The city of the plague, and other poems

Contents

The City op the Plague Page 3

Miscellaneous Poems.

The Voice of Departed Friendship.. 197

Scene I

Time, the Afternoon. — Two Naval Officers walking along the banks of the Thames* — They sit down on a stone seat fronting the river.

Frankfort. My heart feels heavier every step I take Towards the city. Oh ! that I could drop Down like a bird upon its nest, at once Into my mother's house. There might my soul Find peace, even 'raid the silent emptiness That told me she had perish'd.

Wilmot. All around

Appears so bright, so tranquil, and so calm, That happy omens rise on every side, To strengthen and support us in our fears.

Frank. Oh Wilmot ! to my soul a field of graves/ A church-yard filled with marble monuments.

4 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act 1.

Profoundly hush'd in death's own sanctity, Seems not more alien to the voice of Hope Than that wide wilderness of domes and spires, Hanging o'er the breathless city.

Wil. See ! my friend,

How bright the sunshine dances in its joy O'er the still flow of this majestic river. I know not how, but, gazing on that light So beautiful, all images of death Fade from my roused soul, and I believe That our journey here must end in happiness.

Frank. Is it the hour of prayer ?

Wil. The evening service,

Methinks, must now be closed.

Frank. There comes no sound

Of organ-peal or choral symphony From yonder vast cathedral. How it stands Amid the silent houses, with a strange Deep silence of its own ! I could believe That many a Sabbath had pass'd prayerless on Within its holy solitude. No knee This day, methinks, hath bent before its altar.

Wil. It is a solemn pile ! yet to mine eye There rests above its massive sanctity The clear blue air of peace.

Frank. A solemn pile !

Aye ! there it stands, like a majestic ruin, Mouldering in a desert 5 in whose silent heart

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE.

No sound hath leave to dwell. I knew it once, When music in that chosen temple rais'd TV adoring soul to Heaven. But one dread year Hath done the work of ages 5 and the Plague Mocks in his fury the slow hand of time.

Wil. The sun smiles on its walls.

Frank. Why does the finger,

Yellow 'mid the sunshine on the Minster-clock, Point at that hour ? It is most horrible, Speaking of midnight in the face of day. During the very dead of night it stopp'd, Even at the moment when a hundred hearts Paus'd with it suddenly, to beat no more. Yet, wherefore should it run its idle round ? There is no need that men should count the hours Of time, thus standing on eternity. It is a death-like image.

Wil. I could smile

At such fantastic terrors.

Frank, ; How can I,

When round me silent Nature speaks of death, Withstand such monitory impulses ? When yet far off I thought upon the plague, Sometimes my mother's image struck my soul In unchang'd meekness and serenity, And all my fears were gone. But these green banks, With an unwonted flush of flowers overgrown, Brown, when I left them last, with frequent feet, fi THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I.

From morn till evening, hurrying to and fro, In mournful beauty seem encompassing A still forsaken city of the dead.

Wil. It is the Sabbath-day — the day of rest.

Frank. O unrejoicing Sabbath ! not of yore Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames Thus silently ! Now every sail is furl'd, The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand, And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty, River of a desert lately filled with joy 1 O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone The air is clear and cloudless as at sea Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead, And not one single wreath of smoke ascends Above the stillness of the towers and spires. How idly hangs that arch magnificent Across the idle river ! Not a speck Is seen to move along it. There it hangs, Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky.

WiL Methinks such words bespeak a soul at rest, And willing, in this universal calm, To abide, whate'er it be, the doom of Fate.

Frank, I feel as if such solemn images Of desolation had recall'd my soul From its own individual wretchedness ; As if one moment I forgot my parent, And all the friends I love, in the sublime And overwhelming presence of mortality.

Scene h THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 7

Wil. Now, that your soul feels strong, let us proceed, With humble hope, towards your mother's house.

