They had their choice: a
wanderer
_must I_ go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
William Wordsworth
Famished, starved,
A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!
[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE. ]
WALLACE 'Tis done! (Stabs him. )
ANOTHER OF THE BAND
The ruthless traitor!
MARMADUKE A rash deed! --
With that reproof I do resign a station
Of which I have been proud.
WILFRED (approaching MARMADUKE)
O my poor Master!
MARMADUKE Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred,
Why art thou here?
[Turning to WALLACE. ]
Wallace, upon these Borders,
Many there be whose eyes will not want cause
To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms!
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument
That may record my story: nor let words--
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself--be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan
By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm. To you,
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration: with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray--sustain her--
SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly)
Captain!
MARMADUKE No more of that; in silence hear my doom:
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer _must I_ go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing, that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on--
A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life--till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.
* * * * *
In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle:
"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity,
and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a
little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than
I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know
I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and
therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece
those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four
times in the 'Robbers' of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W.
there are no inequalities. "
On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge:
"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W. 's tragedy,
of which I have heard so much and seen so little. " Shortly afterwards,
August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection
that somebody, I think _you_, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's
tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning
with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess,
is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison,
or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off,
with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read
that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family;
but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of
it.
A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!
[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE. ]
WALLACE 'Tis done! (Stabs him. )
ANOTHER OF THE BAND
The ruthless traitor!
MARMADUKE A rash deed! --
With that reproof I do resign a station
Of which I have been proud.
WILFRED (approaching MARMADUKE)
O my poor Master!
MARMADUKE Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred,
Why art thou here?
[Turning to WALLACE. ]
Wallace, upon these Borders,
Many there be whose eyes will not want cause
To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms!
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument
That may record my story: nor let words--
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself--be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan
By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm. To you,
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration: with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray--sustain her--
SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly)
Captain!
MARMADUKE No more of that; in silence hear my doom:
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer _must I_ go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing, that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on--
A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life--till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.
* * * * *
In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle:
"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity,
and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a
little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than
I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know
I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and
therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece
those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four
times in the 'Robbers' of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W.
there are no inequalities. "
On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge:
"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W. 's tragedy,
of which I have heard so much and seen so little. " Shortly afterwards,
August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection
that somebody, I think _you_, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's
tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning
with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess,
is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison,
or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off,
with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read
that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family;
but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of
it.
