Volume II Part 79 (1/2)

First, I leave a debt unpaid, It's all chalked up, not much all told, For Bread and Sack. When I am cold, Doll can p.a.w.n my Spanish blade And pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host!

But ... I have chalked up other scores In your own hearts, behind the doors, Not to be paid so quickly. Yet, O, if you would not have my ghost Creeping in at dead of night, Out of the cold wind, out of the wet, With weeping face and helpless fingers Trying to wipe the marks away, Read what I can write, still write, While this life within them lingers.

Let me pay, lads, let me pay.

_Item_, for a peac.o.c.k phrase, Flung out in a sudden blaze, Flung out at his friend Shake-scene, By this ragged Might-have-been, This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.

Will, I knew it all the while!

And you know it--and you smile!

My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather, While the quill that Ben, there, wields, Fluttered down thro' azure fields, From an eagle in the sun; And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing, A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain, Dropt out of an angel's wing.

Only a Jackdaw's feather mine, And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine, And yours the pure Pierian streams.

But I had dreams, O, I had dreams!

Dreams, you understand me, Will; And I fretted at the tether That bound me to the lowly plain, Gnawed my heart out, for I knew Once, tho' that was long ago, I might have risen with Ben and you Somewhere near that Holy Hill Whence the living rivers flow.

Let it pa.s.s. I did not know One bitter phrase could ever fly So far through that immortal sky --Seeing all my songs had flown so low-- One envious phrase that cannot die From century to century.

Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind, As if indeed the night were all one ghost, Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once more Its desolate pa.s.sion through the reader's voice:--

Some truth there was in what I said.

Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade; And something of the rest you learned From me,--but all you took you earned.

You took the best I had to give, You took my clay and made it live; And that--why that's what G.o.d must do!-- My music made for mortal ears You flung to all the listening spheres.

You took my dreams and made them true.

And, if I claimed them, the blank air Might claim the breath I shape to prayer.

I do not claim it! Let the earth Claim the thrones she brings to birth.

Let the first shapers of our tongue Claim whate'er is said or sung, Till the doom repeal that debt And cancel the first alphabet.

Yet when, like a G.o.d, you scaled The s.h.i.+ning crags where my foot failed; When I saw my fruit of the vine Foam in the Olympian cup, Or in that broader chalice s.h.i.+ne Blood-red, a sacramental drink, With stars for bubbles, lifted up, Through the universal night, Up to the celestial brink, Up to that quintessential Light Where G.o.d acclaimed you for the wine Crushed from those poor grapes of mine; O, you'll understand, no doubt, How the poor vine-dresser fell, How a pin-p.r.i.c.k can let out All the bannered hosts of h.e.l.l, Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth-- I had spilt my wine of youth, The Temple was not mine to build.

My place in the world's march was filled.

Yet--through all the years to come-- Men to whom my songs are dumb Will remember them and me For that one cry of jealousy, That curse where I had come to bless, That harsh voice of unhappiness.

They'll note the curse, but not the pang, Not the torment whence it sprang, They'll note the blow at my friend's back, But not the soul stretched on the rack.

They'll note the weak convulsive sting, Not the crushed body and broken wing.

_Item_, for my thirty years, Dashed with sun and splashed with tears, Wan with revel, red with wine, This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine.

Other wiser, happier men, Take the full three-score-and-ten, Climb slow, and seek the sun.

Dancing down is soon done.

Golden boys, beware, beware,-- The ambiguous oracles declare Loving G.o.ds for those that die Young, as old men may; but I, Quick as was my pilgrimage, Wither in mine April age.

_Item_, one groatsworth of wit, Bought at an exceeding price, Ay, a million of repentance.

Let me pay the whole of it.

Lying here these deadly nights, Lads, for me the Mermaid lights Gleam as for a castaway Swept along a midnight sea The harbour-lanthorns, each a spark, A pin-p.r.i.c.k in the solid dark, That lets trickle through a ray Glorious out of Paradise, To stab him with new agony.

Let me pay, lads, let me pay!

Let the Mermaid pa.s.s the sentence: I am pleading guilty now, A dead leaf on the laurel-bough, And the storm whirls me away.

Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing wind That round and round the silent Mermaid Inn Wandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors, Like a most desolate ghost.

A sudden throng Of players bustled in, shaking the rain From their plumed hats. ”Veracious witnesses,”

The snuffle of Bame arose anew, ”declare It was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. His s.h.i.+rt was very foul.

He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed, And his boots broken ...”

”What! Gonzago, you!”

A short fat player called in a deep voice Across the room and, throwing aside his cloak To show the woman's robe he wore beneath, Minced up to Bame and bellowed--”'Tis such men As you that tempt us women to our fall!”

And all the throng of players rocked and roared, Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hush Held them again.

”Look to the door,” he said, ”Is any listening?” The young player crept, A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped.