University of Virginia Library

EDWIN AND ANGELINA;

OR THE BANDITTI. AN OPERA, IN THREE ACTS.

To Reuben and Abigail Smith, Lichfield, Connecticut.

My dear Parents,

I can not resist the feelings which impel me to seize this first, and perhaps only, opportunity, of publicly testifying to you my respect and affection.—To you I am indebted, not merely for life, but for instruction and example happily calculated to explain, and impress me with a sense of, its value, and the inestimable purposes to which it may be applied. If, in my past or future conduct, any conformity to your desires and precepts appear; if, by any past or future exertions of mine, the welfare of mankind be in any degree promoted; to your cares, to your vigilance, to your virtues, will it be owing. It is, therefore, a simple act of justice, to make my first acknowledgments to you.—The panegyric of a poet, on his patron, may justly be suspected; but who will venture to question the sincerity of a son, who dedicates to his parents? —Nor need your modesty be wounded, by this public mark of my esteem. Should my conduct prove me worthy to claim relation to you, it will best pronounce your eulogy: my follies and my vices can only affect myself.— Accept then, my dear parents, this new proof of my sincere and filial love.

PREFACE.

An Author, of some reputation, has declared it as his opinion, that every Preface should be historical; and explain, not only the design of the work it precedes, but the circumstances and motives which led to its composition. It would ill become me to controvert a doctrine so convenient for my present purpose. Authors, it is true, are apt to measure the respect of others for their productions, by the estimation in which they are held by themselves. In this they may be, and often are, deceived. Yet, perhaps, they do not greatly err, when they suppose the history of their performances would not be unpleasing to those who have thought the performances themselves worthy of their attention. Such an error, at least, is venial; and will, I hope, be pardoned by those who may deem the succeeding statement unnecessary.

The principal scenes of the following Drama were composed in March, 1791; as an exercise, to beguile the weariness of a short period of involuntary leisure; and without any view to theatrical representation. From that time, till the month of October, 1793, they lay neglected, and almost forgotten. An accident then bringing them to recollection, several short scenes were added, agreeable to my original design; and the whole adapted to the Stage. The piece was presented to the then Managers of The Old American Company, for their acceptance, the December following; but the peculiar situation of the Theatre prevented any attention to this application, till June, 1794; when, on a change in the management, it

was accepted. An interval of six months, and a further acquaintance with the Stage, had convinced me that the Piece might undergo alterations, with advantage. These were undertaken, immediately: the loss of a comic character, which was now rejected, was supplied by two new scenes; additional songs were composed; and a Drama of two acts, in prose, was converted into the Opera, in its present form, in the course of the succeeding month. The inherent defects of the plan were such as could not be remedied, without bestowing on the subject a degree of attention incompatible with professional engagements; and which I, therefore, thought myself justified in withholding. But should this performance meet the same generous indulgence, in private, with which it was received, in public, I shall neither attempt to disarm Criticism of her severity, nor be ashamed of this feeble effort to contribute to the rational amusement of my fellow-citizens.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

• Sifrid, Mr. Hodgkinson.
• Edwin, Mr. Tyler.
• Ethelbert, Mr. Martin.
• Walter, Mr. Crosby.
• Edred, Mr. Munto.
• Hugo, Mr. Miller.
• Banditti.
• Angelina, Mrs. Hodgkinson.

The Scene lies in a Forest, on the northern extremity of England; and in a Cavern, and the entrance of a Hermitage, in the Forest.
Time, that of the Representation.

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.

Sifrid enters, as from an Engagement.
Sifrid.

SCENE II.

Enter, to Sifrid, Edred and Walter; as from pursuit.
Sifrid. Edred. Walter.
Sifrid
(As they enter.)
Welcome, brave chiefs! What? have you just return'd?
Say, did we not the conflict well sustain?
With valorous and gallant use of arms?

Edred.
O noble chief! most terrible this night!
Most fierce and deadly this our last encounter!
If we, in each attempt, so much must dare,
Hazard so much; nought but increase of strength,
Or the most desperate prowess, can uphold us.
Alarm already speaks of us.

Walter.
Be it so.
Strong in our nature, and inur'd to toil,
Of suffering patient, and resolv'd of mind,
We fight with double 'vantage: while the cause,—
Thrice damn'd oppression,—which the strength impairs
Of tyrant lordlings, gives us growing force.
Think you that men, men like themselves endow'd,
Or to themselves superior, long will bend,
To the low dust, the knee,—and stoop the head,
To slavish vassalage, and feudal pride?
And tremble in a mis-nam'd Noble's presence?
It cannot be: soon will they spurn the yoke,
Fly to our aid, and emulate our zeal.
If not,—we are ourselves,—we have a chief,—
And, Sifrid at our head, we dare oppose
The utmost front of tyrannous invasion.

Sifrid.
Thanks my friend!
Nor of your love, nor courage do I doubt:
But all must not be valorous as him
With whom we last contended. To my soul,
Us'd as I am to carnage and to blood,
The blow, which caus'd his death, gave many pangs.
When he beheld his dear companions slain,
With such a generous disregard of life
He fought; such brave indignancy, that he,
Of all the band of love, alone was left;
The single wearer of detested life;
I could have snatcht him to my soul, kist him,
And call'd him brother. But why lament him?
The world has cast me out, and let it perish!

Edred and Walter.
'Tis nobly spoken, Captain!

Walter.
Now, by my soul!
Did I not hope to spread devouring flame,
And shake, o'er peers, the desolating scourge;
Were not my earnest expectation, soon,
Death in the van, and ruin in the rear,
To raze the castle, mine the haughty towers,
And bow their sky-assailing heads to earth;
Existence were my scorn, my very hate,
The heavy vengeance of the angry heavens.

Sifrid.
O we have suffer'd foul, foul wrongs, my brother!
And, by the arm of God! we will have right,
Have sweet revenge!

Edred and Walter.
We will!

Sifrid.
But where are they,
Our bold compeers, and brothers, in this cause?
They were not wont, with such a leaden pace,
Behind their chief to loiter.

Edred.
Nor do they.
Fiercely they urge pursuit, if chance their steps
May yet o'ertake two recreant knaves, who fled,
Diverse, their braver friends most base forsaking.

Sifrid.
(Agitated, and to himself.)
And must there be more blood? and more of murder?

Edred.
Of blood?

Walter.
Of murder?—What means our Captain?

Sifrid.
(To himself.)
Almighty God! thou know'st 'twas not my fault—
That I was clean of hands, humane of heart—
Had rather died myself, than wrong'd a brother—

Walter.
Sifrid! Thou prat'st! By heaven! I am asham'd;
I blush for thee:—Think on thy duty chief!

Sifrid.
(Still inattentive.)
And him I thought my friend—whose soul I deem'd
The very fount whence truth and honor flow'd—
Demons of hell shall torture him for this!

Walter.
Why now I know thee: throw aside this gloom:
Observe how fair the day, and what its promise.

Edred.

SCENE III.

The Banditti shout, behind the Scenes, and show themselves, coming down the Avenues, bringing Hugo bound. Edred speaks as they enter.
Sifrid, Edred, Walter, Banditti, and Hugo.
Edred.
(By the Band.)
(Single Voice.)
(By the Band.)

All Banditti.
Long life to Sifrid!

Sifrid.
Welcome, thrice welcome,
Noble brothers! Now, by my head I swear,
It joys me much to see you thus return;
So full of life, of spirit, and of joy;
With numbers so entire; after such rude
And dangerous conflict. Triumph like to this
Our Band knew never,—victory so complete.

First Band.
Never, our Captain: some half-score except,
Who fell, sore prest by numbers, all return.

Sifrid.
'Tis well. But say, who is this captive slave?

First Band.
A trembling, coward knave; a very fool;
Whom we, deceiv'd, pursu'd; mistaking him
For one of nobler sort, and bolder heart,
Who somehow hath escap'd us.— (To Hugo.)
Sirrah, knave!
Hold up thy head.— (To Sifrid.)
So full is he of fear,
As yet, our Chief, we nought have learnt of him.

Sifrid.
(To Hugo.)
Captive! resume thy courage man! Look up!
There shall no harm be done thee—Fear'st thou yet?
Fellow, I swear to thee upon my sword,
Nay, by my head I swear, no mischievous,
Or deadly evil, shall be practis'd on thee.
Who? What thou art? Why here? Briefly unfold.

Hugo.
Dread Sir, have mercy on me! Nought am I,
But a poor slave, the follower of a lord,
Who, thro' this country, seeks a wandering maid;
For whose dear love all comfort he foregoes.
But yester-morn, he join'd him to a band,
Of noble knights, who sought the North of Wales;
For better safety, travelling together.
Alas! most sad mischance! none of that band,
My master's self except, now tastes of life.

Sifrid.
And he?

Hugo.
He, he alone, escap'd; urging
With wondrous speed, down the steep rock, his flight.

Sifrid.
Haste thee! disclose his name and quality.

Hugo.
'Mid England's Peers, the first;—Earl Ethelbert.

Sifrid.
Earl Ethelbert!—Thunder of Heaven!—What he?—
And roam these woods?—He here? within my power?
Why yes!—'tis well!—Now, by the arm of God!—
Vengeance!—revenge!—O! it is well!—'tis well!—

Edred.
(To Walter.)
What may this mean?

Walter.
(To Edred.)
Speak to him, Edred.

Edred.
(To Walter)
I will.
Captain! brother! friend! Sifrid!—What ails thee?
What dreadful passion agitates thy soul?

Sifrid.
Can he love?—Curses blast his love!—No—no—
I will have ample, will have sweet revenge!

Edred.
Sifrid!—He hears me not.—Sifrid, my friend!
Are we not sworn to thee?—Tell us thy wrong.

Sifrid.
Forgive me! O my good friends, forgive me!
I have done much injustice to your love,
Thus long to hide it from you; but will now—
(To the Band.)
Bear hence that slave, and see him close confin'd!
Then, my kind brothers, hasten to return;
For I would bare my heart, and nought conceal.

SCENE IV.

The Banditti return.
Sifrid. Edred. Walter. Banditti.
Sifrid.
(To those who enter.)
My brothers, it is well.—'Mid all my griefs,
Much does it joy my soul to find such friends.

First Bandit.
Captain, we love you.

Sifrid.
Nay, I know it well,
And now confide my story to your love.
—'Twas my most hapless lot my birth to gain
In the same city with Earl Ethelbert.
His sire, of the first rank, (as sure you know,)
Was wealthy; and reported generous.
I was of noble birth—but—poor.—While young,
Distinction proud was neither known nor felt:
Like passions, and resembling taste, were ours;
And in sweet friendship's bands united us.

Edred.
And what could interrupt?—He did not dare—

Sifrid.
Observe!—To manhood now arriv'd, his sire
To France dismist him, hoping his improvement.
—O fatal error! thus alone to trust,
Remote from friends, in life's most dangerous prime,
Gay, inconsiderate, and warm-glowing youth!—
—'Twas there his passions gain'd the mastery;
And he, profuse of wealth, unaw'd by rule,
And ignorant of restraint; flatter'd, carest,
His every humour studied; all his wants,
His passions all, supplied; grew vain, debauch'd,
Selfish and mercenary, false and cruel.

Edred.
Ha!—I see—The Earl—

Sifrid.
Give heed!—It so befel,
Himself far off, and rioting in joys,
His father died. Then, and not till then, he,
To receive, at once, estate and title,
From abroad, return'd.

Edred.
Splendidly, no doubt;
With dissolute and arrogant demeanor.

Sifrid.
Most true.—In place exalted, he no more
His former friend recogniz'd; now, indeed,
A simple husbandman, of manners plain.
Nor did neglect alone content his soul;
Which, first estrang'd, soon hurried on to hate,
And urg'd his hand to deeds of foul oppression.

Walter.
Most execrable villain!

Sifrid.
I was weak—

Walter.
Damn'd, damn'd villain!

Sifrid.
Nor yet was quite subdu'd,
Tho' deeply wounded, the true love I bore him.—
To struggle was but vain. His rank and power,
Banisht all hope, and might defy all strength.
Convinc'd, I left my farm; becoming tenant
To a neighbouring Lord. There I saw, and lov'd,
The daughter of a man like me.

Walter.
And Ethelbert—
The Earl—

Sifrid.
Wealth, alone, she had not.—I scorn'd it.—

Walter.
And she?—

Sifrid.
Had not heard of affectation:
I was belov'd.

Edred.
And you were happy?

Sifrid.
No!

Edred.
No?

Sifrid.
O, no! This lord, this Ethelbert, this Earl,
Must have—O foul appendage! shame to rank!
A Mistress.

Walter.
And he did strive—

Sifrid.
Strove to gain,
Betray,
Betray, corrupt, my Emma.

Walter.
Thief! villain!

Sifrid.
Submissive, tender, complaisant, and mild,
The importuning lover long he play'd:
But she was constant; and with armed force,
At night, he bore her captive to his tower.

Walter.
Ruffian accurst!

Sifrid.
Nor knew we where she was.
He tried all arts; but she, inflexible,
To faithlessness or shame, did death prefer.

All Band.
Noble woman!

Edred.
The Earl—

Sifrid.
With disappointment rais'd to frantic rage,
And furious that to him I caus'd denial;
He nor restrain'd, nor limited his hate.
Me, he procur'd imprison'd;—basely fed;—

Walter.
Tyrant!

Sifrid.
I had forgiven him,—but he held,
In vile captivity, my love; and hop'd,
By long attention, to o'ercome her hate.
A year past on; he caus'd report be spread,
Nay, told her, I was dead. And then— (wildly.)


Edred.
(Alarmed.)
Sifrid!

Sifrid.
Didst ever know what 'twas to love, good Edred?—
Alas! I've known.—Hast ever known the bliss
Of love return'd? And heard the gentle “Yes”
Fall from the trembling lip of blushful maid?—

Edred.
Captain!

Sifrid.
This have I known.—And when thou look'dst
To bear thy treasure home, did some one come,
One whom thou ne'er hadst wrong'd, good Edred? one
On whom thou'dst lavisht all thy friendly store?
Came such an one between thy love and thee?
Say, did his baleful arm sunder ye, then?
Doom her to death, and tell thee she was dead?
Knew'st thou such grief?—And yet—This I have known.— (A pause—Sifrid covers his eyes.)


Edred.
Captain, 'twere well,
Weak, and o'ercome with sorrow, as thou art,
To spare recital of what yet remains.

Sifrid.
No, my good Edred, no! I feel renew'd:—
I thank thee that thou'st rouz'd my memory:—
What follows is most brief.
When now some years had seen me thus imprison'd,
I forc'd escape; nor of my friends, nor kin,
I stay'd to learn; but fled. Our former Chief,
As well you know, receiv'd me. And hence my deeds,
My fortune, and my various life, you know.
But let them pass:—Ethelbert roams these woods,—
You are brave;—I am your leader;—and you—

Edred.
Have sworn to obey—

Sifrid.
And will support me?

