LITMIR.BIZ

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Could rig me up a jury-backbone now,

       To last one hour—until the battle's done,

       I'd see to it! But here I am—stove in—

       Broken—all logged and done for! Done, ay done!

      BEATTY [returning from the other wounded]

       My lord, I must implore you to lie calm!

       You shorten what at best may not be long.

      NELSON [exhausted]

       I know, I know, good Beatty! Thank you well

       Hardy, I was impatient. Now I am still.

       Sit here a moment, if you have time to spare?

       [BEATTY and others retire, and the two abide in silence, except

       for the trampling overhead and the moans from adjoining berths.

       NELSON is apparently in less pain, seeming to doze.]

      NELSON [suddenly]

       What are you thinking, that you speak no word?

      HARDY [waking from a short reverie]

       Thoughts all confused, my lord:—their needs on deck,

       Your own sad state, and your unrivalled past;

       Mixed up with flashes of old things afar—

       Old childish things at home, down Wessex way.

       In the snug village under Blackdon Hill

       Where I was born. The tumbling stream, the garden,

       The placid look of the grey dial there,

       Marking unconsciously this bloody hour,

       And the red apples on my father's trees,

       Just now full ripe.

      NELSON

       Ay, thus do little things

       Steal into my mind, too. But ah, my heart

       Knows not your calm philosophy!—There's one—

       Come nearer to me, Hardy.—One of all,

       As you well guess, pervades my memory now;

       She, and my daughter—I speak freely to you.

       'Twas good I made that codicil this morning

       That you and Blackwood witnessed. Now she rests

       Safe on the nation's honour.... Let her have

       My hair, and the small treasured things I owned,

       And take care of her, as you care for me!

       [HARDY promises.]

      NELSON [resuming in a murmur]

       Does love die with our frame's decease, I wonder,

       Or does it live on ever?...

       [A silence. BEATTY approaches.]

      HARDY

       Now I'll leave,

       See if your order's gone, and then return.

      NELSON [symptoms of death beginning to change his face]

       Yes, Hardy; yes; I know it. You must go.—

       Here we shall meet no more; since Heaven forfend

       That care for me should keep you idle now,

       When all the ship demands you. Beatty, too.

       Go to the others who lie bleeding there;

       Them can you aid. Me you can render none!

       My time here is the briefest.—If I live

       But long enough I'll anchor.... But—too late—

       My anchoring's elsewhere ordered!... Kiss me, Hardy:

       [HARDY bends over him.]

       I'm satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty!

       [HARDY brushes his eyes with his hand, and withdraws to go above,

       pausing to look back before he finally disappears.]

      BEATTY [watching Nelson]

       Ah!—Hush around!...

       He's sinking. It is but a trifle now

       Of minutes with him. Stand you, please, aside,

       And give him air.

       [BEATTY, the Chaplain, MAGRATH, the Steward, and attendants

       continue to regard NELSON. BEATTY looks at his watch.]

      BEATTY

       Two hours and fifty minutes since he fell,

       And now he's going.

       [They wait. NELSON dies.]

      CHAPLAIN

       Yes.... He has homed to where

       There's no more sea.

      BEATTY

       We'll let the Captain know,

       Who will confer with Collingwood at once.

       I must now turn to these.

       [He goes to another part of the cockpit, a midshipman ascends to

       the deck, and the scene overclouds.]

      CHORUS OF THE PITIES [aerial music]

       His thread was cut too slowly! When he fell.

       And bade his fame farewell,

       He might have passed, and shunned his long-drawn pain,

       Endured in vain, in vain!

      SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

       Young Spirits, be not critical of That

       Which was before, and shall be after you!

      SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

       But out of tune the Mode and meritless

       That quickens sense in shapes whom, thou hast said,

       Necessitation sways! A life there was

       Among these self-same frail ones—Sophocles—

       Who visioned it too clearly, even while

       He dubbed the Will “the gods.” Truly said he,

       “Such gross injustice to their own creation

       Burdens the time with mournfulness for us,

       And for themselves with shame."9—Things mechanized By coils and pivots set to foreframed codes Would, in a thorough-sphered melodic rule, And governance of sweet consistency, Be cessed no pain, whose burnings would abide With That Which holds responsibility, Or inexist.

      SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

       Yea, yea, yea!

       Thus would the Mover pay

       The score each puppet owes,

       The Reaper reap what his contrivance sows!

       Why make Life debtor when it did not buy?

       Why wound so keenly Right that it would die?

      SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

       Nay, blame not! For what judgment can ye blame?—

       In that immense unweeting Mind is shown

       One far above forethinking; processive,

       Yet superconscious; a Clairvoyancy

       That knows not what It knows, yet works therewith.—

       The cognizance ye mourn, Life's doom to feel,

       If I report it meetly, came unmeant,

       Emerging with blind gropes from impercipience

       By listless sequence—luckless, tragic Chance,

       In your more

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