_The margin of the Hudson at West Point. Fort Putnam and the Highlands
in the distance. A flag is fluttering on the fort. The orchestra
represents the level of the river shore, upon which level the_ Chorus
_will enter. The characters of the drama appear on a bank or platform,
slightly raised above the orchestra and_ Chorus. _At the opening of
the play_ Father Hudson _is upon the scene. He reclines in the centre
of the stage in the attitude of a river-god. The nook or couch in
which he rests is situated between the two levels, as it were in an
angle of the river bank. His position is such that he can, by turning
his head, either watch the personages on the stage, or address the_
Chorus _on the river margin. He is so painted and disposed as not to
attract attention when the play opens, but to appear rather as a part
of the scenery and decoration._
_First Picket_. Uneasy has been my watch. Dark have been my
forebodings, standing first on one foot and then on the other, through
the night hours, preyed upon by visions, holding my eyelids open by my
will, while strange thoughts like vultures over their carrion, wheeling
about above me, assail me, tear me with their beaks and talons. Dark
looms the cloud bank through the black portals of the river. The fog
holds the bleared eyes of the morning. And I, stiff with watching,
suspect some evil. Some foul play is in the mountains, stalking in the
shadows of the dawn. Would God the releasing trumpet would blow and
the flag flutter on the mountain side, and that I might find all well!
General Washington is on a journey. Would God he were returned! [_The
sound of a bugle is heard._] Blow, blessed bugle! Blow to the rising
Sun! Blow to the dayspring of Liberty, to the new nation rising calmly
above the dangers that beset her dawn. Blow bugle, and scatter the
night-thoughts of terror!
[_Enter the relieving_ Picket.] Who goes there?
_Second Picket_. A friend and thy relief.
Our post is changed;
The pickets are extended up the hills,
And this low post abandoned.
_First Picket_. That is strange,
To leave the river front without a watch!
If we expect attack, attack must come
Along the river,----
_Second Picket_. Comrade, spare your brains,
And take your orders. [_Exeunt_ Pickets.]
_Father Hudson_. Daughters of the sky, ye clouds of the morning,
Replenishers of my veins, ye purple, wandering clouds!
And you, ye waves that lap my feet, far-traveling,
restless, endlessly moving!
Thralls of the circling ocean, waves of the sea--
Attend your Father Hudson, the Ageless, the Majestic!
Calling to you, his sons and daughters, summoning you at his need.
Stoop, daughters of ether, ye clouds of the mountains!
Rise, sons of the sea, most ancient retainers,
Flow towards your father's need! the River calls--
Father Hudson summons his children.
[_Enter simultaneously_ Chorus of Waves, (_men_) _on one side, and on
the other,_ Chorus of Clouds (_women_). _They flock slowly into the
orchestra, approaching each other, and sing as they assemble._]
_Both Choruses_. Father Hudson, we are coming, we are streaming,
we are foaming
From the sky and from the earth,
Down the mountains,
Through the fountains,
We are streaming, steaming forth;
We, the children of your will,
Born to serve you, and to fill
All your banks and all your margin
With the fulness of enlarging,
With the plentitude of rivers,
We, the generous water-givers,
Overflowing, bubbling, swelling,
Feed you with our rich upwelling.
_Chorus of Men_. From Monadnock and Mount Washington--
And where the haughty deer on Hudson's Bay
Sniffs the north wind, We bring you Mist.
_Chorus of Women_. From the rank lowlands of the Delaware,
And from the even margin of low sand,
Where the Atlantic smites the continent, We bring you Salt.
_Chorus of Men_. From Sicily and the Cumaean Cave,
And from the mountains where Apollo's shafts
Whitened the hillsides once, We bring you Thought.
_Chorus of Women_. From the dark heart of man that scorns the light,
From Wisdom, found in Meekness through Despair, We bring you Grief.
_Both Choruses_. Haste to where our father dwells!
We the movers, we the rovers,
Come to your eternal dwelling.
Ancient father, we will bring
News and thought of everything,
From the mossy citadels,
And the cities of the sea;
Timeworn tales of prophecy
We are bringing in our singing
To your newer Majesty.
To your destiny belated,
Young and unsophisticated,
We, the children of the ages,
Bring the solemn heritages,--
Force and Woe and Human Fate,--
Embittering your god-like state.
Bitter is life!
Bitter, bitter even to the gods, is life!
