University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE, An Apartment in Westmoreland's Palace.
Enter a Steward, with Servants.
STEWARD.
Haste to Paul's Cross, and be you sure, at seven,
The fountain spouts with wine—spouts in full streams,
As copious as the Noble Donor's bounty.
Observe, when weak, or aged folk you see,
Press'd by the boist'rous multitude, assist them,
And let not sturdy ones take double shares.

FIRST SERVANT.
I will be mindful.—

[Exit.
STEWARD.
You, Edric, for the populace, take care
The ox hath been well fed. Let not the poor
Dine on poor food, for a rememb'ring token
Of this most happy day.

SECOND SERVANT.
I'll chuse the best.

[Exit.
STEWARD.
Have the old pensioners receiv'd their raiment?

THIRD SERVANT.
Marry they have, and with o'erflowing hearts.

STEWARD.
'Tis thus our Noble Master doth rejoice!
Whate'er brings joy, or happiness to him,
Is pledge of joy to all within his reach.
Were his lands bounded only by the seas
That girt our isle, he hath a heart as wide.
See, he approaches! with a face as gladsome,
As though he had redeem'd from glutton Time
His own blest nuptial morn.

Enter Westmoreland.
WESTMORELAND.
Come, come; no mirth,
No bustling with ye? Are the cooks all busy?
Is the hall trimm'd, and ready for the guests?

STEWARD.
All's as you wish, my Lord.

WESTMORELAND.
Then all will feel content this happy morn,
And the dejected eye of sorrow
Be rais'd, with sparkling gratitude, to Heaven.
But where's thy joy? Thou art as old and grey
As if this only was a common morn.
Is't not Albina's wedding-day? Cast off
Thy age, and be a boy! Not sportive youth
Shall go beyond old Westmoreland to-day
In all the rounds of gay festivity.

STEWARD.
My heart doth take its part, my honour'd Lord,
In all the happiness that beams around you.
Behold the sov'reign of the feast—Lord Edward!

[Exit.
Enter Edward.
WESTMORELAND.
Hail to my son! Hail to this chosen morn—
This morn of bliss! These are a Bridegroom's hours:
—Thou seem'st impatient of the lazy clock.

EDWARD.
Sorrow, like joy, 's impatient of the hours,
And presses forward to untasted time.

WESTMORELAND.
Who talks of sorrow on a bridal morn?
Your tones, methinks, ill suit the occasion.

EDWARD.
They suit too well the tenor of my mind!
Edward, alas! thou seest, no happy Bridegroom,
With ardor waiting, and impatient joy,
To hail his blushing Bride—but a sad wretch,
Who hates the day, for breaking on his woe,
And longs for endless night.

WESTMORELAND.
Surely my joy
Hath been too powerful for my frail age.
Thy words do strike mine ear; but Reason
Her faculty with-holds, nor shews their import.

EDWARD.
Oh, look not thus! My tale will rive thy heart.

WESTMORELAND.
Albina!—my Child!

EDWARD.
Dread the worst;
That when the worst doth come, you may support
Its horror!

WESTMORELAND.
Speak quickly—Is my Child well?

EDWARD.
She is.

WESTMORELAND.
Then what keen stroke hath Heaven in store?
Through her alone I can affliction know—
If she be well, what ill can light on me?

EDWARD.
Oh!

WESTMORELAND.
I prithee speak—what labours in thy breast?

EDWARD.
A deadly poison!—I can hold no longer—
Last night—oh, last night!

WESTMORELAND.
Hah! what of last night?

[Impatiently.
EDWARD.
Memory! thou'rt a scorpion. To forget!
'Twere easier to blot out the horrid'st crimes.
The wrath of Heav'n's by penitence appeas'd.
But what, O Memory! can rase from thee
The ills that thou hast register'd? Albina!
My heart its vital stream should yield, to expiate
Thy guilt.

WESTMORELAND.
Guilt! Dost thou join her name with guilt?

EDWARD.
Yes; with most foul dishonour—blackest guilt!

WESTMORELAND.
Thou, then, art he—the villain who hast stain'd her;
And, by the Cross, thou shalt repair her shame;
Wed her this day—make her this hour thy Wife,
And then I'll poniard thee, for having dared
Think lewdly of her.