Frank. No, friend ! here must we part ! If e'er again We meet in this sad world, thou may'st behold A wretch bow'd down to the earth by misery, Ghost-like 'mid living men ; but rest assur'd,

gentlest friend ! that, though my soul be dead To all beside, at sight of thee 'twill burn

As with the everlasting fires of joy, Bursting its bonds of mortal wretchedness.

JUL We must not — will not part.

Frank. Now, and for ever.

1 walk into yon city as the tomb !

A voice comes to me from its silent towers, " Mortal, thy days are number'd !" Ere I go, Kiss me, and promise that my name shall live Sacred for ever in thy memory.

Wil. We must not—will not part.

Frank. What said my friend ?

Wil. Here, by my father's soul (a fearless man, Who us'd to say he never lov'd his friends But in their combats with adversity,) I swear (and may we never meet in Heaven If that dread oath be broken) day and night, Long as thou sojourn'st on thy work of love Within this plague- struck city, at thy side To move for ever an attending shadow ; Amid the silence or the shrieks of death,

Serene in unappalled confidence,

That thou wilt walk unharm'd, wilt find the house

Of thy parent, and her holy family

Pass'd over by the angel of the Lord !

For the blessings of the poor have sanctified

The widow's lowly porch — life still is there.

Frank. O friend ! most cruel from excess of love ! In all the beauty of thy untam'd spirit Thou walkest to perdition. Do not I Look, as I feel, most like thy murderer ? Return unto our ship.

Wil. Frankfort, remember

When the wild cry, " A man is overboard," Rung through our decks, till dumb and motionless Stood the whole crew, fear-stricken by the storm. Who at that moment leapt into the sea, And seiz'd the drowning screamer by the hair ? Who was that glorious being ? Who the wretch Then rescued from the waves ? I lov'd thee well Before I hung upon thy saving arm Above the angry waves. But, from that hour, I felt my soul call'd on by Providence To dedicate itself for aye to thee, And God's will must be done.

Frank. Wilmot, dost think

My mother can be living ?

Wil. The soul oft feels

Mysterious presence of realities

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE.

Coming we know not whence, yet banishing With power omnipotent all misgiving fears. So feel I at this moment — she is living.

Frank. O God forbid ! that I should place belief In these dim sj^idowings of futurity. Here, on this very spot where now we rest, Upon the morning I last sail'd from England, My mother put her arms around my neck, And in a solemn voice, unchok'd by tears, Said, " Son ! a last farewell !" That solemn voice, Amid the ocean's roaring solitude, Oft past across my soul, and I have heard it Steal in sad music from the sunny calm. Upon our homeward voyage, when we spake The ship that told us of the Plague, I knew That the trumpet's voice would send into our souls Some dismal tidings ; for I saw her sails Black in the distance, flinging off with scorn A shower of radiance from the blessed sun, As if her crew would not be comforted. . Wil. The weakness of affection, prone to fear ! Be comforted by me — my very dreams Of late have all been joyous.

Frank. Joyous dreams !

My hours of sleep are now but few indeed, Yet what have I still dreamt of ? healthful faces, Round a sweet fire- side, bright with gratitude ? The soft voice of domestic happiness ?

Laughter disturbing with the stir of joy

The reveries of the spirit? — Oh ! my friend !

Far other sounds and sights have fill'd my dreams !

Still noiseless floors, untrod by human feet;

Chairs standing rueful in their emptiness £

An unswept hearth chok'd up by dust and ashes ;

Beds with their curtains idly hanging down

Unmov'd by the breath of life ; wide open windows

That the fresh air might purify the room

From vapours of the noisome pestilence ;

In a dark chamber, ice-cold like a tomb,

A corpse laid out — O God ! my mother's corpse

Woefully altered by a dire decay ;

While my stunn'd spirit shudder'd at the toll,

The long, slow, dreary, sullen, mortal toll

Of a bell swinging to the hand of death.

But this is idle raving — hope is gone—

And fears and apprehensions, day and night,

Drive where they will my unresisting soul.

