Life Is a Dream Part 2

Never Ape Bore such a brow before the heavens as that-- Chain'd as you say too!--

FIFE.

Oh, that dreadful chain!

ROS.

And now he sets the lamp down by his side, And with one hand clench'd in his tangled hair And with a sigh as if his heart would break--

(During this Segismund has entered from the fortress, with a torch.)

SEGISMUND.

Once more the storm has roar'd itself away, Splitting the crags of G.o.d as it retires; But sparing still what it should only blast, This guilty piece of human handiwork, And all that are within it. Oh, how oft, How oft, within or here abroad, have I Waited, and in the whisper of my heart Pray'd for the slanting hand of heaven to strike The blow myself I dared not, out of fear Of that Hereafter, worse, they say, than here, Plunged headlong in, but, till dismissal waited, To wipe at last all sorrow from men's eyes, And make this heavy dispensation clear.

Thus have I borne till now, and still endure, Crouching in sullen impotence day by day, Till some such out-burst of the elements Like this rouses the sleeping fire within; And standing thus upon the threshold of Another night about to close the door Upon one wretched day to open it On one yet wretcheder because one more;-- Once more, you savage heavens, I ask of you-- I, looking up to those relentless eyes That, now the greater lamp is gone below, Begin to muster in the listening skies; In all the s.h.i.+ning circuits you have gone About this theatre of human woe, What greater sorrow have you gazed upon Than down this narrow c.h.i.n.k you witness still; And which, did you yourselves not fore-devise, You registered for others to fulfil!

FIFE.

This is some Laureate at a birthday ode; No wonder we went rhyming.

ROS.

Hus.h.!.+ And now See, starting to his feet, he strides about Far as his tether'd steps--

SEG.

And if the chain You help'd to rivet round me did contract Since guiltless infancy from guilt in act; Of what in aspiration or in thought Guilty, but in resentment of the wrong That wreaks revenge on wrong I never wrought By excommunication from the free Inheritance that all created life, Beside myself, is born to--from the wings That range your own immeasurable blue, Down to the poor, mute, scale-imprison'd things, That yet are free to wander, glide, and pa.s.s About that under-sapphire, whereinto Yourselves transfusing you yourselves engla.s.s!

ROS.

What mystery is this?

FIFE.

Why, the man's mad: That's all the mystery. That's why he's chain'd-- And why--

SEG.

Nor Nature's guiltless life alone-- But that which lives on blood and rapine; nay, Charter'd with larger liberty to slay Their guiltless kind, the tyrants of the air Soar zenith-upward with their screaming prey, Making pure heaven drop blood upon the stage Of under earth, where lion, wolf, and bear, And they that on their treacherous velvet wear Figure and constellation like your own, With their still living slaughter bound away Over the barriers of the mountain cage, Against which one, blood-guiltless, and endued With aspiration and with apt.i.tude Transcending other creatures, day by day Beats himself mad with unavailing rage!

FIFE.

Why, that must be the meaning of my mule's Rebellion--

ROS.

Hus.h.!.+

SEG.

But then if murder be The law by which not only conscience-blind Creatures, but man too prospers with his kind; Who leaving all his guilty fellows free, Under your fatal auspice and divine Compulsion, leagued in some mysterious ban Against one innocent and helpless man, Abuse their liberty to murder mine: And sworn to silence, like their masters mute In heaven, and like them twirling through the mask Of darkness, answering to all I ask, Point up to them whose work they execute!

ROS.

Ev'n as I thought, some poor unhappy wretch, By man wrong'd, wretched, unrevenged, as I!

Nay, so much worse than I, as by those chains Clipt of the means of self-revenge on those Who lay on him what they deserve. And I, Who taunted Heaven a little while ago With pouring all its wrath upon my head-- Alas! like him who caught the cast-off husk Of what another bragg'd of feeding on, Here's one that from the refuse of my sorrows Could gather all the banquet he desires!

Poor soul, poor soul!

FIFE.

Speak lower--he will hear you.

ROS.

And if he should, what then? Why, if he would, He could not harm me--Nay, and if he could, Methinks I'd venture something of a life I care so little for--

SEG.

Who's that? Clotaldo? Who are you, I say, That, venturing in these forbidden rocks, Have lighted on my miserable life, And your own death?

ROS.

You would not hurt me, surely?

SEG.

Not I; but those that, iron as the chain In which they slay me with a lingering death, Will slay you with a sudden--Who are you?

ROS.

A stranger from across the mountain there, Who, having lost his way in this strange land And coming night, drew hither to what seem'd A human dwelling hidden in these rocks, And where the voice of human sorrow soon Told him it was so.

SEG.

Ay? But nearer--nearer-- That by this smoky supplement of day But for a moment I may see who speaks So pitifully sweet.

FIFE.

Take care! take care!

ROS.

Alas, poor man, that I, myself so helpless, Could better help you than by barren pity, And my poor presence--

SEG.

Oh, might that be all!

But that--a few poor moments--and, alas!

The very bliss of having, and the dread Of losing, under such a penalty As every moment's having runs more near, Stifles the very utterance and resource They cry for quickest; till from sheer despair Of holding thee, methinks myself would tear To pieces--

FIFE.

There, his word's enough for it.

SEG.

Oh, think, if you who move about at will, And live in sweet communion with your kind, After an hour lost in these lonely rocks Hunger and thirst after some human voice To drink, and human face to feed upon; What must one do where all is mute, or harsh, And ev'n the naked face of cruelty Were better than the mask it works beneath?-- Across the mountain then! Across the mountain!

What if the next world which they tell one of Be only next across the mountain then, Though I must never see it till I die, And you one of its angels?

ROS.

Alas; alas!

No angel! And the face you think so fair, 'Tis but the dismal frame-work of these rocks That makes it seem so; and the world I come from-- Alas, alas, too many faces there Are but fair vizors to black hearts below, Or only serve to bring the wearer woe!

But to yourself--If haply the redress That I am here upon may help to yours.

I heard you tax the heavens with ordering, And men for executing, what, alas!

I now behold. But why, and who they are Who do, and you who suffer--

SEG. (pointing upwards).

Ask of them, Whom, as to-night, I have so often ask'd, And ask'd in vain.

ROS.

But surely, surely--

SEG.

Hark!