EDWARD.
Thy rage I do respect;
And, whilst my heart with agony is torn,
I pity thee. Unhappy Westmoreland!
Albina had been chaste as cloister'd saints,
Had all, like me, believ'd her honour sacred.

WESTMORELAND.
What! with another—another! Dost accuse her?

EDWARD.
I do!—Last night—oh!—I will find the villain,
If Earth doth not conceal him in her womb,
Or Heav'n work miracles to save him—

WESTMORELAND.
He is already found. Thy thin-drawn arts
Leave thee expos'd, in all thy native guilt.
Thou'st ta'en advantage of relying Love—
—On one base hazard, stak'd a boundless treasure,
And now art Bankrupt, both of bliss and honour.
This wretch art thou, or a most foul deceiver!

EDWARD.
This rude, intemp'rate anger, will not heal
Thy Daughter's shame. I tell thee, thou fierce Lord!
These eyes beheld him hous'd, within her chamber,
At th'hour when Virtue and Suspicion sleep,
And Lewdness riots in the mask of Night.

WESTMORELAND.
Whom sayst thou, thou beheld'st?

EDWARD.
I knew him not.
Wrapt in Night's sooty liv'ry, like hot Tarquin
To the fair Roman's bed, He softly stole—
—But, oh! he was not greeted like a Ravisher.—

WESTMORELAND.

EDWARD.
And I refuse
Thy daring challenge—weak, yet good, old Earl!
What! prove Albina in the face of day
A wanton!—Her, on whose pure chastity,
Within a few short hours, I would have stak'd
My everlasting weal!—Oh, thou fallen Angel!
I'll mourn thy fault, but in my heart 'tis buried!

WESTMORELAND.
All this might cozen a fond female's anger;
But, Edward! I am Westmoreland!—
In our long line of noble ancestry,
Not one base act e'er spotted the fair name,
Or slander dared to breathe on't!
Unsullied I receiv'd the glorious heritance,
And will, untarnish'd, bear it through the world.
Thou hast defam'd my child—Her who will bear
The name, and princely fortunes, of our house—
—Thy blood must do away the damning stain!

EDWARD.
Would'st thou oppose thy waning life to mine?
Thou dost forget, old Lord! how many Winters
Have left their hoary fleeces on thy head,
Since thou wert a fit match for one who boasts
Th'unslacken'd nerves of youth.

WESTMORELAND.
Thy vaunted strength
I do despise. Was e'er the nerved arm
Of Youth triumphant on the side of falsehood?
This wither'd arm, in my Albina's cause,
Shall cover with disgrace the budding laurels
That scarcely yet are fitted to thy brow.

EDWARD.
Disgrac'd indeed! if spotted with thy blood;
And therefore I refuse thy proffer'd gauntlet.
If 'tis my life you seek, I shall, this day,
For Palestine embark, and die more gloriously
Than by a froward old Man's petulance.

WESTMORELAND.
Insolent Boy! I'll force thee do me right.
I'll instant to our Sov'reign, and demand
The law of honour. Ere thou dost embark,
Thou sure shalt prove my Daughter what thou said'st,
And leave these wintry locks drench'd in my blood—
—Or I will write thee lyar, in thy heart.

[Exit.
EDWARD.
Is this my bridal morn?—
Oh, ye soft budding joys!—ye tender sympathies!—
—Ye offices of Love!—ye thousand nameless ties!
Where are ye fled?—
The Sun of Happiness, that blaz'd but yesterday,
And promis'd through Eternity to light me—
Is extinguish'd!—
Then, Life, be thou extinguish'd too; but not
Ingloriously—To Holy Land I'll speed,
And bear me as a Soldier. Oh, Albina!
The sword that must be buried in my heart,
Thy hand will strike—A Saracen may wound—
—'Tis Raimond kills.

[Exit.
Enter Westmoreland, leading Albina.
WESTMORELAND.
Ha, my poor Child! home—thou must home again.
Put off thy bridal vest, resume thy weeds,
For thou must be a Widow still.

ALBINA.
My Lord!

WESTMORELAND.
Why, why didst yield to thy weak Father's suit?
He pleaded for a Villain.

