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 G.o.d; 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 h.e.l.l, 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 h.e.l.l; 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 G.o.ds 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 pa.s.s; 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 acc.u.mulating 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.

ACT II

[_The centre of the stage slowly opens, disclosing a sitting-room. A writing-table covered with letters. Somewhere in the foreground a sofa or low couch: An engraved portrait of George III. _Arnold_ is sitting at the table, but his arm-chair is turned away. He is in a profound reverie, gazing at the floor. He is dressed in the uniform of a British officer. His hair is gray and his face worn. At the back of the stage at one side of the door, sits _Treason_, somewhat in the att.i.tude of a sheriff's officer keeping guard._]

_Treason_. [_To_ Arnold.]

What are you muttering, comrade? Go to sleep!

And yet sleep not too sound; there's work ahead!

With all the world against us. What of that?

We ne'er were beaten yet. Get money first: A fortune in your fist. With honest luck, Your hand against the world! But money first.

[_Aside._] He breaks apace, and I await each day The knock of Death-- [_Knocking_.] No, no, not yet, Sir Death!

There's life in him and, mayhap, years of grief.

Leave me to tousle him. He's strong as hemp And bears his ragging well.

[_More knocking._] Not yet, not yet!