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    Locrine: A Tragedy
    Locrine: A Tragedy
    Locrine: A Tragedy
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    Locrine: A Tragedy

    By Algernon Charles Swinburne

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Algernon Charles Swinburne was a talented English poet, playwright, and novelist.He wrote on many controversial topics such as cannibalism and anti-theism.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKrill Press
    Release dateMar 7, 2016
    ISBN9781531256074
    Locrine: A Tragedy

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      Book preview

      Locrine - Algernon Charles Swinburne

      LOCRINE: A TRAGEDY

      ..................

      Algernon Charles Swinburne

      DOSSIER PRESS

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of nonfiction and is intended to be factually accurate.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2016 by Algernon Charles Swinburne

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      I.

      II.

      III.

      IV.

      V.

      VI.

      VII.

      VIII.

      IX.

      ACT I.: Scene I.—Troynovant. A Room in the Palace.

      Scene II.—Gardens of the Palace.

      ACT II.: Scene I.—The banks of the Ley.

      Scene II.—Troynovant. A Room in the Palace.

      ACT III.: Scene I.—Troynovant. A Room in the Palace.

      Scene II.—Gardens of the Palace.

      ACT IV.: Scene I.—The banks of the Ley.

      Scene II.—Troynovant. A Room in the Palace.

      ACT V.: Scene I.—Fields near the Severn.

      Scene II.—The banks of the Severn.

      Locrine: A Tragedy

      By

      Algernon Charles Swinburne

      Locrine: A Tragedy

      Published by Dossier Press

      New York City, NY

      First published circa 1909

      Copyright © Dossier Press, 2015

      All rights reserved

      Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      About Dossier Press

      I.

      ..................

      The love that comes and goes like wind or fire

      But love more deep than passion’s deep desire,

      To lift and lead it homeward? Time and death

      Are less than love: or man’s live spirit saith

      False, when he deems his life is more than breath.

      II.

      ..................

      No words may utter love; no sovereign song

      Fain cast in moulded rhymes that do me wrong

      For us the years that live not are not dead:

      Past days and present in our hearts are wed:

      My song can say no more than love hath said.

      III.

      ..................

      Love needs nor song nor speech to say what love

      To bear the sense-belated soul above

      Words indiscoverable, ampler strains of song

      Than ever hailed him fair or shewed him strong:

      And less than these should do him worse than wrong.

      IV.

      ..................

      We who remember not a day wherein

      No time, since time bade first our days begin,

      We are well content to know it, and rest on this,

      And call not words to witness that it is.

      To love aloud is oft to love amiss.

      V.

      ..................

      But if the gracious witness borne of words

      That binds it round with silence, and engirds

      To speak and be rebuked not of the soul,

      Whose utterance, ere the unwitting speech be whole,

      Rebukes itself, and craves again control.

      VI.

      ..................

      A ninefold garland wrought of song-flowers nine

      Here at your feet I lay as on a shrine

      The fable-flowering land wherein they grew

      Hath dreams for stars, and grey romance for dew:

      Perchance no flower thence plucked may flower anew.

      VII.

      ..................

      No part have these wan legends in the sun

      Their elders live: but these—their day is done,

      What Homer saw, what Virgil dreamed, was truth,

      And dies not, being divine: but whence, in sooth,

      Might shades that never lived win deathless youth?

      VIII.

      ..................

      The fields of fable, by the feet of faith

      Dead fancy’s ghost, not living fancy’s wraith,

      Yet Milton’s sacred feet have lingered there,

      His lips have made august the fabulous air,

      His hands have touched and left the wild weeds fair.

      IX.

      ..................

      So, in some void and thought-untrammelled hour,

      Whose glance but cast on casual things hath power

      Were all the world of song made mine to give,

      The best were yours of all its flowers that live:

      Though least of all be this my gift, forgive.

      July 1887.

      ACT I.: SCENE I.—TROYNOVANT. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

      ..................

      Enter Guendolen and Madan.

      GUENDOLEN.

      Child, hast thou looked upon thy grandsire dead?

      MADAN.

      Ay.

      GUENDOLEN.

      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.

      MADAN.

      Why, he was great of thews—and wise, thou say’st:

      Yet seems my sire to me the fairer-faced—

      The kinglier and the kindlier.

      GUENDOLEN.

      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.

      MADAN.

      I said not that his love sat yet so near

      My heart as thine doth: rather am I thine,

      Thou knowest, than his.

      GUENDOLEN.

      Nay—rather seems Locrine

      Thy sire

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