University of Virginia Library

THE WIFE OF SEATON:

OR, THE SIEGE OF BERWICK.

AN HISTORIC TRAGEDY.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Alexander Seaton, Governor of the Town.
• Patrick Dunbar, Of the Castle.
• Friar.
• Edward III., King of England.
• Mordaunt, His Envoy.
• Neville, His Envoy.
• Attendants, &c.
• Donaldus, A Seer.
• Lady Agnes Seaton, Wife to the Governor.
• Margaret, Her Attendant.

INVOCATION.

Genius of Celtic Song! who, high enthroned
Amid Iona's hallowed sepulchres,
Hath dread communings with a buried world!
Thou, who disowning all Ausonia yields
To fix poetic gaze—on contrasts strong
Of ruined grandeur and luxurious life,
Art's noblest forms decaying—tantalized
By ever blooming Nature, (where the rose
Flaunts through the chasms of Antonius' wall,
And balmy breezes sport, and laughing suns
Shine, as in mockery, o'er the fallen domes
Where once the Cæsars swayed!) from these hast turned
With Spartan scorn thy tread, to rear a seat
Far in the lone Ebudæ; where, for voice
Of man or note of bird, no sound is heard
But the contending ocean's ceaseless roar
'Gainst the bold rock that dares oppose his force,
And breast, with craggy front, his onward way.
Genius of Celtic Song! if haunts like these
Have power to win thee from the southern muse—
If, wedded to thy country still, thy soul
Prefer that bride, unportioned though she be,
With cliffs and deserts only for her dower,
To Tuscan vineyards or Hindostan groves—
If Scotia's native ruggedness of clime
From all refinements of a richer soil
Still hold thy constant heart—take then this lay,
To Scotia consecrate! And should its tones
But wake one note accordant with the sounds
That oft have called thy mountain echoes forth
To speak the glories of thy native sons,
O, grant thine inspiration to the theme,
And give the muse that aid which can perform
Those miracles of chronicles and song—
Roll back the tide of far receded time,
Restore the Douglas days—awake the dead!

ACT I.

Scene 1.

A room in the Governor's house. Seaton alone, leaning on a table covered with maps, plans, &c.
SEATON.
My native country, what a fate is thine!
Thy Bruce no more, his infant son afar,
His faithful Regent treacherously slain,
His rival, Baliol, roused again to arm
In contest for the crown—scarred as thou art
With former wounds, and must thou bleed afresh,
From the remorseless blows of civil war?
Yet more, those home-bred feuds have proved the heralds
Of foreign war, and now its best ally,
As these three ling'ring, suffering months can witness,
Since haughty Edward, with a chosen host,
Buckled his armor on and spurred his steed
To Berwick's menaced walls.

(Enter Attendant.)
ATTENDANT.
My lord! the envoys,
The British envoys seek you.

SEATON.
Strait admit them,
Then, Walter, to the castle's commandant,
Greet him from me, and ask his presence hither.

(Exit Attendant. Enter Neville and Mordaunt.)
NEVILLE.
Hail we not here Sir Alexander Seaton,
The Governor of Berwick?

SEATON.
You are right;
I own the name and office, with the purpose
Ne'er to discredit either.

NEVILLE.
Be it so!
Like trait is ours in this our embassage.
We bear a message from our royal master,
Edward of England.

SEATON.
What hath England's king
For Seaton's hearing?

MORDAUNT.
Even to demand
The town's surrender as our monarch's right,
And holden by his father's heretofore,
Ere farther loss of time, and wealth, and life,
Serve to impoverish you, exasperate him,
And make the path to future peace and concord
Less easy than the present. We have said.

SEATON.
I will convene the council, and impart
Promptly their answer; meantime, worthy Barons,
If such poor cheer as times like these allow
Meet your regard, betake you to our board.

NEVILLE.
We are beholden to your courtesy.

SEATON.
Myself the Lady Agnes will apprise
What guests do honor us. She hath a son,
Alas! within your custody, and doubtless
Will profit of your presence to indulge
A mother's fond inquiries. This way, sirs.

[Exit.

Scene 2.

Another apartment. Mordaunt, Neville discovered, to whom enter Seaton and Dunbar.
SEATON.
Barons, the Scottish Council have decreed
That I should thus reply unto your mission:
Berwick was always ours, till thirst of power
Prompted your monarch's warlike ancestor
By violence to seize it; but when Bruce,
Our glorious champion, won his country back
From its usurpers, Berwick with the rest
Resumed its ancient government and laws.
But more; the right of conquest thus obtained,
By right of treaty was confirmed; for, pressed
And counselled by the wise men of his land,
Four years ago your English King renounced
All right himself or his forefathers claimed
To Scotland's crown, and swore to leave its realm
Free as it was ere the contending claims
Of Bruce or Baliol rose, pressed by no yoke
Of foreign servitude; even to return
All scrolls of compacts, bonds, or whatsoe'er
Might seem a vestige of a subject state;
And, on our part, we promised to repay
A stipulated sum for those domains
By Edward and his sires possessed among us,
To yield to him our lands in England held,
And even to consider Stanmore's cross
Our utmost boundary. To fix this league
We farther fastened on the added tie
Of family and friend; our Prince espoused
The sister of your sovereign, and the names
Of Robert and of Henry to our ears
Were as the names of brothers.
Wherefore, then,
Have we been thus assailed with secret art
And open warfare, while ourselves in aught
Had ne'er infringed those articles of peace,
Nor would reject it now on any terms,
So they were honorable?

MORDAUNT.
Is this all?

SEATON.
This for your monarch; for yourselves, as missioned
To mediate between us, we would urge
A claim to favorable offices;
Such as may seem to you as but comporting
With duty to your country; well persuaded
You cannot prove yourselves less true to Edward
By being just to Scotland. You are answered.

MORDAUNT.
I am concerned our orders should insist
Plainly and positively on this point,
Stated at first—the rendering up of Berwick.

SEATON.
But, surely, you did not at first exact
Instant surrender.

NEVILLE.
Truly, no, we did not;
And to the farthest we are authorized
To grant you, will we go. Take a given time;
Name it yourself; till which, if no relief
Come to the garrison, (aware that soon
The Douglas will arrive,) you then consent
To yield it to our arms.

