University of Virginia Library

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.