University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A Wood on the Banks of Cluden.
Enter Adelaide.
Adel.
Aye, she may sleep, whose loss is but a kingdom.
She may be yet restored—The dead to life
Return not.—Aye, sleep on, poor Queen, be happy
A little while. She smiled, but soon a tear
Her close-shut eyelash filled; and then again
She smiled, but 'twas more faintly than before.
I ne'er shall smile again, even in a dream.
O Douglas! Douglas! hadst thou not been slain,
Thou wouldst ere now have been with us.
Thou'rt dead—I thought I could discern
In Hamilton's close visage signs of joy;
He knows, perhaps, thou'rt numbered with the dead;
And yet, how should he?
But Douglas, know, thy spirit ne'er shall see
My love for thee to Hamilton transferred;
No, if thou'rt dead, I'll even break the bonds
Of sacred friendship; I'll forsake the Queen,
Fly to thy grave, and make thy turf my couch.
Why did I seem to favour him I loved not,
Lord Hamilton, from whom my heart was far?
Why did not Douglas see 'twas him I loved?
The thought of it had been a comfort to him,
When on the corse-strewed field he took
His last look of the hill on which he left me.
Oh me! had he but known how well I loved him,
He would have been more careful of his life.
O I have murdered him! He rushed on Death,
Driven by Despair.
Hadst thou but known how open was my ear
To listen to the faintest prayer of love
Urged by thy lips; how open were these arms
To clasp thee to this breast; how my heart leaped
With ardent hope one day to feel thine beat
With mutual throb!—May be he yet does live.
O, if he lives, feigning henceforth begone.
Perhaps he feigns, and I am but the step—
What if he loves the Queen—
And sometimes I have thought her Highness' voice
Was softer toned to him than other men.

Enter Douglas, and kneels.
Doug.
Feign! no!

Adel.
God!—.
[Falling, Douglas supports her.
Douglas! no! Douglas thou art not:
None of that name was ever treacherous found;
No Douglas ever would have lain in wait
To hear the ravings of a simple maid.

Doug.
Hear me, fair Adelaide! dear lady, hear me!
I did not lie in wait with the design
To hear your words. When I had hither come,
I knew not who inhabited this place,
Or friend or foe; wherefore I thought it best
To take the advantage of the woodland shelter,
Until I learned whether it would be safe
To come more near. Just then I heard a voice,
Of which, although I oft had heard the tones,
Its music was so new to me,
I thought it could not be but that I dreamed,
Till by degrees I waked indeed to bliss.

Adel.
But Douglas, Douglas, say you heard me not;
The Cluden's rushing roar was all so loud,
You could not hear.

Doug.
Some words indeed I lost:
But did you not my name reiterate
In such a voice as told you loved the sound?
Did you not say—Do not I see that blush?

Adel.
I'll hide it, Douglas, in thy arms.
But you are wounded?

Doug.
No, I escaped unhurt,
To be (how little did I think) most blest.

Adel.
And how did you escape—O Douglas, how?

Doug.
While thus you speak—I cannot think of what—
Of what is past; the present
Engrosses my whole soul.

Adel.
I love to hear.

Doug.
And do you truly wish to hear?

Adel.
I love to hear you speak about yourself.

Doug.
You saw the fight, and our discomfiture:
A ponderous mace soon brought me to the ground.

Adel.
Douglas, is this thy hand? Do I not dream?
Art thou indeed beside me?

Doug.
And when I from my stupor first awoke,
I saw around me dead and dying men.
The rout was o'er: The crowds, that on the hills
Had stood, were now upon the field, to search
For kinsmen or for friends. 'Twas a sad sight.
The grey-haired father helped to bear the son
Uncoffined to the grave, then laid the turf,
With purple-bosomed gowans blood-bedewed,
Above the mangled corpse. Amid this scene,
Some of the horsemen, tired from the pursuit,
Alighted, and were plied with flaggons, brought
By Glasgow's zealous burghers to the field.
My guards, (for I was 'mong the prisoners,)
One after other, fell asleep. One wretch
I never shall forget, whose ruffian head
Was bolstered on a dead man's gory breast.
I watched my time, rose, seized a straying horse:
None of my guards could mount to follow me.
Thus soon I was beyond the jangling sound
Of old St Kentigern's rejoicing peal.