All.
To death.

Sifrid.

ACT SECOND.

SCENE I.

A different part of the forest. Angelina enters, disguised in the habit of a Pilgrim.
Angelina.
With melancholy steps, hopeless I wander;
And no repose, no sheltering shed, discern.
—O Edwin! how has vanity repaid me!—
With wreck of happiness, and loss of peace.
Hated by thee, myself I hate, and find,
From solitude, whence ease I hop'd, new pains.—
—'Mid these wild woods, hostile, or full of fear,
Where'er I come, the beasts menacing howl,
Or fly, as from some desolating fiend.
The warblers cease their songs, or flit away,
And on the distant trees' soft-waving tops,
Insult my sorrows with their merriest notes.
The forest green, and every budding plant,
Flowers, and the springing blade, and mantling vine.
All the full blessing of the spring enjoy;
And to my soul new melancholy add.—
—My tears incessant flow!—Alas! how sad,
How desolate is life; when but to think
On those whom most we love, afflicts us most.
The soft, and gently-pleasing woe,
Which two fond hearts, divided, know,
The soul with sweetest suffering moves;
But O! when guilt with absence joins,
Grief it to agony refines,
And fires to rage the breast that loves.

[She goes out.

SCENE II.

Ethelbert enters from the opposite side.
Ethelbert.
[He goes out.

SCENE III.

Angelina returns.
Angelina.
Fainting, enfeebled, in a ceaseless round,
I wander still. Each opening lures my steps
To some contiguous path; and that, alas!
With wily bend, conducts to whence I mov'd.
Fatigue and grief o'erpower and weigh me down.
(A pause, she leans against the side scene.)
—Sweet are the days of youth, when innocence.
Lives in the breast, and heightens every charm.
But ah! with years' increase, joy flies afar;
Like the young bird, who leaves his native clime,
When summer fails; but not like him returns.

SCENE IV.

Ethelbert enters, from the opposite side, without observing, and unobserved by, Angelina.
Angelina. Ethelbert.
Ethelbert.
(To himself.)
Whence is that voice so sweetly melancholy?
Do the celestial denizens of air
Visit this forest? Or is all around,
As sure to me beseems, enchantment strange?

Angelina.
(Seeing him.)
Heavens! it is Ethelbert!

Ethelbert.
Which way soe'er
My footsteps stray, still the same spot appears,
Unbidden, and restrains my further course.
And when reflection tells me I am here,
And wherefore here; and when it all reviews,
Which here hath past; I startle at myself;
And question hold if it be truth.
(Observing Angelina.)
Pilgrim!
I pr'ythee stay.—Nay,—whither dost thou fly?
I am no robber that would do thee harm;
But a most hapless man, here lost, and here
Enforc'd to wander.—Nay, do not leave me!
(Catching hold of her garment.)
Leave me not here alone, unhelpt to perish!
Silent!—still silent!— (Discovering who it is.)

Angelina! Heaven!

Angelina.
(Aside.)
Lost! lost, forever!

Ethelbert.
And is it thee? Indeed? And have I found thee?
O fate! I thank thee! She is found! is safe!
Speak to me, Angelina! art thou well?
Uninjur'd? Safe? Ah! how hast thou escap'd
The numerous perils which beset thee round?
How have thy delicate and tender limbs
Sustain'd the fierce extremes of temperature?
The sickly mists of day, and dews of night?
—Speak, O speak to me, my Angelina!
—And is it possible, that while the tears,
Of transport, for thy safety, bathe my cheeks;
O, is it possible! that thou with such
Cold, cold demeanor, can'st receive me?

Angelina.
Ethelbert! beware!
Withhold me not; nor follow thou my steps.
Now thou dost know what most I wisht conceal'd,
Let it content thee; and do thou release me.

Ethelbert.
Release thee?—Astonishment! Impossible!
Hast thou not lost thy way? deceiv'd, perchance,
By the wild beauty of some favorite walk,
Skirting thy lov'd paternal towers, 'till Eve
O'er thee, unconscious, cast her starless shade;
And conjur'd up some demon, whose false lamp,
With devious glare, betray'd thee 'mid these horrors
Have I not sought, and found thee? And shall not
My hand conduct thee to thy native dome?

Angelina.
Never.

Ethelbert.
Never!—What frenzy hath possest thee?—
Never?—Never return?—It cannot be.

Angelina.
See'st thou not where we are?—Release thy hold.

Ethelbert.
Think'st thou I would enforce thy stay?—O, no!

(Loosing his hold.)
Angelina.
'Tis well: I know thee now.—When to the world
I voluntary farewell bade—

Ethelbert.
O, no! (With great vehemence.)

Thou dost not mean it. No, it cannot be,
That hither thou hast stray'd of choice. What charm
Have these drear forests, and huge craggy rocks,
For one, like thee, the idol of the world?
—O do not let thy hate of Ethelbert
Urge thee, thus madly, to renounce that care
With which he will, inviolate, restore thee.

Angelina.
Earl Ethelbert!

Ethelbert.
Dost thou distrust me then?—
I swear, upon the honor of a Peer:
And surely thou may'st trust his oath, whose heart,
With holiest love, adores thee.—If thou didst know
How many days of grief, how many nights
Of sleepless anguish, thy departure caus'd;
Sure they would plead within that gentle breast,
For some small gracious token of compassion.
—O think how hard the lot of Ethelbert;
Leaving the accustom'd pleasures of his state;
Anxious, distracted, for thy loss; these woods,
Horrid with every dreadful death, exploring;
Fir'd with the hope to shield thy precious life,
And safe restore thee:—Think what pangs are his
To find his zeal repulst; and, in the stead
Of kind regard, to meet thy fiercer scorn.

Angelina.
Hear Ethelbert. To thee, thou knowest well,
I ne'er have us'd deceit; but have been frank.
Why should my words want credit with thee, then?
I do assure thee, on a maiden's faith,
That not unwillingly I roam these woods.
Nor do thou follow me.—Think not I scorn thee.—
No, Ethelbert: e'er since I saw thy change,
Thou hast possest esteem: and nothing more
This heart can give thee.—Farewell:—and leave me.

Ethelbert.
Too beauteous maid! do not! O do not ask it!
If thou wilt wander here, vouchsafe me leave,
(I will not speak of love,) to be thy guard.
Nay, do not frown!—O thou shalt ever find me
Most submissive. All day I will provide,
And bring thee food; and all the live-long night,
Thou sleeping, guard thee from approaching harm.

Angelina.
It may not be. My purpose needs no aid.
Farewell.

(Turning, and proceeding.)
Ethelbert.
Stop, I conjure—Angelina!
(She looks back, and stops.)
Thou must not go!—Heavens! think what perilous,
What dreadful fates surround thee. These dark woods,
“Tangled with horrid thorn;” these ruinous rocks,
Frowning with death; shouldst thou escape these ills,
On thy dank couch the hissing snake may dart,
And rabid wolves hem in thy daily walk.
Should Heaven protect thee from such foes as these,
Who, who shall save thee from more savage men?
Men, who do live on violence and lust?
Think, Angelina! think before thou mov'st!
O! it were more dreadful than any death.

