A SOLEMN CONCEIT.

And this huge globe's rude thundering

On, for ever on,

I would that I were dreaming

Where little flowers are gleaming,

And the long green grass is streaming O'er the gone, for ever gone!

TAYLOR.

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT.

THE PLATFORM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.-TIME-DAY-BREAK

ARTEVELDE (alone).

THERE lies a sleeping city. God of dreams!

What an unreal and fantastic world

Is going on below!

Within the sweep of yon encircling wall,

How many a large creation of the night,

Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,
Peopled with busy transitory groups,

Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!
-If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes

They should float upward visibly to mine,
How thick with apparitions were that void!
But now the blank and blind profundity
Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion.
-I have not slept. I am to blame for that.
Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food,
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind,
And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him
Who leads a multitude, is past all price.
I think I could redeem an hour's repose
Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet.
The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage,
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face.
I will enfold my cloak about my limbs,
And lie where I shall front them ;-here, I think.

[He lies down.

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT.

If this were over-blessed be the calm
That comes to me at last! A friend in need
Is nature to us, that, when all is spent,
Brings slumber-bountifully-whereupon
We give her sleepy welcome-if all this
Were honourably over-Adrianna—

[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly.

I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear,
Upon the road from Bruges, or did I dream?
No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed.

VAN DEN BOSCH (without).

What ho! Van Artevelde!

Thou art an early riser, like myself;

Or is it that thou hast not been to bed?

ARTEVELDE.

What are thy tidings?

VAN DEN BOSCH.

Nay, what can they be?

A page from pestilence and famine's day-book;

So many to the pest-house carried in,

So many to the dead-house carried out.

The same dull, dismal, damnable old story.

ARTEVELDE.

Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind,
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new.

VAN DEN BOSCH.

Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog
That hears the house is stirring-nothing else.

ARTEVELDE.

No,-now-I hear it not myself-no-nothing.
The city's hum is up-but ere you came
'Twas audible enough.

VAN DEN BOSCH.

In God's name what?

ARTEVELDE.

A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges.

VAN DEN BOSCH.

Why, then, be certain 'tis a flag of truce!

If once he reach the city we are lost.

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great.

What terms so bad they would not swallow now?
Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once

To cross his way.

ARTEVELDE.

And send him back to Bruges?

VAN DEN BOSCH.

Send him to hell-and that's a better place.

ARTEVELDE.

Nay, softly, Van den Bosch; let war be war,
But let us keep its ordinances.

VAN DEN BOSCH.

Tush!

I say, but let them see him from afar,

And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot,
Be on our way to Bruges.

ARTEVELDE.

Not so, not so;

My rule of governance has not been such

As e'er to issue in so foul a close.

VAN DEN BOSCH.

What matter by what rule thou may'st have govern'd?

Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens

Shall stay the fury of their empty maws

Because thou'st ruled them justly?

ARTEVELDE.

That such a hope is mine.

It may be

Hold, Van den Bosch; I say this shall not be.