ALBINA.
For a Villain!
What mean those dreadful sounds? Edward a Villain!

WESTMORELAND.
He is. Thou too shalt think him so.

ALBINA.
Impossible!
Lord Edward's breast is Honour's sacred temple!
In him, 'tis not a scope of moral words,
Or schoolmen's speeches—but a living soul
That starts from baseness, as annihilation.

WESTMORELAND.
Alas! my Child, I judge him from himself.
How shall I tell thee—

ALBINA.
What?

WESTMORELAND.
Thou art—rejected.
Yes, he rejects thee. Nay, he hath accused—
Westmoreland lives to hear his child accused—

ALBINA.
Support, me Heaven! Of what am I accused?

WESTMORELAND.
The shame will burn thy modest check—he terms thee—wanton.

ALBINA.
Me! Edward deem me—Oh!

WESTMORELAND.
Yes, thee!
Thee, in whose bosom Chastity is thron'd:
Thou, the bright pattern of each female virtue,
By Edward art accus'd of vile licentiousness.

ALBINA.
Oh, horrible!

[Sinking into her Father's arms.
WESTMORELAND.
Support thyself, my Child!
On thy base slanderer thou shalt have justice.

ALBINA.
Last night, I well remember, when he left me,
And pass'd beyond the reach of tender sounds,
Straining his eyes, he stopt—then towards Heaven,
With emphasis of action, rais'd his hands,
Seeming t'invoke its blessings on Albina—
Had he conceiv'd a doubt—

WESTMORELAND.
He has no doubt—
He dares not doubt the honour of my Daughter—
But the rich prize, which, whilst at distance, plac'd
Almost beyond the stretches of his hope,
Seem'd worthy his ambition to attain—
Now, view'd at hand, palls on his sickly taste,
And he contemns the blessing he aspir'd to.

ALBINA.
Oh! is't for this I rose with early dawn
To bless perfidious Edward? Is't for this
I gave consent, ere custom might allow,
To be again a Bride? Base, base ingratitude!

WESTMORELAND.
Take heart, my Girl! thy Father swears thy innocence
Shall not be wrong'd.

ALBINA.
Ah! what avails my innocence?
My lot is wretchedness. Condemn'd by him
To whom I'd giv'n my heart—and in whose love
I'd treasur'd ages of untasted bliss—
Forsaken! scorn'd! left like a loath'd disease!
Oh, to some convent's dreary cell I'll fly,
And there forever hide my shame, and misery!

WESTMORELAND.
First shall be sacrific'd a thousand Edwards;
Thy virtue shall be prov'd; and my Albina
Live through a race of blissful years, in honour:
E'en now I hasten to the King, to claim
The sacred rights of Knighthood.

ALBINA.
Hah! what say you,
My Lord!

WESTMORELAND.
Edward I've challeng'd to the lists;
There to give testimony, that thy virtue
Is spotless, is unquestion'd as thy beauty.

ALBINA.
What do I hear? My Father yield his breast
To Edward's sword! Edward! whose skill in arms
Leaves him unrivall'd in the voice of Fame!
Oh, shield me from the horror of the thought!

WESTMORELAND.
Dismiss thy fears. Thy Father's arm hath humbled
Mightier men than he. This breast wears marks—
—Honourable marks, gray'd by the sword of heroes;
And shall a Boy with contumely use me?

ALBINA.
Horror! distraction! Oh, [kneeling]
if my soul's peace
Be dear to thee, avoid this cruel combat.
My mighty wrongs I will with patience bear;
But, Father! heap not sorrows on my head—
Risk not such precious lives! Whoe'er doth vanquish,
Makes me the wretched victim of his prowess!

WESTMORELAND.
Dost Edward's life, beyond thine honour, prize?

ALBINA.
Oh, frown not thus! I'll tear him from my heart;
I'll shun him, as I would the haunts of vice—
—But, oh! make not thy Child a Murderer!
A Paricide!

WESTMORELAND.
Thy innocence insures
Thy Father's life. In chaste Gunhilda's cause
A stripling triumph'd o'er a mighty giant,
Who seem'd the Atlas of a trembling world;
Thus arm'd by thee, I'd dauntless meet a legion.