Angelina.
Sure, Ethelbert, thy passion doth obscure
Thy sight. Consider well this garb. Who knows,
Thus far from winding Tyne, Earl Orgar's daughter?
What man but, seeing me, shall deem me man?
And of such holy sort, that he shall feel
His duty bind him, to defend, not harm, me?

Ethelbert.
What garb can hide thy loveliness? What garb
The ruffian hand of violence disarm?—
But if thou'st no compassion on thyself,
Still let humanity restrain thy steps.
Whate'er of good I have, to thee I owe it.
By thee half-torn from vice, yet not confirm'd
In virtue. And wilt thou, after such toil,
And in this feverous state of soul, forsake me?
Say, wilt thou not pursue, perfect, thy work?
Has Ethelbert been led to virtue's path,
And will his guide, his angel guide, even there,
Desert him?—O! for pity's sake relent!—
Who, when thou'rt gone, shall aid my tremulous steps,
And warm my doubting heart to virtuous deeds?

Angelina.
Thou know'st but little of the power of virtue,
If thou dost doubt its efficacy here.
Be virtuous,—thou must, perforce, be happy.
Be virtuous,—

Ethelbert.
Ah! what is virtue, without
(What constitutes its worth) the bright reward?
Be then compassionate.—I do not ask,
I will not ask, for love.
(Kneeling and seizing her hand.)
Hear me!—I swear,
By every sainted soul, in yonder heaven,
Thou shalt be safe, be free. I conjure thee
Hear me! 'Tis for thyself, for thy own life,
For thy own peace, for thy eternal peace,
I plead. Speak, Angelina!

Angelina.
Urge me not:
Seek not reproach: Release my hand.

(A rushing noise is heard.)
Ethelbert.
Hear'st that?
It is our foes, the ruffians of the wood!
Haste, ere they rush upon us; for they come:
The dry leaves rustle, and the forest shakes.
Yield to my care! By all in earth and heaven
Thou valuest, I adjure thee! Let us fly!
(A loud shout, and the Banditti appear.)
I will defend thee with my life.

SCENE V.

(As Ethelbert turns to defend, Angelina escapes. The Banditti, with Sifrid at their head, rush in, surround and seize Ethelbert; who is able to make but short resistance.)
Ethelbert. Sifrid. Banditti.
Sifrid.
Bind, and bear him to the Cavern.

(The Banditti bind Ethelbert, and bear him out.)

SCENE VI.

Sifrid, alone.
Sifrid.

[He goes out.

SCENE VII.

The inside of the Cavern: Ethelbert discovered, bound, walking in front of the Stage: the Banditti silent, in the back part of the Scene, keeping guard.
Ethelbert. Banditti.
Ethelbert.
(To himself.)
Heavens! to what dreadful fate am I reserv'd?
These are no common thieves. Untoucht remains
Whate'er of worth, whate'er of use, I had.
Nor hold they ought of converse with each other;
Nor yet, to my enquiries, make reply.
Their Chief,—what majesty!—I shrunk, dismay'd,
Before the piercing terrors of his eye.
Knowledge of him most surely I have none.
Why should I start!—but that the sense of guilt,
For crimes against so many men committed,
Makes me to sear in every man a foe:
Perchance in him.

SCENE VIII.

Ethelbert. Banditti. Sifrid.
Sifrid.
(To the Banditti.)
Remove the prisoner's bonds,
And leave us to ourselves, my gentle friends.

(The Banditti unbind Ethelbert, and go out.)

SCENE IX.

Ethelbert. Sifrid.
(Sifrid walks about—agitated—occasionally stopping, and measuring Ethelbert with his eye—at length he exclaims.)
Sifrid.
Monster! thou'rt now within my power.

Ethelbert.
(With surprize.)
Monster!

Sifrid.
Thou know'st me not?

Ethelbert.
No.

Sifrid.
My form, familiar erst,
Hath then the hand of time so far defac'd?
Or have foul injuries, from thee receiv'd,
Destroy'd the well-known features of my youth?
Or rests the cause with thee? 'Tis dignity,
Perchance, above remembrance elevates.
Or do thy cruelties a hell so great,
So fierce, become, thou fear'st new punishments,
Should recollection shew thee who I am?—
Think of the man thou most hast wrong'd—and then,
Know me for Sifrid.

Ethelbert.
Sifrid!

Sifrid.
Yes, Sifrid.
And doth my name, alone, banish the colour
From thy changing cheek?—Tremble at my wrath.
Base man! doth not that name, within thy breast,
Awake more tortures than thou fear'st hereafter?—
O wretch! wretch!

Ethelbert.
I do confess—

Sifrid.
No—no—no—
Do not:—Confession ill becomes thee now.

Ethelbert.
Nay, hear me! I—

Sifrid.
Would talk of palliation:—
O thou hast sinn'd beyond its utmost reach,
And hardly can the hand of Heaven itself
Erase so deep a blot.

Ethelbert.
But yet—

Sifrid.
O, no!—
Didst thou not force me from my home?

Ethelbert.
I did.

Sifrid.
With hell-born cruelty pursue me?

Ethelbert.
'Tis true.

Sifrid.
Captive, in chains, shut from the sun, the air,
All intercourse of friends, by thy command,
For months, for years, I languisht.
Thy villain hand each little good rent from me;
Or ever, with interposition rude,
Prevented its advance.—No pleasing sounds—
Not even the plumy warblers' of the spring,
To all her offspring, Nature's common gift,
Ever approach'd me:—but, instead, deep groans;
The felon's rattling chains, the murderer's oaths;
And,—worse than all,—thy proud insulting taunts.
And more—Monster of inhumanity!—
And more—Didst thou not tear my Emma from me?
Within a noisome cell confine? Weary,
With offers of vile lust, her virgin soul?
Say, didst thou not?

Ethelbert.
All, all is true.

Sifrid.
Yes, yes! And do I live to see thee here?
The dark assassin of my love? my life?—
Wretch! what dost thou deserve?

Ethelbert.
To be heard.

Sifrid.
Heard?
And is there aught, that's villainous, undone,
Which, in this little space of life, allow'd,
Thou hop'st to do?—Or, can thy speech recall
Past times; retrace the years of frantic grief;
And once more place me where I erst was happy?
Oh, no!—Thou'st fill'd the measure of thy guilt;
Triumph'd o'er every sacred tie, that binds,
In fellowship, the man to man.—And what,
Plung'd as thou art in crimes, is left to do?
Is there, of justice, one unbroken law?

Ethelbert.
Tyrant! beyond all patience hast thou urg'd me,
And I will speak.—Justice!—Talk'st thou of justice?
Shew me in all the ample page of right,
In all truth's code, a rule, or even a plea,
To consecrate, or to excuse, thy trade.
Robber! thou can'st not.—Him does it become,
The armed leader of a ruffian band,
To hold discourse of justice? And shall he,
Who strips the unwary traveller of life;
The midnight door of sleeping wealth who breaks;
Who tears, from age, its honor, and from youth,
From helpless youth, its innocence;
Shall he of justice question?

Sifrid.
Villain!

Ethelbert.
Villain to thee! Shew me the plunder'd stores,
Rent from the industrious tenants of my fields.
Disclose the vast incalculable sum,
Swept from the puissant nobles of the realm.—
Ha! dost thou shake with rage? grow pale with shame?
Conceal it, Sir; it ill becomes a thief.