_Father Hudson_. Sons and daughters, sole feeders of my life,
By these new-coming white men I am destroyed.
My feet are burned in Manhattan, my thighs in the Mohawk,
While in the Adirondacks they blaze enduring ruin.
[_The leaders speak, not sing, except as otherwise noted._]
_Leader of Men_. Alas! little knows he that his kingdom is of nothing
but of change and pain.
_Leader of Women_. Foolish god that must await the baptism of humanity!
_Leader of Men_. Father! these things must be: therefore endure. Lo,
thy old trees are as grass; thy ancient summits as fresh ant-hills.
Chaldea sends thee this message, father; Egypt salutes thee; Greece
sends thee this song; a song of tribulation. For there is no short cut
to Antiquity: therefore endure.
_Father Hudson_. Woe, woe, woe is me!
_Leader of Men_. Untutored God! Mind ragged as thy hills, thou must
accept the refining pain.
_Father Hudson_. Woe, woe, woe is me!
_Leader of Women_. Peace, Father! Do not whine. Because thou hast
been spared thou art soft-minded. Because thou wast spared thou art a
child.
_Leader of Men_. When thy hills shall have been steeped for a thousand
years in history, then thou wilt be patient.
_Leader of Women_. What thou feelest is not the axe nor the
fire-brand, but the Spirit of Man moving in thy demesnes.
_Leader of Men_. Lo, where it comes! Lo, where the shadow falls!
[_Enter_ Benedict Arnold. _He is in the Uniform of an American
General. He limps._]
_Both Choruses_. A light thing is man and his suffering very little.
If he can but endure for a short time, death saves him. Lo, his
release cometh and his happiness is long.
Fame forever follows in the steps of the just man: an unending life
springs up behind him.
Children follow him: a good father's life is a lamp that burns in the
heart of the son.
How short is the struggle of the greatest hero, and how long his fame!
Save me from pride and from the expectation of praise from men.
_Arnold_. He may not come.--
What if it were a ruse to capture me?--
The whole proceeding cloaked in infamy,
And no faith in the matter?
André should be here. André is a man
Of sterling honor, and will keep his faith.
My secret's in his hand.--My change of heart
Must to His Majesty have long been known,
And he will praise me for it. Civil war
Knows no such thing as treason; change of sides,
The victory of reason in the heart,
Makes Loyalist turn Whig. Montgomery,
Richard Montgomery, was honor's darling;
And when his body fell, scaling Quebec,
Down the sheer rock it left a track of light
Which sped in opposition towards the stars
Bearing his fame. He was an officer
In the King's army ere he found our own.
Did conscience fret the gallant Irishman
To think what uniform was on his back
When he so died? What if in that assault
I had died too, my name had ranked with his
In song and monument; unfading laurels
Had shed their brazen lustre o'er our brows,
And we, like demigods, had lived forever.
Was it enough for _him_, to scale the sky
Against the slippery adamant of Fame,
And, giving youth, give all? I have done more.
All of his early prowess was mine too:
In everything I match him; and to me
Remains the hell of glory on the Lakes,
When with my hand I stopped the British fleet,--
Stayed them a year: they dreaded to come on.
And I had done it. There remain my fights
At Ridgefield, and those shortened days
At Saratoga, when the fit came on
And I knew nothing but the act of war,
And victory coming down, Victory, Victory!
'Twas I that saved them! Yes, 'twas I that saved you--
Ye little wranglers with the name of war!
I beat Burgoyne, I saved the continent,
The Continental Army and the Cause,
Washington, Congress, and the whole of you,
I saved ye,--saved ye,--and I had for it--
It chokes me still to say it--had for it--
It wakes me in the night with leaping hatred,--
Out of my bed I leap to think of it,--
Hitting me in my sleep the poison comes
And fangs my heart.--I had a _Reprimand_!
I, reprimanded by a sorry crew
Of politicians--I, I, I----!
Thus, in my heart for sixteen months of hurt,
Burns the injustice, clamors the revenge.
No, no revenge! but justice,
Nothing but justice--I'll have justice!
_Both Choruses_. Foolish is the man who thinks upon his wrongs though
they be great. The sting is in him; the poison is in himself.
Lo, he accuses others, and the deed of his death is done with his own
hand.
_Father Hudson_. What is the man disturbed about, my children?
_Leader of Men_. He is a hero and a battle-god:
The spoils and the rewards he justly won,
Others have seized, and left his haughty heart
A withered laurel.
