Читать книгу André - Dunlap William - Страница 7

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Scene I. A Wood seen by starlight; an Encampment at a distance appearing between the trees.

Enter Melville.

Melville.

The solemn hour, "when night and morning meet,"

Mysterious time, to superstition dear,

And superstition's guides, now passes by;

Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels,

In drowsy tones, from post to post, send on

The signal of the passing hour. "All's well,"

Sounds through the camp. Alas! all is not well;

Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of man,

At midnight's depth, deck'd in this murderous guise,

The habiliment of death, the badge of dire,

Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well.

—In vain the enlighten'd friends of suffering man

Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and madness.

Still, age succeeds to age, and war to war;

And man, the murderer, marshalls out his hosts

In all the gaiety of festive pomp,

To spread around him death and desolation.

How long! how long!——

—Methinks I hear the tread of feet this way.

My meditating mood may work me woe.

[Draws.

Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. Who's there?

Enter Bland.

Bland.

A friend.

Melville.

Advance and give the countersign.

Bland.

Hudson.

Melville.

What, Bland!

Bland.

Melville, my friend, you here?

Melville.

And well, my brave young friend. But why do you, At this dead hour of night, approach the camp, On foot, and thus alone?

Bland.

I have but now

Dismounted; and, from yon sequester'd cot,

Whose lonely taper through the crannied wall

Sheds its faint beams, and twinkles midst the trees,

Have I, adventurous, grop'd my darksome way.

My servant, and my horses, spent with toil,

There wait till morn.

Melville.

Why waited not yourself?

Bland.

Anxious to know the truth of those reports

Which, from the many mouths of busy Fame,

Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my ear,

Each making th' other void. Nor does delay

The colour of my hasteful business suit.

I bring dispatches for our great Commander;

And hasted hither with design to wait

His rising, or awake him with the sun.

Melville.

You will not need the last, for the blest sun

Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn

We see him mounted gaily in the field,

Or find him wrapt in meditation deep,

Planning the welfare of our war-worn land.

Bland.

Prosper, kind heaven! and recompense his cares.

Melville.

You're from the South, if I presume aright?

Bland.

I am; and, Melville, I am fraught with news?

The South teems with events; convulsing ones:

The Briton, there, plays at no mimic war;

With gallant face he moves, and gallantly is met.

Brave spirits, rous'd by glory, throng our camp;

The hardy hunter, skill'd to fell the deer,

Or start the sluggish bear from covert rude;

And not a clown that comes, but from his youth

Is trained to pour from far the leaden death,

To climb the steep, to struggle with the stream,

To labour firmly under scorching skies,

And bear, unshrinking, winter's roughest blast.

This, and that heaven-inspir'd enthusiasm

Which ever animates the patriot's breast,

Shall far outweigh the lack of discipline.

Melville.

Justice is ours; what shall prevail against her?

Bland.

But as I past along, many strange tales,

And monstrous rumours, have my ears assail'd:

That Arnold had prov'd false; but he was ta'en,

And hung, or to be hung—I know not what.

Another told, that all our army, with their

Much lov'd Chief, sold and betray'd, were captur'd.

But, as I nearer drew, at yonder cot,

'T was said, that Arnold, traitor like, had fled;

And that a Briton, tried and prov'd a spy,

Was, on this day, as such, to suffer death.

Melville.

As you drew near, plain truth advanced to meet you.

'T is even as you heard, my brave young friend.

Never had people on a single throw

More interest at stake; when he, who held

For us the die, prov'd false, and play'd us foul.

But for a circumstance of that nice kind,

Of cause so microscopic, that the tongues

Of inattentive men call it the effect

Of chance, we must have lost the glorious game.

Bland.

Blest, blest be heaven! whatever was the cause!

Melville.

The blow ere this had fallen that would have bruis'd

The tender plant which we have striven to rear,

Crush'd to the dust, no more to bless this soil.

Bland.

What warded off the blow?

Melville.

The brave young man, who this day dies, was seiz'd

Within our bounds, in rustic garb disguis'd.

He offer'd bribes to tempt the band that seiz'd him;

But the rough farmer, for his country arm'd,

That soil defending which his ploughshare turn'd,

Those laws, his father chose, and he approv'd,

Cannot, as mercenary soldiers may,

Be brib'd to sell the public-weal for gold.

Bland.

'T is well. Just heaven! O, grant that thus may fall

All those who seek to bring this land to woe!

All those, who, or by open force, or dark

And secret machinations, seek to shake

The Tree of Liberty, or stop its growth,

In any soil where thou hast pleas'd to plant it.

Melville.

Yet not a heart but pities and would save him;

For all confirm that he is brave and virtuous;

Known, but till now, the darling child of Honour.

Bland [contemptuously].

And how is call'd this—honourable spy?

Melville.

André's his name.

Bland [much agitated].

André!

Melville.

Aye, Major André.

Bland.

André! Oh no, my friend, you're sure deceiv'd—

I'll pawn my life, my ever sacred fame,

My General's favour, or a soldier's honour,

That gallant André never yet put on

The guise of falsehood. Oh, it cannot be!

Melville.

How might I be deceiv'd? I've heard him, seen him,

And what I tell, I tell from well-prov'd knowledge;

No second tale-bearer, who heard the news.

Bland.

Pardon me, Melville. Oh, that well-known name,

So link'd with circumstances infamous!—

My friend must pardon me. Thou wilt not blame

When I shall tell what cause I have to love him:

What cause to think him nothing more the pupil

Of Honour stern, than sweet Humanity.

Rememberest thou, when cover'd o'er with wounds,

And left upon the field, I fell the prey

Of Britain? To a loathsome prison-ship

Confin'd, soon had I sunk, victim of death,

A death of aggravated miseries;

But, by benevolence urg'd, this best of men,

This gallant youth, then favour'd, high in power,

Sought out the pit obscene of foul disease,

Where I, and many a suffering soldier lay,

And, like an angel, seeking good for man,

Restor'd us light, and partial liberty.

Me he mark'd out his own. He nurst and cur'd,

He lov'd and made his friend. I liv'd by him,

And in my heart he liv'd, till, when exchang'd,

Duty and honour call'd me from my friend.—

Judge how my heart is tortur'd.—Gracious heaven!

Thus, thus to meet him on the brink of death—

A death so infamous! Heav'n grant my prayer.

[Kneels.

That I may save him, O, inspire my heart

With thoughts, my tongue with words that move to pity!

[Rises.

Quick, Melville, shew me where my André lies.

Melville.