University of Virginia Library

PERCY'S MASQUE, A DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS.

INTRODUCTION.

Henry Percy, the son of Hotspur, found himself, when he emerged from childhood, bereft of friends, stripped of the possessions of his ancestors, and subsisting, in exile, upon the bounty of strangers.

On the rupture of his family with Henry the Fourth, whom they had been instrumental in elevating to the throne, leaguing with Glendour and the Earl of Douglas, they published it as their intention to transfer the crown to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. This nobleman was the great-grandson of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the third son of Edward the Third; and, besides representing an elder branch of the family than that from which Henry sprung, had been acknowledged by Richard the Second as his successor. The issue of their enterprise was the well-known battle of Shrewsbury. The Earl of Northumberland, whom accident had detained from the engagement, and whose power was still formidable, received pardon. Stung, however, by the loss of his son and brother, he, in company with Richard Scrope, Archbishop of York, and Thomas Mowbray,

Earl Marshal, appeared, two years afterwards, again in arms. Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, who was allied, by marriage, to Henry, and was devoted to his cause, broke this combination by stratagem; took York and Mowbray prisoners on Shipton-Moor, and delivered them into his master's hands, at the castle of Pontefract, where, after a summary trial, they suffered death. Northumberland, accompanied by his faithful friend, Lord Bardolph, and bearing with him his young grandson, retired into Scotland. His estates were confiscated, and bestowed on different adherents of the King. Failing in an application for aid to the Scottish Court, and in their attempts to purchase it in Wales, France, and Flanders, through which they wandered together, these Noblemen came to the resolution of making a third effort to dethrone Bolingbroke, with no other means than those assured by their great personal influence and popularity in the North of England. Thither they accordingly returned, and were, soon after, both slain in the battle of Bramham-Moor. “So that now,” says Holinshed, “the prophesie was fulfilled which gaue an inkling of this heauie hap long before;”—“For this Earle was the stocke, and maine root of all that were left aliue called by the name of Persie, and of manie more by diuers slaughters despatched. For whose misfortune the People were not a little sorrie, making report of the gentleman's valiantnesse, renowne, and honour, and applieng unto him certeine lamentable verses out of Lucane,” &c.

Respecting his grandson, the same author remarks: “Henrie Persie, then but a child, sonne to the Lord Henrie Persie surnamed Hotspur, after his father's deceasse, that was slaine at Shrewesburie field, was conuied into Scotland, and there left by his Grandfather.” He was educated at the Court of the Regent, Robert Stuart, Duke of Albany; where he remained till about the date of the following scenes.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Neville, Earl of Westmoreland and Northumberland.
• Arthur, his Huntsman.
• Douglas, Heir of the House of Douglas.
• Bertram, Gentleman of Northumberland.
• Mountfort, Gentleman of Northumberland.
• Bardolph, Gentleman of Northumberland.
• Fitzhugh, Gentleman of Northumberland.
• King Henry the Fifth, and Nobles of his Retinue.
• Rook, a Groom of Westmoreland's.
• Lady Westmoreland.
• Elinor, their Daughter.
• Florence, Cousin of Elinor, and Guest at Warkworth.
• Knights, Vassals, &c.

SCENE. Warkworth Castle, in Northumberland.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A terrace of the Castle, overlooking a lawn and woods. Elinor alone. Enter Florence.
Flor.
She stood, majestic, 'mid her waving woods,
Like Dian musing on her hill of cedars,
Or that famed Princess, whom the grey-eyed dawn
Found lingering on the beach beneath proud Carthage,
Pensive and pale, her sandals wet with sea-foam,
And her dark tresses with the tears of night,
Accusing Heaven, and looking lorn as thou dost!

El.
Good morrow, cousin.

Flor.
Prithee, pretty maid,
Why creep'st thou slyly from my side, at dawn,
Day after day, up to this lonely platform?

El.
Look forth: let universal nature speak.
See yonder, how the Cheviot summits glow;
What fiery colors deck the glistening wood;
How volumed, dense, and white, the river mist
Winds down the gleaming vale!

Flor.
Solve me, sweet coz,—
What stirs thy pensive breast to deeper musing
Than all the hues and melodies of nature?
Than moonlight walks on wild Northumbrian hills,
Than hoarse waves booming to the ocean shore,
Autumn's sear leaves, sad fields, and farewell song,
Or converse with the starry spheres?—Come, solve me.

El.
Pish! leave such senseless rhapsody.

Flor.

El.
What mean'st thou, Florence?

Flor.
His vest was green,
His feather blue,
His glance was keen,
His arrow true,—
And hill and greenwood, high and low,
Shrilled to his merry bugle O!

El.
In simpler words,—the friend who knows me best,
To whom my thoughts, even from our childish years,
Have been transparent as the crystal waters,
Believes me (else, why urge this tedious jest?)
Enamoured of a hind, my father's vassal!

Flor.
O, spare me! frown not on my harmless muse.
I did but sport: forgive me, Elinor.
Yet, would I knew what preys upon your cheek,
Shrouds you in gloom, and locks me from your bosom.
When Raby's towers from morn till midnight rang
With dance, masque, pageant, minstrelsy, and song,
Our lives seemed sweetest pastime. Not a lark
Rose from her nest more gayly to the skies
Than we from slumber: joy was all our theme.
Silence and melancholy now usurp—

El.
What need to search my heart? Thou know'st it thine.

Flor.
Does Elinor unkindly cast me out
From sympathy in sorrow, like a stranger?

El.
Cease, Florence, cease; I have not yet complained,
Nor ever will, while bounteous Heaven showers down
Blessings unnumbered on my worthless head.
Complain! By what prerogative am I
The darling offspring of a noble house?
Born in this land of heroes? Graced in all things?
Who gave those tender parents, and preserves?
Who stretched a canopy above my bed,
And steeps my eyelids in the dew of slumber,
While many an one no worse than I—No, no,
If, spite of me, my thankless heart repine
Because some fancied good swells not the store,
Ne'er will I utter such rebellious murmurs.

Flor.
Seems it rebellion to thee, Elinor,
To bathe the wounds which Providence inflicts
In friendship's tears?

El.
As for that youth—few words
Will sum his story. Three months since, surprised
By a wild night, while journeying near these walls,
He begged a shelter. Voice, or face, or mien,—
Fate willed it,—touched my sire, who questioned him.
Fortune, he said, smiled fairly at his birth;
But fatal feuds, mischances long to tell,
Robbed him of friends and substance while a child,
And, ever since, his adverse fate had frowned.
Cheered by kind looks and courtesy, he asked
Among the hunting-train some humble post.
Rare talents in the art so cherished here
Had won him rank and favor, ere his arm,
Blessed be Heaven, preserved my life and honor.

Flor.
Thy life—

El.
Have I not told thee? Strange neglect!—
O, Florence, hear.—A balmy eventide
Allured me, with a damsel, down the vale.
Beguiled with talk, and roving heedless, night
O'ertook us. Hurrying through the wood, just where
That ancient ash o'erspreads the way, a band
Of prowling Scots, moss-troopers from the wild,
Rushed from a covert, captive seized us—

Flor.
Jesu!

El.
Bound us upon their horses, and amain
Spurred for the Border. Long our dangerous course
O'er hills and moors, by lonely robber paths,
We held in darkness, guided by the stars
And fitful lustre of the northern light.
At last, (the moon now broad above the fells,)
Crossing a glen, they halted in a brook,
Full in the beam, to counsel, and to breathe
Their o'erspent steeds. Four huntsmen, 'midst the parle,
Reined up beside us. Judge what trembling seized me,
When on their coats my father's crest I saw!
Think—in that wild untrodden solitude
To find brave Arthur by my side! Speech, breath
Forsook me. Agnes shrieked. Then, Florence, then—
But my brain reeled; his desperate charge I saw not.
I found myself upon the moonlight bank
Sustained by Agnes; felt upon my cheek
The night-breeze freshened by the gushing rill
Which Arthur from his basnet sprinkled o'er me.
No hostile sound disturbed us; tranquil, pale,
And sweet all seemed, till on the runnel's brink,
Close at my feet, I spied two grim marauders
Mixing their life-blood with the bubbling stream.
That night he gave me to my mother's arms;
And such a night!—such agonies of joy
I hope no more to see.—To this poor youth,
Whose blood redeemed me, ingrate shall I prove?

Flor.
Forbid it gratitude—

El.
But if a lighter thought—remember, Florence,
Mine is the stock of Lancaster, the blood
Whose pure, proud current feeds the hearts of Princes.

(Exit.)
Flor.
Four days!—and not a whisper of this tale,—
That should have flown to meet me on the way,
Leaped from her eyes, mixed with the welcome-kiss,
And dwelt the favored theme upon her tongue!
Her mother's silence, too!—ay, that!—But why—
What doth he here? haunting about her steps,
And practising upon her noble nature?—
Alas! if Elinor,—the gentle, high-souled,—
This claims my care, and nicest observation.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

A court of the Castle.—Enter Westmoreland, meeting Arthur, with a falcon.
West.
How flies she, Arthur?

Ar.
Faithful to the lure,
My lord, and bold upon the wing as eagles.

West.
Thank my Lord Marshal with the Tangier barb.
See him caparisoned, and led by Hubert.
What tidings from the North?

Ar.
Berwick is free.
The Borderers stole away on Michael's eve.

West.
A raid of Murray's: so I wrote the King.
Who brought the news?

Ar.
The Regent's courier passed, at dawn,
For London.

West.
Spoke you with him?

Ar.
Yes, my lord.

West.
What brings he else?

Ar.
Nothing of any moment.
Rothsay is dead, and Percy fled from court.

West.
Percy!

Ar.
The Hotspur's son.

West.
Fled!—Whither?

Ar.
Westward,
Some say, with young Lord Douglas to the Isles;
Though others think to France.

West.
Degenerate stripling!—Fled!—How long ago?

Ar.
Two months, my lord, he doth report, and more.

West.
If but a spark— (Pausing)
—No fear,—one night on straw
Would send him with a quartan home to nurse.
But this curled minion's father, long ago,
Had shook my gates with Scotland at his back;
Or, baffled there, like some grey Palmer knocked,
With scrip, and scallop, craving charity,
Harper, or Beadsman, muttering for the damned,
And drenched our hospitable hearths with blood.
Rough Hotspur, sooner than in exile languish,
Ay, rather, if the spleen of fight were on,
Unarmed would mount, and, with a frail ash spear,
Tilt with the Fiend, than speak in courtesy.

