Child , hast thou looked upon thy grandsire dead ? Then thou sawest our Britain 's heart and head Death-stricken . Seemed not there my sire to thee More great than thine , or all men living ? We Stand shadows of the fathers we survive : Earth bears no more nor sees such births alive . Yea , his eyes Are liker seas that feel the summering skies In concord of sweet colour — and his brow Shines gentler than my father 's ever : thou , So seeing , dost well to hold thy sire so dear . Nay — rather seems Locrine Thy sire than I thy mother . Boy , Because of all our sires who fought for Troy Most like thy father and my lord Locrine , I think , was Paris . Ask not it . I meant not thou shouldst understand — I spake As one that sighs , to ease her heart of ache , And would not clothe in words her cause for sighs - Her naked cause of sorrow . Speech had I chosen , my son , I had wronged thee — yea , perchance I have wronged thine ears Too far , to say so much . And Locrine - Were not thy sire wronged likewise of me ? Yet — I may choose yet — nothing will I say More . Son , son ! thy speech is bitterer than the sea . Thou liest . Thou art treacherous too - His heart , thy father 's very heart is thine - O , well beseems it , meet it is , Locrine , That liar and traitor and changeling he should be Who , though I bare him , was begot by thee . Nay — I did but liken him with one Not all unlike him ; thou , my child , his son , Art more unlike thy father . Nay , save when heaven would cross him in the fight , He bare him , say the minstrels , as a knight - Yea , like thy father . My son , I had rather see thee — see thy brave bright head , Strong limbs , clear eyes — drop here before me dead . False was he ; No coward indeed , but faithless , trothless — we Hold therefore , as thou sayest , his princely name Unprincely — dead in honour — quick in shame . Thine ? to thine ? God rather strike thy life as dark as mine Than tarnish thus thine honour ! For to me Shameful it seems — I know not if it be - For men to lie , and smile , and swear , and lie , And bear the gods of heaven false witness . I Can hold not this but shameful . Thy soul ? Yea , there — how knowest thou , boy , so well ? - The fire is lit that feeds the fires of hell . Mine is aflame this long time now — but thine - O , how shall God forgive thee this , Locrine , That thou , for shame of these thy treasons done , Hast rent the soul in sunder of thy son ? Nay , child , I lied — I did but rave - I jested — was my face , then , sad and grave , When most I jested with thee ? Child , my brain Is wearied , and my heart worn down with pain : I thought awhile , for very sorrow 's sake , To play with sorrow — try thy spirit , and take Comfort — God knows I know not what I said , My father , whom I loved , being newly dead . Dost thou now believe me ? I bore A brave man when I bore thee . Never . But wilt thou trust me now ? Well . Heaven hath no power to hurt me more : and hell No fire to fear . The world I dwelt in died With my dead father . King , thy world is wide Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust : But mine is strait , and built by death of dust . Thy speech is sweet ; thine eyes are flowers that shine : If ever siren bare a son , Locrine , To reign in some green island and bear sway On shores more shining than the front of day And cliffs whose brightness dulls the morning 's brow , That son of sorceries and of seas art thou . Thy soul is softer than this boy 's of thine : His heart is all toward battle . Was it mine That put such fire in his ? for none that heard Thy flatteries — nay , I take not back the word - A flattering lover lives my loving lord - Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword . Wert thou not woman more in word than act , Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine : But he that slew him found thy stroke , Locrine , Strong as thy speech is gentle . A goodly spoil Was that thine hand made then by Humber 's banks Of all who swelled the Scythian 's riotous ranks With storm of inland surf and surge of steel : None there were left , if tongues ring true , to feel The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath More bitter than the bitterest edge of death . This was then a day of blood . I heard , But know not whence I caught the wandering word , Strange women were there of that outland crew , Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew . These that were taken , then , thou didst not slay ? Slay nor spare ? What albeit they were ? Small hurt , meseems , my husband , had it been Though British hands had haled a Scythian queen - If such were found — some woman foul and fierce - To death — or aught we hold for shame 's sake worse . Not wolves , but men , Surely : for beasts are loyal . Nought save grief and love ; Locrine , A grievous love , a loving grief is mine . Here stands my husband : there my father lies : I know not if there live in either 's eyes More love , more life of comfort . This our son Loves me : but is there else left living one That loves me back as I love ? Not thou ! No part have I — nay , never had I part - Our child that hears me knows it — in thine heart . Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one For love of mine , his brother : thou , his son , Didst give not — no — but yield thy hand to mine , To mine thy lips — not thee to me , Locrine . Thy heart has dwelt far off me all these years ; Yet have I never sought with smiles or tears To lure or melt it meward . I have borne - I that have borne to thee this boy — thy scorn , Thy gentleness , thy tender words that bite More deep than shame would , shouldst thou spurn or smite These limbs and lips made thine by contract — made No wife 's , no queen 's — a servant 's — nay , thy shade . The shadow am I , my lord and king , of thee , Who art spirit and substance , body and soul to me . And now ,— nay , speak not — now my sire is dead Thou think'st to cast me crownless from thy bed Wherein I brought thee forth a son that now Shall perish with me , if thou wilt — and thou Shalt live and laugh to think of us — or yet Play faith more foul — play falser , and forget . I know that nought I know , Locrine , of thee . Strong sorrow knows but sorrow 's lawless laws . They should not , had my heart my heart 's desire . Thou dost not call me wife — nor call'st amiss . Thou dost not ill to call me not thy wife . Thy sister never I : my brother thou . As loves a sister , never loved I thee . If then thou thought'st it , both were sore beguiled . Yet not like theirs — woe worth it !— were our loves . And we live linked , inseparate — heart in heart . Thy mother laughed when thou wast born , Locrine . And thou didst laugh , and wept'st not , to be born . The same star lit not thee to birth and me . Nay ; thine was nigh the sun , and mine afar . Nay , all its life of light was wellnigh done . Art thou so thankful , king , for love 's kind sake ? Would I were worthier thanks like these I take ! For thanks I cannot render thee again . Comfort ? In thee , fair cousin — or my son ? To Cornwall must he fare and fight for thee ? What is my will worth more than wind or foam ? What power is mine to speed him or to stay ? Most duteous wast thou to thy sire — and mine . Thy smile is as a flame that plays and flits . Not love 's — not love 's — toward me love burns not there . Swear by the faith none seeking there may find - Ay — women 's faith is water . Then , by men 's - Swear thou didst never love me more than now . I cannot give thee back thine oath again . I said not that it waned . I would not swear - - Thy faith and heart were aught but shadow and fire . And not my lord : I cross and thwart him still . Wound ? if I would , could I forsooth wound thee ? These hands , now bound in wedlock fast to thine ? Nay , life nor death , nor love whose child is hate , May sunder hearts made one but once by fate . Wrath may come down as fire between them — life May bid them yearn for death as man for wife - Grief bid them stoop as son to father — shame Brand them , and memory turn their pulse to flame - Or falsehood change their blood to poisoned wine - Yet all shall rend them not in twain , Locrine . Thou , Locrine ? Today thou knowest not , nor wilt learn tomorrow , The secret sense of such a word as sorrow . Thy spirit is soft and sweet : I well believe Thou wouldst , but well I know thou canst not grieve . The tears like fire , the fire that burns up tears , The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears , The sound of raging silence in the brain That utters things unutterable for pain , The thirst at heart that cries on death for ease , What knows thy soul 's live sense of pangs like these ? Thine ? Ay — when he comes again from Cornwall . Think not the boy I bare thee too much mine , Though slack of speech and halting : I divine Thou shalt not find him faint of heart or hand , Come what may come against him . Ay : no such coward as crawls and licks the dust Till blood thence licked may slake his murderous lust And leave his tongue the suppler shall be bred , I think , in Britain ever — if the dead May witness for the living . Though my son Go forth among strange tribes to battle , none Here shall he meet within our circling seas So much more vile than vilest men as these . And though the folk be fierce that harbour there As once the Scythians driven before thee were , And though some Cornish water change its name As Humber