University of Virginia Library

ARGENTILE AND CURAN:

A LEGENDARY DRAMA. IN FIVE ACTS.

WRITTEN ON THE OLD ENGLISH MODEL. ABOUT THE YEAR 1766.

• King Adelbright, Joint Sovereign of Bernicia and Dëira.
• King Edel, Joint Sovereign of Bernicia and Dëira.
• Curan, Prince of Denmark.
• Sewold, the Danish Envoy.
• Oswald, a Saxon Earl.
• Edwin, his Son.
• The Prior of Whitby Abbey.
• Two Saxon Lords.
• The King's Falconer.
• Ralph, his Deputy.
• A Danish Officer.
• Monks and Nuns of Whitby Abbey, Attendants, &c.

• Argentile, Daughter of King Adelbright.
• Editha, her Attendant.

The Scene, some time in and about the Castle of Whitby, afterwards in the Valley of Hackness.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The great Hall in the Castle of Whitby. Enter a solemn Procession of the Prior, Monks, and Sisterhood of St. Hilda's Abbey, before King Adelbright, who is borne in a Chair of State, sick; King Edel, the Princess Argentile, Lord Oswald, and other Courtiers attending. The Monks and Nuns sing the following Dirge.
CHORUS.
Holy Hilda! hear, and aid,
While our aged King we bear
To thy shrine, thou sainted Maid,
Hilda holy, aid, and hear!

A Monk.
He, whose head a crown invested,
Bows to thee that dying head;
Be his truth in Heav'n attested,
Holy Hilda, hear, and aid!

A Nun.
He, whose hands a sceptre wielded,
Lifts to thee those hands in pray'r;
Be his soul from danger shielded,
Hilda holy, aid, and hear!

Prior.
Faith doth lead him to thy altar,
There his languid limbs to spread,
If in prayer his accents falter,
Holy Hilda, hear, and aid!

A Monk.
Waft to Heav'n each faint petition
In seraphic accents clear;
Pleas'd perform that blest commission;
Hilda holy, aid, and hear!

A Nun.
And, when Death shall free his spirit,
Snatch it from the furnace red;
Bid it endless bliss inherit;
Holy Hilda, hear, and aid!

[The Dirge ended, King Adelbright is brought forward to the middle of the Stage.]
ADELBRIGHT.
Yet bear me forward; now set down your burthen;
And stand, I pray ye, from me, that the air
Have readier passage to my labouring breast.

Ed.
How fares our brother now?

Ad.
In sooth, King Edel,
Death lays that iron mace upon this shoulder
That oft has quell'd a stouter; some few hours
And he will chill what little blood still creeps
In these lank veins. Nay, do not weep, my sweet,
My gentle Argentile; thy Father, child,
Is going but to where his went before him,
And whither thou, and all, when Heav'n so wills,
Must follow him; yet goes he full of days,
And full of, what this oft misdeeming world
Calls, honour; yet, if honour'd false, I trust
Still unreproach'd; for so his conscience whispers,
And in a voice as soothing as the sound
Of this sweet minstrelsy: Do not then weep.
For tho' thy Father leaves thee, Argentile;
Not fatherless he leaves thee; trust me, child,
While this good man, our kingly brother, lives,
Thou ne'er wilt want a father.

Ed.
By the rood
There borne, that hallow'd rood—

[Pointing to one of the Crosses borne in the Procession.
Ad.
No oath, King Edel,
'Twere here sworn needlessly; couldst thou be false,
As sure thou canst not in some lighter cause,
This, in itself, bears its own pledge of faith.
For Argentile is of that courteous kind,
So all made up of dove-like gentleness,
The veriest churl, if brib'd to do her wrong,
Would inly yearn, and, his remorseful heart
Turn truant to his purpose.—Still thou weep'st—

[To Argentile
Arg.
That do I, Sir, and must; yet not from fear
(I trust my uncle gives my words belief)
That he should treat me (you, Sir, with the blest)
Other than kindly; yet I weep, and must,
To see, what shortly I must see no more,
A father, fondest of all fathers, give
His dying moments to his daughter's weal.
And must I lose him? Heav'n!

Ad.
Such is Heav'n's will;
And, to its high and uncontroll'd behests,
Let all like me give the prostration meet
Of heart, as well as head. Yet will I own
(Had it so pleas'd the giver of all good)
I could have wish'd, or e'er I left thee, child,
To have affixt, with my own hand, the signet
Unto that nuptial treaty which consigns thee
To Denmark's youthful heir; this to confirm
Ev'n now an embassy is on the seas,
If not within our ports.

Arg.
In luckless time
Surely it comes; is this a time to think
Of love, or marriage?

Ad.
Dearest Argentile,
Pray thee forbear to interrupt my speech;
Words now are precious to me. With thee, Brother,
I leave this weighty business. Be it thine
To see our daughter, with the royal dower
That I have left, wedded to Denmark's heir.
To which, if, on thy part, it shall thee please
To add such feoffs as may beseem the worth
Of fair Dëira, reign thou then sole king
Of all Northumberland; and she, with dower
Thus amplified by thee, shall hence to Denmark.
But, if thou mak'st election still to rule
With sway united, we do trust the Dane,
If fame belies not his fair qualities,
Will prove to thee a son, his queen thy daughter;
So shall, in both, the loss be recompens'd
Of us, thy loving brother.

Ed.
Adelbright,
So mercy shield me as I rest well-pleas'd
With this sweet princess, and the royal Dane,
Jointly to rule Bernicia, and Dëira.

Ad.
We like it well; and in full proof we do,
See, to thy hands we trust this peerless gem,
Soul of our soul, our gentle Argentile.
Now let her kneel before me, while these palms
On her dear head seal my last blessing. “Hear,
“Thou Virgin pure! hear, Queen of highest Heav'n,
“A father's earnest prayer! O bless my child
“With length of days, and not one day be dimm'd
“With lack of honour! may the realm she rules,
“In right of me, be blest, and she by it;
“Ev'n by th' allegiance of a well-rul'd people!—
Prior of Whitby, now, all that remain'd
Of worldly care is finish'd; what few hours
Of life are left to Heav'n we consecrate,
And holy rites; bear me, my chamberlains,
Unto the Abbey. Argentile, King Edel,
Oswald attend us to the chauntry steps;
And there farewell; then, at St. Hilda's shrine,
These holy men shall spread my dying limbs,
And sing my requiem; for, at that high shrine,
Old Adelbright doth wish to breathe his last.

[Exeunt the King borne, Edel, &c. attending, the Choir repeating the Dirge. Manent two LORDS.
F. Lord.
Go, and Heav'n's holiest band of Saints receive thee!
Go, for the goodliest piece of majesty
That ever blest Dëira. Yet, methinks,
Old as thou art, thou dost too hastily
Make this devotement of thy soul to Heav'n.
Had I been thee, ev'n to life's latest gasp
This act had been delay'd, however holy;
If, by such lett, fair Argentile might gain
A surer tenure in her father's rights
Than lip-security.

S. Lord.
Do others also
Nourish suspicious doubts? Beshrew me, Lord,
But I was giv'n to hope the yellow fiend
Haunted me singly; nay, was prompt to chide
My brain for giving the base inmate harbour.

F. Lord.
Nay, my good Lord, suspicions like to thine
Be but too rife; a mean clerk he must be,
Who cannot spell so much i' th' page of man
As may afford him scope to comment grossly
On Edel's late demeanour; and, from thence,
To frame sad forecast of what soon may turn
To this poor realm's mishap. This he may do,
And be no prophet neither.

S. Lord.
Certes, Sir,
Since good King Adelbright took to his chamber,
His brother, vested with the double purple,
Did teach that robe to puff and swell about him
Ev'n to a tyrant size.—But, see, here comes
Lord Oswald, and his honest eye doth borrow
Enough of the hawk's keenness, I not doubt,
To see as far as we do, haply further,
In this black prospect. Health to noble Oswald!

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Now mercy shield me, friends, from so much shriving.
What with their vigils, penances, and bead-work,
These priests have worn out our old master sooner
Than he that made him meant. Call a physician,
He'll let your soul alone; let him but plague
Your body, he, good leach, rests satisfied.
But, if you trust a monk with your soul's cure,
Trust me, not soul alone but body pays for it.

F. Lord.
Shrewdly remark'd; but say, my noble Lord,
How left ye the good king?

Osw.
Ev'n as I tell you,
O'erdone with sanctity. Hast thou ne'er seen
A steed of generous blood, when overweighted,
Lag ere his latest stage, which, but for that,
Had paced with spirit to his journey's end,
And neigh'd at his ungirthing? Sirs, I left him,
Just where he bade us, at the chauntry steps;
The lovely princess, over-charg'd with grief,
Was led in private, thro' the garden postern,
Back to the castle by her now step-father.
Pray Heav'n, his sex may make him 'scape the proverb.

S. Lord.
That little word, good Earl, which now you drop
Gives us to think your fears do square with ours,
Ev'n but too nicely.

Osw.
What, for quoting ye
A thread-bare proverb! Troth a pleasant jest.
What, are all step-things curst! my gallants twain,
I find my tongue must wear a closer curb
Whene'er I let it amble in your purlieus.

S. Lord.
There is no need.

Osw.
Nay, be there need, or not,
I scarce shall have the caution. I have ever
Giv'n forth my free thoughts freely, and am now
Too old for closer training. Take then, Sirs,
My mind unmask'd. I do indeed distrust
Our now sole master, with a phlegm as fixt,
As e'er a subject did.

F. Lord.
And I.

S. Lord.
And I.

Osw.
And many more, I trust, right honest men,
Not present at our parley; for myself
Thus far conceive me, I shall closely watch
King Edel's 'haviour; and, if I perceive
From his bleak quarter comes that blighting wind
May nip the blossom'd hopes of Argentile,
I'll be that broad old oak shall shield them from it.

F. Lord.
So doing, noble Oswald, thou wilt prove
Thou hold'st the memory of our good old master
As dear, as, when alive, thou held'st his person.

Osw.
My friends, I lov'd my good king fervently;
These salt tears speak it, for they course down cheeks
Not wont to find them channels, but at times
When the moist dew becomes them. Nature made me
Of her mixt metal, but I trust no base one,
Much more of steel, than silver; yet of this
Enough for honest pliancy; but not
To spin me out, as wire, just as you list.
For tho' you see me now like very wax,
Yet, strive to mould me to a traytor shape,
I'll break before I bend; thus of himself
Old Oswald boasts, and, tho' himself's the boaster,
He wrongs him that mistrusts him. Sirs, farewell.

SCENE II.

Changes to a state apartment in the Castle, enter King Edel leading in the Princess Argentile.
EDEL.
Enough of tears, fair Argentile, enough.

Arg.
Never enough, my Lord, when such the cause.

Ed.
If so, I fear me that the smiles will come
Full tardily, which my parental fondness
Shall hourly plead for.

Arg.
Gratitude, good uncle,
Can dwell with sorrow. Nay, in that same eye,
Where she sits bath'd in tears, can dart a gleam
Will brighten all the face as it were joy,
And yet keep weeping still. I've mark'd it oft
In many a sorrowing maid, whom I have cheer'd,
And wept to see it so, and that too cheer'd them.
Please you, my Lord, I'll to my chamber; there
Kind Editha will give that comfort to me,
Which grief best loves, a sigh of sympathy.

[Exit Argentile.
Ed.
(solus.)
I much suspect me this same simple maid,
Young as she is, and surely all unredde
In the world's craft, doth nourish doubts within her
Touching my tenderness; why, be it so;
I must not for the pulings of a girl
Forego my heart's high purpose; how now, Usher

Enter an USHER.
Ush.
The Prior comes, and craves admittance, Sire.

Ed.
Admit him, and, as thou dost dread our frown,
Ward off whate'er may interrupt our converse. [Exit Usher.
Enter the PRIOR.

How fares our brother now?

Pri.
He seems, my Sov'reign,
To death no nearer now, than some hours past,
Perchance, or days. He thought, as he approach'd
St. Hilda's shrine, a genial heat spread o'er him
Which cheer'd him much; whether the hidden powers
Salubrious, that in those chaste reliques dwell,
(For many have they heal'd) or whether nature,
Struggling within, had gain'd some little 'vantage—

Ed.
I pray thee, Prior, spare me thy surmises.
Thou sayest he lives, think'st thou it possible
He should live long?

Pri.
That Heav'n's high Queen best knows;
Yet, if he should, his vital force so spent,
It were a miracle, and ought to bring
No vulgar off'rings to our hallow'd shrine.

Ed.
True to his trade, I find the greedy Priest
Looks out for more oblations. I have means
Surer than these to wind him to my purpose. (Aside.)

But give me, holy man, thy very thought
Touching the nature of his malady.

Pri.
'Tis seated in his breast; for lack of spring,
His lungs play heavily.

Ed.
With such an ailment,
Many have struggled long.

Pri.
And so may he;
But the thick air, breath'd in this peopled town,
Is poison in his case. The cold dense fogs,
We borrow from the sea, our briny neighbour,
Alike augment his danger; were he mov'd
To some wide inland vale—

Ed.
We know thy meaning,
And much approve it; but we fear, if helpt
By such removal, he will ne'er be cur'd,
Nor fit again to steer the helm of state.

Pri.
That, good my Liege, he will not. Other cares,
Of weightiest import to his after peace,
Have long possest him; I, and all that wish
Weal to his better part, can never hope it.

Ed.
Good man! I think thou dost not.

Pri.
No, my Sov'reign,
Your younger hands, helpt by your bolder head,
Will abler rein a nation, so stiff-neck'd
As this, that Providence now bids you rule.

Ed.
We know not that; we know but our good meaning,
Not our ability. But this we know,
That, tho' our brother was in very deed
A nursing father to our holy church,
We will not be behind him in that duty.
Nay we will soon shew this by one bold act
Which he, from feebleness of spirit, fail'd in.

Pri.
As how, my Liege?

Ed.
Mark well my words, good Prior,
Thou know'st the prelate proud of Canterbury
Doth hold a jurisdiction in these realms,
Which, as of right, pertains to the see of York.

Pri.
I know, and much lament it, gracious Sir.

Ed.
The Pope doth favour Canterbury's claim,
And mitred York submits to his behests;
So did our brother too; but Edel scorns
Such mean submission, and will soon depose
York's recreant Bishop, and his pastoral staff,
With ample powers o'er all Northumberland,
Give to thy surer grasp.

Pri.
Your humble beadsman
Is bound, for aye, to crook his aged knee—
Not that I wish—to the high task unequal,
Such proud advancement. What befits the weal
Of holy church, you, and the saints best know.

Ed.
Of this enough at present. To thy care
We trust our brother. But of this take heed,
That none approach him, save thyself, and those
Thou may'st securely trust. Spread too the rumour
That he is dead, and, after fitting space,
Announce his burial; he himself did chuse
Private interment; this will give it credit.
To-morrow, if thou find'st his health still better,
Give me the news. We then will take thy council
Touching his change of place.