Sifrid.
Monster! if any guilt is mine,—tremble!
Yes, tremble for thyself, the accursed cause!
Who, tearing from me all that life endears;
Exalting each dark passion of my soul;
Hast made me breathe with nought but fell revenge—
—O hadst thou torn all wealth, all honor, from me;
Made me still poorer than the wandering wretch,—
Sordid petitioner of daily food;—
Heapt to the heavens, imprisonment, and pain;
Sicken'd all ears with tales of infamy;
And still hadst left my Emma to be mine;
I had been blest; had loaded thee with blessing;
And Heaven had seen me spotless and devout.

Ethelbert.
Emma is yours.

Sifrid.
(Fiercely.)
Hast thou not murder'd her?

Ethelbert.
(With horror.)
No!—no!

Sifrid.
(With terrible fury.)
Villain! hast thou not murder'd her?

Ethelbert.
She lives.

Sifrid.
(Wildly.)
Not dead?

Ethelbert.
She lives, to love and bless thee.

Sifrid.
(Faintly; and laboring for breath and utterance.)
Oh! it can not be!—It can not!—can not!
Merciful Heaven!—this tumult of my soul!
(He leans against the Cavern. After awhile, as though he supposed it some new imposition in Ethelbert, he starts; and drawing a dagger, seizes Ethelbert by the arm.)
Most damn'd impostor!—
(Ethelbert remains unappalled. Sifrid, looking on his face, observes it—drops the dagger, and exclaiming)
He could not do it!— (Sinks into a reverie.)


Ethelbert.
(After a short silence.)
Sifrid!—He hears me not.—Thy Emma lives.
She lives, indeed; and thee alone requires;
Whose hop'd return will all her joys renew.

Sifrid.
(Starting from his reverie.)
And whence is this?—From thee?

Ethelbert.
O, heap not shame,
Too vast already, on my humbled head!
For I will all disclose; nor dare conceal
Aught of near import, so thou be compos'd.

Sifrid.
Speak on. Thou hast my promise.

Ethelbert.
The tears of Emma, silent as they fell,
Soften'd my flinty heart. Compassion, then,
A guest unknown before, enter'd my breast.—
Who does not know what sweet affinity
Love bears to gentle sorrow?—Now, indeed,
A purer flame shot thro' my alter'd soul.
The grief, the modestly-reproachful woe,
Unwavering, matchless, constancy, of Emma,
Chill'd every glow of passion, bent my heart,
Reprov'd my guilt, and humbled me to silence.
Affection builds not on remorse. I shunn'd,
I fled, her presence;—but, to feel the force,
And sink the slave, of Angelina's beauty.
I saw, and lov'd:—lov'd; and of love became
The thrall successless.—Was I unhappy?—
Had not my murderous hand rent the fond ties,
Dissolv'd the fairy bliss, canker'd the buds of love?—
Frenzy possest me;—and remorseful grief,
With agonies so dreadful, shook my frame,
That reason totter'd on her throne; and hope,
That I should e'er revive, my friends forsook.
Thy Emma then—

Sifrid.
(Furiously.)
What didst thou say of Emma?

Ethelbert.
O, be calm, my friend! Let these tears declare
I am repentant. Thy sorrowing Emma
Consol'd and serv'd me, with unceasing care;
And once again to life restor'd me.

Sifrid.
(With ecstacy.)
She did!

Ethelbert.
Hence, every vice cast off, with earnest zeal,
I strove my many mischiefs to repair.
What could I do for Emma? Half my wealth
Was proffer'd, but refus'd.

Sifrid.
(Proudly.)
No doubt it was.

Ethelbert.
With care solicitous, o'er all the realm,
My trusty slaves dispatcht, still sought thee out.
Meantime, with her I lov'd, my suit advanc'd not.
With pleas'd regard she saw me turn from vice;
And witnest kind respect, but never love.
At length she fled. With unremitting zeal,
I sought her long; each town and village searching.
In vain.—This day, as full of grief I stray'd,
Whether by chance, or Heaven's conducting hand,
The long lost fair I found; when, captive made,
Hither have I been led, in some poor sort,
The wrongs on thee enforc'd, to expiate.

Sifrid.
To expiate?—O Emma! dost thou live?—
Would I could grant thee more than my forgiveness.

Ethelbert.
(Kneeling.)
And canst thou then the injuries forget—?

Sifrid.
(Raising him.)
Come to my soul, thou man of blest repentance.

Ethelbert.
O, nobleness divine!

(They embrace.)
Sifrid.
(After a pause.)
Our band, with speed,
Shall circle, and shall scour the forest thro'.
To them each part well known, the wandering Fair
Shall soon be found, and peace again be thine.

Ethelbert.
Excellent man! how greatly have I wrong'd thee!

Duet.

ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

A Hermitage: Edwin, disguised as a Hermit, sitting in the entrance; in profound contemplation. He rises, and comes, slowly, forward.
Edwin.
(Walks in great agitation.)

SCENE II.

As Edwin is slowly crossing the Stage, Angelina enters—at first, not seeing him.
Edwin. Angelina.
Angelina.
(Seeing Edwin.)

Edwin.
(Turns, and advances.)
Pilgrim! fatigue sits heavy on thy frame;
Let me support thee: thou hast gone too far.

(Assists her.)
Angelina.
Indeed, my father, I have greatly stray'd;
And, much I fear, shall find no place of rest.

(Sighs.)
Edwin.

(He leads her into the cell.)

SCENE III.

The inside of the Cavern. Ethelbert alone.
Ethelbert.
With what a generous and unceasing care
Does Sifrid seek to serve me! Could I once,
What my full soul is anxious to disclose,
Unfold; and draw him from this fatal snare;
All would be well.

SCENE IV.

Enter, to Ethelbert, Sifrid—with a wild and distracted air; as having just dismist the Banditti; and without observing Ethelbert.
Ethelbert. Sifrid.
Sifrid.
(To himself)
They're gone; all gone; at last I am alone!
Would I had been so ever! Never known man!
Had perisht ere my eyes were op'd to light!
Or wither'd, an untimely fruit!—O where!
Where are the golden visions that, but now,
Ravisht my soul, with ecstacies of joy?
Where now the treacherous hope which made thee mine,
Too faithful Emma? Never more shall I,
With arms of love, encircle thee. No more!—
Would God that I had died,—that thou hadst died,
Ere this accursed hour of dark despair.
That we were slumbering in the peaceful grave.
Now, when shall I know peace? Never! never!—
O that I knew not that thou still didst live!
That yet I thought thee dead! Then, as before,
I now should rise, fierce-panting for revenge.
Thy fancied death—my own foul wrongs—despair—
United, would urge on my furious hand;
And make the work of death seem just and joyful.
But now,—horrible state!—tho' heaven itself
Entices me to turn;—tho' I do know
Where it will plunge me;—stand upon the brink;—
Tottering;—I must— (starting back)
horror! horror!

Ethelbert.
Sifrid!

Sifrid.
Who calls upon that wretch? (Seeing Ethelbert.)
And is it thee?

(Tenderly.)
Ethelbert.
'Tis me, 'tis Ethelbert, it is thy friend!
Why dost thou look thus wildly on me, Sifrid?
What is it that so shakes thy frame? What cause—?

Sifrid.
Have I not cause enough,—Eternal Powers!
Have I not cause enough, for my distress?

Ethelbert.
Whence is this dreadful passion which destroys thee?
Art thou not master of thy native fields?
Is not thy Emma free, and faithful to thee?
Does she not languish for thy quick return?

Sifrid.
Ay, but my oath! For I am bound; have sworn.