then for furtherance of thy fame , And take some dead man 's on it — some dead king 's Slain of our son 's hand — and its watersprings Wax red and radiant from such fire of fight And swell as high with blood of hosts in flight - No fiercer foe nor worthier shall he meet Than then fell grovelling at his father 's feet . Nor , though the day run red with blood of men As that whose hours rang round thy praises then , Shall thy son 's hand be deeper dipped therein Than his that gat him — and that held it sin To spill strange blood of barbarous women — wives Or harlots — things of monstrous names and lives - Fit spoil for swords of harsher-hearted folk ; Nor yet , though some that dared and ‘ scaped the stroke Be fair as beasts are beauteous ,— fit to make False hearts of fools bow down for love 's foul sake , And burn up faith to ashes — shall my son Forsake his father 's ways for such an one As whom thy soldiers slew or slew not — thou Hast no remembrance of them left thee now . Even therefore may we stand assured of this : What lip soever lure his lip to kiss , Past question — else were he nor mine nor thine - This boy would spurn a Scythian concubine . Wilt thou not bless him going , and bid him speed ? I know not , sir , what ails you to desire Such audience of me as I give . Then were my brother now at rest in Wales , And royal . Even here as there alike , sir . My princely cousin , not indeed Much that might hap at word or will of thine . Should I gainsay their general rede , My heart would mock me . Nay — not so much — I said not so . Say thou What thou wouldst have — if aught thou wouldst — with me . Ay , verily ? And thy spirit exalts thee now So high that these thy words fly forth so free , And fain thine act would follow — flying above Shame 's reach and fear 's ? What gift may this be ? Love ? Or liking ? or compassion ? Piteous ! Who lives so low and looks upon the sky As would desire — who shares the sun with us That might deserve thy pity ? Not I , Though I were cast out hence , cast off , discrowned , Abject , ungirt of all that guards me round , Naked . What villainous madness , knave and king , Is this that puts upon thy babbling tongue Poison ? Worse had it done to slay my lord , and spare Me . Wilt thou now show mercy toward me ? Then Strike with that sword mine heart through — if thou dare . All know thy tongue 's edge deadly . I hold not thee too faint of heart to slay Women . Say forth whate'er thou hast heart to say . How should aught move me Fallen from such tongues as falsehood finds the same - Such tongues as fraud or treasonous hate o'erscurfs With leprous lust — a prince 's or a serf 's ? Shame And truth ? Shame never toward thine heart came near , And all thy life hath hung about thy name . Nor ever truth drew nigh the lips that fear Whitens , and makes the blood that feeds them tame . Speak all thou wilt — but even for shame , forsooth , Talk not of shame — and tell me not of truth . Fairer ? Art thou nor man nor woman ? And hast heart to make thy spoil of me ? Thou art made of lies and lust - Earth 's worst is all too good for such to see , And yet thine eyes turn heavenward — as they must , Being man 's — if man be such as thou — and soil The light they see . Thou hast made of me thy spoil , Thy scorn , thy profit — yea , my whole soul 's plunder Is all thy trophy , thy triumphal prize And harvest reaped of thee ; nay , trampled under And rooted up and scattered . Yet the skies That see thy trophies reared are full of thunder , And heaven 's high justice loves not lust and lies . Thou liest . I know my lord and thee . Thou liest . Thou art lowest of all men born — while he sits highest . If I but whisper him of thee , thou diest . Secure as fools are hardy live thou still . I have it in my mind to take thine head . Dost thou not fear to put me thus in fear ? Thou darest not swear my lord hath wronged my bed . Thou darest but smile and mutter , lie and leer . From thee will I bear nothing . Get thee hence : Thine eyes defile me . Get thee from my sight . Fare thou not well , and be defence Far from thy soul cast naked forth by night ! Hate rose from hell a liar : love came divine From heaven : yet she that bore thee bore Locrine . Come close , and look upon me . Child or man , - I know not how to call thee , being my child , Who know not how myself am called , nor can - God witness — tell thee what should she be styled Who bears the brand and burden set on her That man hath set on me — the lands are wild Whence late I bade thee hither , swift of spur As he that rides to guard his mother 's life ; Thou hast found nought loathlier there , nought hate-fuller In all the wilds that seethe with fluctuant strife , Than here besets thine advent . Son , if thou Be son of mine , and I thy father 's wife - As now We know not if they be . Give me thine hand . Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father 's brow , - And therefore bears it not the traitor 's brand . Swear — But I would not bid thee swear in vain Nor bind thee ere thine own soul understand , Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain , To do such work for bitter love of me As haply , knowing my heart , thou wert not fain - Even thou — to take upon thee — bind on thee - Set all thy soul to do or die . And though thou sworest not , yet the thing should be . The burden found for me so sore to bear Why should I lay on any hand but mine , Or bid thine own take part therein , and wear A father 's blood upon it — here — for sign ? Ay , now thou pluck'st it forth of hers to whom Thou sworest and gavest it plighted . O Locrine , Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb , Thine , and none other — traitor born and liar , False-faced , false-tongued — the fire of hell consume Me , thee , and him for ever ! Thy sire ? my lord ? the flower of men ? How ? Now , and then , Are twain ; thou knowest not women , how their tongue Takes fire , and straight learns patience : Guendolen Is there no more than crownless woman , wrung At heart with anguish , and in utterance mad As even the meanest whom a snake hath stung So near the heart that all the pulse it had Grows palpitating poison . Wilt thou know Whence ? What think'st thou were the bitterest wrong , the woe Least bearable by woman , worst of all That man might lay upon her ? Nay , thou art slow : Speak : though thou speak but folly . Silent ? Call To mind whatso thou hast ever heard of ill Most monstrous , that should turn to fire and gall The milk and blood of maid or mother — still Thou shalt not find , I think , what he hath done - What I endure , and die not . For my will It is that holds me yet alive , O son , Till all my wrong be wroken , here to keep Fast watch , a living soul before the sun , Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep , That will not slake the ravin of her thirst Nor quench her fire of hunger , till she reap The harvest loved of all men , last as first - Vengeance . I praise the gods that gave me thee : thine heart Is none of his , no changeling 's in desire , No coward 's as who begat thee : mine thou art All , and mine only . Lend me now thine ear : Thou knowest - How my lord , Our lord , thy sire — the king whose throne is here Imperial — smote and drove the wolf-like horde That raged against us from the raging east , And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford He thought to traverse , till the floods increased Against him , and he perished : and Locrine Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast The sense of power with lustier joy than wine A woman — Dost thou mock me ? Thou dost not dare Mock me ? And thou ? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold Whose brood is like thy mother 's . And a bold Man : is thine heart flesh , or a burning brand Lit to burn up and turn for thee to gold The kingship of thy sire ? Thou dost love then , thou , thy mother yet - Me , dost thou love a little ? None but thou There is to love me ; for the gods forget - Nor shall one hear of me a prayer again ; Yea , none of all whose thrones in heaven are set Shall hear , nor one of all the sons of men . Thou knowest . Have I kept silence all this while ? And sight of Madan on his throne ? Yet shalt thou not go back . I did not bid thee spare . Thy father ? Dost thou dare This ? Yea - So be it . What levies wilt thou raise , to heave Thy father from his seat ? I will . But were thy musters brought Whence now thou art come to cheer me , this should be A sign for us of comfort . Nay , child , nay — thou art harsh as heaven to me - I would but have of thee a word of cheer . Hearst thou ? Voices within . ] The king ! Well . And this child of mine - How he may fare concerns not thee to know ? Locrine , Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow . Make answer for me , Madan . Speak , I say . Children — who can but pray - Pray better , if my sense not err , than we . The God whom all the gods of heaven obey Should hear them rather , seeing — as gods may see - How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer . Thine enemies know that well . In Cornwall they that fell So found it , that of all their large-limbed brood No bulk is left to brave thee . Wouldst thou show Thy love , thy thanks , thy fatherhood in one , Thy perfect honour — yea , thy right to stand Crowned , and lift up thine eyes against the sun As one so pure in heart , so clean of hand , So loyal and so royal , none might cast