Pri.
What if, my Liege,
The better to relieve both soul and body,
We lead him to religious solitude?
His frame of mind will meet us in that matter.

Ed.
It may be well; we'll speak of that hereafter,
But know at present this; each pious art,
That makes of him a saint, makes me thy friend. Enter USHER.

How now? did we not will we should be private?

Ush.
Sewold, ambassador from Royal Denmark,
Demands an audience.

Ed.
He doth come full soon:
Yet am I now prepar'd to give him audience.
Admit the Dane. Prior, good speed to thee.

[Exit Prior.
[King Edel seats himself in a Chair of State; a short flourish of trumpets. Enter Sewold between two Heralds bearing on their breasts for device the Danish raven. Prince Curan in disguise enters with the rest of the train.]
EDEL.
My Lord Ambassador we greet you well.
Yet, ere ye open your commission to us,
(Of which we wot the purport) it behoves us
To tell you, what the cloud upon our brow
Speaks but too plain, our royal brother's dead.

Sew.
Landing, dread Sir, news met us of his sickness.

Ed.
That sickness was death's harbinger. This known,
We need not add you come in luckless time,
A time, which neither from the piercing grief
That rends our soul, nor for the meet respect
We owe his obsequies, will suffer us
To turn unto that business, which from Denmark
Ye have in charge.

Sew.
Due decency forbid,
Much as my Sov'reign wishes to complete
The treaty, that his envoy should, with haste
Unseemly, press it. If it please your Highness,
We patiently will sojourn here some days,
And wait the fit occasion. Meanwhile, Sir,
Think me not rude, if I request an audience
Of princely Argentile, I, and my train;
That, in the name of Denmark and his heir,
We, to her grief, may that condolence give
Our mutual loss demands.

Ed.
Now out, alas!
Our niece is ev'n a martyr to her sorrow
The lily, broken by the pelting hail,
Is not more sorely shent than Argentile,
Yet say it were not so, our open nature,
For frankness we do hold a King's best virtue
Prompts us to tell you we have scruples, Dane,
Touching these nuptials; nay, for why should we
Mask our true thoughts? we have much more than scruples,
A well-weigh'd judgment, and by that pronounce
Our niece of age too tender yet for marriage.

Sew.
Dread Sir, your kingly brother thought not so,
But, of his own first thought, did urge the alliance
To yielding Denmark.

Ed.
We admit he did,
Yet was his daughter all averse to nuptials,
And is so still. That daughter, by his death,
Is now our tenderest charge. To thwart her wishes
At such a time, nay, when these wishes speak
With the soft voice of virgin chastity,
Would ill become an uncle that reveres,
And loves her virtues.

Sew.
Surely royal Edel—

Ed.
Bear with us, Lord Ambassador, we cannot
Enter at full on all those weighty causes,
That now oblige us to curtail your audience:
Take our best thoughts in sum. On our true faith
We honour Denmark much, and much do wish
A firm alliance with his Sov'reignty.
This to insure, we know the match in question
Is a firm tye; if therefore in a year,
Or rather twain, he chuses to repeat
This embassy.

Sew.
Now by the hopes of Denmark,
The Prince, his son—

Ed.
Is but some eighteen past,
And well may give the truce, that we demand,
To our young niece's coyness. This besides,
Know, we have many other cogent reasons
Here all unsaid, which, when our brother Denmark
Is well appriz'd of, we do nothing doubt
He'll praise our prudence. These, in ample sort,
Soon will we set forth in a fair memorial,
And send unto his court. Blame not our briefness,
The weight of two wide kingdoms resting on us
Must plead our full excuse. Most noble Envoy,
Our seneschalls have it in charge to treat you
As fits your quality; ourselves, alas,
Are all unable, in our present sorrows,
To give you festive greeting. Sir, commend us
To royal Denmark; and a prosperous gale
Spread your returning sails.

[Exit Edel and train.
Manent SEWOLD and CURAN. [Who comes forward hastily from the Attendants of the Embassy.]
CURAN.
By all my ancestors,
I will not hence, till this imperious King
Permit I see the Princess.

Sew.
Gracious Sir,
Vent not in such loud tone your just displeasure,
Should we be noted.

Cur.
Does he think that Curan,
Ev'n for that honour, which he owes his country,
Will bear th' indignity; not see the Princess!
Tyrant, I will! for therefore came I hither;
And Denmark ne'er shall call that errand thriftless,
For which her prince disguis'd him like a peasant.

Sew.
Yet hear me, Curan, or a speedy ruin—

Cur.
What ruin? Sewold, I will own myself
The heir of Denmark, can he then refuse
An instant audience?

Sew.
Ah, rash Prince, bethink thee
Wherefore thou art disguis'd; is't not to hide
The heir of Denmark? rightly didst thou doubt,
That, fair as fame blazons this virgin's charms,
The blazon might be false; therefore this masking,
That thou unnotic'd might'st behold the Princess,
And pass thy own true judgment on her charms.
The veil thrown off, thou throw'st away its use;
And must, perforce, ev'n if she prove most homely,
Proceed to nuptial union; as a Prince
Thou canst not then recede.

Cur.
Sewold, I can;
He sets me the example.

Sew.
Hapless youth!
Have I then all in vain pour'd on thine ear
The love of honour, that, with virtuous thirst,
Still drank it gladly? Has my moral pencil
So oft portray'd the forms of truth and falshood,
In their just lineaments, to thy mind's eye;
And hast thou lov'd the one, and scorn'd the other,
Unbid, save by the voice that bade within?
Thou know'st thou hast; say then, shall one example,
Base as it is, and as thou feel'st it is,
Undo?—

Cur.
Ah, spare me, Sewold, spare the rest,
And let the blush, that tingles on my cheek,
Implore thy pardon. I forgot myself;
Forgot that thou, my master, and my friend,
Heard the rash word—I am myself again.
Yet, Sewold, ere we go, means must be found
To see the Princess.

Sew.
After such affront
Cast on the absent Majesty of Denmark—

Cur.
Nay, Sewold, now thy reason, in its turn,
Meets the mad shock of passion; Edel's fault
Leaves his niece blameless.

Sew.
True; and could it be
That, ere we left th' inhospitable shore,
A fit occasion offer'd, I should wish
Thine eye might make of her its wish'd decision:
That so each nation might, from speedy broils,
Perhaps, be freed; for, prove she common fair,
As is the general lot of half her sex,
I trust thou wouldst not pay, for such a Queen,
A single subject's life.

Cur.
But if she prove
That paragon of charms, that bright-ey'd phœnix,
Which rumour paints her, I will make this Saxon
Produce me other pleas than tender age,
To step between her beauty and my love.

Sew.
What, Prince, if we retire? and near our ships
Rest us encamp'd till her dead father's bones
Be solemnly inhum'd.

Cur.
A public audience,
I think, King Edel ever will refuse.

Sew.
And so think I.

Cur.
I have a plan, my Sewold;
Give it thy patient hearing. In this garb
No Saxon can suspect my quality.
Go thou unto the fleet, while I wait here,
And make my way t' her presence as a page.
Or rather—yes, that is the likelier plot,
I'll change my garb with my young minstrel Rolland;
Thou know'st I can so touch our Danish harp,
As by my practis'd skill to gain her ear.
Is't not a likely plot?

Sew.
What, leave my Prince
With strangers, and, if all like Edel, foes?

Cur.
Thou dost not leave thy Prince, too wary Sewold,
Thou leav'st a minstrel; and what land so savage,
Where minstrels cannot practise their lov'd art
In honour'd safety? All men hold them sacred;
Thy office hardly more so. This besides,
Bethink thee of those truths, thyself hast taught me,
When, in thy lecture, as was oft thy wont,
Thou weigh'dst, in wisdom's balance, what the poize
Of princely, and of peasant happiness.
In one bright scale lay riches, pomp, and power;
In th' other, health, content, and quiet slumbers.
On that side, poisons, plots, assassinations;
On this, security and careless ease.
These last are now my lot. I'm the safe peasant;
And mean to prove, by fair experiment,
That thy sage saws were true. Nay, my best Sewold,
If thou forbid'st me use that good discretion,
Thy schooling taught me, I must say thou think'st
I am no docile pupil.

Sew.
Dearest Prince,
It is my joy, my pride, that I have taught thee
To cope with difficulties greater far
Than this may seem: for as experience taught me,
How seldom princes know to act like men,
I've shewn thee what man is: and therefore led thee
Thro' many an unfrequented path of life,
That greatness scantly wots of: bade thee mark
That plain unsightly plant, call'd Human Nature,
When sprouting forth spontaneous; how far culture
Improves its form; and what the force of art
To call forth its best bloom. How too that art,
Like a too rank and too nutricious soil,
Oft marrs its purpose, turning to vain leaf
What else had borne a plenteous crop of virtues.
These truths to learn, the best the world can teach,
We've pac'd thro' cities, villages, and forests,
Sometimes a pilgrim I, with cockled hat,
And thou the stripling bearer of my wallet.

Cur.
And, in such masking, own to me, my Sewold,
Did I e'er fail to play the part thou bad'st me?

Sew.
In sooth thou didst not.

Cur.
Therefore, holy pilgrim,
Suppose me now gone a short stone's cast from thee,
To crave an alms at some fat yeoman's porch.
“A mite for charity! give you good den,
“A mite for sweet St. Bridget! My old father,
“A pilgrim worn with penances to shrines,
“Half spent with journeying, lies in yonder dell.
“God's Mother shield you! give an oaten crust
“To break our craving fasts,” why this is all
The danger, if you leave me in this castle.

Sew.
Delicate Prince, I own there is not much;
Train'd as thou art, there is not much, I think,
I here may leave thee safely. But not long—

Cur.
But for two little days, perhaps but one.

Sew.
And where shall I await thee?

Cur.
My best Sewold,
Thou know'st, when we did quit our anchor'd barks,
We crost a pleasant valley; rather say
A nest of sister vales, o'erhung with hills
Of varied form and foliage; every vale
Had its own proper brook, the which it hugg'd
In its green breast, as if it fear'd to lose
The treasur'd chrystal. You might mark the course
Of these cool rills more by the ear, than eye;
For, tho' they oft would to the sun unfold
Their silver as they past, 'twas quickly lost;
But ever did they murmur. On the verge
Of one of these clear streams there stood a cell
O'ergrown with moss, and ivy; near to which,
On a fall'n trunk, that bridg'd the little brook,
A hermit sat. Of him we ask'd the name
Of that sweet valley, and he call'd it Hakeness.
Thither, my Sewold, go, or pitch thy tent
Near to thy ships, for they are near the scene.
Nay, to the fleet I'll bear thee company,
And pass the coming night; so will the Saxons
Think we have left their land, then, on the morrow,
With harp in hand, and wallet at my side,
I'll back to Whitby. Sewold, fear me not,
Surest success must crown our ripen'd plot.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Gate of the Castle.
Enter the Falconer and Ralph bearing two Falcons hooded for the field.
FALCONER.

Now a murrain on thee, Ralph! did I not bid thee to fist the blank falcon with the bare breast? He, that on our last day's sport, flew so lusty a flight after the two herons.

Ral.

The bird was full-gorg'd, master; and marvel it is, that there was one, unfed up, in the mew; for who would have thought that the king would have been minded to hawk to day?

Fal.

Who would have thought! there it is now; as if it became thee, Ralph, to think? No, Ralph, no; thinking, let me tell thee, hardly becomes thy betters. I, now, for example, whose style and title on the Chamberlain's roll stand thus, “His Majesty's first Yeoman Falconer,” whereas thou writest thyself, or rather they write for thee, sub, that is to say subaltern, which means no more than a mere underling. Now mark me, I, as being thy principal, should be principally entitled to think; was thinking, as I before noted, any part of our office.

Ral.

Nevertheless thoughts be free, master; and will

come into our brain whether they be in office or not.— Therefore I cannot help thinking that if one royal brother had been coffin'd before the other, that is to say instead of the other, that brother would not have taken his pastime thus timelessly.

Fal.

Drinking, thou know'st, Ralph, drives care away, and why may not hawking serve the same good purpose? However this be, his Majesty being minded to hawk, we, look you, must be minded to have our matters in readiness. Therefore cope me that tarsel's talons, and fasten the lease to his jesses more tightly. Mercy on me, what bells be these? Silver, sterling silver tho' they be, they look no better than base pewter; cleanse me them with the lappit of thy leathern doublet, and that instantly. Ha! what younker have we here thus fantastically accoutered?

Ral.

Belike it be some scape-goat from the Danish flock, for I saw two or three in the like trim, when the ambassador took his departure.

Enter CURAN. [Drest as a minstrel.]
Cur.
Give you good day, my masters; 'tis my wish
To rest awhile on this same portal bench,
If so no churlish porter would be angry.

Fal.

A smooth-tongued stripling, and withal honestly featur'd; sit where it listeth thee, for thou seemest, my pretty boy, to have outrun thy strength.

Cur.
Say rather I've outrun my breath, good falconer;
Give me a moment's pause, and these young legs,
I think, would bear me up a morning's sport
Close at your coursers' heel, nor should your hawks,
What time they darted at their feathered prey,
So fleetly pounce, but I would catch their game
Warm as it fell, or e'er it touch'd the ground.

Fal.

Why, when I was of thy age, stripling, and as lithe in the joints, I have often verified thy boast, let me tell thee.

Cur.

Doth the king hawk to day?

Fal.

He is so minded, my fair youth, we are here waiting his forth-coming.

Cur.
Say then, if, to beguile the ling'ring time,
I touch my harp, and chaunt to it a song,
Would it be welcome to thy ear, good falconer?

Fal.

Troth would it, my sweet lad; provided the burthen of thy song be not too tedious, and that the measure mar not the sense, as is too often the case with the new-fangled measures now a days.

Cur.
Fear it not, falconer, it shall be a song
Of which a Northern prince, some ages gone,
Fram'd both the rhymes and music; thou wilt find
From its sad burthen that he woo'd a princess
Of cruel sort, who mock'd his loving suit.

Fal.

There be others besides princesses, youth, who be such like mockers. I have heretofore met one myself in no nobler a shape than that of a miller's daughter. Tho' I was ev'n then in the king's patent service, and as tall of my inches as thou seest me at present. I will therefore

have a fellow feeling for thy prince, having experienced Dorcas's cruelty. Ale, however, helpt me to master my passion, and I prescribe the same remedy to thee, if thou ever should'st come to years of discretion, and should'st chance to be in the same plight: for there be ten excellent qualities in your sound-bodied ale, the first—

Ral.