Ethelbert.
And think'st thou any oath hath force to bind
Against the eternal ordinance of Heaven?
Believe it not.—What hast thou sworn to do?
To murder and despoil, is 't not?—Beware!
The positive injunction sure is plain;
Casting stern condemnation in thy face.

Sifrid.
Ay, but my truth is pledg'd; my honor giv'n;
And were eternal death the sure event,
I've sworn upon my soul,—and must go on.

Ethelbert.
Horrid, but powerless, oath.

Sifrid.
Immutable!
O agony supreme! I see my fate.—
Emma!—yes, thee I must leave:—Forever!
I must fulfil my destiny of death.
The wrath of Heaven falls heavy, and I sink.

(A short pause.)
Ethelbert.
O be calm, my dearest friend! Let sweet peace
Soft settle on thy soul, and sooth its woes.

Sifrid.
Never more shall peace visit this bosom.

Ethelbert.
Nay, think not so!—it shall, my friend, it shall.
Observe the pleasing prospects that invite thee.
Untoucht, thy hamlet, and paternal fields:
These, by thy care, shall thrive; there shalt thou live;
And, with thy Emma, see thy joys renew'd.

Sifrid.
Never again, will joy be mine!

Ethelbert.
It will.—
Leave but these scenes, and, 'mid thy native shades,
Gain independence from the cultur'd soil;
Thou shalt be truly happy.—Here, around,
On every side, danger approaches swift.
The alarmed nation hastens to destroy thee.
Toils, dangers, and distress, and many deaths,
Perchance of thy best chiefs, most sure await thee.
If fortunate at first, it can not last;
Unfortunate, thy people's, and thy, lot,
How dreadful! The reverse, how sweet! Where thou,
Where they, a ready pardon, from the throne,
Procur'd, secure, the joys of peace may taste;
And life steal on, serene, to honor'd age.

Sifrid.
O I do see how many, many joys,
I might, full sure, obtain! But, I have sworn.

Ethelbert.
And will not they, to whom thy oath is given,
Like thee, discern the danger, and avoid it?
Dost thou not think thy brothers of the war
Would share thy toil?

Sifrid.
(With frantic ecstacy.)
They will!
(Suddenly relapsing into despair.)
No! they can not.
I must still live a very wretch.

Ethelbert.
(A pause.)
Sifrid!
What mean'st thou? Wherefore can they not?

Sifrid.
Ask not.
Leave me, my friend, to perish. Thy kindness
Can not, now, avail me.

Ethelbert.
Sifrid, I can not,
Must not, leave thee.—Explain what thou dost mean.

Sifrid.
Are we not bound by mutual oaths, to death?
Is it not death to him who first shall dare
Request a change? And how shall I, who fram'd,
Propos'd, the oath; exacted their acceptance;
Dare, first, to seek exemption from its bonds?
O, would they but relent; unite, with me,
In more endeared toils; (to Ethelbert)
thou wilt have rais'd
A weight that presses me to deep perdition.

Ethelbert.
Thy passion, Sifrid, doth unman thy soul;
And makes thee estimate the danger more
Than reason will allow.—Cheer up my friend!
And when, from this their search, thy Band return,
Do thou address them with a manly zeal:
Point but their way, and I will fields bestow,
Untill'd, thro' fear of their despoiling hands,
Which soon would bud and blossom, by their aid.

Sifrid.
'Tis well!—I am resolv'd! It can not be
But only death.—Emma! I can not bring
Thee hither;—and, without thee, this little,
Little day of life, were agony; were death.—
I will address them.

Ethelbert.
Fear not; they will comply.
Pardon, and rural wealth, shall crown the act;
And fairer suns shall rise to gild thy day.

Sifrid.

[They go out.

SCENE V.

The Hermitage: Edwin and Angelina discovered, sitting in the entrance of the cell: a small table spread; and covered with a variety of fruits.
Edwin. Angelina.
Edwin.
Scarce dost thou taste my fruits:—O be not sad!
I will conduct thee, with the early dawn,
Where terminates the forest.

Angelina.
Ah! Father!
I fear I then shall be more distant far,
Than ever, from my journey's wisht-for end.

(Sighs.)
Edwin.
Unhappy Youth! what dost thou wish? what seek?

Angelina.
I seek in vain.—I seek—for—happiness.

(Sighs.)
Edwin.
Is happiness thy wish; here rest; here dwell.
Remote from courts, and palaces, and kings;
From domes of grandeur, and from halls of wealth;
Far from the poisonous city's busy hum;
From Passion's reign, and fierce Ambition's war,
Borne on the winnowing gale, flies Happiness.
She loves, with Peace her sister, to reside
In cottages and vales; by running streams;
In woods; and on the cliff's rude, hanging brow:
For there, if yet, perchance, on earth they dwell,
Meets she Integrity, and sober Toil;
And Innocence, and sweet Simplicity:
And oft the Hermit's cell she deigns to visit;
With Piety her guide, and mild Repose
Her fair attendant.—This, then, be this thy—

Angelina.
And do meek Piety and Peace, in truth,
Visit so often then thy cell, my Father?

Edwin.
(Apart.)
That question!—Be still my heart!— (To her.)
Dost thou doubt!—
But whence, poor Youth, the sorrows of thy breast?
The rose still blooms upon thy cheek; nor there
Trace I the characters of villain guilt.
Yet, oft ambitious is the youthful mind.
Say, dost thou thirst for Power?
(She sighs.)
Ah! remember!
'Tis but of momentary worth alone;
Lifting the proud heart of forgetful man
Above the worship pure of Heaven. It draws
From Virtue's paths; and all her smiling train,—
Even Fortitude, depart: and when appear
Misfortune and her frightful troop, the soul,
Debas'd, no longer can itself support.

Angelina.
Father, I wish it not.

Edwin.
And what is Wealth?
What, but, like Power, corrupter of the heart?
To every ill exposing more the man,
And hard'ning more to sense of others' grief.
Avarice and pride increasing; and the soul
Binding to earth, not lifting up to heaven.
Does it, on man, one virtuous wish bestow?
Or brings it happiness?

Angelina.
Alas! it does not.
Power might be mine; and Wealth I can command;
But where, ah! where, is happiness?

Edwin.
Poor Youth!
And hast thou dreamt of Friendship? Fixt thy soul
Upon a fancied friend, and found him false?
—O Phantom, subject of eternal praise!
Man's foul betrayer, murderer of his peace;
Of wealth and fame thou still-attendant shade;
The base deserter of the cheated wretch;
What art thou, visionary fiend, that man
Should ever be condemn'd to think thou art,
(Tho' thou wert never seen,) and still to seek thee?—
(To her.)
Grieve not for this;—our earthly lot is woe;
And we but bare our bosoms to the stroke,
The assassin's stroke, when we embrace a friend.
Say, dost thou mourn for one as such suppos'd?

Angelina.
O, no! I never yet so blessed was
As, even in fancy, to possess a friend.

Edwin.
And Love,—Love hath, perhaps, tormented thee?
Hast to a fair-one ever op'd thy soul?
Hast lov'd? to be the jest, the scoff, the scorn,
The play-thing, of a heart insensible?
(She sighs deeply.)
Thy only answer is of sighs and tears.—
O Heaven! and hath sincerity again,
Again hath truth been wounded?
(To her.)
Hast thou lov'd?
(She sighs more deeply, and appears greatly agitated.)
Let her be thy scorn!—Ha! know'st thou not yet,
That air, not truth, is measure of affection?
—Almighty Father! wherefore did thy wrath
Create me man? Was it to see all worth,
And every bright perfection of the mind,
Humbled before the arrogance of wealth?
False pride of birth? and tyranny of power?—
Know'st thou not this?—The heart of man, himself,
These have beguil'd; and, of his daughter's peace,
Have made her sire the assassin.