_Father Hudson_. Surely it was wrong;
The hero should receive the hero's meed.
_Leader of Men_. The gods that made him hero had left out
The drop of meekness which preserves the rest
From self-destruction.
_Father Hudson_. Will he kill himself?
_Leader of Men_. More than a suicide.--
A living death
Takes up its habitation in his heart.
_Father Hudson_. Little I understand, but greatly pity.
You, who have mastered all philosophy,
Can surely soothe him.
_Leader of Men_. None can reach the man.
He is beyond the boundaries of speech,
And goes the paths of blindness.
Would'st thou, O Father, see the invisible,
And know what agitates your placid mind?
_Father Hudson_. Show me: I can receive it.
[_The following Invocation is sung by the_ Leader of the Women _in a
clear contralto voice._]
_Leader of Women_. Spirit of the unseen habitation,
Walking distress,
Blighting presence, Nemesis, Evil,
Good-in-Darkness,
Passing from breast to breast,
Reaching easily all men,
And the vine in the orchard,
And the thick clusters of the grape,
And the bending branches of the young peach trees,
When the south wind blows death upon their pride,--
O intimate undoing! In what form walkest thou here?
_Treason_. [_Without._] Who calls?
_Leader of Men_. One who knows thee well enough: thou need'st not hide.
[_Enter_ Treason.]
_Leader of Men_. [_To_ Father Hudson.]
Behold the unsleeping fiend that lives in him!
His name is Treason.
_Treason_. Art thou there, Benedict?
_Arnold_. [_Aside._] Why not? 'Tis Fame,
Reward, wealth, power, revenge and simple justice
All at a clap. They'll make a Lord of me,--
Pacificator of the Colonies,--
Restorer of an erring people's love
To their forgiving Sovereign. At a clap!
The key to all of this is in my hand,--
West Point; and in my other hand,
Sir Henry's promises,--money in sums,
To weigh the unweighed treasures I have sunk
For these damned ingrates.
_Treason_. Art thou there, Benedict?
_Arnold_. [_Still aside._] They took my all,
Engulfed my freely-given wealth, paid out
For their salvation; now they count the cost,
File my accounts and give me promises,--
Hopes for next year. Twas not in coin like that
I paid at Saratoga!
_Treason_. Benedict!
_Arnold._ Who art thou, spirit of the inner world?
I cannot see thee.
_Treason_. And yet you called me.
_Arnold_. No, I called thee not. I called to mind
My bullet-shattered thigh, and the hot thirst
Of fever. Did not Washington himself
Send me the sword-knots he received from France,
And Congress vote a horse caparisoned
To bear me proudly?
_Treason_. Ay; they kept back that
Which all out-weighed the rest.
_Arnold_. My rank!
My rank!
Five brigadiers promoted over me!
_Treason_. They paid with compliment.
_Arnold_. A soldier's rank
Is, as his guiding genius in the sky,
A holy thing. That rank which I had earned
They gave to striplings.
_Treason_. Pay them well for it!
_Arnold_. Leave me: I do desire to be alone.
_Treason_. Without me, Arnold, thou art not alone.
I am beside thee till thy dying breath:
When Treason leaves, he hands thee unto Death.
_Arnold_. It is not treason to preserve one's life
Among wild beasts; nor treason to demand
The reasonable payment of a debt;
Nor treason for the savior of a land--
Listen:--There was a stripling in the town
Where I was born; and this rash vigorous boy
Seized by the nose a bull, that in a fright
Had rushed aboard a crowded ferry-boat,
And held him through his plunges till he fell,
Subdued by pain. The boy for no reward,
But for the devil in him, did the thing.
But had he been a man, and sought reward,
Had he been banged about this rocking world
As I have, holding terror by the horns,
Could he not ask a pittance?--Leave me, friend.
I am exhausted, taking all the brunt
And getting kicks for pay. Nay, leave me, Sir,
The argument is over. Let me rest.
[_Sits down and tries to sleep._]
_Treason_. I'll watch beside thee.
_Father Hudson_. Can ye not calm him somewhat in his sleep?
_Leader of Men_. [_To_ Treason.] Will you not leave the man and let
him rest?
_Treason_. His sleep is mine. When waking let him rest.
_Father Hudson_. [_To_ Treason.] This is a cruel fate ye mete him out.
_Treason_. Be it your province to be merciful.
