University of Virginia Library

SCENE, A Gothic Hall.
Enter Edric and Birtha.
Birtha.
What may this mean? Earl Douglas has injoin'd thee
To meet him here in private?

Edric.
Yes, my sister,
And this injunction I have oft receiv'd;
But when he comes, big with some painful secret,
He starts, looks wild, then drops ambiguous hints,
Frowns, hesitates, turns pale, and says 'twas nothing;
Then feigns to smile, and by his anxious care
To prove himself at ease, betrays his pain.

Birtha.
Since my short sojourn here, I've mark'd this Earl,
And tho' the ties of blood unite us closely,
I shudder at his haughtiness of temper,
Which not his gentle wife, the bright Elwina,
Can charm to rest. Ill are their spirits pair'd,
His is the seat of frenzy, her's of softness,
His love is transport, her's, is trembling duty,
Rage in his soul is as the whirlwind fierce,
While her's ne'er felt the pow'r of that rude passion.

Edric.
Perhaps the mighty soul of Douglas mourns,
Because inglorious love detains him here,
While our bold knights, beneath the Christian standard,
Press to the bulwarks of Jerusalem.

Birtha.
Tho' every various charm adorns Elwina,
And tho' the noble Douglas doats to madness,
Yet some dark mystery involves their fate:
The canker grief devours Elwina's bloom,
And on her brow meek resignation sits,
Hopeless, yet uncomplaining.

Edric.
'Tis most strange.

Birtha.
Once, not long since, she thought herself alone;
'Twas then the pent-up anguish burst its bounds;
With broken voice, clasp'd hands, and streaming eyes,
She call'd upon her father, call'd him cruel,
And said her duty claim'd far other recompence.

Edric.
Perhaps the absence of the good Lord Raby,
Who, at her nuptials, quitted this fair castle,
Resigning it to her, may thus afflict her.
Hast thou e'er question'd her, good Birtha?

Birtha.
Often;
But hitherto in vain, and yet she shews me
Th'endearing kindness of a sister's love;
But if I speak of Douglas—

Edric.
See! he comes.
It wou'd offend him shou'd he find you here.
Enter Douglas.
How! Edric and his sister in close conference?
Do they not seem alarm'd at my approach?
And see, how suddenly they part! Now, Edric,
[Exit Birtha.
Was this well done? or was it like a friend,
When I desir'd to meet thee here alone,
With all the warmth of trusting confidence,
To lay my bosom naked to thy view,
And shew thee all its weakness, was it well
To call thy sister here, to let her witness
Thy friend's infirmity?—perhaps to tell her—

Edric.
My lord, I nothing know; I came to learn.

Douglas.
Nay then thou dost suspect there's something wrong!

Edric.
If we were bred from infancy together,
If I partook in all thy youthful griefs,
And every joy thou knew'st was doubly mine;
Then tell me all the secret of thy soul:
“Or have these few short months of separation,
“The only absence we have ever known,
“Have these so rent the bands of love asunder,
“That Douglas should distrust his Edric's truth?”

Douglas.
My friend, I know thee faithful as thou'rt brave,
And I will trust thee—but not now, good Edric,
'Tis past, 'tis gone, it is not worth the telling,
'Twas wrong to cherish what disturb'd my peace;
I'll think of it no more.

Edric.
Transporting news!
I fear'd some hidden trouble vex'd your quiet.
In secret I have watch'd—

Douglas.
Ha! watch'd in secret?
A spy? employ'd, perhaps, to note my actions?
What have I said? Forgive me, thou art noble:
Yet do not press me to disclose my grief,
For when thou know'st it, I perhaps shall hate thee
As much, my Edric, as I hate myself
For my suspicions, I am ill at ease.

Edric.
How will the fair Elwina grieve to hear it!