Nay, master, if thou tellest him what these qualities be, in the same sermon-like way thou hast often divided them in my hearing, the king will be here ere we have the lad's ditty; and my ears tingle for it.

Fal.

Come on then, my dainty minstrel; we will have thy song first.

CURAN Sings.
[See the song entituled that of Harold the Valiant, in page 196 of Vol. I. and of which he is supposed to perform to his Harp one or more stanzas, till interrupted by the entrance of King Edel with Lords attending him to the field. He speaks to one of them entering.]
EDEL.
Go to, go to,
We will not waste one thought upon the Dane.
He goes displeased. Why, be it so; our state
Sits not so loosely on its well-laid base,
That Denmark, let him put his best strength to it,
Can shake its firmness. Said'st thou not their fleet
Were sail'd? whence then is this young minstrel?
He wears the Danish livery.

Lord.
Sir, I know not.

[Curan throws himself at the king's feet.
Cur.
My gracious Liege, for I will call thee mine,
For, if not mine, where may I find another?
Friendless, forlorn, left on a foreign coast,
By those whose ruthless hearts forbid my tongue
To call them countrymen. O sacred Sir,
Take pity on my wretched state; command
Some of your train to find me an employ,
The lowest not too low for present trial,
Till after proof of duty find me friends
May plead, in my behalf, to your dread ear.
Meanwhile I would not rust in idleness,
That bane of youth, and what too soon might dull
The small, yet practised, faculties I boast.

Ed.
Thou talk'st it smoothly, stripling, yet we fear
Thou art some elfish truant, who has dar'd
Thy vassalage throw off, or else, perchance,
For some committed fraud, has fled the stripes
Due to dishonesty.

Cur.
Think not thus harshly,
Great Monarch, of your slave. Know, I was born
Of honest parents, virtuously brought up
In fear of God, and man. My aged father
Doth now in Denmark's court, and in the presence,
Strike the chief harp, first of the minstrel band.
Me to Lord Sewold's train did he promote,
For that his Excellence did much applaud
My growing skill, and gave him cause to hope
Fair Argentile, Prince Curan's destin'd spouse,
Would, if she heard me touch the harp before her,
Make me her minstrel. In this hope I left
My lov'd and loving father. On the sea,
Full sorely was I sick, sick ev'n to death;
And, for remembrance of those piercing pangs
I own I loiter'd ('twas my only crime)
The hindmost, when Lord Sewold parted hence.
Which known, the Earl, with many a rigid menace,
Bade me “seek here those honours from the Saxons,
That he had fail'd to find.” These were his words;
Withal forbidding the remorseful shipmates
To let me mount the vessel. Cruel Dane!
I saw thee hoist thy sails, and call'd for pity;
I saw thy shallop fleetly cut the waves,
And call'd for pity, till my aching eye
Lost sight of the last barque: then on the strand,
Fell I as dead; till youth and nature struggling
Brought back unwelcome life. O gracious King!
Take pity on that helpless minstrel boy,
Who found none from his countrymen.

Ed.
In sooth,
My Lords, this Danish boy doth tell his tale
With such a bold and plain simplicity,
As much persuadeth us he speaks us true.
Hast thou, my boy, good skill in minstrelsy?

Cur.
So, Sire, to say would be too bold a vaunt;
For higher of that noble art I deem
And its try'd mystery, than yet to boast
I had arriv'd at ev'n the midmost pitch
Of music's high perfection.

Fal.

Please you, my Liege, the lad is too modest. If his fingers went by clock-work they could not wrestle with the wires more actively, nor, if a skylark roosted in his throat, could he carol to them more deliciously: he's the very prince of minstrels.

Ed.
Peace, knave, and mind thy hawks, and not his harp.

Cur.
If it seem good unto my gracious Lord,
I'll run to th' field at his proud courser's side,
And there some moments, ere the game be sprung,
Or at default, make essay of my art
On this slight instrument, striving my best
To sooth his princely ear.

Ed.
Come on then, boy,
We there will try thy skill. My Lords, to horse,
And meet us at the bridge, that spans the mote.
Ourselves at the west postern mean to mount.

[Exeunt severally, Curan following the king.

SCENE II.

A Garden within the walls of the Castle.
Enter ARGENTILE and EDITHA, with Baskets.
EDITHA.
Nay, sweetest mistress, share with me the pains,
If it be pains, amid these beds of fragrance
To cull such buds and blooms, as best deserve
To fill our wicker garners. Therefore came we;
'Twas of your own free choice: you said the task
Would help to chase your sorrows. See, my Princess,
How deep a blush, beyond its red compeers,
This rose has caught from the warm kiss of Phœbus!
That, tho' its neighbour, and as far remov'd
From shade and cold, yet glows not half so crimson.
Is it the fault o' th' sun? No; he, kind suitor,
Makes love to both alike. Perchance, my mistress,
That flower, like some coy maids, makes more ado
Ere it will warm to kindness.

Arg.
Peace, fond babbler!

Ed.
Nay, now I vow, had I so bright a suitor,
That blest me with such gallant visitation,
I'd not do thus, nor turn my pale cheek from him,
But bid him welcome with a buxom blush,
Like this free flower, and thank him for his favours.
Were it not best, what think you?

Arg.
Prithee, peace,
I know thou mean'st to chear me by this prattle?
But 'twill not be—come, let us count our thefts:
We've done, methinks, ev'n robbery enough
On these sweet beds.

Ed.
See here! besides these roses
Are lilies nam'd o'th' vale, which, to my sense,
Fling from their silver bells a daintier perfume,
Than ev'n the rose itself; spic'd fraxinel,
The golden martagon, the pale narcissus,
And flaunting piony; here's lady's slipper,
And lady's mantle too; curl'd columbines,
And harebells blue and white!

Arg.
No, not a month; [Not regarding her.

But come another day 'twill be a month,
Since my dear father lean'd him on this arm,
And took some slow-drawn paces down this alley;
But he was tir'd full soon, and sat him down
To rest on this same bench; he panted so,
That then I fear'd him dying.

Ed.
Nay, sweet Princess,
Did you not promise me?

Arg.
Indeed I did;
Yet then, in very deed, I little hop'd
I long should keep my word.

Ed.
Think of his years—

Arg.
I know he was full aged, yet some have counted
More years than he; and some have liv'd to see,
What most they wish'd, their daughters given in marriage,
And blest the sacred union.

Ed.
Some, alas!
Have left them sooner, in weak infancy;
Have left them fatherless, nay, in their cradles;
Hurried by death ev'n to their wife's fresh grave,
Who died in child-bed: such was my sad case;
And tho' of gentle, nay, of noble birth,
If nobleness can dwell where riches do not,
Friendless, forlorn, ah! what had I been now,
Had not the Queen your mother's fost'ring care
Pity'd my orphan state?

Arg.
I fear, my friend,
I am to blame, ev'n unto sin to blame,
Arraigning thus the will of Providence.
Yet he, who gave me tears, will let me shed them,
I trust, without a frown. His gift were vain,
Did I not weep.

Ed.
Your royal uncle's care—

Arg.
Is he like Adelbright? will he support
Sad Argentile with half his tenderness?
Thou canst not think it. Thou thyself hast felt
His sterner temper; for when Oswald's son,
The gallant Edwin sued for thee in marriage,
Who but my uncle mar'd your mutual bliss,
And made his father act a tyrant's part?
Alas, thou weep'st! I was to blame in op'ning
A wound, that time had clos'd.

Ed.
And if I weep,
'Tis only that his hapless love for me
Caus'd the brave youth to fly his native realm,
A voluntary exile. To his suit
Thou know'st, my Princess, I demean'd myself
Ever with virgin coyness, as I ought.

Arg.
Thou didst, and therein claim'st thy sexes praise.

Ed.
Gallant as Edwin was, my tongue was able
To interdict his passion; therefore, sure,
I lov'd him not, spite of the rising sighs
That ever meet his mention. Had I lov'd him,
I must have yielded; he was all so worthy
To raise a mutual flame—where then my praise?
But, hush, his father comes! his earnest look
Tells me he means to claim a private audience.
He ill would brook my presence.

Arg.
Thou, poor Editha,
Wilt ev'n as ill brook his! retire thee, then;
Yet stray not out of call.

[Exit Editha.
Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Your pardon, Princess,
That, quitting forms, I thus abruptly venture—

Arg.
Ah, my good Lord, away with idle forms!
You were my Father's friend, and that secures
A constant welcome to his orphan child.
But why so much disturb'd?

Osw.
Is there not cause?
Has not King Edel done—

Arg.
What, my good Lord?
Till this same hour I never left my chamber.
What has my uncle done?

Osw.
Flouted the Dane,
And sent his Envoy back with blank refusal.

Arg.
'Tis as I thought, not fear'd: yet herein read
A sum of num'rous future wrongs prepar'd
To fall full soon upon my innocent head.

Osw.
Not one, not one, no not the slightest wrong,
While Oswald wields a sword to check its fall.
Have comfort, Princess; you have round your person
A set of Peers, whose perfect loyalty
Will at my call pour out their best heart's blood
In your defence.

Arg.
O Heav'n forefend, my Lord,
That Argentile should be the cause of bloodshed!
Sooner than so, I would resign my throne,
And take a subject's station. Trust me, Earl,
I ne'er was fond of this same pageant state,
And smilingly could quit it.

Osw.
Say not so.
Born to a crown, that crown must grace your head:
And we have powers to give it legal firmness.

Arg.
No, rather let him drive me from his realm
A hapless exile. I am not the first
His arts have forc'd away.

Osw.
I read your meaning.
It was indeed his arts, curst Edel's arts,
That struck the flint on my too fervent nature,
And bade it fire. Stop, ye repentant sighs,
You will not call my darling Edwin back!
Alas! you cannot: to th' extremest verge
Of this wide isle my fruitless search has reach'd:
No, I must ne'er again behold my boy;
He's lost, I fear, for ever.

Arg.
Hope the best;
And promise me, if e'er the youth returns,
He'll have thy full forgiveness.

Osw.
So from Heav'n
May I have precious hope of after pardon,
As now my son has mine!

Arg.
Enough, enough.
Thou shew'st thyself again a tender father;
Therefore I take thee for my loyal friend,
Nay rather for my father. Yes, good Earl,
Thou know'st I want one; thou too want'st a child:
Act then a father's part, and guard my weakness
'Gainst my fear'd uncle's arts. Yet, if he goes
No further than to break my present marriage,
He has my ready pardon: She, who loses
A boon she never yet had learn'd to prize,
Is scarce a loser. Does he wish me still
To live in virgin state? My wishes there
Bear him free company; yet much I fear
Some greater cruelty.

Osw.
To thwart these nuptials
Is more than cruelty; 'tis sacrilege
To Adelbright's just memory—

Arg.
Of this,
My Lord, your prudence must more fitly judge
Than a young maiden's. Therefore, Sir, to you,
And to such peers as were my father's friends,
I trust my honest cause, and will in all
Accord to your sage councils. Honour'd Earl,
Adieu. Come forward, faithful Editha,
And lead me to my chamber.

[Exeunt Argentile and Editha.
Osw.
Remorseless tyrant!
To wrong this pattern of all virgin virtues;
While I have life I will oppose thy malice!

[Exit Oswald.

SCENE III.

Changes to the Gate of the Castle.
Enter King Edel and Lords as returned from Hawking. Curan, Falconer, and Ralph attending.
EDEL.
Beshrew me, Lords, but this same Danish boy
Did give us sweet addition to our sport.
I know not whether most to praise the fleet
Activity, by which, our game in view,
He cours'd the field, and left our fleetest steeds
Lagging behind; or whether, at default,
Perch'd on some land-mark stone, he struck his harp
And caroll'd his soft ditty. By St. Hilda
He is a peerless boy.

Ld.
True, my dread Liege:
And then his dauntless spirit, mixt so meekly
With boyish shamefac'dness! for when your Highness
Did praise his skill, it brought a crimson blush
Fresh to his cheek, that seem'd to call in question
Whether such praise were just, proving by the doubt
His rightful claim to it.

Ed.
True, we noted it;
A merit seldom mark'd in such as ply
The minstrel craft. Come forward, pretty youth,
Take thou these angels. Thou hast pleas'd us well.
My Lord our Chamberlain, have it in charge
This boy be well appointed, in such sort
As fits our cup-bearer. Thus we advance him
Ev'n at the first, and his shall be the blame
If he not gains swift marks of future favour.

Cur.
Low at your feet I fall, my gracious Sov'reign,
And promise true allegiance.

Ed.
Rise, and thank us
By thy fair service. We do hold to-morrow
A high carousal. See that thou attend us
In thy fit weeds, when in our hall we dine,
We and our peers.

[Exeunt Edel and Lords.
Manent CURAN, FALCONER, and RALPH.
Cur.
Why, this is as it should be—
Our good star smiles on us beyond our hopes.
How now, good Master Falconer, why this distance?
What! cap in hand too; prithee, friend, be cover'd.

Fal.

I know better, good Master Cup-bearer, I know better. When, indeed, the every day sun in yonder sky shines upon me, I veil myself without ceremony, expecting no more from him than a scorch'd forehead; but, when the sun of court favour shines upon me, though as now, only as it were by reflexion, I doff my cap most reverently, as thereby hoping for somewhat that may warm my old heart. As for you, my young Sir, who are become to-day the minion of dame Fortune, I know not how thou wilt demean thyself to-morrow; therefore

before to-morrow comes, I will venture to call myself thy old friend; inasmuch I was thy friend before the King was, and am withal three years older than his Majesty.

Cur.

I own thee for my friend, and hold thy kindness In fair memorial.

Fal.

I thank thee. Yet as the good luck, which has of late befallen thee, may in time help to weaken thy memory, suffer me to put thee now in mind that, in the morning when thou camest hither out of breath, desirous of sitting on yonder bench to rest thee awhile, I call'd thee pretty youth, and bade thee sit down boldly; thereby, as I may say, installing thee for a courtier.

Cur.

Thou didst, and for that courteous installation This angel be thy fee.

[Gives him the money.
Fal.

Blessings on thy young heart! had I thought thou would'st have paid me thus generously, I would have pull'd off my doublet and made thee a cushion of it; thou should'st never have been installed on the hard stone. But I would wish thee also to recollect, that the very moment thou mad'st offer to give me a touch of thy minstrelsy, I took thee at thy word. Whereby—

Ral.

Nay, in troth, Master, that thou didst not, but was minded to interrupt the lad's ditty (I crave your honour's pardon, for you was but a lad then), yet your honour well knows he would have told you a long preamble about the ten virtues in strong ale, which I, who have heard the old homily a hundred times, and know it to be as long as one of Father Anselm's, and withal as

unedifying, save when one has the brown pitcher before one, persuaded him to cease the delivery of. This had I not done in the very nick of time—

Cur.
Thou didst; and for that friendly office, see,
How this twin angel greets thee.