SEATON.
I must consent!
Unwilling howsoe'er. Too well you know
I have no choice. 'Tis now the thirteenth day
Of our midsummer month; if ere the thirtieth
No succors reach the town from Douglas' force,
I yield it up.

MORDAUNT.
But further, our instructions
Demand that, as a pledge for the performance
Of this engagement on your part, your son,
(Twin-born with him who now is pris'ner with us,)
Be rendered for an hostage.

SEATON.
My poor Duncan!
Must he, too, go? His brother's early valor
Already had betrayed him to captivity;
Must I be reft of both?

DUNBAR.
You press us hardly;
As men, as knights, I put it to yourselves;
Are not these harsh conditions?

NEVILLE.
'Tis not ours
To make them easier; though, to your discretion,
I own the wish that they were otherwise.

MORDAUNT.
Our worthy host and his compeer are each
Too well informed upon a soldier's duty
Not to acknowledge it the part of such
But to discharge their orders—not dispute them.

DUNBAR.
Yet soldiers do remonstrate; aye, rebel,
When their own rights, or real or supposed,
Have seemed to be impaired; their pay withheld;
Their privileges lowered; causes like these
Sometimes create such things as mutinies,
Even in English armies. But for injury
Done toward others—for a stranger's wrong—
Then to expect resistance or regret
Were all too high or low for sober manhood—
Chimerical or childish.

NEVILLE.
Little know ye
The mind of him we serve, if you imagine
That aught in us were prevalent to alter
His strenuous will, or check his dread resolve
On sovereignty here.

DUNBAR.
Vain expectation!
Can iron break the northern iron? No!
Ours is yet harder metal than your own.
Witness the many shocks by which 'twas bent,
But never yet was riven. Your Roman master
Obtained no mastery here. His legions scaled
Our cliffs in vain; and to his eagle's scream
Athwart our cliffs, was borne with echo back,
Answering defiance from our native eyrie.
Since then the like assault hath still received
The like discomfiture; our frigid clime
Had reared a race too rough for the grim Norman
Or bloodier Dane to quell.

MORDAUNT.
The more the glory
If we succeed.

DUNBAR.
How far succeed, I pray?
What if a castle fall, a town be taken?
Dream not that Scotland is subdued! that stake,
So long contested, cannot thus be won.
Behold the board whereon the game is played!
Look far and wide; each rock shall prove a castle,
Each crag a tower, each cave a walled city;
Ramparts of strength, on which the miner, Nature,
Hath wrought so secretly, and surely, too,
That human prowess vainly may assail
The superhuman barrier.

MORDAUNT.
Nay, go on;
Stop not with Nature. Canst not tell us somewhat
Of marvels passing Nature, which your Celts
Have long had credit for?

DUNBAR.
Did I think meet
For tongue of sturdy soldier or the ear
Of Christian knights to note such fantasies—
For such they seem, albeit they may be more—
There were enough to occupy more time
Than, by the strictness of our several callings,
Could now be warranted. Of sprites that haunt
Our Caledonian forests, all their own,
With nameless mischiefs for intruding alien;
Of shapes that people all our Highland mists,
And spread its dimness on the eyes beneath
They would bewilder; of the goblin brood
That prank them ever in our lochs and fens
To lose the wanderer by the light that leads him.
Enough of these.

NEVILLE.
But you did not include
The strange pretensions of those bold diviners
Who claim to call the future—and it cometh?

DUNBAR.
True, Englishmen, I did not; for, believe me,
There's more of might, whate'er of mystery,
In this than merits scoffing; nor would I
To stranger eyes expose a gift thus solemn;
The less that, peradventure, at some period,
Themselves may mark its power.

(Enter Donaldus behind, unperceived by all but Seaton.)
SEATON.
They mark it now.

DONALDUS.
Woe! woe!

SEATON.
To whom denounced?
To whom, Donaldus?

DONALDUS.
To all; to thee, good Seaton, even to thee!
Thou and thine house. The hovering pestilence
Strikes down the righteous with the reprobate.
The dogs of war once out, the bloodhounds track
No less the anchorite in his hermitage
Than robber in his den. Woe, then, to Scotland!
And woe to England, too, the ruthless cause!
Woe to us all!

[Exit.
DUNBAR.
It is the gifted seer,
Who, hand in hand with dark Futurity,
Sees that, to others without form and void,
Moulded to shape, and fraught with circumstance.

NEVILLE.
Truly, an awful presence! felt you not (to Mordaunt)

As with the disembodied?

MORDAUNT.
But, my comrade,
Be that as may, our business toucheth not
The world of spirits, but concerneth merely
Such an inferior sphere, that I would counsel
We put the warning to some present use;
Letting it hasten us in our leave-taking,
Soon as the Governor prepare his hostage
To bear us company.

SEATON.
I'll not detain you;
What must be, must! Go with me now.

DUNBAR.
Then, sirs,
Fare you well, hence, in all but your attempts
Against my country.

NEVILLE.
With like reservation,
Prosperity to you.

MORDAUNT.
Good Commandant,
The same from me.

[Exit all.

ACT II.

Scene 1.

The interior of Berwick Castle. Dunbar discovered, to whom enters the Friar.
FRIAR.
Save you, son!
I do attend your summons, and would now
Inquire its cause.

DUNBAR.
The troops of Douglas, father,
Have just arrived, in sight of friends and enemies,
And halted on the Hill of Halidon.

FRIAR.
St. Andrew speed them! This is welcome news.

DUNBAR.
Aye, father, but the news is overburdened
With heaviest tidings for our worthy Governor.
The faithless king, despite his stipulation
To stay proceedings till the day appointed,
And reckless of the truce yet unexpired,
Has sent a threat unless the place be yielded,
That he will order summary execution
On both the sons of Seaton.

FRIAR.
Barbarous monster!
What must—what can be done?

DUNBAR.
I stopped the herald
Before he reached the wretched Governor,
And took upon myself to bear the message;
That, haply, it be told him in some manner
Shorn of its first ferocity. For this
Did I despatch the page to you, good father,
To ask this Christian service at your hands,
That you would break the matter as you may
Unto the parents of these fated children.

