The Borderers
Wordsworth, William
The Borderers
William Wordsworth
The Borderers
Dramatis Personæ
Marmaduke.
Oswald.
Wallace.
Lacy.
Lennox.
, Of the Band of Borderers.
Herbert.
Wilfred, Servant to Marmaduke.
Host.
Forester.
Eldred, a Peasant.
Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.
Idonea.
Female Beggar.
Eleanor, Wife to Eldred.
Scene, Borders of England and Scotland.
Time, The Reign of Henry III.
Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.
February 28, 1842.
Act I
Scene, Road in a Wood.
Wallace and Lacy.
LACY.
The Troop will be impatient; let us hie
Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray
Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border.
– Pity that our young Chief will have no part
In this good service.
WAL.
Rather let us grieve
That, in the undertaking which has caused
His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim,
Companionship with One of crooked ways,
From whose perverted soul can come no good
To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.
LACY.
True; and, remembering how the Band have proved
That Oswald finds small favour in our sight,
Well may we wonder he has gained such power
Over our much-loved Captain.
WAL.
I have heard
Of some dark deed to which in early life
His passion drove him – then a Voyager
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing
In Palestine?
LACY.
Where he despised alike
Mohammedan and Christian. But enough;
Let us begone – the Band may else be foiled.
Exeunt.
Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred
WIL.
Be cautious, my dear Master!
MAR.
I perceive
That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle
About their love, as if to keep it warm.
WIL.
Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger,
For such he is –
MAR.
Your busy fancies, Wilfred,
Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?
WIL.
You know that you have saved his life.
MAR.
I know it.
WIL.
And that he hates you! – Pardon me, perhaps
That word was hasty.
MAR.
Fy! no more of it.
WIL.
Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden
To a proud Soul. – Nobody loves this Oswald –
Yourself, you do not love him.
MAR.
I do more,
I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart
Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience
Has given him power to teach: and then for courage
And enterprise – what perils hath he shunned?
What obstacles hath he failed to overcome?
Answer these questions, from our common knowledge,
And be at rest.
WIL.
Oh, Sir!
MAR.
Peace, my good Wilfred;
Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band
I shall be with them in two days at farthest.
WIL.
May He whose eye is over all protect you!
Exit.
Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand.
OSW.
This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.
MAR looking at them.
The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade:
Which is your favourite, Oswald?
OSW.
That which, while it is
Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal –
Looking forward.
Not yet in sight! – We'll saunter here awhile;
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.
MAR a letter in his hand.
It is no common thing when one like you
Performs these delicate services, and therefore
I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald;
'Tis a strange letter this! – You saw her write it?
OSW.
And saw the tears with which she blotted it.
MAR.
And nothing less would satisfy him?
OSW.
No less;
For that another in his Child's affection
Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery,
He seemed to quarrel with the very thought.
Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
Which you've collected for the noblest ends,
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
To guard the Innocent – he calls us ›Outlaws‹;
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
This garb was taken up that indolence
Might want no cover, and rapacity
Be better fed.
MAR.
Ne'er may I own the heart
That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.
OSW.
Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved,
Yet was I grievously provoked to think
Of what I witnessed.
MAR.
This day will suffice
To end her wrongs.
OSW.
But if the blind Man's tale
Should yet be true?
MAR.
Would it were possible!
Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself,
And others who survived the wreck, beheld
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves
Upon the coast of Cyprus?
OSW.
Yes, even so,
And I had heard the like before: in sooth
The tale of this his quondam Barony
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail
To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;
We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: 'tis much
The Arch-impostor –
MAR.
Treat him gently, Oswald;
Though I have never seen his face, methinks,
There cannot come a day when I shall cease
To love him. I remember, when a Boy
Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm
That casts its shade over our village school,
'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea
Repeat her Father's terrible adventures,
Till all the band of playmates wept together;
And that was the beginning of my love.
And, through all converse of our later years,
An image of this old Man still was present,
When I had been most happy. Pardon me
If this be idly spoken.
OSW.
See, they come,
Two Travellers!
MAR points.
The woman is Idonea.
OSW.
And leading Herbert.
MAR.
We must let them pass –
This thicket will conceal us.
They step aside.
Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind.
IDON.
Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since
We left the willow shade by the brookside,
Your natural breathing has been troubled.
HER.
Nay,
You are too fearful; yet must I confess,
Our march of yesterday had better suited
A firmer step than mine.
IDON.
That dismal Moor –
In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
I never can forgive it: but how steadily
You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape! –
I thought the Convent never would appear;
It seemed to move away from us: and yet
That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods –
A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
And thankfully there rested side by side
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father, –
That staff of yours, I could have almost heart
To fling't away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength; – come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There – indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
On this green bank.
He sits down.
HER after some time.
Idonea, you are silent,
And I divine the cause.
IDON.
Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,
Those eyeballs dark – dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
HER.
Nay, be composed:
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne'er had heart to separate – my grave,
And thee, my Child!
IDON.
Believe me, honoured Sire!
'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music, could you see the sun,
And look upon the pleasant face of Nature –
HER.
I comprehend thee – I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning. – The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?
IDON.
Is he not strong?
Is he not valiant?
HER.
Am I then so soon
Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child;
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed –
This Marmaduke –
IDON.
O could you hear his voice:
Alas! you do not know him. He is one
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you)
All gentleness and love.
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