[Gives Ralph an angel.
Ral.

Aye, that indeed does it, and most angelically poor Ralph is your liege vassal for ever.

Fal.

Though the knave has, as I may say, robb'd me of my second merit, neither he nor any man in Dëira shall of my third; which resteth in this, that I prais'd thy minstrelsy to the King: and what, though he flouted me for it? I have known him many a time and oft do so in the field, and yet nevertheless abide by my council: Therefore assure thyself, that what I said concerning the lark's roosting in thy throat did thee no thriftless piece of service.

Cur.
Whether it did or not, 'twas said in kindness,
And is as such rewarded.

[Gives him another angel.
Fal.

St. Hilda bless thee! There remaineth now but a fourth merit to remind thee of, which, to say truth, respecteth myself singly. It is this; that I, being, as thou seest, an old and true-bred courtier, am wholly void of one vice, which hath been imputed to our sect for time immemorial.

Cur.

I pray thee name it.

Fal.

That can I, Master, and with a safe conscience. —The vice is envy, which, thou knowest, is one of the

seven deadly sins. Now whereas thou art suddenly made King's cup-bearer, and thereby put over the head of myself and many a better man, yet do I not envy thee thine honour; but think verily thou wilt acquit thyself in that high office better, than ev'n I should myself at these years.

Cur.

Indeed, and may I credit thee!

Ral.

Nay, Master, here put I in for a share in the merit. I am younger, and, I trust, more handy than the Falconer himself, and yet, where the matter of cup-bearing is concerned, I knock under to your honour's courtly bearing and gentility. I do in faith.

Cur.
Enough; then share this last bright coin between ye,
And see you drink to my prosperity.
Good friends, farewell.

[Exit Curan.
Ral.

Aye, my Master, that will we do: we'll see the cann to the bottom, were it as big as Ulphus's horn.

Fal.

Ralph, mark me well, Ralph, this young spendthrift will be wiser in time. But till that time comes, it behoves us to drink to the long continuance of so generous a folly.

[Exeunt Ralph and Falconer.

SCENE IV.

The King's Closet.—EDEL, solus.
Enter OSWALD with an USHER.
Ush.
My Liege, the Earl attends.

[Exit Usher.
Ed.
Welcome, good Oswald!
We have a weighty business to impose
On thy allegiance, and, as we do hold
Thy prudence far beyond the vulgar scope,
Resolve in this high point to trust it solely.

Osw.
My Liege, ye do out-rate it.

Ed.
Not a whit.
Believe us, honest Oswald, we have pois'd
Thy merits well, and found them in our balance
Of sterling proof—but to the present business.
Thou know'st already we of late thought fit
To check this alien marriage of our neice,
And thwart the hasty Dane.

Osw.
I do indeed,
And marvel at it much; nay, to speak plain,
(Oswald must speak so, tho' his King's the hearer)
It wounds your brother's memory.

Ed.
Hear our reasons.
We hold it all unsafe, for the realm's weal,
A stranger should come in to lord it here
In right of our young niece; and therefore, Earl,
(Tho' inly did our bowels yearn to break
Our word with our dead brother) yet the good
Of two great kingdoms far o'ercame that scruple.

Osw.
But when the offended majesty of Denmark
Shall arm a fleet—

Ed.
Why, this may be expected;
And though we trust we have sufficient powers
To cope with his best strength, yet would we rather
Prevent all bloodshed; and with this fair aim
We mean to send thee, in all haste, to Denmark,
Our peaceful envoy.

Osw.
Might I bear the Princess
To her expecting spouse, I should with joy
Accept the high commission: such a freight
Will only load my ship with the just price
To buy us peace from Denmark.

Ed.
Tush, old Earl,
The Dane will dread to fight us: let him dare it.
After such truce thy audience there may win,
We shall be well-prepar'd to meet his wrath,
And foil it too.

Osw.
You said you wish'd for peace.

Ed.
I do; if peace and amity, Lord Oswald,
May be procur'd at a much cheaper rate,
Than one of our two kingdoms.

Osw.
Our two kingdoms!
Then, Argentile, thy half is lost already.

[Aside.
Ed.
Why muse ye thus, my Lord, we did expect
More free acceptance of that honour'd charge,
Which we so freely offer'd.

Osw.
Age, my Liege,
Makes me unfit—

Ed.
Say rather that thy age
Makes thee most fit; for reverence hangs on age,
And suits our envoy. Lords of greener years
Would sue for the great charge, but on thyself
Our choice has fixt; if thou disclaim'st the task,
Thou art not what I deem'd thee. For the moment
I leave thee to resolve what likes thee best,
Whether to meet thy Sov'reign's will with duty,
Or force him think, what he would wish unthought,
Thou'rt the Dane's friend not his: within an hour
Give me thy final and assenting answer.

[Exit Edel.
Osw.
It is too plain; he does but wish my absence,
To pass some cruel fraud on Argentile;
And give himself, by that fair maid's mishap,
More right, or seeming right, in his two kingdoms.
Two kingdoms, tyrant!—One is more than due,
But patience—I must act awhile the part
My soul disdains, must seem to accept his charge—
Yes, I will be his envoy to the Dane;
But only to convey that treasure with me
Is the Dane's plighted due. Now to the Princess,
To win her to my purpose: she must hence,
And quickly; for, if here she dares to wait,
Death, or still worse than death, must be her fate.

[Exit Oswald.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Royal Apartment.
Enter King EDEL and CURAN.
Ed.
Dost thou not boast?

Cur.
In truth I do not, Sir;
Ev'n in our days of greenest infancy
I was his humble play-mate; and, when youth
Nerv'd him for stouter sports, the gallant Prince
Would make me his compeer; to shoot the shaft,
To pitch the bar, to wrestle, race, or tilt,
In these and all like proofs of hardiment,
He ever chose my rivalry.

Ed.
If so,
Haply, thou now couldst counterfeit his person.

Cur.
I could, my Liege, were there a fit occasion.

Ed.
Were we right sure of this, occasion now
Should call thee to the trial.

Cur.
Some have thought
My lineaments did much resemble Curan's.
Nay, once I do remember, in our childhood,
We did in sport change dress; and I the while,
My little heart beating with innocent pride,
So strutted in his plumes, as caus'd a smile
On many a cheek to see with what mock grace
I aped the heir of Denmark.

Ed.
So even now
Thou seem'st to act him o'er again; in sooth
Thou art a peerless boy, and wilt befit
Our business to our wish; which, to tell briefly,
Is this, that thou, in semblance of the prince,
Should'st play the suitor to our royal niece;
For which thy youth, and, wherefore should we rob thee
Of what was Heav'n's own gift, thy comliness
Will stand thee in good stead. Beauty and youth
Are the best weapons in a gallant's hand
To conquer virgin coyness, these thou hast
From nature, these king Edel bids thee use,
Which, if thou dost like one of Cupid's teaching,
Beshrew me, boy, but it will raise thy fortunes
Higher than now thou dream'st of.

Cur.
My dread Liege,
Ye surely mean to mock your humble vassal;
I pray ye scoff not at my poverty.

Ed.
Trust us, fair youth, we do not. By our faith,
A sov'reign's faith, win thou our Argentile
And thou shalt wear her. But she must be won,
Her heart, her soul must be thine own so fixt,
That if we frown and cross awhile your nuptials,
Which for state reasons we perchance may feign,
Thou may'st persuade her to be thine by flight:
This if thou canst atchieve—

Cur.
I know not, Sir,
But this so sudden, so unhoped an honour
O'erpowers me wholly; can you mean, my Liege,
In very truth?

Ed.
By all the saints we do.

Cur.
Then be it so; that gracious smile did seem
To dart a ruddy beam of royalty
Warm to my heart. I am not what I was;
I tread with loftier step; my heart beats high,
As if the blood of Denmark boil'd within it.

Ed.
Excellent boy! his ev'ry word and gesture
Insures success, and tops our highest hope.
In faith, Prince Curan, for thou well dost suit
The gallant title, thou dost please us highly.
Some three hours hence take heed that thou attend
Our summons to our closet: thou shalt there
Have further schooling; meanwhile, on thy life,
Be secret.

Cur.
Take that life, if I am false.

Ed.
We will not doubt thee; favour'd as thou art,
Thou must be true to us, who show such favour,
And mean so to augment it.

Cur.
At thy feet
I swear—

Ed.
Arise, thou hast our confidence,
And soon shalt from our wardrobe have dispens'd
Those vestments, which befit thy state to wear
In audience of our niece.

Cur.
Impatiently,
My Liege, shall I expect them; for these weeds
Seem now to sit untowardly upon me:
I burn to change them.

Ed.
Wait us in our closet.

[Exit King.
Cur.
(solus)
Can it be thus? indeed, indeed men wrong thee,
My mistress Fortune, when they paint thee blind!
Shew me an eagle, that, with firmest eye
Can meet the sun in his meridian march,
And I will call that eye, compar'd with thine,
The bat's that blinks at twilight: were 't not so,
Thou could'st not guide thy hardly-govern'd wheel
So evenly foreright, as now thou dost;
And swift too, as 't would fire its very axle.
O that my Sewold knew!—But truce awhile
With exultation. Pass three little hours
And I have audience of fair Argentile.
How then to act? why, as a spirit would,
Who has the magic power to shift, and turn
From visible t' invisible, as best
May suit his present purpose. Let me see her,
And in her face, I con the ready part
I have to play; the full game thus before me,
I'll win it, or I'll lose it, as I list.

Enter FALCONER.
Fal.

Where is the King's Majesty? lead me instantly to the King's Majesty's own personal presence! Mercy

on me, I have hardly breath left me to deliver that news to him which, I trust, will choak him with choler. Brave master Cup-bearer, present me unto him this moment. —There is no time to be lost, I can assure you; by this they must be at least six miles deep, look you, in the forest.

Cur.

They! say, who mean you?

Fal.

Yes, in good troth, that is a likely story; and from a man of my years and experience, who has been about court, man and boy, for full fifty years come next all-hallow tide; to expect now by one single, and, with your leave, simple question, to get such a secret out of such a man! But you are a green courtier, master Cup-bearer, and are therefore to be excused. Come, lead me to the King's Majesty; it will suffice, I trust, if I unbosom unto his Grace those I mean by my they, that are now in the forest.

Cur.

Thou art indeed an old and full-bred courtier Thus to forget—

Fal.

What! that you gave me certain angels of late to drink to your God-speed? The service for which those angels were given was conscientiously performed. Why then should the memory of the gift remain, when the cause of it is cancell'd. Nevertheless I do remember those angels so well, and the number of them, as to know that, were they increas'd in tenfold proportion, they would not purchase an answer to thy present question, though compriz'd in a tiney single syllable. Enough for thee to

know, that the secret is for royal ears, to which I command thee to lead me.

Cur.
I will lead no man to the royal presence,
Who brings unpleasant tidings.

Fal.

Thou art a shrewd stripling, that must be said for thee, having already guest so much of my secret, as to know it is no very pleasant one.

Cur.
Who then, but thee, would bear it to the King?
Was it a secret he would joy to hear,
Thy fee might chance be ample; as it is,
Trust me, he'll only pay thee with a frown,
Fitting the sort and colour of that secret.

Fal.

Why indeed I do believe it will make his Majesty swear a little.

Cur.
Surely it will—to go without his leave
By stealth, and thro' the forest. Then their rank,
Men he so much had honour'd.—

Fal.

Nay, there you are out; there is but one man in the party.

Cur.
The princess surely has not fled the court.

Fal.

Since thou dealest with the devil, I find it will be most prudent in me to make thee a party concern'd. —Know then most assuredly, that the princess has fled the court, accompanied only with old Lord Oswald.

Cur.
Death to my hopes—but art thou sure of this?

Fal.

If seeing is believing, that am I; but to tell thee the matter in form and circumstance. I was practising a tarsel at the lure, in a deep sort of a dell, some two miles

distant from the castle; where I heard a rustling of leaves in a sidelong road to the left; there, thro' the thicket, I saw the princess brush briskly on that white palfry, on which she has hawked these two last seasons; before her gallop'd Lord Oswald on his stout bay gelding, who is half brother to King Edel's Swift; that very same steed he rode on yesterday, when thou sang'st thyself into thy preferment. They made as much haste, I can assure thee, as a vile, stony, uphill, bridle-style road would suffer them. But this is not all; for, hast'ning home with my news, I met with another strong cause of suspicion that they are bent on no honest errand; for, crossing the road that leads to the west gate, I saw a smock-fac'd kind of youth, more smock-fac'd even than thyself, bless the mark, in a green doublet and hose, trudging away as fast as a pair of very spindle-shanked legs could carry him; 'twas a face I had seen before, but could not rightly tell where; nor did I recollect it till I had enter'd the castle-gate. But now I'll take my Bible oath 'twas no boy but a girl, and that girl my Lady Editha, the princess's fav'rite waiting-gentlewoman.

Cur.
Did she pursue her mistress?

Fal.

No, no, she took quite a different road, yet a footpath, that meets the other some eight miles distance: she went down the valley, whereas the princess and Lord Oswald took up the hill.

Cur.

And would'st thou bear such tidings to the King?

Fal.

Marry that would I, and must too, for they be true ones.

Cur.
Go then and meet his wrath, who didst neglect
To seize the handmaid. Go and meet his wrath
For this thy tardiness. Know'st not that the time
Thou here hast spent with me, is worse than lost:
This when he knows, he'll on thy back inflict
A stripe for every moment.

Fal.

Mercy on me! why would'st thou detain me? lead me to him directly.

Cur.
Falconer, I am thy friend. I'll point a way
Much safer than to Edel. Hence with me
This instant in pursuit of the lost princess.

Fal.

What! before we acquaint the King's Majesty of her elopement, and have his royal writ to arrest her highness?

Cur.
I grant thee, wert thou sure of such commission,
It might be well to seek it: but her flight
Once known, he will dismiss some earl or knight,
Or valorous captain, on such high pursuit,
Not thee, poor peasant; what then shall become
Of thy reward? now thou and I together
Are a full match for Oswald. Him subdued,
And Argentile recover'd, double knighthood
Will surely be our fee.

Fal.

Earl Oswald, let me tell you, tho' old, is stout and well timber'd, and may not be so easily master'd as your vanity may imagine.

Cur.
But we will raise the country to assist us,
When once we find them.

Fal.

Yes indeed, that bears some likelihood. The posse comitatus, and we at the head of them! he cannot make them all knights, and as we shall appear to be the first movers in the business, you know; and the King's patent servants before that—

Cur.
True, true, but time is precious. Haste we hence.
Lead me the way they went, and trust me, Falconer,
Soon as we find them, our reward is sure.

SCENE II.

