University of Virginia Library

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.