my neck."
King Richard drank, and swore in his cups
—And a mighty man was he—
"Let the mongrels yap, I care not a rap,
I am Richard the Lion," quoth he.
The news went forth to the King of France
And the Dukes of high degree,
How Richard had sworn that no man born
Should lead the armies but he.
The Kings were wroth at King Richard's words
That were carried to them that day;
"Does he make a mock of our ancient stock,
This king of an hour?" quoth they.
"This bastard son of a bastard sire
The standard first would plant
On the city's walls when Jerusalem falls;
Must we this honour grant?
"Not so; if Christ would have Richard lead,
Let Christ give grace to his arms.
We will stand aside from the battle pride
And the fury of war's alarms.
"Our men are sick and outnumbered sore,
And words from home reveal
That our country cries for our governance wise;
We will look to our country's weal.
"For we came to fight for a Holy Cause,
Not dance to an upstart king;
The cause must wait for Richard the Great,
For our weapons down we fling."
Breathless and hushed the messengers spoke
As they told King Richard the news
How the kings were set and the council met,
And the kings to fight refuse.
Louder than ever laughed the King
In the depths of his golden beard.
"God rest my soul, I will reach the goal,
And show if Richard's afeared;
"I will plant my flag amidst this camp
As a token seen of all;
Nor Austria's lance, nor the frown of France,
Shall make its splendour fall."
So the sultry breezes of Ascalon
Saluted the lions three,
And Austria frowned from his camping ground,
And cursed right bitterly.
"Shall this bastard son of a bastard sire
Boast he o'erruleth me?
By the Holy Cross, be it living loss,
This shame shall never be."
So he planted his banner firm and fast,
And it floated high and free,
On the selfsame mound in the Christian ground
Flew eagle and lions three.
Word they brought to Richard the King
Where in his tent he lay,
"Lo, Austria's hand on the lion's land
Has loosed the eagle," said they.
Richard arose and strode in haste
—Oh the banners floated free—
"Ill eagles fare in the lion's lair,
Take down your banner," quoth he.
But word for word the Archduke gave.
He answered, "Eagles fly;
Let the lion keep to the fields and sheep,
To the eagle leave the sky."
"Do you give me words?" cried Richard the King;
"Ho, now, at your words I laugh."
And he tore the flag like a worthless rag,
And he wrenched and splintered the staff,
And he set his foot on the silken flag,
His foot on Austria's fame;
With a swordless hip, yet a smiling lip,
He mocked the eagle's shame.
(Oh, Richard the Lion, woe is me
For the sorrow your deed shall bring,
For the dungeon walls, and the gloom that falls
On the heart of Richard the King;
For the long despair of the prison dark,
And the traffic in lordly things,
When the Austrian sold for an Emperor's gold
The son of the English kings.)
But Richard laughed in the noonday sun
That beats on Palestine.
And Leopold turned, while in hate he burned
Against Plantagenet's line;
He trusted not in his own right arm,
But justice cried from France,
And France spake fair, but he did not dare
Withstand King Richard's glance.
Sullenly Austria turned from the Kings
And back to his tents went he;
And the lions of gold above Richard the bold
Floated alone and free.
2. The Imprisonment
Word they brought to Leopold,
Spake in Austria's ear;
"Rejoice this day that brings your prey,
Your enemy Richard is here;
"Now is revenge for an ancient grudge
Given into your hand,
He mocked aloud 'mid the allies' crowd
And is now alone in your land."
Leopold started out of his seat;
"Good be the news indeed!
Now quickly bring to me hither the king,
He shall sue to me in his need."
Richard the King is before the Duke,
Garbed in a mean disguise,
Yet kingship claim the mighty frame
And the glance of the kingly eyes,
And the Jove-like head with its close-cut hair,
And the flowing golden beard;
No rags can hide the huge limbs' pride,
In kingly cradle reared.
Gay, and kingly, and debonair
The Lion-hearted stood.
"Fair come to land, by this right hand,
Your welcome shall be good."
"Fair thanks to you, our cousin the Duke,"
Said Richard, no whit beguiled;
"I thought not to prove the worth of your love
When I entered your land," he smiled.
"Being in haste to return to my land,
I passed in this disguise,
For I would not stay the rich display
Your ducal bounty supplies."
Leopold snarled like an angry wolf.
"How came you hither?" said he;
"No choice of mine, but by rule divine,"
—Said Richard—"I came by sea,
"Travelling in haste from Palestine
To assure me England's throne;
But a storm arose, and my fears suppose
That I was saved alone."
"Now bind his hands," cried Leopold,
"For he comes as a spy, I see."
The King's eyes blazed in wrath amazed,
"A ducal greeting," quoth he.
"These bonds are unfitting, Duke Leopold,
Both mine and your degree,
Nor consorts my fame with a spying name,
In your throat let your own words be."
Amazed were they all at Richard's taunts,
But he smiled with easy pride.
"Now what prevents that my fury vents
Itself?" the Austrian cried.
"Now what prevents that I kill you straight
And your corpse to the ravens fling?
'Twere easy to say you were ocean's prey."
"But you dare not," said Richard the King.
Leopold turned to his feudal lords,
Who stood in wondering;
"Now prison me straight this runagate,"
Said he, "let us lodge this King!"
They have taken Richard the Lion-heart
And fettered him fast and sure,
In a narrow cell they have chained him well
With chains that shall endure.
