University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Lady Raleigh's House.
Enter Lady Raleigh.
Thrice have I try'd to fold my self in Sleep,
But Heav'n has set a Watch upon my Eyes,
And barrs the courted Guest from entring there.
It must import—for I have long observ'd,
When Death or Danger, with a hasty Wing,
Sped to this wretched House—it still was so.
O! my foreboding Heart! my Lord! my Raleigh!
Perhaps e'en now some cold unwholsome Damp
(The deadly Inmate of a Prison's Walls,)
Arrests the vital Current in its Course.
Or he, now conquer'd by protracted Wrongs—
Ungenerous Thought!—Forgive me, O my Raleigh;
For well I know thy Heart and Fear are Strangers;
Nor wouldst thou for the World contract the Shame
Of that base Cowardice, to die unsummon'd.
Enter Young Raleigh.
My Son, give Comfort to thy Mother's Heart,
For sure it wants it much.

Y. Ra.
What Cause of Grief
Can rack my Mother's Heart when I am nigh?
Or has her Son, unconscious of his Guilt,
Rais'd up this Storm of Sorrow? then direct,
Direct it all upon this hated Head.

L. Ra.
Thou art the Light of these declining Eyes,
My Age's Comfort, and thy House's Guardian.
But Oh! thou know'st, since first this plighted Hand
Was to thy Father's given, what Trains of Woe,
Scene after Scene, successively disastrous,
Have been the Objects of thy Mother's Eyes.
I will not say, when absent from my Bed,
How this fond aking Heart has bled for him;
How watch'd the thund'ring Mine at Mid-night Sieges,
Throbb'd in the War, and sicken'd in the Storm.
But oh! the last, the last decisive Stroke,
When, warm with Joy of Liberty regain'd,
He fled the dear Embraces of a Wife,
For fancied Conquests on the Indian Shore.

Y. Ra.
Thus to recall the Thoughts of past Distress,
Is adding double Weight to all your Woes.
Who wou'd wake sleeping Grief, or with new Stings
Arm the dead Scorpion, Care?

L. Ra.
I tell thee, Son,
Green are those Sorrows, and still flourish here.
Can I forget, that on that luckless Day,
All that was left us, the sad Remains
Of ruin'd Fortune, gather'd on a Heap,
Were sent a Venture to the Winds and Seas?
Nay, did not Fate encompass all his Friends
Within the Line of Raleigh's Miseries?

Y. Ra.
Madam, 'tis too unkind to wound me so,
And this Remembrance may be call'd Reproach;
By all the Ties of Filial Love, no more—

L. Ra.
Talk'st thou of Filial Love, in such a Strain
As speaks Command—Heav'ns! I had once a Son—
Yes, I will picture him, till thy glowing Cheek
Redden with Shame—These Eyes shall ne'er behold
A Form so delicate, all other Youths
Seem'd cold and lifeless Images to him.
A Soul so rich in Virtue, it chastis'd
Vice without Speech, and utter'd thro' his Eyes
Silent Persuasion; in the Field of War
Cautious as Age, and daring as Despair,
Yet humble as the Conquer'd when victorious.

Y. Ra.
I own my Brother's Praise, and would have try'd
To copy the fair Pattern of his Virtues.
But you—

L. Ra.
'Tis true; my Heart conceives thy Meaning;
I would not let thee try the Chance of War,
Nor trust ill Fortune, like a Prodigal,
With all my Store at once. I gave too much,
When I consented to thy Brother's Death.

Y. Ra.
You only gave his active Spirit room
To range at large, and emulate my Sire.
What tho' he fell? fell in his youthful Bloom?
Who measures Glory by the Length of Days?

L. Ra.
'Twas thus thy Father talk'd; vain empty Words,
Of Honour, Glory, and immortal Fame.
Can these recall the Spirit from its Place,
Or re-inspire the breathless Clay with Life?
What, tho' your Fame, with all its thousand Trumpets,
Sound o'er the Sepulchre, will that awake
The sleeping Dead, and give me back my Son?
No—no—

Enter Messenger with a Letter to Young Raleigh.
Y. Ra.
O for a Word of Comfort now!

