Part 24 (2/2)

Thou know'st me well. Speak, wherefore doubting thus I feel my soul aghast at its own being?

Methought just now all h.e.l.l did cry aloud, ”Conscience can give no peace, the liar Conscience, That knows not what she prates”--Out, out on Conscience!

She that did whisper peace unto my soul, But now, before the fearful shadow came That since my boyhood often visits me, And with dark musings fills my brain perturb'd; Making the current of my life-blood stagnate, My heart the semblance of a m.u.f.fled bell, Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like The p.r.i.c.kly writhings of a new-slough'd snake; Each several moment as the awaken'd glare Of the doom'd felon starting from his sleep, While the slow, hideous meaning of his cell Grows on him like an incubus, until The truth shoots like an ice-bolt to his brain From his dull eyeball; then, from brain to heart Flashes in sickening tumult of despair-- As in this bosom.

_Pear._ 'Tis black Melancholy!

I've read of such, my Lord; it hath no part With what men think, or do;--'tis physical-- A holy preacher feels the self-same thing, That ne'er outstepp'd his sacred village round; 'Tis often nurs'd of this damp, noxious climate: Most excellent men have suffer'd it-- Thou know'st I have seen b.l.o.o.d.y deeds beneath the sun Upon the Spanish main, when I was young.

_Crom._ What of them, say?--I thought thou loved'st not To speak thyself a pirate--

_Pear._ 'Twas, my Lord, Ere I knew grace, or my most honour'd master.

_Crom._ I trust thou art forgiven.

_Pear._ I'd not speak Of deed of mine, my Lord. I did but think That in the sunlit tropics I had known The wantonness of cruelty; and seen Aged men grown grey in crime, whose hair thus blanch'd Show'd white, like sugar by hot blood refin'd.

_Crom._ What of this!--Tell me what thou knew'st of them.

_Pear._ I never knew desponding doubt or fear Curdle the healthy current of their veins; They never shudder'd at a blood-red kerchief, But on their s.h.i.+ning knife-blades, as they smok'd On deck through the long summer noon, would show The dents and notches to their younger fellows, As thus--”This cut a Spanish merchant's throat, With wealthy ingots laden; this the rib-bone Of his lean Rib, that clutch'd an emerald brooch Too eagerly, hath rasp'd--and here, d'ye see a chip?

This paid the reckoning of a skin-flint purser.”

_Crom._ What meanest thou by this?--

_Pear._ I mean, my Lord, The frequent gloom that clouds thy n.o.ble spirit, Is born of humours natural to thy body; And, as foul vapours blur the honest sun, Hangs o'er the face of the high enterprize, That hath enrich'd thy name, not harm'd thy soul.

_Enter a Servant, L._

_Ser._ My Lord, good Master Milton waits without, Desiring presence of you.--

_Crom._ Pearson, go.

I would see him alone. Perchance his words [_Exit PEARSON, L. Servant follows._]

May ease my tortur'd breast.

[_Rings a small bell. Enter a Servant, L._]

Ask quickly, how My daughter fares, if she be better-- [_Servant crosses behind and exit, R._]

Lo!

If I should lose her. Nay! it cannot be.

My thoughts seem driven like the wind-vex'd leaves That eddy round in vain: fy, fy upon me!

Was not Saul doom'd? but David slew him not, Yet Heaven led him through the winding cave, Sealing the watchers' lids, and to his hand Gave the bright two-edg'd blade, that in his eyes Looked with cold meaning, bloodless it remain'd-- Would it were so now!

_Servant re-enters, R._

_Ser._ She is worse, my Lord, And raves incessantly; the doctors shook Their heads when I did ask, and bade me tell you There is no hope--

_Crom._ [_Motions him to go._] Why comes not Master Milton?

[_Servant crosses behind to L. sees Milton._]

_Ser._ My Lord, he waits without for aid to enter.

[_Exit Servant, L. and re-enters leading MILTON._]

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