FRIAR.
Well may I shudder at my woeful errand,
Yet must not shrink from it. But what dost think?
Will Seaton—

DUNBAR.
Ask me not—I cannot think,
Cannot advise, in circumstance thus shocking.
No sire myself, how could I counsel others
To that which I can ne'er be called to suffer?
How estimate such call? It were presumptuous!
Nay, it were obdurate! Well you know that Seaton
Is worthiest of the worthy; brave, yet sage;
Sparing, albeit, in words, but full in judgment;
With wariest caution, skilled to counteract
The inconsiderate sallies of the rash,
And to conciliate the feuds of others
By the example of his own forbearance.
All this he is; and if he have a weakness,
'Tis for his sons—as, sometimes, the best blades
May yield the most—the proudest, tenderest parent;
Fond, e'en to dotage; (and, in truth, the bantlings
Do well become it;) hence, I doubt his course,
In exigence so sharp, and my reliance
Leans with more fixedness upon his consort.

FRIAR.
The noble Agnes!

DUNBAR.
To her ghostly guardian
I need not urge how well the loftier traits
Of an heroic soul are blent in hers,
With all the touching tenderness of woman.

FRIAR.
I long have noted it.

DUNBAR.
So have I, from the first. My own near kinswoman,
And, had my fortune favored, I had aimed
To make her somewhat nearer; failing that,
I do rejoice her lot has fallen to one
Who, far as man can merit, merits her,
And willingly could forfeit one poor life
But to have kept from both an hour like this!

FRIAR.
These sufferings of the good, my son, are mysteries
Beyond our fathoming.

DUNBAR.
They are so, father.
Now to our several tasks. Thou to the Seatons,
I to attend the herald, whose safe conduct
I must inspect, lest the exasperate sentinel
Should follow Edward's lead, and disregard
The known immunities of time and person.

Scene 2.

The front of the castle. Enter Donaldus.
DONALDUS.
Ah, sinful Scotland! 'tis thine own offences
That toss thee now with tempests. Had thy sons
Been true to thee and to themselves, and proved
A hardy brotherhood, still leagued together
For mutual weal or woe, rather than prowled,
A horde of bandits, bent against each other
In predatory warfare—then, indeed,
What could have wrought them harm? had they not stretched
(Blinded by wrath) their hands toward the stranger,
To battle in their broils—the stranger, then,
Had not, as now, become the general spoiler,
In justest retribution! Watchful Edward
Hailed in disunion's hour his hour of triumph,
And to the horrors of the home-brewed storm
That lowered around the genius of the North,
Sent from abroad his thunders, to combine,
Gather and burst, in bolts of final ruin.
So his own Cornwall's craggy coast has shown
Yet harder hearts and rougher hands, to snatch
E'en from the shipwrecked prey of winds and waves
The refuse of the elements! So, too,
What time the frighted Lusian, forced to fly
From crash of falling tower, leaves all for life,
The daring robber rushes to his home
To rifle what the whelming earth had spared!
[Pauses, then starts and speaks.
Whence comes this darkling mist, that riseth round me
So chill and ominous? and—mighty powers
Of earth or air! what means that shadowy scaffold,
And those dim forms that fill it? Spare them, Edward!
But for the sake of thine own flesh and blood!
For thy soul's sake, be not the slaughtering Herod
To innocents like these! It all disperses.
Can this be fiendish juggling, or, indeed,
A boding from on high?

ACT III.

Scene 1.

An oratory. Lady Agnes Seaton kneeling before a representation of the Blessed Virgin.
LADY AGNES.
Oh holy Mary, hear and answer me!
A miserable mother, lo! I come
To spread my griefs before thee. Blessed One,
Though now thou art with heaven's beatitude,
I call on thee by the remembered pangs
That once were thine on earth; by the sharp sorrows
That pierced, as with a sword, through thy own soul;
As thou hast known a parent's deadly anguish,
To feel for mine!
'Tis unavailing all!
E'en prayer relieves not.

(Enter Friar.)
FRIAR.
Peace be with you, daughter!

LADY AGNES.
O, father, mock me not with words like these!
Peace can be mine no more.

FRIAR.
The peace of Heaven,
If not of earth; full rarely they agree;
And thus the soul that compasseth the one
Must oft renounce the other.

LADY AGNES.
I have sought it;
Have been imploring succor from on high;
But Heaven and earth alike conspire against me,
And all is dark above—below—around!

FRIAR.
O, say not thus! these clouds are earth-engendered.
'Tis from our saddened thoughts the mists arise
And dim the tearful vision, intercepting
The Light above, thence deemed to hide itself,
Though shining still forever and the same;
E'en as the restless world turned from the sun,
And when the night succeeded, lo! 'twas deemed
The sun had turned from them. She heeds me not. (Aside.)

Lady, as is my office and my wont,
I came to solace and to strengthen thee
With words of ghostly comfort; but, I know not,
The sight of thy sore suffering hath unmanned me,
And what I would I lack the heart to utter.

LADY AGNES.
Father, I own and thank thy sympathy.
All that a mortal can to mortal lend
I know thou dost; but never lot like mine
Called forth thy kindly services, for none
Was ever tried like me.

FRIAR.
Think, daughter, think
Upon the Syrian of our sacred records,
The ancient patriarch of the chosen race,
Called to destroy the son in whom alone
That race could be continued.

LADY AGNES.
Such a sacrifice
Had never been demanded from a mother.
The sire may proudly, fondly love his son;
(Full well I know it by the bitter case
Of my own gallant, broken-hearted Seaton;)
But, to the tenderness of manlier natures,
The mother adds, moreover, new affections,
Whose height and depth no being but herself
And Him who gave them to her comprehendeth.

FRIAR.
Lady, I doubt it not.

LADY AGNES.
Then, think that I
Am called to speak the doom of—do I live
To think it, even?—not of one alone,
But both my precious boys; my duteous ones;
That I, their mother—for it falls on me,
Since Seaton's mind, torn with conflicting claims,
Station, paternity, and patriotism,
(The rent sail, shiv'ring in the shifting blast,)
Turns to my own to speak the words of fate.
Mother, forsooth! Ha, am I such, good father?
A fitting task for such!

FRIAR.
I pray thee, talk not
So very terribly. (Not since the burial
Of Bruce's royal heart in Palestine
Knew I as dark an hour.)