Ar.
What thinks my lord? Were this fierce chief alive,
Or any valiant scion of his stock,
Would Henry, on submission at his throne,
Restore their honors?

West.
Restore!—Northumberland is mine: who takes
Must win it. Percy lorded o'er the North
Too proudly, and is sunk to rise no more.
The Sire and the Son set Bolingbroke aloft,
Meaning to rule the King they made; but soon
Finding a check on their omnipotence,
Their vengeful arms they turned; denounced his ruin;
Drew half the kingdom to revolt, and clave,
Almost, the diadem.

Ar.
Audacious traitors!

West.
Their fortune hit the planetary hour
They, erring, thought, and sun and moon must bow,
With humble adoration, to the Star
Of their nativity. And, had not I
Outwitted York, dispersed his power, and seized
Mowbray and him, we now had drudged for bread,
Cursing the pittance doled by Mortimer;
While grey-beard Percy gored us with his rule,
Counting each drop expiatory blood
For Hotspur's death.

Ar.
And does my lord fear aught from Hotspur's son?

West.
The Piper? Lady Regent's toilet-man?
Whose soul, in travail of a sonnet, faints,
Seven times a day, entranced upon a lute?
Alack! down-beds, perfumes, carpets, and ladies,
He covets more than cold night-watches, sheathed
In arms, steel pillows, and the smell of war.

Ar.
Strange tales of him the crones and Gypsies tell.
Some say the noble babe was stolen by Fairies,
Who left a changeling imp: some, that Night-hags
Blasted the cradle—

West.
Would the name were blasted,
Rased and forgot! Rebellion 's in their ashes,
And taints the air that blows upon my vassals.
Fools cry, A miracle! when nature sports.
'T was thus when Edward's lion-mettled stock
To Richard shrunk. The Scottish Regent strove
To rear him up a scourge and thorn to me;
Schooled him in every noble exercise,
And sought the promise of his youth to prove,
For, in his boyhood, sparks like Percy shone;
But 't was a bootless toil.—Look to the steed.

(Exit.)
Ar.
Buried in the dear ashes thou dishonorest,
That spark, proud Westmoreland, thou 'lt find
Alive for fatal mischief. Blest delusion!
For once, thank Heaven, my better star prevails.

(Exit.)

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A high-wood walk in a park. The towers of the Castle seen over the trees.
Enter Arthur.
Ar.
Here let me pause, and breathe awhile, and wipe
These servile drops from off my burning brow.
Amidst these venerable trees, the air
Seems hallowed by the breath of other times.—
Companions of my Fathers! ye have marked
Their generations pass. Your giant arms
Shadowed their youth, and proudly canopied
Their silver hairs, when, ripe in years and glory,
These walks they trod to meditate on Heaven.
What warlike pageants have ye seen! what trains
Of captives, and what heaps of spoil! what pomp,
When the victorious Chief, war's tempest o'er,
In Warkworth's bowers unbound his panoply!
What floods of splendor, bursts of jocund din,
Startled the slumbering tenants of these shades,
When night awoke the tumult of the feast,
The song of damsels, and the sweet-toned lyre!
Then, princely Percy reigned amidst his halls,
Champion, and Judge, and Father of the North.
O, days of ancient grandeur! are ye gone?
For ever gone? Do these same scenes behold
His offspring here the hireling of a foe?
O, that I knew my fate! that I could read
The destiny which Heaven has marked for me!

Enter a Forester.
For.
A benison upon thee, gentle huntsman!
Whose towers are these that overlook the wood?

Ar.
Earl Westmoreland's.

For.
The Neville's towers I seek.
By dreams I learn, and prophecies most strange,
A noble youth lurks here, whose horoscope
Declares him fated to amazing deeds.

Ar.
(starting back.)
Douglas!—

Doug.
Now do I clasp thee, Percy; and I swear
By my dear soul, and by the blood of Douglas,
Linked to thy side through every chance, I go,
Till here thou rulest, or death and night end all.

Per.
Amazement! Whence?—or how?—

Doug.
And didst thou think
Thus to elude me?

Per.
Answer how thou found'st me.
What miracle directed here thy steps?

Doug.
Where should I look for thee but in the post
Where birth, fame, fortune, wrongs, and honor call thee?
Returning from the Isles, I found thee gone.
Awhile in doubt, each circumstance I weighed:
Thy difficulties, wrongs, and daring spirit;
The gay, delusive show so long maintained
To lull observers; then set forth, resolved
Never to enter more my native towers
Till I had found, and searched thee to the soul.

Per.
Still must I wonder; for so dark a cloud—

Doug.
O, deeper than thou think'st I 've read thy heart.
A gilded insect to the world you seemed;
The fashion's idol; person, pen, and lyre,
The soft devoted darling of the Fair.
By slow degrees I found Herculean nerve
Hid in thy tuneful arm; that hunger, thirst,
The sultry chase, the bleakest mountain-bed,
The dark, rough winter torrent, were to thee
But pastime; more were courted than repose.
To others, your discourse still wild and vain,
To me, when none else heard thee, seemed the voice
Of heavenly oracles.

Per.
O, partial friendship.

Doug.
Yet had I never guessed your brooded purpose.
Rememberest thou the Regent's Masque? the birthnight?

Per.
Well.

Doug.
That night you glittered through the crowded halls,
Gay, and capricious as a sprite of air.
Apollo rapt us when you touched the lyre;
Cupid fanned odors from your purple wings;
Or Mercury amused with magic wand,
Mocking our senses with your feathered heel.
In every fancy, shape, and hue you moved,
The admiration, pity, theme of all.—
One bed received us. Soon, your moaning voice
Disturbed me. Dreaming heavily, you groaned,
“O, Percy! Percy! Hotspur! O, my father!
Upbraid me not! hide, hide those ghastly wounds!
Usurper! Traitor! thou shalt feel me!”

Per.
No!

Doug.
'T is true;—and more than I can now remember.

Per.
Yet never speak of it?

Doug.
Inly I burned;
But honor, pride forbade. Pilfer from dreams!
Thou knew'st the ear, arm, life of Douglas, thine—

Per.
And long ago I had disclosed to thee
My troubled bosom, but my enterprise
So rife with peril seemed,—to hearts less touched,
So hopeless! Knowing thy impetuous soul,
How could I justify the deed to Heaven,
How to thine aged sire? Armed proof I stand,
To fate: come what will come, the wide earth bears
No heart of kindred blood to mourn my fall.

Doug.
The heart of Douglas beats not with thy blood,
But never will I trust in mercy more,
In justice, truth, or heaven, if it forsake thee.

Per.
Douglas, thy friendship is my choicest treasure,
Has been a radiant star on my dark way;
And never did I doubt thy zeal to serve me.
Lend, now, a patient ear.—While with my doom,
Alone, I strive, no dread or doubt distracts me.
No precious fate with mine involved, my heart
Is fearless, firm my step. Exposing thee,
The adamantine buckler falls, and leaves me,
Naked and trembling, to a double death.

Doug.
Thou lovest me not.

Per.
Let Heaven be witness there!—
The thought of bringing down thy father's hairs
With sorrow to the grave, would weigh like guilt,
Palsy my courage, cripple all my powers.

Doug.
So!—have I wandered o'er the hills for this?

Per.
I would not grieve thee, Douglas, well thou know'st;
But thus to hazard on a desperate cast
Thy golden fortunes—

Doug.
Cursed be the blood within me,—
Plagues, and the grave o'ertake me, if I leave thee!—
Though gulfs yawned under thee, and roaring seas
Threatened to whelm thee!

Per.
For thy father's sake—

Doug.
Peace! I'd not go, if staying here would strew
His hoar hairs in the tomb,—not stir, by Heaven!
Must I toss counters? sum the odds of life,
When Honor points the way? When was the blood
Of Douglas precious in a noble cause?

Per.
Nay, hear me, hear me, Douglas,—

Doug.
Talk to me
Of dangers? Death and shame! Is not my race
As high, as fearless, and as proud as thine?

Per.
I 've done.

Doug.
By Heaven, it shames me, Harry Percy,
Preaching such craven arguments to me.—
Now tell me how thou stand'st; thy cause how prospered.
What has been done? What projects are afoot?
Possess me quickly.

Per.
Gently; lest some busy ear
Be near us. Little have I yet to tell thee.
Thinking my rival's coat would best conceal me,
I won his favor by a tale scarce feigned.

Doug.
A Keeper of his chase thy garb bespeaks.

Per.
Chief Huntsman. Thus disguised, I day by day
Traverse my native hills, viewing the strength
And features of the land; its holds of safety;
And searching patriot spirits out. For, still,
Though kings and gaudy courts remember not,
Still, in the cottage, and the peasant's heart,
The memory of my fathers lives. When there,
The old, the good old day is cited, tears
Roll down their reverend beards, and genuine love
Glows in their praises of my sires.

Doug.
I long
To press the sons, and tell them what a lord
Lives yet to rule them.

Per.
When first I mixed among them, oft I struck,
Unwittingly, a spark of this same fire.
Encouraged thus, I sought its latent seeds;
Seized opportunities to draw the chase
Into the bosom of the hills, and spent
Nights in their hospitable, happy cots.
There, to high strains, I tuned the minstrel harp,
Chanting the glories of the ancient day,
When their brave fathers, scorning to be slaves,
Rushed with their Chieftain to the battle-field,
Trod his bold footsteps in the ranks of death,
And shared his triumphs in the festal hall.

Doug.
That lulled them, as the north wind does the sea.

Per.
From man to man, and house to house, like fire,
The kindling impulse flew; till every hind,
Scarce conscious why, handles his targe and bow;
Still talks of change; starts, if the banished name
By chance he hears; and supplicates his Saint
The true-born offspring may his banner rear,
With speed, upon the hills.

Doug.
What lack we? Spread
The warlike ensign. On the Border side
Two hundred veteran spears await your summons.

Per.
What say'st thou!

Doug.
Sinews of the house:
Ready to tread in every track of Douglas.
By stealth I drew them in from distant points,
And hid amidst a wood in Chevy-Chase.

Per.
O, Douglas! Douglas! even such a friend,
For death or life, was thy great sire to mine!

Doug.
Straight, let us turn our trumpets to the hills;
Declare aloud thy name, and wrongs; in swarms
Call down the warlike tenantry, and teach
Aspiring Neville fatal is the day
The Percy and the Douglas league in arms.

Per.
If he were all—Remember haughty Henry,
The nephew of his wife, whose word could speed
A veteran army to his kinsman's aid.

Doug.
Come one, come all; leave us to welcome them.

