 | Edward and Eleonora |  |
47
SCENE VIII.
Edward, Gloster.Edward.
My Lord of Gloster,
I thought my Orders were to be alone.
Gloster.
Forgive my fond Intrusion—But I cannot
Be so regardless of thy Welfare, Edward,
As to obey these Orders.
Edward.
But they shall,
Shall be obey'd—I will enjoy my Sorrows,
All that is left me now.
Gloster.
The more thy Grief,
Just in its Cause but frantic in Degree,
Seeks aggravating Solitude, the more
It suits my Love and Duty to attend thee,
To try to sooth—
Edward.
Away! thou never shalt.
Not all that idle Wisdom can suggest,
All the vain Talk of proud unfeeling Reason,
Shall rob me of one Tear.
Gloster.
Of Nature's Tears
I would not rob Thee: they invigorate Virtue,
Soften, at once, and fortify the Heart;
But when they rise to speak this desperate Language,
They then grow Tears of Weakness; yes—
48
I care not.
Weakness, whate'er they be, I will indulge them,
Will, in Despite of Thee and all Mankind,
Devote my joyless Days for ever to them.
Gloster.
Reason and Virtue then are empty Names?
Edward.
Hence! leave me to my Fate—You have undone me;
You have made Shipwreck of my Peace, among you,
My Happiness and Honour; and I now
Roam the detested World, a careless Wretch!
Gloster.
Thy Honour yet is safe, how long I know not,
For full it drives upon the Rocks of Passion.
O all ye pitying Powers that rule Mankind!
Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him
With this fair-weather Virtue, that exults,
Glad, o'er the Summer Main? The Tempest comes,
The bold Winds speak aloud; when from the Helm
This Virtue shrinks, and in a Corner lies
Lamenting.—Heavens! if privileg'd from Trial,
How cheap a Thing were Virtue!
Edward.
Do—insult me—
Rail, spare me not—rail, Gloster, all the World—
But know, mean time, thou canst not make me feel thee—
I have no more Connection with Mankind.
Gloster.
Insult thee, Edward? Do these Tears insult thee?
These old Man's Tears!—Friendship, my Prince, can weep,
As well as Love—But while I weep thy Fortune,
Let me not weep thy Virtue sunk beneath it—
49
Put off thy craving Senses, the deep Wants
And infinite Dependencies of Nature;
Put off that strongest Passion of the Soul,
Soul of the Soul, Love to Society;
Put off all Gratitude for what is past,
All generous Hope of what is yet to come;
Put off each Sense of Honour and of Duty:
Then use this Language—Let me tell thee, Edward,
Thou hast Connections with Mankind, and great ones,
Thou know'st not of; Connections! that might rouse
The smallest Spark of Honour in thy Breast,
To wide-awaken'd Life and fair Ambition.
Edward.
What dost thou mean?
Gloster.
What mean?—this Day, in England,
How many ask of Palestine their King,
Edward their King?—Read these—
Edward,
opening the Dispatches.
O Gloster!—Gloster!—
Alas! my Royal Father is no more!
The gentlest of Mankind, the most abus'd!
Of gracious Nature, a fit Soil for Virtues,
'Till there his Creatures sow'd their flattering Lies,
And made him—No, not all their cursed Arts
Could ever make him insolent or cruel.
O my deluded Father! Little Joy
Had'st thou in Life, led from thy real Good
And genuine Glory, from thy People's Love,
That noblest Aim of Kings, by smiling Traitors.
Is there a Curse on human Kind so fell,
So pestilent, at once, to Prince and People,
As the base servile Vermin of a Court,
Corrupt, corrupting Ministers and Favourites?
How oft have such eat up the Widow's Morsel,
The Peasant's Toil, the Merchant's far-sought Gain,
And wanton'd in the Ruin of a Nation!
Alas! my Royal Father is no more!
The gentlest of Mankind, the most abus'd!
