University of Virginia Library

HUBERT.

Scene I.

—The garden of a Manor House on a summer evening.

Dramatis Personæ.

• —Sir Ralph Harton, a frail old man, whose wife had been dead for years.
• Hubert, his only child in opening manhood.

Time.—Immediately after the breaking out of the Civil War, 1642.
Hubert.
Hurrah! at length the people spring
To vindicate their right,
And vainly now shall strive the King
To vanquish them in fight.
At last Laud's long despotic course
Draws ruin in its train,
Soon Hampden's words of frenzied force
The victory shall gain—
While Charles will rue with deep remorse
The part which he hath ta'en.
For England's might shall rise in fight
Throughout the groaning land—
And War's harsh sound be heard around
Our homes on every hand.
Our wrongs shall be wiped out in gore,
We'll vanquish what was vaunted,
And so it shall be said once more
That Britons are undaunted.
Then shall we hold a Parliament
Untrammelled, true, and free;
The Stuart's line will aye repent
Their deeds of tyranny.
Secret intrigues shall not affright,
Nor unordained taxation—
And life will prove a dear delight
To each one in the nation!

Sir Ralph.
And yet, my son, this coming strife
Will yield us grievous woe;
Though risking life where death is rife,
God grant you ne'er may know
The agony a father feels
When from his fond child parted;
Wounds such as these Time seldom heals,
But leaves him broken-hearted.
What anguish 'tis to separate
When Nature's ties are nearest!
Ah! cruel is the withering fate
Which tears me from my dearest.
Still go, my son, nor lingering stay,
All private wishes must give way
When the public weal in a righteous cause
Demands a defence for our ancient laws.
Yet even when the cause is one
To which my thoughts respond,
How hard it seems to lose thee, son;
I long to gaze beyond
The darkness which enshrouds thy lot
Amid the surging strife—
Of Gertrude, Hubert, think'st thou not?
Gertrude thy promised wife.
Her father hastes with all his men
To take the monarch's side;
Will he permit his daughter then
To be a traitor's bride?

Hubert.
Lately on evening calm as this
We met in woodland yonder,
Sealing our troth with fervent kiss,
Knowing we had grown fonder,
Yet 'twas our lot to ponder
On what, alas! we now must do;
So sadly passed our interview,
Feeling it was our parents' due,
At least, that we should meet no more
Until the present strife was o'er.
And thus our pressing grief we strove to smother,
By vowing constant faith to one another.
So still to me is Gertrude dear,
We do not part for ever;
Then, father mine, thy spirit cheer,
Though now we're forced to sever.

Scene II.

—A room in the Manor House. Hubert and Gertrude alone. Time.—Three years afterwards.
Hubert.
Alas! my honoured father dead,
A blighting blow indeed has sped
When I was absent; Gertrude, love,
Thou seem'st a being from above
Sent to relieve my crushing woe,
By bliss which mortals rarely know.
Few words may tell why I am here,
In thy dear face delighting,
Blessed be the cause which brings thee near,
Our severed ties uniting.
How weary is this woeful time
Of pillaging and slaughter!
No party deeming war a crime,
Blood flowing fast as water.
The golden grain one rarely sees
That all are now requiring,
Few buds upon the orchard trees,
Which ruthless foes are firing,
Shrieks of despair borne by the breeze
Whence peasants are retiring.
The hurried tramp of armèd men,
The musketry's rude rattle,
The cries and imprecations when
Amid the brunt of battle.
Such are the sounds which greet mine ear,
Till, saddened with the fray,
I come, my love, to rest me here,
If only for a day.

Gertrude.
My story too is very brief,
But 'tis a tale of truest grief.
Ah! Hubert, I felt lone and drear
When thou went'st forth to fight the foe,
And none were left my soul to cheer
Along its path of loveless woe.
The links seemed loosed which brightly bound
Our hopes and hearts in love profound.
My father grew morose and stern,
And harshly swore that I should learn
My folly thus to thwart his will
By loving a rebel Roundhead still,
And that he would go forth and bring
For me another lover—
Who dauntlessly would serve the King,
As I should soon discover.
While thus beset on every side,
With none to counsel or to guide,
I scarce knew what I ought to do,
Then to Sir Harton's house I flew,
Craving protection there;
And graciously with features pale
He gravely listened to my tale,
Granting me all my prayer.
He let me take a daughter's part—
Loving me dearly from his heart;
But feebler grew he day by day,
Dreaming of thee who wert away,
Endangered in the deadly fray;
And oft he longed as erst of yore
To mount his stately steed once more
To join thee in the field.
But lacking strength, “Heaven's will be done,
Though strong the yearning for my son,
Whom God protect and shield.”
I need not tell thee how his strength
Stole stealthily away: at length
He knew that death was near,
And like a wan and sickly child,
By sleep when blissfully beguiled,
He died without a fear.

Hubert.
Thanks, Gertrude darling, for thy care,
Ah! had I but been near to share
Thy deep devotion to my sire,
It had been more mine own desire,
Than that by deeds of might my name
Should win in war a soldier's fame.
This is no time for honeyed word,
Yet what from thy sweet lips I've heard
Has bid me bless and love thee more
Than in the peaceful days of yore.
But, Gertrude, I must leave thee now—
I may no longer tarry;
For I my good steed must allow
Three hours in which to carry
His master unto his command
Of Levellers the nearest band.
The struggle now is nearly done,
With Cromwell none can cope—
When a great conflict has been won
Gone is each royal hope.
Thy sire and mother are in Spain
(Having in safety crossed the main);
Then with my vassals still abide,
Nor from my home depart—
Until I come to call thee bride
With blithely beating heart.
Oh! give me now a last embrace,
One glance of thy bright eye
Will nerve me aught on earth to face,
Even though it be to die.

Scene III.

—Interior of a wretched hovel. Hubert lying wounded. Group of soldiers. Time.—A few days later.
1st Sol.
'Tis sad our captain too should feel
The stroke of the Malignants' steel,
In fight so fearless, brave, and bold,
He scarcely seemed of mortal mould;
And yet among the wounded he
Would tender as a woman be.
The dying heard with joy his tread,
Invoking blessings on his head.
So kind to all, so gentle too,
He gave to each his proper due,
And ever exercised his power
To check us in a wanton hour.

2nd Sol.
Cease, ere he wakes—

Hubert.
(Opening his eyes—)
Why am I here,
In this abode so bare and drear?
Why this strange mist before mine eyes,
Whence phantoms of the past arise?
Why this weak trembling of the frame,
And feelings which I cannot name?

1st Sol.
Thou'rt wounded, Captain, but we feel
Assured our leech thy hurt can heal.

Hubert.
Nevermore, my race is run,
Here I shall not long remain,
All my life on earth is done—
Save, perchance, some hours of pain.
(Delirious.)
Gertrude darling, come to me,
Even mid the din of strife.
When shall I the dear day see
When I rapturous call thee wife?
(Again he is conscious.)
Approach, my men, I grow more weak,
My strength speeds swift away,
Then promise me while yet I speak
My mandate to obey.
When I am dead, with charger fleet
Unto my home repair,
And tell the lady Gertrude sweet,
My last thoughts were of her.
And lay me where my fathers sleep,
Within yon lone churchyard,
Where the weird willow seems to keep
A solitary guard.
Farewell! I thank you from my heart
For all the kindness on your part,
May God—

1st Sol.
See the celestial light
Illume his features, as his spirit takes its flight.