Angelina.
(In tears, and lifting up her hands.)
O, my God!

Edwin.
(Not noticing her emotion.)
For these hath woman, vain, and trifling wretch!—
(All fond desires, and sweet affections shunn'd;
Each nobler passion of the soul cast off;)
Rejected love: deceiv'd,—destroy'd,—spurn'd it,
With acrimonious, with insulting scorn.

Angelina.
(Starting up with wildness, clasping her hands, and pressing them to her head; her hat, at the same time, falling off, and her long hair floating down her back.)
Gracious, gracious God!—Spare me!—O spare me!

Edwin.
What do I see?—a woman?
(She sinks faintly into his arms.)
It is herself!
She dies!—Angelina!—What shall I do?—
(Distractedly.)
Soft!—she revives!—I'll throw me at her feet,—

Angelina.
(Reviving.)
Where am I?—where?

Edwin.
(Apart.)
Discovery might destroy my only hope.

Angelina.
(More revived.)
Where have I been?

Edwin.
(Supporting her.)
Compose thyself, my Child!
Be calm; and tell me whence these transports wild;
And let me sooth the sorrows of thy soul.

Angelina.
(With great emotion.)
I can not speak!

Edwin.
(Tenderly.)
Sit down.—Be not disturb'd.
I am, myself, the very child of woe,
And can disclose whence consolation springs.

Angelina.
My tears prevent all utterance.

Edwin.
'Tis well.—
Yes, let them flow. Composure flies afar
From where sit mute Despair and tearless Anguish;
But gently lights, where Grief her sacred dew
Sheds 'round the mourner.

(A pause.)
Angelina.
Thou art too kind, my Father.—Ah! forgive
A wretch, whose feet, unhallow'd, have disturb'd
Thy cell serene of piety and peace.

Edwin.
(Apart.)
Of peace?—alas! (To her.)
Do not condemn thyself:
The Power who rules is good; and our weak feet,
Tho' often he permit to stray, yet still
'Tis but a devious path, to good conducting.

Angelina.
I gain sweet hope and courage from the thought.
And sure compassion dwells within thy breast;
And thou wilt pity one who hath been led
Astray by love; who seeks for peace, but finds
(The sole companion of her way) despair.

Edwin.
(Passionately.)
Despair!—Proceed, my child.— (Apart.)
What shall I hear?

Angelina.
How shall I speak of happy times, which, erst,
Saw me, the daughter of an ancient Earl,
With wealth's proud splendors, blandishments of ease,
And art's and nature's, copious stores, surrounded?
Ador'd, and sung, by every neighbouring Chief;
While flattery, with music join'd its voice;
Echoing along the winding banks of Tyne?
—O blissful days of innocence and peace!
Early, how early lost!

Edwin.
Cease not, thou fair—

Angelina.
Frequent and numerous were the suing crowds,
To the warm proffers of whose love, real,
Or yet pretended, ready ear I lent;
While my young mind, intoxicate, drank in
Delicious draughts of flattery.

Edwin.
Detest—

Angelina.
Detestable indeed.—Among the rest,
Most simply clad, but grac'd with virtue's guise;
Not arm'd with wealth or power, but full of worth;
Whose mind was wisdom's throne; a Youth was seen.
Ah! how my bosom panted at his sight!
Of love he never spake; and with disdain,
Most noble of the flatterer's art—

Edwin.
(Passionately extending his arms.)
My An—
(Partly recollecting himself.)
Speak! what of him!

Angelina.
Amazement! What mean'st thou?
Know'st thou aught—?

Edwin.
(Recollecting himself, yet hesitating.)
Pardon—forgive me, daughter!—
Be not alarm'd!—Go on—I nothing meant!
The thoughtlessness of youth did cause my warmth.

Angelina.
The musk-rose, which unfolds its tender flowers
Unto the early sun; the dew, which loves to hang
Its trembling lustres on the silver bell,
The lily of the vale; his purer mind
But faintly emulate. The rose, the dew,
With charms inconstant shine: their charms were his;
But, woe to me! mine was their constancy.—
Wretch that I am! I trifled with his love,
Scofft at his pain, who only liv'd for me!

Edwin.
(Agitated.)
Haste thee—!

Angelina.
(She walks about—in extreme agitation—Edwin regarding her fixedly, and with an attitude evidencing the most entire and distressful concern.)

Edwin.
(Forcibly, and passionately, clasping her to his breast.)
“Forbid it Heaven!”

Angelina.
(Endeavoring to disengage herself.)
Man—

Edwin.

(They embrace.)

SCENE VI.

Ethelbert, Sifrid, and Banditti, burst through the Wood, and advance hastily.
(Angelina shrieks faintly, and clings to Edwin—who raises his staff, in defence,—while, with his left arm, he supports her.)
Edwin. Angelina. Ethelbert. Sifrid. Banditti.
Ethelbert.
Tis she! and in another's arms!—
Hermit!
Release—

Edwin.
Robber! thou diest if thou advance.

Ethelbert.
See'st not our numbers?—Wherefore should I hurt thee?

Edwin.
Single, unarm'd, I will defend my charge,
“Against a world in arms.” (To Angelina.)
Fear not, my love!
Heaven combats on the side of right.

Ethelbert.
(Angrily.)
Old man,
Provoke me not!

Edwin.
Proud boy, away! (To her.)
Be calm.
(To him.)
Dare not!— (To her.)
My Angelina—

Angelina.
(Faintly, and looking up to him.)
O, forbear!
Risk not thy life!

Ethelbert.
(Fiercely.)
Hermit, be brief. By heaven,
Nought shall detain her.

Edwin.
As thou valuest life,
Advance not.

Sifrid.
Peace! let me be heard, my friends.—
Holy man, we come not here to injure thee:
Far be from us impiety so base.
Earl, Ethelbert most dearly loves the maid
Whom thou withhold'st: and surely thou dost know
Of what fierce quality and fiery power
Is love; and wilt forgive impetuous speech.
He seeks but to restore her to her friends,
And gain her hand: for, he doth so adore,
Above all earthly good he prizeth it.
And why should'st thou detain? why not release,
And give, her to his wish?—His noble soul
Disdains a force superior to employ.—
Be obstinate no more—but yield—

Edwin.
(With great firmness.)
Never.

Ethelbert.
I would not harm that reverend form, or dash,
Against the earth, thy sacred head;
But, wert thou young, thy life should answer me,
For thy high insolence, old man!

Edwin.
(Throwing off his disguise.)
Off! off!
Ye trappings of dishonorable peace!
Array of bondage, vestments of disgrace!
Hence, the monk's cowl, and hermit's staff! and now,
Come forth thou sword of ancestry heroic!
(To Ethelbert.)
Villain! I dare thee!

Ethelbert.
(In great surprize.)
Edwin!

Edwin.
(Fiercely advancing.)
Edwin, Lord!

Ethelbert.
(With great emotion.)
The saviour of my life!
The murderer of my love!

Edwin.
Nay, hang not back!
We stand upon the perilous brink of death,
And one must surely leap.

