Classic Poem

  Sir Philip . You come o' the sudden?
  Brand . Ay, Sir,—unannounced.
As doth the wind, or raging waters, when
They burst their bonds, and on the hearths of men
Rush down with cries of ruin!
  Sir Philip . You are learned:
What is 't you want?
  Brand . Sir, the philosopher's stone,—
Justice; long sought, ne'er found. I 've kept sad watch,
In hopes your pity would dissolve at last,
And flow upon us: But your heart is steel,
(Hard, cold, thrice-tempered in an orphan's tears,)
And will not melt, nor bend.
  Sir Philip . Where doth this lead?
  Brand . I 'll tell you, so you 've patience.—Let us turn
Our thoughts back thro' the crimes of thirty years,
And we shall see each other as we were;
Both young, and one imprudent. I—(let loose
By manhood from the bondage of my youth,)
Plunged into riot: You, more wise, lent out
Your wisdom to great men, who paid you back
(With something better than the courtier's coin)
With place and profit; on which helps, you rose
To greatness. Then,—a sudden tempest wrecked
The vessel where your fortunes lay embayed,
And hurled you down to your ancient poverty.
—Tired of the toil of rising, and long used
To silken pleasures, you could not put on
Your youthful habits; but, with discontent
(The villain's sword) walked thoughtful up and down,
Seeking some wretch still needier than yourself,
And came on— me! I was—('twas my black hour!)
So closely knit to every basest grief,
So famish'd, and in such frightful beggary,
That I have quarrelled with the houseless cur
For scraps the stomach sickens at. You saw this;
And (though you had before refused my wants)
Proffered—I know not what: 'twas wealth—'twas life;
(For from my bones the lean and traitorous flesh
Had fled, and left a desperate skeleton;)
And ready was I to do aught 'gainst earth,
Nay, 'gainst high Heaven,—if 'twere but for a meal!
But, what 's all this? You know 't, as well as I.
You had a dying brother,—he a son,
Whose life eclipsed and hid you from the light:—
'Twas but a little blood, and all was over!
You tempted, and—I fell.
  Sir Philip . Why, you were then
A murderer, ready made. What cant is this?
Were you not paid? Your bones well armed with flesh?
That flesh apparelled like a gentleman?
Dog that you are, why,—when all 's fairly done,
The bargain consummate, the coin paid down,
And you still fattening at my yearly cost.—
Why do you come, and with your diseased tongue,
Howl at bright Fortune? Will you starve again?
Shrink into bone? Swear yourself out aloud
The butcher of a child? Wilt hang? Wilt kneel,—
And let the scoffing crowd spit scorn upon thee?
What is 't you ask? What end do you propose,—
That thus with insolent, useless, base remorse,
You beard me in my house, and bid me shake
Your vulgar hand in bloody fellowship?