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_ PART FIRST. ACT SECOND. SCENE I.
[The Rock is seen rising behind the town and the Alameda Gardens, and the English fleet rides at anchor in the Bay, across which the Spanish shore from Algeciras to Carnero Point shuts in the West. Southward over the Strait is the African coast.]
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
Our migratory Proskenion now presents
An outlook on the storied Kalpe Rock,
As preface to the vision of the Fleets
Spanish and French, linked for fell purposings.
RECORDING ANGEL (reciting)
Their motions and manoeuvres, since the fame
Of Bonaparte's enthronment at Milan
Swept swift through Europe's dumbed communities,
Have stretched the English mind to wide surmise.
Many well-based alarms (which strange report
Much aggravates) as to the pondered blow,
Flutter the public pulse; all points in turn--
Malta, Brazil, Wales, Ireland, British Ind--
Being held as feasible for force like theirs,
Of lavish numbers and unrecking aim.
"Where, where is Nelson?" questions every tongue;--
"How views he so unparalleled a scheme?"
Their slow uncertain apprehensions ask.
"When Villeneuve puts to sea with all his force,
What may he not achieve, if swift his course!"
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
I'll call in Nelson, who has stepped ashore
For the first time these thrice twelvemonths and more,
And with him one whose insight has alone
Pierced the real project of Napoleon.
[Enter NELSON and COLLINGWOOD, who pace up and down.]
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Note Nelson's worn-out features. Much has he
Suffered from ghoulish ghast anxiety!
NELSON
In short, dear Coll, the letter which you wrote me
Had so much pith that I was fain to see you;
For I am sure that you indeed divine
The true intent and compass of a plot
Which I have spelled in vain.
COLLINGWOOD
I weighed it thus:
Their flight to the Indies being to draw us off,
That and no more, and clear these coasts of us--
The standing obstacle to his device--
He cared not what was done at Martinique,
Or where, provided that the general end
Should not be jeopardized--that is to say,
The full-united squadron's quick return.--
Gravina and Villeneuve, once back to Europe,
Can straight make Ferrol, raise there the blockade,
Then haste to Brest, there to relieve Ganteaume,
And next with four-or five-and fifty sail
Bear down upon our coast as they see fit.--
I read they aim to strike at Ireland still,
As formerly, and as I wrote to you.
NELSON
So far your thoughtful and sagacious words
Have hit the facts. But 'tis no Irish bay
The villains aim to drop their anchors in;
My word for it: they make the Wessex shore,
And this vast squadron handled by Villeneuve
Is meant to cloak the passage of their strength,
Massed on those transports--we being kept elsewhere
By feigning forces.--Good God, Collingwood,
I must be gone! Yet two more days remain
Ere I can get away.--I must be gone!
COLLINGWOOD
Wherever you may go to, my dear lord,
You carry victory with you. Let them launch,
Your name will blow them back, as sou'west gales
The gulls that beat against them from the shore.
NELSON
Good Collingwood, I know you trust in me;
But ships are ships, and do not kindly come
Out of the slow docks of the Admiralty
Like wharfside pigeons when they are whistled for:--
And there's a damned disparity of force,
Which means tough work awhile for you and me!
[The Spirit of the Years whispers to NELSON.]
And I have warnings, warnings, Collingwood,
That my effective hours are shortening here;
Strange warnings now and then, as 'twere within me,
Which, though I fear them not, I recognize! . . .
However, by God's help, I'll live to meet
These foreign boasters; yea, I'll finish them;
And then--well, Gunner Death may finish me!
COLLINGWOOD
View not your life so gloomily, my lord:
One charmed, a needed purpose to fulfil!
NELSON
Ah, Coll. Lead bullets are not all that wound. . . .
I have a feeling here of dying fires,
A sense of strong and deep unworded censure,
Which, compassing about my private life,
Makes all my public service lustreless
In my own eyes.--I fear I am much condemned
For those dear Naples and Palermo days,
And her who was the sunshine of them all! . . .
He who is with himself dissatisfied,
Though all the world find satisfaction in him,
Is like a rainbow-coloured bird gone blind,
That gives delight it shares not. Happiness?
It's the philosopher's stone no alchemy
Shall light on this world I am weary of.--
Smiling I'd pass to my long home to-morrow
Could I with honour, and my country's gain.
--But let's adjourn. I waste your hours ashore
By such ill-timed confessions!
[They pass out of sight, and the scene closes.] _
Read next: Part 1: Act 2: Scene 2. Off Ferrol
Read previous: Part 1: Act 1: Scene 6. Milan. The Cathedral
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