Douglas.
Hold, Edric, hold—thou hast touch'd the fatal string
That wakes me into madness. Hear me then,
But let the deadly secret be secur'd
With bars of adamant in thy close breast.
Think of the curse which waits on broken oaths;
A knight is bound by more than vulgar ties,
And perjury in thee were doubly damn'd,
Well then, the king of England—

Edric.
Is expected
From distant Palestine.

Douglas.
Forbid it, heaven,
For with him comes—

Edric.
Ah! who?

Douglas.
Peace, peace,
For see Elwina's here. Retire, my Edric;
When next we meet thou shalt know all. Farewel.
[Exit Edric.
Now to conceal with care my bosom's anguish,
And let her beauty chase away my sorrows!
Yes, I wou'd meet her with a face of smiles—
But 'twill not be.

Enter Elwina.
Elwina.
Alas, 'tis ever thus!
Thus ever clouded is his angry brow.

(aside.
Douglas.
I were too blest, Elwina, cou'd I hope
You met me here by choice, or that your bosom
Shar'd the warm transports mine must ever feel
At your approach.

Elwina.
My lord, if I intrude,
The cause which brings me claims at least forgiveness:
I fear you are not well, and come, unbidden,
Except by faithful duty, to enquire,
If haply in my power, my little power,
I have the means to minister relief
To your affliction?

Douglas.
What unwonted goodness!
O I were blest above the lot of man,
If tenderness, not duty, brought Elwina;
Cold, ceremonious, and unfeeling duty,
That wretched substitute for love: But know,
The heart demands a heart; nor will be paid
With less than what it gives. E'en now, Elwina,
The glistening tear stands trembling in your eyes,
Which cast their mournful sweetness on the ground,
As if they fear'd to raise their beams to mine,
And read the language of reproachful love.

Elwina.
My lord, I hop'd the thousand daily proofs
Of my obedience—

Douglas.
Death to all my hopes!
Heart rending word! obedience? what's obedience?
'Tis fear, 'tis hate, 'tis error, 'tis aversion,
'Tis the cold debt of ostentatious duty,
Paid with insulting caution, to remind me
How much you tremble to offend a tyrant
So terrible as Douglas.—“O Elwina—
“While duty measures the regard it owes,
“With scrupulous precision, and nice justice,
“Love never reasons, but profusely gives,
“Gives like a thoughtless prodigal its all,
“And trembles then, lest it has done too little.”

Elwina.
Indeed I'm most unhappy that my cares,
And my solicitude to please, offend.

Douglas.
True tenderness is less solicitous,
Less prudent and more fond; th'enamour'd heart
Conscious it loves; and blest in being lov'd,
Reposes on the object it adores,
And trusts the passion it inspires and feels.—
Thou hast not learnt how terrible it is
To feed a hopeless flame.—But hear, Elwina,
Thou most obdurate hear me.—

Elwina.
Say, my lord,
For your own lips shall vindicate my fame,
Since at the altar I became your wife;
Can malice charge me with an act, a word,
I ought to blush at? Have I not still liv'd
As open to the eye of observation,
As fearless innocence shou'd ever live?
I call attesting angels to be witness,
If in my open deed, or secret thought,
My conduct, or my heart, they've ought discern'd
Which did not emulate their purity.

Douglas.
This vindication e'er you were accus'd,
“This warm defence, repelling all attacks
“E'er they are made, and construing casual words
“To formal accusations, trust me, Madam,”
Shews rather an alarm'd and vigilant spirit,
For ever on the watch to guard its secret,
Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence.
Who talk'd of guilt? Who testified suspicion?

Elwina.
Learn, Sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from blame,
Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming;
Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness,
Beneath the studied pomp of boastful phrase,
Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters;
But when this virtue feels itself suspected,
Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stain'd,
It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth,
And rates itself above its real value.

Douglas.
I did not mean to chide! But think, O think,
What pangs must rend this fearful, doating heart,
To see you sink impatient of the grave,
To feel, distracting thought, to feel you hate me!

Elwina.
What if the slender thread by which I hold
This poor precarious being soon must break;
Is it Elwina's crime, or heav'n's decree?
Yet I shall meet, I trust, the king of terrors,
Submissive and resign'd, without one pang,
One fond regret at leaving this gay world.