LADY AGNES.
I've heard the learned
Tell of that Colchis woman—one Medea—
Who killed!—dost shudder, father?—killed her children.
Wouldst thou believe it? If men doubt the fact,
Let them look here, and gain the fell conviction.

FRIAR.
O, think not for an instant, noble Agnes,
To liken thee with her. She was a sorceress;
Fair incarnation of a fiend most foul;
Who, to the guilty flame that fired her spirit,
Shamed not to sacrifice her sons; whilst thou
But yieldest thine to meet the sacred cry
Thy country sends to thee. 'Twas hers to loose
The vilest passions—thine, to bind the best.

LADY AGNES.
But men will note the sameness of the fact,
The direful fact, nor stay to scan the motive.
All are not calm, like such as we, good father,
To make the due distinction. But, thou saidst
(Or my dull sense deceived) somewhat of country.
I've said the same within my conscious soul;
But then the tempter cometh, to remonstrate,
“What doth a woman with her country's weal,
Whose world is her own home, her fireside group,
Kindred and friends?” And then he whispereth, “Pride,
Belike, unseemly and unsexly pride,
Misleading by the name of heroism,
Hurls me and mine to this abyss.” Is't so?
O, tell me, father! prove it be but pride,
And I will bless thy name forevermore!

FRIAR.
Resist the arch one, lady. These dark hours
He ever seizes for his own; to conflicts
Of flesh and blood still superadding those
Of wrestling with bad spirits; thus to crush
The overburdened mortal. But for thee,
Noble and virtuous dame, I have petitioned,
And hope for better things. The pride thus called
Were heathen! nay, were hellish! like his own;
Unlike the gentle and benignant bearing
That, from the innocence of infancy
To thy devout and gracious womanhood,
Hath still characterized thee.

LADY AGNES.
So I trusted,
Till the misgivings of this evil time.
Surely, the lure of Fame could not have led me;
Her note, they say, is gladdening to the sense;
Not like that stern and solemn voice of duty
That called me—calls me still. 'Tis near the moment
When I must meet my husband. I but asked,
For orison at this our Lady's shrine,
And to commune with you, my reverend father,
An hour's delay. One fearful interview
With him is past—the next—and all is over.
But will it e'er be over? Never, never!

FRIAR.
St. Andrew's blessing go along with thee,
And guard thy high resolve!

[Clock strikes.
LADY AGNES.
Hark 'tis the hour! (Starts up.)

These tremblings now? (sits.)
Yet, yet I may not linger,
Though life or reason reel. I must not leave
My lord in his extremity—but who
Will be with them in theirs? O, horror! horror!

[Clasps her hands, and rushes out.
FRIAR.
(alone.)
That task shall be my care. I would not hazard
The fresh emotion to her o'erwrought feelings
Of telling mine intention, but hereafter,
The conflict past, 'twill prove to her a solace
To know I shrived them for their last account;
My sacred function will protect my person;
If not, my life is vowed unto my Master;
To lose it in his cause, the cause of charity,
Would be to gain the crown of martyrdom.

[Exit.

Scene 2.

A room in the Governor's house, (with folding-doors back of the scene.) Seaton discovered, to whom enters Lady Agnes.
LADY AGNES.
My honored lord hath said, in other times,
My presence brought him comfort; now, alas!
Agnes hath none to offer.

SEATON.
Say not so;
Community is comfort, even in wretchedness.
But of thy mind—what of thy mind, my wife?
My own 's unstable as the ebbs and flows
Of Solway's current.

LADY AGNES.
Thou wilt hate me, Seaton,
When I disclose it.

SEATON.
Ha! sets the stream that way?
Woman! canst thou?

LADY AGNES.
Nay, hearken to me first,
And then, canst thou?

SEATON.
Go on!

LADY AGNES.
I bore those bairns, giving them life, thou know'st,
With half the loss of mine. (Had it but been—
Would it had been—the whole!) Parts of myself,
And nourished by myself—within mine arms,
Or at my bosom ever, day and night,
In health or ailment—thou canst witness for me,
No weariness or watching e'er o'erpowered
My ministering vigils.

SEATON.
'Tis most true,
My tried and faithful Agnes! Oft I chid
Thy ceaseless carefulness.

LADY AGNES.
Their opening forms
To my rapt gaze seemed infant deities,
And their first lispings fell upon my ear
Sweeter than angel voices. (Hold, my heart!
These memories will melt me! When I need
The hardness of the rock, am I become
Like water?)

SEATON.
None can like myself avouch
What thou hast ever been and done, my love;
But is not this an argument to spare
The purchase of such pangs?

LADY AGNES.
I did not mean
An idle vaunt thus to bespeak thy praise,
However precious. That which then was done
Now seems too little. They deserved it all,
The darlings—pshaw! this childishness again?
What I had meant to say, before this theme
Bewitched me with its fond remembrances,
Was, that if I, a mother, (and, thou own'st,
A kindly one,) give up my being's right
In theirs, 'tis surely no impeachment, then,
Of thy paternal tenderness, that thou
Should set the seal upon the sacrifice.

SEATON.
The sacrifice! and dost thou know its worst?
Not death alone; but such a death, my Agnes!
The place, the mode—the gibbet and the cord!
The felon's fate! Agnes, 'twere double death
To die thus vilely.

LADY AGNES.
The like fate attended
Our peerless Wallace. What he bore unblemished
Can ne'er disparage those who after him
Tread the same path to heaven.

SEATON.
Alas! alas!

LADY AGNES.
Thou needs not put it to thy loyalty.
Thou hast a king, though young, and far away,
Son of the Bruce, (and destined, as we trust,
To prove his lineage by his future deeds,)
For whom his faithful subjects all are bound
To keep his royal heritage unspoiled;
Nor yet to urge upon thy patriot heart
The sacred claim of country to be held
Back from th' invader's grasp; still less to cite
(All which thou know'st far better than myself)
What I have gathered from the wise discoursing—
Of those, that chronicles of old attest,
To aid the fortunes of the failing state
Gave up themselves and theirs. Our later days
Showed as good samples, where a single household
Sufficed to turn the adverse tide of war.

SEATON.
No, I forget them not. Thou mean'st the Hayes.