Wil. But that it is day-light, I could believe That yonder, moving by the river side, Came on a ghost. Did ever eye behold A thing so death-like in the shape of man ?

[An old man of a miserable and squalid appearance

comes tip, carrying an infant in his arms.~] Frank. God's blessing on thee ! wilt thou rest, old

man, Upon this traveller's seat ?

*

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 11

Old Man, God's blessing on thee !

What, dost thou mean to taunt with mockery An old man tottering to the grave ? What pleasure Can ye young wretches find in scoffing thus At the white hfcid of hunger'd beggary ? Have ye no fathers ? Well it is for them That their dry hearts are spar'd the bitterness Of seeing, in the broad and open day, Their reckless children sporting with old age.

Frank. Father, judge kindly of us.

Old Man, Let me go

Untroubled on my w*ay. Do you pity me ? Then give me alms : this thing upon my arm Is teasing me for food : I have it not — Give me your alms.

Frank. See ! here is bread, old man j

I ask your blessing — come you from the city, And none-to guide your steps along the brink Of this great river ?

Old Man. Yea ! they all are dead

Who once did walk with me most lovingly, Slowlier than these slow steps. This piece of wood, This staff, is all I have to lean on now, And this poor baby, whom its nurse would give For a short pastime to his grandsire's arms, No other nurse hath now, but wither'd age- Sour, sullen, hopeless, God-forsaken age.

Frank, Is the Plague raging ?

Old Man. Aye, and long will rage.

The judgments of the prophets of old time Are now fulfilling. Young men turn and flee From the devoted city. Would ye hear What now is passing in yon monster's teart ?

Frank. We listen to thy voice.

Old Man. Three months ago

Within my soul I heard a mighty sound As of a raging river, day and night Triumphing through the city : 'twas the voice Of London sleepless in magnificence. This morn I stood and listen'd. x< Art thou dead, Queen of the world !" I ask'd my awe-struck heart, And not one breath of life amid the silence Disturbed the empire of mortality. Death's icy hand hath frozen, with a touch, The fountain of the river that made glad The City of the Isle!

Frank. We hear thy voice.

Old Man. Sin brought the judgment : it was terrible. Go read your Bible, young men ; hark to him Who, in a vision, saw the Lion rage Amid the towers of Judah, while the people Fell on their faces, and the hearts of kings Perish'd, and prophets wonder'd in their fear. Then came the dry wind from the wilderness, Towards the hill of Sion, not to fan

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 13

Or cleanse, but, whirlwind-like, to sweep away The tents of princes and the men of war.

Frank. Wilmot ! methinks most like an ancient prophet, With those white locks and wild unearthly eyes, He comes forth from the desolated city, A man who cannot die. O may I ask, Most reverend father, if

Old Man. Hush! hush! lie still !—

Didst hear this infant cry ? So small a sound Ought not to startle thus a wretch who comes From a three-months' sojourn in a sepulchre. Here ! infant, eat this bread, and hold thy peace. Young men, disturb me not with foolish questions ; Your faces are towards the city : Will ye dare The monster in his den ? Then go and die ! Two little drops amid a shower of rain, Swallowed up in a moment by the heedless earth.

Frank. I fain would ask one question ; for, old man, My parent lived in London, and I go To seek her in that city of the tombs.

Old Man. Think of her with the dead ! A ship at sea (Methinks I speak unto a mariner) Goes to the bottom. Would you hope to find Your friend alone, of all the fated crew, Alive on a plank next day amid the waves ? Think of her with the dead ! and praise the Lord !

Wilmot. Let us begone, the day is wearing fast.

Old Man. Know ye what you will meet with in the city ?