Per.
There lives a sad remembrancer for us.—
Think of our fathers! Think of Shrewsbury!

Doug.
Hum!

Per.
Their cause was upright; all that hearts of flesh,
And falchions tempered in an earthly wave,
Could do, their valor wrought; yet Percy fell,
And Douglas was a captive.

Doug.
Well; what then?
Because fate baffled them, must we despair?

Per.
Ha! yonder's Elinor,—Westmoreland's daughter,—
This lucky chance I wished.—Douglas, away.—
Seek, by the river side, a Hermitage
Carved in the rock. That half-worn path will guide thee.

Doug.
This way?

Per.
The left hand path. I'll come to thee anon.
Donald shall be thy name. Mark,—mine is Arthur.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A lawn before the gate. Enter Elinor, attended by a Damsel.
El.
As o'er the hills we flew, the very heavens
Frowned wild and ominous; but when I woke,
So melancholy sweet the moon looked on me,
Murmurs so soothing stole upon mine ear,
Awhile, I thought myself in some new being.

Dams.
Fairies keep revel on such nights, and oft
About the traveller make woods and glades
Seem full of voices, airs, and shrill, sweet pipings—

El.
But spake he, Agnes,—as thou saidst?—

Dams.
More like a lord, than a poor vassal, lady;
Clasped you against his breast, and wept, and swore
As he were frantic; nay, we thought you dead;
Killed in the shock that slew the ruffian.

Enter Percy.
El.
Ha!
Agnes,—

Per.
Lady, a moment hear my suit.

El.
Your suit!—What suit?

Per.
A youth who loves, and, in his prosperous days,
Favored me, wandering in a woodman's weeds,
From home and kindred parted, craves a place,
(Hearing my fortune in your father's service,)
An humble place, among the train I lead.

El.
Receive him like a brother, Arthur;
Welcome the wanderer to my father's house.
But say,—what tidings from the Regent pass?
I saw you from my tower, at peep of dawn,
In parley with a Scottish courier.

Per.
No news.

El.
How fares my lady Albany?

Per.
Soft, benedicite! a tale there was.
The Northern Muses weep, and wreath their harps
With mournful willows; Lady Regent pines,
Wan as a shade; court ladies droop, and sigh,
Forsake their lutes, and talk of nunneries:
Mirth, music, merry-making, melody,
Speed the light hours no more at Holyrood:—
The King of Glee, the gamesome Percy, 's fled.

El.
Has Percy fled?

Per.
So says the courier; none
Knows whither.

El.
Gracious Heaven, protect his steps!

Per.
Ha!
You speak with fervor, lady.

El.
While I rove
These woods and walks, and wander through those halls
Of lonely grandeur, every object wakes
Some sad remembrance of the noble outcast.
I entered, late, a long-neglected tower,
Where, grey with cobwebs, torn, and soiled with dust,
The ancient pictures of the race decay.
There, dark-browed Hotspur, stooping to the charge,
With many a famed, majestic Percy, moulders.
A thrill of terror rooted me; they seemed to frown,
And menace me with hostile eyes;
Question my right in their domain; and ask,
With looks of accusation, for their son.

Per.
How would their warlike fronts indignant burn,
Could they behold the losel whom thou pitiest!

El.
Who knows, alas, but we have made him such?
Have we not driven him from his native seats
Out to the pitiless world, deprived of all
That makes life dear? Who knows but he has rushed
To pleasure's bowers for shelter from despair?—
Ill-fated youth! the passions that have scathed,
Had, haply, fired thee to immortal deeds,
Shed lustre o'er thy country, decked thy brows
With wreaths unfading as the amaranth.

Per.
Sure thou hast trod the gardens where it blooms,
And learned compassion at the lips of Angels.

El.
I would not purchase greatness at this price,
Would welcome, rather, some obscure retreat;
Nor dream of splendor, save when Fancy spread
Pavilions in the clouds, or tracked the moon,
Or visited those mystic orbs of fire
Spangling heaven's curtains, and beyond them heard
The entrancing viols and unearthly voices,
Sometimes to Saints made audible below,—
Than reign the Queen of an adoring world,
If I must do it in another's right.

Per.
Ah! would to Heaven such justice swayed all hearts.

El.
With but my sire's consent, how pleased would I
Resign these sumptuous halls to their just lord;
Seek Raby's bowers; and never, never more,
Forsake the shades where, like a vision, flew
My happy youth! the scenes of innocence,
Of peace, and sunshine, where my joyous heart
Chimed with the blithest music of the woodlands.
No sorrow there, no secret— (Stops abruptly.)


Per.
Sorrow!
Dares she intrude into a Seraph's breast?
Alas! art thou exposed—

El.
Am I?—Look up,
Presumptuous youth, and, if thou canst, regard
The dazzling summit where the Neville shines.
Do clouds of sorrow roll so high?—Agnes!

(Exit.)
Per.
Vanished again!—What means this changeful mood?
It grows upon her. Even when she seems
Gentlest, and sweetest, breathing from her lips—
Perpetual troubler of my thoughts! by Heaven,
This fellow dogs me.—Well, how now?

Enter Rook, as talking to himself.
Rook.

Per.
How now, I say?

Rook.
(Passes.)

(Exit.)
Per.
I must beware this knave:—
He peers about me with a lynx's eye:
Thrice has surprised me at unguarded moments.
He turns,—I'll cross the brake and hie to Douglas.

(Exit.)

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A deep, shady solitude, before the Hermitage of Warkworth.—Percy and Douglas sitting on a stone bench by the door of the cell.
Per.
Caution must rein our ardor: see the land
Drained for these wars; the King and Westmoreland
O'er seas, with all the turbulent, bold spirits,
Busy in France:—then, stir for Mortimer,
Make common cause with him, and we may thrive.

Doug.
With Mortimer?

Per.
My cousin Edmund's son, the lineal heir
Of Clarence, lives: our rightful Sovereign.

Doug.
Where?

Per.
In London; whence I hourly look for tidings.
But, if nought sinister by waves or war
Befall the King, an absent pilot leaves
The galley reeling. Men begin to murmur.
This prodigal, say they, for selfish ends,
Drags to unknown, inhospitable graves,
Our sons; barters their bones for barren fame;
Leaves us to starve, while he, on foreign shores,
Plucks blood-stained laurels.

Doug.
Talk they thus?

Per.
Douglas,
If Mortimer inherits but a soul,
And once Northumberland will lift her voice,
Oft, through the realm, in dark and troubled times,
The watch-word of the mighty, hope survives
For down-trod justice. Number but the host
Of discontented spirits late fallen off;
More, groaning yet beneath his father's stripes:
And more that, from the first, pitying wronged Richard,
Hated this proud usurping race, and fought
In Percy's battles for the rightful heir:
All, waiting but the call.

Doug.
If this be so,
What fear?

Per.
And that were glory! grasp at once
My own lost heritage, and throne my King!
Sometimes the vision dances in my eyes,
But ah! I fear, a glittering, empty bubble.
Monmouth is wise, dauntless as Mars, and proved
In all the issues of the field; he knows
The talisman that rules a soldier's heart;
Success has shed a blaze about his head,
Dazzling to vulgar gazers: I, the while,
Am but a stripling, yet unknown; my cause
Unsanctioned by a name of power, save thine.

Doug.
But thou hast justice on thy side.

Per.
Alas!
And had not Hotspur, too, when he lay stiffening?
Douglas, I 've looked through men, and marked the ways
Inscrutable, and dark, of Providence.
Too oft the righteous is the luckless cause.
Nay, have not holy men, in every age—

Doug.
Sweet lad, trouble not me with saintly lore.
One thing I know, and, spite of flesh, will cleave to:—
The justice of our cause can never hurt it.

Per.
Ha! 't is himself.

Enter Bertram, attired like a Hermit.
Bert.
Heaven speed ye, sons!

Per.
(embracing him.)
Nay, Bertram, thou behold'st a second self.
This is that youthful Douglas, whose renown
Has reached thine ears.

Bert.
Why then I see my brother of adoption,
A true-born son of never-daunted Douglas.

Doug.
Approve him as you find him.

Per.
Long, and dark,
And tragic, is the page of Bertram's story.
Its emblems carved within this rock shall speak.
Suffice it, Douglas, cruel fate, with wounds
Incurable, had pierced his noble heart.
Here, in this cell, I found him, where, in tears,
Sackcloth, and bitter penance, Bothal's lord
Had twenty winters mourned. He loved my sires,
For whom his fathers and himself had fought;
For Bertram, once, stood foremost of the brave.
His faith and wisdom proved, my birth I told,
Demanding counsel. Roused by Percy's name,
The sorrowing Hermit woke, forsook his cell,
Cast off the cherished burthen of his griefs,
Serves me, and loves me with a zeal like thine.

Doug.
Thy hand. Brave Baron, I have heard thy fame,
But thought thee mingled with the dead.

Bert.
The pangs
Of many deaths may be endured.

Per.
Hark! (Horns heard in the forest.)

What horns are those?—And horsemen?

Doug.
Lo! again.

Per.
Strike through the wood and see: lest I be sought.—
(Exit Douglas.)
Well, Bertram, speak. What speed?

Bert.
Alas, my lord, no hopes.

Per.
Ha, why?

Bert.
A high-born spirit so ignoble,
So grov'ling, wedded to base things, lives not.

Per.
O Fate!

Bert.
He scarce is known at court: he soils
His nobleness by fellowship with cullions:
Spurns lore and chivalry, to waste his days
In vulgar revels with the city scum.

Per.
O, Mortimer!—But didst thou probe him, Bertram?
Search to his heart? Show the foul wrong he suffers?

Bert.
I courted him; oft drew him into talk:
Spoke of his father, grandsire, all his house
Downward from Lionel; wept their fallen fortunes;
Touched on his claim; the people's discontent;
In my discourse, still, as by chance, let fall
Words that had pierced, like scorpion stings, a breast
Not seared to honor; but, a bond-slave, dolt,
Or idiot, had been moved to nobler fire.

Per.
O, Nature! thou conspirest, too,
With my cursed stars.

Bert.
He ne'er can serve our purpose.
We need a young Prince rarely versed; who knows
Men, and the times; apt, shrewd, and valiant; skilled
To catch and fix the wavering multitude.
But Mortimer, in nought—

Per.
A curse upon him!
I would not stain the venerable chair
Where Alfred shone, and godlike Edward sat
'Midst captive Kings; so oft by heroes filled,
Whose wisdom, toil, and valor through the world
Have spread our glory, made our narrow Isle
Queen of the Sea, and Arbitress of Nations,—
No,—not for empire would I stain that throne
With such a hilding. Henry's faults are princely,
Such as in noble natures aptest grow,
And ne'er will soil the robe not rightly his.

