University of Virginia Library

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.