A word against thee burning like a brand , A sound that withers honour , and makes fast The bondage of a recreant soul to shame - Thou shouldst , or ever an hour be overpast , Slay him . What , is not then thy name Locrine ? and hath this boy done ill to thee ? Hath he not won him for thy love 's sake fame ? Hath he not served thee loyally ? is he So much thy son , so little son of mine , That men might call him traitor ? May they see The brand across his brow that reddens thine ? How shouldst thou dare — how dream — to let him live ? Is he not loyal ? art not thou Locrine ? What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou give My son who hath done thee service ? Me thou hast given - Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive - Shame for my guerdon : yea , my heart is riven With shame that once I loved thee . Slay me then . Thou liest : I bade thee slay him . O liar , is all the world a lie ? I bade thee , knowing thee what thou art — I bade My lord and king and traitor slay my son - A heartless hand that lacks the power it had Smite one whose stroke shall leave it strengthless — one Whose loyal loathing of his shame in thee Shall cast it out of eyeshot of the sun . Thou hast said — and yet thou hast lied not . But he Is the issue of thy love and mine , by fate Made one to no good issue . Didst thou trust That grief should give to men disconsolate Comfort , and treason bring forth truth , and dust Blossom ? What love , what reverence , what regard , Shouldst thou desire , if God or man be just , Of this thy son , or me more evil-starred , Whom scorn salutes his mother ? Dost thou mourn For that ? Too careful art thou for my good , Too tender and too true to me and mine , For shame to make my heart or thine his food Or scorn lay hold upon my fame or thine . Art thou not pure as honour 's perfect heart - Not treason-cankered like my lord Locrine , Whose likeness shows thee fairer than thou art And falser than thy loving care of me Would bid my faith believe thee ? Yea — witness heaven and hell , And all the lights that lighten earth and sea , And all that wrings my heart , I know thee well . How should I love and hate and know thee not ? Long since my heart has tolled it — and forgot All save the cause that bade the death-bell sound And cease and bring forth silence . Not air but fire it is that rings me round - Thy voice makes all my brain a wheel of fire . Man , what have I to do with pride of power ? Such pride perchance it was that moved my sire To bid me wed — woe worth the woful hour ! - His brother 's son , the brother 's born above Him as above me thou , the crown and flower Of Britain , gentler-hearted than the dove And mightier than the sunward eagle 's wing : But nought moved me save one thing only — love . Thou knowest ? but this thou knowest not , king , How near of kin are bitter love and hate - Nor which of these may be the deadlier thing . Death . Would God my heart were great ! Then would I slay myself . Ay ! wilt thou slay me then — and slay me here ? Didst thou deem I would outlive with thee the scorn of men , A slave enthroned beside a traitor ? Seem These eyes and lips and hands of mine a slave 's Uplift for mercy toward thee ? Such a dream Sets realms on fire , and turns their fields to graves . Dost the know What day records to day and night to night - How he whose wrath was rained as hail or snow On Troy 's adulterous towers , when treacherous flame Devoured them , and our fathers ’ roofs lay low , And all their praise was turned to fire and shame - All-righteous God , who herds the stars of heaven As sheep within his sheepfold — God , whose name Compels the wandering clouds to service , given As surely as even the sun 's is — loves or hates Treason ? He loved our sires : were they forgiven ? Their walls upreared of gods , their sevenfold gates , Might these keep out his justice ? What art thou To make thy will more strong and sure than fate 's ? Thy fate am I , that falls upon thee now . Wilt thou not slay me yet — and slay thy son ? So shall thy fate change , and unbend the brow That now looks mortal on thee . Peace ? The man thou art Craves — and shame bids not breath within him cease - Craves of the woman that thou knowest I am Peace ? Ay , take hands at parting , and release Each heart , each hand , each other : shall the lamb , The lamb-like woman , born to cower and bleed , Withstand his will whose choice may save or damn Her days and nights , her word and thought and deed - Take heart to outdare her lord the lion ? How Should this be — if the lion 's imperial seed Life not against his sire as brave a brow As frowns upon his mother ?