An outer Court in the Castle.
Enter two LORDS.
F. Lord.
In these Earl Oswald's letters, briefly penn'd
The hour they took their flight, you read the sum
Of this black business; nor have now to ask
For proof more formal or of the King's baseness,
Or the Earl's honesty; ere this, I trust,
He has lodg'd the princess in some place of safety.

S. Lord.
I praise his prudence: ev'n in that loud note
I'd thunder out destruction to the tyrant,
Could words destroy him; but that calls for deeds.

F. Lord.
And deeds shall be attempted. Mark me, Sir,
Already I've bestirr'd me to this end
With hope of fair success; prompted by me,
Your cousin Aldred, captain of the guards,
Ev'n now is sowing thro' the soldiery
The seeds of hot commotion. You, my Lord,
Can boast much interest with our honest burghers,
Which might be us'd.

S. Lord.
And shall to th' full extent
Of my best faculties, for which in pledge
I lock this hand of fellowship in thine,
And swear to risk my fortune, honour, life,
In Argentile's just cause. Nor doubt I, Lord,
Before to-morrow's dawn, to head in arms
Three thousand citizens. But see the tyrant!
Let's hide our honest hate in loyal seemings,
Till execution ripens.

Enter King EDEL hastily, A Courtier and Ralph following.
EDEL.
Brings the slave
No plainer tidings?

Court.
None, my gracious Liege.

Ed.
Fellow, be brief, and tell us all thou saw'st.

Ral.

Please your Majesty, your Majesty's yeoman falconer and I, who by your Majesty's favour am his deputy, were some hours agone practising a young hawk at the lure in a place on the side of the forest called Deadman's Dell; where we saw the Princess and Earl Oswald ride hastily thro' the thick coppice on the left, just as the gentleman has inform'd your Highness. My

master, on seeing them, left me with the bird, and said he would hie him to the castle, and give your Majesty information thereof.

Ed.
And why in this did the vile traitor fail?

Ral.

Of that, please your Highness, I am innocent. All I know is, that when I had given my bird its exercise, and was returning to our lodge in the great park, I spied my master at some distance, and the young stripling with him, now your Majesty's cup-bearer.

Ed.
Ha! said'st thou he, the Danish minstrel!

Ral.

The same; but in an English forester's garb. Whereupon I was at first minded to go and ask master whether he had waited on your Highness. But when I considered that he was in company with a gentleman of such high office, it behoved me, as I thought, to keep my distance, being assured I should only gain one of my master's heaviest oaths, if not blows, in answer to my question. However, still suspecting that your Majesty might not be privy to the matter, I came forthwith to consult this gentleman, who, under your Majesty's favour, heretofore procured me my place.

Ed.
Enough, enough; come forward, good my Lords
And trusty counsellors. You see your king
Struck to the very soul at the strange flight
Of our fond niece. Young as the wanton was,
We did not think she would so far debase
Her royal lineage, as (we blush to own it)
This act declares she has.

F. Lord.
But, gracious Sov'reign,
We marvel most Earl Oswald led her forth.

Ed.
True; but we live in such a world, my Lords,
That, whoso marvels at like wickedness,
May pass thro' life, feeling no other passion
Than blank astonishment. Full well we guess
The trait'rous purpose why the Earl contriv'd
Our niece's flight; nay, we can count the sums
That Denmark long has paid into his coffers.
More at our council board will we unfold,
Whereat this evening, with our other Lords,
We bid ye to attend us.

F. Lord.
Sire, in all
Command our ready duty.

Ed.
We there mean
To take your voices, who may best supply
The throne our truant niece has vacated.
But first we'll bend us at St. Hilda's shrine,
And ask, most needful in a strait like this,
Heav'n's holy aid to guide us in our councils.

[Exeunt Edel, &c.

SCENE III.

Changes to the Vale of Hakeness; a Hermit's Cell in front near a Rivulet.
Sewold comes out of the Cell, follow'd by Edwin disguis'd as a Hermit, but without his beard.
SEWOLD.
Thanks to thy courtesy, thou reverend Seer;
For youth like thine is reverend. Solitude
And silence, inmates of this peaceful vale,
Have given thee, what a length of busy years,
Spent in the noise and turmoil of the world,
Oft fail to give, rich store of useful truths,
Well rang'd on memory's tablet. Yet I marvel,
Young Lord, what led thee in thy life's fair prime
To this so close seclusion; thou hast said,
It was not for that end, which ignorance
Misdeems religion, and I trust it was not
For that still falser end, which rankling spleen
Miscalls philosophy.

Ed.
Indeed it was not.
Yet there are ills, begot of sad mischance,
Which sacred solitude alone can cure;
And some there are, of such a stubborn sort,
As mock her powers medicinal; yet still
Where'er she fails to cure, she serves to sooth,
For this I use her opiate; ever far
From perfect remedy, yet much reliev'd
By her emollient aid.

Sew.
There is, young Lord,
Another leach, whose drugs have passing power
O'er every malady that mars the mind.
That leach is Friendship; he would probe thy wound
With tenderest hand, and, while he opens, heal.
O that my son were here! for I, alas,
Am all unequal, from discordant years,
To the sweet task! his youthful converse gay,
Mixt with soft sympathy and smiling tears,
Would lure thee to unbosom in his breast
Thy every care, and, opening thus a course
To thy pent sorrows, bid them run to waste,
Or change them into pleasures.

Ed.
Think not, Dane,
That solitude has blunted in this breast
The inborn taste for choice society,
Or that still richer relish for blest friendship,
Which Nature gives her votaries. Think not, Dane,
Quitting the world, I meant to quit that love
Instinctive, that each creature owes its kind,
And, chief of these, that man still owes to man.

Sew.
I trust indeed thou didst not.—But methinks
I hear some footstep. 'Tis perchance my son—
Ah no—my vassal Baldwin from the fleet.

Enter a DANISH SAILOR.
Sail.
My Lord, a fly-boat from yon neighb'ring port,
Its freight one seaman only, hail'd our ships;
And, when we bade him quietly approach,
Row'd sidelong to the first, and on its deck
This packet flung, and hied him back with speed.

[Sewold takes the letter, opens it, and reads.

“To the Lord Ambassador of Denmark,

Greeting.

“The unkingly manner, in which your high Embassage has been treated, by him who was bound by oath given to the dying King Adelbright to treat it with all due honour, has awaken'd much displeasure in the breast of many honest Saxons, who are at once friends to their own country and well affected to the majesty of Denmark. Amongst these no man is more strongly offended than the writer of this letter, who hereby promises, if so that your Excellency shall think meet to anchor two days longer in your present station, to convey safely to your fleet (if Heav'n favours his just design) the fair object of your embassage. Hoping that ere this shall reach your hands, he shall have already secur'd her from the wiles of the tyrant. “Signed, OSWALD.”

Ed.
Oswald!

[Starting.
Sew.
That start bespeaks you know him.

Ed.
Know him!

Sew.
Methinks I see the tears gush from your eye.
Say, Sir, I pray ye, is he of such rank
And influence in the court, that I may trust
On what he here doth promise?

Ed.
Noble Dane,
He is the very soul of honesty.
In virtue as superior as in birth,
And from that birth as high an earldom holds
As Anglia gives; his virtues are his own.
Your pardon, Sir, I cannot count the sum
Of his just praises.—Peace, my fluttering heart,
He is—but rather let me say, he was—
And yet, perchance, now he is Edel's foe,
He may be still my father.

Sew.
Say'st thou, Youth,
Thy father? then we need no more credentials.
And yet, it seems, from the disjointed phrase
That gave this to my knowledge, some harsh treatment,
Which sure to such a son—May I not press
Thy further confidence?

Ed.
To such sage ears
To tell a tale of disappointed love
Must make the teller blush: suffice to say,
That for this cause I lodg'd me in this cell;
Because, by cruel Edel's arts misled,
He frown'd on my chaste wishes; since the day
I hid me here twice has yon golden orb
Finish'd his annual round, and here did mean
To end that life in pining solitude,
I was forbid t' enjoy in virtuous love.
Yet trust me, Dane, if, as those letters speak,
The genius stern of liberty is rous'd,
And threats the tyrant's fall, this hermitage
No more shall shroud me. Trust me, noble stranger,
I'll instant list beneath fair Freedom's banners,
Eager to plant my dagger in the breast
Of her fell foe. Then farewell these hoar vestments,
And welcome helm and hawberk.

Sew.
Gallant Youth,
This zeal sits well upon thy manly front,
And soon, I deem, thy father and thy country
Will call it into action. For the moment,
I hasten to the fleet to spread new orders
Touching its further stay. My son, I hope,
Will soon be here; for this thy cell was fixt
Our place of meeting. If, ere my return,
The youth arrives, thy courtesy, I trust,
Will bid him kindly welcome.

Ed.
As a brother.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

Changes to another part of the Valley.
Enter EDITHA disguised in a Forester's Habit.
EDITHA.
Thus far, tho' long and dreary was the way,
Have I adventur'd safely; and am now
Secure from all pursuit. Yet, like the hare
That pants, and trembles, and with prick'd-up ears
Still thinks the hound is nigh, her speed had foil'd;
So do I start, and stop, and fear a foe
In every rustling breeze. The housewife, she
That with her oaten cakes and curdled cream
At yonder homely cabin late refresh'd me,
Has made me much her debtor. Heaven so smile
On this day's business, as its justice merits;
Then to the princess shall my grateful tongue
Make fair memorial of that gentle hostess.

The FALCONER appears on the Brow of a high Hill to the Left.
Fal.

What ho! young Dane, what ho! I have done my errand, the fleet lie to the south-east trimly array'd and safely anchored. What ho! do'st not hear me?

Ed.
Ye Saints defend me! sure I heard a voice.
This is no place of safety.

[Exit hastily.
Fal.

What ho! why flyest thou? Have I not done as

thou badest me? [Descending the hill.]
Murrain take him! if this young scape-gallows has not left me. What ho! Master Cup-bearer! I might as well whistle to the winds as try to recall him. O that a man of my age and sober sense should ever turn out such a fool! first, he makes me climb up a hill, as steep as a very ladder, to look out for the Danish fleet, as if the young knave (who within the year, I trust, has been many a time whipt for climbing his neighbours pear-trees) was not far fitter for such an errand. Up, however, climbs I, at the manifest risk of bursting my old lungs; does the business; spies the fleet; advertises him of it, and what get I for my trouble, but the sight of a pair of light heels, and the comfort of being left alone in a perilous wood? My only consolation is, that, being a stranger to the country, he may peradventure return here for my guidance; therefore in that expectation will I sit down and rest myself a little. Hist, hist, what rustling was that in the glen to the left! Mercy on me! Lord Oswald himself, the very man it was our business to seize. And now in the very nick of time this young traitor has left me. To attack him by myself were very madness, and yet, had I but the courage to do it, I were a made man all my life after. Now, if he were not armed—

Enter OSWALD hastily, and seizes the Falconer by the throat.
Osw.

What errand brought thee here? speak, caitiff, speak.

Fal.

O for mercy! what? speak when I am throtled! For the love of St. Hilda slacken thy gripe.

Osw.

Quit then thy staff and all thy other arms, That dagger in thy belt. Lie there, thou ruffian. [Throws him down and lifts his sword over him.
Nay, if thou stirr'st this point is in thy heart.

Fal.

Spare my life, noble Earl, spare but my life, and I'll discover the whole truth. I was decoy'd here, it is true, on the felonious intent of finding where you had bestowed the Princess Argentile.

Osw.

And dost thou own it, dastard!

Fal.

Alas! what would lying about the matter do for me? Nay, more, I was spirited up to endeavour to make seizure of your honour's person. Not that I ever meant to attempt it single-handed. The young rogue that was sworn to assist me, has left me here, like a vagabond and coward as he is. And now, having told the whole truth, let me beg on my knees—

[Offering to rise.
Osw.

Nay, if thou stirr'st!

Fal.

That frown, gracious Sir, is enough for me. O for mercy withdraw that lifted blade! only till I say one short prayer to St. Hilda, that she may intercede with your honour to spare my life.

[Oswald takes the belt that hung over the Falconer's shoulder, and with that and the quarter-staff pinions his arms.
Osw.

Now, traitor, thou art safe; I will not kill thee.

Fal.

No, noble Oswald, if thou didst, the more

would be the pity for me, and the less the profit for thyself; for thereby wouldst thou lose the knowledge of what once told, would be worth the purchase of my pardon, nay, of my freedom.

Osw.

Go to: Declare that knowledge.

Fal.

Would you, Sir, be pleased to climb yonder hill with me, I would show your honour a sight would do you good to see; for I am shrewdly out of my politics, if he, that has run away from one king, would not be very fain to put himself under the protection of another.

Osw.

What mean'st thou, knave?

Fal.

Nothing, please your worship, but this: That whereas in your present condition, craving your pardon, you are liable to be taken up for a—(I will not name the word, it is so hardly favoured) you might by my honest assistance find safer refuge for yourself, than these old oaks and underling briars will be long able to afford you. Now the Danish fleet being at present within hailing—

Osw.

Sayst thou the Danish fleet? and not yet sail'd!

Fal.

I say it, Sir, and swear it to boot; for I saw it just now with these eyes, lying snug at anchor in a bay under the other side of that cliff.

Osw.

Ha! this is news indeed; my royal charge Is then secure. I'll haste to lead her thither.

[Exit hastily.
Fal.

Nay, for mercy's sake, for the sake of all honour and justice, take off these gyves first, and let me follow!

Heugh! a lad of sixteen would not have gone off much more nimbly. He is as quick at the work, as my late honest friend and companion the Cup-bearer. Honesty, there is no such thing now-a-days in the world! Youth and age, sixteen and sixty, makes no difference as to that matter. I am right serv'd for not bargaining better for my liberty, before I told my secret; and nothing, but the manifest fear of death before my eyes, absolves me from the title and stile of mere driveller. All I have now to do is to waddle up and down the forest, like a yoked gander, till some pitiful forester (if there be pity in the kind) sets me at liberty; in the hope of which I now begin my pilgrimage.

[Exit Falconer.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Another Part of the Valley.
Enter ARGENTILE in the dress of a Shepherdess.
ARGENTILE.
Welcome, these russet weeds, this pastoral crook,
More welcome than the sceptre and the train!
These are the simple 'tire that Nature meant
Her votaries should wear; sweet smiling Health,
And Happiness, and Peace, her holy sisters,
Never wore other, when, in better days,
They deign'd to dwell with mortals. Hail, thrice hail,
Thou solitary scene! how far beyond
The pageantry of courts thy stillness charms!
This grove my sighs shall consecrate; in shape
Of some fair tomb, here will I heap the turf,
And call it Adelbright's. Yon aged yew,
Whose rifted trunk, rough bark, and knarled roots
Give solemn proof of its high antientry,
Shall canopy the shrine. There's not a flower,
That hangs the dewy head and seems to weep,
As pallid blue bells, crow-toes, and marsh lilies,
But I'll plant here; and, if they chance to wither,
My tears shall water them: there's not a bird
That trails a sad soft note, as ringdoves do,
Or twitters painfully like the dun martlet,
But I will lure, by my best art, to roost
And plain them in these branches. Larks and finches
Will I fright hence, nor aught shall dare approach
This pensive spot, save solitary things
That love to mourn, as I do.