Douglas.
Yet, Madam, there is one, one man ador'd,
For whom your sighs will heave, your tears will flow,
For whom this hated world will still be dear,
For whom you still wou'd live—

Elwina.
Hold, hold, my lord,
What may this mean?

Douglas.
Ah! I have gone too far.
What have I said?—Your father, sure, your father,
The good Lord Raby may at least expect
One tender sigh.

Elwina.
Alas, my lord, I thought
The precious incense of a daughter's sighs
Might rise to heav'n, and not offend its ruler.

Douglas.
'Tis true; yet Raby is no more belov'd
Since he bestow'd his daughter's hand on Douglas:
That was a crime the dutiful Elwina
Can never pardon; and believe me, Madam,
My love's so nice, so delicate my honour,
I am asham'd to owe my happiness
To ties which make you wretched.

[Exit Douglas.
Elwina.
Ah! how's this?
Tho' I have ever found him fierce and rash,
Full of obscure surmises, and dark hints,
Till now he never ventur'd to accuse me.
Yet there is one, one man belov'd, ador'd,
For whom your tears will flow—these were his words—
And then the wretched subterfuge of Raby—
How poor th'evasion!—But my Birtha comes.

Enter Birtha.
Birtha.
Crossing the Portico I met Lord Douglas,
Disorder'd were his looks, his eyes shot fire;
He call'd upon your name with such distraction,
I fear'd some sudden evil had befall'n you.

Elwina.
Not sudden; no; long has the storm been gathering,
Which threatens speedily to burst in ruin,
On this devoted head.

Birtha.
I ne'er beheld
Your gentle soul so ruffled, yet I've mark'd you,
While others thought you happiest of the happy,
Blest with whate'er the world calls great, or good,
With all that nature, all that fortune gives,
I've mark'd you beuding with a weight of sorrow.

Elwina.
O I will tell thee all! thou cou'dst not find
An hour, a moment in Elwina's life,
When her full heart so long'd to ease its burthen,
And pour its sorrows in thy friendly bosom:
Hear then with pity, hear my tale of woe.
And, O forgive, kind nature, filial piety,
If my presumptuous lips arraign a father!
Yes, Birtha, that belov'd, that cruel father,
Has doom'd me to a life of hopeless anguish,
To die of grief e'er half my days are number'd,
Doom'd me to give my trembling hand to Douglas,
'Twas all I had to give, my heart was—Percy's.

Birtha.
What do I hear?

Elwina.
My mis'ry, not my crime—
Long since the battle 'twixt the rival houses,
Of Douglas and of Percy, for whose hate
This mighty globe's too small a Theatre,
One summer's morn my father chas'd the Deer
On Cheviot Hills, Northumbria's fair domain.—

Birtha.
On that fam'd spot where first the feuds commenc'd
Between the Earls?

Elwina.
The same. During the chace,
Some of my father's knights receiv'd an insult
From the Lord Percy's herdsmen, churlish foresters,
Unworthy of the gentle blood they serv'd,
My father, proud and jealous of his honour,
(Thou know'st the fiery temper of our Barons)
Swore that Northumberland had been concern'd
In this rude outrage, nor wou'd hear of peace,
Or reconcilement which the Percy offer'd;
But bade me hate, renounce, and banish him.
O! 'twas a task too hard for all my duty,
I strove, and wept, I strove—but still I lov'd.

Birtha.
Indeed 'twas most unjust; but say what follow'd?

Elwina.
Why shou'd I dwell on the disastrous tale?
Forbid to see me, Percy soon embark'd,
With our great king against the Saracen.
Soon as the jarring kingdoms were at peace,
Earl Douglas, whom till then I ne'er had seen,
Came to this castle; 'twas my hapless fate
To please him.—Birtha! thou can'st tell what follow'd:
But who shall tell the agonies I felt?
My barbarous father forc'd me to dissolve
The tender vows himself had bid me form—
He dragg'd me trembling, dying, to the altar,
I sigh'd, I struggled, fainted, and—complied.

