Will Shakespeare of Stratford and London; a drama in four acts

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ACT IV The Pyre — The New Phoenix Rises from the Ashes June, 1598

The Terrace and Garden of the Country House of the Earl of Southampton.

The action of the play takes place between the years 1582 and 1598.

Four years are supposed to have elapsed between Acts I. and II. ; twelve years between Acts II. and III. ; four weeks between Acts III. and IV.

Act I The Caging Of The Phoenix

ACT I

THE CAGING OF THE PHOENIX

Scene: \A Forest Glade in Charlecote Park, the country seat of Sir Thomas Lucy, near Stratford-on-Avon. A background of forest vistas. At left back a stream, suggested by low sloping banks. At left front the tangled roots of great oaks and beeches, and small rocks and mounds of moss appear above the sloping ground. Forest trees -flank each side of the stage. At the right, between an avenue of trees there is a space of greensward and then more trees. The whole scene suggests a remote sylvan solitude. The glimpses of sky and the long shadows indicate that the hour is near sunset. A man's voice is heard at left. Before the curtain rises men's voices are calling loudly to each other.)

[From a distance.] Where Away? Bailly! I'm lost!

[Enters clambering over roots and rocks at left front.]

I'm here, come on !

[Nearer."} Come where?

Here Fool!

[Enters stumbling and climbing with difficulty over the roots, etc.]

Well said, but fool no more!

How will you compass that?

[Groaning.] My back! My legs!

When young I wished to be a forester.

My father balked my will. [Still stumbling and clambering.'] These twisted roots

And knife-edged rocks have won my mind to his

More than five years of well-planned argument!

This poaching lad may trap and catch and kill

The deer, the fish, the birds of Charlecote Park

Till all this Forest-land is still and void,

But I'll not hunt him more! I'll be no more

A constable. I'll tell Sir Thomas so.

I will resign.

Resign? You speak with courage! What shall you do for work? How live? How eat?

Think you I'll be a constable forever? / have ambitions. I'm an ambitious man. I'm going to be a miller! Look through the trees [Enter from back six or seven yeomen armed with pikes and staves.] Where come our Guard!

[Taverner goes to meet yeomen and they greet each other.]

No parleying, my friends.

Bestow yourselves deep in the wood's green

Heart, Crouch in the underbrush, hide behind rocks; Be very still and secret, but be keen. We'll keep this place — Go you to right and

left, So every point be guarded quite, and when You hear three whistles, let you loose to me, Like gulls that swoop together to one spot

Upon the sea, where floats the silly fish. Be off!

THE YEOMEN

Ay surely, sir.

Stay not too near.

Note well ! Be hidden, and lie close to earth, So your dun doublets and green caps and

cloaks Mingle with leaf and earth and grow together.

Be off, remember well my words!

[The yeomen go to right and left and back and disappear. Voices are heard at left. Bailly listens.]

What's that?

A woman's voice. No fear!

A hopeless fool!

Deep voices sound between the higher tones —

A flute and two bass-viols! Some gypsy-folk

Wander the wood, seeking to pitch their tents.

They'll not stop here; these trees are massed too thick.

We'll hide, and when they pass we'll keep our watch

Until the deer and does come down to drink;

Then shall we catch our stag.

[Goes to back as voices approach.]

Be quick! They come! [Bailly and Tavemer disappear entirely amidst the trees at back. , Enter hastily Anne Hathaway followed by Foulke Sandells and John Richardson, both elderly men, through the clearing where the stream is supposed to How at left back.]

ANNE HATHAWAY

[Turning indignantly on Sandells and Richardson.'] Let me alone ! Why do you follow me ?

Why do you follow him ?

ANNE

Why question me?

You well know that I will not answer you. I scarce escaped the village street this noon, When in the lane that leads to Charlecote

wood, Your shadows fell upon the sunny road Before my eyes. Your footsteps followed

mine.

At ejyery turn I looked and hard behind Panting for bceath, with curious eyes, you

came.

This wood is free to rest or walk or — weep. Yet in this solitude you spy me out. 'T is infamous!

Your mother bade us come.

That is our warrant. That our whole excuse.

If such needs be. [to Sandells.] An open

question, Foulke?

This wood is free, as Anne most justly says! For us to stray in — as it is for her.

Your mother bade us come and bring you home.