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Gracious Mistress!
I come with news.

Arg.
Is Editha then found?

Osw.
I know not that—

Arg.
Alas! why would'st thou mock me?

Osw.
The Danes, the Danes are still upon our coast;
I learn'd the tidings of a treacherous spy,
Whom I disarm'd and bound; and hast'ning back
Mounted yon hill, where I myself beheld
Their goodly fleet, some fifteen sail or more,
Moor'd in a neighb'ring creek. Pitch'd on the beach
Stood there a gallant tent, where, I not doubt,
The Envoy sojourns. Let me bear you quickly
To his protection; for, I fear me much,
Discov'ry waits us here.

Arg.
No, Oswald, no;
Till Editha be found I will not leave
This secret nook. Didst thou not promise me
To hie thee where the parting road might chance
Mislead her step?

Osw.
I did; but this event—
O let me instant lead you to the strand!

Arg.
What, Oswald! and forego the plighted word
I gave poor Editha! Here did I fix
Our place of meeting; Holy truth forbid
I should deceive her! Haste thee hence again.
Till her I see, I can resolve on nothing.
Take thou the valley, I myself will mount
Yon sidelong hill. My eye is younger, Earl,
And may descry her sooner. This when try'd,
Some two hours hence we'll meet at this same yew.
Let's lose no time; nay, answer not, good Oswald,
But to the search. To-morrow thou shalt rule,
If she be found to day. Heav'n speed thy errand.

SCENE II.

Another Part of the Valley.
Enter CURAN in a Forester's habit.
CURAN.
How have the mazy tangles of this wood
Misled my steps! since he, the faithless Falconer,
If faithless, or perchance himself misled,
Left me to journey with unguided foot
Thro' this wild wilderness. The opening vale
Now spreads a broader path; yet, ere I take it,
Tir'd as I am, I'll climb this rocky steep,
Which towers so high that it insures a sight
Of the broad sea. Methinks I'm near it now;
For on my breast the gale beats light and keen,
And has withal a smack of brine upon it,
That seems as freshly stolen from the wave.
I hope 'tis so; for much my strength is spent
With this long ramble. By your leave, fair bank!
Ere I mount further up this rugged hill,
I'll press awhile your violets and daisies
With my tir'd limbs. What if I sleep awhile?
This white thorn brake will screen me, and the brook,
That babbles at its foot, persuades to it
Most musically; prattle on, cool neighbour!
I'll take thy council, and forget my care. [He sleeps.
Enter ARGENTILE.

Not here! full sure I saw from yonder heights
My Editha, in her green huntsman's tire,
Bolt from the coppice. It was all too distant
To mark her features, yet it sure was she;
For they, the boorish inmates of these hamlets,
Have none so gentle carriage. I'll not holla,
Lest haply I affright her. 'Tis most certain
She past by this same dingle. Gracious Powers
And here I find her couch'd; her faithful head
Wrapt in her scanty mantle! poor spent wench,
How fast does sleep infold thee! It were sin
To break thy slumbers. I will sit, and watch thee,
As oft thy faithfulness, in better days,
Has bended o'er my pillow. How her eye
Will glisten when she wakes! How will it start,
With a glad tear, to see her mistress near her!
Yes, the kind maid will weep. I crave thy pardon,
Thou'rt now a lusty yeoman, and in truth
Thy goat-skin belt, tagg'd with thy bugle horn,
And all thy forest geer become thee mainly:
Nay, thou might'st pass (thy softer features shrouded
Thus as they are) full well for what thou art not.
Yet, my best Editha, this rugged stone
Seems but a churlish bolster! I will raise
Thy head, and—Mercy shield me, ha!

[Starts back while Curan wakes.
Cur.
Where am I?
Methought some angel whisper'd me, and wak'd me:
I see it still, but ah! it flies; stay! stay!
Divinest vision, that e'er blest my slumbers;
'Tis not a vision, for I grasp her hand!
But yet a warmth, a softness all cœlestial
Thrills at the touch. O speak, thou wond'rous creature,
And tell me what thou art!

Arg.
An innocent maid,
That took thee for another like herself.
Forgive the crime of error; quit my hand,
Or I shall faint thro' fear.

Cur.
Why dost thou tremble,
Thou matchless paragon? by all the Saints
Thou art as safe—as sacred—

Arg.
But not free,
While thus you seize my hand.

Cur.
Thy pardon, Fairest!
It was a boldness nothing, but the fear
Of losing thee, could prompt, and for that boldness
Such fear must plead excuse. Dost thou forgive?

Arg.
I do, if so you suffer me to leave you.

Cur.
Stay but a moment. I'm a wand'ring youth,
Whom the wild mazes of this wood misled:
You must, for very charity, direct
My witless step.

Arg.
Where art thou bound?

Cur.
I know not.
There would I bide, where I could tend on you,
And call you my heart's idol.

Arg.
Cease, bold Youth!
I must not hear thee.

Cur.
Thou would'st hear, fair Nymph,
All this and more from him, that happy youth,
For whom while slumb'ring here it was so late
Thy error, and my bliss, that I should pass.
O for the wealth of this, and ev'ry isle
The broad sea circles; I would give it all
To be that youth!

Arg.
In sooth you wrong me, Stranger,
I know none such.

Cur.
Indeed!

Arg.
Or if I do,
'Tis one whom, finding, I should call my brother,

Cur.
Would I were then that brother! No, not that;
It is too cold a wish; can brothers feel
That throbbing extacy, that trembling ardor,
That wraps me from myself, fires all my soul,
And tells me thou art dearer far than sister,
Father, or friend, dearer than life itself?

Arg.
Ah! hope not, Youth, tho' practis'd as thou seem'st,
More than enough, in all those flattering arts
That false men use to guile unwary maids;
Hope not to win my credence to a tale
So palpable and gross: we are but now,
Some moments past, first met, and me thou lov'st
(Shame on thy fabling tongue) dearer than life.

Cur.
I do, and call the sweet celerity,
With which I love, best witness of its truth.
Say, I had seen thee once (if possible)
And but approv'd thy beauties; if at second,
Third, or some after meeting, love had grown
From that approof, I then had school'd my heart,
And question'd its tame motions, call'd in Judgment
To weigh in her slow scale the due degree
Of my cool passion. No, thou sylvan wonder,
I saw thee, and I lov'd without one pause
'Twixt sight and love; and I must love thee ever,
Because I lov'd so soon.

Arg.
And do I stay
To hear thee?

Cur.
Why not stay? the blessed spirits,
That rove yon realms of light, might deign descend
To hear a tale of love so chaste as mine,
And bear their saintly purity to heav'n
Unsullied as it came.

Arg.
Was I, like them,
Secure from mortal frailness, trust me, Youth,
I would not bid thee peace; but as I am
A simple maid, whose very simpleness
Makes her (so set with snares is this bad world)
Only the readier prey, I must not hear thee;
Indeed I must not. Fare thee well, good Youth!
A gentle one thou seem'st, and, sooth to say,
Such as, if chance had fixt thee in this vale
My rural neighbour, I had been well pleas'd
To call a friend,

Cur.
O! call me so, sweet Maid,
And I will ever—

Arg.
Hear me out, kind stranger,
I said, had chance so fixt thee, and withal
Had'st thou with that same rustic shamefac'dness
Demean'd thyself as simple shepherds use,
Nor dar'd to talk, but of our flocks and herds,
Or healing roots, their properties, and powers,
And which is found on hills, which loves to dip
Its tendrils on the stream—which flaunts on meads,
And such like innocent themes—but this thy rashness,
Not to say boldness, now has all undone,
And therefore must I leave thee.

Cur.
Stay thee, Nymph,
Or let me follow thee!

Arg.
I have an uncle,
With whom I dwell, who, should he meet thee, Youth,
Would chide thy frowardness.

Cur.
Ah! let him chide,
So thou but pitiest me.

Arg.
And canst thou hope it?

Cur.
Ah! why not hope from thee, what I might hope
From yon bright throne of mercy? pity thence
Falls on the penitent. Forgive then, fairest,
This first offence; and tho' I love thee still
To desperation—do not fly—my tongue
Shall ne'er again declare it. Stay, my Fair,
I'll talk alone of flocks, and flowers, and herbs,
So thou but listen me: and art thou gone?
I dread thy frown as death, yet more than death
I dread thy absence; therefore I'll pursue thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Changes to another Part of the Valley near the Hermitage.
Enter EDITHA followed by the FALCONER.
EDITHA.
Begone, false traitor! blessings on the man,
Whoe'er he be, that shackled thus thy arms!
Unbind them, ruffian? no, justice forbids
Thy suit, and prudence too. I will not aid thee.

Fal.

Nay sweet, dear lady, untie but this one hard knot, that cramps my wrist so miserably, (was I to tell her that Lord Oswald tied it 't would stand me but in small stead, therefore I'll hide that part of the story) [aside]
now for mercy's sake, most gentle lady (for that fair face of your's bespeaks you to be a gentle lady, far more truly than my rough one declares me a false traitor) do but suffer your white hands to condescend to so charitable an office, and I will follow you ever after thro' this dreary wilderness, like a tame spaniel; nay, on occasion, be your bold mastiffe, to defend you from wrong and robbery.

Ed.
O my disastrous fate! I've miss'd the path,
Pursued by this vile spy of wicked Edel.
Whither to turn I know not, or how drive
This miscreant from me. Ha! a hut is near:
The hallow'd rood fixt on its thatched top
Speaks it the cell of some sage solitary.
What if I seek asylum for a while
Beneath his lonely roof! The good old man,
For Christian charity, will guide me hence,
When my spent limbs have rested me awhile.
Nay, he perchance, in pity to my case,
May force this knave to leave me. [Raps at the door of the Cell.

Holy Sir!
A young and toil-worn traveller invokes
Your aid, and from your saintly orisons
Is fain to steal a moment, not mispent,
If giv'n in charity to help the wretched.
He answers not. He is not in the cell.
Yet thro' this wicker grate I spy his beads,
His book, and lamp, the oil yet burning in it.
Let me attempt the latch: it is not barr'd;
He cannot be far off. I'll venture in.

Fal.

Now that would not I do for a King's ransom; for should she in his absence venture but to touch his breviary or any of his holy geer, she may chance be struck with a dead palsey for the sacrilege. I have often heard of such misadventures. I shall however take no harm, I trust, if I stand here at this due distance and watch the upshot. But here comes the old hermit, and a fine long, white, venerable beard is he blest withal; eighty years growth, I'll warrant it: Yet walks he withal as upright as a wand. This comes of temperance

and spare diet! I shall never look half so well at his years.

Enter EDWIN.
Ed.
I've trod yon path in vain. The Envoy's son,
I look'd, must have been here by early dawn,
And now the golden sun has half-way reach'd
His noontide summit. Some mischance, I fear—
Who have we here? His face I know full well,
'Tis the King's Falconer; there be spies abroad.
Who art thou, Yeoman, and what ruffian hand
Has thus enthrall'd thee?

Fal.

Alas! holy Father, we live in such bad times, that nobles may be called ruffians, acting as thou seest, thus ruffian like. In few words, I am neither more nor less than his Majesty's Yeoman Falconer, come hither, I trow, on no disloyal errand, but to detect disloyalty in the person of a certain great Earl, who, for reasons best known to himself, has feloniously decoy'd from our court the fair Princess Argentile. I have already, ev'n under the hinderance of these vile gyves, found means to come up with one stray kid of the flock, namely the Lady Editha.

Ed.
Stupendous chance! and where—

Fal.

Now, would your holiness please to untie these bonds and lend me the key of your cell, I would instantly make her my prisoner, for in that cell have I kennel'd her.

Ed.
The Lady Editha, and in my cell;
Say'st thou in very truth?

Fal.

Nay, was you to see her, you might chance to think me a liar; for her present humour is to man it in a green jerkin and hose, but I spy'd her thro' all her disguises; therefore would'st thou but assist me in detaining her 'twould be the making of us both; as for your sanctity, I could promise in the king's name to dub you an abbot: for myself, as being no clerk, I shall be content with simple knighthood.

Ed.
Peace, fellow, peace. Let me reflect awhile—
It must not be. This meeting is too sudden;
It might o'ercome her spirits; yet to hide
My transports much exceeds a mortal's power.
O you, ye radiant tutelary Powers,
That rule our destinies, arm, arm my soul
With your own prudence! make me for a while
That old and wither'd anchorite I seem!
Chill the warm tide of joy, that boils within me!
Be all my passions mortified and dead,
Till reason bids them wake to life and rapture!
It is resolved. I still will be disguis'd.
Now to the interview—Villain, approach not!
If thou but stirr'st one step nearer yon threshold,
I've spells within shall shrivel up thy limbs,
As lightning blasts the oak!

[Exit Edwin.
Fal.

Yes truly, and I doubt it not; for there be many of these solitaries, who, holy as they may seem, amuse themselves now and then with as unhallowed a trade as downright witchcraft. Now, if the sight of a young

wench in that lonely place should conjure up a devil in his own breast! But 'tis ill talking of the devil; see where he comes—

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Knave, are we met again?

Fal.

In sooth, noble Sir, this second meeting was none of my seeking, whatever the first was; and ev'n then I never wish'd to meet you single-handed.

Osw.
I then indeed did leave my work half done;
I now will finish it. Thy feet no longer
Shall crawl at large; they too shall have their fetters.

Fal.

Have ye no bowels? this exceeds the barbarity of a Turk or an infidel. Help, good father, help! will you see a good Christian murder'd in the very purlieus of your holy place?

Re-enter EDWIN.
Ed.
What bloody business, in the face of day,
Does the arch fiend of darkness now attempt,
To stain our holy sanctuary? avaunt!
Whate'er thou art. (Just Heav'ns, it is my father!
This day doth teem with wonders) [Aside.

Gracious beard,
Conceal me from his knowledge! [Aside.

Whence? what art thou,
That thus, in fierce and menacing act, assault'st
This peaceful traveller?

Osw.
I know him, Seer,
To be a villain, and a dangerous spy.
I am an honest yeoman, and I bide
I' th' neighb'ring valley.

Fal.

'Tis I, good sir Hermit, that am the honest yeoman, and he, saving his nobility, no better than a false—

Osw.
Be silent, knave, or this avenging blade
Shall nail thy tongue fast in thy traitor jaws.
Poor coward, may'st thou hope that this same hermit,
Thus old, thus palsied, if he dar'd to aid thee,
Could shield thee from my fury!