Birtha.
Did Douglas know a marriage had been once
Propos'd 'twixt you and Percy?

Elwina.
If he did,
He thought, like you, it was a match of policy,
Nor knew our love surpass'd our father's prudence.

Birtha.
Should he now find he was the instrument
Of the Lord Raby's vengeance?

Elwina.
'Twere most dreadful!
My father lock'd this motive in his breast,
And feign'd to have forgot the Chace of Cheviot.
Some moons have now completed their slow course
Since my sad marriage.—Percy still is absent.

Birtha.
Nor will return before his sov'reign comes.

Elwina.
Talk not of his return! this coward heart
Can know no thought of peace but in his absence.
How, Douglas here again? some fresh alarm!

Enter Douglas, agitated, with letters in his hand.
Douglas.
Madam, your pardon—

Elwina.
What disturbs my lord?

Douglas.
Nothing.—Disturb? I ne'er was more at ease.
These letters from your father give us notice
He will be here to-night;—He further adds
The king's each hour expected.

Elwina.
How? the king?
Said you the king?

Douglas.
And 'tis Lord Raby's pleasure
That you among the foremost bid him welcome.
You must attend the court.

Elwina.
Must I, my lord?

Douglas.
Now to observe how she receives the news!

(Aside.
Elwina.
I must not,—cannot.—By all the tender love
You have so oft profess'd for poor Elwina,
Indulge this one request—O let me stay!

Douglas.
Enchanting sounds! she does not wish to go—

(Aside.
Elwina.
The bustling world, the pomp which waits on greatness,
Ill suits my humble, unambitious soul;—
Then leave me here, to tread the safer path
Of private life, here, where my peaceful course
Shall be as silent as the shades around me;
Nor shall one vagrant wish be e'er allow'd
To stray beyond the bounds of Raby Castle.

Douglas.
O music to my ears! (Aside.)
Can you resolve
To hide those wondrous beauties in the shade,
Which rival kings wou'd cheaply buy with empire?
Can you renounce the pleasures of a court,
Whose roofs resound with minstrelsy and mirth?

Elwina.
My lord, retirement is a wife's best duty,
And virtue's safest station is retreat.

Douglas.
My soul's in transports! (Aside.)
—But can you forego
What wins the soul of woman—admiration?
A world, where charms inferior far to yours,
Only presume to shine when you are absent?
Will you not long to meet the public gaze?
Long to eclipse the fair, and charm the brave?

Elwina.
These are delights in which the mind partakes not.

Douglas.
I'll try her farther.
(Aside)
(Takes her hand, and looks stedfastly at her as he speaks.)
But reflect once more;
When you shall hear that England's gallant peers,
Fresh from the fields of war, and gay with glory,
All vain with conquest, and elate with fame,
When you shall hear these princely youths contend,
In many a tournament for beauty's prize;
When you shall hear of revelry, and masking,
Of mimic combats, and of festive halls,
Of lances shiver'd in the cause of love,
Will you not then repent, then wish your fate,
Your happier fate had till that hour reserv'd you
For some plum'd conqueror?

Elwina.
My fate, my lord,
Is now bound up with yours.

Douglas.
Here let me kneel—
Yes, I will kneel, and gaze, and weep, and wonder;
Thou paragon of goodness!—pardon, pardon,
(Kisses her hand.)
I am convinc'd—I can no longer doubt,
Nor talk, nor hear, nor reason, nor reflect.
—I must retire, and give a loose to joy.

[Exit Douglas.
Birtha.
The king returns.

Elwina.
And with him Percy comes!

Birtha.
You needs must go.

Elwina.
Shall I solicit ruin,
And pull destruction on me ere its time?
I, who have held it criminal to name him?
I will not go—I disobey thee, Douglas,
But disobey thee to preserve thy honour.