_Father Hudson_. When will ye leave the man, thou empty ghost?
_Treason_. When Treason in the flesh shall come to meet him.
_Both Choruses_. Surely it is a good thing for a hero to die in his
youth; for then is he perfect. The bark is not broken on the wand nor
the neck worn by the yoke.
Surely young men are better than old; and we praise them deservedly.
This man, a few years since, could endure reverse; but now he is broken
and worn away: his soul bows down; he cannot hold out longer.
It is a good thing when a young hero dies; for so is he safe. His
immortality is meted to him. O spare us a trial like this man's who is
on the brink of great misfortune.
_Arnold_. [_Starting up._] They have betrayed me! Who goes there?
[_Enter_ Joshua Smith. _Exit_ Treason.]
_Joshua Smith_. A friend!
_Arnold._ His name?
_Joshua Smith_. Joshua Smith. And yours?
_Arnold_. Arnold, my man. Good God! you startled me. I must have
slept. What news? Will André come?
_Joshua Smith_. He's just behind me.
All is as we planned.
The British sloop-of-war hangs in the tide.
The _Vulture_ brought him, and she waits for him
Not two miles to the south. I boarded her. With every point
Raised in your letters André is agreed;
And back of him, Sir Henry Clinton stands;
And back of _him_,--ye'll hear it now?--King George!
Packt, stamped upon, agreed, and understood,
The bargain's struck. Your hand, my Lord! Sir Benedict!
Lord Ruler Benedict, The Lord Protector of the Colonies,
And Duke of,--what you will. Young André follows.
I chased ahead to find you. Put it high!
You'll put the figure high?--I'm out of breath--
_Arnold_. I'll put it high enough to help a friend.--
No fear of that, my lad. Go rest awhile:
Stand sentinel upon the shore below.
[_Exit_ Smith. _As he goes out he indicates_ Arnold _to_ André _by a
gesture. Enter_ André. _His slender, refined, almost girlish youth is
in contrast with_ Arnold's _battle-worn, gigantic figure._]
_Arnold_. [_Aside._] At last my arrows strike!
[_To_ André.] What! Major André!
This is a crazy meeting,--somewhat strange
After your jigging nights in Philadelphia,--
A _Mischianza_, where we play a masque,
And act a drama fraught with consequence
More serious than any since the Duke
Brought back King Charles. Two true-born Englishmen,
If you'll accept my hand, shall this day place
A jewel in old England's diadem,
Which some rash spirits would shake out of it.
_André_. Have you the papers ready?
_Arnold_. They are here;
The plans of all the out-posts to the dot,
And every man on duty in the Fortress.
_André_. The general is in Hartford?
_Arnold_. And returns
Not for some days. Our garrison I'll post
Distributively on the distant hills;
While from the _Vulture_ half a thousand men
Land in the darkness. Thus without a blow,
But with the magic of a countersign,
West Point becomes your own.
_André_. Is there some house
Or tavern, where with more deliberate mind
We may o'erlook the papers, and make note
Of our exacter meanings?
_Arnold_. Close at hand,
The mansion of my agent, Joshua Smith.
_André_. Good, we'll go there. O Arnold, death is nothing;
Our lives are forfeit to our country's cause.
Which of us would not quit the world in peace
After some act that scaled the walls of time,
And stood on the rampart?
_Arnold_. Right, and bravely said! I've given my life
As many times as I have mounted horse
To reconnoitre--
_André_. But this is different, Arnold.
_Arnold_. Different, ay different! it saves men's lives:
Without a drop of blood it ends a war.
_André_. You are a veteran, and know the feel
Of imminent death. I could die bravely, too.
_Arnold_. Of course you could. All fear is bookish talk
Cooked up by writers out of literature,
To give the shudder to dyspeptic girls.
Dying is easy. Come along, my friend!
A glass of port shall cure us of such fears;
Moments like this make mirth in after years.
[_Exeunt_ Arnold _and_ André.]
_Father Hudson_. Is there no way to stop them; can ye not
Bring pause to these excited rushing men?
_Leader of Men_. Pause is unknown, as to your moving waters,
That take their God-directed, downward course,
Deaf to beseechment.
_Father Hudson_. 'Tis most pitiful.
_Both Choruses_. No, not to mirth can my voice be tuned, while these
two men converse. Often their story comes to me in the night, and
causes weeping.