L. Ra.
Who talks of Comfort to a Wretch like me?
This is the House of Sorrow, here it dwells,
And multiplies a Race of unblest Children.

Mes.
I know not what this Letter may contain,
My Master gave it with an earnest Look,
And said—the Business spoke its own Excuse.

[Exit.
[Y. Ra. reading the Letter.
L. Ra.
I read Disorder in thy Face: O speak,
Speak, my Son: Silence now is Cruelty,
And musters in my Thoughts a thousand Ills,
All killing as the worst can be, when known.

Y. Ra.
My Father—

L. Ra.
Is dead, you say—

Y. Ra.
No.

L. Ra.
Blest be the Tongue that spoke so sweet a Truth.

Y. Ra.
He lives, but holds his Life in such suspence,
He has no Surety for to-morrow's Sun.
Read there—

L. Ra.
reads.

Your Father's Death, by the Management of Gundamor
and Salisbury, is this Night determin'd. The
Execution is delay'd, for a Reason I hope will prevent
any—The only Expedient I can advise is,
to renew your Addresses to Salisbury's Daughter.

Your Friend Howard.

L. Ra.
O crooked Politician Salisbury!
These are the Triumphs of thy plotted Spleen:
Deep-thinking Traytor! how does thy false Heart,
Studious of Mischief, hunting base Revenge,
Enjoy the Widows Woes, and Orphans Tears!

Y. Ra.
And must I mix with his infectious Race,
And take the Daughter from the bloody Hand
Fresh with the Slaughter of a murder'd Father?
Are these the Cordials gen'rous Howard gives?

L. Ra.
Lost in the hasty Fore-sight of our Woes,
The sad Alternative escap'd my Thought.
Howard advises well; be thou, my Son,
The Fence betwixt our falling House, and Fate.
Repent the guilty Rashness of Neglect,
And court the slighted Maid with humble Vows.
Assist, contrive, invent, implore,
Do any thing to save thy Father's Life.

Y. Ra.
All Things that will not mis-become his Son,
And bring Dishonour on our House and Name.
No, since the Spring has run untainted yet,
From its first Flowing to its fullest Stream,
Let not Pollution stain it in the End.

L. Ra.
Go: It is no Disgrace to use the Means
That Providence points out for our Deliv'rance;
But to reject them, is to tempt the Blow
To fall with double Weight—Tho' Salisbury
Breaths Wrath, Revenge and Cruelty;
Yet is the fair Olympia good, and pitiful,
Kind as the Charities of dying Saints,
And tender as the Vows of parting Friends.
Haste, and forget that Salisbury's her Father.

Y. Ra.
Oh! that I could—

L. Ra.
Still, still inflexible:
Hard-hearted Boy—Thou art not sure the Son
Of Raleigh's Blood; this Bosom never bore
Thy helpless Infancy, nor press'd thy Cheeks
To these fond Lips, then look'd, and bless'd our Loves,
And prophesy'd a thousand Joys to come.
O! I can bear no more—rise up, my Soul,
In Bitterness of Sorrow—yet I cannot now,
While I behold that dear Resemblance here!
How his lov'd Father flatters in his Face.
Then I must try alone—Resolve, my Son,
Prevent the Vengeance of a Father's Blood,
And fear the Curses of a Mother's Wrath,
A Widow'd Mother—

[Exit.
Y. Ra.
Which way shall I turn?
If to Olympia, I must wrong my Fame,
And injure her; for tho' she could believe
I cannot love—to counterfeit is base,
And cruel too; dissembl'd Love is like
The Poison of Perfumes, a killing Sweetness:
But then, my Father—Oh! those cutting Words,
A Widow'd Mother, Widow'd by my Crime!
That, that will ring for ever in my Ears,
Rise up in Blushes on my guilty Cheek,
Knock at my Breast, and ask if I'm a Son.
Forgive me then, ye faithful Nymphs and Swains,
Teach me to look like you, to steal your Pains,
To make dissembl'd Tears successful start,
And dropping seem to cool the Love-sick Heart;
Then when you view me struggling in the Snare
Of lying Fears, sick Hopes, and false Despair,
For the sad Tryal let your Pity plead;
And Heav'n, who made the Cause, excuse the Deed.

[Exit.