ANNE

[Scornfully. ] My mother dreams !

To wake you from your dream! That you a woman grown and ripe in years Should spend your life in wasteful worship of A Boy! — ev'n worse, a pestilential thief! A Law-Defier, — twice whipt and once in

prison.

An empty purse — an empty house — an

empty head !

Beggared in all that makes life rich and

full

Yet of such mad and wanton mirth fulness, That he goes singing through the village

streets His eyes oft skyward fixed, his step so light That one might dream he'd chanting mount

to heaven, Like any meadow-lark! ... a public

shame !

Anne, he speaks truth; you must give up this lad.

This marriage shall not be, your mother

swears.

See him no more. See that you give him up.

ANNE

[With restrained anger.'} How then resign that one possesses not? There is no thought of marriage. I am free.

io WILL SHAKESPEARE

You play with words. To what does dalliance lead? [They both draw near her where she stands in centre.~\ Before you we would place the steely shield Of our protection. Lead you to solid ground. And all this may be if you give him up.

ANNE

[With intensity of anger and drawing back toward left; they follow.] For once, I'll speak, Sandells and Richardson. Does it protect me that you spy on me, Distract my only hour of quietness, Tear from my heart its sacred woman's veil And peep upon its bleeding? O I could

laugh If anger did not make me nearer tears! Beggared he is? What of it? We are rich. An empty head devoid of all but song? My head counts pennies all day long at home !

WILL SHAKESPEARE n

Place me on solid ground? I know no

ground That's firm except my love. It bears me well. [Advances swiftly toward the two men who draw away terrified.'] Go tell my mother I obedience owe To none. I cannot be coerced or led — And opposition to my fixed will Turns all my blood to poison in my veins. Hate of your meddling consumes me now — Go — go — my rage is mounting to my brain, Hardening my heart. Had I been left alone Good might have come. Peace to my mother's life, Prosperity to him I love. . . . All's gone! [Turns to left back and flings herself down near one of the moss-covered mounds and leans against it, covering her face with her hands, trembling. Sandells and Richardson stand confused in centre watching her.]

Shall we speak more?

Since that she was a child, Her mood once turned to anger changes not.

We'll go.

I'll tell her mother what she says.

Facing her anger all my mind was changed.

The truth she spoke cut deep into my heart, And made our studied preachment lies.

Suppose — she marries him? What harm would come?

In very truth her mother's rich for three. He might quit poaching if his purse were full, And we'd be free from warding of the maid!

The mating of an eagle and a hawk!

Cage him and he would die, and she would

plunge Her talons in his heart. This should not be! She is a woman too — these fifteen years — He — in the very prime of callowness!

There's no solution else.

[Hastily.] She's stirring! Let us go!

It is the way of wisdom!

Follow me!

We'll all rehearse unto her mother. Come! [Exit — Richardson and Sandells softly at left front.]

ANNE

[Raising her arms with a wild gesture.] Will! Will! Will! Will!

[She again buries her head on her arms and lies still. A pause follows. The greensward between the long avenue of trees at right is more brightly lighted by sunlight than the centre and left of the stage which is more shaded by the trees. At the furthest end of this sunlit avenue a youth about seventeen or eighteen years old enters. His air is that of joyous irresponsibility. He comes to front very slowly with a loitering step, constantly stopping and looking up into the trees as if watching the birds. He has a gun and fishing-rod and tackle slung on his back. About half-way down the avenue there is a clump of flowers growing at the foot of a large tree. He stops and bends to look at them. Then he lifts off his gun and fishing-rod and lays them on the grass behind the tree. He gathers the flowers and after carefully examining them he kisses them and puts them in the belt of his doublet and goes on slowly to front. All the while he is singing.']

[Sings.] O love me not when I am dead !

[When low lies heart and head.] O praise me not when I am gone ! [The years are hastening on.]

The crowns of love and happiness That would my eager spirit bless, Give to me now, nor do thou wait Until it be too late, too late!

[While he sings he pauses frequently to stoop and look at -flowers and herbs, and then goes on again. He comes to front and turning to cross, sees Anne Hathaway at left back. He raises his hands and lets them fall in halfamused, careless surprise.']