And even Richard's stout heart fails
When he hears the great doors clang,
And he knows at last that they have him fast,
Whose fame through Europe rang.
"Oh, what prevents the crafty Duke
From poison or secret knife,
For no one knows that Richard goes
In disguise, in fear of his life;
"My brother John will well believe
That I was drowned at sea;
Nay, he scarce will ask, but will take the task
Of kingship gleefully;
"And my people will easily forget
Their monarch so little seen,
And almost my name will be lost to fame,
I shall be as I ne'er had been."
Many a weary week and month
Must darken prison walls;
And the King's eye dims, and his mighty limbs
Waste, as the leaf that falls.
And his face is blanched, and sorrow sits
Carven upon his brow,
And his right arm slacks for the battle-axe,
The warlike field to plough.
And yet and anon comes Leopold
His captive lord to see,
And revenge to taste, as he sees him waste,
"How fares the Lion?" cries he.
"Cousinly questioned," says the King,
And kingly flashes his eye;
"Let the hog beware of the lion's lair,
Though the lion couchant lie."
And then gives back Duke Leopold,
And his laugh has a hollow ring;
Once more he goes, and the shadows close
Round the head and the heart of the King.
Then word comes suddenly, flying fast,
"Masters, the King is found!"
And from distant lands the poet stands
At last upon English ground.
"I have found him, Blondel de Nesle!
As I wandered, harp in hand,
Through breadth and length of Austria's strength,
I saw a tower stand,
"And nearer drew, I knew not why,
Till I heard a man's voice sing
With something of skill, and my heart stood still—
'Twas the voice of Richard the King,
"Singing a fitte that we both had made
Once in a banquet hall,
When his heart was light, of a captive knight
Who out upon Fate did call.
"Then I took up King Richard's words
And sang the fitte again,
And did descry—Oh! hope was high!—-
That he of it was fain.
"So I struck my harp and sang once more
Of a minstrel wandering far,
Till he reached the strand of a distant land
Where trusty yeomen are,
"Where hearts will swell with joy to hear
Of their dear and distant King,
And burn for shame of his knightly fame
And the false imprisoning——
"And Richard sang from his mighty throat
'Oh Blondel, blessed be thou,
Thy star of birth makes glad the earth,
Thy wit shall save me now.
"'Oh tell my people that I am woe
For my absence long and drear,
When the land did bleed under wolfish greed
And the shepherd was not near.'"
(Sullen and black was the brow of John
Like an angry thunder-cloud,
But the poet recked not in his respect,
His message spake aloud.)
"'And tell my people Richard sends
His heart in the minstrel's hand,
And my eyes shall yearn until they turn
On the cliffs of my loyal land.
"'And this do I add at night and morn,
When I pray for the fall of Zion:
To my people send a better friend,
Oh God, than Richard the Lion!'"
IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
What can death render us commensurate
With what it takes away; the voice of birds
On sweet spring mornings, and the face of spring;
And lush long grass around the browsing herds;
And shadows on the distant hills the flying rain-clouds fling?
What is there brighter in the world to come
Than white-winged sea-gulls, flashing in the sun
Above the blue Atlantic; what more free,
Yet what more stable, than those white wings, strung
All motionless, against a wind that whips the racing sea?
Yea, and if these things yet may be the soul's—
The summer moon above the garden flowers
Dew-drenched, and the slow song of nightingales—
Yea, and if all these after death be ours,
More beauty yet, and peace from strife, yet still the debt prevails.
For what can ever give us back again
The dear, familiar things of every day;
The loved and common language that we share;
The trivial pleasures; and, when children play,
Their laughter, and the touch of hands; and jests; and common care?
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.
Edinburgh & London
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Fcap. 4to, cloth, 5s. net
MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS
"Mr. Presland appears to be following in the footsteps of Schiller.... Considered generally, Mr. Presland's drama is a fine piece of work. Excellent in its presentation of character, impressive in sentiment, and dignified in metre, it lacks none of the greater qualities of the historical drama...."—Scotsman.
"The author remains as simple and dignified in style as in his treatment of the tragedy of 'Joan of Arc.' There is no painful straining after effect. Act V. is really powerful."—Evening Standard.
"Mr. Presland gives promise of becoming one of the most successful living writers of poetic drama. His 'Joan of Arc' we have reason to remember, his 'Queen Mary' is no less striking. There is no Swinburnian welter of poetry here, but a very dramatically presented study of a very baffling woman. It would be difficult for anyone to cavil at the poet's presentation of the time.... Nothing could be finer, from a dramatic point of view, than her acting after the murder of Rizzio.... The last act is a splendid bit of work; the savagery of the street song and the last speech of Mary before signing her abdication are equally dramatic and equally poetic on very diverse lines. The play is altogether noteworthy."—Glasgow Herald.
"... It would, in our estimation, be a decided acquisition to any actor-manager who could arrange with the author to allow him to produce it.... Space does not permit us to deal with it here as we would like to do, or as it deserves, but we with pleasure commend it to our readers in the most emphatic way...."—Road.
"... 'Mary Queen of Scots,' a work in which he equals and even exceeds his marked success in dramatizing a theme from the history of the heroic Maid of Orleans.... Its progress is well planned, and it proceeds with spirit, several of the scenes being splendidly dramatic. As literature the play is sustained at a high level in strong nervous verse.... The characters are firmly drawn and lifelike...."—Liverpool Daily Post.