Re-enter Douglas, hastily.
Doug.
Friends,—friends,—

Bert.
What now?

Doug.
The King is coming.

Per.
What!

Doug.
True, as the faith,—the English King,—
This night, to Warkworth!

Per.
(with a start.)
When?

Doug.
This very night,
And with a slender train.

Per.
Immortal heaven!

Doug.
Infernal hell! if ever he depart
Till Harry Percy hold his own.

Per.
To-night!—
We cannot!—Bertram!—Douglas!—God of heaven!
Had but a day—but one twelve hours of time—

Doug.
Hear, Percy! list! He hunts
To-morrow; couches here to-morrow night;
Next morning, goes;—if we, like coistrils, slaves,
Base stirrup-lackeys, cap in hand, cry, Speed!

Per.
(smiting his breast.)
'T is come!—'t is come!
The issue of my fate!—

Bert.
Beware! refrain!—Lord Douglas, answer me,—
Were yonder horsemen couriers of the King?

Doug.
My lord, they were, and thus report. The King,
Riding a course to Berwick, with a train
Of twenty Nobles and an hundred Knights,
Will reach this castle by the hour of curfew;
To-morrow rouse a stag; and northward wend
With next day's earliest sun.

Per.
That sun shall see
Our banner in the wind, or me released
From earthly thraldom!—There 's a path—a hope—
A glorious path!—Question not—parley not—
Douglas—those spearmen!—Mount a fleet steed, Bertram—
This ring— (producing a ring from his bosom.)
—was once my grandsire's signet; drawn
From his dead hand on Bramham-Moor. For life,
Hurry away to Mountfort. Thou wilt find him
Clad like a minstrel, in an humble cot
Fast by the towers of Fitzhugh. Say, the man
Whose crest is on that ring has need of him.
He will commune with Fitzhugh, and direct
Your steps to Bardolph. Join me all—fail not—
Conjure them so—by twilight, in the cavern.

Bert.
Speaks Mountfort to his name?

Per.
Ask for old Harold,
The harper—Children know the ancient minstrel.
Or, shouldst thou spy a giant-boned old man,
Stooping his bulk upon a charging-staff,
His locks and beard like hoar-frost, yet his brows
Shaggy and black, 't is Mountfort. Now, to horse.

Doug.
Come on.

Per.
Would thou couldst meet these friends to-night.

Doug.
That will I, by the ghost of Merlin! Choose
A clean-limbed steed, and lend me spurs. I need
But strike the march; my kinsman Malcolm 's trusty.

Per.
Bertram, lead Douglas to the forest-gate:
I'll follow with the coursers.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A court before the stablés. Rook, alone.
Rook.
Some Juggler's brat, I'll swear, by Gypsies kidnapped,
Knavish by nature, and in lies instructed,
Left in a barn asleep, has slipped his masters,
And come to practise his fine arts on us.
Even if he be no worse.—Here comes my lord.
Now, greensleeve, if thou 'rt not hag-born, beware me!

Enter Westmoreland.
West.
Which way went Arthur?

Rook.
Toward the wood, my lord,
With Shiek and Lady Bayard by the bit,
Scarce cooled since yesterday.

West.
Whither?

Rook.
Heaven knows,
Not I.—Perhaps, on Percy's service.

West.
Rook,
If thou guard'st not that venomed tongue—

Rook.
No doubt, no doubt, my lord, he serves you ably;
Much better than a poor, plain vassal, bred
In good old Westmoreland, of seed that 's known,
And served your father well, and might, mayhap,
Lead out a course as well as he. Nor spleen,
Nor malice prompt me, my good lord, but love
And true allegiance. Could your lordship list
An odd adventure that befell me, late,
Upon the hunt?

West.
If it concern me, speak.

Rook.
My lord, I sometimes ride upon the chase,
An humble follower, like the rest, of Arthur.
Not long ago, leading us up and down
Under a burning sun the livelong day,
He stopped at evening 'midst a group of huts
Sequestered in the Cheviots. In a dingle,
Divided from the rest some furlongs, stood
Three lonely cabins: there, by strict command,
The train was sheltered; but, for lack of room,
My lord, my steed was stabled in a barn
Planted amidst the thick of cottages.
When I had slept, methought, an hour or twain,
I woke; and as I mused, upon my straw,
Chanced to remember somewhat left undone
Most needful for my harassed beast. I rose;
And drawing towards the green (the moon being bright)
Round which the dwellings of the hamlet stood,
Descried a press of peasants by a door.
Stopping, I through the smoky lattice saw
Within, encompassed by a gaping crowd,
Our noble leader high in argument.

West.
Arthur?

Rook.
The same, my lord.—Greyheaded men,
And boys, and all between, stock still, agape,
Swallowed his words like tidings from the grave,
While he, with gestures fierce, and eyes like beacons,
Of Hotspur spoke.

West.
Of Hotspur!

Rook.
Ha!—he comes!—
Ever, my lord, he named him—

West.
Peace! begone!
When the stir 's past of this day and the next,
I'll more of this. Begone! (Exit Rook.)
How dare he touch
That theme among my vassals?—Hotspur! ha!

Enter Percy.
Per.
Joy to my lord, and his illustrious dame,
That conquering Henry draws so near to Warkworth.

West.
Thou 'rt well encountered.—But a day he stays,
And means to hunt, and I a course would hold
Worthy my King. Look to it, knave. Be found
In trim: with horses, hawks, hounds, harness, train,
Glistering, and plumed for speed. Send Ivo out
To warn the Cheviot warden.

Per.
Good my lord,
Fear not.—What say ye to a Masque, my lord,
After the chase, in honor of the King?

West.
A Masque?

Per.
After the banquet, with my lord's good leave,
I know a little pageant that might draw
Attention from your guests and Royal Kinsman.

West.
'T would please me, sirrah.

Per.
Vizards, and hoods, and mail, are all we need.

West.
Open the armory.

Per.
And please, my gracious lord,
That busy, meddling fools pry not about me—

West.
Prate not. Begone unto your tasks.
(Exit Percy.)
That Rook regards him with a jaundiced eye,
Hates, and would cast him, gladly, from my favor,
Full well I know. There 's large allowance:—still,
To name amidst those peevish, factious slaves,
The race they worship dearer than their God,
Is treason. None that loved me e'er would do it.—
Anon, I'll know the meaning of this tale.

(Exit.)

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A cavern: a fire of embers burning on the ground. Percy standing in the cavern's mouth.
Per.
'T is time they came.—That broad and crimson cloud
Which, just now, seemed a fretted vault of fire,
Wave after wave, grows pale and gray:—the rooks
Are hush:—the amber tint of twilight fades.—
How oft have I, when fortune seemed afar,
Gazed, musing, on that lingering streak of day,
And wondered if, in all the shining realms
Fancied beyond those hills, a bosom dwelt
So desolate as mine! Or eyed yon star
Kindle her cresset in the glowing West,
And wished her placid bowers had been my birthplace!
Now, my exulting heart would scarce exchange
Her hopes for Paradise.—Michael to aid!
Rid'st thou a hippogriff?

Enter Douglas.
Doug.
Well, by the hum,
Hurry, and stir abroad, our quarry's harboured?

Per.
Two hours ago.

Doug.
How strong?

Per.
Two hundred Knights,
And twenty Nobles.

Doug.
Humph! one hundred Knights,
The courier said.

Per.
No matter.

Doug.
Merrier sport;
That 's all.

Per.
You found the soldiers safe?

Doug.
Impatient for my summons: dight like pilgrims,
In separate bands, by ways obscure they come,
To meet upon the outskirts of the wood.—
Where 's Bertram?

Per.
Not yet come.

Doug.
Not—

Per.
Hark!—I hear them.

Doug.
Whose deep-toned voice is that?

Per.
Old Mountfort's. Mark me, Douglas—he alone,
Knows me, or this day's chance: the rest expect
But Percy's emissary. Name me not.
Enter Bertram, Mountfort, Bardolph, Fitzhugh, and several Peasants.
Thrice welcome, valiant Mountfort, to our cell!
Lords Fitzhugh, Bardolph, and the rest, all welcome.

Mount.
Dark as a den of Cyclops! else my eyes
Wax dim apace. Where art thou?

Per.
Here, my lord.

Mount.
Ay,—press me,—make me young again. My lords,
This is the youth I spoke of.

Per.
Stir a blaze,
That we may see each other's faces, Bertram.

Doug.
Most noble Mountfort, let me guide thy steps
To yonder jutting rock.

Mount.
Who speaks? ha?

Doug.
(in a low tone.)
Douglas.

Mount.
Guide me.
Thy voice did thrill my pulses like a trumpet.
(Whispering.)
What! has he stooped? the Royal bird?

Doug.
Perched, my good lord.

Mount.
Good King! sweet King! shrive, shrive! I shall see day yet.

(Douglas conducts Mountfort to a seat on the rock by the fire; which Bertram replenishes and fans to a blaze.)
Per.
(to the Peasants.)
Draw near, my loving friends: stand not apart.

Mount.
Now then, explain the cause of this hot summons.

Per.
In part, my lords, you may have heard its purport?

Bard.
Touching our master's son, Lord Mountfort said,
Young Percy.

Per.
Whom I serve: the hapless youth
For whose illustrious Fathers yours have bled
An idle sacrifice. For, where, alas!
The pomp, power, victories, they dearly bought?
The storied memory, my lords, is left
In chronicles of other times, and serves,
Serves but to wring an Exile's breast with anguish.
In the cold tomb their wreath of glory lies:
The Chieftain's arm protects no more: his voice,
That should have cheered you in the fields of fame;
In peace, ruled, shepherd-like, his flock, yet sleeps
Mute and inglorious, in a land of strangers.
My friend—has a true heart;—desires,
And memory;—knows what his fathers were;—
Like them aspires:—judge how he feels his fate!
All day, upon some sea-beat rock he sits,
Mourning his people and himself as orphans,
And begs, as Heaven's best boon, once to behold them.

First Peas.
(to the others.)
Mark that! (Drawing near.)
The Percy loves us, then?

Second Peas.
When saw you, Sir, our noble master?

Mount.
Peace!—
No matter, now.—Go on.—Pardon me, friends.