LADY AGNES.
Yes, those three men—of humble station, then,
Though since assigned, as meed for their exploit,
Rank with the highest—those three husbandmen,
Father and sons, who, laboring on the glebe,
Rushed with their rustic implements of toil,
The spade, the harrow, whatso'er they held,
To stop the flight of their retreating countrymen—
Driving them back upon the enemy,
Thence to return as conquerors!

SEATON.
They deserved
The fame that followed them, and I will own
Such fame were dear; yet are my sons far dearer.

LADY AGNES.
Think not the loss of that alone I heed,
Though that were much; the burning brand of infamy
Might yet be quenched, by others or ourselves;
Not so the inward, inextinguished fire,
Still scorching, ne'er consuming. Voice of man,
Without us, may capriciously award
Its censure or acclaim, and we contemn it;
But of man's Maker, in us, who shall scorn?

SEATON.
I own its hallowed sanction to thy pleadings.

LADY AGNES.
Besides, if thou desert thy trust, and thus
Betray the sons of all the sires in Scotland
To save thine own, blotting the fair escutcheon
Worn by thine ancestry unsoiled till now;—
Bethink thee, after all, if thou be sure
To gain the guerdon? to deliver those
For whom all else were forfeited? Not so!
For if, in mockery of the faith of treaties,
Of his own covenant, the tyrant now
Has broke his oath—who knows but then he fail
To spare the captives, and thou sow'st the wind
Only to reap the whirlwind!

SEATON.
Hold, in mercy!

LADY AGNES.
Think, too, my Seaton, we have other children.

SEATON.
None other half so dear.

LADY AGNES.
None dearer, sure. The absent and the dead
Are ever most delighted in—and justly.
The heart must seek to compensate itself,
When past the power to pour it forth in act,
By hoarding larger measures of affection.
So let it be with them!

SEATON.
Thy solemn words
Fall like a requiem! Hast thou more to move me?

LADY AGNES.
Nought of my own; but, could I summon others,
There are, whose words to second my appeal,
Were more prevailing.

SEATON.
Who could be thus gifted?
Say, who?

LADY AGNES.
The lads themselves!
Start not! 'tis true! Stood they before us now,
Themselves to hold the balance, and their doom
The weight depending, confident I am
Allan and Duncan are no sons of ours
But they would beg thee not to spare their lives
At peril of their honor; would prefer
To die, the offspring of an honest man,
Than live a traitor's heirs! And dost thou shrink
At the mere name? Think of the thing, my Seaton!
And let it nerve thee to the only course
By which thou canst avoid it.

SEATON.
Thou hast won me;
Hast conquered, Agnes! Thou hast gained thy husband,
But lost thy sons!
[Falls on her neck, when, suddenly catching a glance at the side scene, she screams and sinks back.
What means that fearful shriek?

LADY AGNES.
A sudden pang. Within. (pointing to the folding-doors.)

Send Margaret hither.
I shall be better soon, and come to thee.

[Seaton goes into the inner room.
(Enter Margaret.)
[Lady Agnes, starting up, snatches the hand of Margaret, and points with it to the view through the side scene.
LADY AGNES.
'Tis there, already. Look! the fatal tree!
Beneath our walls—within our very sight!
I sped my husband hence, ere he beheld
What might have blunted all his resolution.
Barbarian Edward! could thy savage heart
Contrive this aggravation? Curses on thee!
On thee and thine. Take, ruthless spoiler, take
A mother's malison. O, may it reach thee!
Follow through life and haunt thee at thy death!
And let it cleave the tomb, and pierce beneath,
Keen as a falchion, till it find the hell
To which thy crimes shall sink thee, and dire Heaven
Deaf to thy cries, as thou wert deaf to mine!

[Falls exhausted into the arms of Margaret. Curtain drops.

ACT IV.

Scene 1.

The grounds belonging to the Governor's house. Lady Agnes, disordered. Margaret following.
LADY AGNES.
Follow me not; I go to seek my sons.
Dost hear me, girl? Let go my hand! My sons
Are in the camp; no place for such as thee.
My errand is a lone one.

MARGARET.
Dearest lady,
Drive me not from you!

LADY AGNES.
Fie on't! Margaret.
Wouldst have me trust a decent Scottish lassie
With Edward's lawless soldiery? Thy mistress
Is bound to better care of thee, poor Margaret.
Wait thou until thy maiden snood be doffed
For matron coif. Even such as I, myself,
May shudder at the enterprise; these English
Have grown so pitiless! Thou canst not know
How pitiless—nor will they let me tell thee—
The leech forbade it; did he not?

MARGARET.
Yes, lady;
He bade me keep you quieted.

LADY AGNES.
Most truly.
Well, we must do his bidding. I'll but whisper—
These English are so fell they neither spare
Mother nor children. Children! that reminds me
My own are waiting me in yonder camp,
While I am loit'ring here; my bright-eyed Allan
And my dark Duncan. Ha! in yonder camp?
What do they there? Art tampering with the foe?
I tell thee, Margaret, if the lads are traitors
Then they are none of mine. 'Tis some mistake!
Mine were true men.

MARGARET.
The Friar will soon return,
And tell us, lady, all concerning them.
(Aside.)
(I am content her wanderings take this turn;
It may beguile her to repose awhile,
Which she so greatly needs for restoration
To wonted sanity.) The pious father
Will shortly bring us tidings from the camp,
Upon whose word we know you can rely.

LADY AGNES.
Truly, so can I; thou sayest well, my Margaret.
No more discreet an handmaid can attend
On any dame. 'Tis fittest we await
The Friar's return, to ascertain this matter,
Ere we depart on an uncertain quest.
Meantime, let me betake me to my couch,
And tell my beads. Lend me thy arm, my girl.

Scene 2.

The armory of the castle. Dunbar and the Friar conversing.
FRIAR.
I did fear me this.

DUNBAR.
Yes, she sustained the task appointed her
Unfaltering to the end; but, that accomplished,
The copious tide of nature, long pent up,
Burst forth at once, and overwhelmed the reason.
Like as, when pierced to death, the dauntless Theban
Kept in the javelin till the day was won—
Then life gushed with it!

