Fruit trees garland his margins,--vines, and the brazen Hillocks of billowy rye o'er the undulous deep Stretch to the Berkshires, proclaiming the conquering season; Dash on the Catskills, repulsed by the envious steep. Woe, royal river! In grief I gaze on thy harvest, Anxious to me my thought as thy riches unroll. Mortal, beware lest in riotous plenty thou starvest! Give me the fruits of the spirit, the songs of the soul. _Father Hudson_. A sweet voice but sad,--trembling sad. _Leader of Men_. Hush, it invokes the craggy wilderness, And seeks an entrance for its piercing cry. _Leader of Women_. [_Sings. The music again changing with the metre._] Give up the scene, give up, ye sordid rocks, The last of Arnold in his English home, Which in your bosom lives for evermore, A deathless picture; England cast it out Not being English, and it shivered on, Coiling about the world, till it was caught And locked into your rocky fastnesses Where it lives ever; and your mountain ribs Ache with the imposition. ACT II [_The centre of the stage slowly opens, disclosing a sitting-room. A writing-table covered with letters. Somewhere in the foreground a sofa or low couch: An engraved portrait of George III. _Arnold_ is sitting at the table, but his arm-chair is turned away. He is in a profound reverie, gazing at the floor. He is dressed in the uniform of a British officer. His hair is gray and his face worn. At the back of the stage at one side of the door, sits _Treason_, somewhat in the attitude of a sheriff's officer keeping guard._] _Treason_. [_To_ Arnold.] What are you muttering, comrade? Go to sleep! And yet sleep not too sound; there's work ahead! With all the world against us. What of that? We ne'er were beaten yet. Get money first: A fortune in your fist. With honest luck, Your hand against the world! But money first. [_Aside._] He breaks apace, and I await each day The knock of Death-- [_Knocking_.] No, no, not yet, Sir Death! There's life in him and, mayhap, years of grief. Leave me to tousle him. He's strong as hemp And bears his ragging well. [_More knocking._] Not yet, not yet! [_Enter_ Death.] _Treason_. You are unjust to come before the time. _Death_. The moment and myself are on the stroke. _Treason_. Thou deemest that this man is soon to die? _Death_. Death is already in him. _Treason_. Yea, his body.-- His mind is brighter than it was before. _Death_. My shadow lights his mind; but it is Death. _Treason_. How hast thou entered him without a struggle? _Death_. The struggle was thy work. _Treason_. Give me some moments. _Death_. [_Pointing to the door with great dignity._] The man is mine. Hence! Silence! Obey! [_Exit_ Treason. Death_ takes _Treason's_ place by the door._]