Scene
The Castle in Normandy
THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning.
Thora (sings):We severed in autumn early,Ere the earth was torn by the plough;The wheat and the oats and the barleyAre ripe for the harvest now.We sunder’d one misty morning,Ere the hills were dimm’d by the rain,Through the flowers those hills adorning—Thou comest not back again.
My heart is heavy and wearyWith the weight of a weary soul;The mid-day glare grows dreary,And dreary the midnight scroll.The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,’Neath the load of the golden grain;I sigh for a mate more fickle—Thou comest not back again.
The warm sun riseth and setteth,The night bringeth moistening dew,But the soul that longeth forgettethThe warmth and the moisture too;In the hot sun rising and settingThere is naught save feverish pain;There are tears in the night-dews wetting—Thou comest not back again.
Thy voice in mine ear still minglesWith the voices of whisp’ring trees;Thy kiss on my cheek still tinglesAt each kiss of the summer breeze;While dreams of the past are throngingFor substance of shades in vain,I am waiting, watching, and longing—Thou comest not back again.
Waiting and watching ever,Longing and lingering yet,Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,Winds murmur and waters fret;No answer they bring, no greeting,No speech save that sad refrain,Nor voice, save an echo repeating—He cometh not back again.
Elspeth:Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max;With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot.If the husbands vanish’d, and left no tracks,Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot?
Thora:How well I remember that dreary ride;How I sigh’d for the lands of ice and snow,In the trackless wastes of the desert wide,With the sun o’erhead and the sand below;’Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms,How I sigh’d for the forest of sheltering firs,Whose shadows environ’d the Danish farms,Where I sang and sported in childish years.On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimageWe stayed at the foot of a sandhill high;Our fever’d thirst we could scarce assuageAt the brackish well that was nearly dry,
And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set,And we rode all the day through a desert land,And we camp’d where the lake and the river met,On sedge and shingle and shining sand:Enfolded in Hugo’s cloak I slept,Or watch’d the stars while I lay awake;And close to our feet the staghound crept,And the horses were grazing beside the lake;Now we own castles and serving men,Lands and revenues. What of that?Hugo the Norman was kinder then,And happier was Thora of Armorat.
Elspeth:Nay, I warn’d thee, with Norman sails unfurl’dAbove our heads, when we wished thee joy,That men are the same all over the world,They will worship only the newest toy;Yet Hugo is kind and constant too,Though somewhat given to studies of late;Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue,And worse than thine is thy sisters’ fate.But a shadow darkens the chamber door.
Enter THURSTON.
Thurston:’Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near.My horse being fresher, I rode before;Both he and Eric will soon be here.
Thora:Good Thurston, give me your hand. You areMost welcome. What has delayed you thus?
Thurston:Both by sea and land we have travell’d far,Yet little of note has happened to us—We were wreck’d on the shores of Brittany,Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound;The rocks were steep and the surf ran high,Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown’d.By a swarm of knaves we were next beset,Who took us for corsairs; then releasedBy a Breton count, whose name I forget.Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast.[He goes out.]
Elspeth:That man is rude and froward of speech:My ears are good, though my sight grows dim.
Thora:Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teachCourtly nor servile manners to him.