Of gracious Nature, a fit Soil for Virtues,
'Till there his Creatures sow'd their flattering Lies,
And made him—No, not all their cursed Arts
Could ever make him insolent or cruel.
O my deluded Father! Little Joy
Had'st thou in Life, led from thy real Good
And genuine Glory, from thy People's Love,
That noblest Aim of Kings, by smiling Traitors.
Is there a Curse on human Kind so fell,
So pestilent, at once, to Prince and People,
As the base servile Vermin of a Court,
50
How oft have such eat up the Widow's Morsel,
The Peasant's Toil, the Merchant's far-sought Gain,
And wanton'd in the Ruin of a Nation!
Thus weak of Heart, thus desolate of Soul,
Ah, how unfit am I, with steady Hand,
To rule a troubled State!—She, she is gone,
Softner of Care, the dear Reward of Toil,
The Source of Virtue! She, who to a Crown
Had lent new Splendor, who had grac'd a Throne
Like the sweet Seraph Mercy tempering Justice.
O Eleonora! any Life with Thee,
The plainest could have charm'd: but Pomp and Pleasure,
All that a loving People can bestow,
By thee unshar'd, will serve alone to nourish
The Wounds of Woe, and make me more unhappy!
Ah, how unfit am I, with steady Hand,
To rule a troubled State!—She, she is gone,
Softner of Care, the dear Reward of Toil,
The Source of Virtue! She, who to a Crown
Had lent new Splendor, who had grac'd a Throne
Like the sweet Seraph Mercy tempering Justice.
O Eleonora! any Life with Thee,
The plainest could have charm'd: but Pomp and Pleasure,
All that a loving People can bestow,
By thee unshar'd, will serve alone to nourish
The Wounds of Woe, and make me more unhappy!
Gloster.
Now is the Time, now lift thy Soul to Virtue!
Behold a Crisis, sent by Heaven, to save thee.
Whate'er, my Prince, can touch, or can command;
Can quicken or exalt the Heart of Man,
Now speaks to thine—Thy Children claim their Father,
Nay, more than Father, claim their double Parent;
For such thy Promise was to Eleonora:
Thy Subjects claim their King, thy Troops their Chief:
The Manes of thy Ancestors consign
Their long-descended Glory to thy Hands;
And thy dejected Country calls upon thee
To save Her, raise Her, to restore her Honour,
To spread her sure Dominion o'er the Deep,
And bid her yet arise the Scourge of France.
Angels themselves might envy thee the Joy,
That waits thy Will, of doing general Good:
51
Of dashing down the Proud; of guarding Arts,
The sacred Rights of Industry and Freedom;
Of making a whole generous People happy.
O Edward! Edward! the most piercing Transports
Of the best Love can never equal These!
And need I add—Thy Eleonora's Death
Calls out for Vengeance—
Edward.
Ha!
Gloster.
If thou, indeed,
Dost honour thus her Memory, then show it,
Not by soft Tears and Womanish Complaints,
But show it like a Man!—
Edward.
I will!
Gloster.
Yon Towers!—
Edward.
'Tis true!
Gloster.
Yon guilty Towers!—
Edward.
Insult us still!
Gloster.
The Murderer of thy Princess riots there!—
Edward.
But shall not long!—Thou art my better Genius,
Thou brave old Man! thou hast recall'd my Virtue—
I was benumb'd with Sorrow—what—or where—
I know not—never to have thought of this.
Bright Virtue, welcome! Vigour of the Mind!
The Flame from Heaven that lights up higher Being!
Thrice welcome! with thy noble Servant Anger,
52
And there transfuse our Soul into the Troops.
This Sultan's Blood will ease my fever'd Breast.
Yes, I will take such Vengeance on this City,
That all Mankind shall turn their Eyes to Jaffa;
And, as they see her Turrets sunk in Dust,
Shall learn to dread the Terrors of the Just.
| Edward and Eleonora | |