Together will ye walk, through long, long streets, All standing silent as a midnight church. You will hear nothing but the brown red grass Rustling beneath your feet ; the very beating Of your own hearts will awe you ; the small voice Of that vain bauble, idly counting time, Will speak a solemn language in the desert. Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight, As if the Spirit of the plague dwelt there, Darkening the city with the shadows of death. Know ye that hideous hubbub ? Hark, far off A tumult like an echo ! on it comes, Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer ; And louder than all outrageous blasphemy. The passing storm hath left the silent streets. But are these houses near you tenantless ? Over your heads from a window, suddenly A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death With voice not human. Who is he that flies, As if a demon dogg'd him on his path ? With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes, Raving, he rushes past you ; till he falls, As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones, Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall, Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof, 1

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 15

And let the Pest's triumphal chariot

Have open way advancing to the tomb.

See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry

Of earthly kings ! A miserable cart,

Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along

By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies !

And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch,

Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,

Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.

Would you look in ? Grey hairs and golden tresses,

Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smil'd for years ;

And many a rosy visage smiling still ;

Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,

With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone ;

And youthful frames, august and beautiful,

In spite of mortal pangs, — there lie they all

Embrac'd in ghastliness ! But look not long,

For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there.

The well known cheek of some beloved friend

Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand,

Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.

Let me sit down beside ycu. I am faint

Talking of horrors that I look'd upon

At last without a shudder.

Frank. Give me the child.

Old Man. Let the wretch rest. 'Twas but a passing pang, And I feel strong again. Dost smile, poor babe ?

Yes ! Thou art glad to see the full-orb'd eye,

The placid cheek, and sparkling countenance

Of ruddy health once more 5 and thou wouldst go

With them thy young heart thinks so beautiful,

Nor ever look behind at the old man

Who brought thee from the grave ! Sweet thoughtless

wretch, I cling to thee with a more desperate love Because of thy ingratitude.

Frank. Old man,

Is thy blood in his veins ?

Old Man. All dead—all dead !

Round the baptismal font with awe we knelt, My four sweet daughters and their loving husbands. I held my last-born grandchild in my arms, But as the hallow'd water touch'd her face, Even then she sicken'd, and a mortal paleness Froze every parent's cheek. * The Plague is here," The priest exclaim'd ; and like so many ghosts, We parted in the church-yard. O my God ! I know that Thou in wrath art merciful, For Thou hast spar'd this babe for my old age ! But all who knelt round that baptismal font Last Sabbath morning — one short week ago— Are dead and buried — save one little child, And a grey-headed man of fourscore years.

Frank. I dare not comfort thee.

Old Man. Why not, sweet youth !

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 1/

Thy very voice is comfort — my dim eyes Look on thee like a vision of delight Coming back in beauty from th' abyss of years* Let me hear thy voice once more !

Frank. Father ! that book

With whose worn leaves the careless infant plays Must be the Bible. Therein thy dim eyes Will meet a cheering light, and silent words Of mercy breath 'd from heaven, will be exhal'd From the blest page into thy wither'd heart. The grace of God go with thee.

Old Man. Gentle youth !

Thy voice reminds me of a boy who died Thirty long years ago. Thou wilt pass on, And we must meet no more ; yet could I think Thou wert my son returning from the grave, Or from some far-off land where he had gone And left us to our tears.

Frank. They are not lost

Who leave their parents for the calm of heaven. Forgive a young man speaking thus to age, 'Tis done in love and reverence.

Old Man. Tis the Bible !

I know and feel it is a blessed book, And I remember how it stopp'd my tears In days of former sorrows, like some herb Of sovereign virtue to a wound applied. But thou wilt pity me, when I confess

That ofttimes more than mortal agony

Shoots through my heart, when the most holy words

Of Jesus shine before me. There I see

Miracles of mercy and of saving love :

The widow sings for joy, — deliverance

Comes to the madman howling in his chains,—

And life stirs in the tomb. I shut the book,

And wonder where I am ; for all around me

Looks as if God had left this woeful earth

To ruin and despair, while his own word

Doth seem delusion, or with fearful doubts

My soul disturbs in sore perplexity.

To the Hebrew prophecies my spirit turns,

And feeds on wailing lamentations,

And dim forebodings of Almighty wrath.

