Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/172

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AURORA LEIGH.
To make us merry on his marriage-morn,—The fable's worse than Hamlet's, I'll concedeThe terrible people, old and poor and blind,Their eyes eat out with plague and povertyFrom seeing beautiful and cheerful sights,We'll liken to a brutalized King Lear,Led out,—by no means to clear scores with wrongs—His wrongs are so far back, . . he has forgot;All's past like youth; but just to witness hereA simple contract,—he, upon his side,And Regan with her sister GonerilAnd all the dappled courtiers and court-fools,On their side. Not that any of these would sayThey're sorry, neither. What is done, is done.And violence is now turned privilege,As cream turns cheese, if buried long enough.What could such lovely ladies have to doWith the old man there, in those ill-odorous rags,Except to keep the wind-side of him? LearIs flat and quiet, as a decent grave;He does not curse his daughters in the least.Be these his daughters? Lear is thinking ofHis porridge chiefly . . is it getting coldAt Hampstead? will the ale be served in pots?Poor Lear, poor daughters? Bravo, Romney's play?'
A murmur and a movement drew around;A naked whisper touched us. Something wrong!What's wrong! That black crowd, as an overstrainedCord, quivered in vibrations, and I saw . .
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