Per.
Your father, noble Bardolph, was the friend
Of old Northumberland, and fared with him
When, bowed with bitter years, the reckless Earl,
Heart-broken by the loss of Hotspur, fled,
Exposing to the time's vicissitudes,
Insult, and want, and scorn, his hoary head,
Rather than knee the murderers of his son.
Through all his pilgrimage, thy noble sire
Watched his sad steps, and cheered him from despair.
At last, around his banners, from the North,
Mustering a scanty train, he vowed to die,
Or reave from Bolingbroke the blood-stained crown.
On Bramham-Moor, Bardolph partook his fate.—
Percy was yet a child; but having heard
This tale, with every circumstance of love
Shown to his grandsire by your noble father,
Loves, even as his own, your name and race.

Bard.
Doth he?—Heaven judge me as I love him too!

Per.
Presuming on that love, he bade me speak.—
In happier days, the name of Fitzhugh ranked
High 'mid the valiant who for Percy drew.—
But persecuted Mountfort, whose own eyes
Witnessed the downfall of his master's house,
Hunted, proscribed, an outlaw for his faith
And zeal untamable in Percy's cause,
Would spring, we knew, to vengeance.

Mount.
By the gods,
Though fourscore stiffening winters gripe my limbs,
And dim these eyeballs, with a cripple's crutch
I'd beard the tyrant!

Bard.
Persuasion it needs not to stir my heart.
Much have I wished me near the noble youth;
Daily and nightly I implore my Saint
To keep and counsel him. But for our babes,
I had not now been here,—had long ago
Wedded my own to his abandoned fortunes.
Say to my exiled Chieftain, Bardolph holds
Life but for him, and will his summons answer
As his dear father's voice spake from the ground.

Mount.
St. George and victory! the day is won.

Per.
The Percy shall requite thee, Bardolph.

Mount.
Now,
What says my son-in-law? what says Hugh Fitzhugh?

Fitz.
Commend me to the youth, and wish him well.

Mount.
Wish him!—But barren wishes, son?

Fitz.
Nor more,
Nor less, Sir.

Mount.
(stepping back.)
Fiends! is this your answer?

Fitz.
Yes, rash man.

Mount.
Hell sear thy tongue, then, runagate,
When thou claimest kindred next with Marmaduke!
By all my wrongs I swear to starve, rot, kneel
To Lancaster,—to Neville kneel,—ere owe
Shelter or succour to a recreant more.

Doug.
And so would I, by Jupiter!—Avaunt!

Fitz.
Stand off, young Brave! I'll teach you, else, to tremble!

Doug.
Teach Douglas—

Per.
Douglas! Mountfort! Peace, for Heaven's sake!

Doug.
(grasping Fitzhugh.)
Learn first, thou craven—

Per.
Hold! (Thrusts Douglas to the wall.)
What! are we ruffians?
A den of bandits?—Stir not, on thy life!—
Why, Mountfort, thou art rash as madness.—
Brave Fitzhugh, turn not—Shame! shame! outrage!
Turn not, indignant—Fie, my lord, O fie!
(To Mountfort.)
To mock your own white head!

Mount.
Look ye, (takes off his cap)
my nonpareil! my valiant wisher!
Here stands the noble Percy: this is he.
Wish for thyself! Beseech ye, wish!—What! dumb?

Per.
Be dumb thyself, or by my father's soul,
Age, name, and love, shall vanish on the word!

Peasants.
(who had crowded round Percy.)
Art thou, indeed, our Chief? Is Arthur, Percy?

Per.
The same, my friends—Thanks, for your steadfast love.

First Peas.
Kneel, ye unmannered boors.—
Dear, honored, noble master, may a poor
Unworthy vassal kiss thy hand?

Second Peas.
And I?

Third Peas.
And I?

Fourth Peas.
And I?

Per.
Remember, I have proved,
And love you all.—Stands Bardolph yet aloof?

Bard.
O Percy! Percy!—If this form be he
Clasped in my arms, what more can Heaven bestow?

Mount.
Be he? Look, Bardolph! look! Be he, forsooth!
Whose kingly front? whose falcon eye is that?

Per.
Come, Baron Fitzhugh, to my heart. Thy wish,
Thy friendly wish, I prize. Forget, my lord,
The hasty words of your impetuous father,
Who from aspersion would your honor guard
At his life's hazard.—Here, a comrade stands,
Whose hot pulse travels at a pace with Mountfort's:
Archibald Douglas, son to Scotland's earl.

Doug.
(wringing Bardolph's hand.)
Lord Bardolph, thine till death; and thine, old Chief.

Bard.
Thanks, noble Douglas!—But methinks I dream.

Per.
Long had I languished for my native land;
Burned from my father's battlements to rend
The hostile crest, and vindicate their fame;
Oft, round my bed their restless spirits stalked,
With looks indignant, pointing to their tombs
By foemen trampled. Plighting Heaven an oath
To rescue them, or be myself their tenant,
I hither came, to see what friends, what hopes,
Survived our fortunes. Hid beneath this vest,
With eyes observant I 've explored the land,
Tyring the temper of our ancient vassals,
And find our house, beyond my utmost hope,
Loved and remembered. Neville's yoke they loathe.
The sun-burned ancient darkens at his name,
Deep vengeance threatening when his injured lord
From Scottish hills descends to claim his birthright.
With blessings, prayers, and vows, am I invoked
As their deliverer.

Mount.
The meanest hind
Chained to the soil, would welcome death for Percy.

Per.
Fired by such zeal, I had a scheme devised
Would task their valor, had not happy chance
Opened a surer path to all my wishes.—
With you it rests to terminate our woes,
Chase these disastrous clouds, and give again
Our planet to her lustre. Fate has cast
Even at my feet my princely heritage.

Bard.
What means my lord?

Mount.
'T is true as Heaven! one grasp
Reclaims Northumberland.

Fitz.
(aside.)
Madness?

Bard.
If there be hope in arms, and Bardolph faint,
Let “Coward” be his epitaph.

Per.
How beats
Lord Fitzhugh's heart?

Fitz.
In tune with Bardolph's. But, with blindfold eyes,
To seal conspiracy, pass desperate pledge
With a mere stranger, sooth to say, whose name
Bore not its old repute, whose fortunes seemed
Given o'er to ruin, had not less been frenzy
Than risk, for nought, my life on raging seas,
Or, for the fallen, leap a precipice.
My heart was with you, Sir,—my sword shall be,
When reason's semblance guides the enterprise.
But, noble Percy, humbly let me ask,
What can two thousand vassals, toil-worn hinds,
To counsel, camps, and arms unused, against
The might of Neville, backed by England's King?

Per.
Your words seem wise, and show considerate thoughts.
Now lend, my friends, a heedful ear.

Mount.
Draw nearer.

Per.
King Henry is in yonder castle.

Fitz.
Sir!

Per.
The King:—this night arrived:—slightly attended.

Bard.
Ha!

Mount.
What think ye now?—The tyrant, Bardolph! Here!
Come like a victim to the sacrifice!

Per.
All that my restless heart has panted for;
Clung to, despairing, as affection clasps
The breathless clay; which might have wasted life
In hopeless chase, and left me, if my youth
'Scaped sword and dungeon, but an exile's grave,
Relenting Heaven, in pity offers me.
Yourselves shall judge.—In honor of the King,
The Earl, to-morrow, holds a mighty hunt,
And grants me leave, at night, to show a Masque.
Arms, and the keys, to that intent, are mine.
My lords, this cavern, seemingly barred up
By yonder rocks, issues beneath the castle;
Commanding by a range of vaults, unknown
To its new lord, the hall and posterns; scooped
For special purpose in my grandsire's wars.
Through this, what power we please, may be conveyed
Into the walls; environ them without,
And every gate, ward, avenue, is ours,
Even to the hall of state, where, high in pomp,
The King and nobles feast. The castle won,
Whose voice will dictate?—Will they for their lives
Cavil on nice conditions? call my lands
A hard exaction as a Monarch's ransom?

Mount.
Will they gainsay our daggers?

Fitz.
Troth, my lord,
What looked as to attempt the mid-day sun,
Appears an easy triumph.

Per.
Can we fail?—
The train will then be weary, flown with wine,
Unarmed, and unsuspecting.

Bard.
Death, or life,
I'll stake upon the cast!

Doug.
O, noble Bardolph!

Mount.
Speak, Fitzhugh, speak!

Fitz.
And I.

Per.
Then briefly, Sirs, how many trusty spears
Can ye lead up to-morrow night by curfew?

Bard.
(after a pause.)
My lord, five hundred.

Per.
What says gallant Fitzhugh?

Fitz.
(with hesitation.)
Three hundred spears, and crossbows, were the utmost.

Mount.
(aside to Fitzhugh.)
Five hundred, son, five hundred say: match him.

Fitz.
Impossible, my lord! On one day's notice?

Mount.
Call in the Devil!—Percy, I do pledge
Five hundred for my son and self: I'm known
To some brave hearts; I boast a little power;
I'll eke it, by my soul!

Per.
And bind me ever.

Bert.
My lord— (Draws Percy aside.)


Doug.
Old bird of flame,
Thou must fly north, and snuff our mountain air,
And soar with strong-winged Douglas.

Mount.
Mass, and will,
Young goshawk: score with Monmouth first.

Per.
My lords, let all come singly to this forest.
Come not in bands; the hunt will be abroad
Through all the Border. Charge, with strictest heed,
Each soldier,—mark me, Sirs,—to wear a bugle.
(To the Peasants.)
Friends, you possess my bosom thoughts. Demean
Yourselves like men. Assist your worthy lords
In calling in their vassals,—mates of trust:
Next week, perchance, the grandsire on his crutch,
Your wives and little ones, with garlands crowned,
Will join the feast at Percy's jubilee.

First Peas.
Let that day come,
We care not if our requiem 's next.

Per.
Now, gentle friends, farewell! Heaven be our shield!
Good night, brave-hearted Mountfort! Like an oak
By ages buffeted, thy hoary top
Still scorns the tempest.

Mount.
Time rolls backward, Percy!—
This joyful night, as in a wizard's glass,
Shows me myself when these white locks were raven,
These withered sinews like the Danite's nerve,
And hope rekindles me.

Bard.
My lord, farewell.

Per.
Bardolph and Fitzhugh, both farewell. Fail not.

Fitz.
No fear.

Peasants.
Good night, brave Percy.

Per.
Guard ye Heaven!