Fal.

Why indeed it must needs be said, when one feels that plaguy strong twist of your honour's wrist, that one cannot have much hope of that in a natural way; but if he was so minded, being a holy man, he might by his prayers—and yet after all, it may be as well now at once to yield to thee at discretion.

[Oswald binds his feet.
Ed.
Take not his life.

Osw.
I do not mean it, Father.
I'll but secure the knave from further mischief.

Fal.

Look ye, my Lord, noble yeoman I mean, whatever mischief might have been in my intention, as we are all sinners you know, I have done you none in practice. I told you one piece of news, you know, that pleas'd you so much, that you pinion'd my arms for it, and now that you have shackled my legs I could tell you another, that would please you still better. But this I do not mean, unless you will set both at their liberty.

Osw.
Give me thy news, and let me judge its worth.

Fal.

Know then, that the princess's gentlewoman is— but will you in very deed promise me my freedom?

Ed.
There is no need. I without fee will speak
The rest; she now is lodg'd in yonder cell.

Fal.

Methinks now, master Hermit, you might, in charity to my pitiful plight, have suffer'd me to make some small profit by my own secret.

Osw.
Haste, call her forth.

Ed.
Alas, Sir, long fatigue
Has much exhausted her too tender frame!
Ev'n now my skill was charitably bent
On brewing cordials, which might best restore
Her strength and spirits.

Osw.
Trust me, holy Father,
I am her best physician. Lead me to her.

Ed.
Wait but a little hour.

Osw.
No, I must see
Her instantly; for she is dear to me.

Ed.
Dear to thee! O repeat the blessed word!
What has my rashness utter'd?

[Aside, having through joy altered his voice into its natural tone in the preceding line.
Osw.
Sure that voice—
And yet it cannot be; Heav'ns, how I tremble!
It pierc'd my very soul! surely it came
Thro' the thin air, not from his aged organs;
But still it was the voice of my lost Edwin.

[Leaning against the side of a rock.
Ed.
Hence with disguise! it was indeed thy Edwin's;
For thou hast call'd him thine.

[Pulling off his beard.
Osw.
This is too much! [Falling into his Son's arms.

Strengthen me, Heav'n, to bear it!

Ed.
O my Father!

Osw.
My Son, my Son, words cannot speak my transport!
Lead me into thy mansion.

Ed.
Pause a while,
And bless me on this spot with your forgiveness;
Or on this spot again reject your son!

Osw.
Reject thee, Edwin!

Ed.
Yes, Sir, here this instant!
Nay take the very life-blood, which ye gave me,
But take it here; for Editha as yet
Knows not I live, therefore she will not weep.

Osw.
But she shall weep, and weep such tears as these.
See how they course, my Boy, down these old cheeks!
Dost pardon me, Edwin? I see thou dost.
Thy Editha is thine; this hand shall join you.
Let's to the happy business. Haste, my Son,
This is a meeting of that wond'rous sort,
As seems contrived by holier agents far
Than common chance.

Ed.
It is, and my full soul
Piously thanks their holy agency.
Yet, Sir, if I reveal myself thus rashly
To tender Editha, I fear me much—

Osw.
Fear nothing, Son! at such a fateful time
He acts the best, who acts upon the sudden,
And is but engine to the purposes
Of those supernal workers, who disdain
The aid of our weak reason; nay, perchance,
May frown if it submits not to their guidance.
—But who comes here?

Enter a DANE.
Dane.
The Danish envoy, Father,
Commends him to your benizon, and asks
For tidings of his son.

Ed.
Hence, Sir, with speed,
And tell him, tho' that son be not return'd,
I shall full soon attend him at his tent
With news of special moment. [Exit Dane.

I not doubt, [To Oswald.

The princess, Sir, is lodg'd in safety near us.

Osw.
She is—and soon as I have seen my daughter.—

Ed.
O, Sir, this goodness overcomes me wholly!
What shall I do or say?

Osw.
Follow me, Boy,
Into the cell. A moment there shall show
How kindly I will own her for my child,
How make her thine for ever. Then, my Son,
I'll with thee to the strand, salute the Envoy,
And plan, while Heav'n beholds us with a smile,
How best to avenge the wrongs of Argentile.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Scene on the Sea-Shore, at the Entrance of the Ambassador's Tent, with the Danish Fleet lying at anchor.
Enter SEWOLD with an OFFICER.
SEWOLD.
Say'st thou, not yet return'd? Away with hope!
It cannot be but some untoward chance
Has foil'd his cunning; haply the poor Prince,
Fetter'd and famish'd in some loathsome dungeon,
Calls me to succour him. He shall not call
In vain. Haste, Gothmund; disembark the troops,
I'll lead them to the Castle. [Exit Officer.

Coming thus
In menacing guise, with such an armament,
Suddenly on the king, he must, thro' fear,
Give up my royal charge. Yet must I still
Conceal his lineage, lest the tyrant prove
Unwilling to give up a prize so precious.
Meanwhile, if Oswald brings the princess here,
Who shall receive her?—Hark! the sound of steps,
Haply the Prince—No 'tis the youthful hermit.

Enter OSWALD and EDWIN.
Ed.
Heav'n and its peace protect thee, noble Dane!
Behold a Saxon, who, tho' mean in garb,
Is rich in blood and honour. He comes fraught
With tidings, that import thee much to know.
Admit him quickly to thy tent.

Sew.
As friends,
I pray ye, enter both.

Ed.
Not so, my Lord
I'll wait without. His private business told,
If it then seem thee meet to use my service,
Ev'n to its best that service shall be your's.

Sew.
I thank thee, and retire.

[Exeunt Sewold and Oswald.
Ed.
Indulgent stars!
Thus far beyond all hopes your fav'ring aspect
Has crown'd my wish. The mistress of my soul,
My Editha is mine! A father's smile
Gives sanction to our loves. What now remains,
But that, obsequious to the call of justice,
We spirit up the Dane to quell the tyrant?
And see, full well I deem to aid our purpose,
Forth from the swelling sides of yon proud vessel
An armed band is pour'd; another yet,
And yet a third yields up her martial burthen!
Enter OFFICER and SOLDIERS.
I'll hail their leader—Benedicite,
Brave Warrior! may a peaceful anchorite,
Unus'd to sights like these, ask with due deference
Wherefore ye quit your anchor'd ships, and why,
Your bright helms glittering to the golden sun,
Ye march in shew of dread hostility?

Offi.
Lord Sewold, Envoy of illustrious Denmark,
So wills.

Ed.
And may I crave your numbers, valiant Dane?

Offi.
Five thousand strong: Men whose try'd hardihood
Full oft have cop'd with twice that number, Father,
Unfoil'd; for never yet on hostile shore
Did they descend, but Victory sat and smil'd
Cresting their sable raven. Trust me, Seer,
This is no wordy vaunt.

Ed.
I will not think it;
For, to my judgment, never march'd a train,
Whose noble bearings more bespoke their prowess.
Each common bowman treads with that firm step,
Might fit a spearman.

Offi.
Hermit, thou say'st well;
For these be men cull'd from our veteran troops
To honour what was meant an embassage
Of peace and amity; but now, it seems,
We must to our old trade, to blows and bloodshed.
We know our craft. You, Captain, to the right;
You to the left, and wedge in closer file.
Now mount the raven, bid the trumpet speak.

Ed.
Transporting sound! the glorious clangor thrills
Thro' every nerve. Off with these weeds of sloth!
I am, I feel myself once more a soldier!

[Throws off his disguise and appears in armour.
Offi.
Hah! what is this my hoary beadsman chang'd
To a stout well-arm'd champion? by your leave,
Young butterfly just broke from wint'ry slough,
I mean to pinch your wings. Guards, seize the spy!

Ed.
Off, Sirs, and know me for the friend of Denmark!

Offi.
A foe might say as much; but where's the Dane
Would take him at his word? Art not a Saxon?

Ed.
I am.

Offi.
And therefore, stubborn Sir, my prisoner—

Ed.
I cannot blame thy caution, plain-tongu'd soldier;
Therefore, till noble Sewold quits his tent,
I yield me patiently.

Offi.
Patience on choice,
Or force, it matters not; thou must be patient:
Yet, if Lord Sewold owns thee for his friend,
Thy durance will be short, for see he comes!

Enter OSWALD and SEWOLD.
Osw.
This is a gallant sight, it glads my soul—
But where is Edwin?

Ed.
Here, Sir, and, if freed,
Ready to serve the Dane, and in that duty
My father, queen, and country.

Sew.
What is this? [Seeing Edwin detained by the Guards.

Release him, guards, and let me clasp his valour.
Know, Earl, while yet this son was lost to thee,
He was my courteous host, and in his prudence,
Join'd with his heritage of thy known honour,
I so confide, that, let him give the word,
And I, and all these veterans will obey
His brave behests. Behold, ye men of Denmark,
Into the valiant grasp of this young Lord
I place my staff of office! Denmark's weal
Prompts me to this: as second in command,
Be it my pride to join him. Sound the clarion,
And hail brave Edwin general.

[Flourish and shout.
Ed.
Noble Dane!
Thou shalt not find this weighty trust repos'd
In idle hands. My deeds shall speak my thanks.
My Father—need I to remind your care
Of absent Editha?

Osw.
I'll go, my Son,
And lodge her safely with her royal mistress:
Yet, ere I go, thus let me clasp thee to me,
And call down blessings with a father's favour
On thy dear head, thy troops, and their just cause.
Yet mark me, Son, when secret thou hast brought
These veterans near the walls, I deem it best
Thou should'st dismiss some trusty spy to Aldred,
Our honour'd kinsman, captain of the guards;
So, on the instant when thy valour spreads
Th' assault without, he, by revolt within,
May seize the citadel: this, if thou dost,
(And to this end my letters have prepar'd him)
Success is certain.

Ed.
I will lay the council
Close to my heart. Thy blessing, Father! Now,
Envoy, I'm thine. Come on, ye Danish lions,
I'll lead you to your prey! A wily tyrant
Shall fall beneath the fangs of your just vengeance,
Tame as the coward stag!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

A Cottage in another part of the Valley.
Out of a Wood on one side enter CURAN.
[CURAN]
There in yon copse beneath a spreading elm,
The night did pass upon my slumbering head,
And scatter'd, as she went, from her dun wing
Full many a dream; wild and disjointed all,
Yet pleasing: for they all, in colours bright
Of heaven's own pencilling, did picture her,
Whom only heav'n can image. Now, methought,
A visionary bark with streamers gay,
Its oars still beating time to warbling harps,
Bore us to Denmark. Sudden now the scene
Was shifted, and a cot mantled with joy
Was all our kingdom; yet we there seem'd crown'd
With more than kingly blessings. At the dawn
I rose, and shook the night-dew from my vest,
Then from yon meadow with attentive care
I cull'd the choicest flowers for scent or hue,
And wove them in this garland. When my fair one
Quits yonder homely cabbin, (far, alas!
Too homely to enshrine so rich a saint)
This path she needs must take. Here then I'll drop
The fragrant pledge, in hope that she may bless
Its weaver by the wearing. To my wish
The wicket opens; 'tis her lovely self!
She comes, she comes! Thou friendly thicket shroud me. [He retires.
Enter ARGENTILE.

Alas! alas! the morn is far advanc'd,
And yet no tidings come of loyal Oswald,
Or my dear Editha. What's this, a chaplet?
Not the dear Maid herself could better sort
Its hues, or with more careless grace combine.
I'll place it on my brow. But let me pause;
No rustic hand has thus arrang'd these buds,
This is no forest workmanship. It claims
A nicer weaver. I might guess and come
Near to the mark of truth, if I pronounc'd
That comely youth its maker, who of late
So long address'd my too indulgent ear.
A forester he seem'd, yet sure his phrase
Spoke him of gentle lineage. Blushing blooms;
There may be guileful snakes hid in your perfume:
I dare not use your decking. Lie thou there,
Sweet wreath; and may some happier maid, with brow
Unshent by care, adopt your gay adornings;
They suit not with my sadness.

CURAN, starting from the Thicket.
Cur.
So, sweet Maid,
Ev'n so, as that fair hand discards my wreath,
Your cruel heart disdains my constancy!

Arg.
I did not err. Go, Youth, take back thy flowers,
Fit emblem of thy sexes constancy.
Both are but born to fade.

Cur.
Thus to decide
Is all too harsh a sentence. If on me
Thy frown inflicts it, thou shalt find it false,
Ev'n tho' for life impos'd.

Arg.
Go, flattering Stranger,
And sooth some simpler damsel with the tale.
Thy truth or falshood to my absent ear
Will be the same; reckless alike of both.

Cur.
Wert thou a queen, as well thy beauty merits,
Thou would'st rejoice to rule o'er loyal subjects;
Ev'n if those subjects ne'er approach'd thy throne.
I am thy beauty's vassal, Shroud it from me,
I am thy vassal still. Thy frowns or smiles
May load my vassalage, or make it easy;
Yet still thou art its sov'reign.

Arg.
Fabling Youth,
Each quaint allusion in thy speech bewrays
The glossing courtier. The true forester,
Who to the turtle's truth compar'd his own,
Or match'd his wailings with the nightingale's,
Would to my ear his suit more aptly move,
And more pathetical, than thy forc'd phrase
Set out with royal trimmings. Hie thee hence
To some throng'd city. Woo some noble virgin,
May relish better with accustomed ear
Thy talk of queens and vassals. I the while
Will tend my little flock in this still vale,
List'ning their rural bleating.

Cur.
Sylvan wonder,
Know, tho' no inmate of these neighb'ring hamlets,
I have a soul can taste all rural pleasures,
With thee would court them as the choicest blessing
Heaven has in store for mortals, or what next
To thy fair self was precious! Try me, sweet one!
See with what nimble zeal on yonder cliffs
I'll seek thy straggling lambs! at close of day
How safely pen them in their hurdled cotes?
At night how guard them from the prowling wolf?
Then ever and anon at sultry noon
Shalt thou, o'er-canopied by thickest shade,
Recline on this true bosom; while I breathe
Light roundelays upon my oaten reed,
And lull thee to sweet slumbers. Try me, Fairest;

Arg.
No more, soft Youth; picture not scenes of bliss,
Which, if in very truth thou deem'd'st them such,
With me thou ne'er must share. Have I not said
My uncle is a stern man and austere?
He will not match me with thy alien birth.

Cur.
“The old have interest ever in their eye;”
So says a well-prov'd proverb. Trust me, Virgin,
I can a dowery bring will soon o'ercome
His scruples, tho' when poiz'd against thy worth
The weightiest ingots of each Indian mine
Would lightly kick the beam.

Arg.
Indeed, indeed,
My heart is much to blame thus to prolong
This tender converse; yet, I know not how,
There is a kind of music in his voice,
And such a melting mildness in his eye—
O that I ne'er had seen him!