FRIAR.
Thus it ever is.
Ah, that it should be thus with poor mortality,
Even at the highest! The weak frame gives way,
Though the firm purpose fail not; but hereafter
The spirits of the saints, we may believe,
(Freed from a world scarce worthy of their stay,)
Shall gain befitting forms, with a duration
Eternal, as the souls inspiring them.

DUNBAR.
Our Lady grant it.

FRIAR.
Yes, the shrinking nerve,
Not then, as now, perchance, shall counteract
“Th' unconquerable will;” that the strong man,
Armed at all points against a foreign foe,
Shall start aghast to see himself subdued
By his own flesh and blood! the pilgrim faints
Beneath the penance he must yet perform
At peril of his soul, and the rough soldier—

DUNBAR.
Aye, father, has thy moralizing creed
A saving plea for cowards? for, if so,
Son of the church, and duteous as I may be,
I hardly shall respond to it; the less
At such a time of need for dauntless hearts
In our beleaguered realm.

FRIAR.
I had foreseen
Thy soldierly protest, heroic Dunbar,
Nor would it suit, in this emergency,
To preach such doctrine to the famished troops
Of either garrison—thy castle's charge,
Or hapless Seaton's—but, in calmer moments,
I ask it of the conscience of that chieftain
Who ever closely communed with himself
Whether he have not found a subtle something
That strove to curb his mettle, and anon
Cried “craven” to his prowess? that, repressed,
Returned with powers repaired, e'en as the reptile,
Though once dissevered, rallies yet again
With fangs renewed? or rather, like the fiend,
(If such may now be suffered to possess us,
As sacred records teach they did of old,)
Who, once expelled, came back with seven-fold powers
Confederate with himself, to wreak his will?

DUNBAR.
I bow me to thy holy record, father,
Howe'er, as commandment of Berwick castle,
Strenuous to disallow the application
That shelters timorous natures; all too many
Of such our bastion doth enclose already,
Fled here, perforce, for safety from the foe.
The anxious matron and the trembling maid;
The worn-out veteran, whose encumb'ring limb
(As if in mockery of its former strength)
Hangs withered now—a dead and useless weight;
And the poor child, whose utmost stretch of height
Scarce gains his grandsire's knee; whose height of hope
Already reaches what his grandsire was!
But the effective force that guardeth these
Is all too small, in view of Edward's numbers,
To need enfeebling dogmas; yet I grant
There's weight within your words; and these wars over,
When I have leisure to look o'er my conscience,
If the survey disclose to me such lurkers
As those whose ambush you so well denote,
Lowly at thy confessional, good father,
Will I my breast unbare till thou absolve me.

FRIAR.
'Tis frankly said, and I accept the pledge
Freely as given. Meanwhile, mistake me not.
Neither the frost of age, nor cloister's chill,
Hath frozen yet the blood within these veins
That once hath burned upon the battle-field,
Alas! too hotly! But the helm and corslet
Possessed the man before the cowl and gown.
My breath, while lent, shall fan, and not extinguish
The fire of action; but, that action done,
Should strive to temper the delirious pulse
Of human exultation, in the hour
Of its wild triumph, by recalling, then,
The conscious thought to tranquilize its throbs;
And silently impart that touch of humbleness
That lends a grace to honor.

(Enter Attendant.)
ATTENDANT.
Reverend father,
The Lady Agnes Seaton, so far healed,
The saints be praised! of her late malady,
Took note of thy return,, directing me
To crave thy presence.

FRIAR.
Bear my blessing to her,
And tell the noble lady she confirmeth
My previous purpose of a conference
Soon as her strength allowed.
[Exit Attendant.
(To Dundar.)
I have good hope
That my narration of the constancy
With which her youthful martyrs met their fate,
How sad soe'er, may yet be salutary
To the condition of the noble mourner;
Healing the broken heart-strings that had snapped
From over tension.

DUNBAR.
Sights like these, good father,
Have lessened my repining at my portion,
When—as a lonely man, beholding none
My name may rest upon when I resign it—
Tempted to discontent, in those brief hours
A soldier steals from warfare.

FRIAR.
Yes, my son,
Though selfish be the thought, and subject after
For mortifying penance, I have found,
In my own case, the sworn celibacy
Enjoined our sect a rule less burdensome,
When called to witness those domestic sorrows
My duty bids me comfort.

DUNBAR.
Even so.
And I as well may magnify my lot,
Lauding it as the choice of knights and saints,
Pilgrim and priest; and if, at times, the thought
Still prick me like a thorn within the flesh,
That in reserve no progeny of prattlers
Shall cheer my dotage—'tis a far-off day!
And, thanks to Edward and his minion Baliol,
Few of us may be left to fill the seats
Of reverend eldership.

FRIAR.
Till when, and ever,
In all conditions, benedicite!

[Exit.
(Enter Seaton.)
SEATON.
My worthy Dunbar will not think it strange
If late his comrade, borne down with the weight
Of individual burden, lacked the power
To hold discourse upon the common interest.

DUNBAR.
That common interest who so well had cared for
As thy much-injured self, my suffering friend?

SEATON.
But now I would be aided by thy judgment.
What saith it to this aspect of affairs?

DUNBAR.
That they have reached their crisis; or, at least,
Inevitably must, in no long time.
The mighty forces mustered by the foe
On sea and land, when brought to bear at once
Upon our wasted town and shattered fortress,
Must prove resistless; neither can I gather
(More than yourself, I think,) much hope from Douglas.

SEATON.
Grant Heaven his coming be not ominous
To all, as to myself! its doleful consequences
To me and mine may cloud, perchance, my judgment.

DUNBAR.
No. It has proved, as yet, disastrous merely;
Provoked his foes, and done his friends no good.

SEATON.
And yet, one should not willingly prejudge
A great and gallant name; but, in the case
Of Archibald Douglas, will it be dispraise
To own that I distrust his very virtues,
Deeming him over brave? a quality,
(I need not say,) in circumstance like ours,
Worse than its abject opposite.

DUNBAR.
To this
Add, that albeit he love his country much,
He hates his enemy yet more; which, paired
With that false shame lest he be deemed inert,
(Our reverend Friar would call a snare,) may tempt him
To peril all, and risk a general battle.