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A bedchamber. A lamp burning. Armour lying on the table and floor. Percy walking up and down the room.
Per.
O! for those vanished hours so much misprized!—
Strange! when the music of her tongue I heard,
Gazed on her face, basked in her smiles, my soul
Could pine for other good!—From some dim world,
I may look back with anguish to the days
When here, with her, in my paternal shades
I dwelt, and wish my heart had known her rest.—
I may have ta'en my last adieu.—Who knows?—
To leave her thus!—believing me a churl
Incapable of any touch— (Pauses, listening.)
—What strain?—
(Approaches the lattice.)
A light yet burning in her tower!—Ye Saints!—
Her voice and harp!—past midnight—Ha! could I not—
That same was once my mother's oratory—
I know the secret entrance.—Power of love!—

(After a moment's irresolution, snatches the lamp, and exit.)

SCENE III.

An oratory opening into Elinor's chamber. A missal spread upon the altar, before a crucifix: over it a large picture of the Virgin. Elinor kneeling, and singing to her harp.
El.
(As the sound of her harp ceases, the picture slides, discovering Percy, wrapped in a cloak, with a lamp. She starts.)

Per.
Fear not, lady; angel guardians
Surround by night the bower of Innocence.

(Springs down.)
El.
What apparition?—

Per.
(throwing off his cloak.)
Pardon, gentle lady!
Bold as may seem—

El.
Ha! do I wake?—What dost thou here, audacious?
At midnight!—Hence, rash youth! with speed, begone!
Hence! or I wake the house. How darest thou, slave,
Steal on the secrets of my worship?—Fly!
Thy very life may answer such an outrage.

Per.
Sweet lady, hear me.

El.
Quit this place.

Per.
One word—

El.
Heavens! is the Neville's daughter so abased
That grooms dispute her chamber?—Ho!

Per.
Nay then—
But, by my soul's eternal hope, I swear
In gratitude, in honor, but to say
Farewell, I came.

El.
How?

Per.
No matter:—when we meet again,—above,
Thou 'lt better know me. God be with you, lady.

(Takes his lamp, going.)
El.
Nay, now, I know not what thou meanest.

Per.
Sweet saint,
I would have told thee.

El.
Goest thou from our service?

Per.
Thus to interpret!—Sooner would I dare
Insult a glowing Cherub, perish in his glance,
Than sully, but in thought, thy purity.

El.
If I have done injustice—

Per.
Speak; I pause.

El.
What canst thou have to say?

Per.
Thanks, thanks unnumbered,
Blessings unspeakable for all thy favors.
Shrined here,—while life beats,—worshipped, they will dwell,
Although thy beauty I behold no more.

El.
No more!

Per.
My heart is full,—yet scarce—
Thou know'st, when I became an inmate here,
I called myself an orphan; desolate;
In the wide earth alone. So far, thou heard'st
A mournful truth; yet I deceived you.

El.
Ha!
Deceived us, Arthur?

Per.
Arthur 's not my name:
Nor am I what I seem.

El.
Shield us! Who art thou?

Per.
Though in your halls a vassal, Arthur boasts
Blood older than these towers, or any oak
Leafless with age on yonder hoary hills.
Thou seest me fallen; but my Fathers stood
Their country's bulwark. Kings have quaked to hear
The rumors of their march: their rushing host
This sea-throned Isle has to her centre shook.

El.
What next, I prithee?

Per.
Alas!
What shall I say then? What will vouch my truth?—
Durst I my name reveal—

El.
O, Sir, forbear:
A name so potent might unseat our towers.

Per.
Hast thou, before, found cause my faith to question?
Ever, before this night?—In justice—

El.
No.

Per.
Believest thou, in this solemn parting hour,
Lips that dare imprecate Heaven's wrath on falsehood,
Avenging thunders, hell, and penal judgment,
My lips,—can frame a lie? Believest thou this?

El.
I would not—cannot think it; but this tale—

Per.
A moment, lady, counsel with your heart.—
Have you not something seen, or fancied, in me,
That seemed ill coupled with this outward baseness?
Arguing a mind above the hireling's pitch,
A nobler nature,—as in some mewed eagle
That creeps, degraded, round a peasant's croft,
Proving the native of the princely eyry?

El.
Suppose I have.

Per.
Recall the time
When first thou saw'st my face;—the tale I told.
Glance back to many a trivial circumstance
That still belied me; startled thee, so oft,
And made thee gaze with wildered eyes. O, think,
Think of that night when righteous Providence
Rescued your honor:—when the moon beheld
Your deathlike face, and loose locks on my breast;—
When my roused spirit spoke,—all else forgot,—
High as her bent, and tender as the hour!
Thou own'st, feel'st truth in this. Mark! do I, now,
Fashion my speech in phrase of servitude?
Would the carle's tuneless tongue prove false the boast
That courts have been my home; my walk with princes;
My toil the Antique Sages' lore; my sport,
Penning the roundelay for ladies' lyres,
Who paid me with the radiance of their eyes?

El.
Pray leave me.

Per.
One brief moment ere we part.—
I go—I go—where Destiny conducts me:—
To be myself;—or cast disguise, and life,
Together, off. In rank thine equal, peer
To England's proudest, powerful as thy sire,
And crowned with old hereditary laurels,
Arthur returns, or never more. Ah! say,
If Fate should smile,—wilt thou smile too?—canst thou,
O, canst thou bid me rise—to life, to love,
To paradise with thee?

El.
My heart,—I mean,—
I'm giddy: all my senses seem bewildered.

Per.
Ah! may I construe silence?—Tongues
More used to ecstasy might talk of mine!

El.
But whither goest thou?—on what quest?

Per.
I cannot answer thee.

El.
But is there danger?

Per.
Question me not, for chains are on my tongue.

El.
O! choose some more propitious season.

Per.
No;
One mystic hour the characters of fate
Mark for the enterprise, that must not pass me.

El.
What dreadful meaning lurks beneath your words?
I fear—I fear—

Per.
For Arthur?

El.
Methinks I dream; so strange, so wildering seems
This tale. When ends the mystery? saidst thou when?

Per.
My fortunes touch upon a speedy issue.
Nor had thy sympathy been vainly waked,
Could I have torn my trembling heart away,
That clung and would not leave thee,—leave thee here,
Unconscious of my love,—a rival's prize,—
Never to be remembered more; or deemed
Senseless of virtues dearer to my soul
Than breath can utter. Falling, I could now
Greet death with smiles: the rapturous thought thou know'st
My heart's dear hope, and wilt remember me,
Brightens the dark hour like a glimpse of Eden.—
Farewell!—the matin star grows dim.—O, heed!
If this be not a dream of ecstasy,
A moment comes, is now upon the wing,
When, unexpected, I may rise to claim—
To sue—Ah! then shrink not to confess me!—

(Presses her hand hastily to his lips; ascends. The picture closes after him.)
El.
(in a wild tone.)
He 's gone!—to bleed! to perish!—Woe is me!
What will become of me—

Enter Florence, from the bedchamber, in her night mantle, and clasps Elinor in her arms.
Flor.
Nay, start not, love;
Waked by your voices, breathless I o'erheard
Your wondrous interview. Sure he is noble,
And merits worth like thine.

El.
(hiding her face in Florence's bosom.)
But he is gone!—
O Florence, Florence!—gone for ever,—O!
That he should perish,—just upon the verge
Of all his hopes!

Flor.
Not so;—he spake not so despairing. Hope,
Methought, gave lively courage to his accents.

El.
O, dost thou think— (Stops abruptly.)


Flor.
Indeed I do,—I'm sure
His voice, his face, his mien, his modesty,
His valor, every graceful word and act
Proclaim him noble.

El.
Ah! whoe'er he be,
In such an issue,—had he asked it of me,—
I would have strengthened him from Neville's power.
Now, friendless, he is gone, and never more
Shall I behold him.

Flor.
Dear Elinor, you will,—
But hark!—hark! as I live, the morning cock!
Come in;—come,—on our pillows we will talk it.

El.
First let me pray.

Flor.
Not now:—to-morrow.

El.
Oh!
I hear sweet sounds.

Flor.
Nay, nay,—repose is needful.

(Leads her in.)

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The cavern: discovering in rear a long arched passage, filled with armed men, disguised as foresters, friars, &c. Mountfort, Bertram, and Bardolph, in armour, with torches in their hands, marshalling the throng. They at last come forward.
Mount.
A goodly brotherhood, friend Bertram!
I ne'er saw better faces cowled: I spy
Devotion in them.

Bard.
Douglas! cap-à-pie!

Enter Douglas.
Doug.
Now, by my hand, old Mountfort, that white beard
Becomes a breastplate.

Bert.
Say, where tarries Percy?

Doug.
Yet in the hall.

Mount.
How goes the revel?

Doug.
High:
They feast like gods: the Norman beakers clang,
And foam, as for another kingdom won.
Harps, horns, recorders, timbrels, trumpets, drums,
Swell like the sea-stave: turret, keep, and tower
Return a groan like ordnance from the hills.

Mount.
Roar! roar! till wassail from the gates send forth
A voice like Babylon! But, sterner sounds
Those towers may echo ere the dawn of day.

Bert.
All things seemed hush without the walls?

Doug.
As death.
I met no living thing, nor heard a sound.

Enter a Sentinel.
Sent.
My lords, two stag-hounds just now crossed my watch.

Bert.
Ha! stragglers of the chase are out.
Stand close.

Doug.
Hush!

(Springs to the mouth of the cavern.)
Bard.
What 's there?

Bert.
Hold, Sirs; keep in.

Mount.
What saw he?

Doug.
(dragging in Rook.)
Confront the light.—Hey! Chevalier of Steeds!—
Comest thou to taste my whip again?

Mount.
Sirrah,
What brought thee here?

Rook.
Sirrah! my legs.

Mount.
Snap'st, dog?
Look that they bear thee stiffly then.

(Strikes him.)
Rook.
Dotard,
I'll pluck thy beard! I know thee.

Mount.
Dost thou, owl?
Then this,—and this,—for old acquaintance' sake.

(Beats him with his gauntlet.)
Enter Second Sentinel.
Second Sent.
Voices are in the wood, my lords, that draw
Apace this way.

Doug.
Death! (Unsheaths his sword in alarm.)


Bert.
Quick! shroud those torches.

Bard.
Now villain, speak not, as thou lovest thy life.

Mount.
(Snatching out his dagger, and half throttling Rook.)
Stand where thou art,—dumb,—motionless,—or else
By God, and by the Sangreal, this throat
Never gasps more!

(Voices heard without; and the trampling of horses passing by. The sounds grow fainter; and, by degrees, die away. After an interval of silence, Bertram and Douglas cautiously approach the cavern's mouth.)
Bard.
Our hold is safe.

