University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

An Apartment in the Abbey.
Rowena and Osric seated.
They rise and come forward.
Osric.
Yet, give me leave—

Row.
No more—I pray, no more!—
Honour!—shame to it, for it sticks on guilt,
And leaves reproach to virtue! I will none on't—
My lord, my lord, I am married to my grave,
And will no other husband.

Osric.
Wondrous creature,
All sainted excellence!—I did but wish
My country wedded to her peace in thee;
To see thy bright example, as a glass,
Rais'd to the public eye, where every soul
Must shame to look, or dress itself to virtue.

Row.
Alas! good Osric, I have no skill to queen it;
And if the little virtue Heaven has lent,
Will serve to pilot on one humble bark
To its last port, it is a task sufficient—
So much for royalty!—And, for the rest,
I had rather mix me with the loathsome dead,
And yield my living body to corruption,
Than turn my soul into the bed of sense
Still more detested.

Osric.
Yet, Rowena, yet,
There is a claim, your country has a claim—

Row.
A claim!

Osric.
Yes, lady,
Of retribution—that you seal her peace;
A kind reverse of blest prosperity,
In recompence of all the mighty ills,
You brought upon her.

Row.
I, Osric, I?

Osric.
Not the famed Helen, whose destructive charms
Laid Asia waste, and made all Greece a widow,
Caused equal desolation—Still, methinks,
I see thy husband in his vengeance rise
Loud as the thunder, furious as the whirlwind,
O'erturning armies, and our tower-fenced towns,
In undistinguished ruin!

Row.
No, Manchester—He warr'd on guilt alone,
The friends of violence, the foes of virtue!

Osric.
Against his country, and her lawful king—

Row.
His country's lawless tyrant!

Osric.
He is penitent—
As pilgrims sworn to wander thro' the world,
Their bare feet weeping blood on every flint,
For one false step.

Row.
O name him, name him not!

Osric.
How!—cannot piety, like thine, so rais'd
O'er all we deem of angels—fast, and prayer,
And vigils, that already hold in Heaven
Their nightly converse—cannot these afford
One drop of mercy to repentent frailty,
That kneels and prostrate falls beneath thy feet
For blest forgiveness?

Row.
O, Osric!—
My friend, my father!—well, I will confess it—
To thee I will confess—days, nights, and years,
I have strove, and combated, and pray'd for help,
And waked, and watch'd, and wept, and wish'd to pardon,
To quell the swelling hate, the big resentment—
In vain—still faithful to the dread remembrance,
The giant wrong returns too mighty for me—
His name, his dire idea!—'tis my curse,
The spectre of my thoughts, my detestation,
My daily, nightly horror!—
Heaven, pardon thou!—But where?—O! where's the power,
Shall wash my stain away?

Osric.
Thy stain, thou mirror of divine perfection!—
Thy stain?

Row.
Indelible,
It sticks—'tis rooted in my name, my memory,
Deep as existence—O, the ruthless ravager,
Who kills for ages!—Seest thou, Manchester,
These organs, once so pleasing to the eye,
Now to the soul they hold abhorr'd, and loathsome?
This body of pollution, 'tis my burden,
A load irreconcileable—till death
Shall mix and crumble it with kindred dust,
That no discerning finger may point out
Where lie the ruins of the lost Rowena.

Osric.
Fairest, my suit, I doubt, was over earnest,
But did not mean offence—Repose attend thee!
Heaven's happiest visions open in each thought,
And furnish out thy slumbers!

[Exit.