Again the stormy Anne! [Goes nearer.] How low she lies, poor Petrel ! Beaten down Into the deepest hollow of the waves By the wild tempest she herself creates. I'll blow my gentlest breeze and bring a calm ! [He goes softly to back and bends over Anne, standing beside her so that his face is seen.] She's sleeping! — While her face is wet with

tears And wrung by violence within — Sleep!

Sleep !

Poor tortured soul! In thy sea-depths There lies the Pearl of Peace — while thou art still

'Twill slowly rise, milk-white and luminous And spread a tranquil balm! Sleep! Sleep! [He withdraivs and goes toward the tree where his gun is lying. Before he reaches it, Anne stirs and raising her head sees him. She hurriedly risesstands irresolutely,— then smoothes her hair with her hands and goes toward Shakespeare who does not yet see that she has waked.']

ANNE

[In a slightly supplicating tone.]

Will! [then louder] Will!

[Turning quickly.] Your sleep was short. Pray Heaven it was sweet.

ANNE

[Coming nearer to him.] Why are you wandering in the wood to-day?

I have a tryst.

ANNE

[Impulsively, and with suspicion.']

A tryst? What village maid Pursues you to the heart of Charlecote Park?

[With simplicity and humor. ] None Anne, save you.

ANNE

[With impatience.]

Men make not trysts with men.

With no man's son am I pledged here to-day.

ANNE

[With growing irritability."] You veil the truth with double answering.

[With mischievous simplicity.'] I speak the simple truth. Nor doth maid nor

man Entice me here. [Anne looks relieved. ]

And yet I trysting come! [Anne again is angry.] The truth perturbs your mind. Let me

try Fancy now. [He speaks with mystery, drawing close

to her.] A Dryad haunts this wood; she loves a Faun. Her steps tread down the earth beneath her

feet As do a Queen's the footstool for her state. Her parted, burnished, brown-gold, curling

hair Shadows her whitest forehead and her brows Lie sternly level over proud, deep eyes, That know their rule over men's roving

hearts.

Her lips, a rose's petals, nobly carved.

And with her comes the fragrant, woodland

breath Of sylvan glades recessed, and hidden pools Where she has loved and dreamed through

thund'rous nights.

ANNE

[With fierce jealousy.] You speak of a real woman. Is't not true?

Who is more real than she of whom I dream ? Last night by starlight I lay musing here She fled to me and wept. Her faun was

false, A Nixie's thrall. Her vengeance I've assumed.

The Faun and I will fight at set of sun. Ev'n now I think I see his leaf-crowned head Peering upon me from behind that oak, And hear the drawing of his bow —

[He advances with sudden swiftness to

'Anne and takes her arm and points to a tree at right near front.~\

There! There!

ANNE

[Who has listened and looked as if under a spell, screams and hides her face on his arm.~\

pity — save me ! I am terrified.

[First laughs lightly — then as she moves from him and he sees her frightened face he becomes grave. ,]

1 ever am at fault with you. I thought

To bring your smiles. Instead, I rouse your fears. [Still more gravelyJ] My idle fantasy must not delay Your homeward-tending steps. See! The

sun sinks!

Your mother watches for you; you must go. [He leads her gently to left and she, as if still under a spell, yields. Suddenly she stops and again speaks with suspicion."]

ANNE

True, it is late. Why then stay here alone?

I never am alone.

ANNE

[Violently.] You falsify!

I spied you quite alone this very hour.

A vast procession endlessly denies Along the tortuous avenues of my brain. This wood would be the highway of the world If they should throng its aisles. Lovers and

queens, Kings, courtiers, fairies, maids, spirits of

earth, And Heaven, are crowding here. [Touches head.]

Some not far day, They'll steal into my heart and live.

ANNE

[With dense bewilderment.]

My word!

I understand you not.

Delay you not.

ANNE

With hard discourtesy you drive me hence.

Not so. But have it so if so you will. [Urges her gently to left."]

ANNE

Cruel ! You suffer not — you know not grief.

I suffer, yet am not unhappy, Anne. How pertinently you half speak the truth.

ANNE

Danger still hed'ges you. Your father

mourns — He is no more an alderman, 'tis said.

They've dragged his robe of office from his

back That was so straight with pride; for a just

fine Last week he could not even four pence pay.