One, the young troubadour, the boy poet, beloved by all, burning for
fame; and, in his innocence, he performs the mean work of a spy.
And the other, the old hero, seven times baptized with
immortality-in-action, who betrays his country out of foolishness.
To the first, death by hanging: to the second, one and twenty years of
dishonored life.
Which of them shall have most of pity? Which of them could we see
again with gladness, or greet with a gay demeanor?
The fate of the young man I deem the better; because he is young, and
because death took him in his beauty.
Strange it is what souls are woven together by destiny; and out of what
substance life is wrought.
All men become something incredible to themselves; for they are unwound
like a cocoon, and know not which way the thread doth run.
They dance like motes in the sunbeam for a moment, and then are
illumined no more. Legend takes some of them, and they become
pictures; and the rest, it would seem, enter again into nothingness.
Grant me to know the desire of mine own heart beforehand; that I may
not be deceived. Give me not much, but a true thing, and one that
lasts forever.
[_The distant sound of cannonading is heard._]
_Father Hudson_. Surely I hear a sound disquieting--
_Leader of Men_. Wait: you shall know the cause.
[_Enter hurriedly, and meeting,_ Arnold _and_ André _on one side,_
Joshua Smith _on the other._]
_Joshua Smith_. General Arnold! Major André!
_Arnold_. What is it? What has happened?
_Joshua Smith_. Colonel Livingston's redoubts on the eastern bank. He
has fired on the _Vulture_. They are exchanging shots; and the
_Vulture_ is dropping down stream. She cannot bear the fire.
_Major André_. We are lost!
_Arnold_. No, no, no; not lost, not lost. You have only to drop down
stream also. Mr. Smith goes with you; and you shall be put aboard the
vessel a few miles below. Eh, Smith?
_Joshua Smith_. Not for the world, General! It is daylight now, and
if I should be seen taking this gentleman to the _Vulture_, the Yankees
would shoot both of us.
_Arnold_. Some truth in that. But what can we do?
_Joshua Smith_. Go the other way, General. You must give a pass to
both Major André and me, allowing us to cross the river, and so on to
New York. I'll go with the Major till we reach the British lines.
It's a plain road to safety.
_André_. But my uniform--
_Arnold_. It is a case for a change of coats.
_André_. But the countrymen are swarming in every highway--
_Joshua Smith_. They are all my friends. Every rebel is my
friend;--and--harkee,--every Tory is my friend--from Peekskill to New
York! You'll be as safe as the General himself,--and much more
comfortable,--till you reach the British Headquarters.
_Arnold_. [_To_ André.] He's right, André, he's right. It's a safer
way than the other when all's said. He knows every lane in the
country. [_More firing._] Here, take the papers. And God bless you!
There's no time to lose. This pass covers all routes. The patriots
know my hand and respect it. Off with you to King's Ferry, Peekskill,
and White Plains! Off with you both! Smith has mounts for both of
you; and you'll be in the city in twelve hours. All the words have
been said: the rest is action.
_André_. [_Shaking hands with_ Arnold.] Till we meet again.
_Arnold_. [_With a gesture._] There in the fort!
Sir Henry on his horse,
And André like a Genius at his side,
Guiding the host! That flag shall fall
When next we meet: up run the British colors!
England forever! Heart, take heart, my lad!
We cannot fail. The rest is counting gains.
_André_. I think this exploit shall make England glad
When I'm in the grave.
_Arnold_. Odso! Our names shall chronicle the hills,
And school-boys learn us. Go in haste, good André!
Keep your mouth shut. Let Smith do all the talking.
These papers make you seem some Britisher,
An agent or a spy. You will be safe.
In every war are trusted underlings
Who pass from camp to camp like contraband;
Always suspected and yet always safe.
_André_. I like not such protection. Must I creep
Beneath so mean a shelter,--seem a spy?
I would to Heaven my purposes were known
To every noble nature in the earth!
_Arnold_. Off! And the nearest way!
[Smith _changes_ André's _coat._]
Success is virtue; and we mean to win.
[_Exit_ André _and _Smith.]
[_Aside._] If we should fail, good youth, for history's eye,
They'd write us up,--the traitor and the spy.
Would God some power to telescope the hours
Were lent me now! With André in New York
I am revenged, rich, powerful, respected, everything
My enemies begrudge. It cannot fail.
O for a battle now to dry this sweat
Of simple waiting! Sure, he cannot miss!