[Aside.
Cur.
Turn thee, Nymph!
Still let those eyes shed their sweet radiance on me!
I live but by thy smiles. The jealous flower,
In its true yellow livery, that still turns
Where the sun flames, watching his burning course,
Then nightly droops the head, as he declines,
Best parallels my passion.

Arg.
Gentle Youth,
Thou hast no cause to droop, when I am gone,
As now perforce I must. What if, while absent,
I dar'd to impose one friendly office on thee?

Cur.
O bless me with the errand!

Arg.
I have said,
I seek a long-lost brother; could'st thou find him?
He pairs thee in complexion, dress, and size,
Save somewhat more of slender. Nay, so much
Alike, thou know'st I lately took thee for him.
He journeys from the north along the flats.
Could'st thou from any neighb'ring cliff detect
The wand'rer's step, and lead him to this cottage,
My smiles should thank thee.

Cur.
Let me press that hand
With these chaste lips, and instant I am gone.
For such another bliss, my willing toil
Would plough the stormy main.

[Exit Curan.
Arg.
If he succeeds
He brings me back my friend, that friend, erewhile,
Had with her brought my peace; but now, alas!
I fear me much the better half is lodg'd
In other hands; yet those are gentle too—
Poor Argentile! how wayward is thy fate!—
I'll to the grove and weep.

[Exit Argentile.

SCENE III.

Scene changes to the Hermit's Cell.
Enter EDITHA from within; the FALCONER at some distance laid on the ground asleep.
EDITHA.
This is a painful pause; and joy and fear
Rule it by turns in my distracted bosom!
Perhaps, ev'n now the Princess, steep'd in tears,
Laments me lost: Perhaps my late-found love,
Now lost to me again, in civil broils
Hazards his dearest life. O Patience, Patience!
Grac'd, as I am, with Heav'n's unhop'd for favours,
Let me not drive thee hence, who still from heav'n
Call'st down fresh favours on the trusting wretch,
That hugs thee in her bosom. Whence that noise!
'Tis but the sleeping falconer's noisy drone.
Sleep on, thou meddling knave. I need not fear thee.

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Health to thee, Virgin, and a length of days
Prosperous as this beginning! I return
To lead you to our queen.

Ed.
Dread Earl, your son
Did say—

Osw.
He did, that with me he'd return;
But business more important, (thanks to Heav'n)
Detains him for a while. Thy lover, lady,
Is now the Danish general.

Ed.
O my fears!

Osw.
Say, dost thou fear? trust me, I too should fear,
If I could call his mother's truth in question;
But he is mine, legitimately mine,
And cannot play the coward. Yes, my Edwin,
Thou'lt lop the tyrant's head; I nothing doubt it.
Come on, and in our way to Argentile
Thou shalt hear more. But first I'll give this spy
His liberty. [Unties the Falconer.

Rise, Falconer, get thee hence!
Go tell thy master thou hast found i'the forest
A nest of traitors. Tell him where they're hid,
And gain a traitor's guerdon for thy tidings.
Haste on, dear Editha.

[Exit, pushing out the Falconer.
Ed.
I do, Sir, tremblingly.

SCENE IV.

Changes near to Argentile's Cottage.
Enter CURAN.
Enter ARGENTILE to him hastily.
Arg.
Careless Youth!
Return'd so soon! return'd without my brother!
False one, thou ne'er hast sought him.

Cur.
Far as eye
Could from yon beetling brow detect a gull,
So far these eyes have pierc'd, nor saw one glimpse
Of human face. But hopeless is the chance,
That he, who lost himself is only found
Where thou art present, fitly e'er should use
Those faculties thy absence takes away:
For, absent when thou art, tyrannic fancy
Seizes my sight, and fixes in each orb
Thy image only. If I spy a rose,
It is thy blushing cheek; a crystal rill,
It is thy sparkling eye. Each element;
Fire, water, air, are tinctur'd with thy features.
Gods! she is mute; no sympathetic sigh
Gives murmuring proof, that she approves my passion.
Why is it thus, O ye remorseless Powers!
I've heard that love was ever eloquent;
That tongues, how rude soe'er, nay, that dumb eyes
Inspir'd by love could speak as plain as tongues,
And more persuasively. If this were true,
My eyes, my cheeks, each feature had been vocal,
And told their tale with such sweet energy
It must have been believed. They mock'd me much
Who told me this; for I have no such powers.

Arg.
Thou hast, too eloquent Youth! indeed thou hast!

Cur.
No, not enough to gain me the cold credence,
I love beyond expression.

Arg.
Think not so:
I do believe thou lov'st me.

Cur.
So believing,
Canst thou then cruelly reject that love,
Because 'tis offer'd by a nameless lover?
I heretofore did boast that I was rich;
That boast did fail to move thee. To say more,
Know, that my birth is noble. Will that truth
Avail me? will my fairest meet my wishes,
When I declare this hand, this heaving heart,
That sue to join in marriage bonds with hers,
Are ev'n of royal lineage?

Arg.
Ha! what say'st thou?

Cur.
That I'm a Prince; and yet so much I love thee,
I'll bear my sweet, my simple shepherdess
Swift to my father's court, make her my bride,
Clothe her in gold and purple: orient pearls,
'Stead of those meadow flowers, shall braid her hair.
Good Heav'ns! she weeps. Is it a cause for tears,
That thou behold'st thus prostrate at thy feet
A heart and crown offer'd by Denmark's heir!

Arg.
By Denmark's heir!

Cur.
Yes, to the Saxon court
He came disguis'd to see its beauteous Princess;
(For beauteous, fame had boasted her to be)
How, in that aim, his various efforts fail'd
Imports but little. He has seen in thee
What makes all beauty homely, save thy own.

Arg.
Heav'ns! is this true?

Cur.
It is by all the Powers
That rule our destinies! they mock at pride.
Princes and peasants their impartial scale
Holds all in equal balance! 'tis their sport
To teach the vain possessors of such toys,
As wealth and birth, how little is their worth
When laid, as now, an unaccepted gift
At the bright shrine of beauty.

Arg.
Rise, Sir, rise!
If thou'rt the Prince of Denmark, fate has been
Beyond, whate'er we read in feigned legend,
Ingenious to beguile thee. Now, methinks,
I almost wish to be that Argentile,
You seem to scorn.

Cur.
Be rather thy fair self,
Who canst give more to my transported soul
In one sweet smile, than Argentile could bring
With all her royal dower.

Arg.
You ne'er beheld
That Princess, Sir.

Cur.
Nor do I wish it, Fairest!
Thou hast such full possession of my soul,
That, were she lovely as thy loveliest self,
(Impossible to think) it were as easy
A single hand should lift some first-rate barque
From ocean's breast, and on the timber'd base,
Whence late it launch'd, refix its ponderous keel,
As snatch my heart from that delicious harbour,
Where all my hopes have anchor'd.

Arg.
Wouldst thou, Prince,
Relinquish for my love so vast a dower?

Cur.
I have, sweet Maid, relinquish'd it already,
Ev'n ere thy love be gain'd.

Arg.
I find thee apt,
Great Sir, to part with what the world holds precious:
Canst thou still part with more?

Cur.
No, not with thee:
Thou canst not mean it. Dost thou scorn me only
Because I am a prince?

Arg.
I do, and must,
While I remain an humble shepherdess.

Cur.
A village maid has oft been crown'd a queen.

Arg.
Yet never without loss of happiness.
And, trust me, Sir, while I can safely sojourn
In this still valley, tend my little flock,
Sleep in yon cot, and press this perfum'd bank,
I seek no loftier station.

Cur.
Say not this
To him, who, born a prince, has scorn'd his equal,
And loves but thee alone.

Arg.
But can he scorn
Himself? I mean his better part of self?

Cur.
No, for that part art thou.

Arg.
Mistake me not;
I mean thy royalty. Love lives not long
Without equality. To love his equal,
That prince must be a shepherd.

Cur.
Be it so.
I'll make that change the test of my true passion.
I here disclaim all royalty. I'll live
In this still valley, tend thy little flock,
Sleep with thee in yon cot, and with thee press
This perfum'd bank.

Arg.
O! thou hast won my heart!
Away, away with maiden shamefac'dness!
I will confess, I love thee.

Cur.
Take then, Heav'n,
Take back again each trivial good ye gave me!
Take back superfluous wealth, superfluous grandeur!
This, this is all I'll keep; but I will prize it,
As monarchs do their crowns!

Enter OSWALD and EDITHA from the Path behind, and stand at a distance.
OSWALD.
Am I awake?
What! Argentile lock'd in a rustic's arms!

Ed.
Patience and silence, Sir; for be assur'd,
If he, that was the minstrel, be the Prince,
As you have said the Danish Envoy told ye,
That same is he.

Osw.
Say'st thou? O blest event!

Arg.
Heav'ns, Sir, my uncle! Nay, my brother too!
O all ye stars! Permit me, that I meet them;
I'll speedily return.

Cur.
Go, my soul's treasure,
But make thy absence short! Peace, peace, my heart,
Leap not for very rapture thro' my breast!
Patience, fond flutterer! Let me mark their meeting.
See, how my Love falls on that brother's neck!
I envy him his bliss, tho' he's her brother.
And now they hurry both into their cottage.
Her uncle this way bends. I'll meet him boldly.
He that has honour in his fair intent
Can feel no terror from a mortal's frown.

Osw.
Who art thou, forester?

Cur.
Whate'er I am,
Deem me no foe to thee and thy fair kindred.

Osw.
I hope thou art not, yet I needs must ask
Your business here, and why your ardent gaze
Is fixt on yonder cot?

Cur.
Because that cot
Contains the dearest treasure of my soul,
A goddess in the semblance of a maid,
To whom my love is plighted. Good old man,
Admit me to her presence.

Osw.
That I must not.
'Tis her own wish, I should detain thee here
Till she returns.

Cur.
Away, that cannot be!
Did ever turtle wish her mate detain'd—

[A flourish of trumpets heard.
Osw.
What shout was that?

Cur.
'Tis Denmark's trumpet sounds!
What may this mean?

Osw.
O, ye propitious stars!

Cur.
I know that flourish: 'tis the note of conquest.

Enter SEWOLD, EDWIN, and SOLDIERS.
SEWOLD.
My Prince! my Pupil!

[Sewold embracing Curan.
Ed.
O my noble Father! [Falling at Oswald's feet.

Accept this sword, steept in the tyrant's blood—

Sew.
And art thou found at this auspicious moment!
Where is thy Queen, thy Argentile?

Cur.
Good Sewold,
I pray thee check this sudden burst of joy,
Nor dream of Argentile; she is not here,
Nor do I wish.—O that my tongue could croud
A thousand thousand thoughts in one short sentence!
Give me the hearing. Thou perchance may'st chide;
But, know, in this sweet vale I've met a maid—
Nay, interrupt me not—she was not born
Indeed of noble kin, and, sooth to say,
Is but a shepherd's niece. But what of that?
Thou know'st, my Sewold, Heav'n's impartial eye
(I but repeat thy lecture, wisest Sewold)
Notes no distinction in the equal chain,
That links humanity. Nature, good herald,
Marshals alike the peasant and the prince,
And gives the self-same blazon. See, she comes!
Mark her, my Sewold, what a modest blush
Damasks her cheek. Give me thy judgment, Friend.
Is not her rural sweet simplicity
Beyond all majesty? withal majestic,
Or would be so, if it were for her purpose
To put on majesty, but she disdains it.
Kneel with me, Sewold, kneel, ye men of Denmark,
All kneel, and hail this heavenly maid your queen!

Enter ARGENTILE and EDITHA (in a Woman's dress.)
ARGENTILE.
Rise, Prince, thy looks declare thou wilt not scorn me,
Tho' I am Argentile.

Cur.
Mock not my love!

Arg.
I do not, Sir; this act shall prove I do not.
Mark it, I pray. Behold this faithful maid,
Whom late in man's attire I call'd my brother!
Behold this gallant warrior! he, whose valour
So nobly has aveng'd thy country's wrongs,
To him I give her hand. His sire approves
The act. See, he devours my snowy gift
With all a lover's rapture!

[Joining the hands of Editha and Edwin.
Cur.
As I thine!

[Seizing Argentile's hand.
Ed.
What words shall speak my thanks? Yes, I have words
My queen will think even worth so dear a gift.
Your father lives.

Arg.
My father!

Osw.
Adelbright!

Ed.
These honour'd hands
Did lead him from the convent to the castle.

Arg.
And in his perfect health?

Ed.
Of health such share,
As his full years allow. Yet strong enough
To go to morrow, so his priest had prompted,
And wend him to the woods, a solitary—

Arg.
O Prince! O Oswald! where shall my full heart,
O'erburthen'd with its blessings, first select
Her theme of praise to Heav'n. First, my best Father,
For thy dear life, prolong'd to bless my nuptials,
I bow my thankful knee! and next, my Prince,
(Nay kneel thou too) bless we the host of saints,
For that, by means beyond compare mysterious,
They saved us from the curse entail'd on princes,
And gave our hearts that rare felicity
Of choice in freedom, which they give the peasant!

Cur.
They did. They lighted the bright torch of love,
And bade it blaze ere policy could damp
With its chill touch the fervor of the flame.

Sew.
Blest pair, how will the story of your loves,
When born upon the wings of poesy
To after ages, call forth envious sighs
From all of royal ear that drink the tale?

Cur.
True, my best Sewold! Now, sweet Argentile,
Let's hasten to thy father. Dost thou loiter?

Arg.
Only to pay these hospitable shades
The tribute of my thanks. Farewell, sweet vale!
Farewell, ye tranquil shades, where Love was born,
And where, did duty not withdraw her step,
Love still would wish to sojourn; yet no long
Farewell; for soon, in these same pastoral weeds,
(If it so please the partner of my soul
To join me in the pleasing pilgrimage)
I will revisit your dear solitudes.

Cur.
Yes, Argentile, yes, ye delicious glades!
We'll steal a frequent holyday from state,
Here to repeat in every different haunt
What pass'd in this sweet valley. Thou shalt find me
Couch'd by yon babbling rill: thy kiss shall wake me;
Then, feigning sweet surprise, here shalt thou fly,
And here in amorous chase will I pursue thee:
Then shalt thou yield—

Arg.
Yet not till all that tale
Of tender love, which charm'd of late my ear,
Be twice told over.

Cur.
Sweet one! so it shall;
And ev'ry time with an increase of ardor.
Our love shall be peculiar, as our fate;
Time shall not pall it, pageantry and state
Quench its first fervor. Hither will we fly,
Leaving at court all cares of royalty:
Here, shelter'd in our ivy-mantled nest,
'Spite of that royalty, we will be blest.

[Exeunt Omnes.