ANNE

I'll pay his fines. Such trouble should not be. [She takes out her purse and offers him money. ]

Put up your purse. I'll slave or sin for him, But I'll not weep! Something is singing here — [Touches breast.'] That hidden in this fooling life I lead,

There is a magic, and a mystery- Waiting some kiss of fate to spring to birth And wrap me in its glow and ecstasy. That is reality — this mere trifling play.

[Anne listens bewildered.'] Go now. No longer stay your steps. Go now.

ANNE

You are a boy. Yet in your eyes and voice You are a master, and I must obey.

[Exit Anne. Shakespeare leads her away and then returns and springs gaily toward the tree behind which his gun and fishing-rod are lying. ~\

Come now, my trysting deer! My father

waits Hungering sore. My trespass wins him

strength.

I'll seek my traps hid deep in brush and

brake.

[Exit Shakespeare carrying gun, etc., at left back near stream. The sound of horses and carriage approaching by the grassy avenue at right is heard. A little boy's voice speaks, just out of sight. A travelling carriage somewhat splendid in color and ornament is driven into the grassy space between the trees at right. The postilions turn on their horses and watch while the door of the carriage is Hung open and a little boy about nine years old tries to get out. Two men inside the coach, dressed in the most fashionable costume of the period, try to prevent his alighting. He wears a courtier's costume of pale blue satin with a plumed hat, and curls of golden auburn fall on his shoulders.'}

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON

[Struggling with the two men.~\ I pray you, gentlemen, hinder me not!

I'll walk awhile beside the stream.

[He frees himself and springs out of the carriage.}

FIRST GENTLEMAN

[Follows him.] My Lord,

Lord Burleigh waits for you at Kenilworth.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

[Also getting out of carriage.'] We are in honour bound to hasten there And place you in his arms without delay.

My guardian tells his wishes all to me, And I obey them — when my pleasure suits. Then he is happy too and all is well.

[Looks up the river and claps his

hands.] I see a darling swan that slowly floats Just — just beyond the turning of the stream! [Both the gentlemen roughly take his

hands and try to lead him back to the

carriage.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Come, come, Lord Southampton, the carriages Outstrip us by five miles. We must press on. [Southampton shakes himself free and speaks passionately.']

I tell you if my Guardian were but by

He would be happy if I rested here

In this dear wood. I would be here alone.

[To postilions.] Drive on a little space. Quite out of sight.

[The carriage drives on just out of sight.]

[To Gentlemen.] Follow the carriage, you, else I shall tell Lord Burleigh how you laid rough hands on

me.

But if you will be kind and grant my wish

[Coaxingly.] My little, little wish, I'll silence keep. My word of honour!

[The two gentlemen who have looked alarmed, confer together and then follow the carriage, first bowing low.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Humbly, we obey. [Exit gentlemen, Southampton stands in centre. Shakespeare enters from left back carrying gun in his hand. He stops in surprise at the sight of Southampton who looks at him with the same surprise."]

More beautiful than was my Dryad! Gods! He is not real ... I know he is not real!

Who are you ? Will you shoot me with your

gun?

Fve read of robbers — [Comes closer.]

May I see your cave?

If you will hide me there, be very sure My guardian will a royal ransom pay.

How exquisite, how fair his fashioning — Heaven's own best make! How tripping

sweet his speech!

Lovelier than all my dreams! He must have

strayed From some far, magic palace.

[With half mocking gaiety, ,]

Little Prince Of Fairyland, my gun is but a: toy That I do sometimes — play a little with — As you yourself do sometimes play, mayhap, With that most splendid sword slung at your

side.

Tell me, if it so please your gracious will, Whence do you come and whither do you go?

You speak as did the players at the Queen's Great birthday feast last year, — but gentlier. I go to Kenilworth. I come from London.

How rudely he dissolves my dream; And yet

The charm remains! Merely to Kenilworth He goes!

I'm tired of Kenilworth! Instead I would stop here with you in this green

wood, Swim in that deep, clear stream, follow its

curves And touch the whitest feather of that swan. Then gather flowers wild and sweet, like

those You wear. The loveliest I've ever seen!

[Removing flowers from his belt.'] Will then your Highness take with you these

flowers ?

