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, Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd! They should float upward visibly to mine, I think I could redeem an hour's repose I will enfold my cloak about my limbs, And lie where I shall front them;-here, I think. [He lies down. If this were over-blessed be the calm [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! ARTEVELDE. Who calls? VAN DEN BOSCH (entering). Thou art an early riser, like myself; 'Tis I. 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, VAN DEN BOSCH. Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog ARTEVELDE. No,-now-I hear it not myself-no-nothing. 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. 1 Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great. 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, 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 |