Mount.
What! Douglas,—up the wind?

(Bardolph and Mountfort follow the other two; and all stand listening. Rook steals, unperceived, behind a dark angle of the wall.)
Bert.
That shrillest voice was Neville's page.

Doug.
Their course
Is toward the castle. Yet I hear the hoof-tramp.

Bert.
Benighted huntsmen, not a doubt.

Doug.
Great Jove!
They must have passed within a lance's length.

Mount.
Hark!
A shout.—

Bert.
Their salutation at the gate:
And now athwart the barbacan they clatter.

Doug.
(turning.)
Ha! where 's that villain?

Bert.
Heavens!

Mount.
Incarnate fiend!
One instant since he stood behind me.

Doug.
Watch there—
He could not pass,—he lurks in some dark nook—

(Rook darts from the cavern.)
Mount.
(clapping his hands.)
Escaped, by Heaven!

Bert.
And Percy 's lost!

(Douglas snatches a cross-bow from one of the Sentinels and rushes out, followed by Bardolph.)
Mount.
My life upon that bolt!—
Now Douglas!—Bardolph!—now like greyhounds strain!

Bert.
We 're lost,—'t is dark,—he cannot,—all is lost!

Mount.
(striding up and down, greatly agitated.)
Who says we 're lost?—O, Douglas! now outstrip
Your mountain whirlwinds,—Lost, my lord?—No—no—
(Aside, in a sudden and eager whisper.)
But if—were 't best? Ha?—swoop upon them, ere
He warn them?

Bert.
What?

Mount.
Peace! Hark!—He cannot 'scape!—
Twang, noble Scot!—O, wet the feather, Douglas!—

First Sent.
My lords, they come.

Re-enter Douglas and Bardolph bearing in Rook, wounded with an arrow.
Mount.
Lo!—Lo!—I knew it!—Heaven!
I saw!—Could Douglas fail in such a cast?

Bert.
O, Douglas, thou hast saved us! twice hast saved us!

Doug.
What mean these chances, friends, that tread so fast
On one another's heels?

Bert.
Omens, I fear,
Of fatal augury.

Mount.
Of victory!—of vengeance!—
Doth not the blood of yonder miscreant—

Enter Percy.
Doug.
Tush!
Help him aside.—How speeds it in the hall?

Per.
As yet, our fortune shines in the ascendant.
Henry is high in glee; Neville well pleased;
His haughty Lady smiles, and sends such cups
Of potent Rhenish round as Mars would reel with.—
Are all the forces here?

Bard.
All come, all harboured.

Per.
Well: the hour draws nigh. Where 's Fitzhugh?

Mount.
Sick,
Sick, Percy! taken last night grievously!
O, look not in my face.—Five hundred spears
Came at my heels.

Per.
(pressing his hand.)
Heroic Chief! What cause
Couldst thou not animate!—The order, friends,
You fully know. Lord Mountfort will control
This post, the vaults, and subterranean passes?
Bardolph invest the walls; Bertram defend
The armory. My side the Douglas guards.
Grave on your hearts the iterated charge,
No sword be sheathless, nor an arrow poised,
Till I command. Who stirs ere that for blood,
Is Percy's foe. The King will quickly rise:
Then comes the Masque; and when the castle bell
Strikes, to your posts. To questions, answer, Masquers.
(To Douglas.)
A word with thee.

(They retire down the cavern.)
Bert.
O, that the die were cast!

Bard.
You seem much downcast, Bertram.

Bert.
I have seen times
Ere now, when darkness black as Erebus
Shut in my soul, and this world seemed a lair
For beasts to howl in; but, as grace I hope,
I never keener anguish felt than now:
Scarce, when I plucked my blasting dagger forth,
And found it reeking with a brother's blood.—
Like one commissioned from the skies to heal me,
He came, a ministering Angel, to my cell.
Wisdom, and peace, as honey, from his lips,
Assuaging fell. He reasoned, comforted,
Convinced me—Oh! you know not half his worth,
Not half the beauties of his generous heart.
Now, should he fall,—should savage Henry crop
This flower of nature—

Mount.
Tut, no fear of that.

Bert.
How bore the King, Sir, when devouring hosts
Tumbled, like billows, round him; birds of death
Screaming above his head?—At evening's close,
His bandogs gorged the flesh of Princes; Knights,
And Nobles lay, as blasted locusts heap
The desert sands. Will he tamely submit?
He slur the brightness of his vaunted glory
By lightly yielding to our threats?

Mount.
Wait till we ask it!—Fight it to the death!
The boon we crave!—Forbid it, Vengeance! Yield?
First let him taste us; grapple once with men,
Not dainty sucklings of the milk of France.

Bert.
Your passion leads astray. Suppose him slain:
Where are we then?

Mount.
Where are we? Lords of England.

Bert.
Would Bedford, Clarence, Glo'ster, bow to that?

Mount.
Think'st thou we wait their leave?

Bert.
Your scope, my lord,
I know not. If at civil bloodshed—

Mount.
Nay, love not that; though I should like to pay
Some rubs and knocks that I and others took
Of upstarts.

Percy and Douglas return.
Per.
Nothing, my friends, have I to add.
To say,—Be resolute; be cool;—were breath
Spent idly, Mark! the bell. Adieu!

Mount.
Percy and Esperance! Sound, trumpets! Charge
For old Northumberland!

Bert.
Farewell! farewell!

Per.
Cheer up, kind Bertram: faint not at the door.
Remember Percy's motto—

Mount.
(in a low voice to Douglas.)
Haggard,
Look to the stag of ten!

Per.
No further talk: now to your several charges.

(Exeunt Percy and Douglas: the rest move down the cavern.)

SCENE II.

The Castle hall. Lady Westmoreland, Elinor, and Florence, seated under a canopy: King Henry, and Nobles, in their hunting dresses, gathered round them in conversation: the Royal retinue, and retainers of the Castle, scattered in groups about the hall, while the tables are drawn.
K. Hen.
I flatter not. Now, what says noble Warwick?

War.
As much, my liege: the hunt was bravely pushed.

K. Hen.
Ay, by my knighthood, thrice upon the course
I thought to ask what mettled gallant led it.

War.
I cannot say, my liege: an active huntsman.

K. Hen.
Lady! good Aunt! Or, Cousin, thou canst tell.—
What stripling Centaur leads your father's hunt?

El.
My liege,—I—know not—

K. Hen.
Blush not, pretty playfere:
I broke not truce. Those timorous ears are pricked
At every fancy.

Flor.
Simple girl!—
His name is Arthur, gracious liege.

K. Hen.
Well, mistress,
What more? what parentage? whence and who is he?

Lady West.
(turning quickly.)
A beggar-boy, we took for charity.

War.
Here comes my brother.

K. Hen.
Uncle Westmoreland,
What daring youth led forth the train to-day?

West.
You task me, liege, above my knowledge.

K. Hen.
Patience!

West.
Which simply ends in this, his name is Arthur.
Three months ago, I found him, coarsely clad,
Driven in one blustering night to 'scape a storm.
Silent he seemed, and sad of heart; yet spake
With such mild grace, the less he said, the more
Curious I grew to hear. His friends were dead;
(For, once, he said, he had them kind, and able;)
His patrimony lost; and he an exile.
Won by a gentle word or two, he begged,
Having no home, a place among my huntsmen:
A boon right gladly granted; since repaid
By deeds of nearest service to our house.

K. Hen.
He has endowments: you should cherish him.
Such feats of horsemanship I scarce have seen.

West.
Liege, every free and high-born courtly grace
Prized by the noblest nursed in Princes' halls,
Learning, arms, courtesy, and wit, appear
Native in him as doth his horsemanship.

K. Hen.
Why, Uncle, these are marvels. Call him in.

West.
He plainly shuns the light; but I have worn
An eye of note upon him, and, of late,
Begin to think him far above his seeming.

K. Hen.
Cite him. How long his service here?

(A flourish of music.)
Seneschal.
(loudly, from the lower part of the hall.)
The Masque!

West.
First, view a little entertainment, liege,
Devised and led by him.

Seneschal.
Lords, clear the hall.

West.
My lords, and gentlemen, please you be seated.

(The crowd retires, leaving the area of the hall vacant.)
(A shrill fanfare from the minstrels ushers in a phalanx of Spearmen. They approach, in close array, the group round Lady Westmoreland and the King; halt, and open into a crescent, discovering in the midst Percy and Douglas in splendid armour. An ivory horn suspended by Percy's side, and the armorial bearings of his house blazoned on his shield. He lifts his beaver, advances, and speaks.)
Per.
To show our humble pageant, dreaded Liege,
Fair Ladies, Peers, and Knights, behold us come.—
Fearful a tale artless and rude as ours
May prove, from lips unskilled in buskined pomp,
But wearisome to Courtiers; yet, kind Sirs,
We'll show you warriors' pastime, when the King,
Girt with his Barons, rises. Rise ye must;
All,—Knight and Noble,—to a doubtful game!
For honor, life, we play, and mean, my lords,
To quit us valiantly.

West.
(aside.)
Why, who are these?

Per.
I cannot practise, for your sport, the Antic.
Too long, too long a Masquer, Arthur comes,
Stripped of disguise, this night, to execute
His fathers' testament;—whose blood lies spilt;
Whose murmurs from the tomb are in his ears;
Whose injuries are treasured in a scroll
Steeped with a mother's and an orphan's tears.
O'er that dark record has my spirit groaned,
Since dawning reason, in unuttered anguish.
When others danced, struck the glad wire, or caught
The thrilling murmurs of loved lips, I roamed
Where the hill-foxes howl, and eagles cry,
Brooding o'er wrongs that haunted me for vengeance.

K. Hen.
What tune may this be, Uncle?

West.
Faith, my lord—

Per.
For I have been an outcast from my cradle;
Poor, and in exile, while an alien called
My birthright, home. Halls founded by my sires
Have blazed and rudely rung with stranger triumphs;
Their honorable name rivals have stained;
Trampled their laurels and profaned their bones;
Hence have I labored; watched while others slept;
Known not the spring of life, nor ever plucked
One vernal blossom in the day of youth.
The harvest of my toils, this night, I reap;
For death, this night, or better life awaits me.
Before my lord the King I stand, and claim
Northumberland, my just inheritance,
As Henry Percy, son and heir of Hotspur.

(All start.)
West.
Percy!—Hotspur!—

K. Hen.
(to Westmoreland.)
What say'st thou now?

West.
Impossible! impossible! great Heaven!
It cannot be.

