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 attitude 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!
[Enter Death.]