ALBINA.
Canst thou demand a miracle to save thee!
As Man thou'lt perish—oh! or should, indeed,
A miracle be wrought to prove my truth,
Then Edward dies!

WESTMORELAND.
Ah! could'st thou wish thy slanderer—
Thy fame's assassin, to survive his crime;
I would disclaim thee. Shall the child of Westmoreland—
She, who doth carry in her veins the blood
Of royal houses—whose high Ancestors
Gave honour to the sceptres which they bore—
—Shall she, when thus accus'd, be unreveng'd?
No more, no more—left I think thy chaste Mother
Did play the wanton, and gave me the daughter
Of some ignoble hind.

ALBINA.
Wound me not thus!
My sainted Mother, from thy blest abode,
Look with compassion on thy wretched Child!
Sustain me, help me, in this trying hour,
Lest horror should uproot my tott'ring reason,
And instant plunge me in the depths of madness!

WESTMORELAND.
This keen, tumultuous sorrow misbecomes thee;
It misbecomes thy rank, thy wrongs, thy virtue:
Recall thy fortitude; think what thou art,
And prove thee worthy of the space thou fill'st!

ALBINA.
Oh Father! Heaven! where shall I turn for succour?
A Father steels his heart, and Heaven forsakes me.
All things are wild—'Tis surely Nature's wreck!—
—These fierce contending struggles are too big,
They'll burst the little mansion that confines 'em,
And I shall feel—shall agonize no more.

[Exit.
WESTMORELAND.
Oh Honour! Nature! how shall I decide?
Obeying one, I may destroy my Child,
And yielding to the other's powerful claims,
I give her up to shame. Must I do this?
Thy Father yield thee to dishonour! No.
First I'll purge off the venom of black Slander,
Restore its wonted lustre to thy fame;
Then, if thou diest—sink with thee to the grave.

SCENE, An Apartment in Gondibert's Palace.
Enter Gondibert.
GONDIBERT.
O Day! with heart appall'd I meet thy beams.
Thou racking conscience! wherefore torture thus
The breast where thou hast lightly reign'd till now?
A sleepless night I've past—Or, if perchance
A slumber for a moment clos'd mine eyes,
Sad images of woe convey'd such horror,
That better 'twere to wake to real misery.
And whence these new-born torments? What! have I
Depriv'd the weeping Orphan of his bread?
Imbrued my hands in murder? Or look'd down,
With chilly eye, upon a bosom friend,
Beneath Oppression's iron gripe? Oh, no.
I've been a child, and ly'd to keep a toy
Of which another would have robb'd me.—
I'm even less than Woman—Not a Female
Who would not laugh at such o'er-strain'd nice feelings,
For crimes 'mongst Lovers put in daily practice.
Hah! my bright Genius!—
[Enter Editha.
That smile must be the herald of good news;
Misfortune ne'er was couch'd beneath an air so sweet.

EDITHA.
There spoke thy coz'ning sex. Deceit and flattery
Hang all their witchery upon your tongues;
Whilst Maidens, like poor birds, by keen-ey'd basilisks
Allured, behold their danger, yet are charm'd
To their destruction.

GONDIBERT.
Talk not of Man;
But sov'reign Woman—Tidings of Albina!

EDITHA.
Array'd in bridal pomp, light in her steps,
Joy beaming from her eye, and happiness
Exulting on her brow, she left the palace;
But soon return'd—a truly mournful Widow.

GONDIBERT.
Be quick.—

EDITHA.
Edward, in perfect faith of last night's guile,
Resigns his willing Bride—Returns her back
To lonely Widowhood, or the soft cares
Of some more happy Lover.

GONDIBERT.
Oh, be that Lover me!
Strait will I hasten to the charming Mourner—
Help her to curse perfidious, changing Man—
Damn my whole sex to gratify her spleen—
And, when her hatred to a frenzy mounts,
Seize on the instant of tumultuous passion,
To lure her back again to Love and Gondibert.

EDITHA.
Hold, hold, my Lord! such rashness would undo us.
Beware of proud vindictive Westmoreland!
A single glance to his suspicious eye,
Would be a clue to ravel out our secret.
He hath a faculty to see men's souls,
As though their lineaments were written characters,
By which he reads their scarce-existing thoughts—
Fly from the danger, then, if you are wise.

