University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The Cottage.
Cecil, Ralph, George, with Artificers and Mourners —A splendid open Coffin is seen—Cecil kneeling beside it—As the Scene draws he rises slowly.
Cecil.
Forgive me, boys—I've play'd the woman here
Haply too long—Close up that gaping urn.
Shut, shut its raven jaws, and spread the pall;
For now the face of my dear child is hid,
I cannot bear to look on't.—All that blaze
Of heraldry o'er its funereal mould
Is hateful mockery—Let it be pall'd
Forthwith, that eye of man may not behold
Such flummery of device.
(To the artificer.)
Hold thee, good friend,
Thy haste's officious—Who bade thee put forth
These knuckled paws upon that sacred bier
With such important bustle?—Stand aside
Till thou art ask'd.

Geo.
My lord and sire, remember
The day wears on apace, the rites are o'er,
And death's pale visage suits not with the eye
Of kindred and the sun—O! it is best
Shrouded from view!—Now the artificer
Must needs have done—Restrain your ire, my lord.

Cecil.
Alas! my ire and pride of heart are o'er!
I cherish neither: I consign them both,
With every earthly passion to that urn.
No more shall nature's bustle trouble me!—
Adieu, my child—a short adieu I bid thee.
So good and so beloved was never yet
So injured and abused—O, I list much
To sit and watch thee still—to look on thee;
But I'm restrain'd and check'd.—I have no ire,
But that I hate to see such knaves as that
Thrust their officious and important snouts
Upon the griefs of men, as much as saying,
Keep all aloof, I'm here—For that you say
That I am ireful.—Ah! you little weigh
The cause I have for other feelings here
Than aught of ire! But it is always thus;
I cannot utter word but I'm in ire,
And check'd by boys.—For failings of old age,
And such misfortunes, some regard is due.
True, I am proud!—O, thou departed saint,
My pride hath kill'd thee! That calm face of thine
Will haunt me on the bed of death.—Farewell!—
This is the last—I cannot bear to see thee
Closed from the light for ever.
Enter Collier.
Whom seek'st thou here, false knight? Thou art abettor
Of low deceit and perjury.—Aroynt!
Thou look'st upon thine enemy.

Col.
I dread
To ask what this may mean.—If that I fear
Has happ'd, then guilt hath wrought its masterpiece.
(Reads the inscription.)
O horror!—Caroline!

Cecil.
Does this suffice thy malice? Is that Moore
Now glutted with revenge? Or is there still
Farther device that may depress old Cecil?
There is but one step lower thou can'st thrust him,
And that's into his grave. If thou hast soul
Or might to do it, both of which thou lack'st,
(Drawing.)
The sooner so the better.

Geo.
Is this becoming, father?—Thou may'st see
Sir Richard grieved as we are.—Why this heat?

Cecil.
Heat! Heat again!—Grieved, did you say?
No, he rejoices in't—he and his friend,
The most redoubted Moore—O, how they joy
In this dear sacrifice!

Col.
Ah! Moore is blameless;
Would Heaven that I were so!—I might have saved
That precious life.

Cecil.
Thou might'st have saved that life,
And yet then did'st not do it!—O, thou fiend,
Does that neglect alone not charter thee
In endless torment?

Geo.
Consider, honour'd sire,
If none else might have saved her.

Cecil.
There struck the pang!—Did'st thou advise it not?
Was it not thine?—O, all of you are blameless,
Save her unhappy father!—all the guilt
Lies heap'd on his grey head!—But short the space
That his worn frame shall totter under it.
Knight, I had boon to ask of your high friend,
That demi-god of England—On my knees
I meant to beg it of him—Can'st thou save
My age the toil—the pleasure—which thou wilt?
My daughter—she that was my daughter there,
That victim of thy malice, did request
With her last breath, her body might be laid
In Moore's own family vault, to save her name
From stain that might attach it.

Col.
I ensure
My hapless friend's assent. Alas! his mind
And frame will never this deep loss survive!
I'll go and warn him.—Is't not meet, my lord,
An husband should be guest, and see deposed
The dust so dear to him?

Cecil.
It is, it is; but let him bring his sword;
She was a warrior's child, and ween'd herself
A warrior's bride, and therefore it is fit.
No words—Bear forth the body—Warn our train,
The day's too far advanced.