SEATON.
And lose it, Dunbar! Yes, my soul forebodes
Such for the issue. After all our struggles,
Is such the stern decree? And Bruce has warred
And Wallace died for this, and this alone!
Is all in vain, and Scotland doomed to follow
In the long funeral of departed nations
Whose being ended ere her own began?

DUNBAR.
No, no! believe it not!

SEATON.
Or, if forbade
By policy—not pity—to be struck
From off the roll of states, is she reserved
The more degraded lot to hold existence
The feudatory servitor of England,
And the rapacious and remorseless wretch
That sways her sceptre?

DUNBAR.
Neither fate, I trust,
Awaits our country. The foe may enter,
But can he keep its borders? Will fair Tweed
E'er settle to a tributary stream?
Or Cheviot long look down on any lord
Save one of Scotland's rearing? No, my friend.
The native heather, that bent awhile
Beneath the pressure of a foreign tread,
Shall wave as free as ever. Though the soldier
Is not to play the seer, yet may he judge
The future from the past; from what has been
Gather what is to be. And if “the days
Of open vision” have not dawned on me,
As on Donaldus, yet, from boyhood's hour,
I ne'er beheld our mountain cataract,
In giant-leap from heights the eagle knew not
To depths past human ken—our island surge,
Still roaring to the deafened Hebrides—
But that my spirit sprang, as if their bold
Unearthly voice had sworn to us a freedom
Wild as their own.

SEATON.
Would I might share thy faith!
Ah, Dunbar! 'tis the cheerful character
Of thy own mind that ever coloreth thus
The scenery it surveyed. My darkened spirit
From the same sounds would catch the groans of bondage
Or the sharp death-cry! Bear with me, my friend,
As the survivor of a recent wreck,
The raving tempest clamorous in his ears
When calmed to all beside.

DUNBAR.
Doth Berwick own
A heart that would not “bear” and bleed with his
Whose own has thus been wrung?

SEATON.
For thine, at least,
I ask no guarantee. Now let's away.
I must have sight of Agnes.

DUNBAR.
And I follow.

[Exit.

Scene 3.

The apartment of Lady Agnes Seaton. Herself and the Friar in conversation.
LADY AGNES.
Now, holy father, blessings on thy head,
Here and hereafter, for that charity!

FRIAR.
In aught to comfort thee hath more than paid me.

LADY AGNES.
I did not think ever to weep again,
But thou hast touched the spring within the rock,
And healing waters flow.

(Enter Dunbar and Seaton.)
SEATON.
How fares my Agnes?
How is it with thee now?

LADY AGNES.
Better, my lord;
And not unmindful of the kind solicitude
That prompts the asking.

SEATON.
I could not rely
On the reports they of the household brought,
But stole a moment from the cares of office,
(Though at the heaviest now,) to satisfy me.

DUNBAR.
I, too, a respite snatch from the like duties,
To hail my precious cousin's restoration;
And, in the name of Berwick and of Scotland,
To thank that pair to whom all thanks are due.

SEATON.
Pay them to her. None to myself are owing.
To Agnes, only, doth that debt belong.

LADY AGNES.
(To Seaton.)
Nay, prithee, nay! (to Dunbar)
and if it were so, kinsman,
Thou know'st it chanceth for the fragile skiff
Sometimes to bear itself above the waves
From very lightness—when the braver bark,
Borne down by its rich freight and pressed with sail,
Had well-nigh parted.

DUNBAR.
Such lowly estimate of thy own merits
Does but enhance the worth it seeks to lower.

LADY AGNES.
Forbear! my friend, thy plaudits overpower me.
Even with the duty done, so highly rated,
Mingled enough to shame the sense of pride!
A dark and stormy interval has left
Its clouds between me and my memory,
Spreading o'er much a dreamy indistinctness;
Yet I recall—albeit confusedly—
I do remember, in my agony,
(That cast me, as a prey, to frantic impulse,)
Venting strange words of fearful imprecation.
I would they were unsaid! 'Tis not for me,
O, not for me, a weak and tempted woman,
(Daughter of dust, which every breath is bearing
Back to its source,) to teach the steadfast Heavens
Where to direct their thunders! O, forbid it!
If, in my frenzy, I have cursed King Edward,
I do revoke—

(Donaldus, entering, speaks.)
DONALDUS.
In vain! 'tis registered!
Eternal retribution is concerned
It should be so, howe'er thy generous nature
Relenteth thus toward so fell a foe.
The righteous wrath of man hath sometimes proved
Prompting of Providence; the cry of anguish
Forced from the tortured spirit (like the groan
Wrung from the writhing martyr on the rack)
Is heard of Heaven; aye, heard and answered, too!
Thy curse shall fasten, yet, on him and his,
Sharp as the eagle's talons! and I go
To warn him of it.
[Exit Donaldus.

SEATON.
Did I hear aright?
And dares he front that merciless destroyer
In his own place?

DUNBAR.
Donaldus is not one
To fear the face of man—of guilty man
The least of any—since to such his tidings
Of solemn import may be most effectual
To probe past crimes, or to preserve from future.
But time has sped, and I must leave you, cousin,
And seek a ruder presence.

SEATON.
True, my Agnes;
Yes, our short furlough has expired already.
I do commend thee to thy own best caution,
And leave thee, dearest, to the care of Heaven,
And this, its holy minister.

FRIAR.
Her comfort,
My son, shall be my care. The saints direct you,
(To S. and D.)
Giving to each good fortune, or the grace
That draws the sting from bad!

LADY AGNES.
Amen; so be it!
Husband and kinsman, all good go with you!

[Exit Seaton and Dunbar.
FRIAR.
Daughter, thine ancient harper had produced
His wonted tribute of a brief lament
To suit thy circumstance; but did reserve it
Until the season of bewilderment
Had passed away, and left thee to thyself.
But now, wilt please thee listen to his lay,
Whene'er the mood shall favor?

LADY AGNES.
It will soothe me,
To hear the strain whose burden is to be
Of what I loved and lost. Within the oratory
We will await it.

[Exit both.
(Scene changes to the oratory. Lady Agnes, Friar, Harper.)
LADY AGNES.
(To Harper.)
Mine ancient follower, I am now prepared
To lend the funeral chant thy zeal hath offered
A renovated ear. The holy father
Made known to me this proof of fealty,
My good old Gildus! that my heart has answered,
And thanks thee, for the living—and the dead!