Adel.
How did you trace us?

Doug.
The country was all out; the mountain cairns
Were clustered o'er; and at the cottage doors
The old men stood, and asked, with trembling voice,
How went the day.—Your course was not unmarked.
From place to place I questioned of your way:
At last I reached a cottage by a stream,
Where you had left the little glib-tongued page.
He pointed out a hill o'er which you passed:
I passed it too; descended to the vale;—
A dreadful night ensued; it stopped me not.
Although I judged that I had lost you quite,
I wandered on, half frantic with despair,
And cursed the flash that showed my horse the flood
Or wished-for precipice. But wherefore speak
Of dangers past? I am now here with you.
O happiness unhoped! No thought but joy
Can now pervade my breast. Come, speak to me.

Adel.
I am so happy, I can only hear.

Doug.
And I can only think of what I heard.
You said, I think, my turf should be your couch.

Adel.
Peace now, sweet Douglas, peace!

Doug.
And that—

Adel.
So soon to taunt at my too quick won love!

Doug.
And that your beating heart—

Adel.
You'll kill me.

Doug.
I love to raise your blush, to feel its glow
Spread o'er my raptured cheek.

Adel.
But two days gone you were a humble lover;
You trembled when you did but touch my glove.
But, Douglas, did you never guess 'twas you
I loved?

Doug.
But once, and only once, I dared to hope:
'Twas when you asked Argyle, before the fight,
That he would leave me with the Queen and you:
Your look, your voice, expressed solicitude
Less for yourself than me: Then first I hoped.
O it was sweet, though faint as the first breath
Of some lone spring-flower, first of all its tribe,
Which one would stoop to smell, yet think 'twere sin
To pull.

Adel.
How are you sure that I do love you?

Doug.
Think you I have forgot—
My turf should be your couch? No, Adelaide,
Your head shall rest, your eyes shall gently close
Upon this arm.

Adel.
Be sober-minded, as becomes our fortunes.

Doug.
Sobriety, demureness, melancholy,
I do henceforth renounce, abjure you all.
But tell me now, how wouldst thou have found out
Thy truelove's grave among the other heaps?

Adel.
Why, by this mark—No flower, save only one,
Called love lies bleeding, would have dared to grow—
But, O! 'tis barbarous in me to harbour
One cheerful thought, when Mary, Queen of Scots,
My friend, my dearest, earliest, bosom friend,
Lurks here a fugitive.

Doug.
My Adelaide, or mourning or rejoicing,
If 'tis with thee, 'tis sweet: I sympathise
With all thy sympathies: Besides, I love
The Queen, and I will serve her for thy sake,
And for her own. Is she within yon walls?

Adel.
She's there—she's gone to rest.

Doug.
What does she mean to do? where mean to go?

Adel.
To England straight.

Doug.
To England! Does she not know Elizabeth?

Adel.
I have in vain to endeavoured to dissuade her.

Doug.
And will you follow her, and pine your days,
Sunk in the dungeon of an English prison?

Adel.
Perhaps they'll feel compassion for a Queen,
A banished, helpless woman.

Doug.
No, no; fear, hatred, envy, all have steeled
The heart of England's Queen.

Adel.
Mary feels no mistrust.

Doug.
And will you follow her?

Adel.
I am resolved—she's bent to go.

Doug.
Because she vaults a precipice, are you
By any tie obliged to follow her?
You follow ruin; her you cannot save.

Adel.
I cannot save—but I can die with her.
But we must hence; she is, I fear, awake ere now.

Doug.
Lean on my arm—How very light you lean;
I fear you love me not.

Adel.
Love you not!

[Exeunt.