GONDIBERT.
Seek Wisdom in the squalid Monks' abode,
Where lean and sallow, by the mould'ring lamp
She grows—In me the passions are wound up
To Nature's highest pitch—impulse, my law;
That impulse leads to Raimond.

[Still going.
EDITHA.
Still I must
Restrain you. I will home, my Lord, to watch
The motions of our house, and give you tidings
When ev'ry danger's past. Thou call'st me Friend,
Yet wilt not trust to my sollicitudes.

GONDIBERT.
Nay then, I yield—farewell, my Guardian Spirit—
Oh, count the moments by the Lover's dial,
Where hours are ages!—

EDITHA.
Till he doth backward on the dial count,
Then ages shrink to points.

[Exit.
GONDIBERT.
Now then, for Edward,
And for art! art, to hide my doating thoughts,
And deck 'em in the sullen guise of hatred.
Only a few short hours these shores confine him;
—These shores may never greet his eyes again.
Mean time, that he and his Albina meet not
T'exchange reproaches, is my only care:
That point attain'd—and all the rest is rapture.

[Going.
Enter Egbert.
EGBERT.
I come, my Lord, th'unwilling Messenger
Of heavy tidings. Hoary Earl Westmoreland
Hath challeng'd Edward, in the field to prove
His calumny against his Daughter.

GONDIBERT.
Confusion!

EGBERT.
This day they enter on the solemn trial.
The King himself will judge the dreadful combat;
And the whole court, in wond'ring sorrow wrapt,
E'en now are hast'ning to attend the issue.

GONDIBERT.
Issue! 'tis well—'tis well. Leave me, good Egbert!
Oh! 'tis too much—this is too keen a stroke!
How shall I steer me in this fatal tempest?
Confess my wiles?—Horror! leave me, I say—
Why stand'st thou thus, with such exploring eyes,
As if thou'dst read the workings of my brain?

EGBERT.
If right I read, your mind in balance hangs
'Twixt the opposing principles of good
And ill. Between these two the Pow'r that made us,
Bestow'd free-will to chuse: Oh, let me then
Direct your choice! Let him, whose tongue inspir'd
The early love of virtue, once more—

GONDIBERT.
Canst thou
Preach calmness to the furious sea? Wilt bid
The whirlwind, that doth break the tow'ring spire,
And in its vortex hurls the forest oaks,
Restrain its rage?—When they obey thee,
Then Gondibert shall be again a child,
And take instructions from the virtuous Egbert.

EGBERT.
Oh, that these hours had not so sudden past!
I can recall, when this despis'd Old Man
Was dear to you—when, hanging on my neck,
You'd listen to—

GONDIBERT.
No more! I do still love thee,
Still reverence thy virtues—But oh, Egbert!
I see them as the humid arch of Heaven,
That distant, in bright order glows, and beautifies
The scene—yet doth impart to Man no influence,
Nor yields him more than empty splendor.

EGBERT.
Thus do Men talk, who'd rather shine in words,
Than seek for truth. But, oh, my Lord! this once
Let me resume my wonted place. This hour—

GONDIBERT.
Hie to thy chamber, Egbert, and make prayers.
Such holy Men as thou art, have no call
In these rude times. The world is headstrong grown,
And needs a firmer curb than thine to guide it.

EGBERT.
Since only one way I can gain your ear,
Know, thou rash Lord! I'm privy to the plot—
Th'inhuman plot by female cunning fram'd,
In which you have most wickedly concurr'd.

GONDIBERT.
Hah!—how—when?

EGBERT.
I was a hidden witness of the scene
That pass'd, last night, within Albina's garden—
—How I came there, will make another tale.

GONDIBERT.
That thou wert there, thou prying, list'ning Varlet,
Is thy destruction—
[Half-drawing.
Yet hold—fly me, whilst I command my rage—
—Fly from thy wrong'd Master, into whose secrets
Thou hast, indecent! forced thyself.

EGBERT.
I fear not
Your anger, Lord!—nay, I will gladly die,
If, dying, on your mind I can impress
Just horror for the—

GONDIBERT.
[Pushing him off.]