Yea ! often do I see this very Plague

By these wild seers foretold, and all their songs

So doleful speak unto my ringing ear

Of this dread visitation. Idle dreams

Of my old crazed brain ! But aye they haunt me,

And each plain phrase is cloth'd with mystic meaning

In spite of reason ; sad bewildering !

When still the soul keeps fighting with its fetters,

Yet hugs them self-impos'd.

Frank. Such dreams will vanish

When the sweet rural air, or breeze from the sea Sings round thee. Art thou going to a home Where wife or child expect thee ?

Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 19

Old Man. Hush, sweet babe.

There is a dwelling on the lone sea-shore Where I will carry thee. — An Angel's voice Told me to leave the city. You will see her, The Angel of the poor ! Through every street The radiant Creature walks

Wil. to frank. Though dark his brain,

It has, thou seest, a heavenly visitor, That comfort brings when reason's self is gone.

Old Man. 'Tis no delusion. When you see her face, Her pale face smiling on you suddenly, Pale almost as the raiment that she wears, And hear her voice, all one low mournful tone,. Charming away despair, then will ye say " The Angel this of whom the old man spake ;" Yet something lying far within her eyes Will tell that she is mortal. — Fare ye well ! But list ! sweet youths ! where'er ye go, beware Of those dread dwellings all round A ldgate- church, For to me it seemeth that most dismal pile Is the black Palace of the Plague, and none May pass it by and live. God bless you both.

\The Old Man passes on.~]

Frank. His words have sent a curse into my heart. The miserable spoke of misery Even with his parting farewell. Aldgate-church ! Wil. He passeth like a shadow from the city ! - A solemn traveller to the world of spirits.

Methought his hollow and unearthly voice Came from the desolation of his soul Like the wind at midnight moaning past our ship, A ghastly sound once heard and never more. - — Frankfort speak to me.

Frank. All round Aldgate-church !

Said he not so ? Close to that church-yard wall My mother's dwelling stands : her bed-room window Looks o'er the grave- stones and the marble tombs. — All hope is dead within me.

Wil. Shall I go

And ask the old man if he knows your mother, Perhaps

Frank. Oh ! ask him not, an hour, will bring us In presence of the house where I was born. I wish he had staid with us yet a while, For his voice held me in captivity, Wild voice and haggard cheek. He heeded not Me or my sorrow — in his misery Both blind and deaf, without the help of age. Methinks I see the cold wet tombstone lying Upon my father's grave — another name, " Mary his wife," is graven

Wil. All have not perish'd.

Frank. What, hoping still I Come, let us onwards walk With heads uncover'd, and with prostrate souls, Unto the humbled city of despair. Amid the roar of ocean-solitude

Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 21

God hath been with us, and his saving hand Will be our anchor in this dreadful calm, This waveless silence of the sea of death.

SCENE II.

A great square in the city. — A multitude of miserable men and women crowding round a person of a wild and savage appearance, dressed in a fantastical garb, with an hour-glass in his hand.

Astrologer. The sun is going down, and when he sets, You know my accursed gift of prophecy Departeth from me, and I then become Blind as my wretched brethren. Then the Plague Riots in darkness 'mid his unknown victims, Nor can I read the names within his roll Now register'd in characters of blood. Come to me all ye wearied who would rest, Who would exchange the fever's burning pillow For the refreshing coolness of the grave ! Come hither all ye orphans of a day, And I will tell you when your heads shall rest Upon your parents' bosoms. Yearn ye not To clasp their shroudless bodies, and to lie In the dark pit by love made beautiful ! Where are ye veiled widows ? in the tomb The marriage-lamp doth burn unquenchably. Dry up your tears, fair virgins ! to the grave Betrothed in your pure simplicity !

22 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act £

Still is one countenance beautiful in death, And it will lean to-night upon a breast White with the snows of perfect innocence. —I call upon the wicked ! let him shew His face among the crowd, and I will tell him His dreams of horror and his works of sin.