— Peace be then Between us : none may stand before thee now : No son of thine keep faith with Guendolen . And God shall make thine hand against him strong . Woe worth his hand who set the hearth on flame ! Ay ! And thou , my holy-hearted lord ,— the same Whose hand was laid in mine and bound to lie There fast for ever if faith be found on earth - If truth be true , and shame not wholly die - Hast thou not made thy mockery and thy mirth , Thy laughter and thy scorn , of shame ? But we , Thy wife by wedlock , and thy son by birth , Who have no part in spirit and soul with thee , Will bear no part in kingdom nor in life With one who hath put to shame his child and me . Thy true-born son , and I that was thy wife , Will see thee dead or perish . Call thy men About thee ; bid them gird their loins for strife More dire than theirs who storm the wild wolf 's den ; For if thou dare not slay us here today Thou art dead . No : Thou art gentle , and beasts are honest : no such way Lies open toward thy fearful foot : not so Shalt thou find surety from these foes of thine . Woe worth thee therefore ! yea , a sevenfold woe Shall God through us rain down on thee , Locrine . Hadst thou the heart God hath not given thee — then Our blood might run before thy feet like wine And wash thy way toward sin in sight of men Smooth , soft , and safe . But if thou shed it not - If Madan live to look on Guendolen Living — I wot not what shall be — I wot What shall not — thou shalt have no joy to live More than have they for whom God 's wrath grows hot . I dare not say Farewell . Thou hast not said — Forgive . Nay . Mine ? Hear it , heaven ,— and men , bear witness ! Mine The treachery that hath rent our realm in twain - Mine , mine the adulterous treason . Not Locrine , Not he , found loyal to my love in vain , Hath brought the civic sword and fire of strife On British fields and homesteads , clothed with joy , Crowned with content and comfort : I , his wife , Have brought on Troynovant the fires of Troy . He lifts his head before the sun of heaven And swears it — lies , and lives . Is God 's bright sword Broken , wherewith the gates of Troy — the seven Strong gates that gods who built them held in ward - Were broken even as wattled reeds with fire ? Son , by what name shall honour call thy sire ? Did I not know Mine honour perfect as thy shame , Locrine , Now might I say , and turn to pride my woe , Mine only were this boy , and none of thine . But what thou mayest I may not . Where are they Who ride not with their lord and sire today ? Thy secret Scythian and your changeling child , Where hide they now their heads that lurk not hidden There where thy treason deemed them safe , and smiled ? When arms were levied , and thy servants bidden About thee to withstand the doom of men Whose loyal angers flamed upon our side Against thee , from thy smooth-skinned she-wolf 's den Her whelp and she sought covert unespied , But not from thee far off . Thou hast born them hither For refuge in this west that stands for thee Against our cause , whose very name should wither The hearts of them that hate it . Where is she ? Hath she not heart to keep thy side ? or thou , Dost thou think shame to stand beside her now And bid her look upon thy son and wife ? Nay , she should ride at thy right hand and laugh To see so fair a lordly field of strife Shine for her sake , whose lips thy love bids quaff For pledge of trustless troth the blood of men . Let it run broader than this water 's flood Swells after storm , it shall not cleanse thy guilt . Give now the word of charge ; and God do right Between us in the fiery courts of fight . Dead ? Ah ! my traitor with his harlot fled Hellward ? She ! not dead ? Smite her with thy sword . Shame Consume thee !— Thou — what call they , girl , thy name ? Daughter of Estrild ,— daughter of Locrine , - Daughter of death and darkness ! She dares not — though the heart in her be fain , The flesh draws back for fear . She dares not . Save her ! God pardon me ! What have we done ? Yea . The gods are wise who lead us — now to smite , And now to spare : we dwell but in their sigh And work but what their will is . What hath been Is past . But these , that once were king and queen , The sun , that feeds on death , shall not consume Naked . Not I would sunder tomb from tomb Of these twain foes of mine , in death made one - I , that when darkness hides me from the sun Shall sleep alone , with none to rest by me . But thou — this one time more I look on thee - Fair face , brave hand , weak heart that wast not mine - Sleep sound — and God be good to thee , Locrine . I was not . She was fair as heaven in spring Whom thou didst love indeed . Sleep , queen and king , Forgiven ; and if — God knows — being dead , ye live , And keep remembrance yet of me — forgive .