Lady West.
'T is but in sport, my lords,
'T is but the play.

West.
What means this, boy?—But sport?—
Speak, or by Heaven—

Per.
Peruse yon steely circle.—
Do those dark faces seem familiar?

West.
Ha!

Per.
Those are the warriors of the Bloody Heart,
And this the son of Douglas.

West.
(starting back.)
Douglas!—No;
This cannot be.

Doug.
(raising his beaver sternly.)
Look!

West.
What! ho! to arms!
Treason! to arms!

Knights.
(in different parts of the hall.)
Arms!—Hark you?—Sirs, they cry to arms.

Seneschal.
(hastily approaching.)
What means that shout?

West.
(loudly.)
Treason! to arms! Ho! Treason!

(A confused multitude of voices repeat the cry, and knights rush to the door, but are driven in. Percy and Douglas, meanwhile, lean in silence on their swords. The pibroch is sounded.)
Seneschal.
(returning.)
The pass is guarded.

West.
(to King Henry.)
Follow me.
(Hurries to a postern near the seat of Lady Westmoreland, which he throws open.)
Descend, my liege.

Voices
within.
Stand back! Ho! Esperance!

K. Hen.
Ha! hold, my lord.

West.
O, treachery! O, villain!

(An armed man appears upon the steps of the passage, and closes the postern.)
Per.
Thou find'st us provident.

West.
Accursed traitor!

(Rushes at Percy with his dagger, but meets the levelled lances of the spearmen.)
Per.
Tempt not your fate.—Beware, Lord Westmoreland!

West.
Slave! hypocrite! (Striking his head.)
Fool! fool! most blind.

K. Hen.
Cousin of Westmoreland, stand here awhile.
(Advances a few steps; waves his hand to silence the tumult; when all is hushed, speaks.)
My lords, and gentlemen, an unknown youth,
A vassal in my uncle's hunting train,
The selfsame wight who led our dogs to-day,
Now boldly enters to the presence, backed
By foreign arms, and challenges a right
Conferred by our most gracious father's will
On valiant Westmoreland, for deeds of love
Rendered our house when faction shook the throne.
He claims Northumberland; in right of blood
Drawn from rebellious Percy. Well you know
That name was blotted from the roll of Peers
When old Northumberland, from faith scarce pledged,
And pardon fell, lending his reverend locks
Anew to traitors.—Hollow title this!
But where the vouchers even for this? His name,
He says, is Percy. Sirs, must we believe?
Give me a sword,—my lord of Warwick, thine.—
Now, sirrah, prove thy vaunt here on the King.
Stand forth, if kin to Hotspur. He had charged
Through hosts Infernal to the gates of Hell,
Ere Man or Demon twice braved him to combat.
Leave, if thou darest, the covert of those spears.
Thus bucklered with my mantle, I defy thee
Blazing in Percy's arms.

Per.
That Percy's spirit lives, my lord,
A burning, proudly-swelling witness tells me.
But blood I seek not. Justice—

K. Hen.
Craven, peace!
When Hotspur spoke, his trumpet of alarum,
Fire-snorting steed, and shout of onset answered.
His thundering descant was on foemen's crests!
What lithe-tongued Insolent is this who claims
A hero for his sire? Away! away!

Doug.
Endure these taunting tongues no longer, Percy:
Let 's prove ourselves as they would have us.

Per.
No,—
Douglas,—I charge thee on thine oath—

K. Hen.
What! dost thou think to daunt us, boy? In arms
To parley with the King? I thought, by Heaven,
I had some small repute; I thought the world,
By this time, knew me.—Bare your weapons, lords.

Flor.
O, Heaven!

El.
Ah! mother! mother!

Lady West.
Peace; be still.

West.
They rue this gambol. Marked you, liege, the flash
Of swords unsheathing?

Per.
Westmoreland, beware!
Under these walls a vengeful Spirit wakes
More terrible than glared on Brutus. Harm
The life he watches, and to-morrow's dawn
Finds thee, thy King, this mingled throng, these towers
Founded as cliffs, a blasted, smouldering heap
Of blood and ashes.

West.
Babbler, peace! My lord,
Now shall we charge?

Per.
Stay, madman, but a breath
Upon this bugle.

(Sounds his horn. Mountfort and his party answer, from under the walls, with a terrific blast, that rolls in hollow echoes through the abysses of the Castle, and dies away like distant thunder.)
West.
Gods!

Per.
Again, my lord.

(Sounds; and is answered by Bertram from the armory above; a third time, by Bardolph from the four corners of the Castle. A pause of astonishment and silence.)
West.
Is hell disgorged around us?

Per.
A thousand horns have answered at my call,
A thousand spears are brandished for the charge,
And never did a thousand bolder hearts
Heave under breast-plate for the work of death.
(Takes off his helmet, and advances a little.)
Can any question who I am, my lords?—
If any; speak.—Could falsehood purchase aught
But shame, detection, and immediate fall?—
My lord and King, this youth, my friend, is Douglas;
Born of a race that nicely guards its honor.
That spotless honor lies this night at pawn,
Sworn to redeem my pledge.

(Unclasps his bugle-horn, and casts it round the neck of Douglas.)
Doug.
(waving his sword.)
Clansmen! retire.

(Their followers withdraw from the hall, leaving Percy and Douglas alone amidst the royal train.)
Per.
Scarce was I born, when our brave fathers burst
Their solemn league, indissoluble thought,
When Percy's hand gave Bolingbroke the crown.
I ask not whose the fault in that sad breach.
If Percy erred, has not the name yet made
Its expiation?—O! my lord, look back!
Let Shipton, Shrewsbury, and Bramham-Moor,
Let the dire pangs that broke my mother's heart,
Let my own banishment and blasted youth,
Declare.—I am the last of all the Percies:
A name coeval with the crown thou wearest,
And prized for ages as its brightest gem.
(Throws off his cuirass, and kneels; presenting his sword and breast to the King.)
Death—death—or my inheritance! Enact
Thy sovereign pleasure, for by Heaven I swear,
By Hotspur's ashes, by the faith of Douglas,
A hair of thine shall never fall for me.

(Exclamations from all sides. The circle presses towards the King, who remains awhile silent.)
K. Hen.
A desperate game,—but played out gallantly.—
Relenting thoughts and ancient amity
Had touched our bosom. Fraught with Percy's pardon,
Missives in Scotland bear our seal. His flight
Reserves it for his Monarch's lips. Arise,
As Percy, Lucy, Poinings, Fitz-Payne, Bryan,
Knight of the Garter, Earl Northumberland.—
Swear on this sword, faith, fealty, and allegiance,
By us, and by our throne, through life, to stand
A loyal, brave defender.

Per.
Sword—life—all
I dedicate—I consecrate—

K. Hen.
Earl Westmoreland, this act makes thee a Marquis.
Henceforth, be styled Marquis of Montacute.

West.
Meet thanks, puissant King.

Per.
My lord,—my Sovereign.
(Advances through the crowd to Elinor, who, pale and fainting, hangs upon Florence.)
Thy royal grace restores my lands, but ah!
Add this, (clasping her hand,)
or but a sepulchre thou givest!
Life were a curse,—a diadem but dust,
Bereft of this!

West.
(aside.)
Furies!

Per.
Plead, plead for me,
My gracious master!—Stern and frowning eyes
Are bent upon me;—fatal, else, this night
For ever to my hopes.

K. Hen.
What says my uncle?

West.
Death—
The grave—her bridegroom and her bed shall be,
Before that traitor. For my land I took,
Without a murmur, as a princely boon,
A barren title; but, by all the gods.
O'er my own daughter I am Heaven's vicegerent.

Lady West.
O, heed not, gracious Sovereign,—

K. Hen.
Have a care,
Or troth thou 'lt win a sterile seigniory!
For mark ye, my good lord, the King would call
That traitor—brother, friend, or son, more proudly,
Than any prince now crowned in Christendom.
(To Lady Westmoreland.)
Instruct me, lady.—Doth the maid incline?

West.
I swear, my lord,—

K. Hen.
(sternly.)
Peace, Sir!

(Approaches Elinor, who conceals her face on Florence's shoulder.)
Per.
(in a supplicating voice, still retaining her hand.)
Father, and Sovereign!—

K. Hen.
Fear nothing.—Elinor?

Flor.
She cannot speak:
The terrifying tumult yet distracts her.

K. Hen.
(to Percy.)
Forbear:—I see:—no further press to night.
(Takes Elinor's hand.)
Come, pretty throstle, hie thee to thy nest.
A bustling day and night we've had of it,
And many cares await thee on the morrow.
Let Henry, like a good physician, now
Bless, and dismiss thee gravely to repose.
But, like a May-Queen, ere the earliest beam
Call the young eaglets from their cloud-built bowers,
Up, and play hostess with a busy grace.
Good Angels guard thee!—Lady Florence.

(Gives Elinor's hand to Florence.)
(Percy whispers Douglas, who goes out.)
Per.
Did I not fear to seem presumptuous, liege,
Once more on bended knees, I'd play the suppliant,
For one whose youth in warlike toils was spent
To rear the fabric of my grandsire's fame;
Whelmed in whose fall, he since has worn away
The winter of his age in penury.
Foes have miscalled his errors: faults of zeal
Too warm for us, not hatred of thy house.
Re-enter Douglas, followed by Mountfort.)
This ancient man—I pray your Majesty
Repeal the sentence of his banishment.

K. Hen.
Why kneels he not to ask it?—Who is this?

Mount.
Guy Marmaduke de Mountfort.

Per.
Gracious liege,—

K. Hen.
Ha! doth that hoary Rebel live?

Mount.
Mayhap, now—

Per.
Mountfort, Mountfort, pause—Remember me!

Mount.
My joints are stiff, great King.

K. Hen.
Presumptuous slave—

Mount.
But, Sir, (kneels,)
I crave oblivion of the past.

K. Hen.
I know thy stubborn nature. Greybeard, hence!
For Percy's sake, and only for his sake,
Take with thee pardon.

Doug.
Come.

(Mountfort rises haughtily, and stalks out with Douglas, muttering.)
Per.
O! for a tongue!—'t is here, 't is here full fraught!
But my dull lips are bankrupt.

K. Hen.
Noble youth,
Rough signs are rising: in the Gallic field
Thou shalt have leading, and a day to thank me.
Dismiss your friends: give audience here to-morrow.—
Now, gentlemen, good night. Look to the gates.
Disperse. Another day we pass at Warkworth.