\_A man of a fierce and ferocious aspect advances from the crowd.'] Stranger. I ask thee not, thou juggling driveller, Whether the Plague hath fix'd his eyes on me, Determin'd to destroy^ Let them who fear Death and his pit, with pale beseeching hands Buy with their monies the awards of fate, And die in poverty. Thou speak'st of guilt, And know'st forsooth each secret deed of sin Done in the dark hour. Tell me, driveller ! Where I, who lay no claim to honesty, Came by this gold. I'll give thee half of it If thou speak'st truly. Was there robbery ?

Astrologer. Flee murderer ! from my sight ! I touch thy gold ! 'Twould stain my fingers ! See the blood-gouts on it. Hither thou com'st in savage hardihood, Yet with a beating heart. I saw thee murder himj What were his silver hairs, his tremulous voice, His old blind eyes to thee ! — Ha ! shrinking off, Aw'd by a driveller ! Seize the murderer !

Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 23

You will find the bloody knife-

[ The man rushes off, and all make "way for him,'] Astrologer. Mine eyes at once

Did read the murderer's soul.

Voice from the crowd. Guilt nor disease

Are hidden from his ken — he knows them all.

[Two women advance eagerly from the crowd.'] 1st Woman. Listen to me before that woman speaks. . I went this morning to my lover's house, Mine own betrothed husband, who had come From sea two days ago. The house was empty - 9 As the cold grave that longeth for its coffin 'Twas damp and empty ; and I shriek'd in vain On him who would not hear. Tell me his fate, Say that he lives, or say that he is dead — But tell me, — tell me, lest I curse my God, Some tidings of him ; should'st thou see him lying Even in yon dreadful pit. Do you hear ? speak, speak ! O God ! — no words can be so terrible As that mute face whose blackness murders hope, And freezes my sick soul. Heaven's curse light on thee, For that dumb mockery of a broken heart !

Astrologer. I see him not, some cloud envelopes him ! Woman. He hath left the city then, and gone on shipboard ?

Astrologer. I see him not, some cloud envelopes him ! Woman, What ! hast thou not a wond'rous glass that shews

Things past, or yet to come ? give me one look. That I may see his face so beautiful, Where'er it be ; or in that ghastly pit, Or smiling 'mid his comrades on the deck, While favouring breezes waft his blessed ship Far from the Plague, to regions of delight Where he may live for ever.

Astrologer. Is your lover

A tall thin youth, with thickly-clustering locks, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing ?

Woman. Yes ! he is tall — I think that he is tall, His hair it is dark-brown— yes, almost black — Many call it black — you see him ? Does he live ?

Astrologer. That pit containeth many beautiful J But thy sailor in his warlike garb doth lie Distinguish'd o'er the multitude of dead I And all the crowd, when the sad cart was emptied, Did weep and sob for that young mariner ; Such corpse, they thought, should have been buried Deep in the ocean's heart, and a proud peal Of thunder roll'd above his sinking coffin.

PVoman, (distractedly.) Must I believe him ? off^ off to the pit !

One look into that ghastliness, — one plunge: None ever lov'd me but my gentle sailor, And his sweet lips are cold — I will leap down.

[She rushes madly away."]

Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 25

Voice from the crowd. Aye, she intends to look before she leaps ; Well — life is life — I would not part with it For all the girls in Christendom. Forsooth !

2d Woman. Say! will my child recover from the Plague ?

Astrologer. Child ! foolish woman ! now thou hast no child.

Hast thou not been from home these two long hours, Here listening unto that which touch'd thee not, And left'st thou not thy little dying child, Sitting by the fire, upon a madman's knee ? Go home ! and ask thy husband for thy child ! The fire was burning fierce and wrathfuily, Its father knew not that the thing he held Upon his knee had life— and when it shriek'd, Amid the flames, he sat and look'd at it, With fixed eyeballs, and a stony heart. Unnatural mother ! worse than idiotcy To leave a baby in a madman's lap, And yet no fetters from infanticide To save his murderous hands.

Woman, (rushing away. J O God ! O God !