Classic Poem

SCENE IX. — A Cell in Dunley Tower, lighted by a lamp .

Zebra and P HILIP DE V ALMA . D E V ALMA slumbering against the wall , Zebra pacing up and down the cell .

P HIL . ( starting up ) Mercy! me, me!
Z EB . Why, what a frenzy's this?
P HIL . Zebra, is't thou? Is this the world of spirits
That we are in?
Z EB . D'ye think to cheat yourself
Out of a fact so literal as the gallows,
And a hemp cord to hang thee by the throat?
Is that a fact so vague as not to be
Sharp known when come to?
P HIL . Ah! thou'rt Zebra still,
And we are still on earth: these jeers are heard
In the light upper time, and nowhere else.
But what a change on you! you look like one
Tight-drawn and earnest for some terrible feat.
Z EB . Say you so, man?
P HIL . In that confused world,
Which I had swooned into, came a soft light,
And shaped itself into my brother's face,
Looking upon me with his candid eyes.
I tried to kiss him, but I could not. Then
The countenance waxed severe, and went from me
Back into night away, evanishing
In a thin haze of blood: So do I guess
My brother's angry that I've done the things
For which I'm here this night. I'm the last child
Of a lost house! Me, the fell Dogs of Fate
Have hunted from my cradle; and they'll bay me
Down unto death, thrusting their very muzzles,
Sharpened, drawn out with keenness, through the bars
Of the Pale Gate, to catch at me; the glare
Of penal fires within, or the soft gleam
Of creatures clad in light, striking the while
Out on their haggard jaws, gnashing to have me!
Could I delve back into the dark of time,
And see from what foul root, be it of incest,
Or bloody banquet, or what else is ranker
In the abuse of nature, this black crop
Of judgments has grown up against our race!
Z EB . Of course, you lay on Fate, that good old, black,
Broad, curly, burly-fronted scape-goat,
Your own heart-hunger after Thomas of Wold,
Under whose thick tumultuous setting-on,
Morn, noontide, night, you dogged his steps,
Went where he went, still gazing on his face
With eager look that seemed to ask an alms;
But ah! could never strike — being carried past
The sharp clear doing of the definite act,
By the o'ercrowding and o'ermastering fulness
Of the impulse that possessed you?
P HIL . Have I not struck? Have I not reached him wholly?
Said you not so? If not, I'll do it yet.
Z EB . Our day for that is past.
P HIL . Is't so? Ah me!
Say you so utterly? Is there no way
To flee from this? No hope? Would the dread moment
Were past, or never came! What's the hour now?
Z EB . Dial nor clock is here, save thy pale face:
It goes to strike Despair Let them come on,
I'll laugh on their beards, and show them a neat trick.
P HIL . What's death to thee, who car'st for nought beyond
The pang o' the moment? Pain with its keen feelers,
Twigs of split nerves, and forked hairs of anguish,
Being life's guardian, was not meant to be
A trifling thing; but yet is it a trifle
To blank obstruction, or that dread Hereafter
For evil spirits. I was made to see,
And tremble to the alarms of utmost nature,
And —
Z EB . Need more of my gold? Is thy wine out?
But hark, they come. My pretty Imp of Death,
Have thou the start o' them!

Enter a Soldier.

S OLD . All's right, I see.
P HIL . How fares it with you, Zebra?
Z EB . Darkness have me,
Body and soul! Good-night!