Ethelbert.
(Greatly agitated.)
Almighty God!
Whence?—wherefore?—why is this?—My life!—my love!
Gratitude!—Passion!—It can not—can not be!—
(Walks distractedly.)
Come to my breast each noble sentiment?
Arm, arm my soul, and make it all your own,—
That I— (irresolutely)
I can not do it— (firmly)
I will—
That I may spare his love, who sav'd my life.

(All stand in a posture of surprize.)
Edwin.
Why do we wait?

Ethelbert.
After ingratitude
So base, if with repentant heart I come,
Say, noble Edwin, canst thou yet forgive me?
Angelina, daughter of heaven, canst thou?

Edwin.
Whene'er Earl Ethelbert becomes himself,
He shall not want a friend.

(Edwin drops his sword; they meet, and embrace. Angelina advances.)
Ethelbert.
Angelina,
I owe thee all:—compassionate my woes;
Forget my errors; if thou canst, forgive.

(Angelina places one hand in his—the other in Edwin's.)
Angelina.
When Edwin pardons, I can ne'er refuse.

Edwin.
(Drawing her towards him.)
My Angelina!

Ethelbert.
Excellent woman!
(To the Band.)
My friends, one mystery remains to you.
It is to Edwin that I owe my life;
Rescu'd, at risk of his, from men whose souls
No mercy knew. Already had they stript
And bound me; and their reared swords
Menac'd my death; when, (a delivering spirit,)
He came, with lightning speed—withering their powers.
Three fell beneath his hand; and, to the fourth,
Humbled, and full of promises, he gave
Life, freedom, and security.—Bleeding,
Nor conscious of my state, me he convey'd
To where attention dwelt; and only left,
When, in returned strength, vigorous he saw me.
But—O how!—how shall I relate the rest?
Vain-glorious, cruel, execrably base,—
In the remembrance, Sifrid, of thy woes,
Learn thou the shameful history of his.

SCENE VII.

Enter Walter and Edred, with other Banditti.
Edwin. Angelina. Sifrid. Ethelbert. Walter. Edred. Banditti.
Sifrid.
(To Walter, &c. as they enter.)
Happily arriv'd, my friends!

Ethelbert.
n (To Sifrid.)
Remember!

Sifrid.
(To Ethelbert.)
I do.— (To the Banditti.)
My friends! Hear all.
To my fond arms, Earl Ethelbert restores
The woman of my love; unto my care,
My fields paternal, and my earliest home.

Walter.
Sifrid!

Sifrid.
Nay, more—

Walter.
Chief! think upon thy oath!
And how thou'rt bound to us, and we to thee!
Think of the forfeit too!

(The Banditti draw their swords, and encircle Sifrid.)
Sifrid.
(To the Band.)
Deem not that I,
So used to blood and death, shall shrink with fear.
I know my life is forfeit; and that you,
As most shall please, may spare, or may exact it.
I have well weigh'd the terms, and place that life,
Now more than ever dear, upon the issue.—
If it shall please you to allow me chance,
I will unfold my purpose.

Walter.
(Looking round upon the Banditti, who nod their assent.)
'Tis granted.

Sifrid.
For myself, I plead not. I will not strive
To move your pity for a wretch, who, long,
From all he valued, banisht; finds, at length,
The happiness he lost, within his reach.
No!—for yourselves, it is, I plead; for you,
By many union'd toils, to me endear'd.—
'Tis not to me alone, this noble Earl
(Pointing to Ethelbert.)
Doth offer good; he, generously, to you,
Extends his manors, and invites acceptance.

Walter
And is this thy mighty purpose? For this
Hast thou forsworn thyself, and purchas'd death?
What charm, think'st thou, to tempt us from our woods,
Is there in vassalage?—Are we not free?
And shall we stoop to bondage? (To the Band.)
What say You—
Shall we be bond or free?

All Banditti.
Free!

Sifrid.
Curst be he
Who shall attempt to make ye slaves.—My friends!
Ye do mistake:—Not vassalage, but wealth,
Is offer'd;—not bonds, but independence.—
Think of the value of the proffer'd boon!
To your own hearts I speak; what hath revenge
Of pleasure so unmixt, as rural ease,
And independent toil?—Weigh, and compare,
This mighty mass of good, with that estate
In which you stand.—Behold, by you arouz'd,
The assembled vengeance of the nation haste,
Wide desolation o'er your shades to pour.
What can you do to stem this torrent?

Walter.
Die.

Sifrid.
And will thy death, the death of these brave men,
Confer such lasting glory on your names,
As to have cast revenge aside, when penitence,
With outstretcht arms, implor'd you to forgive?
What glory can arise, from spurning life,
When ready pardon waits, when wealth invites,
And nature and humanity beseech?
Let me not plead in vain! O! as in scenes,
Where danger and where death hideous appear'd.
Where rapine and destruction arm'd the hand,
I have been oft your guide; let me still lead
Where peace doth spread her shades, and where
Dwells sweet humanity!—If not,—'tis well!—
Here strike!—I bare my breast! the heart within
Beats only for your good.—Here plunge your swords!
For, without Emma, never more shall joy
Visit the soul of Sifrid; never more
Will he seek for revenge in fields of death.—
Why do ye linger?

Walter.
(Sheathing his sword.)
'Twas man's oppression made me what I am;
Let it be due to man that I become
Such as I ought to be.—

Edred.
(Replacing his sword.)
Walter hath spoken.

Sifrid.
Shall I then lead? and will you follow me?

All Band.
(Putting up their swords.)
We will.

Ethelbert.
(To the Band.)
My friends! this your resolve is sure
The very work of Heaven. (To all.)
O! we will form
A little world of love; all wrongs forgot,
And all our errors: for all have errors;
Nor is the Libertine's, nor Robber's, life,
More false to nature than the Anchorite's.

Edwin.
All must, indeed, amend: all will amend.
Our energies, long time, so ill-directed,
Henceforth, with wondrous joy, shall bless the land:
While men shall say—

Sifrid.
Not deeply, in their souls,
Could Vice her dark, polluted seat have fixt,
Who could, so easily, her chains cast off,
And bow their wills to Virtue's rightful sway.

Chorus.
Now burst the shout of joy around,
And let the forest wide resound.
Peace, henceforth, forever reigns;
And laughing Plenty loads our plains;
Then burst the shout of joy around,
And let the forest wide resound.

Sifrid.
Fierce Despair,

Edwin.
And frantic Grief,

Both.
Find, at length, unhop'd relief:

Angelina.
Wayward Beauty,

Ethelbert.
Brutal Lust,

Both.
Learn to feel, and dare be just.

Chorus.
Burst, then, the shout of joy around,
And let the forest wide resound.

Ethelbert.

Chorus.
Loud burst the shouts of joy around,
And plains, and forests, wide resound.

Edwin.
The mineral, sleeping in the mine,
Decks not the board, nor glows in coin,
While droop the languid arts;
Refin'd, its power, where'er it flies,
Bids new-born wonders round arise,
New energy imparts;

Chorus.
While burst the shouts of joy around,
And plains, and busy shores, resound.

Angelina.
The meteor gilds the face of night,
The pilgrim trusts the faithless light,
And sinks in lonely death;
But, by the moon's serener ray,
Unharm'd, the wanderer speeds his way,
O'er many an unknown heath;

Chorus.
And swells the notes of joy around,
And bids the peaceful shades resound.

Sifrid.

Chorus.
While bursts the shout of joy around,
And earth and heaven the strain resound.