Mrs. Arnold. [To servant.] Send Master William here.
[Exit servant. Enter William Arnold, a boy of eight.]
Arnold. William, you are a soldier:—
This old sword
Was once your brother Ben's,—my eldest boy.
He served his God, his Country, and his King,
And found a soldier's death. It is a record
We may be proud of in the family.
You and your brothers, Edward, George, and Robert,
Are dedicated soldiers to the King.
England, to all of you, is generous
To overflowing: See ye pay her back
In overflowing measure with your lives.
You are a soldier, Sir, and understand
The duties of a soldier; when you grow
A little older you will read, perhaps,
Something about your father; for his name
Is written on a page of history;
You cannot miss it. When you find it there,
Remember only all the soldier part;
The soldier part he leaves you: all the rest
Was something suffered, that was meant for him
But not for you. There, go my boy; good-bye.
You must to all your brothers tell this news,
And say I blessed them. They will understand,
Each in his measure, on the appointed day,
My message to them. See you bear it safe.
It is a charge of honor and becomes you.
[Arnold kisses the little boy, and gives him the sword with which he walks toward the door. The child feels that something very serious is happening, although he does not entirely understand it. When near the door he turns, runs back and embraces the old man again; and then exit.]
Both Choruses. Now will I say that children add to life a glory not belonging to it; and a pang beyond the pain of this world.
In them is pain; in their birth, danger; and in their tender years, a care; thereafter, sorrow or joy, too keen, too keen, too poignant, too sharp,—cutting the heart in twain.
Happy are they who know it not. Happy are the childless; for the great sufferings are kept from them. Blessed are they: I will praise and envy them always.
Arnold. Now is my burden lightened.
One adieu,—
The worst, remains; and then,—I know not what,—some relaxation
Or sweetness of the grave.
[To Mrs. Arnold.] Good-bye, great soul;
I leave thee sorrows, many-pointed cares,
The stress of growing sons and straightening means;
Yet one great blackness passes from your life,
Unshadowing you all. I see ye stand
Safe in the port,—as on a margent shore
Clustered in sunlight,—while my bark moves on.
I am not of ye; I am far away
And long ago; one of those Argonauts
That in the western seas, with sturdy oar,
Urging their venturesome and sacred bark,
Steered a new course,—a band, a brotherhood,—
And, though a Judas, I was one of them.
Get me my uniform. I wore it last
On that last day on which my sun went down.
And I, descending now to seek the sun,
Must put it on.
Mrs. Arnold. Dear Benedict, your uniform?
You have it on.
Arnold. No, no! not this, not this!
Ring; call a servant!