HARPER.
(Sings, accompanied by the harp. During the strain Lady Agnes covers her face with her hand.
(The Friar now rises and joins the chant of the Harper.)

[Curtain falls.

ACT V.

Scene 1.

The English camp before Berwick. A distant view of the town, castle, river, with its vessels of war, &c.
Tent of Edward III.
(Enter Donaldus, advancing, and speaks.)
DONALDUS.
Why ever thus, when called to exercise
My awful function, feel I such reluctance?
The dread decrees I utter are not mine,
And I believe them fully merited
And equitably ordered. Spite of this,
The weakness lingers still. Would that the prophet
Had mastered more the man! A Voice, they call me;
Would I were but a voice! I should not then—
Appointed to confront this throned transgressor
Just reeking from the gory spectacle
To angels and to men his wrath had raised—
Be conscious to aught other than his crimes,
Nor reck their threatened penal expiation.
Yes, let me think on the unnumbered wrongs
His mad career of conquest hath inflicted
Already on the land—the many more
He meditates—till it shall rouse to rage
The spirit of the North, and raise within me
All the avenger.
[Goes to the entrance of the tent.
Edward of England!

EDWARD.
Who art thou, bold one?

DONALDUS.
Edward of England!

EDWARD.
Ha! what rash intruder
Invades our presence thus? Where are my guards?

DONALDUS.
Thy guards are vigilant; but they shrank back
When they regarded me.

(Neville enters to them and speaks.)
NEVILLE.
My liege, 'tis he;
That awful One I spake of. (To the king.)


EDWARD.
In Heaven's name!
What art thou, man?

DONALDUS.
I am the voice of one
To thee, O king, sent from the King of kings,
To speak thy doom. And I, too, am a monarch,
And wield a sceptre; though no outward ensigns
Blazon it forth. The Future is my kingdom!
I stretch my sceptre o'er its darkling realm,
Which none can wrest from me; the arm that seeks it
Must borrow weapons from archangel's armory—
Michael, or Gabriel!

EDWARD.
To the proof, vain boaster!
I dare the utmost that the Prince of Darkness
Speaks by that lying tongue.

DONALDUS.
Blasphemer! pause;
'Tis truth, as sure as thine adulterous mother
Murdered thy recreant father!

EDWARD.
Seize the caitiff! (To guards.)


DONALDUS.
They dare not—cannot! This is not my hour.
Its features have been shown me with the rest,
That when it comes I know, and bid it welcome.

EDWARD.
Better it had come ere now—nay, better yet,
That thou hadst ne'er been born, than live to slander,
The head of England's chivalry.

DONALDUS.
I meant,
As him on whom the prophet stole had fallen,
But to deliver that I have received
To thee, O king, with prophet passiveness.
But, as one born of Caledonian blood,
Can I stand face to face with thee, thou spoiler,
Nor feel it boiling to be cooled in thine?
But thou art spared to be the scorpion scourge
Of neighboring nations round, till come the end;
When, like that ruthless reptile thou resemblest,
Thy sting shall turn, at last, against thyself.

EDWARD.
Now, by St. George and Christendom's seven champions!
Half of thy prophecy contents me well;
What warrior but must wish to prove a scourge
Unto his enemies? Thine other augury,
Sir Soothsayer, we'll withhold our credence from
Till some more special revelation force it.

DONALDUS.
Sir King, but late thou didst command me dumb;
Now, wouldst hear on, though hearing should appall thee.
(Fixed, like the bird, by fatal fascination.)
Know, then—and this shall be to thee a sign—
Thy son, thy first-born and thy best beloved,
In war thy buckler, and in peace thy star,
Shall die before thine eyes! Nor in the field,
Girt by his glittering host, and cheered to conquest;
(As sets the sun upon the Solway's bed,
With rays of glory round;) the sable prince,
Like fiery comet, whose portentous train
Still terminates in gloom—shall meet his fate.
Low on th' ignoble couch, no more to rise,
'Mid countless pangs, and every pang a death,
Yet death delaying—heart-wrung, drop by drop,
Shall Edward and Phillippa's boast depart!
Yet for her sake, erewhile thy better angel,
Whose interposing pity saved from death
The burghers of Calais, (and, present here,
Had surely saved those unoffending striplings!)
For this the vials of the wrath to come
Shall not be all poured out upon thy person,
But part on thy posterity. Yet, know
Full surely that it shall be thus outpoured,
Even to its bitterest dregs. In token of it,
The conquests thou hast gained thou shalt restore
Ere thy career be closed. Thy very blessings
Shall prove thy bane. A numerous progeny,
The joy of other men, shall be to thee
And to thy realm the rankest seed of strife;
Like to those horrid teeth once sown in earth,
Whence sprang up armed men. Not Scotland, then,
But thy own England be the seat of war.
The feuds once fostered between Scot and Scot,
Clansman and chieftain, prince and people here,
By arts of thine and of thine emissaries,
Shall tenfold be returned on English heads.
I look! thy sworn successor dies by piecemeal,
The ling'ring death of famine! at the hands
Of his own brutal subjects, trained by thee
To direst deeds. I see that ancient tower,
Reared by the noblest Cæsar of the twelve,
What time he conquered Britain, though he failed
To conquer Caledon. That tower in ward
The sacred majesty of England holds,
And o'er him stands the crooked Plantagenet,
(Monstrous at once in body and in soul,)
His coward weapon in his captive's heart.
Again that tower! the same foul shape appears,
Searching new victims; and the princely boys
Are 'reft of crown and life! But what of these?
Kings, princes, people, all are whelmed alike
In one vast tide of war. The crime of Cain
Renewed in each, ungraced with the remorse
Of the first man-slayer. Bosworth! Tewksbury!
Your fields are full before me. In mine ears
The clash of armor and the tramp of steeds,
And the fierce shout of triumph, strangely mingled
With the death-shriek, are there! The paler rose
Is bathed in blood, the while its sanguine sister
Glares with a deeper dye. This shall befall,
Tyrant, the latest limit of thy line;
Until, at length, athwart to England's sky,
Our northern light, our Stuart star shall gleam!
A hundred years of havoc shall avenge
The Wife of Seaton and the Siege of Berwick!