The only homage I can offer now ! I heard once, or perhaps I — merely —

dreamed — Of one sweet, weakling soul — She drowned

for grief!—

Who gathered flowers like these, — it may

ha,ve been — And gave them ev'n as I do now, — and told Their names with fancies such as these — [He gives the flowers one by one to

Here is Tender Forget-me-not, and here Narcissus, 'T was named for him who died in ages

gone For love of his own beauty. So might you. And Violets that mean Love and Death —

and one Small, sweet, Blush Rose to nestle at your

heart. [Southampton looks bewildered at his

words but takes the flowers. ~]

[Looking at Howers.~\ Lovelier than those they plant in Kenilworth !

In Kenilworth what pastimes will refresh,

And with what royal comrades shall you meet?

I'll play at Bowls and Tennis and I'll see The Lady Bridget Manners.

Bridget Manners!

Sweet powers of Melody! But what a name!

Manners should mate with — something musical!

But is she kind, this Bridget? Does your suit

To her fare sweetly? Unfold now your heart.

[Pouting."] She flouts me.

Ah! How more than passing strange That any little maid so hard should be,

When I a man am wax to my heart's core With one note of your voice's piercing sweet ! [Enter from right back, timidly, the two gentlemen in waiting."]

FIRST GENTLEMAN

[Humbly.'] My Lord of Southampton, the hour is late.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Indeed, we fear Lord Burleigh's wrath, my Lord.

The while this woodland hind stands parleying.

I'll keep my promise, and I will come now. [The two gentlemen look at Shakespeare

rudely.] Salute this gentleman. He is my friend. He gave me these sweet flowers and he

speaks

Something as does the Queen, when she commands

And every one obeys.

[The gentlemen unwillingly bow, removing their hats, and Shakespeare returns the bow carelessly but with equal courtesy, Southampton holds out his hand to Shakespeare who takes it in his and kisses it J]

You have been kind

To me — I wish I could be kind to you !

Remember me, when to your Fairyland

You come.

[Exit Southampton and the two gentlemen in waiting at right back. Shakespeare stands gazing after them as if in a dream. The sun-light has grown dimmer and more golden. *A crackling sound is heard in the bushes by the stream at left back. Shakespeare draws his hand over his eyes as if he were waking from sleep. Then with his gun in his hand, held ready to shoot, he steals swiftly and silently to the stream and crouches down by the bushes, in sight of the audience, close to where the sound is still heard. A pause.}

[Speaks softly.]

It is a doe! I'm sorry for't. I can't betray the curious innocence Of those broad brows, that gentle, liquid

gaze.

I'll catch it with a noose and take it home; And when my father's hunger's fierce within

him, If that he will, he'll kill it for himself. So — So —

[He unlooses a rope slung with his fishing tackle and making a noose throws it and catches the doe and leads it toward the front centre of the stage.

From the back, from behind the most distant trees, Tavemer and Bailly rush forward and catch Shakespeare by the arms. Shakespeare still holding the leash flings them both off and with the doe runs to back. Bailly puts his whistle to his lips and whistles once loudly. ]

[Laughing as he begins to run, after throwing off the two men!\

A merry chase! Your sturdy legs Against my long ones!

{Immediately after Bailly blows his whistle, three or four constables and yeomen run forward from behind the trees at back. Shakespeare sees them and turns abruptly to left. Bailly whistles a second time and two or three more appear from left near the stream. Shakespeare turns to right but as he runs toward it Bailly whistles a third time and several more run forward at right. All surround Shakespeare.']

Ah! I'm caught! I'm caught! [He struggles with the men and throws them off.] The odds against me are by far too strong. But you, at least, shall go unhurt and free. Go little Gentleness!

[He releases doe and pushes it toward left back toward the stream. The doe slips between the yeomen and disappears at the same spot where it first appeared. Taverner has been scrambling to his feet and rubbing his back and head. He rushes forward as the men again seize Shakespeare.]

Disarm him! Bind him! [To Shakespeare, shaking his fist in his face.]

You Infamy! You murderous young Fiend!

You threw me down! Flung me, a man of Place

Upon the ground! Bind him without delay. [The men hesitate and then tie Shakespeare's hands behind his back, after taking his gun, etc., from him. Shakespeare submits. He wears an expression of alert but impersonal irtr terest in what is happening.']

[Coming forward.] Why do you bind him? He cannot escape.

A CONSTABLE

'T was Master Taverner commanded us.

That's foolishness. Unbind forthwith his hands.

[To Taverner.] It shames strong men to bind a slender youth.