My passes run the river up and down;
And every day some messenger of mine
Reaches New York; then why not he?
If they should take him? But they _will_ not take him.
All these long months of waiting,--
And not a soul to speak to; I could roar,--
Sound it against the mountains,--that these peaks
Should bandy my intentions back and forth;
Or tell it to the talking cataracts
To ease my need of speech. An hour's patience,
Which seems as long as the preceding year,
And I shall know. [_He sits down and
falls into a contemplation; then into a doze. As he falls asleep,
enter quietly_ Treason.]
_Arnold_. [_Speaking as if out of his sleep._]
Leave me alone. Thou thing of little might!
Thou painted bogey! I am conscience-proof,
And care no more what names I may be called.
If thou cans't make this hour glide more swift,
With idle chat of owls and haunted men,
I'll take thee for a gossip. Sit you there
And hide the hour-glass. There was a time
In early boyhood, when a thing like thee
Seemed horrible, but now my mouth is dry
With other terror. Thou art a cap and bells:
Play me a ditty on a tambourine.
[_Starting up._] Who goes there?
[_Rushes to_ Smith, _who enters._]
Tell me that he is safe!
Joshua Smith. Within the lines,--
Almost within the lines,--I left the youth.
He's safe in British hands; and by his time,
Is telling his adventures to Sir Henry.
_Arnold_. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Is it not a joke, Joshua?
Ha, ha, ha!
This is a joke that shall run crackling through
America, like Samson's burning foxes.
Ha, ha, ha!--André is in New York!
A spasm of joy; and yet it pains my leg.
Your hand, my friend. The laughter comes again--
Ha, ha, ha! Now let them vote! Brigadier Generals
May rain on this accursed land of pain
As fast as Congress spawns them! Now, ye rats!
Who shall squirm last, I ask ye?
[_To_ Smith.] Safe, you say?
You saw him with the British?
_Smith_. Not quite so;
But at their outposts.
_Arnold_. It will take a day
Before I can believe it. I am drunk
With the intoxication of revenge,
Sweeter than wine. A day of jubilee
Shall follow all our torments, Joshua Smith.
Out on ye, pack of curs! I have ye now,
Where ye'll not yelp so freely.--Ha, ha, ha--
Ha, ha, ha, ha!--And God I thank thee, too.
Justice is in the world.
Help me to the fortress. Mercy, how it pains!
Justice! Revenge! And, Joshua,--what a joke!
[_Exeunt_ Arnold _and_ Smith.]
_Father Hudson_. My heart is moved with sorrow: the sins of men enter
into me and I am constrained. Why was this man chosen for suffering;
and what balm is there for his seed?
_Both Choruses_. Fear God and seek not thine own advantage. Pluck not
the grape thyself; for who knows whether it be intended for thee?
I will weep freely and lift up my voice for the sorrows of men. There
is none that shall comfort me.
Come, Father, let us weep together and add our tears to thy streams;
for so only can the medicine of this grief flow down to the children of
men.
INTERMEZZO
_Father Hudson_. Is it finished?
_Leader of Men_. No; it is begun.
_Father Hudson_. His pain enters into me. I must endure these things.
Woe is me that ever I was born of the brooks or received by the
meadows! The pains of new birth get hold on me, and I see that life is
sorrow. Why could ye not let me alone, ye pangs of knowledge; or go by
on the other side, ye piercings of understanding? Must I be bound up
forever with sin, and feel the hand of unevenness on my loins?
_Both Choruses_. So it is with all creatures of a deep spirit. They
are caught with the net; they are frozen in the ice of God; they are
very helpless, and cry for relief day and night.
Accept thy pains, for they are good. Reason not against fate but lay
down thy will in earnest.
_Father Hudson_. Will the man come again?
_Leader of Men_. Once more shalt thou see him, and remember him
forever. Lo, now he comes as the wounded lion, as the tiger bereft of
his prey and wounded by the hunter. [_Enter_ Arnold, _a pistol in one
hand, a letter clutched in the other. During this speech he crosses
the stage._] His plot has failed and his iniquity is as a broken toy.
Wrecked is all his life. He flees like a robber from his own land.
Hills look your last upon Benedict! Ye Highlands, filled with clouds,
and ye little streams that jet along the crags, this is your general.
Will he remember you in his dreams, think you, or find himself back
among you in his reveries? In his lone island, in his long years of
silence, ye will return to him. Bid him adieu without bitterness, thou
rocky castle! For his punishment shall be within himself day by day.
[_Exit_ Arnold.] Behold, [_Shades his eyes with his hand as if
observing_ Arnold] he is on the shore; his barge of eight oars obeys
the signal; he stands in the prow; the rowers smite the water. With
fury they row, for he commands them; with fury and terrible ire they
row, for they fear the man. He has drawn a white handkerchief from his
breast, though his pistol never leaves his hand. The prow of the
British sloop of war looms above his barge. They see his signal. They
are letting down the gangway. They are taking him up into the British
vessel.
_Chorus of Men_. So down the torrent of infamy,
So into the bosom of Hell,
O _Vulture_, thou bearest him!
_Chorus of Women_. Naught brings he in hand to his captors;
Naught but the coin of his soul;
Empty-handed goeth he.
_Chorus of Men_. The great cheater here is cheated;
The great traitor here betrayed:
Where is his bargain?
_Chorus of Women_. Bare life he saves by the purchase,
Merely the breath of life;
Merely the fountain of pain.
_Chorus of Men_. Yea, out of the lips of aversion,
Yea, out of the hand of contempt,
He receiveth his price.
_Chorus of Women_. Pride is the hero's undoing,
Pride is the sin of the great.
Lo, he licketh the crumbs!
_Both Choruses_. So down the torrent of infamy,
So into the bosom of Hell;
O _Vulture_, thou bearest him!
_Father Hudson_. Is all treason punished like this among men?
_Leader of Men_. Father, thou askest things no man can answer.
_Father Hudson_. If these things could be known, what man would follow
his own desires? Fear overtaketh me in thinking of them. I thank the
gods that my channel is laid, I cannot change it. The man seems to me
like one who should place a lake on a hilltop and cry to it, Stay
there! He hath wrestled against thunder. He would lift the rocks with
his back; and he lies crushed beneath them. Can he not repent? Shall
he never find out that fire is hot? Must he die still unapprised of
his own foolishness?
_Leader of Men_. The future is a hard thing to know.
_Father Hudson_. Are there not charms that open mountain sides,
And show what shall come forth?
_Leader of Men_. All things to come
Are come already,--save the power to see them.
_Father Hudson_. Would I might know the ending of that man,
Whose fate and story clinging to my name
Do make me human!
_Leader of Men_. Human was his end,
And very moving. Wouldst thou wait awhile,
Or see the story now?
_Father Hudson_. Now, now, my son!
_Invocation_. [_Sung in contralto voice, as before,
by the_ Leader of Women.]
Storm-shadowed, precipitous valley,
And ye threatening towers of stone that hold back the mountains,
Letting the dark stream pass; Storm King, and Donderberg,
homes of reverberant thunder;
Thou steep theatre, where his story trod its stage,
And where the circling thought of it returns
With ever profounder, ever accumulating echoes,
Calling to Humanity, compelling attention, provoking the
unexpected tear,--
Open yet once again your treasured legend;
Out of the encrusted box, the precious parchment,
Out of the vestment-chambers, the hallowed rags.
[_As the verse now changes its form, the music also slightly changes
character._]
Lo, now, our holiday calls on the past for its lessons,
Lo, while the flame of the frost-bite fingers the dale,
Lo, in the lambent blaze of autumnal quiescence,
Flows Father Hudson, at peace, through his populous vale.
Fruit trees garland his margins,--vines, and the brazen
Hillocks of billowy rye o'er the undulous deep
Stretch to the Berkshires, proclaiming the conquering season;
Dash on the Catskills, repulsed by the envious steep.
Woe, royal river! In grief I gaze on thy harvest,
Anxious to me my thought as thy riches unroll.
Mortal, beware lest in riotous plenty thou starvest!
Give me the fruits of the spirit, the songs of the soul.
_Father Hudson_. A sweet voice but sad,--trembling sad.
_Leader of Men_. Hush, it invokes the craggy wilderness,
And seeks an entrance for its piercing cry.
_Leader of Women_. [_Sings. The music again changing with the metre._]
Give up the scene, give up, ye sordid rocks,
The last of Arnold in his English home,
Which in your bosom lives for evermore,
A deathless picture; England cast it out
Not being English, and it shivered on,
Coiling about the world, till it was caught
And locked into your rocky fastnesses
Where it lives ever; and your mountain ribs
Ache with the imposition.