[The men obey.]

[Smiles. To Bailly."] Why, Sir, you have a fine sense of proportion, And I thank you.

[He shakes hands with several of the men in succession.']

Well met Colin, — Robin — Tame hunting for you, friends, with twenty

hounds Full cry upon a solitary hare!

[Enter hastily Sir Thomas Lucy from back, accompanied by a farm bailiff, yeomen and huntsmen. All make way for him. He looks about the group and sees Shakespeare.]

Sir Thomas Lucy !

[To Bailly.]

You have trapped your stag!

Your whistles borne upon the evening air

Came to the open meadows where I walk At close of day, and told the game was

caught. [Goes to Shakespeare and speaks

sternly. ] Your thieving vagabondage now shall cease. No more in Stratford nor in Charlecote Park Shall you, a public nuisance, go at large. You shall be whipt again, — prisoned again, — And when your term of durance has an end You shall be banished from this country

side To wander outlawed in some distant land.

[Earnestly, as if agreeing with hint.] Most wisely said! Yet sterner than is needful. [While Sir Thomas speaks, Anne Hathaway has re-entered at left, followed by Sand ells and Richardson. All three look anxious and agitated. Anne hears all that Sir Thomas says. As he stops speaking she goes swiftly to Shakespeare with a cry of intense grief.]

ANNE

All this I could have saved you from ! Ah me ! [She sinks at his feet, fainting. Shakespeare and Sandells bend over her and try to revive her. One of the constables brings water from the stream in a cup.]

Who is this woman ?

'T is Anne Hathaway, Daughter of Richard Hathaway —

Of Shottery.

If memory serves me right he died last year; I held him in my high esteem and trust:

A prosperous man. — How comes his daughter here? [What is this out-at-elbow scamp to her?

Your Worship, Tis a most unlucky case. She loves him, and is fain to marry him.

His bride shall be the chain that fetters him.

[Insinuatingly.] If that your Worship would a moment hear — ! [Sir Thomas silently assents.]

'Tis one of those strange cases that defy The will of man — th' opposing of events. She loves him and is fain to marry him. She may not be turned from him. But in

truth Her mother's rich in gold and loves her child !

Anne's of full age — in fact these long years

past!

If Will were freed, she'd surely marry him. If that the penalties your Worship names Could be transformed by magic of your will To fines, that could be paid in solid coin To be disbursed for prospering the town She'd gladly pay them all. Sandells and I Come now from conference in the wood with

her.

Hearing the turmoil, we returned together.

[Who has overheard what Richardson has said, starts away from Anne Hathaway and draws near Sir Thomas and Richardson.] Enough! I'll bear my punishment alone.

[To Shakespeare. ] Silence is seeming in a prisoner.

[To Richardson, in a lower tone.]

There's wisdom in your thought; but there's

no edge In money that will clip this Eaglet's wings. [Shakespeare seems about to speak,

when Richardson silences him by a

gesture.]

[Aside to Sir Thomas.] If you will grant me, sir, a moment's speech With this unruly youth, my words may tame, Where whips and bars have maddened to more wildness.

Most willingly.

[Richardson goes to Shakespeare and draws him to front centre.]

Listen! Here is your chance. The last youth offers you. An open door

To freedom, honour, peace, prosperity.

Anne's heart is yours, why not your life for her?

Her mother will consent, to silence tongues.

If these things do not move your will perverse,

Bent on mere wantonness of idling sport; —

Think of your Father where he mourning sits,

Bereft of place and fortune ere life's close.

Before it be too late repair his loss,

And bring a happy end to all this pain.

[Shakespeare listens with close but impersonal attention.']

I would these things could move me; they dp not. [At this moment Anne wakens from her faint and moans. Richardson goes to her and Shakespeare turns to look.]

ANNE

Alas, Will!

[Shakespeare starts, goes to her, and bends over her. Anne looks up at him piteously and speaks with intensity. .] Banished. Then life's stopped for me !

So let me die.

[Shakespeare looks at her with profound pity. Then he slowly moves away from her toward front. As Anne sees him go she moans again, holds out her hands toward him with a desperate movement and then sinks back in apparent unconsciousness. Shakespeare stands in front looking forward."]

Imprisoned I was free — 1 Though caged, my steps were never turned

aside From that free Highway of the Soul, whence I